I left for Miami at 2:30 Friday afternoon. I was rather excited about the trip because it would be my first time at the beach since I'd started getting big.

I had started to gain sometime in the fall, when I had quit running for a few weeks due to a knee injury, put on a few pounds, and started to enjoy it. Any way, in the intervening months I had gained almost thirty pounds, most of which went straight to my gut, and at 198 lbs., I was popping out of most of my shirts and hanging way over the belt loops of my jeans.

I arrived at the hotel around six and, after squeezing into a pair of my now-unused running shorts and a muscle-tee that now hardly covered my navel, I headed straight for the hotel bar. I bellied up to the bar and had downed four quick beers and two bar burgers before I noticed that the shift had changed and there was a new bartender on duty, leaning over the cooler to pull out some bottles for some guys who had just arrived. Before I could catch his eye to order another one myself, I noticed that he was one big boy himself. From behind I could see he had a broad square back with a two large mounds of flesh pushing out of either side of his white shirt and hanging over the top of tight black jeans and a big round butt.

He turned around to hand over the beers and I got my first look at his big fat belly. It was beautiful. Big. Round. And high. His white dress shirt was straining at the seems to hold in his big hunk of flesh. His pants hung real low in front, to accommodate his tremendous girth, and he was packed into those jeans like they were the first he'd ever worn.

When I finally finished admiring his gut, I looked up and couldn't believe what I was saw. This guy was Ted Johnson, former classmate and star tennis player from my college days. I hadn't seen him since graduation 11 years earlier, and he was a hell of a lot fleshier than he was then, but I recognized his wide grin, tousled blonde hair sparkling green eyes.

He turned and looked over at me, grinned his famous smile, and reached over the bar to bear-hug me. "Man, its been a long time," he said, and laughed a hearty laugh which made his belly shake. "What the hell are you doing down here in South Beach big guy?"

"I'm here for a little sun and fun, of course," I replied. "And what are you doing here?" I asked. "Last time I heard you were joining the pro circuit, perfecting that rocket service-return of yours."

"Boy, we have been out of touch a long time," Ted responded. "I haven't picked up a racket in five years! At this point I'm not sure I could jog across a court, let alone run down a little white ball." I didn't doubt what he said. When I knew him, Ted was a well-built six-foot jock, about 170 lbs., with pecs of steel and a belly as tight as a well-strung racquet. That was not the hot stud standing in front of me with the expansive belly and tree stump legs, weighing what appeared to be 300 lbs.

"No, I came down here for the tennis, played all day, every day, for a couple of years, and got tired of it," Ted continued as he pulled out beers for the two of us. "After I turned pro, I won a couple of titles, saved up a little cash, and decided I had enough of working my balls off. It was time for me to start to treat myself right. So I quit the tour, bought a condo, learned to cook, and started to 'eat, drink and be merry' for the first time in my life."

"Well you look great," I commented.

"I feel great," Ted snorted as he popped open another round for us. "I've been putting on about 25-30 pounds a year for the last five years, and I've never felt better, or had a better sex life, I might add. You look like you've put on a few pounds too, my friend," he said, poking at my new distended gut, which was now completely uncovered, my shirt having ridden up over the top of my beer-filled belly.

"I'm working on it," I answered, "but I've got a lot of catching up to do; I stayed on that treadmill a lot longer than you did." With that he put down another plate of bar food and a brew, compliments of the house.

"We'll see what we can do about that, won't we," he laughed, and patted me on the stomach.

I stayed at the bar talking, drinking and eating with Ted until closing that night, after which he insisted I check out of the hotel and stay with him at his condo a few blocks south along the beach.

As we arrived at his front door and he stood to the side to let me pass, our bellies bumped up against one another, sending a jolt of electricity directly to my crotch, which was beginning to feel as engorged as my gut. He showed me where to put my stuff and announced that it was time to eat some serious grub, and went into the kitchen.

I took a shower, taking a quick look at my growing gut in the full-length mirror in the bathroom. "Boy, I must have added two inches just today," I thought. My36" jeans attested to that as I squeezed into them. Shirtless, I walked into the kitchen with the top button of my 501's undone--not as a turn-on, but because the button fly just wouldn't close all the way.

Still dressed in his white button-down shirt and black jeans, Ted was just dishing up the first course; huge bowls of south Florida lobster bisque with a bottle of red wine and a loaf of French bread lathered with butter for each of us. I sat down and ate like I hadn't eaten in a week. We consumed this in about ten minutes, after which we proceeded to chow down on a huge pot of linguini with pesto, big sides of beef topped with a portobello mushroom sauce, a gallon-drum portion of sweet potatoes, two swordfish, three key lime pies, and a tub of French vanilla ice cream. All washed down with gallons of beer and wine.

When the food stopped coming, I looked down and found that my belly was now sitting in my lap and I had relieved all the buttons of my puny 36" 501's. I wouldn't be wearing those again!

Ted got up and stretched, at which point three buttons popped off his oxford shit, showing off his great expanse of tanned belly. "Shit, there goes another size I've grown out of within three months."

I walked toward him till our bellies collided, ripped his shirt off the rest of the way, and tried to push him down onto the sofa behind him. But he held steady and said, "We're not done eating yet. Go into the bedroom and I'll bring in the rest of our meal."

I walked into the bedroom, yanked off my pants, and sat down on the edge of the bed. Boy was I bloated, and God was I horny. My gut was now hanging over my groin, and my hard-on was pushing up from underneath, wacking against my belly and pleading for some action. It was not disappointed.

Ted came into the room, now fully naked, with tray-full of brownies and two gallon containers of milk. I sat on top of him my legs squeezing his generous girth, and we proceeded to consume the brownies and chug down the gallon of milk in one long swallow. After which came the best, most fulfilling sex I've ever had. We rolled, we tugged, wallowed, rubbed and roared for over two hours. The sun was starting to come up over the ocean outside his window when we finally fell asleep.

I woke to the sound of the blender whirring and the smell of eggs frying. It was noon and we were both starved. Three dozen eggs, four loaves of bread, six shakes and a side of bacon later, we were ready for the beach. As we walked down Ocean Drive and out to the beach, both of us in only Speedo's, I was proud of my big fat belly.

We spent the day at the beach, wallowing in the surf, applying suntan oil to each other, and rolling around like only two big bellied men can do.

I just returned home 30 pounds heavier and a hell of a lot happier than I've ever been. I've set a goal to gain 30 more pounds before I move down to South Beach, permanently.