Hot Guys

Imagine getting kidnapped and fattened up in a basement, going from a lean jock to a morbidly obese slob!

Here’s the twist, once you reach 500+lbs, your captor lets you free so you run (well, you waddle) to the door you think is the exit.

You open the door to find a ladder that leads to a trapdoor.

You’re so weak and heavy that you can barely manage to climb the ladder.

You eventually reach the trapdoor which opens easily.

However, you discover you’re too big to fit through!

The doorbell chimed through the suburban house, a generic two-tone melody that announced the arrival of the plumber. Julian straightened his shirt—a worn flannel he'd bought from a thrift store weeks ago specifically for this moment—and ran a hand through his silver-streaked hair. He wasn't nervous. He'd prepared for this.

He opened the door and there stood Mack, a broad-shouldered man in his late thirties with work-roughened hands and a name stitched in red across his navy uniform. The truck parked in the driveway behind him had a magnetic sign on the side: Mack's Plumbing—We Handle Your Pipes Right.

"You called about a leak?" Mack asked, his voice a low rumble. He had the kind of face that looked like it had seen some things but kept on grinning anyway.

"Under the kitchen sink," Julian said, stepping aside. "Come on in."

Mack walked through the doorway, toolbox swinging at his side, and Julian locked the door behind him.

The kitchen smelled faintly of coffee and something sweeter underneath—vanilla, maybe, or almond. Mack dropped to his knees in front of the sink and opened the cabinet doors, peering into the darkness beneath.

"Can I get you something to drink?" Julian asked.

"Water's fine," Mack said without looking up. His shoulders strained the seams of his uniform as he reached inside the cabinet.

Julian didn't get him water. He stood by the counter and watched, waiting. When Mack pulled his head out from under the sink and turned to ask a question, Julian caught his eyes and held them.

The pendant was small—just a silver disc on a chain, spinning lazily in the kitchen light. It caught Mack's attention the way a bird watches a snake, and then he wasn't thinking about pipes anymore. His pupils dilated. His jaw went slack. The question he'd been about to ask died on his lips.

"There we go," Julian murmured. "Listen to me, Mack."

Mack listened.

When Mack blinked himself awake, the kitchen came back in pieces—the hum of the refrigerator, the drip of the faucet, the weight of the wrench still in his hand. He was on his knees. The sink cabinet was open in front of him. He'd come here to fix a leak. That was right. That was what he did.

But something else had shifted in his head, something important that hadn't been there before. He looked up at the homeowner—Julian, his name was Julian—and his eyes went straight to the man's mouth.

The lips were slightly parted, pink and full. There was a fine sheen of moisture on the lower lip from where Julian had just run his tongue across it. And Mack knew, with the absolute certainty of a man who'd been doing this job for fifteen years, that he was looking at a pipe in desperate need of maintenance.

That was a specialized pipe, the kind most plumbers never learned to handle. But Mack had the training. He'd forgotten about it until just now, but it was all coming back.

"Sir," he said, getting to his feet. His voice was steady, professional. "I've identified the issue."

Julian tilted his head, playing along. "Oh?"

"The secondary pipework," Mack said, gesturing at Julian's mouth. "There's a buildup. Could cause backflow problems if it's not addressed immediately."

Julian's eyes glittered with something dark and pleased. "You'd better take care of it, then."

Mack approached the "pipe" the way he'd approach any job: with focus, with expertise, with the quiet confidence of a man who knew exactly what he was doing. He set his wrench on the counter. He wouldn't need tools for this one.

He stepped into Julian's space and cupped the man's jaw with one calloused hand. The stubble was rough against his palm. Julian's breath hitched, and Mack felt the warm puff of air against his own lips—felt it like a burst of steam from a faulty valve, a sure sign of the pressure that had been building inside.

"Going to need to clear the passage," Mack murmured. "Might take a while. This one's backed up pretty bad."

He leaned in.

The first contact was exploratory—a press of lips to lips, testing the seal. Mack worked his mouth across Julian's with methodical precision, cataloguing every response. The slight quiver. The way Julian's lips parted just a fraction wider. Good. Good flow.

Mack tilted his head to get a better angle, and his tongue slipped inside.

That was where the real work began. Julian's mouth was hot and wet, and Mack probed the interior with the same thoroughness he'd use to clear a blocked drain. He traced the ridge of Julian's teeth, the slick roof of his mouth, the soft give of his tongue. Every inch needed attention. Every surface needed to be checked for debris, for buildup, for anything that might cause a future clog.

Julian made a sound against his mouth—something between a groan and a whimper—and Mack catalogued that too. That was the sound of a pipe releasing pressure. That was the sound of a job well done.

He kept at it. His tongue pushed deeper, and he felt Julian's hands come up to grip his shoulders, fingers digging into the fabric of his uniform. The homeowner's knees must have gone weak because he sagged against the counter, and Mack followed him down, not breaking contact, not losing the seal.

A good plumber never stopped until the job was finished.

Time got fuzzy after that. Mack wasn't sure how long he'd been working on this particular pipe—could have been minutes, could have been hours. His jaw was starting to ache from the sustained effort, but he didn't stop. The pipe still needed him. There were still deposits to clear, still flow to restore.

Julian's mouth was a mess—in the best possible way. Slick and swollen and thoroughly serviced. Mack pulled back just long enough to inspect his work, and the sight of Julian's lips, pink and glistening with shared saliva, sent a jolt straight to his groin.

Christ. When had he gotten hard?

He was painfully erect, his cock pressing against the zipper of his work pants with an urgency he couldn't ignore. That happened sometimes, on long jobs. The physical exertion, the heat, the focus—it all got tangled up and settled low in his belly. He'd usually ignore it until the job was done.

But this job wasn't done.

"Still feeling some resistance," he said, and his voice had gone hoarse. "Going to need another pass."

Julian looked up at him with hooded eyes, lips curving into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Take your time," he breathed. "Be thorough."

Mack dove back in.

His tongue worked Julian's mouth with renewed intensity, but now there was a new edge to it—something less professional, something hungry. His hips rolled forward without his permission, grinding his erection against Julian's thigh. The friction made him groan into the kiss.

The pipe. He had to focus on the pipe.

But the pipe was connected to a whole system, wasn't it? You couldn't isolate one component without the rest of the plumbing demanding attention. That was basic hydraulics. Fix one thing, and the pressure just built up somewhere else.

Mack's hands, which had been resting on the counter on either side of Julian's head, began to wander. They found the hem of Julian's flannel shirt and slid underneath, mapping the warm skin of his stomach, the trail of hair leading down from his navel, the slight give of flesh over muscle.

Julian gasped against his mouth, and Mack swallowed the sound.

His hips kept grinding, a slow and dirty rhythm that he couldn't seem to control. The pipe was forgotten—or rather, the pipe had expanded to include everything. Julian's mouth, Julian's body, the heat between them that was building up like steam pressure with no release valve.

"Fuck," Mack breathed, breaking the kiss. He pressed his forehead against Julian's. "This is... this is a big job. Bigger than I thought."

"You can handle it," Julian said. His voice was wrecked, barely more than a whisper. "You're a professional."

"I'm a professional," Mack repeated, and the words anchored him. He was a professional. Professionals didn't walk away from a job just because it got hard. Professionals stayed until the work was complete.

He kissed Julian again, and this time there was nothing methodical about it. It was a kiss of pure, desperate need—all tongue and teeth and the wet sounds of mouths colliding. His hands found Julian's belt, worked the buckle open with the practiced ease of a man who'd undone thousands of fasteners in his career. Different kind of pipe, same basic principle.

Julian's hand came up to cradle the back of Mack's head, fingers threading through sweat-damp hair. His other hand pressed flat against the front of Mack's pants, and Mack bucked into the touch like a man electrocuted.

"There's another leak," Julian murmured against his mouth. "Down here."

Mack pulled back just far enough to look at him. Julian's pupils were blown wide, his mouth red and wet and open on a panting breath. He looked thoroughly debauched. He looked like a man who'd just had his plumbing professionally serviced and was ready to leave a five-star review.

Or maybe that was Mack projecting.

1. Moving from my bed to the sofa.

2. Walking to the fridge to get food.