Monday, June 30, 2008
I have a mane of curly brown-gold hair, falling between my shoulder blades. I have an oval face, plump cheeks, a beauty mark by the side of my mouth. Hazel eyes. My throat is very soft. Sometimes my chin looks double when I lower my head to type or write.
I'm not sure where the hair starts. Perhaps it begins under my chin? Or further down, around the collarbones? It's plush and tawny, like a new child's toy.
One thing for sure, my large breasts are bare. They are delicately soft, and pure white, with large nipples. Two rows of smaller pink nipples, like those of a bitch, run down the curve of my plump furry belly. At their end there is bare skin again, around my slit and anus.
In profile I am a lioness--a sphinx--with a large belly and a tufted, lashing tail.
When the Colt and I am talking, playing games with text messaging or IMing with our webcams--this is how I imagine myself. I don't know how he sees me when he's having the happy fantasy of me much larger than him, pressing him down under my heavy body, licking him with raspy tongue. It's as much a costume as a French maid's or a slutty little outfit to go clubbing in, and it gives us both the same sudden freedom to do as we like, to let a part of ourselves out we can't show to anyone else.
There is one big difference, though. Since it is all a fantasy that we're writing together, existing only in the shifty realm of cyberspace, we can do things that are impossible in the ordinary world.
MISS LIONESS: Purr?!
THE COLT: I prefer Lioness growl!
MISS LIONESS: --Nibbles your tummy! --
Then nothing for an hour or two. I was in bed asleep when my phone buzzed on the table.
THE COLT: My phone died I so sorry Lioness!
MISS LIONESS: Rawr!
THE COLT: Furgive me lioness!
MISS LIONESS: You know what lionesses do to little beasties like you!
THE COLT: --shivers-- What do they do Miss Lioness!--
MISS LIONESS: They eat them! --gulps you down in a single bite--
THE COLT: --gasp!-- isn't there some sort of compromise we can reach?!
MISS LIONESS: Nope, ur in my tummy! --patpat. burp!--
THE COLT: What can I do!
MISS LIONESS: You'll never get out!
THE COLT: --squirms!--
In the half-trance that writing and wanking puts me in, I feel the pleasure seize my belly. I imagine I have a little colt snuggled inside it, pushing up on the inside of my skin, a acidless biteless full-body fuck.
THE COLT: I could escape if I wanted you know!
God, I think, rubbing my heated belly, I like this.
Image is of the Guennol Lioness.
It's tempting to think that in the fetish world rules are simply turned on their heads and the ugly becomes beautiful, but every now and then I'll see a set of photos that remind me there are a different set of ideals at work, not no ideals at all. Angel looks the way I wish I looked, with a flawless skin, longer hair, and a thinner face. She is symmetrical as any top model you see in the magazine ads, only... more. She's what I think of as a "crossover" model: someone that makes fat look hot, even to a person with "normal" desires.
Just another photo I've found wandering through the back alleys of Flickr. I think he's into weight gain, rather than stuffing, but I found it an interesting photo nonetheless.
This almost my ideal--the contrast between two extremes, the softness and hardness. And it's looking at bodies like this--just as much as looking at the difference between a wasp waist and DD breasts will give some people a hardon--that can inspire a lustful awe at how many different shapes the human body can be molded into.
But somehow this is almost too much for me. Sometimes I like looking at it, sometimes it seems like there's too much flesh here, too little there... But the hand on top of the belly is always hot, no matter what.
Sunday, June 29, 2008
Where did it go?
I write many of my posts long before they appear on the blog. I set a date and time for when they will be posted, and Blogger puts them up, spacing out over days or weeks what I wrote during one long frantic Sunday. Usually they'll go up around 5:00 in the afternoon, EST. Concerning "Miss Lioness", I made a mistake typing in the date, and the post should have appeared tomorrow. It couldn't have possibly appeared today, because today is Sunday. You know what I always post on Sundays?
But if you liked the last post, don't fret: "Miss Lioness" will appear again tomorrow at 5:00.
Saturday, June 28, 2008
But sometimes I'm sure the confusion stems from the system of dating itself. I don't know what higher power decides the way dating is supposed to go--how we went from our parents negotiating dowries to splitting the check--but sometimes I'd like to take issues with the designers. One of the most puzzling things about my experiences with dating is the rule that silence means no.
It's a curious rule that I've never quite gotten the grips of. When I was in college I screwed around for the first time (like a surprising amount of people, I've since discovered.) Only I could never figure out the aftermath. I don't know what my girlfriends did--they weren't the screwing around type--but the boys seemed to know the rule of silence so instinctively they seemed stunned when I had to ask.
One Halloween I dressed as Red Death. It wasn't a sexy Red Death, but a mess of fake blood and sores all over my breasts and down my arms--my face was enclosed by a skull mask. A boy I'd asked to dance gripped me so hard I could feel it through his boxer's gloves. When we got back to my room he whipped of his nerd's glasses and I tore off his pants to reveal one of the most perfect asses I had ever seen.
My first (and so far only) long term relationship happened before that. It was a fuckbuddy thing: X. would call me up, we'd fuck and then he'd leave--we never went to dinner or sought each other outside the bedroom. I think for a while I thought all boys were like this: fucking was so rare, so precious to them, that after one taste they couldn't help but come back for more. I knew my own raging desires made me like that: after a single taste, I could never stop until I had scored another.
The nerd boy who had a thing for zombie girls was different than the boys I'd had before. He took direction, put his hands where I asked him, and screwed me up the ass with all the vigor of a jackrabbit after a week of celibacy. We even talked for a while after he fucked me--about music, I think, and he asked me what I liked. He told me I was pretty. Which was all so much more than I had ever gotten from X. or Constantine I was sure he would seek me out again, just like X. had, only this time it would be better. Even Q. said it looked promising.
Instead, we stared at each other for almost two weeks. Not coming up to say hi, not speaking, just staring. He kept looking at me, in the gymnasium or when he practiced his fencing outside. Q. told me to be patient: boys might call you after a week, she said. Time was different for them, or something.
Finally I came up to him and whispered, "I can't stop thinking about you!"
He blushed. "I got back with my girlfriend," he blurted.
"Oh," I said.
With internet relationships it's even harder to tell. A month of talking every night will suddenly end in silence: his handle will stay firmly at the bottom of your list of contacts, he won't answer calls, even your wittiest text messages go unanswered. Often you have no idea what "went wrong"--though who would ever tell you straight out what didn't work for them?
The second boy I had--before the Jackrabbit, after the X.--turned all the dating rules I thought I knew on their heads. All the signs that Q. had taught me, the proofs that a boy was "interested" in me, were there. But they didn't matter. If he asked me about myself or asked what I wanted when we made love, it was only a means to an end, not an indication that he "felt anything for me". When I tried to talk to him the day after he shrugged me off, walked by me: my first encounter with the rule of silence.
Why didn't I know this? I said to myself, embarrassed and enraged. Why hadn't I filtered this rule in through my skin, picked up on the minute vibrations that would tell me that he just wasn't that into me? I don't know how else I could have known.
After the Jackrabbit I made a rule for myself. The turnover time, I said to Q., isn't a week--not by a long shot. If they don't seek you out after a day or two, it's time to move on.
Same goes with stuffer boys. If the boy with the cute pic still can't meet with you after the second phone call, if they don't IM after two weeks, if they don't call back after the first date in the flesh, that's it. It's not that they broke their phone while racing Go-Kart or got called away to Japan or ended up in jail for 45 days, after two weeks they will have moved on, and so should you. That's why I'm so grateful for that little mass-email button on my favourite dating website: with a single click half a dozen people can be told, clearly and succintly, that you're "sorry, not interested."
Unless you're the Colt. Who has in fact had his phone broken racing Go-karts, left it in an airport and had it's batteries die all within a month or two. Or after 45 days, frantic from not being able to say goodbye, he finally was able to log on again and break the rule of silence.
Or Alex. He dissapeared from phone and internets a month ago. Then on Thursday, just as I was about to go to bed:
ME: long time no txt message
ALEX: yeah i know, i got some bad news and kind of stopped talking to people for awhile
ME: what happened?
ALEX: i got orders to japan
ME: you wanna meet with me before you go?
ALEX: you'd want to?
ALEX: i wasnt sure if you'd want to since i was leaving but id still really like to
ME: hey, it's not your fault you have to leave
ALEX: you'd be real disappointed in me right now though, i havent been working out and i gained like 10 lbs
He'd sent me pictures of himself before he disappeared, when he'd looked like this:
My mouth watered as I tried to imagine this succulent new addition to his body. It's the contrast that I crave. Just as a man wants a tiny waist to be on the same body as a pair of DD breasts, the combination of extremes pushes all my buttons.
ALEX: ive totally been gorging myself since ive been home
ALEX: i had a cheeseburger, fries and a chocolate shake, then mint chocolate chip ice cream cone, general tso's chicken with chicken fried rice, then 18 wings tonight and a frappucino from starbucks
Alex is a long distance runner. He has a long, hard body, and I've often imagined stroking its hard taut angles. But now there will be this little bit of softness, proof of his voracious appetite. And where there's a huge hunger for one of the sensual pleasures, there's usually a desire for the others that's just as strong...
ME: I wanna see your new body
ME: that's like my favourite fantasy, bony guys getting slightly softer
ALEX: that's kinda what happened to me, its mostly in my torso i think, you cant really tell anywhere else
ALEX: you dont think i should work out and try to get back in shape, it usually only takes me like a week
I quibbled, told him it was really his decision. I didn't want to force him into changing even more when I knew how much work it took to get his body to that level of hardness... even when the thought of him gorging himself even more had me rubbing against the chair.
But he wouldn't let up:
ALEX: why dont you tell me your opinion and ill take it into account and make a decision
ALEX: so same, lose or gain?
ME: do you get turned on being this way?
ME: or do you not like how it looks?
I know he's told me before he's had fantasies about gaining weight. He's told me that he wouldn't even mind if it slowed him down a little, even though he's used to leaving all the other boys in the dust.
ALEX: im okay with it either way as far as looks, its not exactly like i have anyone to impress
ALEX: your kind of like the only person i have to impress which was why i wanted your opinion because it matters
ME: I can't be the only one
ALEX: you are and im happy with that
ALEX: seriously i can go either way with it so you just have to let me know, dont be shy you can be honest
ME: can I see a pic?
ME: then maybe I could decide
its your lucky day, he wrote. His camera phone was working.
ME: you can't get rid of it until we get to cuddle
ALEX: wow im kinda surprised, i thought you liked me better the other way but that's cool you changed
ME: i was interested
ME: because I, um, have never been with a dude with abs
ME: but the fetish gets me every time
ME: tummies rule
ME: especially on boys
ALEX: haha that's true
ALEX: okay so now just to be sure, stay the same, gain or lose?
ME: I think stay the same
ALEX: okay sounds good
So he's keeping his body this way. For me.
It's the way a sub might wear a collar for their dom, I suppose. Only it's not like that at all. Collars can be taken off, marks made on the flesh from bites or a cane will heal. Instead he's changed the very form of his body into what both of us most desire.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
I am also finding it absurdly hard to think of the other 982. I think this is an old man's game--I find myself thinking that I have my whole life to do these things. Or I might get through them all before a year or two is over.
Can I change them later if I want to? As if, say, I decide that I'll take a pass on seeing a dead body or body suspension and want to wait for the next karmic cycle?
1. Have More Sex
But don't we all want this? See 2, 6, 10, 12, 16 for more details.
2. I want to see the Colt in July.
The Colt is my digital boyfriend. I met him several months ago over the internet on a site for people with the feederism fetish. He's a stuffer boy, and if we can work this out it will be the first time I will have met him in the flesh.
3. I want to move out of my little tiny town
There are no lesbians here, no gay pride events, no fetish clubs, no parades. Ever since I was in New York City last year I've wanted to go back.
4. I want to make more money
There are numerous reasons for this (such as number 3). I want to buy things, like a tattoo (see 17), or fetish wear. I might want to have a child someday. Most of all, I hate having to work all the time like my
mother did--two or three different part time or weekend jobs even when
she had a degree in business.
5. I want to be a published erotica writer
6. Meet Jefferson
But then again what chick doesn't?
7. Meet Sinclaire
8. See a meteor shower
Or hell, just see an awesome night sky again, period.
9. Go to the Mermaid Parade
I've missed that two years in a row since I heard about it. Have to plan for next year.
10. Have group sex
11. Go to Stonehenge during the Solstice
12. Fuck Jefferson
13. Stuff a boy
The Colt, for prefrence. This is probably in the bag because of number 2, but you never know with these things.
14. Go to Mexico during the Day de Los Muertos and eat a sugar scull
This is especially good since I was born on the Day as well
15. See a dead body.
I'm not sure about this one. It's usually something that happens to most people anyway, when a family member dies. I'm not sure why I want it, except that I'm not familiar with death and it's something so many people already know. Most people will probably read this one and think I'm crazier than I already am, but nevermind.
16. Visit a dominatrix (or dom)
I want the whole 9 yards: whips, knives, costumes, 7 inch heels, etc., etc., etc.
17. Get some kind of body modification
There are so many to choose from. tattoo, scarification, corset rings, microdermals or these nipple piercings.
18. Be suspended from my skin
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #138? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.
This Week’s Picks
I can only be what I am.
“It’s strangely refreshing, to really submit and give up that control, and not have to make decisions.”
Over the Edge
“He tells me to hold still, in that soft, controlling voice of his.”
A Story Told Out of Order and Out of Character - Part 4
“You thought you could just come to my room and tease me?”
Mr. Sugasm Himself
A former slut examined
Monday, June 23, 2008
Brought to you by Merkley??? He's a crazy motherfucker that likes to throw hotdogs at people passing by on the sidewalk, but I usually skip past that part to look at the hot girls arrayed on beds with pickles, monkeys, and a lot of wiring.
(P.S.: if I ever get a girdle tattoo, it will probably look just like the big spiderweb she has on her belly.)
Sunday, June 22, 2008
My new bed.
A. returned today, so I had to give up her bed and I am now sharing the ginormous shower.
But a few weeks ago they brought the new bed. It's from Ikea, but it's black, and it has a lovely headboard that I could handcuff someone to.
This is the same bed, by the way, that Jaine already broke in.
MOLLY: My, you are gothy. There was an unreadable red design splashed across his chest.
CEE: It's a Gorillaz shirt, dammit!
I smile. I can see the reflection of myself in the little box below the list of Yahoo contacts, the comforter pulled up around my shoulders. I'm lying in bed with my favorite sex toy: the laptop. I only wish Cee's webcam quality was better: he looks more like a photograph that's been run through the dorkier filters of Photoshop than my own interactive fetish toy.
Cee is a boy I met when I placed an add for stuffer boy pics on Myspace--proof that whenever I do something pervy it leads to something good. He's from the UK and describes himself as a "gentleman", though he has awfully long hair. He wanted to talk to me because he was curious about the pleasures I portrayed, and wanted to explore them by IMing a curvy girl, even one that's across the ocean.
MOLLY: Ready to start?
CEE: Cigarette first.
The smoke is a white blur in front of his face. He's often stopped to smoke during our talks--we've spoken about everything from communism to what it means to have a fetish-- but this time it's a torment.
Not an hour before I'd been fully dressed, sitting at the kitchen table, surrounded by my housemates. Then that little "pop!" that announces a new IM conversation--Cee, as usual. He had something--I forget what it was, the UK version of Tang. And he wanted to try stuffing with it.
But I have to go to bed, I told him. And anyway, it's no fun if I can't see you and it's just text.
I have a webcam, he said.
Well, I said, that changes everything!
On my computer screen Cee takes off his shirt. Though the colors are unnatural, the outline of his body is clear.
CEE (looking down at his chest): Eeek.
CEE: Man boobs.
They're not the hanging breasts seen on overweight men but little tips--"mosquito bites." The nipples are large, black against the yellow skin. I get a glimpse of his curving side.
MOLLY: Nice waist.
A good start, he writes.
He may mean the fact of my praise. Or he may be referring to the way his now-flat belly will look when it's round and full, I can't say.
How many boys have done this for you? he asks.
Two, I wrote, counting yourself, and was astounded at my own count, as if I had expected more.
I had begun to have a presence on the web through my erotica and blogging, but the only one I had really seen do it--and by "do it", I mean stuff themselves--was the Colt. All other times it had been the results in pictures, or a pre-filmed video of the boy from collarbones to just above the waist.
And this was to be Cee's first time--he had never before stuffed himself.
I was like someone who had only seen porn when it came to having sex, only seen the photo of couples embracing, not the act. I had only seen the ejaculation, not the touches and whispered fantasies that led up to it. These late night talks--through text and live webcams--were as close I had been able to get to making the fantasy reality.
I watched Cee lift what looked like a plastic measuring cup to his lips. God, he wrote, I'm nervous already and it's only a frickin' liter.
Then he drank it down.
All his nervousness vanished as he stood up, blotting out all but waist to collarbones, and demanded to know if I could see an immediate change in his body. I told him that honestly, no, I couldn't.
He mixed another one and within seconds had drunk it down. His stomach began to puff out a little, a very slight bulge on his slight tummy.
CEE: I think I could squeeze a third in there
CEE: but not now.
Let it go down, I wrote, soothing him. Let your body adjust.
I watched him, sitting down with his adorable little tummy pushing out slightly over his belt. He was full--trying to ease himself, he lay half on his side, supporting himself on one elbow. It was almost a cheesecake pose. Though I couldn't see his face he could see mine--he pinched his side, knowing the showing off of his soft flesh would excite me.
The bad camera quality made it difficult to tell, as always, but I thought he looked quite pleased with himself. It was as if the satisfaction he felt--the warm glow of having a full tummy--spread out to me through looking at him. It started a tickling in my own tummy, and I rubbed it a little against the mattress.
Then his camera messed up. It went black, divided up into colored lines like a television set, and finally went off altogether. He fiddled with it for a while (or so he wrote) but was unable to bring it back.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
As you may have noticed, Capitol Pride and blog breakages interfered with both stuffer boy Sundays and BBW Mondays. But the remarkable stuffed boy beauty I've found should make up for the long wait.
His Myspace says he's from Germany (many stuffer boys seem to be from Germany, why is that?) and his photo captions like they've suffered through one too many internet translations. His album only has two photos.
But two photos were all it took to blow all the photos I'd seen before out of the water: this boy has a swollen belly on a blonde model's body, as unexpected and arousing as seeing, say, Brad Pitt stuffed. His black and red clothes (vagely "designer") and his metal bracelets add just the right touch of alt to press all of my fantasy buttons at once.
Monday, June 16, 2008
In short, I have SO MANY stories to tell you.
And my Baywords blog is still broken.
Every link to another page I have created sends you to a page reading "No input file specified", making it virtually unreadable. I've sent Piratebay numerous e-mails (though not the one-every-three-hours method approved by my editior at the small, independant newspaper where I work. That's the method you use "when you don't trust them." I mean, they are pirates...)
What to do?
I have not-quite-right blogs scattered over the internets by now... a defunct LJ, now used by Jaime to comment on my new LJ... my old Blogger blog, abandoned for Baywords... this LJ, created especially for my perverted self... and the now broken Baywords blog.
The old Blogger blog, called "Molly Loves", might be able to be resuscitated. Heck, I only left because of an old Violet Blue reccomendation, and lots of other sex bloggers don't seem to have a problem with it. I could give it a facelift, transfer all my new entries, and be ready to sign up for the Sugasm by next week.
But Blogger doesn't have all these nifty features, like making your own pages where you can put vital information (like how to submit a stuffer boy photo). For that I'd have to go to Wordpress.
What do you guys think? Should I give the old Blogger a facelift and press it back into service, or play a game of cat and mouse with the Wordpress (as yet unknown to me) censorship rules?
EDIT 6/16/08: Since Wordpress' Terms of Service states a blog cannot have content that is "obscene, libelous or defamatory", guess which route I chose?
squeak squeak squeak squeak squeaksqueaksuqeaksqueaksqueek
"Ah... ah... ah... ah... AH... AH... AH... AH..."
Janie (one of my 5 housemates) has a boyfriend. The question as to whether or not they are having sex is now put to rest.
I am laying here in my room with the fucking gorgeous four poster bed--the room I'm "borrowing" until my 6th housemate A. returns. What will be *my* bed for the rest of the summer has arrived and was set up about a week ago in the room next door. Jaine and her boyfriend are christening the bed before I've even slept in it.
Now she's hyperventilating in tune with a series of slapping sounds--he must be riding her doggy style. Her rhythmic gasps mesh with the rhythmic squeaking of the bed: "ah-squeak-ah-squeak-ah-squeak".
I find myself wondering (as I'm sure everybody does when they hear someone fucking in the next room) is that what I sound like? They're fitting all the stereotypes: "Oh baby, oh yeah, oh god..." If it wasn't for the fact that I recognized their voices I'd think they were watching a porn video.
I wonder what it will be like to sleep in that bed when my housemate returns and I have to move back into that room.
"oh my god, oh my god... ah...ah...ah...ah, ah, ah, ah, ah.... oh my god... mmm-mmm... oh my god..."
Both of them just gave a loud moan at the same time.
The squeaking has stopped.
My Baywords blog is broken after the outage. Every link to another page that I created on the site, every link to a "read more", and even the RSS feed button sends me to a page that says "no input file specified".
I try to go to the "help" page, but I have to sign in to do it, and it says my username does not exist. Therefore I cannot even use the forums or help page to get help. The "comments" on the baywords home page also lead to a page that says "no input file specified".
This is not the kind of service I expected when I signed up to use Baywords. If the problem isn't cleared up in the next few days I am deleting my account because my blog is made unreadable by the broken links.
I hope you will answer promptly,
I ride the bus every day. The stop that takes me home is right near an intersection, so when the light turns red, I'm the one thing you have to look at. I've often thought it would be a great place to put something subversive in... just shove a whole rock band in the kiosk to serenade everyone stuck in traffic. But usually there's just me, exhausted, hungry, and reading my book.
I looked up. There was a white car, and it seemed to be full of boys.
"Hey girl," said one. He wasn't like the middle-aged black guys that usually hit on me. He was tan, short cropped dark hair, my age. Cute. His eyes were shut away behind sunglasses. I smirked at him, unsure if I was about to be heckled.
He recited a string of numbers-- his phone number, evaporating in the hot air, too much to remember. Still, no boy had ever given it to me before like that, on the spot.
Then I realized he was in a car full of clones. There were four of them, and they all seemed to be tan, sunglassed, short haired and grinning. I looked down at my book, confused and shy.
The car drove off. The heat rose off the pavement in waves.
I wasn't terribly disappointed I couldn't remember his number--he probably forgot about it as soon as the light changed. Perhaps they all looked alike because they were a car full of Midshipmen on leave.
Or perhaps, somewhere in my tiny town, there is a car full of cocky wandering FAs, all wearing white and throwing out their phone numbers to lonely-looking fat girls.
This is also, you will notice, BBW Tuesday instead of BBW Monday. Baywords was down last night, and now my tag archives just send you to a balnk page. (Look to the top left of the page and click on "open navigation" if you're wondering what I'm talking about.) I'm hoping this is some kind of maintenance that will be sorted out by the end of the day, or else Molly will be displeased.
I could go on and on about this boy. Unlike most, who stuff without considering the consequences, Bellydude500 works out to have both a slender physique and a capacity roughly the size of a basketball. *swoons* But rather than go on and on about him, I'll sum up with a quote from his his YouTube channel bio:
"In the words of eating champion Takeru "The Tsunami" Kobayashi, I believe "You have to gradually build up your gut by eating larger and larger amounts of food, and then be sure to work it all off so body fat doesn't put a squeeze on the expansion of your stomach in competition."
Since So-And-So was neither The Atheist nor the German boy she had met on Craigslist, I said, "Who?"
"He's a boy from school that I fuck sometimes."
"Oh." Then, after a moment's thought, "Does this mean I can start bringing boys over?" The proper ettiquete in such matters had always eluded me.
"Yes!" she yelled down at me from the second floor. "But only, like, dudes we know. So they don't steal anything."
Via Coilhouse's article about the joys of bathhouses in Russia and LA.
It's Memorial Day, so most of us have the day off, but there are few days that can't be improved by the sight of a pretty plump belly.
We had a very, very long chat. He said he had never stuffed before, that he had never talked to a girl that wanted him to do this. That I made him want to push his limits.
These were the only two pictures he sent me.
This man has sex with cars.
I suppose this could count as a good fill-in-the-blank, though I sometimes think it would make it easier to find partners.
The original source, The Daily Telegraph (of course!), has a longer article. With photos. None of them are explicit, however, which forces me to ask: where does he, urm, stick it? In other words, exactly how does one fuck a car? *Supresses all refrences to tailpipes.*
Well, for the curious, there is an online manual, "How To Make Love to a Car", in which we are told "1. The tailpipe isn't the only option!"
I suppose this means that Zoltan will have to give up his dream of creating a new sexuality. It seems that people have been screwing machines long before he invented the term "technosexual".
Then I found this album cover:
Photo nipped from Modblog's archives.
I love the idea of a girdle. It seems as intimate as a garter belt, something hidden, that only my lovers would be able to see.
It was a year ago. Friend of a friend, in town for a day or two. He was built like a Versache model. High cheekbones, a waist I fancied I could put my hands around. He had a long coat, motorcycle boots, a knife in his pocket. I found out later that he went traveling by way of the Orient Express.
Last night I dreamed he and a few other friends were at my house. They sat on the bed, so I had to sit too. "I can't stay awake," I told him, and lay with my face against the scratchy old comforter.
He stroked my hair.
That was the only touch. It satisfied me so deeply, to simply have my hair brushed back like that, over and over again. He didn't even talk to me, in the dream. I didn't even look at him, as beautiful as I remembered him to be. Even in my dream I closed my eyes.
It was amazing how simple a dream it was.
Photo nabbed from USA Today.
Technically, Angelina Jolie is pregnant, but I still think Jack Black is the cutest BHM ever. What's most amazing to me, however, is that both of them were willing to look "bad" for the newspapers and produced this amazing candid and fun portrait. When was the last time you saw a photo of a celebrity where they weren't elaborately coiffed and posed... or it wasn't a moment stolen by the paparazzi?
The accompanying article is equally adorable. 'Dustin Hoffman and Lucy Liu, who also supply voices for the film, are watching, so Black pushes out his gut to maximum effect, determined to best Jolie as they go bellybutton to bellybutton. "That'll make the front pages,' Hoffman says."
Here (at last!) is our first peice of stuffed boy eye candy--yummy!
Ladies, meet Jhonny. He's a 170 pound, blue-eyed submissive with a sweet disposition and a growing pot belly. He especially loves being called "piggy". (Example: "Bad piggy!" while shoving his face down into a trough.) But before all you girls let your inner swineherd out: he has a date this Friday . *le sigh* But, he adds, it's with a sweet girl that knows about his fetish. Dinner and a movie, mmm!
I say, go Jhonny! (And will you send us the before and after pictures?)
I started sweating. What had formerly been a mind-expanding stroll through the interesting subcultures of New York had suddenly entered my bedroom. I was almost afraid to look at them, for my desires for the first time were laid bare. Outside of my own private daydreams I had never seen such a thing. Oh, I remember thinking, that's what I think about...!
Then I got to the last panel, where the woman had been fattened to the size of the Goodyear blimp and was colored blue. ...only, um, not like that.
This was my first experience in discovering that even in the kink world there are barriers to what one person will find "hot", and finding my way through the maze of terminology and other people's very personal takes are what inspired me to start this blog. More than anything, I wanted someone to teach and explain a fetish that seemed so rare I wasn't even sure what keywords to use on Google when I was looking for "my porn". I also wanted a way to foster a dialogue between other people that might not even have the kink, but were open to finding out more about it in order to understand what I liked. Stuffing dreams have been an integral part of my sexuality for as long as I can remember, so it stood to reason that someone would eventually stumble upon this aspect of my personality and need an explanation. I'll be the first person to tell you that my particular brand of kink can be rather disturbing (I still haven't been able to sit all the way through that one scene in Spirited Away where a couple gorge on an endless buffet until they bloat up and are transformed into real pigs.)
The great difficulty of explaining feederism to others is acerbated by the fact that I have been finding out about it, mostly through the medium of the internet, for only a year. There is the danger that I simply haven't found an aspect of it, or that something that other people think should be included will be left out. However, I feel like the nature of fetishes is broad, and thus I have striven to try to include as many aspects that I have seen in not a definition, but something that will give someone as new to their desires as I was a "feel" for what feederism might be for them.
So, without further ado, I present Part 1 in what is bound to be a very long series, in which I attempt to show the "why" of feederism. As in,
"Why the fuck would anyone find this sexy?"
That's a bit like asking, "Why are there fetishes at all?", to which I have always turned to Violet Blue's answer: "No one knows." She adds that many fetishes have theories about it, and most of the ones that I've encountered in my wanderings on the internet have been annoyingly out of date, the majority stemming from Freud. Even Newly has told me, "what your fear most becomes what you most desire, so..."
My theory on kink is based more on giving someone who stares in shock at, say, mamabliss' work, a roadmap to understanding how anyone could possibly find shitting, eating, stuffing or bloating a turn-on. I feel that everyone has inside them the raw triggers of pleasure that kink is made of.
There are certain human things that, for whatever reason, are always pleasurable. Eating is pleasurable. Being held tightly is pleasurable. Even peeing is pleasurable, though it's so integral to the experience most people don't even notice until it's pointed out to them. I'm not willing to make the argument that everyone feels these pleasures to the same degree, but most people, even "vanilla" people, have the bare bones of these pleasure centers inside them that can help them understand what brings on that stirring in the loins beyond the often alien images of blimp-like women and very hungry men, which are, after all, meant to be fantasies. From realizing that a certain action brings you pleasure, it's not at all a far step to imagining them as something that will help to get you off.
As is amply illustrated in the video above, even people who aren't into feederism think eating is damn sexy. Even heteros get into the act: whipped cream is supposed to be a preferred "vanilla" sex toy, and I think the manufacture of flavored lubes stems at least partly from the fact that eating is fun, and a warm wet mouth is even better when laced with something sweet. In a now-forgotten issue of Playgirl I once read a fantasy where a woman created a robotic lover that squirted chocolate and strawberry cream instead of sperm. Even the tradition where newlyweds feed each other wedding cake stems from the joyous intimacy of nourishing someone else.
It is all delightfully connected, this hole which is like a mouth which is like a cunt which is like an anus; a picnic where eating leads to kissing leads to sex.
Then I discovered I had a fetish.
As feederism, Myspace porn, BBWs, BHMs, and the hidden uses of Mentos and Diet Coke all exploded into my consciousness I realized I was spending at least as much time on my computer in the dead of night as that stereotypical geek. I also realized two things simultaneously: (1) this wasn't going to "just go away" and (2) it's almost impossible to tell a stuffer boy by looking at him. Unless I found a bar where the patrons regularly competed by drinking gallons of beer or started frequenting the completive eating circuit my chances of meeting one would be few. With a sigh of relief I realized my time spent on the internet was a forced necessity, not an acknowledgment of my own insecurities, and I set about trying to find out if there even was such a thing even as my friends wondered why they never saw me any more after school.
As Violet Blue says in her podcast about fetishes, finding a fellow fetishist on the internet is "hit and miss". Once I got over the sweaty palms and chair-rubbing reactions of simply being on such websites (hey, for a virgin feeder girl it doesn't take much), I discovered their flaws: they are uniformly ugly and they all seem to be populated by men that are at least fifteen years older than I am, a native of India whose spelling and seduction techniques didn't get far beyond fifth grade. "Ah", said some of my college friends, "it's the same level of people you meet in real life."
Intellectual snobbery aside, it is sometimes quite difficult to find someone who shares your same tastes in bloating and stuffing as well as your level of vocabulary. As I tried to condense the essence of my desires into an easy to read paragraph that still allowed for those lovers I'd never imagined to slip through the loopholes, I reflected that this was why eHarmony's elaborate screening process had been invented, never mind their inherent homophobia. I was wandering in the back alleys of the internet where transactions were shady and boys sometimes threw bottles to get your attention.
At the same time I posted this story in the forums, simply because I liked the idea that the most-read stories ended up on the front page of the website after the readers had voted for their favorites.
Without even knowing it, I had done the right thing. Before I posted "Water Bottles" I was having to comb my way through the archives looking for someone who might be what I wanted; after it appeared on the front page boys started messaging me. Even after it had disappeared into the archives I received e-mails from boys that were intelligent, articulate, and grammatically correct, saying that they'd always wanted to do that, that they wanted me to help them start stuffing or they looked like Mister Six or knew people that were like Rufus. I had stumbled on one of the truths of writing that happened way back when things were still written on paper: good writing calls out to good writers, and they will respond.
So this is my advice to people who are just starting dating on the internet: if you have a specific thing you want to do, a life-long fantasy, or are even looking for a specific body type, lock the bedroom door, get out a little lube, and spin a bit of smut. My dirty story in which I'd written out my main fantasy had attracted more like-minded people than my short "personality profile" or even my photographs ever did. For whatever reason, a little tale with characters gets deeper to the heart of most people and crosses more barriers than filling out pages of "likes" and "dislikes". And, If you are at all good at writing (and most readers of sex blogs tend to be), people who also value the written word will be drawn to you: the creative geeky stuffer boys, in my case, who can make me melt with a well-written e-mail or whose wit can stand up to my own.
In this way, I realized, I was carrying out a fact of writing that was happening even when words were only written on paper. Anias Nin, who was sadly born too late for sex blogging and whose juicy private journals were published after her death, wrote to a friend that when one puts oneself out in wiritng, others will come bringing gifts. Among writers who are still alive, Jefferson is an excellent example of the power of smut to find you the kinky literate partner that you would never look twice at in real life. He meets women almost entirely through his blog, which details his exploits with sometimes dozens of men and women in a week. It would be easy to simply write him off as as a user, but the reason women seek him out is because his writing makes you trust him. He tells stories against himself as well as his experiences hosting the Bukakke Social Club, and his blog archives (going back three years) are so detailed that after reading them you feel you could walk through his apartment with your eyes shut. In being so explicit about so many things, from his relationship to his children to giving a woman her first orgasm, you forget you have never actually met him. You can fake a persona, of course, and there is always the danger that someone writing about him/herself will leave out their most glaring flaws, but I remain awed by the depth to which you can glimpse another human being's mental world in such simple things as a choice of word or how they construct a sentence.
It's so intimate talking to someone whose read my stuffer stories and really paid attention to them. If we haven't met in real life before this, I can have the exquisite feeing of a partner having read my mind, coming to me already filled with the knowledge of what turns me on. Writing honestly is making your mind naked to another. In the act of writing, you have already taken the first step towards intimacy, opening yourself to anyone who's listening.
, a cheeky little site that features avocados, jars of mayonnaise, saltines and sausages cheerfully telling you all the horrible things they can do to you. Playing with your food can sometimes get dirty.
"'Cuz muffins don't have self-esteem issues", (and neither does Molly), I give you Kawaii Not: Cute Gone Bad
MOLLYREN: you know what you should try?
MOLLYREN: warm milk
MOLLYREN: I hear it's really easy to stuff with
MOLLYREN: and the warmth makes it easy to take more
NEWBIE: ive never tried that before but it sounds like it would work well
NEWBIE: i dont know that ive ever had warm milk now that i think about it
MOLLYREN: I haven't either actually
MOLLYREN: one of my internet friends tried it and said he could drink another whole bottle besides what he could usually
MOLLYREN: he was trying to get more capacity
NEWBIE: it does make sense that you could take more of it especially chugging it
MOLLYREN: yeah, he told me he was shotgunning warm milk!
And then it hit me: God, I love this fetish.
Image via Becci.com
So I was laying around one day in my new thigh-high stockings when I suddenly thought to myself, "You know what this world needs? More stuffer boy eye candy."
So I went on the internets and looked. I found a few feederism sites, but it was mostly chubby girls and BHMs (not that there's anything wrong with that). I found a site called Belly Builders, but it was mostly forums, without an easily browsable gallery. I found Beefy Frat, but then discovered that it was mostly gay stuffer boys (not like there's anything wrong with that either, but what's a stuffed tummy lovin' feeder girl to do?)
But I KNOW you're out there! Somewhere there is a weight-lifting, skinny-hipped, gallon-milk drinking stuffer boy just waiting to show his tight swollen belly to the admiring gaze of the world. Perhaps you are the one? Then send Miss Molly Ren your best stuffed pics to put up on Stuffies!
In your e-mail, please include:
1. Your preferred handle
2. your age (and you'd better be 18 or older!)
3. Your current height and weight
4. Your orientation/ relationship status
5. Your website/ YouTube/ Myspace etc., if you have one and want it known
6. YOUR HOT STUFFED PHOTOS! You can even send more than one (I love before and after pics. *wink*) All I ask is that they be decently lit, have all the naughty bits covered up, and show a modicum of photographic ability (i.e. no fuzzy pics of just your navel--those will be deleted.) Push yourself! Do something new! Make them so hot feeder girls will swoon from one end of the internets to the other!
Are you the next Stuffies star? Then send your pics to MissMollyRen (at) gmail (dot) com.
It seemed to be part of Feederism, of course: all this stuffing, bloating, and inflation went under no other sexual category. But they weren't BHMS. They weren't soft. They had clean cut faces, delicate arm muscles, tight rumps, and flat stomachs that they were capable of inflating to an enormous size.
I called them stuffer boys. They called themselves bellydudes, bloaters, and stuffies.
Most people, I thought, wandering through the back alleys of the internet where such things usually go, had the wrong idea. A "fedee" was a huge cushiony woman, indulging in whole pizzas and giant boxes of cupcakes that were lovingly provided by a much skinner male. He couldn't get enough of her growing belly and breasts, and would stroke them and tell her--perhaps for the first time in her life--how lovely she was.
My fetish isn't anything like that.
It's about a woman dominating a man, holding him in place, making him helpless through the lust of his own body, his own immense appetite, holding him down like the wolf with his belly full of stones. And yet the stuffer boy still has teeth: he is clever, an edge paired with his delicate body that allows him to prick my ideas, bite my breasts, demand that I push his limits. He is an exhibitionist, challenging himself to swallow more, proud of his ability and jealous of other's. He has the same discipline to work out that he does to fill his body, keeping the contrast, his body tight and hard and beautiful... but then, one or twice a week, or even every other night with water or soda or warm milk, he will succumbs to his indulgence and be mine.
I am soft--as soft as any Burger Queen that inhabits an FA's fantasies--but I am not interested in making myself a slave to someone's eating fantasies. I am very giving: I gain more pleasure from watching a body drink and stuff than I ever do from my own eating, will forgo meals and sleep just so see his belly swell larger, tighter, coaxing him to drink just one more, just for me. For the first time I am conscious of my body, how it's heavy breasts, wide belly and round rump can inspire.
But there are no roadmaps as to how to be a feeder for a stuffer boy--at least none that I have found. The girl feedees have it easy: they just have to lean back and open their mouths. I have to find my own way, training my soft flesh to corsets, my soft feet to heels; and my soft hands: when to soothe and stroke... and when to jerk the leash.
The girls in Will Cotton's oil paintings may not be fat, but you can easily imagine them becoming so as they break off pieces of the scenery and pop them in their mouths. Will has done an amazing job of capturing the link between food and sex in painting peppermint forests and ice cream lakes as if they were epic scenery, and the pairing of frosted and chocolate-sauce spattered girls with all that lusciousness inspires daydreams in a whole new landscape.
Via Violet Blue's archives
See up there, on the headliner? Way up there where it says "Molly loves stuffer boys"?
They are, in fact, why this blog was started in the first place.
To best answer that question, I realized I would have to do more than write a little post "in praise of stuffer boys". 'Cuz it's going to take a little more than that if you just got here to see the frilly rump and tattooed penis pics.
'Cus this blog is about to get a lot stranger.
And a lot more sexy.
BERLIOZ: Well I really started noticing it in high school.....but I actually remember having fantasies about big women years and years ago when I was younger
MOLLY: so you knew right away
BERLIOZ: Basically I think I did
MOLLY: Took me a while to figure it out. stufferboys are a lot less visible than chubby chicks
BERLIOZ: Very true, lol
MOLLY: always had dreams about skinny guys drinking milk until their tummies bulged, though
BERLIOZ: Oh I've done that before
MOLLY: *happy daydream*
MOLLY: Can't help it
BERLIOZ: lol....well I can do a half gallon easily...then it gets fun
MOLLY: fun how?
BERLIOZ: Because thats when my belly really starts getting hard of course
BERLIOZ: In your day dream, whats your favorite part may I ask?
MOLLY: I think you just mentioned it...
MOLLY: I also like the idea of just milk, for some reason
it's such a sensual thing to drink
BERLIOZ: Very true
Thats actually the first thing I bloated with
I would go to my store on campus back at college and buy half gallons of whole milk and quarter gallons of chocolate milk...
It's an awesome feeling. All nice and tight.....feeling a small skinny tummy get bigger and bigger...it's quite intense...
What are you thinking about right now may I ask
MOLLY: stuffer boys!
drinking chocolate milk!
BERLIOZ: Like me?
MOLLY: you might be in there somewhere
MOLLY:deep in the chocolate milk guzzling orgy
BERLIOZ: Is it coming out of garden hoses into all of our mouths
MOLLY: it is now
My inner fantasy geek just goes "Awwww...dwagen!" Go see the making of Puff.
I'm not sure what it is about them, though. Even before I was really sure gentials could be tattooed, X. and I were having a reacurring conversation about peircings and tattoos. He wanted me to get my pussy pierced--I countered that if he ever decided to get his dick tattooed with a giant pink squid I would think it was totally hot. We never actually did either of these things (he turned out to be as scared as I was of getting his tender bits nipped!) but it was a fantasy that we could always build on.
Found via Naked City.
The book also has crazy wide margins. I used to write in it, like a journal:
All the signs are there: the scattered clothes, shed in luxurious heaps to the floor; the shed jewelry making tantalyzing tips as it loops, thrown down... the smell of aloe cream, rum [cake] & lavender...
The desire is there, at times so strong that in anticipation I will shed all these things and then turn to the bed, faintly surprised there is nobody.
"Christ," he said, "I'm hungry!"
She laughed. "You're usually not hungry in the morning."
"I know," he said.
"Your stomach stretched," she said. "Means you'll have to eat more."
"I can believe that," he said, but she wasn't sure from his tone how he felt about it. During the days after that first, amazing stuffing he had eaten like a normal person--but still, for him, quite a lot. Nevertheless they hadn't yet tried to burst his gut again, just gotten him regularly full. However, he seemed a lot easier with eating in general, and she sensed that he had been enjoying himself.
He was still standing there, thinking, so she went to get a towel from the bathroom. He smiled as she knelt to dry his legs, lingering over his tight ass and kissing him on the most sensitive area of skin, right where his legs joined his body. His skin, still damp, grew warm with the sudden rush of blood, and he leaned down to kiss her hard on the mouth, biting her lower lip.
Suddenly his stomach growled, startling them both. She laughed and caressed his empty belly. "Well," she said, "let's see what we can do to fix this."
She fed him with gentle fingers from a big box of doughnuts, and he managed to drink about half a gallon of milk. When they were finished his tummy was fatter than before, but he seemed no more used to it than he had been the first time: he held his swollen tummy with both hands, rucking up the front of his shirt, as if constantly amazed at himself. Laughing a little, he told her that he wasn't sure what they had done to him, and didn't know if they shouldn't feed him again, just so he could finally figure it out.
"That was just breakfast," said Rihanna. " You'll get used to it soon enough: there's still lunch, and dinner, and snacks...:
"Oh no," he begged, leaning up against her as if the weight of his belly was exhausting him, "please Rihanna, no more today--I've never been this stuffed in my life before, and now you want me to do it twice in one day!"
"We'll see," she said, stroking his round tight belly--he belched, but tried to smother it into a more decorous hiccup. She was fairly sure if she waited long enough he would do it all over: he had discovered that he loved eating too much to pass up another chance at it. His utter gluttony shocked her, it was such a contrast to how she thought he had been, but it was also satisfying to her as she watched him fill himself up when he had been too skinny before: his tummy had already begun to relax and stretch out into the tight swell that she had been wanting. In a week or two he would begin to lose his face's hollowness, she was sure, and at least partially fill up the gaps in his ribs.
At five-o-clock they did it all over again. He said he hadn't meant to, but what she gave him was so delicious that he couldn't help himself. Now his belly was bigger than ever, and he lay on the bed reading and smoking--only, though, as an excuse to look busy. After a little, when he thought she wasn't watching, he rolled away from the book and ran his hand down his waistcoat in a long, slow stroke, moaning quietly to himself with one arm over his eyes.
She got in bed with him and nuzzled him, startling him out of his introspection. "How are you feeling?" she asked.
He took a long drag on his cigarette.
"I really can't describe it," he said. His white hand, against the dark purple of his straining waistcoat, caressed his belly in long slow strokes.
"Does it hurt?"
"Oh, no," he said, levering himself up on the pillows a little, so as to be at least nominally sitting up. "Quite the opposite, it's just..." He couldn't think of the word and glanced involuntarily down at his solid, well-rounded belly.
"Stuffed," she said.
"If you insist on using such an unromantic term for it," he said, and blew a smoke ring at her.
"But do you like it?"
He looked up at the ceiling, smoking, but then he started to grin. "Yes," he said. He stroked the swell of his tummy from where it began to where it ended just above his dick, and rested his hand there. "I like it very much."
"That's good," she said, snuggling into his shoulder. Then she began to slowly undo his buttons.
"Oh no!" he said, pushing her away roughly, "no, no, no, I'm too fat for that--I'll burst--"
She straddled him gently and continued to undo his shirt and pants over his protests. The skin on his belly had stretched out until it was as tight as a drum, heavy and round, but she was very gentle as she ran her tongue down it. He didn't made a sound, but lay with his head to the side, breathing at the same time fast and very deeply...she would have thought he was merely indulging her until she realized his hips were straining upwards where they were trapped under hers.
Slowly, her body reminded her of where she was....her hair brushing her bare shoulders and back..wonderfully cool sheets against her bare skin...a hotel. She could feel a warm side pressed up against hers, and she grinned, pretending to still be asleep. When she was with Mister Six, there was no point in rushing things.
After a little while he stirred and stretched, rolling over. She heard it as he pushed the covers aside, careful not to wake her, and got out of bed. She opened her eyes just a bit, looking through her long lashes.
Mister Six was standing in front of the full-length mirror, caressing his rounded belly. Just in the few days they had been here, his belly had been filled to bursting and relaxed so many times that it had bloated out a couple more inches, swelling out of his slender, sharp hips. It was perfectly smooth, tight, and round, and had a small navel unhidden by softness. He caressed it, pressing on it gently where it began to swell out of his body, and rubbed its fullest part with a satisfied grin.
He looked quite different than when they had first met--he had been so skinny that Rihanna had been able to count the outline of each rib, and had often teased him about it. He had always had high cheekbones, large nipples, and a lovely round ass--his rump, Rihanna said, used to be the only part of him that stuck out. She had the idea that he had been unhappy before he had met her, and had neglected to eat or to swim simply because he did not care. He was famous for gunning his cars at breakneck speeds along the most dangerous roads like a stunt driver, and had once broken a rib and a collarbone in a bar fight that he had gotten mixed up in for no other reason than a kind of morbid curiosity. But then she had begun to soften him up, feeding him cake and champagne (and sometimes cheap fast food) until it was all he could do to rest his heavy stomach against her side and his head on her breast, belching contentedly and sighing with the Pleasure that filled him to bursting. He loved for her to massage his tight, swollen stomach more than anything: it was the pressure, they decided, the just-on-the-point-of-bursting, but never doing so, that made it so wonderful, his skin growing supersensitive as it stretched. She loved it too, and liked it best when he mounted her from behind, so that she could feel his stomach pressing against her back.
Now, several months later, he was nicely filled out, with hardly a rib to be seen...and he also had a lovely back and chest and nicely muscled arms, honed by hours and hours of work in between their weekly stuffings. His hips were sharp and narrow, his thighs strong and slightly rounded, like a woman's. His had lost none of his grace and his face no longer had the tight look of near-emaciation but was still delicate, keeping his high cheekbones. His eyes were a strange, flat blue, often shining with wickedness and now sleepy with satisfied hunger and lust.
He turned in the mirror, caressing his belly and looking at it from the sides and the front. Then his eyes wandered to the side table where there were four water bottles laid out, put there by the maid. She shut her eyes as he came over to get them, heard him take off their plastic tops and start drinking. He opened her eyes again to see his smooth belly right on her eye level, growing bigger and bigger, rounder and rounder, with each heavy gulp. After three bottles he gave a big belch and rubbed his expanding tummy, sitting back down on the bed so he could lean back against her legs, then started on the last one.
She decided to "wake up" then. "Started without me?" she asked, pushing down the comforter to look at him with teasing eyes.
"Not really," he said, swallowing and smiling. "Just water."
"Just a bottle or two," she said, sitting up and revealing her large, full breasts. "Stand up," she said, and she pulled him closer until she could squeeze his hips between her plump thighs, adorned with wrinkled thigh-high stockings. He gave one her breasts and upward flip with his hand, smiling down at her tangled hair.
"Drink that," she said, for he had forgotten the water bottle he still had in his hand. He chugged it obediently as she caressed the fullest part of his stomach in slow circles, and when he looked like he might have to stop pushed the end of the bottle up, making him finish it. He gasped when he was through, held his breath for a second, then belched again, looking quite pleased with himself. She fond herself squeezing him tighter, pressing an ear against his lightly distended belly so that she could listen to the tickings and purring of his insides. He laughed, rumpling her hair.
"You know what I could do to make it bigger?" he said, "I could get a bicycle pump, and put the tube up my ass, and--"
"Mister Six!" She took her head away. "That's disgusting!"
"You think so?" he said, pushing out his gut and running a fingertip from his navel to his collarbones. She saw by the wicked look in his eyes that he was having fun pulling her chain. "Of course it's disgusting--all sex is disgusting." He rubbed the curve of his pushed-out belly. "But it's fun and you like it, so who cares?" He pressed her down on the bed, kissing her breasts and tonguing her nipples and gently tickling her chubby sides.
"You're a liar--YOU like it too," she said.
"I do very much. But I think you'd like it if I was even fatter."
"Maybe I could work out like crazy until I was too thin and then we could start all over again, hmm?" He nuzzled her, then pressed his tight, sloshing stomach up against her so that she could feel the gathering heat lower down.
"Or you could just drink more water," she said, rubbing his smooth side.
"That's a thought," he said, gently humping her through his clothes and the sheet.
"Or Coke and Mentos."
The thought made him stop humping her. In the sudden silence she heard his tummy gurgle. "I can't decide whether that would be awesome...or if it would make me actually explode."
"It might," she said, running a hand down the curve of his gut. "But then again, you've gotten pretty expandable. In fact," she said, pressing on his swelling tummy so that he moaned a little, "I think we could fill you up with a lot more."
"Mmm...You think so?"
"You might even be a little hungry."
"A little bit."
"Just a little?" She twisted his nipples, pinching his stomach just above the navel. "I think a lot."
"Starving," he agreed, his pupils large with the pleasure-pain.
"What would you like?"
* * *
Rhianna was always the one that stuffed him. She was the one who had gotten him to start, and was the one who decided how much he was eating and when she was going to let him stop. Outside of that, Mister Six always took the lead. He gave her the money for the pizza with very specific instructions, and she knew he wouldn't brook any contradiction.
The boy with the pizza broke into a big grin when she opened the door to hand him the money. And his jaw nearly dropped when she opened the door the rest of the way to take the box from him. He looked hardly old enough to have seen many naked women before, and especially not one so generously endowed.
She could tell he was pleased with her by the way that he looked at her when she came back. He was lying on his side, and she set the box next to him. Both of them were growing excited, and she knew that this was one of the times when he was going to challenge himself. He pushed down the waistband of his briefs and jeans a little bit in preparation for his belly to expand, but didn't undo the buttons and the zipper. Then, grinning at her, he took the first bite.
* * *
An hour later he had gorged himself until his stomach was ready to burst. He had devoured four slices within minutes, then a couple more, beginning to slow down and feel full. By then his stomach, already bloated by the water, was beginning to stick out quite a bit, and she massaged it, rubbing hard the way he liked. Then she coaxed him into eating two more...and, after a rest of twenty minutes, the very last. The box was empty, the entire pizza stuffed into his jutting stomach. He was laying on his back, trying to ease the pressure, when Rhianna poked him in the belly and told him that she wanted him to drink a few sodas.
Mister Six groaned happily. He ran his palms down his swelling sides and passed them over the front of his proud belly, which was starting to rumble in protest at having so much food crammed inside it. This was as stuffed as he'd ever been, and one could almost hear his skin straining across his enormous meal. "Nope," he said, grinning, "tummy's full."
"Are you sure?" she said, and ran her hand over his belly, caressing it from nipples to its fullest part, then rubbing it in smooth circles. He shut his eyes with pleasure, and she slipped her fingers inside his briefs, gently arranging his penis so the tip peaked out of the top of his underwear. "If you drink them like I ask--" she began, and finished by kissing him on the very end of his dick, closing her pouting lips about the head and sucking.
He drank them very fast, punching a hole in the bottom of each and finishing them off in a matter of seconds. It was called shotgunning, he told her, and since the contents went straight from the can to his stomach the carbonation should make his stomach bulge out even more. It also made him burp, and she giggled when he started hiccuping. This annoyed him so that he crushed the last can in one hand and pressed her face down into his swollen tummy with the other, making her unzip his jeans with her teeth. "Oh," he said, when she had at last undone the straining buttons, "oh." He was so full he had difficulty breathing, and lay over on his side with his pants undone, his huge stomach curving out above the waistband of his briefs. The enormous weight of his swollen gut made him helpless, sprawled across the rumpled bed in his skinny black jeans, and his drugged look, pale skin, delicate wrists and mussed hair was so evocative that she said without thinking, "You look like a Versache model."
He rolled his eyes at her, rubbing his huge, hard, tight belly, and gave an enormous, satisfied belch. "A binge-drinking Versache model." She spooned up against his back, pillowing his head on one of her rounded arms. He moaned, and she wrapped her other arm around his heavy belly, trying to support it as it rumbled and growled.
"I'm so full," he complained.
She snorted and gently slapped his tummy, making him hiccup. "You think?"
"I don't think I've ever been so stuffed in my entire life before," he said. "Never. My stomach's throbbing..."
"Aww," she said. She kissed him on the back of the neck, and suddenly realized that he was smiling. "What are you grinning about?" she asked, nipping him gently. "You look like you've swallowed a beach ball--you're ready to explode!"
"Mmm," he said. He painfully turned himself in her arms, his belly sloshing. He kissed her, snuggled his face into her shoulder, and gave a silly little hiccup, putting one of her hands on the curve of his stomach to make her caress him. In a little while he was asleep.
She laughed at him. As he drifted off to sleep she kissed him on the eyelids, on the nipples and the tight, tight skin of his belly. "Glutton," she said.
I was looking at him, trying to re-aquaint myself with him. He was wearing a button-down blue shirt, tucked into black jeans, and worn-to-grey sneakers. He had a different camera. We stood in the doorway and on the stairwell, talking to my friend Elaine. Did his belly stick out now or had it always looked like that?
Elaine said she had to go get something, but would return to talk to us. He said we would still be here when she came back.
When she was gone he said, "Just be patient."
"You're mean," I said.
He said he liked my dress. "It makes your face look very white."
We managed to talk a little about cameras, and I asked him about his new one, how it worked. I was twisting my hair, talking, and he snapped a few pictures of me and said, "That's how it works."
I remember we were there for a long time. Elaine didn't come back, we finally went upstairs and found her in my hallway, talking with another girl. We joined them and talked even more until Elaine said she was going to lunch. We'd come later, he said, he needed to lock his camera and his laptop in my room so that he could hang out without fear of it getting stolen. Elaine bid us goodbye and went off with her friend.
* * *
He shut the door to my bedroom. "Now you have me all to yourself," he said, soothingly.
He said, "How are you?" as if we were meeting for the first time even though he had been here for hours, and his voice had changed, he meant it to me personally.
"I might just stay here tonight," he said, "would that be OK with you?"
"Oh," I said, loading my voice with sarcasm, "that would be so horrible." I had turned to the bed as I spoke, and smoothed out the covers.
He said, "Well, it's polite to ask."
I sat on the bed, facing him. He said, "Can I sit on your lap?"
No one had ever sat on my lap before. I was thinking we would kiss first, that it would be like before, where we would kiss standing up then copulate at once, but he came and sat on my lap, straddling my legs and putting his full warm weight on them, and I embraced him, pressing my cheek and breasts against his chest. I pressed the thin starched cloth of his shirt against his back, under my crossed arms.
"What are you going to do first?"
I unbuttoned his shirt and tongued his nipples.
"Cute," he said.
* * *
We were fucking. I was on top for the first time, and I liked it. He wanted to know where he should cum--on my breasts?
I told him that if he wanted to be a real bastard he could cum on my face, "like the Russians do."
"Do the Russians do this?" he said, twisting my nipple.
"Oh," I said.
He said, "You aren't answering--do Russian soliders do this?"
"No," I said.
He said, "Do you like that, little slut?"
He made "slut" into the sweetest word I had ever heard.
- ► 2009 (60)
- Miss Lioness
- Pretty BBWs: Angel
- Stuffer Boy Sunday: Shirtless in July
- Technical Difficulties
- The Mystery of the Disappearing Stuffer Boys
- Stuffer Boy Sunday: Alex
- 1,000: the first 18
- Sugasm #137
- Pretty BBWs: The Sofa
- The Black Bed
- Yellow, Black, and Red
- Stuffer Boy Sunday: Bloating and Muscle
- Pretty BBWs: Blondes! Suspense! Sharp Things!
- Stuffer Boys: GalaxyBall
- Capitol Pride + Baywords is FAIL part II
- It DOES all sound the same!
- Baywords is FAIL
- Pretty BBWs: Umbrella
- Stuffer Boys: Bellydude500
- Permission Granted
- Pretty BBWs: More Russians
- The Best Before and After Pics
- Dreamed I was kissing a boy...
- I guess it could be worse?
- Chubby Girl Tattoos, part II
- Chubby Girl Tattoos
- Alexis Boone
- Out of Context: Celebrity Tummy Shots
- Stuffer Boys: Jhonny
- Exploring Feederism: The Motive
- Dirty Stories
- Out of Context: Kawaii Not
- Good Advice
- So I was having one of those 2am conversations...
- Send Me Your Stuffed Tummy Pics!
- The Feeder Girl
- Molly Loves... Cotton Candy
- What Is A Stuffer Boy?
- Chocolate Milk
- Molly Loves... Puff the Magic Dragon
- Molly Loves... Desire Unbound
- Once and For All
- Stuffer Stories: Stomach Stretching
- Stuffer Stories: Water Bottles
- You're My Favorite Motherfucker
- The Myth
- ▼ June (48)