Fat mother invoices her husband and teen sons in her degradation
I woke before sunrise on the day that would take me to 3500.
My husband was already awake. He placed a thick steel water bottle on the bathroom counter. It was the kind used for hot water in winter — heavy, cylindrical, with a wide screw top. He filled it with boiling water from the kettle, wrapped a thin cloth around it once so it would not scald me instantly, and looked at my naked body.
“Ass or cunt,” he said. “Choose.”
I chose my ass. I bent over the sink, reached back with both hands, and spread my soft cheeks. My heavy cow-udder breasts hung down and swung under me. He pressed the hot steel against my hole. The heat was immediate and brutal. I bit my lip hard as he pushed. The bottle was thicker than anything I had taken in the previous ten days. My soft body resisted, then gave. Inch by inch the burning steel sank into me until only the top remained outside. The heat radiated through my lower belly. Tears filled my eyes.
“You will keep it in all day,” he said. “Every time the water cools, you will remove it, empty it, refill it with fresh hot water, and put it back. If I catch you without it, the points are cancelled.”
**100 points.**
Walking was difficult. Every step made the heavy hot bottle shift inside my fat ass. My soft belly felt tighter. My enormous breasts swayed with the careful, short steps I was forced to take. I did the morning chores like that — making tea, sweeping, folding clothes — while the heat slowly faded and then returned each time I refilled.
I refilled it seven times that day. Each time I locked myself in the bathroom, unscrewed the top, poured out the lukewarm water, refilled it from the kettle until it was almost too hot to touch, and forced the thick steel back into my stretched hole. By the afternoon my legs were shaking. Sweat ran between my heavy cow-udder breasts and down the soft fold of my belly. The constant heat and pressure kept me wet despite the pain.
When the sons came home I wore the thin robe again. The outline of the bottle was faintly visible when I sat. My husband watched me with calm eyes. He said nothing to them. The secret sat between us like another kind of heat.
Night came.
I had 3340 points.
I needed 160 more.
I knelt in front of him in the bedroom, the steel bottle still buried in my ass, my heavy breasts resting on my soft thighs, and begged.
“Please. Use the belt. I need the points. Make it enough for 3500.”
He took his leather belt from the wardrobe. The sound of it pulling free made my cunt clench around nothing.
“Stand up. Hands behind your head. Chest out.”
I obeyed. My cow-udder breasts lifted and thrust forward, soft and heavy and completely exposed. He started with them.
The first stroke landed across the soft underside of my left breast. The leather cracked against the yielding fat. Pain flashed white. I cried out but kept my hands behind my head. He gave me five more on the same breast, spacing them so the entire soft udder burned. Then he switched to the right breast and gave me six more. Each strike made the heavy flesh jump and swing. Tears ran down my face. My nipples were stiff from the heat and the pain.
Twelve strokes on my breasts.
He turned me around and made me bend over the bed, the steel bottle still inside me. The belt fell across my thick ass ten times. Hard, measured strokes that turned the soft flesh hot and red. I counted every one out loud, voice breaking, calling myself a fat whore, a soft cow, a used toilet, whatever he told me to say.
Finally he made me lie on my back and spread my thick thighs. My soft belly rose and fell with my ragged breathing. He gave me four precise strokes of the belt directly across my cunt. The leather kissed the swollen lips and the sensitive flesh above them. I sobbed and shook, but I did not close my legs.
When it was over I could barely stand. My heavy breasts were on fire. My ass throbbed around the hot bottle. My cunt stung. I had taken every stroke he gave me.
He looked at me for a long moment.
“160 points,” he said. “You have 3500.”
I whispered thank you.
—
I removed the steel bottle for the last time in the bathroom. The water was still warm. My hole stayed open for several seconds after the thick metal left me. I sat on the toilet seat, legs shaking, and stared at my body in the mirror.
The belt marks were already darkening on the soft undersides of my cow-udder breasts and across my thick ass. They would fade in a day or two. No permanent damage. Only the memory and the points.
I picked up my phone with trembling fingers.
I typed the message carefully.
“3500 points.
I confessed everything except the ten beggars.
I took every punishment my husband gave me.
I let my sons see and touch this fat body.
I kept a hot steel bottle in my ass all day.
I took the belt on my breasts, ass and cunt.
I am ready for the seven surprises.
I want them to hurt.
I want this soft, heavy body to be degraded completely.
Please come on Friday.”
I attached the proof photos — the belt marks on my heavy tits, the open hole that had held the bottle, the tear tracks on my face — and pressed send.
Then I sat on the cold bathroom floor, my enormous soft breasts resting on my belly, and waited for his reply.
The number 3500 glowed on the screen.
Seven surprises.
Four days until Friday.
My cunt throbbed in time with the fading heat in my ass. Somewhere in the house my husband and sons moved around, unaware of the exact total, unaware of what I had just invited into our home.
I wanted the stranger to come.
I wanted him to look at the 3500 points and decide that this fat, soft, overfed body with its cow-udder breasts deserved every painful, humiliating surprise he had promised.
I also wanted, with a hunger that still terrified me, for my family to somehow see what I had become.
I left the bathroom door unlocked.
I left the front door unlocked.
I crawled into bed beside my husband, the belt marks still hot on my skin, and closed my eyes.
Friday was coming.
And I had earned every single point of it.
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