Summary: Marco is a cocky jock used to coasting through life on his good looks. His stepbrother Jared has always been fat, and teasing him about it is Marco’s favourite pastime. But when Jared starts slimming down, Marco’s latest scheme (sabotaging Jared’s diet) comes back to bite him in a big way.
This story owes a huge debt to “Neighbors” by Anonymous. I couldn’t match that story’s rapid-fire pace, but I do think I did justice to the narrator’s snarky tone.
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I’m one of those guys who can eat whatever he wants. It’s true—my whole life I’ve had this amazing metabolism. I ate like a pig all through high school, and I had the best body in that place. Probably because I played so many sports.
My stepbrother, Jared, wishes he could eat like me and look as good as I do. Dude is so lazy, and so damn fat. The only exercise he gets is lifting a fork and getting up for seconds. I don’t know where he gets it—my stepdad keeps in pretty good shape; he’s a pretty good looking dude, all around. My mom definitely could have done worse.
Oh god, so I porked out all weekend with giant brunches and pizza and ramen. But I think that stretched my stomach out cause I wanted to hit up taco Tuesday again, but this time I hit two dozen and ordered 4 more tacos after that.
I ate 28 fucking tacos… wtf how do I keep eating fucking more of them. I felt like I was capped at 27 last week and this week I just ask for even more. Even more on top of an already insane amount of tacos 😩
You would not believe how distended my belly looked in that booth, bulging out and under the table. It’s crazy that I can sit down with my stomach not under it, but by the time I finish my massive tacos meals my gut is literally bulging out underneath the table. There’s no hiding it where I’m shoveling all those things down 🥵
I also walked around an arcade for a bit after, cause it helps to digest all that fucking food. But I think I looked like I had a fat gut after the tacos. It just sticks out so far in front of me once I’m done pigging out 😮💨
Fuck I’m actually a little nervous I’m gonna hit 30. Like I can’t really do that right? Like 30 fucking tacos in one meal? All stuffed in my fat tank gut at one time?? Like that’s not gonna happen right? Look at the size of them, 30 of those?! Can a fat gut even hold that many? Plus my gluttonous porker appetite makes this a 1 dollar taco night and STILL spending over 30 fucking dollars minimum there. Even with a cheap food deals I just ramp it to up to make it the cost of 1 normal meal still 😩
At least I still have to hit 29 (and hope that I seriously get too jam packed to be hog and blow through it to 30) so maybe I won’t end up gorging on an obscene amount of tacos to concerning degree.
I seriously feel massive after that too, my sides are bulging out more than they ever have and my gut sounds completely different when I slap it. I can feel myself ballooning up from all this nonstop gorging. 🥵
All because I can’t fucking stop myself from porking out. These food deals just brag about how much food you can get but they don’t realize I have to try really hard to turn that hose off once it’s on. I’ll just keep wanting more and more and more and just fuck keep that food coming nonstop until I’m beached and can’t breathe properly.
I need to just keep being served and pushed on me to keep eating until I’m literally begging for it to stop. That’s the only way I’m gonna learn my lesson, the only way I’ll possibly learn that I can’t just say I want more forever. I need to finally just blab how I’m too full and too stuffed to go on, just to have more dinner shoved right in my fat mouth anyways. I need to be made to regret ever wanting to be that gluttonous. Only so I can end up doing it again next time 😩
By the time he finally showed up at Marcus’s office, the eviction notice was folded so tightly in his pocket it had gone soft at the edges. He hadn’t slept much. Every sound in his apartment felt like a countdown.
Marcus listened without interrupting. He always did. Floor-to-ceiling windows, city lights below, a glass of something expensive untouched at his side. When the story ended—layoffs, missed rent, shutoff warnings—Marcus leaned back and folded his hands.
“I can help,” he said. “But you know me. Every agreement has a cost.”
Relief hit first. Then dread.
Marcus stood and walked to a side table. Five dice appeared in his palm, then five more. He set them down carefully. “Liar’s dice. We both start with five. We bet. We bluff. We call.”
He hesitated. “What’s the catch?”
Marcus smiled and nodded toward the far wall.
That’s where he saw the chair. Heavy. Bolted to the floor. Beside it stood a man he didn’t recognize, silent, expressionless, holding an epilator. Thick. Industrial. The metal head twitched faintly as it powered on, the sound like an insect trapped in a machine.
“For every die I lose,” Marcus said evenly, “I give you one full month of expenses. Cash. No strings.”
“And for every die I lose?” he asked, though he already knew.
“You lose hair,” Marcus replied. “Removed at the root.”
His mouth went dry.
Marcus anticipated the hesitation. “We’ll buzz it short first. Clean. Fair. No interference.”
The clippers came out before he could reconsider. The barber ran them tight against his scalp, reducing everything to a dull, uniform shadow. Hair spilled down his shoulders and onto the floor. It felt symbolic, but still survivable. Temporary.
Dice were placed on the table. Five each.
The first round went his way. Marcus overbid, confident, and he caught it. One of Marcus’s dice slid away.
“One month,” Marcus said, smiling. “You see? I keep my word.”
Hope surged. Dangerous, intoxicating hope.
Then the second round began.
Marcus’s tone shifted. His bets tightened. His eyes never left the dice. When the loss came, it was absolute.
Hands pressed him into the chair before he could react. The epilator touched his scalp and the sensation detonated—sharp, relentless, pulling. Not pain that faded, but pain that demanded attention. His entire body locked as the device tore backward.
When it lifted, he gasped.
Hairs lay in his lap. Short, dark, unmistakable. Each one tipped with a pale bulb.
Follicles.
The panic started then.
Round three. Marcus didn’t miss. Another loss. Another pass. The epilator moved slower this time, deliberate, dragging against skin already raw. He screamed once before forcing it down, teeth grinding as his hands clawed at the chair.
More hair fell. More roots.
By the fourth loss, the pattern was clear. Marcus wasn’t gambling. He was executing. Each bet was precise, every call perfect. The epilator returned again and again, widening the damage, turning patches into fields of bare, burning skin. The buzzed shadow vanished piece by piece until only thin arcs remained, framing his head like a cruel outline.
Final round.
There was nowhere left to hide.
The epilator finished the last remaining strip, pulling the final strands free. Silence followed—thick, ringing silence. His lap was littered with proof of every mistake he’d made.
Five dice gone.
Marcus stood, gathering the money envelope and placing it gently on the table. “One month,” he said. “Just like I promised.”
He paused at the door. “You came to me desperate. Desperation makes people take risks they don’t understand.”
The door closed.
Alone, he stared at his reflection in the dark glass of the table. A fully receded, Norwood 7 outline stared back at him—nothing left to hide behind, nothing left to wager.
He had his rent covered.
And a permanent reminder of what it cost to play a game where the other man had already won.
Imagining a feeder who actively makes sure you don’t realize you’ve gotten massively fat. They size up your clothes without you ever noticing, never make comments about how big you are but how small you are. Lying about how there should be faster results, telling you that you should eat more followed by a painful stuffing. When you scroll places like tumblr admiring fellow gainers, seeing how big some people have made themselves, you start to realize how you look bigger than them. Your gut hangs lower, your thighs explode out of any pants and stretch marks cover your bulging belly. You tell your feeder this and they say how people always look smaller online, that you still have a long way to go to be as big as the fatties you once dreamt of becoming. All the while knowing that they had made you far bigger long ago and the only way to keep you going is to get you to a point where turning back is no longer an option.
It drives me absolutely wild with lust when I see a big bloated guy and his belly is completely riddled with stretch marks. Stretch marks are when your skin can't keep up with how fast you are getting fatter, which means the guy is either:
a. A complete and total food addicted pig who has been overeating for a long time (or hell, maybe not even that long of a time). He is probably eating 2-3x what he should be at every meal. He has a sweet tooth and is constantly having sugary foods and desserts after every meal. He is so addicted that even the appearance of angry red scars on his belly doesn't deter him from continuing to over-indulge. His friends all joke about the portion sizes he packs away and makes fun of how fat he is getting-- they are completely shocked when they see him at the beach or the pool and see the damage he has done to his body. He even has bloated puffy arms that have their own small stretch marks, showcasing the blubber inflating under his skin, while his giant rotund belly sticks out a foot in front of him and hangs down over his swim trunks. Speaking of swim trunks-- those were obviously purchased quite a few pounds ago because they look like they are painted on over thick, chubby thighs, barely containing his blubbery ass cheeks.
or b. He's like one of you guys-- a horny kinky gainer who is also addicted, but not so much addicted to the food, but the results of what the food does. Which means he spends every waking moment packing more and more food into his gut because the only thing that makes him horny and gets him to an orgasm is the thought of getting bigger and fatter. Every morning, he wakes up and chugs 2,000 calories of weight gain shake, then heads out to go get a high calorie fast food breakfast. He then spends the rest of the day alternating between snacking and shoveling in processed slop. The stretch marks on his belly are not worn as an act of indifference or shame, but of pride, knowing that he did this to himself. He is slowly disabling himself under hundreds of pounds of blubber, making it harder to walk, harder to do everything. His dick gets hard every time he gets up off the couch and slowly waddles to the kitchen, feeling every roll of flab jiggle and bounce. Every time he tries to pull up an old pair of jeans and they get stuck on his growing thighs, he gets so horny he has to stop and masturbate, another activity that is getting increasingly difficult as he grows-- breathing heavy and grunting as he reaches around that bloated, stretch mark covered belly to paw at his increasingly fat pad covered cock.
Imagining a feeder who actively makes sure you don’t realize you’ve gotten massively fat. They size up your clothes without you ever noticing, never make comments about how big you are but how small you are. Lying about how there should be faster results, telling you that you should eat more followed by a painful stuffing. When you scroll places like tumblr admiring fellow gainers, seeing how big some people have made themselves, you start to realize how you look bigger than them. Your gut hangs lower, your thighs explode out of any pants and stretch marks cover your bulging belly. You tell your feeder this and they say how people always look smaller online, that you still have a long way to go to be as big as the fatties you once dreamt of becoming. All the while knowing that they had made you far bigger long ago and the only way to keep you going is to get you to a point where turning back is no longer an option.
Well, it looks like ‘Mister France’ won the battle of hottest man of the country, but lost the battle of the bulge afterwards. I bet his former opponents are laughing behind his tubby back now. Just like countries often want to expand, this tubster expanded too. I don’t think he would be crowned as ‘Mister France’ again today with all that excess chub.
I always chug some post-lift shakes in the locker room to make sure I get enough cals in to cancel out what I lost in my workout-
Recently, I’ve noticed this cute twink that’ll follow me into the locker room whenever I’m done my workout. Doesn’t matter if he just got to the gym or just came out of the locker room. If he sees me getting ready to wrap up, he’ll find a way to follow me back into the changing room.
He isn’t slick when it comes to watching me. I notice his eyes wander as I pull my tight shirt off, the sweat making it stick to my gut. He looks just a bit too long in my direction as I peel off my shorts, leaving me in just a tight jockstrap, lovehandles bulging over the waistband. It’s my shake uniform. He flat out stares as I chug, eyes eating me up as I gulp down more and more calories and my belly rounds out. By the time the bottle is empty, and I pull the bottle away from my lips, he’s always sporting a major hard-on. When I look in his direction he quickly looks away, embarrassed to be caught, but when that happens I’ll usually let a burp rip just to hear his excited gasp. Once or twice I swear he snapped a pic of me. I think someday soon I might ask him to help me pour the shake in me.
