THE HIGH TABLE

bare_knuckle: The door swings open and the light hits me wrong. Early evening. That alone throws me. Time has slipped its leash completely and bolted. Cold air crawls over my skin, raising goosebumps. I’m barefoot. Half dressed. A towel is knotted around my waist like a joke I didn’t agree to. I step outside, blink once, then look left. And there he is. Only a few metres away, moving towards the house with the calm certainty of someone who knows they don’t need to hurry. Massive. Unavoidable. The man I know only as Powerlifter. For once, instinct isn’t stupid. I turn and run. Concrete bites into the soles of my feet, sharp and unforgiving, but pain is background noise now. I push harder, legs pumping, breath tearing out of my chest. Short stride, fast cadence. Everything I’ve got goes into forward motion.

bare_knuckle: I don’t look back. I don’t need to. I can feel him. The weight of his presence presses down on the air itself, swallowing distance like it doesn’t exist. Each step I take feels smaller than the last. Futile. Then it ends. Something huge clamps onto the back of my neck. Fingers like iron, absolute and final. The world tilts as I’m lifted clean off the ground. My legs keep running for a second or two, kicking at nothing, muscle memory refusing to accept reality. It would almost be funny if it wasn’t devastating.

bare_knuckle: I don’t fight. There’s no point. That realisation hits harder than the concrete ever did. The house comes back into view as I’m carried effortlessly towards it, dangling, helpless, the cool air replaced by the crushing certainty that escape was never really on the table. The door looms closer. And this time, I know exactly what it means when it closes.

bare_knuckle: 

bare_knuckle: 

bare_knuckle: Frustration flickers across your face as you move from room to room. It is subtle, but I see it. A tightening of the jaw. A pause that lasts a beat too long. You do not know exactly what you are looking for, only that you are not finding it. And whatever that missing thing is, I know it is going to cost me. You stop. Without a word, you carry me down a wide corridor and into a room that makes my stomach drop before my eyes have even finished adjusting. It is not one thing that terrifies me. It is the variety. Shelves lined with equipment I do not recognise. Objects built for leverage, pressure, restraint. Some are crude. Some are disturbingly precise. Everything is oversized, engineered for strength far beyond mine. This is not a room for hesitation or mistakes. You scan the walls, still dissatisfied, until something finally catches your attention. That is when you act. Before I can react, my neck is cuffed to cold metal restraints bolted to a post set into the floor. The sound is final. Mechanical. Thoughtless. You give them a brief tug, testing them, then leave me there without a glance back.

bare_knuckle: I pull at the cuffs immediately. Panic floods my chest as I strain against them, but they do not shift even a millimetre. The metal is thick. Industrial. Designed to hold something much stronger than me. The room feels smaller now. I search desperately for anything useful. A loose bolt. A tool. Anything. But everything I see is wrong. Heavy. Blunt. Sharpened. Devices that look less like equipment and more like instruments. I cannot tell what they are meant for or who they were made to be used on, but none of them suggest mercy. Minutes stretch. The air hums with quiet purpose. And slowly, horribly, the truth settles in. This place is not improvised. It is not chaotic. It is organised. Thought through. Repeated. I finally understand that you are not experimenting. You are experienced. And whatever happens next was never about losing control. It was about making sure I never had any.

bare_knuckle:

bare_knuckle: The door slams shut. The sound doesn’t echo. It doesn’t linger. It just stops, swallowed whole, and that is when the truth lands. The room isn’t quiet. It’s designed to be quiet. Soundproofed. “Help!” I shout, the word tearing out of my throat. It vanishes instantly, absorbed by the walls like it never existed. No rebound. No distant response. Just my own breathing, suddenly loud and uneven. I tug at the restraint again. Not with hope. With obligation. The human need to do something when everything else has been taken away. The metal doesn’t flex. It doesn’t complain. It simply holds. I stop pulling. There is no point wasting strength on something that was never meant to fail. I sit there, listening to my own movements, every shift of weight sounding wrong in the dead air. My heart thumps too fast. Too exposed. Each breath feels like it’s being counted. And then the thought I’ve been avoiding finally pushes its way in. I know what Powerlifter can do to someone alone. I know what Bill can do too. I have seen the confidence. The ease. The way control comes naturally to them, like muscle memory. Three men. One room. One small person who cannot move. I try not to picture what happens when they stop being separate threats and start being a system. But the room already knows. And the silence waits.

bare_knuckle: The silence shatters as the door flies open and slams into the wall hard enough to rattle the room. You still have to duck to get inside. That alone would be enough to tell me something is wrong. But I do not need body language to explain what your face is already screaming. Whatever restraint you were holding on to outside this room is gone. You slam the door shut behind you. The sound dies instantly, swallowed by the walls, leaving only the weight of your presence pressing down on the air. You take one look at me. Then you reach out and tear the metal restraint free as if it were nothing more than brittle plastic. The sharp crack of snapping steel is the only warning I get. I open my mouth to speak. To plead. To promise anything. No sound comes out.

bare_knuckle: Your hand closes around my throat and lifts me clean off the ground in one smooth, effortless motion. This is not hurried. This is not careless. This is deliberate. Controlled. Absolute. You raise me until we are eye to eye. I try to communicate without words. Panic, apology, anything that might register. Your expression does not change. You are not listening. You are not weighing options. My arms and legs kick uselessly, instincts firing without purpose. You hold me at arm’s length, far enough away that I cannot touch you, close enough that I cannot escape you. I am suspended, powerless, reduced to weight and resistance. And in that moment, something settles in my chest colder than fear. This is not punishment. This is correction. And I finally understand that nothing I do now will change what you have already decided. The force and the intent to control with which you lifted me speaks volumes. When you did it in the alleyway, it was painful and powerful, but this time it's different. Before, you wanted fun. Now you want something darker.

bare_knuckle: The headbutt arrives in slow motion, inevitable, unstoppable. There is a brief, absurd moment where I register the movement, the angle, the certainty of it. Then impact. The world fractures and goes dark. I never feel the damage. I never see the blood. Consciousness simply switches off.

bare_knuckle: When awareness returns, it does so reluctantly. My head pounds, a deep, nauseating ache that makes thought feel heavy and expensive. My vision swims. I am dimly aware that I am lying on something soft, oversized, sunken. A bed. The centre of the room. I try to move. My arms disagree, chained to the bed. Then I see something that should not be possible. You are standing there again. And slung over your shoulder, carried without effort, is Bulk Bill. The sheer scale of him should make that impossible. The dead weight alone should make it impractical. But there he is, reduced to mass, to inconvenience at most. The sight cuts through the fog in my head with terrifying clarity. I try to process it. I fail.

bare_knuckle: You move forward, and only then does instinct scream that something is wrong. Very wrong. I try to shift, to roll, to get out of the way, but my body responds too slowly, lagging behind my fear. By the time I understand what is about to happen, it is already happening. The mattress sinks violently beneath the sudden weight. The air is driven from my lungs as the space around me collapses. I am swallowed by pressure, pinned, crushed into the bed by forces far beyond my ability to fight. The room blurs at the edges. And as everything compresses into heat, pain, and darkness, one final thought slips through, sharp and undeniable. I might die under this mass of fat and muscle.

bare_knuckle: Air slams back into my lungs as you finally roll away just enough for me to breathe. I suck it in greedily, painfully, like someone who has forgotten how. Every breath burns. My chest feels bruised from the inside. But relief doesn’t come with oxygen. It just makes room for fear. Because you don’t roll far. Just enough that I understand this was never mercy. It was calibration. A reminder of how easily the pressure could return. How brief the gap between breathing and not breathing really is. Forty eight hours ago, I would have fought you. I know that now with absolute certainty. I would have sworn. Kicked. Thrashed. Spent every ounce of energy I had proving I couldn’t be bent. That version of me doesn’t exist anymore.

bare_knuckle: Whatever kept me upright has been spent. My body feels hollowed out, emptied, running on fumes it doesn’t actually have. Even defiance feels heavy. Expensive. Unrealistic. Your threat hangs there, spoken, massive, unavoidable. Not about what is happening. About what could happen next. My voice breaks before I even realise I’m speaking. “No. Please.” The words come out clear, sharp with panic, stripped of pride or strategy. There’s no bargaining left in them. No angle. Just truth. And as the sound dies in the deadened room, I understand something that terrifies me more than the silence ever did. This time, I didn’t say it to stop both of you. I said it because I finally know I can’t.

bare_knuckle: The variety of toys and equipment on the walls shake and rattle from the force of the two giants having sex. There is a raw, sexual power that I've never experienced before. Only now do I realise that the incredible pain Powerlifter inflected on me was him being gentle. What he is doing now is far from gentle. Bill's enormous body rocks from the power behind each thrust. His layers of fat rippling in an almost hypnotic way. I try to take my eyes away but I can't. It's like watching a horror show - you know it'll give you nightmares but you can't stop looking.

bare_knuckle: And then there's the glances from you. Although your focus is on Bill, you keep looking over at me, menacingly. I want to know what's going through you mind. But I also do not want to know!

bare_knuckle: The deafening roars signalled the end of possibly the most bizarre fucking I have ever seen. Powerlifter impossibly huge build and muscles hammering the gigantic Bill in a way that could only be matched by a piledriver hammering concrete posts into the ground.

bare_knuckle: Maybe it was the events from the last 2 days. Maybe it's because I'm chained inside a soundproofed 'torture' room. Whatever the reason, you look even bigger as you reach down, unchain me, then stand over me. I gingerly rise to my feet, my head level with your abs, your huge throbbing cock poking my upper abs. The voice instructing me to obey you is loud, but the size of your cock terrifies me. Instinctively I reach for the first thing to hand. It's a huge dildo attached to the wall. I hurl the monstrosity of a sex toy at your head. It makes a loud SLAP as it strikes your forehead. "You've had your fun, just let me go!". My voice is trying to be authoritative but sounds more like the pleading of a man on death row.

bare_knuckle: Despite it being inflicted on me several times in recent hours, the one-handed throat lift is still terrifying, not to mention painful. I claw at your fingers, not because I think it will work but because it's the only thing I can do. And of course, it doesn't work! You just grip tighter. The dildo is huge but your cock is thicker and longer. If one of them is going in me, the dildo will be much less painful. I don't want to answer but I know I must. My lips part. I try to speak. Nothing comes out. Your grip on my throat prevents me from speaking. As I look into your steely gaze, I realise you know that. You force my brain to answer, knowing neither option will be nice, but then prevent me from speaking. It's a blow to my psyche stronger than any blow you've physically inflicted. And in that moment I realise that I am just another toy in this room

bare_knuckle: With all my strength I try to resist, but your hands are huge, strong, and unwavering. I feel my body being pressed against Bill's bulk. It's solid fat yet still moves enough to mould around me, absorbing me. One of Bill's arms wraps around me to ensure there is no hope of escape as you move into position. I roar in pain as Bill's thick cock mockingly tears through my sphincter. I'm barely able to appreciate the pleasure of your index finger and thumb toying with my genitals. "Please, no!" I whimper as Bill's cock adds to the damage you caused.

bare_knuckle: No acknowledgement to my plea. Not even a grunt to recognise I'm a human. It's a further reminder of what I am to you. Bill pulls me even closer, his layers of fat surrounding me as his cock fills my insides. I know that at any moment, he could roll over and crush me to death, or you could snap my neck like a twig. My brain is overwhelmed by how powerless I am in this moment. Even my life is in your hands. Fear and panic rise within me, and the screaming starts. "HELP! HELP! ANYONE!"

bare_knuckle: I know know one can hear. I know it's useless, but it's a small way of taking back even just a tiny bit of control.

bare_knuckle: Even your soft cock is bigger than any erect cock I've seen before meeting you. My jaw is forced painfully wide as you snake your way in. I gag as you reach the back of my throat, but you continue, unrelenting. And then it slides down my throat, stretching it painfully and blocking my airway. My instinct to thrash is quashed my Bill's secure embrace. My muscles tense, making Bill's cock hurt even more as he thrusts into me. I try to bite down hard on your cock. It's all I can do, but with my mouth so wide open, I don't have a lot of power as my teeth try to sink into you. Do I have enough strength to bite your cock off? I don't know, but I try.

bare_knuckle: Your retaliation is swift and brutal. The first punch hits with such impact that not only to I release your cock from biting grip, my entire body is knocked to the side. And almost as quickly, a fist hits my face from the other side, knocking me back in front of you. Eye socket fractures, then cheek bones cracks, then jaw breaks. My head cannot deal with a punch from a fist bigger than my skull and launched with the power of a pneumatic drill. In just a few seconds, my face is destroyed, broken, and I'm on the edge of what may be a permanent coma.

bare_knuckle: Still impaled on Bill's cock, I can just about hear through the haze. His intervention might have saved my life. My face bleeding heavily, jaw hanging loose, arse being painfully stretched out by Bill. I realise, this is as bad as it can possibly get!

bare_knuckle: My smashed up face has no way to stop your baseball bat cock from tearing through my throat. Two giant cocks using my body like one of the toys hanging on the wall. I squirm with the little strength I have left, but Bill holds me tightly. And his grip is intensifying, as is his fucking. And you match the intensity, balls deep in my throat, stretching my neck out obscenely. It could be blood, it could be tears, maybe both that pour down my face.

bare_knuckle: The pain inside is beyond anything I've ever experienced. As cum fills me from both ends, my stomach is stretched painfully close the tearing open. Then an empty feeling as Bill withdraws his huge cock from inside me, followed immediately by you finally pulling out of my throat and letting me breathe. I'm in no position to offer any resistance as you scoop me up in one arm and roughly jam my jaw back into place. All I can do is whimper and cum, blood and sweat pour down my dangling legs. My face is so badly swollen, I can barely see, but I manage to look into your eyes as you hold me. Without speaking, I plead for this to end.

bare_knuckle: Bill holds me more gently than you, wiping me down, cleaning me. Almost gentle and affectionate, except he is the cause of at least some of the pain I'm in and the damage caused. "Please let me go" I whimper, barely able to speak. My words are received with a smile but also a shake of the head. Through my swollen eyes I watch as a hidden door in the room opens up. Bill walks me into the room and even with my limited vision I can see where I'm being taken. Several naked men, maybe six, seven. All in various states of pain. All chained to their respective beds. And now I join them. As they take another away, the man in the bed whispers to me "You'll spend the rest of your short life here. I hope you don't have any family because they'll never see you again. Look at the end of your bed". I follow his instructions and see a note attached. In big writing it says "XS size. Handle with care". The man next to me continues, "You're one of the lucky ones. The guy they've just taken is 425lbs. He'll return with multiple fractures even though he's huge!".

bare_knuckle: And slowly, I drift into unconsciousness with the words echoing in my mind "You'll spend the rest of your short life here" and the sound of the door slamming shut on the hidden room.

bare_knuckle: The end

Belly_Wobble: End