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Doughboys Part 1
When Frank Di Caprio came home that night told his roommate David the news about his summer job at Doughboys, the only one he could get after putting off the search till fourth of July, David laughed. "Hey, man. Good job! Free pizzas all summer long. Aren't you glad you waited so long to try to get a job?" David, a noted glutton, was sitting on the couch in his typical position: shirt off, six pack within easy reach, three down, three to go, his fat hairy Italian labonza proudly displayed in the cool blue light of the TV, as he stuffed his face with chips and dip. Frank knew David would welcome the idea of him working for the summer at the local pizza hang-out, Doughboys, but David's teasing was a bit unexpected. "Guess you'll soon be joining the rest of us, eh, bubba?"|
Frank put down his backpack, tired. "Meaning?"
"Hell, Frankie. It is Doughboys, after all. You see the guys that work there. They start looking like you at Memorial Day - all trim and tight--and by Labor Day, they're fucking houses. Remember that guy Vinnie. He was way over 250 by the time he went back to school. Not that I'd mind packing on that way." He guzzled the rest of his beer, stuffed a handful a chips in his face. "They make awesome pies. Hey, Frank, you'll enjoy getting fat. Promise." David slapped his belly affectionately and laughed again.
Frank had been a little nervous about the possibility that working there would make it even harder to keep under 200 - a bit of struggle lately now that he was out of the disciplined workout routine he had had going during the school year. He had maintained a solid 195, on his 6-foot frame, with plenty of care and lots of aerobic work, but with his southern Italian genetics, a little extra food tended to go a long way on his waistline. But the manager who had interviewed Frank earlier that day, a slim little Sicilian named Sal, didn't seem to be any worse for the wear running the place. "No way, man. Not me. No way I'm going to blimp up like the rest of them there at Doughboys," he said, but David looked unconvinced, wickedly smiling and letting out a derisive belch.
"You'll see, Frankie. They fatten 'em up there, I swear. Makes for good advertising. You'll be a little doughboy, too. Just you wait."
His first day there, Frank had to admit, wasn't too far away from David's prediction, since indeed besides Sal the manager, all the guys working there definitely seemed to enjoy their work by the size of them. Starting at noon, Sal greeted him at the door, giving him the grand tour, beginning with the kitchen. "This here is my cousin Pete, he runs the ovens." Frank went to shake hands with a big dark Sicilian, whose white apron, stained with tomato sauce, had been slung tightly under a considerable gut that swelled out from beneath a guinea T-shirt. Wiping his wet hands across his belly, he shook hands with Frank, and nodded. "Good to have you aboard. It's hot work, here, but the fringe benefits are worth it."
"Fringe benefits?" Frank asked Sal on the way to the prep room.
Sal raised his eyebrows. "Pete's a living example. Basically you get to eat as much as you want whenever you want. Perfect for guys like Pete. The owner doesn't really check up on us too much. Can you believe Pete was about your size when he started."
Sal shook his head. "He's gotta be 300 plus.. Maybe we should weigh him on the meat scale sometime. Say, this is Danny." A fat young man packed tight into a pair of jeans, massive buttocks and thighs shifting back and forth as he did his work, was grating huge blocks of mozzarella, shoveling a fistful of the cheese into his mouth for every two or three he left in the case. "Danny!"
Danny turned around at the sound of Sal's voice, and looked sheepish, brushing away some of the curls of cheese from his face. "Hey, there. You're the new guy?"
"Try to leave some of it for the customers, eh, porky." Sal reached over and pinched one of Danny's sizable love handles plumping out over the side of his jeans. "See this, Frankie. It's an occupational hazard." Danny blushed red, but Frank noticed that as soon as they turned away, he suprreptitiously crammed another two handfuls of cheese into his fat cheeks.
"That one came to us big, and now look at him. Can hardly fit into his clothes. And this is Nick."
They rounded the corner to a large counter where Frank saw what looked like an exbody-builder, chopping up toppings - mushrooms, pepperoni, ham - at a long counter. Seated on a stool too small for his broad ass, his chest, biceps and shoulders spoke of a former jock while the spread of his hips, thighs and belly, bulging out and over his little cotton shorts, spoke of one summer too many at Doughboy's. It was hot here in the back, and this overfed ex-jock's T-shirt had patches of sweat under his now soft, hairy tits and around his deep navel. Nick had made himself a huge sandwich - at ten in the morning - and wiped his greasy hands on towel before shaking Frank's. "Sal tells me you are going to be a doughboy."
Frank looked nervously at Sal. "What?"
"Not a doughboy like this tub of lard here," Sal poked Nick in the stomach and winked at the enormous plate of food Nick was polishing off. "A doughboy like pizza dough. You're going to be making the dough."
But as Frank followed Sal to the dough machine across the room, he thought he caught Nick looking at his ass from the side, like he was being sized up, and Frank felt himself vaguely, inexplicably excited, as if he was going to be Nick's second course after the sandwich.
It wasn't too hard to make the dough, Frank discovered - the yeast, flour and water were all measured out, the big industrial strength mixer was timed for 30 minutes kneading, and when done, all he had to do was cover it, let it rise for three hours, and then cut it up, roll it into balls, dust it with flour and put them, eight balls per case, into wooden flats that then got stuck in the refrigerator.
When the night's rush hour started, about five, though, Sal stationed him in the front room with the ovens, between him and Pete, Sal pulling the dough deftly into pies, Frank assigned to sauce, cheese and topping, after which Pete would swoop in behind with his paddle, waft them off the counter and into the ovens. Occasionally, to be helpful, Pete would press in behind Frank, his big stomach against Frank's back, leaning over to re-arrange a topping or adjust the sprinkling of cheese, popping a handful of pepperoni slices into his mouth as he did it. In an hour ro so, Frank was drenched in sweat, as were Pete and Sal, and given the furious pace, he found himself eventually doing the same - snitching a handful of cheese here, munching on ham slices between times, telling himself he needed it to keep his strength up.
When mid-way through the night, someone didn't show up for their pie, Pete clapped a meaty hand around Frank's waist, pulling the forlorn and abandoned box off the top of the oven and folding a large gooey slice in two, held up to Frank's mouth. "You're the new boy. You do the honors. Consider it your initiation."
Frank, who was already feeling full from what had to be a good pound or so of mozzarella and ham, stolen between pies, shook his head and tried to decline politely. "That's someone's pizza, isn't it?"
Sal grinned. "It was. We give 'em an hour and if they don't came for it, it's property of Doughboys."
"Come on, big guy. Do the honors," Pete insisted, the grease dripping seductively off the end of the slice he was holding onto the expanse of his belly, while he held Frank tight in an affectionate embrace. "Can't have you making the rest of look bad."
"Really, thanks, I'm sort of full," Frank went to say, but the moment he opened his mouth, Pete popped the end of the slice into Frank's mouth.
"Come on, you can do it. Show us you want to be a doughboy, Frankie. Eat it up, you can do it."
The smell of the big man, the strong scent of his body mingled with the heat of the ovens and the fragrance of the food, made Frank obey reluctantly, slurping up the slice he was fed, as Sal watched approvingly. "Petey, you were right. Frankie is a team player. Aren't you, Frank?"
Frank nodded at the wiry manager, his mouth stuffed full of delicious pizza, pizza he would never have let himself eat in any other way.
"Want to be a doughboy, do you?" Pete asked softly. "Big doughboy? You've got the potential, now you're going to get some help."
Frank finished that slice, and another was waiting, and another after that, till his stomach began to press out against the confining waistband of his size 32s, pinching him around the love handles
Sal the manager watched salaciously, keeping an eye out for customers at the window. "Think those pants of Frankie's are going to be history, whaddaya say, Petey. This boy has real doughboy potential. Look at him, got half a pie down, no problem."
Pete gobbled up a piece for himself right in front of Frank's face, the sauce smeared around his fleshy lips, making Frank almost want to stretch up and lick it of the fat man's handsome face. Pete could somehow see his desire and wickedly smirked. "Sure, go ahead, eat me, too. baby. Eat it up, baby. Lick Petey off. That's right, show Petey and Sal that you want to be a doughboy, show us, come on."
Pinned into the corner by the Sicilian's bulk, Frank tasted his sweat and the flavor of the pizza as he kissed and licked off Pete's open, inviting mouth.
"Couple more, Frankie boy. Just a couple more and you'll be a doughboy like us. Fat little doughboy. Show us how hungry you are, boy. You're a greedy little piglet, ain't you? You're a greedy little boy aren't you?"
Frank couldn't speak. Every time he opened his mouth to groan with pleasure, or to ask them to stop, to say yes, he was a fat little doughboy at heart, yes, he'd do what they wanted, he'd eat, he'd get fat, Pete would push in another piece of pie, insistently rubbing his huge hairy right thigh against Frank's crotch, rubbing the big ham against Frank's hard cock.
Mouth full, pizza being continually stuffed into his bulging cheeks, his stomach bloated, he felt himself give way. "You're - going - to - make - me - "
"Fat? You going to get fat? Tell Petey you want to get fat." Pete finished the sentence in a whisper, dropping a sweaty, grease-covered hand to hold Frank's quivering dick through his jeans, taking the index finger of his other hand, dipping it in the sauce bowl, then the cheese bowl and plopping it into Frank's hungry mouth. Frank sucked greedily, breathing hard and moaning as he felt himself begin to shoot, huge hard insistent pulsations like he had never felt before, convulsing against the enormous bulk of the body that held him, watching Sal take pleasure from across the room at this lascivious initiation.
"That's why we wear these aprons, see." Sal laughed, as Pete took a step back and then, licked Frank's face off with long, sexy slurps, rubbing his own swollen nipples and enjoying the sight of the younger man's sensual exhaustion. "To hide the cum stains."
By the time Frank got home that night, he had made a couple of decisions. First was that despite the mind-blowing pleasure of what had happened on his first shift, he was going to prove them all wrong. He was not going to blimp like the rest of the guys at Doughboys. They didn't have his discipline. He'd show them. Second, there wasn't going to be any repeat sex on the job. No way he was going to introduce that sort of complication into a perfectly good job. Tonight would count as a good-natured "breaking in" of a new guy, and there it was going to stop.
It was well after one a.m. by the time he slipped his key into his front door, and moving quietly past David's room, he saw his roommate sprawled asleep on his back in bed, naked, fat gut rising and falling to the sound of loud snoring. He stopped and looked at him a minute, unconsciously rubbing his own still full belly and feeling a shiver of fear--or was it arousal--about the possibility he, too, might end up like that. Not going to happen, he said to himself, and stripping off his smelly clothes, he dropped to the floor in his own room and did 100 quick push-ups and 200 sit-ups, before taking a long, delicious shower.
To balance out the gorging from the night before, Frank purposely ate nothing but an apple and a cup of coffee before reporting in to Doughboys the next day at 3 p.m. Sure, he was hungry, and he knew he had a long demanding shift ahead, but he'd show those lardbutts what discipline was. To cinch his resolve he purposefully put on his size 31" jeans and the tightest T-shirt he could find. The place was quiet, as he entered from the back door and saw Danny folding boxes.
"Say, where's everyone?" Frank asked, grabbing an apron.
Danny laughed. "Oh, Sal and Pete had to go pick some stuff up, they said. And NIck's eating dinner."
Frank glanced at the clock. "Dinner? It's only 3 o'clock."
"Your point being?" Danny had a rotund face and fat cheeks that made his smile sweet and child-like. "Nick's on the six-meal-a-day plan around here."
"Like he needs it." Frank tied the apron very tight and snug around his waist.
Danny shrugged. "What do you want? I'll get it for you, man. I'm bored with these boxes."
"To eat. I mean, you gotta eat before you work. No time later."
Frank waved his hand and went to the big refrigerator to get out the dough bucket. "Nah, nothing for me. I'm not hungry. Thanks, big guy."
Danny smiled. "Wish I had your discipline, Frank. Look at me. You know what I weighed before I started this job, don't you?"
"What?" Frank dumped the soft white pizza dough out in a large mass in front of him on the long working table in the back.
"I was, like, 180, 185. Man. . . .."
Taking handfuls of the cool soft crusts-to-be and rolling them into balls, Frank raised his eyebrows and felt that weird shiver against, deep in his belly. His stomach growled.
"Now, I'm something like 225 or 230. And I've only been working here six months. I mean, I just ballooned." He stuck his stomach out and lifted up the loose T-shirt he was wearing. "Look at that, huh. Looks just like that dough you are rolling, don't it?" Danny grabbed a handful of his substantial spare tire and shook it. "And man, I don't know what to do about it. It's like I can't stop eating. You think I should diet? Like what do you do?"
Frank found himself breathing heavy, playing longer than necessary with the balls of dough and staring, mezmerized at the huge soft roll of young fat Danny was showing him. "Well, er. . . . Shit, I don't know. You probably shouldn't eat so much. That'd be a good start."
Danny began to wave his shirt up and down, like he was cooling off his gut by fanning it, giving Frank intermittent flashes of the jiggling belly while he continued to speak. "I don't know what it is. The food's so good here, I just can't resist. It's like I gotta eat. Like today, first thing I did was get myself a meatball sandwich out of the kitchen. Have you eaten the bread when it just comes out? It's so warm and soft, and I mean, I just have to have a bunch of mozzarella melted on top. But like, that's not enough. . . ."
Frank slowed down his dough rolling and heard his hungry stomach growl louder.
"So then I snitched some of the ice cream they have in the back. Don't tell Sal, we ain't supposed to be eating it, but the vanilla is so good. Had myself a big old bowl and then a second right there back in the walk-in refrigerator."
Frank's mouth started watering, and he tried to act casual. "Sounds good. That must have filled you up."
"I wish. If that's what it took, I wouldn't look the way I do. I can barely get my fat ass in these size 40's. But it's like I don't care anymore. It tastes so good."
"So what else have you eaten so far?"
Danny laughed and lowered his voice. "Promise not to tell."
Curiosity piqued, Frank pointed his chin up. "Hey sure. What's up?"
"I call it my emergency stash." Danny tilted open the last box on the bottom of the piles of pizza boxes he was folding to reveal a hundred or so neatly arranged Italian almond cookies, all lined up in a row. "Sal'd kill me if he found out. I take a few every night and hide them here. No one knows but me--or you. They're really good, all full of butter and nuts. They just melt in your mouth. Ever have 'em?"
Frank shook his head. "No. They're good, huh?"
"The best. They get 'em from that bakery downtown." Danny popped one in his mouth and held another three in his pudgy hand, ready and waiting. "I swear, these babies are what I'm wearing on my thighs." He displayed his chunky thighs by pulling up his cotton shorts and shook them. "My hams, I call 'em. And it's these great almond cookies that did it. I probably got thighs the size of your waist, Frank. But I can't resist 'em, especially with a little of the ice-cold half-and-half from the fridge. Hmm-hmm. . . ." He popped another couple of the cookies in his face, cheeks bulging, satisfied smile.
That was it, Frank though. Who cares? A couple of cookies couldn't hurt and Danny was right, he did have a long night ahead. "You mind if I have a couple."
"Hey man, not at all. Not at all. The more you eat, the less I wear, you know what I'm saying." Danny shoved the whole box full in front of Frank.
Breathing hard and still thinking about last night, Frank found himself tearing into the cookies, chain-stuffing them into his face like a wild man. Danny started chuckling. "Don't choke yourself, Frank, for Christ's sake. They aren't going anywhere."
Frank tasted the butter, the sugar, felt the melting sweetness and the satisfaction of finally eating great food, all he wanted, and it was like a switch flipped. "It's just they are so good."
Danny nodded, "See I told you. Hey, hang on a minute, you are going to need this." And in a moment, he appeared with a quart of half-and-half from the refrigerator in the kitchen. "They can get dry, especially if you are really pigging."
Frank felt himself getting fuller and fuller, swigging down the rich cream and cramming the cookies in by the fistful, and along with the rush of the food, he reallized he was sporting another huge erection. Trying to speak with his mouthful, he felt humiliated, out of control, excited, and wonderful all at the same time. "I didn't eat all day, I'm so hungry," he said, trying to explain his behavior to Danny, who simply looked on with a big grin.
"See, that's the problem, Frank. You gotta eat. You can't starve yourself like that."
"But shit, man," Frank whined, struggling to get the words, "It's like I'm out of control. I'm going to eat your whole stash."
"Hey, Frank. Go right ahead. They ain't mine anyway. You need them more than me."
Frank looked at him, questioningly, taking another long gulp from the carton of half-and-half.
Danny almost whispered. "It's turning you on, isn't it? That's the way it is for me. It's like it's a whole body rush. You know what I do sometimes. I sit back here and just jack myself off, sometimes 3 or 4 times in a night, filling my belly up and then dumping my load. Besides, you'll look better fat. And you'll be happier." And with that, Danny started handing Frank the cookies.
"Go ahead, do it," Danny said. "Sal and Pete ain't coming back."
And with that, Frank fumbled for the button on his jeans and thrust his hands down, grabbing at his stifff wet prick like a madman, knowing he had broken all his resolutions, just wanting the pleasure.
"It's as hungry as your belly, isn't it? That's the way it is for me, too. Eating and jerking, man. It's like my dick needs it as much as my gut. Why do you think I've packed on 50 pounds. It's a huge sexual rush."
Left hand hurriedly conveying the last of the cookies to his mouth, right hand flying like a piston, Frank was covered in sweat and breathing fast. He had never had a rush like this before. Seeing Frank get close, Danny took a couple of steps closer to Frank, and said sweetly, "Put it in my hand, Frank. Give me my dessert, would you?" With a gentle gesture he cupped his hand below the head of Frank's cock and just stared into Frank's eyes.
"Give up, Frankie. Give it up. We'll all have. We're doughboys. You're going to go the way of the rest of us, face it. That's why you are here, isn't it? Fat boy that you really are inside just waiting to come out, waiting to pop like all that cum you got."
He was on the edge and Danny wore an understanding but wicked smile. "Open wide, buddy. Open wide," and waving the last sweet delicious almond cookie in front of Frank's face, Danny waited til the precise moment Frank's eyes closed and that low long moan of orgasm began to pop the last cookie in Frank's open greedy mouth. His cum shot out of him like melted butter, right into Danny's pudgy palm, while he swallowed the cookie, feeling the whole cycle of pleasure shoot through him--food in, semen out, food in, semen out--spurting a few dozen times in a orgasm so long and so intense that Frank could never remember experiencing anything like it before.
Eyes closed, he then felt his bloated stomach being massaged with a warm, sticky liquid. He moaned from the pleasure of it and murmured to Danny, "That's right, rub it into my belly."
"Got to fertilize that gut, Frankie. That belly needs some serious TLC."
It was hopeless. That was the moment Frank knew it was hopeless. "It does, Danny. It sure does." And he pushed his stomach out a little further, seeking out the sensual comfort of a man who understood, getting used to what it was going to be like from now on.
Frank hadn't expected to get as big as he did, as quickly as he did that summer, but if he had given it some thought, the 40 pounds he socked on in the first six weeks at Doughboy's made complete sense. He had primed his body for years by restricting his intake and working out hard, he had never been around so much food so readily available, nor had he ever experienced the intense connection between his belly and his crotch so thoroughly and so often. Every day he woke up, ravenous from the gorging the night before at the restaurant, his capacity relentlessly increased by the repeated belly-busting feasts they all indulged in at Doughboy's, so that when morning came, he realized he felt empty and bereft. He had gotten used to that overstuffed feeling, and beforehis roomate David could get up and catch him at it, he'd sneak into the kitchen and begin putting away his breakfast - at least a box of cereal, usually a box of doughnuts and a good half-gallon of milk. Topped off, he'd laze around the house till it was time to go into work, feeling his gut full and heavy laying next to him on the couch while he flipped around the channels and intermittently slept. At work, Sal, Pete and Danny made sure he never went without something at hand during his shift - a slice of pizza, a sandwich dripping in sauce, a dish of spumoni, something, anything - and once they closed up, usually around 1 or 2 a.m., the real meals began as Nick, the biggest of them all and the taciturn chef who ran the kitchen, began serving up whatever was left over, to the accompaniment of nonstop comments and lots of very explicit crotch-rubbing. Frank found he rarely made it home without having to jerk-off in the car, and his head still swimming from fatigue and bellybloat, he often would make himself cum two or three more times in the shower and in bed before going to sleep.
It was like being on a gainer treadmill of food and sex, and the effects began to show. Unlike the guys at work, Frank found himself getting bigger all over, not just in the gut or the tits. His thighs and hips grew too big for anything like jeans or normal cut pants, big, solid and fleshy, like some of the footballers he secretly lusted after in college. It was only a couple of weeks before the only thing he could wear were the loose cotton shorts at the back of his drawer - a pair he had bought a long time ago which used to fall off his ass when he wore them and now barely accommodated his beefy cheeks and legs. He realized he was getting bigger up top, too, when he began to find himself bumping into walls and corners, his whole torso growing large and soft, the armholess of his old T's stretched out and popping stitches, his nipples now often sore from the constant jiggling and rubbing. He'd come off a shift from the restaurant and after pulling off his sweaty wet T-shirt, he'd find his tits swollen and hard as bullets, exquisitely sensitive, and almost unconsciously he began to stroke them during the day, comforting them and stimulating them. He knew he was growing around the middle, too, and not just up front, with the kind of big round belly Pete and Danny sported, but with a thick firm layer of fat all around. He could feel the movement of his love handles from the back and every once in a while, Pete, being the big tease that he was, would run his stubby finger down the big crease of flesh that ran from Frank's shoulder blades to the roll of blubber that now spilled out over his waistline. "Getting fat, baby boy, Getting fat," he'd say, and Frank would pray he wouldn't have to run to the refrigerator or restroom to relieve himself of yet another load of cum from his perpetually stiff prick. He had to be well over 240 or so, given the fact that virtually none of his clothes fit him, and yet, when he stood in front of the mirror in the mornings after his enormous breakfasts, prepared for another day of serious feeding and sex that summer, Frank found himself liking what he saw - no longer a skinny boy, but a substantial man, upholstered in flesh, big, imposing and sexy, his shoulders thrown back for balance, showing off his new bulk for everyone to see.
Nick in the kitchen never said much to anyone, and though in some ways Frank found him the sexiest of all his co-workers, the huge 350-lb Sicilian also intimidated him. He ran the kitchen by himself, wearing nothing but a guinea-T, enormous dark hairy manteats hanging out the side of the shirt, moving deliberately and gracefully as he made dinner for the busy restaurant as Sal waited tables. When Frank found himself standing in the doorway, staring lustfully after the big guy, he wondered if Nick knew anything about the goings-on. He didn't seem to, or maybe he just didn't pay attention to it, and yet, he very matter-of-factly served up dinner to the crew of them, plates heaped with manicotti and raviolis, platters of meatballs, stacks of salami and cheese, never eating himself, but sipping contentedly on a glass of wine, his gargantuan belly resting on his lap, straining the thin material of his shirt, watching all the Doughboys eat his food. He was a bit of a mystery to Frank, and being the new guy, Frank never said much to him either.
It was at the end of one their typical Doughboy midnight snacks, with Pete and Danny unable to sit up straight after polishing off all the leftovers and Sal half-asleep from the wine and the fatigue of a full day's work, when Frank hoisted himself up onto his feet, full of cheesecake and ice cream himself and said, "See you all tomorrow," only to have Nick catch his eye at the end of the table.
"Yo, Frank," he said, his voice a thick deep grumble. "You think you could gimme a ride home? My car died and Sal here picked me up." He was lazily scratching the sides of his belly under his shirt and yawning, double chins splaying out beneath the fur of his beard and moustache.
"Sure, Nick. No problem." Frank pulled his keys with effort out of the skin-tight pocket of his shorts.
"Great. I don't live far, but I don't feel like walking at this time of night."
"Not after working on your feet, all night. No way."
Frank had never had anyone so big in his little Toyota before, but Nick with his take-charge manner, immediately made himself comfortable, throwing the seat all the back and stretching out his mammoth legs. Still the car was small for him and in the moonlight Frank found himself enjoying the way in which Nick's round body was held snug and plump in the bucket seat.
The smell of the man was intense, and filled the car like musk and without saying anything, indeed, looking almost like he was going to drop off to sleep before Frank got him home, Nick made Frank's head swim. He pulled up in front of Nick's house.
"Guess you're going my way, huh, man?" Nick mumbled, tilting his hehad to the side to look at Frank.
Frank was confused. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, going my way, you know." Nick scooted down a bit in the seat and pulled his shirt up to his chin. "This." He was smiling, and he displayed his huge stomach to Frank. Looking at that chest, covered in thick dark shiny fur, big soft pecs hanging down round and delectable, Frank was mesmerized, still a little confused.
"I'm not sure what you mean, Nick. . . . "
"I mean you're going to get fat as me." He chuckled a little and all his flesh bounced and rippled. "Took years to get this way." He began to stroke himself, long caresses up from his navel to his pecs and down again. "But you don't like fat men, do you?"
Now Frank was really confused. "Nick, man. What are you talking about?"
"Ah, that's the way all you guys are. After a certain point, you don't like them as big as me." Nick looked away, still rubbing his exposed belly and tits.
"Nah, Nick. I like you. Really."
"Then why don't you ever talk to me? I mean, I'm feeding you well, ain't I? Huh?" The big guy was looking at the floor, his legs spread. "You're always playing with the other guys. You can tell me, you don't like really fat guys. Just all those wannabes. Man, you are all the same."
Frank finally understood, and he laughed a little, lowering his voice and leaning over to Nick. "Quite the opposite. It's more like you turn me on so much I'm, like, intimidated. It's like I don't think about it."
Nick looked him in the eye. "Think about what?"
"Think about this. . . ." And gently Frank leaned over to nuzzle the hot fragrant expanse of belly Nick was presenting to him so seductively, letting himself run his tongue, still tasting of dessert, into the deep navel, letting his cheeks teasingly bump against Nick's enormous hard-on.
Nick sighed loudly and began to caresss the back of Frank's head. "Man, you are getting so hot, Frank. I can't stand it. You weren't much to look at when you started, but now, when I see you getting fatter and fatter on the food I'm cooking, I mean, I can't stand it."
Between licks, pressing against Nick's crotch with his hands, Frank asked, "Then why don't you ever talk to me?"
"You're too much of a stud, Frank. Look at you. Look at me. I can't go chasing after guys anymore. I'm too romantic. Pete, Danny, Sal - they're playboys. I can't do that. I get, like too involved."
Frank found himself slowly being enveloped by Nick, pushing his whole face in the huge yielding belly, his head held in the big man's gentle, seductive hands, hearing Nick's voice slowly draw him in, the tart purgent smell of the guy filling his nostrils.
"You know what I want, don't you, Frank?"
Frank nodded, looking up at the expanse of gut and chest, a body that looked like an entire world from that angle. Nick's eyes implored him softly. "Eat me, will you?"
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