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The documents contained in this collection came into the possession of the British Museum of the Occult and Esoteric as part of a bequeathment from the estate of legendary collector of paranormal artefacts, Agnes Thredwell, to whom the museum expresses its deep and eternal gratitude.
Presented here are transcripts of unbound pages from the diary of Dr James Davison covering the period of September 1966 to September 1967. As the pages are not bound, and due to what appears to be water damage, there are large gaps between entries in places and some entries are incomplete; the museum presents the pages in the order kept by Ms Thredwell. For readability, Dr Davison's medical notes and sundry other notes have been omitted. Viewings of the original pages in full are available upon request.
It is not clear how Ms Thredwell came into possession of the pages (as is the case of so much of her collection) nor are the documents' veracity clear. While many details of Dr Davison's existence up to the late summer of 1966 can be confirmed, many of the other people and even places detailed within cannot be traced with any certainty. Whether this is because the diary and related documents are a work of fiction, or because they have been edited to maintain anonymity, is unknown.
Fragment
- said he would call the police. I pleaded with him, told him my life would be ruined. He demanded money for his silence, more than I can afford to pay. I will have to-
Entry interrupted
Thursday, September 22nd
Tomorrow will mark my first day in my new home - Hardy, a small island in the Channel, not much more than a modest village and a collection of farms and fishermen, with a population of 150 or so. Despite its size, Hardy is quite prosperous in its own way, and something of a hub of agriculture, providing the few nearby islands with much of their fruit and veg and even sending some to the mainland. This is thanks to its somewhat anomalously warm climate - when I asked some locals at the inn I’m staying for the evening, answers came as either hand-waved explanations about peculiarities in ocean currents or ominous warnings about local legends and pagan gods. The latter was met with a chorus of good-hearted laughter but I noticed a few patrons avoiding my eyes.
After the events of this summer, I hurried to find a posting - Hardy had done without a doctor for some few weeks, and I required a new start, as far away as I could manage. It promises to be a change from the life I have come accustomed to in London, but a welcome one perhaps; regardless, I did not have much say in the matter.
I ate lightly - some chicken, cabbage and a few mouthfuls of new potatoes - and went to bed early. In truth, I’ve never been much of a seafarer, and I’m nervous about how I will cope with the ferry tomorrow morning. I’m due to arrive a little after noon.
Saturday, September 24th
I’m glad to say that I survived the ferry (no more than a fisherman’s skiff, in truth), with my dignity intact. As we approached the shore, I noticed a shift in the weather - the wind died down, the temperature creeped ever so slightly up, even the clouds seemed to part. I remarked on this to the ferry captain, who avoided my gaze and grumbled. By the time we reached the small dock, I’d felt the need to remove my jumper.
I expected a small greeting party when I arrived on Hardy, but it seems that the whole island turned up! I had arrived during the island's autumn equinox harvest festival, which it seems is quite the event in these parts. As a new resident to the island on this auspicious day, I was hailed as the guest of honour - rather gratifying, I must say. I wonder if these harvest celebrations were the source of the murmurings about pagan worship - not so surprising for an island that relies on farming for its wealth.
The young children of the island, led by a young woman (the school teacher, I presume), placed a crown made of apples, wheat sheafs and root vegetables onto my head, and danced around me like a maypole. Some strapping young men appeared and snapped up my luggage (thankfully to my lodgings, it seems!) and then I was led in a procession away from the small harbour and down the coast. I turned back to call my thanks to the ferry captain, but saw that he had already set off again.
I quickly forgot the odd manners of the ferry captain on the walk. The children continued to dance around me, and even some older residents joined in, singing folk songs I wasn’t familiar with - all about fields and crops, cider and ale, apples and pigs. Some of them drank messily from tankards, some gathered in small laughing groups, young couples hung at the back or lurked amongst the trees for privacy. After a short while, my bad knee began to give me grief. The path was paved, but roughly so, and it began to climb. I enquired how much further it was to go, and a woman assured me we were nearly there. I gritted my teeth against the building ache.
It was only while speaking to this woman that I noticed that people had begun to don masks - rough masks hewn from wood, or stitched from scraps of cloth, or moulded out of papier mache. Some were fashioned into the shape of leaves, or flowers, a few of livestock; one wooden mask was painted with a rather charming landscape, eyes peering out from the horizon.
Finally we reached a small clearing in some trees, where some tables and chairs were set up with a veritable feast atop. I was directed to a chair in the middle of a long table, where I gratefully collapsed, rubbing my aching knee. I realised that my assumption earlier was wrong - the whole island hadn’t come to meet me. Where I was sat, I was flanked by half a dozen men - each was huge, easily over twenty-five stone - perhaps more. I marveled - I don’t think I’d ever seen one man of such a size as even the smallest of the men, while the largest - I staggered to think of his weight. Thirty stone? Thirty five? My mind couldn’t wrap itself around the scale of them. Each seemed to overflow the large oaken chairs that seemed specially made to support men of such stature - I myself was placed in such a chair, and felt like a child between the arms further apart than my elbows could comfortably rest.
Other smaller tables were dotted around, and everyone began to take their seats. "We have once again reached this equinox on our fine isle, my friends!" The vicar's voice came suddenly from behind me, causing me to jump. "Another year in which this rock, so precariously perched in the ocean, has cared for us as its children. Another bountiful harvest, provided by our hard work and the soil to which we owe so much." His voice was deep, crisp and loud. This was met with cheers and cries of "here! here!" around the tables.
The vicar spread his arms out, so that I could see them in my peripheral vision, and continued. "And here we have welcomed our Boar King for this year!" Loud cheers erupted around me. "Newly arrived to this isle, but no less welcome for that fact. King Boar, your majesty, may your health be the health of the island!" With that the vicar moved around me to pick up a large clay jug of what appeared to be cider from the table in front of me. He bowed to me briefly, before turning away and pouring the entire jug at the roots of an apple tree behind me, by far the largest tree in the small copse, its bows shading me. With that, music started up and the crowd burst into conversation and laughter. The vicar gave me a small smile and moved to his seat.
I sat dumbfounded. Had it not been for the vicar's dog collar and black clerical shirt, I'd have sworn I had just witnessed some pagan ceremony. My shock must have been clear to see on my face because one of the men - the one to my immediate left, a man with a dense beard and a circumference surely measured in yards - leaned over and spoke as he picked up a chicken leg.
"I'm sure a lot of our customs must seem strange to you," he said, his mouth full of food, his large chin wobbling as he spoke. He smelt of apples and honey. "There's a lot goes on in these isles that goes way back, back before even the Romans came to Britain. Traditions are important on a little island like this; all we've got is each other and the land." He introduced himself as John Baker, the landlord at the local pub, The Boar and Suckling Pig, and I gave my name to him. He gave me a queer look, one I couldn't quite place. I can hear his next words now echoing in my head, despite their simpleness.
"You must be hungry, after such a long journey."
At the word 'hungry', I felt the most queer, intense hunger of my life, as if one of Pavlov’s poor dogs. I can't quite account for it, having never been a heavy eater, and usually the stress of travel tends to numb my appetite. But last night I was ravenous. I feel a vestige of that hunger still, and I ate far more of breakfast than I usually would do this morning. I have put it down to the effect of sea air and the unseasonable warmth, although I am somewhat unconvinced with this explanation, even though it is my own.
I fell on the food like a wolf, grabbing food without looking and putting it to my mouth without even putting it on my plate, if I could help it. My school housemistress would have been horrified to see such behaviour from one of her boys, and I felt a small part of my mind attempting to remind me of my manners.
Looking back I feel quite mortified of my actions, but at the time it felt wholly natural, and certainly not out of place with the actions of those around me, particularly the rotund men I shared a table with. Still, I cannot convince myself that anyone else ate quite so much or with quite so much vim as myself.
I drank heavily of the cider from the jug in front of me. Not having much of a sweet tooth, usually the sickly sweetness doesn't hold much appeal, but in my gluttonous state it tasted of ambrosia. I drank tankard after tankard, leaving the inside of my mouth coated in sugar, and my brain pickled in alcohol.
I can distinctly remember the start of the evening; my arrival, the vicar's ritualistic words, the taste of the sumptuous feast. After that, my memory grows hazy, and the evening becomes a jumbled carousel of images in my mind - the sound of cheers as I ate and ate and ate, seemingly without end; the feel of my stomach, distended and full and heavy, even as I reached for more food; an image of a golden apple being plucked from the great tree at the centre of the grove and shoved forcefully in my mouth by a handsome young man.
This last part must have been a dream, but I can't quite shake the image. It doesn't quite make sense to me, and yet it feels in some way in keeping with the rest of the strange evening.
At some point, I must have been helped to my new home, as I awoke in the house that had been arranged for me ahead of time. Odd dreams - I was being chased through fields by some great ferocious boar, running in that odd heavy, slow way that always seems to happen in dreams. Despite running up a hill towards a circle of standing stones, once I passed the first few stones I stumbled and found myself wading chest-deep through the sea. At this point the boar caught me, swallowing me whole, and I awoke. Apt payment for my greed, no doubt.
Miraculously, I am feeling well, with no ill effects from the cider. My stomach however, feels leaden and full, and I decided to forego my traditional morning walk to allow myself to digest. My stomach is still distended even now, an effect I don't think I'd ever see on myself. Despite this, as soon as breakfast was placed in front of me, I found my appetite quickly returned and the plate was empty before I knew it.
As agreed prior to my arrival, the house adjoins my doctor's practice and is fully furnished and, I was surprised to see, with a fully stocked larder, filled to the rafters with food. My belongings had been brought here, and I was surprised to see that my great 'Boar King' crown and cloak had been left, displayed proudly on the coat stand by the door.
I have been provided with a housekeeper, one Mary Tennant, a stern woman who appeared in my house this morning before I even awoke. I informed her I had no need of her services, or the desire to pay for them, but she informed me that she was paid for by the village, and that like it or not she is here to stay. Judging from breakfast, her cooking is top notch and her cleaning is fastidious such that it borders on intrusive, so I am not inclined to kick up a fuss.
As it is a Saturday, I intend to take the weekend to acquaint myself with my new home, before beginning practice proper on Monday. As ever when I make such statements, I expect I will be besieged all of today and tomorrow with ailments, accidents and asks to check rashes, but for now that is my plan. As a start, I will go to The Boar and Suckling Pig, to try and find out who I can return my ill-gotten crown and cape to and more formally introduce myself to my new patients. Hopefully the walk may help to remedy the heaviness I feel in my stomach.
Saturday, October 1st
Despite my worries, my first weekend on Hardy passed without incident or malady. In fact, all week I have had very few patients for anything but routine practice. Some elderly patients with mild rheumatism; a diabetic receiving his prescription of insulin; a gentleman my own age who complained of some shrapnel, gained during the second world war, which tended to give him some grief with the changing of the seasons - I gave him some topical and general analgesics and suggested some simple exercises I use with my own knee, a similar shrapnel injury. The most dramatic thing to have happened was a teenager who had sprained his ankle during a game of football.
I am aided, such as it is needed, by my practice nurse, Annabelle McCoy. A young girl, but capable and resourceful. I understand she all but ran the practice between my predecessor leaving and my arrival. I must find her more responsibilities and opportunities, if she is open to them; a young woman of her talents is wasted in such a small and healthy community.
In fact, most of the residents of Hardy seem to be of the utmost physical condition. Even my elderly patients seem to come to me only as a matter of course, and those few with long-standing medical conditions manage them well and without detriment to their lifestyle or wellbeing. Indeed, I have noticed that all of the residents are slim and fit, with the exception of only the small cabal of men that I noticed on the day of my arrival and at the strange feast. These men seem even larger when encountered during daily life and contrasted with their slimmer counterparts - they are almost monstrously, unbelievably fat. Hardy does not seem to allow for anyone between these two states.
For my sins, I’ve hardly been a paragon of healthy living myself since my arrival. My appetite, always slight, has been stoked by my new home and I seem afflicted by some constant, gnawing hunger. The effect of fresh sea air, I expect, and of the absolutely exquisite local fair. I have been told time and time again by the residents of Hardy that the island's produce is some of the best I will find, and I have not yet met with evidence to the contrary. They all credit the quality of the soil, the expertise of the men and women who work the land, the blessings of the land and the sea. I’ve so far been finding it difficult to resist trying everything placed in front of me. Alas, this is not helped by the warm welcome I’ve received - everyone I meet seems determined to feed me up and to make sure I sample all of the food the island has to offer - several of my patients have even brought food to their appointments for me to eat!
The worst culprit by far has been Mary, my housekeeper. I have asked her several times to provide lighter meals, yet each meal seems larger than the last. I suppose I can’t blame her really, when I find myself finishing each and every bite, even when the last few seem almost torturous. These titanic meals are then bolstered by snacks that seem to appear next to me throughout the day - more worryingly, they seem to disappear just as quickly…
I have tried on several occasions to avoid the constant bombardment of food by retiring to the local pub, the Boar and Suckling Pig. The locals, for all of their insistence of feeding me up, are a friendly bunch, and have welcomed me with open arms; none more so than the landlord and lady, John, the huge boulder of a man I met upon my arrival, and his wife Lynn, a tiny slip of a woman who seems to think I’m about the size of her husband, judging by the rate at which she places sandwiches, pies and a twice whole cheese boards in front of me - seemingly a new plate of food for each pint I drink.
I really must curb these growing habits - my unrelenting appetite, my attraction to the Boar and Suckling Pig. My mother’s chastisements to my father about his growing waistline ring in my ears.
Friday, October 28th
I have returned again and again to The Boar and Suckling Pig, despite my best intentions. Indeed, I am now there more frequently, and now find myself there every night, and at the weekends most of the day. I seem drawn there - I have tried to avoid it, to stay inside, to go for walks in the opposite direction, but I begin to feel some odd tugging in my gut and find myself making some excuse or other to make my way there.
Each night Mary prepares me some great pile of food, usually more than I'd eat in a whole day or even two, always rich and fat-filled, and I laboriously make my way through it. Finally, I sit back, fingers massaging the domed paunch of my stomach that's begun to develop, and I wonder at both my ability and inclination to finish it all. Just as I determine that this will be the last night of such gluttony, Mary will bring out a dessert - a whole tart or cake more often than not, sat in a lake of cream or custard - and any such thoughts will leave my mind.
Then once Mary leaves for the evening, I make my slow, strained way to the Boar, where I find myself downing seven, eight, nine pints of the wonderful locally produced ale, sat in the corner while locals sing folk songs I can never quite place. Each night some handsome farmer or fisherman will take it upon himself to introduce himself to me, buying me pint after pint, encourage me to soak it all up with a stream of snacks from behind the bar, and I inevitably end up swaying home to collapse in my bed and dream of their strong arms around me, their rough beard on my face, their thick cocks up my arse.
One night last week, after my third or fourth pint John Baker waddled up to me and collapsed next to me on one of the sturdier benches that seem to have been installed purely for his use, and for the other few huge men that are his companions.
“How are you finding it all?” he asked, swigging from a flagon of ale.
I chewed a mouthful of pork pie and swallowed heavily. “Everyone’s been very friendly,” I said. “And the island’s very beautiful, although I can’t say I’ve seen too much of it.”
John laughed. “Not the island!” he said. “Being the Boar King!”
The question almost surprised me enough to stop me eating. “The Boar King?” I asked. “All that guff at the harvest feast you mean?”
John looked more than a little affronted by the question. “It’s not just the feast,” he said. “It’s all year - you are the Boar King.”
“Ah, well then,” I said. “I’m not sure I’ve noticed too much. It’s not come up."
John laughed. There was something going on I didn’t quite understand. “It’s quite the honour, you know,” he told me. “I was one myself, the year before me and Lynn got married.”
“Oh,” I said, unsure what to reply. “Congratulations,” I settled on, lamely.
“Why do you think everyone’s been so hospitable?” he asked. “It’s because you’re our Boar King of course!”
I thought back to the treats brought to appointments, to pints bought at the pub. “I just thought everyone was being friendly,” I explained.
“Well we do our best, but you’d be doing well to get a round out of some of these tight buggers usually,” he said. He called over to the bar. “Lynn! Lynn, why don’t you bring me and the doctor some of that shepherd’s pie out? And a couple more pints.”
“I couldn’t,” I protested, as my mouth began to water at the prospect. “I’ve eaten at home, I-” John cut me off with a slap on the back and a hearty laugh, which cut short my reply. “What exactly, is the Boar King, John?” I asked after finishing my pint and starting the next.
“Well it’s like Father Troughton said,” he explained. “As long as you’re the King, your health is the health of the island. We look after you, and the island will look after us.” He said it plainly, as if it were something every schoolboy was taught.
“Something like a May Queen, then?” I asked.
“Something like that, I suppose,” he said after thinking a while. “Except all year long of course.”
“Do I have to do anything? Make a speech or something?”
“Just sit and look pretty!” John said with a laugh. “Don’t you worry, there’ll be a couple of feast days, like at the equinox, and we’ll handle the rest.”
“And you were one?” I carried on with my questioning. “Who else? What about the last one?”
“You see them about,” John shrugged, refusing to be pulled into giving more detail. “Your predecessor didn’t really take to it.
I wanted to ask more, but got distracted by Lynn bringing out two huge turreens of shepherd’s pie. My train of thought was lost as I ate.
Sunday, October 30th
The effect of all this gluttony and sloth are beginning to be seen on my waistline. Always a slender man, I have had to ask Mary to let out my trousers this evening. I have grown familiar with the feeling of too tight clothes, a too full stomach and a stomach rounded out and pushing against my shirts. This is no mere bloat either; genuine fat has marshalled itself around my body - my thighs, my chest, my arse, and most of all at my increasingly heavy belly. My increasing weight is already clearly obvious through my constricting clothes, to anyone who would care to so much as glance at me.
I am writing this entry after dinner (roast pork belly with all the trimmings). Despite all I have written in this entry, despite the painful heaviness in my gut, I know I will soon leave for The Boar and Suckling Pig, where my fattening will continue unabated. I do not know what has come upon me. I do not know if I want to find out.
Fragment
- a third dinner at the Boar - a full roast dinner with a plate of cheese and apple and pear crumble for afters. Despite my increased appetite of late, I surprised even myself with how much I ate this evening. Clearly all this fresh sea air is doing wonders for me. Not so much my waistline though. I really must -
Entry interrupted
Thursday, November 3rd, 1966
I am getting hairier, I'm sure of it. I was first made aware of it last week, when Annabelle asked me whether I'd forgotten to shave as she packed away for the day. I had shaved that morning, as it happened, but it shouldn't have made all that much of a difference - I have only ever been able to grow only the wispiest and thinnest of beards.
As soon as she had gone, I rushed to a mirror. Sure enough, my face was covered with a dark 5 o'clock shadow, something I'd never seen on my own face. I rubbed my hand across my face, revelling in the coarse roughness. It had been a look I'd always admired on other men, and always regretted not being able to attain myself.
In the days since, I've noticed my sudden late on-set hirsutism is not contained merely to my face. Previously, my chest only had a few sparse patches of hair dotted about, with a thin line leading down from my navel. Now, I have thick black hair like wires across my entire chest, and a thick line leading down my newly plush middle, before it fans out below my belly button. Each day I feel I can see the hair on my arms get darker and thicker.
There's been other changes too. A change in my natural odour to a rich, manly musk. It's terrifically erotic, and I've grown accustomed to lifting an arm in private moments and burying my nose into my own pit to take a sniff. My limp, too, ever present for the past 21 years since Berlin, has gotten better. Not completely gone, no, but better, and I'm sure that even the spiderweb scar which marks the epicentre of my injury is fading. The other day I realised as I got into bed that it might have been the first time in two decades I hadn't complained of any pain throughout the day. My sudden recovery is part of a general improvement in my health - I feel stronger, more energetic, in a way I haven't felt since my twenties.
I blush to discuss the final change, even in this private journal. Each night after I stumble back from the Boar and Suckling Pig, and increasingly before I go as well, I've found my hand following the path carved by my new body hair, down, down, down to the now dense thicket of pubes, and gripping my hard cock. I've become positively insatiable of late, needing release multiple times a day. This on its own might be unremarkable, and could be chalked up to the general improved health I have enjoyed recently. No, what is remarkable is what my hand finds. I am now almost certain that my penis, previously perfectly average, has grown. It is difficult to tell, increasingly nestled as it is in my new dense bush of pubic hair, and threatening to be hidden beneath the gathering dome of fat above, but my hand sits differently around it now - the fingers further spaced, my grip wider.
I am enjoying a veritable second puberty in all regards, it seems. While I find it unbelievable, and know that it is medically impossible, I cannot deny the changes are anything but welcome.
My weight has continued to increase along with my sudden hormonal shift. Perhaps the two are linked - the same good living feeding my body in more ways than one. My torso is now covered in a layer of fat, a soft paunch bulging out over my waist.
I regularly resolve to take action against this expansion, but it is in vain. I tell myself that I will eat less, replace fatty meats, heavy breads and potatoes with light vegetables and more fish, but I again and again find myself stuffing myself at the Boar, or after a trip to the bakers, or in my own quarters. I found an old bicycle in a shed in my garden and cleaned it up, but it has since gone unused. I am sure this second issue is down to the geography of the island; almost everything is contained in one neat village, with the rest of the island given over to farms of various kinds. I have no reason to go further than a 15 minute walk, my practice being conveniently located in the centre of the village, and should I wish to explore further I would find very little to interest me.
And so I have remained in the village that I have come to know so well, returning to the same haunts again and again. This usually means the Boar, but I've been invited to a number of houses where I've received, if anything, an even greater stuffing than I've become accustomed to at the pub.
Sunday, November 20th
I've recently discovered a new attraction to the Boar and Suckling Pig, not that I needed any more. I've built up something of a rapport with Lynn and John's son, Jack. An affable young man in his late twenties, he is startlingly handsome. Dark blonde hair atop a face that is all strong features composed of straight lines and with lightly golden skin the colour of fresh grown wheat that seems to almost glow. His blue eyes twinkle with laughter, his perfect jaw is sketched in three confident lines, his arms bulge in his shirts as he pulls a pint, and I have to force myself to turn away when he bends to wipe a table, the curve of his arse presenting itself through tight trousers. In short, I am a middle-aged fool besotted with a man at least fifteen years my junior. I sternly tell myself off each night, remembering my hasty flight from London. I think of him as I wrap my hand around my cock, remembering the events that necessitated that self-same flight.
I spoke to Jack last night during an uncommonly quiet spell at the bar. I flatter myself to think he was being anything other than polite, but I really do think we have a certain frisson, even if it is purely platonic (much to my chagrin). He was telling me about his role as master of the orchards on the island, and how he'd press cider from the apples himself. He passed me some of this year's press, and despite cider not usually being to my taste I could appreciate the mix of sweetness and sharp tang.
"It's quite an important job on the island really," he told me, puffing up his chest proudly; I tried to ignore the small bump of his nipples pressed against his shirtfront. "We grow some of the best apples in the British isles here. It's the soil that does it, see." By now, I had lost track of all the miracles performed by Hardy soil. "But then, you'd know all about our apples, wouldn't you?"
I was struck with a sudden flash of remembering. An apple pushed into my mouth that first night on Hardy. Biting into it so that the sweet, crisp juices filled my mouth and ran down my chin. I can remember so little about that night; could it have been Jack holding that apple? I am beginning to think that I remember his face, but am wise enough to know that this is more likely than not a false memory I have recreated after the fact.
As I left, Jack handed me what he assured me was one of the finest apples of the year, with a peculiar look on his face. As I wrapped my fingers around myself afterwards, I bit into it, remembering that night, remembering Jack's strong hands as he handed it to me, remembering the sharp, heady cider he'd made. I moaned around the apple as I came, my fingers digging deep into the soft lard that is growing at my middle.
Fragment
- convinced that Jack really is paying me special attention, fool that I am. I tell myself that even without this growing gut of mine, he’d never look twice at me, being closer to his dad’s age than his, and not nearly as handsome even in my prime. Still though, I can’t ignore the way he looks at me, the way he sneaks me free pints and snacks, the way he seems to always find some excuse to strike up a conversation. After all, maybe he likes the older man, the fresh swirl of chest hair spilling from my shirts, my stronger arms and thighs, the bulge that is undeniably growing in my-
Entry interrupted
Sunday, December 18th
This morning as I finished my breakfast, an increasingly time-consuming affair, I received a summons to the vicarage, Mary bustling into the dining room holding a small slip of paper. I excused myself from my habitual Sunday amble around the village (how the mighty have fallen! In the space of a few short months I have gone from a daily jog to a weekly amble) and attempted to find suitable attire that would cover my increasing girth.
My recent expansion has focussed mainly on my belly, and it is now a true gut, sitting spherically at my centre, pushing out in every direction and beginning, ever so subtly, to droop. I have taken to wearing a simple shirt during my surgery open hours, having to forgo a tie as I can no longer get the top button closed on any of them, and opting not to wear a jacket to avoid the constant uncomfortable pinch of it on my flesh below my arms. Mary appeared one morning recently with a small hamper of larger clothes, but these too are growing tight. Today, I thought I should dress up for my summons, and took out a tweed jacket inherited from my father that had never fit, being far too large. I now cannot get it closed over my heaving stomach. His old coat too, I had to leave open, my gut now leading the way as I walked through the village. Looking in the mirror, I am shocked to see how much I look like my father - my childhood was filled with my mother chastising him for his weight, and now I seemed to have not just caught him up, but even overtaken him, all in a few short months.
I took the scenic route to the vicarage, attempting to convince myself that the additional five minutes walk could do anything to quell my growth. In truth, I fear it may have merely stoked my appetite. I arrived to find Father Troughton stood outside the vicarage waiting for me, wearing his cassock fresh from Sunday service.
He spread his arms out towards me as I approached, just as he had done that first night. "The Boar King himself, leaving his court to visit the masses." Just as before, his voice was deep, clear and loud, obviously a man who spoke for a living.
I gave a wan smile at his jest. "Well, I’ll trust you where it comes to masses, father,” I said.
He gave a thin smile which didn't reach his eyes. He led me inside to a sitting room, where a young blonde woman poured me a cup of tea and placed a large lemon drizzle cake in front of me, before leaving the room, all in silence. On what is developing into instinct, I picked up a slice of cake.
"I have never seen you come to our Sunday service?" Troughton said, one eyebrow raised. It was phrased as a statement, but clearly posed as a question.
"I'm not a Christian, I'm afraid," I replied honestly.
"Many of my parishioners aren’t I expect," Troughton said dismissively. “In a community like this, ceremony nourishes us as well as any food.”
"I'll have to come along to one," I offered, trying to cover up my seeming faux pas. "Perhaps one of the Christmas services."
He sniffed contemptuously and looked down his long, thin nose at me. "We have far more pressing matters before we come to such frivolous festivities."
I couldn't help but laugh at this. "Surely as vicar, Christmas must be one of the busiest times of the year for you?" I asked.
He waved a hand dismissively. "The island celebrates of course. But what I have asked you here to discuss is our winter solstice celebration."
I tried to hide my confusion at a vicar prioritising a pagan festival over a Christian one. "Ah, well now," I said, picking up my third slice of cake. "I have been told a little about it."
"And what have you been told?" He remained unmoved, perfectly controlled in everything he did or said.
"Well, it's another feast," I said. "And I'll be there in my role 'the Boar King'." This last part I held my hands up and made finger quotes, laughing a little.
Father Troughton's nostrils flared and his eyes widened by a matter of millimeters, but the effect on his face was momentous. The holy man looked like the devil had come upon him. "And what exactly is so funny about your position?"
I was taken aback. "I'm sorry. I meant no offence," I said. "It's simply that it's such a strange custom. I've never seen anything like it. Almost like a May Queen, but a middle aged man instead of a young girl."
"You may find our customs strange, but you would do well to respect them, if you are to last long here on Hardy," he said. His voice was unchanged, still perfectly measured, but somehow now positively dripped with rage. He stood suddenly, and moved to the window.
"I'm sorry," I told his back after I finished my slice of cake and picked up another. "Really I am. I meant no disrespect."
"The health of the Boar King is the health of the island," he said, looking out through the window. "As above, so below; the first principle of alchemy and the most important."
I was taken aback; almost, but not quite, stopping in my chewing of cake. "I wouldn't expect a man of the cloth to speak so casually about alchemy."
He once again sniffed. "Perhaps you wouldn't," he said, his voice still crystal clear, despite being turned away from me. "Some ideas are larger than mere denomination."
"I don't think that Christianity and alchemy can be considered simple denomina-" I started saying, but he cut me off.
"Perhaps I should put it in terms you might understand. In scientific terms, perhaps, doctor?" Troughton took a deep breath and rolled his shoulders a little. "An island is like a living organism. This organism is made up of many parts - cells, tissues, organs. Bone and flesh and blood. Each is useless without the others, and only exists to serve the whole. Hardy is made up of the soil, the trees, the people. All these parts are useless without the others, and so we must all live to serve each other part of the whole as best we can." He turned to me now and moved to loom over my seat. "The Boar King is the beating heart of Hardy." He reached a hand down and placed it over my own heart, his hand pushing into the layer of fat that had accumulated there. I froze with my hand outstretched for another slice of cake. "A healthy heart means a healthy body. You can appreciate that doctor, I'm sure."
I nodded, although I don't think I truly understood all he was saying. I understood his words yes, the ideas he was talking about. But his tone suggested there was far more than I could hope to grasp - were these traditions really so important? My confusion at the man’s intensity was mounting. He took his hand off of me and moved back to the window. I picked up another slice of cake.
"When you arrive at the winter solstice later this month you will perform your duty," he said. "Your duty to the island, to the community, to the organism that is Hardy. The heart will beat. Am I understood?"
"Yes." My voice came out as barely a whisper. I cleared my throat. "Yes," I said, more loudly this time. "Father," I added, thinking it would please him.
He spun around, his face as passive as when he greeted me that morning. "Excellent. Lucy?" he called through to the other room. "You'll pack up the rest of the cake for our guest, won't you?" I looked to the plate of cake to realise it was empty. I opened my mouth to tell Father Troughton so, but the young girl from before, Lucy, came in holding an entire new cake. She placed the plate down in front of me and quickly wrapped it up in muslin. "Don't worry about the plate, we have plenty others," the vicar said. He turned to a desk at this point and started writing on some loose sheets of paper. I took this to mean that I was dismissed, and took my leave.
I have just looked up from my writing to realise that this next cake is also finished, my hands grasping in air. Soon, Mary will call me down for my first dinner. I am shocked at how casually I write these words. "First dinner." As if it is some accepted idea. I suppose, for me, it has become so.
Thursday, December 22nd
I have seen many a man go to seed over the years, both in my personal life and my professional life. I have never seen a man do so as thoroughly, rapidly, or enthusiastically as I am doing so now.
I have grown incrementally larger by inches since my last full entry, in every direction, on every part of my body. My clothes, previously tight, now strain obscenely against my body. The other day I dared to use the scales in my practice - I’d been avoiding them for a while now, fearing their judgement. 19 stone, or thereabouts. 19 stone! I can’t remember how much I weighed in the summer - I’ve been trying to convince myself that perhaps it could have been as much as 14 or 15 stone. Not only is this unlikely, but it doesn’t give much reassurance either way - is over a stone a month really the lowest rate I can hope for? The scale only goes up to 25 stone, and I have been told by John Baker that the truly enormous men of the village use a scale by the docks used to measure the day's catch to weigh themselves. I expect he is joking, but cannot imagine how else they would do so. John tells me he weighs around 40 st! Over 550 lb! I comfort myself that I am not yet weighing myself like so many catches of the day, at least, no matter how preposterously I seem to be expanding.
I am trying to find the time to meet with Jean Whittaker, a woman in the village who makes men's clothes, but every spare moment I am compelled to eat. The moments I muster up the will to do anything other than attend to my practice or my stomach, some villager or other will appear with a tray of freshly baked pork pies, or an entire roast chicken for me to eat. Even as I write this, I am eating a tin of scones provided by some farmer’s wife or other. Mary has prepared them for me with huge dollops of clotted cream and what I believe is two whole jars of strawberry jam across them all.
I am scared. I am scared of the intentions of the islanders, of the dark implications of my role as King Boar, of the vicar's words which still ring in my head, of alchemy and beating hearts. Most of all, I am scared of myself. Why can I not stop myself? Why do I seem to enjoy it so? Why am I willingly walking towards my fate, whatever it may be? The village intends to fatten me like a pig and I am providing them with ample crackling.
Today is the winter solstice, and as such my doctor's practice has closed, although I would likely see only a patient or two regardless. Mary has just called me through to the dining room for lunch. I expect it to last several hours until I am expected to go to the solstice ceremony. Despite myself, and all I have eaten, I am hungry.
I write this is some state of duress, but feel I must make a record of the events of last night.
I collected my great crown and cloak, which I was told would be required for the ceremony, and made my way to the Boar and Suckling Pig. Outside the front, a large crowd of people stood, all in masks, as in September. Father Troughton was closest to me, the only one not wearing a mask. Wordlessly, he took my vestments of office, and motioned for me to turn around. Once done, he placed the crown on my head and cloak on my shoulders. It was only then that I realised that the crown, despite being made of various fruits and flora, is looking as fresh as ever. Perhaps it is varnished, or otherwise preserved? But no, I think that it is not.
Father Troughton started walking ahead, and I followed along, and the parade of people began to sing quietly. Someone passed me some bird leg - goose perhaps? - to snack on, which I did so unthinkingly as I walked. As I finished it, and as the sun began to set, the crowd approached the church, or more specifically, the great long hall that stood behind it; the setting sun was framed by the gap between the two. Despite the warm weather Hardy generally enjoys, I still wouldn't want to sit outside in the December chill.
Inside the hall, tables were laid out in much the same way as they had been during the autumn equinox, with one long table down the middle, and smaller round tables around the outside. I was led to the back of the hall, and seated at the head of the long table, while everyone else quickly found their seats, but remained standing.
As last time, Father Troughton stood and spoke, his voice ringing around the large hall. "People of Hardy! We come here together on the longest night of the year. Others may see only this - the dark, the cold. But we know what is to come! After darkness will come the light, as it always does! And we will be there together again when it comes! We are here by the grace of Hardy, and by the grace of each other!" A cheer filled the room here.
"But of course," Troughton continued, "we are also here by the grace of our Boar King!" Another cheer, louder this time. "His health is the island's health, and may it continue to be so!" As last time, he picked up a large clay jug of cider and walked the length of the table towards me. Unlike last time, there were no trees in the hall to make his libations to, so instead when he reached me, he gripped the back of my head with one strong hand like a claw and tipped it back, and poured the jug into my upturned mouth.
I was so shocked that at first I didn't move, simply focussing on swallowing so as not to choke as liquid spilled across my chin and down my chest. As the flow continued, I gathered enough of my wits to resist, but at the first sign of struggle I heard Troughton call for others, and strong arms fastened around my arms and at my jaw, holding me still. I worried about breathing, but found I could quite comfortably drink without interruption by breathing through my nose.
The flow finally stopped and Father Troughton walked away without a word, the hands holding me breaking free. I slumped forward, shaking, gasping for breath, holding my tight stomach. I turned to Jack, sat next to me, who was diligently filling my plate. "Last time that was poured on a tree."
Jack merely shrugged. "That was to thank the island for a strong harvest. This is an offering to the Boar King." With this he turned to me. "Eat."
Despite the impossible amounts of cider in my gut, I obeyed. I ate as if I hadn't eaten in weeks. I ate with even more enthusiasm and determination than I had done even in my most impressive of recent feasts. I ate and I ate and I ate, and all the while, Jack brought me food, stroked my shoulders, gave me encouragement. Throughout the evening, islanders of every age came up to me to rub my gut, to run their hands along some part of my body, to grab a chunk of flesh, as if for luck. Each of them appraised me like some farm animal at market, turning to each other and discussing weight, or body shape, or my appetite. Through it all, despite my mind screaming in protest at the absurdity of the situation, I ate.
I sat there for hours, as the hall grew dark and my flesh swelled. At one point, a button fired off my shirt, followed by another, and another, my body collapsing forward to fill the fresh space as each did so. I did not stop eating. At one point, someone reached under my gut to mercifully undo my belt and trousers for me. I did not stop eating. At one point, I stopped feeding myself, and instead simply tipped my head back and allowed others to bring me food, feeding me or once again pouring cider down my throat. I did not stop eating.
The celebration lasted well into the night, possibly into the early morning, and I heard around me the sound of celebration and community. Finally, food stopped being placed into my mouth, and I sat gasping for breath. Slowly I looked down to see that every plate had been cleaned, every morsel of food devoured. I hope that others had eaten, but I cannot honestly be sure.
As I sat, my breathing heavy, my hands slowly massaging my heavy gut, Jack walked up to me holding a golden apple. Despite my fullness, despite all I had eaten, my mouth opened and my cock rose. Jack crouched down in front of me. "Oh great King Boar," he said to me, loud enough for everyone to hear. "I present to you this offering from the orchards. May your reign be bountiful." With that he placed the apple firmly into my mouth, and I bit down, juices escaping down my chin. The hall burst into cheers. Jack held the apple as he fed the rest to me, until only a small core remained, which he placed into a small silk pouch.
With that, the ceremony was over, and the villagers started to file outside. Jack moved to one of my sides and another equally strong young man moved to my other, and they hoisted me up. I tottered on my feet, but stayed upright. Slowly, ever so slowly, they walked me out of the hall, across the village, and into my house.
Once in my bedroom, they placed me down into bed, and Jack turned to the other man, telling him he could go. Gently, being careful of my swollen middle, Jack undressed me. I was sure he must have noticed how erect I was, as my cock's growth has continued along with the rest of my body, and it is now quite impressive. I cannot tell you whether my arousal came from my state of being gorged to my limit, or Jack's administrations. It was probably both.
I am sat now in my study dressed only in my dressing gown, as try as I might, none of my clothes will now fit. I know it is a medical impossibility to grow so much in one night, even to have eaten so much in one night, but I can only trust the evidence of my own eyes. Mary is out fetching me larger clothes. Apparently Jean Whittaker, the village tailor, has been at work producing clothes that "should fit me for a while longer". I asked whether I am expected to outgrow these next set of clothes. Mary did not provide me with an answer, but I know it already.
Mary has left me with an enormous breakfast, filling several plates. Despite my gluttony last night, I expect I shall finish it all.
Sunday, January 1st, 1967
While the feasting of the winter’s solstice beggars belief, my eating has barely let up across the Christmas and New Years period. It seems as if each night a different family has invited me around to sup with them, ignoring my protestations that I had already eaten dinner, ignoring the tautness of my gut, the strain of my new clothes. Previous Christmas feasts, which I once would have considered gluttonous to the extreme, now pale in comparison to even my most customary of meals. This year, while at the Baker’s I swear that I ate a full turkey to myself, more even than John, huge though he is.
This was followed up by New Years at the Boar. I stayed there until the sun rose, all the while eating and drinking; I lost count of the pints somewhere around 20. It didn’t quite match the gluttony of the winter solstice, but I still ate more than I might have once done in a week. The locals sang songs all evening, and I even tried to join in with a few of the ones that have become almost familiar.
My weight gain can no longer be ignored or written off as a result of healthy living and a healthier appetite. Where once my stomach was trim, a huge round gut now reaches out in front of me and bowing out to the sides. My lower body fills any space provided to it; my rear has begun to squeeze uncomfortably between arm chairs, my thighs put other men’s waists to shame. My chest, which I once never thought about, is beginning to develop into true breasts; not quite like a woman’s, but sloping down underneath my arms.
I have not dared weigh myself. I know that I cannot possibly have gained any appreciable amount since I found myself at 19 stone and yet, all the evidence tells me otherwise - that, if anything, I have been putting on weight faster than ever. I worry I may even be over 21 or 22 stone by now.
I cannot let this state of affairs continue any further. If I cannot convince the residents of Hardy to stop their feeding, if I cannot convince myself to exercise, to curb my own appetite, I will simply have to leave the island.
Even writing this now, I cannot quite convince myself. I feel a strange draw to the island, a perverse pleasure in my growing flesh. I find myself growing panicked when considering leaving, even though I know I must. If nothing else, I must learn more about this strange island I have begun to think of as home.
Sunday, 22nd January
Where are all the other Boar Kings?
It is a foolish question perhaps - the Boar Kings can hardly be missed. But there are six. Six. Six men from a yearly tradition. There is a line of photos at The Boar and Suckling Pig, going back before the first world war, and I’ve determined that the group of overswollen, overfed men are all that remains on the island of the collection. You wouldn’t expect all of them to still be about, but still, six. What has happened to the rest of them? The last one? They can’t all have left the island. What will happen-
Entry interrupted.
Wednesday, 1st February
An opportunity for information came today. I have attempted to ask questions to residents in the Boar and as they come to my practice, but none have been forthcoming; I receive the same vague explanations of fertile soil, clean sea air and a culture of hospitality.
Today, Edward Hartnell came to see me at my practice with a complaint about a rash on his arm. Hartnell is one of the small (in number at least) group of fat men that populate the island; by my reckoning the youngest, barely out of his twenties, but by no means the smallest. He seemed to fill my office; when he sat his gut reached out to his knees, when he stood the whole space seemed to darken.
I checked his rash, a minor thing from some reaction to some plant or other; I gave him some ointment, and then convinced him to stay for a check-up.
“Never needed a check-up before,” he grumbled when I brought it up.
“Well, better to be safe than sorry,” I said. “Particularly for a man of your size.” I offered him one of the scones from the heaping plate that Mary had provided me this morning.
“Hmmph.” He eyed me up for a moment. “P’raps,” he conceded with a shrug of his broad, sloping shoulders as he took one of the scones. My stomach lurched as the food left my reach, even though I knew more would be brought before lunch. I hastily picked up my own to cure my cravings.
I did a few cursory tests, barely focussing, noticing far more readily the frequency with which my gut bumped into his, such was the lack of space between the two of us. His heart rate and pressure were on the higher range of normal, but nothing I’d be concerned about for a slimmer patient, no signs of diabetes or high cholesterol, no complaints that Hartnell could report. I lacked scales fit to weigh him, but what would they have told me? That he was monstrously obese? I didn’t need numbers to tell me that.
As I finished up, I decided to push my luck. "I hear you were a Boar King some years back," I said, as nonchalantly as possible.
He gave a small nod in response and looked at me in silence for a while, seeming to appraise me. “How’s it treating you?” he said eventually.
I gestured down at myself. Once again I was beginning to outgrow my new clothes; my shirt clearly outlined my round, soft gut and chest and my trousers dug in at my waist and strained around my thighs. “You can see for yourself,” I said, forcing a small laugh.
He nodded. “Mmm. What is it? February? Aye, you’re making good progress I’d say,” he replied.
I swallowed. Progress towards what, I wondered? I decided to change tact. “You would have been young,” I said. “When you were Boar King. An odd choice, maybe.”
"I can't say I know how that decision gets made myself,” he replied. “Age ‘an’t got much to do with it, far as I can see.”
“Ah, I’d just assumed, I suppose,” I said. “All the others seem my age or older.” He didn’t reply. “And all the other previous Boar Kings? Where are they? Surely there should be more of you, of us, if it's an annual tradition, and not all old men?"
His face grew dark. "I'd say we should be fairly easy to spot, wouldn't you? I take it I've got a clean bill of health then doctor?" He stood. "If that's all."
He left the room, taking his time at the door to rotate his grand body and position himself carefully, so that he could fit through. Still, I noticed that his sides brushed the frame. Is that my fate? Doomed to not even fit into my own doctor's surgery? How long do I have until that point?
I ate the remaining scones quickly, out of nervous compulsion. I called Annabelle through, checked I had no more appointments for the morning and left to collect some more food to tide me over.
Friday, 3rd February
I am sat in the Boar and Suckling Pig, grazing on a huge plate of sandwiches after my second dinner and supping my seventh or eighth pint of ale. While I am always aware of my growing capacity, I occasionally take note of just how much I’ve managed to eat and am genuinely shocked.
John Baker came to sit with me for a while as I ate. I’m continually impressed by the ability of some of the furniture to handle such weights, but despite some groans and creaks from the chair, it held up admirably.
“Had a chat with Ed earlier,” John said.
“Ed?” I repeated between bites of lamb chop.
“Hartnell,” he clarified. “Came to see you the other day.”
My eyes widened. I’d hoped my questioning wouldn’t get followed up. I hastily wiped my mouth. “Ah, yes,” I said, my voice shaking a little. “I just thought he could tell me a little about this whole King Boar thing.” I gestured feebly down at my body by way of explanation.
John laughed, a great booming sound that sent his flesh wobbling. “I’m sure it all seems a little odd from an outside perspective!” he said. “It’s all just a silly little tradition really.”
“Well, I’m about the effect of that silly little tradition on my body,” I said, sounding braver than I felt.
“Oh, it’s nothing really!” John insisted. “We just like to make sure the King is well fed.” He leaned over and took a slice of bread, thick with butter, off my side plate. My stomach lurched at the lost food. “I could have a word, get everyone to cut down on the food a little?” he asked.
I shook my head urgently and could feel my developing double chin shake a little with the motion. “No, no,” I said. “I’ll be fine. Just all a little odd.” I looked around and leaned in as best as I could with my stomach pressed against the table. “There’s some other effects as well,” I said quietly.
John laughed again. “Fine food and good air will do that to you!” he said. “A lot of people find they’re a lot healthier once they get to Hardy.”
“People move here often then?” I asked, jumping on the comment. The bar seemed to quieten, just a touch and John’s smile faltered just a little.
“Often enough,” John replied curtly. “Not a lot of people choose to move to a little island like this.
“What about people leaving?” I asked. “I’ve not met the Boar King before me, or heard much about the previous doctor.” I could feel eyes on me from around the room. I nervously shovelled food into my mouth.
“Aye, they both left alright,” John said. He heaved himself to a standing position, the strain evident on his face. “You enjoy all those other little effects, eh?” he clapped his hand on my shoulder as he passed and I saw him go speak to a group of other men, Edward Hartnell and another previous Boar King amongst them. Shortly after Lynn Baker brought me a sticky toffee pudding for dessert.
The ‘other effects’ I’d mentioned to John continue unabated. I now have chest hair spilling out of the top of my shirts, and between gaping shirt buttons; I have chosen to stop shaving, and where once I could only grow a few hairs I now have a thick and full beard; my knee is almost completely pain free, and indeed I am shocked it can withstand my increased weight at all; finally, my genitals, could I see them over my gut anymore, seem positively huge, although the length of my penis has somewhat shrunk recently with fat above beginning to engulf it.
Perhaps he is right. I should just enjoy this strange transformation, as much as I can. Indeed, it seems I have little choice in whether it continues.
Sunday, 5th February
I have made a terrible mistake.
I finished up at the Boar on Friday after a few more pints, my stomach bloated and swaying. A few villagers bid me goodbye and patted my gut; not an especially notable thing, they often do so, almost for luck. As I slowly made my way on the short walk to my house I noticed a gravy stain down my shirt and onto the shelf of my gut. So preoccupied was I with the stain that I barely noticed that my front door was slightly ajar; I suppose I thought either Mary or Annabelle had left it open when they left for the day.
I walked up the stairs, unbuttoning my soiled shirt as I went, the stairs creaking alarmingly under my weight. As I reached my bedroom, I was met with a young woman, stood stark naked in the middle of the room. I yelped out in shock and jumped, setting the furniture shaking as I landed.
She was pretty, as women go. Slim, blonde, pert breasts, wide hips. All things I understand that most men enjoy but that do nothing for me.
I spluttered and stammered for a while, my hands gripping my shirt where I had been unbuttoning it, my head firmly turned away.
“No need to be nervous,” she said, moving towards me and putting her hands on my chest, her fingers swirling through the hair there. I backed away into the wall. I realised as she spoke that I recognised her; it was Lucy, the young woman who had served me cake at the vicarage a couple of months prior.
“What are you doing here?” I managed to ask eventually.
“Some people said you were a little upset about being the Boar King. Asking questions,” she said. “They thought I could come help calm you a little.” She once again placed her hands on my chest. They were cold. I tried to back away but was already against the wall, so I gently moved her hands away. “There’s no need to worry,” she said smiling. “No one will say anything, and you’ve prescribed me the pill yourself, so you know there’s no risk.” She’d been to see me a few weeks ago to ask about going on the contraceptive pill; I’d noted at the time how unembarrassed she was in the asking, as she explained that she was seeing young James Eccleston, the butcher’s son, a handsome man with a pleasant round face and lean limbs.
“What about James?” I asked. “It sounded like you were getting quite serious.”
She waved her hand. “He doesn’t mind!” she insisted. “Not for the Boar King.” She traced her nails along the arc of my sides. I shivered and darted around her, as much as I can dart at all these days. She followed me.
“You’re very pretty,” I explained.
“Thank you sir,” she responded.
“I’m just not very interested,” I said as gently as I could. “Please put some clothes on.”
“Oh!” she said with a smile. “Do you prefer dark hair? Or perhaps someone your own age?”
I shook my head. “No, no, please, you don’t understand,” I begged. “There’s been some misunderstanding. There’s no need for anyone to come to me. I’m perfectly happy. I’m sorry I was asking so many questions, really. I’m very happy being the Boar King.”
“The island provides the King Boar with whatever he wishes,” Lucy replied with a gentle smile. “I can come tomorrow with some of the other girls and you can choose from us all then.”
“No, no, really. No girls!” I protested. “I’m not interested in anything from any girls. Please. Please leave.”
“Oh.” Lucy said simply. Her head tilted to the side, and a small smile spread across her face. “Maybe one of the boys from the village then?”
“No, sorry Lucy, no.” My heart dropped. “Sorry, I didn’t mean that. No. It’s more that I don’t often sleep with women.” Bile began to rise in my throat. “But of course I like women!” I insisted. “If I were to sleep with someone, it would of course be a woman.”
“That’s alright sir,” Lucy said calmly. “We’ve got some of those types. I’ll ask one of them to come.” She turned around and began to collect her clothes, putting them on casually, as if she hadn’t been naked and propositioning me moments before, as if she hadn’t just accused me of being a poof.
“Lucy please, you don’t understand.” I followed her out of the room.
“We just hadn’t realised you were one of those types sir,” she said. She looked back with a smile as she did up her cardigan. “I wouldn’t have come otherwise.” She walked down the stairs and I lumbered after.
“Please Lucy,” I insisted. “You can’t tell anyone, please, you mustn’t.”
“Have a good evening sir,” she said, before leaving and closing the front door. I sunk down to sit on the steps and put my head in my hands.
What have I done? How did I let myself be so foolish? After everything I went through in London, having to leave in disgrace like that? My life could have been ruined then, and I had to escape to an island in the arse end of nowhere to try and put it back together. Where can I go now? Where else is there beyond the edge of the world?
I’ve not left my room all weekend, just panicked and worried. Mary’s been bringing me food which I’ve been dutifully eating. Perhaps she’s picked up on my mood because the stream of food seems faster than ever. Perhaps she’s heard, and she’s trying to empty out her larder before I’m kicked off of the island.
Tuesday, 7th February
It seems I may have overreacted. Yesterday morning I forced myself to bathe, get dressed, and make my way down to my surgery. As I walked past Annabelle, she greeted me in her usual manner, which I returned.
As I squeezed myself past her however, she piped up nonchalantly. “Lucy, down at the vicarage, mentioned that she thought she might have left her stockings in your room.”
I choked. “What? No, I wouldnt- How would it have-”
“Oh, don’t worry Dr Davison, she explained it all,” Annabelle said with a cheery smile. “No one’s fussed.”
I struggled to respond, and chose to silently bundle myself into my office instead. I collapsed down into my chair, earning a particularly ominous creak. It was best not to say anything at all, I resolved. Maybe Lucy hadn’t said anything, beyond that she’d come to my room and I’d turned her away. Maybe she’d not even told people I’d rejected her advances. It is, I suppose, better to let everyone assume I’m some filthy old pervert than it is to let them know the truth.
I went about my day as best I could. I used to be unable to eat at all when I was nervous or stressed; I remember I once went a week during a particularly stressful Michaelmas term at medical school having only eaten a few grapes a day. These days, nerves seem to increase my appetite.
Eventually after a day of dropping sauces on patient records, getting crumbs all in the medicines store, and belching in poor Mrs Kettleham’s face while I checked a mole for her, I forced myself out and to the Boar and Suckling Pig. The only comments made were asking where I’d been - a bad chill, I told them. I chatted to John and Lynn for a bit while I ate beef ribs, and played a spot of darts with some of the farmers.
I walked home after seven pints, congratulating myself on my restraint. I opened my front door, popped into the kitchen to pick up a plate of homemade biscuits that Mary had left for me, and then made my way upstairs.
Jack Baker was lying on my bed waiting for me. He was fully naked, fully erect, fully gorgeous. He was laid as if he belonged there, one arm behind his head revealing a tuft of golden brown armpit here, a trail of soft hair leading down to a golden brown forest of pubes, one leg raised bent, his long thick cock leaning against it, as if to frame it.
I stared for a moment, before reminding myself to look away. “What are you doing here Jack?” I stole another glance. His face had a lazy half smile on it.
“Lucy said I should pop by,” he explained casually. “That she wasn’t really your thing, and that maybe I’d be more up your alley.” He laughed quietly to himself. “Or that maybe you’ll be up mine, eh? Plenty of time to figure that out later.”
I turned back to look at him. My own erection was growing. “What do you mean Jack?”
He stood up and walked towards me, his cock leading the way and bouncing with each step. “You know what I mean James,” he said simply. He took the plate of biscuits out of my hands and placed it on my dresser.
“We can’t,” I said as he approached. He began to unbutton my shirt. “It’s illegal.”
Jack laughed. “God James, really?” he said. “I didn’t think you’d go in for all that.” Shirt fully unbuttoned, he tugged hard to pull my shirt tails out of my trousers. “We certainly don’t on Hardy.”
“But, but-” I stammered.
“But nothing James,” Jack said. He lifted a biscuit from the plate and raised it to my lips. “Do you want this? Do you want me?”
I bit the biscuit, looked him up and down, nodded. He grinned and knelt down in front of me. I felt him lift my gut, and struggle to unbutton my trousers, a struggle I am only too familiar with myself. When he finally managed to get them undone, he let them fall to my ankles along with my briefs, and he whispered “your majesty” before I felt his lips close over me.
He brought me to a finish before guiding me over to the bed, where he entered me as he fed me the plate of biscuits.
He’s asleep upstairs as I write this and eat breakfast. Mary made some oblique comment about the bedding, but nothing more.
Sunday, March 4th
Life has been all but idyllic these past few weeks with Jack. He has spent each night with me, and during weekends most of the day. I finish my practice for the day, eat my first dinner, go over to the Boar where Jack’s parents seem perfectly happy with the arrangement, and I waddle back to my house where Jack waits for me, deliciously sweaty from a day in the orchards, and feeds me all night as he buggers me, or less often, while I bugger him.
My growth has, of course, continued unabated. I worry that it may in fact have even sped up; whereas previously my constant gorging had been contained to the day, now Jack has introduced food to the bedroom, feeding me until I fall asleep and then waking me up with food pressed against my lips.
My exact weight is as mysterious as ever, but I would be surprised if I am not well over 25 stone - I cannot be sure of a precise number. I have not yet dared suffer the indignity of making use of the heavy duty scales by the dock used by fishermen for their catch and the ex-Boar Kings for their weights. Fat cascades off each part of my body; my limbs, my chest, my face. My belly, once so firm and spherical, now droops down, so that Jack has to lift it to access me in the night. I am surprised by how cold it all is; while I am certainly well insulated, while touching my soft fat itself my fingers are met with a soft dough cold as a cellar. I have taken to approaching furniture gingerly, as I’ve seen the other Boar Kings doing, as I can keenly feel the wood strain beneath me. Jean Whittaker has just made one of her, by now, many clothes deliveries, and so for now my clothes permit me some comfort, although Jack has asked me to wear some of my old clothes to show off my corpulence to him.
Despite my increasing girth, I find myself less concerned. While, yes, it is unexplained, the people of Hardy genuinely seem to mean me no harm, and at least I am made comfortable as I expand. And as far as I can tell, I remain healthy. No heart concerns, no aching joints, no back issues. I am simply larger.
The spring equinox was last night. Once again my practice was closed, as was much of the island. I spent the day at the Boar, where Jack was working to help his parents during the holiday. He made sure to bring me a stream of food and ale as I sat. I protested weakly, knowing how much I would be made to eat later, but ultimately consumed everything he brought to me.
A little after 5 o’clock, some villagers brought the cloak and crown of the Boar King. By God, I remember when I first wore that blasted cloak and it draped over me like a curtain; now it sits perfectly across my wider back and shoulders. I was led out of the pub and to a decorated wagon, pulled by a clydesdale. Plates of food were passed to me. The rest of the village followed along singing as I was pulled along, with the previous Boar Kings carried in two larger, plainer wagons pulled by two clydesdales apiece.
The journey took longer than I was expecting, striking straight across the island and away from the coast. I resolved to take in the views and try and not think about the odd ceremony which was to come. The land sloped up gently towards the a large hill at the centre of the island; for the first time since my arrival I could see some kind of structure at the top, which as we approached resolved into some standing stones; it seems as if it was only the central circle of some larger complex of stones, as we passed other huge stones as we climbed the hill. I twisted my body as far as it allowed to get better views, trying to discern if some seemed to be the types of burial cairns I’d seen before in the West country and Wales. It made for quite the haunting setting, surrounded as I was by a procession of masked people.
Our destination was the stone circle at the top of the hill itself. From up close, the stones seemed huge, over twice the height of a tall man. Just outside the circle, tables were set up with food piled up on them. I was led to my seat at the head of the table as the sun touched the horizon, and light streamed between the stones to where I was seated between long shadows.
“My fellow people of Hardy!” Father Troughton boomed. “The dark winter has passed, and bright summer beckons! Once again, Hardy has provided for us, sustained us, protected us. We come here to give thanks, and ask once more for Hardy to share with us its bounty, as we share our bounty with its King Boar.” He picked up a heavy earthen jug, and I braced myself, remembering the cider being poured over me last time. Instead Troughton walked past me, to the stones behind, and poured it at the base of the westernmost one with the setting sun framing it.
As before, I became ravenous. While my hunger has become prodigious, even I was astonished by how much I ate, how much I wanted to eat. I started off grabbing anything and everything I could reach and shovelling it into my mouth with my bare hands, hardly noticing the taste, hardly giving myself chance to chew. Jack was there, making sure food was always in easy reach, until my stomach became too stuffed and I slumped back, when he started feeding me food directly. At one point he picked up a jug of gravy and poured it directly into my mouth.
My clothes became tight. My swelling stomach rose above me as it filled with food. In return my shirt buttons strained and then broke, and I asked Jack between mouthfuls to undo my belt and trousers. I could barely stand my hunger during the brief pause while he struggled with my heavy gut, until an old man pressed some meat into my hands which I tore into. By the time I was finished, even my shirt sleeves and trouser legs felt tighter.
It grew dark and I carried on eating. Fires were lit in the stone circle and in braziers along the table. In the flickering light the piles of food slowly dwindled and then finally was finished. Jack approached me holding a single perfect golden apple. He slid a finger under my chin and played with the fat there for a moment before raising my head up.
"Oh great King Boar," he said quietly, so that only I could hear him. "I present to you this offering from the orchards. May your reign be bountiful." He pushed the apple into my mouth and I bit down, staring into Jack’s eyes as its juices rolled down my chins and neck.
Almost immediately everyone there seemed to jump to action, clearing away dirty plates and the tables and chairs, loading them onto carts stood just outside the circle. Jack called some men over who helped to heave me to my feet. “Those clothes must be uncomfortable,” he told me, running a hand along my side before grabbing my shirt and beginning to remove it. I shook my head but he continued stripping me, until I was dressed only in my underwear and cloak and crown. The men helped me into the decorated wagon, two men in front pulling on my arms and two men behind me pushing my rear from behind. Jack covered me with some blankets and kissed me on the lips, before taking the reins and driving the wagon back down the hill.
When we made it back to the village, Jack led me upstairs, and laid me in bed. He took me in his hand and pleasured me as I fell asleep. I felt his stubble against my ear as he whispered to me. “You did well tonight,” he told me. “Your majesty.”
Fragment
- has suggested I reduce my hours at the practice. I’m a little indignant at the suggestion, but see the sense in it; Annabelle handles most of the few patients we get ably, and I can’t deny that my work has become cumbersome with my added weight.
Still, I worry about his motives behind the suggestion, and even more I worry that it will just leave me with even more time to idle about stuffing-
Entry interrupted
Saturday, April 15th
While I have become used to the temperate climes of Hardy, it has been surprisingly warm these past couple of weeks. Jack has assured me it is barely warmer than any spring he can remember though, and has suggested that perhaps I am feeling the effects of being covered in a thick layer of insulation - it is difficult to argue with him.
Nonetheless, he suggested a swimming trip today to cool me down and packed me into the back of the Land Rover he uses for work along with three full picnic hampers. With the village being so self-contained, I’ve not had any need to sit in any vehicle since coming to Hardy, with the exception of the wagon during the spring equinox, which was of course much slower. My entire body rocked and wobbled as the car drove down country lanes, no part of me able to stay still. By the time we arrived, my whole body felt sore, having been shaken with such force. Jack, of course, had barely noticed anything.
We eventually arrived at a natural cove to the north west of the island. Jack hopped out and opened my door for me, helping me down. The path down to the cove was easy; a shallow slope along some rocks. Even this I struggled with, not being able to see my feet; each time I lost my footing, my entire body shook. I dread to think what would happen if I fell at my current weight. I am grateful at how well my knee has healed.
The cove was small, no more than 100 yards across. A couple of rowboats were secured under an overhang of a cliff on one side, and the entire thing faced a nearby island a mile or two away. “It’s uninhabited,” Jack explained. “Just a few men manning the lighthouse, see.” He pointed the tower out towards the south.
After Jack fed me the contents of the first picnic hamper, he tried to convince me to swim. I tried to protest, I really did, but it’s almost impossible to say no to him once he flashes that smile and starts to take off his clothes. A part of me knows this is all only because he’s fulfilling some perceived duty to the island and the Boar King, but.. Well, but in the moment it’s difficult to remember. And if he’s acting, well he’s a bloody good one, by my reckoning! And that cock, god, that thick, beautiful cock, more often than not hard as oak - is that lying too?
Swimming is an odd proposition at this size; not unpleasant to be sure, but odd. It’s the first time in months that I’ve felt light in any way, and all my new fat brings a tremendous buoyancy, while the added momentum made it difficult to swim - each movement fights against inertia, each limb moved almost independently of the fat encasing it, my gut pulled against the motion of my torso.
I couldn’t help but think back, suddenly, to that first dream I’d had my first night on Hardy - of a great boar chasing me into the sea, and how it devoured me whole before I woke up.
As we left, I made a silent note of the route back to the cove, the rowboats kept to one side, and the small island tantalisingly close. I fear the island is preparing to swallow me whole.
Tuesday, April 18th
Annabelle, I decided, was my best chance at finding out more information, and gaining an ally. My nurse and I have grown close over the months, and I’ve grown to trust her, as I hope she has me. More than that though, I know she’s not local to Hardy - she grew up on one of the nearby islands, and did her training in Canterbury. She, like me, is here to do a job, no more and no less.
I waited until after Mary came to collect my plates after lunch - in part because I knew we were unlikely to be interrupted by someone delivering yet more food, and in part, I am ashamed to say, because I knew I would be less distracted by hunger.
“The last doctor,” I started casually. “What was it? Patridge, Portland-”
“Dr Pertwee,” she replied, pausing in writing up a supply order. We were running low on antibiotics.
“Pertwee, Pertwee, that was it.” I tried to sound nonchalant. “Did he help you with this? Managing stocks, ordering, you know.”
“No,” Annabelle replied, her voice growing a little terse. “I’ve never known a doctor to. It’s a nurse’s job. Is there some problem? I wasn’t aware I’d-”
“Not at all! Not at all! You’ve not done anything wrong” I hastily interrupted. “I just wanted to check I wasn’t increasing your workload. You do so much around here and a chap at my old practice used to do his own stocks, that’s all. Didn’t want to assume anything.” My voice was growing meek, my plan falling apart.
“This was in London was it?” Annabelle asked.
I smiled. She seemed perfectly happy to continue the conversation. “London, that’s right. Highgate.” She gave a small hum in reply, but no more. I let the room fall into silence for a while.
“He was the old Boar King, wasn’t he?” I asked eventually.
Her head snapped towards me. “Who said that?”
I shrugged. “Someone down the pub,” I bluffed. “Lynn, maybe.”
“What difference does it make?” Annabelle asked.
“None really. Just curious.” The atmosphere in the room was growing icy. “Is that why he left Hardy?” I asked. “Didn’t enjoy the whole thing?” I was pushing my luck, I knew.
“He wasn’t well suited to the island,” came the reply. I’d heard it before.
“But where is he now?” I pressed.
“He wasn’t well suited to the island,” Annabelle repeated, icily.
Recognising my mistake, I made my excuses and left to go find a snack.
Fragment
- smallest of all the previous Boar Kings, to be sure, but still, I’m shocked I’m bigger than him. How much does he weight? 30 stone? No, he can’t be. I can’t be. But I know I am. I’m just so big now.
For the past few of weeks since I made my enquiries with Anabelle, the islanders have grown frosty towards me. Even Jack, attentive as he is, seems less affectionate, more controlling.
This is the final straw though. This has all gone too far. I should never have let myself get so enormous. I’m leaving tonight.
Thursday, May 25th
It was foolish to try, I suppose. Even at the peak of my fitness I doubt I’d have managed it.
I convinced Jack I needed to do some paperwork for the surgery, and sent him off to the pub without me; he and Mary made sure I was well supplied with food before leaving. Once they’d gone, I struggled to put my shoes on, collected the few supplies I’d gathered (a torch, a blanket, some food and a change of clothes) and crept out to Jack’s land rover parked just outside. I made my way to the cove he’d taken me to and stumbled my way down to the rowboats, and dragged one out to the shore.
Climbing into the boat was my first sign I’d not thought my daring escape through well enough; it tipped precariously as I got in, almost capsizing entirely. While it was built to hold multiple people, and I thankfully am still only worth no more than three, I represented those three people all stepping into the boat all at once. I fell in and braced myself as it rocked. Once it had settled, I dragged myself over to one of the benches, took up the oars, and began to row.
While I am significantly less mobile than I once was, my strange transformation has left me strong and robust. I found I could row for quite some time, and made good progress. Every so often I would strain to turn around and check I was still headed roughly for the dim outline of the island opposite and the flashing light of the lighthouse there. I was thankful that the weather remained calm and that the moon was near full.
I got close. I got so close. Another twenty minutes perhaps, and I’d have gotten ashore, and from there I could have gotten to the lighthouse and got help. Perhaps it wouldn’t have mattered. Perhaps the lighthouse keepers would be in on it too.
I was picked up by one of the local fishing vessels and taken back to the island, and my house.
Mary laid out breakfast as usual, and Jack appeared halfway through and gave me a kiss on the cheek as if nothing happened. No questions about his land rover, no comment on my lie last night. No-one has said anything; not Annabelle, no-one at the Boar, not a single person has so much as acknowledged their King Boar getting picked up out at sea.
They don’t trust me now though. I’m being supervised, escorted from place to place. They’re coming up with reasons of course; Annabelle following me as I moved from room to room during the day, Mary walking me to the Boar saying she needed to pick something up from Lynn, Jack walking back with me arm-in-arm. I am being babysat. I will not be allowed to try and leave again.
The solstice was last night. I took the day off from my practice - I don’t work all that many days now, usually just a day or two a week. Annabelle manages perfectly well with the few patients there are, and I’m just too cumbersome to get about now. I waddle now, rather than walk, squeeze myself through doors, and have to maneuver myself around patients to make sure I can get close to them without my gut getting in the way - god forbid what would happen if I needed to treat one of the previous Boar Kings. I am smaller than only two or three of them now - I’ve overtaken the rest.
I spent the day at the Boar, sat outside in the shade of the oak tree just behind it. By the time Jack came to collect me, I was quite drunk; I was keen to dull my senses for the grotesque spectacle I was soon to make of myself. I was led east, into a small wood; the masked parade stopped in a small clearing and I was placed on a chair carved out of a tree stump.
Father Hardy was already there, holding a large clay jug. I cringed, knowing what was to come. “People of Hardy!” he cried. “Today is the longest day of the year, and we come here to celebrate. We have all toiled hard, through the cold, the dark, and these halcyon days are our reward.” He turned towards me. “Boar King, your reign has been as bountiful as you are ample.” My cheeks grew red at that. “May your health continue to be the health of the island.”
With that he grasped my head, tilted it back and poured the cider into my mouth. I closed my eyes and focussed on not choking, as my face grew sticky and my stomach grew leaden. Once he had finished, I sat back, giving into what I knew was about to come. Immediately Jack and some other men-
Entry interrupted.
Monday, July 17th
It seems silly really, writing a diary while I’m under lock and key, but I feel like I must at least keep a record of what’s happened to me. What’s going to happen to me. They’ve set some guards at the front door, just some lads from the village, no more than fourteen; I could barrel past them easy enough, send them flying, but what’s the point? Where would I go? No, they’re not really a guard at all, but a message.
It all started on Saturday at old Mabel Carruther’s funeral, poor dear. She’d drifted off in her sleep at the grand age of 97 - they’d called me to pronounce her dead in the morning. I was brought a black suit that fit, and I lumbered along to the church in the morning, sweating in the summer heat. Once I walked in I realised - it was the first time I’d been in the church, despite my promises to Troughton to pop along to a service or two. And then, after a moment, I realised that it was the first funeral since I’d arrived on Hardy - the first death. The thought sent me reeling. Whatever is going on, it’s working. I’m being fattened up for the health of the island, and the island is keeping everyone hale and hearty.
It was a fairly standard chapel and service, all things considered. Troughton perhaps went on longer about Mabel ‘returning to nature’ and ‘the bounties of life’ than I’d usually expect, but nothing especially out of the ordinary. The chapel was adorned with crosses and saints in the stained glass, and Troughton made the usual sacraments.
As the precession walked outside after the service, I dutifully huffed my way slowly behind everyone else. As I got to the door however, I realised, this was the first time I’d been alone since my ill-fated escape attempt. I hung back as everyone moved towards the graveside. There was no hope of escape, I knew, but this was Troughton’s domain - surely I could find something here, some information perhaps.
I made my way to the vestry as my starting point. It was a small room, with a door leading up to the church tower. I quickly rifled through some notes, largely accounts and notes for services. I read through some, discarding them as soon as it was clear what they were, until I heard a sound - someone coming back into the church. Clearly my absence was finally noticed. In a panic, I pushed through the door to the tower and began to climb. The stairwell was narrow, and my sides brushed the walls, and at points I had to squeeze myself up. I focused on keeping my footing on the shallow steps, unable to see my feet as I was. At the top of the steps, I paused to listen - it didn’t sound like anyone was following me. I opened the door, twisting my body slightly to make it through the doorway.
The room was bright, and larger than I was expecting. On the opposite side of the belfry was a table covered in a dark green cloth. As I approached, I saw a boar’s head, staring blankly, a simple brass cup, and a book with the ‘The Boar King’ on the front in flaking leaf. I picked it up and flicked through as quickly as I could.
It only went back until 1950, and seemed to contain notes on each Boar King’s reign. I flicked to the back to find pages all about me - notes about my weight, how often I needed new clothes, what I’d been eating, who I’d spoken to, questions I’d asked, my escape attempt. Morbidly I flicked back. Dr Sam Pertwee, it seems, did not meet the standards of the island. The pages were filled with disappointment about how little he was gaining, reaching a mere 22 stone by the end of the year. When the autumn equinox rolled round, they killed him.
There weren’t details about how, just some lines about how the island had ‘rejected’ him, and that the body had been taken care of. It couldn’t have been more than a few hours, if not less, before my arrival.
I flicked back, wanting to read more, wanting to find out how other Kings had survived, but as I did so, the bells above me suddenly rang out. I spun around to find Father Troughton with his hand on one of the ropes, his face dark with fury. He said something I couldn’t hear over the ringing of the bells, and pointed one long finger at me. From behind him, men from the village filed through and grabbed me, pulling me across the room and back down the stairs. Jack was there. I looked into his eyes, asked him why. He looked away
They brought me to my house, and I’ve been here since. Every hour or so, someone brings a platter of food, and watches until I eat it all. Both nights, this only stopped around midnight, and people arrived again at 6 am. It seems that, with their secret out, they are more determined than ever to fatten me up.
Troughton came yesterday.
“Do you really think you matter in any of this?” he asked. His posture was rigidly upright, his nose was upturned.
“You seem to think I matter enough to do all this,” I said, gesturing through the window to the two plump housewives who were acting as my guard that afternoon.
Troughton gave a short, cruel laugh. “Hardy has had its Boar King for centuries. Hardy has flourished for centuries,” he snapped haughtily. “You think your little escape attempts can change anything? We’ve tried to be nice - to make you feel welcome, gave you your little bugger boy to keep you happy. But soon it will be autumn, and I can be rid of you and we’ll have a King Boar who appreciates his position.”
“You're mad,” I said. “You're all mad.” Troughton smiled. “You think that by fattening me up for the slaughter you can, what, play god?”
Troughton laughed. “Play god? No, no.” He reached out and cupped one of my round cheeks, his long fingers tracing the ring of fat that disguised the boundary between my face and neck. “We are creating one.”
August
I have been here for a month or so now. I’ve lost track of days.
They’ve stopped bothering to furnish me with clothes as I outgrow them. Lynn Baker has been by with a few items from John, but even these are growing worryingly tight. What’s the point of clothes anyway, at this point? I don’t see anyone, outside of the deliveries of food, and they don’t care what I look like. From the front, my genitals can’t be seen anyway, hidden beneath the great overhang of my gut.
I am overflowing. I overflow clothes, furniture, even my own body. When I sit, my gut overflows onto my thighs, my love handles overflow past my hips, my breasts overflow underneath my arms. I am as much a prisoner of my body as I am of the meager guard left at my door.
I haven’t seen Jack since the funeral. I wonder if he cares. I wonder if he ever really did.
Saturday, 23rd September
The equinox arrived.
I wasn’t aware of it until the sun rose. I’d lost track in my feasting and my growing.
Jack came, and for a moment my heart rose. He smiled at me, kindly, and kissed me on the lips, before collecting the crown and cape of the Boar King, and placing them on me.
I struggle to remember what came next. I cried, I think, and begged, as he led me outside. I think he told me he loved me.
It seemed as if the whole island was there to meet me. This time, there were no masks. Some of them looked at me with cold, uncaring eyes; some seemed to look at me almost kindly; some looked away. I was led, naked, down the streets in silence apart from my yells and pleading, until we came to the shore.
As they led me onto the docks, I suddenly realised what was about to happen, and I made one final attempt to run away. I tried to twist out of their grasp, to use my weight to push through the crowd, but there were too many of them, and I was too weak. Men pulled me to the end. The water below was dark and frothy; I knew that on this side of the island the seafloor dropped away suddenly, and the water here was deep even just a hundred or so yards from the shore as we were.
Father Troughton’s voice carried from the shore. “Oh great Boar King, your health has been the health of the island! As we have fed you, the island has fed us. Now, we leave it to the island to make its final judgement.” With that, the men behind me shoved, and I fell into the water.
I didn’t feel the cold at first - it was too sudden, too shocking. I hoped for a brief moment that my fat would help me float, but instead I sank steadily into the darkness and I could feel water entering my lungs. I twisted and flailed, trying to find which way was up, knowing how little time I had.
As I lost consciousness, a great shape loomed out of the darkness - a great boar, charging towards me. It crashed into me, and swallowed me whole.
Suddenly, I was being pulled onto some rocks, vomiting out sea water. It seems the current had pulled me back to shore; the island had deemed its Boar King worthy. Jack ran up with a towel and helped me dry as best as we could.
“I knew,” he whispered to me. “I always knew you’d be found worthy, even from that first day.”
His father came up to me with some clothes and helped me dress. “Let’s see what the damage is,” he said, and led me back towards the docks. I instinctively pulled back, but Jack held my hand and pointed to where they were leading me - the weighing scales. I resisted for a moment, scared of what they would, but then gave in. It had been done now, hadn’t it? Why not put a number to my grotesquery.
A cheer went up as I stood on the scales. “Five hundred and eighty pounds!” John bellowed. I felt faint. “That’s the biggest of all of us!” he said. I looked down at myself. I could believe it. The other past Boar Kings came and shook my hand, ingratiating me into their not so small circle.
At some point I was led to a cart which carried me and the other Boar Kings up to the same clearing as when I first arrived. I placed a hand against the huge apple tree. I could feel warmth radiate throughout it, and there was a pulsing within, as if a heart was beating.
We got settled at our long table, an empty chair to my right. I was worried, for a moment about not having eaten, but realised with some surprise that the intense hunger that had plagued me for the last year had abated.
Eventually, a procession arrived, all in masks and singing. Jack made his way over to me, smiling. He was wearing a crown of apples and wheat, and had a great cape of boar skin draped over his shoulders.
Father Troughton held out his arms, spoke of the harvest and of the island and the new Boar King. He poured a jug of cider onto the roots of the apple tree, and Jack began to feast.
The documents contained in this collection came into the possession of the British Museum of the Occult and Esoteric as part of a bequeathment from the estate of legendary collector of paranormal artefacts, Agnes Thredwell, to whom the museum expresses its deep and eternal gratitude.
Presented here are transcripts of unbound pages from the diary of Dr James Davison covering the period of September 1966 to September 1967. As the pages are not bound, and due to what appears to be water damage, there are large gaps between entries in places and some entries are incomplete; the museum presents the pages in the order kept by Ms Thredwell. For readability, Dr Davison's medical notes and sundry other notes have been omitted. Viewings of the original pages in full are available upon request.
It is not clear how Ms Thredwell came into possession of the pages (as is the case of so much of her collection) nor are the documents' veracity clear. While many details of Dr Davison's existence up to the late summer of 1966 can be confirmed, many of the other people and even places detailed within cannot be traced with any certainty. Whether this is because the diary and related documents are a work of fiction, or because they have been edited to maintain anonymity, is unknown.
Fragment
- said he would call the police. I pleaded with him, told him my life would be ruined. He demanded money for his silence, more than I can afford to pay. I will have to-
Entry interrupted
Thursday, September 22nd
Tomorrow will mark my first day in my new home - Hardy, a small island in the Channel, not much more than a modest village and a collection of farms and fishermen, with a population of 150 or so. Despite its size, Hardy is quite prosperous in its own way, and something of a hub of agriculture, providing the few nearby islands with much of their fruit and veg and even sending some to the mainland. This is thanks to its somewhat anomalously warm climate - when I asked some locals at the inn I’m staying for the evening, answers came as either hand-waved explanations about peculiarities in ocean currents or ominous warnings about local legends and pagan gods. The latter was met with a chorus of good-hearted laughter but I noticed a few patrons avoiding my eyes.
After the events of this summer, I hurried to find a posting - Hardy had done without a doctor for some few weeks, and I required a new start, as far away as I could manage. It promises to be a change from the life I have come accustomed to in London, but a welcome one perhaps; regardless, I did not have much say in the matter.
I ate lightly - some chicken, cabbage and a few mouthfuls of new potatoes - and went to bed early. In truth, I’ve never been much of a seafarer, and I’m nervous about how I will cope with the ferry tomorrow morning. I’m due to arrive a little after noon.
Saturday, September 24th
I’m glad to say that I survived the ferry (no more than a fisherman’s skiff, in truth), with my dignity intact. As we approached the shore, I noticed a shift in the weather - the wind died down, the temperature creeped ever so slightly up, even the clouds seemed to part. I remarked on this to the ferry captain, who avoided my gaze and grumbled. By the time we reached the small dock, I’d felt the need to remove my jumper.
I expected a small greeting party when I arrived on Hardy, but it seems that the whole island turned up! I had arrived during the island's autumn equinox harvest festival, which it seems is quite the event in these parts. As a new resident to the island on this auspicious day, I was hailed as the guest of honour - rather gratifying, I must say. I wonder if these harvest celebrations were the source of the murmurings about pagan worship - not so surprising for an island that relies on farming for its wealth.
The young children of the island, led by a young woman (the school teacher, I presume), placed a crown made of apples, wheat sheafs and root vegetables onto my head, and danced around me like a maypole. Some strapping young men appeared and snapped up my luggage (thankfully to my lodgings, it seems!) and then I was led in a procession away from the small harbour and down the coast. I turned back to call my thanks to the ferry captain, but saw that he had already set off again.
I quickly forgot the odd manners of the ferry captain on the walk. The children continued to dance around me, and even some older residents joined in, singing folk songs I wasn’t familiar with - all about fields and crops, cider and ale, apples and pigs. Some of them drank messily from tankards, some gathered in small laughing groups, young couples hung at the back or lurked amongst the trees for privacy. After a short while, my bad knee began to give me grief. The path was paved, but roughly so, and it began to climb. I enquired how much further it was to go, and a woman assured me we were nearly there. I gritted my teeth against the building ache.
It was only while speaking to this woman that I noticed that people had begun to don masks - rough masks hewn from wood, or stitched from scraps of cloth, or moulded out of papier mache. Some were fashioned into the shape of leaves, or flowers, a few of livestock; one wooden mask was painted with a rather charming landscape, eyes peering out from the horizon.
Finally we reached a small clearing in some trees, where some tables and chairs were set up with a veritable feast atop. I was directed to a chair in the middle of a long table, where I gratefully collapsed, rubbing my aching knee. I realised that my assumption earlier was wrong - the whole island hadn’t come to meet me. Where I was sat, I was flanked by half a dozen men - each was huge, easily over twenty-five stone - perhaps more. I marveled - I don’t think I’d ever seen one man of such a size as even the smallest of the men, while the largest - I staggered to think of his weight. Thirty stone? Thirty five? My mind couldn’t wrap itself around the scale of them. Each seemed to overflow the large oaken chairs that seemed specially made to support men of such stature - I myself was placed in such a chair, and felt like a child between the arms further apart than my elbows could comfortably rest.
Other smaller tables were dotted around, and everyone began to take their seats. "We have once again reached this equinox on our fine isle, my friends!" The vicar's voice came suddenly from behind me, causing me to jump. "Another year in which this rock, so precariously perched in the ocean, has cared for us as its children. Another bountiful harvest, provided by our hard work and the soil to which we owe so much." His voice was deep, crisp and loud. This was met with cheers and cries of "here! here!" around the tables.
The vicar spread his arms out, so that I could see them in my peripheral vision, and continued. "And here we have welcomed our Boar King for this year!" Loud cheers erupted around me. "Newly arrived to this isle, but no less welcome for that fact. King Boar, your majesty, may your health be the health of the island!" With that the vicar moved around me to pick up a large clay jug of what appeared to be cider from the table in front of me. He bowed to me briefly, before turning away and pouring the entire jug at the roots of an apple tree behind me, by far the largest tree in the small copse, its bows shading me. With that, music started up and the crowd burst into conversation and laughter. The vicar gave me a small smile and moved to his seat.
I sat dumbfounded. Had it not been for the vicar's dog collar and black clerical shirt, I'd have sworn I had just witnessed some pagan ceremony. My shock must have been clear to see on my face because one of the men - the one to my immediate left, a man with a dense beard and a circumference surely measured in yards - leaned over and spoke as he picked up a chicken leg.
"I'm sure a lot of our customs must seem strange to you," he said, his mouth full of food, his large chin wobbling as he spoke. He smelt of apples and honey. "There's a lot goes on in these isles that goes way back, back before even the Romans came to Britain. Traditions are important on a little island like this; all we've got is each other and the land." He introduced himself as John Baker, the landlord at the local pub, The Boar and Suckling Pig, and I gave my name to him. He gave me a queer look, one I couldn't quite place. I can hear his next words now echoing in my head, despite their simpleness.
"You must be hungry, after such a long journey."
At the word 'hungry', I felt the most queer, intense hunger of my life, as if one of Pavlov’s poor dogs. I can't quite account for it, having never been a heavy eater, and usually the stress of travel tends to numb my appetite. But last night I was ravenous. I feel a vestige of that hunger still, and I ate far more of breakfast than I usually would do this morning. I have put it down to the effect of sea air and the unseasonable warmth, although I am somewhat unconvinced with this explanation, even though it is my own.
I fell on the food like a wolf, grabbing food without looking and putting it to my mouth without even putting it on my plate, if I could help it. My school housemistress would have been horrified to see such behaviour from one of her boys, and I felt a small part of my mind attempting to remind me of my manners.
Looking back I feel quite mortified of my actions, but at the time it felt wholly natural, and certainly not out of place with the actions of those around me, particularly the rotund men I shared a table with. Still, I cannot convince myself that anyone else ate quite so much or with quite so much vim as myself.
I drank heavily of the cider from the jug in front of me. Not having much of a sweet tooth, usually the sickly sweetness doesn't hold much appeal, but in my gluttonous state it tasted of ambrosia. I drank tankard after tankard, leaving the inside of my mouth coated in sugar, and my brain pickled in alcohol.
I can distinctly remember the start of the evening; my arrival, the vicar's ritualistic words, the taste of the sumptuous feast. After that, my memory grows hazy, and the evening becomes a jumbled carousel of images in my mind - the sound of cheers as I ate and ate and ate, seemingly without end; the feel of my stomach, distended and full and heavy, even as I reached for more food; an image of a golden apple being plucked from the great tree at the centre of the grove and shoved forcefully in my mouth by a handsome young man.
This last part must have been a dream, but I can't quite shake the image. It doesn't quite make sense to me, and yet it feels in some way in keeping with the rest of the strange evening.
At some point, I must have been helped to my new home, as I awoke in the house that had been arranged for me ahead of time. Odd dreams - I was being chased through fields by some great ferocious boar, running in that odd heavy, slow way that always seems to happen in dreams. Despite running up a hill towards a circle of standing stones, once I passed the first few stones I stumbled and found myself wading chest-deep through the sea. At this point the boar caught me, swallowing me whole, and I awoke. Apt payment for my greed, no doubt.
Miraculously, I am feeling well, with no ill effects from the cider. My stomach however, feels leaden and full, and I decided to forego my traditional morning walk to allow myself to digest. My stomach is still distended even now, an effect I don't think I'd ever see on myself. Despite this, as soon as breakfast was placed in front of me, I found my appetite quickly returned and the plate was empty before I knew it.
As agreed prior to my arrival, the house adjoins my doctor's practice and is fully furnished and, I was surprised to see, with a fully stocked larder, filled to the rafters with food. My belongings had been brought here, and I was surprised to see that my great 'Boar King' crown and cloak had been left, displayed proudly on the coat stand by the door.
I have been provided with a housekeeper, one Mary Tennant, a stern woman who appeared in my house this morning before I even awoke. I informed her I had no need of her services, or the desire to pay for them, but she informed me that she was paid for by the village, and that like it or not she is here to stay. Judging from breakfast, her cooking is top notch and her cleaning is fastidious such that it borders on intrusive, so I am not inclined to kick up a fuss.
As it is a Saturday, I intend to take the weekend to acquaint myself with my new home, before beginning practice proper on Monday. As ever when I make such statements, I expect I will be besieged all of today and tomorrow with ailments, accidents and asks to check rashes, but for now that is my plan. As a start, I will go to The Boar and Suckling Pig, to try and find out who I can return my ill-gotten crown and cape to and more formally introduce myself to my new patients. Hopefully the walk may help to remedy the heaviness I feel in my stomach.
Saturday, October 1st
Despite my worries, my first weekend on Hardy passed without incident or malady. In fact, all week I have had very few patients for anything but routine practice. Some elderly patients with mild rheumatism; a diabetic receiving his prescription of insulin; a gentleman my own age who complained of some shrapnel, gained during the second world war, which tended to give him some grief with the changing of the seasons - I gave him some topical and general analgesics and suggested some simple exercises I use with my own knee, a similar shrapnel injury. The most dramatic thing to have happened was a teenager who had sprained his ankle during a game of football.
I am aided, such as it is needed, by my practice nurse, Annabelle McCoy. A young girl, but capable and resourceful. I understand she all but ran the practice between my predecessor leaving and my arrival. I must find her more responsibilities and opportunities, if she is open to them; a young woman of her talents is wasted in such a small and healthy community.
In fact, most of the residents of Hardy seem to be of the utmost physical condition. Even my elderly patients seem to come to me only as a matter of course, and those few with long-standing medical conditions manage them well and without detriment to their lifestyle or wellbeing. Indeed, I have noticed that all of the residents are slim and fit, with the exception of only the small cabal of men that I noticed on the day of my arrival and at the strange feast. These men seem even larger when encountered during daily life and contrasted with their slimmer counterparts - they are almost monstrously, unbelievably fat. Hardy does not seem to allow for anyone between these two states.
For my sins, I’ve hardly been a paragon of healthy living myself since my arrival. My appetite, always slight, has been stoked by my new home and I seem afflicted by some constant, gnawing hunger. The effect of fresh sea air, I expect, and of the absolutely exquisite local fair. I have been told time and time again by the residents of Hardy that the island's produce is some of the best I will find, and I have not yet met with evidence to the contrary. They all credit the quality of the soil, the expertise of the men and women who work the land, the blessings of the land and the sea. I’ve so far been finding it difficult to resist trying everything placed in front of me. Alas, this is not helped by the warm welcome I’ve received - everyone I meet seems determined to feed me up and to make sure I sample all of the food the island has to offer - several of my patients have even brought food to their appointments for me to eat!
The worst culprit by far has been Mary, my housekeeper. I have asked her several times to provide lighter meals, yet each meal seems larger than the last. I suppose I can’t blame her really, when I find myself finishing each and every bite, even when the last few seem almost torturous. These titanic meals are then bolstered by snacks that seem to appear next to me throughout the day - more worryingly, they seem to disappear just as quickly…
I have tried on several occasions to avoid the constant bombardment of food by retiring to the local pub, the Boar and Suckling Pig. The locals, for all of their insistence of feeding me up, are a friendly bunch, and have welcomed me with open arms; none more so than the landlord and lady, John, the huge boulder of a man I met upon my arrival, and his wife Lynn, a tiny slip of a woman who seems to think I’m about the size of her husband, judging by the rate at which she places sandwiches, pies and a twice whole cheese boards in front of me - seemingly a new plate of food for each pint I drink.
I really must curb these growing habits - my unrelenting appetite, my attraction to the Boar and Suckling Pig. My mother’s chastisements to my father about his growing waistline ring in my ears.
Friday, October 28th
I have returned again and again to The Boar and Suckling Pig, despite my best intentions. Indeed, I am now there more frequently, and now find myself there every night, and at the weekends most of the day. I seem drawn there - I have tried to avoid it, to stay inside, to go for walks in the opposite direction, but I begin to feel some odd tugging in my gut and find myself making some excuse or other to make my way there.
Each night Mary prepares me some great pile of food, usually more than I'd eat in a whole day or even two, always rich and fat-filled, and I laboriously make my way through it. Finally, I sit back, fingers massaging the domed paunch of my stomach that's begun to develop, and I wonder at both my ability and inclination to finish it all. Just as I determine that this will be the last night of such gluttony, Mary will bring out a dessert - a whole tart or cake more often than not, sat in a lake of cream or custard - and any such thoughts will leave my mind.
Then once Mary leaves for the evening, I make my slow, strained way to the Boar, where I find myself downing seven, eight, nine pints of the wonderful locally produced ale, sat in the corner while locals sing folk songs I can never quite place. Each night some handsome farmer or fisherman will take it upon himself to introduce himself to me, buying me pint after pint, encourage me to soak it all up with a stream of snacks from behind the bar, and I inevitably end up swaying home to collapse in my bed and dream of their strong arms around me, their rough beard on my face, their thick cocks up my arse.
One night last week, after my third or fourth pint John Baker waddled up to me and collapsed next to me on one of the sturdier benches that seem to have been installed purely for his use, and for the other few huge men that are his companions.
“How are you finding it all?” he asked, swigging from a flagon of ale.
I chewed a mouthful of pork pie and swallowed heavily. “Everyone’s been very friendly,” I said. “And the island’s very beautiful, although I can’t say I’ve seen too much of it.”
John laughed. “Not the island!” he said. “Being the Boar King!”
The question almost surprised me enough to stop me eating. “The Boar King?” I asked. “All that guff at the harvest feast you mean?”
John looked more than a little affronted by the question. “It’s not just the feast,” he said. “It’s all year - you are the Boar King.”
“Ah, well then,” I said. “I’m not sure I’ve noticed too much. It’s not come up."
John laughed. There was something going on I didn’t quite understand. “It’s quite the honour, you know,” he told me. “I was one myself, the year before me and Lynn got married.”
“Oh,” I said, unsure what to reply. “Congratulations,” I settled on, lamely.
“Why do you think everyone’s been so hospitable?” he asked. “It’s because you’re our Boar King of course!”
I thought back to the treats brought to appointments, to pints bought at the pub. “I just thought everyone was being friendly,” I explained.
“Well we do our best, but you’d be doing well to get a round out of some of these tight buggers usually,” he said. He called over to the bar. “Lynn! Lynn, why don’t you bring me and the doctor some of that shepherd’s pie out? And a couple more pints.”
“I couldn’t,” I protested, as my mouth began to water at the prospect. “I’ve eaten at home, I-” John cut me off with a slap on the back and a hearty laugh, which cut short my reply. “What exactly, is the Boar King, John?” I asked after finishing my pint and starting the next.
“Well it’s like Father Troughton said,” he explained. “As long as you’re the King, your health is the health of the island. We look after you, and the island will look after us.” He said it plainly, as if it were something every schoolboy was taught.
“Something like a May Queen, then?” I asked.
“Something like that, I suppose,” he said after thinking a while. “Except all year long of course.”
“Do I have to do anything? Make a speech or something?”
“Just sit and look pretty!” John said with a laugh. “Don’t you worry, there’ll be a couple of feast days, like at the equinox, and we’ll handle the rest.”
“And you were one?” I carried on with my questioning. “Who else? What about the last one?”
“You see them about,” John shrugged, refusing to be pulled into giving more detail. “Your predecessor didn’t really take to it.
I wanted to ask more, but got distracted by Lynn bringing out two huge turreens of shepherd’s pie. My train of thought was lost as I ate.
Sunday, October 30th
The effect of all this gluttony and sloth are beginning to be seen on my waistline. Always a slender man, I have had to ask Mary to let out my trousers this evening. I have grown familiar with the feeling of too tight clothes, a too full stomach and a stomach rounded out and pushing against my shirts. This is no mere bloat either; genuine fat has marshalled itself around my body - my thighs, my chest, my arse, and most of all at my increasingly heavy belly. My increasing weight is already clearly obvious through my constricting clothes, to anyone who would care to so much as glance at me.
I am writing this entry after dinner (roast pork belly with all the trimmings). Despite all I have written in this entry, despite the painful heaviness in my gut, I know I will soon leave for The Boar and Suckling Pig, where my fattening will continue unabated. I do not know what has come upon me. I do not know if I want to find out.
Fragment
- a third dinner at the Boar - a full roast dinner with a plate of cheese and apple and pear crumble for afters. Despite my increased appetite of late, I surprised even myself with how much I ate this evening. Clearly all this fresh sea air is doing wonders for me. Not so much my waistline though. I really must -
Entry interrupted
Thursday, November 3rd, 1966
I am getting hairier, I'm sure of it. I was first made aware of it last week, when Annabelle asked me whether I'd forgotten to shave as she packed away for the day. I had shaved that morning, as it happened, but it shouldn't have made all that much of a difference - I have only ever been able to grow only the wispiest and thinnest of beards.
As soon as she had gone, I rushed to a mirror. Sure enough, my face was covered with a dark 5 o'clock shadow, something I'd never seen on my own face. I rubbed my hand across my face, revelling in the coarse roughness. It had been a look I'd always admired on other men, and always regretted not being able to attain myself.
In the days since, I've noticed my sudden late on-set hirsutism is not contained merely to my face. Previously, my chest only had a few sparse patches of hair dotted about, with a thin line leading down from my navel. Now, I have thick black hair like wires across my entire chest, and a thick line leading down my newly plush middle, before it fans out below my belly button. Each day I feel I can see the hair on my arms get darker and thicker.
There's been other changes too. A change in my natural odour to a rich, manly musk. It's terrifically erotic, and I've grown accustomed to lifting an arm in private moments and burying my nose into my own pit to take a sniff. My limp, too, ever present for the past 21 years since Berlin, has gotten better. Not completely gone, no, but better, and I'm sure that even the spiderweb scar which marks the epicentre of my injury is fading. The other day I realised as I got into bed that it might have been the first time in two decades I hadn't complained of any pain throughout the day. My sudden recovery is part of a general improvement in my health - I feel stronger, more energetic, in a way I haven't felt since my twenties.
I blush to discuss the final change, even in this private journal. Each night after I stumble back from the Boar and Suckling Pig, and increasingly before I go as well, I've found my hand following the path carved by my new body hair, down, down, down to the now dense thicket of pubes, and gripping my hard cock. I've become positively insatiable of late, needing release multiple times a day. This on its own might be unremarkable, and could be chalked up to the general improved health I have enjoyed recently. No, what is remarkable is what my hand finds. I am now almost certain that my penis, previously perfectly average, has grown. It is difficult to tell, increasingly nestled as it is in my new dense bush of pubic hair, and threatening to be hidden beneath the gathering dome of fat above, but my hand sits differently around it now - the fingers further spaced, my grip wider.
I am enjoying a veritable second puberty in all regards, it seems. While I find it unbelievable, and know that it is medically impossible, I cannot deny the changes are anything but welcome.
My weight has continued to increase along with my sudden hormonal shift. Perhaps the two are linked - the same good living feeding my body in more ways than one. My torso is now covered in a layer of fat, a soft paunch bulging out over my waist.
I regularly resolve to take action against this expansion, but it is in vain. I tell myself that I will eat less, replace fatty meats, heavy breads and potatoes with light vegetables and more fish, but I again and again find myself stuffing myself at the Boar, or after a trip to the bakers, or in my own quarters. I found an old bicycle in a shed in my garden and cleaned it up, but it has since gone unused. I am sure this second issue is down to the geography of the island; almost everything is contained in one neat village, with the rest of the island given over to farms of various kinds. I have no reason to go further than a 15 minute walk, my practice being conveniently located in the centre of the village, and should I wish to explore further I would find very little to interest me.
And so I have remained in the village that I have come to know so well, returning to the same haunts again and again. This usually means the Boar, but I've been invited to a number of houses where I've received, if anything, an even greater stuffing than I've become accustomed to at the pub.
Sunday, November 20th
I've recently discovered a new attraction to the Boar and Suckling Pig, not that I needed any more. I've built up something of a rapport with Lynn and John's son, Jack. An affable young man in his late twenties, he is startlingly handsome. Dark blonde hair atop a face that is all strong features composed of straight lines and with lightly golden skin the colour of fresh grown wheat that seems to almost glow. His blue eyes twinkle with laughter, his perfect jaw is sketched in three confident lines, his arms bulge in his shirts as he pulls a pint, and I have to force myself to turn away when he bends to wipe a table, the curve of his arse presenting itself through tight trousers. In short, I am a middle-aged fool besotted with a man at least fifteen years my junior. I sternly tell myself off each night, remembering my hasty flight from London. I think of him as I wrap my hand around my cock, remembering the events that necessitated that self-same flight.
I spoke to Jack last night during an uncommonly quiet spell at the bar. I flatter myself to think he was being anything other than polite, but I really do think we have a certain frisson, even if it is purely platonic (much to my chagrin). He was telling me about his role as master of the orchards on the island, and how he'd press cider from the apples himself. He passed me some of this year's press, and despite cider not usually being to my taste I could appreciate the mix of sweetness and sharp tang.
"It's quite an important job on the island really," he told me, puffing up his chest proudly; I tried to ignore the small bump of his nipples pressed against his shirtfront. "We grow some of the best apples in the British isles here. It's the soil that does it, see." By now, I had lost track of all the miracles performed by Hardy soil. "But then, you'd know all about our apples, wouldn't you?"
I was struck with a sudden flash of remembering. An apple pushed into my mouth that first night on Hardy. Biting into it so that the sweet, crisp juices filled my mouth and ran down my chin. I can remember so little about that night; could it have been Jack holding that apple? I am beginning to think that I remember his face, but am wise enough to know that this is more likely than not a false memory I have recreated after the fact.
As I left, Jack handed me what he assured me was one of the finest apples of the year, with a peculiar look on his face. As I wrapped my fingers around myself afterwards, I bit into it, remembering that night, remembering Jack's strong hands as he handed it to me, remembering the sharp, heady cider he'd made. I moaned around the apple as I came, my fingers digging deep into the soft lard that is growing at my middle.
Fragment
- convinced that Jack really is paying me special attention, fool that I am. I tell myself that even without this growing gut of mine, he’d never look twice at me, being closer to his dad’s age than his, and not nearly as handsome even in my prime. Still though, I can’t ignore the way he looks at me, the way he sneaks me free pints and snacks, the way he seems to always find some excuse to strike up a conversation. After all, maybe he likes the older man, the fresh swirl of chest hair spilling from my shirts, my stronger arms and thighs, the bulge that is undeniably growing in my-
Entry interrupted
Sunday, December 18th
This morning as I finished my breakfast, an increasingly time-consuming affair, I received a summons to the vicarage, Mary bustling into the dining room holding a small slip of paper. I excused myself from my habitual Sunday amble around the village (how the mighty have fallen! In the space of a few short months I have gone from a daily jog to a weekly amble) and attempted to find suitable attire that would cover my increasing girth.
My recent expansion has focussed mainly on my belly, and it is now a true gut, sitting spherically at my centre, pushing out in every direction and beginning, ever so subtly, to droop. I have taken to wearing a simple shirt during my surgery open hours, having to forgo a tie as I can no longer get the top button closed on any of them, and opting not to wear a jacket to avoid the constant uncomfortable pinch of it on my flesh below my arms. Mary appeared one morning recently with a small hamper of larger clothes, but these too are growing tight. Today, I thought I should dress up for my summons, and took out a tweed jacket inherited from my father that had never fit, being far too large. I now cannot get it closed over my heaving stomach. His old coat too, I had to leave open, my gut now leading the way as I walked through the village. Looking in the mirror, I am shocked to see how much I look like my father - my childhood was filled with my mother chastising him for his weight, and now I seemed to have not just caught him up, but even overtaken him, all in a few short months.
I took the scenic route to the vicarage, attempting to convince myself that the additional five minutes walk could do anything to quell my growth. In truth, I fear it may have merely stoked my appetite. I arrived to find Father Troughton stood outside the vicarage waiting for me, wearing his cassock fresh from Sunday service.
He spread his arms out towards me as I approached, just as he had done that first night. "The Boar King himself, leaving his court to visit the masses." Just as before, his voice was deep, clear and loud, obviously a man who spoke for a living.
I gave a wan smile at his jest. "Well, I’ll trust you where it comes to masses, father,” I said.
He gave a thin smile which didn't reach his eyes. He led me inside to a sitting room, where a young blonde woman poured me a cup of tea and placed a large lemon drizzle cake in front of me, before leaving the room, all in silence. On what is developing into instinct, I picked up a slice of cake.
"I have never seen you come to our Sunday service?" Troughton said, one eyebrow raised. It was phrased as a statement, but clearly posed as a question.
"I'm not a Christian, I'm afraid," I replied honestly.
"Many of my parishioners aren’t I expect," Troughton said dismissively. “In a community like this, ceremony nourishes us as well as any food.”
"I'll have to come along to one," I offered, trying to cover up my seeming faux pas. "Perhaps one of the Christmas services."
He sniffed contemptuously and looked down his long, thin nose at me. "We have far more pressing matters before we come to such frivolous festivities."
I couldn't help but laugh at this. "Surely as vicar, Christmas must be one of the busiest times of the year for you?" I asked.
He waved a hand dismissively. "The island celebrates of course. But what I have asked you here to discuss is our winter solstice celebration."
I tried to hide my confusion at a vicar prioritising a pagan festival over a Christian one. "Ah, well now," I said, picking up my third slice of cake. "I have been told a little about it."
"And what have you been told?" He remained unmoved, perfectly controlled in everything he did or said.
"Well, it's another feast," I said. "And I'll be there in my role 'the Boar King'." This last part I held my hands up and made finger quotes, laughing a little.
Father Troughton's nostrils flared and his eyes widened by a matter of millimeters, but the effect on his face was momentous. The holy man looked like the devil had come upon him. "And what exactly is so funny about your position?"
I was taken aback. "I'm sorry. I meant no offence," I said. "It's simply that it's such a strange custom. I've never seen anything like it. Almost like a May Queen, but a middle aged man instead of a young girl."
"You may find our customs strange, but you would do well to respect them, if you are to last long here on Hardy," he said. His voice was unchanged, still perfectly measured, but somehow now positively dripped with rage. He stood suddenly, and moved to the window.
"I'm sorry," I told his back after I finished my slice of cake and picked up another. "Really I am. I meant no disrespect."
"The health of the Boar King is the health of the island," he said, looking out through the window. "As above, so below; the first principle of alchemy and the most important."
I was taken aback; almost, but not quite, stopping in my chewing of cake. "I wouldn't expect a man of the cloth to speak so casually about alchemy."
He once again sniffed. "Perhaps you wouldn't," he said, his voice still crystal clear, despite being turned away from me. "Some ideas are larger than mere denomination."
"I don't think that Christianity and alchemy can be considered simple denomina-" I started saying, but he cut me off.
"Perhaps I should put it in terms you might understand. In scientific terms, perhaps, doctor?" Troughton took a deep breath and rolled his shoulders a little. "An island is like a living organism. This organism is made up of many parts - cells, tissues, organs. Bone and flesh and blood. Each is useless without the others, and only exists to serve the whole. Hardy is made up of the soil, the trees, the people. All these parts are useless without the others, and so we must all live to serve each other part of the whole as best we can." He turned to me now and moved to loom over my seat. "The Boar King is the beating heart of Hardy." He reached a hand down and placed it over my own heart, his hand pushing into the layer of fat that had accumulated there. I froze with my hand outstretched for another slice of cake. "A healthy heart means a healthy body. You can appreciate that doctor, I'm sure."
I nodded, although I don't think I truly understood all he was saying. I understood his words yes, the ideas he was talking about. But his tone suggested there was far more than I could hope to grasp - were these traditions really so important? My confusion at the man’s intensity was mounting. He took his hand off of me and moved back to the window. I picked up another slice of cake.
"When you arrive at the winter solstice later this month you will perform your duty," he said. "Your duty to the island, to the community, to the organism that is Hardy. The heart will beat. Am I understood?"
"Yes." My voice came out as barely a whisper. I cleared my throat. "Yes," I said, more loudly this time. "Father," I added, thinking it would please him.
He spun around, his face as passive as when he greeted me that morning. "Excellent. Lucy?" he called through to the other room. "You'll pack up the rest of the cake for our guest, won't you?" I looked to the plate of cake to realise it was empty. I opened my mouth to tell Father Troughton so, but the young girl from before, Lucy, came in holding an entire new cake. She placed the plate down in front of me and quickly wrapped it up in muslin. "Don't worry about the plate, we have plenty others," the vicar said. He turned to a desk at this point and started writing on some loose sheets of paper. I took this to mean that I was dismissed, and took my leave.
I have just looked up from my writing to realise that this next cake is also finished, my hands grasping in air. Soon, Mary will call me down for my first dinner. I am shocked at how casually I write these words. "First dinner." As if it is some accepted idea. I suppose, for me, it has become so.
Thursday, December 22nd
I have seen many a man go to seed over the years, both in my personal life and my professional life. I have never seen a man do so as thoroughly, rapidly, or enthusiastically as I am doing so now.
I have grown incrementally larger by inches since my last full entry, in every direction, on every part of my body. My clothes, previously tight, now strain obscenely against my body. The other day I dared to use the scales in my practice - I’d been avoiding them for a while now, fearing their judgement. 19 stone, or thereabouts. 19 stone! I can’t remember how much I weighed in the summer - I’ve been trying to convince myself that perhaps it could have been as much as 14 or 15 stone. Not only is this unlikely, but it doesn’t give much reassurance either way - is over a stone a month really the lowest rate I can hope for? The scale only goes up to 25 stone, and I have been told by John Baker that the truly enormous men of the village use a scale by the docks used to measure the day's catch to weigh themselves. I expect he is joking, but cannot imagine how else they would do so. John tells me he weighs around 40 st! Over 550 lb! I comfort myself that I am not yet weighing myself like so many catches of the day, at least, no matter how preposterously I seem to be expanding.
I am trying to find the time to meet with Jean Whittaker, a woman in the village who makes men's clothes, but every spare moment I am compelled to eat. The moments I muster up the will to do anything other than attend to my practice or my stomach, some villager or other will appear with a tray of freshly baked pork pies, or an entire roast chicken for me to eat. Even as I write this, I am eating a tin of scones provided by some farmer’s wife or other. Mary has prepared them for me with huge dollops of clotted cream and what I believe is two whole jars of strawberry jam across them all.
I am scared. I am scared of the intentions of the islanders, of the dark implications of my role as King Boar, of the vicar's words which still ring in my head, of alchemy and beating hearts. Most of all, I am scared of myself. Why can I not stop myself? Why do I seem to enjoy it so? Why am I willingly walking towards my fate, whatever it may be? The village intends to fatten me like a pig and I am providing them with ample crackling.
Today is the winter solstice, and as such my doctor's practice has closed, although I would likely see only a patient or two regardless. Mary has just called me through to the dining room for lunch. I expect it to last several hours until I am expected to go to the solstice ceremony. Despite myself, and all I have eaten, I am hungry.
I write this is some state of duress, but feel I must make a record of the events of last night.
I collected my great crown and cloak, which I was told would be required for the ceremony, and made my way to the Boar and Suckling Pig. Outside the front, a large crowd of people stood, all in masks, as in September. Father Troughton was closest to me, the only one not wearing a mask. Wordlessly, he took my vestments of office, and motioned for me to turn around. Once done, he placed the crown on my head and cloak on my shoulders. It was only then that I realised that the crown, despite being made of various fruits and flora, is looking as fresh as ever. Perhaps it is varnished, or otherwise preserved? But no, I think that it is not.
Father Troughton started walking ahead, and I followed along, and the parade of people began to sing quietly. Someone passed me some bird leg - goose perhaps? - to snack on, which I did so unthinkingly as I walked. As I finished it, and as the sun began to set, the crowd approached the church, or more specifically, the great long hall that stood behind it; the setting sun was framed by the gap between the two. Despite the warm weather Hardy generally enjoys, I still wouldn't want to sit outside in the December chill.
Inside the hall, tables were laid out in much the same way as they had been during the autumn equinox, with one long table down the middle, and smaller round tables around the outside. I was led to the back of the hall, and seated at the head of the long table, while everyone else quickly found their seats, but remained standing.
As last time, Father Troughton stood and spoke, his voice ringing around the large hall. "People of Hardy! We come here together on the longest night of the year. Others may see only this - the dark, the cold. But we know what is to come! After darkness will come the light, as it always does! And we will be there together again when it comes! We are here by the grace of Hardy, and by the grace of each other!" A cheer filled the room here.
"But of course," Troughton continued, "we are also here by the grace of our Boar King!" Another cheer, louder this time. "His health is the island's health, and may it continue to be so!" As last time, he picked up a large clay jug of cider and walked the length of the table towards me. Unlike last time, there were no trees in the hall to make his libations to, so instead when he reached me, he gripped the back of my head with one strong hand like a claw and tipped it back, and poured the jug into my upturned mouth.
I was so shocked that at first I didn't move, simply focussing on swallowing so as not to choke as liquid spilled across my chin and down my chest. As the flow continued, I gathered enough of my wits to resist, but at the first sign of struggle I heard Troughton call for others, and strong arms fastened around my arms and at my jaw, holding me still. I worried about breathing, but found I could quite comfortably drink without interruption by breathing through my nose.
The flow finally stopped and Father Troughton walked away without a word, the hands holding me breaking free. I slumped forward, shaking, gasping for breath, holding my tight stomach. I turned to Jack, sat next to me, who was diligently filling my plate. "Last time that was poured on a tree."
Jack merely shrugged. "That was to thank the island for a strong harvest. This is an offering to the Boar King." With this he turned to me. "Eat."
Despite the impossible amounts of cider in my gut, I obeyed. I ate as if I hadn't eaten in weeks. I ate with even more enthusiasm and determination than I had done even in my most impressive of recent feasts. I ate and I ate and I ate, and all the while, Jack brought me food, stroked my shoulders, gave me encouragement. Throughout the evening, islanders of every age came up to me to rub my gut, to run their hands along some part of my body, to grab a chunk of flesh, as if for luck. Each of them appraised me like some farm animal at market, turning to each other and discussing weight, or body shape, or my appetite. Through it all, despite my mind screaming in protest at the absurdity of the situation, I ate.
I sat there for hours, as the hall grew dark and my flesh swelled. At one point, a button fired off my shirt, followed by another, and another, my body collapsing forward to fill the fresh space as each did so. I did not stop eating. At one point, someone reached under my gut to mercifully undo my belt and trousers for me. I did not stop eating. At one point, I stopped feeding myself, and instead simply tipped my head back and allowed others to bring me food, feeding me or once again pouring cider down my throat. I did not stop eating.
The celebration lasted well into the night, possibly into the early morning, and I heard around me the sound of celebration and community. Finally, food stopped being placed into my mouth, and I sat gasping for breath. Slowly I looked down to see that every plate had been cleaned, every morsel of food devoured. I hope that others had eaten, but I cannot honestly be sure.
As I sat, my breathing heavy, my hands slowly massaging my heavy gut, Jack walked up to me holding a golden apple. Despite my fullness, despite all I had eaten, my mouth opened and my cock rose. Jack crouched down in front of me. "Oh great King Boar," he said to me, loud enough for everyone to hear. "I present to you this offering from the orchards. May your reign be bountiful." With that he placed the apple firmly into my mouth, and I bit down, juices escaping down my chin. The hall burst into cheers. Jack held the apple as he fed the rest to me, until only a small core remained, which he placed into a small silk pouch.
With that, the ceremony was over, and the villagers started to file outside. Jack moved to one of my sides and another equally strong young man moved to my other, and they hoisted me up. I tottered on my feet, but stayed upright. Slowly, ever so slowly, they walked me out of the hall, across the village, and into my house.
Once in my bedroom, they placed me down into bed, and Jack turned to the other man, telling him he could go. Gently, being careful of my swollen middle, Jack undressed me. I was sure he must have noticed how erect I was, as my cock's growth has continued along with the rest of my body, and it is now quite impressive. I cannot tell you whether my arousal came from my state of being gorged to my limit, or Jack's administrations. It was probably both.
I am sat now in my study dressed only in my dressing gown, as try as I might, none of my clothes will now fit. I know it is a medical impossibility to grow so much in one night, even to have eaten so much in one night, but I can only trust the evidence of my own eyes. Mary is out fetching me larger clothes. Apparently Jean Whittaker, the village tailor, has been at work producing clothes that "should fit me for a while longer". I asked whether I am expected to outgrow these next set of clothes. Mary did not provide me with an answer, but I know it already.
Mary has left me with an enormous breakfast, filling several plates. Despite my gluttony last night, I expect I shall finish it all.
Sunday, January 1st, 1967
While the feasting of the winter’s solstice beggars belief, my eating has barely let up across the Christmas and New Years period. It seems as if each night a different family has invited me around to sup with them, ignoring my protestations that I had already eaten dinner, ignoring the tautness of my gut, the strain of my new clothes. Previous Christmas feasts, which I once would have considered gluttonous to the extreme, now pale in comparison to even my most customary of meals. This year, while at the Baker’s I swear that I ate a full turkey to myself, more even than John, huge though he is.
This was followed up by New Years at the Boar. I stayed there until the sun rose, all the while eating and drinking; I lost count of the pints somewhere around 20. It didn’t quite match the gluttony of the winter solstice, but I still ate more than I might have once done in a week. The locals sang songs all evening, and I even tried to join in with a few of the ones that have become almost familiar.
My weight gain can no longer be ignored or written off as a result of healthy living and a healthier appetite. Where once my stomach was trim, a huge round gut now reaches out in front of me and bowing out to the sides. My lower body fills any space provided to it; my rear has begun to squeeze uncomfortably between arm chairs, my thighs put other men’s waists to shame. My chest, which I once never thought about, is beginning to develop into true breasts; not quite like a woman’s, but sloping down underneath my arms.
I have not dared weigh myself. I know that I cannot possibly have gained any appreciable amount since I found myself at 19 stone and yet, all the evidence tells me otherwise - that, if anything, I have been putting on weight faster than ever. I worry I may even be over 21 or 22 stone by now.
I cannot let this state of affairs continue any further. If I cannot convince the residents of Hardy to stop their feeding, if I cannot convince myself to exercise, to curb my own appetite, I will simply have to leave the island.
Even writing this now, I cannot quite convince myself. I feel a strange draw to the island, a perverse pleasure in my growing flesh. I find myself growing panicked when considering leaving, even though I know I must. If nothing else, I must learn more about this strange island I have begun to think of as home.
Sunday, 22nd January
Where are all the other Boar Kings?
It is a foolish question perhaps - the Boar Kings can hardly be missed. But there are six. Six. Six men from a yearly tradition. There is a line of photos at The Boar and Suckling Pig, going back before the first world war, and I’ve determined that the group of overswollen, overfed men are all that remains on the island of the collection. You wouldn’t expect all of them to still be about, but still, six. What has happened to the rest of them? The last one? They can’t all have left the island. What will happen-
Entry interrupted.
Wednesday, 1st February
An opportunity for information came today. I have attempted to ask questions to residents in the Boar and as they come to my practice, but none have been forthcoming; I receive the same vague explanations of fertile soil, clean sea air and a culture of hospitality.
Today, Edward Hartnell came to see me at my practice with a complaint about a rash on his arm. Hartnell is one of the small (in number at least) group of fat men that populate the island; by my reckoning the youngest, barely out of his twenties, but by no means the smallest. He seemed to fill my office; when he sat his gut reached out to his knees, when he stood the whole space seemed to darken.
I checked his rash, a minor thing from some reaction to some plant or other; I gave him some ointment, and then convinced him to stay for a check-up.
“Never needed a check-up before,” he grumbled when I brought it up.
“Well, better to be safe than sorry,” I said. “Particularly for a man of your size.” I offered him one of the scones from the heaping plate that Mary had provided me this morning.
“Hmmph.” He eyed me up for a moment. “P’raps,” he conceded with a shrug of his broad, sloping shoulders as he took one of the scones. My stomach lurched as the food left my reach, even though I knew more would be brought before lunch. I hastily picked up my own to cure my cravings.
I did a few cursory tests, barely focussing, noticing far more readily the frequency with which my gut bumped into his, such was the lack of space between the two of us. His heart rate and pressure were on the higher range of normal, but nothing I’d be concerned about for a slimmer patient, no signs of diabetes or high cholesterol, no complaints that Hartnell could report. I lacked scales fit to weigh him, but what would they have told me? That he was monstrously obese? I didn’t need numbers to tell me that.
As I finished up, I decided to push my luck. "I hear you were a Boar King some years back," I said, as nonchalantly as possible.
He gave a small nod in response and looked at me in silence for a while, seeming to appraise me. “How’s it treating you?” he said eventually.
I gestured down at myself. Once again I was beginning to outgrow my new clothes; my shirt clearly outlined my round, soft gut and chest and my trousers dug in at my waist and strained around my thighs. “You can see for yourself,” I said, forcing a small laugh.
He nodded. “Mmm. What is it? February? Aye, you’re making good progress I’d say,” he replied.
I swallowed. Progress towards what, I wondered? I decided to change tact. “You would have been young,” I said. “When you were Boar King. An odd choice, maybe.”
"I can't say I know how that decision gets made myself,” he replied. “Age ‘an’t got much to do with it, far as I can see.”
“Ah, I’d just assumed, I suppose,” I said. “All the others seem my age or older.” He didn’t reply. “And all the other previous Boar Kings? Where are they? Surely there should be more of you, of us, if it's an annual tradition, and not all old men?"
His face grew dark. "I'd say we should be fairly easy to spot, wouldn't you? I take it I've got a clean bill of health then doctor?" He stood. "If that's all."
He left the room, taking his time at the door to rotate his grand body and position himself carefully, so that he could fit through. Still, I noticed that his sides brushed the frame. Is that my fate? Doomed to not even fit into my own doctor's surgery? How long do I have until that point?
I ate the remaining scones quickly, out of nervous compulsion. I called Annabelle through, checked I had no more appointments for the morning and left to collect some more food to tide me over.
Friday, 3rd February
I am sat in the Boar and Suckling Pig, grazing on a huge plate of sandwiches after my second dinner and supping my seventh or eighth pint of ale. While I am always aware of my growing capacity, I occasionally take note of just how much I’ve managed to eat and am genuinely shocked.
John Baker came to sit with me for a while as I ate. I’m continually impressed by the ability of some of the furniture to handle such weights, but despite some groans and creaks from the chair, it held up admirably.
“Had a chat with Ed earlier,” John said.
“Ed?” I repeated between bites of lamb chop.
“Hartnell,” he clarified. “Came to see you the other day.”
My eyes widened. I’d hoped my questioning wouldn’t get followed up. I hastily wiped my mouth. “Ah, yes,” I said, my voice shaking a little. “I just thought he could tell me a little about this whole King Boar thing.” I gestured feebly down at my body by way of explanation.
John laughed, a great booming sound that sent his flesh wobbling. “I’m sure it all seems a little odd from an outside perspective!” he said. “It’s all just a silly little tradition really.”
“Well, I’m about the effect of that silly little tradition on my body,” I said, sounding braver than I felt.
“Oh, it’s nothing really!” John insisted. “We just like to make sure the King is well fed.” He leaned over and took a slice of bread, thick with butter, off my side plate. My stomach lurched at the lost food. “I could have a word, get everyone to cut down on the food a little?” he asked.
I shook my head urgently and could feel my developing double chin shake a little with the motion. “No, no,” I said. “I’ll be fine. Just all a little odd.” I looked around and leaned in as best as I could with my stomach pressed against the table. “There’s some other effects as well,” I said quietly.
John laughed again. “Fine food and good air will do that to you!” he said. “A lot of people find they’re a lot healthier once they get to Hardy.”
“People move here often then?” I asked, jumping on the comment. The bar seemed to quieten, just a touch and John’s smile faltered just a little.
“Often enough,” John replied curtly. “Not a lot of people choose to move to a little island like this.
“What about people leaving?” I asked. “I’ve not met the Boar King before me, or heard much about the previous doctor.” I could feel eyes on me from around the room. I nervously shovelled food into my mouth.
“Aye, they both left alright,” John said. He heaved himself to a standing position, the strain evident on his face. “You enjoy all those other little effects, eh?” he clapped his hand on my shoulder as he passed and I saw him go speak to a group of other men, Edward Hartnell and another previous Boar King amongst them. Shortly after Lynn Baker brought me a sticky toffee pudding for dessert.
The ‘other effects’ I’d mentioned to John continue unabated. I now have chest hair spilling out of the top of my shirts, and between gaping shirt buttons; I have chosen to stop shaving, and where once I could only grow a few hairs I now have a thick and full beard; my knee is almost completely pain free, and indeed I am shocked it can withstand my increased weight at all; finally, my genitals, could I see them over my gut anymore, seem positively huge, although the length of my penis has somewhat shrunk recently with fat above beginning to engulf it.
Perhaps he is right. I should just enjoy this strange transformation, as much as I can. Indeed, it seems I have little choice in whether it continues.
Sunday, 5th February
I have made a terrible mistake.
I finished up at the Boar on Friday after a few more pints, my stomach bloated and swaying. A few villagers bid me goodbye and patted my gut; not an especially notable thing, they often do so, almost for luck. As I slowly made my way on the short walk to my house I noticed a gravy stain down my shirt and onto the shelf of my gut. So preoccupied was I with the stain that I barely noticed that my front door was slightly ajar; I suppose I thought either Mary or Annabelle had left it open when they left for the day.
I walked up the stairs, unbuttoning my soiled shirt as I went, the stairs creaking alarmingly under my weight. As I reached my bedroom, I was met with a young woman, stood stark naked in the middle of the room. I yelped out in shock and jumped, setting the furniture shaking as I landed.
She was pretty, as women go. Slim, blonde, pert breasts, wide hips. All things I understand that most men enjoy but that do nothing for me.
I spluttered and stammered for a while, my hands gripping my shirt where I had been unbuttoning it, my head firmly turned away.
“No need to be nervous,” she said, moving towards me and putting her hands on my chest, her fingers swirling through the hair there. I backed away into the wall. I realised as she spoke that I recognised her; it was Lucy, the young woman who had served me cake at the vicarage a couple of months prior.
“What are you doing here?” I managed to ask eventually.
“Some people said you were a little upset about being the Boar King. Asking questions,” she said. “They thought I could come help calm you a little.” She once again placed her hands on my chest. They were cold. I tried to back away but was already against the wall, so I gently moved her hands away. “There’s no need to worry,” she said smiling. “No one will say anything, and you’ve prescribed me the pill yourself, so you know there’s no risk.” She’d been to see me a few weeks ago to ask about going on the contraceptive pill; I’d noted at the time how unembarrassed she was in the asking, as she explained that she was seeing young James Eccleston, the butcher’s son, a handsome man with a pleasant round face and lean limbs.
“What about James?” I asked. “It sounded like you were getting quite serious.”
She waved her hand. “He doesn’t mind!” she insisted. “Not for the Boar King.” She traced her nails along the arc of my sides. I shivered and darted around her, as much as I can dart at all these days. She followed me.
“You’re very pretty,” I explained.
“Thank you sir,” she responded.
“I’m just not very interested,” I said as gently as I could. “Please put some clothes on.”
“Oh!” she said with a smile. “Do you prefer dark hair? Or perhaps someone your own age?”
I shook my head. “No, no, please, you don’t understand,” I begged. “There’s been some misunderstanding. There’s no need for anyone to come to me. I’m perfectly happy. I’m sorry I was asking so many questions, really. I’m very happy being the Boar King.”
“The island provides the King Boar with whatever he wishes,” Lucy replied with a gentle smile. “I can come tomorrow with some of the other girls and you can choose from us all then.”
“No, no, really. No girls!” I protested. “I’m not interested in anything from any girls. Please. Please leave.”
“Oh.” Lucy said simply. Her head tilted to the side, and a small smile spread across her face. “Maybe one of the boys from the village then?”
“No, sorry Lucy, no.” My heart dropped. “Sorry, I didn’t mean that. No. It’s more that I don’t often sleep with women.” Bile began to rise in my throat. “But of course I like women!” I insisted. “If I were to sleep with someone, it would of course be a woman.”
“That’s alright sir,” Lucy said calmly. “We’ve got some of those types. I’ll ask one of them to come.” She turned around and began to collect her clothes, putting them on casually, as if she hadn’t been naked and propositioning me moments before, as if she hadn’t just accused me of being a poof.
“Lucy please, you don’t understand.” I followed her out of the room.
“We just hadn’t realised you were one of those types sir,” she said. She looked back with a smile as she did up her cardigan. “I wouldn’t have come otherwise.” She walked down the stairs and I lumbered after.
“Please Lucy,” I insisted. “You can’t tell anyone, please, you mustn’t.”
“Have a good evening sir,” she said, before leaving and closing the front door. I sunk down to sit on the steps and put my head in my hands.
What have I done? How did I let myself be so foolish? After everything I went through in London, having to leave in disgrace like that? My life could have been ruined then, and I had to escape to an island in the arse end of nowhere to try and put it back together. Where can I go now? Where else is there beyond the edge of the world?
I’ve not left my room all weekend, just panicked and worried. Mary’s been bringing me food which I’ve been dutifully eating. Perhaps she’s picked up on my mood because the stream of food seems faster than ever. Perhaps she’s heard, and she’s trying to empty out her larder before I’m kicked off of the island.
Tuesday, 7th February
It seems I may have overreacted. Yesterday morning I forced myself to bathe, get dressed, and make my way down to my surgery. As I walked past Annabelle, she greeted me in her usual manner, which I returned.
As I squeezed myself past her however, she piped up nonchalantly. “Lucy, down at the vicarage, mentioned that she thought she might have left her stockings in your room.”
I choked. “What? No, I wouldnt- How would it have-”
“Oh, don’t worry Dr Davison, she explained it all,” Annabelle said with a cheery smile. “No one’s fussed.”
I struggled to respond, and chose to silently bundle myself into my office instead. I collapsed down into my chair, earning a particularly ominous creak. It was best not to say anything at all, I resolved. Maybe Lucy hadn’t said anything, beyond that she’d come to my room and I’d turned her away. Maybe she’d not even told people I’d rejected her advances. It is, I suppose, better to let everyone assume I’m some filthy old pervert than it is to let them know the truth.
I went about my day as best I could. I used to be unable to eat at all when I was nervous or stressed; I remember I once went a week during a particularly stressful Michaelmas term at medical school having only eaten a few grapes a day. These days, nerves seem to increase my appetite.
Eventually after a day of dropping sauces on patient records, getting crumbs all in the medicines store, and belching in poor Mrs Kettleham’s face while I checked a mole for her, I forced myself out and to the Boar and Suckling Pig. The only comments made were asking where I’d been - a bad chill, I told them. I chatted to John and Lynn for a bit while I ate beef ribs, and played a spot of darts with some of the farmers.
I walked home after seven pints, congratulating myself on my restraint. I opened my front door, popped into the kitchen to pick up a plate of homemade biscuits that Mary had left for me, and then made my way upstairs.
Jack Baker was lying on my bed waiting for me. He was fully naked, fully erect, fully gorgeous. He was laid as if he belonged there, one arm behind his head revealing a tuft of golden brown armpit here, a trail of soft hair leading down to a golden brown forest of pubes, one leg raised bent, his long thick cock leaning against it, as if to frame it.
I stared for a moment, before reminding myself to look away. “What are you doing here Jack?” I stole another glance. His face had a lazy half smile on it.
“Lucy said I should pop by,” he explained casually. “That she wasn’t really your thing, and that maybe I’d be more up your alley.” He laughed quietly to himself. “Or that maybe you’ll be up mine, eh? Plenty of time to figure that out later.”
I turned back to look at him. My own erection was growing. “What do you mean Jack?”
He stood up and walked towards me, his cock leading the way and bouncing with each step. “You know what I mean James,” he said simply. He took the plate of biscuits out of my hands and placed it on my dresser.
“We can’t,” I said as he approached. He began to unbutton my shirt. “It’s illegal.”
Jack laughed. “God James, really?” he said. “I didn’t think you’d go in for all that.” Shirt fully unbuttoned, he tugged hard to pull my shirt tails out of my trousers. “We certainly don’t on Hardy.”
“But, but-” I stammered.
“But nothing James,” Jack said. He lifted a biscuit from the plate and raised it to my lips. “Do you want this? Do you want me?”
I bit the biscuit, looked him up and down, nodded. He grinned and knelt down in front of me. I felt him lift my gut, and struggle to unbutton my trousers, a struggle I am only too familiar with myself. When he finally managed to get them undone, he let them fall to my ankles along with my briefs, and he whispered “your majesty” before I felt his lips close over me.
He brought me to a finish before guiding me over to the bed, where he entered me as he fed me the plate of biscuits.
He’s asleep upstairs as I write this and eat breakfast. Mary made some oblique comment about the bedding, but nothing more.
Sunday, March 4th
Life has been all but idyllic these past few weeks with Jack. He has spent each night with me, and during weekends most of the day. I finish my practice for the day, eat my first dinner, go over to the Boar where Jack’s parents seem perfectly happy with the arrangement, and I waddle back to my house where Jack waits for me, deliciously sweaty from a day in the orchards, and feeds me all night as he buggers me, or less often, while I bugger him.
My growth has, of course, continued unabated. I worry that it may in fact have even sped up; whereas previously my constant gorging had been contained to the day, now Jack has introduced food to the bedroom, feeding me until I fall asleep and then waking me up with food pressed against my lips.
My exact weight is as mysterious as ever, but I would be surprised if I am not well over 25 stone - I cannot be sure of a precise number. I have not yet dared suffer the indignity of making use of the heavy duty scales by the dock used by fishermen for their catch and the ex-Boar Kings for their weights. Fat cascades off each part of my body; my limbs, my chest, my face. My belly, once so firm and spherical, now droops down, so that Jack has to lift it to access me in the night. I am surprised by how cold it all is; while I am certainly well insulated, while touching my soft fat itself my fingers are met with a soft dough cold as a cellar. I have taken to approaching furniture gingerly, as I’ve seen the other Boar Kings doing, as I can keenly feel the wood strain beneath me. Jean Whittaker has just made one of her, by now, many clothes deliveries, and so for now my clothes permit me some comfort, although Jack has asked me to wear some of my old clothes to show off my corpulence to him.
Despite my increasing girth, I find myself less concerned. While, yes, it is unexplained, the people of Hardy genuinely seem to mean me no harm, and at least I am made comfortable as I expand. And as far as I can tell, I remain healthy. No heart concerns, no aching joints, no back issues. I am simply larger.
The spring equinox was last night. Once again my practice was closed, as was much of the island. I spent the day at the Boar, where Jack was working to help his parents during the holiday. He made sure to bring me a stream of food and ale as I sat. I protested weakly, knowing how much I would be made to eat later, but ultimately consumed everything he brought to me.
A little after 5 o’clock, some villagers brought the cloak and crown of the Boar King. By God, I remember when I first wore that blasted cloak and it draped over me like a curtain; now it sits perfectly across my wider back and shoulders. I was led out of the pub and to a decorated wagon, pulled by a clydesdale. Plates of food were passed to me. The rest of the village followed along singing as I was pulled along, with the previous Boar Kings carried in two larger, plainer wagons pulled by two clydesdales apiece.
The journey took longer than I was expecting, striking straight across the island and away from the coast. I resolved to take in the views and try and not think about the odd ceremony which was to come. The land sloped up gently towards the a large hill at the centre of the island; for the first time since my arrival I could see some kind of structure at the top, which as we approached resolved into some standing stones; it seems as if it was only the central circle of some larger complex of stones, as we passed other huge stones as we climbed the hill. I twisted my body as far as it allowed to get better views, trying to discern if some seemed to be the types of burial cairns I’d seen before in the West country and Wales. It made for quite the haunting setting, surrounded as I was by a procession of masked people.
Our destination was the stone circle at the top of the hill itself. From up close, the stones seemed huge, over twice the height of a tall man. Just outside the circle, tables were set up with food piled up on them. I was led to my seat at the head of the table as the sun touched the horizon, and light streamed between the stones to where I was seated between long shadows.
“My fellow people of Hardy!” Father Troughton boomed. “The dark winter has passed, and bright summer beckons! Once again, Hardy has provided for us, sustained us, protected us. We come here to give thanks, and ask once more for Hardy to share with us its bounty, as we share our bounty with its King Boar.” He picked up a heavy earthen jug, and I braced myself, remembering the cider being poured over me last time. Instead Troughton walked past me, to the stones behind, and poured it at the base of the westernmost one with the setting sun framing it.
As before, I became ravenous. While my hunger has become prodigious, even I was astonished by how much I ate, how much I wanted to eat. I started off grabbing anything and everything I could reach and shovelling it into my mouth with my bare hands, hardly noticing the taste, hardly giving myself chance to chew. Jack was there, making sure food was always in easy reach, until my stomach became too stuffed and I slumped back, when he started feeding me food directly. At one point he picked up a jug of gravy and poured it directly into my mouth.
My clothes became tight. My swelling stomach rose above me as it filled with food. In return my shirt buttons strained and then broke, and I asked Jack between mouthfuls to undo my belt and trousers. I could barely stand my hunger during the brief pause while he struggled with my heavy gut, until an old man pressed some meat into my hands which I tore into. By the time I was finished, even my shirt sleeves and trouser legs felt tighter.
It grew dark and I carried on eating. Fires were lit in the stone circle and in braziers along the table. In the flickering light the piles of food slowly dwindled and then finally was finished. Jack approached me holding a single perfect golden apple. He slid a finger under my chin and played with the fat there for a moment before raising my head up.
"Oh great King Boar," he said quietly, so that only I could hear him. "I present to you this offering from the orchards. May your reign be bountiful." He pushed the apple into my mouth and I bit down, staring into Jack’s eyes as its juices rolled down my chins and neck.
Almost immediately everyone there seemed to jump to action, clearing away dirty plates and the tables and chairs, loading them onto carts stood just outside the circle. Jack called some men over who helped to heave me to my feet. “Those clothes must be uncomfortable,” he told me, running a hand along my side before grabbing my shirt and beginning to remove it. I shook my head but he continued stripping me, until I was dressed only in my underwear and cloak and crown. The men helped me into the decorated wagon, two men in front pulling on my arms and two men behind me pushing my rear from behind. Jack covered me with some blankets and kissed me on the lips, before taking the reins and driving the wagon back down the hill.
When we made it back to the village, Jack led me upstairs, and laid me in bed. He took me in his hand and pleasured me as I fell asleep. I felt his stubble against my ear as he whispered to me. “You did well tonight,” he told me. “Your majesty.”
Fragment
- has suggested I reduce my hours at the practice. I’m a little indignant at the suggestion, but see the sense in it; Annabelle handles most of the few patients we get ably, and I can’t deny that my work has become cumbersome with my added weight.
Still, I worry about his motives behind the suggestion, and even more I worry that it will just leave me with even more time to idle about stuffing-
Entry interrupted
Saturday, April 15th
While I have become used to the temperate climes of Hardy, it has been surprisingly warm these past couple of weeks. Jack has assured me it is barely warmer than any spring he can remember though, and has suggested that perhaps I am feeling the effects of being covered in a thick layer of insulation - it is difficult to argue with him.
Nonetheless, he suggested a swimming trip today to cool me down and packed me into the back of the Land Rover he uses for work along with three full picnic hampers. With the village being so self-contained, I’ve not had any need to sit in any vehicle since coming to Hardy, with the exception of the wagon during the spring equinox, which was of course much slower. My entire body rocked and wobbled as the car drove down country lanes, no part of me able to stay still. By the time we arrived, my whole body felt sore, having been shaken with such force. Jack, of course, had barely noticed anything.
We eventually arrived at a natural cove to the north west of the island. Jack hopped out and opened my door for me, helping me down. The path down to the cove was easy; a shallow slope along some rocks. Even this I struggled with, not being able to see my feet; each time I lost my footing, my entire body shook. I dread to think what would happen if I fell at my current weight. I am grateful at how well my knee has healed.
The cove was small, no more than 100 yards across. A couple of rowboats were secured under an overhang of a cliff on one side, and the entire thing faced a nearby island a mile or two away. “It’s uninhabited,” Jack explained. “Just a few men manning the lighthouse, see.” He pointed the tower out towards the south.
After Jack fed me the contents of the first picnic hamper, he tried to convince me to swim. I tried to protest, I really did, but it’s almost impossible to say no to him once he flashes that smile and starts to take off his clothes. A part of me knows this is all only because he’s fulfilling some perceived duty to the island and the Boar King, but.. Well, but in the moment it’s difficult to remember. And if he’s acting, well he’s a bloody good one, by my reckoning! And that cock, god, that thick, beautiful cock, more often than not hard as oak - is that lying too?
Swimming is an odd proposition at this size; not unpleasant to be sure, but odd. It’s the first time in months that I’ve felt light in any way, and all my new fat brings a tremendous buoyancy, while the added momentum made it difficult to swim - each movement fights against inertia, each limb moved almost independently of the fat encasing it, my gut pulled against the motion of my torso.
I couldn’t help but think back, suddenly, to that first dream I’d had my first night on Hardy - of a great boar chasing me into the sea, and how it devoured me whole before I woke up.
As we left, I made a silent note of the route back to the cove, the rowboats kept to one side, and the small island tantalisingly close. I fear the island is preparing to swallow me whole.
Tuesday, April 18th
Annabelle, I decided, was my best chance at finding out more information, and gaining an ally. My nurse and I have grown close over the months, and I’ve grown to trust her, as I hope she has me. More than that though, I know she’s not local to Hardy - she grew up on one of the nearby islands, and did her training in Canterbury. She, like me, is here to do a job, no more and no less.
I waited until after Mary came to collect my plates after lunch - in part because I knew we were unlikely to be interrupted by someone delivering yet more food, and in part, I am ashamed to say, because I knew I would be less distracted by hunger.
“The last doctor,” I started casually. “What was it? Patridge, Portland-”
“Dr Pertwee,” she replied, pausing in writing up a supply order. We were running low on antibiotics.
“Pertwee, Pertwee, that was it.” I tried to sound nonchalant. “Did he help you with this? Managing stocks, ordering, you know.”
“No,” Annabelle replied, her voice growing a little terse. “I’ve never known a doctor to. It’s a nurse’s job. Is there some problem? I wasn’t aware I’d-”
“Not at all! Not at all! You’ve not done anything wrong” I hastily interrupted. “I just wanted to check I wasn’t increasing your workload. You do so much around here and a chap at my old practice used to do his own stocks, that’s all. Didn’t want to assume anything.” My voice was growing meek, my plan falling apart.
“This was in London was it?” Annabelle asked.
I smiled. She seemed perfectly happy to continue the conversation. “London, that’s right. Highgate.” She gave a small hum in reply, but no more. I let the room fall into silence for a while.
“He was the old Boar King, wasn’t he?” I asked eventually.
Her head snapped towards me. “Who said that?”
I shrugged. “Someone down the pub,” I bluffed. “Lynn, maybe.”
“What difference does it make?” Annabelle asked.
“None really. Just curious.” The atmosphere in the room was growing icy. “Is that why he left Hardy?” I asked. “Didn’t enjoy the whole thing?” I was pushing my luck, I knew.
“He wasn’t well suited to the island,” came the reply. I’d heard it before.
“But where is he now?” I pressed.
“He wasn’t well suited to the island,” Annabelle repeated, icily.
Recognising my mistake, I made my excuses and left to go find a snack.
Fragment
- smallest of all the previous Boar Kings, to be sure, but still, I’m shocked I’m bigger than him. How much does he weight? 30 stone? No, he can’t be. I can’t be. But I know I am. I’m just so big now.
For the past few of weeks since I made my enquiries with Anabelle, the islanders have grown frosty towards me. Even Jack, attentive as he is, seems less affectionate, more controlling.
This is the final straw though. This has all gone too far. I should never have let myself get so enormous. I’m leaving tonight.
Thursday, May 25th
It was foolish to try, I suppose. Even at the peak of my fitness I doubt I’d have managed it.
I convinced Jack I needed to do some paperwork for the surgery, and sent him off to the pub without me; he and Mary made sure I was well supplied with food before leaving. Once they’d gone, I struggled to put my shoes on, collected the few supplies I’d gathered (a torch, a blanket, some food and a change of clothes) and crept out to Jack’s land rover parked just outside. I made my way to the cove he’d taken me to and stumbled my way down to the rowboats, and dragged one out to the shore.
Climbing into the boat was my first sign I’d not thought my daring escape through well enough; it tipped precariously as I got in, almost capsizing entirely. While it was built to hold multiple people, and I thankfully am still only worth no more than three, I represented those three people all stepping into the boat all at once. I fell in and braced myself as it rocked. Once it had settled, I dragged myself over to one of the benches, took up the oars, and began to row.
While I am significantly less mobile than I once was, my strange transformation has left me strong and robust. I found I could row for quite some time, and made good progress. Every so often I would strain to turn around and check I was still headed roughly for the dim outline of the island opposite and the flashing light of the lighthouse there. I was thankful that the weather remained calm and that the moon was near full.
I got close. I got so close. Another twenty minutes perhaps, and I’d have gotten ashore, and from there I could have gotten to the lighthouse and got help. Perhaps it wouldn’t have mattered. Perhaps the lighthouse keepers would be in on it too.
I was picked up by one of the local fishing vessels and taken back to the island, and my house.
Mary laid out breakfast as usual, and Jack appeared halfway through and gave me a kiss on the cheek as if nothing happened. No questions about his land rover, no comment on my lie last night. No-one has said anything; not Annabelle, no-one at the Boar, not a single person has so much as acknowledged their King Boar getting picked up out at sea.
They don’t trust me now though. I’m being supervised, escorted from place to place. They’re coming up with reasons of course; Annabelle following me as I moved from room to room during the day, Mary walking me to the Boar saying she needed to pick something up from Lynn, Jack walking back with me arm-in-arm. I am being babysat. I will not be allowed to try and leave again.
The documents contained in this collection came into the possession of the British Museum of the Occult and Esoteric as part of a bequeathment from the estate of legendary collector of paranormal artefacts, Agnes Thredwell, to whom the museum expresses its deep and eternal gratitude.
Presented here are transcripts of unbound pages from the diary of Dr James Davison covering the period of September 1966 to September 1967. As the pages are not bound, and due to what appears to be water damage, there are large gaps between entries in places and some entries are incomplete; the museum presents the pages in the order kept by Ms Thredwell. For readability, Dr Davison's medical notes and sundry other notes have been omitted. Viewings of the original pages in full are available upon request.
It is not clear how Ms Thredwell came into possession of the pages (as is the case of so much of her collection) nor are the documents' veracity clear. While many details of Dr Davison's existence up to the late summer of 1966 can be confirmed, many of the other people and even places detailed within cannot be traced with any certainty. Whether this is because the diary and related documents are a work of fiction, or because they have been edited to maintain anonymity, is unknown.
Fragment
- said he would call the police. I pleaded with him, told him my life would be ruined. He demanded money for his silence, more than I can afford to pay. I will have to-
Entry interrupted
Thursday, September 22nd
Tomorrow will mark my first day in my new home - Hardy, a small island in the Channel, not much more than a modest village and a collection of farms and fishermen, with a population of 150 or so. Despite its size, Hardy is quite prosperous in its own way, and something of a hub of agriculture, providing the few nearby islands with much of their fruit and veg and even sending some to the mainland. This is thanks to its somewhat anomalously warm climate - when I asked some locals at the inn I’m staying for the evening, answers came as either hand-waved explanations about peculiarities in ocean currents or ominous warnings about local legends and pagan gods. The latter was met with a chorus of good-hearted laughter but I noticed a few patrons avoiding my eyes.
After the events of this summer, I hurried to find a posting - Hardy had done without a doctor for some few weeks, and I required a new start, as far away as I could manage. It promises to be a change from the life I have come accustomed to in London, but a welcome one perhaps; regardless, I did not have much say in the matter.
I ate lightly - some chicken, cabbage and a few mouthfuls of new potatoes - and went to bed early. In truth, I’ve never been much of a seafarer, and I’m nervous about how I will cope with the ferry tomorrow morning. I’m due to arrive a little after noon.
Saturday, September 24th
I’m glad to say that I survived the ferry (no more than a fisherman’s skiff, in truth), with my dignity intact. As we approached the shore, I noticed a shift in the weather - the wind died down, the temperature creeped ever so slightly up, even the clouds seemed to part. I remarked on this to the ferry captain, who avoided my gaze and grumbled. By the time we reached the small dock, I’d felt the need to remove my jumper.
I expected a small greeting party when I arrived on Hardy, but it seems that the whole island turned up! I had arrived during the island's autumn equinox harvest festival, which it seems is quite the event in these parts. As a new resident to the island on this auspicious day, I was hailed as the guest of honour - rather gratifying, I must say. I wonder if these harvest celebrations were the source of the murmurings about pagan worship - not so surprising for an island that relies on farming for its wealth.
The young children of the island, led by a young woman (the school teacher, I presume), placed a crown made of apples, wheat sheafs and root vegetables onto my head, and danced around me like a maypole. Some strapping young men appeared and snapped up my luggage (thankfully to my lodgings, it seems!) and then I was led in a procession away from the small harbour and down the coast. I turned back to call my thanks to the ferry captain, but saw that he had already set off again.
I quickly forgot the odd manners of the ferry captain on the walk. The children continued to dance around me, and even some older residents joined in, singing folk songs I wasn’t familiar with - all about fields and crops, cider and ale, apples and pigs. Some of them drank messily from tankards, some gathered in small laughing groups, young couples hung at the back or lurked amongst the trees for privacy. After a short while, my bad knee began to give me grief. The path was paved, but roughly so, and it began to climb. I enquired how much further it was to go, and a woman assured me we were nearly there. I gritted my teeth against the building ache.
It was only while speaking to this woman that I noticed that people had begun to don masks - rough masks hewn from wood, or stitched from scraps of cloth, or moulded out of papier mache. Some were fashioned into the shape of leaves, or flowers, a few of livestock; one wooden mask was painted with a rather charming landscape, eyes peering out from the horizon.
Finally we reached a small clearing in some trees, where some tables and chairs were set up with a veritable feast atop. I was directed to a chair in the middle of a long table, where I gratefully collapsed, rubbing my aching knee. I realised that my assumption earlier was wrong - the whole island hadn’t come to meet me. Where I was sat, I was flanked by half a dozen men - each was huge, easily over twenty-five stone - perhaps more. I marveled - I don’t think I’d ever seen one man of such a size as even the smallest of the men, while the largest - I staggered to think of his weight. Thirty stone? Thirty five? My mind couldn’t wrap itself around the scale of them. Each seemed to overflow the large oaken chairs that seemed specially made to support men of such stature - I myself was placed in such a chair, and felt like a child between the arms further apart than my elbows could comfortably rest.
Other smaller tables were dotted around, and everyone began to take their seats. "We have once again reached this equinox on our fine isle, my friends!" The vicar's voice came suddenly from behind me, causing me to jump. "Another year in which this rock, so precariously perched in the ocean, has cared for us as its children. Another bountiful harvest, provided by our hard work and the soil to which we owe so much." His voice was deep, crisp and loud. This was met with cheers and cries of "here! here!" around the tables.
The vicar spread his arms out, so that I could see them in my peripheral vision, and continued. "And here we have welcomed our Boar King for this year!" Loud cheers erupted around me. "Newly arrived to this isle, but no less welcome for that fact. King Boar, your majesty, may your health be the health of the island!" With that the vicar moved around me to pick up a large clay jug of what appeared to be cider from the table in front of me. He bowed to me briefly, before turning away and pouring the entire jug at the roots of an apple tree behind me, by far the largest tree in the small copse, its bows shading me. With that, music started up and the crowd burst into conversation and laughter. The vicar gave me a small smile and moved to his seat.
I sat dumbfounded. Had it not been for the vicar's dog collar and black clerical shirt, I'd have sworn I had just witnessed some pagan ceremony. My shock must have been clear to see on my face because one of the men - the one to my immediate left, a man with a dense beard and a circumference surely measured in yards - leaned over and spoke as he picked up a chicken leg.
"I'm sure a lot of our customs must seem strange to you," he said, his mouth full of food, his large chin wobbling as he spoke. He smelt of apples and honey. "There's a lot goes on in these isles that goes way back, back before even the Romans came to Britain. Traditions are important on a little island like this; all we've got is each other and the land." He introduced himself as John Baker, the landlord at the local pub, The Boar and Suckling Pig, and I gave my name to him. He gave me a queer look, one I couldn't quite place. I can hear his next words now echoing in my head, despite their simpleness.
"You must be hungry, after such a long journey."
At the word 'hungry', I felt the most queer, intense hunger of my life, as if one of Pavlov’s poor dogs. I can't quite account for it, having never been a heavy eater, and usually the stress of travel tends to numb my appetite. But last night I was ravenous. I feel a vestige of that hunger still, and I ate far more of breakfast than I usually would do this morning. I have put it down to the effect of sea air and the unseasonable warmth, although I am somewhat unconvinced with this explanation, even though it is my own.
I fell on the food like a wolf, grabbing food without looking and putting it to my mouth without even putting it on my plate, if I could help it. My school housemistress would have been horrified to see such behaviour from one of her boys, and I felt a small part of my mind attempting to remind me of my manners.
Looking back I feel quite mortified of my actions, but at the time it felt wholly natural, and certainly not out of place with the actions of those around me, particularly the rotund men I shared a table with. Still, I cannot convince myself that anyone else ate quite so much or with quite so much vim as myself.
I drank heavily of the cider from the jug in front of me. Not having much of a sweet tooth, usually the sickly sweetness doesn't hold much appeal, but in my gluttonous state it tasted of ambrosia. I drank tankard after tankard, leaving the inside of my mouth coated in sugar, and my brain pickled in alcohol.
I can distinctly remember the start of the evening; my arrival, the vicar's ritualistic words, the taste of the sumptuous feast. After that, my memory grows hazy, and the evening becomes a jumbled carousel of images in my mind - the sound of cheers as I ate and ate and ate, seemingly without end; the feel of my stomach, distended and full and heavy, even as I reached for more food; an image of a golden apple being plucked from the great tree at the centre of the grove and shoved forcefully in my mouth by a handsome young man.
This last part must have been a dream, but I can't quite shake the image. It doesn't quite make sense to me, and yet it feels in some way in keeping with the rest of the strange evening.
At some point, I must have been helped to my new home, as I awoke in the house that had been arranged for me ahead of time. Odd dreams - I was being chased through fields by some great ferocious boar, running in that odd heavy, slow way that always seems to happen in dreams. Despite running up a hill towards a circle of standing stones, once I passed the first few stones I stumbled and found myself wading chest-deep through the sea. At this point the boar caught me, swallowing me whole, and I awoke. Apt payment for my greed, no doubt.
Miraculously, I am feeling well, with no ill effects from the cider. My stomach however, feels leaden and full, and I decided to forego my traditional morning walk to allow myself to digest. My stomach is still distended even now, an effect I don't think I'd ever see on myself. Despite this, as soon as breakfast was placed in front of me, I found my appetite quickly returned and the plate was empty before I knew it.
As agreed prior to my arrival, the house adjoins my doctor's practice and is fully furnished and, I was surprised to see, with a fully stocked larder, filled to the rafters with food. My belongings had been brought here, and I was surprised to see that my great 'Boar King' crown and cloak had been left, displayed proudly on the coat stand by the door.
I have been provided with a housekeeper, one Mary Tennant, a stern woman who appeared in my house this morning before I even awoke. I informed her I had no need of her services, or the desire to pay for them, but she informed me that she was paid for by the village, and that like it or not she is here to stay. Judging from breakfast, her cooking is top notch and her cleaning is fastidious such that it borders on intrusive, so I am not inclined to kick up a fuss.
As it is a Saturday, I intend to take the weekend to acquaint myself with my new home, before beginning practice proper on Monday. As ever when I make such statements, I expect I will be besieged all of today and tomorrow with ailments, accidents and asks to check rashes, but for now that is my plan. As a start, I will go to The Boar and Suckling Pig, to try and find out who I can return my ill-gotten crown and cape to and more formally introduce myself to my new patients. Hopefully the walk may help to remedy the heaviness I feel in my stomach.
Saturday, October 1st
Despite my worries, my first weekend on Hardy passed without incident or malady. In fact, all week I have had very few patients for anything but routine practice. Some elderly patients with mild rheumatism; a diabetic receiving his prescription of insulin; a gentleman my own age who complained of some shrapnel, gained during the second world war, which tended to give him some grief with the changing of the seasons - I gave him some topical and general analgesics and suggested some simple exercises I use with my own knee, a similar shrapnel injury. The most dramatic thing to have happened was a teenager who had sprained his ankle during a game of football.
I am aided, such as it is needed, by my practice nurse, Annabelle McCoy. A young girl, but capable and resourceful. I understand she all but ran the practice between my predecessor leaving and my arrival. I must find her more responsibilities and opportunities, if she is open to them; a young woman of her talents is wasted in such a small and healthy community.
In fact, most of the residents of Hardy seem to be of the utmost physical condition. Even my elderly patients seem to come to me only as a matter of course, and those few with long-standing medical conditions manage them well and without detriment to their lifestyle or wellbeing. Indeed, I have noticed that all of the residents are slim and fit, with the exception of only the small cabal of men that I noticed on the day of my arrival and at the strange feast. These men seem even larger when encountered during daily life and contrasted with their slimmer counterparts - they are almost monstrously, unbelievably fat. Hardy does not seem to allow for anyone between these two states.
For my sins, I’ve hardly been a paragon of healthy living myself since my arrival. My appetite, always slight, has been stoked by my new home and I seem afflicted by some constant, gnawing hunger. The effect of fresh sea air, I expect, and of the absolutely exquisite local fair. I have been told time and time again by the residents of Hardy that the island's produce is some of the best I will find, and I have not yet met with evidence to the contrary. They all credit the quality of the soil, the expertise of the men and women who work the land, the blessings of the land and the sea. I’ve so far been finding it difficult to resist trying everything placed in front of me. Alas, this is not helped by the warm welcome I’ve received - everyone I meet seems determined to feed me up and to make sure I sample all of the food the island has to offer - several of my patients have even brought food to their appointments for me to eat!
The worst culprit by far has been Mary, my housekeeper. I have asked her several times to provide lighter meals, yet each meal seems larger than the last. I suppose I can’t blame her really, when I find myself finishing each and every bite, even when the last few seem almost torturous. These titanic meals are then bolstered by snacks that seem to appear next to me throughout the day - more worryingly, they seem to disappear just as quickly…
I have tried on several occasions to avoid the constant bombardment of food by retiring to the local pub, the Boar and Suckling Pig. The locals, for all of their insistence of feeding me up, are a friendly bunch, and have welcomed me with open arms; none more so than the landlord and lady, John, the huge boulder of a man I met upon my arrival, and his wife Lynn, a tiny slip of a woman who seems to think I’m about the size of her husband, judging by the rate at which she places sandwiches, pies and a twice whole cheese boards in front of me - seemingly a new plate of food for each pint I drink.
I really must curb these growing habits - my unrelenting appetite, my attraction to the Boar and Suckling Pig. My mother’s chastisements to my father about his growing waistline ring in my ears.
Friday, October 28th
I have returned again and again to The Boar and Suckling Pig, despite my best intentions. Indeed, I am now there more frequently, and now find myself there every night, and at the weekends most of the day. I seem drawn there - I have tried to avoid it, to stay inside, to go for walks in the opposite direction, but I begin to feel some odd tugging in my gut and find myself making some excuse or other to make my way there.
Each night Mary prepares me some great pile of food, usually more than I'd eat in a whole day or even two, always rich and fat-filled, and I laboriously make my way through it. Finally, I sit back, fingers massaging the domed paunch of my stomach that's begun to develop, and I wonder at both my ability and inclination to finish it all. Just as I determine that this will be the last night of such gluttony, Mary will bring out a dessert - a whole tart or cake more often than not, sat in a lake of cream or custard - and any such thoughts will leave my mind.
Then once Mary leaves for the evening, I make my slow, strained way to the Boar, where I find myself downing seven, eight, nine pints of the wonderful locally produced ale, sat in the corner while locals sing folk songs I can never quite place. Each night some handsome farmer or fisherman will take it upon himself to introduce himself to me, buying me pint after pint, encourage me to soak it all up with a stream of snacks from behind the bar, and I inevitably end up swaying home to collapse in my bed and dream of their strong arms around me, their rough beard on my face, their thick cocks up my arse.
One night last week, after my third or fourth pint John Baker waddled up to me and collapsed next to me on one of the sturdier benches that seem to have been installed purely for his use, and for the other few huge men that are his companions.
“How are you finding it all?” he asked, swigging from a flagon of ale.
I chewed a mouthful of pork pie and swallowed heavily. “Everyone’s been very friendly,” I said. “And the island’s very beautiful, although I can’t say I’ve seen too much of it.”
John laughed. “Not the island!” he said. “Being the Boar King!”
The question almost surprised me enough to stop me eating. “The Boar King?” I asked. “All that guff at the harvest feast you mean?”
John looked more than a little affronted by the question. “It’s not just the feast,” he said. “It’s all year - you are the Boar King.”
“Ah, well then,” I said. “I’m not sure I’ve noticed too much. It’s not come up."
John laughed. There was something going on I didn’t quite understand. “It’s quite the honour, you know,” he told me. “I was one myself, the year before me and Lynn got married.”
“Oh,” I said, unsure what to reply. “Congratulations,” I settled on, lamely.
“Why do you think everyone’s been so hospitable?” he asked. “It’s because you’re our Boar King of course!”
I thought back to the treats brought to appointments, to pints bought at the pub. “I just thought everyone was being friendly,” I explained.
“Well we do our best, but you’d be doing well to get a round out of some of these tight buggers usually,” he said. He called over to the bar. “Lynn! Lynn, why don’t you bring me and the doctor some of that shepherd’s pie out? And a couple more pints.”
“I couldn’t,” I protested, as my mouth began to water at the prospect. “I’ve eaten at home, I-” John cut me off with a slap on the back and a hearty laugh, which cut short my reply. “What exactly, is the Boar King, John?” I asked after finishing my pint and starting the next.
“Well it’s like Father Troughton said,” he explained. “As long as you’re the King, your health is the health of the island. We look after you, and the island will look after us.” He said it plainly, as if it were something every schoolboy was taught.
“Something like a May Queen, then?” I asked.
“Something like that, I suppose,” he said after thinking a while. “Except all year long of course.”
“Do I have to do anything? Make a speech or something?”
“Just sit and look pretty!” John said with a laugh. “Don’t you worry, there’ll be a couple of feast days, like at the equinox, and we’ll handle the rest.”
“And you were one?” I carried on with my questioning. “Who else? What about the last one?”
“You see them about,” John shrugged, refusing to be pulled into giving more detail. “Your predecessor didn’t really take to it.
I wanted to ask more, but got distracted by Lynn bringing out two huge turreens of shepherd’s pie. My train of thought was lost as I ate.
Sunday, October 30th
The effect of all this gluttony and sloth are beginning to be seen on my waistline. Always a slender man, I have had to ask Mary to let out my trousers this evening. I have grown familiar with the feeling of too tight clothes, a too full stomach and a stomach rounded out and pushing against my shirts. This is no mere bloat either; genuine fat has marshalled itself around my body - my thighs, my chest, my arse, and most of all at my increasingly heavy belly. My increasing weight is already clearly obvious through my constricting clothes, to anyone who would care to so much as glance at me.
I am writing this entry after dinner (roast pork belly with all the trimmings). Despite all I have written in this entry, despite the painful heaviness in my gut, I know I will soon leave for The Boar and Suckling Pig, where my fattening will continue unabated. I do not know what has come upon me. I do not know if I want to find out.
Fragment
- a third dinner at the Boar - a full roast dinner with a plate of cheese and apple and pear crumble for afters. Despite my increased appetite of late, I surprised even myself with how much I ate this evening. Clearly all this fresh sea air is doing wonders for me. Not so much my waistline though. I really must -
Entry interrupted
Thursday, November 3rd, 1966
I am getting hairier, I'm sure of it. I was first made aware of it last week, when Annabelle asked me whether I'd forgotten to shave as she packed away for the day. I had shaved that morning, as it happened, but it shouldn't have made all that much of a difference - I have only ever been able to grow only the wispiest and thinnest of beards.
As soon as she had gone, I rushed to a mirror. Sure enough, my face was covered with a dark 5 o'clock shadow, something I'd never seen on my own face. I rubbed my hand across my face, revelling in the coarse roughness. It had been a look I'd always admired on other men, and always regretted not being able to attain myself.
In the days since, I've noticed my sudden late on-set hirsutism is not contained merely to my face. Previously, my chest only had a few sparse patches of hair dotted about, with a thin line leading down from my navel. Now, I have thick black hair like wires across my entire chest, and a thick line leading down my newly plush middle, before it fans out below my belly button. Each day I feel I can see the hair on my arms get darker and thicker.
There's been other changes too. A change in my natural odour to a rich, manly musk. It's terrifically erotic, and I've grown accustomed to lifting an arm in private moments and burying my nose into my own pit to take a sniff. My limp, too, ever present for the past 21 years since Berlin, has gotten better. Not completely gone, no, but better, and I'm sure that even the spiderweb scar which marks the epicentre of my injury is fading. The other day I realised as I got into bed that it might have been the first time in two decades I hadn't complained of any pain throughout the day. My sudden recovery is part of a general improvement in my health - I feel stronger, more energetic, in a way I haven't felt since my twenties.
I blush to discuss the final change, even in this private journal. Each night after I stumble back from the Boar and Suckling Pig, and increasingly before I go as well, I've found my hand following the path carved by my new body hair, down, down, down to the now dense thicket of pubes, and gripping my hard cock. I've become positively insatiable of late, needing release multiple times a day. This on its own might be unremarkable, and could be chalked up to the general improved health I have enjoyed recently. No, what is remarkable is what my hand finds. I am now almost certain that my penis, previously perfectly average, has grown. It is difficult to tell, increasingly nestled as it is in my new dense bush of pubic hair, and threatening to be hidden beneath the gathering dome of fat above, but my hand sits differently around it now - the fingers further spaced, my grip wider.
I am enjoying a veritable second puberty in all regards, it seems. While I find it unbelievable, and know that it is medically impossible, I cannot deny the changes are anything but welcome.
My weight has continued to increase along with my sudden hormonal shift. Perhaps the two are linked - the same good living feeding my body in more ways than one. My torso is now covered in a layer of fat, a soft paunch bulging out over my waist.
I regularly resolve to take action against this expansion, but it is in vain. I tell myself that I will eat less, replace fatty meats, heavy breads and potatoes with light vegetables and more fish, but I again and again find myself stuffing myself at the Boar, or after a trip to the bakers, or in my own quarters. I found an old bicycle in a shed in my garden and cleaned it up, but it has since gone unused. I am sure this second issue is down to the geography of the island; almost everything is contained in one neat village, with the rest of the island given over to farms of various kinds. I have no reason to go further than a 15 minute walk, my practice being conveniently located in the centre of the village, and should I wish to explore further I would find very little to interest me.
And so I have remained in the village that I have come to know so well, returning to the same haunts again and again. This usually means the Boar, but I've been invited to a number of houses where I've received, if anything, an even greater stuffing than I've become accustomed to at the pub.
Sunday, November 20th
I've recently discovered a new attraction to the Boar and Suckling Pig, not that I needed any more. I've built up something of a rapport with Lynn and John's son, Jack. An affable young man in his late twenties, he is startlingly handsome. Dark blonde hair atop a face that is all strong features composed of straight lines and with lightly golden skin the colour of fresh grown wheat that seems to almost glow. His blue eyes twinkle with laughter, his perfect jaw is sketched in three confident lines, his arms bulge in his shirts as he pulls a pint, and I have to force myself to turn away when he bends to wipe a table, the curve of his arse presenting itself through tight trousers. In short, I am a middle-aged fool besotted with a man at least fifteen years my junior. I sternly tell myself off each night, remembering my hasty flight from London. I think of him as I wrap my hand around my cock, remembering the events that necessitated that self-same flight.
I spoke to Jack last night during an uncommonly quiet spell at the bar. I flatter myself to think he was being anything other than polite, but I really do think we have a certain frisson, even if it is purely platonic (much to my chagrin). He was telling me about his role as master of the orchards on the island, and how he'd press cider from the apples himself. He passed me some of this year's press, and despite cider not usually being to my taste I could appreciate the mix of sweetness and sharp tang.
"It's quite an important job on the island really," he told me, puffing up his chest proudly; I tried to ignore the small bump of his nipples pressed against his shirtfront. "We grow some of the best apples in the British isles here. It's the soil that does it, see." By now, I had lost track of all the miracles performed by Hardy soil. "But then, you'd know all about our apples, wouldn't you?"
I was struck with a sudden flash of remembering. An apple pushed into my mouth that first night on Hardy. Biting into it so that the sweet, crisp juices filled my mouth and ran down my chin. I can remember so little about that night; could it have been Jack holding that apple? I am beginning to think that I remember his face, but am wise enough to know that this is more likely than not a false memory I have recreated after the fact.
As I left, Jack handed me what he assured me was one of the finest apples of the year, with a peculiar look on his face. As I wrapped my fingers around myself afterwards, I bit into it, remembering that night, remembering Jack's strong hands as he handed it to me, remembering the sharp, heady cider he'd made. I moaned around the apple as I came, my fingers digging deep into the soft lard that is growing at my middle.
Fragment
- convinced that Jack really is paying me special attention, fool that I am. I tell myself that even without this growing gut of mine, he’d never look twice at me, being closer to his dad’s age than his, and not nearly as handsome even in my prime. Still though, I can’t ignore the way he looks at me, the way he sneaks me free pints and snacks, the way he seems to always find some excuse to strike up a conversation. After all, maybe he likes the older man, the fresh swirl of chest hair spilling from my shirts, my stronger arms and thighs, the bulge that is undeniably growing in my-
Entry interrupted
Sunday, December 18th
This morning as I finished my breakfast, an increasingly time-consuming affair, I received a summons to the vicarage, Mary bustling into the dining room holding a small slip of paper. I excused myself from my habitual Sunday amble around the village (how the mighty have fallen! In the space of a few short months I have gone from a daily jog to a weekly amble) and attempted to find suitable attire that would cover my increasing girth.
My recent expansion has focussed mainly on my belly, and it is now a true gut, sitting spherically at my centre, pushing out in every direction and beginning, ever so subtly, to droop. I have taken to wearing a simple shirt during my surgery open hours, having to forgo a tie as I can no longer get the top button closed on any of them, and opting not to wear a jacket to avoid the constant uncomfortable pinch of it on my flesh below my arms. Mary appeared one morning recently with a small hamper of larger clothes, but these too are growing tight. Today, I thought I should dress up for my summons, and took out a tweed jacket inherited from my father that had never fit, being far too large. I now cannot get it closed over my heaving stomach. His old coat too, I had to leave open, my gut now leading the way as I walked through the village. Looking in the mirror, I am shocked to see how much I look like my father - my childhood was filled with my mother chastising him for his weight, and now I seemed to have not just caught him up, but even overtaken him, all in a few short months.
I took the scenic route to the vicarage, attempting to convince myself that the additional five minutes walk could do anything to quell my growth. In truth, I fear it may have merely stoked my appetite. I arrived to find Father Troughton stood outside the vicarage waiting for me, wearing his cassock fresh from Sunday service.
He spread his arms out towards me as I approached, just as he had done that first night. "The Boar King himself, leaving his court to visit the masses." Just as before, his voice was deep, clear and loud, obviously a man who spoke for a living.
I gave a wan smile at his jest. "Well, I’ll trust you where it comes to masses, father,” I said.
He gave a thin smile which didn't reach his eyes. He led me inside to a sitting room, where a young blonde woman poured me a cup of tea and placed a large lemon drizzle cake in front of me, before leaving the room, all in silence. On what is developing into instinct, I picked up a slice of cake.
"I have never seen you come to our Sunday service?" Troughton said, one eyebrow raised. It was phrased as a statement, but clearly posed as a question.
"I'm not a Christian, I'm afraid," I replied honestly.
"Many of my parishioners aren’t I expect," Troughton said dismissively. “In a community like this, ceremony nourishes us as well as any food.”
"I'll have to come along to one," I offered, trying to cover up my seeming faux pas. "Perhaps one of the Christmas services."
He sniffed contemptuously and looked down his long, thin nose at me. "We have far more pressing matters before we come to such frivolous festivities."
I couldn't help but laugh at this. "Surely as vicar, Christmas must be one of the busiest times of the year for you?" I asked.
He waved a hand dismissively. "The island celebrates of course. But what I have asked you here to discuss is our winter solstice celebration."
I tried to hide my confusion at a vicar prioritising a pagan festival over a Christian one. "Ah, well now," I said, picking up my third slice of cake. "I have been told a little about it."
"And what have you been told?" He remained unmoved, perfectly controlled in everything he did or said.
"Well, it's another feast," I said. "And I'll be there in my role 'the Boar King'." This last part I held my hands up and made finger quotes, laughing a little.
Father Troughton's nostrils flared and his eyes widened by a matter of millimeters, but the effect on his face was momentous. The holy man looked like the devil had come upon him. "And what exactly is so funny about your position?"
I was taken aback. "I'm sorry. I meant no offence," I said. "It's simply that it's such a strange custom. I've never seen anything like it. Almost like a May Queen, but a middle aged man instead of a young girl."
"You may find our customs strange, but you would do well to respect them, if you are to last long here on Hardy," he said. His voice was unchanged, still perfectly measured, but somehow now positively dripped with rage. He stood suddenly, and moved to the window.
"I'm sorry," I told his back after I finished my slice of cake and picked up another. "Really I am. I meant no disrespect."
"The health of the Boar King is the health of the island," he said, looking out through the window. "As above, so below; the first principle of alchemy and the most important."
I was taken aback; almost, but not quite, stopping in my chewing of cake. "I wouldn't expect a man of the cloth to speak so casually about alchemy."
He once again sniffed. "Perhaps you wouldn't," he said, his voice still crystal clear, despite being turned away from me. "Some ideas are larger than mere denomination."
"I don't think that Christianity and alchemy can be considered simple denomina-" I started saying, but he cut me off.
"Perhaps I should put it in terms you might understand. In scientific terms, perhaps, doctor?" Troughton took a deep breath and rolled his shoulders a little. "An island is like a living organism. This organism is made up of many parts - cells, tissues, organs. Bone and flesh and blood. Each is useless without the others, and only exists to serve the whole. Hardy is made up of the soil, the trees, the people. All these parts are useless without the others, and so we must all live to serve each other part of the whole as best we can." He turned to me now and moved to loom over my seat. "The Boar King is the beating heart of Hardy." He reached a hand down and placed it over my own heart, his hand pushing into the layer of fat that had accumulated there. I froze with my hand outstretched for another slice of cake. "A healthy heart means a healthy body. You can appreciate that doctor, I'm sure."
I nodded, although I don't think I truly understood all he was saying. I understood his words yes, the ideas he was talking about. But his tone suggested there was far more than I could hope to grasp - were these traditions really so important? My confusion at the man’s intensity was mounting. He took his hand off of me and moved back to the window. I picked up another slice of cake.
"When you arrive at the winter solstice later this month you will perform your duty," he said. "Your duty to the island, to the community, to the organism that is Hardy. The heart will beat. Am I understood?"
"Yes." My voice came out as barely a whisper. I cleared my throat. "Yes," I said, more loudly this time. "Father," I added, thinking it would please him.
He spun around, his face as passive as when he greeted me that morning. "Excellent. Lucy?" he called through to the other room. "You'll pack up the rest of the cake for our guest, won't you?" I looked to the plate of cake to realise it was empty. I opened my mouth to tell Father Troughton so, but the young girl from before, Lucy, came in holding an entire new cake. She placed the plate down in front of me and quickly wrapped it up in muslin. "Don't worry about the plate, we have plenty others," the vicar said. He turned to a desk at this point and started writing on some loose sheets of paper. I took this to mean that I was dismissed, and took my leave.
I have just looked up from my writing to realise that this next cake is also finished, my hands grasping in air. Soon, Mary will call me down for my first dinner. I am shocked at how casually I write these words. "First dinner." As if it is some accepted idea. I suppose, for me, it has become so.
Thursday, December 22nd
I have seen many a man go to seed over the years, both in my personal life and my professional life. I have never seen a man do so as thoroughly, rapidly, or enthusiastically as I am doing so now.
I have grown incrementally larger by inches since my last full entry, in every direction, on every part of my body. My clothes, previously tight, now strain obscenely against my body. The other day I dared to use the scales in my practice - I’d been avoiding them for a while now, fearing their judgement. 19 stone, or thereabouts. 19 stone! I can’t remember how much I weighed in the summer - I’ve been trying to convince myself that perhaps it could have been as much as 14 or 15 stone. Not only is this unlikely, but it doesn’t give much reassurance either way - is over a stone a month really the lowest rate I can hope for? The scale only goes up to 25 stone, and I have been told by John Baker that the truly enormous men of the village use a scale by the docks used to measure the day's catch to weigh themselves. I expect he is joking, but cannot imagine how else they would do so. John tells me he weighs around 40 st! Over 550 lb! I comfort myself that I am not yet weighing myself like so many catches of the day, at least, no matter how preposterously I seem to be expanding.
I am trying to find the time to meet with Jean Whittaker, a woman in the village who makes men's clothes, but every spare moment I am compelled to eat. The moments I muster up the will to do anything other than attend to my practice or my stomach, some villager or other will appear with a tray of freshly baked pork pies, or an entire roast chicken for me to eat. Even as I write this, I am eating a tin of scones provided by some farmer’s wife or other. Mary has prepared them for me with huge dollops of clotted cream and what I believe is two whole jars of strawberry jam across them all.
I am scared. I am scared of the intentions of the islanders, of the dark implications of my role as King Boar, of the vicar's words which still ring in my head, of alchemy and beating hearts. Most of all, I am scared of myself. Why can I not stop myself? Why do I seem to enjoy it so? Why am I willingly walking towards my fate, whatever it may be? The village intends to fatten me like a pig and I am providing them with ample crackling.
Today is the winter solstice, and as such my doctor's practice has closed, although I would likely see only a patient or two regardless. Mary has just called me through to the dining room for lunch. I expect it to last several hours until I am expected to go to the solstice ceremony. Despite myself, and all I have eaten, I am hungry.
I write this is some state of duress, but feel I must make a record of the events of last night.
I collected my great crown and cloak, which I was told would be required for the ceremony, and made my way to the Boar and Suckling Pig. Outside the front, a large crowd of people stood, all in masks, as in September. Father Troughton was closest to me, the only one not wearing a mask. Wordlessly, he took my vestments of office, and motioned for me to turn around. Once done, he placed the crown on my head and cloak on my shoulders. It was only then that I realised that the crown, despite being made of various fruits and flora, is looking as fresh as ever. Perhaps it is varnished, or otherwise preserved? But no, I think that it is not.
Father Troughton started walking ahead, and I followed along, and the parade of people began to sing quietly. Someone passed me some bird leg - goose perhaps? - to snack on, which I did so unthinkingly as I walked. As I finished it, and as the sun began to set, the crowd approached the church, or more specifically, the great long hall that stood behind it; the setting sun was framed by the gap between the two. Despite the warm weather Hardy generally enjoys, I still wouldn't want to sit outside in the December chill.
Inside the hall, tables were laid out in much the same way as they had been during the autumn equinox, with one long table down the middle, and smaller round tables around the outside. I was led to the back of the hall, and seated at the head of the long table, while everyone else quickly found their seats, but remained standing.
As last time, Father Troughton stood and spoke, his voice ringing around the large hall. "People of Hardy! We come here together on the longest night of the year. Others may see only this - the dark, the cold. But we know what is to come! After darkness will come the light, as it always does! And we will be there together again when it comes! We are here by the grace of Hardy, and by the grace of each other!" A cheer filled the room here.
"But of course," Troughton continued, "we are also here by the grace of our Boar King!" Another cheer, louder this time. "His health is the island's health, and may it continue to be so!" As last time, he picked up a large clay jug of cider and walked the length of the table towards me. Unlike last time, there were no trees in the hall to make his libations to, so instead when he reached me, he gripped the back of my head with one strong hand like a claw and tipped it back, and poured the jug into my upturned mouth.
I was so shocked that at first I didn't move, simply focussing on swallowing so as not to choke as liquid spilled across my chin and down my chest. As the flow continued, I gathered enough of my wits to resist, but at the first sign of struggle I heard Troughton call for others, and strong arms fastened around my arms and at my jaw, holding me still. I worried about breathing, but found I could quite comfortably drink without interruption by breathing through my nose.
The flow finally stopped and Father Troughton walked away without a word, the hands holding me breaking free. I slumped forward, shaking, gasping for breath, holding my tight stomach. I turned to Jack, sat next to me, who was diligently filling my plate. "Last time that was poured on a tree."
Jack merely shrugged. "That was to thank the island for a strong harvest. This is an offering to the Boar King." With this he turned to me. "Eat."
Despite the impossible amounts of cider in my gut, I obeyed. I ate as if I hadn't eaten in weeks. I ate with even more enthusiasm and determination than I had done even in my most impressive of recent feasts. I ate and I ate and I ate, and all the while, Jack brought me food, stroked my shoulders, gave me encouragement. Throughout the evening, islanders of every age came up to me to rub my gut, to run their hands along some part of my body, to grab a chunk of flesh, as if for luck. Each of them appraised me like some farm animal at market, turning to each other and discussing weight, or body shape, or my appetite. Through it all, despite my mind screaming in protest at the absurdity of the situation, I ate.
I sat there for hours, as the hall grew dark and my flesh swelled. At one point, a button fired off my shirt, followed by another, and another, my body collapsing forward to fill the fresh space as each did so. I did not stop eating. At one point, someone reached under my gut to mercifully undo my belt and trousers for me. I did not stop eating. At one point, I stopped feeding myself, and instead simply tipped my head back and allowed others to bring me food, feeding me or once again pouring cider down my throat. I did not stop eating.
The celebration lasted well into the night, possibly into the early morning, and I heard around me the sound of celebration and community. Finally, food stopped being placed into my mouth, and I sat gasping for breath. Slowly I looked down to see that every plate had been cleaned, every morsel of food devoured. I hope that others had eaten, but I cannot honestly be sure.
As I sat, my breathing heavy, my hands slowly massaging my heavy gut, Jack walked up to me holding a golden apple. Despite my fullness, despite all I had eaten, my mouth opened and my cock rose. Jack crouched down in front of me. "Oh great King Boar," he said to me, loud enough for everyone to hear. "I present to you this offering from the orchards. May your reign be bountiful." With that he placed the apple firmly into my mouth, and I bit down, juices escaping down my chin. The hall burst into cheers. Jack held the apple as he fed the rest to me, until only a small core remained, which he placed into a small silk pouch.
With that, the ceremony was over, and the villagers started to file outside. Jack moved to one of my sides and another equally strong young man moved to my other, and they hoisted me up. I tottered on my feet, but stayed upright. Slowly, ever so slowly, they walked me out of the hall, across the village, and into my house.
Once in my bedroom, they placed me down into bed, and Jack turned to the other man, telling him he could go. Gently, being careful of my swollen middle, Jack undressed me. I was sure he must have noticed how erect I was, as my cock's growth has continued along with the rest of my body, and it is now quite impressive. I cannot tell you whether my arousal came from my state of being gorged to my limit, or Jack's administrations. It was probably both.
I am sat now in my study dressed only in my dressing gown, as try as I might, none of my clothes will now fit. I know it is a medical impossibility to grow so much in one night, even to have eaten so much in one night, but I can only trust the evidence of my own eyes. Mary is out fetching me larger clothes. Apparently Jean Whittaker, the village tailor, has been at work producing clothes that "should fit me for a while longer". I asked whether I am expected to outgrow these next set of clothes. Mary did not provide me with an answer, but I know it already.
Mary has left me with an enormous breakfast, filling several plates. Despite my gluttony last night, I expect I shall finish it all.
Sunday, January 1st, 1967
While the feasting of the winter’s solstice beggars belief, my eating has barely let up across the Christmas and New Years period. It seems as if each night a different family has invited me around to sup with them, ignoring my protestations that I had already eaten dinner, ignoring the tautness of my gut, the strain of my new clothes. Previous Christmas feasts, which I once would have considered gluttonous to the extreme, now pale in comparison to even my most customary of meals. This year, while at the Baker’s I swear that I ate a full turkey to myself, more even than John, huge though he is.
This was followed up by New Years at the Boar. I stayed there until the sun rose, all the while eating and drinking; I lost count of the pints somewhere around 20. It didn’t quite match the gluttony of the winter solstice, but I still ate more than I might have once done in a week. The locals sang songs all evening, and I even tried to join in with a few of the ones that have become almost familiar.
My weight gain can no longer be ignored or written off as a result of healthy living and a healthier appetite. Where once my stomach was trim, a huge round gut now reaches out in front of me and bowing out to the sides. My lower body fills any space provided to it; my rear has begun to squeeze uncomfortably between arm chairs, my thighs put other men’s waists to shame. My chest, which I once never thought about, is beginning to develop into true breasts; not quite like a woman’s, but sloping down underneath my arms.
I have not dared weigh myself. I know that I cannot possibly have gained any appreciable amount since I found myself at 19 stone and yet, all the evidence tells me otherwise - that, if anything, I have been putting on weight faster than ever. I worry I may even be over 21 or 22 stone by now.
I cannot let this state of affairs continue any further. If I cannot convince the residents of Hardy to stop their feeding, if I cannot convince myself to exercise, to curb my own appetite, I will simply have to leave the island.
Even writing this now, I cannot quite convince myself. I feel a strange draw to the island, a perverse pleasure in my growing flesh. I find myself growing panicked when considering leaving, even though I know I must. If nothing else, I must learn more about this strange island I have begun to think of as home.
Sunday, 22nd January
Where are all the other Boar Kings?
It is a foolish question perhaps - the Boar Kings can hardly be missed. But there are six. Six. Six men from a yearly tradition. There is a line of photos at The Boar and Suckling Pig, going back before the first world war, and I’ve determined that the group of overswollen, overfed men are all that remains on the island of the collection. You wouldn’t expect all of them to still be about, but still, six. What has happened to the rest of them? The last one? They can’t all have left the island. What will happen-
Entry interrupted.
Wednesday, 1st February
An opportunity for information came today. I have attempted to ask questions to residents in the Boar and as they come to my practice, but none have been forthcoming; I receive the same vague explanations of fertile soil, clean sea air and a culture of hospitality.
Today, Edward Hartnell came to see me at my practice with a complaint about a rash on his arm. Hartnell is one of the small (in number at least) group of fat men that populate the island; by my reckoning the youngest, barely out of his twenties, but by no means the smallest. He seemed to fill my office; when he sat his gut reached out to his knees, when he stood the whole space seemed to darken.
I checked his rash, a minor thing from some reaction to some plant or other; I gave him some ointment, and then convinced him to stay for a check-up.
“Never needed a check-up before,” he grumbled when I brought it up.
“Well, better to be safe than sorry,” I said. “Particularly for a man of your size.” I offered him one of the scones from the heaping plate that Mary had provided me this morning.
“Hmmph.” He eyed me up for a moment. “P’raps,” he conceded with a shrug of his broad, sloping shoulders as he took one of the scones. My stomach lurched as the food left my reach, even though I knew more would be brought before lunch. I hastily picked up my own to cure my cravings.
I did a few cursory tests, barely focussing, noticing far more readily the frequency with which my gut bumped into his, such was the lack of space between the two of us. His heart rate and pressure were on the higher range of normal, but nothing I’d be concerned about for a slimmer patient, no signs of diabetes or high cholesterol, no complaints that Hartnell could report. I lacked scales fit to weigh him, but what would they have told me? That he was monstrously obese? I didn’t need numbers to tell me that.
As I finished up, I decided to push my luck. "I hear you were a Boar King some years back," I said, as nonchalantly as possible.
He gave a small nod in response and looked at me in silence for a while, seeming to appraise me. “How’s it treating you?” he said eventually.
I gestured down at myself. Once again I was beginning to outgrow my new clothes; my shirt clearly outlined my round, soft gut and chest and my trousers dug in at my waist and strained around my thighs. “You can see for yourself,” I said, forcing a small laugh.
He nodded. “Mmm. What is it? February? Aye, you’re making good progress I’d say,” he replied.
I swallowed. Progress towards what, I wondered? I decided to change tact. “You would have been young,” I said. “When you were Boar King. An odd choice, maybe.”
"I can't say I know how that decision gets made myself,” he replied. “Age ‘an’t got much to do with it, far as I can see.”
“Ah, I’d just assumed, I suppose,” I said. “All the others seem my age or older.” He didn’t reply. “And all the other previous Boar Kings? Where are they? Surely there should be more of you, of us, if it's an annual tradition, and not all old men?"
His face grew dark. "I'd say we should be fairly easy to spot, wouldn't you? I take it I've got a clean bill of health then doctor?" He stood. "If that's all."
He left the room, taking his time at the door to rotate his grand body and position himself carefully, so that he could fit through. Still, I noticed that his sides brushed the frame. Is that my fate? Doomed to not even fit into my own doctor's surgery? How long do I have until that point?
I ate the remaining scones quickly, out of nervous compulsion. I called Annabelle through, checked I had no more appointments for the morning and left to collect some more food to tide me over.
Friday, 3rd February
I am sat in the Boar and Suckling Pig, grazing on a huge plate of sandwiches after my second dinner and supping my seventh or eighth pint of ale. While I am always aware of my growing capacity, I occasionally take note of just how much I’ve managed to eat and am genuinely shocked.
John Baker came to sit with me for a while as I ate. I’m continually impressed by the ability of some of the furniture to handle such weights, but despite some groans and creaks from the chair, it held up admirably.
“Had a chat with Ed earlier,” John said.
“Ed?” I repeated between bites of lamb chop.
“Hartnell,” he clarified. “Came to see you the other day.”
My eyes widened. I’d hoped my questioning wouldn’t get followed up. I hastily wiped my mouth. “Ah, yes,” I said, my voice shaking a little. “I just thought he could tell me a little about this whole King Boar thing.” I gestured feebly down at my body by way of explanation.
John laughed, a great booming sound that sent his flesh wobbling. “I’m sure it all seems a little odd from an outside perspective!” he said. “It’s all just a silly little tradition really.”
“Well, I’m about the effect of that silly little tradition on my body,” I said, sounding braver than I felt.
“Oh, it’s nothing really!” John insisted. “We just like to make sure the King is well fed.” He leaned over and took a slice of bread, thick with butter, off my side plate. My stomach lurched at the lost food. “I could have a word, get everyone to cut down on the food a little?” he asked.
I shook my head urgently and could feel my developing double chin shake a little with the motion. “No, no,” I said. “I’ll be fine. Just all a little odd.” I looked around and leaned in as best as I could with my stomach pressed against the table. “There’s some other effects as well,” I said quietly.
John laughed again. “Fine food and good air will do that to you!” he said. “A lot of people find they’re a lot healthier once they get to Hardy.”
“People move here often then?” I asked, jumping on the comment. The bar seemed to quieten, just a touch and John’s smile faltered just a little.
“Often enough,” John replied curtly. “Not a lot of people choose to move to a little island like this.
“What about people leaving?” I asked. “I’ve not met the Boar King before me, or heard much about the previous doctor.” I could feel eyes on me from around the room. I nervously shovelled food into my mouth.
“Aye, they both left alright,” John said. He heaved himself to a standing position, the strain evident on his face. “You enjoy all those other little effects, eh?” he clapped his hand on my shoulder as he passed and I saw him go speak to a group of other men, Edward Hartnell and another previous Boar King amongst them. Shortly after Lynn Baker brought me a sticky toffee pudding for dessert.
The ‘other effects’ I’d mentioned to John continue unabated. I now have chest hair spilling out of the top of my shirts, and between gaping shirt buttons; I have chosen to stop shaving, and where once I could only grow a few hairs I now have a thick and full beard; my knee is almost completely pain free, and indeed I am shocked it can withstand my increased weight at all; finally, my genitals, could I see them over my gut anymore, seem positively huge, although the length of my penis has somewhat shrunk recently with fat above beginning to engulf it.
Perhaps he is right. I should just enjoy this strange transformation, as much as I can. Indeed, it seems I have little choice in whether it continues.
Sunday, 5th February
I have made a terrible mistake.
I finished up at the Boar on Friday after a few more pints, my stomach bloated and swaying. A few villagers bid me goodbye and patted my gut; not an especially notable thing, they often do so, almost for luck. As I slowly made my way on the short walk to my house I noticed a gravy stain down my shirt and onto the shelf of my gut. So preoccupied was I with the stain that I barely noticed that my front door was slightly ajar; I suppose I thought either Mary or Annabelle had left it open when they left for the day.
I walked up the stairs, unbuttoning my soiled shirt as I went, the stairs creaking alarmingly under my weight. As I reached my bedroom, I was met with a young woman, stood stark naked in the middle of the room. I yelped out in shock and jumped, setting the furniture shaking as I landed.
She was pretty, as women go. Slim, blonde, pert breasts, wide hips. All things I understand that most men enjoy but that do nothing for me.
I spluttered and stammered for a while, my hands gripping my shirt where I had been unbuttoning it, my head firmly turned away.
“No need to be nervous,” she said, moving towards me and putting her hands on my chest, her fingers swirling through the hair there. I backed away into the wall. I realised as she spoke that I recognised her; it was Lucy, the young woman who had served me cake at the vicarage a couple of months prior.
“What are you doing here?” I managed to ask eventually.
“Some people said you were a little upset about being the Boar King. Asking questions,” she said. “They thought I could come help calm you a little.” She once again placed her hands on my chest. They were cold. I tried to back away but was already against the wall, so I gently moved her hands away. “There’s no need to worry,” she said smiling. “No one will say anything, and you’ve prescribed me the pill yourself, so you know there’s no risk.” She’d been to see me a few weeks ago to ask about going on the contraceptive pill; I’d noted at the time how unembarrassed she was in the asking, as she explained that she was seeing young James Eccleston, the butcher’s son, a handsome man with a pleasant round face and lean limbs.
“What about James?” I asked. “It sounded like you were getting quite serious.”
She waved her hand. “He doesn’t mind!” she insisted. “Not for the Boar King.” She traced her nails along the arc of my sides. I shivered and darted around her, as much as I can dart at all these days. She followed me.
“You’re very pretty,” I explained.
“Thank you sir,” she responded.
“I’m just not very interested,” I said as gently as I could. “Please put some clothes on.”
“Oh!” she said with a smile. “Do you prefer dark hair? Or perhaps someone your own age?”
I shook my head. “No, no, please, you don’t understand,” I begged. “There’s been some misunderstanding. There’s no need for anyone to come to me. I’m perfectly happy. I’m sorry I was asking so many questions, really. I’m very happy being the Boar King.”
“The island provides the King Boar with whatever he wishes,” Lucy replied with a gentle smile. “I can come tomorrow with some of the other girls and you can choose from us all then.”
“No, no, really. No girls!” I protested. “I’m not interested in anything from any girls. Please. Please leave.”
“Oh.” Lucy said simply. Her head tilted to the side, and a small smile spread across her face. “Maybe one of the boys from the village then?”
“No, sorry Lucy, no.” My heart dropped. “Sorry, I didn’t mean that. No. It’s more that I don’t often sleep with women.” Bile began to rise in my throat. “But of course I like women!” I insisted. “If I were to sleep with someone, it would of course be a woman.”
“That’s alright sir,” Lucy said calmly. “We’ve got some of those types. I’ll ask one of them to come.” She turned around and began to collect her clothes, putting them on casually, as if she hadn’t been naked and propositioning me moments before, as if she hadn’t just accused me of being a poof.
“Lucy please, you don’t understand.” I followed her out of the room.
“We just hadn’t realised you were one of those types sir,” she said. She looked back with a smile as she did up her cardigan. “I wouldn’t have come otherwise.” She walked down the stairs and I lumbered after.
“Please Lucy,” I insisted. “You can’t tell anyone, please, you mustn’t.”
“Have a good evening sir,” she said, before leaving and closing the front door. I sunk down to sit on the steps and put my head in my hands.
What have I done? How did I let myself be so foolish? After everything I went through in London, having to leave in disgrace like that? My life could have been ruined then, and I had to escape to an island in the arse end of nowhere to try and put it back together. Where can I go now? Where else is there beyond the edge of the world?
I’ve not left my room all weekend, just panicked and worried. Mary’s been bringing me food which I’ve been dutifully eating. Perhaps she’s picked up on my mood because the stream of food seems faster than ever. Perhaps she’s heard, and she’s trying to empty out her larder before I’m kicked off of the island.
Tuesday, 7th February
It seems I may have overreacted. Yesterday morning I forced myself to bathe, get dressed, and make my way down to my surgery. As I walked past Annabelle, she greeted me in her usual manner, which I returned.
As I squeezed myself past her however, she piped up nonchalantly. “Lucy, down at the vicarage, mentioned that she thought she might have left her stockings in your room.”
I choked. “What? No, I wouldnt- How would it have-”
“Oh, don’t worry Dr Davison, she explained it all,” Annabelle said with a cheery smile. “No one’s fussed.”
I struggled to respond, and chose to silently bundle myself into my office instead. I collapsed down into my chair, earning a particularly ominous creak. It was best not to say anything at all, I resolved. Maybe Lucy hadn’t said anything, beyond that she’d come to my room and I’d turned her away. Maybe she’d not even told people I’d rejected her advances. It is, I suppose, better to let everyone assume I’m some filthy old pervert than it is to let them know the truth.
I went about my day as best I could. I used to be unable to eat at all when I was nervous or stressed; I remember I once went a week during a particularly stressful Michaelmas term at medical school having only eaten a few grapes a day. These days, nerves seem to increase my appetite.
Eventually after a day of dropping sauces on patient records, getting crumbs all in the medicines store, and belching in poor Mrs Kettleham’s face while I checked a mole for her, I forced myself out and to the Boar and Suckling Pig. The only comments made were asking where I’d been - a bad chill, I told them. I chatted to John and Lynn for a bit while I ate beef ribs, and played a spot of darts with some of the farmers.
I walked home after seven pints, congratulating myself on my restraint. I opened my front door, popped into the kitchen to pick up a plate of homemade biscuits that Mary had left for me, and then made my way upstairs.
Jack Baker was lying on my bed waiting for me. He was fully naked, fully erect, fully gorgeous. He was laid as if he belonged there, one arm behind his head revealing a tuft of golden brown armpit here, a trail of soft hair leading down to a golden brown forest of pubes, one leg raised bent, his long thick cock leaning against it, as if to frame it.
I stared for a moment, before reminding myself to look away. “What are you doing here Jack?” I stole another glance. His face had a lazy half smile on it.
“Lucy said I should pop by,” he explained casually. “That she wasn’t really your thing, and that maybe I’d be more up your alley.” He laughed quietly to himself. “Or that maybe you’ll be up mine, eh? Plenty of time to figure that out later.”
I turned back to look at him. My own erection was growing. “What do you mean Jack?”
He stood up and walked towards me, his cock leading the way and bouncing with each step. “You know what I mean James,” he said simply. He took the plate of biscuits out of my hands and placed it on my dresser.
“We can’t,” I said as he approached. He began to unbutton my shirt. “It’s illegal.”
Jack laughed. “God James, really?” he said. “I didn’t think you’d go in for all that.” Shirt fully unbuttoned, he tugged hard to pull my shirt tails out of my trousers. “We certainly don’t on Hardy.”
“But, but-” I stammered.
“But nothing James,” Jack said. He lifted a biscuit from the plate and raised it to my lips. “Do you want this? Do you want me?”
I bit the biscuit, looked him up and down, nodded. He grinned and knelt down in front of me. I felt him lift my gut, and struggle to unbutton my trousers, a struggle I am only too familiar with myself. When he finally managed to get them undone, he let them fall to my ankles along with my briefs, and he whispered “your majesty” before I felt his lips close over me.
He brought me to a finish before guiding me over to the bed, where he entered me as he fed me the plate of biscuits.
He’s asleep upstairs as I write this and eat breakfast. Mary made some oblique comment about the bedding, but nothing more.
Sunday, March 4th
Life has been all but idyllic these past few weeks with Jack. He has spent each night with me, and during weekends most of the day. I finish my practice for the day, eat my first dinner, go over to the Boar where Jack’s parents seem perfectly happy with the arrangement, and I waddle back to my house where Jack waits for me, deliciously sweaty from a day in the orchards, and feeds me all night as he buggers me, or less often, while I bugger him.
My growth has, of course, continued unabated. I worry that it may in fact have even sped up; whereas previously my constant gorging had been contained to the day, now Jack has introduced food to the bedroom, feeding me until I fall asleep and then waking me up with food pressed against my lips.
My exact weight is as mysterious as ever, but I would be surprised if I am not well over 25 stone - I cannot be sure of a precise number. I have not yet dared suffer the indignity of making use of the heavy duty scales by the dock used by fishermen for their catch and the ex-Boar Kings for their weights. Fat cascades off each part of my body; my limbs, my chest, my face. My belly, once so firm and spherical, now droops down, so that Jack has to lift it to access me in the night. I am surprised by how cold it all is; while I am certainly well insulated, while touching my soft fat itself my fingers are met with a soft dough cold as a cellar. I have taken to approaching furniture gingerly, as I’ve seen the other Boar Kings doing, as I can keenly feel the wood strain beneath me. Jean Whittaker has just made one of her, by now, many clothes deliveries, and so for now my clothes permit me some comfort, although Jack has asked me to wear some of my old clothes to show off my corpulence to him.
Despite my increasing girth, I find myself less concerned. While, yes, it is unexplained, the people of Hardy genuinely seem to mean me no harm, and at least I am made comfortable as I expand. And as far as I can tell, I remain healthy. No heart concerns, no aching joints, no back issues. I am simply larger.
The documents contained in this collection came into the possession of the British Museum of the Occult and Esoteric as part of a bequeathment from the estate of legendary collector of paranormal artefacts, Agnes Thredwell, to whom the museum expresses its deep and eternal gratitude.
Presented here are transcripts of unbound pages from the diary of Dr James Davison covering the period of September 1966 to September 1967. As the pages are not bound, and due to what appears to be water damage, there are large gaps between entries in places and some entries are incomplete; the museum presents the pages in the order kept by Ms Thredwell. For readability, Dr Davison's medical notes and sundry other notes have been omitted. Viewings of the original pages in full are available upon request.
It is not clear how Ms Thredwell came into possession of the pages (as is the case of so much of her collection) nor are the documents' veracity clear. While many details of Dr Davison's existence up to the late summer of 1966 can be confirmed, many of the other people and even places detailed within cannot be traced with any certainty. Whether this is because the diary and related documents are a work of fiction, or because they have been edited to maintain anonymity, is unknown.
Fragment
- said he would call the police. I pleaded with him, told him my life would be ruined. He demanded money for his silence, more than I can afford to pay. I will have to-
Entry interrupted
Thursday, September 22nd
Tomorrow will mark my first day in my new home - Hardy, a small island in the Channel, not much more than a modest village and a collection of farms and fishermen, with a population of 150 or so. Despite its size, Hardy is quite prosperous in its own way, and something of a hub of agriculture, providing the few nearby islands with much of their fruit and veg and even sending some to the mainland. This is thanks to its somewhat anomalously warm climate - when I asked some locals at the inn I’m staying for the evening, answers came as either hand-waved explanations about peculiarities in ocean currents or ominous warnings about local legends and pagan gods. The latter was met with a chorus of good-hearted laughter but I noticed a few patrons avoiding my eyes.
After the events of this summer, I hurried to find a posting - Hardy had done without a doctor for some few weeks, and I required a new start, as far away as I could manage. It promises to be a change from the life I have come accustomed to in London, but a welcome one perhaps; regardless, I did not have much say in the matter.
I ate lightly - some chicken, cabbage and a few mouthfuls of new potatoes - and went to bed early. In truth, I’ve never been much of a seafarer, and I’m nervous about how I will cope with the ferry tomorrow morning. I’m due to arrive a little after noon.
Saturday, September 24th
I’m glad to say that I survived the ferry (no more than a fisherman’s skiff, in truth), with my dignity intact. As we approached the shore, I noticed a shift in the weather - the wind died down, the temperature creeped ever so slightly up, even the clouds seemed to part. I remarked on this to the ferry captain, who avoided my gaze and grumbled. By the time we reached the small dock, I’d felt the need to remove my jumper.
I expected a small greeting party when I arrived on Hardy, but it seems that the whole island turned up! I had arrived during the island's autumn equinox harvest festival, which it seems is quite the event in these parts. As a new resident to the island on this auspicious day, I was hailed as the guest of honour - rather gratifying, I must say. I wonder if these harvest celebrations were the source of the murmurings about pagan worship - not so surprising for an island that relies on farming for its wealth.
The young children of the island, led by a young woman (the school teacher, I presume), placed a crown made of apples, wheat sheafs and root vegetables onto my head, and danced around me like a maypole. Some strapping young men appeared and snapped up my luggage (thankfully to my lodgings, it seems!) and then I was led in a procession away from the small harbour and down the coast. I turned back to call my thanks to the ferry captain, but saw that he had already set off again.
I quickly forgot the odd manners of the ferry captain on the walk. The children continued to dance around me, and even some older residents joined in, singing folk songs I wasn’t familiar with - all about fields and crops, cider and ale, apples and pigs. Some of them drank messily from tankards, some gathered in small laughing groups, young couples hung at the back or lurked amongst the trees for privacy. After a short while, my bad knee began to give me grief. The path was paved, but roughly so, and it began to climb. I enquired how much further it was to go, and a woman assured me we were nearly there. I gritted my teeth against the building ache.
It was only while speaking to this woman that I noticed that people had begun to don masks - rough masks hewn from wood, or stitched from scraps of cloth, or moulded out of papier mache. Some were fashioned into the shape of leaves, or flowers, a few of livestock; one wooden mask was painted with a rather charming landscape, eyes peering out from the horizon.
Finally we reached a small clearing in some trees, where some tables and chairs were set up with a veritable feast atop. I was directed to a chair in the middle of a long table, where I gratefully collapsed, rubbing my aching knee. I realised that my assumption earlier was wrong - the whole island hadn’t come to meet me. Where I was sat, I was flanked by half a dozen men - each was huge, easily over twenty-five stone - perhaps more. I marveled - I don’t think I’d ever seen one man of such a size as even the smallest of the men, while the largest - I staggered to think of his weight. Thirty stone? Thirty five? My mind couldn’t wrap itself around the scale of them. Each seemed to overflow the large oaken chairs that seemed specially made to support men of such stature - I myself was placed in such a chair, and felt like a child between the arms further apart than my elbows could comfortably rest.
Other smaller tables were dotted around, and everyone began to take their seats. "We have once again reached this equinox on our fine isle, my friends!" The vicar's voice came suddenly from behind me, causing me to jump. "Another year in which this rock, so precariously perched in the ocean, has cared for us as its children. Another bountiful harvest, provided by our hard work and the soil to which we owe so much." His voice was deep, crisp and loud. This was met with cheers and cries of "here! here!" around the tables.
The vicar spread his arms out, so that I could see them in my peripheral vision, and continued. "And here we have welcomed our Boar King for this year!" Loud cheers erupted around me. "Newly arrived to this isle, but no less welcome for that fact. King Boar, your majesty, may your health be the health of the island!" With that the vicar moved around me to pick up a large clay jug of what appeared to be cider from the table in front of me. He bowed to me briefly, before turning away and pouring the entire jug at the roots of an apple tree behind me, by far the largest tree in the small copse, its bows shading me. With that, music started up and the crowd burst into conversation and laughter. The vicar gave me a small smile and moved to his seat.
I sat dumbfounded. Had it not been for the vicar's dog collar and black clerical shirt, I'd have sworn I had just witnessed some pagan ceremony. My shock must have been clear to see on my face because one of the men - the one to my immediate left, a man with a dense beard and a circumference surely measured in yards - leaned over and spoke as he picked up a chicken leg.
"I'm sure a lot of our customs must seem strange to you," he said, his mouth full of food, his large chin wobbling as he spoke. He smelt of apples and honey. "There's a lot goes on in these isles that goes way back, back before even the Romans came to Britain. Traditions are important on a little island like this; all we've got is each other and the land." He introduced himself as John Baker, the landlord at the local pub, The Boar and Suckling Pig, and I gave my name to him. He gave me a queer look, one I couldn't quite place. I can hear his next words now echoing in my head, despite their simpleness.
"You must be hungry, after such a long journey."
At the word 'hungry', I felt the most queer, intense hunger of my life, as if one of Pavlov’s poor dogs. I can't quite account for it, having never been a heavy eater, and usually the stress of travel tends to numb my appetite. But last night I was ravenous. I feel a vestige of that hunger still, and I ate far more of breakfast than I usually would do this morning. I have put it down to the effect of sea air and the unseasonable warmth, although I am somewhat unconvinced with this explanation, even though it is my own.
I fell on the food like a wolf, grabbing food without looking and putting it to my mouth without even putting it on my plate, if I could help it. My school housemistress would have been horrified to see such behaviour from one of her boys, and I felt a small part of my mind attempting to remind me of my manners.
Looking back I feel quite mortified of my actions, but at the time it felt wholly natural, and certainly not out of place with the actions of those around me, particularly the rotund men I shared a table with. Still, I cannot convince myself that anyone else ate quite so much or with quite so much vim as myself.
I drank heavily of the cider from the jug in front of me. Not having much of a sweet tooth, usually the sickly sweetness doesn't hold much appeal, but in my gluttonous state it tasted of ambrosia. I drank tankard after tankard, leaving the inside of my mouth coated in sugar, and my brain pickled in alcohol.
I can distinctly remember the start of the evening; my arrival, the vicar's ritualistic words, the taste of the sumptuous feast. After that, my memory grows hazy, and the evening becomes a jumbled carousel of images in my mind - the sound of cheers as I ate and ate and ate, seemingly without end; the feel of my stomach, distended and full and heavy, even as I reached for more food; an image of a golden apple being plucked from the great tree at the centre of the grove and shoved forcefully in my mouth by a handsome young man.
This last part must have been a dream, but I can't quite shake the image. It doesn't quite make sense to me, and yet it feels in some way in keeping with the rest of the strange evening.
At some point, I must have been helped to my new home, as I awoke in the house that had been arranged for me ahead of time. Odd dreams - I was being chased through fields by some great ferocious boar, running in that odd heavy, slow way that always seems to happen in dreams. Despite running up a hill towards a circle of standing stones, once I passed the first few stones I stumbled and found myself wading chest-deep through the sea. At this point the boar caught me, swallowing me whole, and I awoke. Apt payment for my greed, no doubt.
Miraculously, I am feeling well, with no ill effects from the cider. My stomach however, feels leaden and full, and I decided to forego my traditional morning walk to allow myself to digest. My stomach is still distended even now, an effect I don't think I'd ever see on myself. Despite this, as soon as breakfast was placed in front of me, I found my appetite quickly returned and the plate was empty before I knew it.
As agreed prior to my arrival, the house adjoins my doctor's practice and is fully furnished and, I was surprised to see, with a fully stocked larder, filled to the rafters with food. My belongings had been brought here, and I was surprised to see that my great 'Boar King' crown and cloak had been left, displayed proudly on the coat stand by the door.
I have been provided with a housekeeper, one Mary Tennant, a stern woman who appeared in my house this morning before I even awoke. I informed her I had no need of her services, or the desire to pay for them, but she informed me that she was paid for by the village, and that like it or not she is here to stay. Judging from breakfast, her cooking is top notch and her cleaning is fastidious such that it borders on intrusive, so I am not inclined to kick up a fuss.
As it is a Saturday, I intend to take the weekend to acquaint myself with my new home, before beginning practice proper on Monday. As ever when I make such statements, I expect I will be besieged all of today and tomorrow with ailments, accidents and asks to check rashes, but for now that is my plan. As a start, I will go to The Boar and Suckling Pig, to try and find out who I can return my ill-gotten crown and cape to and more formally introduce myself to my new patients. Hopefully the walk may help to remedy the heaviness I feel in my stomach.
Saturday, October 1st
Despite my worries, my first weekend on Hardy passed without incident or malady. In fact, all week I have had very few patients for anything but routine practice. Some elderly patients with mild rheumatism; a diabetic receiving his prescription of insulin; a gentleman my own age who complained of some shrapnel, gained during the second world war, which tended to give him some grief with the changing of the seasons - I gave him some topical and general analgesics and suggested some simple exercises I use with my own knee, a similar shrapnel injury. The most dramatic thing to have happened was a teenager who had sprained his ankle during a game of football.
I am aided, such as it is needed, by my practice nurse, Annabelle McCoy. A young girl, but capable and resourceful. I understand she all but ran the practice between my predecessor leaving and my arrival. I must find her more responsibilities and opportunities, if she is open to them; a young woman of her talents is wasted in such a small and healthy community.
In fact, most of the residents of Hardy seem to be of the utmost physical condition. Even my elderly patients seem to come to me only as a matter of course, and those few with long-standing medical conditions manage them well and without detriment to their lifestyle or wellbeing. Indeed, I have noticed that all of the residents are slim and fit, with the exception of only the small cabal of men that I noticed on the day of my arrival and at the strange feast. These men seem even larger when encountered during daily life and contrasted with their slimmer counterparts - they are almost monstrously, unbelievably fat. Hardy does not seem to allow for anyone between these two states.
For my sins, I’ve hardly been a paragon of healthy living myself since my arrival. My appetite, always slight, has been stoked by my new home and I seem afflicted by some constant, gnawing hunger. The effect of fresh sea air, I expect, and of the absolutely exquisite local fair. I have been told time and time again by the residents of Hardy that the island's produce is some of the best I will find, and I have not yet met with evidence to the contrary. They all credit the quality of the soil, the expertise of the men and women who work the land, the blessings of the land and the sea. I’ve so far been finding it difficult to resist trying everything placed in front of me. Alas, this is not helped by the warm welcome I’ve received - everyone I meet seems determined to feed me up and to make sure I sample all of the food the island has to offer - several of my patients have even brought food to their appointments for me to eat!
The worst culprit by far has been Mary, my housekeeper. I have asked her several times to provide lighter meals, yet each meal seems larger than the last. I suppose I can’t blame her really, when I find myself finishing each and every bite, even when the last few seem almost torturous. These titanic meals are then bolstered by snacks that seem to appear next to me throughout the day - more worryingly, they seem to disappear just as quickly…
I have tried on several occasions to avoid the constant bombardment of food by retiring to the local pub, the Boar and Suckling Pig. The locals, for all of their insistence of feeding me up, are a friendly bunch, and have welcomed me with open arms; none more so than the landlord and lady, John, the huge boulder of a man I met upon my arrival, and his wife Lynn, a tiny slip of a woman who seems to think I’m about the size of her husband, judging by the rate at which she places sandwiches, pies and a twice whole cheese boards in front of me - seemingly a new plate of food for each pint I drink.
I really must curb these growing habits - my unrelenting appetite, my attraction to the Boar and Suckling Pig. My mother’s chastisements to my father about his growing waistline ring in my ears.
Friday, October 28th
I have returned again and again to The Boar and Suckling Pig, despite my best intentions. Indeed, I am now there more frequently, and now find myself there every night, and at the weekends most of the day. I seem drawn there - I have tried to avoid it, to stay inside, to go for walks in the opposite direction, but I begin to feel some odd tugging in my gut and find myself making some excuse or other to make my way there.
Each night Mary prepares me some great pile of food, usually more than I'd eat in a whole day or even two, always rich and fat-filled, and I laboriously make my way through it. Finally, I sit back, fingers massaging the domed paunch of my stomach that's begun to develop, and I wonder at both my ability and inclination to finish it all. Just as I determine that this will be the last night of such gluttony, Mary will bring out a dessert - a whole tart or cake more often than not, sat in a lake of cream or custard - and any such thoughts will leave my mind.
Then once Mary leaves for the evening, I make my slow, strained way to the Boar, where I find myself downing seven, eight, nine pints of the wonderful locally produced ale, sat in the corner while locals sing folk songs I can never quite place. Each night some handsome farmer or fisherman will take it upon himself to introduce himself to me, buying me pint after pint, encourage me to soak it all up with a stream of snacks from behind the bar, and I inevitably end up swaying home to collapse in my bed and dream of their strong arms around me, their rough beard on my face, their thick cocks up my arse.
One night last week, after my third or fourth pint John Baker waddled up to me and collapsed next to me on one of the sturdier benches that seem to have been installed purely for his use, and for the other few huge men that are his companions.
“How are you finding it all?” he asked, swigging from a flagon of ale.
I chewed a mouthful of pork pie and swallowed heavily. “Everyone’s been very friendly,” I said. “And the island’s very beautiful, although I can’t say I’ve seen too much of it.”
John laughed. “Not the island!” he said. “Being the Boar King!”
The question almost surprised me enough to stop me eating. “The Boar King?” I asked. “All that guff at the harvest feast you mean?”
John looked more than a little affronted by the question. “It’s not just the feast,” he said. “It’s all year - you are the Boar King.”
“Ah, well then,” I said. “I’m not sure I’ve noticed too much. It’s not come up."
John laughed. There was something going on I didn’t quite understand. “It’s quite the honour, you know,” he told me. “I was one myself, the year before me and Lynn got married.”
“Oh,” I said, unsure what to reply. “Congratulations,” I settled on, lamely.
“Why do you think everyone’s been so hospitable?” he asked. “It’s because you’re our Boar King of course!”
I thought back to the treats brought to appointments, to pints bought at the pub. “I just thought everyone was being friendly,” I explained.
“Well we do our best, but you’d be doing well to get a round out of some of these tight buggers usually,” he said. He called over to the bar. “Lynn! Lynn, why don’t you bring me and the doctor some of that shepherd’s pie out? And a couple more pints.”
“I couldn’t,” I protested, as my mouth began to water at the prospect. “I’ve eaten at home, I-” John cut me off with a slap on the back and a hearty laugh, which cut short my reply. “What exactly, is the Boar King, John?” I asked after finishing my pint and starting the next.
“Well it’s like Father Troughton said,” he explained. “As long as you’re the King, your health is the health of the island. We look after you, and the island will look after us.” He said it plainly, as if it were something every schoolboy was taught.
“Something like a May Queen, then?” I asked.
“Something like that, I suppose,” he said after thinking a while. “Except all year long of course.”
“Do I have to do anything? Make a speech or something?”
“Just sit and look pretty!” John said with a laugh. “Don’t you worry, there’ll be a couple of feast days, like at the equinox, and we’ll handle the rest.”
“And you were one?” I carried on with my questioning. “Who else? What about the last one?”
“You see them about,” John shrugged, refusing to be pulled into giving more detail. “Your predecessor didn’t really take to it.
I wanted to ask more, but got distracted by Lynn bringing out two huge turreens of shepherd’s pie. My train of thought was lost as I ate.
Sunday, October 30th
The effect of all this gluttony and sloth are beginning to be seen on my waistline. Always a slender man, I have had to ask Mary to let out my trousers this evening. I have grown familiar with the feeling of too tight clothes, a too full stomach and a stomach rounded out and pushing against my shirts. This is no mere bloat either; genuine fat has marshalled itself around my body - my thighs, my chest, my arse, and most of all at my increasingly heavy belly. My increasing weight is already clearly obvious through my constricting clothes, to anyone who would care to so much as glance at me.
I am writing this entry after dinner (roast pork belly with all the trimmings). Despite all I have written in this entry, despite the painful heaviness in my gut, I know I will soon leave for The Boar and Suckling Pig, where my fattening will continue unabated. I do not know what has come upon me. I do not know if I want to find out.
Fragment
- a third dinner at the Boar - a full roast dinner with a plate of cheese and apple and pear crumble for afters. Despite my increased appetite of late, I surprised even myself with how much I ate this evening. Clearly all this fresh sea air is doing wonders for me. Not so much my waistline though. I really must -
Entry interrupted
Thursday, November 3rd, 1966
I am getting hairier, I'm sure of it. I was first made aware of it last week, when Annabelle asked me whether I'd forgotten to shave as she packed away for the day. I had shaved that morning, as it happened, but it shouldn't have made all that much of a difference - I have only ever been able to grow only the wispiest and thinnest of beards.
As soon as she had gone, I rushed to a mirror. Sure enough, my face was covered with a dark 5 o'clock shadow, something I'd never seen on my own face. I rubbed my hand across my face, revelling in the coarse roughness. It had been a look I'd always admired on other men, and always regretted not being able to attain myself.
In the days since, I've noticed my sudden late on-set hirsutism is not contained merely to my face. Previously, my chest only had a few sparse patches of hair dotted about, with a thin line leading down from my navel. Now, I have thick black hair like wires across my entire chest, and a thick line leading down my newly plush middle, before it fans out below my belly button. Each day I feel I can see the hair on my arms get darker and thicker.
There's been other changes too. A change in my natural odour to a rich, manly musk. It's terrifically erotic, and I've grown accustomed to lifting an arm in private moments and burying my nose into my own pit to take a sniff. My limp, too, ever present for the past 21 years since Berlin, has gotten better. Not completely gone, no, but better, and I'm sure that even the spiderweb scar which marks the epicentre of my injury is fading. The other day I realised as I got into bed that it might have been the first time in two decades I hadn't complained of any pain throughout the day. My sudden recovery is part of a general improvement in my health - I feel stronger, more energetic, in a way I haven't felt since my twenties.
I blush to discuss the final change, even in this private journal. Each night after I stumble back from the Boar and Suckling Pig, and increasingly before I go as well, I've found my hand following the path carved by my new body hair, down, down, down to the now dense thicket of pubes, and gripping my hard cock. I've become positively insatiable of late, needing release multiple times a day. This on its own might be unremarkable, and could be chalked up to the general improved health I have enjoyed recently. No, what is remarkable is what my hand finds. I am now almost certain that my penis, previously perfectly average, has grown. It is difficult to tell, increasingly nestled as it is in my new dense bush of pubic hair, and threatening to be hidden beneath the gathering dome of fat above, but my hand sits differently around it now - the fingers further spaced, my grip wider.
I am enjoying a veritable second puberty in all regards, it seems. While I find it unbelievable, and know that it is medically impossible, I cannot deny the changes are anything but welcome.
My weight has continued to increase along with my sudden hormonal shift. Perhaps the two are linked - the same good living feeding my body in more ways than one. My torso is now covered in a layer of fat, a soft paunch bulging out over my waist.
I regularly resolve to take action against this expansion, but it is in vain. I tell myself that I will eat less, replace fatty meats, heavy breads and potatoes with light vegetables and more fish, but I again and again find myself stuffing myself at the Boar, or after a trip to the bakers, or in my own quarters. I found an old bicycle in a shed in my garden and cleaned it up, but it has since gone unused. I am sure this second issue is down to the geography of the island; almost everything is contained in one neat village, with the rest of the island given over to farms of various kinds. I have no reason to go further than a 15 minute walk, my practice being conveniently located in the centre of the village, and should I wish to explore further I would find very little to interest me.
And so I have remained in the village that I have come to know so well, returning to the same haunts again and again. This usually means the Boar, but I've been invited to a number of houses where I've received, if anything, an even greater stuffing than I've become accustomed to at the pub.
Sunday, November 20th
I've recently discovered a new attraction to the Boar and Suckling Pig, not that I needed any more. I've built up something of a rapport with Lynn and John's son, Jack. An affable young man in his late twenties, he is startlingly handsome. Dark blonde hair atop a face that is all strong features composed of straight lines and with lightly golden skin the colour of fresh grown wheat that seems to almost glow. His blue eyes twinkle with laughter, his perfect jaw is sketched in three confident lines, his arms bulge in his shirts as he pulls a pint, and I have to force myself to turn away when he bends to wipe a table, the curve of his arse presenting itself through tight trousers. In short, I am a middle-aged fool besotted with a man at least fifteen years my junior. I sternly tell myself off each night, remembering my hasty flight from London. I think of him as I wrap my hand around my cock, remembering the events that necessitated that self-same flight.
I spoke to Jack last night during an uncommonly quiet spell at the bar. I flatter myself to think he was being anything other than polite, but I really do think we have a certain frisson, even if it is purely platonic (much to my chagrin). He was telling me about his role as master of the orchards on the island, and how he'd press cider from the apples himself. He passed me some of this year's press, and despite cider not usually being to my taste I could appreciate the mix of sweetness and sharp tang.
"It's quite an important job on the island really," he told me, puffing up his chest proudly; I tried to ignore the small bump of his nipples pressed against his shirtfront. "We grow some of the best apples in the British isles here. It's the soil that does it, see." By now, I had lost track of all the miracles performed by Hardy soil. "But then, you'd know all about our apples, wouldn't you?"
I was struck with a sudden flash of remembering. An apple pushed into my mouth that first night on Hardy. Biting into it so that the sweet, crisp juices filled my mouth and ran down my chin. I can remember so little about that night; could it have been Jack holding that apple? I am beginning to think that I remember his face, but am wise enough to know that this is more likely than not a false memory I have recreated after the fact.
As I left, Jack handed me what he assured me was one of the finest apples of the year, with a peculiar look on his face. As I wrapped my fingers around myself afterwards, I bit into it, remembering that night, remembering Jack's strong hands as he handed it to me, remembering the sharp, heady cider he'd made. I moaned around the apple as I came, my fingers digging deep into the soft lard that is growing at my middle.
Fragment
- convinced that Jack really is paying me special attention, fool that I am. I tell myself that even without this growing gut of mine, he’d never look twice at me, being closer to his dad’s age than his, and not nearly as handsome even in my prime. Still though, I can’t ignore the way he looks at me, the way he sneaks me free pints and snacks, the way he seems to always find some excuse to strike up a conversation. After all, maybe he likes the older man, the fresh swirl of chest hair spilling from my shirts, my stronger arms and thighs, the bulge that is undeniably growing in my-
Entry interrupted
Sunday, December 18th
This morning as I finished my breakfast, an increasingly time-consuming affair, I received a summons to the vicarage, Mary bustling into the dining room holding a small slip of paper. I excused myself from my habitual Sunday amble around the village (how the mighty have fallen! In the space of a few short months I have gone from a daily jog to a weekly amble) and attempted to find suitable attire that would cover my increasing girth.
My recent expansion has focussed mainly on my belly, and it is now a true gut, sitting spherically at my centre, pushing out in every direction and beginning, ever so subtly, to droop. I have taken to wearing a simple shirt during my surgery open hours, having to forgo a tie as I can no longer get the top button closed on any of them, and opting not to wear a jacket to avoid the constant uncomfortable pinch of it on my flesh below my arms. Mary appeared one morning recently with a small hamper of larger clothes, but these too are growing tight. Today, I thought I should dress up for my summons, and took out a tweed jacket inherited from my father that had never fit, being far too large. I now cannot get it closed over my heaving stomach. His old coat too, I had to leave open, my gut now leading the way as I walked through the village. Looking in the mirror, I am shocked to see how much I look like my father - my childhood was filled with my mother chastising him for his weight, and now I seemed to have not just caught him up, but even overtaken him, all in a few short months.
I took the scenic route to the vicarage, attempting to convince myself that the additional five minutes walk could do anything to quell my growth. In truth, I fear it may have merely stoked my appetite. I arrived to find Father Troughton stood outside the vicarage waiting for me, wearing his cassock fresh from Sunday service.
He spread his arms out towards me as I approached, just as he had done that first night. "The Boar King himself, leaving his court to visit the masses." Just as before, his voice was deep, clear and loud, obviously a man who spoke for a living.
I gave a wan smile at his jest. "Well, I’ll trust you where it comes to masses, father,” I said.
He gave a thin smile which didn't reach his eyes. He led me inside to a sitting room, where a young blonde woman poured me a cup of tea and placed a large lemon drizzle cake in front of me, before leaving the room, all in silence. On what is developing into instinct, I picked up a slice of cake.
"I have never seen you come to our Sunday service?" Troughton said, one eyebrow raised. It was phrased as a statement, but clearly posed as a question.
"I'm not a Christian, I'm afraid," I replied honestly.
"Many of my parishioners aren’t I expect," Troughton said dismissively. “In a community like this, ceremony nourishes us as well as any food.”
"I'll have to come along to one," I offered, trying to cover up my seeming faux pas. "Perhaps one of the Christmas services."
He sniffed contemptuously and looked down his long, thin nose at me. "We have far more pressing matters before we come to such frivolous festivities."
I couldn't help but laugh at this. "Surely as vicar, Christmas must be one of the busiest times of the year for you?" I asked.
He waved a hand dismissively. "The island celebrates of course. But what I have asked you here to discuss is our winter solstice celebration."
I tried to hide my confusion at a vicar prioritising a pagan festival over a Christian one. "Ah, well now," I said, picking up my third slice of cake. "I have been told a little about it."
"And what have you been told?" He remained unmoved, perfectly controlled in everything he did or said.
"Well, it's another feast," I said. "And I'll be there in my role 'the Boar King'." This last part I held my hands up and made finger quotes, laughing a little.
Father Troughton's nostrils flared and his eyes widened by a matter of millimeters, but the effect on his face was momentous. The holy man looked like the devil had come upon him. "And what exactly is so funny about your position?"
I was taken aback. "I'm sorry. I meant no offence," I said. "It's simply that it's such a strange custom. I've never seen anything like it. Almost like a May Queen, but a middle aged man instead of a young girl."
"You may find our customs strange, but you would do well to respect them, if you are to last long here on Hardy," he said. His voice was unchanged, still perfectly measured, but somehow now positively dripped with rage. He stood suddenly, and moved to the window.
"I'm sorry," I told his back after I finished my slice of cake and picked up another. "Really I am. I meant no disrespect."
"The health of the Boar King is the health of the island," he said, looking out through the window. "As above, so below; the first principle of alchemy and the most important."
I was taken aback; almost, but not quite, stopping in my chewing of cake. "I wouldn't expect a man of the cloth to speak so casually about alchemy."
He once again sniffed. "Perhaps you wouldn't," he said, his voice still crystal clear, despite being turned away from me. "Some ideas are larger than mere denomination."
"I don't think that Christianity and alchemy can be considered simple denomina-" I started saying, but he cut me off.
"Perhaps I should put it in terms you might understand. In scientific terms, perhaps, doctor?" Troughton took a deep breath and rolled his shoulders a little. "An island is like a living organism. This organism is made up of many parts - cells, tissues, organs. Bone and flesh and blood. Each is useless without the others, and only exists to serve the whole. Hardy is made up of the soil, the trees, the people. All these parts are useless without the others, and so we must all live to serve each other part of the whole as best we can." He turned to me now and moved to loom over my seat. "The Boar King is the beating heart of Hardy." He reached a hand down and placed it over my own heart, his hand pushing into the layer of fat that had accumulated there. I froze with my hand outstretched for another slice of cake. "A healthy heart means a healthy body. You can appreciate that doctor, I'm sure."
I nodded, although I don't think I truly understood all he was saying. I understood his words yes, the ideas he was talking about. But his tone suggested there was far more than I could hope to grasp - were these traditions really so important? My confusion at the man’s intensity was mounting. He took his hand off of me and moved back to the window. I picked up another slice of cake.
"When you arrive at the winter solstice later this month you will perform your duty," he said. "Your duty to the island, to the community, to the organism that is Hardy. The heart will beat. Am I understood?"
"Yes." My voice came out as barely a whisper. I cleared my throat. "Yes," I said, more loudly this time. "Father," I added, thinking it would please him.
He spun around, his face as passive as when he greeted me that morning. "Excellent. Lucy?" he called through to the other room. "You'll pack up the rest of the cake for our guest, won't you?" I looked to the plate of cake to realise it was empty. I opened my mouth to tell Father Troughton so, but the young girl from before, Lucy, came in holding an entire new cake. She placed the plate down in front of me and quickly wrapped it up in muslin. "Don't worry about the plate, we have plenty others," the vicar said. He turned to a desk at this point and started writing on some loose sheets of paper. I took this to mean that I was dismissed, and took my leave.
I have just looked up from my writing to realise that this next cake is also finished, my hands grasping in air. Soon, Mary will call me down for my first dinner. I am shocked at how casually I write these words. "First dinner." As if it is some accepted idea. I suppose, for me, it has become so.
Thursday, December 22nd
I have seen many a man go to seed over the years, both in my personal life and my professional life. I have never seen a man do so as thoroughly, rapidly, or enthusiastically as I am doing so now.
I have grown incrementally larger by inches since my last full entry, in every direction, on every part of my body. My clothes, previously tight, now strain obscenely against my body. The other day I dared to use the scales in my practice - I’d been avoiding them for a while now, fearing their judgement. 19 stone, or thereabouts. 19 stone! I can’t remember how much I weighed in the summer - I’ve been trying to convince myself that perhaps it could have been as much as 14 or 15 stone. Not only is this unlikely, but it doesn’t give much reassurance either way - is over a stone a month really the lowest rate I can hope for? The scale only goes up to 25 stone, and I have been told by John Baker that the truly enormous men of the village use a scale by the docks used to measure the day's catch to weigh themselves. I expect he is joking, but cannot imagine how else they would do so. John tells me he weighs around 40 st! Over 550 lb! I comfort myself that I am not yet weighing myself like so many catches of the day, at least, no matter how preposterously I seem to be expanding.
I am trying to find the time to meet with Jean Whittaker, a woman in the village who makes men's clothes, but every spare moment I am compelled to eat. The moments I muster up the will to do anything other than attend to my practice or my stomach, some villager or other will appear with a tray of freshly baked pork pies, or an entire roast chicken for me to eat. Even as I write this, I am eating a tin of scones provided by some farmer’s wife or other. Mary has prepared them for me with huge dollops of clotted cream and what I believe is two whole jars of strawberry jam across them all.
I am scared. I am scared of the intentions of the islanders, of the dark implications of my role as King Boar, of the vicar's words which still ring in my head, of alchemy and beating hearts. Most of all, I am scared of myself. Why can I not stop myself? Why do I seem to enjoy it so? Why am I willingly walking towards my fate, whatever it may be? The village intends to fatten me like a pig and I am providing them with ample crackling.
Today is the winter solstice, and as such my doctor's practice has closed, although I would likely see only a patient or two regardless. Mary has just called me through to the dining room for lunch. I expect it to last several hours until I am expected to go to the solstice ceremony. Despite myself, and all I have eaten, I am hungry.
I stood on the edge of the dance floor, nursing my pint and watching my mates embarrass themselves. It was Paul’s fortieth and he'd decided to try and recapture his youth with a big night out in Sheffield city centre, like we were still in our twenties. The music was loud and interfering with my hearing aids, my feet hurt, I felt queasy from the beer, and I was acutely aware of how much I didn't fit in at the gay bar we'd ended up in.
At forty-six, I didn't doubt for a second that I was more than double the age of a lot of people there, and I was under no illusions that I looked it as well. My hairline, which had so valiantly held out until the last couple of years, was beginning to reach the point where I would need to bite the bullet and shave it all soon, what hair was left was increasingly greying, and the image wasn't helped by the fact that we were nearing the end of Movember, so I was sporting a thick moustache which I thought aged me no end. Still, all for charity, eh?
I tugged my shirt against the uncomfortable tightness around my gut. I'd not worn this shirt - the one I somewhat embarrassingly called my "going out shirt" - in years and I hadn't realised just how tight it would be. Okay, so I'd put on a little weight, but it wasn't that much surely? I thought ruefully about my ex-partner Charlie telling me I'd let myself go, just a week before he ended it with me.
My mate Greg elbowed my side and leaned close to my ear. “Here,” he shouted. I winced at the feedback from my hearing aids. “One of your button’s come undone.” I looked down to confirm that the one closest to my belly button had popped open at some point and sighed. At least Greg was no slimmer than me, and I knew would sympathise. I sucked my belly in to relieve the strain and rebuttoned to save my dignity. I kept my core tensed to avoid a repeat and downed my pint.
“I'm off for a slash,” I shouted at Greg.
“What?” he bellowed back.
I leant in. “I'm going to the loo!”
“What?!”
I gave up and pointed my thumb towards the gents. He nodded his understanding and I left. As I walked I leant up and flicked the switch on my hearing aids, appreciating how the loud music immediately cut to a low rumble. I stood in the queue next to two snogging twinks, until a urinal opened up. I tapped one of the twinks’ shoulders, and pointed at the spare urinal, and he shook his head and said something that looked close enough to “cubicle” that I took it as confirmation. I drained my bladder and washed my hands. I caught my reflection and winced at the way my shirt was straining.
I left the toilet and made my way back to the old man’s corner, looking at my watch and wondering if it was socially acceptable to leave yet. I felt a tap on my shoulder and spun round to see one of the most gorgeous men I'd ever seen. He was over six foot tall, with a t shirt that strained against broad shoulders, a deep chest and bulging biceps. His jawline was square and dusted with neat stubble, his eyes were dark and framed with long eye-lashes, his skin and hair were perfect.
He said something which I couldn't lip read. “No thank you!” I replied automatically and turned away, assuming he worked there and was offering me something. He tapped my shoulder again and repeated himself. I turned my hearing aids back on and cringed against the sudden onslaught of music.
His eyes followed my hands and he gave a small smile and nod. He leant in. “Can I buy you a drink?”
I frowned in confusion. “What?” I asked.
“A drink,” he replied loudly. “Can I buy you a drink?”
“What for?” I replied. Had he mistaken me for someone? I was hardly likely to look like one of his mates. Maybe he somehow thought he'd knocked over my drink and owed me one.
He shrugged his wide shoulders. “Because I'd like to,” he said into my ear. “I've been watching you for a while.”
I leant back and looked at him. He looked about half my age. “Why?” I asked.
He laughed. “You're very handsome,” he said.
“What?” I asked again.
Rather than reply, he grabbed my elbow and pulled my towards the bar. A bartender appeared instantly in front of him, staring up at him with wide eyes. I thought back to waiting to get served for ten minutes when I first arrived. “A double vodka and diet coke and…” He looked at me expectantly.
“A Guinness,” I said. It wasn't my usual but it was either that or Carling on tap. The hunk next to me grinned and repeated my order to the barman. We stood quietly while we waited for our drinks, and then he once again took me by the elbow and led me towards the stairs. I caught Greg's eye on the way and shrugged at his confused face. We entered the smoking area and I inhaled the cold, fresh air greedily.
“I'm Lucas,” the mysterious hunk said with a smile.
“Adam,” I said confusedly, and took a heavy gulp.
“Nice to meet you Adam.” He took my hand in a firm handshake. “I don't see many men like you here.”
I sighed. “Mate's birthday,” I said with a shrug. “More used to places with a dart board and pork scratchings.”
Lucas licked his lips. “I bet,” he said. “You having a good night?”
“Not really. Look, what's this about?” I snapped gruffly. “I really can't be arsed with whatever joke you're playing. I know, a load of middle-aged blokes at a gay bar, it's all very funny, but-”
He cut me off by kissing me square on the lips. Despite myself, I melted into it, almost dropping my drink. God, how long had it been since I’d kissed someone new? Kissed anyone really? Not since Charlie, if you didn't count elderly relatives at Christmas, which I tried not to. His tongue gently probed my lips and his hand grazed the slip of skin between my waistband and my shirt.
Lucas pulled back. The bouncer and several smokes ogled at us. “I'm sorry that you're not having a good night,” he said. “And I'm sorry that you thought I was playing a joke. You really are very handsome.” He smiled and placed a hand against my roughly shaved cheek. “Maybe we could go find a pub with a dart board so we can talk?”
“I uh… those kind of places tend to close early,” I said lamely.
“Somewhere quiet then at least,” he suggested. “Maybe we could get some food?”
I gestured vaguely back inside, still stunned. “My mates…”
He shrugged. “You can go back if you like. Do you want to though? How much longer are they really likely to stay out anyway?”
I nodded. “I'll get my coat,” I said.
He grinned. “I'll be here.”
I went back inside and found Greg.
“Who was that?” he shouted.
“I think I've pulled,” I replied, handing him my pint.
Greg's shock mirrored my own.
“Pulled who? That fucking bodybuilder you were with?” he said incredulously. “Adam mate, you're drunk, let’s get you home.”
“He snogged me,” I said. “Wants to go get food.”
“Fucking hell,” Greg said. “No offence Adam, but you do know he's probably going to try and get money off you? He reckons you're an easy target.”
I thought for a moment and shrugged. “Probably,” I said. “Most enjoyable mugging of my life though.” I grinned and turned away, leaving via the coat check.
Ten minutes later, Lucas and I were sat at a table in a shop. Lucas was watching me hungrily eat a large donner and chips, occasionally leaning across to take a single chip dipped in garlic mayo from my tray.
“So what do you do Adam?” he asked.
I stifled a burp. “Civil engineer,” I said.
“That's interesting,” he offered.
“Not really,” I said honestly. “What about you? Some kind of influencer.”
He laughed. “Not quite,” he said. “I'm a teacher.”
“Blimey,” I said. “None of my teachers ever looked like you. You're barely older than the kids.” I paused to eat. “How old are you, anyway?”
“Twenty-four,” he said. My face paled. Not quite half my age, but not far off. He seemed to pick up on my discomfort, and he reached across to hold my hand. “How about we go back to mine for a drink?”
I hesitated, thinking back to Greg's warning. Still, if he was trying to rob me, surely he'd be suggesting going back to mine. I nodded and pushed the rest of my kebab into my mouth.
-
Lucas pulled his t-shirt over his head, revealing a torso of perfect skin with neatly trimmed chest hair and abs like cobble stones. I stood in awe, and my hand hesitated above my own shirt buttons.
"What's wrong?" Lucas asked.
"I guess I just don't usually, you know…" I said.
"What?" he prompted.
"Men that look like you don't look at men that look like me," I said, tugging my shirt down self-consciously.
"What do you… are you kidding?" Lucas asked, seemingly genuinely perplexed. "You're gorgeous. A proper dilf.” I winced at the word. “You're genuinely really handsome for your age." I smiled despite myself, ignoring the comment about “my age”. He really did seem like he genuinely meant it.
"You don't even know my age," I pointed out.
He laughed. "I guess not," he agreed. "In which case you look fucking terrible for twenty-one." I laughed, and looked up to see him smiling warmly at me. "Come on, it's not like I didn't notice there was an age gap at the club."
"But you look like a model," I pointed out. "You could choose to go home with anyone."
He shrugged and smiled a little. "Maybe," he said. "And I chose to go home with you, didn't I?"
He pulled me towards him and started kissing me, occasionally stopping to nuzzle his face against my rough stubble. As he did so, he unbuttoned my shirt and pressed his hard body against my soft one.
Finally, he pulled my shirt off, revealing a soft hairy pot belly sticking out over my jeans. I sucked it in, but knew it didn't make much difference. Lucas ran his hand over my stomach as he buried his face in my neck. “Relax,” he said. “You don't need to hide with me.” Slowly, a relaxed my core muscles and cringed at the feeling of my gut pushing into his hand. Almost as if to reward me, he immediately began to undo my trousers, and pulled them down.
The sex was electric. Better than I thought I was capable of any more. Fuck, probably better than I'd had even in my prime. Lucas seemed to have endless stamina, and used it all with the sole aim of pleasing me. All I had to do was lie back and enjoy the show.
-
The next morning I looked in the mirror, appraising myself. Okay, I wasn't under any illusions that Lucas didn't have some kind of daddy thing going on, but I looked alright, didn’t I? In a certain light, with a certain perspective maybe. Moustaches were coming back in, weren't they? And maybe my hair was more “salt-and-pepper” than “greying”. My hairline wasn't what it was, but I was fucking forty-six! The fact that I'd help onto as much hair as I had was a borderline miracle. What did Greg always insist on saying? “A mature hairline”? Yeah, that was the word. Mature. Distinguished. Experienced. Maybe I wasn't everyone's type, but it wasn't like I wasn't anybody’s; last night proved that.
My eyes drifted down. The gut didn't quite hold up sexy daddy image I'd convinced myself of. Still, maybe it wasn't nearly as big as I thought. We’re all our worst critic, aren't we? And what do they call it? Dad-bod? It's all very in these days, isn't it? Body positivity, self-care.
My eyes drifted to the scales in the corner of the room. My own set at home had broken years ago and I couldn't even begin to guess what I weighed. What was I before? 15 stone maybe? I knew I'd be more than that now, but by how much? 220 pounds maybe? I hefted my gut a little. God, I couldn't be 230, could it? I took a deep breath and stepped on. I forced myself to open my eyes.
Fuck me.
247 pounds.
I did some quick maths. 17 stone. Fuck, closer to 18 really, isn't it? I stepped off, stepped back on, expecting it to correct its mistake. The same number flashed back up at me. I grabbed the scales and moved them, knowing that an uneven floor can change the measurement. I stepped back on. 251.
I stepped backwards, bumped into something, and span round to see Lucas. He grinned at me and kissed me, his hands gripping my sides.
He pulled away and said something that I couldn't lip read. I did my best to convince myself that one of the words wasn't “chubby”. I told him I'd left my aids in his bedroom and he smiled, grabbed my hand and pulled me into the bedroom. He held up two fingers. “Round two,” he mouthed.
-
The relationship weight hit me like a freight train. Every date was a meal out, complete with starters and mains, or a night at the pub with pint after pint topped off with a greasy kebab. I did my best to ignore the way Lucas would push half his food over to my plate, how he'd drink one or two gin and tonics then switch over to lime and soda while I was bloated on my sixth or seventh pint, the way he'd order cheesy chips, eat a couple then pass them over to me while I was choking down my own huge kebab.
Most nights I stayed at his, or he mine, he'd sneak out in the morning to go to the gym, so I'd wake up to him creeping back into bed. Each time, as an apology for leaving me alone, he'd pass me a coffee and a plate of breakfast; french toast one morning, two or three bacon sandwiches the next. As I luxuriated in being pampered, he'd slip beneath the covers and give me a blowjob while I ate. Afterwards I’d get up, my cock and gut satiated, to find he'd bought me a pile of treats for the day; chocolate I’d said I liked, pastries from a bakery he’d passed, countless treats that would inevitably disappear through the day.
I convinced myself that all of this was normal, that there was no ulterior motive to notice. That the early days of any relationship involved lots of eating and drinking, that it was only natural that I'd have a much bigger appetite than Lucas (just look at us!), that he genuinely did feel bad about leaving for the gym in the morning. Besides, who was I to look a gift horse in the mouth, especially when that gift horse was a twenty-four year old with the body of a greek god.
Regardless of what I told myself, my weight exploded. My wardrobe of clothes that fit awkwardly before, that I'd been too stubborn to get rid of, suddenly wouldn't fit at all. Lucas took me shopping for all new clothes, telling me to get a size above what fit in the changing rooms for a “relaxed fit”, then sitting me down for an hour and a half to gorge myself at lunch. I had to admit it was nice to wear clothes that didn't feel constricting constantly, but I balked at the numbers on the tags, and did my best to ignore the way that even these larger clothes stopped feeling quite so loose after just a month or so.
One evening, I flopped down on the sofa next to Lucas as he marked some books. He looked up, smiled, squeezed one of my thighs, then continued. I couldn't get my mind off of the number I'd just seen on the scales - 271 pounds - and the way my double chin looked so utterly, obscenely grotesque in the mirror.
“I might shave my moustache,” I said, after a while.
Lucas’ head flew up. “What?” he asked simply. “Why?”
“I might grow out my beard,” I replied.
“I don't see why you have to get rid of your moustache then,” he said.
I shrugged. “Just so it grows a bit more evenly,” I said. “Besides, it's been a while. I was only going to keep it for November. It's almost May.” I remembered the night in early December when I'd gone to shave it off. It was our first argument, nominally about me not wanting to meet up with some of Lucas' friends, but I couldn't help but notice how the tension faded once I left the bathroom, away from the razor.
Lucas huffed. “Do what you like,” he said into his books. “It's your face.” After a few minutes he snapped “I think you look great with just the moustache.”
I reached over and put a hand on his arm. “Come on, don't be like that,” I said. “I just think… I really need to do something about hiding my double chin a bit.”
“What double chin?” His eyes were all innocence and charm.
“Come on,” I pinched the fold of fat at the top of my neck. “My face is so fat. I've got jowls.”
He shrugged. “Never noticed it,” he grumbled.
We sat quietly for a while. “Maybe I'll just let my stubble grow out a bit then. Keep the moustache. Just,” I looked over at him out of the side of my eye, “go for a bit of a scruffy look.”
He sat up at the word “scruffy”. “Yeah?” he said. “That's a good idea. It's very trendy actually. It would really suit you.”
I sank back into the sofa, knowing that my double chin would stay visible to the world, but most importantly, Lucas.
-
After weeks of pestering, I'd finally managed to convince Lucas that I really didn't want to do anything for my birthday. I went to the pub with some mates on the Friday, and the next day, my actual birthday, me and Lucas stayed in while he cooked.
I slumped back on the sofa after finishing off the huge steak Lucas had cooked to perfection, sitting in my gut alongside a homemade cheddar and pickle tart and triple cooked chips. I drummed the crest of my gut as Lucas got dessert ready.
“What are you doing running up and down the stairs?” I called out to him.
He poked his head through the door. “I thought we'd take dessert up to the bedroom,” he said with a grin. “Why don't you come up? I’m almost ready.”
I laughed and hoisted myself up, tottering a little against the unbalanced weight of my gut. He led me by the hand up to the bedroom, and covered my eyes just as I reached the door.
“No peaking,” he whispered in my ear as he led me in. Through gaps in his fingers I saw the soft glow of candlelight. “Happy birthday to you…” I heard him sing, as he took his hands off my eyes to reveal a huge chocolate cake placed on the bed. He dipped a finger into the thick buttercream and placed it into my mouth. “Happy birthday to you…” The chocolate buttercream was rich and decadent. “Happy birthday dear Adam…” He reached down to where my gut hung out my too small t-shirt and lifted it up, so that my hairy belly shook and sagged. “Happy birthday to you.” He pulled me into a kneeling position in front of the cake. I could feel the warmth of the candles on my hanging chest. “Make a wish Adam,” he whispered, as slipped a hand down into my tight waistband. I blew and the room was plunged into a soft darkness.
Lucas gently led me onto the bed and pushed me back onto the pillows. “What’s happening Lucas?” I asked with a laugh. Through the darkness I saw him smile, take out a knife, and cut a hefty slice from the cake.
“I'm going to give you your birthday treat,” he said. He lifted the cake and pushed it towards my face. I hesitated before opening my mouth wide, allowing him to stuff the overly sweet, overly warm mess inside. As he fed me the rest, he methodically pulled my trousers, then my pants, down inch by inch until I was only wearing my socks. My gut hung down, trapping my cock against my lap.
I licked my lips as I finished the slice. “Kinky,” I said. “Is that my only treat?” I asked. Lucas’ eyes lit up.
“Of course not!” he said, glee evident in his voice. “Anything for you.” He reached back towards the cake.
“Oh, that's not what I…” I said quietly. I took his hand and moved it towards my crotch.
“I know exactly what you mean,” Lucas said. His hand cupped my balls and I leaned into his touch, moaning. Still, he brought the cake up to my lips. I paused. Didn't he know I was already full? The warmth of his palm beneath the crest of my gut made me open my mouth. What was just one more slice, anyway? I leant forward, just enough to take a bite.
The second slice was larger than the first, and even more sickly. Lucas began to stroke his hand slowly along my length. I sighed around the heavy buttercream and relaxed into his touch. Slowly, laboriously, the slice disappeared.
“That was great, baby,” I said. “Now how about…” I motioned downwards with my head.
“Of course,” Lucas replied. He shuffled down and settled between my legs. I closed my eyes, and widened my stance, allowing greater access.
I felt something heavy and sticky thrust into my palm. I opened my eyes to see yet another slice of cake filling my hand. “Lucas, I don't know…”
“Come on,” he whispered. “Isn't this sexy?” I gave a shaking smile back and took a large bite from the slice. This seemed to be enough for Lucas, who disappeared between the soft flesh of my gut, hiding him from my view.
I gasped as I felt Lucas’ tongue flick past my arsehole, and I leant back into the pillows, lifting my hips to meet Lucas’ mouth, giving greater access. After a moment or two of pleasure, I felt Lucas pull away, his lightly stubbled cheeks brushing my inner thighs, and his face emerged.
"You've stopped eating," Lucas said, slightly breathless.
"I'm enjoying myself," I replied, shifting up and placing my sticky hands on Lucas' shoulders to coax him back down, but he resisted, and remained resolutely in place. I looked down at the half of a chocolate cake still remaining, and rubbed my taut stomach, my fingers pushing into the developing plushness. "I'm so full already Luke, come on, just finish me off."
Lucas shook his head and moved backwards off the bed. "If you're not eating cake, then neither am I." He shrugged his broad shoulders and began to walk towards the door. I soaked in his muscular frame, huffed and pushed the slice of cake into my mouth until I could barely chew.
Lucas smiled. “There we go,” he said, walking back and settling himself back in position.
I did my best to force the cake down as quickly as I could, hoping I could trick my brain into not noticing the dull ache in my gut. My head began to swim against the onslaught of sugar, but eventually I was sat panting, covered in sticky chocolate, with no cake left in my hand.
Lucas grabbed my wrist and pulled my hand towards the cake. I winced, but was powerless against Lucas’ teasing and my throbbing cock. I grasped it messily, hoping I could take less while still making the plate look empty. My resolve pushed me into a rhythm; bite, chew, swallow, pant, bite, chew, swallow pant. All the while I squirmed against Lucas’ face, buried in my arse.
My hand fell towards the plate and bumped against cold ceramic and sticky buttercream. “Please,” I begged finally, crumbs spraying from my mouth. “Please Lucas, the cake is gone. Finish me off.”
Lucas sat up. I felt like I could cry. “One last present,” he said. He darted out of the room and returned a moment later with a strange metal frame. I watched him place it above my head through my sugar-rush and lust. Finally, he took a funnel and held a tube up to my lips. “I'd like you to start doing these in the evening,” Lucas told me. I shook my head. “Think of it like a protein shake.”
“Can't we just…” I wheezed.
“For me,” he said.
I looked up at his perfect face, his square jaw, his soft curling hair, his broad chest. The heaviness in my gut was giving way to a sharp stretching feeling. “Not too much,” I whispered.
Lucas kissed my lips, and replaced his lips with the tube. “Thank you so much,” he said. “I promise to make it worth your while.” He reached down and pulled my hearing aids out. I gasped, choked against the thick tube in my mouth. I reached my hands up towards them but Lucas was already gone. Lucas must have pulled some clip, or twisted some knob, as suddenly a cold, gritty liquid began to fill my mouth. I breathed heavily through my nose.
I struggled against my own weight, then collapsed as I felt the warmth of Lucas’ mouth envelop the entire length of my dick. I could feel his nose bury itself into the thick roll of fat that had recently filled my crotch His tongue slowly swirled around the head of my dick and I bucked my hips, desperate for relief. Lucas raised himself so that he could see me over the horizon of my gut. He simply shook his head, nodded towards the funnel of shake above my head, and moved back down.
I could feel my gut stretched to it's limit, but I was becoming feral for release. I resolved to breathe slowly and calmly through my nose, closed my eyes and began to suck the tube in my mouth, pulling the shake down and swallowing, rhythmically and methodically.
My world narrowed down to pure sensation. The mounting sharp pain in my gut as it stretched around thick gainer shake on top of steak and chocolate cake, all sloshing queasily; my heavy, deliberate breathing around the uncomfortable thick plastic shoved into my mouth; the pinprick of tears forcing themselves through eyes shut tight against pain; but most of all, the intermittent warmth of Lucas’ mouth on my cock, gently teasing me, never allowing my release, always pulling away just as I got close. Without my hearing aids, all of this was set against the gentle rush of blood in my ears, all other sounds fading into a dull rumble.
The shake seemed to last forever. I fought hard to swallow every drop, to give Lucas what he wanted, so that he could do the same for me. Eventually, just as I thought my gut might burst, I found myself sucking on air. I was so desperate for release that I didn't stop, and simply carried on sucking, nervous that Lucas would find some leftover drop or two to deny my orgasm further.
He must have noticed my desperation because he patted my gut and picked up his pace, finally keeping my cock in his mouth for more than a few moments. I was still sucking on the tube as my balls emptied into Lucas’ mouth, and my fat shook. I hadn't cum so forcefully since I was in my twenties; pulse after pulse pumped down Lucas’ throat, seemingly for almost a minute and all the time, Lucas’ mouth stayed on my cock, almost to the point of discomfort, until I was writhing under the weight of my heavy gut.
Eventually, Lucas pulled away, wiped his lips and moved up the bed. He pulled the feeding tube out of my mouth and kissed me. “Did you like that?” I saw him ask, as he squeezed my love handle. My head was spinning from the sheer calories I'd consumed, my gut was painful, I felt nauseous, and I was still recovering from the best orgasm of my life. I could only whimper in reply. Lucas smiled and kissed my cheek. Five minutes later, I was unconscious.
-
A few months later I stood in the bathroom at work staring in the mirror. I couldn't help but be shocked at the changes happening to my body every time I saw myself. Since my birthday, Lucas had stopped with any pretense of subtlety in his feedings, giving me a “protein shake” each night. I pretended to not notice the pile of ice cream containers that would accumulate in the bins each week. Did I really have a choice? Lucas was amazing and gorgeous, so far out of my league. So his tastes were a little unconventional! This was the happiest I'd ever been, wasn't it?
I lifted my gut and checked I'd zipped my fly in the mirror. I sighed and let it go, doing my best to ignore the shaking fat and the pinching of the belt buckle against my overhang. Ever since I'd hit 300 pounds a month before, my suit jacket had stopped buttoning. I left it open over in matching, tight trousers. At the very least I was doing my best to keep up with the rate I was outgrowing shirts, but I even seemed to be bursting out of these.
My gaze avoided my face. I never imagined my cheeks would get so round, my double chin so pronounced. I dried my hands and left for my meeting.
“It's Adam, isn't it?” one of the clients asked as we finished up. I turned towards him and smiled. We’d met before, in some meeting or other. I remember thinking how grossly overweight he was; a heavy round gut filled his lap and a heavy beard did nothing to hide his double chin. I realised with some shock that I almost certainly weighed more than him.
“That's right,” I said, reaching my hand over the table to shake his hand. I felt my gut brush the table top and suppressed a shudder. “I didn't catch your name, I'm afraid. Did you have some more questions about the project?”
“Henry,” he replied as he pulled himself up with a grunt. “I was hoping to have a personal conversation actually.” My eyebrows raised. “I believe we have a mutual friend,” he continued by way of explanation. “A young man named Lucas?”
I nervously stroked my moustache. “Ah,” I said. “Yes, we umm…” I hesitated. Who was this man? Lucas’ dad maybe, angry at the old git taking advantage of his son? “We met a while ago. We, uh, go to the same gym.” I cringed at my nervous lie. It was obvious to anyone with eyes that I'd not been to the gym in years, nevermind one that catered to the likes of Lucas.
Henry smiled. “I see,” he said.
“How do you know Lucas?” I asked. I tried to smile as wide as I could to hide my nervousness.
Henry looked around the office to check it was empty. “I used to fuck him,” he said bluntly. “A few years ago, while he was uni.”
I swallowed hard and lifted my fat arms as I felt sweat began to pour out my armpits. “Ah, I see,” I said. “Righto.”
“I thought I was onto a good thing,” Henry continued. “Hot young thing like that, interested in an old git like me? You can't really pass it up, can you?”
I forced a laugh. I felt sweat roll down my back and pool above my love handles.
“I knew he must have, you know, some daddy fetish, but fuck it, why else would he be interested? I'm not an idiot. He never asked for money and it never got too weird. Well, until…” He sighed and held his face in his hands for a moment. “He started feeding me up. Subtle, at first, you know? Passing me his leftovers, buying me treats.” He looked at me and I watched his eyes move up and down. “Eventually he got more aggressive. Feeding me these gross milkshakes. I nearly got up to three-hundred pounds, if you can imagine it.”
I shook my head. “God, yeah, that’s uhh…” I said. I shifted in my seat and it protested loudly against my 310 pounds. “That's awful.”
“Yeah, well…” Henry said, shifting uncomfortably himself. “I did some investigating after I burst out of some trousers at work. I found some…” He shivered. “Fucked up account on this website for fat fuckers. I confronted him, he admitted everything.”
I nodded. “Wow, yeah, that’s… that's awful. I'm so sorry that happened to you,” I said. “I’d never imagine he was-”
“You do know he's just using you, don't you?” he interrupted.
I paused and swallowed heavily. “What?” I said breathlessly.
“Come on, don't act a prat,” Henry said. “You know as well as I do that he's using you to get his kicks, and he doesn't give a shit about how you feel about it.”
I was silent for a while. Of course I knew. “At least he's using me,” I said after a while. I cringed as I said it.
“Fuck me, he's got you good,” Henry said. He pulled himself up with a grunt and walked around the table. He patted me on the shoulder and squeezed it for a moment. “Good luck mate. You're in deeper than I ever was.” He walked towards the door. “Is it worth it though?”
-
I wanted to speak to Lucas about it. I really did, honest. I chose times that would work, scripted out what I wanted to say, a couple of times I even got so far as asking Lucas to talk. Every time I got close, I wimped out, smiled, asked him if we could order a takeaway and let him stuff me from both ends.
Lucas was out drinking with friends. Even without him there, he'd trained me well enough to stuff myself even without him, knowing what reward id be granted. I ordered two extra large pizzas, with the aim to finish them both by the time he came back to find the empty boxes and me swollen up like a tick. I fantasised about what he'd do to me, ever the obedient little pig even while his farmer was out. I hated myself for the thought. I pushed another slice into my mouth and moaned around it.
Slice by slice the pizzas disappeared as some film or other played on the TV in front of me. Who even knew what it was, some old war thing maybe. I didn't care; my world narrowed down to my shaking breathing, the engorged gut hanging down into my lap, and the taste of pizza on my tongue. Slowly, each slice disappeared and collapsed back, my hard dick pressing into my fleshy overhang.
The film finished with some soaring triumph or other, and stood shakily. There was a family sized tiramisu from Costco in the fridge. Lucas wanted to feed it to me tomorrow, but I knew he wouldn't mind. I belched, scratched the underside of my gut, and followed it towards the kitchen.
I found a spoon, found the dessert and lowered myself gently into a kitchen chair. It was only a matter of time, I knew, before they'd collapse under me. I’d hardly bought them expecting I'd ever be pushing 25 fucking stone. I pushed the first large spoonful into my mouth and breathed heavily through my nose. I considered flicking off my hearing aids, so disgusted as I was my my grunting and huffing. Still, that would involve slowing down, and I knew by now that the trick to stuffing myself far beyond my capacity, just as much as Lucas wanted, was to go as fast as possible.
As I shoveled the third spoonful into my gaping maw, I heard the front door rattle and open. I stood shakily. “Lucas,” I said. “You're back early.” I hastily wiped greasy fingers on the bottom of my t-shirt, ridden up almost to my belly button.
“Jesus fuck Adam,” Lucas sighed as he saw me. He rushed towards me and kissed me, hard enough for our teeth to clatter together and our noses to crashed into each other. If it hurt him, he didn't show it, and instead he just carried on in his frenzied grabbing of my body. At some point, he started undressing me, pulling my tight shirt off, the fabric getting caught on my freshly expanded gut and moobs. He whined as he undid my belt and trousers, clearly frustrated with having to use both hands and stop, however briefly, in his groping of me.
Eventually I was stood wearing in front of him wearing only a pair of tented white y-fronts that should have been retired a few stone ago, and were hardly fashionable when they fit, and a pair of mismatched socks. The elastic was long-gone in my pants, but nonetheless I could still feel the waistband digging into my overhanging gut. I could feel my overgrown stubble, deeply in need of a trim, caught between my growing double chin and thickening neck, itching like mad. My shoulder and back hair had gotten a lot worse recently, spreading to cover every available surface and becoming dense and wiry. I'd started to find grey hairs in my moustache and stubble, my rapidly thinning hairline, the copious curly body hair that was constantly encroaching on more and more of my skin. As I stood there, my flab shaking slightly as I panted from exertion, I knew I must look disgusting.
Lucas' eyes were clouded with lust. He stood back to take in the sight of my body, scanning up and down, pausing for a moment to take in everything in front of him. Despite how exposed I felt, I grew hard. Lucas was still fully clothed.
“Take them off,” he said, simply.
“You mean my…?” I gestured down, somewhere unseen below the crest of my gut.
“Off.” Louder this time, and more forceful.
I obeyed, peeling the old pants off and crouching down with a pronounced ooft before standing back up, tottering slightly at the shift in centre of gravity, and breathing just slightly too hard to be dignified.
Lucas stepped towards me, closing the gap between us, and kissing me again, gentler this time but no less urgent. His hands roved around my body, gripping handfuls of flesh, running along cellulite, swirling through coarse hair. I felt one hand reach around to my arse, and begin to probe at my hole. He pushed one finger in first, slowly but forcefully, and then two. I gasped and he laughed against my mouth.
He seemed to find my prostate with ruthless efficiency, and his fingers exerted a perfect, practiced amount of pressure. I went weak at the knees, pushing his fingers deeper into me and causing me to moan.
Lucas pulled away and grinned, his fingers still massaging my prostate expertly. His other hand pinched one of my nipples, then traced the arc of my gut before disappearing underneath and gripping my achingly hard cock and he began to slowly pump. He leant down to one of my moobs, his hands never stopping in their attentions, and his tongue made slow, lazy circles around my puffy, pointed nipple. My eyes rolled back and I staggered back slightly, gripping the counter for balance.
“Do you like that?” Lucas asked, taking his mouth away from my nipple for a mere second. I could only whimper in response.“And you like my body?” he asked. Another whimper. He pulled his mouth away and slowed both his hands, but didn't move them away. “I asked if you like this. I asked if you liked my body. If you like your boy toy.” His voice was stern.
I forced out a strangled “yes” and he resumed his attentions to me.
“And what will you do for me?” Lucas continued.
“Anything,” I said, my voice barely more than a whisper. “Jesus Christ, I'd do anything.”
Lucas laughed, the sound muffling against my soft chest. “That's good Adam. That's very good,” he said. “I didn't ask what you would do though. I asked what you will do?” His massaging, pumping and licking all increased in speed ever so slightly.
“I don’t- oh fuck Lucas, I - fuck me - I don’t know what you mean, I-” Lucas seemed to be able to tell with almost psychic precision exactly when I was close to cumming, and he'd slow just enough to keep me going.
He bent down further and knelt so that his mouth moved away from my tits and his face was level with my gut. He buried his face in the thick fat and fur there, and I felt his tongue swirl in my belly button. “What will you do for me?” he repeated.
My heart-race increased. My lips quivered. I could barely see. Could I agree to this? Tell him I'd let him take me and make me as fat as he'd like? Did I honestly think I had a say in the matter anymore? “I'll get fat for you,” I whispered hoarsely. “Fatter,” I corrected myself. Both of his hands faltered for a moment before subtly changing their pattern of movement. I almost fell to the floor.
“How much fatter?” he asked.
“Oh fuck Lucas please,” I begged. “I'll get so fat. As fat as you like. I'll - Jesus fuck Lucas, another hundred pounds, two-hundred, just fucking - aah, ahh, oh, ohhhh.”
Beneath my gut, my cock exploded in thick fountains of cum for what felt like minutes. After a while I opened my eyes to look down at Lucas, but could only see the top of his head over the sphere of my gut. He stood up to reveal a sticky mess covering his shirt, which he promptly removed to reveal his cobblestone abs and yard-wide shoulders. He smiled at me, leant across my gut to kiss me, then led me to one of the kitchen chairs to sit down.
“I'm going to get you something to eat,” he said matter-of-factly.
“I've eaten,” I told him shakily. “Pizza,” I clarified. “Two,” I added with some pride.
Lucas shook his head as he unbuckled his belt and opened the fridge. “You're eating,” he insisted. “You've not finished yet.” He pulled out a pint of double cream and set it down next to the tiramisu.
“I'm not sure if I can-”
“You've not finished yet,” he repeated. He unbuttoned and pushed down his jeans to reveal his python-like cock, tenting out his boxers as it reached towards his hip. “You said you'd get fat for me,” he said, pouting a little. He pulled his boxers down so that his cock sprang out, pointing straight at me.
I nodded. “I can eat,” I said.
“Good.” He placed his hands in my armpits and guided me into a standing position before turning me around to face the table. He placed the cream down next to the tiramisu. “The tiramisu first,” he said. “Then the cream.” I could feel the tip of his cock pushing between my arse cheeks and his hands started to stroke up and down the hair covering my love handles.
“I- uh babes, I'm not sure if- I mean, I don't know if I can go again, I've just cum and-” I started. He pushed my back down so that my face was inches from the tiramisu.
“I need to cum too,” he said simply. His cockhead pushed closer and stretched my hole. “The tiramisu,” he ordered.
As he pushed his whole length inside of me, I pushed my face into the tiramisu. He began to pick up a rhythm, sending shockwaves through my flesh. Despite having climaxed just moments before, I started to get hard again.
I focussed on eating, and after a few minutes the last of the dessert was gone. Lucas noticed and picked up the tray, inspecting it briefly before pushing it back towards my face, holding it there. “Lick up the rest,” he grunted. I obeyed, running my tongue around the container, pushing into the corners. Once that was done, he pulled me upright and pushed the double cream into my hand. “Drink,” he ordered. He picked up a new rhythm for this new position, thrusting more forcefully.
I ripped the top off and lifted the cream to my lips. I grimaced at the sickly taste and the feeling of the rich liquid sitting on top of my already full stomach, especially with it rocking and shaking, but I persisted and a few minutes later I dropped the empty carton onto the floor. As I did so, Luca picked up his pace and gave one final grunt and I could feel his semen filling me up.
He staggered back and pulled out of me, before gripping my shoulder and to turn me around. He kissed me, slowly this time, with more care. He rested his forehead on mine. “Thank you,” he said. “I love you so much.”
“I love you too,” I whispered back.
He stood back and smiled. “I'm going to have a shower.” He gestured down at himself, covered in sweat with his jeans and underwear still around his knees.
I nodded. “I'll have one after,” I said. “See you in bed.”
Lucas grinned and walked away, not bothering to pull up his trousers. “I’m going to make you so fat,” he said once he reached the bottom of the stairs.
I forced a smile back. I didn't doubt he would.
-
“Four hundred!” I said, peering over my soft gut to the heavy-duty scale beneath. I swallowed heavily. Perhaps finally this would be enough for him? I knew it wouldn't.
“Finally!” Lucas said, beaming. “Took you long enough, eh?” I had put on fifty pounds in just a few months. “How do you feel?” he asked me.
I needed to tell him I wanted to stop, that this had all gone too far. I'd never wanted this, it had all been for him, not for me. My gut still ached from breakfast, my stretch marks had been itching for weeks, I was tired and fat and disgusting and-
“Horny,” I replied instead. “And hungry.”
He took my hand and led me to the bedroom, where a tub of ice cream waited for me.
Robert had hit the jackpot with Liam. They just clicked in a way that he never had with any of his previous partners, or honestly, even his friends and family. Robert wasn't a particularly romantic person, but the word “soulmate” had cropped up in his thoughts more than once.
The two had the same humour, enough shared hobbies that they could always find something to do together, but were different enough that they were constantly introducing each other to new films, music, and ideas. It helped that they were both gorgeous. Liam was a little shorter than average with the trim build of a swimmer, and his sparkling blue eyes stood out below ash blond hair; Robert was taller and bulkier, but no less fit, and with dark hair and eyes. They both had great careers, great families, great friends, great lives. Robert couldn't imagine anything that could put a dent in the trajectory of their perfect relationship.
“Sorry, you want what?” Robert said, blinking. He couldn't believe his ears.
“I want us both to gain weight,” Liam said, breathing slowly and shakily as if to calm himself.
“Like bulking?” Robert asked slowly, grasping for an explanation that made sense. “At the gym?”
Liam exhaled forcefully and sat back. “No,” he said. “I want… I want to be fat. I'd like it if you were too.”
Robert sat in silence for a while. “Right,” he said after a while. “Okay.” He furrowed his brow. “Sorry, you're going to have to- why? I just don’t- why?”
“It's a uh…” Liam closed his eyes forcefully, balled his fists, clenched his teeth. “Well it's a sex thing,” he forced out. “I have a fat fetish.” He nervously played with the napkin in front of him and looked around the restaurant. “Like, we wouldn't have to, you know, I'm not saying I'd really want us to actually gain weight.” He laughed nervously. “But I just, I don't know, like it's a thing for me and I wanted you to know and umm well.” He took a sip of the beer in front of him. “I'd like it if we could do some stuff with it. Just, you know, roleplay or whatever, not obviously, like get fat or anything.”
The two men sat in silence for a while. “Okay,” Robert said after a while. “That's umm… well it's okay, I guess.”
“Yeah?” Liam said, sitting up in his chair and smiling for the first time in the conversation. “It’s okay? You don't think I'm a freak?”
Robert forced a thin smile. “Yeah,” he said. “I mean no, you're not a freak, but yeah, it's okay. I uhh, I think I'll need to think about it for a while.”
“Is everything okay for you both?” their waitress boomed down at the two of them in a thick Mancunian accent. They both jumped in their seats. “Sorry!” she continued. “Didn't mean to scare you!”
Robert shook his head. “Sorry, no, it's fine, we were just in the middle of umm… Yeah. It's good. The food’s all good.” He looked down at the half eaten burger and chips in front of him.
The waitress raised her eyebrows, clearly excited to tell her colleagues about the hot gay couple who seemed to be breaking up over dinner. “You call me if you need anything then, won't you?” she said as she walked away.
“I'm sorry,” Liam said. “This is a lot to just put on you, it’s weird. I just thought maybe over a meal might be easier, you know. Not as intense.”
Robert shook his head. “It's fine, really, I just need to…” He looked at the platter of sides that Liam had insisted on ordering. He'd found it odd at the time; now he found it made all too much sense. “I just need to get my head around it. Let's eat, yeah? We can talk about it in the morning?”
For the first time since they first met, their conversation was forced. They bounced between what they thought of recent movies they'd watched, banal work gossip, even at one point resorting to commenting on the weather. Slowly, the food disappeared from the table.
-
Robert woke Liam up by putting a mug of coffee on his bedside table and kissing his forehead. “Okay.”
Liam opened one bleary eye. “Okay?”
“Okay,” Robert repeated. “I've been thinking about it, and okay. If it'll make you happy, we can try out putting on some weight.” He sat down on the bed next to Liam.
“What?” Liam said, frantically sitting up in bed, all tiredness leaving his face immediately. “You're really- I mean, we don't actually- I'd be happy if we just did some roleplay, or maybe, I don't know, maybe a threesome with a big guy or-”
“No you wouldn't,” Robert said. “I saw you last night. You started off with saying you wanted us to get fat, then backtracked. This will make you happy.” He took a long swig of his own coffee. “And you make me happy. So I guess that I'll do it.”
“Rob, this is a really big… I mean…. Why are you okay with this? This is weird, I do know that.”
Robert shrugged and pulled his phone out of his pocket. “I don't know if it is that weird, you know?” he said. “I mean, yes, obviously the specific, you know, request of it all is weird but…” He brought some photos and showed them to Liam. He swiped through men with varying degrees of dad bods, plus sized models, even some men with actual, if modest, guts. “People are into it, I guess? Like I know that. And I'm not averse to it, some of these guys are hot and I always like it when guys do bulks and…” He shrugged again and put his phone away. “I guess it would be nice to not worry about going to the gym and watching what we’re eating and stuff for a while.”
Liam hugged Robert tightly and kissed him. “This is amazing. You're amazing.”
Robert laughed. “Alright, alright. You’re going to owe me a lot of blowjobs for this though,” he joked.
“Oh don't you worry,” Liam flirted back. “Once you’ve put on a couple of stone you won’t be able to keep me off you.”
Robert’s face paled, but he gave a strained smile. “Come on,” he said, standing up off the bed. “I’ve been to the shops.” He swallowed nervously. “I thought we could have bacon and egg sandwiches for breakfast.”
-
Getting fat, Robert thought to himself a month later, was actually pretty fun. No more bothering with cardio at the gym, eating whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted. Food just tasted so much better if you stopped caring about how much butter you were adding, and he'd never realised how good McDonald's breakfasts were, but now was having multiple a week on his days in the office; this past week he'd even started experimenting with fast food for lunch, a luxury he'd always previously avoided. There were benefits he'd not expected as well; he’d hit multiple personal bests on lifts at the gym as all the extra food acted as fuel, and he's quickly come to enjoy the satisfying warmth of an overly full and stretched out stomach. Best of all, Liam’s sexual appetite, always healthy, had positively exploded, and the two spent most of their time together naked and eating.
Of course, not everything was rosy. Robert found it disconcerting how quickly his abs had faded and how his trousers had started pinching his sides and he would occasionally panic after they'd gorged on a particularly large meal, staring at the small curve of his gut in the mirror as he wondered what he'd agreed to. Still, he reasoned, it wasn't really noticeable yet, especially with clothes on and it really was fun just cutting loose. Besides, it made Liam happy, and Robert was quickly realising that that was all that really mattered to him. Everyone gains a bit of weight in relationships anyway.
“Best start laying off the beers Robby,” Robert’s brother Dylan said, poking the small puddle of fat at his middle. “You're starting to look like me.” He slapped his own beer belly, grown since the birth of his daughter a couple of years before.
Robert choked on his beer. “What?” he said. His hand flew down to his side, feeling the thin layer of fat that had started to accumulate. He was sure that you couldn't see the gained weight through his clothes. “No, I haven't, umm…”
“Ah, I'm only taking the piss,” Dylan said, slapping Robert on the shoulder before draining his pint. “I'm hardly one to talk, am I?” He gestured down at himself. “I'm just saying, our genetics, it'll catch up to you sooner or later. You've seen dad.” He leaned in conspiratorially. “Here, I saw him last week, he said he was seventeen bloody stone. I said bloody hell dad, you'll need to reinforce these chairs soon.” Robert laughed through a forced smile. “Anyway, speaking of taking the piss,” Dylan said standing up and walking to the gents.
Robert took the opportunity to survey his body. Perhaps, he thought, you could just about start to tell - sitting down anyway. His shirt fit just a tiny bit tighter than he was used to, and his torso wasn't quite as flat. He thought back to what his brother said. Would Liam want him to get as big as his dad? Seventeen stone. He tried to imagine that much weight on him. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad, he reasoned, he had a good base of muscle, he wouldn't look gone to seed like his dad, with his beer gut that strained all his shirts. Still, he resolved to cut back. Liam seemed happy enough with his current size, anyway.
Four hours later, Robert stumbled through his front door, chips, cheese and gravy in hand, sauce from his already devoured kebab down his shirt. He found Liam watching a film in the living room.
“Hello sexy,” Robert growled through a mouthful of cheesy chips. His cock hardened as he flopped down next to his boyfriend and began to feel up his thighs.
“Hello sexy to you too,” Liam laughed. “Did you get any for me?” he asked as he stole a chip.
Robert shook his head and pushed some more chips in his mouth. “Sorry, didn't think,” he said. “Was just really hungry.”
“That's okay,” Liam said with a smile growing alongside his erection. “You get nice and filled up.” He squeezed Robert’s middle. “I'm loving this beer bloat you've got going on,” he growled. He leaned in and kissed Robert’s neck while one hand began unbuttoning Robert’s jeans. “Did you have a good time with Dylan?”
Robert sighed as his jeans sprung open. “He said I'm getting fat,” he told Liam. His hand fell on top of Liam's as it massaged his gut. “Do you think I’m getting fat?”
Liam laughed. “Oh don't you worry about that,” he said. “You're nowhere near what I’d call fat yet.” Robert smiled before belching. Liam scrunched his nose against the smell of his breath, strong with beer. He leaned in and kissed Robert, hard and long. “How about we take those chips to the bedroom, big boy?”
-
Robert turned to the side as he looked in the mirror and sucked in. He tried to tell himself that he didn't look fat per se, but god was that getting more and more difficult. He was running out of euphemisms for his changing body; for a while he’d told himself he was looking solid, then healthy, then sturdy, burly, and husky and now he had to admit that thick was the best he could hope for. Hell, even chubby might be underselling it. He stopped sucking in and let his gut pool out, sticking out past the waistband of his new 36” waist trousers. He thought ruefully about the 38s lying in the drawer that Liam had convinced him to buy, telling him he'd be wearing them sooner rather than later. He brought his arm up and flexed. At least his muscles were growing too, but he had to admit, it was becoming less apparent as they got covered up with a layer of chub.
At least he wasn't alone in his changing body, with Liam also growing alongside him, although not nearly as fast. While Robert had recently passed two hundred and twenty pounds, Liam was lamenting how he was still fifteen pounds away from the big two-oh-oh. Robert told himself that it was just the difference in their heights, but he knew he wasn't really that much taller, and the difference in their weights really was becoming obvious. While Liam’s pudge had only just started forming a proper belly over the last five pounds, Robert’s own gut had long since reached the point of stretching out his shirts.
In a perverse way, Robert was almost beginning to enjoy how much fatter he was getting than Liam. He'd always been taller and bulkier than his boyfriend, with broader shoulders and bigger muscles, and odd as it was, he was enjoying how he was now outgrowing him in yet another way. He began to feel more masculine, more dominant, and he loved the way his new body made the smaller man go crazy and want to worship him, all while knowing that Liam would give anything to look like he did now. He'd always had a competitive streak, and this was just yet another competition to win.
Robert struggled to button up a shirt, and gritted his teeth as he felt the buttons strain around his shirt, even as his cock inexplicably swelled in his jeans. He walked downstairs and tried to ignore the sensation of his body shaking with each step to find Liam checking his hair in the mirror.
“You ready to go?” Robert asked.
Liam looked up smiling, only for his mouth to fall open upon seeing Robert. “Fuck Rob, you look massive.” He reached out to grab the bottom of Robert’s gut and gave it a small shake. “Are you sure you don't want to wear a large? It's a bit tight. There'll be loads of people there.”
Robert shrugged, the motion causing his shirt to ride up. He tugged at the hem awkwardly. “This is a large,” he explained. “I’ll need to go shopping for some extra larges this week.”
“Oh wow,” Liam whispered. “Extra large, that's, wow.” He tugged at the hem of his own shirt in a mirror of Robert’s motion. Despite being a medium, Robert knew, the shirt was barely snug. Robert struggled to hide a smug smirk, even as his annoyance at his shrinking clothes mounted.
“Well you'll be wearing this shirt soon enough, eh?” Robert said before giving Liam a kiss on the cheek. “And then we can share extra larges once you catch up.”
Liam smiled sadly. “Yeah, maybe.” His phone buzzed and he looked down at it. “Taxi’s here,” he said. “You got everything?”
Robert nodded an affirmative, before dashing to the kitchen and grabbing a couple of chocolate bars for the road.
“God did you see their faces?” Liam asked as they came back that night. His face was flushed with drink and arousal. “They couldn't believe how fat we'd gotten!”
Robert burped into his fist and began to unbutton his shirt and trousers. He gave a sigh of relief as his unconstrained belly was allowed to surge forward. Liam stared at the spectacle for a second before hurriedly mimicking the motion, despite his own clothes not being nearly so restrictive.
“Good food,” Robert said simply. His cock was rock hard, as it was more and more frequently whenever he'd stuffed himself, as he had tonight. He let out another belch.
“You ate so much,” Liam said, almost reverently. “When you went to the toilet, Olive asked if everything was okay. They're properly worried about how much weight we've gained.”
Robert gave a lopsided grin. He was sure they were mainly concerned about him, and not Liam, especially as he'd ended up finishing so many people's meals at the end of the night while Liam struggled to finish his own plate. He reached into his pants and gave his hard cock a squeeze. “You know,” he whispered to Liam, raising his eyebrows suggestively. “There's a tub of ice cream in the freezer. Maybe you could, you know, while I ate it?”
Liam's eyes widened. “You're still hungry? Oh wow. Yeah, yeah, absolutely, I mean, wow.” His smile widened and his hands explored the sides of Robert’s gut.
“Go on then,” Robert said with a small nod of his head towards the kitchen. “I'll be upstairs.”
“Oh, right, yeah. Of course, I'll just go and, yeah.” Liam dashed off towards the kitchen as Robert trudged upstairs, massaging his bloated middle.
Liam entered the bedroom to find Robert sat on the edge of the bed completely naked, with his legs spread wide to expose his thick, hard cock.
“I microwaved it for a bit,” Liam said. “So it's easier to eat."
Robert merely grunted and spread his legs wider in response as he took the tub away from Liam, making his wants clear. Liam sank down before him and dutifully swallowed as much of his prick as he could. Robert grabbed the spoon embedded in the ice cream, and sucked what was on there before tossing it to the side. Instead he simply raised the tub to his lips and began to chug. He threw his head back and closed his eyes, relishing in the twin pleasures of head and dessert.
Okay, he thought, yes, he'd lost his hot gym body he’d worked so hard for, but god, if this is what the alternative was, who gave a shit? What did he want to work out for anyway? He was in a great relationship, getting treated like a king, so it's not like he needed to attract anyone. And besides, his brother was right, with his genetics it was always going to be a losing battle. No, it was best to just lie back, taste the ice cream, and think of England.
He climaxed just as he finished the ice cream. “Thanks babe,” he grunted. “That was great.”
“That was really hot,” Liam enthused, unbuckling his belt and dropping his own trousers.
“Anything to make you happy,” Robert said as he crawled into bed and began scrolling on his phone.
“Oh. Right,” Liam said. “Yeah.” He crawled into bed next to Robert.
-
Robert burped as he brought the carton of heavy cream away from his lips. The taste was greasy and unpleasant, but he thrilled at the thought of how many calories he'd just chugged, and all before dinner.
“What are you doing?” Liam asked. “We’re leaving in a moment, you still need to get changed.”
“Just topping up the tank,” Robert grinned. He pushed his gut out to make a show of it. “What's wrong with what I'm wearing?”
Liam looked at his watch. “We’re eating in half an hour Rob,” he said. “And that shirt’s ridiculous, it's barely buttoned.”
Robert smirked and moved in close, grabbing Liam's love handles and grinding their soft bodies together. “Don't worry babes,” he said. “I'm just getting warmed up. Hey,” he added in a whisper. “I'll even let you feed me dessert later.”
Liam broke away and stepped back. “I'm being serious Rob,” he said, struggling to hide his erection. “You can't wear that shirt. Go find an extra large.”
Robert drummed his fingers against his gut. “All in the wash,” he said smugly. “Come on, don't act like this doesn't drive you wild.” He fingered his belly button through one of the gaping buttons holes. “Two-fifty pounds, eh? Did you ever imagine I'd get so big for you when you asked me to get fat for you?” He reached down and gripped Liam’s cock through his trousers. Liam whimpered involuntarily. “Did I tell you that I'm fatter than Dylan now? Dad too. Biggest guy in the family now, sounds pretty good, doesn't it?”
Liam stepped back away from Robert’s grasp. “Just put on a jumper or something,” he said. He rearranged his erection. “The one you got a couple of weeks ago will work.” Robert stepped closer again and he stepped back. “Please Rob,” he said. “It is hot how big you're getting, and I'm glad you're starting to get something out of it too, but not in front of my family, yeah?”
“I'm just joking!” Robert said. “I know I can't wear this out in public anymore. I'll go sort it now.”
“Thank you,” Liam said.
As Robert left he smacked the side of his gut. “All for you baby!”
Robert returned shortly after, his jumper managing to cover his body but doing nothing to disguise his expanded girth.
“I didn't ask you to get fat,” Liam said, sitting at the kitchen table.
Robert laughed. “What?” he asked.
“Earlier,” Liam said. “You said I'd asked you to get fat.”
“Did I? Well, you did, didn't you! Otherwise I have made a very big error of judgement.” He lifted his jumper to reveal the still straining shirt.
“No, I mean, I know I did ask you to get fat, obviously,” Liam said. “It's just. I didn’t say that. I said I'd like us both to get fat. Together. I feel like that's not been a thing for a while.”
Robert stepped closer to Liam and rubbed his buttery side. “You're getting fat too,” he said. He almost laughed at the ridiculousness of comforting someone about how they were gaining weight. “Here, you hit two hundred pounds finally, right? That's great! I'm really proud of you.” He kissed bent down to kiss Liam. “You're my chubby guy too. It's just that this is your thing I guess, so I don't know how to do all the encouragement stuff you do for me. I just want to make you happy, and I guess I got a little carried away.”
Liam shook his head. “No, I know,” he said. “I'm just being silly. I do really appreciate what you've done.” He laughed. “You know, I just kind of thought you'd put on twenty pounds and then get freaked out. I actually thought I'd end up being the fatter one.”
Robert kissed Liam again. “Funny to think about that now, eh? Here, we've still got five minutes before we need to leave,” he said. “There's another thing of cream in the fridge. Why don't I feed it to you before we go?” He leant in and whispered in Liam's ear. “I think you'll really love how two hundred and fifty pounds feels.”
Liam pulled a face and laughed. “No way,” he said. “I don't know how you chug them, it's absolutely gross.”
Robert shrugged. “Your loss is my gain. Why don't you have some chocolate or something then?” He opened the fridge and licked his lips as he looked. “You know, if you don't want it, maybe you could feed it to me? Maybe we could see if I could break my record for number of calories today?”
Liam forced a smile. “Yeah, if you want,” he said. “Sounds hot.”
Robert grinned as he passed the cream to Liam and sat down and tilted his head back to allow him to pour it down his throat. “The things I do for you, eh?”
-
Robert lifted up his t-shirt as he scratched his side. His most recent stretch marks were particularly aggravating, a fact which wasn't helped by the fact that he was just on the cusp of needing to size up his t-shirts and sweatpants, the too tight fabric irritating the more sensitive skin.
“What's for dinner babe?” he asked Liam as he walked into the kitchen. Liam was clearing away the remnants of Robert’s lunch, a small pile of McDonald’s wrappers and boxes.
Liam's eyes flicked up and down Robert’s body before turning away. “Roast lamb,” he answered. “I thought we'd have something a bit special, since I reached fifteen stone yesterday.”
“Oh yeah?” Robert asked with a smile. He reached out and patted Liam's small paunch. “That's amazing, well done!” He hoped the milestone might work to undo some of the tension that had developed between them ever since Robert had passed two hundred and fifty pounds, almost thirty pounds ago now. Robert sometimes almost forgot that Liam was trying to gain at all, such was the disparity in their rates of weight gain.
“Yeah, I did actually tell you yesterday,” Liam said icily.
“Oh sorry!” Robert said, as he opened a cupboard and pulled out a pack of biscuits. “I must have forgotten.” He began to eat the biscuits three at a time.
“Yeah, well, you were eating, so…” Liam muttered.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“No, you said something,” Robert insisted.
Liam shrugged. “I said that you were eating,” he repeated. “So it's not surprising that you didn't pay any attention to me.”
“Where's this come from?” Robert asked, incredulous. Biscuit crumbs showered from his mouth as he spoke.
“Where's it… How about the last two years of you doing nothing but eating all the time, only caring about yourself?” Liam snapped.
“Excuse me?” Robert said. “Can I remind you that all of this,” he gestured down at his body, his soft overhang hanging out the bottom of his shirt, the way his sides bulged out, the outline of his tits pushing out and down, the beard he'd grown to hide his double chin, “is because you wanted it?”
“Oh, don't put this on me!” Liam replied. “You want this.”
“You're the one with the fat fetish!” Robert pointed out. “I’m just going along for the ride because I love you!”
Liam rolled his eyes. “Oh yeah?” he asked. “Well when was the last time I encouraged you then, if you're just doing it for me?”
“Yeah, actually!” Robert retorted. “I'm doing this for you and when was the last time you encou-”
“More to the point!” Liam interrupted. “When have you ever, ever, encouraged me?”
“What?” Robert asked, blinking. The question had genuinely thrown him.
“This was supposed to be about me!” Liam snapped. His voice shook a little. “I was the one who asked you to do it and at every fucking stage you've used it as an opportunity for me to wait on you hand and foot.”
“Oh, I've not done anything for you have I?” Robert grabbed the side of his gut and shook it. “Me gaining over a hundred pounds, just because you asked me to, doesn't count as me doing anything, does it?” A heavy silence hung in the air, broken only by the sound of Robert forcing biscuits into his mouth. “I knew you were jealous,” Robert muttered eventually, crumbs spraying from his mouth.
“I am not fucking jealous of you,” Liam fumed. “How dare you? Fucking jealous.”
“Yeah, you know what?” Robert said. “That's exactly what this is. You wanted to get fat and you can't stand how much bigger I am than you.”
“Can you hear yourself?” Liam scoffed. “And you act like you don't want this at all.” He turned away and began to pull food from the fridge to make dinner. “No, what I wanted was for us to gain weight together. You had to take it all way too far.”
“I took it too far?” Robert asked.
“Yes,” Liam replied. “Yeah, you know what, you did take it too far.” He spun around and gestured down at his body. “I'm quite happy with where I am. I wanted us both to get dad bods, hot ex-jock vibes. Not obese middle aged dad.”
Robert’s face grew red. “That’s a lie and you know it,” he spat. “You still worship this gut every chance you get.”
Liam’s nostrils flared. He turned away, back to the chopping board, and busied himself with vegetables for a minute. Robert could hear him trying to slow his breathing. Eventually, he turned back around. “I just think we should both slow down,” he said. His voice was measured, slow and calm. His fists were clenched and shaking with white knuckles. “We've both,” he put special emphasis on the word, “maybe taken this too far, and it's probably best if we both take a break from the idea of gaining for a bit.”
“Yeah, why don't you slow down your gains,” Robert mumbled.
“What was that?”
Robert bit his tongue. He was being offered an opportunity to end this argument. “Yeah, you're probably right,” he agreed. “Whatever makes you happy. It was your idea after all. If you want to stop, no reason to carry on.” He shoved a fistful of biscuits into his mouth.
“Yeah, right, well,” Liam said. He sighed and turned back towards the food he was preparing. “Why don't you go watch something? I'll call you when dinner's ready. It'll be a while.”
Robert shrugged. “Sure,” he agreed.
“And Robert?” Liam called just as he'd left the room.
“Yeah?” Robert replied.
“Why don't you set up the spare room for tonight,” Liam said. “Your snoring’s gotten really bad the past twenty pounds or so, and I need to be up early.”
Robert hesitated for a moment. “Yeah, can do.”
-
“”What the fuck is this?” Liam sighed. Robert couldn't help but admire the way his partner's newly blossomed love handles were framed by the hallway light behind him. He felt oddly proud of his boyfriend's recent weight gain, even as it paled against his own.
“I uh… well,” Robert began. He looked down at himself in the light streaming in from the door. Clad only in too tight underwear, crumbs had fallen down to litter his body hair. His fingers were thick with chocolate icing where he'd dug them into the cake in front of him, and he knew that it must be all around his mouth as well. “I got hungry,” he finished lamely.
Liam entered the dark kitchen and sat in a chair opposite Robert. “Dinner was plenty,” he said. “I was full.”
“Yeah, well, I'm bigger than you, aren't I?” Robert pointed out. “I can't help it if I get hungry, can I?”
Liam shrugged. “I guess, yeah,” he said. “Could you help buying a-” he picked up the packaging and peered at it in the dim light. “Party-sized triple chocolate fudge birthday cake, serves twenty, I'm assuming earlier today?” he asked. “Because this didn't magically appear in the kitchen. Could you help hiding it? And suggesting that you sleep in the spare room so I wouldn't notice when you snuck downstairs?”
Robert slumped in his chair. The wood groaned in protest. “I am trying,” he said after a while.
Liam sighed and put his head in his hands. “I know this isn't the first time this week,” he said. “I know that it's at least two or three nights most weeks, and if it's not,” he gestured at the mess of chocolate on the table and on Robert, “this, you sneak out and go to a drive through.”
The kitchen was silent for a while.
“We said we'd both stop gaining,” Liam said eventually. “We said we'd try and lose weight.”
“You've put on weight too,” Robert said. He felt like a child arguing about missing out on play time. He couldn't stop thinking about the rest of the cake in front of him. He wanted to lick the chocolate off his fingers.
“I've put on fifteen, maybe twenty pounds,” Liam said. “I'm not saying I've been great,” he admitted. “But I've cut down. That's not crazy for a year.” He paused for a while. “How much do you think you've put on?” he asked.
Robert shrugged. “Yeah, probably the same,” he said. He could feel his cheeks redden, and hoped it was dark enough that Liam couldn't see. “It's not like I weigh myself very often.”
Liam put his face in his hands and leant on the table. “I found your grommr account,” he said.
Robert squirmed in his seat. “Well what were you doing on grommr then?” He winced even as he said it.
“I've got a fat fetish,” Liam replied. “What are you doing on there?” When he got no reply, he continued. “It said you're three hundred and forty pounds.” He picked up a small fragment of the leftover destroyed cake and ate it slowly. “Is that right?”
“I guess,” Robert said.
“I don't think this is working,” Liam said.
“I know,” Robert said. “I'll do better. I'll try and lose some weight, I know I've taken it too far now, I’ll join a gym and-”
“No,” Liam cut him off. “I don't think this is working. Us. I think… I think we should break up.”
-
“You okay buddy?” Dylan asked.
Robert shrugged and took a swig of his beer. He belched. “Why wouldn't I be okay?”
Dylan sighed. “Rob, I… I mean look at yourself. This isn't okay.”
Robert scratched his beard. He'd maybe let it grow a bit too long, and he'd not had a chance to buy any clothes that fit in the past couple of months, but what was he supposed to do? He'd been busy, and it's not like he could just walk into shops and pick up his size anymore. “It's just work and stuff,” he said. “And with the move, my appearance hasn't been my top priority.”
“Yep, and I completely get that,” Dylan placated. His voice was bright and soft and his hands were spread open like he'd presumably heard in some how to handle difficult conversations podcast. “But I don't think we’re talking about just your appearance here. You have… fuck me Rob, you've gotten really fucking big.”
Robert scratched his gut and tried to pull his t-shirt down. “It's just the break-up,” he said. “And you've said it before, we've got shit genetics for getting fat.”
“Look, I'm not trying to have a go,” Dylan said. He slapped his own gut. “I'll be the first to admit that I'm not exactly in my prime. I don't think I've been to the gym since Livy’s been born, probably not great. Shit happens, and I get that the break-up hasn't helped, and work, and yep, absolutely, we did not win the genetic lottery in our family for twenty-eight inch waists but… I mean this isn't exactly the break-up, is it? It's been going on a lot longer than that, but at least, fuck, at least I used to think you were happy with it. Happy with Li-” Robert shot him a dirty glare. “Well, whatever, happy, anyway.”
“Who says I'm not happy?” Robert asked. He drained his beer bottle and stood to get another. When he returned he collapsed back into his seat and Dylan winced. “Yeah, I put on relationship weight with Liam too, but that wasn't, you know, that wasn't anything to do with… We just weren't, I don't know, compatible anymore. I know I'm fat, I know I’m stressed, and that I've been doing better, but I'm fine. You can drop it.”
“Look, let's…” Dylan looked around the room as if searching for something to help him. “I weighed myself the other day, eighteen stone. Not proud to be fatter than dad these days, but you know, there it is. How much are you weighing?” He looked Robert up and down. “Over twenty stone?” He hesitated. “Twenty-five?” He said it as if he couldn't believe anyone could weigh so much.
Robert shrugged. “Twenty-seven maybe.” He actually thought it might be a bit more.
“Jesus fucking Christ Robby,” Dylan exclaimed. “No, sorry, I don't mean- that's not, you know, it's fine, bodies come in all different- but fucking hell Rob that's… Twenty seven stone!” he cried. “That's not just relationship weight, is it? That's not break-up weight or stress weight or shit genetics that’s…” He took a deep breath and clasped his knee. “Do you like it?”
Robert stared at him. “Like what?”
“Look, no judgement,” Dylan said. “Vanessa says she likes, you know,” he shook his own gut for emphasis. “The belly. She even feeds me up a bit sometimes, I think, and I'm not exactly turning down bigger portions. I know it's a thing. I even get it a bit. But, I mean Rob. You can tell me.” He reached out and grasped Robert's knee. “Is it intentional? Even just a little bit? At least if, fuck, if I knew you were doing it on purpose, that you liked how fucking big you'd gotten I could… I could stop worrying about you fucking losing it. Like, I'm going to worry about your heart giving way, yeah, fine, but I can't be dealing with worrying about you being depressed or needing help and… And if something happened and I'd not done anything. Not after mum.” He started fidgeting with his collar, a nervous habit he'd had since school.
“Yeah,” Robert said quietly. He cleared his throat. “Yeah, I'm into it. It's been, you know, on purpose. Mostly. You don't have to worry about that stuff. I'm not going to, you know.”
“Thank fuck,” Dylan sighed. “I mean, not thank fuck. It's still pretty fucking weird if I'm being honest, but I'm glad that you're, I don't know, not happy I guess, I know you've got other, whatever. I'm glad this isn't some insane compulsive episode or… I mean I've been imagining loads of stuff.” He downed his beer and breathed shakily. “So Liam was into it too? That's how you two met? Some freaky gay kink club?”
“What? No. Fuck off,” Robert said laughing. “Liam was into it, yeah, but he uhh, well he actually introduced me to it. I went along with it for a bit and then… I don't know, at some point I started liking it.”
Dylan nodded. “I get it. Like, I know I'm not supposed to be liking how fat I've gotten but there's something about it, I guess,” he said. “So what happened with you and Liam? You realised you only had the fat thing in common?”
Robert sighed. “No, we were… fuck. We were fairly perfect for each other. He got, I don't know, jealous about how big I was…” He took a drink and closed his eyes. “No. It wasn't just him. I turned into a knobhead about it.”
“Turned into a knobhead?” Dylan asked with a laugh.
“Oh fuck off,” Robert said. “I got, I don't know. There was a lot going on. I felt like I was doing this huge thing for him, but then I started to like it, and… At some point I managed to make it all about me. And if I pretended I still didn't like it I could still make out I was making this noble sacrifice, but really I was just completely ignoring him. And I think, you know, he did get pretty jealous at one point, but I didn't help. Made it into this weird competition.”
“Well you've got me beat at least,” Dylan said. He reached over to pat Robert's arm. “Here, I've got to go to town tomorrow. I'm not exactly fitting into my work shirts myself these days, how about we go together? Get you some stuff that actually covers that gut.”
“Fuck off,” Robert said, laughing.
“No, I'm serious, Vanessa's actually said she won't let you back round if you're not covered up again,” Dylan said. “You're scaring Livy. And the dog. Come on, we’ll make a day of it.”
“You do know I can't exactly just pop into Marks and Sparks and pick up a jumper, don't you? Most places stop at three XL if you're lucky.”
“No, come on,” Dylan insisted. “There's that plus size place in the Arndale, and Go Outdoors has a sale on, they'll have a tent that'll fit you.”
“Oh fuck off!” Robert laughed. “Yeah, go on then, I'll come along.” He drained his beer bottle. “Thanks, Dyl. Seriously. This has been… It's been good.”
Dylan shrugged. “What am I here for, eh? I'm just sorry I didn't mention it ten fucking stone ago.”
-
Robert huffed as he found his seat and squeezed himself into it. He hated how cinemas made you pay extra for supposedly premium seats, only for them to still not be big enough. He settled himself in, sorting his collection of drinks and snacks.
“Robert? Is that you?” Robert looked up to see a man significantly smaller than him, but still undeniably fat.
“Liam?” he replied.
“Oh god,” Liam said. “I’ll find another seat, don't worry, it doesn't matter.”
Robert patted the seat next to him. “Don't be silly,” he insisted. “It'll be nice to catch up during the trailers. Besides,” he looked around at the rapidly filling seats around them. “It's the opening weekend of Paddington vs Barbie 2: Paddington's Revenge, I'm not sure there’ll be any spare seats to move to.”
Liam looked around, sighed and sat down.
“You here with anyone?” Robert asked.
Liam shook his head. “The first one went right over my head the first time I watched it, I decided to come without any distractions.”
“Same,” Robert agreed. “And after it won all those Oscars I knew I should come see this one quick before anyone spoiled it for me.” He surveyed Liam for a bit. “How've you been, anyway?”
Liam smiled. “Good, yeah. Lots of the same, you know,” he said. “Not much to report.” He hesitated for a moment. “Still very much on the gain train.”
“I noticed!” Robert laughed. He reached over and poked Liam's gut where it spilled out over his belt. “How much are you clocking in at these days?”
“Two-seventy,” he said proudly. “I'm wanting to put a bit of a push on before Christmas, get over twenty stone, maybe.”
“Nice!” Robert said, slapping Liam's side. “Well, it suits you. Always did.”
“How about you?” Liam asked. “I noticed you've lost all the weight I forced onto you.”
Robert laughed and shook his own gut that spilled out towards his knees. “Yeah, I couldn't stand it, you know, who'd be fat?” he joked. “I'm about four-seventy, maybe four-eighty these days.”
Liam whistled. “Wow,” he said. “That's incredible. Like, I thought I was fat but you're another two hundred pounds on top of that.”
“You are fat,” Robert said warmly. “I'm just a lot fatter.”
“A whole decently chubby person fatter, in fact,” Liam pointed out.
“I like that,” Robert said laughing; his whole body shook with the action. “You know, I eventually admitted to myself that I probably am a gainer after all.”
“Probably a gainer, wow,” Liam said. “That must have been a difficult conclusion to come to.” He put a finger underneath one of Robert’s moobs and lifted it before letting it drop and watching the ripples spread across the larger man's body.
“Yeah, well, you know, a pretty great guy introduced me to the whole thing,” Robert said.
Liam smiled sadly. “So have you been seeing anyone or…?”
“Not really,” Robert replied. “I meet up with some feeders occasionally but, they're not, you know. It's not the same.”
“No, I know what you mean,” Liam agreed.
“So are you?” Robert asked. “Seeing anyone or anything?”
Liam shook his head. “Some dates and umm… no. No. Not seeing anyone.”
“I'm sorry,” Robert said. “For everything. For… I got selfish. You were the best thing that ever happened to me and I turned it into this selfish fucking…”
“I'm sorry too,” Liam said. “It wasn't just you. I asked you to do it for me then didn't like it when it turned out you actually enjoyed it, which is pretty fucked up of me. We could have talked about it more. Properly I mean.” He looked around. “Listen, all these people listening in are clearly finding our conversation very fucking weird, and I can't really be bothered with all this art-house stuff anyway. Do you want to just go get something to eat?”
Robert looked down the full row. “Getting out might be a bit of an ordeal. I'm not really built for squeezing past people these days,” he said.
“Sounds hot,” Liam replied. “You in?”
Robert laughed. “Yeah, okay. Dinner sounds nice.”
-
Liam licked the last of the chocolate off of his fingers as Robert lapped up his cum.
“Happy three hundred pounds babes,” Robert said as he leant up.
Liam struggled to sit up. “Your turn now,” he said.
Robert shook his head. “This is your night. Big celebration,” he said. “You don't have to do anything.”
“I want to,” Liam insisted. “Besides, we've got a whole other cake and I’m stuffed.”
“Oh I'll eat the cake,” Robert said. “But you don't have to suck me off.
“You're sure?” Liam asked.
Robert smiled. “It's fine, you take a nap to digest everything, I'll go clean up,” he said. “As long as you're happy, I'm happy.”
I'm seeing a really good friend tonight that I haven't seen in a good long while. A couple of years kind of good long while. 50 or more pounds kind of good long while.
And obviously that's hot on its own - people's reaction not just to my size, but to the gain itself. People I see all the time, or have only known me while fat, sure, they'll have noticed my size, but they're not expecting me to be 4 stone lighter whenever they see me.
But this is different. This guy is the fat friend. Ever since I've known him, he's been big. A great shape as well - broad and soft, but with a defined, round gut. For a long time, he's been the fat guy in my head, the guy to get bigger than. He's always been fairly confident with it too - I don't think he's a gainer or whatever, but he's also never made any attempt or shown any desire to lose weight.
And I think I'm heavier than him now. To be specific, I don't know if I'll be visually fatter than him, but I'm a good few inches taller than him and he might have a higher BMI still, a larger waist size, a bigger gut, but I really do think I might outweigh him now. And even then, I'm not actually sure - I am slightly useless at telling how big I am, so maybe I am just unambiguously fatter than him.
And, you know, I do know that nothing is likely to happen - people don't really just come out and point out how fat their mates are. But there is a part of me that wonders if maybe after a few too many drinks he'll struggle to stop himself saying something, or if he'll be a bit more comfortable saying something since he's big too, maybe a joke, maybe some expression of concern or sympathy,
And there's a part of me that... Well. Maybe I can encourage him to say something. Maybe wear a shirt that clings to my gut maybe just slightly too much for polite company, maybe let it ride up a little as we drink, maybe at some point wince and tell him "sorry mate, I've got to undo my jeans", sigh as my gut swells out, maybe complain about how extra large shirts are fitting, about how I needed to buy some 42" waist trousers yesterday, ask him for advice on buying suits as a bigger guy.
I've talked a bit about some other friends' reactions to my gain but I outweigh some of them by over a hundred pounds - what do they know? But this guy, who's always been very noticeably a fat guy, if he acknowledges it, if he thinks I've gotten fat, fatter than him even, that counts for something - I'll officially have gotten fat.
A few people in the notes are asking for an update, and I appreciate that it would be exciting if I announced that I had stepped into one of my own stories, but it was, of course, just two mates meeting up for some drinks. No belly rubs, no eating contests, no burst buttons.
He noticed, of course. I'd go so far as to say that he looked genuinely shocked when he first saw me - eyes widened, a small gasp. It probably didn't hurt that nowadays extra-large t-shirts cling to my torso and just a sliver of my gut hangs out the bottom.
But the moment of surprise passed, we caught up - there were a couple of moments where our weights came up, sure; we mutually complained about the horrors of climbing slight inclines, I grumbled about buying new clothes, he talked about meaning to get into jogging and lose some weight.
I caught him looking at my body a few times, taking stock of the changes. I returned the favour - I decided that I was right, I'm probably heavier, he still probably looks a bit fatter, considering differences in body shape. My gut's bigger and rounder, he's softer and his body generally looks broader.
But then... Later on we were waiting to be sat in a restaurant, and there was this big, floor length mirror along one wall. And I noticed my mate move position so that he was next to me in the mirror, and he was sort of looking back and forth. I turned, so we were both face on, and yep, he was definitely comparing us, trying to figure out who looked fatter. And this isn't my gainer fueled imagination; he was looking at himself in the mirror, to me in the mirror, then would turn to look directly at me, up and down, side to side, he even turned to the side at one point and... Fuck me, I looked fatter than him. And not just my gut - my waist, my legs, my arms, my neck, all look fatter than his. I'm even broader than him, and I can't believe it because he's so broad.
I look at his face and realise what his expression is as he's looking back and forth. He's thinking "God, I don't look that fat, do I?" I'm the point of comparison. I'm the fat friend now.
I'm seeing a really good friend tonight that I haven't seen in a good long while. A couple of years kind of good long while. 50 or more pounds kind of good long while.
And obviously that's hot on its own - people's reaction not just to my size, but to the gain itself. People I see all the time, or have only known me while fat, sure, they'll have noticed my size, but they're not expecting me to be 4 stone lighter whenever they see me.
But this is different. This guy is the fat friend. Ever since I've known him, he's been big. A great shape as well - broad and soft, but with a defined, round gut. For a long time, he's been the fat guy in my head, the guy to get bigger than. He's always been fairly confident with it too - I don't think he's a gainer or whatever, but he's also never made any attempt or shown any desire to lose weight.
And I think I'm heavier than him now. To be specific, I don't know if I'll be visually fatter than him, but I'm a good few inches taller than him and he might have a higher BMI still, a larger waist size, a bigger gut, but I really do think I might outweigh him now. And even then, I'm not actually sure - I am slightly useless at telling how big I am, so maybe I am just unambiguously fatter than him.
And, you know, I do know that nothing is likely to happen - people don't really just come out and point out how fat their mates are. But there is a part of me that wonders if maybe after a few too many drinks he'll struggle to stop himself saying something, or if he'll be a bit more comfortable saying something since he's big too, maybe a joke, maybe some expression of concern or sympathy,
And there's a part of me that... Well. Maybe I can encourage him to say something. Maybe wear a shirt that clings to my gut maybe just slightly too much for polite company, maybe let it ride up a little as we drink, maybe at some point wince and tell him "sorry mate, I've got to undo my jeans", sigh as my gut swells out, maybe complain about how extra large shirts are fitting, about how I needed to buy some 42" waist trousers yesterday, ask him for advice on buying suits as a bigger guy.
I've talked a bit about some other friends' reactions to my gain but I outweigh some of them by over a hundred pounds - what do they know? But this guy, who's always been very noticeably a fat guy, if he acknowledges it, if he thinks I've gotten fat, fatter than him even, that counts for something - I'll officially have gotten fat.
I know you put on weight big guy. Are you excited or nervous for 3-0-0?
And what's your favourite American alt rock rock band in the 1990-2005 era?
I like Counting Crows.
I've said for a while that my goal is 280 lbs (20 stone) over the next couple of years, and then long term I'd let myself gradually get up to 300 by about 40 or so, but not really push myself for it. Hitting 19 stone has made me realise how close both weights are.
The idea of being 300 lbs is hot - I'll definitely be the biggest guy in my office and in all my friendship groups, but won't be so big that I shouldn't be able to carry on doing all the things I enjoy. I'm also really enjoying the way my frame is developing - a proper defined ball gut, big thighs, chest soft but not too big. I'm excited to see it develop.
I am a bit nervous about the rate I'm approaching 300 though, especially since I don't really feel like I'm pushing myself anymore - that "by about 40 or so" is looking like it might come a good 5 or more years early. Outgrowing clothes is getting annoying (I'm currently sat with my trousers unbuttoned because they're so tight and I haven't had a chance to go buy some 42s, there are some really nice shirts in my wardrobe which just aren't a prospect anymore, and my most recent suit buying venture was An Ordeal), I'm not a huge fan of the stretchmarks I'm getting on the underside of my gut, and to be honest I'm getting a little nervous about the prospect of overshooting 300. There's also the prospect of outgrowing stuff, which is hot to think about, but even the minor things I'm starting to outgrow already turn into a hassle in the moment.
Probably Neutral Milk Hotel. I'm quite into alt rock, but mainly British bands and I much prefer 80s over 90s.
So when I wrote the post this reply is from, I was consistently around 250 pounds - weighed in at 18 stone (252 lbs) a fair few times, but not consistently.
Didn't hit 19 stone (266 lbs) by the wedding but sitting very much in the 260s now. Seen 264 a few times, and not seen anything below 260 for a while. So a decent 10 pounds in a few months. I'm definitely hoping to hit 19 stone or more this year.
Not the craziest pace of gaining, but I'm actually really proud of it - over the past few years I've been gaining about 15-20 pounds each year, so half of that and some in a short burst is a nice little boost. I think it's easy to think from gaining stories that gaining is all bottomless appetites and leaps of five, ten, twenty pounds in a month. Realistically, a stone in a year is something that the average member of the public would throw a fit over, and repeating that several times is fairly shocking. If nothing else, the stretch marks I'm getting on my gut and the extra large shirts I've outgrown suggest it's not been too slow.
While I'm here anyway, I might use this as a brief update on my writing. I've got plenty of stories that I've either got the plot outlined for or I've got big chunks written already, but at this point there's so many that if I sit down to write one, I drift over to looking at another and then I'm thinking about that one and nothing ever really gets finished. I basically need to feel a bit of pressure to get one of them written - I don't really want to post a poll, but if people want to message me and chat I'd gladly let them help me decide which I should focus on, and chatting about some of the stories would be really helpful.
So when I wrote the post this reply is from, I was consistently around 250 pounds - weighed in at 18 stone (252 lbs) a fair few times, but not consistently.
Didn't hit 19 stone (266 lbs) by the wedding but sitting very much in the 260s now. Seen 264 a few times, and not seen anything below 260 for a while. So a decent 10 pounds in a few months. I'm definitely hoping to hit 19 stone or more this year.
Not the craziest pace of gaining, but I'm actually really proud of it - over the past few years I've been gaining about 15-20 pounds each year, so half of that and some in a short burst is a nice little boost. I think it's easy to think from gaining stories that gaining is all bottomless appetites and leaps of five, ten, twenty pounds in a month. Realistically, a stone in a year is something that the average member of the public would throw a fit over, and repeating that several times is fairly shocking. If nothing else, the stretch marks I'm getting on my gut and the extra large shirts I've outgrown suggest it's not been too slow.
While I'm here anyway, I might use this as a brief update on my writing. I've got plenty of stories that I've either got the plot outlined for or I've got big chunks written already, but at this point there's so many that if I sit down to write one, I drift over to looking at another and then I'm thinking about that one and nothing ever really gets finished. I basically need to feel a bit of pressure to get one of them written - I don't really want to post a poll, but if people want to message me and chat I'd gladly let them help me decide which I should focus on, and chatting about some of the stories would be really helpful.
“Fuck!” I barked as hot coffee spilled down my front. This always seemed to happen when I wore a nice shirt, always when I had to meet clients, always on a fucking Tuesday. God I hated Tuesdays.
Fifteen minutes of frantic dabbing with wet paper towels later I sat slumped in my chair. Not only had I not managed to shift the coffee stain, but now I'd also made my shirt wet enough that my thick body hair was plainly visible through it.
“Maybe someone has a jumper?” Owen asked.
Sandra shook her head sadly. “We asked around,” she said. “The weather's been so lovely, not sure the last time anyone brought a jumper in. There's a couple in lost and found but…” She trailed off and lifted up two jumpers - one lurid pink with three kittens covered in glitter, the other a red Christmas jumper implying Santa was about to do unspeakable things to a reindeer.
“Not really the thing for a client meeting,” Owen said, making a small sucking noise through his teeth.
“Someone else is going to have to do it,” I said. “It's in ten minutes, there's no way my shirt will be dry in time.”
“I always keep a spare shirt or two in the stationery cupboard,” Graham said, appearing round the corner eating a donut. “It'll be a bit big for you though!” he added, slapping the firm ball gut that took up his torso.
I bit my lip. On one hand, I'd look absolutely ridiculous, my lanky frame swallowed up by a shirt intended for a man surely a hundred pounds or more heavier than me. On the other hand, I'd look more presentable than I currently did. And besides, it would be kind of hot to have real, tangible evidence of just how much bigger Graham was than me - okay, so forty-five year old obese dads aren't exactly everyone's fantasies, I can admit that, but for me, Graham was my dream man.
“Thanks Graham,” I said. “You’re a lifesaver.”
A minute later I was stood in our stationery cupboard holding up a piece of fabric I could use as a light blanket. The tag said 2XL and I thought about how Graham filled his shirts - gut straining gently at the seams, the hem riding up by the end of most days to reveal a wedge of hairy fat. There were some trousers as well, neatly folded beneath the shirt. I held the pair up to my waist and boggled at how much wider they were. I imagined filling up clothes so big and felt myself grow hard.
I peeled off my own wet, stained, size small shirt and hung it on the door handle to dry a little. I slipped my arms in Graham's shirt and buttoned up the front. The shirt swallowed me. The hem hung down below my crotch, the shoulder seam lined up somewhere along my upper arm, so that the cuff hung down past my thumb, the whole thing billowed around me. I pinched the fabric and held it out in front of me - it seemed like there was a foot of space left in every direction.
My cock throbbed. I checked the door was locked, then checked the time. I had a few minutes, and Sandra was already on delaying duty. I bunched the shirt up, unbuttoned my fly and pulled my aching cock out. I stroked rapidly, keen to finish in a timely fashion. I tried to imagine myself filling the shirt. How much bigger would I be? Would I be shaped like Graham, with a firm gut, or would I be softer, flabbier, wider? My left hand raked over my trim stomach and my breath hitched as I moved it away, out to where I'd held the shirt just a moment ago. I bit my lip to stop myself yelling out as I shot cum across the floor of the cupboard, and as it dribbled over my fist.
Hit by post-wank clarity, I immediately felt like an idiot. How did I think I was going to clean this up? I frantically grabbed my wet shirt and did my best to wipe up the thick cum on my right hand and cock, struggling a bit to get it out of my pubes and stopping it getting on my trousers or Graham’s shirt. Then I knelt down and wiped up the mess on the floor.
A knock on the door. “Just coming now!” I choked.
“The clients are here,” came Graham's voice through the door. “That shirt alright?”
I looked down at myself. I looked fucking ridiculous, like a child wearing his dad's suit for a play. “Yeah Graham, cheers. It's perfect.”
I wadded up my coffee and cum covered shirt and threw it into a corner that I hoped no-one would look in over the day. I tucked the excess fabric into the waistband and rolled up the sleeves, hoping the overall effect was “loose and casual” rather than “four sizes too big”.
-
I panted softly as I squelched my way into the office. When I woke up, the weather was blissful - bright sunshine, a little warm maybe, but with a light breeze to make it bearable, the sky clear apart from a couple of distant picturesque fluffy clouds completing the picture. Of course, once I was halfway to work, the heavens abruptly opened, necessitating me to run from my tube stop through torrential rain to my office.
My body wasn't exactly built for running these days. That day with Graham's shirt had flicked a switch somewhere deep in my brain, and since then my appetite and waistline had expanded in rapid conjunction. Now my soaking shirt clung to a round, soft gut, plump tits and wide love handles, and my damp trousers made my wide, plush thighs and fat pad uncomfortable.
I was met with noises of sympathy from my much more weather-prepared co-workers as I dripped across the floor, but couldn't fail to notice the whispers and pointing as soon as I passed. My weight gain wasn't exactly fresh office gossip at this point, but I'm sure it being highlighted by clinging wet clothes didn't exactly help matters. I sighed as I sat at my desk, the cold clothes against my skin making me shiver.
A shadow fell over me and I saw Graham stood meekly above me. “I've got some spare clothes,” he said quietly, looking around to see if anyone was listening. “I'm not sure if you, you know, if they'll fit or anything, but you're welcome to them if you like.”
I saw his eyes flick to my swollen gut and my heart jumped as I realised that Graham - Graham! The office fat guy! - wasn't sure who was bigger out of the two of us. I shuffled my legs slightly to adjust my hardening cock, but knew that my overhang would largely keep my arousal hidden.
“Oh, uh, yeah, thanks Graham, that would be great,” I thanked him. “I've actually borrowed your shirt before, you know,” I told him. “You wanting to keep it a secret all of a sudden?”
Graham grew more flustered. “It's not that,” he said. “I'm happy for people to borrow it whenever, you know. I figure it's best if there's a spare shirt around and at least if it fits the fattest- I mean, that is, if it fits me it… well.” He cleared his throat and looked around again. He lowered his voice further “I wasn't sure if you'd be happy to, you know, have people know you were borrowing my clothes. You know since…” He gestured feebly towards me and I felt my heart pump harder.
“That's fine Graham,” I said. “Thank you again.”
“If you ever want to talk to someone,” he said, not moving yet. “I get it, you know, the uh,” he shifted his feet nervously, “weight thing. I was probably about your age when I started to put on a bit, back when Vanessa had the twins and well… anyway. I just wanted to say that I know how it feels, and if you ever wanted to talk to someone who understands…”
“Thanks Graham,” I said. “For the shirt and the offer.” I stood up so that we were almost belly to belly. “I best go get changed.” Graham grinned and gave a small wave as he walked away.
I looked at the shirt on the hanger in front of me. Was I really the same size as Graham now? I'd certainly fantasized about the idea often enough, and the shirt in front of me looked… well, it looked normal. I thought back to that day a couple of years before when I was shocked at the size of Graham's clothes; now they looked the exact same as all the others I had hanging in my wardrobe at home.
I pulled off my damp clothes and put on the shirt. It fit perfectly - the collar wasn't too tight, the shoulder seams hit the right place, it tucked perfectly into my waistline. A little snug, perhaps, around my gut, but then most clothes did these days. The buttons were definitely straining more than they did around Graham's belly, weren't they? He'd have surely bought the next size up by now if this was how his shirts fit everyday.
I sucked in as I bent down to pick up the trousers, keen not to stress the buttons anymore and stood back up with a loud grunt. Advanced acrobatics like “bending over” and “standing back up” were getting a little strenuous these days. I looked in the waistband and froze. It was a 42 inch waist. I'd gotten rid of my last pair of 42s months ago, and in the meantime my 44s were starting to pinch painfully when I was particularly bloated. I looked back at my soaked trousers and imagined drying in them. These would have to do - maybe just for the morning until my clothes dried.
I had to suck in as I struggled to button the trousers, and immediately felt the familiar vice grip of too small clothes as I let my gut hang out fully. The fabric confined my legs and hips, making my torso explode out of the top like bread dough, and I could imagine the angry red marks I'd see once I took them off. The legs felt like skinny-fit jeans, all the way down to my calves. Surely Graham couldn't wear these? I didn't think I'd be able to sit down all day.
“Those forty-twos aren't too big, are they?” Graham asked when I gingerly came out the stationery cupboard, feeling like an overstuffed sausage casing come to life. “I only really use them if I'm feeling a bit bloated,” he explained.
I shook my head and gave a strained smile. “They'll stay up with a belt,” I said. I saw Graham's eyes flick down to the full-to-bursting fabric with no belt in sight.
He gave a thin smile. “Well then,” he said. “Glad I could help. You know where they are if you ever need them again.”
I was back in my own trousers by lunch, after promising Graham to buy him a new pair since I'd ripped the seat on his.
-
I licked the sugar and jam off my fingers as I walked up to Graham.
“Hey man,” I said, before stifling a belch. “I don't suppose I could borrow that spare shirt you keep?” I gestured down at my shirt, where jam from my donuts sat next to grease from that morning's sausage roll on the shelf of my gut. “Breakfast got a bit messy this morning.”
Graham’s eyes widened a touch and I could see him perform a series of mental calculations. “I've lost a little weight since the last time you borrowed a shirt,” he said after a moment. “I'm down to just plain old extra large these days.”
“It looked like the same shirt when I got some staples the other day,” I told him. “Maybe you just forgot to swap it out.”
He smiled weakly. “Ah, yeah, that's right,” he conceded. “Must not have brought in one of my new ones yet.” His eyes flicked down to the farthest extent of my gut, where its swell strained the buttons of my 4XL. “So you umm, I mean that is, if you think, but well.” He desperately reached for a polite way to tell me I was too fat for even the clothes that were too big for him. He lowered his voice. “Weren't you saying a while ago you shop at one of those plus-size shops these days? I never really went to those, even when I was, well, before I lost some weight.”
I grinned and shrugged. “Worth giving it a go, right buddy?” I slapped the top of my belly. “Us big guys are used to squeezing into places.”
He grimaced at the suggestion our sizes were comparable and gestured towards the cupboard where he kept his spare shirts. “Help yourself,” he mumbled.
I unbuttoned my own shirt and dropped it in a heap on the floor. I picked up Graham's from its hanger and held it out in front of me - did I really used to fit in clothes this small? I grunted as I bent down to pick up the trousers and held that out in front of my waist too - god they were narrow. My own hips were a good half foot wider, even while holding them like this. I'd have liked to have tried them on too, but they were a non-starter, I knew. A shame that I couldn't go all the way with my little game, but oh well.
I put the shirt on, even the shoulders a little too narrow to slip my arms into comfortably, and slowly started buttoning, my fat fingers slow and clumsy. The neck was a complete no go, fat oozing over the collar when I attempted. The buttons over my tits were snug, but broadly doable. The top of my gut - starting to become a real problem. At the very diameter of my soft ball gut the two sides were inches apart. Determined to make a show of myself in front of the office before I left in a few weeks, I sucked in as far as I could and tugged on the shirt hard. After a few moments of struggling, huffing and puffing all the buttons were precariously lodged into their respective holes.
I let my gut out slowly, so as not to tear any seams or send the buttons scattering. Even at the largest I dare let my gut hang out, I was still sucking in a little.
Every inch of fabric was filled with me, inflated to its limit. I could almost hear the cloth creaking. The buttons had huge ovals of hairy, dimpled skin showing between them. The bottom of the shirt hung around my heavy love handles like bread loaves and several inches of my gut hung clearly out the bottom. The waistband of my trousers were hidden beneath cascading fat, and my soft arse hung out at the top.
I grinned as I walked out the cupboard. “Cheers for the shirt Graham,” I called across the office. Disgusted and embarrassed faces turned towards me as they took in the sight of my morbidly obese body forced and squeezed into clothes meant for the merely clinically obese. I began walking towards Graham as I spoke, giving everyone a good view. “I don't think it's really going to work,” I said as I gestured towards my body. “I swear we used to be the same size?” I shrugged. “Ah well, I can cope with a couple of stains for today.”
Graham blushed bright red as I approached him, the only person forced to engage with the spectacle unfolding in front of everyone. “Oh well,” he said, staring resolutely at his computer screen.
A flash of a thought began to nucleate into an idea. Did I dare? I think I did. I made a show of wrinkling my nose a little and then- “ACHOO” - a not quite believable fake sneeze as I let my gut expand to its fullest extent. Two buttons pinged off the and I heard a small rip to my side.
“Oh god!” I feigned humiliation. “I'm so sorry Graham, your shirt! I'll buy you a new one!”
Graham paled. “That's fine,” he insisted. “Didn't fit anymore anyway, destined for the charity shop.”
“No, no,” I replied. I stroked my hand around my gut, feeling the contrast between strained fabric and exposed skin at the fresh tear in the shirt's side. “It's my fault and this spare shirt’s helped me out no end of times.” I pretended to ponder for a moment. “I swear it used to fit…”
My cock was rock hard beneath my gut as I returned to the stationery cupboard to put my own shirt on.
I work with my best mate who has obviously picked up somewhat on me packing on about 3 stone in 18 months, and that I'm not exactly upset about the added weight. Our relationship involves lots of teasing and jokes at the other's expense, so obviously the new and improved, fatter Desk has come in for some flack.
I took over a maternity role for someone, and he patted my gut at the pub after I was offered the position and asked if I was the one who was pregnant; someone (quite unexpectedly) revealed that they've got a six-pack, and he quipped that I'd been growing "a single great big ab"; we had a work thing about healthy living and he made sure to explain the concept of "eating less" to me; there's lots of comments about the amount I've eaten, or comparisons to other big guys we work with, or "bulking", and lots of belly pats and pokes.
He mentioned last week that he's bulking (but, you know, normal bulking at the gym, not eating his way into obesity), that he's currently 11 stone, and would like to work his way up to 12 stone as an initial goal. Well, naturally, I worked in that I'm currently a little over 18 stone. He was genuinely shocked. Who can blame him? It's a big number! He sort of looked at me for a bit as if he'd not properly noticed just how big I'd gotten, and then just sort of said "fuck, I guess you are about that yeah." Then he remembered that I'd previously mentioned that I was 17 stone, and he made a bit of a comment about putting on a stone in a year - I didn't correct him by pointing out that it was well under a year ago that I told him I was 17 stone.
Now, a couple of things here. The most significant is that I am 7 stone heavier than my best friend which is, for those of you who prefer to use any kind of normal units, 98 pounds. I am about a hundred pounds heavier than this man. I felt fucking huge.
Then of course, is the acknowledgement of how big I've gotten. I think because we joke so much, having him take a step back and evaluate and conclude yeah, this guy has gotten fucking fat, no joking, no quip or tease, was really fucking hot.
We're both going to a wedding in August and are sharing an AirBnB that happens to have a hot tub. The last time he will have seen me shirtless will have been about two years and three stone ago, so I'm excited to see his reaction. Now I'm thinking though, could I get up to 19 stone by then? More? What will his reaction be, I wonder, if I'm stood there in some XL swim shorts, mentioning I had to buy some new ones because my old ones didn't fit, and just drop in that I've put on yet another stone. It's odd motivation maybe, but it's really pushed me and I've been hitting 4k and 5k calories this past week. Who knows, maybe I'll hit 20 stone by that wedding.
University was really fucking expensive, Noah had quickly realised. Between paying for his halls, food and all the surprising little costs of living away from home, his student grant was rapidly dwindling, and he was starting to worry about making it last until reading week, nevermind the next payment after Christmas - he'd gotten a bar job, but even with that it was hard to make ends meet. Parents, teachers, older friends had all warned him not to spend all of his money going out, but chance would be a fine thing.
"Daddy told me that he's literally not going to give me any more money!" Noah's flatmate Cissy wailed at Becca and Will, two of his somewhat more financially fortunate new living mates. "He said that eight hundred a week should be enough, but I told him that he just doesn't understand what it's like to budget!" Noah bit his tongue and focussed on buttering his toast while keeping an eye on his pan of baked beans.
Becca nodded sympathetically. "They just absolutely do not understand what it's like to be working class students like us," she told Cissy sagely.
"Does this mean you can't buy us coke tonight?" Will asked, the concern clear in his voice.
This only made Cissy cry harder. "I'm not thinking about fucking coke right now Will!" she cried. "I don't even know if I can afford brunch tomorrow!"
"I could probably try and get some ket?" Will suggested.
"You know I can't have ketamine Will!!" Cissy yelled. "I'm a fucking aquarius! Obviously I don't react well to ket!" She buried her face in her hands and wept. Noah poured his beans onto his toast and gathered his cutlery. He considered topping his meal with some cheese, but decided it was too much of a luxury right now.
"Besides," Becca said as Noah began to take his meager dinner to his room. "Ketamine reminds me too much of my horse Diana, so I'll be far too sad to do any."
The door closed as Cissy comforted Becca about the dear departed Diana. Noah let out a sigh. He wished he had a "daddy" who would "only" give him £800 a week. He laughed as he sat down at his desk and looked for a show to watch on his laptop. He'd remembered earlier that week when some of his mates were saying they'd have to look for sugar mummies and daddies to make it through the term. He'd joined in laughing at the time, but the prospect was starting to look less and less absurd as the term went on and his finances dwindled.
He paused, wondering. He knew sugar daddies existed of course, but he couldn't quite convince himself that there really were older men out there just waiting to give someone money.
After a while, his curiosity got the better of him and he pulled out his phone. How to get a sugar daddy he typed in. He was surprised how many websites and apps there were. Surely the idea wasn't really this popular? He clicked on a couple of links; they all seemed to cater for older men looking for young women. He tapped his search bar again and added gay to his search. The first result was an app called The Sugar Bowl, advertising itself as the UK's premier gay sugar dating app. He downloaded it. He had to entertain himself somehow, he supposed, while all his flatmates were out getting drunk and high - a luxury he just couldn't afford.
The app was asking him to make a profile. He quickly tapped in all his details, chose a username and clicked next, giving short, vague answers for any that needed more than basic information. Photos next; he scrolled through his phone looking for some good recent photos. He appraised himself as he scrolled - he was a bit of a catch, if he did say so himself. Just over six feet with naturally broad shoulders, with a handsome face and a strong, square jaw. The vivid ginger hair on his head was mirrored on his chest and trailing down his stomach, a shock of orange against his pale, freckled skin.
He finished his profile and was immediately shown a man who was at least eighty. A bubble of text at the bottom of his screen informed him he could "Ask for a taste" or "Carry on looking at the menu", and only the men he selected would be able to message him. Noah rolled his eyes and tapped the cross. The man's profile whisked itself away and was replaced with another.
Now this was more like it - mid-40s maybe, salt and pepper hair, bit of a gut but Noah didn't mind that necessarily. His fingers moved to tap the tick before he noticed the short blurb of text below the photos: Discrete! Married with children, but would love to add you to the family. Noah cringed and rejected him.
The next one wasn't too bad. Bald, a nice square face, pictures showing him dressed in sharp suits in what looked like various cities across the world, and, to Noah's surprise, a screenshot of what looked like a banking app, all of the details removed apart from the dizzyingly large balance. Noah tapped, accepting him. Nothing happened - presumably he'd have to wait for a match or for the man to be notified before he'd get a response.
He spent a couple of hours idly swiping through profiles. It was almost like a game, really. He was surprised to find how handsome he found some of the men; he'd never really considered himself attracted to older guys before but there was something about some of them. He particularly appreciated some of the dad bods on show - always something he'd liked before on guys his own age, and there were plenty on offer here.
He snapped out of his app-induced reverie as he heard his flat mates leave for the night, stampeding towards the door. He closed the app and decided to watch a movie for the night as he heard Cissy loudly proclaim to everyone "You know what? Fuck it. I'm buying coke. Daddy can fuck off. I have to be true to myself and I know that I am not a ketamine queen!" This was met with one of the poshest cheers Noah had ever heard.
The app left Noah's mind entirely as he watched his film and then fell asleep. He woke up to a notification.
SilverFoxDom: Hello handsome. You know, my hair used to be that exact same shade, before succumbing to the ravages of time.
He looked at the name and sighed. He must not have looked very close last night.
RedFox: Nice. Listen, I'm sorry, I must not have really read your name last night. I'm not really into the whole sub/dom thing.
He closed the app and checked the news, reading through a few stories. Within a few minutes, another notification popped up.
SilverFoxDom: Neither am I. My actual name's Dominic, or Dom. I didn't really consider the implications until I'd made the profile, and now I can't figure out how to change it.
Noah smiled a little. At least this guy seemed sweet, and hadn't immediately asked for nudes - an improvement on more conventional dating apps, in fact. He went back to the app to check his profile. The guy was okay-looking, Noah thought; probably mid-50s, with a head of receding white hair and a beard to match, and warm, crinkled eyes surrounded by laughter-lines on a rugged, square face. Noah could see faded freckles across his nose and cheeks, the only remaining evidence of the ginger hair in his youth that he'd mentioned. A bit of a dad-bod, with a thickness evident beneath the expensive looking suits he wore in each photo, but Noah had met up with bigger guys before.
RedFox: Sorry to hear that, not-a-dom Dom. I bet that's led to a few sticky situations.
SilverFoxDom: Oh no, no sticky business over here! I'm very content to offer what aid I can to fellow foxes in need without it going any further. I've got to say little fox, you're looking more underfed than most. A particularly cruel winter, perhaps?
RedFox: Yeah, I've always found it pretty difficult to put on weight, especially living on beans on toast at uni, haha.
SilverFoxDom: Something I can help with, perhaps? Well then, young fox, what brings you to this rather niche corner of the internet?
Noah decided to be honest. This guy seemed genuinely nice.
RedFox: Some mates were joking about needing a sugar daddy to get through the term. I thought it'd be a bit of a laugh, but I was sort of curious what it's all about.
SilverFoxDom: Well I heard it's only cats that need to be wary of curiosity; us foxes should be fine.
How about you let me take you out for a meal a little more elaborate beans on toast? At least then you'll have gotten something out of this whole experience.
RedFox: That's very kind. Honestly though, I really did just make an account out of curiosity. I don't think I'm into this whole sugar daddy/baby thing.
SilverFoxDom: And I am also being honest when I say there is no obligation or hint towards anything other than a good meal and some company for an hour or two. I can guarantee a finer meal than anything else you'll rustle up during your time at university.
Noah's stomach grumbled. It would be good to have a proper meal, and really, it was no more dangerous than meeting someone off grindr or tinder.
RedFox: Sounds great then, thank you. When were you thinking?
They arranged to meet that evening at half past six, a little early Noah thought, but he wasn't about to argue. He put on his nicest shirt and his cleanest jeans, and walked into the center of town to a restaurant he'd never heard of.
Noah walked up the stairs to the large entrance, with a small sign next to it with the name of the restaurant - Pastures Green - and was met by a thick-set man in a three-piece suit. "Hi," Noah said as he approached. "I'm meeting someone - Dominic?"
"Of course sir, welcome," the man said. "I've been told to ask you for your favourite animal."
Noah was taken aback, feeling like he was back in primary school and being asked about his favourite shape (hexagon) or dinosaur (triceratops). "My favourite animal? What the- Oh! Right, no, I see. A fox. My favourite animal's a fox."
The man smiled and his eyes flicked to Noah's hair for a moment. "It suits you. This way then." He turned on his heel and walked through a thick wooden door. Noah followed into a large, expensive looking room. The room seemed underfilled, with only ten or so tables, and plenty of space between them all. Noah was led between them all, to a table at the back, wth Dominic sat in one seat.
Dominic stood up as Noah approached. In person, he had a warm energy that seemed to enhance all his features, and made him look quite handsome, if you could get over the age thing. He looked a couple of inches shorter than Noah, maybe at about 6 foot, and a few pounds lighter than in his photos, though still with a broad frame and a slight gut rounding out his waistcoat. Noah didn't know much about suits, but he could tell the one Dominic wore was expensive - light grey with barely-there pinstripes, and seemingly tailored to perfectly highlight or hide different parts of his body.
Dominic moved towards Noah and stuck his hand out for Noah to shake. "Gosh, but you really are handsome aren't you, little fox?" he said with a twinkle in his eye. He gestured for Noah to sit. "Now, this is very foolish of me, but I don't actually know your name."
"Noah," Noah answered as he took his seat.
"Noah!" Dominic almost bellowed. "A good strong name." He sat down opposite and handed a menu to Noah. "But you didn't come to introduce yourself to old men Noah. I believe you were promised a slap-up meal."
Noah opened the menu and noted that there weren't any prices. A note at the top assured customers that all the food was grown and produced locally. "A, uhh, a steak maybe," he said, deciding it wasn't too far removed from his usual safety option of burger and chips.
"Good choice," Dominic said with a smile. "But we'll get to that in good time. What about something to start?" he asked. "Or I could choose a few things I think you should taste?"
Noah put the menu down and gave a small smile. "Sounds great."
"Excellent!" Dominic said, as a waiter seemed to appear out of thin air. "Now Michael," he said to the waiter. "We'll start with some drinks,-" he turned to Noah. "A beer?" Noah nodded. "Two beers, I'll try something new. Something Belgian maybe? Now my friend here," he gestured towards Noah, "has never had the pleasure, so I really think he should sample as much of your fare as is reasonable, don't you? We'll start with a few small-plates - those lamb ribs you did last time, definitely, that pork belly with the fennel, do you remember? Yes, yes, those. Some of those crispy twelve-hour potatoes, that wonderful asparagus you do. I think I remember some artichoke concoction a few weeks ago? Perfect. And what fish do you have today? Yes, a small serving of that." His eyes flicked back to Noah and seemed to appraise him for a moment. "Perhaps that'll be it for starters this time Michael. And then my young friend here wanted the twenty-ounce rib-eye, and I'll have, hmmm…" For the first time he actually opened the menu himself and looked, although only for a second or two. "A salad, I think. Whatever chef thinks will work." He patted his slight belly and looked over at Noah briefly. "Doctor's orders," he said with a wink. "I'm afraid I can't overindulge like I once could."
Noah swallowed hard - it definitely sounded like he'd be overindulging, even if Dominic wasn't.
"The steak, sir?" the waiter - Michael - asked Noah.
"Oh, uh, yeah. That's great," Noah replied.
Michael smiled thinly. "How would you like the steak cooked?" he elaborated.
"Oh! Right, yeah, well." Noah stammered for a moment. He'd never had a proper, high-quality steak before, what did he know about how.it should be cooked. "Medium-rare?" He said it as a question as much as an answer.
"Excellent," Michael said. "Your drinks will be out presently." He turned on his heel and walked away.
Dominic turned to Noah and beamed. "So, little fox, why don't you tell me about yourself," he said. "You mentioned you were at university?"
Noah nodded. "First year, studying engineering," he replied, as Michael reappeared with two glasses.
"Thank you Michael," Dominic said. "First year, eh? Very exciting, first time away from home, discovering independence for the first time. Exhilarating really." He took a small sip of his beer and closed his eyes. "Mhm, perfect. Do take a taste." Noah did as instructed. The beer was odd - it was almost thick, and tasted strongly like wheat, with just a hint of sweetness. He smiled and nodded, wordlessly answering Dominic's inquisitive look. "I'm glad you like it," Dominic continued. "And engineering? Very impressive. I was never one for science and maths and all that myself. It was PPE at Oxford for me." Noah just smiled and took another swig of beer - the taste was starting to grow on him. "Not much of a talker, eh?" Dominic prompted.
Noah swallowed yet another swig of beer. "Sorry, no, it's not that I - it's just -" He decided it was best to play coy a little, play up to the guy offering a slap up dinner and who knows what else. "Just nervous, I guess."
"Oh fox, no need to be nervous," Dominic said with a growing smile. "In fact, I remember when I was your age and met up with a man, who, ah, shall we say, had a little more life-experience than me…"
Noah realised that what Dominic really wanted was someone to talk at, rather than any real expectation for Noah to contribute outside of an occasional reply. He was fine with that, happy to sit and drink his beer and give a nod or encouraging "hmm" when prompted. By the time the starters arrived, his beer was nearly empty and he was already beginning to feel the effects, having not been able to afford to drink for a while, and having not eaten much that day.
Noah's eyes went wide as the starters got put down. When Dominic had ordered, he'd expected morsel-sized portions, and while the servings weren't enormous, the six dishes added up to a lot more than Noah would usually eat in any given meal, and this was just the starter!
Dominic must have seen Noah's reaction. "Don't worry too much about finishing it all, little fox. I might take a sliver to taste, and I suppose the kitchen can dispose of any leftovers," he said.
"No, no, I can, I mean, it's fine," Noah said. "I can finish it, it's not too much." Not only could Noah not stand to waste food, particularly nowadays when he was living within such meager means, but he got the sense that Dominic was testing him somehow, seeing how willing he was to play along.
"Another beer sir?" the waiter asked, gesturing towards Noah's glass.
"Oh, uh, yeah, cheers, umm, Michael," Noah replied, picking up his fork to start.
"Certainly," Michael replied simply and walked away.
As Dominic looked on eagerly, Noah took his first bite, starting with the lamb ribs. As the meat reached his tongue he actually moaned - he couldn't stop himself. It was almost certainly the best food he'd ever had, and it made him realise suddenly just how hungry he was.
"Good?" Dominic asked simply, his eyebrows raising in a smug expression.
Noah could only give a short "hmm", as the second mouthful of lamb was already in his mouth. It was perfectly cooked - tender and juicy and seemed to be roasted with rosemary and something Noah couldn't identify. He cut off some pork belly, even as he was still chewing, and brought it up to his mouth the second he swallowed his lamb. It was just as good, and Noah closed his eyes as he chewed, trying his best to slow down to savour the taste.
Dominic let out a small chuckle. "Very good," he said. "I do hate to see a young man without a healthy appetite. Yes, very nice indeed." He paused for a moment, watching as Noah chased a mouthful of potato with some beer. "Now, where was I? Ah, yes, the thing people don't understand about John Major you see…"
Noah did his best to pay attention, but Dominic’s tales of Tories past weren't exactly Noah's bag, and they had to vie for his attention with the exquisite flavours in front of him. He built up a rhythm, alternating dishes with each bite, dipping the potatoes in all of the various sauces and juices from the other plates. He did his best to eat slowly but he just couldn't help himself. He was almost surprised when he looked down to see all of the plates were empty.
“... Which is why, of course, Thatcher's right-to-buy scheme was so beneficial,” Dominic finished. His smile grew as he saw Noah lean back in his seat, his breathing slow. “Oh, well done. Yes, very good indeed. You know, a lesser man would have given up on that, but not you, no.” Noah rubbed his stomach in wide slow circles. “Now, time for mains perhaps?”
Noah belched, the sound erupting out of him without warning. “Oh god,” he said. “I'm sorry I-”
“No apology needed! None at all, no, no, it's the sign of a good meal well-enjoyed,” Dominic said as his smile grew. “You know, when I was part of the trade delegation to China, I was told that burping was a sign of respect! Now, the steak?”
Noah nodded blearily. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I'll give it a go.” He downed the rest of his beer, hoping the liquid might help soothe his stomach.
“That's all that any of us can do, isn't it?” Dominic proclaimed wisely. He waved down the waiter. “We’re ready now. And my guest here will have another beer.”
The steak arrived all too soon, looking even bigger than it had sounded earlier. Noah steeled himself, knowing that this was the best meal he'd had in a long time, and might have for a while yet. Dominic spoke constantly, picking at his own salad while Noah slowly, slowly, made his made way through his steak.
It took twenty minutes, but eventually Noah was sat, breathing heavily and wincing at the tight pain in his gut. Dominic simply smiled and asked for the dessert menu.
After Noah had finished the selection of desserts Dominic had ordered, he was drunk, stuffed and tired. Dominic helped him to his feet and guided him to a waiting car, which took Noah directly to his uni halls. Noah unbuckled his too tight trousers and collapsed straight into bed.
He awoke the next morning to Cissy knocking on his door and passing over a large hamper that had been left for him. He looked inside to find a selection of expensive cheese, crackers, desserts and several ales. Looking closer he found a note.
Little Fox,
I so enjoyed our evening last night. I've included some small treats that I think you might enjoy until the next time we meet.
Your Silver Fox
-
This went on for a while. Two or three times a week, Dominic would invite Noah to some restaurant he'd never be able to afford to go to by himself, order an inordinate amount of food, plus a salad for himself, then watch as Noah stuffed himself silly. The next morning, a hamper would get delivered to Noah's flat, each time with something different in it - expensive cheeses, cured meats, selections from Dominic's current favourite bakery or deli, each delivery coming with several bottles of stout or ale that Dominic thought would pair with the food - Noah's room rapidly filled with more wicker baskets than he could handle. One time, Noah had off-handedly mentioned how much he liked ice-cream, and the next morning a delivery man handed over a miniature freezer for his room, stocked full of Ben and Jerry's. Each time, he considered sharing with his flat mates, but each time he'd sample one of the exquisite treats and immediately change his mind. Dominic, for his part, never suggested anything more - he really did seem to just genuinely want to help out a struggling uni student. Noah knew he'd have some ulterior motive, but as sexual deviances went, this one felt fairly benign and Noah wasn't about to turn down a few free meals a week.
As the end of the semester rolled around, Noah pulled a Christmas jumper out of one of the hampers that he'd repurposed as a clothes basket, and noted with a wince a developing tightness as he put it on. The jumper still fit, thankfully, but he worried about Dominic losing interest - Noah was quickly losing his thin figure that first attracted the older man.
Noah looked in the mirror and assessed himself. He wasn't fat, per se, not even chubby really. A bit more solid looking, that's all. He looked better, if anything; not quite so rail thin, or like a strong wind would blow him over.
Noah sighed. Tonight was the first time Dominic had invited him around to his own house, and he was a little nervous. Noah felt he knew Dominic well enough by now to trust that nothing untoward would happen, but it felt like a big step up in their strange friendship.
Noah smoothed down his jumper, laying his hands flat against his midsection. He was being silly - Dominic probably wouldn't even be able to notice anything.
"I've noticed you've been putting on some weight," Dominic said that evening, taking a sip of wine and smiling across the table.
Noah took a moment to swallow the mashed potatoes he'd just put in his mouth - perfectly creamy, and with a hint of rosemary and garlic - and looked down at himself. As stuffed as he was, his shirt had begun to get noticeably tighter. "I uh…," he started, trying to form words. "I suppose I've put on a little weight, yeah. I was pretty skinny before though - too skinny, some people think." He'd started talking faster, trying to convince Dominic it wasn't so bad. He hit upon the idea to appeal to Dominic's ego. "And uh, it's all this great food - I'm so grateful, you've been so generous."
Dominic's smile widened a touch and he laughed softly. "You've no need to worry, my little fox. Merely a comment." He drank some more wine and seemed to look Noah up and down. "It looks good on you, you know. You really were too thin when I met you - quite ghastly really, like a wraith. No, you look much healthier now." He set his wine glass down and leant back in his chair, one eyebrow raised. Noah got the distinct impression that he was trying to appear as nonchalant as possible. "I don't suppose you know how, ah, much weight exactly you've put on?"
Noah shrugged. "Not too much, my clothes all still fit, just about. And I've not got a scale at my flat."
Dominic stood up suddenly. "Well then we'll have to find out, won't we?"
"Will we?" Noah asked around a mouthful of turkey and gravy.
"Aren't you curious?" Dominic asked, moving around the table to usher Noah out of his seat. "We're having this little tete-a-tete about these rather charming, wonderful little changes to your body, and you don't want to know?" For the first time since Noah had met him, Dominic seemed to have a strange nervous energy about him, as if he'd rehearsed this moment. Dominic gave a short laugh. "And you the engineer! I thought your head would be full of numbers and precise measurements."
Noah decided to play along - whatever was happening, it wasn't worth losing out on his meal ticket. He pulled himself heavily out of his chair, his full stomach making him sluggish. Dominic left the room and Noah followed.
After climbing several flights of stairs and walking down a couple of corridors, Dominic stopped outside a door. "Sorry for the hike," he said with a smile. "This is the only bathroom with scales in." Noah wondered if Dominic had put the scales in there (or more likely had someone put them in there for him), so that he could show off the house to Noah - he remembered some quiet comment Dominic had made about this being "just the city house".
Dominic opened the door and ushered Noah in, flourishing an arm towards a set of scales. "Do you, ah, know what you weighed when you first arrived at university?" he asked.
Noah shrugged. "Probably about twelve stone, I think," he answered. That sounded about right, anyway.
Dominic tutted. "See? Far too thin. Shall we, ah, call that 170 pounds then, do you think?"
"Sure," Noah said. "Call it what you like I suppose."
"Call it what you- oh yes, very dry, very dry indeed little fox," Dominic chuckled. "Yes, well, ah, would you, that is to say, if you'd care to, ah…"
Noah was surprised to see Dominic so ill-at-ease. He always seemed so unflappable, and now he was a stammering mess about asking Noah to step on some scales. Noah did the honours, and looked down at the numbers on the scale. They rapidly climbed for a moment before stopping at 193.
"Oh my," Dominic said. "Well I suppose if we take off your- that is, if we account for your clothes, and what you've eaten tonight of course." He reached out and touched Noah's slightly distended stomach through his jumper. Noah felt a jolt - it was the first time Dominic had touched him at all, aside from shaking hands, and it felt like there'd just been some significant change in their relationship from that brief touch. "Shall we say one-ninety?"
"If you like, sure," Noah said, stepping back off the scale. He was starting to doubt whether these free meals were really worth it.
Dominic took out his phone and started tapping it. "Twenty pounds in, what, two months?" he muttered, seemingly to himself more than to Noah. "Very impressive, very impressive indeed."
Noah's own phone buzzed as Dominic put his away. Noah looked confused and reached into his pocket to pull it out. His eyes widened. A notification from his bank informed him that £2000 had just been added to his account by D. Berkeley. Noah looked up at Dominic, dumbfounded. "What?" Noah asked. "Why?"
Dominic smiled coolly, all of his nervous energy suddenly dissipated. "One hundred pounds for each pound you've put on," he said calmly. He seemed back to his usual self, like he'd just taken back control of the conversation. "Something of a mea culpa, if you'd like. After all, this," he once again reached out a poked Noah's slightly softer middle, "is rather my fault."
"Well, I mean, you don't need to-" Noah began.
"And I do actually rather like it, if I'm being honest, little fox," Dominic interrupted. "Which is to say, I rather think that young men such as yourself do look rather more handsome with some weight about their person."
"Right," Noah said. "Okay then, well, thank you, I guess. I'll, umm, put it towards a gym membership."
"Oh, well if you'd like to lose it, I do of course understand,” Dominic said. “I could even pay for a private trainer if you’d like? As it is my fault.” He paused for a moment and seemed to be analysing Noah's body, looking it up and down. Noah felt like some sort of prey animal. “But then again, I really do think it suits you, you know. I could even, if you were amenable, continue these little apologies? Same rate of course, one thousand sterling for every ten pounds - best exchange rate you’ll get while the current government is in power.” He laughed at his own joke before looking expectantly at Noah waiting for his answer.
Noah stood still for a while, the only sound in the room that of the other shoe finally dropping. He'd known, of course, that there was no such thing as a free lunch, but he'd rather hoped his payment would have been keeping an agreeable older man company during those lunches. Clearly, Dominic was taking payment by pound of flesh.
Was the money worth it? Noah was in the prime of his life - he should be taking advantage of his young, fit body, not wasting it for a few measly quid. But then, a thousand pounds wasn't something to scoff at, and he could make a fair amount more, not to mention all the food he didn't have to worry about buying. Maybe he should just get back on the app and find some other old rich guy who just wanted something simpler, like a blow job or feet pics. But then, did Noah really care? He'd been attracted to plenty of other big guys, he'd just not ever thought of himself that way. He wasn't even really a big guy himself yet, he could easily ring this guy for another few grand and bounce before it was really noticeavle, and then he could lose any excess weight easily enough.
Dominic cleared his throat, snapping Noah out of his rambling train of thought. “I'll, uhh, think about it,” Noah said. “Over Christmas.”
“Of course!” Dominic boomed, clapping a hand around Noah's shoulders and guiding him back out into the corridor. “You think about it while you're back home, and message me with your thoughts on my offer. For now though, I hope you have some space for dessert and the cheese board.”
A few hours later Noah swayed towards the front door, Dominic's hand on his back guiding him. The sheer amount of food and drink Noah had consumed was making him bleary-eyed, and he'd had to undo his belt sometime during the cheese course.
“Noah, one final thing,” Dominic said, as Noah stumbled his way outside towards the waiting car. He held out an envelope towards Noah. “It's a card.”
“I forgot to get you a Christmas card,” Noah said around burps.
Dominic laughed. “No, no, a credit card,” he explained. He pushed it into Noah's hand. “I’ll pay it off each month, of course, but it is yours.” Noah burped in response, which Dominic seemed to take as understanding. “I'd appreciate it if you only used it for food and drink - I don't mind how much you spend, you understand, but I would appreciate it nonetheless. Respect, more than anything, you see.”
Noah looked at the envelope for a while before looking up at Dominic and smiling. “Merry Christmas,” he mumbled before he belched and collapsed through the open car door.
-
It was the card that tipped it, for Noah. He decided he could live without the free extravagant dinners, even the offered grand for each ten pounds didn't seem that worth it in the cold light of day, but that credit card seemed to fix all of his money worries overnight. Trips to the supermarket weren't spent agonising over how much he had left or whether he could afford the tin of tomatoes that cost 15p more, he could treat himself, go out with mates on nights out. He still couldn't get over the look on his mum's face when he offered to pay for everything for Christmas dinner, or when she opened the present he'd bought her with some of the two grand Dominic had given him. So he was probably going to put on a bit of weight, who cared? He got back in contact with Dominic once he was back in halls, and their dinners recommenced, Noah's personal discomfort with the situation ebbing away all the time, even while the physical discomfort of his clothes mounted.
"Why aren't you eating more?" Dominic asked.
Noah swallowed his mouthful on noodles and looked down at the plates in front of him. He'd almost finished his bowl of donburi, and there was a small stack of small plates next to it which until recently had held a selection of dumplings and sushi.
“Well, uh, I thought maybe we'd have dessert, I guess,” he said, placing a hand gingerly on his bloated belly. “Or, I mean, if you wanted me to order some more sides?” He'd gotten used to pushing himself past his limits recently, focussing on the money he knew Dominic would be happy to part with, but that didn't make it any easier.
“Not tonight,” Dominic said, smiling. “No, you've rather impressed me tonight. The card I gave you, I mean. I'd expected a young man like you, away from home and enjoying all the pleasures of university life had to offer to be living off of take-aways and beers.”
Noah furrowed his brow. “I mean, I've been using it, you know, for shops and stuff,” he explained. “I didn't want to take the piss I guess.”
“You've no need to worry my dear little fox!” Dominic said. “It would take quite a lot of eating indeed to make me regret my decision. No, no, you've no need to be concerned about your impact on my finances. You should be enjoying yourself - dinners out, big lunches, deliveroos.” He said this last word as if it was an unfamiliar foreign term he was impressed with himself for learning while on holiday.
“Right, yeah, I'll keep that in mind I guess,” Noah said, before bringing the bowl up to his mouth to drain the last of the broth. “Thanks again,” he said. He placed both hands on his stomach and began to massage it, as much to soothe it as much as to put in a bit of a show for Dominic.
Dominic licked his lips. “You know, I had rather noticed that your, ah, wardrobe perhaps needed an update,” he said. “Perhaps it wouldn't go amiss if you were to use the card for clothes as well, when needed. I'd only ask that you let me know ahead of time, when you, ah, well, when you outgrow your clothes, I suppose.”
Noah nodded and ran a hand along the hem of his t-shirt to feel the strip of skin that had started showing beneath it in the last week or so. “Thanks, that’ll be helpful. These jeans are killing me.” He made a show of unbuttoning them and sighing with relief. “Sorry, hope you don't mind.” Dominic shook his head while making some posh clucking noises.
“Why don't you weigh yourself tonight?” Dominic asked. “With that scale I sent. You could send me a picture and I could send some money, if needed.”
“Sounds great,” Noah said, leaning back. “Don't suppose you could get the waiter's attention could you? See if they could bring over the dessert menu?”
That night, Noah sent Dominic a picture of the scale reading 202, and smiled as a notification appeared in his banking app less than a minute later.
-
Fancy going interrailing this summer? Just me and you? Mum’s given me some money for “self betterment and actualisation”, thought I'd go get pissed in Prague.
Noah's heart sank as he read the message. Just last week he'd spent most of the money he'd saved up from Dominic on a used car. He loved it, but now wished he'd held off a little longer. Him and his mate Stuart from school had talked about going interrailing for years; Noah had always thought of it as little more than a pipe dream, but suddenly it felt like it was all too attainable, if only Stu had text a week earlier.
Noah was about to text back, telling Stu he was skint, when he paused. No reason he couldn't save up a bit more money - he'd have until the summer to put on some more weight, and get as much money as he could from Dominic. Okay, so 220 pounds was bigger than he ever imagined getting, and having a genuine belly bloating out the front of large t-shirts, even when he'd not eaten, was something of a surprise, but he was hardly that big yet, he could afford to put on another twenty pounds before it was that bad, couldn't he? Besides, Stu was always the “fat friend” at school; he'd hardly judge Noah, and might even get a kick out of seeing him the same size as him.
I'd have to sort a bit of money, but count me in! August will be better than July maybe - gives me a bit of time to bank some extra pounds.
Noah chuckled at his own small joke as he grabbed the iPad Dominic had sent him a few weeks before, ready for some research. He started off simple, typing How much does it cost to go interrailing into Google and searching through some sites. He started to worry a little about how much it might cost and increased his imagine future body by another ten pounds or so. Would 30 pounds put him bigger than Stu? It was a strange prospect, but he found himself getting hard. As much as they'd all taken the piss out of Stu, he'd always commanded a bit of respect because of his size - he was the big one, the one who always got mistaken for being a bit older, the one who could eat the most and would probably win in most fights. The idea that Noah could usurp Stu in that way excited him.
How to gain weight fast he typed into the search bar. If he wanted to enjoy himself, he'd need to earn as much money as he could before summer.
A couple of mornings later, Noah pulled a carton out of one of the crates he’d ordered. He cracked it open and took a sip. This Boost stuff wasn't too bad, he thought. It was sweet and creamy, but not as thick as he thought, and he was surprised by how small it was considering the number of calories in it. He downed the rest of it in a few large gulps.
He’d read that some people had gotten incredible results from just one or two a day, so he thought one after every meal would do the trick nicely. Then, he'd finish the day with a pint or two of ice cream from the freezer that Dominic made sure to keep stocked. All of that, on top of his newly formed habit of getting every meal delivered - McDonald’s breakfast in the morning, a burger or burrito for lunch, and then a different take away each night for dinner - would surely help him make the money he needed for Europe.
While he was researching all of this, he'd been surprised to discover the communities of men who seemed to get off on this kind of stuff. He’d thought Dominic was some kind of one-off, the result of whatever crazy repression results from being gay and posh, but it seemed like these gainer guys were fairly common. He took some perverse pleasure in realising he was already bigger than some of the men who'd been trying to put on weight. He did his best to ignore men around 250 pounds, knowing he'd be that size soon enough, if everything went to plan - surely he'd not look that big? Obviously these guys would try and make themselves look as big as possible in their photos. No, he'd be fine, he told himself, just a little more weight would be barely noticeable.
-
“Do you think we could stop off somewhere and get something to eat?” Noah asked, his stomach rumbling. It was the first time Dominic had taken Noah for a weekend away, and he was regretting not remembering to bring some cartons of Boost.
“Well, we have dinner reservations in a couple of hours. Did the restaurant not look to your liking?” Dominic asked.
“No, it's fine, I'm not saying instead of dinner, I just mean, I haven't eaten since lunch, I'm not used to starving myself like this,” Noah replied. He was starting to get a little grouchy.
“Starving your- ah, yes well, perhaps we could find somewhere nearby, a cafe or bistro perhaps.” Dominic began to look around the row of shops along the beachfront.
“It's fine,” Noah said, crossing the road already. “I'll just grab something and eat while we walk. There's a place there look, I'll just grab a couple of burritos.”
Noah ate his first burrito in silence, only occasionally pausing to nod or give an approving grunt to one of Dominic's long stories. It was only when he started pulling the foil off the second burrito that Dominic asked for more of Noah's attention.
“You know, I do rather like this beard you've grown, little fox,” he started. “But I do wonder if it’s purpose might be to hide a certain developing feature? A certain roundness of the jawline perhaps.”
Noah felt his cheeks flush red. He had indeed grown the beard to distract from the double chin that had developed recently. The last twenty pounds seemed to take him from “slightly chubby” to “fat” in a way he wasn't expecting. With each step his round gut shook inside his XL shirt, which hugged a pair of budding moobs. He even realised that weekend with some shock that he was quite a bit bigger than Dominic now, so while he knew that the beard wasn't doing much to hide his weight gain, he'd hoped it wouldn't be too obvious why he'd grown it.
“Umm, yeah, I mean, some other guys in halls have grown a beard too, you know, and I thought I'd give it a go too, but, well, yeah, I guess it's to kind of cover the chin as well,” he admitted.
Dominic clapped a hand on Noah's shoulder. “While I really do think it's handsome, I always think it's such a shame when handsome growing men such as yourself try to hide the fullness of their face,” he said. “You should be proud of it! Have you not worked hard for your changing face? Earned it? Perhaps you'll shave it for me tonight? Show me what's underneath?”
“Oh, yeah, sure, I guess I can, I mean, it's just, I didn't pack a razor or anything,” Noah said, hoping Dominic would drop the matter.
“That's no concern! We can buy one for you, no matter at all. Look, there's a pharmacy there, I'll go in while you finish your little snack,” Dominic instructed.
Noah sighed and took a big bite of his burrito as he leant against the window of the pharmacy. He patted his gut and felt it jiggle. Just a little more weight and he'd have enough to go to Europe with Stu, and then he could block Dominic's number and lose all this weight.
That night, Noah's beardless face showed off just how round his cheeks were getting as he stuffed food into them. At Dominic's suggestion, Noah left himself with a moustache, which he was finding quite sexy. Dominic had ordered the entire starter list for Noah, followed by a roast dinner and a burger for mains, and a selection of desserts, while he ate a small serving of monkfish. Noah wiped his moustache with his napkin and leant back, resting a hand on his gut. “I don't suppose anywhere will be open, do you think?” he asked Dominic. “I usually like to have some ice cream before bed.”
-
Dominic clinked his wine glass with Noah’s. “Here's to a grand tour around Europe, and to two-hundred and seventy pounds,” he said.
Noah smiled and continued eating his fifth dessert of the night, thinking idly that he shouldn't have let the waiter take away the dessert menu just yet. While he'd overshot his target weight a little, the five thousand pounds he'd accrued would make sure that he wouldn't have to worry about scrimping and saving while interrailing, and he'd hopefully have some money left over afterwards for a gym membership, hell, maybe even a personal trainer. If nothing else, Noah thought ruefully as he adjusted his belt, he'd need to buy yet another new wardrobe, if he gained anymore weight.
“I've been thinking,” Dominic said. “I know that gallivanting about like this can be rather tough on the old purse strings, especially when one is young and wants to experience as much as possible of all these wonderful places you'll be going.”
Noah nodded, his cheeks full of tiramisu. “Yeah, you know, you've been a massive help with money and stuff, I definitely think I'll have a great time,” he said, truthfully. While he still found their arrangement a little creepy, Dominic seemed like a genuinely sweet guy, Tory proclivities and fetish for fattening up men aside, and Noah knew he'd have had a much worse year without him.
“Of course, of course, no need to thank me, anyone else would have done the same, faced with a young person in need such as yourself” Dominic said. Noah's eyebrows flew up; this situation fell very firmly under the category of things most people would not do, but he knew better than to protest. “Well, I was rather thinking, as this is such a marvelous opportunity for experiencing new places, meeting new people, learning languages, and of course, trying new food,” he waggled his eyebrows at this last point. “Well, I thought, as your patron, as it were, it would be remiss to not fund the trip.”
“Sorry, I'm not sure I follow,” Noah said, as he started on a rich sticky toffee pudding. “You are funding it - I wouldn't be able to go without you.”
“But I want you to keep that money! No, I want to pay for your trip,” Dominic said. “All of it. You and your friend. You can put everything on the card I gave you, the food and drink of course, as per usual, but the hotels, the trains, the flights, all of it. Anything you've paid for already, send it over to my office, I'll have my man expense it for you.”
Noah's gawped. Here he was, approaching twenty stone, one hundred pounds heavier than when he’d first arrived at uni, and Dominic was telling him all that money he'd saved was for nothing?
“Well, that's very generous Dom,” Noah said slowly, ruefully spooning some custard into his mouth.
“Think nothing of it, little fox! You know, when we first met, I must admit, I had rather hoped you might put on a little weight,” he understated. “But I really have been so impressed with how you've taken to it! Yes, I'm more than happy to pay for a man such as yourself who’s so readily taken up my little challenge.”
There it was, of course. The other side of the coin. Noah the twelve stone twink would never have been offered an all expenses trip around Europe. A catch-22: Noah had only saved enough to afford to go interrailing because he'd gotten so fat, and because he'd gotten so fat, he needn't have saved any money at all.
-
“Fucking hell!” Stu said as Noah walked up to him in St Pancras station. Dominic had arranged for a car to take him right up to the front, so Noah wasn’t nearly as sweaty as he would have been if he'd had to drag his backpack through the tube. “Louis said you'd gotten fat when he saw you at Easter but he didn't say you had tits! And what's with the porn-stache?”
“Nice to see you too,” Noah said. “Why weren't you back for Easter, anyway?”
“Fuck off, don't try and change the fucking subject,” Stu insisted. “You’re bigger than me!”
Noah had to admit that. He was surprised how small Stu looked - he’d always been one of the biggest guys in the year at school, but now he just looked a bit husky and had a beer belly. “Yeah, but you've lost weight, haven't you?” Noah pointed out.
“I've put on weight mate!” Stu laughed. “But I've put on about a stone like everyone else at uni, not about ten.”
Noah was shocked, and found himself getting hard. Not only had he surpassed Stu like he thought he might, he'd absolutely eclipsed him. “Go on, how much do you weigh then, Mr Skinny?” Noah asked, wondering how much he outweighed him by.
“Like seventeen stone mate,” Stu replied. “You must be, what, twenty? More?”
“Like two-seventy pounds. Probably a bit more now,” he admitted, thinking that he'd not exactly slowed down his eating in the week since he'd last seen Dominic.
“What? What's that in stone?” Stu asked. “Who weighs themselves in pounds?”
“Oh, right, yeah, like, nineteen and a half, maybe,” Dominic said.
“Christ,” Stu said in a low voice reaching out and poking a finger into Noah's gut. “That's fucking huge mate. You were tiny at school.”
“Well, you know, I'm taller than you, so that's a bit of weight isn't it,” Noah pointed out.
Stu laughed. “And the rest! You’re like an inch taller than me, two at most. That hardly adds up to two extra stone, does it?”
“Fuck off,” Noah said, returning Stu’s gut poke with one of his own. “Is there anywhere to buy breakfast around here before we get on the train?”
“Yeah, but you've already eaten haven't you?” Stu said.
“What? What makes you think that?” Noah asked.
Stu laughed. “I saw you throw a McDonalds coffee cup in the bin when you came in, big guy. A bloke your size doesn't go to McDonalds for just a coffee, do you?”
“Oh, yeah, well you know, that wasn't really breakfast, that was just something to eat after I woke up,” Noah protested, thinking back to the two mcmuffins he'd eaten on the way.
“Also known as fucking breakfast,” Stu howled with laughter.
“I'm just thinking we’ll be on the train a while,” Noah said, his cheeks flushing red. “And then we’ve got to get to the hotel, we might not have lunch until late.”
“Yeah, yeah, I'm sure it's a very thoughtfully considered second fucking breakfast,” Stu said while shaking his head. “Come on, yeah, I could eat too. We don't want you dying of hunger, do we, you fat git.”
Sat on the train, Noah regretted not getting as much as he'd like, but Stu had started gawping at him as he'd ordered, and he thought it best to limit himself to a light breakfast today, while Stu got his head around Noah's enhanced size.
“So I've been meaning to say,” Noah started. “I've swapped some of our hostel reservations.”
“What do you mean it's all paid for?” Stu asked. “How are you affording to pay extra for hotels? I thought we agreed the cheapest hostels we could find?”
“It's fine,” Noah reiterated. “It's sorted.”
“Yeah, but I'm asking how,” Stu said. “Go on, you can't just show up suddenly fat and rich and expect me not to ask anything. Did you win some kind of million pound eating contest or what?"
“Haha, very funny,” Noah said, rolling his eyes. “It's just, there's this, well there's this guy, alright, and he's said he's happy to pay for us both. Sees it as some enriching experience for us.”
“What the fuck do you mean ‘some guy’?” Stu asked, eyes boggling. “I'd have been less confused if you had said it was the eating contest, to be honest.”
Noah tried to look as nonchalant as possible as he fidgeted in his seat. “It's just this guy I know who's happy to give me some money as, you know, charity or a patronage or whatever, for young people to, I don't know, enrich themselves or whatever.”
Stu narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean a charit- wait, patronage?” He leant forward. “Do you have a fucking sugar daddy?” he whispered harshly.
Noah looked around to see if anyone was listening. “Look, he's not a sugar daddy, alright? He's just this older guy who pays for some stuff for me,” he said, cringing at his own words as he said them.
“You mean like a sugar daddy?” Stu pointed out.
“No!” Noah insisted. “He's just this older guy who wants a bit of company sometimes.”
“Like a sugar daddy.”
“Shut up. We don't, you know, we've never fucked or anything,” Noah said. “He's not interested in any of that. It's just conversation.”
“Conversation he pays you for,” Stu said. “Go on then, where did you meet this not-at-all-a-sugar-daddy?”
Noah flushed red. “An app,” he mumbled after a while.
Stu laughed. “And what was this app called exactly?”
Noah sighed. “Okay, it was a fucking sugar daddy app, okay? I've got a sugar daddy.”
Stu cackled. “I fucking knew it!” he yelled, receiving glares in response. “It's always the quiet ones, isn't it?” He shook his head, laughing to himself.
“Yeah, well, you're getting a free holiday out of it, aren't you?” Noah said, slumping down in his seat and pulling some snacks out of his bag.
-
The two began to eat their way across Europe. Two nights in Paris first, with wine and cheese and bread and fine restaurants. Then Geneva - the original plan was to just spend a few hours there, being too expensive for two poor travelling students, but Dominic's card opened the city and it's restaurants up to them; they booked a hotel for a few of nights of luxury, before moving on to Interlaken.
Noah's gut shook as he pulled his t-shirt off at the side of the lake. Stu whistled and shook his head. Noah laughed and slapped his gut for show; after Stu’s initial shock, he'd gotten used to Noah's larger frame, and the two had settled into an easy rhythm of teasing.
Noah waded into the shallows of the lake and lay back so that he floated with his gut and moobs sticking out of the water in front of him. He closed his eyes, paddled for a moment or two into some clear water further from the shore and lay floating in the sun.
After a while, he heard some splashing and cracked an eye open to see Stu swimming over to him. He allowed himself to sink slightly so that he was treading water and Stu did the same. It was the first time Noah had been swimming since he'd started putting on weight, and he was astonished by how alien it felt. He was so much more buoyant than previously, his fat rising up around him. Each time he moved, he felt the same heaviness and resistance he'd gotten used to on land magnified, his heavier body moving slowly through the water. Noah was happy for the cover of the water and his overhanging gut; the sensations were causing him to get hard in his swimming shorts.
“I think it's time we really need to talk about this mate,” Stu said, gesturing at Noah.
Noah looked down, not seeing anything amiss. “Talk about what?” he asked.
Stu leant forward and poked Noah's gut under the water. “This! Bloody hell, talk about the elephant in the room.”
Noah shrugged. “We've talked about it,” he said.
“Yeah, we've joked about it” Stu agreed. “But we've hardly, I mean, we've not properly talked about it, have we?”
“What's there to talk about?” Noah asked, feigning ignorance. Obviously he knew that Stu would eventually want to ask questions about his shocking weight gain, but it was just so much easier to make jokes about it.
Stu sighed and allowed himself to fall back. Noah noticed that his own small beer belly rose out of the water like Noah's did, though not nearly to the same extent. Noah appreciated the lack of eye-contact the position granted. “Are you alright?” Stu asked. “Like, really alright? Nothing’s wrong?”
Noah floated on his back too, mirroring Stu's position. “Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. Really. It's just, being at uni, beer weight and stuff.”
Stu laughed. “No mate. This” he slapped his gut for emphasis, “is beer weight.” He leant over and slapped Noah's much larger gut. “This is a fucking eating disorder.” He was quiet for a while. “It's not, is it? An eating disorder? Or you're not depressed or ill or something?”
“Definitely not depressed or ill,” Noah reassured Stu. He was quiet for a while though. Did he have an eating disorder? He didn't feel like he could control it anymore, that was for sure. “I don't think it's an eating disorder either,” he said after a while. “Like I know I'm not eating normal amounts but…” He paused, gathering courage. “I'm enjoying it, I guess? Eating whatever I like, not worrying about what it's doing to my waistline.”
Stu nodded. “Good,” he said after a while. “Good,” he repeated. The two floated quietly for a while. “Has it got something to do with your sugar daddy?” he asked after a few minutes.
“I don't have a-”
“Yeah, yeah, we've done this bit already,” Stu interrupted Noah. “Whatever, has it got something to do with your older gentleman friend who takes you out to nice restaurants and pays for you to go on holiday and gives you money and who you met on a sugar daddy website but who is not a sugar daddy, somehow?”
Noah huffed. “Why do you ask that?” he asked eventually.
“Because no offense,” Stu replied. “But you're hardly sugar baby material these days, are you?”
“Oi!”
“Look, I'm not saying I am either!” Stu protested. “I'm just saying that the Noah that went off to uni was a little more conventionally sugar baby material, and the one that I'm interrailing with is a bit more high-blood-sugar baby.”
“You've been saving that one up, haven't you?” Noah said.
“Thought of it the other day,” Stu said, the pride evident in his voice. “But it is, isn't it? Your sugar daddy likes you with a bit more padding.”
Noah sighed. No point denying it, really. “Yes,” he admitted. “We started going out for these massive dinners and he'd send me treats and pay for all my food shops and then after a while, Dom told me that-”
“Fuck off!” Stu yelled, twisted to tread water again and face Noah. “You do not call your sugar daddy ‘Dom’!”
“That's his actual name you twat,” Noah said, moving to tread water as well. “Anyway, Dom- Dominic eventually said that he liked that I'd put on some weight and…”
“And what?” Stu said, filling the gap Noah had left. “He started paying you to get fat?” Noah held his breath. “Oh my god, he's paying you to get fat, isn't he?”
Noah clenched his teeth. “It's not… It's not prostitution or anything,” he said. “He pays for food and takes me for dinner, I've put on some weight because I'm eating well, he likes me bigger. It’s- I mean it's separate things, you know? He's not giving me money to get fat, he's giving me money because I am fat.”
Stu laughed. “You can fucking say that again,” he said. “Alright, alright, you're not the heftiest whore in Halifax, fine, whatever you say.”
“I've never been to Halifax,” Noah pointed out.
“Alliteration, innit?” Stu said. “Go on then, how much does he pay you?” Stu asked quietly, moving toward Noah a little, seemingly forgetting how loud their conversation was just moments prior.
Noah shifted uncomfortably. “Hundred pounds for every pound, or well, we usually do a grand for ten,” he said.
Stu almost sank under the water in shock, and came back up coughing. “Fuck off! A grand for ten pounds?” He realised how loud he was being and looked around at the people swimming away from them towards the shore. “Go on then, how much have you earned?” he asked, much quieter.
Noah sighed. “Ten grand,” he said.
Stu’s eyes went wide. “Ten gra- that's, No, mate, I mean, that's a hundred pounds,” he whispered. “What's that in stone?”
Noah tilted his head back and winced. “Seven or so,” he said. He looked up at Stu. “I wanted to pay for the trip, you know, but I spent some of it on a car, and then a bit into savings, and then,” he floated back and sighed. “Fuck me, last time I saw him, he said he'd pay for everything. That he didn't want me spending the money I'd saved up.”
Stu almost sank beneath the surface again as he laughed. “So you've put on, and I'm going to slow down for this bit, you've put on one hundred actual pounds to earn ten grand to not spend around Europe?”
“Well, see,” Noah said, placing a hand thoughtfully on the ledge of his gut. “No. Well, yes. But no. If I hadn't put on a hundred pounds, he wouldn't have offered to pay. One way or another, I needed to get fat to go interrailing.”
Stu’s eyes went wide. “Fuck,” he said. “You're right, you know.” He reached his hands out and placed them on Noah's gut. Noah’s cock twitched beneath his gut at the touch, and he hoped Stu hadn't noticed. “I reckon you didn't actually need ten grand either way though.”
Noah sighed and closed his eyes. “I know, I know,” he agreed. “I can't control my appetite anymore. After I bought the car I kind of thought I could just do with two or three grand, but then…” He motioned down at himself.
“One hundred pounds later,” Stu finished for him. They were both quiet for a while, until Stu laughed to himself. “Here, I don't reckon he'd pay me to putting on weight as well, do you?”
“Fuck off,” Noah said, laughing. When Stu didn't respond, just carrying on looking questioningly, Noah continued. “You're not serious?” he asked. “You'd want to get fat for a few grand.”
Stu shrugged. “Why not? You've done it and you were a shrimp at school. I'd blow you out of the water.”
Noah laughed. “Oh you would, would you?”
Stu nodded. “Absolutely,” he said. “And yeah, why not? I could put on some weight. I can barely keep it off anyway, especially the way you've been making me fucking eat on this trip, might as well make some cash while I do it.”
“The way I've been making you eat? You were planning on doing weight watchers before, were you?” Noah asked. “Anyway, you're too skinny for him,” he said. “And you're not even gay anyway!”
Stu laughed. “Well not being gay doesn't matter if there's no funny business, right?” Noah grumbled at having gotten caught out. “Alright, alright big guy,” he said, raising his hands up. “I won't steal your sugar daddy.” He laughed again.
-
After Interlaken, the two of them went north to Germany, first to Munich, which they experienced by slowly wandering from beer hall to beer hall all day, taking in history and culture largely incidentally to the beer, sausages and bread they consumed. Then north again to Berlin, where Noah was disheartened to find Stu had actually planned non-eating based activities for the two of them.
“Fuck me, but it's good to get off my feet,” Noah said as he shuffled into a booth at a restaurant on their first evening. He was surprised at the way the table of the booth bumped into the crest of his gut. “I’m starved,” he told Stu, who shook his head.
“You've been eating all day,” Stu pointed out.
“Hardly!” Noah protested. “Okay, so we had lunch-”
“Two lunches,” Stu pointed out.
“Then we went to that currywurst stall, and that's it,” Noah said.
“We went to three currywurst stalls.”
“Whatever,” Noah said, finding himself growing irritable as his stomach growled at him. “That was hours ago. And besides, I've been on my feet all day!”
Stu laughed. “So have I!”
“Yeah well you're not…” Noah grumbled quietly.
“Go on,” Stu said as a grin spread across his face. “I'm not what?”
“Not as bloody fat as me, are you?” Noah said, blushing. The two hadn't talked again about Noah's weight since Interlaken, even to joke about it. Noah got the impression that Stu was waiting for him to bring it up.
Stu laughed. “He finally admits it!”
“Well I can hardly bloody hide it at this point, can I?” Noah snapped. Despite having talked about it, Noah still couldn't help feeling embarrassed about how far he'd let himself go. “Look, sorry, I'm just hangry,” he apologised. He passed a menu over to Stu. “Let’s order, yeah?”
“Don't worry about it mate,” Stu said. “I've been on the receiving end of fat jokes for years, it's nice that someone else can take over for once.” He looked at the menu for a while. “I'll probably just go for a burger. Fancy a starter?”
“Yeah, I'll probably do the same,” he said absentmindedly. “Couple of starters, couple of burgers, couple of sides.”
“Fucking hell mate,” Stu laughed.
“What?”
“I don't even think you know how much you're eating these days, do you?” Stu asked. “I said I might get a starter and a burger, you mentally double it and add extras. And I bet you'll want a döner on the way back."
Noah blushed. “Yeah, alright, I get it,” he mumbled. “I should start cutting back.”
“No, I don't mean…” Stu considered for a moment. “Maybe I could have a second burger too, you know? You're right, we have been walking about all day.”
Noah raised an eyebrow and smiled to himself. He'd noticed Stu doing this a lot - pushing himself beyond what he initially wanted to eat, trying to match Noah bite for bite. Each time Noah suggested they stop for street food, or grab a quick dessert or even extra meal, Stu would protest, and then quietly acquiesce. He never managed to keep up with Noah of course, but he made a valiant effort nonetheless. Noah was starting to wonder if Stu felt threatened - he'd been the big guy for years, and now previously skinny Noah was running rings around him. Metaphorically of course - Noah struggled to run anywhere these days.
“No, no,” Noah teased. “If you can't manage it, just order the one.”
Stu bristled. “I can manage two easy,” he insisted. “I think you're right about a couple of sides as well, those onion rings look good. If you want to just get one, you go ahead.”
Noah shrugged. “Maybe I should just order one,” he agreed. “After all, I'll end up having to eat your second one for you anyway.”
Stu’s mouth dropped open, before he hurriedly hailed a waiter and proceeded to order double what he wanted.
-
After Berlin, Prague and its cheap beer, roast meat and heavy dumplings. Noah discovered a love for a dessert of a tower of pastry filled with cream, which he would eat non-stop between beers and snacks.
Then east, on an overnight train to Warsaw, where the two men had to convince two Spaniards to allow them to sleep on the bottom bunk - Noah in particular was concerned that the berth might not take his girth. Poland brought more heavy food and more beer. South, after Warsaw, to Krakow for a few days, and then continuing on, through Slovakia to Hungary, and Budapest.
“You need bigger clothes mate,” Noah told Stu, poking the sliver of fat hanging out the bottom of his t-shirt as they left the train.
“Says you!” Stu retorted, grabbing Noah's much larger wedge of fat at the bottom of his t-shirt. “And you broke that button in Warsaw.”
“Yeah, well, this is the biggest I have right now,” Noah said. “You could at least start wearing my clothes.”
Stu patted his gut and sighed. “You think it's that bad?” he asked.
“Oh fuck off,” Noah said, elbowing Stu in his side.
“I'm serious!” Stu said. “I'm not the size you were when we left are you?”
Noah looked him up and down. “Probably not far off mate,” he told him. “Catching me up.”
Stu laughed and slapped Noah's gut. “I think I'm still a while off that, don't you worry. You've not exactly been losing weight either, have you.”
“I suppose you're right,” Noah said, caressing the soft fat spilling out the bottom of his t-shirt, and doing his best to ignore his hardening and confusing erection.
“I kind of get it, though,” Stu said, as the two crammed into the back seat of a taxi.
“Get what?” Noah said, his mouth full of a chocolate bar.
“I kind of get why you like it,” Stu clarified. “Being fat.”
“Fuck off,” Noah blustered. “I don't- what do you- I don't like being fat.”
“Okay, fine, whatever,” Stu appeased him. “I get why you like eating so much then, and not giving a shit about the consequences.” Neither said anything for a few moments. “It feels kind of manly though, doesn't it?”
Noah looked over and then quickly looked away again to pretend he hadn't seen Stu's hard-on in his too tight trousers. “Yeah,” he agreed quietly. “Really manly. And soft. To touch I mean. It feels good.”
“Yeah,” Stu said, growing quiet. “It’s nice. How soft it is.”
“Maybe it wouldn't be so bad, you know,” Noah said. “To gain-”
At that moment the taxi arrived at their hotel, and the driver thrust a card reader in their faces. Noah dutifully tapped Dominic's card and the two collected their suitcases.
Noah lay in his pants on the bed of their hotel room while Stu had a shower.
“They've got a scale,” Stu called through the bathroom door.
“A what?”
“A scale,” Stu repeated, sticking his head through the door. “You know, for weighing yourself.”
Noah clambered off the bed, doing his best not to show how excited he was. “Go on then,” he told Stu. “You first, what's the damage.”
Stu stood with a towel wrapped around his waist, water still dripping down his body hair, around the curve of his gut. He nudged the scale with a toe to turn it on then, swallowed nervously and then stepped on.
“It's in kilograms,” he said. “I don't really…”
“What does it say?” Noah asked, grabbing his phone.
“One hundred and twenty.”
Noah typed the number into Google and showed Stu the result. “Two hundred and sixty five pounds,” he told him. “A little under nineteen stone.”
“Fuck me,” Stu said. “That's almost two stone since we left.” Noah once again did his best to act like he didn't notice the growing bulge of Stu’s erection. “Go on,” he told Noah. “You next.”
Noah stood on the scales and sucked in his gut to see the numbers.
“What does it say?” Stu asked.
“Just give me a moment,” Noah said, typing the conversion into Google. “I'm just… oh fuck me.”
“What? How much is it?”
“Three hundred and thirteen,” Noah said. “I weigh three hundred and thirteen pounds.” He lifted his gut and let go, watching as it bounced and rippled. “I've put on forty pounds.” He did his best to stop his own growing hard-on.
Stu gave a low whistle. “No wonder none of your clothes are fitting.” He reached out and ran a hand over Noah's belly, before raising his hand to his chest and lightly lifting a moob. “And we've still got a while before we go back. It uh…” He swallowed hard. “It looks good on you though mate. Like we were saying in the taxi, you know. Manly.”
Noah nodded. “You too,” he said. He reached a hand out and placed it on Stu’s own gut.
Stu abruptly walked away, back into the room, and started hurriedly getting changed.
“You alright mate?” Noah asked, confused about the sudden change in demeanor.
“Yeah, why wouldn't I be?” Stu said, determinedly facing away from Noah. Noah saw him adjust crotch.
“No reason,” Noah said. He reached down to pin his own cock underneath his overhang, hiding it as best he could.
“Right then,” Stu said, pulling on some of Noah's trousers and a t-shirt. “Let's go buy you some new clothes then.”
-
Stu remained frosty for most of Budapest, but slowly thawed as they prepared to leave for Zagreb. Noah filled the awkward silences with eating. After a few days in Zagreb, by the end of which Stu was as cheery as ever and acting like the incident in the bathroom had never happened, they ventured further south, to their final stop in Split.
Noah laughed as he tried and failed to pull on his swimming shorts. They were skin tight on his thighs, and he could just about force them to cover his cock, but his arse hung out the back and his pubes and plush fat pad spilled out the top. “We forgot to buy me new trunks when I bought new clothes!” he called through the connecting door between his and Stu’s rooms. “Oh, I look fucking ridiculous, I don't give a shit, I'm coming to show you. Prepare for some not-quite full frontal!” The two had seen each other naked before, and had grown accustomed to each others growing bodies after sharing hotel rooms for weeks, particularly as they outgrew their clothes, so he knew Stu wouldn't mind. “Here, I bet you'll need to borrow mine will you?”
He waddled through the door, still laughing, but abruptly stopped when he saw Stu.
“Yeah, yeah, I reckon I will have to borrow yours,” Stu said, seemingly in a daze. Rather than squeezing himself into too his small trunks, he held them in one hand while he stood naked facing Noah. His cock stood proud beneath the fold of his gut.
“Stu, I… are you okay?” Noah asked
“Look what you've done to me mate,” Stu said, shaking his gut, making his cock follow suit.
“I'm not sure what you…”
“I know I used to be chubby,” Stu said. He squeezed his gut and massaged it. “I know I put on some weight at uni. But fuck me Noah. Why did we have to eat so much?”
“Why don't we get you a dressing gown mate, yeah?” Noah said, walking into the room tentatively.
“I'm not gay,” Stu said, stopping his groping of his gut.
“Yeah,” Noah said. “I know mate. I know you're not gay. Here's some shorts look, let's get them on, yeah?” He was starting to worry that Stu might be having some kind of breakdown.
Stu reached out and grabbed Noah's gut, slipping a thumb into his deep belly button. “It just feels so good doesn't it?” he said. “Manly. Like we said.”
“Stu, what are you-”
Stu leaned in and kissed Noah on the lips. Noah hesitated for moment before leaning into it. Stu hooked his fingers around the waistband of Noah's swim shorts and pulled them down.
“I'm not gay,” Stu whispered. “Just two blokes, appreciating what it feels like to be fat, yeah?”
“Stu, I don't think that-” Noah said.
“Oh, shut the fuck up fatty,” Stu said and pushed him down onto the bed, before climbing up onto his gut.
Twenty minutes later, the two lay panting and covered in cum.
“Its sweatier, when you're fat,” Stu panted.
“Like everything else you mean?” Noah replied.
“Noah mate,” Stu said.
“Yeah mate?”
“I think I might be a bit gay mate,” Stu said.
“You might be a bit gay mate, yeah,” Noah agreed.
-
Three weeks later, Noah stood in Dominic's bathroom on some weighing scales.
“Three hundred and twenty-two!” Dominic beamed. “Europe was kind to you, little fox. I'll get the five thousand sent over now.”
“Twenty-two…” Noah stuttered. “I was only three-thirteen in Budapest.” He looked down at the slope of his gut. No matter his and Stu’s newfound appreciate for their figures, this was all going a bit too far.
“Well, your gain is my loss, eh, little fox?” Dominic said. “You know, I was following your bank transactions while you were away. I saw how much you were spending on food, but I really never hoped that you might have grown quite so handsomely.” He clapped a hand on Noah's rounded shoulders and led him back to the dining room. “Fifty pounds since I last saw you! Tell me, how does it feel?”
Noah sat gingerly down in his seat. “It feels, well, you know. Heavy I guess.”
Dominic’s smile wavered. “And you are enjoying it, aren't you?”
Noah looked up. “I mean. It's all a lot. I’m like, what twenty three stone now? That's… that's a lot.”
“But you were saying,” Dominic said. “How manly it felt? How your friend also put on weight? How it brought you closer together?”
Noah nodded slowly. “I just think maybe it's all a bit much. I kind of thought I'd slow down after Europe. Stu has, I bet,” he said.
“Well, we can talk about that after dinner, can't we?” Dominic said nervously. “I've asked chef to make all of your favourites.”
Noah dutifully ate everything that was put in front of him, but he felt a pit growing in his stomach even as it filled to bursting. When he was with Stu, eating was fun, they joked, they laughed, they shared in the experience. This was… different. Dominic barely ate at all, just watched Noah as he pushed obscene amounts of food into his gut. Dominic spoke, but it was all one-way, like Noah was in a lecture or a particularly dry stand-up routine.
As Noah prepared to leave, stuffed beyond reason and his walk reduced to a waddle, he turned to Dominic.
“Thank you for tonight,” he said. “And for everything. I just…” He paused for a moment to belch and gather his thoughts. “I don't think I should carry on meeting you, for a little bit.”
Dominic’s face fell. “Is something the matter?” he said. “Did I say something wrong perhaps during dinner? Maybe if you could tell me I'll be able to explain, add some context.”
Noah shook his head. “It wasn't tonight,” he said. “It's everything. I really… I don't think I should put on any more weight. Thank you, but I think I've got enough money right now.”
“Oh, if that's all!” Dominic said, forcing a smile onto his face. “No need to put on any weight, eh? You can take a little break. No reason we can't keep on meeting, eh little fox? And if you happen to put on a little more weight, well then, I could send you some more money, eh? Maybe we could increase our rate a little?”
“I don't think that's a good idea,” Noah said. He slid a hand into his tight pocket and pulled his wallet out. “Here,” he said, passing Dominic his card back. “You should have this.”
Dominic pushed the card back towards him. “By no means!” he said. His eyes were a little panicked. “You keep that, don't you worry. Its just a little thing, I really don’t notice it. Yes, you keep that and carry on using it.” He put the card back in Noah's wallet for him. “No need to still meet if you don't want to, but you keep the card. Don't you worry about a thing.”
Noah shrugged and slipped his wallet back into his pocket. “Fine,” he said. No use arguing. As he left he vowed not to put on any more weight.
-
“You've put on weight!” Stu said gleefully as he pulled Noah's shirt off and threw it on his bed. It was the first time Noah had managed to visit his boyfriend since the start of their second years of uni, and he'd dragged Noah up to his bedroom as soon as he'd arrived.
“That noticeable, is it?” he sighed.
“Oh absolutely,” he said, taking a nipple into his mouth and sucking. He looked up after a while when he noticed Noah wasn't reciprocating his enthusiasm. “You're not still upset about it, are you? I told you how much I'm loving the new bigger Noah.”
Noah flopped down on the bed, wincing at the loud creaks and groans that issued forth. “It's just all a bit fast still,” he said. Stu sidled up the bed and lay next to Noah. “I just can't stop eating at all, you know? Like I've tried to cut back but I still just put on more and more weight.”
“Do you know how much you’re weighing at the moment?” Stu asked, trying to sound sympathetic but doing nothing to hide his excitement.
Noah shook his head. “My scales only go up to three hundred,” he explained. “I had to buy all new clothes last week though.”
“Did you put it all on Dom’s card?” Stu asked.
Noah nodded and sighed. “I should get rid of it, shouldn't I? As long as I've got it, I'm going to keep using it to buy stupid amounts of food.”
“Come on, don't be silly. It's free money Noah. Literal free money,” Stu reasoned. “Look, in a few months Dom will either get the message that you're not going to see him again and cancel the card, or if he's as rich as you reckon he is, he’ll never notice the money and just completely forget while he moves on to fattening up the next sexy young thing.”
“You think so?” Noah asked.
“I know so,” Stu said. “Come on, let's order an Indian and make your sugar daddy pay for it. I'm practically wasting away over here having to pay for my own food.” He slapped his own gut, still the same size as when the two came back from Europe.
-
Noah looked back at the message from Dominic again.
Merry Christmas. It would be good to see you again for a drink. I'd like to give you a present.
Noah knew he shouldn't, but he didn't like the thought of taking the old man for a ride. He was still using his card and his guilt was mounting. Maybe, Noah reasoned, if he saw Dominic this one last time, he could draw a line under this whole thing.
He entered the pub and looked around, finding Dominic quickly.
“Little fox!” Dominic cried as Noah lumbered up to his table. Noah could smell the whiskey on Dominic's breath as he pulled him in for a hug. Noah pulled away and sat down.
“Well well well little fox,” Dominic slurred. “Not so little anymore, eh?”
“Not been little for a while now Dom,” Noah said. His shirt, one of the biggest he owned, pulled tight around his gut, the buttons straining around his belly button.
“No, I don't suppose you have, have you?” Dominic smiled for a moment. “A drink! You'll be wanting a drink. I'll go and…” He left the sentence hanging in the air as he stumbled away from his table and towards the bar.
He returned ten minutes later with a pint of Guinness, a glass of whiskey and several packets of crisps. Noah put his phone away.
“I don't really drink Guinness Dom,” Noah said.
“Nonsense!” Dominic cried. “Big boy like you, must love a Guinness! I know that I-” He was interrupted by a loud hiccup that made him lose his train of thought.
Despite Dominic being drunk, Noah thought, it wasn't all too different from any other time they'd met up. Noah plowed his way through an endless train of packets of crisps and pints of Guinness while Dominic told him rambling stories about the glory days of the Tory party. The only difference was that Dominic’s stories were occasionally cut short by him losing his train of thought, and Noah didn't feel the need to pretend to be listening, instead spending much of the evening texting Stu.
Eventually, Noah decided that he'd put in his time, and he was fine to leave. He stood up, pulling his coat around him.
“Little fox!” Dominic cried, almost spilling his current glass of whiskey. “You're not leaving are you, my little fox?”
“It's been nice catching up Dom,” Noah said gruffly. “I should go.”
“I haven't given you your present yet though!” Dominic mumbled, rummaging through his jacket pockets until he pulled out a box.
Noah gritted his teeth. Did he really want one more thing to be in this man's debt over? Still, no use throwing away what was bound to be an expensive gift.
He took the box, opened it, and gasped. Inside lay a vintage Rolex.
“1974. Certified of course,” Dominic said with a lopsided smile. “I got them to add a couple of links to the chain for you, but other than that, all original and in pristine condition.”
Noah gawped for a few moments. He didn't know much about watches, but he knew enough to know the one in front of him would have cost tens of thousands of pounds.
“This is very generous Dom,” he said slowly. “I didn't get you anything I'm afraid.”
Dominic waved his whiskey glass. “No need! No need! I'm very happy to support a young man blossoming into adulthood.” He took a drink and leered over his glass. “How much are you weighing these days, little fox, eh? At least a little more than the last time I saw you.”
Noah's grip tightened on the box in his hand. “I'm not sure,” he said. “I haven't weighed myself since I last saw you.”
Dominic stood up unsteadily and began to pull on his coat. “Well my house isn't far, little fox. Why don't you come back and weigh yourself, hmm?”
“I'm not sure that's a good idea Dom,” Noah said. “I should get going.”
“Oh, what's the harm?” Dominic slurred. “You could make, what? Two, three thousand pounds? All you'd need to do is come back for five minutes and stand on some scales.” Dominic leant forward. “Why don't we increase our rate, eh? Ten thousand for ten pounds? I won't notice it little fox, you might as well take it from me.”
Noah hesitated before giving a small nod. He wasn't about to throw away tens of thousands of pounds over some pride.
Dominic's house wasn't far, but between Noah's slow, heavy gait and Dominic's drunken swaying, it was ten minutes before Noah was stood in Dominic's bathroom. His coat was still on, at his own insistence. He would come in, weigh himself, and then leave. Dom swept his arm towards the scales like a magician, and Noah stepped on. He leant forward, trying to see past his gut. Dom grinned, leant forward and then giggled.
“Three hundred and fifty-six pounds, little fox,” he told Noah. “Not too shabby, eh?”
Noah stepped back. Despite himself, he grew hard. He thought about how Stu would react when he told him.
“Right then,” Noah said gruffly. “What's that then? Thirty grand?”
“I am a man of my word,” Dominic said. He clumsily pressed a few buttons on his phone and Noah felt his own phone buzz. He didn't bother checking it.
“Right, I'll be off then,” Noah said. He tried to do up his coat, before remembering how far the buttons were from meeting.
“Not quite yet,” Dominic said. Noah sighed.
“What is it n-” Noah was cut off as Dominic leant forward and kissed him on the lips. Noah pulled away but Dominic followed him, stepping forward with him, gripping onto Noah's coat and trying to stick his tongue into Noah's mouth.
Noah pushed Dominic away as hard as he could, and he fell to the floor. Noah turned away and barrelled down the stairs as some servants appeared, rushing to Dominic. Noah didn't bother closing the door as he left.
-
I'd like to apologise for my behaviour before Christmas. the text read. I know I don't deserve it, but perhaps one final meeting? Somewhere public, with no alcohol involved.
Noah sat waiting in the cafe, a hot chocolate with cream and two slices of cake in front of him. He tapped his foot impatiently.
“Noah, I’m glad you came.”
Noah looked up to see Dominic. He didn't say anything, just nodded to the seat across from him.
“I only came to give you this back. I don't want it anymore,” Noah said, passing Dominic's card across the table. “You can have everything else back as well, if you like.”
“They're yours,” Dominic said. “All of them. Given without any intention other than as a gift.” Noah scoffed. Dominic looked at the bank card in front of him for a moment, as if considering refusing it. After a while he picked it up and slipped it into his pocket. “I owe you an explanation.”
“No explanation necessary,” Noah said, taking a large bite of cake. “You've got a fat fetish and too much money, and you found the one person stupid enough to go along with it.*
Dominic sighed. “I suppose that's true, in a way.” He took out his phone and showed Noah a photo. “This is me, when I was your age.”
The man in the photo looked eerily similar to Noah before he'd met Dominic. Tall, skinny, ginger, even the face shape looked the same. Noah looked up at Dominic, seeing the same nose, same mouth, same eyes as the photo in front of him.
“When I saw you on that app,” Dominic began. “It was like looking into a time capsule. I thought, well, I had to message you. And then we met, and it was like revisiting my youth and…” Dominic sighed wistfully. “Your appetite. Even then, it was astonishing. And, well I…”
He swiped on his phone to show another photo. This time it was more obviously the Dominic that Noah had come to know; he was in his forties, perhaps, with his hair not quite as receded and showing flashes of red mixed in with the grey. The main difference was that the Dominic in the photo was enormously fat - perhaps even fatter than Noah was now, he thought.
“That was me six years ago,” Dominic explained. “I had a heart attack a little after that photo. The doctors said I needed to lose weight or I'd have another and another until...” He sighed and leant back to show his body with its small beer belly. “So I lost all of it. Most of it, at least. All of that weight I'd put on, gone. You know how good it feels Noah, don't you?”
Noah paused, then nodded. “It does feel amazing.”
“Well, I thought I could live through you a little. Get you to put on some weight, incentivise it for you, help you along, gain vicariously through you,” Dom explained. “Well, you took to it better than I was expecting. I thought I could add a beer belly to your frame, relive my younger years. I really did never think you'd get so big. I'm sorry.”
“I… I don't mind it," Noah admitted. “Being big. So big. I like it even. And it wasn't all you. You weren't the one feeding me boosts and getting me McDonald's breakfasts every morning. And at some point, even I knew I could stop, and I just… didn't.”
“Regardless,” Dominic said. “You've now reached almost exactly the weight I was when I had my heart attack. And, oh my dear boy, at such a young age.” His eyes were sad. “I said a long time ago that I'd pay to help you lose weight, if you wanted it. That offer still stands. Nutritionists, personal trainers, anything.”
Noah shook his head. “I don't think my boyfriend would forgive me,” he joked.
Dominic smiled for a moment. “I'm always surprised by how common my strange little predilection for the larger gentleman really is.” He looked down at his hands. “I should apologise for my behaviour as well.”
Noah tensed. “You were drunk, it's…”
“No, not for… well yes, for that night certainly,” Dominic said. “But for all the other nights as well. I’m rather afraid I never really cared about you. Not really. I treated you like a toy. Something I could play with and pay for and control. I never listened to you, I never took an interest in your life. I just fed you and talked at you.”
Noah shrugged. “I mean, yeah.”
“I'm sorry,” Dominic said. “And, yes, for that night in December. I acted abominably. There's no excuse.” He stood up. “That's all I wanted to say.” He put his coat on. “I’ve been to the bank and asked them to transfer three point five million pounds into your account.”
Noah choked on a mouthful of cake. “I'm sorry, what?”
“Three point five million,” Dominic said. “One final payment. Ten thousand pounds for each pound of your body.”
“I don't understand,” Noah said slowly.
“Like I said, I pushed all of this too far. You're the size I was when I could go no further and… I wanted to give you an amount that is actually fitting for that accomplishment, not those piddling amounts I was giving before,” Dominic said. “I also wanted you to not rely on me anymore. I appreciate that you needed my money, and I don't want you or I in that position anymore. It's not fair.”
“But… millions,” Noah exclaimed. “That's too much, I can't.”
“I still don't think you understand how wealthy I am,” Dominic said. “I won't notice a few million pounds. At all. It's a drop in the ocean. Take it, it's yours.” He sighed. “This way, you'll never feel like you might need to meet up with me again, and I'll not feel like I can have power over you. Goodbye Noah.”
“Goodbye Dominic.”
-
Noah took some pride in the way that the restaurant’s floorboards creaked slightly and other patrons’ glasses shook as he passed, and he noticed that most people turned to look at him. He could hardly blame them of course; while he’d stopped weighing himself religiously, he knew he was somewhere north of 450 pounds a few months ago and as such was the largest person in the room - in most rooms, usually - by quite some margin.
“We have some tables over here,” the waiter paused to look Noah up and down. “That you might find more suitable.”
Noah grinned. Nowadays “suitable” was usually a more polite way of saying “less likely to be crushed into splinters underneath you, fatty”. Sure enough, the chairs the waiter pulled away from the table looked like a different design to the others around the restaurant.
Stu sank into the chair opposite him. “I came here with some clients the other day, I didn't get brought over to the fat boy chairs,” he grumbled.
Noah patted his gut and smiled. “Well, what are you weighing at these days? Three hundred and twenty?"
“Three hundred and thirty, actually,” Stu corrected him.
“There you are then!” Noah said. “Put on another hundred-something pounds and maybe people will start giving you some respect.”
“I'm not sure it's respect they're giving you,” Stu said with a wink. “And no thank you, I'm very content watching you blow up to gigantic proportions.”
“Oh I know you are,” Noah said smugly. He leant in and lowered his voice. “Maybe this evening I can give you a special viewing of-”
Stu cut him off with a cough as the waiter arrived.
“Are you ready to order gentlemen?”
“Some champagne to drink,” Noah replied. “The best you have.”
“Ah, celebrating, sirs?” the waiter asked.
Noah and Stu smiled at each other. Their company had just made its first ten million, and Noah thought it was fitting that they celebrated at the restaurant he'd first met Dominic at; while he'd not spoken to him since he'd received that lump sum that had allowed him to start his business, he was still grateful for everything that he'd made possible.
“You could say so,” Noah replied to the waiter. “I don't think we’re sure about mains yet, but to start we’ll, let's see…”
He opened the menu and started listing anything and everything that caught his eye. He ordered enough for a table of ten without even thinking twice.
“I see,” the waiter said once Noah had stopped listing food. “Would you like that all brought out at the same time?”
“Stagger it a bit, if you could,” Stu said. “Give us a chance to get through it.” He looked at the menu briefly. “And then for mains,” he paused to smile as the waiter’s eyebrows flew up, “I'll have the full rack of ribs.”
“Oh, that sounds good,” Noah said. “I'll have the same.”
“Very good sirs,” the waiter said.
As the third round of plates got taken away, a familiar voice called over.
“Noah? Is that you?”
Noah looked up to see Dominic and another man being sat at the next table. Dominic looked the same as ever; a few more wrinkles perhaps, a little slimmer. His dining partner was older than Noah would have expected, the same age as Dominic, maybe a little younger. Noah wasn't surprised by the man's size, which looked to be somewhere in between Stu and Noah.
“Dom!” Noah said, smiling. “What a coincidence!”
“Dom?” Stu whispered. “As in high-blood-sugar daddy Dom?” Despite Stu’s lowered tone, Dominic clearly heard as he frowned at him after.
“Ah, yes, well. Noah, this is my fiancé Eric,” he said, gesturing to his companion. “Eric, this is Noah. We used to… well. This is the young man I was telling you about that I used to have a, uhh, an arrangement with a few years ago.”
Stu stood and shook both of their hands. Noah, far less nimble, neglected to stand, and instead offered his hand from his seated position. “This is Stuart,” he told them. “My partner.”
“Is that life partner or business partner?” Dominic asked. “I've heard quite a bit on the grapevine about how well your ventures have been doing.”
“Both, as it happens,” Noah said. “We’re here celebrating actually. Big milestone.”
“Well I'm glad to hear it,” Dominic said, warmly. “Well, we won't disturb you, we can ask to be put somewhere else.”
“Don't be silly,” Noah said, waving towards the table next to them as he caught sight of the waiters panicked look over at Eric.
“Well, if you're sure,” Dominic said as he settled in at the table. “I see you've kept up quite the voracious appetite,” he told Noah.
Noah smiled widely and leant back to show off as much of his expanse as he could. “I've got you to thank for that,” he told Dominic. “I've got quite a fair bit to thank you for, really.” He meant it genuinely. For all the oddness in their past, he wouldn't be half the man if they hadn't met, in more ways than one.
Dominic smiled sadly. “Yes well, I… I should apologise really,” he said. “I took advantage of my wealth and power to put you into a position that I imagine you'd rather not have been in.”
Noah waved him off. “Turns out I rather enjoyed the effects,” he said.
“Still,” Dominic insisted. “I'd like to apologise.”
“Consider it accepted,” Noah said. “Maybe we could get back in touch?” he suggested. “As equals this time.”
Dominic smiled warmly. “Yes, I think I'd enjoy that.”
Just as Howard had guessed, the young man was loitering in the changing rooms when he entered. He'd seen the slim man watching him his entire set, changing from treadmill to elliptical to standing bike to keep a clear eyeline to Howard at all times.
Howard wasn't surprised, exactly. He'd found that he attracted more than a fair few men as he'd put on weight these past few years, and the gym was the perfect place to show off his developing figure. He couldn't exactly boast a powerlifter build, per se, but he had enough muscle underneath all the fat that he could show off how much weight he could lift, and enough to keep most of his fat in a firm, round gut at his center with comparatively less flab elsewhere on his body. Coupled with a thick dark beard and a thick pelt of coarse body hair, he often had twinks lining up for the opportunity to call him ‘daddy’; not something he was thrilled about at the grand age of thirty-four, but also not something he was in a rush to correct anyone wanting to fuck him over.
Howard made a show of getting changed and faced out into the changing rooms towards the young man, giving him a clear view of the spectacle. He lifted his shirt up slowly, allowing the hem to drag itself up over the curve of his gut, revealing the dark swirls of hair covering the mound of fat and his deep belly button. Once the shirt slid off his gut and Howard pulled it over his head, he looked over to see the man looking directly at him. He winked and the man hurriedly looked away; Howard made sure to maintain eye-contact, making sure to catch him each time he gave another quick glance. Howard reached down and hefted his gut a few times before reaching down further and giving his package a squeeze; that caught the man's attention alright, and this time he held his gaze, staring intently at Howard's gut.
“Not getting changed yourself then?” Howard called across the changing room.
The young man swallowed hard, before lifting up his shirt to reveal a tight, thin torso, with the faint outline of a six pack and a fine dusting of hair. He was about Howard's height, just slightly shorter than average, but more wiry than Howard had ever been, with prominent ribs and collar bones, and a prominent Adam's apple. Despite his short height, he was so thin he almost looked lanky. He was handsome, Howard thought; dark blond hair, a crooked smile and a nose that looked like it had been broken and not set properly at some point. “Just catching my breath,” the man replied.
Howard smirked and bent to pull down his shorts. He tried to make it sexy, but honestly, these days it was a struggle just to bend down around his gut and his shorts caught on his thick thighs, making him shimmy them down unceremoniously. By the time he stood back up, panting softly, the young man’s long erection was tenting his own shorts obviously.
Howard reached down and adjusted his balls in his boxers, partly for show, partly genuinely for comfort. “Fancy joining me in the showers?” he said casually. “I’m finding I've been getting really sweaty recently.” He felt himself growing hard. He knew he'd lost a few inches to his expanding fat pad, and he'd not been able to see his own cock under his gut for years, but he knew he still boasted an impressive manhood.
“I uhh… okay.” The man's voice came out high-pitched and strained. He coughed and tried again, deeper this time. “Yes, I mean. I'd like that.”
“I'm Howard,” Howard introduced himself as he walked past the man and around the corner to the showers.
“Guy,” the man answered. Howard could hear him follow behind him obediently.
“Nice to meet you Guy,” Howard said, turning on one of the shower heads and pulling his pants off. He handed them to Guy, who held them, dumbstruck for a moment, before lifting them up to his face and sniffing deeply. “You like this gut, Guy?”
Guy nodded, not taking Howard's boxers away from his face. His eyes were trained downwards; Howard knew that from this angle, his gut covered his crotch almost entirely, so he must be staring at his fat.
Howard stepped back into the stream of water, and rivulets began to flow over his tits, round his gut, down his rounded thighs and calves. “Would you like to touch this gut, Guy?”
Guy hurried to throw down Howard's boxers and pull his own shorts and underwear down; he was so hard and the motion so fast that his dick slapped up and hit his abs with a soft thwack. He stepped forward and ran his hands across Howard's love handles, squeezing them and using his fingers to dapple the soft skin and the fat underneath. He slipped his fingers beneath, into the crease above Howard's hips, and leant down to place one of Howard's nipples in his mouth, sucking for a few moments.
He pulled away. “You're so…” he began. He leant back in, kissing Howard's neck, his shoulders, his chin. Each kiss was paired with a small poke from Guy's fingers; Howard realised he was searching for pockets of fat around his body.
“Big?” Howard whispered. “Heavy? Wide? Manly?”
“Fat,” Guy finished. “You're so fat.”
Howard chuckled. “And you like that, do you? You like how fat I am?” Guy nodded. “Why don't you show me how much you like it then?” Howard nodded past his gut, down towards his crotch. Guy looked around nervously. “Now you're nervous?” Howard asked. “Don’t worry, most people rush straight off after the gym at this time. Besides, everyone knows this is the gay hookup gym, no-one would bat an eyelash.”
Guy swallowed hard and Howard licked his lips at the sight of his large Adam's apple bobbing up and down in his wiry neck. He looked around once more, nodded nervously, and sunk to his knees. Howard grew even harder as he felt Guy push his fat pad back to reveal more of his length, something he’d only realised men had started doing since he’d hit twenty stone or so. He shuddered slightly as he felt Guy’s warm mouth envelop his hardness for a few seconds, before pulling back and pushing Howard’s soft underbelly away and readjusting his position, trying to find a way to suck Howard off around all of the fat in the way.
Howard leant his head back and moaned. While Guy seemed to be taken by surprise with the practicalities of sucking off a fat man, he clearly had a few tricks up his sleeve, and enough enthusiasm to make up for it. Within a few minutes he was near climax and began to thrust himself into Guy’s mouth, who made some satisfying grunts of discomfort in response.
Just as Howard began to cum, pumping his load down Guy’s pretty throat, someone walked into the shower and the younger man jumped back so that the rest of Howard's cum sprayed across his chest and dribbled down his chin. Guy flushed red and turned away towards the wall, frantically wiping away the splatters of semen.
“Don't mind me,” Charlton, one of the gym's regulars, said as he stepped under the shower head on the other side of Howard. “I'd join you, but my husband says I've got to stop fucking people at the gym.” He leant around Howard's mass to peer at Guy’s arse. “How do you get all the cute ones Howie?”
Howard moved over to Guy and cupped his arse, bending down to his knees himself. “How about it?” he asked. “Fancy an audience?”
Guy gave a small shake of his head and continued to scrub at himself. Howard stood back up, bracing against his knees and straining as he did so. He stepped away from Guy and began to wash himself, taking the signal that the younger man had lost interest, for now.
“Maybe we could go somewhere?” Guy said quietly after a while. Howard looked over and grinned as Charlton laughed.
“Just like me to ruin the fun!” Charlton said. He waved his dick over at the two of them. “Howie, you've got my number, let me know if you'd like a third later.”
Howard grabbed Guy’s wrist and led him out the shower. He nudged the small pile of their wet shorts and underwear with his toe. “Grab those,” he told Guy. “We can go to my flat, it's not far.”
Guy struggled to keep his hands off Howard on the short drive and in the lift up to Howard's floor. As he unlocked the door, Guy was already pulling Howard’s t-shirt up and undoing his belt for him, kissing his neck as he did so. Howard pulled him through to the bedroom and pushed him towards the bed, and Guy dutifully began stripping.
Howard kicked his trousers off and pulled a condom out of the drawer by his bedside table. “You're going to have to put it on me,” he told Guy. “Awkward with this thing in the way.” He thumped his gut a few times to illustrate his point. “Unless you want to top?”
Guys tongue practically fell out of his mouth at this, and he hurriedly pulled the condom out of the packet. “No, I'm happy to, you know, or whatever.” He sunk down to his knees and stared up at Howard over the crest of his gut. “It's so hot that you can't put this on yourself.”
“I mean I can,” Howard grumbled. “It's just easier to get someone else to do it.” He felt Guy roll the condom over his shaft and smooth out some air bubbles.
“How do you want me?” Guy asked. He turned towards Howard and stood waiting, his hard-on pulsing slightly.
Howard nodded towards the bed. “On the edge. However’s most comfortable for you.”
Guy climbed onto the bed, stretching his thighs wide to present his hole to Howard. Howard squirted some lube onto his fingers and ran them over Guy’s crack, before slipping a couple of fingers in and massaging for a moment or two. Guy arched his back and sighed.
Howard lined himself up with Guy as best he could, and pushed himself forward. His cock missed the mark and instead bounced painfully off of one of his cheeks. Howard winced. “Sorry,” he said. “Difficult to aim with this thing in the way.” He patted his gut.
“God that's hot,” Guy sighed.
“Glad someone thinks so,” Howard grumbled to himself. Maybe he did need to lose a little weight.
“We could try a different position?” Guy suggested. “Cowboy style, maybe, or it might help if we both lie on our sides?”
“No!” Howard snapped. “No, I can, I can do it,” he said, more calmly. He'd be damned if he’d gotten too fat to top someone properly. He fished under his gut and grabbed his equipment, using his hands to guide himself in. He found his mark and slid in slowly, as Guy moaned softly and pushed back against Howard's crotch.
The two men began to rock in sync, building up a rhythm. Howard's gut slapped into Guy's back, the claps ringing like a metronome. The two began to pick up pace, as Guy arched his back and Howard tried to reach around to grab the smaller man's cock; with his gut in the way, he just couldn't reach. Instead, he gripped Guy’s slender shoulders and put his effort into pumping. He could feel the fat on his arse, his tits, his gut shaking and vibrating and his heart fluttered in his chest as he breathed heavily. He pumped harder and gripped his own fat with one hand, inserting one finger deep into his own bellybutton. He thought about how fat he'd gotten, how much fatter he was sure to get, he thought about the man below him and how much smaller he was than him. His breath caught as he came, and he felt the condom fill up around his pole. Shaking, he rolled off of Guy and onto the bed.
“Did you..?” Howard asked.
Guy shook his head. “It's fine,” he said, panting and smiling. He placed a hand on Howard's gut and shook it. “Plenty of time for that later.”
“What does it feel like?” Guy asked afterwards, with his angular torso pressed into Howard’s broad, soft back and one arm draped across him, a hand slowly caressing his gut.
Howard laughed. “Topping? You never done it before?”
Howard felt Guy shake his head from behind. “No, I've- I mean not very often, but I have, you know- No, I mean, you know,” his hand gripped Howard's gut and shook it a little. “What does this feel like? Being fat?”
Howard laughed again. “You like that, do you?” He slapped his gut a few times, enjoying the feeling of his body rippling. “It's a bloody nuisance, I'll tell you that much.”
“Yeah?” Guy prompted. “How?”
“Oh yeah. I mean, you saw earlier, it's getting difficult to fuck guys in some positions without it getting in the way, difficult to put on condoms easily. You even struggled a bit when you were giving me a blowjob, right?” Guy nodded enthusiastically. “It's even getting difficult to piss standing up.” Howard could feel Guy’s cock hardening against his back.
“Really? Because you can't reach it you mean?” Excitement mounted in Guy’s voice.
“Reaching it's easy enough, it's being able to see that's an issue. Can't aim,” Howard explained.
“What else?” Guy urged Howard on.
“Fuck me, loads. Having to fight against my own body to tie my shoes, getting winded climbing the stairs, clothes not fitting right, not being able to join my mates when they play footy, getting the piss taken out of me by everyone who thinks they're a bloody comedian,” Howard said. By this point, Guy was grinding his hard dick against Howard's leg.
“But you love it?” Guy asked, his voice catching.
“Fuck yes,” Howard replied. “There's something about being big, you know?” Guy gave a small whimper in reply. “In basically any situation, at work, with mates, at the gym, I'm always the biggest one there. Sure, a lot of it's fat, but men always respect the big guy, you know? Like it's primal.”
“How much do you weigh?” Guy asked. He moved to straddle Howard, his hand stroking his cock.
“A little over three hundred pounds,” Howard lied. He was close, but had never actually broken the big three-oh-oh. He'd met enough of these chaser types to know that 300 was the magical number though, and was happy to fudge the numbers to make a twink’s fantasy come true.
“Christ,” Guy gasped. “You're over double my weight.” Within thirty seconds, he tensed up and yelled out as thick hot cum sprayed over Howard's gut, pooling in his belly button and dribbling down its curve onto the sheets.
Guy fell down onto Howard and kissed him, hard jawline bumping into soft. “You're incredible,” he panted. “I could order some pizzas maybe?”
A couple of hours later, three boxes sat on Howard's coffee table, while Howard stretched out on his sofa with one hand down his boxers and one hand cradling his stretched gut. He'd done his best to show off for Guy, and had eaten almost two whole pizzas in quick succession. “Go on,” he told Guy. “Eat up.”
Guy groaned, clutching his flat stomach. He'd just finished a whole pizza by himself - clearly not a feat he was used to. “They're your slices,” he said feebly, nudging the two final slices of Howard's second pizza back to the larger man.
“I want you to have them,” Howard said, pushing them back. “And I think you want to have them too.” Guy shook his head. “You're telling me,” Howard grabbed Guy’s hand and placed it on his gut. “That you don't want one of these of your own?” Guy moaned a little. “That you just want to fuck fat guys? No. You want this for yourself. Eat.”
Guy closed his eyes, inhaled and exhaled slowly and deeply, and sat forward, grabbing both slices and stacking them together before taking a large bite out of both. “That's it,” Howard whispered. “Good boy. Eat them quick, before your body has a chance to register. Good boy, there we go.”
It took fifteen minutes, and by the end Guy was clearly uncomfortable, rubbing his stomach and suppressing sickly hiccups, but eventually the slices disappeared. He sat quietly, moaning and cradling the invisible curve of his stomach. Once it became clear that he wasn't in a position for conversation, Howard put the TV on and left him to it.
“I should go,” Guy said quietly after two episodes of Doctor Who. He stood and began to pull his t-shirt back on.
“You don't have to,” Howard said, making no move to stop him. “You could stay the night, if you wanted.”
“No, it's late,” Guy said. “I was supposed to meet up with some friends.” He winced as he buttoned his jeans. “Maybe we could do this again sometime though?”
Howard sighed. He never really did ‘again’. “Maybe,” he said. “I uh, I'm only in Portsmouth for a few months for a work thing, I probably won't be uhh…”
“No, it's fine, I get it,” Guy said with a thin smile. “It's fine if this is just a one-time thing. Thanks for umm,” he looked over Howard's body, still laid out across the sofa, his gut overlapping his too-tight pants. “You've helped me figure some stuff out. Thank you.”
Howard heaved himself to his feet and stuck his hand out. “Always happy to figure some stuff out with someone,” he said. Guy took Howard's offered hand and shook it. “All the best Guy.”
“You too.”
The door closed and Howard collapsed back down onto the sofa.
-
Howard groaned as he lowered himself into the seat, grateful for the easing of the pressure on his feet. He closed his eyes and just sat for a moment, breathing just a little too heavily for his liking. Ever since he'd crossed the 300 pound mark almost a decade ago, he'd been eagerly eyeing up 350, but he was starting to worry that it might have been just a little too much weight for him. He was just so big these days, and at more than a little ways past forty, he was starting to think that the big leagues, weight-wise, were a young man's game.
He opened his eyes slowly and reached towards the menu. No need to go hungry, anyway, whether or not he wanted to get much bigger, especially with his company footing the bill. A couple of starters, he thought, a big main, maybe one of those steaks, and then some big heavy dessert. That should just about hit the spot. He squeezed his overhang just a touch and sighed. Sitting down, with the dull ache in his feet fading away and his breathing going back to its usual light wheeze, rather than a heavy pant, he started to forget his earlier apprehension, just a few moments before. Being big felt fucking great, didn't it? What difference would another ten or fifteen pounds make, really?
His thoughts were interrupted by a shadow falling across his menu, and he looked up, expecting to see the waiter. What he saw instead was a wall of flesh - a man stood in front of him, outweighing Howard by, god, who knew how much? At least a hundred pounds, maybe even one-fifty. The man's soft gut hung down, almost touching the table, and his arms sat awkwardly at his sides, visibly pushed away from the man's huge, soft torso by gut and tit and roll. He looked like something out of one of Howard's fantasies, a scale he'd fervently imagined himself at, but never really aspired to.
"Howard?" the man asked. "It is Howard isn't it?"
Howard was stumped. He'd remember this man if they'd met, surely? Fantasised about him for weeks afterwards presumably, wistfully thinking back to that human barge he'd met in some business meeting or other?
"I'm so sorry," he said after a while. "I'm really trying to remember…"
"It's Guy," the man - Guy - said. "We met about eleven or twelve years ago." When Howard's face didn't lose its confused stupor he added - "In Portsmouth? I, uhh, look a little different I suppose." He punctuated this last bit by laying his hand on top of his gut.
Howard thought back, he'd not spent long in Portsmouth after all, six months maybe. Had he met a Guy? He looked up at the round face in front of him, subtracted ten years, a couple of chins, tried to imagine cheek bones beneath those jowls, noticed the bent nose that looked like it had been set badly, years before…
"Jesus fuck, Guy, " Howard said softly, his eyes widening. "Twink Guy?" he asked, his voice high. This whale in front of him couldn't have ever been that small fry, could he?
Guy laughed. "Twink Guy, I like that!" he said. "Can't say there's been much call for a nickname like that for a while now though." He smiled at Howard. "Are you waiting for someone? Maybe I could join you?"
Howard made a blustering noise that could be interpreted as a positive, and gestured at the seat opposite him. Guy pulled the chair back, far away from the table edge, and slowly, carefully, deliberately lowered himself down into it. Howard marveled at the practiced routine of it all - how far back the chair needed to go, the care with which the sturdy oak chair needed handling, the way that every movement was slow and deliberate and carefully considered to avoid bumping into anything, everything, around him. Most of all he marveled at how Guy barely seemed to register that any of this was out of the ordinary.
"God, it's good to get off your feet, isn't it," Guy sighed.
Howard studied Guy, trying to remember the rail thin twenty-something year old underneath the blubber. His face was huge, round cheeks bulging over sagging jowls around squinting eyes. His body was enormously broad - tits sloped down a mountainous gut down into his elbows. Even his fingers were fat - stubby little sausages attached to pillow palms.
Guy reached over his belly and picked up the menu, resting it on the shelf of his gut. “Shall we just get one of each of the starters and sides and share?” he asked after a while.
Howard’s eyebrows rose. He looked back at the menu - there was at least ten starters and the same amount of sides. How much was this man planning on eating?
“I'll foot the bill, don't worry” Guy said, misinterpreting Howard's reaction. “The least I can do.” He slapped the top of his gut, setting it swaying. “After all, I've got you to thank for this.”
Howard’s mouth closed and opened a few times. “Sorry, I'm not sure I… You've got me to thank?”
“Oh absolutely!” Guy said, nodding. His double chin shook with the motion.
At that point the waiter arrived, interrupting Guy. They both ordered a pint of ale, Guy ordered all the starters and sides, as he'd said, and Howard ordered the steak.
“God, that sounds good actually. Two of those. Medium-rare, yeah. And we’ll want the dessert menu after. Perfect, yeah, thanks.” Guy turned back to Howard. “Where were we? Yes! Thanking you, that was it.” He leant back, and Howard could see his shirt pulling out of his waistband to reveal a slab of pale flesh hanging out even while sitting. “After we, you know, after that night anyway, I just sort of knew I guess.”
“Knew what?” Howard asked.
“That I wanted to be fat!” Guy said loudly. Howard sank down in his seat as people at other tables looked over. “I mean, I knew before then, I guess, but it was all, I don't know, wanking over YouTube videos and those stupid stories about people getting paid to fatten themselves up or something. I never, god, I never imagined I could really do something like that.”
Their drinks arrived and the two were quiet for a while as they took their first large gulps. “And then you met me,” Howard offered.
“And then I met you!” Guy repeated. “God, the number of fat guys I must have stared at before you.” He laughed. “I thought I was being so subtle, but clearly you noticed pretty quick.”
Howard laughed as well. “Yeah, subtle didn't really come to mind,” he said. “I thought you were cruising, honestly. You were actually doing that to any fat guy you saw? Just, down the street?”
“Christ yes,” Guy laughed. “They must have all thought I was a creep.”
At that point, the first of the starters arrived. Guy fell quiet as he focussed on eating. Howard could see how he's gotten so large - eating was clearly serious business to this man. Each bite was relished, with time taken to enjoy the flavours, but no time was wasted - as soon as one bite was swallowed, more food would immediately be brought to his lips.
After the starters and while they waited for their mains, Guy spoke. “You know, I always imagined how much weight you were putting on,” he told Howard. “And I always sort of, I don't know, compared myself to the image of you I had in my head. Especially once I reached three hundred pounds, and I was so much softer than I remember you being, and then when I hit three-hundred and fifty, four hundred, and I thought, god, when did he hit these weights? How much bigger did he get? And I started to imagine, you know, we'd meet at some point and I'd have managed to get, I don't know, ten, twenty pounds bigger. And it'd be, god this is so stupid saying it out loud, like you'd passed the torch on or something. Honestly, it's a big reason I've been pushing myself to still get bigger and bigger.”
“Sorry to be a disappointment,” Howard said, rubbing his gut. He'd done his best to eat half of the food on the table, and while not full, he could feel himself slowing down; in comparison, Guy seemed to be impatiently waiting for more food. He couldn't remember the last time he felt so small.
“God, no!” Guy said. “I don’t mean, no, I'm not disappointed or anything. I do know, you know, that I've kind of taken this whole gaining thing further than most people are into. I never really, honestly I mean, thought I'd meet you again or whatever. It was always just something knocking around in the back of my head. I didn't even really know that you were a gainer, you might have lost it all for all I- fuck, sorry, I don't even- are you even a gainer? I just assumed.”
Howard waved his hand. “Don't worry, yeah, I… well. I mean, fifty pounds in ten years, it's hardly the kind of weight you've been putting on. But yeah, I'm on all the sites and stuff.”
“Hey, anyone else would be pulling their hair out over fifty pounds,” Guy said. “Us guys just have a skewed perspective about this stuff.”
Howard shrugged. “I guess. Sometimes I feel like I'm not making progress and sometimes I really look at myself and see just how big I am.”
“How big are you, if you don't mind me asking?” Guy asked.
“Three-sixty-something these days,” Howard said. “Probably a little more - lots of business trips. And you?”
“Just hit five hundred a couple of weeks ago,” Guy replied proudly. “Hit a bit of a plateau since, but it's great finally getting there, you know?”
Howard gave a low whistle. “That's a big boy number right there.” Guy laughed. “You're going for those kinds of weights then? Five-hundred plus?”
Guy grinned and nodded his head enthusiastically. “It's all I think about,” he said. “The more weight I put on, the more I want to put on. It's like, okay, when we first met that time, right? I got all excited and I decided I could put on, I don't know, twenty pounds, see how that felt. And it was nothing. So I thought, okay, fifty pounds, and then I'd put on fifty pounds and I was starting to feel chubby but…”
“It wasn't as big as you'd thought it would be?” Howard asked.
“God, not nearly anything like it,” Guy agreed. “Like, fifty pounds you know? That's a lot of weight! And it just didn't look like it. So I went up to two-hundred and fifty, and that wasn't enough, then three hundred, and I thought, surely, surely three hundred’s where you start to feel big. And that's how big you were! I fucked other big guys, don't get me wrong, but you were the first - I built you up into a bit of myth in my head I think.”
“I'm flattered,” Howard said.
“Well, I got to three-hundred pounds, as big as Howard, and it still wasn't big enough,” Guy continued. “So I added another fifty, and that wasn't enough, and another, and four-hundred still didn't feel big enough.” He sighed. “You never feel like that?”
Howard spread his hands on the table and studied them for a while. “Sometimes,” he admitted. “Not often. I do feel big, most of the time. Big enough. But every so often I catch a glimpse of myself and I just think… is this really twenty-five stone? Surely I should be huge by now? When I was younger I couldn't imagine how big that must be and now…”
“Now it's just the size you are,” Guy finished. “It's normal.”
Howard nodded as their mains got brought over. Howard tried to hide his nervousness at the size of the portion; chips were piled high next to a steak as big as his face and over an inch thick. Guy licked his lips and started eating immediately, stopping only when the sides got brought over.
It took nearly two hours for Howard to get through his steak, sides and the selection of desserts Guy had ordered. Guy watched him, having finished long before, occasionally offering words of encouragement, but generally just filling Howard in on his life; the company he'd started, the relationships with increasingly larger men who were just never big enough, the years and years of gluttony and sloth that had built him into the man Howard saw before him.
Howard leant back and drummed his fingers on his gut. It has been a while since he'd felt it so taut, and the sensation left him rock hard. He opened one eye and watched Guy for a while.
“I've got a room upstairs,” Howard said after a while. “If you wanted to…?”
Guy smiled. “I thought you said you were married now.”
“We’re open,” Howard reassured him. “I spend a lot of time away with work and we both know that we’ll be better off if we get to relieve some tension every so often.”
“Well then,” Guy said with raised eyebrows. “Shall we?”
They both stood, Howard feeling particularly spritely for the first time in a while; he found himself waiting for Guy to haul himself to his feet. The two made their way slowly to the elevator, which sunk noticeably as the two men entered.
As the doors closed, Guy reached over and put a hand on Howard's love handle and squeezed. “Just like I remember,” he said with a smile.
“Hopefully a little bigger?” Howard said.
“Don't worry,” Guy said. “I can see all the progress you've made. But it's that same solid ball gut I've been having wet dreams about for the past decade.” He slapped it a few times, resulting in a dull thump. He slid a finger through a gap between the buttons in Howard’s shirt and stroked the furry skin around his belly button.
The elevator door opened, and the two made their way to Howard's hotel room. Howard let them in and Guy made his slow way over to the bed and gingerly sat down. Howard stood in front of him and let his gut bump into Guy's face, who reached up and began to unbutton Howard's shirt for him.
“Oh yes,” Guy said. “I've missed this a lot.” He ran his fingers through the hair on Howard's gut and up onto his soft chest as Howard pulled off his jacket and shirt and threw them to the side. Guy leant forward and nuzzled his nose into Howard's belly button, before replacing it with his tongue as he worked his fingers under Howard's overhang to undo his belt and pull his trousers down.
Guy lifted Howard's gut slightly, and deftly pushed the fat back slightly to reveal more of his hardening cock. “This is bigger than I remember,” he said.
“My cock?” Howard asked. “Really?”
Guy laughed. “Sorry, no. I meant your fat pad.”
“Ah,” Howard said. “Suppose that would be a bit too much to ask for.”
“I personally have come to enjoy the effects of fat on a man's cock,” Guy said.
“Not one I'm particularly thrilled with myself,” Howard grumbled.
“Well maybe I can make it up to you,” Guy said, before slipping his mouth over Howard's dick.
Howard's breath caught. The key to giving a good blowjob, Howard had learnt over the years, is to really, truly, genuinely want that dick in your mouth, and Guy was clearly hungry for it. No opportunity was missed to taste or lick or suck on any and all exposed skin. His balls, his shaft, his head, his taint, all of it was lovingly cared for in turn. It wasn't long before Howard was shooting down Guy's throat.
Guy sat back and smiled as he swallowed. Howard thought back to how prominent his Adam’s apple used to be - it was now barely visible in his lardy neck.
Howard sank down to his knees, and lifted Guy’s gut to gain access to his belt buckle. As he undid his trousers, Guy pulled his shirt up and over his head, revealing soft, undulating flesh. Together, the two slowly managed to peel Guy’s clothes off of his body until he was sat in only his socks.
Howard once more lifted Guy’s gut and pushed back at the soft fat filling his crotch, unveiling the nub of his cock. He leant forward to lick the exposed head, but quickly had to pull back as his face became enveloped with fat from above.
“You don't have to,” Guy said. “I know that it's not easy to-”
“Lean back,” Howard said, pushing back on Guy’s torso. “And hold your belly.”
Guy obeyed, laying down on the bed so that his flab cascaded back towards his face. Howard pushed down on his fat pad, revealing another inch or so of cock. As Howard took it into his mouth, licking its meager length and the small scrotum, he thought back to the long cock Guy had the last time they'd met, now swallowed on thick fat.
Howard inhaled deeply, taking in the sour musk of Guy’s crotch and continued to lap at the small length available to him. He began to pump the fat surrounding his cock, using it to jerk the length he couldn't see. The wall of fat above him began to shake and quiver, until sticky cum spurted out. Howard noted how sweet it tasted, and wondered if his own cum had gotten sweeter as he'd gotten fatter.
“That was great,” Guy said.
“Glad to be of service,” Howard replied.
Guy shuffled his weight back up the bed, setting the frame creaking and groaning. He patted the bed next to him. “I think I was big spoon last time.”
“I think you might have been,” Howard said. From this angle, Guy looked almost impossibly wide. His gut spilled out, pulled down and to the sides by gravity, so that he resembled a large pillow. Howard settled down next to him, teetering on the edge of the bed, and curled up to the large mass. “I don't think these beds are really built for men our size.”
“Not two of us, anyway,” Guy said. “I can go, if that's easier?”
Howard shook his head. “Not yet,” he said. “We can stay a while.”
The two lay quietly for a while. Their heavy breathing filled the room.
“It's been a while,” Guy said after a while.
“What has?” Howard asked.
“Since I've been with anyone,” Guy clarified. “Once you reach a certain size, the mechanics all get a bit awkward.”
“How so?” Howard asked.
Guy sighed. “I can barely even reach my cock these days,” he admitted. “Bit of a faff for someone else to reach it, too. Generally guys just feed me these days, then deal with themselves.”
“You okay with that?” Howard asked.
“Oh yeah,” Guy insisted. “Don't worry about me. Not much difference these days between eating and sex for me. But this was… this was nice.”
“You still like it then?” Howard asked. “Being big? Getting bigger?”
“God yes,” Guy beamed. “There's nothing like it. I can't imagine stopping. How about you? Happy to stop where you are?”
“You know, I might well be open to packing a little more on,” Howard said.
“You let me know if you're ever up to getting fed then, eh?” Guy said. “I saw you struggling with those kiddy portions. You’re going to need pushing if you want to get really big.”
“Is that so?” Howard asked, laughing.
Guy struggled to sit up. “Absolutely,” he said. “I distinctly remember you pushing me to eat two extra slices of pizza beyond what I thought I could. That lesson stuck with me. It's time you learnt it too.” He hauled himself to the side of the bed and panted for a moment or two. “I'll leave you be. Can't have you hanging off the bed all night.”
“Leave your number?” Howard said.
Guy smiled. “Definitely,” he said. He looked down at the clothes strewn about on the floor. “I uh… don't suppose you'd pick up my clothes for me? Bending down’s a bit of an ordeal these days.”
Howard chuckled and helped Guy collect his clothes and put them on. “Let's make sure it's not another decade, eh?”
Guy smiled. “Of course,” he said and patted Howard's gut. “We've got to make sure to put some meat on these bones.”
The door closed and Howard collapsed back down onto the bed.
Vidhur couldn't pull his eyes away from his reflection in the mirror. The face he saw was familiar, for the most part - the same floppy hair stylishly quaffed, the same dark, playful eyes, framed by long, almost girlish eyelashes, the same long, thin nose, the same perfect, straight, white teeth. He'd even gotten used to the small gut that had recently become a permanent fixture on his previously athletic frame. But he couldn't take his eyes off of his jawline.
Vid knew, logically, he'd get a double chin sooner or later, that his face would change as he put on weight. Seeing it though, in the bright, unforgiving lights of the Weatherspoons loos, was quite another matter.
He should, he knew, be excited. Another external sign of the weight he was putting on, another gainer milestone ticked off, another change to his growing body to wank to later. But god, didn't he used to be so handsome? His sharp jawline, his cheekbones - he didn't expect them to get buried so quickly. He told himself it was the bad lighting, puffiness from the alcohol, he'd had a salty lunch. But he knew, this was his face now. He’d seen it coming for a while, ignored the changes in favour of focussing on the soft curve forming at his middle.
“What you doing then?”
Vid was snapped out of his reverie as his mate Trent walked in. He shook his head. “Nothing. Nothing. Sorry, just thinking.”
“Fuuuck mate,” Trent groaned. “Can't be doing that. That's what the beer’s for. Here, you need to go get yourself another one if you're starting to do shit like thinking.”
Vid laughed and nodded. “Yeah, yeah, I suppose you want one as well do you? Here, you fancy ordering some food?”
-
“Fuck!” Vidhur snapped, as he let go of the two sides of his waistband, and let his gut once again push them apart. He'd been struggling with them for five minutes now, sucked in his belly as far as it would go, tried to do them up lying down, tried yanking them suddenly, coaxing them slowly, but nothing would convince the two sides of the fabric to meet.
Vid looked down at the jeans lying crumpled on the floor. His boss would bollock him, he knew, if he turned up looking so casual. Maybe if he wore a jacket with them? No, his office was notorious for keeping up appearances, and besides, he didn't want to look like Jeremy Clarkson. He could stop off and buy some smart trousers before work? At that point, it was a choice between turning up on time wearing jeans or arriving properly dressed but late. Neither option seemed viable. He could hold his trousers together with a safety pin, maybe, and hide it with a belt? Not that he owned any safety pins, or realistically believed that worked outside of weight gain stories.
He sat down on his bed and sighed into his hands. He’d only bought a whole new wardrobe of 38-inch trousers and extra large shirts just over a month ago, and despite them becoming increasingly tight and pinching in the past couple of weeks, he’d managed to convince himself that they'd last him a little while at least. Unfortunately, he'd found his most recent growth particularly thrilling, and it had spurred him into some rather spectacular feats of gluttony, leading him into a rather vicious cycle of growth inspiring ever faster growth. Last Thursday he'd spent the whole day at work frantically itching his fleshy sides, only to see bright red lines there when he got undressed at home later that night. The revelation had pushed him into a weekend of unbridled gluttony, his uncomfortably swollen gut only adding to his sexual fervour and willing him on to stuff himself even more.
Vid didn't know whether to be thrilled with the effects of the weekend’s feasting, or horrified. He couldn't really need the next size of trousers up already, could he? But the evidence was right in front of him, straining around his waist, thighs and arse. This was getting out of control. Yes, he found fat guys hot, yes, he wanted to experience it for himself, but his little experiment was supposed to be twenty, maybe thirty pounds at most. Now here he was, 255 pounds, checking to see if Next had any 40-inch trousers in stock, and a couple of 42-inch just to be safe, wondering how long it would be until he needed new shirts as well. Was he even attracted to guys this big? He was bigger than even his university boyfriend Hamish had gotten all those years ago. No, he'd look at gym memberships this afternoon, this had all gone far enough.
Still though, he might as well get some McDonald’s breakfast while he was out. He didn't have to lose all the weight.
Vid picked up his phone. “Ellis? Yeah, hi, I'm really sorry, I'm going to have to work from home today. Yeah, a burst pipe, sorry.”
-
“Did you see his shirt today?” Vid heard Harriet-from-finance ask in a hushed tone.
“Stop!” came Liam-from-reception’s laughing reply. “I thought it was about the burst off of him!”
Vidhur stopped outside the break room and looked down at his shirt, which was notably straining around his gut. He had, he knew, outgrown 2XLs a while ago, but work had been so hectic that he'd not had time, or at least that's what he told himself. At weekends he was so preoccupied with stuffing himself, with pushing himself to beat personal challenges and records, and left in such a stupor afterwards, that he forgot everything else he needed to do. He had, at least, hoped that it wasn't quite so noticeable, and had thrown on a tie and cardigan in an effort to hide some of the worst of it.
He also, quietly, hoped that maybe this was as big as he'd ever get. That 2XL would be the biggest he'd ever see on a clothes tag. He knew that it made no sense, that his constant gorging guaranteed his continued growth, that he was already in dire need of some 3XLs, that every attempt he'd made to curb his growth had resulted in abject failure. Still though, he really hadn't wanted to get this big, honest.
“Can I tell you a secret?” Liam’s voice asked.
“You may in fact tell me nothing else,” Harriet’s voice replied.
“I actually used to fancy him,” Liam whispered.
Vid heard Harriet scream. “You did not! No, I'm sorry, you absolutely did not. Him? Seriously? He's so fat!”
“He genuinely used to be fit, before you started” Liam replied. “Like, properly fit. But then like a year ago he just suddenly got fat out of nowhere.”
Vid's stomach lurched. He knew that his weight gain was obvious, that everyone could see it, but he'd told himself that people still saw him as ‘chubby’, or ‘husky’, or ‘large’. To hear people call him fat, that some people were surprised he’d ever been anything else… Time, maybe, for him to stick to a diet. He took a deep breath in, sucked in his gut and walked into the break room.
“Oh hey guys, how are you?” he asked.
The pairs’ eyes widened and they both plastered on wide, fake smiles.
“Hey Viddy,” Liam drawled. “Oh, we’re good. We were just saying that Terry looks like he's put on some weight recently, weren't we Harriet?”
Harriet choked on her coffee and Vid saw her mouth “Stop it!” across the table at Liam.
“I don't know,” Vid replied. “He looks the same as ever to me.”
“Maybe,” Liam said, smiling. “I suppose, the thing is, I'm quite health conscious, so I notice these kinds of things.”
Vid saw Harriet slap Liam’s thigh and bite her lip. “Maybe,” Vid replied, seething. “Do you know if these donuts are for everyone?” he asked. “I've got a real sugar craving.”
“I think so,” Liam replied, before turning to Harriet and mouthing “Oh my god!” The two shook with silent laughter.
“Great,” Vid smiled. He took three.
-
“Oh my god, Terry! You look amazing!”
Vid looked up to see his co-worker Terry walk into the office after his holiday, with a broad smile on his face, an almost radioactive looking tan, and, most importantly, a significantly deflated gut. Terry held his arms out, showing off his baggy shirt and laughed. The office came to a standstill while everyone went over to congratulate him on his near-miraculous weight loss.
Vidhur declined to join the throng of people, instead looking down at the large gut filling his lap, and the small patch of sausage grease on his shirt from the first of that morning’s breakfast sandwiches. For a while now, he'd taken comfort in the fact that no matter how big he was getting, no matter how much weight he put on, as long as he stayed smaller than Terry, as long as he wasn't the fattest guy in the office, at least he was still in the realm of normality - a level of fat that an average member of the public could reach, without intentionally gorging themselves like Vid was doing. Okay, yes, Terry was thirty years older than Vidhur, and he'd put on his excess blubber over many years of sedentary desk work, happy marriage and living the good life, rather than Vid’s explosive weight gain of almost two hundred pounds over the last couple of years, but it remained a convenient and happy lie he could tell himself.
While Vid knew he’d been close to catching up with Terry anyway, he'd assumed that the effect of six weeks of all-you-can-eat buffets on Terry’s 58-year old metabolism would easily match the fifteen pounds Vid had put on while the older man was away. He felt ashamed. Sick. He'd blown himself up like a freak and now he was the fattest person he knew. Had he really ever meant to get this big? He'd just wanted to get a beer belly, hadn't he? Not this sack of lard he'd become.
“How did you do it Terry?” Sarah asked. Vid looked over. Maybe Terry was ill - some intestinal parasite caught in some distant country. Maybe, now he'd recovered, Terry was about to blow right back up, fatter than he'd ever been before, ready to take his heavyweight crown back from Vidhur.
“Well, I'd been thinking of dieting for a little while now,” Terry explained cheerfully. “I'd uh, well. I'd realised what I looked like. Just how fat I was.” Vid saw Terry look over at him, then look away again, a look of embarrassment on his face. Vid’s heart sank. Of course he was the huge monster that convinced Terry, the perpetually happy, lifelong fatty, just how disgusting his weight was.
“Well,” Terry continued, his face awkwardly turned away from where Vid was sat. “I thought the cruise would be awful for it, you know, all those buffets. But actually, they had these places you could go and they'd make me up these new salads every day, and I asked what was in them so I could make them at home - I've got them all written down. And the ship had this gym, and people there to help me. Three stone, I’ve lost so far.” The crowd around him gasped, ahh-ed and ooh-ed in astonishment at his feat. Terry waved them off. “Most of it was water weight, I lost most of it in the first couple of weeks.” Still, the admiration continued, and through the day Vid would cringe at each comment of congratulations. He noticed that a lot of people seemed to be avoiding him today - his size having been amplified by Terry’s sudden relative slimness.
“I hope you don't mind me saying Vid,” Terry said quietly later that day. “It's just, I know it's not easy, being so… well, you know.” Vid gave a short, uneasy smile in recognition that he did, in fact, know. “Well, I always thought I'd never be able to lose it. Told myself I was big boned, or that I had a slow metabolism, or that I just had too much of an appetite. But you know what Vid?” Vid could hear the pride in Terry's voice. “I just needed to decide to do it. It was easy in the end. Here, if I can do it, a young thing like you definitely can, eh?”
Vid smiled. He was terribly aware of the way he could feel the small action make his double chin crease even more. “Yeah, cheers Terry, I…” He paused and thought. “Maybe I have let it get too far.”
“If you ever need any healthy recipes or anyone to talk to, you know where I am, eh?” Terry smiled. “Here, can you believe I was almost twenty-four stone before my cruise? That was a wake-up call, I'll tell you that much.”
Vid whistled and raised his eyebrows. “Wow, yeah. That sure is… that sure is quite the number,” he said, giving a small chuckle. He turned back to his computer, knowing that he'd weighed in at over twenty-five stone that weekend. He had to lose some fucking weight.
-
Vid felt his whole body shake as he crashed to the floor. He wasn't sure if the crack of the chair breaking or the thwap of his soft body hitting the floor was louder, but he knew the combination was enough to bring the entire office crowding around his desk in a circle.
He lay on his side for a moment, dazed and winded as his co-workers murmured and pointed. He struggled into a crawling position, and did his best to ignore the roaring pain in his left hip and knee where he'd landed on them. In this position, his gut hung down far enough that it almost touched the ground. Vid's arms shook with the strain of holding up his weight, his heart pounded, and his breath was shallow and ragged.
“Come on, come on, help the man up,” Vid heard Terry's voice somewhere above him. “Here you go, easy now.” Vid felt a pair of hands grip his large flabby upper arms and strain to help him up. He did his best to not put too much weight onto the much smaller man as he staggered to his feet, but even so, he could see Terry struggle to stay upright. “You're okay, you're okay, there you are.”
If Vid had enough breath, he'd have wanted to tell Terry that he wasn't a shell shock victim or a startled horse, and didn't need treating like one. Instead, he gasped out a breathless “thank you.”
“Come on, come on, someone get him a chair,” Terry barked at the gawping onlookers.
“Terry,” Sarah said out of the corner of her mouth. “Isn't the problem, you know, that the chairs don't support him?”
Vid wanted the ground to swallow him up. If he put on much more weight, perhaps it would. “I'll just go to the break room,” he said, refusing to meet anyone's eye.
“That's a good idea,” Terry said, still holding Vid’s arm and beginning to guide him. The crowd parted to allow Vid’s elephantine figure past, people pressing themselves into the desks on either side. “Let's get you sat on a nice comfy settee. Here, just let me…” He began pulling on Vid’s shirt, who looked down to see that it had ridden up so that most of Vid's soft, hanging gut was on show, with pale stretch marks almost glaring against his brown skin.
Behind Vid, he heard a creak and turned around to see Sarah probing the floor with her foot. “Yeah, I think the floorboard’s broken,” she sighed. Vid hastily helped Terry pull his shirt down, his pulse racing with shame.
Vid sat eating a plate of biscuits and a mug of “overly-sweet” tea (Terry's words; just the thing after a shock apparently. Vid didn't bother to tell him that it had less sugar than he usually put in it himself). He looked up as the door opened and his manager Ellis walked in, three years younger than Vid, and half his weight.
“HR says we’ve got to buy you a reinforced chair,” Ellis snapped. “Reasonable adjustments or some shit. If you ask me, the reasonable adjustment would be for you to lose some of that fucking blubber. Fucking hell man, I'm surprised the chair went before your heart did.”
The settlement made Vid very comfortable indeed.
-
Dr Wiltshire tutted as she looked at the charts in front of her. “If I'm being honest, you're lucky your blood pressure isn't even higher, considering your weight,” she said, not bothering to look up. She began to type something on her computer.
“Yeah, I get that I’ve-” Vid began.
“I can't believe it's taken you this long to come in,” the doctor interrupted. “Your records say that you last came in-,” she tapped at the screen and inhaled sharply, “four years ago. You've put on almost three-hundred pounds in that time, did you know that?”
“I guess I-”
She grabbed his forearm and pulled it towards herself. “I'm going to have to take some blood for a diabetes test,” she snapped. “If I can find a vein,” she added in a murmur.
Despite knowing his gut more than covered his crotch, Vid struggled against the erection he could feel forming. He'd stayed away from the doctors for years, knowing that he'd be judged for his explosive weight gain, and now he'd left it so long that it was so much worse than he could possibly imagine.
“We'll put you on some medication to lower your blood pressure, at a minimum,” Dr Wiltshire said once she'd taken some blood. “Its very likely that you’ll need to be on insulin as well, but we’ll talk about managing your diabetes at another appointment.”
“Well I thought we still had to test-”
“Yes, yes, we’ll need confirmation before we put you on ozempic. We can talk about that once we sort out your insulin,” she said.
“Well, I'm not sure I'd want to go on ozempic,” Vid said. “I've heard some bad things about it.”
Dr Wiltshire sighed. “Well, have you also heard some rather bad things about morbid obesity as well?”
Vid sat in silence the rest of the appointment, vowing to take on all of her advice, to make the changes to his diet she suggested, to start exercising more. He really had let all this get too far. He couldn't believe how badly he'd jeopardised his health for a fetish. Once he left, he realised he'd never even told her about the knee pain he'd made the appointment for.
-
“Go on,” Lee said, standing on the bed over Vid, stroking his thick erection. “Say it.”
“Please,” Vid said, as he strained towards his crotch.
“Please what?” Lee said. He raised a foot and pressed it lightly down on Vid's gut.
“Please let me cum,” Vid pleaded.
Lee’s face feigned bemusement. His hand continued pumping his cock. “You're allowed to cum,” he said. “You remember. We agreed that you needed to finish all-” he gestured towards the pile of fast food wrappers spilling over the side of the bed and onto the floor with his free hand “-of that food if you wanted to cum. And you did! Well done you.”
“But I can't…” Vid said.
“Sorry,” Lee said, bending slightly. At no point did his stroking slow. “What was that?” His free hand pressed his ear forward.
“I can't make myself cum,” Vid said, his face flushing. “I can't reach my cock.”
Lee's hand sped up slightly. “Oh my!” he said, his face and voice in mock surprise. “Why wouldn't you be able to do that then?”
Vid was equal parts horny and genuinely embarrassed. “Because I'm too fat,” he said, collapsing back onto his pillows. “Because I can't reach around my fat gut, and even if I could, my dick is too small because it's been swallowed up by all my fat.”
Lee’s hand let go of his cock, and he let it hang, heavy and pulsing between his muscular thighs. “Why didn't you say?” he said, a smile spreading on his face. “Well then, you'll need me to do it for you I suppose then, won't you?” Vid nodded. “Sorry, what was that?” Lee asked. “I can’t see your gestures because they get swallowed by all the fucking fat.”
“Yes,” Vidhur said. He bit his lip.
“Well then. Eating all that food was the requirement for you being allowed to cum, not for me to do it for you,” Lee explained. “You'll have to have dessert if you want me to do that for you.” He shuffled forwards on the mattress, the motion made difficult by having to navigate around Vid’s sheer width. He lowered himself down until he was sat on Vid’s chest, the tip of his cock so close to Vid's lips that Vid could feel its warmth. “Do you want dessert?” Lee asked.
Vid answered by leaning forward and taking Lee's length into his mouth. He sucked hungrily, and Lee began to rock back and forth. Vid focussed on his technique, eager to please, gently stroking Lee’s balls and gripping his firm thighs. Lee moaned and gave a couple of shaking thrusts, jamming his cock into the back of Vid's throat, before Vid felt thick jizz pour down his throat. Lee pulled back and sighed contentedly while Vid coughed.
“Please,” Vid said as Lee climbed off of him. “Me now.”
Lee tutted and smiled. “Silly fatty!” he said. “That wasn't dessert. That was my cock.” He leant down and pulled a cake from below the bags he'd stashed beneath the bed. “No, this is dessert.”
Vid shook his head. “I'm too full. Please, I can't.”
Lee smiled. “I think you can. Big boy like you. And all that exercise you were doing trying to reach your little nub of a cock must have worked up quite an appetite.”
Vid closed his eyes and breathed heavily. His cock ached below the heavy pressure of his gut. “Give me the cake,” he said.
“I thought so,” Lee said. He didn't bother cutting the cake, just brought the whole thing to Vid's lips. Vid took huge bites, trying to eat it quick enough to trick his body into not noticing the huge amount of calories and sugar being forced into it. It didn't work. His stomach was straining and painful by the time he finished, and his head was spinning.
He was so dazed from the sugar that he could barely remember his aching cock, and was almost surprised when Lee's thick arm slid underneath his gut and began to work the exposed tip of his once impressive cock. Within thirty seconds, Vid yelled out and shook as he felt his crotch fill with semen.
“Same time next week?” Lee asked, wearing a thin pair of sweatpants and pulling on a muscle-tee, while Vid waddled back from the shower.
“Yeah. Money's on the bedside table,” Vid said.
Lee nodded. “Yeah, I got it, thanks.” He stayed sitting, unusual for him. “That was new, wasn't it?” he asked after a moment.
“What was?” Vid asked.
“Not being able to reach yourself,” Lee said. “You've done it before, but always pretending, part of play. That was different, wasn't it? You really couldn't?”
Vid shrugged. “For a while now. Too much in the way,” he explained.
“Right, right,” Lee said quietly. “You okay with that? I mean, I know this is your thing and everything. Shit, it's my thing too. But, you know, it's okay to not be okay with parts of it. To take a step back? I know how this can sort of run away with you. I used to think I didn't like guys over three-hundred, now that's my entire client-base.”
Vid nodded. “I'm okay with it. I've… well, I've definitely not been okay with it sometimes. But I've always kept going. Gotten okay with it, in the end.”
Lee nodded. “Okay. Good. Well, you’ve got my number if you need to talk, yeah? I won't even charge if I've got my clothes on,” he joked. “Or I could put you in touch with some other big guys? One of my exes is even bigger than you, might be good to talk to?”
“Yeah, that would be good thanks,” Vid said with a smile. “But, genuinely, I'm fine. I've got a good community going, I've come to terms with all the shit that comes along with this.”
Lee stood up. “Okay then,” he said. “No regrets?” he asked.
