Theme(s): Stuffing, second person POV, reader insert, anonymous feeder, anonymous feedee, praise, overstuffing
You tell yourself it's not that weird.
It's a Thursday, technically Friday if you count that it's the dead of night, and you are sitting in your living room—laptop on your lap, Netflix on the TV (muted), and your phone propped at the ready in case you get an emergency call from work. The office isn't open, but your manager is a demon and has drilled "availability" into your head like a dentist treating cavities with a jackhammer.
You're also naked except for a pair of worn-out gym shorts, and the waistband has folded over like a sad taco shell, unable to contain what it's supposed to contain. Your stomach, even before tonight's debauchery, has always been "roomy" (an old friend's word, uttered years ago and one you've never quite shaken off) but now it's ballooning, not with pride, but with a gutful of neon-bright candy, three bagels, and a large takeout container of pad thai that's currently forming a heavy layer atop the rest.
And you are, for reasons best not to examine, actively feeding yourself more.
The window open in your browser is the chat app from a website called GulpIt. As the name suggests, it's a website for people who like watching or hearing about other people eating enormous quantities of food. There are subforums for recipes, for "encouragement," for "fantasy." It is not the sort of website you mention in polite company, or even to your therapist, who might Google it out of morbid curiosity and then cancel your next session.
The stranger you've been chatting with calls themselves Bellybud. You've never seen their face, only a rotating cast of blurry, over-cropped avatars. Bellybud is, according to themselves, "an enthusiast of all things squishy." They live in a city far enough away that you doubt you'll ever run into them at Target. They are funny, disarmingly sweet, and a little too good at getting you to do things you normally wouldn't do on your own.
You stare at the blinking cursor on your screen. Your last message, sent exactly forty-seven seconds ago, reads: 'That's probably enough, right? lol'
Then a new message pops up.
Bellybud: Only if you want to quit ;P
You glance at your belly, which looks like it belongs to someone who has just finished competing in a hot dog-eating contest. There is a shiny tightness to your skin, like it's been stretched to within an inch of its life. Heat radiates from it like an old incandescent bulb that's been left on for ages. You can practically feel your stomach sluggishly churning.
You: haha i dont wanna die
Bellybud: You won't! You're doing so well, omg. I'm so proud of you.
There it is again—the praise. It's embarrassing how easily it works on you. You squirm a little on the couch, which only makes your overpacked stomach shift and gurgle more. You take a swig of Sprite to settle it, which immediately has the opposite effect.
The fridge is calling to you. Or, more accurately, Bellybud is calling to you, via text, via the small voice in your head that you have let belong to them for the last month and a half.
Bellybud: What else do you have left? It's inventory time!! :D
You get up, feeling like a ship listing to one side, and trundle to the kitchen. The light is too bright. The linoleum is cold and sticky in spots, which you can only blame on yourself, since no one else lives here.
You open the fridge. There's the remainder of yesterday's pizza, the better part of a key lime pie, half a liter of heavy cream from a failed Alfredo experiment, and three or four full-sized Snickers bars. You type it all out for Bellybud, who responds instantly:
Bellybud: Key lime pie!! PLEEEEEEAAAASE
You sigh, but something about the anticipation is weirdly thrilling.
So you fetch the pie. It's heavier than you expect, and as you set it on the counter, you realize with a mixture of dread and excitement that it's still mostly whole, save for the single sliver you tried earlier at lunch. You grab a fork, consider for a moment, and then just grab the whole pie, too, figuring that it's not worth dirtying another plate just to serve dessert on.
You waddle back to the couch, balancing the pie tin like a tray, and glance at the chat:
You: k pie is here
Bellybud: Yassss. Take a pic? If you want.
You hesitate for exactly five seconds. There is no way in hell you are sending a photo of your actual face, or any part of your upper body above the navel. But you can angle it right, crop out identifying bits, and maybe even get a little validation for the swelling, veined orb of your midsection. You rest the pie on your lap, position the phone, and snap a picture of your stomach, your hand holding the fork, and the shimmering green surface of the pie.
Bellybud: OMG! You look soooooo good! Like, so stuffed. It's so cute how tight your skin is! Are you gonna be able to finish it?
Your stomach makes a vulgar sound that you hope isn't audible through the apartment walls. The tightness, the ache, the sense that one more ounce will do tragic things to all your internal plumbing—none of it seems real when you're looking at it through the funhouse mirror of your phone screen. Not when you have such an eager audience for your gluttony.
You: idk, but im gonna try
Bellybud: That's my favorite thing about you <3
