SPOILED, part 12

The Fiat died. In the pit of a Highland valley, dead of night, bitter wind whipping about the car, the engine just... stopped.

After much swearing and inspection under the hood, plus a few kicks for good measure, Sweet and Dey resigned themselves to sleeping in the car for the night; they would have to conclude their journey on foot in the morning.

‘The heater’s packed up and all,’ Arthur growled, feeling nothing from the vents. It was bad enough that he was down to his last scotch egg.

Manni sighed, and began the process of folding down the back seats flat into a makeshift bed, which entailed having to get outside into the stinging cold for a few moments.

‘We’ll just have to make the most of it,’ he said. There was nothing in the boot to fashion into a quilt or bedspread.

Arthur started to unbutton his shirt, then thought better of it; the temperature was surely going to plummet as the night progressed. He laid himself down onto the flattened back panels as best he could, feeling every ridge jut into his fat, and once Manni was lain beside him, he pulled his overcoat across the both of them. It did a poor job of covering the large gentlemens’ combined heft, but it would have to do. Manni appreciated the gesture all the same.

‘C’mere,’ Arthur pulled Manni into him. ‘I’ll keep you warm.’

Manni let his head nestle into the crook of Arthur’s shoulder, thick as it was with natural padding. The older man’s moob acted as something of a support pillow. Once again Manni noted how Arthur’s eyes shone with a hazel-green brilliance when unobscured by his glasses. Sweet curled his porky hands around Manni, feeling his every roid-swollen bulge and curve; his biceps were like solid melons to the touch. Arthur couldn’t believe quite how much mass Manni had managed to pack on in such a short time.

‘Still no word from Fenton,’ Manni said, gazing up through the sunroof, to the unclouded stars above.

‘Mmmph,’ Arthur let out gruffly. ‘Good riddance.’

Manni twisted slightly, took Arthur’s monumental belly in his arm; he loved the feel of it. So bulbous and warm. ‘You were jealous,’ he realised.

Sweet snorted, but then admitted, ‘Course I was.’

‘The whole time?’

‘Well,’ Arthur squeezed Dey into him, kissing the top of his head, his lips and moustache sinking into the younger man’s perfect quaff. ‘Didn’t seem right, you ‘avin’ to lark about with that pompous buffoon. If I’da known you liked ‘em older and bigger...’

‘Then what?’ Manni laughed, hearing Sweet’s heart thump beneath his warm, lardy chest. ‘You would’ve turned on the charm?’

‘I can be charming,’ Arthur sniffed with mock indignation. ‘When I want to be.’

‘Oh yeah?’ Manni looked up at him, at that big, round face, the plump cheeks and vast double chin.

Arthur met his eyes.

‘God knows what you see in me. You look like a Hollywood superstar.’

‘Always preferred Bollywood, growing up,’ Manni said.

‘What’s the difference?’

‘Bollywood’s better.’

‘That one, then.’

‘Kiss me, you big grump.’

‘Oh, alright.’

And the two embraced, once more exploring each other’s tongues, and bodies. Arthur ran his chubby hands through Manni’s model hair, sliding down to the huge trapezoids that led further south to those mammoth shoulders and arms. Manni cupped Sweet’s podgy face in his own hands as they kissed, feeling the older man becoming hard, pressing into his thigh. He reached down and slid his hand down Arthur’s trousers, the two of them turning and fumbling as the car rocked.

‘I ain’t...,’ Sweet began, ‘I ain’t done this in a long time...’

Manni found himself touched by the vulnerability in his partner’s voice.

‘It’s okay,’ he whispered back, taking ahold of Sweet’s member proper. ‘They haven’t changed it since your day.’

Arthur laughed and his whole belly wobbled and shook as it pressed into Dey. He worked his thick digits around Manni’s belt and after a time succeeded in his goal.

‘Bloody ‘ell, was it always like that or do the roids make it bigger? I thought it was the other way around.’

Manni laughed and kissed him again.

‘It’s always been like that.’

‘No wonder Fenton was goin’ doolalley over you.’

Though the cold night’s gale howled outside, buffeting the stranded vehicle, the two men inside had warmed enough to remove their shirts as they rolled and toyed and caressed, kissing deep, deeper still. Manni’s grip of Arthur tightened, his motions speeding up. Sweet’s breaths starting coming out in stuttering waves as he closed his eyes and worked his pudgy fingers ever the stronger around Manni’s thick shaft.

‘Fuuuckin’ ‘ell…,’ Arthur sighed, feeling the pressure build. ‘Fuuuck…’

Dey’s breathy exhalations of pleasure were all over Sweet’s face, then they kissed again, tongues twisting and curling. The Fiat rocked all the harder. Manni kept up the rhythm, faster and faster until suddenly the pair brought each other to climax in a moment of incredible release.

There was much sweating, then lolling, followed by a mission to seek tissues from the glovebox. Manni enjoyed watching Arthur’s belly expand and contract with breathlessness as the older man lay on his back murmuring ‘Crikey…’ over and over again.

Afterwards they cleaned up as best they could and remained entwined, Manni happily curled into Arthur’s warmth. He was the first to fall asleep.

Arthur stayed up longer, listening to the howling of the savage winds in the darkness, gently stroking Manni’s hair, sometimes laying a tender kiss on the younger man’s forehead, careful not to wake him.

A part of him wanted to lay here in this moment forever.

* * * *

Ben awoke in a sleep-addled confusion at his new accommodation. This was only further compounded by the addition of Mr Falcon sat on the end of his bed.

Ben started, and gathered the sheets into himself before rubbing his bleary eyes.

Falcon smiled. ‘How was your sleep?’ he asked. ‘Better?’

Ben blinked a few times, stifling a yawn poorly, then nodded.

‘The others have already had breakfast,’ Falcon told him, fingers interlocked in his lap. He wore a different tweed today, a three-piece with tartan tie. ‘I let you sleep in.’

This was the same man who’d not long ago demanded a crying Ben apologise for being “too small” while cramming an ungodly, agonising amount of food into his stomach. Ben wondered how many overloaded plates Falcon had forced into M this morning, and God only knew what was happening to poor J. That Falcon seemed volatile was putting it mildly to say the least. Still, Ben thanked him.

‘I’ll have yours sent up in a moment.’ Falcon stood and stepped over to be at Ben’s side. He took Ben’s pudgy hand in his bony one.

‘I’ll be out hunting today, lad,’ he continued. ‘And much as I want to keep you by my side, the hunt’s a nasty thing. Noisy, violent.’ He drew Ben’s hand to his lips, kissed it. ‘No, you’re better off right here, boy. You stay in bed today, and keep warm. You eat and get nice and fat for me, eh?’

‘Yes Sir,’ Ben replied. ‘Thank you, Sir.’

Falcon ran his free hand around Ben’s bulbous cheek, took his chin and leaned in for a kiss. Once again he tasted of whiskey and cigars.

‘There’s a good fatboy.’

Moments later he had clipped off from the room, followed by the sound of the door locking, his footsteps echoing away.

The bed might have been comfier than his previous plank, but Ben had been plagued by the sounds of J and the other feedees in the dungeon, pleading and wailing. They had played over and over in his mind all night long.

He pulled out the folded note from underneath the mattress where he’d hidden it, unfolded and re-read:

"We have one shot."

Ben could only hope Anon was right, especially the part about saving the other lads.

Were there really two detectives on their way here...?

A sound outside, and once more the key turning in the lock. Ben hastily stuffed the note under the sheets, and looked up to see the castle chef once again wheeling his trolley in. Syrupy oatmeal smells accompanied, and Ben could see there were multiple bowls.

To his surprise, the chef remained. Just standing there. Ben, naked under the covers, shifted awkwardly.

‘What?’ he asked the spherical figure.

The chef continued to fix his stare on Ben for a moment, then he quickly checked the corridor outside and pushed the door shut, saying,

‘Get dressed and come with me, now.’

Ben screwed up his face.

‘Uh, what?’

‘Just do as I say.’

‘Mr - um - Mr Falcon said I could stay in bed today, so...’

The chef raised his eyes to the heavens.

‘We don’t have time for this,’ he said peevishly. ‘I take it you found the note?’

Ben’s heart seemed to pause for a second. His eyes grew wide.

‘You’re... You’re the contact?’

‘Aye,’ the chef nodded. ‘Now get your bloody clothes on.’

In mere moments, while the chef turned away and listened for signs of movement beyond the door, Ben dressed into the same ill-fitting clothes he’d been wearing since his arrival, only now they’d gotten even tighter; his billowing gut spilled out from under the hem of his shirt, bulging far over his clinging waistband, and the trousers themselves ill-contained his huge swollen arse cheeks - evidence that he’d ballooned way past 400 pounds during his short time at Locklandrie.

With a thought, Ben retrieved the note from under his bedsheets, re-folded it neatly and hid it back beneath the mattress. The chef had opened the door a crack, and was peering outside.

‘Hurry,’ he said.

But Ben hesitated. Could he really trust this fellow? What if this was a trap?

‘… Who are you?’ he asked the circular man.

‘Oh, for God’s - We don’t have time-‘

The chef, however, soon saw the look on Ben’s face. ‘No… No, you’re right to be suspicious,’ he added, taking his tone down a notch. ‘It’s just… It’s better if I don’t tell you my name. I’m sorry. I can’t blame you for withholding your trust, not after… everything you’ve been through. But if we’re going to get a signal out to these policemen, I have to show you how. And time’s against us.’

He held the door open, and looked hopeful that Ben would step through it.

Ben swallowed, took a breath. ‘Alright, then.’ And followed the chef outside.

Ben trusted Anon, and Anon trusted this chap, so that would have to do.

They were soon stepping down stone hallways between alcoved torches and guttering candelabras, at one point passing Falcon’s own chambers. Occasionally, intricately-woven threadbare rugs would muffle their footsteps.

‘Memorise this route, B,’ the chef said. ‘You’ll need to re-trace it later tonight.’

‘It’s Ben - my name,’ Ben told him. ‘Not B.’

‘Sorry, yes,’ the chef replied. ‘They don’t tell us that.’

Ben checked behind them. ‘Aren’t - Aren’t we going to be spotted? I’m not supposed to be wandering around like this.’

‘Most of the guards’ll be out on the hunt with the Master,’ the chef said. ‘Whoever’s left will be tending to the dungeons just now.’

‘Where are we going?’

’There’s a tower in the east wing,’ the chef explained. ‘It’s the highest point in Locklandrie, never usually lit, but it’s our best bet. If we can get you up there and… What?’

Ben had slowed down and was trailing behind. He stopped.

‘Listen,’ he said carefully. ‘I know you can’t… You don’t wanna say too much, or you can’t reveal, like, your identity, or…’

The chef huffed, not entirely without sympathy. ‘Please, Ben, we don’t have much ti-‘

‘... But what the actual fuck is going on here?’ Ben asked, fists clenched, a hot, fresh wave of frustration now blossoming inside of him.

So many secrets, so much running and hiding, anonymous text messages and notes, being driven around to undisclosed locations, having to witness fucking horrible things, being treated like a piece of property to be passed around, never being told the truth of any of it.

‘Who are these people? Mr Falcon and Mr Wren and the others? Their little secret society of - of - of fucking fatteners, or whatever the hell it is - Just… What is going on?’’

He’d reached the end of his patience with this whole shit-show. This, right here, was his apparent tipping point, surprising even himself.

The chef sighed a long sigh. He shook his head slowly, his toque bobbing.

‘I… I can’t… I’m sorry. I just-‘

‘No!’ Ben demanded. ‘I’m sick to fucking death of “I’m sorry”, and ‘I can’t”. You have no idea what I’ve been through - You think you do, but you don’t! I’ve been dragged across the fucking country, locked up and force-fed by that - that lunatic motherfucker. I’m not walking another fucking STEP until you tell me what the ever-loving fuck is going on!’

His breaths had truncated and his face felt hot, but Ben didn’t care.

The chef said nothing. He fixed his eyes on Ben, and appeared to be calculating something in his mind. His globular, jowly face wavered for a moment or two.

‘… Fine,’ he eventually conceded. ‘Let me show you.’

Evidently, a detour was in order.

Ben was well into unknown depths of Castle Locklandrie now, following the chef - surprisingly sprightly for a man who couldn’t have weighed less than 600 pounds - past gleaming suits of armour, hanging crests and carvings, wooden chandeliers replete with dripping candles, out to where the narrow hallways opened into a quiet - if musty - open space.

This room was occupied almost entirely by a huge statue, gloomy light shining down from a latticed skylight, with perhaps a hundred tea-candles surrounding. The statue itself was truly monstrous.

The chef halted before it, then turned back to Ben.

‘What... is it…?’ Ben asked, not understanding how this, in any way, answered his questions.

Carved from a dark stone that had weathered in the damp castle conditions, the statue depicted a balding man in Victorian attire embraced in the arms of something hideous. Something demonic. A plaque at its base read:

“Elias Crowe - The Night of the Deal”

Ben grimaced at the sight of this thing. It reminded him of the huge painting he’d passed the night of his Assessment; the Victorian gentleman gesturing into the darkened alleyway. But still...

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Elias Crowe,’ the chef said. ‘Founding father of The Rookery.’

‘The Rookery...?’

‘What did you call it earlier? “Their little secret society of fatteners.”’

The Rookery...

So that’s what these madmen called themselves.

‘In 1847, Elias was said to have struck a deal that would lay the foundations for this organisation. The rather fantastical version of the story goes that it was some kind of wish granted to him by this... thing.’ The chef motioned to the hideous stoneworked beast. ‘However, these days that’s seen as an embellishment of a more pedestrian business deal, likely made with some wealthy benefactor or other. There are still some within the company, though, who choose to believe the… supernatural telling.’

Ben soaked up this bizarre story, taking in the finer details of the statue. It was uncomfortable to look upon.

‘Over time The Rookery has grown to encompass the extremely wealthy and powerful at just about every echelon of society, their goal nearly always the same: to whisk poor fellas like yourself away to keep and use as playthings. Mostly they like to fatten them up, force feed to extremes, or bulk them out with muscle, but sometimes other things too. And it’s normally always lads with no ties, who’ll not be missed much, so no-one comes snooping. Again, like yourself, I’m sorry to say.’

Ben had to accept this fact, and lament it. He’d never been much of a social creature, and had little in the way of family, having been raised in the foster care system.

‘So they - they think they can just do whatever they like?’ he asked in anger.

‘They can,’ the chef admitted sadly. ‘There’re politicians, judges, police chiefs, heads of industry - you name it - within their ranks. Some are better than others. Some more... humane, some less. Mr Bluejay, Mr Heron, Mr Wren - those are some of the kinder ones I’ve heard of. Then you’ve got crueler types like Mr Falcon, Mr Raven, for example. The absolute worst I’ve heard about are Mr Swan and Mr Kingfisher, but I know there’s more. A lot more. There are whole tiers of them, and it just goes up and up and up. Each are responsible for their own location; The Penthouses, The Lodges, This Castle, The Farm, The Facility, to name just a few. They’re all over. There’s even rumour of an Island out there somewhere.’

Ben found his head shaking.

‘... How? How can this be allowed to go on?’

The chef sighed and raised his arms in resignation.

‘They have their fingers in every conceivable pie,’ he said. ‘There are a small number of us on the inside - very small - who do what we can to help. We’ve gotten one or two lads out over the decades but it’s extremely rare. Most Masters in The Rookery enjoy fattening up their staff too, either as punishment or just plain old sadistic fun. I myself used to be a skinny wee thing when I started under Mr Falcon many moons ago...’

The chef trailed off for a moment, and Ben couldn’t help but stare at his general enormity. It was hard to imagine this man had ever been slim. Easier to imagine, though, that Falcon had forced him into this ball shape, perhaps simply on a demented whim.

‘This situation now,’ the chef continued, ‘with these police detectives, this is the closest we’ve ever come to getting a signal out to the wider world, to anyone who can actually make a difference.’

There were still so many unknowns, countless variables Ben wanted to call into question. Could these two detectives themselves be trusted, for example? They’d been referred to as ‘uncorrupted’ but how reliable was that information, really?

However, he was acutely aware that time was limited and he’d already taken much of it to come on this little expository jaunt.

‘You’d better show me this tower, then.’

Back at the point they’d initially derailed, the chef pointed with an extremely thick finger.

‘Tonight, in about...’ He checked the watch sunken tightly against his fat wrist. ‘3 hours from now - that’s when they’re estimated to have broached the Locklandrie estate, you’ll have to head down that corridor. Keep going until you reach a small wooden door on the left. It looks plain but it will lead to the tower.’

‘Right.’ Ben nodded, committing this to memory.

‘I won’t be able to come with you,’ the chef explained. ‘A, because, well look at the size of me. Do I look built for stairs? And B, because I’ll be on my evening duties and it will look too suspicious to the kitchen staff if I’m gone.’

‘Okay.’ Ben wasn’t sure he was going to fare much better with the stairs himself.

‘Once at the top, you need to make the morse code for S.O.S with the lights. Do you know what that is?’

Ben did, actually.

‘Dot dot dot, dash dash dash, dot dot dot.’

‘Very good. These detectives are said to be approaching from the south side, so they should get a good, unblocked view of the signal, no matter how far into the estate they are. Now, here’s the set of keys you’ll need.’ The chef handed Ben a small ring with half a dozen keys jangling from it. ‘The round-headed one you’ll need to unlock your room later, and the smallest one is for the tower door. Got that?’

‘Got it.’

Ben now held the keys to his own chamber. This changed everything...

But he’d think on the possibilities later. Now wasn’t the time.

‘We need to get you back to your room for now.’

‘Okay.’

And the pair made a quick step back along the way they had originally come, thankfully passing no castle staff; Ben guessed the hunt really was all-encompassing. But this put him in mind of something.

As they approached the door to his room, he asked,

‘If Mr Falcon stays out on the hunt for as late as you say, won’t he also see the signal?’

The chef ushered Ben back inside his chamber and followed him in, nodding solemnly.

‘Unfortunately yes,’ he said. ‘No way around that, I’m afraid, but if you’re quick you can get back here and lock yourself in. That way he’ll never suspect you.’

Ben got undressed down to his underwear and got back into his bed, taking a bowl of porridge from the trolley (he figured Mr Falcon would still want to see them emptied). ‘But he’ll still know someone did it, and I doubt he’ll be happy.’

‘That’s true,’ the chef admitted, ‘but we’ll just have to-‘

Suddenly the sound of a key exploring the lock, and the door opening.

‘Why is the door unlocked?’ Mr Falcon said, marching in. He blinked at the sight of the chef. ‘What’re you doing here? You should be tending to lunch by now.’

Just before the chef turned to his Master, Ben caught a look of undiluted terror on his face.

‘Master, I - uh - I just got here. I - I was late in preparing B’s breakfast, Sir. I’m sorry, Mr Falcon, Sir.’

Ben made a show of getting stuck in to his bowl of porridge, which had turned lukewarm.

Falcon took in this scene, his beady eyes flitting from chef to Ben and back again, expression unreadable.

‘I’m back from the hunt early because I wanted to be with my special fatboy,’ he said to the chef without a trace of warmth. ‘And now I find he’s been going hungry, waiting for breakfast all this time while you’ve been fucking about in the kitchen, dawdling?’

The chef lowered his head as far as his expansive double chin would allow. Ben watched on, ate in silence, feeling a cold dread well up inside him.

‘I’m so sorry, Sir,’ the chef said quietly.

Mr Falcon suddenly picked a bowl from the trolley and threw it full pelt at the wall beside the chef’s head, smashing it loudly to pieces.

‘Is this how you treat my special fatboy, eh? By letting him go hungry? Keeping him waiting?’

The chef wobbled his spherical head, jowls following.

‘No, Sir, of course not, Sir. I’m so so sorry, Sir.’

‘Get downstairs to the kitchens NOW, you miserable, tardy shite!’

‘Yes Master, at once, Sir.’

And the chef turned on his heel, making toward the door. But Falcon continued.

‘Tell your underlings to take over your duties. You’re going to be indisposed.’

The chef let out a small whimper.

‘Y-Yes, Sir,’ he said.

Ben saw moisture collecting in the corners of the obese man’s eyes.

Mr Falcon placed his hands behind his back and stepped slowly beside the quivering chef, speaking softly this time.

‘You’re going to eat porridge in your quarters, non-stop, all day and all night, without sleep, for the next seven days.’

The chef gulped and nodded, ushering tiny ragged breaths from his nose.

‘Then,’ Mr Falcon carried on, slowly, ‘after that, you’re going to be on triple rations for the next 6 months...’

Ben saw a tear slide down the chef’s enormous cheek.

‘Actually, make that quadruple. You’re going to get so big,’ Falcon said, ‘that your belly’s gonna stretch out waaaay in front of you, even farther than it already does, so that every time you cook, you’re gonna burn your belly against the stove. And every time you burn your belly, it’s going to remind you of what a monumental fuck-up you are. Isn’t that right?’

The chef nodded slowly, relinquishing more tears.

‘And if you fuck up again, I’ll fuckin’ pop you myself. Now get the FUCK out of my sight!’ Falcon roared.

The chef couldn’t have made his exit fast enough. In seconds the door was swinging shut behind him.

This was Ben’s fault. He ate on with a sinking heart. If he hadn’t made the chef detour to that statue and explain everything…

Mr Falcon took a deep breath, smoothed down his tweed, and smiled to Ben. He produced a cigar from his breast pocket and quickly lit it.

‘So sorry you had to see that, boy,’ he said between huffs.

Ben, with a mouthful of porridge, tried to make an ‘It’s okay’ kind of face.

Falcon came right up beside him, running a hand along the part of the bedsheet that housed Ben’s thick leg, and kicking aside the debris of the thrown bowl.

‘Sometimes being the Master means making the difficult decisions,’ he sighed, exhaling more cigar smoke. ‘Now and then you have to dish out the appropriate punishments.’

Ben felt the chef’s recompense was about as far from ‘appropriate’ as was possible, but nodded and ate.

Falcon then began to undo his tie, then unbutton his tweed jacket with the cigar clamped expertly between his teeth.

‘You know, while I was out there on the estate, hunting,’ he said, perching himself on the bed beside Ben who scooched along to accommodate him, ‘all I could think about was you.’

Ben swallowed a lump of porridge and said, ‘Thank you, Sir.’

‘So,’ Falcon continued, ‘I’ve decided today I’m going to stay here - right here - with my prized bellyboy, all day long. How does that sound?’

Ben’s insides were turning to ice.

‘That sounds great, Sir,’ he lied. ‘Thank you so much.’

(Fuck!) he was thinking. (FUCK!)

‘Oh, you’ve no need to thank me,’ Falcon responded, taking Ben’s spoon and commandeering the rest of the feeding. ‘You just eat and eat like a good fatboy, and get nice and massive for me...’

This fucked everything.

With Falcon staying here, Ben wouldn’t be able to slip off to the tower.

‘... That’s all the thanks I need...’ Falcon jabbered on, spooning porridge into Ben’s mouth a little too fast.

There would be no signal.

There would be no rescue.