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Gainer Choices

A month ago, I published Gainer Choices, my very first interactive erotica novel.

I'm really proud of it. It's a 140,000-word book with hundreds of choices and over 80 unique endings. I'm keeping it exclusive to Amazon, but I wanted to share an excerpt here.

I picked the shortest thread in the book. I made all the choices myself, so it doesn't capture the interactive experience. Still fun, though. I hope you like it...

***

You sip your rum and Coke and scan the room. There’s a ton of hot guys, but you’re not interested in any of them. They’re all standard-hot, but you’re hungry for someone special.

Then you see them. Two guys. Twins!

They’re gorgeous. Black hair. Broad shoulders. Piercing blue eyes.

Definitely the hottest guys in the room. But there’s something else that catches your eye. One of them has a muffin top jiggling out of his tight black shirt.

Two sexy twins—identical twins—but only one of them has a roll of fat hanging over his belt. The other is lean and ripped.

You don’t understand why, but the contrast drives you wild.

Both brothers glance in your direction. You can’t tell if they’re interested, or if they simply notice you staring. Either way, you’re going to introduce yourself.

The fatter one heads straight to the dance floor, while his brother goes to order drinks at the bar. Which one will you follow?

You follow the slim twin. You follow the chubby twin.

***

There’s no doubt in your mind. You need to talk to the chubby one first. You can see his love handles jiggle seductively as he dances by himself. You have to grab them. You have to know what they feel like.

You strut onto the dance floor, making sure to keep your chest puffed out so he can see that you’re all muscle. He locks eyes with you, dancing closer.

He’s an amazing dancer, moving his hips like he’s on a stripper pole. So fluid. So flexible. Somehow, you take that as a sign that he was a natural athlete, that he was never supposed to get fat.

He meets you in the center of the dance floor, then grabs your hands and brings them up to his fat sides. He wants you to feel them. He wants you to squeeze. He knows you want that, too.

You grab on.

Under your hands, he twists around and twerks against you, his fattened ass grazing your crotch. “I’m Grady,” he says.

You introduce yourself, but you can’t tell if he hears you.

He turns to face you again, holding you close and grinding your hips. “My brother’s waiting for me at the bar. Wanna join us? Or should we keep dancing?”

You follow him to the bar. You keep dancing.

Byron rolled into town on a thundering Harley, his massive frame dwarfing the bike beneath him. Six-foot-six of solid muscle, skin like polished obsidian, he wore his leather cuts with the casual confidence of a man who'd seen hell and walked back out. To the locals at the diner, to the old women at the church bake sales, to the children who stared wide-eyed from across the street, he was gentle—soft-spoken, quick to laugh, a teddy bear wrapped in tattoos and scars.

But the three had heard about the new arrival. Marcus, Dwayne, and Tiny—though Tiny stood six-two and carried two hundred forty pounds of mean—they'd ruled this town for years. They'd beaten husbands in front of their wives, forced themselves on women who knew better than to report it to a sheriff who was cousin to Marcus's mother. They were untouchable. They were terrifying.

Until they weren't.

They cornered him in the locker room of Miller's Gym at nine on a Tuesday night. The place was nearly empty, just a few stragglers finishing their workouts. When those men wandered back to shower, they found the three blocking the entrance, eyes hard, and they turned around immediately. The sound of the door swinging shut echoed like a gunshot.

"Big man," Marcus sneered, stepping forward. The ringleader had a switchblade in his hand, clicking it open with practiced ease. "Think you can just roll in here and—"

Byron moved. Later, none of them could quite describe it—a blur of motion, the wet sound of fist meeting flesh, bodies hitting tile. Within thirty seconds, the three lay unconscious in a heap of limbs and blood.

When they woke, the world had changed.

They were naked, spread-eagled on the wooden benches, wrists and ankles bound with zip ties that cut into their skin. But that wasn't the horror. The horror was between their legs.

Their testicles had been bound. Tight. Surgical precision with coarse rope, the knots biting deep, the pressure building with every heartbeat. It felt like fire. Like their manhood was being slowly crushed in a vice of agony.

Byron sat before them on a folding metal chair, three wooden baseball bats leaning against his thigh like pool cues. He hadn't changed. Same jeans, same boots, same leather vest. He looked almost bored.

"One question," he said, his voice a deep rumble that filled the tiled room. "Lube. Or no lube."

Marcus spat blood onto the floor. "Fuck you," he gasped.

Byron nodded slowly. "No lube it is."

He stood, selected the first bat—thirty-three inches of ash wood—and walked around behind Marcus. The ringleader tried to thrash, tried to scream, but the bindings held. Byron didn't hurry. He positioned himself, gripped the bat with both hands like he was lining up a swing, and then—

The sound Marcus made wasn't human. It was the sound of an animal being slaughtered, high and broken and endless. The bat disappeared into him, a foot of polished wood forcing its way past resistance, tearing, filling him completely. Marcus's back arched, his eyes rolling white, spit foaming at his lips.

"Jesus Christ! Lube! LUBE!" Dwayne was screaming, tears streaming down his face, piss pooling on the bench beneath him. "Please, God, lube, we'll do anything, please—"

Byron withdrew the bat with a wet sound that made Tiny vomit onto his own chest. He walked to his bag, produced a bottle of petroleum jelly, tossed it onto the floor between the remaining two.

"Shoulda said so," he murmured.

He used the lube on them. It didn't help much. The bats went in just as deep, stretching them, breaking something inside that would never heal right. He monitored the depth carefully, marking the wood with a pocket knife, pushing deeper with each rotation, each hour that passed. Twelve inches became thirteen, fourteen. They screamed until their voices broke, until they were hoarse whispers begging for mercy that never came.

By morning, they were empty husks. Broken, bleeding, unable to walk, their minds shattered by pain and humiliation. Byron loaded them into a panel van naked, their bound genitals swollen to the size of grapefruits, blackening with each mile of the long drive into the mountains.

They arrived at a compound that didn't exist on maps. The air was thin. The nearest town was fifty miles of dirt road away.

The ropes never came off. Not completely. Over the weeks, the lack of blood flow completed what Byron had started—their testicles necrotized, turned black as rotten fruit, and eventually sloughed off in the shower stalls where they were kept. The pain was biblical. The hormonal collapse was worse.

Without testosterone, their bodies softened. Muscle turned to fat, bellies swelling, chests developing into heavy, sensitive breasts that jiggled when they moved. Their hips widened. Their prostates, constantly stimulated by the traffic that passed through, grew swollen and sensitive. Their sphincters lost all tone—permanently gaping, permanently ready, never closing completely no matter how they tried to clench.

The bikers came first. Then the truckers stopping off the interstate, following coordinates shared in private forums. Then anyone with cash and appetite. Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, the three former terrors of the town serviced anyone who wanted them. They lived in a converted barn, chained to posts when not in use, fed enough to keep their bodies soft and available.

Marcus lasted three years before his heart gave out. Dwayne made it to five. Tiny was still there, somewhere in the mountains, his mind long gone, his body a commodity, his existence reduced to the only function he had left.

Byron had left town the morning after the locker room. No one asked where the three had gone. The women stopped flinching when they walked to their cars. The sheriff found other things to investigate.

Somewhere, on certain dark corners of the internet, you can still find the videos. The before and after. The transformation. A warning, written in flesh, about what happens when you mistake gentleness for weakness.

And somewhere, on a highway stretching between nowhere and nothing, a big black man on a Harley keeps riding, keeps watching, keeps waiting for the next town that needs a teddy bear with a baseball bat.

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“Johnny Cake” #1 (2025–2026)

The athlete survived the hospital. The appetite survived too. His football scars remained as proof of the athlete he once was. The backside that earned him the nickname “Johnny Cake” somehow remained just as famous. One year later, the lean physique was gone, but the bakery was still open for business. Everything between those old football scars and that legendary butt grew far beyond expectations.

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Porter was naked, masturbating in his warm studio apartment, when someone knocked at his door. He tried to ignore it, focusing on the boobs of the woman in the video on his phone, but another louder knock shook him out of his daze. He slipped on some clothes, quickly washed his hands in the kitchenette sink, then looked through the peep hole in his front door. He saw Mr. Jacobs, the apartment building's repairman, looking expectantly at the door and wearing no shirt.

Mr. Jacobs was a large and hairy man with a reddish goatee. Porter thought the man was in his late forties, over a decade older than him. Porter hadn't interacted with Jacobs much since he moved in almost a year ago, though the repairman had been over earlier that week to fix Porter's AC unit. He was an odd man, gruff yet friendly, as likely to joke with someone as he was to get irritated at them. Porter felt a bit uneasy with the middle aged man in his apartment the other day, as Mr. Jacobs kept staring at him while he thought Porter wasn't looking. Porter was told that a part needed to be ordered to finish the repairs, and he assumed that must be why Mr. Jacobs was at his door at 9:30 in the evening, though why the man's hairy chest was exposed, he had no clue.

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“Sweet Consequences” (2023 to 2025)

“…fit once, stuffed forever.”

Carl came into the world roaring, all nine pounds fourteen ounces of him, covered in a fine dark lanugo that the nurses had never seen on a newborn. By the time he took his first steps, he was the size of a three-year-old. By puberty, he was shaving twice a day and shopping in the big-and-tall section meant for grown men twice his age.

At eighteen, Carl was a monument. Three hundred and fifty pounds packed onto a six-foot-four frame, not fat but dense, heavy, powerful. His chest was a carpet of black hair that spilled out of every collar he owned. His arms were thick with fur and muscle, ending in hands that could palm a basketball. The beard came in full and dark, reaching his collarbone by the time he graduated high school, and when he spoke, that baritone rumbled up from somewhere deep in his gut, a sound that made construction workers step aside and cops ask "yes sir" before they asked for license and registration.

He found his tribe early: the biker bar on Route 9, where he rolled up on a rebuilt '78 Shovelhead at sixteen and never got carded. The leather jacket he wore had been broken in by men who died in it; Carl filled it out better than they had. He was the youngest guy at the bar, but nobody treated him that way. He drank whiskey neat and stared down anyone who looked at him wrong.

The only surprise, when he finally admitted it to himself at nineteen, was that he didn't want the women who threw themselves at him. He wanted men. Specifically, he wanted men he could hold, men he could protect, men he could feed.

Myles walked into the wrong bar on a Thursday night. Twenty-five years old, five-foot-six, maybe one-forty soaking wet, with skin like porcelain and not a hair on his body except the chestnut mop on his head. He was looking for his friend's bachelor party and found himself surrounded by bearded, tattooed men who looked like they ate concrete for breakfast.

Carl saw him from across the room, frozen by the pool table, clutching his messenger bag like a shield.

"You're in the wrong place," Carl said, appearing beside him, his shadow swallowing the smaller man whole.

Myles looked up. Way up. "I... I think I am."

"Come on." Carl put a hand on his shoulder—not gentle, not rough, just claiming him—and guided him toward the door. But at the threshold, Myles stopped.

"Wait," he said, looking at Carl like he was seeing something he'd been searching for. "I don't want to leave."

They started dating. Carl was twenty, technically the younger man, but age was just a number and dominance was gravity. Carl decided everything. He decided they'd see the late movie, not the early one. He decided they'd ride up the coast on Saturday, Myles clinging to his back, arms wrapped around that barrel chest, face buried in fur that smelled like engine grease and cedar. He decided they'd eat at the steakhouse, not the bistro, and when the waitress came, Carl ordered for both of them.

"Two ribeyes," he said, not opening the menus. "Rare. Baked potatoes with everything. Onion rings to start."

Myles opened his mouth to protest—he'd been thinking salad, maybe soup—but Carl looked at him. Just looked at him, those dark eyes steady under the heavy brow, and Myles felt something in his stomach flutter and sink. He closed his mouth.

"Good," Carl said.

It became their ritual. Carl ordered, and Myles ate. At first, it was intimidating, those massive portions Carl deemed appropriate. Myles would slow down halfway through, stomach straining against his belt, and Carl would pause, fork halfway to his own mouth, and just watch him. No words. Just that heavy gaze, expectant, patient, undeniable.

Myles picked up his fork. He cleaned his plate.

They fell into a rhythm. Carl grew him. It started subtle—an extra side of mashed potatoes, the large shake instead of the medium, dessert that Carl "didn't want to go to waste." But Myles was young, his metabolism eager, and the calories stuck. Five pounds became ten. Ten became twenty.

By their first anniversary, Myles had crossed two hundred pounds. His clothes fit tight, then not at all. Carl took him shopping, picking out larger sizes, holding up shirts that would accommodate the softness spreading across Myles's middle. Where Carl was hard muscle under fur, Myles was becoming plush, yielding, a cushion of flesh that grew more pronounced every month.

Carl fed him personally sometimes, late at night, ordering pizza after the bars closed, feeding Myles slice after slice while the smaller man reclined against him, back pressed to that hairy wall of chest. Carl's hands would roam over Myles's belly, feeling it swell with food, smooth and tight and growing.

"More," Carl would rumble, and Myles would obey.

By twenty-six, Myles had passed three hundred pounds. Then three-fifty. He was bigger than Carl now, objectively larger, a soft mountain of a man who waddled when he walked and couldn't fit into restaurant booths. He had to special-order his clothes online, tents of fabric that draped over his massive belly, his thick thighs, his heavy arms that jiggled when he moved.

But his skin remained smooth. Not a hair on his chest, his back, his arms. He was pale and soft and hairless as a baby, a stark contrast to the beast who fed him, who ruled him, whose fur was everywhere—on the couch, in the bed, clogging the shower drain.

People stared when they went out. The huge hairy biker holding the door for the even larger smooth man, guiding him with a hand on the small of his back, steering him toward their table. Carl still ordered for them both, but now he ordered more for Myles than for himself—appetizers, entrees, extra sides, dessert. The waitstaff would bring the food, eyes wide, as Myles sat there, belly pressing against the table edge, hands resting on that vast expanse of smooth flesh, waiting for Carl's nod before he began.

Carl loved it. He loved the contrast, the submission wrapped in expansion. Myles was bigger than him now, could have crushed him with his weight, but he never would. He waited for Carl's permission to eat, to stop, to speak. He grew because Carl wanted him to grow, and he would keep growing, smooth and pale and enormous, the soft counterpart to Carl's hairy dominance, a testament to who owned whom.

At night, Carl would run his rough hands over Myles's belly, feeling the warmth, the give, the sheer size of what he'd created. Myles would moan, pushing into the touch, bigger than his master but utterly possessed by him, growing larger with every meal, every order, every silent look that said: *Eat. More. Mine.*

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biG bOY 🤤

thebeautyofbigger

ctabear

**Am I the Asshole?**

I can't even blame my ex-roommate anymore. I did this all to myself.

You see, Marcus was—is—a genius. A muscled god standing 6'4" with the kind of physique that made Greek sculptors weep. When we lived together, I was a thoroughly average man: 5'8", 180 pounds, the kind of guy who blended into wallpaper at parties. But I wanted what he had. I wanted to *be* him.

So I started stealing his protein powder.

Every morning while he was at the lab, I'd help myself to two scoops instead of one. Then three. The shakes were vanilla flavored, creamy, almost addictive in their richness. I told myself I was just accelerating my gains, that I'd catch up to him eventually.

After three months, I noticed my clothes fitting tighter. After four, I had to buy new pants. By month five, I'd blown past 300 pounds, then 400, my body expanding like dough left in the sun. I kept drinking, kept telling myself the muscle would show up any day now.

Marcus realized what was happening around month two—the expense of replacing that powder weekly instead of monthly finally tipped him off. But he didn't confront me. Not then.

See, Marcus's research into human physiology had led him to a synthetic compound, something experimental that he'd been developing for tissue regeneration. He added it to his personal supply, thinking I'd quit after a month of expensive habits. He thought I'd tap out at 300 pounds, maybe become what he called "a respectable bear."

But I didn't quit. I kept going.

At 500 pounds—six months into my theft—he finally sat me down. I remember the couch creaking beneath me, my belly spilling onto my knees, my breathing labored even at rest.

"I tried to warn you," he said, sliding a chair across from me. "The compound binds to adipose tissue. It restructures skeletal density, reinforces cardiovascular systems. You're not going to stop at 500. You'll stabilize around 900 pounds."

I stared at him, my heart hammering against ribs that suddenly felt too small. "I'll be immobile. Bedridden."

"You won't," he said quietly. "Your skeletal structure will increase to support the weight. Your heart, your lungs—everything scales. You'll be perfectly healthy. Better than healthy, actually. You'll probably live past 150."

Most people would find that heaven. Eternal health, functional immortality.

But I was terrified. I was already struggling to fit through doorways, already dealing with the stares, the whispered comments. 900 pounds sounded like a nightmare of flesh and isolation.

Then he told me the rest.

"The compound doesn't discriminate," he said, not meeting my eyes. "It enhances all tissue. Your genitalia will scale proportionally. You'll have a foot of length, even accounting for the fat pad. Girth like my forearm. Balls the size of basketballs."

I laughed. It sounded hysterical, even to me.

It wasn't funny six months later when I hit 700 pounds and discovered he was right.

Dating became a circus of rejection. Most women took one look at me—my massive frame spilling over restaurant chairs, my triple chin, my wheezing breath—and politely declined. The few who made it to the bedroom took one look at what I was packing and made their excuses. I was too much. Too big, too heavy, too *everything*.

Gay men were different. Black men, specifically, had the equipment to handle me. They were the ones who weren't afraid of my size, who saw my body as something to explore rather than flee from. I became a regular at a local gay bar, eventually working there as a bouncer—an ironic position for a man who could barely fit through the door, but my sheer mass commanded respect.

The men who wanted to ride me were brave souls. They'd climb aboard, struggle to accommodate me, and inevitably be changed forever. Once you've taken something that massive, normal anatomy doesn't satisfy anymore. Their own equipment stopped responding to ordinary stimulation. They became size queens by necessity, chasing that fullness I'd introduced them to.

A few made it to completion. When I came, my balls—now genuinely enormous—emptied volumes into them. They'd leave bloated, bellies distended like they were carrying triplets. The swelling lasted days. They'd text me photos, amazed, horrified, addicted.

Now I work a menial desk job during the week—remote, obviously—and bounce at the bar on weekends. The guys bring me food constantly. Plates of nachos, burgers, entire pizzas. They want to see how much the 850-pound man can consume. They feed me while telling me how massive I'm getting, how I'll hit that 900-pound mark soon, how I'll be the biggest thing they've ever seen.

Marcus moved out two years ago. We still talk occasionally. He apologized once, said he never meant for it to go this far. I told him not to worry. I made my choice every morning when I stole that powder. I made it every day when I kept drinking.

Am I the asshole? Maybe. I stole from him. I ignored every warning sign my body gave me. I transformed myself into something that terrifies most people and fascinates a select few.

But I'm also healthy. My heart beats strong. My bones are dense as granite. I'll outlive everyone I know, growing larger every year, becoming more monument than man.

And somewhere, deep beneath the hundreds of pounds of flesh, beneath the basketballs between my legs and the foot of flesh that scares away the curious, I'm still that 180-pound average guy who just wanted to look like his roommate.

I got what I wanted, I suppose. Just not the way I wanted it.

So yeah. I'm the asshole. But at least I'm an asshole who'll live to see 150.

clb993-deactivated20230322

Death feederism content ahead so don't read if that's not your thing. Short story about me and a fictional feeder. Hope you like.

"C'mon piggy, swallow faster and push that gut. You don't want to disappoint your viewers do you?" Reece teased as he pushed the eclair into Coles face nearly choking him with the blast of cream that shot down his throat as it exploded in his mouth from the pressure. Reece was already holding the 10th eclair in his freed hand as he messily wiped his other on his feedees flabby chest mixing it with the mess of mayo, chocolate, and whipped cream already building there from the early parts of the hour long force feeding feast. "Disgusting piggy. Look what you have done to yourself, and you still want more don't you?" Reece stood over Cole surveying just how far he'd taken the boy in the last two years. It wasn't nearly enough, it would never be enough until the fire department is craning out his massive blob slave. So hugely swollen and fat his corpse would have to be transported by flat bed.

They had first met on a online private forum dedicated to extreme feederism and "death feederism" in particular. Cole and Reece hit it off immediately both finding out quickly how dark their mutual fantasies were and could be. After months of online feeding sessions Reece had plumped up Cole by a whopping 40 pounds but he was getting tired of the slow progress "I'm tired of having an online pay hog, I waan immobile dying hog chained up in my feeding dungeon. I want to feed you into the ground and I know you need it. Time to do this for real" was the message attached with a bus ticket and it was the final nail in the paino case sized coffin for Cole. After just two years he had taken him from a pathetic 270 pounds to a whopping 534 pounds of wobbling wheezing flesh and it was just the beginning.

Reece jammed the next eclair in Coles mouth and pinched his nose as he gave him a quick harsh open palmed slap to the bulge that was forming in his upper belly. Cole dry heaved as tears streamed down his face but he desperately tried to swallow the doughnut having the mental image of a bursting water balloon thinking of his stomachs potential fate if Ronnie kept this up for much longer. Luckily he was nearing the end as he choked down the 10th eclair, the full dozen and a quart of cream to wash it down was the dessert requested by his donators for the insane feeding session they had funded for the day.

Reece loved doing these live cam shows with Cole, they had a very small audience less than 10 but they were all online feeder friends of his and shared his love of the extreme and were more than willing to help fund the destruction of his new pet hog. Reece's laptop chimed as another live chat message comes in this one from HogFarmerX one of their more often donators. Cole watched still trying to clear his throat of the last of the cream and pastry as Reece grinned and responded back to the laptop camera "Oh I think that can be arranged, our boys stomach can handle a bit more" Reece sauntered over to Cole pulling his cock out of his underwear smacking it on Coles swollen huge moobs "one of your fans thinks your huge ass needs even more calories, I'm not sure if you can handle it though piggy. You still hungry?" Reece teased knowing full well Cole would be crazy to tell him anything other than yes when it comes to if he is hungry for more.

Reece thouhght back to their first online chats. He had always said in their online conversation that he would do anything to keep his pig in line and growing for him once he had him but Cole had no idea how far he was willing to go. At first Reece had used sight and sound deprivation on his pig, if he didn't eat enough or tried to resist in any way he would be blind folded and use sound canceling headphones for multiple days looping feeder hypnotism videos. It was effective but Reece enjoyed seeing the fear in his pigs eyes as he got too full so he devised another plan one day. After gathering a huge Playlist of all their kinkiest feeding videos he got access to Coles Facebook. Coles eyes had bulged when Reece told him as he was being tube fed by him gagged and unable to even respond with anything other than deep gagged gulps "new rules piggy, you step out of line and I blast this all over your Facebook and message every one of your high-school graduating class a link to our only fans. I'll change your name to Daddies piggy, let everyone see how you want to get huge for me and eat yourself to death for Daddy"

Cole moaned in pain gasping for air for a full five seconds before he could find the strength to even respond "feed me *huff huff* daddy *huff* so hungry" Reece grinned rubbing Coles bulging gut "Oh piggy I'm not too sure, you look ready to drop dead. You can barely even breath, you can't even touch yourself and you want more?". "Please daddy feed me, grow me, I want to eat until my body gives out. So hungr*mmmphh!!*" Reece silences Cole by cramming the last two doughnuts in his mouth making his cheeks bulge and messy chewed food to spurt out of his lips over Reece's fingers "Okay son, let daddy blow you up until that little piggy heart can't handle another pound" Ronnie pinched Coles nose forcing him to chew and swallow or choke as he starts giving fast quick smacks to his straining stomach sending jolts of pain through Coles tortured stomach "faster piggy, swallow. Daddy needs you to push harder and get bigger. You still have a whole quart of cream to suck down and I know how bad you need this. You are so pathetic" somehow Cole manages to choke down the huge mouthfull gasping for air as more crumbs and cream sputter from his lips. "Ghaa oh my God my tummy, soo full" Cole whines knowing he still has one more thing to finish before Reece ends the stream and gives him a break. That's when he hears the sound he dreads hearing when he has been fed this hard on one of their live streams as a new message flashes with a 15 dollar donation attached "$15.00 donation from HogFarmerX 'melt a whole cup of butter and pump it into that cow with his cream, he looks ready to rupture push him more.'" Reece reads as he walks back over to Cole holding the beer bong with the extra thick hose and the quart of cream. "I'll be right back son" moments later Reece returns to the room holding two measuring cups filled to the brim melted butter brings then over in front of the laptop grinning ear to ear "for one of our favorite regulars I made sure to make piggy an extra cup, as always we appreciate your assistance feeding my little piggy HogFarmer" a message immediately flashes on screen "fuckkk that's so hot dude, God I can't wait until you take that little hog to his limits. I'm gonna cum so hard to his obituary" another regular Circe comments. Reece winks as he relishes in all the comments "Oh I know Circe, I can't wait. I'll be sure to invite all of you to his wake. It's going to be so hot, all us horny feeders reminiscing on how we fed this young hog to death. Sharing photos and videos as we all get off on what we did"

Reecs walks over to Cole the funnel filled up with the cream and butter mixture. He lifts one of Coles huge fat moobs plopping it on top of his cock as he slowly fucks the fat rolls under Coles arms "are you excited for that son? You want to grow and grow until that pathetic piggy body gives out? News articles all over as people gawk at the multithousand pound pile of blubber being hauled off by a team of fire fighters multiple full grown men with power equipment still struggling to move your bulk?" Cole feels himself stiffen under his huge gut and fat pad the only part of his body aside from his packed full stomach capable of being anything other than butter soft. Soft as all those liquid fat and calories that will soon be pumped into his growing stomach. Cole opens his mouth and accepts his fate as the butter and cream is pumped into him like he's some factory fed goose.

To be continued....

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