# Coming Home (illustrated) - Parts 1,2,3,4&5



## Big Beautiful Dreamer (Sep 13, 2014)

_~BHM, Weight Gain, Stuffing. A guy who loves that full-up feeling finds that he is not alone._

*Coming Home​*
I had a secret.

I worked out religiously, ate as though the food pyramid police had a drone in my kitchen. I was defined, healthy, well-rested.

But I had a secret. A craving I could not fail to succumb to, a habit, hell, call it an addiction. I didnt know where it came from, couldnt explain why I had it, and was sure I was the only one in the world prompted by it.

Well, God bless the Internet.

I was on YouTube one day. Couldnt remember what I was searching for, or what Id watched, but the site pops up videos you might like based, I guess, on search algorithms. 

And there it was.

Weirded out and fascinated at the same time, I sat dumbly in front of the monitor, watching a slender, cleanly muscled young woman sit down in front of her webcam with a gallon jug of water.

She chugged it steadily for a time, then stopped, gasping for breath. Wiped the back of her hand across her mouth, patted her belly, and let out a little belch. Then she did this again, and again, and again. She slowed down some toward the end  who wouldnt?  but finally she drained the jug.

Slowly, puffing, she wobbled up out of her chair. Adjusted the webcam. And turned profile. Her abdomen was hugely swollen, stretched and pear-shaped, looking like an overfilled water balloon. She gently poked at it, demonstrating the surface tension of an obviously taut tummy. She cradled and massaged it, coaxing up belches and the occasional hiccup. 

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## jenemc (Sep 14, 2014)

This is brilliant. Will there be more?


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## Big Beautiful Dreamer (Sep 14, 2014)

Oh, sure. I'm too soft-hearted to leave readers hanging.


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## jenemc (Sep 14, 2014)

Love your icon by the way


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## Big Beautiful Dreamer (Sep 17, 2014)

The video ended. The usual collage of other suggested videos popped up.

Next thing I knew, it was getting dark and my stomach was growling. 

My secret was on the Internet. It was all over the Internet, in fact. Hours of videos, websites, and snapshots had shown me that there was a whole subculture of us: 

People who liked to be full. Im sure theres a more artful way to describe it, but that was my secret. Twice a month, I stuffed myself to bursting on pizza and pop, Chinese and hot tea, Mexican food and a couple of quarts of milk.

That was one reason I put in 90 minutes a day five days a week, at the Y  on the treadmills, on the recumbent bikes, on the Precor weight machines: so that on the second and fourth Fridays of the month I could put on a DVD, pull the curtains, and slowly and methodically eat myself stupid.

When I was seven or eight, I liked to draw pictures of people with hugely fat bellies, their shirt buttons bursting, their trousers undone. Nothing in my upbringing had shown me this; nothing on television; nothing that I was aware of ever having encountered. But there it was. And the drawings gave me a queerly pleasurable sense of butterflies in my belly and lower down.

As I grew older, when I couldnt fall asleep easily, I would lie on my back and inhale hugely, swelling my stomach into a little volleyball, then patting it and saying to myself that I was so full, so stuffed, Id eaten sooo much.

Id figured out early on that it wasnt that I wanted to be fat. Seeing Uncle Jerry or Grandmom didnt give me the same butterflies. And when, for a year or so, I started getting pudgy, it frustrated me. I didnt like the feel of my waist edging over my jeans, or the tug of my T-shirts over my belly. It was full I liked. Stuffed, bloated, brimful, about to pop, ready to burst, too stuffed to jump. That was what brought on the butterflies. That was my little secret.

But I looked forward to Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter, and Independence Day not for presents, or relatives, fireworks, or Easter egg hunts, but for the legally sanctioned overeating that accompanied the occasions. Four times a year, at least in childhood and adolescence, seemed to satisfy my yearning to just occasionally go to town at the table, having seconds, thirds, fourths, and  like magic for a kid  _two desserts_. Whoa.

And afterward, everyone would lie around cradling their stomachs and groaning about how full they were and how much theyd eaten. I loved it. While pretending to doze, Id sneak glances at everyone laid out, bellies bulging, including mine. I was in heaven.

All through high school, all through college, Id kept my secret. In my senior year, there was a housing shortage and a handful of us had been put up in the colleges guest house, which gave me a single room. Heaven. Every Friday, I would eat dinner on the late side, when the cafeteria was much less crowded. I would get a huge salad, some pizza, some chicken or roast beef or whatever, three or four or five glasses of tea or milk or lemonade, and several platefuls of dessert. 

Id prop up some textbook and eat until I couldnt swallow another bite. Slowly and groggily I would bus my dishes. Slowly, carefully, protective of my swollen and aching belly, I would trudge back to my dorm, make my way to my room, lock the door, and sink onto the bed. I would peel off my clothes and then lie naked on the bed, listening to music and fondling my gut.

I would revel in feeling gorged and sated. I would slide my hands up and down the marvelous slope of my distended midsection, listening intently to the gurgles and ploshes, the squeaks and groans of bloat and digestion. I would belch, I would break wind, I would curl onto my side and cradle my enormous food baby. I would lie there, blissed-out and logy, for the hour or so it took for the feeling to wear off. Then I would go for a walk around campus before throwing myself into the Friday night social scene. (Among other things, this habit kept me from drinking too much. I was always too stuffed to pound down insane amounts of alcohol.)

After college, I cut back to twice a month, knowing that I had just subtracted all that walking around campus, the pickup Frisbee and football games, and the other physical activities. I got a job working from home as a white hat hacker. Its a dream job, really: I get paid obscene amounts of money to test companies online security. 

And so, life unfolded. I kept working, I hit the gym, I ran fruits and vegetables through my juicer, and ate salads and chicken, and crunched whole grains, and twice a month party time.

I have no idea how long it took me to stumble on this subculture. But there were videos, and websites, and pictures, and even stories. Suddenly I had a hobby  a network of like-minded people. 

For the first six months or so, I just reveled in knowing that I wasnt alone, and that my fetish wasnt weird. There was a culture of people of size, and in that culture, was a subculture of those who enjoyed stuffing and bloating. I had found my people.

From then on, on Those Nights, I had a new pastime  watching videos while stuffing, and stuffed. I never thought about making any myself. That wasnt my bag. But I derived tremendous pleasure from watching other people who were generous-minded enough to share. 

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## Big Beautiful Dreamer (Sep 17, 2014)

Pizza was a great help in the cause. Any old Friday night, I could usually find somewhere running a special. And occasionally I would go out instead of calling for delivery. My work was pretty damn solitary, and I thought it was healthy to force myself to jump into the stream of human interaction from time to time so I didnt end up forgetting how to talk to people.

The last couple of times that Id hit up the local pizzeria, though, crossword in hand, Id noticed the same young woman, also dining alone, at a nearby table. And both times it had felt as though she were staring at me. Whenever I looked up, though, her gaze was invariably somewhere else.

She was attractive, all right. Maybe 55 or so. A dark chin-length bob, a heart-shaped face, a curvaceous figure. Always neatly and simply dressed, and usually with an e-reader propped on the table as she ate.

I was utterly average in the looks department: brown hair which I wore shaggy and about collar length; usually wearing a button-down or T-shirt and jeans; 511 and usually in the neighborhood of 190. Up a tick for a day or so after one of my binges. But I worked out religiously, so my shoulders, chest, and legs were well defined.

Tonight, it was a little gloomy and rainy, a good night for being inside with the rain rattling against the windows. The steaming sausage-and-onion Id ordered was especially delicious and the beer was just the right addition. I steadily ate my way through four slices without even pausing. I stopped to stretch and use the bathroom, then resumed, slowing a little as I felt my belly begin to swell and my stomach pronounce the familiar distention. 

Around slice #7, I glanced up and Miss Brunette was looking right at me. She immediately blushed an appealing shade of rose. I grinned and indicated the chair opposite. She hesitated, and then picked up her glass and e-reader and joined me.

Sorry, was the first word out of her mouth. I, um, didnt mean to stare. She looked away, then back. My names Noelle. And yes, I was born on Christmas Eve. My twin sisters name is Holly.

I was laughing already. Could have been worse Candy Cane, Jingle, Star um, Manger, Virgin?

Now she was laughing. And you are?... Christmas Tree?

Nothing quite that exciting, no. Tristan. Tristan Hoehn. I paused. Not to be forward or anything, but  by any chance were you, uh, um, looking at me?

She blushed again, bypassing rose and turning full crimson. An actual answer didnt seem forthcoming.

I mean, I dont mind but I am a little curious. Have I got a big blob of sauce on my face or something?

Uh, no. Um  augh, this is embarrassing.

I took her hand across the table and squeezed it gently. Come come. Tell Uncle Tristan all.

I like seeing you fill up your tank.

Come again? What I thought she had said couldnt be what I had actually heard, and she had practically whispered, to boot.

I like seeing you um, get um, get full.

I sat back a little in my chair, my head tilted to one side, and gave her a limpid, neutral look. Okay, I said, inviting more.

Um, thats all. She sighed. Ive just always liked seeing a really stuffed full tummy. I mean, not size per se  Thin, fat, whatever. I do like seeing evidence that a guy works out, like you do  I think its really healthy and smart to exercise  but  you know, just all my life Ive been really turned on by the sight of a big round belly. Thanksgiving and Christmas, OMG. Just no one knows it, but after dinner I just sit in the living room trying hard not to stain my skirt. By now the blush was gone, and her eyes were sparkling with the memory of what was clearly both her favorite turn-on and mine as well.

You know whats weird, though? she concluded. She glanced down. For some reason it doesnt do anything when its me. Ive stuffed myself until Im ready to pop, and  nothing. I mean, its not bad, but absolutely no turn-on whatsoever.

Like you cant tickle yourself, maybe, I suggested. 

My turn. Ive got the exact same turn-on. Have all my life, even before I knew what that fluttery feeling down there was. Except Im luckier, I guess  I do get the turn-on when I stuff myself.

I cleared my throat. I enjoy working out, and I go to the gym usually five days a week, treadmill and weight machines, but a couple times a month I, well as you see. I patted my stomach. I dont want to let myself pack on too much weight because the men in my family have a history of cardiac blockage, and I dont want to do the artery-cloggers any favors. But honestly, I really enjoy my occasional treat.

Well youve got one more slice there, but will that really do the trick? she asked, impish now.

I dont know. I might have lost the edge since weve been talking, I admitted.

Hold that thought, and she bounced up. 

She returned in a minute. I put in an order for a half a pizza more, and another beer. My treat, she waved a hand as I reached for my wallet. Absolutely my treat.

Even as my stomach squealed and grumbled, gearing up the digestion, I could feel another, unmistakable stirring.

I chomped away at slice #7 and then slice #8 and drained the last of my second beer. As if on cue, another four slices and a fresh cold beer appeared in front of me. I picked up the first slice of round two, invigorated by the thought of a cheering section. Even though I had long since discovered in the abstract that there were other people with a similar enjoyment, it was like a whole new level of affirmation to meet them in person.

I munched steadily away, helped along by the third beer and then the fourth  but I could feel myself reaching capacity. When the final slice was reduced to crumbs and the last drops of beer had dampened my lips

I was full. I was stuffed, I was aching, I was about to pop. My entire belly was stretched and tender, protruding mightily beneath my T-shirt, straining painfully against my jeans. My sides felt heavy and sore, the skin along my abdomen pulled tautly translucent by the swell of my hugely gorged stomach. 

I was flushed and a little dizzy, and even as I felt my head begin to swim, I was vividly aware of how good it felt. How much I enjoyed the bloat that was pushing my midsection even further outward. How satisfying it felt to be glutted, sated, replete. And how  oh, my God, how  aroused I was, both by the sensation of feeling about to burst and by Noelle across the table  now standing, and gently and tenderly helping me to my feet.

Automatically, dazed and dopy, I grunted as Noelle hauled my protesting self upright. My swollen and aching belly groaned and gurgled, much too overloaded to let me straighten up, and I waddled after Noelle blindly, letting her hail a taxi. Noelle gave an address and I clutched my swollen and distended gut with some alarm as the cab took off, heavily jolting my full stomach. As we rode, Noelle lightly rubbed my swollen and aching belly, making feathery her touch on my distended and tautly gorged midriff. Even as my roundly stretched gut felt fragile as a soap bubble, Noelles ministrations were heavenly.

I vaguely realized that Noelle was leading me into a small brick house and through to a bedroom furnished with a dresser and a queen bed. Hers, I devoutly hoped.

Lie down, Noelle murmured. You need it.

Truer words were never spoken. I groaned as I lowered myself onto the bed and slowly and cautiously stretched out on my back. Instantly the unexpected weight of my heavily burdened belly pressed down on me, triggering a grunt of surprise.

Noelle hovered over me, with some effort getting my jeans unbuttoned and unzipped. With not much help from yours truly, she tugged the jeans and my boxer shorts down to my knees, from which I was able to kick them off. Ahhh. The easing of pressure felt wonderful, a cessation of discomfort of which I had been only vaguely aware. Even so, my belly was packed so full, my waistline so distended with the bloat of food and digestion, that the shedding of clothing did little in the way of actual relief.

She didnt talk, at first: just let her fingers and palms slide gently up and down, over and around, as I groaned in surprise and relief.

There, she said after several endless minutes. That feels good, right? To be so, so full, and then to get a little tummy rub  and you look sooo sexy right now  with your big round belly all warm and firm  like a great soft teddy bear, but real, and were safe together, here in this space.

She guided my hands, first along my own gorged and distended midsection, pointing out, like a tour guide, its curvature and inherent springiness, despite the temporary absence of any give, as I was so very stuffed that I still felt ready to pop. 

The next thing I knew, early morning light was streaming through the blinds.

 

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## ALS (Sep 17, 2014)

BBD, I love you. I have secretly been lurking on the Dims forums for six years, and I have long loved your stories. You make this FFA quite happy!


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## Big Beautiful Dreamer (Sep 19, 2014)

My fogged brain did register that we had actually slept together -- as in, shared a bed, but nothing else. Well, okay. We had cuddled and snuggled, and Noelle had nursed my swollen and aching belly. But it was way too early days for sex, thank you. 

Then my fogged brain registered something else.

Noelle was standing by her side of the bed, her back to me. She was wearing plaid drawstring shorts and was hooking up a bra with that behind-the-back contortion thing that women do. Barely conscious, eyes blurry, I registered my enjoyment of her back view: the faint indentation at the waist, the curve of hips, her round bottom.

 

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## Big Beautiful Dreamer (Sep 19, 2014)

Stop.

I surprised both of us. Noelle turned around.

Well, good morning, Mister Hoehn.

Hi. Um. Good morning.

What do you mean, Stop?

Um. I hauled myself into a sitting position. Took another look at the scenery, front view. Um, lets have breakfast with you wearing just that bra and shorts. I smirked.

And what will you wear?

Um. Jeans? And

Jeans, Noelle said firmly. And nothing else. Lucky for you, as she headed out of the bedroom, I did the grocery shopping yesterday.

We happily got in each others way preparing a disgracefully big breakfast: Bacon, toaster waffles, biscuits from a tube, microwave sausage links. I neatly cubed half a cantaloupe and stored away the other half. Shook up the carton of juice, warmed the syrup in the microwave.

I know I said, Noelle mumbled through waffle, that stuffing myself doesnt do anything for me. But it probably does for you and seeing you stuffed definitely turns me on. She swallowed. So lets eat all this up.

We toasted each other with our coffee cups and settled in to a job of work. 
Four waffles each. Three or four slices of bacon and three links of sausage. The tube held a dozen biscuit, and I know I disposed of four, and I think Noelle matched me. We made quite a dent in the cantaloupe, and what started as a full carton of juice was now almost empty.

We hauled ourselves to our feet. And stared, openly and happily, both of us enjoying the view. 

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## Big Beautiful Dreamer (Sep 19, 2014)

Noelles tummy was a sphere. No other way to say it. Perfectly round, stretched and rosy. Tautly distended, stuffed to the brim with all that breakfast  break-fast we had  and stretched well beyond normal. Her belly glowed, and I knew that if I laid a hand on it, it would radiate warmth and satiety.

My own belly was heavy and sore, swollen and tender. I could feel it gurgle and groan with preliminary efforts of digestion, and the whole field was both gorged full of food and hugely bloated as well. Cautiously I poked at it: tight as a drum, as expected. I fumbled open my jeans, which made hardly any difference to my immediate discomfort. 

I pressed my hands gently and tentatively against my midsections gorged distention, rock-hard and tight as a drum. The skin over my abdomen pulled and tugged at my sides and my overloaded stomach, packed to the brim and beyond, churned and knocked and groaned like an ancient washing machine pulled out of balance by too many pounds of rich food.

Slowly and by mutual silent consent we rested our hands on each others gorged and aching bellies, each aroused by the other, and slowly and by mutual silent consent we headed back to bed.

No, I grunted. No, too  full, I puffed. She laughed at me and silenced me with a kiss. 

We lay on our sides, and I was vividly aware of the stretch and pull of my bloated and overloaded stomach. Both her distended tummy and mine were a symphony of digestion. We traced each others swollen bellies and our own, gently massaged and cradled, both hugely aroused by the sensation of fullness: of being stuffed to bursting, stretched and aching, heavy and sore.

After a seeming eternity, Noelle got onto her knees and cautiously straddled me. 

I expected only increased discomfort, but instead her heavily full tummy on my stuffed and sloshing belly felt wonderful, like a thorough and expert massage. As she guided me into her, I lay back, content to let her take the lead, in fact, too full and sleepy to do otherwise. The effect of her whole body sliding up and down my bloated and engorged gut was hypnotic. 

Her movements aided the slow process of digestion, and I kept stifling belches until she said, Dont. The warmth and intimacy enveloped me, and the rhythmic sloshing of my full stomach became part and parcel of the lovemaking so that we were adrift in a sea of togetherness, lapped by the waves, warmed by the sun, tethered to consciousness by moans and murmurs, and I felt myself climax. It was indescribably marvelous, and I felt a deep pang of regret as we disentangled herself and she lay with her head on my damp chest, her hand resting on my still-distended belly and mine on hers  rosy and marvelously rounded.
 

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## Big Beautiful Dreamer (Oct 31, 2014)

Its probably a good thing that I worked from home and only occasionally had face-to-face meetings with the honchos who hired me and paid me, because Im sure I would have been skipping through the cubicle farms with a thoroughly goofy grin on my face, leaving co-workers to speculate that I was getting laid.

I was, but that so was not the point. 

The point was that I had met someone. To call it love at first sight would be inaccurate, because it wasnt each others looks that had snagged our hearts. Well  it was and it wasnt. I thought she was pretty, she thought I was handsome (ha), but I think we had each been struck at the knowledge that here was somebody whose  fetish matched ours. 


Like me, Noelle had found the Internet. And like me, Noelle watched endless videos of people stuffing and bloating and inflating. But it was a very different thing to meet in real life, to reveal ourselves, to make ourselves vulnerable to each other 

And yet, from the moment wed met, wed both felt comfortable around each other. Like finding the right lid for the saucepan, wed each found the other half of our hearts.

The sex was a bonus. Mind you, it was a very nice bonus. But it wasnt the be-all and end-all of our relationship.

And the stuffing wasnt either. Neither sex nor stuffing is enough a foundation for a lifetime.

Already we were thinking in those terms.

Pretty quickly, we figured out a way to make my schedule work  limiting myself to two Friday nights a month  because I was serious about the cardiac blockage. A few years ago, my dad had found that just walking from one end of the house to the other left him winded. Brushing his teeth would wear him out. He ate right and exercised, didnt smoke, did everything you were supposed to  and the cardiologist found that one major artery was 100% clogged; the other was 90% clogged. 

He went in for a bypass. Things kept going well, so the cardiothoracic surgeon just kept on routing. By the time it was over, Dad had had himself a septuple bypass, which I didnt even know they could do. 

Dad was lucky. He was still around and still healthy. Two uncles and a grandfather, not so much. So yeah, I really cared about working out and eating right. But  those magic Fridays

Ahem. I had my Fridays, and on alternate Fridays we stuffed Noelle. I would eat, sure, but Noelle would feast. Sushi. Burritos. Chicken. Seafood. Once we made a huge plate of charcuterie  little rounds of meat and sliced cheeses. 

We would eat and talk and talk and eat. It was adorably predictable. Noelle would eat slowly and steadily, enjoying the food. Shed provide commentary on how her jeans were beginning to get a little tight, her belly was starting to protrude, her jeans were really starting to pinch, her shirt was beginning to tug.

Im getting _full_, she would groan, licking a trace of wasabi from the corner of one plump lip. My tummy is getting really tight  I might need to unbutton my jeans.

She would describe in exquisite detail how her belly was beginning to feel heavy and warm, how she could begin to feel the tugging along the sides and the ache of a stomach expanding to hold more food. She would let me put my ear to her bare pink midriff to hear the gurgles and grumbles of an overloaded system. She would ask me sweetly to help undo her jeans.

Im stuffed, she would pout. I cant bend and twist like that. And I would be required to struggle with the clasp and fight against the swell of belly to undo the zipper. Then I would gently and slowly massage her ballooning abdomen, to ease in my loves digestion and assist her in her task.

Until at last she admitted that she could not contemplate another mouthful.

And then we spent as long as we wanted just gazing at each other. No one to judge, no one to interrupt, no one to catch us we were free to look. To trace, to press (ever so gently), to massage, to admire from a variety of lighting and angles and then to couple. Slowly and cautiously docking with each other, and meeting each other within ourselves.
 

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## Big Beautiful Dreamer (Oct 31, 2014)

And then it would be my turn.

This particular Friday, the theme was Italian. We were watching Goodfellas and eating spaghetti, garlic bread, and pizza and drinking pop.

I slurped noodles and tried to ignore Noelle licking my ear, as shed finished her plateful of pasta and half a loaf of garlic bread.

*Im not mad, Im proud a ya, Jimmy Conway said on the TV. You took your first pinch like a man.*

I shifted on the sofa. I was starting to get full.

How are you feeling? Noelle asked. She laid a hand on my belly. Gave it a tentative push. 

Okay. Gettin a little full, I said through a mouthful of noodles. Noelle licked a dab of sauce off my face and shoved a meatball in through my pursed lips. I started laughing and almost choked.

Jesus, I finally gasped. I took a couple of long swallows of pop.

Sorry, Noelle said, and pounded my back.

*Business bad? Fuck you, pay me, Henry Hill said on TV. Oh, you had a fire? Fuck you, pay me. Place got hit by lightning, huh? Fuck you, pay me.*

I burped. Leaned back a little and massaged my belly. It was warm and was beginning to be a little distended. I could feel it pushing against the waistband of my jeans. I didnt want to unbutton just yet. That was one of the highlights of the evening, and I was hoping for a little delayed gratification.
 

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## Big Beautiful Dreamer (Oct 31, 2014)

My jaws were getting tired. Noelle sat down next to me and started feeding me. 

Two platefuls of spaghetti and all of the garlic bread were now history. I was unquestionably stuffed. I tried to breathe and hiccupped instead.

My belly was now firmly distended, my jeans waistband creaking. It was time.

Noelle fumbled with the buttons.

Hurry, I gasped. _Hic_.

At last, buttons undone, underwear shoved down. My swollen and aching belly caught the lamplight. I moaned in relief and hiccupped again. 

Ow. 

Noelle began to massage my belly, feather-light, gentle circles. 

Youre tight as a drum, she said. Someones got a full tummy. Poke.

I leaned back, dopey and sated, surrendering to how good it felt to have Noelle rubbing my belly. It was warm and heavy, the muscles pulling on the sides, fighting gravity. My gut seemed not just rounder but taller, swollen and bloated from my sternum to below my navel. I belched and groaned, rubbing my own tautly pulled sides.

We watched the movie for a little, then Noelle raised her eyebrows at me.

Yeah, Illurptake some pizza, I said, slapping my belly. It was rounded and warm, an animal dozing in the moonlight.

Soon enough, Noelle was back with pizza. I ate slowly. With every bite I could feel my gut swell, feel the skin of my abdomen get tugged ever more taut, feel my belly distend. 

*Jimmy had never asked me to do a hit before, and now hes asking me to go down to Florida with Andy to make a hit. Thats when I knew I would never have come back from Florida alive,* Henry Hill said, Ray Liottas flat delivery making it more chilling.

I was torn between desire and distress. Torn between the Nirvana of each crumby, cheesy, spicy, chewy mouthful and the way I could feel my gorged belly, my swollen waist, inch forward with each swallow. I was full, I was stuffed, I was bursting, I was crying out for relief  and I wanted another taste and another taste and another taste.

*You got out of line, you got whacked, Henry said. Everybody knew the rules.*

I knew the rules, and so did Noelle.

My stomach throbbed and churned in ecstatic protest, the flesh of my overworked abdomen stretched tight over a visibly swollen and aching belly, sticking straight up, a dome of fullness, a monument to indulgence. I pressed my palm to one side of it, the east face. The flesh was warm beneath my hand, pulled firmly taut, not a hint of give. My breathing was shallow, my gut about to pop with each inhalation.

I hiccupped.

Done? Noelle asked. I barely managed a nod.

On TV, Ray Liottas voice said: *Didnt matter. It didnt mean anything. When I was broke, Id go out and rob some more. We ran everything. We paid off cops. We paid off lawyers. We paid off judges. Everybody had their hands out. Everything was for the taking. And now its all over.*

Its all_hic_over, I grunted.

I was full and I knew it, God Almighty, did I know it. I savored the taste of the last mouthful swallowed let out a little groan at the impact of even one more bite of food on my aching and painfully stuffed belly felt my sides stretch and pull felt the warmth as my overloaded stomach, already full to the very brim, accepted one more morsel closed my eyes as a momentary light-headedness made my head swim I was dizzy with repletion, too stuffed to move, glutted and gorged and sated to my eyebrows

Slowly, carefully, I levered myself into a standing position. I felt like I might spill over if I moved carelessly. My gut was triumphant, magnificent: bloated and gorged, roundly protruding, hard as a rock. Noelle slid my shirt up and rested her hand on our creation. 

She had already taken off her shirt and changed from jeans into those short shorts, and she was fairly full herself. Her belly wasnt the biggest Id seen it, but it was visibly bulging, full and heavy with pasta, and I could hear the roller-coaster of digestion inside.

She took my hand and led me to bed.

 

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## otherland78 (Nov 2, 2014)

just great and sexy ;-) i hope to read more soon ^^ and a ncie sunday to you ^^


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