How about a story about a tall early 20s hockey player who gets injured and breaks up with his long term gf, ballooning from 220 to 380. Then he befriends and starts dating a twink who's a waiter at a local fat person bar/grill. The twink then feeds him to a solid 420 lbs with an almost horrifying appetite. Twink puts on a few lbs by proxy.
The Ex-Hockey Player
I toweled off, slipped into my street clothes, and took one last look at the gym.
I didn’t come here to exercise this time. I came for an ice bath. After six years playing for the East Coast Hockey League (good enough to keep going but not quite good enough to make it to the NHL), I was a bundle of sore muscles and constant aches. The older I got, the more I had to push through the pain.
But now I was finally done. Retired. Ready to move the fuck on. No more concussions for me!
The place was empty, so I didn’t have anyone to say goodbye to. This was the ending of a big chapter of my life, but it didn’t feel like much of an ending.
I got in my car and drove home, half-expecting Laura (my girlfriend) to have some kind of celebration waiting for me. Ever since I told her about my early retirement, she’d been acting a little secretive. I just knew she had something planned.
Well, she did. But it wasn’t at all what I expected.
It was a big, obviously rehearsed break-up speech. She was a hockey groupie through and through, and since my professional career was behind me, she wanted to move on.
I was heartbroken.
Especially when I found out that she was already packed, that she had another apartment waiting for her. She’d been planning to leave me for a while, I guess.
So there I was, alone in my apartment. A 26-year-old former athlete with no job, no girlfriend, and a knee that wouldn’t stop creaking. I loved my time on the ice, but I wondered if it was worth it.
I couldn’t handle the silence (and Laura had cleared out all our alcohol when she left), so I walked to the nearest bar (The Den) to drown my sorrows.
The youthful, obviously gay bartender asked me what I wanted, and I genuinely didn’t know what to order. I wasn’t much of a drinker, but that was more out of career obligations than personal preference.
“You look like a Guiness man,” he said. (A little flirtatiously, I might add. That felt nice for my ego.)
“Why not? Gimme a pint.”
It was a slow night, so the place was mostly empty. Just a couple chubby guys talking in the corner. With no other customers to worry about, the bartender hung around and asked me about my life. It felt like a very bartender-y thing to do. “Why the long face?” and all that.
I unloaded on him. My life felt like a real trainwreck when I said it all out loud.
He listened. He was sympathetic. He asked all the right questions without pushing me too far. And when everything was off my chest, he slid me another Guiness (I guess I drank the first one pretty fast), and said, “Look on the bright side, man. You’re still young. You’re fucking hot. You have your whole life ahead of you.”
That really meant a lot to me. It really did.
***
I went back to the bar a lot afterward. At least a couple times a week. If it was too busy, I turned around and left. But during the off-hours, when I could spend one-on-one time with the bartender, I stayed for at least three drinks.
I loved talking to him. I was his customer, so I knew it was one-sided. But it didn’t feel like that. It felt like an actual connection, something I never really had with Laura or my hockey buddies.
I didn’t even know his name until my third or fourth time there.
Joel Caravello.
Joel didn’t know anything about hockey, which I found really refreshing. We talked about anything and everything, and when I didn’t have anything new to say, he took over. He told me all about his life.
Our experiences were polar opposite. I was the natural athlete who was pushed onto the ice at an early age and never looked back. He was a flamboyant, artistic gay man who got kicked out of his house at sixteen and learned to never apologize for who he was.
I wasn’t attracted to him, obviously. I just liked being with him. And all his long, drama-filled anecdotes about the gay dating scene… I found those fascinating.
The only problem was that I was drinking a lot. And I ate way too much bar food, especially their cheesy-as-hell nachos. I was a big guy, so I could handle it. But I knew it wasn’t healthy.
During that time, I got a work-from-home job editing sports articles for a couple different magazines. (Easy gig. Joel actually suggested it.)
I still played a couple times a month, and I met up with my old teammates periodically, but over time, that felt less and less fun. I didn’t really feel like one of them anymore. Plus, I much preferred to hang out with Joel.
***
Two months into my retirement, I was back at the bar on a Tuesday night. Joel was in the middle of telling me about a disastrous Grindr hookup.
I listened attentively. (The guy knew how to tell a story.) But I realized I needed to get some food in me. I was three pints in and I needed something to stop my stomach from gurgling.
“That’s wild, man,” I said. “Sorry to change the subject, but can you get me some nachos?”
He laughed.
“What’s so funny?”
“Nothing. It’s just… You’re finally fitting in around here. That’s all.”
“What do you mean?”
“Never mind,” he said quickly, as if he’d accidentally spilled a secret. Then he shrugged and give me this “Whatever. I might as well tell you" expression. He leaned closer and whispered, “You know this is a bear bar, right?”
“Huh?”
He gestured around the room. “Notice all the beards and bellies? Ever wonder why this place is called ‘The Den’? This whole time, you had no idea what kind of place this is!” He laughed again. Not a cruel laugh. It was more of a release valve, like “Jesus. Finally!”
I took a closer look at the five other guys in the room. Three wore flannel. Four had tattoos. Two were making out. And all of them were beefy and bearded.
“But I… But you’re not…”
Joel gestured at his own slim body. He was probably 5’7” at the most. Lip gloss on his full lips. Stylishly messy hair. No stubble. Not an ounce of fat.
“I’m definitely not,” he said. “I just serve drinks. Big boys leave big tips.”
I took a second to decompress. What was I doing? I didn’t belong here! And then I remembered what he said. “What did you mean? I’m ‘finally fitting in’?”
With a cheeky grin, he reached over the bar and poked my stomach. My rounded stomach.
Fuck.
“Don’t look like that,” Joel said, poking me again. “A lot of people prefer some extra chunk. Why do you think I took this job?”
I jumped off my stool. “I, I gotta go.”
“Wait!”
I threw a wad of cash on the bar (not bothering to count) and rushed out of there. I was horrified, for one. Just two months off the team and I was already out of shape. But mostly, I felt like a complete idiot.
I had no sense of my surroundings and no clue about the obvious changes in my body. I blamed my career. I spent my entire adult life focused on training that I just… I didn’t understand the real world. I was like an Amish kid on rumspringa. Just absolutely clueless.
And what did Joel think? Did he think that I was gay or just oblivious?
I reached the parking lot and struggled to fish my phone out of my pocket to order an Uber. Usually I just walked home. (My apartment was four blocks away.) But I needed to get out of there fast.
“I’m sorry.”
That was Joel. He’d followed me outside. He was standing by the door, his slim body leaning against the wall.
I turned toward him but didn’t say anything.
“I shouldn’t have laughed.”
“That’s not why I’m…”
He stepped closer. “I know.” Slowly, he grabbed both my hands and forced me to look him in the eyes. “I assume you’re gonna stop coming here.”
“No. I… Yeah…”
“Well, if that’s the case…” He gently pulled the phone out of my hands and typed in his number. “Whether I hear from you or not, just know… It’s been fun.”
Then he went back inside.
I stood there for the longest time. My mind was blank.
I ended up walking home, finally aware of how my stomach bobbed under my shirt.
***
It took me a week to call him.
In that time, I was a nervous wreck. I stayed at home, struggled to get through my work, and kept thinking about Joel.
I didn’t work out. The thought crossed my mind a couple times, but I never followed through. Usually I just plopped back onto my couch and ordered some delivery.
In a way, I was depressed. But mostly, I was soul-searching. It took me a while to get past the image I had of myself, of what my life should be. But finally, I had to admit:
I liked Joel. It wasn’t just a friendship thing. It was more electric than that. I liked his cheerful voice and constant enthusiasm. And his lips. I kept thinking about his lips. And the way he smiled whenever he saw me.
I still didn’t see myself as gay. I was… Joel-sexual. I needed to see him again.
What I was less certain about was my own body. I felt good. I wasn’t achy and sore anymore. I felt more comfortable.
But this gut… Because that’s exactly what it was. A round, pudgy gut on my otherwise muscular body. It didn’t look right. It didn’t look like me.
I had a lot to figure out. And I knew that the best way to do that was by talking to Joel.
By then, I knew his schedule by heart. I called him on a Thursday night when he was off work. He answered right away.
“To whom am I speaking?” There was a playfulness to his voice. Even though he didn’t know my number, somehow he knew it was me.
“Uh, hey. I’ve been thinking and…”
He cut me off. “You free tonight?”
“Uh huh.”
***
He arrived at my place twenty minutes later. He was wearing a tight black shirt and enticingly short shorts.
“You look…”
“Yeah?” he asked, goading me to finish.
I gulped. “Very cute.”
“Thanks, big guy.”
That’s when I noticed the plastic bags in his hands.
He saw me looking. “Oh. I brought some snacks. I figured we could just eat and talk. See where this goes.”
I was too nervous to invite him inside, so he took the initiative. He strolled in like he’d been to my apartment many times before and got comfortable on the couch.
“You, um, want something to drink?”
“A beer, please.”
“Is Guiness okay?” That’s all I had. I lived on that stuff now.
He shrugged. It definitely wasn’t his go-to drink, but he was fine with it.
When I came back with two bottles, he’d already set up his snacks on my table. He brought hot wings, chips and dip, and a take-out box of nachos. Bar food, basically.
I saw the spread for what it truly was: a test. He wanted to see how much I was willing to eat now. I told myself that I wouldn’t go overboard. I wanted him to know that I was still feeling things out, but the idea of growing into a bear was too much for me.
But as we sat and talked, I couldn’t stop myself from grazing. I was keenly aware of how he looked at me each time I grabbed another wing or scooped up another clump of dip. He loved watching me eat, and I loved making him happy.
It was a tough conversation, though. I had trouble forming words because I still didn’t understand my feelings. As always, he heard me out. He asked the questions that needed to be asked.
And eventually, he took things a little further. It started with his hand on my knee, another gentle test. I didn’t pull away.
Then he scooted closer.
Then he wiped some dip off my chin.
And then he asked, “Have you ever looked at other guys before? Like, in the locker room?”
“Honestly, no. Just you.” I spent a good chunk of my adult life surrounded by muscular men joking around in the showers, and I never felt anything besides camaraderie. “I think it’s because you’re so feminine.”
His hand was rubbing my thigh at the time. When I said that, he pulled away.
Well I fucked up. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…”
Suddenly, he got forceful. He grabbed me by the shoulders and got very close to my face. He looked like he was going to kiss me, but he just rubbed his cheek against mine. “If you're ready to be with a man, I’m right fucking here. If not, I can leave.”
“No. I’m…”
That’s when he kissed me. He made sure to show me that his tongue was in control, not mine. His lips were deliciously soft. They tasted like strawberry lip gloss.
When he pulled away, he flicked his tongue against my upper lip. I’ll always remember that.
“Now finish your snacks and I’ll teach you a few things.”
We still had three quarters of the nachos left. I’d never eaten so fast.
***
Sex with Joel was like my first time. I’d only been with four women before. (All long-term relationships.) And it was great. But every time, there were always moments of doubt. Like, “am I doing this right? Does that make her feel good?”
With Joel, I had no doubt how he felt. The… dynamics were new to me, and I was pretty fumbling that first time. But if I was going too fast or not doing something right, he’d adjust. I was inside him, but his body seemed to guide my movements.
And when I made him moan, I felt like the sexiest man alive.
Afterwards, he flopped bonelessly onto the bed and I stretched out next to him, trying to catch my breath.
“You sure you’ve never done that before?”
“Shut up.” I knew he was just saying that. I’d last longer next time. I’d do better. (But I knew, a thousand percent, that there would be plenty of next times.)
He ran his fingers along my belly and kissed me.
Fucking strawberries.
***
After our night together, I felt like a teen again. I kept wondering if I should text him. When I should text him. What I should say.
In the end, I just went back to his bar the next night. It was a Friday (busier than my usual visits), and I was embarrassingly nervous.
I sidled up to the bar, taking a stool next to a very large bald man wearing a mesh top that emphasized his hairy gut. I waited for Joel to notice me, but he was too busy with other customers.
The bald guy grazed my hand.
I pretended not to notice.
He cleared his throat. “New here?”
“Naw. I come a lot.” Just not on busy days.
He checked me out, liking what he saw. “You play sports, huh?”
“Used to. Hockey.”
“Dude! Me too!” He introduced himself (Bud) and told me about his former career. He was a decade older than me, so we never crossed paths. But we had surprisingly similar experiences. In the middle of a sentence, he noticed that I didn’t have a drink yet. “Hey! Joel baby!”
Joel saw us sitting together and his face went blank.
I felt awful. I thought he’d be happy to see me.
He walked over, and in a very professional voice, asked, “Guiness?” No smile. No flirtation.
“Yeah.”
“One for me, too!” Bud said. He slapped his gut. “Gotta keep this tank full, right?” That comment was directed at Joel. It gave me a surge of jealousy.
“Heck yeah,” Joel said, a little awkwardly. “Looking extra big today.”
“Thanks,” Bud said.
Joel scurried off to get our drinks, not even looking at me.
Once he was gone, Bud nudged me in the side. “The next time you need help flagging that guy down, just let me know. We used to date.”
“You and Joel?”
“Yup. Horny little fucker helped me get to 250.”
He was definitely more than 250 now.
I needed to find out the whole story but I was too numb (too heartbroken) to form words. I got to my feet.
“Bathroom?”
“No, I… I gotta go. You can have my Guiness. Sorry.” I left before he responded.
When I got outside, I pounded my first against the wall. My hockey-anger surged back. “Fucking idiot.”
How could I be so stupid? Joel made me feel special, but I wasn’t. I was just another ex-jock that he could fatten and fuck.
I looked down at my throbbing hand. My knuckles were bleeding.
The door swung open behind me and Joel rushed out. “Why’d you leave? I didn’t even get to talk to you.”
“So that’s your deal, huh? I’m just the latest in a long line of athletes that you trick into getting fat and then abandon?”
“Woah!” he said. “Do you think I tricked you?”
I grabbed my belly and shook it. I was big enough to shake now. “You tell me. I didn’t have this until you started flirting with me and giving me nachos.”
“First of all, you gained that all on your own. I loved seeing the progress, but I didn’t make you do anything. And second of all, Bud was already fat when I met him. The guy didn’t need anyone to tell him he was a gainer. And third of all, you are nothing like Bud. He’s a hot mess.”
My breathing started to slow. I was still angry, but everything he said made sense.
“I like you, okay? Way more than I ever liked Bud. It was all physical with him. With you, it’s…” He stepped closer. Placed his hands on my shoulders. “Total honesty, okay? You’re the first fit guy I’ve ever been with. My tastes are a little more… extreme.”
All the times he told me stories about his past hookups, he never mentioned that his partners were fat. Obese, probably. That seemed intentional.
I backed away. “I’m fat.”
“Not really, but you’re getting there,” he said. “Listen, I like you because of you. And after last night, we’re obviously… compatible.”
“But you’re just waiting until I get big enough.”
“No! If you get bigger, I’d love that. But if not, that’s okay with me. I’ll never make you do anything you don’t want. Please? Don’t get mad over an ex from like four years ago. Now, are you gonna come back inside?”
“Okay.” I inched closer to the door.
“I should’ve introduced you when I saw you talking with Bud, but I didn’t know… what we are.”
To answer his question, I grabbed his hand. We walked back inside together.
***
Joel and I were official after that. I saw him at the bar most weeknights and he came over to my place whenever he was free.
True to his word, he never forced me to eat for him.
But I did anyway. At first, it was just an occasional thing, just to feel it out. But over time, it became a ritual. Eating, then sex. Or (if I got too ambitious) eating, then belly rubs in front of the TV.
As I got more confident, we started experimenting more. I was ready for it. Topping him was just as incredible as the first time, but I slowly started to prefer if we switched positions. It depended on the type of food I ate that day, and he had to teach me the fine art of douching, but he pushed me across thresholds of pleasure that I never thought I’d cross.
And of course, I kept getting bigger. Guiness barely affected me at all anymore, so I was able to drink more, which led to eating more, which led to growing more. My starter gut turned into a full-on belly, round and proud and constantly stuffed.
Double chins run in my family, so I grew one pretty fast. It swallowed my jawline and made my gains undeniable to anyone who saw me.
Thanks to my beefy arms and legs, I still looked like an ex-jock. I liked that. I liked how people could tell I was an athlete who let myself go rather than some random fat guy who was doomed by his genetics. I was doing this to myself, and everyone could tell.
Things took a big turn that summer, once I crossed 250. (Bud’s weight when Joel broke up with him.)
Joel and I were sitting on my couch watching a movie. Well, I was watching the movie and he was watching me stuff chicken nuggets and onion rings into my mouth. I don’t know what came over me, but I grabbed the Styrofoam container of nuggets and placed it on Joel’s lap. Then I turned to him and opened my mouth.
He was shocked. “Are you sure?”
He’d never fed me before, and he was probably still thinking about our argument from all those months ago.
I kept my mouth open and waited. I was ready for this.
“Okay. If this is what you want.” He took a single nugget and slid it from his palm into my mouth.
I chewed and swallowed.
Then he fed me another. And another.
Pretty soon, he was going much faster than I would’ve eaten them on my own. He started taking them three at a time, mashing them together, and then shoving the lump into my mouth.
I struggled to keep up. There were times when I regretted letting him do this. I gave him permission to go faster than I could handle. But I never stopped. And my doubts were outweighed by the erotic change between us. Eating for him was fun, but letting him feed me was a hundred times better.
I finished the nuggets and onion rings in a fraction of my usual time.
And when everything was gone (except for grease on my face and crumbs on my belly), he kissed me and massaged my screaming gut.
“You liked that?” Joel asked.
I groaned. That was a “yes.”
“And you want me to do that again, right?”
Another “yes” groan. From now on, I was more than happy to let him feed me during my nightly pig-outs.
“Good.” He patted my belly. Then he stood up and hurried into the kitchen.
I heard him rifle around in there. Then I heard the microwave ding.
He came back with a tub of chocolate fudge ice cream that he’d just half-melted.
Oh God.
He wasn’t asking if he could keep feeding me in the future. He was asking about tonight.
I couldn’t. My stomach was crammed with so much food and grease that I was already queasy. I had no space left.
He saw the panic on my face. “Oh. You don’t want me to?”
It wasn’t about what I wanted. It was about my physical capacity. I looked down at my stomach, already rounder than it had ever been. But then I looked back at Joel. He was slumped in disappointment. He turned back toward the kitchen.
“W-wait!” I struggled.
His eyes lit up.
“Feed me,” I said.
He jumped back onto the couch, the movement sparking needles of pain in my stomach. Then he stroked my double chin to coax my mouth open, and he started to pour.
I was pleasantly surprised by how easy it went down. (I guess because it was liquid.) He was slower now. Gentler. He kept one hand under my shirt, rubbing away the pain, while his other hand poured and stopped, poured and stopped, until the entire carton was drained.
He knew exactly what he was doing.
And that was the moment I truly became a gainer.
***
With Joel’s merciless feedings, I exploded in fat. Forget about being an ex-jock. I was a soft, roll-covered blob.
It took a month for my pecs to slope into moobs, connecting with the rolls under my arms and drooping over the curve of my gut.
My face became unrecognizable, even to me. Often, I’d look in the mirror and jerk back in surprise.
My upper arms lost their definition, dimpling out and growing sacks of fat that waved at the slightly gesture. My legs widened and, seemingly overnight, their smooth edges lost the battle with cellulite and rolls.
All of these changes were surprising, but my belly was the biggest surprise. It was still rounded at the top (always hard from whatever meal I’d just been forced to eat), but below my belly button was another story. I couldn’t believe the sag. The stretched-out texture. The irregular blotches of redness. I was lucky enough to have pale, barely visible stretchmarks, but I didn’t know what those blotches meant. They felt more tender than the pale skin around them, and Joel knew exactly how to caress them when he was playing with my apron.
In just over a year of his feedings, I was well past 300 and dangerously on my way to 400.
How was that even possible? And why did every little change turn me on so much?
The answer to both those questions was Joel. He was truly a genius at getting me to push past my limits every single night. And his constant, loving touch made me treasure each sensitive inch just as much as he did.
***
I stopped going to the bar as much. The food was too expensive for me to truly get my fill. And the stools (I had to use two now) were uncomfortable for a guy my size.
But I still went once a week. Every Thursday. It was a great place to socialize with other big boys, and Joel loved showing me off.
On those bar nights, Joel always drove me home and congratulated me for all the physical effort (of walking across the parking lot and around the bar) with particularly enthusiastic sex.
It had been a long time since I’d been able to top. Even starfishing while he rode me got too hard once my fat pad officially took over. But I didn’t miss it at all. Joel knew what he was doing, and I loved to let him control me, fill me up, use my massive body as his squishy playground.
***
And that leads us to today, two and a half years since I first walked into his bar. My hockey career feels like a half-remembered dream. I watch it on TV sometimes, marveling at the athleticism but knowing that none of the players are as skilled on the ice as I am at the dinner table. No one is.
I’m the biggest guy I know by far. Bigger than Bud. Bigger than any of Joel’s other exes. Bigger than my wildest dreams.
A few minutes ago, Joel came back from work. I heard him from the other room. I’d head into the living room to greet him, but the long process of getting out of bed would take way too long. So I wait.
He struts in, his work shirt looking particularly tight today. His belly has softened up a little in the last few months. He’s still a twink (more or less), and he has no intention of purposely gaining, but if he grows a little more, we’ll both be fine with it. We know I’ll always be the big boy in the house.
“How was work?” I ask.
He slides into bed and feeds me some leftover chicken tenders from the bar. “Okay,” he says. “I’m starting to notice that I’m getting bigger tips now.”
I pat his beginner belly. “I wonder why.”
He laughs. I’m not sure if this changes things. Maybe it’ll motivate him to let me try feeding him every once in a while. I’ve never done it before, but I think I know some tricks. I learned from the master.
The End
Thanks for the suggestion, @guyig. I hope you liked this story.
