Word count: 787
Summary: There's a reason you're not supposed to eat raw dough when you're baking, as you've quickly discovered.
Theme(s): Stuffing, bloating, stomach expansion, belly noises, discomfort
You knew better. The recipe said it plain: Do not consume raw dough. And yet, the moment you looked down at the batch of freshly-cut cinnamon buns, ready to be set aside to rise, the smell invaded your thoughts with the most alluring of temptations. The cinnamon's tantalizing spiciness contrasted perfectly with the tangy, malty scent of the yeast; the dough was heavy with enough butter and brown sugar to leave your mouth watering.
It couldn't hurt just to snag a taste of the end scraps, right?
But one taste led to another, then another. Almost before you realized it, you'd devoured half the batch of unrisen buns with as little shame as a toddler swiping icing from a birthday cake, washing them all down with a cool glass of milk.
Now you're sprawled in a kitchen chair with all the dignity of a salmon-stuffed bear in a food coma, clutching at the swollen dome of your stomach. You've suffered from bloating before, but this is on a whole other level, your form a monument to bad decisions and bodily rebellion. Wincing, you rub slow circles over the stretch of skin just above your navel. It's hot to the touch even through your shirt, and tight enough that the surface barely gives beneath your fingertips.
This whole debacle would be easier to soldier through if you were only dealing with a little well-deserved pain. But there's also the noiseāyour guts are letting out an impressive cacophony of gurgles, pops, and rumbles that seem to echo through your flesh. The yeast, it seems, is thriving within the confines of your body, fervently gobbling up sugars and spewing out COā before your interior temperature rises too far and brings the whole process to an end.
That can't happen soon enough.
You try to shift your weight, but that proves to be a mistake. The bloat, momentarily constricted by your last position, returns to fill the newly freed space with a vengeance. You stifle a moan and gingerly lift the hem of your t-shirt, exposing an expanse of belly that has always been soft, but is now shockingly vast. It arches outward in an obscenely rounded curve, shiny with a faint patina of sweat.
Regret flickers through your brain, but it's not a sharp, preachy kind. It's more like, 'Next time, bake them first.' You've learned a valuable lesson, though kind of a dumb one. Still, even as your internal organs try to rearrange themselves around your distending innards, you can't help thinking about how good the dough wasācool, soft with a hint of grainy crunch, the rich creaminess of the butter, the rush of sugarā¦ There are worse ways to go, you think.
You adjust again, spreading your legs wider to relieve some of the pressure at your waist. Your jeans, once comfortably snug, now cut into you like a cruel tourniquet. You fumble with the button and, with a pop, free yourself from their ruthless subjugation. There is a brief, blessed moment of relief; then the dough within you rises another inch, as if buoyed by your surrender.
You lean back and close your eyes, rubbing your palms firmly against your belly. There's a weird comfort to be found in the pressure, like you're holding yourself together. If you focus, it's almost like you can feel the dough fermenting, expanding, the consequences of your gluttony filling up your insides like you're a living, breathing blimp.
The noises have reached a new fever pitch. For a moment, you're pretty sure you can feel bubbles forming, rushing upward, then flattening themselves against the immovable ceiling of your stomach. Each one brings a new, sharper edge of discomfort. You whimper and contemplate your options: try to burp, track down a heating pad, or just let yourself explode in a shower of cinnamon-scented shrapnel.
You go for the burp. It's a desperate, full-body effortāshoulders hunched, chin tucked, hands digging into your bloated gut. The first few attempts die uselessly in your throat. Then something shifts, builds, and finally breaks loose. The embarrassingly resonant burp is long, tremulous, and tinged with the unmistakable flavor of raw dough. For a second, you feel lighter, almost euphoric, but then the void fills instantly with more gas and the pressure returns, doubled.
"Oh, you have got to be kidding me," you groan, both arms curling instinctively around your midsection. A bead of sweat traces a slow line down your temple. You try easing yourself into a new position, but your belly registers its protest immediately, a long, low gurgle that seems to travel the full circumference of your gut.
If this keeps up, you just might be spherical before the night is out.
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