#fat-gain

When Daniel left the Army, he thought civilian life would be easier. Four years in uniform had left him with a body of carved muscle, the kind of frame people expected from someone who had lived on push-ups, rucksack marches, and barracks meals. He had the build of a man molded by discipline: broad shoulders, a tight chest, lean arms roped with veins, and a trim waistline that had never known softness.

He carried that body proudly into his first civilian job — a warehouse owned by a man named Grant.

Grant was older, mid-forties, with salt-and-pepper hair cropped military short and a chest like a tank. He wasn’t lean the way Daniel was. Instead, his mass had years on it — the kind of bulk you built over decades of lifting heavy boxes, iron plates, and taking punches from life. His belly had grown a little, pressing forward under his black company t-shirt, but his arms were still enormous, his chest still thick slabs of power, and his stance carried the weight of authority.

When Daniel shook his hand that first morning, something sparked between them.

“You served?” Grant asked, gripping Daniel’s palm with crushing force.

“Four years. 2-327th,” Daniel replied, proud.

Grant’s eyebrows lifted. “No kidding. I commanded it back during my years, over twenty.”

The respect was instant. The connection undeniable. But beneath Grant’s steady gaze there was something else — a flicker of envy, maybe, at Daniel’s fresh, tight build. The kind of body Grant had worn once, long ago, before time and muscle memory had filled him out into something bigger, heavier.

At first, the older man respected Daniel’s drive. The kid was strong, quick, eager. He could unload a truck in record time, climb shelves like a gymnast, toss crates like they were nothing. He followed orders like second nature, every “yes, sir” and “on it” sharp with military crispness.

But as days passed, Grant’s eyes lingered. He started to think Daniel had it too easy. The kid had spent four years and quit. Grant had bled for twenty. He’d sacrificed youth, friends, time, even his body. Looking at Daniel’s lean waist and hard chest stirred a strange mix of admiration and resentment.

So Grant decided to change him.

Not by making him tougher. Not by pushing him harder. By softening him. By taking that proud, soldier’s body and burying it under comfort, food, and stillness.

It began subtly.

“Desk job today,” Grant ordered one morning, tossing a clipboard at Daniel. “Let the others handle the trucks. You just check inventory.”

Daniel shrugged. He was good at following orders. Hours at a desk didn’t faze him, though he fidgeted with the boredom. To make it easier, Grant started bringing snacks — sandwiches, donuts, greasy bags of takeout left right on the desk.

“Eat up,” Grant said with a grin. “You’re burning energy just being here.”

Daniel hesitated at first, but hunger and habit got the better of him. He munched as he worked, brushing crumbs from his tight t-shirts, not noticing the slow, steady creep.

The next week, it happened again. And again. Soon, Daniel wasn’t just snacking — he was eating full meals at the desk, Grant leaning on the doorframe, watching him chew with a pleased, knowing look.

When Daniel mentioned the gym, Grant interfered.

“You heading out? Nah, stay — I got beers in the office fridge. Let’s talk about your future here.”

When Daniel tried to push back, Grant insisted:

“You work hard enough during the day. Relax. A man doesn’t need to punish himself every night.”

Slowly, Daniel’s routine cracked. One skipped workout turned into two. Then a week. Then a month.

The results came creeping.

The first sign was his pants. They pinched at the waist, leaving faint red lines by the time he unbuckled at night. Then his t-shirts, once loose, began clinging at the midsection, fabric stretching across his torso in ways it never had before. His chest lost its firm outline, rounding slightly, while his stomach — once flat as a board — began pressing forward, a small but undeniable swell.

Daniel noticed. He tried to take control, skipping lunch or jogging in the mornings. But Grant always noticed too — and had a counter ready.

“You look exhausted,” Grant would say, clapping him on the back. “Sit. Eat. You’ll thank me.”

He’d slide a sub across the table, still warm, the smell irresistible. Or he’d show up with a stack of takeout containers, insisting Daniel “help him finish them off.”

Daniel’s willpower melted under the older man’s gaze. That voice of authority, the same tone a sergeant might use in the field, carried weight. Daniel obeyed. Always.

Months passed. The changes accelerated.

Daniel’s face softened, his jawline swallowed by a rounder fullness. His chest, once proud, sagged slightly under his shirts, bouncing when he leaned forward. His belly rounded into a visible paunch, pushing into his belt and threatening to spill over. His arms thickened, but not with corded muscle — with softer weight, pressing against his sleeves until they stretched.

At first, Daniel felt shame. He’d run a hand over his stomach at night, frowning at the new curve. He remembered the soldier he had been — lean, proud, hard. Now he grunted when he bent over, felt his thighs rub when he climbed stairs, wheezed after unloading a single pallet.

But every time he was worried about the change, Grant was there.

“Relax, kid,” the older man would say, smirking as he passed him another plate. “You’ve earned this. You’re not in the Army anymore. You’re mine now. My man. My worker. My soldier.”

Daniel should have fought it. He should have resisted.

Instead, he leaned back in the breakroom chair, belly pressing firm against his shirt, opening his mouth for a next bite.

By the end of the year, Daniel was unrecognizable.

The lean soldier had vanished, buried under sixty pounds of new bulk. His gut weighed heavily in his lap when he sat, round and undeniable. His chest had softened into thick, heavy slabs that swayed when he moved. His arms and thighs were massive, but clumsy, cushioned with fat. His uniform strained at every seam, his belt long since abandoned.

Grant watched him with open pride. Every jiggle, every stretch of fabric, every heavy grunt of effort was proof of his success.

And Daniel?

He still felt flashes of embarrassment, especially when he caught his reflection in the warehouse mirrors — a soft, bloated version of the soldier he had been. But when he looked at Grant, saw the hunger and satisfaction in the older man’s eyes, the shame burned away.

He was still following orders. Still serving, in his own way. Only this time, his commander wasn’t Uncle Sam.

It was Grant.

And Daniel obeyed without question.

Daniel had become a contradiction. He still moved with the ingrained precision of a soldier — back straight, head up, “yes, sir” quick on his tongue — but the soldier’s body was gone. In its place was a heavier, slower version of himself. His belly now pressed against the desk when he leaned forward, the buttons of his shirt fighting a losing battle. His thighs spread wide on the chair, his chest sagged heavily with every breath, and his face carried the fullness of too many late-night meals.

Sometimes, when no one was around, Daniel would lift his shirt and stare at the mound that now defined him. His hand would run across the curve of his gut, the way it pushed out unapologetically. He’d shake his head, embarrassed at how far he’d fallen — but then he’d remember the way Grant looked at him. That hungry, approving stare. That smirk that said, Good soldier. Keep going.

Grant made sure Daniel never forgot.

“Look at you,” Grant said one night after hours, leaning in the breakroom doorway while Daniel finished the last of a loaded sub. “Four years of Army rations and they couldn’t fill you out like this. Took me six months.”

Daniel laughed nervously, cheeks hot, but the sound of pride in Grant’s voice struck deep.

The shift from boss-and-worker to something more happened quietly, almost naturally.

It started with Grant’s casual touches. A hand on Daniel’s shoulder, lingering longer than necessary. A pat on the back that slid into a squeeze of his softened side. Grant would brush past him in the tight hallways, his palm grazing over Daniel’s broadening hip, his voice low in his ear.

“You’re becoming a real presence around here,” Grant murmured once, his hand firm against Daniel’s back. “Heavy. Solid. Just like me.”

Daniel shivered at the words.

The older man’s approval worked on him like an order — irresistible, absolute. Every time Grant fed him, every time he told Daniel to sit down and eat instead of moving crates, every time he caught Daniel skipping the gym and grinned knowingly, Daniel felt himself surrendering more and more.

He wasn’t just gaining weight anymore. He was obeying.

One night, after a long shift, Grant insisted Daniel stay late.

They sat side by side at the warehouse desk, a pile of pizza boxes between them. Daniel, already stuffed, leaned back with a groan, his belly straining against his shirt, a strip of skin peeking where the fabric had ridden up. Grant sat close — too close — their arms brushing as they ate.

“You’re filling out fast,” Grant said, his voice low, almost intimate. His eyes flicked down to Daniel’s belly, then back up. “Starting to look like a man who belongs under my command.”

Daniel swallowed hard. The food, the closeness, the words — it all mixed into a dizzy heat in his chest.

“You… like seeing me like this?” he asked, unsure, his voice rough.

Grant didn’t answer with words. Instead, he placed his hand firmly on Daniel’s gut, fingers sinking into the soft flesh. He gave it a squeeze, a testing grip, and Daniel’s breath caught in his throat.

“I like seeing you become mine,” Grant said finally.

The words sent a rush through Daniel’s body stronger than any drill sergeant’s bark ever had.

From that night on, Daniel stopped pretending to resist.

He leaned into the food, the stillness, the indulgence. He let himself grow heavier, softer, rounder under Grant’s watchful eye. Every pound was proof of loyalty. Every stretch mark, every torn seam, every groan as he shifted his weight in his chair was a medal of service to the only commander that mattered now.

The shame still flickered sometimes — but Grant was always there to smother it.

“You’re not weak,” Grant told him, gripping his wide shoulders. “You’re stronger than you know. Takes guts to give yourself over like this. Takes discipline to keep eating, even when you’re full.”

Daniel believed him. He wanted to believe him. And when he looked down at his swelling belly, round and undeniable, he didn’t just feel soft. He felt claimed.

It was Grant who suggested the beard.

“You don’t need to keep shaving anymore, soldier,” he said one morning, eyeing the shadow of stubble on Daniel’s jaw. “That was Army discipline. You’re out now. Time to let it go.”

Daniel hesitated — shaving had been habit, ritual, regulation drilled into him for years. A clean-shaven face was part of the uniform. But Grant’s voice carried the same weight it always did, that tone of command Daniel couldn’t ignore.

“Grow it out,” Grant continued, his smirk widening. “You’ll look like a man who’s lived. Like one of us. Besides…” his hand slid down to squeeze Daniel’s softening middle, “…it’ll suit the new you.”

The beard came in thick, dark, and commanding. At first, it was a cover — an attempt to mask the softening of his jawline, to hide the second chin forming as the pounds piled on. But soon, it became part of the transformation.

It gave Daniel a new kind of presence. Heavy and broad, belly stretching his shirts, chest thick with hair, his body was no longer the polished soldier’s machine it once had been. Now it was rugged, raw, and undeniably masculine in its bulk.

Grant loved it. He’d run his hands over Daniel’s chest, the coarse hair beneath his palms, tracing the swell of flesh that had overtaken the tight, cut muscle. He’d tug at the beard, grinning, saying, “Now you look like a man who’s lived. Like one of us. Not some fresh recruit. My veteran.”

And Daniel, flushed and heavy under his commander’s gaze, felt himself accept the changes. There was no more semblance of the recruit he had been. The beard, the belly, the bulk, all of it was part of the man he was becoming under Grant’s guidance.

That was the final turning point.

The soldier who once prided himself on a hard jaw and a cut, lean frame was buried — swallowed under heavy bulk, soft flesh, and a coarse beard that announced him as something entirely new. Not a boy fresh out of service. Not a recruit desperate to impress. But a man who had given himself over completely to the life Grant had laid out for him.

And Grant adored it.

Grant couldn’t keep his eyes — or his hands — off Daniel. In the warehouse, when Daniel leaned back in his chair, belly pressing forward against the desk, beard thick over the softened swell of his cheeks, Grant would pause mid-task just to look. Sometimes, he’d smirk. Sometimes, he’d clap Daniel on the shoulder, his hand inevitably sliding down to give the heavy side of his belly a squeeze. And sometimes, when the warehouse was quiet, he’d simply stand there in the doorway, arms crossed, pride radiating from his stance.

Daniel didn’t need words to know what Grant was thinking. That’s mine. I did this.

By the second year in the warehouse, Daniel had doubled the size he’d been when he first walked in. His transformation was impossible to ignore.

The taut Army build had been replaced by sheer mass. His belly had surged forward into a great, heavy dome, wide and thick, spilling past his belt and resting warmly against his thighs when he sat. The soft curve of it stretched his shirts to their absolute limit — every button clinging for dear life, seams groaning with the weight they were forced to contain.

His chest had thickened, too, no longer sharp muscle but broad shelves of meat, heavy with a mix of muscle and fat. They rose and fell with each breath, bouncing softly when he shifted in his chair. His arms, once cut with veins, had buried themselves under layers of bulk, rounding out thick and powerful but slow, cushioned with fat. His thighs spread wide on any chair he took, brushing against the arms, forcing him to sit back with a heavy groan.

Even his face had changed. The beard framed round cheeks, the fullness of a double chin hidden but never denied. His eyes sparkled when he smiled, his cheeks dimpling under the thickness, and Grant swore the beard made him look more powerful, more seasoned — like a man who had lived and thrived, not one who clung to the past.

And through it all, Daniel’s body grew hairier, rougher, more masculine. His chest sprouted a thick pelt, curling across the mounds of flesh, a tactile reminder of just how much of a man he had become. Grant loved to bury his hand in it, tugging Daniel’s shirt up to stroke the dense hair across his belly and chest, watching the younger man flush with heat.

Daniel noticed the stares when they went out — delivery drivers, customers, even the younger warehouse workers who whispered to each other about how much their desk man had ballooned. Shirts rode up no matter how large they bought them, pants cut into his waist, his gait heavy and slow as his thighs rubbed with every step.

But the shame was gone.

Where once he’d fidgeted, tugging at the hem of his shirt to cover exposed skin, now he leaned back and let it show. If his belly pushed out past his buttons, he shrugged. If his thighs stretched seams, he smirked. If his shirt rode high enough to flash hairy skin above his beltline, he let it.

Because Grant wanted it. And Grant made him want it too.

“Look at you,” Grant would growl in the office after hours, pulling Daniel close, his hand sinking deep into the heavy swell of Daniel’s belly. “My big man. My prize.”

Daniel would grin, beard brushing Grant’s ear, chest heaving as he leaned into the touch.

“I’m yours,” he’d murmur back. “All yours.”

And he meant it.

Their relationship grew as naturally as Daniel’s waistline. It started with touches, then kisses stolen in the back office, then nights together after shifts where the food and the closeness blurred into something deeper.

Grant was insatiable — always wanting to see Daniel eat, always watching with sharp, possessive eyes as Daniel leaned back groaning, stuffed full, his belly taut under his shirt. He would sit close, hand firm on Daniel’s middle, whispering encouragements that sent heat straight through Daniel’s chest.

“Another slice. Come on, soldier. Show me what you can handle.” “That’s it. Look at that belly. You’re becoming exactly what you’re meant to be.” “Don’t hold back. I want you bigger. I want all of you.”

And Daniel obeyed. Always.

What had begun as subtle guidance turned into complete surrender. He no longer thought of resistance. No longer considered the gym, the old routines, the soldier’s life. Those were relics, ghosts of a boy he had once been. He was something better — fuller, heavier, softer, claimed.

The warehouse became their kingdom. Daniel, massive and red-faced, ruled from behind his desk, his laugh booming through the space as his body shook with every breath. Grant, proud and hulking, hovered close, never far from his side, always ready with another meal, another approving touch, another low murmur that reminded Daniel he was exactly where he belonged.

At night, when the others had gone home, they would sit together in the dim light of the office. Pizza boxes and takeout cartons scattered across the desk, Daniel leaning back, belly heavy and full, Grant’s hand never leaving his side. Daniel would groan, beard damp with grease, shirt ridden up to expose the soft curve of his hairy gut.

And Grant would smile, eyes full of possession and pride.

“You’ve done good, soldier,” he’d say, pressing his lips to Daniel’s bearded cheek. “You’ve become everything I wanted you to be.”

Daniel would close his eyes, letting the warmth of Grant’s voice sink into him, hand resting on the massive swell of his stomach.

Not a soldier anymore. Not a recruit, not a fighter, not lean, not cut. He was bigger. Softer. Hairy, heavy, full.

And he was Grant’s.

When Marco first stepped into Tony’s Famous Pizza, he carried himself like an athlete- because he was one. Years of football and weightlifting had him broad-shouldered, thick-armed, and tightly muscled. His new chef outfit clung proudly to the body he'd worked so hard to build.

Marco remembered catching Tony’s eye that first day, the way the older man’s gaze lingered just a little too long on his chest, the way he smiled like he knew something Marco didn’t.

"Skinny kid," Tony said with a rough chuckle, clapping him hard on the back. "Don’t worry, you’ll fill out."

Marco laughed along, brushing it off. He thought it was just the usual teasing. He didn’t know how right Tony would turn out to be.

At first, it was little things. Tony insisted Marco "taste everything”: New pies fresh from the oven, late-night slices after cleaning up, bowls of buttery pasta slid across the counter with a wink. "You gotta love it if you're gonna sell it," Tony said, pushing another plate into Marco’s hands, warm and smiling.

Something about it made Marco's chest tighten in ways he didn’t want to think too hard about. He figured he could afford a few indulgences. He was young, active, still hitting the gym when he could. What harm could it do?

The weight crept on faster than expected, Marco hardly noticing the first few pounds. It started with just a little softness at the waistline, revealed by a tell-tale tightness when bent over to tie his shoes. Then the sleeves of his polos clung a little too close to his arms, no longer defined cords of strength but thick round slabs of muscle. Marco chalked it up to longer hours and less time for workouts. Then his stomach, once flat and firm, started to develop a slow, stubborn curve forward to go along with his appetite. 

Tony noticed. Oh, he noticed.

Marco saw it in the way Tony’s eyes lingered when he wiped sauce from the corner of his mouth. Then the way Tony’s smile grew wider whenever Marco leaned back in a chair and his shirt rode up, exposing a flash of his growing belly. He noticed the casual brushes- Tony’s hand lingering on his back longer than necessary during a busy rush, a playful nudge that seemed to savor the growing heft under Marco’s uniform.

"Looking good, kid," Tony would murmur when Marco leaned over the counter, the buttons of his shirt opening just a little at the stomach.  "Starting to look like you belong here," he'd tease, handing Marco another slice, another bowl of pasta, another dessert still warm from the oven.

At first, Marco told himself it was nothing. Friendly teasing. A joke between coworkers.

But deep down, he liked it. He liked the way Tony eyed him constantly like he was becoming something. Something wanted. Something irresistible.

Marco should have resisted. He should have pushed back, hit the gym, bought salads instead of scarfing down mozzarella sticks between deliveries. But every time Tony’s gaze hit him- warm, proud, possessive- Marco’s willpower melted like cheese in the pizza oven. He loved the feeling of fullness after a heavy shift meal, the slow heavy stretch of his belly rounding out under his shirt. He loved the way Tony’s hand would brush accidentally against his growing sides when they squeezed past each other in the tight kitchen. He loved the way Tony looked at him — not just with approval, but with hunger.

Marco wanted to believe he was just trying to make Tony happy.

But another part of Marco, a secret, hungry part, wanted to see just how far he could push it.

Marco started indulging more openly. Extra slices at lunch turned into whole pies. Late-night taste tests became decadent dinners. Marco lingered after closing, splitting deep-dish pizzas with Tony, licking buttery crumbs from his fingertips while Tony watched with a gaze that turned hotter by the day. 

While Marco’s strong athletic build softened, plumped, expanded- Tony only seemed to encourage it more.

Marco could feel his body changing eagerly under the pressure, faster than he could control. His once trim waist grew heavy, rounding forward into the proud curve of a fat stomach. His strong chest softened, the firm muscle giving way to weight that bounced slightly when he moved. His wide, powerful arms lost their cut entirely, burying themselves under a soft, pillowy layer. His thighs grew massive under his new size, chafing when he walked forcing him to have a slower, heavier stride. 

The worst was the effect on his clothes- every week it seemed like something new didn’t fit. His shirts had tightened around his chest, then lower, clinging embarrassingly to his thick belly. He’d tug a polo over his head only to find it riding up his midriff, exposing the whole horizon of flesh underneath. His work pants bit into his sides, leaving angry red marks on his hips by the end of his shift.

Marco could feel the customers’ eyes on him. He could see how they glanced at the way his gut pushed out, how he’d have to lean back a little to balance the weight. He burned with embarrassment forced to adjust his shirt, trying to pull it down over the soft roll hanging out at his waist. He was growing too fast, too obviously.

Yet… Every time Marco caught Tony looking at him, eyes dark and full of pride, a bolt of heat shot through him that made it all worth it.

It was humiliating. Yet, at the same time, it was thrilling.

Marco could feel himself becoming something bigger. Heavier. Softer. A living, breathing symbol of Tony’s pride and attention. Every new pound was evidence of how much Tony wanted him, how much he belonged in Tony’s kitchen. In Tony’s restaurant. In Tony’s life.

Some nights, Marco would lay in his bed after another long, heavy shift. His belly would be full to bursting, his body sore from standing and eating all day. Almost immobile, he’d run his hand over his growing middle, smiling to himself. He was becoming Tony’s project. His creation.

Marco didn’t just accept it — he wanted it. He wanted to grow bigger. He wanted to become so fat, so heavy, that there was no hiding it anymore. No pretending he was just a chef who liked to eat. He would be Tony’s, through and through — round, soft, overflowing with the life Tony poured into him even if the whole world could see it happening. Especially because the whole world would see it.

One night, after a particularly indulgent shift that ended with an entire tiramisu polished off between them, Marco lounged back against the booth seat, his belly heavy and tight, the polo stretched wide across his gut and revealing his midriff. He groaned softly, shifting his bulk, too full to hide how much he had changed. 

Tony sat beside him, the room spinning with the smells of garlic and yeast. Leaning in close, his voice was low and rough with something heavier than teasing.

"You keep growing like this," he murmured, hand grazing Marco’s thickening side, "and I'm gonna have to buy you a whole new set of uniforms. Maybe just stitch Service Bull across your back and call it a day."

Marco, half-drunk on sugar, heat, and Tony’s nearness, grinned lazily. His cheeks burned, but not with shame.

"Yeah?" he said. "You like seeing me get bigger?"

Tony didn’t answer right away. Instead, his hand pressed firmly against Marco’s side, fingers sinking slightly into the soft flesh that hadn’t been there months ago.

When he finally looked up, meeting Marco’s eyes, his voice was low, certain.

"Yeah. I really, really do."

That was all Marco needed.

All the permission. All the encouragement. All the want he craved.

From that night forward, Marco leaned into it hard. He stopped pretending. He ate when he was hungry. He ate when he wasn’t. He let himself grow, surrendering completely to the slow, delicious swell of his body under Tony’s gaze. He polished off leftovers after every shift, snuck bites in when he wasn’t even hungry, showed up early just to "taste test" the new batches. 

Tony was always there. Always feeding, always watching, always wanting. The two lingered over lunches that grew heavier, lazier, longer. Tony would feed him from his own fork sometimes, laughing, teasing, rewarding Marco with warm looks making his belly and heart ache with need.

The changes became impossible to ignore, and impossible to hide. Marco’s chiseled jaw softened into a heavy beard that framed rounded cheeks. His chest, once proud and firm, broadened and sagged into heavy warm shelves of muscle and fat. His belly swelled into a massive globe, pushing the hem of his polo shirts up even while he stood still. His rear and thighs thickened so much that he split two pairs of pants in a single month. 

Tony just laughed, clapping him on the back and ordering the next size up. Then the next. And the next.

Marco couldn’t deny the flashes of embarrassment. Every day at work the glances from the customers continued, staring at the way his belly jutted out leading the way, the way his arms brushed against his thickened sides with every move, how he had to catch his breath after lifting a heavy tray.

It scared him sometimes when he saw old photos tucked in his phone: the strong, chiseled chef that had started at Tony's Famous Pizza full of ambition. His old body, the tight muscles and hard edges had been buried under the thick, plush layers he’d built up, layer by layer, bite by bite.

Marco had become a fixture of the restaurant, a big, boisterous, red-faced "Service Bull" who could toss pizza dough one-handed and polish off a tray of garlic knots without missing a beat. His booming laugh filled the kitchen and the front room. His sheer presence made Tony’s Famous Pizza feel warmer, fuller, realer. The public exposure stung sometimes, being seen like this, watched by his friends as his body expanded uncontrollably.

But then Tony would be there, catching his eye across the kitchen, giving him a wink or smirk, a low, possessive look that sent a warm thrill through Marco's belly even deeper than the food ever could.

Then, behind closed doors, it became something more.

It started with casual touches in the kitchen, a palm grazing over a wide hip, a playful tug at the hem of Marco’s shrunken shirt when it crept up to expose his heavy middle. Then kisses, stolen in the back room between orders- hungry, desperate kisses. Marco, massive and soft, couldn’t stop himself from being pushed against the stainless steel counters. He loved the feeling- Tony’s fingers gripping greedily at every thick curve, hands roaming without shame over everything Marco had grown for him. 

"You’re perfect," Tony whispered once, lips trailing along Marco’s flushed neck as Marco leaned against the cool metal wall, belly rising heavily.

"You made me this way," Marco whispered back, grinning, breathless. "Better thank yourself."

And Tony did — again, and again, and again.

By the time Marco fully grew into his "Service Bull" title, he was nearly double the size he had been the first day. The red uniform that clung desperately to him was strained at every seam, its fabric pulled taut across the wide curve of his stomach and the immense bulk of his upper body. Nothing could hide the permanent strip of skin visible underneath his shirt, his pants completely incapable of staying entirely above the waist. Marco’s thick arms had stretched the sleeves to their limit as he worked while his massive belly hung proudly over his beltline, heavy and warm against his thighs. The rest of his body jiggled and shook when he walked, a slow, confident swagger that filled every room he entered.

Every Wednesday night, Thomas logged onto his computer by habit. Opening a video chat app, he clicked on the link to a meeting that had already been setup. Instantly his image appeared in his house, shirtless and hairy, the only one present. He sat there silently waiting, feeling his thoughts begin to empty.

He never knew when it had started, but he had been doing it now for every week he could remember. There must have been a time before these calls when he hadn't logged in every Wednesday, but those seemed imaginary, almost like he had been a completely different person.

His gaze focused on himself with nothing else to capture his attention. He knew it was himself pictured in the screen, but at the same time the man was a stranger.

He studied the smooth balding head before bringing his attention to the dense grey beard consuming his lower face. The man was heavy in the right areas. He had thick arms and a thick chest, but they were soft. His pecs spilling out under his shoulders atop a pillow of his belly, his arms heavy weights pressing in on them. It was as if muscles had been replaced with cushiony fat.

Thomas felt trapped in this body, stuck with habits he couldn't seem to get rid of. His diet was definitely something else, eating more than he needed. Completely forgetting to shave. His thoughts seemed to grow slower every week, forcing him to quit his desk job and move to security, stuck sittin on his ass all day eating and nothing else.

Suddenly, a voice broke out of the speakers, a voice that he instantly recognized despite never remembering. It was the stranger from the previous weeks. “Good evening, Daddy bear”

As if shocked, his body sat up straight, eyes straight, and memories came flooding back with the trigger as a wave of exhaustion swept over him, swiping his thoughts away. His eyes lifted to the screen, unable to focus, unable to do anything but listen to words he could never remember. Words that made him forget to shave. Words that made him pay no notice of his abundant body hair. Words that made him grow fatter each week, weaker, compliant. Soft round tits sitting atop a rotund complacent gut. Each week, becoming a more submissive daddy bear.

As the voice spoke, Thomas felt his mind forgetting himself, changing to accommodate each order.

The voice then commanded him to rub his nipples, and before he knew it his hands were on them. The simple touch was static, his hands following the order on their own, rubbing and squeezing, pulling pleasure from his body. As the fingers continued to knead he felt his head flood with endorphins, overwhelming any rational thoughts, shutting down to the chemicals. He felt himself getting closer and closer, his body beginning to quiver when his eyes rolled back as he arched his back, the orgasm hitting without warning.

Dave had never considered himself big. He may have noticed his clothes fitting tighter, his jeans unable to be held up by belts anymore forcing a switch to suspenders. He had to wear wifebeaters constantly under his clothes, the only thing that seeemed to stretch over his growing stomach while his wardrobe constantly rode up exposing him.

Still, he couldn't seem to see the weight that constantly packed on his body as a bad thing. He saw himself as a daddy, built, powerful and confident. He could feel it, his body filling with a kind of strength he never had before. He looked down, admiring his body.

His body had developed into a thick, round shape, the weight of his belly barely contained by the jeans he wore. His chest was broad and strong, his arms thick and chubby. His clothes fit every curve and every line of his form, his suspenders tight against the stomach pushing out his belly for all to see.

Don't fall asleep on Whale Beach. At least, not during low tide. It'd happen to unsuspecting victims, men drawn out on a sun filled day sapping their energy. They'd setup a chair or blanket down near the shore, passing out moments later.

Matt and Tim stood in front of a huge lump sprawled out on the couch of what used to be Ronald, the biggest linebacker on the team. 

“Is it bad?” He asked, his second chin propping up his forehead unable to look down, his neck just a blob consuming his face connected directly his shoulders. He could just see the skin around his bellybutton jutting into his view. His arms were unwieldy bags of meat, settled at his sides sticking out from a cutoff shirt that barely contained his body, the sides of his chest escaping through the cuts. Lastly, the brutes belly stuck out soft, placid for all to see, the school’s shirt heaved up exposing it.  

“Damn, what happened to you?” Matt asked.

Ron heaved trying to get up, ultimately sinking back down as his own weight overpowered him. “I ordered a dozen of Doughboy’s donuts off of a delivery app. They were good, couldn’t help myself...”

“It has to be Grant!” Tim shouted. “You have to get him! We need Ron in our next game”

Matt shook his head, pulling out his phone to look up the place. “It’s impossible, this couldn’t have happened over night. And look, there’s no such thing as Doughboy’s Donuts” Matt showed Tim. 

Ron shook his head, pulling up his phone. “Bryce sent it out to the defense chat,, we got a discount since he works there now.”

“We have to keep this from getting out before everyone else becomes Ron”

It was too late though. By the next practice, nearly all the linemen had increased their blocking ability. Luckily, none as bad as a dozen. By the next practice, they all made a new defensive team picture showing off their new weight, none questioning the changes.

Eric was in his car, outside Ben's house, four years after high. They were close back then, nerds together, bringing double dates to prom. Yet, as soon as Ben made it to college, he changed. Instantly he was into football, getting a dream body all guys were envious of. Almost by magic he seemed to accomplish all physical traits Eric wanted.

Eric remembered the photos on Ben's facebook, ans decidingly whipped out his phone.

Ben's most recent photo was this Halloween, that heffer. Face and chubby cheeks drowned in a lush beard, arms seeding a thick forest leading up his sleeves, shirt draped over a soft cushion body. Eric felt almost hot admiring it, imagining what he would do with women in it.

He swiped back a photo, now to the end of football season, almost a forty pound difference. It was clear Ben had developed taste for eating. Eric's eyes followed the lanyard across Ben's chest stopping at the top of the nine, where a crystal sat. Weird thing to wear.

He swiped back one more, now in the middle of his school career. Eric almost laughed looking at that wide rear, Ben definitely had to have been a pig to get that big for football.

Eric swiped again, now at freshman year. It was obvious now when hair had begun overwhelming Ben's body. Plenty of turf on his massive, hulking arms, chest hair puffing up under the tank. Ben barely fit into it. The beard was lighter though, not as developed, just at the point where it was consistent enough. The crystal was there again, intrestingly.

Eric swiped once more. Senior high party. He remembered that shirt Ben wore. It was pretty much Ben's only button down, having worn it all through high school, never growing out of it. Here though, his arms almost ripped out of the sleeves, almost as if he was a stud before even going to college. Eric laughed looking at Ben's gut, how quickly he had become chubby from high school. A beard was just beginning to develop to help Ben hide his new second chin. His neck almost looked like it was choking in the collar.

Seeing the crystal in the other two photos reminded Eric though, Ben had that crystal that night too, hiding behind his tie. He couldn't have gotten it from Brooke though, the two fell apart when Eric left.

Eric swiped to the last photo he remembered Ben was normal, prom night, one week before the senior party. There Ben was, skinny arms, no stomach, chiseled face. No fur to be seen.

Eric paused. He swiped to the next photo, then back. It was a one week difference. He swiped. Huge arms. Back. No arms. Swipe. Beard over second chin. Swipe. No second chin. Swipe. Arm hair rushing out of the sleeves.

Eric ran through the photo set again, watching Ben pork up, filling out his clothes like a sausage, the dense pelt invading Ben's body.

Eric yelled, dropping his phone when someone knocked hard on the glass.

"Get off your phone!" A voice yelled, so deep Eric felt it in his bones. Eric turned to Ben's round cherub face, beard bushier by far. Judging by the neck and sleeves, Ben was now completely washed head to toe in fur, and rotound enough to pass for Santa.

But a glint caught Eric's eye. The crystal hung from Ben's neck, it's insides shimmering, moving as if it was alive.

"Come on bud" The billowing voice echoed, "Been so long since I've seen you"