#stuffing burps

Pity Party

Holiday season. Christmas, once again, and once again, you were alone.

Every year before you had worked retail, so you couldn't take time to fly back to your family. This year you had a real desk job that had 2 weeks break over the holidays! When you called your mom to coordinate Christmas, she informed you they assumed you couldn't make it, and booked a sold out (and let's be real, too expensive for you) cruise that was non-refundable. But you'll do something with them next year, okay?

That sucked, but at least you had your partner. Until two days ago. They had decided you were getting too fat, even though you had met on Feabie. You know, to get fat. They actively worked to make you this fat. You had noticed they started pulling away after you said you couldn't shop for clothes in normal retail stores anymore, they just didn't have your sizes. That fucker only wanted your fat body for sexual pleasure, but was ashamed to be seen with you.

You lost 190lbs of dead weight that day, but felt a different kind of heaviness on your chest.

So, completely alone, and with office job money to spend, you decided to let loose for the few days over Christmas. You had enough weed and booze for a college house party, and a list of all restaurants that were delivering on Christmas. You also stocked the freezer with easy meals like pizza and lasagne, and horded snacks for when you just got peckish.

Eve of Christmas Eve

You dropped the last of your snacks within arms' reach in the living room and checked the wait time on your delivery. 20 minutes. You crack open a beer and drink deeply, carbonation fizzling in your gut. The malty taste starts to trigger something in you, and after a quick pause to burp, you quickly chug down the rest. The feeling of beer bloating up your big empty stomach before a night of binging always got you going. And this was going to be more than just a night of binging.

Your joint rolling has gotten better, but the condensation from the second beer can on your fingers makes it harder. Finally the edge is sealed and you can light up. Your personal blend of death star and girl scout cookies has an herbal but sweet tinge to it, and it fills your lungs and quickly clouds your brain. The second beer certainly helps with that.

Your food arrives, and you're feeling good. So what it takes you extra effort to haul your ass off the couch to get to the door? So what you haven't been able to do up your pants at all for the past week? So what if you had gotten too fat for your feeder, someone who said they got off to this? You would get off to this, but that would be a long time from now.

Tonight is an order from a pizza place. There's an extra large pizza, a full order of loaded cheesy bread, a double order of cauliflower bites, and it looks like they sent two lava cakes even though you only ordered one.

After getting settled back on your worn couch, you choose your mindless tv. Now the high is taking over, and you just want the comfort of a dumb Christmas movie. You quickly choose and then turn to your feast.

Beer and pizza is one of your favourite combos. The greasy slices pair perfectly with the calorie-filled alcohol. The alcohol fuels your haze which just makes you want more.

You let your brain turn off entirely and get to work. After a few swigs that empty half of beer number three, you stack two pieces together and dig in. You found you can trick your brain into thinking you've eaten less than you actually have this way. You can also eat faster, which means you can shovel more in before your gut starts to signal how full you are.

Your gluttonous trance takes over, and you mindlessly glut out on your pizza, pausing to take another drink, drag, or bite of cheesybread or cauliflower. Your pizza sandwich technique means you eat half the pizza in 15 minutes, along with a quarter of the cheesy bread, and you're well into beer number four. You don't feel full yet, but you do feel heavy. All of that food sits in your belly, and your belly sits on your plush thighs, slowly pushing your knees apart.

As you get higher, you're reduced to your desires and your pleasures. You get distracted by the flashy family comedy, your laughs interrupted by surprised boozy pizza belches. You rub your gut, pudgy fingers sinking into your inches of flab. The flavours of everything explode on your tongue, and you just need more. Every bite is nearly orgasmic and not so slowly, but surely, your gut stretches to accommodate your massive meal. Your upper belly juts out, soon sticking out past your flabby chest and fat-laden lower belly. Gurgles and churns echo louder than your tv, more and more sloppy belches falling from your mouth. At some point your shirt comes off to give you easier access to your belly, and so you rub and jostle it, trying to ease the aching organ while also getting riled up.

You slow your frantic gorging, instead slowly snacking on everything, switching up flavours to trick yourself into eating more. Forty-five minutes later all that remains is two pieces of cheesy bread, five cauliflower bites, and one piece of pizza. The last bite of lava cake feels like cement in your mouth, but you swallow it down and chase it with another swig of beer. You feel your skin stretch with every gulp, the itching sending shivers up your spine. Once beer number 6 is empty your hand just lets go, and the can falls down your body into the pile of cans and pizza boxes from tonight, leaving a trail of sticky booze down your belly.

Your head falls back and you pant through the burps and moans. You don't remember the last time you were this stuffed. Every breath feels like a gamble, your stomach actually creaking with every movement.

You wish they were here, your feeder. Well, ex-feeder. They would have lit the bong for you, rubbed your gut as you faded in and out of conciousness, and then started stuffing you once they thought you had room.

Fuck them, I can do this myself. You were too fat for them now? You were just getting started.

You grab the bong from the seat beside you and lit up. You take a few more shallow hits, your lungs just out of room to expand for a deep inhale. After a few minutes the more intense aches ease and your eyes get heavy, but you are determined to stay awake. At the very least, you're going to finish the pizza and cheesy bread.

There are more beers on the coffee table, but you physically cannot lean forward to get them. You're completely pinned down by the mass in your gut, compounding on your rapidly climbing weight that your body hadn't gotten used to yet. 112lbs in one year was a lot to take on. So you'll have to finish this dry. Not that you weren't fucking trashed by now, but having a sip between items usually helped.

The first piece of cheesybread goes down quickly, your last hit somehow spurring the munchies again, despite your current state. Your stomach starts to protest though, and the last piece is completed by little nibbles. A dangerous burp works its way up so you take another break, trying to gingerly massage your belly. Everything is swimming, and your arm feels like its being controlled by a puppet string, uncoordinated and foreign. You feel your stomach move under your hand as if a baby is kicking, but it's just the absurd amount of food and booze you've forced inside your body, churning away.

You casually eat the cauliflower bites, trying to focus on the end of the movie rather than your body fighting back against every swallow. You can barely understand what's being said on the tv, your pulse in your ears and in your crotch, and yet new levels of intoxication washing over you. You try to grab the last piece of pizza to get this over with, but your marionette arm just won't cooperate. You miss the slice twice entirely, your swaying vision making coordination incredibly hard. The third time you grab it awkwardly, hand half on the crust and half in the sauce, but you call this a success and bring it to your slack jaw.

Every bite feels like you have to remember how to chew, jaw sore, gut viscerally protesting, weed and booze zapping all of your focus, every part of your body is working against you.

Finally, bite after agonizing bite, the credits roll, and the entire pizza is gone. Everything is gone, into your overtaxed stomach. You can only moan now, too stuffed, high, and drunk to form a coherent thought. You rest your hads on top of your shelf of a gut, unable to figure out how to make your arms move to rub your belly without jostling it. Every breath sends another flash of cramps over your middle, your lungs just putting that much extra pressure on your abused organ. Fuck, you've really overdone it now. There is no way you could move even if your life depended on it.