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Hey, my name is still Genevieve

My friends use to call me Viva

They now call me Swahilimonkfish

And I am stuck. I have a stuckage problem.

Namely, my stuckage problem is that I am stuck. And I am stuck writing a story about stuckage. I have to write a story for WGWP, the writing group to which I belong (ooo, get me saying ‘to which I belong’, like ending a clause, or even a sub-clause, with a preposition is a bad thing when it clearly is fine), and the theme for this month is stuckage. It is officially, and you can mark this on your calendar kids, Stuckage September. Problem is, you see, for all of my love droopy flesh, flabby flesh, saggy flesh, and oxford commas, stuckage isn’t my… jam? Sorry, bad pun. Bad puns are a new thing I’ve been trying out recently. I blame rubenescritor.

But it’s never really done it for me. Stuckage that is. Puns do it for me as much as a woman standing on electronic scales listening to it electronically read her the weight because she can’t see the numbers over her own midriffery extrusion. But not stuckage. I tried it in a story once, in Betty near the end, Wiktoria got stuck in a cupboard under the stairs. It was about as sexy as a herniotomy. Come on Fish, must do better. Ain’t nobody ever bashed one out to a herniotomy. Apart from MrWrong perhaps? I don’t know, but he’s lived an interesting life and it wouldn’t surprise me.

I don’t know why it doesn’t do it for me? It seems to for everyone else? Well, here’s a few theories. One, stuckage is unrealistic. There. I said it. Nobody gets stuck. I’m thrice the woman I was, I’ve 210lbs in 9 months (take that Sweeney!), but I still have eyes and thus can determine if my mousse-filled caboose can get between things without it feeling like that scene in Indiana Jones when the walls close in. But, weight gain at the levels I write about are unrealistic too. I mean, I don’t care how autobiographically you write, nobody can gain over 200lbs in a year,

Theory 2: I have major claustrophobia. I hate tight spaces so much I can’t watch Die Hard. Plus, it’s name is basically Diet Hard, which elicits the same response from me as holy water does a vampire. But claustrophobia isn’t sexy. Tight spaces aren’t sexy. You weird fetishists who dig this shit: what’s the allure? Yours sincerely, someone so big that most spaces are now tight spaces. Yours Formally, Fish.

But, I’ve got an idea guys. So, claustrophobia is a phobia, right? And one of the treatments is something called Immersion Therapy. So, if you hate spiders (like a normal person) you can cure yourself by smothering yourself in spiders or some such kamikaze action. So, I’m going to cure my apathy of stuckage by over-indulging in it. I’m going to take a leaf out of Saintx’s FATS Network and make a series of vignettes, drawing from my other characters, that each involve stuckage. And I’m counting this as one of those vignettes. So there.

But who to go next. Well, maybe this is my chance to correct my Wiktoria failing. And since I’m plagiarising Saintx, I might take this as an opportunity to see what Wiktoria and Rutherford are up to, along with his greatest ever creation.

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Stuffed With Cream

Part 1

Subjects 1571-R and 1571-W

I have been providing therapy to this couple for 6 months now. And, under my stewardship, they have blossomed. Before they arrived, 1571-R had clear potential, but 1571-W was holding her back. Clinging on arrogantly to Western ideas about skinniness and desirability. I fixed that, but I did have to resort to extreme measures.

Fortunately, they come in now healed of any indulgent inhibitions. Rutherford, no, sorry, 1571-R, has continued unabated. She is now one of my most prized specimens. Without too much intervention on my part, she has piled on weight at a rate that I find quite reasonable. I estimate that she is between 510-520lbs at a rate that hasn’t plateaued yet. Her mobility is clearly being impinged, her back hurts while she walks and she brushes her side against my doorframe when she enters my office. The last point is the source of the idea for today’s session. And the source of a great deal of physical stimulation on my part after they depart.

1571-W, a more obstinate opponent, has finally succumbed also. I am not typically fond of such a forcible approach with my patients and would not have deemed her worthy had it not been for the clear potential of her girlfriend. Now that I have broken her seal, so to speak, I am pleased that I have. She has now assigned all of her emotional investment in maintaining her weight gain pace with 1571-R, so as to maintain her relationship with 1571-R. This creates a feedback loop where they both motivate one another to eat more. And this development is one I am quite proud of. A woman of her height, at 5ft11, I suspect that she is nearing 400lbs herself.

“You both seem to be blossoming in your relationship” I state, and observe their reactions. 1571-R smiles at this comment, the double-entendre is not lost on her. She sees me as an ally, which enables me to manipulate her. 1571-W also smiles at this, but for boring and literal reasons. She has a boring personality. It disappoints me every time.

“We sure are. You know, I don’t think we’ve ever been closer” 1571-R says, and she pulls her large girlfriend towards her more closely with a hug to demonstrate affection. It is a familiar emotion among couples, it seems.

“Yes, we are like very happy girlfriends” 1571-W says, misunderstanding how similes work. I judge her harshly on it in my notepad, despite her English being better than my Polish. I find the Slavic languages grammatically dense and are more comfortable in the Romance or Germanic ones.

“Well, I think we should do something a bit different. To celebrate the steps forward that we’ve taken here” I say, and they smile like they have won on Jeopardy. It makes it so easy for me. “I was thinking we arrange an activity, outside of work”

“Of course, this isn’t the sort of thing I would normally do with my patients” I lie. The flattery in their faces tell me they buy the lie. “But, because you have overcome so much, I thought a team-building exercise might cement our work together. None of you are claustrophobic, are you?”

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

So, my apologies to Saintx for destroying his most prized character. But this is canonically a different Dr Cream from a different timeline to the one in his main story so hopefully it doesn’t matter too much.

And that was alright I suppose. I preferred the weight gain and the Dr Cream stuff, but I guess I am one step closer to curing my claustrophobia and overcoming my stuckage apathy. Oh dear god, I’m beginning to sound like her.

I’ll come back to these. That’s how Saintx did it with FATS and it worked for him. He popped in and out like the vignettes were neighbours and he were popping round for tea. Which sounds too English, even by my standards. But, I’m thinking maybe a series of diptychs. Or am I only doing that because I like the sound of the word diptych. Go on, say it. Diptych. Good, huh? Sounds like ‘dipstick’, but is posher.

So, who next? If this is a series of vignettes (or diptychs!) then I better feature some other characters. Maybe, and bear with me here, some based on my own actual stories and not just ripping off a fellow writer and all-round good egg. Well, the last story had some of my oldest characters, how about some new ones? Cos I do still create new characters and don’t just lazily recycle the same safe Musketeers from the end of 2018. I’ve still got it, you know. Honest. I can still do it. I can still create characters. You guys believe me right? You guys believe me that I am capable of still writing stuff?

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Diner Sore

Part 1

Another indulgence. Stacked upon the last. Like pancakes. Maybe she could have some pancakes too.

Sweeney was at her favourite diner, illuminated by the harsh glow of their lighting in a night sky moody with darkness. Term time drummed its martial beat to a clinical hum in the back of her head, tirelessly percussing with metronome regularity, but the Christmas break was a pause from that. From the menagerie of children with their fiendish relentlessness and squawked voices. From the disdainful looks that Principal Iashvilli was undoubtedly giving her for her colossifying. It all went on hiatus for one week, and Sweeney did to.

Though food never went on a hiatus. It followed her around like it was her shadow. A steady devolution from the previous paragon of restraint that she embodied, she now spiralled in elliptic circles down the drain of debauched decadence and showed no sign of reversing its polarity. For food was her oxygen far more than oxygen was, just steadily passing through her lungs with fastidious regularity. Meals between meals, and snacks between them. Never nutritious and always delicious. Her life was now an unending sushi belt but of heavier food.

The chocolate cake for breakfast was an impressive opening gambit, its chocolate staining her lips, its frosting staining her work uniform and its unsaturated fats staining her waistline. It tasted like gross irresponsibility, and it tasted wonderful. And this 6400 calorie prologue to her day simply established cocoa-infused habits that would fuel her until lunch period, with chocolate muffins, chocolate cookies and chocolate bars making desk ornaments for very little time before she vanquished them also. They reminded her of breakfast, and set the mood for lunch.

And the day would continue to barrel along in this disregard, like a train without breaks careening along its track with gathering speed. Its breathless abandon charged Sweeney’s guilty thoughts with rasping exhilaration. And, with the Christmas holidays now upon her and all, she could revel in the ornate embellishments that such dietary liberty had brought upon her. Gone was her chin, once aggressively protruding but now melted away into her halo of facial roundness. Gone was her stomach, replaced with a gut that announced itself to any room that she entered before the rest of her did. Gone was her thigh gap, now barely a knee gap. And gone was the sense of concern as the scales told her that 57 further pounds had marched to her body like rats to a pied piper. 57 pounds that took her to 276. Miss Witchy’s 106lb entry point had been lost to the horizon, along with all illusion of restraint.

The workers at the diner must know her by now. They must have whispered to one another upon her entry and exit, whispers that she once was of exalted porcelain beauty, before she duffled into a more mashed potato exterior. And they must have watched with bated breath every time she slid her bulk into the gap between the seating and the table, and saw the difficulty of her manoeuvring her increased frame through the decreased gap. One day that narrow passage between the seating and the table would prove to be a one-way street. And, that day would be today. Sweeney squeezed into the narrow booth, and two burgers, fries and her daily sundae. Oh, and pancakes. And she ate until the inevitable happened.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

See guys, told you I could still do it? Decent opener that, right? Come on guys, I need more than that from you. I’ll try again… right? No? Yeesh, tough crowd.

Yeah, still not got to the whole stuckage thing. The suspense must be killing you. But it was nice to write as Sweeney again, I enjoy that style and felt I slipped quite easily back into it. I always liked her. I feel a kinship with her. I relate to her far more than is healthy. But ‘far more than is healthy’ is my middle name. And hers, I guess. Cool, we even share a middle name. But, onwards and upwards I guess.

And onto something a bit more heavy duty. And by that, I mean Zhavia from Doughballs All The Way Down.

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A Change In Perspective

Part 2 (Concluding part)

Stuck? Are you freaking kidding me? This is the worst thing that could happen! It’s the last thing that I want. For me to want to stay in one spot, in another jam.

Well, as I mentioned earlier, I guess I have continued to gain weight a bit. But it’s not that much, is it? I mean, it’s only been a couple of months since my sister came back. It’s only been a couple of months and how much damage can a little girl like me do to herself in that time?

Eventually Fleur turns up, but it’s mainly to laugh at the indignity of my situation. I suppose I deserve that after the phone call I made to her earlier. Serves me right, as she can’t help but remind me. Left me with a good amount of egg on my face. Okay, mentioning egg has brought up bad memories, maybe I shouldn’t have done that. I blame those eggs for being stuck in here. The bastards.

“Let me guess, my love, whales aren’t very good at using phone boxes either” she jibes, as she bites her lip. She’s enjoying this. I’m glad one of us is.

“It seems the expanse of your stomach is caging you, my dear” she says, eyes glinting smugly. Her way with words used to feel caustic and harsh, but now their second language clunkiness titillate. I better not start enjoying this too. Not here. Not in public. I swear she is the devil.

“I’ll get you out, on one condition” she said, wretched grin on her pretty face. She rests on hand on the fat that rests on my shoulder. In public. With my devil girlfriend. “You eat these carrot cakes that I bought for you”

Well, that diet lasted even shorter than normal. But I’ve only got one shot, I can’t miss my chance to go and get out of here. And I need her help. And so I need her on board. And so I need to eat the pair of carrot cakes that she has brought to me. And so I do as I need. Bulging at the glass seams of an anachronistic device. Squidging and squashing and seriously stuck. And thrusting more pounds of cake into my mouth and more pounds onto my body. Did I mention that I used to be thin?

Fortunately, Fleur intervenes. With the icing from the second cake, she greases the glass and then she pulls. I’m escaping, through this hole that is gaping. And I’m out. I’m free. Relieved. And never again am I going in a telephone booth.

And, whatsmore, I’m going on a diet. This is it. For real. And this time I’m sticking to it. Well, maybe ‘sticking’ isn’t a word I want to hear any more. But I just hope it lasts longer than the last one.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

“Wait, part 2? Where was part 1?” You’re probably not thinking because we all know what’s cracking off here. A Zhavia story, I guess it’s going to be told backwards. And I guess I better let you read the first part, whilst it’s still fresh in your memory. But first, note how the title is far better here than it was on her original story.

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A Change In Perspective

Part 1

Exercise? See guys, I can do it. Burning those calories. It’s just around the block, half a mile at most, but it’s a start. Not with the dogs, I still am not up to shouting “comment tu t’appelles” down a street. Being this size is embarrassing enough, without people thinking I’m French and want to know people’s names. No, just a trip around the block, walking at a leisurely pace. Should be an easy breeze. And I have a bag of scotch eggs with me for reinforcement. What’s the worst that could happen?

Because I’m on a diet. This is it. For real. And this time I’m sticking to it. And when I get stuck into something, I stay stuck. I just hope it lasts longer than the last one.

And it’s easy. I march off with a bit of pace, the lack of effort that it takes pleasantly surprising me. I have my headphones in. Lose Yourself by Eminem on repeat, to power me through. One scotch egg down. I ring Fleur to gloat. Another scotch egg down. She had previously said I wouldn’t be able to make it. She said, and I quote “whales aren’t great at walking”. Well, I’m showing her. This is no problem at all, I tell her. Another scotch egg down. I’m enjoying this. She says she’s glad one of us is. I was cocky, filled with braggadocio and swagger. And maybe filled with one to many scotch eggs.

And then I had to hang up. I had to hang up because my phone ran out of juice, and soon I ran out of juice too. There’s sweat trickling down my neck already, and my legs feel weak and my arms feel heavy. I mean, I guess my arms are heavy, so it makes sense. Too much mom’s spaghetti. Cos I’m not even half way and I’m puffing air like a puffer fish. They puff air, right? A scotch egg might help. My clothes are damp and sticky, clinging onto me in a way that is most ungracious. Maybe it’s a lack of sugar, or a lack of carbs. Scotch eggs can help with that, right. Best have another. No, I can’t go on. This is ridiculous. I need a breather. This is too fucking much.

And my phone’s dead. So I can’t get Fleur to bring over the car. I say car, it’s more of a van. I am now van-sized. That’s humiliating. Imagine being too big to fit in anything smaller than a van. Well, least you get to imagine it, I have to live with it. Maybe, if I use the pay phone, I can call her from there. That was sort my problems out. Yeah, I’ll do that. No more problems for Zhavia.

Except… fuck. It’s tight in here. Too tight to turn or too twist. Am I now too fat for long-distance communication? Am I too fat for Graham Alexander Bell? Is this the downside to being 631lbs?

Because that’s how much I weigh. As of yesterday, so it’s probably more. I am now just 12lbs away from being six times heavier than I was two years ago. I weigh six-fold, I have six folds. That’s too many sixes. Too many folds.

And I’m stuck. I feel the windows of the phone box pressing against my sides like too tight clothes. Or just clothes, as I call them. I try to twist, wriggle or jiggle in some many to set me free, but the panes of glass wedge me in tighter and tighter against what a cruel person might refer to as the expanse of my stomach.

I can do this. I have one shot. Shit, Lose Yourself’s lyrics keep mirroring my circumstances, the looping song paralleling every gross misfortune I’m having. Eventually, I navigate my arm sufficiently to get the receiver next to my ear, and jab the buttons with a contorted elbow the memorised number of Fleur, so that she can help me. I can do anything I set my mind to. The number, fittingly, ends in 666.

And this is it. The last time. Diet starts now. No more over-eating, no more embarrassing incidents and no more fucking carrot cake!

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

Okay, so there is the supposed pay-off. Part 2 was all punchline, part 1 was all set-up. Aren’t I a clever sod? And a fat sod. But I’m pretty sure you’ve cottoned on to that by now.

In fact, being fat might be an issue. This goddamn motherfucking swivel chair has never felt more snug around my merrier derrière. I hope this isn’t foreshadowing anything, which is the sort of literary device I overuse, in the same way that Tarantino is all like “could do with more feet shots” and nobody dares point out he’s already overdone that one. But yeah, my hulking bulk is really swelling between the armrests. I guess the sensible thing in this situation would be to eat some carrot cake, but that would suggest that my characters are all refractions of my own personality and each story is, in fact, semi-autobiographical. And I think we all know that I’m not the type of girl to blur the lines between my characters and myself.

So, I better offer you the concluding part of the other two stories. When Saintx did it, with is kinetic writing style, he managed to jam in so many characters from so many stories that half of the fun was the encyclopaedic nature of it all. I got a great thrill of going “ooo, I recognise that one” or “ooo, it’s fun to see those characters talking to one another”. But, in order to keep this a one-off, I’m going to have to cap it at 3 stories I’m afraid. Or four, if you can’t all this stuff as fictional.

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Diner Sore

Part 2 (concluding part)

No. No. Please God know. This wasn’t supposed to happen. This wasn’t supposed to happen. This was not supposed to happen.

I mean, maybe Sweeney should have seen it coming. The squeeze tightening like the turning of a vice each time she chose a booth. And she always chose a booth for this very reason. For the exhilaration of this pressure being placed upon her, digging in to remind her of how much larger she was now. The jutting table edge bruising her pillow-like abdomen and gently constricting her internal organs in a pleasantly unpleasant way. And so she kept choosing and choosing a booth until the gap that was next to nothing moved one along to nothing, and Sweeney found herself wedged in.

Maybe it had been the stack of pancakes, bought on impulse and eaten as impulsively. Maybe it was the two burger-and-fries meals that she followed it up with, with meat patties so oiled up they could body build. Or maybe it was the sundae. Her favourite meal of the day. The calorific spoons of chocolate and caramel splodged throughout like diabetic veins. But something tipped her over the edge of being able to tip past the edge of the table.

And panic set in. It trickled down her, chilling the hairs on her body downwards as the horror of her situation dawned on her. The embarrassment causing her innards to curdle and dread to flood her system. No. No, stop it. Let her go. She attempted to shuffle along but that digging sensation, that tightened pincer that clasped her, let her make no sideways movement. She tried not to grunt, she tried not to cause the weary eyes of the rest of the diner redirect towards her. But her cheeks were getting flushed and her breath was getting staggered as she tried and failed to squeeze out.

What would they think? Here, strangled around the waist with the ultimate embarrassment. The employee behind the counter was probably eyeing her with disdain, wondering how somebody could get that big. The elderly gentleman at the back of the diner had probably sneered in disgust. A passing couple probably just looked in through the window and seen with shock and amusement the unsettling sight. Maybe they took a photo, shared it online. Maybe it is going viral. Maybe a photo of a fat woman sandwiched between her booth seat and her table is spreading like wildfire over the internet.

And that was when Sweeney felt the early ominous swells of a sexual tsunami. That foreboding draining of a thrill that precedes its wild onrushing. She needed to get out of here. Not just because she was trapped. Not just because she was humiliated. But because she needed to reward herself for those things. She needed her reclining chair, with its pained creak. She needed her hands between her legs. She needed her breath to accelerate. She needed her back to convulse, her legs to tighten. This was perfect. This was wonderful. She needed to get stuck here more often. Tighter. More terrifyingly trapped.

Her skin burnt as she slid herself along, frayed along the edge where the table dug in. The pain was a pleasant one, a thrilling one. She waddled back to her flat, ready for the storm of gratification to hit. And she would make sure next time was tighter still. She had a new fetish. Sweeney had discovered stuckage.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

And so we finish the latest in Sweeney’s adventures. And Sweeney has discovered stuckage, and she kinda likes it. For her, it was the feeling of fear and dread. She’s always gotten off on that. Something switched in her head where she started sexually desiring the thing that she’s also repelled by. She’s a woman driven by fear, and avoiding things due to fear, and now she’s turned on by that very fear. That very self-consciousness.

And so she discovers she likes stuckage. That thrill of being trapped, and the utter humiliation of it. Because the weight gain fetish can often carry that sort of emotional baggage in its sidecar, can’t it? For me, at least, it’s always been tied up with emotional stuff. Now, don’t get me wrong, bellies are great. Something about their autonomy that is just transfixing. But I find my kink is all barrelled together with feelings of self-worth and feelings of taboo and feelings of control and feelings of power. So I get what Sweeney’s saying. About the thrill of stuckage being tied up with the thrill of humiliation. As well I should, given that I wrote her.

So maybe this therapy session is working. Maybe I’m coming around to stuckage. Maybe it isn’t about the physical aspect, but the sense of being trapped by yourself and the loss of control. Or being embarrassed at the shame of it. So what better way is there to conclude this therapy session that by returning to everyone’s favourite but-what-if-Hannibal-Lecter-was-a-sexy-woman-with-a-fat-fetish-instead-of-a-cannibal-fetish tribute, Dr Cream.

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Stuffed With Cream

(Part 2 - concluding part)

They obey. 1571-R and 1571-W obey because I have conditioned them to do so. There is very little they wouldn’t do at my behest. It’s Pavlovian. It’s pleasant.

I note with pride that there is no trepidation at the thought of spelunking. It is testament to my work that they oversee the thing that I desire. 1571-W is most pleased. She seems less defined by her size and eating, and unpleasant side-effect to her frustrating independence. I observe her smile at the thought of activity, and wonder if it will stimulate a desire to pursue a more active lifestyle. I need to ensure that it is sufficiently traumatic that this doesn’t happen. I will press upon her the importance of a more sedentary existence by making this trip unpleasant.

Both 1571-R and 1571-W are wearing their gear now. It is most pleasingly unflattering. In it, I spy every contour of them as though they were naked. My suit is similarly fitting and I am sure that they both find me attractive. Most do. It would be tiresome were it not so convenient.

We go down and make our way through, albeit slowly. A lumbering 1571-R ensures that. I take them to darker tighter spots underground, and wait for it to get too much. Initially, I am thwarted by 1571-R’s perseverance, and she manages to squeeze in through every gap so far, but I go ahead of her and find a spot between wet stone that she will not fit through.

She wants to protest, as I squeeze through ahead of her. She wants to tell me that she will never fit in the gap. But the presence of 1571-W makes her stop. This is precisely as I want. She fears that acknowledging her size and difficulty to fit will provoke 1571-W and cause her to press for dieting again. I leverage this against her, and force to try to squeeze through.

I observe the mush of her upper body wedged in the gap. I bite my lip at the sight of it, though I obscure this response from Rutherford’s… sorry, 1571-R’s sight. But she spots this expression anyway as she finds herself trapped.

“Ooops, guys I think I’m trapped here” she says, but there’s a smile on her face. She seems to like the indignity of it. She's psychologically complex at times, and yet wonderfully simple at others. She is convinced that she is an ally to me, and I to her, and I intend to maximise this relationship. 1571-W is behind Rutherford and stressed about the situation, and immediately pulling. She responds poorly to tension and a loss of control. Fortunately, 1571-R’s bulk makes it futile without my assistance to push. And I have no such intention. And then Rutherford… sorry, 1571-R looks at me and whispers.

“You wanted this, didn’t you?” It is not part of the plan to have her actively aware of my desires. I need to maintain a disconnect. She is, after all, just a play thing to me. I feel no emotional connection and simply want her to fulfil her potential with me. But I will use this for my benefit. Even if her comment throws me off balance. I know how to maintain control here.

I remove my wetsuit and stand in front of her naked. 1571-W has no view of the other side of Rutherford. Of 1571-R that should be. So I am able to do as I like and 1571-W will be no wiser. And 1571-R will keep my secret. She views me as her ally. I stand in front of her and allow her to cast her eyes over my sculpted form. It is a magnificent figure, made all the better by the contrast against the piggy here stuck in the middle. Sorry, that was unprofessional. I have to maintain an emotional disconnect.

1571-R proceeds to eat me out, without a great deal of encouragement from me, while 1571-W attempts to free her. I find the situation most stimulating, the confines coupled with her tongue. I feel empowered. And yet I am letting my guard down, and allowing Rutherford to see too much of me. My emotions are not for sharing. My iron curtain must not fall down. So I allow her to facilitate an orgasm, re-clothe and then aid 1571-W in pushing Rutherford from the tight spot. 1571-W is red in the face with exertion and worry. I feel she will avoid physical activity from now on, associating it with horror and fear. Damp, dark spaces, panic and exertion, a potent cocktail that I've made, and one that will traumatise her to seek solace in food and remaining inactive. And Rutherford will keep my secret, believing us to be on an equal footing and helping one another. Partners in a shared fascination. And, as long as she doesn’t use this leverage against me, no further actions will be required to keep her quiet. And I can continue to spend time with her, my beautiful little project. My favourite little project. Not that I am emotionally invested in Rutherford. I mean 1571-R

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

And there we have it. September WGWP prompt done. Oh, did I not mention that this was for my writing group? No? Well, I’ve gone back and changed it, added that information at the start of this story, so you’ll never know. The power of editing! Except, I guess you will know because I’ve told you here.

Anyway, less of that. Important thing is maybe stuckage isn’t so weird after all. By FA and WG fetish standards anyway. Which is pretty low standards but still. It was a power thing and a humiliation thing with Dr Cream. She loved having the control and Rutherford, sorry 1571-R, not having it. She gets off on superiority. And being better than her, by traditional standards. And I’m no dom. I’m not a Kyle Malcolm, Minnie Charnwood or Doctor Cream type. You can see it in my writing. They are always the object, and the sub is always the subject. I am vicariously getting these dominant characters to wreak these things on me. And then I wreak them on myself alongside it all. So I see things from Rutherford’s perspective and I enjoy being asserted upon.

And that’s what stuckage seems to be, I most haughtily conclude. It seems to me stuckage is about being a sub. It’s about at the mercy of more than just people, but your environment. And, even more so, at the mercy of your own size. And that’s the stuff for me. Pure sublimation. The humiliated, embarrassed, out of control. Telephone boxes can dominate you. Caves can dominate you. Diner booths can dominate you. And computer chairs with armrests can dominate you.

As I am now finding out. Fuck. I’m stuck. Stuck in my own computer chair as I write this. Ha, it seems the stuck-er has become the stuck-ee. I am trapped, my astronomically proportioned arse has become one with the armrests originally designed for the sitter’s comfort. And I’m stuck. Like, actually stuck. Watch this. See, I’m waggling my arse about and the chair is just waggling with it. How embarrassing. How delightfully embarrassing. I am stuck. I have a stuckage problem.

And it feels good. Wonderful. Erotic. Stuck in the chair is the type of thing that a bully might tease you about, and that’s half the allure. This is what Sweeney likes about it, perhaps. Or Rutherford. Or Zhavia, for that matter. I am stuck, being dominated by a plastic computer chair from Ikea. Being humiliated, denigrated and demeaned by it. I can finally say I get stuckage now. All I had to do was get stuck.

The only way out of here, realistically, is if I break the chair. But, of course, that’s another entirely different sub-fetish in this genre, chairs breaking on people. And that, my dear viewers, will have to wait for another, different month.