Rating: NC-17, slash
Many thanks to Carmen, Iella and Bif for being helpful betas! May you never get eaten like this!
Wes Janson lay back on the matted bedding and rubbed his belly. His hands were under his shirt and he was groaning as he rubbed his distended stomach. He thought about masturbating, but his gut felt so large that he didn't think he could get his arms around it so that he could put his hands in the right positions. Yeah, a nice blow job would be perfect after that great meal! What a great stay in the brig this was!
It was strange. He had thought he was Hutt poodoo when his ship lost power and he'd found himself caught in a tractor beam. He was heading a mixed-squadron escort wing to accompany a non-New Republic ship; it wasn't an important enough mission to demand that the high-profile Rogue Squadron perform the honorary duties. But Wes was a valued trainer of pilots, and he was asked to take students with him from other squadrons to assess them for leadership potential in diplomatic situations. His friends ribbed him about being so bad at diplomacy, but in actuality, he was a savvy, friendly man with a nose for saying the right thing and for evaluating situations. Wes simply chose not to act or dress the part normally.
So he went, and far from Coruscant the ship they were escorting came under attack. He wasn't sure who was attacking, but he and his pilots defended the ship effectively. Wes had ordered them to stay with the ship and to make a multiple jump sequence to escape; he would try to locate the gravity or power generators on the ship on his own. While the alien attack ship was distracted, the other three X-wings and the diplomatic ship did indeed find an opportunity to jump. Being good soldiers, the other three never questioned the Lieutenant's orders, trusting that he'd join them shortly.
Unfortunately, he had been captured, but he didn't feel too badly about it. It wasn't the first time such a thing had happened, and he felt good that his crew had gotten away. He had faith that he'd either find a way to escape orthat the New Republic would miss him and come for him soon.
He knew there was no need to worry, but that he should be on alert. He had no idea who these aliens were; he'd never seen a battle cruiser of the type he was now on. His captors seemed equally intrigued with his X-wing, taking care not to harm it. Of course, with the ion cannon blast he'd suffered, the software and many of the electricals were deleted or destroyed. So he refused to worry about what they'd discover about his mission or his employers.
Instead, he tried to learn as much as he could about the aliens and their ship. The brig seemed standard, as he expected. A hard door with a bolted small door at its foot; a constant humming as if he was near the engines or other operational hardware; rags and straw for bedding; a rudimentary old-fashioned microwave-based refresher station. He figured they'd be bringing their version of bread and water soon. He was hungry enough to eat it, whether it was carbon-based or not.
So imagine his surprise when a sumptuous feast was laid before him! Well, perhaps these aliens didn't consider it sumptuous, but to him the luscious sauces, the freshly baked breads, tender meats and crisp but not-too-crisp vegetables was better than just about anything he'd ever had. What's more, when he was done, more showed up through the little door at the base of the door. As he licked his fingers, he loudly belched and said, "An ale or two would have been awesome with that!" and they appeared in the small door.
Blinking, it didn't take him long to realize what had happened. The cup was even chilled! He took a long draught, "A piece of pie would really put me over the edge!" To his delight, a slice was slid into the room.
He wondered at the nature of the aliens, and wondered if he was hallucinating. Why were they feeding him so well? But he ate the last of the pie and lay back, sated and bloated. That's when he undid his trousers to bring relief to his middle. As was his habit when he was alone and pleased with himself, he pulled off the leggings and pulled and stroked his member. It felt good, and it was relaxing. In this state, he didn't take long to fall asleep, hardly having time to think of a favorite fantasy.
But as always happens when he ate too much before sleeping, he had uncomfortable dreams. He dreamt that he had been eating filth, and that the aliens had affected his brain to swallow poisonous crawly things. Wes yelled out that they were eating him alive, from the inside!
Waking with a start, he realized the crawly things nightmare came from his memories of what had happened to Luke Skywalker on Bakura. His stomach had been cramping, but he wasn't in pain otherwise. Maybe he'd eaten too much rich food all at once? He crawled over to the refresher in the corner and put his head into it, trying to expel the suddenly unappetizing, semi-digested food.
But before he could put his shaking finger down his throat, the door to his prison cell banged open, and tentacles grabbed him and threw him back onto the bed. They held him down and put a device against his shoulder and he felt something move into him. He panicked, thinking his dream was prophetic ... he screamed but they put a muzzle on him and clamped his jaws shut.
He grew sleepy, and wondered that if the food they'd given him was his final meal. At least the aliens were nice about it, but he fought to stay awake, hoping if he did, they wouldn't kill him. Strangely enough, as the room whirled and blacked from his point of view, he felt better. Civil of the bastards, was his last thought.
So Wes was more than mildly shocked to wake up lying in the prison bedding with an urgent need to use the refresher. His stomach was no longer causing him discomfort and he wasn't wearing the headgear they'd clamped on him. As he rubbed the microwave washer waves over his face, he wondered if he had been hallucinating. I mean dreaming, he didn't want anyone -- including himself -- to think he was coming unhinged. It's just the brig, after all. He wasn't really in trouble, after all! Hey, where are my pants? He couldn't find them ...
From the results of his refresher break, he confirmed that he'd actually eaten some huge quantity of food. He inspected his stools a bit before disposing of them, and thought he recognized some of the foods he'd thought he'd eaten. So he hadn't eaten sand, at least.
He knew they were his own excrements, but the process of looking them over did put him off of the idea of food. He was determined not to eat. He was kind of paranoid about it, even when they pushed another beautifully plated, aromatic meal through the door. He turned his back to it and breathed through his mouth, trying hard not to smell or think of the food, trying not to let his stomach and mouth know that what they wanted was just a meter away from him. "No, let it grow cold, it'll be gross, don't eat it," he babbled it out loud, as a mantra. His appetite didn't return, even though his stomach growled. He didn't want to eat, he couldn't!
No sooner had he stated his intention out loud when he heard the door open again. Before he could turn around, he felt those familiar tentacles and he realized with horror that it hadn't been a dream. He hollered, knowing the muzzle would go over his face next, but instead, something was shoved into his mouth. He gagged as it was pushed deeper into his throat but they didn't relent. It went in with difficulty and Wes felt tears rolling out of his eyes. His body involuntarily tried to expel the thing, but to no avail -- he didn't feel relieved when the pushing stopped. He watched helplessly as the aliens fitted an auger to the end of the tube and then placed food on the end of the screw-plane. The realization began to dawn on him that not only did he have a tube down his throat but that it went right down to his stomach. Wes balefully confirmed this it when he felt his stomach bloat as more and more food was augered into him.
He tried to signal that he was full, to please stop! But they didn't until he had had two plates of food, some beer, and most of a piece of pie. A second realisation hit Wes, filling him with a sense of defeat -- they were feeding him exactly the same quantity he'd eaten the day before, he felt defeated and stopped struggling. He lay still as they pulled first the auger, then the tube out of him, then fastened the muzzle on him again. Ah, I get it ... so I don't try to expel it, and he felt pleased that he'd figured it out. But then he felt something enter through the skin by his neck and he felt that dizzying blackness surround him again.
Wes felt weaker when he woke up needing the refresher again. They were forcing him to eat; he'd heard stories about taking such actions on prisoners. They probably meant to sell him to a slave market, wanted to make sure he looked healthy and not abused. They could get a higher price for him that way.
He grew concerned as he expelled his body's wastes, worrying how he could take that kind of treatment and still be fit for sale. But he felt a lot better when he was finished, because he was wondering who he'd be sold to. He laughed as he suddenly imagined Wedge, his commanding officer, encountering a fat, oiled Wes Janson on a slave auction block. Wedge was a good sort, but he was easily shocked when things didn't go as expected. Rescue me, Commander, he even giggled as his imagination painted the facial expression, I'm to be sold as a combined pampered sex slave and footstool! The idea put him in good humor and he was actually looking forward to the next meal.
Once he realized they might be readying him for sale, he decided to comply with their intentions. For one, he didn't want that awful device forced down his throat again, and he thought the drugs they were administering to force him to sleep (the better to digest, maybe?) were making him weak and dizzy. He hoped they wouldn't force him again. Wes was used to being manhandled and even tortured, but being forced to ingest food was something he'd never expected. "I don't like it," he hollered out. "They'd better not try that again, th-" he stopped at the sound of the food door swinging open.
As he ate the rich meal, he wondered if the aliens realized that presenting a human with so much food without a means of exercising would just result in him getting fat. Or maybe in their world, they liked fat slaves? He felt pretty full and pushed the food away, and wasn't all that surprised when the door banged open and the aliens came in with the tube device. He grabbed the food on the tray immediately and stuffed it into his mouth, scooching away from the aliens on his butt. They seemed to be eyeing him; he couldn't really tell since they didn't seem to have eyes.
But they left as soon as he swallowed. And even though he felt sick, he kept it down. These guys are serious about fattening me up! As the thought passed through his mind, he heard a noise outside his door ... it was the sound of a human screaming ...
He got down on his stomach to try and listen at the bottom of the door, where the food slot was. He groaned at the pressure of his weight on his distended belly. Why did I eat that much on the first day?? The aliens clearly wanted him to eat the same quantity at every meal they gave him. He had lost a sense of time, as they'd taken his chrono from him when he became their prisoner. But he thought they were feeding him the equivalent of once a day. Thank the maker it's not the regulation four times!
But the screams were getting louder and he forgot about his bloated belly for the moment. The human was yelling in Basic! What was he saying? Wes screwed up his face in concentration to hear. Alas, he could only catch fragments:
... another chance ...
... not enough ... die ...
... I ... not food ... ready ...
... not yet ...
... slaughter ... cook me ...
The last one made Wes's pop his eyes open! Cook me? Why would anyone say that? He tried to think of some other usage for that phrase, but couldn't think of one, not even a quasi-perverted usage. He was also disquieted that the way he heard it, it wasn't a question. The voice carried a plea. Was the human asking for them to cook me? No, it sounded more like he should have heard, DON'T cook me. There was anguish and a begging tone that was unmistakable.
Wes rolled over onto his back, no longer able to take the pressure on his distended belly. He struggled not to fall asleep. The pilots referred to it as "the rack reflex," referring to the desire to sleep on the "rack" or bed after a good, big meal. Resistance to somnabulence was to no avail, as the torpor set in and he started dozing, still on the floor. The dreams he had were, not surprisingly, disturbing. He was being trussed and tied to a spit. He remembered Han Solo and Luke telling him about being tied up by Ewoks on Endor, to be cooked as the main course for a celebratory feast. In his dream, Wes was on a cutting board, his hands and feet severed, his legs folded up and tied with his ankles crossed. He had no head. He looked just like poultry ... My ... no! They want to ... eat me?????
Wes woke up in a sweat, shaking and heaving. NO! I can't vomit, I can't ... But it was too late. He started to feel the food rising, then felt the aliens tie him up in a manner identical to his dream. He felt the muzzle on his head. Stop ... stop ... I'm not ... food ...! He felt the inevitable introduction of drugs into his system and that whorling darkness embraced him, and he couldn't resist the oblivion.
* * * * *
He expected to not have the ties and jaw-shutting clamp on his head, but as he felt himself awakening, he realized he was still immobilized. Maybe he just woke up too soon? He allowed himself a moan, hoping they didn't interpret this as something rebellious. In the next instant, his eyes popped open. He'd heard a giggle. He wasn't alone!
Across the room was a fat, greasy-skinned man with long, scraggly hair, sunken eyeballs and an unkempt beard. "So you're awake then!" The man seemed delighted as he pushed himself off the floor and waddled over to loom over Janson. He felt rather vulnerable trussed up like poultry without his pants on. In fact, Wes seemed to have been undressed, he was completely naked, wearing on the restraints he thought he'd been dreaming about. Wes shuddered when the man's hand extended toward him, reaching down under between Wes's legs and handled his testicles.
"Mmmm ... nice ones. And you're cute, not like the other one they gave me. You're still trim and pretty." Wes grunted and twisted, trying to tell the disgusting monster to get his hands off. But the big man laughed, showing yellowed teeth and breathing stinking, rotten breath. To Wes's horror, the pantless man had an enormous penis hanging down between his thighs ... and it was growing!
"Like Buddy?" The hairy man chuckled at Wes's alarm, "He's my best pal, and he's very demanding! I told those alien bastards that they could force feed me all they want, but I won't make it easy for them unless they give me something for Buddy." He giggled at how wide Wes's eyes had become, "Look! Buddy likes you! It's too bad they have to clamp the mouth shut, isn't it? Oh well, they give us no choice of holes, do they now?"
Wes let out a muffled shriek as the man grabbed him by the trussings and flipped him bodily over. The Rogue pilot tried desperately to wriggle away from the man but froze when he felt his fat fingers probing his anus. The pain ...! It wasn't the first time he had been molested back there, of course. This sort of thing happens in torture situations; it's something that can break a man immediately. But not me, never me ..!
"Oooh, you seem to have done this before," commented the fat man, noting the ease at which Wes's hole yielded. "You like this? I sure hope so! I like it better when Buddy causes pleasure rather than pain, but you know, Buddy doesn't care much either way!"
Wes forced himself to relax. Resisting or tightening up would just result in more pain and hurt. This, he knew -- he'd both suffered and enjoyed anal sex in his past. He tried to empty his mind as he felt the man's big tongue lick him from balls to ass, across the "taint" -- so termed because the area between the genitals and the anus "'taint one or the other." Wes tried not to cry as he remembered someone telling him that. Will I ever see my squadmates again? He couldn't help but reflexively clench and the man moaned as Wes's sphincter tightened around his finger.
He heard the man spitting, and felt the expulsion land just above his anus. The way he was trussed, his buttocks were forced apart, and it took no effort for the man to spread Wes out further. The pilot shuddered as he felt the head of the big man's penis rubbing the mucilaginous spittle up and down over his hole. Help me survive this! his mind screamed, though he probably couldn't say who he was pleading with.
The man was surprisingly gentle, and even bent down to take Wes's penis in his hand, for a mutual experience. He felt the man's massive gut press hard around him as he performed this maneuver and Wes tried not to vomit. It's not that he didn't like homosexual sex -- once in a while, it could be great -- but this man was simply gross. And the rubbing cockhead felt like a large piece of orchard fruit! In a sick way, Wes hoped that the thought of the act would turn them both on enough so that he wouldn't actually be sodomized.
But then he felt the large organ pushing him open. Wes tried more desperately to relax the muscles back there, even as he felt the burning feeling that always signaled the struggle of his anus trying to open up or "bloom." Why a floral metaphor?
"No!!" Even with his mouth clamped shut, it was obvious what Wes was gasping and crying out. But the bigger man kept at it, holding Wes still with the big, burly hands. Wes hurt more than he'd ever hurt with this act, but he just couldn't move, he felt absolutely paralyzed. Yes, he was being held still by those paw-like hands on his hip and organ, but he simply couldn't move from the painful shock of penetration.
"Don't take it personally," the big man was panting hard as his hips ground incessantly toward Wes's buttocks, using a slow, rocking motion, "like I said, Buddy has demands. I'm addicted to sex, can't help myself. And since they've taken me here, it's the only pleasure." He jabbed harder at Wes's distended hole, "You think I always looked like this? I was a stud, baby. Remember that when I'm gone. And if you're a good lad, they'll give you what you want." The Rogue pilot could feel his bile rising, but he kept it down by sheer will, knowing there was nowhere for the vomit to go if he heaved up the churning stomach fluids.
Wes willed himself to not feel anything below the waist. Even though the man was entering his personal space fairly slowly and rather carefully, it still hurt like hell. And it just felt like it kept on going. How long is he? Oh no, please stop thrusting ... Wes felt tears flow down his cheeks. He tried to ignore the regular beat the man had found for himself, but every push shoved Wes's face against the wall. He gritted his teeth and wished he wasn't so turned on. His cock was rock hard and this man knew how to jerk him off.
The man's hold on Wes's penis became firmer and Wes gasped as he felt his testicles tightening up, and his orgasm building from his perineum. I'm a man, yes I am, I am cumming because I'm being stroked, I am not responding to a giant cock in my ass ... He drooled and mumbled against the muzzle, not realizing that he was babbling in a muffled manner.
Wes's muscles clenched as he struggled against the big man's weight, the two of them thrusting and groaning. Feeling Wes go rigid, the man grew more excited and quickened his pace. Wes heard him muttering endearments -- of all things! "Oh, yes, that feels lovely, you're so beautiful, oh yes, make it good for me baby ... Yes, yes, after this you can roll me and bake me ... I'm so happy ... you're so good, what a nice fit ... unh ..."
It felt like it had been going on forever, and Wes wondered if his nether passage would ever return to normal function again. Just then the man's movements became faster, and Wes felt a moistness between his thighs from the accumulating sweat of the two men. The two men climaxed together, both screaming and grunting. As the big man groaned and collapsed on the other, Wes felt his gut in turmoil. He was going to be sick ... but the orgasm was intense and fulfilling. He wept knowing it was one of the best he'd ever experienced.
The man pulled out with a soft sucking noise when he was done and left Wes feeling open and exposed. He rolled over and started snoring. Wes's mind was still in shock as he felt his anus close slowly, hurting even more as his body cooled.
* * * * *
He must have fallen asleep, despite the outrage his body and mind had suffered. He was still sore, but he was no longer trussed like a full-body roast and the muzzle was off. He tried not to remember, but the man had been insatiable, taking Wes over and over.
But now to his relief, the big, greasy man was gone, hopefully taken off to slaughter! Wes recalled the last coherent words the man had uttered and realized that the man had been given a last fuck as the equivalent of a final supper. After all, as they were fed well, a final meal would hardly have been special. Wes also recalled that he had wanted a blow job after the first meal he'd eaten. How long ago had that been? They'd likely let him have the oral sex, just before he was slaughtered ...
He remembered how fat the sodomist has been. How long had he been in this prison to get that big? Wes snorted, I'm not sticking around that long! He decided he'd have to leave. He simply couldn't wait for the NR to rescue him. If they've even decided to do so, he thought, bleakly.
Wes considered his alternative: stay here and try not to get too fat, too fast. But they'd taken his trousers away the first day, and he couldn't really tell if his old clothes would fit tightly on him now. He certainly felt bigger. He noticed that he had difficulty getting up, though he didn't know if that was because of his violated anus and sore muscles or if he was carrying more weight. Either way, he didn't want to be given to any other fat slobs who were determined to have one final joyride before they were killed as food!
With a start, Wes suddenly wondered what he had been eating ...
* * * * *
At the next meal, when the door slammed open at his refusal to eat, he was ready. They burst in and he crawled on all fours amongst their many legs and found himself out of the cell! Trying to remember which way he'd been hauled in, he ran pellmell down the corridor and up ramps. He breathed hard, out of shape from only a few days of no exercise and too much rich food. The aliens obviously could use their tentacles to haul themselves up the inclines, but Wes found it hard going. Still, his adrenaline was pumping and he was desperate enough to try ... No! Not try! I am going to escape!
His chest was pounding and he had to stop for breath. Get to the landing, I promise I will stop and rest at the landing, he was on all fours, scrabbling to get behind some pipes. As he gasped and wheezed, he listened and was surprised to hear nothing, not even that distinctive squeaky noise the aliens made when they moved. Was he alone? No one had come to chase him? Puzzled, he peered down the incline and up the next one, but still neither saw nor heard anyone. He frowned, but then realized his bottom half was cold -- he still had no pants!
Probably their idea of an exercise program, letting me run around. It occurred to him that there seemed to be no doors, and he had to stifle a moan. Was this simply a sort of workout trail? Like the ones kids buy for their small pets?
Soundlessly, Wes walked up the next incline, ever on alert. More than being sodomized, more than being clamped down and tied, was his fear of eating again. What had they been feeding him and the other prisoners? Were they fattening them up to feed to each other? Or were they keeping the tastier morsels for themselves? Though now empty of food, he gagged at the thought.
Geeze, I'm so out of shape. He'd worked up a sweat just walking up the incline and he leaned heavily against the wall at the top of it to catch his breath. To his surprise, he was suddenly horizontal and half his body was missing! No! They cut me in half!
But it doesn't hurt ... He reached down tentatively to feel the cut, which looked clean and not at all bloody, and his hand disappeared! Shocked, he pulled his hand up, and it was whole again ... Wha ... Wait ...
He scooted his body upward and was astonished and relieved that the rest of his body followed. He must have leaned against a projection, some sort of holographic illusion to prevent people who didn't know better from crossing through some sort of threshold. Or maybe the aliens see in a different wavelength, so it only looks like a wall to people like me? Shivering involuntarily at the thought, he inspected his toes and his gonads, making sure everything was accounted for.
He saw he was still alone. There were no alien creatures waiting for him in this chamber, but he was no fool -- he still remained vigilant of his surroundings as he walked around. After all, he had no idea where he was, or if he was being watched.
It was just as well, as he felt/heard a tentacle coming toward him and he sidestepped it quickly, just in time to hear it snap by his ear. Despite the realization that he wasn't alone, Wes was rather pleased with himself, Even in such bad shape, I can still dodge those muthas! He automatically hopped toward an archway and disappeared through it. This time, he hugged the walls, and noted again that no one had followed him. They're expecting me to walk into arm's reach, as it were, Wes surmised. He stood still for the moment as he contemplated this new thought.
He thought about what humans do when they are alone in a room. They tend to stand in the middle of it or lean up against the walls. He took half a step away from the wall to think a bit more. The aliens would likely be anywhere he walked, just waiting for him to ensnare himself. So I need to go where they aren't!
Wondering where the aliens hid themselves, he looked up. None up there, but he did notice some small-diameter tubes and pipes running along the ceiling, rather standard for a cruiser. They looked too small for him to crawl through, but then, that could be an illusion ... Trusting in his hunch, he rapidly shinnied up a column, grimacing as his manhood scraped and flopped against the ferrocrete. He finally got to one of the openings, but he was breathing hard again and his head was swimming. He gulped air, swearing he'd get back into shape immediately. Through his blurred vision, he noticed a perforated screen in front of the vent. He hung onto the column, pressing it harder between his legs as he tried to clear his head.
Finally, he looked carefully at the grid and noticed it was affixed like a cap to the end of the tube and latched. He realised he'd need both hands to undo it, and although his legs trembled with the strain and his genitalia pinched as they became trapped between him and column, he doggedly ignored the discomfort. The cap suddenly came loose and he narrowly avoided dropping it, terrified that the slightest sound would let the aliens know where he was. No tentacles came out to nab him, so he assumed they thought he was still on the floor. Idly wondering if the creatures had eyes and ears at all, he carefully hung the lid over a smaller pipe cap and hoped it would stay there. His hands felt around the opening. If he'd been his normal size, he would have fit in, though barely. He looked around but didn't see any bigger pipes, and those that were, were too far from him to get to. Well, maybe I'm greasy and sweaty enough to slip in. Wes remembered he hadn't bathed for a quite some time. Hope my arms can manage this ...
He heaved his body sideways and grabbed the bottom of the pipe, before letting go of the column and allowing his body dangle down. He took some deep breaths and did a chin-up and hauled himself up by his elbows. He could have grabbed the top of the pipe, but then he would have been in the pipe legs first. He figured it would be better to see what was coming up, rather than finding out with his legs.
It was a good thing he was sweaty, because it really was a very tight squeeze. The tube was not made from smooth-surfaced materials and the bottom had accumulated dust and grit, which was irritating his tender stomach and felt like sandpaper on his gonads. He rolled over on his back, and realized it was easier to see this way. The pipe was obviously a ventilation or gas duct that opened out into various rooms, so it wasn't as dark as he had expected. The leaked light was just enough to allow him to see where he was going.
On his stomach, he needed to lift his head up, and considering there was so little room in the pipe, being upside down on his back was preferable. It hurt his shoulders and buttocks, but his anus was still sore anyway, so he hardly noticed it. And he could use a combination of shrugging and pushing with his feet, much more comfortable than trying to find room to scoot forward on his elbows and knees. There simply wasn't that much room. As it was, Wes's shoulder were folded in, so his wrists were forced to cross each other in front of him as he slid along.
In the dim illumination, he could see there were a few right angle junctions, but Wes couldn't figure out how to maneuver his body to get into them. Anyway, there didn't seem to be any incentive to do so, especially since the pipe seemed to get darker in those directions. Then the pipe dipped downwards suddenly and he was forced to back up and spin his body 180 degrees so he was face down -- it was easier for his body to bend in that direction. But the length of the drop surprised him and the blood pooled in his head as he pushed his limbs outwards to stop the speed of his descent. He didn't want to break his neck and rot in some alien maintenance duct. When it finally did stop and the vent became horizontal again, he had a hard time trying to figure out how to turn his body 180 degrees again. It would help if I could get my hands over my head, he grumbled as he clenched his muscles to try and rotate himself. Instead of his hands or shoulders, his head took the pressure of his whole weight as he performed the slow pirouette in the narrow space.
He had to stop abruptly -- the pain was excruciating! He supposed a burr of some sort had caught his scrotum. It had lightly grazed his hip as he turned, but the testicular bag was dangling over his penis, in an unaccustomed position. The folds of his skin -- in the hot, sweaty, cramped space -- had expanded and become loose and thin, but was rapidly contracting. He scuttled back, afraid of ripping himself open. With tears in his eye, Wes tried to breathe, tried to ignore the pain on the top of his head, as well as the stinging in his nethers.
Slowly, slowly, he rotated the other way. This time his hypersensitized testicles didn't confront any sharp obstacles, but it was disconcerting how the packet of skin slipped along the walls of his very narrow prison, sticky and slippery. He couldn't help paying attention to his nakedness and it bothered him a lot, especially since his penis was hardening at the apparent attention. Not now, not now! At least it was taking the attention from the blinding pain as he rotated on the top of his head.
Finally in position, he slid hard down the tube and found his body at a right angle on his back. He gasped for breath, not realizing he'd held his breath as he worked his body around. The local area air in the vent heated and moistened with his panting and added to his discomfort.
As he lay there panting, he heard a squeaking noise he hadn't heard in a while. He cringed realizing it was the odd, suction-cuppy, slightly damp sound of those creatures. Were they looking for him? Or was he hearing the echoes of normal movement? It underlined his need for speed and stealth, before the aliens realized where he'd gone. Besides, he seemed to be running out of room, as he noticed the shaft was getting a bit smaller which was making moving more difficult, even in his sweaty, filthy state. I really wish I hadn't jerked off that first day, or at least kept the underpants! The grit and dirt was embedding itself deeply into Wes's skin and had scored a pattern.
Resolved, he decided to take a turn that seemed to be very well-illuminated, thinking that meant he was close to an opening. He had to turn right and accomplished this by lying in his side and scooching his body front to back till he wormed his way in the right direction. There was a moment of panic as he tried to figure out how to get his buttocks to not stick out so much so he could round the corner. But he managed.
Wes eyed the grate covering the opening of the tube, then remembered that the screen was affixed to the hole by friction, but that it took a lot of maneuvering and pulling to remove it. Holding his breath, he folded up his arm to try and get it above his head. He didn't quite manage, but if he pressed he head hard up against it, he could just poke his fingers through the small holes. He reminded himself to be careful, for if he let it crash to the floor, the aliens would know where he was. And it's not like he had a lot of room to maneuver in the tight tube anyway. He tried to remind himself not to get frustrated and careless. I will NOT be fodder for other prisoners!
He worked the screen silently off it's mount, pressing his head and face hard against it. There was so little room in the tube that he could feel the air pile up behind him, and the room air created some suction in the resulting mini-vacuum. The pain he was experiencing was creating hallunications, and he imagined himself being popped out of the tube like a sparkling liquor cork. Would make this simpler, though I'd probably break my nec-.
Suddenly, the screen gave way, and the perspiration and greasiness of Wes's skin nearly caused him to drop it. The top of his head lay slightly outside the hole, and he turned his head to let his nose breath the relatively open air. He panted a bit, trying not to make noise, but reveling in the sensation. His fingers ached from holding the broken screen so tightly.
As his head cleared, he realized, therein lies the problem. He had popped the filter screen out of it's housing, so the cap rim was still on the tube. He could get his head out, but his shoulders were stuck. And without his shoulder, there were no arms, and without arms, he'd likely fall out of the hole and do himself more than mild injury. Cursing to himself for eating so much, he tried several ways to get his shoulders out, finally managing to hold his breath and push hard to pop his shoulder out of it's socket. It allowed him to get the widest part of his body outside the hole, but once accomplished, the pain nearly caused him to pass out. He panted hard, holding the screen so tightly his hand went numb, trying to be silent even though there was a roaring sound in his head from all the exertion.
This sucks, Wes concluded, as he tried to remove the screen from his overworked hand, but not as much as being butt-raped by that greasy piece of livestock. He worked harder, remembering the experience. How long ago was it now? An hour? Ten?
His heart rate had returned to normal and he felt very tired, but he knew he couldn't afford to rest. The longer he was missing, the harder the aliens would search for him. He surveyed the room he was in, and wondered at the next step, when a sound made his heart jump!
My X-Wing! He recognized the sound of the repulsorlift engines being ignited. Sure, there were plenty of ships with that feature, but his sounded unique to him. He was proud that he was flying one of the older ships. Wes had grown attached to it, and since he had survived so many missions and his ship was intact, he was allowed to keep it while others upgraded to newer models. But he loved the old Incom ship the best, so he kept it. He'd even learned to do his own maintenance on it, so that command wouldn't have a reason to scrap it. Thus he learned the distinctive sounds the ship made at all sequences of it's checklist.
The noise stopped, and Wes realized that someone was trying to run the checklist and failing. The aliens must have been studying it, trying to figure out how it worked. He got upset that they were touching his "baby," probably hurting her!
He slowly rotated his shoulder. It was sore, but it felt like the dislocation he'd effected was temporary and he could move it around. He carefully pulled himself out of the tube, manuevering above it, and managed to sit astride the pipe so he could figure how to get down. In the distance, he saw what looked like a hangar door and shivered with cold -- the result of the heat loss due to an uninsulated magcon shield. Beyond the door was a docking bay, opening out into the inky depths of open space. He peered further and saw the nose of his X-Wing and his heart sank. There were dozens of the aliens around and in it, pulling it apart, studying it. The technicians appeared to all be there, making it clear to Wes that he wouldn't be able to escape with his ship. Even if he somehow managed to sneak past them all, he had no idea what they'd done to it. No, flying her would be unsafe.
But the good news was that there appeared to be no creatures in other parts of the docking bay, including the area where their own starships were docked. He recognized them from the short battle he'd had with them, and saw they were equipped with dual-laser guns and what looked like torpedo tubes. The only thing he couldn't really see was if the ships were hyperspace-capable. Remembering his many battles with Imperial TIE fighters, he knew that for economy and incentive -- as well as for speed and maneuverability -- fighters often lacked this feature. They were normally transported and used just within context of the mother ship.
Have to take a closer look, a plan had formed in Wes's mind. He loved his old ship, but he obviously could not get to her without being recaptured. So he'd take one of their starships, but he didn't know if he needed a suit, or if the ship could make the jump to hyperspace. He thought that since the aliens didn't seem to wear clothing, the ship would likely be pressurized in the cabin, like the X-Wing. And if it didn't have hyperspace capability, he'd use it anyway and find some way to get off this ship and send a mayday message. As for flying the ship, he never even thought about it, having no doubts he could fly anything.
He managed to do a combination of shinnying down some pipes and climb down some service ladder segments. He didn't want to chance being detected by the aliens. He hoped their sense of smell wasn't too good, because his smell really offended him.
Humans are much smaller than the aliens, so it wasn't difficult for him to scoot along the floor and not be observed. He crawled up to the closest starship he saw with an open hatch -- there were several of them, so perhaps this didn't indicate any problem with the ship. The fighters he knew often left their canopies open as well; this was something he never realized till now.
Once inside, he was surprised to see controls he recognized, including one that appeared to be for a hyperspace hop. He didn't know how the navicomputer worked, but he figure it out later. To his suprise, the pilot's couch was just a bit bigger than the one he was used to. Perhaps the alien pilots were smaller than the general population? He grinned, knowing this was true for humans, too.
He saw that this ship was low on fuel, so he had to creep out of the ship and find another. But that one was low in weapons, so he had to risk checking out a third ship, then a fourth. He grumbled at their maintenance practices, and wondered if they weren't at war. Perhaps these were patrol ships and his escort wing had just been unlucky to encounter them. He smiled as he at last found one ship at full power and nearly-full weapons rack, thinking at least he'd bring this ship back for the New Republic.
But what to do about his X-Wing? He couldn't just leave her here; even though they'd shot an ion charge at her to capture Wes, he knew that the aliens could still glean a lot of information from her, even without the software. He tried not to choke up, as he realized he'd have to destroy her. Well ... that's why I was looking for a fully loaded ship, wasn't I? First and foremost a soldier, Wes knew his duty.
To his delight, this ship seemed not to require an extensive checklist to be ready to run. The noise and vibrations the ship made caused many of the alien technicians to realize something was amiss, and there was confused movement and panicky gestured targeted at him. He got the ship up on it's repulsorlifts and goosed the ship forward, crashing into other ships beside him, putting them out of commission. As he rumbled rapidly toward the magcon shield, he turned the ship so it faced inwards and drew up the torpedo tubes. Seeing them, the aliens skittered away, they don't move too fast, and he took aim at his X-Wing. "I'm sorry baby, this is for your own good. I love you, I'll miss you, good bye!" He offered her a salute, then opened the weapons switches.
Next, he was hurtling out of control, expelled by the pressure wave of the torpedo blast. But at least he was out of the ship. He struggled with the gyroscope settings, trying to get control so he could make distance from the ship before they could activate tractor beams to get him back. If they took him again, he supposed they wouldn't be so careless with him again. He might just be executed immediately, to be served as lean, good-for-you vittles!. He swore he'd never get fat enough for them to slaughter him!
He didn't see it, but there was a lot of light and shrapnel leaving the ship as the hangar exploded. The aliens had not designed the flight deck that well, and the fuel cells were not protected adequately. When Wes had destroyed his X-Wing, the fuel tanks nearby also ignited. He'd managed to destroy about a fifth of the cruiser. They were still spaceworthy, but seriously crippled, and it hardened that race's resolve to learn more about these vermin-like creatures called humans ...
But in the meantime, Wes as merrily hurtling through hyperspace, trying to figure out how to send a message to Starfighter Command that he was okay and on his way home.
* * * * *
"Wes, please clean up and get some clothes on ... I know that debriefing you is important, but at least cover up!" Commander Wedge Antilles was trying to breathe through his mouth so he wouldn't have to smell the newly returned Wes Janson. The NRI had commed him to let him know that the captured prisoner was returning with an alien ship. Janson had specifically requested that his old friend Wedge be there for him when he returned.
He knew Wes had gone through an ordeal, and wondered if he'd been injured or abused, but was completely taken aback at the smell of the man when he entered the debriefing chamber. Not only that, Wes looked haggard, was covered with bruises and scratches, and was completely naked. "Where did your clothes go?"
Looking haggard but still merry, Wes smiled, "Don't know. The aliens took them from me. Do you want me to tell you the nekkodogs ate them?"
The smell emanating from Wes was worse when he moved his arms around or shifted his body position. Wedge thought he'd pass out. Why do I have to endure this? Because it was the practice to interview returned prisoners as close to their ordeal as possible. It was important to get as much information as they could, even distorted information. It was also helpful to determine the mental and physicals state of the former prisoner. But I know Wes, grimaced Wedge, and he's just doing it to torment me!
"Wes, did you gain a little weight there?" While it wasn't unusual for prisoners to lose weight, to gain weight was unheard of.
"Yeah, they wanted to eat me," Wes was still smiling, having anticipated this meeting with his former commander. He let the pause eat at Wedge.
Wedge rubbed his hands over his face in an upward stroke, finishing up at his hair, "Wes ..."
"Gosh, Wedge!" Wes managed to look hurt, "You think I enjoyed it??"
"I didn't say that."
But Wes couldn't hold on any longer and laughed out loud, and Wedge realized he'd been set up. "Wedge, I've already been debriefed, okay? I'll shower now, I know I pong like certain brands of cattle, but seriously, the aliens were using prisoners as a source of food. They were fattening me up for slaughter! I only gained a few kilos before I got away, I even got one of their ships! The NRI is combing over it now. Oh, and I had to destroy my old X-Wing. Can I have another one? You were always hounding me to upgrade anyway. Can I make a special request? One without those plastene seat covers, I sat on one all the way home and my balls stuc-"
By now, Wedge had put his hands over his ears and his head down on the desk. He tried to take shallow breaths, willing himself to stop heaving at the pungent aroma of Wes desperately needing a serious scrub-down. After Wes had left the room, he waited for the air scrubbers to clear out the lingering odor, so that when he left the room, no one would think the Wedge was the source of that foul smell.
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