Plumber's Crack: Chapter 1

Stoned out of my mind I plopped an entire carton of vanilla ice cream into a mixing bowl. I grabbed the fresh bottle of  artisanal chocolate syrup I’d picked up earlier in the day and squeezed globs of glistening goo atop the mountain of ice cream. Despite eating an entire frozen pizza maybe forty minutes ago I was ravenous, my stomach burning with desire for the creamy concoction. I knew I was probably full, but the marijuana kept me lusting for more. 

I had picked up a serious smoking habit since moving out on my own. As well as a serious eating habit. If I’m being honest, neither were accidental. I’d been a closet gainer/encourager since I could remember, but living with health-nut parents really put a damper on any attempts at gaining. My first two years of college I lived at home and yearned for nothing more than to get out on my own and grow properly fat. I spent my freshman and sophomore years watching all my peers pack on the freshman fifteen, sometimes more sometimes less. I was filled with envy. They didn’t even want to get fat. They were going on diets to lose weight. At least I would appreciate it!

Finally, with the help of some savings, a part time job, help from my parents, federal aid, and student loans, I moved out on my own. I rented an extremely small studio apartment near campus that was surrounded by all the fattening restaurants and fast food that had turned my peers pudgy. I could finally start gaining and I wasted no time. In the first five months I lived on my own I put on thirty pounds of pudge, all to my ass, thighs, and midsection. I still could fit in all my old clothes, but not for much longer. My wardrobe now displayed every inch of fat I’d put on, clinging to me like a second skin. Frankly, clothing was becoming uncomfortable in general so whenever I was home pigging out, I was in the nude. 

So, naturally, it got a little messy as I was gulping down ice cream and then drinking the melted remains pooled at the bottom of the bowl. Sticky streaks of white and brown sugar dried to the fresh fat puffing out from my torso. The more I moved, the more the ice cream and syrup got everywhere, and the more it got everywhere the hornier I became. In the heat of the moment I jerked off and squirted all over myself within minutes. 

After that, I was even more of a mess. I walked to the shower, stepping slow and heavy so my ass and belly jiggled with each step. Already naked, I turned the faucet and nothing came out. I tried the cold water. Nothing. Stoned and confused I gave up and went to bed a sticky filthy pig. The next morning the shower still wasn’t working even though the sink and toilet were, so I called maintenance. They said someone would be over in an hour. I ate a massive stack of pancakes to fuel up beforehand and then realized: I was too filthy to meet someone. 

I hurried and took a sponge bath by the sink, scrubbing the stickiness as fast as I could. Afterwards, I was a tad more presentable but far from clean. The repair person was due any minute so I grabbed the last clean shirt in my closet. It was one I hadn’t worn in months and much to my surprise, it didn’t quite cover my newfound belly. I was turned on by this revelation but also bewildered. I couldn’t answer the door like this. I threw on a hoodie which fit snug, clinging to my love handles especially, but at least covered the belly roll that was hanging out of my shirt. Unfortunately, spring had sprung and I didn’t have a/c so this was not an ideal solution. I slid into some basketball shorts to counterbalance the extra layer. 

The doorbell rang. I wiped the sweat from my brow and opened the door. An astoundingly beautiful plumber stood before me. He looked to be in his mid-30s, with an impressive ex-jock build. He was tall, broad shouldered, and sported a massive beer gut. His blue eyes sparkled under bushy eyebrows complimented by a short cropped beard covering his chubby cheeks and double chin. A tight white t-shirt with a myriad of stains was tucked into bootcut pants, causing his belly to prominently spill over his tool belt. The pants clung to his fatty thighs that I surmised supported an ample behind. He held out his hand and said: “Name’s Jimmy. You got a plumbing issue?”