I-R-BBW

You lay there, spread-eagled, in the centre of the bed. Pinned beneath the weight of your monstrously swollen stomach. Everything you feel is a form of pain - the aching of you cheeks from the clamps, the rawness in your throat from the feeding tube, the agony of your bloated belly, the searing of your skin from being so grossly overstretched. With shaky hands, you touch your stomach. It's hard as a rock, smooth as a boulder. The skin is warm and tingles when your fingers brush against it. A sound - something between a pained groan and terrified whimper - escapes your dry lips. It was not supposed to go this far. When you agreed to let them