THE HIGH TABLE

bare_knuckle: My induced sleep doesn’t last long. I wake up pinned in your arms, locked in a hold that feels equal parts prison and insult. You’re not restraining me because you need to. You’re doing it because you can. Because you think the earlier fight settled something. Because you assume I’ve accepted my place beneath you. You really have no idea who you’re dealing with. I stay still, letting my breath rise and fall in a slow, steady rhythm while fury simmers just beneath the surface. I keep my face slack, my body limp. I save every spark of strength for the moment I’ll need it. When you stir awake and mutter something smug, I know my first move has already worked. You think I’m done resisting. Done fighting. Done challenging you. “I know when to submit,” I murmur, soft and convincing. The biggest lie I’ve ever told, delivered with perfect sincerity. You buy it instantly.

bare_knuckle: You scoop me up and carry me toward your kitchen, casual and careless, completely unaware that the only part of me that’s truly relaxed is my expression. My mind is already ten steps ahead, stitching together the bones of a plan you’ll never see coming. “Maybe we both need to shower first,” I say, nodding at the dried cum coating both of us. You agree without hesitation, of course you do, and just like that, everything slides into place. I shower first and use the opportunity to explore the bathroom. And I find just what I need. Perfect! After I'm done, you go to clean yourself up, content, unthreatened, convinced the storm has passed. But storms don’t pass. They just change direction. While water thunders through your pipes and steam coats the bathroom door, I quietly explore more of your space. I study the room layout, the angles, the potential footholds and weaknesses. I’m not looking for weapons. I’m looking for leverage; the kind you never expect until it tightens around your throat. By the time you step out, towelling your hair, humming like your world is perfectly in order, my plan is complete.

bare_knuckle: I busy myself in the kitchen as you begin cluttering around in the living room, dainty as an elephant, clearing up the mess from our earlier fight.

bare_knuckle:

bare_knuckle:

bare_knuckle: I’m no chef, but there’s enough processed food in this kitchen to cater a circus. And honestly? That’s perfect. I don’t need elegance. I need volume. I start with the omelettes. Not normal omelettes but monstrosities. Full fat cream, fistfuls of cheese, obscene slabs of ham. They look like something a bodybuilder would inhale during bulking season or a man trying to impress himself. Next: the microwaveable breakfast muffins. All ten of them. I stack them like trophies of questionable judgement. Then I whip up enough pancakes to qualify as a structural hazard, all glistening under a jug of maple syrup meant for an entire village. Milkshake. Thick enough to require a spoon. Coffee, decaf, to keep him unsuspecting, drowned in cream and five sugars like I’m trying to resurrect a corpse. And more. Always more. Because for this plan to work, I don’t need subtlety. I need excess. I need him lulled, stuffed, comfortable, smug. Alcohol helps with that. An eight pack will do for starters. The kind he downs without thinking. And then there’s my secret ingredient. A bottle of sleeping tablets, ground to powder, mixed into the food and drink. Surely this is enough to sink a ship. A giant, fat, strong, horny tanker!

bare_knuckle:

bare_knuckle: Watching you devour all that food makes my stomach churn. I mean… it’s not even remotely human at this point. Are you chewing? At all? A hippo would show more restraint. A wood chipper would show more manners. For a moment I just stand there, frozen, mesmerised. Your plate empties. Then another. Then another. It’s like watching a natural disaster in fast-forward. And then you pull out that thing your self-declared “feeding device”, which is really just the world’s saddest conveyor belt. Abhorrent is the polite word. I’m still staring when you grunt, “Pass me another one.” The audacity. The confidence. The sheer gravitational pull of your gluttony. “Fat fucker? Damn right,” I mutter under my breath as I grab the funnel from the wall. I can’t believe I’m enabling this, but I need those beers in you for my reasons; and you are very, very enthusiastic about helping.

bare_knuckle: You clap your hands together, giddy. “Open wide?” I ask, raising a brow. You nod so hard the floorboards tremble. Fine. If you want theatre, you will get theatre. I slot the funnel between your teeth,gently, mind you, since you’re actively cooperating, and tilt the first bottle. You suck the beer down like it’s evaporating mid-air. The second goes faster. The third is gone before I even register what’s happening. I’m struggling to keep up. You’re chugging like it’s an Olympic sport. By the time I reach bottle eight, I’m sweating more than you are. You slam your fist on the table in triumph, looking far too proud of yourself. “Done!” you announce through a belch that could register on a seismograph. And I just stand there, funnel in hand, wondering what kind of eldritch creature I’ve been left alone with.

bare_knuckle: And that’s the mistake. Not one that hurts me yet, but one that will, in ways future-me is absolutely going to curse present-me for.

bare_knuckle: You turn your back for half a second, unsteady, overconfident, still catching your breath from your heroic buffet massacre. And that’s all I need. I launch. No hesitation now. I throw every ounce of strength, every scrap of rage, every stupid impulse in my body straight into your midsection. A few hours ago, you would have shrugged this off and I’d have bounced backwards like a cartoon character. But now? You’re slower. Heavy. Full. Drugged. My shoulder slams into your gut with a skin-on-skin crack that echoes through the room. You grunt, a deep, shocked, seismic sound, and your centre of gravity evaporates. Then comes the real show. You hit the floor like a felled titan. The impact shakes the furniture, rattles the windows, and possibly alerts the local wildlife. I stumble forward, half from the force I used, half from sheer disbelief that it actually worked. For the first time today… You’re down. And I’m standing over you.

bare_knuckle:

bare_knuckle: I stroll over to your fallen body and give you a sharp kick to the ribs. You grunt, because you’re helpless, winded, still bloated from your own competitive overeating marathon, still trying to get your breath back. The sound is delayed, rough, and exactly the kind of response that tells me I’ve knocked the smugness out of you. “Like your food, don’t you, fat man?” I growl, letting the words drip with mockery. You glare at me, still groggy, still trying to roll to your side. “Don’t worry,” I say, heading back to the kitchen, “I’ve got plenty more for you.” I return with the tray I’d kept for myself earlier, holding it out just out of your reach. Your eyes lock onto it with that ridiculous, instinctive hunger of yours. You're a glutton and unable to control yourself. Not that it matters. You're eating this whether you like it or not.

bare_knuckle: Taking my time, I stuff handful and handful into your mouth and watch as you chew and swallow it, driven purely by instinct and an insatiable love of eating.

bare_knuckle: Your gut is stretched tight from the feast you chose to inhale, and the one you didn't. “I’ve got time,” I say, dropping into a crouch by your feet. “And I plan to enjoy every second.” Your eyes widen, not in fear, but in the resigned dread of a man who knows exactly what kind of stupid game he signed up for. “Let’s start with something fun.” I trail my fingers along your foot, light, deliberate, exploring the sensitive spots you never admit you have. The reaction is immediate, a strangled laugh you try to swallow, a twitch you try to hide, the kind of involuntary response that tells me you’re feeling every bit of this. Your leg jolts, more out of instinct than resistance. “Oh, you hate this,” I say softly, almost gleefully. “Which is exactly why I’m doing it.” I keep going, just for a moment, letting the anticipation build, because we both know this isn’t about tickling. This is about the promise of what comes next.

bare_knuckle: I keep at your foot for a few more seconds, watching every twitch and jolt travel through your oversized frame. The helpless annoyance, the fact you can’t plant your feet and shove me off yet. That’s what I’m after. You grunt and squirm, trying to drag your leg away with about as much coordination as a tranquilised walrus. Good. That’s the reaction I want. Not pleasure, just pure, frustrated vulnerability. The kind a giant like you absolutely hates showing. I switch to your other foot. Another twitch. Another involuntary jolt. Another strangled noise that tells me your body is still sluggish, still bloated, still nowhere near ready to retaliate. Yeah. This is working. Maybe even better than I expected because it’s getting under your skin, needling at you, chipping away at that mountain-sized ego one irritated spasm at a time.

bare_knuckle: "You don't like your feet being tickled? Good. Let's ramp this up a little".

bare_knuckle: I clamp both hands around your ankle and start to lift. Your leg is a damn tree trunk. It feels like I’m trying to deadlift a sofa stuffed with sandbags, stubbornness, and leftover breakfast. “Jesus,” I mutter, gritting my teeth, hauling upwards inch by painful inch. It takes everything I’ve got, but I manage to drag your ankle up onto my shoulder. Your eyes widen in fear, but you're too incapacitated to do much about it now. I step forward, pushing my body weight into your leg to force it higher. Your hamstrings tighten like cables about to snap. You grunt, low and guttural; the sound of a man who knows exactly what’s happening and hates that he can’t counter it fast enough.

bare_knuckle:

bare_knuckle: One more step forward and then the sound I was waiting for. A scream. A loud scream. Higher pitched than I expected from a man your size. It's the scream you make when muscles and ligaments tear. And with that controlled, deliberate if difficult move, I've stopped you from being able to chase after me when I decide it's time to escape.

bare_knuckle:

bare_knuckle: "You thought I was going to fuck you? No, I'm trying and succeeding in hurting you. But fucking you is not a bad idea!"

bare_knuckle: It's an idea that will have to wait, because now I have you in a more valuable position. Your cock and balls are tightly squeezed into your pants, like a target that's desperate to be hit. Or kicked. Or stomped! Yes, stomped! Still holding your leg and leaning into it for support, I lift my left foot and slam it down hard on bulge between your legs.

bare_knuckle: Am I getting revenge on you or Powerlifter? Honestly, I don’t even know anymore. All I know is someone’s paying for it, and right now, you’re the closest target. “How many times did you blast cum on my back earlier?” I snarl. “Six? Seven?” You try to rise, still sluggish, still too full and too drugged. “Let’s call it seven, lard arse!". I slam my foot onto your balls. Then again. You block the third with a slight move of your leg, but not the fourth. By the fifth you’re roaring, trying to sit up and guard your precious organs. Six connects with your hand, knocking it away. Seven finally forces you back down onto your back, breath exploding from your lungs. This is payback in motion, the revenge of an idiot too stubborn to back down, too angry to stop, too proud to admit the last round should have been the end. And I stand over you, chest heaving, adrenaline burning straight through my veins. Revenge isn’t clean. It isn’t smart. But damn, it feels good right now.

bare_knuckle: After two humiliating defeats, this victory feels exhilarating and I don't want it to end. Thoughts of escaping, of returning to my life, of getting back on track... well, they're relegated to a distant thought. All I know is the enjoyment of the now. I pull away my towel and stand confidently naked over my defeated opponent. My cock is hard. I hadn't realised. 5" of uncut masculinity stands proud. I want to cum so hard. I look down at your incapacitated body.

bare_knuckle: How can I fuck that? It isn't a metaphysical question. No, it's grounded in realism. How can I move you to get you into position? How can a 5" cock, that looks big on my small body, possibly get through your huge glutes to arrive at the goal... at the hole! And what can this cock do to a man who regularly entertains the 15" monster belonging to Powerlifter? This requires some creative thinking.

bare_knuckle: "When you used me as a sex toy, for foreplay, it was humiliating. Now is your time to be humiliated". I know you can hear me and I'm sure you can just about comprehend the words through the drug haze. "Just wait here" I mock, knowing full well that you couldn't move even if you wanted.

bare_knuckle: After some rummaging around in the kitchen I return with a smile, a hard cock, and a massive rolling pin! "I'm going to combine your two favourite things... cooking and cock. Except this rolling pin is the cock, not the cooking implement". I laugh out loud at my own humour, not even bothering to check your expression. The first hurdle to overcome is getting access. I drag two dining chair from the adjoining room. With effort, sweat, and sheer determination I hoist your injured leg onto the first chair. Whimpering reminds me how much that leg must be hurting. With some more effort, the other leg is moved onto the second chair.

bare_knuckle:

bare_knuckle: I disappear for another minute and return with scissors in hand. Menacingly, I approach your face and raise the scissors. Even your emotions are delayed by the drugs, alcohol and food, but I wait long enough. There it is! The fear creeping over your face. I laugh again, mockingly. "I'm not going to carve you up". I move down to the business end. A few snips, tears, and a bit of tugging and finally your pants are off. Your naked arse is now ready for punishment. A painful flashback of last night captures all of my attention. Being lowered onto Powerlifter's weapon-like cock. The feeling of being ripped open. Bruising to internal organs. You will be punished for his actions.

bare_knuckle: "Are you ready for this?, I call over.

bare_knuckle: No lube, no stretching, no preparation. The rolling pin parts your huge muscled cheeks, penetrates your hole, and continues to force its way deep inside you. "This is what your Powerlifter did to me. He destroyed me with his cock. Do you know how much pain I feel inside as a result of that? I needed a hospital but instead he brought me here... to you!"

bare_knuckle: It's like therapy announcing those words. the beginning of a recovery. The acknowledgement of what happened. I pull the rolling pin completely out before ramming it back in again with even more force. I didn't even register that it was clean; that you must have douched when getting your shower. That you were preparing for Powerlifter's imminent arrival.

bare_knuckle: I continue raping your hole, listening to your whimpering, enjoying the revenge. I've not touched my cock but I can feel it close to shooting already. Revenge is an erotic mistress.

bare_knuckle: "Feeding time again!". Leaving the rolling pin deep inside you, I quickly move to your head, straddling it as I stand over you, cock in hand. "Open up!" I command.

bare_knuckle: The globule of spit hits my face. I don't get angry. I don't retaliate. You did what I did to Powerlifter. It's a true reversal of roles. Besides, my balls are getting tighter and the explosion is imminent. I aim my cock at your mouth, lift my head back and roar as I shoot, filling your mouth and adding to your wonderful calorific intake!

bare_knuckle: My body tremors as a second shot of cum fires at you, missing the target and hitting the side of your mouth. As I look down at you, I see that fat tongue snake out from between your lips and hunt for the extra cum. I'm confused! I look behind me and there it is. Your massive cock hard and proud, almost as if saluting my efforts.

bare_knuckle: You're enjoying this!

bare_knuckle: My revenge no longer tastes so sweet, tainted by the poison that is your sexual appetite. Even drugged, you've continued to make me little more than your sex toy. No! I shake my head trying to disperse the negative thoughts. I know I've hurt you. I heard you moan. But wait, was that a moan of pain? "FUCK!"

bare_knuckle: I climb off you and return to your legs, which as moving with more certainty. Your left leg kicks away the chair supporting it. The drugs are wearing off. Reaching between your legs, I extract the rolling pin and I'm sure I hear a giggle of pleasure as I do so. Your rock hard cock twitches, likely in excitement, but no, not this time. With rolling pin in hand, I move to your side and begin swinging the makeshift bat against your distended gut. As full as it is, I know even you can't be deriding any pleasure from it. As if beating a huge drum, the rhythmic booms fill our ears. My breathing intensifies with the effort, beads of sweat forming on my brow. A smaller man would have been beaten to death. You're anything but small.

bare_knuckle: And then silence. I stop beating on your gut and have a moment of clarity. "Escape, ESCAPE!" That quiet voice finally has an audience. Throwing the rolling pin at your head and quickly grabbing my towel, I hastily wrap it around my waist and head towards the door. I turn the handle. It moves, I feel the door loosen a little. It's not locked. I open it and...