Unexpected sick on the carpet
Kelly is minding her own business, working on a painting, when a strange noise from her husband makes her turn around...
If you’re not into emetophilia, stay away. This story includes graphic descriptions of throwing up.
Kelly looked up from her painting with a confused expression. None of her paints had spilled, but she could have sworn she heard…
A wet cough from her husband made her turn around. It took her a few seconds to process what she was seeing.
Ron had been lying on the sofa, but he was now leaning way out over the edge, holding onto the coffee table with one hand. He appeared to be drooling, and a curdled, peach-colored puddle lay on the carpet directly below with open mouth.
"Whoa! Did you just--"
He shuddered and let out a second, brief gush of vomit that pattered onto what was already there.
She sprang into action and ran over with the nearest garbage can. It was nearly full with crumpled paper towels from her painting, but it was better than nothing.
"Here!" she said, shoving it under his face.
He clutched it gratefully and heaved again. About two mouthfuls of thick puke oozed down his chin and dripped onto the paper towels.
"Sorry," he rasped.
"You didn't do it on purpose," she scoffed. "I didn't even know you were feeling ill, though."
"I didn't want to worry you in case it turned out to be nothing," he said. "But I--HURRRRK!" He bent closer to the can and retched a few times, bringing up another relatively small amount of viscous vomit.
"You need some water. Be right back." She ran off to the kitchen to get a glass.
When she returned, there was even more chunky barf weighing down the paper towels, and he was panting for breath. He had apparently thrown up a fair amount while she was out of earshot.
He accepted the glass from her, took a gulp, and handed it back to her immediately. He gagged over the garbage can, then strained harder for a second before a flood of lumpy sludge poured out. The flow continued for much longer than before, covering the last untainted paper towels in the can. He gasped, fighting to get oxygen into his lungs before the next round spewed out. A loud, painful-sounding retch propelled a squirt of mostly liquid vomit.
He motioned for the glass and took another drink that barely reached his stomach before surging back up along with more of his former supper.
"Oh, honey, I'm so sorry you have to go through this," she said, rubbing his back.
He stuck his head into the can for the next violent heave, so she didn't see what he threw up, but it sounded like a fair amount. He repeated this twice more before he once more gasped for air and straightened up a little.
"Ohh, that's awful," he moaned.
She gave him a clean square of paper towel to wipe his mouth and blow his nose. "You poor thing. Should I take you to the clinic?"
He considered before shaking his head. "I feel better now that my stomach is empty. I'm just going to go to bed and not move until this runs its course."
"It's up to you. Either way I, uh...have some cleaning to do." She made a face at the mess on the carpet."
He rubbed his forehead. "I just wasn't ready for it to come up so soon. I thought I'd have time to get to the bathroom, but all of a sudden…ugh!"
"It happens, honey." She helped him stand and led him to bed.
