I woke up with my abdomen swollen and hard, like the twins had pulled an insane growth spurt overnight. At 22, the difference from just a week ago was ridiculous; my skin was tight, and my core muscles felt stretched to the absolute limit.
When I got up, my boyfriend—the coach—looked me up and down, dead-set on stopping me.
"You’re huge. You can't play, you're gonna snap," he blurted out, staring at my stomach with that mix of anxiety and control.
I didn't bother arguing with words. I pressed myself against him, driving my belly into his hip, feeling my still-defined abs tighten under his touch. I grabbed his hand and forced it down, dragging it across the hard, hot curve of my stomach so he could feel the firmness for himself. I whispered right in his ear, using my body as my only leverage. He went completely speechless when he felt that heat and the pressure of my skin against his. He dropped his guard, totally surrendering.
On the pitch, the ache low in my stomach was constant—a dull throb that spiked with every sprint. But I didn't stop. I scored two goals, moving with that raw power I'm known for, ignoring how heavy and stretched my body felt. By the time I finished, my jersey was glued to me with sweat, outlining every single ripple of my abs and the disproportional roundness of my belly.
Now, off the field, the pain is sharp and stinging. I’m touching the area, feeling my muscles trying to pull themselves back together while the swelling just drains me. I’m absolutely spent, pushed to the brink, needing him to take care of what’s left of me after those 90 minutes.
Me desperté con el abdomen hinchado, duro, como si los gemelos hubieran pegado un estirón salvaje durante la noche. A mis 22 años, el cambio de hace una semana a hoy era ridículo; la piel me tiraba y los músculos de la panza estaban estirados al límite.
Cuando me levanté, mi novio —el técnico— me miró de arriba abajo, frenándome en seco.
—Estás enorme. No podés jugar, te vas a romper —soltó, mirándome la panza con esa mezcla de ansiedad y control.
No le discutí con palabras. Me pegué a él, presionando mi vientre contra su cadera, sintiendo cómo mis músculos abdominales, todavía marcados, se tensaban bajo su tacto. Le tomé la mano y la obligué a bajar, deslizándola por la curva tensa de mi panza hasta sentir el calor y la firmeza de la piel. Le susurré cerca de la oreja, usando el cuerpo como única herramienta de persuasión. Se quedó sin argumentos cuando sintió la presión y el calor de mi piel contra la suya. Aflojó la guardia, rendido.
En la cancha, el dolor abajo en la panza era constante, un latido sordo que se intensificaba con cada pique. Pero no paré. Metí dos goles, moviéndome con esa fuerza bruta que me caracteriza, ignorando cómo mi cuerpo pesaba y se estiraba. Al terminar, la camiseta estaba pegada por el sudor, marcando cada relieve de mis abdominales y la redondez desproporcionada de la panza.
Ahora, fuera del juego, el dolor es punzante. Me toco la zona, sintiendo cómo los músculos intentan volver a su lugar mientras la hinchazón me vence. Estoy fundido, con el cuerpo al límite, necesitando que él se haga cargo de lo que quedó de mí después de los 90 minutos.
Every summer, we always have a few people who are high up on the social ladder who like to go out on their boats to have an marine roast, this young family has carefully picked a hog out from our varied range and they chose our locally fattened, prize pig Collin. Although Collin isn’t the fattest pig we have, he has been blessed with good genes that has made him a gorgeous looking pig, and he has also been reared on nothing but corn (well, popcorn, but it’s all maize), so the flavour of his meat should surly bring out some corny undertones. Anyways, they’re planning on sailing out into the ocean, and roasting him on their boats spit, I’m sure that the combination of smells of saltiness and cooking longpig will be heavenly, and I’m sure that he will go down an absolute treat.
College guy wrestled at 195 his freshman year. At the end of the season the coach told him to bulk up to wrestle at a higher weight class. So he started eating..
This Italian fatty ate a bit too much pizza and pasta and now the buttons of his tight shirt are close to popping. That suit doesn’t really suit you anymore, chubbs. That’s a whole new definition of an Italian body.
kaledo-art
stormborns
yousharknotpass
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jacobvanloon
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gummygunk
