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“Aniki, ain’t’cha lookin’ a little thick recently?”
Daigo pauses the ascent of his whiskey glass mid-way to his lips and lifts an eyebrow in Koizumi’s direction. “What?”
“I don’t mean no disrespect by it!” Koizumi hurriedly backtracks in response to Daigo’s flat affect. “Just that, y’know—you’re more filled out lately, I guess.”
He waves his hands in the shape of an hourglass, as if that helps his case. Daigo rolls his eyes and takes a large sip of his drink.
“Don’t listen to him, Daigo-tan,” the hostess at Daigo’s side chimes in. “I think you look super manly.”
Of course, she would say that. This specific hostess seems to really get a kick out of indulging Daigo. What started out as passing him little pieces of candy here and there turned into her making full-on bento—painstaking cutesy things with bears made of rice or inarizushi—just for him to take home.
Daigo doesn’t understand what it is about him that created an apparent obsession within her, but he’s also never put a stop to her behavior. And he really can’t complain about the bento—having ready-to-eat meals in his apartment has saved his ass on multiple occasions when he rolled out of bed, past noon, too hungover to venture out or even boil water for cup ramen.
A small hand lightly presses against the crest of Daigo’s stomach, and Daigo’s eyes flicker down to look at what she’s touching. There is an observable curve to his stomach, but surely, it’s just because he’s sitting down. Everyone’s body shifts and folds over itself when they sit, it’s nothing singular to him. Nothing new, either.
“Besides, women love it when men have some meat on their bones, right?” The hostess declares and looks around at her coworkers who nod their heads and murmur agreement.
“It’s like you’ve got your own life-size teddy bear.”
“I just can’t stand it when a guy’s elbows and hips dig into my side.”
“Skinny guys feel so cold.”
Koizumi leans back in wonder and swigs from his glass. “Damn, is that really how women think…? Maybe I got it all wrong.”
The hostess gives Daigo two quick pats—one to his stomach and one to his thigh—and smiles up at him.
***
The comments from that night play in Daigo’s mind on repeat. Doesn’t a failure like him already get enough shit? Where the hell does Koizumi get off on judging him too? Daigo hasn’t seen Koizumi’s ass at a gym, either.
He tries to build a wall in his mind to blockade those thoughts, just like how he cut off the Tojo Clan and anyone involved with it. But the feelings are insidious, like a septic infection rotting from the inside out.
Daigo pushes himself further into his alcoholic binges to keep his thoughts at bay. The all-encompassing embrace of a blackout is comforting; detaching his mind from his body prevents Daigo from thinking his way into another spiral.
One night, Daigo wakes up to find himself sprawled over the toilet in his bathroom. The smell of sick permeates the air, and Daigo wrinkles his nose as he sits up and takes stock of himself. His head is throbbing and his throat burns from the acid of his vomit. Vomit, which is currently encrusting the side of his face and the front of his shirt.
Daigo peels off his shirt and tosses it to the floor in disgust before flushing the toilet and slamming the lid closed. The room begins to spin as Daigo stands, so he settles for collapsing onto the toilet with his palms pressed to his eyelids. After several minutes, he peeks through his fingers and sees that the floor is stationary, so he hobbles his way to the sink.
He flips the faucet to cold and begins washing his face. The water wakes him up and pushes him further out of his stupor, though he still feels like he got hit by a car and drug along the asphalt. When he’s finished, Daigo heads for his bed but stops as he catches sight of his tattoo in the mirror from the corner of his eye. Grabbing a hand mirror from his shaving kit, Daigo puts his back against the sink to inspect his tattoo fully.
Fudo Myoo scowls back at him, but that isn’t what piqued Daigo’s attention. As his eyes traverse the length of his tattoo, Daigo sees that the deity has a double chin, neck folds, and a paunch spilling out from beneath his robes. If a venerated being like Fudo Myoo has a body like this, then maybe it’s not so bad on Daigo, either.
The thought is a temporary bulwark against his insecurities, at any rate.
***
Another night, another cabaret club. More drinks, more girls, more worthless hours pissed away.
Daigo has been to this club before. Or has he? It’s all blurring together. Alcohol-drowned memories warp and writhe and erase themselves even as they imprint onto the grey matter of Daigo’s brain.
Sitting in the curved booth, listening to the grating chatter of his men and the high-pitched laughs of the hostesses, Daigo feels like he’s in a nightmare. Every piece of conversation has been said before ad nauseum, endless repetition without innovation.
Daigo’s hands shake as he grasps his drink. The whiskey burns his throat on its way down but the feeling is distant, like trying to make his arm move after he’s fallen asleep on it. His chest constricts tighter and tighter until Daigo can barely breathe.
He needs to get out of here.
Daigo’s hip knocks into the table—(was it always such a tight squeeze?)—as he abruptly shoots to his feet, and the glasses wobble precariously. A murmur of surprise goes through the group, and everyone turns to stare at Daigo.
“I’ll be back,” he mutters, already halfway out of the booth.
“Wait a sec, Aniki. I’ll go with you.” Isobe volunteers, moving to get up after him.
“No!” Daigo’s rejection carries more force than necessary and those countless sets of eyes all widen in unison. Hyperaware of his fuck up, Daigo forces out a laugh to try to ease the tension. But with the constriction of his chest, it sounds more like air being squeezed out of a balloon, or the death rattle of some small animal.
“I don’t need a babysitter everywhere, do I?” Daigo jokes with forced lightheartedness. “I’m just going for a smoke. Keep drinking without me.”
Leaving no room for protests, Daigo makes his exit. As he ascends the stairs leading to the street, Daigo is relieved that he doesn’t hear a second step of footsteps trailing on his heels. Cool night air caresses Daigo’s cheek as he pushes open the steel door and steps out onto the street, and it grants him some relief from his nearly full-blown panic attack.
Still needing to put more distance between himself and his men, Daigo wanders until he finds a secluded side street. The alley is open at either end but the height of the buildings around it provides a comforting darkness. Finally alone, Daigo leans back against a wall and fishes out his carton of smokes. It’s almost strange lighting his own cigarette after having it done for him for so long.
Closing his eyes, Daigo inhales deeply and takes a long drag. The nicotine calms him, boosts his mood. The last of his hand’s lingering tremors disappear.
“Are you Daigo Dojima?”
Daigo opens his eyes to see that a mousey man has materialized in front of him. He’s got big round glasses, like Nobita from Doraemon, and they only emphasize the expectant expression in his eyes.
“What’s it to you if I am?” Daigo snaps, annoyed by the intrusion.
The man’s hands fly up in mock surrender. “I’m not looking for a fight. I just wanted to know if the rumor is true.”
“Which rumor?”
It’s reasonable for Daigo to need some clarification—people have always had plenty to say about him, nowadays especially. But it’s as if the man was counting on that. His eyes sparkle in the low light and he learns forward into Daigo’s personal space like he’s sharing a great secret.
“That you’ll sleep with anyone, man or woman.”
Daigo stares flatly and lets the silence stretch on. The smoke from his cigarette wreathes the other man’s face. If he’s bothered by the secondhand smoke, he doesn’t let on.
“You’re trying to pick me up?” Daigo asks.
The man turns sheepish and chuckles with self-abasement. “You always have your posse around. So, when I saw you walking out here alone, I thought it was finally my chance.”
It’s the words “always” and “finally” that stick out. It’s not exactly surprising that Daigo himself has never noticed his apparent stalker. But just how long has this guy been following Daigo around Kamurocho? The bars and restaurants that Daigo frequents aren’t a secret, but does he know where Daigo lives, too?
Those concerns quickly evaporate, however. Daigo just can’t muster up the will to care, especially with this slender Nobita lookalike. There’s no possibility the guy could fight his way out of a paper bag, and Daigo is confident in his ability to defend himself if it came to that.
As his cigarette burns down to the filter, Daigo’s mind shifts to humoring the guy. Having sex—even with a stalker—sounds pretty good over the alternatives of returning to the cabaret club or wallowing in his apartment.
“Alright,” Daigo agrees and drops the cigarette to the ground, crushing it under foot.
“Wait, you’re serious?” The man asks, his eyes somehow going even bigger in surprise.
“Isn’t that what you wanted?”
“Well, yes. But I didn’t think you’d really—I mean—no, it’s fine. Let’s go!”
The man hops back and gestures for Daigo to lead the way. His lack of experience is glaringly obvious—Daigo can’t help but think this must be the very first time the man has ever picked someone up. He might even be a virgin. Compared to the usual type that Daigo attracts, though, it’s a bit cute.
“What’s your name?” Daigo asks as they head to the Hotel District.
The question is more for his own sanity than curiosity. If he doesn’t get a name, then he’s really going to start thinking of this guy as “Nobita.” And that is not an image he wants to pop in his head in the middle of sex.
“Ah, I’m Tanaka. Nice to meet you.” He dips his head down in a brief bow.
The name is so generic that Daigo immediately knows it’s fake. Not that it matters whether Tanaka is being truthful, but a part of Daigo riles at the fact he’s keeping his own identity a secret while stalking Daigo. Still, Daigo returns the pleasantries.
After that, the walk to the hotel is silent. Some men—usually the wasted salarymen—are handsy, groping and kissing Daigo the entire way to a soundtrack of their drunken babbling. Tanaka fidgets and his gaze jumps from Daigo to the street and back again, but he never reaches out to touch.
The love hotel Daigo leads them to is one he’s visited multiple times before: Mid-budget, fine but not luxurious, with a self-service kiosk. Daigo selects the room—plain, without any gimmicks aside from a mirrored ceiling—from a screen of options. Daigo chooses the shortest booking time, not expecting Tanaka to last more than half an hour. Still, that’s time Daigo won’t be in his own head.
The kiosk spits out a room key and they use the elevator to reach their floor. The room is easy to find by the number plate flashing above the door which goes dark once Daigo inserts the key. As the door shuts behind them, the lock clicks, effectively locking them in until they’ve paid through the machine in the room.
“Alright,” Daigo says as he shrugs off his puffer jacket and hangs it over the back of a chair. “What do you want to do?”
He turns towards Tanaka, who is still standing by the door. The man is staring at him dumbstruck with his hand half-covering his mouth.
“No way…” Tanaka gapes. “You’re even fatter than I thought.”
“Huh?”
Daigo couldn’t possibly have heard him correctly. He blinks, trying to figure out what Tanaka had really said, as the man breaks out of his trance to close the distance between them. He reaches out and takes hold of either side of Daigo’s waist. Tanaka’s hands twitch upwards and Daigo feels his sides—the fat there, those love handles which puffed up over his waistband and that he had ignored when he dressed—wobble.
Hot humiliation shoots up the back of Daigo’s neck and colors his cheeks. Daigo’s mouth falls open, speechless, as Tanaka slides his thumbs up the curve of his belly. It pushes up the hem of his t-shirt and exposes a stripe of skin.
Tanaka immediately drops to his knees and begins mouthing at the bare skin. He plants wet, sucking kisses onto every millimeter that he can reach. Daigo gasps and grabs onto Tanaka’s shoulders to steady himself.
What the fuck? Daigo thinks. He’s no stranger to people having fetishes, that’s their prerogative. But the way this guy shifted from meek and vanilla to eager and kinky is throwing him for a loop. Even more confusing is the fact that Daigo’s body is responding to the localized attention, arousal building with every bite and scrape of his teeth.
Hastily, Tanaka undoes the button of Daigo’s leather pants. There’s a perceptible release of pressure and Daigo’s formerly confined belly surges forward to fill the new space and pushes down his zipper in the process.
“How did you even squeeze yourself into these? Fuck, it’s like a sausage casing…”
The words coming out of this man’s mouth are unbelievable. After that night with Koizumi, people kept talking about Daigo’s body, but no one had ever dared say to Daigo’s face anything close to what he’s currently hearing. Even Daigo himself had been avoiding confrontation by not looking in the mirror, scared of his own insecurities and the truth of his body.
And now he’s fully thrown into the deep-end by a stranger. Daigo’s heart pounds, and he’s scared he may drown.
Tanaka cradles the plush weight of Daigo’s stomach almost reverently and traces the harsh red line encircling Daigo’s waist; it’s evidence of where his waistband had dug into his skin and bisected his belly into two distinct sections, like a “B.”
“I’m surprised you haven’t popped the button on these pants. Ha, well, it’s only a matter of time, right?”
A matter of time…? Daigo recalls how he had to suck in his stomach and even lie on his back to be able to get the two sides of his pants to meet. Up to this point, he had been both too stubborn and too self-conscious to button his pants underneath his gut. He didn’t want to draw attention to how his stomach had come to hang over his beltline. But popping off a button would be a different type of humiliation.
Tanaka surges to his feet and pushes Daigo towards the bed. The back of his knees hit the mattress and Daigo collapses backwards into an awkward heap. Before he has time to recover, Tanaka pounces: He grabs hold of either side of Daigo’s waistband and begins tugging off the leather pants.
They cling to Daigo’s thighs like a second skin and refuse to go down easily. Rather than sliding down, it’s more like the pants are literally being peeled off of Daigo. Fuck, Daigo thinks, maybe he was right with that sausage casing shit. There’s another flare of embarrassment, and it burns steadily as Daigo pathetically shimmies against the bedspread in an attempt to help.
With their combined efforts, Daigo’s skin is slowly revealed. Daigo pushes down his underwear in pursuit, and his half-hard cock—his body apparently oblivious to the turmoil of his mind—springs forward. But it’s the sight of the puffy pad of fat hiding part of his length that causes Tanaka to suck in a breath. Then his eyes fall to the side, and he actually moans.
“You’ve got stretch marks here,” Tanaka says, and his fingertips ghost the outside of Daigo’s thighs.
Incredulously, Daigo looks down and sees that it’s true. Textured, purple-red stretch marks snake around the curves of his thighs. Naively, he had thought that was an issue only pregnant women had to worry about.
“Just how quickly did you get this fucking fat?”
“I don’t—” Daigo sputters, at a loss for words. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?” Tanaka laughs. “That’s amazing. I mean, you’ve gotta be over a hundred kilos. It’s too bad this place doesn’t have a scale for us to check.”
Daigo is thankful for that fact. The undeniable reality of attaching a number to his weight would be too much of a shock to his system. As it was, the changes had been so gradual—or so Daigo had thought. Sure, he had turned away from it all. But he felt like shit most days, anyway. How was he supposed to be able to tell the difference between temporary bloating from drinking and actual accumulating fat?
Lost in his own hang-ups, Daigo hardly notices that his lower half is finally bare and free. Tanaka then takes the opportunity to strip off his own clothing. Daigo glances over to see that Tanaka is already fully erect even though he’s done nothing more than play with Daigo’s body.
He’s really into this, Daigo thinks, astounded. For all his harsh words that edge on bullying, Tanaka is attracted to Daigo. He finds Daigo’s body desirable. Daigo thinks again of Fudo Myoo on his back; that type of body wouldn’t be venerated without meaning.
Tanaka snatches up a hotel-provided bottle of lube and tosses it to Daigo. “I want to watch you open yourself up for me.”
At least that is normal. Daigo climbs further up onto the bed and kneels with his back to Tanaka, as he’s done with so many anonymous men before him. The motions are familiar as he flips open the lube and coats his fingers, but Daigo finds there’s a little more effort required to reach around himself than before.
His finger slips inside easily enough, still, and very soon after Daigo adds a second. Pleasure gathers at his spine as he massages his prostate, and Daigo moans and rocks his hips forward and back against his fingers.
In normal circumstances, this is when Daigo’s larger awareness of his body would fall away. Instead, he’s aware of how gravity pulls downward on his belly. He’s aware of the new folds over his waist as he leans forward. He’s aware of how his thighs jiggle and shake. It’s new and strange and unusual, but it’s not bad. He even finds himself wanting Tanaka to touch these parts of him.
Just as Daigo thinks to voice his request, he’s flipped over onto his back with surprising strength. Tanaka grabs Daigo’s hips and squeezes tightly, his fingers sinking into the fat. Daigo shudders and spreads his thighs further apart to give Tanaka access.
Without any hesitation, Tanaka slams his cock into Daigo. The sound of Tanaka’s thighs clapping against Daigo’s flesh quickly fills the space of the room. Every impact sets Daigo’s fat quaking, and Tanaka’s pace leaves no time for the ripples to stop before there’s another wave.
“Fuck,” Tanaka hisses. “I need to feel all of you.”
He tapers off from his enthusiastic speed to rut slowly against Daigo. He stays deep, barely pulling out, and keeps Daigo filled. The constant stimulation against his prostate causes Daigo’s eyes to flutter closed, and he moans deeply from the back of his throat.
At the same time, Tanaka’s hands begin to creep underneath Daigo’s tight t-shirt. They pinch and prod and wander their way across the expanse of his torso. Daigo pushes into the touch, wanting more as his nerve endings alight. Just as Tanaka reaches the underside of his chest, he slides his hands away.
Daigo opens his mouth to complain, but Tanaka yanks up the hem of Daigo’s shirt to his neck. The action is so rough that Daigo’s tits shake with the momentum. Tits—that’s what his pecs have become, round and soft mounds of fat rather than hard and flat muscle. The muscle is still there, providing support that adds a perkiness to the overall shape, but Tanaka can’t reach it even as he paws at Daigo’s chest.
Tanaka thumbs Daigo’s nipples, and a jolt like electricity courses through Daigo’s body. His head falls back against the cushion of the bed and his eyes roll up towards the mirror above their heads. He sees Tanaka’s back and rocking hips, and himself underneath Tanaka’s slender body.
For the first time, Daigo takes in the full sight of his body and the ways it has changed. He observes his flushed, full cheeks and the soft edges of his jawline; the plump swell of his chest and the round curve of his stomach, with the stretch marks that reach towards his navel; the pooching flesh around his hips and the thickness of his thighs.
And, surprisingly, he doesn’t hate what he sees.
Daigo’s eyes travel back down as Tanaka wraps his arms around Daigo in a hug. Chest-to-chest, skin-to-skin, Daigo can feel Tanaka’s heart pounding. The rapid beat probably matches his own.
“You feel so good,” Tanaka groans. “So soft.”
Tanaka dips his head, and his forehead comes to rest in the valley of Daigo’s cleavage. Thrusting his hips a final time, Tanaka comes into Daigo while pressed into the plushness of his body. And it’s that warmth inside of him, that feeling of being used for pleasure, that pushes Daigo into his own orgasm. His release spills between them, over Daigo’s belly and into the soft indentation of his navel.
Tanaka’s recovery is surprisingly quick. Maybe he really is an over-enthusiastic virgin, as Daigo had first clocked him. As he straightens up and pulls out, the movement jostles his softening cock against Daigo’s oversensitive insides. He grunts and tries to squirm away from the sensation but doesn’t get far.
“How long did you book this room?” Tanaka asks, his voice rough.
It feels like they walked into this hotel a lifetime ago, and it takes Daigo a second to remember. “Two hours.”
Tanaka nods, then leans over the side of the bed. He comes up with his flip phone and reports, “There’s still an hour and twenty minutes left.”
His underlying request for another round, or more, is obvious. With the drunk salarymen, Daigo’s usually a one-and-done guy. But this time, he feels like staying. He wants to do more, feel more.
“Alright,” Daigo says. “Let’s do it.”