Chapter 2: The Swelling Consequences
Time lost meaning, measured only in the slow drip of fluids from Zephyr’s suspended form and the labored, synchronous rhythm of their breathing. The hellfire torches burned low, casting long, distorted shadows that made the chamber feel like the ribcage of some slumbering beast.
Azazel stood motionless, a statue of obsidian and pain. His cock, untouched, remained a rigid, obscene pillar against his stomach, throbbing with a life of its own. The violent sensitivity had not faded; it had matured into a constant, gnawing ache. Each pulse sent a fresh wave of need through the network of veins that corded his shaft, a demand that vibrated in his bones. He watched Zephyr.
The incubus hung from the manacles, a study in strained grace. His body had changed. The subtle rounding of his belly from before was now a pronounced, heavy curve. The eggs were no longer dormant passengers; they were growing, fed by the torrent of energy Zephyr had unleashed and the demonic seed that had carried them. They pressed against the inside of his glass skin, creating a taut, swollen dome that distorted the usual elegant lines of his torso. The arcane energy within him swirled in sluggish, distressed patterns around the foreign spheres, its light muted and strained.
A soft, involuntary groan escaped Zephyr’s lips. He shifted minutely, trying to ease the relentless pressure in his core, and the chains clinked a dull, hollow note. The movement made the eggs settle, pressing sharply against his bladder, his ribs. His breath hitched.
“They’re moving,” he whispered, his voice raw.
Azazel’s glowing eyes narrowed. He took a single, heavy step forward. The sound of his footfall echoed. “Of course they are,” he rumbled, his own voice graveled with disuse. “They’re feeding. Growing. What did you think would happen?”
“I didn’t think,” Zephyr gasped, a weak laugh bubbling up. It turned into a cough. “I never do. That’s the fun part.”
Another step. Azazel was before him now, so close the heat from his body washed over Zephyr’s cool glass. He reached out a clawed hand, not to strike, but to lay his broad palm flat against the distended curve of Zephyr’s belly. The contact was electric. Zephyr jerked in his chains, a sharp cry torn from him. Inside, the eggs seemed to stir, responding to the proximity of their sire.
“Look at you,” Azazel murmured, almost to himself. His thumb stroked the taut surface, feeling the hard, separate spheres beneath. “So full. So heavy with my get.” He leaned in, his breath hot on Zephyr’s ear. “And they’re just getting started. They’ll get bigger. Much bigger. Your pretty glass will stretch thin. You’ll be able to see every ridge, every fucking pulse inside them.”
Zephyr trembled. Fear, real and sharp, cut through the haze of pleasurable exhaustion. But beneath it, coiling deep in his gut, was a thrilling, shameful curl of anticipation. “Bastard,” he breathed.
Azazel’s hand slid down from his belly, over the sleek, smooth plane of his sex, now puffy and sensitive, and further back, to the tight, untouched pucker of his ass. “You have no idea what’s coming,” Azazel said, his tone conversational. “But I’m going to give you a preview.”
He stepped away. Zephyr whimpered at the loss of contact, his body swaying. Azazel crossed to a shadowed alcove where a low bench held vessels of dark metal and polished horn. He selected a long, flask-like container with a tapered, hollow tip. He uncorked it, and a pungent, cloyingly sweet scent filled the air—overripe blackberries and burnt sugar, with an underlying chemical bite.
“What is that?” Zephyr asked, his defiance fraying into nerves.
“Aperitif,” Azazel said, his back to him as he poured the thick, crimson liquid into a larger vessel attached to a bulb of taut, oiled leather. He turned, the apparatus in his hands. The nozzle was made of slick, black bone, slender but unyielding.
Zephyr’s eyes widened. “Azazel, no. I’m already so full, I can’t—”
“You can,” Azazel interrupted, his voice leaving no room. “You will.” He approached, the nozzle glistening with a thin coating of some slick, clear unguent. “This will help you… accommodate. It’s laced with extracts that soften resolve and amplify sensation. Every last drop.”
He didn’t ask. He didn’t prepare. With his free hand, he gripped Zephyr’s hip, holding him still. With the other, he pressed the cold, hard tip against Zephyr’s anus.
Zephyr tensed, his whole body going rigid. “Don’t, please, it’s too much—”
Azazel pushed.
The invasion was slow, deliberate, and utterly unforgiving. The bone nozzle was not large, but Zephyr was clenched tight with stress and the overwhelming fullness in his front. Azazel worked it in with relentless pressure, twisting slightly, until it breached the ring of muscle and slid inside.
Zephyr screamed, a short, sharp sound of shock. The foreign object, cold and wrong, speared into him, a violation that somehow echoed and amplified the distension in his womb.
“Shhh,” Azazel soothed, a cruel parody of comfort. “Just relax. Take it.”
He squeezed the bulb.
The liquid hit Zephyr’s inner channel, a sudden, warm flood. The pressure was immediate and intense, a brutal counterpoint to the weight in his belly. He felt himself stretching in a new, terrifying direction. The aphrodisiacs in the mix burned, a low, spreading fire that seeped into his tissues, making his nerves sing with oversensitivity. His cock, had he possessed one, would have been rock hard. Instead, his vaginal walls, already tender and stretched, clenched helplessly, which only made the eggs shift and press harder.
Azazel kept squeezing, pumping the thick wine mixture into him. Zephyr’s protests died into choked sobs. He was being filled to bursting from both ends, a vessel with no say in its own capacity. His glass stomach protruded obscenely, the skin straining to a terrifying translucency in places. The liquid sloshed inside his colon, a heavy, hot weight that met the solid pressure of the eggs with nowhere to go.
Finally, the bulb emptied. Azazel withdrew the nozzle slowly, and Zephyr gasped at the sensation of loss, followed immediately by the terrifying, urgent need to expel the flood. But he couldn’t. Not with his abdomen packed so tight.
Azazel tossed the apparatus aside. It clattered on the stone. He looked at his work.
Zephyr was panting, tears of frustration and agony cutting clean tracks through the sheen on his face. His belly was a monstrous, beautiful ruin. He was gaggingly full, every inch of his lower body a prison of pressure and pain. The aphrodisiac was working, too; a slick, fresh heat dripped from his swollen sex, betraying his body’s traitorous arousal.
“Look at you,” Azazel breathed, his own need a roaring beast now. His cock leaked a steady string of pre-come, dripping onto the floor. “You beautiful, wrecked thing. Can you even move?”
In answer, Zephyr strained against his chains, a weak, pathetic motion. His hips gave a tiny, involuntary jerk. The dual fullness inside him shifted, and a moan, deep and guttural, was torn from his throat. It wasn’t just pain. It was a frantic, desperate need for friction, for release, for something to blunt the razor’s edge of sensation.
“Azazel…” he begged, the word shattered. “Please… fuck me. Please. I need… I need it to stop. I need you to make it stop.”
Azazel smiled, a slow, predatory baring of teeth. He closed the distance, his immense body crowding Zephyr’s suspended form. He gripped Zephyr’s thighs, hoisting them up and apart. The position made Zephyr cry out, the eggs and the enema liquid sloshing brutally.
“I’m not going to make it stop, little glass,” Azazel growled. “I’m going to make it worse.”
He guided the head of his cock, slick with his own arousal, to Zephyr’s dripping entrance. It was swollen, puffy, a blush of heat against the cool glass. He didn’t tease. He pressed forward.
The stretch was apocalyptic.
Zephyr screamed, a raw, continuous sound as Azazel sheathed himself in one brutal, unyielding thrust. He was too full. There was no space. Azazel’s cock forged a path through tissue already stretched to its absolute limit by the eggs. It felt like being split in two. The pressure from behind from the enema met the pressure from the eggs, and Azazel’s invasion was the grinding, unforgiving barrier between them.
Azazel groaned, a sound of pure, unadulterated agony and pleasure. The tightness was beyond anything he’d ever felt. Zephyr’s walls were a vise of strained, heated glass, fluttering in frantic, involuntary pulses around his shaft. He could feel the hard, round shapes of the eggs crowding against the top of his cock with every inch he buried.
He began to move.
It was a slow, torturous grind. Each withdrawal dragged against Zephyr’s oversensitive flesh, making him whimper. Each thrust back in was a conquering siege, shoving the eggs upward, compressing the liquid in his bowels. The sloshing, shifting sounds were obscenely loud in the silent chamber.
“Fuck, you’re tight,” Azazel grunted, his forehead dropping to Zephyr’s shoulder. “Like fucking a overstuffed vice.” His claws dug into Zephyr’s thighs, leaving white score marks.
Zephyr couldn’t form words. He could only take it, his body a conduit for overwhelming sensation. The pain was a white-hot brand. The aphrodisiac turned every nerve ending into a live wire. The fullness was a constant, crushing reality. And through it all, a debilitating, shocking arousal built, coiling in his gut with no outlet. He was being fucked, utterly and completely, but his own climax was a distant, impossible star, hidden behind a wall of torment.
Azazel’s pace increased. The eggs rocked inside Zephyr with every powerful slam of the demon’s hips. The chain rattled violently. Azazel’s breath came in ragged grunts. He was chasing his own release, driven by the impossible friction and the sight of his incubus so utterly ruined.
“Gonna come,” Azazel snarled, his rhythm becoming erratic, punishing. “Gonna flood you. Fill every last fucking crevice.”
He drove deep one last time, hilting himself with a force that made Zephyr’s body bow against the chains. Azazel threw his head back and roared as his orgasm ripped through him. It wasn’t eggs this time, but a torrent of scalding demonic seed, jetting into Zephyr’s already overstuffed womb. It spilled around the eggs, a hot, claiming flood that added to the impossible pressure.
Zephyr felt it. The sudden, searing heat, the final, fractional expansion. It was the breaking point.
His own climax detonated silently, a seizure that locked every muscle in his glass body. No light burst from him this time. The energy had nowhere to go but in, flooding his own strained systems, ricocheting against the eggs and the come and the enema. It was a full-body convulsion of pain and pleasure so intense it erased thought, erased sight, erased everything.
When consciousness trickled back, it was to a world of dull, throbbing agony. Azazel was slumped against him, still buried inside, both of them slick with sweat and other fluids. The demon’s breathing was heavy in his ear.
Slowly, Azazel pulled out. The sensation was a new, exquisite torture for Zephyr, a slow, wet drag that left him feeling hollowed and yet impossibly full at the same time. Azazel stumbled back, looking down at himself. His cock was still hard, still demanding.
He looked at Zephyr, hanging wrecked and unconscious in his chains, belly grotesquely distended, legs trembling. A dark, possessive satisfaction settled in his chest, tempered only by the unsated fire still burning in his groin.
He reached up and unlocked the manacles. Zephyr crumpled to the floor in a boneless heap, a puddle of trembling glass and swollen flesh. He didn’t stir.
Azazel stared at him for a long moment. Then he turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing in the vast chamber, leaving his prize where it lay. The throne room breathed around them, the sigils pulsing with a slower, satisfied light. The night, it seemed, was far from over.
The night, it seemed, was far from over. Azazel looked down at Zephyr’s unconscious form, a heap of shimmering misery on the cold obsidian floor. His own cock, still stubbornly hard and slick with their mingled fluids, twitched with renewed interest. He nudged Zephyr’s thigh with a clawed foot. “No, no,” he rumbled. “No sleeping yet.”
Zephyr didn’t stir. His breath came in shallow hitches, his distended belly rising and falling in a strained rhythm. Azazel crouched, the movement fluid and predatory. He ran a thumb over Zephyr’s parted lips, then traced a line down his neck, over the trembling curve of his stomach, and finally to his swollen, wet sex. He pressed two fingers inside, slowly. Zephyr moaned in his unconscious state, his body reacting even in oblivion.
“You’re still too loose,” Azazel muttered to himself. He withdrew his fingers. “Can’t have that. Not when you’re meant to be carrying a proper clutch.”
He stood and walked to the same shadowed alcove that held the enema apparatus. This time, he selected two objects from a velvet-lined case. One was a vaginal plug, crafted from the same slick, black bone as the nozzle, but far larger. It was bulbous, with a flared base shaped like a twisted demonic sigil. The other was a butt plug, equally large, made of cool, polished hematite that seemed to drink in the hellfire light.
He returned to Zephyr, tools in hand. Kneeling, he rolled the incubus onto his back. The movement jostled the contents of Zephyr’s belly and bowels, and a weak, pained sound escaped his throat. His eyelids fluttered open, glassy and unfocused.
“Wha…?”
“Hush,” Azazel said, not unkindly. He coated both plugs in a clear, glistening unguent from a small jar. It smelled of mint and something metallic. “Just making sure you don’t leak. My property stays inside you.”
He started with the vaginal plug. Zephyr’s entrance was puffy and slack from the brutal fucking. Azazel pressed the thick, bulbous head against it. Even lubricated, the size was obscene. “This will keep my seed where it belongs,” he said, almost conversationally, as he began to apply pressure.
Zephyr’s eyes flew fully open. Awareness returned in a nauseating wave of sensation. “No… Azazel, no more, I can’t take any more—”
“You can,” Azazel stated flatly. He leaned his weight into it.
The stretch was a brutal, burning reclaiming of territory. Zephyr arched off the floor, a silent scream on his lips as the widest part of the plug forced its way past his tender folds. It was a violation of a different kind, a cold, unyielding occupation. Once the widest part was past, the plug slid in more easily until the flared base sat snug against him, a heavy, permanent-feeling weight inside his channel. He felt stretched, filled, sealed.
“Fuck,” he sobbed, tears streaming anew. His hands scrabbled weakly at the floor.
“Not yet,” Azazel corrected. He shifted his position, lifting Zephyr’s hips. The movement made the vaginal plug shift minutely, and Zephyr whimpered. Azazel brought the hematite butt plug to his other entrance, still loose and slick from the enema. “Now for the other end.”
“Please,” Zephyr begged, his voice shattered. “It’s too big. I’ll break.”
“You won’t,” Azazel promised, and it sounded like a threat. He pushed.
The hard, cold stone breached him, a relentless, slow invasion that fought against the clenching desperation of his body. Zephyr cried out, his back bowing, his glass skin heating with the strain. Azazel worked it in, millimeter by millimeter, until the base, wide and flat, nestled tight against his skin. The full, sickening pressure was absolute. He was packed, plugged at both ends, a sealed vessel.
Azazel sat back on his heels, admiring his work. Zephyr lay between his spread thighs, trembling violently, his stomach a huge, rounded dome, his sex and anus both occluded by the dark, protruding bases of the plugs. He looked utterly used, utterly claimed.
“Try to push them out,” Azazel commanded softly.
Zephyr, through his tears, tried. His abdominal muscles, weakened and stretched by the eggs, contracted feebly. The plugs didn’t budge. They were too large, their flared bases an immovable anchor. He couldn’t reach them with his hands; his swollen stomach was a pronounced hill between his hands and his groin. A fresh wave of panicked helplessness washed over him.
“See?” Azazel said, smiling. He stood, his shadow engulfing Zephyr. “Now, get up.”
“I can’t,” Zephyr gasped. The weight inside him was unimaginable, pulling him down into the stone.
Azazel’s hand shot out, tangling in Zephyr’s hair. He hauled him upward in one brutal motion. Zephyr screamed as his body was forced upright, the internal weights shifting with a nauseating lurch. He stumbled, his legs buckling, but Azazel held him fast, dragging him forward.
“Walk,” Azazel ordered, propelling him toward a narrow archway Zephyr had never used.
They moved through corridors of smoother, darker stone, lit by sickly green phosphorescent fungi. Zephyr shuffled, each step a precarious balancing act. The plugs shifted inside him with every movement, a constant, maddening reminder. The eggs rolled heavily in his belly. He focused on the floor, on not falling.
Azazel shoved him through a heavy, iron-bound door into a different kind of space. It was an office. A massive desk of petrified wood dominated the room, covered in scrolls, contracts, and a large, black scrying mirror. Shelves held jars of unidentifiable things. It was unnervingly normal, in a demonic way.
Azazel guided Zephyr to the space before the desk. “On your knees,” he said, releasing him.
Zephyr collapsed rather than knelt, his strength gone. He knelt awkwardly, his huge stomach resting on his thighs, the plugs pressing up into him from below. Azazel took his seat in the high-backed chair, arranging his robes. His cock, still erect and angry-red, lay exposed against his thigh. He ignored it, picking up a slender bone stylus.
He touched the scrying mirror. An image swirled in its depths, resolving into the gaunt, fever-eyed face of another demon. “Mammon,” Azazel said, his voice transforming into a smooth, business-like baritone. “Your tributes are late.”
As Mammon’s grating excuses filled the room, Azazel’s free hand dropped below the desk. His fingers found the sensitive, swollen bud of Zephyr’s clit. He didn’t stroke it. He pressed his thumbnail directly into it, a sharp, pinpointed pain.
Zephyr jerked, a gasp ripped from him. He slapped a hand over his own mouth, his glass eyes wide above it.
Azazel continued his conversation, his face a mask of diplomatic irritation. “The sulfur mines are not my concern. The quota is.” His thumb rolled over Zephyr’s clit now, a rough, casual circle that sent jolts of painful pleasure straight to Zephyr’s core.
Zephyr shuddered, biting down on his knuckles. The plugs felt enormous, the eggs a solid mass. Azazel’s touch was agony and electricity. He squeezed his thighs together, a futile attempt to stop the sensation, which only made the vaginal plug press more firmly against his inner walls.
“I expect the shipment by the next blood-moon,” Azazel stated, his voice hardening. With his other hand, he reached out and palmed the heavy curve of Zephyr’s stomach. He didn’t just hold it. He squeezed, fingers digging into the taut glass, putting direct pressure on the eggs beneath.
A choked sob escaped Zephyr’s throat. The pain was deep, a sickening internal compression. The pleasure from his clit was a traitorous, rising crest. He was being split in two by conflicting sensations.
Azazel released his stomach and returned his thumb to Zephyr’s clit, rubbing harder, faster. “Fail again,” he said coolly to Mammon, “and I will personally come to collect.” He ended the connection with a swipe of his hand.
The mirror went dark. Azazel looked down at Zephyr, who was trembling violently, tears and sweat mingling on his face, his knuckles white in his mouth.
“Not a sound,” Azazel whispered. He pinched Zephyr’s clit between his thumb and forefinger, twisting sharply.
Zephyr’s body convulsed, a silent scream locked in his chest. His hips bucked involuntarily, driving the plugs deeper. The edge was there, a precipice of release yawning before him, built from pain and impossible fullness and that relentless, sadistic friction.
Azazel released the pinch and went utterly still. The sudden absence of touch was its own torture. Zephyr whimpered, a high, desperate sound scraped from the back of his throat. He was poised on a razor’s edge, trembling, his body begging to fall.
Azazel smiled. He touched the mirror again, summoning another demon. “Belphegor,” he said, his voice once more calm and reasonable. “About the soul-tithe from the seventh quadrant…”
His fingers drifted back to Zephyr’s stomach, tracing the outlines of the eggs beneath the glass. He found a specific spot, a hard curve, and pressed.
Zephyr saw white. His vision tunneled. The pain was profound, nauseating. Simultaneously, Azazel’s other hand resumed its work on his clit, not with tenderness, but with a brutal, focused rhythm designed solely to destroy his control.
Zephyr’s breath came in ragged, silent hitches. He was drowning in sensation, each wave higher than the last. He fought to keep his mouth shut, to stay silent, but his body was betraying him, tightening coiling toward an explosive, shattering finish he knew he was not allowed to have.