He wiggled his toes. He hadn’t been able to do that in a while. His finger uncurled from their fists reluctantly, trying to remember how to work. They felt strange, like they had too much weight to them. The rubber pulled back further, along his arms and legs, and there were some sensations Rich was expecting, but that didn’t happen. He…couldn’t feel any air against his cock, even though the rubber was no longer covering it. It was still buried in…something warm and soft. Without the rubber holding it back, he felt his gut spill out, followed by his chest. He must be fatter, but how much fatter? He wanted to touch himself, he wanted to feel himself, but Master had ordered him to stay still, sitting back on his knees, hands on the floor. Now only the hood was left. Two rough hands…rough. How long since he’d felt skin against his skin? Skin besides the feeling of a hand or a foot in his ass, besides a cock down his throat, or a filthy ass puckered against his tongue? He shivered. His skin got chills after being trapped in the suit for so long, and his entire body felt slimy and clammy with sweat.
The hands pulled the hood free in one movement, and the light was blinding. He hadn’t seen anything since the hood had gone on…days ago? Weeks? He’d been unable to keep track of time. He’d tried to count cigars, he’d tried to count fucks and loads and so many other things to keep his mind busy, but he’d just…sunk in. Accepted it, enjoyed it even. He blinked a few times, and realized he was kneeling in front of a mirror. There was some kind of white blob in the reflection–was that him?
It was him. What in the world was he, even? Fat. He was fat. No wonder he couldn’t feel his cock–it was buried beneath his huge fat apron, between two thighs larger than anything he’d ever seen before. He couldn’t look at it. It was disgusting. He looked up, and caught his own eyes, but his face, even his face was wrong. His mouth seemed too wide, the nose too big, eyes too small. He no longer had anything resembling a neck–his head just dissolved into folds of fatty jowls and chins which cascaded down onto his chest, where two huge moobs shook with every labored breath. His hair was gone–all of it. His entire body was completely smooth, his head, his face, his belly. His skin had lightened to a ghostly, sickly white, and the sheen of sweat all over him only made it worse.
He looked away. He couldn’t look at that. He looked over and down and saw a pair of leather boots, followed them up, and found a massive, six and a half foot tall brute looming over him. Derrick–no, not Derrick was gone, or dead. This no longer even looked like him. His entire body was covered with leather, a crisp, shiny uniform, up to his neck. The face, though. Beneath the thick beard he could see a sharp jawline too angled to be human. In fact, the entire face looked like a crystal with flesh stretched so tight over it it might rip at any moment. He was smiling. He was smiling, and it’s eyes were red, and it’s teeth were sharp, and there were bones pushing through the skin above his eyebrows, blood dribbling from two of the wounds, unnoticed by it.
He needed a cigar. He couldn’t think about any of this. Almost as if he was anticipating him, the brute, the demon, took a thick cigar down, shoved it in Rich’s mouth, and lit it to life. He sucked in the smoke…and realized too late that he had made the final mistake. There was something else in this cigar, something…another it. Another thing like whatever it was in Derrick’s body. He coughed and hacked, trying to force it from his lungs, but his body felt so…heavy all of a sudden. Leaden. It was just so much effort. He slumped to one side, tried to catch himself, but ended up crashing to the floor on his fat side, wheezing.
“Oh Rich, I think you dropped something,” it said, bent down and picked up the cigar and this time jammed it so far down his throat where he lay that he knew he had no choice but to inhale. “Oh Sloth, Mr. Sloth. Do come play with me. I’ve enjoyed the mortal, I truly have, but oh how I long for a filthy, filthy Sloth…”
Rich was trying to fight, trying to rationalize with whatever it was inside of him, but while Derrick had at least been able to reason with the Wrath now inhabiting him, Sloth was unreason. Rich would plead, but pleading was too much effort, wasn’t it? In fact, why think at all? Why bother with a mind? It was mindless, it was acidic. Every effort he made against it simply dissolved. It was irrelevant. Useless. The ego is useless. He was useless. Yes…why even exist at all? That was the question he suddenly had to face. Why exist?
Rich was too exhausted to answer. There was no answer, really. He could see that now. It would be easier, really. So much easier to just stop fighting. He sighed, and let the demon inside of him run amok. His memories dissolved, his desires fled. What was he even? A voice? A will? What was a will in the face of utter sloth?
Wrath watched eagerly, as the cigar burnt down. He could see the light in Rich’s eyes dimming, the iris’ and whites dimming to greys and then to deep tar black, without any reflection at all. The cigar burned to ash, and the mouth hungrily chomped it to bits and swallowed it down. “Wrath….Wrath……Fuck…hole…….” the blob managed to say, with a voice something between a whisper and a gargle.
“Oh you piece of filth, I know what you want,” Wrath said, and rolled it over. It was so heavy suddenly! But he found the hole, sucking and hungry at the rear, drooling some foul smelling filth down the crack, and shoved his fist in as deep as he could with a deep howl.
Bracken's Corner 