Robert Durmoch bought the controlling shares of a news company, but he is enraged to learn that its leadership doesn’t believe he has any authority over their broadcasts. He decides to end the power struggle in his own way.
CW: non-con, messy, vague gore, fatal crushing
"I can't believe the filth your show aired on national network television. You created a disgusting celebration of perversion."
A 50-something, well-fed white man in a Gucci lounge suit was loudly whining on a video conference call on Sarah's computer monitor. She shifted in her office chair uncomfortably. Who was this random rich asshole to tell her, both the Editor in Chief and Executive Producer, how to run her newsroom?
"We aired a nuanced discussion of the current controversy of queer people wearing kink attire at LGBTQ Pride celebrations. The long history of the kink subcultures in the gay liberation movement is worth exploring, to give the recent controversy larger context. There was nothing more salacious in the footage or the descriptions that our show aired than what one can see on a visit to a typical beach."
"Pfaw, yeah, maybe at Gunnison," Mr. Durmoch retorted reflexively.
Gunnison was a clothing-optional beach on the Jersey Shore, about an hour south of Manhattan, in good traffic. It was the only nude beach within driving distance of the region, making it a frequent stop for nudists like Sarah.
Nothing particularly sexual really happened at that beach, it was mostly just people trying to get a better tan. But conservative outsiders always assumed the worst about nudists.
There's no way a Connecticut man like Mr. Durmoch knew about this beach so far from his own mansion unless he was a nudist, too, or a pervert who liked to watch naked people, but this was a conference call, with a dozen other people on it, and Sarah could do nothing about that reference right now but flush beneath her makeup and pretend that she didn't recognize it. She was a totally normal person at work. She left her bohemian hobbies, her femme-domme pegging kink, her cuck husband, and their happy, consensual polyamory entirely at home. Nobody at work even knew that she was bisexual.
"Gunnison?" Sarah asked, as innocently as she could make her voice sound.
"Oh, it's a…" Mr. Durmoch sputtered, caught in a type of knowledge a conservative, Christian billionaire like himself shouldn't have. "Some nude beach this New Jersey representative whom I summer with complains about. Lots of pervs and weirdos go there," he said, and cleared his throat. "It's truly foul," he finished, and then got back to ranting about how evil the latest episode of "Deep Dives Into America" was.
Sarah hid her smirk from the computer's video camera, but snapped a wooden pencil in half beneath her desk, wanting so badly to laugh at this blowhard's hypocrisy. She waited for him to finish.
"Thank you for sharing your perspective, Mr. Durmoch. I have heard complaints like this from conservative viewers, as well, but that isn't our target demographic at 'Deep Dives'. I don't think we'll see eye-to-eye on the content of this episode. But I feel I must remind you that all editorial decisions lie within this newsroom, not with any of the shareholders."
Mr. Durmoch smirked when Sarah brought up her newsroom.
"Your newsroom only exists at my behest, missy," he said, with rising intensity and volume in his voice.
Anger flashed through Sarah in a hot wave. Nobody spoke down to her like this in any area of her life and got away with it. She started drafting the harassment lawsuit in her head.
"As of last month, I'm the controlling shareholder of PureWater Media Group."
Steven Grier, the chairman of that company's board, spoke up for a syllable, his video icon flashing active.
"Let me finish!" Mr. Durmoch cut him off. Steven stopped talking out of surprise more than anything.
"This means that I own every single last one of you on the 30th floor of that ugly glass tower. Your entire newsroom, your whole vile journalistic domain that makes you feel like a mighty queen of television, is nothing more than one of my many playthings, little Ms. Can-Have-It-All. I will not tolerate such public displays of perversion from one of my personal belongings."
Sarah had the gallery view on, and she saw the women on the board, and the executive leadership of PureWater, with their mouths now open in disbelief. The men mostly looked uncomfortable.
Mary Collins, the CEO of PureWater, who was Sarah's boss, spoke up first.
"I know that tensions run high about controversial topics like the definition of public decency, Mr. Durmoch. And we are all well aware of your outspoken political views, as well as your history of requiring conservative-themed programming in Durmoch Broadcasting's many consolidated media outlets. But your rant right now was an uncalled-for collection of insults against Sarah, whom I have met several times since she started as a segment editor, and whom I know is both a morally sound TV producer, and a cracking good journalist.
Sarah is also the leader of the worker's union at her newsroom, which, as I explained to you personally at our last face-to-face meeting, has a legally binding agreement with this company's board. That agreement clearly states that 100% of the staffing and editorial control for 'Deep Dives' comes from within their own organization. I was in the room with you when you signed the documents that claimed that you understand that you have no authority over any of the unionized divisions of PureWater."
Mr. Durmoch let out a dismissive "pssh" sound, like a teenager who wasn't paying attention to a lecture from a teacher, and turned away from the camera. He started staring at something off camera, to the side of the desk in his mahogany-accented office.
He returned his gaze to the camera, and narrowed his blue eyes.
"We'll see," was his last statement, before he disconnected from the call.
The rest of the callers took a moment of silence to process this emotionally volatile display. Some wondered how a media mogul this powerful, who still controlled hundreds of other newsrooms around the world, was so easily angered by being disobeyed at just one TV program.
This was not the first time in Sarah's life that a powerful man who saw themselves as an authority figure despite their irrelevant job title disapproved of her editorial decisions. Sarah assumed that it wouldn't be the last.
"Deep Dives Into America" was a weekly documentary show put together by Deep Dives LLC, which took up the entire 30th floor of the tower named simply 35 Broad Street, after its street address, located in downtown Manhattan. Putting an hour of timely, insightful journalism together each week took a lot of talent - there were 48 employees who worked on that floor.
35 Broad Street was a gleaming glass skyscraper, 40 stories high, built in the 1960's. It sat as close to the water as you could get in the neighborhood, with only the wide highway in between. When the employees had to stay past dark, they didn't mind so much, because when they went to the western windows, they could see the sunset over the Hudson. On some evenings, the setting sun would light up downtown with orange-pink glowing edges. It was breathtaking.
Another perk of the tower was the peaceful little plaza right next to the building, at its eastern entrance. This tulip-filled pocket park was where one of the building's security guards, Gloria, was taking a cigarette break right before 10 am on the day after the conference call.
Gloria walked to the fountain at the center of the plaza, and watched as several birds splashed in the water. The whole flock took off at once, and flew east. In the sky far above, she saw several more flocks of birds flying in the same direction. She wondered if a storm was coming in.
That didn't make sense - the sky was clear of clouds, with no wind.
Gloria heard a new sound, then, one that she took a moment to make sense of. It was like a crowd at a concert, but more muffled, and somehow, less joyful. She finally placed it: people on the street on the western side of the building were screaming in terror.
Gloria stamped her cigarette out, abruptly ending her break. She ran back into the building and sprinted past the security desk.
"What is it?" her boss asked.
"A crowd is screaming," she said over her shoulder, and he followed her to the western side of the building.
Tourists and downtown workers were streaming into 35 Broad and crowding the entrance. None of them had building ID cards, so they were jamming up the limited space in the western lobby between the waist-level security gates and the rotating entrance doors.
Gloria elbowed her way through the crowd and came to a now-empty sidewalk. Across the street was a short, three-story-high historic building, and looming above that, in the distance, she witnessed an absolutely unbelievable thing.
Climbing out of the Hudson River, onto the fortified banks of the tree-filled Battery Park, just three blocks to the west of Gloria's building, was a horrifically enlarged man. He was at least sixty stories tall, around 50 or 60 years old, overweight even for his scale, and wearing a black Armani suit, complete with a tailor-fit jacket, and a matching bright red tie and pocket square.
Even from this far away, his face looked familiar. Gloria had given this man a security pass for this building the month before. His name was Robert Durmoch. She had no idea how he was now a behemoth.
The amazingly enlarged man stood up, and shook the water off of him. He wrung out his coat, and patted his pants as dry as he could. He shook his legs, one at a time, crashing his huge feet into trees in the park, and barrel-sized drops of river water went everywhere. The soft, fine fabric of his expensive suit dried out fast.
While this was happening, pedestrians were streaming towards shelter, into buildings and subway stations. Drivers were stopped in traffic, staring up at the spectacle. Bus operators didn't know whether to follow their route and go towards the bus depot at Battery Park, or to try and save the lives of their passengers, and try to turn around.
It was pure chaos.
The giant looked directly at Gloria's building. His icy blue gaze was pointed towards the middle section, and he was smiling in a salacious way, like a coked-up single man who had just spotted a beautiful woman across the room at a party. He started walking towards 35 Broad.
Gloria ran back inside, through the panicked crowd, and returned to the main security desk on the eastern side of the building. The official rule during disasters was to prevent any outsiders from coming into or out of the building until more information was known, in case of a terrorist in the crowd.
"Giant Media Mogul" wasn't in the emergency procedures manual. The security team decided that they should let the current lobby crowd into the gates, and direct them towards the food court in the basement floor, simply because it had enough space, and a panicked crowd with nowhere to go can be as dangerous as a terrorist.
As security was directing the crowd downstairs, Gloria tried to recognize another sound. This one was rhythmic, and low-pitched, shaking the whole block. As the sound got closer, she noticed the accents of metal being crushed, along with blood-curdling screams. This sound was the giant's footsteps, and the screams were from the occupants of cars that his bus-long loafers were turning into a mixed-texture paste underneath thousands of tons of weight.
The footsteps came closer and closer. Their horrible cacophony was coming from the highway to the south now, where no windows in the lobby faced, and then, as Gloria stared through the floor-to-ceiling windows on the eastern side of the lobby, a giant black loafer slammed down onto her beloved plaza fountain. It cracked the solid cement on one side, and gallons of water flowed out.
Gloria was too terrified of this disaster to be sad about the park that she enjoyed being destroyed.
The second leather shoe came into view with a loud, floor-shaking thud. The giant man then backed up, before he knelt, looking at one of the many floors above the lobby closely. Gloria had stopped doing her job, caught up in staring at the feet of the monstrous being, hoping that this kneeling inspection, and this show of force with these huge footsteps, was all he was after.
"Yes, very impressive, Mr. Durmoch, now please, leave, we're all very amazed and horrified," she said to herself, a panicked, muttered prayer to a being who wouldn't take her directions even if he could hear.
Instead of leaving, the giant made some clanging sounds with metal objects high in the air. Then, thousands of pounds of fine black silk fell to the ground in a heap at his feet, sounding like an enormous parachute billowing down. Heaped like this, his crumpled slacks were two stories high around his merino-sock-clad ankles.
The lobby erupted in a new round of screams.
This was not going to get any easier for any of the people in this city.
Sarah couldn't believe her eyes when she first took sight of the giant shareholder. She was writing an email to a producer when she first heard the sounds of commotion coming from Broad street on the western side of the building.
Even though this wasn't her own office, ClearWater CEO Mary Collins had come into "Deep Dive" headquarters today to help Sarah strategize on how to process Mr. Durmoch's inappropriate behavior. They expected him to launch a smear campaign against her, using his other media outlets that he controlled. Nobody expected this ill-tempered shareholder would somehow turn himself into a monstrosity that could win in a sumo wrestling match against Godzilla.
"Is that-" Mary asked.
"Mr. Durmoch," Sarah replied.
The oversized billionaire looked directly at their floor on their tower, and the anticipation on his face froze the two women in fear.
As he walked down the wide lanes of Water Street, crushing car after car on his way, Sarah winced with horror at the sound of the screaming people, and the sight of the crumpled messes he left in each footprint. Her journalism school instincts kicked in, and she started recording a video on her phone. This footage would be priceless to their show later. It could get them a Pulitzer Prize, or an Emmy.
As the monstrosity walked down the highway on the southern side of the building, the people on the upper floors could see him through their full-height glass windows. He was savoring each footstep, and the look on his face was disturbingly pleasured.
"Attention tenants," the Fire Marshall's voice came over the building's emergency PA system. "We are aware of the… unusual incident currently approaching the building. Please shelter in place. The authorities have been alerted. Do not, I repeat, do not evacuate."
Half of the employees on their floor ignored this, and ran towards the fire exits. They knew from the quarterly fire safety drills not to use the elevators, but they also knew about the fireproof cement staircase in the center of the building that lead to the street.
Sarah, along with about twenty of the more courageous workers, stayed behind. Many of them were also recording video.
"And there's my boss, and queen of the union, Sarah," the head video editor for the show said to his phone, panning to her, narrating the unreal destruction with a sing-songy YouTube narrator voice.
Sarah heard him, but she didn't react. She wanted to record her footage without commentary.
As the giant headed towards the plaza, the employees noticed that his soft silk pants were thinly concealing an erection. This sadistic, huge man was getting off on crushing living human beings.
In his final approach, it became clear that this monster was so insanely tall, that at the 30th floor, their office was eye-level with the giant's crotch. He stood next to the building, and the entire office held their breath, staring at what looked like a seven-story-tall erection tenting at the front of the enormous black slacks.
Mr. Durmoch backed up a little, to get a better angle to kneel, and brought his huge face to the windows.
The private accounting firm on the 32nd floor, and the insurance company on the 31st, both screamed in horror, as an enormous pair of eyes looked through them, before moving down.
The giant's eyes reached the 30th floor, and he stopped moving his head, finally finding the office he was familiar with, from back when he was small enough to walk through it normally. He grinned like he had won a prize and poked a huge hole through the glass with his wrecking-ball-like fingertip. The feeling of being hungrily stared at by this unfathomably powerful being was too much to bear against the intact survival instincts of a few of the remaining employees. They ran toward the exit.
There were now 17 people left in the newsroom, watching their enlarged foe's every move, holding their breath with anticipation, and taking video. The giant man stood back up to full height, which was taller than the skyscraper he was playing with. With a loud clang, Robert Durmoch undid his belt, letting his pants fall. This revealed a stretchy black pair of boxer briefs that barely covered his raging erection. He slid his fabric-covered cock against the glass.
"Oh, no…" the editor said, his voice losing all hope. The pathetically outmatched worker looked at the exits, deciding whether to stay or leave.
The giant stepped back a few steps, destroying the rest of the paved plaza under his feet. He pulled his briefs down to his knees, before stooping down, to bring the underwear to his ankles.
He took off his shoes and kicked them lazily to the right, where they landed upside-down, trapping dozens of people in traffic-stalled vehicles beneath their bulk. Mr. Durmoch then unpeeled his long trouser socks from his hairy legs and bare feet, before tossing their balled-up shapes to the left. They bounced off the half-crushed cars stuck on the highway, and then into the bay, bumping into the side of a ferry. He raised his chubby, still-clothed torso up again, and while standing on one leg, shoved his empty pants behind him with the other foot, crashing the great mass of black fabric into the skyscraper behind the plaza. His crumpled pants crushed half the security team in the neighboring tower who had been watching with horror in the lobby.
His last impediment to movement was his underwear. He grabbed his briefs off the ground and tossed them away over his back without giving a thought to where they'd land.
The enormous undergarments soared in a slow arc towards a residential highrise nearby. A crowd of residents had gathered on the luxury building's rooftop patio to watch the attack. Sweaty, musty black fabric suddenly covered the entire roof, trapping more than thirty residents. A few of these spectators were killed just from being under a folded part of the briefs, as hundreds of pounds of cloth fell onto their heads.
Back at 35 Broad, the giant man was now fully nude from the waist down. All of the workers in the building who hadn't already fled were instead staring with horror at the attacker, whose intentions were now fully clear. He grabbed his thick penis shaft with his meaty fist and stroked it slowly. Gallons of precum oozed of his piss slit. He rubbed the natural fluid up and down his length. He licked his lips with anticipation.
Some of the trapped office workers had hoped that the giant just wanted to show off his monstrous cock, like an amplified dick pic. But this stroking sealed their fate.
"Are you ready, bitches?" Robert said, and placed his precum-wetted index finger right against the hole he had made on the newsroom's window earlier.
The remaining "Going Deep" employees scattered to the left and right of the now-moistened hole, hoping that they were escaping the penetration target.
Sarah and Mary both went to the right of the opening, open-mouthed, staring in abject terror at the eight-story-tall erection that the huge man was pointing directly at their window. The head of the penis was like a clear-slime-covered alien monster, thicker than any tree anyone there had seen other than redwoods, with a two-foot-wide vertical hole in the middle standing in as a featureless mouth.
The giant flexed his hips back, and gripped the building on the sides, his six-foot-wide fingertips finding purchase on the steel beams on the corners of the building.
"You know what's deeply ironic?" Sarah screamed to the rest of the employees over the sound of the workers whimpering, and the loud thuds and glass breaking from the giant's hands gripping the building.
"Robert Durmoch's whole disagreement with us was about our show encouraging public indecency. What's more publicly indecent than this?" Sarah yelled passionately, gesturing for her life, hoping one of the camera phones recording her would broadcast this out before the whole building and all its people collapsed into dead rubble.
"You'd think that a Yale Business School graduate like him would be able to recognize the HYPOCRISY-"
In the middle of Sarah's speech, Robert's huge, moistened dick crashed through the floor directly behind her. The enormous phallus shoved through a brand new hole several stories below, aiming for the tip to be on this floor. The phallus crashed past the floor, computers, and office furniture, and the dick tip came to rest behind Sarah. The floor beneath her buckled, and she fell backwards, landing on and sticking to the tip of the eight-foot-diameter cockhead, directly on top of the urethra. The fall backwards knocked the wind out of her, ending her speech.
Mr. Durmoch paused at the top of his deep stroke, and let out a short moan, savoring his complete superiority to the office he was fucking like a fleshlight.
Sarah was struggling like a fly in a glue trap, not strong enough to peel herself off the precum-wet glans. Her high-heel-covered feet were dangling helplessly four feet off of the slanted, groaning floor. This brief stop in the giant's movements gave Mary the CEO a chance to save her favorite subordinate. In the split second pause, Mary ran forward, and lept, grabbing Sarah's ankles, trying to yank her off of the horrible body part.
Mr. Durmoch quickly pulled out his dick. It moved down the improvised debris-covered shaft he had just made like a freakish, fleshy elevator. The speed of the movement knocked Mary off of the floor as well, and she fell onto the bottom half of the slimy glans.
Sarah and Mary, two high-powered, professionally acclaimed women, were now just as significant to this enormous man as stray pubic hairs that interrupt sex by having to be removed from someone's sensitive genitals. Mr. Durmoch took notice of the pair of squirming, insect-sized people immediately, and grabbed them both from his cockhead with his thick fingers. He brought his hand up to his icy blue eyes to see who these tiny people were, and smiled maliciously.
"Exactly the two I was looking for," he said. His breath went past them in a blast of humid wind. Based on the smell, he had enjoyed an onion-filled breakfast and a hazelnut coffee before he had enlarged.
"I'm so honored that Sarah, Union Queen, and Mary, CEO Extraordinaire, could join me in this executive negotiation," Mr. Durmoch said. The two women screamed for mercy.
"Please, Mr. Durmoch! Let's start over! You can have full editorial control!" Sarah yelled, begging for her life. She looked down toward the plaza below, and the height from here to the ground was a deadly drop. She was completely at her huge foe's mercy.
"It's too late for that," he said. "You both had the chance to respect my authority as an expert on the moral majority that you urban elites don't understand. That was before you two forced me to whip out my growth ray with your insubordination."
"How can you call yourself moral?" Sarah screamed, feeling hopeless, but still enraged by his faux piety.
As if in answer, Mr. Durmoch turned his huge hand upwards, and let the two women tumble from his fingertips to the center of his palm. He then gripped the base of his dick again, squeezing the two executive women against the length of his cock as he jerked off, using his hands on his shaft to move the rest of his dick's sensitive skin up and down.
Sarah and Mary's senses were completely enveloped by the giant's every move: his hand behind them, his warm, pulsing dick in front of them, the precum and sweat surrounding them, soaking their fashionable wardrobes down to their underwear. His various fluids got into their eyes, stinging them with saltiness, and into their mouths. It tasted like the beginnings of giving a blowjob, but magnified to an impossible degree by its sheer quantity. They were drowning in foreplay.
The precum-covered pair struggled to breathe, as he only let fresh air into the cavity in his palm when he adjusted his grip every now and then. They choked, and coughed, and sputtered, and squirmed, instinctively trying to get away, but there was no place to go. They were terrified of being crushed onto his dick, but the pressure he put onto that part of his palm was carefully moderated, to keep them alive.
Mr. Durmoch had imagined this scenario hundreds of times since he bought the growth ray a few years ago. He had practiced being careful with tiny victims by playing with bug-sized, hand-made clay human figurines, that he bought in Chinatown from an artist who made traditional bonsai-themed sculptures for tourists. "They're for a Chinese-themed part of my model railroad, I need at least a hundred," he had lied then.
As much as he had enjoyed the imaginary power trip with those clay practice sculptures, these real, live, tiny women were worlds apart. Their desperate squirms against the bottom of his dick shaft shot pleasure through his body, and made this past-middle-aged man approach climax as fast as he used to when he was in college.
The 15 remaining "Deep Dive" employees stayed on their office floor, not able to look away from the horror that was taking place in front of them. The giant was not thrusting his dick all the way to the top of the makeshift tunnel into their office floor, instead, he was jerking its tip in and out of the bottom of the long hole. People around the world tuned into the video livestream to watch the cockhead going in and out of the bottom of the tall hole from the perspective of the newsroom's horrified occupants.
"Oh, yes," Mr. Durmoch groaned as quietly as his huge vocal chords could manage. His huge, well-padded hips started bucking involuntarily, and the muscles holding up his enormous balls filled with tanker-trucks worth of cum tensed up. In one last, smooth motion, he pulled his dick out all the way from the building, placed the two squirming businesswomen onto the slimy top, and then thrust his member all the way up to the end of the building's debris-filled fuck hole.
The newsroom employees stepped back as the titanic cock head came into their space for the second time, with the two horrified executives stuck to its wet tip again. A plumbing-like gurgle came from the huge organ for a fraction of a second before a stream of white cum blasted from the dick's slit like a bursting water main. A gooey wad of cum stuck to the outside glass wall of the large conference room, with Sarah and Mary in the front of it, their limbs squirming frantically.
More ropes of cum followed, coating the rest of the employees, the ceiling, the floor, and the office furniture in white, sticky, musty gunk. The giant groaned loudly. The sound rattled the windows in the skyscraper that his belly and dick was currently pushed up against, and he flexed his hips back, pulling his cock out.
A trail of cum mixed with furniture and newsroom employees followed the dick out into the open air. Mr. Durmoch stepped back, and wiped the residue off of his dick with his right hand. He looked at what he had picked up, and noticed that there were computers and desks, and, apparently, three women and a man now on his messy right hand. He didn't recognize any of them. They must have been nobodies - non-executives.
If Sarah and Mary weren't there, they must be somewhere inside the tubular cavity he had just removed his member from. The hole's exterior edges were dripping with his cum, and its jagged sides were crumbling.
Robert Durmoch hired other people to clean up his messes. He would never stoop so low as to look through his own tucked-away cum pile for specific victims. Sarah and Mary, if they were still alive, had received his message loudly enough for now.
It was time for a relaxing walk back up the crumbly highways to his comfortable Connecticut estate. Without any passengers.
With a dismissive flick of his wrist, Mr. Durmoch created g-forces that would knock out a fighter pilot. This ejected the debris-filled cum from his fingers. The wad of semen, furniture, and four people hit the neighboring skyscraper faster than a car crash.
Mr. Durmoch put his pants back on, and then his shoes, minus his now-harbor-sunk socks. He looked backwards at where his underwear had landed, and smiled, amused at the police helicopter hovering over the fabric-and-people tangle on the apartment building's roof.
"Ooh, how unfortunate for you on that roof. It's just the luck of the drawers," he joked, mostly to himself, as he turned around, and started his terrible stroll back home. This was the best he had felt in decades. The growth ray effect would be wearing off in less than eight hours, but he considered just using it again once the time came.
Because he can.