Olivia's Strange Week

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The servants finish feeding me the last meal of the sixth table, a sausage they just shove in my mouth and let slide down my throat and into my stomach. It barely adds to the size of my belly. God, I'm immense. I am one enormous, bloated balloon threatening to burst with its inner pressure at any moment.

I could relieve the pressure, I could let out a burp so strong the ground would shake, but Belinda has forbidden it. She said they were too gross for her, and that they took away from the enjoyment of seeing me eat. I know for a fact she did it just to torture me further, those little smiles I catch every time I see her give it away. The sixth table is taken away, and the seventh one arrives to replace it. It doesn't have more food than any other table. In fact, one could argue the opposite, that this table is the emptiest of the bunch. Most likely, the servants filled it with what little food they couldn't fit in the previous tables. And yet, every bite of every meal will be a tremendous effort.

"Well well well," Belinda says, as she steps into my field of view. Thank god, because turning is painful at this point. Her belly, full and round, is the first thing I see. She may have been the one to eat a woman whole, but my stomach was easily twice as big, or almost three times the size of hers. "Look who is on the finish line, sweetheart. I didn't think you could make it!"

"How much-" I close my mouth and cover it with both hands when I feel the bubbling in my stomach. The pressure rises, slow and merciless, and I'm sure it's so loud the women around me can hear it as well. It reaches my throat, making its best attempt to escape, but I swallow it back. With a loud gulp, that pressure returns to my stomach to continue bothering me until Belinda gives me permission to belch again. With that postponed, I take up where I left off. "How much time is left?"

"Oh, sweetheart," she laughs, then grabs her phone. That smile of hers fades for a moment as she looks at the screen. What is she doing? Why is she taking so long to tell me the time? I've got no clue. But what I do notice is that, once the smile returns, it doesn't look the same as before. Something's off, I can tell. "It's ten to twelve, do you think there's any time to finish all this food?"

I look at the seventh table, the last table, at the food on it, food that any other day I could gobble up like it was nothing, and a wave of nausea hits me. Ten minutes. I've only got ten minutes. All previous tables took between thirty minutes and an hour, each. Even if this table had less, even if I hurried, it was impossible. There was no way. All this effort, all this suffering, and I failed right at the end.

"I can't," I gasp. A strange sensation scrunches up my face. The need to cry, but with no tears to shed. "I can't."

"Oh, don't worry, sweetheart," Belinda says, placing a gentle hand on top of my belly. "I know you did your best. Don't beat yourself up."

"But-!"

"Tell you something," she cuts me off. "Why don't you skip the seventh meal?"

"Huh?" I ask, confused. Where's this solidarity coming from all of the sudden?

"You heard me right, Olivia. It's already obvious you can finish all this food. There's nothing more to prove. The time limit was always a little joke anyways, to make you worry more," she giggles as she tells me the last part, but it's not the sadistic giggle that I've been hearing all day. It's unnatural, forced. "So why don't you do like you said before? Give me all your milk. Let it all go. That's what you've wanted all day, isn't it?"

Her fingers trace circles around my engorged nipples, it's the only bit of pleasure I've felt since I started eating. Her offer is sure tempting, but the way she's saying it, the way she insists, I can't help but suspect.

"I'll eat as much as I can, then I'll give you my milk, if time runs out," I can't just outright refuse her. She'll just threaten me like she's been doing all day. But like this, I can figure out what she's planning from her reaction.