Stoner Slob - Part 4

Sam was already exhausted. He’d been doing this gig for five days--just five days--and he’d already had enough of every brat that sat on his lap and begged for a video game he couldn’t even pronounce let alone remember.

But he needed the money. Lord knows there wasn’t much work in this economy for old soldiers. Sam had the face for Santa--wide, rosey from years of alcohol abuse, and a big beard that was just turning white from its days of being grey. Throw in a little extra padding and the iconic red hat and Sam certainly looked the part even if he hadn’t quite got the Santa act down just yet.

And he wasn’t sure he’d ever get the act right. Smoking like a chimney behind the mall, Sam dreaded going back inside after his 15-minute break.

Removing his hat and leaning against the brick wall, Sam wondered how it had all come to this. Making chump change at the mall, wearing a fat suit, surrounded by screaming kids and equally entitled soccer moms. It was a hell worse than any he’d experienced in his days at the army.

“That doesn’t look quite strong enough,” said a voice off to his right. He had a bag of garbage in his hand--a tenant from the apartments next to the mall, probably. Doughy, with droopy tits, stomach, and even droopier, red-rimmed eyes. An obvious stoner. The kind of kid he used to look down on for never having the courage to join up.

The stoner tossed his bag of garbage into a nearby dumpster and then walked over. Sam just watched him and quietly puffed his cigarette as the stoner ambled up to the wall next to him. He produced a small glass pipe from his pocket, somehow already packed with marijuana despite rattling around in his cotton slacks for god knows how many steps down from his apartment’s level.

“You want any?”

Sam considered, looking at his cigarette. He’d done his fair share of green back in his army days. Being stoned might be the only way he’d be able to go back in there for another three-hour shift.

“Yeah,” Sam grunted in a deep, smokey baritone, taking the offered pipe and lighter. “Thanks.”

It took him a few tries, but eventually Sam remembered how to block the breeze with his hands while lighting the bowl with the other. He took a few quick, tentative puffs before inhaling deeply. His practiced smoker's lungs didn’t reject the change in flavor, but it did tingle in a way Sam wasn’t used to.

He exhaled through his nose and waited a moment for the tingly sensation to abate, but it didn’t. It kept building and building, and with it came a flood of memories that weren’t his own. Or at least, they didn’t seem to be. He’d joined the army when he was fresh out of high school, served several tours--or at least he would have, had he not drummed out of basic training. Too fat, they’d said. Couldn’t keep up with the other cadets. Could barely aim with his chest always getting in the way.

After that, he’d really let himself go and blew up to 400 pounds. Maybe more, but he couldn’t tell when his scale maxed out. Those were dark days. But there was one bright light. He’d found his size actually endeared him to the local children. They listened to him. So he applied at the local community college to become a teacher. It was a wild twist from where he’d thought his life would go, but he’d found years of happiness bringing up the next generation.

And when his beard went from brown to grey to a snowy white, he’d discovered an uncanny resemblance to jolly old Saint Nick. Well, maybe a little bigger than he’s typically portrayed on the Coca-Cola bottle come Christmas time, but still, close enough that he didn’t even need the fake beard or the fat suit. Just an oversized red coat and a hat.

Greg retrieved his pipe as he recognized the look of Sam’s mind being blown. He toked what little green remained after Sam’s impressive inhalation, recalling fondly his years as his student. He hardly noticed as Sam’s stout frame seemed to swallow the lumpy fat suit he’d been wearing. Greg didn’t understand why he ever bothered wearing it for the gig; Sam had always been just shy of enormous for as long as he’d known him. Got even larger after he’d graduated, from what he could tell. Sam had always been his favorite teacher, even before people started calling him Santa for his white beard and heavy stature.

In fact, Greg had always found Sam kinda hot.

As Greg’s long schlong started making an obvious tent in his wrinkled track pants, Sam’s memories brought back his time teaching what would become the young stoner who just offered him a hit. How he’d always respectfully called him Mr. Claus even long after he’d graduated from the school where Sam taught. How he even introduced Greg to the joys of weed and explained how it helped maintain his jolly disposition.

And stature, he recalled with a gentle “ho ho ho.”

Mr. Claus’ signature laugh brought Greg back to the present where he caught the tail end of Sam’s transformation. He’d more than doubled in width, his wide face now even wider, his bushy beard totally obscuring his multiple chins, his enormous belly practically bursting from the red coat that struggled to contain its girth.

“You want another hit Mr. Claus?” Greg asked, shocking Sam out of his reverie. He felt… odd. Like his balance was off. And there was a breeze coming from below his middle where his gut had fallen past the furthest reaches of his Santa jacket, a sliver of belly exposed to the cold.

Greg had always found it endearing that Mr. Claus never seemed to notice when his belly was hanging out. Endearing, and more than a little erotic.

“Oh ho ho, you know I do my boy,” Sam said with a chuckle, reaching over his bounteous chest for another hit of green. This time the tingling sensation came and went without bringing a flood of memories. Instead, it brought a few more pounds to his frame, filling out his limbs and ass to match his impressive corpulence.

Suddenly there was a metal “twang” followed by an almost sleigh-bell-like twinkle in the distance. Sam’s belt buckle had finally ruptured against the advancing tide of bulk, bursting it and causing his belly to suddenly surge forward. Another snap indicated a lost button, followed by Sam’s trousers dropping to his knees.

“Oh my,” Sam said, holding out the pipe and staring down at his middle with dismay. He couldn’t actually see all the damage that had been done, but he could certainly feel the cold air on his legs and groin.

“Let me help you with that, Mr. Claus,” Greg said, taking the pipe, tapping it out, and stashing it in his pants before he went below the equator of Sam’s middle to start tugging at the fat man’s wrenched trousers. It was no use--they weren’t big enough to go up past Sam’s colossal thighs at this point. They almost equaled Ray’s limbs.

That gave Greg an idea even as the sight of those massive hams and the second hit brought him to full hardness. “Hold on Mr. Claus, my boyfriend might have a spare pair for you.”

As Greg turned to leave, Sam couldn’t help but notice the solid pipe that jutted from the former student’s thin cotton fabric. “Hold on Greg,” Sam said and reached out to grab Greg’s arm. “Perhaps you don’t need to leave quite this second.”

Greg turned and felt his cock bump into Mr. Claus’s hanging stomach. It was so soft and so much like Ray’s, but also so different. Ray commanded and Greg obeyed, but Sam didn’t need to say anything. He just needed to smile with his ruddy, beatific face and Greg would do anything Mr. Claus asked.

But Sam didn’t say anything. The fat man just dropped to his knees, grabbed the top of Greg’s track pants, and flipped his huge dong out in a single practiced movement. For Greg, it was all his unfulfilled high school wet dreams finally coming true. For Sam, it was the end of a long dry spell courtesy of an unexpected source.

It was also the biggest cock that Sam had ever seen in his 58 years. He savored Greg in the middle of that back alley, gently peeling back the heavy foreskin to lick his broad purple helmet, Sam’s bushy beard tickling Greg’s roiling balls with every movement. Sam wasn’t nearly as practiced as Ray when it came to pleasuring a cock the size of Greg’s, but his enthusiasm and his beard more than made up for any lack of skill.

Greg didn’t last long. After a few moments of slurping and Sam’s big hands pumping what shaft he couldn’t stuff in his mouth, the young stoner came with a stifled grunt. Sam was taken off guard by the volume of Greg’s ejaculate, falling back against the wall as his face and stomach became covered in the stoner’s load. More than a little got on the signature red jacket that now also bore several skid marks from where Sam’s belly had dragged across the concrete.

Sam licked the load from his beard with a gentle “ho ho ho,” but it soured slightly as he looked down to see his generally disheveled and half-naked state. There was no way he could go back to his Santa side-gig now.

“Um, dearest Gregory, I don’t suppose you live nearby and could possibly lend me your washing machine?”

Still not quite believing what was happening, Greg took a moment before nodding enthusiastically and doing his best to stuff his still-leaking erection down his pants. He looked ludicrous, but not nearly as ludicrous as a half-naked Santa Claus with cum in his beard.

“And perhaps while we’re waiting for my clothes to dry you can show me what else you can do with that toy.”

Greg turned, wide-eyed like a kid who’d just opened his first gift on Christmas morning. Mr. Claus smiled and laughed heartily as he waddled his way out of the alleyway.