Feeling Normal

So, yesterday I experienced a very rare and distinct pleasure. I’ve only actually experienced this particular pleasure a few times in my life, here and there, and never for enough time.

I’m of course talking about feeling normal. Being gay, and being into gaining and encouraging, I’ve always defined myself as an outsider. My short years on this earth have been extraordinary. I’ve had wonderful opportunity, exceptional luck, and I wouldn’t change a thing, but, I have very rarely felt like I could totally be myself and relax.

Yesterday I spent most of the afternoon and the evening hanging out with a pair of friends of mine, initially met on Beefyfrat, and just, actually was myself. We talked about various gainer-related topics, but they were seamlessly interwoven with various other stories and subjects. It’s wasn’t a big deal, it was just, the way things were. And it was lovely.

I guess I am writing this post to just say, I highly recommend the experience. If you ever find yourself with the opportunity to hang out with a few likeminded chums, do it. You won’t regret it, even if it doesn’t devolve into some hedonistic gainer orgy.

And if it does, well, take pictures for the rest of us.

(Nothing after the jump)

Growing Up - Chapter II

Ok boys, since you liked chapter 1 so much, here is the next installment in my little autobiographical tale... Although the setting was a little different, this bit actually did happen pretty close to the way I retell it... Write what you know, right? Hope it makes you guys hungry, the next installment should come soon...

Read the second chapter of Growing Up after the jump.

Growing Up

By Get A. Snack

Chapter II

Slowly but surely we settled into our new lives. Boxes somehow got unpacked, the apartment somehow started to look like a home. My job was intense, and weeks became a blur, while weekends became a pattern. I would be totally burned out, and when I wasn't called into work, I would want to do nothing but sleep all day. Evan would get up as I slept and bring back a bag of indulgences from i Dolci and I wouldn't have to cook. With me being up long before he had to for his obligations, Evan went to the bakery almost every day for breakfast and sometimes lunch too.

Evan's reliance on the local bakery began to show on his already slightly softened rower's build. All of his clothes started to tighten ever so subtly. Even though he didn't say anything, I noticed a sharp division appear in his closet. On one side, the clothes he'd wear around the house, but were a little too tight to wear out in public, and on the other, the clothes that he felt comfortable wearing out. I personally preferred the clothes that were a bit too tight for modesty.

Despite the long hours of my job, it was somehow all worth it when I finally got home and saw my boyfriend. Inevitably, he would be passed out on the couch with a book, having fallen asleep while waiting up for me. Reclining, his tight tee shirt would have ridden up a few inches, revealing his burgeoning belly rolling over the tight waistband of his favorite sweats. Some nights it was he was lying shirtless with the top button of his jeans undone, or occasionally in nothing but his clean, white briefs. Whatever the clothing combination, I was enraptured.

One morning, after I had finished up a long, unpleasant project, I finally got to sleep in. It was summer, and by the time I woke up, the hazy sunlight was already pushing its way through the curtains. Evan stood facing the mirror. His favorite kaki cargo shorts were loosely hanging on his beautifully plumped ass. Feeling my eyes on him, he turned around and smiled at me. His shorts were undone. From the looks of it, a few inches of Evan’s belly stood between the button and the button hold, making the idea of closing the shorts simply an impossibility.

“Whatchya doin baby?” I asked innocently as he turned back to the mirror.

“I’m getting fat. I can’t even button these shorts. These were loose on me last summer, don’t you remember?”

“I think you look wonderful.” I said honestly. “C’mere, get back into bed.”

Evan walked slowly and seductively over from the mirror to the bed, smoothly forcing the shorts down over his thickened thighs as he walked. He wasn’t wearing any underwear. As he walked closer, I could see his dick bobbing between his legs, a little thicker and fuller with each step.

“You don’t seem all that concerned about your weight” I chuckled as I playfully tugged at his cock. “And you shouldn’t be. I’d love you if whether you weighed ten pounds or a thousand. You’re just irresistible.” Despite my penchant for the growing man, I surprised myself with how much I actually meant what I said. Love does funny things to you.

I quickly ran my fingers up his sides, grabbed at his small love handles, and pulled him down into the bed. He started to tickle me, and I of course, fought back, luxuriating in the unbridled opportunity to grab at his plush, newly formed fat.

We kissed. We rolled around on the bed and clung to each other like if we let go the world would end. I swear that morning I touched or kissed every inch of his body. I knew that if I wanted to keep my boyfriend growing, it was imperative I made him feel just as sexy as I thought he was. I lavished him with attention, starting at the top and working my way down. I kissed his neck. I ever so lightly ran my tongue over the edge of his ear. I kissed down his chest, stopping at his nipples, while simultaneously running the tips of my fingers up and down his sides. When I did that he shivered and moaned a little. I kissed down his belly, paying extra attention to the soft underbelly that had just started to bow out. He had a little happy trail leading down from his belly button, which drove me nuts. I decided I would tease him a little before actually blowing him. I kissed down his meaty thigh and then slowly ran my tongue up the inner part of his leg, stopping just short of his penis. I deeply kissed at the joint of his leg and he began to moan and squirm a little with delight.

As I kissed him, my mind was racing. I really wanted to come clean with him about how hot I thought his little belly was… I had been honest with him about all sorts of other things in my life, it seemed silly that I couldn’t tell him this. I wanted him to know how sexy I thought it was and I didn’t want to feel like I was doing something to him that he didn’t want..

When I decided my teasing was done, just before I was about to take his cock in my mouth, I looked up at his face. One of my hands was on his thigh, and the other was cupping the place on his stomach where his belly starts to become his love handle. Our eyes met.

“I really, really think you’re beautiful.”

My voice was full of earnestness and the tone was more urgent and intense than I had intended. Evan gave me a strange look and I blushed. I quickly broke our eye contact and began to suck on his cock. The blowjob was as much to distract him from my near admission as to pleasure him. After a while he came, and then got me off, but I was too distracted and anxious to enjoy it.

Growing Up

Alright, so this is a first for me... I'm going to reveal the first chapter of a semi-autobiographical story I started working on during college... I'm a little nervous because I've never posted a) anything I've written or b) anything that in any way says anything about me. I think it'll be good, because if you guys like the intro, it'll give me impetus to finish the story... So, sit back and read the first chapter in a vision into an alternate reality -a what if me and my college boyfriend had stayed together if you will. And feel free to leave comments, I'm really interested in what you all think.

Read Growing Up after the jump.

Growing Up

By Get A. Snack

Chapter 1

It was finally starting to get warm. After a snowy, rainy, and generally disgustingly long winter, the sun was finally starting to infuse the land with heat befitting the month of May. I had just graduated from the Ivy covered towers of the school I could now forever refer to as “my alma mater” and was on top of the world. I had recently taken a job with a prestigious investment-banking firm as something “I’d do for a while, until graduate school, then I’ll start my own firm or something,” as I told anyone who asked why I wasn’t doing something more creative.

After three years of a long distance relationship, I was finally moving in to an apartment with my college boyfriend. I would like to call him my high-school-sweet heart, but sadly, all we ever did was awkwardly flirt as two closeted, girlfriended high school boys tend to do in small towns in Connecticut.

When we first met, Evan was a rower. His stomach was flat and his arms and legs thickly roped with muscle as proof. When he went to college, he softened up a little, deciding to stop rowing to concentrate on his studies. The lack of regimented exercise and the ease of fast food in a high-pressure academic environment coated his muscled body with a small layer of fat. As soon as a few pounds crept onto his boyishly handsome frame, that was enough for me. I asked him out and the rest was history. Finally after years of rushed weekend trips and longing for summer break, we were free, young, in love, and together.

“Whaddya think babe?” I asked opening the door to the apartment. Evan hadn’t looked at the place before we signed for it with all of the pressures of the end of his senior year keeping him from visiting me in the Big Apple to see our new place before we signed the lease.

“I love it, wow... I guess this means we’re real adults now. We must have an electric bill and everything” he chuckled.

“You bet.. an electric bill, and privacy. No annoying little sisters, no roommates, no my mother down the hall, or your father outside the door.. just you, and me, and a bed.”

“And a lot of boxes.”

“Shhhh, we’ll worry about that tomorrow. We have to christen the bed.”

I smiled devilishly and pulled him down the hall into our new bedroom. As I laid him down onto the bed, I noticed a thickness about him that I hadn’t remembered. Thanks to the freshman 15 and my efforts over summer break, he had grown a nice little starter gut, but there was defiantly a few more lbs of Evan than I had held the last time we were along together a few weeks prior. I thought to myself, it must be my imagination. Wishful thinking clouding my vision in the low light of the bedroom.

____________________________________________________________________


The next morning I awoke to sounds of Evan rustling through our unpacked boxes. I half opened my eyes, wanting to fall back asleep, but the sun shining in the window onto a stack of unpacked boxes at the foot of the bed told me that I had to get up.

“Mark” Evan hollered from the other room

“Do you know which box we packed my favorite jeans in? I can’t find them anywhere.” I stumbled out of bed and walked naked into the next room. He was sitting in front of a box, with piles of clothes on either side of him.

“Come back to bed. It’s too early.” He looked up and smiled at me as my cock began to get hard. He was still shirtless, and I was staring at his slightly fuller belly and admiring the way it pushed down his pajama pants.

“As tempting as you are, we can’t go back to bed.” He grinned and eyed my dick.
I exhaled a deep sigh, accompanied with big, puppy dog eyes and a gentle jerk at my own still cock. I could see his dick starting to tent out his pajamas and knew that I was having an effect.

“If you wanna work, fine. What should I do?”

“Well, to be perfectly honest, I am starving. We don’t have any food here, think you could run out an get something for breakfast or brunch?”

He didn't need to ask me twice.

I tossed on some clothes and hurried out to get breakfast. Food-wise, our building was very nicely located. There was a Thai place that I had been told very good things about half a block away. There was a pizza place, a steakhouse, the options seemed to go on forever. As my eyes scanned down the block as far as I could see. There is was, like a diamond in the rough: i Dolci, Italian Bakery

I returned a few minutes later with a big bag of éclairs, muffins, cannoli, cookies, and croissants.

“You inviting someone else over for brunch?” Evan chuckled upon seeing me unpacking the food.

“Only you” I smiled. I explained to Evan that an older gay couple owned the bakery right across from our building and that they were just thrilled at our arrival. I had only met one half of the couple, Tony, who was operating the store when I came in. He was so excited about us, apparently the realtor had told him that we were moving in, and had piled me with all I could carry in edible welcome gifts.

Evan walked over to the box of cannoli, slowly licked his lips, opened his mouth wide, and took a big, solid bite.

“Mmmmm –this is amazing” he mumbled with his mouth full “I shouldn’t eat this though, I’ll get fat.” I quickly moved around behind him, wrapped my arms around his stomach and began to softly rub it.

“Nah, one cannoli won’t do you any harm. You need the energy for lifting all these big, heavy boxes” I smiled. He turned his head half way around to eye me mischievously and said;

“The way these taste, I doubt I could eat just one.”

Within a few minutes, two cannoli and one éclair had all made their way into the belly of my beautiful boyfriend, along with a glass full of the only drink that Tony had been able to provide us with –ice cold milk.

“Ooof” Evan grunted, surveying his belly with his hand “Now that is a breakfast. Shall we get to work?”

The day passed with us unpacking and organizing all the stuff in the boxes. Evan snacked on the various pastries, keeping his belly comfortably full as the hours trudged by. By six o’clock, we had either unpacked, or at least placed in the correct part of the apartment, most of our belongings. We were spent. I flopped down on the couch and Evan flopped down on top of me.

“So hungry” he said in his best shambling zombie voice. “Do you think you could make something for dinner?”

“I could, but I’d have to get groceries, and cook it. Why don’t we just order pizza babe? Tony recommended a place nearby –a friend of his owns it” Evan smiled and tossed me the portable phone.

Huge

My friend John turned me onto this wonderfully written story. It's got at all -the introspective gainer, the hot muscle guy, that nervous hot tension of new sexual exploration, long trips to buffets, it's a solidly hot read. It's really one of the best gainer stories I've read in a long time. So sit down, unbutton your pants, get a big bowl of ice cream and read: Huge.




Huge
Written by In_BigOaf

Part One

I wasn't too keen on the move, but the boss said I had to. The end of the fat-and-happy 90's left our company scrambling to consolidate facilities and trim costs wherever possible. This meant that my 20 minute commute was about to become an hour. Well, the fat-and happy 90's had also left me fat-and-happy. I'd given up trying to find a workout partner at the gym, heck, I only went to look at the other people there anyway.

I had discovered gaining chat rooms and found that these fantasies I'd had since childhood weren't weird at all, and spent a year trying to find someone in the area to fatten up. Finally I just gave up and started on myself. It was really fun exploring my scientific curiosity. I tried gainer shakes, heavy cream, [that stuff is gross, but it works!], and I found all of the all-you-can-eat places within close driving distance of the office. I would take a newspaper with me, or something I'd printed out from the web, get a remote table and just eat.

Slowly, methodically, cleaning one plate, reaching a stopping place in my reading, and loading up another, I loved the feeling of eating till it absolutely hurt. I got really horny each time I would notice that my shirt was spreading between buttons, while it had fit fine when I came in. I also spent a lot of time glancing over my paper to watch the really big guys loading up at the buffet. I loved seeing them lean way in to get to something in the back, while their bellies totally enveloped the tray table in soft blubber. Some of those guys must have been well over 400 pounds, and it looked like they all wore the same size shirt! I couldn't take my eyes off the big wobbly bellies that took the shape of the skin-tight polo shirts, and I imagined what the struggle must look like to get the shirt tucked in. I tried to picture what they must look like with the shirt off, big huge tits resting atop a soft bloated belly with its cavernous belly button. God, I'm in heaven!

I also loved seeing the young construction workers, the guys who had been the big tough jocks in high school. Now they wore their shirts untucked in the hopes that no one would see what a year or two of food, beer and inactivity can do. In a year and a half I had gone from 210 pounds of mostly muscle to 260 pounds of mostly fat, and on my 6-foot frame, it was really starting to show. My belly was rounding out nicely, and it turned me on just to walk down the hall. It had grown out so that there was a nice round paunch hanging beyond my belt, and each step I took would cause it to pull downward. I could get a rhythm going if I didn't think anyone was looking, and by the time I got to the end of the hall my cock was raging hard and demanding attention.

My goal was to see what 300 to 350 pounds was like. I mean, this was all just scientific curiosity. If it started to affect my health, or if I didn't like it, I could always lose it again. Losing weight had never really been tough for me. Now I was discovering how fucking hot it felt to get fat. I had never been so horny in all my life. Every night I would finish a huge dinner and jerk off rubbing my belly and fall asleep.

And now the move. I hated having to pack up books and prototype parts from my shelves and desk, hated having to finally sort through the stacks of papers I had kept for some reason, now unknown. I scavenged boxes from all over, and loaded as much as I could into the truck. It was amazing how quickly I'd get out of breath just walking up and down the stairs a couple of times to load the boxes. I also discovered that it felt the most comfortable to carry the boxes under my belly, letting it rest on top. Unloading the truck meant doing it all again, this time for a new audience.

I recognized a few faces at my new building, as I'd seen them in meetings, but most of the faces were new. I could feel eyes on me every second, being the new guy.

"You're Scott, aren't you?" came a voice from behind me as I bent to put a box down in my cube. I turned around to greet quite possibly the biggest, most muscular man I'd ever seen in person. "I'm Dave, Dave Parker? I know we've e-mailed a bunch for the U152 program, but I don't think we've ever met. Welcome to the neighborhood."

This guy was fucking HUGE. . . I don't even know the names for all the muscles that were bulging grotesquely beneath his baggy business-casual attire. His head was propped between monstrous delts, his shoulders went out past the sleeve seams of his shirt, and the muscles connecting his shoulders to his pecs formed a shelf beneath his chin that I could have stood my books on. His arms stuck out from his sides to accommodate the enormous lats that grew there, and his biceps rested like huge slabs of meat, actually hanging a bit under their own weight. Anything from the edge of his chest-shelf to his waist was a mystery, as the baggy shirt was pulled down into his pants. He was obviously wearing pants that were much bigger than his waist, to make room for his massive legs. A belt cinched the pants so tight that it left folds in the waistband. His voice was normal, even soft, not like the bass I would have expected from this cartoon of a man.

"You look like you could use some help there. " His words shook me out of my trance, and I blushed as I wondered how long I'd been gawking.

"Uhhh. . . yeah. . . sure could." My mental engines start up slowly. As I stood up, I noticed his eyes dart down to my belly and back up again. It's something I have become aware of only after putting on a gut, and I now understand what women with large breasts endure.

He smiled warmly as I extended my hand, and his engulfed mine in a warm handshake. "I've got a few more boxes down in the truck. "

"Oh, a pickup man. . . What do you drive?"

"Dodge Ram. It's my baby."

"Cool. I'll have to show you mine sometime. It's at home today 'cause it was too damn nice out to leave my bike at home."

I tried making polite conversation while not letting on too much that I was totally fascinated with this guy's physique. If I'd met him two years ago, I might have never gotten so damn fat. We brought the last boxes in, and I got to follow him up the stairs, this mountain of man gliding gracefully in front of me. I hurried to keep up and ended up panting at the top of the stairs. As much as I wanted to stare at him all day, I really wished that Dave would go away so I could start hunting local buffets.

I also didn't think my cock could stay still for much more of this. Every move he made caused waves of muscle to dance beneath his shirt.

"Hey, it's gettin' close to lunch time. You wanna go grab something? I'm starved!"

Crap. I'm stuck with Schwartzenegger for sprouts and garbanzo beans. I hope this doesn't become a habit. "Yeah, sure. . . what's around here?"

"I was thinkin' we could hit a buffet, that way we can both get whatever we want," said Dave. I hope I didn't smile too quickly, but this guy probably didn't realize how much he was helping me out.

Dave arranged himself a tiny salad and I fell into my old habit, loading a plate as high as I could with pasta, meatballs, pizza, beef, mashed potatoes and gravy, and an assortment of chicken wings.

"Dude, you're allowed to go back again," Dave joked as we sat down. We started talking and I started eating. We talked about work, cars, where we'd gone to school, and I went back for plate after plate while Dave nursed his salad. He was pleasant and fun to talk to, and I just totally let myself pig out.

After the fourth heaping plate of food, I tossed my napkin onto the table and said "Oof, I think I overdid it." My belly was stuffed tight and was just beginning to feel sore. I was breathing in short quick breaths that I tried to keep silent so as not to embarrass myself further.

"What? you didn't even hit the dessert bar yet!" Dave smiled and got up. God, he was hot and I just wanted to watch him walk away. He was sexy as hell from any angle.

"Come on," he said, and I got up and followed slowly. Dave loaded up a dinner plate with desserts, short cake, cheesecake, cookies, brownies, and he also got a bowl of soft-serve ice cream with sprinkles. Was this guy nuts? I followed suit, showing clearly that I knew my way around a dessert bar. The trip gave my belly time to stretch out some, and we sat down and dove in. I totally outpaced Dave, and he finished the ice cream and a brownie and one piece of cake and stopped.

I was just scooping up the last of a brownie slathered in chocolate syrup when he belched and said "Ugh. I don't think I can eat any more. God it's a shame to take food and then not eat it. . . You want these? I haven't touched them or nothing. "

He gestured to the plate still heaped with desserts and I felt my belly tighten a bit. What was this guy thinking? I can't eat all that! He shoved the plate over to me and went back to talking about trucks. I started to eat again, totally hypnotized by his enthusiasm.

"Oh shit," he said as he checked his watch. "We better get back. "

I grabbed the last cookie, threw a big tip, and we headed out. Man my gut was fucking killing me as I flopped into the truck. I had never noticed before, but my belly was just barely brushing the steering wheel. . . Had that ever happened before? Holy shit!

I parked next to Dave when I got back, and he got out and waited for me. There was no amount of slouching or sucking-in that would hide my belly now. I was so damn full that the only way to keep my belly from hurting was to arch my back a bit and actually push it out.

"Man, we almost put that place outta business," Dave laughed as he laid a hand on my belly. "I think there's enough food in there to feed a starving nation." His fingers massaged it a bit, as though to get a sense of its softness. "There's a couple other places like that around here we can hit if you're interested. Some are a bit cheaper than that one, but they're not as close."

Man was I close. . . close to shooting a huge load! Did he just say what I think he just said? He took his hand away, totally oblivious as to whether I liked being touched or not, and we walked back to the building.

I have met guys like him before, guys who were so comfortable in their body and their sexuality that they could touch anyone anywhere and think nothing of it. I had been becoming increasingly shy about being touched as I gained, but for some reason I felt at ease with this guy, like any chance to get him to touch me put me one step closer to touching him back.

Hitting the buffets soon became our routine, and Dave became my lunch buddy. I was too timid to ask him about his physique, and too timid to ask what he thought of mine. All I knew was that I was pigging out every day to the gentle encouragement of a man that my greatest fantasies could never create. Each day I pushed myself to eat more than the day before, and though Dave never said it directly, I knew he was enjoying this as much as I was. Like a good typist can type without looking at the keyboard, I could eat without thinking, just absorbed in conversation with Dave. And like most bodybuilders, he had a habit of unconsciously flexing and feeling himself while talking to me, which only made me eat more.

Two weeks after moving to the new office I had to buy new shirts, and I placed an order for new 42" waist pants. . . even though I was still comfortable in 38's. Wishful thinking, I guess. A month after our first lunch outing, I weighed myself fresh out of the shower. I had to lean way forward to see over my belly, which seemed to be growing almost straight out. 290?! Jesus Christ! My cock was at attention and throbbing, so I headed for my recliner with a box of tissues and a head full of images of Dave. My belly rose up high when I slouched down, and rocking fast with my foot would make it slosh up and down. Fuck I want more!!! I'm gonna blow by 300 so fucking fast, 350's gonna happen in two more months! Then what?? My belly was already more erotic than I could have ever imagined. . . it stood straight out like I was 9 months pregnant. Lathering it up in the shower was enough to get my cock throbbing, and now I wanted to see just how sexy this could get!

Part Two

Two weeks later the dial on the scales spun around and bounced until it stopped squarely on 302. This is fucking hot! My cock was practically beating itself on my underbelly, as hard as it was throbbing. I don't think I had ever shot a load so big or so far as that morning.

For lunch Dave and I hit one of our regular haunts and got our regular table with a familiar waitress. We always tip well, and she keeps my glass topped off with root beer. I was plowing through my 5th or 6th plate when Dave reached across the table --mid-sentence-- and harpooned a meatball from my pile. The swiftness of moving his thickly muscled torso and arm to get it so fast totally amazed me, and I felt a slight breeze as he swept it away and popped it into his mouth.

"Eh, these aren't bad, but not nearly as good as the ones I make," he said thoughtfully.

"You cook?" I asked, hoping to open up a better subject than hockey and pickup trucks.

"Fuck yeah! Hey, it's Friday and there's a game on tonight. Why don't you come over and I'll whip up some grub for ya. I might even make Mom's special meatballs." He grinned widely and winked, taking me totally by surprise. Even after a month of studying this guy's every flinch, he never ceased to throw me the occasional curve.

"Sure, man. . . I'll stop by my place after work and change, then I'll be over, OK?"

"Awesome. " He grinned again, warmer than ever,and subconsciously rubbed one of his massive pecs.

When I got home, I quickly stripped down to change, but seeing and feeling my belly, still bloated from the noontime gorging, got me so horny I just had to relieve some pressure before heading to Dave's. Maybe now I won't get hard in front of him, I thought. I threw on my loosest jeans and left my tee shirt untucked, and headed out. Dave's house had steps up to the back door with no landing, so I knocked on his door while standing two steps down.

When the door opened, I know I must have had the exact same expression as the first time I ever saw Dave, because I was staring straight at the most grotesquely overstuffed basket I'd ever seen. I had always seen Dave in baggy Dockers, but tonight he was in skin-tight jeans that left nothing to the imagination. My eyes worked their way around the bulge, taking careful stock of the outline of a fat cockhead on one side, and an even bigger, lower bulge of his nuts on the other. My cock never hangs that far down a leg unless it's hard, and he was totally soft! And his balls each had to be about the size of a lemon! His monster unit was separated by the crotch of his jeans, pulled tight by the muscled bubble butt on the other side. He wore a tee shirt that was not tucked in, and it cascaded over his pecs and hung straight down to his waist, leaving it totally uncertain as to whether he had ripped abs or a modest belly.

"You gonna come in?" He snapped me out of my trance.

"Oh! hehe. . . uhhh. . . yeah. . . hey, how's it going? God something smells good!" Dave ignored my ogling and ushered me off to the kitchen. He opened the fridge and grabbed two beers and handed me one. "You said you liked Molson, right? Well," he laughed, "you'd better, 'cause I bought a whole damn case of the stuff. Have as many as you want. It's taking up too much room in the fridge."

The table was set and he started bringing platters and mixing bowls full of food. There had to be enough to feed 5 or 6 grown men. "You expecting company? Shit, you cooked a whole cow!" I laughed.

"Naw. . . this is all for us. It'll be like going to the buffet, only we've got enough time to actually fill up for a change."

We sat down and dug in, with Dave gushing about where each recipe had come from, what he'd altered, and so on. Everything was so good, I lost count of the number of times I refilled my plate. Sometimes Dave would put a small portion onto his plate, then a huge scoop onto mine. "Don't let this stuff go to waste," he said. It's not as good re-heated."

As I started to slow down, Dave glanced up at the clock. "Hey, I'll bet the pre-game show is on. He shoved the chair back and stood up in one movement, again giving me a great view of his overendowment. He grabbed two more beers from the fridge and headed into the living room. He put both beers on the coffee table and dragged it out away from the couch.

It was an old couch, very low but deep to the back. The kind of overstuffed couch that's easy to sleep on because of its width, and almost forces you to slouch if you sit and lean back all the way. As I leaned forward to scoot my chair back, I became very aware of how totally overstuffed I was. My belly was now a rock-hard beachball resting low on my lap. My cock stirred as I got up and waddled to the living room. I felt like the prow of a ship, as I made my way to the couch. The lowness of the couch took me by surprise when I sat down, and if I was going to sit up straight, I had to spread my legs wide and let my belly rest in between, like a hard boiled egg in a cup. Dave flopped down heavily, close enough that his arm gently brushed mine. That guy just had no respect for personal space, and my cock could not have been happier!

He turned on the TV and slouched way down, and I did the same. I could barely see the TV over my engorged belly, and I glanced over and noticed that Dave's chin was resting between the tops of his huge pecs! A cool breeze told me that slouching back had pulled up my shirt and exposed a great deal of my underbelly, but I didn't care at this point. Dave rubbed his stomach and moaned. "Man, I think I overdid it. . . I am SO totally stuffed!"

With that, he pulled up his shirt, revealing big deep cut abs, now swollen out quite a bit. Each one had to be as big as my bicep, but instead of laying in a flat row, the whole thing bowed outward like he'd been hooked to a hose and inflated. The slightest movement of his arms made his pecs jump to attention, rising even higher around his chin. God, this can't be real! He leaned a bit my way and a hand ran up my shirt, taking it up and exposing my pale smooth globe of fat.

"Damn, dude, this thing is awesome! Have you put on a pound or two in the last month?" His hand traced my belly slowly and so gently it could have been the hand of a child.

"Fuck yeah, I've put on a pound or two. . . more like 50!" I thought. "And it's all your damn fault! " His gentle rubbing was becoming more forceful, till my belly was moving back and forth under his curious hand. He suddenly came out of his trance and jerked his hand away, not bothering to re-cover my belly.

"Shit! I almost forgot dessert! Don't get up. . . " and he darted off to the kitchen again leaving me to ogle his bubble butt this time. No problem, big guy. I can see you just fine from here. I pulled my shirt back down to where it had started. If he wants to play with it, he's got to go in there and get it!

Dave returned with two dinner plates piled high with dessert, and two more beers pinched expertly between his fingers. "This is caramel. . . apple. . . turnover. . . cobbler. . . thingee. " He was turning a plate in front of me for my approval. ". . . a la mode," he grinned, and gave a satisfied nod. He placed one on top of my belly as though it were a table, and sat down again.

"Hmmm, this isn't gonna work," I said, and I struggled to sit up. I spread my legs and let my belly fall forward, pulling me upright, and started to eat that wonderful concoction. Even sitting up, I could still rest the plate on my belly. I'd rather put on a show for my host than drop a crumb on his carpet. There had to be half a pie crumbled up in there, with Ben & Jerry's Triple Caramel Chunk ice cream and caramel sauce drizzled over that. This alone would be more than an average guy could eat in one sitting, and we were both already stuffed to the gills!

We watched the pre-game show and sucked down our desserts. It's like there's an understood protocol that anything with ice cream needs to be eaten before it melts. I laid my empty plate on the coffee table, chugged the last of what must have been my fifth beer of the evening, and flopped backwards with an "oof!" My belly stuck out so far now that it sloshed towards my face as I leaned back, then returned forward with a clearly audible "gloop!" from inside. To make my show complete, I locked my fingers behind my head, arched my back, and pushed my belly out hard with a loud groan. I'd done this exercise before, to stretch out my abs and make a swollen belly more comfortable, but only in private. Between the Molsons and Dave's lack of inhibitions, I was definitely losing my shyness.

The stretching made my shirt ride way up, exposing most of my belly, and I was content to leave it that way. My groan had drawn Dave's attention away from the TV, and as I relaxed looking at the ceiling, I heard Dave put his plate on the coffee table.

"Holy shit dude," he said softly as he turned to get closer. His hand came over and rubbed gently in circles around my belly. I looked over at him and noticed how his pecs were now squashed together, forming cleavage deep enough to easily lose my whole hand in, and he still had a shirt on! "You're gonna fuckin' pop! You all right?"

I let out an audible sigh and laid my head back again. "That feels good, man," I said quietly. "I think I overdid it a bit, but everything was so good. So good. "

He smiled over me as he leaned in to massage my tight ball. "Dude, what do you think you weigh?" he asked. Man, this guy's bedroom voice was as hot as he was big.

"Gotta be around 305 by now," I said. The beers must have been kicking in, because my belly felt warm and relaxed under his thick fingers.

"I think it looks good on you. . . real good. " My cock started to stir. May as well go for broke.

"Not half as good as that muscle-bound body of yours, dude." Was that a bit over the top?

"Eh, I've got a lot of growing to do yet," he shrugged, a neutral response to my overt flirting. Could a human possibly get any bigger? I could feel my boner growing down the inside of a pantleg. I hoped he was thinking the same thing, because I would be more than happy to try. I'd get so fucking huge for him.

"Well you're going to start growing a fat belly like mine if you do much more pigging out like we just did," I said, nodding towards his puffed out musclebelly, now covered once again.

"Naw," he said, and lifted his shirt again. "I can burn a little snack like this in one trip to the gym. You should see it after I've had a shake, you'd really be impressed. "

"A shake?" I asked. "What do you mean?"

"You know, a weight gain shake. You don't think I got this big drinking beer did you? Hehe check this out. . . Stay here. " He hopped up again and was in the kitchen in two steps. I was still fascinated by how nimble his body was with the mass he carried. He returned with a gallon jug and a beer.

"Here's another if you're out," he said as he sat the beer in front of me. "Watch this, dude. " He stood right in front of me, between me and the coffee table, and held his shirt up with one hand while bringing the jug to his lips with the other. He threw his head back and began to chug the contents of the jug, stopping for one or two breaths every three or four gulps. I could literally see his musclebelly swelling before my eyes as the whole gallon disappeared. The paper-thin tanned skin on his abs stretched tighter with each swallow. He seemed totally intent on getting it all in, and his hand began to roam around, feeling the growing curvature. I also couldn't help but notice his cockhead was getting fatter and was sliding further down his pantleg.

"Wow!" I breathed, and sat up from where I'd been propped on my elbows. My face was now inches from his swollen musclebelly, and better yet, inches from his monstrous cock! I placed both hands on his eight-pack and felt the last swallows going in. I began a gentle massage as he finished the jug and smiled down at me between his pecs.

"You like that, do ya?" he asked softly. He put the jug on the coffee table and grabbed the shirt, pulling it over his head and off. This was the first time I had actually seen his pecs, and as his beefy arms came back down the muscle piled up on his chest and puffed out bigger and bigger. His pecs came to rest hanging several inches out over the upper row of abs, so big that the large brown cone-shaped nipples pointed straight down at his inflated musclebelly. I've never seen bigger pecs, not even on pro bodybuilders. They started at his collar bone and rose straight out, almost perfectly spherical, tanned and without a single hair. They were so wide that when he stood relaxed, his arms rested in the valley between his pecs and his lats. This guy's chest had to be no less than three feet wide.

"Holy fuckin' shit! Dude, you're awesome!" I resumed exploring his belly, this time letting my hands wander high enough to brush his nipples. He stood leaning back slightly, his arms resting in their normal bow, and smiled. His cock was now throbbing, the head about to burst through the denim halfway to his knee.

"Me? No way man," he said as he raised a hand to unconsciously rub a pec. It morphed its shape and danced as it worked to raise his huge arm. "Shit, I think I'm only like 320. . . I want to see what 350-400 is like on me."

"Me too man," I thought. "Hehe. . . wonder what I'd look like at 350-400," I said, and rubbed the sides of my pregnant belly.

Dave stepped back, while I stood up and took my shirt off. We stood there, belly to belly, and the thought occurred to me that his head sat so far back behind his huge chest that I couldn't kiss him if I tried. The contrasts between us were amazing. Most of the last 50# had gone to my gut, so I still had some muscle showing on my arms and chest, but nothing at all like Dave. I don't know how long we both stood there just quietly admiring each other's bodies. Suddenly we both breathed the same words in perfect unison.

"God you're hot…" Somehow we ignored what we'd each just said, as though we only thought it instead of saying it. Dave put his hands on the sides of my belly and I was too enthralled to even move. He was absorbed in my belly, and as he explored me his eyes would dart up to mine from time to time and he'd smile.

"You sure you're only 302 man?" he grinned. "Looks like more than that."

I picked up a beer from the table and drained it. Gotta keep the buzz on.

"You wanna weigh in? I've got a scales in the bathroom that ought to hold you," he laughed.

My cock throbbed in my pants and I was helpless to stop the trickle of precum I felt as well.

"You first, big guy," I said as he swiftly turned and headed down the hallway like a little kid about to board a rollercoaster. I followed slowly, enjoying how much more heavy my belly felt than when I walked from the kitchen to the couch.

The bathroom was good-sized, for being in such a small house. He kept it very neat and clean, with the exception of the overflowing wicker basket of muscle magazines next to the toilet. One whole wall was mirrored, and an upright medical scales stood next to the shower. As he stepped onto the scales I got a good side-view of him. His musclebelly was bowed out as far as his pecs, and his back muscles stood out almost equally as far as his bubble butt. I loved how his biceps were so heavy that they sagged a bit under their own weight when relaxed. I especially loved how high his pecs would dance with the slightest movement of an arm. He shoved the big weight over to 300 and slid the little weight over till the balance bobbed and eventually stopped. "Looks like 326. . . damn I ate a ton! I was like 315 this morning!"

"Yeah, but you probably weighed right out of the shower," I said without thinking much about it. I figured the scales sat there for a reason. "What do the shoes and pants weigh?"

"Hey, yeah," he said, and without batting an eye kicked the shoes off and began to unbutton his pants. His thumbs caught jeans and underwear and in one quick movement had pulled them to his ankles. I was totally stunned as his fat cock flopped out and slapped his abs. The skin of his nutsack was stretched outward by his semi hard-on so that his heavy balls hung suspended in midair, bobbing heavily about 6" below his crotch. He quickly lifted each leg out of the pile and kicked his clothes to the side.

"OK," he said as he again turned his attention to the scales, "the socks won't make any difference." Now I've always thought my thick 8. 5" cock was pretty big, but Dave's cock had to be half again as long and twice as thick! It looked like a little kid's forearm! When he stepped back onto the platform it bumped into the neck of the scales, and he leaned to one side to let it comfortably pass. "Hey you were right. . . 324. Still a good gain for one day." He stepped off the scales and turned till his belly almost touched mine. And since his cock actually reached past his belly, I imagined it was hovering right under mine.

"Your turn, big boy," he said with a smirk.

"Oh what the hell," I thought, and kicked my shoes off. It took me a bit longer to get my jeans off though, as I had to blindly reach under my bloated belly and lift it a bit to find the button. As I stooped down to pull my pants and underwear down I noticed that my face was mere inches away from that huge fuck stick. As I pulled one foot out of my crumpled pants, my toe caught and I stumbled forward. Dave caught me and steadied me, and his cock bumped squarely into my belly, smearing it with precum. I don't know what felt better, that, or getting to clumsily feel whatever part of him was in front of me to steady me.

As I stood up he grasped my belly on both sides and gave it a little jiggle. "Here. . . this thing's made you top heavy."

I smiled at his approval and aimed my belly past him to get on the scales. I took my time, giving him any opportunity to check out my profile, just as I had his. It had only been about two years since I worked out regularly, and carrying all this weight kept my ass and legs firm.

"This thing's gotta be off," I scowled at the bar as it balanced itself. "I was 302 this morning and this says I'm 314. There's no fucking way…" I turned and stepped off again, facing Dave belly-to-belly. Standing this direction reminded me that the one whole wall was mirrored.

"Hey check us out," I said and pointed to our reflection in the mirror. We were two freaks, Dave with his exaggerated back muscles balancing his enormous pecs, and his bubble butt that you could set a drink on. The bulging plates of muscle on his bowed out belly looked like a giant hand grenade. His triceps far outsized his biceps, and from the side his arms looked about as big around as my legs.

I looked like a normal-sized man except for my belly, which was so enormous and round it looked out of place on me. My belly button had forever been merely along for the ride, and was no deeper nor wider than it had ever been. A thin trail of hairs ran downward from it, tracing a line of skin that was growing slightly tighter than the rest, so my underbelly was beginning to hang in two distinctive halves. We both just stood and stared at each other in the mirror, totally awed by each other.

My eyes wandered down to our cocks, both now at full attention. Dave's had swollen even longer and fatter than before, with veins along the shaft turning the child's arm into that of a young man. My heart pounded in my chest as I built up to what I had wanted to do since I first laid eyes on him. I reached out as if to shake hands with him, and wrapped my fingers as far as they would go around his cock, just below the head.

"Jesus Christ you're hung dude," I breathed, as I steered his cock head around slowly like a joystick. Again unfazed, he clasped his hands behind his head and tilted his hips up, and his cock rose along the arc of its curvature until the fist-sized head was between us, above my belly.

"It's a fucking curse," he frowned, then giggled. "Pardon the pun. There's no human hole that it'll fit in, and most pants have so little room, it hurts to sit down."

"What's it measure man?" I asked. My hand was still on it, and I hoped that we were both still drunk enough that Dave wouldn't mind that I was gently sliding my fingers down its length, scanning and exploring this trophy to my new lack of inhibition. "Shit it's like twelve, twelve and a half. . . it was great when it was 9 or 10, but the damn thing kept growing clear up into college. Hehe you can't even see yours any more, can you?"

He brought his hands down to my belly and caressed both sides on his way down below. "314, huh?" he smiled as he admired its smooth shape. "What a tank. Man, I could use another beer."

Damn him and his short attention span. He swung his bulk around and headed out the door. "You want one too?"

I made it to the living room as he was coming from the kitchen, two beers in one hand and two in the other. I guess he's spent so much time in gym locker rooms that he was oblivious to the fact that we were both still naked. I took one in each hand, put one to my lips and chugged it down.

"I figured you were gettin' dry by now. Here," he said, as he politely traded my empty for one of his full ones. Dave went back to the couch and flopped down, putting one arm on the back of the couch where I'd soon be. I went around the other side of the coffee table so that I could swing in without putting my ass in his face.

I flopped down with a bit of an "oof", again taken by surprise by how low the couch sat. My belly made another "gloop" from inside, as though either of us needed a reminder of how stuffed I was. My momentum threw me up against Dave, who had sat closer to the middle than last time, and I felt my skin on his and could smell his musky scent. Dave's eyes followed my belly like most men follow the breasts on busty women. His cock was still rock hard, and arched upward towards his muscle belly. My heart pounded so hard I could feel it in my ears as I leaned and reached my hand across to rub the now steady stream of precum around on the fist-sized head.

Dave threw his head back and inhaled a slow deep breath. Leaning towards him had let my belly roll into the little space between us, and it actually touched the couch. Dave spread his legs apart, letting his lemon-sized balls flop down, resting squarely on the couch with plenty of foreskin to spare. He reached across with his outside arm and began to caress my belly, making it the subject of the erotic thoughts that were fueling his monstrous erection. My arm lay across the equator of my belly and working on his cock was sending seismic activity outward across my fleshy surface.

I was totally in control now. Dave was twitching and flexing so much that he looked about to explode. The work his muscles were doing was causing them to swell to a magnificent size. It was like he was experiencing a full-body erection. Soon Dave's hand left my belly as he laid flat again, breathing out slowly and in very quickly. "Oh-hoh fu-huck… I… hi… muh… bout… to… shhhhhhhh… UNGH! UNGH! UNGH!" His cock swelled in my hand and burst huge globs and ropes of cum higher and higher up his body. His abs drew up tight lifting him into almost a fetal position as every muscle tensed up hard. You have no idea the insane sense of power you have when the god of your hottest fantasies is rendered totally under the control of your single hand.

I showed no mercy, milking his cock for every ounce and forcing him to twitch and flex for me. "Oh-hoh… stuh... stuh… STOP!" he screamed, sending one last glob far above his head onto the wall. He relaxed very slowly, opening up like a flower, whimpering and rubbing the puddles and streams of thick cum that drained to the cracks between his abs and pecs. Huge white globs stuck to his pumped pecs like snow on two mountains. It had to be more than a minute before his mind returned to his present situation.

"Holy fucking A! I've never... " He lifted his head to survey his work, and I scrambled to my feet.

"I'll get a towel," I said as I headed to the bathroom.

"Better bring two," he moaned. "This shit's everywhere."

Standing again reminded me that I still had a good buzz going, and also that I was still bloated way bigger than ever before. The sweat and cum drying on my belly made me aware of the air flowing across it as I walked. I grabbed the towels from the rod in the bathroom and returned, enjoying the view of Dave's balls resting between his legs and his spent cock laying upside down in the groove where his leg meets his torso. The cum vein traced the length of it to the back of his cockhead, accentuating its impressive length. His arms lay outstretched so as to not make a big mess worse, and he smiled with his eyes closed, as though meditating on whatever power had done this to him.

I walked to where I thought I could maybe start to wipe up the mess, standing between his open legs, when he sprung the trap that he'd set for me. Dave sat up and wrapped his arms tightly around my legs and swooped in under my belly, taking my cock into his mouth and sucking like a madman. I was totally taken by surprise, and totally pinned by his huge arms and slippery bulging pecs.

Over the rise of my belly I watched as his face appeared and disappeared again, noticing the way his short brown hair swirled at the crown. His lips and tongue worked me so fast and so furiously that my knees began to buckle, and I felt my weight slowly transferring to his powerful arms. His hands massaged my ass and his dancing pecs and biceps, slick with cum, massaged my thighs. It was like my whole body was an erection being stroked. I tried to concentrate, tried to hold back, tried desperately to make this last as long as possible. Suddenly his head disappeared completely beneath the horizon of my belly as he took my thick 8. 5" cock to the hilt.

The muscles on his back rippled and my mind was flooded not only with what was happening to me now, and what I had done 5 minutes ago to Dave, but I began to imagine what I'd look and feel like in a few months as my belly continued to grow. 350 was no longer a goal, it was a milestone to speed past as I grew my belly for this muscle god. If this much belly got me to this point, what would another hundred pounds do? Another 200?! My hands drifted past my belly to touch Dave's head, still working hard on my engorged cock. I could feel the power in his determination, like touching a moving part on a heavy machine. Nothing I could do to stop this…this growing belly…bigger every day…resting further out on my lap…Dave's face smiling over it as I lay immobile, the only thing I can see besides my own bloated flesh. . . I leaned over and pulled his head in tighter as my strength all shunted to my cock. "Oh shiiiiiiii. . . "

Part Three

Dim light bloomed around the window shades, as I tried to figure out where in the hell I was. I was laying on a big couch --kinda comfy, really-- and a light blanket covered me from the chest down. I heard a drawer close in a room down the hall. Oh yeah, Dave's place. Holy shit my head hurts. Dave emerged from his bedroom and came out into the living room wearing baggy sweat pants and an old sweat shirt with the arms cut off. "Mornin', big guy," he whispered cheerfully, forgetting that the only other person here was me, and I was awake. "Thought you'd sleep till I got back. I'll be at the gym for a couple of hours. It's only 5:00, you may as well sleep some more."

"Not till I piss a gallon or two," I moaned, as the sound of my own voice woke the hangover bats in my head. I lunged forward, trying to sit up, but couldn't. I must have looked like a turtle, as I finally twisted and flopped sideways off the couch, landing on my elbows and knees on the floor. I stayed there a while to let things stop spinning, and as I arched my back a bit to stretch the kinks out, I felt my belly brush the carpet below. That's when I realized that I was completely naked, totally rock hard, and that Dave was still there watching me.

I looked up at him, well, I looked as far as my neck would bend, so I really only looked at the boner starting to grow in his sweats. "Hello," I said glibly. "I think I'm stuck."

Dave bent down and reached under my arms, and gently lifted me to my feet. I rubbed my belly, still bloated from the night before, and tried to think of something to say to the man standing at arm's length from my nakedness. "How damn many beers did I have last night?" I moaned, half-faking it for the sympathy.

"Well," he grinned, "unless someone snuck in last night and stole it, we polished off an entire case of Molson. Looks like it's all right here. " He put his warm hands on my belly and rubbed it gently as he admired its size and shape. "Hey, I better scoot. Get some sleep and I'll make breakfast when I get back."

Dave left and I waddled to the bathroom holding my belly like a child carrying a beach ball. I stood at the toilet and couldn't see my cock. Shit, this isn't going to work. I'll piss all over the wall with this morning wood. I turned around and tucked my cock as far down as I could and slowly sat down, like a big bird on a nest. My cock passed the toilet seat and poked under the rim of the bowl. My legs were spread apart to give everything room, and as I came to rest I felt the cold seat supporting my soft warm underbelly. My legs were actually out at the sides of my enormous ball, and seeing this did little to ease my boner. I began to piss, and felt my body deflating a bit as the recycled beer streamed out. It only takes 11 beers to make a gallon, and although I don't remember how many I had last night, I also don't remember pissing at all last night. I kept going and going, letting the pressure off my swollen bladder. God, it must be backed up into my kidneys! The stream slowed to a trickle that took forever to stop. I flexed my cock to squirt the last bit, and needed to do that about a dozen times to finally get it all. "Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh..."

I waddled back to the couch and flopped back down, without thinking of putting any underwear on. Not moving felt pretty good to my pounding head. Just sleep. Man, this couch is comfy.

Keys rattling in the lock woke me again, and sunlight now streamed around the window shades. The door opened and Dave walked in, silhouetted by a blinding light. His body took up most of the doorframe, and I even noticed that he subconsciously turned sideways to fit his shoulders through. The door closed and Dave gave a big sigh.

"Man that was a great workout," he chirped as he shed his soaked shirt right there in front of me. "I figured I'd just wait and shower here so you didn't have to wait so long for me to get back." His whole body glistened with sweat and every muscle was pumped. The slightest movements made muscles flex and dance. I watched from the couch as he walked down the hall to his room and disappeared. He soon came out again, completely naked, his soft cock --bigger than mine when hard-- flopping just above his big lowhangers. It only took two or three steps to get the swing into a rhythm, and his monster unit slapped back and forth from one pumped thigh to the other. You have no idea how graceful and erotic a muscled body is to watch if you've never seen more than just photos on a page. Dave's movements were as fluid as any ballet dancer a third his size.

Just as he was about to disappear into the bathroom he met my stare and grinned and winked. I have no idea where the energy came from, but I pounced to my feet and stepped quietly to the hall, listening just outside the bathroom door. I heard the curtain rings glide back and the water start, then I heard the check valve sending the water to the shower head. I waited to hear the curtain again...

"Hey! Oh, shit you're right here, hehe."

I jumped as Dave leaned out the bathroom door and grinned at me. The phrase "hand in the cookie jar" suddenly came to mind. "Yeah man I gotta piss again," I lied. "I think this will be gallon number two this morning. "

"Hehe come on in. The more, the merrier. I was gonna tell ya to be thinking about what you wanted for breakfast. We could go out or stay in. I should have enough stuff to choose from, here."

Dave leaned back in and I accepted his invitation; at least maybe I'd get another peek. Did Dave remember anything from last night? Was it all my imagination? He stepped into the shower and drew the curtain, but only enough to keep the water from splashing out. I could clearly see the globes of his bubble butt and his wide back muscles as he faced the water to wash his front. Water was channeled from his neck and shoulders to the deep ridge of his backbone by the grooves and striations of his thick back muscles. The rivulets became a steady stream that rounded the small of his back to dive down the crack of his ass. I was glad that I actually did need to piss by now, so I felt justified in being in there.

I was switching back and forth quickly from watching my piss stream to watching Dave to watching my piss stream... like driving a car and trying to watch someone on the sidewalk. I turned to finish up, squeezing out the last bit and shaking off any remaining drops, and then took one last glance past the curtain. Dave had turned around and was facing me, and as I noticed this I saw his eyes quickly dart back up from my belly. Who was the peeping tom here now?!

He smiled sheepishly and blinked twice, then with a quick tilt of his head invited me in. I could hear his mind saying "Oh, what the hell." I stepped into the shower without a word, my eyes feasting on the bounty before me. Dave's hands went straight for my belly and mine went straight to his pecs, and as he explored my enormous gut I relished the feeling of the muscles dancing just beneath the paper-thin skin.

"You wanna feel what it's like to be me?" Dave breathed. He turned around and backed into me until my belly rested in the small of his back. My hard cock lay in the crack of his ass, and he tightened up to force my cock to point upwards. We fit together like a perfect puzzle, and I was totally awed by the sheer size and width of his shoulders and back. I drank in his musky smell, not yet removed by the hot water. He reached back and took my hands, bringing them up under his arms. I began to roam and explore, imagining what it would be like to have pecs that huge.

Dave squirted some soap in the deep cleavage and I rubbed it around, turning everything slick and lathery. My chin rested on his shoulder so I could watch him flex his pecs under my hands. I could have been standing at the edge of a cliff, admiring the breathtaking vista before me. If I leaned into him at all, he did not budge a bit. I worked my way down his abs, and gently whispered "well, this is different" into his ear. His abs tightened up and shook with a quiet chuckle. My hands drifted further south, finding his pole to be at full attention. I grabbed the base of it as best I could with both hands and wiggled it around while whispering "heyyyy batter batter batter," and we both giggled. I stepped back and undid our erotic lock, and ran my hands around the balls of his shoulders and down his back to his ass.

He turned around with a smile and motioned me to turn too. "It's my turn now," he grinned. It took some maneuvering to get us to fit together that way, but we managed it. Dave slathered his cock with soap and held my shoulders firmly. "Hold still," he whispered as he gently pulled me back. I felt his soapy cockhead pushing its way effortlessly along the bottom of my ass, parting my legs and pushing through. With a quick thrust I felt his head plow into the back of my ballsack, making me gasp. When I finally felt his muscle belly connect with the small of my back, I reached down and discovered that I had grown a short but hugely thick cock beneath my own.

I rubbed the head a couple of times until I could feel the shaft pulsating between my legs. Dave's hands reached around and began rubbing my belly. I squirted soap on it and laid my head back onto his pec-shelf. Dave's chin rested on my shoulder and I could feel the stubble of his chin and cheek, the only rough thing about this muscle god.

"Man this thing is so awesome!" he breathed. "You think it'll get any bigger?" What did he have in mind? May as well test the waters.

"Well, ever since we've been hitting the buffets for lunch, I've been adding about a pound a day."

His cock pulsed and swelled between my legs. "No fuckin' way!" His voice trailed off as he continued to explore, and I hoped he was doing the math in his head. "Man in a month... by Christmas..." Yup, he was doing the math and his cock was going absolutely wild. I gently tilted my pelvis and tightened my legs together and began to slowly stroke his monster cock. Feeling it rub along the underside of my cock and balls was bringing me very close.

Dave stood with his feet further apart, and I soon could feel his heavy low-hanging balls bumping my thighs. "Yeah," I said, matter-of-factly. "And it all seems to be going right here." I patted my belly gently and let him quietly continue.

After another minute of his sensual massage, he stopped and whispered, "How big do you think it can get?"

"Not sure man," I breathed as I leaned back into him, letting him take total control. "As big as you want."

"Really? Big as I want?" he panted, his chin stubble grinding into my shoulder, his hot breath roaring in my ear, and with that, his pecs and biceps bulged and flexed at once, tightening his hold around me. His cock swelled between my legs and began to shoot huge globs of cum onto the wall under the showerhead. Two thrusts of his live animal between my legs sent me over the edge, and we writhed together as we both blew our loads everywhere. We stood there panting and without saying a word for some time, while he held me in his tight embrace, the water from the shower cascading down my bloated belly and over Dave's fingers, before it let go and splashed into the tub below us.

The End

Exclusive: BearTrainer's Long awaited new story!

So, I am really wildly excited about this. The ever talented BearTrainer is debuting his new story, squeegee, here on my blog. Creatively "illustrated" if you will by BT, this story of a guy with a somewhat checkered past being taken under the wing of another man and shown the ins and outs of the good life (expanding his horizons and all of that ;) ) is a quite enjoyable read. So get something to eat, loosen your pants, and read the full story after the jump.

For some reason, all of the, uh, illustrations, are loading before the jump. To read the full story to see how these hot images fit into BearTrainer's story... If they aren't a good teaser, I don't know what is...

Squeegee
by
BearTrainer

There I was, minding my own business, which, as it happens, means listening to the raft of morning reservation calls and changes on the Au Pied de Cochon voicemail system—"I know I said six, but my mother-in-law's catsitter's nephew's goddaughter and her fiancé will be joining us, so I'm hoping you can find a place for us, oh please, pretty please" and "We're going to be there tonight and I'm wondering if the pastry chef could make the pecan tart with macadamia nuts instead, since my husband loves macadamias and it's his birthday and all"—when, over the rim of my first cappuccino, what should I see but a Tuesday morning vision of male beauty, at least by my standards.

Tousled, sleepy-faced, and very blond, he lumbered out of the pickup he just parked in the white loading zone in front of the restaurant and carried what looked like a large dishpan toward our front door, snug white tee displaying a good solid set of shoulders, biceps and forearms, dusted with fur and sporting a workman's tanline. Maybe 25, older, younger? I wondered. He was too bulky to be much younger, and he was wearing a resentful, pouty mug on his face—clearly not a morning person—and moved with a heavy, masculine deliberation that had clearly left his light, care-free impetuous youth now far behind. As he put the pan down in front of our bank of floor-to-roof picture windows and turned around to get the rest of his equipment, I carefully put my own coffee down, lest I spill all over myself, for there it was, in plain sight: all the gymwork of the upper body on him setting atop a bunch of sweet pudge, poured into a cheap pair of brown, pin-striped dress pants from Walmart, big asscheeks wriggling under the shiny fabric and what couldn't be less than a 34 waistline tugging on a pair of lovehandles. What kind of workout routine was this that built him so nice and hard upstairs and left the rest of him deliciously neglected and soft below? From my perch, thoroughly unabashed, I simply continued to stare, motionless, eyes riveted upon him, as he trundled back from his truck carrying a gallon jug of Windex and, mystery revealed, a thick, wide squeegee mounted on a six-foot broomstick. He was the window-washer. Ah…..

And so, I watched as the final part of my morning treat was delivered to me. Dipping his long pole in the pan, he began, oh so carefully, to wipe, wipe, wipe from top to bottom, the action of which, naturally, made his shirt ride up oh so sweetly, oh so unself-consciously, oh so inevitably, until a luscious white bulge of beginner Buddhabelly pooched out over his pants, visible through the blur of the wet window like some kind of high-toned encourager-porn dream sequence in that DVD I wish someone someday would take the time to make.

Renny's voice startled me out of my reverie, stage-whispering

"Gagliardi's nephew," in my ear after creeping up behind me without warning. I literally gasped.

"Give me a fucking heart attack, will you? Shit!" And then catching my breath, I spun about to face our resident kitchen wag and my partner in crime at what all of us in-house called---with deep affection, of course--Piggyfeet. Eyebrows raised, I burbled, "No way. We're not going to be having our windows cleaned by this bo-hunk every day, are we?"

"Oh yes. Got the whole story last week from Darlene, of all people, who wormed the story out of Frank Gagliardi who felt he needed to give us a heads-up. Paragon of morality that he be." I noticed that Renny himself, for his being all casual and whatever, was, nevertheless like me, breathing a little heavier himself and had a glassy, unmoving eye fixed upon the window as well. "He told her that he was sending Byron to us, just in case we wondered. And, well, isn't he up your own personal one-way alley."

Renny paused for effect. "Fresh out of County, on parole for the next two years, needed a job."

Down came the squeegee and crystal clear, the heft and breadth of Byron was again before us. What a delight? And to think, I thought I was going to have just another humdrum Tuesday catering to the bourgeoisie. "County, eh? Hence…the physique."

"Oh yeah." Renny made his trademark know-it-all moue and nodded.

"Yeah. One has to presume it's a lovely train wreck of recovery from wicked crystal habit, jail weight-lifting and greasy, starchy 3-squares in aluminum tins. Twelve months in the lock-up will do that to a guy." He licked his lips.

"I'm actually a little impressed he's in the shape he's in, aren't you? Usually they really let go. He's just, well, healthy-looking. At least for now, I'd say."

"You are such an expert on jail trade, can't believe I forgot," I couldn't help saying sarcastically. In the end, though, Renny was right. Byron was no light-weight, that was for darn sure, his broad, sullen face plump and almost jowly, large pecs with thick nipples rounding out firmly enough to cast a shadow. There was, all the same, a youthful vigor about him even with the poundage and I could see in how he moved a kind of fire to get things back on track for himself.

Knowing his backstory, I could see all of he had gone through, reflected, stroke by stroke, as he cleaned our windows: used to the good life of carefree partying, with the drugs keeping him nice, tight and lean, plenty of friends and money and sex, and then, busted, confined for a year to what ended up being an adult male feeding pen, abundant food dished up on schedule, grinding inactivity, the uselessness of lolling about the dorm and yard. Desperate to keep his looks and his sanity after about piling on about 25 pound of chub, he starts to hit the weightroom, jogs a little now and then, and tries, best as he can, coming off amphetamines, to stay away from hyper-sugary institutional desserts, doing his time and hoping against hope he won't end up looking like the rest of soft, blowsy self-pitying cons in their jumpsuits, doughy, white and prematurely middle-aged. Now, he's back on the outside, dependent on his uncle's charity for a lowly minimum-wage gig as squeegee, an arrest record, meth habit and 30 extra pounds following him around, an unshakeable ballast of misspent youth. No wonder he looked sullen, or was this his particular version of grim determination? Shit, you could tell the guy was one of God's great eaters, flashing his sweet rolls of firm newfat, a broad bubble of an ass shifting restlessly, stretching the back seam this way and that, as he worked up more than a little bit of a sweat doing his job in front of the two of us.

After sharing a few hypnotized moments of admiring lust with me, with a click of the heels Renny laughed lightly and turned. "Got to get back to stuffing my andouille sausages, baby. So sorry I can't stand here and blab and drool all day as you make your plans."

"Plans?" I said, with mock naïveté.

He snorted loudly. "I may not know jail trade, but I know you. How many poor hapless waistlines have you sabotaged, while here so far?"

"You need to remember that Danny came here heavy. I always get blamed but…."

"There is heavy and then there is HEAVY." Renny waved his hand. "Yeah, yeah, yeah, don't say it. 'I didn't put a gun to his head to eat himself up over 300 on Frances' napoleons and tiramisù.' Ring me in the back if you want Squeegee to have a good solid country breakfast, ok?"

"Poor guy is scowling he's so hungry," I murmured. "Anyone can see that."

Renny was going to leave, but we stood for a few more moments, boring holes into the plate glass with our gaze. "Anyone could see that. He needs a meal."

"Something substantial. He's got a long day of hard work."

"But plenty of protein too."

"He can always work on definition later."

"Much later."

"How about a nice generous pile of French toast with a goat cheese scramble on the side, and fresh orange/grapefruit."

Renny walked to the kitchen. "You have ten minutes."

"Love a challenge."

Squeegee. My new project.

In the first stages, there are usually a couple of prime considerations. Managing their self-consciousness is always an issue, as is the general wariness of straight guys in the Bay Area who know the score and can't really be tricked the way that some carefree, mindless fuck fiction would have it. So, like a soufflé, rich but light, it requires a light touch. That day I had to improvise, so pulling one of the fresh baguettes out of their Semifreddi bags by the front busboy station, I slathered it up with honey butter and chopped off a theatrically large piece and then, paying him no attention whatsoever, I passed by as he did his work and dashed out to my car in the lot across the street, in order, of course, to do nothing in particular. I made sure to take my sweet time coming back, though, sauntering, nibbling a little on the end of the fragrant tartine as I paused at the door and gave him a little encouraging smile.

"Great work. Thanks. Especially on sunny days like this, the windows make all the difference."

He politely smiled back and mumbled, "Thanks."

"Frank probably didn't tell you but if you want some coffee or lemonade or something, let me know," and then, making as if not waiting, I swung open the door, ready to stop if there was even a moment's hesitation on his part. And there was—he raised his eyebrows adorably.

"Oh, coffee," he sighed. And I stopped. "Very good coffee, too. Special blend exclusively for the restaurant from Kona growers."

He smiled more broadly. "That would be great."

I very deliberately took a large bite out of my baguette prop and chewed long and hard before answering with all the officiousness of professional waitstaff, one foot in the door. "Cream? Sugar?"

"Yeah, both. If it's not too much trouble."

Hmm. He seemed polite enough. Nothing like the discipline of "yessir, nossir" on the inside for a year to make a fine bit of overfed beefcake nice and docile. "Well, you just come on in, when you finish up that panel."

Even without the a/c, the restaurant was cool and dark this early in the morning, and I pretended to be all wrapped up complicated table arrangement charts, when the soon-to-be-conquered Byron tentatively opened the door and peeked inside.

"Hey, there," I said, and pointed my thumb over to the bar, where I met him and poured out a cup of the fresh brew we all kept on hand for us, setting it out for him as if he were our first honored customer of the day, my own large and quite unfinished, heavily buttered baguette right there on the counter. "I'm Grant, by the way."

The way he was looking at the polished zinc bar counter, the china cup and saucer, the gleaming steel sugar bowl and creamer, the stylish demitasse spoon made me think that it had been a long time since he had had a cup of coffee in anything but a styrofoam 7-11 cup. "Byron," he answered, between sips, after adding more sugar, more cream. "You know my uncle?"

"Yeah, for years now. Has done great work with the maintenance for us. I myself didn't intend to end up as assistant manager here, just wanted the maître d' job, but dealing with the contractors now and then comes with the territory."

He continued checking the place out, the damask linens, the crystal glassware, the ultra-modern lighting system sleekly running about the ceiling and cunningly focused on the artwork and flower arrangements, a laboriously effortless chiaroscuro effect creating that "dining environment" for which Au Pied was, justifiably, known and lauded. "Quite a place," he said as he settled in on the barstool to drink his coffee, resting his thick forearms on the counter on either side, out of prison habit, to protect his food.

I munched further down on my baguette, mostly so as to have an excuse to wave it around and tempt him with the fragrance of honey. "It can be a big pain in the ass, you know working with the public, especially rich people."

I pretended to organize the garnishes at the bar, figuring he wouldn't know that that was probably the last thing someone in my position would ever get involved with in a high-toned establishment such as this one. And right on cue, the bar phone rang. God bless Renny.

"No," I said, looking around. "I have no idea….he did?.....well, he's not here now…..me?.....no…." I caught Byron's curious glances for a second or two, absorbed in my phone conversation, and then, said, "No…..not really….but…." holding his eyes this time and putting my hand over the receiver. "Have you had breakfast? Renny from the kitchen said that the manager asked for breakfast but seems to have disappeared."

"Breakfast?" Byron's eyes lit up involuntarily but his expressionless, guarded face didn't change.



"Nothing fancy, really. I've already eaten," I gestured at my excuse of a tartine on the counter, "And those guys back there are too busy to take the time."

He looked over toward the windows, he only had a couple left to do, and then at his watch. It was a good sign, this long hesitation, the way that the very concept of breakfast was stopping him in his tracks. Did he mean to rub his stomach with his big paw, or was that his sexy, child-like way he had learned to communicate to his feeders that he was hungry? A sheepish, grateful smile appeared. "I got time."

I hung up quickly and with all the naturalness in the world, hustled off to the kitchen, saying on the way, "For all the food we serve here and throw out, I just hate to see any of it go to waste."

As I knew he would, Renny supplied a high mountain of French toast on a large plate, adorned with fresh fruit, with a tasty scramble big enough for three, with hefty slices of buttered toast—bread to go with your bread, sir?—and a pot of warmed nutmeg syrup, the smell of which was fairly intoxicating.

Byron drew back a little at the generosity of what he was being served, crisply folded napkin offered as if it were only to be expected, and seeing his reaction, I tried to mitigate the impact, by explaining, "As you can see, our manager is used to being pampered." I would have loved to stand right there and watch every sweet, carbo-rich morsel disappear into that pouty, kissable mouth, watch the sugar take effect and glaze his eyes over with food bliss, watch him dig in quick and then slow down until he had a hard time sitting forward and yet, continue to plow through till the plate was clean. But it was neither polite nor strategic to make my Squeegee too aware of the web being woven around him.

So I tapped the bar, said, "Take your time. Might be the only break you get today, huh?" and moved back to my desk behind his back, where, unbeknownst to him, I had nevertheless had a clear view of him in the big wall mirror. I didn't miss a moment of any of it--the way he dipped a spoon in the syrup to taste it first and actually licked his lips with his pink tongue, how he folded the slices in half, cut through, taking large mouthfuls, enjoying how filling it was, how sweet, how comforting to eat in a cool, quiet place, not rushed, food prepared with style, and lots of it, all for him. He buttered his toast from the tub I had left on the counter, spooned the eggs on it to make little scramble sandwiches for himself which he devoured like French-toast chasers. He mopped the syrup and butter off the plate, using his big fingers to nudge the food on to the fork, and half-way through, I could see him realize that there was no need to rush.

That was when the full potential of him became clear to me, for he suddenly relaxed, a big sack of a musclechub lost in the good food spread out, all the tension gone. The mirror gave me the frontal view of his greedy mouth and porky face, but the back-side view, from my desk, was all the confirmation I needed for my plans: soft belly roll folded over into a spare tire of flab ringing him, his plump tits sagging nice and round now that he wasn't sitting up straight and holding himself high, scooting back a little to make room for more eats which made the breadth of his ass, hips and thighs all the more obvious, waistband low in the back as his overfed bubblecheeks pulled it down, crotch tight in the front between a pair of spreading hams, all the seams taut as 250 pounds settled into 200 pounds of pants.


And he still ate, in a world of his own gourmet table, unstinting, civilized breakfasts, followed by long lunches and siestas, festive suppers, late night dinners of many courses, where he could be and would be encouraged to indulge in all the good things of life, fill up, relish, soak up the sweetness, engage in the overnourishment he had come to crave. He let his eyes flutter shut now and then, letting the soft animal of his big, burgeoning body love what it loved. He'd sigh occasionally, and the best part was how, at the end of it all, when every scrap of toast and eggs had found its place on him and the plate was squeaky-clean, he cast a surreptitious glance about and took my half-eaten baguette that I had left there to finish off on his own. What a fatty food-sneaker! That was the moment when I knew I had him good.

I gave him a few moments to digest and then joined him back at the bar with the dregs of my own coffee. Up close it was erotic to see him flushed with a sugar high, those solid shoulders and arms propping him just enough so all the firm, well-fed fleshiness of plump pecs and bobble-belly could hang loose. He was breathing heavy, more because he scarfed it all down so quick than because it was all that much for him, and I could see that tell-tale glitter of incipient food frenzy in his eyes, probably what he looked like on the way to score tina and do a run, but now turned full-force on to what I hoped would be his new, legal addiction—overeating himself into obesity. Clearly, if I were to bring out another breakfast, he'd eat it. He didn't have it in him to stop himself. I smiled sweetly as I took his plate. "Guess you haven't eaten for a while."

"Not like that, no. Did Frank tell you…?"

I nodded, the soul of understanding and compassion. "Yeah. Whatever. No one's perfect." Then, intentionally changing the subject, "How about that nutmeg syrup, huh?"

Beneath long eyelashes lashes, he rolled his baby blues back in his head and smiled a chubby smile. "Wicked good."

"I've seen some customers literally drink it out of the pourer."

"Yeah?" He winced at the thought and then, picked up the container, peering into it.

"Pretty sweet." Which was when he caught me by surprise, stopping me dead with a look of sheer, penetrating, utterly unexpected directness, switching in an instant into a full-grown, fierce-looking ex-con. The air was electric with tension as he leaned forward toward me. "There better be more where that came from. I'm going to want more."

The baby-blues had turned grey and steely in a flash, and he took one of his thick sausage fingers, wiped it around the inside of the syrup glass, and sucked on it hard. "I like that stuff, a lot."

I was completely taken aback. Good thing dealing with aggressive customers for many years now at least let me preserve the outward trappings of good manners. "Don't worry, Byron. There's plenty. I'll make sure of that."

But to tell the truth, watching him pack up and leave that day, walking slower with a belly jut and the flush of some attention, I couldn't help but feel a slight shiver of fear. Don't get between him and his fix—I guess that was the moral of the first part of Squeegee's story.

Not that I had any intention of depriving Byron of his breakfast. Of all the insipidities I could spend my pathetic tip money on, paying Renny $15 under the table every other day to accustom this scrumptious ex-junkie window-washing parolee plumper to a good solid daily feed at the PiggyFeet trough until some serious results began to show---let's just say I have spent a lot more on a lot less fun. As it turns out, we were only scheduled to have our windows shined up every other day, which frankly was OK by me. It'd be a little much, I thought, to be lavishing breakfast on him daily anyway. He might catch on, and then how would I get my evil kicks then, huh? Plus, alternate days gave me time to put my head together with Renny to plan a nice, satisfying menu for Squeegee, something that would appeal, compel, seduce Tubby into making damn sure he never called in sick.

He was there bright and early all right on Thursday, and Mother Nature herself, who from what I can tell has long been a big fan of all things excessive, appeared to have smiled on the inauguration of my new project: unseasonably warm weather for a Bay Area July meant it was in the high 70s, even at 9 a.m. And that meant a wonderful treat for me which I espied over the edge of my podium. Byron was in cargos and bright orange tank top, all of which probably did fit in the baggy way they were supposed to when he bought them a year ago but which now grabbed the overblown chunkiness of him in all the right spots—bowing out nice and round in the middle, belly flab and deep navel bouncing with every ponderous step, hunky-chunky thighs and bubblecheeks hefting and wrestling about under the tight khaki, all his smooth pink skin flushed with the heat.

He waved at me inside and smiled shyly, setting up his stuff on the sidewalk, and wanting him used to being treated with respect and graciousness, I waved back and glided forth effortlessly, carrying a large, almost bowl-size cup of coffee, set aside for lattes which some especially gauche customers insist on slurping down after a fine repast. But, this morning, just for B-man, I tucked in about a half dozen of those super-sweet amaretti we use to garnish the ice cream sundaes. Baby likes sugar. Baby gets sugar. Baby gets nice and fat.

"Man, thanks!" he said, loving the coffee but peering at the odd biscuits.

"Never had these." He crunched away and opened his eyes wide at the pure aromatic impact of them.

"They're Italian. We use them for desserts here."

He gobbled them down, confirming my well-trained instincts at discerning the weakest spots in diet resolutions such as the hapless victims of my ministrations might be so bold as to entertain. Squeegee, however, seemed to be walking very willingly to the House of Ruinous Delights. I could smell the almond paste on his breath when he said, "Yeah, it's almost like I need to keep my blood sugar up these days. I mean, you go from doing jackshit in jail to, all of sudden, having to work a regular schedule."

"And active physical work, too."

"I've been trying to skip breakfast, you know, I don't want to get too big now that I don't have time for the weights, but…." He paused and I could practically hear the gears turning.

"But…?"

"Don't take this wrong, I'm not asking for charity, but the other day that breakfast was, like, the best thing I had ever eaten. I've never been to a place like this, you know, to have dinner, lunch, whatever."

"It's pretty over-priced actually, but I can at least say that the food is great. I'm not sure I could afford to eat here either. And," I laid a fraternal hand on his shoulder, "No need to apologize. Feeding people is what we do here. That breakfast might have been the best you ever ate but fact is, Renny my bud in the kitchen whipped it up in, say, three minutes, takes no time at all to cook up some eggs, griddle some French toast, make it look pretty on the plate, when you are used to doing it fast and quick in a restaurant kitchen." Was Byron's mouth-watering? Probably the after-effects of the sugar bombs.

"You hear about breakfast being so important and all, and Tuesday was really a lot easier for me after that."

"Well, that's good to hear. So plan on having breakfast—on us. We're more than happy to help guys like you get back on your feet, and it's not a problem on our end. In fact, Renny was thinking you might want to be our taste tester today."

He laughed, flashing big dimples and softening chin. "The guinea pig." The flirtatious cheek of him! Darn good thing I wasn't my own snug cargos that day. "Get your work done and come in, when you are ready to help us out."

Was it my imagination or did our big old Squeegee work at record-pace that day, making that bank of windows glitter like nobody's business in ten minutes? Would the day ever come when he might actually wear that "Will Work For Food" I still have in the drawer, bought a few year back during a hot and heavy dalliance with a previous feedee who, alas, never really went the distance? Hope springs eternal. In any case, he was inside lickety-split, it seemed, all moist and panting from bending over and from, I imagined, the eagerness to "help us out."

Sexy as it was to have seen him wiggling his width about awkwardly on the barstool the other day, if he was going to be irresistibly brought down by my secret encourager machinations, better to give the growing guy all the room he needed to spread out and relax and enjoy himself. So, I waved him over to the banquette along the wall, where, not coincidentally, a pair of corner mirrors gave me a three-dimensional view of his girth, and, voilà, out came Renny's creation which I placed in front of him with an overdone flourish, as if he were a genuine customer.

"Pancakes?" he said, gleefully, looking up at me. "I love pancakes."

"Ahh, but these are special…."

He dove in and then discovered that these were no ordinary pancakes, but were in fact filled with rich cream cheese that had been whipped with the nutmeg maple syrup, such that, as he cut into them, the filling oozed out obscenely and released a very intense fragrance of sugar and spice and everything nice. The effect of it on him was as planned: here was a dude slung up somewhere between a San Pablo trailer park and the dog races, a guy who had undoubtedly come of age eating nothing but cheap, packaged, microwave dinners and snacks from jars, bottles and boxes, whose most far-out idea of the "high life" was to party with his tweaker buds and do shooters at Hooters. And now, thanks to the magnanimity of none other than the critically acclaimed Berkeley restaurant Au Pied de Cochon inspired by world-renowned California cuisinière Alyssa Wadders, our boy from the sticks was being acquainted with the way that food could be so much, much more to him, a path to the good life where things were clean, tasteful, civilized, and friendly; a harmless way of exercising his sensuality in the form of that big greedy appetite for pleasure which had gotten him into trouble in the first place, but which here at the table, centered on the food, on the eating of food, on the joy that food gave him, could now be indulged without any serious problems. Never had post-incarceration rehabilitation been so elegant, so gustatorily enticing, nor—I quivered with the thought--so potentially lethal to that waistline or the numbers on his bathroom scale. He took one bite of the stuffed pancake, a big bite dripping with milkfat, nutmeg and surreptitious encouragement, and he groaned deeply with satisfaction. Saying nothing, he took his time, spooning in another and another, eyes half-shut from a sugar climax, whimpering like a weaning shoat as he took a long, lingering time to clean his plate, mouthful after mouthful after revelatory mouthful.

"Oh god…I've never tasted anything like this."


I smiled down at him, watching him let go, shirt creasing carelessly around the folds of his fleshy torso, belly soft and slack, ready to make room for more, fat ass cushioned with a comfort that made it easy to stay there.

"So they're good," I said, matter-of-factly.

He chuckled and looked up. "Way good. Like having a pancake, cream-filled donut and cheese danish all at the same time. It's blowing my circuits."
And your belt buckle, I thought.

"So it's not too bad being a guinea pig, huh?" Every last part of me wanted to slide right in there next to him, at that moment, gently grab that flab of his, fresh, new and jiggly, call him "squeegee," "guinea piggy," "piggyfeet's newest piggy-feeder," reinforce what I knew I would be successful at turning him into over time. But I didn't. I did instead what needed to be done for now: I went back into the kitchen and brought out another six of these stuffed pancakes, their starchy, intoxicating perfume hitting Byron full in the face and he moaned helplessly, eyes bright with foodlust and even a little bit of fear.

"You told me you liked that nutmeg syrup...so…"

He winced and let his eyes alternate between the irresistible temptation on front of him, the high pile of food that he soon would be wearing on his hips and soft, low-slung Buddha-belly, and my own expression of implacable, unruffled, determined bonhomie. And as he spoke his piece to me, "Don't get me wrong, they are really great, but maybe I could finish a couple more of them, you could help, I dunno, someone in the kitchen…." it was impossible not to notice how his hand reached for the big spoon automatically, how he scooped up yet another enormous mouthful, how without thinking, like a natural porker, he began to feed, unable to stop himself because he wasn't even aware he was doing it, and once he started tucking it in, Round Two of stuffed pancakes, there were no more words, just gentle grunts, the smacking of buttery lips, and occasionally the sound of the cushions shifting, as he leaned back to catch his breath but only for a second until the draw of the table made him lean forward again, bench creaking, jockeying those overfed thighs and fattening ass into position so he could continue to pamper himself, sucking down the pleasure, the guiltless pleasure of what I was going to make sure was his incurable new compulsion.

I swear by the end his sweat smelled like cream cheese and nutmeg. Where was it coming from? The plate was empty, a gooey mess of smeared feeding, and I thought long and hard about whether or not to do this next thing, but he was practically passed out with the overwhelming, nearly endless gorging that he had just given into, body flaccid and bulging, food-stupid expression on him, the way they get toward the end of a good, solid, satisfying binge, and I figured it couldn't be anything more outrageous than what he had in all likelihood seen and done in jail. So I went for it: I ran my index finger along the plate, wiping up a big mound of the sweetened filling still left and put it up to his lips.


"We clean our plates around here at Piggyfeet."

Given how south it all could have gone, that singular pause, as he looked at me from below, lasted an eternity. I didn't know him well enough yet to be able to tell whether it was relief, sullen resentment, or just plain, mindless, male lust that animated his glance at me in that moment, but whatever it was, I didn't get slugged. On the contrary, my instincts proved correct and instead, he closed his eyes, parted his big lips, and, with that soft and yielding tongue of his, suckled the cream off my finger, every last little bit.

From that moment onward, an unspoken understanding had been reached between us, or perhaps better to say the unspoken understanding, for in my experience with the obese-to-be, it is always the same understanding and there is really no need to talk about it. In fact, better not to talk about it. Better, far better, far more exciting in some ways, to keep it unstated, below the radar of anyone who might guess, and simply let the inexorable process take its course.

And take its course it did with Squeegee, who soon began to "stop by to say hi" even on the mornings when he wasn't scheduled to be working, especially when he realized that the culinary generosity of PiggyFeet would be supplemented on those days by my own personal assurance of a "nice big solid breakfast to start the day." Sometimes that was in the form of a flat of fresh pastries from La Farine, at others a sizable sack of cinnamon-sugar doughnuts right out of the fryer from Cruller Corner, warm, comforting, oily, and then there were those morning when I picked up a couple of piping hot breakfast burritos from La Picante down the street, served up with the pretense that I was going to have a bit of nosh myself, the reality being, of course, that all the sausage, potatoes, cheese and tortilla mostly made their way into Byron's capacious gullet, especially once I got him all jacked up on coffee and sugar. Once a stimulant junkie, always a stimulant junkie.

Even with this special touch of my own added to hasten the undermining of whatever remnant of faltering will power he still had, it didn't escape anyone's notice that Byron always seemed to enjoyed the good home-cooking of our own kitchen best, and as long as I kept Renny's palm greased with the green, luscious morning meals kept coming out from out kitchen with a regularity that was blimping our Squeegee into a full-fledged, well-rounded gourmand. Cream-cheese stuffed pancakes were followed by an "experiment" of savory French toast stuffed with bacon, ham and pancetta that Byron was the first to taste and gobbled up with gluttonous approval. And more experiments followed, rich fattening morning meals the recipes for which our kitchen never got a chance to try out, since we only opened for lunch: crêpes thick with cream, folded over a wide variety of filling created from the previous nights leftovers---roast beef hash with sage gravy, chicken pomodoro adorned with slabs of melted provolone, seafood gumbo over rice. The guinea piggy had a real carbo jones, and I swear after a couple of weeks I caught him literally drooling as he made his way to our doorstep, big chops licking in anticipation.

But even old standards need to be livened with variety and I was determined to expand Byron's greed into new areas. So, glossy omelettes grew by the day from three- to four- and eventually to six eggs, the size of dinnerplates, accompanied by towers of buttered bread, rich cream biscuits, and pots of jam, with occasional mixed grill thrown in, different house-made sausages—chicken, turkey, lamb—lined up like soldiers on a battlefield andmowed down with relish before he waddled off for the rest of his work day. A measure of how primed he was, how eminently plump-able, was obvious in how quickly his new, luxurious breakfast habits resulted in what I had wanted to see from the first day: in three weeks, Byron went from pleasantly chunky to distinctly, inarguably lard-assed, cheeks puffy, chin thick, soft and lushly larded, once broad shoulders now even broader and sloping over man-breasts that shook lasciviously, abundantly, under voluminous XXL T-shirts that made his transition from beefy boy to lard-ass slob clear and present. As his body sought to find new places to store the blubber that his greatly increased intake was creating as stores for a famine that I would make sure he would never experience, rolls of fat grew under his arms, popped out nice and jiggly around his waist, and widened out the top of his thighs so that his pants cut into deep, thickly creased chub all around. Most amazing, though, was his belly that pushed out over his shorts, forcing the waistband to sling low like a sweet hammock over an unexpectedly symmetrical sphere, navel smack in the center of his shirt, bouncing gently, seductively at the slightest movement. I thought he would widen and droop, he just looked like the type to me, a sloppy-fat gainer-tub, but I was wrong. The extra forty pounds that first month came on him nice and firm, and by the end, he had blossomed into more of a rolypoly, a Michelin man, overstuffed, upholstered with sexy manfat that would show itself off now and then as his shirt rode up during a feeding or as his cotton shorts flashed the back of his shaking ass cheeks on his way off to work.

Gratifying as it was to achieve this kind of success, I couldn't help wondering whether or not more might be possible, given the ease with which Byron had given himself over to the morning feeding routine and the sensual fattening he was capable of achieving in such a short time. Just as his own appetite was grew hand-in-hand with his excess poundage, each day making that delightfully vicious cycle of lowered metabolism and increase consumption more and more his way of life, conditioning him to a life of obesity, my own desire to push the limits with him were similarly increasing. The more he showed up obediently expecting to be stuffed, the less able to restrain his piggishness in front of me (to the point of even grunting and snorting toward the end of an exceptionally delicious meal), the more lard he piled on, the more it made me think that what had begun a diversion, as an exploration, might well be taken to another level. Why shouldn't I get something permanently, deeply, personally satisfying out of all my hard work, too? As he sat there, day after day, spreading out, fatter and fatter, more and more hoggish, burying himself in the excess, was it really so unrealistic to think that he was giving it up so easy because deep down he wanted me to go to the next step? I'd occasionally catch him looking at me, eyes bright above food-swollen cheeks, looking at me with an expression that I began to realize was actually a request he didn't know, didn't have the words, to make. Easy to find out. So on a day when I knew the dinner rush would be light, the Sunday of July 4th weekend, when everyone was either out of town or barbecuing in their own backyards, I let him dab his lips with the napkin after finishing a sumptuous load of creamed chipped beef served on two sour-cream laden baked potatoes, shift his nearly 300-pound bulk around enough to give the vast balloon of his paunch the room to digest in peace with a soft belch, and then asked him what his plans were for the evening.

He sniggered a little. "Plans. I got no plans. Never have no plans." He put a plump hand on his belly and rested it, wheezing a little, looking back at me with an unformed question dancing about in his bovine gaze.

"Got no friends now that I'm not using or dealing. And sure ain't got no girlfriend at this fucking size." He laughed in a self-deprecating way and picked up the remnants of potato skins with a fork. "I got my eats, and that's just about it."

"Well, then, why don't you stop by here tonight? It's doing to be d-e-a-d. And we're all just going to be kicking back, you know."

A little smile crept over his face, double chins flushing with a scoot of the hips. "Bet you have a dynamite dessert menu."

What was I thinking? This fatty had been around the block. "Menu? We have a platter the size of Missouri," I said, giving back as good as I was getting.

And sure enough, even after plowing through breakfast enough for six, he sat there, drooling just at the thought, . "Good as the rest of the food?"

My turn to snigger, which I did, wickedly. "Three different pies, chocolate decadence torte, two different cheesecakes, caramel pudding, cookie plate….It's always such a shame that we put it all out on a display tray for the evening and then at the end, just throw out all the samples."

He had tried a couple of times to rouse himself from his laziness and shift his tonnage into gear head off to work, but there was nothing like a low center of fatboy gravity to make that difficult. So I reached out my hand and gave him a lift, pulling him forward with a good strong hand and letting him stand real close as he got his balance, the crest of his 48" gut grazing my arm.

"I'm so here tonight," he said softly. Was it my imagination or did I hear in his voice a note of relief and see in his body a kind of yielding, yielding to all of his appetites, even the ones that he had kept secret up to now, secret even to himself?

"Tell you what…" I matched his sotto voce. "Don’t rush. Clean-up won't be done till midnight and then we'll have all the time in the world."

Midnight it was, indeed, when he came by, which made me happy, because there are few things I like better in a fatboy than the ability to take direction.

But Squeegee had gone one better, he had slipped on a nice, extra-wide pair of cotton sweat shorts and a bright colored Hawaiian shirt that sported itsy-bitsy ice cream cones of various flavors. Smelling freshly showered, he slipped into the door way as I unlocked it, and right inside, heplayfully pointed out the design of his shirt, saying, "I thought I'd dress for dessert." The pattern of the fabric wasn't what I was checking out, though, in that the shirt was open with lots and lots of Byron was shaking free and easy in the dim lights of the restaurant.

"Cute," I said, and assuming the officious air of restaurant host I affected on a nightly basis here, I simply walked toward the rear of the house where a small alcove of a dining space flickered with candles, hidden with view.

As promised, our dessert tray of the evening beckoned. "They are just left overs, I know…."

It's always amazing to see the effect of the food on them, and it's all in their eyes, an intensity, a focus, a sheer, naked greediness takes over, the tunnel vision of a man destined to have his life run by his unrestrained love of eating. He wasted no time and slid his bulk into the big padded chair, gawking for a bit at the array before him, spoiled for choice.

"I've died and gone to heaven, haven't I?" I stood over the table, as I would for any honored guest, and tapped his hand as he reached for his first selection.

"I believe you would like to hear what we have here, wouldn't you? So, going clockwise—coconut crème caramel pie with a macadamia nut crust and meringue topping, drizzled with honey; pecan rum pie served with fresh zabaglione; chocolate-bottom mud pie in a pool of caramel sauce."

He began to lean forward, smelling the air, and with that, I decided to do as I had intended, gently cupping the large soft mantit that hung forward and tenderly rolling the swollen nipple in my fingers, as I continued, voice calm and business-like. "Then we have the house specialty, triple chocolate decadence torte, bitter sweet chocolate mousse.." I plucked a little and he moaned "…layered with semi-sweet ganache…" I plucked a little harder still and he moaned a little louder, "topped with Valrhona shavings and of course mocha whipped cream," and with that, I bounced the handful of fat playfully until he giggled and reached for his breasts with his own chubby hands to stop my teasing.

"If you don't like chocolate, we have fresh Santa Rosa plum-topped cheesecake and Meyer Lemon cheesecake. Both very fattening…" I unobtrusively sat down and let my hand deftly slide across his broad circumference, overheated blubbery lovehandles, loose underbelly, the slightly damp tittyfold and meandering down to the sweet, sensitive fatty bulging around his navel. His eyelids fluttered half-shut and when his mouth opened in a wordless gasp, I finished off.

"Naturally we have crème brûlée, served with anisette-flavored Mexican wedding cookies, and if you so desire, we can always prepare a hot fudge sundae for you, vanilla, chocolate and coffee ice cream on hand." As the impact of it all sunk in and I found myself slowly moving into his bulk, pressing up against his flanks, letting my lips play against his jowls, he was breathing so heavily from desire that his voice was nothing more than a hoarse whisper.

"You understand, don't you?"

I grasped the large spoon beside the platter, started with what I knew he would like best, the chocolate decadence, and lifted a sumptuous mouthful of it up to his face with one hand as my other hand reached beneath the table and began to pleasure him as no one had ever pleasured this fatboy before, and in two bites, my newest conquest enjoyed a climax that stunned even me, a powerful, bucking cum that shook the table and which, I swear to God, lasted an exquisitely long time, long enough for me to feed him the entire slab of lusciousness off the plate, his eyes closed, whimpering with wave after wave of pleasure..

"Yeah, Squeegee, I understand. I understand so many things." Bite of the coconut pie, gasp for breath.

"That you are going to have a wonderful time from here on." Bite of the pecan, gasp for breath.

"That you are going to feed to your heart's content and never really care how big you get, ever again." Large spoonful of crème brûlée, gasp for breath.

"That you'll wonder now and then if this is a good thing, maybe when you are 350, maybe again when you are 450, or 500, but in the end…." Oversized piece of mud-pie, whipped cream drooling down his chin, helpless groan.

"You'll remember tonight and you'll know what you already know about yourself." His lids opened slightly and he nodded passively.

"Yeah, I know, I've always known. I don't have much choice. I am what I am." And with that, he picked up the fork himself and began, on his own, to do what he knew he needed to do, feed contentedly on the remains of the decadence in front of us.

"And Squeegee," I said with a little squeeze of his belly, "We have all the time in the world. All the time in the world."