Friday Night Feasts: Part 1

It all started so innocently, and now here I sit stroking myself while washing down half a dozen donuts with a two thousand calorie weight gain shake. My belly is so swollen I can’t even see my own cock and I’m sweating because of how full I am. How did I get to this point? Well, it all started with this guy named Deacon... 

Deacon and I had been acquaintances since college. We went to the same gym and would occasionally run into each other at parties, but we had never been very close. There was no denying Deacon was good looking. He was a brooding twunk with dark hair, pale skin, and biceps like grapefruits. I was attracted to him, sure, but never thought to pursue anything. Besides, he had kind of strange taste in men from what I saw. 

Anyway, our paths officially became intertwined when I ran into him at a house party of a mutual friend. Deacon pointed out he hadn’t seen me at the gym in quite awhile. It was true, I told him. I had dislocated my shoulder and was due to start physical therapy in a couple months. We got to talking and when he found out I was looking for a new roommate he perked up. Deacon happened to be looking for a room. It was meant to be. 

Two weeks later and he was moving in. I can recall watching him unload his stuff from the moving truck with envy. The man was in great physical shape. His muscles glistened as he worked for hours with ease. I was already feeling insecure about my own appearance considering how long it had been since I’d hit the gym. My muscle definition was fading, I was weak, and getting soft. I felt frustrated that my ass wasn’t as pert and I had a roll of pudge above my waistband. I wished I could be helping Deacon out. 

At the end of the day Deacon invited me down to the kitchen. He had a box of donuts and a six pack waiting for us. I faltered upon seeing the donuts. They were my weakness and I told Deacon as much. I used to be chubby as a kid and could put down three donuts from the shop next to my childhood home in one sitting. Deacon seemed especially tickled by this backstory and encouraged me to celebrate, so I played along. By the time we finished the six pack I was three donuts deep and finishing the half-donut Deacon left behind. Little did I know, this was only the beginning. 

About a week after Deacon had moved in I couldn’t take being sedentary any longer and snuck off to the gym. I planned to avoid using my shoulder and mostly focus on lower body. Long story short, not only did I re-strain my shoulder but I also left with an injured knee. That evening I left the doctor’s office with pain meds and a strict order of at least a week of bed rest. I was furious, frustrated, and depressed. My impatience had gotten the best of me.

Deacon was eager to provide support. That first night we hung out in my bedroom, smoked weed, and played video games for hours. Deacon insisted on ordering pizza even though I protested. I needed to limit my calories since it would be months before I was active again. All hope went out the window once the pizza arrived. The munchies had set in and I demolished the whole pie sans the two pieces Deacon ate. Afterward, Deacon cracked the Ben & Jerry’s in the freezer. Obviously, I couldn’t resist. That night I literally fell asleep sitting up, game controller in hand, with ice cream stuck to my face. This was a mere harbinger of things to come. 

That first week Deacon was at my bedside nearly every night playing video games, watching movies, chatting, and always ordering food. When I’d suggest salads or grilled chicken he’d casually divert my attention to something more indulgent. And I mean, who was I to say no? It didn’t help that we were smoking joints like crazy. I never knew that Deacon was such a stoner, and when I quizzed him about it he would shrug it off as an occasional evening habit. 

My knee was slow to heal and it took about three weeks before I was fully mobile again. During that time, I probably gained at least ten pounds. I avoided stepping on a scale but I could feel the weight. It had mostly accumulated around my middle, forming a thick roll that creased just above my belly button. All of my jeans were snug and I could even feel it folding over my sweats when I was at home. I wasn’t surprised, given being bedridden and all, so I tried to cut myself some slack. 

My shoulder, on the other hand, was rough. The doctors kept delaying physical therapy and I hated not having full use of my left arm. Deacon was an incredible help around the house. He picked up the more strenuous chores and helped reach anything that was a struggle. We had become close and I appreciated all of his support. 

Now that I was mobile and going into the office more frequently, my evenings with Deacon were less frequent. Still, we got together almost every Friday night for movies and take out. I should have taken note the first couple of times Deacon “accidentally” ordered an extra dish. Or when donuts became the routine after-dinner desert. It got to the point where it was almost expected that we’d have too much food and a dozen donuts on Fridays. In fact, we started calling it the “Friday Night Feast.”

Big surprise, my waistline was hit the hardest. It wasn’t just a single roll at my waist anymore. The rest of my belly began to fill out too. Higher and higher the padding expanded until there was crease where my belly met my chest. My love handles widened too, forming an unavoidable muffin top that was present even when I wasn’t wearing clothes. But it wasn’t just my upper body. My legs and ass started to fill out with a malleable doughiness that I had never experienced. My gym body was fading from existence.  

Naturally, Deacon remained in peak condition all the while. I think I was in denial of the fact that I ate nearly all of the food we ordered together. It was like I didn’t want to see the reality of my own gluttony. Something about having another gay guy, someone hot and fit no less, eating junk food alongside me made it seem okay. It normalized the pigging out, and god knows I love food. So who was I to complain? 

Reality hit when I finally started physical therapy. The first blow was when I tried on my old gymwear. It had been months since I’d touched any of this stuff. The shorts still fit, albeit snugly. My ass and package didn’t have much room but honestly they looked kind of hot bulging out. It was the old sweat resistant tee that really did me in. My gut jutted out obnoxiously. The fabric was tight as hell and accentuated the developing spare tire I was sporting. I could remember seeing guys like me at the gym and silently pitying them. It was then that I knew I needed to cut back. This became cemented when the physical therapist weighed me in at over two hundred pounds. I’d never seen my weight start with a two in my life. 

That night I told Deacon about my woes. He looked at me curiously, as though he were trying to figure something out. I asked if I looked fat and his eyes slowly scanned my body. With a wry grin he cocked his head and said I looked “beefy” but that I “carried it well.” That was it, I knew it was time to get in shape. For the next few weeks I meal-prepped incessantly and stopped smoking weed. I bought some new gym clothes and went on regular walks; I made an effort. Friday night remained a cheat day, but otherwise I was getting back in shape. 

Looking back, Deacon grew a little distant during that period. He went on a lot of dates and wasn’t home much. I didn’t overthink it. Besides, work was getting busy and I had enough on my plate. By fall, I think I had lost some of the pudge. I wasn’t weighing myself but clothes were fitting better and I felt good. Unfortunately, that’s when my company announced that layoffs were imminent. I was shaken, and began leaning on Deacon for distraction and emotional support. We made a habit of doing adventures around town, usually culminating in a meal. My meal-prepping fell to the wayside and I started smoking weed again and stress eating. In no time, I ballooned back up. Fortunately, when the layoffs finally hit I was spared. In fact, I was given a raise and promotion which felt shitty but was appreciated. 

I think at this point my subconscious began to accept my new weight class. I bought new clothes that fit and stopped focusing on my body so much. It helped that as the holidays neared I could wear less revealing clothing and stay cozy indoors. This is also when Deacon started baking like crazy. He claimed it was a hobby of his that he only flexed during the winter. It seemed suspicious to me at the time but I couldn’t quite place why. You can guess who became his primary taste tester. 

I continued to pork up during these months, but it was gradual. When I went home for the holidays I got some mild teasing and belly pokes but nothing serious. I was pushing thirty after all, and a beer gut was all but inevitable in my family. In fact, I think my parents kind of enjoyed seeing me chunky. They encouraged me to eat far past my capacity day in and day out and by the time I returned home I felt permanently bloated. 

Deacon’s eyes lit up when he saw me. “I missed you!” he exclaimed and gave me an affectionate hug. In that moment I realized we’d never had such full body contact. My loins stirred as he pressed into me with a hearty smile. I must’ve just been thirsty after staying with family and not being able to jerk off for so long, I rationalized. Though to be honest, the thought of fucking Deacon didn’t sound too bad at all. 

The next day was New Year’s Eve which we were spending together, alone, in the apartment. We bought a sea of alcohol from CostCo and enough food to choke a horse. Back in my natural habitat, I was further confronted with the fact I was getting pretty chubby. It was undeniable that I had gained weight over the holidays. You could see it in my face and how my clothes were fitting. Even my desk chair felt more snug with my lovehandles pressing against the arms. I tried not to stress, and committed to indulging with Deacon. Besides, I had just gotten the greenlight from my physical therapist to return to the gym in the new year. 

For Deacon and I, the celebration began indulgently with Fireball shots and a layered chocolate cake Deacon had spent all day perfecting. “Why not start with dessert?” he had said to me with a look of abandon in his eyes. I agreed– why not! Deacon followed this up with a boozy milkshake so creamy I could practically feel my fat cells expanding. The night wore on with cocktails, pizza, chips and dip, more cake, and, of course, donuts. 

By 10 pm I was already pretty shit faced. I can remember that my stomach kind of ached from the weird mixture of food and that Deacon kept egging me on to eat donuts. It was like a game to see how many I could get down. God knows why I complied. Deacon was noticeably drunk as well and had stripped down to just a muscle tee and his boxer briefs. In between music videos and games, he flitted around preparing more food or moving the dishes around needlessly. I was too drunk to realize this, but it kept me constantly focused on eating. 

Before midnight I was starting to brown out. I remember struggling to find which platform was streaming the ball dropping. Then I have an image of Deacon staring at me super intensely around 11:59 and I was confused at first, but then realized he wanted to kiss. I don’t know what I said but we kissed. Next thing I remember is we’re on the couch making out and Deacon had a crazy hard on. Like it’s rock hard jabbing against me and there’s a big wet spot in his underwear. I recall grabbing it and he whimpered. 

I don’t have a clear recollection of the rest, but I know we fucked. Here’s what I do remember: Deacon had a really nice cock and kept straddling me and tapping it against my belly. He kind of rubbed his face in my crotch and navel area and it was weird but felt good. He nibbled at my inner thighs and ate me out for a long time, I think. Ultimately, he topped me in missionary. I only remember him entering me and then a few flashes of his face and how wild and turned on he looked.

We woke up in my bed, fully nude, sticky with alcohol and food, and deeply hungover. It was honestly kind of awkward but we agreed to talk it over once we had showered and had gotten some food and coffee in our systems. Ultimately, the conversation was less of a dialogue and more Deacon confessing that he had had a crush on me for several months. At that moment, I was completely shocked. I told him I needed time alone to think things over, but twelve hours later he was balls deep in my ass once again, this time in doggy. 

When this all happened, I wasn’t quite sure what to make of it. I really enjoyed my friendship with Deacon and I found him sexy, but the idea of a relationship (with my roommate no less) made my head spin. Nevertheless, we basically fell into one. Our communication became constant, we were hooking up daily, and sharing a bed most nights. It honestly felt pretty natural and so I decided not to overthink it. 

It was around February when I began to realize that it was possible Deacon was intentionally fattening me up. For starters, our pantry was utterly stuffed with food. If I expressed that I liked something, a week later we’d have ten of them in stock. With less time to bake, he started getting store bought sweets and pastries. The oat milk in our coffee silently switched to heavy cream. And meanwhile, the Friday night feasts were becoming truly over the top. He would order so much food that I couldn’t eat it all in one sitting so we constantly had leftovers. 

Pair all of this with getting to know Deacon in a carnal sense, and a picture began to form. He clearly enjoyed my belly but seemed to avoid lingering there too long during foreplay. However, he would spend an eternity jiggling and slapping my ass, sometimes my thighs too. In doggy, he’s grip my love handles so hard that it hurt, or sometimes reach under and grab at my belly. There was no denying it: Deacon enjoyed the plumper and squisher corners of my body. 

Finally, on a Friday night, after he practically forced me to eat the last egg roll, I teasingly said: “You want me to get fat don’t you.” I could see him falter as he looked for the right response. I pushed: “You do though, don’t you?” Then it all came pouring out. He came clean about everything. He had been fattening me up since the day he moved in. All his exes gained ten, twenty, thirty pounds with him. He’d been like this for as long as he could remember. 

I remember sighing and looking down at my body in that very moment. My belly had a generous slope to it and was extra bloated from Chinese food. My thighs were smashed together filling the couch. I looked porky. Sure, I’d been hitting the gym consistently but I’d only gotten larger from the muscle mass. I had no idea what I weighed anymore and was afraid to find out. I then looked up at Deacon and could see the fear in his eyes. He probably expected me to be disgusted and break up with him. Instead, my heart melted and I pulled him in close. Even though I felt deceived and manipulated, it’s not like he had forced me into anything. 

That night we slept in separate beds and I stayed up late contemplating my new reality while smoking weed. Was it really so weird that Deacon was a feeder? Was this something I could live with? I examined my body in the mirror and took in the scope of my gains. I was already pretty fat. Honestly though, it felt kind of nice. I did enjoy how manly it felt to take up more space. The extra chub also felt sensitive to the touch which was fun in bed. When my stoned brain made a connection between my size and Deacon’s love for me something clicked. Why not? I scurried down to the kitchen and polished off the remainder of the Chinese food in a greedy haze. I then mixed some brandy with the remainder of the heavy cream. I pounded the drink, crunched up the carton of cream, and left the whole mess out on the counter for Deacon to find. 

The next two months, things got a bit out of control. I decided to just go for it. Commit to the bit. I started eating everything in sight with reckless abandon. It almost became a game to see if I could outpace the rate with which Deacon kept the fridge and pantry stocked. When we were together I pushed myself until my stomach was aching and distended. It was obvious how much it turned Deacon on. He had an erection constantly. Every time we ate or he saw me eating, or if I scratched or patted my belly, he was hard. We incorporated food into the bedroom and sometimes he’d suck me off while I was chugging a protein shake or eating snacks. In a matter of time my sexuality had been completely rewired. I felt like a glorious gluttonous sex god. It wasn’t just Deacon getting aroused by my overeating, now I was also getting stiff as hell just from stuffing my face or in anticipation of an indulgent meal. It was a total whirlwind. 

I discovered the gym was a necessity for this lifestyle. It both increased my appetite and kept me from feeling too fatigued due the constant eating. Besides, it was an excuse to whip up massive weight gainer shakes, not that I really needed an excuse. Before long I was beating personal records from before my injury, and eventually lifting heavier than Deacon too. It was incredible to see my body regain its strength. I was growing bigger, fatter, and stronger every day and it felt empowering. 

In only a month after Deacon came out of the pantry (as he put it), I had put on a whopping ten pounds, tipping the scale at two hundred and thirty five pounds. Much to Deacon’s enjoyment, the majority of that weight had landed on my belly. For the first time, it folded into an overhang even when I was standing. This drove Deacon bonkers. Apparently he had been waiting for it to “drop” for ages. I also had the beginnings of what he called a “fat pad.” This development wasn’t as exciting for me, but I tried to share in his enthusiasm. Losing some of the visible length down there wasn’t something I had anticipated, though I learned it came with the territory. 

The next month, I gained another eight pounds. Now things were getting serious. My brain had not caught up with my own spatial coordinates and I was a fumbling oaf. I was knocking things over left and right whether it was my ass, belly, or shoulders. I even burned the precious overhang on a hot cookie sheet. Bending over and turning in certain directions was getting challenging too. I was entering new territory as a noticeably and unavoidably overweight guy. 

People at work took notice. If it came up in conversation I chalked it up to “relationship weight.” Friends poked fun at me and blamed it on Deacon as though they had known his secret all along. Even guys at the gym stared curiously at my swelling tank. Perhaps they wondered if my winter bulk had gone awry. Sometimes I even caught random people on the street glancing at my gut. I suppose part of the problem was that I could barely update my wardrobe fast enough. I was literally outgrowing my clothes and it showed. 

When I told Deacon I was thinking about slowing down he informed me he had just bought two cases of something called Boost VHC. I had never heard of it. He gave me the rundown but was adamant that the Boost can wait. He wanted me to be comfortable and take gaining at my own pace. He said it was more sustainable that way, which was both endearing and strangely foreboding. How fat did he expect me to get? I ultimately brushed it off and charged forth. My logic was “push now, relax later” and so I broke open the box of Boost and got to work. I could easily throw back one or two after a meal. I figured I’d kill the two boxes in a couple of weeks and then be done with gaining for a few months. 

By the time I finished off those Boosts I was in rough shape. I hadn’t realized the extent of the caloric surplus I was operating with daily. I was perpetually sluggish, bloated, and, well… fat. In a mere two weeks I had gained a pound a day in large part due to the Boost VHC. Looking back, I can hardly fathom it. My body struggled to keep pace. Every movement left me winded and the gym became a chore. To Deacon’s great delight, stretch marks started appearing. First on my love handles and then around my arm pits, eventually near my belly button too. Once again, he expressed surprise it had taken stretch marks so long to appear. It was as though he had a secret scorecard of gainer milestones I wasn’t privy to. 

Once the Boost was gone, I took a break. I was still eating large and still growing, just at a slower pace. A pound a week was a lot easier to reckon with than a pound a day. Just as I was starting to level out and adjust to my newfound rotundity everything in my life got turned on its head. Deacon’s work offered him a new position in London. It was an executive role, incredible pay, and a great opportunity. Before I knew it, the rug was pulled out from under me and it’s a much nastier fall once you’re over two hundred and fifty pounds. 

There was no question that Deacon would accept the role. The problem was that I didn’t have a work visa or a skillset that was transferrable overseas. Neither of us thought it smart for Deacon to support me fully and Deacon was obstinate that a long distance relationship was not an option given his prior experiences. All of this meant… we were breaking up. It felt devastating. 

As quickly as our romance had started, and I had ballooned in size, Deacon was gone. I was alone in the apartment we shared, haunted with memories of our brief romance. I also had a good seventy or so pounds of excess blubber caked upon my body and no one to appreciate it. I almost felt more deceived than when Deacon came out of the pantry. He was the one who got me into this mess, after all. He was the one for whom I took the plunge into unbridled gluttony. Now I was obese and alone. My body was totally wrecked. I had stretch marks, acid reflux, and was struggling to sleep. God knows my metabolism would never be the same again. If I did lose the weight, who knows if I could keep it off and whether my skin would bounce back. By any standard of measurement I was not the ideal body type for meeting someone new, especially anyone as good looking as Deacon, yet he got off scot-free. For many many months I was angry. 

Nevertheless, I kept my appetite up. In fact, I turned to comfort eating. I was inconsistent at the gym and fast food became my best friend. I was getting soft and listless passing the time with junk food and media consumption. It took nearly a year before I tried going to the bars, getting on the apps, the whole routine. It was obvious my value on the market was negatively correlated with the weight on the scale, so I got online and sought out some twink feeders. They were mediocre, a hollow reminder of what I shared with Deacon, but at least reignited my passion for girth and growth. I started to remember how good it felt to feel massive, bursting at the seams, reaching new personal records every other week. 

So I hit the gym and stocked the fridge. I could be my own feeder, I decided. I had maintained around two hundred and seventy pounds give or take since Deacon had left. It was time to hit three hundred. I placed an order for an obscene amount of Boost, six or seven boxes. This was supplemented with heavy cream and whole milk, of course, as well as some healthy gaining alternatives such as coconut milk, peanut butter, and oats. I negotiated a raise at work which helped fund the deliberate uptick in my consumption. The gym was rough at first, but after a month or so I was back in the swing of things. I cut back on the fast food and instead focused on indulgent high-calorie deliveries from local restaurants. It was time to settle into my newfound corpulence and fetish, to live opulently and indulge my every sense. This was my new identity and I wasn’t going to hold back. And… it worked. At a slower, steadier pace than when I was with Deacon, I pushed my weight all the way up to two hundred and ninety two pounds.