Medieval fantasy setting. Prince Andres is sick, and his beloved Lady Isabel is holding the basin.
If you’re not into emetophilia, stay away. This story includes graphic descriptions of throwing up.
A thin stream of slime connected Andres' lips to the curdled mess spattered in the basin Isabel was holding under his chin. Neither of them spoke, as they both knew he wasn't done throwing up. A quiet groan issued from behind his closed lips.
"Let it come," she murmured.
He opened his mouth to say he wasn't trying to fight it, but before words could form he gagged hard. His tongue curled with three more spasms before a forceful gush of sludge blurted out into the basin.
"There you go," she encouraged.
Andres coughed, spraying flecks of vomit onto the far side of the basin. Before Isabel could tell him to be more careful with his aim, his shoulders lurched with a violent heave. He bowed his head closer to the basin and let out a copious flood of runnier puke.
Once that was over, he lifted his head with a shuddering moan. "So sick," he panted.
"I know," she said, shaking her head in sympathy. "Do you think you're done?"
He considered for a moment. "Not sure. Still extremely nauseated."
"Just rest and see what happens."
Yet he made no move to lie down, keeping his gaze on the lumpy barf that sloshed in the basin. A nearly silent gag warned her to keep the container close to his mouth. Sure enough, less than a minute later he let out a startlingly loud retch and a stream of more watery puke. This kept coming without pause for quite some time, but when it finally ended he lifted his head and sighed. "There. Empty."
"Good." She carefully took the basin away, trying not to spill any of his former stomach contents.
Just because she made it to the toilet doesn't mean there isn't going to be a bit of a mess...
If you’re not into emetophilia, stay away. This story includes graphic descriptions of throwing up.
She sat on the floor in front of the toilet, slowly rubbing her belly and frowning deeply. A few minutes ago she'd been certain she was about to vomit and had rushed into the bathroom. The urge passed without anything coming up, however, and now she didn't dare leave in case it was a brief reprieve.
Her lunch churned almost painfully in her stomach, and she squirmed with the waves of nausea.
Just as she was considering sticking a finger down her throat to end her misery, her throat tightened with a shallow gag. She leaned closer to the toilet seat and drooled away the thick saliva that kept welling up. She coughed wetly, then doubled over with a painful retch. Nothing came up. She rocked with a few more heaves, then suddenly spewed out a thick spurt of vomit. It was over in seconds, flooding her senses with the vile taste.
Knowing she wouldn't feel better until her stomach was empty, she pressed on her abdomen and forced herself to cough a few times. Her body obligingly sent another gush of puke upward. The thick emesis coated her throat, and this time the coughs were involuntary as she hacked and sputtered until another flood of barf went into the toilet. Too late, she realized her hair was loose on one side, and it quickly became coated with peach-and-brown slime. She tried to hold it back, but the feel of vomit on her hand didn't do anything to calm her stomach.
Her output grew more liquid than chunky, and some splashed up to leave spots on the toilet seat. This went on for another minute before the flow dwindled. She gave several long, croaking retches before relief swept over her. She was empty, and was already starting to feel better.
She flushed, then set to work washing the barf out of her hair in the sink.
A member of [insert fantasy country here]'s parliament doesn't want to leave in the middle of a meeting, but she's feeling sicker and sicker...
If you’re not into emetophilia, stay away. This story includes graphic descriptions of throwing up.
At first she assumed her discomfort was merely indigestion. She had eaten her lunch somewhat quickly to get to the meeting on time.
As she sat quietly listening to her fellow legislators debate shipping regulations, she noticed a faint pain right in the middle of her gut. Did she need to have a bowel movement? No, she decided, it was higher up than that.
Minutes ticked by in which her belly sloshed and turned over, making her briefly close her eyes in response to a pulse of nausea.
I just ate too fast, she told herself. I'll be fine once lunch settles.
Yet she felt steadily worse as time went on, and she suddenly realized her mouth was full of thick saliva that she couldn't imagine swallowing.
Damn, this was turning into something more than indigestion. She laid a hand on her belly and bent forward slightly as a heavy, tight feeling gripped her middle.
The urge to gag made her gulp hard.
I'm actually sick, she realized. Like, "have the flu, might throw up" sick.
She looked around, taking stock of her options. She was near the middle of the assembly hall, so there were no close doors she could sneak out of. There also weren't any garbage cans in reach. That meant she needed to head for the bathroom sooner rather than later.
She sat frozen in nauseated misery, barely breathing, as she waited for the current speaker at the podium to finish up.
She broke into a cold sweat as he droned on and on. Could she spit into her handkerchief and not be noticed? She bent down to hide her head below the table and risked it. A flood of viscous, frothy saliva soaked the square of cloth and ran down her arm. Damn, that didn't go as planned.
Worse, parting her lips made a spike of nausea run through her, and her eyes went wide in panic as she felt her stomach contents congealing at the bottom of her esophagus. For one horrible moment she was sure she was going to throw up right there on the floor, but she somehow managed to choke back the rising tide of sickness.
She had no illusions about this being a true reprieve, though. She needed to get to a toilet, and fast.
She stuffed her papers into her satchel, slung the bag over her shoulder, and walked quickly for the tall doors at the rear of the hall. If the speaker thought her rude, well, she doubted he would prefer her barfing during his talk.
Her belly roiled and gurgled as she walked, and her mouth was already full of bubbly spit again.
Oh please, let me make it to the bathroom, she prayed silently. Her legs felt unsteady and the room seemed to spin slightly around her. Actual pain was squeezing her middle now, and a half-cough, half-gag burst from her throat. Hot liquid began to rise, and she somehow managed to gulp it back.
She reached the doors and fled the hall, breaking into a run as best she could when she could hardly straighten up.
A stronger gag gripped her throat, and she felt vomit start to make its way up again. She pressed her lips together in an attempt to hold it in her cheeks, but after a second she sputtered and retched, letting out a flood of pinkish-brown slime down the front of her blazer and skirt, onto the marble floor. She cupped a hand under her mouth as if that would help, and only succeeded in getting puke all over her hand and arm.
Fuck! she thought.
She stumbled over to a potted plant and aimed into that instead of letting the rest go on the floor. Her body was wracked with violent heaves as she doubled over and spewed copiously. To her humiliation, some overshot the plant's container and painted the wall behind it.
She surrendered then, accepting she had zero control over what her body was doing. She continued to throw up until only bile trickled down her chin, then rushed into the ladies' room to try to clean the worst of the puke off herself.
Trent really needs to puke but can't get it started on his own. Luckily his wife isn't squeamish...
If you’re not into emetophilia, stay away. This story includes graphic descriptions of throwing up.
Sonja had the day off from work, and was lazily flipping channels on the TV, looking for something to watch, when her husband came inside. He had only been out working in his vegetable garden for a half hour, but he was terribly pale and seemed to have trouble standing fully upright.
"What's the matter?" she asked immediately.
"Don't feel good," he said with a grimace. He plodded over to the couch and flopped down with a quiet moan.
"I can see that. Your stomach?" she guessed based on the way he was clutching his belly.
He nodded.
Sonja got up from the kitchen table, grabbed the garbage can, and set it on the floor next to his head. "Just in case."
"Thanks," he mumbled, then fell silent.
Sonja returned to channel surfing but kept glancing at him with concern. Gurgles and sloshing noises came from her husband's midsection, and more than once he made sounds of distress.
"Any better?" she asked after ten minutes.
He shook his head. "I think I need to puke."
She made a noise of alarm.
"Don't necessarily feel like I'm gonna," he clarified. "Just that I think it would make me feel better."
"Would something to drink help?"
"Not sure. It hurts so bad, right here…" He pressed his fist into the middle of his torso, squirming in misery.
"Try rubbing where it hurts the most." She watched him haphazardly touching parts of his chest and belly with no apparent order. "Let me help," she finally said. She got up from the table and guided him to sit up on the sofa with the garbage can in his lap. Then she sat beside him and carefully slid a hand down to his abdomen. "Okay, where's the worst pain? Here?"
"Higher."
She tried again.
"Little to the left, and down a couple inches."
She moved her hand, and he flinched. "There. Right there."
Sonja wasn't a doctor but she was pretty sure there were no vital organs there. Moreover, she could tell he was running a fever. Likely just a normal upset stomach, then.
She rubbed slow circles on his belly, and at one point she could even feel his stomach contents churning inside. She kept massaging him, expecting him to begin gagging any second. When he didn't she tried pressing a little harder.
After a minute he burped, but nothing came up.
The third time it happened, Sonja shook her head in pity. "Poor thing. Try thinking of something disgusting. Maybe that will help get it started." She rubbed his belly in steady but firm touches despite his flinches of pain.
"Damn it," he said after a belch that bordered on a retch. "I really need to throw up and get this over with."
"Try gagging yourself."
"I'm no good at that." He rocked with nausea, leaning into her firm massaging.
His mouth opened wider with a dry heave, and a little drool dripped into the can, but that was all. He made a whining noise and forced himself to cough, but nothing else happened.
"Think about how it feels," she coached. "Your stomach rolling over, the hot vomit rushing up your throat and spilling out…"
"I have been," he whined. "It won't come."
"Just try touching the back of your throat."
He did--or at least he tried. He started a few weak retches, but only a tiny trickle of liquid dripped from his lips. "It's right there," he said with a frustrated groan.
"Do you want me to try?"
He stuffed his hand in his mouth even further, and the loudest retch yet rippled out. He doubled over and coughed over the garbage can, but again only a little drool emerged.
"Shit!" he snapped. "How hard is it to make myself puke?"
She simultaneously rubbed his abdomen and patted his back. "There, there. It'll come."
"It's not, though," he whined. "I need to throw up so bad! Ugh!"
"Can I try?" She lightly touched his lips.
He was apparently desperate enough to let her. He let his jaw fall open as wide as it would go and hugged the garbage can under his chin. Sonja carefully slid her hand into his mouth. His tongue arched against her in a dry retch. She went back further and stroked the velvety skin in the back of his throat. She felt him convulse in a heave and snatched her hand away.
Trent gagged several times, harder than ever before, but still only let out a thin stream of cloudy liquid. "Close," he rasped. "Do it again, longer this time."
Sonja took a deep breath and reached into his mouth again. She stretched as far back as she could and stroked down into his throat. He retched every few seconds, but she kept her hand there until she felt a hot rush of thick sludge. She yanked her hand out in the middle of a torrent of vomit that spattered all over the inside of the garbage can.
Trent rocked with vigorous heaves, no longer struggling to bring up his breakfast. Clumps of partially-digested fruit were carried along by more watery barf.
When Sonja was sure he was okay--all things being relative--she went to the sink and washed the unpleasantly warm coating of vomit off her hand and forearm. By the time she was satisfied that she was clean and disinfected, it sounded like Trent was almost done being sick. The stream of gunk was much smaller now, and only the occasional chunk came up.
"There, there," she comforted him, rubbing his back. "You're doing great. Let it come. You'll feel so much better when it's over."
His shoulders jerked upward in a particularly strong retch, and a renewed spurt of thicker vomit coursed out.
Trent coughed, groaned, and spat strings of mostly-clear slime into the can. "Ohh, I really needed to do that."
"I know."
He gave a long, gurgling belch to rid himself of some leftover bile, then finally accepted a tissue from her to wipe his mouth. "Ugh. I wouldn't have eaten so much for breakfast if I knew it was all gonna come back up like that."
"I bet not." She brought him a cup of water to rinse his mouth. "How's the pain now?"
"Gone. I mean, I ache from heaving so hard, but the pains in my stomach are better."
"Good. When you're ready to head to bed, let me know."
He nodded, still trying to catch his breath. "Uh…thanks for the help getting it started."
"I'd never done that before, but you were so desperate that I had to do something. I hope I didn't hurt you."
"No, it worked great. Sorry I puked all over your arm."
"Goes with the territory," she said with a shrug. "And it washed off."
"I just hope you don't catch this."
"If I do, you'll just have to take care of me," she said with a wink.
He nodded wearily and sipped some water.
Fortunately, it was a one-day bug, and Trent was feeling much better by the time Sonja's stomach started to ache. Fortunately for both their sakes, however, she had no trouble throwing up on her own.
A woman isn't sure if she still has anything left in her stomach this long after supper, and if that will make it better or worse when she needs to throw up.
If you’re not into emetophilia, stay away. This story includes graphic descriptions of throwing up.
She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth and glanced at the clock, trying to estimate if her supper would have been digested and moved on from her stomach yet, or if she needed to worry about making a mess if her nausea got worse. She squirmed in bed, making quiet noises of distress.
An ominous gurgling noise made her sit up on the edge of the mattress. She certainly felt sick enough to throw up, if there was anything down there to lose. She reluctantly staggered into the bathroom and stood in front of the toilet, slowly rubbing her tummy. Moving made the pulses of nausea stronger, and she felt her throat clench in the start of a gag.
She went to her knees and aimed into the toilet bowl. She felt so horrible she found herself wishing she did have something in her stomach, after all, as getting rid of it might make her feel better.
Deep, rasping belches issued from her mouth, and she felt acid rising. She pressed in on her belly where the discomfort was the worst, and a spasm grabbed her middle, making her double over with a sputtering cough. Seconds later she retched long and loud without producing anything.
Maybe my stomach is empty after all, she thought with an odd sense of disappointment. She gagged several more times, rocking with the waves of sickness. A sudden sensation like she had been kicked in the gut made her lurch and stick her face below the level of the toilet seat as a hot torrent of vomit exploded forth.
Or maybe I do have something to throw up, after all, she thought.
Wracking heaves quickly brought up everything that been left in her stomach, scorching her throat with acid before finally stopping.
"Phew," she sighed. Aside from her aching abdomen, burning throat, watering eyes, and the vile taste in her mouth, she did actually feel some better now. She blew her nose and wiped her mouth and chin off, then flushed away the remnants of her supper. She rose on rubbery legs to rinse her mouth in the sink.
Hopefully now she could sleep away at least some of the time while this flu bug ran its course. She brought a garbage can with her to bed, however, and ended up dry heaving over it several times before she was finally able to rest.
A military commander is married to one of the doctors on base, but that doesn't mean he can't still get sick.
If you’re not into emetophilia, stay away. This story includes graphic descriptions of throwing up.
Doctor Lana smiled when she saw her husband in the doorway of her office, but her expression quickly turned into one of concern when she saw the pale, drawn expression on his face and the way he seemed to be having trouble standing up straight.
"What the matter?" she asked immediately.
Edwin shut the door behind him before flopping down in a chair next to her desk. "Sick."
"I can see that," she snapped without any real malice. "Sick how?"
"Threw up."
"You did? Just now?"
He nodded.
"I'll get an anti-nausea injection ready." She stood, but as she walked past him he grabbed the edge of her coat. "What?"
He looked up at her with pleading eyes while covering his mouth with one hand. "Stay," he mumbled. "Gonna do it again."
He sighed in pity and brought over the garbage can. He took it from her and slumped forward with it between his knees. Bubbly drool oozed out of his mouth and stretched down into the can.
She pulled up a chair beside him and gently patted his shoulder. "It's okay, Ed. Just get the rest up and you'll probably feel better."
He coughed lightly and spat in a vain attempt to dislodge the goo dangling from his lips.
His wife rubbed his broad shoulders a bit more vigorously. "Don't fight it."
"I'm not," he said, then gagged shallowly.
She watched in helpless sympathy as he bent closer to the can with a croaking retch. Only a few droplets of saliva escaped his mouth. He coughed a few times, then shuddered with a baritone heave that quickly send a greenish-brownish-pink flood of puke gushing out.
"There," she said softly, stroking the back of his head.
He gasped, but before he could catch his breath another retch seized his throat. Viscous barf splattered onto the inside of the can and slowly ran down to join the rest in the bottom.
"Wow, you couldn't have thrown up that much before, if you still had all this left down there," she said, shaking her head.
"I didn't," he rasped. "Just a couple mouthfuls. I knew there was more." He half-coughed, half-gagged, and let out a trickle of discolored liquid before sitting up with a sigh.
"Sorry I couldn't help you fast enough," she said, kissing his temple.
"Not your fault," he said hoarsely.
"Sit tight. I'll go get that injection, and some water for you."
He nodded gratefully and sat back with his eyes closed.
Even with the door shut, she heard him dry heaving long before she returned to her office.
An executive secretary leaves her desk and barely makes it to the ladies' room before vomiting.
If you’re not into emetophilia, stay away. This story includes graphic descriptions of throwing up.
The secretary walked quickly down the hallway outside the boss' office, her jaw locked in a nauseated grimace. She had been feeling worse and worse as the morning progressed, and a minute ago a quiet burp had brought a sour taste into her mouth that made her want to gag.
She picked up the pace as her belly audibly sloshed, suddenly unsure if she would make it to the toilet. Her throat felt tight, and she held her breath to fend off the urge to retch.
At last she reached an empty stall, and bent forward with her hands on her knees and a low groan. She coughed and let out the slime she'd been too sick to swallow. The viscous goo hadn't even reached the water in the bowl yet when it felt like a giant hand squeezed her around the midsection, and a hot flood of lumpy vomit poured from her mouth.
It was a relief to stop fighting it, but highly unpleasant in the moment. She rocked with seemingly endless heaves, ridding herself of her breakfast.
At one point she heard the door to the hall open and then shut again almost immediately. Thankfully, whomever it was decided to find another bathroom, leaving the secretary to be sick in privacy.
Her output dwindled to a thin stream of cloudy liquid, but the retching wouldn't stop. Her throat burned and ached, and her nose was running.
Soon she was clutching her stomach and rocking with miserable dry heaves as her body insisted something remained to come up.
When the spasms finally relented she was drenched in cold sweat and the muscles in her abdomen felt strained. She flushed the toilet and closed her eyes so she didn't have to watch her former stomach contents swirl away. She stood for an extra minute until she was certain she was done throwing up before exiting the stall to rinse her mouth out in the sink.
She felt some better after surrendering to her nausea, but not well enough that she could work the rest of the day. She shakily returned to her desk to get her purse and inform the boss she was going home sick.
James comes home sick from work and decides a quick shower would feel good. He ends up getting showered with more than water...
If you’re not into emetophilia, stay away. This story includes graphic descriptions of throwing up.
James had a sour stomach and decided to come home early from the museum. His wife was still work. He knew he should call her and let her know he was home sick, but all he wanted was to be lying down.
As he took off his suit, however, he realized how clammy and sweaty he was. It wouldn't be comfortable to put on pajamas like this. He turned on the shower and stepped inside, intending to quickly clean himself and be done with it.
He was beginning to soap up one armpit when the strongest wave of nausea yet rolled over him. He gulped audibly. Got home just in time, he thought. I'm feeling sicker by the minute. He rinsed that armpit and started on the other. His throat constricted in what felt like the start of a gag. No, he ordered his body. Hold on a little longer, and I can lie down.
He turned his back to the main showerhead, letting the hot water run down his shoulders.
Seconds later his body shuddered in a sudden heave, and he grasped a grab bar with one hand while bending over from the force of the spasm. Peach-and-tan sludge spilled from his mouth, and coated his chest until he turned toward the water. He coughed on some of the bigger chunks and leaned out to vomit directly over the drain. Gobs of barf swirled in the current, and most disappeared down the drain--although a couple particularly large pieces stuck against the grate.
There was nothing he could do but let it come. The process was incredibly loud due to the acoustics of the shower stall. He rocked with relentless, wrenching heaves as his lunch cascaded out.
The retching stopped, and he sputtered and coughed, trying to dislodge the residue from his throat. When that didn't work, he drank a half-mouthful from the shower stream. It barely made it to his stomach before surging back up, but it cleared the viscous slime along the way.
He leaned his arm against the wall and rested his forehead on it, trying to catch his breath and wrap his mind around what had just happened.
Better than in the car or on the floor, he decided. He took the shower head and rinsed off flecks of puke from the tiles, then made sure his legs and feet were clean before turning off the water and stepping out. He staggered to the sink and got a glass of cold water to sip. It seemed like a good idea to rid himself of the vile taste, but the second sip only got partway down before surging up with a spatter of runnier vomit that painted the inside of the sink.
He coughed and swore, then gagged again. He turned the water on in the sink to wash down the evidence of his sickness even as he retched up a few meager gurgles of bile.
When that was over he stepped into his pajamas and flopped down in bed, vowing not to move again until the stomach flu ran its course.
Shari is having a restless night that will only get worse before it gets better.
If you’re not into emetophilia, stay away. This story includes graphic descriptions of throwing up.
Shari lay in the dark, listening to Brian breathe and her stomach sloshing queasily. She hadn't felt right since supper, and had only been able to doze for short periods before she would wake up with pain in her gut. She rolled over, hugging a pillow to her belly, and tried to get comfortable despite the involuntary squirming of her feet.
This wasn't good. She was feeling worse instead of better as the minutes ticked by. She realized she had been pressing the back of her hand against her lips, and used it to briefly feel her own forehead. Fever, as she had feared.
As her stomach gurgled even more insistently and the amount of thick saliva in her mouth increased, she pondered her options. She could stay as she was and hope she wasn't as sick as she felt. She might barf on the floor, though. She could wake up Brian and ask him to bring her something to be sick into. That involved a fair amount of talking, though, and she couldn't imagine opening her mouth at that moment. The only other option involved getting to the toilet in time.
She tossed aside the covers and sat up on the edge of the bed. Simply doing so made her nausea spike, and she gulped hard against the start of a gag. Her midsection hurt too badly to stand up straight, so she scurried into the bathroom in a bent posture. Hot liquid began to well up in her throat as she crouched in front of the toilet, and she leaned forward with a half-cough, half-gag.
Denial over being so ill warred with desperation for relief as her throat clenched and a long gush of watery vomit surged up. She choked and sputtered as some tried to come out her nose, then hurled up even more. She lost all track of time as her world narrowed to only her aching body, the toilet, and the vile sludge forcing its way up and out.
At one point she tried to blow her nose and wipe her mouth, but a fresh heave interrupted her and she lurched back over the bowl. A spatter of salmon-colored vomit hit the side of the toilet seat before she was able to aim better and send the rest into the water.
She had hoped to feel better than she did when the retching stopped. Her stomach still hurt, and overall she still felt horrible. She staggered to her feet to rinse out her mouth in the sink, then simply stood leaning on the counter for awhile, taking stock. She definitely had the stomach flu. There was no point taking medicine she couldn't keep down, so if she was done vomiting it seemed the only thing to do was go back to bed. Should she wake her partner, though? There wasn't anything he could do for her, but somehow she decided she would feel better if he was aware of the situation.
She sat down on the bed and reached out to put a hand on his arm. "Brian, wake up."
He stirred groggily. "Wha'?"
"I'm really sick," she said hoarsely.
"Sick? How?" he asked, rubbing his eyes.
"I just threw up. A lot."
That got his attention. He sat up and regarded her with concern. "That's not good."
She grimaced. "No. It's not."
"What can I do?"
She hesitated. "I don't know. I just didn't want to be alone. I'm so sick…"
He got up and brought her some water, the garbage can, and another blanket. He sat up for the next few hours as her fever peaked and she miserably retched up the dregs of her stomach contents. They both fell into uneasy sleep near dawn. He awoke in the late morning to the sound of her dry heaving over the garbage can.
Living a couple blocks from your business is handy when you need to go home early with a stomach bug.
If you’re not into emetophilia, stay away. This story includes graphic descriptions of throwing up.
Oliver sat at his desk, trying to concentrate on the latest sales figures for his business despite the unpleasantness of his stomach sloshing and gurgling. At first he assumed he had eaten too much for breakfast, as Marianne had prepared one of his favorite meals that morning and he had taken a larger portion than usual.
The vague discomfort slowly turned into pulses of actual nausea. He frowned deeply and tried to decide if he needed to have a bowel movement. No, the problem was higher. Twinges of pain made him lean forward with his forearms on his desk.
Maybe if he sat still for a little while…
He sat back in his chair and closed his eyes.
Think about something else, he told himself.
He tried running through historical trivia, but he kept losing his concentration when loud, curdling noises came from his belly.
Hmm…I think I might be coming down with something, he finally admitted. I should probably head home before this gets any worse. He cleaned off his desk, tossing the most important papers in a satchel, and then stood up to leave. As he did so, the room seemed to spin around him, and he clapped a hand to his mouth as his throat tightened. He leaned over his garbage can, prepared to lose his breakfast, but after a few seconds the urge passed.
He swore silently and left his office. Fortunately it was a short walk home, but it seemed to take far longer than usual. Pain in his middle made it hard to stand up completely straight, and the unhappy noises continued to come from his digestive system.
Cold sweat dampened his clothes, and he felt aches shooting up his limbs. Definitely a flu bug of some kind.
He was a block from home when the strongest wave of nausea yet washed over him. His mouth opened of its own accord as his tongue lifted in a shallow gag. He held his breath, pressing the back of his hand into his lips, until somehow, by sheer willpower, he felt like his stomach contents were going to stay where they were…at least for a little longer.
He ordered his shaking legs to carry him faster toward home, and he had never been so glad to see the familiar porch come into view. Crime was nonexistent in their small town, so the door was open to take advantage of the breeze.
He staggered into the entryway and stepped out of his shoes. Ugh, the sour taste in his mouth only made him feel worse. At least he made it home to be sick in privacy.
He stood, briefly considering if he should use the nearby bathroom, or try to make it upstairs so he could go to bed immediately after emptying his stomach.
"Oliver? Is that you?" Marianne came out of the kitchen and gasped at how pale he was. "Oh dear! What's wrong?"
"Stomach bug," he managed to say before gulping hard. He headed for the stairs, deciding he had enough time.
"Oh, you poor thing. Should I get some medicine?" She followed him up the stairs.
"Need to throw up," he muttered before turning into the bathroom.
"You… Oh. That's not good."
"It started to come up a few times already but I choked it back down until I got home," he said, taking off his suit jacket. She took the garment from him and hung it up on the hook on the back of the door. When she turned back, he was squatting in front of the toilet.
"Is there anything I can do?" she asked.
He shook his head. "I just have to let it happen this time. And it's going to…" He groaned quietly and bent over the toilet, resting one elbow on the seat while holding his aching stomach with the other.
"I could bring you a bucket if you wanted to go to bed," she offered.
"It's right there," he said before coughing. "Oh God…"
Marianne stooped to rub his shoulder as he swayed with nausea. A few seconds later, a rippling belch issued from deep in his chest. He retched twice more before a loud squelch announced his last meal was on the way up. He doubled over with his face aimed into the bowl as a rapid flood of thick vomit shot out.
"There, there," Marianne said, now patting his back instead of rubbing. "Get it all up, now."
Oliver had no trouble obeying. Dollops of sludge rained from his mouth in between longer gushes of barf. He shuddered with violent heaves, rapidly filling the toilet with chunks. Marianne reached around him to flush twice before only gurgles of liquid came up his burning throat. He choked up bile for another minute or two, coughing and moaning, before he was finally able to straighten up.
"I'd say you're empty," she said with forced cheerfulness.
"Sorry to waste that wonderful breakfast," he rasped before blowing his nose.
"Oh, hush. You couldn't help it."
"You can say that again." He rubbed his ribs and swore.
Martin and Sadie go to the movies, but have to leave early when she falls ill.
If you’re not into emetophilia, stay away. This story includes graphic descriptions of throwing up.
Martin heard Sadie's stomach making unhappy noises over the sound of the movie, and noticed she was barely touching her popcorn. He didn't want to be rude by talking, but he began to worry when he saw the way she was slouched with the back of her knuckles pressed into her lips.
Ten minutes later, she stood up without a word and exited the theater. She wasn't running, but she wasn't dawdling, either. He wasn't sure if he should follow her or not, and eventually decided to let her do whatever she needed to do.
Fifteen minutes passed, and he was getting quite concerned, wondering if he should go looking for her. Before he could make the decision, however, she returned. Instead of taking her seat, however, she leaned down to whisper in his ear hole.
"Sorry, but we need to leave. I'm really sick."
He caught a whiff of sour bile on her breath and didn't ask questions, just followed her out of the theater. Once they were in the parking lot, she spat in the gutter and moaned. "Ugh. I just barfed up what had to be my entire lunch, plus the popcorn I tried to eat. Pro tip, the hulls scratch your throat on the way up. It's not fun."
"I didn't know you weren't feeling well."
"I was fine until the car chase," she said, referring to something that happened in the movie. "The quick cuts and funky camera angles started to make me feel a little sick, but I honestly don't think that's what did it. I feel like I'm running a fever."
"Let's get you home." He took her arm and led her toward the car.
"Sorry I made us miss the rest of the movie."
"We'll catch it on streaming someday." They reached the car and he fumbled for the right key.
Sadie turned aside and bent forward as even more color drained from her face. "Shit, I thought I was empty, but--gurk!" She gagged loudly and put her hands on her knees, aiming away from her shoes.
"Oh, Sadie," he sighed in sympathy.
There was a sputtering gurgle, then a splat as a load of pinkish-brown vomit hit the pavement. She rocked with deep retches, straining to bring up whatever might remain in her stomach. Soon she doubled over even more and let loose with a rapid flood of runny mush that plopped onto the mess she'd already made. It was over quickly, and she straightened up with a moan. "Ooh, sorry. I really thought--" Another gag interrupted her, and she leaned on the car while shuddering with a full minute of dry heaves. When she recovered from that, she swore. "Okay, I've definitely gotten it all up, now. Let's get out of here." She flopped into the passenger seat and sat back with her eyes closed.
She burped acid into a napkin a few times on the way home, then went straight to bed.
Devon is the strong, silent type, but there's no quiet way to throw up your entire supper.
If you’re not into emetophilia, stay away. This story includes graphic descriptions of throwing up.
She was nearly asleep when she heard a strange noise from the bathroom. It sounded like her husband had said something, but she couldn't make out what. She lifted her head from the pillow to hear better.
The next sound that filled the air sounded like someone had taken a bowl of soup and poured it into the toilet from at least a foot above the water.
"Devon?" she called out.
When he didn't answer, she threw off her blankets and went to investigate. She found him half-sitting, half-leaning on the bathroom counter, facing the toilet. His face was contorted as if in pain, and he was tenderly rubbing his abdomen.
"Are you all right?" she asked.
He reluctantly shook his head.
"I thought I heard…" She glanced at the pinkish spatter on one side of the toilet seat, then noticed his chin was wet. "Did you throw up?"
He nodded, scowling even more deeply.
"I didn't know you weren't feeling well."
He shrugged.
"If you'd ever talk like a normal human being…" she said with a sigh. "I could have given you some medicine, you know."
"Too sick," he mumbled. A split second later he hiccupped and clapped a hand to his mouth. His stomach made an audible churning noise, and even more color drained from his face.
"Might as well finish what you started," she said.
He nodded, pressing a fist to his lips. After a few long seconds, he took two steps forward and bent down with his hands on his knees, leaning over the toilet.
"Get closer to the bowl so it doesn't splash all over," she advised, putting a hand on his back.
He gave a sputtering cough as he went to his knees, then grasped the toilet seat with both hands. A wet belch rose in his throat, followed by a deeper retch that sent a plume of salmon-colored sludge into the water.
"That's it," she said, shaking her head in sympathy as she rubbed his heaving back. "Get rid of the rest."
Devon rocked with each spasm, bringing up short bursts of lumpy mush each time. She was about to suggest he drink some water to help it along when he doubled over with a particularly loud, painful-sounding heave that sent a torrent of vomit thundering into the bowl.
She raised her antennae in surprise, not having expected him to have that much left in his stomach at this point.
It was over quickly, leaving him panting and drooling. Once he had recovered a bit he grabbed some toilet paper to wipe his mouth. "Shit."
"Yeah. I'll say."
He flushed the toilet and stood up, then turned around to rinse his mouth in the sink. "Ugh. Sorry."
"Tell me next time you feel like that. There are medicines that can spare you the worst of it."
"Came on fast," he said.
"Mmm. Well, that can happen. I'm just sorry you're so sick."
"Feel a little better now." He slowly ran a hand over his belly. "Pain's better, anyway."
i love when people sound so incredibly nauseated without vomiting. hiccups, huge wet burps, whimpers, moaning about how sick their tummy is, gagging, dry heaving, and yet whatever’s making them so sick refuses to come out
