Sounds like your belly must have hurt for HOURS before you finally blew chunks. And even that first round didn’t give you relief :(
Nausea and The Spins torment me when I have the stomach flu. I fight and fight and just when I think I’ve prevailed over nausea, I’ll spin again and my mouth will water. My turbulent guts will clench and my throat fills up and I gag. I am often not in the bathroom because the sight of the toilet can make me retch. This means I rarely make it in time and I usually spew warm, burning chunks all over the toilet seat and floor, kind of like you did. Once I nailed the bathroom door and mirror.
For practically my whole life I've whimpered like a dog every time I cum. Like it's not even on purpose or anything, it is just forced out of me like a knee-jerk reaction. Sure I can cum quietly, but it's much easier to just give in and let myself whimper and whine
Living a couple blocks from your business is handy when you need to go home early with a stomach bug.
If you’re not into emetophilia, stay away. This story includes graphic descriptions of throwing up.
Oliver sat at his desk, trying to concentrate on the latest sales figures for his business despite the unpleasantness of his stomach sloshing and gurgling. At first he assumed he had eaten too much for breakfast, as Marianne had prepared one of his favorite meals that morning and he had taken a larger portion than usual.
The vague discomfort slowly turned into pulses of actual nausea. He frowned deeply and tried to decide if he needed to have a bowel movement. No, the problem was higher. Twinges of pain made him lean forward with his forearms on his desk.
Maybe if he sat still for a little while…
He sat back in his chair and closed his eyes.
Think about something else, he told himself.
He tried running through historical trivia, but he kept losing his concentration when loud, curdling noises came from his belly.
Hmm…I think I might be coming down with something, he finally admitted. I should probably head home before this gets any worse. He cleaned off his desk, tossing the most important papers in a satchel, and then stood up to leave. As he did so, the room seemed to spin around him, and he clapped a hand to his mouth as his throat tightened. He leaned over his garbage can, prepared to lose his breakfast, but after a few seconds the urge passed.
He swore silently and left his office. Fortunately it was a short walk home, but it seemed to take far longer than usual. Pain in his middle made it hard to stand up completely straight, and the unhappy noises continued to come from his digestive system.
Cold sweat dampened his clothes, and he felt aches shooting up his limbs. Definitely a flu bug of some kind.
He was a block from home when the strongest wave of nausea yet washed over him. His mouth opened of its own accord as his tongue lifted in a shallow gag. He held his breath, pressing the back of his hand into his lips, until somehow, by sheer willpower, he felt like his stomach contents were going to stay where they were…at least for a little longer.
He ordered his shaking legs to carry him faster toward home, and he had never been so glad to see the familiar porch come into view. Crime was nonexistent in their small town, so the door was open to take advantage of the breeze.
He staggered into the entryway and stepped out of his shoes. Ugh, the sour taste in his mouth only made him feel worse. At least he made it home to be sick in privacy.
He stood, briefly considering if he should use the nearby bathroom, or try to make it upstairs so he could go to bed immediately after emptying his stomach.
"Oliver? Is that you?" Marianne came out of the kitchen and gasped at how pale he was. "Oh dear! What's wrong?"
"Stomach bug," he managed to say before gulping hard. He headed for the stairs, deciding he had enough time.
"Oh, you poor thing. Should I get some medicine?" She followed him up the stairs.
"Need to throw up," he muttered before turning into the bathroom.
"You… Oh. That's not good."
"It started to come up a few times already but I choked it back down until I got home," he said, taking off his suit jacket. She took the garment from him and hung it up on the hook on the back of the door. When she turned back, he was squatting in front of the toilet.
"Is there anything I can do?" she asked.
He shook his head. "I just have to let it happen this time. And it's going to…" He groaned quietly and bent over the toilet, resting one elbow on the seat while holding his aching stomach with the other.
"I could bring you a bucket if you wanted to go to bed," she offered.
"It's right there," he said before coughing. "Oh God…"
Marianne stooped to rub his shoulder as he swayed with nausea. A few seconds later, a rippling belch issued from deep in his chest. He retched twice more before a loud squelch announced his last meal was on the way up. He doubled over with his face aimed into the bowl as a rapid flood of thick vomit shot out.
"There, there," Marianne said, now patting his back instead of rubbing. "Get it all up, now."
Oliver had no trouble obeying. Dollops of sludge rained from his mouth in between longer gushes of barf. He shuddered with violent heaves, rapidly filling the toilet with chunks. Marianne reached around him to flush twice before only gurgles of liquid came up his burning throat. He choked up bile for another minute or two, coughing and moaning, before he was finally able to straighten up.
"I'd say you're empty," she said with forced cheerfulness.
"Sorry to waste that wonderful breakfast," he rasped before blowing his nose.
"Oh, hush. You couldn't help it."
"You can say that again." He rubbed his ribs and swore.
First she's not sure if she's going to throw up or not. Then she knows she is, but it won't start. Finally the question becomes when she'll finally be done.
If you’re not into emetophilia, stay away. This story includes graphic descriptions of throwing up.
She stood at her bathroom sink, leaning on the counter with her head bowed and her eyes closed as she tried to decide if she was going to throw up or not.
She hadn't felt right for the past several hours, and what little she'd forced herself to eat for lunch rolled around in her belly with unsettled gurgling noises.
A wave of nausea swept over her, and she turned toward the toilet, but nothing happened.
Another minute passed, and she still didn't feel that vomiting was imminent, but neither was she eager to swallow the thick saliva that had pooled in her mouth. She let her shaky knees bend and sat down on the edge of the bathtub. She leaned over the toilet and spat. The viscous liquid oozed downward into the water in long, bubbly strings. She spat again, and felt her throat tighten with a silent gag.
Okay, maybe she was going to throw up.
She pulled her hair back from her face and waited.
Nausea pulsed through her, and several times she opened her mouth with a cough or a shallow retch, but nothing came up.
She pressed on her belly and bent double, forcing herself to cough even more in hopes that it would start reverse peristalsis.
Over and over her tongue curled in croaking dry heaves, but only cloudy liquid dribbled from her lips.
She swore between shaky breaths. This was getting her nowhere.
She got up, although she found herself in too much abdominal pain to stand up all the way, and staggered to the sink. She ran a glass of room temperature water, then returned to sit by the toilet.
For a moment she felt so sick she thought for sure barf was about to come up, but again she only produced a hollow gag.
She closed her eyes and chugged the water in one gulp. It barely made it down to her stomach before her body spasmed and sent it back up, along with a slurry of brownish-yellow vomit. The mess splashed loudly into the toilet water.
Three more violent heaves followed, each sending more of her lunch pouring out.
Then she sat, trembling and drooling, trying to decide if she was done.
It felt as if a chunk of vomit was stuck in her throat, and she coughed vigorously. A scorching flood of bile erupted from her mouth, leaving her throat burning worse than before but clear of the solid bits.
She groaned and wiped off her face with some toilet paper, then flushed.
She had expected to feel better than this after finally throwing up, and she sat hunched over the commode for awhile. A sudden belch made her lurch over the bowl again, and two hard retches later another long gush of gooey liquid came up.
She heaved repeatedly, spewing watery vomit each time.
At long last her stomach began to calm, and after five minutes passed without heaving she dared to flush, stand, and rinse out her mouth in the sink.
A government official in [insert name of fictional country here] has a sour stomach at his desk that swiftly gets worse.
If you’re not into emetophilia, stay away. This story includes graphic descriptions of throwing up.
The viceroy sat at his desk, trying to concentrate on the battle plans for the upcoming attack on an enemy city-state despite the sour stomach that had been worsening since lunchtime. He had taken an antacid, but that seemed to do nothing. He slowly massaged his forehead, wondering if he was imagining a fever there. Cold sweat made his shirt stick to his skin as his belly made a loud sloshing noise.
Damn, he thought. I feel like I'm coming down with something, but I don't have time to be sick. There's so much to do…
He kept shuffling papers while the vague discomfort in his middle intensified into actual pain. Minutes ticked by as he felt worse and worse, until he pushed his chair back from his desk with a quiet moan. He really, really didn't feel good.
He sat with his eyes closed for awhile, fighting denial and nausea. His mouth began to water and a peculiar feeling took over the bottom of his throat.
Shit, I'm starting to think I might puke, he realized, pressing the back of his hand against his lips. I can't be that sick, though…can I?
A tremor similar to both a gag and a hiccup made him gulp audibly.
Yes, he finally admitted. I can be that sick. And I am.
He began to consider his options. He could be sick in the garbage can by his desk, or he could try to make it to the men's room down the hall.
The latter would make less of a mess, assuming he made it to the toilet. As his stomach roiled, he seriously doubted that he could hold it down that long. Bending over to pick up the can wasn't a great thought, either, but it was the only option. He reached for the garbage, a wicker basket with a plastic bag inside, and lifted the can into his lap.
Pulses of strong nausea made him sway slightly, and acid stung the back of his throat. Like it or not, he was definitely going to throw up.
There was no point in fighting it. He let his mouth fall open, and coughed shallowly as bubbly slime drained from his mouth and hung, dangling from his lower lip. Just when he thought he couldn't possibly feel any worse, he did.
Please, he begged his body, get this over with.
His tongue lifted in a silent gag, then a slightly less silent one. He coughed and doubled over from the tight pain in his middle. Any second now, surely…
A hollow burp issued from deep in his gullet, and he felt his abdomen clench. Hot mush began to surge up his throat, and he bent even closer to the can as it flooded out of his mouth. The plastic bag in the can rustled as fat chunks of his former lunch landed inside. His shoulders jerked with heave after heave as his body rejected his last meal. He could barely catch his breath in between upwellings of sickness, and he began to feel light-headed. A strong coughing fit didn't help matters as he sprayed flecks of vomit all over the inside of the bag.
It had to be a stomach bug. He hadn't heard of any going around, but that didn't mean much. He had been traveling back and forth between the capital and the warfront nearly every week, so he could have picked it up anywhere along the way.
A horrible gurgling noise arose in his throat a split second before he spewed out an especially copious round of thick barf. It seemed to coat everything on the way up, and he coughed and choked as he tried to dislodge the sludge.
There was a knock at his office door, but he couldn't speak to respond. After a few seconds of violent retching, he saw the door open out of the corner of his eye. A soldier who was working security poked his head in. "Sorry to intrude, sir, but should I summon a doctor?"
The viceroy's fevered cheeks burned further with embarrassment. "Water," he managed to rasp between heaves.
The guard returned after a minute or two with a bottle of water and hesitantly entered the room to set it on the desk. The viceroy made sure his face was hidden inside the garbage can so his underling didn't see the way his face was contorted in misery, nor the lumpy gunk that still spilled from his mouth when he retched.
"Here's your water, sir," the soldier said awkwardly. "Are you sure you don't want a medic?"
The viceroy waved him away without lifting his head from the can. He waited until the door shut and he sensed he was alone again before reaching for the water. During the next lull in his sickness, he swallowed some and immediately threw it back up. He knew that would happen, but hoped it would rinse the viscous slime from his throat. Judging by the gobs mixed in with the liquid when it came back up, it worked.
He continued to gag and cough for awhile after his stomach was empty, but only had to suffer a few true dry heaves before composing himself.
Well. That wasn't how he wanted to spend his afternoon, but it seemed he had no choice. He rinsed his mouth and spat into the can, then blew his nose and dabbed the traces of vomit off his face. Ugh. He hadn't been violently ill like that since last winter. Terrible timing.
When he was sure he wouldn't start puking again upon moving, he packed up his things and left on shaky legs. He ended up bent over a garbage can halfway home, dredging up some bile-tinged dregs from the bottom of his stomach before shuddering with dry heaves again.
A businesswoman vomits at work but knows she won't feel better until she gets up the rest of her lunch...
If you’re not into emetophilia, stay away. This story includes graphic descriptions of throwing up.
She was still in denial about how sick she was when she reached the ladies' room. Her stomach churned and gurgled as she took off her jacket and then stood in front of the toilet, taking stock of how she felt. Yes, she was nauseous, but probably not sick enough that--
Burning sludge surged up her throat and plunged into the toilet. Her eyes went wide in shock. Had she really just thrown up?
Another spasm in her throat made her lean closer to the bowl as another thick flood of vomit rushed up. Soon the toilet water was obscured by yellowish-green mush with brown and orange flecks. Yep, that was her lunch, all right.
The heaves stopped, leaving her drooling and feeling absolutely horrid. She stood for a minute, rubbing her belly and waiting for the rest to come up. When it didn't, and she still felt terribly sick, she decided to force it. No point in standing around feeling horrible when she was pretty sure she needed an empty stomach to feel better.
She knelt down in front of the toilet and slid a hand into her mouth. Just doing so made her gag, but nothing came up. She tried again and managed to touch the back of her throat long enough to trigger a strong retch.
Curdled slime rose, got all over her hand, and then splashed into the toilet. She held onto the seat with her soiled hand and kept rubbing her belly with the other as she coughed, belched, and heaved up a considerable amount of barf.
When she felt empty, she shakily got to her feet, flushed, and went to wash her hand and face. She stood at the sink for a few minutes, trying to determine if she was done vomiting. A few unproductive gags told her her stomach was empty, and she went to gather her things from her office so she could go home early.
She ended up dry heaving into a plastic bag on the way home.
A tranquil afternoon in the yard is shattered when a man suddenly gets violently ill while tending his garden.
If you’re not into emetophilia, stay away. This story includes graphic descriptions of throwing up.
A woman sat on a patio chair under a tree, reading quietly while her husband tended to his garden. This had been the case for over a half hour, with neither speaking but simply enjoying each other's company.
At least, she assumed he was enjoying her company. Then she heard him approaching and looked up, only to be alarmed by how pale he was.
"What's wrong?"
He walked slightly bent over and stopped to lean on the driftwood fence nearest to her. "I really don't feel good all of a sudden."
"You look pale."
"Yeah, I was fine this morning, but--" He closed his eyes and held up a hand telling her to wait. He swallowed with difficulty before continuing. "My stomach hurts and I feel…" He pressed the back of his hand to his lips. "I--" he tried, but his tongue lifted in a shallow gag, and he bent over, holding onto the fence.
She watched helplessly as he shuddered with a tremendous heave, sending a chunky stream of his partially-digested lunch onto the grass.
"Whoa!" she said in alarm.
"Oh geez, I'm sorry," he said while coughing wetly.
"Don't apologize. Don't try to talk."
A deep retch rose in his throat, and he opened his mouth to let out a forceful spew onto the puddle he'd already created.
She left her book and came around to be on the same side of the fence as him. "Poor thing," she fretted, tucking back his hair as he continued to be violently ill. "Just get it all up, now." She rubbed his back.
He swore in between waves of sickness, his voice a slurpy mess as tendrils of stringy saliva and bile dangled from his lips. He rocked with two dry heaves before producing another thick deluge of vomit. There were wet plopping noises as the larger bits hit the pile already on the ground.
His wife murmured comforting words and continued rubbing and patting his back.
He paused, gasping for breath. "Not how I thought this afternoon would go," he said hoarsely.
"I'm sure not," she said. "If you're done I'll help you get to bed and…"
He shook his head vigorously and closed his eyes.
"All right. Get up the rest, then." She patted his back a bit more firmly.
He moaned, hiccupped, and coughed. The coughing soon transitioned into heaving, and a thinner but still copious stream of vomit splashed down. He bent further at the waist, clearly struggling to get up the rest. Hollow retches issued from his throat. He folded both arms across his belly and pressed in. A loud, rasping heave tore through him, and gobs of slime showered from his mouth.
"Good, good, you must be almost done," she encouraged.
He coughed and gagged for another minute or two, spitting up trickles of bile and the bits that had been stuck in his throat, before he finally tried to straighten up--with only partial success. He swore vigorously as he wiped his mouth and chin on his sleeve.
"Feel better?"
"Well, the pain in my gut is better. But I don't know the last time I've been this sick."
She put an arm around his shoulders and led him into the house.
Martin leaves work early with growing nausea and somehow manages to make it home with most of his stomach contents. Barely.
If you’re not into emetophilia, stay away. This story includes graphic descriptions of throwing up.
Sadie had the day off, and was both surprised and alarmed when Martin came home three hours early, looking pale as a sheet.
"Whoa, Mary, what's wrong?" she asked immediately.
"Sick," he said as he stepped out of his shoes and tossed his briefcase on the coffee table.
"I can see that. What's going on?"
"Upset stomach." He leaned on the wall and slowly rubbed his belly. "I tried just sitting still at my desk, but it got worse. I gagged over the trash a couple times, and that's when I decided I needed to come home."
"Ooh, that's not good."
"I was sure I'd barf on the train, and one time it started to come up but I forced it back down, somehow. I went into the bathroom once I got off the train and ended up puking a little bit, but not enough to make me feel better."
"You should have forced it."
"I just wanted to get home." He swallowed hard and pressed the back of his hand over his mouth.
"Well, go on and get rid of the rest, then," she said, putting a hand on his back as he staggered toward the bathroom.
Martin took off his tie and sank down to sit in front of the toilet with a low moan. "So sick," he whined.
"You need to empty your stomach."
He hiccupped and leaned over the toilet bowl. "I'm gonna."
"Good." She rubbed his back and patiently waited.
Martin swayed with nausea, and she heard his gut make unsettled sloshing noises, but nothing happened.
"You need some warm water to get it started?"
He shook his head. "It's coming." Speaking made him cough shallowly, then give a loud, hollow belch.
Sadie patted his back.
He retched four times before a trickle of discolored liquid ran out of his mouth and into the toilet.
"You can do better than that," Sadie teased.
A strong heave gathered deep in his belly and rushed upward, sending a forceful spew into the water.
"There you go! Now get it all out of there."
He shuddered over and over, gagging and retching as everything he had eaten that day came back up in a chunky cascade.
"You couldn't have barfed that much in the train station, if you still had all this to get up."
He was too busy copiously throwing up to answer. Within only a few minutes, his stomach was truly empty, and after several dry heaves he recovered enough to accept a cup of water from Sadie to rinse his mouth.
A businesswoman vomits at work but knows she won't feel better until she gets up the rest of her lunch...
If you’re not into emetophilia, stay away. This story includes graphic descriptions of throwing up.
She was still in denial about how sick she was when she reached the ladies' room. Her stomach churned and gurgled as she took off her jacket and then stood in front of the toilet, taking stock of how she felt. Yes, she was nauseous, but probably not sick enough that--
Burning sludge surged up her throat and plunged into the toilet. Her eyes went wide in shock. Had she really just thrown up?
Another spasm in her throat made her lean closer to the bowl as another thick flood of vomit rushed up. Soon the toilet water was obscured by yellowish-green mush with brown and orange flecks. Yep, that was her lunch, all right.
The heaves stopped, leaving her drooling and feeling absolutely horrid. She stood for a minute, rubbing her belly and waiting for the rest to come up. When it didn't, and she still felt terribly sick, she decided to force it. No point in standing around feeling horrible when she was pretty sure she needed an empty stomach to feel better.
She knelt down in front of the toilet and slid a hand into her mouth. Just doing so made her gag, but nothing came up. She tried again and managed to touch the back of her throat long enough to trigger a strong retch.
Curdled slime rose, got all over her hand, and then splashed into the toilet. She held onto the seat with her soiled hand and kept rubbing her belly with the other as she coughed, belched, and heaved up a considerable amount of barf.
When she felt empty, she shakily got to her feet, flushed, and went to wash her hand and face. She stood at the sink for a few minutes, trying to determine if she was done vomiting. A few unproductive gags told her her stomach was empty, and she went to gather her things from her office so she could go home early.
She ended up dry heaving into a plastic bag on the way home.
Brian managed to puke on his pajamas and make it to the toilet without waking Shari, but then she has to pee and the jig is up.
If you’re not into emetophilia, stay away. This story includes graphic descriptions of throwing up.
Shari woke up in the middle of the night with an urgent need to pee. She stumbled blindly through the dark to the bathroom door and nearly ran into it before noticing that it was closed, and the light beyond was on.
"Brian?" she mumbled.
"Yeah," he said, and she could tell something was wrong.
"Can I come in? I've really gotta pee."
"Yeah," he said, and that was all the invitation she needed. She barged in and plopped down on the toilet to empty her bladder. Only when the urgency had passed did she notice what her boyfriend was doing.
Brian stood in his pajama bottoms, bare-chested, leaning over the sink. He ran a cup of water, swished it in his mouth, and spat it out. Oddly, his hair was all back in a ponytail despite being down when he went to bed.
"What are you doing?" she asked sleepily as she flushed and stood up.
He answered without turning toward her, but she could see him in profile. "Oh, um, well, I… I threw up a little while ago. Trying to get the awful taste out of my mouth now, but…" He pressed the back of his hand to his lips. "I'm not sure I'm done."
"Oh no! That's awful! You didn't say anything about feel sick at bedtime."
"I wasn't, really. A bit unsettled, maybe, but I thought I just overate. Then I woke up gagging. I tried to make it to the bathroom, but halfway there it started coming up. I, uh, held up my shirt like an apron. That contained it until I got in here and could let the rest go in the toilet."
She followed his gesture and saw a vomit-spattered shirt wadded up in the bathtub. "Oh, damn! That's the worst"
He briefly closed his eyes, and she heard a whining, gurgling sound from his belly. "I'm sorry, I…" He stumbled back to the toilet and sank down to kneel in front of it.
"It's okay, hon. Get it over with." Shari gently patted his back with one hand and rubbed sleep from her eyes with the other.
Brian moaned without opening his mouth and bowed his head over the toilet. Drool began to seep from between his lips. His broad shoulders jerked as a hoarse retch rose in his throat. He had to heave three times before a gush of sludge flew out of his mouth and into the water.
"There you go," she mumbled.
He coughed and gagged, then brought up a brief, very chunky flood of vomit that splashed loudly in the toilet.
"Oh, ow," she said, wincing on his behalf.
He swore under his breath, then curled forward with a loud retch as even more of his former supper flooded out.
Just when she was wondering if he had eaten more than she realized, or if he hadn't actually barfed that much the first time, he shuddered with a dry heave. The spasm repeated a few times until a sprinkle of bile ran out of his quivering mouth. He sputtered and coughed, then finally sat back on his heels.
She quickly brought him the cup of water, which he gratefully used to rinse his mouth again before flushing the toilet. "That had to have been all of it," she said with forced cheerfulness.
He nodded before spitting into the toilet and then grabbing toilet paper to wipe his lips. "Ugh. I definitely needed to get rid of all that, but…" He let out a long groan that bordered on a whine.
She helped him to his feet. "Let's get you back to bed, now."
He silently allowed her to escort him into the bedroom and tuck him in.
"good boy" "that's my pretty boy" "you did so well for me" "awwww im so proud of you puppy" "cmere puppy" "hi sweet boy" "good mutt" "that's it, be my good boy" mmmmfmfmfghhhggmmm..,,,,
Thinking about the progression of illness showing in what position they take to vomit
The first time they start feeling sick, they stand in front of the toilet with their hands on their knees to gag over the bowl. They puke a little and spit and think that might be it.
Not long after, the nausea comes back, stronger. They go back to the bathroom and bend over the toilet again, gagging. Then a strong retch makes them stagger and grip the back of the toilet. Still standing, but holding on for balance, they sick up another stream of puke. The wave passes but this time they know they aren't done.
On the third bout, they initially try to stay standing, but quickly double over with a violent heave, followed by a thick wave of vomit that brings them to their knees. Now kneeling on the floor with their head over the bowl, smelling the bleach and acid, gagging and gagging.
On the fourth bout, they go straight to their knees in front of the toilet, gripping the cold bowl, too sick to care anymore about how disgusting it is. Resting their forehead on their arm while they cough and gag and vomit again. Laying on the floor afterwards because there's no point even leaving the bathroom this time.
The fifth bout, barely peeling themselves off the floor in time to get miserably sick into the toilet, vomit dripping over the side where they missed. Sitting sprawled on the floor, too weak to even get into kneeling position. Leaning their cheek against the porcelain, eyes closed while they retch and drool into the dirty water. Vomiting repeatedly, choking and vomiting again, struggling for air. Too dizzy to move, they stay in this position, breathing shallowly and just waiting for the next round of puking to start.
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