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I now understand why massive heart attacks are so often fatal.
A knife drove into my left shoulder, another between my left ribs.
I screamed. I couldn’t breathe.
If death had come along then I would have run to his embrace, black robe, scythe, skeletal fingers and all. I would have welcomed his boney touch and begged him to take me. The pain was that bad. I would have done anything to escape it. My whole left side was on fire. The flaming flesh was being flayed and the exposed nerves were being burned separately.
The only thing that saved my life was that when it hit the first spasm of pain forced me to roll off of David. We had been making love and I had been on top, the way he liked me. If I had just collapsed we both would have died there. At my daily weigh-in the day before I had been 524 and, as strong as he is, he would not have been able to move that much dead weight.
But I got lucky, I guess, although death right then would have been a blessing.
Come to think of it, not just “right then.” The weeks that followed often made me feel a long sleep pushing up daisies would have been wonderful.
But I did live.
And then the real pain started.
I threw up and he managed to get me onto my side so I didn’t drown.
He had 911 on the phone in a few seconds, and then followed their orders, keeping me breathing, clearing my mouth and throat, and telling me I would be okay. Each breath I managed to draw was a separate agony and as he kept me alive I wished he wouldn’t.
But he did and it couldn’t have been more than a few hours, records showed it was less than four minutes, before the EMTs arrived. I was only vaguely aware of the indignity as they shifted my immense, naked body onto the gurney, then had to roll me off so the lift could get me down the stairs.
After that, I’m blank for almost a week. I’m not good with pain so they kept me pretty much doped up. I have some interesting scars. Nothing big, they didn’t have to actually open my chest or anything, just three or four small scars where they did the stents and shunts and whatever else they did with the laparoscope.
The pain that followed wasn’t as intense, as world-shaking. But it was relentless.
I had been home for three weeks and I was starving.
David came into the bedroom with my “breakfast.” I put that in quotation marks advisedly. Where was my six egg omelet, dozen strips of bacon, biscuits and gravy, orange juice, milkshake, and French toast? Instead, the tray had a single plate with one poached egg on a slice of dry toast.
“I’m starving and you bring me this?” I said, trying for a smile.
“The doctor says I have to get at LEAST 300 pounds off of you or I’m going to lose you,” he said, his eyes locked on mine, “and this is a start.”
“But I thought you loved me like I am,” I said, putting on my best pout.
He caressed my cheek, wiped my lips with a soft napkin, and said, “I love you like you are, but we took it too far. And I don’t want to lose you.”
“So you’re going to starve me to death?” I said. I was still pretty cranky at that point.
“No, I’m going to save you,” he said, flashing that grin that always made my knees weak, “and get you to a trim and svelte 250.”
“Go away,” I said, rolling away from him.
I felt him yank the sheet off of me and yelled, “DAVID!”
“Come on,” he said, his hand pulling at my shoulder, trying to roll me back to him, “the doctor says we need to get you up.”
“LEAVE ME ALONE!” I yelled.
“OWWWWWWWWW, FUCK!” I yelled as a line of fire formed across my hip.
My hand, rubbing my hip, found a welt, so I rolled over again.
“DAVID! WHAT THE FUCK!” I yelled.
He was standing there, naked, erect, and with a long rod in his hand.
“Ashley, I love you,” he said, “and I’m going to do what it takes to keep you.”
“Then leave me alone, please,” I said, starting to roll over.
The rod, I later learned was called a “switch,” whistled again and another line of fire formed along my thigh.
“GET UP!” he snapped.
“OW, JESUS,” I yelled as I rocked a couple of times for momentum and swung my legs over the edge of the bed, sitting.
He caught my hands in his then and kissed me. Not a good kiss I’m afraid. I was pissed.
“Come on now,” he said, “on your feet.”
He had the leverage now and I had no choice. Well, I suppose I could have let him pull me until I fell on my face, but I didn’t.
I was a little unsteady on my feet. I hadn’t done much walking in the past year.
Steady, finally, I looked into his eyes, trying for an angry scowl. But his smile was infectious and when he took me in his arms, well, he couldn’t reach around me but when he laid his hands on where my waist had once been as far around as he could reach and kissed me, a true kiss, a man-woman kiss full of his desire, a desire I could feel against my belly too, I melted.
“God I love you,” I said.
“I love you more,” he said, completing the ritual we had developed.
“Now, my love,” he said, stepping back and putting some distance dikimevi escort between us, meeting my eyes, “today is our first walk. I measured it out and we’re going to walk 250 feet today.”
I know, I know, 250 feet? Not even the length of a football field. Hardly a walk, right?
But when you weigh a quarter of a ton and haven’t done any walking to speak of, hell, when you’ve used the damn mobility cart when you went to the mall, it seems like forever.
So we did it. David’s hand was on that soft pad of fat on my upper arm, steadying me, and I was glad of it. I wobbled as we walked to the end of the hall, turned (slowly), and walked back.
We did that four times and by then I was sweating and panting.
I was grateful when we walked back into the bedroom and then passed into the bathroom. He held my hand as I stepped into the walk-in tub he had installed when I passed 400 pounds and was having trouble stepping over the rim of the old tub. I stood as he got the water running hot and then sat, leaning back, resting my head on the sponge pillow, as the tub slowly filled.
I relaxed, contemplating my life.
By and large, it was good, I won’t deny it. I had a husband who loved me and all of the good stuff. Oh, there was the heart attack thing, but I had survived and was on the mend.
But I was starving too.
I jumped, startled, when I felt the washcloth touch my face. I hadn’t been sleeping, exactly, but I had been in that twilight state of almost pure relaxation.
He had a little paper pill cup in his hand and said, “open your mouth.”
He popped the pills into my mouth and followed with one of our big dinner glasses full of water.
At least the water helped a little to cut my hunger.
The bathing was as sensual, verging onto sexual, as it always was. He would grab a handful of fat and lift it and clean carefully all the way to the bottom of the crease he revealed and kiss me and tell me I was beautiful and then move on to the next roll.
It felt good. Hell, it felt better than anything since the heart attack.
When I was clean and dry he walked me back to the bedroom and then went over my body, thoroughly and carefully. He applied Desitin wherever he found the start of a rash. He had been doing this since the feeding had started, and it felt loving and intimate and wonderful to be taken care of so well.
“Nap, honey,” he said, “I’ll be back for an afternoon walk.”
I guess one of those pills he gave me was some sort of sedative because I slept.
That afternoon we took another “walk,” and he bathed me again. I realized that the house was warmer than we usually kept it, and by the end of the 250-foot stroll, I was sweating.
He slept with me but it was a sexless sleep, him snuggled against me. I could feel his erection and on some vague level wished he would make love to me. But I was dull with the pills and dozed instead.
The next day he introduced me to the torture room.
Well, okay, it wasn’t really a “red room” out of “50 Shades of Grey” or anything. It was the spare bedroom, but it was changed. Right in the middle of the room was a big, heavy-duty treadmill. In one corner was an old-fashioned scale, one of those with the bar that ran across and you moved small weights back and forth to read a weight from. And every wall was covered in mirrors.
It’s funny, really. I had known how much weight I was putting on. At the Cow Barn, I had worn very little and around the house, we were always casual about clothes. But now I couldn’t escape what I looked like.
I was huge. Jesus, I was a blimp. My face, and I think I’m not particularly pretty but I am attractive, was lost in a roll of fat and my chin disappeared into another roll of fat that surrounded my neck. My breasts were no more than nipples on another big roll of fat. And my body was roll after roll of fat. I stood, dumbstruck, staring at the wall of mirrors, and lifted and dropped the four rolls that made up my front. Each time I dropped one, it landed with an audible smack sound. My belly hung all the way to my thighs making an apron of flesh and fat that completely hid my sex. My thighs were so fat a roll hung and hid my knees. My ankles were more rolls of fat and my feet had no arches, my toes sticking out like fat little sausages.
My skin was a mass of stretch marks.
I started crying.
“You’re beautiful,” he said, moving behind me, his hands reaching around as far as they could, resting on one of the rolls of fat that made up my torso, nuzzling my neck.
And for an instant, then, I could see myself as he saw me. I raised my arms above my head and stretched and saw the Fertility Goddess he saw. I was Earth Mother. I was female incarnate.
“We’re going to be in here twice a day from now on,” he said, “doctor’s orders.”
“On that?” I asked, moving over and brushing my hand across the handrail of the treadmill.
“Yep,” he said, “we’re going to start at 500 feet, slow stroll, and before we’re done you’re going to be jogging five miles.”
That made dikmen escort me laugh.
It was hot in the torture room and I was already starting to sweat.
“Up now,” he said.
“David,” I said, “let’s start tomorrow.”
And there was that line of fire across my ass as he switched me.
“FUCK!” I screamed.
“Today,” he said softly.
So I stepped up onto his torture device.
“I love you,” he said, and pressed a button.
The machine lurched into action and I damn near fell. I grabbed the handrails and started walking.
The treadmill belt was moving very slowly, more a “stroll” than a “walk,” so I could keep up although after the first ten steps or so I could feel the sweat starting to roll off of me.
I watched the little counter on the machine count down, starting at.1 for, I presumed, a tenth of a mile, close enough to 500 feet for this purpose, to.09,.08, and so on. So slowly, I wasn’t sure I could keep moving.
David decided for me though.
When I slowed down he had his switch ready, across the backs of my thighs this time, making me hell another “FUCK!!!!” but pick up my pace.
The counter thing finally hit zero and I stood there, hands on my knees, panting, watching as the pool of sweat running off of me puddled on the belt of the treadmill. I was gasping for breath, my body trembling, close to passing out.
He was rubbing my shoulders when I threw up suddenly.
“It’s okay,” he said, “I’ll clean up. Just get your breath back.”
I couldn’t speak.
Finally, I had my breath back and managed to stand straight. I wiped feebly at my mouth where thick mucus-laden saliva hung in a thick string.
I realized I was crying a little too.
I pointed at the switch in his hand.
“You enjoyed using that, didn’t you?” I asked.
He had the good grace to blush but he didn’t say anything.
He took me in and bathed me again. Then, when I was relaxing, and resting in bed, he brought me another piece of dry toast.
He went and did whatever it is he does on his computer for a while and then was back, checking on me.
I had dozed on and off, and had reruns of “Grey’s Anatomy” on Netflix.
He had water and helped me sit up while I drank it.
He was naked and erect.
I smiled and said, “are you ever going to make love to me again?”
He laughed and crawled into bed with me.
“The doctor said no until your next checkup,” he said.
“Oh,” I said, reaching down and touching his need, ” and when is that.”
“Wednesday,” he said.
“FOUR DAYS!” I yelled, “David, I’ll be crazy by then.”
He laughed at that and found my clitoris with his fingertip.
“I think you’ll be okay if you can keep yourself under control,” he said.
“Keep doing that and it’ll be hard,” I said.
But it wasn’t, really, in the end.
He masturbated me very slowly like that, just his fingertip, touching, caressing. He kept brushing at my hair, very gently, telling me to relax, not get too excited. I kept my breathing easy, and the concentration needed for that delayed my release.
When I came it was almost gentle. Relief rather than a sudden violent contraction. I felt myself flowing, felt the warm stickiness running down the crack of my ass, and sighed deeply.
“Thank you, baby,” I said and drifted off to sleep.
That evening the meter on the treadmill was set for.11 and, since I had taken and passed third-grade math, I quickly figured that he would be adding about 50 feet per session to my treadmill workout.
But I was still what I was, which is to say, morbidly overweight with atrophied muscles from a year of basically doing nothing.
I was sweating and gasping when the damn thing clicked down to zero but he hadn’t needed to use the switch on me.
He did the slow, gentle, masturbation thing for me again and when I finished I said, “using my mouth shouldn’t drive my heart rate or blood pressure too high.”
He scooted around so I could take what I wanted and, as he had, I took my time, made it slow and easy, and lingered. When he came I swallowed greedily and then nursed hungrily until the intensity of what I was doing made him jerk away.
We slept in each other’s arms that night, and he nursed at my nipple until I drifted off.
When he weighed me the next morning the scales said 527 and I cried.
“No, no,” he said, holding me, comforting me, gentling me, “it’s okay. Don’t worry, Dave’s got you,” all of those things he knew how to say to settle me down.
“We’ve just started, Ashley,” he said, covering my face with kisses, “and we’ll get there. I’m not about to lose you.”
But I was crying again. No, I was bawling. I was sobbing against him. “David,” I said, “I’m SO hungry.”
He chuckled and said, “I think I have a solution for that, but I’m not letting you know until we see the doctor.”
I was depressed when he gave me my slice of dry toast and cup of black coffee, and had no energy when we went to the torture room. Three fresh welts across the backs of my thighs kept elmadağ escort me moving and even the bath didn’t cheer me up.
By Wednesday, when we visited the torture room in the morning I was up to.2 miles and the speed was up to the first little mark above “SLOW.” I was still sweating heavily, but I made it through the whole walk without a fresh stripe. He bathed me, I dressed in one of my muumuus, about the only thing that even remotely fit me, and we headed for the doctor’s office.
Their scales said 530 but I figured that just accounted for the clothes. I didn’t think I had put on any weight. My blood pressure was good at 120 over 80 and when they put me on the treadmill for a stress test my week in the torture room paid off. I made it through three levels of speed increases and angle of steepness increases before giving up.
Then we were shepherded into Dr. Rasmussen’s office for my evaluation.
He made us wait for about ten minutes. Maybe he had something he needed to do, but my sense was that he did it deliberately to make us ill at ease.
It worked. I was squirming by the time he came in.
He didn’t bother with any preliminaries.
“You should be dead,” he said, looking across the desk at us.
When I started to say something he raised his hand.
“No, shut up,” he said, “this is not a consultation. This is probably the last time I will ever see you two. It’s a lecture.”
“You did not have a ‘cardiac event’ or anything like that,” he said, “you had a full-blown heart attack. You had the widowmaker and it’s only because of a series of unlikely events that you didn’t die. You need to understand that.”
He paused long enough to make eye contact with both of us.
“I don’t judge, but you both had to know what you were doing. Getting this obese is not an accident. You DID this, deliberately,” he said, and you could hear the anger building.
“Let’s just think about the luck you had,” he said. “First, you had your husband right there with you. Second, he wasn’t completely stupid and knew enough to call for help. He also knew enough to make sure you were breathing, roll you onto your side, and do some other basic things. Third, it was a quiet night and the ambulance, with its trained crew, in an almost miraculous four-minute response time got to you before the telephone directions had failed. Fourth, you had the incredible good luck to have one of the hundred best cardio guys on the planet, that would be me, here in the building because an earlier operation had run longer than expected.”
“You won’t get that lucky again, so get that fucking weight off. I’m serious Ashley, I’m serious Dave. I’d like to see you,” and he pointed at me, “down to about a hundred and fifty pounds given your bone structure and density, but I’ll settle for 250. That’ll still leave you,” and he jabbed his finger at David, “plenty of cushion for the pushin’, but she’ll be around a lot longer.”
He looked at both of us, in turn, and shook his head.
“That’s it. You,” and he pointed at me, “are clear. That means you have a clean bill of health. Do some fucking exercising for Christ’s sake. Live your life. Get that fucking weight off and it can be a long, enjoyable life. Don’t, and I absolutely guarantee, it won’t.”
He stood and started to leave but I grabbed him.
“Thank you,” I said.
“Yeah, yeah,” he said.
“Am I safe for sex?” I asked.
He laughed. “You, my dear, are ridiculously healthy. You got lucky with your draw from the gene pool and you’re pissing it away. But yes. You’re clear for whatever you want to do.”
With that, he left.
I sat, stunned, until David stood and took my arm.
“Come on, beautiful,” he said, holding my arm as I stood.
Back home he walked me to the bedroom and then undressed me. It was a slow process and he kissed the skin he revealed. I knew what was coming when he got to his knees and began kissing my belly. He gave me oral sex right there, standing at the foot of the bed. I held my belly up out of the way and accepted what he was giving me.
He didn’t try to make it last.
Honestly, this wasn’t making love, this was pure sex, it was something we both needed pretty desperately.
I usually tried to hold back, at least a little, when he did this.
But not this time. When the pressure in my belly overflowed and the orgasm took me I pushed, those same muscles I always assumed would be involved when the urge to push hit during delivery.
When I came it was powerful, my first orgasm in a month.
And I didn’t hold anything back. My fingers entwined in his hair and I pulled him to me, holding his face between my legs, demanding more of what he was doing.
I came in waves, gasping my pleasure, crying out my ecstasy.
“DAVID, GOD, DAVID, YESSSSsssssssss,” I was saying, well crying, well, maybe chanting is the best word.
It passed, finally, after who knows how many waves of that pure rush of delight.
When I was finished, reduced to a gasping puddle of fat, unable to catch my breath, he leaned back and looked up at me. His face was a mask of the thick, sticky, white lubricant that made sex so comfortable for me. He looked like someone had poured a gallon bucket of yogurt over his head. A thick string wobbled from his chin and his hair looked like he had put a whole tube of Brylcream or something in it.
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