Once again, it's great to see you back! This is for your chips prompt. Waking up to you sliding in the bed in the early hours of the morning. Turning over to wrap my arms around you just to hear you groan as I feel your bloated and distended tummy under my arm. I can help but give it a few gentle pokes as all the gas gurgles and groans in your belly. "Wow babe your really bloated up like a balloon, huh?" I say hearing you mumble back not to squeeze your tummy cause you already feel overinflated as it is. I do my best to resist, but as the minute's tick by your tummy, only gurgles more, getting more and more bloated with every rumble. Feeling your whole tummy rumble beneath my hand is the straw that breaks the camels back, and I can't help but pull you closer against me and start rubbing and squeezing the bloated dome of your tummy. Taking the palm of my hand and pushing on every inch of your tummy, starting from the tip and working down to your lower belly. Hearing you whine that it's too much pressure and not helping, but it doesn't slow me down at all. I start to press my fingers deep in your stomach, feeling the gas gurgle as it shifts inside you. All this movement and pressure is only making the bloating worse, and soon you're almost begging me to stop. Your tummy is so pumped up with gas that every jiggle and squeeze makes you feel like you'll pop. Laying you on your back so I can see the curve of your tummy. The orb slowly rising and falling like an overinflated balloon that seems to get just a tiny bit bigger with each breath as my hands move to your stomach once more you know your in for a long morning.
Response to Chips. Thank you!
I bite back a groan as I carefully slide into the bed. You're asleep and likely have been for hours while I let myself give-in to time-blindness and allowed myself to indulge in some sewing. The last four months have been pretty hectic and the most sewing or crafting I've done in those months has been to sew buttons back onto things. Having time to finally break out the sewing machine and do a few lines on a costume was too good of a thing to pass up. Unfortunately, that meant working through dinner and nodding off right there in my sewing area.
My stomach gurgles loudly, breaking the silence of the bedroom. My hands cradle my belly and I bite back a curse as I feel you begin to stir.
“Ah...nnngh...s-sorry...damn...I was trying to be quiet.” I huff as I feel your arms snake around my middle. I wince as your arm slides over my belly.
I feel like I swallowed a basketball and that something has been relentlessly inflating it while it sits like a rock in my belly. My intestines feel a balloon-animal in-progress. I skipped dinner and wound up eating four chips around 9PM. I know for a fact that my guts don't have anything substantial in them, and yet my belly is a drum-tight, distended orb.
“Oooh...nnngh...oww...” I squirm as the weight of your arm on my belly causes it to ache—my digestive tract under far, far, far too much internal pressure. I try to push your arm down, to have it around my hips rather than right over the crest of my achingly distended belly. Your arm may as well be a fallen tree for how little my shoving actually moves it. It's like you're part octopus and your fingertips have established a firm suction on the far side of my belly—immovable.
“Wow...you're really bloated, aren't you?” You observe, your other hand poking experimentally at the distended bulge of my belly.
“Heh...it's like a balloon.” You tease. Still, you stop your poking, choosing to slide your hands all over my belly instead, exploring the over-inflated expanse.
My stomach gurgles and grumbles. Minutes tick by where the only sounds in the room are the noises from my tummy, my strained groans and moans, and the sound of your hands sliding over my bare belly, having hiked my shirt up a long time ago.
“Hm? Is it...” You trail off.
“Ugh....nnngh...y-yeah....ooooh...i-it's...e-expanding? Oooh...it wasn't this bloated earlier. Damnit...w-what's in there?” I whine.
My stomach is a lot firmer under your hands than when I first slid into bed. The curve of my belly has definitely gotten more pronounced, almost like someone shoved the business end of a fire extinguisher in it and let it rip.
A particularly strained gurgle is what flips the switch in your mind—allowing concern to enter your mind rather than just pleasure. You sit up on the bed and pull me up with you, dragging me so that I'm half-sitting, half laying on your lap as you slide both hands all over my belly. You start up top, hands splayed around my ribs as you gently knead and press into it. As that does nothing, your hands trail down, poking and prodding and kneading all over my puffed-up intestines. Eventually. coming to rest on the lower part of the curve. You begin to squeeze, applying pressure with both of your palms and constructing with your arms and wrists on the sides of my achingly distended belly.
“Nnngh...b-babe...s-stop...oooooh...y-you gotta stop!” I protest, squirming and writhing as I try to escape your constriction. You're giving me your best impression of a boa constrictor, or like you're trying to be Dr. Pimple-popper and using my stomach as the worlds largest thing to burst.
I'm in tears now. My stomach is still disgustingly bloated and still feels like it is expanding and like the pressure is only increasing. Your rough treatment of my guts has only added a bruising ache all over my belly.
“Nnngh...b-babe...know what's missing? It ain't comin' out. Oooh...s-stop! Nnngh...y-you're makin' it worse!” I whimper. The tears get your attention and you stop jostling my distended belly. “Nnngh...ooooh....babe...nnngh...i-it really hurts!” I whine.
If it's even possible, my belly feels even more solid than when I slid into bed. Your actions have caused the bloating to increase exponentially, doubling or tripling the pressure inside my guts to the point that I swear my organs are straining, desperate to burst and let it be over with.
I'm a mess of moans and whimpers as you lower me back to the bed, moving my limbs around so that I'm laying squarely on my back. Your insist on hiking my shirt up, allowing my distended belly to be on full display like it's Mt. Everest or something.
I groan as I survey it. I'm used to my belly being relatively flat—to be able to see my toes and across the room if I lay flat. Right now, my view is partially obstructed by the basketball-sized mound that is my belly.
I see your fingers inching toward my belly and I sigh, resigning myself to a sleepless night.
“Nnngh...no pins tonight, babe. I...oooh...I'm really worried that I'll pop.” I lay out my conditions. “D-Don't be too rough with it...please? Oooh...I swear...I really do feel like something'll tear inside of me.”
If you had to give up sweets or the ability to read for a month either way, which would you pick?
Why does everyone think that sweets are my main priority?! Hmph, fine. If I had to choose between being giving up the ability to read and the ability to eat sweets for a month, I would choose sweets. I need the ability to read to pass my classes you know. I cannot afford to fail, especially for an entire month. Although I do find sweets enjoyable, I’m not some child who would make that their priority over success. It would be unpleasant but I would tolerate it. Sweet things don’t come exclusively in the form of candies and cakes after all, I’ll find a way through this one way or another. I swear it.
With your tummy already full of milk and starting to cramp up the only thing to do is hel "soothe" it poking your lower belly roughly while it twist into knots. Placing both my hand on your tummy and just squeezing. "Ahh is that to much pressure on your cramps aching tummy?"
A response to this post, I think? Thank you for your patience. It sat in my inbox for a month or so. I don't want to make excuses, but as an explanation: 6-day work-week + home project = dead-on-my-feet. I've been trying to craft a proper response to this ask all month...but I literally got to the point of opening a word-processor and promptly falling asleep after squinting at the screen brightness.
Wet gurgles churn through the earpieces of the stethoscope. I lean back on my pillows, indulging in the noises. At a glance, one might think that I'm relaxing to some classical music of some sort—it's almost a trope in movies and TV at this point where some wealthy dude (sometimes the 'bad guy') sits back and turns up the volume on some classical piece like 'Ode to Joy' or something as they sit back after a job-well-done with a sniffer of brandy or whatever. We ain't as a boujee as that—no classical music screaming 'taste' or 'wealth', no expensive sound-system, and no brandy. What I've got is a stethoscope pressed almost painfully into the middle-left of my torso,the round metal nudging at my stomach-organ with every breath as I have the diaphragm trained directly over my duodenum.
The gurgles are audible even without the stethoscope, but with it I am getting a much more immersive experience. It picks up all of the little, quieter gurgles and the parts too quiet to escape to the realm of audibility. It's because of the earpieces that I don't hear it when you walk into my room, pausing at the door to take in the sight of me blissed out and indulging in my stomach. A glass that once contained milk sits on my night-table, telling you all that you need to know about what's going on.
You watch for a minute, watch as my blissed-out calm eventually begins to shift. It starts with a sharp gurgle, an irregular tensing of my abdominals, and a wince on my face as the painless part of the indulgence moves onto the main event. Enough milk has entered my intestines—enough to irritate the works. By the third wave of cramping, I'm moaning quietly, the stethoscope slipping as I begin to knead at my tummy as the cramps build to something painful—like the difference between calm waves and sky-scraper-sized waves out on the ocean. The cramps that were cute and manageable have grown, built themselves up to the point where it's painful. My intestines spasm irregularly, giving me that tell-tale 'in knots' feeling that I dread so very much.
“Ah!” I startle as I feel the bed dip and finally open my eyes, seeing your unexpected presence. A blush colors my features, unbidden, as I realize you caught me indulging alone. I thought you were working today and thought that I'd have the day off and the place to myself to indulge in a little stress-relief.
You don't even ask, reaching out with both hands to palpitate my belly. It's barely noticeable, but it's definitely rounder and tighter just a little bit more than it was an hour ago as the milk reacts negatively in my intestines, generating some painful gas inside of my constricting intestines.
I moan deeply as your probing hands press on some painful points on my tummy. On my right is a painful gas-pocket that's stuck in a loop of intestine—unable to be pushed to one or the other side of the loop because of restrictive cramps on either end of the twist. On my left, your thumb is nudging at the lower part of my duodenum, trying to act as a catalyst ensuring that all of the milk is in my intestines. My intestines rumble fiercely and my stomach burbles sickeningly. A gross, puff of sour, hot air pushes up and out of my stewing digestive tract in a pitiful excuse for a burp.
“Ahh...is that too much pressure on your cramping, aching tummy?” You tease, whispering in my ear as you relent the pressure and slide your hands over, only to press more firmly on other points on my belly. Your palms dig into the centre of my lower belly, just beneath my navel. The pressure is intense enough for me to moan and give some pained exclamations as the pressure in my cramping intestines ramps up from the pressure. I feel like a tied-off-balloon being squeezed from the bottom, your hands pinching off some much-needed space for the expansion of all the gas and nastiness being generated by the milk. The entire mess is expanding, and you just pinched off some prime real-estate. My intestines scream at the pressure, threatening to burst and aching fiercely.
This is for your fizzing prompt! I would wake up hearing an audible fizzing noise. Turning over to ask you what it is just to see you laid on your back still asleep but your tummy is visibly bloated and actively fizzing. I gently place my hands on your tummy not to wake you up and I can feel your tummy slowly bloating even more as it fizzes. Slowly I start massaging and shaking your tummy squeezing maybe just a little to hard and shaking just a little to much as your tummy starts to fizz louder and bloat even more clearly upset by all the movement. A soft groan comes from your mouth as you slowly wake up seeing my hands on your bloated tummy already putting way to much pressure on it for how packed it feels.
Would love to hear your response to waking up to this!
Response to this post.
It's barely light out as you slowly wake up, wondering why you're up so early on a day off. A quiet groan and a shifting from your right draws your attention. I've shifted in my sleep, it seems, going from having been sleeping on my right side to rolling over onto my back. I'm a pretty restless sleeper, shifting positions both when I'm conscious and unconscious. This appears to be the latter as I'm still quite deeply asleep, it seems.
It's too early to wake up on a rare day off, so you intend to go back to sleep when something else draws your attention. A noise.
It's faint, but constant--like TV-static. Not quite…wetter than that. Fizzing? Raising an eyebrow, you sit up and listen, trying to hone in on the noise via closing your eyes and really concentrating on listening. We're not the type of people to bring food or drinks into the bedroom, so why are you hearing fizzing--like a freshly cracked can of Coca-Cola--so close? I'm still asleep and you're definitely not cracking open a cold one…so where's the noise coming from?
Your eyes roam around the room, sweeping the room and your attention starting from the edges and drawing closer as your ears tell you that the sound is closer. Eventually, you open your eyes--gaze landing squarely on my abdomen.
Our area has been under a heat-wave/intense-heat warning for the last week. It's pretty much the only way I'll ever consent to sleeping without blankets. I'm the type of person that always likes to be covered up when I sleep. I even invested in a spare flat bedsheet and even a lace-y one to give the feeling of a blanket, without trapping too much hot air. Unfortunately, four days straight of temperatures over 33C have finally chipped away at my itching to have a covering of some sort while I sleep. I'm clad in a camisole that's been washed and dried enough times that the material has shrunk. What used to rest around my hips now barely covers my navel area. It's an article of clothing that stays buried in my dresser and only sees the light of day or a wear when it's my last clean top or when it's hotter than 30C.
The little black tank-top rests on the slight curve of my belly--an unnatural curve to my usually trim figure. You can see the little dip in the fabric where my navel would be--right at the edge of the fabric as I take shallow, slow breaths--still asleep.
The fizzing noise is coming from there--from the slight, unusual swell you see before you.
You sit up, inspecting the unusual bloat for a while before you slide your left hand over the swell--running it over the soft cotton of my tank top, stretched over the unfamiliar bloat in my belly.
The pressure of your palm doesn't trigger much to happen, but you can feel the subtle sensations beneath your palms--even more so as you add your other hand, tracing a slow spiral over my belly--starting wide and ending with your palm on the crest of my belly.
You repeat the motion, repeating the spiral a few times over the next twenty minutes or so. At that point, you realize something: something is different. My navel is now clearly visible. Some of it due to your actions causing the tank-top to ride up, but not by that much. Your eyes widen as you inspect the pale strip of flesh between my sleep shorts and the hem of the tank-top. A rolling burble punctuates the moment you come to a realization: my belly is still bloating up. It's bigger than it was when you first laid eyes on it.
Grinning, you continue to rub spirals all over the bloated swell of my abdomen--pressing more firmly in places, pausing to give it a harsh shake or a poke when each hand reaches the apex of the swell. The spirals are faster now--always punctuated by a harsh shake or prod as the fizzing and gurgling begins to grow louder.
"Oh…mmmhh…oww…" I groan as an uncomfortable sensation rouses me from my sleep. "Nnngh…babe what's--what are you--mmph…" My voice is heavy with sleep and interrupted by pitifully short puffs of air too small to be considered burps.
I lay back, assessing the situation as I try to answer my own question. There's an uncomfortable pressure in my stomach and a weird 'fizzing' sensation all over--like I swallowed pop-rocks…or an Alka-Seltzer tablet or something. Not only is my gut 'fizzing', but it really does feel like there's something foaming around in there. Maybe it's just gas or just something blowing bubbles in whatever liquid is there…but it's really uncomfortable.
Your hands on my belly haven't done anything to soothe the sensations--if anything, you're stirring them up--coaxing more of the grumbling fizzing to occur.
The sharp jabs to my navel or to the bloated swell where my stomach-organ should be leave deep aches reverberating through my organs. The firm pressure you apply as you run your palms over the swell of my belly are quite painful--designed to stir things up rather than to soothe. I also note how you're switching the direction of the spiral every couple of passes--intent on shaking things up and keeping everything inside of me rather than coaxing anything in any particular direction. It's no wonder my belly has swelled in the few minutes that you've been awake--you've been consolidating, condensing everything with your random swirling palms--gathering up all that nastiness to nest in the very centre of my being.
"Nngh…b-babe? Oooh…p-please…c-could you…could you stop now? Nnngh…h-hurts. Oooh…d-damnit…owww…nnngh…lemme…le-let it out…please…nngh…n-need to…to…l-let something out." I mutter, trying to sit up.
I squirm, but you've straddled my hips, keeping me pinned to the bed. Your knees squeezing around my kidneys painfully. You pin my wrists above my head with your left as your right continues to jostle my achy belly, slapping and pinching at random as my belly continues to grumble and squeal from the pressure of everything being corralled into a giant mass of what feels like mostly air sitting heavy in the space between my ribs and my navel.
The stretch is intense. And the pressure--I feel like a balloon being inflated into a vice.
You continue to palm at the bloated swell of my belly and the sight of my now-much-shallower-navel brings a sense of satisfaction to your face. Almost ready. Like those meat thermometers or whatever that pop out when the internal pressure is ready or whatever--just a little more.
You continue your teasing massage, squeezing my guts roughly and delighting in the distressed squealing coming from my guts. You let your mind wander. What's next? It's too early to be awake on a day off, but you've got your favorite toy right in front of you. So…what are you going to do with it?
First of all I just wanna say that I love love looove this prompt and I can't wait to read everything that's gonna come from it. Seeing that it's something I enjoy I figured I could try and contribute as well.
Even though I'm at work we text every once in a while so you've already informed me of your issue. I suggested drinking some tea or milk or eating something that generally helps with digestion like prunes. But all of that has only made matters worse as none of it has digested and is now just a pile of food waiting to properly processed.
My shift has finally ended and I come home and find you curled up on the couch with your tummy in your hands, softly cradling the sensitive ball of trouble. You plead for my aid as you can no longer withstand the pain and tendernes of your poor tummy. I get to work as quick as possible and soon enough I manage to jump start the digestion process. This however comes with it's own price. Your gut is now overwhelmed by the amount of food and it starts contracting and trying to pace the incoming wave of food which gives you some horrid cramps. Because of this I have to sink my hands deeper and try to fight those cramps. This goes on for quite a while, a fight between me and your digestion until you finally process it all.
Thank you so, so much for this! A response to this post.
Sorry this took so long. Life got busy and left me no time to write anything. On top of that, I really, really, really wanted to write something worthy of this response.
Your phone pings, signalling a message. You duck into an empty room. It's a slow shift tonight. You're on-rotation and hoping that the hospital doesn't get too busy. A blush manifests on your face as you see what it is that I have sent you.
It's an image of my usually-trim belly with just a barely-there bulging curve to it. It's captioned “4 hours and counting -_-”.
A sound from somewhere down the hall tears your attention away from the phone, but you still type a quick response as you try to school your blush. You hurriedly tell me to drink some tea or something to settle my stomach. There's an incident with a patient at the end of the hall and you rush there, thoughts about me and about our conversation forgotten as you get to work.
I see the hurried message about tea and sigh, gently nursing the ball of indigestion that is my belly. I feel the contents churning in my stomach, rolling around between my palms. Unfortunately, that's about all it does. Very little has actually passed into my intestines despite dinner having been hours ago. We've been together long enough for the novelty of waiting up for each other to fade. When you draw night-shift I usually get a head-start with sleep and you do your best not to disturb me when you make it home. Unfortunately, dinner isn't settling well in my tummy tonight and sleep eluded me because of it.
Biting back a moan, I steel myself and stand up, both arms cradling my achy belly as I do so. I feel my stomach cramp and gurgle as the glut of food shifts inside of it. Taking a few seconds, I rub over my taut belly, kneading gently to try and manually break up what feels like a dense mass of food in my tummy. I can't help the groans and whimpers as I sluggishly move to the kitchen, setting the kettle up and rummaging around the cupboards for some tea. Of course, the peppermint just has to be on the top shelf. My stomach cramps painfully as I stretch to reach the box of tea leaves. Cosidering how we rely on peppermint tea as a stomach soother, we really should be keeping it on a lower shelf, somewhere easier to reach when either of us is doubled up with stomach pain (usually me).
My stomach burbles angrily within me as I watch the kettle come to a boil. I try my best to sooth it, even pressing my belly against the counter-top to try and get any sort of relief. It never comes.
Two hours since my last message and you've finally hit a lull at work. You duck into another quiet room and pull out your phone. Surely I've gone to bed by now, but you decide to check if there are any updates about the state of my stomach.
'(11:43P) Made tea. Need to stop putting peppermint out-of-reach.'
'(12:14A) Didn't help. Dinner is bobbing around in my stomach. Feels weird. Need your hands, babe.'
A short audio file has been sent after that text and you blush scarlet as you tap on it and hear a sickly, wet grumble from a clearly-distressed belly. When one thinks 'indigestion'--that's the kind of sound they think of—wet, thick, sickly, and troubled.
You quickly type out a response.
'(1:40AM) You damned tease.'
Your phone reads 4:07AM when you finally reach the door to our apartment and fumble quietly with the keys. You do your best to minimize any noise, thinking that I'd have gone to sleep by now.
Quietly entering our apartment, your gaze follows the faint glow coming from the living room. I left the standing lamp on, it seems. What surprises you is that I'm under the lamp, leaning on the far side of the couch with my knees up and my arms sandwiched against my belly.
“Sweetie? What are you still doing up?” You whisper, quietly padding over to the couch.
“Nnngh....w-welcome home.” I mutter passed a groan. I whimper as you settle on the couch next to me, the action jostling me and sending shockwaves through my sickly tummy. A shaky rumble squeezes out from behind my arms as you settle.
“Oh? Is your belly still upset?” You're surprised—even more so when I nod and cuddle up to you. I grab your arms as I settle against your chest, quickly placing your hand over my belly as I uncurl slightly from the tense ball I've been in for hours. My legs protest the change in position but I ignore the cramps, trying to focus on the feeling of your hands on my belly and waiting for the relief I hope you'll bring.
My belly has a bit more of a curve to it compared to the photo I sent you hours ago. The curve surprises you as you had expected the bloating to subside after all these hours. The idea of me having spent hours with such a visibly uncomfortable belly stirs both pity and lust in your mind.
Audible, wet grumbles resound with every knead of your palms on my belly. You palpitate my abdomen, exploring it. There's a large mug on the coffee table, about 1/3 full of the remnants of peppermint tea. Three tea-bags rest at the bottom of the mug. Knowing my tea-drinking habits, you quickly calculate and decide that it means a little over five and a half mugs of tea have made their way into my bowels.
My intestines are bloated with the sheer amount of tea that I managed to consume. It didn't really help and only served to make my guts really sloshy. The stubborn mass of dinner sits heavily in my stomach, refusing to be broken down no matter how much my stomach clenches around it and my stomach has basically given up at this point. Hours of futile churning haven't managed to dislodge the sticky mass. My stomach is sore from trying, and failing, to digest for so many hours. I'm exhausted from being kept up waaaay passed my normal sleeping hours with this unrelenting indigestion.
Your kneading hands get to work on my stomach, deftly mapping out the situation in my guts and working accordingly. You are very familiar with this process as I suffer from indigestion fairly frequently. We find ourselves in similar situations, though on a lesser scale, at least three times a week.
A well-placed pinch to the left side of my abdomen, in tandem with three of your fingers pushing deeply and stimulating a loop of intestine on my right side results in a sickly rumble. I gasp as I feel a chunk of the sticky mass in my belly break off and get passed the sphincter at the base of my stomach.
“Ooooh...fuckin' finally!” I moan as peristalsis rolls in waves through my bloated intestines, seeking out the bit of food that managed to enter after hours and hours of indigestion.
Love your I think I ate to much prompt so here's my response.
As I lead you away from the restaurant I can tell your full to the brim. I can hear your tummy gurgle and groan as we walk down the street. Slowly I take your arm in mine and subtly start rubbing your overstuffed belly. Feeling it groan and gurgle beneath my fingers I rub harder squeezing and squishing your packed belly as I hear it complain loudly about how I'm treating it. Watching you try and keep your composure as we walk while I abuse your swollen stomach.
Response to this.
I bite back a groan as my stomach churns. It's getting dark out and sound travels more easily at night and near bodies of water. We parked along the river flowing through our city--about a 15 minute walk from the restaurant we ended up going to. It's date-night and the walk along the river by starlight was meant to be romantic. Too bad that I can't see it in that light. My mind is entirely focused on my stomach and how uncomfortably full it is.
Once we cross the road and get on the side overlooking the river, you press in close to me, taking the side closer to the roadside.You take my right arm in your left, tangling them together under the coat I have draped across that arm. Your right hand crosses over and sneakily press it against the side of my engorged stomach. A wet hiccup is forced up and I glare at you. The glare loses a bit of it's bite as it's accompanied by a sickly, wet burble from my over-burdened belly. You grin, palming at my stomach and pressing into it. Your actions stir up my distended guts, churning up the contents and increasing the activity within. My stomach is suddenly five times more vocal with all of the sickly, wet noises getting three times more audible. Maybe it's the quiet night or how sound travels further at night and near bodies of water…my stomach is clearly audible and very, very vocal as you squeeze and rub all over it. Occasionally, you pat firmly at random spots on my belly, your open palm thumping against my solid gut that doesn't have much give. Each pat results in a deep sound, like you're smacking an overly juicy watermelon. Of course, there's probably around 1.5 litres of broth in my belly, along with the noodles, meat, and vegetables that came with it. If that weren't enough, you also ordered about three different kinds of appetizers and insisted on at least half of them ending up in my tummy. Each smack to my jam-packed belly causes my steps to falter as I can feel the shockwave from the harsh pats rippling through my bloated guts.
Halfway to our car, I double over, crouching on the sidewalk with my arms wrapped around my tender, bloated belly as it cramps sharply. The unholy, liquidy rumble that accompanies the cramp is clearly audible, sounding almost as loud as the noises of the city--rushing cars, honking assholes, the train-whistle in the distance.
"Babe? What's wrong?" You ask, playing coy. There's no way in hell you don't know what's up.
"Nnngh...ah...oww...nnngh...I...I think I...*ulp*...m-my...m-my tummy...ooooh....ah...ouch...nnngh...I a-ate too much." I groan out the response, ending with a pout as my stomach grumbles unhappily, compressed as it is in my crouched position.
