SPOILED, part 5 (Patreon)

Be careful. You’re in great danger.

Ben read the anonymous text message over and over, feeling something akin to an icy finger tracing a line down his spine. 

Reflexively he scooped up his phone and typed Who is this? Before realising that by moving it from its delicate, specific location, he’d robbed the phone of its tiny fragment of signal.

‘Fuck! Fucking... fuck!’ he growled to himself, and cackhandedly attempted to place it back in the exact same spot. 

After a few attempts he saw the little signal symbol quiver back to life, but it was spotty at best. Still, his reply had gone through. 

‘Come on... come on...,’ he breathed to himself. 

Who could have sent him such a message? Terry who’d just left? But then why wouldn’t he have told Ben in person? Maybe it was Steadings, but... the same question applied. If it had been Maciek, Ben would’ve recognised the number. 

He didn’t have much else in the way of friends or family, and he’d never much minded. But this thing had him spooked; the warning and the not knowing. It really could have been from anyone. 

He stayed put, hunched over his phone on the floor of the walk-in closet, just staring at it, waiting for a reply. 

But none came. 

An hour passed. It was getting late. 

‘Goddamnit!’ He couldn’t sit here all night. 

He decided he would make an evening snack, maybe watch a movie or something, but leave the phone here for now. It was the only place in this vast apartment he’d ever seen so much as a whisper of signal. This spot was now sacred.

But as he made himself a sandwich, stacking layer upon layer of meats, cheeses, tomato, butter and mayo between hunks of freshly-baked bread prepared for him earlier that day, his mind wouldn’t rest. 

Be careful. You’re in great danger.

It was nestling in, making itself comfortable in the back of his head. He went back to check the phone - no response. 

So he turned on the TV and ate, but his attention could not be diverted. After the sandwich he checked his phone again. Still nothing. He got himself a few bags of crisps and some bowls of dip, then checked again. 

This was driving him crazy! Why would someone send a message like that, only to fall silent after? Was he being pranked? It wasn’t funny. 

Some spotted dick and double cream later, and no joy. Engorging his stomach on sweet, carby, fattening treats usually brought about a nice solid sense of contentment, feeling his belly all packed and loaded, stretching and fattening for his benefactor. But not tonight. No raisined sponge nor silky topping was doing the trick. Ben was just going to have to conclude that an answer might not come (though that hardly made him feel better). 

He wound down for the evening, treating himself to a hot bath and grazing on Madeira cake while London rumbled on outside the steamed up window. When he stepped out, heavy of foot and belly, and wrapped a towel around his thickening waist, he gave the phone one last check. 

There was a reply. 

Ben felt a jolt through his heart, and immediately scrambled down to the phone screen and swiped at it as carefully as he could with pruned, damp fingers. The next message read: 

The Penthouse is just the start.

* * * *

‘It’s not him.’

‘It is! I’m certain of it.’

‘That’s never him. It’s some other porky fucker. You can’t tell nothing from them photos.’

‘Arthur, I’ve been on this all week, chatting with other profiles, getting the intel, narrowing it down. I’m telling you - This is him.’

Arthur adjusted his glasses and squinted at the gay hook-up app on Detective Dey’s phone, recently installed for this very purpose. The profile on the screen showed photographs of a ball-shaped middle-aged torso; it could have belonged to Lord Edmund Fenton, or it could have belonged to a million other people. The included statistics roughly lined up with the politician’s, but this was all highly speculative.

Manni had had to make his own profile, taking selfies and showing off his lithe, defined body. It was pretty embarrassing, but if this was going to work, and he was going to fool Fenton into agreeing to a date, it had to be done. Sweet’s comments such as ‘There you go, Kate Moss, you’re a natural’ weren’t helping.

‘Look, I’m just gonna send a message and see if he takes the bait,’ Manni told his partner who slurped on beer, apparently fascinated by the sheer notion of online dating (‘Come a long way since my day.’).

The two of them were in Manni’s bachelor apartment in Greenwich. Detective Manni Dey had not bothered to decorate much, though Sweet noted there was a home-gym in the spare room. 

‘Alright, go on then,’ Arthur sighed. 

And Manni began to type a message to their would-be Fenton, but paused. 

‘Um, what should I say?’

‘Bollocks if I know. How about... ‘Oi, big boy, fancy a shag?’’

‘Jesus fucking Christ,’ Manni groaned. ‘How the fuck did you ever get someone to marry you?’ He’d spotted Sweet’s wedding band squished tightly around his fat finger long ago.

‘Well alright, Casanova, you bloody try!’ Arthur replied, and swigged again, thankful that Detective Dey’s fridge had at least been stocked with lager, if little else. 

‘Hmm.’ Manni’s fingers hovered over the keypad. ‘Hello, I was wondering-'  No. Too formal.  'Hey big fella, I love a man with a big belly. Ur just my type’ And he hit ‘send’ before he could second-guess himself, ignoring Sweet’s arched eyebrow at his peripheral. 

‘Oh, you love a big belly, do you?’ Arthur cooed, patting his own.

‘Shut up.’

‘Mind if I get another beer to fill my big belly, then?’ 

And Sweet sauntered over to the kitchen in a mockery of sexiness.

‘Fuck my life...’ Manni pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘Wait! Sweet, get back here - he’s replying!’

‘Fuck, that was quick.’

Dey read the reply out loud, ‘Oh ho ho, you do indeed?’

‘Who the fuck types Oh ho ho?’

‘An out-of-touch MP?’ 

‘Hmmph.’

‘Wait, there’s more...’ Manni read the rest aloud again, ‘Looking good there yourself, young man.’

He was about to type a response when Sweet stopped him. 

‘Wait,’ he said, thinking. ‘Tell him... Tell him 'Thanks, I’m trying to bulk up'.’

‘Ooh, that’s good,’ Manni said, sipping his own can.

He typed the words out, and within moments there came another response.

'Oh, I LOVE a young chap who’s bulking up bigger. My favourite, in fact.'

This time it was Dey’s turn to arch a brow at his partner. 

‘Yeah, alright, lover boy,’ Sweet conceded. ‘It could be him.’

* * * *

There had been no more correspondence from the anonymous texter. Over the passing days Ben had done his best to probe Steadings, always with caution, but the man hadn’t yielded. It seemed highly unlikely that Steadings was Anon.

‘Will that be all, sir?’ the pristine, pot-bellied butler asked one afternoon after delivering a triple serving of lasagne with sides of garlic focaccia and truffle-fries.

‘Actually,’ Ben began carefully, ‘I’m having some issues with the walk-in wardrobe lights. Could you, uh...’

‘I’ll send the maintenance man up right away, sir,’ Steadings assured him. ‘Will there be any pudding for sir?’

‘I’ll call for it later when I’m ready, thank you, Steadings.’

‘Very good, sir.’

Once alone, Ben tucked into the lasagne and thought about Terry, as he had many times lately. It didn’t seem likely that he was Anon, either, but this way at least Ben could ask some fielding questions and get to see him again. Two birds and all that. 

He’d stuffed himself tightly on delicious, soft, creamy layers of pasta and perfectly baked bread by the time Terry’s boots stomped across the parquet, followed by the familiar ‘Oi Oi!’

Ben rose to greet him, probably too eagerly. ‘Terry, thanks for coming.’

‘Bloody hell, guv.’ Terry’s eyes roamed Ben’s fatter physique up and down. ‘You ain’t half porkin’ up nicely.’

Ben blushed. ‘Thank you.’

‘Now,’ the beefy handyman rubbed his thick hands together, ‘what’s this about faulty lights?’

Ben led him back to the walk-in, knowing damn well there wasn’t a thing wrong with the lights.

‘I think it’s that one at the back there, it keeps flickering,’ he lied.

‘Alright, no worries,’ Terry replied, and began rummaging in his kit bag.

‘Maybe I’m just being too careful,’ Ben said with emphasised purpose. ‘Wouldn’t want there to be any... danger...’

‘Uh huh.’ Terry reached up to the light fixture, once again revealing that incredible ballgut.

‘Er... In this Penthouse...,’ Ben tried again, faltering, ‘... the faulty lights could be just the start...’

‘Yeah, of course,’ Terry said absently, unscrewing something. 

This was useless. Terry didn’t know what Ben was talking about, it was obvious now. Terry wasn’t Anon.

‘Can I... get you a cup of tea?’ Ben decided to change tack. 

‘I’ll be in and out to be honest wiv you, mate,’ Terry chirped. ‘Can’t see nuffin wrong, but I’ll replace the bulb anyway.’

‘Oh, that’s a shame,’ Ben said unthinkingly.

Terry laughed and his ballbelly bounced up and down under his mighty pectorals. ‘What’dyou mean?’ 

‘Uhh, I just...’ Ben blushed again. He hadn’t meant to flirt. He was certain this was against the rules. ‘I don’t know, haha.’

‘A shame I left so soon?’ Terry stopped screwing and relaxed, turning his full attention to Ben. His chest was rising and falling a little faster, it looked like. 

Ben swallowed, and nodded.

‘Uh...’

‘Don’t want me to go just yet?’ the handyman asked, his tone shifting gears slightly. ‘’Zat what you meant?’

Ben didn’t know where to look. Christ, Terry was gorgeous. 

‘Something like that...,’ he admitted. 

‘Well...,’ Terry added quietly. ‘Don’t ‘ave to go just yet...’

Ben caught his eye. 

‘... No...?’

‘No.’

And Ben felt his own heartrate increase, perhaps a pinprick of sweat on his temple. He wanted to reach out and touch Terry so badly. 

‘So, I’m... porking up nicely, you said...?’

‘Oh yeah,’ Terry practically whispered, and moved in closer.

Ben backed up, against his own instincts, and felt his fat arse graze the wall behind. The next thing he knew, the maintenance man’s solid gut was pressing into his, pinning him to the spot. Terry was breathing harder still, and Ben felt a blooming in his groin. Soon, Terry’s massive hands were caressing Ben’s belly.

‘You... like my belly... porking up...?’ Ben uttered, feeling waves of nerves pulse through him. 

‘I do,’ Terry replied softly. ‘Very much.’ And he continued to run those thick coarse hands over Ben’s swollen abdomen. 

‘You know...,’ Ben breathed, ‘I have to get even bigger yet... for Mr Wren...’

At the mention of the businessman came a moment of hesitation between the two. 

‘Mr Wren... yeah...,’ said Terry.

‘Yeah... We probably... shouldn’t...’

‘Probly not...’

But Ben found himself laying his own hands on Terry’s ballbelly. 

Sweet Mother of Jesus, it felt just as incredible as Ben had imagined it would; tight, firm, round, warm. Then before he knew it, Terry reached in for a kiss. The handyman’s lips met his, and soon their tongues were twisted into one another’s, and their hands all over each’s blimped out bodies. Ben slid his fingers under Terry’s polo, and felt the hot stretch of skin across his ball. Terry grabbed great handfuls of Ben’s fattened flesh, overwhelming him with sensation. 

‘Just me,’ a voice called out nearby. 

It was Mr Wren. 

‘Where’s my belly boy?’

Terry’s hands flew from Ben, and both immediately adjusted their clothes. 

‘And that’s the lights all sorted for you, mate,’ Terry suddenly said very loudly, his chipper workaday tone resumed in a flash. 

Ben smoothed his hair and took a breath. ‘Thanks so much,’ he said, equally loud. ‘That was really annoying... the flickering lights, I mean.’

Terry packed up his kitbag at double speed and strode from the walk-in with exaggerated vigour. ‘Well, just give us a shout if any uvva lights go, yeah?’ he called, then added politely to his employer, ‘Evening, Sir. Just on me way out.’

‘Good evening, Terry,’ said Mr Wren, passing the maintenance man and appearing in the doorway of the walk-in. ‘There’s my big, beautiful belly boy.’

‘Hi, Mr Wren, Sir,’ Ben said with a smile, trying to force his heartrate back down by sheer willpower. ‘There was, uh, something wrong with the lights. It’s fixed now, though.’

‘Ah yes,’ Mr Wren replied. ‘Terry is good like that.’

Very good, Ben thought. 

Too good.