Untitled @rotundlover - Tumblr Blog

Apr 18, 2025

The Time Traveler's Waistline

The first time it happened, I died. This was, of course, only temporary, as I've come to find so much is.

I went to bed on the 22nd of November 1963, and woke up on a warm spring day in 2005, although I couldn't know that at the time. The room I woke up in was wrong in ways I couldn't quite put my finger on; the walls, the furniture, the technology, all things I could identify, but none quite what I was expecting.

I could barely pay the room any mind though, as the real change was me. While I had gone to bed a trim 30 year old, muscles firm from use and dark thick hair on my head, I was now clearly in the body of an old man. In a small mirror by the bed I saw a face full of wrinkles, hair a shock of grey.

More than any of this though, I was enormous. The thin sheet I was under rose high above me to cover a mountain of flesh, my arms were heavy and the resistance I felt in manouvering them was completely alien, and I felt almost lifted off the bed, surrounded by cubic meters of flesh that seemed to pool around and underneath me. I did my best to control my breathing, hampered by my rising panic and the unfamiliar weight that sat on my chest. Whatever the fuck was happening (I trust you'll forgive my language in this somewhat extreme instance Reader), I understood that I had to remain calm and collected if I hoped to find a way out.

I attempted to get out of bed, but quickly realised this was going to be something of a different matter than usual. As much as I tried to simply swing my legs over the side of the bed, as I had done without issue for my entire life, I was simply to large to do so now. I steadied myself, took several deep breaths, and began to rock. Gently at first, but then as I built momentum, I threw more and more of my now considerable weight into my swings, until finally, after what felt like hours, but was probably more like 30 seconds (Time, Reader, is relative. This will be an important lesson as we continue.), I could swing my legs up and over the side of the bed, dragging acres of bedsheet to fall to the floor.

I sat there for some time, taking deep, shuddering breaths, trying to fill my lungs and steady my shaking limbs. I surveyed the body that spread out in front of me, more of a landscape than a body. In my panic, I was perhaps uncharitable. I'd had my fair share of elicit rendezvous with men both older and larger than myself, stolen away behind locked doors after lingering glances across bars I shouldn't have been in, bars which shouldn't have existed, in the eyes of many, including the law. While none of those men had been quite so old, quite so large (I was certain that I hadn't even seen a man quite so large as the body I inhabited at that moment.), I could nonetheless appreciate the form.

And, as I became accustomed to the idea of being in the wrong body (Not accepting Reader, but accustomed at least.), its odd sensuality grew on me. The way that each movement, however small, needed to be considered carefully, and how I was so aware of my body moving; the heavy resistance of fat as my muscles strained to move, my body squeezing and pulling against itself now there was so much more of it, the exquisite softness of skin running across skin. It was like I was making love to my own body.

I marveled at the sight of this strange body. The arms, thicker than most men's legs, any definition lost beneath smooth, buttery flesh. Breasts larger than a woman's, but covered in hair, sloping down onto a large gut. That gut Reader. I would dream about it for weeks after, as I thought back to this moment. The stomach, my stomach, was unlike anything I'd ever seen. It was pure fat, soft and malleable, but not without form, surging forward in a mishapen sphere, a cushion seemingly stuffed beneath the skin, several dimples across the top large enough for me to place my palm in, dusted with wiry, silver hair. Straining my neck to see past the expanse of this body, I saw the monolith of the torso flowed out, preserving modesty, three-quarters of the way towards -

A scar.

A scar on the right knee.

My scar. On my right knee. Received during a rugby match in my school days when, being in the first team, we were expected to play against boys that seemed twice our size, but were in all likelihood just the year above us.

Even stretched and distorted by my sudden corpulence, there was no mistaking it, as it looked perculiarly like a question mark, complete with a small dot below where a stone had dug in.

I wasn't sure what I thought was happening up until that point. Some strange science fiction B-move come to life, swapped into the body of a stranger, or a metamorphosis of by entire being. But this was unmistakable, undeniable proof. This somehow, was my body.

A man walked in, and I made a movement that might have been a small jump in another body, but in this one set my entire body shaking. He was tall and thin, and perhaps a little younger than my current self, and carrying a tray heavy with food. Despite my shock at my situation, I felt my body yearn for that food.

"You're not him, are you?" the man said, studying my face. "Or rather, you're not him yet." He spoke in perfect English, but there was an accent there - German, maybe. "I'm Matthias. He said - you said - that you'd be here." I didn't understand a single word he was saying. "You must be very confused." This, Reader, was correct.

By this point my mouth was full with food, Matthias having set the tray down next down to me as he spoke. With my brain trying to process so much, my body flew into overdrive, attempting to sate what I suspected might be an endless hunger. I swallowed a mouthful of toast as light as a cloud, coated with sugar and cinnamon and looked at Matthias. "Do you know what's happened to me? Why I've woken up like, like..." I gestured down to my body. "So much older? And fatter?"

He smiled faintly and paused, considering his next words carefully. "You've travelled in time. You do so fairly regularly in fact." I stared, my mouth open to reveal a rich and creamy omelette. "Not your body though. Your mind. You go to sleep, and wake up in a new time, a new point along your own personal timeline." He looked at me, waiting for questions. While I had plenty, choosing one to start with was impossible. "Only between the ages of 30 and today though, you see."

I did not see, and told him so.

We sat and spoke for the next few hours, Matthias explaining again and again, my brain slowly processing the information.

"So where's he?" I asked, once I'd come to terms a little with the idea. "The older me? That should be here?"

"Ah, he'll be at another point in your timeline. Another day. In fact I believe..." he picked up a leather bound notebook from the counter, sheets of paper poking out the top and the sides, pages ear-marked and many seemingly torn out and moved to different points of the book. "The almanac," he explained briefly, as if that meant anything to me. "He's where you were. The next day in 1963, the 23rd of November. It's not always a straight swap but sometimes..."

"And today..." I trailed off.

"The 25th of March, 2005. 42 years later." I motioned for him to carry on. "The ah... Well. The day you die." I was silent. Of all that I'd heard so far, this was the strangest, the least believable. "Or at least!" he continued, "at least the latest date you'd ever woke up in before. Who knows, really." He smiled sadly, clearly not convincing himself.

"I'm sorry," I said. "That you can't say goodbye to... Well, me, I suppose, but..." I couldn't grieve for myself, still not believing what was happening to me.

He looked at me and forced a smile. "We had advance notice. Everything sorted and filed away. Goodbyes all said, parties all had. Today is..." He looked at me, deep into my eyes, trying to make a connection I couldn't return. "Today is just an epilogue."

We spent the rest of the day talking, Matthias talking me through the logistics of time travel as best he could. I had seemingly been preparing for this for years, knowing exactly what I would be told. The key was to keep the almanac up to date, noting down key events, dates and names as soon as I returned to my proper time, all cross-referenced to my departure date, as it were. Matthias also showed me a version on some large flat television with hundreds of rows and columns I couldn't understand, but I appreciated that there seemed to be a system.

Throughout it all I ate. The house, larger than any I'd ever been in, seemed to be centred around a large, bright kitchen, and no matter where Matthias and I went, it was always close enough to call through to the kitchen staff, who would appear shortly to provide me with a never ending carousel of dishes.

Shortly after what Matthias called dinner, but which wasn't in practice any different from the otherwise constant stream of food, a little heavier perhaps, I felt a tightness in my chest. I began to breath even heavier than before and I started to feel faint. Matthias appeared at my side and held my face.

"I'm here, I'm here," he whispered, tears in his eyes. "You'll be fine, absolutely fine, you're just going back." He stared deep into my eyes, and despite only knowing him one day, I felt a rush of emotion, a surge of love towards him. He leant forward, maneouvering around my mass with well practiced ease, and as he kissed me, long and slow and passionate, I felt as if I were falling asleep.

I woke up, gasping and drenched in sweat, in my usual bedroom in my small terraced house. There was a heaviness in my stomach which reminded me of boxing day - the short-term consequences of indulgence. I stumbled downstairs to find the post at the base of the front door, on top of it a paper dated the 4th of December - I'd seemingly skipped well over a week. While I still wasn't fully convinced of what was happening, a letter lay on my kitchen table, in amongst empty packages of what seemed to be all the food that was previously in my kitchen, and quite a bit more besides.

The letter was signed with my own signature, and went over pages and pages, outlining much of what Matthias told me, as well as listing some information I could use to make money. Stocks to buy, sports fixtures to bet on, even some future technology I couldn't make heads or tails of, but which was apparently worth investing in. The letter made one thing clear though, I could never intentionally change events I knew would happen.

I looked down at my body, so different from the one I had been in just a few hours before (A few decades later.). I was young and lithe, with lean muscles from manual labour and a thin trail of dark hair creeping up my taut stomach, before fanning out at my chest. It was a body that could drive men wild, a body that did drive men wild, and yet it suddenly seemed lacking. Reader, that future body would not leave my mind. Where had that soft sensuality gone? That inescapable awareness of my own flesh at each moment? That hedonistic, wild abandon with which I found myself indulging? In short, that fat?

All of that day, my mind thought back time and time again to what I had started to think of as a mad dream. Surely I couldn't really believe that I had time travelled over 40 years in the future to the date of my own death? That I could do so again? Even more so, surely I couldn't really be fantasising about that soft, supple flesh, that heaving body, that would have been anethema to the waifs that I'd press my body against at weekends, tearing madly at each others clothes.

I spent the day shaken, but duly checked the contents of the letter. Sure enough, my bank account was already more full, and I could find evidence for bets and investments made in my name.

That night I went to sleep wondering if it would happen again.

Summer, this time, and swelteringly hot. Another new room, smaller, and without the strangeness of last time. The styles were a touch different, but still grounded in what I knew from 1963. The bed was large, with only a simple, thin white sheet covering my body.

Sitting up was easier this time, but there was still a delicious resistance to the motion, as I felt a thick slab of beef at my middle squeeze and fold around my self, an indescribable pressure across the ring of flesh surrounding my torso. I ran my hands across this once again new body, and felt my cock stiffen below my gut.

I was younger than last time, and smaller, although still undeniably fat, my gut merely defining my frame, rather than taking it over. I could see streaks of white pepper through the hair on my chest and arms, but on the whole it was still as dark as I was used to.

Next to me was a man, with long limbs and a trim waist. I looked closer. He was younger, but I was almost certain it was Matthias. All those years taken away, he was strikingly handsome, with a sharp, square jawline and high cheekbones, with a mess of dark red curls on his head. A long neck led down to broad shoulders, his skin pale and lightly dusted with freckles.

Matthias was stirred awake from the shifting of my significant weight next to him and seeing me sat up, almost immediately jumped into action, grabbing a book from his bedside and flipping to an earmarked page. The almanac, I thought. "You're awake! You told me you would arrive. You are early, yes?" His German accent now was thicker than it would be, his English less crisp.

"Early?" I asked. "No, I wasn't expected, I don't think. I'm..." I rummaged for the right words to describe the situation.

Matthias found them for me. "No, no. Not early to an invitation. You are an early you. From far back."

"Oh, I see. Yes. This is my second" what was I calling these? Excursions? Breakdowns? I landed on "trip."

"Ah. But you understand what is happening?"

I hesitated. "I understand what is supposed to be happening. Not how or why any of this is supposed to work."

Matthias smiled. "Understandable. It is the same for all of us. You told me that I may have to answer some questions. Come."

He led me downstairs to the kitchen for breakfast. For him, a slice of toast and a small bowl of yoghurt, for myself, a box of pastries, freshly baked and delivered that morning. As we ate, he gave me some context to where (When.) I was. It was August 1977, and I was 44 years old and reaping the benefits of over a decade of making money off the future, and (I looked down at myself.) gluttony.

I had ('Would' might be a more accurate term. Quite apart from everything else I couldn't get my head around the language I should use.) prepared Matthias with a list of questions that I would ask, or be interested in. Some, he wouldn't answer ("You can't know anything too specific about your own personal life. You'd feel constrained to follow events, or rebel against them."), but otherwise he clearly knew me well, and spoke at length about how I dealt with the practicalities of living across decades.

"Why?" I asked finally. "Why is this happening to me?"

He shrugged. "You have a few theories, but no real evidence for any one of them. Cursed amulet, cosmic deity, an interesting narrative device. Choose your favourite."

By this point he was preparing lunch, a feast of food I'd never heard of. He told me much of it was from the middle-east, and each bite tasted completely new to me. "And why" I asked around a mouthful of lamb, dripping in a spicy sauce "am I so fat?"

He laughed at this. "Because you eat!" he said at first, gesturing at the empty plates I had already cleared. "Because you enjoy life, and can live without any real consequences. You always know where you're heading, broadly, so why worry." He paused now, and looked at me in the eyes, the same look I remember from 2005. "And because," he leaned over and pushed apart my dressing gown to expose my heavy middle, neither of us having dressed all morning "it is beautiful."

He leaned over and kissed me, his hands gliding across my flesh, gently pinching, squeezing and cupping all the extra flesh I had woken up with. He had kissed me before, all those years ahead, but this was different, urgent and passionate and fun. I heaved myself up off of my chair, stumbling a little, unused to moving such weight, and he leaned further into me, simultaneously supporting my weight and desperate to push our bodies closer and closer.

Matthias led me out of the kitchen, and we fell backwards onto the sofa (He above I, luckily.), hearing a snap below us. I pulled away, twisting to survey the damage, but he held my face and pulled me back towards him, fingers pressing tightly onto the soft flesh at my jaw. Whatever damage my weight had done could wait. He could not.

Reader, I fucked him.

It was a singular experience, knowing so little about my own body and his, exploring each for the first time, while Matthias was clearly well-versed in my body, nibbling sensitive spots I didn't even know about, stroking entire stretches of skin that hadn't even existed when I went to bed the night before.

We spent the afternoon like that, him inside me, me inside him, firm, tight body against warm heaviness, stopping only to fetch food, which Matthias would feed to me, my cock in his mouth, or in his arse, or his cock in me, filling me from both ends at once. He would make me eat off of him, sauces down his smooth chest, cream covering his thighs, pastries forced onto his achingly hard pole, so that I had to take his full length to taste them.

Later on, Matthias stood me in front of a mirror, completely naked, with him fucking me from behind, so slow and gentle that it felt like teasing. His hands came from behind and played with the fat all over my body, at times carefully taking a finger and sliding it into some crevice formed by folds in my flesh, at other points grabbing thick handfuls of my gut and shaking it, showing my own body off to me.

I could see what he meant, my body was beautiful. Whereas I knew one day my body would be soft and pliable, now my body was firm despite all of the fat. My midriff pushed out in front of me, round and firm, hard and heavy, bulging out at the sides to two thick love handles, that I could feel encircling my back, all covered by a thick layer of blubber. My legs were clearly covered in thick, soft fat, but I could tell this lay on top of dense muscle, powerful from carrying my weight. My pecs were rounded, but did not sag down, and instead perched above my belly, two meaty domes topped with nipples larger and pointier than at 30. My face was changed, but not unhandsome, I felt, the additional weight filling out my cheeks and rounding out my jawline, giving me a maturity and gravitas I lacked in 1963.

Behind me, Matthias sped up, and I felt his cock move in and out of me with more force. I watched as the fat on my body shook with the movement, adding to the sensations rocking my body. I closed my eyes and tilted my head back, so that it lay on Matthias' shoulder, and he kissed me hungrily as we both reached our climax.

We went to a restaurant for dinner, the first time I'd stepped outside in a different time. Everything was even stranger; the fashion, the music, the cars. I couldn't concentrate on them though, Matthias taking all of my attention. I was fascinated by him as he taught me about his life - his childhood in Berlin, living through the war as a child, going to university for art history, eventually becoming a lecturer and moving to England. I pushed him for details of our lives together but he saw through me. "No sneak peaks" he'd say with a small smile. I wondered how many men he might have fattened up before me, and how much of my own weight was his doing, his fingers lightly tracing my sides at every opportunity.

We made love again that night, and stayed up well until the morning. I realised I was already falling in love with him, already worried about leaving him. He kissed me as I drifted off and promised I'd see him again.

Once again I was in the 1960s. It was clear now that my future self had not changed eating habits in my smaller body, as I woke up with my stomach full and bloated, my stomach curving slightly out over my y-fronts. I got up and noted a new calendar next to my bed telling me I'd missed yet more time, and it was nearly Christmas. I tugged on some trousers, noting the slight tightness, and made my way downstairs.

I was a little sad to see that my small house had been decorated for Christmas, having always enjoyed the season and the task, with a tree in the corner, and paper chains along the walls. I noted that there were several new, expensive looking ornaments, a sign of the money being made by my future self. I comforted myself that one day I would come back to this time and do all the decoration myself - it was just a matter of waiting.

I ate so much more that day than I usually would, not out of hunger, but desire. I couldn't get my future body out of my mind. The way that I dominated a room, the way that my bulk would sway with each movement, the feel of being encased in warm, soft lard. I knew it was an inevitability, but I couldn't help try to hasten it. Reader, I was obsessed.

I went to bed early that night but struggled to get to sleep, excited to see the future again, and to see Matthias. I wondered what decade I would see this time, what new sights, sounds and tastes there would be. And I wondered how fat I might be.

As soon as I woke up, I knew something was wrong. My first impression was one of sheer weight, overwhelming my entire body. Shifting my body was a herculean effort, one that I couldn't muster for very long. Even lifting my arms, leaden with my own fat, felt more difficult, but was manageable. I felt panic rising in my chest. How could this be happening? What was this? Had something gone wrong?

"1998." It was Matthias, stood in the doorway, a small tray of breakfast in his hands. "You're 65. And you've been immobile for around a week so far. Finally too big."

He came towards me and I tried to make out the expression on his face. Guilt? He sighed and passed me a piece of toast, a thin layer of butter on top. "You've told me about this period before, it only actually lasts about 3 weeks and then you're back out of bed. You had the flu a few weeks ago, and between that, getting older and," he paused, looking down at his hands, "and your weight, it was all too much. Your body just isn't strong enough right now." He sighed again and passed me a cup of tea. "We're working on it. Physio, diet, all of it. We'll probably get you down a few stone, make sure this doesn't happen again."

"How did this happen? Why did he- I let this happen?"

Matthias still wouldn't meet my eyes, wouldn't touch me. "Arrogance, maybe. You'd seen your life already seen your death. You knew what was coming, even knew this would end eventually. You just," he gestured vaguely at the bed I was trapped in, "stopped caring about most things. You started feeling like a god." He looked at me finally. "I'm sorry. I let this happen. Me. It was that certainty of your date of death. It felt like we could go as far as we wanted. I never really thought-" He cut himself and walked away. "I'm sorry."

Knowing it was temporary (Three weeks spread across 40 years didn't seem quite so bad.), helped me to calm down. I asked Matthias to help me sit up, which took about 10 minutes between us. My stomach rumbled, but I understood that for the only time in 42 years, I'd have to manage some willpower.

A physiotherapist came, helping me bathe and do what limited exercise I could, and later a nurse, helping me with some basic tasks that Matthias couldn't. I was shocked how tiring laying in bed could be.

"You can't avoid them," Matthias said at the end of the day. The sun was still high, but I could barely stay awake. "The bad days. I know that now you feel like you just flit from perfect day to perfect day, but they'll all still come round. They just come in a different order." He leant down and kissed me on the cheek, the first time he'd touched me all day. I fell into an uneasy sleep, happy to be moving back to my 30s.

January, 1964. I was grateful to be back in my smaller frame, immediately leaping out of bed and pacing furtively, just to convince myself I could. I pinched the small puddle of pudge that was beginning to accumulate on my lower belly, cursing the bloated feeling I was growing used to waking up with.

I resolved to diet, throwing out food from my kitchen, biscuits and heavy treats thrown into the bin. I spent the morning doing press-ups, sit-ups, jogging on the spot, anything, determined to change the future I'd seen, quieting the part of my brain that told me that one day of healthy eating and exercise would not undo the coming decades of gluttony and sloth.

I lay on the ground, gasping for breath and covered in sweat, my hair plastered down onto my forehead, and my mood darkened further, no longer able to distract myself with exercise. How dare he? (I, a small part of my brain corrected.) What was so wrong with my life before all this, that he (I.) could come in and change it all, condemning me to a future of obesity.

I thought to myself also about the days that were being stolen from me. Christmas for now, but that would be just the start - how long until entire years would go unclaimed for decades?

Above all Reader, I cursed how complicit I was in it all. As my days were stolen from my present, I too stole days from my future. As I dreaded my future, trapped in my own flesh, I knew it would be me that would eat and eat and eat myself into that state.

I spent the day miserable, not leaving my house once, not even opening the curtains to let in light. I found myself staring at the clock, obsessed with the seconds passing away from me. Eventually, try as I might, my tiredness grew too much and I found myself drifting into an unwelcome sleep.

"Merry Christmas," I heard Matthias say, and I felt him kiss me as I opened my eyes. The despair I felt at waking up, once again, in a new time, melted away as I saw his face.

I gave a small laugh. "I just missed Christmas. Back in my usual time. I was furious."

He smiled and gave a small hum of understanding. "You'll learn to control it, over time, don't worry. When it happens, when you'll go," he kissed me again. "No more missed Christmases."

"What year is it?" I asked.

"1989," he answered. I was 56 then.

I looked at him, and took stock. His hair was not yet fully grey and his wrinkles weren't as deep as I'd seen before. I sat up with difficulty, maneouvering my large body, but was pleased that I could move without any real problems. The thick duvet fell down, uncovering the sagging mound of flesh at my middle.

My hands traced over my large gut, obviously smaller than last time, but far larger than in my 40s, more like the body I had the day I died, sagging flesh spreading out in all directions. My hands couldn't reach all of its surface, the furthest point of my gut being only just too far for my hands to reach, and I marveled at the size of it. It was a quivering mass of fat, pushing my legs apart and resting on the bed. I put my hands underneath and attempted to heft it up, noting the way the fat continued to ripple afterwards. I slid a hand under one of the thick breasts that sat on top of it, and gave them a squeeze. Despite myself, I found myself growing hard, relishing my own size. Even this, the feeling of my penis stiffening while encased in fat, was enough to make me yet hornier.

Matthias' hand reached out to cover one of my mine, joining in my kneading of my gut. I looked up to see him looking at me with amusement. "You've not been doing this very long, have you?" he asked.

I shook my head, no. "A week maybe. It's difficult to count time like this, but certainly not long."

"I can't imagine how confusing it must feel, experiencing your life out of order," he smiled sadly and then looked down at the gut we were both stroking. "You're enjoying this part of it though, at least?" he asked.

I hesitated. "Yes. But I don't like that I like it. Last time I…" I paused, unsure whether to say, but Matthias' eyes looked deep into mine and I steadied myself. "I'd taken it too far, gotten too fat."

Matthias chuckled and kissed me. "I'm not sure there is such a thing, personally."

"No," I insisted. "This was too much. I couldn't move."

"Ah, yes." he said simply. "You've talked about this before." Then, after a while, "not for a while though. And not permanent." He shrugged. "It's scary, perhaps, but not worth worrying about now. It will come. We will prepare when we need to." I nodded slowly, he was right, I supposed. "You need to learn to live in the present," he went on.

I gave a short, harsh laugh. "And what, exactly is the present?" I asked him.

He moved so that his body was above mine now. "Now," he answered. "This." He leaned down to kiss my gut, hands roaming across its surface. "Just because," he paused to kiss my stomach again, his face disappearing over the horizon of it, "you know the future," another kiss, "doesn't mean you can't enjoy today." He lifted my gut up at that and I felt my entire body rock with the momentum of it. I felt him push back the fat at my groin with one hand, and take my stiff penis with the other. Matthias motioned for me to lay down so he had better access to me, and I duly shuffled my weight down the bed, my gut sloshing back and forth as I did so. I could feel Matthias licking my cock now, and my eyes rolled back into my head with the sensation. He quickly brought me to a climax and my entire body shook violently from my slightest movements.

Matthias moved back up, his face reappearing from beneath my enormous globe of flesh. He kissed me, and I could taste my own cum on his lips. He got up and helped me out of bed. "Come on then," he said with a smile, leading me out the room. "It's Christmas."

It was, all told, one of the happiest days I could remember. We opened expensive presents under the tree, despite my protests that they weren't really my presents to open. After that people started arriving for dinner, friends I hadn't yet met, but who clearly knew me well, laughing and joking over an enormous feast, far more food than I'd ever seen.

I drank, I ate, I laughed at stories about a life I hadn't lived. Not yet, anyway. This, I told myself, might be worth the bad days, the days when I'd wake up too big to move myself, or when I was ill.

That night, as I fell asleep with Matthias nestled into my warm fat, I was excited for when I'd end up next.

The calendar beside my bed told me it was the last day of 1972. I looked over to see Matthias, but the bed beside me was empty.

I got out of bed and walked to the mirror. Not bad, I thought to myself, running a hand across the firm ball belly that sat at my middle. By far the smallest I'd been outside of the 60s so far, but still large, more of a middle-aged man gone far to seed than the fat old man I'd become.

My belly bowed out into a hard sphere at my centre, my pecs had a thin layer of chub, making them deliciously pert, and my thighs, good god my thighs, they were like tree trunks, and strong. I hadn't paid them much mind in the future, the rest of my body standing out so much more, but now I couldn't keep my eyes off of them. I shook them, watching them shift in the mirror. My dick rose in response, framed by the thick pillars of marbled beef on either side, and I stood, stroking myself in the mirror, my arm pressing into my gut. As I pleasured myself, my other hand roamed my body, squeezing fat here, lifting chub there, pulling on slightly pointed nipples. I gave a guttural shout as I came, thick jets hitting the mirror and coating my hand.

My hand continued to travel across my heavy sphere of a gut as I caught my breath. I loved the feeling of being larger, the power, the masculinity. Perhaps that future I saw, trapped in a bed, was bearable, briefly, to enjoy everything else about this.

I turned to see a note on the bedside table, with my own signature on the bottom. It listed the time and place of a New Years Eve party, which I was clearly supposed to attend. I went downstairs for breakfast as I felt my stomach rumbled.

Hours later, I arrived at the party, hosted in a tall townhouse in the centre of the city. Even from the outside, I could tell the party was busy, sound pouring out onto the streets. A doorman checked my name against a guestlist, and I went inside, getting greeted by people from all sides who I'd not yet met, all in black tie. While I'd previously felt ridiculous pouring my chunky build into the tux I wore, thinking the way my gut pushed out of the jacket, imprisoned by the tight white shirt, was almost comical, I was pleased I'd obeyed the instructions from my future self now.

I made polite small talk with my unfamiliar friends, awkwardly avoiding questions and often simply smiling in response. None of them seemed to mind or think it strange, and several of them even made reference to my "enigmatic moods", clearly used to such behaviour.

A few hours and a few cocktails later, I was starting to feel quite tipsy. I excused myself for some fresh air and went out onto a balcony, and there he was. "Matthias!"

He turned to look at me, but his smile faded quickly and was replaced by a look of confusion. "I must make apologies, I am not sure I remember when we have met?" Ah. He'd not met me before. His accent was much thicker than I'd heard before, and it was clear his English wasn't as good as it would be yet.

I introduced myself, quickly making up a lie about having met him a few years before, but only briefly.

His eyebrows furrowed slightly, trying to remember, but he also visibly relaxed, pleased to have some explanation of how I knew him. "Ah, you have visited Berlin! Perhaps," his eyes flicked up and down my body and his voice softened, "we have met in a bar in Schöneberg perhaps?"

"I'm not very good with place names, I'm afraid," I explained, pleased that he'd helped me along by providing details. "A bar though, yes, exactly."

"Ah, there are many wonderful bars in Schöneberg," he stepped closer and lowered his voice conspiratorially. "You were visiting for business? Or perhaps for pleasure?"

While not following the details, I was familiar with this quiet body language, the obviously coded language, the hidden flirting. He must have thought we'd met in some German gay bar. This worked well enough for me, and I softened my own body language to match his, leaning against the railing of the balcony and towards him. "For pleasure, certainly." He grinned.

We had the balcony to ourselves for quite some time, and I found him as easy to speak to as ever, despite the role-reversal from what I was used to and slight language barrier. He was new to the city and keen to find out as much about it as possible. I told him what I could, making guesses about what would have survived from my own time.

Eventually, we heard a countdown begin from inside.

"Ten!"

We caught each other's eyes.

"Nine!"

I looked around, checking to see no-one was around. I could see him doing the same.

"Eight!"

I placed a hand on his arm, and he looked down at it, and back up to me.

"Seven!"

I pulled him backwards, into a dark corner.

"Six!"

He placed his hand over mine.

"Five!"

I touched his face, lightly.

"Four!"

His other hand rested on my gut, and gave a soft, gentle squeeze.

"Three!"

He smiled at me. Good god, his smile.

"Two!"

We closed our eyes, and leant in.

"One!"

Our lips met.

"Happy New Year!"

Time stopped. A moment lasted forever. Despite having kissed Matthias before (Would kiss him again.), this kiss felt special, important.

We pulled away and just looked at each other a while, smiling. Eventually I broke the silence. "It's my birthday," I said simply.

"I'm afraid I did not know to get you a gift," he replied, smiling. "How many years are you?"

"40," I said.

"Do you have plans for your 40th year?"

I paused. "That's complicated," I said eventually. "I suppose I will, when I get round to it. We could have dinner though, for a start? Or maybe breakfast?"

Matthias smiled and nodded. I took his hand and led him through the party, back towards my flat. The future, I knew, was certain, but I was excited to see how I got there.

#write #writing

Trending Blogs

Recently Viewed Blogs

Untitled