I Am Robert Earl Hughes

I am Robert Earl Hughes, the World's Fattest Man.

Long have I suffered under that name, but my long suffering has given rise to some good, in the form of my livelihood and my devoted children. But beyond these blessings even, I have my beautiful wife, Grace ("Grace of God" I like to call her in our quiet "pillow talks," though indeed the pillows sometimes be none other than those of my massive ass halves) who, with her delicate frame, manages to give me much pleasure, despite the danger therein to her small body, a mere 98 pounds against my manly (yes, I feel I have earned the right to call my many fatty folds "manly") 1,069 pounds.

So many wondrous times has she pressed her tiny hot folds of flesh against me and against my distant tiny genitals, that I have lost count, how this tiny quivering flower hanging off my body has so many beautiful times gotten me off (forgive me, my Savior, for my occasional foulness of tongue, but I have naught but a second-grade education, what with You having seen fit to cast me out early from the "educated" masses in order that I might profit from my body's masses.) (Your ways are wise and unfathomable to me, why You did see fit to bless me with every one of my 1,069 pounds, which I view as 1,069 individual blessings (oh, and forgive me as always for that time my evil Vanity drove me to try to jettison some of those pounds that you had so generously bequeathed unto me)).

Yes, you, Grace, indeed have "gotten me off," as the Philistines say, exerting enough hysterical energy for the both of us. Sometimes I would try to bring my massive haunches to bear on the matter at hand, attempting one or two feeble and exhausting thrusts (if "thrust" it may be called; more of a quivering dick-rise, I should admit more fairly), before falling back in exhaustion; then you, my Beautiful Grace, would "finish the job," riding my mammoth girth as it were an Ox, my Belly actually hiding the greater part of your quivering hot little body. Then so many times I would explode into the beautiful hot little flower riding my body, and my seed would ride into you; three times now has it completed its wondrous journey back out of you: our little Darlings, Robert Jr., Samuel and Molly herself (may they not be Blessed/Cursed with the Blessing/Curse of phenomenal weight gain; though I do not forget that I owe my livelihood to said "Curse".)

I admit sometimes I might be a little "curt" in my lovemaking, not paying you the fullest mind, especially in the "foreplay department;" for this I beg your forgiveness. (Though on the other hand, I must assert my rights from time to time as the Master of this House and Owner of your beautiful little body. (Yes, "Owner" is a strong term, but that is the term the Father would have me use.) For all of my bread-winning and bacon-gathering, I feel I have earned (or as I like to put it, "Earled") some rights and pride of ownership to you, my beautiful crazed wild flower).

And then one day, today, as I return home from the State Fair, in only my thirty-third year of life, you paid your final homage to my precarious manhood and accepted my Gift of Seed (this time I was on my side, your back to me; a far away heat and then I exploded in flowers inside of you). I will never know if that final Gift bore Fruit, for then this thing happened: I heard you say,

"Robert, I will go cook you five pounds of bacon."

I smiled and I closed my eyes under massive lids.

Then my heart, lost in three hundred pounds of guts and entrails and so many Folds of Fat, fluttered once, twice, and then stopped.

I am the Happiest Man in the World.

*****

Robert... Robert... Your bacon is ready. Robert...

Hreeeee!!!!

Robert! Oh, Lord! Oh, Lord! You are dead! [SOB SOB SOB]

No, it cannot be it cannot be. [SOB SOB SOB]

'Robert, your bacon is ready.' So often have I said that and seen you smile at me for saying it. 'Your bacon is ready,' but today you're not here to taste it. [SOB SOB SOB]

I knew this day would come. My sister did tell me it would come. But not so soon... not so soon... [SOB SOB SOB]

I begged my tiny faithful mind to believe that, despite your half-ton--plus weight, you were a "healthy man." After all, you were always a good provider to me, no matter what Sister said. "Marry that boy and you marry a Freak," she said to me; how little did she realize the truth in it. For it was by the "Freakin'" that you earned our bread. Letting the boys and men and girls and women gawk at you and call you names, and darned near covering you with feces, if you are to be believed. All because you were "different." All the misery you bore to provide for me, and Robert Jr. (he is already showing signs of horrible "glandular" problems, may the Lord be thanked for that), and Samuel (still thin, may the Devil take him!), and little Molly [SOB SOB SOB]. Never did we go hungry, even after ensuring that you were not hungry. Yes, it was by Freakin' that you earned us our shack in the back of your father's farm, and we will never leave it, thank you Jesus and Father. [SOB SOB SOB]

But the last time you went to the fairs I had a fear in me, and I felt the Freakin' was getting to be too much for you. You were unhealthy, having recently reached the weight you most feared: 1,069 pounds. I begged you not to go, but you said, 'By Freakin' I have lived and by Freakin' I shall die, if the Savior sees fit in His Wisdom.' And off you went, your father driving the old truck with you bouncing about in the back with only some meager tosses of hay to cushion you from the metal sides, (I have come to realize that your father may not have had your best interests in mind), off to the next Fair, be it Town, County, or . . .

State! Yes, you finally reached your dream of the State level! [SOB SOB SOB]

But you were a different man when you come home after the State Fair. I sensed it when I was giving you your daily ball-lickin' (a right that you truly have "Earled" after all these years of bacon-winning). You were happy about the State Fair, to be sure, but you were tired; the last 9 pounds you gained was not sitting well with you.

I said, "I'll be right in with your quart of cream, Robert" [SOB SOB SOB], and your head whipped toward me expectantly, causing your chin waddle to quiver more so than usual. You drank the cream and so invigorated bade me come to you. I rode you like you rightly bid me, but I think you were dying even then. I felt your slickness blow up inside me (long before my tiny genitals were satisfied), and I promised you five pounds of bacon, more as a formality, since I feared you wouldn't be there to eat it like you had a thousand times before. [SOB SOB SOB] I cooked the bacon, and as I cooked I felt the tingly strangeness build in lower center of my body, (whenever I cooked I felt this strangeness, which is God's Gift to me for feeding you).

I see you now, lying before me in a slowly-cooling mound, and I eat the bacon (though after a mere half-pound my tiny belly is full). I lie across you, sliding off of you at times, straddling you, my legs spread wide, wide, like I am giving you another one of your children (though today there shall not be a fourth child - it is not my time of Moon), and I feel your seed dripping forth from me, back onto your tiny manhood from which it sprouted. I lay quietly and reverently at first, but then I begin to move a little. I-... I-... I work the stale jizz around our genitals, yours flaccid and slowly cooling, mine burning . . . burning . . . Then I take the four and a half pounds of bacon and smear it across your dead genitals. O, the slickness thus imparted to the mix of our living and dead genitals!

I slide off and down your thigh, my 98 pounds bearing down and smushing my cunt. O-- I slide back up you. Then, a wicked thought...

No, I cannot do it...

Yes, I must do it. I will pray for forgiveness for my evil later; but now I must do this thing...

I take the bacon and I stuff it in your mouth. I push up and down on your chin as best I can and you chew it. I turn the corners of your lips up and you smile. I rub my genitals on your belly, though I know the bacon is not entering it. I feel... a burning.

I work your waddle and make you chew, and make you smile, I rub, I feel the burning. The burning. O, finally, burning! My Robert! My poor, dead Robert! O, the burning! At last . . . the Burning! O-O-- [SOB SOB SOB]

At last, with you dead and gone, I came, Robert! I finally came!

I am the Happiest Woman Alive.