|Home » Articles » English Stories » fantasy||[ Add new entry ]|
It was the start of John's fourth week in Hell. He'd skidded on some diesel in the road and driven his motorcycle into a tree. The next thing he'd known, there he was.|
It was not actually quite as bad as he'd expected. It wasn't continuous boiling oil, sulfurous fumes and everlasting fire -- the demons and fiends worked an eight hour day torturing souls and everyone had the weekends off for sightseeing. Accommodations could have been worse, too - he shared a room with a serial killer who didn't want to talk about his punishments, food was plentiful and actually pretty good, and there was even a reasonable view of the general devastation from his window. His first few weeks had been a getting-to-know-you kind of time: he was shown around, introduced to various dignitaries (he even caught a rare glimpse of Mephistopheles himself, getting into a hearse) and met his own personal torturer -- a fiend named Elmet. Then followed a variety of torments and tortures, to find out what John was most susceptible to. They started out with the usual physical things -- leg crushing, bamboo under the fingernails, branding -- (the nice thing was that however he was abused, at 5 PM sharp, everyone reverted to their undamaged state so they could be worked on again tomorrow), but he reacted no more and no less to these crude methods of torture than did anyone else.
Elmet was looking for something better - something personal for John - something he particularly couldn't take. The fiend found just the thing on their third Friday afternoon. It was 4:55 PM, almost time to quit, and Elmet had John spread-eagled on a table. He'd been gouging out bits of the boy's body with pincers and was getting bored. To be fair, John had been screaming quite well, but it just wasn't right somehow. Then, by accident, Elmet's clawed hand slipped and a long, bony finger scraped across the young man's bare belly, where his T-shirt had come untucked. The resulting yelp of discomfort and the convulsion of the hunky biker's body had made Elmet pause.
The demon had always admired John's sheer good looks. The succubi had labeled him "cute" the moment he arrived in Hell, and Elmet himself was forced to admit the guy was "comely." In any event, this dark haired bad boy was certainly the most handsome soul he had the pleasure of tearing apart in years. He'd make a great harpy meal, in fact! They just loved feasting on the good-looking ones!
But there was something just a little bit different about John now, Elmet assessed with the slightest lift of an eyebrow. Something had changed slightly about his body. Perhaps it was in the way he was filling in his jeans, lately. Or, how his T-shirts draped across his pecs, then pulled a bit, down over his belt. It was nothing bad, mind you. Just an intriguing...development.
John had been eating well in Hell. The food was specially prepared to build energy and stamina for long torture sessions. Elmet's personal style tended to keep him tied prone or bound up in some way, and he hadn't been getting much in the way of physical exercise. In fact, some of that taught, Calvin Klein underwear ad muscle tone had started to fade out of John's torso. He was still the picture-perfect football jock, to be sure, with those broad shoulders and smooth, flat pectorals. Round muscles rolled under the clean, hairless skin of his biceps. But something about his body -- maybe it was how his clothes fit him -- made him seem bigger, somehow ... beefy, in an almost voluptuous way. Softer. His cheekbones weren't as prominent as they had been, and under his strong chin, his neck seemed thicker, more solid. There was a fresh, glowing substance to John's flesh; a plush, new richness that gave him a healthy, exceptionally well-fed look. This boy is putting on weight! admired Elmet.
He put the pincers down and experimentally scraped a fingernail slowly down the length of John's tummy. The ensuing scream caused the demon next door to bang on the wall. Elmet looked at the boy, thinking. He reached over and gingerly slid his fingers over the layer of softened flesh that was just starting to bulge over the snug waistband of his jeans -- and wickedly pinched it! John was strapped down with good-quality canvas restraints, but his reaction was so intense that he actually broke the one holding his right wrist. And to boot, John was suddenly boasting a massive, dripping hard on! It stood out eight inches from his torso, and it throbbed almost purple with lust!
At that precise moment, the end-of-day whistle sounded and all torturing stopped for the weekend. Elmet ran his eyes over the young, hunky body before him. What he saw was not a healthy, 22-year-old boy with a firm, well-muscled body, but a living, breathing hunk of prime beef, just waiting to be locked into a feeding trough, and force-fed until he was too stuffed to move! A few days of extra special care, and soon enough, John would find his masculine, gym-worked body actually beginning to grow fat!
As he released the boy from his restraints and sent him off with a cheery, "See you Monday," he realized that this weekend would not be spent as usual watching re-runs of "Baywatch" but in constructing a suitable restraining device and thinking of fiendish ways to make an excruciatingly hunky -- and horny -- boy suffer as much as in-humanly possible. Elmet was good at that sort of thing. As he blew out the torches on the wall and left the torture chamber, he smiled in anticipation. When John entered the room on Monday morning he noticed some changes. First off, the walls had been soundproofed. Secondly, there was a large wooden device standing in the middle of the floor. Elmet greeted him. The fiend was looking especially wicked today, John thought. He was wearing a brown monk's habit, the loose hood of which hid the back of his bald head, and his ebony-black face seemed particularly grotesque with its sharp, pointed nose and gash of a mouth. John noticed that the fiend had recently filed his teeth. "Get on this scale," ordered Elmet. "I want to see something."
Immediately breaking into a cold sweat, John hesitated. After being prodded enough in the back to draw a few beads of blood, however, he finally hopped on. "Hmmm, 192..." murmured Elmet. "You were 185 pounds when you were killed. Interesting...you've put on seven pounds since you started with me, did you know that, John?"
"I-I've been working out in my room, after I get home," stammered ex-football jock, nervously. "It's all muscle!"
"Oh, come on, John," sneered Elmet. "We watch you night and day and you haven't done so much as a sit-up! What you have done is feed that handsome face of yours, and feed it plenty! You've been pigging out on that slop we serve all the newbies...and it's starting to show on you. One might say you've filled in -- and started to spill out! Hell seems to be putting weight on our pretty boy, isn't it?"
"Now," said Elmet, drooling slightly, "we're going to try something different today. Observe the device."
He pointed to the wooden construction that dominated the chamber. "You kneel on this board here. Your wrists are held high above your head by these metal rings and your tootsies are roped tightly to these rods at the side. Are you with me so far?"
John nodded, although he wasn't altogether sure about the way things were going; he had seen the look on Elmet's face when he'd poked him in the stomach on Friday. This device would be ideal for that sort of thing. "This," he indicated a rod which stuck out at an angle a couple of feet above the kneeling board, "will go inside you. It will help to keep you..." He searched for a word. "...interested in what's happening."
The fiend gave vent to one of his ear-splitting cackles. "Very well, strip off your jeans and put on this jock-strap -- it was fitted for you the day you got here, so it may be a little tight on you." Elmet helped the boy onto the device, lubricating the rod and making sure it was firmly up his ass. He secured John's wrists and ankles, and winched them until they were stretched to their limit.
"Ahhh, that's the type of body I like--" grinned Elmet, as he patted, then slapped the sides of John's trembling torso with heavy palms, "--Nice, and taut...and fleshy." Then he pulled John's genitals out of his jock, pulled up a stool, and sat in front of him.
Reaching into the voluminous sleeves of his monk's habit, he produced a length of thin rope which he tied carefully around John's balls and the base of his cock. He then pulled it tight and fastened the other end to a hook in the floor. The effect of this was to pull John's already stiffening cock and his balls away from his body. His eight inch cut cock stabbed the warm air in front of him in a disturbingly vulnerable way. A feeding machine, which was programmed to dole out food and shovel it into John's mouth -- or stab him with rotary blades if he didn't eat -- was wheeled in, and poor John started to put two and two together, even as Elmet drank in assessing gaze at John's meaty body. John was getting nervous. Being mutilated with pincers was one thing, but being tortured by force-feeding was something else altogether. He prayed this was not what was going to happen -- he was not sure he could take it. Ever since he'd been little, John had been painfully aware that, though he was gifted with gorgeous looks and a great body, for some reason, staying in fighting trim had been very tough. He'd never quite been able to get rid of those last vestiges of baby-fat from around his waist and under his chin. His older brothers -- gorgeous hunks every one -- would always tease him about it, blaming it on his genes.
So badly did he worry about being spotted or photographed with a double chin, or with his tummy sticking out, that he worked out constantly ever since he was a teen. He even trained his posture, held his head at angles, and kept his gut sucked all the time! He loved food, and could put on weight very easily if he wasn't careful. He had been known to shove buddies who had kidded him about gaining a few -- it was a reaction he had no control over. When guys he'd go out with got to playfully teasing him his "love handles" -- which he was prone to getting after just a few dates in fancy restaurants -- he'd dump them.
When John was about nineteen, a hot-looking older cousin of his who was practicing to be a chef, thought he was just too thin, and vowed to make a summer project of feeding him every dish in one of his massive cookbooks. John had such a crush on him, he was happy to oblige -- until Kenny and his friends started noticing the effect all that extra food was having on his attitude -- and his young, muscular body. John had gotten lazy, laying around the house, watching TV, and eating all the time. By mid-July, he'd cut back his workouts from daily to just about twice a week, and plenty of cold six-packs had made the tight six-pack of his abdominals start to disappear. A few of the guys even noticed that from certain angles, especially when he went shirtless, John's belly looked nice and ripe...almost puffed out under his muscular pecs and beefy arms. This peaked their interest. All the attention being lavished on him had made him rather self-centered, and he got to be kind of obnoxious. Of course, his looks allowed him to get away with it, but sexy Kenny and his humpy buddies were always looking for ways to get back at him.
By August, Kenny and his handsome friends found John's weak spot. Soft spot would be a better way to describe it! They started digging into him mercilessly about how husky his body had gotten. He'd grown taller by an inch or two, his figure had broadened a bit, become more manly...and, to everyone's sheer surprise, his belly had gotten plumper! They were all flirting with him, of course, telling him he was letting his chef cousin fatten him up.
But he never forgot how they gathered around him one night while they were hanging around drinking beers down the street. He'd been teasing each of them, smiling and talking dirty, when suddenly they just all sauntered up to him, pulled up his tank top out of his jeans, and poked their fingers into his soft stomach. Something about how helplessly turned on he got whenever they yanked his arms aside and jabbed the sumptuous flesh under his ribs, made them want to join in the fun and see just how much weight they could force him to gain.
One time, they made him eat a whole pizza pie, and teased him for the rest of the night because the tight T-shirt he had borrowed from one of the guys' younger brothers had hitched up on him, and wouldn't cover his stuffed belly. They kept jabbing him there with salad forks, where ever the tight T-shirt hem pulled snug over his bulging tummy, kidding him about how the sweet "pizza boy" was getting so fat, they were going to eat him up instead of fresh slice of pizza!
Another time, they pulled up his shirt-tails, tied them in a bow over his stomach, and sat him down to a giant ten course meal with his jeans open, just to watch how big they could make him balloon! They wouldn't stop feeding him until his already bulging tummy swelled out to the point where it rubbed up against the edge of the dinner table -- even after he leaned back on his chair! Then, they brought him into the bedroom and took turns pinning his arms, wrapping a tape measure around his bloated waistline, laughing and comparing their findings!
It took him almost the whole next year to lose all that fat. Ever since, he was so inconceivably, incapacitatingly scared of putting on the slightest bit of a belly, that even the thought of being fattened up on purpose caused him to curl up into a tight ball to protect himself.
Elmet knew this. He had spent part of his weekend researching into the various secret aspects of his victim's past life and he had carefully designed this piece of apparatus to make him as devastatingly vulnerable to this unbearable force-feeding as possible. When he'd completed the construction he'd sat in the Satanic Library swotting up on techniques of force feeding. It was not something he'd had any experience of, but fiends -- even more than demons -- are quick and studious learners and instantly became expert in their chosen field. They also have powers they can call upon which can assist them immeasurably in their work. John moved experimentally to find out just how much he would be able to protect himself if his worst fears proved to be true. It was not a lot. His arms were held immobile and the only part of his anatomy he could move was his pelvis -- and every time he did that, the rod rode in and out off his ass, making him extremely horny. He would watch the fiend closely, monitor his every move so that he would be prepared for whatever he might do.
Elmet had thought of that, too. From the folds of his habit he produced a strip of black leather, then spread a clawed hand over the handsome stud's abdominals and squeezed at the softness, emphasizing each wicked word. "You know what's going to happen to you, don't you John? I'm going to fatten you up. Then ... when you're nice, and big, and round and fat ... I'm going to eat you. And this is not one of your pretty cousin's flirty threats."
The fiend cackled insanely as John's worst nightmares became fact and he shook his head in desperation. "And you need to see, don't you? You need to be able to see where my fingers are, don't you? Well," he dangled the strip of leather in front of John's face, "can you see through black leather? Imagine how much worse it's going to be with this leather blindfolding you..." He shrieked a cackling laugh. "Here -- feel it." The fiend wrapped it round the boy's head, which jerked in response.
"I'm going to make you soooo much more fat around the belly -- and horny -- I'm going to roll you around and poke you! I'm going to make you my big, strong, horny butterball." Elmet took the leather and, in spite of John's begging and pleading for mercy, tied it over his eyes. The leather was extremely thin and molded itself to the contours of his face, cutting out all light and blindfolding him completely. John was already on the verge of losing it and he hadn't even been touched yet. "Please, Elmet. Look -- what you were doing with the pincers was unbearable. Please do that. This is silly. Whoever heard of fattening as a torture? Anyway, I don't usually get very fat around the belly. You'll be wasting your time. Honestly. Let's go back to the branding irons. Please. Don't do this. Please."
Elmet grinned. "Well, tell you what -- we'll try it for a few hours and see how it goes. Who knows, you might like it!" He sat on the stool again and waited, enjoying the sight of the hunky boy's body quivering with dread. He had no way of knowing when -- or where -- the torture would start. Suddenly, Elmet gleefully dug stiff, steely fork into John's fleshy side, just above the waist. He probed and wiggled and sank the tines into the sumptuous meat of his victim's body, testing its give and resiliency. Blood began to trickle in tiny rivulets from a dozen pinprick holes in John's flesh, staining his T-shirt, forcing hot tears from the poor, fattened muscle stud's crying eyes. Unfortunately, in Hell it's not possible to faint, otherwise John would have done, then, instantly. As it was he let out a shriek that tested the newly-installed soundproofing to its limit. Every muscle in his young body tensed and he used every ounce of his strength to escape from his restraints. Elmet had constructed the device well, though, and it was far stronger than John was. The fiend's fork walked slowly upward, pushing away the thin fabric of John's white T-shirt, forcing it untucked, and scraping across the boy's plump, smooth stomach. John was shaking his head violently. "No! No! Please, not the belly. I can't take it there."
Elmet cooed softly, "You're not supposed to be able to take it. If you could, it wouldn't be torture, now would it? Remember where you are. This is Hell, after all." He stuffed John's mouth with rich food for hours on end, feeding him by force, mercilessly piling in calories at a supernatural rate. He injected John with a special batch of metabolic steroids, cooked up in Hell and usually used to fatten up those pathetic anorexics. The food itself was so irresistibly delicious, that John couldn't help it -- he couldn't stop himself from eating more and more! It had come from Gluttony's own pantry (he being thrilled to help Elmet with such a smoothly handsome, ripplingly muscular victim), and it was fattening John up at a remarkable rate.
The boy convulsed, involuntarily moving his pelvis back and forth on the rod. When Elmet had built the device, he had paid particular attention to that rod. He had studied John's internal anatomy, taken precise measurements, and made the rod so that as it moved in and out it rubbed very gently against the boy's prostate gland -- not enough to make him cum (it was vital that it didn't do that), but just enough so that it would keep him intensely horny, indefinitely.
The fiend's fork wandered over poor John's sensitive body, finding every nook and cranny, and prodding and tickling every single one. He worked unpredictably so that the boy never knew where he was going to be attacked next, and alternated slow, sensuous teasing with bouts of merciless torture by gorging. John was cursing the blindfold. If only he could see. If he could see, he might just possibly stand some slight chance of being able to prepare himself for the force-feeding, alleviate it slightly. He willed himself to be able to see through the blindfold -- but that thin strip of leather made him more helpless, vulnerable. That fat around the belly was blossoming on him now, pushing up his T-shirt, thickening over the belt of his tight jeans -- just as it did those years ago with his hot cousin and his friends. He pulled at all the rest of his restraints put together. He tried to shake it off, but wherever he moved his head there was no way he could shift it. Once he managed to lift it very slightly by pushing it against his bicep, but Elmet saw at once and, with a cackling, "Now, now, fat boy...that's naughty," he pulled it back down so the boy couldn't see a thing and tied it tighter.
Lunch break came and Elmet shared the usual hot coal sandwiches with the boy. John wasn't hungry. He was still shaking. The fiend was very pleased -- this force-feeding was proving extremely effective. The afternoon was what Elmet had been looking forward to. Not once during the morning had the fiend touched John's cock and balls. John had a rock-hard erection for the whole time and was desperate to cum and this afternoon it was time for some genital nibbling to get the helpless boy really horny. Elmet produced a feather and made himself comfortable on the stool. He closed his eyes, recited strange words, and called upon powers to assist him.
Instantly two disembodied hands appeared, and three more hungry sets of teeth. The hands, unseen by the blindfolded boy, positioned themselves at John's unprotected sides, two of the hungry teeth readied themselves by his bare love handles, and the other two at the fresh, bountiful rolls of fat around his belly. Without warning, the devouring began. Gently at first, the fingers probed into John's sides and the hungry teeth began their work on his love handles and that sexy roll of softened flesh, just starting to bulge over the tightness of his jock. Within seconds, John was in hysterics. He squirmed and struggled as much as his restraints would allow and screamed at the top of his lungs. The hungry teeth worried at his love handles, or turned and dragged their dripping incisors across his belly; the disembodied hands dug their fingers into his ribs and sides, hitting the boy's nerve centers bang on, and stimulating him mercilessly. The other pair of hungry teeth were nuzzling gently across the steroid-laden flesh gathering at his armpits, round and round, in and out, driving the boy crazy.
John was in an ecstasy of hysteria and horniness. He swore, pleaded, begged, threatened, screamed, shrieked, laughed, cried and struggled violently against his restraints. The fiend ignored his cries completely and the only effect the boy's struggling had was to make him even more horny. In common with all fiends and demons, Elmet possessed a power that enabled him to cause his victim the very maximum suffering possible: he could feel exactly what John was feeling, but to a much attenuated degree. This meant two things -- first, he knew precisely where and when to fatten the boy for the most intense effect; and secondly -- he knew at any given moment how close he was to orgasm. As his fork stroked and caressed the aching cock, sometimes working on the very tip, sometimes gently enclosing the entire shaft, squeezing lightly, or stroking up and down the full length, Elmet could feel exactly what John was experiencing. In this way he could keep the youth a hair's breadth away from shooting his load. He could keep him on the very brink of orgasm -- and still make it impossible for the boy to get the relief he so desperately craved.
John was almost delirious. He had been horny many times during his life, but never in his wildest dreams had he imagined that it was even impossible to be this horny. The hands tickling his sides and the hungry teeth working on his love handles and that sexy layer of softened flesh, now bulging freely over the tightness of his jeans, were driving him insane. His whole body, every square inch of his anatomy, was one big plump area, begging to be eaten. The chamber reverberated to his shrieks and screams. His voice was hoarse with screaming, his throat sore with laughter. For hours, pre-cum had been oozing out of the end of his cock, dripping stickily down to form a puddle on the floor. The fiend's fork slipped and slid over the lubricated glans, a feather did its work on his unprotected, vulnerable balls.
This went on for the rest of the day. At 5 o'clock the hooter sounded and all work stopped. Elmet caused the disembodied hands and the hungry teeth to disappear and removed the boy's blindfold. John was desperate!
"No! No! PLEASE -- YOU CAN'T STOP NOW -- MAKE ME CUM! FOR GOD'S SAKE MAKE ME CUM!!!"
Elmet shook his head slowly. "For who's sake? God can't hear you, sorry. I might let you cum tomorrow -- or Wednesday -- or a week on Thursday..." He shrieked one of his cackling laughs. The fiend released John from the wooden restraint device and smiled evilly (which, for him, was easy to do).
"Same time tomorrow, please." As John was leaving the chamber, Elmet called after him, "Oh, and don't try to bring yourself off -- I've put a holding spell on you. Don't want to waste all that lovely spunk I've been building up all day."
John ran back to his apartment, flung somewhat fattened body on the bed, took his cock in his hand and began to jerk himself off. Within seconds he was on the verge of cumming - but he couldn't! He beat his cock desperately, but he couldn't cum. No matter how hard, how fast, he tried, he just could not cum. With a scream of frustration he punched the bed and cursed Elmet's name. His cock, rock-hard and aching for release, rubbed against the sheets. Again he tried, and again he failed. That night he got no sleep at all. Every couple of minutes his hand went to his cock and he tried to bring himself off. It was no good. He spent the night with a permanent erection. His cock begged him for release. Whenever he moved, whenever he turned over on his big, swollen belly, opened or closed his legs, his cock made its urgent need known again. By the morning he was almost mad with lust and frustration. On Tuesday morning he arrived at the chamber an hour early. Elmet did not seem surprised to see him. The morning was a repeat of the previous afternoon. Lunchtime came, but John insisted the fiend didn't stop. Elmet made some comment about Union rules but carried on torturing the boy anyway, out of the goodness of his heart. John was not allowed to cum on Tuesday.
On Friday morning Elmet announced that he was going to let John cum. He fattened him for an hour or so-John was closing in on a tremendous, butterball 300 pounds-and then brought the boy off by using a small, soft brush on the tip of his victim's glands, tickling the boy's balls with two stiff hungry teeth and causing the disembodied hands to viciously squeeze the massive love handles hanging over his sides and that blimping belly, bursting through the buttons of his jeans, very gently and teasingly. The boy's orgasm was the longest and most shatteringly intense he had ever experienced. It went on and on. Thick, white gobs of hot, sticky spunk, which had been encouraged and built up so carefully, but which had been so sadistically denied release for so long, exploded out of his cock like water from a fire hose. Elmet carefully collected every drop. The fat boy's reaction, the rolling and quaking over his hugely overgorged body, was so violent that at one point the fiend wondered if the restraints were going to hold him -- but they did.
Eventually it was over. John subsided, a quivering, shuddering wreck. His body relaxed for the first time in ages. He waited for the fiend to release him.
But Elmet did not release him. Ten seconds after the last drop of spunk had been milked from his throbbing cock, the force-feeding began again.
This was a hundred times worse than it had ever been. Having just had the most intense orgasm of his life, the boy was at his most sensitive, his most cushiony, and Elmet was not going to let that hypersensitivity go to waste. Oh, no. Multiple courses of food were shoveled into the poor ex-muscle jocks quivering lips, the fork probed and prodded his bloating body, and the force-feeding went on -- and on. The session piled another shocking 30 pounds on him!
By 5 PM John was once again half insane with horniness and the urgent need to cum. He faced a weekend of constantly needing to bring himself off but not being able to, followed by another immobile week of pure force-feeding at the hands of the fiend. He had been in Hell for just over a month now. Unlike some of the other poor souls, he had a fixed sentence -- he would not be here forever. At the end of his time he would go to the other place to spend the rest of eternity in paradise.
How long had he got to go? Every week Elmet put the spunk he'd milked out of the ever-fattening boy into a container. When that container was full, John would be free to go.
The container was a bottle.
It was ten feet in diameter.
And one mile high.
Another button popped off of the former muscle boy's splitting jeans.
|Views: 7238 | Comments: 2 ||
|Total comments: 1|