Belly Builder - Chapters 4-6
To celebrate 6 Months of the DMD Gainers Patreon, I am releasing one of the older full length stories for free with images so that you know what you are missing. (Don't forget on Patreon, you get videos)
Chapter 4: Heavy Foundations
The December wind didn’t just blow through the job site; it howled, a predatory cold that searched for any gap in a man’s layers. By December 15th, the massive scar in the earth had been transformed. The mud and chaos of September had been replaced by a sprawling, grey sea of cured concrete. The foundation was done.
Garrett stood on the edge of the slab, his breath blooming in thick white clouds. He felt a strange, proprietary pride looking at it. He had tied the rebar that lived inside that stone; he had hauled the hoses that poured it.
"Don't get too attached to the view, Slim. We start the vertical forms tomorrow," Brian said, coming up behind him.
The big man looked as unbothered by the sub-zero wind as he was by everything else. He was wearing a heavy canvas work jacket that made his already massive frame look like a brick wall. He clapped a hand on Garrett’s shoulder—a gesture that, two months ago, would have nearly buckled Garrett’s knees. Now, Garrett stood his ground, though he still felt like a sapling next to an oak.
"Foundations are the hardest part," Brian grunted, his eyes scanning the site. "Once you’re out of the dirt, the pace changes. You’ve done good, kid. You’re still here."
Garrett looked down at his midsection. He was wearing a new pair of work pants—the thrift store ones had given up the ghost three weeks ago when the button had gone flying during a lunch break. He was up to 175 pounds now. The ten pounds didn't look like much to the outside world, but Garrett felt them. His thighs felt thicker, less like sticks and more like pillars. There was a new, soft weight beginning to settle over his ribs, a layer of insulation he’d traded his "lean" physique for in exchange for survival.
"Hey! Bar's open!" Hawk yelled from the parking lot.
The crew was migrating toward their trucks. It had become the unofficial Friday ritual—and lately, the Tuesday and Thursday ritual, too. The "Power Hour" Kyle was currently teaching involved stationary bikes and neon lights; the "Power Hour" the crew headed for involved a dive bar called The Gasket and pitchers of cheap, domestic lager.
"You coming, Worth?" Dave called out, leaning against his oversized dually. "First round is on the foreman for finishing the pour on schedule."
Garrett hesitated, thinking of the Tupperware container in his bag filled with cold grilled chicken and asparagus. Kyle had been particularly focused on Garrett’s "seasonal bloat" lately, despite Garrett explaining that he was burning four thousand calories a day.
"I... yeah. One drink," Garrett said.
"That's what they all say," Brian chuckled, nudging Garrett toward the trucks.
The Gasket was a dimly lit cavern that smelled of sawdust, frying oil, and stale smoke. It was heaven. The moment they sat down at a long wooden table, two pitchers of beer and a mountain of menus appeared.
"Four baskets of wings—half buffalo, half garlic parm," Hawk ordered without looking up. "And three orders of those loaded fries. The ones with the cheese sauce and bacon."
Garrett’s mouth watered. The internal narrator that sounded like Kyle—the one that whispered about macros and saturated fats—was drowned out by the primal roar of his own hunger.
"Here," Brian said, sliding a full mug of beer toward Garrett. "To the foundation. May the building stay up and the beer stay cold."
Garrett took a long, deep pull. The cold, crisp liquid hit his stomach, followed by the immediate, fuzzy warmth of the alcohol. He felt the tension of the week begin to dissolve.
When the food arrived, Garrett didn't reach for the celery sticks. He grabbed a chicken wing, then another. He found himself keeping pace with Dave and Rob, his hand reaching into the basket of fries with a rhythmic, mindless intensity. He wasn't eating for fuel anymore; he was eating for the sheer, heavy comfort of it.
"Look at Slim go," Eric laughed, pointing at Garrett’s plate, which was already a graveyard of chicken bones.
Brian watched Garrett from across the table, his expression unreadable but not unkind. He pushed the last basket of fries toward Garrett. "Finish 'em, kid.”
By the time Garrett walked into the apartment at 7:30 PM, his head was buzzing and his stomach felt pleasantly, heavily distended.
The apartment was silent, save for the hum of the high-end air purifier. Kyle was in the living room, sitting on a yoga mat, his body twisted into a complex, effortless-looking pose. He looked like a statue—perfect, marble-hard, and utterly devoid of the grease and grit Garrett was currently wearing.
"You're late," Kyle said, his voice calm but pointed. He untwisted himself and stood up, his eyes immediately dropping to Garrett’s face. "And you smell like a brewery."
"The crew went out," Garrett said, his voice sounding thick even to his own ears. "We finished the foundation today. It’s a big deal, Kyle."
Kyle walked over, his nose wrinkling. He reached out, his hand not touching Garrett’s face, but hovering near his waist. "You missed the salmon. I had to freeze your portion. I don't know why you're choosing to fill your body with trash, Garrett. You're losing your definition. Your face looks... puffy."
Garrett looked at himself in the hallway mirror. His beard was thicker, his cheeks definitely rounder than they had been in September. But he also remembered the way he had felt three hours ago—the camaraderie, the warmth of the beer, the way Brian had looked at him with something like approval.
"I'm just tired, Kyle," Garrett said, stepping past him toward the shower.
As he pulled off his heavy work shirt, he caught a glimpse of his torso. The sharp, shredded lines of his abs were fading, blurring into a smooth, soft plane. He pressed a hand to his stomach, feeling the way it pushed back against his palm, solid and full.
He thought of Brian’s mountain-like silhouette against the winter sky. He thought of the wings and the beer. For the first time, the thought of "The Kyle Look" didn't feel like a goal. It felt like a cage.
Garrett turned on the water, letting the steam fill the room, and wondered just how much more he could grow before the seams finally started to burst.
Chapter 5: The Architecture of a Future
The mid-December air in the city was sharp enough to draw blood, but inside the apartment, the atmosphere was stifling in a different way. Garrett stood in front of the bedroom’s full-length mirror, struggling with the button of a slate-gray dress shirt Kyle had bought him for their anniversary two years ago.
Back then, the shirt had draped over his frame with plenty of room to spare. Now, the fabric strained across his chest, and the collar felt like a noose.
"It’s the dryer," Garrett muttered, sucking in his gut to force the button into the hole.
"It’s not the dryer, Garrett," Kyle said from the doorway. He was already dressed for the gallery opening they were attending—a vision in a black turtleneck and a tailored wool overcoat that fit him with mathematical precision. He crossed his arms, his biceps bulging beneath the expensive fabric. "It’s the ten pounds of 'foundation' you’ve built since October."
Garrett looked at his reflection. At 175 pounds, he wasn't "fat" by any normal standard, but the change was undeniable. The hollows beneath his cheekbones had filled in, and the sharp, bony angles of his hips had been replaced by a soft, dense layer of weight. His arms, once like pipe cleaners, were thicker, though lacking the "ripped" definition Kyle prized. He felt solid. He felt heavy.
"I’m working twelve-hour shifts in sub-zero temps, Kyle," Garrett said, finally giving up on the top button. "My body needs the mass. Brian says—"
"I don't care what Brian says," Kyle interrupted, his voice dropping into that "coach" tone that used to be inspiring but now felt like a sandpaper rub. "Brian is a construction foreman, not a nutritionist. You’re letting yourself go, Garrett. You're losing the lines we worked so hard for."
Kyle walked over, standing behind Garrett. He placed his hands on Garrett’s waist, his fingers digging slightly into the new softness there. In the mirror, the contrast was jarring: Kyle, the sculpted statue; and Garrett, the blurring sketch.
"We have a big year coming up," Kyle whispered, his eyes meeting Garrett’s in the glass. "I’ve been looking at venues. For next December. The Boathouse has an opening on the fifteenth."
Garrett stilled. "The Boathouse? Kyle, that’s... that’s a wedding venue."
Kyle smiled, a flash of perfect white teeth. "I want us to be ready. I want the photos to be iconic. Two men, at their peak, starting a life together. I want the world to see what discipline looks like."
He leaned in, kissing the side of Garrett’s neck. "Think about it. One year from now. We can get you back to 165 by spring. I’ll put you on a strict keto-bulk. We’ll turn that 'construction weight' into real muscle."
Garrett felt a cold knot form in his stomach. Kyle wasn't talking about a marriage; he was talking about a production. He was talking about a version of Garrett that felt further and further away with every meatball sub he shared with Hawk and every pitcher of beer he downed with Brian.
"A year," Garrett repeated.
"A year," Kyle confirmed. "But you have to commit, Garrett. No more 'crew lunches.' No more 'beer for the foundation.' You’re building a monument now. My monument."
Garrett didn't answer. He looked at Kyle’s hands—strong, manicured, and restrictive. Then he looked at his own hands, which were calloused, stained with a hint of grease that wouldn't wash out, and slightly swollen.
Later that night, at the gallery, Garrett stood in the corner with a glass of sparkling water, watching Kyle charm a group of investors. Kyle was in his element, a polished gem among the city’s elite.
Garrett felt like a bear in a tuxedo. His shirt felt like it was going to burst every time he took a deep breath. His hunger, usually suppressed by Kyle’s presence, was a physical ache. He kept thinking about the leftover wings Brian had sent him home with two nights ago—the ones currently sitting in the back of the fridge, hidden behind a wall of kale.
He thought about the future Kyle had mapped out: the Boathouse, the keto-bulk, the "iconic" photos. It was a beautiful plan. It was everything he was supposed to want.
But as he felt the tight fabric of his sleeves digging into his thickened biceps, Garrett realized with a start that he didn't want to be a monument. He wanted to be the man who could move the concrete forms. He wanted to be the man who could keep up with the giants.
He took a sip of the flavorless water and wondered if a monument could ever survive the weight of its own foundation.
Chapter 6: The Iron Skillet
January in the city didn’t just bite; it gnawed. The wind whipped through the steel skeleton of the fifth floor, turning the sweat on Garrett’s brow into ice before it could even drip. By the time the sun began its early retreat behind the skyline, Garrett’s fingers were stiff inside his work gloves, and his stomach was a cavernous, aching void.
"Pack it up!" Brian’s voice boomed, cutting through the whine of a circular saw. "The Iron Skillet is doing their Thursday Prime Rib special. First one there doesn't have to wait for a table."
The crew didn't need to be told twice.
Garrett climbed into the cab of Brian’s F-250, the heater already blasting a dry, dusty warmth. As he buckled his seatbelt, he felt a familiar, subtle resistance. The belt, which he used to pull tight against his hip bones, now sat snugly across the front of his thighs and the slight, firm curve of his lower belly. He was 180 pounds now—a full fifteen pounds heavier than the man who had walked onto the site in September.
He caught his reflection in the side mirror. His beard, which Kyle insisted he keep "manicured," was thick and unruly, dusted with the grey powder of the day's work. His face had lost its gaunt, architectural sharpness; there was a softness to his jawline now, a fullness in his neck that made his old flannel shirts feel like they were shrinking in the wash.
"You look like you’re about to pass out, Slim," Brian said, shifting the truck into gear. He reached into the center console and tossed a bag of beef jerky into Garrett’s lap. "Hold yourself over. You’re looking a little peaked."
"Just hungry," Garrett rasped, tearing into the bag with a desperation that would have horrified Kyle. "Always hungry lately."
Brian let out a low, rumbling chuckle. "That’s the cold, kid. And the work."
The Iron Skillet was a diner that didn’t believe in small portions or soft lighting. It was a place of linoleum, heavy ceramic mugs, and the intoxicating scent of rendered fat. When the crew walked in, they took over a massive corner booth. Dave, Rob, Hawk, and Eric squeezed in first, their massive frames overlapping until the vinyl seats groaned. Garrett sat on the end, next to Brian.
"Six Prime Rib specials," Hawk announced to the waitress before she even handed out menus. "Rare for the big guys, medium for Slim here. And keep the rolls coming."
Garrett looked at the basket of warm, honey-glazed rolls that landed on the table. He thought of the text he’d received from Kyle an hour ago: Made a zoodle stir-fry for tonight. Don't be late for our 8:00 PM yoga flow.
The memory of the flavorless zucchini noodles felt like a ghost compared to the heavy, sweet scent of the bread. Garrett reached out, grabbing a roll and slathering it in whipped butter.
"You’re filling out, Worth," Dave noted, leaning across the table. His own forearms, the size of hams, rested heavily on the laminate. "Look at those shoulders. You’re starting to look like you actually belong on a job site."
"He’s getting there," Brian said, his voice quiet but possessive. He nudged Garrett’s arm with his own. The contact was solid—Brian’s bicep was a mountain of hard, insulated muscle, and Garrett felt the way his own arm, now thicker and softer, pressed back against it. "Still a ways to go before he’s catching up to us, though."
When the food arrived, Garrett’s eyes widened. The "special" was a slab of beef the size of a paperback novel, accompanied by a loaded baked potato and a side of buttery corn.
The first bite of the prime rib was a physical jolt. The salt, the fat, the heavy protein—it felt like it was being absorbed directly into his bloodstream. He stopped thinking about the yoga flow. He stopped thinking about the Boathouse or the "iconic" wedding photos Kyle wanted. He just ate.
He noticed Brian watching him. Not with the clinical, judgmental eye Kyle used to measure his "progress," but with a look of quiet, steady satisfaction. Every time Garrett’s water glass got low, Brian refilled it. When Garrett finished his first baked potato, Brian slid his own extra side of mac-and-cheese toward him.
"Eat up, Garrett," Brian murmured. "You earned it today."
By the time the check came, Garrett felt a heavy, blissful lethargy settling over him. His work pants, already tight, were now straining against his distended middle. He had to discreetly undo the top button under the cover of the table just to take a full breath. He felt huge, solid, and utterly content.
As they walked out into the freezing January night, Garrett felt the weight of the meal in his gut—a dense, warm anchor. He climbed back into Brian's truck, his movements slower and more deliberate than they had been in the morning.
"Thanks for the dinner, Brian," Garrett said, his voice thick with satisfaction.
Brian turned the key, the engine roaring to life. He looked at Garrett—really looked at him—taking in the flushed cheeks, the slightly tight fit of his jacket, and the way he was leaning back to give his stomach room.
"Anytime, Garrett," Brian said softly.
Garrett smiled, a genuine, sleepy expression. But as they turned onto the street that led back to his apartment, the "monument" waiting for him at home felt less like a dream and more like a debt he wasn't sure he wanted to pay.
