Chapter 13: Bathing the Beast
Games with
The heat was different here. Not the dry, stuffy warmth of the living room, but a wet, clinging cloud that smelled of mildew and vanilla-scented body wash. Sonic stared at the showerhead, a chrome sunflower blooming from cracked tile. Getting here had been an odyssey. A slow, agonizing shuffle across the floor, Vanilla pulling him by the hand while he gasped, his body a trembling continent in revolt. Each step sent seismic shocks through his frame, his guts sloshing, his heart pounding a frantic, exhausted rhythm against the prison of his chest.
Now, he was wedged. The stall was too small. His back pressed against the cold, slick tile, his belly kissed the opposite wall. He could not raise his arms to wash. He could not bend. He could only stand, a monumental slab of blue-furred meat, as the hot water sluiced over him.
Vanilla slid the door shut, sealing them in the steam. She was dressed in a simple, practical shower dress, which clung to her frame instantly. “Let’s get you clean, sweetheart,” she said, her voice gentle, almost clinical.
She pumped a generous dollop of foaming wash into her palm. It smelled overwhelmingly of vanilla, a cloying sweetness that mixed with the mineral scent of hot water. She started at his shoulders, her hands working in slow, firm circles. The lather spread, catching on the coarse blue fur, sinking into the deep, sweaty crevices where his neck had vanished.
He flinched when her hands moved lower, over the shelf of his chest, over the heavy, pendulous breasts that were slick with soap and water. Her touch was not sensual. It was efficient. Washing a monument. She scrubbed his sides, her fingers digging into the soft, yielding fat of his love handles, probing the dark, damp trenches where his arms were permanently anchored to his torso.
“Lift,” she instructed, nudging his belly.He tried. A grunt escaped him, a weak push of air. His stomach quivered but did not move. It was a permanent fixture.
“Okay,” she murmured. She dropped to her knees on the wet floor of the stall. From this angle, he was a staggering landscape. The sheer, domed cliff-face of his gut blocked the light. The water rained down on his back, running in rivulets over the slopes and down into the shadowed valley between his legs.
Her hands, now slick with soap, slid around to his ass. They were two massive, pale hemispheres, each one larger than her torso, pitted with deep dimples and streaked with silvery stretch marks. She cupped one, squeezing. The flesh yielded like stiff dough. She began to wash, her motions firm and thorough, kneading the soap into the dense, unyielding fat.
He let his head fall back against the tile with a thunk. The water beat on his forehead. Shame was a cold stone in his gut, but it was buried under layers of numb acceptance. This was his life now.Being washed. Being fed. Being used.
Her fingers traced the deep cleft of his ass. They rubbed soap there, in that intimate, forbidden trench. Then she paused. He felt her spread him. Her thumbs hooked into the outer swell of each cheek and pulled them apart.
The air, even in the steam, felt shockingly cool on a place that had never known air. He gasped.
“Gotta get you clean everywhere,” she said, her voice a low hum. She wasn’t looking at him. She was focused on her task. She worked the soap into the tight, clenched pucker of his anus, her thumb circling, pressing insistently. It was an invasive, clinical penetration. He stiffened, a shock of unwanted sensation jolting through him.
Then, as if by accident, her soapy hand slid forward, through the dense, wet fur of his taint, and found his cock. It was half-hard, trapped under the suffocating weight of his gut, nestled in a swampy thicket of matted fur. Her fingers closed around it. Not for pleasure. To wash it. She pumped slowly, slickly, pulling back the foreskin, rinsing it under the water that trickled down from above.
A low moan escaped him. It was purely physiological, a reaction he couldn’t suppress. His hips gave a tiny, impossible jerk.
She looked up then, her muzzle dripping. Her eyes met his through the steam. The clinical detachment was gone, replaced by a dark, knowing hunger. She saw the helpless response. She felt the thickening in her hand.
Without a word, she leaned forward. She didn’t kiss him. She took him into her mouth, swallowing his length in one smooth, practiced motion.
The sensation was electric, a stunning contrast to the brutal practicality of the wash. Her mouth was hot, wet, tight. She gagged immediately, the head of his cock bumping the back of her throat. She didn’t pull back. She pushed forward, forcing her nose into the damp, soapy fur of his lower belly. He could feel her throat convulsing around him, the violent, fluttering contractions as she fought her own reflex.
She began to move. Short, savage bobs of her head. Each one drove his cock deeper, made her gag harder. Tears streamed from her eyes, mixing with the shower spray. The sounds were obscene: wet, choking gulps, ragged breaths through her nose, the slick slap of her lips against his pubic bone.
“Fuck,” he grunted, his hands slapping against the tile, seeking purchase.There was none. He was pinned. All he could do was take it. “Oh, fuck, Vanilla…”
She sucked him like she was trying to drain the life from him. Like she was trying to consume this last, pathetic remnant of his former self. Her hands were back on his ass, gripping the massive cheeks, spreading them wider as she deep-throated him with a brutal, relentless rhythm. She was claiming every part of him.
His climax built quickly, a pressured surge from deep within his tortured core. It wasn’t pleasure. It was a release of tension, a biological capitulation. “I’m… I’m gonna…”
She redoubled her efforts, gagging violently, her throat a vice. He came with a strangled shout, his whole body seizing. The orgasm was a weak, pumping throb, but she swallowed every drop, sucking him dry until he was soft and oversensitive. Only then did she pull off, gasping for air, strings of saliva and cum connecting her lips to his shriveling cock.
She stayed on her knees, coughing, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Then she looked up at him, her eyes bright and victorious. She reached for the handheld shower spray, rinsed him clean, and turned off the water.
The sudden silence was broken only by their breathing and the drip of water. She stood, her dress soaked and transparent, clinging to every curve. She opened the stall door, letting in a wave of cooler air.
“Out you come,” she said, her voice hoarse.
Getting out was worse than getting in. He had to turn. His belly scraped against the tiled wall. He stumbled, his legs weak. She caught him, her small frame staggering under his weight but holding firm. She guided him, dripping, onto the bath mat. Water pooled around his feet.
He stood there, naked and steaming, a colossal, washed beast. Vanilla fetched a towel. It was a large beach towel, but on him, it was a comically small handcloth. She began to pat him dry, starting with his face. She worked her way down his chest, his belly. She knelt again, drying his genitals with the same efficient care she’d used to wash them. She blotted the water from between the cheeks of his ass.
When she was done, she tossed the sodden towel aside. She looked him up and down, a sculptor surveying a finished work. He was clean.He was exhausted. He was completely, utterly under her control.
The damp towel lay in a heap on the floor, a soaked blue island on the sea of white tile. Vanilla stepped back, her eyes traveling over his gleaming, vanilla-scented bulk. She didn’t speak. She simply hooked a finger, beckoning him to follow, and turned towards the bedroom. The journey was five steps. He took them slowly, his wet feet slapping on the hardwood, his body swaying with a pendulum’s heavy grace.
She had pushed the bed against the wall to make space for his mat. He stood beside it, a beached leviathan waiting for instruction. The air from the hallway raised goosebumps on his skin. Vanilla closed the door, sealing them in the dim, perfumed room. “On your back,” she said, her voice low.
He obeyed, lowering himself with a groan that was part effort, part habit. The mat accepted his weight with a hiss of compressed air. He stared at the ceiling, at the slow spin of the fan. His clean fur felt strange, alert. Vanilla peeled off her soaked dress. It made a wet sound as it hit the floor. She stood naked before him, her body a familiar map of slender curves and gentle angles in the semi-dark.
She didn’t climb onto him immediately. Instead, she knelt by his side, her hand resting on the vast, rounded slope of his belly. Her touch was possessive. “You’re so clean,” she murmured, her fingers tracing the new, silvery stretch marks that radiated from his navel. “So perfect.” She leaned down and placed a soft kiss on the drum-tight skin. Then another, lower. Her lips trailed through the damp fur, down to where his gut met the thatch of blue at his groin.
His cock, soft and spent from the shower, lay buried. She didn’t dig for it with her hands. She used her mouth. She nuzzled into the dense fur, her nose pushing aside the tangled curls until she found the soft, vulnerable flesh beneath. She took him into her mouth slowly, while he was still soft. He felt her tongue, warm and insistent, licking him to life.
He hardened inside the wet heat of her mouth. It was a gradual, persistent swelling. She sucked with a gentle, relentless pressure, one hand cupping the heavy weight of his balls, the other splayed across the lower swell of his stomach. He could feel her throat working, could hear the soft, wet sounds of her sucking. A weak sound escaped him, a sigh that ended in a grunt.
When he was fully hard, she pulled off with a soft pop. She looked up at him, his cock glistening in the faint light. “I want to ride you,” she said, her voice rough. “I want to feel all of this,” her hand patted his belly, “jiggle while I fuck myself on you.”
He could only nod, his breath already shortening.
She climbed over him, straddling his hips. His size made the act seem improbable, her small form dwarfed by the landscape of his body. She reached between her legs, guiding him into her. She was already wet, slick from her own anticipation. She sank down slowly, taking every inch with a deep, shuddering exhale.
“Fuck,” she whispered, her head falling back.
Then she began to move. Not the frantic, desperate fucking of before, but a slow, grinding roll of her hips. She rode him with a deep, circular rhythm, each rotation sending shocks through his embedded length. His body responded in kind. With every downward plunge of her hips, his immense belly wobbled, a great, gelatinous wave that rippled outwards from their point of connection.
The sight of it, the feel of it, undid her. Her casual control shattered. “Oh, god, look at you,” she moaned, her movements becoming sharper, more frantic. She slapped a hand down on his stomach. The sound was a sharp, meaty crack. The fat jiggled violently. “You’re just a fucking mountain. A big, fat, fuckable mountain.”
She was babbling now, losing herself in the sensation and the obscene visuals. “Cream would die if she saw this. She’d die if she knew her slim, fast hero was just a pig. My pig.” She leaned forward, driving him deeper, her breasts pressing into the soft shelf of his chest. “You’re mine. Say it.”
He was beyond words. The pressure, the friction, the overwhelming reality of his own body trapped beneath her was too much. He groaned, a guttural, animal sound.
“Say it!” she demanded, fucking him harder.
“Yours,” he choked out. “I’m… yours.”
It was enough. Her orgasm took her violently. Her body clenched around him like a fist, her back arching, a sharp cry tearing from her throat. She collapsed forward onto his chest, her small body spasming. He followed, his own release a weak, pulsing surrender deep inside her. They lay there, connected, soaked in sweat, the only sound their ragged breathing and the low, constant gurgle of his stomach.
A key turned in the front door lock.
The sound was metallic, clean, distant. It cut through the humid haze of the room like a shard of ice.
Vanilla froze. Her head snapped up.Their eyes locked. For a second, there was only pure, undiluted panic in her gaze. Then it was gone, replaced by a frantic, calculating energy. She scrambled off him, his softening cock slipping out of her with a wet sound. “Cream,” she hissed, the name a prayer and a curse.Footsteps. Light, familiar footsteps in the hallway. A suitcase wheeled over hardwood.“Mom? Sonic? I’m home early!”
Vanilla moved with a speed he hadn’t seen in months. She snatched her dress from the floor, yanked it over her head. She tossed the large, discarded towel over his midsection, covering the evidence of their sex. “Not a word,” she whispered, her voice a blade. She smoothed her hair, took a deep, composing breath, and opened the bedroom door just enough to slip out.
He lay there, pinned by his own weight, covered in a damp towel, the smell of sex and vanilla clinging to him. His heart hammered against his ribs. He heard the voices in the hallway, muffled but growing closer.
“Mom! You’re… dressed?” Cream’s voice, sweet and confused.
“I was just cleaning, dear. You’re so early! We weren’t expecting you until next week!”
“The conference ended early. I wanted to surprise… Where’s Sonic?”
The footsteps approached the bedroom door. Vanilla’s voice, slightly raised, a warning. “He’s in here, dear. Just… just be prepared. The year has been hard on him. He’s been through a lot.”
The door pushed open.
Cream stood in the doorway. She was exactly as he remembered, yet utterly foreign. Her elegant ears, her kind eyes. She held a small travel bag. Her gaze swept the room, past Vanilla, and landed on him.
On the mat. On the mountain of blue flesh glistening with sweat. On the face buried in layers of soft chin. On the vast, towel-draped expanse that was once her husband.
He saw the shock hit her. Her eyes widened. Her hand flew to her mouth. He braced for the scream, the tears, the horror.
It didn’t come.
Her hand slowly lowered. The shock in her eyes melted, transforming into something else. Something deep and hungry. A slow, pink blush spread up from her neck, across her cheeks. Her lips, parted in surprise, curved into a smile. Not a smile of dismay.
A smile of awe.
“Oh, Sonic,” she breathed, her voice hushed, reverent. She took a step into the room, then another, her suitcase forgotten in the hall. She walked past her mother as if she were a piece of furniture. She knelt beside his mat, her eyes drinking him in. “Look at you.”
Her hand reached out, hovering for a moment over the curve of his belly where Vanilla’s hand had just been. Then she touched him. Her fingers, so much softer than her mother’s, traced the same stretch marks.
“You did it,” she whispered, her eyes shining. She looked up at Vanilla, a tear of gratitude tracking down her cheek. “Mom, you did it. You really did it. He’s… he’s magnificent.”
She looked back at Sonic, her expression one of pure, unadulterated desire. She leaned forward, placing a gentle, possessive kiss on the very crest of his stomach. The towel over his groin still hid the wet evidence of his infidelity. Her kiss burned through the fabric.
“I’ve dreamed of this,” she murmured against his skin, her voice thick with emotion. “The whole time I was gone. I wrote to Mom… I told her… I hoped she could help.” She looked up, her eyes locking with his. “Do you like it? Being like this? For me?”
He was drowning. The relief was so profound it felt like a physical blow. She wanted this. She wanted him.This him. The betrayal, the secret that sat wet between his legs under the towel, curdled in his gut alongside the undigested cake and cream.
Vanilla’s voice came from the doorway, smooth as poured honey. “He loves it, don’t you, Sonic? He’s been so good. So dedicated to your surprise.”
He looked from his wife’s adoring face to his mother-in-law’s carefully neutral one. The lie was already there, vast and immovable as his own body. He swallowed, the sound loud in the quiet room.
“Yeah,” he rasped, the word sticking in his throat. “I did it for you, Cream.”
It was the truth. And it was the beginning of the lie.
And it was the beginning of the lie. It hung in the perfumed air, thick as the scent of vanilla body wash and sex. Cream’s smile didn’t falter. Her delicate fingers kept tracing the roadmap of stretch marks on his stomach, each silvery line a testament to a year of secret gluttony.
“You must be exhausted, lying on this floor,” she said, her voice bubbling with a concerned excitement. She looked up at Vanilla. “Help me get him to the bed. Our bed. He shouldn’t be on a mat.”
Vanilla’s eyes flickered, a momentary calculation. “It’s not easy, dear. He’s… settled.”
“We’ll manage.” Cream’s tone brooked no argument. She stood, brushing off her traveling dress. “Take that side.”
The operation was a brutal comedy. They each took a corner of the thick, padded mat and pulled. Sonic groaned as his world shifted, a glacier scraping across hardwood. His body, a fluid-filled sack of unimaginable weight, resisted movement. The women strained, their muscles corded, breaths coming in sharp grunts.
“Again,” Cream commanded.
They pulled. He slid an inch. A sharp, pungent smell of sweat and effort filled the room. After five agonizing minutes, they had him aligned beside the bed. The real work began.
“We need to roll him,” Vanilla said, wiping her brow.
Cream nodded, positioning herself. “On my count. One, two, three.”
They pushed against his back. It was like trying to topple a water tower. His flesh yielded, then pushed back, a tidal wave of resistance. A deep, pained sound rumbled from his chest. Finally, with a final heave, gravity took over. He rolled onto his side, his gut sloshing violently, a continent tilting on its axis.
The empty mat was a sweaty imprint of his former position. Now they had to get him up. Cream grabbed his upper arm, a limb as thick as her torso. Vanilla wedged her hands under the shelf of his ass.
“Now, Sonic, push,” Vanilla urged, her voice strained.
He tried. His arms trembled. The world blurred with the effort. He managed a pathetic, rocking motion, a beached whale flailing. It was enough. With a combined, desperate yank, they leveraged him upward. For one terrifying second, he was standing, a monument of quivering flesh, his legs buckling. Then they guided his fall backwards onto the bed.
The frame screamed. The headboard slammed against the wall with a crack. The whole structure sank, groaning under a weight it was never meant to hold. He was on the bed. He was in their marital bed. The lie was now physically centered in the most intimate space of his former life. He wondered what Knuckles and Tails would think to see him now.