Marcus started the internship at Sterling & Co. like any other finance gradāeager, sharp-dressed, ready to network. At twenty-three, he was a lean 160 pounds on a 5'10" frame, the product of college gym habits and a metabolism that ran like a furnace.
The senior partnersāDavis, Cole, and Brennanāinvited him to the club his second week.
"Come on, kid," Davis had said, clapping him on the shoulder with a hand like a ham. "Can't seal deals if you can't hold your liquor and swing a club."
Marcus should have noticed then how they looked at him. Not like a junior employee, but like a project.
The first few rounds were innocent enough. They'd play nine holes, then retire to the clubhouse for lunch. The martinis arrived before the menus did. Dry, ice-cold, three olives each. By the second round of drinks, the food cameābloody steaks, creamed spinach, potatoes swimming in butter, bread baskets that never emptied.
Marcus tried to keep up. He didn't want to look soft in front of the men who controlled his future. So he drank when they drank, ate when they ate. Davis kept ordering for him. "Another round for the kid. Growing boy needs his fuel."
By month two, his suits fit tighter around the waist. By month three, he needed new pants.
The golf suffered first. He couldn't keep up walking the course, not after three martinis and a 2,000-calorie lunch. So they started putting him in the cart, driving him from hole to hole while the partners walked. He'd sit there, belly full, watching them swing, feeling the sun and the alcohol making him soft and docile.
"You're looking good, Marcus," Cole told him one afternoon, squeezing his hip where love handles had begun to form. "Filling out. Men should look like men."
They started ordering more. Six martinis became standard. The lunches stretched to three hours. Marcus stopped counting calories. He stopped going to the gymāhis mornings were too fogged with hangovers, his evenings too heavy with food comas.
By month six, he'd blown past 200 pounds. His face had rounded out. He needed suspenders because belts cut into his swelling gut.
The cart rides became the main event. He'd slump in the back, shirt untucked, breathing heavy, while the partners drove him around like a prize. They'd feed him snacks from the clubhouseāpork rinds, nuts, cheese platesāshoving food into his mouth between holes, patting his distended stomach with proprietary pride.
"Getting there," Brennan would murmur, hand lingering on Marcus's belly. "Almost ready."
He passed 250 by Christmas. His thighs rubbed together when he walked. His chest had softened, then swelled. He wore XL now, then XXL.
They bought him new clothes. Expensive suits tailored not to hide his bulk but to display itāfabric straining across his tits, jackets cut to emphasize his widening back and heavy ass. He looked like a different person. A softer person.
By spring, he was 320 pounds and couldn't have walked the course if he'd wanted to. The cart was his throne now, his body spread across the bench seat, sweating through his polo, belly pushing against the steering wheel when he drove.
Then came the locker room.
It started innocently enoughāDavis suggesting he shower there instead of going back to the office. The partners' locker room was luxurious, private, the kind of space where deals were actually made.
Marcus waddled in one afternoon, towel around his massive waist, and found them waiting. Davis, Cole, Brennanāall in various states of undress, thick with muscle and age and power.
"On the bench, kid," Davis said. Not a request.
Marcus hesitated. His heart hammered against his heavy chest. But he obeyed. He'd been obeying for months, trained by food and drink and the slow surrender of his body to their desires.
He lay back on the wooden bench, his own weight making it creak. His belly rose like a mountain, his tits splayed to the sides, thighs thick and pale and open.
Davis was first. He approached with the confidence of a man who'd built Marcus specifically for this purpose. His handsāstrong, rough, used to crushing golf balls and competitorsāfound Marcus's heavy hips, his soft stomach, the crease where thigh met groin.
"Look at you," Davis growled. "Look what we made."
Marcus should have felt shame. He was straight, or had been. He'd dated girls in college, fucked them against dorm room walls. But as Davis's weight settled over him, as the older man's hardness pressed against his own surprising arousal, Marcus felt only heat.
Cole and Brennan watched, stroking themselves, as Davis took him. The bench groaned. Marcus's fat rippled with each thrust. He was so heavy now, so soft, so thoroughly theirsāand god help him, he loved it.
When Davis finished, coating Marcus's belly with his release, Cole took his place. Then Brennan. Each one using him like the instrument they'd crafted him to beāhis mouth, his hands, the tight heat between his thighs that he'd never imagined giving to men.
They praised him between turns. Called him a good boy. A fat, pretty thing. Fed him protein shakes and whiskey between rounds, keeping him pliant and ready.
By the time he passed 350, Marcus didn't golf at all anymore. He existed as their creatureātheir fat intern who rode in the cart, who waddled to the locker room, who spread himself open on the bench and took everything they gave him.
He wasn't straight anymore. Wasn't thin. Wasn't the ambitious kid who'd walked into Sterling & Co. eight months ago.
He was theirs. And as Davis's hand circled his throat while Cole worked his thick cock and Brennan fed him another martini, Marcus realized he'd never been happier.
The internship, it turned out, had excellent benefits.
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