Randy

By BELLYBLDR

I started working at Sheffield College in Nebraska around 4 years ago. I got the job by

grappling and pinning my way to the top in high school and college. My name is Jeff Collins and

I'm a wrestling coach. When I began looking for a coaching position, Sheffield was recruiting

and hurting. Their record of 1 and 22 didn't sit well with the trustees and so they set out to find

the best damn wrestling coach they could. I'm here to tell you that I'm not the best, but pretty

damn close.

You see, I have a great way of relating to the guys and not because I'm gay, but because I show

them that it's OK to fail if you learn from your failure. I never put my boys down, or rank 'em out

or humiliate them in front of their fellow team members. That I leave for more private settings

like my office. And I know what you're thinking...he does a lot more in his office than just call his

boys on the carpet. He probably fucks 'em on the carpet as well. Not true, that's what the rug in

front of the fireplace at my cabin is for - ha ha ha. I learned a long time ago that you shouldn't

dip your pen in company ink, and I've tried to live by that credo. You notice I said tried.

Let me take you back about a year ago. We were really struggling to get to the finals of the big

state contest. My best wrestler, a twenty year old named Randy Timmons, was screwing up big

time as a heavy weight (over 200 pound class).

I called him into my office, sat him down and went back around my desk and surveyed the

damage. Here was a hulking blonde muscle boy that hated being big. I couldn't understand it. He

went from middle weight to heavy in one summer, working out round the clock, blowing up those

pecs and bi's and quads practically overnight. Packing on over 50 pounds of muscle. He was

wonderful to watch. Man I wish I was that young again.

"So Randy, what's wrong big guy? Aren't you happy at heavyweight?"

"No coach, my girl says I look stupid, all this muscle, she wants me back. She's always hearing

stupid comments from her friends about her muscle head boyfriend. I haven't gotten any in

weeks."

"So her friends are ragging her about you? I dunno, I guess things haven't changed since I sat in

that chair and my coach was inquiring as to why I wasn't doing well in matches."

"Don't get me wrong coach, I love wrestling. But I gotta start thinking of her. Do you see coach?

Do you see?"

He looked at me with those blue sad puppy dog eyes, and I resisted the temptation to fly across

the desk, grab him by the scruff of his shirt and slap the shit out of him. (not what you expected

me to say huh?) If it's one thing I cant stand is a crybaby, and a 200+ pound muscular one at that.

"Look Randy, get a grip. You wrestle for me right?"

"Uh huh"

"You want to continue wrestling for me, right?"

"Yes coach"

"Then get over this guilt trip about your girlfriend and butch it up. I wont have any candy ass

crybaby mommas boy's on my squad. Is that understood?"

"Yes sir. I mean coach, I mean..."

"OK, now that we have that out of the way, lemme lay some more bad news on ya. I think you need

to compete a little heavier next year. About 50 pounds or so, there are some big dudes coming up

from central next season and we need a real bulldozer to flatten em. I'd give the assignment to

Steve Crews but his knee cant take any more weight. So you're it. And I'll make it easy on ya, I'll

help ya out. I think part of your problem is having to work-out alone, eat alone, and then face

your girlfriend after all that work. You expect complements, encouragement and all you get is

'you're too heavy, get off me' or some such bullshit."

"Yes sir!"

"So beginning tomorrow, you'll eat with me, breakfast, lunch and dinner. Don't miss a one, or

you'll have hell to pay."

"What about workouts?"

"We'll talk about that later. Right now we have to get an eating schedule down, start a routine,

stick to it and by fall you'll be ready. OK?"

"Yes sir!"

"Now go to the locker room, change into a thong and meet me back here in the office for your

measuring."

"What for?"

"Cause I want to chart your progress over the next 5 months. That's why. So get your tail into

the locker room. SCRAM!"

I slapped his butt as he ran out of the room. I hoped I got to him, straightened him out, but

kids, you can't know. They don't show a lot of emotion these days. Hard to know what one of 'em

is thinking.

I barely had time to get the calipers, tape measure and scales out of the closet, and he came

hulking back into the office. I could smell the freshness of his sweat. I told him to stand under

the large skylight in the center of my office ceiling and relax, arms at his sides. Well, almost, his

lats were so developed, he sorta hung out and down, like a blonde gorilla without any hair. A real

knuckle-walker type stance. Nice.

I took the tape measure, let it fall to the floor as it unfurled and started with his neck, 19". His

corded trapezius muscles flexed and moved as he raised his chin so I could get a better look at

the tape. Then I took the tape and wrapped it around his shoulders. Big masses of muscle capped

his shoulders, two huge softball hunks of deltoids, firm yet pliable. His shoulders measured over

65". I slipped the tape to his chest and asked him to raise his arms straight up so I could get a

correct measurement. His hair filled pits had just the hint of man smell and small droplets of

sweat clung to the fine blonde hair filling each deep depression. I positioned the tape across his

huge pecs, brushing the erect nipples with it. He shivered.

"Kinda tickles coach."

Relaxed, his chest measured over 70 inches. I dropped the tape to his waist. Underneath the

thong, I could see his six-pack flexing and moving. He was proud of his abs, in fact, he was the

team sit-up champion. 34" waist.

I let the tape slip out of one hand and squatted down in front of him to measure his quads and

calves. My face was at eye level to his crotch. His ample equipment hung out and down like a big

sausage and a couple of oranges. Well maybe I exaggerate a little, but when you've got nothing in

your face but a basket, it looks huge. It probably was bigger before his quads blossomed. Each

thick bundle of muscle measured 32 inches. Man, where did this kid buy jeans now? As I was

stripping the tape down to his calf, I caught a glimpse of a slight re-arrangement of the goods in

the basket. Was there more there now, was this kid getting turned on by my attention to his

body?

I pressed myself to attention right in front of him, his eyes following my rise till I stood belly to

belly with him. I decided to play with him, see where he was going with this, so I stood there,

gazing into his eyes, and slowly relaxed my gut muscles until our guts were touching. At first, he

reacted by sucking his in to avoid the contact. How cute Then I simply countered by flexing my

gut out further, pressing into his concave abdomen. Then I sucked mine back and waited, his eyes

never left mine. I could feel the warmth of his abdomen returning and I knew without looking

down that he had relaxed to his former position. Not saggy but ample muscled gut. I quickly

flexed my gut out again and gave him a nice standing belly bump.

I guess he got the picture cause before I knew it, I was pushed back by a quick muscular gut

thump. He smiled.

"Not bad, those sit-ups really do help."

He was still looking at me with a smirk now painted on his face, but still gazing intently.

"Thanks coach, you're not bad yourself."

I snapped out of his gaze and put the tape on the desk and reached for the calipers, opening

them, I walked around behind him and grabbed his arm by the bicep and held it out parallel with

the floor. I grabbed his tricep and pinched the skin-fold between the caliper tips and measured

the fold.

"It works better on the gut coach."

"What was that?"

"I said, it works better on the gut, at least that's what my anatomy teacher told me in class the

other day."

"All right, let's see."

I walked around and faced him again, and asked him to slip his thong down past his navel. He

lifted the straps off his shoulders and let them fall at his side, then grabbed the fold of cloth

and pulled the skin-tight lycra down past his navel so it rode on his GOV (Girdle of Venus).

I patted his abdomen in appreciation and felt his abdominals roll and flex under my hand. I

pressed an open hand on the tight gut and with my thumb and index finger, pressed a fold of skin

up, no easy job, there wasn't much to press up with. I measured the fold and slapped his gut

again.

"Nice one huh?"

"Yeah, nice one."

Those eyes were gazing into mine again, and I felt something warm and probing pressing ever so

slightly into my own gut, and looking down, I saw his once limp but impressive basket was now full

and proud, his dick thick and hard, coursing up the remaining lycra like a python. My own cock

was hanging out the bottom of my coaches shorts by now, gasping for air. Jeez this kid was

turning on. He was turning me on. We were both very turned on. It was my turn.

"Nice one."

He pushed his hips forward and bumped his now fully erect cock into my gut.

"Yeah, nice one. Uh huh, uh huh."

With each 'uh huh,' he bumped my gut. Without waiting for a cue, he hooked his thumbs into the

lycra and pushed the remaining thong down past those massive quads and his cock sprang out, so

now he was belly-fucking me, I mean literally belly fucking me. I looked down to see his thick

flaring cockhead poking my navel.

"Uh huh, uh huh, uh huh."

"What in the hell do you think you're doing Randy?"

My question was asked with all the seriousness of a mother who has just discovered her son

jerking off to nasty books in the privacy of a locked bathroom. I grabbed his dick, (very thick, 2

handfuls easy) and squeezed it hard. I jerked on it as I asked him, pulling on every word.

"What (jerk) do (jerk) you (jerk) think (jerk) you're (jerk) doing (jerk) Randy(jerk)?"

His face was bright red, he was very embarrassed. But suddenly another look crossed his face, a

look of intense pleasure, you know, the way you imagine your face looks when you shoot a wad, all

scrunched up and pouty, frowny and lower lip, a low whistle escaping from your mouth.

"Oh coach, oh man, oh GOD!"

Warm wetness splashed my forearm. Jeez, this kid was cumming all over me. He shot wad after

wad, the floor, my gut, his gut, his free hand, all over.

My chastisement was supposed to calm him down, not excite him to the point of no return.

"FUCK ME. GOD DAMN IT, RANDY, get a towel and clean this SHIT UP!!"

"I'm sorry Coach, I dunno what came over me. I'm so sorry!"

Oh jeez, the kid was really balling now, not just sniffles, but alligator tears.

"Go take a shower and clean up and meet me back here at 5:00 for dinner."

"Yes coach, I'm sooooo sorry."

"Fuck that, get out of here and forget it ever happened, you hear me."

"Yes coach."

5:00PM

A knock on my office door interrupted the quiet.

"Coach?"

"Come in."

The door opened, and Randy entered wearing a snug pair of cut-off sweatpants and a shimmel

shirt. The shirt clung snugly to his large meaty pecs and I could see his eraser nipples poking

through the large weave of the practice jersey. His puffy but still defined six pack curved out

before diving into the snug sweats. I could make out the impression of his dick, soft yet still

plump against the clingy fabric.

My desk, or really my table was cleared except for the desk lamp and a large cloth covering the

surface. By the table, rested two large igloo coolers, one hot, one cold. Red for hot, blue for

cold. The dweebs down in the food service warehouse made em up for me. Tonights dinner was

packed in thermal containers, all labeled and ready to crack open.

"Smells like roast beef!"

"Yeah Randy. I thought you could use some extra protein. Sit down and take a load off."

He sat in the large chair facing me, across the table. I was wearing the usual. Coaches shorts,

tight t-shirt and sock less court shoes. I got up, went to the red cooler and pulled out two large

multi-compartment trays with covers and set one down in front of my seat and handed the other

one to Randy.

"Are you expecting an army Coach? Look at all this, man what a spread!"

"Nope, just you and I big guy, now dig in before it gets cold."

We ate in silence for more than 45 minutes, Randy hardly took his gaze off of the plate in front

of him, except to paw the glass of milk, which I kept ever-full. Now and then I caught him looking

up to watch me eat. I caught him stealing a glance while I drank from my glass.

By the time the second tray had been pulled from the red cooler, Randy was starting to slow

down, his movements more deliberate, less savage and rapacious. He orchestrated his pig-out.

Fork to meat, fork to mouth, fork to potatoes, fork to mouth, chew, cheeks bulging, chew, deep

gulp of milk, swallow. I could hear the massive lump of semi-chewed food blurp down his throat

on the way to his stomach.

Randy wiped his mouth with his meaty forearm, and through the food in his mouth...

"Great eats Coach, man Im really puttin it away huh?"

"That you are Randy, ready for thirds?"

Randy dropped his fork and sat back in the big chair, placing a large thick-fingered hand on each

side of his gut he patted it admiringly.

"I dunno Coach, man I'm gettin kinda full."

I placed my fork gently on the table, beside my empty plate and leaned in toward him, my eyes

surveying the damage. Those six-packs were in there somewhere, but his gut had rounded out

nicely, like he swallowed a bowling ball. The small treasure trail more prominent on the outward

curve of his now larger belly...

"OK wimp, if you've had enough, you've had enough, but compared to me, you're just a wuss."

I sat back, relaxed my gut and watched his eyes widen as my gut swelled up and out, a real sand

bag of man-fat pouring over my coaches shorts, the hint of a belly button deep and dark faintly

visible at the crest of the dome which occupied my lap. I had managed to eat twice as much as

him, faster and more practiced that I am.

"Gosh Coach, where'd that come from? I never seen anything like it. You didn't even have a belly

when we started eatin, and now, man, what a gut! My girl would kill me if I grew a gut that big."

OOPS, I think he knew he said the wrong thing. In a flash, I was out of my chair and across the

table, utensils and trays clattering to the floor. My agile movement took him by surprise.

"What did you say? What the fuck did I hear come out of that wuss mouth? Girl? Did you say

girl?"

I had him by the collar of the shimmel shirt, my hand drawing his face toward mine, he was

shaking, he was scared, this was soooo cool.

"Uh, what, I'm sorry, uh, what did I say?"

"You said Girl, you wimp, you fuckin wuss, nothing I said today meant anything. All you got on that

candy-ass mind of yours is pussy. You're a fuckin dick-head disgrace, and I have a mind to kick

your pansy ass off the squad. What do you think about that wuss? Huh?"

The big beefy boy under my thighs was shaking like a leaf. I was sitting spread across his

thighs, pinning him back in the chair. My big gut pressed against his full boy-belly. I could feel

the warm gut skin, slightly fuzzed pressing and rubbing against the brillo that covered my gut. My

cock began to swell in my shorts, the tube crawling along a crease in the shorts. His expression,

while still showing great anxiety, had softened a little. I think the fucker was feeling my hard on

rubbing ever so slightly against his gut skin.

I felt a stirring beneath my crotch and knew he was getting excited. In a matter of seconds, his

club was at attention, straining against the fabric of the sweats like a cucumber.

"Get up, wuss."

"I can't Coach, you're on me."

"What did you say?"

"I said I can't coach, can you please get up?"

"That's better."

I lifted my bulk off of his, my cock sticking straight out, tenting my shorts, non-plussed, I patted

my gut. I pawed at my cock, squeezing its bulk, I could tell he wanted me BAD. I walked around

him a couple of times. He never took his eyes off of me. If he could have pulled a Linda Blair, I

knew he would have turned his head all the way around if he could. I pulled and tugged at my

t-shirt up and over, off and on the floor in the corner. I circled him again, my gut leading the

way, flexing my arms at my sides, patting my stomach. He wasn't following me anymore, and when

I came around to his left, he was still facing the other way. I carefully walked up to him and

pressed my fuzzy belly against his ear. His head began to rub ever so slightly against it. Then he

turned and buried his nose in my navel, sinking it all the way. He inhaled deeply, his huge chest

rising and falling. His hand was on his own cock now, rubbing it against a massive thigh, he began

to nuzzle my belly in earnest, licking and pulling on the fur there with his teeth. He was really

getting off to this, not to mention myself as well. His mouth was muffled but I could make out...

"Nice gut, daddy gut, nice gut." He was muttering that phrase over and over, like a mantra. "Nice

gut, daddy gut, nice gut, daddy gut, nice gut."

His manipulation in the other hand was adopting the same beat.

"Uh no, not this time wuss."

I pulled back, his face and tongue rubbing at the air. He blushed.

"You want this gut, you're gonna have to work at it. No excuses no quibbling, you do what I say

when I say and no questions. You got that shit-head? "

I grabbed his shirt collar from behind and half jerked him out of the chair for emphasis.

"Yes coach, yes sir. Anything."

I let him slump back in the chair and went around to the coolers and looked at him coldly.

"You see this boy?"

I opened up the blue cooler, cold mist escaped like a cloud, sinking to the floor and flowing past

his battered gym shoes.

"Yes sir."

"I'm gonna go out and get a few things from my truck. When I come back I wanna see empties,

you hear? EMPTIES."

"Yes sir. Yes coach. Uh huh."

I wheeled on my toes and headed for the office door, and sneaking a glance over my shoulder, I

saw Randy lift his body out of the chair and lean over the cold cooler. He lifted a heavy blue

thermos out of the mist and began to unscrew the top. By the time the door closed behind me, I

heard the distinctive yet familiar sound of chug-a-lug. My dick got rock hard at the sound. It was

happening.

1 Hour Later

I listened at the door for any sounds of movement or chugging, and satisfied that Icould enter

unnoticed, I slowly turned the rusted doorknob and pushed the glass-paned office door open.

Randy was sitting in the chair, his back to the door. Blue thermos bottles littered the floor

around him. Most were knocked over, a few still stood up. I quietly walked over to the cooler,

EMPTY, I noticed. The fucker did it. He drank em all. I turned around to face my newest trainee.

Slumped back in the chair, eyes closed, SNORING, was Randy. His shimmel shirt was off,

wadded next to my t-shirt. His left hand still held a blue, anodized aluminum thermos bottle, his

right hand was on his gut, as though he was caressing, fondling even admiring his belly. His

expression was deep contentment. A slight smile on his ruggedly handsome face. My gaze turned

back to his gut, now doubled in size, a big tanned balloon, bigger than my own Hungry Jack. It

rose and fell, slightly swelling and receding with each deep breath.

I forgot my tough exterior, my daddy persona and felt kinda warm and fuzzy. I reached out and

placed my hand , fingers spread wide, on that magnificent boy gut. I began to rub just a little and

his hand moved as if to give me more room to play. It was warm, smooth and just a little giving. I

patted it lovingly, hearing the deep resonant BOOM that I always get when I give my own

beer-bloated belly a pat.

I was so engrossed in his gut that I didn't notice he was awake...

"Like that Coach?"

His question startled me, but fuck it, I was enjoying this too much. I had already unzipped my

shorts, and my hard cock was hangin long and thick and proud. He placed his hand on mine, and we

both began to rub lazy circles on his bloated gut, he was chuckling and repeating the same thing

in a taunting almost little-school-girl rhyme...

"Randy's bigger Œn coach...Randy's bigger'n coach..."

"Nice Randy, real nice."

We played like that for close to an hour, he had slumped further in the chair, his bloated gut now

sticking straight up, his free hand now openly jerking his cock while I continued to rub and

massage his newly grown gut. He began to tense and I could tell he was close to shooting. So I

lifted my hand and grasped his now sliding up and down his thick rod, and we both brought him to

a great climax, his cum spattering his dome-like gut in ropy designs.

I got up and threw him a towel from the closet. While he was cleaning himself up, I went around

behind him and reached down to tweak his twin peaks which were hard as little dicks perched on

the edges of his meaty pecs. He shuddered again, and then I finger-crawled down his chest to

his gut, and began to play belly-bongo, and Randy started laughing. He looked up at me, and I

down at him, and I lowered my head down to his, and kissed him. Our tongues wrestling and

sliding around.

"Gotta get home, mom's gonna shit, look at the time Coach!"

"yeah, I got to get as well. Same time tomorrow right?"

"Yeah!"

"What?"

"Oh yeah, YES SIR!"

I began to clean up the mess and I saw Randy pull his sweat shorts on and struggle to pull the

shimmel shirt down far enough to cover his newly grown boy-gut but to no avail. The shirt

stopped just under his pecs and his curving gut swelled up and out a good foot and dove sharply

into his shorts. I noticed that his shorts rode low, not spoiling the line of the curve. He patted it,

pinched it, cocked his head quizzically and then shrugged his massive shoulders and left.

"Good night Coach, SIR!"

"Good night Randy."

The door rattled as he slammed it unknowingly. Clumsy fuck. I began to think about the evenings

happenings. The big dinner, the gallon of weight-gain shake Randy had unknowingly consumed.

The 50,000 calories, the way his gut looked after just one feeding. I began to imagine Randy and

I a month from now.

I smiled.

One Month Later

About a month had passed, and our 5:00 dinners had become very routine. I had everything laid

out as usual and as usual, the knock on the door meant my hungry stud-muffin was waiting on the

other side.

"Come in Randy!"

"Hi coach, boy am I starved. All I could think about was dinner. I dunno, it's not that you cook

real good, I mean you don't cook at all but the shakes are great! They leave me wanting more and

more, they kinda stimulate me, know what I mean?"

"Yeah I know what you mean kid, if you only know what I meant!" I thought to myself. "Well I'm

glad you like it, now shut up and get over here."

I pointed to the corner of the office where the beam scale stood. Randy had only visited it once

before, before all this began, and I wanted to see how much the little weights totaled.

"Take off that sweatshirt, probably would add a pound or two, wouldn't want that."

"I dunno coach, at the rate I've been grown', I don't think it'll make that much difference."

Randy hooked his thumbs into his very tight sweat pants, and released the hem of the

sweatshirt, and with a quick motion, stripped it up and over his head. The front of the shirt hung

up on his gut, and in the effort to pull it up, he lifted the solid mass that now occupied his

abdomen up until it released from the cloth binding it. I watched amused as his bloated gut

bounced up and down for a minute, until gravity got the best of it and pulled it into a nice forward

sticking, yet slightly sagging belly. Not really a jelly belly, but a hefty boy-gut, smooth and firm

with a prominent belly-button fuzzed and crowning his treasure trail. I noticed it had increased in

length, now growing down and under his gut curve.

"All right, step up boy!"

"Yes Sir!"

He stepped onto the scale pad, his big squared off feet filling it to almost overflowing. The beam

sailed up with a resounding CLANK! I had not reset it since it last read 200#. I was standing

facing him, with the scale between our bellies, I began to push the weight over, over, over, 210,

220, 230, 240, 250, 260! The beam thunked down, so I returned the 10's to 250 and sailed

the little 1's over till the beam thunked again. Repeating the process, we finally arrived at 253.

"Two hundred and fifty three pounds!"

"Cool!"

"You like that Randy?"

"Fuck yeah coach, wow, 253 in only a month. Aren't you proud of me coach?"

"It's a start kid, it's a start. Tell me Randy, are you eating on the weekends? Gettin' enough

calories?"

"Fuck yeah coach, I mean YES SIR coach! I eat till I pop and drink gallons of beer. Man, you

should see me put away the suds now. Man, I musta' been a light-weight before you started

workin' on me."

I looked him over again. The pecs were still there, but somewhat larger, softer, his nipples

pointing even more toward his gut. His belly started just under his chest now, curving out and

away a good foot and a half, then straightening out to continue down till tucking in under his navel

area. He looked close to 50 inches relaxed.

Randy was tinkering with the weights, still standing on the scale pad when I started walking

around to the desk area. My desk was as usual, cleaned off except for the cloth but no red and

blue coolers this time. Instead, two clear glass pitchers dominated the table.

Randy glanced around and noticed a new addition in the room.

"What'cha got there sir, a new refrigerator?" He was pointing to the brown box standing near

the desk.

"Not exactly a refrigerator, more like a cooler. A keg cooler."

"All right Coach! But where's the tap?"

I dug the tap apparatus out of the box , and walked over to where he was standing. I aimed the

business end at his belly and poked it into the firm yet yielding flesh.

"Get to work, it's liquid dinner tonight! Gotta celebrate!"

"All right!"

He stepped off the scale, and padded over to the cooler. Carefully removing the cap from the

top, he plugged the steel tube into the keg and screwed it in tight. He then opened the tap and

drew off some foam. In a few seconds, a clear amber stream of brew was pouring out.

"Man, don't wanna waste this."

"You mean waist, don't ya' Randy?"

"So where are the glasses coach. I like mugs myself, what do you drink out of?"

"No glasses tonight boy, just simple pitchers."

I motioned to the table, and I could see his eyes widen in anticipation of a real man to man

beerfest.

"Pour em off Randy!"

"You don't have to order me twice Coach."

He quickly picked up a pitcher and like a pro, tilted the lip up to the tap nozzle and let loose until

the liquid filled the pitcher with only a small head.

"One for coach."

Then he filled his pitcher up and picking the one for me up in his other hand, he sauntered over

to where I was standing and playfully pushed the cold pitcher into my own substantial belly.

"Fill 'er up Coach!" He winked, and smiled.

I clanked my pitcher against his and brought it to my lips, while I was busy downing the beer in

big gulps, I could hear that familiar ugh ugh sound that signaled Randy's continuous intake. He

was keeping up with me swallow for swallow. A few moments later, with a big swipe of his meaty

forearm, he wiped the suds from his lips and let out a nice belch. I responded in kind. Before I

knew it, he grabbed my pitcher and began filling it and his own again.

"Two for coach and two for me."

1 Hour Later

"Six for coach and six for me. fuck coach, I've never drank so much in my life and I'm still not

drunk. Kinda light headed, but not drunk."

I surveyed the damage. Randy was sitting across from me, the pitcher precariously balanced on

one huge thigh, one huge bare thigh. He lost the sweat pants a few minutes ago. We were both

sitting in our jocks, comfortable, lazy and bloated. Bloated was not the word. Randy lifted the

pitcher slowly to his lips, muttering something prior to beginning the chug.

"Here goes another 4 inches."

He began to grow visibly as he chugged the amber liquid into his gut. Now resting between his

massive muscular thighs was a thing of real beauty. It was as if you had taken an air hose and

plugged it into his navel and began to inflate his abdomen. He looked to be at least 70 inches

around! He finished half of the chug and rested the pitcher on his bloated gut, chuckling and

watching the liquid lazily slosh back and forth as he giggled. I could hear the sound of sloshing

liquid within his massive stomach. He slid up with a little effort to sit more upright in the chair,

after grabbing the tottering pitcher. He drained off the rest of the beer and set the glass down

beside him. Placing a big hand on each side of the tan mass, he began to push the bloated

stomach back and forth.

"Man, look at this gut Coach. I'm fuckin' huge! Let's compare bellies!"

He hoisted his now front heavy frame out of the chair and walked {waddled} over to behind the

desk. I stood up somewhat slowly and our gut's touched.

"I guess you win Randy!"

I looked down at the twin globes between us, marveling at the size and dimensions of our newly

acquired girth. I had done some serious gaining while I watched Randy blimp out, and the daily

dinners had taken the toll on my once-flat stomach. I scaled out at a hefty 265, but since I was

taller, it looked smaller on my frame. Randy was a good 5 inches shorter than me, so his 253

gathered at his gut, perfectly!

I pushed Randy away with my stomach and back towards the desk. He got on, sitting thighs

spread, his fuzz covered belly filling his lap. I parted his thighs further and making him lay back,

his jock finally came into view, a full steamy pouch, hard and throbbing. I released his hard dick

and went down on him, to the pubes, inhaling the fresh boy/man smell and Irish spring mixture.

His soft moans and grunts made me suck harder. I reached up with one hand to massage his

bloated gut in lazy circles and fondled his nuts with the other one. Nice balls, big n heavy.

Randy began to stretch further out on the desk till I was at one end between his legs and his

head and arms hung over the other end. He was reaching for something, and I got up for air. His

thick tool waved in the wind, throbbing with each heartbeat, like a thick finger wagging up and

down, up and down. I saw what he was grabbing for.

He managed to pull the cooler, which was on rollers over till the tap was right above his open

mouth. Nice idea Randy! I could hear the stream flowing into his open mouth and his gulping and

quickly placed a hand on his stomach to feel the results. He began to swell under my fingers. His

gut was bloating up and out, till I could no longer see the cooler, his head, or his chest. I began to

thump his gut, the cool bass drum sound sounding even louder and deeper as his gut grew larger

and larger.

"Yeah fat boy, drink, drink to your gut's content. No alcohol, just calories, sweet beer, yeah, just

like I found at Merlins, gonna make you fat, so fat you can't stand up, a big blimp belly with arms.

Yeah, grow Randy, grow."

I shot all over the side of the desk, and Randy began to pump what felt like gallons of cum into

my throat. His orgasm subsided, as did his gulping. I saw the reason, no more beer. He had

drained the keg dry. Between us, we drank close to 20 gallons of beer.

Randy hoisted his bloated body off the desk, his gut flowing over his thighs to rest out in front

of his knees like a barrel I reached out to touch the marvelous belly.

"Coach? Coach, you in there? I knocked twice. Can I come in?"

"I shook my head, and glanced at the clock, 5:02 PM. Musta' dozed off."

"Come on in Randy."