Quickie: Strange Things

A "quickie" is a fragment of story that doesn't quite fit anywhere else. But if you read them, you'll find that they might illuminate a few points of the larger story.

* * *

A constant source of marvels to any of his lovers or acquaintances was Mr. Six's seeming inexhaustible libido. Sometimes, when they had nothing better to do, they would sit and mythologize about it, as if Mr. Six were a movie star or a historical figure and not someone they shared their bed and house with--adding to it, speculating, embroidering truths. it was true, however, that once at a dinner party the topic of the very strangest things to get off to came up...and Rufus found himself blushing as Mister Six had begun to slowly, subtly...then not so subtilely, to lead up to that time in the garrett when he had forced Rufus to drink six bottle of--

"Is there anything you don't get off of?" Rufus cut in, so abruptly that people laughed.

It took the table a moment before they realized Mr. Six had actually taken the question seriously. The silence lengthened.

"Chewing gum," said Mr. Six at last. "the noise it makes. And I hate the flavor."

* * *

"He gets off from watching The Thing--"

Rihanna had yet to see the movie.

"There's this bit in it where a doctor is giving this guy a shock treatment and the guy's stomach caves in and grows teeth and bites off his hands..."

Rihanna's eyes widened. "He gets off from that?"

Rufus had been laying with him on the sofa in the half-dark, as usual. "And I have my head in his lap, right? And all the sudden I realize he's popped a stiffy!"

Rihanna laughed at the phrase he used and immediately regretted it when she saw how distraught Rufus looked. "Maybe it was just you...", she tried to soothe him, thinking that the weight off Rufus' head on her mound, all that silky hair, would be enough to get anyone off.

"He wasn't even looking at me! You know how he gets, right? The Look..."

Rufus had been shutting his eyes. He himself was "sensitive", with a private list of movie scenes he could hardly bare to look at--everything from Violet Beureguard in Willy Wonka to the last thirty minutes of Akira--when he'd noticed Mr. Six's growing "problem".

"And I said, are you getting off? And he said, 'His stomach caves in,' very simply, like if there's a tummy in it he just "has" to get off! But there's this other bit, where the head kind of oozes off the table--"

"Stop!" said Rihanna, laughing and putting her hands over her ears.

"--and he's still hard! I mean, I'm a pervert too, but I'm not perverted like that!"

Rihanna began to laugh again, this time at Rufus' mix of awestruck and indignant.

"I've just never thought of what the inside of his mind is like--tentacle porn and medical texts and The Cell and all that vore by mamabliss... it's all gotten mixed up in his head until I just can't imagine what he's envisioning when we're having sex. How can real life sex be enough for him, anyway... sometimes I think he's lost all sense of boundaries when it comes to fantasy..."

"Maybe he likes the idea of kissing your lips when the rest of you is someplace else. Maybe he likes the idea of your morphing into a lot of tentacles to pull him closer, or splitting down the middle so he can get his whole body inside you. Isn't there that scene in Alien where he puts his tail up her ass?"

Rufus just shook his head.

Warm Milk, Part 2: Molly Arrives

Sexy stuffing stories, my peeps: it's what I live for. Here's part 1 if you wanna catch up.

* * *

There was a knock on the door.

Rufus jumped up from the sofa. He had shaved, buttoned up, tucked in, and gave himself a quick look in the mirror before he opened the door. In that single second of pull a tingle seized his crotch--half sex, half fear at not knowing who he would find on the other side.

And there she was.

"You must be Molly," he said, not knowing what else to say.

Molly lowered her head, but a small smile upturned one corner of her mouth. "He said you were pretty," she said, looking up at him through her long eyelashes, "and it's true."

The corner of each of her merry eyes was decorated with a tiny red jewel, and her dimpled cheek had a beauty mark on it. Rufus felt all his tension sigh out--and his chest swell again on the next breath.

"And you are adorable," he told her, "a little burlesque princess."

Molly stepped inside, taking it all in: the balcony with the view of the city in the pouring rain, the fully equipped kitchen, the door to the bedroom. Then she undid her belt, turned, and allowed her trench to slide down off her shoulders. "Take my coat?" she asked him sweetly.

Slowly, Rufus curled his fingers under the collar, between the fabric and her warm skin, and the coat slid off. Underneath she was wearing thigh-highs, frilly red panties, and a corset teddy that completely failed to conceal the thickness of her waist or her round soft belly. She had a pert rump, and two bouncy breasts ready to spill from their cups as soon as she bent over. She stood smiling at him a little, her hands rising to tighten the combs that held her curly hair back--her eyes asked him if he was pleased.

Rufus felt a pleasurable twinge in his belly, and without thinking reached out to draw her closer to him. She was smaller than he was--she could pillow her head on his breast, and he could rest his chin on the top of her head. He heard her give a little "Oh," as she came up against his broad chest and his soft tummy, the same combination that had so enticed Andre Six. She lay one of her little manicured hands on his chest, the nails red as love, and then she tweaked his nipple!

He felt a tickle: one of her hands grope around, squeezed one of his love handles through his shirt. "You're soft," she said."

"Softer than most boys, I've been told." His voice had deepened, coming up from his chest.

"Not as soft as I am, though," she said, looking up at him through her eyelashes.

I bet you are, he thought, eyeing her thick waist--she might even outweigh him a little, for all their difference in height. "I'd like to kiss you," he said.

"I'm surprised you waited this long," she said, and turned her face up to him, her flower-pink lips parted prettily.

He caught her open mouthed, and as their kiss deepened he felt her arms slide under his, gripping his shoulder blades--a harness of lust. Rufus ran her hands down the curves of her sides, feeling the hard ribs of her corset and then the soft, soft globes of her rump beneath. He was pressing his palms to them, about to squeeze, when with a little flip of her head she came loose from his mouth. Rufus was left staring stupidly at her, his lips still parted. She bit him gently on the lower lip.

"Want to help me carry my bags?" she asked, smiling.

The door was still open. Her bags were out in the hallway, a large one made of maroon crocodile, and two paper grocery bags. When he brought them in for her he noticed they held a gallon of milk and a new six pack of Orange Crush.

Rufus smiled.

* * *

Part three is next, so stay tuned!


Related:

◆ See more beautiful bellies in Molly's Flickr favorites!

The Experiment

This would have been Molly's 104th post.

On other blogs, such a milestone would count for cake and champagne (or, in my case, a liter of Diet Coke and pack of Mentos.) Instead, Molly has taken a long, hard look at what she wants the future of this blog to be.

When she first came to me, eager to show off what she claimed to be "The Very First Feederism Blog, Anywhere!" I was as excited as she. I am a stuffer myself, and wildly interested in anyone's efforts to legitimize this delightful subculture. A blog devoted particularly to the intestinal workings of the most beautiful of creatures, stuffer boys, made me hurry to my bedroom in anticipation of a long session of critique.

My verdict? A quiet, yet adamant: "It's dull, dear."

Her eyes filled, but I went on: "This isn't at all what you envisioned--where are the descriptions of real life stuffing orgies you've attended? Your creation of a pinhole camera for a tour of the UK, in which you would take glorious black and white photos for Stuffies Magazine, Issue 1? Where are your drafts for Champagne, the full-length fetish novel starring myself, Rufus and Rihanna with full-color illustrations by mamabliss? All you have to show for your hundreds of hours of wanking is a very ugly template--" she protested that all Blogger templates were so--"and a lot of poorly archived photos! And--" I raged on, for this made me the most indignant of all, "what was with your ridiculous insistence on referring to me as fictional?!"

I admit for someone who so loves the softer sex, I can be very hard sometimes. Fortunately, Molly was only briefly dismayed. She knows that the best cure for when I get uppity is to tell me to stuff it-- in this case, by shoving a Twinkie in my mouth. Nevertheless, it required the additional administration of several liters of soda before I was fully quieted.

Later, having eased me by unbuttoning my suddenly-too-tight-clothes, she gently whispered to me the realities of the world. Sex blogging, of whatever kind, is a labor of love, for which few, if any, receive compensation. Her carefree college days are over, along with much of her free time. She must begin a search for a real career--one that will help her pay off the thousands of dollars she has incurred in college loans. The writers of a few of the other sex blogs she reads so voraciously sometimes work out ways to get paid for it, but she has yet to do that--and she feels odd simply asking for handouts. To carry out the projects she's envisioned, she'll need more readers, writers, artists, and fetish enthusiasts to help her--connections she has yet to make. And, she added, since Saturday she has had shooting pains in her right wrist, perhaps the onset of carpal tunnel after all this blogging--

"But," I pointed out as her hand cupped the fullest part of my belly, giving it a gentle squeeze, "it does get you real life dates with stuffer boys."

Though a mention of the Cheesecake Factory is enough to distract me, I do sometimes make some very good points. This one was enough to make her change her whole outlook. And so, as she continued rubbing my stuffed belly and I encouraged her with a gurgle or a moan every now and then, she laid out a new plan for Stuffies. She would try to write Champagne. Every week she would try--she laid particular emphasis on try--to post a new, polished segment of six stories that would have to do with our adventures in stuffing, bloating, and lots of m/m/f sex. I smiled at her projected number of tales.

"And the weekly BBWs and stuffer boys," I urged, "you shouldn't stop those. And Jaime has sent you the next installement in his adventures with the BBW Candy. And--"

She stuffed another Twinkie in my mouth.

But you, dear Reader--how will you keep up with these still-constant, but less scheduled updates? There are lots of ways!

♥ You can subscribe! Click on the box on the left that says "Subscribe to Stuffies"--that will bring you to the Stuffies RSS Feed!

♥ You can friend Molly on Myspace, and receive blog invites and updates from there.

What else can you do to help Molly?

♥ Leave comments! Comments, ideas, and constructive criticism are all welcome!

♥ E-mail Molly! Do you have an article or photo to submit, or just want to send her a link to something feeder-related on the web? You can send her a message on missmollyren (at) gmail (dot) com.

♥ Or you can send her a message on one of her profiles on Fantasy Feeder, Myspace, Fetlife , or Curvage.

"I think I'll answer all my e-mails on Sundays," she said, gently laying her plump thigh across my hip. "And who knows? Maybe someday..."

But what "someday" would be I never got to hear. Cradling my bursting belly, I was already asleep, dreaming of my former adventures...and envisioning those that would come tomorrow.

Job Search

I have a new housemate, a Celtic she. The entire household is being reshuffled as people come back to school and people like me, who've already graduated, move out. My room--with it's awesome bed and adjacent shower (I never did get to have an orgy in it)--will be taken over by yet another girl who I recently learned would be none too pleased to have me as a roommate. Thus this hurried move.

So I'm simultaneously looking for jobs and housing on my laptop when the Celt comes into the kitchen to make breakfast. She wants to know why I was trying to look for a house in Bigtown when I already reviewed a place in Littletown that was satisfactory. I say I'm trying to get a job in Bigtown anyway. Which, somehow or other, moves to her ask what I most enjoyed doing.

More than anything in the world I enjoy coaxing skinny boys to overeat until their tummies bulge out and they become helpless. "They don't pay you for the stuff I like to do," I say at last.

Which eads to another question from her. I almost want to tell her I want to be a dominatrix or something and finally come to my own rescue by telling her I'm writing a novel.

"What's it about?"

"Oh, the usual," I say, still trying to find a house in Bigtown and watching the chances evaporate before my eyes. "Famous singers, beautiful women, a love triangle. The whole nine yards."

Dirty Stories

All my life I've hated the idea of finding love on websites because I was afraid of branding myself as being socially inept. When I thought of looking for a girl/boy using a dating service I was faced with two images in my mind: that of a unwashed geek who spent five hours wanking in his basement hiding behind a computer screen or those dumpy conservative couples on eHarmony. I didn't drag myself up from being a virginal high-school bookworm with no fashion sense just to be shoved right back into that closet, I vowed.

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.

Stuffer Stories: Stomach Stretching

In the mornings Mister Six usually got up before her. The bedroom had two large doors that opened straight outside onto the patio, and thus to the pool--he often went out first thing in the morning, just as he was, to swim a few laps. Rihanna, waking a little later, would see him come up out of the pool and dash the water from his skin, glowing pink from the exertion and the shock of the cold. A few days after the first stuffing she woke up to see him standing in the doorway, squeezing the water from his hair.

"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.

Stuffer Stories: Water Bottles

Rihanna was awoken by a familiar, satisfied sigh.

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."

"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.