Chapter 6: The Role Reversal
Glen woke to a throbbing behind his eyes and a dryness in his mouth that tasted of last night’s wine and dark chocolate. He tried to lift a hand to rub his temple, but it wouldn’t move. A silken resistance held his wrist fast. He blinked, the blurred shapes of his bedroom ceiling swimming into focus. He turned his head.
Silk ties, the same ones he’d used to bind Erik’s hands to the headboard weeks ago in a playful, dominating mood, were now knotted securely around his own wrists and ankles, tethering him spread-eagle to the four posts of his own bed. The early morning light cut through the room, harsh and exposing.
A shadow fell over him.
Erik stood beside the bed, a silhouette against the window. He was wearing the white jockstrap, the only garment that still fit him without straining, but it looked different now. It was a uniform, not a confinement. The soft, heavy curve of his belly hung low over the waistband, a pale, substantial weight. His chest was fuller, his arms thicker. He held a tray.
The scent hit Glen first—bacon frying in its own grease, the cloying sweetness of maple syrup, the rich, fatty smell of butter melting into scrambled eggs. His stomach, already tender from last night’s indulgence, gave a low, involuntary gurgle of hunger.
“You’re awake,” Erik said. His voice wasn’t the lazy, amused drawl Glen was used to. It was flat. Calm.
“Erik? What the fuck is this?” Glen tugged at the silks. They were expertly tied. “Untie me. This isn’t funny.”
“It’s not meant to be funny.” Erik stepped closer. The tray in his hands was laden: a teetering stack of golden pancakes, a pile of glistening bacon, a mountain of scrambled eggs orange with cheddar, a bowl of hash browns shiny with oil, a tall glass of chocolate milkshake topped with whipped cream. A breakfast banquet. His breakfast banquet.
Erik set the tray down. Not on the nightstand. He placed it directly on Glen’s stomach, which was softer now, a definite rise even when he was lying flat. The warm weight of the wood and ceramic settled on him, a disquieting anchor.
“You’ve been feeding me for months,” Erik said, picking up the fork. He speared a cluster of eggs, the cheese stringing in a greasy web. “Every bite. Every fucking spoonful. You watched me swell. You pinched every new pound.” He held the fork aloft. “Now it’s your turn.”
He brought the fork to Glen’s mouth. Glen pressed his lips together, turning his head away. “Erik, stop this.”
Erik’s free hand shot out, fingers gripping Glen’s jaw with a strength that surprised them both. It wasn’t brutal, but it was implacable, forcing his head back, thumb digging into the hinge. Glen’s eyes widened. He saw no anger in Erik’s blue gaze, only a chilling, focused resolve.
“Open,” Erik commanded.
The pressure on his jaw increased. With a muffled grunt, Glen opened his mouth. The forkful of eggs was shoved in, the tines scraping the roof of his mouth. The taste was overwhelming—salt, fat, the sharp tang of cheese. He had no choice but to chew and swallow, the mass sliding heavily down his throat.
Before he could speak, a strip of bacon was at his lips. He took it, the crunch deafening in the silent room. Then a piece of pancake, sopped in syrup, followed by a gulp of milkshake so thick it coated his teeth. Erik worked with a ruthless efficiency, loading the fork, bringing it to Glen’s mouth, watching his throat work as he swallowed.
“Please,” Glen gasped around a mouthful of buttery hash browns. “Erik, I can’t. I’m full.”
“You can.” Erik fed him another pancake, folding it and pushing it in like stuffing a goose. “You will. You’ve done this to me every single day. You watched me struggle. You told me I was beautiful.” He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “You made me get on that scale. You made me see it. Now you’re going to feel it.”
Glen’s protests died in his throat. Arousal, hot and shameful, pulsed through him, completely divorced from his brain’s panic. His cock stirred, hardening against his thigh under the thin sheet. The helplessness, the forced consumption, the intense, unwavering focus in Erik’s eyes—it was everything he’d fantasized about from the other side. The domination was a mirror, and the reflection was terrifyingly exquisite.
His belly began to change. The soft rise under the tray became a taut, strained dome. The skin felt tight, hot. Each swallow added a distinct, aching pressure. Sweat broke out on his forehead. He moaned, the sound part pain, part desperate pleasure, as Erik shoved another syrupy mass into his mouth.
“There you go,” Erik murmured, his thumb wiping a dribble of syrup from Glen’s chin. “Look at you. Just a belly and a mouth. My belly. My mouth.”
He picked up the final pancake, dripping. Glen shook his head weakly, tears of strain in the corners of his eyes. “No more. I can’t.”
Erik ignored him. He pressed the sodden food to Glen’s lips until they parted, then pushed it in, using his fingers to stuff the last of it into Glen’s cheek. “Chew.”
Glen chewed, his jaw aching. He swallowed. The sensation was profound. He was packed, distended, every inch of his gut stretched to a dull, throbbing limit. The tray sat on the drum-tight surface of his stomach like a crown. He panted, red-faced, his hard cock a blatant tent in the sheet.
Erik removed the tray, setting it aside with a soft clatter. He looked down at Glen’s body. The once-athletic plane of his stomach was a swollen, rounded hill, rising and falling with his ragged breaths. Erik leaned down and slowly, deliberately, licked a stray drop of syrup from Glen’s swollen lips.
“Now,” Erik whispered, the word a promise and a threat, “you’re going to let me fuck you.”
He didn’t wait for an answer. His hands went to the silk ties. He undid the knots at Glen’s ankles first, then his wrists, his movements deft, unhurried. Glen’s arms fell limply to the bed, blood rushing back into his hands in painful tingles. He was too full, too dazed to move.
Erik grabbed his shoulder and hip, rolling him onto his stomach with a strength fueled by months of pent-up passivity. Glen groaned as his swollen belly was pressed into the mattress, a deep, internal compression that stole his breath. The position forced his ass up. Erik’s hands were on him, spreading his cheeks apart, exposing him completely.
Glen heard the snick of a lube cap. He braced himself.
There was no preparation, no gentle breach. Erik’s cock, slick and hard, pressed against his hole and shoved its way in, in one relentless, burning thrust.
“FUCK!” Glen screamed into the mattress, his body arching. The fullness was blinding—the deep, internal stretch combined with the crushing pressure of his own gut against the bed. He was being filled in every conceivable way.
Erik seated himself to the hilt and went still, letting Glen feel the entire, shocking intrusion. He leaned over, his own softer, heavier body blanketing Glen’s back. His lips were at Glen’s ear.
“You feel that?” Erik’s voice was a raw, guttural whisper. “That’s what you made me. A heavy, greedy fuckhole. And now I’m going to use it. I’m going to use you.”
He began to move. His pace was slow, agonizingly deep. Each withdrawal was a taunt, each slam back in a claiming. The wet, thick sound of their joining filled the room. Erik’s hands found purchase on Glen’s hips, then slid up to clutch the new, soft handles of fat that had settled there. He gripped them hard, using them as leverage to drive deeper.
“Is this what you wanted?” Erik grunted, his breath coming in hot bursts. “All those times you fucked me while I was stuffed… did you imagine this? Being so full you can’t breathe while you get your ass ruined?”
Glen couldn’t answer. He could only groan, a broken, continuous sound. The pleasure was a twisted, overwhelming thing, inextricable from the pain of overfullness and the shocking vulnerability. His cock, trapped beneath him, leaked helplessly onto the sheets with each brutal thrust.
Erik’s rhythm began to fracture, becoming harder, faster, more erratic. The bed rocked. His grip on Glen’s love handles tightened to the point of bruising.
“You’re mine,” Erik snarled, the words spilling out in a frantic litany. “My fat fucking pet. My project. You don’t get to just make me this… you have to be this with me. You understand? You’re in it now. You’re in the fucking deep end with me.”
With a final, animalistic cry, Erik rammed home and froze. Glen felt the hot, pulsing flood erupt inside him, a searing brand. Erik shook through his orgasm, his full weight pressing Glen deeper into the mattress, compressing his aching stomach further.
Slowly, Erik collapsed onto his back, pulling out as he went. Glen remained on his stomach, unable to move, feeling the twin sensations of emptiness and internal wetness. His gut was a solid, painful mass. Come leaked from him.
The room was silent except for their ragged breathing. The smell of sex and syrup and sweat was suffocating.
Erik’s hand landed on Glen’s back, a heavy, warm weight. He didn’t stroke. He just left it there, a marker. Glen turned his head to the side, his vision blurry. He could see the empty tray on the nightstand, the grease congealing on the plates.
The power hadn’t just shifted. It had been dismantled and reassembled into something new, something shared and terrifying. The game had changed. The scale in the bathroom, the pinched flesh, the relentless feeding—it was all a language they both spoke fluently now. And as Glen lay there, immobilized by his own fullness, he understood the final, unspoken rule.
There was no going back. Not for either of them. The only way out was through, and through meant more. More weight. More fullness. More of this devastating, shared descent. He closed his eyes, and for the first time, felt the true, dizzying weight of the paradise he had created. It was crushing him, and he wanted nothing more than to drown in it.
Glen groaned, a deep, guttural sound from his packed gut, and heaved himself onto his back, his hand already working his stiff cock in furious, slick strokes until he came in hot stripes across the bloated dome of his own stomach. "Look at us," he panted, staring at the mess, his voice thick with awe and possession, "we're just going to keep getting fucking massive."
Erik watched the pearly streaks glisten on Glen’s distended flesh for a silent moment, then wiped a finger through the mess and brought it to his own mouth. “Get up,” he said, his voice hoarse but level. He pulled Glen, wobbling and grotesquely full, from the bed and steered him toward the bathroom where the digital scale sat like an altar. “Your turn for a number,” Erik stated, his hand a firm pressure between Glen’s shoulder blades. Glen stepped onto the cold glass, the display flickering before settling on a figure that made his breath catch, the proof of his own transformation now as quantifiable and stark as Erik’s had been.
Erik’s hand cracked down on the fleshy swell of Glen’s ass, a sharp, stinging slap that echoed in the tiled room. “Look at that,” Erik breathed, his voice ragged with awe as he watched the red imprint bloom on skin that was undeniably softer, thicker than before. He delivered another slap, lower, where the cheek met the thigh, making Glen jolt. “All those big meals you forced into me,” Erik said, kneading the heated flesh, his fingers sinking deep, “they didn’t just go into my gut, they went right into your ass, too.” He leaned close, his lips brushing Glen’s ear, and whispered, “You’re getting so fucking fat for me, aren’t you?”