Let’s try a different style of content (to me). Feedback encouraged plssss 💕
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You say it every night now. Not out of concern—out of pride? Like you’re looking at a trophy or a new achievement.
I’m curled up on the couch, or at least trying to be. There’s no curling anymore, just shifting and rebalancing. Honestly I’m hoping the mountain that is my belly won’t roll me off the edge entirely.
I groan as I try to lean forward, one hand trying to hold my underbelly like it might fall off my body without support.
You’re already there, placing a pillow behind my back and another under my knees; you know I’m too far gone to adjust myself.
“Still full?” you ask, holding up a plate like a question you already know the answer to.
Of course I’m still full. You made me eat three full helpings of pasta an hour ago, telling me about how good I looked chewing with my cheeks full. Meanwhile I could feel my belly swelling with every bite. I told you I couldn’t finish the second plate, and then you fed me the third anyway—spoonful by spoonful.
Rubbing my bump with your free hand, you shushed me; whispering about how round I’m getting, how tight my skin looks, how I was made for this.
I shift again, my thighs spreading wider just to accommodate the heaviness of my belly. The fabric of my stretched maternity tank top rides up automatically now, unable to keep up with my growing size.
You sit down next to me and place the plate on my lap—well, what used to be my lap. Now it balances on the top of my belly. I draw in a sharp breath just from the little bit of added weight.
“Just a few bites,” you say, as if you haven’t said that for the last two weeks straight. You don’t wait for an answer. You scoop up the chocolate mousse and bring the spoon to my lips.
I hesitate. I feel the fullness and pressure against my ribs. But the spoon is there, and your gaze is so patient it’s impossible to say no to.
It’s good. You hum your approval and spoon in another bite, then another. You don’t stop until I groan and let my head fall back, chest rising and falling in shallow gasps. You set the tray aside and place your hands over the sides of my belly, your thumbs stroking across the tight skin.
“You’re so good like this,” you continue, like you’re proud of me. Like you own me. “So full. So slow. Just how I like you.”
I try to breathe away the pressure, squirming and my fingers twitching against the cushions. My whole body feels like it’s been pushed past the point of no return—soft and sore and distended, built for nothing except carrying what you put in me.
I want to be mad. Or bratty. Or defiant. But I just nod, eyelids heavy.
You kiss my forehead, then the top of my belly. Then you settle in beside me, one hand resting possessively over the middle of my belly.
