Coach

Coach

Published by GrowinPup · 2010-10-06T00:15:19+0000

Standing at the front door of a non-descript home in my baggiest sweats. Bandana around my head to keep the heavy sweating that’s about to happen out of my eyes.

Knocked firmly. Coach hates the doorbell. Says that’s how he knows it’s someone selling something.

When he opened the door I can feel the too tight jock I’m ordered to wear get a bit tighter.

“Right on time. That’s a good boy.”

He turned in profile, still in the door, to let me in. He’s showing me his muscular pecs plumped and sagging with some fat and his ball gut. He knows what he’ doing. At 6’4” I tower over him as my growing body filled up the rest of the door stepping inside. My elbow grazed his belly and he smacked my beefy ass.

This is how we both like it. He’s the fireplug in-charge. He even wears the tight-fitting gear worn by small town football coaches all over the midwest. Tight poly shorts, thick and mid thigh. Tight collard shirt, that hugs every curve of his torso -- and even more so when its soaked with sweat; his and mine.

“You eat before you came over, boy?”

“No Coach. Came straight over.”

“Get your butt up to the table then. Can’t have you working out on an empty stomach” As he said this, he reached under my XXXL sweatshirt and kneaded my furry gut. His hands were cold and I jumped. “Gotta have fuel in here boy or you can’t lift like I know you can.” Then he slid his hands back onto the round curves of fat above my hips and ass, squeezed and pulled me to him. He stood on his toes and cocked his head. I leaned down, I knew he wanted to kiss me hard.

Seated up at his kitchen table, He put a 12 egg omelet in front of me filled to bursting with meat and cheese and six slices of toast with butter and jam. It didn’t come to me on a plate, not anymore. Coach served me from platters. There was also a small mixing bowl with fruit and a large glass of 1/2 and 1/2 fortified with gainer shake mix, peanut butter, banana and oats.

“You’ve got work to do boy. Dig in.”

I did.

Coach and I found each other on the internet about six months ago. At that time, I was a 230 lb. guy with a decent build, but had dreamed all my life of being a huge musclebear. At about that time, I’d started my first real mass building regimen; lifting heavy and eating, at least at that time, what I thought was big. Man was I wrong.

It was funny in the beginning. It started out like so many other beginnings with guys. I’m the big guy so I’m in charge. I’d enjoyed that. Being the big man, especially in bed with a smaller bear. Made me feel bigger and my size, too, enjoyed by the small guy. But with coach, things changed from that path pretty quick. He’s got strong opinions and a will to get him what he wants. And for my part, I just wanted to be treated like a piece of meat and follow along for once. Both of us being in the right place, we’ve built it into the roles of coach and his boy. We don’t really step outside the play. It is what we are to each other and I’m loving it.

As I finished up my pre-workout meal, Coach reappeared. His shirt was gone. Almost done fatboy?” He’s one hot “little” bear.

“Yeah Coach.” Rubbing my now distended belly through my sweatshirt. “Couple more minutes.”

“You sop that up, and I’ll deal with these dishes. Then head downstairs and its warm up.”

“Sure thing Coach.”

The things was, I took one too many breaths before finishing. Coach picked up that last slice of toast forked the last of the omelet onto it and crammed it in my mouth. Just chewed it like a good boy. While I’d already finished my shake, from somewhere behind him he pulled out another one of equal size; over two quarts combined. He stood me up, stepped himself up onto the chair to look down into my eyes, and lifted the shake to my lips. All I could do, all I wanted to do, was chug and fill in the last of the food gaps. As I drank, I relaxed my abs completely, letting the true size of my gut pull the triple-x sweats tight. I just swallowed as I’d been trained to. Discomfort was not of interest to Coach, or, to me anymore. I just did what I was told. The bottom curve of my gut was exposed and coach’s free hand was back on my belly in a flash. Thoughtfully, it was just a gentle kneading. I was pretty full.

“Damn, boy. You are gettin’ reeeeaaal big. Who’s growin’ you like some prize hog?”

“You are coach. You are.”

I could see the tent pole in his shorts as he set the glass down. My huge stretched gut was the same show with the same effect on him as his shirtless return to breakfast was on me. We knew how to play and that’s why it was so hot.

“I’ll be right down, boy. Now get down there and get ready for me.”

I hard-heeled it down the stairs feeling the heavy bounce and sway of my gut and pecs. Through to the home gym -- it was like something straight out of Gold’s, it had a squat rack, leg press, (fat boys gotta carry themselves around, Coach says), bench, hundreds of pounds of plates and dumbbell weight, different barbells, even a pec deck. As today is chest and bis day, I’d be planted there for some time.

Coach and I had started out hitting a local rat gym, spotting each other and then the Old Country Buffet afterward. The workouts got more intense and the feeding afterward did too. We went from just spotting to Coach barking orders at me in front of anyone around. The feeding went from a good fill up at the buffet to Coach getting my plates for me, the contents of of which, and the number of re-fills, were determined only by him. Regardless, I was to clean my plate. I did my job.

Coach decided to invest in the equipment I was setting up. The intensity of the workouts and the effects on us were making the public gym too restraining.

Like I said, when Coach and I first met up, I was 230 pounds on my 6’4” frame. Even then I didn’t have a six pack. There was still a little rounding above my waist. Now, after six months of lifting heavy weights, eating and being stuffed beyond my capacity regularly I was 290 pounds. Ten pounds a month average. I’d been involved with gainers earlier in life, only I filled them up. It wasn’t until Coach and I met up that I ever really entertained the thought of putting on a gut as well as muscle. I was so happy and horned up all the time now, I can’t believe I waited this long. Can’t imagine stopping either. Just bigger, that’s all I can imagine and with Coach’s help, that’s all I’ll ever be.

With the privacy of his home gym, my lifting uniform had gone from standard gym attire (although it was always the same shirt and shorts on his orders, and so tighter every week), to a jockstrap and a skin tight football half-shirt. So I stripped down in front of the mirror wall and enjoyed the fruits of my labor. My shoulders and arms had really blown up under Coach’s training and enforced nutrition. My pecs were a huge shelf just beginning the eventual sag down to rest on the perfect hemisphere at the top of my gut. I bounced my pecs and felt my big stretched nips graze my gut. My dick jumped. What in the hell was I going to do when they were in constant contact with my furry belly? I’ll be hard all the time and that was getting to be a problem the already. Misjudging distances and hitting things with my gut or ass. My shoulders always in the way, too. Maybe my gut will hang down enough by then to cover my crotch and I can walk around without anyone ever knowing what a pervert I am. As for now, my gut was my pride. 54” spherical ball up top flowing into growing love handles and a soft underbelly that’s one of Coaches favorite places to grab and get my attention. Like other fatboys, the stretched skin there is sensitive, ticklish. I used to graze my fingertips over the boys I used to fatten just there after they’d been fed and cum. They always jumped, their bellies pulling in (as much as the fat would allow) before releasing back into my waiting hands. A favorite of mine, and now I was fatboy in the hands of another.

While I was turning to view the beefy globes of my ass, Coach came in.

“Admiring the work then?”

Being caught and called on it, I sheepishly replied, “Yeah, Coach, you caught me.” I looked down to the floor and realized I saw more pink hemisphere than the black mat I was standing on. Coach stood there silently and I started to squirm inside, so I did what now came naturally when I was uncomfortable these days. I started rubbing my belly.

Coach smiled. “Measurement day, fatboy,” and he unfurled the tape and showed me the caliper.

“But coach I just ate, the results’ll be...”

“Now what makes you think I’m going to care about that?”, and he set to work. He called out the number and I wrote them down.

“Neck 20.5”, Shoulders 64”, Chest 56”, Arm 19”, Gut 57.5””, and there he paused. Took a breath and stuck his tongue in my navel. We normally didn’t get physical until the end of the workout and then afterward, of course, but it felt too good to stop him.

“Mmmmhm... Gut 57.5”, don’t record that boy, it is going to skew the results. We’ll do it again in the morning when your emptier. Waist 42”, Thigh 34”. Got it?”

“Yeah Coach.” Maybe more than the workouts and the feedings, this moment, the measure and weighing gave me the feeling I craved the most. Meat. God I loved it.

Even though the food in my gut stretched the measurement and would spike the scale, I hopped up there anyway. With his hand on the fat bulging above my hip, he adjusted the weight on the arm of the old fashioned scale and said, “298.” Even knowing I had 3 or so pounds of food in me, being that close to 300 was damn sexy. I looked up into the mirror and surveyed my size.

“We’ll weigh you again in the morning too boy, now for the calipers.”

Tricep, back and hip recorded, I handed the training log back to him so he could do his figuring. “Assuming you gained another 2 to 3 pounds per week the last two weeks, to date you put on approximately 17 pounds of muscle and 48 pounds of fat.” My accomplishment earned my three smacks to the underside of my gut, and a, “Time to get to work, now. Make sure you’re to 305 in two weeks.”

As I walked over to the bench for warm up presses, I knew that even in the morning I wouldn’t be completely empty. The high fat and protein meal at 9:00 and, if history repeats, the two a.m. shake with 1500 calories would mean “empty” would be relative. Just have to eat and lift that much more before the next weigh in/measurement in two weeks to keep the progress going.

Lying down on the bench, Coach stacked the plates, and I reached up for the bar. Doing that pulled the half shirt up from my still wet navel to just under my pecs. The warm up set cranks out easily, but before I could start, coach walked away from the spotter position, straddled my hips and sat down on my groin. I looked at him stupidly at the breaking of the pattern. Seeing this he said, “I’m going to show you how much you’ve grown these past six months during your warm up set, now get to it.”

Summoning the concentration from I don’t know where, I lowered the weight and felt two things, simultaneously, his hands digging into the working pec muscle, kneading the fiber and his groin bumping into my gut fat, with me horizontal, it was free of gravity to bounce and shake as much as it could.

I steeled my mind and raised the bar, inhale, lowered the bar, exhale to hold, all the while my gut is rolling like the ocean from crotch to sternum and my pecs are being invaded by his gripping fingers.

“Feel the size, boy? Feel all that muscle and fat I’ve put on you in only half a year?”

Cranking out the last two reps, I replaced the bar feeling winded and realizing it wasn’t from the relatively light weight on the bar. Coach looked down on my possessively.

“Think about the next 6 months will accomplish now that we’ve gotten your stomach capacity so stretched out and your lifting has taken so well? And after this week, while you’ve got that time off from work, you’ve also got a rest week coming up. No weights, just the eating. With the round the clock eating regimen I’ve got planned for you, you’ll put on a pound a day from Saturday to Sunday. No interruptions or distractions. That’s,”

“9 pounds.”

“And you’ll do your best to make it an even 10, wont you boy?”

“Yes sir, Coach.”

After the “hands on” warm up, Coach moved back to the spotting position for the real lifting. 225 for 10, 250 for 8, 275 for 6 then back to about 240 for 12 and adjustment to incline for a superset of the same. And then came the sweating I wore the bandana for.

Next the pec deck. For the warm up, coach put his hands on my gut this time, kneading and bouncing as the movement of my arms revealed my entire belly. I think for the first time I noticed how much of it was in contact with the upper part of my thighs. After the warm up, coach counted off the reps for each set at the higher weight. My jockstrap, now completely inadequate no longer contained my hard dick as it pointed to the starboard.

Third was the incline dumbbell press. “To get the fast twitch”, Coach said, “we do just one set of 20 this week.” He pulled out the 60s, and I scoffed a bit.

“You think you can do 20 reps with more the 60lbs in each hand after the workout you’ve had so far? Okay tough guy”, and he handed me the 75s.

“For each rep shy of 20, you’re going to drink a gallon of my patented gainer shake tonight. Got it?” And even though this wasn’t a warm up, he sat down on my groin as he had for the bench presses, grinding my hard dick into his sinewy right hamstring. He began to hump my gut again, creating some heavy friction on my dick in the process, and said “Do it.”

The first five were cake. Six I felt. Seven took concentration. At eight my gut was quivering from Coach, but also the exertion. Nine and ten took me to new depths of despair. I was only half way there. Eleven and my arms were shaking. At 12, I could only bring my arms up three quarters of the way. I dropped them, the weights hit the floor with a dead thud and my gut and chest were heaving from the effort. Just like that Coach was back at me with 50s. “Finish.” I managed eight ugly reps. Coach helped me through with his fingers on my elbows and his encouraging words in my ear. They were ugly reps but I made it. The weights again hit the ground and I sat up feeling my pecs burn with the damage that would make them even bigger. Coach gripped my thick trapezius and congratulated me. “Not only that, but you only have to down 8 gallons of shake tonight. I thought for sure it’d be ten!”

I picked up my head, turned it to him to speak out, but all that came from my mouth was “Okay Coach. Thanks Coach,” and my torso curled forward again, shoulders an biceps forcing my pumped pecs together and down onto my gut, thighs pushing my gut up and out. I was almost the beast I wanted to be.

“C’mon boy bi’s next, sissy bar curls, then dumbbells, then preacher’s...”

Through the workout we proceeded. I did exactly as I was told with eight gallons of shake already holding over my head. Even at one and hour, I wouldn’t finish them all until the wee hours of the morning.

Okay boy, lets finish up with some push ups. I went through wide, narrow, decline and holds. For some he rode me like a horse. Others, he just laid on me, face down with his arms wrapped around my gut for stability, and his own pleasure. The sweat was pouring off me now and I was spent. I collapsed onto the floor.

“Good workout, boy. Aside from that show of pride you’re going to drink tonight, you did good.” Out of a cooler in the corner came gallon milk jug, but milk was only part of what was in there now. I downed the first half without breaking the chug. My breakfast had digested and I had room. I was thirsty, too. It took two more pulls to finish the gallon and with that inside me, my gut was as pumped as my chest and biceps were. I stood up, ripped a belch that made Coach smile and he told me to hit the shower.

Through another door was the “locker room”. It contained a large shower area, a sauna and a massage table. I stripped off my shirt and useless jock, got the water going and stepped into the heat. I heard Coach come in but was to beat to move. While I stood there, he lathered up my back, ass, balls and legs, turned me around did my hair and face, arms, then in long lingering strokes, he soaped my chest, gut and groin. He turned me back around and leaning up against my back, his head coming only to the bottom of my shoulder blades, he reached around as best he could to continue.

Rinsed and dried, I hopped up on the massage table, face down first, and he rubbed me down.

“You’re gettin’ huge boy,” he whispered in my ear. This beefy ass is more than I take watching in that jock. While saying it he massaged my furry butt.

“I’m growin’ you like I own you.”

“This ass is mine, boy.”

And just like I was hoping, he climbed up on the table, and shoved his fat dick right up my chute, massaging my prostate and still massaging my traps and lats. He must have been as horned up as I was because he didn’t last but 15 minutes when his thrusts and grunts became urgent and he unloaded in my hole.

“Damn fine ass if I do say so myself.”

I flipped over onto my back next looking forward to deep work on the muscles I’d just shredded, when coach disappeared from view and reappeared with a new device, but knowing better than to ask, I just waited to see what would happen. Basically, he constructed a cage around my head that supported a funnel. He inserted the tube into my mouth and whispered, “This is #2. I’m counting.” Then he flipped a gallon milk jug with the second shake into the apparatus and I began to slowly take it in. My dick was a full attention now, and coach, using my filling belly to balance, climbed up on the table again, and took my dick in his hole; and man did it make the medicine go down. Rubbing my belly as he rode me, I finished that shake in what seemed like no time. When he dismounted and popped shake #3 into my mouth, I decided to take my time and drain the thing as I could. Coach encouraged me by continuing to milk my dick with his ass. A long while later, I finally finished in my gut showed. Coach was up and had me up as fast as my new center of gravity allowed. He had the measuring tape out in a flash and taped me at 59”.

“Remember when you said 300 pounds and 60” of gut were part of your dream, boy? We’ll you’re standing at their door right now. What do you want to do about it?

“I want another shake, Coach. I want one bad.”

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

He laid me back down put shake #4 in the stand and the funnel in my mouth. He stayed off my dick this time to concentrate on the hemisphere of belly rising like bread dough off the table. With gentle strokes and careful pokes and prods, he let me take the shake at my own pace. It must have taken close to an hour of swallowing, breathing, breathing and swallowing. After draining the jug I didn’t think I wanted to stand right up, but coach moved my bulging heavy limbs and I complied. Standing back up the tape showed 60.25”.

“That’s one hell of a bloat boy.”

I just stood there.

“Yes sir, one hell of a bloat.” And with that he went down, under my huge round belly, took my dick in his mouth and sucked me dry. It was the hardest I’d come yet.

Springing back into view, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and grinned at me. I grinned back, stupidly.

“Get your sweatpants on and go lay on the couch while I get supper going. Both of us knowing the sweatshirt wasn’t going to cover much now anyway.

On the couch I could smell a delicious meal heading my way, and I willed my stomach to process its contents quickly, not only for the coming dinner -- but I still had four shakes to swig down.

“Hey Coach!”

“Yeah boy?” He stuck his head into the room, back in his coach shorts but his gut and pecs still out for me to ogle.

“Coach, you think next week we could try for two pounds a day?”

He smiled and disappeared back into the kitchen.