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thegainingdesk · 8 months

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On Again, Off Again

As soon as I saw Mark I was head over heels. He was tall and naturally broad, a frame improved with well-honed muscles from years of manual labour. A mop of thick dark hair framed a broad, almost blocky face with dark brown eyes and a thick moustache, and mirrored tufts of hair poking out from the top of his shirt and at his cuffs. His voice was deep, but soft, with a slight Bristol accent.

He’d suggested we go to a local museum for our first date - I’d mentioned that I did art history at uni when we were talking on tinder, and there was an exhibition on the early impressionists. I spent a while pointing out some of my favourite paintings, explaining some of the techniques, the use of light, how the movement was different to what had come before but quickly noticed how quiet he was being and my initial attraction started to wane.

“Sorry,” he said after I asked him for the umpteenth time if everything was okay. “I don’t mean to- it’s just, I mean…”

I looked at him, expectantly. Despite myself, despite how flat the date was falling, I found myself crushing on him all over again, looking up into those big puppy dog eyes.

“I wanted to impress you a bit,” he said finally, running his hand across his moustache nervously.

I laughed reflexively, and felt awful as I saw him wince. “What do you mean, impress me? You don’t need to impress me.”

“I know, it’s not… You just said that you were into art and stuff, and that you work with this charity and-” He stopped and sighed. “I’m just this knob-head builder, you know? I didn’t think someone like you would really want to go out with someone like me, and I thought you were cute and the lads at the site said I should do something a bit fancy and… I’ve fucked this up, haven’t I?”

I shook my head. “You’re great. Really. I chose to go out with you, didn’t I?” He shrugged those gorgeous hulking shoulders, somehow looking like a scolded schoolboy, despite his size. “Go on, where would you usually take me on a first date, if you weren’t trying to go all fancy on me?”

“No, no, really,” he insisted, unconvincingly. “I’m enjoying myself here.” He pointed at the nearest painting, a Turner painting of a choppy sea, a bright red buoy at the centre. “Go on, tell me about that one.”

I took his hand, and felt my heart flutter as a smile spread across his face. “Seriously, I agreed to go on a date with you because you were a good laugh while we were texting.” A blush spread across his stubbled cheeks. Fuck, he was hot. “Where we going?” I pulled him towards the exit.

“A pub or something, I dunno,” he mumbled. “We can stay, really.”

“Not a chance,” I retorted. “It's your round - you can’t wriggle out of it that easy.”

A couple of drinks in, the date was thoroughly back on track. Mark was funny, charming and charismatic - I’d go so far as to say he was gregarious, but trying to keep up with the way Mark drank turned that into a few too many syllables for me at the time. A few more drinks and we couldn’t keep our hands off each other - looking back, I cringe at the scene we must have made in that pub. Charitably, you could say we were somewhat hidden away in a corner; realistically, it was a Saturday evening in the city center and people were probably gawping.

“I told myself I wouldn’t fuck you tonight,” he grumbled into my ear, while his big square hand pawed at my achingly hard dick. “That I’d wait a couple of dates.”

I was practically gnawing at him at this point, my mouth deep into the soft crevice between his thick, strong neck and his strong, yard-wide shoulders. “This is basically our second date,” I told his neck. “The museum was number one, the pub is number two.”

I heard him laugh into my hair. “I’m serious, I’m trying to break some bad habits. Trying not to have so much casual sex.”

I moaned. “I’ll give you permission to make an exception.”

“I don’t want this to just be sex,” he whispered. “I really like you.”

“It doesn’t have to just be sex,” I whimpered back. “But it could also be sex.”

I heard him - felt him - practically growl. “I suppose if you came back to mine, we wouldn’t necessarily have to have sex.”

I nodded, and lifted my head to look him in the eyes. “Absolutely, no sex.”

The sex was phenomenal. It was like something out of an 80s romance novel. It was animalistic but sensual, passionate but slow. I think I actually swooned. Mark could throw me about like a ragdoll, and he made good use of that ability. His body was covered almost top to toe in dark, wiry hair, and his cock was so thick I could barely get my mouth around it - but by god I gave it a go.

We spent all of the next day together, nursing twin hangovers and cuddling up on his sofa. Mark explained his philosophy that the only worthwhile hangover cure is as much food as you can manage to keep down. While I nibbled on bread and butter and sipped on water all day, there was barely a moment where he didn’t have some food on the go - bacon and egg sandwiches for breakfast, clearing his fridge for lunch, a string on deliveroo drivers.

By the time I felt well-enough to go home, he tried to convince me to call in sick to work the next day. Tangled up with him like that, I almost did. Even so, I managed to drag myself away, with the promise of seeing him on Friday.

We didn’t make it to Friday. We met up for dinner on Tuesday. Lunch on Wendesday. On Thursday I packed a bag and decided I could just go into the office from his flat in the morning. We were inseparable. Insufferable, most likely. But we couldn’t stop ourselves, didn’t want to stop.

The dinners out, the takeaways, the long days spent cuddled up without a thought of the gym started to add up - on Mark at least. And yes, maybe I encouraged that a little, but I’m allowed a type aren’t I? Okay, maybe more than a type - a predilection, if you were being fancy, a full-blown fetish if you were being honest. So I like them big! Is that a crime? I never went overboard - never stirred butter and double cream into all of his portions, never tricked him into gainer shakes, never slipped him appetite enhancers or miraculous weight-gain pills - I’m not the protagonist of a gainer story, after all.

All I did was nurture that healthy appetite of his. Gave him my unfinished portions, asked him if he wanted seconds, encouraged him to get dessert, muttered into his ear that no, he can’t go to the gym and leave me in bed, cold and alone, that I’d give him all the work-out he needed. He never complained, and I never made any real secret that I didn’t mind him putting on some weight.

It was subtle at first. He’d never had any abs to cover up, but there was a general loss of definition - muscular limbs got smoothed out, pecs started to go puffy, his belly started to permanently bow out into a little arc. His body, already big, sailed past 220 pounds easily enough, and you could barely tell that he’d put on any weight at all, not really, until he’d hit 240 or so.

But then, my god. It’s like some magical fat threshold was reached, almost overnight, like all the gaps in his body had been filled with fat, his whole body lightly covered with a thin sheen of chub, ready for the real work to build up over it. Smooth limbs got soft, puffy pecs drooped, his little distended belly curved out in all directions to form a proper little pot belly. Not six months into our relationship, he was sitting fat and happy at 260 pounds, a firm ball gut at his center, and all traces of that muscular hunk that tried to impress me at a museum were buried under soft, gorgeous flab. If he ever got self-conscious, he never said anything. Still, I told him how gorgeous he was, how sexy the extra weight made him, how he looked more manly, more mature.

We settled into a routine; huge dinners, hot sex, movie nights spent cradling his growing gut, an occasional date night at some new restaurant before moving onto a pub or a bar. We spent so much time at each other’s flats we both assumed we’d move in together sooner rather than later, that this would all last forever.

“Australia?” I asked, my voice shaking.

“I know, I know,” he said, pacing and stroking his moustache nervously. “But the money’s so good, I can’t really pass it up.” I closed my eyes. Gripped the table. Tried to wish it away. “It wouldn’t be forever,” he said, lamely.

“It would be for a year though,” I whispered, opening my eyes.

He slumped down into the chair opposite me. One hand continued to stroke his moustache, the other sat on the shelf of his belly, stroking it ever so slightly. Even while I was distraught he could still drive me wild without even trying. “I’m sorry,” he said simply after a while. I knew there wasn’t any point arguing. That I wouldn’t want to stop him taking the opportunity. It just hurt.

We agreed we’d not wait for each other. We’d stay in touch, but we’d be free to date, and if either of us met someone over the year, or if we’d changed as people, no obligation to go back to how we were.

I spent a full week moping. I became a walking cliche - I barely ate, I barely slept. I sustained myself on a diet of Carole King songs and Richard Curtis films. Mark never had any social media - barely used his phone for anything really - a fact which I was, in turns, thankful for and furious about. On one hand, at least I couldn’t obsessively stalk his profiles all year while I missed him, on the other hand, I couldn’t even stalk his profiles all year while I missed him.

I still can’t decide if that year went fast or slow. There were points when it felt like I was going through the same old bored routines for decades, and days when I’d realise how soon I could see Mark again and it would feel like seconds. I did my best to get on with my life - I met with friends, picked up hobbies I’d let fall to the side while I spent every day with Mark, even plucked up the courage to go on a date. It was nice. He was nice. But it wasn’t Mark. I’m not even sure I could tell you his name. After that, I resigned myself to waiting.

I’m back! The text said. My heart fluttered. Want to meet up for a drink?

I tried to not reply immediately. Wanted to come across as cool and unbothered.

Amazing!!! I replied, not two minutes later. Yes! Where?

As a cucumber.

The Goose? Or maybe your flat? Up to you.

My heart pounded. Meeting at my flat was not the act of an uninterested man. Meeting at my flat was not the act of a man who’d fallen in love with some gorgeous Australian surfer.

My flat’s fine! I responded.

Great. I’ll be like an hour?

My flat was already impeccably clean - I was a bit of a clean freak as it was, but I had it practically sparkling in anticipation of Mark’s return to the northern hemisphere - but still, I busied myself cleaning every nook and cranny. I hoovered my spotless carpet, smoothed my immaculately smooth bed, dusted corners that I previously didn’t know existed.

I had just decided that the flat was too unnaturally clean, like I’d gone out of my way to clean it for Mark or something, and was in the middle of pulling various items just slightly out of position, when my doorbell rang. I yelped, and hurriedly crumpled a throw blanket, before breathing slowly and making my way to the door. It was just Mark, I told myself. Everything would be just the same as it was before. It’s just Mark. It’s just Mark.

I opened the door to a man I barely recognised. Mark was buff. Beyond buff. The fat I’d so deviously piled on him over all those months had disappeared without a trace. He’d not simply returned to the naturally broad, built figure he’d had when I’d first met him, either - he’d added hard, shredded muscle - at a guess I’d say 20 pounds easy. His face was thinner, sharper; his arms were vascular, and I could swear I saw the stitches on his sleeves almost pulling themselves apart; when he raised his arms and his t-shirt rode up, I could make out a defined six-pack even through his dense pelt of body hair. Worst of all though - he’d shaved off his moustache.

I just stood blinking for a while, until I realised that tears were welling up in my eyes. Despite it all, despite the time, despite the body, despite the fucking moustache - it was Mark. It was really, actually, fucking Mark.

Neither of us said anything, he just stepped through my door, held my face in his hands and kissed me, deeply and desperately and hungrily. We stumbled backwards through my flat, knocking perfectly placed objects as we went, pulling at each other’s clothes, never once stopping kissing, until he picked me up and tossed me onto my bed. This time, I definitely swooned.

We didn’t properly talk until the next morning, while I lay with my head on his chest, my fingers lazily pulling through the curls of his chest hair. “Go on then,” I said. “What’s all this?”

Mark yawned. “What’s what?” he asked.

I lightly slapped his six-pack. “Who invited He-Man over here?”

He laughed. “I bet you had a thing for He-Man didn’t you?” he said, running a hand down my back and squeezing my bum, avoiding the question.

“No really,” I insisted. “What happened to my sexy teddy bear I sent off?” I steeled myself. “I bet it was for all those sexy ozzy men, eh?” I forced myself to laugh.

Mark was silent, and didn’t move.

I held my breath. “It’s fine, you know. We said. Date whoever.”

He shook his head. “No,” he said simply, after a while. “I umm… couldn’t bring myself to. That’s why I spent so much time in the gym actually. To take my mind off of…” He trailed off. “Did you? You know…”

“One guy,” I said. “Just a date, you know, nothing…" I added quickly, keen to reassure him. "It was awful.” I sighed. “No, it was probably fine, it just wasn’t…” I looked over at him, took in his chiseled jawline and perfect cheekbones. “It wasn’t you.” We stayed like that for a while, just smiling at each other. I shuffled up his body to kiss him, and rolled over. “I might have to change my stance on that if you don’t grow your moustache back though.”

We were back to our old routine almost immediately, illicit feedings and all. By the time Mark had regrown his moustache, his abs had been hidden by soft fat and he was on his way back to the Mark I knew and loved. It’s like his body missed the fat - it piled on faster than it had the first time, and within a few months he’d put on all his lost weight, plus extra. His newfound muscles clearly faded a little, being neglected so thoroughly by time spent away from the gym, but they provided a firm base for all the fat to cling to, so that all his fat was perkier and bouncier than last time - I was in heaven.

“I need to lose some weight,” Mark murmured around one of his breakfast donuts one morning. I looked over to see him trying to tug a pair of scruffy work jeans closed, but there were several inches of soft fat between the button and its hole. I inhaled and set my shoulders - it was time to bite the bullet.

“I don’t think you need to lose weight,” I started, nonchalantly.

Mark laughed and shook his gut. I fought to stop myself from getting hard. “Look at me - I’m 20 stone and can’t fit into 40 inch trousers. 40 inches! I need to lose weight,” he repeated.

I stood up and walked over to him, putting a hand on each side of his middle. “I like it,” I told him matter of factly, before kissing him.

He smiled and returned my kiss. “You’re sweet, and I know that you’ll love me no matter what size I am, yada-yada-yada, but come on,” he slapped his belly again. “This is getting ridiculous.”

I shook my head. “No,” I said. “I like it. I…” I inhaled deeply. “I prefer it. Actively prefer you fat, actually.”

He stared at me and blinked, not speaking for almost a whole minute. “You… like me fat?” he asked, finally.

I nodded. "Mm-hmm," I said, as casually as I could pretend to be.

He squinted his eyes at me. “Fatter?” he continued.

“I… wouldn’t complain,” I said slowly, studying his face.

He took a few steps away from me and looked down at himself, as if seeing his body for the first time. He hefted his gut a couple of times, almost experimentally. His hands drifted upwards, squeezed his soft pecs. I just watched, knowing he needed some space. Finally, he raised his head to look at me. “Why?” he asked simply.

I shrugged. “Why is anyone attracted to anything, you know? Big guys have always just done it for me, I guess,” I explained. He carried on looking at me inquisitively, clearly expecting me to continue. “I mean… it just seems more manly, you know? Like you’re tall and you’re hairy and you’ve got this great moustache and hot face, and being bigger is just one more thing that just makes you even more masculine, you know?” He nodded and I saw him subtly flex, as if in admiration of himself. “So you’re okay?” I asked.

He nodded. “I mean, if it means I don’t have to diet or go to the gym, why not?” he laughed, and carried on getting ready for work. “You might need to pop out today to buy me some new clothes though,” he added.

I nodded and smiled, happy that inevitable, awkward conversation went as well as could I could realistically hope. I started to get set up for my day working from home, and brought Mark a donut as he was about to leave, kissing him on the cheek as I passed it over.

His eyes narrowed, and he looked carefully at the donut. “Did you do this Ben?” he asked, after a moment or two.

“What?” I asked. “Yes Mark, I brought you the donut. Are you okay?”

He shook his head. “No. Not the donut. Me. Did you make me fat?”

I swallowed. Hard. “What? Mark. How could I make you fat? I can’t eat for you,” I pointed out.

“No,” he agreed. “But I put on weight almost as soon as I met you. You’ve always given me half of your dinner, told me to get dessert, stopped me going to the gym.”

“Mark, you can’t seriously be accusing me of manipulating you into gaining weight,” I told him, feeling myself shake a little. "You have a big appetite." Was I trying to convince him, or myself?

“But did you?” he pressed.

I paused just a little too long and he sighed, burying his face in his hands. “It’s not like I forced you to eat anything!” I protested. “You enjoyed the food, you wanted it, you never cared about putting on weight, never enjoyed the gym. I just tried to give you permission to let yourself go a bit.”

“But you didn’t Ben!” he snapped. “You didn’t give me permission because never had a choice!”

“Mark, come on,” I reached towards him, but he knocked my hands away. “I’m sorry for being sneaky, but that’s all it was - a bit sneaky. I never lied, I never convinced you to do anything you didn’t want to, I just made the choice a bit easier.”

He opened the door. “I’m going to stay at my parents for a bit,” he said.

“Mark, no,” I pleaded.

“I just… I just need some time to think.” He moved through the door.

“Please Mark, I love you.”

He sighed. “I love you too,” he said. “It’s just a lot.”

The door closed. The day was a write-off. I spent the whole day cleaning and tidying, scrubbing floors and counters and remaking my bed. I thankfully didn’t have any meetings, and the only work I needed to do was busy-body work that no-one would notice was getting done badly. I fell back into old routines - didn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, Carole King, Richard Curtis.

Staying at his parents “for a bit” meant a couple of weeks, as it turned out. I was mid-Notting Hill when I heard the door open and I turned to see Mark walk in, an old band t-shirt riding up to reveal the bottom of his gut. I rushed over to him, but stopped before I reached him, unsure of what was about to happen. He closed the distance and pulled me into a hug. I melted into him, and we stayed like that for a few minutes, just holding each other.

“I’m sorry,” I said eventually.

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “I overreacted. I… freaked out.” He scratched his gut. “You were right. It could have happened in any relationship, I just…” He closed his eyes. “I’ve been fit for a really long time, you know, and I’ve never done a proper relationship, and I always felt like people just use me for sex and all of a sudden I find out that you’re a big part of why I’ve put on so much weight and it just felt like… Like you were changing me.”

I shook my head and hugged him again. “I’m so sorry,” I said into his shoulder. “I didn’t want you to change. You’re exactly what I want, any weight, I promise.”

He hugged me back. “I want to change for you,” he murmured into my hair. He pulled away and held my shoulders, smiling. “I spent a lot of time trying to figure stuff out and… you're right. It’s hot.” He slapped his gut. “I get it, I think. I like being big and I like eating and I like that you like it.” I must have looked skeptical because he carried on. “Okay, I’m not, like, thrilled with putting on quite so much, but I also don’t care enough to lose you over it, and I can see where you’re coming from.” I didn’t know what to say, so just kissed him, running my hands under his t-shirt and up his love handles. He pulled away. “I want you to get fat as well though,” he said, matter-of-factly.

“What?” I asked, dumbfounded.

“I think you should put on weight as well,” he said again. “To see what it’s like.”

“Mark, I… I thought you’d forgiven me. I said I was sorry.,” I said.

“I’m not saying it as some kind of punishment or whatever,” he said, and patted my own flat stomach. “I’m saying that I think you’ll like it. That I’ll like it.”

“I think you might be confused,” I told him. “I don’t want to gain weight,” I explained. “I just like fat guys. It’s a different thing.”

“Okay,” he said. “But I didn’t want to gain weight either, and it turns out I kind of like it.” He squeezed his gut for emphasis. “You already like all this stuff, and I just think you owe it to yourself to see whether you like all the aspects of it.”

“Really?” I asked. “You want this?”

Mark shrugged. “Why not? Maybe it’ll be hot, and if you don’t like the first twenty pounds, you can lose it all faster than I’ll be able to lose all this.” He slapped his gut and sent it shaking.

“I uh… okay,” I agreed. “Yeah, I’ll try it out.”

The changes to our classic routine were unsettling at first. No more subtly suggesting dessert or quietly giving extra portions, now Mark would quite happily take seconds and snack throughout the day. He also made sure he wasn’t alone though - everything he ate, he would make me match, to the point that most days I’d end the day cradling my too full stomach while he gently rubbed it for me. Being more open about my preferences meant that we could start introducing food into the bedroom as well - sex now meant ice cream and chocolate and whole-cakes, all eaten off each other’s bodies or while Mark was deep inside of me.

While Mark’s gains kept up a good pace, especially for a man his size, the weight hit my body like a freight train. Without the base of muscle that Mark had, my gains were much softer, and spread across my body as opposed to Mark’s firm core ball gut and fat covered muscles. I found myself loving it - I'd get distracted by the way my flesh would slide past itself, the gentle restriction of clothes just on the verge of being too tight, and the pillowy softness of my body. I would find myself in work-meetings slipping a finger between shirt buttons to stroke around my navel, and it became one of Mark’s favourite jokes to point out when I’d mindlessly pull my shirt up while at home so I could play with my underbelly.

"You not going to lose too much weight while I'm gone, big guy?" Mark asked, kissing me on the cheek as he hoisted his bag on his shoulder.

I swallowed the last of the custard slice I was eating. "You're only going for a week," I pointed out. "Besides, you've managed to put nearly a hundred pounds on me in less than a year, I don't think I'm likely to stop losing weight anytime soon."

"Oh, I see," Mark said laughing. "It's me who put all that weight on you is it? You didn't have anything to do with it?"

"I should be more worried about you!" I said, changing the subject. "Going with all those skinny twigs - they're hardly going to make sure you're eating right."

He gripped his gut with both hands and lifted it. "It's a stag do," he said simply. "My diet's going to consist of beer and kebabs. I don't think you have to worry."

I kissed him goodbye, our guts melding into one another, and he left to get his taxi. I made my mind up to give him something special to come back to - as much weight as I could conceivably gain in the week he was away. I was sure I could put on five pounds (we both did that easily in the week between last Christmas and New Years), but how much more could I do?

Me and Mark were both used to four enormous meals as standard by now, so I added multiple tubs of ice cream and gainer shakes each day on top, to really kickstart my growth. I spent the next week bloated, groggy and uncomfortable - it was one of the hottest things I've ever done.

By the time Mark was back, I'd managed to push eleven more pounds onto my body, bringing me up to a cool 267 pounds. He walked into me lying prone on the sofa, shirt off, fresh stretch marks covering my gut, melted ice cream dripping onto soft moobs. I struggled to sit up to greet him, burping through a smile.

"Uhh, hi," he said, not moving from the doorway. His gaze hovered somewhere over my head.

"How was Berlin?" I asked, finally managing to sit up with a soft "ooft".

"Yeah it was…" he trailed off. "You know, fun. Good to see the lads." Still by the doorway. Still no eye contact.

"Is everything okay?" I asked, the ice cream sitting less comfortably in my stomach by the second.

"Yeah, no, it was just…" He finally moved away from the doorway, pacing around the room, eyes looking at everything except my expanded form. "They kept on taking the piss out of me," he said eventually. "You know, for being so fat."

"Right…" I said slowly. "But you're… you're okay with that, right?" I stood up with some effort and moved towards him. He moved towards the kitchen, still not meeting my eyes. "You've said you find it hot?" I felt self-conscious now, and looked around for a t-shirt I could put on.

He sighed, and finally looked at me. "Maybe not everything has to be hot," he said simply. "Like, yeah, it's great for sex but… Christ Ben, I'm over 24 stone now! Look at me!" He gestured down to his body, swollen with fat in every direction. "Every fucking day was just me trailing behind everyone else, completely out of breath, putting up with fucking jokes every other minute about my double chin and moobs and rolls-"

"Okay, your mates are arseholes!" I said. "Does that matter? Your workmates make jokes like that all the time."

"It's not my mates!" His voice was growing louder. "They're right! We've- I've-" He sighed and rubbed his face, his double chin moulding under his fingers. "We've taken it too far." He looked at me in the eyes. "This," he gestured down at himself and looked guiltily at me, "isn't just 'being a big guy' anymore. It's really, properly fat."

We tried to avoid talking about it for a few days. Then talked about dieting, going to the gym, building muscle, what weight might be a good compromise. Every conversation turned into an argument. Every meal, every shopping list.

I'd gotten so used to over-eating that I'd sneak off in the middle of the night or when he was at work to gorge. The couple of times he caught me turning into raging arguments. The times I caught him doing the same weren't much better.

Three weeks later, he'd packed his bags and gone to his parents. Whereas in the past I'd have stopped eating, I'd now fundamentally rewired my brain. Comfort eating was now de rigueur and every day seemed to overshadow the last. My snacks would have left a grown man satisfied, my meals turned into feasts, ice cream filled the time between like it filled in gaps in my stomach.

I ballooned. My tits drooped, my stomach swelled, my thighs chafed. I was grateful my job was mainly work-from-home, since my old clothes became restrictive to the point of pain. Buying clothes became a matter of adding the biggest size available to my cart and hoping for the best, waiting for the day I had to move to big-and-tall shops. Whenever I did have to go into the office, button-ups strained, my belt dug in, ties became comedically short. I saw my coworkers talking to each other, jokingly at first, then with concern. How could they not? I took up twice the space that I had done not long before, my face was round and jowly and soft. HR sent an email asking if I'd like a stronger chair. Emails were sent round reminding people about the gym memberships that the company offered, ostensibly office-wide, but I knew who they were targeted at.

When I reached 325 pounds I realised I almost weighed as much as Mark had when he left. Would I celebrate, I wondered, once I passed that milestone? Eat a cake to myself? Would that even register at this point?

I heard the door open and close, and I twisted around as best as I could. My flexibility had reached a critical point - now every action came with resistance, as fat bunched against fat and stretched around the sheer bulk of me. I looked around desperately at the mess around me, the ice cream cartons, cake boxes, tubs of cake frosting eaten straight.

"Ben?" Mark asked. I stood up as quickly as I could, tried to pull down my t-shirt so it covered the rest of my gut, did my best to button my shorts. I felt his hands on my arms before I even had a chance to get a good look at him. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

I looked up, finally. "You've lost weight," I said. It was true. His gut, his double chin, his tits, all were still there, big, but diminished.

He chuckled. "The lads at the site still call me a fat bastard," he said and shook his belly. It was true, I supposed - by anyone else's standards he was still obese. "You, erm, haven't," he added, quietly. "Lost weight, I mean."

I felt huge. Disgusting. "I can lose it," I promised, tears welling up in my eyes. "I just missed you so much and-"

"No," Mark said.

"No?" I asked.

"No," he repeated. "I don't need you to lose weight, I don't need…" He sighed. "I thought I needed to get fit again. Lose all the weight. I started going to the gym, dieting. Started seeing results. Got down to two-sixty."

I peered at him. "You're not…" I began.

"No, I'm about two-eighty now. Probably a bit more," he answered my unspoken question. "I realised being smaller wasn't making me happy. Once I stopped dieting, the weight piled back on." He ran a finger across his moustache and looked around nervously. "Then I realised the reason I wasn't happy was because I wasn't with you." I noticed for the first time that he was holding back tears.

I moved towards him and help him for a while. He gripped me tight, his strong arms sinking into my soft back.

A while later, we were sat at the table, a chinese takeaway in front of us - a small attempt at normality.

"So," Mark said, looking at me sideways and speaking slowly, as if to test the waters. "What are you weighing at these days?" he asked.

I sucked air through my teeth. I knew this was coming. I wasn't upset as such - by this point, our relationship was defined by fat. It was a shock though, him coming back having lost so much weight, me having put on so much. "Three-two-five," I said, as calmly as I could. "Well, a couple of weeks ago at least."

Mark whistled and reached over to slide a hand across my belly, as if in admiration. "God, did you ever imagine you'd be the bigger one in the relationship?" he asked. I felt my face go red, and I started to stammer a response. "I've got to be honest," he continued. "I'm pretty jealous."

I choked. "Jealous?" I managed to spit out. "Of being this big?"

He sighed wistfully. "I've always been a big guy, you know? And then when I started going out with you I got used to being the biggest guy in most situations. And I definitely never thought I'd be smaller than you."

I smirked. "Fancy changing that?"

He chuckled. "Just you wait," he said. "I'll be the bigger one again in no time."

I grinned and picked up a rib. "Good," I said. "No man of mine is going to be under three hundred. You'll have to hurry up and catch me though," I told him. "I'm going to be a moving target."

He smiled. "Sounds great." He spooned some food onto his plate. "See you at three hundred and fifty pounds?" he teased.

I grinned. "At least."

#gaining fiction #weight gain story #weight gain #gainer fiction #gainer story #on again off again #no one other than me will ever find it funny that he took him to an impressionist exhibition to impress a date and I'm at peace with that

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