CONTAINS: bakery manager x reader, stuffing, light dom feedism, light eructo, belly rubs
Reminder for what this is: there were some old fics/adjacent things that used to be around that I latched onto but was dissatisfied with them because of spelling mistakes, being RPF, or feeling unfinished etc. This is the first of 3 rewrites I’ve hoped to do, but they are not connected in any other way.
Details about the original:
It was a post on Tumblr that I believe has been lost to time, I don’t know if there were any titles on the post. I hold no ill will towards whomever wrote it originally, and I love the concept too much to not try to fix it up a bit.
What I remember about the original: 2 unnamed people working at a bakery, 2nd person perspective. The character is said to typically eat a lot of the bakery’s leftovers, and this time the character is made to eat an entire wedding cake on top of that, because it was made in the wrong flavor. They stop after eating each layer though didn’t indicate which they started with and would try to rub their belly but would be encouraged to keep eating instead. This would occur until they finished the entire cake. The manager then promptly leaves and the character is forced to clean up the mess on a full stomach.
Things I wanted to fix: the spelling, the lack of detail about the cake and bakery operations, the rushed-feeling ending and withholding of relief from the full belly. Hopefully all is accomplished and more (also quick warning that it’s quite long), enjoy.
—————
You’re an early riser, though your body belabors it. You’re the first person to enter the small bakery, Reverie, every morning. Your tired mind skims across the most preliminary of preparations, until you find yourself peering through the oven glass at the rising dough of treats and confections, the task of making the dough itself so instinctual now that your brain neglects to even remember doing so.
When everything is baked to perfection, you heave trays and trays of daily cookies, tarts, croissants and more to their displays, for the many customers to glance at throughout the day, their hungry eyes compelling them to buy more and more. It’s around the time you are filling in the last of the shelves with the new stock that the only other employee, your manager, clocks in for the day, nodding to you with an unwavering sense of trust as they don a matching apron.
You finish the current task by placing the day-old desserts in a separate, discounted display. At your manager’s behest, the desserts not bought from this discount pile at the end of the day are given to you. Your manager sees to it that you are eating well throughout the day, and consistently reminds you to partake in your allotted confectionary while behind the counter or doing other tasks, along with providing you your generous lunch breaks. You oblige, if a bit reluctantly, though you have omitted from telling them that when you lumber home from work every day, you can do little else than rub your massive, sugar-bloated stomach in bed until you fall asleep.
——————
Today is a slow day, with little to indicate that anything is but ordinary. Your manager, really the owner of this bakery, tends to handle special projects on their own, as the more experienced of the two of you at decorating. These assignments don’t pop up super frequently, as Reverie is but a little known secret of your city, but those who come seeking catering, wedding cakes, and other large desserts have never once been disappointed by the quality. Your manager has been in the back kitchen most of the day, handling the most recent order, while you munch away on stale treats at the counter.
You’re beginning to feel how full you are, a twinge appearing in your side followed by a hiccup. You feel your face growing warm as you cover your mouth, but thankfully no customers are around, though you hadn’t thought to check in the moment. As your focus returns, you notice the voice of your manager in conversation coming from the kitchen:
“I see - - I’m so sorry to hear that, yes we can accommodate - - no trouble at all! These things are common - - yes, please don’t worry, I’m happy to do so free of charge - - I insist - - thank you - -“
You then hear a plastic click as they return the phone to the wall, a drawn-out sigh accompanying it. They push through the double doors behind you, apron covered in flour and frosting, and address you with a small smile.
“Looks like we’ve got a situation.”
——————
“How does someone develop an allergy so sudden?” You ask incredulously.
“No clue! But now I have to remake this entire cake in a different flavor.” Your manager sighs even deeper. You rendezvoused in the back room after closing a bit earlier (and hastier, to the chagrin of your stomach) than normal. “Sorry I might have to keep you later than usual, you’ll be getting overtime for this. I just need help setting up and cleaning, I’ve got the mixing and decorating handled. Oh, and help yourself to any leftovers. There’s quite a lot to go around, it’s just you and me here after all.”
You nod, beginning to gather utensils, though you try to ignore your apron digging into your full stomach.
Your manager looks resolute, saying to you and themselves, “It’ll take more time but it’ll be worth it. After all,” they mention over their shoulder with a smile, “it would be bad business if one of the grooms were to die on their wedding day.”
——————
The three-tiered wedding cake looms over you on the center counter of the kitchen. It’s unavoidable from all angles, white frosting piped into delicate flowers, with thin dark chocolate vines spread throughout, and flaked all over in almonds. According to the original recipe— you read off of the counter housing the mixer —each tier is a different flavor, with the bottom being a lemon cake with vanilla filling, the middle being a pistachio cake with Italian meringue, and the top being a rich chocolate cake with raspberry. Your manager was prepping to remake most parts the same for the new cake, but sub out the almonds and pistachios for flower notes and orange flavor.
You feel your belly rumble reading the recipes, but you brush it off and figure it’s begun the long digestion of all the treats it’s been stuffed with. You glance at the measly plastic tupperware your manager retrieved from storage and put to the side of the behemoth-cake, and recall that you had stopped bringing your own take-home plastic containers to work a long time ago, since you just ate it all while you were there anyway. But this, on such a full stomach already, is much too big, you tell yourself, averting your eyes to focus on wiping down counters and preheating the ovens. You can’t look away from the smell though. All around you wafts its sweet notes of almond-vanilla, its hints of dark chocolate, until finally, in a lull between tasks, it compels you to cut a slice.
You go for a piece from the very top, just a small slice as you anticipate it to be very dense, and oh how dense it is. The consistency is almost torte-like, chocolate that sits heavy in your mouth while being contrasted by the bright notes from the raspberry. Delighted instantly, you start wondering about how the others might taste, and go to cut two more small slices. Your manager smiles at you as they catch a glance of the plastic plate in your hand, and you feel your cheeks growing warm again.
The bite of pistachio is less sweet but earthy, with a nutty flavor profile, the texture of the cake so soft it practically melts in your mouth along with the meringue. The lemon cake melds the best with the almond exterior, and you find yourself slicing the ends of the frosting off to eat in tandem with the cake. Before you know it, you’ve breezed through all three slices, and it’s knocked the wind out of you. That’s enough now, you say to yourself as you pat your middle (even your thoughts are wheezing), don’t want to get a tummy ache on the job, though you are already halfway there.
——————
You try to push away the feeling that there’s a little more room in your stomach, reasoning that’s your sweet tooth talking. No time for that. You go back to your baking assistant duties, for a time, until you’re idling again because you’re waiting for the ingredients to mix, or your manager shooes you away, and you just can’t help yourself from taking another little slice.
Before you know it, you’ve finished the equivalent of the entire small tier. Most of it is gone anyhow, with a sizable dent made in the pistachio tier as well. You stifle a deep burp. Oof, your stomach rounds doubly over than normal, molding your now very tight apron into a bulbous swell. As your hands begin to follow the curve up and down for some relief, your manager calls you over again to help put the cake trays in the oven. You turn around and walk- no, waddle over, wondering how obviously your belly is leading the way.
“Okay, that should be ready in 20 minutes,” your manager says, dusting off their hands of flour and sugar. You find it hard to focus on anything but your belly; it was extra sensitive against the trays you held, waiting to place them into the oven. “How was the cake?” You are snapped out of your food-engorged trance by the sound of their voice.
“Oh, it was really good. Varied, it was all good but different,” you say, catching them glancing at you from an angle much lower than your face. They hum, amused by your compliment, and approach the cake.
“While we have time, I think I’ll try a slice. Do you want any more?” Their tone is completely neutral, as though they’re oblivious to a third of the cake being gone already. You open your mouth to respond but they’ve already turned back to the cake and cut the last two slices of the chocolate tier, setting aside one on another plate. “Just in case you want it. There’s so much, and I certainly can’t eat it all.”
You pick up the plate to be polite, picking your fork back up as well. As you watch them eat, they appear just as pleased as you were when trying the cake for the first time. “Not too shabby, I’d say. Sad that it’s a waste. Oh well.”
They finish their slice and open a nearby drawer in the counter, pulling out a large binder of cake designs and flipping to a marked page they point out to you. “I’m going to keep as much as I can from the original design, without nuts. I say we keep the chocolate, and maybe still have some texture on the outside, maybe coconut? Now we need to make the outer frosting as well as the inner icing.” Your manager goes over with you the ingredients for the different spreads and for the main icing. Nodding along, you somewhat-unconsciously bring bites of the cake to your mouth, since you’re holding it in your hand after all. Perhaps that had been a mistake, since when you begin to break away to locate the ingredients, you find that you’ve eaten the whole piece. As you set the plate down again, your manager asks over their shoulder, “Still hungry?”
Not in the slightest, you want to say, but a loud burp interjects first. You slam your hand over your mouth, your face flushed and hot, and surely red as a beet.
“I’m so sorry,” you stammer through your fingers, while your manager gives a little laugh.
“That’s quite alright,” they say, a note of sweetness in their voice. “I take it you have more room now?”
Before you or your stomach can protest, you are handed another slice of lemon cake with a smile. “I’ve got this; you just keep eating.”
——————
You do keep eating, and while your manager takes the cakes out of the oven and mixes together icing, you find the room to finish three more slices before you start significantly slowing down.
“Ooh…” you grunt, resting your hands on your stomach as you tilt your head back.
“Something wrong?” your manager asks, looking over at you from the mixing bowls.
“I’m just..really full..”
Your manager emerges behind you, and firmly tugs on the strings at the back of your apron, pulling them loose. Immediately your belly surges forward, skin rippling from hitting the edge of the counter. It groans as you do, disgruntled from the sudden shock. But as shocking as that was, your manager then slides their hands over your sides, cups their hands under your stomach, and heaves it onto the counter. You’re just tall enough for it to remain there, and your belly is just big enough to be unable to slide off.
“That’s better, hm?” they ask softly. You groan, too full to think of anything but the drastic relief of being relinquished from the tightness of your apron. You keep groaning, as your manager’s hands knead away the sore ache in your sides, bringing up air bubbles. “I bet that feels good. Here’s what’s going to happen. I will decorate and assemble the new cake. You are going to eat the rest of this one before I am done, or you’re going to clean this kitchen top to bottom. Sound good?”
“Mmph…” You had, how many, 10, 11 slices already? Only halfway…
——————
Thankfully the decorating would take some time. You alternate between the remaining two tiers— pistachio, lemon, savory, sweet— while watching your manager pipe the delicate designs onto the replacement cake. Out of necessity, you find a rhythm in your eating. Chew. Swallow. Chew. Swallow. Burrp. Groan… Repeat.
Your sheer willpower gets you through 6 more slices. Time feels as though it’s slowed to a crawl. Your tummy demands at least one hand be constantly rubbing it. It remains resting on the counter, growing firmer with every bite.
You whimper as you hear your manager approaching behind you once more. Without a word, their hands appear by your taut belly again and they squeeze it suddenly inward. You gasp in between expelling forceful belches and low moans. But just as quickly as they arrived, the hands leave your sides. They whisper in your ear, “You’ve got more room now. So eat up, I’m almost done.”
——————
“Uuurrp….buoorrp….”
In between shoving cake into your mouth, you press your belly into the counter, forcing air back up your throat. In these crucial moments, every inch of your stomach capacity must be utilized to the fullest, and at this point, you’re desperate. You can’t even imagine summoning the energy needed to move your heavy belly off this counter, let alone cleaning anything.
Heaving and panting, you approach the final slice. You saved the pistachio for last as a palate cleanser. You glance to your manager, who is adding the final piping to the cake decor. They look like they could be finished at any moment. You grip your plastic fork with new purpose.
Your rhythm returns, as you thickly swallow each bite of cake. You’ve come this far, you can’t give up now! And you really don’t want to clean…thinking of that possibility makes you tired more than anything else, so you focus on chewing, the taste of the pistachio mixed with the icing. It would taste like heaven in any other scenario, but you’re not sure many people have tasted so much heaven in one sitting.
Your fork reaches for another bite before you realize the slice is finished, and the moment it clicks, as though on cue, your full, full stomach whines loud and long. Your hands weakly clutch at your huge belly— triple its normal size, aching, and so, so full.
“Ooohhhh….uUrp….oooohhh…” Your head swims, delirious almost, as your stomach uproariously churns.
Your manager’s hands soon join yours in gently rubbing away the ache, and you melt into their touch.
“Well done,” they say in your ear. “Your capacity is extraordinary. Perhaps you’ll help me tomorrow with inventory?” You’re the fullest you’ve ever been, you can’t respond to their innocuous question with anymore than groans and burps, but some small part of you can’t help but fantasize about filling your belly up even bigger with your next meal.
Your toes are freezing. You huff and scrunch them inside your wool slippers as you shiver in your bundle of blankets. The house is frigid around you, any residual heat draining quickly the longer your power stays dead. It's the middle of the night and the snow is still falling thickly outside; there's no chance of anyone who could fix it making it to you tonight. The tea kettle starts wailing; at least you have gas to the stove still. Into your favorite mug goes a bag of your favorite tea and a pile of sugar.
Freezing, you drink as soon as it cools enough to pass over your tongue. It splashes into your belly with a comforting warmth, you quickly drain the mug with large sips - enjoying the heat that falls through your throat and into your belly. The tea warms you, but you still shake in the cold. Your fingers start numbing again as the heat fades from the mug all too soon. You fill your mug again, refilling the kettle to its maximum and pulling out your largest mug while you wait for the teabag to steep. By the time the kettle boils, you're breathing out the faintest burp after finishing your second mug. The heat stays only momentairily longer, and only leaves you desperate for more relief.
You take long sips of your third cup as you ponder your situation. Standing in the kitchen is cold, and not fun. There's just enough room in your already roaring fireplace to fit a soup pot next to the fire without touching it, but keeping the pot warm. Tight, but it would fit. You could keep drinking all night if you wanted, warmed by fire and drink. Soon, the pot boils on the stove, full of hot chocolate, and your mug is empty. Your stomach sloshes gently as you walk, three cups of tea warming you gently as you move your things to the fire. You're cold again before you're done.
Your mug is full and the pot rests within reach by the flames. Blankets piles around you in a fort, leaving a warming cavern beneath. You place your hand on your belly as you drink your fourth cup, this time a new tea. There's a gentle bulge and a faint heat, and its contents slosh as your fingers sink deeper for warmth. Your skin molds around you fingers, warming them better than the mug. You're chugging by the end, needy for more warmth. The tea runs into you, heat growing in your belly. You're no longer shaking, but you're far from the toasty comfort you crave. You blech, clutching a full stomach that offers your hands a new warm bump to hold. But the rest of you is still too cold. So, so cold.
You fill your mug from the ladle in the pot and start drinking desperately. Your body continues to fill with heat as your stomach fills. Its not used to being this full, contents sloshing audibly with every mouthful that splashes down, but the warmth is intoxicating. Being finally warm is worth being full, being overfull, being so full of warm, hot, boiling hot chocolate. It's no longer so squishing five cups in, but it pushes out hot and heavy and feels so good in your free hand.
You moan loudly six cups in, your belly a space heater in the blankets. Panting means you suck in more cold air, but you're no longer thinking straight enough to slow down to breathe. Some part of you registers that you've drunk the equivalent of a two liter by now, but all your hands want to do is rub the bloated form that now shows beneath your flannel top. You've never been one to overindudge before, but the contrast between cold outside and hot inside is hedonistic. The seventh cup is filled eagerly, despite the complaints begging to grow from your stomach. It's walls stretch around the sweet liquid, but tight and thin and unhappy.
The seventh cup is slow. Each sip asks your stomach to accept more, stretch more, heat up more. It's so tight inside you, aching with two and a half liters, bulging from your skin. Your skin is hot with drink and stretch now, and you can touch the curves of the bloated organ beneath. But the warmth is so, so good and you need it so badly, and you keep begging your mouth for more.
Sips of the eighth cup hurt now, belly hanging round and protesting. You force each down, clinging to your distended form. It no longer sloshes with your shuddered gulping, too overfull with sickly sweet drink. Both your hands are needed to hold it now, sips sitting in your mouth while your hands move from mug to belly to clutch it like a heating pad. You've shucked your top, too warm now for it, deliciously warm. The skin over the clear shape of your stomach is red and fire hot. The pain fades into the heat.
Hot chocolate feels like it sits in your throat too long now, refusing to enter without force. It keeps coming anyway, and your stomach grows tigher and hotter, tighter and hotter, too tight and too hot, and eight cups are inside you. You are little more than a squealing tea pot, boiling inside and full to the brim. Moaning and panting with what little lung space you have left, you drift into a toasty sleep. Curled around the hot water bag of your own creation, your distended belly finally keeps the cold at bay.
something about mad science group doing experiments to improve breeding capabilities of alien and/or mutant species
i jus need some bigger, stronger creature to strap me to their thighs, enhanced cock slowly getting thicker and a bit longer, traveling through me. i'd whine and arch my back against the restraints, my little bunny tummy, and my struggling would only help them to sink deeper inside of me, knot slowly forming just outside of my cunt
i sob and hiccup from the pressure inside of my body, aching from the inside out. but every cell in my body screamed to be bred, and i was weak to deny the pleasure of being round with this creature's brood, whatever form they may take.
i brush my paws against the imprint, standing proud through my tummy. this excites the creature, and i yelp in pleasure as it bucks its hips into my slick hole, t-dick straining as the knot grew thicker.
cum began pulsing through my insides, thickening the bulge in my tummy. i moaned as my insides strained, filled but determined to take more, to push beyond my limits, and take every drop.
by the time the creature was detached from me, my stomach stretched over two feet in front of me, sloshing between my thighs as i was sat onto a plug, as the nurses attended to my sticky form
need some alien eggs shifting around in my tummy whenever i walk, or even to hold the eggs for so long that the now hatched young are all slithering among each other inside of my womb 😵💫😵💫😵💫
being taken to other colonies to spread the species, mixed and bred to alter their traits ,, but i always keep one in my womb for me, to help me carry and expand my capacity to do so aughhhzjzgsjsb i'm losing it rn
You’d had hard boiled eggs before. It wasn’t like they were new. You’d had them a few times as a kid, and every so often you’d find them in hotel breakfast fridges-wrapped in cling film and better than pre-packaged pastries or unripe bananas. But they were far too much trouble to make and de-shell than was worth it. Yet here they are in front of you in the dairy isle: pre-cooked, pre-shelled, and packaged nicely in bags of 6.
You imagine them slipping whole through your lips in one satisfying shape. You buy every package the store has, and all that the store across town has. Twelve squishy bags. Six dozen eggs waiting to be consumed. They barely fit in the bowl you dump them in, a few falling off the pile’s precarious top. You let yourself start early and slide one into your mouth. It sits large and round on your tongue, but you can roll it around. Your teeth sink through it with a squeak before the pieces rush to your wanting stomach. A second and third slide down whole, the process difficult at first but easing as you get the feel for it.
Another three go down as you fill the bath piping hot and undress. The water’s heat makes you gasp and moan as you slide in, pinking the skin of your too-flat belly. The bowl is placed on the tray across, within easy reach as you nestle back into the tub’s seat. Another six go down leisurely, filling but not filling, and with a dozen inside you slip down so your ears are under water. The gurgles and squeaks of a digesting stomach echo louder through the water. You swallow a thirteenth egg, listening to the sounds of your swallow and the efforts of your esophagus and the egg sliding down down down to your stomach. The eggs taste different brought down through the water but the sounds are so intoxicating that the next five are eaten the same way. You burp, and bubbles roll at the surface.
At two dozen your stomach is stretching. The little paunch of your growing belly looks even larger in the bath, distorted by water and stream and the low light of candles. It’s no where near big enough, and the next few eggs go down faster.
Three dozen and you’re halfway, stomach rumbling audible even from down below. You’re beautifully overfull now, stomach complaining about the continuous additions. Your groin throbs and you stir the water around it, teasing yourself as you continue to eat with the gentle flow. If you thrust your hips above the waterline, your belly looks swollen in the air as much as in the water. Heat-pink and malleable and rounding, and you sink fingers into it to shake and play.
The heat keeps the cramps away as the fourth dozen disappears. The stretch of your stomach walls aches as it’s forced larger and larger but your skin and muscles grow easy, relaxed as they are. You toss salts in the bath and moan at the pleasant smell as you stir the water and rub your hands along your tightening belly. It’s heavy even in the water, bulging out over your thighs, and tighter, more solid. Your fingers press down rather than sink in, and it takes effort. The eggs are harder to swallow now, throat tired and stomach protesting, and you bite in every few in half. Halves or wholes, you still fill, you still grow.
Five dozen eggs fight for space in your stomach as you groan and writhe in the water. Each swallow is hard work, and your body screams for attention, but it is impossible for you to stop. Your stomach is an aching hard balloon inside you, and it bloats your belly into a tight, heavy ball that’s red with more than just the water’s still high heat. You pant around each egg, muscles crying for you to stop. You can feel the wetness of yourself even in the bath, running from your burning sex in rivulets. It’s begging for attention but you only have hands for your enormous middle. When you press you can feel the eggs sliding around themselves inside you, barely enough room to slip around. When you swallow another, they all jostle to move out of the way of the newest. Your stomach, your belly sparks every time its packed contents are added to-fighting the unrelenting stretch needed for another, the internal movement needed for another, the increasing pressure from another. Another and another and another, more more more the only thought in your brain.
Six left and your stomach has given up. It’s straining through the upper curves of your bloated belly, rock hard and conformed around the lumpy shapes of nearly 72 hard-boiled eggs. You shove the last six down in quick succession, and they stick heavily in your throat before one by one pushing, shoving in. Your body is a glorious mess, sex throbbing, belly screaming, everything tingling in heat and pressure and pleasure. You ghost your hands over your enormous bloated form and try to buck your hips into the water automatically with the blinding pleasure of being so tight so big so full, so so full. You’re huge and heavy and even with the water’s help can’t lift your hips under the weight of your gluttony.
It takes barely a touch to your groin before you’re climaxing, the painful clenching of your stuffed gut extending your orgasm in little shocks. You drift in the water, exhausted and overwhelmed with pleasure. The water is still warm, the tub cradles you safely, and you drift off. Maybe when you wake you’ll be able to stand, and go buy more.
Your belly howls as noodles slide down your throat. The dense clump lands heavy in your packed stomach, and your back arches further as the pressure increases. Deep angry gurgles rumble in your churning gut, the rich pasta sitting unhappily in you. You rub the hot, tight skin of your belly as it juts inches from your form; a heavy taut mound. God you can’t believe it’s so heavy and big, so stuffed with pasta. It’s so tight and full oh god. Your moan is lost in the shoveling of more food into your mouth. Noodles wet with sauce hang from your lips as you scoop handfuls from the pot. Your stomach cries out in groans and wet belches push up past the pasta going down. There’s so little room left but you’re so hungry, so desperate for more. You need so much more.
How much pasta did you make? Five boxes? Six? Seven? You didn’t even measure as you made the sauce, dumping ingredients in the huge stock pot in ratios you know by heart.
How much pasta is swirling in you now? The pot still has a quarter left, but your stomach is rebelling. You pant as you clutch at your distended stomach, it’s curves visible where it hangs from your ribs. You can feel the contents sloshing and churning, and you whine through the belches as you massage it. You’re so fucking full, so heavy with pasta and creamy sauce that is so so delicious. You can’t fit anything else but you’re not full yet, there’s still room, you know there must still be room.
You struggle to reach the pot, unable to sit up around the enormous belly hanging off you. You pull it into your lap and shove both your hands deep into the pile of still warm pasta. Your face is flushed the same red as your gut, every inch of you hot with arousal, digestion, and effort. Every swallow makes your stomach tighter, tighter, tighter but you can’t stop yourself. It’s too good, it’s not enough, it’s too much it’s too much. Ohhhhhhmmmmmmm you’re so stuffed but you can’t stop eating. Your belly heaves with the force of every swallow, no stretch left and only pressure. Building pressure, it’s so fucking tight oh god you’re going to burst but it’s still not enough.
The pot is empty and you let it fall to the ground in your desperate scrabble for the nearly untouched liter of soda. Each gulp feels like a shove to get down, but you’re so thirsty. Your stomach shakes with growls and whines, and you moan with it as you drain more into its depths. The skin is shiny and hard and you feel like you swallowed concrete and it’s so gooood. It’s so full, oh god you’re so full, you can’t believe how enormous you are. You gulp desperately. You need to be bigger, heavier, tighter. Ahhhhhmmmmm you’re so tight. Pain lances across your stomach but you keep drinking, the pressure keeps growing, it’s hard to breathe. It’s unbearable but it’s incredible.
The bottle falls to the ground empty. You fall backward to lie flat, shaking and writhing in pleasure and pain and pressure. You can’t fit anything else inside, you’re so full, you’d burst. Your gut is a heavy, angry mass weighing on you. It’s so huge, god it’s huge and heavy and full. The pressure inside is so so high. It’s so good, it’s so tight, it’s so stuffed. All the pasta and sauce and soda that you stuffed inside yourself; you fit so much inside yourself. You’re huge, you can’t reach yourself to touch yourself, you’re tight and stuffed and huge oh god. You’re so full, so full, so full, so full, so full
Pred that stuffs their prey regularly. They prefer their prey a lil plumped up and their prey prefers to be bloated and full. Something about the prey knowing that each bite that makes it past their own lips makes them more and more appetizing to their pred. Something about being full to the point it hurts while their pred looks at them hungrily, offering to rub their stuffed gut. Letting out little prey burps now and then as they digest a feast, knowing their pred is eager to digest them.
“food balloon” is such a sexy phrase like yes PLS gorge yourself for me till you’re so swollen and distended that taking a deep breath is difficult and you look like a literal overfed balloon
🙈🙈 currently filling my gut after eating dinner with friends… I got nuggets, fries, and a large coffee that was mostly creamer because I wanted my guts to swell and ache 🙈🤤😮💨 but I wanted more so I’m slowly sipping 1L of tea while my belly continues to grow and expand from the dairy overload and fast food. It’s so full it sloshes…. I was supposed to eat way less today but…. I couldn’t resist the urge to stuff myself and now my belly hurts from being so full but I can feel it churning and I can’t stop sipping the tea.. I love the sloshing sounds a full cauldron like mine makes…
god i ate way more than my belly could handle.. i did a chilis and dairy queen stuffing and my poor belly was so distended and huge. i just kept eating and eating and eating and eating mindlessly until my belly started aching a little and i couldn’t sit up anymore.. as time went on my poor achy belly got worse and i had to lay down to try and relax before i got sick 😵💫
now this morning i feel so big.. my tummy is nice and bloated and taut 🤤 bubbling here and there as i rub the bloat ugh. ice cream always makes me a big ball of a girl the next day but everything i ate from chilis definitely added to this mornings big achy bloat
dailybridgerton
pixelskylines
vaporwave
baratheonpilled
snowghoul
germansingergirl
