A Glutton's Wish

(CW: Implied vore, mega-macro sizes, feeding tubes.)

Commission for BorusaRylam

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Alasdair Shaw had managed the entirety of Glutton’s Row for the last twenty years. The exact moment he turned twenty-one, his father passed ownership of a small bakery to him over his elder brothers. A fact which deepened the rift in the sibling’s relationship, and worsened their respective competitive sensibilities. Within a year, he had tripled the profits of Buster’s Doughnut Emporium & Café, encouraging his father to turn over another two properties for Alasdair to oversee. He repeated his magic act, tripling their profits in another year, earning the moniker ‘the alchemist of Glutton’s Row.’ It was a safe bet to say that Alastair Shaw knew what he was doing when it came to running a business, and that there was nothing he could not handle.

Or maybe it was more accurate to say that, while there was no THING that could impede him, the same wasn’t true when discussing people.

Alasdair made an angular cut in one of his favourite cigars, seared its tip with his favourite lighter, and took a long, smooth drag from the rich assortment of leaves and tobacco. He eyed the old-style telephone he kept in his office for emergency calls, expecting it to ring. He stared at it uncomfortably, convincing himself that it wouldn’t ring, and that everything would be fine, and for a while he relished in the calm creak of his dark wood chair when he leaned back.

When the phone rang, Alasdair exclaimed something foul enough that could raise his grandmother from the dead to slap him across the face for his language. “What!?” He snorted down the phone. The person on the other end audibly flinched.

“It’s them again, mister Shaw. The one you warned us about. They’ve already eaten through the meals we had prepared for buffet service, and they’re demanding more. The chefs were able to keep up during their first round of extra orders, we even upped the service charge like you asked, but they still want more!”

Alasdair stubbed out his cigar. He had a feeling he wouldn’t have the time to enjoy it. “Have front of house apologize to them, explain that the restaurant had an error with its raw ingredient delivery, and that they aren’t fit to facilitate their request. Tide them over with a complimentary meal at one of our other restaurants.”

“That’s... part of the problem, sir,” the meek voice stated, the trembling coming through in their voice.

Alasdair didn’t answer right way. He took a deep breath, and remembered, it wouldn’t improve productivity if he started yelling at his employees.

“What, is part of the problem, exactly?” Alasdair answered curtly, but with serviceable manners.

“... this is the third buffet they’ve done this to, at this rate, they’ll eat through every buffet currently operating on the row!”

Alasdair could have sworn he felt his wool begin to whiten. “I’m on my way.”

***

A crowd had gathered in front of Tapir’s Tikka Tikka, the owner was perched on the pavement outside sitting by the curb and smoking a cigarette. His eyes were deep with worry, and when he spied Alasdair approaching in his long black coat which merged with his wool to make up a bulky silhouette, he sighed. “Mister Shaw,” he said politely and dropped his cigarette down a drain to his left. “You arrived just in time, or at least I hope so.”

“This is not my first time dealing with the voracious appetites of gluttons,” Alasdair replied. “Though I admit, they are usually pacified before it gets this bad. We have... additives, which my agents are trained to administer to the food, which ensures fullness in our more unreasonable clientele. Running the Glutton’s Row attracts big eaters, that much was always true - even in my father’s time - but with competitive eating on the rise, and the dawn of the digital age giving rise to influencers and their challenges. We have had to become creative in our methods.”

The tapir rubbed his neck, his posture was low and weary. “Then what went wrong this time, mister Shaw? If these additives are so effective at filling the bellies of these gluttons, then why is ‘this’ one seemingly resistant to its effects.” He looked Alasdair in the eye, there was a horror there, and he was trying desperately to communicate it through his unsteady cadence as he spoke. “I watched this beast pile entire plates and then -swallow- them, only to pull the plate BACK out of their mouth, dripping in saliva, and bereft of the food which filled it mere seconds ago.”

“That sounds rather uncomfortable,” Alasdair replied.

“No, it gets worse,” the tapir continued. “They eventually considered platefuls to be inefficient, and began just picking up entire trays. Pakora, tikka, rice, they washed down everything by -drinking- the drums of curry we had prepared this morning. Those drums were meant to serve an expected lunch rush of hundreds, mister Shaw, HUNDREDS.”

Alasdair brushed past and entered the restaurant just in time to see a trio of wolves hoisting a kebab spit over their shoulder, still dripping with juices from the stacked meats. “Wait, what are you doing with that!” Alasdair called. “That’s supposed to last us the entire day, you can’t just disconnect it from next door and bring it in here to sate some glutton’s food rage!”

“’Some glutton?’”

Laughter rose all around Alasdair. It filled the lushly decorated buffet floor, and pressed on him with its weight. Alasdair turned to look at a pair of smiling jaws, and the bemused eyes behind them. “How rude,” a T-Rex said, their stomach distended so thoroughly it was as large as the rest of their body and limbs combined. He rested on it, perched like a fat, well luxuriated cat. Their toothy grin reminded Alasdair of the Cheshire cat in its smugness, but it also reminded him of what he was dealing with.

An apex predator.

“You’re... enormous,” Alasdair, usually a man of confidence, stuttered out. He was certain the dinosaur was beached on their stomach and couldn’t do any real harm, but he couldn’t be sure. There was a feeling, something which harkened back to ancient times. He had only ever felt this way before in the presence of wolves as a young ram. Where he was reminded that in the time before speech, and culture, that he was a creature lower down on the food chain. Whose fate was to be eaten. This bloated beast’s smile inspired that same terror.

“No, I’m not.”

Alasdair blinked. “What do you mean you’re not?”

They laughed. “I am TINY, I am MINISCULE, and I am HUNGRY.”

“Then go somewhere else!” Alasdair demanded.

The T-Rex shook their head as far as their thick, fat neck would allow. Their stomach vibrated with pangs of hunger. “You are in no position to refuse me. My name is Borusa, Borusa Rylam, and you -will- feed me,” their long tongue extended to lick their snout clean of the remnants of the restaurant’s award-winning curry. “I’ve been on my feet all day, and as you can see my eating has taken its toll on my mobility, I can’t leave... not without considerable effort.”

Borusa managed to shimmy themselves forward a few inches. A show that they could still move.

“And what happens if we refuse?” Alasdair knew it was a terrible thing to ask, it was stupid, but he had to know. He had to know.

Borusa said nothing, and held eye contact with Alasdair.

The silence was deafening, the only thing that broke it was the 12-foot kebab’s juices dripping to the floor like savoury raindrops.

“Do I really need to say it?” Borusa said without any humour. “I EAT you all.”

Everyone present - the chefs peeking out from the kitchen, the wolves carrying the kebab, Alasdair and the wait staff who were huddled awkwardly in the corner - went stiff, eyes creeping to the black wool ram. Alasdair could feel the weight of their expectations, as heavy and oppressive as Borusa’s stomach leaving a spiderweb of cracks in the wooden floor. They were all waiting for him to come up with a solution.

“For how long?” Alasdair asked.

“Until I’m full,” Borusa chuckled.

“And how will we know when you’re full?”

“I’ll burst,” Borusa stated.

Alasdair raised a brow. “You’re telling me that you’re willing to risk bursting just to fill your belly?”

Borusa beckoned the wolves to come closer. Their fear of the Rex outweighed their obedience. Borusa grabbed hold of the iron spit and bit a chunk out of the stack of donner kebab meat that was meant for an entire day’s worth of people, the calories rapidly breaking down and adding to their stomach in a way that made it appear as though he were inflating. Their gut quivered and stretched, the rubbery burnt orange and sandy brown hide no worse for wear. “As you can see,” they said and took another bite, their belly filling further to the tune of a giant rubber band. “Everything goes straight to my stomach, and rather quickly at that. No matter how much I eat I remain hungry,” they sighed. “So yes. I’ll risk bursting like the gluttonous balloon I am, if it means I can feel a MODICUM of fullness. Now get to it.”

Gluttons Row was evacuated under mysterious circumstances. Everyone complied, with varying degrees of resistance, but everyone gave up and left their businesses behind in the end. Under the assumption that such an interruption of service would be temporary. The buffet that Borusa had wedged themself into was converted into a temporary holding cell, and feeding equipment reserved for ethically dubious livestock practices were brought in from overseas.

Alasdair was there at the beginning of the end, when they fit a mask over Borusa’s snout, and the last words he heard from the Rex were “you’ve made me the happiest glutton in the world, I hope you don’t regret your decision.”

That stretching noise, like tortured rubber, returned. Alasdair stood in a mix of disgust and awe. He couldn’t fathom how someone could ‘want’ this. Long tubes filled with food, not a slurry, solid food, pumped their contents into Borusa. Their mouth open as wide as the clear plastic of the mask would allow. Alasdair watched their cheeks swell up, like a leathery chipmunk, and then deflate with a heavy swallow audible over the expansion of hyper-durable gut, and humming machinery. This was only day one, and Alasdair - not usually a man to wish ill fates on people - hoped that the glutton would burst before midnight. He hoped that he would arrive in the morning, and find nothing but the scraps of a popped balloon.

***

“Mister Shaw!”

Alasdair struggled out of bed. Someone was in the midst of pounding on his office door, shaking the hinges and scrambling wildly at the handle. He hadn’t gotten any sleep; his dreams were plagued by the jaws of that fucking T-Rex. In case of an emergency he had slept in his office, and it was seeming like that was the right call.

“Mister Shaw, please, wake up!”

One of his many aides finally got through. They must have found the emergency key taped under the receptionist’s desk. “Mister Shaw, you need to do something, they’re out of control!”

“They were out of control from the start, what else is new?” Alasdair replied. “What time is it?”

“One o’clock in the afternoon sir, but really, just... look outside!”

Alasdair walked to the window and threw the curtains wide. And lost all hope. “Oh no.”

***

Borusa wanted to laugh, long and triumphantly, but they were too busy devouring their tribute from the restaurant cartel. They relished the cool Spring air, and the way it graced their warm rubbery hide. The respite from their own intense heat was heavenly, and if they let themselves, they would drift off into a long slumber. Eating while sleeping? That was child’s play for a glutton of their calibre. They looked around, their vision severely limited by the complexity of the feeding mask, and their own stomach which had spread out beneath them like a squashed exercise ball.

‘Did I go too far?’ Borusa thought, briefly, then focused on the feeling of building contentment in their stomach. It was a long way from absolute fullness, but it was the closest they had come in years. They were so used to gorging on everything and anything they could get their hands on, stuffing themselves to what they presumed to be the brim, only to wake up hollow, and aching. Aching for something more, something to plug up the black hole in their gullet preventing them from reaching a simple pleasure that everyone else in the world was capable of experiencing.

Threatening the ram had worked, perhaps too well. Borusa expected them to come to their senses and turn the hoses off once twelve hours of sustained, high pressured food pumping, didn’t result in a catastrophic explosion and instead produced an even bigger T-Rex. ‘How much longer are they going to keep the machine running,’ Borusa thought. They winced; their stomach was beginning to rip through the rest of the buffet below.

The structure was taxed to capacity by pliant, but forceful dinosaur belly. It spilled out of the windows, and the doorway. It filled every nook and cranny, taking on a squarish shape as it conformed to the space it was in the process of destroying.

“Increase the flow, widen the hoses, we need to burst this beast before it gets too big!”

Borusa found the notion amusing, and exciting. Either way it was their victory.

If they kept upping the flow then Borusa would grow larger, and larger, and larger ad infinitum. They briefly daydreamed about filling the cosmos, but that was a fantasy. So they would settle for filling the entirety of glutton’s row. A city block spanning belly was an achievement, a testament to their gluttony. They relaxed and swallowed the increased volume of food, not tasting it, just absorbing it. Practically drinking down the metric tonnes of solid matter, letting it rapidly pump their body fatter, and fatter, like a child’s balloon that paradoxically grew heavier with every impatient breath.

If they kept upping the flow, and Borusa’s body proved to lack the elasticity for it, however... they would burst, in absolute bliss. A fine send off for an insatiable glutton. It was a morbid thought, but it might be the only way to achieve their ultimate goal. Ultimate fullness. Packed solid, full to the brim. Sated and ominously taut, where one single morsel on their tongue - swallowed gleefully - would deliver them to an orgasmic release of pressure.

They had witnessed it before. A few friends had been cocky and gone full monster-movie on their respective cities. One, a dragon, had tried to strong arm an entire city into serving him like a king. They responded by shoving a hydrogen hose into his mouth and pumping him up with a mixture of rubberizing formula, and the hydrogen itself. He wound up being celebrated, just like he wanted, but his shiny, candy red body could only hold so much before it popped. It was a glorious explosion, confetti rained from the fireball, but that wasn’t Borusa’s style.

Borusa didn’t want to be a balloon. Flying had its own appeal, but all-encompassing mass was the goal here. Their stomach began to rise from their flank, from behind, and in front of their very eyes. While they were remembering the fate of their airy friend, they had exploded out of the restaurant’s confines. With no walls to impede their belly’s growth, like a conventional belt’s restrictions imposed on a conventional stomach, they burgeoned with reckless abandon.

It might have been the thinning air, the further Borusa’s head got to the sky, propped up by their building crushing belly. But Borusa was starting to feel... silly, giggling to themselves at the absurdity of the situation. They were dimly aware of more demands coming from the ground below to increase the feeding pressure, but holding their mouth half-opened was as natural as breathing to them now. In fact, it was their breathing. They lived and breathed the air of enormity, of fat, weight gain and their own expanding providence.

Some buildings caught fire, gas mains popped and ignited under the unmitigated wall of dinosaur belly. Others were swallowed up underneath striped, burnt orange hide without any fanfare. Borusa wondered what it looked like to anyone foolish enough to be in the vicinity. They liked to think of themselves as a positive thing. That’s what they were now, more of a thing, than a person or a dinosaur. A role model for those who wanted to grow beyond their limits. They were a fat silhouette perched atop a divine orb, a big, godly sphere. Yes, that’s right.

‘I AM big itself.’

Glutton’s Row was lost underneath Borusa, somewhere. Along with the adjoining neighbourhood. They encroached gleefully on the larger structures of the cityscape nearby. Their belly roared up, and surged through, like a solid tide. The feeding, its speed and volume, had removed the softness from their mega-gut. It was a springy, taut, unburstable object that had no equal. It WAS the immovable object. It WAS the unstoppable force.

They met some resistance when their body bulged over the grey, boring rectangles of modern architecture. But Borusa decided that their fatness would not be stopped by anything, and that any culture destroyed by their gut, was a worthy sacrifice to their belly. They inhaled the water vapour of a cloud, and noticed something when their nostrils managed to suck it up.

Their head was... larger, now, so was their entire upper body. It was still a speck amidst the belly sea, and its growing folds, but it was definitely bigger. Which meant their mouth was larger, and that their feeders - if they continued down this path - would be able to fit even more food per second into Borusa’s mouth.

‘I’m going to be BEYOND enormity...’

***

Alasdair Joseph Shaw shared little in common with his ancient ancestor. He had inherited the coal black wool, but his horns were small and stubby, and he lacked the acumen that made his forebear so legendary. He was a chubby, meek courier with just enough courage to get behind the control panel of a GLU-045. An interstellar sloop, utilizing a single ether drive core, made for rapid transit across the tradeways. He was usually tasked with carrying express orders, things for people who had paid the extra little charge by ticking that box at the end of a transaction saying, “next day delivery.” Unknowingly giving him the pleasure of plotting the logistics involved in getting Susan’s new curtains from Terra-04 to Terra-92 in a single 24-hour standard hour cycle.

The glowing sphere in the cargo hull was not a pair of curtains.

Whatever the faintly humming object was, it was suspended in a transparent cube of reinforced nu-plastic strong enough to survive an exploding star. It also came with a stern looking feathered raptor in full military dress, who kept looking at Alasdair in a weary fashion, communicating just how much he didn’t want to be there. “Stop here. Engage the ether drive and warp to these coordinates exactly,” he removed a remote drive from his left bracer and held it out to Alasdair.

“You could at least tell me what it is we’re delivering,” Alasdair replied. He plugged the drive into the console’s drive port, and the ship’s engine sang the long, warbling note of its warp components heating up in preparation to violate space-time. “Warping in three, two one,” Alasdair pulled the release lever. The ship was bathed in blue light, racing through a corridor of colours too immaterial and strange, that had never been property identified by sentient eyes. The disparity between the apparent speed of the ship through the forward window, and the absolute stillness of the cockpit, tended to make first-time warp travellers nauseous. Thankfully neither Alasdair, nor his grim passenger, seemed to be affected.

The tunnel ended. Alasdair’s eyes widened. An expanse of burnt orange, strangely shiny, almost rubbery, spread out as far as he could see across what should have been the void of space. The distant stars were gone, as if someone had taken a paintbrush and simply painted over them in black. The only source of light which Alasdair could register, was an artificial solar sphere, far above the craft. It granted its light sparingly, and to Alasdair’s surprise, he noted several heavy turrets mounted on the structure.

“Those are planet destroyers,” Alasdair gasped. “I’ve never seen an installation with enough space to build one of them, let alone two.”

The raptor spoke up, “even if they were fired, they would likely have no effect against their intended target.” His face was even more grim, if such a thing was possible. “Your ancestors signed for their construction, and it’s because of them, that you’re here now. Do you know about the great burgeoning?”

Alasdair shrugged. “Only what they teach us in school,” he clicked his tongue trying to remember. “It was some kind of biological cataclysm, something - they never specified what - grew to occupy what used to be the solar system containing Earth - or Terra 0 - right?”

“That is correct,” the military raptor replied curtly. “And for the last one thousand and six hundred years, we have been responsible for satiating that ‘unknown mass’ to ensure it never grows out of control, ever again. Like that fabled day in Gluttons Row. We have to keep it -full-, mister Shaw.”

“It?” Alasdair felt his wool whiten. “You mean it’s alive?”

“I’m afraid so.”

Alasdair looked through the window and followed the instructions presented to him by the computer. The burnt orange expanse had long, angular black stripes the size of planetary fissures. With a growing dread in the pit of his stomach, Alasdair realized that they were the markings of a creature, an apex predator, so fearsome that entire solar systems worth of workers had set up factories on its body to keep it tame.

Large, domed structures, lined ‘it.’ Within the domes were agricultural plants, food replicator plants big enough to feed entire space-faring civilizations, and housing platforms for the trillions of people who had been flown in to operate them. Each dome had an enormous tube made of indestructible nanotech latex, which they were pumping the products of their labour through in physics defying quantities. Alasdair realized that he was being guided to the point where the hoses converged, a great depression in the rubbery striped, orange mass. As he made the ship begin its descent, he swore he could see the shining point of a claw, big enough to skewer moons just over the horizon.

“What you are about to see must remain classified, mister Shaw. If the universe were to have this information as public knowledge, it would incite panic, and existential dread in every sentient creature across the known galaxies.”

“No pressure, then,” Alasdair activated the side, underside, and overhead lighting arrays. They were descending into a tunnel pinned open by the tubes from the domed structures above. It was food, they were feeding tubes, according to the scanners. But feeding what?

Alasdair got his answer. He stopped the ship, just as he thought his heart might stop when he regarded the enormous, contented face of the apex predator which spanned the solar system. A great smiling tyrannosaurus Rex whose head was probably as large as a small space station. Its cheeks were massive, and repeatedly ballooning up, and deflating, with the astronomical mass of food that was being pumped into the creature’s maw to ensure it remained docile.

“This is Borusa Rylam, the glutton who ate until they covered our home system. We keep them fed, to ensure they never go on another voracious rampage. I know they may seem immobile, with their head sunken this far into their own celestial corpulence, but trust me. They are still capable of unfathomable destruction.”

Alasdair shuddered. “What is the orb for, then?”

The raptor sighed. “It’s a galaxy’s worth of food, condensed into an object the size of a grapefruit. Borusa awoke last cycle and demanded something ‘more filling.’ So we obliged. Your ancestor originally planned to over-feed Borusa until they burst, as a way of giving them their just reward for interrupting his business. It didn’t work... as you can see. And even though we do have the technology to blow this giga-predator up like the balloon it really is, the detonation would be catastrophic. So we have no choice but to keep feeding them, until the end of time.”

Alasdair shook his head. “And what happens if it gets full?”

The raptor looked at Alasdair, and gave him a look of pity. “Borusa -never- feels full.”