As I walk in from another day of work I see you once again working when your supposed to be resting. Your doing dishes again making sure every single pot and pan is in place. I'm surprised there's any dirty dishes to do with how little you've been eating this last week. As I quietly walk into the kitchen I can tell your definitely still sick. Your tummy still looks visibly bloated even from where I stand. It's like a balloon that's slowly been getting bigger this last week despite how hard it's been to get you to eat anything. I also see your chicken soup sitting on the dinning table. It looks like you've barely had any! "Hey honey I'm home. What did I tell you about letting me do the housework while your sick?" You slowly turn to me and I can tell by the blush on your face your running a fever. You don't say much just "I'm fine" as your tummy let's out an audible groan. "Your belly thinks otherwise you must be hungry" I say as we both sit down at the table. You try and shake your head no but by then I've already got a spoon of soup in your mouth encouraging you to swallow. Slowly but surely I feed you the rest of the soup despite your protest. Just as we finish you let out a wet sounding belch and another moan. I help you stand and see how firm and bloated you belly is. Filled to bursting with soup and everything else it's refused to digest. "I think someone deserves some rubs for finishing all that soup" I wrap my arms around your tummy feeling the rock hard lump of your stomach. "Baby your hands are putting to much pressure on my tummy it doesn't feel good" but I keep rubbing anyway enjoying the groans you and your tummy are making a little to much.
The following is almost exactly how I imagine such a scenario would go in real-life. I'm not exaggerating how I felt when I was sick--my belly really did feel so insanely bloated that I was literally swallowing back sour liquid all day when I was sick. It didn't help that I was so congested and had such a sore throat that the thought of vomiting terrified me because it was a surefire way to suffocate. My bloated belly was taking up too much room and I couldn't get enough air so I was constantly short of breath...had a partner actually tried anything with my belly, I absolutely would have spewed and likely suffocated/drowned due to all that liquid flooding the one path I had left with which to breathe.
You walk in to our shared apartment an note that I'm at the dish-washer, carefully trying to place a stubborn pan with an awkward handle.
“Hey, honey. I'm home. What did I tell you about letting me do the housework while you're sick?”
Even with the obvious fever, it's clear that I'm glaring at you. I quickly grab the pen and notebook on the counter that's been my primary means of communicating since the sickness robbed me of my voice.
'The less you handle my used cups, the better.'
I quickly open the fridge and point out the packed lunch I've set aside in the usual spot for you. I then gesture at the slow-cooker with a singular portion within it on the keep-warm function on the kitchen counter.
“I'll eat now.” You inform me.
I nod and begin plating up your meal, ladling the curry over a portion of rice and setting the plate on the kitchen table. I move to remove the cooled bowl of chicken broth that I gave up trying to eat some time ago. My stomach grumbles angrily, sickly and bloated despite the fact that I have yet to eat anything today.
“Was that your stomach? Sit.” You call out.
I shake my head, but you're already tugging on my arm, dragging me to sit in one of the dining chairs. I set the cold soup back on the table to avoid spilling it. You quickly whisk it away, setting it in the microwave to reheat.
“ N-Not hungry.” I protest, my voice barely sounding beyond the congestion and sore-throat I'm speaking through. I palm at my belly, feeling no give beneath my palm.
“That's just the sickness talking. Appetite or not, you need to eat.” You mutter, coming back with the re-heated soup.
Before I can grab the spoon to feed myself, you've already taken it into your hand and are bringing a spoonful to my lips. I squirm away from it and pat at my tummy, hoping you'll get the message. I wince at the slight jostling to my bloated belly. My stomach is visibly distended and it feels completely full despite the fact that the soup is still in the bowl. I feel very water-logged, as though the soup is already in my belly despite it very clearly being in the bowl. My stomach grumbles angrily at the patting and I quickly stop, swallowing back against the sudden nausea.
I gesture to your dinner, ignored on the other end of the table.
“You first.” You say, leaning closer to continue spoon-feeding me the unwanted soup. “You must be hungry. It's dinner-time, babe. You made this for yourself at 1PM—you sent a picture. Same bowl and everything.” You had left a note, instructing me to text you when I got up and when I got around to eating. Had I not sent proof of being awake and eating, you would have gone out of your way to pick up something on the way home with which to feed to me.
I gag more than a couple of times before the bowl finally empties. Every breath comes with a wet little 'slap' lapping at the back of my throat as I swallow back against the hot liquid trying to escape my bloated tummy.
A short, sharp, and very wet sounding belch erupts from my belly, unbidden. I slap a hand over my mouth, willing myself not to be sick.
“Oh? Is your belly full?” You tease. I nod, one hand still clapped over my mouth and the other resting on the side of my distended belly as I feel the soup tickling at my throat. I feel like a thermometer in a children's science-class—with the liquid-y contents rising and falling rapidly, being manipulated by people that don't care to understand what's actually going on inside. I feel very much like an abused thermometer, like any second now something's going to crack and spew dangerous liquid absolutely everywhere.
“I think someone deserves some tummy rubs. You did so good, finishing all that soup.” You coo at me as you help me stand.
We slowly make our way to the couch. It's a short distance, but it takes us maybe four times as long as normal to reach it as I stumble, cradling my belly and doubling over every time I feel like I'm about to let everything out. 'Bloated' is an understatement for how ridiculously, painfully full my stomach feels. Imagine filling a glass of water to the absolute brim, liquid forming a meniscus just above the rim of the glass. That is basically how my belly feels in this moment—filled to the point of overflowing, with the liquid constantly threatening to spill over as we move across our apartment.
Your hand brushes across my belly and I hiss, moaning as my mouth floods with something hot and salty. You slide your hand over my belly, not really applying any pressure, but even that light touch is enough to disturb the delicate balance inside of me.
“B-Babe...nnngh...t-that really doesn't feel good on my—o-on my—ulp--on my tummy.” I murmur, stopping to swallow back some hot, sour liquid in the middle of my statement. “Ooooh...n-no rubs...p-please? Too much—urp---p-pressure.” I can't believe I'm refusing belly rubs...but I'm too full. My stomach is rock-solid beneath our palms even though it feels like it's full of liquid.
Even the idea of sitting down on the couch in front of us fills me with dread. Bending at the waist at all sounds like a very, very bad idea right now. My belly feels bloated enough to spontaneously rupture all on it's own and I really don't want to test the durability of my stomach. My own hand is barely skimming my clothed belly, careful to be there just to sort of guard my achingly full belly rather than actually touch it.
“Nonsense! There's nothing a little belly rub can't fix!” You exclaim, slapping me playfully on the back as you do so. The shockwave of the slap reverberates through my bloated belly and my mouth floods with hot soup even as you push your other hand incessantly on the achiest part of my belly as you apply what you believe is a sure-fire way to fix my digestive issues. Either way, my stomach has decided that it's done feeling so full-up. Something's going to give, and it's going to give very, very quickly.
Responding to: "Ugh...nnngh...I...uhm...I think I...ate too much..."
"What did you eat?" I ask curiously. I want to know what's inside your big, bloated belly right now.
I wait for you to respond. "Oh you really did eat a lot...Didn't you?"
You complain that your tummy hurts.
"Come here," I say. "I'll make it feel better,"
I start rubbing your tummy with gentle circles at first.
But soon I start kneading your full tummy with my hands. I'm being quite rough now, poking and patting at your stomach and digging my fingers and thumb into the tight flesh.
Thank you so much! One of the most descriptive RP-Asks I've ever received ^^ I hope I did it justice! This one's actually got some kernels of truth to it. Pretty much everything but the imagined partner here actually happened to me today and my belly is still ridiculously bloated from eating too much and lugging around 2L of food and broth around inside of me up a hill. Living vicariously through fiction, I guess. I wish I had someone like the partner described here.
The sun's rays are blinding as I slowly trudge my way up the hill to our building-complex. I pause, my right foot in front of me. My stomach sloshes audibly and I groan, palpitating my stomach as it continues to burble.
The bus driver on the way home was a new driver and hadn't yet learned to stop when the passengers hit the stop button. There's a bus stop about seven blocks from our condo-complex near the top of the hill. I usually get off there, despite it being on the other side of the crest of the hill, because the alternative is a stop about three blocks away...at the bottom of the hill. I hit the button for my usual stop and tried signalling the driver that I was getting off, but the driver stubbornly insisted on flooring it...all the way down the hill.
I finally managed to get off at the bottom of the hill, after myself and five other passengers yelled to get the driver's attention. After much grumbling from everyone that had intended to get off at some point prior to winding up at the bottom, we finally managed to leave the bus.
It's “only” three blocks, but it's three blocks uphill and with some nasty curves thrown in there just for fun. This is the kind of slope low-riding cars have trouble getting up in the winter. This is the kind of hill that has a road-sign prohibiting tobogganing down it in the winter because it's that much of a problem. This is the kind of slope that makes exhausted people lose hope when they realize the last leg of their journey home is this incline.
I had a shorter shift at my workplace today, but it was an intense one. We were more busy than the boss anticipated and we were down two staff members so I ended up doing an extra hour for them. I was debating grabbing food the whole way home...and the novice driver made my decision for me. There's a Vietnamese noodle joint at the bottom of the hill. Because it's at the bottom of the hill, I rarely find myself in the area. I made a beeline for the place after getting off of the bus, hungry as I was.
As I cradle my sloshing tummy, I'm regretting my choice to grab food. I was definitely running on fumes before getting to the restaurant and would have likely had to pause halfway up the hill due to lack of energy...but my current state isn't much more desirable.
My stomach is firm between my hands. I forgot that this restaurant specializes on large portions. We usually split a single bowl between the two of us when we make time to go to this location. Roughly 1.75 litres of noodles, broth, and beef is sloshing around between my palms at this moment. I say 1.75 because I don't want to imagine two or more litres worth of anything inside of me at any given time, but honestly, it feels like over two litres if I'm being honest and if we include the large glass of ice water that I had with the meal, then easily more than two litres of stuff is in my belly right this second.
After quelling the worst of the stretch, I start to walk again, this time bracing my engorged stomach with a hand as I continue my way up the hill. I have to pause every ten or fifteen steps or so because my stomach cramps harshly around the sheer glut of food, protesting all the movement. You never realize how much the simple act of walking actually jostles your stomach until you're bloated like a waterballoon and trying desperately not to burst or puke as you go.
At last, I finally see the crest of the hill. I've got a palm on the crest of my belly and the irony isn't lost on my. I bite back a few moans as another wave of painful cramps ripples through my belly.
I can see our condo-complex coming into view and the sight is a small relief. I pat my churning belly, having been mentally berating and pleading with it to not ache until I got home.
Beep! Beep!
I turn around as the hood of your car comes into view and I curse my luck.
“Hey! Get in!”
I get in, settling into the passenger seat of your car with a sigh. I wince as the movement as well as the shift in position pushes my bloated belly into my diaphragm. I can't help but groan and squeeze my tummy, desperately pleading with it not to make me throw up.
“Whoa! You okay?” You've noticed my discomfort. Honestly, you thought something was strange based on how I was paused going up the hill.
“Mmmmngggh...I...ugh...It's fine...nnngh...j-just...oooh...I...uhm...I think I...I ate too much.” A blush floods my cheeks. A little late for embarrassment now though. With that thought in mind, I recline the seat, giving my swollen belly more room as I lie back. I massage my stuffed belly. No use hiding it anyway—you're bound to find out—especially if it continues to be so audible.
“Oh my! What did you eat?” You stare at my belly, eyes full of wonder and curiosity.
“Nnngh...t-that noodle place down the hill. Bus driver ignored requests to stop until we got down there.” The latest cramp begins to fade, giving me a brief respite. “Y'know...the place with the huge servings?”
“Oh! Wow...yeah, I remember. You ate all of that?!”
I nod, my expression the picture of 'regret'. You reach over, placing a palm gingerly over my belly, hidden beneath my baggy T-shirt. As your palm makes contact with the crest of my belly, your eyes widen, shocked at how taut my stomach feels beneath the fabric. Despite your intent of it being a gentle touch, the contact of your palm on the tightest part of my stomach triggers a painful, aborted hiccup to roll through me. My diaphragm doesn't have enough space to properly convulse in a full hiccup, so what happens is a pitiful jolting of my bloated guts that leaves me gasping.
“Oh, poor thing. You really did eat a lot, didn't you?” You hear the aborted hiccup and the way my stomach grumbles angrily at your touch.
I nod again, moaning as my stomach aches in earnest. “M-My...my tummy hurts...nnngh...so full.”
“Aww. C'mere. I'll make it feel better.” I can't exactly go over to you in our current positions with the centre console in the way, but you park the car, turn off the ignition, and undo your seatbelt, turning yourself 90 degrees to face me head-on as your reach out with both of your hands to my achy belly.
A wet burble and a pitiful groan are wrenched from me as your palms make contact with my overburdened stomach. You start with gentle circles, causing the mess in my guts to swirl pitifully around inside of me. I feel sicker by the minute, feeling my stomach's contents moving at an accelerated pace. My stomach begins to cramp again in another attempt to digest the sheer glut of food.
You feel the beginnings of the cramp and you grin. Pressing your thumbs above my navel and a bit to the left, you knead into my bloated gut with all the strength you can muster
“Hlk!” My eyes snap open wide as I feel you digging your thumbs into my belly. My shock and the green tinge that seems to darken at your actions spurs you to continue.
You continue to squeeze my belly, pushing your fingers deep into my angry guts. I can't help but whimper as you abuse my bloated belly. Trying to smack your hands away isn't having much effect and anything more than that would require sitting up—something I desperately do not want to do right now with how stuffed my tummy feels right now. Every time I try to use my words, your actions steal my words with a sharp hiccup or by encouraging a painful cramp. More than a few times, I've clamped my mouth shut out of fear that the burning feeling simmering away at the base of my esophagus will rise and come out.
I want to cry. My stomach is agonizingly full, feeling like it's going to rupture—and here you are, seemingly intent on bursting me like a waterballoon.
Hey, this is the same anon whose hunger ask you answered on 22nd January! Just wanted to say your rp response was unexpected but delightful! You really have a way with words.
And for the Manual Stimulation starter:
I tiptoe downstairs, expecting to see you watching tv...only to find you on the couch with a still full stomach. My own one growls loudly, but I ignore it. It's been four hours since dinner - I can eat in the morning.
'What's wrong?' I want to ask, but I know what's up. Your stomach cannot disgest everything on its own, I realise now. Maybe I have been too lenient with the tummy rubs.
I sit down next to you on the couch. "It's okay, I'm here," I say to you. "Wow, you must've loved the mac and cheese, huh?" I say, smiling affectionately as I begin to massage your belly. At the mention of mac and cheese, my middle rumbles louder for food. I again ignore it. Honestly, so impatient!
I continue to massage your belly, hoping it begins to digest soon. I press a bit harder on it, whilst my own groans with hunger.
Wow, January 22? I'm shocked people are keeping date-stamps ^^ I had to go back into my archives to look for the post in question. Yeah, I enjoyed writing that one.
A familiar squeaking of one of the stubborn steps startles me out of my reverie. I jump in my seat, but soon settle when I realize it's just you.
"Hmm? Sweetie, what are you still doing up?" You yawn, rubbing the sleep from your eyes as you shuffle into the living area. Your stomach gives a hollow growl, revealing your own reason for venturing out of bed.
"Nngh…i-it's nothing. C-Couldn't sleep and I didn't wanna wake you." I mutter.
I can't help the wave of hot jealousy that washes over me at hearing your stomach growl--already hungry and demanding more food. I guess neither of us can really brag as the states of our tummies are what have us awake at almost 4AM…though for very different reasons.
I expect you to shuffle onward to the kitchen and fix yourself a "midnight" snack. Instead, my stomach gurgles sickeningly as it's jostled when you settle on the couch next to me.
"What's wrong?" You ask me seriously, reaching out to lay a palm over my belly, hidden under an oversized hoodie. Your eyes widen at the taut curve of my belly that meets your hand, not having much give to it even four hours after dinner. "Aww. You must have loved the mac and cheese, huh?" You mutter, gently kneading at my belly. "You're so full." You assume I snuck down to have seconds or something.
"Nnngh…oww…y-yeah…it was good…four hours ago." I snarl through gritted teeth as my stomach ache intensifies at your actions.
"Four? Still? This is from dinner?" Your eyes widen, palm slowing at the incessant kneading as you realize what's been keeping me up. I'm not up because I snuck down for a midnight snack. I'm up because dinner is still sitting like a rock in my stomach, overstaying it's welcome and causing all sorts of problems. "Aww…poor tummy." You coo at my stomach as the gurgles intensify under your touch. You continue your massage, but focus more on kneading at my intestines rather than at teasing my engorged stomach-organ. While you love teasing it when I overindulge, prodding at it after it's been straining for hours doesn't sit well with you. Guilt washes over you as you recount how the day went and begin to think this is your fault.
We had mac and cheese for dinner tonight--a rare treat 'cuz we both love it, but the ingredients are pretty expensive and we rarely ever have time for home-cooking. It's also not exactly a light dish so we don't indulge often. I stopped myself after two servings at dinner while you went for a third. We still had half the pan to put in the fridge as leftovers. The two servings didn't make me full, but I knew my poor tummy would struggle to digest something so heavy and I didn't want a 'too full' ache to accompany the upset that would no doubt happen. We've been burning the candle at both ends and been extremely busy for the last couple of months. When you went for your third serving, I assumed you'd be adding 'food coma' to 'exhaustion' in reasons that you'd be conking out pretty soon after dinner, leaving me with no help in trying to coax my stubborn stomach to digest.
Your stomach growls loudly and I frown, reaching over. The oversized pajama top you have on isn't buttoned all the way and it isn't hard for me to brush aside the loose fabric to reveal your adorable navel and the source of the hollow growls.
"Nnngh…you're loud." I mutter, deftly sliding a finger into your navel without warning. I feel you shudder at the sensation as my nail scratches at the sensitive flesh inside.
We continue this way, with you massaging my stomach, trying to coax it into digesting and with me poking at your stomach, particularly your cute little navel, whenever it growls. I poke deeply into your navel in retaliation whenever your massage gets a little too far on the painful side. As you get closer to me on the couch, I throw in a few descriptive phrases--mostly focused on food and the dinner we had hours ago, delighting in your shivers as the phrases cause your stomach to clench in hunger.
"Seriously, though, babe--weren't you coming down for a snack?" I ask you as the room begins to brighten. Apparently, we've been at this for a little over two hours.
"Nnngh…later." Your face is set in a determined pout and it seems you're set on getting my stubborn guts to digest before you fill your own belly.
I lean back on the couch, trying to relax as I remove my own hands from my tummy, letting you have free reign as you work your magic. The house is silent, save for the grumbling coming from both of our stomachs.
I went to bed with a hungry tummy last night. It didn't start growling until my head hit the pillow. Unfortunately, it was passed 2AM and I have to be up at 8 to get ready for work. I'm writing this now because I was rudely awoken by some intense hunger pangs around 6AM...so...yeah...have this.
Write me a continuation, RP-Ask or RP-Lite. What would you do in this scenario? Hunger-fiends welcome. I was leaning more toward keeping it empty in this scenario--but...yeah...surprise me. Inspire me. Let's see what you've got!
Quietly, I stagger into our dark bedroom. You're already in-bed--asleep, from the looks of it. I drew closing shift tonight and transit has left a lot to be desired. I opted to brush my teeth and such in the bathroom furthest from our shared bedroom to avoid waking you.
I wasn't supposed to work closing tonight. I was opener and it was supposed to be a shorter shift. Apparently, the two other people that were scheduled at the food-job today chose to not show up for whatever reason. I didn't find out until 40 minutes after my scheduled end-of-shift. It's a food job--the posted schedule is just a guideline; you don't end your shift until someone comes to relieve you (unless you're closer). Boss begged me to stay until they could sort out who would be closing. I watched the clock, serving the massive influx of customers that started 10 minutes after my scheduled end-of-shift. 40 minutes after my scheduled home-time, I finally texted to ask what was up. No closer. Boss had claimed to have called every person on our staff roster and literally nobody would come in to close. Boss begged me to remain, to close up shop. I was ready to say 'no', but more customers were coming in and I was literally the only staff member in the store from open to close. It was either serve 'em, or boycott my shift and be fired.
Our hours of operation today were 8AM-10PM...meaning I started my shift at 7:30AM and was supposed to clock out by 10:30PM at the absolute latest. Yeah...clearly that didn't work out. Another bogus policy here: if you leave stuff undone for tomorrow (i.e. dishes, or leave the prep undone) you get written up...and with enough write ups, you're fired and/or have your hours cut. Higher ups don't care about the circumstances--"not done is not done", they'll tell you as they write you up and call you a "problematic" employee on their employee files. Yes...it's a craptacular job...but customers are pretty generous with their tips and free/discounted food is a win in these times.
Speaking of 'food'...I didn't have any today. There was not a single moment where I could break for lunch because I was the only staff in the shop all day and customers decided to come in waves. I'd clear one wave and have barely enough time to wipe down the serving area before a new set of 3-5 customers would stroll in. I was stressed out and constantly busy...so I guess I ignored the clenching and rumbles from my tummy all day. It's shocking what stress will do to you.
I'm definitely feeling it now...but it's late, I'm already in bed, and I don't want to be on my feet a second longer. If I get up to hunt down something to cram into my neglected tummy, you'll no doubt wake up and be pretty crabby.
As I settle under the covers, I feel a tightening in my core. Crap. I curl around the growing ache, turning away from you and mentally pleading with my guts.
*Please--not now. Stomach--not now. I have to be up in 4 hours. I'll put something in you in 5 hours. Please...please don't do this*
Of course, when has my stomach ever listened to my pleas? A wet, burbly rumble breaks the silence of our otherwise-quiet bedroom. It's deep, it's long, and it comes with a sharp, pinching ache that makes me moan. I bite my pillow to stiffle the noises as I feel my stomach walls grinding against each other--desperately searching for anything to digest. Honestly, I can count on the fingers of one hand how many sips of water I managed to sneak while at work.
So lost in the agony ripping through my belly, I don't notice a shift in the bed as you stir. You heard the desperate, pitiful howl of my bowels. Best. Wake-up. Ever. You only wish you had been closer to the source of that lovely sound and that you had been awake to hear it from the beginning.
My stomach continues to snarl at me after the big rumble. Smaller ones now. It's almost like all the stress of work caused my stomach to stockpile hunger--to save it for a moment when I could finally relax to unleash all the hell of 15+ hours of starvation on me all at once. They may be shorter and somewhat quieter than the initial one...but the angry squirming of my organs is no less painful.
I feel something slide over my belly, nudging my arms away from being pressed tightly over my tum.
"Aww...does someone have an upset tummy? Lemme..." You whisper, still partially in dream-land.
The added touch enhances the sensations in my gut. Tears prickle my lashes as I feel the gnawing pains get turned up to 11.
"Uuunnnh....s-sorry..." I mutter between whimpers and moans. "Nnngh...h-hungry...'m so hungry...it hurts! Ugh...m-my tummy really, really hurts..."
Sliding closer, you lay your hand over my stomach, feeling it rumbling beneath your palm. You trace the feeling of spasming intestines, following the direction of my digestive tract to apply a firm pressure over everything, starting at a random spot in my intestines, travelling down, then following it back up. Your massage spreads the hunger pangs across more of my guts, dispersing the cramping ache across a wider region of my guts and quelling the ache somewhat. Like taking a big ball of pain and spreading it out so that it covers a larger area, but registers as less painful overall? After a few minutes of this you finally rest your hand right over my grumpy, hollow stomach organ. You dig your fingers in, squeezing the shrunken organ rhythmically...both stirring it up and quelling the angry rumbles that result. Imagine gripping the muzzle of a snarling animal with your bare hand...that's essentially what you are doing.
I groan as I feel the discomfort in my abdomen being spread out. Instead of just one massive cramp causing me to curl up, it's at least seven smaller cramps exploding all over my guts. I can feel all of it throbbing, twitching. If I were flayed open right now, my guts would definitely be twitching with cramps passing throughout it all like those distracting lights on arcade games--"over here--No! Now i'm here--Haha, missed me"...like the worst ever game of whack-a-mole.
"What's in here?" You furrow your brow, pressing around my stomach and trying to feel for what's upsetting it so and coming up empty.
"Nnn...nothing...'m starving."
"Didn't you eat lunch? You were off at 1 today..." You start piecing together the circumstances, realizing that if I had been off at 1, I would have come home and had dinner with you. My stomach breaks you from your mental calculations with an irate grumble, demanding food and begging for the feelings of your hands on my guts.
"My tummy hurts" you say as we slowly walk down the street arm in arm. " I know baby but just a little longer and will be there" I say as I move my hand down to rub your swollen bloated belly. We are on our way to meet my boss at an office party. They said to bring your family and unfortunately when I interviewed for the job I nervously said that you were pregnant (a lie of course) and I needed this position because of it. Now 8 months later they want to see us together and theres only one way to get you looking that pregnant that fast. So here we are walking into the office arm in arm with your tummy stuffed to the max and swollen enough to pull of being pregnant. "Just follow my lead and if they offer you more food just try and eat what you can"
Wow...this is an interesting scenario. I don't think I've done preg or preg-adjacent stuff on here. Honestly, preg-stuff is low on my list of things. First time for anything, I guess ^^ A very creative scenario ^^ I don't know if I did it justice here. Honestly, I wanted to write more...but I kept getting stuck on some scenes and I kind of feel like I'm being very crabby to Anon in this and I guess I couldn't hold the suspension of disbelief at the sit-com-y premise of this scenario, as enjoyable as it was. Thank you for sending this one in! It was super interesting and hilarious and I enjoyed writing it ^^
Trigger warnings: fake pregnancy with mentions of "failed to take" pregnancy. I know that pregnancies that don't result in a healthy baby afterwards can be a touchy subject in real life and I don't want to upset anyone. I have never experienced it myself, but I've known people who have and I do not wish that on anyone or wish for anyone to have to re-live such moments. If pregnancy-related things (including non-successful ones) is upsetting to you, feel free to skip and not read the stuff under the cut.
“Ugh...m-my tummy hurts.”
“I know, baby, but just a little longer and we will be there.” You rub gently at my swollen stomach over my dress. As good as the rubs feel, I'm angry at you and quickly smack your hand away with a glare.
“Nnngh...you owe me big-time for this, sweetie.” My annoyed tone completely counters the affectionate pet-name and the sickly grumble from my belly seems to come on-cue as though agreeing with me. “Ugh...you already lied once...why couldn't you have lied again, moron?” I huff and sit on a nearby bench in the foyer of the venue, rubbing my distended tummy.
“I panicked, love. I'm sorry.”
“There's no way this'll work.” I nudge at the slight bulge of my belly.
My stomach is firm and definitely bulged out enough to make wearing jeans extremely uncomfortable. Unfortunately, that's what I've got on beneath a flow-y, high-waisted, knee-length dress. In order to make my belly really pop, I have on a pair of denim booty-shorts, belted just under the slight curve of my full belly to prop it up as well as to inhibit digestion. We need this budge to last the whole night, after all. It's excruciating, but the sheer stupidity of my partner and his harebrained plots is a close second to the amount of pain my belly is in.
“It's fine. First pregnancies are usually small, right? No one will know..” You crouch in front of me, squeezing my budging belly between your palms, sliding them around my bulge as though fluffing up a throw pillow. You're also checking to ensure that I haven't sneakily loosened the belt under my dress. I glare at you, gripping your wrists tightly in a silent threat.
Try as we did, we couldn't get my belly any bigger than this. You didn't remember your initial lie until someone called to remind you of the event and that everyone was excited to meet your 'expecting' wife. Honestly, if I had known that taking part in such a ridiculous, sit-com-y plot was going to be a part of our marriage, I'd probably have thought twice about saying 'I do'.
“How are we going to explain it when there isn't a baby in a month or two? You should have dropped the lie early on, said the pregnancy didn't take or something. It's going to be much harder to explain now.” I nudge at my belly and wince, having poked too hard at my achy tummy.
“A little late for that now, isn't it?” You hiss, not wanting to be reminded of your web of lies.
“Anon! Welcome! Is that your wife? Don't get up, no need to stand on ceremony—lovely to meet you!” A man in a suit jumps in, startling you as you jump up, putting some unwanted pressure on the crest of my belly as you rise. I hiss and can't help but curl up as my stomach gripes at the pressure.
“Sir! T-Thank you, sir! Y-Yes. T-This is m-my wife—m-my very pregnant wife, sir!” I subtly stomp on your foot, telling you 'obvious-lie-is-obvious'.
“May I?” Your boss hovers his hand over my belly. I flash an angry look your way. Of course, the stupid, stupid phenomenon where everyone and their mother starts pawing at the pregnant lady's belly.
“O-Of course, sir!” My rage against you is almost tangible as you allow your boss to rub my belly, shrugging over his shoulder as though to say 'I panicked'--story of our lives, I see.
I bite back a snarl as your boss palms at my belly. We spent forty minutes rubbing my stomach after stuffing me silly to ensure we got as much gas out of my guts as we could. We needed it to be packed, stuffed solid and not likely to deflate throughout the night.
“My, my—what an active child!” Your boss leaves his palm on the crest of my belly as he makes some small talk with you, completely ignoring the seething lady he has his hand on.
After the boss has landed a couple of solid pats on my tummy, I nudge his hand off of my stomach.
“Sorry, my late Cynthia and I always wanted to try for a baby.” Your boss's eyes grow misty at the memory. “Where are my manners? Terrance Floyd, at your service—feel free to call me 'Terry'.” Terrance offers a slight bow, retracting his hand from my belly. “When you're ready. Feel free to enter Conference Room B. The party is in there. I've been told that there will be a champagne tower—no pressure to partake, my dear. There are plenty of non-alcoholic alternatives available if you ask the bar-tender or waitstaff. I hope you enjoy the party.” With another subtle bow, Terrance Floyd leaves us in peace to go greet another guest that has just entered the building.
Once Terrance leaves, I direct my burning gaze squarely on you. If looks could kill, you'd be dead a billion times over with just that look.
“I panicked!” You exclaim. “I get that you're mad—but we needed me to have this job!”
“Well, stop panicking. Make something up 'cuz you seem to have a lot of experience with that. I'm not going to sit here and let everyone and their father paw at my stomach all night.” I rub my stomach, mentally cursing Terrance Floyd as the achy cramping in my belly intensifies.
Digestion was already stalled thanks to the ridiculous glut of food we managed to cram into my belly in the three hours we had between the call and leaving the house. The belt was cinched as an added layer of insurance, in case moving around somehow managed to kick-start digestion. My stomach's been trying and failing for digestion, convulsing painfully ever since we left the car and began the walk into the venue. Terrance's palming did me no favours and he no doubt felt the intense cramping of my belly under his palm and attributed that to the fake baby moving around.
“He's my boss!”
“And I'm your wife. Better think fast or we'll be adding an 'ex' to that.”
“Anon! And Eitee? We've heard so much about you! Are you coming in? Terry just said it's Conference Room B.” A bubbly, lady flounces over to where we are, plopping down next to me on the bench. I bite back a cross between a snarl and a moan as her action jostles my upset belly. I can already tell that her cheery attitude is going to grate on my nerves. Her partner strolls along behind her, stopping next to Anon.
“Hello! I'm Greg. Anon and I work in the same department. That's my wife, Bebe. Bebe—reign it in a bit.”
“Hi, I'm Bebe! Gosh, your dress is so cute! I love the color on you. I'd have gone for a bright yellow. I guess maternity wear is limited? Oh gosh—right, you're pregnant! You must be so excited! Have you thought of names yet?” Despite her husband's admonishment, Bebe's mouth is going a mile a minute.
She's an animated conversationalist—if you can call one-person speaking a conversation--talking with her hands and her whole body. She's like something straight out of a 90s cartoon, moving this way and that, facing one way and then another, hands clapping to her cheeks or mouth every time she gasps at some new statement she utters. She also doesn't have the same courtesy your boss had, her hands have already slapped themselves onto my belly about three times during her monologue.
“Uhm...Bebe—it's nice that you're friendly and all. My wife...uhm...she doesn't really like being touched so if you could...uhm.” You stutter, nervous under the force of my glare.
“Yes, Bebe. I'm sorry, I really don't like being touched.”
“Oh? I'm sorry! Is it Braxton Hicks? I heard it can happen!” Once again, Bebe's going a mile a minute, though I save 'Braxton Hicks' for later, in case I want to beat a hasty retreat from the party. Despite being told, Bebe's hands still find their way onto my belly more than a couple of times.
“How about we head in? The sooner we get started, the sooner all of this will be over.” I mutter, shooting a glare at you.
“You don't like parties, Eitee?” Bebe's tone takes on a bit of hurt and disbelief, like she can't fathom the idea of someone that doesn't like parties.
I gesture at my belly, hoisting myself up and placing a hand against my back to help with hefting the load (coincidentally, it's also a posture many pregnant women adopt). I gesture at my protruding belly.
“Kind of hard to party with a seven pound bowling ball in my stomach. Can't drink, can't be around smoking people, can't exactly dance in this state. If it weren't for my darling being so desperate to prove to his colleagues that he managed to score at least once, I'd be at home trying to decide between a hot bath, a nap, or whatever twisted snack combination this little one demands we try.” I add the last one on for good measure, but the thought of eating anything at all makes my stomach quake uneasily.
Greg chuckles. “Yeah, he's really been talking you up at the office. Most of the interns think he's bragging and half of them think he's bluffing.”
As much as I hate you for tonight, the idea that you've been bragging about me is touching.
The four of us make our way to Conference Room B. It's one of those meet and mingle parties. Lots of open space, a bar, tables full of finger foods and waitstaff dressed to the nines carrying more finger foods on platters and offering them to the guests. At the centre of the room is a seven foot champagne tower, like Terrance mentioned.
One of the waitstaff saunters over, offering a platter of something on a cracker to the four of us. Greg and Bebe take one each, with Bebe squealing and chattering on and on about the flavours. You take one and give me a look but one glance at the platter makes me feel sick to my stomach and I wave off the chance to try it. You frown at me as the waitstaff leaves.
I grip your hand tightly as my stomach convulses sharply at the sight of all the food. As stuffed as I am, even the idea of a single bite of any of it makes me fear I'll puke, burst, or both.
“That was rude.” You hiss at me. I match your glare, jabbing at my drum-tight belly.
“When I puke, not if, I'm gonna aim it squarely on you, bozo.” I hiss right back.
"Ugh...nnngh...I...uhm...I think I...ate too much..."
Once again, send me your best responses. I'm partial to sadistic (to the stomach) scenarios and not too partial to feeding/stuffing. That being said, have at it!
RP-Scenario 'cuz my guts have literally been waging war on dairy all day. Write me a continuation--how would you continue this? Bear in mind that I'm partial to being a total sadist to a misbehaving tummy. I'm having trouble envisioning dialogue for this scenario so if you want to throw in dialogue lines or just submit RP-Lite that'd be fine too. Inspire me.
"Mmmffph...ugh...aaahh...s-stop...tummy...please stop...stop hurting..." I whimper and plead with my stubborn stomach as it clenches within me, twisting painfully and making me feel like something has wound my intestines up like one would twirl spaghetti on a fork. I've been curled up like a shrimp in bed for the better part of the last five hours. Apparently, my guts decided that we hate dairy today. Would have been nice to get a memo.
We stayed up last night. Secret-identity and social deduction games are my favorite and our friends decided to stay up last night to play a few rounds. We started around 10:30PM and I saw 4:31AM on the clock when we finally said our final 'gg's. Poor choice, but I decided it'd be fine as long as I grabbed coffee before my shift at work was due to start in about 6 hours. Not the best, but I promised to go to bed early tonight to make up for it.
A baptism of iced coffee probably wasn't how my stomach wanted to be woken up this morning and I guess it's been grumpy with me ever since. On top of that, when I arrived at work it turns out my coworker had decided to buy me an extral large hot coffee as 'thanks' for something I did for them before. It would have been rude to turn it down so I accepted it and alternated between the hot coffee and the iced one throughout my shift. The variance in temperatures and dairy did not play nice with my already-grumpy tummy, it seems. It was starting to feel uneasy around the last hour of my shift.
I walked by a bubble-tea place on my way to the bus stop and saw that they were having a special series on milk-tea. I got paid a couple of days ago and it's been a long and hard week at work (training new hires) so I decided to treat myself. I got a little something for you too, asking for no ice in case you're not home to drink it immediately when I get there (and therefore it won't dilute).
Upon arriving home, I found out that I was not the only one that bought a treat for the other. You stopped by our favorite noodle house and got us two combos...combos that come with more milk-tea. Unfortunately, the ice in your drinks is fading fast, so we have to enjoy them tonight. The other half of my own drink was left as an afterthought as we powered through dinner.
After dinner, you decided to hop back on the computer to game and do whatever. I mentioned turning in early and that's basically what I tried to do...only I realized that I still had half of my own drink to finish and boba gets hard if you leave it too long...so...well...down the hatch.
The glutinous boba was delicious. Unfortunately, that firm-ish, slimey gel ended up gumming up the works inside of the war raging in my guts. 'We hate dairy. We hate dairy.' I swear the grumbles from my guts are chanting that on a loop. I wouldn't be surprised if digestive fairies manifested and are inside, using spells to make my stomach contents churn and prodding absolutely everything with tiny pitchforks.
Iced coffee. Hot coffee. Boba milk tea. Straight up milk tea. My dairy count is at four--more than double what I'd planned. The sheer amount of dairy would have been enough to give me some nasty indigestion, but the greasy noodle combo and the boba are compounding the upset. It feels like the boba is gumming up my intestines, coating them and preventing them from working on the oily slurry of noodles and dairy. My guts are cramping like a vice every couple of minutes, desperately trying to make digestion happen and having no success.
I don't feel nauseous. All of this didn't come at me all at once--it was gradual. There isn't enough in any one part of my gastro-intestinal tract to cause me to be on the verge of puking...unless the toxic slurry decides to move backwards (which it hasn't yet...thank God). Pity. Throwing up might have made me feel just a little better. Getting some of that nastiness out of my system would probably help at least a little. Instead, I just feel like tiny grenades are exploding throughout my gastrointestinal tract. I swear, everything hurts, from my colon spasming (despite not having anything to offer the porcelain throne) to my esophagus burning with heartburn or an acid splash...or both. On top of it all, my stomach-organ and intestines have been churning away, being extremely vocal about the day-long torture inflicted upon them now that I've finally got a minute to actually be mindful of the sensations inside of me.
"Ugh...stop...please stop hurting!" I plead with my stomach, squeezing it tighter and trying to counter the vice-like cramp rolling like a wave through my intestines. I swear, it feels like a giant decided to pinch a section of my intestines between thumb and forefinger and run that squeeze through the entire length of the tube...like trying to squeeze the last dregs of toothpaste out of a tube or getting sauce out of a packet.
I spy my phone on the mattress--abandoned when the cramps in my tummy got too intense for me to ignore any longer. Reaching for it, I find the contact I'm looking for and hit 'Call'. I'm wracked by an intense cramp that feels like I'm being pinched in half and it causes me to press the phone into my spasming tummy instead of bringing it to my ear.
*Grbl...rrrr...rrrble...* My stomach sounds like a motor-cycle at a stop-light, contantly revving without getting anywhere.
The call gets disconnected and I've forgotten all about it, going back to begging my stomach to calm down and having my tears soak into the pillow. "Unngh...d-damn it--shut up!" I hiss at my stomach and slam a fist down onto it for good measure. Instant regret shoots through me along with the stabbing pain I feel from the impact site.
"You say something?"
You lean against the doorframe to the bedroom, curious as to where I've been since dinner. Your phone is held in one hand. Apparently, you got my call.
"Uhh..." A loud rumble from my stomach answers before I do. The sickly noise is quickly followed by another sharp spasm and I moan, curling even tighter around my aching abdomen.
"Was that your stomach?"
I see white for a moment, my hearing fading too as my entire world dissolves into the pain at my core. I can feel everything tensing up from colon to esophagus. I can't imagine literally having my guts rupture would feel much worse than what it feels like right now.
As I regain my senses, I feel a foreign weight on my aching tummy. You're stroking over it carefully, the foreign weight being your ear pressed against the crest of my gut.
"Mmmph..." I wince as I feel another spasm ripple through my intestines.
"Shh!" You shush me, wanting to listen to the chaos inside of me rather than me.
I don't even know what I can say at this point. "My stomach hurts"--no duh. "Please rub my tummy"--clearly, my stomach needs more help than I can give it to win whatever war is raging within me. "My tummy's really noisy and upset--something isn't agreeing with me"--thanks, Captain Obvious. On top of that, it appears that my stomach is complaining more than enough even without the involuntary moans and whimpers escaping my voicebox.
My tummy is caved in and aching with hunger right now. It hasn't growled yet, but I really want it to.
Not entirely sure what to do with this one, which is why it sat in my inbox for a while. Thank you for the lovely image, Anon! I hope I've done it justice down below. The first response is what I usually do when I want my stomach to growl...and the second is trying to use it for an RP-scenario. Enjoy!
If the anon's asking for advice…well, I do wonder what others do to make their hungry tummies get vocal. In my experience, sitting up or lounging tends to get me the most audible growls. It's mostly quiet if I am lying down. Drinking water or tea when my stomach is empty is usually a surefire way to get it to get louder. Most of the time for me though, unless I am really, really hungry the growls aren't loud enough to be heard…but I definitely feel them. This does bring up a question: does it count as a stomach 'growl' if it's not audible? My stomach often does these quake-y, rumbly sensations--like someone hit mute on a growl…where I feel it ripping through my stomach without the noise actually being audible (unless someone were pressed right up against my stomach, I guess). Do those still count as "growls"? Also…mess around with the stomach. Squeeze it, poke it, and shake it up to get it awake and trying to digest…as it pushes the empty air around inside of it, you may be able to get a few growls. Personally, if I want my stomach to growl when I'm hungry and it's not doing it naturally, I'll mess around with my navel and get my intestines to twitch from that sensation. Eventually, those actions will cause my stomach to get a bit vocal.
If this is for an RP-Ask:
I come up behind Anon, as they stand in the kitchen. I slide my hands up their oversized sweater from behind, leaning in for my 'welcome home' kiss. I find a bit of a concave curve as my fingers brush along their lower ribs. I feel a shiver as my fingers dance along the lower rib of their left side, right over where their stomach-organ would be. A muffled whimper can be heard as they feel their sensitive stomach-organ being teased. My hands don't linger, they ghost all around the stomach, sliding around the sides, squeezing gently in places as though to gently massage the digestive tract into waking up.
Slowly, ever so slowly, my hands converge onto Anon's sensitive navel. Another shiver runs up their spine as the index fingers of both of my hands encroach on the defenseless area. Anon swallows a moan as my curious fingers dive into their navel at the same time, my nails prodding at the sensitive center of the abdominal scar. I pull my fingers apart a bit, stretching the navel a little and teasing at whatever parts of it that I can reach. The nails on the two fingers are different. Where one is rounded down, the other is a bit jagged, having caught and ripped on something--a rough edge that I have yet to deal with, it seems. The sensations as my jagged nail ghost over sensitive flesh are almost like electrical stimulation. Anon squirms in my hold, but I don't let them go.
I continue scratching at their navel, gently, with the jagged nail of my right hand. My left hand leaves, roaming back up to squeeze at the space right below their ribs, stimulating the stomach-organ. With such a concave waist, it's extremely easy for me to feel the various organs giving way beneath my grip. I can feel Anon's intestines convulsing, twitching within them. It's a disorganized twitching, at first, but it soon develops into a rhythm, I coax some of the empty gas pockets in the digestive tract--pushing and nudging them every which-way. Some of it is coaxed back into the stomach, the pressure of it going against the sphincters creates some quiet, but delightful noises for us to enjoy.
