Summary: Rosalie witnesses an unexpected scene in the kitchen.
Word Count: 1.8k
Contains: Plot advancement!, communication!, a cake with pink icing!, emotional eating, kink discovery, stuffing encouragement, burping, belly rubs, gratuitous description of a full and heavy tummy
Rosalie sighed, sagging into her armchair. It was late, and the estate was silent. She found herself less able to sleep since her last conversation with Devon, occupied by these grim thoughts about the future. Instead of answers, she felt she’d left their uncomfortable dinner with more questions. Days had past, and her lonely routine had continued. It was, she admitted to herself, probably inappropriate of her to force her company on someone who so clearly wanted nothing to do with her. It was a realization that brought her no comfort.
Could she run away? She doubted anyone would stop her, but Daring Woods was miles from the nearest town, and where would she go after that? Certainly not home. They would send her straight back to fulfill her obligation. She could go into hiding with one of her sisters, except they had their own families to worry about now. Her only choice seemed to be learning to bear her new life.
Perturbed by the thought, she rose and took up the candle by her bedside. Perhaps a walk through the halls of the estate would tire her, or at least occupy her for a while. Shutting the door behind her with a soft click, she turned to stare across the hall at the door to Devon’s room. It might as well have been a ten-foot wall with a moat around it.
The moon was so bright through the windows that she hardly needed the candle. At least, she reasoned, she could appreciate the natural beauty of Daring Woods, a privilege she lacked at home in the city. And in some ways, she was freer here; there were no advisors or handmaidens to observe her every move, no chaperones to supervise every outing or read every letter, no Father to remind her of her place as a youngest daughter of the family. Even so, she did miss him, the moments of warmth that would occasionally break through his domineering exterior.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of movement ahead of her, distant but distinct. Who else would be up so late at night? Curious, she crept through the long dining hall, following the occasional scrape and creak that echoed through the cavernous estate. It took her past rooms she didn’t usually enter, closer to the stair to the servant’s wing. As she turned down the hall, she saw a faint glow emanating from the open door to what she remembered as the kitchen. Could one of the staff still be working this late at night? She resolved to relieve them of their duties- nothing was so urgent as to be finished while the moon was high.
She turned into the kitchen and froze in the doorway. Within was not a cook or a maid but Devon, seated at a large, central table. It was so surprising to see the other woman out of her rooms that it took her a moment to notice the enormous, elaborately-iced cake in front of her, of which a substantial portion was already missing. If it hadn’t already been obvious where it had gone, the smear of pink icing at the corner of her mouth would have confirmed it.
“What are you doing in here?” Devon seemed to be trying to stand, but a wince ran through her and she dropped back into the chair, clutching her belly. For all their awkwardness, Rosalie hated to see someone in pain. She had stepped forward without meaning to, stopping just short of placing a soothing hand on Devon’s shoulder. They stared at each other, Devon roughly wiping away the trail of icing.
“Are you well?” Rosalie asked carefully.
Devon made a sound between a sigh and a laugh. “As I ever am.”
Rosalie took in the other woman’s round cheeks, her unexpectedly large bosom resting on the swollen curve of her gut. Her night shirt was beginning to ride up at the bottom, and if she was wearing one of her customary vests, the buttons would surely be straining. The room was silent save for the crackling of the fire in the hearth. Devon was so still she didn’t even seem to breathe, watching Rosalie warily, her head held low in a position that emphasized the ring of fat around her once sharp jaw. When, in the decade since their first meeting, had the other woman changed so much? And why did Rosalie find her even handsomer now than before?
Making up her mind, Rosalie sat tentatively down beside Devon, who seemed startled by her course of action. “That looks painful,” she said softly. Devon gave a jerky shrug. Rosalie could practically hear her belly churning, no doubt trying its best to digest all of the cake crammed into it.
“My eating habits- are. Somewhat unusual.” Devon finally grit out, as though it were painful.
Rosalie smiled faintly. “I think many of your habits are somewhat unusual.”
“I have… nightmares. This helps, somehow.”
Of course. Who wouldn’t be afflicted, after everything Devon had been through? Rosalie was beginning to understand that Devon’s solitary nature was clearly a response to her troubled internal landscape, not to a true indifference to Rosalie’s presence. Perhaps there was some hope yet that they might develop a friendship, might live together in something like harmony.
“I apologize that you had to see me like this. I am certain it is quite discomfiting.”
“No,” she rushed out before she understood what she was saying. “Actually I find it very… humanizing.”
Devon’s eyebrows went up, her expression sardonic. “Is that an attempt at comfort?”
“No, I mean it. I feel more at ease now. With you.”
Her face fell. “My fault that you felt ill at ease in the first place. I apologize for my behavior. I am afraid I don’t know how else to behave.” She scrubbed a hand over her face. “I used to be much more sociable. More charming.”
Rosalie caught herself before she accidentally confessed to finding Devon’s current state plenty charming. Instead, she opened the cupboard, removing a plate and a cake cutter. Devon watched her, single eye wide, as she cut a large slice from what remained of the beautifully iced cake and placed it in front of the other woman.
“If it helps you,” she said, “you should have more.”
Devon’s mouth rounded into a little ‘o’ of surprise, a little bit of color coming into her cheeks. At first she did not move; but when Rosalie nodded, she picked up the fork with an unsteady hand, and cut a tiny bite from the slice. She ate it off the fork delicately, chewing and swallowing without looking at Rosalie.
Rosalie felt oddly disappointed. “You didn’t finish that much cake eating like that.”
Devon whipped her head around to stare at her, blatantly confused, perhaps somewhat angry. Rosalie took the fork from her unresisting hand, slicing off a large bite of the pastry, before pausing. The thought of bringing the fork directly to the other woman’s mouth, which would open so obediently for her, struck like lightning. But she was unsure what the rules were, the boundaries of whatever was happening. Instead, she placed the fork back in Devon’s hand.
Watching her savor the bite was almost as good. Her stomach protested with a groan, but she ignored it, seeming to fall into a trance of eating, a kind of focus that blocked out her discomfort. Her fork moved faster, and soon she was practically shoveling it in, barely taking the time to swallow before cramming in the next bite. Rosalie watched, equally as enraptured, as she finished the massive slice faster than she would have thought possible. When it was gone, she leaned back heavily, placing a hand on the crest of her engorged gut.
“Even my ribs hurt…” she murmured softly.
Rosalie laid her hand on the other woman’s belly, making Devon’s eye snap open. She could feel it grumbling beneath her palm, struggling to digest. The skin felt tight and hot, stretched more than she would have thought possible, and she flushed thinking about what it might be like to see Devon’s naked flesh, the marks it might bear. Rosalie began tentatively to rub her belly back and forth, soothing its pained rumbling, gently trailing her palm over the aching ribs, pressed apart by her massive gut. Devon was stiff at first, but the more Rosalie soothed her, the more she seemed lulled into a near comatose state, her eye slowly closing. Periodically she might heave a heavy sigh, or loose a belch, or emit something that almost sounded like a moan. Rosalie herself was struggling to keep her sounds to herself, her lip bitten bloody. Something about the other woman’s contentment, her docility, was affecting her more than she could have expected. She ran her hand down the more strained part of the other woman’s belly, from the crest down to her navel, and felt herself pulse with need.
Finally, when she thought Devon might have fallen asleep, the other woman placed a hand over hers.
“I think I should be able to return to my quarters now.” She said quietly.
Rosalie was struck with a bolt of disappointment. “Are you certain?”
Devon nodded, bracing herself on the arms of the chair and heaving herself upright. She was by no means a thin woman, but the way her taut, full gut arched outwards made it look almost comically large for her frame. She placed her hands on her back, bending into the weight of her belly, huffing already merely from the effort of holding its weight. She looked hugely pregnant, bigger than pregnant, her entire body completely dominated by her gut. Rosalie had to look away.
“I can walk you to your room.” She offered in a voice audibly strained.
“That… would be most acceptable. Thank you.” Was she imagining things, or was Devon’s voice strained as well? Probably just from the effort of standing.
Rosalie looped an arm around the other woman’s back, hyper aware of the warmth of her body, the roll she could feel pressing against her through the thin night shirt. Slowly, ponderously, they made their way back to Devon’s rooms, Devon supporting her belly and Rosalie supporting her back. It was a silent walk except for the sound of Devon panting softly from fullness and from effort. Finally, they came to the imposing door that had seemed to separate Rosalie from truly being a part of the other woman’s life. Would the barrier come down now that they had been so… intimate, in a manner of speaking? Or would Devon’s defenses return come morning?
“Goodnight. And, thank you.” Devon offered, giving an awkward little nod of her head before disappearing beyond the door.
Rosalie was left standing there, uncertain what the next day might bring.
I had a stuffing idea about a sapphic couple (shocker) and I wrote a little thing about it. Maybe I'll finish it up if you guys like it. (expand the text for tummy art)
Poppy and Devon have lived together for years and Poppy is well aware of Devon's little club she's become a part of. This club only meets at night, they dress strangely, make odd comments and cast sidelong gazes at each other as if speaking with their mouths closed. The only thing she was confused about was how Devon has become a part of this club, because she's certain Devon is NOT a vampire. Devon came forward a few weeks ago explaining that she's been a part of this group... on accident, but they believe she is a vampire. She's tricked them, unintentionally, and doesn't want to get on the town vampires' bad side. As the newest of the 'vampires' Devon's been tasked with hosting all of their gatherings. Poppy obliges her, making for her room whenever the doorbell rings. But this date night they were having was supposed to be just for them. Devon was an excellent chef. She'd prepared a whole feast for the two of them, three wine bottles opened and half drank during the cooking, the two women were holding one another in front of the meal when Devon's eyes shot open, a familiar expression now to Poppy— one that meant someone was taking Devon's attention away without even opening their mouth. Devon whispered. "They're coming."
Devon, realized just how much food had been made and was sent into a panic. "You have to eat all of this. Right now. They can't see it. They'll be here soon." Devon scrambled, ushering Poppy into a chair. Poppy, irritated and overwhelmed recommended the trashcan, or offered that Devon should have it as a punishment of sorts, but Devon retorted that they'd smell it in the trash, outside or even on their breath. "Please Poppy. Just eat the food I made us. I promise we will have time together later if either of us are still alive." The worry in Devon's tone was enough. Poppy obliged. It was an arduous task. The entire table was coated in decadent foods— breads, cheeses, wines and soups. At first let herself indulge. Seeing Devon, the desperate crease on her brow as she handed Poppy bite after bite. The delicious taste, the way her partners hand touched in fluttering movements thoughtfully over her stomach any time she made so much as a hum in response to how much she was eating. Little sorries, whispered between glances to the doorway as if they could just walk in on their own without invitation. Eventually though Poppy was struggling. She could feel her once loose white blouse becoming tight around her stomach, her belly pushing against the fabric. Her skin felt stretched and her stomach was bloated. She had to lean back in the chair to even get a semblance of respite from the building pressure. "Devon," She was near breathless. "I can't." Poppy shook her head in a daze. Devon's face was a scrunched mess of fear. It was enough that Poppy pushed herself up, hands against the chair and looked over the table to reassess. She could. She could do it. This wasn't Devon's fault. But both of them would be dead if she didn't get rid of this evidence. She finished off the last bowl of soup and began picking at the bread. Each little piece was too much.
Devon began cleaning the table, bringing bowls to the kitchen to clean them as swiftly as possible. By the time the doorbell rung, Poppy's stomach poked up from under her shirt as if she were pregnant, she couldn't bare the idea of getting up from the table, afraid the movement alone would have her sick. "Come on sweet girl." Devon whispered, shimmying her arm up under Poppy's to help her out of the chair, a worried hand holding under her packed belly. "You poor thing." Devon whispered. Poppy could feel the shift in her weight as Devon hoisted her upright, the way the swell of her abdomen shifted and gurgled and she had to bring a hand over her mouth with fear she might pop or be sick. Devon glanced back up the staircase beside them and then to the door. Sweat was prickling at her brow. "Can you make it up the stairs?" Devon asked. Poppy glanced at the imposing rails and shook her head quickly, already nauseous at the idea. A small burp wriggled its way out of her followed by a now drunken hiccup. She could feel the food settling in her belly alongside the wine. She brought a weary hand over Devons under her stomach.
i hate how even skinny feedists are weird about fat people in a normal context... i guess im naive to expect people to respect those that they are sexually attracted to
Summary: Mina is invited to a party by a softball team with a strange post-game ritual.
Word count: 1.3k
Contains: Softball inaccuracies, stuffing, group feeding, burps, belly rubs, cockblocking, author's hyper-specific and deeply contrived fantasy scenario, possible grammatical errors (written in a single sitting in a complete frenzy)
The party is loud, and dark, and a little bit sweaty. Mina, invited by a friend of a friend, has managed to fold herself into the corner of a couch, feeling strangely transported back to high school. She’s surrounded by white and blue jerseys, women in baseball caps and spandex shorts cheering and roughhousing and getting, frankly, shitfaced. She lost sight of her acquaintance almost immediately after congratulating her on her team’s win, and has been merging with the furniture since.
She’s definitely not anti-athletics, and especially not anti-athletes. The women around her are so painfully her type, with their solid softball builds, sculpted legs, broad shoulders. She’s perfectly happy to sip her drink and observe the chaos as it unfolds, especially when it involves a group of dykes getting rowdy with each other.
Three women appear by the entrance, two of them almost escorting the one in the middle, who looks tipsy but coherent. Mina knows this one is the pitcher, last name Clarke. She stared at her the entire game, namely her cute, soft little potbelly. It pushes firmly up against her jersey, demanding to be seen, wobbling with every movement. Mina thought about what it would be like to slide her hand up, up under the other woman’s shirt, to fondle her sweaty rolls, take some flesh in her hands and squeeze. It was immensely distracting.
The woman to Clarke’s left- Sanchez?- has an arm thrown over her shoulder, almost displaying her to the crowd. Mina can’t help but suck in a breath as Sanchez smacks a firm hand down directly in the center of Clarke’s belly, making the fat wobble visibly. It’s so shameless, so shocking, and Clarke looks barely surprised, perhaps a little pink from all the attention. What the hell is this?
“Once again, our lucky charm came through,” Sanchez calls out to cheers from the crowd. “The bottomless pit-cher reigns supreme! Present your offerings, peasants.” She and the other woman guide Clarke to plop down heavily on the couch beside Mina, barely acknowledging her. She tries not to notice the way the other woman’s thighs expand in her tiny shorts as she sits. Someone passed Clarke a container- a box of Oreos, double stuffed, and she rips it open immediately, shoving two at a time into her mouth.
It’s a decadent, and confusing display. Mina pinches herself to make sure she hasn’t somehow crossed into a wet dream. The woman beside her discards the now-empty container, and immediately one of her teammates steps forward with a massive soda bottle. She waggles her eyebrows at Mina, as if to say, Check this out, before holding the lip of the bottle directly to Clarke’s mouth. The other woman drinks the entire bottle in a few massive gulps, not even pausing to breathe. Pulling back, she releases an enormous belch that Mina swears she can feel rattling her bones, before heaving in a gasp of air.
This goes on all night. People bring massive bags of chips, plates of wings dripping with sauce, sugary packaged snacks, bottles of beer, and Clarke eats everything, gorging and belching her way through the night. Across the table, someone is complaining about her job with the Department of something, but Mina can’t possibly pay attention, not when beside her, the other woman’s belly is growing visibly more taut, starting to push up the hem of her shirt and exposing an inch of stretch marked flesh. Often someone will offer the belly a pat of appreciation, saying something fond about the lucky “bottomless pit”.
She’s so wet she’s concerned she might leave a stain on the stranger’s couch. Standing abruptly, she heads toward the back, where she saw earlier there was a door to a deck. The cool air that greets her is welcome, hopefully calming her flushed cheeks, and more welcome is the sight of a porch swing. She eagerly sits down, taking a moment to try to quell her arousal, pulling out her phone to look at rideshare prices. If she stays any longer, she’s probably going to come in public, and that’s lots of people’s thing, but it’s not hers.
She’s distracted as the door swings open, and out steps Clarke, flushed pink across her cheeks and cupping her swollen belly. Fuck.
“Hey.” She says, waddling over. “Can I join you?”
Mina squeaks out something that is probably affirmative. The porch swing creaks under the other woman’s weight.
Mina closes her eyes as Clarke stifles a belch beside her, followed by what sounds like a suppressed groan.
“Sorry.” Clarke says sheepishly. Mina looks up to find her with a crooked grin. “I didn’t think anyone else would be out here.”
“Oh, no, it’s fine.” She rushes out. “Mina.”
“Ashley, but I go by Ash. Or ‘bottomless pit’, if you listen to my teammates.”
“Yeah, what’s all that about?” She asks, unable to help herself.
Ash sighs. “Okay, so one time, before a game, Sanchez made a joke about rubbing my, um, belly, for good luck, or something. And then we won, and it became a whole thing about-“ she cut herself off with a loud belch. “Fuck, sorry. Uh. About making offerings, to keep the luck, like, going. It’s a little ridiculous.”
“You don’t seem that against it.” Mina replied, the pieces starting to come together.
Ash visibly flushes. “I don’t hate it?”
Just then, her stomach groans loudly, and she visibly winces, cupping it protectively with both hands.
“That sounded painful.”
“Yeah, they go a little- ourp- overboard sometimes.”
“Here, let me help.” Mina watches the other woman for a reaction, but all Ash does is scoot back a bit to make room. She places her hand on the crest of the other woman’s stuffed stomach, feeling the pressure against her skin, fullness rounding her. She presses down ever so slightly, coaxing a small burp out of the other woman. Then she moves her hand in a wide circle, trying to resist the urge to dig her fingers in and grope Ash.
Ash’s head falls back, clearly enjoying herself, and Mina feels emboldened to sneak her hand up the other woman’s jersey, feeling the warmth of her skin. She circles the crest of Ash’s swollen belly, gently applying pressure with her fingertips, trying both to ease her discomfort and dislodge any burps in the hope of making some space in her stuffed gut. Ash huffs softly in between small belches, arching her back to press her belly up into Mina’s comforting hand. She can’t help but lean closer and closer, until their shoulders are pressed together, feeling the soft, hot burps escaping the other woman against the side of her face.
“Sorry, I- urp- I get really gassy.”
Mina looked at her. “Do I seem bothered?”
Ash cracked a smile. “Not really. I thought you were, earlier, on the couch. You were staring daggers at me.”
“No, that was… that was something else.”
“I think I figured that out. Probably around the time you put your hand up my shirt.”
Mina’s hand slides down lower, towards the soft pouch of fat above her waistband. Ash sighs, shifting her hips forward in a way that is absolutely not accidental. Mina swallows. Are they really going to do this, here, on a stranger’s back porch, where someone could catch them at any-
They jump apart as the screen door bangs open and one of Ash’s teammates steps out, giving the pair an odd look. Ash clears her throat.
“Was looking for you, dude.” The woman tells her, jerking a thumb over her shoulder. “Beer pong.”
“I might actually…I think I might rain check. Tonight. Just kinda… enjoying the scenery.”
The other woman gives the two of them a look that is not at all subtle. “Heard. I’ll leave you to it, then.” The screen slams shut behind her.
Mina can’t help laughing. “Enjoying the scenery?”
“Shut up,” Ash replies good-naturedly, shoving her playfully. “You scrambled my brain with your magic hands.”
“Speaking of magic hands. I live ten minutes away. I drove.”
Ash heaves herself up from the swing, a hand supporting her belly. “Lead the way then.”
everyone talks about feedees eating but I think feedee sleepiness is so underappreciated, their plump perfect body is working so hard overtime to turn that big heavy meal into extra fat that they need to take a nap about it. so cute and sexy. also they might get super cuddly and want belly rubs <3 <3 <3
got way too excited stuffing myself all day and threw up the past like 2h worth of food at least.... i havent thrown up since i was in elementary school so im kinda just in shock like wow im still capable of that huh
got way too excited stuffing myself all day and threw up the past like 2h worth of food at least.... i havent thrown up since i was in elementary school so im kinda just in shock like wow im still capable of that huh
the only times i ever feel remotely patriotic are when im reading about or watching an american fast food stuffing. i pledge allegiance to DRIVE THRUS and COPIOUS AMOUNTS OF GREASE 🫡🇺🇸🦅
Just gonna horny nerd feeder ramble for a min so excuse me.
I've managed to increase my food capacity and appetite completely by accident (combo of big string of eating out for special occasions and actually properly meal prepping for the first time in my life) over the past two months, and of course I've experienced some weight gain from this after December ended up being a month where I lost weight due to illness and a decreased appetite from this. Like if I tried to stuff in December it was just painful and I couldn't eat as much as I would do for an average stuffing. Just didn't feel like myself when I was doing it. Cut to now, where yesterday I had a 3 course breakfast in one sitting, pretty much followed immediately by a huge lunch and felt over full, but in the euphoric, horny way I'm used to from being a seasoned stuffer (not to toot my own horn). Like there was a day in Jan where I had a huge breakfast, then went out for ramen at lunch and had a huge burger and fries at dinner, all with snacks in-between and i was like damn, I really got my appetite back cos it felt amazing, not painful at all cos I'd been increasing my capacity without even knowing it. All in the space of 1 month.
Just got me thinking about about purposefully and methodically increasing someone's capacity to see how much they can gain in a month just off the back of having a purposefully made massive appetite. Things like wg power and boosts are fine, like I get the appeal of them for quick gaining. But I personally find it much more interesting and exciting to see someone gain because they're desperately hungry all the time and are eating copious amounts of food to satisfy this or hit a calorie goal.
I really do love when people do challenges like trying to eat 3-5,000 calories daily (which is on the more manageable side, but still extreme enough to be exiting) and seeing their gut and also their appetite adjust along with it. Seeing them struggle at first, but eating that way becoming second nature to them by the end.
Would love to try the following plan with someone. Preferably someone who wants to gain, but has never tried it or only dabbled in it:
Step 1. Spend a 2 week period slowly increasing their stomach capacity. Not necessarily by forcing them to eat stupid amounts of high calorie food. Initially could be something like increased portion sizes, making sure they eat consistent large meal times to stimulate an appetite, making them chug a pint of water before or after each meal or making them have a bowl of cereal or porridge before or after each meal. Maybe some days before and after if they feel they can handle it. Or double portions of meals. And of course, making sure they learn to relax their stomach muscles during eating. It's so common to tense them, which can help encourage the painful full feeling. And of course, belly massages at the end of the day or after each meal where possible to aid with the same thing.
Step 2. Once the two week period is over, have one day where you go back to portions they would have eaten before the challenge. It should, hopefully leave them starving, and insatiable, a good indicator that their appetite is increased enough. If they don't get ravenous, another week of stretching should do the trick. Although I would think this would be unlikely.
Step 3. Let their appetite control their eating. So long as they're eating large meals at at least 3 meal times, and they're eating at least 3,000 calories daily let them eat whatever and however they want. Let them live out their feedee fantasy's with their newly enlarged appetite. I will of course be preparing food at the 3 meal times, but if you want take out, I'll get it for you. If you want certain snacks, I'm there. You want to go to a restaurant for each of your meals? Ok. Drive thru? I'll drive you. The house will be filled with prepped food and easy snacks for them to just grab and eat. Of course during this period, the only think I expect of them will be to track their calories accurately as this is something I can't 100% keep track of without being in your personal space at all times. And of course, daily weigh ins and measurements to track your progress. See how far you can push yourself. I want you going to bed at night feeling as full as you possibly can be. You can even wake me up in the night to bring you more snacks if you want to. If they're smashing the 3,000 cal target consistently, increase it. Obviously this limit can also depend on who's doing the challenge as all people are different.
Step 4: the results. After a month Compare their measurements and meal sizes from before the challenge. I'm sure the results from this would be surprising and satisfying. Maybe get them to have a picture in a well fitting outfit before the challenge and get them to ware it again only after. See how differently it fits.
Obviously this would require a lot of time and money, and a lot of trust. And obviously the understanding that it's so much harder to decrease your appetite after increasing it in a certain way. Most people would buy a fancy car or go on holiday if they won the lottery, but for me it would be doing this with someone lmao
I have 2 weeks in a few months where I have the house to myself, so I'm going to try a mini version of this on myself. Spend the first week stretching and then I have a week off work to really go for it with the eating. So long as I'm in the mood then lol and obvs will document the results.
I hate numbers and facts, until it comes to tummy's then I'm #1 scientist/ numbers guy
CONTAINS: bakery manager x reader, stuffing, light dom feedism, light eructo, belly rubs
Reminder for what this is: there were some old fics/adjacent things that used to be around that I latched onto but was dissatisfied with them because of spelling mistakes, being RPF, or feeling unfinished etc. This is the first of 3 rewrites I’ve hoped to do, but they are not connected in any other way.
Details about the original:
It was a post on Tumblr that I believe has been lost to time, I don’t know if there were any titles on the post. I hold no ill will towards whomever wrote it originally, and I love the concept too much to not try to fix it up a bit.
What I remember about the original: 2 unnamed people working at a bakery, 2nd person perspective. The character is said to typically eat a lot of the bakery’s leftovers, and this time the character is made to eat an entire wedding cake on top of that, because it was made in the wrong flavor. They stop after eating each layer though didn’t indicate which they started with and would try to rub their belly but would be encouraged to keep eating instead. This would occur until they finished the entire cake. The manager then promptly leaves and the character is forced to clean up the mess on a full stomach.
Things I wanted to fix: the spelling, the lack of detail about the cake and bakery operations, the rushed-feeling ending and withholding of relief from the full belly. Hopefully all is accomplished and more (also quick warning that it’s quite long), enjoy.
—————
You’re an early riser, though your body belabors it. You’re the first person to enter the small bakery, Reverie, every morning. Your tired mind skims across the most preliminary of preparations, until you find yourself peering through the oven glass at the rising dough of treats and confections, the task of making the dough itself so instinctual now that your brain neglects to even remember doing so.
When everything is baked to perfection, you heave trays and trays of daily cookies, tarts, croissants and more to their displays, for the many customers to glance at throughout the day, their hungry eyes compelling them to buy more and more. It’s around the time you are filling in the last of the shelves with the new stock that the only other employee, your manager, clocks in for the day, nodding to you with an unwavering sense of trust as they don a matching apron.
You finish the current task by placing the day-old desserts in a separate, discounted display. At your manager’s behest, the desserts not bought from this discount pile at the end of the day are given to you. Your manager sees to it that you are eating well throughout the day, and consistently reminds you to partake in your allotted confectionary while behind the counter or doing other tasks, along with providing you your generous lunch breaks. You oblige, if a bit reluctantly, though you have omitted from telling them that when you lumber home from work every day, you can do little else than rub your massive, sugar-bloated stomach in bed until you fall asleep.
——————
Today is a slow day, with little to indicate that anything is but ordinary. Your manager, really the owner of this bakery, tends to handle special projects on their own, as the more experienced of the two of you at decorating. These assignments don’t pop up super frequently, as Reverie is but a little known secret of your city, but those who come seeking catering, wedding cakes, and other large desserts have never once been disappointed by the quality. Your manager has been in the back kitchen most of the day, handling the most recent order, while you munch away on stale treats at the counter.
You’re beginning to feel how full you are, a twinge appearing in your side followed by a hiccup. You feel your face growing warm as you cover your mouth, but thankfully no customers are around, though you hadn’t thought to check in the moment. As your focus returns, you notice the voice of your manager in conversation coming from the kitchen:
“I see - - I’m so sorry to hear that, yes we can accommodate - - no trouble at all! These things are common - - yes, please don’t worry, I’m happy to do so free of charge - - I insist - - thank you - -“
You then hear a plastic click as they return the phone to the wall, a drawn-out sigh accompanying it. They push through the double doors behind you, apron covered in flour and frosting, and address you with a small smile.
“Looks like we’ve got a situation.”
——————
“How does someone develop an allergy so sudden?” You ask incredulously.
“No clue! But now I have to remake this entire cake in a different flavor.” Your manager sighs even deeper. You rendezvoused in the back room after closing a bit earlier (and hastier, to the chagrin of your stomach) than normal. “Sorry I might have to keep you later than usual, you’ll be getting overtime for this. I just need help setting up and cleaning, I’ve got the mixing and decorating handled. Oh, and help yourself to any leftovers. There’s quite a lot to go around, it’s just you and me here after all.”
You nod, beginning to gather utensils, though you try to ignore your apron digging into your full stomach.
Your manager looks resolute, saying to you and themselves, “It’ll take more time but it’ll be worth it. After all,” they mention over their shoulder with a smile, “it would be bad business if one of the grooms were to die on their wedding day.”
——————
The three-tiered wedding cake looms over you on the center counter of the kitchen. It’s unavoidable from all angles, white frosting piped into delicate flowers, with thin dark chocolate vines spread throughout, and flaked all over in almonds. According to the original recipe— you read off of the counter housing the mixer —each tier is a different flavor, with the bottom being a lemon cake with vanilla filling, the middle being a pistachio cake with Italian meringue, and the top being a rich chocolate cake with raspberry. Your manager was prepping to remake most parts the same for the new cake, but sub out the almonds and pistachios for flower notes and orange flavor.
You feel your belly rumble reading the recipes, but you brush it off and figure it’s begun the long digestion of all the treats it’s been stuffed with. You glance at the measly plastic tupperware your manager retrieved from storage and put to the side of the behemoth-cake, and recall that you had stopped bringing your own take-home plastic containers to work a long time ago, since you just ate it all while you were there anyway. But this, on such a full stomach already, is much too big, you tell yourself, averting your eyes to focus on wiping down counters and preheating the ovens. You can’t look away from the smell though. All around you wafts its sweet notes of almond-vanilla, its hints of dark chocolate, until finally, in a lull between tasks, it compels you to cut a slice.
You go for a piece from the very top, just a small slice as you anticipate it to be very dense, and oh how dense it is. The consistency is almost torte-like, chocolate that sits heavy in your mouth while being contrasted by the bright notes from the raspberry. Delighted instantly, you start wondering about how the others might taste, and go to cut two more small slices. Your manager smiles at you as they catch a glance of the plastic plate in your hand, and you feel your cheeks growing warm again.
The bite of pistachio is less sweet but earthy, with a nutty flavor profile, the texture of the cake so soft it practically melts in your mouth along with the meringue. The lemon cake melds the best with the almond exterior, and you find yourself slicing the ends of the frosting off to eat in tandem with the cake. Before you know it, you’ve breezed through all three slices, and it’s knocked the wind out of you. That’s enough now, you say to yourself as you pat your middle (even your thoughts are wheezing), don’t want to get a tummy ache on the job, though you are already halfway there.
——————
You try to push away the feeling that there’s a little more room in your stomach, reasoning that’s your sweet tooth talking. No time for that. You go back to your baking assistant duties, for a time, until you’re idling again because you’re waiting for the ingredients to mix, or your manager shooes you away, and you just can’t help yourself from taking another little slice.
Before you know it, you’ve finished the equivalent of the entire small tier. Most of it is gone anyhow, with a sizable dent made in the pistachio tier as well. You stifle a deep burp. Oof, your stomach rounds doubly over than normal, molding your now very tight apron into a bulbous swell. As your hands begin to follow the curve up and down for some relief, your manager calls you over again to help put the cake trays in the oven. You turn around and walk- no, waddle over, wondering how obviously your belly is leading the way.
“Okay, that should be ready in 20 minutes,” your manager says, dusting off their hands of flour and sugar. You find it hard to focus on anything but your belly; it was extra sensitive against the trays you held, waiting to place them into the oven. “How was the cake?” You are snapped out of your food-engorged trance by the sound of their voice.
“Oh, it was really good. Varied, it was all good but different,” you say, catching them glancing at you from an angle much lower than your face. They hum, amused by your compliment, and approach the cake.
“While we have time, I think I’ll try a slice. Do you want any more?” Their tone is completely neutral, as though they’re oblivious to a third of the cake being gone already. You open your mouth to respond but they’ve already turned back to the cake and cut the last two slices of the chocolate tier, setting aside one on another plate. “Just in case you want it. There’s so much, and I certainly can’t eat it all.”
You pick up the plate to be polite, picking your fork back up as well. As you watch them eat, they appear just as pleased as you were when trying the cake for the first time. “Not too shabby, I’d say. Sad that it’s a waste. Oh well.”
They finish their slice and open a nearby drawer in the counter, pulling out a large binder of cake designs and flipping to a marked page they point out to you. “I’m going to keep as much as I can from the original design, without nuts. I say we keep the chocolate, and maybe still have some texture on the outside, maybe coconut? Now we need to make the outer frosting as well as the inner icing.” Your manager goes over with you the ingredients for the different spreads and for the main icing. Nodding along, you somewhat-unconsciously bring bites of the cake to your mouth, since you’re holding it in your hand after all. Perhaps that had been a mistake, since when you begin to break away to locate the ingredients, you find that you’ve eaten the whole piece. As you set the plate down again, your manager asks over their shoulder, “Still hungry?”
Not in the slightest, you want to say, but a loud burp interjects first. You slam your hand over your mouth, your face flushed and hot, and surely red as a beet.
“I’m so sorry,” you stammer through your fingers, while your manager gives a little laugh.
“That’s quite alright,” they say, a note of sweetness in their voice. “I take it you have more room now?”
Before you or your stomach can protest, you are handed another slice of lemon cake with a smile. “I’ve got this; you just keep eating.”
——————
You do keep eating, and while your manager takes the cakes out of the oven and mixes together icing, you find the room to finish three more slices before you start significantly slowing down.
“Ooh…” you grunt, resting your hands on your stomach as you tilt your head back.
“Something wrong?” your manager asks, looking over at you from the mixing bowls.
“I’m just..really full..”
Your manager emerges behind you, and firmly tugs on the strings at the back of your apron, pulling them loose. Immediately your belly surges forward, skin rippling from hitting the edge of the counter. It groans as you do, disgruntled from the sudden shock. But as shocking as that was, your manager then slides their hands over your sides, cups their hands under your stomach, and heaves it onto the counter. You’re just tall enough for it to remain there, and your belly is just big enough to be unable to slide off.
“That’s better, hm?” they ask softly. You groan, too full to think of anything but the drastic relief of being relinquished from the tightness of your apron. You keep groaning, as your manager’s hands knead away the sore ache in your sides, bringing up air bubbles. “I bet that feels good. Here’s what’s going to happen. I will decorate and assemble the new cake. You are going to eat the rest of this one before I am done, or you’re going to clean this kitchen top to bottom. Sound good?”
“Mmph…” You had, how many, 10, 11 slices already? Only halfway…
——————
Thankfully the decorating would take some time. You alternate between the remaining two tiers— pistachio, lemon, savory, sweet— while watching your manager pipe the delicate designs onto the replacement cake. Out of necessity, you find a rhythm in your eating. Chew. Swallow. Chew. Swallow. Burrp. Groan… Repeat.
Your sheer willpower gets you through 6 more slices. Time feels as though it’s slowed to a crawl. Your tummy demands at least one hand be constantly rubbing it. It remains resting on the counter, growing firmer with every bite.
You whimper as you hear your manager approaching behind you once more. Without a word, their hands appear by your taut belly again and they squeeze it suddenly inward. You gasp in between expelling forceful belches and low moans. But just as quickly as they arrived, the hands leave your sides. They whisper in your ear, “You’ve got more room now. So eat up, I’m almost done.”
——————
“Uuurrp….buoorrp….”
In between shoving cake into your mouth, you press your belly into the counter, forcing air back up your throat. In these crucial moments, every inch of your stomach capacity must be utilized to the fullest, and at this point, you’re desperate. You can’t even imagine summoning the energy needed to move your heavy belly off this counter, let alone cleaning anything.
Heaving and panting, you approach the final slice. You saved the pistachio for last as a palate cleanser. You glance to your manager, who is adding the final piping to the cake decor. They look like they could be finished at any moment. You grip your plastic fork with new purpose.
Your rhythm returns, as you thickly swallow each bite of cake. You’ve come this far, you can’t give up now! And you really don’t want to clean…thinking of that possibility makes you tired more than anything else, so you focus on chewing, the taste of the pistachio mixed with the icing. It would taste like heaven in any other scenario, but you’re not sure many people have tasted so much heaven in one sitting.
Your fork reaches for another bite before you realize the slice is finished, and the moment it clicks, as though on cue, your full, full stomach whines loud and long. Your hands weakly clutch at your huge belly— triple its normal size, aching, and so, so full.
“Ooohhhh….uUrp….oooohhh…” Your head swims, delirious almost, as your stomach uproariously churns.
Your manager’s hands soon join yours in gently rubbing away the ache, and you melt into their touch.
“Well done,” they say in your ear. “Your capacity is extraordinary. Perhaps you’ll help me tomorrow with inventory?” You’re the fullest you’ve ever been, you can’t respond to their innocuous question with anymore than groans and burps, but some small part of you can’t help but fantasize about filling your belly up even bigger with your next meal.
Sharing the first chapter of a little story I wrote forever ago because my gf insisted more people should see it :3
Features sapphic stuffings and a feeder vtuber!
Caramella
It was the night before moving day for University and Aisha couldn’t be happier. She was finally getting a shot at some proper independence, a chance to get away from her nagging parents. An escape from her mom enforcing strict diets and her dad making her run all their errands. She still planned to study hard, but she was just as ready to let loose and live a little.
Aisha’s thin frame is curled up beneath a light bedsheet. It’s well past midnight, with the only light in the room coming from a streetlight shining through her window. Her bags are all packed and lined up against the wall beside her door, ready for the big move.
But her mind won’t settle. The nerves, the excitement, and the ache of change on the horizon. Aisha was ready to blossom into her new life…
She scrolled idly on her phone checking out social media. She was trapped in algorithm hell. Clickbait, memes, and some strange ASMR cooking shorts.
Aisha couldn’t be hungry. Her parents had ordered pizza to celebrate her big move, and she had eaten almost an entire pie on her own. She felt full, with her stomach feeling rather tight. Not exactly normal for her, but for this first time, she didn’t regret it...
"God, that looks good.” She said as she tried to resist temptation. “But I just ate like, an entire pizza. No way I’m still hungry. I need to get off this algorithm."
She opened her favorite streaming site to see if any of her streamers were live. She adored VTubers, they were consistently good comfort content for her. And she’d be lying if she said that she'd never fall to the "fan service" that the models provided.
A stream would be the perfect white noise to pass the time and get to sleep. She was rather bummed to see that none of her favorites were online, but she checked out the “just chatting” section just to find something.
At this point, she was desperate to get to sleep. To make tomorrow come faster.
Then, one stream in particular caught her eye. Like it was screaming at her to click on it, sparking an intense feeling of intrigue, as if the VTuber avatar was calling to her directly. It was almost hypnotic…
LIVE: Caramella’s Midnight Buffet – Come Feast With Me~
Almost as if her fingers were moving on their own, she couldn’t resist the temptation to click…
The stream loads to a rich scene of gothic ambiance. The background is designed to look like a bedroom in a castle, with bookshelves lining the walls, a queen-sized bed with silk sheets, partially closed off with crimson velvet canopy curtains, and a large window on the right side with the moon shining into the room. The only other lighting in the room was a candle on the table where the avatar appeared to sit.
The avatar herself was a sight to behold. Her skin was pale, in contrast to her flowing, caramel colored hair. Her eyes glowing a deep red as she stared directly at the screen. Directly at her audience. Fangs showing through a devilish, but seductive smile. Dressed in a white button up shirt and black leggings, both straining against the avatar’s excessive curves, further emphasized by a black corset.
“Cute model” Aisha thought “but I wonder what that title was all about?”
The voice she heard through her earbuds was soft, sultry, and syrupy sweet…
“Good evening, my little gluttons” Caramella purrs. “The midnight hour is upon us. Couldn’t sleep? Feeling… hungry? Good. I was waiting for you” ~
Aisha felt her heart skip a beat. This woman’s voice was making her feel things. It’s just a livestream, right?
"Tonight,” Caramella continues, a digital tongue licking her lips, “you’re going to indulge for me. I want to hear what you’re eating. I want to imagine you growing. Getting softer. You can’t help it. There’s no need to deny yourself… just one more bite, pet” ~
Aisha swallows hard. Her mouth is dry. A wave of intense emotions washes over her. Her breathing heavy, dripping with arousal…
Caramella continues to encourage her chatters, there weren’t very many, hardly scraping triple digits, but it was clear that the view count wasn’t what mattered to her. She gives them little pet names, she teases them, praises them for admitting to grabbing more, and she dares them to get another serving…
Aisha didn’t remember getting out of bed, but next thing she knew, she was suddenly near her bags, kneeling over the snack stash that she intended to take with her to her dorm. Bags of chips, snack cakes, candies, and a massive container of cookies that her grandma made her. In a nearly hypnotized state, she drags it all back to her bed.
“You deserve to spoil yourself,” Caramella coos, her eyes glowing more intense. “One bite for me, one bite for you, and three more bites because you know how hungry you really are… that you still want more”.
It sounded as though Caramella was just as, if not more, turned on by this than anyone in her chat.
Aisha shivers. Her hand practically moves on its own. One bite. Two. Five. She continues to dig into the cookies. She feels flushed and begins to feel her body heating up.
Minutes pass. She can feel her belly swell as she pushes herself even further. Nearly a whole pizza just a couple hours before, and now so many cookies that she has lost count. It wasn’t exactly painful, but something new…
Strange…
Addictive…~
Aisha leans back against her pillow, half-dazed, cheeks red, one hand resting upon the bloat of her overstuffed gut, the other hand slowly making its way down between her legs…
“Fuh-fuck…mmnff…haaahhh”.
The pleasure was intense. More than she had ever felt before…
With her eyes lidded seductively, Caramella leans into the mic, as if speaking to Aisha directly…
"Such a good little piggy… Stuffed and blushing already? You’re so easy… I bet you’re touching your belly right now. Feeling it swell… feeling how much of a good job you’ve done… I wouldn’t doubt if you were touching some… other things too” ~
As if waking up from her trance, Aisha gasped. She was. And she was loving it.
“I knew you’d be perfect for this. It seems that many of you were first time viewers… I hope you stick around for future streams. I’d love to indulge with you all again.”
In that moment, something bloomed inside of Aisha – warm, shameful, thrilling. Like she’s been seen. Understood. Like some hidden desire was finally given permission to surface. Her thoughts began to spiral. She’s not sure exactly what these thoughts were, but she knew that tonight was the beginning of something she wouldn’t be able to ignore.
Not tomorrow. Not ever.
“Thank you all for joining me for another feast, my little gluttons… I must get to sleep, I have a big day tomorrow. Streams are going to have to stop for a few days, but don’t worry, I’ll be back. Just think of me whenever you get hungry”. ~
Before Caramella went offline, Aisha clicked the follow button. Her heart was racing, but she knew what she was doing.
“Oh my…” Caramella whispered. “Thank you for following, IronAisha. I’m glad to see that you’ve enjoyed your time here with me and I’m sure that you let yourself indulge to the fullest…”
Aisha nodded slightly as she continued to massage her swollen food baby, whimpering from the pain and pleasure from being so full… and from the excitement of being directly acknowledged by Miss Caramella.
Caramella’s sign off flowed through Aisha’s earbuds like water down a river.
“I trust that I’ll see you again, Miss Aisha. Something tells me that I’ll be seeing you much more often. Good night, my little gluttons”. ~
Caramella’s voice echoed in Aisha’s head. What did she mean by that? Aisha thought about ideas for how she’d prepare for her next stream, assuming she could get away with it if she had a roommate.
Her breath hitched every time she thought about it.
“Did I dream that?”
Caramella’s voice continued to echo in her head. Her praise, her teasing, her nicknames.
Aisha couldn’t help herself. She continued to pleasure herself while massaging her belly. She was getting addicted to the feeling, as this was a pleasure unlike any she had ever experienced.
“N-need… m-more…” she moans as she approaches her climax. She reaches for another cookie. She doesn’t even bite into it, she greedily shoves the whole thing into her mouth, moaning as she does.
She finally finishes, covering her mouth to hide her orgasmic scream of pleasure.
Aisha thought about everything that she had experienced that night. It was real. All of it. And she wanted more.
She continued to massage her belly. Tinges of pleasure with every touch, and she finally drifted off to sleep.
i wonder if the people at the grocery outlet realize that the girl standing next to them is studying the nutritional facts on different pastries so intently because she is having a blast looking for the highest carb count per dollar
At a party, Nash discovers one of his old flings has got a thing for stuffing people– and gets a little curious to try it out, himself.
Explicit story. Stuffing, handjobs, burping (not a major focus), teasing/encouragement.
-🍕🍕🍕-
There's always something like this happening, at Hester and Eddie's parties.
Granted- it's usually happening to Hester.
Last time Nash had been over, guests had taken turns fucking her all evening, breaking off from smalltalk and potluck to use her, like she was as public a facility as the bathroom. She had been incoherent, by the end of the night, drunk with pleasure, achingly over sensitive, flushed red, black-eyed.
Nash had been making placid smalltalk with Eddie, as Eddie had rocked a massive dildo inside of Hester's fucked-out hole– stopping, occasionally, to croon encouragement as she wrung another orgasm out of her exhausted, delirious partner. Nash himself had been buried in the ass of one of Hester's disgustingly 20-year-old artist friends, achingly hard beneath him, nearly sobbing from the need to finish.
The artist had come inside of Hester in two graceless, shuddering strokes, when Nash had finished with him.
A handsome thing, insecure in a sweet, eager-to-impress way. A bad bleach job, growing out dark roots. Pretty, hooded brown eyes. A truly wonderful, plush ass. And–
And– Nash doesn't remember his name. Which is an issue– given the man is sharing a joint with Nash, presently, on Hester and Eddie's balcony.
Toronto is a low, smoggy smudge beneath them, the DVP a thread of glowing traffic, running down away. Nash passes the joint back, grimacing against an autumn chill. It feels too late to ask.
The artist takes a last drag, and extinguishes the joint with a pinch– Nash winces.
The artist looks at him; breathes in, through his teeth, that sucking, too cold to be standing out here smoking, sound. "I'm starving," he says, after a moment. "You?"
"I could eat."
Nash loses a fuzzy bit of time, mindlessly gnawing through two slices of pizza- getting cold- as his high washes pleasantly over him. The artist, he thinks, eats one; a warm presence beside him, on the couch, contentedly quiet.
"Want the last?" The artist is holding a third slice out to him– Nash kind of doesn't. His appetite isn't huge, usually, his stomach comfortably full. He takes it somewhat automatically, and then feels obliged to eat, having accepted it.
He sits back, afterwards, full of heavy, greasy food, comfortably high. The party babbles on around them– noise and laughter, music. It feels like they're in a little bubble all their own, in the midst of it all– Nash thinks, fondly, of the last time he'd seen the artist, and turns to look at him, interest swimming up out of his foggy mind.
The artist is watching him. He says, "you devoured that– think there's another box, if you want."
Something in his voice– Nash looks at him, two thoughts connecting clearly, in the haze. Yes. He's heard of this.
Experimentally, he leans back, blowing out a breath. rests a hand on his stomach. "Not a chance. I'm stuffed."
The artist's interest grows keen, in the corner of his eye, a flush creeping up his neck. Yes– Nash is right, about him. He's certain of it. Boldly– liking the poorly-hidden desire in the artist's face, a little higher than he'd meant to be- Nash seizes the artist's hand, and places it onto his own full stomach. "See?" He says.
Nash tends to be thin, naturally, and stays toned at the gym– his stomach is normally a flat, smooth plane, skin taut, with–he'll grant, not abs per se, but the suggestion of muscle, at least.
It is noticeably- not dramatically- rounded, now, with what he'd eaten. The artist's hand is hot, against Nash's skin- even through the shirt. His eyes are black with desire– face intense, intent. Nash's groin tightens, a little, with its own interest, a lovely man's pretty hand exploring so nearby. "That isn't full," the artist says, almost to himself– watching Nash's stomach, so Nash can watch him unimpeded.
The artist pulls his hand away, as if from a stove. He's red now, neck and ears, flushed across the cheeks-
"It's alright," Nash says. And then, when the artist continues on in blushing silence, he rolls his hips a little, massaging his stomach. "Sure feels full to me, though. Whatever you say."
The artist is tenting up his pretty- well, his short- shorts, eyes rapt. "It's," he says, quiet- a little uncertain- "It's really not." He reaches back again, hesitantly- Nash nods- and presses Nash's belly. "There's room to press down- that means there's. More room. And you'd– you'd look bigger."
Nash regards him. It had never been his thing- but the artist is so obviously wound up, already, so pretty blushing and stammering the way he is– and fuck it. Try anything once, right? "And you'd..." Nash leans to catch the Artist's eye. "You'd like to change that. Make me eat more. Is that what it is?"
The artist swallows. "I shouldn't have," he says.
Nash cuts him off. "I'm not teasing you. Tell me." He shifts closer, hot thigh against the artist's own, denim on bare skin. "Tell me what you want to do to me."
A pause; the artist is rock-hard, now, in his little shorts. Nash reaches, rubs his thigh, dizzy with weed and the easy, pleasant sense of being wanted so badly that this young, pretty man can't even speak.
"Fill you up," the artist says, choked, his eyes fixed on Nash's hand. " 'n then fuck you, when you're too stuffed to even move."
That's direct. Nash grins. "Go on, then," he says. "We won't be here forever."
The artist dashes off.
Someone laughs. "Surprised he wasn't drooling."
Nash startles– of course, they're right out in the open. Kind of the point of these parties. His focus had just been so narrow–
He twists up to see his best friend- and host- Eddie, leaning on the sofa-back, beer dangling between her fingers.
"Ed," Nash says, smiling. "Pretty little thing, isn't he?"
"Eager anyway," Eddie says, neutrally.
"Oh, lesbians." Nash scoffs. "No eye on you at all." And then– "one of Hester's, isn't he?"
"Mhm. From her old job."
"Is she... around?"
"Hester? Freshening up." There's a satisfied gleam in Eddie's eye.
"Gross," Nash says, for form's sake– of course, He's watched them fucking, more than once, but you had to take the jabs where you could get them. He glances towards the kitchen– no sign of the artist, yet. "Listen, then– do you know his name?"
Eddie laughs, loud and startled. "Yes," she says. "You ass. He comes to all of these."
"Ed– please-"
"Please what?" The artist, coming back with a pizza box balanced on his arm. "Oh! Eddie!"
The awkward little thing juggles the box, for a moment, and then sets it down to hug her, in greeting.
Perfect chance for her to let his name slip. "Hey!" She says, instead, giving Nash a look over the Artist's shoulder. "I was just betting Nash he'd tap out of your little game, here. He insists he can take whatever you've got."
Nash sniffs. "And I'm sure I can, pretty boy."
At least he seems to like the nickname– the artist's cheeks flush, hotly. "Well," he says.
"Mind if I watch?" Eddie is already sitting down- wouldn't be one of her parties, if any of them wanted to be private. "Always been curious about this stuff."
"Um- Okay," the artist says, nervy, and sits down, too, by Nash.
Nash puts his hand on the artist's thigh, to draw his attention back. "Think I've got a little more room, now," he says. "You wanna show me what 'full' means, don't you? Tick tock."
The artist swallows, and then nods. He opens the pizza box- a full medium, which Nash's stomach- not actually feeling any emptier- grumbles uneasily, just to see. "Pick up two," he says. "Sandwiched like- yeah, like that. Don't– stop, until you've finished them."
It's not the most confident order- but then, Nash had needed to boss the artist just to give it. The double-decker slice is not terribly appealing, cold pepperoni and cheese oozing out onto his hands as he takes a bite– but the artist is watching him hungrily, and other people in the room, now, if less intent.
"Ah, water?" Nash says, halfway through the slices. Chewing and swallowing is a chore, bread and cheese sitting heavily in him– he needs something to wash it down.
"Pop," the artist says, as Eddie stands. "If you have it. Not water."
She nods, and lopes away. Nash forces the last of his mouthful down, and takes another bite. Perhaps he hadn't felt full, all the way, before, just... sated. Now he's full, in the staggering, take-a-five-hour-nap way one is after thanksgiving; waistband digging in, a little, stomach feeling... stretched.
His next bite, he chews for a long time, cheeks pouching out, as if trying to save him from swallowing.
The artist's hand is on Nash's thigh, now– now rubbing his crotch, through his jeans. "I bet," he says, still a little timidly. "You want these off? I'll unbutton them, if you finish that."
"Am I so transparent?" Nash swallows, with an effort, and then crams his last bite down, too, chewing against his body's better judgment, swallowing dry and hard. "Not a problem."
The artist sighs, contented approval, and pops the button on Nash's jeans.
The relief takes him by surprise– Nash groans, leaning back. His stomach is noticeably round, now; surprising, to look at. Not how he'd pictured; the bulge higher up, at the bottom of his ribcage.
The artist palms him, through his briefs– Nash tilts his hips up, encouragingly, cock growing hard.
"You two move quick," Eddie says, startling Nash and the artist both.
The artist yanks his hand back. Shy, funny boy, I fucked your brains out right in front of her, a couple weeks ago.
She passes a bottle of Pepsi over the back of the couch, smiling. Hester is on her arm, now– a pretty, slender girl with a mass of dark, curly hair. She has a slightly flushed, glassy look about her. Smiles, to see them. She must be on something, or fucked-out already, or maybe both; she normally isn't as bold as Eddie. But she's watching Nash's hips tilt up into the artist's hands, and says, "you should only do that while he's eating."
Nash gives her a betrayed look. The artist says, "um,"
"To encourage him!" And then Hester is picking another slice out of the box, and holding it to Nash's lips. "Like this. Open wide."
The artist increases his tempo– Nash opens his mouth. Chews, absently, mind travelling south, south, hips jerking– another bite, another; he doesn't notice them.
He swallows hard, mouth dry. Fuck, that feels good, his boxers damp with pre, thighs tightening, little sparks blowing up his spine–
"Lemme wash it down."
Hester holds the bottle of pop up to his mouth, for a sip– and then doesn't move it away, so Nash swallows, and has to keep swallowing, each glug of soda filling out his stomach. He can feel them hitting, belly suddenly expanding, taut, like it might burst. Nash slaps at Hester's arm. The artist rips his hand away, too– Nash's hips chase it, for a moment.
Fuck, too full– shit, why did people like this? His stomach is suddenly massive, in front of him, a hard, tight ball, pressure right at the top, pushing to come out, tight, tight and painful, growling ominously.
"Fuck, I can't–" he says. His breath is short. That had happened fast. It hurts. He–
"You can," the artist says, gently. His hands are on Nash's massive stomach, rubbing. The skin is firm, where he presses– the pressure intense. "It's the carbonation. It'll pass."
He presses, hard, and Nash cries out, feeling something coming up–
A belch- really, quite involuntary- tears out of him. Instantly, the pressure eases, in his stomach. It's still enormous- comical- but the tightness... a little less.
Nash pants, leaning back. Breath is still a little hard to come by. Fuck. He's okay– he's alright. His chest heaves.
The artist is staring, mute and wide-eyed, dick straining visibly against his shorts. Nash could- could have him, right now, do anything to him, he's certain, only...
Only, he feels so heavy, shockingly heavy. He's never eaten enough to feel it as a weight, but now the round ball of his stomach is pressing him back, against the couch– it's hard to think about heaving himself up, to fuck the boy. It's hard to even think about leaning forward.
Nash rests a hand on his stomach; the skin is firm, where it presses up under his ribs. Another little burp escapes into his mouth; he pants.
Eddie opens her mouth– but it's Hester who speaks up, a black gleam in her eye. "Aww, done already?"
Nash rolls his head to look up at her. "Like to see you eat like this," he says, a little thickly. The artist's head is bouncing back and forth between them.
"You've seen me do a lot more than eat some pizza," Hester says. "Can't handle your turn in hot seat, Nash?"
Eddie looks smug, and proud, to see her toy bossing someone else around, for once– but smug and proud is Eddie's default. The predatory glint in Hester's face is new.
Nash groans, and leans his head back, as his stomach rumbles, loudly, churning to digest six pizza slices, and a generous pour of Pepsi.
"Can I?" Hester is saying- cute, asking the artist for permission- and Nash feels the movement as he nods. His hot, clever hands creep back to Nash's cock.
Hester presses another slice of pizza to Nash's mouth. "Go on. Unless you're giving up, already?"
Nash opens his mouth– the artist begins to palm him, again, sensation strangely confused, as his hand brushes the bottom of Nash's swollen belly, the skin grown sensitive.
He eats, mechanically, stomach churning; nausea, and more than that, sheer fullness. Each hard swallow feels like it's forcing his stomach to expand, creaking, bulging, past capacity.
His head swims, a little- his hips roll, seeking that hand, palming him, not-enough, deadened by fabric- fabric growing damp with pre.
When he finishes the slice, and Hester holds the Pepsi to his lips again, Nash swallows, automatically, once, twice, feeling each glug hit his stomach. A swelling feeling. He shakes his head, finally, and gasps for breath, head falling backwards. The artist's hand pulls back from his aching cock.
Nash fishes for some witty thing, to say, and then sits there instead, panting, as his stomach gurgles ominously. His breath is short; the weight is unbelievable, the stretching, aching feeling, his guts groaning, pushing outwards. His tight shirt has ridden up, to show his lower stomach. The crease normally visible around his bellybutton, where he would bend over, is gone; pressed outwards to a strained, pink line. Even his elastic briefs are digging, painfully, into his massive stomach.
"Fuck," Nash says, and pants some more. His cock is red with arousal, rock-hard where it's pressed up against the bottom of his belly.
There are other people watching him, now, besides Eddie and Hester; Nash tries to keep his eyes only for the artist. The boy is rubbing his own cock, shorts open now- when had that happened- looking nearly as dazed as Nash is beginning to feel.
"Hadn't you– ought to be encouraging me," Nash says– surprised by the tight, strained sound of his own voice.
"Fuck," the artist says, hoarse. "Sorry– I can't believe– god, you're amazing. So fucking good."
He pulls his hands from his dick to rub at Nash's stomach, pushing his shirt the rest of the way up. Nash puts his own hand over one of the artist's– shocked by how sensitive his stomach is, how... hard it feels, packed so tight the skin is drawn, like a drum, firm to the touch– he moans, involuntarily, as the artist presses, gently, rubbing firm circles into the straining skin. "Keep– fuck, keep doing that," he says, voice high.
"If he's got the energy to boss you around, he's got the energy to eat, don't you think?" That's Eddie; she's got her hand on the back of Hester's neck, casually possessive– Nash spares a brief thought for what this might be awakening in her, that she'll turn to inflict on Hester.
He stops feeling for her almost immediately. She looks at the artist. "Do you think he could finish all of it?"
There are two slices of pizza left. The artist looks doubtfully at the food, and then at Nash's straining, pregnant-looking stomach. "Um," he says. "Maybe? It would probably be... uh, probably hard, for him."
"Hard nothing" Nash says, in the face of that, reflexively. "I could."
Eddie laughs. "God, you're easy."
"I," Nash sniffs, attempting for haughtiness– he closes his mouth, swiftly, stifling a belch. "Simply know my– capabilities."
The artist's damp boxers are clinging, to his straining, leaking cock– sweet boy, he still finds it in himself to say, softly, "are you sure? You might– feel sick, or–"
"You're too nice to him," Eddie says, and shoves her way to Nash's side. "God, you're a mess."
She presses- not gently- on Nash's massive stomach. He jumps, and groans, and groans for having jumped– strange sensation, of his muscles tensing with surprise, trying and failing to compress over his bulging stomach. His dick jumps, vision sparking at the- no, not pain, but not pleasure. Too intense for either. Pressure, blinding fullness, as she presses on him, harder–
"Look, Eddie says, to the artist. "See? He likes it."
Nash hears her from a long way off– she pulls her hand away.
"Fuck you," he says, panting shallowly, sprawled against the couch, his head thrown back. Distantly, he's aware that he had been the one, goading and teasing the artist, not too long ago. He doesn't seem to have the energy for that, now.
His stomach groans, ominously– he feels it, a ripple through his packed guts, trying to digest where there's no room for digestion.
"Hear that?" Eddie says. "He's hungry. Why don't you feed him another."
Then, there is another slice of pizza, pressed to Nash's mouth. The artist's face swims into focus, beyond it. His pupils are blown, enormous, his ears a glowing red. Nash meets his eyes, as he struggles through the slice, chewing a chore, swallowing a force of will.
The artist doesn't break eye contact; he looks as dazed as Nash feels. "God," he's saying, "oh my god."
Nash's world dissolves into the feeling of food, travelling down his throat in slow-motion, each swallow forcing itself into a stomach with no room for it at all, so tight the skin is pink, with strain, bulging out from ribs to hips, so huge he can't even see his own dick–
He almost doesn't notice, when the food is gone– lies there, breathing shallowly, his head slumped against the back of the couch, mouth hanging open. Eddie says something. The artist says something. There's more– Nash opens his mouth, automatically. Chews and swallows. The artist's hands are cool and soft on his distended belly, rubbing so gently- Nash's hips are moving helplessly, tiny circles all he can manage, even that a strain on him, head swimming-
He opens his mouth for another bite, and it doesn't come. Slowly, Nash cracks open an eye. His panting is starting to sound more like groaning, loud, and he can seem to stop it. Couldn't even really move if he wanted to, his stomach is so heavy, the idea of trying to bend, to sit up-
"That's all of it, that's all of it," the artist is running his hands, wonderingly, wonderfully cool, across Nash's churning stomach. "You're so good. Look at you."
Nash can't look- too dazed to move his head, trying to catch is He's sweating hard as his body struggles to digest. The bottom of his pregnant-looking belly is slick with pre- his dick is still so hard it hurts, wonder of all human wonders–
Nash opens his eyes, at last, and groans. "What the fuck." the view of his own body is alien, he's so used to seeing flat planes... he reaches a hand down to touch, curiously, and his belly is hard, like a ball filled up with air. His ribs are still visible across his skinny chest, the rest of him ballooning comically out underneath. It doesn't look real.
"Still have half the Pepsi," Eddie says. Nash doesn't even have the energy to look up at her. The artist's hand is on his, rubbing gently, guiding Nash's hand across his tight stomach, pausing when he feels it rumbling. Goosebumps rise up in his wake; Nash shivers. It hurts- it hurts, and queasy doesn't begin to describe it, heavy with grease and cheese and carbonation, it should feel awful, he should, but it's–
There is no shame in him, when he rolls his head to look at the artist. Says, belated response to Eddie's tease, "I can't," the words drawn up from far away. "I– ah, shit. God. Think I'm- full."
The artist's eyes are black, with desire. His hands starfished on either side of Nash's bellybutton, pushed out now into a shallow crease. "Yes," he says. Swallows, visible. "This is– you are. Now."
One of his hands wanders down to Nash's neglected cock– Nash jumps, a little- fuck, every move he feels in his belly, abs tightening against the pleasure, squeezing around the massive ball of food- he's packed.
Packed, and the artist is gentle, rubbing Nash's cock against the bottom swell of his belly, his hand cool in contrast to the burning skin of Nash's stomach. Nash's hips jerk, tiny, useless motion, and he pants, shallowly, not bothering to swallow the shameful noises, high, heavy and warm and tight and good, so sensitive, everywhere, every inch of him– it doesn't feel like he's about to come. Everything is too intense, body so overloaded with food his sensations are all confused, he's shivering, now and then–
The orgasm takes him by surprise. His stomach draws up painfully tight, as he finishes, pleasure following in a rush, washing over him- and he feels it, just how much he'd fit inside of him, every bite pushing out against his straining insides as his abs try, fail, to contract, body shuddering, noises pouring out of him, which he barely hears– cum splatters, hot, against his stomach. Nash's whole body goes limp, pressed back into the cushions by an entire pizza- by boneless pleasure, by the artist's hand still tracing gentle circles; up his thighs, across his stomach, over his ribs. The world is warm and heavy as a blanket.
"Fuck," the artist is saying. His other hand is busy- he comes, fast and graceless, staring at Nash with utter wonder.
