A Fantasy - in Brief(s)

Another gem of a story, written by the talented Cube, this story details the expansion of a former baseball star at the hands of a young, gay fan. Totally hot. Nothing quite like an ex-jock letting lose, is there? The years of disciline melting away as he relaxes into the warmth of a full belly and outgrows his old uniforms? Gets me every time. Originally posted on GainerWeb. Read it after the jump.

A Fantasy - In Brief(s)

People may remember Jim Pall, the star player of the Texas Mesquites. For a while it was impossible not to see him, victorious on the baseball diamond, on TV and radio advertising loan agencies and best of all -- advertising some of the skimpiest, sexiest briefs to grace mainstream media.

Years ago, when Jim appeared in the pages of NEWSTIME in the RiderWear's tiny "Executive Thongs," many people were shocked, but I fell in love with him as only a sexually budding thirteen year old could.

He was so beautifully clean cut with his styled glossy black hair, the firm mouth with its knee-melting smile and the large dark eyes that seemed to call even from the pages of the magazine (on TV and radio, the deep, huskyiness with that Texican twang that came out of that face made it even more desirable). And how many youngster (and adults) wanted to personally explore that well developed (if a bit skinny) body with those large nipples and huggable waist -- not to mention the full package that looked as if it wanted to burst out of the brief and stretch up out of the page?

Oh yes, I had been hooked on him. At times I imagined him driving by and taking me off away from my boring everyday teenage life.

As time passed, he retired from baseball and modeling. He still advertised financial services (with that nag of a wife of his) and did some sportscasting, but soon even those signs of his existence faded.

Ah well, dreams of an adolescent and the reality of a full grown adult are two separate things.

Or are they?

It was quiet and almost empty in Merry's Bar when I arrived.

This wasn't bad for me as I like being able to sit quietly and chat with friends or make a gentle pass at somebody without having to talk over a loud crowd or a blaring juke box. I got a beer and sat at a corner table just relaxing for a bit.

"WHISKEY! -- MAKE IT A DOUBLE!"

I froze. I knew that husky Texican drawl. Standing at the bar was my dream man and hero Jim Pall!

And he was clearly not in the prime condition of his sports/modeling days. The glossy raven hair had gotten somewhat grayed, a few wrinkles etched around the eyes, forehead and mouth of his once plastic smooth skin and there was a roundness over his belt that would have never pleased RiderWear. Not to mention that he was just a few drinks short of being outright drunk.

Some great hero. Yet one look at him and I felt like a horny teenager, ready to cream my pants.

"Its on me," I said as I handed a few bills to the bartender, and took over the whiskey bottle.

"Thanks!"

"Watch out," the bartender whispered to me, "he's just about ready to give his life story."

"Fine with me"

"Masochist!"

"Whaddya guys talking about?" Jim asked.

"My friend here says that you have a heck of a story to tell. Why don't we go to a table and talk?"

I walked off, carrying the bottle. Hell! However I got it, I wanted to have some time with my dream hero.

"Thanks, buddy. I could use a pal now," Jim said as he slumped into his chair.

"What's wrong?" I asked as I topped off his glass. I knew that I was tempting fate by asking him that question, but he didn't bat an eye...

"My $@% wife screwed me today. First time in years!!!" Jim chuckled at the joke for a moment, then his face clouded over and he continued...

The upshot of the story was that Jim and his wife had always been more business partners than an actual couple. She had been his manager and agent and he was the willing commodity, being touted and sold across the nation. They had an "open relationship" and ignored each other's private affairs. Unfortunately, Jim's age and his diminishing fame had made Mrs. Pall impatient to go for more profitable arrangements...

"I could handle the divorce thing until I found out how the #$%^ had sewn up my cash..."

A few weeks ago, Jim found himself going from a wealthy married man (at least in name) to an obscure, almost stone broke bachelor. Since then he had been making the rounds of the bars and treating himself to massive doses of booze and self pity...

I looked over this sodden man, discreetly admiring how the buttons of his shirt were straining and allowing a bit of T-shirt covered pot belly to poke through. His clothes were new which meant that he must have just started to bulge -- probably the result of all the drinking.

We spent hours at that table as I let him ramble on and on... Jim was more than happy to have some interested person listen to him talk about his trouble and past life that I had no problem spacing the drinks to keep him from fully going under. And I admit, slurred as it got, I loved that voice!

Merry's finally began to close up. It was time to go -- home alone, I thought, but then...

"Your a good listener," Jim grinned bleary eyed and leaned closer to me, "could you come to my place so we could talk some more?"

I didn't need much urging.

"She couldn't get her hands on it. Even if she could, the #$% would never want a dinky place like this," Jim said as he stood fumbling for his keys.

I expected a tiny apartment from his description of the place, but I was very pleasantly surprised by what I saw. This huge duplex was no "dinky" place! Then I got a better look at it and shuddered. The place was a PIG STY. Furniture, food wrappers and clothes scattered all over the place. Clearly Jim had trashed the place in a rage over the situation he had landed in and simply continued to stay here without clearing up. Jim saw my expression and looked a little uncomfortable.

"I gotta get a clean-up crew in..." he muttered.

I walked over to him and smiled.

"Its OK."

Jim shyly smiled, taking me back to my teenage days of flipping through NEWSTIME magazine. Soon, he cleared a place on the sofa and we sat down. I supposed that I was going to just let him talk, offer my sympathy and wait and see what happened -- at the very least I would go home -- but...

"All I can say is, at least I am free, to do what I want," Jim said.

"What do you want?"

"What do I want? I... I want..."

Jim put his hand on my knee and looked at me.

We both knew that we had been leading up to this moment, but I still felt myself going hot and Jim was turning a nice shade of red too. I put my hand on top of his where it rested on me and pressed it.

Jim leaned close to me...

Even as a youngster, I had known that I would never get to kiss such a macho sportsman like Jim Pall. But was I ever glad that I was so very wrong!

His lips were just as I had always fantasized they would be. And I loved the gentle feeling of the breath from his nostrils across my upper lip. Jim's arms, still very powerful from years of sports, pulled me tightly against him.

"Would you -- I mean that I would like you to..." Jim faltered in nervously.

"I've always wanted to with you..."

"Thanks. Its been a while."

I was puzzled over that last remark, but let it slide as he began to undress me. Soon I was stark naked and I let him guide my hands over his belt so that I could undo his trousers. The tension behind his buckle was strong and I smiled in anticipation of feeling that belly. Pulling down his zipper I smiled as I freed the colorful bulge of Jim's RiderWear crotch. It was clear that he never had to pad in that area in his modeling days. If anything they may have had to do a bit of airbrushing to keep the ads acceptable for the magazines. As the pant sank down, I admired the sturdy legs underneath. Then button, by button I took off his shirt and looked at the brief-wearing figure of so many of my teenage desires.

He was older, but still so damned attractive!

Jim must have felt uncomfortable with my staring.

"You're looking at my gut aren't you?"

To be honest, I was. Noticeable as it had been when Jim had been wearing his suit, the clothes had hidden the real size of a large pot belly. It forced his briefs down so that they had to ride low on his hips and rounded above them into a firm, round paunch. On either side, Jim's two love handles continued the tummy bulge as they filled his waist and blended into an ass that had grown since his days of wearing those tight baseball uniforms.

"I'm not dieting for anyone anymore!"

"Anymore?"

"Yeah! Everyone around me had to tell me what to eat and drink -- how to work out. Well look what it got me! And if you think my guts big -- well, SCREW YOU!!! I'll become a whale if I want!!!"

Jim was angry. Now I understood why he had said it had been a while! All the other guys must have been shocked to see their favorite fantasy man with a good-sized paunch. Jim wasn't in the mood for getting any criticism about his once famous figure and some of the men Jim had been with clearly had said a little too much for his liking.

Well, I was not going to criticize that sweet tummy -- far from it!

Eagerly, I buried my face into that fleshy, warm gut.

"You're beautiful!" I murmured as I began to kiss his navel. I then slipped my hands into his briefs and felt those round large ass cheeks. I pulled the underwear off and felt the soft thud of his large cock as it sprang up against my chin and neck.

"But I'm getting fat!"

Horny as Jim was, he clearly wasn't going to let go of the idea that his gut was a turn-off. It was time to reassure him.

"Ever since I saw you in your tight briefs and uniforms I've wanted you Jim..."

Jim stood still..

"But I WANTED you fat!"

He breathed in quickly as I said that and suddenly he pulled me up and looked into my eyes.

"You want me FAT!!!"

"Uh-huh, you're even sexier like this!" I stroked his bulged middle.

We just stayed silent and just looked at each other. Obviously, my declaration was a first for Jim Pall.

"How fat?"

"If you gained a ton, you'd need an army to pull ME off of YOU."

"What if I just did nothing but sit in front of the TV and be a pig?"

That question surprised me. My main thought had been to convince Jim that he could be a stud no matter how fat he got. But now my mind was racing.

Could my hero have shared in some of my old fantasies? Only one way to find out...

I gave my answer.

"I'd be right next to you and ready to do whatever you wanted."

"If I got too fat for my clothes?"

"I'd adore every button that popped off of 'em!"

Jim began breathing a little harder. Either he was getting a charge out of this or thought I was a nutcase.

"And if my gut made me too big to fit through the doors?"

"I'd keep you happy in whatever room you wanted until we got the doors widened."

Gently, I took his stiff cock in my hand. I could feel the pre- come beginning to moisten the large head. Clearly this was a turn on.

I spoke again...

"Do you want me to stay with you and turn you into my fat jock?"

Jim suddenly gave me a hard kiss.

I enjoyed feeling his body against mine. It felt better than anything I had ever experienced before. I slipped my head lower and began to gently bite his nipples and rub the sensitive lower parts of his belly. Jim moaned softly and we slowly settled on the sofa, oblivious to the clutter around us. I kept kissing and nibbling at his pecs as I reached around and slid my hands up and down, stroking his broad back, love handles and that wonderful ass. The rigid, hot presence of his cock forced between my legs began to drive me wild as I pushed my own hard-on against his beefy thighs...

All through the night in that messy living room, an out of shape, horny jock gave me one of the most beautiful gifts a man can give another man. He let me live out one of my first and oldest dreams -- one that I had long ago taken for granted could never come true.

Late next morning as he snored gently, I got up and got my clothes together. I took one fond look back at his handsome prone form. And quietly walked out. I was afraid that he would feel embarrassed or uncomfortable -- after all, Jim Pall making fat talk and tricking with a stranger? No, that isn't the truth. I was afraid that I was falling in love with my fantasy man. What if it was just a one night stand? Better not to build up hopes that can't come true. As I was about to go out the front door, I did one stupid thing. I left my number by the telephone. Jim would never call, I knew that. Still, that night I waited by my phone. There is nothing more disappointing than hoping against hope for something you know can never come.

A couple of days later, I answered the phone.

"Hello?"

"WHERE THE HELL HAVE YOU BEEN!!!"

"Jim?!?!"

My heart was pounding wildly.

"I have been looking all over this @#$%^ city for you for the past two days."

"My number was by your phone."

"I use a goddamn cellular. I only found that paper you left a minute ago. Now get the hell over here NOW!"

I wanted to laugh, cry and cream, but I was just able to say, "YES SIR!" and head out.

"HOLD THE DOOR!"

I held the elevator door open and a delivery boy came on with a large cardboard box. I didn't think much about it until we got off at the same floor and the take-out boy rang Jim's buzzer. The door opened.

"Say, you're..."

"Sure am, now how much do I owe ya?"

I watched Jim standing in a bathrobe paying for the food. He saw me and with a firm "get in here!" brought me into the apartment.

It was much cleaner than the last time I had been there. The living room was spotless and I saw the sofa parked comfortably in front of the TV set with several large bowls of snack food beside it.

"Now get naked, sexy," Jim ordered with a grin. Freed from my clothes, I looked at Jim.

"What about you?" I asked.

The grin became a broad smile. Off went the bathrobe and stiff went my cock. Jim was still fully dressed. But in one of his old Texas Mesquite uniforms.

It must have been a uniform made for him as a lank rookie, before he even developed the famed RiderWear build. His arms hung out of sleeves that were meant for a man with narrower shoulders. Several upper buttons on the jersey were open to make room for his well shaped upper body. Even then it was so tight around the chest that his nipple were in clear shape as they stretched out the shirt. Below, the leggings filled out smoothly over the thick calves continuing up to the tightly stretched thighs. The waistband and fly were far beyond closing over the generous belly and rump Jim was acquiring and were so snug that he had left his rainbow-thong covered cock hanging out which made a colorful contrast to the white and brown striped color of his uniform and the flesh tint of his plump sagging paunch. I reached out and touched the smooth expanse of gut that pressed forward and kept Jim from buttoning the lower part of his jersey. Those few buttons that had been fastened showed glimpses of belly in the gaps in between. Even in his heyday, Jim would have been too big for this outfit, but now he was wonderfully on the way to busting out of it at every seam.

The only thing that still fit was the Mesquite cap and below it I saw the happy face of a man who clearly got a kick out of the way I stiffened up at the sight of him overflowing his clothes.

"You ever saw me on the field?" Jim asked as he struck some baseball action poses.

"The only reason I watched a game was to drool over you," I answered, giving a gasp as I heard the faint sound of snapping thread.

Jim went into a pitcher's wind up, turning his body and raising one leg up till his knee approached his chest..

With a loud snap, the rear panel of his overburdened seat broke apart.

And I nearly went berserk.

I pushed him back onto the couch and spread his legs apart and upwards. I was going to enjoy that seam splitting butt, NOW!

"Yes! YES!! FUCK ME!!!" Jim yelled happily, pulling down his ripping fly and skimpy thong to free himself for pleasure.

I did -- happily.

When we were done, Jim turned on the TV and we relaxed on the sofa and had supper from the box that he had ordered. Several kinds of fried and barbecued chicken and ribs, hot-dogs, sandwiches... "T hey thought I was throwing a party when I sent out for this" Jim said between mouthfuls, "but if you're gonna fatten me up, its going to take a lot to stuff me, right?"

"You bet," I said as I put another onion ring in his mouth...

Jim looked great, licking his lips as he kept chewed and chomped away, patting his stuffed belly and opening up more buttons on his tight jersey.

Crouching by his feet, I began to pull his trousers off. It was like peeling a banana, but soon I managed to free my well-fed baseball hero from those confining, torn pants. His cock, even with all the action it had just had was already getting stiff again. This jock may have been growing out of shape, but he had staying power! Soon both our mouths were busy.

Jim's with a helping of spare-ribs, mine with... well, lets just say that we were really enjoying ourselves.

We couldn't finish the box like some men might do in the fantasy stories -- not even half of it. But as I lay next to Jim, rubbing his

belly and watching him happily belch, I knew that, regardless of fantasy or reality, we belonged together...

"YOU FAT SLOB!!!"

I thumped Jim's belly.

"Look at you! You're getting so big that you'll have to WADDLE out on field!"

"But Coach!" Jim moaned, "I can't stop getting fatter!"

The badly fastened thongs of Jim's jockstrap flew apart letting his pumped cock fall out of his pants.

"You're so damn chubby that you can't keep anything on anymore! What'll the team say when they see you try to squeeze into the dugout?"

"What Coach?" another button opened on the snug jersey.

"They'll want to fuck you so badly that they won't play!!!"

"YES COACH!"

It had been a couple of months since Jim and I had gotten together. I had left my job and apartment and was living in a dream world with Jim as the former baseball star/model/announcer/salesman happily got fatter and fatter. We loved playing out fantasies where Jim faced his coach, team, RiderWear cameraman or other person who would find his irresistible (to us anyway) paunch and heft an inconvenience. Of course, all situations ended up resolved in great sex and hearty eating. I have to admit that I got a bit chunky too from being around all that food, but Jim got big kick out of it and enjoyed comparing his swelling paunch to my own small bit of thickening. He really loved how I admired his bloating physique. And it WAS something to admire...

Jim was now a tubby, beer-bellied man who couldn't get into his uniforms without my eager help. Double-chinned and thick-necked, his shoulders were now beefier as were his big nippled pectorals that were beginning to droop slightly over the top of his great big gut. When I watched him walk away I admired the expanded double globes of his beautiful ass, framed as they were by the love handles above and the chunky thighs below. In his uniform he looked sexier than ever, and he could give me a painful hard-on just by modeling his RiderWears the way he used to in the ads. Though, when I played the irate photographer, I would savagely point out that his gut was going to hide all sight of his thongs. He would smile and drawlingly ask if he should change to athletic knee-length briefs instead and laugh as I pretended to lose my temper. Jim could easily see how I really felt by looking at the rising mound in my pants.

I don't know how long we could have gone on like this in our current state of finances. We tried not to think about it, but even if he had the duplex, my savings and what little he had could have only kept us for so long.

"One out, bases loaded and now Jim Pall comes up to bat."

"WHOA has that man porked out!"

"Where could he have found a uniform to cover that gut?"

"I dunno Jim, what do you think? You know your getting kinda paunchy yourself."

"Think so?" Jim said patting paunch that peeked out of the large shirt.

"You're gonna blimp out of that suit soon" I said, reaching to hug the great sidebags that rolled under his jacket.

We were playing sportscasters and Jim loved to imagine he was doing a play-by-play of the economy-sized Jim Pall on the field as I MADE a play-by-play on the jumbo-sized Jim Pall in the announcer's box. A little schizoid, but a lot of fun.

Suddenly the phone rang.

"Damn!" Jim said as he picked it up.

"Yeah, this is Jim Pall, who is this? Oh, calling on HER behalf?

The greedy &^%*^!!! Yeah, I see -- well I'll see YOU and that tramp in court!"

Jim slammed down the phone.

"What is it Jim?"

"SHE wants the duplex too, it just came to her notice."

I knew it was too good to last! Still perhaps...

"Well, we could find another place, but I'll have to see what job I can get to keep us both. Maybe my old place will take me back," I said.

Jim looked at me tenderly.

"I had hoped you would say something like that. I may sound a little sappy, but it reminds me how much you love me."

He took me in his arms.

"No, you won't have to worry. I've been doing a lot of thinking and I think we can ALL get what we deserve..."

I'm not great at discussing the fine points of the law, but let me just say that when Jim's lawyer called upon the former athletic great to testify, the jury was more than a little stunned at how much Jim Pall filled the witness stand. Under questioning the reluctant ex-model told of how his divorced wife had swindled him out of everything he had worked for and even sent him into such shock that he had gotten fat.

And now, unemployed and with just a few meager savings left, Jim Pall was being forced to give up his only home because of the grasping avarice of the heartless woman. There wasn't a dry eye in the house, except for those of his furious ex-wife and her disconcerted legal team.

By the time the judge and jury were through, Jim was on the way to becoming, once again, a very rich man. Proceedings began against the former Mrs. Pall and the inequitable original settlements of Jim's divorce were invalidated. By that time, accountants were swarming over all of the lady's holdings and charges of tax fraud and financial misappropriations began rearing their ugly heads.

Jim's limousine pulled away from the law building where he had just signed the last of the documents reestablishing his ownership of his property. He looked handsomer than ever in the tailor cut suit that was fitted for every bulge of his sexy rounded build.

"Well, I guess you'll have every stud for miles after you now," I said lightly, though I have to admit I was scared that I might lose him, now that Jim had more than just me to depend on.

Suddenly Jim grabbed me by the shoulders and kissed me for a long time.

"Don't ever say anything like that!" He said to me fiercely as soon as he let go. Settling back, Jim began to talk...

"I was thinking, now that we have real money, maybe I should see about getting some bigger Mesquite uniforms made up for me. Something that would take the work of a good lover and a hired full-time chef to outgrow."

"Maybe with some extra-stretchy spandex panels?" I said patting the wide expanse of his shirtfront.

"Yeah, that would be great. And a coach's uniform for you too, sexy..."

We snuggled against each other, planning for our new future as the limo drove on...

Best of the Best - June 12, 2006

So, we all sit here and obsess about either gaining ourselves, helping a guy gain, or something in the middle. We say things like "I'd gain if I was with the right guy," and "If only my skinny, track star boyfriend would get fat for me." So few guys actually take the plunge. Here's a spotlight on one who did, and did it really well.

SFHuskyGainer is a prime example of a beautifully fattened man. Starting off with a slim, muscled body, his beautiful expansion to nearly 300 lbs is detailed after the jump. He also demonstrates how well fat packs on to an already muscled body. The point that a good gainer should keep up with a bit of weight training as he grows, for both health and aesthetic reasons, is driven home by the beautiful way that SFHuskyGainer's belly has grown. Oh, and one more thing... Down boys, he's very happily taken by some very lucky guy.

After the jump, the never before posted, exclusive progress pics of SFHuskyGainer's journey from 160 to 300 lbs.


Starting off at a mere 160 lbs, about my weight give or take. Now just watch...



"Nah man, just trying to bulk up, put on a little muscle." 180 lbs



A real starterbelly showing at 200 lbs



This guy really knows how to eat - 230 lbs



Steadily expanding to 240 lbs



After many nights of going to bed super stuffed, weighin in at about 260 lbs



270 lbs just came and went...



Very little fits anymore at 290 lbs



Finally, chugging a gainer shake at the illusive 300 lbs mark.



Jesus. Now that's what I call a gainer. Phew.

Weekend Eye Candy II

Since you guys seemed to like my picks from last weekend, here's a few more cute bellies after the jump to brighten up your Saturday.


So, doesn't he look just like Matthew Lawrence, of Boy Meets World and Mrs. Doubtfire fame?



Oh to be that beer.



Oh to be that wetsuit.



Before...



And after... Look how proud he looks.



Gotta love a bellied boy on a boat... The alliteration. Mmmm

Nobody Tells Jake What to Do

Originally posted on Beefyfrat, this story tells the tale of a man who gains to rebel against his wife's idea that she has control over him. That totally gets me. One of the most attractive things about a gainer to me is how he can take control over his own body. It also has the whole, very hot, newly married guy getting a gut theme. You gotta love it. One of many exceptional stories written by Mrs. Momona, this is def. a good read.


Nobody Tells Jake What to Do

By Mrs. Momona

All Jake's friends admired him. From junior high days, he had been reasonably good looking and intelligent. He was friendly, but with an "attitude"--just cocky and self-confident enough to be attractive to others without antagonizing them when they got to know him better. Women were drawn to him, He was a "nice guy" to women and fully aware that he would fall in love when he was ready--no girl was going to manipulate him into a relationship.



Jale was a pretty self-aware guy. He would never brag about his accomplishments--he never had to. Deep down inside, though, he was proud of what he had made of himself. He had always been an "average" kid when he was young--maybe a little pudgier than average, but certainly no stand out in athletics or academics.



The, in intermediate school, his life turned around. Like most guys his age, he dreamed of being an athlete. Jake loved football and baseball.



The first day of try-outs for intermediate football didn't go well at all. Jake tried his hardest, but there were plenty of guys in better shape, and with better skills, than he. The coach was nice about it when he suggested that Jake concentrate on a sport like bowling. The first thought that flashed through Jake's mind was, "Coach, you can't tell me what to do." The words that came out of Jake's mouth were, "Coach, just give me a chance, please. Let me show you what I can do."



The coach himself probably didn't know at the time why he gave this chubby kid Jake a chance, mentally assigning him to the third string. Jake took full advantage of his chance. By his sophomore year in high school, Jake was a first string member of the defensive line. Not very big for a lineman (5'9", 180 lbs his senior year), Jake always worked hard to develop his legs, glutes, and hips to the max. He always hustled, always gave 200%. His senior year, Jake was chosen team captain.



The same thing happened with baseball. Jake always dreamed of being a star catcher. Why catcher? Once, later on, when Jake thought about it, he realized his interest in being a catcher came from somebody telling him he had "a real catcher's build" when he was a chubby little kid. In intermediate school, Jake showed up at baseball try-outs only to meet with the same initial response as in football. He had the same reaction, "Nobody tells me what to do." He persuaded the coach to give him a chance. Jake worked hard and hustled, and by senior year Jake received "All City" honors in catching.



College sports were the same. Jake graduated from his small midwestern college proud of the fact that he never let anyone keep him from achieving his goals in football or baseball. Coaches in both sports tried to get him to concentrate only on their sport, but Jake loved both football and baseball and wouldn't be told what to do. Academics was the same. He did not accept it when his advisor told him not to take honors courses. He took the courses and did so well that he graduated "magna cum laude" with a business degree.



After graduation, Jake applied for jobs at top companies throughout the midwest. The raised eyebrows Jake noticed sometimes when he turned in his application and resume didn't discourage him. Nobody could tell him what to do--if he thought he qualified for a job, he'd try his best to get it, no matter what anyone else thought.



This attitude, as well as his excellent recommendations and his self-confident-bordering-on-cocky personality led him to be hired by a large firm, at a hefty starting salary, in their marketing department. Jake was good with people and he knew it, and his job evaluations were always positive.



Jake's high-paying job gave him the security to consider marriage. He proposed to Mary, his college sweetheart, and of course she accepted. On his wedding day, Jake briefly thought of how some of his friends tried to tell him his freshman year not to even bother to try to get to know Mary--she was too rich and too pretty. But, nobody could tell Jake what to do. "Now", he thought, "here I am getting married to the hottest girl I ever met."



The first six moinths of married life were good to Jake. He discovered that Mary was a much better cook than he ever suspected. Since Jake's salary was so good, and because Mary's wealthy parents were so generous to their only child and her husband, Mary didn't have to work. She joined civic organizations, volunteered at the local hospital, decorated the new home her parents had bought for them, gardened, and perfected her cooking skills. Everything about Mary confirmed Jake's love for her---and besides, their sex life was great!



About seven months after his wedding, Jake ran into an old college buddy he hadn't seen since the reception. He was somewhat surprised when his buddy greeted him with a pat on his stomach and a pinch at his side. "Hey, Jake, marriage is treating you well", the friend exclaimed, before Jake managed to change the subject. After the friend left, Jake rubbed his stomach for a minute, trying to organize his thoughts. What did his friend mean by those comments? Within seconds, though, his thoughts turned to what Mary wanted him to pick up at the grocery store on his way home from work. Was it whipping cream or ice cream?



One cloudy Saturday, eight months into his marriage, Jake was stretched out on the living room sofa trying to nap. It had been a long hard week at work, and that morning he had washed and waxed the two cars, his and Mary's. The substantial breakfast (eggs, sausage, pancakes dripping with butter and syrup, and a bowl of hot oatmeal with a double scoop of ice cream melting on the top) and huge lunch (three two-inch-thick, lavishly buttered ham-and-cheese-on-rye sandwiches, a large bowl of creamy potato/macaroni salad, and slab of peach pie a la mode) which Mary had prepared for him left him drowsy. All he wore was an old pair of cut-off sweats. The sweats were kinda tight--"Mary's a great cook but sucks when it comes to laundry", Jake thought, "all my clothes are shrinking." He snuggled into the sofa, trying to find a comfortable position, closed his eyes, and dozed off.



Voices nearby awakened Jake. He kept his eyes closed while he tried to figure out who was talking. He recognized Mary's voice, and then identified the other voice as belonging to Joanne, one of Mary's childhood friends.



"Oh shit", was Jake's first thought. Joanne was a real pain-in-the-ass. She always had to be the center of attention, and alwasy bragged about herself, her husband, their vacations, and all the luxury things they were able to buy. "Not my idea of a fun Saturday afternoon, entertaining Joanne", thought Jake. He then hit on the solution: he'd keep his eyes closed, breathe slowly, and pretend he was sleeping. Joanne and Mary would leave and he'd have some well-earned peace and quiet before dinner.



Jake kept his eyes closed and tried not to move. He could hear footsteps.



He heard Joanne's voice say, "So how's married life, Mary?" "It's great", replied Mary. Jake thought to himself, "Right answer, Mary!"



"Oh, there's Jake. I didn't realize he was sleeping." It was Joanne again. Mary replied, "that's OK---once he falls asleep, he's out for hours."



Joanne next said, "ya know, it looks like Jake is getting real chubby. He's really getting that corn-fed look. My husband put on weight too after we first got married, but not like Jake."



Jake hoped he wasn't blushing as he heard Joanne say this. And what was this "corn-fed"? He last heard that term when his college football coach used it to describe one of the heftier guys on the team.



Mary spoke next. "Yeah, he is getting kinda fat. It's actually a turn-on to grab his soft lovehandles and his big butt when we're in bed. Besides, it's all part of the plan."



"What plan?" asked Joanne. "Yeah, what plan?" thought Jake.



"Well," Mary explained, "my mom told me before Jake and I got married that I should fatten him up. That's what she did with my dad after they were married. If you've got a chubby hubby, it keeps all the other women away. They see a chubby guy and either figure he's taken or they get turned off if he doesn't look like a gym stud."



"I guess you're right", laughed Joanne. "So how much weight have you put on Jake since your wedding?"



"I don't know. Maybe around thirty pounds or so. I don't want to ask him to weigh himself because I don't want him to realize he's putting on some pounds", said Mary.



Jake was stunned listening to this exchange. Stunned and curious.



Joanne next asked, "So how fat are you going to get him?" "Yeah", thought Jake, "What's coming next?"



Mary replied matter-of-factly, "well, I decided that in about a week, I stop making all the high calorie goodies I've been stuffing into him, and we go back to regular eating. I don't want Jake to lose any weight---I just don't want him to get any fatter. Besides, it's been kinda hard to keep my weight down with all the butter and cream I've been adding to everything and the huge amounts I've been cooking."



"And he's gonna go along with this?", Joanne next asked.



"Sure", said Mary, "he automatically eats everything I put in front of him. He'll eat the non-fattening stuff, too. Jake will do whatever I tell him to."



At this point, Joanne and Mary started to walk away--at least Jake thought so---he still kept his eyes closed. He heard the door close, and shortly thereafter a car start up, and then opened his eyes. He was shocked and angry by what he had heard. He looked down at his chest, gut, and the rest of body as he had never done before. "Yeah", he thought, "I am chunking up." Somehow, though, the thought didn't really bother Jake. As he recalled what Mary said, though, he did get angry. "Jake will do whatever I tell him to," Mary had said. Those were fighting words to Jake. A plan rapidly formed in his mind. Nobody, not even his wife, was going to tell him what to do.



Jake rolled off the sofa and went to the bathroom. He found the digital scale. He hadn't weighed himself since he got married--not that he didn't want to, he just hadn't thoguht he needed to. Jake stepped on the scale and waited. The read out flashed: 237 lbs! Jake thought back--he must have been about 190 when he got married. Jake was a little surprised that he felt kinda proud of his 47-pound, eight-month gain.



Jake stepped off the scale smiling and considered his plan. He'd show Mary. She wanted him chubby? OK--he'd fatten himself up, and wouldn't stop until HE was ready to. Nobody could tell him what to do. Jake's smile turned to a grin as he thought of his friends from high school and college football---some of them were real porkers, corn-fed porkers. He recalled the kidding back-and-forth in the locker room over who had the biggest belly, widest ass, or thickest lovehandles. Jake was always the smallest guy in the group and only got kidded about his jutting bubble butt and thick thighs and calves. He had always secretly admired the big guys--their bulk set them apart everyone else. He'd turn himself into one of them, whether Mary liked it or not.



Over the next week, Jake put his plan into effect. After eating breakfast at home, he stopped at a fast food joint on his way to work and pigged out. At lunch, he consciously upped his intake. On the way home, he again stooped for fast food before pigging out at dinner. Three nights a week, Jake took a class at a local college to earn credits toward his masters' degree. Rather than coming straight home after clas, he stopped by at a local bakery/coffee shop for another pig out. By the end of week, Jake was able to eat a lot more than he had been at the beginning of the week. That was Jake--always up to a challenge to prove himself!



The next Monday, Mary's plan started. Jake had showered, shaved, and squeezed himself dress shirt and suit. He came down to breakfast to find two soft-boiled eggs, two pieces of toast with jam, and a half grapefruit, and a glass of milk. "What's this?" he asked his wife. "Well", she replied, "i decided we need to eat more healthy." "OK, Mary", Jake lied with a smile on his face, "whatever you say".



Jake obedienbtly ate his non-fatttening breakfast, kissed Mary goodbye, and left for work.The kiss was sincere--even though Jake was going to prove to her that only he was in control of his life, he still loved her. He was just going to show her that no one could tell him what to do.



Getting onto his car, Jake chuckled as he headed to the nearest McD's. Today he ordered four sausage and egg mcgriddles, two hash browns, and two cinnamon roles, double what he had ordered the week before. He knew his efforts to stretch his stomach capacity the previous week had been succesful as he scarfed down all the food while driving to work.



The rest of the day was the same---a huge business lunch with clients, expanded after work snack--this time at BK, then home for dinner. Mary had prepared broiled fish with a gourmet sauce, a baked potato without butter or sour cream, roasted vegetables, a salad, and fresh fruit for dessert. Actually, Jake thought to himself, the food was delicious---there just wasn't anything to it. That evening, he went to his college class, stopping to buy five candy bars to nibble on during the lecture before he hit the bakery on his way home. Jake was proud that he was able to eat a dozen jelly donuts in one sitting, washed down by a large coffee with extra cream and sugar.





Jake had to be creative to continue his secret stuffing on weekends. He made frequent trips to the hardware store or auto supply store on errands--each trip prolonged by an eating session at whatever fast food place was on the way. Sunday morning trips to buy the Sunday papers were excuses for a quick visit to the local IHOP. The staff there were always amazed by how much Jake ordered and how fast he ate it all. Jake bought bozes of candy bars and snack cakes and jars of peanut putter and kept them in the garage--Mary didn't bother him while he was tinkering with his car, and he developed the ability to put away large numbers of ho-ho's accompanied by spoonfuls of peanut butter scooped straight from the jar.



By the time of Jake and Mary's first anniversary, Jake had been following his plan for almost four months. It was a time of rapid change for him--change in his weight and its effects on him. Ripped seams, blownout zippers, and popped buttons happened almost daily. After work, Jake often stopped at the mall to buy a larger size of the trousers or shirt which had given up the struggle to contain Jake's expanding bulk that day, so that Mary wouldn't realize what was happening. After changing into the larger clothes, Jake headed for his pre-dinner fast food pigout.



Jake also kept an extra, larger pair of trousers and a bigger size polo shirt at work (many days he could get by wearing "business casual") to cover extreme emrgencies. They came in handy the day he returned from an extra-big lunch at the local Italian buffet, and went to sit at his desk. As his rapidly ballooning butt approached the chair, simultaneously his rear seam split loudly from crotch to waist, his zipper blew open, and his thigh seams suddenly gapped wide. If the waist button of Jake's trousers hadn't already popped offat the buffet, that would have blown to. Awesome!



Nobody at work commented on his gain. The secretaries often brought him home baked goodies but never commented on his size. Actually, during his annual evaluation, his boss told him he was lokking "substantial" and that he felt that Jake's ability to "impress" his clients was a factor in his positive job performance rating. (Jake had noticed that many of his clients were guys like himself--out-of-shape or fattenting ex-jocks who subtly encouraged each other to eat as much as possible during their business lunches.)



Mary said nothing about Jake's rapidly expanding physique. What could she say? She was preparing healthy food for Jake and was getting really hefty anyway. She figured he was pigging out at lunch but had no idea how much Jake was actually putting away--the extra fast food meals, bakery stops, jars of peanut butter consumed while "working on his car", and snack cakes and candy bars stashed away to tide Jake over until his next feeding.



She knew for sure her plan wasn't working when she noticed the bright red stretch marks Jake was developing on his belly, lovehandles, tits, and butt. She realized she really didn't mind--in fact, she found Jake's fat-swollen pecs, potbelly complete with cave-like bellybutton, bulging lovehandles, and plump thighs and legs a turn-on.

The biggest thrilll for her was Jake's big ass. She had been attracted to his jutting bubble butt in college. Now, Mary loved looking at him walk around the house in his undershorts, watching his enormous buttcheeks bobble up and down while they shifted from side to side, jiggling, quivering, and wobbling all the while. Jake was still the same hot guy she had fallen in love with back in college--there was just a lot more of him now!



On their first anniversary, Jake woke up early, went into the bathroom, and jumped on the scale. He felt his fat jiggle and quiver, and he glanced admiringly in the mirror before he looked at the numbers. 307! Wow! Almost 120 lbs in a year and seventy in the past four months. The competitor in Jake smiled broadly as his glance turned from the scale to the porker he saw smiling at him from the mirror. Jake's smile tuned to a salf-satisfied grin as he noticed his chubby cheeks lokking like two big round jelly donuts on either side of his face.



That evening, Jake came home from work early. He knew that Mary was going to prepare a special meal and invite friends over to celebrate the anniversary. Mary told Jake the meal was surprise, so he avoided the kitchen and dining room while waiting for the guests to arrive. The ddorbell rang and Jake went to answer it.



Jake laughed to himself as he saw that it was Joanne and her husband--really, he laughed at seeing the stunned look on Joanne's face as she took in his bulging physique.



Joanne hadn't seen Jake since that day four months before when he was "sleeping" on the sofa. She stood in the doorway, speechless. Joanne's hudband had a typical "guy" reaction--as he patted Jake's ballooning put belly, setting the flab quivering and jiggling, he commented, "Whoa, big guy. Marraige has sure been good to you". Jake's fledhy, chubby-cheeked, double-chinned face formed a smile as he replied, "That's the truth and I love it!"



They went into dinner and it was obvious that Mary had abandoned her plan--Jake could tell from just looking at the table. A baked ham, prime rib streaked with luscious fat, garlic mashed potatoes yellow from all the butter mixed into them, a cheese suffle, creamed vegetables, hot biscuits with butter and jam, and a pan of lasagna. For dessert, chocolate cheesecake with vanilla ice cream.



Mary and Joanne picked at their food, while Jake and Joanne's husband shoveled it in. Without either one saying anything, they seemed to be in a contest to see which one could eat the most. Jake continued to shovel in the food even after everyone else, even Joanne's husband, had stopped eating. Joann'es husband turned to Jake with a glazed expression on his face and said, "Hey, enough already, Jake. If you eat any more you're not gonna be able to move. Save some for leftovers!"



That only pushed Jake to clean all the last morsels from the serving dishes and bowls onto his plate, including the fat left on the platter which had held the prime rib, and shovel them in too. Jake then smiled at Joanne's husband and let out a loud belch. "Nobody'e gonna tell me what to do", Jake contentedly thought as he squirmed his enormous buns into the dining room chair and massaged his bloated pot belly

Making Weight

Originally posted on the old Bellybuilders site, this gem, written by the ever eloquent and genuinely talented BearTrainer, tells the tale of two buddies, one of which is forced to fatten up in order to reach the weight that his coach tells him he needs to hit to stay on the college football team. Full of calculated and surreptitious fattening, meticulously detailed weigh-ins, and lots of sexual tension, this story is sure to get you going.

Read the whole thing after the jump. And thanks to my buddy Fatnesse for finding the appropriate pic on College Guts.


Making Weight

"Hey, Manny, how’s it going?" I threw my backpack on the couch and went to the fridge for a nice cold beer, expecting to hear the normal response from my roommate who was as usual sitting on the couch, watching the ball
game, but all that came back was silence. So I poked my head around the corner and said, more insistently,

"Earth to Manuel. Earth to Manuel."

A listless "hey" finally emerged from the form on the couch and popping open my Corona I did a double-take. Nope, he wasn’t asleep and didn’t look sick, but he did look strange, just staring into the space above the TV, foxy
as ever in his little onionskin workout shorts and spaghetti strap tank top with his hard hairy pecs hanging out, big arms spread wide on the back of the couch.

"Whassup, pardner?" I said, fearing he had gotten some kind of bad news. He looked at me over his shoulder.

"Wait till you get this one, Teddy." He rolled his big brown eyes and raised his eyebrows.

"You know we had the pre-season coaching meeting today, right?"

"Uh huh. Right. Camp starts when?" I came around and sat across from
him in the armchair, propping my legs up on the table and doing as I always did, looking at those massive dark thighs of his and trying to concentrate on what he was saying.

"June 1. So we’re three months out, and so everything’s cool. I think, until then, that fat shit D’Amico pulls me aside—"

"D’Amico?" Manny clenched his fists and gave a pissed-off punch to the back of the couch.

"Yeah, D’Amico, he’s the conditioning coach. Big old pain in the ass tub of lard." I thought back to last season, taking a moment to figure out who he was talking about. Then, it came to me--mostly because watching that particular member of the training staff waddle back and forth behind the bench the whole season had been one of the highlights of freshman year for me. D’Amico was just my type, big-butted ex-jock turned coach, well over 300 lbs, with an arrogant strut, somewhat of a legend at the university among the football cognoscenti. "Oh, him," I tried to say innocently, as if I hadn’t spent
nights jacking off about that big daddy ass.

"Yeah, him. Well, he pulls me aside after the meeting and starts giving me all sorts of shit about my weight."

"Your weight?" I put my beer down. "What are you talking about, Manny? You look fucking great!" Which was true—at an even 6 feet, and weighing in at a solid 192, Manny had sculpted himself into superb shape, not ripped, but well-muscled and beautifully proportioned. He was, of course, on the big side for a Puerto Rican, but his excellent speed and skills gave him
just what he needed to serve as end for the front line. I had thought he had had quite a decent season last year, despite getting knocked pretty hard a few times.

"That’s exactly it, Ted. Man!" He shook his head and beneath his anger I could see anxiety.

"I was told today, by D’Amico, that if I didn’t weigh in on June 1 at 245 or above, they weren’t going to let me play." It took all of about three seconds for this piece of information to sink in, and I swallowed hard and tried to remain calm, saying nothing.

"Right, you got it," he said, getting up from the couch and pacing furiously around the room.

"Told me that they were disappointed at my performance last season, came close to getting injured to many times for them, plus the other teams in the conference are supposed to have these big bruisers on the line this year. So that fat shit tells me to day that they are worried about little guys like me and that I need to bulk up, otherwise they can’t let me on the field."

"Little?" I squeaked, gulping down most of my beer to clear my throat.

"Yeah, little. He actually had the balls to call me underfed. Said, ‘We can’t take a chance on underfed guys like you getting mauled. You need to get that weight up and you got three months.’ Pokes me in the fucking gut, goddamn asshole, like I was some little pussy." He slapped his stomach.

"Right! Like I’m going to be able to put 50 pounds in three months. You know how long it took me to mass up in high school." I did indeed—and it was a golden age for me, serving Manny’s training partner as he went from normal to buffed, through constant, almost obsessive weight training starting sophomore year high school as part of his participation in our school’s championship team. In my own secret fantasies, of course, the whole time I was spotting him, telling him to put more weight on the bar, barking that he could do it, watching him lift and huff and strain, I had always wanted him to go the next step. I could see him, in my mind, start to fill out, let himself really get big, put some serious meat on those beautiful Puerto Rican bones of his. That’s what I saw when I closed my eyes--a nice comfortable layer of smooth soft fat over all
that butch muscle; guys like that had always really turned me on, since childhood. But Manny’s Latin-male vanity had always held him back, and throughout his metamorphosis into hunk, he watched his diet and cardio workouts like a hawk. Fat ran in the family—his dad was a porker and so was his mom—and he was terrified of going that way. But now it seems, all
my years of fervent prayers to the gainer gods had been answered.

"Look, Manny. You gotta do what you gotta do." He looked quite forlorn.

"I could quit the team."

"Are you nuts? Quit the team because of a little weight. No way. I think you can do it."

"I’ll be fucking fat as a house at 245, whaddaya kidding?" The situation required being clever, I realized if it was going to go
the way I—and Coach D’Amico—wanted it to. So nonchalantly, I swigged the last of my beer and shrugged.

"Listen to me, bud. You’re a big old hunk of muscle now. Let’s say you work out a little harder and eat some more in the next three months and I promise you you are going to look incredible. You don’t need to get fat, not if you hit the weights hard and eat right. You’ll be a huge muscle stud by the end. Promise. You’ll look like those bodybuilders. I swear. You got the potential. And what’s more, I’ll help." He calmed down a bit and paid attention, looking reassured that I was
going to help, I think.

"50 pounds is a lot of weight, Ted."

"It is, that’s true," I leaned forward to do a great imitation of sincerity, all the while hatching my surreptitious strategy for getting Manny going in the direction I had long imagined.

"But, let’s face it, even if you put on some fat, if you’re bulking out on muscle, it’s going to look good. No one’s going to fuck with you, Manny. You see those guys—they’re awesome." From the look on his handsome face, he seemed to be buying it.
"Maybe you’re right. I’ll just do tons of sit-ups, eat nothing but protein, start split sets. It doesn’t need to go on my belly, does it?"

"Not unless you let it, bud. Tell you what, Man. Let’s do it this way—you worry about the workouts and I’ll take care of the food. That way you can just concentrate on getting buffed and huge." He came over and sat on the arm of the chair, putting his arm around me.

"You’d do that for me, Ted?" I shrugged it off like it was nothing.

"Absolutely, Man. You’re my bud. I can’t let them kick you off the team. I was your training partner—I got to protect my investment." I nudged my elbow into his rib affectionately.

"It’ll be a piece of cake. When we’re here in the apartment, I’ll make sure you get what you need. Protein shakes, sports bars, you name it. Then when we eat in the cafeteria, I’ll pick out everything for you, so you don’t get tempted to pig out. We can do it, I’m telling you."

"D’Amico says I need to eat about 3 times the calories I normally do, told me I gotta get 6 meals in me every day. That’s half of what scares me. What do I know about food? But, Ted, if you take care of that, then, I don’t know, maybe you’re right. Maybe together we can do it." The concerned expression finally relaxed into his normally bright sexy smile.I laughed.

"Six meals, no problem. You just do what I tell you to and you’ll make weight. Don’t worry. Besides, chicks like ‘em big." And with a wink, I poked him in the ribs again. He chuckled and wandered out into the kitchen where I heard a very encouraging sign, the sound of the top being popped off a Corona.

"Hey!" he said, lifting the bottle in the doorway, "No time like the present, huh?"

I had never systematically gone about fattening a man, but having had years and years of fantasies, I wasn’t too surprised at how easily it came to me, and I was especially pleased at how my competence at organizing this campaign allowed Manny let go and get into it. We established a strict training regime—daily weigh-ins recorded in his log, weekly tape measurements also recorded, twice daily work-outs about half of which I accompanied Manny to and spotted him through, the other half, he was on his own. Al of this was second nature to the two of us, having done pretty much the same thing through high school. It was his food intake that I soon learned was going to tax my reserves of imagination, because old habits
died hard and Manny was used to denying himself stuff he felt was "unhealthy" or "fattening."

The first week, for example, after watching him barely get down a couple of muffins and a glass of whole milk at breakfast, complaining the whole time about how he didn’t feel like eating so early in the morning, I put my thinking cap on and came up with an ingenious idea: once he was out of the house, I’d retrieve the low fat pastry boxes and skim milk cartons from
the garbage, rinsing them out and fill them instead with full-fat breakfast cakes and just plain old half and half from the store down the corner. Would it work? Could I fool him into thinking it was the same stuff he was always eating?

Manny was wearing nothing but his boxers and a hard-on when he came to the table the next morning, rolling out of bed at 9:00, stretching and yawning and groaning, scratching his belly.

"I’m sore as a shit from these workouts, Ted." He flopped into the chair and looked resentfully at the empty plate.

"Time to eat, huh?" I put the box of crumbcake and carton of milk in front of him very obviously, so he could see them both, and dished him up about a quarter of the cake, filling his big tumbler full.

"Yep. All low fat, Manny, just the way you want it. Problem is, that means you need to eat twice as much," I lied. He picked up the slab of cake and bit into it, powdered sugar dusting his lips, pecs and belly, chewing slowly, still half-asleep, and knocking back a big gulp of the "milk."

"Hmm, tastes good today for some reason. Usually this low-fat shit is dry." I busied myself at the sink.

"Yeah, well, I thought I’d try a different brand this time. Sure, you don’t want some chocolate milk."

To my surprise, before I had even turned around, he had finished the whole tumbler of milk in a single swallow and let out a little belch.

"Boy, does that taste good! It’s like the milk is a little sweet or something."

"Must be the sugar on the cake."

"Hey, whatever." He reached for the second quarter of the cake. "As long as
it’s low fat, I guess I’ll have another."

"You know, Man, you should be eating regular food, not all this lowfat stuff, you know. You’ll never get there this way."

"Heh heh. Just making your job harder, Ted, aren’t I?" He wolfed down the second piece of crumbcake and poured himself the rest of the milk, thinking he was being so smart.

"Yup, very tasty. You know what you’re doing, don’t you, buddy."

"Trust me, Manny. I know what I’m doing," which was true, because by the end of not even 15 minutes, he had polished off the entire box of cake, standing up and brushing the crumbs and sugar off his swollen little jockgut.

"Guess you do. Man, if that lowfat stuff is so good, this is going to be a piece of cake. Get it? Piece of cake!" And patting his hairy stomach, he strutted off to the gym.

Once I saw this incredibly useful technique had actually succeeded, I tried my luck with a few more surreptitious ways of getting those calories in him and, eventually, on him. Following the six-meal-a-day plan that the coach had suggested by adding mid-morning, mid-afternoon and late-night snacks between all of Manny’s regular meals, I soon needed to come up with some way of getting past my roommate’s resistance to eating between meals.

"I’m still full from lunch," he’d groan at his desk studying in the afternoon, whe I’d show up with the protein shake or the sandwiches on a plate. "I can’t, Ted. Don’t make me."

Clearly pre-emptive strikes would be needed to head off this whining, which was when I started tucking food in his gymbag before his morning workout without him knowing about it: nothing big at first, a couple of his favorite candybars, a few homemade cookies, just to see if he’d bite. He didn’t mention anything the first few weeks, but when I’d check, whatever I
had snuck into his bag never seemed to be there when he came home around noon. Of course, he could be giving it away or throwing it out, so, one day, I decided to test him and accidentally on purpose forgot to put his little post-workout treat in his bag.

He came home looking sort of gruff that day, though he was never particularly pleasant after the long tough weight training he was doing, usually laying down on the couch with a big "oof" right away and flipping on the tube, very tired, very sore and very crabby. That day, though, I thought I knew why he was a little more out of sorts than usual.

"How was the workout?" I said from the desk across the room, where I pretended to be reading for my history class.

"Okay, I guess." He didn’t look at me. There was a long pause.

"Hey. You mad at me?"

"What do you mean?"

"I thought you were going to help me." He sat up and scowled, spreading his legs and putting his hands on his knees, the little pooch of a stomach he now had pressing out against the T-shirt and over the waistband of his shorts. I acted surprised.

"I am helping you. What’s the problem?"

"You know." He just sat there, looking hungry and grumpy. Then he raised his bushy eyebrows. "Why didn’t I get a snack today? Looked through my whole bag twice."

I opened my mouth wide in mock-horror. "Oh, shit, I completely forgot. Wait a minute." And off I rushed into the kitchen where a dozen donuts waited in readiness, along with a quart of milk that had had a pint of full-fat chocolate ice cream blended into it, poured into three large bottles that had once held GNC protein shakes.

"I’m sorry, Manny," I said, carrying it all in to him in front of the TV.

"This is all we got. I bought these donuts for myself, knowing you probably wouldn’t want them, and the sport shakes were supposed to be your afternoon treat, man."

"I’m starved, Ted. I busted ass in the gym. I need something. Gimme them donuts." He tore into them like there was no tomorrow. "It’s like my blood sugar drops or something at the end of these workouts. I gotta eat."

I handed him a big napkin which threw over his lap and slammed down three cream-filled donuts ice with gooey chocolate icing, one after another.

"Shakes," he said, holding his hand out like a doctor asking for a scalpel, mouth too full to talk.

"Hope you like it. The protein powder they use in it makes it real thick. Hope you can get it down." Well, that turned out not to be much of a problem at all, as I watched my formerly vain, obsessively dieting jock of a roommate take the bottles,
one after another, with both hands and suck down the rich liquid, Adam’s apple bobbing contentedly with every swallow, gut getting heavier and heavier in the now tight shirt.

"Whaddaya nuts? It’s great," he said, letting out a huge belch, and wiping his wet mouth off with his forearm.

"I don’t know, Ted. I think this whole program is working. I’m working out so hard, it’s like all I can think about is food—and yet" he leaned back, pulled up his shirt and started rubbing his stomach, "Like now, man. I’m so full it kind of hurts."

I made a mental checkmark in my mind as I watched him try to massage his gut to make himself more comfortable, leaning forward so it hung down between his legs and rubbing it in long strokes from his sides to the front, like he was trying to make more room. Guess that little trick worked, I congratulated myself. And now that he had gotten used to feeding till
it hurt, perhaps my job would get easier and easier.

Manny saw 200 come and go on the scale after two weeks, almost as if his poor body was grateful for finally being given everything it wanted in the way of food and more, and in another two weeks, I was thrilled to see 215 appear on the scale—a 20 pound gain in a little less than a month. The effect of this quick and sudden blimping was electrifying to me, as I
watched every piece of clothing in his wardrobe suddenly look as if it had shrunk almost overnight. What had been formerly loose T-shirts Manny now had to firmly yank down to cover the spread of his belly, and where lean tight lats had once narrowed into a waist, substantial love handles were now sprouted above widening hips. The view from the back was incredibly hot, his asscheeks getting full and high, his whole form growing square and squat—thank God he couldn’t see the bulky figure he was cutting from this angle, otherwise I’m sure he would have gotten freaked out.

I loved watching him get off the scale in the morning and with a huge intake of air, suck in his stomach to get his shorts fastened. It was clear to me that his buttons and zippers weren’t long for this world, most of them at the end of that first month hanging precariously by a thread, seams showing up the legs of his pants and shirts, 33" waistlines struggling to
contain what the tape measure now recorded as a 37" circumference. Manny had little choice at this point but to hike his pants down now under his gut, and what with the size of his backside, swollen from eating and endless high-weight squatting, a pair of hairy thighs quickly bulked into massiveness, and that big cock of his trapped inside, his basket stood out prominently, almost on display, all the pressure of the tight clothes and extra flesh giving him what looked to me like a perpetual hard-on.

He wasn’t the only one with one of those, of course, which was why I didn’t challenge his vanity and suggest that he splurge and buy some clothes that fit him. I was having way too much fun watch him bust slowly out of the ones he was wearing, and in fact, the few times he successfully wrangled his girth into that pair of Levis he used to just slip on before class, I waited practically drooling for him to come back, waited to see him do what had now become the first thing he did always did when stepping in the door—reach down, bust open the waist band, letting his gut spill out with a huge sigh of relief before heading off to the kitchen, like the obedient jockgainer, to see what treats awaited him there.

Along about mid-month, though, just when everything was going so smoothly, I thought, another form of resistance began to arise. Spending most days between kitchen, class and gym, the two of us usually hit the school cafeteria for dinner, and I did as I had promised to with him. He’d go to our usual table, joined with two or three of regular friends, jock groupies, while I would hit the food line for him, piling up at least two or three plates for him, samples of everyone of the three entrees they offered each night, a couple glasses of milk, and waiting till he was mostly done with these before going back for one of each of the three desserts. I had learned if you pushed too much food at him too quick, he’d balk, so I took my time and acted very casual and matter-of-fact, and if he said he only wanted one or two of the entrees I had brought, I’d pretend to nibble on the one he left as my own dinner, leaving most of it purposefully in front of me, saying something like, "Man, this is so good, but I can’t finish it," and pushing it over to him. He’d laugh sheepishly as he invariably dug into my leftovers.

"You know what my mom always said. Food doesn’t have any calories if you eat it off someone else’s plate," and down the hatch would go my french fries, my macaroni and cheese, my onion rings, or my slabs of meatloafs.

However, around about the middle of the second month, he had begun to come home from the afternoon workout, dump down his regular "sport shake"-- half-and-half and every brand of ice cream Haagen-Dazs made—and then ncompletely conk out.

"Time for dinner," I’d announce at 6:00 p.m., shaking his shoulders, but when, twice in a row, looking up groggily, he said,

"Sorry, bud, not tonight," I knew I would have provide some sort of incentive.

"You gotta help me, guys," I said to Hank and Bill, sitting down that night at the usual table, our two most regular dinner partners.

"Where’s Manny the man?" asked Hank.

"Not like him to miss dinner." Bill snickered.

"Especially lately." He looked at me quizzically.

"Is it my imagination or is Manny getting—you know—like big?"

I played it cool, knowing both Hank and Bill were good for doing what needed to be done—not especially bright and real jock-admirers.

"Well, dudes, this is the deal. Manny’s got to weigh in at 245 by June 1 or he’s off the team." The two of them looked at me surprised.

"No way," said Hank, "So that’s what all that’s about. We were wondering what was going on—you feeding him here like there’s no tomorrow, him looking like a fucking stuffed pig. It’s like part of his training. Oh now I get it."

"And—" I lied, "If he’s off the team, he’s out of school, because of the scholarship he’s got." This wasn’t true, but I had to make the stakes seem high.
"I’m training him, you know, bulking him out but he’s really hating it. Doesn’t want to come to dinner." Maybe I underestimated Bill, because across his normally dumb-looking face appeared the flicker of an idea.

"Don’t worry, Ted. I know what to do to get him here. Go get his dinner." And off he went to the phones. Hank shook his head.

"Teddy, man. You should have told us. We could have helped." I continued the act.

"Well, you know, Manny’s kind of self-conscious and all. You can’t say I said anything." Hank lifted a dinner roll and waved it.

"Hey, baby, we’re cool. Won’t say a thing." Mystified at Bill, I did as he said and piled on the grub—that night was a gooey and very filling cheese souffle, fried chicken, and Manny’s particular favorite, sloppy joes. I made sure the plates were loaded, ready and waiting, and I wasn’t back at the table more than a minute when suddenly who should appear by the big guy himself, looking perky and eager, waddling up to the table. We all made a big fuss, but Manny was having none of it, wearing a sexy smile.

"So, Bill?" Bill looked too innocent to be true.

"You were too slow, baby. She took off." Manny swung himself into the chair and automatically started in on the souffle while he was talking, conditioned to see food and eat it by now.

"Whaddaya mean, she took off?" he asked, cheese dribbling out of the corners of his mouth. Hank and I watched the scene and tried not to laugh.

"Yeah, she took off, didn’t she, guys? Maria from the bookstore, you know, that babe. She was asking for you but you took too long to get your big ass here, she couldn't wait." Hank played his part well, that I had to give to him.

"And she looked real disappointed you weren’t around. I mean, she came over here and explicitly asked us where you were."
The idea of Maria asking after him seemed to have a magic effect on Manny’s appetite, and with a big gesture, he used the largest piece of fried chicken to swab off the cheese from the empty souffle plate and chomped away.

"She’s so hot, ain’t she?"

"I told you, Man," I said, removing the empty plate and pushing the sloppy joes under his nose.

"Chicks like big guys." Bill winked.

"Maria does, I guess." Manny looked up from his plate for a second, eying the three of us suspiciously, spoon poised over the food for a second, but then the aroma of the meat and the sauce seemed to seduce him and whatever suspicions he
had seemed to vanish as he shoveled his third entree into his belly. Hank stood up and after winking at me when Manny wasn’t looking, asked nonchalantly,

"Say, you know, watching you eat has made me hungry, again. Anyone want anything? I’m going up to the line. Manny? More sloppy joes? Chicken?" He wasn’t able to speak, mouth full, so he just grunted an eager "yes," still scanning the room for Maria, and I sat back, pleased that yet another little ploof mine had worked.

"Guess you won’t be missing dinner again, will you, buddy?" I kidded him, patting his belly and making sure Bill was watching.

"How about you get us all some dessert, Bill?" I said with a sly smile.

"They got that triple-layer chocolate cake tonight and rice pudding. Why don’t you bring enough for all of us? You don’t want any dessert, do you, Manny? Huh?" Bill could barely contain his laughter as he walked away toward the cafeteria line and neither could I. Still shaking his head, now craning to see where Hank was with his fourth, fifth and sixth plates of dinner, Manny ran his tongue over his teeth.

"Fuck, man. I been trying to talk to her all year. I can’t believe I missed her."

Needless to say, Manny never missed another dinner at the cafeteria, and with Hank and Bill helping me out, my life had gotten a lot easier.

By May 1, Manny’s progress was impressive. He had his stride in food consumption, easily packing away three times what I ate and still capable of feeling hunger late at night, especially if I spent the time after dinner baking up some brownies or a pie, anything to make the whole apartment smell delicious. Getting that food in him before bed was certainly going a long way to fattening him good, and I knew he’d have no problem weighing in at least 245 in a month. Nevertheless, for fear all his old resistance might take over and dash my plans, I knew I couldn’t let down my guard. So during the weekly "taping" as we called it, me throwing the tape measure around his neck, chest, arms, waist, thighs and calves, and then writing all the numbers down in the book he was keeping, I made a big deal about looking at the previous week’s measurements and clucking my tongue, till he picked up on it.

"What’s wrong, Ted?" I paused, as if I looked disappointed.

"Nothing, really. It’s just that. . . ." I let my voice trail off.

"What, man? Tell me." He stood in front of the mirror, wearing nothing but a tiny pair of posing trunks that he used to always wear to the pool for maximum tanning, his asscheeks now hanging out in back, a generous spare tire of flab gathering on top, above the hands that rested on his broad hips.

"Well, look here." I showed him the numbers. "This week you really haven’t made any progress." He shook his head, his soft hairy pecs jiggling slightly.

"Ted, I swear. I don’t know how that could happen. I mean, I’m pressing 375, 400. My
decline leg press is something like 800 pounds. I really can’t do any more
weight work that I am doing." He looked at himself in the mirror.

"I mean, I look bigger. Don’t I?"

He took the sight of himself in, standing there bursting out all over like the Michelin man, and I noticed his cock getting
hard—a very good sign.

"Well," I tsked. "The tape doesn’t lie."

"Fuck, man." He sat down on the bed, all the rolls of his new tender fat gathering and quivering slightly, as he put his head in his hands.

"What am I going to do?"

"I don’t know, Manny. I mean, I hate to say it, but I think you are going to have to eat more and rest more." It was a measure of my success that this suggestion didn’t meet with what would have been, at one time, furious objections. He simply looked up and listened.

"Or maybe you are working out too hard. All the magazines say that when the bodybuilders rest more, decrease their frequency of workouts, their muscles get a better chance to build back up. You might want to cut back on the
weight work. You may not be giving your muscles a chance to grow." I tried to seem casual as I wandered over to the dresser and handed him the high-calorie "protein" bar I had placed there earlier—actually a hazelnut cream filled chocolate peanut bar I had gotten from the candy place just off campus, which I slipped into the wrong wrapped and pretended to open
with my back turned. He ate it dutifully, automatically putting in his mouth whatever I handed him at this point, biting off most of it at once and all those satisfied little sounds he now regularly made as he ate.

"You know, I heard that, too. In fact, the coaches all said that, last year. ‘Quality, not quantity.’ That’s what they said." He swallowed his mouthful and popped the rest of it in.

"Good shit. Hard to believe how good this protein food is, these days. So you think I should cut out some of the
workouts."

"This is what I’d do. One workout a day—in the morning. Come home. Eat. Take a nap. Then don’t do much. Laze around. Study. I heard one bodybuilder call it a ‘power nap.’ He said if you sleep right after eating right after a workout, the muscle gains are incredible. And I think you should only work out every other day. I think you’re overtraining, man."

"Sounds good." Manny tried to unstick some of the peanuts from the back of his teeth with a chunky finger.

"Let’s do that for a couple of weeks and see what happens. ‘Sides, I’m beat." He scooted himself up into bed and sprawled out.

"No gym today. I’m sick of those fucking weights anyway." I massage his shoulders from the back, checking out the way his big soft tits moved, looking straight down what was becoming a very fine fatboy cleavage.

"Yeah, I think that’s it, Man. You gotta relax. You been working hard. Don’t worry, we’ll get you off the plateau." He closed his eyes and I could feel him soften under my strong hands.

"You want another protein bar?" He looked so sweet in the mirror, like a big hungry babyman.

"Two. Bring me two," he said, full lips and cheeks pouting a little.

"Will do." And I remember thinking, on the way to the kitchen, that I hoped he never found out that the plateau he was on was all my own doing: I had deliberately written down the wrong numbers the week before, reducing all his measurement by an inch, just to give him a little bit more incentive this week. Another part of my devious plan, but evidently quite effective. I grabbed two more "protein bars" and thought that maybe my trainee needed a little something to wash it down with. Hard choice: chocolate pudding blended with whipping cream—a concoction I passed off as a "sportshake"—or his normal favorite, "low fat" half and half? Rationalizing his laziness as rest and with his capacity for consumption now permanently increased through the continual belly-busting he was doing at every meal, not to mention my slipping him fattening foods disguised as
healthy eats, the final phase of Manny’s pre-season training program proceeded with spectacular results.

As exams approached, of course, both of us spent a lot of time at home anyway, and most mornings, my now enormous roommate would rarely wake up before 10, put away one of the sizable breakfasts I fixed for him--stacks of pancakes, cheese and bacon omelettes with a dozen eggs, breakfast hash loaded with potatoes and butter—after which he’d lumber off for his workout, pigging out fully on lunch, settling into to the armchair in the living room to doze, study and veg out for
the afternoon, before rising with a grunt for dinner.

Every day the scale recorded a gain of at least a pound or two, due in part to the slowdown in exercise but I think also due to a completely arbitrary rule that I decided to establish for his training at home—the "you open it, you finish it" rule. More than perhaps any other of my techniques, this particular one made things very easy on Manny, who clearly was not inclined to think much anymore, trusting me fully to have his best interests in mind. This rule required that if a box, carton or can of food were opened for a meal, he was required to finish it, and it had the effect I hoped it would: being simple to follow, it was responsible for at least doubling his intake het again. No more bowls of cereal—now whole boxes would be consumed on a daily basis. No more slices of pepperoni pizza at night in front of the tube—now the entire pizza was what was expected. The elegant simplicity of having finish anything and everything put in front of him was what I think made it work for Manny who complied with a surprising lack of resistance.

By mid-May, what had once been a fine hunk of muscle and strength now looked like a powerlifter crossed with Pillsbury doughboy. His shoulders were so broad that he had to pay atttention not to clipped the sides of the door as he went through or turned corners, unused to his size. His legs had grown bulky enough for him to have to navigate one in front of the other with care, and he walked at this point with his chest thrown forward, leaning back a little, to balance the girth he was now carrying in the gut. Having put on 45 pounds, he had to spend sometimes fifteen or twenty minutes trying to squeeze himself into something he could wear out—even the elastic waistbands of all his workout clothes were stretched tight and no
amount of tugging or stretching would make some of his shirts cover his gut. Between the mass of his arms and the girth of his pecs, all his button-down shirts gapped and yawned, creasing into deep folds around all the flesh, looking more like stretch wrap than clothes. After hearing him huffing and puffing and finally collasping hopelessly on the bed unable to find anything that fit, I was afraid the inconvenience of the clothes would sabotage all my care and feeding over the months, so I suggested blithely that it looked like it was time for a new wardrobe.

"Let’s face it, Manny. You need to get some things you feel comfortable in." He had to laugh, half-embarassed, half proud, at the rightness of what I was telling him. After all, his belly spilling out from a pair of size 32’s that no longer could even be buttoned underneath it, his cotton plaid shirt hanging like a handkerchief on the sides of his torso.

"Guess it’s going to be size 40s and XL for me." I raised my eyebrows.

"Hey, bubba, you still have 5 pounds to go before you make weight. Better leave some growing room."

Needless to say, the eroticism of this whole process verged on the intolerable for me. I had always had the hots for Manny, ever since junior high, which was one of the reasons I had befriended when his family had moved into town. But now, watching him blimp to this extent under my direction, it was sometimes difficult to maintain my own concentration
on my schoolwork. As he was spending more and more time sacked out in front of the TV, I found myself with even less time to jack off about him unobtrusively, which I used to do while he was out, humping the pillows in my bed and whispering his name to myself till I came, sometimes three or four in a row. I was a prisoner of my own success to some extent as well, since, having conditioned him to expect and even demand that he be fed and watered on a neary hourly basis, like some prize piece of beef I was fattening, I couldn’t very well ruin my own plans by excusing myself for a a couple hours of "fun" in the bedroom the way I used to and leave him sitting there, hungry and with nothing to eat. So I confined myself to one load a day over him, usually at night, which kept me on the edge that I needed—not too much satisfaction, but never, never enough.
What I couldn’t figure out, of course, was how I was going to bring this jockgainer over to my side, how I was going to take down that last little bit of resistance and fulfill my own secret desires. I had managed to get him past many of his own limits and now that we were in the home stretch, one last bright idea would be needed to cement the relationship that I had really wanted with him all along.

It was the day he brought home his new clothes that the fates intervened. Waddling into the door wearing enormous baggy cotton shorts and a huge black T-shirt, Manny’s face was flushed, and not just from the effort of clothes shopping. He was cute as he fumbled around the kitchen, making himself three sandwiches and flipping on the gameshows he watched while he dozed in the afternoon.

"Went well?" I asked. He fed shamelessly now, propping the plate on his belly, shoving the food in with one hand, downing his sportshakes with the other, a two-fisted eater.

"Oh, yeah. Went real well." Something was up—that I could tell, because he was eating like a crazy man, red as a beet, looking like he was about to pop, and though trying to pretend to be watching the contestants on TV, he was actually literally
squirming around on the couch.I stood up and walked over to him.

"Anything you want to tell me about?" Crumbs dotted his lips as he looked up.

"It’s kind of embarassing, actually," and the blush continued to spread down his neck and the top of his chest.

"Well?" I smiled. He gulped.

"You are not going to believe this, but. . . . So, there I am, at the mall, figuring I might as well do like you said, get some real big clothes. So I go into that Old Navy outlet store, pick out a few things, decide to try them on." He wolfed down another half sandwich and swallowed hard, still squirming.

"Anyway, so there’s this real cute salesgirl there, little older than us, you know, but real cute, brunette, and she’s helping me. Naturally, I feel like a huge fucking blimp at this point, so it’s not like I’m coming on to her at all. Anyway, I notice she’s like hanging out around the dressing rooms and I even—Christ, I can’t believe this—I even catch her like trying to peek and watch me. I mean, it just blows my mind. These are chicks that wouldn’t even pay attention to me if I begged them."

"So you think she was like turned on by you being so big. . . ."

"She was, man. She definitely was." He was practically panting at the memory of it, a little breathless as he dumped down the rest of the gainershake I had had ready for him.

"And you know how I know?"

"How?" And he rolled his eyes and dug into his pocket, pulling out a handful of Hershey’s kisses.

"She put these into my bag. I found them when I got in the car." I bust out laughing.

"Got you all hot and bothered, didn’t she? Didn’t know that chicks dig fat guys, did you, Manny?" He kneaded his crotch furiously, trying to rearrange his hardon between his thighs and belly, which given all the fat was more than a little bit of
a struggle.

"And it’s been a fucking long time since Manny’s had anything that fine. What with all this training. I mean, Ted, it’s like I am so horny. I don’t know what’s with me." This was my chance, and I knew it. So I just sat and prodded a little, lowering my voice.

"Horny? I thought you were tired all the time." He licked the crumbs off the plate and threw it on the table, grunting loudly as he hefted himself off the couch, and started pacing, belly bouncing in front of him, big basket obviously large and heavy with lust.

"Yeah, I am, but it’s also like, I mean, I don’t know how to say it. It’s like I’m just like real sensitive. It’s like everything makes me horny these days. With all this weight on me and constantly feeding myself, it’s like I feel so good, all I want to do is get off. And of course, I thought, well, no one would ever look at me now, but here this girl, this really cute girl, too, comes on to me." He looked like he was going to burst into tears from thwarted desire, pawing at his crotch like an animal.

"Man, you can’t believe the things I was thinking on the way home."

"Bet I could," I said, deciding to make my move, and reaching over to the table where he had put the pile of Hershey’s kisses, peeling the first one slowly as he watched.

"Hungry for something sweet, Manny?" I smiled lasciviously, teasing him. He slowly walked over to where I was sitting, looking at me straight in the eye, one hand on his crotch, undoing the zipper.

"Big guy like you has gotta a have a little relief, doesn’t he?" He shook his head sadly,

"Oh Ted, man, I’m sorry, you’re like my best friend and all, but like," his voice was hoarse with shame and uncontrollable
desire. "I gotta do this. I can’t stand it. You gotta help me, or I’m going to lose my mind."

He was pathetic. He was beautiful.

I reached up to give him the nugget of chocolate, and silently, he pulled his huge prick out of the confines of his shorts, and began stroking, sinking to his knees next to me.

"Hey man it’s OK. Whatever you gotta do, do it. You gotta make weight, buddy. Just remember that. You gotta make weight." I popped the Hershey’s kiss into his mouth.

"It’s between friends, man. Don’t worry." He was panting at this point with his eyes closed, mouth open for more chocolate, not looking at me, just concentraing on his own pleasure, hand flying like a piston over the dark, wet uncut cock of his I had seen and drooled over a thousand times. I put my hand on the back of his head and began stroking him like a dog,scratching his glossy dark hair affectionately.

"Just let it go, Manny. Enjoy yourself. It’s between us. Whatever it takes, man. Whatever it takes. I’m here for you." He was making little gurgling sounds by this point, his soft gut quivering and his big hips thrusting his cock into his fist as his shorts fell to the floor, revealing a pair of enormous hunching thighs.

"I’m sorry, Ted. Man, I’m sorry. But I gotta. . .. I just. . . . fucking. . . gotta." And the moment he went over the edge he looked straight into my eyes with a look of combined shock, relief and hunger, as if this was the first orgasm he had ever had, looking straight at me, wild and happy and afraid of what this all meant. I am not ashamed to say that I took advantage of him then, too, my best friend, a big guy reduced by his appetite and lust on his knees in front of me, thinking about nothing about his own pleasure. Shoving a half dozen kisses in his open mouth, I put my hand right up under his shirt, tenderly pulling on his huge swollen pointed nipples, first one and then the other, as if he trying to milk his cock dry using nothing but his fatboy tits. He moaned at this and moved closer to me, loving the feeling, staring glassy-eyed from pleasure right into my eyes. When he came, he actually yelped, shooting load after load on to the floor, onto his thighs, all over his hands, his overfed body quaking from top to bottom with ecstasy, yelping and yelping, as I started to laugh. It was so ridiculous and so incredibly fine—it was the fulfillment of a dream and the beginning of another. His orgasm lasted forever at the end of it, despite myself and my own attempts at control, I found myself holding the back of his bull neck and with two quick thrusts, came furiously into my own pants, while a huge smile spread across his face, enjoying the sight of me, for once, losing control, hanging on to him like my life depended on it.

Soaked and smelling of manhood, we both started laughing hysterically from the sheer relief of it all, and as our laughter faded, he leaned over and put his head face down on the couch next to me, his wide back patched with sweat, the sound of his breathing deep and satsified.I could smell the chocolate on his breath.

"Looks like you needed that, bubbaman."

"You are a fine one to talk. Looked like you’ve been waiting a long time for that one, huh?" I raised my eyebrows and stroked his hair.

"Guess you found out all my little secrets today, didn’t you?"

"Guess I did, baby." He gulped and exhaled, wiping his mouth with his paw.

"I think I’m losing it, Ted. I’m like really losing it." I reached down and grabbed two big handfuls of flab from around his
waist.

"I don’t know, Man. Looks more to me like you’re gaining it."

"Five pounds to go, huh?" He nuzzled the side of my leg, making no movement to get away from my grasp.

"For the team, yeah." I fondled him, rolling all his soft flesh between my fingers, murmuring softly.

"But I think you could do better than that." He closed his eyes.

"I keep seeing 275 on that scale."

"It’d be a lot of work, bigguy." He looked up, fat face bright with desire.

"You help?"I ran my fingers over his full lips.

"What are friends for, Manny, after all. What are friends for."