author: Cyber
The hallway of the jail had an eerie sense of sterility to them, the atmosphere strikingly similar to one you could find in a hospital’s ER wing or a morgue. The resident jailor was certainly no less warm or jovial, no matter how much his rotund figure seemed to claim the opposite. Amon ger Reizenghest was a monument of unyielding muscle buried beneath hundreds of pounds of fat that bounced and wobbled at the slightest motion. And lately, the ratio of fat to muscle on his figure had been leaning increasingly more towards the former in recent weeks…
His entire body had been steadily blowing up with soft, warm fat that became more prominent with each day, and not one inch of his figure had been spared the extra poundage. Nor had it escaped the attention of his superiors: His already tree trunk-thick neck had grown to such a point that attempting to button his uniform’s collar was a pipe dream now, in fact his entire uniform was fighting to contain his ever-growing bulk. His belt threatened to shatter just as it had weeks before, buttons strained and stretched to the point where diamonds of pale, marshmallowy blubber bulged between them, seams groaning and creaking around his ass and stomach… And this was only his front. Even his back was being swallowed up with thick, heavy rolls of lard that only served to make his already roly-poly body look damned ridiculous. The more prominent of these even seemed to extend around his waistline, forming a thick tire of fat that Amon found could double as cushions for the arms of his chair. While marginally more comfortable than usual, it made heaving his fat ass back up from his desk even more of a pain. He’d left dents and chips in the corner of his wooden office desk where he’d been irritated enough to give it a good kick with his steel-hard boots.
The catalyst for all this growth had been Prisoner #60554, a twiggy little redhead who had been captured in a reconnaissance plane with terrifying efficiency upon the vehicle crash-landing, and almost immediately the jailor could tell this one truly had nothing of value to give. By the boy’s own admittance, he’d hardly been told much of anything about his mission besides to conduct surveillance, and that he’d only been told what direction to go. He’d effectively been sent on a suicide mission and hadn’t even realized until the jailor stated as much, and inadvertently breaking the poor thing’s heart in the process. Amon’s icy heart had just enough decency and kindness to at least spare the pilot, and before long had allowed him to become an assistant in the jail. “Becoming an assistant” basically boiled down to “any jobs that would mean having to haul his fat ass around the base further than the jail floors”, ranging from running messages to and from Amon’s superior officers to fetching him meals and snacks when the General wasn’t pummeling POWs to a bloody smear on the floor. All this pampering left Amon more trusting of his assistant, allowing the rail-thin boy to massage and even feed him, until by the end of each day he looked like an overinflated balloon stuffed with fattening meals and sweets of all kinds.
One evening he’d requested another such smorgasbord of desserts, his body completely bare (save for the overtaxed underwear around his hips keeping him decent), taking great fistfuls of pie and cake without any regard for utensils until he felt too full to continue. With a soft grunt he “motioned” for 60554 to come help, yanking on a chain leading to a collar round the poor thing’s neck. 60554 had been blindfolded, so there was no chance of him judging his master for being such a pig or staring at his fat rather than feeding it. Gently guiding his hands to and from the remaining tins of buttermilk pie a few times, Amon gave a contented hum once they’d established a rhythm and his pet was able to feed him unaided. His belly started to grow pink as it was pushed further, becoming an increasingly heavy, hard boulder in Amon’s lap as the pies vanished down his insatiable maw.
“Done.” He growled softly after the last possible morsels of pie had been pushed through those lips, his belly truly feeling as though it were going to burst. Yanking the boy’s chain again, he held the boy tight against his overloaded middle. “Rub.” Amon grunted, his nearly aching belly quickly soothed by his pet’s skinny hands dutifully kneading and massaging the angry pink flab. Even though his poor pet remained utterly wordless besides a stuttery “y-yessir” or a small mumble of fear, Amon could feel just how much he loved every pound of his fat just from the way he lovingly tended to his belly. “Nngh…. You did well, 60554. I want you to double the portions next time, though… This felt like a damned snack.”