Carl came into the world roaring, all nine pounds fourteen ounces of him, covered in a fine dark lanugo that the nurses had never seen on a newborn. By the time he took his first steps, he was the size of a three-year-old. By puberty, he was shaving twice a day and shopping in the big-and-tall section meant for grown men twice his age.
At eighteen, Carl was a monument. Three hundred and fifty pounds packed onto a six-foot-four frame, not fat but dense, heavy, powerful. His chest was a carpet of black hair that spilled out of every collar he owned. His arms were thick with fur and muscle, ending in hands that could palm a basketball. The beard came in full and dark, reaching his collarbone by the time he graduated high school, and when he spoke, that baritone rumbled up from somewhere deep in his gut, a sound that made construction workers step aside and cops ask "yes sir" before they asked for license and registration.
He found his tribe early: the biker bar on Route 9, where he rolled up on a rebuilt '78 Shovelhead at sixteen and never got carded. The leather jacket he wore had been broken in by men who died in it; Carl filled it out better than they had. He was the youngest guy at the bar, but nobody treated him that way. He drank whiskey neat and stared down anyone who looked at him wrong.
The only surprise, when he finally admitted it to himself at nineteen, was that he didn't want the women who threw themselves at him. He wanted men. Specifically, he wanted men he could hold, men he could protect, men he could feed.
Myles walked into the wrong bar on a Thursday night. Twenty-five years old, five-foot-six, maybe one-forty soaking wet, with skin like porcelain and not a hair on his body except the chestnut mop on his head. He was looking for his friend's bachelor party and found himself surrounded by bearded, tattooed men who looked like they ate concrete for breakfast.
Carl saw him from across the room, frozen by the pool table, clutching his messenger bag like a shield.
"You're in the wrong place," Carl said, appearing beside him, his shadow swallowing the smaller man whole.
Myles looked up. Way up. "I... I think I am."
"Come on." Carl put a hand on his shoulder—not gentle, not rough, just claiming him—and guided him toward the door. But at the threshold, Myles stopped.
"Wait," he said, looking at Carl like he was seeing something he'd been searching for. "I don't want to leave."
They started dating. Carl was twenty, technically the younger man, but age was just a number and dominance was gravity. Carl decided everything. He decided they'd see the late movie, not the early one. He decided they'd ride up the coast on Saturday, Myles clinging to his back, arms wrapped around that barrel chest, face buried in fur that smelled like engine grease and cedar. He decided they'd eat at the steakhouse, not the bistro, and when the waitress came, Carl ordered for both of them.
"Two ribeyes," he said, not opening the menus. "Rare. Baked potatoes with everything. Onion rings to start."
Myles opened his mouth to protest—he'd been thinking salad, maybe soup—but Carl looked at him. Just looked at him, those dark eyes steady under the heavy brow, and Myles felt something in his stomach flutter and sink. He closed his mouth.
It became their ritual. Carl ordered, and Myles ate. At first, it was intimidating, those massive portions Carl deemed appropriate. Myles would slow down halfway through, stomach straining against his belt, and Carl would pause, fork halfway to his own mouth, and just watch him. No words. Just that heavy gaze, expectant, patient, undeniable.
Myles picked up his fork. He cleaned his plate.
They fell into a rhythm. Carl grew him. It started subtle—an extra side of mashed potatoes, the large shake instead of the medium, dessert that Carl "didn't want to go to waste." But Myles was young, his metabolism eager, and the calories stuck. Five pounds became ten. Ten became twenty.
By their first anniversary, Myles had crossed two hundred pounds. His clothes fit tight, then not at all. Carl took him shopping, picking out larger sizes, holding up shirts that would accommodate the softness spreading across Myles's middle. Where Carl was hard muscle under fur, Myles was becoming plush, yielding, a cushion of flesh that grew more pronounced every month.
Carl fed him personally sometimes, late at night, ordering pizza after the bars closed, feeding Myles slice after slice while the smaller man reclined against him, back pressed to that hairy wall of chest. Carl's hands would roam over Myles's belly, feeling it swell with food, smooth and tight and growing.
"More," Carl would rumble, and Myles would obey.
By twenty-six, Myles had passed three hundred pounds. Then three-fifty. He was bigger than Carl now, objectively larger, a soft mountain of a man who waddled when he walked and couldn't fit into restaurant booths. He had to special-order his clothes online, tents of fabric that draped over his massive belly, his thick thighs, his heavy arms that jiggled when he moved.
But his skin remained smooth. Not a hair on his chest, his back, his arms. He was pale and soft and hairless as a baby, a stark contrast to the beast who fed him, who ruled him, whose fur was everywhere—on the couch, in the bed, clogging the shower drain.
People stared when they went out. The huge hairy biker holding the door for the even larger smooth man, guiding him with a hand on the small of his back, steering him toward their table. Carl still ordered for them both, but now he ordered more for Myles than for himself—appetizers, entrees, extra sides, dessert. The waitstaff would bring the food, eyes wide, as Myles sat there, belly pressing against the table edge, hands resting on that vast expanse of smooth flesh, waiting for Carl's nod before he began.
Carl loved it. He loved the contrast, the submission wrapped in expansion. Myles was bigger than him now, could have crushed him with his weight, but he never would. He waited for Carl's permission to eat, to stop, to speak. He grew because Carl wanted him to grow, and he would keep growing, smooth and pale and enormous, the soft counterpart to Carl's hairy dominance, a testament to who owned whom.
At night, Carl would run his rough hands over Myles's belly, feeling the warmth, the give, the sheer size of what he'd created. Myles would moan, pushing into the touch, bigger than his master but utterly possessed by him, growing larger with every meal, every order, every silent look that said: *Eat. More. Mine.*
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