In kink, there are some things that are possible, some things that should only be executed by someone who's had quite a bit of experience, and some things that you should never, ever do, but for the artistically inclined, can be drawn or written out as fantasies.
With feederism, however, things tend to get rather blurry.
Part of it is that very few people in the "scene" (if you can count the two websites and the fetish profiles on Myspace and YouTube a "scene") has ever watched a real live person stuffing themselves. I don't mean just a boy licking peanut butter off a spoon for my enjoyment, but the "hardcore" stuff where they drink a gallon of ice cream or swallow so many sodas the shape of their bodies changes. You know, the weird stuff. If someone had told me a year ago that there were boys who won prizes to eat 75 hot dogs at a go or shoved air pumps up their asses*, I most likely wouldn't have believed it either.
Thus, when I first heard cyberwhispers of boys drinking coke and then swallowing a mentos, I was positive it was some kind of feedee urban legend. After all, if that combination does this in the outside air
what the hell does it do to you once it was inside your body? BDSM is tame, I thought, looking in the mirror the day after the first time I was slapped during sex and finding nary a bruise. I have to worry about my partners possibly rupturing.
Then again, no one ever said this was the smartest idea for a fetish. I can copy Maymay and take the activism route, complain that, unlike BDSM, feederism is too small and scattered to have cons and classes and produce knowledgeable people to teach how-to's on...tube feeding? Really, one must simply question the sense of a lot of ravenous boys going about the world with the one question being uppermost in their minds being, "What would happen if I swallowed *this*?" Such a mentality is bound to end in the same species of shenanigans that results in men coming into the ER at 4 am trapped in various vacuums cleaner attachments.
Then, one day when I wasn't looking for it, I received help from an unexpected source:
The Mythbusters.
They actually use pop rocks rather than mentos, but the basic idea is the same. Because people (unlike rats) can burp, there is small chance of them going kablooie. Bellydu--actually, let's give him a better name, and refer to him as Jake from now on--Jake tried the mentos experiment shortly after this, and what happened? Nothing.
Of course, if you watch all the way through that particular episode, and end up at the credits, you'll see the result when they empty so many sodas into it that the pig's stomach does in fact part at the seams and spray its contents everywhere.
So if you're ever sitting in a bar drinking rum and diet coke, and I offer you a mentos, you'll know what I'm about.
Just don't say you weren't warned.
* Dear God, please don't do this.
Showing posts with label stuffing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label stuffing. Show all posts
Saturday, June 13, 2009
Monday, April 27, 2009
Ice Cream
An excerpt from a piece I'm currently working on:
...There's something about the sheer hunger, something very masculine about the concept of devouring--Takeru Kobayashi's world famous hot dog eating eating contests, frat boys downing bongs. It definitely has something to do with the fact that once he has filled himself to capacity--the good ones, the "feedees", can drink almost a gallon at a time--he is incapacitated. No bondage cuffs could hold a pretty boy as willingly in thrall as the warm, heavy belly and the loggy feeling that comes after an orgy of overindulgence. To my mind, there is nothing so sweet to look at as a naked, full-bellied boy "sleeping it off"...
It's a lot like bar hopping in that I drop down into a crossfire of conversation, a hungry boy latches onto me, and if he passes the first tests of grammar and basic articulateness I take him aside into a private chat-room. We'll stay there for the first "getting to know you" paragraphs and then switch to Yahoo chat for the webcams. The little screen opens and I see an unfamiliar bedroom, a new body.
He's naked in an office chair. I can see his brush, his dick...oh, and his belly. He's just a little plump, so it contrasts nicely with the rest of his body, not to big or too small, and I can't see the rest of him because he's angled the camera to cut out his face. Once when he moved to the other side of the room to get something something shifted and I spied the color of his hair before he bought up his hand to cover his face like a prima donna hounded by the paparazzi. I want to respect his privacy and yet at the same time it seems so frustrating and pointless not to be able to see his face.
Beside him is one of those plain plastic tubs of ice cream you can get at the grocery store. He says he's let the ice cream inside melt, so that he can swallow it more easily and it won't give him a tummy freeze. Such details fascinate me, all the little bitty things that can't be thought of, but can only be realized through experience. Like a sailor talking about proper knots or a foodie describing the various ways to make a single dish, you can tell a true expert by the attention to detail, the little things he does to make the job easier.
He lifts the whole thing to his mouth, like drinking from a bucket. There's no way he can drink a gallon, but he's going to try. My clit swells as I watch his throat move, and if I watch carefully I can even see his tummy grow a bit with each swallow, each gulp traveling down to press it out a little more. A loop of melted cream falls across the soft flesh just above his nipple, and I offer to lick it off.
He stops, overwhelmed. He can't do it, though he made a good try. His tummy is noticeably bigger, rounder. fuller. This pleases me: that he looks better, that my favorite part of him is more exaggerated, that his senses are overwhelmed with sweetness and richness and gluttony. He runs his hand down his belly, caressing it, then, without asking me, begins to jerk off.
...There's something about the sheer hunger, something very masculine about the concept of devouring--Takeru Kobayashi's world famous hot dog eating eating contests, frat boys downing bongs. It definitely has something to do with the fact that once he has filled himself to capacity--the good ones, the "feedees", can drink almost a gallon at a time--he is incapacitated. No bondage cuffs could hold a pretty boy as willingly in thrall as the warm, heavy belly and the loggy feeling that comes after an orgy of overindulgence. To my mind, there is nothing so sweet to look at as a naked, full-bellied boy "sleeping it off"...
It's a lot like bar hopping in that I drop down into a crossfire of conversation, a hungry boy latches onto me, and if he passes the first tests of grammar and basic articulateness I take him aside into a private chat-room. We'll stay there for the first "getting to know you" paragraphs and then switch to Yahoo chat for the webcams. The little screen opens and I see an unfamiliar bedroom, a new body.
He's naked in an office chair. I can see his brush, his dick...oh, and his belly. He's just a little plump, so it contrasts nicely with the rest of his body, not to big or too small, and I can't see the rest of him because he's angled the camera to cut out his face. Once when he moved to the other side of the room to get something something shifted and I spied the color of his hair before he bought up his hand to cover his face like a prima donna hounded by the paparazzi. I want to respect his privacy and yet at the same time it seems so frustrating and pointless not to be able to see his face.
Beside him is one of those plain plastic tubs of ice cream you can get at the grocery store. He says he's let the ice cream inside melt, so that he can swallow it more easily and it won't give him a tummy freeze. Such details fascinate me, all the little bitty things that can't be thought of, but can only be realized through experience. Like a sailor talking about proper knots or a foodie describing the various ways to make a single dish, you can tell a true expert by the attention to detail, the little things he does to make the job easier.
He lifts the whole thing to his mouth, like drinking from a bucket. There's no way he can drink a gallon, but he's going to try. My clit swells as I watch his throat move, and if I watch carefully I can even see his tummy grow a bit with each swallow, each gulp traveling down to press it out a little more. A loop of melted cream falls across the soft flesh just above his nipple, and I offer to lick it off.
He stops, overwhelmed. He can't do it, though he made a good try. His tummy is noticeably bigger, rounder. fuller. This pleases me: that he looks better, that my favorite part of him is more exaggerated, that his senses are overwhelmed with sweetness and richness and gluttony. He runs his hand down his belly, caressing it, then, without asking me, begins to jerk off.
Friday, December 5, 2008
Chat of the Week: Cee has an answer for everything
Cee! I moaned over IM one night, I met this new boy and he's too wonderful for me to talk to, what shall I do?
Cee: Stuff him and fuck him and hang him on the wall.
Cee: Then fuck him again.
Me: Of course. Why didn't I think of that?
Cee: Stuff him and fuck him and hang him on the wall.
Cee: Then fuck him again.
Me: Of course. Why didn't I think of that?
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Monster Sex
R u there?
Even though he always txts the same thing to me, he pretends not to know what I'm talking about. There?
Fancy a bj from a girl in glasses?
what's special about a girl in glasses?
you can imagine i'm a kinky geek goddess
there is that
should I come?
If you can come for a few minutes.
I go up to my room, brush my hair. I slip a sharp-edged condom into my bra--foil wrapper.
Max is in the same room as me, writing. I pat his blonde hair. "I'm going for a walk."
"Oh?" he says, looking up.
"Is Jesus your friend?" says J. from the floor.
"No," I say. I go out.
My breast buzzes.
Well?
I txt back, coming.
I regret it a little. Mr. Six would have let him wait. Mr. Six would have made him think he wasn't coming. Then, only when he was at the very top of the stairs with Rufus inside thinking he would never come: Knock knock.
Halfway down the street I start hiccuping.
Rufus is sitting with his knees on the sofa, waiting. hic! excitement. he looks out the window, anxious. hic! Must stop--isn't sexy. hic!
I hold my breath.
"God fucking dammit!" I yell.
Hic.
Rufus is panicking, both hands over his mouth. Giggles.
Scream. Yell: reset. Someone come up from behind and yell, "Boo!"
hic!
Half a street away, I hold my breath again. This has got to stop.
Rufus opens the door. Mr. Six holds up a bottle of Orange Crush. Nervous, Rufus shows him in, trying not to hiccup, fails. Mr. Six says "Aww, here," gives him a drink. Rufus gulps it down, swallows the hiccups, gasps.
Mr. Six is drinking too, laughing at him.
"Shut up," says Rufus, kisses him.
hic!
Hold breath again. Moment passes in which I imagine my diaphragm erupting. Somehow it calms. I don't feel calm.
Cross the street. Headlights.
Peering in the dark--which door? Up the creaky creaky stairs. I leave the door open, on the bottom, even though it is also open at the top. Anyone could get in. Robbers.
Last time he was watching TV. This time he is already standing. Big shape--comes to me. We make out. He finds my chiffon skirt, perhaps he'll pull it up--I want to be bare-assed to anyone looking up the stairs from the street.
The french kissing ends. He looks back to the sofa. He wants to sit down. No, he's turning off the TV. "It's dark," I say. He reaches to turn on a lamp, but instead AC goes silent.
Uh-oh, I think, as he takes my hand in his large, dry palm. It's so dark there's nothing to see, only touch, and I know how my mind will people the dark with shapes. He's ahead of me, opens the door. I remember the first time, party outside, he pulled me in the same way. "I wish we had done it when we weren't drunk", I had told him then.
All dark, just shapes. In the dark he will not have a face, just a blank hole. "Wait," I say, laughing a little, "let me take off my sandals."
First time we did this, my grandmother had been dead. My father had called and told me the week before. His room is a wreck: clothes, boxes, a hatrack. But only in the daylight. Now just big lurking shapes.
Last time, I had realized that he could have been anything. I couldn't see anything but black, I only knew he was there from his mouth on my pussy. He could have been doing anything else without me seeing. He could have switched his body entirely, changed to a wolf, silently swelled to fill the whole room...
He pulls me down onto the bed. Swell of his belly. Perhaps pressing my hand to it will make it cave in, the sides will clamp down on my hands, cutting them off. Teeth, blood, scream. His mouth is a warm wet hole on mine, probing tongue. He lifts my thigh, I realize something about myself.
"I'm so wet," I say.
"You are." He closes my legs, lays a hand on my knee.
"Aren't you going to put them in?"
"I will," he says.
His fingers slip in easily, without a hint of the pain that usually threads the sides of my cunt hole. All the while we kiss, his tongue encircling mine, his mouth wet, covering my chin. My hands in his hair are wet, his neck is slippery. Only touch, can't see a thing. Perhaps in the throes of it his head will detach from his body, big drops of yellow ooze, and I won't realize it until I reach for his body and realize that it's somewhere else, that he's nibbling the back of my ear while his chest is still in front of me. I put my hand in the crook of his neck so I can feel it in case he decides to detach. Tongue. I bit the tip and realize his whole tongue is extended out of his mouth, the length of it.
He's doing it, I think, he's doing it now. He pulls my hand down--feel my cock. "Can we turn on a light?" I ask. "Want to see what I'm doing."
"All right," he says. As wet as its made me, my libido won't take much more of this, soon I'll start to freak out.
The light is on in a moment. He is wearing a t-shirt, bare legged, his broad face. He's grinning. Human. I sigh with relief and we kiss--he lays back, pushing my head down towards his crotch. Blowjob.
I look up and realize the mirror on the wall, we're exactly even. I can watch myself give him a blowjob. I smile at myself, like that girl with the website--will I tear with love? (link) My face takes on the same elongated shape as hers.
Good sloppy blowjob. Sloppy seconds. even thirds (link. make it exact). my hair makes a webbing around my face, sticking to everything. My own hair in the blowjob.
The bed begins to squeak--our combined weight is rocking the whole thing.
I can't come. "Comeoncomeoncomeoncomeon!" Rufus barks as he thrusts into Mr. Six's arsehole over and over again.
Smell of fruit. Did he fart? Pause half a beat. Thrust, thrust, thrust...
My hips are killing me, stretched to accommodate his bulk. Why must they ache? I stretch my legs up--pilates--he goes wild. Thrustthrustthrustthrustthrust. What is that, oh god, my ass, his hand, no, it's his balls, with every thrust his balls are swinging and hitting me square in the pink pucker-up of my ass.
"Ohohohoh," I say.
His cock slips out, he lets it go, it brushes the lip of my pussy and he thrusts it right back in again. Press. I glance up and see him with his head up, his eyes shut tight, holding.
Oh, I think, this must be it.
Ejaculation.
For a second I'm afraid he's going to collapse on me. His head drops, then he kisses my breast. Smiles, eyes nearly closing. The he pulls himself up, goes out into the hall still naked. I catch a glimpse of the condom hanging halfway off his dick, full of sperm.
I lay on the bed where he left me. My skirt is around my waist, one leg drawn up, falling against one another. No orgasm. Unhappy? No.
Mr. Six laughs. He tilts a bottle of orange crush and drinks and drinks until his belly is round and hard--belches. He caresses the curve of it and that's all, what a thousand licks had not been able to put into me is lit up. My legs begin to stir--another round?
The BHM is back. He turns off the light, gets in bed with me. We tangle up together, belly bulge against mine. Might collapse. I think he can eat me, now.
"Hi," I say, in between kisses.
"Mm," he says.
Related:
◆ Confused as to who the heck it is that I'm writing about? Check out the Who's Who of Stuffies.
Even though he always txts the same thing to me, he pretends not to know what I'm talking about. There?
Fancy a bj from a girl in glasses?
what's special about a girl in glasses?
you can imagine i'm a kinky geek goddess
there is that
should I come?
If you can come for a few minutes.
I go up to my room, brush my hair. I slip a sharp-edged condom into my bra--foil wrapper.
Max is in the same room as me, writing. I pat his blonde hair. "I'm going for a walk."
"Oh?" he says, looking up.
"Is Jesus your friend?" says J. from the floor.
"No," I say. I go out.
My breast buzzes.
Well?
I txt back, coming.
I regret it a little. Mr. Six would have let him wait. Mr. Six would have made him think he wasn't coming. Then, only when he was at the very top of the stairs with Rufus inside thinking he would never come: Knock knock.
Halfway down the street I start hiccuping.
Rufus is sitting with his knees on the sofa, waiting. hic! excitement. he looks out the window, anxious. hic! Must stop--isn't sexy. hic!
I hold my breath.
"God fucking dammit!" I yell.
Hic.
Rufus is panicking, both hands over his mouth. Giggles.
Scream. Yell: reset. Someone come up from behind and yell, "Boo!"
hic!
Half a street away, I hold my breath again. This has got to stop.
Rufus opens the door. Mr. Six holds up a bottle of Orange Crush. Nervous, Rufus shows him in, trying not to hiccup, fails. Mr. Six says "Aww, here," gives him a drink. Rufus gulps it down, swallows the hiccups, gasps.
Mr. Six is drinking too, laughing at him.
"Shut up," says Rufus, kisses him.
hic!
Hold breath again. Moment passes in which I imagine my diaphragm erupting. Somehow it calms. I don't feel calm.
Cross the street. Headlights.
Peering in the dark--which door? Up the creaky creaky stairs. I leave the door open, on the bottom, even though it is also open at the top. Anyone could get in. Robbers.
Last time he was watching TV. This time he is already standing. Big shape--comes to me. We make out. He finds my chiffon skirt, perhaps he'll pull it up--I want to be bare-assed to anyone looking up the stairs from the street.
The french kissing ends. He looks back to the sofa. He wants to sit down. No, he's turning off the TV. "It's dark," I say. He reaches to turn on a lamp, but instead AC goes silent.
Uh-oh, I think, as he takes my hand in his large, dry palm. It's so dark there's nothing to see, only touch, and I know how my mind will people the dark with shapes. He's ahead of me, opens the door. I remember the first time, party outside, he pulled me in the same way. "I wish we had done it when we weren't drunk", I had told him then.
All dark, just shapes. In the dark he will not have a face, just a blank hole. "Wait," I say, laughing a little, "let me take off my sandals."
First time we did this, my grandmother had been dead. My father had called and told me the week before. His room is a wreck: clothes, boxes, a hatrack. But only in the daylight. Now just big lurking shapes.
Last time, I had realized that he could have been anything. I couldn't see anything but black, I only knew he was there from his mouth on my pussy. He could have been doing anything else without me seeing. He could have switched his body entirely, changed to a wolf, silently swelled to fill the whole room...
He pulls me down onto the bed. Swell of his belly. Perhaps pressing my hand to it will make it cave in, the sides will clamp down on my hands, cutting them off. Teeth, blood, scream. His mouth is a warm wet hole on mine, probing tongue. He lifts my thigh, I realize something about myself.
"I'm so wet," I say.
"You are." He closes my legs, lays a hand on my knee.
"Aren't you going to put them in?"
"I will," he says.
His fingers slip in easily, without a hint of the pain that usually threads the sides of my cunt hole. All the while we kiss, his tongue encircling mine, his mouth wet, covering my chin. My hands in his hair are wet, his neck is slippery. Only touch, can't see a thing. Perhaps in the throes of it his head will detach from his body, big drops of yellow ooze, and I won't realize it until I reach for his body and realize that it's somewhere else, that he's nibbling the back of my ear while his chest is still in front of me. I put my hand in the crook of his neck so I can feel it in case he decides to detach. Tongue. I bit the tip and realize his whole tongue is extended out of his mouth, the length of it.
He's doing it, I think, he's doing it now. He pulls my hand down--feel my cock. "Can we turn on a light?" I ask. "Want to see what I'm doing."
"All right," he says. As wet as its made me, my libido won't take much more of this, soon I'll start to freak out.
The light is on in a moment. He is wearing a t-shirt, bare legged, his broad face. He's grinning. Human. I sigh with relief and we kiss--he lays back, pushing my head down towards his crotch. Blowjob.
I look up and realize the mirror on the wall, we're exactly even. I can watch myself give him a blowjob. I smile at myself, like that girl with the website--will I tear with love? (link) My face takes on the same elongated shape as hers.
Good sloppy blowjob. Sloppy seconds. even thirds (link. make it exact). my hair makes a webbing around my face, sticking to everything. My own hair in the blowjob.
The bed begins to squeak--our combined weight is rocking the whole thing.
I can't come. "Comeoncomeoncomeoncomeon!" Rufus barks as he thrusts into Mr. Six's arsehole over and over again.
Smell of fruit. Did he fart? Pause half a beat. Thrust, thrust, thrust...
My hips are killing me, stretched to accommodate his bulk. Why must they ache? I stretch my legs up--pilates--he goes wild. Thrustthrustthrustthrustthrust. What is that, oh god, my ass, his hand, no, it's his balls, with every thrust his balls are swinging and hitting me square in the pink pucker-up of my ass.
"Ohohohoh," I say.
His cock slips out, he lets it go, it brushes the lip of my pussy and he thrusts it right back in again. Press. I glance up and see him with his head up, his eyes shut tight, holding.
Oh, I think, this must be it.
Ejaculation.
For a second I'm afraid he's going to collapse on me. His head drops, then he kisses my breast. Smiles, eyes nearly closing. The he pulls himself up, goes out into the hall still naked. I catch a glimpse of the condom hanging halfway off his dick, full of sperm.
I lay on the bed where he left me. My skirt is around my waist, one leg drawn up, falling against one another. No orgasm. Unhappy? No.
Mr. Six laughs. He tilts a bottle of orange crush and drinks and drinks until his belly is round and hard--belches. He caresses the curve of it and that's all, what a thousand licks had not been able to put into me is lit up. My legs begin to stir--another round?
The BHM is back. He turns off the light, gets in bed with me. We tangle up together, belly bulge against mine. Might collapse. I think he can eat me, now.
"Hi," I say, in between kisses.
"Mm," he says.
Related:
◆ Confused as to who the heck it is that I'm writing about? Check out the Who's Who of Stuffies.
Monday, September 29, 2008
Stuffer Boy Sunday and Technical Difficulties
As you may have noticed, it's not, in fact, Sunday. However, rather than a tale of too many drinks Sunday night, I can only tell you that my house's wireless is busted. It's paid for by all of us, but now the wireless people are claiming they never got the first payment...which was sent to them a year ago.
Such snafus are common, but it means I might not be on very much in the coming weeks, if at all. Don't worry, tho, there's a few more scheduled posts, so things won't dissapear entirely...but for the next couple weeks the blog is kinda on hiatus.
I'll be back, tho, to spread more word about "the rarest fetish in the world". Might even have the last installment in that story about Rufus. ;)
In the meantime, enjoy some watermelon:
Related:
◆ See more beautiful bellies in Molly's Flickr favorites!
◆ Are YOU the next stuffer boy? Submit a photo to missmollyren (at) gmail (dot) com
Such snafus are common, but it means I might not be on very much in the coming weeks, if at all. Don't worry, tho, there's a few more scheduled posts, so things won't dissapear entirely...but for the next couple weeks the blog is kinda on hiatus.
I'll be back, tho, to spread more word about "the rarest fetish in the world". Might even have the last installment in that story about Rufus. ;)
In the meantime, enjoy some watermelon:
Related:
◆ See more beautiful bellies in Molly's Flickr favorites!
◆ Are YOU the next stuffer boy? Submit a photo to missmollyren (at) gmail (dot) com
Monday, September 15, 2008
Stuffer Boy Sunday Isn't Just for Sundays: n2bfed
EDIT: Hey all, sorry about the lateness of this one. I somehow scheduled it funny--one of the hazards of late night updates.
Monday, September 1, 2008
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.
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.
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Stuffer Boy Sunday: cxanadu24
[Via.]
Cxanadu can inflate himself to a shocking size even among stuffer boys. You can always tell it's him by the way he has to lean way back to compensate for all the weight in front.
The comments for this particular video are rather funny in that no one can figure out whether this is actually something someone can do:
berit542: guys its a different guy
cman18000: it's two different people, watch carefully at 0:17, the skin color changes
What do you think, all you stuffies, gainers, and drooling FAs? Shouldn't something that stretches the human body this much out of shape be fictional?
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Shake Bonging: Incredible
Do you think Stephen Hawking might have a stuffing fetish?
This is the only vid up on ForceMeBig's YouTube channel, but once you've watched it you realize he doesn't really need any more.
This is the only vid up on ForceMeBig's YouTube channel, but once you've watched it you realize he doesn't really need any more.
Sunday, August 17, 2008
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
You don't have a fetish, you're just selfish
Violet Blue critiqued an article by Psychology Today entitled "Typically Twisted" The article attempts to de-mystify many of the thoughts and behaviors people keep secret for fear of not being seen as "normal". Like fetishes, for example (direct quote):
Ok, I thought, until I finished the sentance:
Oh, crap.
I've had ten partners in my life, and I've never asked any of them to stuff themselves while having sex (mostly because until recently I wouldn't have been able to tell them what I wanted if they asked me). Instead I've pushed myself to be what--for me--might be termed "adventurous". With all the proper contraceptives and barriers in place (and sometimes not), I've been penetrated in all my holes. I've had penises and fingers and dildoes in my pussy, ass, and mouth. I've been sucked, licked, and fingered, experienced rimming, been handcuffed to a chair and even spanked (by my request). And there's never been a time when I've let my lover go before they've cum themselves. Usually, it's through my mouth on their dick, because I love to swallow sperm. Once, it was when I got a girl to squirt.
So much for just sexual reciprocity--how about emotional? Of the different people I've been with, some I've loved, some I've hated, some have just been a casual fling. Every one of the experiences has involved me reaching out to my partner, wanting to know what they liked, wanting to know about their lives. Some of these experiences have changed me forever, making me think deeply about how another's mind works, how I should treat people, and how I wanted to be treated myself.
But of all these varied experiences, not any of them has ever brought me to orgasm.
For a long time I was miserable over this. I've had partners feeling inadequate because they couldn't get me off. I thought there was something wrong with me. Then I thought I was just a normal woman. Then I thought it was just because my lovers couldn't find my clit. Then I found a lover that loved pussy and was willing to spend hours down there doing all kinds of things... but still nothing.
Then one day I was wandering around Myspace and saw this picture: instant orgasm.
This has brought me to only one conclusion: The only thing that's ever taken me "there"--the only thing that makes the blood flow and my clit swell and finally every muscle in my pussy convulse with delight--is watching a skinny boy eating until his slender belly bulges out into a tight dome. No exceptions.
I could go on like I have been. I could chalk it all up to some kind of strange narcissism on my part and find a partner that was only into normal sex--and by "normal" I mean light BDSM or vanilla. And then I'd never have an orgasm again--unless it was through masturbation. Now that's what I call selfish.
The thing that puzzles me most about this article is how it can simply be narcissism at work, when I've searched for years to find an alternative that would allow my partners to get me off?
But what do you guys think? How do you answer the question of balancing what gets you off with finding a partner you can connect with--especially if you only get turned on by something rare? Is it like being gay, something that cannot be changed and must be lived out in order to be a fully developed human being... or is it just as narrow as only seeing a skinny blonde chick (or a fat blonde chick) as attractive?
I've cross posted this on Myspace and Fantasy Feeder. At the end of the week I'll cull out the best answers for a new post. This is something I've been struggling to come to terms with, so I'd love you guys to comment with any of your thoughts, feelings, or experiences. This probably won't be my last post on this topic... the "Typically twisted" article is being hooted in several places, but it's gotten me thinking about how I and other tummy fetishists tick...and this will definitely not be my last post on the subject.
A practice that is harmful, exploitative, or dangerous—such as pedophilia or public flashing—is deemed abnormal. But outside such clearly damaging obsessions, human-sexuality experts have a general rule: Unusual sexual practices are mostly harmless as long as they are part of a range of sexual responses. If you like dirty talk or get aroused by women's underwear, that's nothing to worry about...
Ok, I thought, until I finished the sentance:
... unless it's the only thing that turns you on.
Then it's usually called a paraphilia, defined as unconventional sexual behavior that's both obsessive and compulsive. For instance: A guy who can get off only when he's wearing diapers, or a woman who insists on dominating her partner. The person "is now substituting a behavior for a partner, and the behavior has become necessary for sexual satisfaction," sex educator and author Yvonne Fulbright explains.
A little bit of kink is a good thing if it spurs open-mindedness and a spirit of adventure. But when an object or a ritual becomes more important than the living, breathing partner, it gets in the way of a relationship and of sexual fulfillment.
Oh, crap.
I've had ten partners in my life, and I've never asked any of them to stuff themselves while having sex (mostly because until recently I wouldn't have been able to tell them what I wanted if they asked me). Instead I've pushed myself to be what--for me--might be termed "adventurous". With all the proper contraceptives and barriers in place (and sometimes not), I've been penetrated in all my holes. I've had penises and fingers and dildoes in my pussy, ass, and mouth. I've been sucked, licked, and fingered, experienced rimming, been handcuffed to a chair and even spanked (by my request). And there's never been a time when I've let my lover go before they've cum themselves. Usually, it's through my mouth on their dick, because I love to swallow sperm. Once, it was when I got a girl to squirt.
So much for just sexual reciprocity--how about emotional? Of the different people I've been with, some I've loved, some I've hated, some have just been a casual fling. Every one of the experiences has involved me reaching out to my partner, wanting to know what they liked, wanting to know about their lives. Some of these experiences have changed me forever, making me think deeply about how another's mind works, how I should treat people, and how I wanted to be treated myself.
But of all these varied experiences, not any of them has ever brought me to orgasm.
For a long time I was miserable over this. I've had partners feeling inadequate because they couldn't get me off. I thought there was something wrong with me. Then I thought I was just a normal woman. Then I thought it was just because my lovers couldn't find my clit. Then I found a lover that loved pussy and was willing to spend hours down there doing all kinds of things... but still nothing.
Then one day I was wandering around Myspace and saw this picture: instant orgasm.
This has brought me to only one conclusion: The only thing that's ever taken me "there"--the only thing that makes the blood flow and my clit swell and finally every muscle in my pussy convulse with delight--is watching a skinny boy eating until his slender belly bulges out into a tight dome. No exceptions.
I could go on like I have been. I could chalk it all up to some kind of strange narcissism on my part and find a partner that was only into normal sex--and by "normal" I mean light BDSM or vanilla. And then I'd never have an orgasm again--unless it was through masturbation. Now that's what I call selfish.
The thing that puzzles me most about this article is how it can simply be narcissism at work, when I've searched for years to find an alternative that would allow my partners to get me off?
But what do you guys think? How do you answer the question of balancing what gets you off with finding a partner you can connect with--especially if you only get turned on by something rare? Is it like being gay, something that cannot be changed and must be lived out in order to be a fully developed human being... or is it just as narrow as only seeing a skinny blonde chick (or a fat blonde chick) as attractive?
I've cross posted this on Myspace and Fantasy Feeder. At the end of the week I'll cull out the best answers for a new post. This is something I've been struggling to come to terms with, so I'd love you guys to comment with any of your thoughts, feelings, or experiences. This probably won't be my last post on this topic... the "Typically twisted" article is being hooted in several places, but it's gotten me thinking about how I and other tummy fetishists tick...and this will definitely not be my last post on the subject.
Friday, August 1, 2008
Txt Sx
Molly: --stuffs you!--
The Colt: --mmphs!--
Molly: U'll pop off all ur buttons!
The Colt: Buttons are for the weak!
The Colt: --mmphs!--
Molly: U'll pop off all ur buttons!
The Colt: Buttons are for the weak!
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
It's A Small World After All
When you have a rare fetish, you often wonder how many other people share your interests. Are there only a few dozen, or maybe uncounted millions, just waiting for you to stumble upon the right keyword or underground club?
MOLLY REN: bet you'll make the elastic snap soon with an appetite like yours
Bloated Belly Boy: Well, it's not just my belly stretching it
MOLLY REN: yes I bet you can hardly keep it in. maybe you could slip them off, reach around that swollen gut of yours and give it a pull or two
Bloated Belly Boy: mmm, sounds good to me
MOLLY REN: just shut your eyes and imagine a plump girl like me reaching around to massage that big hog's belly
Bloated Belly Boy: Oh god, that would be heaven
MOLLY REN: have to use both hands
When Bloated Belly Boy (or BBB for short) messaged me on Myspace, we wasted no time getting hot and heavy. Of course, since BBB is from the UK, it was only cybersex.
Bloated Belly Boy: Mmm, I'd reach back and rub you too
MOLLY REN: you'll be too busy playing with that stiffy in your pants, because that's what I want
Bloated Belly Boy: Mmm, yes ma'am
MOLLY REN: I don't want you to stop until you come all over your huge stuffed belly
Bloated Belly Boy: How can I say no to that?
This is strange, I thought. I suppose in RL terms it would be the equivalent of picking up a stranger in a dark bar and finding out in the make out room that you both had the same rhythm. He demanded to be punished, I called him names; he told me he was "so close" and I sent him a string of saucy words designed to push him over the edge. Then suddenly he wanted to see my face.
MOLLY REN: what do you look like?
BBB: That:
The collarbones-to-navel shot that was his profile pic was replaced by a face shot. It was like pulling someone out of the bar into the light of the street lamps and realizing they were the same person you'd dated in the same bar months before.
MOLLY REN: hmmm. you know, you were on {pervy website XXX}, weren't you?
BBB: I was, crap I didn't realize it was you
Even before I showed him a face pic, he knew at once who I was.
MOLLY REN: hahahaha, of all the boys in the UK how did I not recognize you?
Bloated Belly Boy: God, who'd have thought, I can't believe I never realized it was you
MOLLY REN: i can't either. so, dear, long time no see :)
BBB, using different pics and a different handle, had IM'd me almost nightly in the "early days"--i.e. around 5 months ago--when I first began a serious search for a boy that shared my fetish. Like Alex and the Colt, he'd disappeared from the internets without a trace. But apparently it didn't mean he'd lost interest.
Bloated Belly Boy: Indeed, I had to take a hiatus, real life got in the way. But I'm back now
MOLLY REN: amazing. i was going to like send you an e-mail or something, but I thought you'd lost interest, so I didn't.
MOLLY REN: geeze, I guess this fetish really is rare, eh?
I suppose, in some way possible only on the internet, it makes sense that we would all know each other eventually. The main hangouts on the internet for (straight) stuffers and feeders are Myspace, YouTube, and the occasional fetish website. The Colt says he's talked to Bellydude500, who I also occasionally chat with. In cyberspace, the fact that the Colt lives on the western side of the US and Bellydude500 the east are immaterial. Seen like that, perhaps it's not so crazy me and BBB would run into each other's profiles again, even though we live on separate continents.
MOLLY REN: bet you'll make the elastic snap soon with an appetite like yours
Bloated Belly Boy: Well, it's not just my belly stretching it
MOLLY REN: yes I bet you can hardly keep it in. maybe you could slip them off, reach around that swollen gut of yours and give it a pull or two
Bloated Belly Boy: mmm, sounds good to me
MOLLY REN: just shut your eyes and imagine a plump girl like me reaching around to massage that big hog's belly
Bloated Belly Boy: Oh god, that would be heaven
MOLLY REN: have to use both hands
When Bloated Belly Boy (or BBB for short) messaged me on Myspace, we wasted no time getting hot and heavy. Of course, since BBB is from the UK, it was only cybersex.
Bloated Belly Boy: Mmm, I'd reach back and rub you too
MOLLY REN: you'll be too busy playing with that stiffy in your pants, because that's what I want
Bloated Belly Boy: Mmm, yes ma'am
MOLLY REN: I don't want you to stop until you come all over your huge stuffed belly
Bloated Belly Boy: How can I say no to that?
This is strange, I thought. I suppose in RL terms it would be the equivalent of picking up a stranger in a dark bar and finding out in the make out room that you both had the same rhythm. He demanded to be punished, I called him names; he told me he was "so close" and I sent him a string of saucy words designed to push him over the edge. Then suddenly he wanted to see my face.
MOLLY REN: what do you look like?
BBB: That:
The collarbones-to-navel shot that was his profile pic was replaced by a face shot. It was like pulling someone out of the bar into the light of the street lamps and realizing they were the same person you'd dated in the same bar months before.
MOLLY REN: hmmm. you know, you were on {pervy website XXX}, weren't you?
BBB: I was, crap I didn't realize it was you
Even before I showed him a face pic, he knew at once who I was.
MOLLY REN: hahahaha, of all the boys in the UK how did I not recognize you?
Bloated Belly Boy: God, who'd have thought, I can't believe I never realized it was you
MOLLY REN: i can't either. so, dear, long time no see :)
BBB, using different pics and a different handle, had IM'd me almost nightly in the "early days"--i.e. around 5 months ago--when I first began a serious search for a boy that shared my fetish. Like Alex and the Colt, he'd disappeared from the internets without a trace. But apparently it didn't mean he'd lost interest.
Bloated Belly Boy: Indeed, I had to take a hiatus, real life got in the way. But I'm back now
MOLLY REN: amazing. i was going to like send you an e-mail or something, but I thought you'd lost interest, so I didn't.
MOLLY REN: geeze, I guess this fetish really is rare, eh?
I suppose, in some way possible only on the internet, it makes sense that we would all know each other eventually. The main hangouts on the internet for (straight) stuffers and feeders are Myspace, YouTube, and the occasional fetish website. The Colt says he's talked to Bellydude500, who I also occasionally chat with. In cyberspace, the fact that the Colt lives on the western side of the US and Bellydude500 the east are immaterial. Seen like that, perhaps it's not so crazy me and BBB would run into each other's profiles again, even though we live on separate continents.
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Yellow, Black, and Red
His skin is yellow--not with jaundice, but the color of caution tape. His eyes were pits of black. The colors are stark, but also smudgy, murky... what was that red stuff on the carpet, by his hand?
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.
MOLLY: What?
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: Wow
CEE: What?
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.
MOLLY: Tease!
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.
MOLLY: Darn.
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.
MOLLY: What?
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: Wow
CEE: What?
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.
MOLLY: Tease!
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.
MOLLY: Darn.
Monday, June 16, 2008
The Best Before and After Pics
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.
The Feeder Girl
I knew I was looking for trouble when my fetish didn't have a name.
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.
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.
Chocolate Milk
MOLLY: have you always liked girls this way?
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*
BERLIOZ: Really?
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
MOLLY: ooh
MOLLY: ahh
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
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*
BERLIOZ: Really?
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
MOLLY: ooh
MOLLY: ahh
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
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.
"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.
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.
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