Summoning

Author:
Keywords:
Inflation Types:
Popping:
Date Written: 
02/07/2019

From the moment of his birth, Isaac knew nothing but privilege and wealth.  Born into the prestigious von Bargen line, he grew up with a retinue of servants tending to his needs before he could even speak or walk.  His youth was spent under the guidance of the finest tutors and scholars of the realm, educating him in stewardship, governance, and the natural sciences.  There was little his parents could not provide, and when his father died of consumption he inherited his titles and lands, and with them the means to satisfy his needs.  At least, for a while.

As time passed ennui gradually set in, and Isaac grew dissatisfied with mere worldly pursuits.  His interests were sparked once more, however, by a chance encounter with an old and forgotten tome speaking of rituals and ancient spirits.  He delved deep into the occult, gathering whatever books and artifacts he could, obscurity and confiscation by the church doing little to stop one with sufficient reach and coin.  More and more of his time was spent in cloistered study, comparing and cross-referencing notes, translating incantations in long-forgotten languages, and learning ways to speak with forces not of this world.

A small, forgotten chapel beneath the castle proved a suitable - and ironic - location for Isaac to ply the fruits of his research.  Candles were lit, incense was burned, and an intricate chalk circle was drawn upon the dais, ringed by salt.  A goat, freshly killed, provided a suitable offering, and from the page in his hand he spoke the words to call forth power from beyond.

The chapel was filled with the howl of the storm, and the flesh and blood of the sacrifice was consumed in a sulfurous flame.  The light from the candles was blotted out by a darkness that bordered on the physical, blinding Isaac.  The sound of wind faded and the darkness lifted, revealing the fruits of his summoning.

She was nude, lithe and sharp-featured, standing confidently with one hand on her hip.  Her skin was the tan of stone and sand, brown feathered wings extending from her back, long, loosely tangled brown hair framing her face.  With a tilt of her head she looked at Isaac expectantly, sapphire eyes glittering in the light, before bowing deeply. "Focalor," she said; her voice was like red wine. "Great Dutchess of Hell.  To whom do I owe the pleasure?"

"Isaac von Bargen," he replied. "You are a murderous spirit, Focalor, and I have been wronged by many."

She inspected the nails of one hand. "Doubtless you would, as a king."

"I desire to see them taken care of."

"Naturally.  So you summon a Dutchess of Hell to satisfy your grudges." Focalor sighed, turning her attention back to Isaac. "So what happened?  Did a chef overcook your roast beef?  Chambermaid refuse your advances?" Her lips spread in a toothy grin. "Your wife found another more handsome?"

"You think me that petty?" he snapped.

"Humans generally are.  I suppose you'd like to justify mass executions without trial in a way that makes you out to be the victim.  If not to me, then at least to yourself."

"Those who have wronged me are enemies of this country.  Enemies of its people!"

Her expression softened, and after a moment of thought she nodded slowly. "You wish me to slay the enemies of this nation's people.  I misjudged you; you clearly care for their well-being if you would go to such lengths for them."

"You understand."

"I do," Focalor replied, smiling. "So, is that the condition of our contract?"

"That you may strike down the foes of the citizens of this nation.  By the seals of Solomon and the words of the contract, I, Isaac von Bargan, do bind Focalor to my service."

"It shall be done, my master; my winds and storms are yours.  But," she gestured towards the ground, "I can do little within this circle of salt."

"Please, allow me." Isaac dragged the toe of one boot across the salt, breaking the circle, and Focalor visibly relaxed, as if a great weight were lifted from her shoulders.

"Thank you." She gestured, and the sound of wind filled the room a second before Isaac's stomach bulged, the lower buttons of his vest straining and popping.

He recoiled, pressing his hands against his midsection in shock.  Whatever was inside him was weightless, shifting with pressure and, as more buttons broke free, continuing to fill him. "What is this?  What are you doing?"

"Following our contract, of course." She smiled. "I normally prefer drowning, but certain other methods have their charm."

Isaac's vest burst open, belly sticking out a full foot in front of him as his pectorals grew fuller and rounder, his shirt pulled taut across him. "You betrayed me!  We had a deal!"

"We did.  That I would 'strike down the foes of the citizens of this nation.'"

His belt grew tight as his backside began to swell. "Yet you turn on -me!-  Their king!"

"You live in changing times, your Highness." Reaching down Focalor undid his belt and, with a snap of her arm, pulled it free; unencumbered, his waist and hips billowed outward, his torso taking on a rounder shape. "Your people are learning what we discovered when your empires were little more than mud huts in the wilderness: That being forced into obedience by an absolute ruler is no life for them."

His mouth moved wordlessly as he continued to fill with air, legs of his pants and sleeves of his shirt beginning to grow snug.  He awkwardly turned, legs spread to keep his thighs from bumping together, and waddled for the doorway to the stairs.  Fumbling with the knob he pulled it open and pushed through, only to wedge himself firmly in the stone doorframe.

Focalor laughed. "Are you that eager to show off to your subjects?" She strode towards him, grabbing the back of his shirt collar and giving it a tug.  He popped free, struggling to stay on his feet as she pulled him to the center of the room.  With a push she spun him around, stopping him by resting both hands on the band of exposed flesh between the hem of his shirt and his beltline. "Sorry to say, but you're going to have to stay here with me."

"Stop this!" His limbs grew conical, the stitches in his sleeves and pants popping as his arms and legs thickened and stiffened.  He tried to struggle, only managing to bend his arms partway. "I demand it!"

"'Demand.'  Really."  She gave him a gentle push, and he flailed as he tipped onto his backside.  Her hands sank into his body as she leaned on him with both arms, leering. "It would appear that the ship of state is more a balloon."

The last bits of Isaac's clothing were torn apart, falling to the ground and leaving him nude in the chill air of the chapel.  There was an overwhelming roundness to his body, soft curves where his pecs and backside were.  As his limbs were absorbed into him, little more than fat stumps, the swelling spread to his neck, giving him a double chin.  He was as wide as he was tall, utterly helpless, and still growing. "Please!  I beg you!"

She pulled away, letting Isaac roll back to an upright position. "First demanding, then begging.  Well, well.  This is what you call 'carrot and the stick,' isn't it." She cupped her chin. "What could you possibly offer me?  Wealth?"

He looked up as best as he could manage, seeing the ceiling grew closer before looking back down at Focalor over the curve of his chest. "Yes!  All the wealth in my realm!  Gold, artifacts, jewels, all of it yours!"

"Land?"

He could feel his growth begin to slow, a rising tension across his skin and an overwhelming pressure throughout his body. "I have a map!  Just point to wherever you want and I'll give it to you!"

"Power?"

"You can be my queen!" Angry red stretch marks formed across his belly as a creaking began to be heard, at first barely audible, then gradually rising above the sound of the wind. "No, empress!  I shall be your servant!  Your slave!"

"Anything?"

"Yes!" He forced the words out through fattened lips and swollen cheeks. "Anything!"

Focalor nodded. "Very well.  I want..." She took a step forward. "...you..." She touched her index finger to the bulge of his stomach, his body firm. "...to pop."

As he felt his skin begin to tear, Isaac realized that she would get her wish.

His body erupted, forced apart by the immense pressure inside of him.  His flesh was rent asunder, blood and gore showering the chapel, snuffing candles and splattering across the walls.  Focalor received the brunt of the cascade, her figure positively coated with ichor but his brutal, violent demise not even warranting a flinch from the demoness.

"Ah, yes," she sighed.  With a shake of her arms and a flick of her wings the blood sloughed off of her, leaving her clean once more. "So fragile, yet so rewarding." She sauntered towards the door, stepping over Isaac's tattered clothes. "A new era is upon your people, your Highness.  A pity you never had the chance to see it."

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