Brett Rivera slumped on the sagging couch in his cramped off-campus apartment, the glow of his laptop screen the only light cutting through the late-afternoon shadows. Twenty-three years old, business degree in hand, and absolutely nothing to show for it. The inbox was a graveyard of polite rejections. Student loans loomed like a noose tightening with every passing day. Rent was due in six days, and the fridge contained nothing but a half-empty jar of pickles and some expired milk.
Desperation had a way of clarifying priorities. After hours of scrolling through side-hustle forums, Brett kept circling back to the same uncomfortable truth: his body was the only asset he had left. He wasn’t muscular or particularly hung, but he had a decent face, smooth olive skin, and a naturally lean 165-pound frame on a 5’10” build. Plenty of guys were cashing in on OnlyFans with far less. He set up the account under a generic username, bought a cheap ring light, and told himself it was just temporary.
His first video was simple and humiliating. Shirtless on the couch, he ordered a large pepperoni pizza and a two-liter of soda. The camera caught the nervous laugh as he folded the first slice. “Stress eating after graduation, I guess,” he muttered to the lens. He kept going, slice after slice, until the box was empty and his stomach pressed outward in a tight, bloated dome. He rubbed it absentmindedly on camera, feeling the unfamiliar pressure, the way his skin stretched taut. The fullness sat heavy and warm low in his gut. To his shock, the video earned $340 overnight. Comments flooded in—hungry, praising, demanding more. For the first time in months, Brett felt something other than panic. He felt wanted.
He leaned in. Light stuffing content became his niche. Grocery hauls where he bought family-sized meals and consumed them on camera. Burgers, fries, pasta, ice cream—he filmed himself forcing it all down while his belly swelled round and heavy. Each session left him stuffed to the point of discomfort, breathing shallow, skin shiny and tight. He started taking measurements: chest, waist, thighs. The scale ticked upward—170, 175. The money helped. He paid one bill, then another. But it was more than the cash. The act itself—the slow, deliberate overeating, the growing pressure in his stomach, the way his body felt softer and heavier afterward—stirred something deep and shameful inside him. He jerked off after almost every video, belly still distended, hating how much he liked it.
One user stood out immediately. PatronZero tipped generously on every post and slid into his DMs after the third week.
“You’ve got real potential,” the message read. “Natural belly. Good attitude. There’s a private group that rewards serious commitment. Serious money. No public circus. Interested?”
Brett stared at the screen for a long time. His current earnings were decent but inconsistent. Debt was still crushing him. He typed back: What’s the catch?
The response came quickly. An invite link to a private Discord server called The Collective.
He joined.
The server was invitation-only, tightly moderated. A welcome message laid out the rules: total discretion, verified progress photos and videos, mutual benefit. Channels included progress tracking, a gallery of other “projects,” and several group chats. Brett lurked for hours, heart pounding. The gallery showed men who had started average and ended enormous—soft, heavy, blissed-out bodies captured in before-and-after shots. Shared Google Sheets tracked weights, calorie logs, measurements, and milestones with attached cash rewards. It felt clinical and filthy at the same time.
A $2,000 “welcome package” arrived the next afternoon via courier—two massive boxes filled with high-calorie snacks, mass-gainer shakes, heavy cream, butter, and oils. A handwritten note promised another $2,000 if he hit 180 pounds within two weeks. Brett’s hands shook as he unpacked everything. This was real.
He accepted the terms.
The patrons introduced themselves gradually through voice chat and text. Victor was a tech executive in his mid-thirties, data-obsessed and precise. He loved spreadsheets and hit Brett with questions about daily macros immediately. Marcus was older, silver-haired, a finance guy who spoke in a low, indulgent rumble about luxury foods and proper pacing. Kai’s voice was sharp and sadistic; he clearly got off on control and humiliation. Elias barely spoke but sent the largest deliveries, his silence carrying a heavy, possessive weight. A handful of others lurked, placing side bets and throwing in smaller tips.
Brett’s life changed overnight. Deliveries arrived daily. Custom grocery orders appeared at his door: family lasagnas, gallon tubs of premium ice cream, trays of pastries, bottles of heavy cream to mix into thick, calorie-dense shakes. He filmed most sessions for the group, propping his phone on the coffee table while voice chat stayed live.
The first major group session came four days after he joined. Brett sat shirtless on the couch in sweatpants, belly already soft from the previous days of constant eating. A massive delivery had arrived: two family-sized trays of baked ziti, garlic bread, and a blender full of a shake mixed to Victor’s exact specifications—ice cream, heavy cream, peanut butter, and mass gainer.
“Start with the shake,” Victor’s calm voice instructed through the speakers. “Slow sips. We want to see that belly filling out.”
Brett obeyed. The shake was thick and sweet. He drank steadily, feeling his stomach expand with every gulp. The others chimed in.
Marcus: “Good boy. Pace yourself. Savor it.”
Kai: “Look at him already getting round. Pathetic little college grad turning into a pig for us.”
Elias stayed quiet, but the tipping notifications kept pinging.
Brett finished the entire blender, then moved to the ziti. He ate mechanically at first, then with growing urgency as the praise and teasing flowed. His belly swelled dramatically, pushing outward into a tight, heavy sphere that rested on his lap. The waistband of his sweatpants cut into soft new flesh. By the end he was panting, hands rubbing slow circles over the drum-tight surface of his gut, moaning softly despite himself. The session ended with $800 split among the top contributors and instructions to weigh in the next morning.
He hit 182 pounds four days later.
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The dorm room at Riverdale University was a cluttered haven of textbooks, empty energy drink cans, and the low pulse of lo-fi music from a laptop. Late November’s chill lingered outside, but the radiator made the small space stifling. Noah, a lean biology major with dark curls and a tendency to overthink, sprawled on his bed, half-reading notes. Lucas, his blond, broad-shouldered kinesiology-major roommate, lounged across from him, exuding easy confidence. Their friendship, over a year strong, was a rhythm of shared meals, late-night laughs, and pranks. But tonight, fueled by exam stress and a half-empty bottle of cheap vodka Lucas had smuggled in, the air crackled with tension.
“Dude, you ever wonder what it’d be like to just… let loose?” Lucas’s voice cut through the music, low and teasing, blue eyes glinting.
Noah glanced up, brow furrowed. “What?”
Lucas leaned back, hands behind his head, T-shirt riding up to reveal toned abs. “Something wild. No consequences. Just feels good.”
Noah’s cheeks warmed, but he played it cool. “Like stealing the mascot costume again?”
Lucas’s laugh was warm, his gaze intense. “Nah. Something real. Something… raw.”
The vodka loosened their tongues, spiraling the conversation into crushes, fantasies, secrets. The room shrank, the space between them electric. Lucas’s knee brushed Noah’s on the narrow bed, and neither pulled away. Lucas’s hand found Noah’s thigh, igniting a spark that burned away hesitation. Noah’s breath hitched as Lucas leaned in, their lips crashing in a hungry, vodka-fueled kiss.
Clothes hit the floor in a frenzy. Lucas’s hands roamed Noah’s lean frame, rough and sure, guiding him onto the bed. Noah’s heart pounded as Lucas’s cock, hard and thick, pressed against him. Lucas took control, lips trailing down Noah’s neck, hands spreading his thighs. Noah moaned as Lucas’s fingers teased his ass, slick with spit, preparing him. The first thrust was slow, Lucas’s cock filling him, stretching him, the sensation raw and electric. Noah clutched the sheets, body arching, every nerve alive as Lucas moved faster, deeper, their breaths syncing in a primal rhythm. When Lucas came, his cum hot and pulsing inside Noah, it triggered Noah’s release, spilling across his stomach. They collapsed, tangled in sweat-soaked sheets, Lucas’s grin lazy and satisfied.
As Noah caught his breath, a strange warmth spread through his core—not just the afterglow, but a deep, visceral pressure in his gut. He brushed it off as nerves or vodka, but something felt different.
The next morning, Noah woke with a throbbing head and shuffled to the bathroom. His reflection stopped him cold: his face was softer, cheeks fuller, jawline blurred. The scale read 175 pounds, up from his usual 160. “What the fuck?” he muttered, trying again. Same number. His jeans dug into his hips, denim snug across his thighs, T-shirt clinging to a soft curve at his stomach. Panic surged. He’d been meticulous—lean proteins, veggies, no binges. Fifteen pounds overnight was impossible.
Lucas was out for his morning run, so Noah headed to class alone, hyper-aware of his heavier steps, thighs brushing together. At the dining hall, his appetite was feral. He piled his tray with pizza, fries, and a milkshake, devouring it all, the gut pressure easing into euphoric fullness. That night, Lucas returned, sweaty and radiant. “You good?” he asked, noticing Noah’s unease.
Lucas smirked, skeptical. “You look fine, man. Stress, probably.” But when Lucas’s hand grazed Noah’s arm, that electric heat flared, and Noah’s resolve crumbled. They were kissing before he could think, Lucas tugging off Noah’s too-tight shirt, revealing his softened belly. Noah dropped to his knees, eager, sucking Lucas’s cock with a hunger that surprised them both. Lucas groaned, fingers in Noah’s curls, guiding him until he came, his cum flooding Noah’s mouth, thick and warm. Noah swallowed, the act addictive, the warmth spreading again. They moved to the bed, Lucas fucking him hard, each thrust driving Noah wild, his body craving more even as the gut pressure grew. When it was over, Noah felt heavier, sated but unsettled.
The scale read 190 the next morning.
Over the next week, Noah’s life unraveled. Each encounter with Lucas—frantic, cock-driven nights—left him heavier. By week’s end, he was 220 pounds. His jeans wouldn’t button; sweatpants strained at the seams. His shirts stretched tight across his chest, his once-flat stomach now a soft, jiggly belly. His face was puffy, a double chin forming. Walking to class was exhausting; his thighs chafed, and he was breathless after one flight of stairs. Lecture hall desks pinched his hips, and he caught classmates’ whispers in the dining hall. His biology professor, Dr. Hensley, asked if he was “feeling okay.” Noah mumbled excuses—stress, medication—but he knew the truth: Lucas’s cum was doing this, some impossible, hyper-fattening magic. The thought was absurd, but the evidence was undeniable.
Worse, Noah craved it. The rational part of him screamed to stop, to lose the weight, to figure out why this was happening. He tried cutting calories, hitting the gym, but nothing worked. The weight clung, and the hunger for Lucas grew. Every kiss, every suck, every thrust fed an addiction he couldn’t explain. It wasn’t just physical—Lucas’s touch made him feel alive, desired, whole. Each night, Noah would beg for more, Lucas’s cock filling his mouth or ass, the cum triggering that warm, heavy rush that left him both sated and ravenous.
By early December, Noah was 280 pounds. His daily life was unrecognizable. Getting out of bed took effort, his mattress creaking under his bulk. Showering was a chore; the dorm’s narrow stall felt claustrophobic, his belly brushing the walls. He avoided social events, dreading stares, and skipped classes when he could, hiding in the dorm with delivery pizza and Netflix. Lucas, still fit and unaffected, seemed oblivious to the cause but noticed Noah’s changes. “You’re looking… cozy,” he teased one night, poking Noah’s belly playfully. Noah flushed, torn between embarrassment and a thrill at the attention.
Their encounters grew more intense. One night, Lucas pinned Noah to the bed, his hands gripping Noah’s softened hips, cock teasing his ass before thrusting deep. Noah moaned, his belly jiggling with each movement, the sensation heightened by his growing bulk. Lucas’s cum filled him, the warmth spreading faster, more intense, as Noah came hard, his own cock trapped against his heavy stomach. The addiction deepened, Noah begging for Lucas’s cum nightly, swallowing it or taking it inside, each load pushing his weight higher.
Christmas break loomed, and Noah dreaded it. At 300 pounds, he was returning home, where his family would see his transformation. More terrifying was three weeks without Lucas—a dry spell that could break him. The night before he left, they fucked with desperate intensity. Lucas’s cock drove into Noah’s ass, his hands gripping Noah’s thick thighs, cum flooding him as Noah trembled, the warmth overwhelming. The next morning, the scale confirmed 300 pounds. Noah barely recognized himself: his face round, neck swallowed by rolls, belly a massive dome hanging over his waistband, thighs wobbly. Packing was a nightmare; he resorted to oversized hoodies and stretchy joggers from a big-and-tall store.
At home, his family’s shock was palpable. His mom suggested doctors and diets, his dad made awkward jokes about “college weight.” Noah retreated to his bedroom, binging on holiday treats—cookies, pies, lasagna—to dull the gnawing ache for Lucas. The cravings were relentless, food a poor substitute. He texted Lucas constantly, each flirty reply fueling his need. By the end of the break, he’d gained another 30 pounds, hitting 330. His childhood bed groaned, and he avoided family photos, ashamed of how his body spilled over chairs.
The night before returning to Riverdale, Noah lay awake, consumed by thoughts of Lucas’s cock, his cum, the rush. He texted Lucas, fingers trembling: *Miss you. Need you.* Lucas’s reply was instant: *Same, man. Dorm’s too quiet.*
Back at Riverdale, Noah’s cravings exploded. Seeing Lucas, lean and grinning, ignited a feral need. They barely spoke before Noah was on his knees, sucking Lucas’s cock with desperate hunger, swallowing every drop of cum. Lucas fucked him after, Noah’s massive belly pressed against the bed, each thrust sending ripples through his flesh. The scale read 350 pounds the next morning. Noah’s body felt foreign yet thrilling, his addiction stronger than ever.
By February, Noah was 400 pounds. Daily life was a struggle. Walking across campus was a marathon, his breath short, sweat beading. He switched to online classes, unable to fit in lecture hall seats. His dorm bed sagged, and he’d broken a dining hall chair, the humiliation burning. Eating became a ritual—pizzas, burgers, gallons of ice cream—to chase the high Lucas’s cum provided. Their sex was relentless: Lucas’s cock in Noah’s mouth, cum coating his throat, or deep in his ass, each load adding pounds. Noah’s belly grew massive, his thighs thick, his arms heavy with fat.
Lucas remained attentive, his hands lingering on Noah’s softened body, teasing, “You’re all mine.” Noah tried once to stop, skipping a night with Lucas to diet, but the withdrawal—shakes, sweats, a clawing hunger—was unbearable. By midnight, he was begging, tears in his eyes, Lucas’s cock filling him as the warmth returned.
The conflict tore at Noah. He’d stare at old photos, his lean frame a memory, vowing to stop. But the addiction was stronger. Lucas’s cum was his drug, each load a hit that made the weight feel… right. He stopped going to the gym, stopped checking the scale, stopped caring about stares. All that mattered was Lucas’s touch, the cum, the rush.
By April, Noah hit 500 pounds. He was barely mobile, his days spent in the dorm, propped on pillows, surrounded by takeout containers. His belly dominated, a heavy mass spilling across his lap, making tasks like tying shoes impossible. His face was buried in rolls, his chest heavy. Getting up took minutes, each movement laborious. Lucas helped, bringing food, adjusting pillows, his affection unwavering. But Noah saw worry in his eyes, a flicker of guilt they didn’t address.
Their sex adapted to Noah’s size. Lucas would climb over his bulk, cock sliding into Noah’s mouth or ass, the act slower but no less intense. Noah craved every drop, the warmth fueling his surrender. He’d given up fighting, the addiction his world.
By May, Noah was immobile at nearly 600 pounds. The dorm bed was reinforced, paid for by Lucas’s job earnings. Noah’s body was a landscape of rolls, his belly pinning him in place. He relied on Lucas for everything—food, water, hygiene. The addiction had won. Each encounter added pounds, Lucas’s cum a constant craving. Lucas stayed, loyal despite the strain, bringing trays of food, sitting for hours, their connection deeper yet heavier.
Noah’s life shrank to the dorm. He dropped out of in-person classes, grades slipping, friends gone, family calls dodged. But surrender brought peace. He’d fought and lost. This was who he was—immobile, dependent, consumed by want. As Lucas’s hand rested on his massive side, Noah knew he’d never go back.
The apartment smelled like old pizza boxes and that cheap body spray Alex liked to overuse. Three guys in their early twenties, sharing the kind of off campus place that felt like freedom until the dishes piled up. Alex sprawled on the couch, long legs hanging off the end, phone in one hand while he scratched at his flat stomach with the other. Six two, one eighty, still carrying that soccer build from high school. Sharp jaw, tight shirts, the guy who acted like he had everything under control.
"Dude, you seeing this crap online?" he asked without looking up.
Ben sat in the gaming chair, controller loose in his grip, his stockier frame already hinting at what could turn soft if he let it. Five ten, around one ninety on a good day, round face that made him look younger than twenty one. He paused whatever shooter he was playing and leaned in. "The virus thing? Yeah. My timeline's full of it."
Chris was on the floor, laptop on his knees, slim and put together at six feet and one sixty. Pretty boy features, dark hair always neat, eyes that darted away if someone stared too long. He stayed quiet at first, scrolling through whatever article had his attention.
They had been roommates since sophomore year. Alex was the organizer, the one who planned stuff and then actually followed through. Ben brought the snacks and the loud energy. Chris handled the quiet stuff, like bills and making sure the fridge didn't turn into a science experiment.
The news had been building for a couple weeks now. Some mystery bug hitting men. Started with tiredness, then this crazy hunger that wouldn't let up. A few stories mentioned strange changes, but the big sites called it stress or a bad flu. The wild corners of the internet were screaming bioweapon, foreign lab, something designed to mess with guys on a deep level. Appetite cranked up, calories turning straight into fat, hormones going haywire. Most people rolled their eyes. Memes about it being a "gay flu" were already everywhere, the dumb kind that spread faster than facts.
"They're saying it hits men hardest," Alex muttered. "Hunger, weight piling on quick, other stuff. Sounds like bullshit."
Ben gave a short laugh. "My cousin knows a guy in Chicago who packed on ten pounds in a week. Just eating everything in sight. Swears he picked it up at a bar."
Chris finally spoke, voice low. "Deeper threads call it the Adipose Agent or whatever. Engineered. Screws with metabolism, packs on thick fat cells. And there are rumors about... other sides. Libido stuff. Thoughts shifting."
He stopped there. Alex raised an eyebrow. "Other sides?"
"You know. Hornier than normal. Maybe not just for girls." Chris's face warmed a bit, but he kept his eyes on the screen. "Probably exaggerated."
Alex sat up. "Screw that. We're not catching it. Rules start now."
He grabbed the notebook they used for random lists and started writing in big letters. Ben set the controller down. Chris closed his laptop but stayed put.
"Number one," Alex said. "No big parties. We keep it to us three. Masks if we go out, quick trips only. No sharing drinks, no random hookups."
Ben grinned. "So your soccer girls are off limits?"
"Shut it. Number two, healthy food only. Chicken, veggies, shakes. No DoorDash marathons. We cook."
Ben pulled a face. "Man, one rough week and we're choking down kale?"
"Number three," Alex kept going. "Gym every morning. Runs at night if we can. Burn it before it sticks."
Chris nodded, but something flickered across his face. Not exactly scared. More like a spark he was trying to bury. Alex missed it, too busy in leader mode.
They spent the next hour hammering it out. Ben joked about the "fat apocalypse" but agreed to ease up on midnight chips. Chris suggested logging any weird hunger or tiredness right away. Alex added the no weird touching rule, half kidding. "And none of that bro stuff turning strange. You get me."
The talk wandered. Alex stepped out for a call from his mom, voice dropping into that good son mode in the hallway.
"Yeah, we're careful... No weird symptoms here... Tell Dad the med school stuff is still on track... Love you."
Back inside, Ben was already ordering what he called "one last cheat meal." They settled on pizza, nothing crazy. Chris had his laptop open again but snapped it shut when Alex returned. They ate on the couch, arguing if the virus was real or just another online panic. Ben tore through most of the pie like he hadn't eaten in days. Alex stuck to a couple slices and felt pretty good about it. Chris picked at his, quieter than usual.
That night after Ben crashed with the TV still going, Alex hit the bathroom. He caught himself in the mirror, shirt off, abs showing, chest solid from lifts. Flexed once, nodded, then went to bed.
Chris didn't sleep easy.
He stayed up in his room, door cracked for a sliver of light, phone under the covers. The forums got darker at night. Guys talking about waking up starving, clothes feeling tighter, sudden hard ons that hit different. Posts about bellies softening first, a gentle roundness pushing out, love handles starting to thicken like slow rising dough. Whispers that cum from someone carrying it made everything faster, like flipping a switch on the fat gain.
Chris's breathing picked up. He told himself it was research. But his hand had already drifted down, stroking slow while he read. He'd carried this secret for years. Hidden folders, old stories about bodies letting go, swelling soft and heavy, guts rounding out, thighs spreading, asses turning plush and heavy. The thought of a virus forcing it on someone... it scared him how fast it got him going.
He finished quiet, biting back any sound, then the shame rolled in like always. These were his roommates. Alex with that clean jock frame, Ben with his easy stocky build that could tip soft so quick. Chris cleared his history, rolled over, and told himself nothing was going to touch them.
The next few days mostly stuck to the plan. Morning gym sessions, Alex pushing reps and spotting. Chris on the treadmill, trying not to let his eyes wander over how sweat made shirts cling or how Ben's shorts rode up on his thicker legs. Meals stayed boring but safe. They even skipped a small get together down the street.
But the emails from campus health started warning about sudden appetite spikes in guys. A couple dorm students had apparently packed on weight fast and pulled back from classes. Alex read one out at dinner and made them all promise to stay strict.
"See? Rules are working."
Ben burped and laughed it off. "Sure. Pass the water. This rice is killing me."
Chris smiled but kept his thoughts to himself. That secret flicker inside him stirred again. What if it wasn't terrible? What if... He shut it down quick.
Friday night they made it through the week. Alex called for a movie, just them. They ordered one plain cheese pizza as a small reward and spread out. Ben took the couch and was already on his third slice. Alex sat on the floor against the coffee table. Chris claimed the armchair.
Halfway through, the doorbell. Alex had forgotten they tacked on wings last minute. The delivery guy looked wiped, mid twenties, mask on but coughing rough as he passed the bag. "Long shift, sorry."
Alex tipped fast and closed the door. They dug in. The wings were greasy and hot. Ben killed most of them. Alex had a couple. Chris ate more than planned, sauce on his fingers, the salt and heat sitting warm in his gut in a way that felt deeper than normal food.
Movie ended. Ben headed to bed first, groaning about feeling stuffed. Alex followed, clapping Chris on the shoulder. "Good week, man. We're beating this."
Chris cleaned up alone. His stomach pressed against his shirt a little heavier than usual. Not just full. Softer somehow. He caught himself rubbing it, the slight give sending a quick forbidden spark low in his body.
He told himself it was nothing.
Around two a.m. Ben stumbled out for water. He looked flushed, one hand rubbing his side where his love handles sat a bit fuller. "God, I'm starving again," he muttered, pulling cold wings from the fridge and eating them standing there in his boxers, grease on his chin.
Chris watched from the hallway shadow. His own cock twitched hard out of nowhere, a rush he couldn't pin on the meal. He slipped back to his room before Ben noticed.
Morning came and everything shifted.
Alex woke to noise from the kitchen. Ben was already there, shirt riding up, digging through the fridge like a man possessed. He'd demolished the leftover pizza and was working on cereal straight from the box, milk running down his chin. His face looked a touch rounder, cheeks softer. And when he turned, his stomach pushed out in a small, undeniable curve that hadn't been there yesterday. Not bloated. Softer. Like new padding settling in.
"Ben, what the hell?" Alex said.
Ben looked up, eyes glassy with hunger. "Can't stop. So fucking hungry. And my dick... it's been hard all night. Weird thoughts too."
Chris came out then. They both saw it at the same time. Ben's belly had a gentle roundness now, love handles thickening just enough to pinch over his waistband. He shifted and there was the faintest jiggle.
Alex went pale. "Shit. The delivery guy yesterday. He was coughing."
They didn't argue. Within minutes they had Ben quarantined in his room. Door shut, tape over the edges for good measure. "Stay in there," Alex called through the wood. "We're not risking it. We'll slide food and water to you. Notes for what you need. No coming out."
Ben's voice came back muffled, already sounding thicker. "Guys... I'm really hungry."
They set up the system quick. A tray by the door, plastic bags for trash on the other side. Notes passed under. Water bottles, whatever non perishable stuff they had. Chris suggested protein bars and fruit at first, trying to keep it light. Alex added a strict no contact warning.
For the rest of that day they kept distance. Alex hit the gym alone, pushing harder like it could fix things. Chris stayed in his room a lot, laptop open, heart racing for reasons he didn't want to name. Ben's requests started simple, then got bigger. More food. He was eating nonstop.
By evening the notes under the door mentioned how his clothes felt tighter already. Alex read one and swore. Chris read it and felt that secret heat bloom low in his gut again.
They left Ben a big bag of snacks that night, slid through with a stick so no hands touched. "One week," Alex said through the door. "We'll figure this out. Just stay put."
From inside came the sound of wrappers tearing and heavy chewing. Ben's voice had a new desperate edge. "Thanks man... fuck, this feels good."
Chris lay awake long after. His hand drifted to his own stomach, pressing lightly, imagining. The shame hit, but so did the thrill. Down the hall Ben was already changing, fifteen pounds or more probably on the way if the stories were true. Soft face filling, belly rounding, that stocky frame getting plush.
Chris swallowed hard and tried to sleep.
But the apartment already felt different. Hungrier.
READ THE FULL 7 PART STORY AS A MULTI CHAPTER SUBSCRIBER ON PATREON
Shake that pudge, fatty! He still has that V-line, but it’s filling out a lot more these days. Could it be that you swapped proteins for fat and gym sessions for game sessions, fatso?
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