I really like this vintage Donald McGill postcard as it reminds me of my own experience with a custom tailor in the mid-2010’s … this was back in the days when one still needed at least one good business suit and I’d had a 25 pound weight gain to a then all-time high of 285, leaving my favorite suit of all time quite snug … I had trouble finding a suitable replacement and feared I’d outgrown anything available off-the-rack so turned to a local custom tailor and getting measured was quite the experience … standing in my underwear as he made e 36 separate measurements (waist, moobs, shoulders, upper arms, hips, thighs, calves, crotch, you name it!) that he called out to his young female assistant to record on a card … it was almost arousing to hear him call out those measurements and learn just how massive I’d gotten!
He was pretty satisfied with his new makeover. He’d become a fat slobby bear overnight, his hair had fallen out, while growing everywhere else on his body, especially on his face and became a thick beard. He reeked of musk. Yet somehow he was oddly content with this change. His mind was so altered, he was unusually happy about his new life and was eager to brag about what a slob he had transformed into.
Dad been helping me prepare for my drivers license by letting me drive to every buffet in town every day. I have feeling i'm probably going to be his personal chauffer in the future if he keep up his eating habit. He already having trouble fitting behind the wheel with his rotund belly.
One day you realize that having a big belly is much better than having abs. You realize that all you need to be happy is to fill your belly with food until you can't take it anymore. That's how a real man should be, a pig with a huge and round belly, don't you think?
Landon ducked into the costume shop still wearing his backward cap, gym shorts, and fraternity hoodie, with the party already buzzing in his group chat. The theme was “come as someone you’re not,” and he wanted something funnier than a toga or fake cowboy hat. Then he saw it: a full English gentleman’s outfit on a mannequin — tweed jacket, waistcoat, crisp shirt, dark tie, bowler hat, and a polished wooden pipe tucked into a velvet-lined box. He laughed under his breath, imagining himself strolling into the frat house looking like someone’s ancient British uncle. The pipe sold it. “Perfect,” he muttered, thinking it would be hilarious to use it later to smoke weed.
In the changing room, the costume fit too well. As soon as Landon tucked the pipe into the corner of his mouth he sold the deal. He went glassy-eyed. The tweed tightened across his shoulders, then seemed to pull his posture upright, straightening his slouch into something dignified. His horseshoe mustache, grown after losing a bet, transitioned into the start of a more distinguished handlebar style.
His smooth college face sharpened, then transitioned through middle-age: crow’s feet etching around his eyes, laugh lines deepening beside his mouth, and the skin across his forehead loosened into warm, creased maturity.
His hairline crept backward as his dark hair thinned, then began to silver at the sides. Briefly regaining some sense of self-awareness, Landon lifted a hand to his cheek, with the vague notion that something had changed - but unable to put his finger on it. He tried to say, “Dude, what the—” but what came out was a crisp, startled, “Good heavens,” before the light in his eyes dimmed again.
The changes proceeded as his skin continued to age and his hair receded leaving a totally bald top. - pushing him into his 60s. What was left of his hair turned mostly white - including his signature handlebar mustache, a style he had worn for the last 40 years.
By the time he stepped out of the changing room, there was no panic left in him. The young man’s memories had folded away like discarded clothes. He adjusted his tie, placed the bowler hat neatly on his bald crown, and regarded himself in the mirror with calm approval. A distinguished English gentleman looked back: silver-haired at the sides, bright-eyed, deeply lined, and entirely at ease with himself. He gave the pipe a thoughtful puff, smiled beneath his mustache, and left the shop for home, having fully enjoyed his outing for the day and ready to curl up with a good book by the fireplace.
Nate stood in the bathroom longer than he realized, staring at the man in the mirror as if proximity might reverse it. The smile had faded, but not entirely. It lingered at the edges of his mouth like a memory his muscles refused to forget.
He lifted his glasses off slowly.
The gesture felt significant.
Without them, his face looked harsher. The heavier jaw more apparent. The silver in his beard more deliberate. His eyes — God — his eyes looked darker, set deeper beneath thicker brows.
He set the glasses on the counter.
The moment they left his face, a wave rolled through him.
It started at the base of his neck — a hot compression, like hands gripping the column of his spine. His breath caught. The muscles along his shoulders pulled outward with a slow, straining stretch. He heard fabric shift — threads tightening across his back.
He gripped the sink harder.
“Easy,” he muttered to himself.
The word came out wrong.
“Easy,” the voice repeated — but deeper, steadier, almost amused.
His throat flexed as he swallowed. The movement was more pronounced now. His neck had thickened visibly, cords rising under the skin. When he spoke again, it vibrated lower in his chest.
“This isn’t funny.”
The response came from somewhere beneath thought.
Yeah, it kinda is.
He squeezed his eyes shut.
Another surge of heat flooded his torso, and this one hurt.
His chest seized first. The follicles along his sternum flared, a sharp, crawling pain that forced a grunt from his throat. He watched in horrified fascination as dark hair thickened visibly beneath the open collar of his shirt, spreading outward and upward toward his clavicles. Not sprouting wildly — advancing. Claiming ground.
He yanked another button open.
The air hit his skin.
His chest was no longer neatly contained growth. It was dense. Coarse. The texture of it looked older — less groomed, more natural. A strip of silver threaded through the dark at the center, as if time had fast-forwarded unevenly across him.
His stomach pushed forward again.
This time it wasn’t subtle.
The weight dropped decisively, his abdomen rounding outward with a firmness that forced his belt to dig sharply into his waist. He hissed and hooked a thumb into the waistband, loosening it instinctively. The relief made him groan — low and involuntary.
The sound filled the small bathroom.
He froze.
That wasn’t a sound he made.
He turned sideways again. The projection was unmistakable now. His gut pressed forward with unapologetic presence, rounding beneath his ribs and settling into a shape that felt powerful rather than soft. It pulled his posture differently — chest lifted, shoulders back, pelvis grounded.
He looked substantial.
Older.
Fifty, at least. His face was changing more quickly now. The skin along his jaw thickened, the line less tapered, more squared. His lower lip protruded slightly more, giving his mouth a heavier resting shape. He ran his tongue along his teeth and felt the subtle shift again — not misaligned, but less delicate.
“Stop,” he ordered his reflection.
But the tone was wrong.
It wasn’t pleading anymore.
It was command layered over command.
His accent slipped further.
“You wanted to feel like a man,” he said, and heard the faint flattening of vowels. The tightening of consonants. “Well, here you are.”
He hadn’t decided to say that.
He gripped the edge of the sink again. His forearms were almost fully furred now, the hair darker, thicker, running toward his elbows in a dense spread. The veins stood higher under the skin. His hands looked broader.
A craving surfaced unexpectedly.
Whiskey.
The thought was intrusive and vivid. Not the polite evening pour he sometimes enjoyed — something heavier. Something neat and unapologetic.
He swallowed hard.
“No,” he said. “That’s not me.”
His reflection tilted its head almost imperceptibly.
Not you yet.
The pleasure returned — stronger this time. It pulsed from the center of his belly outward, a steady, grounding warmth that made the weight there feel right. He found himself resting a hand over it again, fingers spreading possessively over the firm curve.
It felt good.
That terrified him more than the pain.
His voice rumbled again without permission.
“Look at you,” he murmured.
He hadn’t meant to admire it.
But he did.
The beard was thicker now, coarse and heavy along his jaw, the silver no longer subtle but assertive. His cheeks looked fuller. His eyes narrowed slightly under heavier brows.
His breathing slowed.
The polite cadence he’d cultivated for years was eroding. Words formed differently in his mouth — fewer qualifiers, fewer apologies. His thoughts felt more direct. Blunt.
Another spasm hit — this time across his upper back. He groaned as his shoulders rolled outward another fraction, fabric straining audibly. The shirt no longer fit the way it had that morning. It clung around his arms and stretched across his torso, outlining a body that was no longer careful or restrained.
He looked like someone who took up space.
He stared at himself for a long time.
The horror was still there — fluttering in his chest.
But it was sharing space with something else now.
Recognition.
His phone buzzed in the other room — the Zoom call still ongoing.
He imagined turning the camera back on.
Imagined leaning closer to the screen.
Imagined speaking in this voice.
The thought sent a dark thrill through him.
“No,” he whispered.
The whisper sounded like a growl.
His lips curled again — not fully smiling this time, but testing the shape.
The man in the mirror did not look like Nate trying to be daddy.
He looked like something older, rougher, and far less interested in asking permission.
And the scariest part was this:
Nate was starting to wonder if the transformation was happening to him—
or if it was simply stripping away something that had been waiting underneath.
By noon, Nate could no longer pretend the transformation had plateaued.
His shirt no longer closed properly across his chest. The belly he’d been trying to ignore now rested forward with unapologetic weight, pulling his posture into something broader and more territorial. His beard felt heavier by the hour — not just thicker, but denser at the root, tugging faintly at his skin as if it were still growing. Silver threaded aggressively through it now, no longer distinguished from the darker strands.
He had another meeting.
One-on-one.
Camera required.
He stood in the bathroom staring at himself, palms braced against the sink. His neck was thicker than it had been an hour ago. The skin along his jaw looked slightly rougher, pores more visible. Faint lines had begun to crease at the corners of his eyes — not deep, but accelerated. Time was pressing into him unevenly.
“You can get through this,” he told himself.
The voice that came out was heavy and resonant.
“You’ll get through it.”
The phrasing wasn’t the same. It felt declarative, not reassuring.
He walked back to his desk. Each step felt heavier — grounded. His gut shifted with him, not soft but solid, projecting forward as if leading his body instead of following it. He sat down and felt the chair adjust to the new distribution of his weight.
The Zoom window opened.
A man appeared on the screen. Early thirties, sharp features, attentive eyes. Nate recognized him vaguely — a new consultant, someone he’d only spoken with in group calls before.
The man’s expression changed almost immediately.
Not alarm.
Interest.
Nate saw it register — the double-take, the recalibration.
“Hey,” the man said slowly. “You look… different today.”
Nate’s throat tightened.
“Do I?” he replied.
The sound that came out was deeper than before — unmistakably gravel-lined. It rolled across the microphone with a weight that made even him pause.
The man leaned closer to his camera.
“Yeah,” he said. “You look… good.”
The word lingered.
Something in Nate’s stomach tightened — not from fear. From heat.
His mind flickered.
Uninvited images flashed through it. Not explicit, but crude. Territorial. The thought of the younger man looking up at him. The recognition of his own size. The awareness of his thicker neck, the heavy beard, the way his shirt strained across his torso.
He swallowed hard.
“Let’s get started,” he said, but the cadence had changed. Fewer qualifiers. No softening.
As the conversation progressed, his speech began to mutate mid-sentence.
“We need to tighten up your delivery,” he said, then paused. “You can’t just toss it out there and expect it to land.”
The phrasing grew rougher.
“You gotta own it,” he continued. “Drive it. Don’t be shy about it.”
His vowels flattened. Consonants sharpened. The polish of his usual diction eroded with each passing minute.
The man on the screen wasn’t recoiling.
He was leaning in.
Nate felt another surge ripple through him.
His chest hair prickled violently beneath his shirt. He could feel it spreading again — upward this time, toward his collarbones. The heat intensified across his shoulders. His upper back cramped, and he rolled his shoulders instinctively. The fabric across them pulled tight.
The younger man noticed.
“You been working out?” he asked casually.
Nate’s lips parted.
The response came without filtering.
“Something like that.”
The smile that followed wasn’t polite.
It showed teeth.
His lower lip pressed forward slightly more than it had earlier. His jaw felt heavier, sitting differently when he spoke. Even the way his tongue shaped words felt thicker, less precise.
His mind grew dirtier.
Not in explicit detail — but in tone. Every comment the younger man made seemed layered with implication. Every glance at the camera felt charged. Nate found himself imagining the smell of cigar smoke on his own breath. The burn of strong liquor down his throat. The weight of a glass in his larger hand.
The craving struck hard this time.
Not a passing thought.
A need.
Whiskey.
Something neat. Something that burned.
His stomach tightened again — and then dropped lower, heavier. He felt the shift in real time. The projection deepened, pressing against the desk. He adjusted in his seat and felt the new weight settle more decisively.
His breathing slowed.
The younger man’s eyes flicked downward briefly — noticing the shift in frame.
“You sure you’re good?” the man asked, voice softer now.
Nate leaned back in his chair.
The movement changed the camera angle, revealing more of his torso. More of the open collar. A glimpse of dense hair beneath.
“I’m better than good,” he said.
The words landed thick.
Possessive.
His accent had shifted more noticeably now. Subtle, but there. Less metropolitan. More grounded. The edges of his speech roughened like worn wood.
His reflection in the black square beside the Zoom window looked older again. The lines at his eyes were deeper. The silver in his beard more dominant. Fifty-eight now. Maybe edging toward sixty.
The man on the other end swallowed.
There it was again — that look.
Attraction.
Nate felt a jolt of shock run through him.
This wasn’t the curated daddy he’d wanted to become.
This was something heavier.
More brute.
More vulgar.
And it was working.
The realization sent a pulse of dark pleasure straight through his belly.
The craving surged again — this time accompanied by something else.
Smoke.
He could almost taste it.
He ended the call abruptly.
“Gotta run,” he muttered.
He stood up too fast. The room tilted slightly as his weight redistributed. His shoulders felt broader again, his shirt tighter across his back. His hands looked larger when he flexed them.
He went to the mirror one more time.
The man staring back now looked on the verge of sixty.
Thicker skin. Heavier brow. Beard mostly silver. Belly unapologetically forward. Chest hair dense enough to shadow beneath the fabric.
And his eyes…
Hungry.
“I need a drink,” he said.
The statement wasn’t conflicted.
It was decided.
His hand hovered near his glasses on the counter, then moved past them.
He didn’t need them anymore.
He grabbed his keys.
As he stepped out the door, he felt another slow expansion across his shoulders — fabric tightening once more. The growth wasn’t finished.
It was accelerating.
And somewhere beneath the horror, beneath the recognition that he was losing the shape of himself— he felt anticipation.
The elevator lighting had already been unkind, but the liquor store’s fluorescent glare was surgical.
It stripped him of any lingering illusion that this might level off.
Nate felt the weight of his body differently now — not just heavier, but denser, as though gravity had increased around him alone. His gut pushed forward with a permanent presence that altered his center of balance. His shoulders strained faintly against the seams of his shirt, and the hair beneath the open collar itched and tugged like something alive.
The clerk looked up and paused.
Not startled.
Assessing.
Nate hated that the look wasn’t confusion. It was recalibration.
He walked toward the whiskey shelf, and the smell of it hit him before he even reached for a bottle. Oak, char, ethanol — sharp and sweet and dark. His mouth flooded immediately. His throat tightened with anticipation so sudden it frightened him.
“No,” he whispered to himself. “You don’t need this.”
The whisper rolled out thick.
“Y’don’ need thish.”
He stiffened. His tongue felt too large in his mouth, pressing against the backs of his teeth. His lower lip sat heavier than it had that morning, altering the shape of his consonants.
He picked up a bottle without meaning to. His hand wrapped around the glass, and he was struck by how coarse his knuckles looked — hair thicker across them, veins standing out more prominently. The skin along his fingers appeared rougher, faintly reddened as if weathered by years he hadn’t lived.
“Need anything else?” the clerk asked.
Nate opened his mouth to answer clearly. “No, thank you.”
What came out was, “Nah. Thass it.”
He felt the word thass scrape through his throat like gravel. He blinked hard and straightened. “No. I mean— no, thank you.”
But even the correction sounded strained, like he was forcing his tongue into unfamiliar shapes.
The clerk’s gaze dropped briefly to his chest, to the thick mat of hair visible through his open collar, then back up to his face. “You look like you could handle it,” the clerk said lightly.
The comment hit him with a strange dual sensation — humiliation and pride fused together.
He paid and stepped outside.
He should have gone home.
Instead, he turned toward the tobacconist as though pulled by a rope tied somewhere deep in his sternum.
Inside, the air was already saturated with smoke. His lungs reacted before his mind did. They expanded involuntarily, as if recognizing something long denied.
“This is insane,” he muttered. “You don’t smoke.”
“Don’ shmoke,” his mouth echoed.
He swallowed hard, fighting to tighten his articulation.
The clerk behind the counter clipped the end of a thick cigar for him. “First one?” the man asked casually.
Nate forced himself to respond carefully. “Yes.”
The word landed heavy and distorted.
“Yesh.”
He felt heat bloom across his cheeks — not embarrassment alone, but something deeper, more chemical.
He stepped outside and lit it.
The first inhale tore through him.
Pain exploded in his chest, sharp and violent. He doubled over coughing, a brutal, rasping sound that scraped his throat raw. Tears sprang to his eyes.
“This was a mistake,” he tried to say between coughs.
“Thish w’zh a mishhake.”
The words came out warped.
But then the second inhale did not burn.
It settled.
Deep.
His lungs accepted it as though they had been built for it. The coughing stopped abruptly. Instead, he felt a spreading warmth coat the inside of his chest. Not soothing — claiming.
A wave of sensation rippled across his torso. The hair along his sternum prickled sharply, then thickened. He felt it in real time — follicles tightening, expanding, pushing outward. His shoulders cramped and rolled back involuntarily, widening his stance. The seams of his shirt strained again.
His throat vibrated when he exhaled smoke.
“Thass… better.”
He froze.
That hadn’t been deliberate.
He tried again, concentrating.
“That’s better.”
But what emerged was slower, heavier.
“Thassh bett’r.”
The cigar rested between his fingers as if it belonged there. The hand holding it looked older — more spotted, the hair along the wrist dense and dark against skin that seemed subtly roughened by sun and time.
He took another draw.
This time, something else shifted.
His teeth.
He felt it first as a dull ache at the roots, a deep, grinding pressure. His tongue instinctively ran across them and paused. The surface felt different — not smooth enamel, but faintly rough. He tasted bitterness layered over smoke.
He spat reflexively onto the pavement and caught a glimpse of the liquid — darker than saliva should be.
“No,” he whispered, panic rising again.
He pressed his tongue against his incisors. The edges felt slightly uneven now. Not broken — worn. As though years of smoke and drink had scoured them down. The canines felt duller. The molars heavier in his jaw.
His gums throbbed faintly.
He sucked in a breath to steady himself and tasted ash embedded along the back of his throat.
“This isn’t happening,” he tried to say clearly.
“Thishh izzn’t happ’nin’.”
The slur was undeniable now.
He could feel alcohol calling to him from inside the paper bag.
He uncapped the bottle before he consciously decided to.
The smell surged upward, intoxicating on its own. He took a swallow.
Fire.
Then immediate saturation.
There was no gradual warmth spreading through him — no climb toward intoxication. The alcohol seemed to bypass digestion entirely and flood his bloodstream at once. His vision softened at the edges. His limbs grew heavier. His mind loosened.
He blinked rapidly, trying to fight it.
“Stay sharp,” he ordered himself.
“Shtay sharpp.”
His tongue thickened further, pressing lazily against his teeth. His lips felt swollen, shaping vowels differently.
Another swallow.
He didn’t remember lifting the bottle again.
The inebriation did not increase in waves.
It locked in place.
He was suddenly, permanently drunk.
His thoughts no longer aligned neatly. They arrived blunt and coarse, stripped of nuance. Images rose uninvited — territorial, possessive, vulgar. He found himself staring at passersby with a gaze he didn’t recognize.
A woman walked by and glanced at him briefly before looking away.
“Whatchu lookin’ at?” he muttered under his breath.
The aggression startled him.
“I didn’t mean that,” he whispered, horrified.
“Din’ mean tha’,” his mouth echoed.
His belly settled lower with the alcohol inside him, as though the weight had deepened. His posture shifted again — chest forward, chin slightly lifted, stance wider. The cigar smoke wrapped around his head in a thick halo, and instead of making him dizzy, it made him feel anchored.
He caught his reflection in the dark window of a closed storefront.
The man staring back was older again.
Sixty-three.
Maybe sixty-five.
The beard was almost entirely silver now, streaked only faintly with darker strands. The skin at his neck looked thicker, slightly flushed. The lines at his eyes were deeper and permanent.
His teeth showed when he parted his lips — faintly stained already, the enamel no longer bright.
He tried to form one clear sentence.
“This isn’t me.”
What came out was slow, gravel-heavy.
“Thissh ain’ me.”
He pressed his palm against his forehead, as though he could physically push the intoxication out. His heart pounded unevenly — not racing, but heavy.
The horror remained.
It was sharp, lucid.
But it was trapped beneath a layer of chemical fog that would not lift.
And beneath that fog, beneath the pain in his gums, the burn in his chest, the ache in his widening shoulders, there was a dark undercurrent of pleasure — a sense of inevitability, of arrival.
He could no longer remember the last time he had spoken without gravel in his throat.
He could no longer recall the exact tone of his former voice.
And that frightened him more than the age in his reflection.
The bar was dim enough to forgive imperfections but bright enough to expose him.
Nate felt it the moment he stepped inside — the way heads turned not in confusion but in assessment. His body seemed to arrive before he did. The weight of him led. His belly settled forward, thick and unapologetic beneath the strained buttons of his shirt. His chest rose and fell slowly, deeply, the dense hair beneath the open collar visible in the amber light.
He was still drunk.
Not fading.
Not rising.
Just permanently saturated.
His tongue felt heavy against his teeth. His gums throbbed faintly, the enamel along his incisors dull beneath the bar lights. When he ran his tongue across them, he felt roughness that hadn’t existed that morning.
“This isn’t you,” he told himself quietly.
“Thissh isn’t you,” his mouth betrayed.
He swallowed hard and moved toward the bar.
His reflection in the mirror behind it looked older again — sixty-seven, maybe sixty-eight. His beard was fully silver now, thick and untamed along the jaw. His neck flushed and heavy. His eyelids lower than before, hooding his gaze in a way he didn’t recognize.
He tried to widen his eyes.
They felt weighted.
A man brushed past him.
Younger.
Intentional.
The contact lingered a half-second too long.
Nate stiffened.
The man turned, looked him up and down once — slow.
“Sorry, daddy.”
The word hit him like a physical blow.
His belly tightened sharply just below the navel — a deep, hot contraction that stole his breath. Heat spread outward from it, up through his chest and into his throat. His eyelids dropped another fraction. The corner of his mouth tugged upward without permission.
“No,” he started.
“Don’—”
He swallowed.
“Don’t call me that.”
But it came out thick, gravel-laced.
“Don’ call me tha’.”
The younger man smiled.
“You look like a daddy.”
The contraction hit again.
Stronger.
He felt it this time not just in his belly, but across his waistline — a prickling surge beneath his shirt. He shifted slightly and felt the hair along his lower abdomen bristle and thicken against the fabric. A warmth radiated outward along his flanks. His chest felt denser. Fuller.
His hand moved before he realized it.
It landed at the younger man’s lower back — firm, steady.
He yanked it away immediately, horrified.
“I’m sorry,” he tried to say.
“Ah’m sss—”
The apology dissolved into a low breath.
The younger man didn’t step back.
He leaned closer.
“You’re not sorry.”
The smirk deepened.
Nate felt it settle into his face — not a smile, not entirely — but a crooked curl at one corner of his mouth that refused to flatten. He pressed his lips together, trying to erase it.
It remained.
“Daddy,” the man repeated, softer now.
The tightening was immediate.
His belly clenched hot and pleasurable, grounding him in a way the alcohol no longer frightened him. The fog shifted from destabilizing to warm. His posture broadened automatically. Shoulders squared. Chin lifted slightly.
He felt the hair at his waist thicken again — a coarse expansion downward from his navel. He could feel it brushing heavier against his skin, spreading across his lower belly, creeping toward his hips. Even the backs of his hands felt denser, darker.
“This is wrong,” he told himself desperately.
“Thish ishh— fff—”
The word fractured.
“Fffuck.”
It came out low.
Natural.
The younger man’s eyes darkened with interest.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “That’s it.”
Nate’s eyelids lowered further.
He hated how good the word felt.
Hated how each repetition pulled him deeper into the body he was wearing. The smirk was no longer flickering — it was resting there permanently, shaping his face into something amused and possessive.
“What’s your name?” the younger man asked casually.
Nate opened his mouth.
“N—”
The syllable stalled.
His own name felt distant.
Thin.
The younger man leaned closer.
“Doesn’t matter,” he said softly. “You’re daddy.”
The contraction nearly buckled his knees.
Heat surged through his gut, through the dense hair at his waist, through his thickened chest. His breathing slowed, deepened. The drunken haze no longer frightened him — it wrapped around him comfortably.
He felt someone else watching.
He turned his head slowly.
Across the bar, leaning against a pillar, was the man from the Zoom call.
Calm.
Observing.
Waiting.
Recognition flickered.
“You,” Nate said thickly.
“Yyyou.”
The man pushed off the wall and approached without hurry.
“I wondered how long it would take,” he said quietly.
Nate’s jaw tightened.
“You sent it.”
The man smiled.
“You wore it.”
The scent rose from Nate’s skin then — no longer subtle cologne, but something layered and animal. Leather. Smoke. Heat. Oak. Skin. It was stronger now, radiating from him. He saw the Zoom man inhale faintly, satisfied.
“You wanted this,” the man continued.
“No,” Nate tried to protest.
“Nnno.”
The word dissolved into a low breath.
The Zoom man stepped closer, his voice dropping.
“You fight it every time,” he said softly. “But you lean in.”
He leaned close enough for his breath to brush Nate’s ear.
“Daddy.”
The tightening was overwhelming now — hot, addictive, anchoring. Nate felt his belly contract hard and then settle heavier, more permanent. His hand rose again, unbidden, landing firmly at the Zoom man’s hip. Not tentative.
Claiming.
He could feel the hair along his waist thick and coarse beneath his shirt. His eyelids rested low and heavy. The smirk no longer felt foreign — it felt right.
He tried one last time to pull back.
“I—”
The word wouldn’t form.
He could feel Nate — the version of himself from that morning — somewhere far behind his eyes, horrified and small.
But the warmth in his belly pulsed again.
Addictive.
Inviting.
The Zoom man held his gaze steadily.
“You don’t have to pretend,” he said.
The room felt smaller.
The air thicker.
Someone at the bar laughed and said it again — casually this time.
“Daddy.”
The contraction hit like a reward.
Nate exhaled slowly through his nose.
His voice, when it came, was fully settled — gravel-thick, low, unhurried.
He leaned down slightly, smirk fixed, eyelids heavy.
And with full awareness that this was the point of no return—
Nate had always thought he was close to being what people called “daddy.” Not in the crude sense — not the loud, beer-bellied stereotype — but in the curated, intelligent way. Salt at the temples. A steady voice. A man who felt grounded and intentional. He liked the idea of that. He wanted to project weight without losing refinement.
That morning, standing in his bathroom with soft light catching the silver in his beard, he studied himself critically. The beard was neatly shaped, the glasses balanced squarely on his nose, his black shirt buttoned cleanly at the collar. He looked competent. Measured. Safe.
Safe was the problem.
The bottle on the counter felt heavier than he expected when he picked it up. The label was simple: DADDY. He had bought it deliberately, after reading a description that promised leather, tobacco, depth — something animalic beneath civility. He had hesitated before purchasing it, embarrassed by how much he wanted the effect it implied.
“You just need an edge,” he told his reflection quietly, and sprayed once at the base of his throat.
The scent bloomed instantly — warm, musky, darker than he’d anticipated. It didn’t sit lightly on his skin; it seemed to sink into it. A slow heat radiated outward from the spray point, spreading along his collarbones and down toward his chest. It wasn’t painful. It was intimate.
He told himself he liked it.
By ten o’clock he had forgotten about it, at least consciously. He was mid-presentation on Zoom, posture upright, voice steady, explaining revisions to a client. The laptop’s camera framed him as it always did: thoughtful, composed, the lenses of his glasses catching faint blue light.
“I think if we refine the messaging and adjust the tone,” he began, “we can make the campaign feel more—”
A strange vibration caught in his chest. Not a cough, not quite a hiccup. It was deeper than that, like a low motor turning over beneath his sternum. He cleared his throat and continued, but something inside him shifted just enough to loosen his grip on the next phrase.
“—and stop jerking around with the copy.”
The words landed heavily in the quiet space of the call.
Nate felt his stomach drop. He blinked, heat rushing into his face. He never spoke like that — not in professional settings, not anywhere. His language was deliberate, chosen carefully.
“I’m sorry,” he corrected quickly, but even as he spoke he felt the texture of his voice change. It was thicker. Rougher at the edges. “I don’t know why I said that.”
The apology didn’t sound apologetic. It sounded restrained.
He tried again. “What I meant was we need to stop screwing around and be decisive.”
The second phrase was worse. The gravel beneath his voice was unmistakable now. It vibrated in his chest and echoed faintly in his ears. He watched the client’s expression shift — not offended exactly, but recalibrating.
He muted himself. Then, after a beat, he turned the camera off.
Alone in the small square of silence, he exhaled hard. “What the hell was that?” he whispered.
The whisper didn’t feel like one. It resonated low and steady, more command than question.
His jaw ached.
At first he thought it was tension, but when he lifted his hand to his face and pressed along the hinge near his ear, he felt something different. The joint felt broader. The bone beneath his fingers seemed more pronounced. He opened and closed his mouth slowly, testing the alignment. His lower teeth brushed forward slightly before settling back. The bite felt wrong — not dislocated, but changed.
He tried to speak again, softly. “I’m so sor—”
“—sorry about that, that was unprofessional as hell.”
The word slipped in before he could stop it. Hell. He hadn’t chosen it. His tongue felt heavier in his mouth, as though it preferred the weight of harsher syllables.
He stood abruptly from his desk. The movement felt different. His center of gravity had shifted — subtly, but enough that he noticed it. A pressure gathered low in his abdomen. Not bloating. Not cramping. A downward, forward settling.
He looked down.
The buttons of his shirt were pulling faintly across his midsection.
“That’s not possible,” he murmured, and sucked in his stomach instinctively. The muscle resisted him. Instead of flattening, his abdomen pushed outward against his palm, firm and warm. It didn’t feel soft. It felt substantial. Present.
The heat from the cologne seemed to flare again, radiating down into his chest. Beneath the cotton of his shirt, his skin prickled violently. He could feel the follicles along his sternum tightening, widening. The sensation was almost pleasurable — almost.
He walked quickly to the bathroom, pulse hammering in his ears.
The man in the mirror looked older.
Not by decades. Not yet. But the change was undeniable. His jaw was heavier, the line less tapered. His beard, which he had trimmed carefully that weekend, now appeared denser along the cheeks, coarser at the chin. Threads of silver were more pronounced, catching the light aggressively instead of subtly.
He leaned closer.
His lower lip rested slightly more forward than before. His teeth showed differently when he parted them. The alignment wasn’t crooked, but it wasn’t precise either. His mouth no longer settled into the neat, controlled line he was used to.
“What the hell is happenin’ to me?” he said, and the dropped consonant startled him more than the words themselves.
He didn’t talk like that. His diction was clean. Educated.
Yet the phrase had rolled out naturally, unforced.
He gripped the edge of the sink. His forearms looked darker — the hair thicker, spreading down toward his wrists. Veins stood out more prominently beneath the skin. His neck seemed wider at the base, the tendons more visible when he swallowed.
His chest burned. Without fully deciding to, he unbuttoned the top of his shirt.
Dense hair pressed up from beneath the fabric. Not wild, but fuller than it had any right to be. It crept outward from the center of his sternum toward his shoulders in a slow, steady expansion he could feel even when he couldn’t see it.
His abdomen shifted again.
He turned sideways to the mirror and felt his breath catch. The forward projection was subtle but unmistakable. His stomach pushed out with a firmness that made the line of his shirt change entirely. It wasn’t sagging. It was claiming space.
He pressed his palm against it.
The solidity beneath his hand sent a pulse of heat through him that was disturbingly close to pleasure.
“No,” he said under his breath. “That’s not what I wanted.”
But another thought slid in behind it, quieter and more certain: You wanted daddy.
He straightened unconsciously. His shoulders rolled back. His chest lifted. The new weight in his gut settled forward naturally, as though it had always belonged there.
He looked older now. Forty-five, maybe fifty. The salt in his beard framed his mouth more aggressively. His eyes seemed darker, set deeper under heavier brows.
And then he smiled.
It wasn’t intentional. It wasn’t practiced. His upper lip lifted just enough to show more teeth than he usually would. The corners of his mouth curved differently — less polite, more knowing.
There was something predatory in it.
He saw it clearly in the mirror.
His breath slowed.
“Stop it,” he said sharply.
But what came out was steadier, rougher.
“Knock it off.”
The voice sounded comfortable there.
The man in the mirror did not look afraid anymore.
Today makes the first year since your retirement from professional soccer - if you call being injured and forced off a team "retirement." You played for the LA Galaxy for a few years before an untimely injury put you on the bench, then off the roster. It was a big bruise to your ego - it had always been your dream to play for the team. As a way to forget your troubles, you decided to treat yourself to a spa day then a stroll through the neighborhood.
After wrapping up at the spa, you pass by a costume shop and see retro 1990s stylized LA Galaxy jersey in the window. You decide to try one on and send a selfie to some of your old teammates, thinking they'd get a kick out of it.
Within a few second of snapping and sending the image you look back up in the mirror and are shocked to see your hair falling out. You notice creases along your expanding forehead, some grey in your beard and more hair on your arms.
The changes accelerate. You briefly look away from the mirror and when you look up you think you see your dad...but quickly realize that you just look the same age as him. You strip off the jersey, wondering if you're having an allergic reaction to the polyester - grasping at any straws to fix this situation. The top of your head is totally bald now, you've gained at least 50 lbs and your beard is more grey than brown. So much for your minoxidil and finasteride treatments. You look like a man in his 40s that hasn't taken the best care of himself.
The changes continue and your hair goes mostly white. A bushy mustache grows on your face and your skin continues to weather and loosen. You are in a mix of shock and panic at the image of a man, now older than your father, staring back at you in the mirror.
The changes begin to slow - you realize that maybe this has something to do with the jersey! Maybe it's magic or maybe it's cursed. You put it back on hoping it will somehow reverse the change but you can't fit it over your now more robust torso. You stare at yourself in the mirror for what feels like an hour - hoping for something to happen - but nothing does...You look closer to 60 now, maybe a bit younger than your grandfather.
After a short time your thoughts began to cloud. You think back across the 60+ years of your life...wait is that right...weren't you in your mid 20s? You briefly space out as your brain is being rewired. That's right! You did play for the LA Galaxy, but in the 1990s. You retired at the peak of your game in the at the age of 30. You've lived off a nest egg and some real estate ventures ever since. You popped by the store because you saw your old jersey in the window. After purchasing it you headed back to your home in the countryside to enjoy your well earned retirement - pipe, porch, rocking chair and all.
I am a gay man in my mid 20s, and I have been trying to change myself, physically and mentally, to embody 'dad energy.' Let me explain.
Have you ever met or seen somebody in public who just radiated dad energy to the fullest extent? Maybe they have just a mustache and their pudgy double chin is exposed. Maybe their hairline is a heavily receding, leaving only an island of hair on top. Maybe they have a big round gut that is accentuated by a polo tucked tightly into some cargo shorts. Maybe they're eating something big and greasy, and they dribble onto said shirt leaving a big stain for all to see. Maybe they have a chunky dad butt barely contained by a tight belt, and on that belt is a phone holster. All these things might make you think 'who would go out looking like that?' or 'Who would want to be like that?' This is who I want to be, in real life, more than anything: a big embarrassing dad. I find the changes I have been making to achieve this quite exhilarating.
Seeking folks with whom I can share all of my dadliest desires. I would love to hear your thoughts, comments, and ideas, too. If you like dads, you came to the right guy. Care to chat about this or have questions for me? Shoot me a message!
POV: You were always the tall one—a 6'3" American man who never had to think twice about it. It was just part of who you were, the way people recognized you before anything else. All star in sports, handsome, tall - these were your defining characteristics growing up.
Lately, though, things feel… off. Doorframes seem further. Your clothes don’t sit right. A quick check against the wall confirms it—you’ve lost a couple of inches. Then a couple more over the coming days.
Now you’re back at that same wall, marking your height again, watching the line settle lower than you ever thought it could. Around 5'5". Time to panic.
You know you’ve gotten fatter by the way your belly and chest and rump move when you try to jog now — resisting the pull of gravity just a moment longer than the rest of you at the apex of your stride, pulling down and bringing their excess weight to bear an instant after your foot touches back on the ground. It never used to do that when you were leaner and thinner and tighter all over. In a word, you jiggle now. And it’s obvious.
You know you’ve gotten fatter by the way your thighs get so warm from your belly resting on them for too long. This wasn’t a problem back when you had a lap — which I suppose you technically still do, but it’s so thoroughly buried by that sack of blubber hanging off your midsection that it doesn’t really count anymore. You have to lift that thick flab roll any time you want to let your thighs and fatpad cool off, and you notice that’s getting harder and harder to do by the day.
You know you’ve gotten fatter by the way you get out of breath by the end of your walk to the bus now. It’s not that far — a few dozen steps to the end of your street — but by the end of it, you’re having to work to get your breaths in and out, and you can feel the heat rising in your cheeks and the perspiration beginning to seep out under your arm fat and down your back rolls. The hunger, too, is telling; the sugary treat you used to save for your first cup of coffee at work now disappears by the second stop, a sacrifice to the rumbling in your stomach that inevitably follows this briefest of workouts. The crumbs of sugar and pastry, and sometimes daubs of icing, trickle down over the rolls and belly filling your lap and spilling over into the necessarily empty seat next to you. None of your fellow riders are surprised to see them there.
You know you’ve gotten fatter when you go to stand up from your office chair, and the chair comes with you. You’d tried to ignore all the splitting seams, the periodic blowouts in your pants seat, the groaning chairs, the growing inertia of all the weight sloshing around on your rump. But ignoring it is no longer an option, not now that you have to squeeze yourself out from between the armrests of this XL roller. Your hips and ass may not be the widest part of you, but there’s no disguising the state you’re in now that they’re bigger around than even most beer bellies. You’re not gracefully squeezing past anyone on the way to the lunchroom — they’re getting out of your way, fast.
You know you’ve gotten fatter when clothes that can fully cover your body simply don’t exist anymore. When your thigh rolls bulge and sag out of the biggest pair of shorts you can find, tumbling over one another in a shapeless cascade past where your knees would be, if you could still point them out. When you have to cut the sleeves off of your 8XL tee to make room for your massive doughball arms and the sideboob rolls that hang over what’s left of the seam. When your belly hangs too low and wobbles too much with every minor movement to stay covered by your circus tent of an outfit. On the rare occasions when you still go out, you can’t help but put on a mutually unwanted show for everyone in the vicinity, who try with greater or lesser success to hide how horrified they are at the sight of your unmanageable obesity. Fortunately, there are plenty of chasers and feeders out there happy to fill in for you on the grocery or takeout run.
You know you’ve gotten fatter when you can’t even manage to shuffle into the shower without getting stuck. You always thought the shower seat you started using, once it became impossible to hold your shameful bulk up for the pathetically short duration of a shower, was going to be the failure point. Instead, it’s the cold, rigid stainless steel of the shower doorframe pinching the unreachable extremity of your belly on one side and the stacks of lard-filled back rolls on the other. You can already feel the burn in your leg muscles, underneath the shapeless lumps of fat disguising them as useable extremities, that tells you you’re rapidly reaching your limit for physical exertion. The same burning spreads to your overworked lungs, fighting against the weight of your blubber-packed tits to keep you breathing, as you struggle in vain to get yourself free. Good thing your feeder is there to extract you and bring you a couple dozen cookies to help you calm down.
You know you’ve gotten fatter when the slight pressure of your feeder’s touch against your blubbery chest is enough to make getting up from the couch impossible. You can still just throw your weight forward with enough force to tip forward onto your feet, pushing your hundreds of excess pounds up from a squat until you’re in a standing position. But not when he doesn’t want you to. It takes you so much effort, fighting against the flab smothering your body, that his halfhearted push is enough to send you rolling backward, out of breath and stuck in your divot on the couch. The perfect spot for him to caress your triple chins as he feeds you something greasy and fatty and soporific enough that you can’t even consider trying to get up again. You were probably too big to try it in the first place anyway, or so you try to convince yourself.
You know you’ve gotten fatter. You know you’re getting fatter. You know you’re never going to stop getting fatter. And you still have so much more growing to do.
