Fatboy Fiction

Chapter 2: Reaction

The palpable chemistry that had been mounting throughout their meal was at a tipping point as the two men left the buffet. They walked the eight blocks back to his building and Pritchard spent the whole time anticipating what was to come. Marshall’s unabashed display of gluttony at the restaurant had worked him up into a lather and he couldn’t wait to get his hands on his beefy new toy. 

The building lobby made Marshall’s eyes widen in awe. Pritchard savoured this when he saw it; he enjoyed how innocent and impressionable the boy was. The more charitable part of him thought about how much fun it would be to give the guileless hunk a taste of how the other half lived. His less altruistic side was imagining all the ways he could use that youth and naïveté to mold his new project into the waddling, wheezing porker of his fantasies. 

These thoughts percolated in Pritchard’s mind on the long elevator ride up to the eighteenth floor, but came to an abrupt halt as soon as he’d closed the door behind them. He’d had a game plan in mind, one that he’d used before on the other eager young things he’d brought home after a night spent feeding them into a stupor. He’d dined the boy already, now he had to wine him. He’d break out a nice red, something good but not too expensive. These beefy college idiots never knew the difference anyway. He’d put on some music, something soft and low in the background to ease the mood. These fledgeling gainers were always so shy and self-conscious. Years of keeping their horniest, kinkiest fantasies as a shameful secret had conditioned them to stay safely inside their shell. He’d learned that he needed to coax them out gently, ease them into things and take his time. 

Marshall surprised him, though. After having broken through the initial barrier of awkwardness at the restaurant, he didn’t seem at all inclined to curb his boldness now. As the heavy door clicked against the latch, he wasted no time in taking Pritchard by the wrists, holding his hands above his head, and pushing him bodily against the door. 

Pritchard was taken aback by this. He was so used to dealing with timid little things who were afraid of their own desires. This forcefulness on the part of his feedee was unexpected. Unexpected, but very welcome.

Marshall brought his lips to Pritchard’s and started making out with him hungrily, grinding his wide, powerful hips against Pritchard’s narrow ones. The older man was enjoying this rough treatment, relishing the feeling of being so delicate in the beefy boy’s hands. This was a large part of what had attracted him to Marshall in the first place. He’d liked the boy’s air of unrefined, unrestrained strength. The kind of brute barbarism that he must have displayed while hefting hay bales on the farm, or when out on the football field. He had an unapologetic and elemental masculinity that was so unlike the sleek and mannered city slickers he spent his days with in the boardroom. 

The friction between them was reaching a fever pitch when Marshall pulled back. He stepped away and with a cocky look in his eyes, he began to undress. “This is what you’ve been waiting for, right?” he teased as he lifted his shirt up over his head, baring the full splendor of his beefy torso. “I know you’ve been wanting to see this big, bloated gut all day. You’re the one who stuffed me like a pig back there at the buffet. Why don’t you come admire your handiwork?” 

Pritchard’s cock was at full mast at these words. He was so used to being the one in change during these hookups. Having someone take that role from him was strangely satisfying. Out in the streets, Marshall might have been the unpolished country mouse and Pritchard the confident, successful master of industry. But here behind closed doors, he found himself wanting this hulking meathead to take charge and demand whatever he wanted. 

He approached the younger man and put his hands on his tight, distended stomach, claiming the prize he’d been waiting for since they’d first started messaging. When he’d first walked into the buffet, Pritchard had seen that Marshall carried some softness around his waist. He knew from their horny midnight exchanges that Marshall had packed on some weight during college, about 40 lbs he said. Marshall had sent him pictures from when he was a freshman, cut muscles on full display after being so recently released from the structured diet and workout regimen he’d been subjected to in high school. His luscious pecs protruded out above his perfect set of washboard abs, capped off with a pair of surprisingly large and pointed nipples. All of this Grade A man meat was coated with a light dusting of chest hair, a shade or two darker than the gold of his wavy locks. 

The other details of this newly minted collegiate hopeful were still largely the same. The beefy biceps that always seemed fit to burst the sleeves of whatever shirt he was wearing. The huge, wobbling melons of his ass that tested the limits of even the most forgiving pair of pants. Even the pecs were mostly unchanged, still peeking out coyly around the straps of tank tops and decorating his shirtfront with the twin peaks of his almost perpetually hard nipples. But the abs were no longer present and accounted for. They had been replaced with the tantalizing beginnings of a small gut that was just starting to catch up to his chest in its degree of hang. 

Like any good gainer, Marshall had taken a bumper crop of selfies with his new belly as the star of the show, taking advantage of all the forced angles that he knew would exaggerate the size of his new pudge. Pritchard had chuckled to himself as Marshall had sent him these pictures. He knew as well as Marshall did that these weren’t an accurate portrayal of his size, but had enjoyed them nonetheless. He’d been pleasantly surprised when Marshall had shown up at the buffet looking smaller than his pictures, but still with a noticeable wobble at his waist. This owed something to the white tee shirt Marshall had worn, obviously a size too small and very clearly selected to show off his assets to their best advantage. 

That wobble had gone now, Pritchard noted as he ran his hands slowly over Marshall’s skin. That softness from earlier had been replaced with a tautness from everything that Marshall had eaten. Or rather, from everything that Pritchard had made him eat. He smiled to himself in a smug way as he thought of all the calories he’d pumped into the boy, and all the extra wobble he’d hopefully soon be feeling as a result of it. 

“You did me proud earlier, fatboy. I didn’t know about you at first, you seemed like you might not be able to live up to all those things you said to me online. I was glad to see you were able to put your money where your mouth is.” 

Marshall grinned at this, bringing his big hands up and mirroring Pritchard’s ministrations as he helped to rub his abused belly. “Sorry for being so awkward at first, man. I’ve met up with some other supposed feeders before and let’s just say it never went well. And then you showed up looking like a million bucks and I didn’t want to act like a greedy pig in front of all those people and turn you off.” 

“Oh trust me big guy, there’s absolutely nothing about you being a greedy pig that could ever turn me off. That’s one of my very favourite things about you.” 

Pritchard moved his hands lower, tracing the bulge of Marshall’s dick through his jeans. The younger man’s breath hitched as he felt his cock twitch. The big bruiser was turned on to a screaming pitch by this hot older guy saying out loud all the filthy things he’d only ever thought in the safety of his mind.

“God I want to be fat so fucking bad,” Marshall said breathily as Pritchard continued his explorations. “I’ve wanted it for as long as I can remember. You know the first thing I ever jerked off to was the thought of lying back in bed, weighed down by a big, fat, round belly.”

“That’s quite the mental image, big guy. Who would have guessed it, huh? A big, strong, manly guy like you wanting to be turned into a fat, lazy, greedy pile of lard.” Pritchard said this with a malicious grin plastered across his face. This was it, they were finally getting to the good stuff. 

“Oh fuck yeah,” Marshall moaned, moving his hands to his sides and jiggling his budding love handles. “It’s all I’ve ever wanted, to give in and eat like a fatass, blow up into a huge mound of blubber. You have no idea how badly I want it.” 

“Yeah? And you’d be willing to give all this up for that? You look like a goddamn catalogue model. You’re not going to be able to get by on your looks once I’ve turned you into a land whale. And what about all those years you put into sports? Just imagine what your old teammates would have to say if they knew about this.” 

“I couldn’t care less about all that, man. You know I only got into sports to shut my dad up and get him off my case? You should have seen me before I started football when I was twelve, I was a pretty chubby kid. I still regret losing it all.” His tone shifted as he said this, becoming somewhat more contemplative as he looked down at his developing paunch, wondering how big it might have been by now if he’d never given in to his dad, never gotten into sports. 

“Well I guess I have my work cut out for me then, don’t I? I’ll just have to make sure you gain back all those pounds you shed, and maybe a few more for good measure.” Pritchard started unzipping Marshall’s jeans as he said this, looking him straight in his pretty blue eyes as he pulled his pants and underwear down to his ankles. 

Marshall’s dick slapped up against his stuffed gut, splattering a few drops of sticky precum. He was clearly enjoying everything Pritchard was saying to him. “I want that so bad, dude. I want you to feed me until I can’t stand, fill me up with as much fucking food as you can cram into me.” 

Pritchard took hold of Marshall’s impressive girth and started stroking, the other hand toying with his hard nipples. “Tell me what else you want.” 

“I want you to tell me what a fat pig I’m turning into. I want you to tease me and humiliate me. Put me in tight clothes and parade me around in public. I want everyone to know what you’re doing to me. I don’t want to be able to hide it.” 

Bingo. “Your wish is my command, tubs. Now, what about this?” He waved around Marshall’s thick cock by the base, making his hefty balls swing. “What should we do about this? You’ve been such a good fatboy today, you deserve a reward.” 

Marshall looked Pritchard square in the eyes and his face split into another cocky grin. “I want you to fuck my big, fat ass and tell me how much of a pig you’re going to make me.” 

Chapter 1: Chemistry

They had met online, having connected by sheer luck while browsing through their local selection of fat men. Pritchard liked the looks of Marshall immediately, all 220 lbs of him. His corn-coloured hair and blue eyes combined with his beefy arms and broad shoulders made him the all-American wet dream, and Pritchard was smitten with the beefcake. Likewise, Marshall was taken with Pritchard’s sleek, toned physique and darkly handsome good looks. To the wide-eyed farm boy, this was exactly the kind of cultivated, worldly guy he’d come to the city looking to find. 

They agreed to meet at a buffet near the university, where Marshall was in his last year of studies. Neither had high hopes for the other, despite the string of promising messages they’d exchanged over the past few weeks. Marshall had talked earnestly about how badly he wanted, no, needed to let go and turn himself into an enormous fat guy, and Pritchard had enthusiastically played along, telling Marshall how much hotter he’d be after another 50 lbs, 100 lbs, 200 lbs. They’d both gotten off to these messages, jerking off late at night to the thought of this other man who seemed so into their shared fantasy. But after the orgasm always came a cold wave of clarity. Each would be brought back to Earth by the recollection that he was still just talking to a guy, some idiot who would flake on him soon enough, just like all the others had. 

But as the weeks unfurled, neither had abruptly abandoned the other, as they were both expecting. Night after night, they kept talking and sharing, Marshall explaining how badly he’d always felt he was meant to live as a fat man, and Pritchard validating these desires and offering up secret fantasies of his own. Emboldened by their tentative success, Marshall got up the nerve one night to ask as nonchalantly as he could if Pritchard might like to meet up sometime. He’d expected to be turned down, gently or otherwise. After all, what could a polished professional like Pritchard want to do with an uncouth country boy like him? To his surprise and excitement, though, Pritchard promptly replied that yes, he would like to grab dinner. And so the date was set. 

Even after all this, both men showed up at the appointed time with hesitations. Pritchard was expecting Marshall to be a timid wreck, too ashamed of his long-harboured fatboy aspirations to get comfortable and be himself. And Marshall was worried that Pritchard would be embarrassed to be in public with someone like him, as had happened on so many dates before. But by some small miracle, none of this happened. Pritchard arrived to find Marshall already at the restaurant and after a somewhat shy and stilted introduction, both boys realized that improbably, they really liked the other. 

They sat chatting for a little while, going through the standard roster of get-to-know-you questions. Then it came time for them to get their food, and the first stumbling block of the night appeared. As they were moving along the buffet line, Marshall was sheepishly taking only a small helping of his chosen dishes, hardly more than the average buffet-goer would treat himself to. Pritchard was disappointed when we saw this, thinking “Well, here we go again. Another supposed gainer who talks a big game and can’t back it up.” 

As they got back to their table, Marshall started picking idly at the food on his plate, a far cry from the display of gluttony he’d promised Pritchard he was capable of. It’s not that he wasn’t hungry. In fact, he was starving, having skipped breakfast that morning in preparation for the big day. But privately, Marshall was worried about making Pritchard look bad. The older man had shown up dressed like an off-duty Ivy Leaguer, his hair impeccably coiffed and his brilliant white teeth glistening. Marshall didn’t want to embarrass this man who exuded poise and elegance, no matter what depraved things they’d said to each other in the middle of the night. 

Pritchard observed this lassitude on Marshall’s part and his frustration got the better of him. Always having had a sharp tongue, Pritchard shot casually across the table, “Well you’re certainly never going to burst any buttons that way. Surely you can do better than that.”

Marshall looked up, surprised. From his shiny shoes to his shiny watch, Pritchard did not by any measure seem the type of guy to say something like that where others could hear. And yet there he sat, smirking at Marshall in a way that clearly implied a challenge. 

Having obeyed the biological destiny of his deep chest and thick thighs, Marshall had of course played years of sports growing up. It was that same athlete’s logic that took over now, and compelled Marshall to want to impress Pritchard, to be the best and to show this man what he could do. “Oh you want to see better, do you? Fine, coming right up.” And without wasting another minute, Marshall dug face-first into his plate of food. Having taken such a meagre portion, it didn’t take long for him to finish it, and so with a triumphant look at Pritchard, Marshall stood up and marched back to the buffet to get more. 

This second plate took him longer to finish than the first but he still got it down in good time, polishing off the much larger portions of chicken wings and fried rice, pasta and ribs. As he kept eating, he became less and less concerned with his table manners. They’d broken the ice now, and this man had already listened to him talk at length about how he wanted to be a greedy, fat pig. He figured he may as well show Pritchard what he was dealing with, so he shovelled the food in his mouth faster and in bigger, heaping mounds. He was getting full, but he ate on, looking Pritchard in the eyes the whole time as the fine-featured dandy grinned back at him, eyes narrowed in an increasingly dangerous leer.

As Marshall finished off his second plate, he slumped back in his seat, groaning and rubbing the sides of his aching stomach. He had eaten much more than he normally would, and while he felt bloated and uncomfortable, he also felt a great deal of pride. He gave Pritchard back a smirk of his own, knowing that he’d given the man the performance he’d come for. 

Pritchard had kept quiet during Marshall’s feeding frenzy, but now he spoke up. “Very impressive, big guy. Maybe you are serious about turning yourself into a fatass after all. However,” he said with a malicious gleam in his eye, “I still think I could do with a little more convincing. Wait here, I’ll be back.” And with that, he got up from the table and sauntered off to the buffet. 

When he’d been selecting his own plate, Pritchard had been as choosy and fussy as you would expect from such a preening peacock. But now that he was in charge of Marshall’s plate, he took an entirely different tack. Moving around the dessert table, he slopped on large helpings of everything on offer. He quickly started to run out of room, but kept piling on the cheap buffet cake and pastries anyway, not caring if they overlapped or blended together. Marshall had shown himself to be much more game than most of the shy things he met up with, and he intended to stuff the boy with as many calories as he possibly could. 

When Pritchard got back to the table with the obscenely overloaded plate, Marshall looked at him with wide eyes filled with equal parts fear and lust. He was already so full, he didn’t know how much more he could take. 

“Well fatboy, I hope you saved some room for dessert. You’ve got your work cut out for you.” Pritchard said this without any attempt to lower his voice or be discreet. Several of the other patrons at the buffet had already been side-eyeing Pritchard when he carried the comically overfull plate back to the table, but now some of them were downright staring at the bizarre duo, wondering no doubt why the beefy blond boy was putting up with such insults. 

The beefy blond boy himself, though, was not put out in the slightest by this turn of events. He loved how brazen Pritchard was being with him, and wanted to show him he was game. Without missing a beat, Marshall bravely took up his fork and began to tackle this third heaping plateful of food. It was slow going, but the blond bruiser valiantly soldiered on, shoving forkful after forkful into his mouth, swallowing as quickly as he could so that his stomach wouldn’t cotton on to how far beyond stuffed he was. 

Despite his best efforts, Marshall tapped out halfway through the plate. He wincingly sat back in his seat, cradling his abused belly. Sure, he was no stranger to eating well. He’d been sneaking late-night pizza and between-class burgers for years, accounting for the 40 lbs he’d packed on since the end of his high school football career. But he’d never eaten this much this quickly. “I think that’s it, man,” he said breathlessly to Pritchard. “I don’t think I can handle any more.” 

Smooth as silk, Pritchard stood up and crossed to sit down beside Marshall. “Oh really?” he purred in Marshall’s ear. “See, I think you can handle just a little bit more. You told me just last night how excited you were to be meeting someone who wanted to see you blow up into a proper fat guy. Well now it’s time you prove to me how badly you really want that. Open up, fatass.” And as soon as Marshall obediently opened his mouth, Pritchard picked up a grotesquely overfull spoon of cherry pie and stuffed it inside.

Marshall was reclined in his seat as Pritchard hand fed him bite after bite. He realized that the other diners in the restaurant were uncomfortable with this bizarrely intimate scene between the two men, but he was beyond caring. In fact, the more he thought about them looking at him being stuffed like a prize hog, the more aroused he got. As Pritchard took care of feeding him, he started gently stroking his belly, easing the mound of food already housed inside and making room for the next bite, and the next, and the next. By the time the plate of desserts was emptied, he was rock hard in his jeans and was taking Pritchard’s exploratory hand on his thigh as a promise of a further reward to come.