Within a couple of weeks I was already sporting a proud little muffin top, flaunting it as I walked around the house in nothing but my boxers and helping myself to the packet of chips under my arm. Within the hour I'd polished off the chip, helped myself to some donuts and was making short work of a family packet of M&M's. Mom didn't seem to have my newly acquired taste for fine (or at least constant) dining, and I could see how slim she'd managed to keep herself when she stormed into the living room to tell me off for snacking.
A couple more weeks and she'd managed to put on a couple herself. She noticed this as she struggled one morning to button her jeans up around her flabby middle, eventually giving up and inspecting the damage in the mirror. Jiggling her spare tyre, how could she have let this happen? A life of heavy foods and a son who knew no self control at all was rubbing off on her.
Speaking of, at that very moment I was lying on the sofa watching TV and satisfying myself with chocolates. No spare tyres here; as I lay there sweaty with my tight boxers cutting into me my gut lazily sprawled out infront. I wasn't huge yet, but God I was a plumper. The rest of me hadn't quite caught up yet, my ass was chubbier but still petite and I was at the "training bra" stage of breast development. There was no doubt at all that I was heading towards obesity though.
It was an amazing feeling to do nothing but eat all day and watch yourself grow, but it was also a tad boring. After the chocolate had been depleted I tried in vein to shift my weight and get up to get myself ice cream. In my pathetic attempt fat gut landed on the remote, accidentally switching the channel. Shit. My fingers fished through the lard to find the remote but before I could find it I realised what was on the TV.
It was something that wasn't boring. And it was something that gave me an idea.
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