The Tattoo Shop - Part 2

“Alright, done,” the tattoo artist announced, taking Mason from his thoughts of what takeout to grab on the way home. He looked down to see, just as he’d asked, a tattoo of a mouth-watering hamburger with the words “et crescere adipem manducare” written beneath it.

“It’s nice,” Mason said, guardedly. “But what do the words below it mean?”

“You like?” Asked the tattoo guy. “I know a bit of Latin. It means ‘eat and get bigger’ or something.”

It was a bit of an embellishment on what he was after, but the more he looked at it the more the foreign words seemed to resonate in Mason’s mind. And besides, James would certainly prefer a tattoo with a bit of Latin rather than just some basic stenciled art.

But man, even the sight of that burger made Mason’s stomach grumble. Loud enough for even the tattoo guy to hear.

“Heh, guess you’re hungry, huh?”

“Starved,” Mason confirmed. “Is it okay if we order something in while you get started on the next one?”

The tattoo artist’s eyebrows raised for a moment before he replied. “Well, we kind of have to keep this as clean an environment as possible. Needles and all that,” he said, then continued. “But I won’t tell if you don’t,” he finished with a wink.

“Deal,” Mason said, then got to work on his cell phone ordering delivery to the tattoo parlor. He started with his inspiration, a big cheeseburger with bacon and all the fixings, along with a large order of fries and a coke. As he tapped madly at his phone he seemed to not notice as his fingers began to gain in width, looking shorter and stubbier despite not losing any of their length. Small tears began to form on the sides and crotch of Mason’s jeans as the buzz of the tattoo gun continued on Mason’s back.

A woman came by with Mason’s order, surprised to hand over the paper bag already dripping with grease to a tubby man sitting shirtless in a tattoo chair, his pants looking comically tight on him. Mason immediately tore into the bag’s contents, fishing out the burger and taking an enormous bite. As he did, the button on his jeans finally popped and flew off into a corner of the parlor.

“Careful there, tubby. Don’t want you outgrowing the chair,” the tattoo artist admonished before getting back to work.

Mason ignored him and continued eating. Soon his chest had softened and then flowed into a pair of prominent breasts that rested on a rounded belly growing larger with each bite Mason took. His cheeks were formerly rounded with food, but now were rounded by both fries and flab as the pounds continued to pile on.

By the time Mason had finished the bag’s contents and noisily sipping his drink the tattoo artist announced his latest creation was complete. As it was on the left side of Mason’s far girthier backside he couldn’t see it without the help of a mirror, which the tattoo guy helpfully held up to display. Mason saw a beautiful portrait of a bear slapping salmon from a raging river, claws and fangs bared in obvious aggression.

As he watched, hair began to sprout from all over Mason’s chunky form. Soon, chest, belly, even back and shoulders were coated. And yet Mason seemed not to notice, so entranced he was with the new ink adorning his bulk.

“Appropriate, eh?”

“What do you mean?” Mason asked.

“Well, you’re big, hairy, I just thought the whole bear thing kinda fit.”

Mason thought for a moment. He was certainly big, and most definitely hairy. James joked that he had to unclog the shower sink at least once a week from Mason’s pubes alone. He put in the effort to keep his facial hair groomed, but the rest was a battle he lost soon after puberty and just let grow as wild as it could.

“Yeah, it does fit,” Mason offered. “But I was wondering, for my next one could you maybe, uh, write something just above my ass?”

The tattoo artist’s eyes widened, but in amusement rather than shock. “What’d you have in mind?”

Mason wrung his chubby hands together before blurting out: “Enter through rear.”

The tattooist laughed and then asked Mason to get up and bend over the chair so he could work more easily. As he did, Mason heard his pants creak ominously, appearing almost painted on to his lower limbs and showing more than enough crack for it to be better called a chasm.

As the tattoo gun buzzed, Mason’s pants got tighter and tighter. Eventually, the first rip was heard, then a second. Lovehandles the size of bread loaves quivered expectantly over a belt line that was clearly losing its battle against the bulge. A few moments later there was a loud rip up Mason’s groin as his pants tore practically in half. Soon after each leg followed suit until he was wearing tatters that were slowly falling off his expanding form.

Despite the clothing calamity, the tattooist continued his work as though nothing happened. Mason noted the sudden coolness on his furry legs but didn’t think it out of the ordinary. He’d soon be getting tattoos there anyway.