Six Kegs

“Alright, so here’s the deal,” a large bellied cat, with long shaggy hair and square glasses, signalled the rest of the house to bring in the kegs. They stacked them in rows of three, one on top of the other. There were six in total. And these weren’t small kegs either, these were fat oaken barrel, premium Bearsburry lager kegs. Just one of them was as wide as the fattest member of the fraternity, and came up to the necks of most people. Like the motto of the lager suggested, ‘one is all you need, unless you’re a glutton for a good time.’

And Butch was starving.

“You need to drink all six of these and we’ll let you off the hook for what you did to our star football player,” the cat frowned. Butch knew exactly what he was referring to and it took every ounce of willpower to keep himself from laughing.

The fraternity’s star football player was presently indisposed, and more ball than player. He had the gall to challenge Butch to an eating contest. Which Butch took seriously, and his training for the upcoming gut to gut fight had been very public. He spent most of his time between university classes, and in lieu of some, in the canteen. Stuffing himself with burgers, doughnuts, slices of pizza, and whatever his loyal fans provided for him. That alone wasn’t the problem, actually, none of the fault laid on Butch’s shoulders; Butch could rarely claim problems with expansion-on-campus ‘wasn’t his fault.

Well, apparently, the guy got scared. He scored some appetite stimulant from a sketchy wolf dude with an emo fringe and a backwards cap. Butch didn’t know what he took, but when the idiot washed his hot dogs down with a mug of beer, it reacted badly with the stimulant. He started belching like he was trying to exorcise something from his guts. The gas kept building, and building; eventually they had a huge fucking goat dude looming over campus. And by the tethers anchored into the garden outside of the frat house window were any indication, they hadn’t found a way to deflate the guy.

Butch’s suggestion to stick him with a pin and see what happens didn’t go over well with the house.

“I could just get up and walk away, right?”

“No!” The cat bristled. “You have cost us our champion player, and humiliated him, so you must go through the trial of the six kegs. As is written in our traditions!”

Butch scratched his head. “You know that I’m not... in this frat, right?”

“Inconsequential! If you refuse, you will be put on the wall of SHAME! And branded a coward!”

Butch shrugged. “Alright, that sounds like a hassle. I’m in. I just need to drink those kegs, right?”

The cat laughed. “Please, you think you can do it? Larger men than you have exploded from just one--”

“Uh boss?” A pudgy tiger nudged the cat.

“What!? I’m giving him a warning for his hubris.”

“... he’s already drinking.”

Butch got bored of talking, so he hefted one of the kegs over his head and began chugging. He even brought his own funnel to catch the drips. It flowed down his throat and tickled with the strength of its carbonation, sweet and bitter goodness. This was the premium shit, the good stuff. He would pay good money to chug it. Not his money, he was broke, but like. A friend’s money.

Butch was tall and beefy, he called himself a prime cut of steak with just enough fat to give it a premium flavour. He wondered if that meant he was beer basting himself right now. Eh, food metaphors could wait. Too much thinking made his head hurt anyway. He finished the first keg and tossed it aside, slapping his stomach to work up a good belch. “Alright, on to the next.” It gave him a good bloat. A nice roundness to compliment the width of his hips and ass, and the perkiness of his - again, meaty - pectorals.

“Can I sit down?”

“... go ahead?”

“Alright, thanks bud.” He pulled the drawstring for his shorts and let them drop. He didn’t want to ruin them if he got a good bloat going. He sat down with a keg on his lap, popped it open, and chugged with reckless abandon.

“You asked if you could sit down, not STRIP!”

Butch shrugged and just kept on chugging. Having a mouthful of delicious beer was one of his favourite things in life, and his neon teal boxer briefs reflected that, showing the fraternity just how much he enjoyed it by the tautness of the fabric around his obscene bulge.

“What the fuck, does his dick blow up too when he chugs beer or is he just hung like a porn comic?”

“Probably the latter,” the tiger said, staring.

Second keg down, and Butch’s stomach had grown to rest in his lap. He batted his nascent ball belly, giggling to himself. “Let’s go a little further, eh buddy?”

“Is he talking to his belly?”

“I’ve just stopped questioning it by now.”

Third keg down. Butch was going through these apparently dangerous kegs like they were samples at a deli. He put a hand to his mouth, stifling another belch. He wanted to hold that pressure in, if he was going to do this, he was going to do it properly. No venting, no items, all beer, all belly. “Alright, on to number four,” he said. He tried to get up, but he was promptly reminded that beer had weight by the heft of his belly, which now parted his thighs and reached his knees. “Uh, little help?”

The fraternity was all too eager to help him out. They hefted the fourth keg and watched him drain it in record time. His stomach was firm now, but not solid. It had some wobble to it. Like a turgid water balloon that was pumped full of water within an inch of its elasticity. That tightness apparently scared some of the fraternity, because they dove backwards when Butch slapped the grey-blue ball and yelled “BOOM!”

“Oh man,” he laughed. His mega-belly bouncing in time with his snorting and wheezing. “You dorks, really bought it, you thought I was gonna blow uuuuuup! Bwahahahaha!”

Keg five was forced into him by angry fraternity members who didn’t appreciate the joke as much as Butch had. It made the fur on his belly start to shorten towards the apex of the monster, a subtle pinkness indicating that - finally - he was getting full. When it drained entirely, Butch gasped for air and winced at how the added pressure made the balloon gurgle and hiss. There was so much tension in there that gave him pause to reconsider his suggested method of deflating the football star with a pin. “Alright, one more... right...?”

Butch didn’t get any time to adjust himself. The final keg took longer to deposit, as it felt like no more beer was going in. He gagged and suds foamed around the corners of his mouth, but he persevered. This was it, drink it down to the last drop; or burst like a party balloon. He was committed, he was IN THE ZONE, he was... finished. He let out a belch that made the fraternity cover their ears, and he was sure it left a ringing in their ears. His stomach slapped against the floor, a big wide unevenly pumped-up beer balloon, that several people could probably climb inside of if it wasn’t packed within an inch of its life with Bearsburry lager.

Wincing, he looked at the cat who had initiated the challenge. And slapped his stomach, pretending he wasn’t on the verge of being the first beer-based tsunami in the state. “Got a seventh?” Butch grinned, and prepared for more.