SPOILED, part 11 (Patreon)

Back at the Penthouse, breakfast had been a luxurious, lazy affair; Ben had risen when he felt like it, calling Steadings up to bring him whatever sumptuous dish he could think of while he lounged in front of the TV. 

Breakfast at Castle Locklandrie was a rather stricter business. 

Having not slept a wink on his hard wooden plank and still painfully full from Mr Falcon’s deranged feeding session the night before, Ben, along with his corpulent cellmates were dragged down through the castle to a low-ceilinged basement kitchen and forcibly seated at a long wooden table. Opposite them a ball-shaped chef sweated over multiple hot stovetops, juggling enormous pans of sausages, eggs, bacon, beans and the rest. It smelled amazing but Ben was in no way hungry. Behind J and M stood each of their appointed burly jailors. Behind Ben loomed the brute known as Sloane.

Once each lad’s plate was loaded up with food, Sloane grunted, ‘Eat!’ and the three feedees got to work. 

In his stuffed, sleep-deprived state Ben did his best, but the going was difficult. He couldn’t fault the food itself, but there was just so much of it. Six fat pork sausages, eight rashers of bacon, five fried eggs, tomatoes, mushrooms, hashbrowns, fries and a sea of baked beans weighed down his plate, and, over time, his stomach. He ate in silence, breathing heavily, as did his compatriots, while the chef continued to sizzle and cook the next round. Ben heard much huffing and chomping to his left and right; M particularly seemed to have developed a propensity for this. After Ben cleared his plate, perspiring and puffing each breath, it was immediately replaced by another. He knew he had to keep eating, but this had already become painful. Slowly he skewered another sausage and forced it into his mouth. 

The chef kept cooking. The brutes kept their watchful eyes trained on the three fattening young men, who themselves kept eating. But things were slowing. By the time he’d finished his second huge breakfast, Ben felt he might pass out. But a third plate was brought before them, this time accompanied by an extremely large bowl of porridge. Each. 

‘Oh God,’ J agonised aloud. ‘Please no...’

He was given a thunderous smack on the back of his head for his troubles and screamed at. ‘EAT!’

At this moment the sound of clacking footsteps on flagstones preceded the entrance of Mr Falcon. 

‘What is this trouble I hear?’ he asked slowly, pacing behind the three utterly stuffed lads. ‘Someone doesn’t want their breakfast? Hmm?’

J shook his head. ‘N-No Sir... I’m sorry... I-I want it...’

Ben wished J would just keep quiet and resume his fork. 

Mr Falcon was once again dressed in tweed, hands behind his back, beady eyes trained on his gainer boys. 

‘This one was complaining, Mr Falcon, Sir,’ grunted Sloane with a sneer. 

‘I-I wasn’t!’ J cried, and tried to make a show of stuffing extra sausage into his already bloated cheeks. 

Just shut up, man! Ben thought. Shut up!

‘So we’ve got a wee ungrateful bastard on our hands, have we?’ Mr Falcon grabbed J’s shoulder and pressed his hook-nosed face into the fat lad’s.

‘N-No Sir!’ J protested. ‘Please...!’

‘I think some time in the dungeons is in order, don’t you, fellas?’ Mr Falcon asked his staff, who each heartily agreed and nodded like sycophants. 

‘No!’ J wailed. ‘Please! Please don’t!’

But within moments he was dragged to his feet, fork clattering to the floor, and pulled away to the door, still hollering. 

‘Sloane,’ Falcon clicked his fingers. ‘Bring B too. M can stay here and eat. Give him five more plates. No, make it six. I’ll be back to assess the damage later.’

Ben watched M’s expression turn to terror, but the obese lad remained mute while he continued to shovel food in. 

What Ben himself had done wrong, he didn’t know, but he let Sloane wrap a vicelike hand around his arm and shove him out of the room behind J, feeling his already overworked heart shift gears into turbo.

The route to the depths of the castle was an increasingly damp, cold, and acrid journey. Stone steps wound down and down, with occasional sconced candles offering paltry light. In time echoing moans and cries reached Ben’s ears. 

They arrived at a heavy arched door into which Sloane slid an oversized iron key and turned. J had resorted to whimpers now. 

Stepping into the gloom of the Locklandrie dungeons, Ben first saw a manacled, extremely obese man chained to the wall, stark naked and being forced fed bowl after bowl of thick porridge through a funnel by yet another beefy staffer. The fat man’s belly was riddled top to bottom in stretchmarks, as though the skin could scarcely contain the punishing volume being forced into it. 

J jabbered at the sight of it, and was pushed onwards.

‘Like what you see, boy?’ Sloane muttered into Ben’s ear. 

Ben kept on walking, taking in this horrific scene. There were sodden cells lining each wall, crying fatboys behind thick iron bars. And now, coming up, was a narrow, rusty cage inside which another hugely overweight, fair-haired man was wailing. So fattened was he, that his flesh was protruding between the bars, and a massive topless jailor, glistening in sweat, was stuffing pancakes into the poor man’s mouth. There lay a stack of them as tall as Ben. The suffering gainer was literally being crushed inside the cage by his own expanding fat, with little sign of the punishment stopping any time soon.  

Falcon paced lazily over to him, and caressed the man’s protruding bulges, causing winces of pain. He turned to J’s guard and said ‘This’ll do nicely for that one. Get him prepped and caged and start the feeding asap.’

J wailed and shook his head violently.  ‘No... Please no!!’

‘Oh, I think a good month or so in the cage, being force fed non stop’ll help you fill it nicely,’ Mr Falcon leered at the quivering young man. ‘We’ll get you packed in there nice and tight.’

He clicked his fingers and J was dragged off into the darkness by his brute, screaming and writhing uselessly. 

Ben could only watch in silence, filled with heartbreak and dread. 

‘And as for you,’ Falcon’s attention turned now to him. ‘Now you see what happens to fatboys who don’t keep their mouths shut, who don’t follow the rules.’ He produced a cigar from his breast pocket and Sloane immediately stepped forward to light it. ‘Don’t you, boy?’

‘Yes Sir,’ Ben breathed, nodding sharply. 

Falcon huffed on the cigar and lazily exhaled over Ben, registering his plump body with cold calculation. Merciless eyes roved across every fattened inch of Ben, and smoke billowed all around. 

‘Yes, laddie...,’ Falcon murmured, seemingly to himself. ‘We’ll get that beautiful tan body nice and stretched...’ Then he addressed Sloane, louder, ‘Have him taken back to breakfast to finish eating, then brought up to my chamber.’

* * * *

Following on from the sleeper train to Edinburgh came another rail journey heading even further north, and another. Sweet and Dey had changed at so many towns, they were losing count. But here, now, was the end of the line, in this tiny little Highland village where they were able to rent a car for the rest of the journey. 

It was a second-hand Fiat, and Arthur was more than happy to squeeze himself into the passenger side just to be out of the biting cold. Manni sat behind the wheel, knuckles clenched, staring straight ahead. 

‘Still got a ways to go yet,’ he said. ‘It’s all winding dirt roads from here, and into the mountains.’

Arthur pored over the A-Z map he’d purchased from the local shop on one of his many snack runs. He squinted behind his glasses and bit down on a Mars bar. ‘Some of them roads aren’t even marked on here, neither.’

A fierce wind was gently rocking the car, even with its heavy occupants inside. 

‘I don’t know what we’re gonna find at this bloody castle,’ said Manni.

‘We just have to be smart,’ Arthur told him. ‘I’ll use me natural charm.’

Manni turned to him and half-laughed. ‘Really? Your natural charm?’ This moment, however, felt bereft of joy.

‘Manni.’ Arthur placed a fat hand over his partner’s, then brought it in for a kiss, the novelty of this still very much unworn. ‘Them lads: Ben Townsend - maybe Jamie Beck and all - We might be their only chance.’ 

‘I know,’ Manni took a breath and sighed. ‘I know...’

‘It’s gonna be alright,’ Arthur said, finishing the Mars bar up. ‘I won’t let anything happen to you, you ridiculously good-looking man.’

Manni grimaced a rueful smile, and saw Sweet wink at him. 

‘Anyway,’ Arthur added, ‘You’re stuck with me now.’

Unbeknownst to the two detectives, their little hire-car was being watched as it drove away. 

* * * *

To Ben’s surprise, Mr Falcon’s private chamber was this time empty of its long table and feast. He was grateful, actually; so stuffed full of breakfast was he that he’d only managed a lopsided waddle to this room while Sloane barked at him to hurry up. 

Upon Ben’s arrival, Mr Falcon rose from his armchair by the roaring fire where he had been reading, dismissed Sloane, and beckoned for Ben to come closer. 

‘Nice and full from breakfast now, I see,’ he smiled.

‘Yes Sir.’ Ben nodded and tried not to burp. 

M was still down there, eating and eating. 

‘Remove your shirt, lad,’ Falcon said, folding his book closed and placing it on a small antique table by his chair. 

Ben did as instructed, with chubby, inaccurate fingers. His belly practically bounced forward once free, so utterly full of sausage and bacon and egg and fried tomato and all the rest of it. 

‘And your trousers,’ Falcon added. 

Ben struggled a little with the fly buttons, but once undone he felt a surge of relief; his whopping arse and great lovehandles came flowing outward. He let each trouser leg slide down his thick, meaty thighs, and stood panting from the exertion of the morning’s feed while Mr Falcon paced slowly around him. 

‘Getting a nice fat arse on you,’ he cooed. ‘Big thick sides, too. I love that underarm blubber.’ This was quite the far cry from Falcon’s attitude when last Ben had been here. The difference was almost jarring. 

He placed his hands on Ben’s stretched skin, gentler than expected, running them slowly across the expanse of his backfat and round to the front of him which protruded so far out now. 

‘Such a beautiful belly...’

Ben said nothing. Digesting breakfast was taking up so much of his energy. 

Falcon tilted his head to one side, taking all of Ben in. 

‘We wouldn’t want to send you down to those nasty dungeons for real, would we?’ he asked quietly. 

‘No Sir,’ Ben replied. 

‘No Sir,’ Falcon echoed. He ran a hand through Ben’s hair. ‘A boy like you needs taking proper care of.’

Ben didn’t know what was meant by this, but had come to anticipate nothing good. 

Then, quite unexpectedly Mr Falcon leaned in and kissed Ben. He worked his tongue straight into Ben’s surprised mouth, tasting of cigars and trace whiskey. Falcon grabbed Ben’s rotund sides and kissed his fat cheeks and neck, then worked his tongue all down Ben’s buoyant moobs and down further to his belly. He shifted his grip to sink into Ben’s big, soft arse cheeks and worked his tongue into Ben’s deep navel. 

‘Mmm,’ the older man moaned, coming back up for air. ‘Oh yes. Such a handsome fatboy. We haven’t had such a handsome laddie through here in, oh... a very long time.’

Ben was starting to realise what this was, this shift in countenance: 

Mr Falcon had taken a particular shine to him, it appeared. 

And that could be used to Ben’s advantage...

‘Thank you very much, Sir,’ Ben replied, and smiled. 

Falcon smiled back, but it was a wholly sinister thing, more akin to some predator baring it’s teeth. 

‘You want to get huge for me, don’t you, fatboy?’ No shrieking for begs and apologies this time, it seemed. 

‘Oh yes, Sir,’ Ben said with mustered enthusiasm. ‘Yes please. I’d love to get huge for you.’

‘Nice and fuckin’ massive for your Master...’ 

‘Yes Sir. Fucking massive for my Master. As big as you want.’

Was it okay to improvise? Ben didn’t want to push his luck. 

‘The other lads,’ Falcon uttered softly, playing with his groin. ‘They cry and they beg when I force ‘em to eat and eat and eat...’

Where was he going with this? Another screaming fit? Ben didn’t respond. Couldn’t do anything that might tip the older man back over the edge.

‘But you...’ Falcon drew back in and licked the side of Ben’s perspiring, round face. ‘You could be different... Special...’

Ben felt it best to remain mute but maintain eye contact, act all rapt and interested. 

‘I’m gonna give you your own quarters, lad,’ Mr Falcon told him, grabbing his own erection through his tweed. ‘Up on this floor, closer to me. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’ 

‘Oh yes, Sir,’ Ben said. ‘Very much.’

Falcon drew Ben in for another kiss, deep and long, and then stood back admiring him. 

‘Yes... closer to me,’ he said. ‘I’ll have Sloane show you to your new room.’

‘Thank you, Sir,’ Ben gave a beaming grin. 

‘And I’ll have the chef bring you up some lunch.’

Lunch?! It took all of Ben’s strength not to let his face visibly fall at the prospect of even more food so soon after that enormous breakfast. 

‘Thank you so much, Sir,’ he kept up the smile. 

Inside he was repelled by this man. Maybe physically Falcon was fine enough, but as a human being? He was repulsive. 

‘I’ve work to do,’ Falcon said, stepping back more and readjusting his crotch. ‘But I’ll be close by to check in on you.’

Ben was fairly sure he’d meant for this to sound caring rather than the ominous assurance it actually was. And soon after, he dismissed Ben and had Sloane take him away, to lead him to his new accommodation. 

When once again Ben was marched down the hard stone corridors, the burly tartaned Sloane jeered at Ben. 

‘Well now, aren’t we a lucky fatboy, eh?’

But Ben chose not to respond. 

This was a small victory, winning Falcon’s affections. Something he could build on. 

Something he could use. 

It wasn’t the Penthouse bedroom with its en suite bathroom and hot tub, walk-in wardrobes and panoramic views, but Ben’s new Locklandrie quarters were a damned sight nicer than his initial cell. 

A cheery fire crackled in a modest hearth, illuminating a lavish four-poster bed opposite. Tapestries and paintings of historic figures lined the walls, and Ben even had an actual window this time, though it was barred and sealed shut. 

He shuffled in on heavy feet and let his widening arse sink onto the bedding, huffing out a regretful sigh. Here was a finer room, certainly, but it was still a cell. A cage with prettier walls. Sloane had even locked the door after showing him in. Ben supposed, in hindsight, that Mr Wren’s Penthouse had also been a cage of sorts, one which Ben had entered into voluntarily. He listened to the ceaseless rain pattering outside over the sounds of the fire, and once more turned his thoughts to Terry. To what they had done to him.

Ben had to get the fuck away from these people.

A knock at the door, before a key turning. Ben looked up to find the castle chef letting himself in, rear first, as he wheeled a large trolley into the room. The man was near perfectly spherical, chubby arms poking straight out, fat digits curled around the trolley handle. A light sprinkling of sweat ran down his balloon-like head from under his toque. He spoke not a word, but gave Ben the merest of glares before depositing lunch and making his exit, the sound of the key locking preceding his heavy footsteps away.

Ben didn’t think he could look at another plate of food, but out of curiosity he removed the lids from the many, many dishes loaded onto the trolley. One contained the largest battered cod he’d ever seen, nestled atop an enormous bed of chips, huge bowls of ketchup and mayonnaise accompanying. Another dish contained 5 fat, round burgers, layers upon layers stacked in each, meats and cheeses and sauces overflowing. Yet another dish revealed an entire beef and ale pie the circumference of a beach ball, crusted, glazed, flaky pastry emitting wondrous aroma. Ben leaned in closer, the better to absorb that delicious smell, but suddenly stopped himself.

Something odd.

A corner poking out beneath the ceramic pie plate, barely visible. Ben lifted the pie, scalding his fingers, but managed to slide whatever was tucked under it out. 

It was a small folded piece of paper.

Ben looked about the room, and to the door. No sign of being surveilled, though of course it was impossible to know for sure. With sweaty thick fingers he opened the paper; inside was a hand-written note in neat text.

’I hope this note reaches you. The word is that they took you to The Castle…’

Ben blinked.

’I’m sorry I couldn’t do more to help you before, or to save you, though Mr Wren is known to be one of the kinder Masters, so I took that as small consolation. I did try to warn you.’

…

Anon?

Ben’s heart lifted, a choked breath of positivity released from his throat.

‘Oh my God…,’ he whispered to himself, reading on.

’Please read this carefully, for there isn’t much time. A source has spotted two police detectives headed your way, to The Castle. We can’t completely ascertain their goals, but there is reason to believe they are uncorrupted and searching specifically for you. If you can get a signal to them at the right moment, we just might be able to get you out, and maybe even free the others. My contact there will help you, but this has to be done precisely. 

We have one shot.’