Chapter 1

Doctor Mark Thickerson rolled his old blue Civic into the clinic parking lot at 8:47 a.m., the engine coughing like it was as stuffed as he was. The sun was already beating down on the cracked asphalt outside the little strip-mall building in suburban nowhere, the kind of place where the sign for "Thickerson Family Medicine" had faded a bit on the edges but still looked official enough.

He killed the ignition, one hand still wrapped around the massive foot-long sub from that hole-in-the-wall deli two blocks over, turkey, ham, salami, extra cheese, mayo dripping down the sides like it was trying to escape, and the other clutching a jumbo chocolate milkshake that was more ice cream than milk at this point. He took another massive bite right there in the driver's seat, crumbs tumbling onto his white button-up that was already fighting a losing battle against the swell of his gut. The bread was soft, the meats salty and stacked thick, and the shake was so cold it made his teeth ache in the best way.

Forty-two years old, brown hair, a thick mustache and 312 pounds on a good day, and every pound of it felt earned this morning.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, let out a low satisfied burp that fogged the window a little, and hauled himself out. His belly led the way, heavy and round under the shirt, the fabric pulling tight enough that you could see the outline of his navel pressing through. The walk to the front door was only thirty feet, but it gave him that familiar little jiggle in his thighs and that pleasant ache in his lower back he'd learned to love. Inside, the waiting room smelled like the usual mix of antiseptic, old magazines, and the faint vanilla air freshener Dorna sprayed every morning to cover up whatever the last patient had been dealing with.

Dorna Kettleback was already at the reception desk, fifty-eight years old and built like she'd been poured into her scrubs, short, round-faced, with a perm that hadn't changed since the nineties and a voice that could cut through steel when she felt like it. She'd been with Mark since he opened the clinic twelve years ago, right after his divorce. Knew where the bodies were buried, metaphorically speaking. She glanced up from her computer, spotted the sub still half-wrapped in his hand and the shake cup sweating condensation, and let out a dry chuckle.

"Morning, Doc. Jesus, you startin' the day like it's Thanksgiving again? That thing's bigger than my head."

Mark grinned around another bite, talking through a mouthful because why the hell not.

"What can I say, Dorna? Fuel for the fire. What's on the docket today? Hit me."

She leaned back in her creaky chair, flipping through the schedule on the screen while he parked his ass on the edge of her desk, belly resting on his thighs like it owned the place.

"Same ol' circus. Josh Hush at nine for his allergy refill, guy's been sneezing like a lawn sprinkler since last week. Peter Parlor at nine-thirty, just a blood pressure check and maybe renew his cholesterol meds. Then that new kid Brian Waters at ten for a general physical. Said he's been feeling 'off' but wouldn't elaborate. Kid's twenty-four, never been in before. Shouldn't be anything serious. Just a recent college graduate adapting to the work force. "

Mark nodded, sucking down a long pull of the milkshake until the straw gurgled empty. The chocolate was thick, sweet, coating his tongue. He could already feel the sugar buzz kicking in. Dorna eyed the empty cup and the last quarter of the sub like she was calculating calories in her head.

"You know you ate more in that breakfast than I do all damn day, right? I had half a banana and black coffee. You're out here building a food pyramid by yourself."

He laughed, a deep belly rumble that made his gut bounce.

"Well, someone's gotta eat in this clinic, Dorna. Can't have the patients thinking we're all on that rabbit-food diet you push on 'em. Besides, keeps me jolly. Patients like a jolly doctor."

She snorted, shaking her head but smiling that half-motherly, half-exasperated smile she reserved just for him.

"Jolly. That's one word for it. Your ass is gonna need a reinforced chair one of these days. Go on, get settled. I'll send the first one back when he shows."

Mark gave her a lazy salute with the sub wrapper and waddled down the short hallway to his office. The room was exactly how he liked it, cluttered in that lived-in way.

Diplomas on the wall next to a framed picture of him at med school graduation, back when he was only two-fifty and still pretending he'd slim down someday. Desk buried under charts, a half-eaten bag of chips from yesterday, and the big leather chair that groaned when he dropped into it. He kicked the door mostly shut, fired up the ancient desktop, and logged straight into FantasyFeeder before he even pulled up the patient files.

The site loaded with that familiar dingy blue interface, thumbnails of bellies and feeders grinning back at him. Local guys first, he filtered to within twenty miles. There was BigBear82, the warehouse supervisor who'd gained forty pounds since last month and was begging for encouragement. ChunkyDad44, a divorced forty-something who posted scale pics every Sunday and wanted to hit four hundred by Christmas. Mark typed quick replies: "Looking massive, man, keep stuffing" and "Hell yeah, that gut's coming in nice-send progress pics." He scrolled a little longer, heart doing that stupid flutter it always did when the fantasy felt close enough to touch. Then he pulled up his own profile, ThickDoc42, and uploaded the fresh pics he'd snapped in his bathroom mirror last night. Shirtless, scale reading 312.2. Ten pounds up from February. The caption: "Slow and steady, boys. Doctor's orders. Who's got tips for the next ten?" He hit post, leaned back, and let the chair creak under him while he finished the last of the sub. The replies would roll in later-guys calling him a beast, asking if he was looking for a feeder, the usual dance. For now, it was enough.

Josh Hush came in right on time, a wiry mechanic in grease-stained jeans who smelled faintly of motor oil and coffee. Forty minutes of sneezing, a quick listen to his lungs, refill on the allergy meds, and some small talk about his kid's Little League game last weekend. Mark nodded along, professional as hell, even cracked a joke about pollen being the real enemy. Inside, though, his mind was already drifting to the next profile he'd seen on the site, a guy who looked like he could bench-press a truck but wanted to be softer. Mundane shit, but it paid the bills.

Peter Parlor shuffled in next, sixty-two, 485 lbs, retired postal worker with a perpetual scowl and a bad knee from years on the route. Blood pressure was high, but nothing new, so Mark adjusted the statin dose and listened to Peter rant about the neighbor's dog barking all night and how it was making him stressed, which was his hypothesis on why his blood pressure was high. Nothing to do with his gigantic frame and hearty appetite, surely.

"You ever think about getting a quieter life, Doc? Maybe getting a little leaner... I was as fat as you in my 30's and look where I am now." Peter asked, eyeing Mark's belly like it was a conversation piece.

Mark just chuckled.

"Quieter? Nah. I like the noise. Keeps me young. And as for the weight... I like eating way too much Pete."

Peter left with a prescription and a pat on the back.

Mark was halfway through charting when Dorna buzzed the intercom. "Brian Waters is here. Room two when you're ready."
He straightened up, wiped a stray mayo crumb off his shirt, and headed down the hall. The second Brian walked in, Mark felt it like a punch to the sternum.

The kid was twenty-four but looked like he'd stepped out of a goddamn catalog six-foot-two of lean, sun-kissed skin, messy blonde hair that fell over his forehead just right, and these bright blue eyes that locked on you like they were drowning you in a gigantic pool. He was wearing a faded gray tank top and basketball shorts, the kind of outfit that showed off how his collarbones stood out sharp and his arms had that wiry definition from whatever he did to stay active. Slightly too skinny, yeah. But the way he moved, hesitant, polite, like he didn't want to take up too much space, hit Mark somewhere low and warm. Smitten didn't even cover it. Lust, sure. But also this weird protective itch mixed with something sharper.

"Hey, Doc," Brian said, voice soft with a little Midwestern drawl that didn't match the tan. "Thanks for squeezing me in. I've just been... I dunno, feeling run-down lately. Figured better get checked."

Mark shook his hand, firm, but the kid's palm was warm and a little clammy, and gestured to the exam table.

"No problem at all, Brian. Hop up there. Let's get the basics."

The exam started normal enough. Blood pressure solid, heart rate steady. Mark listened to his lungs, felt along his neck for lymph nodes. But every time he leaned in, Brian's eyes kept flicking down. Not at the stethoscope. At Mark's belly. The way it strained the shirt, the heavy curve of it resting on his belt. The kid was staring-eager, almost hungry, like he couldn't help it. Mark caught it twice, three times.

A discreet little smirk tugged at his lips. Chaser. Had to be. He'd seen that look on the site a hundred times, guys who talked big about loving a big gut but ghosted the second things got real. Mark had the screenshots to prove it. The ones who'd flirted for weeks, promised to cook for him, then vanished when he sent a fresh progress pic. Revenge had been simmering in the back of his mind for months. And here was this sweet-faced twink, probably a little dull around the edges but staring at Mark's fat like it was the best thing he'd seen all year.

Mark kept his face straight, but inside he was already spinning the plan. He could help look at Brian and see all the chasers that wronged him. He just couldn't. He knew what to do. Scare the kid just enough. Convince him he needed to pack on the pounds. Fast. Turn the chaser into the chased. Make him soft and heavy and hooked. It was fucked up, sure. But the kid looked like he'd trust a doctor with his life. And damn if that didn't make the whole thing hotter.

"Alright, let's get your weight real quick," Mark said, voice casual as he led Brian to the scale in the corner. Brian stepped on, socks and all. The digital numbers blinked:

140.2.

Mark let out a low whistle, eyes widening in practiced shock. "Whoa. Hold up. You're six-two and only a hundred and forty? Brian, that's... that's not good, man. Not good at all."

Brian blinked, rubbing the back of his neck. "I feel fine, Doc. I run five miles most mornings, play pickup basketball. I've always been skinny. Genetics or whatever."

Mark shook his head, guiding him back to the table and sitting close enough that his knee brushed Brian's. The kid's eyes darted down again, lingering on the way Mark's belly shifted when he moved. Sexual tension crackled in the air like static. Mark could feel it in the way Brian's breath hitched, the faint flush creeping up that tan neck. Mark leaned in a fraction, voice dropping low and serious, the kind of tone that made patients listen.

"Listen, I get it. You feel fine now. But being this underweight? It's a slow burn, kid. Weakened immune system, you're one bad cold away from pneumonia. Bones get brittle, energy crashes later in the day even if you don't notice yet. Heart has to work harder. And don't get me started on testosterone levels tanking. You're young, but this stuff catches up. I've seen it. Guys your age end up in the ER because their body just... gives out. We gotta fix this. Fast."

Brian's blue eyes went wide, that sweet, trusting face creasing with real worry. "Shit. For real? I thought I was just... normal skinny."

Mark nodded solemnly, pulling a notepad from his pocket and scooting his chair even closer. Their knees touched now. He could smell the kid's shampoo, something clean and citrusy, and the faint salt of his skin.

"For real. But good news? We've got a plan. Special diet, tailored just for you. We're talking high-calorie, easy to pack in. Fast food every day, burgers, fries, the works. Double cheeseburgers, extra-large shakes. Sweets on the regular: ice cream, cake, donuts, whatever you're craving. Milkshakes for breakfast, lunch, and dinner if you want. And Coke... forget water, make it your new best friend. Liquid calories, kid. They add up without you even feeling full. I'll write it all down, but the rule is: eat until you can't. No skipping. We'll track progress every two weeks. You'll be feeling like a new man in no time."

Brian shifted on the table, looking equal parts freaked and weirded out. His eyes kept flicking back to Mark's belly, like it was the example he couldn't stop studying.

"That... that sounds kinda unhealthy, Doc. All that junk? I mean, I eat salads sometimes. Is this really what doctors recommend?"

Mark laughed softly, low and warm, and let his hand rest on Brian's shoulder, big, steady, fingers lingering just a second too long on the lean muscle there. The touch sent a spark up his own arm. Brian didn't pull away. If anything, he leaned into it a fraction.

"Trust me, Brian. I've been doing this twenty years. Your body needs the fuel. Think of it like building a house-gotta pour the foundation heavy first. I'll monitor everything. Bloodwork in a month. You'll thank me when you're stronger, fuller, more... solid." His voice dipped on that last word, eyes locking with Brian's. The air felt thicker. Mark's belly brushed against the kid's thigh as he reached for the prescription pad. Brian's breath caught again, cheeks going pink under the tan.

They sat there another ten minutes, Mark drawing up the "diet" like it was gospel, specific orders for McDonald's runs, Dairy Queen stops, entire pizzas as snacks. Brian asked questions, voice getting smaller, but he nodded along, scribbling notes on his phone like a good patient. Every time their eyes met, that tension hummed. Mark imagining sliding a milkshake across the desk and watching those pretty lips wrap around the straw, Brian staring at the doctor's gut like he wanted to bury his face in it.

By the time Brian left, appointment card for three weeks from now clutched in his hand, promising to start the plan that night, Mark was half-hard under his desk and grinning like he'd just won the lottery. He leaned back, belly spilling forward, and let out a long breath. The revenge would taste sweet. But damn if the kid wasn't already making him feel something messier than that.
Dorna poked her head in a minute later.

"Last one gone? You look like you just ate the whole fridge."

Mark chuckled, already reaching for the stash of candy bars in his drawer.

"Something like that, Dorna. Something like that."

He popped open a Snickers, took a huge bite, and thought about Brian's blue eyes on his belly the whole damn time. The day was just getting started.