School Reunion, part 2 (Patreon)

I spent much of the next day thinking about Mr. Davies, going over everything that had happened (our unexpected reunion, catching up over so many pints of beer - followed by SO much curry!), how sexy he looked with the extra weight, how much I’d enjoyed watching him stuff himself at the restaurant. He obviously enjoyed his hedonistic single life. I wondered if the local pub was his regular - the barman had certainly known him - and found myself wondering if he might be there again tonight.

At 5pm, I decided to find out. I arrived at the pub at about 7:30, telling myself 'It's just for a quiet pint. I don't mind if he's not there, really I don't.' After an hour without any sign of him, I took myself off home, a little disappointed in spite of myself. I went back again on Tuesday, with the same result. In the back of my mind, I began to worry that I'd read the evening wrong, and he was avoiding running into me again. I decided to give it one more try on Wednesday, and arrived at 8pm. To my secret joy, I heard a loud cry of “Tommy!” as I stood at the bar. Mr. Davies was sitting at a table in the restaurant area, tucking into roast beef and Yorkshire pudding with all the trimmings, and beckoning me over. I waved back. At that point the barman turned to me; smiling, I bought two pints, and carried them over to the table, placing one before Mr. Davies. His eyes lit up, and he grinned at me around his mouthful of food.

“Hoped I might see you tonight”, he said, passing a menu to me. “Didn’t get the chance to say goodbye on Sunday. I hope I didn’t make too big of a fool of myself in front of you, lad; I'm afraid I do know I made a pig of myself!” He seemed not at all embarrassed by that admission.

"Not at all, sir, not at all. It was a lovely evening, and a terrific meal. I have to admit I was very impressed at the way the restaurant looked after you; you seem to have them well trained!"

Mr. Davies looked slightly pained by that statement. “Yes, well, they’re used to my ways. Not just them, either; I’m pretty well known about these parts.” His smile didn't return, and I wondered what I'd said. Fortunately, at that moment a waitress arrived at our table, took Mr. Davies' plate, and asked me if I wanted anything to eat. After a quick scan of my neglected menu, I asked for a chicken sandwich with a bowl of chips on the side. Mr. Davies, his smile restored, chimed in at that moment and asked the waitress to bring a couple more pints over. “Thank you, my lovely," he said, winking, and the waitress giggled at she walked away. My sandwich arrived at the same time as the drinks; Mr. Davies raised his pint to his lips as I tucked in. “You’ve more self-control than I do, Tommo,” he remarked. “No wonder you’ve kept your figure.”

I laughed in surprise, leant sideways, and pinched about of inch of flab at my waist. “Kept my figure? Not possible when you’re an accountant, Mr Davies. Long days and nights behind a desk and takeaway meals several times a week… I’m a good stone and a half over my University rowing weight.” I patted the small, office-worker's roll of fat around my middle. “And that blow-out of yours the other night didn’t help, either! I think you could easily turn out to be a very bad influence on me, sir.”

“Now, now, no more of this “sir” and “Mr. Davies” folderol, my lad. We’re two grown men, and school was a long time ago. It’s “Andrew” to you, or “Andy” if you like. And you’ve a long way to go before you’ll look anything other than fit and trim…not like me!”

Another slap to his belly, and this time I saw the impact ripple slightly across the flab. I felt a slight but definite twinge in my loins, my eyes drawn irresistibly to the motion about his middle; to cover my brief distraction, I took a big gulp of beer. By the time I finished my sandwich, Mr. Davies - Andrew, rather - had begun looking over the dessert menu. I asked what he was thinking of having; he declared that it all looked good.

"I don't know, boy; I can't make up my mind between the Rocky Road Sundae, the treacle sponge pudding with custard, the chocolate brownie, or the strawberry trifle."

He was still thinking as the waitress returned to collect my plate. When she asked if he wanted anything, Andrew expressed his dilemma, then turned his brilliant smile on the girl. "Tell you what, my love," he said, beaming, “why don't you bring me all four?" Then he turned back to me. “Tommy here will help me finish them off, won’t you, lad?”.

I chuckled and shook my head as the girl departed. “I can see you’re going to be very bad indeed for my waistline… Andy”, and I saluted him with the remains of my pint. Andrew looked surprised, then delighted. He laughed and saluted me back.

At the end of the evening, we exchanged addresses, emails, and telephone numbers (“I don’t want to rely on chance before meeting up with you again, Tommy”). The very next morning, I was awoken at 7am by the phone ringing by my bed. I answered it, still half-asleep.

“H’lo?”

“Do you play golf?” It was Andrew, of course.

“It’s 7am, Andy!” I replied, now fully awake and not a little peeved.

“Is it? My apologies, then. I’ve been up for a while. Should I let you sleep longer?”

I sighed. “No, no, I’m up now. What’s this about golf?”

“There’s a halfway decent course a few miles outside town. I play there once in a while, but I don’t usually have a partner. Do you play?”

“A bit. I took it up at University.”

“Splendid! Are you free on Sunday? We could meet at 9:30, do nine holes, then repair to the club for a spot of lunch…maybe a spot of tea, too, if we stretch it out.”

“Everything revolves around food for you, doesn’t it, Andrew?”

“And beer, lad. Mustn’t forget the beer,” Andrew laughed. I couldn’t help chuckling myself; his deep booming humour was infectious. “So, what do you say?”

“Why not? I’ll have to hire a set of clubs, though. Do they allow guest membership?”

“Not to worry, a member can sign you in for free…which I just happen to be. See you then!”

Sunday dawned fine and sunny. I arrived at the Golf Course at the allotted time and looked for Andrew at the entrance. I couldn’t really miss him; the big Welshman was dressed in an Argyll sweater stretched taut across his middle, the diamond pattern distorted by the strain (“Argyll pattern, Andrew? And you a good Welsh boy. Tsk, tsk.”), matching socks, tan slacks, and a flat cap shielding his bald dome from the sun. He looked quite the dapper weekend golfer, and I told him so, which made him smile.

I couldn’t help noticing a distinctive bulge under the left breast of Andrew’s sweater, the shape highly reminiscent of a couple of large cigars, and smiled secretly to myself. The aroma of Mr. Davies’ cigars was very much a part of my memories…it looked like it was going to be part of my future, too.

Andrew got me signed in, I found out where to rent clubs for the day, and we were allocated a slot on the green half an hour hence…so naturally, Andy headed straight to the bar, which was open even this early. Giving in to inevitability, I ordered a gin and tonic, given the hour; Andrew, of course, had a beer – a pint of Guinness, this time – and we chit-chatted until our names were called to begin.

Andrew teed off first. Within a few strokes, I was pleased to find that – despite the rust of years – I was still a decent player, certainly better than I’d expected. Andrew, however… Andrew was very good indeed. I complimented him on his skill; He demurred, but looked pleased at the compliment anyway. “Ah, I’m no Jack Nicklaus, my boy, but I get by. A big-bellied man has a lot of built-in stability, don’t you know!”

After the second hole, Andrew reached under his sweater and pulled out a large cigar in an aluminium tube. He glanced over at me, a question in his eyes.

“Do you mind if I light up, lad?”

“Not at all. The smell of cigar-smoke is one of my enduring memories of you at school.”

He chuckled at that. “Ah, and there was I thinking I’d been so careful back then! I must have chomped my way through half a ton of breath mints in my teaching career, trying to hide the cigar-breath. Do you smoke, then? I brought a spare if you’d like it, Tommy.”

“Thank you, but no. I’m not a smoker myself, but I very much enjoy the smell of a good cigar…and you always smoked good cigars, as I recall. Puff away, my friend!”

Andrew chortled as he expertly clipped the end from his cigar with a silver cutter, and lit it with a long match from a box in his pocket. The rest of the course was punctuated by the homely scent of cigar-smoke, and I continually found my mind drifting back to my schooldays. As I’ve already mentioned, I always had a bit of a boy-crush on my big, powerful, masterful, intelligent, kind teacher. Ever since University (when I finally allowed myself to accept the fact that I liked boys instead of girls, and that it was perfectly okay for me to do so), I would occasionally drift off to sleep thinking of Mr. Davies, wondering if anything might have happened between us had I been twenty years older and we’d met socially instead of at school. I glanced over at the big Welshman - bent over at the waist as he sighted down his club, his hefty paunch pulled down by gravity, the stub of his cigar glowing between his teeth - and admitted to myself that, no matter how sexy I found Mr. Davies back then, Andrew was far, far sexier now. The subject of my musing spotted me staring and, still in his bent-over position, wiggled his large arse suggestively – and ridiculously - in my direction. I couldn’t help myself; I let out a snort of laughter.

The round ended just before 12:30 (Andrew won, naturally – “But you’ve got a lot of promise, boyo. Better than me at your age! We’ll play another round in a week or two, maybe, if you’re free”), and we headed back to the clubhouse for lunch. While waiting for a table, we both bellied up to the bar. I was more than ready for a pint now, but Andrew – bad influence that he was - ordered us two pints each. He seemed brighter somehow, more energised than at the start of the morning. We clinked our pint glasses, and I watched in awe as Andrew downed his first pint without taking a breath. Someone behind me shouted “hole in one!” from the back of the clubhouse, and there was a loud round of applause and scattered cheers. The barman, grinning, immediately handed Andrew another pint. Andy obviously noticed my clueless expression, and explained; the club’s rule was that if a player scored a “hole in one” with their first pint after the game, they received another one on the house. “And I never fail to win the prize, let me tell you.”

“I admire your natural talent, Andy. No way I could ever do that,” I said.

Andrew, by way of a response, gently poked me in the belly and muttered, “Oh, Tommy bach, if you hang around with me long enough, you might find it easier than you think…”

The meal was delicious, and the portions huge. It began with garlic bread dripping with butter, then thick tender steaks with nice chunky chips, new peas and carrots, then enormous portions of chocolate steamed pudding with bottomless custard, and finally a magnificent cheese course. I tried to keep up with the gourmand opposite me, I really did; but in the end I had to admit defeat – more than half of my main and dessert were left untouched…until Andrew scooped them on to his plate and finished them for me. Andrew ordered wine with lunch, and by the time we’d finished there were two empty bottles on the table. I had to convince him not to order a third.

By the time lunch was over I was feeling both replete and a bit buzzed, to tell you the truth. Andrew’s face looked quite ruddy, too. I suggested we take a turn across the green to walk off some of our dinner; Andy agreed equably. I was feeling huge, very full and heavy, and was unconsciously rubbing my stomach in slow circles as we walked, frequently gazing down and marvelling at how round and bloated it looked. After a while I happened to glance up, to see Andy looking at me with an almost wistful smile. When I raised my eyebrow to query his expression, Andy just smiled wider.

“It’s been a smashing day so far,” he said. “One of the best I’ve had since I moved here. I’m very glad to have met you again as a grown man…Tom.”

I grinned back. “Me too... Andrew. It’s lovely to have a friend you can just kick back with – if I may be so bold as to call you that, Mr. Davies, sir?”

“Here, now! No backsliding!!” Andrew grinned for a moment, then his smile softened again. “And… yes, you can call me that. It warms my heart that you’d want to. I haven’t had a real friend since – well, in a long, long time, anyway. I’d forgotten…” He petered off, gazing into the distance. Then he seemed to come back to himself, put his arm around my shoulders, and squeezed tightly for a moment. As we continued our stroll, he kept his arm around me. I made no attempt to shake it off.

An hour or so later, we made it back to the clubhouse – just in time for a cream tea! And what a tea it was: fluffy fresh scones, home-made strawberry and raspberry jams, lots of thick Devonshire clotted cream, and pots and pots of tea. I surprised myself with how much I managed to get down – I fully expected that I’d still be stuffed from that mammoth lunch – but Andrew still managed to inhale more than twice as many scones as I did. After tea we sat outside in wrought iron lawn chairs as the sun began to wester, fresh cold pints of beer in hand, Andrew smoking his second cigar of the day. I sighed contentedly.

"Ahhh, this -"

“This is -"

We both stopped, looked at each other, and laughed.

"Were you about to say 'This is the life', by any chance?" Andrew asked. I nodded. "Me too, son. Me too."

"Well, it really is. I haven't felt this relaxed since -" I stopped for a moment, surprising myself. "Actually, I don't think I've ever felt this relaxed." I smiled towards Andrew. "It must be you, Andy. You're a good influence on my nerves... even if you're a bad influence on my waistline." I pushed my full stomach, still rounded out from everything I’d consumed, out as far as it would go – farther than I expected, if I’m truthful – and drummed my fingertips across it.

"Bad influence, am I?" Andrew grinned back. "What you don't realise is that this is the real secret of relaxation, boyo. Eating and drinking whatever you want without worrying. Not giving a stuff what people think of you. Taking pleasure in the simple things." He looked softly to me. "Sharing them with a good friend."

We sat together in companionable silence, watching the sun go down, while Andrew finished his cigar. As the last sliver of sun slipped below the horizon, I glanced at my watch. I was about to say it was time to call a taxi and go home, when Andrew put a hand on my shoulder.

"Bar's still open, Tom. What do you say to an after-sundown pint or two before we go our separate ways? Hmmm?"

I sighed again, shook my head, raised my eyes to the sky, and stood up. I offered my hand to my fatter friend, who would likely have a bit more trouble standing. As we walked back into the bar, I whispered in his ear, "What did I say? Bad influence...!"

We didn’t arrange a further get-together that night, but Andy rang me from the pub on Monday evening and asked if I’d like to meet him there for a couple of hours. On Tuesday, he invited me out for an Italian meal. On Wednesday he just rang for a chat - a chat lasting four hours.

I was, frankly, rather enthralled by this wonderful new friendship - everything felt new, illicit, exciting… particularly the feeling of being wanted. It felt just like being in the honeymoon period of a new relationship... but of course, Andrew was a straight man. A very affectionate straight man, but a straight man nonetheless.

On Friday night, I made a snap decision to take the friendship a step further. When Andrew rang me at mid-day to ask if I’d fancy doing Chinese tonight, I interrupted him.

“Do they do delivery, Andy?"

"I believe they do. Why?"

"Because I fancy an evening in. How would you feel if I ordered some Chinese at home, and you came over to eat it with me?"

Silence followed; a surprisingly long silence. I began to fear that I’d said something wrong. "Andy? Are you still there?"

There was a small cough at the other end. An unexpectedly quavery voice, with an almost desperate undertone, replied "... Really?"

"Yes, of course really. Can you give me the name of the place? I'll order a decent amount of food, if that's what's worrying you -"

"No! No, it's not that. I... I just didn't... expect an invite to your home, that's all."

All of a sudden, I felt my heart go out to Andrew. How could such a big, confident man possibly sound so diffident, so disbelieving in a simple invitation? And why? (There’s something I’m not getting here…) but I shook myself; that was a mystery to be explored another time.

"Had to happen sometime, Andy. With the amount of time we spend in each other's company lately, it almost feels like we've become, ah, flatmates already." I almost said "boyfriends", but stopped myself just in time, thank goodness. "Besides, this way, for once I get to pay the food bill!"

Andrew laughed, sounding much more like himself. "That you do, laddibuck, that you do. All right, it's a da... a plan! I'll see you tonight. Oh, and Tommy?"

"Yes, Andy?"

"Thank you. My friend." <click>

I rubbed my chin, musing to myself. (Now what was all that about? More to the point, did I just hear Andrew nearly describe this evening as a date?).

At 7 prompt, Andrew arrived at my front door, lugging two heavy-looking shopping bags filled with six-packs of bottled beer - about thirty bottles in all. "Evening, boyo", he said cheerfully. He was wearing nice brown slacks, a crisp white shirt, and a lovely patterned waistcoat - which no doubt fitted him perfectly about two stone ago, but now strained over his paunch, causing his belly to mound up and look even larger than before. I experienced a momentary daydream of all the buttons popping off as its owner’s tummy expanded… "I thought, since you're getting the food, I should provide the alcohol." He peered worriedly into his bags. "I just hope I brought enough..." he muttered. Then he sniffed loudly. "Um...Tommy? I can't smell any Chinese... you did mean tonight, yes?"

"Don't you worry, old boy," I replied, smiling. "I don't have a big enough oven to keep that much food hot, so I ordered it to arrive in about 20 minutes." I reached out and patted Andrew's belly. "Surely even your bottomless pit can wait 20 minutes?"

"Cheeky scamp!" Andrew said haughtily, puffing himself up in mock indignation. "I was an athlete once, I'll have you know. I played rugby for the England team... well, the under 16s, anyway." He deflated slightly, slapped his paunch, looked down at it, and sighed. "I must be at least twice what I weighed back then."

(More like three times, I bet). "Well, Mr. Athlete, to warm you up for the main event let's open a couple of those bottles and put the rest in the fridge, eh? And I'm sure I've got a few bags of kettle crisps knocking about somewhere."

Andrew's face lit up. "Now you're talking, my boy!"

Andrew entered my hallway, looking around while I divested him of his coat and bags. He followed me into the kitchen, whistling softly at the pristine work surfaces (I’d always been quite house-proud, I admit). I grabbed a big bag of crisps from a cupboard and threw it to him, then popped the tops off two bottles of beer and poured them into pint glasses, finally handing one to Andrew. We clinked the glasses together, and took deep, appreciative gulps.

"You've a lovely home, Tom," Andrew said admiringly. "Much nicer than my hovel. You must spend half your time scrubbing, though!"

"I do what I can, but I also have a cleaner in twice a week," I admitted. "Want the grand tour before the food gets here?"

"Please!"

Munching steadily on his salty snacks, Andrew followed me around the house, making suitably appreciative – and, to my way of thinking, increasingly provocative - comments as I showed him the dining room, lounge, garden ("I love a well-kept garden. It's one of my passions. Perhaps we could visit a few gardens before the Autumn sets in?"), bathroom ("Nice big bath, Tommy! Even my fat bottom would fit in there comfortably!"), bedroom ("Lovely big bed you've got there, boyo..."), my office, formerly the second bedroom, and finally the dining room... just in time for the doorbell to ring and, once I’d answered it, for a delivery boy to hand over bag after bag after bag of food to me. Easily enough for six people or more.

"I hope you enjoy your party, sir," he said.

"I will, indeed I will," I said, smiling, as I handed over the money and a large tip. I hoisted up the takeaway feast, carried it into the dining room and began to unload it all onto the table. Andrew immediately started pawing through the still-full bags. "I love this,” he said, grinning. “... And this... and this... and these!" He looked up then, clearly perplexed. "Tom... I don't know how you did it, but you seem to have ordered every single dish I've a fondness for. How...?"

"Easy," I replied, smirking. "I just told them I had the Big Fat Welshman coming ‘round for dinner, and asked them to double the usual order!" I had to duck sharpish, as Andrew mock-scowled at me and tried to give me a thick ear, and hurried to get the plates out of the oven to the sound of him chuckling. (Or rather), I continued mentally, (I told them to triple it. Let's see if we have any leftovers at the end of the night...!).

The first few platefuls were eaten politely - at the table, with chopsticks, like a proper meal. After watching Andrew struggle slightly with chopsticks, I took pity and asked him if he would be more comfortable taking the rest into the lounge, where we could eat what we liked - with forks! - from a tray. Andrew looked somewhat relieved at the offer, and agreed readily.

I offered him my recliner chair, as it was the most comfortable seat I had; I would take the sofa. As I brought in trays and started to transfer the food, I remembered that I had a nice bottle of Single Malt Whiskey in my cupboard, and asked Andrew if he’d like to join me in a glass. To my surprise, He turned me down. “I don’t drink spirits much, thanks… makes me unbearably maudlin. And nobody wants to see that!” I brought him a fresh bottle of beer and pint glass, instead.

"By the way,” I said, “I recorded the Rugby match from this afternoon, if you're interested; or you can browse my DVD library if you're in the mood for a film while we eat."

Andrew beamed at me, his cheeks already reddening delightfully from the food, the beer, and the warm house. "Sounds like a plan, son!"

By 2:30 am, the floor of my lounge was awash with empty food containers and beer-bottles. I leant back into my sofa, sated, satisfied, and much more than a little tipsy. I couldn’t remember eating and drinking quite so much in my life before, and I felt absolutely glutted; that said, I’d consumed only a fraction of the food and drink. While there was still quite a bit left in the kitchen, the lion's share of the food went into the ridiculously swollen tank of my former teacher - currently lying insensate atop my recliner. His waistcoat had been removed early in the evening - before any buttons had popped off, unfortunately - but the shirt beneath, loose-fitting when he arrived, was stretched out tautly across his food-filled gut, with a number of buttons showing signs of strain. His braces were off the shoulders, hanging loosely by his sides, and the button of his trousers was undone, the zip fly pushed all the way open by the sheer mass of flesh pressing down on it. The faintest of snores could be heard emanating from his nose and mouth, almost inaudible over the sound of the TV (which was currently playing vintage episodes of 'Porridge' from a DVD - it seemed we were both fans of Ronnie Barker).

I gazed very fondly at my large sleeping guest, and my inebriated mind started to imagine what it would be like if this sort of evening were to become a regular occurrence - if Andrew lived with me, in this house, and ate everything I put before him…just how fat might he become after a year of this life? How about after five? I adjusted my suddenly-interested dick, and moved up to rub and pat my own overstuffed belly. How fat would I become, for that matter?

I’d succumbed to an impulse and weighed myself before Andrew had arrived last night. Before we met in that pub, I’d been a few pounds over 12 stone; only three weeks since that night, and I’d gained eight pounds. Probably more, after tonight.  How long before I really started to blow up?

I reached below my full belly again and discovered myself getting rather…excited at the prospect. But for now...I gave my gut a last, fond pat, heaved himself off the sofa, turned off the telly, cleared some room on the floor in front of the sofa, and folded it out into a double bed (with the bedsheet already in place). Fetching pillows and a duvet from upstairs, I shook Andrew's shoulder until the sleeping Welshman snorted awake. "Andy? Are you still with me? It’s time for bed, big man."

"Eh? Wha’? Oh, Tommy.” He yawned widely, then smiled sleepily. “Time to go, is it? Call me a taxi, would you, while I start clearing up -"

"None of that, Andrew. It's too late, and you're too drunk and stuffed to go anywhere. Look, I've made you up a bed in here. You remember where the downstairs toilet is, right? And there's tea things in the kitchen if you wake before I do -"

Andrew looked confused. "Hang about, Tom. You're letting me stay here tonight?"

"Yes, Andy. I thought I just said that." How drunk was he, anyway? "Feel free to make use of my stuff in the bathroom, I know you haven't brought anything with -"

I stopped speaking suddenly, with concern. Andy’s shoulders had started shaking slightly, his throat making little gulping noises.

(Is he - crying? What on earth did I say?)

Before I could say anything more, Andrew threw his big arms around me and hugged me tight, sobbing helplessly into my shoulder. I could feel Andrew’s huge weight bearing down on me, and tried not to stagger beneath it. I found myself pleasantly surprised at the sensation of the warm, spherical mass that was Andrew’s meaty gut squishing across my torso. I gently placed my arms around the blubbering Welshman, rubbed his back soothingly – feeling my fingers sink into plentiful soft fat, even back there – and murmured silly, nonsense phrases in a comforting voice.

Eventually, Andrew’s sobs petered out, and his shaking shoulders calmed. He lifted his head from my shoulders, but his arms remained clutching my waist. His eyes were red and wet, but he managed to assay a tremulous smile for me.

“Forgive me, bach. I’m a silly old duffer sometimes. Too much beer, I expect. I just never expected…” He shook his head. “…Never mind. You’re a good boy. A good friend.”

With that he hugged me once again, and dropped a quick, whiskery kiss behind my left ear. “G’night, Tommy. Sleep tight.” He stepped away and started to undo his shirt. I confess, I was sorely tempted to keep standing in the doorway to watch my friend strip off, revealing his fat body in all its glory, but good manners made me think better of it and leave, closing the door behind me.

It took a while for me to get to sleep, as Andrew’s curious reaction to my simple invitation to stay the night puzzled me. I was also unduly excited by the hug I’d received – so different from the last time Mr Davies hugged me, all those years ago! – not to mention the kiss. What did it mean? Did it mean anything? I didn’t actually notice when I finally dozed off, a couple of hours later, but my dreams were particularly vivid that night…