#gymwork

[fitpaul40]

Training variety helps me to stay motivated. And what do you do if you’ve lost motivation to workout?

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[pardeepsinghtoor]

Hola 👋 #fitness #model #shoot #modeling #love #work #workout #gymwork #excercise #me #pst #follow #like #swag #style #viral #trending #xyz #explore #instagood #musculation #muscular #muscle #butt #glutesworkout https://www.instagram.com/p/CdvO93aPvtP/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

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[exact-fitness-wears]

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[geeceeess]

Starting to do some basic work on the pectorals. #MuscleToning #GymWork #Golf #GolfObsessed (at Bury) https://www.instagram.com/p/CoTGc5atJhS/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

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[bitchysongcomputer]

Squeegee by BearTrainer

 From BeefyFrat Library, before it disappears.

There I was, minding my own business, which, as it happens, means listening to the raft of morning reservation calls and changes on the Au Pied de Cochon voicemail system—"I know I said six, but my mother-in-law's catsitter's nephew's goddaughter and her fiancé will be joining us, so I'm hoping you can find a place for us, oh please, pretty please" and "We're going to be there tonight and I'm wondering if the pastry chef could make the pecan tart with macadamia nuts instead, since my husband loves macadamias and it's his birthday and all"—when, over the rim of my first cappuccino, what should I see but a Tuesday morning vision of male beauty, at least by my standards. Tousled, sleepy-faced, and very blond, he lumbered out of the pickup he just parked in the white loading zone in front of the restaurant and carried what looked like a large dishpan toward our front door, snug white tee displaying a good solid set of shoulders, biceps and forearms, dusted with fur and sporting a workman's tanline. Maybe 25, older, younger? I wondered. He was too bulky to be much younger, and he was wearing a resentful, pouty mug on his face—clearly not a morning person—and moved with a heavy, masculine deliberation that had clearly left his light, care-free impetuous youth now far behind. As he put the pan down in front of our bank of floor-to-roof picture windows and turned around to get the rest of his equipment, I carefully put my own coffee down, lest I spill all over myself, for there it was, in plain sight: all the gymwork of the upper body on him setting atop a bunch of sweet pudge, poured into a cheap pair of brown, pin-striped dress pants from Walmart, big asscheeks wriggling under the shiny fabric and what couldn't be less than a 34 waistline tugging on a pair of lovehandles. What kind of workout routine was this that built him so nice and hard upstairs and left the rest of him deliciously neglected and soft below? From my perch, thoroughly unabashed, I simply continued to stare, motionless, eyes riveted upon him, as he trundled back from his truck carrying a gallon jug of Windex and, mystery revealed, a thick, wide squeegee mounted on a six-foot broomstick. He was the window-washer. Ah….. And so, I watched as the final part of my morning treat was delivered to me. Dipping his long pole in the pan, he began, oh so carefully, to wipe, wipe, wipe from top to bottom, the action of which, naturally, made his shirt ride up oh so sweetly, oh so unself-consciously, oh so inevitably, until a luscious white bulge of beginner Buddhabelly pooched out over his pants, visible through the blur of the wet window like some kind of high-toned encourager-porn dream sequence in that DVD I wish someone someday would take the time to make. Renny's voice startled me out of my reverie, stage-whispering "Gagliardi's nephew," in my ear after creeping up behind me without warning. I literally gasped. "Give me a fucking heart attack, will you? Shit!" And then catching my breath, I spun about to face our resident kitchen wag and my partner in crime at what all of us in-house called---with deep affection, of course--Piggyfeet. Eyebrows raised, I burbled, "No way. We're not going to be having our windows cleaned by this bo-hunk every day, are we?" "Oh yes. Got the whole story last week from Darlene, of all people, who wormed the story out of Frank Gagliardi who felt he needed to give us a heads-up. Paragon of morality that he be." I noticed that Renny himself, for his being all casual and whatever, was, nevertheless like me, breathing a little heavier himself and had a glassy, unmoving eye fixed upon the window as well. "He told her that he was sending Byron to us, just in case we wondered. And, well, isn't he up your own personal one-way alley." Renny paused for effect. "Fresh out of County, on parole for the next two years, needed a job." Down came the squeegee and crystal clear, the heft and breadth of Byron was again before us. What a delight? And to think, I thought I was going to have just another humdrum Tuesday catering to the bourgeoisie. "County, eh? Hence…the physique." "Oh yeah." Renny made his trademark know-it-all moue and nodded. "Yeah. One has to presume it's a lovely train wreck of recovery from wicked crystal habit, jail weight-lifting and greasy, starchy 3-squares in aluminum tins. Twelve months in the lock-up will do that to a guy." He licked his lips. "I'm actually a little impressed he's in the shape he's in, aren't you? Usually they really let go. He's just, well, healthy-looking. At least for now, I'd say." "You are such an expert on jail trade, can't believe I forgot," I couldn't help saying sarcastically. In the end, though, Renny was right. Byron was no light-weight, that was for darn sure, his broad, sullen face plump and almost jowly, large pecs with thick nipples rounding out firmly enough to cast a shadow. There was, all the same, a youthful vigor about him even with the poundage and I could see in how he moved a kind of fire to get things back on track for himself. Knowing his backstory, I could see all of he had gone through, reflected, stroke by stroke, as he cleaned our windows: used to the good life of carefree partying, with the drugs keeping him nice, tight and lean, plenty of friends and money and sex, and then, busted, confined for a year to what ended up being an adult male feeding pen, abundant food dished up on schedule, grinding inactivity, the uselessness of lolling about the dorm and yard. Desperate to keep his looks and his sanity after about piling on about 25 pound of chub, he starts to hit the weightroom, jogs a little now and then, and tries, best as he can, coming off amphetamines, to stay away from hyper-sugary institutional desserts, doing his time and hoping against hope he won't end up looking like the rest of soft, blowsy self-pitying cons in their jumpsuits, doughy, white and prematurely middle-aged. Now, he's back on the outside, dependent on his uncle's charity for a lowly minimum-wage gig as squeegee, an arrest record, meth habit and 30 extra pounds following him around, an unshakeable ballast of misspent youth. No wonder he looked sullen, or was this his particular version of grim determination? Shit, you could tell the guy was one of God's great eaters, flashing his sweet rolls of firm newfat, a broad bubble of an ass shifting restlessly, stretching the back seam this way and that, as he worked up more than a little bit of a sweat doing his job in front of the two of us. After sharing a few hypnotized moments of admiring lust with me, with a click of the heels Renny laughed lightly and turned. "Got to get back to stuffing my andouille sausages, baby. So sorry I can't stand here and blab and drool all day as you make your plans." "Plans?" I said, with mock naïveté. He snorted loudly. "I may not know jail trade, but I know you. How many poor hapless waistlines have you sabotaged, while here so far?" "You need to remember that Danny came here heavy. I always get blamed but…." "There is heavy and then there is HEAVY." Renny waved his hand. "Yeah, yeah, yeah, don't say it. 'I didn't put a gun to his head to eat himself up over 300 on Frances' napoleons and tiramisù.' Ring me in the back if you want Squeegee to have a good solid country breakfast, ok?" "Poor guy is scowling he's so hungry," I murmured. "Anyone can see that." Renny was going to leave, but we stood for a few more moments, boring holes into the plate glass with our gaze. "Anyone could see that. He needs a meal." "Something substantial. He's got a long day of hard work." "But plenty of protein too." "He can always work on definition later." "Much later." "How about a nice generous pile of French toast with a goat cheese scramble on the side, and fresh orange/grapefruit." Renny walked to the kitchen. "You have ten minutes." "Love a challenge." Squeegee. My new project. In the first stages, there are usually a couple of prime considerations. Managing their self-consciousness is always an issue, as is the general wariness of straight guys in the Bay Area who know the score and can't really be tricked the way that some carefree, mindless fuck fiction would have it. So, like a soufflé, rich but light, it requires a light touch. That day I had to improvise, so pulling one of the fresh baguettes out of their Semifreddi bags by the front busboy station, I slathered it up with honey butter and chopped off a theatrically large piece and then, paying him no attention whatsoever, I passed by as he did his work and dashed out to my car in the lot across the street, in order, of course, to do nothing in particular. I made sure to take my sweet time coming back, though, sauntering, nibbling a little on the end of the fragrant tartine as I paused at the door and gave him a little encouraging smile. "Great work. Thanks. Especially on sunny days like this, the windows make all the difference." He politely smiled back and mumbled, "Thanks." "Frank probably didn't tell you but if you want some coffee or lemonade or something, let me know," and then, making as if not waiting, I swung open the door, ready to stop if there was even a moment's hesitation on his part. And there was—he raised his eyebrows adorably. "Oh, coffee," he sighed. And I stopped. "Very good coffee, too. Special blend exclusively for the restaurant from Kona growers." He smiled more broadly. "That would be great." I very deliberately took a large bite out of my baguette prop and chewed long and hard before answering with all the officiousness of professional waitstaff, one foot in the door. "Cream? Sugar?" "Yeah, both. If it's not too much trouble." Hmm. He seemed polite enough. Nothing like the discipline of "yessir, nossir" on the inside for a year to make a fine bit of overfed beefcake nice and docile. "Well, you just come on in, when you finish up that panel." Even without the a/c, the restaurant was cool and dark this early in the morning, and I pretended to be all wrapped up complicated table arrangement charts, when the soon-to-be-conquered Byron tentatively opened the door and peeked inside. "Hey, there," I said, and pointed my thumb over to the bar, where I met him and poured out a cup of the fresh brew we all kept on hand for us, setting it out for him as if he were our first honored customer of the day, my own large and quite unfinished, heavily buttered baguette right there on the counter. "I'm Grant, by the way." The way he was looking at the polished zinc bar counter, the china cup and saucer, the gleaming steel sugar bowl and creamer, the stylish demitasse spoon made me think that it had been a long time since he had had a cup of coffee in anything but a styrofoam 7-11 cup. "Byron," he answered, between sips, after adding more sugar, more cream. "You know my uncle?" "Yeah, for years now. Has done great work with the maintenance for us. I myself didn't intend to end up as assistant manager here, just wanted the maître d' job, but dealing with the contractors now and then comes with the territory." He continued checking the place out, the damask linens, the crystal glassware, the ultra-modern lighting system sleekly running about the ceiling and cunningly focused on the artwork and flower arrangements, a laboriously effortless chiaroscuro effect creating that "dining environment" for which Au Pied was, justifiably, known and lauded. "Quite a place," he said as he settled in on the barstool to drink his coffee, resting his thick forearms on the counter on either side, out of prison habit, to protect his food. I munched further down on my baguette, mostly so as to have an excuse to wave it around and tempt him with the fragrance of honey. "It can be a big pain in the ass, you know working with the public, especially rich people." I pretended to organize the garnishes at the bar, figuring he wouldn't know that that was probably the last thing someone in my position would ever get involved with in a high-toned establishment such as this one. And right on cue, the bar phone rang. God bless Renny. "No," I said, looking around. "I have no idea….he did?.....well, he's not here now…..me?.....no…." I caught Byron's curious glances for a second or two, absorbed in my phone conversation, and then, said, "No…..not really….but…." holding his eyes this time and putting my hand over the receiver. "Have you had breakfast? Renny from the kitchen said that the manager asked for breakfast but seems to have disappeared." "Breakfast?" Byron's eyes lit up involuntarily but his expressionless, guarded face didn't change. "Nothing fancy, really. I've already eaten," I gestured at my excuse of a tartine on the counter, "And those guys back there are too busy to take the time." He looked over toward the windows, he only had a couple left to do, and then at his watch. It was a good sign, this long hesitation, the way that the very concept of breakfast was stopping him in his tracks. Did he mean to rub his stomach with his big paw, or was that his sexy, child-like way he had learned to communicate to his feeders that he was hungry? A sheepish, grateful smile appeared. "I got time." I hung up quickly and with all the naturalness in the world, hustled off to the kitchen, saying on the way, "For all the food we serve here and throw out, I just hate to see any of it go to waste." As I knew he would, Renny supplied a high mountain of French toast on a large plate, adorned with fresh fruit, with a tasty scramble big enough for three, with hefty slices of buttered toast—bread to go with your bread, sir?—and a pot of warmed nutmeg syrup, the smell of which was fairly intoxicating. Byron drew back a little at the generosity of what he was being served, crisply folded napkin offered as if it were only to be expected, and seeing his reaction, I tried to mitigate the impact, by explaining, "As you can see, our manager is used to being pampered." I would have loved to stand right there and watch every sweet, carbo-rich morsel disappear into that pouty, kissable mouth, watch the sugar take effect and glaze his eyes over with food bliss, watch him dig in quick and then slow down until he had a hard time sitting forward and yet, continue to plow through till the plate was clean. But it was neither polite nor strategic to make my Squeegee too aware of the web being woven around him. So I tapped the bar, said, "Take your time. Might be the only break you get today, huh?" and moved back to my desk behind his back, where, unbeknownst to him, I had nevertheless had a clear view of him in the big wall mirror. I didn't miss a moment of any of it--the way he dipped a spoon in the syrup to taste it first and actually licked his lips with his pink tongue, how he folded the slices in half, cut through, taking large mouthfuls, enjoying how filling it was, how sweet, how comforting to eat in a cool, quiet place, not rushed, food prepared with style, and lots of it, all for him. He buttered his toast from the tub I had left on the counter, spooned the eggs on it to make little scramble sandwiches for himself which he devoured like French-toast chasers. He mopped the syrup and butter off the plate, using his big fingers to nudge the food on to the fork, and half-way through, I could see him realize that there was no need to rush. That was when the full potential of him became clear to me, for he suddenly relaxed, a big sack of a musclechub lost in the good food spread out, all the tension gone. The mirror gave me the frontal view of his greedy mouth and porky face, but the back-side view, from my desk, was all the confirmation I needed for my plans: soft belly roll folded over into a spare tire of flab ringing him, his plump tits sagging nice and round now that he wasn't sitting up straight and holding himself high, scooting back a little to make room for more eats which made the breadth of his ass, hips and thighs all the more obvious, waistband low in the back as his overfed bubblecheeks pulled it down, crotch tight in the front between a pair of spreading hams, all the seams taut as 250 pounds settled into 200 pounds of pants. And he still ate, in a world of his own gourmet table, unstinting, civilized breakfasts, followed by long lunches and siestas, festive suppers, late night dinners of many courses, where he could be and would be encouraged to indulge in all the good things of life, fill up, relish, soak up the sweetness, engage in the overnourishment he had come to crave. He let his eyes flutter shut now and then, letting the soft animal of his big, burgeoning body love what it loved. He'd sigh occasionally, and the best part was how, at the end of it all, when every scrap of toast and eggs had found its place on him and the plate was squeaky-clean, he cast a surreptitious glance about and took my half-eaten baguette that I had left there to finish off on his own. What a fatty food-sneaker! That was the moment when I knew I had him good. I gave him a few moments to digest and then joined him back at the bar with the dregs of my own coffee. Up close it was erotic to see him flushed with a sugar high, those solid shoulders and arms propping him just enough so all the firm, well-fed fleshiness of plump pecs and bobble-belly could hang loose. He was breathing heavy, more because he scarfed it all down so quick than because it was all that much for him, and I could see that tell-tale glitter of incipient food frenzy in his eyes, probably what he looked like on the way to score tina and do a run, but now turned full-force on to what I hoped would be his new, legal addiction—overeating himself into obesity. Clearly, if I were to bring out another breakfast, he'd eat it. He didn't have it in him to stop himself. I smiled sweetly as I took his plate. "Guess you haven't eaten for a while." "Not like that, no. Did Frank tell you…?" I nodded, the soul of understanding and compassion. "Yeah. Whatever. No one's perfect." Then, intentionally changing the subject, "How about that nutmeg syrup, huh?" Beneath long eyelashes lashes, he rolled his baby blues back in his head and smiled a chubby smile. "Wicked good." "I've seen some customers literally drink it out of the pourer." "Yeah?" He winced at the thought and then, picked up the container, peering into it. "Pretty sweet." Which was when he caught me by surprise, stopping me dead with a look of sheer, penetrating, utterly unexpected directness, switching in an instant into a full-grown, fierce-looking ex-con. The air was electric with tension as he leaned forward toward me. "There better be more where that came from. I'm going to want more." The baby-blues had turned grey and steely in a flash, and he took one of his thick sausage fingers, wiped it around the inside of the syrup glass, and sucked on it hard. "I like that stuff, a lot." I was completely taken aback. Good thing dealing with aggressive customers for many years now at least let me preserve the outward trappings of good manners. "Don't worry, Byron. There's plenty. I'll make sure of that." But to tell the truth, watching him pack up and leave that day, walking slower with a belly jut and the flush of some attention, I couldn't help but feel a slight shiver of fear. Don't get between him and his fix—I guess that was the moral of the first part of Squeegee's story. Not that I had any intention of depriving Byron of his breakfast. Of all the insipidities I could spend my pathetic tip money on, paying Renny $15 under the table every other day to accustom this scrumptious ex-junkie window-washing parolee plumper to a good solid daily feed at the PiggyFeet trough until some serious results began to show---let's just say I have spent a lot more on a lot less fun. As it turns out, we were only scheduled to have our windows shined up every other day, which frankly was OK by me. It'd be a little much, I thought, to be lavishing breakfast on him daily anyway. He might catch on, and then how would I get my evil kicks then, huh? Plus, alternate days gave me time to put my head together with Renny to plan a nice, satisfying menu for Squeegee, something that would appeal, compel, seduce Tubby into making damn sure he never called in sick. He was there bright and early all right on Thursday, and Mother Nature herself, who from what I can tell has long been a big fan of all things excessive, appeared to have smiled on the inauguration of my new project: unseasonably warm weather for a Bay Area July meant it was in the high 70s, even at 9 a.m. And that meant a wonderful treat for me which I espied over the edge of my podium. Byron was in cargos and bright orange tank top, all of which probably did fit in the baggy way they were supposed to when he bought them a year ago but which now grabbed the overblown chunkiness of him in all the right spots—bowing out nice and round in the middle, belly flab and deep navel bouncing with every ponderous step, hunky-chunky thighs and bubblecheeks hefting and wrestling about under the tight khaki, all his smooth pink skin flushed with the heat. He waved at me inside and smiled shyly, setting up his stuff on the sidewalk, and wanting him used to being treated with respect and graciousness, I waved back and glided forth effortlessly, carrying a large, almost bowl-size cup of coffee, set aside for lattes which some especially gauche customers insist on slurping down after a fine repast. But, this morning, just for B-man, I tucked in about a half dozen of those super-sweet amaretti we use to garnish the ice cream sundaes. Baby likes sugar. Baby gets sugar. Baby gets nice and fat. "Man, thanks!" he said, loving the coffee but peering at the odd biscuits. "Never had these." He crunched away and opened his eyes wide at the pure aromatic impact of them. "They're Italian. We use them for desserts here." He gobbled them down, confirming my well-trained instincts at discerning the weakest spots in diet resolutions such as the hapless victims of my ministrations might be so bold as to entertain. Squeegee, however, seemed to be walking very willingly to the House of Ruinous Delights. I could smell the almond paste on his breath when he said, "Yeah, it's almost like I need to keep my blood sugar up these days. I mean, you go from doing jackshit in jail to, all of sudden, having to work a regular schedule." "And active physical work, too." "I've been trying to skip breakfast, you know, I don't want to get too big now that I don't have time for the weights, but…." He paused and I could practically hear the gears turning. "But…?" "Don't take this wrong, I'm not asking for charity, but the other day that breakfast was, like, the best thing I had ever eaten. I've never been to a place like this, you know, to have dinner, lunch, whatever." "It's pretty over-priced actually, but I can at least say that the food is great. I'm not sure I could afford to eat here either. And," I laid a fraternal hand on his shoulder, "No need to apologize. Feeding people is what we do here. That breakfast might have been the best you ever ate but fact is, Renny my bud in the kitchen whipped it up in, say, three minutes, takes no time at all to cook up some eggs, griddle some French toast, make it look pretty on the plate, when you are used to doing it fast and quick in a restaurant kitchen." Was Byron's mouth-watering? Probably the after-effects of the sugar bombs. "You hear about breakfast being so important and all, and Tuesday was really a lot easier for me after that." "Well, that's good to hear. So plan on having breakfast—on us. We're more than happy to help guys like you get back on your feet, and it's not a problem on our end. In fact, Renny was thinking you might want to be our taste tester today." He laughed, flashing big dimples and softening chin. "The guinea pig." The flirtatious cheek of him! Darn good thing I wasn't my own snug cargos that day. "Get your work done and come in, when you are ready to help us out." Was it my imagination or did our big old Squeegee work at record-pace that day, making that bank of windows glitter like nobody's business in ten minutes? Would the day ever come when he might actually wear that "Will Work For Food" I still have in the drawer, bought a few year back during a hot and heavy dalliance with a previous feedee who, alas, never really went the distance? Hope springs eternal. In any case, he was inside lickety-split, it seemed, all moist and panting from bending over and from, I imagined, the eagerness to "help us out." Sexy as it was to have seen him wiggling his width about awkwardly on the barstool the other day, if he was going to be irresistibly brought down by my secret encourager machinations, better to give the growing guy all the room he needed to spread out and relax and enjoy himself. So, I waved him over to the banquette along the wall, where, not coincidentally, a pair of corner mirrors gave me a three-dimensional view of his girth, and, voilà, out came Renny's creation which I placed in front of him with an overdone flourish, as if he were a genuine customer. "Pancakes?" he said, gleefully, looking up at me. "I love pancakes." "Ahh, but these are special…." He dove in and then discovered that these were no ordinary pancakes, but were in fact filled with rich cream cheese that had been whipped with the nutmeg maple syrup, such that, as he cut into them, the filling oozed out obscenely and released a very intense fragrance of sugar and spice and everything nice. The effect of it on him was as planned: here was a dude slung up somewhere between a San Pablo trailer park and the dog races, a guy who had undoubtedly come of age eating nothing but cheap, packaged, microwave dinners and snacks from jars, bottles and boxes, whose most far-out idea of the "high life" was to party with his tweaker buds and do shooters at Hooters. And now, thanks to the magnanimity of none other than the critically acclaimed Berkeley restaurant Au Pied de Cochon inspired by world-renowned California cuisinière Alyssa Wadders, our boy from the sticks was being acquainted with the way that food could be so much, much more to him, a path to the good life where things were clean, tasteful, civilized, and friendly; a harmless way of exercising his sensuality in the form of that big greedy appetite for pleasure which had gotten him into trouble in the first place, but which here at the table, centered on the food, on the eating of food, on the joy that food gave him, could now be indulged without any serious problems. Never had post-incarceration rehabilitation been so elegant, so gustatorily enticing, nor—I quivered with the thought--so potentially lethal to that waistline or the numbers on his bathroom scale. He took one bite of the stuffed pancake, a big bite dripping with milkfat, nutmeg and surreptitious encouragement, and he groaned deeply with satisfaction. Saying nothing, he took his time, spooning in another and another, eyes half-shut from a sugar climax, whimpering like a weaning shoat as he took a long, lingering time to clean his plate, mouthful after mouthful after revelatory mouthful. "Oh god…I've never tasted anything like this." I smiled down at him, watching him let go, shirt creasing carelessly around the folds of his fleshy torso, belly soft and slack, ready to make room for more, fat ass cushioned with a comfort that made it easy to stay there. "So they're good," I said, matter-of-factly. He chuckled and looked up. "Way good. Like having a pancake, cream-filled donut and cheese danish all at the same time. It's blowing my circuits." And your belt buckle, I thought. "So it's not too bad being a guinea pig, huh?" Every last part of me wanted to slide right in there next to him, at that moment, gently grab that flab of his, fresh, new and jiggly, call him "squeegee," "guinea piggy," "piggyfeet's newest piggy-feeder," reinforce what I knew I would be successful at turning him into over time. But I didn't. I did instead what needed to be done for now: I went back into the kitchen and brought out another six of these stuffed pancakes, their starchy, intoxicating perfume hitting Byron full in the face and he moaned helplessly, eyes bright with foodlust and even a little bit of fear. "You told me you liked that nutmeg syrup...so…" He winced and let his eyes alternate between the irresistible temptation on front of him, the high pile of food that he soon would be wearing on his hips and soft, low-slung Buddha-belly, and my own expression of implacable, unruffled, determined bonhomie. And as he spoke his piece to me, "Don't get me wrong, they are really great, but maybe I could finish a couple more of them, you could help, I dunno, someone in the kitchen…." it was impossible not to notice how his hand reached for the big spoon automatically, how he scooped up yet another enormous mouthful, how without thinking, like a natural porker, he began to feed, unable to stop himself because he wasn't even aware he was doing it, and once he started tucking it in, Round Two of stuffed pancakes, there were no more words, just gentle grunts, the smacking of buttery lips, and occasionally the sound of the cushions shifting, as he leaned back to catch his breath but only for a second until the draw of the table made him lean forward again, bench creaking, jockeying those overfed thighs and fattening ass into position so he could continue to pamper himself, sucking down the pleasure, the guiltless pleasure of what I was going to make sure was his incurable new compulsion. I swear by the end his sweat smelled like cream cheese and nutmeg. Where was it coming from? The plate was empty, a gooey mess of smeared feeding, and I thought long and hard about whether or not to do this next thing, but he was practically passed out with the overwhelming, nearly endless gorging that he had just given into, body flaccid and bulging, food-stupid expression on him, the way they get toward the end of a good, solid, satisfying binge, and I figured it couldn't be anything more outrageous than what he had in all likelihood seen and done in jail. So I went for it: I ran my index finger along the plate, wiping up a big mound of the sweetened filling still left and put it up to his lips. "We clean our plates around here at Piggyfeet." Given how south it all could have gone, that singular pause, as he looked at me from below, lasted an eternity. I didn't know him well enough yet to be able to tell whether it was relief, sullen resentment, or just plain, mindless, male lust that animated his glance at me in that moment, but whatever it was, I didn't get slugged. On the contrary, my instincts proved correct and instead, he closed his eyes, parted his big lips, and, with that soft and yielding tongue of his, suckled the cream off my finger, every last little bit. From that moment onward, an unspoken understanding had been reached between us, or perhaps better to say the unspoken understanding, for in my experience with the obese-to-be, it is always the same understanding and there is really no need to talk about it. In fact, better not to talk about it. Better, far better, far more exciting in some ways, to keep it unstated, below the radar of anyone who might guess, and simply let the inexorable process take its course. And take its course it did with Squeegee, who soon began to "stop by to say hi" even on the mornings when he wasn't scheduled to be working, especially when he realized that the culinary generosity of PiggyFeet would be supplemented on those days by my own personal assurance of a "nice big solid breakfast to start the day." Sometimes that was in the form of a flat of fresh pastries from La Farine, at others a sizable sack of cinnamon-sugar doughnuts right out of the fryer from Cruller Corner, warm, comforting, oily, and then there were those morning when I picked up a couple of piping hot breakfast burritos from La Picante down the street, served up with the pretense that I was going to have a bit of nosh myself, the reality being, of course, that all the sausage, potatoes, cheese and tortilla mostly made their way into Byron's capacious gullet, especially once I got him all jacked up on coffee and sugar. Once a stimulant junkie, always a stimulant junkie. Even with this special touch of my own added to hasten the undermining of whatever remnant of faltering will power he still had, it didn't escape anyone's notice that Byron always seemed to enjoyed the good home-cooking of our own kitchen best, and as long as I kept Renny's palm greased with the green, luscious morning meals kept coming out from out kitchen with a regularity that was blimping our Squeegee into a full-fledged, well-rounded gourmand. Cream-cheese stuffed pancakes were followed by an "experiment" of savory French toast stuffed with bacon, ham and pancetta that Byron was the first to taste and gobbled up with gluttonous approval. And more experiments followed, rich fattening morning meals the recipes for which our kitchen never got a chance to try out, since we only opened for lunch: crêpes thick with cream, folded over a wide variety of filling created from the previous nights leftovers---roast beef hash with sage gravy, chicken pomodoro adorned with slabs of melted provolone, seafood gumbo over rice. The guinea piggy had a real carbo jones, and I swear after a couple of weeks I caught him literally drooling as he made his way to our doorstep, big chops licking in anticipation. But even old standards need to be livened with variety and I was determined to expand Byron's greed into new areas. So, glossy omelettes grew by the day from three- to four- and eventually to six eggs, the size of dinnerplates, accompanied by towers of buttered bread, rich cream biscuits, and pots of jam, with occasional mixed grill thrown in, different house-made sausages—chicken, turkey, lamb—lined up like soldiers on a battlefield andmowed down with relish before he waddled off for the rest of his work day. A measure of how primed he was, how eminently plump-able, was obvious in how quickly his new, luxurious breakfast habits resulted in what I had wanted to see from the first day: in three weeks, Byron went from pleasantly chunky to distinctly, inarguably lard-assed, cheeks puffy, chin thick, soft and lushly larded, once broad shoulders now even broader and sloping over man-breasts that shook lasciviously, abundantly, under voluminous XXL T-shirts that made his transition from beefy boy to lard-ass slob clear and present. As his body sought to find new places to store the blubber that his greatly increased intake was creating as stores for a famine that I would make sure he would never experience, rolls of fat grew under his arms, popped out nice and jiggly around his waist, and widened out the top of his thighs so that his pants cut into deep, thickly creased chub all around. Most amazing, though, was his belly that pushed out over his shorts, forcing the waistband to sling low like a sweet hammock over an unexpectedly symmetrical sphere, navel smack in the center of his shirt, bouncing gently, seductively at the slightest movement. I thought he would widen and droop, he just looked like the type to me, a sloppy-fat gainer-tub, but I was wrong. The extra forty pounds that first month came on him nice and firm, and by the end, he had blossomed into more of a rolypoly, a Michelin man, overstuffed, upholstered with sexy manfat that would show itself off now and then as his shirt rode up during a feeding or as his cotton shorts flashed the back of his shaking ass cheeks on his way off to work. Gratifying as it was to achieve this kind of success, I couldn't help wondering whether or not more might be possible, given the ease with which Byron had given himself over to the morning feeding routine and the sensual fattening he was capable of achieving in such a short time. Just as his own appetite was grew hand-in-hand with his excess poundage, each day making that delightfully vicious cycle of lowered metabolism and increase consumption more and more his way of life, conditioning him to a life of obesity, my own desire to push the limits with him were similarly increasing. The more he showed up obediently expecting to be stuffed, the less able to restrain his piggishness in front of me (to the point of even grunting and snorting toward the end of an exceptionally delicious meal), the more lard he piled on, the more it made me think that what had begun a diversion, as an exploration, might well be taken to another level. Why shouldn't I get something permanently, deeply, personally satisfying out of all my hard work, too? As he sat there, day after day, spreading out, fatter and fatter, more and more hoggish, burying himself in the excess, was it really so unrealistic to think that he was giving it up so easy because deep down he wanted me to go to the next step? I'd occasionally catch him looking at me, eyes bright above food-swollen cheeks, looking at me with an expression that I began to realize was actually a request he didn't know, didn't have the words, to make. Easy to find out. So on a day when I knew the dinner rush would be light, the Sunday of July 4th weekend, when everyone was either out of town or barbecuing in their own backyards, I let him dab his lips with the napkin after finishing a sumptuous load of creamed chipped beef served on two sour-cream laden baked potatoes, shift his nearly 300-pound bulk around enough to give the vast balloon of his paunch the room to digest in peace with a soft belch, and then asked him what his plans were for the evening. He sniggered a little. "Plans. I got no plans. Never have no plans." He put a plump hand on his belly and rested it, wheezing a little, looking back at me with an unformed question dancing about in his bovine gaze. "Got no friends now that I'm not using or dealing. And sure ain't got no girlfriend at this fucking size." He laughed in a self-deprecating way and picked up the remnants of potato skins with a fork. "I got my eats, and that's just about it." "Well, then, why don't you stop by here tonight? It's doing to be d-e-a-d. And we're all just going to be kicking back, you know." A little smile crept over his face, double chins flushing with a scoot of the hips. "Bet you have a dynamite dessert menu." What was I thinking? This fatty had been around the block. "Menu? We have a platter the size of Missouri," I said, giving back as good as I was getting. And sure enough, even after plowing through breakfast enough for six, he sat there, drooling just at the thought, . "Good as the rest of the food?" My turn to snigger, which I did, wickedly. "Three different pies, chocolate decadence torte, two different cheesecakes, caramel pudding, cookie plate….It's always such a shame that we put it all out on a display tray for the evening and then at the end, just throw out all the samples." He had tried a couple of times to rouse himself from his laziness and shift his tonnage into gear head off to work, but there was nothing like a low center of fatboy gravity to make that difficult. So I reached out my hand and gave him a lift, pulling him forward with a good strong hand and letting him stand real close as he got his balance, the crest of his 48" gut grazing my arm. "I'm so here tonight," he said softly. Was it my imagination or did I hear in his voice a note of relief and see in his body a kind of yielding, yielding to all of his appetites, even the ones that he had kept secret up to now, secret even to himself? "Tell you what…" I matched his sotto voce. "Don’t rush. Clean-up won't be done till midnight and then we'll have all the time in the world." Midnight it was, indeed, when he came by, which made me happy, because there are few things I like better in a fatboy than the ability to take direction. But Squeegee had gone one better, he had slipped on a nice, extra-wide pair of cotton sweat shorts and a bright colored Hawaiian shirt that sported itsy-bitsy ice cream cones of various flavors. Smelling freshly showered, he slipped into the door way as I unlocked it, and right inside, heplayfully pointed out the design of his shirt, saying, "I thought I'd dress for dessert." The pattern of the fabric wasn't what I was checking out, though, in that the shirt was open with lots and lots of Byron was shaking free and easy in the dim lights of the restaurant. "Cute," I said, and assuming the officious air of restaurant host I affected on a nightly basis here, I simply walked toward the rear of the house where a small alcove of a dining space flickered with candles, hidden with view. As promised, our dessert tray of the evening beckoned. "They are just left overs, I know…." It's always amazing to see the effect of the food on them, and it's all in their eyes, an intensity, a focus, a sheer, naked greediness takes over, the tunnel vision of a man destined to have his life run by his unrestrained love of eating. He wasted no time and slid his bulk into the big padded chair, gawking for a bit at the array before him, spoiled for choice. "I've died and gone to heaven, haven't I?" I stood over the table, as I would for any honored guest, and tapped his hand as he reached for his first selection. "I believe you would like to hear what we have here, wouldn't you? So, going clockwise—coconut crème caramel pie with a macadamia nut crust and meringue topping, drizzled with honey; pecan rum pie served with fresh zabaglione; chocolate-bottom mud pie in a pool of caramel sauce." He began to lean forward, smelling the air, and with that, I decided to do as I had intended, gently cupping the large soft mantit that hung forward and tenderly rolling the swollen nipple in my fingers, as I continued, voice calm and business-like. "Then we have the house specialty, triple chocolate decadence torte, bitter sweet chocolate mousse.." I plucked a little and he moaned "…layered with semi-sweet ganache…" I plucked a little harder still and he moaned a little louder, "topped with Valrhona shavings and of course mocha whipped cream," and with that, I bounced the handful of fat playfully until he giggled and reached for his breasts with his own chubby hands to stop my teasing. "If you don't like chocolate, we have fresh Santa Rosa plum-topped cheesecake and Meyer Lemon cheesecake. Both very fattening…" I unobtrusively sat down and let my hand deftly slide across his broad circumference, overheated blubbery lovehandles, loose underbelly, the slightly damp tittyfold and meandering down to the sweet, sensitive fatty bulging around his navel. His eyelids fluttered half-shut and when his mouth opened in a wordless gasp, I finished off. "Naturally we have crème brûlée, served with anisette-flavored Mexican wedding cookies, and if you so desire, we can always prepare a hot fudge sundae for you, vanilla, chocolate and coffee ice cream on hand." As the impact of it all sunk in and I found myself slowly moving into his bulk, pressing up against his flanks, letting my lips play against his jowls, he was breathing so heavily from desire that his voice was nothing more than a hoarse whisper. "You understand, don't you?" I grasped the large spoon beside the platter, started with what I knew he would like best, the chocolate decadence, and lifted a sumptuous mouthful of it up to his face with one hand as my other hand reached beneath the table and began to pleasure him as no one had ever pleasured this fatboy before, and in two bites, my newest conquest enjoyed a climax that stunned even me, a powerful, bucking cum that shook the table and which, I swear to God, lasted an exquisitely long time, long enough for me to feed him the entire slab of lusciousness off the plate, his eyes closed, whimpering with wave after wave of pleasure.. "Yeah, Squeegee, I understand. I understand so many things." Bite of the coconut pie, gasp for breath. "That you are going to have a wonderful time from here on." Bite of the pecan, gasp for breath. "That you are going to feed to your heart's content and never really care how big you get, ever again." Large spoonful of crème brûlée, gasp for breath. "That you'll wonder now and then if this is a good thing, maybe when you are 350, maybe again when you are 450, or 500, but in the end…." Oversized piece of mud-pie, whipped cream drooling down his chin, helpless groan. "You'll remember tonight and you'll know what you already know about yourself." His lids opened slightly and he nodded passively. "Yeah, I know, I've always known. I don't have much choice. I am what I am." And with that, he picked up the fork himself and began, on his own, to do what he knew he needed to do, feed contentedly on the remains of the decadence in front of us. "And Squeegee," I said with a little squeeze of his belly, "We have all the time in the world. All the time in the world."

[momi-of-three]

Week 1 Day 3

My 42km heartrate training

Still disappointed with the outcome of my Davao International Marathon placing 300 out of 600 runners.. so here I am..going solo. On my day 3.. my sked is for a 40 minutes cross training. Did a 20 minute run on treadmill for my pacing and my regular 20 to 40 squats, barbel, situps and other gymwork. It did help alot with this depressing frustrating feeling. Need to forget about this half and train for the Iron Girl run for march 24

#dukotcenter #trainsmartrunfast #runningmom #@58

[ivarthebadbitch]

I don't know when film/tv show creator will stop showing their Cowardness and will start showing ancient women warriors like shield maiden as they were meant to be seen that is big and muscled. Come on dude you can't think that a thin small fragile women can even lift an iron sword let alone an axe. Those women must have muscles on their body to fight and wield those weapons . Their portrayal in today's media by such slim, model type looking actresses just really tarnish their reputation. these tiny women look ridiculous and absurd on screen when they take down men twice or even thrice their size. It looks completely abnormal and unrealistic .creators force the male actors to do gymwork and steroids while they leave out the women .why can't they let even the actresses do some gym and bodybuilding when they cast them for such fighting roles .it will actually look more natural than looking like some divine entity who somehow get her power to fight ten hulking men despite having not an ounce of muscles on her body.God I don't know when I will witness a buff Viking women on screen 😞.

so, ok. there's some stuff to unpack here. I think the thing to keep in mind is that the shieldmaidens look like models because well...most of the actresses they cast across the board for this type of show--not just shieldmaidens, but female characters as a whole!--are models (or model-adjacent). vikings is especially bad at this, but vikings valhalla and tlk do this too. and some of these actresses are indeed pretty buff and athletic and would absolutely destroy me, no question--ragga ragnars and annabelle mandeng, for instance. but the actresses that are smaller/slimmer absolutely do get training and work out and such as well; I mean, they kind of have to in order to do any of these sequences in the first place. so I really don't think it's correct to say they don't go to the gym, do bodybuilding, etc.

but really, if we're talking about how "realistic" any of this is: if it's unrealistic for a woman to take down "ten hulking men" on her own, how realistic is it for a man to do that, regardless of how much he's been working out? it isn't! it's just a storytelling convention, it's a way to communicate how badass the hero/heroine is. you suspend your disbelief and it's not really worth getting worked up about, imo.

finally, yes: I'd also love to witness more buff viking women on screen.

[rnadal88]

Years ago… #brutalbody #gymwork #liftheavy (at Essen, Belgium) https://www.instagram.com/p/Cbg9AxlN6j2/?utm_medium=tumblr

#brutalbody #gymwork #liftheavy

[fitpaul40]

Check your primal strength)

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[exact-fitness-wears]

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[tavonfitness]

Ever focusing on your chest, work on these 3 exercises that can help with your chest do them in order as shown. 1️⃣ Cable Flys(squeeze in the middle) 2️⃣Machine Chest Press( switch the position of handle to target different angles) 3️⃣ Push-ups( use banded if you can until failure🔥🔥🔥) : Save,Share,& Do‼️ #AlwaysaTinfiT!!!!! #alwaysatinfit #tavonfitness #fitnessinfluencer #fitness #igfitness #tfitness #dmv #gymwork #training #healthy #healthyliving #weightlosss #trainingvideos #motivationalmondays #mondaymotivation💪 #chesttraining💪 #upperbodyexercises #mondaytrainings #getbackseason🐺 #lostfiless (at The Woods) https://www.instagram.com/p/CY1SNiZlNTq/?utm_medium=tumblr

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[naotaka-seki]

昨日はガッツリ昼任務🥷だったから #gymwork はお休み😴 リハもジムも疲れてる時は無理しないで休む✋ 今日は #aiトレーナー の #inbody 先生にアドバイスを頂いて2.5hルーティンこなす🏋🏻‍♀️ 遂に毎食の #カロリー計算 も開始😉 帰りに #東京都議会議員選挙 の投票行きました🤟 #thesurfcoasters #nomusicnolife #showmustgoon #drummer #officeworker #investor #sidejob #naotakaseki #financialindependenceretireearly (Tokyo, Japan) https://www.instagram.com/p/CQ5p-A8AWup/?utm_medium=tumblr

#gymwork #aiトレーナー #inbody #カロリー計算 #東京都議会議員選挙 #thesurfcoasters #nomusicnolife #showmustgoon #drummer #officeworker #investor #sidejob #naotakaseki #financialindependenceretireearly

[sweetscience01]

Diana always comes into @sweetsciencefitness and puts in work! 8 years and she is still a loyal client going strong ❤️❤️🥊💯 . . #boxing #focusmitts #boxingtraining #trainhard #sweetsciencefitnessboxingclub #sweetsciencefitnessatlanta #sweetscienceboxing #atlbestboxinggym #atlbestboxingbrand #atlbestboxingclass #gymwork #workouts #mittwork #mayweather #atlanta #georgia #chamblee #doraville #easywork #quick

#mayweather #doraville #trainhard #gymwork #chamblee #easywork #sweetscienceboxing #atlbestboxinggym #boxingtraining #workouts #mittwork #quick #sweetsciencefitnessatlanta #sweetsciencefitnessboxingclub #boxing #georgia #focusmitts #atlbestboxingbrand #atlanta #atlbestboxingclass

[fitnessclubbrazil]

Já se superou hoje? Vá e vença, ninguém fará isso por você ! Vídeo completo no canal do YouTube (link na bio) . #treino #mundo  #superiores  #gymwork #gyms #Fitnesslife #fitness #fit #lenevbarros  #muscleandmotion #musculação #Hipertrofia #focototal  #dica #saúde #vidasaudavel  #treino #seguidores  #alongamentos #fitness  #fitnessmotivaçao #cardio #fit #motivationmusic https://www.instagram.com/p/CIVr9uuBQyi/?igshid=1x5cicd1ehh4n

#treino #mundo #superiores #gymwork #gyms #fitnesslife #fitness #fit #lenevbarros #muscleandmotion #musculação #hipertrofia #focototal #dica #saúde #vidasaudavel #seguidores #alongamentos #fitnessmotivaçao #cardio #motivationmusic