Happy birthday, baby

chapter 5

“Do you need a break, little girl?” I ask in mock concern.

“Yes,” you breathe. Your breaths are getting smaller, shorter, because of how much we’ve fed you.

“Okay, baby,” I agree. “Madelyn, can you bring in the ice cream?”

“That’s not a break!” you exclaim. You’re so pathetic; you barely have enough breath to speak. Good.

“It’s liquid,” I remind you. “Just to fill in the empty spaces.” I reach down and shake your heavy belly. I can hear the food and wine and smoothie and chocolate milk sloshing around in there. It makes you burp and whimper at the same time.

“Please, Daddy,” you beg. “Please.”

“That’s not the magic word.”
We all take turns spoon feeding you ice cream. I bought three different flavors, all half-gallons, all Tillamook–extra creamy and fatty, just for my little fatty. Although you’re not that little anymore, are you, pig? You’re a beached whale. I set the ice cream on the buffet, just beside you, then pass out the spoons. People get to choose between white chocolate raspberry, mint, and birthday cake. Fitting, don’t you think?

We start the assembly line, and we are efficient: walk up, dip, feed, back of the line. Walk up, dip, feed, back of the line. The spoonfuls are big. So big I bet your teeth hurt.

It only takes twenty minutes for you to gorge yourself on a gallon and a half of ice cream. Your legs have to open to make room for your bulging belly. I have seen a woman full term with twins smaller than you are right now. I tell you so. I also tell you how embarrassed you’ve made me.

“You’ve made me look like a fool,” I hiss at you, “to have a wife as glutted as you. I can’t take you anywhere now. I mean, just look at you.”

“I can’t look at myself, Daddy,” you complain. “I can’t see past my belly.”

I roll my eyes. “I bet you can’t.”

“Daddy,” you add, “my belly hurts so, so, so bad.”

I rub your belly–gently, the way you like. Even so, I can tell there’s not much room left. But there’s enough for the grande finale. “We’re almost done, baby. It’s almost over.”

You are so perfectly round. I bet if you stood up right now, you’d just fall over. That’s how big your belly is.

You’re really crying now. Your belly shakes as you cry. “You’ll make yourself sick,” I warn. “And you know what happens if you throw up.”

You nod, but Jasper asks, “What happens?”

“She has to eat just as much all over again,” I tell him. “Covered in vomit.”

“God,” he exclaims. “Has that happened before?”

“Once,” you sob.

“It only takes once,” I say. “Madelyn, the cake, please.”

Madelyn and the book club lady run upstairs to get the cake from the kitchen. They carefully carry it downstairs. It’s lit with candles and covered in chocolate fudge, sprinkles, cherries, and Oreos. Your crying subsides some as we sing to you again, but you’re just too stuffed to blow out the candles. You can’t take a big enough breath.

“Come on, baby, you can do it,” I tell you. You try again, and we all laugh when you fail. I make you try two more times before I let you give up. We laugh, and Madelyn blows them out for you. Pathetic.

Candles aside, you seem relieved, knowing this is the end. You’re not stupid, so you know you’re going to have to eat most of this cake by yourself. What you don’t know is that it’s cheesecake: rich, filling, dense. Will divides the cake into equal pieces for each guest and for me.

“Go ahead and share your cake with the birthday girl,” I tell everyone. “She says she’s getting a second wind, so fill ‘er up.”

“I–” gasp “didn’t say–” gasp “that!” you puff. When you open your mouth to argue more, I slide a forkful of chocolate cheesecake into you.

It’s too rich, even the first bite. This is too much for you. You might safe word, and I wouldn’t love you any less. I like pushing your limits, and I like finding them. I will still take you upstairs and fuck you, if you’re up for it. I’ll keep my side of the deal. All you have to do is sit here and be stuffed to the brim–or don’t. All you, baby, have to do is be yourself.

Your belly has completely pushed up your crop top. You’re just a mound of tight, aching belly now. I stand close by as our friends share their dessert with you. I can have you untied in ten seconds if you use your safeword. But you don’t. Bite after bite, groan and grunt after groan and grunt.

“I’m gonna be sick, Dada!” you gasp about halfway through. By my estimate, you’ve eaten the majority of five pieces of cake. Your legs are spread so wide to accommodate your belly, which is resting on the seat of the chair. You’ve slumped backward some. You look like such a lazy pig. You’re wriggling in the chair with little success and looking scared.

Will brings me the trashcan from behind the bar and I hold it in front of you but motion for the force feeding to continue. You don’t puke, and after a few minutes, I take the trashcan away. Your breaths are shallow and frequent. Sweat has broken out on your face and chest. Three pieces to go.

I can see your belly bulging with each piece you consume. A cherry falls on your exposed belly, and slides slowly to the floor. By the last piece, you are covered in every type of food we’ve fed you. The flaps of your shorts have completely disappeared under your girth.

You look so pregnant. You look so hot. You look so filthy. My filthy little girl.

When you’ve finished the last of the cake, I slowly untie you. You stretch your arms out, shaking them around a bit, then start to self soothe by rubbing your own belly. It takes quite a bit of restraint not to take you right here.

“Can you stand, baby?” I ask.

You shake your head.

“I want you to try.”

You get up belly-first; you have to arch your back. You almost fall and have to grab your throne for support. I wrap an arm around you to help you stand. I grab your belly possessively and try to squeeze, but it’s so taut. It doesn’t move.

“Can you walk?” I ask. You shake your head again, but then you take an experimental step forward. It’s more a waddle, but you make it to the stairs before giving up. “I can’t carry you, little girl. Not by myself. You’re too huge.”

“I gotcha,” Jasper says, sauntering over.

Together, we maneuver you up to our bedroom and lay you out on the bed. “Thanks, Jas,” I say. “Do me a favor, please, and kick everybody out.”

Jasper laughs. “You got it,” he says, then he’s gone.

You roll onto your side so your belly isn’t pressing down on you. You’ve contorted yourself into something like the fetal position–or what would be if your giant belly weren’t in the way. I push you onto your back once more.

“Baby girl,” I ask quietly, massaging your belly, “you made your Daddy so proud tonight.”

“Thank you, Daddy,” you whisper.

“Are you still up for your last birthday present?”

“Yes, please, please, please,” you beg breathlessly.

“Okay, baby. Let’s put a baby in your belly.”