His nostrils flare as he comes to. Hot, dusty, damp air flows in. Grimy underground smells; old leather and rope, oil and metal. He can smell himself, his cologne having long failed.
“E-ergh…” Slowly now, Galloway. What’s the last thing you remember?
Cellar, under the chateau, he answers himself. Everything had gone off without a hitch; I’d infiltrated the shindig, snuck off after a few formalities, found the stockpile…tons of arms, enough to supply twenty militias and pad Xylander’s back account for life…dirty bombs, AK47s, hand grenades, poison gas, shit I didn’t even recognize…I’d been about to start taking photographs when…a hissing noise…a smell like rotten fruit… He’d been gassed.
Communicator. Can you get it? He’s sitting down, hands behind his back. He can feel the familiar weight still in his jacket pocket; that’s good, at least. He flexes his arms; they barely budge. He feels something rubbing on his wrists and upper arms. Not good.
Ken Galloway opens his eyes. His black-framed eyeglasses are slightly smudged, but he can’t see much either way; beyond the small circle of dusty, faded light he sits in, the room is cast in deep shadow. He squints against the shaft of light overhead, but it doesn’t help much. He’s secured to a rusty folding chair, still in the formal suit-and-tie he’d been wearing earlier, now slightly dusty and disheveled from whatever manhandling he’d suffered while out cold. Rough rope restraints circle his broad chest, binding his upper arms against him. The restraints loop down behind his back to his hands, tying them together behind the chair. More rope around his calves force his legs apart and against the chair’s stands. The agent gives a measured grunt as he strains against the ropes; they dislodge, but not by much. He calculates, forehead furrowing; if he pulls with enough force, he might just get his hands up to his pocket and get the hell out of this situation…
Movement in the shadows, and the sound of shuffling feet. Galloway narrows his eyes; you’re calm, you’re cool…you’ve been trained for this. A tall, brooding form approaches, a black shadow against the charcoal shadows of the room. The heavy footfalls are the only sound aside from Galloway’s tensed breathing.
“Glad to see you’re awake, ‘Mr. McGowan’.” A heavily-German-accented voice, one Galloway had become very familiar with over the last few weeks of his assignment. The shadow reveals itself: a tall, silver-haired gentleman with well-trimmed goatee and piercing steel eyes. Humbert Xylander: philanthropist, Zurich elite, and, as Galloway had recently found out, multimillion-dollar arms dealer.
“Although I suppose,” He goes on, striding directly in front of the tied-up agent, “I should address you as Agent Galloway, correct?” He bends over the chestnut hair of the spy and waltzes his large, smooth fingers over Galloway’s suited chest, ruffling the white dress-shirt and bowtie under his black jacket. Xylander feels the strong, well-maintained muscles tensing under his fingertips. “I’d been aware that your little ‘organization’ had had its eyes on me, but to think they’d send in an undercover to my own home… you Americans have quite the nerve…”
Galloway grits his teeth at the unwanted touch. “Whatever you’re going to do…I suggest against it.” He was still working at his bound hands, pulling them free slowly, slowly… If I can just reach my pockets…get my communicator, my gadgets…
“Oh? But I’ve tried my best to make you comfortable…” Xylander says, as his fingers continue ‘examining’ the handsome young agent’s chest. With a sudden YANK! he pulls the rope restraints tighter against Galloway’s chest, cutting into his arms and broad pectorals. The fabric of his jacket creases and with a grunt of surprise Galloway finds his hands rammed back together, the ropes snapping them from escape.
“Ah ah ah.” Xylander wags a scolding finger. “I saw your reaching; no toys this time. You’re lucky my watchmen didn’t relive you of them when they found you stumbling around my cellar.” He stands back up, his full size casting a shadow over the agent as he looks down his nose at him. “By the way…whatever were you doing in the cellar?”
Galloway keeps his face hard, not responding. Bastard…I’m ready for whatever he’s gonna give.
“Surely you knew the party was upstairs…were you looking for something?” Xylander puts both hands in his pockets. “Did you find it? What exactly did you see? Would you like to tell me?” A brilliant white grin, cold even in the warmth of the room. “After all, I am still your host, correct?”
“Huh.” Galloway grunts in reply, keeping his eyes forward.
The precise smile vanishes from Xylander’s face. “Very well then.” He slips his left hand out of its pocket, and in it he holds a small vial. “Have you heard this one before? ‘I have ways of making you talk’…”
With unexpected force, Xylander pulls Agent Galloway’s chin into a tight white-knuckle grip. Galloway reacts instantly, grunting and grimacing as he struggles against his enemy’s clutch. But he’s at a disadvantage tied down, and Xylander’s fingers are like cold stone. Xylander uncaps the vial with the thumb of his left hand and tips the small bottle up against the agent’s pursed lips. Galloway’s eyes go wide behind his glasses as he twists his head side to side, neck straining above his bowtie. Poison…!?
“Drink up now.” Xylander clenches his fingers and forces the agent’s lips apart. The vial is tipped forward and the dark liquid inside— no more than a few spoonfuls—pours past the agent’s lips. Galloway spits and sputters as the foul-tasting liquid enters around in his mouth, but Xylander keeps his grip firm and tilts the agent’s head back, sloshing the vial’s contents to the back of Galloway’s throat. The dark maroon liquid drips from his lips and trails down his chiseled jaw, but enough is in his mouth, at the back of his throat… He gargles, feeling the foul, thick fluid irritating his tonsils.
“A-argh! Urrg…!” His eyes start to water, he feels sweat under his arms, dripping down his brow, even in-between his legs he’s getting moist with the struggle… Can’t…no…no…urrggghhhh! Involuntarily, the agent swallows, clearing his throat with a burst of breath even as the dark liquid trails down into his stomach. He clenches his abs and scrunches his eyes closed behind his glasses, cursing himself. Fuck, fuck! Waiting for the expected pain in his midsection, his head going fuzzy, seeing the lights go out…
Xylander releases Galloway’s jaw, the spy’s head falling forward and heaving with anger. “Not so bad, now was it?” The arms dealer says as he thumbs a dab of the fluid from the corner of Galloway’s snarl; what he hadn’t swallowed has stained on his chin and his shirt. Perhaps only a third had gone down the agent’s gullet, but that was enough… “A little something one of my partners in Moscow cooked up… special for me.”
Cautiously, Galloway looks up, his slicked-back hair fallen in a mess against his sweaty forehead. I’m not dead? What was this? He glares at Xylander. “What are you trying to do…?” A sudden cringe shivers through him as he feels the foul, sour liquid aftertaste.
Xylander winces in mock sympathy. “Yes, the taste could be improved, but let’s admit… I’m not exactly looking to please people I give that vial too.” He takes a step back, putting his hands in his pockets again.
Aside from his sweaty adrenaline, Galloway feels nothing unusual…yet. Gotta get the FUCK outta here…! Some hotness flusters his head as he struggles again with his rope restraints. If he’s not going to kill me, what’s the interrogation?
Against his better judgement perhaps, he growls, “Listen bastard, when I get the fuck outta here you’re gonna be in a world of—” but he doesn’t finish his sentence. A sudden, loud gurgle sound interrupts, lasting six or seven seconds before dissipating. What the? Galloway feels a…shifting, somewhere inside him… unable to hide his surprise, the agent looks down at his flat stomach. Within moments, another loud rumbling noise emerges from his midsection, this time accompanied by a noticeable twinge of pressure in his gut.
Xylander’s cool smile breaks into a genuine smirk to see the agent’s puzzled expression. “Fast-acting, isn’t it? Really, a marvelous potion…”
Galloway shifts in his seat slightly, the ropes tugging against his chest and legs, his dress shoes scuffing against the rough concrete floor. Another gurgle deep within his lower stomach makes the agent give a small grunt, his eyes widening as he recognizes a sensations in his bowels, rapidly gaining momentum as stronger aches surge through his lower abs. “What…? Hugghh!”
The abrupt heaviness knocks at his defenses, and all of a sudden: phhhwwrtpt…
Galloway’s face twists in discomposure and a sudden embarrassment to hear the burst of hot, wet flatulence from under his rear, and he gives a solid clench to his backside, leaning forward in his chair, pushing against his bonds with a renewed alarm.
Xylander’s grin sharpens. “Oh dear… they didn’t train you for this sort of torment at that organization of yours, did they Agent Galloway?”
Galloway gives an aggravated grunt, writhing in his seat as he feels his stomach growing heavier and heavier. Fuck, fuck, did that stuff really make me need to shit? Another thick, heavy rumbling from his abdominal and a clenching pressure on his rear as he fights back another fart seem to answer his question, and this really starts him panicking.
Shit! Fuck… The spy pulls at his restraints, straining his arms and calves and thighs, eyeing daggers at Xylander as he desperately clenches his abs and asscheeks. Gotta get OUT of here!…can’t…have an accident… The thought of degrading himself in his pristine evening suit—and in front of his target enemy!—was enough to get his blood pumping, and worse, that didn’t seem to be helping his condition much.
Despite the agent’s psychical strength and valiant struggle, his restraints—clearly more than old, rat-gnawed ropes—were holding firm. “Are the ropes too tight for you now, Agent?” Xylander smirks. “You’re clearly in considerable distress…just tell me what you saw, and I’ll release you to the nearest…facilities.” Xylander makes a gesture into the shadows, presumably towards some unseen restroom door.
“Nnrggh!…Never!” Galloway growls. Never surrender; never give in to these creeps… He’d sworn himself to his superiors… Another contraction of pressure on his gut is too much. The agent leans forward, trying so hard not to lift his ass off the seat (he hardly can anyway with his restraints) and…ppprrt! Ppwwrrtt! Two hard, wet, heavy cuts of gas from under his ass, followed by an ominous rumble between the agent’s legs, making him moan audibly in distress.
Xylander sniffs the air, suddenly heavy with Galloway’s stink. “It smells like you’ve got quite the movement backed up there, agent… reconsider your opinion now?” He draws a finger along the agent’s jaw. “It’d be a shame to ruin that handsome suit.”
Galloway twists and turns in his chair; now that he’d broken his seal, farts were ripping out at regular intervals as he grunted and squirmed.
“Arrgh-ahhh…” Pwwrrttt! “Shit, erghhh…haaaAA!” Fwwrrppt! The heaviness in his strapping stomach was getting greater by the second. Galloway’s bowels push, pressing contractions down into his rectum. The agent moans and pulls fruitlessly at his bonds, his black suit is stifling; his glasses are fogged with breath, and his mind races.
Fuck, no, shiiittt…mmmph! Can’t believe this…is happening…!! Umph! Eergghhh…a-ahhh..!!
Xylander leans down in the agent’s sweating and squirming face, his gaze intense. “Tell me. What. Did. You. See?” A drop of spittle runs down his immaculate beard, his eyes gleam in the spotlight, his nose sniffs obviously at the rank smell of a man desperate to empty his bowels. The wild glee for this torture… interests and desires beyond what an upright, high-society man should have. Xylander relishes the control he has; the demented power over a man’s most vulnerable, basic bodily needs… the thrill was more than any amount of money or weapons he could sway.
Galloway is breaking; he feels it. His mind is narrowing; his entire being focuses on the goal of containing the bubbling, rumbling load twisting and stuffing his innards. Ffffwwrt! Blllrrtt! More hot and wet flatulence, growing heavier and more desperate. He grits his teeth, moaning like a sick kid. He’d force his thighs together if he could, if these DAMNED ROPES weren’t forcing my fuckin’ legs apart, urrrggghhh.
“A-aagh!” BRRT! Like a battering ram, shit is knocking at his backdoor. The ideals of his mission are nowhere to be found; all he can think of is the unbearable weight in his ass and his gut, his whole body is shaking with the effort of resisting the power of his SHIT.
Oooohhhh…gotta SHIITTTT…gotta GOOOOO…nah…nnnghh…no,nooo…gotta…TOILET!!
“Rrrrgghhh!!” He rips his gaze up into Xylander’s eyes and howls, “Everything! I saw…urggh! Everything! The guards, the cash piles, the weapons…I saw everything you’ve got!” Glorious defeat; Galloway feels tears in his eyes as he pleads with his enemy, his captor. “I saw the weapons; now let me OUT!”
Xylander’s smile is manic. “That’s all I needed to hear.” He steps away from the agent, leaving him to grunt and shout in pure panic. Xylander reaches into his other pocket for a small cellular phone. He presses a single button and moves the phone to his ear.
“Darzi?” He speaks coolly into the phone, as if the pleasure of power had never happened. “I’ve got the tattle; start moving the stockpile at once.” A single, curt, Arabic-tinged reply and he ends the call.
Galloway cries and shoves his head back in utter desperation. “Ugh! Get me outta these things!” BRROOT! A thick bass gas bubble slips from between his legs, wet. The spy groans; he can feel something moist around the base of his anus, so gently pressing against the stark white of his all-American white jockey briefs… “Please!” he moans, the word of submission like salt in his mouth.
Xylander slides his cell back into his pocket and makes his way behind the agent. With a painfully slow speed he kneels behind Galloway’s back, fumbling his fingers around the agent’s tied fists.
Galloway’s face is red as beet as he pushes and shoves against his bonds, mentally urging the man to hurry, tragically away of how utterly at the mercy of his captor he was. He feels the waves pushing against his ass but he dares not slip another gas bubble.
“Fuuuuuuu!” He moans, hot as a fire. “Hurrryrryyyy!!…I…I can’t h-hold it!!” But Xylander stalls, eyes gleaming with an inner devil as he watches the agent’s backside, eye level to the kneeling elite, twisting and squirming against the hard seat. Indeed, Xylander doesn’t untie the agent’s knots, only pulling them tighter, forcing his struggle to cease.
Aaaahhhhhh….mmmm….no. No no no no…..oooooohhh A final tug and the agent’s eyes go wide behind his frames, his back arches in a climatic finale to his fight, the black suit ripping across this abs, white shirt soaking with sweat, and then…
“Yes, yes…” Xylander moans ecstatically as he sees a small, dark stain blossom at the base of the agent’s ass, the liquid shit starting to spread as his anus began to release, beyond all control. Galloway lets out his own low, guttural moan as the brown shit continues spreading, his ass lifting as far as it can go, dark slacks spread taut across his cheeks, the brown-yellowish stain spreading up his crack and around the seat. Foul liquid drips onto the hard seat, the smell flaring in Xylander’s nostrils
“Auugh…aaahhhhhh…” A soft crackling noise emerges as the agent gives a deeper, primal groan of relief. Semi-solid shit began mushing up against his ass, pressing a small bulge out from the seat of his dress pants. The more he shit, the faster it all seemed to press against his rectum, until Galloway was bearing down, the force of elimination overwhelming all his sense.
pppwwwpprtthtthhhhHHHPRTTT; Xylander receives a front row performance from the young American spy’s fit bowels unloading; the smell, sound, and sight of his massive, drug-induced evacuation spreading up and across his ass, bulging out his slick, handsome trousers, was indescribable.
“Let it flow out…let the shit ruin your pride…” Xylander moans, rubbing his slim thighs together, feeling his member straining against his trousers; such vile perverse pleasure he takes in this… it makes him light-headed.
Sweat drips from Galloway’s chiseled face as he shits and shits, the foul mess squishing to his groin and spreading up his asscrack. At ground zero, the harder, smellier shit he’s had packed up for days makes a solid lump in his briefs, staining them through and soiling his trousers. Utterly humiliated, the agent slides his ass into the mess out of exhaustion, feeling it squish across his balls and seep on the outside.
Xylander grins and leans his face forward, rubbing his nose against the balloon-like bulge in the spy’s trouser seat; the scent of hard, sloppy, American-made shit fills the Swissman’s nostrils, and his cock throbs.
Galloway’s grunts and heaving ab contractions are dying away; he sits in his massive, thick shitload, feeling it press against his ass and thighs, up between his legs; his briefs are utterly filled. The redness in his face is no longer strain, but complete humiliation. The heat of the room, combined with the warmth radiating away from his load, makes his sweat pour again, and the layers of his suit don’t help matters.
Releuctently, Xylander pulls away from the spy’s expanded, seeping ass. He wipes a smudge from his nose, savoring the soiled scent on his fingertip. He walks back around to the agent’s front.
“huh…huh…I…” Galloway feels like a child again, begging a teacher for mercy after a classroom accident at his desk. “…I need to change…”
“I suppose,” Xylander sighed “Now that I’ve gotten what I need—and what I want—I can let you go.” He watches the blushing, drained agent slump in his seat, the ropes still tugging into his torso, a soft squishing sound as he shifts his cheeks underneath him; he doesn’t watch as his enemy retreats back into the shadows. Only a small dose of the gas that brought him here is needed, and soon enough Galloway drifts in merciful sleep…
The next thing he is aware of is chirping birds. Just as before, his nostrils flare before he opens his eyes. It smells like an unflushed toilet—his own unflushed toilet. Where was he? Fallen into some sewer somewhere…?
Uuuuhhh…shit. He remembers. Sitting up, Galloway feels the cold, heavy slop mush again on his backside. Tears of humiliation, disgust, and anger at himself threaten to well up behind his glasses. He’s been left on a side street somewhere; classic European architecture lines the empty street, and the sky is pink with dawn. Still in his thoroughly dirtied suit, the spy wobbles to his feet, feeling unfamiliar with being able to move freely again. Another wave of his stink hits him as he gets his bearings; sweat, shit, hormonal rage and fear…
Gingerly, Galloway reaches behind himself and gropes the thoroughly mushed and mashed lump in his seat. “Uuuhh…oh man…” He moans, pulling his hand away quickly.
What now, Galloway?
He reaches inside his jacket pocket—the vest is torn and his armpits are thoroughly stained and dampened with sweat inside—and finds his communicator, untouched. He flips it open and sends out a standard distress signal. Almost instantly it’s picked up.
“Galloway??” The male voice cuts through the early morning stillness. “What the hell, agent? Where are you? What happened to you?” Brockwell, his partner for the last few weeks in Zurich.
“I’m…alive.” Galloway says into the communicator, spreading his legs as he tries to adjust the oozing load in his pants without it splattering down his pants legs onto the pavement. “But…” he sighed, blushing again at his shameful performance. “Xylander’s a step ahead.”
Brockwell curses. “Fuck that, man; I’m just glad to hear he didn’t kill you. Headquarters has been worried shit since twenty-four-hundred…”
Almost wished he HAD killed me, Galloway grimaces to himself. Explaining this to Brockwell wasn’t going to be easy.
“I’m…somewhere. But I’ll definitely need a pick up…”
Galloway keeps the communicator’s volume low as his partner talks on. Galloway can only imagine the examination he’ll have to deal with back at HQ…not to mention the cleanup, hopefully before then.
He begins to trek up the street, a waddle in his seat as the soft mound presses between and across his buttcheeks…