#beefyfrat

[gettingplumped1119]

#chubby #exjock #fatten up #transformation #beer gut #beefyfrat #dad bod #fat bhm #fat belly #beefy #bhm weight gain #fattened up #feedee belly

[gainwatch]

And I thought I was getting fat before…

#getting chunky #getting bigger #fattened up #beefyfrat #pot belly #beer gut #make me huge #before and fatter #get me fatter #fat gut #fat moobs #bhm weight gain #feedee belly #fat belly #hairy belly

[hotdogsfordinner]

#beefed

#asian hunk #hot asian men #hunkoftheday #asianmuscle #muscular #handsome #beefed #hottie #asian #woof #hot shirtless asian #beefybro #beefy guy #beefy boy #beefy #beefyfrat #beefyasian #beefcake #beefy pecs #beef #ground beef #beefy muscle #beefy bears #beefy daddy #beefymen #beefy man

[beefysmorgasbord]

Doctor! The experimental Thickification protocol is working!

#beefyfrat #beefy guy #thick man

[darien737]

The things I would do for him 🤤🤤🤤

#beefyfrat #beefybear #beefy boy #beefy stud #beefy bull #hot as hell #fat boy #muscle #gay pecs #thick pecs

[gettingplumped1119]

New video of a quick beer drinking being uploaded to paid platforms tomorrow! https://linktr.ee/Gettingplumpedup?utm_source=linktree_profile_share&ltsid=a6bb3a14-4b71-42bf-808a-e49a6762e04b

#chubby #beer gut #fat belly #exjock #fat bhm #dad bod #fatten up #beefyfrat #get me fatter #transformation

[davegordoom]

Beard grown 😜

From man to hog

#gordo #ballbelly #beerbelly #gordos #oso #osos #bears #beefyguys #beefyfrat #belly

[hotdogsfordinner]

#beefymuscle

#asian hunk #hot asian men #hunkoftheday #asianmuscle #muscular #handsome #hottie #asian #woof #hot shirtless asian #beefyasian #beefy #beefy boy #beefyfrat #beefy guy #beefybro #beefcake #beefy pecs #beef #beefy chest #beefy muscle #beefy bears #beefy daddy #beefymen #beefy man

[big-snack]

Hi all!

Since starting my Patreon. I've really been big on paying it forward. Since I've decided to leave Grommr entirely I've recently decided to join BeefyFrat. The owner, Matt seems to be going through a tough time. While I don't know anything about him, I do think everyone needs help every now and then. I'm going to try to establish a community there again. I just need a community that will not be problematic. He's not charging and paying all of the server fees out of pocket. If you'd like to show him support follow the link and join.

Thank you!

[xthexroguexgallantx]

Maan, i still remember that young handsome guy on beefyfrat with his cute starter belly, just on the verge of becoming chubby. And now here you are, morbidly obese. Love to see it!

My old handle was BattlefortheBelly, and that was the truth. I'm very happy that I won that battle, and then some! And I don't plan on stopping anytime soon. 😏

#me

[gettingplumped1119]

Do you have a belly fetish too?

Nahhhhh lol 🐷

#chubby #exjock #beer gut #dad bod #fat belly #fat bhm #fatten up #transformation #beefyfrat #get me fatter

[bitchysongcomputer]

Making Weight by BearTrainer

From BeefyFrat Library, before it disappears.

"Hey, Manny, how’s it going?" I threw my backpack on the couch and went to the fridge for a nice cold beer, expecting to hear the normal response from my roommate who was as usual sitting on the couch, watching the ball game, but all that came back was silence. So I poked my head around the corner and said, more insistently, "Earth to Manuel. Earth to Manuel." A listless "hey" finally emerged from the form on the couch and popping open my Corona I did a double-take. Nope, he wasn’t asleep and didn’t look sick, but he did look strange, just staring into the space above the TV, foxy as ever in his little onionskin workout shorts and spaghetti strap tank top with his hard hairy pecs hanging out, big arms spread wide on the back of the couch. "Whassup, pardner?" I said, fearing he had gotten some kind of bad news. He looked at me over his shoulder. "Wait till you get this one, Teddy." He rolled his big brown eyes and raised his eyebrows. "You know we had the pre-season coaching meeting today, right?" "Uh huh. Right. Camp starts when?" I came around and sat across from him in the armchair, propping my legs up on the table and doing as I always did, looking at those massive dark thighs of his and trying to concentrate on what he was saying. "June 1. So we’re three months out, and so everything’s cool. I think, until then, that fat shit D’Amico pulls me aside—" "D’Amico?" Manny clenched his fists and gave a pissed-off punch to the back of the couch. "Yeah, D’Amico, he’s the conditioning coach. Big old pain in the ass tub of lard." I thought back to last season, taking a moment to figure out who he was talking about. Then, it came to me--mostly because watching that particular member of the training staff waddle back and forth behind the bench the whole season had been one of the highlights of freshman year for me. D’Amico was just my type, big-butted ex-jock turned coach, well over 300 lbs, with an arrogant strut, somewhat of a legend at the university among the football cognoscenti. "Oh, him," I tried to say innocently, as if I hadn’t spent nights jacking off about that big daddy ass. "Yeah, him. Well, he pulls me aside after the meeting and starts giving me all sorts of shit about my weight." "Your weight?" I put my beer down. "What are you talking about, Manny? You look fucking great!" Which was true—at an even 6 feet, and weighing in at a solid 192, Manny had sculpted himself into superb shape, not ripped, but well-muscled and beautifully proportioned. He was, of course, on the big side for a Puerto Rican, but his excellent speed and skills gave him just what he needed to serve as end for the front line. I had thought he had had quite a decent season last year, despite getting knocked pretty hard a few times. "That’s exactly it, Ted. Man!" He shook his head and beneath his anger I could see anxiety. "I was told today, by D’Amico, that if I didn’t weigh in on June 1 at 245 or above, they weren’t going to let me play." It took all of about three seconds for this piece of information to sink in, and I swallowed hard and tried to remain calm, saying nothing. "Right, you got it," he said, getting up from the couch and pacing furiously around the room. "Told me that they were disappointed at my performance last season, came close to getting injured to many times for them, plus the other teams in the conference are supposed to have these big bruisers on the line this year. So that fat shit tells me to day that they are worried about little guys like me and that I need to bulk up, otherwise they can’t let me on the field." "Little?" I squeaked, gulping down most of my beer to clear my throat. "Yeah, little. He actually had the balls to call me underfed. Said, ‘We can’t take a chance on underfed guys like you getting mauled. You need to get that weight up and you got three months.’ Pokes me in the fucking gut, goddamn asshole, like I was some little pussy." He slapped his stomach. "Right! Like I’m going to be able to put 50 pounds in three months. You know how long it took me to mass up in high school." I did indeed—and it was a golden age for me, serving Manny’s training partner as he went from normal to buffed, through constant, almost obsessive weight training starting sophomore year high school as part of his participation in our school’s championship team. In my own secret fantasies, of course, the whole time I was spotting him, telling him to put more weight on the bar, barking that he could do it, watching him lift and huff and strain, I had always wanted him to go the next step. I could see him, in my mind, start to fill out, let himself really get big, put some serious meat on those beautiful Puerto Rican bones of his. That’s what I saw when I closed my eyes--a nice comfortable layer of smooth soft fat over all that butch muscle; guys like that had always really turned me on, since childhood. But Manny’s Latin-male vanity had always held him back, and throughout his metamorphosis into hunk, he watched his diet and cardio workouts like a hawk. Fat ran in the family—his dad was a porker and so was his mom—and he was terrified of going that way. But now it seems, all my years of fervent prayers to the gainer gods had been answered. "Look, Manny. You gotta do what you gotta do." He looked quite forlorn. "I could quit the team." "Are you nuts? Quit the team because of a little weight. No way. I think you can do it." "I’ll be fucking fat as a house at 245, whaddaya kidding?" The situation required being clever, I realized if it was going to go the way I—and Coach D’Amico—wanted it to. So nonchalantly, I swigged the last of my beer and shrugged. "Listen to me, bud. You’re a big old hunk of muscle now. Let’s say you work out a little harder and eat some more in the next three months and I promise you you are going to look incredible. You don’t need to get fat, not if you hit the weights hard and eat right. You’ll be a huge muscle stud by the end. Promise. You’ll look like those bodybuilders. I swear. You got the potential. And what’s more, I’ll help." He calmed down a bit and paid attention, looking reassured that I was going to help, I think. "50 pounds is a lot of weight, Ted." "It is, that’s true," I leaned forward to do a great imitation of sincerity, all the while hatching my surreptitious strategy for getting Manny going in the direction I had long imagined. "But, let’s face it, even if you put on some fat, if you’re bulking out on muscle, it’s going to look good. No one’s going to fuck with you, Manny. You see those guys—they’re awesome." From the look on his handsome face, he seemed to be buying it. "Maybe you’re right. I’ll just do tons of sit-ups, eat nothing but protein, start split sets. It doesn’t need to go on my belly, does it?" "Not unless you let it, bud. Tell you what, Man. Let’s do it this way—you worry about the workouts and I’ll take care of the food. That way you can just concentrate on getting buffed and huge." He came over and sat on the arm of the chair, putting his arm around me. "You’d do that for me, Ted?" I shrugged it off like it was nothing. "Absolutely, Man. You’re my bud. I can’t let them kick you off the team. I was your training partner—I got to protect my investment." I nudged my elbow into his rib affectionately. "It’ll be a piece of cake. When we’re here in the apartment, I’ll make sure you get what you need. Protein shakes, sports bars, you name it. Then when we eat in the cafeteria, I’ll pick out everything for you, so you don’t get tempted to pig out. We can do it, I’m telling you." "D’Amico says I need to eat about 3 times the calories I normally do, told me I gotta get 6 meals in me every day. That’s half of what scares me. What do I know about food? But, Ted, if you take care of that, then, I don’t know, maybe you’re right. Maybe together we can do it." The concerned expression finally relaxed into his normally bright sexy smile. I laughed. "Six meals, no problem. You just do what I tell you to and you’ll make weight. Don’t worry. Besides, chicks like ‘em big." And with a wink, I poked him in the ribs again. He chuckled and wandered out into the kitchen where I heard a very encouraging sign, the sound of the top being popped off a Corona. "Hey!" he said, lifting the bottle in the doorway, "No time like the present, huh?" I had never systematically gone about fattening a man, but having had years and years of fantasies, I wasn’t too surprised at how easily it came to me, and I was especially pleased at how my competence at organizing this campaign allowed Manny let go and get into it. We established a strict training regime—daily weigh-ins recorded in his log, weekly tape measurements also recorded, twice daily work-outs about half of which I accompanied Manny to and spotted him through, the other half, he was on his own. Al of this was second nature to the two of us, having done pretty much the same thing through high school. It was his food intake that I soon learned was going to tax my reserves of imagination, because old habits died hard and Manny was used to denying himself stuff he felt was "unhealthy" or "fattening." The first week, for example, after watching him barely get down a couple of muffins and a glass of whole milk at breakfast, complaining the whole time about how he didn’t feel like eating so early in the morning, I put my thinking cap on and came up with an ingenious idea: once he was out of the house, I’d retrieve the low fat pastry boxes and skim milk cartons from the garbage, rinsing them out and fill them instead with full-fat breakfast cakes and just plain old half and half from the store down the corner. Would it work? Could I fool him into thinking it was the same stuff he was always eating? Manny was wearing nothing but his boxers and a hard-on when he came to the table the next morning, rolling out of bed at 9:00, stretching and yawning and groaning, scratching his belly. "I’m sore as a shit from these workouts, Ted." He flopped into the chair and looked resentfully at the empty plate. "Time to eat, huh?" I put the box of crumbcake and carton of milk in front of him very obviously, so he could see them both, and dished him up about a quarter of the cake, filling his big tumbler full. "Yep. All low fat, Manny, just the way you want it. Problem is, that means you need to eat twice as much," I lied. He picked up the slab of cake and bit into it, powdered sugar dusting his lips, pecs and belly, chewing slowly, still half-asleep, and knocking back a big gulp of the "milk." "Hmm, tastes good today for some reason. Usually this low-fat shit is dry." I busied myself at the sink. "Yeah, well, I thought I’d try a different brand this time. Sure, you don’t want some chocolate milk." To my surprise, before I had even turned around, he had finished the whole tumbler of milk in a single swallow and let out a little belch. "Boy, does that taste good! It’s like the milk is a little sweet or something." "Must be the sugar on the cake." "Hey, whatever." He reached for the second quarter of the cake. "As long as it’s low fat, I guess I’ll have another." "You know, Man, you should be eating regular food, not all this lowfat stuff, you know. You’ll never get there this way." "Heh heh. Just making your job harder, Ted, aren’t I?" He wolfed down the second piece of crumbcake and poured himself the rest of the milk, thinking he was being so smart. "Yup, very tasty. You know what you’re doing, don’t you, buddy." "Trust me, Manny. I know what I’m doing," which was true, because by the end of not even 15 minutes, he had polished off the entire box of cake, standing up and brushing the crumbs and sugar off his swollen little jockgut. "Guess you do. Man, if that lowfat stuff is so good, this is going to be a piece of cake. Get it? Piece of cake!" And patting his hairy stomach, he strutted off to the gym. Once I saw this incredibly useful technique had actually succeeded, I tried my luck with a few more surreptitious ways of getting those calories in him and, eventually, on him. Following the six-meal-a-day plan that the coach had suggested by adding mid-morning, mid-afternoon and late-night snacks between all of Manny’s regular meals, I soon needed to come up with some way of getting past my roommate’s resistance to eating between meals. "I’m still full from lunch," he’d groan at his desk studying in the afternoon, whe I’d show up with the protein shake or the sandwiches on a plate. "I can’t, Ted. Don’t make me." Clearly pre-emptive strikes would be needed to head off this whining, which was when I started tucking food in his gymbag before his morning workout without him knowing about it: nothing big at first, a couple of his favorite candybars, a few homemade cookies, just to see if he’d bite. He didn’t mention anything the first few weeks, but when I’d check, whatever I had snuck into his bag never seemed to be there when he came home around noon. Of course, he could be giving it away or throwing it out, so, one day, I decided to test him and accidentally on purpose forgot to put his little post-workout treat in his bag. He came home looking sort of gruff that day, though he was never particularly pleasant after the long tough weight training he was doing, usually laying down on the couch with a big "oof" right away and flipping on the tube, very tired, very sore and very crabby. That day, though, I thought I knew why he was a little more out of sorts than usual. "How was the workout?" I said from the desk across the room, where I pretended to be reading for my history class. "Okay, I guess." He didn’t look at me. There was a long pause. "Hey. You mad at me?" "What do you mean?" "I thought you were going to help me." He sat up and scowled, spreading his legs and putting his hands on his knees, the little pooch of a stomach he now had pressing out against the T-shirt and over the waistband of his shorts. I acted surprised. "I am helping you. What’s the problem?" "You know." He just sat there, looking hungry and grumpy. Then he raised his bushy eyebrows. "Why didn’t I get a snack today? Looked through my whole bag twice." I opened my mouth wide in mock-horror. "Oh, shit, I completely forgot. Wait a minute." And off I rushed into the kitchen where a dozen donuts waited in readiness, along with a quart of milk that had had a pint of fullfat chocolate ice cream blended into it, poured into three large bottles that had once held GNC protein shakes. "I’m sorry, Manny," I said, carrying it all in to him in front of the TV. "This is all we got. I bought these donuts for myself, knowing you probably wouldn’t want them, and the sport shakes were supposed to be your afternoon treat , man." "I’m starved, Ted. I busted ass in the gym. I need something. Gimme them donuts." He tore into them like there was no tomorrow. "It’s like my blood sugar drops or something at the end of these workouts. I gotta eat." I handed him a big napkin which threw over his lap and slammed down three cream-filled donuts ice with gooey chocolate icing, one after another. "Shakes," he said, holding his hand out like a doctor asking for a scalpel, mouth too full to talk. "Hope you like it. The protein powder they use in it makes it real thick. Hope you can get it down." Well, that turned out not to be much of a problem at all, as I watched my formerly vain, obsessively dieting jock of a roommate take the bottles, one after another, with both hands and suck down the rich liquid, Adam’s apple bobbing contentedly with every swallow, gut getting heavier and heavier in the now tight shirt. "Whaddaya nuts? It’s great," he said, letting out a huge belch, and wiping his wet mouth off with his forearm. "I don’t know, Ted. I think this whole program is working. I’m working out so hard, it’s like all I can think about is food—and yet" he leaned back, pulled up his shirt and started rubbing his stomach, "Like now, man. I’m so full it kind of hurts." I made a mental checkmark in my mind as I watched him try to massage his gut to make himself more comfortable, leaning forward so it hung down between his legs and rubbing it in long strokes from his sides to the front, like he was trying to make more room. Guess that little trick worked, I congratulated myself. And now that he had gotten used to feeding till it hurt, perhaps my job would get easier and easier. Manny saw 200 come and go on the scale after two weeks, almost as if his poor body was grateful for finally being given everything it wanted in the way of food and more, and in another two weeks, I was thrilled to see 215 appear on the scale—a 20 pound gain in a little less than a month. The effect of this quick and sudden blimping was electrifying to me, as I watched every piece of clothing in his wardrobe suddenly look as if it had shrunk almost overnight. What had been formerly loose T-shirts Manny now had to firmly yank down to cover the spread of his belly, and where lean tight lats had once narrowed into a waist, substantial love handles were now sprouted above widening hips. The view from the back was incredibly hot, his asscheeks getting full and high, his whole form growing square and squat—thank God he couldn’t see the bulky figure he was cutting from this angle, otherwise I’m sure he would have gotten freaked out. I loved watching him get off the scale in the morning and with a huge intake of air, suck in his stomach to get his shorts fastened. It was clear to me that his buttons and zippers weren’t long for this world, most of them at the end of that first month hanging precariously by a thread, seams showing up the legs of his pants and shirts, 33" waistlines struggling to contain what the tape measure now recorded as a 37" circumference. Manny had little choice at this point but to hike his pants down now under his gut, and what with the size of his backside, swollen from eating and endless high-weight squatting, a pair of hairy thighs quickly bulked into massiveness, and that big cock of his trapped inside, his basket stood out prominently, almost on display, all the pressure of the tight clothes and extra flesh giving him what looked to me like a perpetual hard-on. He wasn’t the only one with one of those, of course, which was why I didn’t challenge his vanity and suggest that he splurge and buy some clothes that fit him. I was having way too much fun watch him bust slowly out of the ones he was wearing, and in fact, the few times he successfully wrangled his girth into that pair of Levis he used to just slip on before class, I waited practically drooling for him to come back, waited to see him do what had now become the first thing he did always did when stepping in the door—reach down, bust open the waist band, letting his gut spill out with a huge sigh of relief before heading off to the kitchen, like the obedient jockgainer, to see what treats awaited him there. Along about mid-month, though, just when everything was going so smoothly, I thought, another form of resistance began to arise. Spending most days between kitchen, class and gym, the two of us usually hit the school cafeteria for dinner, and I did as I had promised to with him. He’d go to our usual table, joined with two or three of regular friends, jock groupies, while I would hit the food line for him, piling up at least two or three plates for him, samples of everyone of the three entrees they offered each night, a couple glasses of milk, and waiting till he was mostly done with these before going back for one of each of the three desserts. I had learned if you pushed too much food at him too quick, he’d balk, so I took my time and acted very casual and matter-of-fact, and if he said he only wanted one or two of the entrees I had brought, I’d pretend to nibble on the one he left as my own dinner, leaving most of it purposefully in front of me, saying something like, "Man, this is so good, but I can’t finish it," and pushing it over to him. He’d laugh sheepishly as he invariably dug into my leftovers. "You know what my mom always said. Food doesn’t have any calories if you eat it off someone else’s plate," and down the hatch would go my french fries, my macaroni and cheese, my onion rings, or my slabs of meatloafs. However, around about the middle of the second month, he had begun to come home from the afternoon workout, dump down his regular "sport shake"-- half-and-half and every brand of ice cream Haagen-Dazs made—and then completely conk out. "Time for dinner," I’d announce at 6:00 p.m., shaking his shoulders, but when, twice in a row, looking up groggily, he said, "Sorry, bud, not tonight," I knew I would have provide some sort of incentive. "You gotta help me, guys," I said to Hank and Bill, sitting down that night at the usual table, our two most regular dinner partners. "Where’s Manny the man?" asked Hank. "Not like him to miss dinner." Bill snickered. "Especially lately." He looked at me quizzically. "Is it my imagination or is Manny getting—you know—like big?" I played it cool, knowing both Hank and Bill were good for doing what needed to be done—not especially bright and real jock-admirers. "Well, dudes, this is the deal. Manny’s got to weigh in at 245 by June 1 or he’s off the team." The two of them looked at me surprised. "No way," said Hank, "So that’s what all that’s about. We were wondering what was going on—you feeding him here like there’s no tomorrow, him looking like a fucking stuffed pig. It’s like part of his training. Oh now I get it." "And—" I lied, "If he’s off the team, he’s out of school, because of the scholarship he’s got." This wasn’t true, but I had to make the stakes seem high. "I’m training him, you know, bulking him out but he’s really hating it. Doesn’t want to come to dinner." Maybe I underestimated Bill, because across his normally dumb-looking face appeared the flicker of an idea. "Don’t worry, Ted. I know what to do to get him here. Go get his dinner." And off he went to the phones. Hank shook his head. "Teddy, man. You should have told us. We could have helped." I continued the act. "Well, you know, Manny’s kind of self-conscious and all. You can’t say I said anything." Hank lifted a dinner roll and waved it. "Hey, baby, we’re cool. Won’t say a thing." Mystified at Bill, I did as he said and piled on the grub—that night was a gooey and very filling cheese souffle, fried chicken, and Manny’s particular favorite, sloppy joes. I made sure the plates were loaded, ready and waiting, and I wasn’t back at the table more than a minute when suddenly who should appear by the big guy himself, looking perky and eager, waddling up to the table. We all made a big fuss, but Manny was having none of it, wearing a sexy smile. "So, Bill?" Bill looked too innocent to be true. "You were too slow, baby. She took off." Manny swung himself into the chair and automatically started in on the souffle while he was talking, conditioned to see food and eat it by now. "Whaddaya mean, she took off?" he asked, cheese dribbling out of the corners of his mouth. Hank and I watched the scene and tried not to laugh. "Yeah, she took off, didn’t she, guys? Maria from the bookstore, you know, that babe. She was asking for you but you took too long to get your big ass here, she couldn't wait." Hank played his part well, that I had to give to him. "And she looked real disappointed you weren’t around. I mean, she came over here and explicitly asked us where you were." The idea of Maria asking after him seemed to have a magic effect on Manny’s appetite, and with a big gesture, he used the largest piece of fried chicken to swab off the cheese from the empty souffle plate and chomped away. "She’s so hot, ain’t she?" "I told you, Man," I said, removing the empty plate and pushing the sloppy joes under his nose. "Chicks like big guys." Bill winked. "Maria does, I guess." Manny looked up from his plate for a second, eying the three of us suspiciously, spoon poised over the food for a second, but then the aroma of the meat and the sauce seemed to seduce him and whatever suspicions he had seemed to vanish as he shoveled his third entree into his belly. Hank stood up and after winking at me when Manny wasn’t looking, asked nonchalantly, "Say, you know, watching you eat has made me hungry, again. Anyone want anything? I’m going up to the line. Manny? More sloppy joes? Chicken?" He wasn’t able to speak, mouth full, so he just grunted an eager "yes," still scanning the room for Maria, and I sat back, pleased that yet another little ploof mine had worked. "Guess you won’t be missing dinner again, will you, buddy?" I kidded him, patting his belly and making sure Bill was watching. "How about you get us all some dessert, Bill?" I said with a sly smile. "They got that triple-layer chocolate cake tonight and rice pudding. Why don’t you bring enough for all of us? You don’t want any dessert, do you, Manny? Huh?" Bill could barely contain his laughter as he walked away toward the cafeteria line and neither could I. Still shaking his head, now craning to see where Hank was with his fourth, fifth and sixth plates of dinner, Manny ran his tongue over his teeth. "Fuck, man. I been trying to talk to her all year. I can’t believe I missed her." Needless to say, Manny never missed another dinner at the cafeteria, and with Hank and Bill helping me out, my life had gotten a lot easier. By May 1, Manny’s progress was impressive. He had his stride in food consumption, easily packing away three times what I ate and still capable of feeling hunger late at night, especially if I spent the time after dinner baking up some brownies or a pie, anything to make the whole apartment smell delicious. Getting that food in him before bed was certainly going a long way to fattening him good, and I knew he’d have no problem weighing in at least 245 in a month. Nevertheless, for fear all his old resistance might take over and dash my plans, I knew I couldn’t let down my guard. So during the weekly "taping" as we called it, me throwing the tape measure around his neck, chest, arms, waist, thighs and calves, and then writing all the numbers down in the book he was keeping, I made a big deal about looking at the previous week’s measurements and clucking my tongue, till he picked up on it. "What’s wrong, Ted?" I paused, as if I looked disappointed. "Nothing, really. It’s just that. . . ." I let my voice trail off. "What, man? Tell me." He stood in front of the mirror, wearing nothing but a tiny pair of posing trunks that he used to always wear to the pool for maximum tanning, his asscheeks now hanging out in back, a generous spare tire of flab gathering on top, above the hands that rested on his broad hips. "Well, look here." I showed him the numbers. "This week you really haven’t made any progress." He shook his head, his soft hairy pecs jiggling slightly. "Ted, I swear. I don’t know how that could happen. I mean, I’m pressing 375, 400. My decline leg press is something like 800 pounds. I really can’t do any more weight work that I am doing." He looked at himself in the mirror. "I mean, I look bigger. Don’t I?" He took the sight of himself in, standing there bursting out all over like the Michelin man, and I noticed his cock getting hard—a very good sign. "Well," I tsked. "The tape doesn’t lie." "Fuck, man." He sat down on the bed, all the rolls of his new tender fat gathering and quivering slightly, as he put his head in his hands. "What am I going to do?" "I don’t know, Manny. I mean, I hate to say it, but I think you are going to have to eat more and rest more." It was a measure of my success that this suggestion didn’t meet with what would have been, at one time, furious objections. He simply looked up and listened. "Or maybe you are working out too hard. All the magazines say that when the bodybuilders rest more, decrease their frequency of workouts, their muscles get a better chance to build back up. You might want to cut back on the weight work. You may not be giving your muscles a chance to grow." I tried to seem casual as I wandered over to the dresser and handed him the high-calorie "protein" bar I had placed there earlier—actually a hazelnut cream filled chocolate peanut bar I had gotten from the candy place just off campus, which I slipped into the wrong wrapped and pretended to open with my back turned. He ate it dutifully, automatically putting in his mouth whatever I handed him at this point, biting off most of it at once and all those satisfied little sounds he now regularly made as he ate. "You know, I heard that, too. In fact, the coaches all said that, last year. ‘Quality, not quantity.’ That’s what they said." He swallowed his mouthful and popped the rest of it in. "Good shit. Hard to believe how good this protein food is, these days. So you think I should cut out some of the workouts." "This is what I’d do. One workout a day—in the morning. Come home. Eat. Take a nap. Then don’t do much. Laze around. Study. I heard one bodybuilder call it a ‘power nap.’ He said if you sleep right after eating right after a workout, the muscle gains are incredible. And I think you should only work out every other day. I think you’re overtraining, man." "Sounds good." Manny tried to unstick some of the peanuts from the back of his teeth with a chunky finger. "Let’s do that for a couple of weeks and see what happens. ‘Sides, I’m beat." He scooted himself up into bed and sprawled out. "No gym today. I’m sick of those fucking weights anyway." I massage his shoulders from the back, checking out the way his big soft tits moved, looking straight down what was becoming a very fine fatboy cleavage. "Yeah, I think that’s it, Man. You gotta relax. You been working hard. Don’t worry, we’ll get you off the plateau." He closed his eyes and I could feel him soften under my strong hands. "You want another protein bar?" He looked so sweet in the mirror, like a big hungry babyman. "Two. Bring me two," he said, full lips and cheeks pouting a little. "Will do." And I remember thinking, on the way to the kitchen, that I hoped he never found out that the plateau he was on was all my own doing: I had deliberately written down the wrong numbers the week before, reducing all his measurement by an inch, just to give him a little bit more incentive this week. Another part of my devious plan, but evidently quite effective. I grabbed two more "protein bars" and thought that maybe my trainee needed a little something to wash it down with. Hard choice: chocolate pudding blended with whipping cream—a concoction I passed off as a "sportshake"—or his normal favorite, "low fat" half and half? Rationalizing his laziness as rest and with his capacity for consumption now permanently increased through the continual belly-busting he was doing at every meal, not to mention my slipping him fattening foods disguised as healthy eats, the final phase of Manny’s pre-season training program proceeded with spectacular results. As exams approached, of course, both of us spent a lot of time at home anyway, and most mornings, my now enormous roommate would rarely wake up before 10, put away one of the sizable breakfasts I fixed for him--stacks of pancakes, cheese and bacon omelettes with a dozen eggs, breakfast hash loaded with potatoes and butter—after which he’d lumber off for his workout, pigging out fully on lunch, settling into to the armchair in the living room to doze, study and veg out for the afternoon, before rising with a grunt for dinner. Every day the scale recorded a gain of at least a pound or two, due in part to the slowdown in exercise but I think also due to a completely arbitrary rule that I decided to establish for his training at home—the "you open it, you finish it" rule. More than perhaps any other of my techniques, this particular one made things very easy on Manny, who clearly was not inclined to think much anymore, trusting me fully to have his best interests in mind. This rule required that if a box, carton or can of food were opened for a meal, he was required to finish it, and it had the effect I hoped it would: being simple to follow, it was responsible for at least doubling his intake het again. No more bowls of cereal—now whole boxes would be consumed on a daily basis. No more slices of pepperoni pizza at night in front of the tube—now the entire pizza was what was expected. The elegant simplicity of having finish anything and everything put in front of him was what I think made it work for Manny who complied with a surprising lack of resistance. By mid-May, what had once been a fine hunk of muscle and strength now looked like a powerlifter crossed with Pillsbury doughboy. His shoulders were so broad that he had to pay atttention not to clipped the sides of the door as he went through or turned corners, unused to his size. His legs had grown bulky enough for him to have to navigate one in front of the other with care, and he walked at this point with his chest thrown forward, leaning back a little, to balance the girth he was now carrying in the gut. Having put on 45 pounds, he had to spend sometimes fifteen or twenty minutes trying to squeeze himself into something he could wear out—even the elastic waistbands of all his workout clothes were stretched tight and no amount of tugging or stretching would make some of his shirts cover his gut. Between the mass of his arms and the girth of his pecs, all his button-down shirts gapped and yawned, creasing into deep folds around all the flesh, looking more like stretch wrap than clothes. After hearing him huffing and puffing and finally collasping hopelessly on the bed unable to find anything that fit, I was afraid the inconvenience of the clothes would sabotage all my care and feeding over the months, so I suggested blithely that it looked like it was time for a new wardrobe. "Let’s face it, Manny. You need to get some things you feel comfortable in." He had to laugh, half-embarassed, half proud, at the rightness of what I was telling him. After all, his belly spilling out from a pair of size 32’s that no longer could even be buttoned underneath it, his cotton plaid shirt hanging like a handkerchief on the sides of his torso. "Guess it’s going to be size 40s and XL for me." I raised my eyebrows. "Hey, bubba, you still have 5 pounds to go before you make weight. Better leave some growing room." Needless to say, the eroticism of this whole process verged on the intolerable for me. I had always had the hots for Manny, ever since junior high, which was one of the reasons I had befriended when his family had moved into town. But now, watching him blimp to this extent under my direction, it was sometimes difficult to maintain my own concentration on my schoolwork. As he was spending more and more time sacked out in front of the TV, I found myself with even less time to jack off about him unobtrusively, which I used to do while he was out, humping the pillows in my bed and whispering his name to myself till I came, sometimes three or four in a row. I was a prisoner of my own success to some extent as well, since, having conditioned him to expect and even demand that he be fed and watered on a neary hourly basis, like some prize piece of beef I was fattening, I couldn’t very well ruin my own plans by excusing myself for a a couple hours of "fun" in the bedroom the way I used to and leave him sitting there, hungry and with nothing to eat. So I confined myself to one load a day over him, usually at night, which kept me on the edge that I needed—not too much satisfaction, but never, never enough. What I couldn’t figure out, of course, was how I was going to bring this jockgainer over to my side, how I was going to take down that last little bit of resistance and fulfill my own secret desires. I had managed to get him past many of his own limits and now that we were in the home stretch, one last bright idea would be needed to cement the relationship that I had really wanted with him all along. It was the day he brought home his new clothes that the fates intervened. Waddling into the door wearing enormous baggy cotton shorts and a huge black T-shirt, Manny’s face was flushed, and not just from the effort of clothes shopping. He was cute as he fumbled around the kitchen, making himself three sandwiches and flipping on the gameshows he watched while he dozed in the afternoon. "Went well?" I asked He fed shamelessly now, propping the plate on his belly, shoving the food in with one hand, downing his sportshakes with the other, a two-fisted eater. "Oh, yeah. Went real well." Something was up—that I could tell, because he was eating like a crazy man, red as a beet, looking like he was about to pop, and though trying to pretend to be watching the contestants on TV, he was actually literally squirming around on the couch. I stood up and walked over to him. "Anything you want to tell me about?" Crumbs dotted his lips as he looked up. "It’s kind of embarassing, actually," and the blush continued to spread down his neck and the top of his chest. "Well?" I smiled. He gulped. "You are not going to believe this, but. . . . So, there I am, at the mall, figuring I might as well do like you said, get some real big clothes. So I go into that Old Navy outlet store, pick out a few things, decide to try them on." He wolfed down another half sandwich and swallowed hard, still squirming. "Anyway, so there’s this real cute salesgirl there, little older than us, you know, but real cute, brunette, and she’s helping me. Naturally, I feel like a huge fucking blimp at this point, so it’s not like I’m coming on to her at all. Anyway, I notice she’s like hanging out around the dressing rooms and I even—Christ, I can’t believe this—I even catch her like trying to peek and watch me. I mean, it just blows my mind. These are chicks that wouldn’t even pay attention to me if I begged them." "So you think she was like turned on by you being so big. . . ." "She was, man. She definitely was." He was practically panting at the memory of it, a little breathless as he dumped down the rest of the gainershake I had had ready for him. "And you know how I know?" "How?" And he rolled his eyes and dug into his pocket, pulling out a handful of Hershey’s kisses. "She put these into my bag. I found them when I got in the car." I bust out laughing. "Got you all hot and bothered, didn’t she? Didn’t know that chicks dig fat guys, did you, Manny?" He kneaded his crotch furiously, trying to rearrange his hardon between his thighs and belly, which given all the fat was more than a little bit of a struggle. "And it’s been a fucking long time since Manny’s had anything that fine. What with all this training. I mean, Ted, it’s like I am so horny. I don’t know what’s with me." This was my chance, and I knew it. So I just sat and prodded a little, lowering my voice. "Horny? I thought you were tired all the time." He licked the crumbs off the plate and threw it on the table, grunting loudly as he hefted himself off the couch, and started pacing, belly bouncing in front of him, big basket obviously large and heavy with lust. "Yeah, I am, but it’s also like, I mean, I don’t know how to say it. It’s like I’m just like real sensitive. It’s like everything makes me horny these days. With all this weight on me and constantly feeding myself, it’s like I feel so good, all I want to do is get off. And of course, I thought, well, no one would ever look at me now, but here this girl, this really cute girl, too, comes on to me." He looked like he was going to burst into tears from thwarted desire, pawing at his crotch like an animal. "Man, you can’t believe the things I was thinking on the way home." "Bet I could," I said, deciding to make my move, and reaching over to the table where he had put the pile of Hershey’s kisses, peeling the first one slowly as he watched. "Hungry for something sweet, Manny?" I smiled lasciviously, teasing him. He slowly walked over to where I was sitting, looking at me straight in the eye, one hand on his crotch, undoing the zipper. "Big guy like you has gotta a have a little relief, doesn’t he?" He shook his head sadly, "Oh Ted, man, I’m sorry, you’re like my best friend and all, but like," his voice was hoarse with shame and uncontrollable desire. "I gotta do this. I can’t stand it. You gotta help me, or I’m going to lose my mind." He was pathetic. He was beautiful. I reached up to give him the nugget of chocolate, and silently, he pulled his huge prick out of the confines of his shorts, and began stroking, sinking to his knees next to me. "Hey man it’s OK. Whatever you gotta do, do it. You gotta make weight, buddy. Just remember that. You gotta make weight." I popped the Hershey’s kiss into his mouth. "It’s between friends, man. Don’t worry." He was panting at this point with his eyes closed, mouth open for more chocolate, not looking at me, just concentraing on his own pleasure, hand flying like a piston over the dark, wet uncut cock of his I had seen and drooled over a thousand times. I put my hand on the back of his head and began stroking him like a dog, scratching his glossy dark hair affectionately. "Just let it go, Manny. Enjoy yourself. It’s between us. Whatever it takes, man. Whatever it takes. I’m here for you." He was making little gurgling sounds by this point, his soft gut quivering and his big hips thrusting his cock into his fist as his shorts fell to the floor, revealing a pair of enormous hunching thighs. "I’m sorry, Ted. Man, I’m sorry. But I gotta. . .. I just. . . . fucking. . . gotta." And the moment he went over the edge he looked straight into my eyes with a look of combined shock, relief and hunger, as if this was the first orgasm he had ever had, looking straight at me, wild and happy and afraid of what this all meant. I am not ashamed to say that I took advantage of him then, too, my best friend, a big guy reduced by his appetite and lust on his knees in front of me, thinking about nothing about his own pleasure. Shoving a half dozen kisses in his open mouth, I put my hand right up under his shirt, tenderly pulling on his huge swollen pointed nipples, first one and then the other, as if he trying to milk his cock dry using nothing but his fatboy tits. He moaned at this and moved closer to me, loving the feeling, staring glassy-eyed from pleasure right into my eyes. When he came, he actually yelped, shooting load after load on to the floor, onto his thighs, all over his hands, his overfed body quaking from top to bottom with ecstasy, yelping and yelping, as I started to laugh. It was so ridiculous and so incredibly fine—it was the fulfillment of a dream and the beginning of another. His orgasm lasted forever at the end of it, despite myself and my own attempts at control, I found myself holding the back of his bull neck and with two quick thrusts, came furiously into my own pants, while a huge smile spread across his face, enjoying the sight of me, for once, losing control, hanging on to him like my life depended on it. Soaked and smelling of manhood, we both started laughing hysterically from the sheer relief of it all, and as our laughter faded, he leaned over and put his head face down on the couch next to me, his wide back patched with sweat, the sound of his breathing deep and satsified. I could smell the chocolate on his breath. "Looks like you needed that, bubbaman." "You are a fine one to talk. Looked like you’ve been waiting a long time for that one, huh?" I raised my eyebrows and stroked his hair. "Guess you found out all my little secrets today, didn’t you?" "Guess I did, baby." He gulped and exhaled, wiping his mouth with his paw. "I think I’m losing it, Ted. I’m like really losing it." I reached down and grabbed two big handfuls of flab from around his waist. "I don’t know, Man. Looks more to me like you’re gaining it." "Five pounds to go, huh?" He nuzzled the side of my leg, making no movement to get away from my grasp. "For the team, yeah." I fondled him, rolling all his soft flesh between my fingers, murmuring softly. "But I think you could do better than that." He closed his eyes. "I keep seeing 275 on that scale." "It’d be a lot of work, bigguy." He looked up, fat face bright with desire. "You help?" I ran my fingers over his full lips. "What are friends for, Manny, after all. What are friends for."

[hotdogsfordinner]

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[big-snack]

Hi all!

Since starting my Patreon. I've really been big on paying it forward. Since I've decided to leave Grommr entirely I've recently decided to join BeefyFrat. The owner, Matt seems to be going through a tough time. While I don't know anything about him, I do think everyone needs help every now and then. I'm going to try to establish a community there again. I just need a community that will not be problematic. He's not charging and paying all of the server fees out of pocket. If you'd like to show him support follow the link and join.

Thank you!