Billy Bob Thompson stood and perused the small selection of gay porn, which had been relegated to the uppermost rack. Valdosta's only X rated bookstore didn't cater to the city's small and closeted gay community.

Actually, Billy Bob hailed from Quitman, a small agricultural community located a half hour's drive away in Brooks County. Valdosta was just far enough away that Billy Bob didn't have to worry about running into anyone he knew.

At twenty-eight, Billy Bob was ten years past his glory days. As quarterback and team captain, Billy Bob had led the Quitman Owl's through two undefeated seasons his junior and senior years. In a better conference, with some promotion, Billy Bob might have gone to college on an athletic scholarship. But in a podunk high school a hundred miles from nowhere, opportunities were somewhat limited.

Billy Bob had gone to work as a mechanic at Triple A Tractor Repair after a short stint in the military. While most young people fled Quitman for the greener pastures offered by Atlanta and Jacksonville, Billy Bob liked familiar surroundings. And Billy Bob liked being a big fish in a small pond.

Billy Bob discovered he was gay in high school. To his knowledge, he was Quitman's only queer. And still a virgin. Sure, he wanted love. And sex. But it wasn't worth destroying his "big fish" status if he was found out. So he contented himself with trips to bookstores along interstate 75, and mail order magazines delivered to a post office box in Valdosta.

Billy Bob pulled each magazine down in turn, guiltily flipping through pictures of haunted boys with big dicks. Alone, he could feel the manager's stare boring into his back. The manager, a short wiry man about Billy Bob's age wasn't the least bit shy about sharing his views on "fairies". But at six feet two and two hundred pounds of solid muscle, Billy Bob was impressive enough that the manager held his tongue.

Billy Bob put the last magazine back on the rack, and was about to leave, when he noticed the torn, yellowed corner of one last magazine, an edge barely visible behind "Leather Boys in Bondage". He pulled it out.

The magazine's name "BellyLickers' Quarterly" was superimposed across a photo. A man's head pressed tightly against a hairy hugely rounded belly. The man's tongue was barely visible, it's length filling the dark tunnel of belly fat that led to the other man's navel.

Billy Bob's dick stirred to life. He could feel his level of anxiety increase as his hormones kicked into gear. His hands trembling, he slowly opened the cover.

The magazine was filled with grainy black and white photos. Men in uniform. Construction workers. Ex athletes. All with hugely bulging bellies. All being serviced by guys turned on to their size!

Belly worship? He'd never considered it before.

Another man licking his gut. Stroking his belly. A tongue exploring and probing the warm, deep recess of his navel. Burying his face in his gut.

Billy Bob's free hand rubbed the rock hard muscles encircling his midsection, fantasizing.

He came with a shudder.

Almost simultaneously, there was a tap on his shoulder. "Hey pal...you wanna get me closed down?"

Startled, Billy Bob looked down. It was the manager. "Either buy it and take it outside, or rent a booth."

In a small voice Billy Bob replied: "Here. I'll take this", shoving the magazine into the manager's hand. The manager looked from the magazine's cover to Billy Bob, then pointedly, to the spreading wet spot on Billy Bob's jeans. He leafed through the photos.

"I guess it takes all kinds. I never thought we'd sell this one." Embarrassed, Billy Bob followed him to the cash register.

Over the next two weeks, Billy Bob's callused hands rubbed the stem of his dick raw. "BellyLicker's Quarterly" never left his side. His fantasies grew more elaborate with each passing day. A single common thread pulled all these fantasies together:

In his fantasies, he had become hugely fat. And his belly was the subject of worship by a wildly excited man. Or men.

He dreamed of being fed, his belly growing larger and rounder under the constant attentions of a dozen men. Each begging his turn to feed him, to lick and eventually cum against his swollen gut. Then he would allow himself to be fed and worshipped by the next.

He began to envy the larger men in town. Wondering if they shared his fantasies. Wondering if the wives of straight fat men were secret belly worshipers?

Even before he made a conscious decision to get fat, Billy Bob's weight began creeping up.

At twenty eight, Billy Bob's weight had not varied by five pounds in ten years. With a 46 inch chest and a 32 inch waist, Billy looked the same as the day of his discharge from the Navy. The muscles of his thickly roped arms and shoulders a tribute to his work at the garage.

But within a week of acquiring "BellyLicker's Quarterly", Billy Bob's weight had jumped seven pounds. His belly had developed a slight swell between his dick and navel. His jeans were noticeably tighter.

Billy's decision came about a week later. He was in his bedroom, dressing for work. His work jeans were still warm from the drier.

He slid the worn 501's over his butt, and positioned his dick against his left leg. He began buttoning them up, enjoying their warmth. By the second button, he was aware on an unaccustomed snugness. With a struggle, he managed to close another button.

The last one refused to close.

That was when he first noticed the small soft bulge that had taken the place of his chiseled stomach. Standing in profile, the small paunch that bulged above the waistline of his half-buttoned jeans was even more apparent in the mirror.

It was at that moment Billy Bob realized that his fantasies could come true. He was barely able to extract his dick from his jeans before he came.

He came two more times in the next 15 minutes.

He left for work, his T shirt taut against the swell of his brand new belly. A belt covered the single open button at the top of his jeans.

He made his usual stop at Hardee's drive-thru for breakfast. But today was different. He ordered four steak biscuits instead of one, and three hash browns.

At work, there was a box of glazed donuts on the table at break. He had four.

At lunch, he had the special. A thick piece of chicken fried steak. Buried in cream gravy. Fried okra and mashed potatoes. And a second piece of pecan pie.

He weighed himself on the penny scale outside the diner. He was a little surprised at the result.

211.

The most he had ever weighed.

On the way home, he picked up a six pack of beer. And a fried pie. Something to seal this morning's decision. As he adjusted his seat belt, he noted with pleasure how his belly bulged beneath his T shirt. He raised his shirt, to better appreciate it's hairy swell. He cracked open the first beer, rubbing his belly as he drank. His index finger paused, exploring the new depression that marked his navel.

The last four pages of "BellyLicker's Quarterly" was devoted to personal ads. Subsequent issues contained the following ad:

SOUTH GEORGIA

WORSHIP MY FAT GUT

Rural WM, 28, 6'2, 225#, masculine, exploring a new and growing gut. Ex athlete looking for devoted belly worshipers. Feed me. Service me. Make me GROW! NO SIZE LIMITS. Serious only. Write EX-JOCK, P.O. 308, Valdosta, Georgia 31601

The first responses began trickling in six weeks later. All were postmarked New York or California.

Within a month, Billy Bob had received twelve responses. Some included photos, and provided graphic descriptions of how they'd make him grow. Others were simply requests (often demands) for photos and measurements.

But no one offered more than correspondence and encouragement.

Billy Bob was desperate for more.

In the intervening months, his weight had continued to climb. This morning, he had weighed in at 257.

His belly was now a hairy beach ball, protruding hugely beneath his chest. He had taped at close to 50 inches, although he continued to wedge himself into 38-inch jeans.

But he rarely wore clothes at home anymore. Too constraining. Besides, they blocked his view of his swollen gut. His typical outfit wasn't much more than an old jockstrap. A frayed souvenir from his high school football days. Suitable for evenings of pigging out in front of the TV. His favorite night was Saturday nights. One of the Atlanta stations featured eight hours of professional wrestling. As he wiped the grease from the pizzas on his bulging, solid gut, he fantasized of going belly to belly with some of the smaller, younger wrestlers. Pinning them under the swell his belly. Pressing it into their faces.

His fantasies grew in proportion to his weight. His frustration was unbearable!

It happened three weeks later.

It was the only letter in the box. A plain white envelope postmarked "Valdosta, Georgia". No return address.

He crossed the parking lot to his pick up, wedging the swell of his gut between the steering wheel and the seat.

He reached for the last of a dozen donuts, only to find the bag empty. The sucked a residue of chocolate from his thumb before opening the letter.

The letter it contained was single spaced. No greeting. It was an application:

Billy Bob remembered a telephone booth outside the Dunkin Donut he passed on his way to the post office. Armed with a fresh bag of cream filled and a stiffening dick, he dialed.

He reached an answering machine. He hung up without leaving a message. He ate three more of the donuts and dialed again. He left his massage, and his own phone number

His telephone was ringing as he turned the key in the latch.

They arranged to meet the next day, after work. Billy Bob suggested a truck stop along IH-75.

Billy Bob was a early. Still in his work clothes, he took the opportunity to clean up from the 100 degree heat and relieve himself. He washed his face and hands, combed his hair, and appraised the man who stared back from the mirror.

He liked what he saw.

In the five months since he discovered "BellyLicker's Quarterly", Billy Bob had undergone a tremendous transformation. Sixty seven pounds of belly fat stretched the fabric of his plain white T, still damp from the day's heat and humidity.. His navel was a deep channel, visible in the gap between T-shirt and the top of his jeans. A dark treasure trail of belly hair stretched from his softened pecs, climbing the mound of his belly before dropping precipitously to his navel and beyond.

He reached beneath the swell of his belly and tightened his belt a notch. The effect made his belly seem to explode from the waist of his jeans. His hands traced the huge round swell of his gut. He smiled.

Nice effect.

He took a seat at the deserted counter. As he sat, he was painfully aware of his gut straining against his too-tight belt as his paunch spread. The roll of fat that circled his waist seemed to double in size.

He placed a magazine on the stool next to his. To keep it free. He placed his order and settled in. He adjusted his "Atlanta Braves" qimme cap. It was to be the means he'd be recognized.

He was just finishing the last of his "chix and stix" (fried chicken strips and greasy cheese fries) when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned.

"I'm Jack. And by the size of that gut, you must be Billy Bob".

Billy Bob turned on his stool to return the greeting and stopped. Dead.

The man that greeted his was about his own age. Brown hair. Clean shaven. About five foot seven or eight. About 150 pounds. A muscular, wiry build.

It was the manager of the bookstore!

All he could think to say was "It's You!!!

The smaller man took a seat on the next stool. And grinned.

"You don't know how long I had to keep that magazine on the shelf before someone took the bait! The night you picked it up I couldn't believe my luck."

"Then you disappeared for a couple of months. No more runs to the shop. I had almost given up".

"I saw your ad in the next issue. It had to be you! And you were getting fat!" He looked down at the huge belly bulging against the other man's shirt, and whistled appreciatively. "Real fat". He looked around the deserted restaurant before placing his hand on Billy Bob's gut.

"Jesus, man...just how much do you weigh any way?"

'I'm about 270. More or less".

Billy Bob placed his hand on Jack's. He traced the entire swell of his gut. He smiled back at Jack. "So you like it?"

Jack replied with a huge, shit-eating grin, and pointed towards his crotch with a single finger. "Does that answer your question?"

Billy Bob followed Jack home in his truck. They were barely inside before Jack had Billy Bob's T shirt pulled up to his chest. He pulled Billy Bob in a close embrace as they kissed. Jack's hands were all over him. Jack never skipped a beat as he quickly shed his clothes. He slowly dropped to his knees while his tongue explored each and every curve and fold of Billy Bob's body.

Billy Bob could only see the back of Jack's head beneath the swell of his gut. But he could feel everything! The scratch of Jack's stubble against the sweaty skin of his belly was tremendously erotic! His hands dropped to the back of Jack's head, moving it, directing it. And when Jack turned his attention to Billy Bob's navel...he could feel the head of his dick explode. He came with a groan that was almost a scream!

He came half a dozen times that night...before Jack collapsed in a tired heap. The next day, they started to talk about the future. Neither man doubted he had found his perfect match.

Jack quit his job at the bookstore after securing a job in Quitman. When the house next to Billy Bob's became vacant, Jack bought it.

No they couldn't move in together. After all, it was a small town. And both men worked there.

But once the shades were down, "friends" could do whatever they pleased.

Under Jack's encouragement and attention, Billy Bob continued to gain. After several attempts to pack on even more belly on Billy Bob, they finally agreed that his best weight was around 360 pounds. Any more, and Billy Bob began to loose flexibility. And they only made shirts so big! At that weight, Billy Bob's belly was enormous.

Besides, there was only so much room for a mechanic under a god damn tractor.