School Reunion, part 5 (Patreon)

Following the restoration of Andrew’s appetite that morning, (and my renewed resolve to get him fuller and bigger than ever), I drove him to his antiques shop, to put up a sign saying “closed until further notice”; then on to his house, to pack enough clothes and necessaries for a three-week stay at my home. Looking at it properly – that is, not through the window -  I was able to really appreciate the style and delicacy of Andrew’s furnishings. I admired Andrew’s antique-filled home as much as Andrew had admired mine. After a large and boozy lunch at the nearest pub (sitting in a corner far from other diners – Andrew was definitely not up to dealing with crowds, nor would he be for a good while yet), I dropped Andrew home for a nap. That short excursion into the outside world had exhausted him emotionally. I prescribed plenty of rest for him, while I went to the supermarket and stocked up with everything I’d need for the week – a total of three large trolleys.  

(A whole chicken, beef joint, pork joint - he'll need plenty of meat to build him up. Sausages, pork chops...big bag of pasta, cheese, plenty of double cream...lots of potatoes, tomatoes, carrots, leeks, cabbage, cauliflower, broccoli, garlic, peppers....fresh fruit: apples, pears, bananas, grapes....baked beans, bacon, mushrooms, hash browns, porridge, a range of cereals - he'll want good filling breakfasts....ice cream, lots of ice cream...chocolate, sugar, flour, lard, butter, eggs, custard powder, I'm going to do a lot of baking...and beer, of course, can't forget the beer!)

On the way home, I stopped off at a tobacconist and bought a dozen of Andrew's favourite cigars. They’d relax him as little else would, and the big man deserved a treat. (Would I mind if he smoked in the house? No, I wouldn't. It just means I'll have a reminder of him in the air wherever I go).

When I finally struggled in the front door with the fruits of my expedition, I found Andrew fast asleep in the recliner, the chair pushed back as horizontally as it could go. He’d undone his shirt buttons, and the buttons and flies on his trousers for comfort, and the glorious swollen mass of his fat hairy belly – freed from its cloth prison - rose and fell with his slow breathing. I was utterly transfixed by the sight, stopped in my tracks, a rush of love for this gorgeous fat Welshman flowing through me.

(Dear God, he's so beautiful), I thought to myself, drinking in the masculine perfection. (How could anyone resist him? This is what a real man should aim to be). I rubbed my own belly through my shirt; tiny, in comparison, yet bigger than it had ever been before. (This is what I want. I want him in my life for as long as he chooses to stay...and whether or not he does, this is the man I want to resemble one day). My mind drifted off as I imagined myself to be as old, bald, bearded and hugely fat as Andrew was, laying in the selfsame position... and my cock immediately leapt to attention. (Down, boy, I'll get to you later. Right now, I need to get the cold stuff in the freezer and start dinner!)

A couple of hours later, I could hear the soft, heavy pad of stockinged feet heading towards the kitchen, no doubt attracted by the delicious smells emanating from where I stood. A sleepy-eyed god, his gut still hanging enticingly out of his open shirt, yawned and entered. 

"Afternoon, Andy. Sleep well?"

"Ah...yes, I did, actually. That recliner's powerfully comfortable, I might need to get one myself. What's occurring in here, bach?"

"Dinner. I'm finally taking the opportunity to cook for you properly, not just fried breakfasts or frozen lasagne. We're having chicken carbonara with bacon and leeks, plenty of fresh veg, and I've got home-made chocolate mousse with double cream for afters. Think that might do for you?" Andrew's belly did the answering for him, grumbling appreciatively. "There's cold beer in the fridge if you'd like it; glasses are in this cupboard."

“You are a true prince, Tommy! Can I pour you one?"

"Love one." We chatted for a while, drinking companionably, until a jaw-breaking yawn from my portly guest caused me to send him back to the lounge with a second beer, to doze until the food was ready. Just before seven, I shook the sleeping giant awake.

"Andrew?"

"Mmmph...?" The Welshman's eyes flickered.

"Dinner's ready." At that, Andrew's eyes snapped open, instantly awake, like one of Pavlov’s dogs. He struggled to set the recliner back to its upright position, and heaved himself to his feet. I preceded him to the dining-room, where three serving bowls (of boiled tagliatelle, the rich carbonara, and a mix of chopped carrots and broccoli) were gently steaming on the table. A long French baguette, fresh out of the oven, split down the middle and slathered with butter served as an accompaniment to mop up the sauce. A pint glass of cold beer was already waiting at Andrew's place, alongside a large wine glass, and a bottle of white wine was chilling in an ice bucket. To cap it all, a crystal candelabra stuffed with candles sat in the centre of the table, casting warm, flickering light over the feast. Andrew's eyes widened, and he sniffed appreciatively.

"It smells delicious, Tom. My mouth's watering! But all this... you really didn't have to go to so much trouble -"

"Don't be silly. I enjoyed it. I wanted your first real home-cooked dinner in this house to be special; to give you a proper welcome."

Andrew said nothing more, but his smile was shy and his eyes moist. Like a waiter in a restaurant I pulled out his chair and invited him to sit, then served him generous portions of pasta, creamy carbonara, and steaming vegetables, ripping a chunk of bread from the baguette and placing it on the side-plate. I then served myself a less-generous portion of everything, filled my wineglass, and raised it in a formal toast:-

"Here's to you, Andrew Davies. Be welcome to this house, that it be made a home by your presence." I sat there, smiling at the beaming Welshman. "I don't really stand on ceremony, Andrew, so help yourself to anything you want, as often as you like. I don't like leftovers, and it's no good the next day. Now dig in before it gets cold!"

Andrew needed no further encouragement. He scooped up a large portion of carbonara-covered pasta with his fork, placing it deftly in his mouth, closing his eyes and groaning in appreciation of the flavours. He tore off a big hunk of the bread, dunked it into the saucy mixture, and took a savage bite.

"Oh, god, Tommy, this is magnificent! When did you learn to cook like this?"

"Less talk, more eating, Mr. Davies", I admonished him with a grin. "We’ve a lot of food to get through tonight!"

I was true to my word; I manfully ate three plates of carbonara before throwing down my fork in submission. Andrew, by contrast, was on his fifth plateful by that point, and showed no signs of slowing down. He went back for more of everything, only to find the carbonara bowl empty; he looked at me, his host, a little disappointedly. I’d been waiting for this moment. I heaved myself out of my chair (with some difficulty), took away the empty bowl - and returned moments later, bearing a big smile and another bowl filled to the brim with hot carbonara. I had to chuckle at Andrew's delighted expression. 

"I had a feeling just one bowlful wouldn't be enough, somehow..."

55 minutes later, the only sounds in the room were of contented sighs, occasional groans, and the undoing of belt-buckles and zip flies to release pressure on overfull bellies. Despite myself, my final tally was four and a half plates of food - far, far more food than I had ever consumed in one sitting before - and half a bottle of wine; my t-shirt had ridden up, revealing a wide sliver of curved flesh. Andrew had somehow consumed a full ten plates, the other half-bottle, and three pints of beer. His belly was mounded up high and round, revealed in all its glory - Andrew was forced to undo all of his shirt-buttons to save the shirt, and was massaging his gut with his fingers. I was a little torn; I wanted to do the same for my own gut, and I also wanted to take over for my guest. Instead, I took the third option - I staggered to my feet and started to clear the empty bowls and plates.

"Let me help with that, Tommy."

"Not a chance, Andy. You're my guest; your job is to relax and digest... and anyway, you have an important choice to make."

"Do I, now? And what would that be, pray?"

"Simple," I called out from the kitchen, as I dumped the crockery into the dishwasher. "Are you completely stuffed... or do you have room for dessert?" With that, I re-entered the dining room with a huge crystal bowl, filled to the brim with rich-looking chocolate mousse, and a china pint jug of thick, rich double cream.

Andrew licked his lips with clear avarice. "It seems to me it would be rude to refuse, since you've made the mousse, and I've no doubt there's a little space left for it in my bloated paunch, but only on one condition; I won't eat alone. If I'm having some, you're having some. Deal, lad?"

I sighed theatrically. "Somehow, I expected that." I proceeded to ladle sizeable spoonfuls of mousse into two bowls, handed one to Andrew, and poured a very generous stream of cream over both. "I don't think these trousers are going to fit past my thighs in a week or two!"

"No worries, bach," Andrew laughed, “You can always have a pair of mine once you outgrow your own - you'll fit into them nicely one day!" and he took his first mouthful of the sinfully rich dessert....

Despite even Andrew's best efforts, there was still half of the mousse left at the end, which duly went back into the fridge for tomorrow. The two of us, bloated beyond measure, levered ourselves up from our dining chairs and sat in the lounge, nursing mugs of tea. Andrew saluted me with his. "I don't think I've ever enjoyed a meal more in my life, boyo," he said. "But if I eat like that too often, I won't fit through the front door by the time you ask me to leave."

(So who says I want you to leave?) I thought. I didn’t say it out loud, however. Instead, I said, "Tonight was a special meal, Andy. I'm not saying I won't put that kind of effort in again - (regularly) - but most of the time, you'll be on relatively short rations."

"Hah! Like I believe that," Andrew snorted. He was shifting around in his seat, as if trying to find a comfortable position.

"Something wrong?" 

"No, no, I'm just a little too full, that's all. My belly’s complaining that I've been a greedy-guts. It'll soon pass, don't worry."

"Would a nice hot bath help? I could run you one now." 

Andrew grinned at me. "Well, now, that would be a real treat, Tommy! If you don't mind -"

"Get it into your shiny bald head that I will never mind, Andy," I replied. "Honoured guests get five-star treatment in this hotel. Give me twenty minutes." 

I left Andrew with the radio and a newspaper, went upstairs, and started to run a bath. It took a while to fill the huge tub; I sprinkled in bath salts, and lit a few scented candles to make it more relaxing. Twenty minutes later, I could hear Andrew slowly stomp up the stairs and enter my bedroom, where he proceeded to strip naked. I felt a thrill of delight that Andrew chose my bedroom to do so; he obviously intended to share my bed again. The bathroom door opened, and I suddenly had to concentrate to stop my jaw from dropping open and a flush from blooming in my cheeks,, as the fat man looked noticeably rounder than the night before - most of it due to the pounds of food currently in his system, no doubt, but still..!

Andrew looked around and marvelled at the bath and candles. "Oh, now this is just lovely!" He carefully, with my help, stepped into the fragrant water, wincing only slightly from the heat, and sank slowly into the bath with a sigh of deep satisfaction. I watched the water level rise alarmingly, but was pleased to see I’d judged the displacement factor of one fat Welshman correctly. Andrew leant back, and placed his arms on the sides of the bath, grinning up at me. "I said my fat bottom would fit in this bath, didn't I lad? Better than mine." He sighed again, happily. "I usually like to enjoy a nice cigar when I bathe at home, but I'm glad to forego that to experience this pampering." 

I slapped my forehead and hurried out of the door, saying "Ah, I knew I forgot something!” I returned a couple of minutes later with a tray bearing a cold pint, a glass ashtray, a box of matches, Andrew’s cigar-cutter, and one of the cigars I’d bought. "There you go, Andy. Now you can really relax."

Andrew looked dumbfounded. "No, no, Tommy lad, I wouldn't dream of stinking up your place with my filthy habit!"

"Didn't I say this was a first-class hotel? And I believe I already told you that I liked the smell of a good cigar...” I sat down on the edge of the bath. “I want you to feel completely relaxed, safe, and at home here, Andy. Enjoy your bath, my dear fellow." I stood once again and left, closing the door behind me, and went into the bedroom to change into my nightclothes. Moments later, I grinned when I detected the first traces of cigar-smoke coming from under the bathroom door. I lay on the bed and picked up a paperback to read, gently rubbing my round, overfilled gut to ease the twinges of discomfort. To be honest, I’d have quite liked a bath myself, but there was no way I was going to hurry Andrew tonight. I was quite pleased with my night’s work; the fat Welshman looked much more like his old self. 

Ten minutes later, I heard a quiet "Tommy? Are you there, son?" I stood and peered around the door of the bathroom. The sight greeting me made me smile all over again, and my proud member ached with longing; the naked, fat ex-teacher was lying back in the bath, the curve of his mighty paunch lifting out of the water like an island, his half-finished cigar burning gently in the ashtray, his pint glass empty on the floor. 

"Everything all right, Andrew?"

"Perfect, son. Well, almost. You've done so much for me, but - do you - could I impose on your kindness one time more tonight?"

"Anything, Andy, you know that. What do you need?" 

"Well..." The older man looked a little embarrassed. "The bath is wonderfully relaxing, but my belly's still a little sore from your fantastic food. Do you think - would you mind, perhaps... maybe… massaging it for me? I mean, not if you don't want to, but -"

Andrew didn’t have the chance to finish. I knelt by the bath and placed my right hand on the wet expanse of fat belly cresting the water. It felt warm, soft to the touch; pressing lightly with my fingertips, I felt the firmness of the packed stomach beneath, and gently started to move my hand in a slow circle, gradually widening, and pressing more firmly, with each rotation. 

"Ooooh...that feels marvellous, Tommy. Don't stop, I beg you!"

I didn't stop. I started to knead the taut flesh with both hands, squeezing it between my fingers, reaching below the water to grab handfuls of soft flab at the sides and rub them. By now I was leaning over the bath and could see Andrew arching his back, thrusting his belly out, looking fatter and more gorgeous than ever. His wet, glistening moobs with their large, dark nipples looked good enough to suck; the parted lips an invitation for me to plunge my tongue between them...but I resisted. (Too soon), I decided. 

Andrew gave a juddering sigh. I knew what that meant, from personal experience - Andrew had just come in the bath. Glad to have given my friend some sweet release, I slowed my rubbing to a stop, withdrew my hands, and dried them on a towel. My eyes met Andrew's, seeing the peace and gratitude shining out.

"Thank you, my lovely boy. You are the very best friend a man could wish for, and far better than this fat old bastard deserves. I owe you a debt greater than I can ever repay."

"Friends don't think in terms of "debt" or "owing", my dear man," I replied gently. "Whatever you need, I'll supply, if I can. You'd do the same if our positions were reversed, I have no doubt. You just relax, until you're ready to get out; your dressing-gown is on the back of the door. Finish your cigar. I'll lock up downstairs."

I went downstairs and completed locking up the house, set the dishwasher going, and poured the last dregs from the bottle of wine into my glass, downing it in one gulp. I was feeling pleased with how well my care and attention was working on Andrew - he appeared vastly improved, in just twenty-four hours - but I felt a trace of personal frustration. Glad as I was to have given Andrew sexual relief, albeit inadvertently, I couldn’t help wishing someone could take care of my own blue balls and throbbing member in the same way!

By the time I came upstairs again, Andrew was out of the bath and already in bed, his eyes closed and his breathing even. While I was very pleased to see Andrew still felt comfortable enough to share a bed with me, I was disappointed to see the Welshman wearing the pajamas he brought from home. (Oh, well). I calmly changed into my own pajamas, and slid in next to the warm, soft mass of my sleeping friend, gently patting his flank and muttering “G’night, Andy” before drifting off to sleep…

….but a moment later – or that’s what it felt like, anyway – I was awoken by a moaning and frantic thrashing next to me. Turning on the lamp, I saw Andrew in the throes of a nightmare – and by the look on his face, a bad one. Unsure whether I should try to awaken him, I laid a hand on his chest -  only to have it thrown off as Andrew catapulted into a sitting position with a speed belying his vast bulk, eyes open, tears streaming down his face, gasping for breath. Afraid it might be a heart attack, I rubbed Andrew’s back and tried to calm him. Fortunately, he quickly settled down once he realised he was awake, and safe. 

“T-Tommy…?”

“Shhh, I’m here, Andy. It was only a dream. Nothing can hurt you here….”

The Welshman turned to face me, his face screwed up as if he were about to burst into tears. “Tom, please, would you – would you hold me for a while?”

Without a word I opened my arms to the larger man, gathering him to my chest like a scared child, and we snuggled back under the bedclothes – or rather Andrew did, as his wild thrashing had pulled the covers half off me. I stroked Andrew’s soft back and smooth head, saying whatever popped into my head in a soothing voice, even singing nursery rhymes from my childhood until I heard gentle snores from my distressed friend. I glanced at the wall clock; 4:55 am. (Ah well), I thought to myself, (at least I don’t have to go to an office in the morning…)

The next morning, I woke up first, feeling the unaccustomed (but not unwelcome) weight of my houseguest still lying on half on my chest. The clock said it was 9:45 am, but the dull day outside meant there was little light coming through the curtains. Unwilling to disturb the sleeping ex-teacher, I fumbled for a book in my bedside table and read in the half-light for the next half an hour, at which point I felt Andrew stirring. I dropped the book down the side of the bed, and smiled down at the blue eyes peering up at me. 

“Morning, Andy. How do you feel?”

Andrew lifted his heavy head from my chest and sat up. “Better. Thank you. It was a dream, wasn’t it? But it was so real.” 

“Yes, Just a dream, that’s all. Do you remember any of it?”

“I… was in a courtroom, in the witness box, and everyone I’ve ever cared about was there – family, colleagues, students, even bloody Alastair – screaming that I was a foul, disgusting pervert, and should be locked away in a dark hole until my flesh rotted from my bones. I couldn’t speak, couldn’t make myself heard over the noise, and the Judge was about to pass sentence when – “

“Was I there?”

“What?” He looked nonplussed at the interruption.

“Was I there. In the courtroom.” I sat beside him, perfectly calm. Andrew had been getting more wound up in the telling, so I felt he needed to see a calm response, in order to help him restore his equilibrium. 

“Why… no. No, I can’t remember you there at all.”

“There you go, then. Proof positive that not everyone thinks of you that way… and if I don’t, then neither does anyone else who cares about you. QED.”

Andrew looked at me admiringly, his anxiety completely dispelled… for now. “And here I thought that I was the teacher in this relationship! When did you get so bloody wise, you young whippersnapper?”  

“They do say the student will someday become the master, don’t they? I had the best possible teacher. Now stop hogging the covers, you naughty boy, or I’ll give you fifty lines and make you run round the school field!”

Andrew dramatically placed his hand to his heart. “Heaven forfend!” Then looked sardonically at me. “That’s much more of a threat than it used to be, boyo. Time was, I could run five miles around the field and beat most of you lot back to the starting point. I used to laugh at a bunch of young kids, staggering in all red-faced and sweaty. Now, though – “and he smacked his gut with a meaty thunk – “now I’d probably be lying on the ground pleading for oxygen in about three minutes. Face it, Tom, I’m a flabby, obese, unfit sack of suet these days…and likely to remain so.” He frowned down at his belly and gently shook his flab.

“That you are, Andy,” I said, grinning as I planted a light, chaste kiss on the bald dome before me, “and you love it. So do I. On a completely different topic – how about breakfast?”

The Welshman laughed and smiled at me affectionately, his night terrors clearly forgotten. “And I thought I was supposed to be the bad influence on you! Your cooking will make me fatter than a cow before long!”

(I can only hope), I thought to myself….