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Fat With a F

December 6th, 2007

I was trying to find the entry in which I mentioned my weight but I think I’ve given up. I don’t remember if it was a “white lie” to make myself feel better or if I was honest about how much I weigh. It doesn’t matter. In this post, I’m letting it all hang out.

When I met Master, I weighed between 160 and 180 pounds and was in a size sixteen pants. I was a diet pill and Slim Fast junkie, among other things, though I left laxatives alone and didn’t make myself throw up. All I’d eaten in at least five days was a single tuna sandwich made with fat free mayonnaise and low-carb bread. And even then, I was riddled with guilt with every bite, chastising myself for being weak and ended up giving half of it to the dog. I was textbook anorexic, and had been for at least six months, even though I wasn’t yet skin and bone. I don’t know how much I weighed when it started. I just remember going from a size twenty-two to a size sixteen in only a few weeks. My energy level was off the charts, though that was due, mostly, to the ephedra-riddled diet pills. My moods were better thanks to the amazing amount of anti-psychotics and SSRIs I was prescribed and, even though my hair was falling out and my clothes were ratty, I had more eyes on me than I ever had before.

I fell pretty hard. And when Master picked me back up He outlawed diet pills, Slim Fast and starving myself first thing. I gained a few pounds the first week. Shortly after that, cigarettes were banned. I gained more weight by filling my usual cigarette breaks with eating breaks. And because I was quitting smoking, I had a way to hide the things I had been doing to myself to lose weight. I used quitting smoking as my excuse for quickly ballooning up to 275 pounds and kept to myself the fact that I had an eating disorder.

My eating disorder went from one side of the spectrum to the other. Now, instead of refusing to let much more than a basically fat free sandwich and some diet pills passed my lips, I was eating everything in sight. Gorging myself until I quite literally couldn’t put another bite in my mouth without vomiting. Binge eating had become my new best friend.

When I had my gall bladder removed, I lost thirty pounds. I spent more than a week before the emergency operation allowing myself to indulge in the familiar feeling of not eating and blaming it on the pain eating induced until Master insisted that I put something in my stomach. I was delighted when the food I swallowed decided it didn’t want to stay down. And when I stepped on the scale when I was finally dragged to the ER and saw that I weighed 245 I wanted to dance. Of course, I also wanted to strangle someone to express the amount of pain I was in so dancing wasn’t really an option. Shortly after the operation, I regained the thirty pounds.

Being fat embarrasses and disgusts me. I know that’s sort of disappointing to the BBW enthusiasts but when it comes right down to it, that’s how I feel. I avoid looking at myself in the mirror because it brings tears to my eyes. I try to count calories and eat less without going overboard and annoying Master with it, but it rarely ever seems to get me anywhere.

Master and I discussed my feelings and an exercise plan was put into place. I couldn’t stick to it. I have a million excuses and at least as many ways to make it appear to be Master’s fault. I repeatedly asked for the equipment I needed and He repeatedly denied me. I had to get up at five to complete the program and get Him up and ready for work but was still forced to stay up until anywhere from eleven to one in the morning. He was constantly chastising and yelling at me for falling asleep while we watched TV or played a game. But what it came down to was I wasn’t losing (even when I exercised every day for a month), I was discouraged, and I lost the will to get up that early every morning for something that wasn’t working. I never asked permission. I just stopped. And because He never said anything, I assumed this was acceptable.

And then it happened. Master realized just how much being fat gets to me. His sadistic side was unable to resist. He spent and hour and a half forcing me to ride Him, lick Him, kiss Him while He ridiculed me for my size. And I cried. I cried more than I think I’ve ever cried from any other form of torture He’s exacted upon me. The tears poured from my face and soaked His chest. He made me lick the tears from His flesh. My fingers ached from the death grip I had on the sheets. And while my pussy dripped on His cock, my mind slowly exhausted itself with the will it took to stay where I was put. He’s called me fat (fat bitch, fat cunt, fat slut, etc.) ever since.

Instead of it being the lesson in acceptance He’d hoped, it became a very real reason for me to lose weight. My secret is out. Master realized I’m fat. And I was (am) devastated.

Not long ago, I was getting ready to head out to lunch with Master and His coworker. I hadn’t articulated step by step what I was doing when I got out of the shower and He asked. I said, “Making myself pretty for you.” and He responded with, “Good.” When I got home from lunch it occurred to me to ask why. He said that I should always look my absolute best when I’m with Him. That everything should be in order and I should strive to make myself as pleasing as possible in His eyes. From makeup, to hair, to clothes, I should be as perfect as possible. While I knew that, this brought on new feelings of failure over my size.

I’m now teetering on the edge of the 240s and 230s and desperate to continue to lose. I weigh less than I have in five years and I’m not even slightly proud of myself. The only parts of me I look at anymore are my eyes, and even then it’s only to apply makeup. It’s a battle to convince myself to put every single morsel of food into my mouth so that I may adhere to the rule He gave me so many years ago that I am to eat at least two meals a day. And I have a new fear.

What if I’m one of those people whose body doesn’t absorb the extra skin when I lose weight? I’m not sure I care.

A while back, there was a bit of talk on the blogosphere of dominants avoiding the size/weight subject altogether when it comes to controlling their submissives. At the same time, I see a few who are very explicit about what their submissives can and cannot eat. I find myself envious of the latter. Because when it comes right down to it, my love of flavor, not food, controls me. If it tastes good, I can’t make myself stop eating it. And that makes it even more difficult to continue down the path of getting to the goal Master has set for me (between 160 and 180 again).

I don’t understand why I have the will power to follow so many of His rules but I can’t seem to get my ass in gear when it comes to losing weight.

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