Chapter 5: The Jockstrap Edict
The carbonara had been a turning point. Not in any dramatic sense, but in the slow, sedimentary way that layers of fat and habit build a new reality. A month after the pool, Erik stood in the center of Glen’s kitchen and tried, for the first time in weeks, to pull on a pair of his old jeans.
The denim refused to travel past his thighs. The fabric strained, the button a distant, mocking eye an impossible inch from its hole. He sucked in, his ribs protesting, the action only serving to push the soft, rounded shelf of his belly higher. He let the breath out in a defeated whoosh, and the jeans slid down his legs to puddle around his ankles.
He looked down at himself. The tight white jockstrap was all he wore. It dug into the flesh of his hips and belly, creating a series of soft, overflowing rolls. The pouch in front strained against the cotton, containing him. His reflection in the dark oven door was a blurry caricature: a pale, soft torso, wider through the chest and back, his tits full enough to cast a slight shadow, his stomach a pronounced, domed curve that hid the line of his pubic bone entirely. Stretch marks, fresh and pinkish, webbed his hips and the undersides of his pecs.
“Told you those were done for.”
Glen’s voice came from the doorway. He leaned against the frame, a dish towel over his shoulder. He’d put on weight too, solidly and without apology. His own belly, a firm globe under a tight black t-shirt, led the way. His thighs filled his sweatpants. He looked powerful, sated, like a well-fed predator.
“They just… shrank,” Erik muttered, stepping out of the denim circle.
“They didn’t.” Glen walked in, his hand immediately going to the swell of Erik’s stomach. He palmed it, his thumb rubbing the soft underside. “You did. You grew. Look at this.” He squeezed gently, making the flesh bunch. “Perfect.”
Erik shivered. The touch, the words, they lit a familiar, shameful heat in his groin. He was hard, trapped in the white cotton. “I’m… I’m getting fat, Glen.”
“You’re getting beautiful.” Glen kissed his neck, then moved to the island. “And you’re going to get even more beautiful today. Sit.”
The feast was already laid out. A stack of pancakes taller than the syrup bottle. A plate of bacon glistening with grease. Scrambled eggs, yellow and dense with melted cheddar. A pitcher of something thick and chocolatey.
“I can’t eat all that,” Erik said, even as his mouth watered.
“Yes, you can.” Glen pushed him onto a stool. The wood dug into the backs of his soft thighs. “Open.”
A forkful of pancake, dripping with syrup and melted butter, was pressed to his lips. Erik opened his mouth. The sweetness exploded, rich and cloying. He chewed, the sound loud in his own head. Before he could swallow, a strip of bacon was at his lips. Salt and fat. Then a spoonful of egg, cheese stringing from the spoon to his chin.
Glen fed him methodically, one heavy, decadent bite after another. No pause. Erik’s jaw ached. His stomach, already full from a large breakfast just two hours prior, began to protest, a tight, hot balloon expanding under Glen’s other hand, which never left his belly, stroking, kneading.
“You’re so good,” Glen murmured, watching Erik’s cheeks bulge. “Taking it all. Look at you.” He pushed the pitcher forward. “Drink.”
Erik lifted it, his arms feeling weak. The milkshake was so thick it was almost solid, a frozen sludge of cream and sugar. He gulped, feeling it coat his throat and land heavily in his packed gut. A trickle of cold chocolate dripped onto his chest, rolling down the curve into the waistband of the jockstrap.
Glen’s eyes followed it. His breathing hitched. He took the pitcher from Erik’s limp hand and set it down. His fingers, sticky with syrup, traced the path of the chocolate, then hooked under the elastic at Erik’s hip. He didn’t pull it down. He just tugged it aside, exposing the base of Erik’s soft, plump cock and the sweat-damp thatch of hair.
Erik moaned, a pathetic, full sound. “Glen…”
“Shhh. Just feel.” Glen’s hand slid down, cupping him through the cotton, then moved back to splay possessively over the distended curve of his stomach. It was taut, hot to the touch. “So full. You’re just a vessel. For my food. For my cock.” He leaned in, his voice a hot, obscene whisper in Erik’s ear. “I wanna feel this belly pressed into the mattress while I fuck you. I want to hear you groan from how full you are.”
He stood, pulling Erik up by the hand. The movement made Erik groan, a sharp ache of overindulgence. Glen led him, stumbling and heavy, to the bedroom. The blinds were half-closed, the room swimming in afternoon gloom.
“Bend over. Edge of the bed.”
Erik obeyed, his body moving with a sluggish, weighty grace. He bent, his arms bracing against the rumpled duvet. The position forced his belly to spill forward, a warm, heavy weight against the cool fabric. The back of the jockstrap, a thin strip of elastic, cut deep into the ample flesh of his ass.
Glen stood behind him. Erik heard the slick sound of lube, then felt a cold drop on his exposed hole. A thumb, rough and demanding, rubbed it in, circling the tight rim, pressing but not entering.
“You’re sweating,” Glen observed, his other hand smoothing over the love handles that spilled over Erik’s hips. “Every part of you is soft and wet and ready.”
The thumb pushed in, just to the knuckle. Erik gasped, pushing back against it. He was so sensitive, so open from constant use.
“Please.”
“Please what?”
“Fuck me. I need it.”
Glen removed his thumb. Erik heard the rustle of clothing, the wet sound of Glen stroking his own cock. Then the blunt, wide head was pressing against him, not asking, telling.
It breached him with a single, brutal thrust. There was no slow work, no gentle stretch. Glen sheathed himself to the hilt in one smooth, devastating movement, forcing a punched-out scream from Erik’s lungs.
“Fuck! Glen!”
“Yeah. That’s it. Take it.” Glen’s hands clamped on Erik’s hips, his fingers finding familiar grooves in the softness. He withdrew almost all the way, then slammed back in.
The pace was punishing. Each thrust drove Erik forward, his overfull belly grinding into the mattress, a sloshing, tight pressure that bordered on pain but fed the pleasure. The wet, meaty slap of skin on skin filled the room, syncopated with Glen’s grunts and Erik’s ragged cries. The bedframe creaked a steady, protesting rhythm.
“This is it,” Glen snarled, his voice thick with exertion. “This is your purpose. Look at you. You can’t even see your own dick anymore. You’re just a belly and a hole. My belly. My hole.”
The words were filthy, degrading. They lit Erik up from the inside. His cock, trapped and leaking against the bed, jerked untouched. The stimulation was entirely internal, each drive grinding against that perfect, secret spot, amplified by the pressure in his gut.
“Gonna come,” Erik sobbed, his face mashed into the duvet. “I’m gonna come, please.”
“Do it. Come like the stuffed, greedy pig you are.”
The permission shattered him. His orgasm was a silent, whole-body convulsion, a white-hot wave that seemed to originate from his packed stomach and erupt out his cock. He spasmed around Glen, milking him, pulling him deeper.
With a final, deep roar, Glen buried himself and came. Erik felt the hot, pulsing flood fill him, another layer of fullness in his already overwhelmed body. Glen stayed there, slumped over him, their weight combined, breathing harshly into Erik’s sweat-damp back.
Slowly, Glen pulled out. Erik whimpered at the sudden, empty feeling, the cool air on his used, dripping hole.
He was flipped over onto his back, a monumental effort with his heavy, spent body. Glen looked down at him, his eyes dark with a possessive awe. He looked at the come leaking from Erik onto the sheets. Without a word, he bent, his tongue rough and demanding, and licked a stripe from Erik’s taint up over his swollen, sensitive pucker.
The sensation was electric, shocking. Erik jerked, a weak cry escaping him.
Glen sat up, a filthy smile on his lips. He reached to the nightstand, where a single leftover piece of bacon sat on a napkin. He took it, dipped it in the syrup that had somehow made its way there, and brought it to Erik’s lips.
“Open.”
Erik, dazed, submissive, utterly broken open, obeyed. The sweetness and salt hit his tongue. He chewed slowly, his eyes locked on Glen’s.
As he swallowed, the last of his resistance dissolved into a warm, sticky syrup of contentment. The gnawing worry, the sharp glimpses of the scale, the tightness of old clothes—they were just echoes from another life. This, the profound fullness, the ache of good use, the honeyed taste on his tongue and the dark approval in Glen’s eyes, was the only truth that mattered.
This, the profound fullness, the ache of good use, the honeyed taste on his tongue and the dark approval in Glen’s eyes, was the only truth that mattered. It was a truth that left him drowsy and pliant, sprawled on the ruined sheets while Glen went to shower. The silence in the room was thick, punctuated only by the distant rush of water and the low, liquid gurgle of his own overstuffed gut.
He dozed, a shallow sleep where sensations blurred—the phantom stretch of Glen inside him, the sweet-salt film on his teeth. When he woke, the light had shifted. A practical need nudged at the edges of his haze. He needed to piss. He rolled, a cumbersome operation that involved heaving his softer bulk onto its side and pushing up with arms that felt weaker than they used to. The white jockstrap was a damp, stretched ruin. He left it on the floor.
Naked, he padded to the en suite bathroom, his steps careful on the cool floor. His body moved with a new, swaying rhythm, a side-to-side shift that accommodated the weight on his frame. He didn’t look in the mirror. He kept his eyes down, watching the pale curve of his belly lead the way, its shadow falling on his feet. After relieving himself, he turned to wash his hands, and there it was.
The digital scale, sleek and black, was pushed halfway under the vanity cabinet, as if hiding. He hadn’t seen it, hadn’t looked for it. He stared at the glossy surface. A memory, sharp and unwelcome, cut through the syrup-fed fog: his own voice, weeks ago, joking that the scale was lying. He’d never actually stepped on it. Glen had always waved the notion away. ‘Numbers are meaningless, you look perfect.’
His heart began a slow, hard thud against his ribs. The silence in the house was absolute now, the shower off. He knew he shouldn’t. He knew the truth in Glen’s hands and mouth and eyes was all he needed. But his foot, as if detached from his will, nudged the scale out onto the tile. It lit up with a blue, waiting zero.
He stepped on.
The numbers flashed, stabilized. He blinked. He stepped off. The blue zero returned. He stepped on again, his breath held somewhere high in his chest. The same digital confirmation glowed up at him, undeniable.
A sound escaped him, a choked whisper of air. It wasn’t anger, or even fear. It was the collapse of a story he’d been telling himself. The ‘shrunk’ jeans, the mirrored distortions, the comforting lies—they vaporized in the flat, electric light of the number. The physical truth of his body, the heft and the softness he’d come to associate with pleasure and belonging, had a cold, quantitative value. And it was massive.
“Find what you were looking for?”
Glen’s voice from the doorway was calm. He leaned against the frame, a towel slung low on his hips, water beading in the dark hair of his chest and the solid curve of his own stomach. His eyes went from Erik’s naked, frozen form to the scale, and back.
Erik couldn’t speak. He just pointed a trembling finger at the readout.
Glen pushed off the doorframe and walked in. He didn’t look at the scale. He stood behind Erik, his front pressing against Erik’s back, and looked over his shoulder into the mirror. His hands came around to cradle Erik’s belly, lifting its heavy, undeniable weight in his palms.
“So?” Glen murmured into his ear, his voice a vibration against Erik’s skin. “It’s just a number.”
“It’s… that can’t be right,” Erik stammered. “That’s… that’s impossible. I was—”
“You were nothing,” Glen finished, his voice gentle but absolute. His fingers spread, possessive, over the stretched skin. “Skin and bones and a fucking video game controller. Now look at you.” He squeezed, and Erik watched his own flesh spill through Glen’s fingers in the mirror. “You’re real. You’re here. You’re mine. That number is just proof of how well I’ve loved you.”
The words should have felt like a trap. Instead, they felt like a lifeline, recasting the terrifying evidence into something perversely devotional. Erik’s reflection was a stranger—flushed, wide, being held by a man who looked at him with raw hunger. The panic began to morph, twisting into something else under the heat of Glen’s hands.
“It scared me,” Erik admitted, his voice small.
“I know.” Glen turned him around, the scale forgotten underfoot. He kissed him, deep and claiming. “Let me show you what it means. Let me worship this.” His hand slid down between them, his fingers rough and knowing, finding Erik’s cock already half-hard amidst the soft thatch of hair. The reaction was instinctive, shameful, a betrayal of his own shock. “See? Your body knows. It likes being this. It craves it.”
He sank to his knees on the cold tile, his face level with Erik’s stomach. He didn’t speak. He leaned forward and took the soft, heavy weight of Erik’s cock into his mouth in one slow, wet motion.
Erik cried out, his hands flying to Glen’s damp hair. The sensation was brutal, overwhelming after the emotional whiplash. Glen’s mouth was hot and brutal, his tongue working the underside, his head bobbing with a rhythm that was less about pleasure and more about consumption. He suckled him deep, gagging slightly, then pulling back to lavish attention on the head, his eyes locked on the trembling swell of Erik’s belly just above him.
“Fuck, Glen,” Erik gasped, his hips stuttering.
Glen pulled off with a wet pop. “Watch,” he commanded, his voice hoarse. He turned Erik back toward the mirror, keeping him in place with a firm hand on his hip. He spat onto his palm, slicked himself, and then without any preamble, pressed the thick head of his cock against Erik’s hole from behind. It was still loose, wet from their earlier fucking. It gave way with a sick, perfect ease.
Glen filled him in one relentless, deep push. Erik’s moan was a shattered thing. In the mirror, he watched himself being taken—his face slack with overwhelm, his body jolting forward with each thrust, the heavy mound of his stomach bouncing, his full tits shaking. Glen’s hand snaked around to clutch that stomach, pinning him in place, using the fat as a handle to drive into him harder.
“That’s your weight,” Glen grunted, each word punching out with a thrust. “That’s the fifty fucking pounds I put on you. You feel it? You feel how good it feels to be this full?” He shifted his angle, hammering into Erik’s prostate with unerring accuracy. Pleasure, white-hot and debilitating, short-circuited Erik’s thoughts. “You’re not a boy anymore. You’re a fat, used, gorgeous thing. And you’re mine.”
The profanity, the sheer filthy truth of it, burned away the last of Erik’s fear. He was just a body, a well-fed, well-fucked instrument. His own cock, trapped between his belly and the cold surface of the vanity, leaked a steady stream of precome onto the marble. He was going to come again, untouched, just from being filled like this, from seeing himself be taken in the mirror while that damning number glowed silently on the floor beside them.
“Gonna come,” he whimpered, his vision blurring. “Please, let me—”
“Come.” It was a hissed command. “Come all over this pretty counter. Mark it.”
The permission tipped him over. His orgasm ripped through him with a violence that made his legs buckle. Glen held him up, fucking him through it, his own rhythm fragmenting into frantic, deep snaps. With a final, guttural roar, Glen spent himself inside, his grip on Erik’s stomach tightening like a vise.
They slumped together, a sweaty, panting heap against the vanity. Erik’s reflection was a mess of flushed skin and stunned eyes. The number on the scale, still lit, etched itself into the periphery of his vision. It was no longer just a number. It was a fact. A testament. A brand.
Glen nuzzled the sweaty nape of his neck, his breath easing. “See?” he murmured, his voice thick with satisfaction. “No more fear. Just truth.”
And Erik, trembling, spent, and profoundly owned, could only stare at the proof in the mirror and nod.