Antonio waited anxiously in the physiotherapist’s waiting room. The place smelled of sandalwood and faintly of olives and there were pictures of fit, hot people all over the walls. Antonio felt distinctly out of place looking down at himself after seeing those portraits. He was chubby and sweaty and hadn’t been to the gym in weeks – or had it been months, now? What was the physio going to think of him, this ball of flabby flesh who had back pain that may or not have been caused by a new belly forcing his posture forward and down?
When he actually saw the man in question, he was shocked. The physiotherapist was not some Olympian hunk, or some Beckham-like sports-star, but a fat man himself. He had tits like a woman’s, bulging and gargantuan, and a belly that oozed forward decisively. His face was swollen up like he was a chipmunk hoarding melons in his cheeks. And he was, weirdly, very sexy to Antonio, who’d previously only lusted after the skinniest of twinks. Antonio felt a blush run through him, electrifying him from his toes to his forehead and back down to his crotch.
“Come inside,” the physio groaned, as if speaking was too much effort for a man so big and lazy, “let’s get you checked out.”
In the perfumed examinations room, they ran through all the basic questions, but the physio didn’t respond how Antonio expected. The guy was furious when Antonio said he ate healthily, for example, and practically hit the roof when the topic of trying to get back into regular exercise came up. “Why would you do something as crazy as that,” he exclaimed, “don’t you know how dangerous exercise can be? Sports injuries are a huge danger to cute boys like you. You could sprain something! Break a bone!”
Antonio, feeling a bit sleepy and out of it (was it all of the incense?) found himself agreeing. “You’re…right.”
“Of course I am! Now let’s check out your reflexes and such. Get on the bed.”
The examination bed audibly creaked with Antonio got on it, his fat, sweaty body immediately tearing up the flimsy sheet of paper he was meant to lie on. The physiotherapist casually wiped away some sweat with paper towel, but Antonio briefly could have sworn he saw the guy sniff the damp sheets before chucking them into the garbage. He was probably imagining it?
The physiotherapist massaged Antonio from foot to head, chubby body part by chubby body part, stretching his loose skin and cellulite, pushing at his buried, wilted muscles, playing with the rolling dough of his flesh. It was sensual and sensational. Antonio could feel his eyes rolling back with delight as he lay face down on the table, his head pressed into a hole that let him see the physio’s bulging feet as they wandered around.
“You’re looking awfully skinny down here,” the guy said, matter of factly, as he massaged Antonio’s back rolls and love handles, “these could be much bigger.”
“What? I should be losing weight, not…”
“Don’t be silly. I didn’t go through years of schooling to tell you to try to get all nasty and skinny. We want men plump, don’t we? Don’t we? Isn’t that how we like men to be?*
"I…guess.” Antonio said, thoughts of his beloved twinks fading from his mind, replaced with an image of his obese professor at university massaging his gut.
“Good. Now, I’m just going to apply some weight here, you might feel a bit of a pop.”
The guy knelt some pressure straight onto Antonio’s back and cracked his back and chest into glorious release, instantly relieving some of the back pain that had led him to the appointment in the first place. He found himself half-hard and very hungry all of sudden, but both of those feelings were drowned out by sleepiness, the wave of tiredness that was suddenly wrapping itself around him, making it hard to listen to the physio.
“You’re so big, piggy, but not big enough. Next time I see you, you’re going to be even bigger, aren’t you? Pig. You’re just a pained little piggy, straining against his clothes, desperate for some peace, relaxation, and food, aren’t you? Next time, I’ll prepare a meal instead of just some post-massage nibbles.”
“What?”
“I mean, we should book another appointment. This can’t all be fixed in just one session, can it?”
“I guess not,” Antonio mumbled, half-asleep, “I guess not.”
“Good piggy. Have a little rest, I’ll get you some snacks for when you wake up.”
When Antonio woke up, the physio was gone. He was alone in the room… surrounded by crumbs, empty food wrappers, and packets of chips that had been half-consumed. “What the…” He exclaimed, as he surveyed the chaos, his stomach rumbling: was he over-full or still-hungry? He wasn’t sure. His belly felt weightier, his tits firmer, and his ass, he could see in the room’s huge mirror, looked fatter than ever. Could physiotherapy make you get.. a little chubbier?
Looking down at himself, Antonio figured that maybe it could. He’d be back next week.
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