BREAKING: Long time lurker decides to finally make a blog!
About This Blog
Hi! You can call me Envy. I use she/her pronouns and I’m in my early 20’s.
What to Expect
Honestly, not sure! My interests bounce around a lot, and I’m not sure exactly what I want to post just yet. I’ll probably be experimenting until I settle into a rhythm.
Things I Enjoy
• Hunger (mostly my own/in stories; not as into others’ hunger)
• Stuffing/bloating
• Belly rubs (whether stuffed or starved!)
• To a lesser extent - belly noises (digestion, stomach growling, etc.)
I fast every now and then, and enjoy the occasional bloat too! I also quite enjoy some darker sides to all of these (being forced to not eat, force feeding, weight loss, etc.).
Things I Don’t Enjoy
• Scat/bathroom-related anything
• Pregnancy
• Gas/burping
• Nausea, emeto, stomachaches, etc.
—
I’m probably forgetting some items on both lists, so those lists are subject to change.
Other Things
• Feel free to message me anytime! I’m going to take a second to get used to Tumblr but I promise to do my best. Alternatively, I have Discord! @seaweed.character
• I do a wide range of commissions/custom content! Writing, starving, stuffing… you name it. Reach out if you’d like something and we can talk more about it.
• I DO NOT interact with minors and will not create content involving minors (ever) or fandoms (except on commission).
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I want to have a hollow, aching, groaning tummy that twists and cramps while I prepare a hearty meal for you.
I want to be forced to sit across from you- or even better- to stand right next to you with my belly near your ear while you enjoy a delicious feast. You’ll ask if I’m hungry and I’ll deny it, even while a ravenous growl comes from my empty stomach and fills the room.
When I am allowed to eat at last, I want the smallest portions possible. Just enough to take the edge off my hunger but not enough to fully satisfy. A full stomach is the best reward, only saved for when I’m on my best behavior for you.
We’re sleeping together after I’ve fasted all day. My body puts up a show of rebellion: my stomach gnaws at itself, a deep, hollow ache that spreads up into my chest and through my limbs, making me feel at once featherlight and desperate.
You’re facing my back, so close I can feel the faintest exhale of your breath on my neck. Your gaze traces the curvature of my scapula, the sharp delineation of vertebrae all the way down. The valleys of my rib cage rise and fall with each inhalation, and you watch me with a kind of reverence, as if I’ve become the answer to a riddle you’ve spent your whole life trying to solve. You can’t resist for long. Your hand slides down my side, fingertips first, a deliberate journey from armpit to hip, pausing at each bony landmark as if to memorize it for future reference.
Then, with a suddenness that startles me, you lean over my shoulder, fingers gripping, and roll me gently onto my back. My belly lies flat and firm beneath your gaze, skin stretched taut like a canvas painted in shadow and light. A flicker of self-consciousness passes, but you only smile, delight glinting in your eyes.
You settle so you can loosely straddle my hips, the weight of your thighs anchoring me to the mattress. Your hands, cool at first, begin to warm against my abdomen as they trace gentle circles—slow and tender at first, then with a growing insistence. I feel energy building beneath my skin; my muscles coil, I draw in a sharp breath, and my stomach growls loudly, the rumbling sound unmistakable in the quiet room. A flush creeps up my cheeks, but you lean in closer, pressing your ear to hear it, as if it’s the sweetest secret. You murmur soft praises against my navel, hands moving upward to map each rib, pausing in the hollow between them. My stomach lets out a long, gurgling groan—a hollow, liquid sound that echoes through my empty abdomen—and you laugh, a warm, low sound that vibrates through us both.
“I love you like this,” you whisper, your voice steady and tender. I nod, words unnecessary, letting your touch and your reverence fill me. Your hands roam upward, mapping out each rib, pausing to count them, to press the hollows in between. When the noises from my stomach reach a crescendo, you press a lingering kiss to the center of my belly, hands fanned out on either side as if to cradle the emptiness within me. “Tomorrow,” you say, “I’m taking you out. I want you to eat as much as you'd like.” You say it like a promise, then press even closer and murmur, “But for now, I just want to hear how hungry you are for me."
The light in the room is yellow and dense, like the air in a boiler. Every sound is muffled, except the humiliating whines of my stomach and the nervous blips of my heart beneath the skin.
You guide me with deliberate softness to your bed and my body sinks down, weightless. You keep your hand at the back of my neck, then press my wrists together above my head and pin them with one steady palm, your other hand tracing the erratic lines of my ribcage beneath my shirt.
I shudder under your grip. My ribs protrude, each one making stark relief against the slack skin. My stomach dips like a bowl. “Look at you,” you say, like you’re marveling at a sculpture. The words slice through me.
You press your palm flat against my stomach and the sensation is electric. My skin, fevered and fragile, bends under your fingers like reeds in a flood. Then—without warning—it happens: my stomach convulses, a living, vocal protest that shudders through my entire core. The sound is obscene, a thunderous, protracted howl that lasts for endless seconds. You grin. You increase the pressure, flattening my belly even further, and I feel the weird hollow beneath my skin collapse more, then gurgle back open, like a cave breathing. The echoes of the growl lift up my spine and turn my limbs to jelly.
You begin to massage me, slow at first, your thumb making lazy circles around my navel. My body is hypersensitized and every touch stings and soothes at once. The gurgling gets worse, higher-pitched, urgent. Even my ribs vibrate with the noise and I squeeze my eyes shut, praying you’ll feed me after almost eight days of nothing.
I know what you want: you want me to beg. You want me to say it out loud, admit how desperate I am. I try to hold out, but the hunger is too much.
“Please,” I whisper.
You lean down, and for a second I think you might kiss me, but instead your lips stop just above my ear. I can feel your breath, hot and unhurried.
“That’s three more days for asking,” you say, almost gently.
My stomach, as if understanding the verdict, lets out another low, keening groan, almost like a sob.
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You’re perched beside me on our battered old couch. My body is curled, fetal and defenseless, into the hollow at your side. You let your head droop onto my shoulder, the crown of your hair brushing my neck in lazy, affectionate flurries, while the TV flickers something neither of us are watching.
Your left hand comes to rest on my belly. It’s embarrassingly empty, and you must feel the tension because you press the palm in deeper, then begin to trace circles. At first the arcs are feathery—almost apologetic, as though my stomach were a sleeping pet you didn’t want to jostle awake. But when I sigh happily, you’re emboldened. Your hand works in firmer, larger spirals, kneading the skin over my navel in a rhythm that makes the hollowness inside me yawn wider.
Out of nowhere, my belly lets loose a shudder. Not a polite, ignorable grumble but a deep, rolling complaint that fills the space between us with its need. Your eyes go wide in mock horror. “Wow,” you say. “is there a direwolf trapped in there? Should I be wearing chainmail?” You poke my side and I yelp, more at your words than the poke itself. I want to explain the hunger, but also to keep it to myself, as if my need could be tamed by sheer force of will.
You keep at it, the rubbing, the teasing. You say, “Can you imagine all the food that would fit in there?” Suddenly you’re narrating an imaginary menu: “A bakery’s worth of cinnamon rolls. Piping hot pizza with layers and layers of cheese. Oh my God, and fries. Truffle fries, the kind with the skin still on.” Each item you conjure seems to land inside me with a wet slosh, my stomach gurgling in eager approval.
You don’t stop, not even when my face is burning, not even when my hands flutter self-consciously over your own on my skin. You laugh, not unkindly, and I try to smile through the embarrassment, but you can tell I’m flustered.
You lean in, so close I can smell the dregs of your peppermint ChapStick and the hint of laundry detergent clinging to your hoodie. I tighten my core, willing it to stay silent, but the gurgle that follows sounds almost human in its longing. You’re delighted.
“God, you’re starving,” you say, and your voice is half sympathy, half triumph. Your hand strays a little lower, where the muscle and soft meet. “You’re adorable when you’re hungry.”
And another story! This is a longer one, loosely inspired by this post.
TWs: sedation, binding/ropes, extended fasting
You've kept me hollow for ninety-six hours now. Tonight marks my fourth sunset with nothing but stomach acid corroding my insides like battery fluid on metal. The hunger has become a creature inside me, clawing at my ribs, demanding attention.
Above us, the kitchen clock ticks past 7:30 PM. The dinnertime ritual begins.
I stand by the counter, watching you at the stove. Steam coils around your shoulders, wreathing you in a ghostly halo. Oil in the wok hisses and pops, each sizzling whisper amplified against the tiled walls. You beckon, and I stagger to your side. The scent of fried rice and scallions slams into me, igniting a furious growl deep in my hollow belly.
You slip your hand beneath my shirt, pressing flat against my stomach as though trying to capture my hunger for yourself. Your breath, rich with cinnamon and ginger, warms my ear. “Listen to it beg,” you murmur, trailing a fingertip up my abdomen, sending a shiver across my skin.
With a deliberate click, you shut off the burner. You withdraw your hand, and I track every precise gesture: how you set a single place at the table, silverware aligned like sentinels; the serving dish of fried rice positioned so its steam drifts directly toward me; the lone wine glass, its liquid a bruised-plum hue in the soft light. You lift chopsticks, gathering glistening soy-darkened grains that catch the glow of the pendant lamp. Green onions exhale their sharp, verdant perfume. Sesame oil and the sweet whisper of minced carrot swirl in the air.
Between elegant bites, you look up. “Remember the time that one chef at the Asian joint prepared rice tableside for you? You said it was the best you’d ever tasted. This is better." You smile at the memory as you slide another forkful to your lips. Saliva pools uselessly in my mouth.
You note my pleading eyes and push a bowl toward me. “Go on—have a taste,” you purr. I peer into its porcelain emptiness. You chuckle, soft and cruel. “Whoops. Guess you’ll have to get used to the flavor of nothing.” A guttural howl tears from my stomach, half-moan, half-roar, echoing in the cramped kitchen. My own body betrays me, broadcasting my agony. “God, I love that sound,” you laugh—a brittle tinkling like broken wind chimes. “So fucking empty.”
Once you finish eating, you rise with a satisfied sigh and fill a glass with unusually cloudy water. "Drink," you whisper, your voice silky as the edge of a razor.
The water sloshes into my vacant stomach with a hollow splash that echoes like a stone dropped into an empty well. "Listen to that," you mutter, leaning closer until your lips nearly brush my ear. "You must be so empty for water to make a noise like that."
You reach over me and rub my belly with circular motions, now slightly distended with the water's volume. Fascination—and maybe something darker too—glimmers in your eyes. Suddenly, I'm tired, my vision swimming with black spots, and you help me out of the chair. "Bedtime for my starving artist," you murmur, guiding me away with a gentle hand on my shoulder blade, the bone jutting like a broken wing beneath paper-thin skin. "Sweet dreams of feasts you'll never taste."
Sleep crashes over me like a wave. My hollow body, lighter than it's ever been, seems to float inches above the mattress. For the first time in these four endless nights, my empty stomach doesn't wake me with its animal howls or cramping spasms.
...
I wake with a start, consciousness rushing back like floodwaters. Morning light filters through half-drawn blinds, casting prison-bar shadows across the bed. My mind still clouded from whatever was in that water, I try to shift positions and discover I can't move my arms. They're stretched above my head, secured to the bedposts with soft rope that doesn't give when I tug against it.
"What—" My voice cracks, dry as autumn leaves.
"Good morning, beautiful." Your voice drifts from the foot of the bed where you're perched.
I glance down at my body and realize I'm stripped to just my underwear. More alarming is the rope circling my waist, looped snugly against my concave stomach. The strange binding seems ceremonial somehow, highlighting the negative space where flesh used to be.
My stomach announces itself with a prolonged, cavernous growl that seems to please you immensely. Your eyes dilate slightly at the sound.
"You must be absolutely starving," you moan, the words emerging almost reverently. Your hand reaches out, hovering above my midsection for a suspended moment before making contact.
I gasp as your fingertips trace the pronounced ridge of my hip bone, visible now like the crest of a wave. You follow its path to where it disappears beneath the rope, then slide your palm flat against my stomach. The heat of your hand against my cold skin makes me shiver.
You press gently into the hollow beneath my ribs. "Five days ago, I couldn't feel your stomach folding in like this." Your finger circles my navel, now a deep depression in the landscape of my abdomen. My stomach contracts violently beneath your hand, releasing another plaintive rumble. You close your eyes briefly, as if savoring a fine wine.
"That's it," you encourage. "Let me hear how empty you are."
Your hands move to my ribcage, fingers playing across each rib like piano keys. "One, two, three," you count softly, moving upward. "Four, five, six... I could never see these before." Your thumbs press into the spaces between, exploring the intercostal hollows that have appeared over the past days.
You lean down suddenly and press your lips against my sternum. “You have two outs,” you coo, your finger tugging at the rope around my waist. "When you're thin enough that this slips off, you can feed yourself. Or..." You press your palm against my belly again. "If your stomach growls loud enough to satisfy me, maybe I'll reward you."
My body betrays me again with a prolonged liquid gurgle from deep within.
"God, that was close," you say, your voice dropping an octave. "Do it again."
Your hands continue their exploration, moving to my collarbones which now stand in sharp relief against my skin. You trace their length with reverent fingertips, following them to where they meet at the hollow of my throat. Then, your finger follows the central line down my torso, the subtle depression that separates my abdominal muscles, more visible now without the padding of fat.
My stomach contracts again, this time producing a sound so loud it startles even me—a desperate, angry growl that seems to vibrate the bed beneath us.
Your pupils dilate fully at this, and you press your hand hard against my belly, feeling the violent spasm beneath the skin. "Fuck," you breathe. "You have no idea how arousing it is to feel your body consuming itself." Your fingers trace circles around my navel. "To know that under my hand, your body is starving just for me."
The rope around my waist shifts again as I exhale deeply, sliding down perhaps half an inch toward my hips.
"See how your body wants to please me?" You tug at the rope, adjusting it back to its original position.
You lean down again, this time to press your ear against my stomach, listening to the angry orchestra inside. Your weight against me forces another growl, and you close your eyes in ecstasy.
"I could listen to this all day," you murmur. "The sound of you, empty just for me."
You shift your position, sliding upward to look into my eyes while your hand remains splayed across my abdomen, waiting. As if on cue, my stomach convulses violently, producing a sound like water rushing through empty pipes. The corners of your mouth lift in satisfaction.
"I've been thinking," you say, your voice casual as though discussing the weather, not my systematic starvation. "This arrangement we have... it's perfect because I can't lose." You trace the sharp angle where my hip bone juts against skin. "Either way, I win."
My stomach roars again, and your eyes flutter closed momentarily in pleasure.
"See?" Your voice drops lower. "Either these beautiful bones continue revealing themselves to me day by day—" you run your hand along my side where my ribs form a delicate ladder "—or your starved little belly puts on these magnificent performances." You press down slightly, and another growl erupts.
You reach for something beside the bed—a small covered dish I hadn't noticed before. When you remove the lid, the scent of warm butter and cinnamon fills the air.
"Listen to that," you marvel as another growl tears through me. "It's almost orgasmic."
You lift what appears to be a bite of French toast, glistening with maple syrup. The scent alone makes saliva flood my mouth. You hold it inches from my lips, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from it.
"Should I?" you tease, moving it closer, then pulling it away.
My body answers with another desperate growl, this one so powerful it seems to shake the bed. You smile, delighted by my involuntary response.
"God, that's so hot," you breathe, pressing your hand flat against my stomach again to feel the vibrations.
You set the bite of food back on the plate, never having intended to give it to me. Instead, you trail your fingers down my sternum to my navel, circling it slowly. Then, you press your ear against my abdomen, listening intently. When nothing happens immediately, you press down with both hands on either side of my stomach.
On cue, my insides contract violently. Your breathing quickens.
"Again," you command, and press harder.
My body, treacherous and weak, complies with another growl that seems to start in my spine and roll forward through my empty cavity.
"Tomorrow will be day six," you remind me, your fingers tracing the increasingly prominent ridge of my collarbone. "I wonder which will happen first—will this rope slip free as you waste away, or will your hungry belly finally sing the exact note I've been waiting for?"
You lean down to kiss my forehead, an oddly tender gesture amidst this orchestrated suffering.
"Either way," you whisper against my skin, "I win."
Another hunger story from some time ago! A is a captured agent unable to get any food for their aching stomach.
TW: confinement, restraints, mention of sleep deprivation
A’s wrists chafed against the zip ties securing her to the metal chair. The skin had gone from irritated to raw hours ago—or was it days? The fluorescent lights never dimmed, never changed, offering no hint of passing time.
A’s training had prepared her for this: the sleep deprivation, the disorientation, the relentless questioning. 48 hours without sleep before you begin to hallucinate. 72 before cognitive function severely deteriorates. A tried to lower her head to the table, seeking just a moment's rest, but the restraints prevented her from getting comfortable.
Suddenly, a loud growl emanated from her stomach, startling her in the silent room. How long since she’d last eaten? It couldn’t have been a day. Her hunger had progressed beyond the gnawing discomfort of missed meals to a hollow ache that seemed to consume her from the inside. 2 days, maybe 3.
A tried to shift in her chair, the zip ties biting deeper into her wrists as she instinctively attempted to reach to rub her stomach. She could only look down at the thin t-shirt they'd left her, seeing how it draped loosely over the growing concavity there. Another growl erupted, louder this time, almost angry.
A closed her eyes, trying to block out the hunger. Instead, her mind filled with images of food. When—if—she made it out, she’d eat an entire pizza. No, two pizzas. Then gelato. Maybe some fries after that.
Her stomach growled again, a sound so loud in the empty room it seemed almost comical. A would have laughed if she had the energy. Instead, she leaned back in the chair as far as the restraints would allow, wondering how much longer before the interrogator returned with his clipboard and dead eyes, ready to begin the dance again.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Another short story! Similar to my last post, but I wanted to swap who was hungry. This time, A is an overbooked massage therapist who hasn’t had time to eat.
…
A’s hands stilled on B's lower back, focusing on the tight knot of muscle near B’s spine.
Twelve hours. Six back-to-back appointments with no break, and that protein bar A grabbed at 6 a.m. was a distant memory. A pressed her thumbs along the ridge of B’s obliques, trying to ignore the hollow ache in her own stomach.
"How's the pressure?" she asked, keeping her voice professionally neutral despite the embarrassment heating her cheeks.
"Perfect," B murmured, his voice muffled against the face cradle. "Right where I needed it."
A nodded, though B couldn't see her. The spa's ambient music - all flowing water and tinkling wind chimes - usually created the perfect atmosphere, but now it seemed too quiet, too sparse to mask any potential... incidents.
A reached for more oil, warming it between her palms before returning to work on the tight bands of muscle along his sides. Just fifteen more minutes, then she could dash to the break room for that emergency granola bar in her—
Her stomach chose that precise moment to unleash a growl that seemed to echo off the bamboo-paneled walls. Not a polite rumble, but a full-on, cavernous protest.
A froze, mortified. Her hands hovered inches above B’s bare back.
"I'm so sorry," she managed, professional demeanor cracking. "I, uh—"
To her surprise, B chuckled, his shoulders shaking slightly.
"Occupational hazard," she said. "Sometimes the schedule gets so packed I forget to eat."
"Criminal," B mumbled into the face cradle. "You're literally using your body to fix other people's bodies all day."
A worked her way up B’s spine, finding another knot beneath his left shoulder blade. "I usually plan better. There's this deli across the street that makes the most amazing turkey avocado—" Her stomach growled again, cutting her off mid-sentence.
This time they both laughed, the awkwardness dissipating like the lavender-scented mist from the diffuser in the corner.
A short story I wrote earlier today! A is a massage therapist massaging B, who had to skip meals all day because of work.
…
A’s strong hands worked methodically across B’s abdomen, his fingers finding tension she hadn't even realized was there.
"Breathe into it," he instructed, voice low and steady. "This area holds a lot of stress."
B tried to focus on her breathing instead of the fact that she hadn't eaten since yesterday's dinner. Quarterly reports had consumed her entire day—twelve hours behind her glass desk, declining lunch invitations, ignoring hunger pangs while fielding calls from anxious shareholders. B had rushed straight from the office to make this appointment, her stomach a hollow cave beneath A’s practiced touch.
"Try to relax your shoulders," A murmured, pressing deeper into B's diaphragm.
Beneath A’s palms, B’s empty stomach contracted with a growl so powerful it traveled through A’s fingertips and up A's forearms. The massage table itself seemed to hum with the vibration.
A's hands froze in place, still registering the sensation.
"God, I'm sorry," B whispered, mortified.
"No need—"
Another growl interrupted him, longer and somehow more insistent than the first.
"Sounds like someone skipped a meal," A said, resuming his work with careful pressure.
"Try three," B admitted. "I had back-to-backs all day."
B's stomach roared again, as if confirming her neglect.
"That's impressive," A chuckled, moving his hands to B's sides. "Your stomach must be so empty."
B laughed despite herself, tension finally breaking. Her stomach punctuated this with yet another rumble, and they both dissolved into laughter, the spa's tinkling wind chimes nearly drowned out by their shared amusement.
