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Description: An injured college athlete takes up beer pong to pass the time while healing and gains a belly, along with a new perspective. (SWG, stuffing, burping, teasing, exercise fails) Beer Belly Girl Written By Polarisdreamer Illustrated by PersonDudeManGuy Authors Note: A one-off story made possible by support from my P*a*t*r*e*o*n. Enjoy! “I can’t wait for the time when curves and a little belly fat will be sexy again.” My ditzy roommate absentmindedly pouted, as she continued meticulously inspecting the way her potbelly filled out her slutty Halloween costume. Sofia was dressed up in a revealing red cocktail dress, with devil horns sprouting outward from her short curly blonde hair, and with red lipstick coating her full voluminous lips. She definitely filled out the dress, but not in the ways she probably hoped. Looking at her now, I could see the contours of her navel pressing firmly against the fabric around her waist. The D-cup cleavage I had always envied and admired on her was fully on display, as was her ever shapely hourglass hips, but that alcoholic potbelly stole the show and ruined everything. She wore a tiny black belt right under the bust, probably to try and make her tits look bigger, but all it ended up doing was make her fat beer belly look even doughier. “A little?” I skeptically replied, freeing my long dark and curly hair from its bun while my athletic 5’8 130-pound figure remained reclined in my bed. I was looking fabulous in a crop top and jean shorts combo that nobody would see or appreciate tonight, elevating my injured foot with two pillows and watching the ditzy sweetheart’s wardrobe struggles with more disapproval than I probably should have, but in my defense, it was a crying shame Sofia had let herself go. I had such a crush on her last year, I couldn’t help voicing my disapproval, “you’ve got a lot more than a little belly fat going on. You could pass for nine-months pregnant if your gut wasn’t so pudgy-looking.” I’d watched her clothes steadily grow tighter around her tummy all freshman year, to make matters worse she hadn’t lost a single pound of belly fat over summer break and now as a sophomore her gut was blowing up in size all over again. At 5’9 and 190lbs, it was like someone had stuck a keg in her stomach. It was round and protruded outward across her midsection. Alcohol consumption was the main culprit although her drunken appetite certainly hadn’t done her figure any favors. “Okay Lauren, you got me. I’m guilty of enjoying beer. I like my potato chips. Taco bell is on my agenda when I go to town. I eat when I’m stressed. I snack when I’m bored. I’m too lazy to go to the gym. I have a serious midnight mac & cheese habit and I’ve always found it hard not to have seconds at the cafeteria.” Sofia vented, as she ventured over to her bed across from me and plopped her thickened booty down upon her covers. In response, the bed creaked loudly under her enhanced weight; however, she didn’t let such an embarrassment distract her from making her point, “But do you know what? I’m having sooo much fun in college. Can you say the same?” My life in college from Freshman year to now had revolved exclusively around academics and athletics. I never had time to date, party or drink, so I didn’t. In the classroom, I was always that well-grounded and hard-working teacher’s pet making people jealous of my ability to get sh*t done. On the track, I was my team’s best 800- and 1600-meter middle distance specialist. I was quick, I had stamina, with my rock-solid thighs, long legs, muscle butt, lean abs, and firm chest, I had no equal on the team. My closest competition was Taylor. She was the hot redhead who showed up to practice every day with her makeup on and in a well thought out running outfit instead of a sports bra and running shorts like everyone else. I could never figure out who she thought she needed to impress, but Taylor was rich so maybe wearing all the most expensive brands came with the territory. The entitled junior was always 15 seconds slower than me or more, probably thanks to her oversized breasts or the fact she was a good bit shorter than me. Either way, the simple fact was that I was just more talented than her, and she couldn’t stand it. Which was a shame, because I had a crush on Taylor too Freshman year until I learned how much of a lowkey bully she could be. Of everyone on my team, she actually looked happy when coach broke the news about my stress fracture during preseason for cross country. The way she’d cheerfully told me to: “Take it easy…” Still rubbed me the wrong way. She was happy I was hurt so she could move up the ranks on the team in my absence, I just knew it! Sitting in my bed, I forced my brain back to the present and pondered Sofia’s sudden question, I was two months into my five-month recovery sentence and the truth was I was going crazy without having a sport in my life. Sure, I could throw on my pool-belt and aqua-jog every morning, do a full core circuit before eating lunch and train on a stationary bike every afternoon, but even though I was still in fantastic cardiovascular shape, I couldn’t compete. Not until my foot fully recovered. I wasn’t having fun. How could I? I couldn’t do what I wanted to do. I needed competition, I needed a challenge, I needed a goal to work toward otherwise what was the point? What was my purpose? “Well, can you?” Sofia hummed growing impatient with my silence. I honestly couldn’t, but rather than give Sofia an inch, I chose to silently roll my eyes instead of admitting the truth. Taking my non-response as a ‘no’, she abruptly sighed, rose to her feet and started loudly dragging my desk between our beds. “What are you doing?” I wondered confused by the blonde-haired air-head’s actions. “Helping you have some fun.” Sofia replied, as she jiggled her tubby gut toward her closet once she was done moving my desk and clearing off its contents. Moments later, she returned with a handful of red solo cups and a package of ping-pong balls, “You’re not going out for Halloween so how about we play a game of beer-pong and pre-game together.” “We can’t play beer-pong! We’ll get written up!” I protested sounding every bit the teacher’s pet I was. “Sounds like somebody’s afraid of losing.” Sofia teased innocently clearly amused by my reaction. “Am not.” I countered not knowing how to back down. “Then play me. One game.” Sofia smiled having backed me into a proverbial corner. “Fine. One game.” I grunted foolishly accepting Sofia’s challenge. I wasn’t sure where Sofia got the beer from, but she had plenty of it to fill up every cup she placed on my desk. As she set herself up across from where I was sitting on my bed, it occurred to me that I didn’t know the rules of this game I’d just agreed to play. Once I was able to reluctantly admit this, Sofia explained: “Beer Pong is a drinking game! You throw ping-pong balls into cups of beer. You gotta drink the contents of any cup on your side of the table that a ball lands in. The game goes on until one of us accurately baskets all the cups or if someone’s unable to drink anymore.” It sounded simple enough, Sofia even gave me a few practice shots before we got started. Of my five or so warmup throws, I only managed to land a ping-pong ball in a solo cup the final time I threw one. It felt just like sinking a bucket in basketball. The surge of dopamine was enough for me to overconfidently encourage Sofia to get our game started. Since I was a new player Sofia let me start. She gave me two throws, both of which I missed, although one bounced off the rim of one of the cups. On Sofia’s turn, she threw twice and landed both! “Ha! Drink!” Sofia laughed, as she grabbed the two cups she’d nailed and handed them to me, so I didn’t have to get off my bed. My first sip was slow. In all honesty, I’d never drank beer before. It tasted horrible. Sofia laughed at the way I winced, but I didn’t let it deter me. Just like taking medicine, I forced my first cup down and then moved on to my second. The beer was extremely carbonated. For someone who never even drank soda, it was uncomfortable to force down, but after a few sips, I eventually did it. Afterward I could feel it fizzing its way down into my lean and defined stomach. “Ugh… Beer is awful!” I spat shaking my head and preparing myself to throw again. “It’s an acquired taste. It gets better the more you drink.” Sofia assured me, adding, “And it’s my turn still. I sunk both shots.” “I didn’t know that was a rule.” I frowned handing over the pong balls and looking quite cheated. “Sorry, I’m horrible at explaining things.” Sofia apologized, as she promptly rubbed her big potbelly, perhaps for luck or maybe subconsciously, and sunk two more shots. I began to quickly realize I was out of my depth. Shot after shot, Sofia proved that her skill for this silly game far exceeded my own. I was getting spanked by this out of shape, potbellied, ditz, and it rubbed my competitive instincts the wrong way. All in all, in my first game of beer-pong, I managed to sink one shot, while Sofia nailed all six of my cups. Severely buzzed after our first game, I stupidly challenged Sofia to a rematch. Declaring my loss, a fluke. During our second game, I did even worse than I did the first time we played. ** for the first time off of what probably amounted to two or three beers, I felt bloated, embarrassed, and annoyed. I passed out in bed shortly after Sofia left to party and dreamed of one day beating her in a rematch. … Never one to take losses well, I challenged Sofia to a game every night from there on out. Our drinking competitions gave me something to look forward to, and a goal to work toward. It provided structure to my life at a time I was desperate for it. We played on school nights, we played on weekends, Sofia was so thrilled I’d taken such an interest in her favorite pastime she never once complained about providing me with as much free beer as I wanted. For me that equated to about three beers downed every night, approximately 21 drank per week, and thus roughly 84 consumed for the month of November. Sofia was right about beer; it was an acquired taste, and I quickly developed a liking for it. Not just the initial bread-like taste or the slight malty aroma that lingered on my nose, but the tipsy feeling of euphoria after consuming my first 12 to 24 ounces. When the alcohol hit my bloodstream, I got more talkative, more self-confident, suddenly instead of being a reserved and cautious do-gooder with a stick jammed up my butt, I turned into an honest to goodness risk taker. Granted the risks I was taking involved tagging along with Sofia to a party to drink some more now and then, but it was something. It was a start. I was beginning to see the fun in drinking and going out. Aside from my fledgling social life and nightly drinking games with my increasingly squishy roommate, my routine largely remained the same. I’d wake up early to aqua jog in the pool, attend morning classes after a shower, do my core circuit before lunch, attend afternoon classes, head to the gym to stationary bike, eat some supper, do my homework, and then try to out play Sofia in beer pong. Over the course of November, I got better at the game, but still wasn’t anywhere close to Sofia’s skill level. I didn’t beat her all month, not even once. I was so hyper-focused on my goal of beating Sofia, I didn’t stop to think of all the beer calories I was consuming. 84 beers per month was roughly 8,000 surplus calories I wasn’t consuming before. That’s about 24 cheeseburgers worth of calories. You gain a pound if you consume 3,500 more calories than you burn over a given period of time, so I guess I gained just above two pounds in November, but I didn’t notice. In December, our nightly competitions briefly paused during finals week, but resumed with the beginning of the five-week winter session after the holidays. Sofia stayed on campus over winter break because she needed to retake some classes she’d withdrawn from freshman year. I stayed to take some bonus electives too, but mainly I hung around campus to continue having access to the University’s pool for my aqua jogging training and of course, so I could sharpen my beer pong skills with Sofia. Without many people on campus, parties to go to, or other friends to hang out with, Sofia and I started drinking more. A lot more. Now we wouldn’t just drink two or three beers with beer pong, we’d drink four or five, plus we’d usually share a beer watching a movie together before playing, or afterward to wash down some food. I went from consuming two or three beers a day to drinking five or six over a longer span of hours and I still couldn’t beat Sofia at beer pong. This extra influx of daily alcohol changed how I experienced beer. Instead of a tipsy euphoria, I started slipping into a zone of drunken excitement. After four or five beers, I was easily excitable, uninhibited, less coordinated, horny and hungry. Sofia often liked to claim after drinking so much that the body just wanted some food to soak up the alcohol. So, after we finished with our nightly games, we started regularly enjoying some late-night snacks to do just that. Whether it be macaroni and cheese, Oreos, or pizza, I didn’t care. Food tasted so much better when I was **. I figured the food wasn’t a problem because I never ate nearly as much as Sofia would. I wasn’t worried about hurting my fitness or gaining weight, after all, I was cross-training three times a day, but the math did add up. In November I’d drank roughly 19 beers a week, in December and January that number rose to an average of 37. That equaled about 160 beers each month, maybe a little less in December and more in January, but still that was a surplus of at least 18,000 calories each month! Not including the boatload of calories I was consuming in my drunken snack binges! In total, I gained about five pounds in December, and eight pounds in January. Add those numbers to the two pounds I packed on in November and come the start of Spring semester, at the beginning of February, I was 15 pounds heavier than I was before I started drinking. Did I notice the fact that I’d gained so much weight in a three-month period? Not really. How could I? I had nowhere to be and no one to impress. I was wearing loose hoodies and stretchy sweatpants day in and day out. And then there was the fact that Sofia was ballooning outward so noticeably. It was like the girl was destined to be fat. If I’d gained 15 pounds in three months, Sofia had gained 35! Every inch of her fattened up over the last three months. She couldn’t stop herself from binging on brews or stuffing her face during every waking hour of the day. Her big squishy belly had grown too large for any of her dresses to contain anymore. Her booty, already overly plump, had expanded to the point that all her underwear were stretching out to try and handle her ballooning butt. Her tits, once tight and perky, had swelled, expanded and widened to the point her bras could hardly contain them. However, even with her chest’s tremendous growth, the size of her enormous gut made them look small by comparison. And then there was Sofia’s face, previously spared freshman year when she started gaining weight, now it appeared her face was finally rounding out along with her chubbier thighs and upper arms. In comparison, I was still rocking solid thighs, fit runner’s legs, a muscular butt, and a firm chest. I was decently skinny everywhere, except my tummy, I’d gotten a little thick across my midsection. I still had firm abs; they’d just been covered up by a round layer of soft fleshy… pudge. During January I’d had to expand my pool-belt a few notches to accommodate by growing beer gut, but I hadn’t thought anything of it. I’d blamed my tummy’s larger size on bloating, or my period, but I was in denial. In truth, 15 pounds around my midsection was equal to carrying around three regular-sized concrete bricks in the depts of my softer stomach, or 15 blocks of salted butter or 30 cups of water. It was a significant change. It was as if all the extra calories I had consumed had all landed in that one vulnerable place. My blossoming beer gut was round, had little to no rolls, although it certainly consisted of flab, and produced a slight muffin top whenever I slipped into tighter pairs of pants. I should have expected that downing beer after beer day in and day out would lead to me gaining a big potbelly and an expanding rear, but I wasn’t ready to face facts. Aside from making a few pairs of jeans harder to button, my extra tummy flab didn’t seem to affect me too much. My denial wouldn’t be broken until I showed up at the first indoor-track practice of the Spring with my foot finally fully healed, my curly hair in its classic loose top knot bun, and my newly acquired beer belly sticking out just above the waistband of my mysteriously tighter running shorts. It was silly of me to only wear a sports bra up top, but I hadn’t thought about it. My teammates seemed happy I had finally returned, nobody mentioned anything about my weight. Not until we lined up for the mile time trial and Taylor started teasing me. She was intent on humiliating me in front of everyone, all so she could break my concentration and gain an advantage over me during the race. “Woah Champ. Long time no see… Been enjoying your time off, haven’t you?” Taylor smirked, as the short red-head’s devilish eyes clearly took in an eyeful of my thickened midsection. “What’s that supposed to mean?” I grunted not planning on giving my rival on the team a mental edge over me. “It means you might want to ease up on those brews, Champ. Look at your beer belly! Been helping yourself to a little extra these days, haven’t ya?” Taylor laughed, as she forcefully poked my beer gut, and I looked down and watched with horror while her pointy finger sunk its way into my squishy navel. I opened my mouth to retort, but all that came out was an embarrassingly loud, “*Buuuuuurrrp!*” I was embarrassed and speechless. It was all too much to process in the moment. Everyone on the starting line was now looking at me, or rather, looking judgmentally at my beefed up tummy. Someone started giggling, someone else started laughing, before I knew it, I was the fattened butt of Taylor’s mean joke and blushing so fiercely I felt like my head might explode. It was in that moment that I knew I’d screwed up in my quest to beat my obese roommate in beer pong, but I was still in shape, or so I thought. I could still make Taylor eat those words and prove to everyone on my team that I was still the best, beer belly or no beer belly, but I wanted more. I wanted to make Taylor suffer. ** with overconfidence, I wanted revenge on the insufferable hottie standing smugly in front of me. So, I made a spiteful bet with her, right then and there on the spot. One which Taylor promptly accepted. Whomever lost the mile time trial would have to be the other’s beer pong partner for the rest of the semester but drink 100% of the beer incurred over the course of playing. I saw it as a chance to punish Taylor for teasing me in front of everyone, she saw it as an opportunity to permanently supplant my top spot on the team. When the time came to finally start the race, in my fury, I sucked in my beer gut as best I could and took off ahead of everyone determined to prove that the few extra pounds I’d accumulated around my midsection hadn’t changed my place at the top of the pecking order. However, as soon as I needed air, my tummy bulged back outward. From then on, with every step, I could feel my beer belly jiggle up and down uncontrollably. It was a distracting sensation that only angered me into moving my legs faster, but even still, accelerating felt more difficult than is used to be. On an indoor track, eight laps equal a mile. The turns are tighter, the straightaways are shorter, and the air is warmer, meaning if you’re not in shape your lungs start to burn a lot faster than they would if you were racing outdoors. I was in shape, but I hadn’t done any weightbearing cardio since I’d been sidelined by my stress fracture. I quickly learned that 15 extra pounds was a lot more weight to bear than I was used to. My feet felt fine, but my knees were really aching on those tight turns. I held my lead for the first two laps, and I was keeping a steady pace; however, Taylor was hot on my heels. She was never this close to me early on in a race. I had long legs for my height, and at 5’3 she had a naturally much shorter stride than I did. Something wasn’t right. Either she’d gotten faster during my time recovering, or… I’d gotten slower… In order to match me in pace she had to maintain a quicker leg turnover rate than I did. In order to pass me, she’d have to really be accelerating. To my surprise, on lap three, that’s exactly what she did, but I didn’t give up the lead without a fight, I forced her into the outer lane for a whole turn before I let her have the lead position. “Have fun staring at my ass chubbsy-ubbsy! ” Taylor taunted, as she dashed in front of me sounding way too pleased with herself. “Ugh!” I managed to grunt. I was too out of breath already to form complete words, but she’d made her move early and I didn’t think she’d be able to keep the impressive pace she’d set. Entering lap four, I found myself needing to breathe a little deeper to keep myself within striking distance of Taylor. I began to realize having a beer belly might affect performance in running more than it does in other sports like swimming or biking. I couldn’t move forward without feeling the girth of my midsection weighing me down with every stride, causing me to expend more energy per step than I ever had to do when I was skinny. This race wasn’t just a struggle against Taylor, for me it was a struggle against gravity. Taylor was like a sleek greyhound racer, aside from her chest, compared to her I felt like a fat bulldog slob, but I didn’t give up. I kept things close from lap four through six, thankfully Taylor slowed down a little bit otherwise she’d have dropped me in her dust. As it stood going into lap seven, I was breathing heavily out of my mouth, but my lungs were hurting far worse than my legs. I could still keep pushing, it was just going to be painful. However, as I rounded the turn and began the final lap, just when I needed to kick it into high gear to catch Taylor, I felt myself losing speed instead. Suddenly I was overcome by a stitch on the side of my rounded abdomen. The pain was sharp and stabbing, my running form fell apart. Not one, not two, not three, but four of my other teammates managed to pass me during that last lap and cross the finish line before me. I’d finished the race over thirty seconds slower than I usually did, 15 seconds behind Taylor. The tables had turned. I wasn’t at the top of the pecking order anymore; I was now merely in the middle of the pack… This realization hit me as I lay doubled over just beyond the finish line, sucking in oxygen like I was a 350-pound linebacker who just scored a touchdown after catching an interception and running 100 yards. As I lay languishing in my defeat, Taylor approached and knelt down next to me. “Not sucking in anymore, are ya? You really did get a bit pudgy around the waist. Hmhm, someone’s getting fat.” Taylor viciously teased with a big grin on her face, as she eyed my belly inflating and deflating uncontrollably with every deep breath I took. “I am not. Will you leave me alone?” I begged feeling too sweaty, fat and gross to deal with her right now. “If you can do one sit-up for me, I’ll quit bugging you. I promise.” Taylor bargained, as I took the bait. “Fine. Hhhhgggnnn!” I grunted too exhausted to force myself upward. Giving up and taking another breath, I tried again, but still didn’t have it in me, “Hhhhgggnnn! HHHHHGGGGGNNNN!” “Hahaha!” Taylor laughed enjoying the way I was struggling. “What’s so funny? I’m just tired that’s all!” I spat giving up and sprawling out on the ground again. Noticing Taylor smile at me, I couldn’t help, but question, “Why are you smirking like that?” “Because. Beer. Belly. Girl.” Taylor teased poking me in my soft gut with every word, “You will never be a threat to me again. You lost the bet.” My eyes widened, as I remembered exactly what I’d agreed to before the disastrous mile time trial. I lost. I was now Taylor’s beer pong partner for the rest of the semester, and I had to drink for her and for me… Deep down, I knew. I’d be a blimp by the end of the semester and there was nothing I could do about it. … For the rest of February, between my friendly pong games with Sofia and my punishing games with Taylor, my alcohol consumption skyrocketed yet again; however, since my tolerance for the stuff seemed to be improving, I was still finding my way into that enthusiastic ** zone I loved so much. It just took more beer to get me there now. As a result of my drinking, and ** snacking, my track career stalled. Even though I still attended practice every day and got up early to run in the mornings, my beer drinking habit continued to reck havoc on my waistline. I gave up on my mid-day core circuit sessions. After all, nobody could see my abs so what was the point of crunching my beer belly uncomfortably for half an hour when I could join Sofia for lunch instead and have an actual good time? For the first time in my life, I saw negative improvement as my season progressed. What am I saying? Negative improvement’s not improvement. I got slower and slower as my beer belly accumulated more and more cushion and while my belly kept growing, the gap between Taylor and myself continued widening and widening. As March rolled around, I tried to cut back on my drinking, but that didn’t last long. Drinking was how I finally bonded with Sofia and Taylor was never one to let me off the hook for anything. In fact, once my nosey red-head tormentor caught wind of my nightly little beer pong games with Sofia, she invited herself over to spectate and on occasion participate. Sofia and Taylor didn’t really get along at first, but I was usually able to keep them both under control around each other. Emphasis on usually… “You’re totally cheating.” Taylor accused, as Sofia got defensive. “Am not!” My fat roommate croaked with righteous conviction. “You leaned over the table on your throw! It doesn’t count!” Taylor argued not one to ever back down. “Fine, I’ll take a redo!” Sofia proposed trying to compromise in such a way that would maintain her advantage in this current game of pong. It was actually two versus one with me and Taylor facing off against Sofia by herself. She had one cup left to make and we had two. “You don’t get a redo fatso! You lose your turn!” Taylor concluded, crossing her arms under her sizeable bust defiantly. “Okay, whatever. If you don’t miss, Lauren will. I’m still winning this game.” Sofia relented giving in to Taylor’s demands. Turning to me, Taylor smiled, “Let’s show Sofia she doesn’t know what she’s talking about.” “*buurrp!*” I belched feeling like my bloated gut was about ready to explode. I was already six beers in and was starting to notice my vision blurring, “I don’t know… *hic* I haven’t made a shot in foreeeeeever.” “Just focus fatty. Don’t let me down.” Taylor grunted with an entitled attitude in her voice, as she gave my swollen gut a healthy nudge. “*Buuuuuuurpp!” I belched unable to hold it in. “Nice one.” Sofia laughed, as Taylor rolled her eyes. Turns out, Sofia was right. We both missed our throws. On the blonde’s very next turn, after rubbing her gut for “good luck”, she sank the last shot effortlessly. … I’m not sure precisely when it happened, but around the time we transitioned into April, something happened. Maybe it was because Taylor had been proven right and I was no longer a threat to her on the track, but we actually started having some serious fun hanging out together. Where she previously used to force me to drink every ounce of beer around me when we’d hang out together, she actually started drinking a beer or two with me. As a beer pong team, Taylor and I got pretty damn good. Together we even took down Sofia once or twice, even though I still could never beat her on my own. I attributed our wins to our growing skills, but Taylor was more superstitious. When she was tipsy, she’d gotten in the habit of mimicking the way Sofia rubbed her potbelly before an important shot. Except since Taylor didn’t have a gut, she started rubbing my growing beer belly, “For good luck” before needing to make crucial throws. When she touched my belly, I always blushed, I had absolutely no definition in my stomach anymore. That perfect ideal tummy I once had was long gone. I’d added a ton of flab over my formerly toned muscles. I’d outgrown nearly all of my jeans, even my baggy sweaters didn’t hide the size of my beer gut anymore. I still had a pretty lean face, toned arms, and a firm chest, but my lower body had begun to soften. Naturally more pear-shaped, my once rock-solid muscle butt remained toned, but was certainly filling out into a far cushier posterior than it had been before. My thighs still had thick muscles, but there was more meat sticking to them than there used to be. And my hips, once having just enough curve to them to look attractively feminine, were now spreading wider and softening. Of course, these changes paled in comparison to my belly. My beer belly had morphed from a round, soft, globe, with little to no rolls, into a flabby jiggling ball of fat, a real thick paunchy muffin top. I felt like a sumo wrestler compared to the other girls at practice. My growing belly had become the butt of everyone’s jokes so much so that I felt tempted to quit the team. It wasn’t like I was a top competitor anymore anyway. I was running slower than I ever had before for obvious reasons. Plus, our uniforms did nothing to hide my unsightly beer belly. After practice one day in early May, I don’t know what possessed me, but I got the urge to weigh myself. For some reason, with championships around the corner I had to know how much I’d let myself go. I had to know the damage. The problem was, I didn’t own a scale, neither did Sofia. So, I decided to use the one in the girl’s locker room after everyone went to dinner. So, I waited around, biding my time until everyone eventually filtered out of the locker room. Once I was alone, I stripped down to my underwear and ventured toward the scale. I was apprehensive about how much I weighed. My gut had grown a lot bigger than it had been in February. When I reluctantly stepped onto the scale it was so big I couldn’t even see the reading by my feet. I had to bend over to peer past it. Blinking back at me was an embarrassingly high number… *165lbs* “Jesus help this beer belly… I miss my six-pack…” I muttered under my breath in a disgusted frustration. I wasn’t even religious. As I continued meticulously poking and prodding my big gut with a frown on my face, I couldn’t help venting out loud something I’d heard Sofia lament long, long ago, “I can’t wait for the time when curves and a little belly fat will be sexy again.” “Again?” A familiar voice echoed from behind me. Abruptly turning around and hopping off the scale, trying not to let my belly jiggle too much as I did so, I saw none other than Taylor sitting smugly on the bench behind me, clothed only by her undies, her big perky breasts were completely exposed to my excited eyes, she continued, “A beer belly is way sexier than a six-pack.” “Excuse me?” I muttered not believing what I was seeing or hearing. Standing up, approaching me and rubbing my belly like she loved to do when we played beer pong, Taylor blushed, “A beer belly tells me you enjoy letting loose and having some ** fun. It tells me you’re easygoing. That you like to laugh... Building six-pack abs takes hard work and pain, building a beer belly takes hours upon hours of gluttonous fun with friends. A beer belly like yours is the most underappreciated, underrated commodity on Earth.” “But… You used to make fun of me for it…” I blushed, as Taylor leaned in closer, wrapped her hands around my booty and squeezed her firm body against my squishy middle. “That’s because I like it… and you…” Taylor admitted, tilting her chin up to face me. She was too short to plant a kiss on my lips, but looking in her eyes, I could tell that’s exactly what she wanted to do. “I’ll drink to that.” I replied overcome by the moment and my attraction to the little irresistible red-headed devil. Before I even knew what I was doing, I was kissing Taylor, squeezing her breasts like my life depended on it, as she fondled my flabby potbelly with just as much horny desperation, and danced her tongue right on into my eagerly awaiting mouth.