Best Served - Chapter 4: The Stuff of Dreams

Best Served - Chapter 4: The Stuff of Dreams

Published by Aereon · 2008-10-23T03:57:31+0000

Martin handed another plate down the line. It was a long line of plates and Martin realized, but only in passing, that he could not really see the end of the table. As the plate left his hand, he found another has replaced it in his palm and, without thinking, he incautiously sloshed the ladle onto it spilling out a rich, thick mixture that smelled of roasted beef, mashed potatoes, and somehow a golden crust. The heavenly smelling mixture filled the plate with a small brown trickle seeping over the edge and down onto his wrist. He leant to lick it off but stopped, hesitating a tongue’s length from the savory liquid. Without moving his head, his eyes flicked upwards across the table.

On the other side, a myriad anonymous hands, for Martin hadn'’t a clue to whom they could belong as the arms and bodies attached to them were but vague, gray shapes, each flicked the plates in the opposite direction. His eyes followed the plated until they rested on the muscle-god-like figure of Evan, sitting naked in a high chair, his thick, dark hair waving into a curl over his ears, his thick man-meat flopped flaccidly to the side. A sparkle at the tip glistened from a line of thick pre-cum that Martin knew was there, as succulent and tasty as the mixture he was spooning onto the plates. A hard stir in Martin’s own loins thrust forward, the heavy pulling and churning of his balls somehow fighting for urgent attention.

Martin realized, as if noticing, well not really for the first time but as if he’d always known but just now realized, that each plate was tipped into the muscle-gods mouth, the luscious mixture slipping easily between those full lips. Plate after plate tipped in, heap after heap of what was surely the most fattening meal choices Martin could think of yet the muscle remained rigid and tight, the vascular striations of the sinew clear as if in bas relief. Martin knew Evan should be getting fatter but not a shred of his physique was lost. He became once again aware that he had continued filling the plates, the conveyor line unchanging in its rhythm and speed.

As he opened his mouth to ask Evan his curious question, Evan’s eyes flicked to Martin and Martin became acutely conscious that Evan was staring, not at him, but into him. Evan held up a hand to his belly and rubbed luxuriously. The thick, flaccid meat began to stir, long and snakelike, but languidly as if waking from a particularly pleasant dream. Evan’s hand then raised, his eyes fixed on Martin riveting him to the spot. He has stopped ladling, the plates just moved around him, filling as they went, the line never halting as the clinking of the china tinkled softly into the distance of the enormous table then coursed back up the other side. Bolted to Evans eyes, Martin felt his jaw fall open, slackened by the visual lock, his vision nothing but Evan as he saw the hand stretch out pointing directly at him. The pace of the plates seemed to audibly increase and, even as Evan’s gazed was locked on Martins, the food continued to find its way into Evan’s throat, stretching from the plates into long tubes that snaked their way into his gullet.

Martin was aware of it now, the food coursing in, the rich taste of the beef and potatoes slipping gloriously down, filling his belly, making it heavy and warm. His belly. Not Evan’s. A brief surge of panic struck him as he realized that the faster the food spilled into Evan, the heavier his own gut was becoming. He risked a frightened glance downwards where rolls of fat spilled off his chest and belly. His own cock and legs and feet were lost beneath the behemoth his torso had become. The panic welled in him, warmed by the rich tastes. The harshness of the fear cut into soft shards and rolled out flat as cherry pastries and fruit cobbler filled his senses.

The fear was consumed by the tastes and as it vanished, Martin found the tastes so heavenly, so inviting. He felt his plumping fingers reach for a plate and tipped it forward into his hesitant mouth. The blissful scent and texture beat down the welling panic so he reached for another plate. This one, too, tipped in easily and stamped out a measure of the panic he had been consumed with. Plate after plate tipped in by his own fattening hands, the thick layer padding his forearms, thickening over his biceps and triceps until his arms felt heavy from the layers covering them.

He felt his face filling out, his neck thickening into rolls with two, three, maybe four chins wobbling under his jaw. He had lost sight of Evan in the divine gorging but was suddenly aware that a hand was wrapped around his cock. He felt it hard in its shroud of fat, looked up to see Evan with a smug, pleased expression, his own meaty prick engorged and swollen to purple, the veins throbbing for release. And Martin knew it was the fat that had done it. He could not move for the rolls that had pinned him but he felt transported to a new level of bliss as the hard cock buried under his fat responded to Evans deft ministrations, the thumping of Evan’s own baseball bat against his fat proof to him that the fat was turning Evan on, making his member respond in a way… A way he could never… The thumping of the cock on his body… Thump… Thump… Thick veiny meat… Thump… Thump…

It was the thumping that finally woke Martin to pull himself groggily up in his bedsheets and realize someone was at the door. He mumbled and slung his legs wearily over the edge, conscious – if barely – of only two things. The first was that his clock was adamant that the time was only 8am, only 3 and a half hours after he’d closed his eyes. The second was of the sticky wetness he felt inside his pajama pants as a glob of it slipped wetly down the inside of his leg. “Oh, great!” he murmured pulling out the elastic band and glared accusingly over his belly at the head of his cock, still throbbing innocently in sticky strands of white cum. And then the thumping on the door banged again, insistent and clearly not willing to be denied.

The locks had scarcely unlatched when Devin burst through the door, sniffling and dabbing a white Kleenex at his puffy red eyes. Martin stumbled back, barely keeping himself upright by hanging onto the thick bronze doorknob and exclaimed, in a hiss, his displeasure at the abrupt entrance.

“He’s gone!” Devin cried, an edge of hysterics tinting his voice.

“What?” mumbled a still-bleary Martin, “Who’s gone?”

“Evan!” Devin said and fell onto the cough, his head down into his hands. The name cut through Martin’s fugue like a clothes-horse at a Macy’s discount rack. A wash of panic and guilt coursed over him sending cold sweat beading down his spine. “Er…” he said stupidly walking over to the couch and sitting beside Devin, his arm stretching around him. The words formed on the tip of his tongue. “Devin, I have Evan in the other room.” But as they began to materialize, the second sentence – “He’s completely naked, probably with a colossal hard-on, and has been sleeping here all night because he was upset you threw him out and needed comforting” – reached up to the first and strangled the life out of it before it could see the light of day resulting in the destruction of a great friendship. The outcome was a gurgle that Devin apparently took to mean “Please tell me the story”.