softly soft softer

Shane looks up in surprise. He slowly licks the salt off his fingers as he takes in Ilya’s slutty little outfit. Muscular, toned thighs highlighted by the short shorts – legs currently reminding Shane that quad means four. He glances down at his own massive legs. What little he can see of them anyway. He can feel them though. Colossal tree trunks that are strong but also impossibly jiggly and gelatinous when he attempts to move them. Above the shorts, Ilya’s happy trail is peeking out, blazing a sexy path up his abdomen towards his still-cut abs.  He is wearing a short crop top that highlights his strong arms. Too bad it covers his pecs though. Shane’s husband is still as hot as when they were rookies, even hotter now maybe that he wasn’t constantly run ragged by the grueling hockey season. Ilya still worked out every day because he loved it. Shane was living a very different life now. 

“Ilya, baby, what are you talking about?” Shane inquires sweetly, playing along to see where this goes. 

“I am not Ilya” he replies, accent thick and voice deep, "I am Oleg. Personal trainer your husband hired to work you out. Now I see why. Look at you. Sprawled out on couch like massive, fat cat. Pitiful.” 

“That can’t be right. There must be some mistake. My husband would never do such a thing.” Shane bats back in his most professional press conference voice. 

“Because he is weak and gives in to you too easily. You are spoiled and fat. Your pathetic husband can never say no to you, but you need to get your fat ass off the couch and exercise. So he hired me. Now, time to get up, tubby.” 

Oleg moves the coffee table out of the way and clears a wide open space in front of the couch. He lays out Shane’s old  yoga mat that hasn’t been unrolled in years. 

Shane looks skeptically at the yoga mat and tilts his head up to look at Ilya, or should he say Oleg. 

Shane doesn’t move right away, and continues to admire the view of the beautiful man in front of him. 

Oleg growls, “Look at you. How did you get so big? Flabby thighs. Hips taking up half of couch. Heavy belly.” 

Shane can hear the lust creeping into his voice and smirks. 

“Oh this belly?” 

Shane leans back so his shirt rides up, exposing the bottom of his stomach roll. 

He starts rubbing and shaking it. Pulling his shirt up,  exposing more of the soft, jiggling flesh.  Ilya is practically drooling and fighting for his life to stay in character. 

Shane hefts the weighty mass, and smugly purrs, “My husband loves to feed me. He brings me meal after meal and tells me to keep eating. I’m so hungry now all the time because of him. You know, now that I mention it, I could really use a snack. Why don’t you go grab me something from the kitchen instead?”

Ilya takes a deep breath and shakes out his arms. He’s not giving up, he’s locking in. 

“You heard me, Жирдяй. Up.” Oleg gives a short blast of his whistle which apparently wasn’t just for decoration. 

Shane sighs. He doesn’t want to get up. He’s so heavy now. He’s comfortable where he is and if he’s being honest with himself, it is getting harder to move around. It’s easier to stay on the couch. Ilya always brings him everything he needs anyway. Ilya takes care of him. Ilya worships every inch of him. Ilya brings him a near-constant supply of food. Ilya has put many of these pounds onto Shane’s body with his love and attention. 

Shane still doesn’t move. Oleg goes in for the kill.

“Shane Hollander. Canada’s Golden Boy. Generational hockey talent. Winner of 5 Stanley Cups, and 3 Olympic medals. Too fat and out of shape to get himself off couch. I never thought I’d see that.” 

Shane gives a small whimper and feels himself start to get hard. 

Oleg holds out a hand. “Okey. Time to stand. I will go easy on you to start and help you get your fat ass off of couch. Your husband hired me to do job. I do job. I am very expensive rate.” He winks. 

Shane realizes Ilya isn’t going to let him off the hook and relents. He shifts his weight forward and puts his arm out to meet Oleg’s. Together they heave Shane off the couch with a grunt. 

“Ok, first thing, get down on yoga mat. Hands and knees” 

Shane looks around. Realizes that all of the furniture is moved and he’s going to have to get down totally unsupported. He bends at the waist and feels his belly bunch up, compressing his lungs. He puts his hands out for balance and then lowers one knee down and then the other. He falls forward with a thud and catches himself on his hands. 

He settles in on his hands and knees. He feels the weight of his belly pulled down, experiencing a new orientation with gravity. His belly doesn’t quite touch the floor, but it is thinking about it. His back lodges a formal protest over the situation. 

Oleg comes and stands behind him. Takes in the view of Shane’s ample ass. 

“So round, so fat. I see why your husband hired me.” 

Oleg puts a foot on Shane’s ass and gives a shove. Shane’s body rocks forward and sets off a tidal wave of rippling fat. Shane gasps with the sensation and Oleg barks a laugh in delight. 

“Is this what he sees when he fucks you? You on all fours, jiggling and shaking all over. So plush. No wonder he made you so big. He must feed you day and night. I see why.” 

Oleg leans down and grabs a handful of Shane’s hanging belly. “So soft. So heavy,” he lifts and kneads it gently in his large hands.. 

Shane gasps and then feigns offense, “Excuse me, Oleg. Hands off. I’m a married man.”

“Okey. We start with pushups” 

Without consciously realizing it, Shane’s decades of muscle memory kicked in and he tried to extend his body out for a full pushup. He isn’t prepared for the full weight of this version of his body and his arms immediately give out under the strain. 

Oleg clucked his tongue. “Tsk tsk. Mr. Hollander doesn’t know what a fatty he is now. Thinks he can still do regular pushups. Why don’t you try again on your knees.” 

“I can think of something else to do on my knees.” Shane offers seductively, still vainly trying anything he can think of to avoid this torture. 

“You just said you are married man”

“My husband doesn’t need to know” 

“You will not get out of this workout that easily, Mr Hollander-Rozanov. Now, pushups!” 

Shane straightens up his arms and wriggles his knees back under him into the table top position. He tries again to do a kneeling pushup. Even with the reduced range of motion his arms are struggling to hold up his mass. He bends his elbows an inch and then straightens back up.   

“Good. Mr. Hollander. That was pathetic, but good effort for your current condition. Now move to downward dog.” 

Shane sighs and pushes up, straightening his arms and legs. He feels the weight of his torso shift forward again. The fat of his neck and chest pushing up towards his chin, choking him a little bit. His feet spread further apart than his pelvis width in order to accommodate the girth of his thighs. His marshmallowy legs bearing the weight of his enormous ass. He holds the position for a few measly seconds before his arms and legs start shaking from the effort. He releases the pose and flops down onto the floor face first. His arms feel like jello and there are beads of sweat on his forehead. 

“Look at you. There is documentary about you doing yoga. Now you can’t do single pose for more than a moment. Ok, get up. Time for cardio.” 

“Cardio?!?” Shane gasps out from his prone position, “..and the documentary was about the cottage” he mumbles indignantly into the mat

“Yes yes, sexy house, and sexy man doing sexy yoga. Is very good show. I’ve seen many times. Now, cardio.  Step 1 - get up off the floor. Step 2, we will walk.” 

Shane groans where he lays. Getting up is going to be a bitch. At his current size the floor is the enemy. His life is carefully arranged around never interacting with the floor. He can be sitting, standing, walking, or lying down in bed. Sitting - most of the time, lying down - at night only, standing or walking - only when it can’t be avoided. Floor? Never floor. Reaching and bending are bad enough – he has Ilya and grabber tools to get things off the floor – but to physically be on the floor? With this whole body? And get back up to his feet unsupported? Nightmare. 

Oleg makes an impatient noise and taps his foot. Shane is still lying face down on the ground. His large belly is squashed underneath him, and his inflated posterior sticking up in the air. Oleg gives Shane’s double-wide ass a hearty slap and smiles watching it jiggle.  

Shane thinks about his plan of attack here. This is going to suck. He shuffles his meaty oversized thighs until he has them pulled back somewhat underneath him. This compresses his belly between his torso and knees into something resembling a suffocating child’s pose. With a grunt of effort he raises his chest and kicks out one leg into a kneeling lunge, reversing the sequence of movements he took to get down to the floor. The pressure on his kneecap is immense. He throws his arms out to the side for balance, but quickly lowers them because his arms are too heavy to cantilever out like that for long. He places one hand on his knee and his other arm he holds out to Oleg, pleading. He sees Oleg’s face briefly soften into Ilya’s – who relents and grabs Shane’s arm to help him up. Between the two of them they haul Shane to his feet. Shane is sweating and panting from the effort.

He starts to move back towards his broken-in spot on the couch but Oleg stops him. Oleg places his hand on Shane’s arm, and even though his large Russian hands barely go a third of the way around Shane’s inflated bicep he gets enough of a firm grip to steer Shane towards the door to the basement. 

Shane hasn’t been down the stairs to their home gym in who knows how long. Stairs are up there with Floor in the category of “things to be avoided at all cost.” Shane doesn’t do stairs anymore, but Oleg doesn’t relent and the two of them make their way across the room and slowly down towards the lower floor of the house. Shane has to turn a little sideways and grip the railing for dear life in order to maneuver his heavy body down the steps without being able to see his feet. 

They finally make it to the treadmill. Shane feels like he has already run a marathon. He climbs up. The sides of the machine lightly brush against the widest part of his hips and love handles. Oleg turns on the machine to a slow pace and Shane starts to move - shuffling his feet and rocking his hips with the motion. 

It only takes a few minutes until Shane is gasping for breath. This is the longest continuous walking he’s done in ages. The thing about treadmills is they just keep going. The pace is slow, but relentless. Shane is used to stopping and resting, but the treadmill doesn’t let him take breaks. The belt just keeps turning without end. His thighs are chafing, his lungs are burning, his knees are throbbing. 

Oleg has been keeping up a steady string of commentary, cycling between encouraging, teasing, threatening, and congratulating. 

“Out of breath already? Disgraceful, Hollander.” 

“Good job, half a kilometer done. That’s still basically nothing, but it’s a lot for someone hauling around as much fat as you.”

“You better keep going or I will have to tell your husband that you get no treats for a week.”

“Why ::huff:: did :: pant:: my ::huff:: husband:: hire you again?”

“Because doctor says you need to move more. Neither you nor your hopelessly soft husband Ilya will make it happen. So, I am here. To do what must be done,” a flicker of real concern briefly cracks the mask. 

Later in bed, Shane is relaxing after his big workout, and Ilya has returned to dote on his tired, achy husband. He brought water, a protein bar, and ice packs for Shane’s knees. Ilya is massaging Shane’s sore feet when Shane asks where he came up with the name Oleg. Ilya chuckles and looks briefly toward the ceiling. “That was the name of the meanest hockey coach I ever had back in Russia. Real bastard. Raised in the Soviet hockey system. Would make us skate until we puked on the ice. I thought he would be cold enough to withstand your charms” 

“My charms?”

“Oh yes. You are very charming and sexy and boring and impossible to say no to,” Ilya laughs boyishly, planting kisses along Shane’s gorgeously overfed tummy.

“Look at this,” he says, massaging and squeezing the plush fat of stomach and hip and side roll, “It’s all so irresistible. You’ve grown so big for me, moy lyubimiy,” he hesitated before continuing, “but it would probably be good if you were a little more mobile. I worry about you when I’m not here. Or when I have bad days. So, Oleg.” 

Shane looks at his gorgeous, adoring husband. Takes in the curls in his hair and the way his lean, muscular body contrasts so sharply with Shane’s pliant softness. He knows Ilya would do anything and everything for him. Even dress up and play act as a soviet hockey coach turned personal trainer. 

"What?" Ilya asks. "You want more?"

"No," Shane says.

"Ok. Then I will clear."

Ilya gets to his feet and moves around the table like he's going to take Shane’s plate.

"Ilya," Shane says again.

Standing over Shane, Ilya lets his smile spread slowly, languid as a patient predator. His steady attention making Shane blush.

"You need something?"

Shane glares up at him, then looks quickly away.

"No."

Ilya gets closer. Takes Shane’s chin in his hand, twists his face back towards him.

"I think you do."

His fingers squeeze Shane's mouth into even more of a pout.

"I think," Ilya says, making sure to be slow in the way he drags his eyes down to Shane's tummy, to savour the sight of it, so chubby and well-fed and so obviously full, "that you need me to say, good job, Hollander, eating all that food."

He's sure to load the words with plenty of teasing condescention. Shane tries to wriggle out of his grip.

"Fuck off, asshole," he says.

Ilya grins.

"You really think, Shane, that I am going to give you praise simply for having dinner? Something everyone in the world does literally every day?"

This is the part where Shane could say that of course he thinks Ilya is going to do that. Why wouldn't he, when Ilya has done just that for months, ever since Shane first began to relax his diet. Every generous serving, every decadent dessert, Ilya was sure to shower him with praise, rubbing the slight (and then, as the months passed, not-so-slight) curve of his belly, sometimes getting on his knees right there at the table to put his mouth on Shane's dick like a reward. Training Shane, practically, to associate eating to excess with earning Ilya's approval.

But his husband - his wonderful, stubborn, complicated husband - has never met a desire he was able to clearly vocalise, so he's not going to say any of this.

Ilya finally releases Shane. Picks up his plate, grabs his own, and is heading for the kitchen when Shane says, "Wait."

Ilya pauses, turns. Raises an eyebrow expectantly.

Shane looks not dissimilar to when he's about to step out on the ice before a game. A kind of jaw set, eyes blazing look that means all the Centaurs' rookies give him a wide berth during warm ups.

"I changed my mind," Shane says. "I do want more."

Ilya takes a sharp breath. Two helpings has become pretty standard at mealtimes for Shane. But three?

Ilya's tongue darts out to lick his lips.

"Of course," he says. "I will get you more."

As he dishes out more pasta from the pan on the stove, Ilya can feel the eager thrum of his own heartbeat in his ears, his fingers, at his throat. He has no idea why it affects him like this, watching Shane eat. Maybe it's the idea that he - Ilya - did this. That his encouragement has taken physical form, in the extra fat around Shane's waist, testing the hems of his t shirts and the buttons of his pants. That Shane eats as much as he wants to, and then eats some more, the extra purely for Ilya's sake.

Ilya takes a little pity of Shane with a smaller portion than the first two, but it's still an incredible amount on top of what Shane's eaten already. Something Shane seems to realise himself when Ilya sets it in front of him, judging by the way his eyes go a little wide, and the way, probably without thinking, his hand rubs a few times over his pudgy tummy, as if testing its fullness. But when he meets Ilya's gaze, he looks determined. He picks up his fork and he eats.

Ilya sits. He watches. The first third or so of the plate seems to go down without too much trouble, but then Shane starts to slow. His cheeks are pink, he's a little breathless. When he looks up at Ilya, his eyes are glazed.

"Getting full, malysh?"

Shane makes a small mmph sound. Ilya feels a little feral, leaning forward until he can see where Shane's shirt has ridden up to reveal a strip belly, spilling over the waistband of his too-tight jeans.

"But you're going to eat it all," Ilya says. "Because I want you to. And you want to be good for me, don't you?"

"Fuck," Shane says, sounding almost as dazed as he does mid-fuck when he's already come twice and Ilya asks him for another. "Yes. Please."

The please sends a jolt of arousal through Ilya - the idea that Shane is begging to be allowed to keep stuffing himself full of pasta. The look Ilya gives Shane, surely one of unbridled lust, seems to be enough to push Shane past the halfway point, through until there's maybe a quarter of the plate left.

When he starts to flag again, Ilya gets to his feet.

"You need me to feed you the rest?"

Shane drops his fork, collapsing back in his chair. He nods helplessly. A hiccup sets the fat of his tummy jiggling.

Ilya picks up the plate and stands between Shane's legs. Shane opens his mouth obediently in a way that makes Ilya light-headed, makes him want to stick his tongue, his fingers, his cock, the whole rest of the pan of spaghetti inside.

Shane whimpers around the last few bites. But he finishes. Ilya can't quite believe he finishes. Ilya's lucky he doesn't drop the plate in his haste to set it down and get his trembling hands on Shane's belly, running them down to pop open the button on his pants, and then rubbing broad circles that emphasise how round it is, how utterly stuffed, proud proof of Shane's every indulgence.

"So good," Ilya says. "Ate so well for me. Look how full you got, such a good job." No trace of his earlier sarcasm. His words, his touches, are reverent.

"Ilya," Shane whines.

"You want your reward?"

Shane's pupils are blown wide, his lips parted. Ilya leans in, almost but not quite close enough to kiss him.

"There is cheesecake in the fridge," Ilya says. "I will get you a slice. Then I will get on my knees and I will blow you and you will not come until you finish it, yes?"

He runs his fingers gently through Shane's hair, petting him like a dog. Shane closes his eyes and leans into the touch.

"Ok. Yes."

Ilya smiles. Pats Shane's cheek. These days even his face is rounder, softer. He's so beautiful.

Within six months of admitting that Shane was into Ilya getting fatter, Ilya put on the remaining 25 pounds to get him to their soft limit of 300. The whole time Shane was worried that the second Ilya stepped on the scale and saw how fat Shane had made him, he’d want out, he’d be done with it. But that was not what happened.

Ilya peered over his belly, empty like it only was when he first woke up, saw his weight, stepped off, and said “my next soft limit is 400, I want to break the scale.”

Shane had then immediately shoved him to the bed and rode him, grabbing at handfuls of fat that he had put there.

Shane was having a hard time keeping 400 pound Ilya out of his mind now, though. It had been a few weeks, and a few pounds, since the renegotiation and all Shane could think about was where the next hundred pounds would settle on Ilya’s body.

He was mostly belly right now, a product of several stuffings a week. But Shane knew that as he gained more and more his weight would redistribute. His rolls that Shane was already obsessed with would get thicker and deeper, his belly would sag lower and lower until it started to cover his thighs even when he was standing up. Ilya was developing a gorgeous little roll on the top of his thigh that Shane was absolutely obsessed with. Ilya held him down there for what seemed like hours while Shane licked and nibbled at the roll. Ilya had said he was so good at eating him out that Shane had almost cum in his boxers. Fuck, Ilya would probably start to waddle soon with the way his thighs were plumping up.

Meal times were getting harder and harder for Shane to get through. It was his own fault really, he didn’t need to fill Ilya’s plate that full and then fill him another plate equally as full. But the way Ilya’s eyes got glassy and hooded when he finally set his fork down was addicting to Shane. He needed it. And he knew that every plate was getting Ilya closer and closer to Shane’s perverted little fantasy. There had been a few times that Shane had gotten so turned on just thinking about Ilya in a hundred pounds that he’d had to excuse himself from the table to go calm down.

He would feel conflicted about how hot he found all of this if Ilya didn’t somehow find it hotter. Ilya had gotten more vocal about his own feelings towards his weight and especially towards Shane feeding him.

Every plate Shane put down in front of him was met with “you feed me so well solnyshko, making me nice and fat just for you.” Or a similar comment that left Shane a bit dazed. They had also introduced teasing now that Ilya was very comfortable with their dynamic. All of the new additions were leading to them having the best sex of their entire relationship.

Ilya had sat across from him, eyes watching the TV intently, making comments and drinking beer, or more likely his 6th beer. Shane just nodded along at the comments and tried to ignore the way Ilya’s wife beater was starting to creep up and reveal a tan strip of belly. In the years since they had retired, Ilya had put on a bit of a beer belly after not changing his eating and drinking habits despite engaging in considerably less physical activity than when he played professional hockey.

About 30lbs in, Shane realized how turned on he was by his husband’s new weight and it had become a bit of a thing in the bedroom.

But right now was something else, he knew that Ilya wasn’t trying to work him up, it was just that damn wife beater should have been retired about 15lbs ago and the bloat from the beer only made matters worse for Shane. Especially after Ilya had stood up in surprise at a clip Shane hadn’t even been paying attention to, his tank top revealing even more including a slight jiggle as he stood. Shane diverted his gaze quickly, folding his hands in his lap to hide that he was already half hard.

“Shane, did you see that?! Holy shit-“ Ilya looked over at Shane whose eyes were not fixated on the screen but on his own hands in his lap, his cheeks flushed. “Shanya, what is on your mind?”

Shane looked up, cheeks flushing deeper. “Oh um, nothing, just tired.”

Ilya raised an eyebrow, eyes flitting down to Shane’s lap where his hands were strategically placed. “What’s really on your mind?”

Mouth dry, Shane didn’t say anything, he only swallowed thickly. “You,” he muttered quietly.

Ilya paused the video, interest piqued. “What about me?”

His eyes dropped to where Ilya’s belly hung out of his shirt, heart hammering in his chest,

“You know you should have retired that tank top about 15 pounds ago,” Shane said, trying to stop himself from moaning at the sheer idea of Ilya outgrowing his clothes.