Belly Rub

Seated on the couch, you tilt your head back and groan, brows furrowed in a less-than-pleased fashion. Your thick thighs spread apart, feet stretching under the table. With puffy hands, you grip the belly that sinks slightly forward over your jeans, soft flesh squeezing through your fingers.

Each breath is laborious as you heave that weighty ball up, and you can't help but wince as it flops down with every exhale. You try to massage it, but the pressure only makes it that much more painful. Instead, you simply lay back against the couch, eyes closed, trying to block out the harshness of reality.

In the kitchen, he readies your dessert. You told him earlier that there's no room left, but as usual he didn't listen. You can smell the freshly baked cupcakes that he ices, and hope there's only a couple to get through. Past experience, however, lets you know that it will be a feast in its own right.

Struggling, you reach a hand around the swollen rock attached to your middle. Sausage-like fingers fumble for the buckle on the belt, and soon it slips undone. With that, you reach into your pants and take hold of the lower part of your belly. Hauling it out of jeans, it flops forward painfully between your legs like an apron. You groan again, wanting nothing more than for the unpleasant feeling to ease.

He steps into the den, a large plate ringed with cupcakes. A dozen in total - you're surprised it's not more. Each a chocolate masterpiece decorated with your favourite thick blue icing. The sight makes your mind ravenous, but your stomach remains so full you feel physically sick. Laying the cakes on the table before you, he takes his place at your side.

"No more," you protested weakly. "Please, no more."

"Oh, my poor baby," he soothes, moving his hands to clutch your love handles. "Is your little tummy full already?"

He's teasing you, and not necessarily in a nice way. It's almost as though his words are a challenge: can you prove you are worthy? As his hands kneed deep into your flesh and the discomfort increases, you think that you aren't, and feel guilty for having let him down. The more his hands play with your flesh, however, the less pain you begin to feel. You realise he's assisting your stomach in it's digestion, and the feeling of a tiny free space surfaces.

"No," you tell him, though you don't really want any more food. Still, you lean back and take it as he holds a chocolate delight to your plump lips. You bite it, feeling the rich, fluffy taste dance across your tongue and slid down your throat. That one bite seems to fill you up, but now that you've started, you know he won't let you stop. Closing your eyes, trying to dissociate from yourself, you let him feed you bite after bite, cupcake after cupcake, until each crumb has vanished from sight.

In the depths of your tummy, gurgling echoes. You moan unhappily, and he begins to rub your stomach once more. Pressing gingerly down on the very top - right beneath your sagging chest - he slides his hands outwards towards your distended sides, where small rolls have quickly turned into large bulges. The feeling of his light fingers sends shivers skittering across your skin, and a sigh escapes your lips.

His hands meet in the middle again, and travel downwards over the mountain towards your belly button. You haven't seen it in a few months - sometimes you wonder if it's even there any more, or if it has been engulfed in fat. Just like the rest of you. His hands kneed the largest part of your gut, causing gas to work its way up your throat and exit in a dominating belch. The release takes away some of the pressure in your stomach, and you immediately feel better. Perhaps you shouldn't have had so much to drink.

Of course, you couldn't solely blame the milk. You wouldn't feel half as bad if you hadn't gone back for that third helping of pumpkin soup, or the fourth plate of roast beef and veggies. There were countless slices of buttered bread on the table, too, and you devoured those mindlessly, as you had your pre-dinner pizza.

It marvelled many people at how quickly your scrawny frame had expanded, but really, it shouldn't have. The amount of food he feeds you every waking minute of your day made it perfectly plausible indeed. From a tiny 110lbs, you have become a 470lb monster. You wanted to be bigger, but not this big.

"Poor baby," he cooed into your ear, still running his hands over the lower, flabbier part of your abdomen. "You're so full, aren't you?"

Nodding, you let yourself believe he has finished with you for the night. Enjoying the belly rub, you begin to fall into a sleepy haze, and barely notice that he has stopped until he is pushing a large spoonful of Neapolitan ice cream into your mouth. You swallow it, and then begin to protest. He silences you with another spoonful. In moments he has forced half a gallon down your gullet, and it's not long before the rest disappears.

Now you're engorged, like an overfilled water balloon on the verge of bursting. Any minute now your skin - stretched so thin so accommodate the mass stuffed into it - will split wide open, your insides spilling out over your widened lap. The thought makes you sick, and you hold back a burp in fear of vomiting simultaneously.

Bad move. Containing that gas causes a build of pressure that has you witnessing your stomach bloat just that little more. Feeling panicked, you moan and groan and make him swear he is done, and he assures you that he is.

"It's okay, baby," he tells you. "I know you can't handle any more."

Picking up on the underlying insult, you focus on trying to rid your belly of the gas. You clench your abs - what little of them you have left - and try to bring it up your throat. Fiery pain bursts like an exploding supernova, and you stop.

"Ooooh," you cry. "Make it stop. Please, make it stop."

In a flash he is straddling your belly, the weight of his own pudgy frame pressing down, forcing out a gloriously relieving belch. He smiles, and leans forward for a kiss. You sink into it, tasting the sweet, honey-like flavour of his lips. His arms wrap tighter around your chest, playing with your back rolls, as he kisses you deeper. You can't help but feel that wonderful electricity spark through your spine, skittering through every last nerve in your mammoth body.

It lasts a few minutes more, before you once again begin drifting off. He leaves you to sleep, and hours later you wake up, the clock striking 3am. Footsteps echo in the kitchen, and you watch as he raids the fridge and pantry, tearing into packets and bags, compacting huge handfuls into his mouth and swallowing them almost without chewing. He downs a carton of milk, dregs spilling out of the corners of his mouth and landing on his swelling belly. You smile, enjoying the sight.

In a few minutes he has notices you are awake. Full up to the gills, he waddles into the den, staggering under the weight of his stuffed tummy. Even in the darkness of the room, you can see it is tight, but as you reach over to switch the lights on, you see how grossly taut and distended it is. It reminds you of your own in the early days, and you smile almost fondly at the memory.

He takes his spot beside you on the couch, and you shift your hefty frame awkwardly, until both of your hands can wrap themselves around his belly. It is your turn to soothe him, and expertly you rub his middle, drawing moans of unadulterated pleasure from his chubby cheeks. Up and down they run, dancing in slow circles that help his midnight binge digest. He burps and blushes, but you simply smile.

When he feels better, he moves closer, his stomach pressing against the squishy flesh of yours and sinking into it. The feeling drives both of you insane, and you once again resume kissing, taking things further, never being able to have your overly augmented bodies close enough.