When I signed up to be a plus-size model, choosing to sacrifice my hard-earned muscles for a higher-paying contract, I thought I'd get bulky. Round. I expected a beer gut with maybe a bit of flab.
But after I took those metabolism-blocking injections and started on my new diet plan, the pudge grew on me like a motherfucker. In the span of months, I had a saggy belly and floppy-as-hell love handles.
I was disappointed. The agency was too. They wanted beefy, not pudgy. My agent Barry told me that I didn't have the body type that advertisers wanted.
"Round guts sell. Sag doesn't." Those were hard words to hear.
Because I'd already taken the injections, it was impossible for me to go back to traditional modeling. I thought my career was over.
But then Barry proposed a new offer. He said that there was a market for more "unconventional body shapes." Certain clothing brands pay top dollar for big guys with big rolls. I wasn't appropriate for them yet, but if I agreed to gain a bit more, then he promised that he could find more work for me.
In fact, he said that if I gained enough, I could make significantly more than the standard plus-size male model.
Sure, I had some doubts. I was already disappointed by the way I looked, and I worried that I'd only get more disappointed as I thickened. Didn't really have a choice, though. Modeling was the only thing I was good at, and I couldn't give that up.
So I agreed to a few more injections to help me along. My metabolism was already shot, but the new chemicals worked to boost my hunger and block any feeling of fullness.
Needless to say, the weight piled on quickly. A couple pounds a week. I was prepared for that.
I wasn't prepared for how my new fat would settle on my frame. Practically every morning came with a fresh surprise. Rolls formed on my arms and legs. My fingers grew into sausages. My sharp jawline (which had previously been unaffected) sprouted a heft double chin that spread out inches wider than my head.
My tits sagged.
My belly hung lower.
My freckled skin grew a constant layer of sweat.
By the end of the year, I was unrecognizable. Perpetually hungry. Wheezing with each breath. Unable to turn my head or get off my fat ass without multiple attempts.
But just as Barry promised, the modeling offers came flooding in. My first big photo shoot was for a line of speedos for obese men. It took three guys to pack my shapeless ass into those speedos. I posed for a couple hours and got paid thousands.
Unfortunately, the company couldn't use any of the photos. "Too obscene," apparently. Still got paid, though.
After that, I modeled crop tops, sunglasses, man bras, sweatpants, you name it. I did a ton of shoots for a line of flipflops designed to give extra support for guys my size. Those were fun. With my pudgy toes, I became a bit of a foot celebrity for guys interested in that sort of thing.
And as the money poured in, I grew to love my unconventional body. I was a sweaty, freckly pile of rolls and flab, and I loved every jiggling inch.
These days, I'm a little nervous about the future. I keep growing, and I'm worried that one day, I'll be too big to model. Barry keeps assuring me that I'll always have plenty of opportunities.
After all, there are dozens of mattress companies looking for models to sell their products to the immobile market. With another 100 pounds or so, I'll be perfect.
The End
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You give me your usual are-you-serious? look. You've heard me say this dozens of times and I've never followed through.
Well, not today. Today, I'm actually gonna do it. That's why we're at Blister Beach.
As usual, we stroll along the sand, our muscular bodies soaking up the sun. It's June, so there's a lot of people here. I catch plenty of them checking us out. You with your short, stocky frame and me with my swimmer's build.
We pass by Madame Rita's shop twice. You glance at me both times, assuming that I'm gonna chicken out again. You have no idea that I just want to appreciate my old look for a few more hours before manning up and heading inside.
We don't talk about anything in particular. It's a casual, relaxed day at the beach.
And just as the sun is at its highest and I feel the beginning of a sunburn on my solid shoulders, I tell you, "I'm ready."
"For what?" you say. Then you notice my dead-serious expression. "No! Really?"
I run my fingers down my abs. "Yeah, man. It's belly time."
You're speechless. I know you're okay with me drinking the weight gain potion (that's what you always tell me), but now that it's actually happening, I can't tell if you're ready.
You grab my waist and pull me in for a kiss. "Then let's do it."
Okay. You're on board.
I hold your hand and lead you to the magic shop. It's been here for five years. And ever since we walked in right after it opened, I've fantasized about getting bigger.
I have some fat people in my family, so I know what I'll look like with some extra weight. I'll be thicker all over, and I'll have a massive beer gut. Just like my two uncles. I can't gain the normal way (not like I've tried all that hard), but with a little magical help, I'll finally be a bear. I'll look so damn masculine with a thick globe of fat jutting out of me.
When we enter, I squeeze your hand a little too tight. I need you by my side. Otherwise, I'll chicken out again.
The man working behind the counter recognizes me right away. "Oh. Hello again."
I'm the guy who comes in every few months, asks about the weight gain potion, and then always leaves emptyhanded.
(Madame Rita's is a franchise, I guess, so I've never met the real Rita. I assume she's some old European lady wearing a bunch of scarves. Every time I come in, I see the same slightly bored 20-year-old. I don't think he likes me.)
"The potion's still here," the guy says flatly. "Still fifty bucks."
"I'll take it," I say decisively.
"Seriously?"
"Yup."
He looks at my shirtless body. "Great choice. I assume you want the 100-pound formula."
"Actually, do you have anything stronger?"
You pull your hand away. You were not expecting me to be so ambitious. I'm too afraid to look at your expression, because any doubt on your face will make me change my mind.
"Of course," the seller says. His voice sounds much friendlier now that he knows I'm actually going to pay him. "We have the 150 and the 200."
"200!" I practically scream.
"You're sure?" the seller asks.
Now I look at you. "Is that okay?"
You smile. "Go for it."
I pull the cash out of my bag and fork it over. My heart is racing. Never felt more alive.
The seller hands me a glass vial of glowing orange liquid. It looks radioactive. "This'll be permanent," he warns.
"I know."
"Drink it outside, please. I don't want you knocking over the merchandise."
With the vial gripped tightly in my hands, I head toward the door. You follow.
Once we're back on the beach, you hug my slim body one last time. I feel your hands rove around my hard edges, as if you're committing my shape to memory.
I'm so ready to drink this, but I need to check in with you one last time. "If I grow a massive belly..."
"I'll still love you," you cut me off. "Probably even more, since you'll finally be comfortable in your own skin."
That's all I need to hear. I pop open the cork and down the cold liquid in seconds.
My stomach rumbles, deep and proud. I feel an intense sense of fullness, as if a lifetime of overeating has settled into my core. It's the feeling after a heavy Thanksgiving dinner times a thousand. Not the painful part. Just the satisfaction. It might be in my imagination, but I swear I taste gravy, pepper, and meat.
The empty vial drops out of my hands and I press them against my flat stomach. Slowly, my gut expands under my fingers. For the first time in my life, I'm soft!
I'm squishy!
I have a layer of fat that I can press into.
I look down and watch my gut thicken and sag. My chest doesn't change. I still have pecs. And my arms are still muscular. As expected, all my weight concentrates on my middle.
It's wonderful. It's manly. It's what I've always wanted. I'm a big belly bear now.
I grip my new overhang and flop it around. It's so malleable. And it's all mine!
I smile at you, and you smile back. You're happy for me, but there's something strange about your expression. I can't tell if it's disappointment or just surprise.
My belly stops growing. It's huge (don't get me wrong) but it doesn't feel like 200 pounds. Maybe that's why you're disappointed. You thought I'd be bigger, too.
"So?" I say, still beaming with pride. "What do you think?"
"I, um, didn't expect you to grow like that," you say.
"Yeah. It's all on my gut. I figured it would be more evenly..."
"Your legs," you cut me off.
My hands leave my belly and I poke into my hips. They're much, much wider than I expect.
I look past my belly and see my thighs bulge out in all directions. They're slathered in lumps of cellulite. Deep creases cut into my inner thighs, and my speedo is all-but swallowed up.
I can't believe I didn't see that! I was so focused on my belly, I didn't realize that my legs had gotten the majority of my new fat. Jesus! This gut looks tiny compared to my inflated legs.
I reach behind me and feel my new ass. It's... It's...
Each cheek is just as big as my belly. I poke and squeeze. I flutter my ass fat. I can barely breathe.
You step closer.
I want to apologize. You've been so supportive, and now I look like a freak.
But then you hold me again. You wrap your arms around my squishy waist and grab my bulging ass. I feel your fingers trace up my squashed-together crack.
"You. Are. So. Hot," you whisper.
I melt a little in your embrace. I let you feel the new me, and as your hands explore all my nooks and crannies, I learn to appreciate my shape.
This isn't the fat body I expected, but it's the fat body I got. And if you like it, then so do it.
"I'm taking you home," you whisper in my ear. "Right now."
I'm usually not the bottom in our relationship. I think that's one of the reasons I wanted a beer gut so badly. I wanted a body that added to my manliness, you know? But I have a feeling our dynamic is about to change.
I waddle toward the car, feeling my thighs slosh together with each thudding step. The entire time, your hand is on my ass.
The End
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Check these guys out. They're identical twins, but it's pretty easy to tell them apart now. Grady is the one drinking a milkshake. Fabian has a beer.
You spot them in a crowded gay bar and are immediately intrigued by their contrast. There's something magnetic about the way Grady forces down his milkshake, as if he's trying to get fatter.
Why would he do that?
And why is it making you hard?
These brothers are the stars of my new interactive novel Gainer Choices. Actually, the real star of the story is "you."
You decide which of the twins to approach.
You decide if you want to follow the thin twin into the back room or try one of his brother's milkshakes.
You decide if you want to feed Grady nachos, or enter an eating competition, or ignore the twins for the hairy bartender.
In the novel, you have hundreds of choices to make. There are over 80 different endings, and you never know which path will turn you into a gainer, a feeder, a musclehead, or an immobile blob.
I don't know if anyone is interested in interactive erotica, but if you enjoy my weight-gain stories of any kind, you'll find something to like here. There's a little bit of everything.
Hi, everyone. Chuck here! I published this story a while back on my Charlie Gyrth blog, but I wanted to post it here with some added images.
***
You look up at me. Your fingertips graze my skin. There's nothing but love in your dark, happy eyes. "I'm so fucking lucky," you say.
"You're lucky? Seriously?" I've never been more certain than in this moment (now that our guests have left and all the wedding craziness is finally behind us) that my new husband is the most wonderful, handsome man in the world. I don't deserve you, and yet you make me feel like I do.
"Fuck yeah," you say. "You know what my family told me today? Literally every single person said, 'He's a keeper. You lucked out. Don't fuck it up, Lu.' Stuff like that."
I smile. "My family said the same thing. They still can't believe that I landed such a hottie."
"For a short guy," you mumble, pulling your hands away.
I know the height difference bothers you, especially considering our... well, our bedroom dynamics. Your personality, your power, is so much bigger than your 5'6" size.
But it sucks that your let that one thing distract you from everything else. Your face. Your rock-hard body. Your... size where it matters.
"Shut up," I joke. "You are so much hotter than me. I can't tell you what I'd give to have a body like yours."
It's a weird thing to say, and I regret it instantly. This is our first night as a married couple. Why am I ruining the moment by comparing body types?
You think for a minute. You glance down at my scrawny waist. "What's stopping you?"
"Huh?"
"Babe, your husband's a personal trainer. If you wanna bulk up, all you have to do is ask."
I like the suggestion. Firming up a little will make me feel less self-conscious. But... I don't know. Are you just saying this because you want me to be less of a stick-thin scarecrow? I mean, I'm seven inches taller than you but we're the exact same weight. You're solid muscle and I'm nothing.
Maybe you want me to change.
And maybe I want to change, too.
"Okay," I say. "I'd like that."
You laugh. My instant agreement surprises you. "Um, sure. But don't think that I'll be easy on you just because you're so cute. If you want me to train you, then I'm gonna train you." You get on your toes and kiss me.
"Do you worst."
***
We stroll together through the resort courtyard. The lanterns light up your handsome face.
It feels so nice to be back here. I can't believe it's been a whole year since our wedding. The place hasn't changed at all. You haven't changed, obviously.
Me, however...
Your warm hand glides down my bare back. Then it goes where it always does, into my sweatpants, cupping my growing ass.
The courtyard is empty, so I'm not embarrassed. But even if we were surrounded by people, I wouldn't feel embarrassed. You do this all the fucking time. You love feeling me jiggle.
"Happy anniversary, Lu," I whisper.
You squeeze my cheek. "Happy anniversary."
We walk like this for a while, your fingers molding my cheek and occasionally drifting... deeper. You're teasing me, getting me ready for everything you want to do to me when we get back to the hotel room.
We make it to the lobby. I'm about to head inside (you got me more than ready), but you grab my arm. I guess you wanna stay out here a little while longer.
"What's up?" I ask.
Your expression turns serious. "Remember when we were here last time?"
"Yeah?" How could I forget? We barely left the bed. Which is why I'm aching to get back upstairs. I want you. Now.
"Remember when we were on the balcony? And you said you wanted me to train you?"
Wow. That feels like so long ago.
We made all these plans. Workout routines. Meal plans. You kept reminding me that you weren't gonna go easy on me just because we were married.
Well, that didn't work out. Obviously. Every time I asked for a break, you gave in. I stuck to your meal plan, but because it always left me hungry, I started snacking between meals, something I'd never done before.
And now, a year later, I've gained just over 50 pounds, none of it muscle. I can lift a little more on the bench press, but that's about it. I've given up on trying to get your body, and I've settled into the curvier, softer shape that I'm growing into.
"Yeah. Best laid plans, right?"
You avoid my eyes. "Are you happy?"
"What?"
"Being back here, I keep thinking... I feel like I failed you. You wanted my help and I sort of..."
I grab your hands and pull them to my wide hips. "Lu. Do you like my body?"
You bite your lip. You don't need to answer, because you show me your answer every day. Sometimes multiple times a day.
"I'm happy," I whisper. "You're made for muscles, and I'm not. That's just how it is."
After all our time together, of you showing me your love, I've lost all my self-doubt. I could get as big as a house and you'd still love me.
Sure, we get looks sometimes. The muscle-bound short king and his tall, pear-shaped husband. But I don't care because you don't care.
Relief washes over your face. You pinch my sides. "Okay. Let's go upstairs."
***
I flop onto the bench. I need to sit again. It was a nice stroll, but this courtyard feels so much bigger now. I can't handle this much walking.
You join me. "Good thinking," you say as your hand rubs my thigh. "Gotta save your energy for when we get back to the room."
It's our fourth anniversary, and our first time back to the resort since I passed 350. The place is under new management now, so our room is a little nicer. This courtyard, though, it looks exactly the same.
"Four years," you say. "Can you believe it?" Your hand moves from my thigh to my belly. You're barely touching it, just enough to make me tremble.
"I don't think the concierge recognized me," I joke.
"Us," you correct, poking your slightly softer middle. You're still thick and muscly, but some of my bad habits are sticking to you. Now that you're actively growing me, it was bound to happen. And with your shortness, the extra 30 pounds are pretty obvious.
You still work at the gym, but you got promoted to manager. More desk time and spreadsheets. Less pressure to stay fit.
I know you like it. You play with your own beginner-belly almost as much as you play with my wobbling apron.
But not right now. Right now, your hands are all over me.
"Wanna go upstairs?" I whisper.
"We could," you say with a loving moob-squeeze. "But I think we should hit the restaurant before it closes. I wanna fill you up first."
You say that, but I know you're gonna join in.
Then you help me to my feet and lead me back inside. I'm hungry and happy and more in love than ever.
The End
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You're napping again. I don't wanna be a creeper, but I can't help but watch you. You look so peaceful.
And the cutest thing? Even while you sleep, your pudgy fingers trace along your stretchmarks. You're not scratching them, just feeling them.
No. That's not the cutest part. The cutest part is that your mouth is lazily chewing. You're dreaming of food again. Eating is your default now. I trained you well.
You choke a little on the phantom food, snort once, and wake yourself up.
Your eyes flutter open. You see me smiling down at you, and you smile back. "I was napping."
"I know."
It takes you a second to sit up. You pull down your pink shirt, but it can't quite cover your whole belly. As you work past your grogginess, you lick your lips.
"What were you dreaming about?"
"Cake."
"Chocolate or vanilla with sprinkles?"
"Vanilla with sprinkles," you answer slyly.
"Ask and you shall receive." I rush out of the room and come back with today's sheet cake. I gently place it on your lap.
Joseph ran toward me like he was being chased. "Dude! Did you see Trey?"
"Who?" I asked. It took me a while to realize that he was talking about our old teammate. I hadn't thought about Trey in years. Not since he abruptly quit the team and ghosted us completely. "Oh. Yeah, what happened to him?"
"See for yourself!" He nodded toward the edge of the park.
No one was there. Just some new art installation. A big, round statue that...
I squinted to get a better look.
The statue moved. It wasn't a statue at all. It was Trey!
No! That couldn't possibly be...
"That's Trey?"
"Yeah," Joseph said. "I was too afraid to talk to him, so I came back here. What should we do?"
I didn't know. Trey, our ex-teammate, had gotten so impossibly fat that he didn't even look like a person anymore. He was a pile of lumps and flaps. His pale skin hung off him in curtains. His belly reached all the way to the ground. Was he even wearing shorts?
I didn't know it was possible to get that fat. And yet, there he was, standing on short, shapeless legs that could barely support him. He had an ice cream cone in his hand, licking it casually as he played with his rolls.
"You're sure that's Trey?" From this distance, I couldn't tell.
"I saw his face, man. It's him. Should we... I wanna talk to him, but not by myself."
"Okay." I nervously approached the fat man. Joseph stayed a few steps behind me.
Trey looked up and smiled. Yup, that was him. His face hadn't changed, aside from the jowls and hanging chin. "Wow. Long time no see!"
Joseph nudged my side. He wanted me to do all the talking.
"H-hi, Trey. What's new?"
"One second." He sucked down the rest of his ice cream (cone and all) as if it was nothing. Then he burped. "Not much. Just enjoying life."
"Yeah?"
His thick fingers squeezed into his side rolls. I couldn't tell if he knew he was doing that, or if it was just some automatic thing. "You guys still play basketball?"
"Uh huh," I said.
"Cool. I was thinking about rejoining the team."
All my blood rushed out of my face. My brain went blank. "Oh. Y-yeah. That would be... c-cool."
He looked at me blankly for five whole seconds. Then he burst out laughing. "I'm kidding, man. Dang, you shoulda seen your face!"
I forced a laugh.
"My basketball days are far behind me," he continued. "I've outgrown it."
"Clearly," I said on reflex. Then my hand shot to my mouth. I couldn't believe I said that out loud.
He laughed again. He didn't seem offended at all. "You guys free now? Wanna join me for lunch?"
I looked at Joseph, who was staring at his feet. Poor guy seemed terrified of our friend's obesity.
I wasn't, though. In fact, I was kind of curious. "Sure."
"Great!" Trey said. "There's a buffet down the street."
He turned around very slowly, like a cruise ship changing directions, then waddled toward an ultra-wide motorized scooter a few feet away. His belly apron dragged on the ground.
Then he plopped onto the seat with a snort. "Ya hungry?"
I grabbed Joseph's arm (he was frozen) and followed Trey toward the park gate.
"You guys hungry?" Trey asked.
"Sure," I said. "You?"
Trey's belly wobbled as he laughed. "Always, man."
You're wearing your purple tracksuit, psyching yourself up for a walk around the park. It's the largest size you own, but it's stretched so tightly around your middle that I know your belly is going to pop out after a few waddling steps.
"You sure you want to wear that?" I ask.
You look down at yourself. "Yeah. It's my only exercise outfit that still fits."
I laugh. So adorable that you think it still fits.
"Suit yourself." I kiss you and smooth out the wrinkles under your moobs. I'm playing the part of the supportive boyfriend, fully on board with your little jog. If you want to lose some weight, I'm here for you. Blah blah blah.
You sigh. "Okay. I can do this. I'll be back after three blocks around the park."
Three little blocks and you sound like you're heading to the gas chamber. Remember when you used to run for miles? Remember when you entered the half-marathon and came in third? Wow. How things have changed.
"Good luck," I say. You're about to head for the door, when I add, "Oh. One more thing before you go."
"Yeah?"
"Raise your hands over your head for me, please?"
"W-why?"
I shrug. "No reason."
Slowly, you stretch up your arms and, as expected, your shirt rides up and your belly flops out, just a thick curtain of fat.
Panicked, you tug down your shirt and tuck your belly into your already-straining waistband.
"That'll happen again," I tell you. "Do you really want the neighbors to see all that flab?"
"It's okay. I'll be fine." You sound doubtful.
"I'm sure you're right," I say. "Good luck! And maybe fix your hair before you go."
Your hair looks fine.
You reflexively reach up to check your long, black hair, and once again, your belly flops out.
I step closer and give your hanging belly a love pinch. I know that turns you on.
"Don't," you say. "I really have to exercise."
I massage your exposed overhang, squeezing into its softness and sending tingles through your massive body. You breathe heavy. "Or maybe you can wait until we get you new workout clothes that fit better. You know, just to be safe."
You try to resist. You know I'm being a bad influence again. I always do this before you try to exercise. Every time.
And every time, you give in.
"Fine," you say. "But as soon as I get a bigger outfit, I'm gonna start walking again."
"I know. I'd never want to stop you."
By the time I lead you into the bedroom, your tight shirt is already off. You lower your obese body onto the bed and I give you the only workout you need.
The bartender smiled at me. He was full-on checking me out, and he was not subtle about it. I saw him lean onto the bar so he could peer over my hairy shoulder.
"You love these shakes, don't ya?" he asked.
"Uh huh," I said, sliding my empty glass toward him.
Last November, I decided to quit alcohol. I'd been drinking too much, and I felt like shit because of it. I figured I'd detox for a month and then see what happens. Well, when I went to the bar with my friends, I discovered their buttermilk shakes, the only non-alcoholic drink on the menu.
I'm not kidding when I say that it was the most delicious thing I'd ever tasted. Thick and sweet and so fucking creamy.
It was April now, five months after my no-alcohol November, and I was still sober. Who needs shots when you can have this buttermilk? I was addicted. Ironically, I spent way more time at the bar now than when I was a drinker.
And yeah, the shakes were a little fattening, but I wasn't complaining. I'd always been skinny and flat-assed. Thanks to the extra calories, I'd gotten insanely curvy. Everyone noticed. The bartender barely paid attention to me before my ass started filling out this stool.
He poured me another shake. "This one's on the house."
"Really?"
"Yup. I know it's going to the right place."
See what I mean? Guys flirted with me all the time now.
I looked into his eyes as I took a slow gulp. I wasn't planning on drinking the whole thing, but the way he stared forced me to keep going. I let the cold liquid slide down my throat (got easier every time) and felt a wonderful sense of fullness as it kept flowing and flowing.
The bartender bit his lip.
By the last third, I needed to stop. I was beyond full. About to choke.
But I couldn't stop. I had to get it all down. I had to show off.
I struggled, but every drop disappeared into my stomach. Then I set the glass down and wiped my mouth. A small burp escaped my lips.
It took a while for the bartender to move. He was blushing. Finally, he said, "M-my name's Tom."
All this time, he'd never introduced himself.
"Joey," I said.
"My shift's almost over. Wanna go back to...? I mean..."
"Are you asking me out?"
"Y-yeah." He took a breath. "I can fix you up some more shakes in private..."
Wow. I was 100% down for that.
"I don't know..." I played coy, sliding my hands down my bulging hips. "You sound like a bad influence. I don't wanna ruin my figure."
Tom glanced away. He thought I was being serious.
"Yes," I said directly.
His eyes lit up.
"But," I added, "can you fix me one more for the road?"
He was so excited (and so adorable) as he poured me another glass.
This was a dream come true. Not only was Tom very cute, but he'd be able to make me buttermilk shakes whenever I wanted. I had a feeling I was gonna get a hell of a lot curvier.
I scoot closer on the wooden bench. It's already dipping under you, but it seems sturdy enough.
"Ready?" I ask.
You open your mouth. Good answer.
I grab your first burger (double patty, extra cheese) and hold it an inch from your face. I wait for you to smell the grease. Then I push it into your mouth.
As you tear off a bite, your pudgy hand reflexively goes to the side of fries. You shove in a handful while your mouth is still filled with my burger.
Your eyes widen. You grunt and swallow. Then you look at me apologetically.
"Wow," I say. "Did you mean to do that?"
"No. Sorry."
I was gonna feed you the fries second (a salty break between burgers), but as soon as the greasy aroma filled your nostrils, you went into pig overdrive. You didn't mean to grab those fries.
I'm a little disappointed. I fed a lot of piggies, and I've never been accused of going too slow.
"A-are you made?" you ask. Your eyes dart down to my burger. You're worried that I'll stop your feeding.
"A little," I say. "I guess I'll have to go at double-speed."
The devious look on my face makes you gulp.
For the rest of the meal, I feed you with both hands.
I wore my bootie shorts to the club. Those always drew attention.
Tonight, that attention came from this beefy silver fox named Eddie. He approached me on the dance floor, just oozing confidence. I was taller than him by a good five inches, but he was wide and confident. Very buff. Very hairy. Without saying anything, he started swaying in front of me. Not quite dancing.
Before I knew it, his hands were on my waist. Then my wide hips. Then my ass. He pressed his muscle gut against me. Started grinding.
That's when he introduced himself. Just one word: "Eddie."
"Frank," I replied.
I think those were the only words we said. He let his body do all the talking. We danced so long that I could feel the sweat on his thick body. And the whole time, his fingers pinched and squeezed my cheeks.
That's what I wanted. To be appreciated.
But he was older. And eventually he got tired. He pulled me to a table in the corner. It was already occupied by another couple sloppily making out. When they saw Eddie, they apologized and left.
I didn't know it at the time, but Eddie owned this place. People let him do whatever he wanted.
He sat and patted the chair next to him. I joined him.
"You're very sexy, Frank."
"Thanks," I said, too caught up in the moment to return the compliment. Not like he needed me to. He knew he was sexy.
He slid his hand down my back and traced his rough finger along the top of my crack. "One part of you in particular," he added.
"Oof," I said. Was he going to finger me in the middle of the club? In front of all these people?
He pulled his hand away. "You must do a lot of squats, huh?"
"Not really," I answered. "I'm just naturally curvy."
I had a pretty extreme pear shape. Slender all over except for my wide hips and thick ass. As a gay man on a lifelong quest to get absolutely wrecked, I was genetically blessed. My big ass was like an all-you-can-eat sign for bears like Eddie.
"Good to know," he said. "Hungry?"
"Uh huh." I assumed he was talking about something other than food, but no.
He raised his hairy arm and the bartender came running.
"Yes, sir!"
"Bring us a platter, please."
The guy nodded and scurried off. Eddie didn't have to specify what kind of platter he wanted. A minute later, he came back with a tray nearly the size of our table. It was loaded up with nachos, sliders, and chicken strips.
In a way, I liked that Eddie was showing off his wealth. But this was a lot of food.
He picked up a slider, which looked quite small in his large hand, and brought it toward my face.
I was confused at first. And I really wasn't hungry. I had other things I wanted to do with Eddie.
"Actually..."
He pressed the slider against my lips. It was strange, but I liked the forcefulness. I took a small bite.
His other hand rubbed my back. "You can do better than that, Frank."
So I took a bigger bite.
It tasted okay. A little too much sauce. And the bun was too buttery.
With half the slider gone, he said, "I bet you can finish it in one more bite." His back-rub quickened, up and down, each time creeping deeper into my shorts.
I got lost in the moment and took the whole thing in my mouth. It was too big to chew properly, so I just mashed it around before swallowing.
He didn't let me catch my breath before he grabbed another one.
"No thanks."
His fingers slid between my cheeks. I gasped as his thick index finger poked inside and drew circles.
"Listen," he said, acting casual, as if his exploring fingers weren't making me squirm, weren't stealing the breath from my lungs. "You've got the best ass here. Don't you wanna let me grow it?"
I gripped the table. Sparks shot through my prostate. He found the spot and kept... challenging it, over and over, with his expert fingers.
It felt so good that my brain couldn't process what he was asking.
"Just imagine this ass getting thicker and softer," he continued. "You got real potential, Frank. I can help."
I whimpered. I tried so hard not to draw attention to myself, but I arched my back and accidentally slammed my knees against the bottom of the table.
People knew what was happening, but no one stopped us.
As the pleasure intensified, Eddie brought another slider to my mouth and I feasted. Took in half of the buttery sandwich and swallowed before I realized what I was doing.
He brushed the rest of it against my lips, waiting for me to swallow. I took that, too.
It was a strange mix of sensations. Eating from his hand while my G-spot lit up. Struggling to swallow. Struggling to breathe.
Once that one was gone, he pulled out of my shorts, smiled at me, and squirted some Purell into his palms. He was maddeningly casual.
"What do you say, Frank?" he asked. "Will you let me grow you?"
Without the sensory overload, I finally understood what he was asking.
"I don't... I don't want to get fat," I said.
"It's your choice," Eddie answered, unbothered. "But you look at yourself. Any extra pounds will go straight to that ass. It's how you're built."
"I guess."
"Is that a yes?"
No. Gaining was a kink that I just didn't have. I liked my body the way it was.
But...
I wanted him. I wanted to please him. And if that meant eating a little extra tonight, then why not? After all, he was probably right. I was pear-shaped. My body was physically unable to, you know, grow a belly or anything. Perhaps I could relax my diet a little and see what happens. For Eddie.
I opened my mouth and waited for the next slider.
***
Well, I was wrong. Eddie's been feeding me for six months now, and my ass is the exact same size. The rest of me, though...
I used to be thin. Yeah, I know it's hard to believe.
I wasn't athletic or anything. Just average. My stomach was a little soft, and it bunched into rolls when I sat, but I wasn't what anyone would call "fat."
Then I started drinking soda. That's it. That's the only change I made.
Growing up, my parents wouldn't allow us to drink sodas. My body wasn't used to it.
But you did. You loved Coca-Cola. For the longest time, I'd watch you drink a couple cans a day. You always offered, and I always refused. I told you I wasn't a "soda person."
And then one day, I thought, Why not?
The flavors hit my tastebuds like a freight train. This was Coke? This was what I'd been missing all these years?
I chugged it in seconds before grabbing another.
Pretty soon, I was drinking just as much as you. Then I drank a little more. After a couple months, I was downing soda like water.
I didn't expect it to change me. After all, you drank soda all the time and you were just as slim as me.
Well, the extra calories caught up to me fast. Pretty soon, my belly was thick and round. It was a "Coke gut," not a beer gut. And it wouldn't stop growing.
I started exercising more. I went on a diet. I was healthy in every other way, but I kept drinking Coke. I couldn't stop if I tried. (And believe me, I tried.)
My gut started to sag. The rest of me softened. I was thick and flabby.
You seemed to like it, though. You kept rubbing me, playing with my fat whenever you were horny. That helped me come to terms with how I looked. If you were turned on, then all these new rolls couldn't be bad, right?
So I relaxed a little. I stopped dieting. I stopped trying to exercise. I just lived my life and drank as much soda as I wanted.
And now look at me: 400 pounds of flab. I'm chugging a two-liter (my third this morning) while you smile at me. Pretty soon, you'll be rubbing my belly until I burp and telling me how handsome I am.
Because I am handsome. I'm big and soft and the sexiest guy alive. I haven't told you this, but I don't even like Coke anymore. I barely taste it these days.
I chug it because of you. Because I know you want me bigger.
I published this story on my Charlie Gyrth blog last year, but I wanted to repost it here with some images...
***
You check the images on your camera. "Perfect. This is exactly what I needed."
"That's it?" You literally took two shots. This is the easiest photo shoot of my life. Yeah, it's a little awkward to be this exposed in the middle of the park, but two minutes of work for $40,000? Jesus.
"Yup. Great job." You hand me an envelope of cash. There's a part of me that feels like something's wrong. This is way too easy. But money's money. Thanks to you, I won't have to book another gig for months.
You look at my exposed body. You like what you see. You think for a second. "You know, I can pay you double the amount if you want to do another shoot at the end of the year."
"What?" $80,000? No. There had to be a catch.
"Same outfit. Same pose. Double the money. What do you say?"
"Um, are you... Are you serious?"
"Of course. I just need you to sign an exclusivity deal. No other modeling gigs."
"Fine by me," I say.
"And in the meantime, I'll pay for your food and housing. All you have to do is relax until December."
"Dude. What is this for, exactly?"
You shrug. "Just some before and after photos for a specific set of clients. It's completely legit."
"Yes!" I say. I push back my doubts.
"Great. I'll mail over the contract tonight. And my company will start sending over your meals in the morning."
I'm speechless.
"Just make sure that you only eat what I send. Nothing else, okay? We're investing in you, and I don't want the food to go to waste."
"Fine by me." With all this cash and free food, I'll be living the life. I can't believe how lucky I am!
***
"And finished. Great job!" You don't even check the photos on your camera. You're that confident.
"Okay?"
Six months of waiting for this shoot, and it's over in less than a minute. My God.
You hand me two envelopes of cash. It's too much to fit into just one.
Sure, I'm a little worried about my future, but with this much money, I can hire a personal trainer and get back to my fighting weight in no time.
I still don't know who your clients are, but it didn't take long for me to figure out your intentions. All that food you sent me? Of course you wanted to fatten me up, turn me into some kind of before-and-after weight loss thing.
I fought it at first. Still ate what you gave me, but always had tons of leftovers.
But even with just a fraction of the delivered meals, I started softening up pretty quickly. I figured that's what you wanted, so I eventually stopped holding back.
Now, I eat everything you send me. Every fucking bite. I'm pretty addicted.
And based off your expression when you saw my softened body for the first time, I know you're happy with my progress.
I'm happy, too. You've paid me more than my last ten modeling gigs combined. Totally worth it.
"Okay," you say. "Well, we can end our collaboration here, or you can sign another exclusivity contract for the next six months. Same deal as before. I'll provide your meals and we'll meet here at the end of June. What do you think?"
I don't answer right away. You obviously want me to get even bigger, but if I do that... I don't think I'll ever be able to slim down again. A whole year of your meals?
But...
They're so delicious. And my life is so easy now.
"I don't know..."
"I'll double your rate again."
I offer you my chubby hand. "Deal."
***
"Fucking gorgeous," you say.
"I know." I slap my belly. I've learned to love what I look like, probably because I love your food so much. Each delicious bite adds to my size, so all this fat is a reminder of the joy I get from eating all day long.
I've been waiting six long months to see your reaction, and you do not disappoint. You're drooling over me. And your clients, whoever they are, have got to feel the same way.
You hand me three envelopes of cash.
"Thank you."
We stand in silence for a while. I'm waiting to hear your next offer. Another photoshoot. Another hefty paycheck.
But that's not what comes out of your mouth. Instead, you say, "Well, this was fun. See ya around."
Then you start to leave.
My heart pounds. I never considered that this would be it. I'm still growing a little bit each day, and my life as a thin model hustling for work feels like a lifetime ago.
"Wait!"
You stop. Look at me over your shoulder. "What's wrong? Do you want to check the envelopes to make sure it's everything?"
"No. I mean... Is this it? Are you done with me?"
A smile spreads across your face.
"I got what I needed," you say. "You can go back to your regular modeling jobs now. Thanks so much!"
"But..."
"You want to do this again? Another photo shoot?"
"Yes."
"Sure. If that's what you want. I'll have to pay you the same amount."
"Yes!"
Another $160,000? I'll be able to buy my house.
"But if I'm going to continue your meal plan, I'll have to adjust your contract this time."
"Anything."
"You'll have to agree to finish every meal I send. If there are any leftovers, I'll deduct your pay."
"Deal." I already finish everything you send me. That won't be a problem at all.
"Great. I'll install a camera in your living room. Just turn it on at the beginning of every meal so I can make sure you don't cheat."
I gulp. Is that too much?
I'm starting to have my doubts. Then I see the bulging envelopes of money. And my mouth starts to water at the thought of more food.
Okay. I'm gonna do it.
***
"And finished! You're amazing!" You set down your camera and look closer at my belly.
The photo shoot takes longer this time, and we small-talk more than before.
You never touched me in the previous shoots, but now you're stepping closer. You cup my overhang with both hands. "You've exceeded all our expectations."
"Thank you." It's been a while since any guy has touched me. I'm just too busy eating.
You squeeze me a little before pulling away. "You're even bigger than the videos."
"You watched me?" I knew someone was monitoring my eating videos, but I didn't realize it was you.
"Of course! You're a huge inspiration!" You slap your own gut. I didn't notice before (too focused on how I look) but you've gotten a bit curvier in the last six months. Looks great on you.
"Well, I worked pretty hard." Your company basically doubled the amount of food it sends me. Even though I'm not working, keeping up with your meals has turned into a full-time job.
I love every minute, though. You can probably tell on the videos.
You brush the back of your finger against my second chin. It's grown a lot this year. I'll have so much loose skin if I ever decide to start losing weight. Not gonna happen, though.
"Another contract?" I ask. Might as well cut to the chase.
"Of course. Same pay. Same meals. Same videos. You okay with that?"
"Fuck yeah!"
***
"And we're done!" you say. You place the camera on the ground and walk over for a hug.
I love feeling your chubby body sink into my softness. I love the way your hand not-so-secretly feels the bulging fat packed into my 6XL shorts.
I let out a laugh. You've taken over my entire life. All I do is stuff myself for you. And the end result is a five-minute photo shoot.
"What's so funny?"
"Can you finally tell me who your clients are? And what you do with these photos?"
"Of course. It's crazy that you never asked."
You sit on the grass next to me. Slowly, I lower myself to join you.
"I keep the photos myself. I'm the client."
"What? But all that money..."
"Totally worth it. I'm a very rich man."
"From what?"
"I sell videos," you say. There's a dark edge to your voice. It takes me a few seconds to realize why.
"My videos?"
"Yeah. Yours. And plenty of other former models who agree to sign away their bodies for money."
I'm speechless.
You stare at me, challenging me to get angry.
But I'm not. I'm too fucking happy to mourn the life I used to have. "Thank you."
You flinch in surprise. "You're..."
"Pay me more," I say. "A lot more. For the right price, I'll make myself bigger than all your other models."
You know I'm serious. You can see how big I've gotten so far. And I know you're imagining what I'll look like next. "I'll write up a contract."
Fuckin' Simon. He dumped me because I was getting a little chubby.
He told me he loved me, and as soon as I got a tiny bit of pudge on my stomach, he dropped me like a stone in the river. "Sorry, Sara. I don't find you attractive anymore."
I'd only gained 10 pounds! Maybe 15. I could've lost it all in a couple months. If he hadn't left me.
Well, he did. So I started eating. First, it was a way to process my anger. Then it was an act of rebellion, a big, fat middle finger to my ex. He thought I was fat before. I'd show him fat! I'd make myself into the biggest woman alive!
But as I ate (and grew), my motivations changed. I wasn't getting fat for Simon. Or for any man. I was getting fat for myself.
Totally worth it.
Right now, I'm shoving handfuls of potato chips into my mouth. As the crumbs rain down on my belly, I enter a state of Zen. I'm wonderful. And proud.
And enormous.
I don't think about Simon. Or my former friends. Or the strangers who heckle me when I waddle past.
I think about myself, and how much bigger I'm gonna get.
***
Thanks for reading! I've been experimenting with BBW stories recently, and it's been fun! Check out my new ebook Feeding the Party Girl for five longer stories.
They didn't even taste good. That was the ironic part.
The little red berries looked delicious, but when I popped a couple into my mouth, they didn't have much of a taste at all. Sort of like storebought blueberries that had been frozen for too long.
Disappointing.
I leaned back on the park bench, waiting for you to come back. Camping was your thing, not mine. I'd much rather be snuggled up on the couch, watching Netflix or something. But you seemed really insistent about this trip. And after last weekend (when you suffered through my Bikram yoga class without complaint), how could I say no?
As I waited, alone and annoyed, I pulled off my sweat-soaked shirt. For some reason, I was getting really hot. The cool breeze felt nice against my muscular body.
I felt at peace. I also felt... full. It was a strange feeling that gradually got more intense. I felt like I'd just finished a full meal. Then a Thanksgiving dinner. Then an entire buffet.
I was bloated and sluggish, a weird mixture of satisfaction and pain.
Curious, I brought my hands to my flat stomach, but it wasn't flat anymore. I felt a plush layer of fat where my abs should've been. Worse, I felt the fat get thicker and softer under my hands.
I looked down at myself.
What the hell?
I had a loose, flabby belly! I watched in horror as thin bulges of fat grew between my fingers. My hands weren't moving, but my belly was expanding underneath them.
In a panic, I tried to stand.
Woah. I had a whole new center of gravity now. My belly and love handles pulled me down like weights strapped against me. I flopped back onto the bench.
I kept growing.
I felt new creases form across my flab. I felt rolls press against rolls. I felt my pants strain against my thighs. My button popped off, thudding against the underside of my overhang like a BB gun pellet.
I was shocked and horrified, but I knew exactly what had happened. I'd eaten the fat-berries. You warned me about them, but I thought you were exaggerating. I didn't realize...
I let out a reflexive burp, and the changes stopped. I was done growing.
Oh God.
My body was enormous. Just four berries (maybe five), and I was, what? 200 pounds fatter? I was so glad I couldn't see myself.
But you would. You'd be back soon. You'd take one look at me and know that I ate the one thing you warned me against.
What were you gonna say? How would you react? Could you even look at me anymore?
My heart pounded when I saw you walk out of the bushes.
In high school, back when he was in track and field, everyone called him "Ostrich." He was so skinny, gawky, and long-legged that he looked like an ostrich while he ran across the field.
Trevor always hated that nickname. It made him feel so self-conscious about his own body.
It's been a long time since people called him Ostrich, though. He's more of a bear now. Or a hippo.
This morning, his boyfriend Ty (the real reason for his transformation) takes him to their old high school. They share a romantic, very slow stroll around the old track field. He's overcome with nostalgia... and more certain than ever that he's happier like this. His ostrich days are far behind him.
Trey is one of 50 gainers featured in my new supersized ebook Gainer Moments: 50 Mini-Stories. It's available for preorder now. Set for release on April 7!
