Big Wendy's

Pete let his fork rattle back on the table as he unleashed a burp, not only snagging back the attention of his friends but also everyone else in the dining center. *UUURRRP* “Fuck you guys,” Pete mumbled to his friends. “We finally done here?” Pete asked as he began to run his hand over his overstuffed gut.

“Damn Pete, you really wanna get out of here, huh?” One of his friends joked.

“I didn’t know you could pack it away like that,” said another.

After taking dead last in his fantasy football league, Pete was left with 2 options:

1. Let his friends change anything they want on all his socials, which he had to leave up for a whole week before getting to take it down or change it back, or

2. Spending 24 hours in their dining center, getting an hour shaved off for each plate he finished. As long as each plate was at least a pound.

He knew he and his friends always chose wild punishments for being the loser, he just never thought that he’d be the loser.

It was a Friday, Pete wish his punishment could at least wait until Saturday but the dining center wasn’t open 24 hours on the weekend, and they were going on break starting Monday. And to rub salt in the wound, his friends had spent the last week hyping up some house party they couldn’t wait to get shitfaced at, a party Pete was also invited to. As long as he was out of the dining center in time.

Starting at noon(Pete would’ve started earlier, but his friends wouldn’t count any food they weren’t there to see get eaten, and the fact that one of them was willing to wake up by noon with him was a miracle in itself), Pete sat down in the dining center with his first plate and his drowsy-eyed friend across from him.

The party started at 9, but would go until the sun rose Saturday as the students celebrated their upcoming week off of school. At minimum, he would need to eat six or seven plates if he wanted to even make it to the party. At maximum, he’d need to eat 15 lbs to get there when his friends did. He told his friend as he took his first bite that they’d better make room in the uber because there was no way he would miss a second.

By his third plate, a few more of his friends had come out of their rooms to get breakfast for themselves and watch Pete work through his punishment.

“Still feelin hungry, Pete?” A friend asked as he sat down, his small waffle, sausage and juice a pitiful plate compared to Pete’s.

“Oh yeah. I told Asher this morning you’d better save me a spot in the uber tonight,” Pete retorted, his mouth full of pancake.

“Uber leaves at 9, Pete. That’s what, 20 plates you’d have to finish by then?”

“Fifteen,” Pete was able to answer after a deep swig of his second cup of coffee. His friend was never good at math.

“Well shit dude, good luck.”

. . .

As the hours drew closer to 9, so did Pete towards the end of his punishment. By 8pm, he had finished 12 plates. His pace had slowed significantly. His bites became smaller, his food grew colder as it took him longer to finish. His friends had come and gone, with at least on at the table with him at all times to make sure Pete wasn’t a cheater. By now, it was clear he was not.

As he finished his 12th plate, Pete groaned as he looked down to unbutton his jeans. It was clear that the young athlete had eaten 12 full plates of their dining center’s subpar food. If the stack of empty plates on the table wasn’t evidence enough, the bloated and stuffed gut that now sat heavily in Pete’s lap would suffice.

“Fuck man, you might actually do it,” Asher said as he returned from his dorm. He had left Pete by 1pm, only witnessing three plates before leaving his watch. Nine plates later, and Asher could only stare at Pete and the unrecognizable gut that now hung off him. “Nine, ten, eleven, twelve plates?” Asher commended after counting the stack of dishes on the table. “You look pregnant, dude. Pose so I can send a pic to the guys.”

“Fuck off,” Pete groaned as the weight of his gut pinned him to the booth. Undoing his jean button has soothed him briefly, but he knew he still had three plates to go. His pink Hollister t shirt clung tightly to his bloated belly as if he were in one of the wet t shirt contests that would be happening later tonight. Except instead of accentuating a nice chest or abs, instead it displayed a spherical, tight gut that began to peek from underneath as the pink shirt began to ride up the pink tender skin beneath.

“Too late,” Asher said as he snapped a pic of his engorged friend in the booth. Within minutes, all his friends had made it back down to the dining center to gawk at their pregnant-looking friend.

“Only 45 minutes left, Pete,” Cody had mocked, another one of his friends. “Still think you’ll fit in the uber with us?”

Pete could only groan and hiccup as the 12 plates of food tried to settle in his gut. His hands massaged as best they could over the tight fabric of his t shirt, but it didn’t help much. He wish he could spend the rest of the night rubbing his packed-solid gut, his abs cramping as they attempted to stretch around the growing mountain of his belly.

“I’ll cut you a deal,” said Cody, looking at the pile of plates and stacked cups. “I got three tall boys up in my dorm with your name all over them. We’ve already started drinking, it’s only fair you get to join us.”

Cody looked to Asher and the rest, and they nodded in agreement. There was no way Pete could finish three more plates in under an hour, but he could chug a few beers and get a buzz before the party started.

Thankfully, Cody’s dorm wasn’t far, and Pete only had to waddle up a few flights of stairs to get there. His gut hung heavy off him, ruining his center of gravity and forcing him to lean back as he walked, his heavy gut protruding off the front of him.

The Uber would arrive in 30 minutes, cutting Pete’s time awfully short. If he didn’t finish these tall boys soon, his friends would leave him to order his own uber, arriving awkwardly late and alone. He didn’t waste a second.

The first tall boy was easier than he thought, the beer seeming to slide into the few remaining gaps in his tight stomach, the carbonation able to release a few burps which he thought freed up more space. By the second, he could feel his gut swelling even further. His poor Hollister shirt now barely covered his belly button, now painfully deep as his gut continued to expand outward. His belches were wet and loud, but always answered with cheers from his friends. By the last, he thought he would pop.

Slowly, the beer trickled down Pete’s throat, one had on the can and the other desperately holding on to his belly as if it would hold it together. His jean button and zipper had fully blown out, his gut so swollen and heavy gravity was pushing it towards his groin. Most of his third beer had spilled past his lips and onto his chest, soaking into his shirt. Now he really was in a wet t shirt contest, he would’ve thought to himself, if he wasn’t so distracted with trying not to pop. With a final swallow and toss of his can, Pete unleashed a massive burp as his friends exploded into cheer.

*UUUUUURRRRRRAAAAAAAAPPPP*

With just 10 minutes to spare, Pete had won. Well, he still lost but as far and he and his friends cared, he won.

By the time they walked down to the car, Pete could feel his buzz. He got in the passenger seat(the only one big enough to fit his engorged gut) and they made it to the party on time.

Pete was immediately the talk of the party, everyone’s eyes glued to the massive belly that pulled his pink t shirt tight. Pete still couldn’t stop burping, his gut constantly groaning and gurgling as he digested. Each burp still received cheers.

“To Pete!” Cody and Asher yelled into the drunk crowd.

“To Pete!” The crowd responded.