You feel it before you fully wake - the low, incessant hum, pulsing deep. A moan slips from your lips before you can stop it. Pleasure and frustration. Your thighs twitch, clenching around the growing heat, a fading dullness bound on how tightly your body lies confined. How heavy your limbs feel, wrapped under the weight of yourself.
Where is it? You grope blindly in the sheets, fingers scrabbling over sweaty blankets. Nothing. Your breathing quickens as you try to remember.
You shift, twisting awkwardly, hips crunching the springs of the mattress as you stretch toward the nightstand. No, not there. Maybe you dropped it. Arching, sucking in, you face the floor. A choked sound escapes your throat as another wave of sensation rolls through you.
Your eyes snap open. His room is dark, save the soft glow from your phone on the dresser, blinking with unread messages. Speckled air falls thick and warm, your scent clinging to the sheets.
You try to move, try to grasp between your legs to pull the vibrator out, but as soon as your fingers slip beneath the thick swell of your belly, you feel yourself strain. Tense. Freeze.
You canāt reach. Panic lances through you. Your once flat belly presses down on your thighs, bunching against your wrist as you fumble uselessly. Your fingers graze the sensitive skin between your legs, but itās not enough - you canāt get the right angle; canāt grasp the toy buried deep inside you.
You shift again, trying to roll to one flabby side, but the mattress bends and sinks, holding you in place like a soft, suffocating trap.
And then it happens. The vibrations intensify.
A whimper catches your throat. Heās watching. Somewhere heās holding the remote, smirking while you struggle, feeding off your helplessness. You muster enough will to try again, flinging your arms, shunting your shoulders to edge your stomach away, but the effort is exhausting. You falter, your rolls sandwich the pillows, the pressure mounting within.
You pant, electricity trickling down your sides, ripples wafting in the folds of your flesh. Youāve felt yourself losing your grip, getting bigger - clothes growing tighter, the climb up the stairs slowing, roundness creeping in where there was once definition. You told yourself it was fine. That he loved your curves, that sex was easier when there was more of you to caress.
But you realise now that this isnāt just indulgence. This is you corralled. Cattle-proddedā¦
The remote buzzes again. Higher.
Your blubbery body jerks with ecstasy, thighs trembling as the rush rockets through you. You pound at the sheets, desperate to ground yourself, but itās too much. Youāre too full, too sensitive, every inch of you thrumming with stimulation.
āStop,ā you gasp. You donāt know if he can hear you.
Up ratchets the intensity. Your whole body quivers. You used to be so much fitter. Your breath comes in ragged sobs. Your fingers dig into your fat, frenzied, searching. You buck again, trying to sit up, but the bulk wrests you down, keeps you in your place, makes you weak and pliant beneath the relentless pleasure.
Tears sting your eyes. You canāt move. Canāt function. Too enthralled. The room sways around you, shimmering. Too overwhelmedā¦
You donāt know how long it lasts. Minutes? Hours? Time stretches, warps, becomes nothing but implosion. The remoulding of your every swelling inch, stretching you out. When the vibrations finally stop, you feel like jelly. Sopping. Overspilling.
You donāt try to remove it again.
You just lie there, fat, blushing in darkness, caught between exhaustion and expansion, chest rising and falling. Hundreds of poundsā¦
The stairs rankle. The door handle turns.
And you wonder - whoās coming next?
