The Headmaster - by Elf

The Headmaster - by Elf

Published by Elf · 2012-02-24T22:51:31+0000

For weeks—months now—ever since the autumn term began, the headmaster had been dropping these odd remarks within my hearing, about how fat he’s gotten, about how much weight he put on lately—and he pats his little curve of paunch and smile and looks at me out of the corner of his eyes to see if I’ve noticed. Of course I’ve noticed! How could a fellow not notice, when one’s boss, Damian Cannon, OBE, who happens to be tall and broad-shoulders and silver-haired and very distinguished-looking, starts to say exactly the sort of thing which is guaranteed to get me hot and bothered?

When I complimented Damian on a sharp new grey suit, he smiled his famous wicked grin, slapped his belly and declared, “I can’t get into any of my old suits anymore.” On Jeans for Genes day, when the pupils and staff come to school dressed in blue jeans if they donate a pound towards research to cure genetic diseases, Damian showed up in brown chinos, and before I could say anything, he remarked loudly that he’d become too fat for any of his jeans—and did I think that red wine was fattening? Because he’d been trying to eat less at lunch and at tea… and then I’d see him later taking seconds on pasta and puddings, and downing several sandwiches and a chocolate éclair at tea…

We do have an amazing chef at our school, Barry, a very talented cook whose mission it is, I believe, to fatten up every male member of the staff. I know I’ve put on a stone since I joined the school five years ago. And Robert McCay, the new science master, who started with us just this last September, is already looking decidedly thicker through the middle. But it’s nothing compared with Damian. Fifty-five years old, six-foot-three, ex-rugby-player’s muscles, passionate about cricket, a brilliant educator and administrator, popular with the parents and with the board of governors—and getting fat. I noticed it, just a bit, last spring, the merest hint of a curve over his belt buckle. A bit more in the summer term. But when we reconvened after the summer holidays, it was all I could do not to stare in amazement—and lust. Seven weeks away, and his gut looked easily three or four inches bigger around. Soft and heavy and plush inside his expensive white shirts… Spreading wide and beginning to sag… and his handsome face starting to go jowly, the bulk of meaty flesh beginning beneath his cleft chin and rugged jawline…

“And for the past year I’ve been blaming Barry’s cooking for the weight I’ve been putting on,” Damian moaned self-mockingly during one lunch that first week back. “But I came back from the holidays fatter than ever, so it must be the red wine…”

And I’ve been wondering—why is Damian telling me all this? Why does he keep bringing it up in my presence? Okay, so I admit that I’m a good bit heavier myself than I was when I interviewed for the position…and it’s also true that he and I are almost the same age, though you’d never think it to look at the two of us side by side—him with his height and craggy good looks, sun-creased smile lines around his eyes, and that lovely head of silver hair, and me on the short side, baby-faced, hardly a touch of grey in my hair, and still getting asked for ID in pubs up to ten years ago until I finally grew my beard.

Yesterday again, devouring half a dozen biscuits with his tea at morning break, and then complaining jovially about how tight his trousers feel these days. And this afternoon, cornering me in the staff room to ask me about a scholarship boy’s progress, and his big square hairy hand resting on my shoulder for a moment, a wide white smile splitting his face… “Thanks. Exactly what I needed to know…” God, the nearness of the man, his height, his increasing bulky midsection, the scent of his aftershave… Imagine all that on top of me in bed…

And just now, in the weekly staff meeting, Damien dropped the bombshell that he and his wife of thirty-two years are separating. You could’ve heard a pin drop… and if you’d be listening as carefully as all that, you might have heard my cock stir in my underpants. Because if Damien were free, now…

I can imagine him another two or three stones heavier. I can imagine him growing a beard—a great thick silver-streaked mass of curls… I can imagine his arm around my shoulder—in his BMW, in a pub in Brighton somewhere—and him drawing me close for a kiss, for… well, for more. So I’m not asking for your help in painting lovely fantasies for myself…

My question to you all is—do I go for it? Do I make a move? Or do I wait… let him get fatter, gain a bit more weight myself, and then one day—oh, god, let it be soon!—find myself tumbling into bed with the handsomest, sexiest man I know…?

Advice would be appreciated.