The Husbear (Patreon)

Okay, we should probably start with Huff’s early life to help give some context or something, but I’ll keep it brief since I know you just wanna get to the good stuff. I mean, I do too. That’s why we’re here, right? You wanna know the story of how Huff blew up into a big ol’ husbear. We’ll get there, don’t you worry. Just sit tight.

So now, let’s see… Jacob (Huff) Huffley was born and raised in Ontario yada yada yada. Always liked hockey, pretty good goaltender for his local team et cetera et cetera, but you want his size, right? Well, he started out his young adult years at a pretty average build of 160 pounds, give or take, but don’t hold that against him - it wasn’t his fault. He just hadn’t met me yet.

Okay, what else? Oh, 6 foot tall, broad shoulders, sturdy legs (they’d come in handy later for helping to carry the extra timber). Plus a nice strong, stubbled jaw, but not too strong if you know what I mean? You know how some guys, they just look like macho douchebags right off the bat? Huff looked more like… like, he had a good heart and just wanted everybody to get along, if that makes any sense. Like masculine but kind-looking. At this stage he had no real sign of a belly, per se. Obviously someone was going to have to fix that. And obviously that someone was going to be me.

We met at University. I’d see Huff with his bros around campus, always larking about. Not quite fratboy blockheads, but probably not the most studious either. Most of ‘em played for the University hockey team, with Huff in the goalie position. I’d watch a couple games between lectures sometimes.

Me? Oh, I was just your regular, medium-sized guy. Not bad looking, according to, like, my family, so make of that what you will. I grew up with 6 brothers and I was the first of us to go into higher education. I tried to keep myself in pretty decent shape, I’d say. I was studying Economics, but I’d hit the campus gym a couple times a week. That’s where I first talked to Huff.

‘Hey, are you… still using the bench, or…?’

‘Oh, sorry! I just got a couple sets left, then it’s all yours,’ he told me with a cheeky smile, wiping some of that thick dark hair from his brow.

‘Oh, you’re good. I can wait. Say, you need spotting with that?’

‘Sure!’

So I stood there admiring his pecs heave-hoing in their snug little tank-topped home while he benched probably twice what I could.

We bumped into each other again after, in the locker room.

‘Hey, thanks for the spot earlier.’ He just came right up to me in his towel and my eyes wanted so desperately to soak up his sweaty bare torso. But I was a good boy and didn’t stare. Then.

You know how sometimes you look at a guy and just think You would look SO good with a belly? I’m sure you know the type I mean; they settled down, start spreading out and packing on the pounds. Well, Huff was that guy. He was just ripe for it. His body was practically cryin’ out for expansion. And I wanted to be there when it happened. Hell, I wanted to be the cause.

‘I’m Jacob,’ he told me, holding out a hand (I hoped the towel would fall but, disappointingly, it didn’t). ‘Most everyone calls me Huff. I’ve seen you around, I think. Didn’t you come to the game last Friday?’

‘I’m Stanley,’ I replied, shaking his clammy hand and not wanting to let go. ‘Yeah that was me. Front row, guilty as charged. You did great, by the way!’

‘Ah, I choked in the third period. They were too fast for me.’

‘It’s not your fault. Maybe you just need to take up more of the goal, eh? Haha.’

‘Maybe!’ (I don’t think he got what I was implying, but that’s okay).

We chit-chatted on for a bit before he asked, ‘Hey you, uh, you wanna go grab a beer or something later? I gotta study til, like, 9, but then…’

Folks, what can I tell you? I got the classic butterflies in that moment. Here was the hottest guy on campus, grinning at me like a big dope, asking me out for a beer.

You better believe I said Yes.

Students mostly went to a local bar called Hammerhead for all of their alcoholic needs. The place was already buzzing when I arrived. And there was Huff, propping up the bar in his oversized hockey jersey. As we met and drank and talked the night away, all I could think was how much I wanted him to fill out that jersey, and then overfill it, and then get so big the whole thing just ripped apart at the seams… Okay, I was horny.

‘You want another?’ I asked him. ‘C’mon, don’t tell me a big jock like you can’t take a few more beers, hehe.’

Huff rose to the challenge, and downed another pint, and another, and another, swaying on the spot, grinning all wonky at me, telling me, ‘You, Stan the man, are a bad influence on me, haha!’ But most importantly, what had started the night as Huff’s flat, athletic abdomen now domed out proudly from all the beer.

‘What can I say?’ I joked back, not really joking at all. ‘I like a man who enjoys his beer!’

And I’ll never forget the way he slowly leaned forward, eyes all droopy and cute, and pushed his lips against mine, and his tongue all around my tongue, and his hands along my ass cheeks, pressing his hockey-player body into mine, both of our hard-ons evident beneath their denim lairs.

Huff came back to my dorm room that night (which I had to myself; this wasn’t one of those Universities where you had to share a room with a stranger like you see in the movies), and we had fumbly drunken sex. I don’t think my lack of experience mattered much; Huff gave off a vibe of… if not on the same page exactly, then at least in the same book.

Was it magical? I mean, we were drunk - him especially, since I’d convinced him to down half the bar. It was more… memorable.

Huff stayed with me that night, and we both made excuses to skip classes the next day so we could stay in bed. He told me was studying Geography but only cos he couldn’t think what else he wanted to do, so I guess I felt less bad about keeping him to myself that day, making him breakfast, then lunch, then dinner.

‘You’re a real good cook, you know that? This is better than my mom’s cooking!’

‘Eh, I like to cook, and bake too, actually. Always been a foodie kinda guy. I think that’s what I’d like to get into, ultimately,’ I explained, watching him happily gobble down my home-made lasagna. ‘I started writing, like, a little food blog, in fact. It’s a sort of pet project I just started doing when I got here. It’s called Stan Around Town - I take pictures of my bakes, share recipes, stuff like that, that’s all.’

Oh, this was in the 00s, by the way. Probably should’ve mentioned that earlier, sorry. Blogs were all the rage back then.

‘Oh yeah? Can I see it?’ he asked with a mouthful of pasta, looking cute as fuck, shirtless in my dorm bed.

‘Sure.’ I passed him my laptop covered in Buffy The Vampire Slayer stickers. ‘You want dessert, too?’

Huff sucked in a bunch of air and thought about it for a nanosecond. ‘Coach is gonna kill me. But yeah, please, haha.’

So I heated up a chocolate soufflé I’d baked the day before, hoping the insides would still stay all melty and thick, and poured a half can of cream all over it and added a couple dollops of icecream for good measure.

Watching him bite into the sponge, dark eyebrows suddenly knotting in pleasure, was like overload to me. Here was a feeling I knew I was gonna be hooked on - feeding Huff, giving him pleasure through food. I wanted to keep doing it. If I could have baked for him all day long I would have. I woulda fed that man all the cake in Canada if I could’ve. It melted my heart watching him fill up like that.

‘This is sooo so good, man,’ he said, devouring the chocolate, scooping more and more between his lips. ‘And your blog is awesome! Like, damn, dude, you’re so talented! Look at all these recipes.’

I slipped back into the bed beside him and kissed his cream-swollen cheek while he shot me a hungover smile.

‘You’re welcome back for more any time, big guy,’ I told him. ‘Any time.’

And that, folks, was that. Huff and I were officially dating. We saw each other all the time; I showed up for his every hockey game and he stayed over at my dorm for every home-cooked meal. I specialized in Italian food; lots of rich creamy sauce, heavy, carby pasta in thick tomato, herbs and cheese. And I liked to think I wasn’t half bad with the puddings too. I baked him cherry pies, soufflés, cheesecake, vanilla cream sponge, you name it.

Across the proceeding three years of our University tenure, Huff stayed in my bed almost every night. I loved making sure he never went hungry, always sleeping on a bulging, full stomach (usually after some plentiful intercourse), and always waking to a breakfast of champions, loading him up on bacon, eggs, waffles, sausage, the works; nothing was too much for my growing hockey stud.

And grow he did. You ever heard of ‘The Freshman 15?’ Well, Huff gained The Freshman 50. Five-zero. Fifty-three, to be precise, actually, thanks to all my cooking and baking. And guys, let me tell you right now… Hooolllie Shit, did he look good! That flat studenty stomach of his became a thing it the past; it blew out and out and out, at first nudging its way just above his belt, then overshadowing it, then even starting to flop over it a little. His handsome, stubbled jaw puffed up with beautiful fat, curving everything perfectly. I mean, Huff wasn’t fat-fat - he still played hockey just fine (heck, he actually did fill the goal a little more), still trained in the gym and all that. Maybe the coach blasted him once or twice, but Huff never seemed to mind. He loved my food and he loved his beer, and I sure as fuck wasn’t gonna stand in the way of that. In the end, Huff graduated at 223 pounds. I couldn’t have been prouder.

I loved Huff and he loved me, so after graduating we moved in together for good, into a small rented apartment in downtown Hamilton. I started interning for a lifestyle website, with an eye to becoming their food critic eventually. Huff, God bless him, didn’t know what he wanted to do, and bounced around a lot between occupations, not really putting his degree to good use. 

He still played hockey, and he still sweated it out at the gym, but now with all of my homespun meals basically on tap, it’s fair to say Huff started to slow down. 223 pounds crept up to 230, which crept up to 250…

‘Man, I’m really starting to put on a gut, huh?’ he asked me one evening after we got home from a restaurant (where I’d encouraged him to partake in second dessert, then third - Huff never needed much convincing).

Disrobed in the bedroom, he was cradling his fuller, rounder belly in the mirror, almost fascinated by it. I sidled up behind him and locked my arms around the gorgeous gut, talking to his reflection.

‘You look freaking stunning,’ I told him. Caressing his recently-formed lovehandles.

‘You really think so?’ he asked.

‘I know so. Look at you, babe. All beefed up, so chunky and handsome. It suits you so well. You don’t see that?’

‘I just… love to eat, I guess, haha.’

‘Nothing wrong with that, gorgeous man. Nothing at all. If you love to eat, then eat. Why shouldn’t you do what you love?’

He turned, kissed me, held me.

‘How comes you always know exactly what to say?’ he replied. He had this innocent, impressed face he made sometimes and I just wanted to eat him up.

‘Tell you what,’ I added. ‘Why don’t I fix you a little midnight snack, hmm? How about the cheesecake I made last night? Should be set by now. Would you like that?’

‘I’m still stuffed from dinner, haha.’

‘Yeah, but I’m not hearing a No, haha.’

He turned back to the mirror, pawed at his own stretched belly some more, studying it. It was as though he’d only now realised that he’d gotten fat.

‘Just a little,’ I tempted him. ‘I think you secretly want it…’

‘… Okay,’ he smiled.

I led him by the hand to the kitchen, sat him down at the table and brought forth the New York-style vanilla cheesecake I’d started the night before and which had indeed set now, plunging our biggest spoon into it and holding it to his lips. Huff took a nice big bite.

‘Mmmmph, I love your cheesecake SO much, babe. I don’t know how you get this flavor into it.’

(The answer, for anyone curious, was real vanilla pods).

I started rubbing gentle circles around the circumference of his tight gut, warm to my touch and completely arousing. Then I let my hand slip lower.

‘See? You had room in the tank, after all,’ I said gently.

He took over on spoon duty and continued to tuck in, bringing more and more between his lips, eliciting pleasured moans.

My hand caressed the underside of his growing gut, then made its way south, down the waistband of his underwear, grabbing his member which was fast stiffening.

There in the kitchen of our little apartment I tugged and pulled at Huff while he went on eating, leaning back in pleasure.

It was when I got down on my knees before him that I said, ‘Keep on going, big guy. You know you want to…’

And I took his member into my mouth while he took my cheesecake into his. Huff groaned all the way, tilting his head back. I used one hand to steady his large rod while I worked my lips around the head, and the other I planted back against his swelling midriff, now drum-like from so much food.

‘Fuck…,’ Huff huffed. ‘Ohhhh fuck, that’s good… That’s so good…’

Building pressure and momentum, I kept going, and he just kept right on eating, practically excavating cheesecake from its deep dish with the spoon. So fast was he going that his cheeks turned bulbous. He was even sweating a little.

‘Don’t… stop…,’ he begged me.

‘I won’t if you won’t…,’ I told him, having to dislodge for a moment to speak.

‘I’m close…,’ he guttered.

And with the cheesecake nearing depletion, his belly set to burst, suddenly Huff came in a great wave, some in me, some about me.

‘Uuuuuggghhhhh!’

His orgasm went on for a while; I was impressed! He’d never come like that before. Not that much!

Afterwards he let his incredibly-packed body slump back in the chair, catching his breath, looking almost stupefied with pleasure. And I set about cleaning up, wiping myself off and making sure Huff was clear of debris and comfortable. As his partner I took my responsibility to look after the big man very seriously. I just wanted Huff to be fat and happy. That’s all I’d ever wanted.

Well, it turned out food plus sex equaled a very happy Huff indeed, and as time went on, we did it more and more, getting him all nicely bloated up and pleasured down below; whatever he needed  (it certainly ticked my boxes too, I can tell you that).

As such, it didn’t take long to get Huff up to 300 pounds. And he looked like a dream come true. Gone was the tummy-come-dadbod, replaced by a bigger, heftier, more manly belly; it swelled right out in front of him and berthed softly over his waistband, often peeking out some from beneath his shirts. He grew the kind of thick lovehandles I always hoped he would, all spongey to get my fingers into, and that athletic chest of his got a nice warm coating of fat over it, giving rise to a pair of weighty pec-moobs that rested snugly atop his gut and came right around the underside of his arms. And his double chin? I could have drooled.

He looked incredible.

Believe it or not, however, it wasn’t Huff’s weight that put paid to his hockey playing days; he had a twisted ankle to thank for that. He just turned on the ice the wrong way one time and… The doctor told him to keep off his feet for a while, and Huff being Huff took the whole thing in his stride, said he was just as happy watching the game on TV. I, of course, was happy to keep him loaded up on beer and snacks. In the end, Huff found it easier to snuggle his spreading ass cheeks into the couch than to pick his stick and skates back up.

As for me, I’d finally gotten that role of food critic for the website and things were really taking off. They sent me around town to note my thoughts on all the local eateries, and of course I brought Huff along (sliding most of my portions over to the big guy) whenever I could, and when I couldn’t I’d bring him back the biggest doggie bag you ever saw. Huff, for his part, started working at an office he didn’t hate, the benefits of this being that I got to see him in sexy-as-all-Hell suit and tie every day (and, more importantly, to help his 340 pound frame out of it) and collectively we were bringing more money into the household, which led to...

Spring of 2008, Huff asked me to marry him. He’d suspiciously asked me out on a date-night to one of the loftiest restaurants in all of Ontario. You know the kind I mean, I’m sure. All your candles and live piano playing and what have you. And shortly after his 4th dessert he shifted his big ol’ bulk down onto one knee and popped the question with a ring in his cute chubby hands.

I said yes faster than a hummingbird’s heartbeat, overwhelmed with emotion. He scooped me up into his wide, round, belly and kissed me like they do in the movies, not caring one bit about the other diners (who applauded, thank God, haha). That was the happiest night of my life.

Things were a whirlwind after that. All the wedding planning, the guests, the venue, the food! We married that summer, Huff looking perfect in his suit tailored to fit all of his curves and bulges, his dark hair swept back, all scrubbed up, fat and gorgeous. Everybody drank til their livers pickled, laughed their asses off and danced into the early hours, after which Huff swept me off to bed and told me how much he loved me while we made beautiful drunken love, wrapped up in each other, my athletic frame all curled into his padding and chest hair. I never knew it was possible to love someone so much.

We honeymooned in a cabin in the Rockies overlooking the lake, where I fed Huff as he reclined by the fire each night.

Did I mention the whirlwind? Cos after that we bought a house! Huff and I had hit our thirties and it was time to start living like a regular ol’ settled husband and husbear. We found a real fixer-upper in the Hamilton suburbs, a looker on the outside and, uh, in need of some TLC on the inside, let’s just put it that way. Truth be told it’d come in on budget, and Huff said he wanted a project, so we went for it. On our first day he insisted on carrying me over the threshold.

Now, when Huff had joined the 300+ club some time ago, he’d gone from sexy to godly as far as I was concerned, but apparently I hadn’t seen shit yet, because watching him knock down walls, paint the ceilings, install a new furnace and re-tile the bathroom at his new high of 460 pounds? That was beyond my wildest dreams. It was practically pornographic, seeing his massive belly wobble and jiggle, all coated in sweat and paint and rubble as he plastered and hammered and sawed. His ass cheeks - now like balloons, overflowed atop his stretchy pants, driving me wild. 

Of course, like the dutiful husband I was, I kept him plenty fueled on freshly-made sandwiches from bread I’d baked myself each morning, with all the cheeses and meats and pickles and sauces he favored. And some days I’d feed him hamburgers in fresh brioche buns and garlic truffle-fries in melted cheddar followed by huge servings of chocolate icecream to cool down his mammoth overheated body after a hard day’s labor. Sometimes he’d get me so worked up I’d have to imprint my hard-on directly into his giant belly, just grinding it there while feeding him homemade bacon-cheeseburgers.

When the house was finished it looked spectacular, the kind of home a man and his massive bear could grow old in together. Huff had outdone himself, and it was my turn to reward all of his hard work. Not just with more cake than most guys could ever hope to devour - because believe you me, I fed him full - but there was more too.

I’d been moving up in the world at work, and now well into my 30s I’d been made senior food critic; I even had my own team. This meant I enjoyed the luxury of having pretty much whatever needed reviewing sent straight to me, but it also meant a significant pay raise. So I floated the idea to Huff of him going part-time at his job, and maybe doing that from home.

‘What, like a stay-at-home husband?’ he asked in bed, the morning I’d proposed the notion. He took up a lot of the mattress by this point, and dipped down into it. We were gonna need something sturdier to support his growing bulk soon.

‘What d’ya think? You could be at home more, watch the hockey game on TV, I’ll take care of you. Heck, you could quit entirely if you wanted. My salary more than covers the mortgage on its own now.’

He had one big fat-muscled arm draped across me, gently tugging my torso into his gigantic warm belly; exactly where I liked to be. My favorite place in the whole world.

‘I can’t put that on you,’ he replied, always the gentleman, even with bedhead. ‘That’s not fair on you, doing everything.’

‘Hey, you built the house,’ I reminded him. ‘Or re-built its insides, anyhow. Don’t you deserve a break? And besides, I love looking after you, making sure you’re all fed and watered.’

There was also the small matter of Huff’s increasing size causing his belly to squish up against the steering wheel of his car. The day was fast approaching when driving was no longer going to be a viable option for him.

‘You’re too good to me,’ he said sweetly, squishing me in tighter for a patented Huff Kiss - the very special kind where his chubby stubbly cheeks smushed all up against my face, making me melt. ‘Can I think about it?’

And think on it he did. Ultimately he served his notice at the office a few weeks after the chat, and then I got him all to myself.

Huff took to the home-husband life like a bear to picnic baskets, letting his bulk fill up the corner couch, snacking and grazing on all the food I made for him, plus the (significant) leftovers from whatever I had to review on any given day. All that combined eating helped slide Huff easily into the 500s. His belly blew way out before him now, softer along the bottom, overhang at parity with his mid-thighs. And his chest had turned into a massively-plumped set of moobs, all doughy and perfectly formed, the sides of which pushed his strong-but-padded arms out to his sides not insubstantially. Lastly his neck was getting lost in a bed of double-chin. He had that adorable husbandly look of a happy man knocking on the door of his 40s who’s not only accepted the sedentary life, but wholeheartedly embraced it.

Oh, Huff still did his part around the house, don’t get me wrong. Even as the years wore on and he only got rounder and rounder. He insisted on washing the car himself, for instance, waddling all around it, sweating buckets. Mopping his brow as much as the car. It became a slower task once he’d reached the 600s, mind, but Huff enjoyed it nonetheless.

He said he loved taking up all that space and being a big fat husband for me. We joked that his nickname should be Huff’n’Puff, which he accepted with his usual sweet nature and a note of pride.

At 670 pounds he’d become essentially a man-mattress, the perfect spongey balloon to cuddle into on cold Canadian winter nights. Huff spent more and more time on the couch or in bed, watching his sports, sipping cans of beer and gladly accepting whatever I fed him. I would often lay there with my man, letting my head sink into his belly-pillow while he stroked my hair and we took in some old movie or other.

Eventually we had to get the couch reinforced. Then the bed. And when Huff waddled his way into the 700s, we got the doorways widened too. All done by local tradesmen friends who never judged; they just took to their tasks while Huff chatted and joked with them. Everybody loved Huff. You couldn’t not. The man was impossible to dislike. I loved him more than anything else on earth.

In his late forties Huff stayed in bed. Years of good eating had taken him up to about 900 or so pounds and that’s where we sorta lost count. He was almost the size of a bed himself! But we did things right; we made sure the floors and the bedframe could take him, and I personally ensured his every need was met. He was my Huff and I was his Stanley; we were a team. I brought him all the food he wanted (and all the food I wanted him to have, too), set him up with his TV and his hockey games and books and whatever else he desired. I washed him, shaved him, and never let him go without.

I still don’t.

‘Why don’t you take a break from cooking breakfast today, sweetheart?’ he asks me on this beautiful, sunny April morning. ‘I can order something in, maybe from WaffleLand. Give yourself a rest. Stay in bed with me.’

‘Yeah but I like cooking breakfast for you, you big beautiful lug,’ I tell him with a smile and a kiss to his mammoth cheek, running my fingers through that dark hair now speckled with grey. ‘It’s sorta… a ritual for me, I guess you could say. Feed my Huff, get him all set up for the day.’

‘You’re so good to me,’ he beams back at me, that smile all the more devastating for sitting in such an enormously round face. ‘I’m a very lucky man.’

‘You’re a very big man, haha,’ I respond, squeezing his hand now overinflated with fat, his fingers pure cylindrical chub. 

‘That’s true,’ he laughed. ‘Whatdya think, I must be maybe 1100 pounds now, eh?’

‘Maybe more, I’d say.’ I rub my hands across his vast expanse. There are actual mattresses smaller than his belly out there. He’s like a mountain now. Perhaps closer to 1300 pounds, in fact. It’s hard to gauge when there’s so much of him! ‘And I love every single inch of you.’

‘I love you too, my perfect Stanley,’ he tells me.

He’s the perfect one. I’m just a schmuck who got lucky.

‘Tell you what, I’ll get your breakfast started then join you back in bed for the afternoon, okay?’ I suggest. ‘Work can wait.’

I practically run the whole website now anyways.

‘I’ll pick a show for us to binge together,’ he says, excited.

‘Sounds good.’

And I kiss him. I kiss my Huff’n’Puff with all the love in my being. This gargantuan man, still growing, still gaining.

The man I’m proud to call my Husband.