Gut

[Iggy]

Title: Gut
By/from a real life person/acquaintance (not named anywhere); shared here by Iggy


The attendant guided me to my table, and genially assured me that my order would be taken soon - they were very busy this afternoon. As soon as her clean-cut, spotlessly black uniform disappeared around the corner of the bar counter that partially divided the room, I fell to thinking.

A little while I had here, but I need to get back to Lee’s. What time was it anyway? I patted at my button-up, short-sleeved shirt - the one I always wore around the shop - with a fun pen stuck in its pocket, then stupidly recovered my watch: from my pants. I clipped it on. 1:45.

I really liked helping around that hobby shop, always smelling of fresh wood blocks and craftsman materials, but it could be slightly hectic at times, and today I had promised that I would be later than usual. We had to do that, and . . . . No - turn it off, I soon chided.

This was my relax time. . . . . . It certainly was nice to be in a well air-conditioned place, any escape from the hotness of this broiler. I picked up the glossy menu and glanced over it. Tuesday specials…no. Drinks? A light alcoholic beverage. And I could go for a some Eggplant Parmesan and ravioli. I sat back on the wine-red cushion, and seemed to look out the tall window to my left.

Soon, a brand-spanking new 2008 Chevy Silverado (!) came revving up outside, and grumbled off. For the longest period of time, it seemed to set in the parking space just beyond the window and bushes like some unblemished, haughty show piece.

I looked down and moved condiments around, but eventually peered back up. I had just begun to think that the dude, or gal - or dude and gal - in the thing had just come to show off as the people strolled past here and there. But then, the truck’s shiny, earthy-hued door swung open. A second or two after, a tall man got out by himself - though I couldn’t discern his age from my position, I could tell he was a big guy, even partially blocked by the shrubs. Under his backward-facing cap, his slightly flushed face had a light sprouting of hair, but his block jaw was the most unshaven part. The man seemed to heft up his slacks, and lumbered around the back of the truck, and out of sight - maybe around to the front? I kind of hoped so as I put my menu aside and looked up to the newly arrived waiter, for something had connected with me.

Patty, my server, had just been sent off with her orders, and I looked out the window again, only to see that truck again. The new orders at Lee’s were starting to reemerge on my mind and I scratched my forehead - then there he was, all his big, bad self, being led to a booth opposite me, near the bar counter.

The truck dude, maybe 29 - or barely 32 - with a big build and well, frankly, GUT, thudded into his seat, and then better eased himself after the attendant left. He could have been carrying about 355-7 pounds. Whoa he’s huge! With an un-tucked, dark green polo filled so that even his navel had a wrinkled outline, and with his chest-hams constantly furrowing the Tees’s fabric above the extended expanse of belly as he sat, and the slight shirt-tent created from his easy slope of fat as he stood, he was an eyeful dominating a pair of cargo shorts. I don’t know why, but I’d also noticed - as his back was to me earlier - outlined in the fabric of his clothes, his lovhandles stretched the back of his shirt apart, and it wrinkled over the width of the small of his back.

There was room for his volume in the booth, but he was separated from the table by the mass of the body in front of him. Though it had a defined shape, I could tell it must have been soft and fleshy. It was interesting how stiffly he seemed to move his large arms across his husky chest to maneuver the things on the table, as if the fatness under his arms and on the front of his torso was something of a ‘hindrance.’ His waiter came in no time at all.

“What would you like today sir?” the lady asked coolly, tall, poised for a response. The man indicated something in a low voice, then asked about something else that seemed to place an extra demand on the waiter’s attention. “Well, sir - ”
“Call me Kreg.”
That was all I heard of the rest, for then I noticed that he, so covertly and smoothly, had slipped a hand out of sight under the table, just barely up his shirt, and was kind-of rub-scratching a portion of his (apparently bare) belly, around where the ball of fat evidently ‘hit’ his groin.

I was beginning to dig in to my rich order when the guy’s waiter returned - seemingly faster than mine, too, especially given the great contrast in our portion sizes. She dished out his food with a flourish. With a wry inward chuckle, I thought: maybe they had no interest in keeping the big guy waiting.

I ate slowly, tried different drinks. He salted, sprayed with ketchup, and stabbed at his fries, set aside on their own dish, gradually devoured two plates of some elongated fish, munched a triple-decker burger, and seemed to be snacking on something else as he watched a game on the overhead plasma screen. No beer. But with plenty of drinks I won’t bother trying to name (and some refills of fries too), he was busy for a while as I ate and observed the place. Once or twice his shoulder would dip toward the table surface as he reached under it - to do something. Even without that infamous aforementioned beverage, it was no less easily seen just how he came to be, and what it meant to be, a big boy.

He wiped his mouth with a napkin before tossing it back on the table, and by the way his great stomach suddenly compressed, wrinkling his shirt, I could tell he was moving to get up from the seat. He spread his trunk legs and maneuvered powerfully into his stance, seized up his pants, never glimpsing about, and stalked off with a jaunty stride. It was 2:20. I decided to follow and accidentally bump into him, and maybe get a friendly exchange.

*****

The wide shouldered, dark-haired boy lingered behind the others, as they waited, pushed, joked, and tramped into the bathroom. It was practice day for Porter’s junior and senior teams. There was football and soccor - he was a member of the soccer team, indeed he was, though he did not necessarily ENJOY it.

The 1995 school playoffs were fast approaching for both teams, and Kreg would much rather be in the sidelines - maybe with a kettle corn - or just horsing around in the field or Gym. Though, he did take a certain enjoyment in these days; seeing some of the other guys’ frames - which, despite their athleticism, had builds ranging from seasoned, wobbling big guts to a blubber coating - was always interesting. Maybe this was a reason he did not just enforce his will to leave the team.

Unintentionally, he usually got to enjoy the sights every Friday, except when the usual gang was absent, the day was canceled due to weather, or for some other school reason. Porter Highschool didn’t have a locker room, and the Gym-gymnasium was down the road, so the squadrons just crowded into the large bathroom and changed there like nothing.

One older guy, Phil, the biggest of the bunch, whipped his shirt over his head and stripped to his boxers almost in a move, piling the clothing onto his duffle, and all the while the excess on his frame bounding and wobbling. Greatest of all was his glowing, balled belly, dusted with hairs, which had a softer sag at either side of his elliptical navel, and pushed heavily over his snug boxerbriefs. And in those was an evident point poking out below - just so near to the padded overhang of that fatty excess.

It was interesting to picture, that those guys who now had only a layer of blubber on their upper body - blubber just barely bowing out from their chest and growing out of their pubic hairs, warping them in a creamy bulge - could one day engorge. For some reason, he always ‘envied’ these guys and what he imagined it must be like to be in such a frame - a big frame - to have a belly as big and developed as any muscle, to have its size impel him and to oscillate and fluctuate like a muscle. Often he found that he had mysteriously erected! Though he did not see the guys play with their fat any, except in jest, or a friendly slap - all that extra must be exciting and special to have at one’s disposal.

Kreg liked to think that a number of the dads were likely the culprits - on account of some of the dudes’ huskiness - for the menfolk themselves often sported either great, polo-imprisoned guts that rumbled ‘overfed,’ or displayed lesser, flaccid ones that seemed to suggest of their owners, even threaten, ‘soon, men, soon.’

“You having trouble there, Danny?” what’s-his-name bantered with his mate as they took off their clothes, down to their supportive underwear, and suited back up. The two were the last ones in the room now, facing each other near the stalls, half dressed. What’s-his-name went on: “Seems like you put on a few too, and I’m not saying gym-muscle.”

Today was the dark-headed young man’s lucky day. As he gradually undressed and suited up, slipping out of his luminescent Nikes, stuffing stuff into his bag, he watched quietly, only once pretending to clear his throat. Danny, the broad backed, blubber-coated guy, quipped: “Nope, all table!”
He seemed to sigh with pride, but it was quickly revealed otherwise. “I’m not like him….” And he trailed off with a “c’mon…” to his mate.

By “him,” Danny doubtless meant the one whom they had just previously been talking about - his huge brother, elder by several years. Kreg had seen him three or four times around school and/or games - average in height, but dominated by belly, almost always wearing a barely fitted jersey or Tee, or one that draped over the outer edge of his fat mountain and hugged his broad chest sacs.

“Yeah,” the other boy drawled with a quick pinch of the new growth of blubber-jelly beside him. “You’re getting there….” he amusingly assured Danny as they both walked out. The door came to. He tousled his frizzy hair - alone now, and his team would not miss him for a few minutes yet. Some duffle bags had been left on the shiny, dark bathroom floor along the wall opposite the stalls, but one was left by the nearest urinal - Phil’s. He bent over with his #3/!$ between his legs and made himself ejaculate on the floor there and somewhat on the wall just adjacent to the bag outside the urinal. He left it and went to join his team.

******

I sat back on the porch in a comfortable basket-like recliner, waiting for Unc’ to get back with the goods. A red or yellow maple leaf fell occasionally, and a gust sometimes blew up a dry whirlwind in the patio. It was nicely private, with trees enclosing the backyard, separating it from the neighbors, and a tall white fence flanking the right and left sides of the house.

Uncle was glad I could make it, but equally shocked at the difference in me - or should I say, in the weight that I was no longer able to totally ‘hide’ from my façade and frontage. It was later in the year, 2004, and he had probably seen me last about 40 to 60 pounds ago - maybe two years ago? I cannot say it didn’t surprise me too - as I did not mean to get so big, or big at all, but damn! Did it feel good. It was slightly startling. Last I checked, I was: Two. Hundred. Pounds.

When I had gotten a little more comfortable after I came in earlier, Uncle had given me a whole rectangular box of assorted, homemade donuts to take, which he said he “had won at work,” and genially insisted that “It’s not like much damage could be done” as he nudged me in my fat-greased, padded ribs.

We were going to a basketball game later, it was just us today - everyone else was out. I was just waiting until then, and Unc’ had been more than happy. As I leaned back in the chair, with my feet in my Adidas sandals crutched on the legs of the circular porch table, and my favorite long shorts on (well, new favorite - my older cargo pants either didn’t button up now or didn’t zip up under, or around, the built-up gelatin on me, and I was afraid if they did, something undesirable might happen to my #3/!$ and balls), I adjusted the old jacket I was wearing. That last breeze was chilly. The teal jacket seemed shrunken too . . . . and I then considered it odd, odd how I nearly concluded that “it shrunk” rather than “I grew.”

I ruffled my messy hair before replacing my cap, and caught a falling helicopter seed. The thing was indeed slightly stretched to fit all of my expanded torso, and I kind of liked how the sprouted gut, when in my normal seated posture, came out from under my thicker chest, and the pants dug into my admittedly disappearing waist’sline. I tossed the helicopter and watched it twirl away.

I could trace a gentle arc downward to my groin with two fingers, and feel it through the clothing too, especially when I started at my chest and followed the curvature highlighted by the zipper. I thought of how I had earlier bounded up the slight incline of grassy lawn to check if anyone was home, with the Honda passenger still running. With the thud that I heard and felt vibrate through me - and the gut - as I landed on one thick calf after the other in each stride, I had gotten erected before I reached the door. And when Unc’ appeared, I had to quickly excuse myself to go turn off the car.

I wondered if I would ever outgrow the small passenger vehicle; and then doubted such a possibility, and even ensured inwardly, that I wouldn’t let any more weight be gained. No more than 2-15 pounds as the upward. My train of thought was just beginning to change, and I wondered why my heaviness weighed on my mind so, but then everything was jarred from my head.

“Kreg, my man!” Uncle came bursting out as he skillfully slid the glass door shut behind him, easing out onto the porch. “Here we go - one for me . . . . and two for you!” He set the Italian Sodas down - I helped - and three plates of casserole and dessert on-the-side. It was a comfortable time outside there under the deck’s sunshade, and we played a card game and passed some time. After we were done, I went inside to the TV room until it was about ready for the game that evening.

[Iggy]

****
The timer went off with a buzz, and he dropped to one knee for a moment. He peeled up his shirt and swiped his lightly hairy face and then his forehead, not that it helped much - it was quite damp.

Okay, squat . . cycle . . done, he thought between breaths. Time for . . . the bike. He pushed himself up and his heavy gut lazily separated from the leg he propped himself up with. He stood tall, quickly recovering his breath. He was proud of how big he could be and yet strong, even without an obsession for exercise. True, his belly, now like an obtuse attachment to his girth, was taking an effect, a price, for its presence, but he did not let it take everything away from him. Kreg glanced over at the exercise bike beside the mirror, and decided first to at least change his (now darkened) aqua tank top.

He retired to the changing room - sort of like a locker space - and slipped, or rather, clambered, out of his tank. His black sporting bag was there, sitting on top of the elevated metal cabinet, and the bench which he had ‘claimed’ (simply through his stuff being strategically placed thereon) was stationed next to it near the wall. He reached up - fond of his belly bowing out off of his body as he stretched - and fetched the pack down. He donned a plain white Hanes Tee.

As he barely bent over to lay out the damp tank to dry out on the duffle, his fat brushed it and he tugged the shirt down again as it exposed the great indented small of his back. So much distractions - now his hand grazed a sudden depression under the fabric as he reached around to tend to the bag before him, a depression in contrast to the outward-pressing force all around it. His navel, though not truly deep, was a sudden collapse even under the shirt, and the shirt hugged him in all the right places. His #3/!$ was getting erected, but he turned the attention elsewhere. He needed to finish up here, too.

Stihl was getting together with him - they’d probably do something fun, go for some eating, and round up some relations later too. He was a good guy, Stihl.
It had really been an astounding few years. He had, in an explosion of growth, and as such, of weight, seemingly effortlessly transferred from the strong 357 pounds to approximately 418 pounds in a timeframe of one-and-a-half years; and he felt the difference. His underbelly was more than ever.
The crease - that tuck of fat - above each of his bulges of blubber at the sides of his waist (not to mention THE bulges of blubber) - which both extended rearward to his back - had been perhaps twofold magnified, or so it seemed to be. At least, they did so much so that just lightly touching the areas would result in handling them. His hand would rise and fall, rise over a bulging protuberance of fat, then fall into a depressed groove - then rise and fall once more - as it passed over his side from his lovhandle up to his back. Though ‘only’ 60-something pounds, it was certainly exhibited.

As all this had happened to him over that time, it had not been entirely intentional, but yet now here he was more heavily built than ever. And while he didn’t need help and had done it all on his own previously, this time Stihl was something of an assist in his latest increase . . . . as he noted, Stihl was a good guy.

The bike was still available when he returned, and noone else was in that particular front room except for a boy with his mother. The foyer could be seen through a wall and glass partition away on the opposite side of the room from the bike, and a large window let yellow sunlight streaming in in the front. He mounted the bike authoritatively, and set a timer for 15 minutes. There was a whiny creak despite the high-tech touches of the modern machine, but away he went.

Up and down up and down his calves and legs went - it was challenging but fun. He grasped the handles on either side in front and went on with concentration, despite his Tshirt continuously riding around, revealing a patch of flesh here, then there, exposing its moistened surface to the cooler air. He got into a rhythm, and then his head could wander.

His upper belly, or the main portion, retained the “soft-ball-with-sag” characteristic to it, as he remembered it had around 350-something, but that underbelly - it had grown as the upper portion piled outward, with a double-sag in front and just enough suppleness all over that it now churned like a syrup as he sat with his legs going up and down.

Syrupy? Kreg laughed at the comparisons he was making, and felt a new, unique stiffness between his legs, but he began to distract himself with the activity at hand, and with the expectations for the day. 10 more minutes.

His shirt was damp again and among the now traceable hairs, his oval bellybutton stuck to the material to produce the outline of a dark hole. His legs were tired, but he attributed that not only to his activity. He chuckled again at the thought. Except for outside in the equipment spaces, noone was around as he retired again to the backroom (some new bags were on the opposite bench, however), and his thoughts got caught on his size. He trudged to the Gym showers and rinsed off under the cool water.

He humbly prided himself in being a man to carry the fat - being created that, and not a woman (or horribly fat lady at that), who had ordinary, natural curves. He grew his.
His midriff was swollen to the point now that it continuously spoke for itself of the man that owned it; and, of all that beheld him, it was almost universally the first thing that everyone’s eyegate absorbed. Not to mention him - no matter what he did, his eyes could not get to ignore this concentrated mass of fat on his trunk.

Kreg he liked that in a way, but was not without wary apprehension contradicting it. Having dried off, he put an extra towel on his bleacher by the wall. He took a seat on the bench, not daring to thud himself down, and leaned back a little as he spread his two powerful treetrunks. As his belly mushroomed out in a glutinous wad, he noticed again that it seemed like he was protected; and separated behind an impenetrable barricade.
But that came with feeling held at a certain . . well, distance from things. He idly kicked at the duffle bag, and a zipper tinkled.

Though he took up more of his environment, or was more a part of it - and yet standing out from it - his fat belly seemed to demand a greater tax now, for access to the envirnment. He crossed his arms in thought and felt the heavy manliness press all down, and on his goin. Oh my. .

But he returned again to inattentively chewing on his observation: It was like a compromise or sacrifice, he said inwardly, ‘necessary,’ in order to have so much.

His core contracted, with So much around it now, as he pulled himself forward and straightened up. He arose, undid his blanket-like waist towel, and slung it around his neck. Time for a trip to the restroom.
_____

“Easy there, big guy,” the shirtless dude said with cautionary hands up, eyes darting at the giant . . well, giant . . before him, then glancing to the face.
Kreg chuckled inwardly, because it so happened to be that he had been standing there in the pathway, adjusting his towel below his belly fat and fat sides, when THIS GUY nearly bumped into HIM.

The dude had brown hair, a mix of waves and spikes, and was fairly muscular and tanned, but he nonetheless had a slight bulge in the stomach above his belt. Kreg followed him back to his bag stuff, and relaxed for a minute with his eyes partially closed. The newcomer was making a fuss about something, and placing and replacing things in his pack. Kreg saw him look in his general direction but then get busy again.

After about a minute, he noticed that he glanced in his direction again, then headed resignedly into the hallway toward the showers. But no sooner had he left than he poked his head back in, and said, “Ay did you see my big bag ’o mix.”

By this, it was assumed he meant nuts, trail mix you know, but Kreg answered him “nah”. The guy didn’t look satisfied, (it didn’t help that he was - or had been - the only one in the room when the dude appeared, and he had a feeling where this was going) and went on: “I dunno what I could’a done with it - it was a big thing, need to munch something ya’know? - an’ I’m positive I’d put it just in my stuff -”

Kreg absentmindly scratched his fuzzed chest, and caught one of the pouches of fat in his fingers, and it jiggled back rudely, but he shrugged and restated his position. The guy’s eyes darted away for a moment, then grunted a little, or maybe cleared his throat. Then he walked away.

Either not knowing or caring that the big guy could still hear, the chap said, not quietly enough, “fat-boy…” as he headed again down the hall. If it had not been for AGAIN being erected, Kreg imagined he would have shown the guy what imposing might one such as he could unveil. But then he heard the shower turn on, and his hot head burst into steam, as if the distant cooling water had quelled its provocation.

Alone again, and quiet except for the shower, he got to his feet and unfastened his great towel.

His #3/!$ and balls’ erection bobbed a little at the liberty. Though he was intent on his task, the feeling it caught him off-guard. The 3#!4 - though not ‘small’ - was like a crude, fat nub, greedily poking out from a world of fat. If the thing had not been even as big, he didn’t know what would become of it, his first manhood.

He worked to make himself eject an ejaculation; though ironically, it didn’t take much, given how his great heap of gut quaked and tremored over the zone of control and of labor.

His belly was getting so sensitized. Presto! it happened; and the ejaculation streamed onto the bench and nice tile floor. He went wobble wobble, and then noted that the water wasn’t running. He took a step forward to reach for the extra towel on the bench, and was almost pulled forward by the round meat of his gut.

Where was HIS towel?
Ah; he hoped for time to mind the ejaculation, but doubted it, so he - but here the guy was! He slouched a little, trusting that his belly would steal (or swallow) the attention, maybe give him some cover; but his #3!$ jolted and smacked his thick underbelly in protest, as if in defiance to the conquest of fat, successfully quelling the notion that it could be so easily subdued. At the sight of the suddenly huge, bare man, the dude seemed to appear slightly struck, but he went about his business.
Kreg scooped up his towel. It had been just over 15 minutes since the guy got in the shower, so he guessed he could get away with seemin like he had just got back in, and was changing. He gave the dude a brisk nod, which he faintly returned (mostly with his eyes), and then decided to dress elsewhere. He headed past the showers to the open restroom space.

When he returned a few minutes later filling out some fresh clothes, he laughed inside to find the guy’s spiffy sandals hidden under the bench over there, deep orange shorts in the corner, rolled up and draped over the edge of the cabinet, and bag stuffed into the partly-open locker, padlocked as best as possible to prevent it from being swung open. He looked around. Oddly, it seemed like there was LESS for him to clean than he remembered. He wiped the ejaculation to clean it up, and was done, but there must have been less. Maybe . . . .?

It was a mostly empty place when he went out - perhaps a break for lunch?
At that, a mumble gurgled deep inside. Man was he inhumanely starved!

****

The sliding glass door closed behind me as I walked out of the main building of the campus complex.
“Kreg,” Mr. Angstrom had said as I sat there with my belly still coming out to greet my hands folded in my lap, “You’re doing great, but I get the feeling you’re holding back….” He would go on: “If you’ve come this far, why not go all the way?”

I retorted. He scolded. And so the doctor man wanted me to drop at least another 50 pounds; but there was no way I wanted my stomach to go below a brawny 294-300ish pounds again. A cool breeze blew and wafted my jacket around, exposing me. My shirt hugged my chest and gave a wrinkled outline of the arch created by their slight sag. I wore a plaid jacket over that and my belly poked out the front of it. Thoughts and ideas swirled around - no, this was enough; I was not obeying any further than I had already. What I ate in order to get to be me would just have to be healthier from now on. It would have been better if I had thought of it when I was younger - I might not have a ruler slapping my wrist now, if I had.

I missed the times in the 300s and times toying with . . . . the 400s, but there were other things to be grateful for. And at least I still had - whup - some of this, I thought, discreetly glopping the side of my midriff. I slowed my walk along the pavement, and grabbed a handful of one of the still fattened fat-pleats on my back side (as if to ensure that the belly was still there) and decided then that I would show Dr. Angstrom. I realized I wasn’t even that old by any standard. I would show him just how top-notch being a MAN active, healthy - but bellied - could be. Damned, I decided, I would not let him make me lose my 294-pound-self. I walked along.

With my head going into the clouds, I imagined myself at the previous mass . . . . but knowing it would have to stay up there in the sky. And so palpable was it, that I could have sworn my stomach, my frame, erupted in fast-forwarded motion to its previous 300s and was amplified again, to the point that powerful mounds consisted of me, and I, of the load of fat. To that point when my sheer huskiness and fat added more to my strength, and flexed with me more, jiggled more, or moved in powerful inertia without me; and when the beefy meat more weightily hung out when I stood up, and more assertively and heavily invaded the restricted area of my #3/!$, when I sat down.

A sound to my right caught my attention. I then noticed that I was repeatedly hefting up and releasing my underbelly time after time. Realizing that a woman was eyeing me as she chatted on a phone, I pretended to remember something, crouched down, the heft pressing down and flanked by my thick legs, and I appeared to readjust my shoe. I went on, my head thinking, my heart discerning and compromising, but my gut leading the way.

The End

[gain-or-lose?]

good story write more !