Prompt Partial Draft: Tragically Skinny

Hey guys, sorry things have been a little behind with prompts. The stories last month were some of my best, so I had a bit of performance anxiety when starting this month. However, I'm feeling good and ready to go! Wanted to provide a little teaser draft for the first prompt of the month. Hoping to get this out early this week. Let me know if you like it!

Tags: health issues, light slob, immobile, size difference.

-- Makeup --

“Ooooh my Gaaawwwd!” Corinthia Bellini said as she feathered Tricia Lu’s face. Despite residing in California, Corinthia’s Jersey accent was as thick as her waistline. 400 pounds of woman waddled and huffed around the makeup chair, tending to Tricia’s needs. “You ah like, tha smallest thin evah!” She gushed, dotting Tricia’s nose with her brush. “Where in tha world did they eveah find someone like you? I’ve nevah even seen a girl undah 300.” She huffed, face turning red from the exhaustion of working and talking at the same time. Though Corinthia was slightly undersized for society, her job requiring more mobility than the average woman, she was hardly the picture of health. Sweat ran from the sides of her face, dragging her own mascara and eye shadow along with it. It fell down cheeks that were permanently blushed, trying to deal with the heat of her folds. “They mustah just folded yah up and stuck you in the glove compartment.” She continued to talk, knowing that every sentence brought her closer to needing the oxygen tank tucked away under her counter. Mouthiness and lack of usage of the oxygen tank was a point of pride for Corinthia, but needing to use it was a pleasant rush of endorphins. Corinthia almost felt bad that her client had never experienced it.

“Well. . .uh. . .I just traveled normally. The seats were quite big though.” Tricia said, almost afraid to call attention to her skinny and emaciated body. The young asian woman was 130 pounds, vastly too small for the world she lived in. In a world that was drenched with health draining obesity, constant indulgence of every flavor, and wanton self-destruction, Tricia stood alone. Her belly was flat, unlike Corinthia’s rolls. The fatter woman looked like she was hiding the world’s largest double hamburger under her leopard print bodysuit. Meanwhile, Tricia was practically swallowed by the pantsuit she had been given. The studio had provided it, intentionally making it a size bigger than it needed to be. Tricia pressed her knees together, nervous as the big woman waddled around her. Tricia did not have much experience with the outside world. While Tricia knew that there were women who eclipsed Corinthia in size, it was still a shock to see a person 4 times her own size. “I’m sorry if I’m making it weird.” She apologized, her angular face sinking down onto her miserably flat chest.

“Now none of that!” Corinitha swooped in for a hug, her voluminous chest hugging Tricia’s head just as her arms hugged the small woman’s middle. Sweat leaked off of the Jersey girl, decorating Tricia’s gray jacket and protective apron with love. “They told me all about yah, so I was prepared.” Corinthia straightened, taking a second to adjust her leopard print bodysuit. Though dressed as a jungle cat, the body underneath was decidedly porcine. As always, Corinthia was naked, sodden rolls squelching and seeping grease as she moved. The only part of her free from the corrupting influence of morbid obesity was her dyed blonde and black hair, which was fluffed up into loose curls. “Life on a health commune though. . .that’s just about the craziest thing I’ve evah heard. Tscch, who could imagine life without a burger or two?” Corinthia slapped an ass that was heavy with fat and wet with sweat. Her fingers, decorated with rings that recently had to be upsized to fit her hands, left a lasting print thanks to the makeup on them. “I need at least three tah get my days going, Madonn'!” Her little expulsion cost the last of her breath and endurance. Corinthia sat down, woozily taking out her oxygen mask. She turned Tricia’s chair around, wanting to keep the conversation going while she recovered.

Tricia went pale as she saw her makeup artist taking great gasps of air from a face mask. Never had she seen such wantonly bad health. The commune she had been raised on, a break away society in the center of utah, shunned any practices of obesity or indulgence. “Are you. . .ok?” Tricia asked, hands on her knees and leaning forward. Corinthia had been nothing but kind to her, a warm and affectionate woman her own age. The commune where Tricia had come from seemed to have nothing besides shriveled elderly people, bitterly clinging to a world that was. Tricia felt deep sympathy, but also twinges of interest in Corinthia’s condition. “Should I call someone?” She asked again, thinking back to practices she had learned to save elderly people who collapsed when working the fields.

“Are you. . .whooosssh. . .kiddin me?” Corinthia sucked air down as best she could. “I don’t. . .whoooo. . .call fah help evah.” She put a hand up, what should have been loose golden chains were digging into forearms so fat that the wrist bones had disappeared. “Maybe whenevah. . .ooooh. . .hooossh. . . I get my. . .first heart. . .whooossh. . .attack.” The mask fogged as hot breath poured out. Corinthia’s sagging gut rolled in and out as she huffed. The two gut folds moved like tides on a beach, each waxing slopping more sweat onto her cute bodysuit. The belt she wore propped up her gut, making it look even bigger than it actually was. The pathetic strip of cow leather existed to be dominated by the fat above it. “Anywasscch. . .oooh. . .you should be done.” The oxygen high made Corinthia lazy and slow. She wanted to sit in her chair and huff the lifesaving gas. “Itzel should. . .whooossh. . .ready. . .for yah.” the obese 24 year old clumsily thumbed a call button on her desk. “Less. . .talk. . .aftah though. . .cutie.” Corinthia’s final pause came from nervousness about complimenting her new friend, rather than lack of air. Tricia blushed in spite of the mortal danger her new friend appeared to be in.

-- On the Set --

Tricia was nervous as she sat on the darkened set. The lights were dimmed so she could not see the studio audience, but she still heard them. The air was filled with sickening noises caused by unchecked obesity. Wheezes, pants, belches, and light whispering filled the studio. Morbidly obese women had been packed into the room, some so big that they were wheeled in on scooters or bariatric beds. Just as Tricia could hear their bodies deteriorating under hundreds of pounds of fat, she could also feel their scorn. It rose in random spurts, radiating from random pockets from the audience. The studio audience had been briefed on Tricia and her upbringing. Despite having no choice of being born within a health commune, she was not spared any condemnation. Tricia was everything these kinds of audiences hated: young, pretty, well mannered, and thin. They hated that last bit the most.

Society had moved on from health crazes and food pyramids, instead embracing debauchery of every sort. Self control was a thing of the past, replaced with a philosophy of Enlightened Hedonism. These women rode medical crises like roller coasters. Heart attacks and food comas were thrills to be chased now, with the world trying to find new and interesting ways to create personal health panics. Life on the health commune had allowed Tricia to avoid it, but made her a subject of mockery in the process. Rather than being left to her own devices and lifestyle, she was someone to be brought on syndicated television and made an example out of. She sighed, wishing that she could be happy and content on the commune. She did not like the scorn the woman fired at her, but she liked the commune no better. Dusty old people scratching in the dirt to save themselves from extra pounds was hardly a better life. Tricia had agreed to coming on the show to see what life was like on the other side. Thus far, save for her little talk with Corinthia, she saw little improvement. Yet, the show was only just beginning.

“Welcome viewers. . .aaah. . .to another episode of Tragically Skinny.” A husky voice spoke, bringing the cameras and spotlights alive. The lights silently glided up towards the set, revealing both Tricia and the host to the crowd of geering diabetics and heart attack hopefuls. “You’ll. . .ffuuuh. . .have to forgive me. . .aah. . .about mid way through another. . .ssccchh. . .attack.” The host, Itzel Aurora, said, knocking a fat hand between her breasts. Surpassing Corinthia, Itzel was the new fattest woman that she had seen; she knew that record would stay for a time to come. Itzel was a little older than Tricia, 32, but in that time she had amassed corruption and bulk such as few women could muster. The hispanic woman filled three bariatric beds and was too fat for clothes of any kind. Underneath the “modesty” sheet she wore her folds poured out deluges of grease and sweat. The mattresses she rested on had already begun to cave from the sagging bulk placed upon it as well as the build up of grease. The brightly dyed sheet she wore did little to cover her breasts, each fat enough to collapse a small coffee table, and nothing to cover the couch-sized asscheeks which spread over her beds. Itzel spoke slowly, hungrily staring at Tricia. She licked her lips constantly, clearly infatuated with the woman sitting across from her. Tricia could not tell if Itzel was fond of small women, or was so filled with lust that she would salivate over anyone.

“We are. . .blesscched to have. . .Trisssha. . .Lu.” Itzel’s voice was almost hoarse from speaking. Tricia found it hard to look the immobile woman in the eyes, instead focusing on the little sheet which had been lovingly arranged. Today Itzel’s sky blue sheet functioned more as a doily. Centered on her tanned gut it did little besides add some decoration to the plateau of gut fat which folded out before her. Itzel’s breasts, smeared with golden glitter, lolled back and forth in their naked immensity. Her arms, swollen to the size of small lamp posts, were buried under the sliding folds of her breast and gut. Itzel lay back on her beds, bolted and soldered together by the finest engineers money could buy, hardly able to see Tricia. “We’re going to. . .hear her perspective. . .on life.” She wheezed, the pangs in her chest growing ever more intense. She leaned over, trying to look at her guest past her bunched up jowls and sagging chin folds. Itzel smacked her lips, sweat pooling as the heat of the spotlights and her ongoing heart palpitations continued. Her hair, naturally dark but with streaks of many colors as befit her last name, was starting to get plastered to her forehead. She might have said more, but intelligent speech was stolen away as she was wracked with another bout of chest pain.

“Oh-uh, thank you.” Tricia fumbled awkwardly for words. This was all so much more embarrassing than she thought it was going to be. “I just. . .well. . .the commune never allowed much food. We would have daily weigh-in ceremonies. Anyone over a certain amount had to go to the diet box. ” The truth of her words was written upon her body. She was rail skinny, hardly over 110 pounds. Her black hair was tied in a sensible ponytail and she wore a light gray pantsuit. Her look spoke of responsibility and self-maintenance, concepts that had become utterly alien to most of society. Tricia winced as she heard the hisses from the crowd. It was short lived, mostly because the women could not spare the lung capacity and precious oxygen. As the hissing died down, the whooshing of oxygen tanks and nasal plugs picked up. “And. . .I. . .kinda like running.” Tricia said, knowing that she was about to earn another rebuke from the crowd. Tricia shrank into the oversized couch, afraid of the scorn.

“Now. . .now!” Itzel struggled to raise a hand. She tried to tug the immense, sweaty, food stained appendage out from under her fat but was unable to. The weight of her own arm, combined with the lack of musculature, rendered the task impossible. However, a stagehand ran over and pulled it loose. Without bothering to thank him, the primetime television behemoth waved it in an effort to calm the crowd. “Tricia is a. . .aaahh. . .nice girl.” Itzel dropped her arm as soon as it was raised, her chest seizing in pain. She paused, rocking slightly as air refused to come into her lungs. The same stagehand came back with a portable oxygen tank and mask, the tank stylized with leopard print. He slipped the mask over Itzel’s face and began to massage her chest. His hands sank into the deep, oppressive folds which blanketed her body. He pushed and shoved, coaxing her tired lungs into action once more. Though he was tall, the stagehand had to stand on his toes in order to reach past the sloping hill of gut fat. Tricia winced at each stroke and fall of the man's hands, openly wondering how a woman could enjoy being in such a condition. Itzel, meanwhile, started to suck oxygen and return to life. After a couple more seconds of massaging, she was able to speak again. “Tricia. . .my. . .dear. . .we can. . .cure you. . .of all. . .that.” She spoke, eyes half lidded as she came to.

“Cure?” Tricia asked, the interview already taking a different path than she imagined. She had been told that it was going to be a simple back and forth, just a lifestyle discussion.

“Cure.” Itzel said emphatically. She huffed from her oxygen mask, trying to