#rp-asks

"Mmmffph...ugh...aaahh...s-stop...tummy...please stop...stop hurting..." I whimper and plead with my stubborn stomach as it clenches within me, twisting painfully and making me feel like something has wound my intestines up like one would twirl spaghetti on a fork. I've been curled up like a shrimp in bed for the better part of the last five hours. Apparently, my guts decided that we hate dairy today. Would have been nice to get a memo.

We stayed up last night. Secret-identity and social deduction games are my favorite and our friends decided to stay up last night to play a few rounds. We started around 10:30PM and I saw 4:31AM on the clock when we finally said our final 'gg's. Poor choice, but I decided it'd be fine as long as I grabbed coffee before my shift at work was due to start in about 6 hours. Not the best, but I promised to go to bed early tonight to make up for it.

A baptism of iced coffee probably wasn't how my stomach wanted to be woken up this morning and I guess it's been grumpy with me ever since. On top of that, when I arrived at work it turns out my coworker had decided to buy me an extral large hot coffee as 'thanks' for something I did for them before. It would have been rude to turn it down so I accepted it and alternated between the hot coffee and the iced one throughout my shift. The variance in temperatures and dairy did not play nice with my already-grumpy tummy, it seems. It was starting to feel uneasy around the last hour of my shift.

I walked by a bubble-tea place on my way to the bus stop and saw that they were having a special series on milk-tea. I got paid a couple of days ago and it's been a long and hard week at work (training new hires) so I decided to treat myself. I got a little something for you too, asking for no ice in case you're not home to drink it immediately when I get there (and therefore it won't dilute).

Upon arriving home, I found out that I was not the only one that bought a treat for the other. You stopped by our favorite noodle house and got us two combos...combos that come with more milk-tea. Unfortunately, the ice in your drinks is fading fast, so we have to enjoy them tonight. The other half of my own drink was left as an afterthought as we powered through dinner.

After dinner, you decided to hop back on the computer to game and do whatever. I mentioned turning in early and that's basically what I tried to do...only I realized that I still had half of my own drink to finish and boba gets hard if you leave it too long...so...well...down the hatch.

The glutinous boba was delicious. Unfortunately, that firm-ish, slimey gel ended up gumming up the works inside of the war raging in my guts. 'We hate dairy. We hate dairy.' I swear the grumbles from my guts are chanting that on a loop. I wouldn't be surprised if digestive fairies manifested and are inside, using spells to make my stomach contents churn and prodding absolutely everything with tiny pitchforks.

Iced coffee. Hot coffee. Boba milk tea. Straight up milk tea. My dairy count is at four--more than double what I'd planned. The sheer amount of dairy would have been enough to give me some nasty indigestion, but the greasy noodle combo and the boba are compounding the upset. It feels like the boba is gumming up my intestines, coating them and preventing them from working on the oily slurry of noodles and dairy. My guts are cramping like a vice every couple of minutes, desperately trying to make digestion happen and having no success.

I don't feel nauseous. All of this didn't come at me all at once--it was gradual. There isn't enough in any one part of my gastro-intestinal tract to cause me to be on the verge of puking...unless the toxic slurry decides to move backwards (which it hasn't yet...thank God). Pity. Throwing up might have made me feel just a little better. Getting some of that nastiness out of my system would probably help at least a little. Instead, I just feel like tiny grenades are exploding throughout my gastrointestinal tract. I swear, everything hurts, from my colon spasming (despite not having anything to offer the porcelain throne) to my esophagus burning with heartburn or an acid splash...or both. On top of it all, my stomach-organ and intestines have been churning away, being extremely vocal about the day-long torture inflicted upon them now that I've finally got a minute to actually be mindful of the sensations inside of me.

"Ugh...stop...please stop hurting!" I plead with my stomach, squeezing it tighter and trying to counter the vice-like cramp rolling like a wave through my intestines. I swear, it feels like a giant decided to pinch a section of my intestines between thumb and forefinger and run that squeeze through the entire length of the tube...like trying to squeeze the last dregs of toothpaste out of a tube or getting sauce out of a packet.

I spy my phone on the mattress--abandoned when the cramps in my tummy got too intense for me to ignore any longer. Reaching for it, I find the contact I'm looking for and hit 'Call'. I'm wracked by an intense cramp that feels like I'm being pinched in half and it causes me to press the phone into my spasming tummy instead of bringing it to my ear.

*Grbl...rrrr...rrrble...* My stomach sounds like a motor-cycle at a stop-light, contantly revving without getting anywhere.

The call gets disconnected and I've forgotten all about it, going back to begging my stomach to calm down and having my tears soak into the pillow. "Unngh...d-damn it--shut up!" I hiss at my stomach and slam a fist down onto it for good measure. Instant regret shoots through me along with the stabbing pain I feel from the impact site.

"You say something?"

You lean against the doorframe to the bedroom, curious as to where I've been since dinner. Your phone is held in one hand. Apparently, you got my call.

"Uhh..." A loud rumble from my stomach answers before I do. The sickly noise is quickly followed by another sharp spasm and I moan, curling even tighter around my aching abdomen.

"Was that your stomach?"

I see white for a moment, my hearing fading too as my entire world dissolves into the pain at my core. I can feel everything tensing up from colon to esophagus. I can't imagine literally having my guts rupture would feel much worse than what it feels like right now.

As I regain my senses, I feel a foreign weight on my aching tummy. You're stroking over it carefully, the foreign weight being your ear pressed against the crest of my gut.

"Mmmph..." I wince as I feel another spasm ripple through my intestines.

"Shh!" You shush me, wanting to listen to the chaos inside of me rather than me.

You went to a party thrown by one of your friends. Lots of people, lots of beer, and maybe only a handful of braincells--that kind of party. You were late to the event because we decided to do a grocery run today and you wanted the luxury of selection. Time got away from us, making you late to the party. Your friend's place was only a few blocks away from our apartment so you decided to hoof it, seeing as groceries were taking more than one trip to get up to our place. I gave you the okay to head out since you were already running late and it'd only take me a couple of more trips to get all of the groceries up to our fourth floor place. You missed out on the pizza portion of the event. No biggie. I'd no doubt have food at home you could eat later, what's a few hours of hunger.

Just as you had your heart set on trying to find drinks or maybe something to snack on, your best friends dragged you into their fun. Some of them were pretty drunk--drunk enough to suggest getting into some internet challenges. You and I aren't fans of that kind of thing--especially the dumb and dangerous ones--but with everyone around chanting and chiming in their support of the idea you have no choice but to let yourself be pulled along at their pace. A quick trip to the nearby convenience store and the pilfering of a random party-attender's hat has the four of your drawing lots. Cinnamon challenge, saltine challenge, banana-Sprite, milk gallon. You pulled the milk-gallon challenge...could be worse, at least you're not doing the banana-Sprite thing and you're starting with an empty stomach. Also, you're not lactose-intolerant...though with this amount of milk you're sure that won't matter.

The cinnamon and saltine ones go first, the other party-goers egging them on. Some brave souls join in, grabbing a spoonful of the spice or a handful of the saltines. A mess is made, but the atmosphere grows. Someone had the idea to get you and banana-Sprite to do it together. Someone suggested turning it into some kind of competition and people are already placing bets on who will puke first or who will puke the most. There are two seperate buckets, one for you and one for the other one--yeah, they're getting serious about this. There's only one milk gallon and they managed to reserve the required number of banana and the two cans of Sprite for the challenge before the rest of the lot disappeared amongst the party-goers.

...

A wet burp gurgles up your gullet and you swallow back the sour liquid coating the back of your throat. You wonder how it is that the milk can turn sour when it went down without any flavor to it not even five seconds ago. You're just shy of one fourth of the way through the gallon resting on your knee and your stomach is already starting to churn. It doesn't hurt (yet) and it's not at the point where you'll be sick, but the ominous churning has you worried, especially after what happened to banana-Sprite sitting next to you.

With a party like this, you and he are the centre of attention with a ring of party-goers egging the two of you on. Some of them got a bit too rowdy and more than a few wandering hands (and fists) made contact with banana-Sprite's gut not even two minutes after he downed the last can of Sprite. Some people in the room are calling foul as the gut punches and teasing pats would surely render the puke-pool moot. You're just glad you haven't downed enough of the milk to have your stomach bloat out quite as noticeably as your partner in suffering on the couch.

With some trepidation, you raise the gallon to your lips once more.

...

"Ugh--ow!" You shove at the arm of a particularly nasty hand that broke through to prod at your gut. A sour liquid floods your mouth and you swallow it back stubbornly. Your belly grumbles angrily at the returning liquid.

Due to the sheer number of people intent on messing with your bellies, you decreed that whomever pukes last between you and the other guy gets to keep the pot of winnings. There were a few grumbles but you threatened to quit the challenge and go home immediately if they did not agree to your terms. Some people left the party after that, realizing that the crowd had ruined the chance of a payout and the threatening aura you gave off (in part thanks to your suffering belly) scared them into leaving.

"I agreed to do the milk-gallon challenge. I did not consent to having my gut messed with during said challenge! If you want me to continue, I get the pot. Otherwise, find yourselves another cow!" You yell into the crowd.

Your banana-Sprite buddy looks at you with gratitude in his tear-filled eyes. His cheeks are ballooned out as he stubbornly holds something back, lips pressed tightly shut.

---

"URK! SPLUTA-SPLUT-PLUT---oh...fuc--OW!"

You wisely turn away as the foamy, projectile stream shoots across your peripheral vision.

"Hey! Knock it off! Get out of here!" The asshole that managed to rush into the center of things and plant a forceful punch right into the center of your partner-in-suffering's gut is shoved out of the circle. He's clearly had a few too many and he laughs.

Your couch buddy groans, rubbing his sore gut as he continues to bring up a foamy mess colored with the pizza from earlier. You take pity on him.

"Hey, congrats. Take it."

"What?"

"The bets that were on you--it's yours. What that jerk did was uncalled for. Congrats--you're done." After watching your buddy suffer and be the first to lose his gorge, you decided on a new course of action: he gets to keep his bets and you keep yours.

You swallow thickly, eyeing the 40% left of the gallon resting on your knee. You’re really bloated. Some wandering hands had undone your belt and button for you and your gut made quick work of the fly of your pants. At some point, the wandering hands had hiked up both of your shirts, revealing both your belly and his as the guts got fuller and fuller. Your buddy was showing long before you due to the reaction of his challenge, but you weren't far behind because you had opted to down the second litre in one shot rather than let yourself assess the state of your stomach.

"UL-URP!" A harsh belch is forced out of you as the wandering hands return, rubbing deeply into your smooth gut. You swat at the hands as the pressure increases, not wanting to lose your gorge. That's another thing the wandering hands have been doing--you've had no shortage of belly rubs since the second litre disappeared down your throat. Litre number three is proving to be a challenge, especially because the feeling of foreign hands pressing into your stomach have been such a major distraction.

"Aww...runnin' out of room in there, sweetie?" Some patronizing coo sounds from the crowd and you imagine matching that voice with the soothing rubs from the wandering hand on the upper left, stroking at your ribs more than at your belly...though the ministrations are going right to your engorged stomach organ. It’s thanks to these wandering hands that the milk has burned through you so quickly. Most of the first litre has travelled down, bloating up your intestines rather than your stomach.

"We could make more room." This voice is rougher, like the owner smokes a pack or two a day. You've matched it to a hand on the center of your belly. This one has been wandering around a bit, sometimes squeezing at the side of your gut and causing stuff to rise up your esophagus, and other times patting the crest of your full belly, upsetting the churning inside.

The stubborn hand doesn't relent.

"Hey! What are you doing?"

"Push until you puke!" The exclamation is punctuated by a harsh increase in pressure from one of the foreign hands on your gut (there were three). Your eyes widen and before you realize what happened a torrent of white liquid gushes out of you. It's like a dam bursting and once it starts it just doesn't stop. Your belly contracts, painfully ejecting more and more of the milk up and out.

You try, weakly, to remove the hands pressing harshly into your belly but your clenching abdominals don't allow you to focus on much else. Vaguely, you hear some of your friends telling them all off.

...

You groan as you stumble along the sidewalks. It's dark out and there's nobody around this late at night. You're grateful for that as you make quite a nasty sight, stumbling around as though you are drunk and cradling your belly. You didn’t even have any alcohol at the party. No—the only thing that has gone in your gut all day has been a gallon of milk.

It's usually a twenty-minute walk to your friend's place, but it's been well over forty minutes since you left. There weren't many people left after the banana-Sprite guy finished his challenge. He was one of the ones defending you and telling off the people responsible for forcing you to puke. He also defended your earnings, slapping away hands that tried to help themselves to their bets and all. He made sure you got your winnings after enduring that hell. One of the onlookers got defensive and threw in another condition on your night: you could keep their fifty-dollar contribution to your pool, but you had to finish the gallon and keep it down before his eyes.

Your banana-Sprite buddy coached you through finishing the last of the gallon. Honestly, you felt like a dish-rag, being saturated by liquid, wrung out, and then saturated again. Your stomach felt like it was put through the wringer with how badly it ached but your buddy didn’t let you give up and he made sure no more wandering hands or fists got to you while you painstakingly finished the last litre and a half of the gallon.

The stubborn onlooker had stayed behind to watch you swallow back your gorge for a while yet until your friends kicked him out of the house. He had tried to get handsy while you were occupied trying to chug the last bit of the gallon. The others had shoved him back and kept the cash-pool well away from the asshole. Eventually, the jerk left, kicking a trash can as he stormed off of the driveway.

While your buddy cleaned up, he ushered you to go home rather than help out. The only ones left were you, and the friend that lived at the house (and their partner). They eyed your engorged belly with worried glances. Feeling bad for not aiding in the clean-up effort, you refused the offer to drive you back home and stumbled out, hoping the walk home would settle your turbulent belly.

...

Ugh…why’s half’ta be fourth floor?!

You’re a groaning, moaning mess as you perform the monumental feat of getting your right leg up to meet the flat part of the next step. The long walk didn’t settle your tummy, but it moved everything a bit lower down. Your entire digestive tract is still completely saturated by milk. You’ve been very careful going up the stairs, angling yourself in a way that ensures you won’t knee yourself in the belly as the griping spasms of your angry guts cause you to be perpetually hunched over for the trip. Your hands go back and forth between white-knuckling the handrail, lest gravity take back your progress; and clutching at your griping belly. Sometimes it’s a singular, massive cramp…but when it’s not doing that it’s like half a dozen smaller, still painful cramps exploding all over your abdomen. The noises are just as intense as the pain, echoing through the cement stairwell and coming back at you. You’re inadvertently starting a legend for this condo building—the urban legend of the snarling beast that haunts the stairwell. The bedrooms that are adjacent to the stairwell hear every gripe, grumble, curse, and moan as they echo from you. Children, teens, and young adults from all around will tell the tale of the haunted stairwell for decades to come.

The elevator stopped working at some point while we were out. I messaged you to let you know to plan to use the stairs whenever you got around to coming home. The stairs were a pretty big inconvenience to me because it meant I ended up having to make more trips back and forth from the car to our apartment than I had initially planned. Still, I managed to get all of our groceries up. Honestly, you think that what you have rivals what I had to do with how dense and heavy your tummy feels.

Your stomach has been cramping, convulsing, seemingly complaining. Every twinge from it translates into words in your mind and you imagine your abused tummy is petulantly crying out, “Too. Much. Milk!” The image of a cartoon belly with a picket sign protesting the flood of thick liquid has you chuckling, swallowing back a mouthful of sick that your gut tries to force out. You refuse to be the jerk that throws up in the stairwell and stinks it up for weeks to come. You don’t have it in you to clean it up tonight and you don’t want to get in trouble with the building managers.

Every step is agony, shaking up your gut as it is. To be fair, you don’t think you’d have fared any better if the elevator had been working. It’d be a shorter endeavor, but the vertigo that you get when the elevator starts travelling would have surely caused you to vomit. Well, gravity would have dragged your innards downwards going up. The image of a paper grocery bag with it’s bottom burst open enters your mind and your stomach cramps sharply. Yeah…the stairs are an ordeal, but it’s better than your guts rupturing from the weight of all this milk bursting your very-bloated insides.

Sitting down with a huff, you look up and the number ‘2’ on a plaque next to the doorway seems to taunt you. Your guts let out a burbling whine and you pat at it. It seems to understand that even after all that turbulence you’re not even halfway to the apartment.

…

“Ul…uhgh….mmmmph…” You let out something caught between a moan and a whine as your stomach seizes yet again. “Ungh…p-please…n-no more…” You groan pathetically, begging me not to put more into your overtaxed gut.

You had texted earlier, letting me know you had missed the pizza at the party and would be coming home hungry. I’d originally planned to just whip up some quick instant noodles for myself but when I realized you were requesting dinner I decided to pull out all the stops and make a rich and creamy noodle casserole. We had just bought ourselves a two litre of milk. I usually only opt for one litre or less if I can get it because I don’t use a lot of it but the smallest quantity the store had was two today so I was looking up ways to use it up. Along with the casserole, I also made garlic scalloped potatoes with extra creamy sauce—your favorite…probably no longer you favorite after tonight.

When you walked in the door looking green and very, very bloated I just couldn’t help myself. The two of us are no strangers to tummy kink. I immediately got you to confirm your safeword and that’s when the blindfold went on. You tried to beg off of dinner but I did not spend all afternoon cooking and keeping myself hungry just to shove it all into the fridge without either of us getting to indulge in a very late dinner. You didn’t even get a chance to see what it was that I had made for us so you were left to puzzle it out based on smell and taste alone. You nearly wept when you tasted the creamy, milky sauces. More milk.

“So…what’d they put in here? Did they rupture a keg and put you forth as a hasty replacement?” My tone is teasing, just like my fingers lightly dancing over your stretched gut, still miraculously covered by your shirt. Your belly burbles angrily, casserole and potatoes churning around in their milky environment.

“Ugh…url…n-no…” You try desperately to burp, to relieve even a little of the pressure in your gut. If there were any air left in your guts it certainly isn’t going anywhere fast. I don’t need to have magic hands to do it—the heavy pasta and potatoes is clogging up the works, acting like a dense cap preventing anything from going back up your esophagus. If your abdominals weren’t shot from your rounds of (forced) vomiting at the party they might have the strength to clench and power through the dense food, but all of the muscles in your abdomen are completely worn out and sore. There’s no way you have it in you to get anything up and out any time soon.

At this point I’ve basically achieved complete mastery over your digestive tract. I know where to push and where to rub and how much pressure to apply in order to keep things exactly where I want them in your guts. Our record was four hours of keeping some thick sludge that was once a hearty meal teetering between your duodenum and the beginnings of your large intestine. I would let it get to the first sharp turn of your intestines only to push it back up to your duodenum, and on and on.

I secured your hands to the dining chair as soon as I finished tying off the blindfold. I’m currently straddling your lap…or what little of it there is, occasionally feeding you bites of dinner while being entranced by the state of your stomach.

We’ve indulged in stuffing on occasion, but I have never seen your belly anywhere near as distended as it is tonight. It’s taut, practically ball-like, and it looks so painfully stretched that I honestly think if I were to jab it with one of my sewing pins you’d rupture like a water-balloon. Well, a milk-balloon, I guess. You had managed to tell me what had transpired throughout the course of dinner, between moans and groans, of course.

Surprisingly, your stomach isn’t as vocal as you are about your predicament. You told me that the sheer amount of milk had caused a massive upset and that it was really loud in the stairwell, but since I started feeding you it’s gone quiet. It’s too densely packed to allow much activity—especially because the potatoes have definitely absorbed a lot of the milk that was already in your guts. You tell me all of this, describing it like something dense is being expanded in you.

A large part of you really wants to use your safeword. Your gut hurts so much. You’re beyond pain at this point. Even so, a part of you also knows that this is a rare opportunity. We both love belly kink but neither of us has ever taken things to this level before and we’re not likely to again. Neither of us had any interest in attempting the milk gallon challenge on our own. We’d talked about it and watched videos on it and had tried with single litres of milk before…but neither of us had the willpower to get through much more than that. Peer-pressure sucks and it’s a bad thing…but it managed to get you to do something we’d never have experienced on our own.

“Unngh…p-please…t-too full…t-too tight…t-too m-much…p-please?”

“What? Want my hands? Alright.” I press my palms into your solid mass of a belly and the pressure makes you cry out sharply. It takes me by surprise. I hadn’t even applied that much pressure.

“NO! Ungh…n-no!” I take my hands off of your tummy, realizing that you’re actually crying. “T-Too full…f-for…rubs…” You whimper sheepishly, squirming in your bonds as you try to find a position that’ll stop the angry aches exploding across your tummy.

“N-No more…p-please…n-no more…” You mutter softly, sniffling.

“Alright. I guess we’re done with dinner. Want me to untie you and we’ll go to bed?” You nod, swallowing back against a thick paste that fights to inch up your esophagus. At some point we were no longer even stuffing your belly. Max capacity had been reached and the last three spoonfuls are still clogging up your esophagus.

You’re well and truly stuffed. With just the milk it was sickening and sloshy, but it was manageable. With the addition of such heavy foods soaking up the mess, everything from your esophagus to your small intestines are packed tight with a paste-y mess of milk-saturated potatoes and pasta. You can’t see it, but you feel like your stomach must have stretched a good three inches since I tied you up. If your pants weren’t already undone and around your hips from the party you’d have definitely burst a button with everything I forced into you.

I untie your arms and you rub at them. Before you can reach up to take off your blindfold a harsh slap to the side of your belly has you crying out and forgetting all about the blindfold.

“Leave it on.” I order. Nodding, you get up with the aid of my hand. I lead you to the bedroom, taking a bit of sick pleasure when your distended gut makes contact with a bedpost as you scramble into bed.

Honestly, my stomach was throbbing when I was about 90% through with the food. I refused to waste good broth though, so down the hatch! I knew I'd bitten off more than I could chew when I saw that look in your eyes.

To onlookers, we're just a run o' the mill couple engaging in some casual PDA as we stroll through the commercial district. You've got your arm around my waist, keeping it above my hip (corutesy/modesty points for you). Nobody would look twice at us. Nobody would ever suspect what's really going on.

The second we step off of the curb, crossing the first of four intersections between us and the right bus stop, my stomach sloshes audibly. You had just been keeping your palm pressed gently to my stomach, but the sudden convulsion and the noticeable 'slosh' awoke something inside of you. My grunt of discomfort being cut off by a wet hiccup definitely didn't help matters either.

You keep me upright. To onlookers, it'd appear that I stumbled and you were kind enough to keep me from eating pavement. What's really happening though is that my body twitched, trying to curl around my tight, sloshy tummy--trying to calm the turbulence of my straining gut. You used the movement to subtly press harder against my tummy, trapping me against your side and intentionally jostling my stomach. You can feel the firm, but not hard curve of my stomach-organ under your palm. You squeeze it, delighting in the wet burp and hiss it draws from my throat as I bat at your arm. You pretty much carry me across the intersection, my feet barely skimming the pavement as you resolutely march across to the other curb, most of my weight suspended on your arm, putting even more pressure on my bloated gut. It's all I can do to focus on keeping my meal inside of me--still stubbornly refusing to waste that broth.

"Ugh...quit it!" I hiss at you as we get onto the new curb. You squeeze my belly with your strong fingers, effectively shutting me up as I bite my tongue to avoid spewing here and now.

We continue our journey to the bus stop like so, with me dreading the other intersections. I spy a bench for another bus stop before us. This one marks the halfway point. The bus to our place only stops at the far end of the commercial district…so the one up ahead won't get us where we need to go. I long to sit on that bench, to recline and to give my straining tummy some much-needed TLC. You're doing your best impression of a locked seatbelt, so I doubt I'll get my wish. Any slack given by our jostling movements is eaten up by your arm squeezing me even tighter, your fingers digging deeply into my gut. You occasionally seem to drum your fingers--flexing them into the squishy firmness that is my gut.