Dear reader, the question though is, do you know which side you woke up on this morning? Can you be sure one-hundred percent? I hope so. I truly do.
Bloated
by Penegrin Shaw
She’d sucked three cocks and it wasn’t even lunchtime.
Though the last was the biggest, the first had been her favourite. It had a freckle two-thirds of the way up the shaft, which she liked; a Marilyn Monroe cock, or a Betty Page burlesque bayonet! It didn’t talk much, that cock. It didn’t try to take her away from it all, or ask her to call it Daddy. The quiet cocks were the best cocks. The cocks that took “no” for an answer. Well-mannered cocks. Soap-scented please and thank you cocks. The first cock was all of the above and it paid in perfectly crisp notes straight from the cash machine.
Three cocks before lunch was good going in a recession. Everyone on the planet was struggling and she had to eat, didn’t she? She wasn’t like the other girls. Sheila had class. She’d eaten Japanese food in a posh Mayfair restaurant once; raw fish, not too un-cock-like. Delicious. That had been a three-cocks-before-lunch week, but that seemed ages ago.
A gust of wind whooshed her hair momentarily as she walked to her next appointment. She never visited her clients, but this one was different. Ray was fat. Really, really fat. More than a big bastard, Ray couldn’t leave his own home. In human terms, Ray was a giant, easily the size of an American fridge and confined to his bed for the last half year.
She picked up his lunch (an expense she included in her fee) and negotiated the daytime cobbles of Saxon Central in her night-time heels.
Cocks. That’s what zero qualifications and a cute arse does for you. No place of her own, no car, a dated wardrobe (not much casual attire) and no husband – not that she wanted one of those – but she’d not tried too hard at the interviews. She needed her Jobseeker’s Allowance. No, she was good at impaling the penis. She enjoyed that.
Sheila smiled to herself. Three in a row on a Tuesday morning would take some stress out of the week…
Her heels wobbled the fuck out of her as she reached his door. Someone had covered it with flyers for comedy clubs and unsigned band nights. She ripped them off and dropped the litter onto the street in the I’m-not-fucking-recycling bin, because she was proper East End and everyone knows that you’ll never get a Cockney to recycle. Ever.
There was no need to buzz. She’d got a key cut months ago and expensed him for it. He was a darling, Ray. He just signed the receipts off when she waved them in front of his chops. This was all part of it, of course. The sweet, long game. Her apertif.
Sheila had always had a favourite. A muse. Her last; a seasoned, miserable old boy who’d become something of a hoarder. Living in absolute squalor on a half-decent street, he too had been overweight but was no Colossus. His end had shaped her and given her new purpose. After some months and a whole fanny-load of patience, she had rewarded herself. Delicious.
As she climbed the stairs to Ray’s studio apartment, she could smell him. Cheesy sweat, wet dog, musky armpit and arse all rolled into one sickfuck cologne. He would have heard the door and would be listening to her footsteps now…
Sheila looked forward to seeing Ray. It wasn’t just the power. She liked him and somehow, it excited her. If only he knew.
She checked herself in the mirror in the hall outside his room. Adjusted her hair and blouse. Increased the cleavage on show with a push of tit, to sway the tit/blouse ratio in the favour of tit.
Inside the room, the giant in the bed lay as if his legs were apart, but all flesh met and touched the rest of him and he was a mountain of it; a one-man orgy. Ray didn’t look well at all, but he smiled. He had a kind face, a child’s smile, a blue-eyed boy now an overweight man. The bed was a king, but Ray was so big it looked like a toddler’s bed.
The sheets were yellow and stained from sweat. No one loved this baby. No one visited Ray, apart from a lady from the council who was paid to, but she only turned up to check if he was still alive, tick a box in her day, sometimes bring a friend to see the man in the flesh and humiliate him. That woman hadn’t been doing her job. The place had been in a state for weeks and Sheila had a mind to report her. Not that it mattered now.
“I’ve got your lunch, Ray,” she said, taking off her shoes. “They’re doing salads in there now. Told them where to go.” She unzipped her jeans and rolled them down her legs. Ray was peering over his own stomach to view the show, straining his neck in eagerness. It looked like an over-sized jellyfish had come in through the window for a nap, crushing a man beneath it.
“I told them to do one, because you’re a real man and you need a real man’s food.” Sheila peeled her knickers down her legs, revealing a tuft of sculptured pubic hair; more urban fro than military bearskin. She kicked the knickers off in an area of carpet where cans of cola, fly-spray and value deodorant had formed a Stonehenge for the cockroaches to gather and worship, which they did, praying for something amazing to brighten their mundane insect existences.
She took the first burger from the brown paper bag she had brought with her. The grease seeping through it, creating a dark stain; the bag mirrored the bed sheets, mocking the fat man, teasing him.
Ray looked excited now, craning his neck to look at the paid-for-pussy or the burger, or both. It looked like he was trying to do a sit-up.
She climbed on top of him, causing pain in his legs from the sores. The veins on his swollen frame gave his skin the appearance of an eye-ball. It didn’t repulse her. This was her job. She was a carer, of sorts.
She lowered herself onto his stomach, feeling the heat of his body on her, between her legs.
Ray was excited, but she couldn’t tell just then. His cock was lost in himself. “I’ve been waiting for it all day, Sheila,” Ray panted, not nearly enough air in his lungs. The sweat was dripping from his brow and his eyes were bulging at the food as she pushed the first burger into his face.
“I know you have, you filthy, fat, bastard,” Sheila said, writhing on top of his stomach, causing him more pain and discomfort than ecstasy, forcing the food into his mouth and reaching once more into the brown bag.
Ray could barely breathe as he ate the food being shoved into his mouth, excited by it all, this perfect moment, perfect union between woman, man and food. Burger sauce dripped down his face, onto his chest. Onto her chest. A piece of lettuce, covered in grease and melted cheese, fell onto the floor and the cockroaches went for it, accepting the offering whole-heartedly.
Somewhere beneath him, Ray felt the pressure build and the first sensations of ejaculation.
Sheila took off her blouse and rubbed the third burger onto her breasts, before forcing them into the fat man’s face as he gorged on the processed meat upon her.
“That’s it, you fucking pig. Eat it. Eat my tits!”
Ray moaned as he erupted into the folds of himself, nothing escaping; a hot, wet mess trapped in the tight folds of Ray.
The power made Sheila wet. It was nearly time to end Ray.
She knew Ray had come, but she carried on riding his bulging belly, rubbing herself upon him, enjoying it. She slapped him hard and it sent ripples across the bed as if she’d dived into a pool with a wave machine.
Sheila had spent months feeding Ray to get him to this weight. To get him to this perfect size, so he could no longer leave the apartment and no longer escape her. She’d seen the record breakers on television. She’d seen them hoisted out of buildings when they needed to get to the hospital. She’d got Ray to the point of no return. He was a true, wonderful, heavyweight, who could no longer live a normal existence. He’d had all independence finally taken from him. Sheila had done well, again.
She once ate at a Japanese restaurant, but what she had beneath her right now, the mountain she had conquered, this had become her Japan; her very own sumo.
Many a cock told Sheila what to do, but this one was hers and it did exactly as it was told. It was today, on this perfect three-cocks-before-lunch day tha
t she was going to end Ray’s miserable fat life. After his final meal, this last supper, she would try him. Raw. Ray was prime tender steak. None would intervene. None would care. There was probably a list as long as his shopping list of people wanting his flat.
What could he do? Helpless, this mass of stretched skin and meat within. As she writhed, she hadn’t noticed the change in Ray. His expression. Was that a smirk on the childish face? Something behind those blue eyes?
She wondered if he’d sensed something, yet he displayed not fear, but something else. Ray closed his eyes and his smirk became an expression of agony. Sheila was confused.
Ray’s chest seemed to tighten and convulse, then contract. A rumble from within him, the bed shaking, then waves becoming more than just a ripple, Sheila was brought to orgasm from the movement as she tried to understand what was happening.
Never had she felt anything like this, no cock, nor fingers or vibrator had ever taken her on this journey, but she was frightened. Something was wrong. Something was wrong with Ray. No longer a child’s face, this was something terrible in its place. A demon of Ray, a monster of him.
The thing that was Ray was laughing at her plight and confusion, a deep laugh in tune with the low rumble from within him, then its face contorted in pain once more as its stomach ripped apart, and from it spurted a jet of lava, hot bile and gases, flesh and food and blood, spraying inside Sheila and around her, as the mountain became a mighty volcano.
Now it was Sheila’s turn to feel pain, as the lava filled her insides, up her anus and vagina, burning through the walls of her stomach, upwards into her ribcage, cooking the flesh of her breasts from the inside. No words escaped her. She’d had no time to really scream as it was so quick and final. Sheila sizzled as her eyes popped like someone biting down on a couple of lychees. The windows were open, but the whole of London didn’t give a shit, as usual.
The lava inside Ray was gone. The volcano was mountain once more, then it became a sloping hill, as Sheila subsided into the mound that was Ray, slipped within him like a sinking ship, the Sheila Armada; an animal disappearing beneath the mud, consumed in a pit of Ray.
Torn skin moved back as one. A soft-top roof.
On the floor, the prayers of the cockroaches had been answered and they were converted. Ray turned his head and smiled at them, knowing they would worship here anew and pick at the morsels of Sheila that had splattered the walls and dank carpet.
Sheila was gone. The apartment was quiet. The sheets were ruined. A waft of mixed grill met the street outside, making the passers-by hungry.
The beast that was Ray was, once again, bloated.
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Twisted 50 Volume 1 Page 25
