You're the manager of a summer camp for obese cubs, the kind that rich parents typically send their kids to to force 'em into skinnier clothes. So long as the money flowed, you never let the morality of the place get to you. You're here to check on the son of one of the long-term clients, the ones who pay extreme prices for extreme results. You remember the father of this one clearly - a dachshund man, middle-aged, some sort of executive at a fancy company. Deeep pockets. He wanted serious results, and was willing to shell out serious dough for them.

You enter a cabin near the back of the camp, one that looks like all the other cabins. But when you enter, you walk quickly past all of the bunks and into a storage closet at the back. There's a keypad lock next to the door; you enter your special code, step into the closet, and close the door behind you. You feel the entire room begin to descend around you. When the door opens again, you're in a small underground facility. You walk briskly down a short hall, passing half a dozen rooms; they have windows, but they're all blacked out, their electric shutters closed to potential viewers.

You reach the room at the end of the hall, housing the longest standing client currently in residence. You enter your code next to the door, hear the electric latch click open, and then enter. What you see is a young dachshund boy lying in a reclined bariatric bed, surrounded by a myriad of medical equipment. There is a dining trolley next to the bed, holding the remains of a profoundly extensive meal which has long since been devoured. The occupant of the room is reclined on the adjustable bed, and they practically fill the piece of furniture with their bulk.

The disgustingly obese pup cries softly, tears running down his fat cheeks and dripping from his many chins. His boy-breasts, huge like sagging melons, heave as he wheezes for breath. His gargantuan belly looms before him, bigger than any you've ever seen on a person let alone a ten year old cub. A pup this young was never meant to weigh this much - grown men were never meant to weigh this much. But despite all universal odds, the entirely naked eight hundred and seventy-six pound boy struggles to raise his plump hands to wipe the tears from his snout, dozens of pounds of fat shifting and wobbling from the slight motion.

"H-he made me eat and eat a-an... a-and EAT. He made me eat SO MUCH!"

"It's okay," you manage to say. "He won't feed you any more."

"I'd tell h-him I was fuh-fuh-full, and he... he'd muh-muh... muh-make me eat even MORE..."

The boy's fat gut spreads his hamhock-thighs apart, and sags down toward floor in front of the bed. Its size is astounding, considering the boy stands at less than a meter and a half tall. His rumpcheeks take up the entire width of the mattress, and droop somewhat off the far sides. He is literally the fattest pup who has ever lived, and his caretaker has ensured that he knows it.

His paws continue to barely reach his cheek-buried muzzle, and pathetically rub the tears from his snout.

"I... I wuh-want... my... daddy!" He stammers before breaking down into heaving sobs, his grotesquely obese body shuddering.

"He's coming, Tyler. He'll be here for you soon."

"He... he will?" the pup asks, sudden hope in his wavering voice. "He's cuh-coming now?"

"Yes, pup," you tell him, taking in every square inch of horrendously bloated pup-fat. "He's been waiting a very long time for this day."

"W-what?"

You begin to explain it to the pup as you begin to slowly unfasten your belt buckle.

"Your pops paid us a whole lot of money to send you here, kid." The buckle comes loose at your fingertips, and you slide the belt back out of the clasp. "You see, most parents want their cubs small, lithe. Athletic. Then there are a few like your old man who seek out our other services. Those leaning rather heavily toward the opposite end of the spectrum." You unbutton your slacks and undo the zip, looking past the blimp of a cub to a modest portrait hung on the wall behind the boy; it's of the dachshund when he'd first arrived, and showed a pup who was just barely chubby. A lot sure had changed since his pops had sent him off to fat camp.

You step forward, the soft fat of the boy's colossal belly pressing into your hips. You press two fingers into his navel, and find them buried to the first knuckle - if your fingers were longer, they still wouldn't reach the back. The boy's eyes are wide with shock, though you aren't sure if it's your explanation or actions that have caused it.

"Sorry kid, but your old man's gonna be feeding you a whole lot more than we have, I guarantee it." You roughly cup the side of that humongous gut, the soft blubber sloshing and wobbling heavily. "I'm just here to check the wares, as it were. Our contract ensures he gets first dibs at your back porch, but I see no reason to let him have all the fun, now."

You take your thirteen inch, painfully throbbing dick in your hand and then slowly sink it into that cavernous belly-button. When your hips press into that luscious fat and your huge cock still doesn't bottom out, you moan in pure ecstacy. The cub's still crying, but more quietly now, reserved. Resigned. His softly furred guthole is like warm velvet gently gripping your belly-fucking manrod.

"Oooh, FUCK yes," you groan as you thrust faster, harder, deeper into his jostling and jiggling belly, and before you know it your nuts are contracting hard and blasting your batter deep into that cavern of deliciously fuckable fat.

You take a moment to collect yourself before tucking back into your underwear and re-fastening your trousers.

"Your counselor will be back to clean you up, and your father will be here within the hour to collect you. Be a good boy, and show him how well you've been trained. Plates licked clean, and fingers slurped... though I'm sure your father will have other appendages in mind. That's a good pup."

You casually adjust the cuffs of your shirt as you step out of the room, and the closing door cuts off the sounds of the cub's sniffling tears.