Meetings are for making decisions

((This has also been posted on my Tumblr under the handle "chessene".))




Despite my hidden fascinations, I was never in the habit of overeating.

As a result, by the time I reached adulthood, I was still as rail-thin as I had ever been, proportions nothing out of the ordinary, with a simple wardrobe to suit.  The old fantasies were entertained from time to time, and during college I discovered the online world of “feedism” which reawakened my interest.  It was a revelation to find that my inclinations were actually a very specific fetish that had defined people’s lives.  It was a treasure trove to find some of the fiction associated with it.  An avid reader, I quickly found some favourite writers and savoured their portfolios like a decadent box of chocolates.

It wasn’t until one chilly morning mid-spring that I came to the decision to explore my fantasies for real, and it happened almost by accident.

A meeting had been scheduled at work and then delayed by almost two hours while another company’s appointments ran overtime.  Being a good sport, the rep turned up eventually with an apology in the form of six boxes of pizza, which were set out in the middle of the table within arm’s reach of me.  By that point, the meeting was running into my lunchtime, and so I eagerly reached for the boxes.

Most takeaway pizzas here are far smaller than the American family-sized feasts, so two pieces was short work, quickly becoming three.  By that half pizza mark, the other people had stopped, satisfied or self-restrained.  I had eaten too quickly for the sensation of fullness to have set in yet, and was absorbed in the discussion taking place.  A fourth piece found its way onto my paper plate and then to my lips while I frowned at the diagrams on the powerpoint.

After the fourth piece, I found my hand under the table straying to the waistband of my black slacks, tugging a little at the side.  The trousers had been loose that morning; now they sat snug on my hips.  My stomach, which usually only showed a small bulge just beneath my ribcage after I ate, must have been stretched to twice its usual size, as my abdomen was now beginning to round out in a gentle curve.  As I became aware of it, satiety set in.  I was comfortably full, maybe a little moreso than usual, but comfortable nonetheless.

My attention had been distracted from the meeting in that instant, and when I looked back around, the topic had moved on to an area not my own.  Unbidden, my thoughts wandered back to my midsection, which was harder to ignore now that the two buttons of my slacks were against my bare skin.  The human stomach can hold up to four litres, I had read somewhere, and stretch almost down to the pelvis to hold that amount.  How much had I eaten, I wondered?  A litre?  A litre and a third?  Nowhere near as much as I could, I knew, although I doubted my capacity would be that of the average male of statistics.

I suppose it was a kind of scientific curiosity that led me to take that fifth slice of pizza.  Very little had been eaten, so I wasn’t worried about my “fair share”.  This time as I chewed and swallowed, my attention was on my stomach.  There could be no doubt about it: my trousers were feeling that little bit more snug by the time I had finished, and I was passing the point of comfort.  It felt like a weight settled in my abdomen, pulling me forwards so that I had no choice but to sit bolt upright in my chair.

Just one more, I decided after a few minutes to make sure there was to be no pain or attention-drawing belches.  One more.  It’s an experiment.  The sixth slice I ate more slowly still than the fifth.  The first bite excited me as I almost felt my stomach stretch when I swallowed.  On the second and third, I allowed myself to focus on the feeling.  However from the fourth, the pinching of my waistband became the dominant sensation.  I persevered, and by the time the last of the crust of that sixth slice was gone, it was compressing my stomach quite uncomfortably.  My hand lowered to it again and I attempted to slide my fingers between the fabric and my skin to pull outwards and give myself some space, but there was no give left.

Just as I was considering unbuttoning them, the manager stood at the end of the table: the meeting was concluded.  Pushing down on the edge of the table with both hands and leaning forwards, I levered myself to my feet, back ramrod-straight.  The sudden shift in gravity forced up a small belch, and reflux threatened not long after.  It was as if my stomach were being squeezed and there was nowhere for its contents to go.

Hurriedly, I gathered up the remaining pizza in its boxes and walked quickly down the corridor to the tea room.  Thankfully it was empty.  I left the boxes on the bench and went through the door into the ladies’ bathroom, where I locked the door and stood in front of the dressing mirror.  Once there, in the peace and quiet, I no longer felt any urgency and spent a minute looking myself up and down in the mirror, turning to one side and then the other.

It wasn’t until I raised my shirt that any real change was visible.  The bulge under my ribcage was now more of a slope that ran outwards until it dipped sharply back in at my waistband.  Over the top of my previously loose trousers, my stomach now jutted several centimetres.  I fumbled at the two buttons.  The release of one only put more pressure on the second, and I paused as memories of the tried and true feedist fiction button-popping cliche came to mind, but quickly released it anyway.

The relief was a mixed one.  My freed stomach swelled forwards and I saw red imprints of the buttons on the skin in the mirror.  But with it came the real ache of overeating: I felt swollen, heavy, warm and tired.  I turned to the side and admired the curve of it in the mirror, and then looked down to where the tips of my toes were visible below the round expanse.

I must have been a real sucker for punishment though.  When I lowered my shirt and headed for the door, my thoughts returned to the leftover pizza on the side and I wondered.

A few minutes later I was back in the locked ladies’ room in front of the mirror, shirt tucked up into my bra, two more slices of pizza in my hands and two glasses of water on the counter.  Without the waistband of my trousers constricting me, and with the excitement of forbidden pleasure giving me a boost of endorphins, the first of the two slices went down fairly easily and I watched in the mirror the bulge reform under my ribcage.  I followed that with one of the glasses of water sculled quickly to rinse my mouth and help with all the salt.

The final slice was a struggle as I knew it would be.  With my free hand, I ran my fingertips across my protruding stomach which was tight as a drum and then rested my palm on it.  My stretched skin must have been especially sensitive because I could feel the tingle after my fingertips had passed and as my abdominal muscles relaxed I felt myself swell outwards another few millimetres.  I continued to rub slowly with my palm, careful not to press too hard, as I forced myself to take one bite and then the next of the final slice.

The glow of triumph when the last bite of crust disappeared was enough to stop it from all coming back up and I reached for the second glass of water but only managed two mouthfuls before I had to set it down.  I knew I had reached my absolute capacity.  The pressure inside my body was unbelievable.  The weight of it was compressing my breathing and I could only draw shallow breaths.  I turned my back to the counter, rested both hands on it and leaned back, arching my back to try and relieve some of the pressure, and then looked sideways into the mirror.

My eyes widened in amazement.  The bulge on the front of my body hardly looked natural between my jutting ribs and slim hips.  It looked as if I had swallowed an entire watermelon and it was just as solid to the touch.

It was also beginning to properly hurt now that the thrill had passed.  Sharp pangs were shooting through my abdomen and I briefly worried that I was in real danger of rupturing my stomach.  I had also been away from my desk longer than I had meant to be by now.  There was no chance of rebuttoning my trousers, so with one hand gently rubbing my aching belly I tugged them up as best I could beneath it and untucked my shirt to let it cover the damage.

The shirt almost hid the evidence.  It was pulled a little tighter around the back of my ribs and the front just about rested on the outermost curve of my swollen stomach, but seated behind my desk nobody would ever notice a difference provided I could resist the urge to just recline with both hands spread flat across my belly and fall asleep.  I cupped it in one hand and stole one last lingering look in the mirror before heading for the door as quickly as I could manage with my back slightly arched and my overstretched stomach protesting every jolt.

I hadn’t felt such a host of new sensations like that for years, and I already knew it wouldn’t be the last time.