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Eric had always hated the tufts of hair that hung over his hooves. They got in the way more often than not, got him the attention of being different that few other aspects of his body did, and were so hard to keep clean. Granted, they did help out in certain times, but they were more often than not something that the Clydesdale hated with a vehement passion. He may have hated shoeing himself slightly more, but that process was one that he didn’t always have to do himself. He hadn’t done it in a while either, becoming much more of an ‘indoor Clyde’ as he put it had ended that practice nearly entirely. He would still put on his shoes from time to time to go out and just see the fresh air, but even that practice was slowly but surely falling out of favor with the equine. Getting one look at the horse though would show why.

He was massive.

In fact, massive nearly failed to do Eric justice as a word entirely. Nothing about his frame wasn’t swollen several times beyond what was considered normal for a Clydesdale. He could barely touch his hooves together anymore over the slabs of adipose his chest had become, for example. Looking over his frame in the mirror however, the beady eyes which rested on a pair of cheeks which nearly obscured his vision, Eric couldn’t have been more proud. He had accomplished all he had set out to do, and was now both reveling in his success and seeing how far he could push himself. How long it would take before gravity would finally reclaim the sheer tonnage that Eric had become. How much more food he could pack away in a single sitting. How much more weight he could lift without even breaking into a sweat. It was all goals for the equine, all things that he wanted nothing more than to smash time and time again.

He looked over himself again, this time more slowly, to study the sheer specimen of everything excessive he had become. His black mane, unkempt and pushed off to one side of his head, was the start of that display. It rose above even his ears with the sheer amount of fattened horse flesh which rested beneath it, and then tipped over off to his left because there was just too much weight in it to support itself. His ears brushed that roll of lard every time he moved them, and would often tickle it with the sheer amount of piercing that was in them. It was a feeling which he relished, and one that he knew he could only get from coating himself in more lard than one should ever be physically able to. His ears rarely moved in spite of this feeling, and often just lay splayed out to the sides from the small amount of fat which had found its way onto even their miniscule frames. They merged with his forehead, which sat over his brow with a light fold to it, stopped from rolling over his eyes simply by a roll which was where his brows had once been. This made seeing even more of a challenge than it would be with his bloated cheeks below, but Eric managed it admirably as he squinted nearly constantly now.

His cheeks, and by extension his sagging jowls, were nearly never empty of food nor of anything else which would help to make the large horse even larger. This was not to say that he was always eating, but more often than not as of late he would simply lose consciousness with food in his muzzle. Food comas had become something of a regular thing for Eric as of late, and more often than not he woke up with soggy food dribbling out of his muzzle onto the copious amount of rolls which encircled his head. It was a bit of an embarrassing show, but he had little shame left and even fewer worries about what others thought of him. Still, as he looked at the food-stained chins which he stopped counting after five, he couldn’t help but grin with pride at all the feasts he had brought to an end with his muzzle. The brown fur on it would never truly be brown again, and his darker nose was never dried, nor clean. His long, yet swollen neck had a few rolls of its own, and merged perfectly with his shoulders. The rolls and folds of adipose, all coated with brown fur that had seen more sweat and food than most furs did in an entire lifetime, jiggled at the slightest motion of the Clydesdale. Eric’s breathing alone was making them shift and ripple like a small sea attached to the base of his head, something which made the equine smirk broadly. His size was his weapon, his comfort, his goal… His everything.

His eyes meandered away from his neck down to his chest, with the pair of absurdly swollen manboobs sagging down and yet still maintaining a shape which didn’t seem truly possible. Eric flexed slightly, and those two slabs of flab perked up a few inches as well as grew even larger in size; a testament to the muscle beneath them. His arms were no different, dangling off his shoulders like hams. Bloated hogs would be a better thing to associate his arms with though, as each was so covered in layers upon layers of both fat and muscle that they not only couldn’t come close to resting on his side, but were fast becoming little more than appendages which the horse couldn’t use at all. Eric didn’t mind this reality too much, but it did bother him that he was nearing the point that feeding himself was going to become a challenge. He didn’t want to ask for help; he wanted to maintain the build which he had worked and eaten himself into all on his own. That wasn’t going to be a possibility soon though, so instead of fretting it he had been looking up ways to eat without moving his arms. Tubes were in his future, but for the time being his flabby, and yet firm arms would have to suffice. In admiring those arms, the Clydesdale had to raise them slightly just to flex. He couldn’t lift them too far, once he passed ninety degrees or so his shoulder fat would start to resist him lifting much more. Much below 45, and the flab from his prodigious gut and even more ludicrous lovehandles would begin to give him issues. The small range of motion was enough to flex and feed though, so in one hoof a sandwich was lifted up to the muzzle which had been eating the entire time unbeknownst to its owner. The other hoof was raised, turned out, and then the arm beneath it strained to flex as hard as it could. Easily bigger in diameter than some of the rounder furs Eric knew, his arm bulged out even more than the flab it contained could handle. The brown, sticky fur went taut immediately, and shook slightly as Eric strained to keep himself flexing just long enough to stare at his arm and truly drink in what he had become.

With a light huff of exertion, the Clydesdale lowered his arms back to their resting spot in the collar of fat which ensnared them. He was already sweating simply from standing there and having to move his arm, and it was only going to increase the more he was there. He wanted the full picture of his girth though, so his eyes moved down to the utter mountain of stomach which wrapped his torso up, and made him a truly gargantuan beast. Eric stood seven feet tall usually, though with the added weight he had been forced to slouch and widen his stance to the point that he was never at his full height. Regardless of that though, that gave his adipose much more space than most to spread, and accumulate, and grow. As such, it was a true testament to his gluttonous nature and just how much he was a lardass when he looked at his gut and saw that it sank nearly to his ankles. His bloated, fat-roll-covered ankles, which were screaming at him to give them a rest and take the pounds off his creaking hooves. Eric nearly never saw those though, and looking at them reminded him that he didn’t have much time left being a mobile beast; hooves could only take so much weight before they cracked, and Eric didn’t want to be vertical when that happened.

Looking away from the slight distraction of his hooves, Eric’s eyes refocused on his stomach, or rather what they could of it since there was just so much to look at. His gut spread wider than the mirror could reach, bunched up in rolls and folds which were off the edges of the reflective glass. Eric knew those folds were there simply by feel, and with a bit of effort he could at least brush them with his hooves and the flab around his wrists. This was not to say that he wanted to do that right then however, he just wanted to admire his most powerful muscle of all; his table muscle. It sagged and drooped as though it had a life of its own, the viscous fat which made most of it up nearly never truly still. His man boobs which rested atop it merely made that sac of blubber look even larger, hanging off the sides and pressing it down into new rolls. A belly button was there, somewhere, and it was only noticeable thanks to the meaty ‘W’ which was formed by the sheer amount of lard which hung from Eric’s torso. The ludicrous amount of fat shifted ever so slightly as its owner put even more food down into its confines, the simple act of chewing and swallowing sending ripples along its oceanic surface. The gut with a life of its own, and it was Eric’s to command. His to own, and to feed, and to grow. He wouldn’t have had it any other way either, and showed that with a light slap of his flabby forearm to one of the many lovehandles which made his body something of a set of stairs.

Now breathless from the simple act of standing, the Clydesdale began the ponderous task of getting himself moving. His house had been modified to have no walls, so his couch/bed combination was just a few mere steps away. The kitchen was nearly half of the house, the bathroom another portion, and then the rest was to entertain the blob of a horse. The entertainment part would be growing shortly, as the bathroom and Kitchen were becoming dusty, useless parts of a building which was little more than a stall for a horse never going out to pasture again. Eric wasn’t sure if this would be the last time he was standing, as the past few times he had hoisted himself from the sofa had taken a prodigious amount of effort; something the Clydesdale was lacking more and more of. He didn’t want to have to stand again, and hopefully he wouldn’t. Maybe a hoist, maybe helpers… He hadn’t decided just yet what he was going to do, but he was fairly certain this was one of the last times he would be standing. It was a good thing too, for as he went to lift his leg, he could feel his hoof splay uncomfortably, and the floor beneath him creaked so loudly he was nervous he would fall straight through it.

Not falling though, the process of moving his immense frame began. His leg lifted barely an inch from the ground, unable to go too much more simply from the amount of weight encasing it. The muscle was fine, it was just that there was so much lard around the entire leg that bending it in any way was an utter impossibility. So he was forced to tilt his body to one side, using the immensity of his thighs and the lovehandles which sagged even further out than them as a counterbalance, and pivot on one leg. This was a true task, and usually devolved down into just barely shuffling along, but it was movement. That was what Eric needed, and that was what he was going to do. He did it admirably too, his arms spread wide to maintain a semblance of balance while heated breaths poured out of his muzzle again and again in exertion. He was not made to move, not made to be vertical, not even made to really be alive at his size. He was doing all of these things though, and he was going to keep doing them if he had a say in matter. It just so happened that he did, so he hefted one leg up yet again and began to move it forward the few inches he could. Repeating the process, his flab was already shaking so violently that it alone tried to nearly topple him. Eric stuck to his guns though, using the inertia of his stomach’s swaying almost as a counterweight to get him chugging along.

The walk of almost ten feet from the bathroom mirror to his sofa took fifteen minutes, give or take. By that time Eric was dripping sweat down onto the floor and wheezing horribly. His chest was on fire, his heart was beating like a jack rabbit, and he could feel the heat rising off him as though he was in an oven. He could also feel the calories melting off of him, and that was enough to make the equine frown as he shuffled one last time, and then unceremoniously fell down onto his couch. His entire frame shook violently as this happened, and the steel reinforcement of the sofa groaned in protest. It wasn’t going anywhere though, and neither was he as he panted hard and moved a forearm to his chest. Rubbing the stained fur to stained, sweaty fur there he just tried to ease the pain as best he could, though rubbing did little. He needed something to drink, and to eat, just to regain the energy he had expended hauling himself to his resting place. Thankfully hoses were right there for him, just inches from his muzzle and moving around back and forth as he had hit them on the short descent down onto the couch. Nearly as tall as he was standing when he was sitting thanks to the ass which he hadn’t seen in years, the horse just grinned broadly at those hoses in spite of how hard he was breathing. He needed to be able to breathe through his nose before he could take one of those hoses into his maw, but once he could… Those tanks wouldn’t survive the next few hours.

Yet, as the equine sat there in his panting, sopping wet, and starving blob of a body, he didn’t care. He wanted those tanks empty, and his gut full. He wanted more of the sensation that he was experiencing, just from eating. He wanted more. Period.

And he was going to get it.

One Comment

  • Jason

    Always find myself coming back to read this one. Such vivid imagery in the descriptions. This story fits my tastes–a fur on the verge of immobility, with exhaustion conveyed in such illustrative detail. Thank you for this.

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