Chapter Text
When DeShawn he wakes up the next morning, eleven A.M., it’s to the scent of butter and syrup. From the couch, he can see the kitchen, where Brandy is shirtless and working a waffle iron with a sweet smile on his face. Involuntarily, DeShawn’s stomach rumbles.
It is unfair how good he feels despite how obviously bad he should feel. Every inch of his skin is disgusting, — his shirt is damp from sweat with the collar being the worst offender, if he touched a leather sofa he’d stick to it like a glue trap. He smells awful, he feels sluggish, his belly fat is sticking out of a shirt he’s practically sweat through.
But Brandy’s making him breakfast.
“Hey, he says, slathering some butter on a fat, fluffy waffle.
“Hey,” DeShawn replies.
“You’re up.”
“Yeah,” he smiles.
“Hungry?”
“Li’l bit. Probably gonna be a lotta bit when I do my business. And shower.”
“Shower after. Gotta get these when they’re hot, dude.”
Brandy struts over with a plate stacked high and sets it on the coffee table. The stack is as big as DeShawn’s head, maybe bigger.
Brandy’s given up the ghost — he’s not even pretending that he’s gonna eat anything he makes. It’s all for DeShawn to shovel into his fat face, get even more blubber with.
His stomach growls with need.
— — —
Even Brandy is shocked by how quickly it all progresses.
It’s not as though this was the intention. It was genuine. Brandy would crave something, make it or go out and get it, chicken out at the last minute, and DeShawn would play cleanup duty. That was all. Somewhere along the way, though, the goalposts moved. Brandy would get something when he wasn’t even hungry, or make lasagna when he’s more of a spaghetti guy, because DeShawn can’t stand spaghetti. Or he’d order a medium combo of mango habanero wings, since DeShawn loves them, even though Brandy’s more of a garlic parmesan guy. It’s not as though he was forcing him to do anything. It’s not even as though this was what he was hoping for.
But, you know. Seeing his sated face, feeling his stomach, helping him, nurturing him — it was a happy accident. A very, very happy accident.
Now, though, a new series of unwritten rules has been established. It goes like this: Brandy orders food, DeShawn eats it. Brandy makes food, DeShawn eats it. While this seems like nothing has changed, the difference is both slight and monumental. Before, Brandy would order food when he was hungry, and DeShawn would eat it, or he’d make food when he had a craving. Now, the middleman’s cut out. Everything Brandy gets is for his buddy to devour.
The new arrangement, without formally establishing it at all, goes by swimmingly. DeShawn puts on about twenty pounds in a month. All of his clothes fit poorly now, even when he already had to donate most of his sweatpants to thrift stores. His belly pokes out of every t-shirt he wears, even after he pulls down the hem.
Brandy goes up behind him and wraps his arms around DeShawn’s waist, honking the fat of his belly, the bulge in his sweats pushing up against his meaty ass. “You need new clothes, dude.”
DeShawn shivers. “Who’s fuckin’ fault do you think that is, bro?”
“You still need something to cover up,” Brandy doesn’t answer. “Think we could hit up a thrift store later today?”
“I mean — I dunno.”
“What?”
“It’s just, like… I haven’t got that big, right?” DeShawn looks down and the softness of his neck creases into a double chin. Delicious, Brandy thinks.
“Your belly’s been stickin’ out for, like, a week, dude.”
He tenses. “Those were always tight on me. That’s why I wore ‘em.”
“We can just check, though. There’s an objective measurement that’ll let you know if you’ve gotten that big.”
“Fuck you mean objective measurement? That doesn’t mean shit when big ain’t shit but subjective.”
“Dude, I was just gonna say we could weigh you.” Brandy shrugs like an unknown force is dragging his shoulders to his jaw, the picture of mild frustration. “And, you can look at the number, and decide if you’ve, like, y’know, subjectively, gotten that big.”
DeShawn meets his gaze with uncertainty. “I, uh… you sure, bro?”
“Just an idea. What’s up?”
“Don’t know. Just kinda freaks me out.”
“Wouldn’t change anything. You’re livin’ the results right now, only difference is you’d know what they are, I guess. You don’t have to, or anything, but if you wanna know how big you are… you can figure out how big you are.”
He trills his lips. “Freaks me out, I guess.” Then, he crosses his arms. “I mean, I know I’m gettin’ big, a fuckin’ blind kindergartener could tell you that, but… I–I dunno. Seein’ a number on it would make it real, I guess. Not just somethin’ I can work off in a summer.”
Brandy looks him up and down, head to toe, scanning him, taking him all in. He leans on the countertop.
“Do you… wanna? Work it off, I mean.”
After an eternity of silence, DeShawn answers with a noncommittal shrug.
One of Brandy’s hands finds its way onto DeShawn’s stomach, scratching the soft surface of it lightly. Brandy looks at him hungrily.
“Do you wanna stop eating the stuff I make you? The stuff I order you, too?”
DeShawn’s head lolls back as he bites back a whimper. His pulse pounds as he shakes his head. Brandy’s hand squeezes at his soft underbelly, thumb circling his navel, gauging the softness their shared venture has put onto him; pre-measuring all the lard spread on his frame.
“And do you wanna go back to the gym? Really didn’t seem into that, y’know, last time I checked. Said they all teased you and poked your chest.” For emphasis, Brandy squeezes the fat on his chest, hungry.
DeShawn moans. “I–I’m not goin’ back there.”
“Well,” Brandy whispers, unable to hold back a smile, “if you don’t wanna do any of that, then this,” he grabs onto DeShawn’s stomach, thumb hooked in his belly button and wobbles it, “probably isn’t something you’re gonna work off, yeah?”
There is nothing on the planet DeShawn wants to do right now more than eat himself into a minor coma and have Brandy suck his dick. “Prob— uh, yeah, probably not.”
“So? Let’s take a look.”
They acquiesce to Brandy’s room where he pulls out a weirdly fancy-looking scale from under his bed. The room doesn’t have carpets, so it should probably be accurate enough
“How much did you weigh before?” Brandy asks.
“Fuck you mean before? Before what?”
“You know. Before you started… all that.” The tips of his ears go red.
“I don’t know, bro! It’s not like this happened in a day, I thought I was still skinny for a while in there!”
“No you did not, dude.”
DeShawn rolls his eyes. “I thought I was still cut.” A pause. “Still not a fat fuck,” he corrects.
“Just like, ballpark, how much did you usually weigh when you were still going to the gym?”
Pssshh, DeShawn blows out a breath, swinging his arms. He puts his fist in his palm absently. “Like, two-ten? Ish? Two-fifteen when I was bad.”
“Two-ten, then.” Brandy claps a hand on DeShawn’s back. “You good? We don’t have to do this, I’m just sayin’, you really need some bigger clothes, and—”
“Oh you are not doin’ that shit, man, c’mon. You got me curious now, so whatever happens next is on you, bro.”
No two parts of him truly agree on what they want. Part of him wants to, miraculously, see 230, or 235, just have it be unnoticeable. Another wants to push the scale back under the bed, another would like to chuck it out the window. The part deep in the bottom of his stomach doesn’t care what the scale says right now, and just wants to see the number go up with every sinful, luxurious bite.
That part terrifies him; mostly because of how convincing it is.
DeShawn takes a breath and steps on the scale. The number flits between the 150s with one foot, then barrels past that with the other, a jackpot climbing higher and higher until it reaches the payout.
291.5
“Fuuuuuuuck.”
“Daaaaaamn!”
“That’s… that’s like, a lot.”
“I’m just — how long has it been? That’s, what, eighty pounds? How much time did you gain that in, dude?”
“Way too fuckin’ short.”
“It’s, I mean, you’re wearing clothes, so, y’know, you can — you can probably take a pound or two off that — like, five pounds. Definitely five. Think of the margin of error.”
There are reasonable explanations. Normally, DeShawn’s body leans towards the chubby side, requiring hours and hours of management and upkeep to be below a 2XL. His mother is big, and his dad is very big, so clearly genetics are a factor, and the whiplash of going from gym four days a week to doing a couple workouts at home a few times a month would get to anyone, like those guys who got really fat once they started working from home.
None of those factors help, but in this short a span of time, there’s only one real explanation: he’s stuffing himself like a pig, so he grows like one too. Brandy has, intentionally or not, destroyed his self control.
Not much coming back from that.
“I’m — I’m gettin’ big, bro.” DeShawn puts his hands on his stomach like pregnant chicks do in those maternity photoshoots. He’s blowing up like one, so it’s only natural. “I got big.”
His cock presses up against his leg in his too-tight sweatpants.
“Yeah,” Brandy agrees. “And you need new clothes. This thing’s fuckin’ busting out of your sweats, dude.” He gives a very platonic smack to DeShawn’s porky ass, giving a quick-yet-mesmerized glance as it wobbles. The gesture makes his sweats even tighter in the front.
“Fuck.” DeShawn swallows. “I’m like… I’m a pig.”
“Everyone likes pigs.” Brandy gives two accentuating little smacks to DeShawn’s belly. Pat pat. “Tasty.”
They do go to the thrift store and they do get more clothes, with a fashion sense as poor as his it doesn’t take much to impress him. The sizing of the bottoms is frankly, confusing, because his ass is so big that lots of pants that should be his size take a herculean amount of effort to put on — though, this has been a problem since he was a lot smaller, and it’s only emphasized as his options shrink and his waistline grows.
For a while he looks, not like a blubbery hog who starts drooling when he smells anything that’ll bring him closer to a blue ribbon, who takes any and every opportunity to hide his lower body from himself, but instead just a generally chunky dude.
A month of cheesecake, hot wings, milkshakes, french fries, burgers, and tiramisu later, those new shirts are already pushing themselves trying to restrain the even-newer-begotten lard that’s oh-so unexpectedly found its way onto his frame.
In Brandy’s bedroom, the number on the scale shines through the dusky, unlit room.
305.9
Less than five pounds until he’s gained a hundred.
His stomach rumbles. Might as well, it says to him. You know it feels good.
— — —
More as a rebellion than anything, Brandy is a summer person.
All throughout his life, he’s grown up with people who love nothing more than the coziness of winter: his father, Fabio Martini, always hated it, said that it made his suits stuffy when he wanted to cover up and his skin bitten when he didn’t. But Fabio liked complaining a lot more than he liked doing anything about why he was complaining, so his opinion about a natural part of the earth’s rotation doesn’t matter all that much. His nonna is someone whose opinion he respects a great deal more. She didn’t like it because it got in the way of her cooking, it’s harder to want to eat anything fresh out the oven when it’s already an oven outside, and there was nothing she loved more than to cozy up on her big knitted-looking couch and nurse a hot drink.
DeShawn just runs too hot to enjoy himself. (Something that’s truer now more than ever.)
Marisol Herrera, though, his mother, was always on his side. Winter stops you from enjoying yourself, looking your best. You put on weight and have to wear layers and layers on top of your god-given body. In the summer, you can go to the beach and take licks of ice cream as you walk down the boardwalk, and be your most fashionable self without worrying about freezing, and you can swim and swim until your heart sings.
Brandy hasn’t had ice cream in a while. Too long. But he’s hot, so who cares?
Working at College Hunk Landscaping in the summer gets you the full brunt of the effect. The job encourages looking attractive, although it doesn’t strictly require it, so he spends most of his workdays in tank-tops, short board shorts, and big clunky headphones whacking weeds and tearing up dirt, sweating his tits off. It’s hard work, manual labor, so lunch is important for them.
It’s odd that he’s only now realizing that his coworkers all eat much more heartily than he does. Brandy is nursing a turkey sandwich on wheat bread and a bottle of water while the guy next to him just got back from a drive thru and tears into a big juicy burger.
It looks really good.
“Yo, Bran,” the man sitting next to him says, “you want a bite?”
Brandy smiles. “Nah, I’m good, dude.”
“You sure?” He presses. “I mean, we still got half our shift left, gonna be kinda hard to work on that.” The man points a finger in the vague direction of Brandy’s sandwich.
It’s true. While he might be considered one of the more popular clients among customers, his stamina is a good bit behind most of them. Maybe if he ate more, he wouldn’t be so tired when he got home.
“Don’t worry about me, man. I like turkey.”
The other guy cracks a smile. “Your girl make you that?”
“Oh, fuck off,” Brandy gives him a playful shove.
Later, when he finds himself with some downtime, he finds himself thinking of that burger, the smell of the meat and the sauces swirling together into his nose; and he thinks of DeShawn eating it, stuffing his chubby cheeks, white-red sauce on his strained t-shirt and grease running down his ever-inflating double chin. He would moan when he bit into it, Brandy knows he would, because he does it every time he eats something delicious, even when he tries not to. He’d wolf it down while he watched one of his favorite shows and barely notice it was gone by the time he’d eat it all, and look to Brandy with big eyes that say, I’m still hungry, and everything he shoves down would turn to more and more fat that hangs out the bottom of his shirts, that busts the seams on his shorts, that rounds out his cheeks and makes his scruffy little goatee float in the middle of his face, above his second chin.
DeShawn, he needs that burger more than Brandy. He needs to be pampered. Spoiled. Nourished.
It’s not as though his entire life is just getting fatter and fatter, unfortunately. As he’s been growing, so have his career prospects: he recently transferred to a work-from-home job, so most of his days are spent with his big fat ass sat on the couch, tap-tap-tapping away at his laptop while he shoves snacks in his face — and his wardrobe isn’t thanking him for it. Even more than before, he’s getting fatter by the day, looking so cute when he hears the fabric of his shirts pop. He’s home right now, and Brandy knows it.
On a delivery app, he orders enough food for two people — two hearty, hungry bodybuilders — and sends it home, burgers, fries, and DeShawn’s favorite soda in a massive size, practically drooling at the image of him drinking it too fast for his greedy stomach and belching while he tries to work.
His heart drums in his chest. No matter what he tries to direct his thoughts toward, the image in his head always turns to DeShawn, with his soft belly and chubby cheeks and his ravenous appetite, eating everything that’s given to him like a good boy, cleaning his plate. The boner he’s trying to hide makes doing his actual job very difficult. He can’t jerk off about it because — reasons, there’s reasons, he just can’t, it’s not the time.
About thirty minutes of agony later, he gets a ping on his phone.
bruh
did u just order me enough fast food to feed a billion people am i trippin
Brandy’s breath hitches in his throat, it’s arrived. The crooked smile that’s forcing its way onto his face is completely uncontrollable, unstoppable.
I was feeling sweet 😋
You gonna refuse my hospitality, big man??
The three roiling dots appear in DeShawn’s message box for too long, and a pit finds its way into Brandy’s stomach. They haven’t spoken about this thing they have going on, and for good reason, it’s fucking weird, but maybe this was an overstep. Though he doesn’t know what the line is, really; is helping your best friend gain a hundred pounds when it wasn’t clear if he wanted that fine, but sending him food that’s meant just for him not?
you know im not
u da best bro lmao
Blood pumps through his head, his heart, his cock, the image of DeShawn gorging himself on what Brandy provides excites him in a way that feels deranged. Sweat glistens all across his tanned skin.
“Your girl send you something nice, Brandy?” A coworker calls out, smirking.
Brandy licks his lips before he responds. “Uh, something like that.”
Another half-hour later, maybe a little less, his phone pings again.
u r EVIL bro lol
Attached is a picture of their coffee table, a cheap-but-sturdy one his dad had insisted upon when Brandy asked for advice, covered in garbage. Most garbage would be bad to see on this table, obviously, but this is a special kind of garbage. It’s a paper bag, four aluminum foil wraps, an empty medium sized cup with fry crumbs inside, and a large soda cup that could theoretically be full, but Brandy would bet money that it isn’t. This garbage is proof of the sincerest love there is: the love a hog has for his food.
The garbage is also making his dick hard, but that’s neither here nor there.
Daaaamn you went to town on that shit‼️‼️‼️ My boy’s HONGRY
I’ll help you out when I get home
Don’t worry about going hungry before then
It takes every ounce of strength and will he has in his body not to go to the nearest bathroom and jack it like his life depends on it, but his continued employment takes precedence over — whatever this is. It isn’t normal, whatever it is, but thinking about it for too long takes it from an unexaminable fact of the universe to a pattern of behavior. If he didn’t have a job that paid this well, he wouldn’t be able to feed DeShawn so much. Glut him so far down the path of unrecognizability.
Eventually the work proves to be an okay enough distraction, helping out with manual labor makes his life at least a bit easier, gives him something else to think about. Until there’s only an hour left in his shift, and the work has slowed down again. There’s nothing to take his mind off of DeShawn, alone in their apartment, not having eaten in three hours, wasting away, and he takes matters into his own hands yet again; wings this time, DeShawn’s favorite, and a lot of them, with a big cup of sweet tea — his other favorite. The delivery app doesn’t have a calorie count feature, but he’s certain that it’s a lot.
The wing place is close by, but the delivery timer ticks down slow to the point of agony, he’s constantly looking at his phone to see when the gift will reach DeShawn, waiting for the ping of their messages together.
Eventually the delivery guy sends an IMS message of their apartment door, and a lack of DeShawn’s response keys him into the fact that the guy probably forgot to knock.
Check the door, big boy ✌️😗
The response comes slowly, in the way he gets when he’s trying to figure out the best words to say. He’s always been more fluent in normal speech than the land of text.
thx bro
❤️
Brandy’s heart leaps in his own chest in the same way it does when a girl nuzzles into his chest post fuck. Yes, it’s still on the coattails of orgasm, but it’s also just sweet, it’s cute. His eyes are wide with joy, shock, and desire. Desire so strong it’s like nothing he’s ever felt before, greater than thirst or hunger or a need to breathe the air.
In the thirty-or-so minutes left in Brandy’s shift and the ten-or-twenty minutes it takes to commute back home, all he can think of is DeShawn’s fat, grease-covered face kissing his. Somehow, that’s more deranged than the other thoughts he’s had all day, of his greedy, hoggish body bursting out of his patterned t-shirts, his ass ripping his sturdy cargo shorts at the seams.
When he walks through the front door, he’s greeted with a scene straight from the fantasies he doesn’t allow himself to dwell on.
DeShawn is on the couch, flanked by a neatly packaged yet massively overfull bag of the garbage he’s created all day, rounding at the front with excess bulk, much like the man himself. In his sinfully tight sweats and his light, ill-fitting graphic tee, the dark brown bulk of his stomach wobbles out in front of him, pinning him to the cushions, as he desperately tries to curb the results of his voracious greed, rubbing the bulging surface of his stomach and stifling belches as he does.
When he speaks, it takes about five deep breaths before he finds it in him to get started. “Hey, bro.” He smiles boyishly, equal parts cherub and hog. “Th—” burp, “thanks. Thanks.”
What Brandy wants to say is along the lines of holy fuck you massive blimp, let’s melt some ice cream and pour it down your throat till that shirt doesn’t even cover your tits. Kiss me and let me inside you, you fat overfed fuck.
“Damn, dude! Looks like you had fun!” is what he actually says, plopping himself down next to DeShawn on the couch as he does, ignoring his own erection.
The words still take so long to come out, he swallows something and heaves a ragged breath, yet he seems so joyous, so sated. “Yeah.”
Brandy feels hungrier than DeShawn has ever been.
“You watchin’ anything?” he asks. Their TV is pretty big, and when DeShawn isn’t working, he’s usually in here watching some bloody cartoon with cool swords.
“Nah. Nah.” A deep breath. “I was workin’. When I wasn’t, I, uh, I wanted to focus on the food.”
Fat greedy expanding pile of lard gluttonous blue-ribbon hog, can’t even help yourself, can’t stop eating even when your blubber keeps bursting out of your clothes.
“I take it that means you enjoyed?”
DeShawn chuckles and his belly wobbles when he does, jostling it enough to force out another little burp. Saliva pools in Brandy’s mouth. “You know it, bro.” DeShawn pats his belly rhythmically. “Wouldn’t be this big if I didn’t love the shitchu got me.”
Brandy laughs, trying not to think about how warm those rolls of fat would be on his cock. “Straight up, don’t even know why I asked. I know your fat ass would eat anything I gave you.”
“Hey,” DeShawn pouts. “This is all muscle, baby.” He grabs at the point where the fat of his stomach pours over into his lap, covers his dick and grows precariously closer to the space between his thighs by the day, and shakes, wobbling and jiggling every part of his body, his tits, his stomach, even his thighs ripple with motion, even the fat of his chin wobbles the slightest bit. The motion is enough to shake loose another deep, roaring beeelch, one that seems to embarrass him, because his eyes widen and he giggles afterwards, showing all the shiny teeth he takes such good care of. “S’cuse me.”
This breaks Brandy.
He leans over and practically attacks him, sinking into the soft fat of his flank as he coaxes DeShawn’s mouth open with his tongue. DeShawn moans from the discomfort of his stomach, yes, but it’s wrought with pleasure from the ache, among other things — his stubble rubs against DeShawn’s fat, pretty face, Brandy’s cloth-caged cock rubs up against soft, lard-filled thighs, wrapped in the popping and screaming fabric of gray sweat pants. He moans into DeShawn’s mouth and grabs a handful of a creamy tit, massaging it like a stress ball.
Then, something of interest; it almost breaks Brandy out of his lascivious trance.
DeShawn opens his mouth, and he speaks.
“Fuck,” DeShawn whines. “G–go easy on me, bro, I’m so fucking full.”
“You sure? ‘Cause I was lookin’ at that dumptruck and l couldn’t stop thinkin’ how bad I wanna climb in.”
DeShawn groans into Brandy’s mouth. “I don’t know what the fuck that means, but it sounds really hot.”
“Lemme put it like this; I wanna fuck your big, fat ass. You good with that?”
“Fuck,” he whines. “I–I want it. I want it so bad — I’m like — I’m stuffed outta my fuckin’ gourd, bro, I dunno if that’s—”
“Dude, I am so fucking horny right now, I would jizz into the couch cushions if I had to.”
“I’m — I need — just, bro, get the fuckin’ condoms already, but you cannot get mad if I rip ass.”
Is that hot? Maybe a little. Actually, no. But, well, maybe? Brandy is conflicted. “Be right back.”
It’s an excruciatingly long half-minute while Brandy gathers condoms and lube from his room, his heart beats worryingly fast with anticipation, hands shaking as he opens his bedside drawer. Once he retrieves them he’s halfway running back to the living room couch, as if DeShawn would disappear if he didn’t get back fast enough. Like he could run that fast anymore, he thinks.
DeShawn has kicked off his sweats and is now laying on his side, his boxer briefs riding up into the cheeks of his ass, his cock tents the front of them and pokes into the soft bottom of his belly. One of his tits burgeons onto the cushion of the couch, and one falls right onto the other, plush and soft like bags of pudding. He looks so plump. So greedy. So hungry. So fat.
“You ready, lardass?”
“F–fuck. Please. Please.”
“That a yes?”
“Yes, bro, yes, just — please, I fuckin’ — I need it. I need it so bad.”
Brandy smirks. “Better get this off, then.” He pulls the undersized boxer-briefs down DeShawn’s oversized thighs, then tosses them aside as he straddles him, finding purchase right above the knee, wobbling derriere right within reach. “You done this before?”
Seemingly out of the mood to talk — the more they talk, the more real what it is they’re doing becomes — DeShawn shakes his head. Brandy has also never done this before, but he’s not a complete inexperienced loser: he’s gotten pegged, so he gets the gist.
“Gonna be cold, so get ready, okay?”
The slightest nod signifies that he was heard, and Brandy knows him well enough to know that he wants this done now. Carefully, Brandy puts the condom around his cock, and lubes up DeShawn’s hole. He shivers when he does, letting out a soft oooh. “You good?”
“Yeah,” he breathes. Brandy doesn’t stick his dick in right away, he remembers that that’s not a great plan, that you need to work up to it for a bit. He circles a finger around DeShawn’s hole with one hand and gently strokes himself with the other, working him open until he slips a pinky in, then a finger, eventually two. DeShawn buries his face in his arm as he groans with pleasure with each escalating level of penetration.
“You’re already makin’ all that? My — it’s not even — dude,” is what he settles on.
“Fuck you, man.” DeShawn’s voice is broken with pleasure, with want.
“I don’t think that’s what’s happening here,” Brandy laughs. “Time for the real deal?”
“Please.”
Delirious with lust, it’s difficult to line up his cock with DeShawn’s hole, their respective positions only making it, well, several things harder. The head of Brandy’s dick pushes up against every warm soft inch in his ass, his meaty ass that wobbles with the slightest touch, like pudding. Laying on his side, DeShawn’s fat, overfed belly is hanging over his waist line and falling softly onto the couch like a water balloon, still filled to the brim with rich greasy fast food that’ll only make him take up even more space.
He plunges into DeShawn like an olympic swimmer, ramming hard and fast out of pure horny delirium, watching his fat ass ripple and wobble with each powerful thrust pulls Brandy further and further towards an animal in heat, or perhaps a predator in the winter, savoring every last inch of the flesh their fattened prey has grown. A swift motion later and Brandy’s thick hand is overflowing with the velvety belly-fat of DeShawn’s massive paunch, something that makes the whines and moans filling Brandy’s ears grow higher and more desperate.
It’s a chorus of quivering pleasure-filled sobs, some longer some shorter some higher some lower, “Ah, ah, ah, ah—” and DeShawn breathes too deeply between one, or maybe it’s from the hand digging raunchily into his stomach, but he lets out a deep belch, long and uncontrolled, like a sinful roar from the depths of his lust and his gluttony. Buuuuurp, urp.
“S–s’cuse—” he tries to say, but he’s cut off by the fact that Brandy is more turned on than he’s ever been in his life, and is ramming into his prostate twice as hard as he’s ever been motivated to do before. It’s like DeShawn’s relentless piggish appetite has unlocked a level of sexual arousal and primal need that neither of them ever thought was possible, a lard-powered sex machine that thrusts twice a second and growls when it sees the waddle of a double chin go lower and lower.
“Fat fucking hog,” Brandy grunts, barely even lucid. “Growing for me,” he hisses through gritted teeth, muscles tensing, sweat-covered and pulse pounding, a vein in his forehead clearly visible. “How much fatter are you gonna let me make you, piggy? Huh? How fat is too fat for you, butterball? Are you gonna stop stuffing your fat face when you get there?”
Tears are streaming down DeShawn’s face, and for the first time he can remember, they’re from joy, pleasure, pure submission, lust, satisfaction and want. It’s impossible to pretend that this doesn’t mean anything now, that they can just go back to normal after this. DeShawn feels in the bottom of his heart and his stomach that he’s only going to get fatter and fatter from hereon out, that as long as Brandy wants him to eat then he’ll eat, that if he ever got too fat to leave the house, then Brandy would make him too fat to leave his room, then too fat to walk, and DeShawn would love every second of it; that he’s never going to be thin again, and that for the rest of his life he’ll be a growing, greedy bucket of lard for Brandy whatever and however-much he likes into, and then pleasure.
He has known no greater joy in his life.
“B–bro, fuck, make me as — make me as fat as you fucking want.”
Brandy roars, or whimpers so loud that it turns into one, coming harder than he ever has, bursting with ecstasy and only slowing down for a second before he’s right back at it, desperately bringing DeShawn to the same climax he’s just reached. Iit doesn’t take long for him to get there, shivering, lard-covered muscles tensing as he screams into the cushion of the couch. Completely gone, Brandy collapses onto DeShawn’s airbag flesh, snuggling into it when he does. DeShawn is still completely stuffed to the brim with food — something that, in hindsight, probably isn’t great to be when taking it up the ass — and he’s on the edge of consciousness. He throws his arm around Brandy and adjusts himself so they can cuddle. Gross. Sweaty. Doesn’t matter that much.
Brandy’s hair tickles the underside of DeShawn’s nose.
“Really warm,” Brandy says.
“Mhm.”
“Fatass.”
“Mhm.” DeShawn smiles.
“Gonna be nice in the winter.”
He snorts. “You’re gonna be wishin’ you pigged out like I did by then, bro.”
Brandy doesn’t respond. “Condom’s gross. I, uh, kinda… there was a lot. It’s pretty full.” He shrugs. “Should probably go and throw it out.”
“Prolly.”
“Yeah.”
He doesn’t move.
“I can — I’m not keepin’ you here, bruh, c’mon.” But it doesn’t matter, because Brandy’s sweaty forehead is right between DeShawn’s tits, getting deeper into them by the second.
“Do I have to?”
“Technically? Nah. You should, though. We can prolly do this better when we’re not sweaty, and you ain’t holdin’ a bag of jizz.”
“Yeah.”
Still no movement.
“We can, uh,” DeShawn swallows, “we can shower together? Letchu see all your hard work.”
“Brandy pulls his face out of DeShawn’s tits and stares at him wide-eyed. “You for real?”
“S’not weird.” DeShawn shrugs. “I showered with my team all the time back when I played.
The effect is immediate. Brandy rushes off the bed and into their connected kitchen, chucking the waste in the bin and quickly disrobing (still in the kitchen). DeShawn laughs.
Brandy turns the shower onto the highest temperature and waits for it to warm up, face still flush with exertion. His body is toned and tight, skin like country sand, coated in full dark-brown hair that’s probably never been shaved. DeShawn can’t help but notice how different he looks right now than when he’s at the gym, more hydrated, a tiny push against his stomach that he can just hear Brandy complain about. He’s never been smart like that; complaining about how fat he feels to a guy he helped put a hundred pounds on is par for the course for him.
DeShawn stays in the bathroom longer than Brandy does, deciding to wash his face and apply some of his lotion — he’s been schlubbing it all day, and whatever he and Brandy just did probably isn’t good for acne. It occurs to him that his tits are jiggling when he rubs his lotion into his chubby cheeks, they wobble from the circular motion. It’s hot, which is something he can at least start to admit now. It’s weird how he feels hotter after gaining about a hundred pounds than he did when he was working out regularly and dieting. Maybe it’s just how he’s supposed to be built.
Brandy gestures towards the running shower as a butler might escort you into a mansion. “If you will,” he says, and DeShawn snorts, climbing in. The warm water falls onto his face, and he melts into it.
“Forgot you shower like that,” Brandy says.
Eyes closed, DeShawn’s face scrunches. “Like what?”
“Facing the water like a maniac. You’ll get water in your eyes, dude.”
“Don’t be scared of some fuckin’ water in your eyes, bro, it’s literally just water. That’s prolly why your eyebags are so big.”
A grunt of exertion, the sound of Brandy’s voice moves behind him now. “Maybe I’m just not that into rubbing eighteen chemical treatments into my face like you.”
“It’s like, two.”
“More than anyone should be using! Do you know if that shit’s safe? Seriously.”
“It’s literally so fucking safe, bro, like, it’s just fuckin’, like, coconut butter and shit, man. Besides, my diet’s trash as fuck lately, thanks, so I gotta make sure I don’t break out somehow.”
Arms wrap around DeShawn, hands grab his lower belly and sink into the fat there, savoring it. Brandy chuckles. “You could always just stop eating so much, big man.” It’s said with a knowing tone, one well aware of the answer he’ll give.
DeShawn swallows. “You know I can’t.”
Now that he’s started stuffing himself like a pig, he can’t imagine stopping. The pleasure he gets from stuffing himself to the point of bursting and then some, fat and useless on the couch and hearing the groan of his stomach as it turns the product of his greed into more and more fat for Brandy to play with is just too much.
It scares him some, not knowing how much fatter he’s going to get. He could end up on one of those TLC shows that trend on twitter, too monstrously obese to walk or wash himself, but thinking about stopping — getting on a diet, getting back in the gym, fitting into single XLs again, it just makes him hungry. Thinking about continuing and getting so fat he can barely fit in his car, that makes him hungry, too.
Thinking about Brandy, with his lean muscles and his boyish smile, being there with him, enabling him every step of the way? That makes him fucking ravenous.
A sheepish hand carresses the hills of his ass, the sound of skin against skin under the white noise of the falling water.
“Fuck,” Brandy grunts. “When did your ass get this fat?”
“I’ve gained almost a hundred fucking pounds, holmes. Why do you think they call ‘em fatasses?”
“I–I dunno. Just feels like I’ve seen a lotta fat dudes with zero ass, and you, uh, aren’t, one of them. You… Jesus Christ.”
DeShawn feels Brandy shiver against his yielding flesh, his bare erection pokes into DeShawn’s tailbone. Instinctively, his muscles relax, melting into the other man. He’s never been very interested in women, but it shocks him how easily how natural it feels to get fucked by his best friend — his best male friend.
A shaky breath falls onto DeShawn’s shoulderblade. “You finish up in here, I’m gonna take care’a somethin’.”
“You, uh, you sure?” DeShawn asks, a little disappointed. After they were ready for a visitor, his insides feel empty, lonely, even. Fuck. What’s happening to him?
“Don’t worry, don’t worry, it’ll be great.” Brandy, fully erect, slides the curtain open and hobbles out of the shower, grabbing for a towel to wrap around his waist. The door closes, and DeShawn is on his own, showering like he usually does. The water that loosens his muscles and cleans his skin feels exactly as ordinary now.
Might as well do his routine.
DeShawn gets his conditioner in, wipes himself down with moisturizing body wash. Every part of him yields and wobbles when he touches it, and his breath hitches when he notices that he has to go wash under his man-tits. As he reaches around back, he takes a momen to consider what Brandy told him, and he lathers the hills of his ass in circles, much longer than he usually does. Fuck. It’s really big. When did it get so big? Brandy’s probably dated chicks with smaller asses than he has now. How must it look when he wears shorts?
Fuck.
The lather works very well when he jerks himself off.
Getting out, he does his skincare routine, rubbing product into his chubby cheeks and his fat neck. Even his forehead seems a little fatter than it used to be, but that might just be his imagination. When he towels himself off and gets some clothes on, he hears noises from the kitchen. His footfalls thud louder than he’s used to as he walks toward it.
Brandy, shirtless, is preheating the oven.
“Yo,” he says. “You wanna put something on the TV?”
Something flutters in DeShawn’s stomach.
“Whatchu wanna watch, bro?”
“You know I don’t know shit about TV. Just put on one’a your animes.”
“You gonna have to read for those, you know that?”
“Mhm.”
DeShawn saunters over to the living room and grabs the remote, then collapses into his usual spot and starts searching. Light thuds and clinks from the kitchen distract him as he does, but from his spot on the couch he can’t see that far into that.
“Fuck are you doin’, man?”
“Oh, uh, nothin’ much.” Brandy sounds almost embarrassed. “Just, just workin’ on somethin’.”
Suspicious, DeShawn (with a concerted effort and a fatherly grunt) gets up out of his spot on the couch and looks over into the kitchen.
There it is. Brandy, bashful and surrounded by bowls, flour, sugar, cocoa powder — preparations.
“I just, y’know.” He touches his neck, somehow looking up at him. “I thought I’d make dessert.”
It’s stupid, borderline comical of him to think that DeShawn could have any room left in his stomach after today.
A wave of shock and lightning flows through him as he realizes, with a growl of his stomach, that he does.
A clarity that often evades DeShawn tells him that no matter what, he’s going to clean his plate of whatever Brandy makes, and he’s going to like it; he’s going to get fatter, and he’s going to like it, he’s going to outgrow his loosest shirts, his baggiest sweats, his routine, his fitness, his life, and he’s going to like it. He’s going to eat whatever unholy portions of greasy, caloric, lard-laden ambrosia Brandy sets in front of him, on Brandy’s terms, for Brandy, for as long as they share a space, and he’s not just going to like it: he’s going to love it.
The only thing he doesn’t know is why.