Vignette: Powerlifting Meat

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Powerlifting Meat by Pragmaton

The local weightlifting club entered your restaurant after their latest meet; spirits were high, as well as testosterone and cocky competitiveness. But that was exactly what you were counting on.

You had been friends with one of the club members way back in highschool, but had lost touch over the years. He did a small stint playing college football before returning to your hometown to work at the local fitness club. You went to culinary school to refine your cooking skills to better support your family's restaurant. Your old pal hit you up on social media once he found out you were back in town, and you rekindled your friendship.

One night, you cooked for the big beefball in your home to show off what you learned, after he joked about you going to culinary school. To his surprise, you prepared a small feast, ranging from Mediterranean to East Asian to South American cuisine. You didn't expect him to finish it all but were slightly taken aback when he suddenly unleashed his inner fatboy and started devouring as much as he could at a breakneck pace. Almost two hours later, he leaned back in his chair and belched, moaning as he rubbed his now-swollen, packed belly. "That was fucking delicious, bro," he whispered, eyes closed. "You gotta cook for the weightlifting club one of these days." Seeing your big buddy smirking with pained relief, rubbing that quivering overblown sphere you created, pants button popped and hairy belly sliver exposed, something awoke within you. "Sure thing," you agreed, knowing fully well it wouldn't be a simple task.

Two weeks later, that fateful night had finally come. Your friend had talked up your skills to his weightlifting buddies, joking that they would explode out if their shirts before the night was done. As a jest, they all entered your restaurant, shirts off, some dressed only in briefs, roaring for grub. Smiling, you place the "closed" sign outside, knowing the display that was about to take place was not for public eyes.

Each weightlifter had a personal feast, or trial, in front of him. You saw more than one adam's apple gulp in both excitement and trepidation. Dozens and dozens of pounds of meat, poultry, pork, potato dishes, stews, curries, fried rice and more littered a long table. As they dug in, they did not realize the devious trap you had sprung. For each dish that was on the table, there was significant dosage of tasteless appetite stimulant laced within. Not only that, but you had learned some interesting things about the dark side of culinary arts, namely contraband ingredients. There were a selection of herbs and spices, when combined, had cumulative aphrodisiac and testosterone boosting effects. The men in front of you began to sweat as they nosily gulped, slurped and swallowed massive forkfulls and spoonfuls of food.

Your heart skipped a beat when you saw your friend continue to force a ridiculous amount of food into his cheeks before he was able to swallow the previous amount. His eyes watered as his cheeks bowed comically outward like a chipmunk's, unable to even close his mouth. His adam's apple bobbed jerkily as it worked overtime to get that giant mound of addictive food into his gullet. Slowly but surely, each successive gulp shrunk those cheek pouches, the final one testing the limits of his muscular neck as it bulged to accommodate access to his ballgut.

Wait. Ballgut? Your eyes bugged as you witnessed your friend's stomach had already distended to the biggest you had ever seen it, that final gulp inching it tortuously outward even more. Ab striations were stretched over a bloated muscle ball not used to this level of capacity. He groaned in pain, one hand on his globed gut, the other hand reaching for even more! You gulped while looking around. maybe you had used too much appetite stimulant? You didn't actually expect these overblown muscleheads to finish the feasts put in front of them; there was technically enough food to bust their guts open twice over. Every seat was now dominated by a whopper of a musclegut, ab definition slowly disappearing from the force of food behind them. Even the smallest of the lifters had widened considerably, stretch marks peppering the sides of his beachball as he grew wider than his smaller frame could safely handle. To make matters even more dicey, some of the dumb jocks had eyed each other competitively, thumping their own guts in pride and egging themselves to eat more than each other. Men who were sitting together felt their engorged blimpguts rubbing against each other, causing discomfort but also amusement as they poked fun at one another's weight. "Looks like you need to go on a diet bro!" one ironically spherical heffer would say. "This bro?" an overstuffed, stretchmarked musclehog would respond, attempting to jiggle his dangerously rotund ballbelly, to little success. "This is all muscle! Also, I didn't hear your mom complaining last night when I put it on top of her!" But among the constant chugging, gorging, rubbing, joking and belly thumping, you began to notice something else. The flushed, red-faced overblown jocks suddenly began to exhibit shorter breaths, as their faces became redder and sweatier.

You smiled knowingly as you walked to the empty side of the long table, pretending to drop a stack of empty plates. Cursing, you grab some cleaning tools from the kitchen, and used the excuse to duck near the broken plates and crawl under the table.

You crawl only a few feet before your handiwork became apparent. Each of the sweatpants or briefs belonging to the big boys were filled to bursting with bloated schlongs and grapefruit sized ballsacks. Some of them had pulled their waistbands down to let their cocks breathe, each one blubbering and spurting pre into an overblown gut towering above. Even the shortest weightlifter sported a stubby, engorged hog the size of a cantine, much larger than either of the cocks next to it. You watched hypnotically as the ominously stuffed gut above, creased in half against the creaking wooded table, bounced rhythmically on top of the thick, spurting hog cock. The jock lowered two thick, callused hands, cradling his newly acquired mass, accentuating the newer stretchmarks he developed as his smaller frame stretched to keep up with his taller teammates. He squeezed the mass tightly, barely any give, and bounced it once, twice, three times...

On the fourth time, he gave out a low, rumbling moan. To his teammates, it would look like he was trying to ease the pain of his distended ballgut, but below, the belly bouncing had stimulated his cock to the point of no return, as several ropes of cum shot all over your face and chef's uniform. The short beefball weightlifter scrambled to pull his sweatpants back over his cock as to not arouse the suspicion of his friends. However, like a domino effect, you heard a peculiar rumbling all around you as heaving bellies began to bump the table harder and more violently, as the breathing of the overfed musclehogs rose in intensity.

One by one, cocks began firing off like cannons on either side of you.

You crawled forward as if through a battlefield, feeling like a general watching the climax of a decisive battle. There was one cannon, however, that could be declared a dud, or a even a misfire. But the closer you got, you began to realize that it hadn't even been loaded yet.

Your friend, who you hadn't checked on in a while, was now cradling what you can only describe as one of those extra large medicine balls that you can only find in a gym. It was riddled with gigantic tiger stripes radiating outward from his belly button, which during the course of the meal, had flattened, bowed outward, then bloated into a golfball sized outie that some roidgut lifters sported. Except it was getting even bigger than that. And growing.

From here, you could hear the glugging and slurping of your friend above. Instead of slowing down, it seemed he had sped up his feasting, the stimulant having its way with him, appealing to his inner fat boy and encouraging it to run wild. "So...fucking...good..." he moaned, almost sexually, between constant swallows and belches.

As flattered as you were that he couldn't stop eating your cooking, the gurgling of his stomach sounded angry, split between ominous gurgles from a stomach about to blow and the rumblings of a gut that was still starving.

You couldn't let this go on much longer. His modest package, now blown to herculean proportions, hung full and heavy over the edge of his chair, trapped within precum-stained sweats. His mammoth gut stuck out round and full above, seeming to defy gravity, giving you easy access to his crotch. The swollen package caused the waistband of his sweats to be pulled down, revealing the base of his beer can cock. Gently, you pinched the edges of his sweats, slowly pulling it out and down, revealing the entire length of his cock. You nearly gasped aloud as your buddy's mushroom head was revealed. Purplish and apple-sized, it bobbed immediately upward into the packed zeppelin above, before the mushroom head acted as a counterweight, pulling it immediately down. This in turn, seemed to stimulate the underused cock even further, as it immediately shot up again, slapping even harder into the hot air balloon of a belly above.

You could hear your friend's breath catch as he began to huff rapidly and moan. You were initially relieved when he stopped eating, but then heard a curious scraping and grunting above. With alarm, you realized he was picking up the gallon of gravy you had placed on that side of the table for sharing.

Within seconds, noisy gulping filled the air as you watched the behemoth gut push forcefully into the table, inching tortuously outward, no doubt creasing painfully in half against the wooden edge. His cock was still twitching and bobbing, still thumping violently against that expanding, dangerously full blimp as he thumped it with his free hand.

You were out of time. You leaned forward, blowing warm air onto the overstimulated cock. You reached one finger above, gently tracing the outer edge of that trembling, golfball sized belly button. The gulping began to slow, as the big glutton began to get even more hot and bothered, having to take more frequent breaths, wondering why the painful tightness in his belly suddenly felt so good, the sensitivity of it all driving him crazy. He chased the feeling, wanting his cock to be weighed down more and more. He had to consume more to make it happen. He had to BE more. More of him, being fed to fullness every day by his buddy. He had to GROW...!

He roared, feeling like he had a firehydrant under his gut, feeling line after line of cum ejecting from his bloated cock, feeling like a fucking overblown ox, pinned by the weight of its own size. His vision swam, unsure of how much time had passed. He looked over the faces of his teammates and saw the satisfaction of full bellies drawn over each of their faces, some even snoozing, hands resting on protruding gut shelves. He suddenly saw his buddy getting up from the other side of the table, gathering broken dishes and scooting away. The dropped dishes must have been messier than he thought, because his little buddy seemed to be glistening with streaks of sauce across his uniform and arms. If he didn't know any better, he could have sworn his face was positively wet with the stuff.

He pondered this as he massaged his overblown tank. He would need help hauling this home, after he made sure his buddies were able to drive home safely. Maybe his little buddy would be available to help him out, maybe top him off with a little dessert? 

He smiled. He was looking forward to a BIG year.