Well, with apologies to you-know-who-you-are, I’m going to take the suggestion he gave me over IM and, well, render it fairly unrecognizable. However–it was your idea that got me there in the first place, so that counts for something, right? Right? Besides, I think that we need satyr David to claim his first victim.
***
Bob was terrified. It had taken a few minutes, but the realization that he was now obese was finally dawning on him–and he had no idea what to do about it. He’d never been a fat kid–he’d never been anything but thin. He’d always hated fat people, ridiculing them, bullying them, and now his sudden membership into that category against his will was wearing on him. It didn’t help that it was exhausting. As he searched for Dan in the house, he’d had to stop several times to catch his breath, and he noticed something else–he was getting hungry. Still, he could control it–and he pushed his way into a new room–a small theater with both a small stage and a projection screen with plush seats, and they just looked too comfortable to not take a seat.
Little did Bob know that he was being followed. David had come in from the garden and spotted his former friend bumbling through the house, and had tailed him for a while, fingers running across the pipes in his hands, a devilish grin curling his mouth, wondering what song to play for his chubby friend. He, of course, knew all about Bob’s hatred of anyone fat–hell, David had joined in on the ridicule several times, but now he had a different opinion. Fat wasn’t a sign of weakness, it was a sign of indulgence, of lost control, of joy. But Bob, well, he was far too controlling, too rigid. He needed a new outlook to reflect his larger stature, and David had just the song in mind to help him along, and when Bob slumped into the theater, David knew that he just had to put on a little show for him.
Bob sat there, catching his breath, but was caught off guard when the lights cut out, before a spotlight appeared on the small stage, and the projector turned on, illuminating the large white screen. A moment later, David stepped out into the spotlight…or the strange man David had become, naked, horned and leering at the chubby Bob. “David? What in the…what happened to you?” Bob asked, moving to get up, but David played a short, soothing ditty, and he slumped back into the chair, unable to budge his eyes from his old friend and the screen.
“Ah, Bob, don’t worry about what’s happened to me. No, I think that we should look at what’s happened to you. See, I’ve composed a song for you, my friend, I call it, ‘An Ode to Bob: The Corpulent, Lustful and Raunchy.’ Do you like the title? I do. There’s even a short film that goes with it. Let me play it for you–you just lay back, enjoy.”
With that, and before Bob could object, David began to play, dancing an odd jig as his fingers flew across the pipe, and the projector suddenly flickered, a movie playing along to the song, in far greater quality than should have been possible from that old equipment, and try as he might, Bob couldn’t move or look away as the film came into focus, the song drilling it’s way into his mind, and the movie showed him–yes, him, sitting in the booth of some fast food restaurant, stuffing himself, wrappers strewn around him, and as the movie played, his image stuffing burgers and fries down his throat as fast as he could, Bob heard his real belly growl, and start…growing. Yes, really growing, pushing out and down into an apron, his moobs thick and heavy, chins descending, his thighs growing together straining the sides of his jeans. The hunger–it was overwhelming now, and Bob no longer could formulate any reason why he shouldn’t indulge it. His mouth started watering, even, as he watched his image feast, and he wished it could be him eating instead.
David’s music came to an end, there was a short silence, and then he launched into the second movement, the scene on the screen fading away, replaced by another, the now fatter Bob in a dirty bar, throwing back shots of cheap whisky, when he catches the eye of a dirty looking biker just as drunk as he is. Before Bob can process what happens, the two of them are in the filthy bathroom, the biker shoving Bob up against the wall, the two of them sharing a drooling kiss, and the display has Bob harder than he’s ever been in his life. Unable to help himself, he reaches underneath his huge gut, massaging his short but very thick cock as the biker flips his image around, yanks down his pants, and rams his cock deep into Bob’s chubby ass. The music increases in tempo as the biker thrusts, Bob stroking in time to the music, and the three of them, cum simultaneously, and David’s song segues directly into the third movement, the image fading out once more, before returning to sharp focus.
There is Bob, naked in a trailer, lounging in a recliner, fat sprawled around him, watching porn, swigging whisky directly from the bottle. The place is filthy–pizza boxes and filthy laundry littering the floor, and Bob’s image looks equally filthy, his fat matted with a thick pelt, his greasy hair long, a thick, wiry beard framing his lecherous grin, as he jacks off his cock, bouncing as he does, driving the dildo he’s using deeper into his ass. The music is tighter now, and Bob realizes he’s trapped, the music cutting him off, driving him towards this image, towards that filthy, obese slob, his present and his future, and then the song ends, and the lights come up.
Bob gasps, seeing his new self for the first time, his ill fitting designer clothes gone, replaced by a food and cum stained tank top, showing off his ample body hair, a pair of tattered camo shorts, a yellowed jockstrap plainly visible through the ripped out crotch, and a pair of second hand combat boots on his feet. He hefts himself up–finding it far more difficult than he had imagined, shuddering a bit as he felt the buttplug in his ass shift, and said, “David, what did you do? What…uh…fuck…” his words trailing off as he watched his friend stroke his thick, long cock up on the stage. Unable to resist, Bob stumbles forward and swallows the shaft to the hilt, the three movements of his song running through his head, his cock hard and leaking into his jockstrap, and David thrusts a few times and shoots down his old friend’s throat, before laughing and bounding off, his fun finished.
“Wait! David, where did–help me, tell me how to fix this!” Bob shouted.
“Why would you want to fix it?” David shouted from the shadows, laughing, “Our master will love you, just you wait!”
Bob called for David a few more times, but he was alone again–the trajectory of his life fundamentally altered, and then his gut groaned, the hunger nearly bringing him to his knees. He needed to eat, but he couldn’t give in, could he? No, he needed to resist…right?
***
Well Bob seems to be coming along quite well, eh? What shall are chubby filthy ex-basketballer stumble upon next?
- Unable to resist the hunger, he makes his way back to the ghost chef’s kitchen.
- In a desperate bit to clean himself up, he finds his way to the bathroom.
- Or perhaps he finds himself drawn out into the garden, where he will meet the master satyr himself.
Or something else–got anything?
Bracken's Corner 