SPOILED 2 - part five (Patreon)

Laboratory Room E5 was much alike to other rooms in The Lab; stark, sterile, filled with state-of-the-art equipment such as the hydraulically operated bed to which a beefy farmhand was strapped, or the quietly beeping machines which read his heartrate and blood pressure.

The lab door slid open with a soft hiss and Mr Swan entered in his usual poised manner, joining Dr Nightingale to look down at the farmhand patient who had been instructed to speak only when spoken to. Each nurse in the room bowed deeply upon the appearance of the Master, as did the guards. The farmer simply looked terrified, the large, bright medical bulbs above him amplifying this somewhat.

‘He’s been prepped?’ Mr Swan asked, studying the naked patient.

‘He has,’ Dr Nightingale responded before consulting his notes. ‘Name: Daryl. 35 years old. 6’1”. 278 pounds. He’s been a senior farmhand at Kingfisher’s Farm for… let’s see here… just under 4 years now. Good clean record, by the looks of it.’

The farmer was breathing irregularly, which in turn influenced the jagged beeps from the heartrate monitor. He clearly wanted to speak out, but knew better than to do so. When Mr Swan reached forward to stroke the reasonably solid combination of muscle and fat across the man’s body, he felt it tense and tighten to the touch.

Mr Swan took his time to pace around the patient, scrutinising the details of him. The pinioned farmhand was attractive, with a strong nose and tidy goatee beard, well-built pectorals and biceps complimenting his solid belly. For now, anyway.

‘We have a problem,’ Mr Swan eventually pronounced to the trembling man. His own reputation within The Rookery was not lost on him, nor was it, he suspected, on this corn-fed country mouse. ‘And rather a big one, at that.’

The farmer, whose head could not move, owing to the hard straps around it, uttered, ‘Y-Yes Sir.’

‘You will address Mr Swan as ‘My Lord’,’ Dr Nightingale instructed him.

‘Yes, I-I’m sorry. Yes, my Lord.’

‘Ordinarily, the dalliances of lesser tiers would not fall under my direct purview.’ Mr Swan stopped pacing. ‘But this… ‘incident’ at your cretinous little Farm portends wider ramifications for the rest of us.’

‘Y-Yes, my Lord..,’ the man replied waveringly. ‘Th-the Greys already came to - to investigate -‘

‘To hell with the fucking Greys!’ Mr Swan spat back. ‘We don’t deal with them. They have no place here on The Island, meddling imbeciles that they are.’

‘We have our own jurisdiction here,’ Nightingale explained softly.

‘Quite,’ said Mr Swan, already recomposed. ‘But I shall get right to the heart of the matter: Your idiotic Master Kingfisher let outsiders run amok at his farm, and I intend to get to the bottom of this, frankly, catastrophic failure.’

The farmer fluttered out yet more fluctuating breaths. ‘P-Please… I don’t know anything. I hardly saw -‘

‘Shall we make a start?’ Mr Swan addressed the doctor in such a manner that it really wasn’t a question at all.

Nightingale nodded curtly then raised his eyes to the nurses nearby. ‘If you’d be so kind,’ he told them.

The patient’s eyes flitted around the room while the staff got to work around him. ‘W-What’s happening…? Please… I already told you… I don’t know anything…’

The gaps between beeps of his heartrate began to shorten.

‘Who broke into The Farm?’ Mr Swan asked him plainly.

‘I… I didn’t see who it was… W-We had a power outaagghhh-’

A thin tube was inserted into the farmer’s mouth and did not stop there. The nurses continued to push it further in, ignoring the patient’s guttural chokes until it travelled all the way past his throat, finally resting in his stomach. With the blinding lights above and his eyes now watering, the farmer couldn’t see much of what was being done to him, only adding to his sense of panic.

‘Your heaviest cream, I think, Doctor, hmm?’ Mr Swan said to Nightingale, who again wordlessly communicated to his staff that this was the substance they should begin pumping down the tube and into the patient’s insides.

Out of view of the farmer, the process commenced, the other end of the tube was attached to one of several ports in a wall panel, and he soon saw thick liquid pass down into his mouth, his eyes bulging in fear. He whinnied out short rising notes, and saw Mr Swan reappear at his periphery, asking again,

‘Who broke into The Farm?’

The farmer could feel the cream begin to work its way down his innards, into his stomach, and trembled all the harder for it.

‘Puh-ease… I -on’t knn-oh…!’ That the tube now made speech difficult added considerably to the man’s rising panic. ‘Thuh powwah goh- shhhh… shhuh- d-dow-‘ His eyes wouldn’t stop watering. The cream had begun filing his stomach. He could feel it in there; cool, thick, settling…

‘Who shut the power down?’ Mr Swan asked him.

The farmer for a moment made a dry sobbing motion. ‘I -on’t… kn-knnn-ow… I-mm ssso-reee…’

A bloat had taken hold. Heavy cream pressing against stomach lining…

‘Ohhh- G-Go-dh…’

Mr Swan sighed laconically. He gazed off listlessly for a moment, then said to Nightingale, ‘Again.’

The tall, round doctor acknowledged this and instructed his nurses to ‘Continue.’

The patient’s eyes widened and darted. ‘Wha-? Wha- aah yooh -ooing…?’ Then, upon noticing a second tube being brought to his mouth, ‘Nnoh! Nnnn-ohhhggghhh-‘

This second tube was then inserted beside the first, getting pushed forcibly downwards. The farmer actually felt it bulge his throat out, and even more choking tears came flooding from his eyes. He felt the tube join its compatriot in his stomach, and soon experienced a second flow of thick, heavy cream pumping into him, forcibly compounding the terrible bloat. He screeched and squirmed as best his restraints would allow, only just able to see down at his now ballooning belly; a rising bump in his middle.

The heartrate machine was beeping faster. Inside him the discomfort was intensifying into a packed, inflating sensation.

‘P-llleeee-ssss…,’ he whined.

‘What happened after the power went down?’ Mr Swan asked him. ‘Think hard. We have plenty of tubes, and you have plenty of holes.’

The man was openly sobbing now, from his eyes an endless cascade of salt water. His stomach continued to expand outwards, dispersing his fair bodyhair.

‘Wwwweeeh… wwweeehhr knnnoh-kkk’d… uh-uhhh-nccc-c-cohnschsss…,’ the farmer forced the words out between tears, his wretched hands trying uselessly to reach his stretching midriff, to sooth the blossoming pain.

‘Knocked unconscious by who?’ Mr Swan asked, his expression hardening.

‘P-P-Puu-eeeese… Ihh-mm nnn-ohh shhh-uuuhh…’

Mr Swan visibly gritted his jaw together and raised his eyes aloft in exasperation.

‘More,’ he told Dr Nightingale coldly.

‘Nnnn-gghh—ohh!!!’ the swelling man cried, trying and failing to shake his stationed head.

This time the doctor made an expression to the large guards who then silently came forward to pull the farmer’s legs apart. With a belly now expanded to twice its original size, the man yelled illegibly, watching with saucer eyes as the nurses inserted a larger tube into his arsehole, continuing the onslaught until the plastic was far up inside him.

‘Nnnnn-oohhhh!’ he screeched. ‘P-heeesse!!’

He could only continue to thrash his growing body as the heavy cream now came flowing into both ends. The bloat had become unbearable; searing pain across the skin as it tightened and warped with an unstoppable volume of dairy, his belly easily 70 inches around and rising.

By now Mr Swan, in spite of his irritation with the patient, had grown a full-bloomed erection, and he quite casually released it from his trousers to play, totally undeterred by the presence of anyone else in the room. He pushed his hot, solid penis up against the stretching swell of the farmer’s gut, skewering the flesh as he spoke,

‘Someone at that godforsaken Farm must have seen something. Think, you ignominious shit, think!’

‘Ih-ih-ih mmmigh-… hh-hhaaff… bbheee-nh…,’ the ballooning man panted, sweating, crying, convulsing.

‘Yes…?!’ Mr Swan pressed his cock harder into that rubbery skin, the invasion of heavy cream scoring fresh stretchmarks across it in real time.

‘D-d-t-tah-tah-…’ The man could hardly breathe. ‘K-k-ktih… ffff!!’

‘What’s he saying?’ Mr Swan asked of Nightingale while he continued to masturbate openly against the now 80 inch belly.

‘I’m… not sure.’ The doctor shook his head. ‘Deeta…? Deetak something.’

‘Stick another tube in him,’ Mr Swan said angrily, working the head of his penis against the taut balloon, leaving a trail in its wake.

The man wailed, eyes bigger than ever. But that didn’t prevent a fourth plastic tube from being forcibly fed up his left nostril, again not stopping until it was firmly lodged down into the pit of his unnaturally expanded stomach. Yet more cream soon poured in and the farmer started flailing his hands and legs, spouting crazed gibberish.

‘It might have been what?’ Mr Swan shouted over the top of the patient’s lunatic wailing; he was more cream than man by this point, the belly so large it rose a good three feet in the air. A cream sphere.

‘Deee..!’ the farmer huffed in a scream. ‘Deee…teh-teh-ktifff…! W-w-weeeh… haaaahd… wwuunnh- aaaht… thhhfffaahhm…!’

‘You had a… detective at The Farm?’ This time Dr Nightingale correctly interpreted the rattling nonsense.

Mr Swan kept on pulling himself into the freakshow before him. ‘So the person who attacked you - who knocked you unconscious…?’

‘Mmm-mmm-aaayy-b-b-beee… hhhi-… p-p-aaah-tnnn-uhhh…!’

Again the doctor made a guess, ‘Maybe his partner.’

Mr Swan was close. ‘And what happened to this detective and his partner?’

The farmer whose entire midsection had become a reddened globe sobbed even harder at this question.

‘I-I-I… -onnn’h… knnn-ohhh…! P-Plll-eee-sss… nnnoh-… mm-mm-mmorrrh!!!’

Mr Swan said, ‘Fill the other nostril,’ while he brought himself even closer to climax, sweating lightly. ‘When we run out of holes, we can always make new ones.’

‘NNNN-OOHHHH!!!’ the insane ball of farmer screamed. ‘P-LLL-EEEESSSSE!!!’

And it was when his right nostril was invaded by a fifth tube, a further barrage of cream surging in, that Mr Swan came in a gushing fountain all across the 90 inch, stretchmark-riddled belly while its owner hollered incomprehensibly, in clear agony.

Dr Nightingale, correctly assessing that Mr Swan needed a moment, asked the final question, ‘What were their names, these detectives?’

‘I-… doh-… kno-hhh…’ The vast ball that had once been a farmer wouldn’t stop crying.

Mr Swan snapped a finger at a nurse who brought him a tissue. He wiped himself off and replaced his member, zipping back up.

‘I don’t think we’re going to get any more out of him,’ he stated plainly.

The man with five tubes in him, pumping his gut bigger and bigger with the most fattening cream on earth looked more like a pink blimp than a human being now. He continued to blub and jabber on through his unending tears.

Mr Swan turned on his heel, already making for the door. He threw the soaked tissue to the floor, and before departing he added,

‘Keep him like that.’

****

The cool night’s breeze was something Lucas hadn’t felt in a long time. He looked up to the brilliant stars above, heard the gentle rustling of trees all around. The moon was a perfect half. Time, however, was slight for wallowing in the novelty of being back outside after so long.

With every fatboy in position, torches aloft, the guards proceeded to march them away from the tram station and out into the great moonlit outdoors, each ready to fire off a round from their rifle at a moment’s notice.

‘If you try to run, we shoot!’ the head guard barked the same spiel Reece had heard a thousand times before. ‘If you make any sudden moves, we shoot! You hold your torch high, you continue in single file - that means no buddying up with your pals, Clark! - you position yourself against the monument once we reach the site, and you speak the words and only the words, then step aside to let the next fatboy do the same. Are we understood?’

A smattering of assent rose from the line of fattened men as they trudged from the tram station, into the night, to the ceremonial site.

‘Is it far?’ Lucas whispered, turning his head back to Reece who was marching behind.

‘Shhh!’ Reece hissed, peeved.

If he had to hear the words ‘But I don’t understand’ out of that damned yank’s mouth one more time, he swore he was going to push him off the mountainside, scheme be damned. He’d already explained it a zillion times to the kid, ‘We all get on the tram. They unload us at the top of the mountain, give everyone a torch and then we have to walk in single file up to the monument. We get in position and say the words we were taught. That’s it. Just do as you’re told.’

‘But why?’ was Lucas’s usual follow-up.

It was like dealing with a fucking toddler sometimes.

This time Lucas went with, ‘Sorry, Reece.’ And he made his sad puppy-dog expression which only got worse the rounder his cheeks became, and turned back to face ahead, marching behind the fatboy in front.

Reece strode on, eyes rolling, mind turning. Barring any heat-of-the-moment murderous impulse, he was now pretty sure he’d worked out a half-decent use for the little American muffintop:

Once Lucas’s sweetness had secured him a ticket to The Palace and Reece had tagged along (details of quite how that part was going to happen still pending), Reece would rid himself of the pipsqueak in transit and secure an audience with Mr Swan, alone. He was pretty sure his silver tongue could get him that far. And from there it was purely a matter of winning old Swan over. Getting his guard down…

Reece had already tried this with the fat doctor a while back and had come up against that sunny disposition like a brick wall. The doc was too bone-headed to succumb to Reece’s charms.

But Mr Swan was a different case altogether. Reece was certain he’d be able to butter that Master up.

And from there it was the long game. One of patience.

For the simple truth was that Reece had grown tired of trying to escape from this place. Each attempt only resulted in failure and amplified the spotlight on him, and usually got his accomplices killed (not that he cared about that, it was just annoying to have to keep finding a new one and training them up from scratch each time). So No, no longer did he have his sights set on breaking free from this island. His new scheme was far better.

He wanted to be its Master.

They’d reached the site. Fat guys at the front of the line were saying the words on the required spot and being shepherded away at gunpoint. The line shuffled forward, Reece’s torch burning in his hand. Of course he’d thought of starting a fire up here. They all had at some point. But it was two heavies to a fatboy out on these ceremonial nights; no amount of pyrotechnics were going to stop you from getting shot down for your troubles.

Reece watched as Lucas paced uncertainly over to the mask sitting in its plinth - the monument, as they called it - peering back at the nearest guard with questing eyes, only to have a rifletip trained harder on him. The American knelt awkwardly, huffing slightly (presumably due to his new fat) and got into position. Reece heard him mumble the words.

Then Lucas was stumbling away and it was Reece’s turn.

Well versed in this ridiculous ceremony by now, Reece moved forward on autopilot and knelt before the mask. He heard a rifle cocked either side of him, and he pressed his face against the monument.

The mask creeped him out. It creeped all of the lads out. The going theory around the dormitories was that it was meant to depict Swan himself, which would make a certain kind of sense, given the recital.

‘Say the words,’ the guard to his right instructed coldly.

(One day), thought Reece. (One day I’ll be the one giving the orders around here. Then you’ll all fucking wish you’d never met me. Count on that).

‘Say the words, fatboy!’ the guard to his left growled.

Reece took a breath through gritted teeth, then spoke.

‘I wish for Mr Swan to have ultimate power, equal to no other.’

He made to get up, but was shouted back down.

‘Again,’ barked the left guard, rifle clicking. ‘Louder, fatso!’

Just you wait. One fucking day…

‘I wish for Mr Swan to have ultimate power, equal to no other.’

****

Kingsized though the bed may have been, it did not bring Arthur or Manni a restful night’s sleep. They’d lain awkwardly next to one another after spying the odd goings-on occurring across the far mountain. The line of torchlight had bobbed along from one end of the hills to the other, only to stop briefly, then return the way they’d came, each light winking out one by one. A handful of potted guesses followed; Sweet and Dey could at least now surmise that they were not alone on this island, and that civilisation still existed here, which spelled hope in the possibilities of finding a way home, but danger in the form of potential Rookery activity. Quite what was happening over there on the mountain remained a mystery, though. The former detectives had then bedded down for the night, skipping over much of their usual holding and kissing.

Arthur hadn’t slept a wink, in fact. When morning came, he was just as awake as he’d been 8 hours prior, back when he’d cackhandedly started to tell Manni that he loved him.

Stupid bloody prat, Sweet castigated himself. Why’d you go and bloomin’ tell him that? Prolly freaked the lad out something chronic. No wonder he made a mad dash out the room. Stupid old fart, blabbing your big mouth, just ‘cos it got stuffed full of scotch eggs and caused a pleasure overload. Shoulda kept your feelings to yourself, old man. Nobody wants to hear it.

His head had tossed variations on these thoughts around and around all night long, never settling.

Finally, at an hour that seemed verging on reasonable, Sweet gave up the search for sleep and heaved his large body from the bed and padded about the suite, getting dressed and locating his glasses. When he saw his partner sitting upright against the headboard looking as underslept as he, Sweet didn’t immediately know what to say. Perhaps it was better to say nothing. He hadn’t forgotten about his own stupid ‘Don’t leave me!’ outburst either. All in all, he’d done enough damage already.

‘Morning,’ Manni yawned and then stretched his enormous muscles in that way that had never failed to enthrall.

‘Morning,’ Sweet returned, seeking shoes.

‘Did you get any kip?’ Dey asked, now rubbing his eyes. Even with bed hair he still looked like a model.

Sweet shook his head.

While extricating his bulk from the sheets, Manni went on, ‘Look, last night… I just-‘

‘It’s fine,’ Arthur told him, not wanting to revisit the wound that had kept him up. ‘It’s fine.’ Then he plunged ahead with more before Manni could retort. ‘I think we should go and investigate what we saw last night. Not much left for us here. We should head for that mountain. Prolly best to get an early start, before the sun gets too ‘ot for trekkin’.’

He sensed Dey might say more, but kept himself moving, already heading out the door.

‘I’ll be downstairs,’ he added gruffly, leaving.

He was being an ass, he knew. Wounded pride and all that. But he couldn’t look at Manni right now.

He couldn’t look at the man he loved, who didn’t love him back.