Jack Torrance
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Wicked Proposition Part XXX
🕑 Added 2025-08-18 10:30:22 +0000 UTCThere'll be another story coming up today/maybe tomorrow as well. A one-shot. That one's really shaping up to be a good one. Thanks for being so patient.
When you’ve lived hand to mouth your whole life, having that much cash all of a sudden can feel dangerous.
It feels like having a weapon. Suddenly, you have a way out. You have something to throw at all the horseshit you might have nipping at your heels all day. You have options. Security. Stability. Roger got short of breath checking his savings account. It made him queasy.
He had to set aside some for taxes. Evan never shut the fuck up about those. Then there was Lynne’s commission. But when all that was present and accounted for, he had about a year’s pay squirreled away…
“My guy! Look at that shit!!!” Evan cackled, clicking his key fob and lighting a smoke as they marched out of the restaurant.
The check was in Roger’s death grip as he stared down at it, rubbing his dry lips together silently in disbelief.
“Jesus Christ…” He muttered.
“I thought you were an atheist…”
He laughed.
“There’s that smile…”
He sniffled, snorted, and blinked in the span of a second. Turned away from Evan. His sponsor started to laugh, and reached toward his shoulder as Roger tucked his face into his elbow.
“Aw, c’mon, don’t be a fuckin’ pussy…” Evan laughed.
“I’m not. I’m not…”
“I’m joking, ya fuck… Get in the car…”
Roger lit a cigarette and got into Evan’s passenger seat. His eyes remained glued to the check. Of course, nobody used checks anymore, but he’d made a specific request to have one printed from the publisher.
“No more slingin’ pies for this fuckin’ guy, huh?!!? HUH?!! WHAT’D I TELL YA?!!? TRUST THE PROCESS, BABY! WHAT’S GOOD??! WHAT’S GOOD, HUH!?!”
He tussled Roger’s hair and slapped him on the cheek until he swatted him away like an annoying older brother. He was right.
“Thanks, man…” He grumbled through a nose full of snot.
Evan smiled and shook his head as they pulled onto the highway. “Thanks for what?”
Roger shrugged. “Everything? You want an itemized receipt?”
“Don’t get cunty… I was trying to compliment you…”
“I don’t know, man, I…”
“You did it, bro. You stayed the course. You worked the steps. You stayed sober. And now you’re reaping the rewards. That’s it. And I’m really proud of you… You’re in position now. You can breathe easy…”
“Let’s not get carried away…”
“You’ve been doing what I told you to do, with your savings and whatnot?”
“Yeah…”
“You can breathe a little bit. Don’t get lazy. But you can breathe…”
“I’m already sweating the next book…”
“And you’ve got eighteen months to get it done. Don’t rest on your laurels. I’m not saying that. I’m just saying you’re officially at the table. And I’m telling you right now, as long as you don’t drink nor use, you’ll always be there. OK?”
Roger didn’t respond.
“What’s the first dumb purchase?! Huh?!”
“A ring…”
“Aw, shit… For real!?”
“Yeah… It’s about fuckin’ time…”
**
“OH, MY GAWD, RAW-JUH!!!”
“So, is that a yes?”
Kerryn wiped her face and nodded. “Yes…”
Roger helped her get the ring on and stood up, and she pulled him into her, compressing his lungs in her bear-like embrace as she wheezed through her nose. “Mmmmm… Roger!!!!” She squealed.
“’Bout time, huh?”
“You’re not a minute too late…”
She backed him up to the couch and got on top of him, making him disappear as she pinned him, and the furniture squealed beneath her.
“I gotta drop some weight for the big day, don’t I?” She hissed in his ear.
“I never said that…”
She chuckled. “You’re a weirdo, y’know that?”
“That any way to talk to your husband?”
“It’s got a ring to it, doesn’t it? Roger, I love you…”
“I love you too, Ker…”
His cock was rigid against her blubber, warm and soft. It slid into a crease in her flesh, the fat around it formed a tight grip on him. She felt him pulsate and feebly attempt to move underneath her bountiful figure. She leaned further forward, and he buried his face into her cleavage, peppering the overfilled fun bags with big, sloppy, kisses.
“Woah!” She gasped.
She almost fell backward, but he grabbed her wrist and pulled her back toward him, her face inches from his as he struggled to suck some air down. But she was so wonderfully heavy. She kissed him and giggled before rolling to the side of the couch. For a moment his side went up like a seesaw before slamming back down into the floor. He took a lifesaving gasp of air and leaned into her, draping his arm over her belly as they laughed drunkenly.
The wedding planning kicked off shortly after. It wasn’t gonna be a big thing. Neither of them had many friends nor family left. It wouldn’t be an “AA wedding.” Neither were sadistic enough to inflict such a punishment on their guests. A lot of AA people would be there, though…
“How much was this, Roger?” She asked in a tone of concern, not arrogance or greed. He could’ve pulled out a fuckin’ Ring Pop and she’d have been happy. But it was quite nice…
“That’s not important…”
“I don’t want you breaking the bank…”
“Shhhhhh… Let me have my male power fantasy. Please… Humor me, won’t you? My chubby Chiquita… Mmmmm…”
GRRRROOOOOOOOOO…
Her chubby cheeks blushed.
“What was that? Hm? Is my baby hungry?”
He put his face to her belly, his fingers sinking into it as it gurgled and groaned. He pulled up her shirt and gave it a kiss.
“Fuck the diet… I don’t care. We’re celebrating…” She huffed, pulling her phone from between her breasts and clumsily punching in her lock code. Grubhub. It was on.
She had an easy order saved for Sal’s, a few of them in fact. She opted for the appropriately named “celebration” order. Pizzas, calzones, every appetizer they had. With a few greedy pokes of her fat fingers, it was on its way.
Plump digits made their way down his chest, his stomach, and tapped the tip of his cock as it bulged against his thigh in his sweatpants. She reached through the waistband and grabbed it. Squeezed it. Gave it a few tugs.
“Fuck! Easy! Ohhhh, man…”
“Oooops! Did I do that?!”
His face contorted as he shot a fresh batch down his leg. She laughed.
“Really, Roger?”
“I can’t help it… You forgive me, don’t you?”
“I suppose…”
“You just relax… Let me feed you… Nourish you… Indulge you… And then I’ll be good for round two… Three… Four… Five…”
“Let’s just focus on two for now, huh? I love you…”
“I love you too…”
It seemed there was no concession he wouldn’t make as she continued to put weight on. He got a pair of custom earplugs made specifically for him when they slept, and her apnea left her choking as she slumbered. It was easy to get bored as an addict. Especially in sobriety. The book deal had come at a crucial time. She’d slipped into a state of gluttonous apathy, her weight and size leaving her with an insatiable appetite and little drive to do much else.
“One more chicken finger… OK?”
She swallowed, moaned, and took a deep breath. “My belly hurts…”
“I know, baby, I know… You’ve had a lot to eat today… Mmmm…”
“Yeah…”
“One more chicken finger and I’ll rub your belly… OK?”
She nodded and opened her mouth. He slid the processed slop between her lips, ignoring her moans as he stuffed it down her throat, pushing it and jamming his fingers through her lips. She chewed and swallowed and groaned, immobilized by her gluttony, and he held as much of her as he could, offering low whispers of affirmation as he rubbed her belly and back approvingly.
“Good girl…”
“Oooooooooh, Roger…”
“Yes, love?”
“Mmmmm… I’m so full…”
“I know, baby, I know… You did a wonderful job…”
He gave her a kiss on the cheek. It was a dance he knew every step to. He grabbed her smokes and took one for himself, lighting her up and resting his head against her tummy as she eased the taut tension in her middle.
She caught herself nodding off twice before she pulled herself together, moaning for his assistance. He helped her up to her feet with a few mighty heaves. As she squeezed through the doorway into their bedroom, she looked over her shoulder, locking eyes with him as she shook her ass, and he followed her inside. He laid down next to her as she flopped on the bed and adorably struggled to position herself at his crotch. Huffing and puffing the entire way, she wiped her forehead as his legs disappeared beneath her and she plopped herself down, ripping his pants down and stuffing his cock in her mouth.
“Mmmmmm… Mmmmmm…”
Being trapped underneath her made the ritual all the more exciting. It was as if he didn’t have a say in the matter. His prized sow demanded his dick in her mouth. She gently massaged his balls as saliva saturated his throbbing member and his toes curled, the balls of his feet sliding around the comforter, barely able to move underneath all that woman.
The next day he woke up with a wide-open day ahead of him. He went to the gym with Evan and ran himself until he was exhausted. Then went home, took a nap, paced around the apartment, and chain smoked.
“You don’t have to babysit me, y’know…” He told Evan as he stomped yet another smoke out in the ashtray.
“You’re buggin’ right now. And that’s OK. You’re not used to being free. It’s jarring…”
Roger leaned forward, putting his head in his hands. “Why the fuck am I bugging out if this is, supposedly, all I ever wanted?”
“Because frankly? You look for reasons to be troubled. But you’re also not used to being successful. Even though you’ve been successful for a while… Oh, fuck, dog, I didn’t even ask you how the proposal went…”
“She said yes…”
Evan laughed and put his hand up, Roger gave him a high five. “My fuckin’ guy right here… Congrats!!!!”
“Yeah… She’s going part-time at Dunks. I wish I could just have her quit… But…”
“Hey, man, it just gives you something to aspire to in the future. You’re gonna do everything you wanna do if you just keep it pushing. You just can’t get too overwhelmed by your goals…”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, easy does it…”
“Don’t get fresh now…”
“I wanna get a house. That’s the next step right there.”
“OK, bro. OK. You’ve got all this free time now. And the gym is a good start. It’ll keep you from climbing the walls in here. But you gotta fill out your schedule. You ask me? Try to write something every day. Keep it light at first. Where you’re full-time now you should be able to squeeze in a thousand words a day…”
“That whole 1K a day thing is bullshit…”
“Says who?”
“Me… There’s gonna be days I just don’t have anything…”
“And on those days, you journal. You know as well as I do that you can go from having nothing to getting hit with inspiration out of nowhere. There’s gonna be other days where you just don’t have anything. But as you roll with the punches, you’ll get better. I promise…”
“Yes, sir…”
And so, he stayed the course. Kerryn went part-time, covering the shifts of whatever manager was on vacation or otherwise off. She’d negotiated better pay as she was no longer working at the same location every day, and was bounced around five different stores, three days a week. She no longer felt like the store’s performance was in her hands. She just had to keep the place from burning down until the actual manager got back. The stress that came with her old gig was greatly reduced. She was happier. More upbeat.
And her sober apathy, the boredom, were replaced by a refreshed sense of motivation. Having more free time with Roger, and the wedding looming months down the road, encouraged her to make some changes. She started to cook more. They went for walks together when she was feeling up to it. And she took baby steps to trim down a bit. She was such a size that little lifestyle adjustments made weight fall off her week after week. And as the weight came off and she got more energy she found herself still eating quite a bit, but not as much as she used to. She was firmly in the early 400’s by the time they finally tied the knot.
“Babe…” She started as they walked down the block, holding hands.
“Yeah?”
“We’re really lucky…”
“We are…”
“Can I ask you something?”
“Of course…”
“I know we’ve talked about this, but… I’ve been thinking…”
“About?”
She sighed. “Are you still dead set against having a kid?”
“Where’s this coming from?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know… We’re both getting older… If I wanna have one I have to do it soon…”
He put his arm around her. “Ker…”
“You’d be such a great dad, Roger. Wouldn’t you love bringing a child into the world? Giving it what we never had?”
“I appreciate the optimism, honey, but I don’t know…”
“You don’t give yourself enough credit… Will you at least think about it? If you aren’t on board that’s OK…”
“You sure it’s OK?”
She squeezed his hand. “Yes…”
“Yeah? You’re not gonna leave me?”
She laughed. “No! No, I’m not gonna leave you…”
“I just don’t know what I’d do if… He ended up like me…”
“Well, what’s so bad about being you right now? You’re sober. You’re writing full-time. Not many people can say that…”
“I’m sure you’d be a great mother… But I can’t…”
“If that’s how you feel, fine… But I think sometimes… When we have a house… It’d be nice…”
“You’ve really turned into Martha Stewart on me, haven’t you?”
“You don’t like it? You eat plenty of my food…”
“Hey, I’m not complaining. I think it’s cute.”
“Martha Stewart went to prison too. She can still cook and clean and make shit…”
“You’ll still buck the heater on a bitch, won’t you?”
“You know it…”
**
“…I’ve sat around playing armchair shrink with myself night after night in an effort to figure out why I am the way I am. If I wasn’t an addict I likely would only date curvy or thicker women, perhaps downright chubby, maxing out at around 250 pounds. I’d be a good fat fetishist, one that appreciates a fuller figure while also recognizing that, hey, fat is bad and my attraction to it is also bad. I’d date women that cringe and let out little yelps of embarrassment and shame when, in the heat of the moment, I grab their stomach with primal lust. Never mind the fact that I like your belly, you don’t like your belly. I’d be thrilled when she lost weight, even if she got thin and my dick stopped functioning for her. It wouldn’t be a big deal, because if it was, that would be morally wrong. If you want to have physical preferences for your partner’s body type, that’s fine, just make sure they’re thin and fit and healthy. Or, if you must, you can ogle the cartoon shaped woman at the gym with the huge tits and big dumper and unsettlingly chiseled waist…”
He looked out at the sparse crowd that’d been herded into one of the last remaining Barnes and Noble in Massachusetts. It’d been a bigger turnout than he expected. They seemed to be listening. Evan and Kerryn were seated at the back, and listened intently, Evan offering a thumbs up as he took a pause and sipped from the water on the stool next to him. He turned back to his book.
His book. It had finally arrived. It was there, in his hands. First week sales had surpassed expectations. Lynne had had a word with him about his lack of promotional hustle. He was happy to do little meet and greets and live readings. But pimping the product on social media felt gross and disingenuous. Evan had to threaten him with a beating to get him to do it.
“Oh my God, the horror, you have to post about your book on Facebook. And on your website. And on your Twitter…”
“I just know I would never buy a book just ‘cause some shithead, the guy that wrote the fuckin’ thing, is singing its praises on Twitter. Just being on Twitter period makes me distrustful of someone’s judgment…”
“Good thing you aren’t the general public, then, Roger. You gotta play the game at least a little bit. How about you count your blessings instead of being so dramatic over a fucking post… Pimp the product. Push the product…”
He already had a fanbase, though the years of inactivity and drug abuse had left them assuming he was dead or in jail. A fair assumption, he had to admit. But he supposed Evan had a point. He had to rouse the existing readers from their slumber and let them know he was back. He hired a guy to make his website. And Evan was helping him get his old stuff back in print. The tedium of the business side of everything bored the shit out of him. He wanted to just vomit the words onto the page, smooth out the rough edges, and hand it over to someone else who’d handle all the horseshit parts of it. He was the artist. He delivered the art. His job was done.
Lynne wasn’t sure how much name recognition he really had. But as the first week figures came in, she was pleasantly surprised. For as much as Roger loathed the marketing side of the game, he had proposed an intriguing idea to her: get the book in the hands of as many convicts as he could. They, as he said, were the only ones that read anymore. When a dude was well read these days there was a very probable chance he’d done a stretch. And the subject matter was so taboo and profane but also unique that even if they weren’t sexually invested in the material they’d be locked in and unable to stop once they started. It beat reading The Art of War and 48 Laws of Power for the millionth time. Roger’s street background, sexual deviancy aside, also gave them something and someone to find a common ground with. Lord knew there were plenty of junkies in the system.
“Y’know, when your contract is up, we’ll see how you feel. You might wanna go independent down the line. Be your own boss. Do everything yourself. The money is usually better for the fully independent guys. But you have to be on the ball. You have to hustle. You have to do everything yourself…”
“Yeah, well, if I knew how to make fuckin’ websites or I was a convincing salesman I wouldn’t be writing for peanuts.”
“Peanuts! That’s rich. When did you earn the right to talk like that?”
“This is deal number… Three? Four? Don’t minimize what I’ve done…”
“Hehehehehe…”
“It’s fucked up. I finally did it. I got it. I’m doing this shit for real now. And… I don’t feel all that different.”
“What do you mean? Oh… You thought you’d finally be satisfied… You oughta know better than that…”
“You’re telling me with all your sobriety and meditation and your namaste bullshit you still aren’t satisfied? Content, even?”
“Eh, I’m less restless these days, sure. But you’re an addict. You’re always gonna be looking for the next thing to obsess over. Or, in your case, the next thing you don’t have that you put yourself down for not having… I mean, you have a wife, you’re working toward a house, you used to say that you should’ve gotten both of those things a long time ago…”
“Yeah…”
“So, next up is a kid…”
“You sound like Kerryn now…”
“Oh, shit?! Is Roger Keef gonna have a baby?! Huh!?!? Look who’s turning into a square!!! Hahahahahaha…”
“Fuck off. No way. Absolutely not. I already told her…”
“You should think about it, man. It might suit you… I dunno. I wonder sometimes. I got a few abortions under my belt. And given how fucked up I was at the time, yeah, it was the right call. But I wonder sometimes. If I didn’t squander all those relationships, if I had buckled down earlier… What would’ve happened… Would I be happier…”
“Coulda, woulda, shoulda…”
**
“…But I don’t connect with those women. When you’ve been with a woman who’s a quarter ton, who is out of breath even while at rest, while seated, whose life has been hijacked by her appetite and lack of restraint, when you’ve fed one, held one, fucked one, a woman so big that the kickback of her ass against your crotch could knock you through a wall. You struggle to keep your diamond hard-on inside her, her pussy gushing, warm, and choking your member as you struggle to displace hundreds of pounds of fat that have been crammed inside it. She fits you like a latex glove that’s a size too small. There’s so much of her to kiss and caress… These women aren’t always depressed and self-loathing. But if they are, that means we already have much in common. Sometimes they enjoy being that size. It’s tough to wrap your mind around, I know…”
He laughed. “I forgot this passage was, uh… Well… The whole book is like this, really…”
There was a smattering of chuckles.
“Being an addict, when I like something, my brain will compel me to do it until I die. To ignore my obligations as a man and retreat into whatever dopamine release it can latch onto. Am I powerless over this impulse? No. But it explains why I’ve taken my fetish to its logical extreme. Tina’s body sloshes as I hang on tightly, a reservoir of sweat forming in the swell of her back. She sounds like she’s on the verge of a heart attack as I go at her and ignore the fiery cramps burning their way up and down my calves. The noises she makes are a distinct mixture of pain and pleasure. The same kind of noises she makes when she finally taps out from a big binge and is forced to lay among her own wreckage once more, whimpering as she tries to rub a belly so big she can’t reach most of it. Nor does she have the energy to do so. She shuts her eyes and waits for the food coma to take hold…”
He took another drink.
“Every time I cum inside her the post-nut clarity reminds me of the error of my ways. I pound two shooters of Ketel One and cling to her like a child, burying my face in her belly and squeezing my eyes shut. She drapes her arm around me. Her sweat stings my eyes but I don’t really give a shit as the booze is absorbed by my corroded stomach and I become numb enough to lose myself in her warmth. Something about having my head against her belly re-centers and recalibrates me. It’s my safe place. A rogue clump of Cocaine drizzles down the back of my throat and plops into my gut. I gag, but I keep it all down, because I’m a professional. My heart races and I light a cigarette, handing her one and firing her up as she smiles at me with smoky eyes. She may have been a spoiled suburban piggy, engorged and entitled from years of living high off the hog, but Christ was she ever beautiful. She lets out this long sigh of satisfaction and squeezes me tightly. ‘I can’t resist…’ She gasps. ‘I know it’s bad, but I can’t resist…’”
He took a dramatic pause and sipped more water. Took a deep breath.
“I clear my throat. ‘Story of my life.’ I mumble.”
He looked up at the crowd. “That looks like as good a place to stop as any. Uh… Thanks, guys.”
He pretended like the applause didn’t make his stomach churn and sheepishly scampered off the small stage they’d put up in the bookstore.
