Gambling Man - Part 2

It’s almost impossible to describe the sensation of hundreds of pounds suddenly being added to one’s frame. First it was like being tugged in every direction at once, from every part of me at once, and then it was a feeling of everywhere being tugged in a single direction: down.

I wasn’t even halfway done transforming before I felt my stomach lurch onto my lap--literally. Then my chest ballooned outwards and sagged on top in a reasonable Buddah impersonation. I could feel my cheeks blow out, become jowly sacs that weight on the muscles of my mouth and jaw. I felt my own neck flab push out my earlobes, I felt my arms rise at the shoulders because of the rolls that grew in my armpits, filing them in until the only thing identifying them was the slight patch of hair.

My ass almost literally swallowed the stool I’d been sitting on. I could feel each ass cheek expand until it felt like I was sitting on a pool cue. My legs had already been spread wide to balance myself, but in moments it felt like they were standing at military address from all the skin that was touching.

Wrinkles formed at the back of my neck, pillowy lovehandles at my sides, and my ankles disappeared into a thin line that defined where my feet ended and my calves began. None of my clothes survived, all of it turning to shreds and falling to the floor with obnoxiously loud tears. Were it not for my own billowing anatomy, I’d have been revealing my genitals to the entire casino.

Meanwhile, the fat man slimmed down to half his original size--still chubby, but nowhere near the colossal porker he’d been before. Everyone at the table lost some measure of heft. One of them got thin enough you’d have thought he had an eating disorder, but he still seemed happy with the results.

I wasn’t. I was mortified. I was the fattest thing I could see, naked, and rapidly losing my enthusiasm for this casino.

There was only one way I knew to get back my old body, and that was to play another hand. “I bet ten pounds,” I said when the bet came to me. Then, one by one, they all folded. Another round of the table, I made the same bet, and once again the players declined to gamble with their weight. It didn’t occur to me until the third round that nobody was betting because nobody had any excess left to bed. If the thin one bet another pound he’d probably just die, while the former chub was probably too scared to risk blimping-up again--I was an abject lesson in risk.

So I left the table. Or at least, I tried to. Walking was something I had to relearn after stumbling several times and nearly crushing a waitress. My center of mass had changed wildly and moving with long, confident strides would send me tumbling to the floor. Instead, I had to adopt a slow, waddling gait, almost like a shuffle, swinging my legs around each other to avoid tripping over my own fat thighs.

Midway through learning to carry myself, a helpful casino employee came by and draped a robe over my back. It was too small, barely covering my groin, but it was at least wide enough to enclose my entire circumference with the rope tied. Well, at least when I was standing. Sitting would be another matter, but then my colossal belly would probably be more than sufficient to keep me modest.

I had to find someone who was willing to lose a few pounds. If they weren’t already overweight, they probably wouldn’t be inclined to gamble their own heft. Sadly, the poker tables were no longer an option after my display, so I meandered slowly through the main floor looking for someone even half as tubby as me.

I eventually found a guy. He was sitting at a slot machine wearing the same robe as me--maybe even someone who’d recently taken a bad beat and wound up a whale. He was just pulling the lever, slowly adding a pound or two to his frame with each pull, clearly desperate for a big jackpot to take the weight off all at once. The perfect mark.

I waddled up to him and tried to strike a nonchalant pose, nearly falling into him for my trouble. Once I’d steadied myself, I made my pitch. “Hey, big guy. You seem to be in the same predicament as me--care to head to a table together to see which one of us will leave here a fatass?”

The man eyed me over for a moment, and then pulled the slot machine’s lever once more. “Nah. I’m actually quite comfortable with my size--it’s why I’m here, in fact,” the man said, patting his belly gently. “But maybe we can still gamble, if you’re still lookin’ to lose that luscious lard?”

I could smell a trap in his offer, but I was desperate. “Sure. What do you propose?”

The man’s cheek turned up in a confident smirk. “You don’t always have to gamble the same thing here. The big group games do to keep things easy, and the slot machines are programmed for just one betting parameter, but patrons can gamble using whatever terms they like. All it takes is a handshake.”

The big guy rose from his seat, revealing that he was a few inches taller and more than a few inches wider than me. I couldn’t even guess how much he weighed.

“If you win, I’ll take your flab. I might have trouble getting out of here, but the house has machinery for those unfortunate souls who find themselves too big to move,” he said, raising his hand. “But if I win, I get something else--your cock.”

I looked at his hand. “Excuse me?”

“Specifically a few inches--provided you think you can spare a few, of course.”

Now that I knew what he was proposing, I stared hard at the hand being offered. I wasn’t exactly a big man downstairs--maybe an inch or two above average, but nothing to write home about. But at my current size, I doubt I could even reach my cock as is, let alone if it were several inches shorter. What did I really have to lose here?

“Deal. What’s the game?”

“Blackjack,” he said, and we made our way to an open table. The big man laid out the conditions of our bet, and the dealer nodded her understanding. We sat down--he in two stools, me still falsely believing my girth could be adequately supported by one. The fact that both of my ass cheeks felt like they were floating in midair told me otherwise.

We both looked at our cards. I had a fourteen--a jack and a four. He hit. I decided to hit too, which netted me a five of diamonds. Nineteen wasn’t bad, and I was statistically better than even odds. I stayed. He nodded in agreement, and the bet was done.

We both flipped our cards. I showed nineteen. His three, seven, and an ace showed 21. Blackjack.

“I win,” he said, without even a hint of triumph. Then I felt something deep within the flesh that encased me start to pull inward. It was a strange sensation--almost like someone was pulling my shaft slowly, constantly, but I knew that was just because my own flab was rubbing against my cock as it shrunk further and further out of my reach.

I desperately stuck my hand within my robe, between the giant fold where my belly flopped over my lap, and tried to find my cock. I could feel a tiny nub with the tips of my fingers, but that was it. I couldn’t tell if I was hard or soft, but it hardly seemed to matter. If I hadn’t already been rendered useless in bed by the 400 pounds of lard that encased me, then I certainly was now that I couldn’t even reach my own tiny dicklet.

The fat guy turned on his stools, his robe parting just enough that I could see the shaft of a horse-sized organ through the break. “I’ll be seeing you,” he said with a wink, and then lumbered away. The head of a now-colossal dong rhythmically swinging with each step, clearly outlined through the inadequate fabric.