“Oh my dear heavens, this can’t possibly be real…”
Carmichael was in the hotel room’s bathroom, staring at himself in the mirror. Staring at a reflection he’d never seen before in his life, but which he somehow knew was…him. But this couldn’t be him. This couldn’t be him…He didn’t want to be this!
The pain had eased up after a few minutes, leaving him gasping and panting on the floor, clutching himself. He’d managed to use the side of the bed to help heave himself back up–but it had been a struggle. For one thing, every joint in his body suddenly ached–not from the pain that he’d just been through, but from age–and from the fact that he was no longer 220 pounds with a potbelly–he was easily closer to 400, or more. He got himself righted and just stared down at himself, at the sheer mass spilling over him, and stifled a scream, managing to waddle into the bathroom instead, where he’d been staring at himself for the last few minutes, unable to believe what, or rather who, he was looking at.
He was looking at himself. He was looking at Carmichael Emmett Fields, a sixty-seven year old retired insurance salesman who was now living off his sizable retirement account. He enjoyed his groceries, and was resting at around 460 pounds or so, after his last visit to his physician, but surprisingly enough he was still healthy as a horse, much to the doctor’s disbelief. His size was only exacerbated by his short height of five foot four inches. Still, the image before him was…blurry for some reason, and he couldn’t quite make out the details of himself–one hand fished around on the counter in front of him, searching for something, and after a moment found his glasses, and he put them on–the world coming back into true focus, and then he did scream.
“No–No, no no…” he said quietly, shaking his head, watching his three chins sway slightly with the movement. The short beard he’d had was gone–replaced with just a walrus like mustache covering his upper lip, and leaving nothing below to the imagination. He looked bloated and puffy, with full jowls and deep crow’s feet around his eyes. His hair had receded badly and was completely white on the fringe that remained. “No, this will not stand–I am not going to be some old, fucking pig!” he said to the mirror, but as he did, he felt a sudden heat in his groin, his old cock hardening deep in his gunt.
He was old. He was disgusting. Fuck, he was repulsive! One hand grabbed a meaty, flabby teat of his, tugging on the full nipple, while the other reached under his fat, digging around for his short, stubby cock which he could barely reach any longer, but fuck, looking at how ugly he was always had turned him on helplessly, he was such a pig. He tried to resist, to stop himself, but instead he humiliated himself in front of the mirror, jacking off, watching his fat heave to and fro, his smooth, hairless body shining with sweat until he came with a pant and a groan into his hand, pulled it out and licked up the cum. Now…what had he been doing again? Carmichael’s gut rumbled. Dinner! Of course–but he couldn’t go down looking like this mess. Instead, he hoped into the shower, hosing himself down carefully, enjoying the feel of his body hanging off him, and how much space he took up in the sizable tub. Once finished, he dried off well, combed down his mustache and what remained of his hair, and went to get dressed.
He was surprised to see the clothes he’d arrived in just lying there on the floor, and he quickly hung them back up before picking out another one of his suits for the evening, excited to get amongst the bears, excited to see who would be disgusted by him the most, and–
Carmichael shook his head, wondering where that thought had come from, oddly disturbed by that train of thought, but for reasons he couldn’t quite explain. Still, dinner came first, regardless, or perhaps he’d find someone interesting in the restaurant downstairs and kill two birds with one stone. He dressed himself in his massive briefs and undershirt, then his dress shirt–the starched collar cutting into his flabby neck in the most delightfully uncomfortable manner, and then his pants pulled up over his belly and held in place with his suspenders–and lastly his suit coat, socks and shoes–always the hardest part for a man of his size, but looking in the mirror, he felt like…himself, but something was still…amiss. Something gnawing at him, trying to remind him…
He looked around the room and spied his pipe box. Of course! How could he have been so thoughtless as to forget that. Still, while he’d chosen a smoking room for himself, he couldn’t very well smoke elsewhere in the hotel–instead, he slipped the smaller of the two pipes–his piggy pipe as he referred to it–into his breast pocket as well as a small pouch of tobacco and his necessary tools, in case he should meet someone of interest while he ate. He always seemed to find interesting men while he ate to be honest, but then again, his appetite was one of his most appaling qualities. His cock shivered again at the thought, thought of the pipe in his pocket, but he contained himself. “Calm yourself, little piggy,” Carmichael said to himself in the mirror, “We’ll find someone for you to play with soon enough.”
Bracken's Corner 