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The flu hits soon after supper. Fortunately, Connor has a supportive girlfriend.
This story contains graphic descriptions of vomiting and the sound off diarrhea.
Sue couldn't help noticing that her boyfriend started out eating supper enthusiastically, then suddenly seemed to lose his appetite, and since then had been pushing food around on his plate more than actually eating it. "Are you feeling all right?" Sue asked across the table. "You look pale."
Connor looked up with a guilty start. "I'm fine," he said unconvincingly. "Just tired."
She said nothing more about it as she finished her own supper and began to clear the table. He sat back and let her take his plate, despite half his portion left uneaten.
She rinsed the plates and put the leftovers away, all the while watching him from the corner of her eye. He slouched with his eyes closed and a troubled expression, and twice she saw him rubbing his stomach. Without a word, she went to the medicine cabinet and came back with a pair of peach-colored pills.
"Take these."
"What are they?"
"Something to settle your stomach."
"How did you know...?"
"Connor, I know you better than anyone. I can tell when you're not feeling well."
He looked slightly sheepish but took the pills, then laid down on the couch.
Sue sat and scrolled her phone in silence for about twenty minutes while he rested, waiting for the pills to help. He was scowling and holding his belly, and once she heard a telltale sloshing and gurgling.
"It's not getting any better, is it?" she asked at last.
He shivered involuntarily. "No."
She put her phone aside and reached over to feel his forehead, then the back of his neck. "You're running a fever."
"I really don't feel good. Like, all over."
"I'm guessing you're coming down with the flu. It's been going around."
He flinched in pain and got up from the couch but couldn't seem to straighten up all the way.
"You should just go to bed," she suggested.
"Not yet," he said as he made a beeline for the bathroom. He shut the door behind him, but she could still hear the enormous blast of flatulence magnified by the toilet bowl, and the rapid plopping of loose feces that immediately followed.
She shook her head in pity but was helpless to do anything.
She heard him moan and swear as the toilet flushed, and sloppy material showering into the water as it refilled. He shat his guts out for over fifteen minutes before she heard the water running in the sink. She met him when he opened the bathroom door.
He was out of breath and far paler now than before.
"That didn't sound fun," she said.
"It wasn't," he said. She put a hand on his back and led him to bed. He was shaking, and she hurried to take down the covers so he could lie down. When he did, he curled up holding his stomach. She covered him with a blanket and stood for a moment, trying to think of something else she could do to help ease his suffering.
"I can't believe I'm this sick," he groaned.
"Just lie still." She came around to her side of the bed and sat down on top of the blankets. She put a hand on his back and began to rub slow circles.
He lay in misery, occasionally shivering, occasionally making distressed noises when his stomach sloshed unhappily.
"Any better?" she asked after ten minutes.
Connor's eyes were tightly shut, and he had a fist pressed against his mouth. "No."
"Are you nauseated?"
He nodded.
"Do you want me to bring the garbage can?"
He nodded again, grimacing.
Sue emptied the bathroom garbage into the can in the kitchen and brought him the empty pail. He set it on the bedside table. She sat back down, this time with her phone, and kept him company while he squirmed and sickly sounds came from deep in his gut.
"Hurts," he said, clutching his middle. His voice was slurpy, as if he didn't dare swallow his own saliva.
She made a sympathetic noise. "Do you want a heating pad?"
"No, I... I think..." He gulped audibly and reached for the garbage pail. "Gonna be sick," he whispered.
"Oh, dear," she fretted.
He pushed himself into a half-sitting position with one elbow and held the pail with the other arm. At first he simply let the bubbly slime in his mouth ooze downward. A shiver shook his body, and the same spasm seemed to trigger a gag. His mouth opened wider, and a faint croaking noise came from the bottom of his throat.
Sue laid a comforting hand on the back of his shoulder. "I'm right here," she said. "There's nothing I can do, but I'm here."
He coughed a few times, then curled forward with a rumbling heave. A watery spatter of vomit hit the bottom of the pail. "Ugh!" He coughed some more without bringing up anything else.
"Let it come," Sue said, patting his back.
Connor panted, drooling into the pail, then shuddered with a loud, baritone retch. A disgusting squelching noise announced more of his stomach contents going into the pail. He rocked with relentless heaves as gobs of thicker and thicker puke worked their way up his throat.
Noticing that he was having troubling getting it up, she went into the bathroom and returned with a cup of water. She set it on the bedside table. Connor struggled to throw up for another minute before a brief lull gave him a chance to grab the cup and chug half of it. He choked and sputtered, then doubled over with another strong retch. This time a more liquid stream of chunky puke flowed out of his mouth. He coughed, then downed the rest of the water. Within seconds he gave a loud belch that turned into a heave. More curdled vomit flew into the pail. Then he lifted his head slightly and tried to catch his breath.
"There you go," Sue said, still rubbing his quaking shoulders. "That should be everything you ate for supper. You didn't eat much."
He coughed, spat, and set the pail on the nightstand before rushing into the bathroom. This time he didn't bother to shut the door, and she heard the messy fart that sent a second round of diarrhea pouring into the toilet.
Sue rubbed her forehead with a sigh. It was going to be a long night.
James doesn't want his wife to know how sick he is. (This is longer than my usual kink fics, so enjoy!)
This story contains graphic descriptions of vomiting and diarrhea.
It wasn't unusual for James to have a bowel movement soon after breakfast, although as he headed for the bathroom he noticed that the urge was stronger than usual and slight pain accompanied it. He frowned as he sat down on the toilet, then pushed. Almost immediately, a series of mushy turds flew out in quick succession. He made a quiet noise of discomfort and leaned forward on his knees as his gut cramped harder. After a moment of building pressure, another soft length of feces slithered out, breaking into pieces as it did so. He spent almost fifteen minutes relieving himself and then cleaning his sore bottom.
He hoped it was a one-time incident as he went about his day.
His wife had the day off, and was enjoying the unseasonably warm weather by sitting on the deck, lost in a book. James eased down into the chair beside her with his own book, eager to sit still while his bowels settled.
"Beautiful day," she said.
"Yeah," he said. He had feared she would notice he wasn't feeling well and start fussing like she usually did, but her eyes only left her book for a second.
Very well. He'd just sit quietly until he felt better.
Minutes ticked by. The pain in his middle hadn't gone away after pooping, which seemed ominous. If anything, it seemed to be spreading higher up in his digestive tract. He stifled a burp and shifted his weight uneasily. It definitely wasn't just his colon that was unsettled.
He remained firmly in denial for twenty minutes, trying to ignore the growing discomfort in his middle and the sour feeling in the back of his throat.
I'm fine, he told himself. Breakfast just didn't agree with me for some reason.
He turned a page and felt the strongest pulse of queasiness yet ripple through his stomach. His brow dropped into a frown. It almost felt like he was coming down with something… No. He was perfectly healthy. No cause for alarm.
Yet he found it increasingly difficult to concentrate on his book, and ended up re-reading a paragraph three times. He caught himself pressing his knuckles into his lips and quickly lowered his arm. His wife seemed oblivious.
Renewed pressure at his anus made him shift his weight as he tried to decide if it was gas or something more. Considering the forceful, barely-solid nature of his last bowel movement, he didn't trust it. Best to clench it back for now. The pressure lessened after a couple minutes, but there was no cause to celebrate.
Undeniable nausea swept through his body, and he forced himself to swallow the spit that had accumulated in his mouth. It stayed down, but he honestly wasn't sure if it would continue to do so.
I really don't feel well, he thought, briefly closing his eyes. But I don't want her to know. She worries so any time I'm under the weather.
He took stock of his symptoms and decided he would be able to stand up and go inside without drawing suspicion. "I think I'll go watch TV," he said casually as he got to his feet.
"All right." She looked up at him, and immediately lowered an eyebrow. "Are you okay? You're awfully pale."
"I'm fine," he lied calmly, then went inside before she could question him further.
Moving made him feel even worse, and he held the back of his hand to his mouth. A peculiar, hollow feeling was growing at the bottom of his throat, and he gulped hard. He had left just in time. His breakfast probably would be making a reappearance soon.
Which bathroom he should head for? It had to be close enough that he could make it without losing control, but far enough away that she wouldn't hear or smell what he was about to do.
The basement seemed like a good idea, and he hurried down the steps on shaky legs. A nearly silent burp made acid sting the back of his throat. Not yet, he ordered his body. He held his breath as he fought the urge to gag. As he rushed down the dimly-lit hallway, the thick saliva that had been accumulating in his mouth began to ooze out between his lips. He cupped his hand to catch it, now finding it impossible to keep his spine straight through the wracking pains in his stomach.
He barged into the small bathroom next to the laundry room, slamming the door behind him, and went straight to the toilet.
All right, he told his body. Now I can throw up.
He spat into the water and slowly lowered himself to kneel in front of the commode. He sat frozen with a nauseated grimace on his face, leaning over the bowl. His stomach turned over with an audible slosh, and his tongue lifted in a shallow gag.
Oh please, just get it over with, he thought.
He began coughing involuntarily, then gave a loud, gurgling belch. A small amount of discolored liquid came up and sprinkled into the water. He gasped, spat a few times, and waited while slowly rocking with the waves of nausea. A deep retch rumbled up his throat, and a mouthful of runny sludge fell into the toilet. The spasms continued, getting more vigorous, as increasingly thick vomit worked its way up. After an especially loud heave, what had to be the bulk of his breakfast thundered out, splashing flecks back up onto the seat.
The force of his body ejecting his last meal in that direction began to reawaken his bowels, and soon he was squeezing his sphincter against what he knew would be diarrhea. Pain shot up through his rectum as the pressure grew, and he began to fear soiling himself.
As soon as a heave failed to bring anything up, he scrambled to yank down his pants and sit down on the vomit-spattered toilet. He pulled the garbage can into his lap and doubled over as a forceful spray of loose stool erupted from his ass. After less than a minute, he felt the nausea spiking again and bowed his head over the can. He gagged several times, drooling heavily. The motion encouraged more diarrhea to pour from the other end. Then a spurt of brownish-pink vomit gushed from his mouth, pattering noisily into the empty can.
At least I've got privacy to do all this, he thought as his entire body shuddered with the double sickness. His abdomen began to hurt from the relentless spasms.
He had no idea how much time had passed. Eventually his stomach was completely empty, and he strained breathlessly to dredge up greenish bile before the dry heaves finally relented. It took longer for the diarrhea to wane, but eventually he dared to rise from the befouled toilet to rinse his mouth and wash his hands in the sink.
He looked at himself in the mirror, taking stock of how he looked. I'm still pale, but I didn't get any vomit on my clothes. Hopefully she won't notice.
He took a deep, steadying breath before exiting the bathroom and heading upstairs. He wanted nothing more than to be in bed, but lying down so soon after breakfast would definitely tip off his wife that he was ill, so instead he went to the living room and eased down onto the sofa in front of the TV.
I can't believe I'm this sick, he thought in dismay. I know I should try to stay hydrated, but for now I just need to sit still.
He closed his eyes and tried to relax, but the pain in his gut hadn't completely gone away, and nausea continued to batter him.
No, he thought. Not again. I don't have anything left to throw up.
Yet his tongue curled in a silent gag, and he leapt up from the couch to make a run for the garbage can in the kitchen. He bent over it and lurched with vigorous retches that only produced a tiny trickle of bile.
When the episode passed he grabbed a napkin for his watering eyes and runny nose.
That's quite enough of that, he scolded his body. If his wife was inside the house, she surely heard that. Yet the minutes ticked by and she didn't come rushing to investigate, so he deduced she was still out on the deck.
He returned to the sofa and began flipping channels in search of something to help him keep his mind off how horrible he felt. This was partially successful until he felt a blip of pressure at his anus again.
He swore under his breath and moaned as he forced his rubbery knees to stand again. He didn't trust his body enough to head for the basement bathroom again, so he hurried to the one near the bedroom. He reached it without incident and was soon planted on the toilet, trembling as his colon expelled showers of feces with the consistency of pudding. The cramps made it feel like he was being punched in the gut. He squirmed and panted, lifting his heels off the ground. He gagged from time to time but didn't bring up anything.
By the time he was able to leave the bathroom, he knew he was far too sick to hide it from his wife. Still, there was no point seeking her out to share the bad news. Instead he trudged into the bedroom and gratefully flopped onto the mattress.
The pain was less now, but still very much present. He hugged a pillow to his belly and tried to relax. He was starting to get a little drowsy when the door opened.
"There you are! What's the matter?"
Even now he tried to play it cool. "Oh, I just had a bit of a bellyache. Thought I'd lie down until it calmed."
She lowered a suspicious eyebrow and approached the bed. "You're pale as a sheet." She reached down to feel the top of his head. "And burning with fever!"
"I'm sure it's nothing serious," he said, but she saw right through him.
"You're sick."
"Passing discomfort. I'll be fine." Even as he said this, however, his throat clenched, and he coughed a little in an attempt to disguise a shallow dry heave.
"Do you feel like you're going to throw up?" she asked in alarm. Without waiting for an answer, she dashed into the bathroom and brought him the garbage can.
"Just indigestion," he said, waving it away.
"James, don't lie to me. You're obviously not well," she said impatiently.
"I'm--" A rather loud gag interrupted him, and she held the can under his chin. He was wracked with dry heaves for a full minute before he recovered and straightened up with a breathless profanity.
"It hasn't been that long since breakfast," she said shrewdly. "The only way your stomach would be empty is if you've been vomiting."
He avoided eye contact.
"Why didn't you say something?"
"It came on quickly. And…I didn't want to worry you. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got to go again." She stood back as he got out of bed and made his way into the bathroom while bent over with cramps.
"Poor dear," she fretted.
He knew it was useless to shut the door, so he went directly to the toilet and sat down with a sigh that bordered on a groan. The instant his cheeks hit the seat, a stuttering flow of light brown slime shot into the bowl. He shivered and leaned forward with his arms over his abdomen.
"I'll go raid the medicine cabinet," she said. "Don't move."
There's a nasty version of gastroenteritis going through the nursing school, and it's Carrie's turn.
This story contains graphic descriptions of vomiting and diarrhea.
Instead of joining the other nursing students in the cafeteria during lunch break, Carrie found an out-of-the-way restroom and simply stood at the sink, taking stock of how she felt.
She had barely been out of bed that morning before a strong urge to defecate made her hurry to the toilet. Her bowel movement had exited with more force than usual, and her feces was especially soft.
She felt fine soon afterwards and had continued on with her morning routine. Since arriving at school she'd felt some light cramping pains in her abdomen, but she hadn't had to poop again. Instead her breakfast had been rolling around in her stomach, sloshing so noisily that one of her classmates asked what the sound was. A nagging sense of queasiness had been building ever since, despite her denial.
Maybe going to the cafeteria and having some toast would settle her stomach. Yet every time she decided to leave the bathroom, something made her hesitate. She slowly rubbed her belly, frowning deeply.
Her knees were shaking and the cramps in her middle made it hard to stand up straight, so she went into a stall and sat down on the toilet. Pressure soon grew at her anus, and when she pushed a messy squirt of loose stool shot out. She folded her arms across her abdomen and leaned forward with a quiet moan.
Her churning colon let out a seemingly endless torrent of diarrhea. She flushed as often as she could to keep the smell to a minimum. By the time the flow stopped, she could no longer deny how nauseated she was.
She had heard of a few other students staying home with gastroenteritis, but she thought she had been careful to avoid germs. Not careful enough, it seemed.
Carrie hastened to clean her bottom with the scratchy toilet paper, suspecting her illness was going to go in the other direction soon. By the time the paper came back clean, her mouth was full of bubbly saliva and she was holding her breath to fight back the urge to gag. She pulled her pants up, turned around, and stood with her hands on her knees, leaning over the toilet.
As soon as her lips parted, she gagged quietly and let the thick saliva ooze downward from her lips. Before it reached the water, she gagged harder, then coughed twice before her jaw dropped open with a surprisingly loud retch. She closed her eyes as hot mush rose in her throat, then thundered into the toilet bowl.
She was surprised she still had so much in her stomach from breakfast, but there was no stopping the torrent of chunky vomit erupting from her mouth. She bent into the heaves, eager to get it over with. The force of the spew sent flecks onto the back of the seat and all over the inside of the bowl--on top of the brown spatter from her diarrhea.
The flow of emesis dwindled until she was wracked with painful, hollow retches that only produced a trickle of burning liquid. Several minutes of dry heaves later, she wiped her mouth with toilet paper and flushed away her erstwhile stomach contents.
"Phew," she breathed.
Time to call it a day and head home to bed. She composed herself for another minute before exiting the bathroom. Halfway to the bus stop, she ducked into a convenience store and blasted out another round of painful diarrhea. She gagged up bile into a plastic bag on the ride home, and missed the next three days of classes.
Kelly is minding her own business, working on a painting, when a strange noise from her husband makes her turn around...
If you’re not into emetophilia, stay away.  This story includes graphic descriptions of throwing up.
Kelly looked up from her painting with a confused expression. None of her paints had spilled, but she could have sworn she heard…
A wet cough from her husband made her turn around. It took her a few seconds to process what she was seeing.
Ron had been lying on the sofa, but he was now leaning way out over the edge, holding onto the coffee table with one hand. He appeared to be drooling, and a curdled, peach-colored puddle lay on the carpet directly below with open mouth.
"Whoa! Did you just--"
He shuddered and let out a second, brief gush of vomit that pattered onto what was already there.
She sprang into action and ran over with the nearest garbage can. It was nearly full with crumpled paper towels from her painting, but it was better than nothing.
"Here!" she said, shoving it under his face.
He clutched it gratefully and heaved again. About two mouthfuls of thick puke oozed down his chin and dripped onto the paper towels.
"Sorry," he rasped.
"You didn't do it on purpose," she scoffed. "I didn't even know you were feeling ill, though."
"I didn't want to worry you in case it turned out to be nothing," he said. "But I--HURRRRK!" He bent closer to the can and retched a few times, bringing up another relatively small amount of viscous vomit.
"You need some water. Be right back." She ran off to the kitchen to get a glass.
When she returned, there was even more chunky barf weighing down the paper towels, and he was panting for breath. He had apparently thrown up a fair amount while she was out of earshot.
He accepted the glass from her, took a gulp, and handed it back to her immediately. He gagged over the garbage can, then strained harder for a second before a flood of lumpy sludge poured out. The flow continued for much longer than before, covering the last untainted paper towels in the can. He gasped, fighting to get oxygen into his lungs before the next round spewed out. A loud, painful-sounding retch propelled a squirt of mostly liquid vomit.
He motioned for the glass and took another drink that barely reached his stomach before surging back up along with more of his former supper.
"Oh, honey, I'm so sorry you have to go through this," she said, rubbing his back.
He stuck his head into the can for the next violent heave, so she didn't see what he threw up, but it sounded like a fair amount. He repeated this twice more before he once more gasped for air and straightened up a little.
"Ohh, that's awful," he moaned.
She gave him a clean square of paper towel to wipe his mouth and blow his nose. "You poor thing. Should I take you to the clinic?"
He considered before shaking his head. "I feel better now that my stomach is empty. I'm just going to go to bed and not move until this runs its course."
"It's up to you. Either way I, uh...have some cleaning to do." She made a face at the mess on the carpet."
He rubbed his forehead. "I just wasn't ready for it to come up so soon. I thought I'd have time to get to the bathroom, but all of a sudden…ugh!"
"It happens, honey." She helped him stand and led him to bed.
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A man comes home to find his wife being violently ill in the toilet.
Slimy gunk poured from her mouth and splashed noisily into the toilet. She panted, trying to steal a breath before the next round came up. "HAGLURP!" Her abdomen clenched, and a surprisingly chunky spurt of vomit cascaded into the water. Strangled belching sounds came from deep in her throat as she struggled to rid herself of the rest of her lunch. Viscous gobs pattered into the bowl, and she coughed vigorously to dispel the feeling that her throat was coated.
"Honey?"
She winced. She had hoped she could finish being sick before her husband came home, but he was now rushing into the bathroom with an expression of alarm.
"Whoa, when did that come on?" he asked as he stooped to rub her back.
She was too busy puking to answer.
"It's all right," he soothed. "Get it all up."
I'm trying, she thought in irritated misery. After a few fruitless spasms, her gut twisted painfully, and the next thing she knew she was throwing up a long, thick flood of brownish-pink vomit with greenish streaks. Over and over again her throat pulsed and her belly contracted, and the flow of barf just kept coming.
"That's it," he said, patting her back.
The deluge stopped as suddenly as it had started, and she was left gasping and drooling. "Oh dear," she said in a shaky, slurpy voice.
"You okay?"
"I… I guess so. That was…" She let a moan speak for her.
"Did that just come on since I called you like an hour ago?"
"Sort of. I was feeling a bit off, but I thought I just needed to have a bowel movement. By the time I got here, though… It went this direction."
"That's awful. Do you want some water?"
"Not yet. I still feel… I might…" She gagged hard, but nothing emerged. "So sick."
"It's all right. Do what you have to do." He rubbed her back with a bit more force.
Surges of nausea swept over her, and she closed her eyes with a whimper. Surely her stomach was empty now. A belch made her open her mouth as she felt even worse for a second--then spewed a forceful fountain of more liquid vomit into the toilet. It lasted perhaps ten seconds, but when it stopped she felt a wave of relief.
"That was everything," she wheezed.
He helped her to her feet so she could rinse her mouth in the sink, then led her to bed.
The flu comes on suddenly, and a man pukes on himself in his office. Then he doesn't think he can make it to the men's room before the diarrhea strikes, so he improvises.
This story contains graphic descriptions of vomiting and diarrhea.
He was in denial about the obvious signs that he was coming down with the stomach flu that had been sweeping through the office. He ached all over, he had the chills despite the film of sweat that never seemed to go away, and his gut was making unsettled sloshing noises.
He tried to get a few urgent tasks done in his office before it got too bad. If it went like it did for the others, he'd be down in bed for at least two days once it struck at full force.
A vague urge to poop made itself known, but he ignored it.
A sudden pulse of nausea made him gulp, but he kept working.
A chill made him shiver, but there was paperwork to be done.
If he could hold it together another half hour, even, it would be a huge help for the rest of the department in the week to come.
He clenched his sphincter against the burning pressure. Not now. Not yet.
Pains in his middle made it hard to sit up straight.
He opened a desk drawer to look for an envelope, his hand shaking.
A sudden, absolutely horrible feeling slammed into him, and before he could register what was happening vomit was pouring out of his mouth onto his pant leg. He lunged for the garbage can under his desk, in the process leaving slimy gobs on his sleeve and another stretch of floor.
He bent over with the can between his knees and retched himself inside-out for several minutes. The relentless sickness did not ebb until his entire breakfast lay in a curdled puddle in the bottom of the can. He gagged for another minute even after nothing remained to bring up.
He sat back in his chair with a breathless groan.
He now had wet streaks--and even some chunks--of puke on his arm, one side of his trousers, and a bit had fallen in his lap, as well. He also had a burning, urgent, painful need to defecate, but he wasn't sure how he could make it to a men's room in his current state.
Maybe I just won't, he thought as the pressure grew unbearable. He made sure his office door was locked before he set the garbage can behind his desk, then pulled down his pants and squatted over it. Immediately a long gush of soft feces erupted from his anus, spattering into the can in a mixture of mushy turds and mud-like sludge. He crouched there, shitting his guts out and occasionally spitting up into a handful of tissues, until the spasms finally had mercy on him. He wiped with the rest of the box of tissues before knotting the garbage bag shut and going to inform his boss he was going home early.
A professor delivers a speech at a conference while fighting off the stomach flu. When she's finally able to make it to the ladies' room, it's not pretty. One toilet and two orifices exploding means there's going to be a mess one way or another...
This story contains graphic descriptions of vomiting and diarrhea.
Shortly after arriving at the conference, Professor [name] ducked into a restroom and had an unexpectedly forceful and watery bowel movement. The pains in her stomach did not abate afterward as she had hoped they would, but she had no choice but to continue on to the auditorium.
She sat with her legs crossed, trying not to frown at the growing discomfort in her belly as she waited for the opening speaker to finish his remarks.
I think I'm coming down with something, she realized as her stomach gurgled. What horrible timing. She would just have to tough it out until after her speech, though.
She forced herself to smile charmingly at the crowd on her way to the podium. It was definitely more than nerves over speaking to so many people that was making her stomach churn uneasily. She hoped the microphone wouldn't pick up the sounds coming from her midsection.
She felt worse and worse as her speech went on, and began to cut a few bits for time. The burning pressure at her rectum told her the second round of diarrhea was ready to exit. Even more worrisome were the waves of nausea that swept over her with increasing frequency. She came to a place where she would naturally have paused, and took the opportunity to gulp down the thick saliva that had collected in her mouth. She wasn't entirely confident it would stay down, but it did…for now.
She leaned on the lectern, trying not to let on how much her stomach was hurting.
Almost done, she told herself. Just hold it another few minutes.
Her blouse was sticking to her back with cold sweat, and she was glad the podium hid her shaking legs.
It was no longer a matter of IF she threw up. It was definitely WHEN.
As soon as her speech was over, she swallowed hard to fend off the urge to gag, managed a somewhat subdued smile, and left the stage at a normal pace. Much as she wanted to get somewhere private quickly, she also didn't want to draw attention to her plight. Besides, hurrying might make her lose control. Which direction she was going to be sick in first was an open question.
There was probably a closer ladies' room than the one she had taken a dump in earlier, but she didn't know where, and she didn't dare stop to ask for directions. By the time she reached the restroom, stabbing pains in her rectum warned her not to delay. She wasn't happy to see two stalls in use, but there was nothing she could do about it. She went into the stall furthest from the door and quickly locked the door before spinning around to face the toilet. Doing so made her tongue lift in a shallow gag, but her bowels still seemed like the most immediate threat. She yanked down her skirt, slip, and panties in one motion and sat down heavily. The instant she stopped clenching her butt muscles, a cascade of mushy turds exploded into the bowl.
She bent forward with her arms crossed on her belly, wincing at the pain in her colon. A few almost-solid gobs of stool were mixed in with the mud-like feces that gushed out each time she pushed.
A sour, burning sensation in the back of her throat made her grimace. Her lunch wasn't going to stay down much longer. Her sickness was too extreme in both directions to hope that she wouldn't make some kind of mess on the floor.
The cramps waned as her nausea ramped up, so she quickly tried to wipe the worst of the diarrhea from her bottom, then stood up, turned around, and bent down with her hands on her knees. She had planned to pull up her pants, but there wasn't time before the sight of the brown flecks and streaks she had left inside the bowl pushed her over the edge. She gave a strangled heave as vomit crept up her throat. She bent over further, straining to get it started.
A deep retch rumbled through her, and she involuntarily opened her mouth as thick sludge gurgled up her throat and plopped into the toilet.
By now the restroom was empty, and likely to stay that way as long as she was being loudly sick.
It was an odd relief to stop fighting the nausea, and she bent into the heaves, eager to empty her stomach in one round.
Pain in her middle struck with a vengeance, and she bent her knees as an even stronger retch brought up a long gush of puke that splashed noisily into the toilet. Suddenly, she felt her sphincter let loose with a squirt of semi-liquid feces onto the tile floor.
Dang, she knew she was going to end up making a mess somehow.
She desperately tried to clench back the waste as she continued to throw up, but two more dollops hit the floor before she stopped heaving. As soon as her nausea ebbed, she turned around and sat back down on the toilet. She grimaced at the vile taste in her mouth and gave a light push. A second of painful pressure almost immediately yielded to a sputtering stream of brown sludge.
A small but messy puddle of the same was on the floor in front of her, and she desperately tried not to look at it. Smelling it was unavoidable, however, and a few minutes later she felt her throat spasm with a fresh heave.
Surely there wasn't anything left in her stomach…
A spurt of yellowish-brown vomit left her mouth and splattered onto the floor, partially covering the poop.
It took a half hour before she stopped puking and shitting her guts out. Cleaning up her feces-smeared rear end and upper thighs wasn't a quick or easy affair, especially when he had to pause to dry heave every few wipes.
She didn't even attempt to do anything about the puddle of her bodily fluids on the floor. She staggered out of the stall, narrowly avoiding stepping in it, and rinsed her mouth in the sink. She gave a low groan, decided her body was truly done ejecting the contents of her digestive tract, and hurried out of the conference center.
He doesn't really want to throw up, but he realizes he won't feel better until he does. The restroom door is locked, however, so he goes ahead and empties his stomach on the ground nearby.
If you’re not into emetophilia, stay away.  This story includes graphic descriptions of throwing up.
The teenager stopped by a street light and leaned on it with one hand while rubbing his belly with the other. He made a quiet noise of discomfort. His sister stopped beside him and put a hand on his back. "Any better?"
He shook his head. "I'm starting to think I won't feel better until I throw up."
"Eew, really?"
"Yeah. I've got this big, thick ball of 'ugh' right here," he said, laying a hand below his sternum, "and I need to get rid of it."
"We're not that far from home, now. Maybe if you can lie down for awhile--"
"Nuh-uh. I can tell. I just need to barf. You can go on ahead. I'll catch up after I'm done." He crossed the street toward a gas station. She didn't follow.
He felt worse after hurrying across the street and parking lot, and began to wonder if he would need to force it, after all. Yet the pulses of nausea that swept over him still weren't quite enough to trigger a heave. He tried the bathroom door and found it locked. Great. He took a few steps toward the back of the building, where the light wasn't as bright, and sat down on the curb.
He bowed his head between his knees and tried to think about puking. The sensation, the sound, the taste…
He gagged shallowly and let a stringy glob of thick saliva ooze down from his mouth to the pavement.
Come on, get it over with… He rubbed his stomach, pressing where he felt the worst, and felt a hot upwelling deep in his throat. Promising…
He coughed, artificially at first but swiftly becoming involuntary. An ominous gurgling sound grew deep in his throat, and with a particularly hard spasm he let out a splash of mostly-liquid vomit. Aha. He leaned into the heaves, pressing on his middle to encourage it along. The next retch brought up thicker material that plopped loudly onto the wet pavement. He tightly shut his eyes to avoid watching it accumulate.
The flow stopped before he felt true relief, and he resumed forcing himself to cough until it started up again. Chunky sludge poured forth in copious amounts, and he eagerly let it come.
He was vaguely aware that whomever had been in the men's room had emerged, made a startled noise at him, and then hurried away. There was no point in moving to the toilet now, so he stayed where he was as his stomach emptied with long, croaking retches.
He continued gagging and spitting up small flecks and upwellings of bile for well over ten minutes before he finally felt relief from the overwhelming nausea. He caught his breath before standing up, careful not to step in the impressive puddle of sickness he had produced, and hurried away.
He met his sister a block from their apartment. "There you are," she said. "I was getting worried."
"Had a full stomach," he rasped, not stopping to talk.
"Did you barf?"
He nodded emphatically.
"Feel better?"
"Think so."
"Good."
He went straight home to bed, but couldn't keep down anything solid for two days.
Wow! This blog now has 101 followers! Thank you all so much for the love. I may have a fetish that most people find disgusting, but at least I'm in good company!
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A woman decides to spend her day off shopping and having lunch at a new cafe. Then things go downhill until she's bent over, having a relatively quiet but copious vomit session in an alley.
If you’re not into emetophilia, stay away.  This story includes graphic descriptions of throwing up.
She had had a lovely morning shopping downtown, then stopped to eat at a new cafe. She overindulged on a decadent sundae for dessert and then continued on her way.
Except lunch wasn't settling very well. At first she blamed it on overeating on sweets, but a sour feeling took over more and more as she walked.
She tried to ignore it and went inside a clothing store. She wandered for awhile but found herself unable to muster any enthusiasm for the merchandise. Her belly made an unhappy whining sound, and she could actually feel the contents of her full stomach sloshing around.
Damn, she was having such a nice day off, and then she had to go and ruin it by eating that huge dessert.
Maybe if she could just sit down for awhile and let it all digest…
She left the clothing store and looked around until she saw a wooden bench in the shade of a tree. Perfect. She sat down with a sigh and closed her eyes. Her stomach made a vaguely inquisitive sound. She laid a hand on her belly and slowly rubbed it, hoping that would help.
Minutes ticked by, and her queasiness didn't get any better. If anything, she felt a little worse, as actual pain took root deep in her middle.
Do I need to poop? she wondered. After a moment paying close attention to her body, she concluded that no, her discomfort wasn't from her bowels.
A hiccup surprised her, and afterward her throat felt funny.
Well, if sitting still wasn't helping, she should probably head for home so she could lie down or take some medicine. Much as she hated to cut short her shopping, she really didn't feel well.
As she walked toward the nearest subway station, she realized how fast saliva was welling up in her mouth. A hard swallow cleared it, but it came back quickly.
The last time that was happening, I ended up barfing, she thought with a frown. That's silly, though. I just ate too many sweets. I'm not that sick.
The sloshing noise from her gut was audible even over the traffic and other pedestrians. Cold sweat began to dampen her blouse, and she found herself bending slightly at the waist due to the growing pain in her middle.
Shit. Am I coming down with something?
A burp made her reflexively cover her mouth.
She had never been so glad to see a subway station. She went straight inside, swiped her fast pass, and found a seat near the garbage receptacle. After sitting down, she combined some of her purchases into fewer bags, freeing two plastic ones that could serve as barf bags if necessary.
I can't believe I'm thinking about that, she thought. Just because my stomach is upset doesn't mean I'm going to hurl.
The train began moving, and she kept her gaze inside the car after a glance outside made her feel worse.
She felt more than heard a gurgling in her belly, and squirmed uncomfortably.
Twice during the journey she felt a spike of nausea that made her lift a plastic bag to her mouth, but both times the urge to gag passed. Luckily no one was sitting near enough to notice her plight.
By the time she reached her stop she couldn't stand up straight and her knees were shaking. She moaned quietly as she left the depot. Four blocks lay between her and her own bed…and bathroom. If only she could make it that far…
She trudged off toward home. What else could she do?
As she walked, pulses of nausea made her hold her breath and choke back the feeling that she was going to be sick any second. As she waited for a crosswalk light to turn green, a cramp in her belly made her nearly double over, and a sour taste filled her mouth.
I'm not gonna make it home, she thought.
There were no public restrooms around, so she crossed the parking lot of a realty business and went into the alley between it and the shop next door. She set down her bags of purchases and took a few steps away before leaning on the wall with one hand. The grabbing pain coalesced into a distinct clenching of her abdomen, and she bent forward as her mouth opened involuntarily.
Then it happened, like she knew it would if she stopped fighting it. There was no loud heave, just an "Ulp!" sound before a hot stream of creamy sludge gushed up her throat, out of her mouth, and down onto the blacktop. It kept coming, requiring only a small belch now and then. There was a wet pattering sound as it accumulated in a lumpy puddle in front of her feet.
A brief lull gave her a chance to catch her breath, but she still couldn't straighten up, and soon a remarkably quiet "urk" started the flow up again. She folded her arms across her aching tummy as her shoulders jerked and vomit resumed spouting from her mouth.
How much had she eaten, anyway? It hadn't felt like this much going down…
"Hurk! Glurg!" Thick gobs of puke overflowed down her chin and onto the growing puddle of sickness. "GORK!" That was the loudest sound she had made so far, and it still wasn't enough to garner attention from anyone in the parking lot.
At least if I have to hurl in an alley I can do it in privacy, she thought, grasping for any silver lining to what had turned into a terrible afternoon.
Her breath caught in her throat along with a particularly large chunk, and she coughed violently. Bits of pinkish-brown vomit spattered onto the surrounding pavement. Eventually she recovered from that, just in time to fold into a rasping heave. This time it took some miserable retching to get anything up, and a thinner stream of speckled slime ran out.
A minute or two of dry heaving followed, until she staggered back from the hideous pile of vomit she had produced and was finally able to stand up straight.
I don't think I've ever thrown up that much, she thought in queasy awe.
She blew her nose on a tissue from her purse before continuing on her way home.
When she got there, she tossed her shopping bags on the floor inside the door and went straight to the bathroom. She rinsed her mouth and washed her face before looking at herself in the mirror and realizing she had flecks of puke on her blouse.
"Eew!" she cried out, whipping it off and tossing it into the shower.
This outburst made her nausea return just long enough to trigger four silent gags before she regained control and went to lie down.
A guy is surprised to learn that a noisy lunchroom isn't actually the worst place to puke unnoticed.
If you’re not into emetophilia, stay away.  This story includes graphic descriptions of throwing up.
He sat facing the wall in the back corner of the lunchroom, head bowed low and knees spread wide. He had forced himself to eat part of his lunch, despite the queasiness that had been plaguing him all day. This proved to be a big mistake, as he only felt worse afterward.
He closed his eyes and stifled a burp with his fist, concentrating on keeping his stomach contents where they were. As thick saliva collected in his mouth, he realized that probably wasn't going to be possible.
He glanced around for a garbage can, but none were close by. If he tried to reach one and lost control in front of his classmates, he'd never hear the end of it, so he decided to stay where he was. It was so noisy he could probably be sick on the floor back here and no one would even notice.
An involuntary swallow made him begin to cold sweat. It was definitely coming.
The strongest wave of nausea yet made him bend further at the waist, until his head was lower than the table. A wet cough tore from his throat, swiftly evolving into a heave. Hot mush began to gather in his gullet, but it took a second, harder retch to bring it up. He shuddered and opened his mouth wider as a few globs of barely-digested biscuits splatted onto the linoleum. The sight of this only made him sicker, and the next spasm brought up a longer flow of thick vomit.
He knew he was making quite a lot of noise, but no one seemed to notice over the din of the full lunchroom.
He sputtered and spat several times, trying to rid himself of the stringy saliva dangling from his lips. Before he could succeed, his stomach rebelled again. He doubled over with a deep, painful retch that produced a second flood of puke. The chunks pattered onto the thick pile of sickness that was already there until his stomach was utterly empty. He rocked with dry heaves for another minute or two before he finally began to feel better and was able to straighten up. He wiped his mouth on a napkin and scooted down the bench to where the smell of vomit wasn't as strong.
He actually felt quite a bit better after throwing up. Not ready to run a marathon, but the pain in his gut was much less, and nobody had noticed him hurling his guts out. He said a silent apology to the janitor who would discover the mess as he walked away.
Without warning, Queen Ziara gets sick on the floor in front of her entourage.
If you’re not into emetophilia, stay away.  This story includes graphic descriptions of throwing up.
"I need a moment," Queen Ziara whispered as she veered to the side of the castle corridor and sat down on a bench.
Her chief of staff frowned. He thought she looked pale, but she had waved off his questions about her health earlier. "What's wrong?" he asked quietly.
She didn't answer at first. She sat with her eyes closed, bent forward with one elbow on her knee. "I…" She gulped and began to tremble. "Throwing up," she said quickly, then leaned closer to the floor. A quiet burp left her mouth just before cloudy liquid began to drizzle onto the marble floor.
"Someone find a bucket," the chief of staff ordered while rushing to hold the royal hair back.
The queen groaned. "So sorry, I cou--" A slightly louder retch curled her tongue, and this time there were small gobs of half-digested food mixed in with the liquid that hit the floor.
"There, there, Your Majesty," he soothed. "Just let it come."
She shook with a rasping heave and expelled more mush.
Another aide sprinted over with a bucket and pushed it under her chin. "Here!"
She hugged the can against her chest and dipped her head so no one could see what was coming out of her mouth. From the sound of it, there was quite a lot.
Her chief of staff spoke in a quiet, calming voice. "It's all right, Your Highness. No one is around but your entourage. Try to get it all up so you'll feel better."
Ziara panted for a few seconds before lurching with the loudest heave yet. Rapid pattering noises announced how much puke was going into the can. She rocked and moaned, gagging and spitting, until she was reduced to retching up bile and then finally was able to straighten up. Her pale face was flushed, and she looked mildly disoriented.
"Oh dear," she said shakily. "That came on so quickly… Ugh." She pulled out her handkerchief to wipe her chin and lips.
Another aide approached to announce, "The royal healer has been summoned to your chambers, Your Grace."
She nodded to acknowledge this but took another minute to collect herself before getting to her feet.
"Watch your step, Your Majesty," an aide said.
She glanced down at the shining puddle of vomit and made a disgusted noise before turning away with the handkerchief to her mouth. She gagged but walked off down the hallway, eager to be in the comfort and relative privacy of her chambers.
Medieval fantasy setting. A nursemaid sits by the bedside of a young Prince Andres as he battles a stomach bug.
If you’re not into emetophilia, stay away.  This story includes graphic descriptions of throwing up.
The nurse patiently sat at Prince Andres' bedside, waiting for the anti-nausea medicine she had given to him to work. The prince squirmed and rubbed the back of his hand against his pale lips. She heard a sloshing noise a second before he gulped.
"Any better?" she asked.
He shook his head.
"Keep lying still. It'll kick in eventually."
He made a quiet noise of distress, tightly closing his eyes.
Five minutes passed with the only sounds being his uneven breathing and the wet gurgles from his upset stomach.
Then, he sat up partway and leaned for the edge of the bed with one hand cupped over his mouth.
"Uh oh," she said, immediately grabbing the basin from the nightstand. She knew her patient well enough to know this was a real possibility, so she was prepared. "It's all right, Your Highness," she said. "If you need to, let it come."
Andres half-opened his eyes as his lips parted and a mouthful of frothy slime oozed downward onto the porcelain. "Don't want to," he muttered, then swallowed hard.
"It's not usually something you get to choose," she said mildly, brushing the prince's bangs off his forehead. "Best not to fight it, though."
His' tongue arched in a nearly silent gag, and he leaned closer to the basin. A rumbling belch built low in his throat, and when it reached the top it emerged with a loud splat of creamy vomit. He whimpered, trembling, before a second heave brought up much more sludge.
"That's it," she soothed, rubbing his back. "Get it all up, now."
He coughed, spraying flecks of peach-colored slime onto the porcelain around the puddle of his former lunch. Within seconds a river of thick puke was gushing out of his mouth.
"Good, good," she said calmly.
He gasped, then retched painfully hard. For a moment, she thought he might have emptied his stomach already, but after building pressure for a bit he bowed his head and threw up even more. Roughly triangular gobs of pale yellow fruit plopped into the mess in the basin, and she winced. Those weren't fun to bring up.
He panted for breath, then lurched with a violent heave that made a thick torrent of chunky barf fly out. There was a disgusting squelch as it hit the basin. Discolored liquid ran down his chin as he coughed a few times, then retched up one last gush of slimy vomit.
She felt him relax and knew his stomach was finally empty. "I bet now you feel better."
He nodded and accepted a tissue from her to wipe his nose and mouth. "I guess I just needed to do that," he said hoarsely.
"Sometimes there's no way around it, if you have a nasty stomach bug." She stood up. "If you're sure you're done, Your Highness, I'll get this out of here," she said, taking the basin.
He nodded and sank back into the pillow with a quiet moan.
At first the woman blames her upset stomach on the food from a new cafe, but, as she gets sicker and sicker in the ladies' room at work, she realizes it's something more serious.
This story contains graphic descriptions of vomiting and diarrhea.
She had lunch at a new cafe near her office, and was unimpressed with the quality of the food. Worse, it didn't seem to settle very well. She sat at her desk, feeling like a lump was sitting at the bottom of her stomach. Twinges of gas pain were growing more frequent and intense, and she realized a visit to the ladies' room was in order.
She wanted to finish some paperwork first, so she simply sat quietly and hoped the bellyache would pass. It didn't. To the contrary, her anus began to burn with pressure, and the unsettled sloshing in her gut grew louder.
Very well, she would have to finish this later. She stood up, and the room seemed to waver around her. She swayed briefly and gulped. Hmm. She was feeling quite a bit worse all of a sudden.
She hurried to the ladies' room at the end of the hallway and took the stall furthest from the door. The other women using the facilities were just finishing up. Her hands shook as she gathered up her skirt and pulled down her panties. She sat down heavily on the toilet and relaxed her sphincter. A lance of pain shot through her middle as she gave a light push, and a loud avalanche of soft turds showered into the bowl.
She bent forward with her arms crossed against her belly and closed her eyes as long squirts of loose stool sputtered out of her.
She wanted to blame the new cafe, but a sudden chill made her shiver, and she realized she felt feverish as well. Great. The last thing she needed was the flu.
She flushed as often as possible to keep the smell from building up too badly, but her nausea continued to worsen. A quiet burp made her clap a hand over her mouth and swallow with difficulty. For a moment she thought she would be sick and didn't relish making a mess on the floor, but the wave passed and she returned her attention to her bowels.
Blurts of gas propelled mud-like feces into the toilet, and she squirmed in discomfort.
The cramps relented somewhat after about ten minutes, and she dared to leave the stall. No one else had come into the restroom while she was shitting her guts out, for which she was extremely grateful.
She stood at the sink after washing her hands, trying to decide what to do next. She could go back to her office and sit quietly, hoping this would pass. She kind of felt like if she sat down again she could poop more, but surely she was empty for now.
She glanced at herself in the mirror and realized how pale she looked. Her stomach made a volatile gurgling noise, and she closed her eyes as a fresh wave of nausea rolled over her.
You're not going to vomit, she told herself fiercely. You have the diarrhea, but you're not going to vomit. Just hold it back, the moment will pass…
Except it didn't. Her throat began to clench in a silent gag, and she dashed back into the stall she had just vacated. A croaking noise came from deep in her throat as she bent over with her hands on her knees and aimed into the toilet.
She trembled and coughed for a few moments before a true heave gathered in her middle and built upward. She lurched with a painful retch, and a hot stream of pinkish-brown barf splashed into the bowl. She gasped and sank slowly to her knees on the cool tile floor. The next heave was just as strong, and brought up just as much of her ill-fated lunch.
She remained there, throwing up every minute or two, until her stomach was empty and she suffered a few rounds of dry heaves. Then she went back to sitting on the toilet for the second round of diarrhea.
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Sadie comes home early with a bad stomach. Martin returns from work just in time to bring her the puke bucket.
If you’re not into emetophilia, stay away.  This story includes graphic descriptions of throwing up. Also mentions of diarrhea but nothing detailed.
Martin was surprised to find Sadie home already when he got back from work. She was curled up on the couch, looking unwell.
"Whoa, what are you doing home already?" he asked.
"Got the squirts," she said with a grimace. "At first I thought it was just a bad bellyache after having breakfast on the go, but a half hour later I was back on the toilet, shitting my guts out. I was sure I was going to fill my pants on the train, but I made it home--barely."
"Aww, Sadie, that's awful!"
"Tell me about it. I feel horrible. Pains in my gut…" She rubbed her belly. "And I'm pretty queasy, too. I thought that would get better once I laid still, but, uh…no. In fact…" She swallowed hard and pressed the back of her hand to her mouth. "I'm starting to feel kinda barfy. Can you bring me the bucket?"
"On it." He hurried back with the discolored bucket they always used for times like this.
She mumbled her thanks and wedged it between herself and the arm of the couch.
"I'm going to go change. Holler if you need anything else."
She closed her eyes and nodded.
Martin took his time changing out of his suit and into a T-shirt and jeans. When he emerged from the bedroom, he found Sadie hunched in misery, aiming her mouth into the bucket.
"Uh oh…gonna spew?"
"Sure feel like I could," she said without parting her lips much.
Martin sorted the mail before coming to sit on the sofa chair diagonally across the coffee table. "Is there anything else I can do to help?"
She shook her head, then opened her mouth to let bubbly ooze drip toward the bucket. Her breath seemed to catch in her throat, and she made a shooing motion.
"It's okay, Sadie. It doesn't bother me that much when it's you. Just get it over with."
Her mouth opened as her tongue lifted in a silent gag. She coughed a little, then gave a low, gurgling belch. A second later her mouth rapidly overflowed with yellowish-brown sludge mixed with darker brown chunks. The vile substance hit the bottom of the bucket with a loud splat, then continued pattering as it began to pile up.
Martin looked away but kept up a comforting commentary of "It's okay, hon" and "Get it all up, now."
She gasped, then heaved harder and let out a torrent of lumpy vomit.
The instant reverse peristalsis ended, she shakily got to her feet, still hugging the bucket under her chin, and headed for the bathroom.
"Sadie?"
"Gotta shit," she managed to croak. Soon the sound of diarrhea pouring into the toilet came from down the hall. After a short time, she resumed retching too.
Medieval fantasy setting. When a wizard gets the stomach flu, it's up to the healer/sorceress he works with to find a remedy.
This story contains graphic descriptions of vomiting and diarrhea.
The healing magus Riya finished her errands and returned to the alchemy lab sooner than she had originally planned to, only to find her colleague, the wizard Nargalo, was not at his usual workstation. She found a note in his place that said simply, "Back tomorrow. No visitors."
She caught a whiff of something disgusting and looked down to see the inside of his garbage can spattered with lumpy vomit.
"No visitors, my ass," she grumbled as she started up the winding steps of Nargalo's tower.
"Go away," came a familiar, gruff voice when she knocked on the door at the top.
"It's me, Riya."
"I know. Go away."
"I'm a healer, remember? I can help you."
"I'm fine."
"There's barf in the garbage can at your desk."
"I'm fine now that I got rid of my lunch," he said with a bit less venom.
"Are you, though?"
"Well, I mean, I... I've been better."
"Don't be stubborn."
Shuffling footsteps approached, and he yanked open the door. She couldn't help a small gasp. Nargalo was as pale as she had ever seen him. His hair was a matted mess, obviously the result of being bedridden. He wore loose-fitting pants and an undershirt of linen discolored by sweat.
"You look like hell."
He made a move to shut the door in her face, but she reached out to keep it open.
He sighed and backed up to let her in the room, then shut the door behind her.
"Yeah, fine, so I've got the stomach flu." He staggered back to the bed and flopped down amid the tangled sheets. Various medicine bottles were scattered on the bedside table, and the garbage can from the bathroom sat on the floor next to the head of the bed.
"I'm sorry I wasn't here to help as soon as it started," she said.
"It came on all of a sudden. I was in the lab, minding my own business, when I started to feel a little queasy. Five minutes later, I started to puke. Got it all over my robes before I was able to aim into the can."
Riya shook her head in pity.
"I made it back here before I lost the rest of my lunch, then had the worst diarrhea I've had in more years than I care to count. Been lying low ever since."
"Have you been able to stay hydrated?"
He grimaced. "I doubt it. Haven't been able to keep down much of anything since it started. Been sipping water when I can, but…" He brushed a hand across his lips.
"You poor thing."
He sat up. "Ugh, I'm sorry, Riya, but getting up to answer the door… I've got to go again." He hurried into the privy, and seconds later she heard a messy fart echo in the commode. She went to the bathroom door and peeked in.
Nargalo sat on the toilet with his knees spread wide and his arms folded over his belly. His eyes were tightly shut, and he was leaning forward due to what were obviously painful cramps. He squirmed in misery, and every few seconds a squirt of liquid would come out of his ass.
She shook her head in pity. "I'm so sorry you're sick."
"Not half as sorry as I am," he moaned, then shivered.
She glanced past his quivering buttocks to see what he was expelling. It was little more than yellowish-brown water.
He leaned against her, and she put her arms around his shoulders, letting him rest his head against her hip as he rode out the waves of cramps. Even after the flow of diarrhea stopped, he didn't budge, wincing at the sharp spasms that continued to assault his colon.
When it finally got better again, Riya stood back while he gingerly cleaned his raw, burning asshole and then stood up.
"That's been every half hour or so," he said wearily as he washed his hands.
"That's terrible. You're obviously dehydrated."
He nodded and plodded back toward the bed, rubbing his belly.
"I'll need to make a strong potion to combat this. Hold on, I'll be right back."
He made a vague noise of acknowledgement and laid down with his eyes closed.
Riya scurried around the alchemy lab, mixing medicines and steeping herbs. Nargalo liked to turn up his nose at healing magic, so when he really needed it she had to prove her usefulness.
Twenty minutes later, she climbed back up his tower, carefully balancing a steaming teacup on a tray. She was afraid he might be in the privy again, but after a minute he answered the door looking just as pale and miserable as before. Without a word, he turned around and went back to bed.
"This should help quiet your bowels and get some much-needed fluids into you," she said, holding out the tray.
He reluctantly sat up against the headboard and took the cup. "I hope I can keep this down," he muttered before taking a tiny sip.
"It should help your nausea, too."
He looked skeptical but took another sip.
She sat down in a chair near the bed and made small talk about the things she had seen on her errands, and her latest experiemental spells to cure the Mire Pox.
Nargalo downed about half of the cup with increasingly reluctant sips before setting it on the bedside table.
"You really should try to finish that. I can heat it up if you want," she said.
He shook his head and pressed his lips together with a sour expression.
"All right, just let it settle for awhile. That's fine."
His stomach made a loud gurgling noise, and he flinched.
She continued telling him about her trip, but she could tell he wasn't really listening anymore.
He rubbed his lips and breathed shallowly. Unsettled gurgling noises continued to come from his belly.
"Any better?" she asked.
He shook his head emphatically. "Sorry, Riya, I…" He gulped hard. "I don't think it's going to stay down."
She came around the other side of the bed again and lifted the garbage can. He took it from her with shaking hands and sat hunched over it.
"Oh, this is just terrible," she said. "I used the strongest ingredients I had, but maybe I could try--"
He gave a half-belch, half-hiccup and spat a glob of slime into the can.
"--something else," she finished with a sigh.
The wizard rocked with overwhelming nausea, making gurgling burps every few seconds. Strings of saliva coursed from his mouth and dangled from his chin. Finally, he convulsed with a strong heave and began to throw up cloudy, light brown liquid. He quickly brought up the tea, then continued to retch miserably for several minutes until his stomach quieted down.
When it was over he set the garbage can on the floor and laid back with a cough and a moan. "I'm getting really tired of doing that," he said hoarsely.
"Poor thing," Riya said. "Let me go look up a spell. I think I have one that might help and doesn't involve you drinking anything."
