emily 5

Chapter 5: Miami Heat
The drive from the airport to South Beach revealed a Miami that glittered with luxury—palm trees swaying against an azure sky, gleaming high-rises reflecting the afternoon sun, and immaculately dressed people gliding along Ocean Drive. Emily gazed out the window of the Escalade, momentarily distracted from her empty food containers.
"We're almost there," Max announced, turning onto Collins Avenue. "My place is just ahead."
The building was an imposing glass and steel structure facing the ocean. A uniformed doorman rushed forward as they pulled up, opening Emily's door with practiced deference.
"Welcome to Oceana Residences, Ms. Emily," he said, not betraying any reaction to her size as she struggled to exit the vehicle.
The elevator whisked them to the top floor, where Max used a keycard to access the penthouse. As the doors opened directly into the apartment, Emily gasped. Floor-to-ceiling windows revealed a panoramic view of the Atlantic Ocean, turquoise waters stretching to the horizon. The space was expansive and elegantly furnished with minimalist white furniture, abstract art, and subtle lighting.
"This is... incredible," Emily breathed, moving forward slowly, her body already damp with perspiration from the brief walk from car to elevator.
Before she could explore further, four women emerged from different parts of the apartment. Each was notably overweight, though in varying degrees. Three appeared to be in their late twenties or early thirties, but the fourth—a woman with auburn hair and a flowered dress stretched across her enormous frame—looked to be the oldest and by far the largest. She easily surpassed Emily's 400 pounds, perhaps approaching 500.
"Emily, meet your staff for the week," Max said. "Carmen, Lucia, Denise, and Maria. They'll be taking care of your every need."
The women greeted Emily warmly, with Maria—the largest—stepping forward to take her hand. "We've been looking forward to meeting you," she said with a slight accent. "Max has told us so much about your journey."
Emily felt a strange kinship with these women, particularly Maria, whose mobility seemed even more limited than her own. "It's nice to meet you all," she replied, suddenly conscious of how sweaty and disheveled she must appear after the flight.
"Let me show you around," Max offered, guiding her through the penthouse. The tour was necessarily slow, with Emily pausing frequently to catch her breath. By the time they had seen the main living areas, kitchen, Max's suite, and finally her guest suite (complete with a specially reinforced king-sized bed), she was visibly overheated and exhausted.
"I need to sit down," she admitted, lowering herself carefully onto a plush sofa positioned beneath a powerful ceiling fan.
"Of course," Max said. "You must be tired from traveling. Why don't you make yourself comfortable?"
Emily didn't need further prompting. She peeled off her sweat-soaked tunic, revealing a stretchy tank top beneath that barely contained her substantial breasts and did nothing to conceal the rolls of her stomach. Kicking off her shoes, she sighed with relief as the fan's breeze cooled her damp skin.
Max disappeared briefly and returned with a plate of artfully arranged appetizers—stuffed dates, cheese-filled pastries, and chocolate-dipped fruits. Rather than simply setting it before her, he sat beside Emily and began offering morsels directly to her mouth.
"Open," he instructed, holding a chocolate-covered strawberry to her lips.
Emily complied, finding something oddly thrilling about being fed by hand. It reminded her of Roman emperors reclining while slaves fed them grapes—a level of decadence she had never experienced.
"Perfect," Max murmured as she chewed. "You deserve to be pampered like this all the time."
The maids moved efficiently around them, one bringing a tray of elaborate cocktails in crystal glasses, another adjusting the fan speed, a third arranging pillows to better support Emily's back.
"I'd really prefer to smoke," Emily mentioned after her second fruity cocktail. "Do you have any weed?"
Max shook his head. "Not at the moment, but that's easily remedied." He gestured to Carmen, the youngest of the maids. "Go to the dispensary on Collins. Get a selection of their finest products."
Carmen nodded and left immediately, while Max returned to his task of hand-feeding Emily, who was becoming increasingly flushed from the combination of alcohol and rich food.
As evening approached, Emily relocated to the expansive balcony, settling into a custom-wide lounger where she could watch the sunset over the ocean. The maids attended to her constantly—refreshing her drink, bringing more substantial food now (a lobster roll, truffle fries, miniature key lime pies), adjusting pillows, even wiping her forehead with a cool cloth when she appeared overheated.
Max had mentioned dinner reservations at a trendy restaurant on Ocean Drive, but by six o'clock, Emily had consumed five cocktails and was visibly intoxicated, laughing too loudly at Max's comments and struggling to focus her eyes.
"Perhaps we should stay in tonight," Max suggested diplomatically. "Give you time to recover from the journey."
Emily nodded gratefully, already feeling the room begin to spin slightly. By the time Carmen returned with an impressive collection of premium cannabis products, Emily was ready for a change in substances. With practiced hands, she rolled a sizable joint using the highest-THC strain available and settled back to smoke while watching the stars appear over the ocean.
Dinner was served on the balcony—a feast of stone crab claws, wagyu steak, and various sides, all prepared by a private chef who emerged briefly from the kitchen to explain each dish before disappearing again.
By ten o'clock, Emily was simultaneously drunk, high, and stuffed beyond comfort. Max suggested they retire to the media room, where a massive screen descended from the ceiling at the touch of a button. He selected a film—something light and comedic that required minimal attention—and settled beside Emily on the oversized sectional sofa.
As the movie progressed, Emily became increasingly aware of their proximity. Despite the massive payments he had made over the years, despite flying her to Miami and providing this lavish accommodation, Max had never suggested anything beyond their established patron-performer relationship. In her inebriated state, Emily wondered if that might change.
When she shifted closer to him, placing a hand on his arm, Max gently moved it away. "Emily," he said kindly but firmly, "I hope you don't think I expect anything intimate from you."
"You don't?" she asked, confused.
"Of course not. That would be inappropriate given our age difference, don't you think? I'm old enough to be your father." He smiled. "I simply want to help you achieve your goals. Our relationship works perfectly as it is."
Emily nodded, momentarily embarrassed but also relieved. Within minutes, the combination of exhaustion, alcohol, and cannabis overtook her, and she fell asleep against the plush cushions.

Emily awoke the following day well past noon, her head pounding and mouth dry from the previous evening's indulgences. She fumbled for her phone to check the time, then groaned at the brightness of the screen.
A knock at the door was followed by Lucia entering with a tray. "Good afternoon," she said cheerfully. "Mr. Max thought you might need this."
The tray held a large protein smoothie, two pre-rolled blunts, and a bottle of painkillers. Emily gratefully accepted all three, consuming the pills with a gulp of smoothie before lighting the first blunt.
By the time she had finished smoking, her hangover had receded to a manageable level, and she felt capable of facing the day. She emerged from her room to find Max in the living area, holding a shopping bag.
"I thought we might hit the beach today," he said, extracting a vibrantly colored bikini from the bag. "I had this delivered this morning."
Emily examined the swimwear—a triangle top in tropical print and matching bottoms with adjustable ties. It was clearly designed for someone considerably smaller than her current size.
"I don't think this will fit," she said, stretching the fabric experimentally.
"Try it," Max encouraged. "Miami is about showing off. Everyone here is practically naked anyway."
Forty minutes later, Emily emerged from her room in the bikini, which indeed did not properly fit her massive frame. The top barely covered her nipples, with her breasts spilling out in all directions. The bottoms, despite being tied as loosely as possible, cut deeply into the flesh of her hips, creating pronounced bulges above and below the fabric. Her stomach hung freely, the apron of fat swaying with each step.
Max nodded approvingly. "Perfect. You look spectacular."
Emily, still pleasantly high from her wake-and-bake session, grinned. "The people of Miami need to see all this anyway," she declared, running her hands over her exposed rolls. "Why hide greatness?"
The journey to the beach was considerably easier than the airport ordeal, as Max's building had direct beach access through a private gate. Still, walking through the hot sand proved challenging for Emily, whose feet sank deeply with each laborious step, causing her to pant with exertion.
They settled at a beach bar with cabana service, where the staff visibly struggled to find a chair sturdy enough to support Emily's weight. Other patrons stared openly—some with disgust, others with fascination, a few with what appeared to be appreciation. A disheveled man, clearly homeless and intoxicated, called out as they passed.
"Damn, mama! That's what I call a WOMAN! All that jelly and no peanut butter!"
Emily, in her altered state, found this hilarious rather than offensive, blowing the man a kiss that made him whoop with delight.
After ordering their first round of drinks—a piña colada for Emily, served in what appeared to be a hollowed-out pineapple—Max excused himself to make a phone call. Emily, left alone, signaled the waiter for a menu.
"I'm starving," she explained. "What kind of snacks do you have?"
By the time Max returned, Emily had ordered loaded nachos, coconut shrimp, fish tacos, and conch fritters. She was also perusing a menu from the neighboring dispensary, having discovered they offered delivery service directly to the beach bar.
"This place is paradise," she declared, accepting another piña colada from the waiter.
When Emily attempted to stand to visit the restroom, disaster struck. The wooden barstool, already straining under her weight, gave way with a splintering crack. Emily tumbled backward, landing heavily on the wooden deck with a thud that shook the surrounding tables.
For a moment, shock rendered her immobile. Then, seeing the approaching manager's concerned face, she began to giggle uncontrollably. Max quickly helped her to her feet, whispering, "Let's go before they present us with a bill for damages."
They hurried away as quickly as Emily's size would allow, both laughing like mischievous children. They relocated to beach loungers outside another bar, where Emily's arrival in her too-small bikini created another minor sensation.
Throughout the afternoon, Emily maintained a steady intake of food, drinks, and cannabis. She ventured briefly into the ocean, where the water's buoyancy provided welcome relief from the constant effort of supporting her own weight. Max remained attentive, applying sunscreen to the parts of her back she couldn't reach, ensuring her drinks never emptied, and handling the increasingly large bills without comment.
By late afternoon, sunburned and thoroughly intoxicated, they returned to the penthouse. Emily immediately headed for the shower, where she discovered another challenge—the luxurious rainfall showerhead provided excellent coverage, but washing her own body had become an increasingly complex task. Certain areas were simply unreachable due to her limited mobility.
After struggling through her ablutions, Emily returned to the main living area wearing just the bikini, still damp from the shower. She resumed her position under the fan, where Maria was setting up a spread of finger foods and mocktails.
"No alcohol for now," Emily instructed, accepting a virgin strawberry daiquiri. "But could you roll me something nice?" She gestured to the collection of cannabis products on the coffee table.
While Maria prepared a joint, Emily observed her movements. Despite being significantly larger than Emily herself, Maria managed to move with practiced efficiency, adapting to her size in ways that suggested years of experience navigating the world in an extremely obese body.
After twenty minutes of being pampered—fed bites of chilled gazpacho and crab salad, having her shoulders massaged by Denise, being fanned with a large palm frond by Lucia—Emily noticed Maria's labored breathing and flushed face.
"Hey," Emily called to her. "You look tired. Come sit with me for a bit."
Maria hesitated, glancing toward the kitchen where Carmen was preparing dinner.
"It's fine," Emily insisted, patting the sofa beside her. "You're working too hard."
Maria lowered herself carefully onto the sofa, which creaked under their combined weight. Up close, Emily could see that the woman was indeed exhausted, perspiration beading on her forehead despite the air conditioning.
"How long have you worked for Max?" Emily asked, genuinely curious.
"About five years," Maria replied. "He's very good to work for. Very... understanding of special needs."
Emily nodded, taking another hit from her joint before passing it to Maria, who accepted it with a small smile.
"You're so young," Maria observed after exhaling. "Maybe nineteen? Twenty?"
"Nineteen," Emily confirmed. "How old are you?"
"Thirty-four next month."
Emily studied Maria's form with open admiration. "You're bigger than me. Like, significantly bigger."
Maria's expression changed subtly. "Yes. I was about your size in college, maybe a bit smaller."
"Really? That's awesome. So you've been gaining for a long time too?"
A shadow passed over Maria's face. "Not intentionally. I've been trying to lose weight for years, actually. It's just... very difficult once you reach a certain point."
The words hung in the air between them, creating a sudden tension. Emily's relaxed expression tightened.
"What do you mean, trying to lose weight?" she asked, her voice taking on an edge.
Maria shifted uncomfortably. "Well, at this size, health problems start to—"
"So you assume I want to lose weight too?" Emily interrupted, her voice rising. "You think because you hate your body, I must hate mine too?"
"No, I didn't mean—"
"I LOVE being fat!" Emily's voice had escalated to a shout. "I LOVE my body! I LOVE gaining weight!"
Maria tried to stand, clearly distressed by Emily's sudden anger, but her position on the soft sofa made it difficult to leverage her massive frame upward.
"I just thought—" she began.
"You didn't think!" Emily was fully yelling now, cannabis and residual alcohol fueling her rage. "You fat cow! How dare you project your self-hatred onto me! You don't know anything about me or what I want!"
Max appeared from his room, alarmed by the commotion. "What's happening here?"
Emily, face flushed with anger, pointed accusingly at Maria. "She's trying to tell me I should lose weight! That I should hate my body like she hates hers!"
Maria had finally managed to stand, tears welling in her eyes. "I never said that. I was just—"
"Get out!" Emily demanded. "I don't want to look at your miserable face!"
The other maids had appeared as well, watching the scene with evident discomfort. Max stepped between Emily and Maria, his hands raised placatingly.
"Emily, I'm sure Maria didn't mean to upset you. Maria, perhaps you could give us some space?"
Maria nodded, tears now streaming freely down her face as she hurried from the room as quickly as her size would allow.
Once she had gone, Max sat beside Emily, who was still seething. "She had no right to say those things to me," Emily insisted.
"Of course not," Max agreed soothingly. "Your body is your choice. Your journey is your own."
The remaining maids quickly moved to console Emily as well, offering fresh drinks, lighting another joint for her, murmuring assurances that she was beautiful, that Maria was wrong, that she had every right to be angry.
Emily allowed herself to be placated by their attention, though her mood remained darkened. When it came time to dress for dinner, she selected the largest, most revealing outfit she had brought, determined to flaunt what Maria had suggested she should hide.

The restaurant Max had selected was among South Beach's most exclusive, with a three-month waiting list that he had somehow circumvented. When the maître d' asked for their order, Emily—still sulking—shrugged and muttered, "I'm not hungry."
Max smiled knowingly at the waiter. "We'll start with the burrata, the stone crab claws, and the foie gras. Then the wagyu carpaccio, the truffle risotto, and two of the prime ribeyes—one rare, one medium rare." He gestured subtly toward Emily. "And perhaps some extra sides? The mac and cheese, potato gratin, and creamed spinach."
When the parade of dishes began arriving, Emily's claimed lack of appetite proved entirely fictional. Despite her persistent scowl, she ate methodically and thoroughly, cleaning each plate before the next arrived. The meal, which would have satisfied a table of six, disappeared progressively into Emily's mouth as her mood incrementally improved with each bite.
By dessert—a selection that included crème brûlée, chocolate soufflé, and key lime pie—Emily had thawed slightly, though she maintained a child-like petulance throughout the evening.
After dinner, Max suggested they visit a trendy cocktail bar nearby. "They have excellent live music," he said. "It might help take your mind off things."
The bar was dimly lit and sophisticated, with plush booths designed for privacy. Emily, whose mobility was increasingly compromised after such a substantial meal, sank gratefully into the upholstered seat while Max ordered their drinks.
Two hours and several elaborate cocktails later, Emily's mood had significantly improved. When Max suggested they move on to another venue, however, a new problem emerged. Emily, wedged into the booth's corner, found herself unable to extricate her body from the tight space.
"I'm stuck," she announced after several failed attempts to stand, her tone more amused than alarmed.
Max tried pulling her arms, but Emily's weight and the angle made it impossible for him alone. After a few more unsuccessful attempts, Max signaled to one of the bartenders—a tall, muscular man with sleeve tattoos visible beneath his rolled-up shirt.
"My friend seems to need some assistance," Max explained discreetly, slipping the man what appeared to be a hundred-dollar bill.
The bartender assessed the situation professionally. "If you can push from behind the booth, sir, I'll pull from this side."
With their combined effort—Max pushing against Emily's back while the bartender gripped her under the arms—they finally managed to free her from the booth's grip. The momentum nearly sent Emily toppling forward into the bartender's chest.
"Whoa there," he said, steadying her with strong hands. "Got you."
Emily giggled, her earlier anger completely forgotten. "My hero," she cooed, looking up at the bartender's face with exaggerated admiration. "You're cute."
The bartender smiled politely before returning to his post, while Max guided a now unsteady Emily toward the exit.
"I like him," Emily announced loudly. "He didn't look at me like I was gross when I got stuck."
"Of course not," Max agreed, signaling for the valet to bring their car. "You're a beautiful young woman."

The next morning, Emily emerged from her room well after eleven, feeling slightly more clear-headed than the previous day. She noticed immediately that the penthouse seemed to be running with only three maids instead of four.
"Where's Maria?" she asked Carmen as she brought Emily her morning smoothie and cannabis.
"We haven't seen her today," Carmen replied cautiously. "I think she may have taken some time off."
Emily snorted. "Good. Serves her right for trying to shame me about my size." She accepted the joint Carmen had rolled for her. "What's the plan for today?"
The day unfolded much like the previous one—beach time, excessive drinking, constant snacking, and plenty of cannabis. By mid-afternoon, Emily was thoroughly intoxicated on margaritas at a different beach bar, where she had ordered what appeared to be the entire appetizer menu.
When she had eaten perhaps three-quarters of the spread, the manager approached their table. "Excuse me, ma'am," he said politely. "I should mention that we have a policy about food waste. There's a small fee for plates that aren't finished."
Emily, drunk and sunburned, fixed him with an indignant stare. "Are you... are you saying I can't finish this food? Do I look like someone who doesn't finish their food to you?"
The manager began to explain the policy applied to all customers, but Emily cut him off.
"I'll show you finished plates," she slurred, pulling the remaining dishes toward her. "Watch this."
What followed was a display of competitive eating that left nearby patrons simultaneously impressed and disturbed. Emily systematically devoured the remaining nachos, coconut shrimp, chicken wings, and quesadillas in rapid succession, maintaining aggressive eye contact with the manager throughout.
"There!" she announced, licking sauce from her fingers. "All done. No fee needed."
"Ma'am, while that's impressive, I'm going to have to ask you to lower your voice. You're disturbing other guests."
Emily's response was both loud and profane, culminating in her attempting to stand and nearly toppling the table in the process. The manager, maintaining his composure, firmly requested that they leave the establishment.
Max handled the situation smoothly, paying the substantial bill with an extra-large tip while guiding a still-protesting Emily away from the scene.

By evening, Emily had sobered up enough to behave appropriately at the Michelin-starred restaurant Max had selected for dinner. The establishment offered a tasting menu of twelve elaborate but miniature courses, each explained in detail by a solemnly serious server.
After the fifth tiny portion—a single scallop with foam and three precisely placed dots of sauce—Emily leaned toward Max. "These are beautiful and all, but I'm still hungry. Like, actually hungry."
Max nodded understandingly and signaled the waiter. "My companion would like to add some additional dishes to our tasting experience. Perhaps something more... substantial?"
The waiter's professionally neutral expression flickered briefly before he nodded. "Of course, sir. What would the lady prefer?"
Emily proceeded to order three full-sized entrees as "supplements" to the tasting menu, much to the evident dismay of the culinary team, whose carefully orchestrated progression of flavors would now be disrupted by Emily's additions.
By the time they reached the dessert course—a deconstructed something involving five different textures of chocolate—Emily had consumed enough food for several people but showed no signs of discomfort. Her capacity had increased proportionally with her size.
Their return to the penthouse saw Emily increasingly incoherent from the evening's wine pairings. As Max helped her through the door, she staggered toward the sofa and collapsed onto it, mumbling something about "best vacation ever" before promptly falling unconscious.
Max stood observing her for a long moment—her massive form sprawled across the expensive furniture, mouth slightly open, breathing already transforming into snores. Then he pulled out his phone and took several photos of her from different angles before retreating to his own suite.