tummy

You look up and see the bartender. She's wearing a crisp white button up and a vest, both hands on the bar, she's looking at you with an expression you can't quite place.

"Hello," you say softly. Your cheeks feel warm, but you can't tell if you're blushing or if it's the alcohol.

"Come here often?" She says.

"Excuse me?"

"Sorry, bad line," she smiles at you and you feel a fluttering in your gut, "Do you need a top off?"

Your eyes widen, "Take my top off?"

She looks surprised, "No! No, do you want another drink?"

"Oh, uh…" you slurp the rest of your drink through the straw, "Sure, that would be nice, thanks."

She takes the empty glass with another small smile thrown your way. You fidget with your skirt while you wait, downing the rest of your drink in one go is definitely starting to make your brain even fuzzier. Looking down at yourself you notice that your belly is definitely bloated, pushing against the waist of your skirt. Under the bar you reach up a hand and press gently on the swell. It's firm and feels like poking an inflated ball. Ugh… you really should eat something.

"Are you okay?"

The bartender is back, placing another fizzy and fruity drink on top of a small napkin. It's definitely not what you had originally, but you're tipsy and it looks delicious.

"Yeah, I'm okay…" You say, "This isn't the drink I had…"

She shrugs, "I took a chance. This is a recipe I made myself, a little bit of watermelon, vodka, mint…. Thought you seem cool enough you might want to try it for me. Let me know what you think."

You take a small sip and smile up at her, "This is really good."

"Thanks, it's on the house," she picks up a couple empty glasses farther down the bar and starts to walk away.

"Oh! Uh-"

"Yes?" She's back in front of you.

"Do you guys serve any food?" You ask, taking a long sip from the drink. You can tell it's strong, but it's mixed so well it doesn't bother you.

She glances at the door to the back room, "Uhhhhh… kind of?"

"Kind of?"

"My sister dropped off some cupcakes for a party that's happening here tomorrow, but it's not really food."

You're feeling even tipsier now, "I mean… cupcakes are food. In my opinion."

She looks at you slyly, "Oh… do you want one? I probably shouldn't since they're for the party tomorrow, but…" she leans on the bar, "You're just so cute that I can't say no."

You blush deeply and this time you know it isn't the alcohol, "You really don't have to."

"Come on," she says, winking at you and walking away. She reaches the door to the back room and looks back at you once before slipping inside.

You gulp down the drink and then hop off the stool, having to catch yourself with a hand on the bar as you sway a little. You get a hold on yourself and then, razor focused, walk around the bar to the back room. You aren't sure why you're trying this, but she's so hot and this is such a weird situation.

You slowly turn the door knob and open the door, poking your head in. The back room looks like a small kitchen, complete with an island. And on the island are two large trays of differently decorated cupcakes, covered by plastic lids. The bartender is standing next to it, holding out her arms.

"Ta-da!"

You slip inside and close the door, "Ta-da?"

Her grin falters just a bit, "Cupcakes!"

You walk forward and look over the trays, your mouth starting to water. Chocolate, vanilla, red velvet, carrot cake, double fudge, lemon; all with different types of frostings and decorations perfectly placed. The bartender pulls the lid off one of the trays and grabs a vanilla cupcake with pink frosting and a single raspberry placed on top. She peels off the wrapper and holds it out to you, like she's expecting you to eat it from her hand.

"Here, try this one," she can see your slight hesitation and moves it even closer to your lips. You stomach growls as your head swims and a hand twitches to your bloated abdomen. You take a small bite of the cupcake and it immediately melts in your mouth. Perfectly baked and the frosting is smooth and bursting with raspberry flavor.

"That's delicious!" You say, covering your mouth to hide your chewing.

"You barely took a bite," the bartender laughs, still holding it out, "there's jam in the middle, you need to at least get a taste of that."

The alcohol in your system slips you even further into the sloshing haze of drunkenness, so you hold both her hands to keep the cupcake steady as you take another bite. This one is much bigger and you get some frosting on your cheek.

You giggle a little as the bartender swipes their thumb over your cheek, wiping off the frosting. Then she sucks it off her finger, popping the rest of the cupcake in her own mouth. You swing your gaze to the trays of the cupcakes.

"Want another one?" The bartender asks. You think for a moment and it does take a moment, your brain working slowly, but then you nod. She looks excited, running to the other side of the room to grab a wooden chair. She sets it down facing her and gestures to it.

You stumble a little and manage to sit down, the waist of your skirt digging into your belly. Your whole body feels warm and loose and you tell yourself you're ready to do whatever she tells you.

The bartender rolls up the sleeves of their white shirt and meticulously picks another cupcake. This one is chocolate with fudge icing, a Ferrero Rocher on top. She pulls the candy off and holds it out to you. Gently you take it from her fingers with your teeth. You barely swallow it when she's holding the rest of the cupcake to your mouth.

You open it to take a bite and she shoves it in. You make a small squeak, but you start to chew. It's just as good as the last one, if not better. You swallow it all in one and the bartender is already waving a lemon cupcake under your nose. You don't even protest and take a bite, lemon curd bursting over your tongue.

Cupcake after cupcake, the amount that you've eaten becomes a blur, but you can tell that you aren't hungry anymore. Wrappers litter around the bartender's feet and suddenly through your intoxication you realize you're halfway through one of the trays. Your stomach whines in protest, rumbling as it tries to make space as the bartender slides another cupcake past your lips.

Your belly, packed full of alcohol and sugar, strains against your skirt. You suddenly can't get comfortable and it's like you can't take a full breath. You squirm in your seat, gripping the edges of the chair to steady yourself.

"W-wait…" you say through some remnants of cupcake in your mouth.

The bartender stops peeling another cupcake from its wrapper, "Wait? You don't want another one?"

"M-maybe I should stop…" You say.

"Oh?" She leans over so her eyes are looking directly into yours, holding up the cupcake to your lips, "Are you sure?"

You can smell the cream cheese frosting and sigh. What's the harm in another one? You open your mouth and she shoves in it with a little more force than the last time.

"They're good, right?" The bartender says, "You just can't help yourself, can you? I bet you're going to finish this whole tray."

You can't respond with the food in your mouth and as soon as you swallow she has another one ready. She keeps going, feeding you cupcakes steadily now. You can almost feel your belly swelling with each bite, your stomach fighting to find room for all the cake.

Your skirt feels tighter and tighter, cutting into you and eventually making you feel sick. You should stop eating, but she keeps giving them to you and what are you supposed to do? Not eat what she's offering?

There's a loud RIIIIP as your skirt gives up, coming apart at the seams to make way for your swelling gut. You let out a deep breath and your belly pushes out even further. The bartender feeds you the cupcake she's holding and you force it down. She reaches her hand in the busted seam and cups the fat spilling over your panties.

"God, you just can't help yourself…" she holds your neck with one hand and breaths the words in your ear. You feel a shiver of pleasure run through you, "You're so fat. I bet you gained all this in the last year."

You hadn't, you had always been chubby, but something makes you nod. The bartender rubs a hand over your round, swollen gut, giving it small pat. She kisses your neck and then pulls back, grabbing the last cupcake on the tray and taking off the wrapper.

"What do you think?" She says sneakily, "Last one?"

Your stomach rumbles and you notice that- alcohol aside- you feel pinned to the chair. You're so bloated and so, so full of cake that your legs are spread apart. You aren't sure you can force down that last cupcake, but the bartender places it to your lips. You take a gentle lick of the strawberry frosting and the second your mouth is a little open she presses the cupcake into it, sliding her other hand back into your hair and tangling it around their fingers.

It takes incredible effort, but you get the cupcake down.

"Good job," the bartender purrs, "Very good job…" She slips her hand into the busted seam of your skirt again and cups your belly, jiggling it and rubbing it gently. You feel goosebumps break out over your arms as she whispers to you. She kisses along your neck, continuously playing with your stuffed gut. Reaching under your shirt, she rubs along your distended upper belly. You moan and so does your stomach. The cupcakes seem to be fighting for space, your guts churning inside you.

The bartender coos at you, calling you "good girl" and telling you that you've done "such a good job". The feeling of her hands on your belly and her whispered words in your ear lull you into such a sweet feeling of security. Your eyes almost close, a sense of peace coming over you. Yet simultaneously you realize that you are incredibly aroused.

The bartender plays with your belly some more, sticking her fingers in your belly button and trying to shake your rounded gut. It feels so good that you let out another moan, letting your head fall back. You feel the bartender's hand travel further down. They stroke their hand over your thigh and towards the middle of your legs, barely brushing the wet fabric of your panties before pulling back.

Indeed, the burger had barely digested--his stomach hadn't been able to free up enough space to start working on it just yet. In addition to that big burger--double patty, with cheese and bacon and just about everything--was the side of thick-cut fries that had come with it, and the soda and milkshake too. It had been a classic American lunch, and it would have been more than enough to leave his stomach impressively distended, but it wasn't alone in there. Hidden underneath all that, grumbling away continuously in his straining belly, was an enormous breakfast of French toast, eggs, potatoes, and fresh-chopped fruit salad--all homemade by Marianne herself, unlike lunch, which had been enjoyed at a local restaurant.

Lunch had been a couple hours ago, but between the size of that and the size of breakfast, he may as well have just eaten. His tummy felt unbelievably stuffed, pushing out so hard that he had to arch his back a little to keep the pressure off it, and it had been gurgling and grumbling nonstop as it struggled to digest everything that had been packed into it. How he was going to squeeze in anything else, he had no idea, but if it was at least something light, maybe he stood a chance. He pushed himself off the couch with a soft groan and followed her back into the kitchen.

Kyle liked Marianne's kitchen; it was a lot nicer than his own. It was bright and colorful and very retro, and it reminded him of pictures he'd seen of nicely done-up kitchens from decades past. His own kitchen was small and drab, and he didn't use it much. He had his skills--athletic skills, mainly, though his trim physique had been softening as of late--but cooking wasn't a big one. That made Marianne's cooking extra impressive in his eyes. She could whip up five-star dinners like it was nothing, and not displace so much as a well-styled hair in the process. Ordinarily, he might have at least helped her, but right now he was too bloated to do a thing, and she'd made it perfectly clear that she would be happy to let him rest up and digest up while she cooked.

Stepping into the kitchen, Kyle was greeted by a lovely smell and a pair of hands on his belly. It was a plump belly, in contrast to his otherwise athletic build, but right now it was firm, the plush layer of fat stretched taut around the enormous mass of food inside. She gave his rounded sides a friendly squeeze, drawing a little whine of discomfort out of him, then gave his solid upper belly a satisfied pat. It rumbled nervously in response.

"Are you sure you're hungry, sweetheart? That cute little belly of yours feels awfully full," she said with a teasing finger under his chin. He nodded, almost timid under her expectant gaze, and she smiled, gave him a peck on the cheek, and led him to the table. Laid out on bright turquoise dishes and a pink checked tablecloth was a hearty meal of chicken--stuffed with crab, it looked like--covered in a thick, creamy white sauce, with a side of gooey, cheesy scalloped potatoes.

"I thought you said it was something light," he chuckled as they sat down.

"Sure I did," she said with an innocent smile. "Light in color."

And light in color it was; the whole meal was rich with cheese and cream. Just thinking about it made Kyle's belly feel heavier. It looked and smelled divine, though, and when Marianne instructed him to dig in, it wasn't hard to obey. Rich though it was, the savory chicken and the sweet crab came together in a delicious dance on his tongue, and the potatoes were soft and fluffy under a crispy crust of cheese. It was a meal he wished he had an empty stomach for, but he was enjoying it regardless, though he was sure he'd be regretting it soon.

The first few bites went down surprisingly easily, but it wasn't long before Kyle's body came to its senses and reminded him exactly how full he was. The little bit of the meal he'd eaten was already sitting heavy in his stomach, and it let out a gurgle of discomfort as it shifted to make room. Still, noticing her watching him from across the little round table, he went on eating. He wasn't typically the submissive type, but something about Marianne made him feel an odd compulsion to do as he was told, and in this instance, that meant eating, despite his belly feeling like it was about to burst.

"You're movin' awful slow, cutie pie," she said, eyeing his bulging tummy. "Need a little help?"

"Um, maybe," he admitted. He didn't feel like he could fit another bite, but maybe it would be easier with an extra set of hands. Smiling, Marianne moved to the seat beside him, scooting the chair over until they were practically touching. She placed a hand atop the starkly swollen top of his belly, the tightest point of the curve. It was achingly taut, packed absolutely solid, and she felt it rumble under her palm as a few trapped air bubbles tried to find their way around.

"Mm, you do feel full," she said with a look of approval. "I bet we can squeeze in a little more, though." Picking up his fork and knife, she cut off a big bite of chicken and brought it to his lips, taking care not to let the thick sauce drip. "Now, you just let me know when you can't take any more."

While the food was still wonderful, it was getting hard to chew and harder to swallow. It was as if his body was putting all its effort into resisting, and reasonably so--he was beginning to feel dangerously full. He held his belly as he ate, almost positive he could feel it stretching tighter under his hands, and it let out strained groans and rumbles as it struggled to hold everything. Still, each time Marianne brought the fork to his mouth, he opened up. 

Taking a break from the chicken to feed Kyle some potatoes, Marianne set the knife down and rested her free hand on the middle of his belly. There was still a faint softness to it, but it felt rock-solid beneath that, and she could feel his insides working hard, tensing and grumbling and straining against their contents. She rubbed gently as she fed him, and he let out a soft little moan of pleasure at the soothing sensation. He was nearing his limit, and they both knew it, but she was determined to push him, and so she kept going, forkful by impossible forkful.

Finally, she heard another moan, and this time it wasn't from pleasure. Kyle was holding his distended belly as though his hands were the only thing keeping it together, and his face was tense with discomfort. He didn't need to say a word; it was plain to see: he was full. Beyond full, he was overstuffed, filled to his limit and nearly ready to blow. He could certainly put away some food--he was a sturdy man, well-built and no stranger to a hearty meal--but he didn't think he'd ever been so full in his life. His stomach let out squeaky little gurgles with each breath, barely able to find space even to inhale, and beneath that there was a low, continuous grumbling as his insides worked overtime, desperate to move things along and ease the unbearable pressure.

"You did a pretty good job, sweetpea," she said, taking his bloated sides and rubbing softly. A sudden gurgle bubbled up in his belly, and a strained burp escaped him, followed by a groan. With a look of sympathy, she leaned in to plant a kiss on his tummy, then stood up.

Toronto is a low, smoggy smudge beneath them, the DVP a thread of glowing traffic, running down away. Nash passes the joint back, grimacing against an autumn chill. It feels too late to ask.

The artist takes a last drag, and extinguishes the joint with a pinch– Nash winces.

The artist looks at him; breathes in, through his teeth, that sucking, too cold to be standing out here smoking, sound. "I'm starving," he says, after a moment. "You?"

"I could eat."

Nash loses a fuzzy bit of time, mindlessly gnawing through two slices of pizza- getting cold- as his high washes pleasantly over him. The artist, he thinks, eats one; a warm presence beside him, on the couch, contentedly quiet.

"Want the last?" The artist is holding a third slice out to him– Nash kind of doesn't. His appetite isn't huge, usually, his stomach comfortably full. He takes it somewhat automatically, and then feels obliged to eat, having accepted it.

He sits back, afterwards, full of heavy, greasy food, comfortably high. The party babbles on around them– noise and laughter, music. It feels like they're in a little bubble all their own, in the midst of it all– Nash thinks, fondly, of the last time he'd seen the artist, and turns to look at him, interest swimming up out of his foggy mind.

The artist is watching him. He says, "you devoured that– think there's another box, if you want."

Something in his voice– Nash looks at him, two thoughts connecting clearly, in the haze. Yes. He's heard of this.

Experimentally, he leans back, blowing out a breath. rests a hand on his stomach. "Not a chance. I'm stuffed."

The artist's interest grows keen, in the corner of his eye, a flush creeping up his neck. Yes– Nash is right, about him. He's certain of it. Boldly– liking the poorly-hidden desire in the artist's face, a little higher than he'd meant to be- Nash seizes the artist's hand, and places it onto his own full stomach. "See?" He says.

Nash tends to be thin, naturally, and stays toned at the gym– his stomach is normally a flat, smooth plane, skin taut, with–he'll grant, not abs per se, but the suggestion of muscle, at least.

It is noticeably- not dramatically- rounded, now, with what he'd eaten. The artist's hand is hot, against Nash's skin- even through the shirt. His eyes are black with desire– face intense, intent. Nash's groin tightens, a little, with its own interest, a lovely man's pretty hand exploring so nearby. "That isn't full," the artist says, almost to himself– watching Nash's stomach, so Nash can watch him unimpeded.

"Aha," Nash says. "Thought so. That's your– your thing. Isn't it?"

The artist pulls his hand away, as if from a stove. He's red now, neck and ears, flushed across the cheeks-

"It's alright," Nash says. And then, when the artist continues on in blushing silence, he rolls his hips a little, massaging his stomach. "Sure feels full to me, though. Whatever you say."

The artist is tenting up his pretty- well, his short- shorts, eyes rapt. "It's," he says, quiet- a little uncertain- "It's really not." He reaches back again, hesitantly- Nash nods- and presses Nash's belly. "There's room to press down- that means there's. More room. And you'd– you'd look bigger."

Nash regards him. It had never been his thing- but the artist is so obviously wound up, already, so pretty blushing and stammering the way he is– and fuck it. Try anything once, right? "And you'd..." Nash leans to catch the Artist's eye. "You'd like to change that. Make me eat more. Is that what it is?"

The artist swallows. "I shouldn't have," he says.

Nash cuts him off. "I'm not teasing you. Tell me." He shifts closer, hot thigh against the artist's own, denim on bare skin. "Tell me what you want to do to me."

A pause; the artist is rock-hard, now, in his little shorts. Nash reaches, rubs his thigh, dizzy with weed and the easy, pleasant sense of being wanted so badly that this young, pretty man can't even speak.

"Fill you up," the artist says, choked, his eyes fixed on Nash's hand. " 'n then fuck you, when you're too stuffed to even move."

That's direct. Nash grins. "Go on, then," he says. "We won't be here forever."

The artist dashes off.

Someone laughs. "Surprised he wasn't drooling."

Nash startles– of course, they're right out in the open. Kind of the point of these parties. His focus had just been so narrow–

He twists up to see his best friend- and host- Eddie, leaning on the sofa-back, beer dangling between her fingers.

"Ed," Nash says, smiling. "Pretty little thing, isn't he?"

"Eager anyway," Eddie says, neutrally.

"Oh, lesbians." Nash scoffs. "No eye on you at all." And then– "one of Hester's, isn't he?"

"Mhm. From her old job."

"Is she... around?"

"Hester? Freshening up." There's a satisfied gleam in Eddie's eye.

"Gross," Nash says, for form's sake– of course, He's watched them fucking, more than once, but you had to take the jabs where you could get them. He glances towards the kitchen– no sign of the artist, yet. "Listen, then– do you know his name?"

Eddie laughs, loud and startled. "Yes," she says. "You ass. He comes to all of these."

"Ed– please-"

"Please what?" The artist, coming back with a pizza box balanced on his arm. "Oh! Eddie!"

The awkward little thing juggles the box, for a moment, and then sets it down to hug her, in greeting.

Perfect chance for her to let his name slip. "Hey!" She says, instead, giving Nash a look over the Artist's shoulder. "I was just betting Nash he'd tap out of your little game, here. He insists he can take whatever you've got."

Nash sniffs. "And I'm sure I can, pretty boy."

At least he seems to like the nickname– the artist's cheeks flush, hotly. "Well," he says.

"Mind if I watch?" Eddie is already sitting down- wouldn't be one of her parties, if any of them wanted to be private. "Always been curious about this stuff."

"Um- Okay," the artist says, nervy, and sits down, too, by Nash.

Nash puts his hand on the artist's thigh, to draw his attention back. "Think I've got a little more room, now," he says. "You wanna show me what 'full' means, don't you? Tick tock."

The artist swallows, and then nods. He opens the pizza box- a full medium, which Nash's stomach- not actually feeling any emptier- grumbles uneasily, just to see. "Pick up two," he says. "Sandwiched like- yeah, like that. Don't– stop, until you've finished them."

It's not the most confident order- but then, Nash had needed to boss the artist just to give it. The double-decker slice is not terribly appealing, cold pepperoni and cheese oozing out onto his hands as he takes a bite– but the artist is watching him hungrily, and other people in the room, now, if less intent.

"Ah, water?" Nash says, halfway through the slices. Chewing and swallowing is a chore, bread and cheese sitting heavily in him– he needs something to wash it down.

"Pop," the artist says, as Eddie stands. "If you have it. Not water."

She nods, and lopes away. Nash forces the last of his mouthful down, and takes another bite. Perhaps he hadn't felt full, all the way, before, just... sated. Now he's full, in the staggering, take-a-five-hour-nap way one is after thanksgiving; waistband digging in, a little, stomach feeling... stretched.

His next bite, he chews for a long time, cheeks pouching out, as if trying to save him from swallowing.

The artist's hand is on Nash's thigh, now– now rubbing his crotch, through his jeans. "I bet," he says, still a little timidly. "You want these off? I'll unbutton them, if you finish that."

"Am I so transparent?" Nash swallows, with an effort, and then crams his last bite down, too, chewing against his body's better judgment, swallowing dry and hard. "Not a problem."

The artist sighs, contented approval, and pops the button on Nash's jeans.

The relief takes him by surprise– Nash groans, leaning back. His stomach is noticeably round, now; surprising, to look at. Not how he'd pictured; the bulge higher up, at the bottom of his ribcage.

The artist palms him, through his briefs– Nash tilts his hips up, encouragingly, cock growing hard.

"You two move quick," Eddie says, startling Nash and the artist both.

The artist yanks his hand back. Shy, funny boy, I fucked your brains out right in front of her, a couple weeks ago.

She passes a bottle of Pepsi over the back of the couch, smiling. Hester is on her arm, now– a pretty, slender girl with a mass of dark, curly hair. She has a slightly flushed, glassy look about her. Smiles, to see them. She must be on something, or fucked-out already, or maybe both; she normally isn't as bold as Eddie. But she's watching Nash's hips tilt up into the artist's hands, and says, "you should only do that while he's eating."

Nash gives her a betrayed look. The artist says, "um,"

"To encourage him!" And then Hester is picking another slice out of the box, and holding it to Nash's lips. "Like this. Open wide."

The artist increases his tempo– Nash opens his mouth. Chews, absently, mind travelling south, south, hips jerking– another bite, another; he doesn't notice them.

He swallows hard, mouth dry. Fuck, that feels good, his boxers damp with pre, thighs tightening, little sparks blowing up his spine–

"Lemme wash it down."

Hester holds the bottle of pop up to his mouth, for a sip– and then doesn't move it away, so Nash swallows, and has to keep swallowing, each glug of soda filling out his stomach. He can feel them hitting, belly suddenly expanding, taut, like it might burst. Nash slaps at Hester's arm. The artist rips his hand away, too– Nash's hips chase it, for a moment.

Fuck, too full– shit, why did people like this? His stomach is suddenly massive, in front of him, a hard, tight ball, pressure right at the top, pushing to come out, tight, tight and painful, growling ominously.

"Fuck, I can't–" he says. His breath is short. That had happened fast. It hurts. He–

"You can," the artist says, gently. His hands are on Nash's massive stomach, rubbing. The skin is firm, where he presses– the pressure intense. "It's the carbonation. It'll pass."

He presses, hard, and Nash cries out, feeling something coming up–

A belch- really, quite involuntary- tears out of him. Instantly, the pressure eases, in his stomach. It's still enormous- comical- but the tightness... a little less.

Nash pants, leaning back. Breath is still a little hard to come by. Fuck. He's okay– he's alright. His chest heaves.

The artist is staring, mute and wide-eyed, dick straining visibly against his shorts. Nash could- could have him, right now, do anything to him, he's certain, only...

Only, he feels so heavy, shockingly heavy. He's never eaten enough to feel it as a weight, but now the round ball of his stomach is pressing him back, against the couch– it's hard to think about heaving himself up, to fuck the boy. It's hard to even think about leaning forward.

Nash rests a hand on his stomach; the skin is firm, where it presses up under his ribs. Another little burp escapes into his mouth; he pants.

Eddie opens her mouth– but it's Hester who speaks up, a black gleam in her eye. "Aww, done already?"

Nash rolls his head to look up at her. "Like to see you eat like this," he says, a little thickly. The artist's head is bouncing back and forth between them.

"You've seen me do a lot more than eat some pizza," Hester says. "Can't handle your turn in hot seat, Nash?"

Eddie looks smug, and proud, to see her toy bossing someone else around, for once– but smug and proud is Eddie's default. The predatory glint in Hester's face is new.

Nash groans, and leans his head back, as his stomach rumbles, loudly, churning to digest six pizza slices, and a generous pour of Pepsi.

"Can I?" Hester is saying- cute, asking the artist for permission- and Nash feels the movement as he nods. His hot, clever hands creep back to Nash's cock.

Hester presses another slice of pizza to Nash's mouth. "Go on. Unless you're giving up, already?"

Nash opens his mouth– the artist begins to palm him, again, sensation strangely confused, as his hand brushes the bottom of Nash's swollen belly, the skin grown sensitive.

He eats, mechanically, stomach churning; nausea, and more than that, sheer fullness. Each hard swallow feels like it's forcing his stomach to expand, creaking, bulging, past capacity.

His head swims, a little- his hips roll, seeking that hand, palming him, not-enough, deadened by fabric- fabric growing damp with pre.

When he finishes the slice, and Hester holds the Pepsi to his lips again, Nash swallows, automatically, once, twice, feeling each glug hit his stomach. A swelling feeling. He shakes his head, finally, and gasps for breath, head falling backwards. The artist's hand pulls back from his aching cock.

Nash fishes for some witty thing, to say, and then sits there instead, panting, as his stomach gurgles ominously. His breath is short; the weight is unbelievable, the stretching, aching feeling, his guts groaning, pushing outwards. His tight shirt has ridden up, to show his lower stomach. The crease normally visible around his bellybutton, where he would bend over, is gone; pressed outwards to a strained, pink line. Even his elastic briefs are digging, painfully, into his massive stomach.

"Fuck," Nash says, and pants some more. His cock is red with arousal, rock-hard where it's pressed up against the bottom of his belly.

There are other people watching him, now, besides Eddie and Hester; Nash tries to keep his eyes only for the artist. The boy is rubbing his own cock, shorts open now- when had that happened- looking nearly as dazed as Nash is beginning to feel.

"Hadn't you– ought to be encouraging me," Nash says– surprised by the tight, strained sound of his own voice.

"Fuck," the artist says, hoarse. "Sorry– I can't believe– god, you're amazing. So fucking good."

He pulls his hands from his dick to rub at Nash's stomach, pushing his shirt the rest of the way up. Nash puts his own hand over one of the artist's– shocked by how sensitive his stomach is, how... hard it feels, packed so tight the skin is drawn, like a drum, firm to the touch– he moans, involuntarily, as the artist presses, gently, rubbing firm circles into the straining skin. "Keep– fuck, keep doing that," he says, voice high.

"If he's got the energy to boss you around, he's got the energy to eat, don't you think?" That's Eddie; she's got her hand on the back of Hester's neck, casually possessive– Nash spares a brief thought for what this might be awakening in her, that she'll turn to inflict on Hester.

He stops feeling for her almost immediately. She looks at the artist. "Do you think he could finish all of it?"

There are two slices of pizza left. The artist looks doubtfully at the food, and then at Nash's straining, pregnant-looking stomach. "Um," he says. "Maybe? It would probably be... uh, probably hard, for him."

"Hard nothing" Nash says, in the face of that, reflexively. "I could."

Eddie laughs. "God, you're easy."

"I," Nash sniffs, attempting for haughtiness– he closes his mouth, swiftly, stifling a belch. "Simply know my– capabilities."

The artist's damp boxers are clinging, to his straining, leaking cock– sweet boy, he still finds it in himself to say, softly, "are you sure? You might– feel sick, or–"

"You're too nice to him," Eddie says, and shoves her way to Nash's side. "God, you're a mess."

She presses- not gently- on Nash's massive stomach. He jumps, and groans, and groans for having jumped– strange sensation, of his muscles tensing with surprise, trying and failing to compress over his bulging stomach. His dick jumps, vision sparking at the- no, not pain, but not pleasure. Too intense for either. Pressure, blinding fullness, as she presses on him, harder–

"Look, Eddie says, to the artist. "See? He likes it."

Nash hears her from a long way off– she pulls her hand away.

"Fuck you," he says, panting shallowly, sprawled against the couch, his head thrown back. Distantly, he's aware that he had been the one, goading and teasing the artist, not too long ago. He doesn't seem to have the energy for that, now.

His stomach groans, ominously– he feels it, a ripple through his packed guts, trying to digest where there's no room for digestion.

"Hear that?" Eddie says. "He's hungry. Why don't you feed him another."

Then, there is another slice of pizza, pressed to Nash's mouth. The artist's face swims into focus, beyond it. His pupils are blown, enormous, his ears a glowing red. Nash meets his eyes, as he struggles through the slice, chewing a chore, swallowing a force of will.

The artist doesn't break eye contact; he looks as dazed as Nash feels. "God," he's saying, "oh my god."

Nash's world dissolves into the feeling of food, travelling down his throat in slow-motion, each swallow forcing itself into a stomach with no room for it at all, so tight the skin is pink, with strain, bulging out from ribs to hips, so huge he can't even see his own dick–

He almost doesn't notice, when the food is gone– lies there, breathing shallowly, his head slumped against the back of the couch, mouth hanging open. Eddie says something. The artist says something. There's more– Nash opens his mouth, automatically. Chews and swallows. The artist's hands are cool and soft on his distended belly, rubbing so gently- Nash's hips are moving helplessly, tiny circles all he can manage, even that a strain on him, head swimming-

He opens his mouth for another bite, and it doesn't come. Slowly, Nash cracks open an eye. His panting is starting to sound more like groaning, loud, and he can seem to stop it. Couldn't even really move if he wanted to, his stomach is so heavy, the idea of trying to bend, to sit up-

"That's all of it, that's all of it," the artist is running his hands, wonderingly, wonderfully cool, across Nash's churning stomach. "You're so good. Look at you."

Nash can't look- too dazed to move his head, trying to catch is He's sweating hard as his body struggles to digest. The bottom of his pregnant-looking belly is slick with pre- his dick is still so hard it hurts, wonder of all human wonders–

Nash opens his eyes, at last, and groans. "What the fuck." the view of his own body is alien, he's so used to seeing flat planes... he reaches a hand down to touch, curiously, and his belly is hard, like a ball filled up with air. His ribs are still visible across his skinny chest, the rest of him ballooning comically out underneath. It doesn't look real.

"Still have half the Pepsi," Eddie says. Nash doesn't even have the energy to look up at her. The artist's hand is on his, rubbing gently, guiding Nash's hand across his tight stomach, pausing when he feels it rumbling. Goosebumps rise up in his wake; Nash shivers. It hurts- it hurts, and queasy doesn't begin to describe it, heavy with grease and cheese and carbonation, it should feel awful, he should, but it's–

There is no shame in him, when he rolls his head to look at the artist. Says, belated response to Eddie's tease, "I can't," the words drawn up from far away. "I– ah, shit. God. Think I'm- full."

The artist's eyes are black, with desire. His hands starfished on either side of Nash's bellybutton, pushed out now into a shallow crease. "Yes," he says. Swallows, visible. "This is– you are. Now."

One of his hands wanders down to Nash's neglected cock– Nash jumps, a little- fuck, every move he feels in his belly, abs tightening against the pleasure, squeezing around the massive ball of food- he's packed.

Packed, and the artist is gentle, rubbing Nash's cock against the bottom swell of his belly, his hand cool in contrast to the burning skin of Nash's stomach. Nash's hips jerk, tiny, useless motion, and he pants, shallowly, not bothering to swallow the shameful noises, high, heavy and warm and tight and good, so sensitive, everywhere, every inch of him– it doesn't feel like he's about to come. Everything is too intense, body so overloaded with food his sensations are all confused, he's shivering, now and then–

The orgasm takes him by surprise. His stomach draws up painfully tight, as he finishes, pleasure following in a rush, washing over him- and he feels it, just how much he'd fit inside of him, every bite pushing out against his straining insides as his abs try, fail, to contract, body shuddering, noises pouring out of him, which he barely hears– cum splatters, hot, against his stomach. Nash's whole body goes limp, pressed back into the cushions by an entire pizza- by boneless pleasure, by the artist's hand still tracing gentle circles; up his thighs, across his stomach, over his ribs. The world is warm and heavy as a blanket.

"Fuck," the artist is saying. His other hand is busy- he comes, fast and graceless, staring at Nash with utter wonder.

On the verge of a deep doze, Nash hears him add-

"Do you have any questions about the menu?" I asked. I'm supposed to ask this rather than 'what'll you have.' To get the conversation flowing, and to make sure my table feels cared for.

"Oh, a few." The one in the suit said. "What do you recommend for a special occasion?"

"What's the occasion?"

"It's my big Five-Oh." The one in the dress' eyes darted from me to across the table, going even pinker. "We thought we'd celebrate."

"Wow, happy birthday! You look great." The lighting in here is flattering to all, but she didn't look a day over thirty-five. A joke seemed to flash between them.

"Thank you," The one in the dress said, "This place has amazing reviews, so we're pretty excited we could snag a reservation."

"You definitely came to the right place. Any other plans tonight?" No reason to stuff them with carbs and cream sauce if they're taking in a show next — they could doze off in the dark.

"Just this." The one in the suit replied, but her smile across the table promised far more. "So, what do you think? We want the best."

I leaned over to trace my path down the menu of the one in the suit. "Sounds like you're aware that our menu changes often, since it's seasonal. I'll tell you now that you want the tarte tatin — it's like a crown of apple slices submerged in their juice, caramelizing all the way through your meal. So we have to let the kitchen know you want it when I put in your order."

"It's a la mode, bunny. Do you want a scoop of ice cream to finish?" The one in the suit grinned across the table, showing the tip of her tongue caught between her teeth in a tease. So not a first date, then. I moved my finger back to the top of the menu.

"The radishes and smoked cod's roe is worth your bravery — salty, creamy, smoky, with the crisp zing of the radish. But if you want to start off in familiar territory, the panisse is exactly what fritte should be, with a crunchy exterior and a silky middle." I could feel the eyes of the one in the suit following my nail's scrape along the page. I moved to second.

"You really can't go wrong for the second course. The trout gravlax is fresh trout cured with salt, sugar, juniper and pink peppercorn. It's compressed while it cures, then we slice it thin so it dissolves in your mouth in a silken sheet. If you want something more substantial, I'm obsessed with what the kitchen can do with tagliatelle, wild mushrooms, and parsley. Savory, tender mushrooms clinging to fresh pasta and brightness from the parsley. It may be simple but it's done right.

"For your third course, I enjoy the duck. It plays with so many aspects of flavor — the richness of the duck, the sweet and sour of the honeynut squash and pomegranate, the mild bitterness of the trevise greens. It's a dish that develops and echoes back on itself as you combine the elements, like Thanksgiving. I also recommend the pork belly. It's rolled and stuffed with fennel seeds, lemon zest, and marinated spinach. The green herb sauce makes every bite soar."

The one in the suit set her menu on the table and said, "Well, bunny? What sounds good?"

The one in the dress propped her chin in her hand. "It all sounds good to me, vix."

"I agree. We'll take it all, please. Ah, and a glass of…" The one in the suit scanned over the wine list but settled on the cocktail list with an amused noise in the back of her throat, "…the Strega Nona would be perfect. Thank you."

It's pretty old school for one person to order for the table, so as I wrote down my selections on the ticket, I found myself angling toward the one in the dress. "Is there anything else?" I asked.

"We'll see." Bunny replied, "Thank you."

When I returned with the Strega Nona, Vix claimed it. It was the last thing I set in front of her for the night, other than the check.

🍽 🍽 🍽

I didn't understand at first. When I brought out the first course plates, I set them in the center of the table. I told them to enjoy and retreated. From a distance I watched Vix lean over and pluck one of the panisse from their stack and, with a fluid tilt of her wrist, offer its tip to Bunny's parted lips.

I've eaten the food here enough times to almost consider it mundane, because it's always accessible and convenient to me. Like hot food at the bodega. I've had the panisse more times than I can count — our menu changes, but there are staples that are made from ingredients that are pretty much always sourceable. But I watched Bunny's tongue touch the stinging spot where a chunk of kosher salt dissolved on her lip and felt like something different was happening. As servers we're meant to return to the table to check in, but there's a balance to it. We don't want our table to feel like they're being rushed or scrutinized. But I found my legs carrying me to their table sooner than I'd normally wait.

"How is everything?" I asked. Bunny was nibbling down her third stick of panisse and Vix had sat back in her chair, rolling the stem of her cocktail glass in her fingers. The two of them looked up at me.

"It's exactly what you promised." Bunny answered, then finished the panisse in three wolfed bites. "Crispy on the outside, creamy on the inside. Like if a frenchy fry and hummus lived in harmony." She selected her next piece and bit down. I was a little surprised by her tenacity. The frothy rosiness of her hid quite the appetite, as focused as Vix's eyes under luxuriating lids. Vix, who did not reach for either of the final two pieces of panisse and twirled her cocktail.

I asked if they needed anything and left the table again. As I waited my other tables I saw Bunny finish the plate alone, feeding the final bite into her mouth with a lifted pinkie. I saw her suck the salt from her fingertips. Then I saw Vix push the plate of radishes and smoked cod's roe closer to Bunny.

Bunny dragged a slice of orchid-bright radish through the cod's roe and laid it on her tongue. Her eyebrows went up. The guy at the table I stood in front of said, "Can I get the salade verte without any dressing?"

My pen skidded across my pad. I blinked. "That's just a plate of lettuce. Is that okay?"

He huffed. Like I said, it's my job to make my table feel cared for, and I wasn't succeeding. My hands took down orders, my mouth shaped around 'how are you doing tonight' and 'that's our hangar steak from last week's menu,' and my eyes kept returning to the table where Bunny finished the first course. I didn't understand. Was she a food critic who needed to know how everything tasted personally to describe her experience? It's hard to tell, but I've had one or two at my table before. Someone who gets first bite of each dish like droit de signeur. But Bunny ate everything.

When I set the trout gravlax and tagliatelle plates down, I put them on Bunny's side of the table. Vix smiled up at me with teeth that flashed like sparks. "Thank you," she said, and for a moment I was a part of whatever it was, and whatever it was was delicious. My toes clenched to keep me from shifting my weight.

"Enjoy," I said. It was my role.

🍽 🍽 🍽

Being a waiter is being a voyeur. And even so, unless we stand there and let you talk to us, we only get part of the joke that makes everyone break into laughter. Sometimes I just get the laughter. It's not a problem — a lot of the things that happen at a table in New York are not interesting to me. But leaving Bunny and Vix's table behind, knowing that what was happening there interested me, was hard. It meant I would only get snapshots from afar.

The horseradish cream dripping from Bunny's fork, caught with a scoop of that tongue. How I knew that tongue felt the slick of oil, the mouth salivated to meet the grate of salt and sugar, how the juniper bloomed up through her nose. The first bite of the tagliatelle, wrapped demurely around the fork. The last bite of the tagliatelle, speared pasta dangling wild over the tines. How I knew what Bunny was tasting, and Vix didn't. How I'd picked those plates to contrast each other, because I thought they would share. Instead my choices made sure, far past the point where Bunny must have felt full, that there would be something new to freshen her appetite. That was me. And Vix toyed with her cocktail and watched, understanding it all. Understanding me.

When I brought the third course, Bunny's face was shining. Given the choice of duck and pork belly, her fork drifted over both uncertainly. In the beginning she was leaned forward to reach the table with her fluffy skirt and the belly beneath it. Now her back rested against the banquette and she breathed shallowly. The quick, light breaths of a bunny. Vix slid her cocktail to the side and said in a low voice, "Go on. It's all good, right?"

Bunny nodded without looking up from the weave of her fork. Vix's body had bent forward as Bunny relaxed, as if that connection between them was pulled taut. Now she rested her hands on the table, gripping furrows into the tablecloth. Her eyes devoured the motion of Bunny's hand.

"Don't you want it?" Vix said, "You can have everything you want, Bunny, and more."

I should've moved on, but the spotlight of Vix's gaze, the urgency in her voice, kept me in my place. Bunny raked her lip with her teeth. "It's so much." She admitted slowly, as if it took effort to speak, "I want it but it's so much."

Vix shifted in her seat. "Do you want my help?" She asked.

"…No, not yet. I feel good." Bunny drew a purposeful breath, preparing herself.

"Go for the duck." The two of them looked up at me, as surprised to find me there as I was to have said anything. My throat clicked. "The pork belly should be last — the herb sauce and lemon zest will refresh the — unless you want to sweet notes from the duck to segue into your dessert. But apple pairs well with pork."

Vix raised her brows and looked to Bunny. She said, "Well, you heard the expert. Go for the duck."

With a sigh of release, Bunny gathered her first bite of the duck. I was far away for the second course. Now I was there on the sidelines as the light shone like gold dust on Bunny's cheeks, as she exhaled through her nose so deeply a sound ruffled in her throat, as her chewing slowed to a deliberate grind, and her eyes went velvet soft. No wonder it was all Vix needed to be satiated, to watch Bunny eat.

My throat clicked again. "Enjoy," I said automatically. Again. As if I didn't already know.

Vix lifted her hand to stop me from leaving their table. She propped her chin on her other hand. "What next, do you think?" She asked me.

"What do you mean?"

"You said the duck builds like Thanksgiving. What should she have next?" Vix's lips curled at Bunny, once again hovering her fork over the plate.

"Oh," I said. Then I said, "The squash, then the potatoes, then the greens, then back to the duck. Savory and sour to sweet to crispy to bitter and earthy, to savory again. That's the perfect bite. But —" Vix looked up at my pause. " — it's the kind of balance where the order doesn't matter. She can —" I turned back to Bunny. "— you can eat it in any order. So long as you're combining it all together, bit by bit."

Bunny nodded and, after a glance at Vix, skimmed her fork through the other elements of the plate until her next bite was a bacchanalia of flavors. It was a big bite to fit everything, and even though Bunny ducked her head to catch it, the tower of squash, potato, greens, and duck toppled into her mouth. The pomegranate aril that had glistened in the light like a ruby burst as her teeth came down. Maybe that tart punch made her breath a gasp rather than a sigh, but still that indulgent lingering took over as Bunny chewed. All the while, her head slowly tipped back until she looked up at me with those plush eyes and pomegranate lips. I watched her stretched throat pulse when she swallowed.

I clenched my fists only to feel the edge of the table bite my palms. I didn't know I'd touched their table in the first place. From a distance, it would've looked like Bunny and I were about to kiss. I let go and straightened up so abruptly the silverware shifted on the table. "Oh, pardon me." I said.

Vix hummed that amused noise she'd made at the Strega Nona. "It's no trouble. I think you were right." She said to me, "It's such a treat to have someone who knows their work. Thank you."

"Of course," I answered, checking that my pen hadn't slipped free from its pocket in my half apron. My fingers found it and shoved it down until I felt its blunt end dig into my thigh. "I'll check where the kitchen is with the tarte tatin. Anything else I can do for you right now?"

Bunny shook her head, already onto her next bites. Vix's triumphant grin was all for me. "We'll let you know." She said.

🍽 🍽 🍽

The melting warmth of the tarte tatin stayed in my hands after I set it on the table. Bunny's drooping, fuzzy eyes widened at the size of it — enough for four people. Her hand paused over the remnants of the pork belly like a deer captivated by headlights. She made to move the pork belly to the side to make space for the tarte tatin, but stopped, blinking, when Vix's hand shot forward.

Vix lifted Bunny's fork from her fingers and collected the last of the pork belly with it. She offered it to Bunny's lips with smouldering eyes.

"Our waiter says pork pairs well with apple." She coaxed. Compelled, Bunny's mouth closed over the fork to savor to the sweet end.

As Bunny's mouth must've filled with the succulent pork, the attention of the table returned to the tarte tatin. I won't act like it's an unremarkable dish, the way I felt about the panisse after my time at the restaurant. The tarte tatin is inarguably a showstopper: a 10-inch round of flaky, bubbled pastry acting as pedestal to the promised crown of apple slices, whose perfect, soft flesh lay glossy beneath a thick caramelized syrup of their own juices, so plentiful that they seeped onto the plate beneath. Three scoops of vanilla ice cream nestled together and puddled exquisitely in the center, slow to melt due to their creamy content.

"What do you think, Bunny? Do you want it?" Vix asked.

Bunny nodded and tried to draw a deeper breath in preparation. She picked up the spoon I brought for dessert and sank it into the tarte tatin like the first step on the moon. I felt myself take the deep breath her stuffed stomach had forbidden her. Her movements were even slower, methodical and exhausted.

Vix said again, forcing my eyes away from Bunny, "Do you want my help?"

Bunny nodded again and produced, after a moment, a throaty: "Yes, please."

Vix gave a satisfied purr as Bunny laid the spoon, handle facing Vix, on the tarte tatin plate. Vix met my eyes and asked, "Will you need the table? This might take some time."

Maybe I did. But I didn't care. "No, take all the time you need. It's a special night." I replied, "Would you like your check?"

"Yes, thank you." Vix dismissed me, her attention fixed on delivering a bite to Bunny's open, waiting mouth.

Eating a dinner for two and a dessert for four was impossible. Bunny had only so much space inside of her. It became clear over the next half hour that Vix's goal was to pursue the quaking edge of that boundary. Piece by golden piece, the tarte tatin went — warm, sweet, crisp, tender, dripping cool ice cream — into Bunny, until she shook her head and raised a languid hand for mercy.

The last time I went to their table, Vix had abandoned her place to sit at Bunny's side. One of her arms crossed Bunny's shoulders, giving a bolster for her lolling head. The other arm disappeared under the tablecloth. Vix turned her face to me.

"You were as exceptional as the food, thank you." She said, "You said the menu changes seasonally?"

Bunny's eyes opened and fell on mine, deep in a content dream. I said, "It changes weekly, actually. Some appetizers and desserts stay for a few weeks, and some dishes are spins on previous offerings, but there's always something new to try. And any dish you want from this week you'd need to catch while you can — it's not guaranteed in the future."

Vix's voice thrummed. "We'll need to come back again pretty soon, then, to try it all. A big undertaking, but worth it, I think." She paused to look at Bunny and, stroking her shoulder, asked, "Can we request one of your tables when we come back?"