Chapter 17: Obstructed Lust: A Fat Fuck Against the Fridge
The recording hung between them like a held breath. Tails moved through the following days in a fog of dread, jumping at every notification from Knuckles’s computer. But the bomb never dropped. No link appeared in the darkest corners of Sonic’s fan forums, no private messages from anonymous usernames. The file sat on the desktop, a sleeping dragon Knuckles would occasionally tap with a claw, grinning at Tails’s pale-faced silence.
It became another tool. Another layer of control thicker than the fat on Knuckles’s back.
Knuckles woke with a low groan that started in his guts and rumbled up through his chest. It was a sound the house had grown accustomed to, a seismic event signaling the start of another day. He pushed himself onto his side, the mattress groaning in sympathy, his vast stomach lagging a moment behind the motion before settling with a liquid heave against the bed. He couldn’t see his feet anymore. The view from the edge of the mattress was a tan, furred slope descending into a crevasse of bedsheets. Getting up was a battle, a series of grunts and pivots and leveraged pushes off the nightstand, which now bore permanent finger-smudges from the strain.
He waddled out of his room, his heavy tread shaking the floorboards. The smell hit him first—warm, buttery, sweet. The kitchen was a haze of golden light and fragrant steam. Tails stood at the counter, his back to the doorway. His silhouette had changed; where once he was all angles and twin tails, now a soft, wide curve flared from his waist, tapering to thighs that pressed together with a new, heavy intimacy. He was wearing only a thin, stretched-out t-shirt and a pair of briefs that dug into the soft swell of his hips.
The blender was roaring, pulverizing ice cream, whole milk, peanut butter, and a scoop of weight-gainer powder into a thick, beige sludge. Another pre-mixed shake—this one chocolate, with floating globs of marshmallow—sat sweating on the counter next to a plate holding the wreckage of last night’s fried chicken: four gnawed bones and a congealed pool of ranch dressing.
Knuckles leaned against the doorframe, his own breath already labored from the short walk. He watched the muscles in Tails’s back work under the shirt as he poured the new shake into a tall, heavy-duty pint glass. The sight of it, of Tails preparing the next layer of fat for him, sent a familiar, possessive heat straight to his groin. His cock, half-hard, pressed against the straining fly of his sweatpants, buried beneath the hanging shelf of his gut.
“That for me?” Knuckles rasped, his voice still sleep-graveled.
Tails jumped, a little jiggle shaking his backside. He nodded, not turning around. “Vanilla dropped off more mix. Said it’s a new ‘high-calorie’ formula.”
“She would.” Knuckles pushed off the doorframe and shambled into the kitchen. His belly brushed against the edge of the counter, dislodging a spoon that clattered to the floor. He ignored it. He stopped behind Tails, so close the heat from his massive body enveloped the smaller fox. He reached around, his thick arm encircling Tails’s waist, his hand splaying over the soft give of Tails’s lower belly. He squeezed. “You’re getting a gut on you too, little fox. Eating all my scraps.”
Tails leaned back into the contact, a small, involuntary sigh escaping him. “It’s hard to let it go to waste,” he murmured.
Knuckles grunted, his other hand coming up to grab the fresh shake. He took a long pull, the thick, cold mixture coating his throat. He drank half of it in a few gulps, then set it down with a heavy thud. The liquid sloshed audibly in his stomach, a deep, internal churning. He was already full from last night, bloated and tight, but the habit was older than the fullness now. The pleasure was in the taking, in the submission of his body to an endless tide of calories.
He looked at Tails bent slightly over the counter, the soft curve of his ass outlined in the thin fabric of his briefs. The urge was sudden, animal, and absolute.
With a growl, Knuckles grabbed Tails’s hips, his fingers digging into the soft flesh. He yanked Tails’s briefs down in one rough motion, letting them tangle around his thighs. Tails gasped, bracing his hands on the counter, his head bowing forward.
“Knuckles… the window,” Tails breathed, glancing at the blinds, which were open a crack.
“Let ‘em see,” Knuckles snarled. He fought with his own sweatpants, shoving them down just enough to free his erection, which sprang out thick and heavy. Aligning himself was a clumsy, graceless struggle. His stomach got in the way, a massive, immovable obstacle. He had to hike Tails up a little, pull him back onto his tip, using his own bulk to force the angle. He spat into his palm, a crude lubricant, and slicked himself before pressing forward.
The initial breach was always a tight, breathtaking stretch. Tails cried out, a sharp, bitten-off sound as Knuckles sheathed himself in one relentless, shallow thrust. He couldn’t go deep, not anymore—his own stomach prevented it. Instead, he rutted with short, grinding jerks of his hips, his prodigious belly slamming against Tails’s soft backside with each movement. The sound was wet, meaty, obscene.
“Fuck,” Knuckles panted, his hands gripping Tails’s widened hips like handles. “Fuck, you’re built for this now. All this soft fat just to cradle my fucking dick.” His rhythm was brutal, inefficient, driven by a need for friction and ownership. The kitchen filled with the sounds of their bodies slapping together, of Knuckles’s ragged grunts and Tails’s choked whimpers.
Knuckles reached forward, groping across the counter. His hand closed around the nearly-full jar of peanut butter. He unscrewed the lid one-handed, his thrusts never ceasing.
“Open,” he commanded, his voice guttural.
Tails, trembling, parted his lips. Knuckles scooped out a huge, greasy glob of peanut butter on two fingers and shoved them into Tails’s mouth. He shoved them deep, past the lips, coating his tongue, the roof of his mouth.
“Suck it,” Knuckles ordered, fucking him harder, the jar of peanut butter now discarded, rolling on the floor. “Swallow it. My fucking fat, going into your fat.”
Tails gagged, then obliged, his cheeks hollowing as he tried to manage the thick, salty-sweet mass. He swallowed convulsively, some of it dripping down his chin. The act of being force-fed while being fucked sent a jarring, electric submission through his whole body. He was pinned, used, filled in every way Knuckles could manage.
“That’s it,” Knuckles moaned, his pace becoming frantic, his movements growing jerky. “Take it. You’re my fucking feed-toy. You make me fatter, and I fuck you stupid.” He was close. He could feel the pressure coiling in his balls, tight and hot behind the immense wall of his stomach. “You wanna see that video online? Huh? You wanna be famous, you little pig?”
Tails’s eyes flew open wide. He tried to shake his head, but Knuckles’s hand clamped on the back of his neck, holding him still. The threat, spoken aloud in the middle of the act, was a cold shock in the heat.
“Maybe I’ll post it,” Knuckles gasped, his thrusts losing all rhythm, becoming a desperate, pounding frenzy. “Maybe I’ll let the whole world see what you are. My personal little fuckhole.”
With a final, shuddering roar, Knuckles came, his body convulsing against Tails’s back, his release pulsing hot and deep inside. He collapsed forward, his full weight driving Tails harder into the counter’s edge, the breath whooshing out of him. For a long moment, they stayed like that, a grotesque statue of spent lust, the only sound their mingled, ragged breathing and the dripping of peanut butter from Tails’s chin onto the tile below.
Knuckles pulled out with a soft, wet sound and staggered back, grabbing the counter for support. He looked down at himself, at Tails bent over and trembling, at the mess on the floor. A slow, satisfied smirk spread across his face. He picked up the remaining half of the fresh shake.
“Clean this up,” he said, his voice already returning to its normal rumble. He took a long, draining swig from the glass, his throat working. He set it down, empty, and patted his enormous, sloshing stomach. Then he turned and waddled out of the kitchen, leaving Tails alone amidst the evidence of their life.
Tails pushed himself up, his legs shaky. He looked at the spilled peanut butter, the empty jar, the streaks on the floor. He looked at the empty shake glass. His own reflection in the black oven door was blurred, distorted: a wide-hipped figure with a sticky chin. He felt Knuckles’s seed leak down his thigh.
He knew, with a cold, sinking certainty, that the recording was no longer just a threat. It was a promise. And Knuckles would cash it in whenever he wanted. The only question was the price. He picked up the empty glass. The smell of peanuts and sex hung thick in the air. From the den, he heard the deep creak of the reinforced chair taking Knuckles’s weight, followed by the familiar boot-up chime of his gaming PC. The world outside the kitchen continued, oblivious. Inside, Tails stared at the blender, already thinking about what to make for lunch. The routine was the only thing holding the terror at bay. He reached for the weight-gainer powder. His hands did not shake.