She’s been feeling off all day. Curled up in her blanket, switching between cold and hot sweats, a pounding head and a nauseated belly. The mere thought of food sends her tummy into knots, squelching and squirming from just imagining anything of substance taking up space inside of her instead of the slimy build up of bile and acid that’s currently sloshing about. Okay, maybe she’s more than off. She’s got the stomach flu. No doubt about it. Whispers of the “seasonal bug” going around had started to circle, and a few days later here she is, queasy, sweaty, and constantly stifling wet burps. I notice that she’s been put off of food today, and hardly wants to even sip at the water I constantly try to give her. Her face is sallow, ashen and pale. Her cheeks puff every once in a while when she burps. I quickly catch on to what’s wrong, even though she hasn’t mentioned anything to me yet. She has all the tell-tale signs of the belly bug. As we both know, we’re into that, so, who would I be if I didn’t attempt to indulge in this golden opportunity?
Throughout the day, I’ve been a little over bearing with my encouragement to get food and water into her system. Some crackers here, some rice there. A little heavier with the foods. Maybe some tea. Ramen noodles are bland too. Over time, I’m slowly packing her sickened tummy full of foods that I know aren’t going to digest. She’s begun to bloat significantly, her belly gurgling indignantly at all the slop I’ve forced into it. She’s half way sitting up on the couch, one hand tenderly placed on her bloated tummy. We both listen to the gurgles and sloshes it makes, desperately trying to process the food inside, failing sickly. She’s been burping more frequently, less airy now, more chunky and wet. I could swear she’s gone from her usual paleness to an almost….green complexion.
I’m losing it now. I’ve been teased long enough. I need her. And I need her to be sick, I gently pick her up off of the couch, listening to the quivering churns of digestive distress coming from her tummy due to the sudden motion. I plop her down on the bed, and she burps. Her meals slide up her throat, causing her to swallow thickly and whimper. I make my way on top of her, gingerly kissing along her neck and body so that she’ll relax, tenderly sliding her panties off so that I can get what I want. I indulge myself in her; devouring every last bit as she lays back and whimpers, convulses, and burps. Her tummy is a maelstrom of nausea that’s whipping around in her belly with every whimper, pleasure and queasiness battling for dominance. She’s afraid to moan, as every time her mouth is open, her stomach takes it as an invitation to send her dinner upwards, and she doesn’t know how many times she can keep swallowing it back. Her belly is in full revolt, sloshing, churning, bubbling. I’m using my hands to grip and disturb her belly, further stirring up the nausea that’s bubbling urgently at the entrance to her stomach. She’s on the cusp, and I can feel it. As her legs tighten; so does her stomach. She knows it’s the end, and she can’t stop it. She begins to climax, desperately swallowing and burping as all the unwanted, barely digested foodstuffs start frantically making their way to her mouth. Her cheeks bulge with a wet burp, her eyes darting around in a panic for an exit, but to no avail. Her tummy churns, sending another wave of sick up. She has no choice. She has nowhere to go. She relieves her tummy of the sickly slurry all over my head and face, painting me in her nausea. It comes in thick, chunky waves. Only accompanied by the gurgling protests of her tummy. When she’s finally empty, she gazes at me; a product of her stomachs inability to do its job. She knows I don’t mind. Happily, I take her to the shower and clean her up, telling my sweet girl how good she did, and how much I love it when she’s uncontrollably sick for me. We end the night with new sheets, and belly rubs for her until she slumbers, her tummy bubbling softly, preparing for its next inevitable upheaval.
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