George Knopf
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Gordito: Chapter 2
🕑 Added 2025-07-20 15:00:08 +0000 UTCLee woke up the next morning sore, hungry, and hard. The ceiling fan stirred the warm air uselessly, and his sheets clung to his skin, damp from the lingering heat of the night. His body felt heavy in a way that was becoming familiar—a pleasant, dragging weight in his limbs, like gravity had gotten stronger just for him. His muscles ached from labor, but under that ache was a strange satisfaction. Like his body was remembering each motion, holding onto it.
He padded into the kitchen in nothing but his boxers, scratching his meaty chest and yawning. The fridge light hit him in the face as he opened the door and stood there for a long minute, blinking at the options. Cold pizza or eggs? He chose both, piling the slices onto a plate while the eggs sizzled in a pan slick with butter. He ate standing up, alternating bites, washing it all down with orange juice straight from the carton.
While he ate, he thought about Juan Pablo, about his grin, his voice, the way he’d said “Anything at all.” It certainly wasn't the first time Lee had fantasized about his boss. He’d admired the man’s confidence, his overbulked solid body, the way he moved like he owned any space he walked into. But something had shifted. That text had cracked the door open wider, and now Lee couldn’t seem to close it again. He kept replaying moments that might’ve meant something. The way Juan Pablo’s hand had lingered on his shoulder. The way he looked at Lee when he thought Lee wasn’t looking.
At work, things continued as usual, grass to mow, weeds to pull, lawns to shape, but the air between them felt different, charged. Juan Pablo had a habit of checking on Lee personally, even when other crews were spread out across town. He’d pull up in his beat-up truck, step out with a cold drink in hand, and wander over with that slow, heavy gait, like he had all the time in the world.
"Drink," he’d say, shoving a bottle of horchata or soda into Lee’s hands. "You look overheated."
Lee always accepted, always grateful, always wondering what Juan Pablo was thinking as he stared at him over the rim of his sunglasses. Sometimes Juan Pablo would glance down, just a flick of the eyes, but it was enough. Enough to make Lee wonder if the the heat he felt wasn’t just coming from the sun overhead.
That day, they worked a big backyard, re-sodding a lawn for some wealthy client who didn’t show her face. It was just the two of them for most of the job, hauling heavy rolls of sod, laying them down like a patchwork quilt. Juan Pablo stuck around the whole time, helping more than usual. Lee didn’t mind. It gave him something to focus on, such as the way Juan Pablo’s shirt clung to sweat on his somewhat doughy chest or the way his belly folded and got in the way when he struggled to bend down to grab another roll.
The two men moved in rhythm. The sun bore down. Lee’s shirt was soaked by noon. As he bent over, sweat trickling down his spine and ass in the air, he felt eyes on him. He looked up and caught Juan Pablo staring.
Lee stood and smirked, chest heaving. “Like what you see, boss?”
Juan Pablo didn’t flinch. “You’re looking strong, man. Working hard. That’s good.”
But his eyes said more. They were heavy with desire and lingered on Lee, like he didn’t care if he was caught.
At lunch, they sat under a shade tree out of view of the house. Juan Pablo had brought tortas again, overstuffed and dripping with sauce, along with a thermos of sweet, milky coffee.
"You always eat like this?" Lee asked, eyeing the spread as he wiped his hands on his shorts.
Juan Pablo shrugged, unwrapping his torta like it was a ritual. "You work hard, you eat good. That’s how it should be."
Lee took a big bite. The food was delicious. He chewed slowly, eyes drifting down to his belly—no longer the flat, taut thing it had been a couple months ago. It was softening, rounding. Not much, but enough to notice. Enough to feel the waistband of his jeans biting in by the end of the day. His stomach pressed forward now whenever he sat, a gentle curve that pooled slightly above his belt in the form of two thick rolls. His shirt clung there, damp with sweat, outlining the curves of the new weight he was carrying.
He didn’t quite have a gut, at least not compared to Juan Pablo, but he had the promise of one. Ten, fifteen, more pounds and it would start to get unavoidable. Currently, the puff of fat built upon his midsection spoke of a soft, steady gain comprised of full meals, second helpings, and long, heavy days. It promised a man with an appetite and a propensity towards overconsumption. It promised a future of growth and comfortable gluttony. Lee rested a hand there without thinking, feeling the warmth of it, the quiet pressure against his palm.
"You gonna make me fat at this rate," Lee joked, though there was something half-nervous in his voice.
Juan Pablo chuckled low in his throat and leaned back against the tree, one hand resting on his own solid middle. “Nothing wrong with a man filling out. Shows that he’s living well.”
Lee’s throat went dry. He washed the bite down with coffee, but it didn’t help. Juan Pablo’s eyes were still on him, steady and unashamed.
"You live well, then?" Lee asked, his tone casual but his heart thumping.
Juan Pablo smiled. “I try. Took me a long time to learn how to enjoy myself.”
They ate in silence for a while, only the sound of birds overhead and the occasional creak of tree branches in the wind. It felt intimate. Too quiet for just two coworkers.
That evening, as they loaded up the truck, Lee’s shirt stuck to his back, and his arms felt like they were made of lead. Juan Pablo popped the cooler open and pulled out a couple of beers, the glass sweating from the cold.
"You want one?" he asked.
Lee hesitated just a moment, then took it. "Sure."
They sat on the tailgate, legs swinging, watching the sun drop low over the trees. Juan Pablo talked more than usual—about the business, how he started it with nothing but a borrowed truck and a lawnmower, how the early years had nearly broken him.
“Takes a lot to build something. Even more to keep it,” he said, then looked at Lee, his eyes softer than usual. “You’ve got something though. That drive. And you’re not afraid to sweat for it.”
Lee looked down, face warm, not just from the sun. “Thanks. I just... I feel like I have to make something of myself, you know? For my parents. For me.”
Juan Pablo nodded slowly. “It’s tough these days. But don’t forget to enjoy yourself, too. You burn out fast if you don’t.”
Their knees touched, barely, but neither moved.
The beer went down easy. Lee let himself lean back on his palms, looking up at the darkening sky. The silence between them stretched, thick with humidity and something unspoken.
"You want to come by the house this weekend?" Juan Pablo asked suddenly.
Lee blinked, turning his head. "For what?"
"Just a cookout. Little carne asada. Few friends. Nothing formal. Bring an appetite."
Lee smiled, slow and wide. "Yeah. Sounds good."
Juan Pablo’s gaze lingered. "Good. Come hungry."
As Lee drove home, windows down and the warm wind brushing his arm, he couldn’t stop grinning. His body ached in that deep, satisfied way. His stomach was full, his skin still buzzing from the sun, and his mind was spinning.
The tension was building. He could feel it in his chest and in his belly that sloshed with food and beer. He could feel something growing between the two of them, besides their waistlines. When he thought about it his cock grew too, stiffening into a full erection beneath worn out denim, soaking through at the tip with precum. He imagined Juan Pablo’s full lips and scruffy face as he drove, occasionally rubbing himself through his jeans. Eventually Lee got carried away and pulled over on a dirt road, frantically undoing the straining button of his pants. He undid the zipper and dug out his erection with a moan.
