Road To Obesity: @roadtoobesity - Tumblr Blog

Blog Introduction:

Hi y'all, this is the account person for "Road To Obesity". Thought I would make a little pinned comment.

This blog is just a little outlet for me to discuss my interests in bigger men / male weight gain with others, primarily through narrative stories. I would like to establish that I do not own nor am a part of any of the pictures used. These pictures are either a visual for my ideas or the inspiration behind the narrative.

I'm open to chat with others about topics related to male weight gain, big men, feeder/feedee dynamics, etc. If you're a big man or an enjoy-er of these things, feel free to reach out. I would love to have a conversation, do some roleplay, share pictures, etc. The link to my communications channel is below. You can message me there:

I may update this later with things I enjoy. Until then, feel free to reach out or just enjoy my content! 🫶

"Hey dad, did you run my pants through the dryer? I can't seem to get them buttoned. I've told you time and time gain that hot water shrinks them! That has to be the third pair you've ruined this week. At this rate, I'll be roaming the house in my underwear. You wouldn't want to see that now, would you?"

"Hey bro, just reaching out before our Caribbean trip. Thoughts on the beach bod?"

Your brother could only deny it so much. His body, once a temple of taut muscle, had been pumped full of nothing but lard. Whatever "athletic frame" he was seeing now fell deep beneath those tits and paunch. And, to be honest, "paunch" didn't do it justice. That word described a belly, not whatever muffin top he was working with. Every new pound he's packed on just adds further to those sides, cascading down in jiggling dough. You had known when he started trading dumbbells for donuts that this would be the end game. And you couldn't be any more proud of the change.

You awoke this morning to a text from your boy. For the past few months, he's been up in New York chasing the "American Dream" and working hard on Wall Street. This is the first clear picture you've gotten from him since he left, and not much is left to the imagination. Those business meals have been treating him.

"Well dad, it looks like I'm shit out of luck. The laundry service shrunk my shirt, so I'll be heading into the office to put on a show. It's not like the boys will mind. Those fatasses have a lot more to worry about than my wardrobe. We have four lunch meetings today among our top shareholders. Wish me luck!"

Sure, son. Whatever makes you happy.

"If I hear one more comment about how 'tight' my suit is, I am going to blow a fuse. It's obvious that no one in this diner has seen a well-nourished man before. Otherwise, they would keep those stares to themselves. Now, can I get some service here? I need three loaded burgers, a side of fries, two sides of hash browns, and two shakes. One vanilla, one strawberry. And add in a custard, flavor of the day. Is that too damn hard of an ask?"

Yep. The lardass on the right and model on the left are both the same person. Better yet, the fatty is your brother. You had grown up hearing just about every compliment given to him. He was kind, smart, attractive, and charming. And, yes, you couldn't deny that he appeared chiseled out of stone by the hands of an experienced craftsman. That was until his modelling business really took off. Soon, every day was packed with three, four lunch meetings. Investors wanted him at every time of the day, always throwing in luxury items and food to win his favor. By his first year working alone, your bro had blimped 50 pounds in pure lard. He was quickly dropped by every company and left to work a retail job. Nowadays, the most praise he gets is an off comment on how hot he used to be. Regardless, you think he's never looked better.

You. Fucked. Up. You had decided that the night before your brother's wedding was the perfect time to test the suit you ordered six months ago. Six months before you began indulging in the pleasures of a cushy office job. Six months before jumping up two waist sizes and going from "skinny fat" to "undeniable fatass". You could already see it now. Your brother's smug face, his fiancee's mortified stare, mom's gaping jaw, and dads consoling look (he would understand as a bigger man himself). Well, if there was ever a time to socially launch this new body, it would have to be now. You just hope they brought enough cake.

bigboycaviar

roadtoobesity

"You see, son? That right there is pudge. I know you weren't lookin' to pack on the pounds, but my cookin' is clearly too good. I mean, come on. You think the washer could shrink your entire wardrobe? Son, the common denominator is you. Now, are you gonna keep whinin', or can we get on to dessert? I don't want to see my boy starvin'"

vicariouseater

Stretch mark and fat pad post, I can’t stop staring at how big I look in the last picture and I definitely can’t stop thinking about when I can’t reach to take the picture in the future

roadtoobesity

This right here is a real man. None of that diet gym sissy bullshit. This gentleman has devoted himself to one thing: hedonistic luxury. The extra meals shine through in every supple curve, every plump roll, every surface of his blimping pudge. His crown jewels, though, are that lard-packed paunch and bulging fat pad. It takes a real man to eat himself into submission, to trade inches down there for inches around his waist. We applaud you, sir.

danpizzabelly

Is this a beer belly? A dadbod?

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New content uploaded.

roadtoobesity

Beer belly? Dadbod? Nah, that's a pudgy, plump, portly parental figure. You only get a belly like that from days spent snacking and nights spent sedentarily on the couch. I guess the name "danpizza" gives away what you were snacking on. Well, pizza is good for a growing dad. Your sons will need someone to look up to, a big figure. I'm sure you'll be up to the challenge.

Your son hadn't always been tubby. On the contrary, he had grown up with an average to healthy frame. Worked out once a week, went on hikes, ran mornings. That changed when he was hit with the harsh pressures of life. All of that free time sank down the drain as soon as he started working three fast food jobs. Time spent running became sitting sedentary behind a cash register. His biggest workout was lifting burgers for customers (and himself). The real killer was the 75% food discount he got at his workplaces. Suddenly, eating fast food each night became a "budgetary necessity". An addictive one. By the time he was headed home for summer, the boy had blimped 50 pounds in pure lard. You couldn't have been prouder had you put that weight on him yourself.

Troye, Nick, and Josh had always known they would end up in a frat. From their early school days together, the boys had developed a tendency to choose partying and fun over whatever their teachers failed to lecture. So, when they were hit with the freedoms of college, they went wild. Monthly parties turned into twice a month, then weekly, then nightly, and finally 24/7. Free booze, edibles, and bong hits served as a catalyst to ending up stuffed and blackout drunk each night. By the end of their freshman year, each of the boys were sporting "healthy" paunches and ravenous appetites. If they don't flunk their classes, these boys are in for a bigger next few years.

Had he not been right in front of you, you would have never believed the rumors. Richard Cox, lead quarterback for your high school football team, had ballooned into an absolute lardass. You thought back on his glory days. He had always drawn attention with his defined abs, toned figure, and booming presence. You know, the kind of athlete that won Prom King. Now, after losing his D1 scholarship to a torn achilles, he had turned to lazing at his parents home. It hadn't taken long for those abs to melt into a sizable paunch, then an overhang, then whatever you would call this. His pecs, once firm with bound muscle, drooped under the soft lard of his filling frame. The final nail in the coffin came when his stride became a waddle, leaving him too immobile to work off the weight. What's left is the unmotivated pillow of a man before you. You could already see the head tile: "Star Player goes from winning games to winning McDonalds coupons".

Next to your brother, it was clear who would be getting the most comments this year. Ever since you were kids, you and your brother had always competed over everything. Who was faster, who was stronger, who could get the higher test grade? It wasn't until 10th grade that a new challenge appeared: who could get bigger? While it had originally begun as a contest of muscle, it quickly devolved into who could get bigger through any means necessary. In the following months, each of us stuffed ourselves to the gills with Wendy's, McDonalds, Burger King, and any other greasy food we could afford. By the end of the year, we had both outgrown our uniforms. Our sophomore graduation was defined by pasty paunches, lardy tits, and a distinct waddle in our walks. Since then, we have competed each year over who can be the biggest fatass. While he has you for now, a new sedentary office job may be the secret to clinching next years win. You could hardly wait.

From this angle, it was a clear and undeniable truth: your dad had become a genuine fatass. He shouldn't have been surprised. The countless fast food runs you had taken him on had to go somewhere. You'd think he would have slowed when his tits swelled, when his love handles became a muffin top, when his belly spilled into his lap. Yet, through every wardrobe up-size, he had remained adamant to his health. This, however, was of no concern to you. As long as he kept eating, he could keep preach whatever delusions he wanted.

My son had never been much of a sight. A little scrawny, not too much muscle. That was until he came back from college. Like any other kid, he had packed on the Freshman 15. However, while some might have been discouraged, I saw this weight physically change him. The once scrawny and silent kid had socially blossomed from the weight. This was enough to know that, as his father, I had a responsibility to keep him fat and happy.

Now, in his final year of college, I can proudly say that he is the happiest he's ever been. He may not look like it at first glance, but that food coma is a sign of pure bliss from his fourth dinner. In place of that scarecrow is a jolly fat man, and I finally have a son who's confident and happy. All it took was a few extra meals and 200 pounds of blubber.

"Dad, I told you it wouldn't fit me. I had this shirt before I moved back in, and I'm certainly not the boy I was back then. I mean, come on dad. I knew what I was signing up for moving back in with a retired Michelin Star chef. The results are pretty clear. But hey, if this is the price I must pay to eat five gourmet meals a day, so be it. Now, what's for dinner?"

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