Belly Builder - Chapters 7-9
To celebrate 6 Months of the DMD Gainers Patreon, I am releasing one of the older full length stories for free with images so that you know what you are missing. (Don't forget on Patreon, you get videos)
Chapter 7: Tightening the Seams
April in the city was a season of deception. One moment, the sun would catch the glass of the rising mid-rise, promising warmth; the next, a biting wind would whip through the open steel girders, reminding the crew that winter wasn’t quite ready to let go.
For Garrett, the changing season brought a new kind of friction.
It was 5:00 AM, and he was standing in front of the bedroom mirror, performing a ritual that had become increasingly stressful over the last three months. He held his breath, pulling the waistband of his work jeans together. They were a size 34—two sizes up from where he’d started in September—and yet, the denim felt like it was under siege.
He managed to guide the metal button into the hole, but the victory felt precarious. The fabric was stretched tight across his lap, and when he exhaled, the waistband dug deep into the new, soft curve of his stomach. At 190 pounds, Garrett was no longer the "lanky kid" Kyle had fallen in love with. The twenty-five pounds he’d packed on since the foundation was poured had settled into a dense, heavy layer of insulation. His thighs no longer had a gap between them; they rubbed together with a soft, rhythmic friction when he walked.
"Garrett? Are you coming to the mat?" Kyle’s voice drifted from the living room, crisp and disciplined.
Garrett looked at the door, then back at his reflection. He felt a flash of guilt. Kyle had been "patient," or at least, he had been vocal about his "concerns." Every morning now involved a lecture on metabolic damage and the importance of restorative yoga.
"I'm running late, Kyle! Brian wants us on-site early for the plumbing inspect," Garrett called back, lying through his teeth.
He didn't want to do yoga. He didn't want to feel the way his new weight made certain poses feel clumsy and restricted. He grabbed a heavy hoodie to hide the way his t-shirt clung to his sides and hurried out the door, ignoring the disappointment he knew was etched on Kyle’s face.
The job site was a cacophony of progress. The first floor was framed out, and the skeleton of the second was beginning to reach toward the sky. Garrett felt a sense of belonging here that he never felt at the Apex Fitness Club. Here, he wasn't a "project" to be sculpted; he was a pair of hands, a back, and increasingly, a substantial presence.
"Morning, Slim—or should I start calling you 'Mid-Size'?" Hawk joked as Garrett approached the trailer. Hawk was leaning against a stack of drywall, finishing a breakfast sandwich that smelled heavenly.
"Leave the kid alone, Hawk," Brian’s voice rumbled.
Brian stepped out of the shadows of the concrete stairwell. He looked as massive as ever, but Garrett noticed the way the foreman’s eyes lingered on him. It wasn't the critical, measuring gaze Garrett got from Kyle. Brian’s look was slower, heavier. It traveled from Garrett’s flushed face down to the way his hoodie was pulled tight over his chest, then down to the straining denim of his jeans.
"You're late," Brian said, though his tone was soft. He tossed a heavy, industrial-sized tape measure to Garrett. "We’re marking the layout for the interior partitions on the north side. Grab the chalk line."
The morning was grueling. Marking the layout required constant movement—crouching, stretching, and kneeling on the hard concrete. Every time Garrett bent over, he felt the waistband of his jeans biting into his gut, the fabric of his thighs screaming under the tension. He was sweating more than usual; his body was working harder just to move the extra weight it was carrying.
Around 10:00 AM, Brian called out, "Worth! Grab that crate of anchor bolts. We need them by the pillar."
The crate was heavy, sitting low on the floor. Garrett wiped the sweat from his brow and stepped over it. He planted his feet wide, his thighs straining against the denim. He reached down, his fingers gripping the cold metal of the crate.
He took a deep breath, his stomach pushing hard against the button of his pants. He began to lift, using his legs just like Brian had taught him.
Rrrrrrrrip.
The sound was sharp, loud enough to be heard over the distant hum of a generator.
Garrett froze. The sudden release of tension was unmistakable. A rush of cool April air hit the back of his thighs and the base of his spine. The entire seat of his jeans, from the crotch to the back pockets, had given up the ghost, unable to contain the 190-pound man trying to live inside them.
A silence fell over the immediate area. Garrett stayed in his crouch, his face turning a shade of red that rivaled a brick.
"Uh... Garrett?" Eric called out from a few feet away, a slow grin spreading across his face.
The laughter started low—a chuckle from Dave, a snort from Hawk.
Hawk bellowed, slapping his knee. "You grew right out of 'em, kid!"
Garrett squeezed his eyes shut, his hands still gripping the crate. He felt exposed, humiliated, and strangely... heavy. He realized in that moment that he couldn't pretend anymore. He wasn't the skinny guy in the thrift store jeans. He was a man who was literally bursting at the seams.
"Alright, knock it off!" Brian’s voice cut through the laughter like a saw through pine.
Garrett felt a heavy presence behind him. He didn't move, too afraid of what people would see if he stood up. Then, he felt something warm and rough draped over his waist. It was Brian’s canvas work jacket. It smelled of sawdust, old tobacco, and the big man’s deep, spicy scent.
"Stand up, Garrett," Brian murmured, his voice right next to Garrett’s ear.
Garrett stood, clutching the sleeves of the jacket around his waist. He looked up at Brian. The foreman wasn't laughing. He was looking at Garrett with a strange, intense focus. He reached out, his large, calloused hand briefly brushing against Garrett’s side, feeling the soft weight there before he pulled back.
"Go to the truck," Brian said, his voice low. "I’ve got a spare pair of overalls in the cab. They’ll be big on you, but they’ll hold."
Garrett nodded, keeping his head down as he shuffled toward the parking lot, the oversized jacket swaying against his hips.
As he sat in the cab of Brian’s F-250, pulling on the massive, grease-stained overalls, Garrett looked at his ruined jeans on the floorboard. He thought about Kyle, the 165-pound goal, and the yoga mat. Then he looked at the overalls—size 42. He cinched the straps, feeling the incredible, luxurious roominess of the fabric. For the first time in months, he could breathe. He could move. He felt... substantial.
He caught his reflection in the truck's window. He looked like a different person. He looked like one of the crew.
He climbed out of the truck, the heavy fabric of the overalls swishing around his thickened legs. Brian was waiting by the tailgate, a thermos in his hand.
"Better?" Brian asked.
"Yeah," Garrett said, his voice gaining a bit of its strength back. "A lot better."
Brian nodded, taking a slow sip of his coffee. He let his gaze travel over Garrett in the oversized gear, a small, knowing smile playing in his beard. "Don't worry about the guys, Garrett. They've all blown out a pair of pants or two in their time. It just means you're finally putting in the work."
Garrett looked back at the rising building, feeling the weight of the day—and his own body—in a way that no longer felt like a failure. It felt like a start.
Chapter 8: The Weight of Truth
The May sun was surprisingly aggressive, turning the job site into a shimmering bowl of dust and heat. By 10:00 AM, Garrett was already soaked through his t-shirt. He wasn't just sweating because of the temperature, though; his body was simply working harder these days. At 195 pounds, there was more of him to move, more mass to propel through the vertical skeletons of the building.
He had officially retired his size 34 jeans after the "April Incident." He was now wearing a pair of dark navy work pants in a size 36, and even those felt snug across his thighs, which now brushed together with every step. He had abandoned the "Slim" nickname among most of the crew, though Hawk still used it with a wink.
Garrett was currently lugging a stack of drywall sheets toward the elevator shaft. His breath came in heavy, rhythmic huffs. He could feel the way his belly, no longer a flat plane but a firm, rounded presence, pushed against the waistband of his pants when he leaned over. It wasn't the "ripped" look Kyle demanded, but as Garrett caught his reflection in a window pane, he didn't feel the usual surge of shame. He looked... sturdy. He looked like a man who could handle a heavy load.
"Take five, Garrett. You’re turning the color of a sunset," Brian’s voice rumbled from the shadows of the hallway.
Garrett dropped the drywall with a satisfying thump and wiped his forehead with his forearm. Brian was leaning against a doorframe, a clipboard in one hand and a sweating bottle of Gatorade in the other. He looked as immovable as the concrete foundation they’d poured months ago.
"I’m fine," Garrett panted, though his heart was hammering against his ribs.
Brian didn't argue. He just stepped forward and handed Garrett the Gatorade. As Garrett took it, their fingers brushed. Brian’s hand was massive, calloused, and radiated a steady, comforting heat.
"The guys and I were talking," Brian said, his voice dropping into a lower register. "We’re doing a big cookout at my place next Saturday. Brisket, ribs, the whole spread. It’s a 'foundation’s finished' celebration, even if we’re a few months late for the party."
Garrett felt a surge of excitement. The crew dinners had become the highlight of his week—the only time he felt truly allowed to eat until the gnawing void in his stomach was actually silenced. "I’m in. Just tell me what to bring."
"Just your appetite," Brian said, a small, knowing smile twitching in his beard. His eyes traveled slowly down Garrett’s frame, noting the way the t-shirt strained across his thickened chest and the way his new pants sat low on his hips. "And, uh... you should bring your girlfriend. Most of the guys are bringing their wives. It’ll be a good time for everyone to meet the people who have to put up with us after hours."
The excitement in Garrett’s chest turned into a cold, heavy lump. He looked down at the Gatorade bottle, watching the condensation drip onto his dusty boots. He thought of Kyle—Kyle in his designer joggers, Kyle with his macro-tracking app, Kyle who looked at Garrett’s 195-pound body like it was a failing grade. Bringing Kyle to a construction crew brisket-fest felt like bringing a glass sculpture to a demolition derby.
"I don't have a girlfriend, Brian," Garrett said quietly.
Brian nodded, his expression softening. "Ah, sorry. Didn't mean to assume. Well, bring whoever. A friend, a date... whoever you’re seeing."
Garrett took a long breath, his stomach expanding and pressing firmly against his belt. He looked up at Brian. He saw the kindness in the big man’s eyes, the way he always made sure Garrett had the extra sandwich or the spare pair of overalls. He realized he didn't want to lie anymore. Not to this man.
"I’m seeing someone," Garrett said, his voice steadying. "But it’s a 'he.' His name is Kyle."
The sounds of the job site—the distant whine of a saw, the shouting of the plumbers—seemed to fade into the background. Garrett braced himself for the reaction. He expected confusion, or maybe the sudden, polite distance he’d experienced from others in the past.
Instead, Brian stood perfectly still. He didn't flinch. If anything, his gaze grew more intense. He looked at Garrett with a profound, silent focus, his own chest rising and falling in a slow, heavy rhythm.
"Kyle," Brian repeated, the name sounding strange in his gravelly voice.
"Yeah," Garrett said, his face heating up. "He’s... he’s a fitness instructor. We’ve been together a while."
Brian shifted his weight, his heavy work boots crunching on the grit of the floor. He stepped a fraction of an inch closer, his presence suddenly overwhelming in the small hallway. The scent of him—cedar, sweat, and something deep and masculine—wrapped around Garrett.
"Well," Brian said, his voice lower than Garrett had ever heard it. "Kyle’s a lucky man."
Garrett blinked, his heart skipping a beat. It wasn't the response he’d expected.
"He is," Garrett managed to say, though it felt like a lie.
Brian reached out, his hand hovering near Garrett’s shoulder for a second before he let it drop. "Bring him Saturday. My place. 6:00 PM."
Brian turned to walk away, but stopped after a few paces. He looked back over his shoulder, his dark eyes unreadable. "And Garrett? Thanks for telling me. It stays between us, unless you want otherwise."
Garrett nodded, unable to find his voice. He watched Brian walk back toward the sunlight, the foreman's massive silhouette filling the doorway.
Garrett looked back down at himself. He pressed a hand to his stomach, feeling the solid, heavy reality of his new weight. For the first time, he wasn't just thinking about the 195 pounds as a byproduct of the job. He was thinking about what it meant to Brian.
He took a deep drink of the Gatorade and realized that the "foundation" he was building wasn't just made of concrete and steel. It was something much more substantial, and it was only just beginning to grow.
Chapter 9: The Meat of the Matter
The drive to Brian’s house was conducted in a silence so thick it felt like the humid May air had already settled inside Kyle’s pristine Audi.
Kyle was dressed in "luxury leisure"—a pair of cream-colored linen trousers and a pima cotton polo that clung to his sculpted chest. He looked like he was heading to a yacht in the Hamptons, not a suburban backyard in a neighborhood where the lawns were mostly gravel and the trucks were mostly lifted.
Garrett, sitting in the passenger seat, felt like he was vibrating. He was wearing his newest size 36 work khakis and a navy blue henley. The shirt was supposed to be a "relaxed fit," but as Garrett shifted, he felt the fabric pull tight across his thickened midsection. At 195 pounds, the lean, architectural lines Kyle had spent years "sculpting" were almost entirely gone, replaced by a dense, soft weight that Garrett found himself secretly resting his hands on when Kyle wasn't looking.
"Are you sure about this?" Kyle asked, his eyes fixed on the road. "You said they’re... 'traditional' guys. You’re sure you want to walk in there with me?"
"I’m sure, Kyle," Garrett said, his voice steadier than he felt. "Brian said to bring you. He was... cool about it."
When they pulled up to Brian’s house—a sprawling, wood-sided ranch with a massive smoker chugging blue-gray clouds in the driveway—the roar of laughter and the clink of glass bottles already filled the air.
As they stepped onto the back deck, the conversation didn't stop, but it shifted. Dave and Rob were leaning against the railing, their 300-pound frames dwarfing the patio furniture. Hawk and Eric were by the cooler, already deep into their third round.
"Hey! Slim is here!" Hawk yelled, then his eyes landed on Kyle. He blinked, the grin faltering for a split second as he took in the polished, lean man standing next to Garrett.
"Guys," Garrett said, his heart hammering against his ribs. "This is Kyle. My boyfriend."
There was a beat—long enough for Garrett to notice the way Dave’s hand stilled on his beer—and then Hawk let out a booming laugh that rattled the ice in the cooler.
"Well, damn, Garrett! You didn't tell us he was a movie star," Hawk said, stepping forward with a hand the size of a dinner plate extended toward Kyle. "I’m Hawk. Don't mind the grease, I’ve been helping Brian with the brisket."
Kyle took the hand with a polite, slightly strained smile. "Nice to meet you."
The tension broke, though it was replaced by a curious, watchful energy. The crew was accepting, but the cultural divide was a chasm. Kyle stood in the center of the deck like a rare orchid in a forest of oaks.
"Garrett. You made it."
Brian stepped away from the massive iron smoker. He was wearing a sleeveless black t-shirt that was stained with sauce and sweat. He looked immense—a mountain of a man who seemed to vibrate with a silent, heavy power. His eyes moved from Garrett’s face down to the way his henley was straining over his belly, then shifted to Kyle.
"Kyle," Brian said, his voice a low rumble. He didn't offer a handshake; he just nodded, a gesture of profound, silent acknowledgement. "Welcome to my home."
"Thank you," Kyle said, his eyes scanning the scene. "The... smoker is very impressive."
"It’s a beast," Brian said. He turned to Garrett. "You look hungry, Worth. You haven't had a real meal all day, have you?"
"Kyle made a green smoothie for lunch," Garrett admitted, feeling a flush creep up his neck.
Brian’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. He reached for a heavy tray sitting on the side table. It was piled high with "burnt ends"—the fatty, charred corners of the brisket that were pure salt and rendered fat.
"Try one," Brian said, holding the tray out to Garrett.
"Oh, we don't really do processed meats," Kyle said, stepping in with a practiced, protective smile. "Garrett’s been having some... digestive sensitivity lately."
Garrett looked at the tray. The smell was intoxicating—smoky, sweet, and heavy. He looked at Brian, whose dark eyes were fixed on him with a steady, challenging focus.
"I'm fine, Kyle," Garrett said. He reached out and took a massive piece of meat, popping it into his mouth.
It was like a physical jolt. The fat melted on his tongue, a rush of calories hitting his system that made his head spin. He let out a low, involuntary moan of satisfaction.
"Good?" Brian asked, his voice dropping an octave.
"Amazing," Garrett rasped.
The afternoon was a slow-motion collision of worlds. Kyle spent most of his time trying to talk to Eric about "functional mobility," while Eric stared at him like he was speaking a dead language. Meanwhile, Garrett found himself anchored to the food table.
When dinner was served, it was a massacre. There were no salads, no small portions. There were just platters of ribs, brisket, jalapeño cheddar sausages, and massive bowls of mac-and-cheese made with what looked like a gallon of heavy cream.
"Here," Brian said, sliding a plate toward Garrett that was easily three pounds of food. "You’re working vertical forms next week, Garrett. You need the mass."
"Brian, that’s literally enough for three people," Kyle laughed, though there was a sharp edge to it. He looked at Garrett’s plate with genuine horror. "Garrett, you’re not seriously going to eat all that?"
"He's a growing man, Kyle," Brian said, his voice steady and cold. He sat down next to Garrett, his broad shoulder pressing firmly against Garrett’s side. The contact was electric—Brian’s body felt like a furnace, solid and unyielding.
Garrett didn't answer. He was too busy with a rib. He felt the weight of the meal settling in his gut, a heavy, blissful anchor. He noticed the way his pants were digging into his waist, the button of his khakis straining against the 195 pounds he was now carrying. For the first time, he didn't care.
"You've got some sauce there," Brian murmured.
Before Garrett could reach for a napkin, Brian reached out. His thumb, rough and calloused, brushed against the corner of Garrett’s mouth. It was a lingering touch, one that lasted a second too long to be accidental.
Garrett froze, his heart thudding. He looked up and saw Kyle watching them from across the table. Kyle’s face was a mask of confusion and growing anger. He saw the way Brian was looking at Garrett—not as a project, but as a feast.
"We should probably get going soon," Kyle said, his voice tight. "We have an early spin session tomorrow."
"Stay for the cobbler," Brian said, his hand moving to rest heavily on the back of Garrett’s chair. "Garrett hasn't even had his second helping yet."
Garrett looked at the mountain of food, then at Kyle’s lean, disciplined silhouette, and finally at Brian’s massive, supportive presence.
"I think I’ll stay for the cobbler," Garrett said, his voice sounding deeper, thicker.
As he reached for the mac-and-cheese, Garrett felt Brian’s hand briefly squeeze his shoulder—a heavy, possessive weight that told him exactly where he belonged. He was 195 pounds of construction-built bulk, and for the first time in his life, he was hungry for more.