They set up their camp near the edge of the festival grounds, close enough for Julian and Maria to go back and forth. Personally, Emmett would’ve preferred to pitch the tent further away. But their little group didn’t pass through towns often these days, particularly not during harvest season, and he couldn’t deny his friends the chance to watch the villagers hold their contests and hear the storytellers perform their songs.
He couldn’t complain too much anyway. The village they’d found themselves in was located at the mouth of a great river, and as it turned out, this time of year was not so much harvest season for them as it was fishing season. He’d come back from his single trip to the festival grounds with a basdket full of bark-wrapped filets of fresh salmon, roasted on hot coals. The fish was hot and smoky and perfect, one of the most delicious things he’d ever tasted, and he was perfectly content to spend his evening lounging by the campfire, unwrapping filet after filter as he waited for his friends to return.
He ate warm, tender fish until he felt like his stomach would burst if he tried another swallow. Then he pulled his cloak around himself, leaned into the bundle of furs at his back, and closed his eyes to let himself digest.
It was Maria’s amused voice close by his ear that roused him: “You still with us, Em?”
“…Hmm?” Emmett dragged open an eye. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been drowsing, but it sure hadn’t been long enough for his belly to make much progress, as evidenced by the way his sides ached as he shifted to look at Maria. “What?”
“Just checking on ya. They’re serving up dessert over at the festival grounds. Blueberry pie.” She tilted her wooden bowl so he could see. “It’s delicious.”
“Mmm….” Normally, Emmett would have just dismissed dessert out of hand, but the firelight glinted off the syrup oozing out between the golden pastry in Maria’s bowl, and despite all the fish weighing down his insides, his mouth watered. “Looks good. Too bad I’m so stuffed with salmon I don’t think I can get up.”
Maria laughed. “Aww. Who doesn’t overdo it at festivals, though?”
“I’m not joking, Maria. I would go get pie if I could. But I literally can’t move.” To illustrate his point, he tried to sit upright, huffing a little as the pressure in his belly spiked. His cloak slipped away, revealing the way his shirt was clinging to the swell of his middle, and he couldn’t help but chuckle as he stared down and fully appreciated how silly he must look.
“Damn!” Maria laughed, sounding both incredulous and a little concerned. “Okay Em, yeah, that tummy looks pretty heavy. Are you feeling okay?”
“Mmhmm.” Sitting up straight was starting to make Emmett’s stomach cramp, so he sank back into the furs with a soft sigh, resting one hand against the curve of his lower belly. “Just full.”
Maria settled onto the pile of furs next to him, snuggling up against his side. Her hand tentatively found the bulge where Emmett’s stomach was protruding beneath his ribs, and she laughed as he stifled a burp. “I’ll say. How many of those fish packets did you eat?”
“Mmm… lost count.” Emmett braced his hand against his side as another burp worked its way up, and then groaned contentedly as Maria began to rub gentle circles over the tightness of his dinner. “Fuck, that feels good, Maria… Keep doing that, please.”
“Are you two cuddling without me?” Julian’s bright voice preceded him plopping down on Emmett’s other side. “There’s pie at the cookfire, Em. I brought you some.”
“He’s full up to his ears with fish,” Maria laughed, patting Emmett’s belly.
“So he is.” Julian’s expression shifted to something both amused and deeply fond. “You must’ve been hungry.”
“Yeah. And the salmon here is just so fucking good.” Emmett groaned ruefully as he glanced down at the two bowls of pie resting on Julian’s lap. “Bet that pie’s good too.”
“Oh, it is. I would even venture to say that it’s not to be missed. If your stomach has the room, that is. ” Julian’s hand joined Maria’s on the bulge of Emmett’s belly. His fingers pressed in gently, as though to emphasize how taut it was, but at the same time, he moved one of the bowls into Emmett’s lap. “I bet you could manage a little taste.”
“Mmm. Stuffed with salmon and now being tempted with blueberries. I feel like a damn grizzly.” Emmett sighed softly, considering. The bowl of pie that Julian had placed on his leg had slipped to rest against the curve of his belly, and he was so full and sensitive there that its weight felt heavy even on the outside of him. He wasn’t sure he could fit much more in. But then again… Maria was right. Festivals were typically for overdoing it. And what better place to overdo it than here, with soft furs and a crackling fire and a loved one close on either side?
“I’m gonna have a little,” he decided. “But… mmm…” —he paused as his stomach gurgled uncertainly— “I might be kinda out of it afterwards.”
“That’s alright, Em, we got you.” Maria swept her hand up to rest just below his ribs and began rubbing gentle circles with her fingers. “You should have as much as you want.”
“Absolutely agreed.” Julian’s palm was pressed to Emmett’s taut side, warm and supportive. “Just be careful, dear. Don’t make yourself sick.”
Emmett didn’t feel sick in the slightest, which was unusual for him, considering how far past full he already was. As he put the first bite of pie in his mouth, savoring the perfect balance of tartness and sweetness and the way the tender pastry flaked between his teeth, he couldn’t help but wish that he were able to indulge himself to this point more often. Eating on such a stuffed stomach felt… intensely and viscerally good in a way that he had rarely experienced. He could feel the very edges of his body, thanks to the way each swallow pressed outwards as it squeezed down, and it was pleasurable in that same primal way he sometimes felt when he was running or riding or fighting—as though he were a wild animal, all raw natural power, bound by nothing but his body and its limits.
And then of course, there was the press of his friends’ hands over the sore stretch of his belly. It wasn’t just the relief of pressure eased, of tension gently massaged away—although that was incredibly good on its own—but also the powerful intimacy of it all, the way he could feel affection in each careful press and concern in every slow, thoughtful motion. He could feel each touch easing the burden of everything he’d eaten—the circles beneath his ribs helping each bite find a tiny crevice of room to settle into, the slow sweeps over his navel calming strained twinges and rumbles, the kneading into his sides helping the muscles relax so his belly could swell out even further.
He was so caught up in the sensation of it that he felt drunk. Everything else around him seemed to blur into a haze—the warmth of the fire, the repetitive scrape of his spoon against the bowl, the soft sounds of Maria and Julian chatting. It pulled him partway out of his daze when he realized they were talking about him.
“…I dunno, should we stop him? His tummy is getting enormous.”
“Hmm, he really is quite bloated, isn’t he?”
“Yeah, and I mean—seriously, Julian, feel right here, under his ribs.”
The hand supporting the heaviness of Emmett’s lower belly suddenly disappeared. He made a soft sound of protest, which was quickly replaced by a deep groan as it reappeared on the sensitive swell high in his middle, where pie and fish were packed tightly in his stomach.
“Oh my.” Julian’s voice was full of concern. “Are you sure you’re alright, Emmett dear? Your belly feels so full.”
A thumb pressed a gentle circle into the extra-tight lump inside him, while another warm hand rubbed over its side before pressing down towards his navel to support it from underneath. Emmett groaned happily, feeling his stomach gurgle appreciatively with the help, and mumbled, “Mmm… yeah, I’m good.”
As the neared the bottom of the bowl, he developed a vague awareness that he was reaching some kind of limit. The strained feeling in his stomach had grown throbbingly intense, and he was starting to feel uneasy grumbles even through the supportive press of his friends’ hands. The bowl was nearly empty, and part of him wanted to finish it, just to see if he could. But the next morsel of pie he swallowed forced up a wheezy belch, and he had the distinct feeling that he had just traded the last bit of air in his stomach to hold that bite.
“Ugh,” he gasped. “Ohhh, my stomach… okay, I’m… I’m—urp—done.”
Immediately, the bowl was taken from his hands, and he felt an arm—it was hard to say whose—gently encircling his shoulders. He wanted to tell them that he’d prefer that hand on his belly, really, but after wheezing out his admission of defeat, he couldn’t get enough breath back to say anything more. He was so full that his lungs felt squeezed, so full that the bloat of it all was forcing him to sit with his back arched. Trying to bend at the waist to move into any other position seemed impossible.
“Come on, boy, don’t explode on us.” Maria’s voice was warm and affectionate, close to his ear. “That was seriously impressive. You’re not in pain, are you?”
Emmett tried to say “no,” but all that came out of him was a ragged groan. He flashed a little grin instead, trying to make sure that Maria knew he was alright. His stomach did ache, but in a nice way, like the satisfying soreness he felt in his body after a good day’s work. Not to mention, the press of loving hands was soothing the ache out of his overworked stomach like a massage soothing cramps from overworked muscles.
“Poor dear. Can’t even speak, can you?” Julian’s voice coincided with a gentle press of a hand over his navel, and Emmett panted as a wave of relief surged through his straining belly. “Have I mentioned how adorable you are when you indulge yourself?”
It was a good thing Julian found it adorable. Emmett could only imagine that he looked like an absolute mess. But that was the beautiful thing about having people who loved you. It didn’t matter. Sometimes being messy only made them love you more.
“Somebody looks ready to hibernate.” Julian patted Emmett’s distended belly with a chuckle. “Seems like you’ve got enough in here to last you until spring.”
“Shuddup,” Emmett mumbled, letting his head fall sideways to press his cheek into Julian’s shoulder. He groaned softly as he felt an uncomfortable rumble building in his overstuffed stomach, and then again as Maria’s hand kneaded in to settle it. It was a struggle to catch his breath, but he managed to groan, “Fuck… I’m so full…”
“Yeah, we noticed. Kinda hard to miss all this.” Maria swept her hand over Emmett’s swollen front, then leaned over to kiss his cheek. “You’d better get to work on digesting, because we’re going to have to move you eventually.”
“Hrmph.” Emmett rubbed his knuckles over the crest of his stomach, thinking that his digestion had already been hard at work for quite some time.
“Don’t worry. We’ll help.” Julian patted just below where Emmett was rubbing, prompting a grumble from deep in his belly. “Did you enjoy that pie?”
“Mmm… yeah. So good.” Emmett arched his back just a tiny bit more, hoping to illustrate that he was enjoying all the attention, too.
Julian seemed to get the picture, judging by the way he chuckled and obligingly rubbed a broad circle across the expanse of Emmett’s belly. “You just get some rest.”
Emmett didn’t need to be told twice. He let every muscle in his body fall slack, including his eyelids. The world shrank down to the warmth of the fire and the weight of his stomach and the warm trails of relief left in the wakes of his friends’ hands, and he drifted off to sleep.
I enjoy mindless eating / accidental stuffing as much as the next guy, but paying attention to the sensations in your belly as a meal progresses is part of the allure for me. You start out hungry, and feel needy. Hollow. Sitting down your midsection is soft and pliable (cute), but firms up as you eat, the weight settling nicely where it belongs and you get that satisying "hit the spot" feeling.
It's not hard to keep going from here, especially if you're eating something particularly tasty or are wrapped up in conversation with good company - but like your waistline, the sensation of fullness starts to grow. "I'm starting to slow down" is a phrase I often hear my friend admit when we visit a restaurant and order too much (accidentally I swear! For him amyway). Eating starts to feel like walking uphill, and the bites come slower, take longer to chew.
Then you're full. Your hormones and nerves tell you that you can stop, as your stomach can still comfortably handle what you've given it, but it pokes out over your jeans a little more proudly than before. It might lure a hand or two to the bolder curve of your figure, the area above the belly button has a lot less give now. And it feels good - until those rogue thoughs come-a-calling: "I could probably fit more."
It's a choice from here. Deliberate. Decadent. The pace slows like you're on a steep hike, every mouthful is another step past a finish line that no longer holds relevance. This is the time of loosening belts, leaning back to get comfy, occasional deep breaths in the form of a sigh as your lungs fight for the space you've denied them. That's when you start to near your limit.
The ache is subtle at first, teasing its arrival every time you try to breathe in. Your belly is so swollen by now, and even your sides feel tight as your body tries to spread the pressure out anywhere that isn't caged by your ribs. Then you hit the climb. No matter how you shift position, there's just no more room inside you to give, and it hurts. But you like it. Every mouthful of food or drink feels feels like you have to stretch to accommodate it. Your midsection doesn't jiggle like it used to, it's much firmer to the touch - if you're on the thin side you might be hard as a rock, if you're on the softer side you could press a hand to your midsection and feel a taut ball of food hiding beneath your belly fat. Even your navel changes shape slightly, with your skin spread out over your poor stomach. It's mind over matter from here until finally, you just can't make yourself eat another bite.
But if you're lucky, there's someone else who can.
"I mean I'm not into this but the way you talk about it makes it seem hot" - someone who is about to develop a very weird fetish by being in contact with me
content note: intox, soft domme towards the non-con side
----
“This was so lovely,” you murmur, as you hear her shuffle back in from the kitchen. “You’re an amazing cook.”
You stifle a small burp as you lean back in your chair, shifting to create some space for your straining tummy as you let a hand fall to rest on the small but firm bulge at your waist.
She smiles at you as she sweeps behind you with another tray, setting it down on the corner between your two seats with a heavier thud than you were expecting. “I’m glad you’ve enjoyed yourself. I love cooking for people who appreciate it.”
Your eyes widen as you register what she’s brought – a whole deep-dish pie, some kind of dark and silken chocolate situation, with artful dabs of meringue or cream distributed in a circle toward the outer edge. “That looks amazing too – but I have to confess, I’m not sure I’ve got any room left after that second big helping of soup. And I was thinking I should probably get going soon before it gets too much icier out on the roads.”
She frowns playfully. “Nonsense -- you can’t go home without some dessert!”
“That cornbread was so sweet, I just assumed it was dessert.” You swallow back another quiet burp, but let out a soft puff of air as you shift in your chair, registering more and more clearly by the moment just how full you are now. Perhaps that second huge bowl of rich pasta fagiole stew is making all that fettucine – and, let’s be honest, several-too-many pieces of the airy cornbread -- swell up a bit in your already-a-bit-too-full stomach. You brush a thumb across the increasingly tight waist of your pants, wondering whether it would be rude to unbutton them under your untucked button shirt (which itself is showing the strain a bit on its own -- a few low buttons unmistakably pressed out by the gentle curve.)
You’re waffling, on the verge of undoing it, when you realize she’s already cutting you a piece of pie anyway. “Oh – really—I shouldn’t—”
“None of that,” she interrupts you knowingly. “You’ve got to have dessert before you go.”
“Fine, but—maybe just a taste,” you sigh, recognizing when you’ve lost a battle. She hums noncommittally, then moments later sets an enormous slice in front of you. “That’s a slab, not a taste,” you protest halfheartedly— but she’s also refilling your empty wine glass with a long pour of something golden and a bit syrupy.
“White with chocolate?” you tease, but reach for the glass with a resigned sigh anyway. “Is our sommelier confused?”
“It’ll complement the nuts,” she counters knowingly. “It’s a tawny port.”
You’re already taking a slow sip as she’s speaking, the thick wine coating your tongue. It’s sweet and strong, and soon warming your insides a bit, nudging you over the edge into the pleasant buzz you were already on the verge of, from the large glasses of white and red with dinner. “Mmm.”
With an effort, and some less-than-graceful readjusting, you lean forward back up to the table, setting an elbow on the green tablecloth as an anchor. You’ve spread your legs open a bit under the table – probably not as subtly as you would have hoped -- to avoid compressing your lightly swollen tummy as you settle in for at least a bit of the pie.
It’s as ridiculously good as everything else tonight has been – a dense but creamy chocolate filling studded with dices of roasted pecans or hazelnuts, must be, atop a thick but crispy and tender layered crust. And it goes down so much easier than you’d expected -- your strained stomach relaxes a bit, between the effects of the fortified wine, and that usual mysterious bit extra space that materializes for sweets, at the end of any good meal –
But you’re still a bit surprised when you realize you’ve already hit the rim of crust, and the bottom of your wineglass.
You let out a deep, contented sigh as you set your fork down on the plate. You lean fully back now, letting your hands fall gently clasped across your very full belly.
Your eyes flutter closed for a moment. “That was delicious. Well worth the effort.”
“I knew you’d like it,” you hear her smile in return -- as you hear her pouring more wine.
You rouse a bit from the wave of relaxation you were momentarily lost in, opening your eyes just enough to accompany a raised eyebrow you aim in her direction. “I may not be able to drive home if I have any more of that,” you caution with a trace of a smile.
She smiles innocently back, continuing to fill your wine glass even past the halfway point. “Maybe that’s my plan,” she murmurs conspiratorially. “Maybe you’ll just have to sleep on the sofa tonight. Or there’s the guest room.”
“I will definitely be needing that, if I finish that glass,” you nod, a bit taken aback at the absurdly heavy pour of a port-wine meant to be served by the ounce-or-so. “I was already wondering if I’d need to stay put for a while just to let all the marvelous food settle. I’m just about perfectly full to the brim, and then some—”
Your eyes widen as she stands – and picks up the full wine glass, carefully maneuvering it to your lips. “Then stay,” she whispers, leaning in over you as she tips the glass forward.
The surprise of it, and her soft but purposeful manner, catches you off guard – and you find yourself opening your lips to the sweet golden flow, as it rolls in slowly across your tongue–
-- then hesitantly swallowing, as the wine starts to pool your mouth –
-- and swallowing the next slow mouthful –
-- and the next one –
--and the next, as you moan in mild alarm --
She lowers it finally, and you gasp lightly for breath, half of the wine gone from the glass.
“Oh—wow. That was—oof – hah – an awful lot,” you mumble, eyes wide as you struggle to catch your breath fully; the need to breath in deeply is balanced tightly by the pressure of your increasingly heavy stomach. You’re a bit dazed as you straighten up in your seat, not just from the alcohol or the surprise, but from the utter richness of the whole meal—and the sweetness of the wine as she poured it into you, one hand caressing your cheek – her soft insistence blending across it all, as its own sort of intoxication –
“Just stay here tonight,” she murmurs again. She’s behind you now, standing with her hands running slowly down your shoulders, then down to your chest, just above your straining sides. Then her arms slide under yours to wrap softly around your ribs just above the obvious curve of your stomach, guiding you softly to lean back in the wooden chair.
You shiver as you feel her lips brushing against the hair on the back of one side of your neck, as she pulls you irresistibly back toward her – and you find yourself melting into her with a little moan, as she sweeps one lithe hand sensually down your side and across the curve of your ballooning stomach.
Is the wine really going to your head that fast, or is it just her? you wonder dimly, as a wave of pleasant heaviness settles over you, leaning back into the soft upholstered padding of the back of the wooden dining chair as she runs her hands over you. “I—ah. I guess I’ll need to – stay the night. But – I don’t think I need any more wine,” you manage.
“Hmm,” she hums into your ear, kissing it lightly. “That’s fair for now.”
“For now?” you whisper.
It takes a moment to notice, as the soft sweeping of her hands over your chest and middle are joined, and then replaced, by the swish of an airy fabric – some flowy band of silken scarf, thin but voluminous, almost like –
“Wait, are you tying me up?” you ask, now roused halfway to outright alarm through the growing haze of your glutted state. The tug of the strip of fabric grows steadily tighter just under your arms, and you feel a yank that suggests a knot has been tied.
You instinctively try to sit up and scoot forward to stand-- but instead find yourself constrained by the band. You moan in alarm, both due to the clear security with which she has tied the fabric, and due to the unpleasant squeeze as your upward motion forces your rounded belly halfway into a constricting space too tight for it --
You grunt as you sit heavily back down, and your arm flails backwards around the side of the chair, looking for some sort of knot to tug at in protest. But you give up almost at once with a groan as the strain of the awkward motion registers in your tender stomach.
“Ooh—” The sudden adrenaline of the situation is now causing muscles, which before were only pleasantly stretched around too much dinner, to start to tense up around the mass of the meal inside you. You moan again, drawing your arms back around your belly to cradle it protectively. “What are you doing? What is this?”
You feel her standing back up behind you; somehow the comforting tinkle to her laugh hasn’t changed at all, or become any less soothing, despite the shift in your predicament. “Just helping you enjoy my cooking,” she teases.
“I—oh—” You’re caught off guard by that, enough that you don’t really resist it when she pulls your arms gently away from your bulging tummy and arranges them behind your back, behind the chair. “But –” you protest only weakly as you feel her wrapping another swath of silken scarf around each forearm, binding them softly but insistently with a series of comfortable figure-8 loops, back and forth into one another and to the slats of the chair. “But… I thought I already had dessert?” you mumble lamely, almost to yourself. The wine is hitting harder now, and you find yourself relaxing again in spite of yourself.
“Plenty left to go,” she replies, and your eyes widen as she cuts another enormous slice.
“I—oh – no, I couldn’t possibly—” You squirm a bit in your captive state, feeling your heavy belly slosh to one side as you shift uselessly against the soft bonds.
“Wasn’t it delicious?” she reminds you, softly but gently. “You said it was.”
“I – of course it was, but – oh, I’m already so full now, can't you see? I can’t fit more –”
“There’s still room,” she assures you confidently, and you shiver again as she sets down the pie knife and turns her full attention to unbuttoning your straining shirt, just enough to free a bulge of soft, round belly spilling out over your waistband.
"That's -- not much room," you insist, but your eyes close involuntarily as she gently runs her cool hands up under your open shirt -- then hefts your swollen stomach like the little melon it now feels like to you.
You grunt again, and can't hold back the deep belch this dislodges, but she giggles and gives your belly a soft little shake in response. “You’ll see. Worth the effort.”
This time she lifts the large cut pie slice out of the tin with her hands, the dense filling holding neatly together, and lifts the tip of the confection to your mouth.
You moan, recognizing when you’ve lost a battle.
-
Later that night, when the deep pie dish is all but empty, and your stomach has swelled fully out of your opened pants and into your lap, she’ll finally untie the soft ribbons. You’ll groan deliriously as she pulls you to your feet, and supports you in slowly shuffling across the living room toward the enormous soft couch.
She’ll gently guide you down onto the cushions -- as you hiccup, belch, and moan with fullness in between. You’ll slip all but immediately into the drowsy but irresistible half-sleep of the utterly overindulged.
And you’ll stay there, dreaming of an unending pie, and a river of golden wine flowing into your belly, body weighed down by an overfull balloon of a stomach struggling desperately to digest—until, perhaps, she wakes you for breakfast.
you guys ever get that thing, where you have an idea in your head, and then it turns into pouring out the last 2 months of stress as 6400 words of niche kink erotica in a 6 hour middle-of-the-night spree? yeah, so--
tags/mild content warnings for: fantasy force feeding/inflation (on-page), non-fantasy force feeding (referenced off-page events), revenge stuffing?; 2nd person POV feedee; unsympathetic POV character tho; implied neurotic dieting mentions; light forced intox; huge turn near the end toward some humiliation stuff I maybe wasn't fully aware of; awkward-ass coworker Halloween party
------
“Oh – these were great last year, you’ve got to try one." Danny nudges you as the platter clunks softly down onto the wood, filling one of the last empty spaces across the burgeoning dining table.
“Do I have to?” you mumble, eyes still rolled up to the ceiling. How many little cutesy Halloween cookies did anyone really need to eat at this stupid coworker’s stupid party? Tonight was already going to mean an extra half-hour at the gym tomorrow, even as careful as you’d been so far. “I’ve told you I’m not a sweets guy.”
“Come on, live a little for once,” Danny mutters back, side-eyeing you as she grabs one of the little orange-glazed donut holes for herself, the slightly flattened ball iced with a few scrawls of black that vaguely resembled the cutouts of a jack-o-lantern face. She pops it into her mouth with a shrug, turning back to the coworker on her other side.
You sigh. Every time you turn around it seems like someone’s mad at you for something lately, at least among the folks at the office. How had you let yourself get talked into going to this dumb party in the first place? You don’t even like whats-her-name, Alice---oh—
“Here, I actually made one of these special, with you in mind,” Alice murmurs, suddenly leaning in over your shoulder to set one of the little orange iced balls on your nearly-empty black and purple paper plate. It’s about half the diameter of the others, the size of a gumball instead of a ping pong ball.
“Oh--! Uh. Thanks, I… guess?” You glance up at her, still standing behind the empty chair next to where you’re seated near the end of the long table in her dining room. “What do you mean, ‘with me in mind’?”
She shrugged, a friendly smile flitting unconvincingly across her face. “You’ve just made it clear how much you value moderation — I just thought I could help accommodate. I hate to watch people deprive themselves at my parties.”
You raise your eyebrows as she saunters off, snagging a near-empty platter that had held some kind of finger sandwiches as she heads back into the kitchen. “Thanks?” you call halfheartedly after her, instinctively annoyed.
You sigh again and take a sip of your vodka-soda as your eyes drop back down to the little orange pumpkin on your plate. The mound of the larger ones in front of you is already disappearing fast, as more than a few of the other attendees have already grabbed one and scarfed it down— and then delightedly grabbed again for 2 or 3 more, in a quick, greedy handful.
Eyebrow raised, you eye the little one Alice had deposited on your plate again, then lift the oddly heavy little pastry tentatively to your mouth – biting it in half, and cautiously inspecting the inside cross-section as you chew.
It’s delicious, you note with some surprise, your chewing becoming more enthusiastic. You’re really not usually even interested in sweets after this many years of careful self-restraint – you’ve turned down half a dozen of purported “must-tries” since you arrived – but this one is actually shockingly good: the hollow ball of moist pumpkin spice cake is filled with a dense dollop of some kind of rich and surprisingly complex bourbon crème or custard, and the crumbly veneer of tangy-sweet glaze is clearly made with fresh orange juice and zest. “Wow,” you mutter reflexively. Danny turns back to you and happens to catch you in the act of popping the other half quickly into your mouth.
“Told you,” she chided gently, as you nod in concession. You should have known someone as dumpy as Alice would have some kind of skills to make up for it, as popular as she seems to be with most of the other folks in the office. After all, why else would anyone else who mattered have shown up to this childish work party, when they could be out at a real party on Halloween –
Alice is there again, suddenly, a hint of a scowl on her face as she sets down a new tray of sandwiches next to you. Snap, snap, snap— you see her fingers more than hear them, as she stares right at you with her snapping hand low down by her side –
Your face furrows in confusion as she pivots then and walks away. Her expression lightens like a mask change as she catches the attention of another cluster of party goers, and sidles with clear welcome into their standing cluster.
You glance at Danny. “What was that about?”
Danny’s brows rise. “Not sure, but she didn’t look too pleased with you. Did you do something else lately to fuck with her?”
“Ugh—” Your stomach dropped slightly. You were never going to hear the end of that stupid little incident in the break room, were you?
Your eyes rolled back up to the cheesy bat decorations strung along the open beam ceiling of her dining room and living room as you rested your head on your hand, propped up on one elbow. “No? And I didn’t mean to piss her off so badly that time or whatever, Jesus—”
“I mean that was pretty fucked up dude, I’m kind of surprised she didn’t bring HR down on you over it—”
You scoff quietly. “Everybody’s so sensitive these days, you make one joke that might have gone a little overboard—”
You feel, more than hear, as Alice snaps her fingers again a few more times from across the room, barely even glancing your way as she continues her own conversation—
And you register, with surprise, a sudden shift-- and a mild sense of heaviness in your stomach. “Huh.” You let one hand drift up and settle on your toned middle, now to your confusion just the slightest bit rounded out. “God, I must have let myself go more than I thought tonight--”
‘’’Let yourself go’?” Danny snorts. “You had like, three bites of cupcake all night. Why are you always so weird about food?”
“I’m not ‘weird about food’,” you shoot back. “Why does everyone always say that? I just care about trying to take care of my body, unlike most people on our team.”
“Whatever,” Danny dismisses your reply. “You obviously don’t ever have to eat anything you don’t want to, but if you’re always such a jerk about it when other people are enjoying themselves, you shouldn’t act so surprised when people make comments back. Why did you even want to come tonight, anyway?”
“Wait, why am I the only jerk here?” You turn in your seat to eye her skeptically. “I’m not the one always pushing sugary crap on everyone in the lunch room, every single time sometime in the office achieves the great and noble feat of having been born during a random month – or any time there’s yet another made-up greeting-card holiday like Valentine’s Day or Halloween—”
“Pretty sure Halloween at least is a real thing,” Danny cuts you off, her own eyes rolling now. “And you don’t have to get on a soapbox every time someone does something nice like leave cookies in the fucking breakroom. If you don’t want one, just don’t eat one – why do always you have to shit on the woman doing something thoughtful—?”
“Not sure how ‘thoughtful’ it is to be edging all the rest of us toward Type II diabetes,” you mutter under your breath as Danny shakes her head, giving up on the conversation. She pointedly grabs another few of the pumpkin balls, dropping them onto her own paper plate with a quick patter as she stands up to wander toward another standing conversation group. You’re left alone at your end of the long table, one hand resting almost unconsciously on your stomach, and the other wrapped loosely around your drink. Maybe it had been a mistake to come, whatever your supervisor’s suggestion about making nice to smooth things over with the others, and that weird hag—
Alice’s eye finds yours again, and for just a split second you would swear she’s glaring right at you, as you see-hear-feel her snap her fingers at her side once more, twice. She turns away again–
Then you’re caught fully off-guard by the sudden sensation of your stomach swelling noticeably.
“What…uh." It’s not a huge change, but definitely more than you’ve ever noticed your stomach do in a particular moment—and you felt the shift all at once, swelling out right under your casually resting hand. Your eyes widen as your fingers feel more intentionally now for the slight tautness, registering also the slight shift in the sense of heaviness in your stomach that came with it.
It’s unmistakable – your well-fitted pants are slightly tighter now too, and the hard edge of your leather belt has softly introduced itself to the slight bulge of your otherwise trim middle.
You shake your head, confused, but mostly disgusted with yourself. You hadn’t felt at all full a few moments ago – but surely that one little pumpkin ball couldn’t have actually put you over the limit— or is it just the carbonation in your drink reacting somehow? Along with whatever other sweet crap everyone had started pushing into your hands when you arrived —
As if in answer, a small but resonant belch slips out from between your open lips.
You frown, mortified, and glance around— but Danny is still ignoring you from her new spot in the crowd, and Alice seems to be otherwise engaged as well. So no one seems to have noticed whatever weird GI issues you’re having at the moment.
You push back from the table and stand up, perhaps the slightest bit less gracefully than you’d anticipated. You snag your drink cup as you wander down the long dining room away from the main cluster of the party, where the wall opens into the living room. Only a handful of your coworkers are sitting in here, deeply engaged in some dumb conversation on a couch, and thankfully ignoring you after an initial glance. You float nervously near the doorframe for a moment before moving slowly in toward the wall behind them, pretending to examine a curios cabinet on the opposite side of the room.
Ugh. The odd heaviness in your belly is unmistakable now – that slight sagging weight of a little too much—why had you actually eaten both a half-cupcake and a brownie, on top of the grilled chicken and veggies you’d scarfed down before walking out the door into this mess of a party? And all this fizzy club soda in this drink that’s apparently blowing you up like a balloon now— and that little pumpkin ball— although surely a bourbon ball the size of a quarter couldn’t have—
“I mean I’m just saying maybe we need to get some other opinions – hey, what do you think?” One of the more intoxicated coworkers is being loud all of a sudden, and it takes a moment to register that they’re talking to you, as the others on the couch swivel back to glance your way.
“About what?” you offer back, reluctant turning toward the cluster of people on the couch as you lower your hand from your unsettled stomach, hoping to avoid drawing attention to the very slight swell over your belt buckle.
“About the new health plan options, what do--” The other pauses as he suddenly clocks who you actually are. “Or—wait -- not that I guess you need to worry about it, Mr. I’m-So-Much-Healthier-Than-All-You-Dumb-Slobs –”
“Oh for—why does everyone keep saying stuff like that?” you interrupt, annoyance driving the mystery of your stomach momentarily out of your mind. “I’ve never call you all that. I’m not that bad, am I?”
“Dude, wait,” another coworker chimes in from the couch, clearly more drunk than the first one had been. “Is that the guy that was such a dick to Alice last month?”
“What—I mean –Jesus, still the—” you shrug indignantly as the first coworker’s eyes widen in recognition. “Why is everyone making that into such a big deal?”
“Shit, you’re right,” the first one mutters, as the trio on the couch lose their drunken smiles and trade rather stony glances with one another. “I thought that guy was supposed to have gotten fired though—”
You bite back another frustrated sigh. “If I’d known it was going to be such a huge fucking deal to make one little joke about her pushing food on everyone all the time, I’d never have—”
“Why are you even here?” the woman at the end of the couch cuts you off, face icy. “Who even invited you?”
“Pretty sure Alice just puts an invite in everyone’s mailbox,” the man next to her shrugs. “She’s waaay nicer than I would have been. I don’t understand why she didn’t bring HR down on him— or fuck, like, press charges—”
“It was definitely more than one little joke”, the first man slurs, diving back into his red plastic drink cup. “And she’s friggin’ great, too, I don’t get why you’re such an asshole to her when she’s nice enough to share all the awesome stuff she cooks all the time—”
You’re clenching your drink tighter now, glaring back at them. “It’s not my fault she clearly can’t stop porking down all these fucking baked goods she keeps churning out every time anyone turns around—”
You glance up to see Alice through the doorframe, still in conversation in the crowded dining room –
--and you feel, rather than hear, as she snaps her fingers again, twice in quick succession, hand low at her side –
-- and choke back a gasp as the weight in your stomach nearly doubles, swelling your suddenly-full belly forward over your belt in the process. As your free hand flies to your middle, a belch forces its way up your throat, fully audible across the room despite your desperate effort to swallow and suppress it.
The drunk man on the couch guffaws, glancing back at the others on the couch. “Looks like you’re one to talk these days! What the hell’d you eat tonight?”
You feel your face heating up as the others on the couch badly hide their soft snickering, still twisted around to stare back at him, the woman on the end openly in shock at your suddenly bulging middle. “That’s a great question,” you hiss, glancing sharply toward the crowded dining room again, before beelining instead for the half-closed sliding door into another room of the old house. “Excuse me.”
“Bathroom’s the other way,” one of them drawls, still giggle at you as you slip into the next room.
This one is empty of people—a darkened secondary sitting room, shadows cast by the orange street lamp light filtering in through a sheer-curtained picture window facing the brick side of the next house over. In here, the noise of the main party is only barely trickling in, dampened by the plush carpeting and all the frou-frou pillows and drapes everywhere. You set your drink cup on the little wooden coffee table next to a big deck of cards and some kind of half-arranged pile of polished stones between two large and mercifully soft-looking couches. With a grunt, you ease yourself gently down onto the loveseat facing the window, dislodging another smaller burp in the process.
“Ughh,” you moan, both hands tentatively finding their way to cradle your weirdly full belly. What the hell is happening to you? You stretch your legs out in front of you and lean back, trying to ease the unexpected pressure that is has become the center of your attention. All you’d had was that one brownie when you got here, and then maybe half a cupcake, and some celery sticks—right? “Ugh, god,” you mumble to yourself. “I’ve gotta get out of here and get home.”
“To be honest, I wasn’t really sure why you decided to come here at all.”
You jump up to your feet as Alice’s voice floats in from the doorway behind you, grunting a bit again at the jostling of your heavy stomach as you turn quickly to face her. The room goes darker as door slides fully shut behind her— and you realize distantly that that door is the only way into or out of this room, as you glance around your shadowy surroundings with adjusting eyes.
“Alice—uh—” You’re at a loss, face still burning from the embarrassment of the incident in the next room, and feeling suddenly strangely vulnerable as the plump little woman waddles toward you. “I, uh. Just – was having a little… stomach trouble, sorry if I’m intruding in here.”
“I didn’t mean ‘why you came into my sitting room’—though I’d also ask you to please at least use a coaster if you’re going to put cold drinks on my antique reading table.” You take a hurried step back as she sweeps in next to you, your hands instinctively cradling your slightly bloated belly as she lifts up your drink from the low table, which you notice now is elaborately painted, the edges running with ornate tracery and symbols.
She produces a little cardstock coaster from – well, where exactly? – and mops up a light trace of a condensation ring with it, before setting your cup back down on top of it—you notice she’s shifted the cup pointedly further away from the ornate deck of what you assume are some kind of oversized playing cards.
“I—sorry,” you mumble. “Er, thanks.”
“I meant I’m not sure why you came to my party, when you clearly dislike me, and also clearly have no ability to set aside your personal hangups to enjoy my cooking even at the office. Though—” She glances down at your middle and nods at it. “Maybe there’s hope for you yet on that last front. Have you perhaps enjoyed yourself after all, for once?”
“I—didn’t—” It takes a moment to formulate a response to that one, as you cross your arms futilely over your obviously rounded stomach. You feel your face and neck flushing again—this time feeling a familiar anger overtake the growing embarrassment of your situation. “It’s just the stupid— bubbles—look, I only came because Tim wanted me to try to make nice and smooth things over with you, but you’ve clearly already turned the whole office against me over a stupid little joke—”
“A joke?” she asked, her soft voice cutting you firmly off despite its soft timbre. She looks up sharply at you through her half-moon spectacles— and you suddenly feel the urge to sit down again, to try to make yourself small, as she somehow towers over you. “Did you feel that what you did was a joke?”
“I—well.” You cough, which dislodges another small belch. You breathe in deep as you rub one hand across the swell of your middle, tugging to free up slack for the buttons of your shirt, which are lightly straining just where your stomach is the most compressed by your sudden hunched position. “I didn’t—I mean—okay. I know I… took it a little too far. I’m… sorry, about that. It won’t happen again.”
“You forced a whole cookie into my mouth,” she says quietly, still gazing down at you with that odd intensity. “You blocked me from getting out of my seat. You held my nose and mouth closed, until I chewed and swallowed.”
“I mean—” You realize with a sinking feeling that it did maybe sound a lot worse when she says it out loud like that.
“Three times, before someone else came in and interrupted you.”
“I wasn’t— I wasn’t trying to – I just…” You hunch over further, avoiding her piercing eyes as your voice drops low. “You’re just – it was just that you’re always pushing everyone to take more, take more, I don’t want to have to deal with leftovers—and it’s hard enough to keep myself on track with food when—and then you just seemed to really be just— fucking going to town on that huge batch of cookies you’d brought in—”
“And if I’d wanted more,” she cuts you off firmly, “I would have taken more, with no shame in enjoying myself. But tell me – do you think it’s a particularly normal reaction to a colleague bringing treats to the office, to corner her later that day and attempt to force her to eat them?”
She leans in close to you as your face flushes deeper – and snaps her fingers twice, just to one side of your face.
You feel an almost nauseating ripple, as the heaviness in your bloated stomach suddenly doubles – and what you suddenly realize had really only been light distension becomes an earnestly swollen stretch.
You moan in alarm as your belly pushes softly out over the top your tightening belt, struggling to contain the sudden onslaught of—but—but how, you hadn’t even eaten anything else, not since Alice’s ‘special’ little –
“Wait, what the fuckdid you put in that stupid little pumpkin thing?!” you hiss under your breath, brow furrowing as you stare at her in growing alarm. A rush of adrenaline is sending your heart pounding – you find yourself breathing faster –
Another moan slips out as a stab of pain shoots across your suddenly stuffed belly, now being severely pinched by your tight leather belt, and starting to ache dully all over now as well. You move to unbuckle the stiff belt – fumbling uselessly with the angular silver finding for a moment with one hand, somewhat unwilling to remove the other hand from its current task of clutching helplessly at your belly. “What the fuck did you do to me?!”
“I’m rather of the opinion you did it to yourself, actually” she responds blithely, standing back a pace and wiping her spectacle lenses clear with a corner of her flowing skirt. “I, once again, did nothing but offer you a few baked goods. You’re just getting a taste of your own medicine as well this time. If you hadn’t been broadcasting such ugly thoughts all night about me and my other guests, while taking advantage of my hospitality, in my own home—” She paused to set the lenses back on her nose – “then the spell wouldn’t have even worked. And I probably would have left things be, if you’d come here without malice in your heart and truly meaning to make amends.”
“You—you can read my—” You stop short, a wild constellation of realization suddenly emerging into focus out of the scattered data points in front of you: the eerie drapery and crystals all over the house; the deck of what you now realize must be tarot cards on the ‘reading table’ next to you; the weirdly good pastries you’d had to fight so fucking hard to avoid going to town on, every other week whenever she brought them in – the odd looks she’d given you all night—the impossible growing heaviness in your belly each time– “You’re some kind of… of a….”
“You seem to have the idea,” she muses dryly as you trail off. “I find that labels are often reductive, anyway.”
You lean gently back into the plush couch with another low moan, stretching yourself carefully backwards, as the pressure shifts and settles in your newly swollen abdomen. “Well fuck, so what did you do, then?” You reach a hand up to wipe the building sheen of sweat off your forehead and temples, before dropping it back down to protectively encircle your straining belly. “What’s happening to me?”
“Well,” she noted cheerfully, “each time I’ve snapped my fingers tonight, that little bourbon cake has more or less doubled in size in your stomach.”
“Wha—” Your eyes fly back open as you stare down at your rounded belly. “But it was fucking tiny! I’m huge now!”
“It was tiny,” she agreed. “But you’ve said and thought a lot of very rude things tonight.” You flinch as she reaches down to casually rest a hand on the top of your rounded gut, as if assessing her handiwork. “So I’ve had many occasions tonight to snap my fingers, and watch your poor little tummy get what was coming to you.” She nodded thoughtfully to herself. “Doubling will catch up with you fast. But honestly, you probably would have been fine, if it had just been a few uncharitable slip-ups over the night. It might have just been like you’d eaten an extra cupcake.”
You shiver as she traces a finger across the most strained area of your shirt, then down under along toward one side, all the way down to the line of the belt still cutting into your now truly bulging gut. “Judging from the looks of things, though, it’s nearly the size of a cantaloupe in there now.”
You groan, thinking back on how you could have missed that you were being pumped full of cake – sure, subtly at first, but again and again over the past 20 minutes, one irate finger-snap at a time – the bag of your unsuspecting stomach first shifting just a bit to accommodate, then starting to feel oddly full, then having to actually stretch out to hold the growing load. You feel a pang of nausea as you consider that what had been the equivalent of a tiny little hollow ball of cake was now a few dozen times larger now, evidently—now probably laced and slathered with full ounces of what had been just a thin dipped coating of refreshing sugary orange glaze—not to mention stuffed to bursting with what must be at least a pint or two by now of that rich, dense, pudding-like bourbon cr— wait—
“Wait, shit, am I…like… is this shit getting me drunk?” Your eyes widen as you suddenly recognize the creeping flushes you’ve been feeling over the last 20 minutes as not just the hallmarks of embarrassment or anger, but also the warmth of additional liquor crawling up your neck -- far more, perhaps, than what you’d put in your admittedly strong vodka soda.
Alice stifles a giggle as you groan under your breath, sinking back further into the couch as you shift and squirm slightly for a more comfortable angle. You fumble weakly for your belt buckle again, now recognizing your slight lack of coordination the first time you’d tried to remove it as the leading edge of unexpected intoxication.
“Possibly so, at this rate,” Alice mutters, still running a palm back and forth over the taut crest of your overtaxed belly. “Proportionally, at least for the smaller one I gave you, it was perhaps rather alcoholic, which might not be scaling up well. But frankly it might actually help you relax a bit, which should hopefully relieve any tension causing you pain.” She lightly thumps your swollen mound a few times, dislodging another belch and groan from you in quick sequence, as you weakly move your hands to protect the spot. “Poor little constricted tummy.”
You tense in alarm as you feel her reach down to grab the buckle of your belt—but then moan as the belt slips apart, releasing an enormous amount of pressure. She deftly opens the button of your trousers as well, letting the zipper just slide down of its own accord as you moan with involuntary relief.
“What are you gonna do with me,” you slur lightly, feeling the heat catching up with you, and taking in the full extent and weight of your belly, now spilling forward out of your pants to an embarrassing degree. You wonder how long you’ll be able to keep your eyes open, utterly glutted with cake and sugar and pudding and bourbon.
“My only plan was to go back to enjoying my party,” she shrugs, stepping back out from between the table and the couch you are sprawled out on. “You can stay back here for a bit to let things settle.”
“What – so I’m just supposed to sit here like this?” Your eyes widen as you take in your swollen middle, and your unbuttoned pants, belt ends flapping uselessly to either side. “I can’t go home like this.”
“Well, you can use the time to think about your life,” she answered smartly. “About why you’re so cruel to people who let themselves enjoy the things you clearly feel some deeply neurotic compulsion to deny yourself. Although I suppose there’s a chance some of our colleagues who saw you go in here will be worried, and might come looking for you.”
“You—no! I can’t be seen like—” The heat of anger rises again suddenly, overcoming your other shocks for a moment. You struggle forward, sitting up and heaving yourself onto your feet.
“Fuck this – this isn’t my fault! You’d better fix this or I’ll make sure you pay for it you dumb fucking bi—wait—”
You freeze as she lifts her hand up near her face.
“Fuck, wait, I’m sorry, no—”
She snaps her raised fingers deftly, eyes coldly amused.
“No—” You gasp and clutch at your middle with both hands as your overtaxed stomach suddenly balloons even further. You stagger half a step sideways, caught off guard by the sudden weight of the newly expanded sweet mass inside of you. “Oooh—” you groan, doubling forward into a half crouch, already rubbing desperately with both hands as you hug weakly at your nearly cartoonish distended belly. “Ohhh–fuck–please—no more – I’m sorry—”
“That’s a start,” she says. She puts her hands on your shoulders to guide you back down toward a seated position on the couch.
“Now,” she says quietly as you slowly collapse back onto the sofa, “Why don’t you sit for a bit, and think just a little harder about how you got into this predicament? I’d hoped you might be starting to finally learn how to respect those around you, instead of just lashing out at people. But apparently you have a way to go still.” She turns back to the sliding door as you groan and shift sideways, trying to twist to face her without squeezing your poor overstuffed stomach even more.
“No—ooh, wait—” you moan after her, already starting to feel the creep of another influx of alcohol in your system as your hands run back and forth around your enormously swollen stomach. “Where’re you going? Oooh—fuck, don’t leave me this way, I’m so fucking full—”
“Until you’re able to stand up again, I plan to just get back to enjoying my party,” she replied, tone irritated now. “I’d thought initially to let your sleep this off on my couch – that way, likely no one else would have had to know about the lesson you’d learned but the two of us. But you’ve now more than hit the limits of my hospitality, so I think you’ll be making your exit earlier than I’d planned.”
“Wha-- whaddyou mean ‘exit’,” you mumble, sinking sideways as you continue to rub helplessly, shifting and shifting for a more comfortable angle that can’t be found. “I can’t go anywhere like this. Fuck—oh—” A small belch bubbles out of you as you shift awkwardly down the rest of the way toward the corner of the couch, momentarily compressing your bulging belly unbearably. “Can barely move—”
“Well, you’ll be walking out of here soon regardless, straight through the rest of the party and out the front door. I suggest you get as comfortable as you can with the idea.”
“The fr– ooh—” You clutch weakly at your stretched sides, not even trying to suppress it any more as yet another huge belch burbles its way out of you. You feel your stomach beginning to churn in earnest with the Herculean task ahead of it. “Ugh, but I—can’t--- unghh—”
Your hands pat around for the flopping ends of your belt, uselessly tugging them toward one another around the sloshing swollen ball of your middle. “No, I can’ go anywhere like this—I’m a fuckin’ whale, they’ll all see–I’m—ugh—”
“Perhaps it will help cement for you the value of thinking twice before you decide it’s fun to humiliate others, or show them cruelty.” She glances back at you one last time from the doorframe, taking in your sorry state with an air of grim satisfaction. “After all, you never really know when you might be biting off more than you can chew, do you?”
She rolls the sliding door shut behind her – leaving you alone in the shadowy room, beached in a sideways sprawl on the end of the couch.
After a few minutes of silence broken only by your own moans, punctuated here and there by belches– your brain finally starts to overcome the shock of your physical situation. Perhaps the now-nontrivial amount of bourbon in the huge mass of dessert inflating your abdomen is relaxing the rest of your body, whether your want to relax or not – because your obscenely swollen stomach feels less unbearably achy than it first did when the last change came and stretched you out further. God, this is easily the fullest you’ve ever been by a mile— or at least, definitely since you were a gross pudgy pre-teen, back ages ago—
You give in to the creeping warmth and settle back, trying to let your usually taught core muscles go fully slack for once. You lean your head back against the soft armrest, as you shift carefully for a more comfortable position. You dislodge another small burp as you twist yourself more fully flat on your back, relieving the awkward sideways torque of gravity that was pulling your heavy sloshing belly down past you toward the couch cushions. You sigh at as the weight shifts, feeling it spread more evenly out between your two roving hands. “Fuck—”
But even as your body’s discomfort is becoming more bearable, your mind is now flooding you with imagined scenes of your impending walk of shame, through the house and back home:
-- your coworker’s shocked expressions, quickly giving way to snickering— or to stupid self-satisfied comments about self-control, or about how it looks like someone is finally living a little, or maybe even something sanctimonious from Danny about the high-and-mighty brought low.
You imagine how you’ll have to try not to stagger as you push past them all, belly still spilled out of your open pants into both hands like an awkward bowling ball to carry— mouth sealed shut to keep from belching audibly with each ginger step toward the door, trying to maintain some dignity as you struggle your way down the whole length of the long formal dining room and around to the entryway. You imagine awkwardly widening your stance to squat down rather than bend, grabbing for your shoes and umbrella off the low cubby rack by the front door, as others gasp in astonishment and speculate on how much you must have stuffed into your face to do this to yourself—
Outside would be the last of the trick-or-treaters – dozens of sugar-hyped children running around, maybe bumping straight into your aching belly as they shove past you down the sidewalk –though mostly the older ones this time of night, ready to start with laughter as they see you stumbling toward your car, belching and moaning as you fold yourself into the driver’s seat of your mini convertible, maybe throwing candy in through the open door after you, as you gingerly pull a seatbelt gingerly over your massive stuffed gut. You’ll have to drive carefully, making your way home from this neighborhood on the edge of town, slowly jostling your way over what seemed like miles of those weird tiny speed bumps on your drive in, maybe having to slam on the brakes once or twice as some over tipsy asshole runs a light here or there —
--Then the mortification of your neighbors – eyes widening as they catch you in the hall of the condo complex, busy-bodies like Erica and Candace would be whispering to one another as they quickly slip into their own unit, while you’re stuck trying to drag your keys out of your now-too-tight pants pockets – or fratty types like Chuck coming back from the real Halloween parties soused and loose, too drunk to mind his own business—maybe so stunned to see you in this unfamiliar bloated state that he’ll reach out and grab for your swollen gut, or slap it playfully from side to side or sweep in to wrap his arms around you from behind, just heft your belly in both hands—at first he’d claim it’s just to check that it’s not just a Halloween costume— but then maybe he thinks it’s too damn funny to stop sloshing and shaking your huge water-balloon of a gut, jostling the half-moan half-burps out of you as you struggle, too heavy and bloated and tender to push out of his grasp and stumble toward your unit’s door–
Then maybe the worst of all -- the quickly suppressed little smirks you’ll see on the faces in the office, every time you pass them in the cubicle row or the break room, or walk into a conference room for a client meeting —little comments every time an opening arises now, or condescending pats on your belly as you pass, or plates of too many sweets left on your desk every time Alice brings another damn batch of cupcakes, the biggest joke in the office for years to come –
You groan, stomach tensing and straining around its impossible burden anew, as your dread rises and your pulse pounds in your ears. Your fingers fumble weakly as you reach to grasp the button and the button hole, the two of sides your jeans closure seemingly separated by acres of inflated belly – maybe you can just—
You grunt, suddenly desperate to close your jeans— then can’t help but moan once again as you tug at the waistband harder, harder—the effort pulling the fabric tighter and tighter around the tender bloated balloon spilled out into your lap— squeezing your overfull stomach from all sides as you try in vain to suck in, even just a tiny bit—
I saw the great new feedist kinktober prompts list from @fatguarddog and got inspired -- and since I'm gonna be traveling much of October, thought I might as well strike while the iron is hot, so I don't get too busy and miss out altogether:
Overindulged / heaven sent
“Ooooh—this was too much—”
Your moaning protest is both cut short and seconded by the roiling gurgle rumbling its way through your heavy belly, which is nearly pinning you in the corner of the mercifully soft sofa. “Way too much.” You let out a sigh as your hands find your stomach, rubbing tentatively at your stretched sides.
“Oh? Really? That was too much?”
Your eyes are drooping toward closed, but the smirk in your partner’s voice is undisguised— kind, but clearly biting back amusement at a predictable predicament. You hear them shuffle your abandoned witch’s cloak off the couch; you hear it land on the jeans you had peeled off and discarded with a grunt the second you walked back in the door. They tuck their knees up as they nestle in beside you on the sofa.
You inhale sharply as their hand presses gently but firmly on the crest of your stretched stomach, the tight skin separated from their warm touch only by the thin satin of the last piece standing of your Halloween costume. Their palm cradles the curve of your bulging tummy delicately for a moment, and then presses more inquisitively – deepening the pressure at the peak of the swell for a long near-painful moment, before circling their hand out in smooth, wide circles. You moan without meaning too, as the soothing warmth of their hand slowly starts to soak into the straining walls of your abdomen, toward the organs that have been dancing back and forth across the line of "aching" since before you two left the party. And, to be fair, since well before you stopped adding to their burden...
“Which part was ‘too much’?” your partner coos innocently, their other hand joining the first now to sweep across and around the absurd bulge of your upper belly, as you groan and relax deeper into your beached backward sprawl. “The extra-large combo meal before we went to the party? Or the giant boba smoothie you asked to stop for, ‘for the road’? Or—"
You hum guiltily under your breath, mouth stretching involuntarily into a grin as your partner grips your whole heavy stomach squarely between their two hands for a moment — letting their fingers sink into the layer of softness, as if to test the tautness of the heavy swell below. “Or was it maybe the pretending you hadn’t eaten since breakfast, once the pizza deliveries showed up?”
They give your distended tummy a gentle but pointed slosh from one side to the other, hefting it carefully between their two hands – not hard enough to upset anything, but enough to remind you how utterly swollen with food and drink you are—and how much they love playing with you in this helpless, glutted state. You grunt out a small burp that gives way to a giggle as you lightly swat one of their hands back.
“And I might have gotten away with it, too,” you languidly reply in your best Scooby Doo villain cadence, “if you hadn’t been pressing another cupcake or something into my hand, every time I turned around—”
“I put them in your hand,” they note pointedly. “I didn’t put them in your mouth.”
They’re back to running their palms all over your swollen belly, and then you feel them shift and turn to straddle you. “I’m not the one who downed half a large pizza after a huge dinner, and then decided I should nibble my way through – what – five of those frisbee-sized chocolate chip cookies—?”
They settle back into a light seat on what’s available of your lap at the moment, though they’re mostly supported by their knees, which you can feel buried in the couch to either side of your legs. “I’m not the one who was still guzzling down cups of beer and soda, and cramming chocolate into any square inch of space I had left, even after my belly was already sticking out in front of me like a balloon—”
Your partner is almost buzzing now, their fingers running hungrily up and down and around your bulging sides and round middle as they remember just how full you really must be right now.
“Well– I didn’t notice how big it had gotten,” you pout, hamming it up a bit as their roving hands grow more urgent. “Because you just kept handing me treats while I was distracted! And then once you had me all full of beer, too, you knew I wouldn’t be able to resist anything—and it was all so good, and now I’m just—”
You moan theatrically for good measure, clutching again with both hands at the sides of your inflated middle as you hear their breath catch above you. “Oooh—God, I'm so full – but then, that's because you couldn’t help yourself either, could you? You just had to keep feeding me, every chance you got all night long, slipping something to me every time you passed by— and now I’m completely stuffed—"
You crack one eye open just for a moment to catch a glimpse of how this is affecting them, before cautiously adjusting your position with another dramatic groan. "Didn't you see that I couldn’t even keep my pants buttoned, when I sat down on the porch the end of the party? My poor little tummy was just so full I thought I might pop—”
“And yet… you decided you need to finish another whole can and a half of beer after that—?”
“Mhmm—maybe – and the rest of that candy bowl–” You open your eyes finally, a bit sheepish now, to see your partner staring down at you, their fingers slowing as they glide firmly down your sides once more— then curling like greedy claws into the softness, to grab your hips.
“Did you enjoy yourself?” they ask you, all feigned innocence gone. Their eyes are ravenous as they drink you in, top to obscenely swollen middle and back again. “Eating yourself out of your own pants, then eating more? Drinking yourself rounder and rounder, as you filled up every inch?”
“I—well, I mean—” Your mouth cracks open into a shy grin, as their hands find the back of the couch. “Yes, obviously... ”
Your eyes flutter closed again as they lower themselves smoothly down against the upper half of your reclined form, their warm breath suddenly in your ear as their head finds your shoulder. You can’t fully stifle the belch or the moan that escape you as their body sinks down onto yours, slightly compressing the bloated organs now squeezed between you. The new pressure on your distended belly draws a groan of befuddled pleasure from you.
Your arms wrap reflexively around their strong back—as they, in turn, snake their arms between you and the soft couch cushions, one hand finding the zipper to your thin costume tunic. Their other arm slips under the thin silky fabric from below and pulls your body in closer to them, wrapping all the way around your back to softly sink warm fingers into an exposed side of your swollen belly. They press you tightly to them as you both melt deeper together into the velour of the overstuffed sofa.
“Then I think, maybe, it was just enough,” your partner growls with a grin.
Their lips leave a tingling trail of kisses along the side of your neck, as their hands and mouth begin to search, desperate as always, for more, more, more.
Back again because how could I resist! And especially with the tag targeting... well it's important now more than ever to have fun and be kinky loudly.
This is a creative feedist community project for everyone and anyone to take part in, here’s 31 days of 62 prompts, meaning you can do one, both or something that combines the two for each day!
Art, writing, photos, audios, feel free to express each prompt as you’d like to in relation to feedism, belly kink, indulgence, inflation and more. Please tag with '#feedist kinktober' and/or '#feedist kinktober 2025' so that everyone can share and see! Also I feel like this goes without saying, but no A*I 🚫 this is about highlighting our community's creativity after all
Over Indulged 🤤 / Heaven Sent 🪽
Brainwashed 🧠 / Bountiful Harvest 🌽
After Hours 🕛 / Thick Fog 🌫️
Dare 😈 / Nurse's Office 🩺
High Expectations 🏆 / Public Porker 🐽
Astrological 🌠 / Insatiable Itch 🥵
Masked 🎭 / Unlimited Refills 🥤
Gluttony Gallery 🖼️ / Repeat Customer 🚶♂️
Lace Embrace 🎀 / Bad Influence 🥴
Eternal Hunger 🍔 / Hosed Down 💦
Captive ⛓️/ Too Wide 🔴
Food Baby 🫄 / Butcher's Knife 🔪
Arcade 👾 / Rotund Rapture ⛰️
Fae Feast 🍑 / Leather Pleasure 🖤
Juicy Jester 🤡 / False Advertising 🚫
On Camera 📸 / Berry Bliss 🫐
Siren Song 🎶 / House Pet 🐱
Boss' Favourite 📋 / Drunken Daze 🍻
Calorie Bomb 💣 / Laundry Day 👕
Witch's Market 🔮 / Bloated 🔵
Capacity Training 💯 / XP Gains 🎮
Suspicious Shapewear 👗 / Baker's Dozen 🍪
Double Trouble 👯 / Snowed In ❄️
Venom ☣️ / Character Creation 🧝
Going Viral 📳 / Swollen Scholar 📜
Unfamiliar Reflection 🪞 / Gooey 💚
Cosy Cottage 🏠 / Bite Marks 🦷
Utterly Helpless 🆘 / Ranch Life 🐄
New Wardrobe 👔 / Lost Expedition
Delivery App 🛍️ / Old Castle 🏰
Ghost Stories 💀 / Happy Endings 📚
Thanks to everyone who helped with suggestions for prompts! Don’t let my emojis sway your thoughts, they’re just there for visual interest. Please reblog to spread to more people, can’t wait to see what you all come up with ❤️
you guys ever get that thing, where you have an idea in your head, and then it turns into pouring out the last 2 months of stress as 6400 words of niche kink erotica in a 6 hour middle-of-the-night spree? yeah, so--
tags/mild content warnings for: fantasy force feeding/inflation (on-page), non-fantasy force feeding (referenced off-page events), revenge stuffing?; 2nd person POV feedee; unsympathetic POV character tho; implied neurotic dieting mentions; light forced intox; huge turn near the end toward some humiliation stuff I maybe wasn't fully aware of; awkward-ass coworker Halloween party
------
“Oh – these were great last year, you’ve got to try one." Danny nudges you as the platter clunks softly down onto the wood, filling one of the last empty spaces across the burgeoning dining table.
“Do I have to?” you mumble, eyes still rolled up to the ceiling. How many little cutesy Halloween cookies did anyone really need to eat at this stupid coworker’s stupid party? Tonight was already going to mean an extra half-hour at the gym tomorrow, even as careful as you’d been so far. “I’ve told you I’m not a sweets guy.”
“Come on, live a little for once,” Danny mutters back, side-eyeing you as she grabs one of the little orange-glazed donut holes for herself, the slightly flattened ball iced with a few scrawls of black that vaguely resembled the cutouts of a jack-o-lantern face. She pops it into her mouth with a shrug, turning back to the coworker on her other side.
You sigh. Every time you turn around it seems like someone’s mad at you for something lately, at least among the folks at the office. How had you let yourself get talked into going to this dumb party in the first place? You don’t even like whats-her-name, Alice---oh—
“Here, I actually made one of these special, with you in mind,” Alice murmurs, suddenly leaning in over your shoulder to set one of the little orange iced balls on your nearly-empty black and purple paper plate. It’s about half the diameter of the others, the size of a gumball instead of a ping pong ball.
“Oh--! Uh. Thanks, I… guess?” You glance up at her, still standing behind the empty chair next to where you’re seated near the end of the long table in her dining room. “What do you mean, ‘with me in mind’?”
She shrugged, a friendly smile flitting unconvincingly across her face. “You’ve just made it clear how much you value moderation — I just thought I could help accommodate. I hate to watch people deprive themselves at my parties.”
You raise your eyebrows as she saunters off, snagging a near-empty platter that had held some kind of finger sandwiches as she heads back into the kitchen. “Thanks?” you call halfheartedly after her, instinctively annoyed.
You sigh again and take a sip of your vodka-soda as your eyes drop back down to the little orange pumpkin on your plate. The mound of the larger ones in front of you is already disappearing fast, as more than a few of the other attendees have already grabbed one and scarfed it down— and then delightedly grabbed again for 2 or 3 more, in a quick, greedy handful.
Eyebrow raised, you eye the little one Alice had deposited on your plate again, then lift the oddly heavy little pastry tentatively to your mouth – biting it in half, and cautiously inspecting the inside cross-section as you chew.
It’s delicious, you note with some surprise, your chewing becoming more enthusiastic. You’re really not usually even interested in sweets after this many years of careful self-restraint – you’ve turned down half a dozen of purported “must-tries” since you arrived – but this one is actually shockingly good: the hollow ball of moist pumpkin spice cake is filled with a dense dollop of some kind of rich and surprisingly complex bourbon crème or custard, and the crumbly veneer of tangy-sweet glaze is clearly made with fresh orange juice and zest. “Wow,” you mutter reflexively. Danny turns back to you and happens to catch you in the act of popping the other half quickly into your mouth.
“Told you,” she chided gently, as you nod in concession. You should have known someone as dumpy as Alice would have some kind of skills to make up for it, as popular as she seems to be with most of the other folks in the office. After all, why else would anyone else who mattered have shown up to this childish work party, when they could be out at a real party on Halloween –
Alice is there again, suddenly, a hint of a scowl on her face as she sets down a new tray of sandwiches next to you. Snap, snap, snap— you see her fingers more than hear them, as she stares right at you with her snapping hand low down by her side –
Your face furrows in confusion as she pivots then and walks away. Her expression lightens like a mask change as she catches the attention of another cluster of party goers, and sidles with clear welcome into their standing cluster.
You glance at Danny. “What was that about?”
Danny’s brows rise. “Not sure, but she didn’t look too pleased with you. Did you do something else lately to fuck with her?”
“Ugh—” Your stomach dropped slightly. You were never going to hear the end of that stupid little incident in the break room, were you?
Your eyes rolled back up to the cheesy bat decorations strung along the open beam ceiling of her dining room and living room as you rested your head on your hand, propped up on one elbow. “No? And I didn’t mean to piss her off so badly that time or whatever, Jesus—”
“I mean that was pretty fucked up dude, I’m kind of surprised she didn’t bring HR down on you over it—”
You scoff quietly. “Everybody’s so sensitive these days, you make one joke that might have gone a little overboard—”
You feel, more than hear, as Alice snaps her fingers again a few more times from across the room, barely even glancing your way as she continues her own conversation—
And you register, with surprise, a sudden shift-- and a mild sense of heaviness in your stomach. “Huh.” You let one hand drift up and settle on your toned middle, now to your confusion just the slightest bit rounded out. “God, I must have let myself go more than I thought tonight--”
‘’’Let yourself go’?” Danny snorts. “You had like, three bites of cupcake all night. Why are you always so weird about food?”
“I’m not ‘weird about food’,” you shoot back. “Why does everyone always say that? I just care about trying to take care of my body, unlike most people on our team.”
“Whatever,” Danny dismisses your reply. “You obviously don’t ever have to eat anything you don’t want to, but if you’re always such a jerk about it when other people are enjoying themselves, you shouldn’t act so surprised when people make comments back. Why did you even want to come tonight, anyway?”
“Wait, why am I the only jerk here?” You turn in your seat to eye her skeptically. “I’m not the one always pushing sugary crap on everyone in the lunch room, every single time sometime in the office achieves the great and noble feat of having been born during a random month – or any time there’s yet another made-up greeting-card holiday like Valentine’s Day or Halloween—”
“Pretty sure Halloween at least is a real thing,” Danny cuts you off, her own eyes rolling now. “And you don’t have to get on a soapbox every time someone does something nice like leave cookies in the fucking breakroom. If you don’t want one, just don’t eat one – why do always you have to shit on the woman doing something thoughtful—?”
“Not sure how ‘thoughtful’ it is to be edging all the rest of us toward Type II diabetes,” you mutter under your breath as Danny shakes her head, giving up on the conversation. She pointedly grabs another few of the pumpkin balls, dropping them onto her own paper plate with a quick patter as she stands up to wander toward another standing conversation group. You’re left alone at your end of the long table, one hand resting almost unconsciously on your stomach, and the other wrapped loosely around your drink. Maybe it had been a mistake to come, whatever your supervisor’s suggestion about making nice to smooth things over with the others, and that weird hag—
Alice’s eye finds yours again, and for just a split second you would swear she’s glaring right at you, as you see-hear-feel her snap her fingers at her side once more, twice. She turns away again–
Then you’re caught fully off-guard by the sudden sensation of your stomach swelling noticeably.
“What…uh." It’s not a huge change, but definitely more than you’ve ever noticed your stomach do in a particular moment—and you felt the shift all at once, swelling out right under your casually resting hand. Your eyes widen as your fingers feel more intentionally now for the slight tautness, registering also the slight shift in the sense of heaviness in your stomach that came with it.
It’s unmistakable – your well-fitted pants are slightly tighter now too, and the hard edge of your leather belt has softly introduced itself to the slight bulge of your otherwise trim middle.
You shake your head, confused, but mostly disgusted with yourself. You hadn’t felt at all full a few moments ago – but surely that one little pumpkin ball couldn’t have actually put you over the limit— or is it just the carbonation in your drink reacting somehow? Along with whatever other sweet crap everyone had started pushing into your hands when you arrived —
As if in answer, a small but resonant belch slips out from between your open lips.
You frown, mortified, and glance around— but Danny is still ignoring you from her new spot in the crowd, and Alice seems to be otherwise engaged as well. So no one seems to have noticed whatever weird GI issues you’re having at the moment.
You push back from the table and stand up, perhaps the slightest bit less gracefully than you’d anticipated. You snag your drink cup as you wander down the long dining room away from the main cluster of the party, where the wall opens into the living room. Only a handful of your coworkers are sitting in here, deeply engaged in some dumb conversation on a couch, and thankfully ignoring you after an initial glance. You float nervously near the doorframe for a moment before moving slowly in toward the wall behind them, pretending to examine a curios cabinet on the opposite side of the room.
Ugh. The odd heaviness in your belly is unmistakable now – that slight sagging weight of a little too much—why had you actually eaten both a half-cupcake and a brownie, on top of the grilled chicken and veggies you’d scarfed down before walking out the door into this mess of a party? And all this fizzy club soda in this drink that’s apparently blowing you up like a balloon now— and that little pumpkin ball— although surely a bourbon ball the size of a quarter couldn’t have—
“I mean I’m just saying maybe we need to get some other opinions – hey, what do you think?” One of the more intoxicated coworkers is being loud all of a sudden, and it takes a moment to register that they’re talking to you, as the others on the couch swivel back to glance your way.
“About what?” you offer back, reluctant turning toward the cluster of people on the couch as you lower your hand from your unsettled stomach, hoping to avoid drawing attention to the very slight swell over your belt buckle.
“About the new health plan options, what do--” The other pauses as he suddenly clocks who you actually are. “Or—wait -- not that I guess you need to worry about it, Mr. I’m-So-Much-Healthier-Than-All-You-Dumb-Slobs –”
“Oh for—why does everyone keep saying stuff like that?” you interrupt, annoyance driving the mystery of your stomach momentarily out of your mind. “I’ve never call you all that. I’m not that bad, am I?”
“Dude, wait,” another coworker chimes in from the couch, clearly more drunk than the first one had been. “Is that the guy that was such a dick to Alice last month?”
“What—I mean –Jesus, still the—” you shrug indignantly as the first coworker’s eyes widen in recognition. “Why is everyone making that into such a big deal?”
“Shit, you’re right,” the first one mutters, as the trio on the couch lose their drunken smiles and trade rather stony glances with one another. “I thought that guy was supposed to have gotten fired though—”
You bite back another frustrated sigh. “If I’d known it was going to be such a huge fucking deal to make one little joke about her pushing food on everyone all the time, I’d never have—”
“Why are you even here?” the woman at the end of the couch cuts you off, face icy. “Who even invited you?”
“Pretty sure Alice just puts an invite in everyone’s mailbox,” the man next to her shrugs. “She’s waaay nicer than I would have been. I don’t understand why she didn’t bring HR down on him— or fuck, like, press charges—”
“It was definitely more than one little joke”, the first man slurs, diving back into his red plastic drink cup. “And she’s friggin’ great, too, I don’t get why you’re such an asshole to her when she’s nice enough to share all the awesome stuff she cooks all the time—”
You’re clenching your drink tighter now, glaring back at them. “It’s not my fault she clearly can’t stop porking down all these fucking baked goods she keeps churning out every time anyone turns around—”
You glance up to see Alice through the doorframe, still in conversation in the crowded dining room –
--and you feel, rather than hear, as she snaps her fingers again, twice in quick succession, hand low at her side –
-- and choke back a gasp as the weight in your stomach nearly doubles, swelling your suddenly-full belly forward over your belt in the process. As your free hand flies to your middle, a belch forces its way up your throat, fully audible across the room despite your desperate effort to swallow and suppress it.
The drunk man on the couch guffaws, glancing back at the others on the couch. “Looks like you’re one to talk these days! What the hell’d you eat tonight?”
You feel your face heating up as the others on the couch badly hide their soft snickering, still twisted around to stare back at him, the woman on the end openly in shock at your suddenly bulging middle. “That’s a great question,” you hiss, glancing sharply toward the crowded dining room again, before beelining instead for the half-closed sliding door into another room of the old house. “Excuse me.”
“Bathroom’s the other way,” one of them drawls, still giggle at you as you slip into the next room.
This one is empty of people—a darkened secondary sitting room, shadows cast by the orange street lamp light filtering in through a sheer-curtained picture window facing the brick side of the next house over. In here, the noise of the main party is only barely trickling in, dampened by the plush carpeting and all the frou-frou pillows and drapes everywhere. You set your drink cup on the little wooden coffee table next to a big deck of cards and some kind of half-arranged pile of polished stones between two large and mercifully soft-looking couches. With a grunt, you ease yourself gently down onto the loveseat facing the window, dislodging another smaller burp in the process.
“Ughh,” you moan, both hands tentatively finding their way to cradle your weirdly full belly. What the hell is happening to you? You stretch your legs out in front of you and lean back, trying to ease the unexpected pressure that is has become the center of your attention. All you’d had was that one brownie when you got here, and then maybe half a cupcake, and some celery sticks—right? “Ugh, god,” you mumble to yourself. “I’ve gotta get out of here and get home.”
“To be honest, I wasn’t really sure why you decided to come here at all.”
You jump up to your feet as Alice’s voice floats in from the doorway behind you, grunting a bit again at the jostling of your heavy stomach as you turn quickly to face her. The room goes darker as door slides fully shut behind her— and you realize distantly that that door is the only way into or out of this room, as you glance around your shadowy surroundings with adjusting eyes.
“Alice—uh—” You’re at a loss, face still burning from the embarrassment of the incident in the next room, and feeling suddenly strangely vulnerable as the plump little woman waddles toward you. “I, uh. Just – was having a little… stomach trouble, sorry if I’m intruding in here.”
“I didn’t mean ‘why you came into my sitting room’—though I’d also ask you to please at least use a coaster if you’re going to put cold drinks on my antique reading table.” You take a hurried step back as she sweeps in next to you, your hands instinctively cradling your slightly bloated belly as she lifts up your drink from the low table, which you notice now is elaborately painted, the edges running with ornate tracery and symbols.
She produces a little cardstock coaster from – well, where exactly? – and mops up a light trace of a condensation ring with it, before setting your cup back down on top of it—you notice she’s shifted the cup pointedly further away from the ornate deck of what you assume are some kind of oversized playing cards.
“I—sorry,” you mumble. “Er, thanks.”
“I meant I’m not sure why you came to my party, when you clearly dislike me, and also clearly have no ability to set aside your personal hangups to enjoy my cooking even at the office. Though—” She glances down at your middle and nods at it. “Maybe there’s hope for you yet on that last front. Have you perhaps enjoyed yourself after all, for once?”
“I—didn’t—” It takes a moment to formulate a response to that one, as you cross your arms futilely over your obviously rounded stomach. You feel your face and neck flushing again—this time feeling a familiar anger overtake the growing embarrassment of your situation. “It’s just the stupid— bubbles—look, I only came because Tim wanted me to try to make nice and smooth things over with you, but you’ve clearly already turned the whole office against me over a stupid little joke—”
“A joke?” she asked, her soft voice cutting you firmly off despite its soft timbre. She looks up sharply at you through her half-moon spectacles— and you suddenly feel the urge to sit down again, to try to make yourself small, as she somehow towers over you. “Did you feel that what you did was a joke?”
“I—well.” You cough, which dislodges another small belch. You breathe in deep as you rub one hand across the swell of your middle, tugging to free up slack for the buttons of your shirt, which are lightly straining just where your stomach is the most compressed by your sudden hunched position. “I didn’t—I mean—okay. I know I… took it a little too far. I’m… sorry, about that. It won’t happen again.”
“You forced a whole cookie into my mouth,” she says quietly, still gazing down at you with that odd intensity. “You blocked me from getting out of my seat. You held my nose and mouth closed, until I chewed and swallowed.”
“I mean—” You realize with a sinking feeling that it did maybe sound a lot worse when she says it out loud like that.
“Three times, before someone else came in and interrupted you.”
“I wasn’t— I wasn’t trying to – I just…” You hunch over further, avoiding her piercing eyes as your voice drops low. “You’re just – it was just that you’re always pushing everyone to take more, take more, I don’t want to have to deal with leftovers—and it’s hard enough to keep myself on track with food when—and then you just seemed to really be just— fucking going to town on that huge batch of cookies you’d brought in—”
“And if I’d wanted more,” she cuts you off firmly, “I would have taken more, with no shame in enjoying myself. But tell me – do you think it’s a particularly normal reaction to a colleague bringing treats to the office, to corner her later that day and attempt to force her to eat them?”
She leans in close to you as your face flushes deeper – and snaps her fingers twice, just to one side of your face.
You feel an almost nauseating ripple, as the heaviness in your bloated stomach suddenly doubles – and what you suddenly realize had really only been light distension becomes an earnestly swollen stretch.
You moan in alarm as your belly pushes softly out over the top your tightening belt, struggling to contain the sudden onslaught of—but—but how, you hadn’t even eaten anything else, not since Alice’s ‘special’ little –
“Wait, what the fuckdid you put in that stupid little pumpkin thing?!” you hiss under your breath, brow furrowing as you stare at her in growing alarm. A rush of adrenaline is sending your heart pounding – you find yourself breathing faster –
Another moan slips out as a stab of pain shoots across your suddenly stuffed belly, now being severely pinched by your tight leather belt, and starting to ache dully all over now as well. You move to unbuckle the stiff belt – fumbling uselessly with the angular silver finding for a moment with one hand, somewhat unwilling to remove the other hand from its current task of clutching helplessly at your belly. “What the fuck did you do to me?!”
“I’m rather of the opinion you did it to yourself, actually” she responds blithely, standing back a pace and wiping her spectacle lenses clear with a corner of her flowing skirt. “I, once again, did nothing but offer you a few baked goods. You’re just getting a taste of your own medicine as well this time. If you hadn’t been broadcasting such ugly thoughts all night about me and my other guests, while taking advantage of my hospitality, in my own home—” She paused to set the lenses back on her nose – “then the spell wouldn’t have even worked. And I probably would have left things be, if you’d come here without malice in your heart and truly meaning to make amends.”
“You—you can read my—” You stop short, a wild constellation of realization suddenly emerging into focus out of the scattered data points in front of you: the eerie drapery and crystals all over the house; the deck of what you now realize must be tarot cards on the ‘reading table’ next to you; the weirdly good pastries you’d had to fight so fucking hard to avoid going to town on, every other week whenever she brought them in – the odd looks she’d given you all night—the impossible growing heaviness in your belly each time– “You’re some kind of… of a….”
“You seem to have the idea,” she muses dryly as you trail off. “I find that labels are often reductive, anyway.”
You lean gently back into the plush couch with another low moan, stretching yourself carefully backwards, as the pressure shifts and settles in your newly swollen abdomen. “Well fuck, so what did you do, then?” You reach a hand up to wipe the building sheen of sweat off your forehead and temples, before dropping it back down to protectively encircle your straining belly. “What’s happening to me?”
“Well,” she noted cheerfully, “each time I’ve snapped my fingers tonight, that little bourbon cake has more or less doubled in size in your stomach.”
“Wha—” Your eyes fly back open as you stare down at your rounded belly. “But it was fucking tiny! I’m huge now!”
“It was tiny,” she agreed. “But you’ve said and thought a lot of very rude things tonight.” You flinch as she reaches down to casually rest a hand on the top of your rounded gut, as if assessing her handiwork. “So I’ve had many occasions tonight to snap my fingers, and watch your poor little tummy get what was coming to you.” She nodded thoughtfully to herself. “Doubling will catch up with you fast. But honestly, you probably would have been fine, if it had just been a few uncharitable slip-ups over the night. It might have just been like you’d eaten an extra cupcake.”
You shiver as she traces a finger across the most strained area of your shirt, then down under along toward one side, all the way down to the line of the belt still cutting into your now truly bulging gut. “Judging from the looks of things, though, it’s nearly the size of a cantaloupe in there now.”
You groan, thinking back on how you could have missed that you were being pumped full of cake – sure, subtly at first, but again and again over the past 20 minutes, one irate finger-snap at a time – the bag of your unsuspecting stomach first shifting just a bit to accommodate, then starting to feel oddly full, then having to actually stretch out to hold the growing load. You feel a pang of nausea as you consider that what had been the equivalent of a tiny little hollow ball of cake was now a few dozen times larger now, evidently—now probably laced and slathered with full ounces of what had been just a thin dipped coating of refreshing sugary orange glaze—not to mention stuffed to bursting with what must be at least a pint or two by now of that rich, dense, pudding-like bourbon cr— wait—
“Wait, shit, am I…like… is this shit getting me drunk?” Your eyes widen as you suddenly recognize the creeping flushes you’ve been feeling over the last 20 minutes as not just the hallmarks of embarrassment or anger, but also the warmth of additional liquor crawling up your neck -- far more, perhaps, than what you’d put in your admittedly strong vodka soda.
Alice stifles a giggle as you groan under your breath, sinking back further into the couch as you shift and squirm slightly for a more comfortable angle. You fumble weakly for your belt buckle again, now recognizing your slight lack of coordination the first time you’d tried to remove it as the leading edge of unexpected intoxication.
“Possibly so, at this rate,” Alice mutters, still running a palm back and forth over the taut crest of your overtaxed belly. “Proportionally, at least for the smaller one I gave you, it was perhaps rather alcoholic, which might not be scaling up well. But frankly it might actually help you relax a bit, which should hopefully relieve any tension causing you pain.” She lightly thumps your swollen mound a few times, dislodging another belch and groan from you in quick sequence, as you weakly move your hands to protect the spot. “Poor little constricted tummy.”
You tense in alarm as you feel her reach down to grab the buckle of your belt—but then moan as the belt slips apart, releasing an enormous amount of pressure. She deftly opens the button of your trousers as well, letting the zipper just slide down of its own accord as you moan with involuntary relief.
“What are you gonna do with me,” you slur lightly, feeling the heat catching up with you, and taking in the full extent and weight of your belly, now spilling forward out of your pants to an embarrassing degree. You wonder how long you’ll be able to keep your eyes open, utterly glutted with cake and sugar and pudding and bourbon.
“My only plan was to go back to enjoying my party,” she shrugs, stepping back out from between the table and the couch you are sprawled out on. “You can stay back here for a bit to let things settle.”
“What – so I’m just supposed to sit here like this?” Your eyes widen as you take in your swollen middle, and your unbuttoned pants, belt ends flapping uselessly to either side. “I can’t go home like this.”
“Well, you can use the time to think about your life,” she answered smartly. “About why you’re so cruel to people who let themselves enjoy the things you clearly feel some deeply neurotic compulsion to deny yourself. Although I suppose there’s a chance some of our colleagues who saw you go in here will be worried, and might come looking for you.”
“You—no! I can’t be seen like—” The heat of anger rises again suddenly, overcoming your other shocks for a moment. You struggle forward, sitting up and heaving yourself onto your feet.
“Fuck this – this isn’t my fault! You’d better fix this or I’ll make sure you pay for it you dumb fucking bi—wait—”
You freeze as she lifts her hand up near her face.
“Fuck, wait, I’m sorry, no—”
She snaps her raised fingers deftly, eyes coldly amused.
“No—” You gasp and clutch at your middle with both hands as your overtaxed stomach suddenly balloons even further. You stagger half a step sideways, caught off guard by the sudden weight of the newly expanded sweet mass inside of you. “Oooh—” you groan, doubling forward into a half crouch, already rubbing desperately with both hands as you hug weakly at your nearly cartoonish distended belly. “Ohhh–fuck–please—no more – I’m sorry—”
“That’s a start,” she says. She puts her hands on your shoulders to guide you back down toward a seated position on the couch.
“Now,” she says quietly as you slowly collapse back onto the sofa, “Why don’t you sit for a bit, and think just a little harder about how you got into this predicament? I’d hoped you might be starting to finally learn how to respect those around you, instead of just lashing out at people. But apparently you have a way to go still.” She turns back to the sliding door as you groan and shift sideways, trying to twist to face her without squeezing your poor overstuffed stomach even more.
“No—ooh, wait—” you moan after her, already starting to feel the creep of another influx of alcohol in your system as your hands run back and forth around your enormously swollen stomach. “Where’re you going? Oooh—fuck, don’t leave me this way, I’m so fucking full—”
“Until you’re able to stand up again, I plan to just get back to enjoying my party,” she replied, tone irritated now. “I’d thought initially to let your sleep this off on my couch – that way, likely no one else would have had to know about the lesson you’d learned but the two of us. But you’ve now more than hit the limits of my hospitality, so I think you’ll be making your exit earlier than I’d planned.”
“Wha-- whaddyou mean ‘exit’,” you mumble, sinking sideways as you continue to rub helplessly, shifting and shifting for a more comfortable angle that can’t be found. “I can’t go anywhere like this. Fuck—oh—” A small belch bubbles out of you as you shift awkwardly down the rest of the way toward the corner of the couch, momentarily compressing your bulging belly unbearably. “Can barely move—”
“Well, you’ll be walking out of here soon regardless, straight through the rest of the party and out the front door. I suggest you get as comfortable as you can with the idea.”
“The fr– ooh—” You clutch weakly at your stretched sides, not even trying to suppress it any more as yet another huge belch burbles its way out of you. You feel your stomach beginning to churn in earnest with the Herculean task ahead of it. “Ugh, but I—can’t--- unghh—”
Your hands pat around for the flopping ends of your belt, uselessly tugging them toward one another around the sloshing swollen ball of your middle. “No, I can’ go anywhere like this—I’m a fuckin’ whale, they’ll all see–I’m—ugh—”
“Perhaps it will help cement for you the value of thinking twice before you decide it’s fun to humiliate others, or show them cruelty.” She glances back at you one last time from the doorframe, taking in your sorry state with an air of grim satisfaction. “After all, you never really know when you might be biting off more than you can chew, do you?”
She rolls the sliding door shut behind her – leaving you alone in the shadowy room, beached in a sideways sprawl on the end of the couch.
After a few minutes of silence broken only by your own moans, punctuated here and there by belches– your brain finally starts to overcome the shock of your physical situation. Perhaps the now-nontrivial amount of bourbon in the huge mass of dessert inflating your abdomen is relaxing the rest of your body, whether your want to relax or not – because your obscenely swollen stomach feels less unbearably achy than it first did when the last change came and stretched you out further. God, this is easily the fullest you’ve ever been by a mile— or at least, definitely since you were a gross pudgy pre-teen, back ages ago—
You give in to the creeping warmth and settle back, trying to let your usually taught core muscles go fully slack for once. You lean your head back against the soft armrest, as you shift carefully for a more comfortable position. You dislodge another small burp as you twist yourself more fully flat on your back, relieving the awkward sideways torque of gravity that was pulling your heavy sloshing belly down past you toward the couch cushions. You sigh at as the weight shifts, feeling it spread more evenly out between your two roving hands. “Fuck—”
But even as your body’s discomfort is becoming more bearable, your mind is now flooding you with imagined scenes of your impending walk of shame, through the house and back home:
-- your coworker’s shocked expressions, quickly giving way to snickering— or to stupid self-satisfied comments about self-control, or about how it looks like someone is finally living a little, or maybe even something sanctimonious from Danny about the high-and-mighty brought low.
You imagine how you’ll have to try not to stagger as you push past them all, belly still spilled out of your open pants into both hands like an awkward bowling ball to carry— mouth sealed shut to keep from belching audibly with each ginger step toward the door, trying to maintain some dignity as you struggle your way down the whole length of the long formal dining room and around to the entryway. You imagine awkwardly widening your stance to squat down rather than bend, grabbing for your shoes and umbrella off the low cubby rack by the front door, as others gasp in astonishment and speculate on how much you must have stuffed into your face to do this to yourself—
Outside would be the last of the trick-or-treaters – dozens of sugar-hyped children running around, maybe bumping straight into your aching belly as they shove past you down the sidewalk –though mostly the older ones this time of night, ready to start with laughter as they see you stumbling toward your car, belching and moaning as you fold yourself into the driver’s seat of your mini convertible, maybe throwing candy in through the open door after you, as you gingerly pull a seatbelt gingerly over your massive stuffed gut. You’ll have to drive carefully, making your way home from this neighborhood on the edge of town, slowly jostling your way over what seemed like miles of those weird tiny speed bumps on your drive in, maybe having to slam on the brakes once or twice as some over tipsy asshole runs a light here or there —
--Then the mortification of your neighbors – eyes widening as they catch you in the hall of the condo complex, busy-bodies like Erica and Candace would be whispering to one another as they quickly slip into their own unit, while you’re stuck trying to drag your keys out of your now-too-tight pants pockets – or fratty types like Chuck coming back from the real Halloween parties soused and loose, too drunk to mind his own business—maybe so stunned to see you in this unfamiliar bloated state that he’ll reach out and grab for your swollen gut, or slap it playfully from side to side or sweep in to wrap his arms around you from behind, just heft your belly in both hands—at first he’d claim it’s just to check that it’s not just a Halloween costume— but then maybe he thinks it’s too damn funny to stop sloshing and shaking your huge water-balloon of a gut, jostling the half-moan half-burps out of you as you struggle, too heavy and bloated and tender to push out of his grasp and stumble toward your unit’s door–
Then maybe the worst of all -- the quickly suppressed little smirks you’ll see on the faces in the office, every time you pass them in the cubicle row or the break room, or walk into a conference room for a client meeting —little comments every time an opening arises now, or condescending pats on your belly as you pass, or plates of too many sweets left on your desk every time Alice brings another damn batch of cupcakes, the biggest joke in the office for years to come –
You groan, stomach tensing and straining around its impossible burden anew, as your dread rises and your pulse pounds in your ears. Your fingers fumble weakly as you reach to grasp the button and the button hole, the two of sides your jeans closure seemingly separated by acres of inflated belly – maybe you can just—
You grunt, suddenly desperate to close your jeans— then can’t help but moan once again as you tug at the waistband harder, harder—the effort pulling the fabric tighter and tighter around the tender bloated balloon spilled out into your lap— squeezing your overfull stomach from all sides as you try in vain to suck in, even just a tiny bit—
Hey guys!! I've been writing a bunch of stories and getting really into some new OC's, so let me introduce you to King Cassiel and Sir Lucian! After the war, Lucian returned home thinner than when he left, so Cassiel is determined to feed him. Let's just hope the two can keep their relationship under wraps in front of the watchful eyes of the court and the entire kingdom. Contains stuffing, belly rubs, mentions of hunger, and full stomach growling.
The knights of Varethia arrived at the castle in droves, their armor gleaming under the late afternoon sun. It had been days since King Cassiel’s beloved knight, Sir Lucian, had returned from war, his body battered and fragile. Cassiel had watched over him in nervous silence as he ensured Lucian was waited on hand and foot. His wounds had been cleaned, his bruises faded from deep violet to the muted yellow of healing. But it was the hollow emptiness in his stomach, the weakness that had once threatened to take him from Cassiel, that had truly haunted the king.
For days, he had watched over his knight. Even as Lucian’s body healed, the sharp angles of his hunger lingered. He ate, but never enough. His habit of giving away his rations had left him accustomed to starvation, to taking only what was necessary and never what was sufficient. The sight of his half-finished plates gnawed at Cassiel more than he cared to admit. And so, the king had made his decision. A grand feast was arranged under the guise of honoring the returning knights, an extravagant display of gratitude for their service. But in truth, it was a carefully constructed deception—a lavish performance with one intended purpose. Lucian would eat.
The great hall was alive with the scent of seared meats, spiced wines, and honeyed bread, the tables adorned with more bounty than any man could hope to finish in one night. Laughter and raucous voices filled the space, yet Cassiel’s attention remained fixed on the only man that mattered. Near the head of the long table, beside the throne, stood Lucian. The knight was stiff, his sharp gaze flickering toward the long banquet table where his men stood waiting. Cassiel noted the tension in his shoulders, the way his armor hung loosely over his frame.
With a slow tilt of his head, the king gestured toward the chair beside him. A silent command. Sit. Lucian exhaled sharply through his nose, the only sign of his reluctance before he obeyed. But before he could lower himself fully into his chair, Cassiel leaned in, his voice a low murmur just for his knight’s ears. "I could hear your poor stomach rumbling from across the hall, Lucian. No need to be shy tonight." As he spoke, his fingers ghosted down Lucian’s side, the touch barely there, yet impossibly firm in its intent. The knight’s breath caught, his spine stiffening as warmth rushed to his ears.
Satisfied, Cassiel straightened and turned his attention to the table. His gaze swept over the assembled knights, lingering for a brief moment before he spoke, his voice carrying through the hall with effortless authority. The hall quieted, the men standing at attention, their respect evident in the way they held their heads high. Cassiel’s golden eyes flickered with something close to reverence. "You have given your blood, your strength, and your loyalty to this kingdom. And so tonight, you will take from it. Eat. Drink. Be honored, as you deserve. Varethia stands because of you." A chorus of voices rose in response, the men raising their goblets in unison.
Cassiel gave the briefest nod of acknowledgment before his gaze hardened, turning toward the servants stationed along the walls. "See to it that these men want for nothing," he ordered. The servants rushed to obey, pitchers of wine tipping, platters of food passed down the length of the table. The hall swelled with the sounds of indulgence—the scrape of knives against plates, the hearty laughter of soldiers no longer burdened by war. But Cassiel did not care for any of it. His attention was fixed on his knight, his beloved, who still hesitated, still held himself back. Cassiel watched as he lifted his goblet but only took a careful sip, his movements controlled, precise. His plate remained untouched save for a small piece of bread he had yet to eat. Unacceptable.
Cassiel reached forward and added more food to Lucian’s plate—slices of roasted meat, a serving of fragrant rice, bread still warm from the oven. Lucian eyed the growing portion on his plate with barely concealed apprehension. The rich aroma of the feast surrounded him—meats glistening with juices, soft bread warm to the touch, the delicate sweetness of wine and fruit. And yet, the sheer amount before him made his stomach tighten. "Your Majesty—" He spoke lowly, careful not to draw attention. "This is far too much." Cassiel didn’t spare him a glance, simply picking up his own goblet and taking a slow sip of wine. "It is exactly what you need."
Lucian exhaled, fingers tightening around his fork. "I am no longer starving, Cassiel. War has ended. I am—" The king turned to him, golden eyes dark and knowing. "And yet your belly remains empty." His hand tightened just slightly against Lucian’s thigh beneath the table. “You’ve been through too much. Eat. You deserve it.” Lucian’s breath hitched, something inside him unraveling at the quiet sincerity of the king’s words. Cassiel’s fingers brushed lightly against the edge of his plate, guiding it just a little closer. “Please,” the king added, softer now. “Fill your stomach, my knight. For me.”
There was no defiance in Lucian’s sapphire eyes, only quiet acceptance as he found no argument. Swallowing down whatever weak protest still lingered on his tongue, Lucian relented. He took up his knife and fork and cut into the tender meat, lifting a piece to his mouth. Cassiel watched, satisfaction flickering across his face as Lucian finally began to eat. And beneath the table, his hand remained—steady, warm, and unwavering.
As the meal progressed and chatter echoed off the high ceilings of the grand dining room, Lucian found himself slowly loosening his guarded demeanor. At first, the knight ate with measured control, each bite slow and deliberate. But as the rich flavors unfolded on his tongue something within him stirred. He hadn’t realized how truly hungry he was. His body had adjusted too well to hunger, to rationing his meals out of habit even when food was within reach. But now, with the warmth of the feast settling into his bones, his appetite awakened. He reached for the golden-crusted bread, tearing off a piece and dipping it into the thick, savory broth pooled on his plate.
Cassiel’s gaze traced the softened lines of Lucian’s face, his growing satisfaction as he indulged, the way the hollowness in his cheeks seemed less stark in the flickering glow of the banquet hall. Lucian was eating. Cassiel let the happiness surge through him, though he kept his expression locked into its usual composure. Still, the corner of his lips threatened to tilt upward as he lifted his goblet, all the while relishing the sight before him. The king had always been a man of indulgence. He took what he wanted, when he wanted it. And right now, every fiber of his being was drawn to the knight beside him.
Lucian, lost in his meal, was oblivious at first, but Cassiel was watching intensely. The way Lucian’s body had softened just enough under proper care, the tension easing from his shoulders as warmth seeped into his bones. It was a sight more intoxicating than the finest wine. Cassiel’s hand, which had rested idly on Lucian’s thigh beneath the table, shifted. His fingers ghosted upward, slipping over the hard plate of Lucian’s armor, coming to rest against his stomach. Even through the metal, he could feel the warmth of his knight’s body, the slight rise and fall of his breath. Lucian stiffened, a quiet hitch of breath betraying him.
Cassiel leaned in, his lips just a breath away from Lucian’s ear. His voice was low, laced with mischief. “I do hope you’re enjoying yourself, my knight,” he murmured, fingers pressing ever so slightly over the metal. “I can feel how full you’re getting.” Lucian’s face burned, his grip tightening around the stem of his goblet. His stomach was certainly fuller than it had been in days, comfortably so, but with the king’s attention on him like this, it felt heavier. He swallowed, a flush creeping down his neck. Cassiel chuckled, pleased, his thumb grazing the cool metal between them. “Perhaps later, when the armor is gone, I’ll see just how full your belly is.”
Lucian inhaled sharply, his composure threatening to crack. “Cas—! Your Majesty!” A few soldiers glanced their way, though none seemed particularly invested—too enraptured by food and drink to notice the dangerous game their king was playing. Cassiel leaned back, his expression as composed as ever, save for the devilish glint in his golden eyes. Lucian, however, was still reeling from the king’s whispered words, his face hot with a flush that refused to fade. The food on his plate suddenly felt secondary to the warmth that pooled in his stomach, whether from the meal or from Cassiel’s touch, he wasn’t entirely sure.
But not everyone at the feast was as oblivious as the knights indulging in their victory meal. The royal advisors had been watching. They had seen the lingering glances, the king’s subtle favoritism, the way his hands found Lucian as though he belonged to him. This was the final straw. A few of them exchanged wary glances before the eldest among them gathered his courage, stepping forward. He cleared his throat discreetly before bowing his head. “Your Majesty,” he began, voice measured and cautious, “Apologies for the interruption, but a knight, no matter how… valued, should not be indulged so publicly, sire. It raises questions.”
Cassiel didn’t move at first. His fingers remained exactly where they were, splayed lazily over Lucian’s armor. Slowly, his gaze lifted from his knight, golden eyes cutting like a blade as they landed on the advisor. “Oh, forgive me,” he drawled, his smirk sharp enough to cut glass. “I wasn’t aware that ensuring my finest knight does not wither away was now a scandalous affair.” He shifted in his seat, tilting his head as he regarded the advisors like insects buzzing too close to his ear. “Do tell me,” he mused, voice deceptively calm, “since when did it become your place to dictate where my hands may rest?”
The men stiffened, their confidence faltering under the weight of the king’s gaze. Lucian, though silent, could feel the tension in the air. He cast a glance at the advisors, then at Cassiel, whose fingers now tapped idly against the stem of his goblet, waiting for someone—anyone—to challenge him further. But no one dared. The advisors quickly dipped their heads, not before exchanging another glance. Cassiel smirked, victorious as the men sheepishly shuffled away. He reached once more, this time letting his fingers trail lightly over Lucian’s wrist before resting against his thigh again, reclaiming his space as if nothing had happened.
Lucian shifted slightly, the warmth of Cassiel’s touch seeping through his armor, his stomach fluttering from the display of affection. His king had never been one to shy away from arrogance, but this—this was something else entirely. Cassiel had put the royal advisors in their place without so much as breaking a sweat, all because of him. Lucian swallowed, lowering his voice as he leaned in, careful to keep his words between them. “You didn’t have to do that,” he murmured, his tone firm despite the way his pulse quickened. “You should be more careful, Your Majesty.” Cassiel’s lips quirked upward, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Careful?” he echoed, his fingers tightening ever so slightly on Lucian’s thigh. “And what exactly should I be careful of, my knight?”
The knight cast a brief glance toward the advisors, who had wisely retreated into their silence. Cassiel exhaled sharply through his nose, something between amusement and mischief. He leaned in even closer, his breath warm against Lucian’s ear. “You seem to forget yourself, Lucian.” The knight’s breath hitched. Cassiel pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, his fingers trailing up, barely ghosting over the armor covering Lucian’s stomach. “You are mine,” Cassiel said, his voice like velvet and iron all at once. “And I protect what is mine.” Lucian’s fingers tightened around his goblet. There was no arguing with the king—not when he spoke like this. Not when his eyes burned with a truth so raw and undeniable.
The great hall buzzed with the sounds of clinking goblets, the deep rumble of laughter, and the satisfied hums of soldiers indulging in a feast unlike any they had seen in months. Cassiel remained in his gilded chair, enjoying his meal with slow satisfaction. Lucian exhaled a quiet, satisfied huff as he set his utensils down, leaning back as his plate sat nearly empty before him. His stomach, which had spent too many days gnawing on air, now sat comfortably full. He shifted, absently pressing a hand to his middle as he let out a slow breath. Cassiel caught the movement instantly. His golden eyes flickered down to where Lucian’s hand rested before slowly, deliberately, he reached out and slid the plate back toward him.
Lucian blinked. “Your Majesty—” “You’ve hardly eaten enough,” Cassiel murmured, his voice smooth, coaxing. He nudged the plate forward another inch, a knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. Lucian frowned, glancing down at his plate. “My king, I am—” Cassiel leaned in, his voice dropping low. “If I ever see that hollow look in your belly again, I will see to it that you never leave my sight.” Lucian’s stomach gave a quiet flutter, it wasn’t quite full enough to be painful, but certainly content. But the king’s words weren’t just a command, they were a plea. Cassiel wasn’t asking him to eat for mere indulgence—this was a matter of care, of love, of showing him that his knight mattered.
Slowly, he picked up his utensils once more. Lucian hesitated for a moment longer, his gaze flicking between Cassiel’s expectant eyes and the plate before him. As his fork met his mouth, a soft, approving hum escaped Cassiel. “Good boy.” The king’s voice was like silk, smooth and rich with something that made Lucian’s heart swell. The knight’s breath caught, the sensation of the king’s hand rubbing over his inner thigh spreading warmth through his body. His stomach gave a soft rumble, but Lucian ignored it. The impending discomfort of too much food felt distant compared to the burning need to prove himself worthy of the king’s praise.
The lively hum of the great hall stretched into the evening, the knights still indulging in their meals, their boisterous voices filling the space with warmth. But Lucian, though surrounded by his men, felt as if he were alone in the room with Cassiel. The fullness in his stomach had crept up on him, slow but relentless. The last bite had been a mistake—his belly, now stretched tight beneath his armor, ached with the weight of his indulgence. He let out a low, quiet groan, shifting uncomfortably as he set his fork down and pushed the plate away. His hand ghosted over his middle, tending to the discomfort. Cassiel, of course, noticed immediately.
The king’s sharp golden eyes flickered down to Lucian’s stomach, then back up, his lips curling in a knowing smirk. His fingers drummed lazily against the table. His hand, still resting against Lucian’s thigh, gave a slow, appreciative squeeze. Lucian swallowed thickly, his face warm from more than just the feast. He wasn’t sure if it was the fullness pressing against his ribs or the king’s constant attention making him breathless. Cassiel hummed with deep satisfaction. “You did well, my knight,” he praised, voice low and velvety, threading through Lucian’s senses like a siren’s call. “You’ve pleased me greatly.”
Lucian exhaled through his nose, trying to steady himself. Despite the dull ache of his overfilled stomach, the king’s words melted into him like honey. “I—” Lucian started, but the words caught in his throat as Cassiel leaned in, close enough that the scent of rich wine and spice curled around him. “Let me look at you,” Cassiel murmured, his voice dipping into something dangerously soft, something private. His gaze dropped once more, ghosting over Lucian’s frame with unfiltered admiration, lingering at the way his stomach now pressed subtly against the confines of his armor. “I missed seeing you like this.”
Before Lucian could react, the king let his fingers press just lightly against the plated armor at his stomach, the contact featherlight, almost teasing. Lucian stiffened, his breath catching sharply in his throat. He was so full, so painfully full, but the king’s attention, the warmth of his hand on his belly threatened to melt him then and there. Cassiel’s lips parted slightly, his expression sly as he pressed a fraction firmer. Lucian felt as though he might combust. He had been prepared for the battlefields, for the sword and the bloodshed. But he had never been prepared for this—for the way the king’s voice alone could unravel him, for the way he leaned into the king’s touch despite the ache.
The fullness sat heavy and unrelenting, stretching him to his limits, and though he tried to keep his breathing steady, his body had other plans. A low, drawn-out groan rumbled through his stomach. Lucian clenched his jaw, willing himself to remain still, to ignore the discomfort. But another sound followed—an unmistakable protest from his overworked belly. His arms slowly folded over his stomach, as if to quiet the storm raging beneath his ribs. Lucian could feel the king’s gaze on him before he even dared to look. Cassiel had gone still, his goblet resting against his lower lip, his golden eyes dark with something unreadable.
Lucian shifted minutely in his seat, his fingers tightening where they rested against his stomach. But before he could form a protest, before he could force himself to sit straighter and pretend he was fine, the king leaned in. Cassiel’s voice was low, meant only for him. “Oh, my dear knight…” Lucian’s breath stuttered. The warmth in Cassiel’s tone sent passion curling in his chest. The king’s fingers slid against Lucian’s armor, then lower, grazing just barely against the fabric beneath. “You’re so full,” Cassiel murmured, a teasing lilt in his voice. His fingers traced slow, deliberate circles. “But worry not.” His lips curled into something softer, something fond. “I will take good care of you.” Lucian swallowed, his throat suddenly dry as his stomach gave another soft, miserable groan beneath the king’s touch.
Cassiel smirked, rising smoothly from his seat, his movements drawing immediate attention. The laughter and conversation among the knights dulled as all eyes turned toward him. Cassiel adjusted the ruby rings on his fingers before raising his hands slightly, a casual but powerful display of authority. “Continue your revelry,” he announced, his voice rich and commanding. “Enjoy the feast you have so valiantly earned.” He let the words hang in the air for a moment, ensuring they were received before adding, “I will be stepping away to speak with Sir Lucian.”
Lucian stiffened. The weight of the knights’ gazes burned into him, and though their expressions remained respectful, some of their eyes held knowing amusement. A few exchanged glances, smirking into their cups, while others simply gave nods of acknowledgment. Goblets were raised, and a chorus of murmured appreciation rippled through the hall before, just as quickly, the men returned to their meals. Lucian’s blush burned hot. He should have protested, should have insisted that he was fine, that he didn’t need this—didn’t deserve this level of attention. But he didn’t pull away. He let Cassiel lead him from the table, his stomach still heavy, his limbs still warm from wine and praise.
The grand doors of the feasting hall had barely closed behind them when the hushed murmurs of Cassiel’s advisors reached his ears. Their footsteps quickened to follow, the rustle of fine robes trailing in their wake. Cassiel exhaled slowly through his nose, already exhausted by their meddling. Lucian felt the weight of their gazes boring into his back, felt the tension in the air shift as the advisors hesitated, exchanging uncertain glances before one finally dared to speak.
“Your Grace,” one of the older advisors stepped forward, his voice carefully measured, though not without a hint of concern. His eyes flickered between the king’s hand on Lucian’s arm and the telltale flush on the knight’s cheeks. “Forgive me, but… do you think it wise to be seen leaving so intimately with Sir Lucian?” Cassiel stilled. Another advisor cleared his throat. “There are already whispers, my king. If you are seen whisking away your most favored knight like this, people will start asking questions.” Cassiel turned his head just slightly, golden eyes glinting with something dangerous. “And?”
The advisors hesitated. “With all due respect, Your Grace,” the man continued, a bead of sweat forming at his temple, “If Sir Lucian is in need of care, there are servants who would gladly tend to him. It is not necessary for you to—” Cassiel’s patience snapped. His grip on Lucian’s arm remained light, but the air around him shifted, heavy with the weight of his authority. He turned on his heel with a deliberate slowness, facing his advisors fully, his presence suffocating. “Are you suggesting,” Cassiel’s voice dropped into a low, simmering growl, “that I, the king of Varethia, require permission to tend to one of my own?” The man took an instinctive step back. The others exchanged nervous glances. “Is that what you’re telling me?”
The advisors shook their heads stiffly after a moment of silence, murmuring their assent before shuffling away, their backs rigid with suppressed unease. Cassiel watched them go, his smirk returning as he leaned in toward Lucian, his breath ghosting the knight’s ear. “Imbeciles,” he muttered. Lucian swallowed hard, his pulse hammering beneath his skin. His king’s fierce protectiveness, the weight of his words, the fact that he had defended him so brazenly— It was nearly enough to make him forget the fullness pressing tight against his stomach. Nearly.
The heavy doors of the royal chambers shut with a resounding thud. Before Lucian could even catch his breath, Cassiel was upon him. The king moved like a starved man—pressing Lucian against the door, his lips claiming his knight’s with a hunger that sent heat searing through Lucian’s veins. It was desperate, needy, as if Cassiel had been holding himself back all evening, waiting—aching—for this moment alone. Cassiel’s hands dragged over his body, tracing the contours of his armor, tugging at the clasps with expert precision. One by one, the metal plates came undone, falling away with dull clinks against the marble floor.
Lucian exhaled sharply as the constriction around his stomach eased, his overfilled belly finally given space to breathe. He swayed slightly, warmth pooling in his limbs from the wine, the indulgence, the dizzying weight of his king’s attention. Cassiel’s lips never left him, moving from his mouth to the sharp edge of his jaw, then down the column of his throat. His hands roamed freely—grasping, pulling, claiming—as though he sought to brand Lucian with his touch alone. Lucian’s breath quickened. "Cassiel,” he moaned, voice tight. The king was absorbed in the moment, his fingers dancing lower, ghosting over Lucian’s abdomen, his movements slow, teasing. Lucian’s stomach gurgled. His face burned.
“Cassiel,” Lucian tried again, more firmly this time, though the rasp in his voice made it far less convincing. He grasped the king’s wrist, stilling his wandering touch. “I—I can’t.” Cassiel finally pulled back just enough to look at him. Lucian swallowed, his pulse unsteady. “My stomach is too full,” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. A beat of silence. Cassiel’s gaze flickered downward, his hands still resting at Lucian’s waist. He could feel the slight swell beneath his fingers—the way Lucian’s belly, usually taut and firm, now pressed tightly against his shirt, heavy with the weight of the feast. Another quiet gurgle sounded through his belly. Cassiel smirked.
The shift in his expression was maddening—equal parts amused and something far more indulgent. His fingers flexed slightly, a teasing touch against the sensitive skin of Lucian’s abdomen, making the knight tense. The glint of desire softened, amusement curling at the edges of his lips as he let out a breath of a laugh. “My love,” Cassiel murmured, leaning in just enough for his lips to graze Lucian’s cheek. “What makes you think I brought you here to ravage you?” Lucian’s face burned hotter, heat licking at his ears. “I—” Cassiel cut him off with a tut, his touch turning feather-light as he ran his fingers over Lucian’s sides. “Your mind is in the dirtiest of places, Lucian,” he teased, voice dripping with playfulness.
“I should be offended, truly,” the king mused, his lips brushing over Lucian’s temple in something far too soft for the sharp arrogance of his words. Lucian exhaled sharply, the heat in his chest turning into something warmer, something deeper. Cassiel pulled back just enough to meet his gaze. And for the first time all evening, there was no teasing, no sharp wit—only an unwavering, quiet devotion. “I brought you here,” the king murmured, his palm sweeping gently over Lucian’s stomach, soothing, “because I promised to take care of you.” Lucian melted. The tension drained from his shoulders, his body leaning into the warmth of the king’s touch. He let out a slow breath as Cassiel’s thumb traced small, careful circles against his overfull belly.
Cassiel hummed in satisfaction, clearly pleased with himself. “My beautiful knight,” he murmured, voice dripping with indulgence. “You act so strong, yet here you are, utterly helpless in my arms.” Lucian tried to glare, but the warmth of the king’s embrace, the soothing cadence of his voice left him weak. Cassiel only smirked, tightening his hold as he lifted Lucian into his arms as though he weighed nothing at all. Lucian’s breath caught as Cassiel carried him across the chamber with ease, lowering him onto the bed with careful hands. The mattress dipped beneath him, the comfort of the silk sheets wrapping around his weary body like a warm embrace.
Before he could utter another protest, Cassiel was at his side, his hands finding Lucian’s stomach once more. The first slow stroke of the king’s palm had Lucian sucking in a breath. Then another, slow and steady, rubbing soft, soothing circles against the tightness in his belly. A low, pleased moan rumbled from Lucian’s throat before he could stop it. Cassiel chuckled, utterly delighted. “There we are,” he cooed, his voice slipping into something so warm, so affectionate, it almost felt foreign. “Just relax, my love.” Lucian shuddered. With every stroke of his hand, every tender caress against his aching stomach, his body surrendered to the king’s touch.
Cassiel hummed as he worked, his eyes drinking in Lucian’s flushed cheeks, the way his breathing slowed into something languid, content. He leaned in, his lips brushing against Lucian’s jaw, light as a whisper. “You’re so pretty like this.” Lucian swallowed hard, his fingers curling into the sheets beneath him. Cassiel’s praise, his warmth—it was too much, yet Lucian craved it. A deep, lingering kiss pressed against his temple. Another at the corner of his lips. Then, finally, Cassiel captured his mouth in a slow, indulgent kiss. His voice dropped into something softer, something intimate. Lucian let out a low, satisfied moan as he allowed himself to sink into the king’s touch. Cassiel watched him with something achingly fond in his eyes. “My love,” he whispered, pressing a final, feather-light kiss against Lucian’s cheek. “Rest now. I’ll take care of you.”
Well, what can I say? You colour this brand of hedonism with a shade of elegance that I've found really compelling. Like maybe this doesn't have to look like eating a whole pizza in front of the TV alone (that still rocks though don't get me wrong). Here I dare to dream a little bigger. Here I think maybe I pre-game for dinner at a restaurant, go for the flavour and the experience and the wine. And it's a treat day, so maybe once I've taxied back home I can eat more, just to fill in the space digestion made in my stomach during the ride - then bask in the sleepy, post-ache afterglow of a tum well-stuffed while wearing my finest attire that no longer hides what I've done to myself. I've been inspired to explore again.
I know I don't have to be ashamed of my kinks, but the fact I've always had to keep it secret has been kind of a bummer. But spaces like the ones you've created, where poetry and philosophy good vibes can live comfortably along with such brazen sensuality, they've helped me reconnect with a part of myself I've been neglecting due to past relationships. You know what? Maybe just because I'm a tall guy who fits the mold doesn't mean I have to be in charge ALL THE TIME. It's exhausting and I have enough responsibility at work. Maybe I WOULD like to told what to do for once. To come back to a comfy space like my home or a favorite diner and just relinquish control to someone I trust. Maybe I think it would GREAT, actually, to let a pretty thing half my size tie me up and brainwash me little. You want me to eat all of this? Yes ma'am and thank you for the mental and physical vacation. And if my midsection gets a little squishier because of that, well I guess it's just proof I've been living better as a result. I didn't dare to consider how liberating this could really be until recently.
This turned out to be more of a triumphant rant about self discovery than a steamy note to get the community here going (yes hi the rest of you, you're all lovely and handsome and beautiful), but what can I say? You're a "bad" influence in the best way.
oh triumph! oh indulgence! oh luxury!
you have dared to dream, and the dream you weave is glorious indeed. wouldn't it be bliss? to partake in that kind of sensory pleasure, to eat your fill and then some, to relinquish control and put yourself in someone else's capable hands for a while?
There’s something intoxicating about indulgence. The way pleasure can build, bite by bite, until it’s overwhelming. The way satisfaction isn’t just about hunger—it’s about desire, about surrender, about knowing that more is always within reach.
But I don't just want to watch you eat. I'm crafting an experience. It’s the way your eyes light up when I place your favorite treat in front of you, the slow, dreamy way they savor the first bite. I know what you crave before you do, teasing you with just a taste before offering more.
It’s the feeling of control, not in a way that restricts, but in a way that opens doors. “Just one more bite,” I murmur, knowing you’ll take three. Watching you melt into the pleasure of it, sighing happily as fullness sets in, knowing you trust me to push you just enough. To take care of you, to revel in your softness, to show you that more is always an option.
Because it’s not just about the food. It’s about what the food represents—pleasure without shame, indulgence without restraint, love without conditions. It’s about the intimacy of knowing your deepest desires and giving you exactly what you need.
Watching you grow, feeling your body change under my touch, knowing I'm responsible for it—it’s intoxicating. It’s powerful. It’s beautiful.
So go on. Take another bite. Let yourself have more. I’ll be right here, making sure you’re never left wanting.
dear feedist/stuffing/inflation friends: unsure if you also have any kind of medical/laboratory kink? well step right up and find out here-- because I ended up buried down an absolute goddamn rabbithole of peer-reviewed articles from labs who study stomach and intestinal function, and boy howdy, there are some absolutely obscene stealth stomach-kink and bloating/inflation scenarios floating around on fucking PubMed, of all places
and now they’re permanently etched into my brain, so now you have to hear about them too)
So what happened was:
I'm minding my own business one morning when my partner casually tells me that they're signed up for something called a "beer run" with their training group-- and my brain record-scratch-freezes as they explain that this consists of:
1. chugging a whole beer
2. sprinting a quarter of a mile
3.-8. repeating the above sequence 3 additional times
At which point all I can think is jesus h. christ, how miserable would it feel to not only chug 48 ounces of beer in like a 10-15 minute window, but also to be shaking it up inside of yourself by sprinting--
so I get home and -- naturally -- resign myself to furiously googling this kind of event for the afternoon (definitely not fantasizing about this happening to my partner’s stomach or anything, being totally normal about it obvs). and blah blah blah, I find some stuff on reddit about how beer miles are close to impossible for most people to complete without throwing up due to the volume, especially if you're some hardcore type trying to actually really all-out sprint--
but as always, I crave details. and I'm not really into emeto myself, but boy do I suddenly, desperately, want to know exactly how close to the physical limit of the stomach's ability to stretch this would push most people.
and then I'm like "wait-- what the hell even is the normal volume of an 'average' stomach? and how much space does carbonated stuff take up vs water? and why have I never thought to look any of this up before--"
And new search cues in hand, I immediately find a whole little world of research folks* who have studied this carbonation inflation question in a laboratory setting, and many others--
and how are they studying that, you might ask?
oh boy -- turns out there's a whole world of standard-ish laboratory techniques out there to measure the ways the stomach expands, whether under the influence of air, liquid, or food -- and to more precisely qualify/quantify the experience of the (potentially agonizing) aftermath that can follow when it does…
*(researchers whose professional search results and related career prospects I’m not going to contaminate with my rando freaky kink blog by directly linking, but see incoming thread below for ideas on what keywords to throw at google scholar, or DM me I guess lol)
Some general methodology highlights, from the 40 open tabs I ended up with in Firefox:
Option 1: participants swallow a small plastic balloon connected to a long thin tube, which then gets slowly inflated in their stomachs while data on volume and pressure is collected by a data logger. The balloon first gets filled up just enough to unfold, and then it gets systematically pressurized in small increments, again and again, until some kind of "maximal tolerated volume" is reached. (there's a phrase doing a hell of a lot of work under its clinical surface.)
OR - participants may be asked to repeatedly drink a small known quantity of liquid (typically either water, or a "nutrient drink" like Ensure) within a defined time interval. This might range from around 15ml/minute (say, by having two test tubes alternately filling in front of you, and you have to finish one before the next one is full) to up to 100mL/min (if your scientist is in a hurry). This repeats again and again until whatever thresholds of discomfort the researchers are interested in get crossed...
OR - participants may be asked to eat a small “standard meal” unit (usually described in the text as something mundane like a uniformly sized piece of ham sandwich, or some well-documented processed snack food). Calories are calculated from the number of standard "units" ingested. (participants may also be told to eat ‘ad libidum’ from a "buffet meal", which may contain a variety of options to pick freely from, but that "test" seems to be more about seeing where natural satiety cues kick in, vs. finding physical limits like the others here...). Various medical scanners can then be used to take a digital image of the full stomach to help estimate its empty and distended volume, the emptying rates over the hours that follow, etc.
for any or all of the above, the person experiencing this -- whether it's stomach distension by a slowly expanding balloon, or bloating by drinking a meal replacement shake until you can't hold any more, or whatever else -- is generally asked to rate their "symptoms" on a semi-standardized numerical scale, during and sometimes after the event/meal. the measured symptoms may include variations on the sensations of "fullness", "bloating", "nausea", "pain", "satiety" (if actual calories are being ingested), and/or "other" - with 0 being no symptom, 3 being moderate, and 5 being “maximum tolerable” (and occasionally, “6” being “pain, stop experiment immediately”).
This all sounds wildly clinical-- but I can't stop imagining the human experience cloaked by all that professional language. Like -- it must be absolutely bizarre to work in one of those labs as a tech, clinically asking people to eat or drink until they're basically miserable, all the while asking them to tell you about it. I'd go fucking crazy for a window into what those interactions are like, between the people administering these deeply and intimately surreal tests and the folks that signed up to be their (guinea) pigs
Some specific study setups that were approved by some actual goddamn IRB board somewhere, presumably:
In the first of a set of relatively early studies I found (late 90s), one set of patients had a test balloon slowly inflated inside of their bellies while standing up-- they were only allowed to lean forward onto their arms on a shoulder-height desk in front of them if they needed support, so as not to in any way "compress the abdomen" as their bellies slowly swelled up, stage by stage....
The study needed to find the maximum pressure tolerable, as part of trying to understanding whether symptoms of stomach pain or other discomfort were caused by the actual pressure involved, vs. by a specific volume of stomach contents (because those imply different medications to try to fix, it turns out).
So the researchers would continue to step up the pressure at 2-minute intervals, with patients rating their symptoms every few minutes after a brief equilibrium period, up to the point of pressure/fullness turning into pain (at which point the experiment was immediately stopped)-- or just filling up further and further until they hit the top of any of the other symptom scales.
The balloon was deflated -- but then the subjects were given an I.V. of a chemical to relax the stomach (glucagon!), and did it again. The data showed found that the tolerable pressures/volumes nearly doubled-- as did the participants’ reported perception of how full they felt (among other things). The punchline -- basically that it wasn't either pressure or volume causing pain on their own, but how stretched the stomach walls were getting (which is… not a remotely surprising conclusion to anybody in this kink space, I'd imagine).
I'm just stuck on the idea of someone going through this strange inflation ordeal once, and thinking to themselves "oh my god, I've never felt so fucking full" at the end as the pressure releases finally -- then turning around and doing the glucagon test version, and just being like "oh holy shit this is so much more full than that, what the fuck--"
A related study had patients sitting up in an "ergonomic chair", keeping their upper stomachs free to expand while also keeping the balloon from needing to fill up their whole lower bellies with air to get similar test results. The same two types of inflation tests, with and without the stomach relaxer, were repeated -- this time comparing internal pressure with reported discomfort symptoms, vs. how much "gastric wall tension" was required to get the same results. (Basically they had a computer measuring the pressure and airflow in the balloon and adjusting up or down accordingly. Mind you, this was in the earlier days of computers, so imagine what could have gone wrong… ) This time pressure was stepped up, held for 2 minutes, then released back to a baseline – before being raised back up to the next level up.
The random detail that gets me about that last one - during the multi-minute periods where pressure was being stepped up or held, patients weren't allowed to speak or make noises iirc -- except to report pain and immediately call things off. This was to avoid 'confounding movements' from using other muscles in the diaphragm….
But just imagine being sat up in a lab chair, your tongue trying to ignore the thin tube running down your throat as your belly swells uncontrollably into your lap, stage by stage. You’re clutching your thighs to resist the rising urge to clutch at your own bulging middle, knowing you’ll be chided for screwing up the data if you do -- you feel the pressure building inside of you again, step by inevitable step, wondering how much bigger you're going to get this time before the machine decides to stop-- starting to wonder how much more of all this you can really “tolerate,” as you hold there at the peak for 2 minutes of bloat —
Then sighing as you feel the release of the pressure -- collecting yourself just long enough to circle some numbers on the questionnaire sheet in front of you for a few minutes -- "fullness", 3.5, "bloating" feeling is definitely up to 4 now (moderate discomfort, at least!), "nausea"- maybe still a 2.5, but isn’t it getting a little worse? -- shading in larger and larger rings this time on the little diagrams of a tummy on your worksheet (!) from the front and from the side, to show "where" exactly you feel these “symptoms” of what’s being methodically done to you –
And then the machine starts pumping again with a hiss, and you bite back a moan this time as it steps you up even further -- trying to stay still and silent and compliant as you grow and grow, belly now even more unnaturally full as the stomach relaxant someone just added to your IV takes effect...
That’s to say nothing of the other study group whose job was just to repeat a slow ramp-up (30 seconds per pressure step-up) to maximum tolerable fullness—then do it again every 30 minutes for 2 hours…
Or the one study comparing how rates of “gastric emptying” (the speed at which food moves out of the stomach) and rates of “gastric accommodation” (the extent to which the stomach can stretches to hold what’s been put in it) relate to various “symptoms of discomfort”…
… in which dozens of people were asked to down measures of Ensure shake until they reported they were a typical level of “full”…
… and then asked to keep drinking, portion by portion, until they absolutely couldn’t hold any more – and then asked to regularly rate and describe their (pain/nausea/fullness/etc.) the next few hours, on a scale of “none” to “worst ever”, as their aching bloated bellies were measured and imaged and observed…
So what about this carbonation question that sent me sliding down into this nonsense world of scientifically legitimized feeding and forced inflation?
Well, it turns out (based on my definitely-not-a-biologist reading of a biology paper) that drinking a 350 mL carbonated beverage on an empty stomach does inflate the belly more than pure water – nearly twice the volume of liquid alone, for something like 10 to 30 minutes. But that didn’t stop anyone in the trial from then going on and eating as much as they did with the control (just water, or de-carbonated soda).
However, this leads me to two conclusions:
Drinking 48 oz of beer in 12 minutes is likely to blow your belly up at least close to 96 oz if not more -- which is close to ¾ of a gallon, which is itself most of the way to the volume of a fully stretched out average stomach, so good luck with that while sprinting around a track
this also explains what happened the time I watched my friend proceed to wolf down a relatively small fast food meal but finish it off with a 40-oz (!) carbonated drink, and then winds up a bloated mess… subtract for ice and you still end up with potential for like 50-60+ oz (or as much as 80-something) of stomach inflation, on top of an actual full stomach already.
But then, food-before-drink wasn't covered in the paper... clearly more trials are needed
anyway, if this has unlocked anything for anyone out there, I'm very sorry and also you're welcome
dear feedist/stuffing/inflation friends: unsure if you also have any kind of medical/laboratory kink? well step right up and find out here-- because I ended up buried down an absolute goddamn rabbithole of peer-reviewed articles from labs who study stomach and intestinal function, and boy howdy, there are some absolutely obscene stealth stomach-kink and bloating/inflation scenarios floating around on fucking PubMed, of all places
and now they’re permanently etched into my brain, so now you have to hear about them too)
So what happened was:
I'm minding my own business one morning when my partner casually tells me that they're signed up for something called a "beer run" with their training group-- and my brain record-scratch-freezes as they explain that this consists of:
1. chugging a whole beer
2. sprinting a quarter of a mile
3.-8. repeating the above sequence 3 additional times
At which point all I can think is jesus h. christ, how miserable would it feel to not only chug 48 ounces of beer in like a 10-15 minute window, but also to be shaking it up inside of yourself by sprinting--
so I get home and -- naturally -- resign myself to furiously googling this kind of event for the afternoon (definitely not fantasizing about this happening to my partner’s stomach or anything, being totally normal about it obvs). and blah blah blah, I find some stuff on reddit about how beer miles are close to impossible for most people to complete without throwing up due to the volume, especially if you're some hardcore type trying to actually really all-out sprint--
but as always, I crave details. and I'm not really into emeto myself, but boy do I suddenly, desperately, want to know exactly how close to the physical limit of the stomach's ability to stretch this would push most people.
and then I'm like "wait-- what the hell even is the normal volume of an 'average' stomach? and how much space does carbonated stuff take up vs water? and why have I never thought to look any of this up before--"
And new search cues in hand, I immediately find a whole little world of research folks* who have studied this carbonation inflation question in a laboratory setting, and many others--
and how are they studying that, you might ask?
oh boy -- turns out there's a whole world of standard-ish laboratory techniques out there to measure the ways the stomach expands, whether under the influence of air, liquid, or food -- and to more precisely qualify/quantify the experience of the (potentially agonizing) aftermath that can follow when it does…
*(researchers whose professional search results and related career prospects I’m not going to contaminate with my rando freaky kink blog by directly linking, but see incoming thread below for ideas on what keywords to throw at google scholar, or DM me I guess lol)
welp, this is something I’ve been working on for a long while, just for me. but what the heck, might as well share. it’s got a bunch of my favourite things, like stuffing and belly rubs and kink exploration. (it’s also 3000 words long, oops.)
They’d been slowly, casually, discussing their plans for the evening over the past couple weeks. Idle chats in bed, or during dinner. Alex found herself shyer about it than she thought she would be. Joe was eminently patient.
Eventually, they agreed on some basics. They weren’t going to make any big fuss or cook anything special—just order a pizza and put on a movie. Alex would just watch, at least at first. Despite the fact this was her idea, and despite Joe’s proposition (“Feed me”), she wasn’t sure she was ready for that.
In fact, when they sat down on the couch, she kept a good few inches between them and focused her attention on the movie, even though she could hear Joe chewing next to her.
Back again for another year!
A creative feedist community project for everyone and anyone to take part in, here’s 31 days of 62 prompts, meaning you can do one, both or something that combines the two for each day!
Art, writing, photos, audios, feel free to express each prompt as you’d like to in relation to feedism, belly kink, indulgence, inflation and more! Please tag with '#feedist kinktober' and/or '#feedist kinktober 2024' so that everyone can share and see all our community’s creativity!
Transformation 🔀 / Farmer's Market 🌽
Latex Love 🖤 / Masquerade Ball 💃
Date Night 🍾 / Creepy Cookies 🍪
Leashed 🔗 / Hologram ✨
Cannibal Campers 🥩 / Tea Party 🫖
Ocean's Delight 🌊 / Possession 👻
Magic Mirror 🪞 / Donut Devotee 🍩
Ren Faire 👑 / Plugged In 🔌
Massively Milky 🥛 / Euphoria 💖
Full Moon 🌕 / Containment Breach ☢️
Theatrical 🎭 / Power Play 🔃
Candy Crush 🍬 / Eldritch Nightmares 👁️
GoTHICC 🥀 / Stitched Together 🪡
Pumpkin Spice 🎃 / Alien Abduction 🛸
Slasher 🔪 / Guardian Angel 😇
Runway Ready 👠 / Crystal Ball 🔮
Gaining Gamer 🎮 / Dungeon 🏰
Cult 🧑🤝🧑 / Artist's Muse 🎨
Invasive Vines 🌿 / Sweet Shop 🍭
Haunted House 🏚️ / Supersized Stoner 🍁
Chained Up ⛓️ / Silky Soft 💕
Exposed 😳 / Bewitching 🧙♀️
Bonfire Bash 🔥 / Rotten Core 🪱
Ritual 🫀 / Wardrobe Woes 👕
Olympian 🏛️ / Kaiju Attack! 🐙
Satanic Panic 😈 / Ice Cream Dream 🍦
Boozy Belly 🍺 / Dragon's Hoard 🐉
Plagued 🐀 / Movie Star 🎥
Spider's Web 🕸️ / Theme Park 🎡
Bulging Bimbo 💝 / Ancient Spirit 🪦
Monster Mash 💀 / Black Mail 💌
Don’t let my emojis sway your thoughts, they’re just there for visual interest! Please reblog to spread to more people, can’t wait to see what you all come up with ❤️
alphabet-themed stuffing/tummyache/tiny bit of hunger writing/drawing prompts
Air. Your character swallows too much air while eating, chewing, drinking, what have you, and finds themselves uncomfortably bloated. Maybe they refuse to burp out of politeness, their belly grumbling in protest as they swallow down any air that tries to escape.
Bubbles. Your character overdoes it with fizzy drinks. Maybe it's an exceptionally fizzy one, maybe it was just a little too much. Maybe there were Mentos involved. Either way, their stomach is filled to the brim with liquid and gas.
Cookies. It's the holiday season, and your character either bakes or receives more cookies than they know what to do with. Somebody ought to eat them before they get stale.
Determination. Maybe your character is stubborn. Maybe they've taken on a challenge. Maybe they've got some sort of goal to reach, or maybe they're trying to take care of some food that won't be good much longer. Whatever the reason, your character is hell-bent on finishing their food, even if their tummy is begging them to stop.
Endless. Your character has far too much food on their plate, and no matter how much they eat, it feels like they're not even making a dent. How long can they go on before they have to quit?
Friends. Your character sits down for dinner with some loved ones, but they're worried their pal isn't eating enough and urge them to have more.
Greasy. How much oily fried food can your character's tummy handle before they start feeling sick? Hopefully they're at least in the comfort of their own home and not out at a fair or something, otherwise they might have a hard time soothing their upset belly.
Help. Somebody needs help cleaning their plate. Maybe your character gives that last bite to somebody else, or maybe they're the one taking it. Maybe, if you're feeling scandalous, somebody helps them finish by feeding them that last bite.
Inches. How far can your character's belly expand? Maybe enough to be visible. Or for their shirt to ride up. Or even to pop a button. What does it take for them to swell up so much?
Juicy. It's easy to overdo it on fruit, especially when it's nice and ripe. It's refreshing, it's fun to eat, and it's gonna go bad soon anyway, right? No problems, at least until your character realizes how full they are.
KFC. Does your character have a favorite fast food place? Maybe they eat too much when they go there because it's just that good. Maybe it's a little ways away and they have to make it worth the drive. Maybe they have a new special your character's been dying to try and it's bigger than expected. How does all that cheap greasy food feel sitting in their stomach?
Liquid. Your character has a beverage that's a little too much. Maybe they're already full from eating, maybe it's just a huge drink, but either way, for one reason or another, they're determined to finish it.
Movies. Your character overestimates how much food they need for a movie snack and winds up with far too much. Maybe they're too focused on the movie to realize how full they're getting, or maybe they just eat it all because they don't want to have to put it away.
Nougat. It's Halloween, and your character is surrounded by candy. Maybe they're giving it out, maybe they've been given some, maybe they just bought a bunch because they could. How much can they eat before it gives them a bellyache?
Overestimate. Maybe your character's eyes are bigger than their stomach and they dish themself out more than they can handle, or maybe somebody else overestimates their capacity and gives them too big a serving of food. Will they try to finish all of it even once they're full?
Pizza. How many slices can your character eat? Can they fit more if it's their favorite topping? Perhaps this is the time to find out.
Quit. Your character has had it. Their belly is far too stuffed, and they can't eat another bite. Hopefully they weren't feeling pressured to clean their plate, because it's just not happening.
Rubs. Maybe your character has a tummyache, maybe they're stuffed silly, or maybe they just want to cuddle, but they're dying for a belly rub. Hopefully they're getting one.
Soup. It's the dead of winter, and your character is cold and shivering. They need a big bowl of hot soup to warm them up from the inside.
Tired. Your character comes home starving and utterly exhausted. Will they have the energy to cook something? Maybe they'll eat a bunch of easy snacks instead of putting together a meal, or maybe they'll go to bed hungry. If they're lucky, maybe somebody will make them something.
Underestimate. Your character leaves the table not nearly full enough, and it's not long before their tummy is growling. Do they ignore it? Feed it? Maybe they're so hungry that they eat too much to compensate.
Valentine. Somebody gives your character lots of sweets for being so sweet. Maybe they have a number of admirers who leave them saddled with more chocolate than they can handle, or maybe it's just one person who thinks they're just that adorable. Either way, they eat too much in one sitting and wind up with a belly full of sugar.
Water. After realizing how dehydrated they are, your character chugs far too much water in one sitting and winds up with an uncomfortably distended, sloshy belly.
eXtra. Your character is enjoying food with friends, and they make or order way too much, just to make sure they have enough for everybody. Maybe the whole group winds up stuffed, or maybe one person is tasked with taking care of the extra food.
Yogurt. For one reason or another, your character is trying to eat healthy. It's okay to stuff yourself silly if it's health food, right? Or maybe they finally snap and break their diet, but go a little overboard in their frenzy to eat something satisfying.
Zoo. Your character has been walking around the zoo all day--or maybe a theme park, or a carnival, or whatever the hell you want--and they're tired and hungry. They'd better stop for an overpriced snack break. Hopefully they don't spend the rest of their outing with a bellyache.
