We met through a cigar group. I was new–he was a founding member. My relationship with cigars, at that point, was little more than curiosity backed by fascination–the sexuality of it too, I guess. I had smoked them a few times, always jacking off while I did, but I knew next to nothing about them, or what to smoke. A few guys I chatted with online recommended the group to me, and I figured I might as well go to one. I was hardly someone to be as nervous as I was then–muscled, young, gay but passing–I could have anyone I wanted, and usually that translated into cockiness, but plunged into a group of cigar smokers while knowing next to nothing, I was a bit intimidated. If Nate hadn’t been so welcoming and jovial, I probably wouldn’t have gone back for a second outing.
I usually hated chubby guys. I mean, they’re just slobs at heart, they don’t care about themselves, about their bodies, about their health. So I tolerated Nate, I guess, since he was in charge. Actually it was hard to get a word in–he dominated the conversations like he dominated the space with his huge frame. It was a turn off, to say the least…and yet…maybe even then, I was just deluding myself about that, like I was about everything else. He was certainly interested in me, and made no attempt to hide it. In fact, I became a sexual joke for him–he would go into these strange scenarios with the two of us, ask me to take our shirts off so we could compare, apron to abs. He was more articulate than I was, smarter too, more knowledgable. Anything I could talk about, he could too, but better, with more humor, with more interest. And so I listened instead, trying to figure out why this huge, obese man fascinated me as much as the cigars we smoked together, when every other fat man I’d ever met was so easily dismissible before this one.
He showered me with favors, bought me expensive cigars at group outings to cigar shops. The tobacco was fabulous, and after the fourth or fifth meeting, he invited me back to his home for a tour of his humidor, with plenty of innuendo. I…I was curious. I was curious about my own budding attraction to him. I thought that, maybe, if we could just have sex, or if I could just see his (hopefully disgusting) body without clothes, I could maybe shed this growing desire. His humidor was massive–a small climate controlled room in his massive house. Wealthy, rich as fuck. The money he has, I had no idea what I’d do with it. It’s no wonder he succumbs to food–as rich as he is, he can afford to become obsessed. He was overly generous. The cigars he offered gave me a high closer to strong pot than tobacco. I was out of it; he stripped off my shirt and felt my body. I kept trying to take off his clothes, trying to take back some kind of control, but he remained stubbornly clothed. Soon, I was naked, he was not. He touched me everywhere, and I let him. I expected him to suck me off–I expected him to want to consume me, like a cigar, but instead he pushed me to my knees, and fucked my face, came, made me jack off while he watched, and then we shared a glass of bourbon. He kept me naked the whole time, I let him stare at me, and then went home, somewhat disgusted, but more aroused than anything I had experienced.
I went over to his house more often after that. I found myself unable, or unwilling, to turn down any invitation. It was months before I saw him naked, but by that point any possibility that he could disgust me enough to abandon sex was out of the question. I was attracted to him. When he fucked, it was like nothing else–I was strong, and yet he could (and often did) crush the breath out of me. He made me feed him. He made me clean every sweaty fold of his flabby body. I was the one devouring him. I was the one with the addiction. I soon stopped smoking cigars, and stopped attending group meetings. He was the new object of my fetish–the smoke he fed me in our kisses was far more powerful than anything else I’d ever tasted.
He grew more demanding, and I accommodated him. I shaved my body smooth, from head to toe. I started practicing with dildos at home, so I could take his cock without resistance. I learned how to cook, and the weekends I spent at his home would often be consumed with feeding his hunger more than fucking my holes. He sent me a particularly exhausting exercise routine, and I followed it religiously. he introduced me to his dungeon soon after that. I had noticed the stairs down into the basement before, but when he led me down into the space filled with all manner of bondage and pain equipment…I was eager. I asked him to show me everything, to use it on me. He was more than happy to do so, and then he showed me to small room off to the side–a windowless cubby barely large enough to fit a cot and a small chest. He told me I would move in with him–that I could bring only enough that might fit in the chest, and everything else would be sold off. I told him no, that I couldn’t–so he beat me until I came twice over and asked again. I agreed.
My new life revolved around him. The demands of my body became more extreme. Every week, a new tattoo or piercing. Soon, I could barely even recognize myself. I worked out more than ever, I cooked all of his meals, he paid me in fucks, pain, bondage, and smoke. For two years, I haven’t left this mansion. It is my home, my prison and my sanctuary. In my chest, I have a small collection of photos I printed out to keep, and I compare my selves. Who was I? This freak with the tattooed face and head, with padlocks hanging from my nipples, with my balls weighted down six inches? I have never been happier, but…
I can’t finish the thought in any manner that rings true. I lock up my photos. It’s time to start cooking dinner anyway.
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