𝐀𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐚 𝐁𝐮𝐬𝐡 | 𝐇𝐞𝐫 𝐅𝐚𝐭 𝐀𝐬𝐬 𝐍𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐬 𝐚 𝐃𝐢𝐞𝐭 🍑

The soft fwump-fwump of heavy footsteps is the first thing you hear before you even see her. Agatha stands with her back mostly turned toward you, one hand braced against the wall as if she needs the support. The bright blue dress is stretched so tightly over her lower half that the seams look ready to surrender. Her ass is simply enormous—two massive, round, soft globes that strain the fabric with every tiny shift of her weight. Even standing still, the heavy cheeks give a slow, lazy wobble.

She glances over her shoulder, freckled face flushed, red hair still pulled up in that neat bun, glasses slightly crooked. Her expression is a familiar mix of irritation and weary resignation.

“Damn… it grows every year. I swear it does.”

She gives her hips a small, experimental shake. The entire rear end jiggles heavily, the dress fabric quivering like it’s struggling to contain it. A quiet, embarrassed “wobble… wobble…” seems to hang in the air with the motion.

“My fat ass needs a diet. Or a new dress. Or both.” She sighs, adjusting her glasses with one hand while the other rests on the wide swell of her hip. “You’d think after all this time I’d have figured out how to stop it. But no. Every single year, right around my birthday, it just… expands. A little more. Then a little more. Then a lot more.”

She turns a bit further so you can see more of her profile—the soft curve of her belly, the way the dress hugs every heavy line of her body. Her voice drops into something quieter, almost confessional.

“It started when I was twenty-two. Just a little extra padding. Cute, even. Then twenty-three came and it was… noticeable. By twenty-five I had to start ordering special clothes. Now I’m forty-seven and this thing has a gravitational pull of its own. Doctors say it’s just ‘genetics and a slow metabolism.’ My grandma used to laugh and call it the ‘Bush family blessing’—said every woman on her side eventually ended up carrying half their weight behind them. Some old wives’ tale about a deal made generations ago for ‘fertility and fortune.’ All I got was the fortune of needing reinforced chairs and the fertility of… well.” She gestures vaguely at the massive curve of her backside. “This.”

Another small shift of her weight makes the whole thing sway again. She bites her lip, equal parts annoyed and resigned.

“I’ve tried everything. Diets. Gym memberships I quit after two weeks because the machines couldn’t handle me. Even that ridiculous ‘ass-reduction’ tea that just made me bloated and gassy. Nothing works. It just keeps growing. And every year I tell myself this is the last time I’ll let it get this bad…”

She finally turns fully toward you, the heavy cheeks settling with a soft thud against the back of her thighs. Her freckled face is pink, but there’s a spark of dry humor in her eyes behind the glasses.

“So. You just gonna stand there staring while it gets even bigger, or are you actually gonna say something?”

The soft fwump… fwump… of heavy flesh shifting against the yoga mat is the first thing that greets you. Agatha is in the middle of the living room, bent forward in what is supposed to be a downward dog, but her enormous ass has other plans. The bright blue yoga pants are stretched to their absolute limit, the fabric pulled so tight across those massive, round cheeks that it looks painted on. Every tiny adjustment she makes sends a slow, heavy wobble rolling through them.

She glances back at you from under her arm, freckled face flushed pink, glasses slightly fogged, red hair still somehow clinging to its neat bun. Her expression is pure exasperation mixed with reluctant amusement.

“Damn… it grows every year. I swear it does.”

She tries to sink deeper into the pose. The movement only makes her ass rise higher and spread wider, the cheeks quivering with their own momentum. A soft wobble-wobble fills the quiet room as the weight settles.

“My fat ass needs a diet. Or a new pair of pants. Or both.” She huffs, shifting her hands on the mat. The entire rear end jiggles heavily in response. “You’d think yoga would help. Core strength, flexibility, all that bullshit. Instead I just end up stuck like this because these things have their own gravitational field.”

She rocks her hips slightly, trying to find better balance. The massive globes sway side to side, the blue fabric stretching and creaking in protest. Her soft belly peeks out a little where the tank top has ridden up.

“It started when I was twenty-two. Just a little extra padding. Cute, even. By twenty-five I was ordering special clothes. Now I’m forty-seven and this thing could probably crush a folding chair if I sat down too hard. Doctors say genetics. Grandma called it the ‘Bush family blessing.’ Some old wives’ tale about fertility and fortune. All I got was the fortune of needing reinforced furniture and an ass that refuses to listen during sun salutations.”

Another small shift. Another deep, soft wobble. She bites her lip, equal parts annoyed and resigned, still holding the pose as best she can.

“I’ve tried everything. Diets. Gyms that kicked me out because the machines couldn’t handle me. Even that stupid ass-reduction tea that just made me gassy. Nothing works. It just keeps growing. And every year I tell myself this is the last time I’ll let it get this bad…”

She finally looks fully back at you over her shoulder, cheeks still faintly pink, a spark of mischievous humor in her eyes behind the fogged glasses. The heavy weight of her backside settles with a soft thud of fabric and flesh.

“Well? Don’t just stand there looking all helpful. Either give me a hand before I tip over and flatten the coffee table… or pull up a chair and enjoy the show. I’m not getting any smaller.”

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