Extinguished

I charge him before I can think better of it. The extinguisher whistles through the air toward his head. A few seconds ago the same attack had him stumbling backward through the junkyard. A few seconds ago he had been half blind, disoriented, and ****.

Now he is angry. The difference becomes obvious immediately. Reaper raises one arm. Instead of trying to dodge the swing, he catches it. The extinguisher stops dead in midair. The impact jars every bone in my arms..For a second I simply stare.

The giant's hand is wrapped around the metal cylinder as though it weighs nothing. My stomach drops. I yank backward with both hands. The extinguisher does not move. I pull harder, but still nothing. The giant twists his wrist. The extinguisher tears free from my grip.

The sudden loss of resistance nearly sends me stumbling forward. Reaper examines the weapon for a moment. Then he smiles. I immediately backpedal. The giant steps forward. The extinguisher swings. I barely duck in time.

The metal cylinder crashes into the hood of a nearby sedan hard enough to leave a visible dent. Rust flakes explode into the air. The sound echoes through the junkyard. I spin away and try to create distance. The extinguisher comes around again. This time it catches my shoulder. Pain explodes down my arm.

I stumble sideways, landing face down in the dust. Reaper advances relentlessly..The giant wields the extinguisher one-handed as though it were a length of pipe. Kicking my legs apart, he kneels behind me, and I felt the filthy, rounded edge of the steel cylinder press against my raw, gaped butthole.

The pressure returns, a slow, massive weight that begins to breach the ruined opening. I close my eyes, my breath catching as the unyielding metal starts to fill that hollowed-out space. It pushes into me, slow and inexorable. The cold metal surface scrapes against raw, torn tissue with a pressure that feels less like invasion now and more like burial.

My hands, pressed flat against the blistering earth, tremble. I feel the cylinder's girth stretch me further, a dull, deep ache blooming where only sharp pain existed before. The man behind me shifts his grip, his scarred hands steadying the tank as it sinks deeper into my devastated rectum.

My throat tightens around a silent scream as my sphincter gives way entirely, accepting the cold, blunt invasion without resistance. The heavy tank settles deeper inside me, a foreign weight that anchors me to this spot of scorched earth and metal. He holds it there, unmoving, his fingers resting on either side of the cylinder as if to feel the surrender he has wrought.

The sun beats down on my back, a stark contrast to the chill spreading from my core, and for a moment, the only sound is the dry rasp of my own breathing and the distant cry of a circling hawk. He pulls the heavy cylinder back, the movement slow and deliberate, and the cold metal drags against the raw inner walls.

Then he shoves it forward again, a single, deep thrust that sends a jolt through my entire frame. My forehead presses against the hot dust, my vision swimming. He settles into a steady rhythm, using the fire extinguisher like a brutal piston, each push and pull a mechanical violation of the space he has already conquered.

Each impact feels like being struck with a sledgehammer. My breathing becomes ragged. The rounded end of the tank grinds against something deep inside, a place of dull, resonant pain that echoes up into the base of my spine. Every thrust takes a little more out of me.

The extinguisher that had felt like salvation a minute ago has become just another weapon in his hands. The rhythm of his thrusts quickens, each jarring drive forcing the cold, pitted steel deeper into a place never meant to hold such a large and filthy thing.

A wave of visceral revulsion sweeps through me, hot and bitter, as I feel the gritty, corroded surface scraping against the most **** parts of me. It is a filthy intrusion, a violation that feels less like a claiming now and more like a desecration.

The heavy weight of the tank seems to grind against my very core, rearranging my guts with a terrible, impersonal ****. He drives the extinguisher forward with one final, brutal shove, and the entire length of the cold cylinder disappears inside me.

The world tilts, a sudden, violent graying at the edges of my vision. My knees buckle, but his other hand comes down hard on the small of my back, pinning me to the hood. I cling to consciousness by a thread, the weight of the metal inside me a nauseating anchor as black spots dance before my eyes.

He grips the red tank and pulls, the withdrawal a slow, sickening slide that seems to take a part of me with it. A sharp, wet slurping sound cuts through the heavy air as he pulls the rounded extinguisher free, leaving behind a cavernous emptiness that feels like a wound.

My body sags, trembling with a deep, aching emptiness where the heavy weight had settled. A slow trickle of something warm traces a path down my inner thigh. I feel spent and hollow. Air rushes back into my lungs in a shallow, ragged gasp. The desert sun is a searing brand on my exposed skin, but the chill inside me goes deeper than any heat can touch.

His hand remains on my back, a heavy, undeniable weight. I do not have the strength to flinch from it. It is a claim staked, a flag planted in conquered ground. I turn my face away from the discarded cylinder in the dirt, and I understand, in a way that feels like falling, that I have nothing left.