Chapter 16: Livestream Gluttony
The silence after the shout stretched, thin and brittle. Tails lay on his bed, the imprint of the denim button a phantom brand on his skin. Down the hall, he heard the heavy thump of Knuckles rolling over, followed by a wet, guttural belch that echoed off the walls.The shake.
He pushed himself up, his new weight a strange, anchored sensation. He pulled on a pair of loose basketball shorts, the only thing that didn’t constrict, and padded barefoot to the kitchen. The freezer light was a cold blue shock. He grabbed the thick, pre-made shake—chocolate, double protein, 1200 calories—and let the freezer door swing shut, plunging the room back into the dim glow of the range hood light.
Knuckles wasn’t on the couch. He was at his streaming setup, a throne of black leather and adjustable steel. The chair, once robust, groaned under him. He’d managed to pull his sweatpants up, but the waistband was buried deep beneath a shelf of stomach that pressed firmly against the edge of the desk. A webcam on a flexible arm was pointed directly at his lap, at the massive, rounded swell of his gut straining the red fabric.
“Took you long enough,” Knuckles muttered, not turning around. His eyes were on one of three monitors, scrolling through chat. “They’re getting impatient.”
Tails froze in the doorway, the cold bottle sweating in his hand. “They?”
“Chat,” Knuckles said, as if it were obvious. He finally glanced over his shoulder, his expression a mix of challenge and dark amusement. “I’m streaming. A ‘just chatting’ segment. They like watching me drink these.” He patted his stomach with a flat, heavy sound. “Says it’s ‘motivation’ or some shit.”
The casualness of it stole Tails’s breath. The den was their private, filthy universe. The idea of an audience, even a faceless one online, made the air feel thin. He saw the chat scrolling on the side monitor.
MtnDewGamer92: CHUG CHUG CHUG
Glutton4Punishment: bro is fucking HUGE
EchidnaEnthusiast: $20 if you make it 6 tonight
“Give it here,” Knuckles said, wiggling his fingers. Tails approached, placing the bottle in his hand.Their fingers brushed. Knuckles’s were greasy. “Stick around. You’re in the shot.”
Tails looked at the camera’s little red light. A tiny, unblinking eye. He took a hesitant step back, positioning himself just at the edge of the frame, leaning against the doorjamb. He felt exposed, even though the camera was focused on Knuckles’s bloated midsection.
“Alright, you degenerates,” Knuckles grunted into his headset mic, his voice taking on a performative, deeper tone. “Number five. For the record, I hate this shit. Tastes like chalky ass.” He brought the bottle to his lips.
He didn’t sip. He tilted his head back and began to drink in long, relentless gulps, his throat working. The sound was a loud, glugging rhythm. On the monitor, Tails watched the live feed. The camera angle was merciless, highlighting the sheer bulk of Knuckles’s belly, the way it pushed his thighs apart, the strained seams of his pants. As he drank, his stomach seemed to tighten, growing more pronounced, a solid globe under his fur.
Knuckles finished with a gasp, slamming the empty bottle on the desk. He let out another roaring belch, directly into the mic. The chat exploded with emotes and cheers. He rubbed his stomach in slow, wide circles. “Fuck me. I’m gonna pop.”
Glutton4Punishment: DO IT
EchidnaEnthusiast: $50 for another one.Right now.
“You hearing this, Tails?” Knuckles said, looking over at him. His eyes were bright, glazed with a mix of discomfort and a feverish pride. “They want another. Fifty bucks.”
“You can’t,” Tails heard himself whisper. “You’re full.”
“He says I’m full,” Knuckles repeated to the stream, a smirk twisting his lips. “He’s probably right.” He leaned back, and the chair emitted a sharp, metallic creak of protest. He grabbed a handful of his own gut, squeezing it. The fur stretched tight. “Feels like a fucking medicine ball in there. But fifty bucks is fifty bucks.” He looked at Tails, the command clear. “Get another.”
The second shake went down slower. Knuckles’s face was flushed, his breaths short and sharp between swallows. He winced, his free hand pressing against his side. But he kept drinking, his eyes locked on the chat feed, feeding off their digital encouragement. When the last of the thick liquid was gone, he dropped the bottle. It clattered on the floor. He didn’t belch this time. He just breathed, shallow and rapid, his hands splayed on the monumental curve of his stomach.
“Happy?” he rasped at the camera.
The chat was a blur of approval. EchidnaEnthusiast tipped another twenty.
Knuckles laughed, a strained, breathless sound. “Christ. You people.” His gaze slid to Tails, who was still frozen in the doorway. Tails saw the shift in his eyes—the performance fading, something darker and more intimate taking its place. The audience was there, but they were just noise now.
“Alright, that’s it. Show’s over,” Knuckles said into the mic, his voice dropping back to its normal gravel. “I’m beat. Later.” He reached out a fumbling hand and hit a key. The red light on the camera died.
The sudden silence was heavier than the noise. The only sounds were Knuckles’s labored breathing and the faint hum of the PCs. He stared at the black monitor, his reflection a bloated ghost in the glass.
“Tails.” The word was a low command.
Tails pushed off the doorjamb.
“Come here.”
He walked over, stopping beside the chair. Knuckles’s smell was overwhelming—sweet protein shake, sour sweat, the pungent scent of his own digestion. He looked utterly, painfully full. His belly was a taut, shocking sphere, the fur thin and stretched over the hard curve.
“Touch it,” Knuckles whispered.
Tails reached out, his hand hovering. He placed his palm on the very crest of Knuckles’s stomach. It was hot, almost feverish.And hard. Unyielding. He could feel the pressure within, a vast, liquid-solid mass. He pressed gently, and Knuckles groaned, a deep, pained sound that vibrated through Tails’s hand.
“Fuck,” Knuckles breathed. “It’s so tight. Like I swallowed a bowling ball.” He looked up at Tails, his eyes clouded with a desperate need. “You did this. You and your fucking shakes.”
He grabbed Tails’s wrist, his grip vise-like. “You like it.I see you. Hiding in the doorway with a fucking tent in your shorts.” He forced Tails’s hand down, past the unbearable swell of his gut, to the strained fly of his sweatpants. “Do something about it.”
Tails’s fingers worked the drawstring. This time, when Knuckles’s cock sprang free, it was half-hard against the incredible slope of his lower belly, trapped by the sheer overhang. Tails dropped to his knees, the carpet rough against his skin. He didn’t hesitate. He took Knuckles into his mouth, working him with a frantic, worshipful intensity. The taste was bitter, musky, layered with the salt of sweat. Knuckles was too full to thrust, so Tails did all the work, bobbing his head, using his tongue, his hands braced on Knuckles’s massive, quaking thighs.
“Yeah,” Knuckles hissed, his head lolling back against the headrest. “Suck it. Suck my fucking dick while I’m stuffed to the brim. You’re such a nasty little feeder slut.”
The words, spoken in the aftermath of the public display, ignited something desperate in Tails. He moaned around Knuckles’s flesh, the vibration earning a sharp gasp. He reached up with one hand, splaying it over the drum-tight expanse of Knuckles’s belly, feeling the incredible, food-packed density.
Knuckles’s hand fisted in his hair.“Stop. Get up.”
Tails pulled off, confused, a string of saliva connecting his lips to Knuckles’s glistening tip. Knuckles heaved himself forward, a monumental effort. The chair screamed in protest. He grabbed Tails by the shoulders and spun him around, shoving him face-first over the desk.Monitors wobbled. A controller clattered to the floor.
“You wanna feel it?” Knuckles growled in his ear, his body pressing against Tails’s back. The heat from his stomach was immense, a furnace. “You wanna feel how full I am while I fuck you?”
Tails could only nod, his cheek pressed against the cool wood of the desk. Knuckles spat into his hand, a crude, wet sound, and slicked himself. There was no other preparation. He pushed inside with a single, brutal thrust, sheathing himself to the hilt.
Tails cried out, the sound swallowed by the desk. The stretch was agonizing, exquisite. Knuckles was impossibly deep, his swollen belly pressed flush against Tails’s back, a hot, suffocating weight that pinned him down.
“Feel that?” Knuckles grunted, not moving, just letting Tails feel the full, crushing penetration. “That’s you. That’s your shakes in my gut, pushing my cock deeper into your ass. You’re getting fucked by your own fucking food.”
He began to move. Each thrust was a short, grinding shove, hampered by his own immense bulk. It wasn’t about rhythm; it was about possession, about imprinting the sensation of his fullness onto Tails’s body. The desk scraped across the floor with each drive. Tails gripped the edges, his knuckles white. He was completely enveloped, dominated by Knuckles’s weight and heat and the brutal, shallow pounding.
“You’re mine,” Knuckles panted, his breath hot and ragged in Tails’s ear. “My little fucktoy.My feeder. You exist to make me bigger and to take my dick when I’m too fat to move. Say it.”
“I’m yours,” Tails gasped, the words punched out of him with each thrust.
“Louder.”
“I’m yours!” Tails shouted, the admission tearing from his throat.
Knuckles’s pace faltered, his body shuddering. He came with a choked, guttural roar, his hips stuttering against Tails’s ass, flooding him with heat. He collapsed forward, his full weight driving Tails harder into the desk, the edge digging into his ribs. For a long minute, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing and the plastic creak of the chair.
Slowly, Knuckles pulled out and staggered back, falling into the chair with a groan that shook his entire frame. He looked spent, wrecked, his stomach a conquered territory.
Tails pushed himself up, his legs shaky. He turned, his shorts around his ankles, and saw Knuckles, eyes closed, one hand resting on his monumental stomach, the other limp on the armrest. The webcam’s dark eye stared blindly at them.
Then Knuckles’s eyes opened. They focused on the camera. A slow, tired, but unmistakably wicked smile spread across his face.
“Hey, Tails,” he rasped.
Tails followed his gaze to the camera. A cold dread trickled down his spine.
A cold dread trickled down his spine. The camera’s red light was dead, but its lens was a blank, black pupil staring back at him. “You… you turned it off,” Tails said, his voice thin.
“The stream,” Knuckles corrected, the words slow and syrupy with exhaustion and malice. He tapped a key on the keyboard with a thick finger. The main monitor flickered, revealing a video file saved on the desktop. “The recording light ain’t on the webcam, dumbass. It’s on the software. And the software’s been rolling this whole time.” The wicked smile didn’t fade. “Every fucking second.”
The world telescoped down to that file icon on the screen. Tails saw his own naked back, the desperate grip of his hands on the desk, heard his own shredded voice shouting I’m yours. He took a stumbling step backward, his gut—softened, rounded—clenching tight. “Delete it.”
Knuckles laughed, a wet, congested sound that shook his belly.“Why? It’s fucking art.” He heaved himself up, the chair screeching in relief, and waddled toward the kitchen. His gait was a wide, swaying thing, his body a pendulum of mass. “I’m starving. Make me those peanut butter burritos. The ones with the marshmallow fluff.”
The next week was a silent, strung-out panic for Tails. He jumped at every ping from Knuckles’s computer, scanned every obscure forum he knew Sonic’s fans frequented, looking for any trace. He found nothing. The dread calcified into a constant, low hum in his veins, background noise to the new, grinding routine.
Knuckles’s appetite, once a dark, shared secret, became a blatant, demanding engine. The streaming “motivation” chats vanished, but the behavior solidified. He no longer asked. He pointed at the fridge, at the pantry, and Tails obeyed.
The protein shakes were replaced by gallon tubs of ice cream eaten with a soup spoon, by entire family-sized casseroles Vanilla still sent, by pizzas so laden with meat and cheese the boxes sagged with grease. Knuckles ate while gaming, while watching TV, while half-asleep on the couch, his hand moving from bag to mouth with a mindless, robotic precision.
His body responded with a brutal, shocking fidelity.
A few months bled by, summer heat thickening the air in the house to a soupy miasma.
Knuckles had transcended mere largeness. He was a landscape. Getting up from the couch was a multi-stage engineering project, a series of grunts, pivots, and leveraged pushes. His stomach, once a firm dome, had dropped into a vast, pendulous apron of fat that hung between his thighs, swaying with a life of its own when he moved. Rolls of thick, tan fur layered his back and sides, cascading over the waistband of his now-elasticated pants. His chest had expanded into soft, heavy shelves that rested on the upper curve of his gut. His arms were thick columns, straining the sleeves of his shirts, his knuckles often faintly dimpled with fluid retention.
He was a lumbering mass, a creature of slow, deliberate motion and deep, rattling breaths. The gaming den was his grotto, the couch his throne, the floor around it a permanent snarl of empty containers and discarded clothes that smelled of stale sweat and salt.
Tails changed too, a silent parallel evolution.
His body, under a relentless regimen of Knuckles’s greasy leftovers and the constant, deep injections of Knuckles’s cum, softened and spread in a different pattern. Where Knuckles grew outward and downward, Tails widened. His hips flared, carrying a soft, heavy swell of fat that rounded his backside and curved into lush, jiggling thighs. His belly was a smooth, firm pooch that pushed against his shirts, but it was his lower half that defined him now—a pronounced, pear-shaped silhouette.
His old clothes were a memory, donated bags of too-small fabric. He lived in knit shorts and large, soft shirts that stretched over his new proportions. Waddling was a word that sometimes hissed in the back of his mind when he caught his reflection carrying a laden tray, his hips swinging with a new, undeniable weight.
One oppressive afternoon, the air conditioner struggling against the heat generated by Knuckles’s bulk, the ritual played out. Tails knelt on the floor, his face level with Knuckles’s monstrous stomach. He was using a wet cloth to clean the vast, sweaty valley between Knuckles’s lower belly and his groin, a task that was now daily. The smell was dense, animal, deeply Knuckles.
“You’re getting good at that,” Knuckles rumbled from above, his voice echoing in his chest. One heavy hand came down to rest on Tails’s head, not petting, just claiming.
“It’s sticky,” Tails murmured, his nose inches from the fur matted with dried sweat and salt.
“It’s supposed to be,” Knuckles said. He shifted, his bulk settling with a seismic sigh. His other hand fumbled between his own legs, pushing his stomach aside with a muttered curse. His cock, half-hard, lay against his inner thigh. “Now quit cleaning and start sucking. I’m bored.”
Tails leaned in, his own fuller cheeks brushing against the hot, dense flesh of Knuckles’s inner thigh. He took Knuckles into his mouth, the familiar bitter taste flooding his senses. He worked slowly, methodically, his hands coming up to knead the enormous, rolling flanks of Knuckles’s stomach. The fat was deep and soft, yielding under his fingers before reaching a solid, inner core.
“Use your hands on yourself,” Knuckles commanded, his breath catching. “I wanna feel you jiggling.”
Tails obeyed, untying his shorts and pushing them down past his thick thighs. He took his own cock in one hand, stroking in time with his bobbing head. The other hand stayed on Knuckles’s belly, feeling the internal rumble and gurgle of a recent meal. His own body, his wide hips and soft ass, shook with the motion.
“Fuck yeah,” Knuckles grunted. “Look at you. Shaking all that ass just to suck my dick. You’re built for it now. Built to be on your knees.” His hips gave a tiny, almost imperceptible thrust, limited by the prison of his own mass. “Swallow me. All of it.”
Tails took him deeper, his throat relaxing, opening. He focused on the weight on his tongue, the smell, the sounds of Knuckles’s ragged pleasure above him. He felt his own orgasm building, a tight coil in his softened gut. Knuckles came first, with a choked-off roar, his seed pumping hot and thick down Tails’s throat. Tails swallowed convulsively, the familiar, greasy aftertaste coating his mouth, before his own pleasure ripped through him, stripes of cum painting the carpet between his spread thighs.
He slumped forward, his forehead resting against Knuckles’s sweat-damp thigh, breathing hard. Knuckles’s hand remained on his head, heavy as a vice.
After a moment, Knuckles patted him.“Get up. I’m hungry.”
Tails pushed himself up, his legs unsteady. He looked at the glistening mess on the floor, then at his own naked body in the full-length mirror across the room. The pear shape was undeniable in the dim light—the narrow shoulders, the soft swell of his belly, the dramatic, heavy curve of his hips and ass. He was marked, transformed.
“Now,” Knuckles said, his voice a low, contented thunder. He was already reaching for the bag of chips on the side table, his other hand still idly stroking his spent cock. “Get me the leftover fried chicken.The whole bucket. And the ranch. And don’t skimp.”