Parental Chemistry - Part 2

This one is part of a long commission that will probably run four parts. If you'd like to commission me for a story (either short or long), drop me a message :)

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Work had become difficult for Denny. It wasn't just the fact that he was snacking near-constantly, with discarded wrappers now overflowing from his waste bin—he could type or take calls one-handed while the other stuffed himself. Nor was it the fact that he'd needed to get a completely new wardrobe to cover his equally overflowing body, which was already becoming uncomfortably tight in the chest and waist.

No, work was difficult because of just how distracting that body had suddenly become. He could barely move without fabric rubbing deliciously over enlarged, sensitive nipples, or bend over without his belt nibbling seductively into a fold or crease that hadn’t been there mere days before. Just walking to the water cooler was an exercise in restraint as his anatomy jiggled and wobbled delightfully, sending shivers up his spine and blood rushing to his groin.

It was like he was a teenager again, impossibly horny over his rapidly expanding body.

Every day, he’d return from work with bags of takeout food, stuff himself silly, and then desperately jerk himself off. At first, he’d very deliberately tried to imagine the most lewd scenarios involving every woman he'd ever slept with, but as the days went by, he’d find himself struggling to climax. The food would always get him harder than he’d ever been, but picturing his cock buried in pussy just wasn’t satisfying anymore. 

He’d tried returning to old magazines, stained by years of repeated use, but they now held little interest. Instead of luring over women, he’d imagine them force-feeding him to bursting, or suddenly being replaced by… men. Even porn on his phone couldn’t keep him from going soft after the food had run out and he was simply left there, holding his dick in his hand, and increasingly confused. 

Deep down, he knew that none of this was normal. There was a rising sense of panic within Denny to run screaming into the streets, but what would he say? Who could he turn to? A doctor? He’d just be told to start exercising, stop eating, and consider himself lucky to have any libido at his age. His ex-wife? She’d just ridicule him. His son? What could he offer? And besides, despite living in the same house, he’d somehow completely failed to notice his fattening father.

Denny hadn’t failed to notice his son, though. He’d only gotten stronger since moving in and embarking on his strenuous new workout routine. Denny would come home to the sounds of clanking metal and the strange aroma wafting from the basement, an odd combination of fresh sweat, chemical solvents, and an alluring spiciness like hot apple cider. More than once, he’d caught himself at the top of the stairs just sniffing and feeling a tent rise in his slacks.

All of this was beyond shocking, and yet every time he felt anxiety begin to get the better of him, he’d reach for a bag of chips, a box of cookies, a 24-pack of beer, and everything would feel right again. It was a feedback loop—the more shocking the changes, the more he reached for food, and the faster he fattened himself. And the faster he fattened, the more he struggled with his sexuality.

But the worst part? It was his son who was catching his eye most often. The two didn't speak much, but every morning at breakfast, he'd see how Mike's muscles bulged in his t-shirt, his pecs and lats heaving effortlessly as he went about gathering his things before work. How his bicep would leap as he curled his arm while drinking a morning protein shake. How his quads threatened to burst through his jeans, and how his groin looked like he'd stuffed a pair of baseballs below a zipper that was mere moments away from explosive decompression.

It disgusted Denny to think of his son that way, and yet each time he left for work, Denny would subconsciously pinch his nipples and massage the erection that was snaking its way through his pant leg.

One morning, after watching Mike’s massive glutes roll their way out the front door, Denny lumbered his way upstairs to Mike’s room. It had gotten so much harder to haul himself up even a single flight, and he was winded by the time he'd reached the top. Mike had cleaned the basement gym as Denny had asked several weeks ago, but there was still a hint of that same spicy aroma coming from Mike's bedroom. He had to find it. He simply had to know where it was coming from. Much like his eating habits, it was a compulsion that Denny could deny no longer.

Heaving for breath at the threshold of Mike's room, he peered inside after collecting himself. Mike’s room was clean and neat, as always, with an immaculate desk in one corner and a made-up bed in the other. And in the far corner, a laundry hamper. Denny sniffed and wandered closer, sensing the aroma getting stronger. It was there, inside. He reached past worn pants and shirts until he finally found what was emitting that incredible odor: a jock strap, still damp from yesterday’s workout. 

If Denny were truly still thinking at all, he’d be horrified at what he was doing, but the smell had rendered him senseless, unable to consider anything but his own gratification. His arm flew up to pinch a nipple already engorged from arousal. His other hand brought the jockstrap to his face and rubbed it on his cheek. He moaned like a bitch in heat at the moistness it left on his skin. The smell was already so captivating, but then he brought the jock to his nose and inhaled. 

Denny hadn’t done a lot of drugs in his time, and certainly not the sort that you inhale, but if he had, he’d find the sensation that coursed through him at that moment to be very similar. First, he felt an incredible rush through his entire body, followed by a tingling sensation that settled in his extremities. Then, a dizzying flood of dopamine caused a wave of euphoria to crash over him. And finally, deep, raw, primal hunger. 

He didn’t go to work that day. Instead, Denny demolished his kitchen as he frantically stuffed himself with every edible morsel he could get his hands on. Leftovers, cereal, bread, fruits, vegetables, beer, cookies, ice cream, bags of chips—all of it flew into his mouth, given barely any time to chew. Like an addict, every time he felt like his senses were returning, Denny would huff Mike’s jock to send himself into another eating frenzy.

Buttons already straining to contain Denny’s bulk popped off one by one as he gave in to his manic hunger. As the last one failed, Denny’s belly surged forward, a massive flabby dome that hung deeply over a somewhat sturdier belt, but it too was beginning to fail as the leather stretched with his expansion. By noon, Denny was left covered in the detritus of his binge and little else, the shreds of his torn attire having long since mixed with the mess he’d made of his kitchen.

There was nothing left. He’d eaten everything in the house, and while his chemically-induced hunger had been sated, Denny continued to breathe deeply of the delightful, intoxicating jock strap. As he did, he stumbled drunkenly to the living room before collapsing on the couch, an imbecilic smile painted across his face. 

He reached down beneath his heaving gut. He was hard—he’d been hard the entire time, leaving a snail’s trail of pre-cum throughout the house. Now it proved a convenient lubrication. He stroked himself slowly, watching his belly rise and fall, nearly blocking his view of his own cock. Then he placed Mike’s jock over his face and fell into a deep bliss. 

There were no thoughts of women this time. As Denny gave in to something beyond hedonism, he imagined himself huge—easily 400 pounds of rippling, luscious fat. He imagined men with hard bodies and even harder cocks plundering him in ways unimaginable not a few weeks ago. In his mouth. Between his breasts. Between his thighs. And inside him. 

While his mind’s eye conjured an orgy, Denny’s hands explored his expanding acreage. His middle occupied most of him, and so he pawed at it mindlessly, feeling his bulk shift and move, how it eased the ache of his fullness. In one part, he’d feel a tautness like an overinflated balloon, and then he’d drift lower to feel soft, yielding plushness. The hairs covering his body all stood on end as he squeezed his lower belly, then groped the expanding roll of flab that was forming just above his cock. Then he reached lower, beneath a forest of pubes and low-hanging balls, to place a finger over his winking, hairy hole.

The moment he touched his asshole was like an electric shock—an entirely alien sensation, and yet one that he’d imagined to be incredibly pleasurable. There was a thought—his first notion in many hours—that there was no coming back from what he was about to do. Then he inhaled the sweet, spicy musk of the garment over his face and plunged his finger inside. 

If touching his anus was a shock, fingering his hole was like being electrocuted. There was an unspeakable satisfaction, like discovering an itch that had existed for decades and finally scratching it all at the same time. And with every inch he pushed in further, that satisfaction grew and grew and grew, until finally, it exploded in thunderous rapture.

Denny had never cum so hard in his life. The moment he brushed his prostate, a fountain of cum flew into the air and splattered against his chest, face, and belly. Some of it landed on Mike’s jockstrap and added to the alluring vapors that Denny was breathing, but most landed on top of him. A dozen ropes of ejaculate covered the man in jizz, some getting on the couch, others the floor behind him. A tsunami of orgasmic pleasure crushed what little thought remained, and as it washed Denny away, he passed out in a puddle of sweat and semen. 

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A few hours later, Mike came home from work to find his father passed out on the couch, naked, and covered in cum, his jock still draped across his face. It was a shocking display, but Mike took the scene in with curiosity. He’d known that something was happening to his father for some time now and suspected it was a side effect of his own treatment. This more than confirmed it. 

Analytically, Mike took stock of his snoring dad. He’d gained so much weight—Mike estimated it to be anywhere from 80 to 90 pounds, the vast majority of it fat. His middle was dominated by a wide, round stomach, his face creased by a deep jowl, and his arms and legs had thickened into doughy logs.

But it wasn’t just advanced age and excessive caloric intake that Mike saw. There were physiological changes, too, like how his nipples had more than doubled in diameter since Mike first moved in. Denny’s hips had widened, his shoulders broadened, and his ass (from what he could see of it) had ballooned almost as much as his stomach. 

A week of bingeing didn’t explain this—it was too well-distributed, the body too well-adapted to the sudden weight gain. It looked like he’d been obese for years, decades even. It had to be a side-effect of the serum. Judging by his fascination with Mike’s pheromones (the jock covering Denny’s face was more than proof of that), Mike surmised that the two were intimately related.

He considered waking his father but decided it wasn’t worth the effort. He’d rouse himself eventually. Instead, Mike went downstairs to begin his daily workout routine. Later, he’d document his father’s ongoing transformation for further study. 

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Denny awoke to the now-familiar sound of metal clanking. Mike was home. He’d slept all afternoon. There was no way he didn’t see him passed out on the couch and covered in his own jizz. Or the disaster that used to be his kitchen. 

For the first time in weeks, Denny was mortified with himself. He couldn’t face his son like this.

He crept upstairs to put on clothes that no longer fit, then back downstairs to clean up his mess. He swept up the kitchen, wiped the smears of food away, and mopped. Then he vacuumed the living room before heading upstairs for a shower. All while the metal clanking continued ceaselessly. 

Before he stepped into the shower, Denny caught himself in the mirror. He looked like a totally different person—a much fatter person. He looked obese; jutting tits and hanging belly wobbling with every heaving breath. A wide, round face, a double chin, and a rapidly disappearing neck. Everything was larger and yet still covered in the same dense coat of hair that he’d gained since entering his forties. 

He stepped onto the bathroom scale with dread and peered over his belly to read the number: 304 pounds. It was inconceivable. 

The confusion over his changing body and sexuality, combined with the embarrassment of his son seeing him naked, was just too much for Denny. He wept in the shower, the water carrying away the sweat, cum, and tears.

He couldn’t bear looking his son in the eye, so after the shower, Denny simply crawled into bed. He slept fitfully, his dreams full of the same men he’d imagined before—huge, rippling muscles and even bigger cocks. He’d dream of sucking them, of them filling his mouth with cum, of him begging them to fill his ass the same way.

And they would. One by one, they’d line up behind Denny and slap his enormous ass with their pelvis, filling him with cock, then their seed. Each load made him bigger, fatter, and more sumptuous for the next man in line. Each thrust would cause him to ripple like waves on the ocean, his leaking dick rubbing against his own hanging fat, pleasuring him more than his hand ever could.

Finally, at the end of the line, the biggest, most-hung man of them all. His dick jutting so far it was like a third arm, his massive body heaving with power and lust. His enormous hands cupped Denny’s breasts, squeezing them painfully before that enormous cock slipped between his elephantine cheeks to spread his hole and plunge deep inside him. 

In his dream, Denny moaned and came. Then he looked over his fat shoulder to see his son’s face.

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Denny awoke with a start. His groin felt damp—he’d cum again in his sleep. He knew without getting on the scale that he was larger than when he’d gone to bed. And having skipped dinner, he was desperately hungry.

Knowing nothing would fit, Denny wrapped himself as best he could in towels and went to the car. It was late at night, but the drive-thru would still be open. He didn’t care what the kid at the window saw. He just needed to eat. Everything would feel better after that.