A Rewritten Life - Part 2

He woke up with a splitting hangover. Probably overdid it last night, which wasn’t a big surprise. Garcia tended to overdo most things. Except cleaning. Or laundry. Or excelling at life in general. 

Hauling himself up from his floor mattress was a trial--he had to roll himself on to his front, which actually dropped him onto the floor, and then push himself onto his knees. It hurt, but it was like doing a push-up and was basically the only real exercise he got these days. From there, Garcia put one foot underneath him, then the other, and then pushed himself skyward on shaky legs the size of most men’s waists. Then he lumbered his way to the bathroom to take care of the most pressing need this morning: his bladder.

At his feet, Garcia heard the crumpling of wrappers and the light plink of aluminum cans. His apartment, such as it was, was a mess. More than a mess--people might get the idea he was a hoarder of garbage, judging by the complete lack of even a square inch that wasn’t covered in some sort of refuse.

Garcia made it to the bathroom and didn’t both flipping on the light--the bulb had burnt out a week ago and he couldn’t afford to replace it. Not that it would have mattered anyway--Garcia had long since stopped being able to see beyond the horizon of his own stomach, so he had no idea where he was pointing anyway. Making things even more impossible was the piss hard-on he had. His bulk still meant that his erection was pointed at a downward angle, but it hardly mattered. He let himself go and halfheartedly corrected his aim until he heard the usual sound of urine impacting a toilet bowl filled with water. 

The piss stains on the walls and floor made it clear that Garcia rarely got his aim right.

Not even bothering the flush, Garcia made his way back to his mattress to take care of the other pressing need this morning. This was the other only bit of exercise he got--lifting his stomach out of the way had become a trial after he’d moved to the city. His weight had ballooned to the point where even reaching his cock was difficult. He had to reach to the bottom of his gut with one had to lift it out of the way while the other managed to tug at his foreskin-encased hard-on as best it could. 

These days, that mostly meant manically massaging the tip of his knob, which was about all that he could stroke with any degree of consistency. 

But that’s not how he started. No, today was a day to languidly enjoy himself, Garcia decided, and doing that meant a different start to his day. Rather than heft his hanging belly to the side, he reached down with both hands to grab the fat that encircled his pelvis and simply pushed in. Then he lifted, then pushed in again, slowly repeating the process. This was enough movement so the head of his cock exposed itself briefly before becoming buried in flab and foreskin as it usually was.

The sensation was similar to fucking a very soft, very loose hole. Not that Garcia had fucked anything in a very long time. 

After a few more moments of this, he judged himself to have become sufficiently wet to move onto the main course. He rolled to the side to make it slightly easier to pull his gut out of the way, then he reached with his other hand to start gently massaging the tip. Wanting more, he reached further and was able to grab the whole head, but not without losing grip on his own stomach, which surged forward and caused him to release his cock with a sigh.

This went on for a few minutes until finally Garcia managed to grab his dick in a way that didn’t cause him to lose it immediately. Then he began to manically stroke, knowing his stamina for holding his bulk and rapidly moving his forearm was fast diminishing. 

A few moments more, and he grunted once, twice, and jizzed all over his fat, hairy gunt. The quantity would be surprising to most, but Garcia overdid most things. 

Sighing, Garcia wiped his jizz-soaked hand on the mattress, adding to the many cum stains that adorned it. Then he fell back for his mid-morning nap. 

During this nap, Garcia dreamed. He dreamed he wasn’t a 500 pound blob. He dreamed he never dropped out of college. Instead he was successful, employed, living in a clean apartment and wearing clean clothes. It was like looking in a mirror at a different life.

Then he dreamed of meeting a man, enormous, almost as big as Garcia himself. Then something changed--a thread of fate was cut and resewn where it hadn’t been before. And then he woke up.

And Garcia knew without doubt that something was wrong and it was all that man’s fault.