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shawtythatluvsurgut
shawtythatluvsurgut

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“Mmphf,” you huff, shoving the last bite of your second meat..

“Mmphf,” you huff, shoving the last bite of your second meatball sub into your mouth and then flopping back onto the couch, your breath audible from where I’m sitting a few feet away. You arch your back, and your stuffed belly peeks out from the bottom of your t-shirt. You’ve had nearly an entire liter of Coke, too, not to mention an order of onion rings and most of my fries, and you look positively thick, your belly round and swollen. You arch your back again, and I notice how your jeans are cutting cruelly into the chub on your hips, and leaving a painful-looking red mark on your lower belly. “Baklava?” I ask innocently, offering you one of the squares of buttery pastry. You take one and put the whole thing into your mouth, smiling your thanks at me. You take the entire pan and set it on your lap for easy access, arching your back again in that catlike movement, then tucking both thumbs into the waistband of your pants and tugging, confused, trying to make room for your bloated stomach. You put another piece baklava into your mouth, crumbs landing on the upper curve of your belly, and I have to sit on my hands to resist reaching over to brush them off. “This is so good,” You groan around another huge mouthful. You frown down at the crumbs that fell from your lips. You brush them away, and I see, with a clarity not unlike religious ecstasy, that your rounding belly jiggles ever so slightly beneath your fingers, and when you crane your head your chin is beginning to hint at softness. How could you see the crumbs, but not the belly beneath you? “Mmphf,” You mumble again, that little grunt of fullness, tugging your shirt down and trying again to adjust your pants. Finally, lazily, you undo your jeans button, letting out a relieved sigh as your belly pushes out joyously between the flaps of your pants. You pull your zipper down an inch or two to get even more breathing room, and wriggle in your seat, testing the newfound freedom before picking up another square of baklava and pushing it into your mouth. I notice that you’re breathing around the food, taking little sips of air as you chew, mouth partially open, one hand still resting on your gut, thumb rubbing the exposed skin of your lower belly in little strokes. “S'good,” you say again, more of a sigh, and begin nibbling the last piece of baklava, slowly, cheeks bright. “Really good,” I agree, watching your lips. (pt. 1)

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