Tummy Torture Chamber 18 + Only Trans, Pan, Dom

"What'll it be?" One of the waitresses leaned in with her notepad, while the other stood upright beside her, looming coolly over him.

"Uh, c-can I, um, can I have the gyro platter?"

"That comes with bottomless fries," she said.

"And a Greek salad," said the other.

"And an appetizer."

"And a soup."

Ben felt disoriented just listening to the waitresses, who seemed more like characters from a stress dream than anybody one might find staffing a public eatery, but he managed to overcome the surreal feeling enough to order a cup of split pea soup and a basket of fried clam strips, as well as a cherry soda, which was apparently also bottomless, and off they went. He hadn't really wanted the clam strips--he hadn't realized the meal came with an appetizer at all, actually--but he supposed they wouldn't go amiss. They sounded delicious, and after all, he was hungry. His belly rumbled, and somewhere off across the cafe, he thought he could hear that ominous giggling again.

He sat back against the lumpy cushion of the booth with a soft sigh, listening to the quiet music of the radio. The place should have been cozy and inviting, the sort of cute little spot one could easily see being run by a sweet old lady, but he couldn't wait to be on his way. Something about the complete absence of any other customers put him on edge, and the staff didn't exactly help. Neither did the fact that there wasn't so much as another building for miles. He'd happened upon the place during a long drive home, and while it had seemed like a godsend to his growling stomach when he'd pulled in, he found himself wishing he'd just waited to eat in the next town. He could smell something good cooking, though, and anxious as he was, he was looking forward to finally having something to eat.

When the waitresses returned with the appetizer, it was just as strange and synchronized a routine as ordering had been. One set the soup before him, the other a basket of bread, and then the clam strips, and then the soda, and then the silverware, back and forth in what should have been a messy shuffle but was instead eerily smooth. Then, just as quickly as they'd approached, they were gone before Ben could even say thank you, though he still had the feeling they were watching. He tried to ignore that feeling and picked up his spoon.

Ben rarely thought to order split pea soup; truthfully, it had only come out of his mouth because he'd noticed it on the specials sign as he entered. As he took his first steaming bite, though, he was glad he did. It was very good, thick and savory and comforting, with a mild but delicious smoky flavor and just enough pea remnants to give it a pleasantly chunky consistency. He pulled a piece of warm bread from the basket--he nearly leaned right into the bowl as he reached for it, the table was so close--and dipped it into the soup, and for the first time since he'd come through the door, he finally began to relax.

It was a chilly day out, rain beginning to patter against the cafe's dusty windows, and the hot soup was just what Ben had needed to warm up. The gnawing hunger in his belly began to fade as he ate, as did the damp chill that had followed him in, and despite the lumpy seat and the cramped booth, he almost felt comfortable. He finished the piece of bread he'd been working on and ate a couple clam strips, dipping them into the little cup of cocktail sauce. They were hot, fresh, and perfectly crispy, and he felt thankful his meal had come with an appetizer, though he wasn't sure he'd be hungry when the gyro came out. The soup and bread were already filling him up, and the clam strips, which were surely not meant for just one person, were going to do a number on his stomach by the time he was through with them.

It was just as Ben was finishing up the starters, belly already feeling comfortably full, that the waitresses returned bearing more dishes. One set a plate before him boasting a hefty gyro tucked against a large bed of salad, the other a big basket of fries, and this time he had a chance to thank them as they swept away the empty soup bowl and clam strip basket. They left the bread basket; it still held a few pieces, though they were hardly on Ben's radar. Right now he had enough food before him to leave him satisfied for the rest of the week.

Alone once again--seemingly alone, at least--Ben picked up the wrap and dug in. He was glad for the paper wrapped around the lower half of it; it was so overstuffed that it would have fallen apart in his hands without it. It was well-constructed, though, layered so that there was plenty of savory meat, fresh vegetables, and tangy sauce in each bite. It was also thick, heavy, and incredibly filling, and he knew after just a few bites that there was no way he'd be able to finish. He carefully set it down and stuck his fork into the salad, decorated with a colorful abundance of tomatoes, cucumbers, onions, and olives. They were as fresh and flavorful as the vegetables on the gyro, and while salad wasn't exactly his passion, he eagerly went back for a second bite. Maybe stopping in hadn't been such a bad idea after all--the vibes were off, but the food was fantastic.

Ben squirted a blob of ketchup into the corner of the fry basket and dipped one in. He bit it carefully--it was piping hot, and he had to set the other half of it back down while he chewed--and gazed out the window. The rain was coming down strong now, and apart from the oddly soothing sound of it on the windows and roof, the world outside was still. No cars passed by the quiet little road, no pedestrians out for a walk. Not even the occasional soggy squirrel scampering by. An odd sense of isolation came over him, as though he were completely alone in the world--alone, that is, besides the waitresses, whose eyes he could feel looming over him even while they were out of sight. He tried to shake off the feeling as he picked up the half-eaten fry to finish it off.

The portions were impressive at the little cafe, and Ben had already decided he'd be having half the meal for dinner. He was full by the time he'd eaten his way through a third of it. He decided to focus on the salad, which he was least enthusiastic about saving, though it was impossible not to keep picking at the crisp thick-cut fries. He knew he should leave them alone; his belly would be aching before long if he kept going, and he wanted to save room for a piece of the attractive-looking chocolate cake he'd seen in the dessert display. They were too good to quit, though, and it wasn't long before the basket was running low. As if on cue, the waitresses suddenly appeared with a fresh basket, and one shook the last few fries of the old one into it while the other set it down.

"Oh-uh-thank you," Ben stammered. He'd forgotten all about the bottomless part. Well, at least he'd have some fries to go with dinner. Speaking of--

"Oh, um, can I--" he started as the waitresses began walking away. They both turned abruptly.

"We don't give out boxes," one said sternly, cutting him off.

"Our food is best enjoyed fresh," said the other.

"To eat it any other way would be an insult to the chef."

"You are expected to clean your plate here."

"And ordering dessert is only permitted for those who do."

They turned and hurried off before Ben could manage to squeak out an apology. I have got to get out of here, he thought. He looked down at the full basket of fries, pile of salad, and more than half of the huge gyro still left before him. That would be easier said than done. Of course, he didn't have to finish. They couldn't force him to... could they? Either way, he thought he'd die if they gave him that icy look of disapproval again. The last thing he wanted was to upset anybody, even if it was those weird intimidating waitresses. Especially if it was them, in fact. They scared the crap out of him, and he couldn't shake the feeling that poor behavior would warrant consequences.

With a silent sigh, he picked up the gyro once again. The fries and the salad wouldn't be that hard to finish; this behemoth would be the real challenge. Just the weight of it in his hands made his already full belly feel heavy. He couldn't let that stop him, though, and reluctantly, he bit into it. Even a small bite was hefty, the thick pita packed with meat and toppings, and while it was absolutely delicious, it didn't exactly go down easy. After a few bites, he paused for a sip of soda and a few bites of salad to refresh his mouth. His belly felt tight, and while it wouldn't yet be obvious to a spectator, he could feel it starting to push out under his sweater.

Realizing that trying to wolf it down quickly was an unsustainable strategy, Ben paused for a moment, resting his hands on his bulging stomach as he assessed the situation. He had a little more than half the gyro left. About half the salad. A freshly topped off basket of hot fries. Did the soda count? He suspected it did. He'd have to hold off on the fries until everything else was finished; if they refilled them again, he'd never get away. If he finished them last--he hoped--then maybe he could break the bottomless curse. And so the strategy seemed simple. Keep going with the gyro, break for salad in between, and then, only once those were out of the way, finish the fries and soda. Easy...in theory, at least. 

He reluctantly began chipping away at the gyro once more, each bite feeling heavier in his stomach than the last. He was trying to pace himself, reminding himself that slow and steady wins the race, but he wanted badly to get out of the cafe and back on the road. He felt like a prey animal caught in a trap. He chewed through a few bites of gyro, then set it down to nibble at the salad, chasing it with a couple sips of soda without thinking. He was starkly aware of how tight his belly felt, stretching tighter and achingly tighter with each swallow, but he had to keep going. Trying not to think about it, he set down the fork, took another sip of soda, and picked up the gyro. Just as he was about to take a bite, the waitresses appeared to switch out the nearly-empty glass with a fresh one. 

"Ah... Thank you," he said, his voice little more than a defeated whisper. The two left without a word, and he thought he could see them smirking as they turned away.

Ben sat there for a moment, staring glumly at the fizzy pink drink, then took a deep breath, belly aching as it expanded, let out a sigh, and got back to work. Too much food--what an absurd problem to have! He supposed he should have been grateful for a hearty lunch, but he felt like a hostage. Determined and anxious to leave, he started taking bigger bites of the gyro, trying hard to ignore the feeling of his stomach stretching outward. The delicious wrap had become his enemy, and his survival hinged on vanquishing it. Knowing he'd falter if he hesitated or even slowed down, he forced himself to keep eating, finally reaching the paper and having to peel it back as he dragged himself forward, belly rumbling ominously as at struggled to make space for the wrap and the air bubbles that traveled with it, stomach aching badly as the pressure built inside it, until finally, somehow, the sauce-covered paper was empty in his hands. He stared at it for a moment in disbelief, then dropped it and hastily wiped his hands off on a napkin before clutching his belly with a groan.

For a minute he was sure he wasn't going to make it. His belly felt sharply distended, an urgent pressure pushing outward against the walls of his stomach with such force that he was certain he'd burst. It had been stretched too far too quickly, overwhelmed by the sheer volume of everything inside it, and now it was pulled so drum-tight he could hardly breathe. He held it in his hands, trying to keep himself from making a sound, pleading for his stomach to hold itself together. Suddenly, it let out a loud rumble, and his hand flew up to his mouth as a rush of trapped air surged out, too much pressure behind it to stop it if he tried. It wasn't loud, but he felt mortified despite the relief it brought, and he hoped the waitresses hadn't noticed, though he was sure they had; nothing seemed to get past them. The difference was measurable, though. He still felt impossibly stuffed, but he no longer felt quite so close to the verge of bursting, and he took a minute to catch his breath, hands resting atop the taut curve of his middle.

Ben's belly felt big. That was just about the best word for it. It felt big in the way his distended insides weighed heavy against his stretched skin. It felt big in the way the pressure seemed to puff it up round and taut like a beach ball. It felt big in the way it bulged out against the unforgiving waist of his jeans and the soft fabric of his sweater. And it felt big in the way he was running out of space in the tiny booth, his protruding tummy beginning to press against the edge of the table like a caught balloon. With his luck, he'd manage to finish and then be stuck in his seat. He was over the worst hurdle now, though. The amount of food before him still seemed enormous, but he thought he just might be able to do it.

He sat for a moment longer, then, finally, he picked up the fork once more. The salad was next; the stupid bottomless fries and soda would have to wait. The salad, thankfully, was easier to eat; it was light and refreshing, though he did have to pause for an occasional sip of soda--a very tiny and cautious sip of soda--to break up the feeling of the oily dressing on his tongue. Stuffed to aching but seeing hope on the horizon, he worked steadily through the salad, and it wasn't long before that was gone too.

Now, all that sat before him was a full basket of fries and a full glass of soda, and suddenly the task at hand seemed very daunting again. The basket was as big as his head, and the mere thought of all that fizz bubbling him up made his stomach feel even more swollen. He couldn't back out now, though. The end was in sight. He sat and breathed for a moment, trying to work up another burp in the vain hope of easing the pressure a little, and then he picked up a fry.

Ben was very aware of the feeling of his bulging belly pressing into the table each time he reached into the basket, and it wasn't exactly helping. He was also aware that each bite of bulky thick-cut potato and sip of bubbly soda brought his stomach closer to that feeling of near-bursting that had seized him after rushing through the gyro. This time, though, it wasn't the speed at which he was eating that brought him there, it was the plain and simple volume of food packed into his overstretched stomach, with more being forced in even though there wasn't so much as a tiny crack of space to fit it. He didn't even think his stomach was expanding anymore; it had reached its limit and was now only growing tighter and tighter, with enough pressure building inside it to knock the cafe flat when it finally blew. He couldn't suck it in at all, the boulder under his taut-stretched skin pushing rock hard against the unforgiving table, and he was surprised his jeans hadn't popped open yet, given how painfully tight they squeezed his distended middle.

"Look how well he's doing," waitress one said as she approached the table.

"He doesn't want to disappoint the chef," the other agreed, standing by her side with a sly smile.

Ben froze, staring up at them like a deer in the headlights, suddenly feeling deeply embarrassed.

"Go on, keep eating."

"You have to finish. You don't want to insult the chef."

"Yes, you have to finish. Even if you explode trying."

"I think he might."

"Yes, he certainly looks like he might."

"Go on!" she urged, their stares piercing Ben's soul like an icy arrow, and he nervously picked up another fry. 

Ben hated to be watched while he ate, and their eyes on his swollen belly made him twice as nervous, but it was clear that he had no choice. He was going to eat until he burst, and they were going to watch it happen. Feeling like a mouse in a trap, he reluctantly forced himself to eat one thick-cut fry after another, cautiously sipping the soda in between. His stomach groaned under the pressure, pushing hard against the taut skin of his belly like the world's heaviest balloon, rumbling in warning with each strained gulp. Continuing felt impossible, but under the wicked, almost hypnotic stare of those awful waitresses, he couldn't bring himself to stop. They watched with sinister satisfaction as he struggled through the fries, begging his stomach to hold itself together long enough to get out of here.

Finally, after what felt like a painful eternity, the last fry was gone, and, with the end almost within reach, he began finishing the last of the soda. Each gulp felt like forcing another pump of air into a shiny, pressure-deformed balloon on the brink of a violent BANG. His belly was too densely packed for the bubbly liquid to even make a sound as it was forced in, but he certainly felt it. His stomach felt like it was going to split open. He shut his eyes and held his belly as he drank, panting shallowly into the glass, desperately wishing for the ordeal to be over, and finally, nothing but ice touched his lip. He set the glass down with a gasp, nearly dropping it, and clutched his stomach with both hands.

"Please, let me go," he moaned between quick gasps, struggling to catch his breath. The waitresses didn't speak. He looked up at them with pleading eyes, but they weren't looking back at him. They were looking at the table. He followed their gaze, and his heart dropped. The last few pieces of bread.

"No," he groaned, head falling back against the booth cushion.

"You have to finish," one waitress repeated.

"You can't let good bread go to waste."

"He can't do it," she teased.

"He's going to explode," the other sneered.

"But he has to try."

"Yes, you have to try."

For as long as he'd been alive, Ben had been very much into the idea of being forcibly stuffed until he couldn't hold another bite, and under different circumstances, with different people--perhaps a gentle, loving girlfriend--he supposed he would have loved it. This was not an enjoyable circumstance. This was a nightmare. The waitresses seemed to have been designed in a lab with the sole purpose of frightening him, and he had long since passed the threshold of genuine concern that his stomach might actually explode. He turned his head upright, hoping he would somehow find himself just having woken up from a bad dream. The waitresses stared expectantly at him.

Ben reached across the table for the basket, unable to hold back a soft whine as his belly pressed into the table. Three fluffy pieces of bread sat in it, no longer warm but still soft and fresh. They weren't big--they were pretty small, actually--but they may as well have been full loaves. He pulled it close, then sat for a moment, holding his belly, internally begging for it to digest just a little bit so he could find some tiny fragment of space. With the waitresses' eyes burning holes in him, though, he couldn't wait any longer. Miserably, he picked up a piece and bit into it.

The bread was mercifully airy, reducing in volume considerably as he chewed, but that didn't make it any easier to swallow. His body seemed to reject the motion completely, and he had to forcibly override every signal trying to keep it from going down his throat. It was torturous. He had never been more aware of the feeling of his digestive system in his life. His stomach straining and struggling under skin that he imagined must surely be paper-thin by now, his throat fighting to protect the imperiled organ, his intestines beginning to distend and writhe as the sheer pressure inside his stomach forced half-digested food into them. He could feel his belly pulsing against the table, almost too swollen to breathe, trembling with each shallow inhale.

He tried not to think as he chewed through the bread, willing his mind to dissociate from his body so he could simply be done with it. That was, of course, hardly feasible; the throbbing pain in his stomach was impossible to ignore. Still, he went on, much in the same way that a person whose only hope of escaping a burning building is crawling through the flames might go on. His skin threatened to split each time he tried to breathe in, but he went on. The button of his jeans creaked ominously with each tiny movement, but he went on. His shallow belly button began to bulge against his sweater, but he went on. He went on until finally, he was forcing the last bite down his throat, his body just barely allowing it to pass through. 

The bite didn’t land in his stomach so much as squeeze in, the entrance almost unable to close behind it, and suddenly, he felt something give. His eyes widened, certain that something had finally burst inside him, until he felt a chill on his lower belly. Unable to see the underside of it, he reached down and realized the button of his pants had popped open and taken the zipper with it, leaving the lower half of his middle completely exposed, protruding belly button and all.

“He did it,” said one of the waitresses to the other.

“He survived it,” she agreed.

“And he didn’t explode.”

“Not yet.”

They turned and walked away, and Ben let his head fall back against the seat once more, just holding his belly. He could feel his insides rumbling under his palms, bulging against his skin like a balloon filled with boulders. He didn’t know how he was going to drive home, but even if all he did was make it out of the building and into the car, he’d be happy. The shadow of the waitresses fell over him, and he looked up, barely able to lift his weary head from the cushion. One held the bill, and the other a plate of chocolate cake.

“You wanted dessert,” she stated. It wasn’t untrue; he had originally hoped to get a piece of cake.

"I--can-can't I--"

"We don't give out boxes," the other waitress cut him off. 

"Our desserts are made fresh."

“And they are best enjoyed fresh.”

"To eat it any other way would be an insult to the chef."