#queer bloating

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.

Had a blast last night being encouraged to drink a half gallon of half and half again 🤤🤤🤤

Still feeling so heavy this morning

Don't be embarrassed. It's been a few hours since you last ate, so it's only natural that your body would be craving more.

We've been working on increasing your stomach's capacity over the past few weeks, so it takes more food to make you feel full now. And feeling full isn't the only benchmark we're aiming for—it's not been a good meal unless that cute little tummy of yours is bloated and taut.

Lift your shirt for me, sweetheart. There you go.

You've been pushing your limits for months now, and you just finished the largest binge I've ever seen you devour. You ate every bite I put before you without hesitation or question, even after your belly began to protest. And now you lay before me like divinity in human form, soft and luscious and absolutely the most beautiful creature I've ever seen.

You watch me spread oil over my fingers before slicking it along the curve of your distended abdomen to soothe your aching skin. Your sighs of obvious pleasure and relief bring a smile to my face, and the way your eyes soften and your lip catches between your teeth stirs another kind of hunger within me.

My hand slowly dips lower, beneath the dome of your belly.

You've been binging since you got home from work, struck with the insatiable urge to stuff your face with anything you could find. You plowed through the leftovers in your fridge before moving on to the freezer with its bounty of frozen fruit, snack cakes, and ice cream. The cold barely seemed to phase you as you scraped every package clean of its contents, nearly moaning in delight at the taste.

The pantry came next, where you gorged yourself on countless packages of cookies, snacks, cereal, and other ready-to-eat foods. When those ran out, you tore into a bag of dry pasta, crunching through the normally tasteless noodles that suddenly tasted divine.

You can hear your stomach groaning with displeasure at the sheer mass of food you've stuffed into it, but you don't want to stop. You can't stop. Every mouthful tastes heavenly, and your brain keeps you chewing and swallowing, only pausing when you need to breathe.

At some point you glance down to see your stomach protruding from the expensive button-down shirt you'd worn to work that day, the tight, reddening skin stretched like a balloon inflated far past its maximum capacity. You had no idea that your belly could grow so big or round, as if you'd somehow swallowed a basketball that forced your body to conform to its shape.

You should probably be concerned, right? This doesn't seem normal.

I can see embarrassment flash across your face as your eyes dart up to see if I've noticed. Of course I've noticed-- I'm the one who feeds you, after all. I'm the one who waited just a little bit longer so I could experience the way your body reacted to the unexpected hunger, and your belly's petulant grumbles please me.

You moan at the sensation of all those bubbles fizzing within you and making you bloat. Heat surges between your thighs as you let out a long, loud burp, freeing up space in your gut so you can keep guzzling.

I am very glad to hear that you took care of yourself, Anon! Hydration is super important, as is doing so in a safe manner. 👍