Male gainer stories

Gainer stories. Mostly my fantasies. Hope you enjoy 🔥🐷🍆

[malegainerstories]

Story Index

The bakery

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

The Roomate

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

The Star Player

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

[malegainerstories]

The Bakery: Chapter 13

The months between Mexico and the wedding passed in a blur of expansion and excess.

Sweet Haven opened two new locations—one in the downtown business district, another near the university campus. Paul was constantly traveling between sites, managing contractors, training new staff, negotiating leases. Adam handled the administrative side from his office at the original location, coordinating schedules, managing inventory, reviewing financials.

The business was thriving. They were making more money than Adam had ever imagined. And through it all, Adam kept eating.

He had stopped tracking a long time ago. He didn't count calories or weigh himself regularly anymore. He just ate—pastries throughout the day, massive lunches with Pablo, dinners with Paul that stretched for hours. His body expanded steadily, inevitably.

By late May, with the wedding just weeks away, Adam knew he was well over 400 pounds.

The suit arrived on a Tuesday afternoon.

Adam was in his office when Paul brought in the garment bag, his expression carefully neutral.

"It's here," Paul said, laying it across Adam's desk.

Adam felt his stomach drop. He'd almost forgotten about the suit—the one they'd ordered back in January when he was 347 pounds. That felt like a lifetime ago.

"Try it on," Paul said gently.

Adam stood, his belly swaying heavily, and unzipped the bag. The suit was beautiful—charcoal gray, perfectly tailored, expensive fabric. He pulled out the pants first, holding them up.

They looked impossibly small.

"I don't think—" Adam started.

"Just try," Paul said.

Adam pulled off his sweatpants and stepped into the suit pants. He got them halfway up his thighs before they stopped. No amount of pulling or adjusting would get them higher. The waistband was at least six inches too small to close around his belly.

"Fuck," Adam whispered, his face burning.

He tried the jacket next. He couldn't get his arms through the sleeves. The fabric strained across his back, the buttons nowhere near meeting across his chest and belly.

Adam stood there, half-dressed in a suit that didn't fit. The wedding was in three weeks. Three weeks, and he had nothing to wear. Paul saw the panic on Adam's face.

"Hey." Paul's hands were on his shoulders, his voice calm. "It's okay."

"It's not okay. The wedding is in three weeks and I can't fit into my suit and I don't—"

"Adam. Look at me."

Adam met Paul's eyes.

"This is not a problem," Paul said firmly. "This is just a thing that needs to be solved. I'll call the tailor today. We'll get it retouched. Or we'll order a new one. Or we'll find something off the rack. Whatever we need to do, we'll do it."

"But—"

"No buts. You're getting married in three weeks. You're going to look incredible. And I don't care if we have to spend ten thousand dollars on a custom suit made in a week. We'll figure it out."

Adam felt something loosen in his chest. Paul wasn't angry. Wasn't disappointed. Wasn't even surprised. He was just... solving the problem.

"I'm sorry," Adam said quietly.

"For what? For gaining weight?" Paul's hands slid down to Adam's belly, gripping the soft flesh. "I'm not. I love you exactly like this. And I want you to feel good on our wedding day. So we'll make it work. To be frank, I am in part responsible for that."

Paul kissed him deeply, his hands possessive on Adam's body, and Adam felt the anxiety drain away.

It was just a suit. Just fabric. It didn't matter.

Pablo walked into the break room that afternoon, and Adam did a double-take.

He'd seen Pablo regularly over the past few months, watched him lose weight steadily, but somehow it hadn't fully registered until now.

Pablo was 200 pounds. And he looked like a fucking fitness model.

His arms were cut and muscular, veins visible under his skin. His chest was broad and defined, his waist narrow, his abs visible through his tight t-shirt. His face was lean and angular, his jawline sharp. He moved with easy confidence, his body light and powerful.

He looked like he could be on the cover of Men's Health.

"Jesus," Adam said. "You look incredible."

Pablo grinned, flexing his bicep. "Thanks, man. Hit 200 this morning. Lost 120 pounds total."

"That's insane."

"Yeah. Feels good." Pablo grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, his movements quick and efficient. "How are you feeling? Wedding's coming up soon, right?"

"Three weeks. And I'm... nervous."

"About what?"

"Everything. My family. How I look. Whether I can even stand for the whole ceremony." Adam's voice was tight. "I'm over 400 pounds now. I can barely walk without getting winded. And my family hasn't seen me in over a year. They know I gained weight, but they don't know how much."

Pablo sat down across from him, his expression serious. "You want my honest opinion?"

"Sure."

"Your family's going to be shocked. They're going to stare. Some of them are going to say shitty things, either to your face or behind your back. And it's going to suck."

Adam felt his chest tighten.

"But," Pablo continued, "Paul loves you. You love him. And you're happy. That's what matters. Anyone who can't see that can fuck off."

Adam nodded, feeling tears threaten again. "Thanks."

"Anytime." Pablo stood, stretching. "And hey—if anyone gives you shit, I'll kick their ass. I'm ripped now. I can take them."

Adam laughed despite himself. "I'll keep that in mind."

Philip walked into the bakery just before closing, and Adam heard the voices before he saw what was happening.

"Oh my God, is that Philip?"

"Holy shit, dude, what happened to you?"

Adam looked up from his desk to see three young men standing near the counter—early twenties, skinny, fashionably dressed. They were staring at Philip with a mix of shock and cruel amusement.

Philip's face was bright red. He was wearing a hoodie that was too small, unable to cover his stretchmarked belly, his jiggly thighs straining against his jeans to their limit. He looked like he wanted to disappear.

"I—I work here," Philip said quietly.

"Yeah, we can see that." One of the guys—tall, with bleached hair—looked Philip up and down. "Jesus, man. You used to be so hot. What happened?"

"I don't know. I just—"

"You got fat," another one said, laughing. "Like, really fat. How much have you gained? Fifty pounds? A hundred?"

"I don't—"

"Dude, your belly is huge. And your face. You have a double chin now." The bleached-hair guy reached out and poked Philip's stomach. "Wow. That's all fat. You're like a completely different person."

Philip stood there, frozen, his face burning with humiliation. He didn't fight back. Didn't defend himself. Just took it.

Adam felt a surge of anger, ready to intervene, but then he saw Pablo.

Pablo was standing near the kitchen door, watching the scene unfold. And he was smiling.

Not a kind smile. A predatory one. He was enjoying this.

The three guys eventually left, still laughing, and Philip stood there for a moment, his shoulders slumped, his breathing heavy.

Pablo walked over, his hand sliding possessively around Philip's waist. "You okay?"

"No," Philip whispered.

"Good." Pablo's voice was low, rough. "Come with me."

He led Philip toward the back storage room, and Adam watched them go, feeling uneasy, but for some reason he felt his cock twitch.

Adam stayed late that evening, finishing some paperwork. The bakery was closed, the lights dim, the building quiet.

And then he heard it.

Moaning. Grunting. The unmistakable sound of rough, aggressive sex.

Adam stood, his heart pounding, and moved toward the back storage room. He knew what what happening. He knew he shouldn't look. Knew he should leave. But he couldn't help himself.

He peered around the corner.

Pablo had Philip bent over a stack of flour bags, his pants around his ankles, his hoodie pushed up to expose his soft, pale back. Pablo was fucking him hard—harder than Adam had ever seen—his movements brutal and punishing.

Philip was drenched in sweat, his body shaking, his face pressed against the bags. And he was covered in donut powder—white and sticky, clinging to his skin, mixing with the sweat.

"You liked that, didn't you?" Pablo growled, his hand gripping Philip's hair. "You liked your little twink friends seeing how fat you've gotten. Seeing what a pig you are now."

"Yes," Philip gasped. "Yes, fuck, yes—"

"Say it. Say you're a fat pig who loves being humiliated."

"I'm a fat pig," Philip moaned. "I love being humiliated. I love that they saw me. I love that they know—"

Pablo fucked him harder, his other hand sliding around to grip Philip's belly, squeezing the soft flesh. "You're almost 300 pounds now. And you're still gaining. And you won't stop."

"I know," Philip whimpered. "I can't stop. I don't want to stop—"

"Good. Because I'm not letting you stop. I'm going to keep feeding you. Keep fucking you. Keep making you fatter until you can't even recognize yourself."

Philip came with a cry, his body convulsing, and Pablo followed moments later, his movements rough and possessive.

They stayed like that for a moment, both breathing hard, Philip's body limp and trembling.

Then Pablo pulled out, his hand gentle now on Philip's back. "You did good."

"Thank you," Philip whispered.

Adam backed away slowly, his face burning, his cock painfully hard in his pants. Whatever was happening between Pablo and Philip, it was twisted, but incredibly erotic.

The anxiety about his family hit Adam hardest at night.

He'd lie in bed next to Paul, his belly pressing against the mattress, his breathing labored, and think about the wedding. About his parents seeing him for the first time in over a year. About his siblings, his aunts and uncles, his cousins. About the looks on their faces when they saw what he'd become.

He'd probably gained over 250 pounds since starting at the bakery. He could barely walk without getting winded. He couldn't fit into normal chairs. He couldn't see his feet. He couldn't tie his shoes.

He was enormous. Unrecognizable.

And his family was going to see all of it.

"What if they hate me?" Adam asked one night, his voice small in the darkness.

Paul rolled over, his hand finding Adam's belly. "They won't hate you."

"They might. They might think I'm disgusting. Or that you're taking advantage of me. Or that I've ruined my life."

"Have you?"

Adam was quiet for a moment. "No. I'm happy. I'm happier than I've ever been."

"Then that's what matters." Paul's hand moved in slow circles over Adam's belly. "And if they can't see that, if they can't be happy for you, then fuck them. You don't need their approval."

"I know. But I still want it."

"I know." Paul kissed his shoulder. "But you have mine. And that's not going away. Ever."

Adam felt relieved. Paul always had the right words to calm him down. He reached for his next cookie.

Derek came into the bakery on a Saturday afternoon, and Adam heard the whir of the motor before he saw him.

He looked up from the register to see Derek maneuvering a mobility scooter through the door—red, sleek, clearly expensive. Derek was sitting heavily in the seat, his belly spilling over his lap, his thighs pressed against the armrests.

He'd gained even more weight since Adam had last seen him. He had to be close to 500 pounds now.

"Hey," Derek said, his voice breathless from the effort of steering. "Long time."

"Yeah. Hey." Adam came around the counter, his own belly swaying heavily. "Nice scooter."

"Thanks. My boyfriend got it for me. Early birthday present." Derek patted the armrest. "I can't really walk much anymore. My knees are fucked. And I get winded after like ten steps. So... this helps."

Adam nodded, feeling a strange mix of recognition and arousal. This was the trajectory he'd seen in Derek before. The path he was on himself.

"How much do you weigh now?" Adam asked.

"About 480. Give or take." Derek's tone was matter-of-fact. "I've kind of stopped caring. My boyfriend likes me like this. And honestly, it's easier to just... accept it. You know?"

"Yeah. I know."

Derek looked Adam up and down, his eyes lingering on Adam's belly. "You're getting there too. How much are you now?"

"Just over 400."

"Damn. You caught up fast." Derek smiled. "Looks good on you, though. You seem happy."

"I am."

"Good. That's what matters." Derek adjusted his position in the scooter, his belly shifting heavily. "I'm not gonna lie—this is my life now. I don't leave the house much. I order everything online. I spend most of my time on the couch or in bed. And I'm okay with it. My boyfriend takes care of me. Feeds me. Fucks me. And I'm happy."

Adam felt his cock stir. This was his future. Maybe not immediately, but eventually. He could see it so clearly—himself on a scooter, or housebound, completely dependent on Paul. And the idea scared him, but it also aroused him.

"I'm getting married in a few weeks," Adam said.

"Congratulations. To Paul?"

"Yeah."

"He's a good guy. He'll take care of you." Derek started to maneuver his scooter toward the door. "Good luck with the wedding. And hey—if you ever want to talk, or just... compare notes, hit me up. It's nice to know someone else who gets it."

"Thanks. I will."

Derek left, the motor whirring, and Adam stood there for a moment, feeling the weight of his own body, the inevitability of his trajectory.

He was definitely going to end up like Derek.

Adam and Paul entered their new house. Paul had found it through a realtor who specialized in accessible properties—a single-story ranch with wide doorways, reinforced floors, an open floor plan. The master bathroom had a walk-in shower with grab bars and a built-in bench. The kitchen had lowered counters and extra space for maneuvering. There was even a small elevator installed for future use if needed.

It was expensive. But Paul didn't hesitate.

"This is it," Paul said as they walked through for the first time. "This is where we're going to live. Where we're going to build our life."

Adam felt tears prick his eyes. The house wasn't just accessible—it was designed for someone who was immobile. Or close to it. Paul was planning for Adam's future. For a future where Adam couldn't walk easily, couldn't navigate stairs, couldn't fit through normal doorways.

Paul was building a life that assumed Adam would keep growing. Keep gaining. Keep becoming more dependent.

And he was doing it with love. With commitment. With absolute certainty.

"I love it," Adam said, his voice thick with emotion.

"Good. Because it's ours." Paul pulled him close, his arms barely reaching around Adam's bulk. "I want you to be comfortable. I want you to feel safe. And I want you to know that no matter how big you get, no matter what happens, I'm here. This is our home. Forever."

Adam kissed him, tasting salt from his own tears. "I love you."

"I love you too. Every inch of you."

They closed on the house two weeks before the wedding, and Paul immediately started furnishing it—reinforced furniture, a custom king-size bed with extra support, a couch wide enough for Adam to sprawl comfortably. Everything was chosen with Adam's size in mind.

It was the most romantic thing anyone had ever done for him.

Adam was washing himself—a process that had become increasingly difficult as his belly grew—and his hand slid down to where his cock should be.

And found nothing.

He pressed his hand into the soft flesh of his lower belly, feeling around, searching. His cock was there—he could feel it, buried deep in the fat—but it was completely invisible. Swallowed by his body. His belly hung so low, his thighs were so thick, that his cock had disappeared entirely.

He couldn't see it. Couldn't reach it easily. It was just... gone.

Adam stood there, water streaming over his body, feeling a strange mix of shock and arousal.

His cock was gone. The part of him that had once been a source of pride—seven and a half inches, thick, impressive—was now buried under hundreds of pounds of fat.

He was functionally dickless.

Paul stepped into the shower behind him, his hands sliding over Adam's belly. "You okay?"

"I can't see my dick anymore," Adam said, his voice shaking slightly. "It's completely buried."

Paul's hands moved lower, pressing into the soft flesh, searching. "It's there. Just... hidden."

"I can't even reach it. I can't jerk off anymore. I can't—"

"Hey." Paul turned Adam around, his eyes serious. "Do you need to?"

Adam blinked. "What?"

"Do you need your dick? To feel good? To come?"

Adam thought about it. About the sex they'd been having lately. About how he came now—not from his cock being touched, but from being fucked. From Paul inside him, moving, the pressure and friction and fullness. From his own fat rubbing against itself, the sensation overwhelming and all-consuming.

He didn't need his dick anymore. His body had found new ways to feel pleasure. New ways to come.

"No," Adam said slowly. "I don't need it."

"Then it doesn't matter." Paul's hands gripped Adam's belly possessively. "You're still you. You're still sexy. You're still mine. And I'm going to keep making you feel good. Every single day."

Paul kissed him deeply, his hands everywhere, and Adam felt his body respond—his buried cock twitching, his whole body shaking.

He came later, Paul inside him, his fat rubbing and shifting with each thrust, the pleasure building until it was unbearable. He came without his cock being touched at all, his body shaking, his mind blank with ecstasy. His orgasms were now magnitudes stronger than they every were when he was hung.

[bilbordbelly]

A bit of fun loving

[malegainerstories]

The Star Player: Chapter 3

Thursday morning, I decided to weigh myself at the gym. I hadn't checked in a while, and with all the strength gains I'd been making, I was curious to see the numbers.

I stepped on the scale and watched the digital display flicker before settling on a number: 201 pounds.

Two hundred and one fucking pounds.

I've put on eight pounds since the start of the season. Eight pounds of solid muscle. I stared at myself in the mirror next to the scale, turning to the side, flexing my arms. My biceps are bigger, no question. My shoulders looks broader. My chest is huge.

This is insane. I am getting more muscular without even trying that hard. Phil's shakes are like magic—pure gains in a bottle.

I flexed again, admiring the way my shirt stretched across my chest and arms. Fuck, I look good. If I keep this up, I'll have to buy new clothes just to fit these huge arms and muscular thighs. Maybe I should slow down a bit, or I'll end up looking like one of those bodybuilders who couldn't fit through doorways.

But damn, it feels good to be this big. This powerful.

The recruiters are going to lose their minds.

Later that afternoon, Coach called me into his office. I figured it was about game strategy or maybe some praise for my recent performance, but when I sat down, his expression was serious.

"Listen," Coach said, leaning back in his chair. "I've been noticing some changes in you lately."

"Changes?" I said, confused. "Like what?"

"You've been bulking," he said bluntly. "And I get it—strength training, building muscle, all that. But you need to be careful not to overdo it. You've got to stay in prime shape, not just big. Agility, speed, endurance—that's what makes you a star."

I almost laughed. Was he serious?

"Coach, I'm in the best shape of my life," I said. "I've been lifting heavier, running faster—"

"I'm not saying you're not working hard," Coach interrupted. "I'm just saying, don't let yourself get out of shape. You've got recruiters coming to watch you play. You need to be at your absolute best."

Out of shape? Was he fucking kidding me? I had an eight-pack—well, a six-pack, but it was solid as hell. I was stronger than I'd ever been. This was ridiculous.

"Coach, I'm not letting myself get out of shape," I said firmly. "I know what I'm doing."

He studied me for a moment, then nodded slowly. "Alright. Just keep an eye on it. I want you at your best for that game."

"I will be," I said, standing up. "Don't worry."

As I left his office, I shook my head. Coach was such a nut sometimes. As if I'd let myself get out of shape. I was a fucking machine.

The next morning, Phil showed up at my dorm with two protein shakes.

"What's this?" I asked, taking them from him.

"One for now, one for practice later," Phil said. "Figured you could use the extra fuel in the mornings too."

I stared at the shakes, then at Phil. "Dude, why do you want me so muscular? You trying to turn me into the Hulk or something?"

Phil just smiled and reached out, patting my stomach. His hand lingered there for a second, and I felt the firmness of my abs under his palm—or at least, I thought I did. It felt... softer than I expected.

"I'm just being a friend," Phil said. "You've got a big game coming up. I want you to be at your best."

There was something weird about the way he said it, but I shrugged it off. Phil was always a little odd. Maybe he just needed to get laid and focus on his own play instead of obsessing over mine.

"Alright, man," I said. "Thanks, I guess."

I drank the first shake right there, and it was just as thick and delicious as always. Phil watched me the whole time, that same unreadable expression on his face.

"See you at practice," he said, and left.

I finished the shake and wiped my mouth, feeling the familiar heaviness settle in my stomach. Whatever. Phil was weird, but the shakes were working. I was getting bigger and stronger, and that's all that mattered.

By the end of the week, I started noticing something annoying: my pants were getting hard to button.

I stood in front of my mirror, trying to fasten my jeans, and the waistband dug into my stomach. I had to suck in a little to get the button through, and even then, it felt tight.

What the fuck?

I looked at myself in the mirror, turning to the side. My thighs looked thicker, pressing against the denim. My ass filled out the seat of my jeans more than it used to. Even my shirts felt tighter across my chest and shoulders.

But that made sense, right? I was as muscular as a Greek god now. Of course my clothes were getting tight—I was packing on serious size. My arms were huge, my chest was broader, my legs were more powerful. This was just what happened when you got this jacked.

I'd have to go shopping soon, get some bigger clothes to fit this new body. It was a good problem to have, honestly. Most guys would kill to have my physique.

I flexed in the mirror one more time, admiring the way my shirt stretched across my pecs. Yeah, I looked fucking incredible.

Saturday afternoon, I had another project meeting with Ed. I was dreading it as usual, but at least he was doing most of the work. All I had to do was show up and pretend to care.

When I got to the library, Ed was already there with his laptop open. And, of course, he'd brought food. A ridiculous amount of food.

He brought donuts. Not just a box—a massive, family-size box from the fancy bakery downtown. There had to be at least two dozen donuts in there, all different flavors: glazed, chocolate, jelly-filled, cream-filled, sprinkles, the works.

"Jesus Christ, Ed," I said, sitting down. "You planning to feed an army?"

"I just thought we might get hungry," Ed said quietly, not meeting my eyes.

I rolled my eyes and opened my laptop. "Let's just get this over with."

Ed started typing away, working on the presentation while I sat back and watched. I wasn't planning to eat any of the donuts—I had discipline, after all—but the smell was incredible. Sweet, sugary, fresh-baked. My stomach growled.

I'd skipped lunch to hit the gym, and now I was starving.

"You mind if I have one?" I asked, reaching for a glazed donut before Ed could even answer.

"Go ahead," Ed said.

I took a bite, and fuck, it was good. Soft, sweet, melting in my mouth. I finished it in three bites and reached for another one. Then another. Before I knew it, I'd eaten five or six donuts. I wasn't even keeping track.

Ed didn't say anything, just kept typing while I ate. I told myself I was just hungry, that I'd burn it off at practice on Monday. It wasn't a big deal.

By the time we finished the meeting, the donut box was half-empty, and my stomach felt heavy and full. I stood up, feeling the waistband of my jeans dig into my stomach.

"Same time next week?" Ed asked.

"Yeah, sure," I said, already thinking about how I'd need to hit the gym extra hard to work off all those calories.

The following week, I started feeling off. Not sick, exactly, but just... sluggish. Less energetic. During practice, I felt like I was dragging, like my body wasn't responding the way it used to.

"You alright?" one of my teammates asked after I fumbled a pass.

"Yeah, I'm fine," I snapped. "Just caught something, I think."

But it wasn't just one practice. It was every practice that week. I felt slower, heavier, like I was running through mud. My lungs burned faster, my legs felt weaker. I couldn't run circles around the other guys like I usually did.

Coach noticed too. "You feeling okay?" he asked during a water break.

"I'm fine," I said, breathing hard. "Just a little under the weather."

"Well, get some rest," Coach said. "I need you at your best for the big game."

I nodded, but inside, I was frustrated. What the hell was wrong with me? I was eating right (well almost), drinking Phil's shakes, lifting heavier than ever. I should be in peak condition, not feeling like this.

Maybe I just needed to push through it. Get my act together. The recruiters were coming, and I couldn't afford to look weak.

Wednesday afternoon, I stopped by a cafe near campus to grab a quick coffee and sandwich before my next class. I walked in, barely paying attention, and froze when I saw who was behind the counter.

Alex.

The fat guy from Grindr. The guy I'd told to get his shit together.

And he looked even worse than his photos.

His barista uniform was stretched tight across his body, the shirt barely containing his gut. His belly hung over the waistband of his pants, soft and round, jiggling slightly as he moved. I could see the fat of his love handles bulging out on the sides of his apron, spilling over like dough.

What the fuck.

"Hey there," Alex said, smiling at me like we were old friends. "What can I get you?"

I wanted to turn around and leave, but I needed caffeine, and I wasn't about to let some fat loser ruin my day.

"Black coffee and a turkey sandwich," I said curtly.

"Coming right up, big man," Alex said, and his hand reached out to touch my arm. His fingers lingered there for a second, and I jerked away.

"Don't touch me," I said.

Alex just smiled, that same knowing smile, and turned to make my order.

When he handed me the cup and bag, I didn't check it. I just wanted to get out of there. But when I sat down at a table and took a sip of my coffee, I realized it wasn't black. It was sweet and creamy, loaded with sugar and milk.

"What the fuck?" I muttered, opening the bag. Inside, there was my sandwich, but also two extra muffins—huge, chocolate chip muffins that I definitely hadn't ordered.

I should have gone back and told him he messed up my order. But I was hungry, and the muffins smelled amazing, and honestly, I didn't want to deal with Alex again.

So I ate them. Both of them. And the sandwich. And I drank the sweet coffee, even though it wasn't what I wanted.

By the time I finished, I felt bloated, and a little sick. But whatever. It was just one meal. I'd work it off later.

At practice that afternoon, I was still feeling sluggish, but I pushed through. Phil showed up with my shake, and I drank it gratefully, hoping it would give me some energy.

As I was bending over to tie my cleats, Phil walked past and said, "Your ass looks nice and round today."

I straightened up, staring at him. "What the fuck, dude?"

Phil just grinned. "What? I'm just saying. You're looking good."

"You need to get laid, man," I said. "Seriously. You're acting weird."

"I'm just being honest," Phil said, shrugging.

I shook my head and turned away, but his words stuck with me. My ass looked nice and round? What the hell did that mean?

I glanced down at myself, noticing the way my football leggings clung to my body. They did feel tighter than usual, especially around my thighs and ass. The fabric stretched across my glutes, hugging them in a way that felt... different.

But Phil's ass was twice the size of mine, so he could talk.

Still, as I jogged onto the field, I couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. My clothes were tighter, my body felt heavier, and people kept making weird comments.

But I was just getting more muscular, right? That's what this was. Just gains.

I had to stay focused. The big game was coming, and I needed to be at my best.

Nothing was going to stop me from impressing those recruiters.

Nothing.

[dflowgainer]

I been eatin

[malegainerstories]

The Roomate: Chapter 10

Carl's first shift back at the café was Sunday afternoon, the day before classes started.

He walked in through the back entrance, the familiar smell of espresso and baked goods hitting him immediately. The café was busy—students returning early, getting their caffeine fix before the semester began.

Tim was behind the counter, his back to the door as he steamed milk.

"Hey," Carl called out.

Tim turned, and his face lit up.

"Carl!"

He came around the counter quickly, pulling Carl into a hug that lasted just a beat too long. Carl felt Tim's arms wrap around him, solid and warm, and he hugged back without thinking.

When they pulled apart, Tim was grinning.

"Fuck, I missed you," Tim said. "Break was boring as hell."

"Yeah," Carl said, smiling. "Same."

"Alright, let me make you something to celebrate." Tim moved back behind the counter, already pulling a cup. "Extra creamy. You deserve it."

Carl watched as Tim worked, the familiar rhythm of the espresso machine, the careful pour of steamed milk, the way Tim's hands moved with practiced ease.

When Tim handed him the cup, their fingers brushed.

"Welcome back," Tim said softly.

Carl took a sip. It was perfect—rich, sweet, indulgent. He closed his eyes for a moment, savoring it.

"God, I missed this," Carl said.

"The latte or me?" Tim asked, smirking.

"Both," Carl admitted.

Tim's grin widened.

Classes started on Monday, and Carl felt surprisingly confident.

He'd done well first semester—better than he'd expected, honestly. Sure, he'd stopped running. Sure, he'd gained weight. But his grades were solid, and he knew how to manage the workload now.

He walked into his first class—Intro to Psychology—and found a seat near the middle. The professor was young, energetic, talking about cognitive biases and decision-making.

Carl took notes, his pen moving steadily across the page.

He felt good. Focused. Like he had his shit together.

Even if his jeans were a little snug.

That night, lying in bed, Carl couldn't stop thinking about Nick.

The dick pic. The caption. See you on spring break.

Carl was horny all the time now. It was constant, distracting, impossible to ignore. And he didn't have an outlet for it.

Tim was... complicated. They flirted, sure. They'd kissed at that party. But Carl didn't know what that meant, and he wasn't ready to figure it out.

Nick was even more complicated. Closeted, probably. Definitely confusing.

Carl needed something simple. Something that didn't come with emotional baggage.

He opened Grindr.

His profile was outdated—photos from high school, back when he was lean and athletic. He looked at them for a long moment, then deleted them.

He needed new pictures.

"Hey, David?" Carl called out.

David looked up from his laptop. "Yeah?"

"Can you take some pictures of me? For... uh, Grindr."

David raised an eyebrow, but he didn't tease. "Yeah, sure. What do you want to wear?"

Carl pulled on his new 36s jeans—the ones that fit perfectly—and a large button-up shirt that he left untucked. It was nice, casual, the kind of thing that looked good without trying too hard.

He stood in the middle of the room, suddenly self-conscious.

"Just... make me look good," Carl said.

David grinned. "You already do."

He took a few shots—Carl standing by the window, leaning against the wall, sitting on the edge of his bed. Carl tried to relax, to look natural, but it felt awkward.

"Suck your gut in a little," David said.

Carl did, pulling his stomach in as much as he could.

David took the shot.

"Alright, let me see," Carl said.

David handed him the phone.

Carl stared at the screen.

He looked... bigger.

Even with his gut sucked in, the outline of his belly was visible beneath the shirt. His cheek looked round, he could even see the beggining of a double chin. His chest looked swollen, hugging the fabric of the shirt.

He'd seen the number creep up on the scale. But seeing himself in the photos—seeing how his body had changed—made it real in a way it hadn't been before.

"You look good," David said quietly.

Carl glanced at him. David's expression was sincere, not mocking.

"Yeah," Carl said, his voice uncertain. "Thanks."

He uploaded the photos to Grindr, updated his profile, and waited.

The messages started coming in almost immediately.

Some were complimentary. Some were explicit. Some were just "hey."

And some were mean.

You should hit the gym, bro.

Not into chubby guys, sorry.

Gross.

Carl stared at the messages, his jaw tightening.

They stung. He wouldn't pretend they didn't. But they didn't devastate him, either. He'd expected some of this. Grindr was brutal.

He deleted the messages and kept scrolling.

And then he saw Adam.

Adam's profile picture looked like it belonged in a magazine—sharp jawline, perfect hair, bright eyes. His bio was short: Looking for something real. Let's talk.

Carl messaged him.

Carl: Hey. You seem cool.

The response came quickly.

Adam: Thanks! You too. I like your vibe.

They talked for an hour. Adam was funny, smart, easy to talk to. He lived about an hour away, finishing his degree at a different school. He asked Carl about his classes, his interests, what he liked to do for fun.

And he didn't mention Carl's body once—not in a negative way, not in a fetishizing way. He just... talked to him like a person.

By the end of the conversation, they'd made plans to meet up the following week.

Carl set his phone down, smiling.

Maybe this semester wouldn't be so bad after all.

By Friday, Carl was buzzing with anticipation.

It was their first game night in almost a month, and he'd been looking forward to it all week. Classes were going well. He had a date with Adam scheduled. And he got to spend the evening with David, eating junk food and playing video games.

Life felt good.

David had gone all out. Two large pizzas—one pepperoni, one supreme. A family-size bag of Doritos. Mozzarella sticks. Chicken wings. A two-liter of Coke. And a bag of gummy bears for dessert.

"Jesus," Carl said, staring at the spread. "Are we feeding an army?"

"We haven't done this in a month," David said, grinning. "We're making up for lost time."

Carl laughed. "Fair."

They started playing, and they started eating.

Carl demolished three slices of pizza before he even realized it. Then he moved to the mozzarella sticks, dipping them in marinara sauce, the cheese stretching as he bit down. Then the wings—spicy, greasy, perfect.

David packed the bong, and they passed it back and forth between bites.

By the time Carl finished his fifth slice of pizza, he was uncomfortably full.

His stomach pressed against the waistband of his jeans, tight and heavy. He felt a little nauseous, his body protesting the sheer volume of food he'd consumed.

"Dude," Carl said, leaning back against the couch. "I think I overdid it."

David glanced at him, grinning. "You good?"

"Yeah. Just... really full."

David set down his controller. "Want me to help?"

Carl hesitated, then nodded.

David shifted closer, his hand settling on Carl's stomach.

He started massaging, slow and firm, his fingers pressing into the taut curve of Carl's belly.

Carl closed his eyes, exhaling slowly.

It felt good. Too good.

David's hand moved in slow circles, kneading the tension out of Carl's overstuffed stomach. The pressure eased the nausea, but it also sent heat flooding through Carl's body.

He was high. He was full. And he was getting hard.

Carl's breath hitched, and he opened his eyes, glancing at David.

David's expression was focused, his hand still moving in steady circles. But Carl was pretty sure he'd noticed. The way David's gaze flicked down for just a second, the way his hand lingered a little longer than necessary.

Carl wanted him to keep going. Wanted David's hand to move lower, to touch him the way he'd been craving for weeks.

But David pulled his hand away.

"Better?" David asked, his voice casual.

"Yeah," Carl said, his voice rough. "Thanks."

They went back to the game, neither of them saying anything.

But Carl couldn't focus. His body was still buzzing, his mind racing. He was horny. Constantly, desperately horny. And he didn't know what to do about it. He never thought gaining weight would lead to such arousing situations, but here he was, stuffed to the brim and hard as hell.

Carl had to restrain himself not to beg Carl to jerk him off. He did it by himself later, his mind racing between Tim, Carl and Nick and, strangely, his growing body.

[malegainerstories]

Are you continuing “The Roommate”? I’m dying to hear what happens to Carl, this revelation of Nick, and does Tim make his move???

Yes I will. There's a lot more to come 😏

[malegainerstories]

Pls come back :(

I am back hehe 💪 sorry for the long vacation !

[malegainerstories]

The Bakery: Chapter 12

The bakery felt different when they returned after the holidays. The Christmas decorations were gone, replaced by simple winter displays. The rush had died down to the usual steady flow of customers. Everything was back to normal—except Adam was now wearing an engagement ring, and his body had crossed yet another threshold.

Pablo was the first to notice when Adam walked into the break room on the first Monday back.

"Holy shit!" Pablo jumped up from his chair, grinning wide. "Let me see it!"

Adam held out his hand, feeling his face flush. The gold band looked small on his thick finger, but it was there. Real. Permanent.

"Congratulations, man. That's amazing." Pablo pulled him into a hug, and Adam was struck by how different his friend's body felt. Smaller. Muscular?

When they separated, Adam really looked at Pablo for the first time in weeks. He'd lost more weight over the holidays—his face was way less round, his arms starting to show muscle definition through his fitted t-shirt.

"How much do you weigh now?" Adam asked.

"Two-twenty as of this morning. Lost another eight pounds over Christmas." Pablo flexed his bicep, the muscle popping impressively. "Been running ten miles a day. Hit the gym twice a day most days. I feel fucking incredible."

"You look it," Adam said, and he meant it. Pablo had completely transformed himself. The soft, heavy guy who'd started at the bakery alongside him was gone, replaced by this lean, muscular version.

"Thanks. And hey—you look happy. That's what matters." Pablo's eyes traveled over Adam's body. But his expression was kind. Accepting. "Paul's good for you."

"Yeah. He is."

The door opened and Philip walked in, and Adam felt his jaw drop.

Philip had gained at least twenty pounds over the two-week holiday break. His face was round and soft, his cheeks full, a double chin clearly forming. His belly pushed out against his hoodie—no longer just a small paunch but a real gut, soft and prominent. His thighs rubbed together as he walked, his ass bouncing.

"Hey," Philip muttered, not meeting anyone's eyes. He went straight to the coffee maker, his hoodie riding up to expose a sliver of pale, soft belly.

Pablo's eyes lit up with something predatory. "Good holidays, Philip?"

"Fine."

"Looks like you enjoyed the food." Pablo's tone was casual, but there was an edge to it. "How much did you gain? Twenty pounds? Twenty-five?"

Philip's face flushed red. "I don't know. I didn't weigh myself."

"You should. I bet you're over 250 now." Pablo walked closer, his eyes traveling over Philip's body with obvious satisfaction. "How does that feel to be obese?"

"Fuck off," Philip said, but his voice lacked conviction.

Adam watched the exchange, feeling a mix of satisfaction and unease. Philip had been such an arrogant asshole when he'd started—lean and judgmental, making snide comments about everyone's weight. Now he was the heaviest person in the bakery besides Adam.

And Pablo was clearly enjoying every second of it.

Paul scheduled the suit fitting for mid-January, making an appointment at an upscale men's store downtown. Adam felt a knot of anxiety form in his stomach as soon as Paul told him.

"Isn't it too early?" Adam asked. They were in Paul's office, the door closed, Paul's hand resting on Adam's belly. "The wedding's not until June. That's five months away."

"So?"

"So I'm going to gain more weight. A lot more weight. The suit won't fit by then."

Paul's hand slid lower, gripping the soft flesh of Adam's lower belly. "How much do you think you'll gain?"

"I don't know. Twenty pounds? Thirty?" Adam's voice was tight. "I'm gaining about two pounds a week right now. That's forty pounds by June. The suit will be way too small."

"Then we'll get it altered. Or buy a new one." Paul's tone was calm, unbothered. "I want you to have a suit that fits you now. For engagement photos. For events. And if you outgrow it by the wedding, we'll deal with it then."

Adam felt something twist in his chest. Paul wasn't just accepting his weight gain—he was planning around it. Expecting it. Encouraging it.

"What if I'm 400 pounds by the wedding?" Adam asked, the words coming out before he could stop them.

Paul's eyes darkened with desire. "Then you'll be 400 pounds. And you'll still be the most beautiful person I've ever seen."

Adam felt his cock stir despite himself. The idea of being 400 pounds at his own wedding should have horrified him. Instead, it just made him hard.

"I'm scared," Adam admitted. "Not of gaining weight. But of... not being able to stop. Of it getting out of control."

"It's already out of control," Paul said gently. "And that's okay. You don't have to stop. You don't have to fight it. Just let it happen."

At the end of a mid-January day when Adam had stayed late to finish some paperwork, the bakery was mostly empty—just him, Pablo, and Philip. Paul had left an hour earlier for a meeting with a supplier.

Adam needed to grab something from the back storage room—extra receipt paper for the register. He walked through the kitchen, past the ovens, toward the storage area in the back.

And that's when he heard it.

Moaning. Grunting. The unmistakable sound of sex.

Adam froze, his heart pounding. He should leave. Turn around. Pretend he hadn't heard anything.

But he didn't.

He moved closer, peering around the corner into the storage room.

Pablo had Philip bent over a stack of flour bags, his pants around his ankles, his hoodie pushed up to expose his soft, pale back. Pablo was fucking him hard, one hand gripping Philip's hip, the other tangled in his hair.

"You're so fucking fat now," Pablo growled, his voice rough and cruel. "Look at you. You used to be skinny. Used to judge everyone. Now you're just a fat mess."

Philip moaned, his face flushed, his body jiggling with each thrust.

"How much have you gained? Fifty pounds? Sixty?" Pablo's hand slid around to grip Philip's belly, squeezing the soft flesh. "You're a pig. A fat, greedy pig. And you love it, don't you?"

"Yes," Philip gasped. "Yes, fuck, yes—"

"Say it. Say you're a fat pig."

"I'm a fat pig," Philip whimpered. "I'm fat and I can't stop eating and I love it—"

Pablo fucked him harder, his movements rough and punishing, and Philip's moans grew louder, more desperate.

Adam backed away slowly, his face burning, his cock hard in his pants. He shouldn't have watched. But he couldn't look away.

After that day, Philip changed.

The arrogance was gone. The snide comments stopped. He became quiet, almost submissive, doing his tasting duties without complaint. He gained more weight—another ten pounds by the end of January.

And he looked at Pablo with something like worship in his eyes.

Adam didn't say anything. It wasn't his business, but he had jerked off several times thinking about his doscovery.

Paul announced the Mexico vacation at the end of January, his eyes bright with excitement.

"Two weeks. All-inclusive resort. Private beach. Unlimited food and drinks." He pulled Adam onto his lap, his hands sliding over Adam's belly. "I want to take you somewhere we can just... be. No work. No stress. Just us."

"That sounds amazing," Adam said, feeling a flutter of anticipation.

"There's one more thing." Paul's voice dropped lower, more intimate. "I want to make you 400 pounds by the end of the trip."

Adam's breath caught. "What?"

"You're 370 now. That's thirty pounds in two weeks. It's aggressive, but it's possible. And I want to do it. I want to watch you eat until you can't move. I want to feed you until you're so full you're begging me to stop. I want to see you cross that threshold."

Adam felt his cock harden, his body responding before his mind could catch up. 400 pounds. The number felt enormous, impossible.

"Okay," Adam whispered. "Let's do it."

Paul kissed him deeply, his hands possessive on Adam's body. "I love you. And I'm going to make you so fucking big."

The airport was a nightmare.

Paul had booked two seats for Adam on the plane—a necessity at 370 pounds. But the process of checking in, explaining the situation to the gate agent, boarding while other passengers stared—it was humiliating in a way that made Adam's face burn and his cock throb.

The seats were in the back row, side by side. Adam lowered himself into the first one, his belly pressing against the armrest, his thighs spreading wide. He couldn't get the seatbelt to close around him.

"Here." Paul reached over with the seatbelt extender the flight attendant had quietly provided. He fastened it around Adam's belly, his fingers lingering on the soft flesh. "Comfortable?"

"Not really," Adam admitted. His ass barely fit in the seat, his belly spilling onto his lap, his thighs pressed against the armrests. He was taking up both seats, his body too large for the space designed for normal people.

"Just a few hours," Paul said, his hand resting on Adam's thigh. "And then we'll be in paradise."

The flight was long and uncomfortable. Adam couldn't move much, couldn't shift his weight without his belly pressing against the seat in front of him. Other passengers glanced back at him, their expressions ranging from curiosity to disgust.

But Paul stayed beside him the entire time, his hand on Adam's body, his presence a constant reassurance.

When they finally landed, Adam felt a wave of relief. And anticipation.

This was it. Two weeks of complete indulgence. Two weeks of surrendering to everything he'd been fighting—and everything he'd been craving.

The resort was stunning—white sand beaches, crystal-blue water, palm trees swaying in the breeze. Their room was on the ground floor with direct access to the pool, a king-size bed, and a balcony overlooking the ocean.

Paul tipped the bellhop and closed the door, then turned to Adam with a predatory smile.

"Strip."

Adam obeyed, pulling off his shirt and pants, standing naked in the middle of the room. His belly hung heavily, covered in stretch marks, his thighs thick and dimpled, his chest soft and heavy. His cock was barely visible beneath his belly, half-hard and small.

Paul walked around him slowly, his eyes traveling over every inch of Adam's body. "370 pounds. You're so fucking big already. And we're going to make you bigger."

He pulled out his phone and took a photo—Adam standing naked, his body on full display, his face flushed with arousal and shame.

"Before picture," Paul said. "So we can compare at the end."

Then he pulled Adam onto the bed, his hands and mouth everywhere, and they fucked until Adam was gasping and spent.

Afterward, Paul ordered room service—appetizers, entrees, desserts, everything on the menu. The food arrived on a rolling cart, and Paul fed Adam piece by piece, his eyes dark with desire.

"Eat," Paul commanded. "I want you so full you can't move."

Adam ate. Shrimp cocktail, crab cakes, steak, mashed potatoes, pasta, bread, cheesecake, chocolate mousse. He ate until his belly was tight and aching, until he was groaning with discomfort, until he couldn't take another bite.

And then Paul fucked him again, his hands gripping Adam's belly, his voice rough in Adam's ear.

"You're going to be 400 pounds. You're going to be so fucking fat you can't walk without getting winded. And I'm going to love every second of it."

Adam came hard, his body shaking, his mind blank with pleasure.

The first morning, they went to the beach.

Adam wore the largest swim trunks he could find—5XL, stretchy fabric, but they still cut into his sides. His belly hung over the waistband, jiggling with each step. His chest was soft and heavy, his nipples large and sensitive. His thighs rubbed together, forcing him to waddle, and were chafing in the heat.

Paul wore normal swim trunks, his body lean and fit, a stark contrast to Adam's bulk.

They found two lounge chairs near the water, and Adam lowered himself carefully, the chair creaking under his weight. His belly spilled onto his lap, his thighs spreading wide, his body taking up the entire chair and then some.

Other guests glanced over. Adam felt his face burn, but Paul just smiled, his hand resting possessively on Adam's belly.

"You're beautiful," Paul said. "Don't forget that."

A server came by offering drinks, and Paul ordered two piña coladas and a plate of nachos. When the food arrived, Paul fed Adam piece by piece, his fingers lingering on Adam's lips, his eyes never leaving Adam's face.

"More," Paul said when the nachos were gone. "I want you eating constantly."

They ordered more food—quesadillas, chicken wings, fries, onion rings. Adam ate until his belly was tight, until he was sweating in the sun, until he felt like he might burst.

And then Paul suggested they go in the water.

Adam hesitated. The idea of walking to the ocean, of exposing his body even more, of struggling through the sand—it was terrifying.

But Paul took his hand, pulling him up, and Adam followed.

The walk was harder than he expected. His feet sank into the sand, his belly bouncing with each step. He was breathing hard by the time they reached the water, his face flushed, his body covered in sweat.

The water was cool and refreshing, but Adam couldn't go far. His belly made it hard to move, the waves pushing against him, his balance precarious. He stayed in the shallow water, his body half-submerged, while Paul swam around him.

"You okay?" Paul asked, his hands sliding over Adam's belly under the water.

"Yeah. Just... heavy."

"I know. And it's so fucking hot." Paul kissed him, his hands possessive. "Let's go back. I want to feed you more."

They returned to the lounge chairs, and Paul ordered more food. And more drinks. And more dessert.

By the time they went back to the room, Adam's belly was enormous, tight and round, his skin stretched to its limit. He could barely walk, his breathing labored, his body exhausted.

Paul laid him on the bed and fucked him slowly, his hands gripping Adam's belly, his voice a constant stream of praise and encouragement.

"You're doing so good. You're getting so big. I love you so much."

Adam came with a cry, his body shaking, his mind lost in the pleasure of it all.

The days blurred together—a constant cycle of eating, fucking, and sleeping.

They went to the buffet every morning, and Adam filled his plate again and again. Eggs, bacon, sausage, pancakes, waffles, pastries, fruit, yogurt. He ate until he was groaning, until his belly was pressing against the table, until Paul had to help him stand.

They spent afternoons by the pool, Paul ordering food and drinks constantly. Adam ate poolside—burgers, hot dogs, fries, nachos, ice cream. Other guests watched, some with fascination, some with disgust. Adam stopped caring.

He was here to eat. To gain. To surrender.

One afternoon, a woman approached them—middle-aged, friendly, clearly tipsy.

"I just have to say," she said, her eyes on Adam, "you two are so cute together. And you—" she gestured to Adam, "—you look so happy. It's really sweet."

Paul grinned. "Thank you. He is happy. Aren't you, babe?"

Adam nodded, his face flushing. His belly was on full display, his swim trunks barely containing him, his body soft and enormous. And this stranger thought he looked happy.

The woman left, and Paul leaned over, his hand sliding over Adam's belly. "See? People can tell. You're glowing."

"I'm sweating," Adam said, but he was smiling.

"That too." Paul kissed him. "Now eat more. I ordered you a pizza."

The nights were the most intense.

Paul would order room service—massive amounts of food—and feed Adam until he was begging to stop. And then Paul would fuck him, his hands and mouth everywhere, his voice rough and commanding.

"You're so fat now. So fucking huge. I can barely get my arms around you."

"I love watching you eat. Watching your belly grow. Watching you give in."

"You're going to be 400 pounds. And you're never going back."

Adam came again and again, his body overwhelmed with sensation, his mind blank with pleasure.

He stopped weighing himself after the first week. He didn't want to know. He just wanted to feel.

And he felt incredible.

By the end of the second week, Adam could barely move.

His belly was enormous—hanging past his crotch, covered in fresh stretch marks, tight and heavy. His thighs were massive, chafing despite the lotion Paul applied constantly. His chest was soft and pendulous, his arms thick and dimpled.

He couldn't see his feet. He could hardly tie his shoes. He couldn't fit into the shower without his belly pressing against the glass.

On their last night, Paul ordered a final feast—steaks, lobster, pasta, bread, desserts. He fed Adam slowly, sensually, his eyes dark with satisfaction.

"You did it," Paul said. "You're so fucking big now. So beautiful."

Adam ate until he couldn't anymore, until his belly was so tight he thought he might burst. And then Paul helped him onto the bed, his hands gentle, his touch reverent.

"I love you," Paul whispered. "Every inch of you."

They fucked one last time, slow and tender.

The morning they left, Paul made Adam step on the scale in their room.

Adam hesitated, his heart pounding. He didn't want to know. But he also did.

He stepped on, his belly hanging heavily, his body swaying slightly.

The number flashed: 398 lbs.

"Close enough," Paul said, grinning. "Two more pounds and you would've hit it. But we'll get there soon."

Adam stared at the number, almost not believing it. He'd gained 28 pounds in two weeks. He was 398 pounds. Nearly 400.

He'd more than doubled his starting weight.

"Let's go home," Adam said.

Paul kissed him deeply. "Let's go home."

[ginger-binge]

been told I give pretty good hugs

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[malegainerstories]

The Star Player: Chapter 2

Phil's been bringing me those protein shakes every single practice this week, and damn, they're fucking incredible. I don't know where he's getting them, but they taste like liquid heaven—thick, creamy, with this rich chocolate flavor that's almost dessert-like. Way better than any protein powder I've ever tried, and I've tried them all.

The weird thing is, Phil never drinks them himself. He shows up with two shakers, hands me one, and just... watches me drink it while he sips water. Every single time.

"Dude, you're not having one?" I asked him after Wednesday's practice, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.

"Nah, I'm good," Phil said, that same weird expression on his face. "I got them for you. Thought you'd like them."

"They're amazing. Seriously, best shakes I've ever had." I drained the rest of it, feeling the thick liquid coat my throat. "But why aren't you drinking any? You trying to impress me or something?"

Phil's mouth twitched. "Something like that."

"You're such a pussy," I laughed, clapping him on the shoulder. "But hey, keep them coming. These things are incredible."

He nodded slowly. "Oh, I will. Don't worry about that."

I didn't think much of it. Phil's always been a little weird, a little too eager to please. Probably just wants to stay on my good side since I'm the star of the team. Can't blame him for that.

Tuesday afternoon, I had to meet with Ed for our first project session. I'd been dreading it all day, but I needed to at least pretend to give a shit if I wanted a passing grade. We agreed to meet at the library, and when I got there, Ed was already set up at a table in the back corner with his laptop open.

And food. So much fucking food.

There were two large pizza boxes, a bag of chips, candy bars, a two-liter bottle of Coke, and what looked like a family-size container of cookies. It was enough to feed an army, or in Ed's case, probably just an afternoon snack.

"Hey," I said, sliding into the chair across from him, trying not to stare at the spread.

"Hi," Ed said quietly, not quite meeting my eyes. "I, uh, brought some snacks. In case we got hungry."

Snacks. Right. This was a full buffet.

"Cool," I said, keeping my voice neutral. I needed to not be a dick here, as much as it killed me. "So, what are we thinking for the project?"

Ed started talking about the assignment—something about social structures and inequality, which was ironic given that I was sitting across from someone who clearly had no self-control. But I bit my tongue and nodded along, occasionally throwing in a comment to make it seem like I was engaged.

I kept my eyes on my laptop and on Ed, deliberately avoiding looking at the food spread. The smell of the pizza was there, sure, but I wasn't about to eat that garbage. I have discipline. I have control. That's what separates me from guys like Ed—I don't just shove whatever is in front of me into my mouth.

We worked through the project, and Ed ate his food disgustingly while we talked about research sources and presentation formats. He probably ate a whole pizza and twenty cookies. What a pig!

When we packed up after an hour, I felt good about myself. Din't eat any of his crap. That's the difference between stars like me and indulgent nobodies like him.

"Same time next week?" Ed asked.

"Yeah, sure," I managed.

That night, my phone wouldn't stop buzzing. The twink from the party—I didn't even remember his name—had been texting me nonstop since the weekend. At first, it was just "hey" and "had fun the other night," but now it was getting borderline stalker-ish.

"When can I see you again?"

"You're so hot, I can't stop thinking about you."

"Please, I need you."

It was flattering, sure, but also kind of pathetic. Still, the kid had a great ass, and I wouldn't mind hitting that again.

"District nightclub. Friday night," I texted back. "Be there at 10. I'll give you another good pounding."

The response was almost immediate: "Yes! Can't wait!"

I smirked and tossed my phone aside. Too easy.

Thursday morning at the gym, I was hitting my usual routine—bench press, squats, deadlifts, the whole circuit and damn I got so much stronger!

I easily added ten pounds more on my bench press.

I stood up, breathing hard, and flexed in the mirror. I looked jacked. This was it—Phil's protein shakes were working exactly like they were supposed to.

The recruiters were going to lose their fucking minds when they saw me play next month. I was going to be unstoppable.

"Fuck yeah," I muttered to myself, flexing again. "I'm gonna be an even bigger star."

Friday night, I rolled up to District nightclub feeling like a god. I'd worn my tightest shirt—a black V-neck that showed off my chest and arms—and my best jeans, the ones that made my ass look absolutely perfect. When I caught my reflection in the club's windows, I had to admire myself. My shoulders were stretching the fabric of my shirt, and my biceps looked huge.

Inside, the music was pounding, the lights were flashing, and the place was packed with guys dancing, drinking, and cruising. I spotted the twink almost immediately—he was waiting near the bar, looking nervous and excited.

"Hey," I said, sliding up behind him and putting my hand on his lower back.

He turned, and his face lit up. "You came!"

"Of course I did. Come on."

I led him through the crowd to the bathroom, ignoring the looks from other guys who clearly wished they were in his place. Once we were inside a stall, I didn't waste time. I pushed him against the wall, my hands gripping his hips, and he moaned my name like I was the only thing that mattered in the world.

"You feel so good," he gasped, his fingers digging into my shoulders. "You're so big, so strong..."

Damn right I was. I fucked him hard and fast, the way he wanted it, the way I knew he'd been fantasizing about all week. When we were done, he was practically shaking, clinging to me like I'd just given him the best experience of his life.

Which, let's be honest, I probably had.

"Same time next week?" he asked breathlessly.

"Maybe," I said, already zipping up and heading for the door. "I'll let you know."

Back on the dance floor, I grabbed a drink and scanned the crowd. That's when I saw him.

Alex.

The guy from Grindr, the one who'd blown up and gotten fat. Except he looked even worse in person than he had in his photos. He was out on the dance floor, his belly hanging over his waistband, his ass jiggling with every movement, his face flushed and sweaty. He was dancing with another heavy guy, both of them completely shameless, their bodies shaking and bouncing to the beat.

It was fucking disgusting.

I walked over, drink in hand, and tapped him on the shoulder. He turned, and recognition flashed across his face.

"Oh," he said, his expression hardening. "It's you."

"Yeah, it's me," I said, looking him up and down with obvious disgust. "Dude, what the fuck happened to you? You look even worse than in your pictures. You should go hide somewhere before someone mistakes you for a beached whale."

The guy he was dancing with glared at me, but Alex just laughed. Actually laughed.

"You're still an asshole, I see," Alex said, wiping sweat from his forehead.

"I'm just being honest. You let yourself go, man. It's pathetic."

Alex stepped closer, and I could smell the beer on his breath. "You know what? You should be careful. The way you're talking, the way you're acting... it could be you someday."

I stared at him. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"Just saying," Alex said, shrugging. "Karma's a bitch. And gravity always wins eventually."

"You're a fucking weirdo," I muttered, turning away. "Enjoy your diabetes."

I walked back to the bar, shaking my head. What a freak. Like I'd ever let myself get like that. I had discipline. I had control. I was a fucking athlete.

I found Phil near the bar, and he was wasted. Like, barely-standing wasted. His eyes were glassy, and he was swaying to the music, a stupid grin on his face.

"Phil, what the fuck, man?" I said, grabbing his arm. "How much have you had?"

"I dunno," he slurred. "A lot. This place is great. So many... people."

"Yeah, so many fatties," I said, glancing around. "I don't want to be in a club filled with disgusting fat fucks. Come on, we're leaving."

"But I'm having fun," Phil protested weakly.

"You're drunk. Let's go."

I dragged him outside, and he immediately perked up. "Burgers. I want burgers."

"Are you serious right now?"

"Please," Phil said, giving me puppy-dog eyes. "I'm starving."

I sighed. "Fine. But you're buying."

We hit up a late-night burger joint, and Phil ordered two double cheeseburgers, large fries, and a shake. I got a single burger and fries, telling myself I'd earned it after the workout I'd given the twink.

But when the food came, Phil took two bites of his burger and then pushed the tray away.

"I feel sick," he mumbled, his face going pale.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" I stared at him. "You dragged me here and now you're not going to eat?"

"I can't. I think I'm gonna puke."

"You're such a pussy," I said, shaking my head. "Can't even handle a few drinks without getting sick."

I wasn't going to let the food go to waste, though. I grabbed his burgers and fries and started eating, even though I was already full from my own meal. The food was greasy and heavy, but also delicious I must admit. By the time I finished, I felt bloated, my shirt feeling tighter than it had all night.

Phil watched me eat with that same weird expression he always had lately, like he was studying me.

"What?" I said through a mouthful of fries.

"Nothing," Phil said softly. "Just... nothing."

When I got home that night, I had to unbutton my jeans just to breathe. My stomach was distended, round and tight, and I felt like I'd swallowed a bowling ball. I'm lucky I have the best metabolism.

I'd agreed to meet Ed again for the project on Saturday. I woke up with a pounding headache, my mouth dry, my body aching. I'd definitely drunk too much last night, and the greasy food wasn't helping.

I dragged myself out of bed and threw on sweatpants and a hoodie, skipping breakfast because the thought of food made my stomach turn. By the time I got to the library, I was fifteen minutes late and feeling like death.

Ed was already there, of course, with his laptop open and—Jesus Christ—the biggest box of donuts I'd ever seen in my life. It must have had three dozen donuts in it, all different kinds: glazed, chocolate, jelly-filled, cream-filled, sprinkles, you name it.

"Morning," Ed said cheerfully. "Rough night?"

"Something like that," I muttered, slumping into the chair.

"I brought donuts," Ed said, pushing the box toward me. "Thought we could use some fuel."

My stomach growled loudly, betraying me. I hadn't eaten since those burgers last night, and despite my hangover, my body was demanding food.

Ed heard it and smiled. "Sounds like you're hungry. Go ahead, help yourself."

"I'm good," I said, but my eyes kept drifting to the donuts. They looked amazing—soft and fresh, the glaze glistening under the library lights.

"Come on," Ed said, his voice gentle but insistent. "You skipped breakfast, didn't you? Just have one. It'll help with the hangover."

I hesitated, then reached for a chocolate glazed donut. It was still warm, the chocolate melting on my fingers. I took a bite, and it was fucking incredible—sweet and rich and exactly what my body needed.

One donut turned into two, then three. Ed kept working on the project, occasionally glancing at me as I ate, that same pleased expression on his face.

"You know," I said, licking chocolate off my fingers, "I'm actually doing you a favor by eating these. Less temptation for you, right? Helping you stay on your diet."

Ed's smile widened. "Right. You're doing me a favor."

"Exactly," I said, reaching for a fourth donut. "I'm basically a saint."

By the time we finished the session, I'd eaten at least six donuts. My stomach was full again, that same tight, uncomfortable feeling from last night. But I told myself it was fine. I'd work it off at practice on Monday.

Monday's practice was rough.

I felt sluggish from the moment we started drills, my legs heavy, my lungs burning. I kept up with the guys, of course, but I wasn't running circles around them like I usually did.

"You feeling okay?" Coach asked during a water break.

"Yeah, fine," I lied. "Just had a long weekend."

"Well, shake it off. The recruiters are coming in three weeks. I need you at your best."

"I will be," I promised.

After practice, Phil appeared with a protein shaker, but this one was even bigger than usual—like, twice the size.

"Damn, that's huge," I said, taking it from him.

"Figured you needed the extra fuel," Phil said. "Big game coming up and all."

I took a sip, and it was just as delicious as always. I drank the whole thing in less than five minutes, feeling the thick liquid settle heavily in my stomach.

"Thanks, man," I said. "These shakes are seriously the best."

"Glad you like them," Phil said, and there was something in his smile that I couldn't quite read. "I'll keep them coming."

As I walked to the locker room, I caught my reflection in the glass doors. My shirt was clinging to my body, and for a second, I thought I looked... thicker? But no, that was just the muscle I'd been building. The gains from Phil's shakes and all the extra food.

I flexed my arm, admiring the size. Yeah, I was definitely getting bigger.

The recruiters were going to be so impressed.

I just needed to stay focused. Keep training hard. Keep drinking those shakes.

[malegainerstories]

Back from vacations! New chapters incoming... ;)

[malegainerstories]

Hey guys. Just to let you know I'll be on vacation for the next two weeks so there probably won't be much update, but a lot more to come after ;)

[malegainerstories]

The Star Player: Chapter 1

Synopsis: A cocky and mean college football player treats everyone like garbage. What could go wrong?

Friday night under the lights, and I was fucking unstoppable. Three touchdowns, two of them in the last quarter when everyone else was dragging ass and gasping for air. Not me though. I was still running circles around those pathetic defenders like they were standing still. The crowd was going absolutely insane, chanting my name, and yeah—I fucking loved it. This is what I live for.

I caught the winning touchdown with thirty seconds left on the clock, and the stadium erupted. My teammates mobbed me like I was some kind of god, which, let's be honest, on this field I basically am. Coach was grinning ear to ear, probably already thinking about how my performance is going to look on his resume. The local sports reporters swarmed me after the game, shoving microphones in my face, asking me how it feels to be the star player for the third week in a row.

"Feels like another day at the office," I told them with my trademark smirk, flexing just enough that my jersey stretched tight across my chest and shoulders. I could see the camera guy zooming in. Good. Let everyone see what a real athlete looks like.

In the locker room, I stripped off my jersey and caught my reflection in the mirror. Fucking perfect. My abs were carved like they'd been chiseled from marble—a perfect six-pack that I'd worked my ass off for. My pecs were solid, my arms were thick with muscle, and my V-cut was so deep you could trace it with your finger. I took a quick selfie, just my torso, the fluorescent lights hitting my body just right to show off every ridge and valley of muscle. Posted it to Instagram with the caption: "Another W. You're welcome." Within minutes, the likes were pouring in.

The boys wanted to celebrate, obviously. We hit up this party at one of the frat houses, the kind where the beer flows freely and everyone wants a piece of the football team. I walked in and immediately owned the room. People parted for me like I was royalty, girls and guys both checking me out, wanting to get close to the star of the game.

Phil was there, nursing a beer in the corner. Phil's a decent guy, I guess—plays linebacker, does his job—but fuck, he's slow. I mean, he gets the tackles eventually, but watching him try to keep up during drills is painful sometimes.

"Hey, Phil!" I called out, walking over and slapping him hard on the shoulder. "Nice work out there tonight, man. Well, I mean, you were a little slow on that play in the third quarter. Thought you were going to let that receiver walk right past you."

Phil gave me a tight smile. "Yeah, well, we won, didn't we?"

"Because of me," I said, grinning. "You know it, I know it, everyone knows it. But hey, you did... adequate work."

He didn't laugh as much as I expected. Whatever. Phil's always been a little sensitive.

I grabbed a beer and scanned the room, and that's when I saw him. This twink, maybe twenty, twenty-one, with the most fuckable bubble butt I'd seen in weeks. Tight jeans that showed off every curve, a crop top that revealed a sliver of his flat stomach. He had that look—the one that said he knew exactly what he wanted and was just waiting for someone like me to give it to him.

I caught his eye across the room and gave him the look. You know the one. The look that says, "I'm going to fuck you tonight, and you're going to love every second of it." He bit his lip and looked away, playing coy, but I could see the flush creeping up his neck.

Five minutes later, I had him pressed against the bathroom sink, his jeans around his ankles, my hand gripping his hip. He was moaning my name, telling me how hot I was, how he'd been watching me all night. Of course he had. Everyone watches me.

"You like that?" I growled in his ear, and he could barely form words, just nodding frantically.

Afterward, I left him there to clean himself up while I went back to the party like nothing had happened. Phil gave me a look when I came out, like he knew exactly what I'd been doing, but he didn't say anything. He never does.

Monday morning, I was walking across campus when I spotted Ed waddling toward the dining hall. Ed is this fat fuck who must weigh over 400 pounds, easy. I don't even know how he fits in the desks in class. Every time I see him, I'm disgusted. Like, how do you let yourself get that big? Have some fucking self-control.

"Yo, Ed!" I called out, jogging to catch up with him. He turned, and I could see the dread in his eyes. Good. "Maybe you should lay off the burgers, man. Looking a little... hefty."

His face went red, and he mumbled something I couldn't hear.

"What's that? Couldn't hear you over the sound of your arteries clogging." I laughed and pulled out a pig sticker I'd grabbed from the campus store—one of those cartoon pigs with a curly tail. I slapped it on his back as I walked past him. "There you go, buddy. Suits you."

I heard him make a sound, maybe a protest, but I was already walking away. Phil was nearby, and I expected him to laugh, but instead, he just looked at me with this weird expression.

"What?" I said. "It's funny."

"Yeah," Phil said flatly. "Hilarious."

"Don't be such a dick," I muttered. Phil's been weird lately. I don't know what his problem is.

That night, I was scrolling through Grindr, because why not? I'm always getting messages from guys who want a piece of me, and most of them are pathetic. Fat guys, old guys, guys who clearly haven't seen the inside of a gym in years. It's like they think they have a chance with someone like me.

One message caught my eye, though. It was from this guy, Alex. I remembered him from a few months ago—he'd been hot, lean, with a decent body. But when I clicked on his profile, I almost laughed out loud. The dude had blown up. He must have put on fifty pounds, easy. He had a double chin, his stomach was pushing out over his waistband in his photos, and his arms looked soft and doughy.

"Dude, what happened to you?" I typed back. "You were hot before. Now you're disgusting. Get your shit together if you want a good fuck."

I attached a photo of myself—shirtless, of course, showing off my perfect six-pack and the deep V-cut leading down to my waistband. The lighting was perfect, highlighting every muscle.

"This is what you're missing," I added. "Maybe hit the gym and we can talk."

He didn't respond. Probably too embarrassed. As he should be.

Tuesday afternoon, Phil insisted we grab McDonald's. I didn't really want to—I usually meal prep and keep my diet clean—but Phil was being weirdly persistent about it.

"Come on, man," he said. "Just this once. I'm craving it."

"That's why you're so slow on the field," I told him as we pulled into the drive-through. "Eating this shit. Your body's a temple, Phil. Or it should be."

He ordered a Big Mac meal, large fries, and a Coke. I got a grilled chicken sandwich and a water, because I actually give a fuck about my body.

We sat in his car in the parking lot, and I watched as Phil picked at his fries, barely eating anything. He took a few bites of his burger and then set it down.

"I'm not that hungry," he said.

"Are you serious?" I stared at him. "You dragged me here and now you're not going to eat?"

"You can have it if you want."

I rolled my eyes. "You're such a dick, you know that?" But I wasn't going to let good food go to waste, even if it was junk. I grabbed his burger and fries and finished them off. They tasted better than I expected, greasy and salty. Phil watched me eat with this strange expression on his face.

"What?" I said through a mouthful of fries.

"Nothing," he said. "Just... nothing."

Wednesday was huge. Professional recruiters came to meet with me and Coach. These guys were the real deal—scouts from actual pro teams who'd been watching my game footage and were interested in seeing me play in person. They were coming to the game next month, and if I performed well—which, let's be honest, I always do—I'd be on my way to the big leagues.

"This is it," I told Phil after the meeting. "I'm going to be rich and famous. Pro contract, endorsements, the whole deal."

"That's great, man," Phil said, but his expression was weird. He looked almost... sad? Or maybe guilty? I didn't know and didn't care.

"What's with the face?" I asked.

"Nothing. I'm happy for you. Really."

"You're so dumb sometimes," I muttered. Phil's always been a little off, but whatever. I was too pumped about the recruiters to care.

Thursday's practice was brutal. Coach had us running drills for two hours straight, and by the end, most of the guys were barely standing. Not me, though. I was still running circles around them, showing off, making sure everyone remembered who the real star was.

After practice, Phil came up to me with a protein shaker.

"Here," he said. "Try this. It's a new flavor I've been testing out."

I took it and sniffed it. Smelled like chocolate and something else, something sweet and rich. I took a sip and my eyes widened. It was fucking amazing. Creamy, thick, with this incredible flavor that was way better than any protein shake I'd ever had.

"Dude, what is this?" I asked, chugging more of it.

"Just a new blend," Phil said, watching me carefully. "You like it?"

"It's incredible. Where'd you get it?"

"Online. I can get you more if you want."

"Yeah, definitely." I finished the whole thing in less than a minute. "That was seriously good."

Phil smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Glad you liked it."

Friday morning, I walked into my sociology class and nearly groaned out loud when the professor started announcing semester project partners. I wasn't really paying attention until I heard my name.

"...and you'll be working with Ed."

I looked up sharply. "Wait, what?"

The professor repeated it, and I turned to see Ed sitting a few rows back, looking just as unhappy as I felt. Are you fucking kidding me? I had to work with the fat fuck I'd been mocking all week?

"This is bullshit," I muttered under my breath.

I didn't want to be anywhere near that guy. Just looking at him made me uncomfortable, like his fatness was contagious or something. The thought of having to sit next to him, work with him, maybe even go to his place or have him come to mine... it was disgusting.

At least he'd probably do all the work. Fat guys like him usually try extra hard to please people, right? I could just coast through this project, let him handle everything, and collect my grade at the end.

Still, the whole situation pissed me off. I was a star athlete with professional recruiters interested in me. I shouldn't have to waste my time on some stupid group project with a guy who couldn't even see his own feet.

I caught Phil's eye across the room. He was in the same class, and he gave me this look—almost like he was trying not to smile.

What the fuck was that about?

Whatever. I had bigger things to worry about. The recruiters were coming next month, and I needed to stay focused. Stay in peak condition. Keep being the best.

Nothing was going to change that.

Nothing.

[malegainerstories]

The Roomate: Chapter 9

Carl's mother opened the front door before he'd even made it up the driveway.

She stood on the porch, arms crossed against the cold, her face lighting up when she saw him. Carl climbed out of the car, pulling his hoodie tighter around himself, and walked toward her.

"There's my boy," she said, pulling him into a hug.

Carl hugged her back, feeling the familiar warmth of home—the smell of her perfume, the softness of her sweater, the way she squeezed him just a little too tight.

When she pulled back, her eyes traveled over him, her smile faltering for just a moment.

"You look good," she said, but there was something in her voice. A hesitation. "Everything okay at school?"

"Yeah, Mom. Everything's fine."

"You're eating well? Getting enough sleep?"

"I'm eating plenty," Carl said, forcing a smile. "Don't worry."

His father appeared in the doorway, wiping his hands on a dish towel. He was a solid man, the kind of guy who'd played hockey in his youth and never quite lost the build.

"Carl!" he said, grinning. "Good to see you, son."

They shook hands, his father's grip firm and familiar. His eyes flicked over Carl, the same quick assessment his mother had made, but he didn't say anything.

"You planning on playing hockey again this spring?" his father asked as they walked inside. "Your old team's still looking for players."

Carl hesitated. "I don't know. Maybe. I've been pretty busy with school."

"Well, don't let yourself get too out of shape," his father said, clapping him on the shoulder. "You've got a good build. Don't want to lose it."

Carl nodded, his stomach twisting.

The first thing Carl noticed was how little food there was.

His parents had always been health-conscious—lean proteins, steamed vegetables, salads with minimal dressing. Growing up, Carl had eaten the same way, never questioning it.

But now, after months of pizza and burgers and late-night snacks with David, the portions felt impossibly small.

Dinner that first night was grilled chicken, roasted broccoli, and a small serving of rice. Carl finished his plate in minutes, his stomach still growling.

"You want more?" his mother asked, noticing.

"Yeah, if there is any."

She gave him another scoop of rice and a piece of chicken, but that was it. The rest had already been put away.

Carl ate it quickly, but it didn't help. He was still hungry.

That night, lying in his childhood bed, Carl's stomach rumbled. He thought about the leftover pizza in David's mini-fridge, the way Tim always brought extra food to their hangouts, the endless supply of snacks in the dorm.

Here, there was nothing.

Carl pulled out his phone, scrolling through his messages. There was one from Tim.

Tim: Miss you already, babe. Hope you're surviving the family time.

Carl smiled, typing back.

Carl: Barely. The food situation here is tragic.

Tim: Lol. Hang in there. I'll feed you when you get back.

Carl stared at the message, something warm spreading through his chest.

He couldn't wait to go back.

Christmas morning arrived with the smell of cinnamon rolls and coffee.

Carl woke early, his stomach already growling, and made his way downstairs. The kitchen was warm and bright, his mother bustling around, pulling trays out of the oven.

"Merry Christmas, sweetheart," she said, smiling. "Help yourself."

Carl didn't need to be told twice.

He piled his plate high—cinnamon rolls, scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, hash browns. He ate quickly, barely pausing between bites, the sweetness of the rolls mixing with the salt of the bacon, the richness of the eggs coating his tongue.

His mother watched him, her expression unreadable.

"Hungry?" she asked lightly.

"Starving," Carl said, reaching for another cinnamon roll.

By the time they sat down for Christmas dinner that evening, Carl was ravenous again. The day had been filled with snacking—cookies, fudge, cheese and crackers—but it wasn't enough. His body seemed to demand more, constantly, endlessly.

Dinner was a feast. Turkey, mashed potatoes, stuffing, gravy, green bean casserole, rolls. Carl loaded his plate, then went back for seconds. Then thirds.

His family watched him, their conversations faltering as Carl kept eating.

"You sure you're okay, honey?" his mother asked, her voice careful.

"I'm fine," Carl said, swallowing a mouthful of mashed potatoes. "Just really hungry."

His father exchanged a glance with his mother, but neither of them said anything.

Carl didn't care. He was too focused on the food, the way it filled the constant hunger he felt in the last days.

The day after Christmas, Carl went shopping.

His jeans were almost unwearable. He has been wearing 34s with a missing button for weeks now.

He needed new clothes.

Carl walked into the department store, heading straight for the men's section. He grabbed a pair of 36s off the rack, not bothering to look at anything smaller.

In the fitting room, he pulled them on.

They fit perfectly.

The waistband sat comfortably on his hips, no digging, no pressure. Carl could breathe. He could move. He turned, checking himself in the mirror, and felt a flicker of something—relief, maybe, or resignation.

He grabbed three pairs.

Then he moved to the shirts. The larges fitted, but they clearly did not hide his new belly, nor his meatier chest.

He decided to stick with the larges for now. They still worked, even if they were getting adjusted to his body in ways he hadn't anticipated.

New Year's Eve came faster than Carl expected.

His old hockey friends were throwing a party —the same group he'd grown up with, the guys he'd spent every weekend with in high school.

Carl hadn't seen them since August.

He pulled on his new jeans and one of the large shirts, checking himself in the mirror before heading out. He looked fine if he sucked his belly in. But he knew they'd notice.

The party was loud and crowded, the basement packed with people Carl had known his entire life.

"Carl!" someone shouted, and suddenly he was surrounded, hands clapping his back, voices overlapping.

"Dude, you got huge!"

"Holy shit, man, what happened to you?"

"Did you join a eating club or something?"

Carl laughed, trying to play it off. "Yeah, yeah. Freshman fifteen, right?"

"More like freshman twenty," someone said, poking his stomach.

Carl swatted the hand away, grinning. "Fuck off."

But the comments kept coming. Every time he turned around, someone was making a joke, grabbing his belly, squeezing his sides.

"You're getting soft, man."

"Guess college food got to you, huh?"

"Better hit the gym before you lose it completely."

Carl handled it. He laughed. He made jokes. He drank beer and pretended it didn't bother him.

But underneath, he felt something tighten in his chest.

Later in the night, Carl headed upstairs to use the bathroom.

He was washing his hands when the door opened behind him.

Nick, some macho dude from his group of friends, stepped inside, closing the door behind him.

"Hey," Carl said, turning. "There's another bathroom downstairs—"

But Nick didn't leave.

He stepped closer, his eyes locked on Carl's, and suddenly Carl's heart was pounding.

"You've gotten thick," Nick said, his voice low.

Before Carl could respond, Nick's hand was on his ass, squeezing hard. His other hand pressed against Carl's belly, fingers digging into the softness there.

Carl froze, his breath catching.

Nick leaned in, his mouth close to Carl's ear. "So fucking thick," he murmured, his voice rough and possessive.

And then he was gone.

The door closed behind him, leaving Carl standing alone in the bathroom, his heart racing, his body buzzing with confusion and arousal.

What the fuck just happened?

Carl returned to campus on January 3rd.

The dorms were still mostly empty, the campus quiet and cold. Carl dragged his bags up to his room, the familiar space feeling both comforting and strange after two weeks away.

He dropped his bags on the floor and walked to the bathroom, stepping on the scale.

189 lbs.

Carl stared at the number, frowning.

Except for Christmas, he'd expected to lose weight over break. He'd been eating less—way less than he had at school. No late-night pizza runs, no lattes from Tim, no endless snacks with David.

But he hadn't lost anything. He'd gained a pound.

Carl stepped off the scale, his mind turning it over.

Maybe it was because he hadn't exercised. He hadn't run, hadn't gone to the gym, hadn't done anything physical except walk around his parents' house.

At least his weight gain had almost stopped.

That was something.

David arrived the next day.

"Carl!" he said, grinning. "Dude, I missed you."

They hugged, and Carl felt the familiar warmth of David's presence, the way he made everything feel easier.

But when they pulled apart, Carl noticed something.

David looked... bigger.

Not dramatically so, but enough that Carl could see it. He could see his belly hanging out of his too tight shirt and his ass wobbling with every step. Unlike the first day of the last semest, Carl wasn't disgusted by it.

"You look good," Carl said, and he meant it.

David laughed. "Yeah, my mom went crazy over the holidays. I think I ate my weight in lasagna."

"How much weight did you gain?"

"Like ten pounds, maybe? I don't know. I didn't weigh myself." David flopped onto his bed, grinning. "I came back early, actually. Spent a few days hanging out with Tim. I slept at his place yesterday."

Carl's stomach tightened. "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. He's cool. We got food, played some games. He's really into you, by the way."

Carl felt a flicker of something—jealousy, maybe, or insecurity. But it was tempered by something else. Relief. Happiness that they got along.

"That's cool," Carl said, trying to sound casual.

"He kept talking about you," David said, grinning. "It was kind of adorable."

Carl smiled, something warm spreading through his chest.

That night, lying in bed, Carl's phone buzzed.

He picked it up, expecting a message from Tim or David.

Instead, it was from Nick.

Carl opened it.

It was a dick pic.

Carl's breath caught, his heart pounding as he stared at the image. Nick's cock was thick and hard, his hand wrapped around the base.

Below the image was a caption:

See you on spring break.

Carl's face burned. His body reacted instantly, heat flooding through him, his cock hardening in his boxers.

He stared at the message, his mind spinning.

Nick. Straight, hockey-playing, childhood-friend Nick.

What the fuck?

Carl locked his phone, tossing it onto the nightstand. But the image was burned into his mind, and his body wouldn't let him forget it.

He jerked off twice before he finally fell asleep, his mind full of Nick's hands on his body, his voice in his ear, the way he'd called him thick.

Carl didn't know what it meant.

But he knew one thing.

He needed to get laid. Fast.

[jockfattener]

@thicc-boy-32 being a greedy pig at an all inclusive! He’s gonna get so fat! Let’s pop those buttons! Keep it up fat boy!