SPOILED, part 16 (Patreon)

Ben woke in much the same state as he had the day before: Curled up on the floor of his pen in the barn, surrounded by hay. It had been a terrible night’s sleep, the ground hard, his joints stiff.

Across from him, however, he could see that Detective Arthur Sweet’s night had been far, far worse. The gag they had forced into the man’s mouth was still firmly in place, with whatever substance they were pumping into him from the nearby silo still flowing down through the cloth tubing and into the detective’s now seriously swollen belly. The bottom three buttons of his shirt had popped off overnight, and his exposed flesh looked painfully tight, almost blimp-like. The older man’s belt was clearly digging into his fattening waist too. He lay on his side, arms tied behind him, still swallowing and swallowing, cheeks at constant bursting point. He must not have slept a wink all night. He looked like hell. 

But before Ben was even on his feet, a wooden creak and a widening wedge of light across the floor heralded the return of their captor, whose heavy boots were soon clomping back into the barn. 

Mr Kingfisher moseyed himself between the two pens, settled his hips and took in the scene. 

‘Gentlemen, good morning,’ he beamed. ‘How are we this fine day?’

Ben remained silent and looked over to Detective Sweet who bore a sleep-deprived, bloodshot gaze into the giant Kingfisher.

‘Uuuhhhnnngh!’ he roared through his mask.

The detective was shuffling and struggling to get to his feet without the use of his hands, kicking up straw and dirt all around. 

‘Still haven’t calmed down yet, huh?’ Mr Kingfisher asked, receiving angry nasal snorts in return. ‘Law, get in here.’ He snapped his fingers loudly, and Law, who must have been waiting just outside, entered the barn. They carried with them a huge silver tray of chili dogs. Ben counted maybe 20 to 25 of them.

‘Sir?’

‘What do you think we should do with this one?’ Kingfisher pointed to Arthur with his enormous boot.

‘Uuuuughghnnngh!!!’

‘Well, the 12 hours have elapsed, Sir,’ said Law.

Kingfisher huffed out a huge sigh and squatted down before the writhing, sweating detective, cold metal bars between them. The huge man poked his fingers through, as though teasing an animal. Arthur continued to issue enraged, guttural noises between gulps. 

‘I think,’ Kingfisher said, standing, ‘this one needs another day.’ 

‘UUUNNNNNHHHGGHH!!!’

The huge man ignored Arthur’s apoplectic fit, and loped now toward Ben.

‘It’s funny, they told me you were the trouble-maker.’

Ben didn’t know how to respond. His heart was sinking for Detective Sweet, who surely couldn’t take another entire day of forced feeding.

Kingfisher clicked his fingers once more. ‘Open him up, Law. Let’s get him out of there.’

‘Yes Sir.’ 

Law placed their tray on a nearby crate, then produced a jangling set of keys from their pocket. Ben’s pen was undone, and he flinched as Law passed him to reach down and unlock his manacle too. The sweet sensation of release flowed through Ben’s ankle, but before he could relish it, Kingfisher stepped in close and said quietly,

‘If you run, if you fight, or try anything funny, you will spend the rest of your days wishing you hadn’t, do we understand each other, Ben?’

Ben gave a ragged nod. ‘Yes Sir.’

‘I’m trusting you now,’ Kingfisher told him. ‘Don’t make me regret that. Now come. This way.’

Ben’s hips and legs felt terribly stiff and as he followed Mr Kingfisher out of the barn on bare feet. He looked back to see Detective Sweet still raging and gulping, and Law resuming their hold on the silver tray, respectfully several steps behind.

Free of the barn, Ben blinked into the morning sunlight. Kingfisher’s Farm looked to be vast, with a multitude of outhouses, greenhouses, more barns and other structures dotting the landscape between endless rows of crops. In the distance a tractor was trundling through a field, farmers were calling, and other grunts could be heard.

‘Ben,’ Mr Kingfisher said, beckoning Ben to walk by his side. ‘They told me I was inheriting a problem by accepting you. They told me you’d caused all kinds of trouble for your previous owners - Oh, Law, you can go ahead and start feeding him -‘

While they walked along a dirt road flanked by golden corn, Law caught up, tray aloft, and held one of the chili dogs to Ben’s mouth.

‘I’ll do the walking and talking, you do the eating and listening, deal?’ Kingfisher asked Ben with a smile.

Ben nodded and took the chili dog in large ravenous bites, finding Law to be a cautious, watchful feeder.

‘But see,’ Kingfisher continued his train of thought, ‘I don’t believe that to be the case. I don’t see trouble in you.’

Ben munched on. Law brought more to his lips. 

‘I think we just haven’t found you the right home yet, is all,’ the huge man pontificated. ‘That’s how it goes with some subjects. Doesn’t mean they’re not good, deep down.’

Ben went on chewing, but almost stopped himself short when he caught sight of a hugely fat naked man crawling on his hands and knees through an unharvested field, pulling some piece of large equipment behind him via a harness, with a burly, sunglassed farmer watching over like a hawk. The fat man’s belly was so round it grazed against the dirt beneath him. He appeared to be sewing seeds along the field. Kingfisher walked past as though this were the most normal thing in the world.

A nudge of hotdog against Ben’s lips was just enough to shake his horrified stare and get him back to eating.

‘See now, we’ve all known Mr Wren was far too easy on his subjects,’ Kingfisher went on. ‘Oh sure, you gained a little weight, but the man’s methods... Well, there’s a reason he’s in the tier he’s in. D'you understand what I'm saying? And then you went and got lumped with Falcon, well sweet Jesus it’s no wonder you wanted out! Talk about throwing you in the deep end. That man’s a crackpot and everybody knows it. I mean, we Masters don’t tend to intermingle between tiers, but you hear things, you know? It’s an open secret that one’s unhinged.’

Ben was on to his third chili dog. Law hadn’t let a single errant morsel escape. It was actually quite impressive. 

Suddenly, before them, a group of partly muscled, extremely obese, nude men trudged, carrying on their hunched backs heavy sacks of produce. Their eyes remained down as they crossed the path before their Master. One of them looked vaguely familiar, and Ben couldn’t be sure it wasn’t the lad he’d encountered at his Assessment. Was it Jimmy… or Jamie, or something…? But then he was gone, lurching away into the fresh sunshine.

Again Kingfisher didn’t bat an eyelid. He said, ‘So of course someone had to step in. That’s how I end up with a lot of my pigs.’ He then jabbed a fat thumb back to the original barn which was now some ways behind them, while Law continued to ply soft bread and sweetly spiced meat into Ben’s mouth. ‘Super Mario’s Angry Dad back there, well he was something of a surprise, but I know we’ll find a use for him. We always do. How you doing there, Ben? Feeling nice and full and fat?’

He stopped to inspect his charge, taking Ben’s shoulders, glancing him up and down. Kingfisher ran a massive hand all along the curve of Ben’s protruding belly, squeezing the flesh gently, cupping Ben’s moobs and feeling their weight, grabbing his lovehandles.

‘I can see why old Falcon fell hard for you, boy,’ he muttered softly, almost to himself. ‘Come on, this way.’

He changed direction and took up on a track that lead toward one of the Farm’s many wooden structures. Again they passed sweating, lard-bellied naked men being used as labourers by Kingfisher’s beefy farmhands. The huge man himself spoke not a word to them. Each looked to have been fattened to within an inch of their life; they were utterly enormous.

Ben could only take more chili dog and note their broken, downturned expressions as he was led toward what looked to be another, larger barn.

‘Mr Kingfisher, Sir,’ nodded one of the farmers stationed outside, who opened the door for his Master.

Kingfisher led Ben inside.

This wasn’t like Ben’s barn at all. 

The first thing to hit him was the warm, moist smell of sweat and cooked meats. The air was clammy like a locker room. And along both walls were rows of pens, each containing morbidly obese clothless men, some were sleeping, while others were eating on their hands and knees from a shared trough that ran the entire length of the barn; it seemed to be filled with a thick kind of stew.

Jesus... Ben thought. 

No man in here could have been under 500 pounds. Some of them even had leather snouts or ears strapped to their faces.

Ben’s mouth was agape, which helped Law to continue stuffing it full of chili dog. Kingfisher, evidently, was enjoying drinking in Ben’s expression.

‘Beautiful, aren’t they?’ he asked happily. ‘My beautiful pigs. Course, this is just a few of ‘em. Plenty more all over The Farm.’

He marched lazily, hands at his back, down the rows of massively fattened men, admiring his creations. He stopped before one large chap who was grazing, head first, from the trough. Ben saw that a corkscrewed tail had been inserted into his rear end.

‘How we doing here, Guy? Enjoying breakfast?’ Kingfisher asked of him.

The man looked up slightly, face covered in stew, to answer between gnashing mouthfuls. ‘Good Morning, Sir... Yes Sir...’

‘Remember what we said,’ Kingfisher chuckled to him. ‘No eating with your hands, or we’ll have to have you fitted with trotters, haha.’

The morbidly obese man nodded as he ate and returned a chuckle laced heavily with terrified sycophancy. ‘Yes Sir... of course, Mr Kingfisher Sir...’

Mr Kingfisher patted the man’s head, ruffled his thinning hair. ‘Atta pig.’ And he resumed his walk.

Ben, on his 7th chili dog, felt his heart turn to an icicle which seemed to be in freefall inside of him. All these poor men... reduced to this... 

Reduced to animals.

‘This way, Ben,’ Kingfisher called behind him. ‘Keep up, son.’

Ben did as he was told in record time.

He couldn’t believe what he was seeing here. He kept pace with the huge man as they exited the barn from the other end, Law always by Ben’s side, always holding more food to his lips. Soon they were back out into the morning sun, and heading through another corn field toward a large lonely shack that stood apart from the rest of The Farm.

‘I wanna show you something special,’ Mr Kingfisher told Ben with a smile.

Ben could feel nothing but panic now. He ate, he filled his belly, continued to fatten, but he had seen the true Hell of this place, and seen it’s Master.

The walk took a while, exactly 2 more chili dogs, to be precise, but in time Ben was led before this isolated structure, rather more ramshackle than the rest. It was quieter here. No staff. Morning birds sang once or twice.

Mr Kingfisher pushed at the swing doors and ushered Ben through.

The smell of ‘man’ returned, though less pungent here, and the darkness of this place made it difficult to make out who, or what, was emitting it. Only a soft breathing could be heard.

But when Ben’s eyes adjusted, and he saw it, he gasped, nearly choking on hotdog meat.

‘Oh my God...,’ he breathed.

It must have been a man once upon a time. But now... whatever was occupying the majority of this shack, it was gigantic...

‘You can get in there, little closer,’ Kingfisher prompted Ben to step forward.

Ben felt his hand fly over his heart involuntarily. What had they done to this person...?

‘This is Old Bill,’ Kingfisher told him. ‘He’s been here at The Farm since, oh, before my time, even.’

Old Bill was, simply put, a giant mound of flesh, so fat his body loomed maybe 20 feet high, and could easily have spread the same distance in width. He appeared to be on his front, though his arms were so encased in blubber, they’d become effectively useless, and each one ended in a leather trotter where a hand should have been. Continuing that horrific theme, Old Bill’s head was encased entirely in a black leather pig hood, no way for him to see out; a mouthpiece similar to the one forced upon Arthur was affixed to the end of its snout.

He simply laid there, breathing heavily, elderly skin coated top to bottom in sweat.

Kingfisher clomped over to be at Old Bill’s side, giving a friendly pat along his flank.

‘Old Bill’s been with our little company - what is it now? - 50, 60 years, something like that. They said he wouldn’t last, but... we proved ‘em wrong, didn’t we now?’

Ben had never felt such pure, abject horror in all his life. This company of lunatics, this Rookery... they were soulless. Utterly soulless.

‘See, when I took over The Farm, Bill fell under my care. I got this pig hood on his old head - You know that’s glued on with a very special brand of tar, made off-site; permanent. That thing ain’t ever coming off -‘ Mr Kingfisher seemed particularly proud of this. ‘Oh, sure he squealed and he cried, didn’t you, Bill? He cried and cried for months, hehe, God bless him.’

He patted Old Bill’s suffering, stretched skin once more, receiving no answer, and continued, 

‘But in time, like all my pigs, he came to realise what was best for him. We got his hands glued into those hoofs shortly after that, too, to compete his transformation into a true pig. A hog I could be proud of, you know what I’m saying? Course, he can’t walk or talk anymore but that doesn’t matter. Say, uh, Law, it’s probably about time for Bill’s third breakfast, would you mind?’

‘Of course not, Sir,’ said Law. They once more placed the tray down and unhooked a much thicker cloth tubing from the wall - the origin of this one disappearing somewhere into the darkness behind Old Bill - and twisted its nozzle onto the end of Bill’s ‘snout’ with a click. Law then jabbed at a red button set into the wall. 

Whirring, industrial sounds followed, and as had occurred with Detective Sweet, the tubing now connected to Bill’s pig hood fattened and filled with an unknown substance. Within moments the monumentally fat man was feeding from the tube, still mute.

Kingfisher took in Ben’s petrified eyes, followed them back to the mountain of flesh before him.

‘Truly magnificent, isn’t he?’ Mr Kingfisher said. ‘My prized pig. My best-in-show.’

‘H-How many breakfasts do you give him…?’ Ben asked, barely able to conjure the words.

Kingfisher thought for a moment. ‘We can usually get around 7 or 8 into him before noon, that's when his lunch services start winding up. Course, we had to reduce his sleep way down just to fit so many meals in. He gets a good couple hours every night, don’t you, Bill? I wanna get it down to maybe an hour, maybe a half hour of sleep per night, so’s we can get a few more breakfasts into him. I’d like to try and get him on 15 before noon, ideally, but we’ll see.’

Ben could have cried. How...? How could they do this to a person? A human being? If Old Bill had been here for 60 years, and was now an old man, that was the bulk of his entire life gone, taken from him for the sick pleasure of these insane people.

Ben had to fight back the choking feeling in his throat. He couldn’t let Kingfisher see him break. He wouldn’t.

‘I want to tell you something, Ben,’ Mr Kingfisher confided quietly. He leaned in closer and Ben smelled his raw masculine scent. ‘You are special. I could see it straight away; I have a gift for that. We don’t often get pigs like you here, but I must say you could be - Well, I don’t wanna jinx it, but - you could be exceptional. You could be my new prized, blue-ribbon, top-of-the-pile hog.’

Ben turned to the huge madman. He mustn’t cry. He mustn’t.

‘Just imagine it…,’ Mr Kingfisher breathed. ‘We get you all hooded up in your very own pig mask, fit you with some nice new hoofs - all permanent, of course… You won’t have to worry about a thing. Just let Mr Kingfisher take care of you, turn you into the hog blimp you were meant to be…’

He was breathing harder now, and Ben saw a massive erection blossoming in the giant’s tight jeans. It began to press into Ben’s right lovehandle. The huge man scooped one arm around the entire width of Ben’s fattened back, and squeezed tight. He let out a whoop.

‘I’m so excited, Ben! We have to do this, don’t you think? We have to! I know it now. This was meant to be, you coming here to my Farm like this. We can get you bigger than Old Bill here, I just know it. All it takes is hard work and dedication, just like my Daddy taught me.’

Ben dared not move, nor speak. Gorgeous as Mr Kingfisher might have been, his touch could only repulse now. This man was a psychopath.

‘Law,’ Kingfisher called to his lackey. ‘You can go ahead and just dump the rest of those hotdogs into a trough for Ben, maybe add 30 or 40 more while you’re at it. We need to get him started right away.’

‘Yes Sir, at once, Sir,’ Law said.

‘You’ll see, Ben,’ Mr Kingfisher proclaimed while Ben felt what was left of his heart sink down into his feet. ‘This is where you belong. Where you’ve always belonged. You’re gonna be my fattest fucking pig ever.’