SPOILED, part 3 (Patreon)

Detective Sweet parked his mighty rear into the Mazda with a heavy sigh, and slammed the door.

‘So what did she say?’ Detective Dey asked him. 

Sweet let out a grunt, and said, ‘I need fish and chips.’

‘What?’

‘Maybe a coupla battered sausages, one of them steak and kidney pies they do, bit of gravy.’

‘Arthur! What did the Chief say? You know, about Maciek Kowolski’s statement? There were holes in it?’

Arthur Sweet sighed again, adjusting his glasses. ‘We’ve been reassigned,’ he said. ‘She’s looking into it, apparently. Bullshit, she is.’

‘Reassigned? To what?’ Dey’s face fell. 

‘Dunno. Stopped listening at that point. I wonder if they still do that cheese over the chips-‘

‘Fuck’s sake, just focus for a minute!’ Detective Manni Dey wondered if his partner was aware of how often he rubbed his own bulbous belly; it seemed to happen whenever the older detective was deep in thought. 

‘Who was that other lad you said about before? Went missing a few months before Ben Townsend?’ Sweet asked suddenly. ‘Where was it? Round Elephant and Castle way?’

Dey, flummoxed for a moment, produced his notepad and flipped the pages back in time. ‘Uhhh, yeah that’s right. Jamie Beck; same thing - quit his job, moved out, never heard from again.’

‘Got the address?’

‘Uhhh, yep. I wrote it down; I was gonna go check it out - shortly before I got lumped with you instead. What about the reassignment?’

‘Fuck the reassignment.’

‘Chief’s gonna be pissed.’

‘Good for her. Right, you drive,’ Sweet said. ‘I’ll need both hands for the chippy. You can swing by on the way to Elephant.’

‘I’m not your fucking chauffeur.’

‘I’ll get you a battered cod.’

‘... Hmmm.’

* * * *

‘Here we are, sir,’ Steadings lifted the lid from the dish with his usual panache, ‘Cannelloni, extra cheese, with garlic truffle fries, onion rings, sautéed breaded mushrooms and an extra side of rich beef ragu. Dessert will be up shortly. Does sir have everything he needs to drink?’

‘Thank you so much.’ Ben’s eyes bore greedily into the mouthwatering dish before him. ‘Uh, I think I’m fine for drinks at the moment, thank you, Steadings.’

‘Of course, sir.’ The pot-bellied, pristine butler bowed and made his exit. 

Ben was very much getting into the swing of these deliveries, all freshly prepared, all delicious. A week of eating his way through the fridges and cupboards, plus Steadings’ constant stream of fine cuisine was having an effect on Ben’s waistline. Even in this relatively short period, he’d found his trousers tightening and his belly protruding from the bottom of his tees. He hadn’t weighed yet but was pretty sure he must have gained a good ten pounds - in a week! He’d never managed that before, not on his own in his crumby old flat. 

He switched on the massive flatscreen TV, sank himself into one of his many sumptuous armchairs and dove into the cannelloni while the news played. A few bites in and a knock at the door hailed another staffer with three plates of dessert - elaborate trifles and sundaes abound. The stocky chap silently left them on the kitchen side and nodded before leaving. Ben didn’t mind that the staff let themselves in to deposit foods, it saved him the hassle of getting up (which he was sure was the point anyway), plus he still hadn’t quite figured out how to work the electronic door mechanism in any case. 

He couldn’t say he was used to this yet, but he was certainly soaking up the good life. He woke when he felt like it (not missing the sound of his alarm, that was for sure), padded around in his underwear a lot of the time (Steadings had assured him not to feel self-conscious or to get dressed on the staff’s behalf), and spent each day blissfully eating away, either watching TV, reading a good book (Steadings had provided many) or playing his new PS5. Mr Wren had checked in via the housephone a couple of times - still away on business - but mostly Ben was left to his own devices. Speaking of devices, there was one odd thing: His mobile phone didn’t seem to be picking up any wi-fi or network signal. He’d been told the penthouse was an old, historic converted building and prone to black spots, but that the issue was being looked at. Ben didn’t mind. How could he, when he had everything he could ever want right here?

Some time later, cannelloni and desserts consumed, Ben reclined his armchair and lay back, contented and stuffed. He felt the warm curvature of his packed belly and let his eyes droop to the droning sound of the newscaster. A nap soon took hold of him in this heavy, comfortable position. 

* * * *

‘Oozzat?’ A squinting woman, perhaps in her late 50s, peered through the chained gap in her front door. 

‘Miss Parsons?’ Sweet asked. 

‘Oozzaskin?’

‘I’m Detective Sweet, this is Detective Dey. We were wondering if we could ask you a few questions.’

Miss Parsons’ squint intensified. 

‘No-one’s in trouble,’ Dey clarified. ‘We’re just hoping to get some information on a former tenant who lived here.’ 

And he showed his badge and smiled, which appeared to work wonders, because she immediately lifted the chain from the door and said,

‘I ‘spose you want a cuppa tea, then.’

The detectives took this as an invitation, and were soon accompanying the woman into her modest kitchen. 

‘Oozzis about, did you say?’ she asked over the rising whoosh of the kettle. 

‘A Jamie Beck,’ Sweet replied. ‘He rented a room here a few months back.’

‘Thassright,’ Miss Parsons said, fussing with mugs. ‘Nice lad. Bit quiet.’

‘Are you the landlady here? You rented the room to him?’

‘Sright. Got a spare room I let out sometimes. Helps with the mortgage. It’s all kosher, I checked. I’m not in trouble, am I?’

‘No, not at all,’ Dey assured her. ‘We’re just trying to track Mr Beck’s whereabouts.’

‘Oh, I don’t know anything about that. D’you take sugar?’

‘Three please,’ Dey said, which elicited an arched eyebrow. 

‘None for me, thanks,’ said Sweet, ‘but I will take a biscuit if you’ve got any.’

‘Lord, now you’re asking,’ she muttered, fumbling through cupboards. ‘So wossee gone and done, then? Jamie. If you’re looking for ‘im.’

‘Did he mention where he might have been moving out to, before he left?’ 

She stopped faffing for a moment and concentrated, hands on hips. ‘No,’ she eventually said. ‘Sorry I can’t find the biscuits. No, it was a funny old business, really, wiv Jamie.’

‘What d’you mean?’ asked Sweet. ‘Funny how?’

‘I tell a lie, I’ve got bourbons in a tin at the back. D’you wanna bourbon?’

‘Ooh, yes please.’

‘What was funny, Miss Parsons?’ Dey interjected, peeved. 

‘’Ere y’are.’ She passed the tin to Detective Sweet, who delighted in picking out the long brown biscuits with his thick sausage fingers. ‘What was...? Oh, about Jamie. It was ‘ow he sorta blew up.’

Sweet paused mid-crunch. 

‘What do you mean ‘Blew up?’’ he asked. 

‘He was a right skinny little thing for years,’ she said, still holding out the tin as Sweet took another. ‘Then over the last few months he was ‘ere, he just blew up, in size, you know. I assumed it was drugs or something.’

‘What do you mean?’ Dey pursued. ‘Like... What, like an allergic reaction, or...?’

‘No, he got all massive,’ she said, ‘like one of them blokes you see on the telly carrying logs and whatnot.’

‘So he... put on a bit of bulk?’

‘A bit!’ she snorted. ‘He was bloody huge by the time he left.’

Sweet hadn’t expected this, he had to admit. He bit down on a third bourbon. 

‘So you think maybe he got in with a different crowd? Made a load of new gym buddies? That sort of thing? I take it he never talked about it.’

‘He never talked much at all,’ Miss Parsons said. 

‘That’s kinda weird,’ Dey said to Sweet. ‘Why would he get all big and bulked up and then just leave?’ 

‘And he never said where he was going? Or why he quit his job?’ Sweet asked the lady now proffering a fourth biscuit. 

She shook her head. 

Detective Dey sipped his sweet tea and furrowed his brow. 

Then Miss Parsons added, ‘Personally, I think it was all down to him.’ And she gave an ominous smirk. 

Dey stopped sipping. ‘Who?’

‘That man he was wiv,’ she said quietly. ‘Thought I didn’t see ‘im but I did. Pulled up outside ‘ere in a bloody Rolls Royce one morning. Pompous arse.’

‘Who are you talking about, Miss Parsons?’

She made something of a song and dance over mulling the words, apparently the proud owner of a juicy secret, but finally said, ‘Well, I can’t be hundred per cent sure - I only saw the side of ‘is head, mind - but, I’m fairly certain it was that politician. Lord Whasisname...’ She clicked her fingers. ‘Big fat fella. Bald. It’ll come to me.’

Sweet and Dey exchanged a look. That description could’ve been half of Westminster. 

‘Fenton,’ she exclaimed. 

‘... Lord Fenton? The MP?’ Sweet looked flabbergasted for a moment. 

‘Yes! That’s the one,’ she nodded assuredly. ‘That’s the man who come and took Jamie. He parked out the front there, and Jamie trotted off out to meet him wiv a couple of bags all packed, and that was the last time I ever saw him.’

* * * *

The sound of heels neatly clopping across the parquet roused Ben from his pasta-fueled slumber. He jerked his head awkwardly around the armchair, expecting Steadings, no doubt hailing with yet another wonderfully fattening course. 

‘I did knock but there was no response,’ Mr Wren said. ‘Forgive the intrusion. The door was unlocked.’

He was, as before, impeccably dressed in a sharply tailored suit. 

‘Oh, Mr Wren,’ said Ben groggily. ‘How are you doing? I didn’t expect...’

‘No,’ Mr Wren said warmly. ‘I’m back early from my trip. Thought I’d see how you were getting on.’

Ben rose from his chair, displaying the full extent of his thickened belly, still tight with cuisine and creamy dessert.

‘Looks to be going rather well, I’d say,’ Mr Wren continued, and closed in on Ben, extending his hands out towards that beautiful growing ball. 

‘You like?’ Ben asked, enjoying the warmth of the older man’s hands on his gut. 

‘Oh yes,’ Mr Wren replied, sliding his hands under Ben’s struggling tee. ‘Very much. Mmmm yes, how wonderful. You’re growing very nicely indeed.’

‘I’m happy you’re pleased,’ Ben said. ‘And thank you so much for all these amazing things.’

‘Take off your shirt.’

‘Oh, okay.’

Ben revealed the full rotundity of his burgeoning upper body; the stretched belly, the fattening chest resting above. Even his chin and neck had taken on some extra width. Mr Wren slid his perfectly manicured hands all over Ben’s middle, satisfied no end. He leaned down and kissed the ballbelly.

‘Oh yes,’ he murmured. ‘Oh, you’re getting wonderfully fat. You’re going to do so well.’

‘Thank you,’ Ben whispered. He noted the bulge in Mr Wren’s trousers. 

The businessman then took Ben’s hand and walked him to the kitchen, where Ben found his own groin beginning to strain against his underwear. 

Mr Wren opened a fridge at random. ‘What do we have here? Let’s see... Ah yes.’ He removed one of the fatter wheels of cheese, then took a moment to locate the cheese knife from one of the flush soft-close kitchen drawers. In a matter of moments he had carved off a thick slice of Emmental; he held it carefully against Ben’s lips, which parted. 

‘That’s it,’ Mr Wren cooed, feeding Ben the cheese, rubbing his belly, then cutting the next slice which was more like a chunk. 

‘I’m actually still full from dinner,’ Ben began. ‘So-‘

The next piece of succulent cheese went in. After Mr Wren pushed it into Ben’s mouth, he kept his hand there for just a moment, palm flat across Ben’s bulging cheeks. 

‘Shhh,’ he said quietly, authoritatively. ‘No talking now. Just eating.’ 

Ben nodded, and actually found his erection stiffening further. 

Mr Wren carved off an even bigger hunk of cheese. It was actually a struggle for Ben to take it all in one go; his jaw ached somewhat from being wedged open, but he took it.  

Mr Wren undid his tie, and gazed down at Ben’s gut once more. He gave it a few hearty pats, then made smooth circles with his hand. 

‘More, boy,’ he said, cutting a fifth piece. Then a sixth, then seventh, eighth, ninth. 

Ben ate it all, between quickening breaths. The fullness in his stomach was turning to pain. His skin felt like an overwrought balloon. He found himself huffing and puffing. 

The older man undid the zipper of his trousers and produced a surprisingly massive penis, which he toyed with while cutting more cheese. He struggled to use the cheese knife with one hand, so instead took the remainder of the wheel itself and held it up to Ben’s mouth. 

Ben’s eyes bulged. Was he really being expected to eat all of this? His belly was howling in pain. But he ate. He ate, and ate, and ate. 

And Mr Wren slapped his penis into Ben’s rock-solid ballgut. He pushed its head into the unyielding flesh, hot with digestion, leaving trails of precum beneath the navel. 

‘That’s it, boy,’ he grunted. ‘Eat for me. Get fatter for me. Fatter and fatter. Come on, eat. More. More, that’s it.’

Ben bit continuously into the wheel that never seemed to go down, such was its sheer enormity. His cheeks were so full, he couldn’t be sure they wouldn’t burst. 

‘We’ll get you nice and big, hmm? Nice and fat. Nice and huge. Oh yes, you’ll get huge for me, won’t you? Good boy. Gooood boooy.’

Mr Wren was skewering right into Ben’s insanely tight belly now, speeding up, moaning and sparkling with sweat. 

‘Eat... Eat... Eat...’

And Ben did. And it was the most he’d ever eaten in his life, and it was so hot and horny and painful all at the same time. 

Then Mr Wren let out a long, pleasured moan, his seed burning a trail all up Ben’s swollen sphere of a stomach. He held onto Ben for a few moments, steadying himself, breathing hard. Ben diligently chewed what was left in his mouth, which took long enough. He didn’t know if he should speak. 

Then after a time Mr Wren zipped himself back up, placed the cheese on the counter and motioned vaguely to the stains that had made their way down to the kitchen tiles. 

‘Steadings’ll clean that up,’ he breathed huskily. 

Then he did his tie back up. 

And left.