Stuffing Dreams

Chapter 1

“I feel like I’ve eaten, God, half the menu by now.” She sighs, a pleasured sound and a pleasured grin sweeping across her. Sweeping over you, and you almost swoon then and there to see her hand play across the top of her bulging belly, the fat and soft tummy having long since swollen into a protuberance of food and indulgence.

She groans. Whether it’s needed or for show or just to drive you insane, you might never know.
“You certainly look it.” You respond, unsure what else to say but the honest truth. She likes your honesty, your upfront ways, how your heart and desires lay plain upon your sleeve and bosom.

She looks down, as if noticing herself for the first time, and gasps- how huge she must feel, how bloated, how full to bursting. How divine. She giggles, running a hand along her straining yellow and black dress, drawing a circle around her middle, a tiny imprint upon a vast globe ever vaster.
“I could, I think, indulge yet more. If I but had some help...” She purrs, and you are up and out of your seat before you know it, grasping for her bloated swell not as some lecherous fiend but as a lustful lover, a beloved of bounty, a sot of sodden and swollen.

You trail a hand along her flank, soft and full and so stuffed with the eve’s repast as to have puffed out like a pastry. You let your hand graze her belly, that drum-tight surface rising and falling with each breath, as if she dared her dress to burst asunder. It did not, though you heartily prayed it might.

Little did you know she prayed aught for the same thing, but unlike you, she put faith into action- raising a hand to summon a flustered and flummoxed waitress, her eyes straying to that glorious globe of a belly as she took an order that required two whole sheets of paper, or more simply a few words.
“Everything else.”

And so it was delivered in due time, your hands and hers never straying from her bloated form, as drinks were served and downed and belched, as plates cleared and replaced, as her belly filled and groaned and grew.
She ate like a woman possessed. Like a woman with singular purpose, dress squealing for relief, and she would give it, if only by the mercy of execution. The method- overtaxing seams and stitches with the might and majesty of belly.
Her stomach roared beneath your palm, and you patted and soothed, trying to calm it like an angered beast. A dragon, like to devour you as much as broil you alive in hellfire, or swallow you whole with a snap of her jaws.

You massage, you press, you squeeze and fondle and caress. Her sides billow, her belly balloons, you feel the final vestiges of soft fat vanish beneath an impossibly bloated globe, organs buried deep stretched past any known limit.

At last she slows, but does not stop. Drinks and moans and nearly has her pleasure and cake all at once in the restaurant, but she holds back, only barely biting back bliss for a drunken gasp. All at once, her dress bursts, exposing acres of smooth and swollen skin, stretched so tight she is reddening, almost pink at the very apex of her fecundity.

You rub and coo and praise, and she soaks it up, growing bigger, fatter, more whole. More herself. You nearly worship, but she takes you from your knees and begs you to take her home.

“Dessert, my beloved?” She asks, when you arrive and try to leap out of your clothes and atop her glorious, mountainous, incredible belly.

You obey, the world a dreamlike haze as she strips her ruined dress off, exposing plump arms and a buoyant arse and tits like a fantasy come true. You feed it to her, slowly at first and then faster, as she begs to burst.

She does.