SPOILED, part 6 (Patreon)

Who is this? Ben texted to Anon. 

He kept the phone in its ‘sacred spot’ almost all the time now, and found that the anonymous texter would reply with infrequency.

You’re not safe there, came one of Anon’s responses. 

Who is this?? Ben demanded. 

Can you get out, from Anon.

It quickly became maddening. Anon was so sure of Ben’s apparent peril, despite absolutely no evidence of it in Ben’s day to day life. He ate the finest foods, he lounged in the comfiest chairs known to man, all day long he played video games, watched TV and did as he pleased. It was heaven. 

Why should I trust you? Ben typed angrily. For all he knew, this Anon character was just some troll or some trickster. Why should Ben trust them? 

No response came. This was also typical. Sometimes entire days went by without a word. He was starting to feel he’d been had. This was nonsense. 

Meanwhile, Mr Wren’s visits were eliciting a different response in Ben of late. As the generous businessman inspected and caressed Ben’s every growing curve and fold in rapt satisfaction, working his manicured hands carefully against each new roll of plumped flab, Ben could only find himself thinking of Terry. He knew it was wrong and selfish and ungrateful, and that his ongoing liaisons with the handyman were going to get Terry fired, or himself booted out of this place, but Ben couldn’t help it. He felt filled with equal parts guilt and lust. All while his body continued to fatten and swell. Ben’s belly was starting to loom out in front of him now, becoming podgier, taking on a new softness. He felt fat gathering under his armpits, and lovehandles beginning to spill over his sides. His arse was getting a nice squidge to it, packed as it was into his jeans and underwear. He’d never been this big before, and felt all the sexier for it. Clearly Mr Wren was happy. 

As was Terry.

You will soon be Assessed, Anon sent, one evening after Mr Wren had left. You need to listen.

Ben rolled his eyes, having had quite enough of this. 

Are you going to answer any of my questions? he typed back.

At the Assessment, just do everything asked of you, Anon replied. Don’t ask them any questions. 

So that’s a No then? Ben wrote, beyond peeved by this point. You’re not going to tell me who you are, or why I should trust you?

At the Assessment, Anon replied, eliciting a groan from Ben, do NOT act out of turn. DON’T chat back. Just do as you’re told. Please.

This was ridiculous. Ben had been here for months now, and during that time he’d been shown nothing but kindness, generosity and respect. He’d experienced plenty of “Assessments” from Mr Wren; they were fine. 

You’re full of shit, Ben texted. This is bullshit.

But Anon sent one last text as a response.

Just one word:

Please.

* * * *

‘My, what a fine-looking young gentleman you are, oh ho ho!’

Detective Sweet listened to Lord Fenton preening, via a surveillance device attached to his own phone (it usually lived in the Mazda's glovebox, and had come in handy on occasion). He was parked about half a mile outside the five star hotel where Fenton was having his first “date” with Manni.

‘You look great yourself,’ Sweet heard Detective Dey reply. ‘So big and... round.’

Sweet stuck his hand into a giant bag of Maltesers on the passenger seat. ‘“So big and round”,’ he parroted to himself. 

‘This is a stunning suite,’ Detective Dey continued. Arthur could tell he was speaking up a little for the hidden microphone on his person. They’d also fitted Dey with a near-invisible earpiece shortly before this operation. Arthur could whisper prompts to him if needed. 

‘Oh yes,’ Fenton waffled, ‘It’s reserved for delegates, VIPs, persons of stature.’

‘Well, you’ve... certainly got that,’ Manni replied. 

Sweet grimaced at having to listen to this drivel. He stuffed more Maltesers into his mouth, chomping grumpily.

‘Ho ho,’ Fenton laughed, like Father fucking Christmas. ‘Well, it’s more yours I’m interested in.’

Sweet would have loved to see what they were doing. Was that slimy MP touching Dey? 

‘Drink?’ Fenton asked. 

‘Yes please,’ said Manni. ‘I’ll take a whiskey, neat. So... you’re keen to help get my stature bulked up then, yeah?’

‘God, don’t make it too obvious, you muppet,’ Arthur growled between bites of chocolate.

‘Mmm, very much so,’ the porcine politician said. ‘Cheers.’

Sweet heard the clinking of glasses, and chewed all the harder.

‘Do you want my biceps bigger?’ Manni asked innocently. 

‘Biceps, chest, shoulders, legs, back... arse...,’ Fenton responded.

Arthur wished he could storm into that swanky hotel suite and smack the drink right out of that smug twat’s hand. 

‘Okay,’ Manni said. ‘That sounds... cool.’

Jesus.

‘So how does it work?’ Manni continued to the MP. ‘I mean - How big do you want me to get?’

This was a good question, Sweet thought. 

‘Mmm,’ he heard Fenton breathe sleazily. ‘As big as possible, my boy.’ 

And it was clear the two of them had moved closer.

‘I’ll get you protein powder, steroids, testosterone, anything you need,’ Fenton continued. 

‘Have you... Have you done this with anyone before?’ Manni asked, and Arthur heard him sip on whiskey, probably for courage. Still, at least he was asking some proper fucking questions now.

‘Oh, one or two.’ Fenton’s voice was suddenly much closer to Detective Dey’s microphone.

Arthur started on a bag of Skittles next, ripping the pack open with venom. 

‘And, uh, what happened to them?’ Manni asked. ‘I mean - did they... get pretty big?’

‘Why don’t we give you an inspection?’ asked Fenton in silky smooth tones that made Arthur’s teeth itch.

‘Okay,’ he heard Dey mutter. ‘I’ll just... finish my drink first...’

‘Don’t be nervous,’ Fenton cooed. ‘Let me unbutton your shirt.’

If he found the mic down by Manni’s hip, they were fucked. It was mostly hidden under his waistband, but there was always a chance...

‘Okay,’ Manni repeated, ‘but just a preview.’

‘Good lad,’ Arthur murmured with his mouthful. 

‘Oh ho ho, you tease,’ Fenton practically purred.

‘Your turn now,’ Manni said to him.

And Arthur was forced to listen as Detective Dey and Lord Fenton de-shirted each other, oohing and ahhing, while he sat in the Mazda gobbling down sweets.

‘“Big and round”,’ he grumbled again to himself, that phrase now well and truly stuck in his craw. ‘I’m big and round too, you know...’

* * * *

Ben watched all the little twinkling lights of London prick through the evening skyline from the comfort of his hot tub. He sipped on champagne between hearty mouthfuls of red velvet cake and fresh cream. By now his size was beginning to displace more of the water when he stepped in. This was the good life, alright. The life he’d always dreamed of. 

‘Ahem,’ came a voice just outside the bathroom, accompanied by a polite knock on the open door. ‘Sorry to disturb you, sir.’

‘That’s okay, Steadings,’ Ben called out. ‘You can come in.’ He was quite sure the bubbles would mask his private areas; he was, after all, naked in the tub. 

The flawlessly dressed butler walked in, combed and pressed to perfection as usual. Draped over one arm was a transparent clothing bag. 

‘Good evening, Mr Townsend, sir,’ Steadings said, never once averting his straight-ahead gaze. ‘I have a newly tailored shirt and trousers for you. And a silk tie.’

Of course, over the months, Ben had outgrown his clothes more than once, and at each turn had requested new garments in addition to what had already been provided for him in the walk-in wardobes. Everything always fit like a glove, til he got fatter again.

This, however, he didn’t recall asking for.

‘A gift from Mr Wren?’ he asked, sipping more champagne.

Steadings cleared his throat in the smallest way. ‘Uh, not - It is a gift of sorts, sir,’ he began. ‘But rather it’s... attire for sir’s Assessment.’

Ben stopped breathing. Just for a second. Then he let out some kind of weird, breathy laugh by accident. 

‘Oh... I don’t usually... Mr Wren doesn’t usually expect me to get all dressed up when he comes to visit.’

Steadings’ gaze flicked to the floor for a mere moment. He appeared to be choosing his words with exceptional care. 

‘This is rather a... different occasion, sir,’ he said, never meeting Ben’s eye. ‘A car will be along to collect sir in forty five minutes. There are, uh, expectations of promptitude.’

Why was Steading’s tone making Ben nervous? He could feel his heart beating a little louder. Suddenly the bubbles weren’t relaxing at all.

Ben swallowed and said, ‘Okay, uh, good, sure... Yeah. Thank you, Steadings.’

And the pot-bellied man bowed with a trace of sadness, and took his leave. 

As promised, an SUV was waiting for Ben outside the front of the building. The same SUV that had first driven him here, in fact. Ben stepped into the rear, the door held open by a staffer he’d never met, whom he thanked. 

‘Where are we going?’ he asked the driver, sounding more confident than he felt. 

The door was neatly closed on him. The driver said nothing, and pulled away. 

Ben could feel his nerves rising now. This so-called Assessment was real, and he could scarcely remember the advice Anon had given. Advice he had foolishly dismissed. Steadings’ wavering timbre should have been enough to cause concern by itself. 

Oh, what had Anon said? Something about not asking questions, not speaking up. Ben felt like he was being sent to the Headmaster at school. His palms felt clammy. Just... do as instructed, he was pretty sure that was the crux of it, no matter what. 

Outside, London eventually dissolved into motorways, then country roads. The driver didn’t make a peep the entire time. Ben wasn’t sure how long it had taken, a few hours perhaps, but the car eventually drove up an unassuming tree-lined path, at the end of which stood a lofty, stuffy-looking building well past its prime. When the vehicle stopped, the door was once again opened for Ben, and he stepped out into the crisp night air, hearing the odd crow and feeling his stomach churning. 

‘This way, sir,’ a smartly-dressed man who looked a bit like an unhappier version of Steadings approached and added, ‘If you’ll follow me.’

And Ben nodded and fell into step behind the fellow, accompanying him through a grand set of double doors into the building’s rather gloomy interior. 

There was no time to stop and gawk, however, as the smart man clipped along at quite a pace, always looking back with a stern expression to check Ben was keeping up. This place had the appearance of a kind of country club, somewhere elite and exclusive. It was all mahogany paneling, creaking floors and garish marble statues lit by nothing but guttering candles. At one point they passed an enormous oil painting of a Victorian gentleman seemingly gesturing into a darkened, smokey alleyway; there was something even darker in its depths.

‘In here,’ the smart man said flatly, opening a door made to look like the surface of the wall. ‘You’ll be called.’

Ben, now dry of throat, walked into the room and the door was closed behind him. He noted no handle. Trying to steady his breathing, he took a look around; the room was rather sparse; it might have been some kind of receiving chamber, no windows, only more candles, and another young man standing in the corner. 

‘Oh! Hi, I’m Ben,’ Ben said, proffering a hand, and thankful for the company of someone else who seemed in a similar predicament.

‘Shhh!’ the young man hissed, wide-eyed and shaking his head violently.

Ben stopped, and let his hand drop. 

This other lad was far bigger than he. Bigger in the belly and much bigger in terms of muscle mass. He looked downright swollen, in fact. A huge gut filled his shirt, and around it were formed muscles that could have belonged to a strongman. There was little in the way of a neck, such was the pump on him. His body made Terry’s look near pedestrian by comparison. But there was something to him. His bulk looked... almost stretched, as if overloaded or overfilled.

Or forced. 

Then, very quietly came, ‘I’m Jamie.’

Ben looked to Jamie, and saw only pure fear in his eyes. The lad’s breaths were warping his button-down.

‘Hi,’ whispered Ben, and he tried a small smile.

The door was opened, the older man reappearing suddenly. He looked to Jamie and simply gestured for him to follow. The young man took a beat, then stepped away, not looking back. 

The door was closed. 

Alone now, Ben fidgeted on the spot, unable to still his mind, nor calm his heart. 

What was this place? What was this “Assessment”?

What had he gotten himself into?

Eventually a separate door opened beside him, once again appearing to be a part of the wall. A different, unfamiliar portly man, neatly buttoned up, beckoned him forward.

‘This way.’

Ben followed him from the chamber, down a new set of windowless hallways even darker than the last. If art framed these walls, there was far too little light to make it out. The space was narrow, and their footsteps echoed up and down, over and over. 

At the end of it, a singular, unremarkable door. When the portly man opened it, standing to one side so that Ben might pass, Ben felt his stomach lurch; a sensation not unlike falling in a dream. 

He stepped through. 

Inside was a large space that may have been a drawing room, if only Ben could make any of it out; so much was bathed in shadow. Only one illuminated spot stood, in a semi-circle of delicate candelabras. Ben had the feeling he was meant to stand there, and moved to do so. He noticed multiple staffers with their backs to the walls, heads stiff and gazes straight. None were slim. And before him, occupying the bulk of the room, Ben could just see the outlines of several seated figures, though absolutely no details could be ascertained. There might have been 50 or so of them, maybe more. Enormous arched windows let in no light and offered no answers. It was something of an educated guess that each of the seated figures were faced toward Ben. Traces of cigar smoke and brandy marked the air.

He didn’t know what to do, or say. 

Hadn’t Anon advised against speaking? 

He felt watched. On display. 

‘This is Benjamin Townsend,’ a voice suddenly rang out with crystal clarity from somewhere in the depths of this strange room. 

Ben looked around but could not find it’s speaker. He wondered if Mr Wren were among the figures. 

‘Height five foot nine,’ the voice continued. ‘Starting weight fifteen stone slash two hundred and ten pounds. Current weight twenty-one stone two slash two hundred and ninety six pounds.’

This seemed to rouse... something from the crowd. Murmurings and Hmms. Whether good or bad was impossible for Ben to parse. 

‘Begin,’ said another voice from the crowd. It contained only severity, and was entirely without warmth. 

A staffer approached Ben, whose instinct was to flinch away for some reason, but he remembered Anon’s advice. Don’t react, he told himself. The staffer, yet another rotund man impeccably pressed, carefully reached out to Ben, and began to unbutton his shirt. 

There seemed an air of expectation about the room. But Ben was not going to succumb. He simply stiffened his jaw, looked straight ahead and let this round stranger undo and remove his shirt. Next the man undid Ben’s belt buckle, then trouser zip. Ben didn’t even want to swallow, he kept his breaths shallow. His trousers were pulled neatly down, and he only moved to allow for each leg to be slipped off. This was all done in complete silence. There Ben stood, in his underwear before a room full of strangers. But he wouldn’t crack. Anon had been quite clear: Don’t crack. 

His underwear was removed. Ben wouldn’t let any sign of embarrassment show. He would display no emotion whatsoever. Of course, by this point rather a substantial fatpad had grown around his penis, and the overhanging bulge of his belly covered much of that private area anyway. He heard the persons before him shift in their seats. One cleared their throat. More murmuring.

The staffer, having neatly folded Ben’s clothes and placed them out of sight, removed himself from the spotlight. 

‘Turn in a complete circle, slowly,’ the severe voice commanded from the darkness. 

Ben did as he was told. He turned, slow and deliberate, and heard positive-sounding notes from the crowd, especially when his large arse came to face them. There were apparently some satisfied parties here.

Next, the door he’d entered through opened once more, and from it came another somber-looking staff member, again quite fat, pushing a large trolley of foodstuffs. He pushed it right up beside Ben, where the wheels came to a halt. There was a lot of food on there. 

A lot.

A bowl of sweet mashed potatoes drowning in cream cheese, chives, bacon and butter was taken from the trolley. The bowl was bigger than Ben’s head. It took all of his reserve to keep his vision trained forward as the staffer took a large serving spoon and began to feed the mash to Ben, filling his cheeks instantly. The flavour was incredible but the portions rich and heavy. 

So this was to be the Assessment? Being fed, naked, stood before a room of mysterious figures. The silence and darkness of the whole affair made it feel almost... ritualistic. Though as more mash was spooned into Ben’s mouth, he saw silhouettes shift in their seats, some appearing to hunch forward in interest. There was quiet conversation erupting about the space. Ben’s cheeks felt stretched already, and he was only just able to keep up the chewing and swallowing before they were replenished, over and over. He could see from his periphery that the bowl had barely gone down. But he kept eating, Anon’s advice always at the forefront of his mind. 

Don’t crack. 

By the time the bowl was finally drained, Ben felt very full. His stomach was tight and his breaths quick. But this wasn’t over. He knew it couldn’t be. It was obvious the trolley held yet more surprises. And pretty soon the next was revealed: A tray of lasagne so big it could have happily served a banquet, topped in mountains of cheese and herbs. The staffer dipped the serving spoon in and expertly carved out a huge chunk, bringing it to Ben’s lips. Not wanting to appear hesitant, he took it, and ate. And ate. And ate. He took more, and more came. Layers of fine pasta sheets, tender minced beef in the most sumptuous ragu. But wonderful though it may have been, the overwhelming volume of it was turning Ben’s fullness to discomfort. He could feel his stomach stretching, the skin taughtening, the organ itself protesting. But still he ate. He took more. He chewed. 

He would not be deterred.

By the time the lasagne was finally finished, Ben was in pain. He felt his moobs rising and falling with a heaviness he’d never known before. His belly felt like some inflatable toy pushed to the edge of its capacity. He was fairly certain little wibbles of sweat were working their way down his temples. 

He had to breath. Just keep breathing. 

Next, an icecream sundae was unveiled, laden with thick cookies, sweets, pieces of whole cake, and topped in cream and just about every kind of sauce conceivable. To Ben, it actually didn’t seem too bad. He’d perhaps expected worse in terms of quantity, though the prospect of fitting all of that dessert inside his already overfilled belly didn’t bring him any joy. 

But then a second sundae was brought from the depths of the trolley, and a third. 

Ben felt his heart sink, in spite of its incessant beats. No, he thought. Please no...

There came a deep laugh from within the crowd, and some of the hushed conversation had taken on overtones of arousal.

The first sundae was spooned into Ben, and he felt his lips quiver around the spoon, doing his damndest not to show the pain he was in. It tasted like vanilla and hazelnut gelato, and was, of course, delicious. But that didn’t matter any more. Ben’s stomach was screaming at him. He was certain new stretchmarks must surely have been working their way up and down his ballooning gut. So filled with food was he, that there was no room for air. It was all he could do to huff out short little ragged breaths through his nose while his face became packed and packed with sundae. He swallowed, eyes always ahead, and sweated, and tried not to listen to his enraged abdomen. 

Another laugh came from the darkness. Slow, sonorous. Ben had finished the first sundae, but had no idea how the fuck he was going to fit the next two in. He couldn’t be sure he wasn’t going to pass out. Or cry. Or burst. He’d never eaten this much food in his life. Surely no human had. This was insane. 

But he took it. Somehow he kept eating. And eating. And eating. His jaw ached like nothing he’d ever experienced before. His cheeks felt like two balloons. His belly... well, that was more like a yoga ball filled to the brim with concrete. He didn’t know how he was still breathing, let alone standing. His eyes remained locked ahead, though they were probably running by now. It sounded so much like members of the crowd were playing with themselves. Ben just wanted to get through this. He couldn’t think anymore. Only eat. Eat and shut out the pain. The searing, agonising pain. Time had lost all meaning by the point the final sundae was devoured. Finally the spoon no longer worked it’s way back into Ben’s poor mouth. The staffer clattered the cutlery back onto the trolley and neatly stacked it away. 

Ben’s brain wouldn’t focus anymore. Only a foggy, engorged daze remained. He was half-aware of his clothes being handed back to him, and of the door once again being opened, the large staffer motioning silently for Ben to pass back through. Evidently it was time to leave. 

But he couldn’t walk. He could hardly move his enormously weighed-down bulk at all. It took something of a monumental effort to shift one foot in front of the other, to the tune of much chortling from the crowd. With immense fortitude, he found himself falling into a slow, waddling shuffle. 

Perhaps a sigh of relief might have been in order once Ben had left that strange, shadowy room, but there was so little breath left in him. He didn’t think he had the strength to dress himself again. The simple act of shuffling along behind the staffer now leading him back down the gloomy hallways was enough to redouble his sweat.

And thus, soon he was back outside, still naked, still agonisingly full, still unable to think, being escorted back into the SUV.

Back to London. 

Back to The Penthouse.