Middle Aged Spread, by Donald T. Oolong
Woo, I’m back fuckers. Been a while. Whole bunch of sob stories to tell, but who wants to hear them? Been thinking about the whole transformation thing. There’s an undercurrent of fear in a lot of age progression stories– say some preening gym rat finds himself suddenly aged and fattened, thrust into the very life he’s been trying to avoid.
But there’s something that draws me back, so maybe there’s something desirable to it, some sort of pleasure the characters can draw from their new situation. All about perspective, etc. etc. I guess that’s what I was trying to get at with this.It kinda goes off the rails, but I had fun writing it.
Let me know what you think.
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“Oh, shit, man, take it easy on the fries,” Tucker muttered under his breath upon seeing the plates of food delivered to the pair of men across from him on the patio. It didn’t seem to be as far under his breath as he’d intended–one of the men looked straight at him after thanking the waiter.
“Why don’t you take it easy on the god-damn attitude, buddy?”
The waiter grimaced and quickened his pace toward the doors leading inside the cafe.
Busted. Oh well, fuckin’ own it.
“Fuck yourself. After getting a treadmill,” Tucker scoffed.
Tucker would’ve put him at about 45 or so. Round, bespectacled face, devoid of hair save for a crew cut and a bushy, salt-and-pepper mustache. He was easily 300 pounds, poured into clothing that emphasized comfort over style: a large red t-shirt barely containing a spherical gut which spilled into the lap of some gray sweatpants. Hardly a threat, unless the guy somehow sat on him. Still, something about the intensity of the man’s glare gave Tucker pause.
“Aw, just chill out, Ray,”
Ray’s friend looked nearly the same to Tucker: mustachioed, maybe a few pounds lighter–though softer and flabbier looking– mid-40s, sweatsuit-clad. His southern twang contrasted with his friend’s gruff Brooklyn accent. Tucker’s eye was drawn away from Ray’s indignant glower to the bright orange Clemson Tigers logo on the other man’s sweatpants.
“Hell, I remember bein’ young,” Clemson cocked his head up thoughtfully, “lookin’ at all the older folks lettin’ themselves go and thinkin’ ‘Damn! I swear to God I’ll never get like that when I reach forty’.”
Clemson paused to dip a french fry into the blob of ketchup on his plate.
“But I guess time make’s a fool outta all of us,” Clemson chuckled, giving his belly a pat and popping the fry into his mouth.
Tucker shifted self-consciously in his seat, remembering the last three days missed workout days (never skip leg day), as well as the small paunches his friends from college were developing as they entered their late twenties, ensconced in marriages and desk jobs. Tucker and his sophomore roommate Craig seemed to be the lone holdouts.
For now, an unfamiliar voice whispered in his head.
“Well ain’t you Mister Philosopher, Quincey,” Ray snarled through a mouthful of food.
So that was Clemson’s name. Quincey.
“Lemmee ask you this, Quincey, ‘cause inquiring minds wanna know…where you think this fucker’s gonna be carryin’ that club sandwich he’s munching on, you know, since he’s so god-damn concerned about everybody fitting into their jeans from college? In his ass? You think pretty boy over here is gonna get stuck with a big fat caboose? What does the great Mister Philosopher think, eh” Ray let out a harsh cackle.
The Tucker in college would have strode over to Ray and broken his nose. The Tucker that now sat in the cafe sheepishly put down the half-eaten sandwich and stared at his plate, his face turning scarlet.
He felt an odd tugging sensation along the shaft of his cock and remembered reading somewhere that men’s penises would sometimes draw into their bodies under situations of extreme anxiety. His heart pounded in his chest as he realized that he, a regional kickboxing champion, was being cowed by a fat middle-aged man in sweatpants. He forced himself to look up at the two men, and made eye contact with Ray; Ray’s smirk widened. Tucker gulped audibly and felt his cock collapse further as his gaze darted to a space a hundred feet behind Ray’s head.
Quincey, oblivious to what was happening, actually seemed to be pondering his friend’s question.
“Hmm, well, I suppose there are several factors that determine how and if men gain weight…” Quincey drawled on didactically. The man’s gentle, amiable nature unnerved Tucker. His prick responded by drawing completely within his body, and Tucker shivered as he felt the confines of his flesh close against it. His balls followed suit, and a dull ache spread through Tucker’s crotch. His armpits grew damp, and he felt beads of sweat form on his forehead.
As Quincey rambled on about apples and pears (was the man talking about fruit?), Ray snapped his fingers.
“Hey, pussy, stop pretending like you can’t see me. I’ve got something to show you.”
The front of Ray’s sweatpants bulged obscenely, his cock rising triumphantly. Tucker’s mouth ran dry as his eyes fixed on the growing tent.His own flaccid cock twitched in response. He felt as if he’d lost some contest, but what?
The air seemed to crackle with static electricity as Tucker felt the hair on his arms stand on end. Then he noticed the streets and sidewalks, devoid of people and traffic. Trees rustled in the wind. Plates of half eaten food sat at empty tables. For the time being, the only people in the world were the three of them.
“F-f-uck yourself, you fat piece of shit,” Tucker’s voice cracked. Ray wagged his finger.
“Tsk, tsk, young man. Such language from such a sore loser. Allow me to dispense some philosophical wisdom of my own: A Moment on the Lips, Forever on the Hips.”
“Wha-?”
The waistband of Tucker’s pants tightened, and the young man gasped as the small curvature of a belly began to push out and spill into his own lap. His nipples began to tingle as the fabric of his shirt rubbed against them. Bolting upright, Tucker stumbled forward, only to notice the unbearable tightness in the seat of his pants.
RRRRIIIPPPP!
Quincey watched Tucker’s swelling form with rapt attention.
“Well I’ll be…You’re right, fella is gettin’ pretty bottom heavy.”
Quincey met Tucker’s pleading eyes and gave a sad smile.
“Sorry bud, middle-age spread can happen the best of us…’Course it gets some of us better n’ others,” he guffawed, his mood lightening almost immediately. Tucker wanted to punch Quincey’s folksy face in.
His clothes in tatters, Tucker stumbled toward the two men, knocking over his table. He felt his body quiver with each step, the unfamiliar feeling of fat blossoming on his body at an impossible rate. His thighs rubbed together. His belly dropped lower, his pecs swelled into large, pointed breasts. And his ass swayed back and forth with each step. The skin beneath his nose itched, and Tucker stopped dead in his tracks as he caught sight of his reflection in the window of the cafe. His face was barely distinguishable from that of Ray and Quincey. Face puffed out and beginning to sag with age, short crew cut, bristling mustache.
“What did I tell you Quincey, what did I tell you. Got a nice, big fat ass. We’d better slap a wide load sticker on that thing” husked Ray. His voice had softened to a satisfied purr as he massaged his stiff cock through the fabric of his sweats.
“Gotta say, Ray, he’s grown into quite a looker…’ole Quincey Junior here seems to agree, heh heh.”
Ray arched his back and moaned, a dark stain spreading across the front of his sweats.
“You’re so fucking positive it makes me wanna puke, Quincey. Let’s head home,”
Tucker tried to scream, but the cafe, the empty streets, Ray, Quincey, and his own voice were swallowed in the sound of a roaring ocean and a brilliant red light.
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Tucker’s head pounded. He was hung over. He had to be hung over. His body felt heavy.
Something bristled against the nape of his neck. Warm air puffing against his face–someone’s breath. And finally, a familiar, jovial Southern accent.
“Wakey wakey.”
Tucker struggled to sit up, feeling the fat that now surrounded his frame jiggle. There was a squeaking of mattress springs. He looked down at the white undershirt stretched across his gut, and felt the yielding softness of the enormous ass beneath him.
“No, no Jesus fuck,” Tucker sobbed. Quincey patted his shoulder. They were in a bedroom in a house, somewhere.
Did these fuckers kidnap me?
“Ain’t so bad, once you’re used to it. Easy for me to say now: I hated it, and Ray, well Ray definitely still hates it. Poor bastard.”
“Fuck you, you dumb hick.”
Tucker turned to see Ray glowering (could he do nothing else?) from a doorway, dressed in a pair of khakis held up by suspenders, his hairy gut protruding a good foot in front of him.
“You’re a fat, old fuck like the rest of us. No going back, pal. Get used to it,” he hissed, before slamming the door.
“He’s right about one thing. No goin’ back.“ Quincey shook his head, “don’t ask me how it happened. One minute I was the captain of the damn swim team, next thing, kablam. I get all cocky with some cranky fat guy at a bar”–Quincey jerked his head toward the door–“and then I’m just another schlubby fat man. Been that way, for oh, twenty years.”
“Twenty…” Tucker ran his hand across the expanse of his belly. “Are we dead?”
“This feel dead to you?” Quincey pinched one of Tucker’s nipples. He winked as Tucker felt his cock stir. Tuckers hand reached down beneath his belly, felt his stubby member poking out from a pad of fat that had formed around his crotch.
“Are we in Heaven? Hell? All that philosophical crap?” Quincey’s hand snaked down toward Tucker’s cock, began to stroke it.
“It’s whatever you make of it, I think,” Quincey continued. “Who knows how long Ray’s been like that, how he got that way…where this house came from, how the sheets get cleaned every morning, how sometimes I step outside into Rome, Italy, sometimes into Rome, Georgia. There’s more of us here, you know. Whole lotta guys in the same boat.”
“I think it feels kinda good bein’ a fat man, having a little maturity. You appreciate different things about yourself, that’s the way I see it. Ray just gets off on seein’ guys like you mired in despair, everything just slippin’ away from you. Misery loves company, and all that. Me…well I gotta say, you were one handsome fucker before–maybe a little assholish, but definitely a head turner–but you are lookin’ fuckin’ fine now, boy. Whadya say? Wanna make the best of a shit situation?”
No going back Stuck like this…possibly forever Shaking, Tucker threw back the sheets. He tried to crawl out of bed, and paused when he saw his reflection.Naked save for his shirt, older, fatter. Quincey whistled approvingly.
“Lot more of you to love,” he encouraged.
Tucker’s cock stiffened.
“Yeah,” he muttered. “Maybe.” And funny enough, he was feeling more certain of it by the second.
Stuck as Santa 