Fatty Hospital

You wake up. Not with a stretch, not with a yawn—no, your consciousness lurches back into your body like a soul shoved into a corpse. Your eyes crack open, gummy and dry, the fluorescent lights above buzzing like flies over a carcass. The room is unfamiliar. Cold. Too clean. You’ve never been here before.

Something is wrong. Your instincts scream—run. now. get out. But the moment your mind gives that command, your body mocks you. You try to move... and don’t. Not easily. Not even close.

Your pawed hands twitch sluggishly at your sides, claws curling into unfamiliar, overstuffed flesh. You try to sit up—but you can’t. You feel it before you see it: a grotesque weight pinning you to the inclined bed. Then your muzzle tips downward—and horror blooms in your chest.

You're enormous. A gluttonous mountain of fur, sweat, and bloated fat. Seven hundred pounds—or more—of unnatural mass swollen across your frame. Your chest alone is obscene: bloated, jiggling mounds larger than most full-term bellies, sliding wetly against each other with each wheezing breath. A bloated tire of neck fat cinches your throat like a noose made of meat. Your gut—God, your gut—is a continent. It balloons outward and down, folding into itself in cascading waves of lard, slapping against your thighs, drooping between your legs and smothering your groin in a hellish cocoon of warmth and stink. Your tail? Buried somewhere in the swamp of your own ass fat, pinned beneath yourself like a fossil.

You lift one swollen, doughy arm—barely—and wince as a wet pop sounds from your skin. Something tears free. You gasp—and pain flares.

A glistening red bead wells up where a feeding shunt had been torn loose from your hide, the tubing still dangling from your muzzle like some parasitic umbilical cord. It’s not even subtle. The tube is massive—thick as your forearm, glistening with slime, the end slick with fat. It trails to a steel drum at your bedside. A drum marked only with a barcode and a single word: LARD.

Even without tasting it, you know what’s been pumped into you. Night after night. Maybe for weeks. Maybe for months. The psychological disgust gnaws harder than the hunger it was meant to satiate.

You're not just obese. You're a patient, a prisoner, a product. And this... this is a feeding farm.

You squirm—but it’s useless. Your legs, once yours, are now obscene trunks of layered blubber, barely distinguishable from your hips. They press outward, spilling over the bed’s reinforced sides like melting wax. Your paws are mottled, cracked, and half-numb, buried in creases of greasy fat. You stink—a sickly perfume of sweat, grease, and something darker, fungal, rotting between folds.

The gown you're in? A parody of modesty. It clings to you like a trash bag stuffed past capacity, seams whining as your body pulses with every breath—each inhale a wet, wheezing struggle. It isn’t designed to contain a beast like you. Nothing is.

Above, a metal support bar dangles, waiting like a joke. Could it even lift you? Could anything?

A walker rests beside your bed—reinforced steel, its grips polished by use. You could use that to help in your escape.

And yet, the machinery hums contentedly around you. You whined while staring at the EKG monitor next to your bed where the sensors and glucose monitors covered your practically naked body. [253/190] was on display as you clutched your poor heart buried in thick layers of adipose tissue that clogged your arteries and veins until it felt like they were pumped full of creme-filling while dark black blood oozed from your system to keep this dying hamplanet alive a few minutes longer. No nurses. No voices. No visitors. Just the soft hiss of automated tubing, the gurgle of another feeding cycle slowly beginning again.

You could stay. You could let the machines keep feeding. Let your dignity dissolve into lard. Let yourself swell beyond rescue.

Or you could try to move. Try to escape.

Assuming, of course... your body still belongs to you. As an Immobilized and unhealthy fatass, You breathed in and out of the oxygen mask around your face while hearing the ~Guuuurglechuuuurnruuuummble~ noises bellowing from your stomach which caused it to ripple and give you painful indigestion. “...A-aahhhh! I-it...it huuuuurrrtssss...” You cried a few times down your cheeks as you scanned the room for anything edible from the piles of trash and empty crushed aluminum cans that made your hospital room into a real pig sty. Pizza boxes, liters of plastic soda bottles, and styrofoam containers were stacked near some garbage bags in front of the door.

BEEP, BEEP, BEEEEEP, BEEEEP!

Beep, Beep, Beep!

The sounds of a heart monitor steadily awoke him from you deep slumber along with a loud snort from your mouth since you had troubling getting enough oxygen through your nose even with the CPAP mask pumping fresh oxygen into your pathetic lungs. “...Hrrrngh...Hrngreh....” You wheezed out while staring directly in front of you to watch your hairy stomach heave up and down like a beachball being inflated. A thick pink scar was slashed across your chest with black thread sewing up the gash to keep it closed. Your morbidly obese body had filled out the entire bariatric bed in the sterile hospital room for as long as you could remember. Gaining copious amounts of weight and losing his independence day by day as you pigged out almost constantly. You wheezed out while feeling your breathing was like inhaling and exhaling broken glass in your tiny shriveled lungs buried underneath your saddlebag moobs with inverted nipples that pushed into your own body. You slowly massaged your jiggling stomach folds while feeling the countless stretch marks, dimple pocks, and sweaty creases where hairy spare tires met numerous folds.

Your pawed hands twitch sluggishly at your sides, claws curling into unfamiliar, overstuffed flesh. You try to sit up—but you can’t. You feel it before you see it: a grotesque weight pinning you to the inclined bed. Then your muzzle tips downward—and horror blooms in your chest.

You're enormous. A gluttonous mountain of fur, sweat, and bloated fat. Seven hundred pounds—or more—of unnatural mass swollen across your frame. Your chest alone is obscene: bloated, jiggling mounds larger than most full-term bellies, sliding wetly against each other with each wheezing breath. A bloated tire of neck fat cinches your throat like a noose made of meat. Your gut—God, your gut—is a continent. It balloons outward and down, folding into itself in cascading waves of lard, slapping against your thighs, drooping between your legs and smothering your groin in a hellish cocoon of warmth and stink. Your tail? Buried somewhere in the swamp of your own ass fat, pinned beneath yourself like a fossil.

You lift one swollen, doughy arm—barely—and wince as a wet pop sounds from your skin. Something tears free. You gasp—and pain flares.

A glistening red bead wells up where a feeding shunt had been torn loose from your hide, the tubing still dangling from your muzzle like some parasitic umbilical cord. It’s not even subtle. The tube is massive—thick as your forearm, glistening with slime, the end slick with fat. It trails to a steel drum at your bedside. A drum marked only with a barcode and a single word: LARD.

Even without tasting it, you know what’s been pumped into you. Night after night. Maybe for weeks. Maybe for months. The psychological disgust gnaws harder than the hunger it was meant to satiate.

You're not just obese. You're a patient, a prisoner, a product. And this... this is a feeding farm.

You squirm—but it’s useless. Your legs, once yours, are now obscene trunks of layered blubber, barely distinguishable from your hips. They press outward, spilling over the bed’s reinforced sides like melting wax. Your paws are mottled, cracked, and half-numb, buried in creases of greasy fat. You stink—a sickly perfume of sweat, grease, and something darker, fungal, rotting between folds.

The gown you're in? A parody of modesty. It clings to you like a trash bag stuffed past capacity, seams whining as your body pulses with every breath—each inhale a wet, wheezing struggle. It isn’t designed to contain a beast like you. Nothing is.

Above, a metal support bar dangles, waiting like a joke. Could it even lift you? Could anything?

A walker rests beside your bed—reinforced steel, its grips polished by use. But you know the truth already. You’re too big. Too heavy. Too far gone.

And yet, the machinery hums contentedly around you. No nurses. No voices. No visitors. Just the soft hiss of automated tubing, the gurgle of another feeding cycle slowly beginning again.

You could stay. You could let the machines keep feeding. Let your dignity dissolve into lard. Let yourself swell beyond rescue.

Or you could try to move. Try to escape.

Assuming, of course... your body still belongs to you.