;)

Few hours ahead, my stomach is already digesting some, leaving the bottom wobbly and smoother while the top is still squirming with the staff.

Harold groggily stepped onto the bus. Finally going home after his third overtime this week, he sighed heavily as he slumped into his seat. He hated taking the bus so late, as some weirdo would usually try to talk to or bother him, when all he wanted to do was sleep. The bus was mostly empty, quickly traveling to its stops. Only a few people would be out this late and they’d all be going home. Harold thought about falling asleep on the bus, but he couldn’t risk missing his stop and spending even more time trying to go home. He glanced towards the door as the bus slowed down for its next stop.

Harold pinched himself to make sure he was awake. Boarding the bus was the largest woman he had ever seen. Her belly entered well before she did, leading her way to the closest seats. Her tie-dye dress was being stretched to its limits, showing off the roundness of her gut. She waddled right in front of Harold and he quickly looked down. He was too tired to deal with being yelled at for staring. Harold’s head didn’t stay down for long as she sat down across from him, the seat creaked as she lowered her weight. As Harold raised his head, he realized that it was not one seat that made a noise, but two. Her ass took up the two seats across from him and her stomach took up her whole lap, reaching her knees.

With the massive belly right in front of him, Harold realized he was wrong about the woman’s dress. The dress was indeed stretched thin containing all of her fat, but it wasn’t tie-dye. It was covered in all sorts of stains. Harold sat up and took in how there wasn’t a single section of this woman’s dress that was clean. He couldn’t even guess what the design was supposed to be. He fished his phone out of his pocket and looked at the time and then the bus route. He then looked up above the woman’s belly, at her face. Harold didn’t actually see her face, just the back of her phone as she texted and swiped. Harold felt relieved and brought his eyes back to her stomach, now taking in the details.

First, there were the grease stains that were still on her fingertips. She occasionally wiped them off on her hips, leaving smears of oil along her dress. Harold watched her hands move from her hips and towards her cleavage, to pull out a fry. There was an entire basket of fries in between her boobs. Wherever she went, she must have been kicked out for closing before she was truly full.

Around her breasts and upper stomach, the stains were more colorful. Harold easily identified ketchup, mustard, and barbeque sauce, presumably from the fries. Some were trickier, either the stains were from a sauce mix or it was some secret sauce from the restaurant. Harold saw white stains and couldn’t decide on mayonnaise or ranch. If only he knew where she had come from before boarding the bus.

And of course, a woman of this size wouldn’t have gotten on the bus effortlessly. The woman was clearly winded from walking to the bus stop. Harold noticed sweat stains in places the food could not have fallen to. Her dress by her arms and under her boobs were significantly darker colored than the rest of what Harold assumed to be the normal color for the dress.

There was a line across the underside of her belly. It was made up of crumbs, sauces, and small bits of trash, Harold could only guess that this mystery woman must have lifted her stomach onto the table before leaving. Her belly was stuffed and possibly even bloated, as there was no jiggle when she boarded the bus and with how straight this line of leftovers was on her.

But then Harold noticed a bulge. The belly shifted and squirmed under the woman’s hand as she rubbed it. “You littles ones do too much to mommy.” the woman muttered to herself as she continued to focus on her phone. Harold’s jaw dropped. He immediately looked up from the woman’s belly and looked at her breasts. Harold saw massive wet spots over the women’s nipples. His mind raced trying to imagine this woman before her pregnancy and how much she could have gained.

Harold was pulled away from his investigation, as he realized his stop would be soon. He made sure he wasn’t leaving anything behind and was about to leave when the woman spoke to him. “Could you help me up?” Harold spun around and saw the woman holding both of her hands out, almost begging Harold to help pull her out of her seats. Harold was surprised that she was getting off at the same stop as him as he had never seen her before.

He firmly grabbed her pudgy hands and pulled with all his might. Once she was standing, he realized he was pressing himself into her stomach. “Sorry”, he muttered, stepping back, hoping the mess on the woman’s dress didn’t get on his own clothes. “Don’t lie. I can tell you wanted to touch me. Now, come with me.” Harold watched as the woman squeezed herself through the bus door and her massive ass jiggled as she stepped down.

Being a high school janitor wasn’t the flashiest or brag-worthy job, but it let Jason be alone. He enjoyed cleaning after the school day had finished, when most kids had gone home. He would sweep the floors and listen to his music, enjoying his own little world.

It was another typical school night, various papers and trash sprinkled around the lockers. Jason hummed along to his song and began to pile everything into a trash can. A loud growl made Jason freeze.

Jason paused his music and hesitantly looked for the source of the noise. He heard it again and thought what could make that noise. It wasn’t the furnace or anything in the air ducts, this sounded more wet. He slowly moved to where he thought the sound originated. Stopping outside a door, he read what classroom it was.

Jason cursed under his breath. Of course, an animal would break into the cooking class. He really didn’t want to deal with the animal or the mess it made. He slowly opened the door and readied himself, only to find a single lamp at the teacher's desk emitting a dim glow.

“Ms. Thompson? Are you here?” Jason asked into the room.

The response he got was not words, but far more recognizable then what brought him here. A long, deep moan came from the desk. Jason was unsure what the response was supposed to convey. She sounded in pain, but also in pleasure.

Jason didn’t hate Ms. Thompson but he did find her annoying. He remembered when she got hired, as the chubby and eager new teacher. She loved teaching and baking, as well as interacting with all the students. She seemed like a fun and friendly person.

Soon Jason discovered that she loved to eat. He recalled from his own days in high school that this class was popular because students got to make treats for themselves. But ever since Ms. Thompson started teaching, students would leave the class empty handed. She had definitely gained some weight but nobody dared to say anything.

Jason was hit with a wave of smells as he entered the classroom. He worked with garbage all day so his nose wasn’t the best but this was undeniable. Apple and cinnamon filled the room. It was so sweet he could taste the sugar just by sticking out his tongue.

He slowly walked towards her desk. He saw that the entire desk was covered in two things: pie tins that were licked clean and papers with red marks written on them. Picking up a paper, Jason realized that Ms. Thompson had stayed late to grade some projects. Rather, eat all the projects from her class

This project seemed fairly straight forward. Using the premade crust and filling, students had to bake an apple pie. He picked up some more papers and noticed that each one had been marked with a giant red F. Confused about how so many kids could fail such an easy class, he noticed a confiscated note among the graded papers.

Does this pig not realize that class is too short to fully bake a pie?

With a raised eyebrow, Jason picked up a tray that still had some crust left on the edge. Carefully picking it off, he noticed how gooey it still felt. Jason then thought about how long classes are and realized the student was right. Most, if not all, of the pies would be undercooked.

Another loud growl brought Jason’s attention back to Ms. Thompson. He looked at her, drifting in and out of consciousness with every labored breath. Her eyes were glazed over and her mouth was covered in crumbs. She winced and groaned as her stomach gurgled loudly. She looked pregnant with twins, her belly having outgrown her shirt. It was red and swollen, ready to burst.

Jason slowly reached out his hand, looking at Ms. Thompson’s pained expression, unsure if she could tell he was there. As Jason’s fingers slowly made their way around her belly, he found that it was rock hard all over. A gentle poke made no indent to the belly.

He glanced back at the door to make sure the coast was clear. Then he looked down at the mess on the desk. Jason counted at least ten pie trays. Jason looked back at Ms. Thompson’s spherical belly. He brought both of his hands to her overstuffed gut.

Jason gently, but firmly, squeezed her belly from both sides, forcing the belly to squish. He jumped back when he realized he went too far and Ms. Thompson's belly began to roar. Her belly sloshed as he saw a bulge go up her throat. Ms. Thompson burped violently, panting afterwards. Her tongue flopped out of her mouth, resting on her crumb-covered lips.

Jason took out his phone and took a picture of the glutton. A memento of her terrible teaching methods that only required the student to make her meals for free. He laughed at how much it backfired on her. She couldn’t move, speak, or digest anything.

Your belly button has completely popped out, protruding painfully in the center of your enormous stomach. Every touch—your fingers, the edge of your shirt, even his gentle hands—sends jolts through your overstimulated body. You find yourself brushing at it desperately, trying to calm the hypersensitivity, but it’s impossible to ease fully.

Your breasts hang heavy, swollen beyond measure, each the size of a cantaloupe. They pull on your shoulders, ache with every heartbeat, nipples taut and hypersensitive, reacting to every small movement, every brush of your hands. Shifting in bed sends waves of overstimulation through you; your body feels simultaneously overloaded and impossibly alive, every nerve buzzing with heat and pressure.

Your husband enters quietly, eyes widening as he takes in your enormous figure. He kneels beside the bed, hands sliding under your belly to lift some of the impossible weight, and a shiver ripples through you as his touch presses against the taut, overstretched skin. You gasp and press against him instinctively, clutching your belly as the babies twist and push inside.

He murmurs your name softly, pressing slow, careful circles across your swollen belly. You shiver, moaning quietly as the babies wriggle under his hands. Every roll, every kick makes your stomach ripple unnaturally, and you can’t help but press your own fingers into the taut skin, rubbing at the popped-out belly button, shivering under the intensity.

Hour by hour, you stay like this. The babies move constantly, forcing your belly to bulge and shift with every twist. Your moans grow louder as overstimulation builds. Your breasts ache so much that even the gentle press of his hands makes you gasp. You lean against him, letting him help support the unbearable weight of your cantaloupe-sized breasts and impossibly swollen belly, pressing his lips to your shoulder, your neck, your temple, grounding you as overstimulation threatens to overwhelm.

By mid-morning, the overstimulation has reached a fever pitch. Every nerve is alive. The babies kick and twist relentlessly, pushing your skin to the limit. You clutch your belly, pressing hard into the taut, sensitive skin, rubbing your belly button obsessively. Your husband leans in, whispering softly, his hands firm but gentle, massaging the weight under your belly, guiding the restless babies. Every touch sends tremors through your body, every press, every rub amplifying the overwhelming sensations.

Evening comes, and the intensity only grows. The babies roll and twist like they’re testing your body. You clutch your belly, pressing into the taut skin, rubbing your popped-out belly button until the sensation is almost unbearable. Your husband’s hands move over your sides, under your belly, across your swollen breasts, supporting, guiding, soothing. Every movement makes you gasp and tremble, every press against your nipples, every circular rub over your taut skin feeding the overwhelming sensations coursing through you.

Night falls, and you finally lie down, exhausted but alive with overstimulation. Your belly stretches impossibly wide, breasts hang heavy and aching, nipples throbbing under the stretch, belly button raw and protruding. The babies twist and push one last time before sleep, and you shiver, clutching your stomach as your husband presses his hands beneath your belly, lips along your shoulder and neck, murmuring soothing words.

And as you drift toward sleep, trembling from the sheer intensity, your mind starts planning. You’ve carried this long; fifty weeks has shown you the limits of your endurance. You want to go as long as possible. You want to feel every ounce of fullness, every stretch, every twitch, every press of your husband’s hands. You plan to stay swollen, overstimulated, and impossibly full for as long as your body will allow, savoring the sensations, the tightness, the heaviness, the constant movement of the babies.

You know it’s only a matter of time before your body will have no choice but to release, but until that moment comes, you will let it stretch further, swell heavier, ache more intensely, and revel in the overwhelming, consuming fullness. Every touch, every movement, every sensation is part of the plan—to push your body to its absolute limit, to endure and savor the impossible weight, and to let every nerve, every inch, every part of you be completely consumed by this extraordinary, unstoppable pregnancy.

The secret is: chubby women look best sleepy and pampered in bed with all of their needs met! That means giving her food, love, cuddles, and sex, in the safety of her bed without needing to raise a finger. If you're doing it right you're going to end up with the comfiest, softest, beautiful, spoiled pregnant woman to love passionately. Every. Single. Night.

Enough for people to cock their heads and start to wonder if her belly looks... different? Her tummy folds are starting to stretch at the center of her midsection. She looks a little more uncomfortable moving around, and-wait, is she waddling?

Word count: 787 Summary: There's a reason you're not supposed to eat raw dough when you're baking, as you've quickly discovered.

Theme(s): Stuffing, bloating, stomach expansion, belly noises, discomfort

You knew better. The recipe said it plain: Do not consume raw dough. And yet, the moment you looked down at the batch of freshly-cut cinnamon buns, ready to be set aside to rise, the smell invaded your thoughts with the most alluring of temptations. The cinnamon's tantalizing spiciness contrasted perfectly with the tangy, malty scent of the yeast; the dough was heavy with enough butter and brown sugar to leave your mouth watering.

It couldn't hurt just to snag a taste of the end scraps, right?

But one taste led to another, then another. Almost before you realized it, you'd devoured half the batch of unrisen buns with as little shame as a toddler swiping icing from a birthday cake, washing them all down with a cool glass of milk.

Now you're sprawled in a kitchen chair with all the dignity of a salmon-stuffed bear in a food coma, clutching at the swollen dome of your stomach. You've suffered from bloating before, but this is on a whole other level, your form a monument to bad decisions and bodily rebellion. Wincing, you rub slow circles over the stretch of skin just above your navel. It's hot to the touch even through your shirt, and tight enough that the surface barely gives beneath your fingertips.

This whole debacle would be easier to soldier through if you were only dealing with a little well-deserved pain. But there's also the noise—your guts are letting out an impressive cacophony of gurgles, pops, and rumbles that seem to echo through your flesh. The yeast, it seems, is thriving within the confines of your body, fervently gobbling up sugars and spewing out CO₂ before your interior temperature rises too far and brings the whole process to an end.

That can't happen soon enough.

You try to shift your weight, but that proves to be a mistake. The bloat, momentarily constricted by your last position, returns to fill the newly freed space with a vengeance. You stifle a moan and gingerly lift the hem of your t-shirt, exposing an expanse of belly that has always been soft, but is now shockingly vast. It arches outward in an obscenely rounded curve, shiny with a faint patina of sweat.

Regret flickers through your brain, but it's not a sharp, preachy kind. It's more like, 'Next time, bake them first.' You've learned a valuable lesson, though kind of a dumb one. Still, even as your internal organs try to rearrange themselves around your distending innards, you can't help thinking about how good the dough was—cool, soft with a hint of grainy crunch, the rich creaminess of the butter, the rush of sugar… There are worse ways to go, you think.

You adjust again, spreading your legs wider to relieve some of the pressure at your waist. Your jeans, once comfortably snug, now cut into you like a cruel tourniquet. You fumble with the button and, with a pop, free yourself from their ruthless subjugation. There is a brief, blessed moment of relief; then the dough within you rises another inch, as if buoyed by your surrender.

You lean back and close your eyes, rubbing your palms firmly against your belly. There's a weird comfort to be found in the pressure, like you're holding yourself together. If you focus, it's almost like you can feel the dough fermenting, expanding, the consequences of your gluttony filling up your insides like you're a living, breathing blimp.

The noises have reached a new fever pitch. For a moment, you're pretty sure you can feel bubbles forming, rushing upward, then flattening themselves against the immovable ceiling of your stomach. Each one brings a new, sharper edge of discomfort. You whimper and contemplate your options: try to burp, track down a heating pad, or just let yourself explode in a shower of cinnamon-scented shrapnel.

You go for the burp. It's a desperate, full-body effort—shoulders hunched, chin tucked, hands digging into your bloated gut. The first few attempts die uselessly in your throat. Then something shifts, builds, and finally breaks loose. The embarrassingly resonant burp is long, tremulous, and tinged with the unmistakable flavor of raw dough. For a second, you feel lighter, almost euphoric, but then the void fills instantly with more gas and the pressure returns, doubled.

"Oh, you have got to be kidding me," you groan, both arms curling instinctively around your midsection. A bead of sweat traces a slow line down your temple. You try easing yourself into a new position, but your belly registers its protest immediately, a long, low gurgle that seems to travel the full circumference of your gut.

If this keeps up, you just might be spherical before the night is out.