chapter 9

You leave the clinic in a shocked daze, unconcerned at your disheveled appearance, your long hair matted with sweat and saliva, the odor of your own arousal mixed with your probation officer's cum still clinging to you. The only thought on your mind is the knowledge that the drugs are beginning to take effect. You curse him for doing this to you as you try to think through the haze of arousal and appetite.

You need food. The grocery store? No, too complicated. You can already feel your thought processes getting more and more fogged. Dairy Queen. You see the sign and pull into the drive through lane. The voice on the intercom is crisp. "What can I get for you Ma'am?" You stare at the board, and start naming things.

"I need three. No - four deluxe cheeseburger meals. Four Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough Blizzard treats. Erm. Three ice cream cakes."

"Which ones Ma'am?"

"What?" You ask, struggling to concentrate in the face of the pictures of food in front of you.

"Which cakes would you like Ma'am? Birthday? Valentine? Round?"

"One of each. Just pick your favorites." You manage. "Oh, actually, you know, please double the order of meals and blizzards will you?"

"Yes Ma'am." The young attendant says. Pull forward to the next window and I will have someone bag that up and bring it right out to you."

"Thank you. Oh - can you give me two of the blizzards loose?"

"Yes Ma'am." Some part of you might have been self-conscious about ordering such large amounts of food under normal circumstances, but you find yourself unconcerned about being judged by the young attendant. "Having a party?" He smiles as he opens the trunk of your car and places several large bags of food inside.

Getting home is a blur, your only memory is the relief of closing your apartment door and then lying back on the sofa to begin to gorge yourself. The food tastes better than anything you've ever eaten, and you begin to devour it, taking pleasure in the salty fatty tastes. You notice ketchup dripping from your mouth onto your pretty floral dress, but your animal urges your only concern.

Your hunger dulled for a moment, you pause in your eating to pull up your dress, gathering the fabric around your waist to stare in frustration at the stainless steel device. The metal belt sits above your hips, cinched tight around your abdomen just below your belly button. The fit is restricting, and you're aware that you already feel bloated, your belly pressing against the unyielding prison. You idly run your greasy fingers along the top of the belt, sliding them beneath the band to try to relieve the pressure. Without really thinking about it, you realize that you have managed to get four finger tips under the waist belt.

Suddenly aware again of how aroused you are, you push your fingers down, exhaling and drawing in your belly to try to make enough space to reach your inflamed pussy. You grunt with frustration as your fingers touch the top of your pubic bone, your knuckles trapped by the belt, keeping them from getting closer to your sex. Defeated, you withdraw your digits, laying back on the couch and letting your fingertips idly trace the edges of the crotch-plate.

The tear-drop shape of the crotch plate is deviously constructed, the curved steel between your thighs looks as though it should yield easily to a slim finger. The appearance is deceptive however, and the skillfully designed device denies every attempt to touch your vulva.

Trying again, you squirm, spreading your legs wide to try again to find a position that creates a gap that you can exploit. Your awareness of your body is heightened by your craving, and you feel your pussy swell eagerly. You feel your vagina moisten and dilate with the primal expectation of penetration, your body encouraging your exploration with a flush of arousal and the ache of unsatisfying need.

You don't know how long you wrestle with the belt, trying to insinuate a finger far enough to ease your inflamed urgency, but eventually you collapse, exhausted, sobbing with defeat and unbearable disappointment. You curse its design, frustrated that every possible vulnerability seems to be secured.

Wallowing in your failure, your attention wanders back to the mountain of food, realizing that your are ravenously hungry again. You marshal your energy, overcoming your exhaustion to roll off the couch and kneel amidst the cartons of food as you glut yourself once more.

You realize that at some point your exhaustion must have overcome your hunger as you wake to the harsh sound of your alarm. Shaking off the grogginess of your food coma, you look at yourself with disgust. Your body and clothes are stained with food, your stomach bloated and distended. Picking up your phone you swipe the alarm to cancel it, an notice a text.

"Fanny" It reads. "Sorry this is awkward, especially after the other night, but you're late for work again. We need to talk about your performance. Stop by my office at your earliest convenience, Greg." Your heart sinks at the idea of dealing with your boss.