#igottadoodoo

"You *actually* thought you could beat me in Mario Kart?" I snorted, tossing the controller onto the couch beside me. Jerome, my stepdad—all six-foot-five of him, built like a linebacker who moonlighted as a bear—just blinked at the screen where his character had spun out for the eighth time. His thick fingers flexed against his thighs like he was still mentally gripping the controller.

"You cheated," he grumbled, deep voice rumbling through the living room.

Jerome’s accusation hung in the air, ridiculous and delicious. I leaned back, grinning. "Cheated? You *wish*." I stretched my arms behind my head, watching his brow furrow. "But you know what this means—bet’s a bet. You lost. Rules are rules."

He exhaled through his nose, nostrils flaring like a bull scenting red. "Fine," he muttered. "What’s the damn punishment?"

I tapped my chin, pretending to consider my options even though I'd planned this the moment he'd foolishly agreed to the bet. "Well," I said slowly, watching his shoulders tense, "since you clearly can't handle anything *complicated*, let's keep it simple." His dark eyes narrowed as I leaned forward, grinning. "Butt plug. One week."

Jerome's face went completely still. Then, like a slow-motion avalanche, disbelief crept across his features. "You're *joking*."

Jerome’s massive frame tensed like a bowstring. His deep voice dropped to a growl. "You can’t be serious."

I leaned back, stretching my arms behind my head with a grin. "Dead serious." I kicked my feet up onto the coffee table, watching his nostrils flare. "And Mexican food every day. No exceptions."

Jerome exhaled sharply through his nose, arms crossing over his broad chest like he was physically restraining himself from flipping the coffee table. "Mexican *and* the—" He hesitated, jaw twitching. "The other thing."

"Yep," I said, popping the 'p' like a bubblegum bubble. "Starting tonight. Oh, and—" I reached into my backpack and pulled out the little velvet box I'd stashed there this morning. Jerome's eyes locked onto it like it was a live grenade. "Ta-da!" I flipped the lid open, revealing the silicone plug nestled inside—modest, but *definitely* noticeable. "You're gonna *love* the weighted base. Nice and... secure."

Jerome stared at the plug like it had personally insulted his ancestors. His massive fingers twitched—whether to strangle me or snatch the damn thing, I couldn’t tell—before he exhaled hard through his nose. "Fine," he grumbled, snatching the box from my hand. "But if you *ever* tell your mom—"

I clutched my chest in mock horror. "What kind of monster do you take me for?" Then, grinning, I added, "Unless, y’know, she asks *really* nicely."

Jerome disappeared into the bathroom with the velvet box clutched in his bear-like fist, muttering something about "goddamn humiliation" under his breath. I sprawled on the couch, grinning at the ceiling, listening to the muffled thumps and hissed curses through the door. When he finally emerged, his usual swagger was gone—replaced by the stiff-legged walk of a man who'd just ridden a horse for the first time. His dark cheeks were flushed, and he refused to meet my eyes.

"Aw, c'mon," I teased, tossing him a bag of tortilla chips from the coffee table. "It's not *that* bad." He caught them automatically, his scowl deepening as he realized I'd already ordered takeout from his least favorite taqueria—the one that always gave him the runs even *without* extracurricular assistance.

The first night was hilarious. Jerome sat rigidly at the dinner table, shifting his weight every few seconds like he was trying to discreetly dislodge a knife from his back. His thick fingers kept pausing mid-bite, his jaw clenching as he chewed the extra-spicy carnitas with deliberate slowness. "You're enjoying this too much," he muttered, glaring at me over his plate.

"Absolutely," I agreed, swirling my fork in the queso dip. "But hey, only six more days to go."

Day two started with Jerome shuffling into the kitchen like a man who’d forgotten how knees worked. The weighted plug had shifted overnight, and judging by the way he winced when he lowered himself onto the barstool, it wasn’t sitting *quite* right. "Sleep well?" I chirped, sliding a plate of huevos rancheros his way—extra beans, extra chorizo, just like I’d requested.

He glared at the plate like it had personally betrayed him. "You little shit," he muttered, but he picked up his fork anyway. The man had *pride*, even if his stomach didn’t.

Day three was when Jerome’s body started actively rebelling. By noon, his stomach was audibly gurgling—a deep, ominous sound, like a washing machine full of wet cement. He’d been shifting his weight from foot to foot all morning, his thick thighs tensing every few minutes as he tried—and failed—to ignore the growing pressure. “You good?” I asked, tossing him a bottle of Tums like it was a lifeline. He caught it without looking, his free hand pressing against his abdomen as another low groan escaped his lips.

“Peachy,” he gritted out, popping two tablets into his mouth like they were bullets.

By day four, Jerome’s walk had devolved into a stiff-legged waddle, his usual confident stride replaced by the cautious steps of a man navigating a minefield. His stomach had taken on a faintly rounded curve, the combination of constant Mexican food and the plug’s pressure turning his usually flat abdomen into a taut drum. I caught him pressing a hand against it more than once, his fingers sinking slightly into the soft swell before he’d force them away, like he was embarrassed to be caught acknowledging the discomfort.

“You look pregnant,” I remarked over breakfast, shoving a plate of chilaquiles smothered in verde sauce toward him. Jerome’s glare could’ve melted steel, but he still picked up his fork—slowly, like his joints ached. The first bite made his stomach gurgle instantly, a wet, sloshing sound that had him freezing mid-chew. His throat worked as he swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing. “That’s... new,” he muttered, staring down at his plate like it had betrayed him.

Day five was when Jerome started making sounds. Not just the occasional grunt or muttered curse—full-body, involuntary noises that escaped him like air from a punctured tire. The plug had settled deep, its weighted base keeping everything locked tight, and the sheer volume of food he'd been forced to consume was turning his gut into a pressure cooker. I found him leaning against the kitchen counter, both hands braced on the granite, his forehead dotted with sweat as his stomach let out a long, wet gurgle that sounded like a drain unclogging.

"You look like you're about to explode," I said, tossing a bag of extra-spicy Takis onto the counter beside him. Jerome didn't even glare this time—just stared at the bag like it was a ticking bomb. His fingers twitched toward it anyway, because damn it, the man had a weakness for crunchy trash food, and I knew it. The first crunch made his stomach gurgle louder, a deep, resonant groan that had him freezing mid-chew, his eyes widening slightly.

By day six, Jerome’s stomach had taken on a life of its own—a restless, groaning entity that refused to be ignored. He moved through the house like a man haunted, his usual imposing presence reduced to a series of stiff, cautious movements. Every step sent a fresh ripple through his gut, and I could *hear* it from across the room—a wet, sloshing symphony that made his jaw clench tighter with each passing hour.

"Thought you might want these," I said, sliding a pair of sweatpants with a suspiciously stretched-out waistband across the kitchen island. Jerome eyed them like they were a trap. His usual jeans had been abandoned days ago, deemed too constricting, and even his loosest basketball shorts now dug into his swollen middle. He snatched the sweats without a word, his fingers brushing against the taut curve of his belly as he did—a fleeting touch, quickly withdrawn, like he was ashamed to acknowledge how much he’d swollen.

Day seven dawned with Jerome already awake—had been for hours, judging by the dark circles under his eyes. He was sitting rigidly on the couch, hands clamped over his distended stomach like he was trying to hold himself together. The sweats I'd given him yesterday were stretched taut across his middle, the fabric straining over the unnatural swell of his gut. His breathing was shallow, deliberate, like each inhale risked upsetting the precarious balance inside him.

"Big day," I said, tossing a fresh diaper onto his lap. Jerome stared at it like it was a live grenade. His jaw worked silently for a moment before he managed to grind out, "Absolutely not."

Jerome's fingers twitched toward the diaper like it might bite him. The plastic crinkled faintly under his grip when he finally snatched it up, his nostrils flaring as he exhaled through his nose—a bull preparing to charge. "You're *enjoying* this," he growled, low and dangerous, but the effect was ruined when his stomach let out a wet, rolling gurgle that made his thighs tense.

"Obviously," I said, tossing him the gallon of milk with a grin. It landed in his lap with a slosh, and Jerome flinched like I'd dropped a rattlesnake on him. His stomach gave another ominous groan, louder this time, the sound traveling up through his ribcage like a seismic event. He stared at the milk like it was a death sentence.

The milk jug’s condensation dripped onto Jerome’s bare thighs as he held it away from his body, like it was radioactive. His stomach let out a deep, liquid growl—the kind of sound that made *me* wince in sympathy. "Drink up," I said, nodding toward the gallon. "All of it. Unless you wanna forfeit the bet?"

Jerome’s glare could’ve melted steel, but his pride was stronger than his common sense. He twisted the cap off with a sharp crack, the plastic squeaking as he lifted it to his lips. The first swallow made his throat bob like he was choking down battery acid. His stomach *immediately* protested, a wet, sloshing sound so loud it echoed off the walls. Jerome froze mid-gulp, his free hand instinctively pressing against his swollen belly, fingers sinking into the taut flesh.

Jerome’s throat worked as he forced down another gulp, milk trickling down his chin as his stomach gave a violent heave. The sound was obscene—a deep, bubbling churn like a volcano about to erupt. His fingers dug into the soft swell of his belly, knuckles whitening as another wave of pressure rolled through him. “Fuck,” he gasped, barely managing to set the milk jug down before doubling over, his forehead pressing into his knees. The diaper crinkled pathetically between his legs, still untouched.

I couldn’t resist. Kneeling beside him, I pressed my palm flat against the curve of his stomach, feeling the chaos beneath. His skin was fever-hot, stretched tight over what felt like a water balloon seconds from bursting. Jerome shuddered, a strangled noise escaping him as my fingers traced the swollen outline of his gut. “You’re *packed*,” I murmured, grinning when he groaned in response. His stomach gurgled long and low, the sound dragging out like a dying engine.

Jerome’s breath hitched as my fingers pressed deeper into the swollen curve of his belly, the flesh yielding unnaturally under my touch. His stomach gave another wet, sloshing heave, and this time, a thin sheen of sweat broke out across his forehead. “Stop—*fuck*—” he gritted out, but his protest died in a strangled gasp as I rubbed slow, deliberate circles over the taut mound. The movement sent a visible ripple through his gut, a wave of pressure traveling downward that made his thighs clamp together instinctively.

The diaper rustled as he shifted, the sound absurdly loud in the silence punctuated only by the gurgling storm inside him. Jerome’s fingers dug into the couch cushions, his knuckles white. “Gonna—*hnng*—” His voice cracked, the words dissolving into a groan as his stomach gave a violent, liquid lurch. The sound was unmistakable—a deep, rolling *glorp* that seemed to echo from his ribs to his hips. His entire body tensed, his back arching slightly off the couch as if trying to escape the inevitable.

Jerome's breath came in sharp, shallow gasps as his stomach clenched violently under my palm. His skin felt like a drum stretched to its limit, vibrating with every wet, internal shift. A bead of sweat rolled down his temple as his hips jerked involuntarily—then froze. His eyes flew wide.

A sound escaped him—part groan, part whimper—as his body went rigid. The plug shifted inside him with an audible *slurp*, sliding fractionally downward before stopping again. Jerome made a noise like a dying animal, his thighs trembling as he fought to keep everything locked tight. "Oh god," he wheezed, fingers clawing at the couch cushions. "Oh *fucking*—"

The plug shifted again—slow, inexorable—and Jerome’s whole body seized like he’d been electrocuted. His thighs clamped together hard enough to make the diaper crinkle violently, but it was too late. A wet, bubbling sound seeped out from between his clenched cheeks, followed by a thick *pop* as the plug’s weighted base finally gave way. Jerome’s breath stuttered out in a choked gasp, his hands flying back to grab at his own ass like he could physically stop what was coming.

He couldn’t.

Jerome’s body betrayed him in stages. First, the initial *pop*—like a cork rocketing free from a champagne bottle—sent the plug skittering across the hardwood floor with a rubbery bounce. Then came the wet, pressurized hiss of air escaping, followed by a thick, glistening trickle that oozed down his thighs before he could even react. His hands clamped over his ass, fingers sinking into the diaper’s padding as if he could physically dam the flood, but his stomach had other plans. A deep, rolling cramp tore through him, doubling him over with a strangled groan as his guts *moved* inside him like a collapsing water tower.

The first wave wasn’t liquid. It was *chunks*—half-digested beans and tortilla fragments packed into a pasty sludge that forced its way out in a shuddering, meaty *glorp*. The sound alone made Jerome whimper, his face burning crimson as his bowels voided in slow, humiliating pulses. The diaper sagged between his legs, warm and heavy, the plastic backing crinkling ominously with each contraction. He tried to stand—to bolt for the bathroom—but his legs gave out halfway up, sending him crashing back onto the couch with a grunt. His stomach *sloshed* audibly, another cramp twisting his guts into knots.

Jerome’s breath came in ragged gasps as the second wave hit—this one liquid, a hot rush of soupy diarrhea that surged out of him with a sound like a burst pipe. The diaper’s plastic backing strained audibly, the sides stretching as it ballooned between his thighs. His fingers dug into the couch cushions, his whole body shaking as another cramp wracked him, forcing out a gurgling torrent that made his cheeks burn hotter than the salsa he’d been eating all week. The smell hit instantly—a pungent, fermented stench of milk and spices—and Jerome’s face twisted in mortified agony.

I couldn’t help it. I burst out laughing. "Holy *shit*," I wheezed, clutching my sides as Jerome’s stomach gave another wet heave, his hips jerking forward involuntarily. The diaper sagged lower, its weight pulling the waistband down to reveal the top of his ass crack, now glistening with streaks of escaped mess. Jerome made a strangled noise, his hands fluttering uselessly over the swollen padding like he didn’t know whether to hold it up or tear it off.

Jerome’s stomach gave another violent heave, his diaphragm hitching as another gush forced its way out with a wet *splat* that visibly expanded the diaper’s sagging bulk. The plastic backing strained ominously, the seams creaking under the pressure before giving way with a faint *rrrip* near his left thigh. A thick, caramel-colored trickle immediately oozed through the gap, dribbling down his leg onto the couch cushion. Jerome’s whole body locked up, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps as he stared at the mess like it wasn’t part of his own body.

"Goddamn chili cheese fries," Charlie grumbled, slamming the front door hard enough to make the framed photo of my mom rattle on the wall. I recognized that tone—half-pissed, half-desperate—the one he got when his stomach was staging a full-scale rebellion.

I was mid-stroke when I heard the first volcanic gurgle echo down the hallway. The phone screen flickered with last night's footage: Charlie at the diner, cheeks flushed from beer, unleashing a thunderous fart into the vinyl booth that made the waitress drop her tray. My thumb hovered over pause, but then came the sound of belt buckle hitting floorboards, followed by the frantic slap of bare feet on linoleum.

The bathroom door flew open before I could react, the knob denting the drywall as Charlie barreled in like a runaway freight train. His gut wobbled violently beneath the thick mat of chest hair, skin flushed pink with gastrointestinal distress. "Fuckin'—*move*—" he managed between clenched teeth, one meaty hand already pushing my knees apart.

I barely had time to register the heat radiating off his naked body before he straddled the toilet bowl with a wet slap of thighs. The smell hit me first—rancid chili grease and sour beer—then the sound, a deep intestinal growl like a cement mixer full of pudding. Charlie braced both hands on the tank, shoulders hunching as his colon announced its surrender with an apocalyptic *BLORRRRRP*.

The first explosive blast hit the water with the force of a firehose, sending lukewarm toilet water splashing up against my thighs and lower back. Charlie groaned like a wounded bear, his whole body convulsing as another torrent of semi-liquid chili remnants erupted from his quivering asshole. Chunks of undigested fries splattered against the porcelain bowl while the stench of fermented beef and melted cheese filled the steamy bathroom air—thick enough to taste.

"Christ on a cracker," Charlie wheezed, his hairy knuckles whitening around the toilet tank as his guts unleashed another violent contraction. A long, wet fart spiraled out between clenched cheeks, followed by what sounded like a gallon of chunky soup draining from his bowels. I watched, mesmerized, as a single bead of sweat rolled down the cleft between his hairy shoulder blades and disappeared into the swampy crease of his ass.

The toilet bowl was already half-full of Charlie's putrid brown slurry when his knees buckled, his massive frame shuddering as another cramp tore through him. "Fuck—*fuck*—" he gasped, his hairy asscheeks clenching and unclenching like a hungry sea anemone. A fresh cascade of liquid filth poured out of him, splattering against the back of the bowl with a sound like wet cement hitting pavement. The stench was unbearable—like a dumpster behind a taco stand in mid-July—but I couldn't look away. My dick throbbed in my hand, still slick with pre-cum, twitching every time Charlie's guts gurgled.

Charlie slumped forward, his sweaty forehead pressing against the bathroom wall as his colon unleashed a series of wet, sputtering farts. "Goddamn Hopkinson's chili," he groaned, referring to the sketchy diner where he'd eaten last night. "Tastes like heaven, shits like hell." His stomach emitted a noise somewhere between a drowning walrus and a broken garbage disposal. Another wave hit him, and suddenly I felt something warm and slimy drip onto my thigh—a rogue turdlet had escaped the bowl entirely.

Charlie's body tensed violently as another spasm wracked his gut, his thick thighs trembling against mine. The rogue turdlet slithered down my leg just as Charlie unleashed a fresh torrent—this one thicker, chunkier, with visible bits of undigested corn and onion that plopped into the swirling brown soup below. His hole pulsed obscenely with each contraction, the swollen pink rim gaping wider than I'd ever seen it.

"Fuck me sideways," Charlie panted, his hairy chest heaving. His ass cheeks were slick with sweat and splattered droplets of his own filth. The sight of his ruined, quivering hole sent a jolt of electric need straight to my cock. Before I could think better of it, my free hand reached up and smacked his left cheek—hard. The meaty slap echoed off the tiles, followed by Charlie's startled grunt.

Charlie's grunt turned into a low, guttural moan as his ass clenched around nothing. The slap left a red handprint on his hairy cheek, stark against the sweat-slicked skin. "Jesus fuck, boy," he panted, but his hips rocked back instinctively, pressing his swollen hole against my thigh. The heat radiating off him was unreal—like sticking your hand in a freshly dumped compost heap.

I didn't hesitate. My cock slid through the mess with a wet schlick, the head catching on his twitching rim. Charlie's whole body jerked, a fresh gout of diarrhea spilling out around my shaft as I pushed in. The sensation was unreal—hot, slippery, the chunky remains of his chili-shit oozing between us in thick globs. His colon clamped down like a wet fist, massaging my dick with each convulsive spasm.

The moment my cock bottomed out inside him, Charlie’s whole body seized like he’d been electrocuted. A guttural, almost wounded noise tore from his throat as his asshole fluttered around me, squeezing in erratic pulses that sent little sprays of liquid shit leaking down my balls. His stomach gave another ominous gurgle—a deep, subterranean sound that vibrated through both our bodies—before unleashing another torrent that splattered against my pubes. “Fuck, fuck, *fuck*,” he chanted, his voice cracking as his hole milked me through the mess.

I gripped his hairy hips hard enough to leave bruises, my fingers sinking into the soft give of his beer gut as I pulled out halfway and slammed back in. The squelch was obscene, a wet, sloppy noise that echoed off the bathroom tiles like a perverted applause. Charlie’s knees buckled, his massive frame shuddering as another cramp wracked him, his colon convulsing around my dick in a way that made my vision blur. “Don’t you—*hnng*—don’t you stop,” he growled, his voice thick with something between pain and pleasure, his ass clenching down like it was trying to suck me deeper.

Charlie’s breath came in ragged bursts, his thick chest heaving as his body struggled between the competing forces of expulsion and penetration. His hairy back arched suddenly, the muscles beneath his sweat-slicked skin tensing like coiled springs as another violent cramp tore through him. I felt it before I heard it—his asshole fluttering wildly around my cock, then the hot, pressurized spray of liquefied chili remnants erupting around our joined bodies. The stench was biblical, thick enough to coat the back of my throat, but Charlie’s choked-out moan of relief was sweeter than any oxygen.

"You sure you don't want any?" Derrick held out the blender pitcher, swirling the thick chocolate protein shake under his wife's nose. The kitchen smelled like bananas and synthetic vanilla.

Marcy forced a smile, leaning back against the counter. "I'm good. You need the calories more than I do today." Her fingers tapped against her coffee mug—black, no cream, just how she'd been drinking it since the affair came out.

Derrick downed the shake in three gulps, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Damn, that's good. Tastes... richer than usual." He smacked his lips, frowning slightly before shrugging.

Marcy watched him grab his backpack, her nails digging into the ceramic of her mug. "Test starts in twenty minutes. You should hurry."

Derrick's stomach gave its first ominous twinge halfway across campus, right as he passed the bronze statue of some long-dead college founder. He paused, pressing a hand against his abdomen. "Weird," he muttered, then shook it off—probably just nerves. Finals always messed with his digestion.

The lecture hall was already half-full when he arrived, students murmuring over last-minute notes. Derrick slid into his usual seat near the middle, pulling out his lucky mechanical pencil just as Professor Henley began distributing the tests. That's when the first real cramp hit—a deep, rolling clench that made his breath hitch.

Derrick's fingers tightened around his pencil as another cramp twisted through his gut. He hunched forward slightly, willing the discomfort to pass, but the pressure only built—a slow, inevitable swell beneath his ribs. The test booklet landed on his desk with a soft thump. He flipped it open mechanically, barely registering the first question before his stomach gave a wet, cavernous growl that echoed off the lecture hall's high ceiling.

A girl two rows ahead turned to glare. Derrick forced a sheepish grin and pressed his forearm against his abdomen, as if that could silence the next gurgle. It couldn't. The sound was obscene, a bubbling glorp that seemed to vibrate through his chair. Someone snickered. Sweat prickled along his hairline. He tried focusing on the multiple-choice options, but the words swam—his gut clenched again, tighter this time, forcing a hot, rippling fart past his clenched cheeks. It hissed out, moist and unmistakable.

Derrick froze, his pencil lead snapping against the paper. The smell hit before he could react—a thick, greasy stench like rotten eggs stewed in spoiled milk. The girl in front of him gagged audibly, her shoulders hunching as she fanned her test booklet. His face burned. Another cramp twisted through him, vicious and insistent, and he crossed his legs hard, heels digging into the floor.

The professor's voice cut through the murmurs. "Eyes on your own papers, please." But Derrick could feel the weight of stares—curious, disgusted, amused—pressing against the back of his neck. His stomach gurgled again, a sound like a drain unclogging, and he clenched his teeth as another spasm forced a wet, sputtering fart into his jeans. This one was louder, a bubbling blat that made his chair shudder. Someone gasped.

Derrick's thighs trembled as he pressed them together, his entire body rigid with the effort of containment. The test booklet before him blurred—not just from the sweat stinging his eyes, but from the sheer, overwhelming panic clawing up his throat. Another cramp, sharper than the last, wrenched through his abdomen like a hot wire, and he choked back a whimper. His insides felt like they were melting, sloshing, preparing to evacuate with violent urgency.

The girl in front of him—now openly holding her nose—turned fully around, her expression a mix of horror and fascination. "Oh my god," she whispered, loud enough for the entire row to hear. Derrick's stomach answered with a prolonged, liquid gurgle, a sound that seemed to echo off the lecture hall's walls. His fingers clenched the edge of his desk, knuckles whitening, as he felt something far worse than gas building pressure. It was coming. There was no stopping it.

Derrick’s vision tunneled. The pressure was no longer a threat—it was a promise, coiled and ready to unleash. He shot a desperate glance at the clock. Two hours left. No bathroom breaks allowed. The rule was printed in bold on the whiteboard, underscored twice for emphasis.

Another cramp ripped through him, and this time, his body made the decision for him. He stood so fast his chair screeched backward, drawing every eye in the room. "I—I need to—" he stammered, but his throat clamped shut as a fresh wave of heat surged downward. His thighs trembled, his jeans already damp with the first traitorous leak.

Derrick didn't remember sprinting up the aisle—just the sensation of his legs moving while his body fought to keep everything else locked tight. The lecture hall doors swung shut behind him with a thud that reverberated through his spine. The hallway stretched endlessly, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead like a taunt. His breath came in ragged gasps as he waddled forward, each step threatening disaster. A wet, squelching noise escaped with every other stride, and the back of his jeans clung to him with a warmth that made his stomach lurch.

He rounded the corner toward the faculty offices—the nearest trashcan was just past the administration desk—when three figures stepped into his path. Headmaster Greeley, his wiry gray eyebrows raised, flanked by Professor Henley and the dean of admissions. Derrick skidded to a halt, his shoes squeaking against the polished linoleum.

Derrick’s entire body locked up as Headmaster Greeley’s nostrils flared. The man’s face went slack for a split second before twisting into something between disbelief and primal horror. Behind him, Professor Henley—normally unflappable—took an instinctive step back, her hand rising to cover her mouth. The dean of admissions, a portly man with a perpetually rosy complexion, went pale.

“Mr. Holloway,” Greeley began, his voice strangled, “what in God’s name—”

Derrick’s jaw worked soundlessly. A bead of sweat rolled down his temple as his bowels gave another treacherous gurgle—long, liquid, and unmistakable. The dean’s eyes widened further, his jowls trembling slightly.

Then, with a wet, rippling noise that seemed to echo off the hallway’s tiled walls, Derrick’s body betrayed him completely. A hot, searing pressure erupted from his backside, flooding his jeans in an instant. The fabric ballooned slightly at the back before the sheer volume forced a thick, oozing stream down his legs. It splattered onto the linoleum with a sound like a water balloon hitting pavement.

The silence that followed was absolute—the kind of silence that presses against eardrums like a physical weight. Derrick stood frozen, his face aflame, as the steaming mess pooled around his shoes. A single, grotesque drip slid from the hem of his ruined jeans and landed with a plop in the growing puddle.

The motel ice machine had been broken for three days. That’s the first thing I noticed when I checked in—the little red "OUT OF ORDER" sign dangling from its metal mouth, swinging lazily in the AC draft.

I’d stopped caring about things like ice by the third night. The room smelled like old cigarettes and the faint, clinging sweetness of mildew, but the shower had decent pressure, and that was enough. I was brushing my teeth naked, one foot propped against the sink, when the bathroom door flew open like someone had kicked it.

The door hit the wall with a crack loud enough to make me bite down on my toothbrush. Standing there, swaying slightly, was a man who looked like he'd been carved out of a storm cloud—all towering muscle and dark, glistening skin stretched tight over a frame that barely fit through the doorway. His dreadlocks were half undone, strands sticking to his forehead and neck like wet ink. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, just a pair of sweatpants hanging dangerously low on his hips, and the way he clutched his stomach with one hand and his ass with the other told me everything I needed to know.

"Move," he grunted, and I didn’t argue. I yanked my toothbrush out of my mouth and scrambled backward into the shower stall, still clutching my toothpaste like some kind of pathetic shield. He didn’t even glance at me as he dropped onto the toilet with a groan that sounded like it came from the depths of hell itself.

The first explosion hit the porcelain like a wet sack of gravel. He let out a guttural moan, his massive thighs trembling as his whole body clenched. The sound was obscene—a splattering, sloshing eruption that made my stomach flip. I pressed myself harder against the shower tiles, the chill of them seeping into my bare back.

Between heaves, he reached up with a shaking hand and yanked the flush handle. The toilet gurgled, swallowed, then roared to life, swirling the mess down with a wet suction. For half a second, there was silence. Then his gut twisted again, and he hunched forward with another ragged groan. This time, the splashback hit the seat.

The second wave hit harder than the first. His back arched like a bowstring, every muscle in his torso straining as another torrent of liquid filth erupted from him. The toilet bowl protested with a wet glug, the waterline rising dangerously as chunks bobbed to the surface like icebergs in a septic sea. He gasped, sweat dripping down the deep groove of his spine, and slammed his fist against the wall—once, twice—before fumbling for the flush handle again. The chain snapped taut under his weight, and the toilet gave a strained whine as it tried to clear the pipe.

"Fuck," he growled, the word thick with misery. His voice was deeper than I expected, rumbling through the tiny bathroom like distant thunder. I couldn't tell if he was talking to me or just announcing his suffering to the universe. The toilet gurgled ominously, water pooling around the base now, creeping toward the grout lines in slow, inexorable tendrils. He didn't seem to notice—or care—as he braced his forearms on his knees, head hanging low between his shoulders. His breath came in ragged pulls, his ribs expanding like bellows with every inhale.

The toilet made a sound like a drowning animal. Water sloshed over the rim in a sluggish, brown wave, spilling onto the linoleum in a spreading puddle. I curled my toes against the shower floor, my bare feet already damp from the overflow. The man didn’t move—just sat there, his broad back heaving, his dreads sticking to his skin like wet rope.

The chequebook was still warm from the printer when I tossed it aside. Useless. Power wasn't in numbers scribbled on paper—it was in the pulse beneath skin, the heat of breath, the twitch of muscle. The screen of my laptop flickered with lines of source code I didn’t remember writing, symbols bleeding into each other like wet ink. My fingers tingled. Something had clicked.

Across the room, Uncle Ben's laughter boomed through the wall, deep enough to rattle the framed photos of family reunions. The man was a mountain—broad shoulders, thick arms, a belly that shook when he chuckled. I’d spent summers watching him dominate backyard barbecues, his voice louder than the grill’s sizzle. Now, staring at my hands, I wondered what it’d feel like to *be* that laughter, that weight, that presence.

The tingling in my fingers spread up my arms like static crawling under skin. I flexed my hands—same narrow wrists, same bitten nails—then glanced at the laptop screen. The code had resolved into a single blinking cursor beside a phrase: **CONSUME TO COMMAND.**

Uncle Ben’s laughter roared again from the living room, followed by the creak of the recliner as he shifted his weight. I stood slowly, my knees liquid. The air smelled like microwaved leftovers and his cheap cologne. Down the hall, past the bathroom with its dripping faucet, the living room glowed amber from the football game on TV.

The hallway carpet muffled my steps, but my pulse was loud enough to drown out the game’s commentary. Uncle Ben’s shadow stretched across the wall—a hulking silhouette against the flickering TV light. He didn’t turn when I paused in the doorway, too busy jabbing a finger at the screen. “See that? QB’s got cement in his cleats. Ain’t no way he’s—”

Then he froze mid-sentence.

Ben’s shoulders stiffened under his stretched-out polo, fabric pulling tight across his back. His fingers hovered in the air, still pointing at the TV, but his eyes had gone glassy—wide and unblinking like a deer caught in headlights. The tingling in my arms surged hotter, sharper, as if my veins were threaded with live wires. I exhaled, and Ben’s chest rose with mine.

His breath hitched. “What the—” His voice cracked, lower now, thicker, like his vocal cords were being dipped in tar. His hands flew to his throat, fingers prodding the stubble along his jawline. The recliner groaned as he twisted toward me, his face slack with disbelief. “You—”

Ben’s fingers dug into his own biceps like he was trying to hold himself together. His mouth worked silently for a second before the words finally tore loose—but they weren’t his. They were mine. “Oh shit,” I heard myself say through his lips, his deep voice pitching up in panic. His eyes darted down his own body, taking in the way his polo strained over his barrel chest, the way his thick thighs splayed wide in the recliner. His—no, *my*—hands shook as I flexed them, marveling at the coarse black hair dusting his knuckles.

A wet, gurgling noise cut through the room. Ben’s stomach lurched under my command, a sudden cramp twisting his guts like a wrung-out towel. I gasped—*he* gasped—and his meaty palms slapped down over his belly, feeling it churn and bubble beneath the fabric. The sensation was dizzying, overwhelming, *real* in a way I hadn’t expected. His body was a furnace, radiating heat between my—his—thighs as another cramp seized him. A thick fart ripped loose, muffled by denim but long and stuttering. Ben’s face flushed darker. “Fuck,” I whispered with his voice, half in awe, half in horror.

Ben’s—no, *my*—stomach gave another violent gurgle, the sound so deep it vibrated against the inside of his ribs. A fresh wave of heat surged through his bowels, liquid and urgent, and I bit down on his lower lip to stifle a moan. His boxers were already damp with sweat, clinging to the curve of his ass as I shifted in the recliner. The pressure was unbearable, a molten weight sloshing low in his gut, and I realized with dizzying clarity that I hadn’t just taken control of his body—I’d *rewired* it. His intestines were mine to command, and they were screaming for release.

The phone lay on the coffee table, screen still lit from his last text. I reached for it with his thick fingers, fumbling slightly as another cramp bent him forward. A wet, squelching fart escaped, longer this time, and the smell hit me—a sour, greasy stink that curled my (his) nose. I didn’t care. The camera app opened with a tap, and I angled the phone down, capturing the way his polo strained over his distended belly. His free hand rubbed slow circles over the swell, fingers dipping beneath the hem to scratch at the coarse hair trailing down from his navel.

The first moan ripped out of Ben’s throat before I could stop it—a deep, guttural sound that rattled his chest. His phone trembled in my grip as I hit record, the screen framing the way his belly bulged obscenely under his shirt. Another cramp twisted his guts, and I arched his back against the recliner, hissing through his teeth. The denim of his jeans dug into his waistband, already tight from the swelling pressure below.

A wet, sloshing noise gurgled up from his depths, louder than the TV’s commentary. Ben’s thighs squeezed together instinctively, his knees trembling as the heat in his bowels surged. His free hand clawed at the armrest, knuckles whitening, while the other kept the camera steady on his face—flushed, sweaty, lips parted around ragged breaths. “Fuck, fuck—” His voice was raw, strained. I could *feel* it—the way his colon clenched around the rising flood, the way his sphincter fluttered helplessly against the inevitable.

Ben’s stomach gave a final, thunderous growl—the kind that would’ve shaken the windows if the TV hadn’t been blaring. His whole body locked up, thighs quivering as his ass lifted slightly off the recliner. The denim of his jeans strained against the sudden swell of his backside, fabric pulling taut over the mess brewing inside. A choked whimper escaped his lips, and I could *taste* the sour tang of panic in his mouth—his saliva thick, his tongue heavy. The camera caught it all: the sweat beading along his hairline, the way his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard.

Then the dam broke.

The sound was obscene—a wet, splattering explosion muffled only slightly by the layers of denim and cotton. Ben’s entire body jerked forward as his bowels voided violently, his backside slamming back down into the recliner with a squelch that made the leather groan. Heat bloomed instantly beneath him, the thick, sloppy mess spreading rapidly against his skin and soaking through his boxers. His thighs tensed, trembling as another surge of diarrhea forced its way out, this time with a loud, bubbling hiss that lasted far too long. The stench hit like a physical blow—a rancid, greasy funk that clung to the back of his throat.

"Dad, you’ve *got* to be kidding me," I groaned, staring at the alarm clock as it blared its tinny, relentless beep. "It’s Saturday. Why the hell is this thing even set?"

No answer. The other side of the bed was empty—just a dent in the mattress and the faint smell of Old Spice lingering in the air. I rolled over, intending to smash the alarm into silence, and froze mid-swing. My arm wasn’t mine.

It wasn’t just the arm. The whole damn body was wrong. The thick, hairy forearm dangling over the edge of the bed belonged to Jerome McKinley—my father. I bolted upright, and the movement sent a deep, resonant gurgle rolling through my gut. The sound was so visceral I clapped a hand over my stomach—his stomach—and felt the heat of it beneath my palm. The skin was taut, stretched over something brewing deep inside.

I swung my legs—his legs—off the bed and stood, immediately swaying as a wave of dizziness hit me. The room smelled like sweat and chili. A half-empty bowl sat on the nightstand, congealed grease pooling on the surface. My throat burned with the ghost of last night’s dinner. How had I not noticed this before? I ran a hand over my bald head, the unfamiliar texture sending a weird thrill down my spine. Then I pinched the roll of fat spilling over the waistband of my—his—boxer briefs. It jiggled like gelatin.

The silence of the house pressed in around me—no footsteps, no TV blaring sports highlights, not even the hum of the fridge. Just the occasional creak of the floorboards under my bare feet and the low, ominous rumble from my gut. I waddled into the kitchen, my thighs rubbing together in a way that felt foreign and strangely intimate. The fridge door swung open with a groan, revealing a half-empty pot of chili tucked behind a carton of expired milk. The smell hit me first—spicy, meaty, with an undercurrent of something darker. My stomach clenched in response, a wet gurgle bubbling up from deep within.

I didn’t bother with a bowl. Just grabbed a spoon and dug in, shoveling cold chili straight from the pot into my mouth. The grease coated my tongue, thick and slick, and I moaned around the spoon. It was disgusting. It was *amazing*. My free hand drifted down to my belly, kneading the doughy flesh as I ate. The pressure built with every bite, a slow, creeping weight that made my breath hitch. By the time I scraped the last of the chili from the pot, I was sweating, my briefs clinging to my thighs.

The freezer was next. I yanked it open with a grunt, my fingers sinking into the frost-rimmed carton of mint chocolate chip before my brain even registered the movement. The spoon was still slick with chili grease, but I didn’t care—just plunged it into the ice cream and took a heaping bite. Cold exploded across my tongue, sharp and sweet, cutting through the lingering heat of the chili. A shiver ran down my spine, but the contrast only made me hungrier. I leaned against the counter, one hand braced on the Formica, the other working the spoon like a piston. The ice cream melted against my tongue, rich and thick, and I swallowed with a wet, satisfied gasp.

My gut protested almost immediately. A deep, groaning cramp twisted through me, and I doubled over, spoon clattering to the floor. The sound echoed through the empty house, but I barely heard it—my own heartbeat was too loud in my ears. I clutched my belly with both hands, fingers sinking into the soft flesh as another cramp hit, harder this time. A hot, wet bubble of gas fought its way free, popping against the fabric of my briefs with a damp puff. I groaned, straightening just enough to waddle toward the living room, my thighs sticking together with every step.

The bathroom mirror showed me everything—the flushed face, the sheen of sweat on my forehead, the way my belly jutted forward like a overfilled water balloon. I pressed a palm against it, and the flesh yielded with a squelch, sending another cramp rippling through my gut. A sharp, stabbing pain made me grit my teeth, and I braced myself against the sink, knuckles white.

Little sharts escaped in rapid succession, each one hotter and wetter than the last. The fabric of my briefs clung to my skin, damp and sticky. I could *feel* it—the pressure, the inevitability—coiling tighter and tighter inside me. My stomach gurgled like a backed-up drain, and I groaned, rocking back and forth on the balls of my feet. "Oh god, oh god—"

The cramp hit like a freight train, bending me double with a wet, guttural groan. My knees knocked together as I gripped the sink, fingers slipping on porcelain slick with sweat. A fresh wave of heat surged up my spine, prickling under the thick hair covering my—his—back. The pressure was unbearable now, a molten knot of chili and ice cream churning in my gut, demanding release. I clenched, thighs trembling, but another shart escaped anyway—a hot, sputtering spray that soaked through my briefs and dripped down my leg. The smell hit me a second later, rancid and thick, and I gagged.

"Fuck—fuck *fuck*—" I wheezed, arching my back as another cramp twisted through me. My belly gurgled violently, the sound echoing off the bathroom tiles. I could *feel* it shifting inside me, a sloshing, liquid weight that sent sweat beading across my forehead. The mirror fogged with my ragged breaths, but I could still see the way my face contorted—jaw clenched, lips peeled back in a grimace. Dad’s face. My face now.

The next cramp hit with such force that my knees buckled—I barely caught myself on the sink’s edge before collapsing. A wet, tearing sound erupted from my backside as the fabric of my briefs strained against the sheer volume forcing its way out. The pressure was volcanic, unstoppable, and with a strangled cry, I gave up fighting it.

He doesn’t hesitate, his massive frame squeezing into the tight space, his shoulders brushing the walls as he positions himself over the toilet. The seat creaks under his weight, a low groan of protest from the porcelain as he settles, his hairy thighs spreading wide. His face tightens, a bead of sweat rolling down his temple, and a deep, guttural growl escapes his throat. “Fuck… it’s coming,” he mutters, his voice thick with strain. You hover in the doorway, unable to look away, your pulse racing as the tension in the room spikes. His abdomen clenches, the muscles rippling beneath the thick hair, and a loud, wet gurgle erupts from his gut—a primal, unmistakable warning. His hands grip his knees, knuckles paling, and his breath hitches, a low moan slipping out as he fights to hold back the inevitable.

But there’s no holding this back. The first eruption is deafening, a violent, liquid roar that echoes off the tiles like a gunshot. The toilet bowl fills with a hot, churning torrent, the sound obscene and unrelenting—a wet, splattering symphony that drowns out everything else. The air shifts instantly, the lavender air freshener obliterated by a raw, earthy stench that’s equal parts shocking and visceral. His body shudders, a low, primal groan tearing from his chest as wave after wave of diarrhea explodes into the small toilet, pushing its limits.

Shit… oh, fuck…” he gasps, his voice rough, his head tipping back as the relief washes over him. The porcelain groans under the onslaught, the water in the bowl churning violently, flecks of liquid splashing against the rim. His hairy chest heaves, sweat dripping down his skin, matting the coarse hair as his body gives in completely to the release. The sheer volume is staggering, a relentless flood that seems to defy the confines of the tiny toilet, each burst louder and messier than the last. You’re transfixed, the scene unfolding like a fever dream.

The bathroom feels smaller now, the walls closing in as the heat and smell envelop you. His eyes flicker toward you, a glint of something—amusement, defiance, maybe even invitation—in their depths. “Didn’t… expect this, did you?” he pants, a crooked smirk tugging at his lips, even as another spasm racks his body, sending a fresh torrent into the overwhelmed toilet.The bowl is a mess, the water dark and frothing, the rim streaked with evidence of the chaos. The floor tiles are speckled with stray droplets, the air thick with the musky, primal scent of his release. He shifts on the seat, the porcelain creaking again, and lets out a shaky laugh, half-exhausted, half-triumphant.