Earl's Boy Belly (Patreon)

This video I think is my new fave out of the recents so I paired it with a story as well. I love a gruff uncaring mature pred and this vid/story hits those spots so well. The wriggling belly and roaring belch he gives is hot as hell too.

Enjoy!

Earl's Boy Belly

The waiting room of Dr. Pemberton’s Family Practice smelled like antiseptic and stale magazines, and every single person in it was trying very, very hard not to stare at the man in chair number seven.

Earl Hutchins, a gruff seventy-three years old man sporting a beard that could house a family of sparrows sat with his hairy arms crossed over his chest. Or rather, crossed over what used to be his chest. His ancient worn out tank top had long since surrendered the battle, riding up to his pectorals like a crop top, fully exposing the most magnificent, impossible, eclipsing belly the town of Dusty Pines had ever seen.

It was enormous, round, and taut as a drum. It sat in his lap like a flesh-colored boulder and extended up to his knees. A thick carpet of silver-gray hair covered its impossible curvature, and his popped-out belly button pointed toward the ceiling like a little fleshy periscope.

Earl rested one calloused hand on the peak of his gut with the same energy a man might rest a hand on a trusty old dog.

THUMP.

His stomach lurched to the left.

THUMP THUMP.

It lurched to the right.

“GRANDPAAAA! LET ME OUT! YOU CANT DO THIS!!”

The muffled yelling vibrated through Earl’s gut like a subwoofer. His belly button wobbled with every syllable.

Earl didn’t even blink. He just picked up a copy of Field & Stream from 2019 and licked his thumb to turn the page.

A woman across the waiting room clutched her purse to her chest. Her eyes were the size of dinner plates.

“First grandchild?” she whispered in horror.

“Fourth,” Earl grunted.

“I CAN HEAR YOU TALKING! GRANDPA, THIS ISN’T FUNNY!”

GURRRRRGLE.

“Hush up in there,” Earl muttered, giving his belly a firm pat. The stomach sloshed audibly in response, and a tiny fist-shaped bulge pressed outward near his side before slowly sinking back in.

“Earl Hutchins?” the nurse called from the doorway, her eyes immediately going wide.

“‘Bout time,” Earl grumbled.

He gripped both armrests and hoisted himself up with a tremendous grunt. The belly swung forward with its own gravitational agenda, and Earl had to plant his feet wide and cradle the underside of it with both arms just to waddle forward. He moved with the slow, deliberate, side-to-side gait of a man nine months along with something deeply unhappy.

SLOSH. SLOSH. SLOSH.

Every step produced a wet, churning sound. His gut swayed like a pendulum. A small foot pressed visibly against the right side of his stomach, toes and all, then disappeared back into the murky depths.

“IT’S WARM AND IT SMELLS LIKE CHILI IN HERE!”

“That’s ’cause I had chili,” Earl said flatly.

He made it to Exam Room 3, turned around carefully — a seven-point turn to navigate his belly through the doorframe — and dropped onto the exam chair with a tremendous WHUMPF. The paper covering crinkled and tore. His belly settled into his lap like a bag of angry cement, gurgling and churning and occasionally producing a muffled shriek.

Earl folded his hands on the summit of his gut and waited.

A minute later, Dr. Pemberton walked in, nose in a clipboard.

“Alright, Earl, what seems to be the—”

He looked up.

His pen dropped.

The belly chose that exact moment to lurch violently, and a small handprint pressed out from the inside, fingers splayed wide, before slowly melting back into the taut, hairy surface.

“DOCTOR! DOCTOR, PLEASE! HE ATE ME!”

Dr. Pemberton opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. He looked at his medical degree on the wall as if to confirm it was still real.

“Earl... what in the sam hill...”

Earl sighed the sigh of a man deeply inconvenienced.

“Well, Doc, I’ll tell ya.” He shifted his weight and rested one hand on the side of his belly, which was making a noise like a clogged washing machine. “I was out in the backyard, right? Mindin’ my own business. Watering my tomatoes. Nice afternoon. Peaceful. Quiet.”

He said that last word with tremendous emphasis.

“And my grandson, Tyler —” He said the name like it was a war crime. “— that hyperactive little college gremlin, he’s up in the oak tree. Been up there for God knows how long, waitin’ to scare me.”

THUMP.

“I SAID I WAS SORRY!”

“QUIET, I’M TELLIN’ THE STORY!” Earl barked at his own stomach. The belly sloshed in protest but the yelling stopped. He turned back to the doctor.

“So there I am. Waterin’ my tomatoes. And I hear this ‘RAAAHHH’ from above me. And I look up—”

He mimed looking up with his mouth wide open.

“—right as the little monster falls out of the tree. Feet first. Straight down. Into—” He pointed at his mouth. “And I mean straight down. Like a cartoon. One second he’s there, next second—”

He patted his belly with both hands. It responded with a deep, ominous GRRRRRUUUUUUGLE that rattled the tongue depressors in their jar.

“—he’s in here.”

Dr. Pemberton slowly sat down on his rolling stool. “Earl, that’s... that’s not... that’s not how the human body—”

“Don’t you tell me what my body can and can’t do, Pemberton. I was there.”

Right on cue, a face pressed outward from the front of Earl’s stomach. It was unmistakably a face. A smooshed nose, a screaming mouth, two eye sockets. All rendered in a stretched, hairy, belly-skin relief, like a Halloween mask made of grandpa. His belly button, caught right in the middle, puckered and contorted into a perfect, pitiful little ‘O’ shape, completing the expression of pure, muffled despair.

“GRAAAANDPAAAAAAA...”

The face slowly sank back in. The belly button stayed distended for a moment, quivering, then popped back out with a soft bloop.

Earl grimaced, grabbed the small of his back with one hand, and arched backward in the universal posture of a very pregnant person whose passenger was tap-dancing on their spine. He opened his mouth and released a belch so thunderous, so deep, so fundamentally seismic that the eye chart on the wall fluttered and the fluorescent lights flickered.

“BRAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUPPPP.”

It went on for eleven seconds. It smelled like chili and regret.

A tiny voice echoed up from within: “...ew...”

Dr. Pemberton fanned the air with his clipboard, eyes watering. “Okay. Okay, Earl. I, uh... I think I have a medication I can prescribe that might help, um... evacuate the situation. Some industrial-grade emetics, maybe a—”

Earl held up a massive, weathered hand.

“Now hold on, Doc. I think you got me mistaken.”

“...I’m sorry?”

Earl leaned back and began caressing his belly. Slowly. Lovingly. In wide, circular motions. His stomach gurgled and groaned beneath his palm like a bubbling stew pot. He looked down at it with an expression that could only be described as satisfied.

“I ain’t here to get him out.”

Dr. Pemberton blinked. “You’re... you’re not.”

“Nope.” Earl patted his gut with a meaty THWAP. “I plan to digest.”

The belly let out a prolonged, wet, churning GRRRGLGLGLGLG as if to underscore the point.

“WAIT, WHAT?!”

“That boy has broken two of my windows, scared the life outta my cat, and put a firecracker in my mailbox last Fourth of July.” Earl ticked off the offenses on his rugged fingers. “Way I see it, this here’s natural consequences.”

He caressed his belly again, almost tenderly, as it sloshed and protested beneath his hand.

“Nah, Doc, I’m just here ’cause I wanna know if there’s anything you can give me to make the digestion go smooth. Maybe something for the bloating. Heartburn’s been somethin’ fierce.” He gestured vaguely at his enormous, writhing midsection. “I plan to just lay around the house for a couple days. Let nature take its course. Got my recliner, got my remote, got my stories on at two o’clock.”

He settled back in the exam chair with the serene contentment of a man with a plan.

“Might even enjoy the peace and quiet for once,” he added, lacing his fingers over the crest of his gurgling belly. “Once he stops hollerin’.”

“MOM IS GONNA BE SO MAD AT YOU!”

“Your mother shoulda raised you better!” Earl shouted at his own navel.

Dr. Pemberton stared for a very long time. He looked at his medical degree again. He looked at the ceiling. He clicked his pen four times in rapid succession.

Then he pulled out his prescription pad.

“...I’ll write you up some antacids.”

“Now you’re talkin’,” Earl said, and his belly let out one final, defeated gurrrrgle.