Wine Barrel

Erotic short. The angel Jean-Pierre lets himself get caught by the all-too-friendly Dionysus.

This is an old piece from a few years ago I haven’t published under my own name until now, with a few more of these to come — this one and Window Trap are “canon”, but the others that will follow in the week won’t be!

Rated E, trans M/everyone at a party. Featuring object insertion, inflation with a womb filled up with wine, unsafe alcohol consumption, lactation, milking, public humiliation, voyeurism, transformation, very drunk sex, sadomasochism, free use, objectification, begging, multiple orgasms, overstimulation.

There’s no real discussion of consent here, but Jean-Pierre is very much into the whole scenario and trusts Mr Zagre (Dionysus) implicitly, and at no point actually wants to extricate himself or for the fun to stop.

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Mr Zagre was tall, fat, and jolly.

Posed as he was, his hands trussed up at the small of his back, his legs spread over Zagre’s huge, tree-trunk thighs, he could see the shape of Zagre’s face, the stubble on his cheeks, the chestnut hair that cascaded over his shoulders. His eyes, like this, were red-tinged — they were the colour of wine.

“Something I know about you, ange du mort,” Zagre said, idly circling Jean-Pierre’s clit with his thumb, sending lazy, delicious furls of pleasure up his spine, “is that you do not drink.” His fingers were very wide and long, and they were crooked inside Jean-Pierre’s cook: Jean-Pierre couldn’t help but rock on them, his eyes fluttering closed as he focused on the pleasant weight of the fingers he was impaled on, the thumb pressing his clit against his pubic bone on every thrust. “And yet you steal from me — why is that?”

“Asmodeus does,” Jean-Pierre mumbled, and softly sighed as Mr Zagre’s other huge hand stroked over Jean-Pierre’s chest, pinching one nipple and then the other, alternating between them.

“Asmodeus has a tab,” Zagre said. “He pays for his wine. Means you stole from me for the thrill of it.”

“More,” Jean-Pierre moaned as Zagre continued to keep his pace slow on his clit: when Jean-Pierre tried to rock faster on his hand, Zagre squeezed so hard Jean-Pierre let out a high, sharp whine at the painful pleasure of it, the hollow ache it made twang inside him.

“You could have asked,” Zagre rumbled, and laughed: it was a pleasant sound, a cheerful sound. “I’ll give you as much wine as you can carry, ange du mort — more than.”

There was something dangerous in that promise, something untoward, but Jean-Pierre was too focused on the pleasant way Zagre’s fingers filled him, the way his other hand tugged and dragged at his nipples.

“But there’s a necessary quid pro quo,” Zagre murmured.

“Fuck me,” Jean-Pierre said, batting his eyelashes at the god before him. “Please, won’t you? I know your cock is big.”

“My cock is big,” Zagre agreed: a third finger was slid into Jean-Pierre’s cunt, spreading him a little bit wider, and he sighed with pleasure. It was not urgent, nor extreme — it was very nice, and he wanted more, but this was good, too. “But I have better things planned for you than that. Want to come first?”

“Yes, please,” Jean-Pierre said, and Zagre laughed at him.

“Such manners now you’re caught, little bird,” Zagre murmured, but then he eased his fingers free. Jean-Pierre groaned for the loss of it, and he watched, powerless, as Zagre brought his fingers up to his mouth and sucked them with a loud, wet sound that made Jean-Pierre all the wetter, made his clit jump in its hood. He clenched on empty air, aching to be fucked, as he watched Zagre suck his fingers clean.

“Pretty please?” Jean-Pierre pressed, leaning forward, and Zagre chuckled after drawing his fingers from his mouth with an audible pop. Jean-Pierre was painfully empty, wanted those fingers back inside him, and when he rocked on air, Zagre did not hide his amusement, wetting the fingers on his other hand with his tongue before taking hold of each of Jean-Pierre’s nipples and squeezing them.

The pain was mixed with pleasure, and Jean-Pierre groaned low in his throat, leaning into Zagre’s hands.

“No eggs in that pretty little belly of yours, are there?” Zagre asked mildly. “All you angels, such a beautiful crop, and every one of you barren.”

“You think it should bother me?” Jean-Pierre asked, closing his eyes and humming when Zagre begin to tug and pull at his nipples again.

“Bothers me,” Zagre said. “Imagine what beautiful children the two of us might have.”

Jean-Pierre laughed this time, felt the laugh stutter when Zagre rolled his nipples between his thumb and forefinger on each side, felt himself drip onto Zagre’s thighs. “Sorry you can’t keep me as a broodmare.”

“We use the term wife,” Zagre murmured, “but it hardly matters. I can still do something good with you. You ever bring these to milk?”

“No,” Jean-Pierre said, feeling his nose wrinkle at the rough hands on his flat chest.

“This will be fun for you, then,” Zagre said, and as magic flowed hot from his fingers, Jean-Pierre shouted. It was an impossibly hot, overstimulating sensation, rocketing electric under his skin, and he gasped and hissed out noise and squirmed as Zagre tugged and pulled at his chest, making the flesh ache dully as Zagre fattened it under his hands.

The tits Zagre gave him were heavy and round, and Zagre made them swell until they were big enough to spill over Zagre’s hands, which were huge. When Zagre’s hands fell away, Jean-Pierre felt the weight of the tits on his chest tip him forward, and he groaned as he shifted in his place, trying not to overbalance himself. The movement made them rock and jiggle in their place, and it wasn’t an entirely unpleasant situation.

His nipples ached, though, a sort of hot pins and needles sensation thrumming on each side of his chest, and he grunted, trying to shift himself to grind his cunt against Zagre’s thigh. Zagre flicked his clit, making Jean-Pierre cry out in pain even as his cunt clenched.

“Greedy,” Zagre murmured, and took each fat tit in one hand, weighing them on his palms, tapping his thumbs against the nipples. “These are an improvement,” he said, and then he leaned in, took one of Jean-Pierre’s nipples in his mouth, and squeezed gently either side of the nub.

Something that had been caught released, and as Zagre began to suck, Jean-Pierre felt his eyes defocus, heard the desperate groan from deep within his chest more than he felt himself make it. He could feel the milk let down, feel how hard Zagre sucked from him, and on the other side, against his will, he could feel his other tit leak, milk dripping down the swell of the new breast and dribble down his belly. It felt unsatisfying, somehow — he wanted that tit sucked too, wanted another mouth on him, and he was so wet now he was dripping, felt hollowed out and open, needing something to fuck him full.

“You taste good from both ends, little bird,” Zagre said, and captured the other tit on his tongue, began to suck hard at it as he took Jean-Pierre’s hips in his great hands and lifted him up. The other tit bounced as Zagre carried him, the air a tantalisingly cool brush on his skin, and Jean-Pierre groaned and whined, trying to wrap his legs around Zagre’s waist to rub his clit against him, but Zagre nipped at him, and kept him too far away.

“Fuck me,” Jean-Pierre said plaintively, and Zagre chuckled, but shook his head.

He carried Jean-Pierre easily, as though Jean-Pierre weighed next to nothing at all, his heavy chest bouncing at his chest, every bob of them making them throb. They still felt too full, swollen with the milk in them, and he tried to press his chest up toward Zagre’s face as Zagre set him down.

Zagre untied his hands as he laid Jean-Pierre back on a leather table, and Jean-Pierre reached to stroke Zagre’s cock through his breeches. It was hard and huge, and Jean-Pierre knew it would be painful to take, knew that it would split him in two, and he ached for it, but after a moment, Zagre tugged his hand away.

“Hands over your head or at your sides?”

“At my sides, please,” Jean-Pierre murmured, and Zagre carefully fastened his wrists down either side of his hips. His chest felt heavy, his new tits sitting on top of him, and he groaned as Zagre playfully tossed them under his hands, making them wobble.

“You haven’t tried to get away once,” Zagre said. “But you don’t know what I’m going to do to you.”

This was true: Zagre had already been rounding the corner as Jean-Pierre had caught in the weave trap, but Zagre wasn’t like others of the Greeks. He had a sense of humour, but he believed in pleasure, even in his punishments.

“Is it going to be dreadful?”

“Quite.”

“Is it going to hurt?”

Zagre thought about it. “A little,” he murmured.

Jean-Pierre smiled. “Will I love it?”

“Oh, yes,” Zagre said with a smirk. “I think so. If you weren’t being so very cooperative, little bird, I might be far crueller to you.”

“Be crueller,” Jean-Pierre said, and Zagre gave a dark little laugh: he slapped Jean-Pierre directly on the cunt with a clap so loud it stung Jean-Pierre’s ears, and Jean-Pierre let out a wail at the hot, striking pain of it. Roughly grabbing at Jean-Pierre’s cunny, squeezing it in his big hand and grinding the heel of his hand against Jean-Pierre’s swollen clit, he forced aching whimpers out of Jean-Pierre’s throat. “You needn’t knead me like bread,” he said.

“This is crueller,” Zagre pointed out, but gave him another playful slap, lighter this time and making him throb from the very core, and pulled away. Jean-Pierre didn’t recognise the little plastic cups as Zagre rubbed a wet cloth over each of them, but when they were affixed to Jean-Pierre’s nipples, he understood well enough.

Their sudden suction was overwhelming, a hard suckling on each side, and Jean-Pierre’s eyes closed, his head tipping back, as he felt them suck so hard at his nipples they ached. Milk flowed freely down the pipes attached to the little cups, and Jean-Pierre felt himself clench on the air, wishing he was clenching on something.

The next cup was put over Jean-Pierre’s cunt, and as he squeezed the little pump attached to it, Jean-Pierre groaned at the painful, delicious suction, making his whole pussy throb as the vacuum of the cup was pumped up higher and higher, forcing blood into Jean-Pierre’s already swollen clit and lips. The pleasure was electric, and he came from the sheer force of the suction, feeling the wonderful crest of pleasure wash through him like a storm’s wave.

He rode it out, rocking into the air when Zagre suddenly dragged the suction cup free: his cunt felt as though it were overflowing with pleasure, and he felt himself gush with it. He felt the cool of the air bite and catch at his flesh, and he was still distracted by that impossible pleasure as Mr Zagre fed the fat tube into his cunt.

It was a heavy pipe, wider than any enema Jean-Pierre had ever taken, and Jean-Pierre let out a frustrated sound at how smoothly it slid inside him, easily fed into his cunt with no resistance at all, until Zagre had fed enough into him that it stuck at the end of the canal there.

“Wait,” Jean-Pierre grunted, shifting. “Too much, too far — ”

“No waiting, little bird,” Zagre said, and forced it forward, at the same time pressing on Jean-Pierre’s belly.

Jean-Pierre hissed at the pinching pain as Zagre forced the pipe further into him, wincing, but as if to distract him from it, Zagre turned up the power on the milking machine, and the cups sucked so powerfully at his nipples that for a moment, Jean-Pierre felt hardly able to think at all.

For a few moments he was suspended in blissful dead air, insensible, and when he blinked slowly back to awareness, his tits felt a great deal lighter, but his belly was heavier.

Dumbly, stupidly, he stared down at his belly, which was swelling slightly outward as cool liquid was pumped into his womb through the piping slid into his cunt. It had been clipped in place, he thought, because when he squirmed, it stuck to one side of his open, pumped-up entrance.

He felt strange.

Airy, somehow, airy and slightly slow and stupid, and there was a strange sensation in him, as though he were at sea — but instead of making him sea sick and unhappy, it made him giggle.

“There we go,” said Mr Zagre approvingly, reaching out and rubbing a pleasant circle over Jean-Pierre’s belly, which was rounded out. “You like that, don’t you?”

“Want your cock,” Jean-Pierre mumbled, surprised at how clumsy his mouth was, all of a sudden, his words sounding slurred in his own ears, and Zagre chuckled, pressing slightly on Jean-Pierre’s fattening belly and making Jean-Pierre release a low groan. The pressure wasn’t unpleasant.

“Maybe later, little bird,” Zagre said idly. “For now, you have a lot more to take.”

“Wh’as…” Jean-Pierre slurred, but then he closed his eyes, moaning as Zagre’s hand slid lower, beginning once more to rub slow circles on the swollen nub of Jean-Pierre’s clit. He did that for quite some time, and Jean-Pierre floated on air, basking in the suction at his tits and the dragging pleasure on his clit, and the gush of liquid inside him. It pumped into him, more and more, until it began to ache.

Staring down at himself, his eyes narrowed, he stared at his belly. He had to stare at his belly, because he couldn’t see anything else — time seemed to have gone by very quickly, because how his belly was so large he couldn’t see past it, couldn’t see Zagre, could only feel the finger rubbing him.

He was as big as a cow, he thought, big at least as a real broodmare with this womb, swollen up with whatever Zagre had pumped inside him, and when Mr Zagre patted the side of him, he realised there was almost no give within him at all. It was liquid, yes, but it had been packed into him so tightly there was no air within him, and it was so heavy his belly barely even moved.

The skin hurt where it was stretched out, but Jean-Pierre felt very slow, somehow, or very stupid, as Mr Zagre tugged the cups free from his dry tits.

It occurred to him that Zagre wasn’t playing with his clit anymore, and he released a low, clumsy sound, a wordless complaint, but Zagre just clucked his tongue. He was aware of things happening in strange shifts, all of them beyond his control: his wrists were untied, the pipe was pulled out of him, and he was fitted with a plug so wide that it made his cunt throb, wider even than Zagre’s fist.

Mr Zagre carried him, lolling in his arms, as if he was still very light, and Jean-Pierre groaned lowly as he was sat up in a high-backed chair, his arms cuffed to the sides of its back, rings around his upper shoulders and lower arms to keep him sat up.

His tits, now dry, sat on top of the huge swell of his belly, which sat on top of his thighs. He felt dizzy, but it wasn’t unpleasant — he was laughing, he was aware, as he tried to clench around the plug inside him, but couldn’t quite remember how.

“Never been drunk before, have you, little bird?” Mr Zagre asked, raising his eyebrows and taking hold of Jean-Pierre by the tits, dragging at his nipples — it hurt, and Jean-Pierre cried out, cried out even louder when Zagre drummed a rhythm against his swollen belly.

He felt full, impossibly heavy, and the liquid scarcely stirred in him.

“Drunk?” he repeated breathlessly.

“More wine than you could carry, I told you,” Zagre said, sticking his thumb in Jean-Pierre’s mouth, and Jean-Pierre sucked on it clumsily, tasted the earthy sweetness of Zagre’s skin. “Are you happy, little bird?”

“No,” Jean-Pierre mumbled. “Still haven’t fucked me.”

“You’re going to be my party favour,” Mr Zagre said, and then he walked away.

Time passed very slowly and very quickly at once. It seemed to drag on and on, but when the lights changed, he realised it all at once: his tits seemed to swell and enlarge before his eyes, growing fat with milk.

They were too big, after a while.

They ached.

He was crying out, wailing for relief, when he heard Mr Zagre in the distance, giving an announcement: he heard the chatter and laughter of people, felt bodies moving back and forth. People were talking, but he couldn’t concentrate on it, couldn’t focus on the people that passed by either.

His legs were pushed apart, spread wide, so that his cunt lips were kissed by the cool air in the room: when the first hand pushed underneath his huge belly, he groaned, desperate to be touched, but there was no brush against his clit. There was just a strange sensation of something at his cunt, a strange sense of liquid dripping out of him, giving him the barest relief, as he filled the glass.

He cried out, complained when whoever it was pulled away, but then the first mouth wrapped around one of his tits, and Jean-Pierre crooned out an eager sound at the relief, the delight, of the suckling lips.

“See?” he heard Mr Zagre say. “He likes it.”

He did like it.

“More,” he moaned. “More.”

A mouth wrapped around his tit on the other side, so that he was being sucked at on each side, the strange pins and needles sensation humming through his chest even as more glasses, and jugs, too, were pressed between his legs. The plug inside his cunt was not just cork: it was a tap, and every time he filled a glass, his belly felt a little less heavy.

Time passed.

Sobriety was a thing of the past.

Hours must have gone by, because it was darker when Zagre came up to him, and his belly wasn’t nearly so swollen now, was the swell of a man just a few months pregnant, instead of one made inhuman with the wine stuffed in him.

“Not a barrel anymore,” Zagre purred, smacking the swell a little too hard. “See who’s here for you, little bird?”

“Dio tells me you were getting wine for me,” said Asmodeus. His eyes were green and very cold: his voice was deep and resonant as ever, and Jean-Pierre shivered as his brother looked at him. “But I see you’re enjoying it yourself.”

“He makes a lovely drunk, doesn’t he?” Zagre asked, tangling his hand in Jean-Pierre’s hair. “You don’t mind if I fuck him, do you?”

“He’s been begging for it,” Asmodeus said reasonably. “I wouldn’t ask you to refrain.”

“I’ll fuck his arse,” Zagre said magnanimously, but Jean-Pierre’s brother demurred.

“Fuck his cunt,” he suggested. “I don’t mind the taste, and he’ll complain, otherwise.”

It was hard to follow what was happening. He was lolling, swaying like something in the wind, but he could almost understand as Zagre dragged him up from where he was sitting, and sank into the chair beneath him. The tap was dragged out of him, and he was left gaping where it had been spreading him wide, but before all the wine still in him could gush free, he was impaled on Mr Zagre’s cock.

Jean-Pierre wailed at the pain and the sweet, sweet ecstasy of it, falling back against Zagre’s belly as Zagre rolled his hips up and into him. He was so drunk he could scarcely move, but he could feel the painful delight as Zagre took him by each nipple and began to milk him like a cow, squeezing his teats and pulling at them in alternating rhythm, so that the milk dripped and squirted over the still-rounded swell of his belly. The release, the relief, was sublime, and he sighed.

He was distracted as his brother got to his knees.

When Asmodeus began to drink the dripping wine from his cunt, from around where Zagre was buried inside him, he was coming before he could realise why. The orgasm seemed to go on forever, rolling over him in wave, after wave of pleasure, as Zagre milked him and fucked him both, as Asmodeus drank his fill from around the throb of Zagre’s fat cock, and then began to suckle at Jean-Pierre’s clit.

The orgasm went on forever: it seemed like it would never end.

He was still drunk, he thought, as Asmodeus set him down in his hotel room. There was a plug inside his cunt, keeping what was left inside him, and Jean-Pierre touched his naked belly with both hands, stroking it.

“Will you drink the wine?” he asked clumsily, and Asmodeus laughed at him, reaching out and squeezing each of the tits Zagre had given him.

“All the wine is drunk, Jean — that’s all Dio.” Asmodeus patted Jean-Pierre’s come-swollen belly, and Jean-Pierre swayed with it, eyes half-lidded. “He wishes desperately he could get you pregnant, you know. Bet he’d make you birth a few dozen kids before he let you stop. And why shouldn’t he, when you look like this, belly fat, tits heavy, with that stupid, fucked-out look on your face?”

Jean-Pierre knew that he should be offended, that he should protest, but his tongue was slow and his lips were clumsy, and by the time he thought he’d thought of something today, Asmodeus was sucking at his tit, and the world narrowed down to the heat and suction of his mouth.

(The hangover lasted three days, and he declared he would never fuck Zagre again.)