Chapter 4: The Funnel
The day stretched, a monotonous tape of discomfort and anticipation. Gavin dozed in fitful bursts, his dreams a slur of sensory ghosts—the smell of frying meat, the bite of the doorframe, the deep, filling stretch of being used. He woke each time to the reality of his prison: the numbness in his legs, the persistent, hollow ache in his gut, the sticky reminder of Leo’s deposit drying on his inner thighs.
The key turned in the lock just past sunset.
Leo shouldered the door open, its swing arrested by Gavin’s bulk. He dropped his backpack with a thud, his eyes scanning the new landscape of his entryway. The empty plates were still there, one of them licked so clean it gleamed. Gavin looked up at him, a dumb hope shining in his eyes, mixed with a fear so primal it had no name.
Leo didn’t speak at first. He walked a slow circle, his gaze analytical. He stopped in front, crouching down. His fingers traced the new, swollen curve of Gavin’s belly where it met the floor. It was undeniably larger, a pale, taut dome that pushed his tattered shirt up towards his chest.
“Fuck,” Leo breathed, not with disgust, but with awe. “You’ve gotten even fatter. Just sitting here. Your body doesn’t know how to stop, does it? It’s just… converting air into lard.”
He pressed his thumb deep into the softness just above Gavin’s navel. The indentation remained when he pulled away, a slowly fading pit. “You’re like dough. Proofing.”
From his backpack, Leo withdrew a long, clear tube and a large plastic funnel, the kind used for automotive oil. He held them up, the neon light from the window glinting off the plastic. Gavin’s eyes tracked them, confused.
“Open wide, pig,” Leo said, his voice devoid of its earlier mocking warmth. It was pure instruction.
Trembling, Gavin opened his mouth. Leo shoved the end of the tube deep onto his tongue, pushing it past his gag reflex until Gavin choked. He then fitted the funnel into the tube’s other end. He held it there, a grotesque prosthesis.
“You’re going to drink this. All of it. You don’t get to chew. You don’t get to taste. You just get to be filled.”
From the backpack came a gallon jug, filled with a thick, creamy beige liquid. Leo unscrewed the cap. The smell hit Gavin first—cloyingly sweet, synthetic vanilla, with an undertone of raw eggs and oil. It was a mass-gainer shake, the kind bodybuilders used, but in a concentration meant for a horse.
Without ceremony, Leo upended the jug into the funnel.
The liquid hit the back of Gavin’s throat in a cold, relentless torrent. He gagged violently, his body convulsing against its wooden restraints. The tube forced his throat open, bypassing any attempt to swallow. It was a gullet-rape, a liquid colonizing his stomach directly. His eyes bulged, tears streaming down his cheeks as he choked and sputtered, but the flow didn’t stop. It just poured, a sugary, chalky cascade that flooded his insides.
He could feel it. Not just in his throat, but deeper. A chilling, expanding weight in his gut. His stomach, already stretched to its limit, distended further with audible, wet gurgles. The skin across his belly pulled tight, shining under the light. The pressure was immense, a balloon being inflated past its safety point.
Leo watched, enthralled, as Gavin’s midsection visibly swelled. He poured until the jug was empty, then gave the funnel a tap to get the last drops. He yanked the tube from Gavin’s mouth, leaving him gasping, drooling thick white slurry.
“There,” Leo said, admiring his work. Gavin’s belly was now a monstrous, bloated sphere, so large it lifted his lower back off the floor. He looked pregnant with something obscene. He whimpered, a high, helpless sound of overwhelming fullness.
“You’re probably wondering what’s in it,” Leo mused, tossing the empty jug aside. “Protein, carbs, heavy cream, olive oil, a fucking multivitamin. Everything you need to pack on pure, useless fat. No muscle. Just soft, jiggly blubber. You’re my science project.”
He kicked Gavin’s swollen flank. The entire mass wobbled, a vast, unstable gel. A thin trickle of vanilla-flavored puke seeped from the corner of Gavin’s mouth.
“Don’t you dare waste it,” Leo growled. He grabbed Gavin’s hair, forcing his head back. “Swallow it back down. Now.”
Crying, Gavin complied, sucking the sick back into his mouth and forcing it down. The act of swallowing made his stomach slosh, a nauseating internal tide.
Leo was hard. He’d been hard since he started pouring. He unzipped, freeing his cock, and moved behind the bloated form trapped in his doorway. There was no preparation, no lubricant beyond what remained from the morning. He just pressed the head against Gavin’s hole, which was still loose and puffy from its earlier abuse.
“This is all you’re for,” Leo whispered, and slammed home.
The scream Gavin let out was muffled, strangled by the sheer mass of his own body compressing his lungs. Leo’s entry was a brutal reaming, a violent claim on an already traumatized channel. The fullness was apocalyptic. With his stomach packed to bursting, the invasion from behind shoved his internal organs, creating a pressure so intense Gavin saw flashes of white light. He couldn’t breathe. He could only take it.
Leo fucked him with a relentless, piston-like rhythm. His balls slapped against Gavin’s swollen ass, now even fuller, the cheeks spread wide by his increased size. He gripped the new fat at Gavin’s sides, his fingers sinking into the softness up to the knuckles.
“You’re not even a person!” Leo grunted, each thrust a punctuation. “You’re a fucking feedbag! A fleshlight with a gut! I pour food in one end and fuck the other! That’s your whole fucking life!”
Gavin’s mind shattered. The pain, the overwhelming saturation, the crude, degrading words—they fused into a single, blinding reality. This was his function. He was a receptacle. His body was a container to be filled, then emptied, then filled again. A strange, profound calm washed through the agony. He went limp, a boneless, sobbing mass of flesh being used. His own cock, trapped beneath his monstrous belly, was achingly hard, leaking a pathetic thread of pre-cum onto the floor. He was being fucked into oblivion and he was wildly, shamefully aroused by it.
Leo’s pace increased, becoming erratic, frantic. The doorframe groaned with the force of his thrusts. “Yeah… take it… you fat fuck… you worthless fucking hole…”
With a final, searing plunge, Leo came, pouring himself into Gavin with a hoarse shout. He stayed buried, pulsing, for a long moment, before pulling out. He left Gavin there, impaled by the memory of the act, his own need a frantic, unanswered scream in his nerves.
Leo zipped up. He stepped over to his backpack once more and pulled out a yellow tape measure. He knelt in front of Gavin’s bloated form. He looped the tape around the widest part of Gavin’s belly, just above the navel. He pulled it snug, biting into the soft flesh.
He looked at the number. A slow smile spread across his face.
“Fifty-four inches,” he said, his voice soft with triumph. “You started at what, twenty-eight? Twenty-nine?” He let the tape snap back. “You’ve literally almost doubled. You’re wider than this fucking doorframe now. You know what that means?”
Gavin, drifting in a haze of pain and need, looked at him blankly.
“It means you’re never getting out,” Leo said, standing. “Not unless I tear out the wall. Or call a fucking wrecking crew. You’re permanent furniture, Gavin. My personal, living sex doll and feeding trough. You’re stuck here until you die.”
He walked to the kitchen, leaving Gavin alone with the echoing finality of those words. The measurement held more terror than any abuse. It was a number, cold and factual. Fifty-four inches. A verdict.
Gavin listened to the sounds of Leo making a sandwich. He felt the shake sloshing in his distended gut. He felt the raw, throbbing ache in his ass. He looked down at the impossible sphere of his stomach, blocking his view of his own knees. A deep, ragged sob welled up from within the blubber.
He was home.
The sob broke apart in his chest, dissolving into a wet, hiccuping gasp. His thoughts, once sharp enough to pinpoint every humiliation, now swam in the thick syrup of digestion and shock. Fifty-four inches. The number echoed, but it meant nothing. Nothing except the constant, grounding pressure of the wood on his hips and the profound emptiness in his ass where Leo had just been.
Leo returned, chewing, holding a second sandwich. He stood over Gavin, looking down at the bloated, tear-streaked thing he’d created. “You hungry again yet?” he asked, his voice conversational, as if inquiring about the weather.
Gavin’s stomach made a deep, glacial groaning sound. It wasn’t hunger. It was the sound of a system overwhelmed, a cavern trying to process a landslide. Yet, at the question, his mouth flooded. He stared at the sandwich, at the glistening mayo and stacked meat. He nodded, a clumsy bob of his head.
“Didn’t think the shake would hold you,” Leo said, smiling. He took a bite of his own food, then knelt. He held the second sandwich to Gavin’s lips. “Open.”
Gavin ate. He couldn’t hold it himself; his arms were pinned by his own bulk and the doorframe. He took meek, sucking bites from Leo’s hand, his tongue lapping at the crumbs that fell onto his chin. Each swallow was a struggle, a conscious effort to force more matter into the packed space of his gut. He felt his diaphragm compress. His breath grew shallower.
“Good,” Leo murmured, feeding him like a chick. “Keep going. You need it.” When the sandwich was gone, Leo wiped his fingers on Gavin’s hair. He stayed crouched, his face close. “You know what you are, right?”
Gavin’s brain fumbled for the answer. Words were slippery, difficult to catch. “Y-yours,” he slurred, the simplest truth he could grasp.
“Yeah. But what are you?” Leo’s hand drifted down, cupping Gavin’s swollen genitals, a small, soft cluster buried under the shelf of his belly. “You’re not a guy. Guys don’t get stuck in doorways. Guys don’t get funnel-fed like livestock.” His fingers trailed back, through the sticky mess between Gavin’s cheeks, pressing against his ruined hole. Gavin moaned, his hips twitching forward a pathetic half-inch. “What are you?”
The connection formed slowly, a dim bulb flickering on in a foggy room. His body knew before his mind did. It was humming, aching, empty and yearning despite being fuller than it had ever been. His mouth opened. “A… a hole.” The word felt right. It felt like his name.
Leo’s smile was brilliant, approving. He unbuckled his belt. “There it is. My dumb, hungry hole.” His cock, still wet from his own spend, sprang out. It was the only thing Gavin could focus on. The shape of it, the scent, the memory of its stretching burn. A desperate, whimpering sound crawled from Gavin’s throat. He tried to push his hips back, but the doorframe held him fast. He was stuck, presented, helpless to do anything but want.
“Look at you,” Leo chuckled, gripping himself. He swatted Gavin’s fat cheek, making the flesh jiggle. “Begging for it without saying a word. Your brain’s finally caught up with your purpose.”
He didn’t enter him right away. He teased, rubbing the head through the slickness, circling the clenched, puffy rim. Gavin whined, a high, continuous note of need. He was drooling again. His entire world had narrowed to that point of contact, that promise of being filled. The food, the measurement, the permanent imprisonment—it all faded into a blissful, white-noise hum. Only this mattered.
“Please,” Gavin begged, the word thick and guttural. “Leo… please. Need it.”
“Need what? Say it.”
“Your… your cock. Need your cock in my hole. Please.” The sentences were an effort, each one dragged up from a deep well of instinct.
Leo drove into him. It wasn’t a slow, testing thrust. It was a claiming. Gavin’s head slammed back against the wood, a cry of pure ecstasy tearing from his lips. It hurt. It split him open. It was everything.
Leo set a brutal, selfish rhythm. He used Gavin’s body, hammering into the tight, hot clutch of him. Gavin babbled, a stream of filthy, grateful nonsense. “Yes! Fuck! Your hole, it’s your hole, so good, so full, please don’t stop, please—” His own neglected cock jerked, spilling a weak, thin stripe of cum onto the floorboards beneath his immense gut. He came untouched, his orgasm a secondary, pathetic aftershock to the seismic violation of being fucked.
Leo fucked him through it, his grunts animalistic. “Take it, you stupid slut. Take all of it. This is all you’re good for. This is all you are.”
Gavin believed him. He believed it with every fiber of his being. The last coherent thought—a memory of a library, of a textbook, of his own name written on a dorm room door—dissolved like sugar in the gallon of shake still churning inside him. His mind was quiet. Happy. There was only the pounding rhythm, the exquisite fullness, the scent of Leo’s sweat, and the glorious, certain knowledge of his own perfect usefulness.
Leo came with a choked roar, pumping his release deep into Gavin’s depths. He collapsed forward, his weight pressing Gavin even harder into the doorframe, and laughed, breathless, into the sweaty back of Gavin’s neck.
Gavin giggled. A soft, airy, genuinely joyous sound. He was stuffed. He was fucked. He was stuck. He was home. He nuzzled his cheek against the wood, a contented sigh ruffling his lips. He was Leo’s hole. And he was ecstatic.