Stuffed Belly

(Some years ago, I posted this on another website. I’ve touched it up a bit for its 2nd debut here.)
Stuffed Belly
A Belly Tale
By
Paul Gazer
I found Penny sprawled on her kitchen floor in a ring of dead beer bottles and donut boxes, cradling her straining belly and groaning like a cow overdue to be milked. She was dressed, more or less, in men’s pajamas, but slopped beer had pasted the shirt to her undulant breasts and the elastic waist had slipped down the steep lower slope of her bulging gut, exposing her round, deep navel. The effect would have been stimulating if it weren’t for her obvious distress.
“Penny! What’s wrong?”
She stiffened at my voice. “G…g… gway!” The moaning turned into ragged sobs, and she clutched her stomach tighter. I sat down behind her head with my Legs stretched out straight on either side of her and heaved her shoulders until her head lay in my lap. She groaned, “No, no, no, no,” rolling her head back-and-forth uncomfortably on my crotch.
“Penny, uh, don’t do that – don’t.” I moved my hands forward to restrain her, then couldn’t find any landing areas that weren’t hills of belly or breast, so my palms ended up where the knobs of her hips would show if they weren’t an inch deep in flesh. I held on to her gently as her sobs decayed into shuddery snuffles.
A month before school had ended, my music teacher’d sent me to meet Penny because she was a good cellist who needed an okay pianist like me to work up some Beethoven sonatas. Her address turned out to be an ugly sandstone mansion Built around 1900. She answered the door herself because, it turned out, she lived there nearly alone. Her mother was long gone, and her big-shot father traveled constantly, leaving Penny with an old housekeeper who managed to stand up long enough to throw supper on the table before tottering back to the gin bottle in her room at the far end of the house.
We became friends during summer weeks of afternoon practice in the music room (it was that kind of mansion) talking mainly about the music we both loved. Penny never revealed anything really personal, except through that music. She played energetically, working her strong arms hard as she fingered and bowed and arching her back in the crescendos so that her thrusting stomach crowded the back of the cello. After a musical climax, a moist sheen would coat her upper lip, her breathing would deepen, and her blue eyes would sparkle with pleasure.
But she hadn’t sparkled on the phone today: “About practice? Um, just, uh, don’t come, okay, Eric?”
“Why not, Penny?”
Her voice had a leaden, hopeless sound: “Just….” She hung up.
Her tone of voice bothered me all afternoon until, at the supper table, I invented an evening practice at her house. At 18, I was the baby of four brothers and the only one still at home, so I got away with murder. My Dad tossed me the car keys without a question. Mom automatically said, “Finish your milk first,” reminding me of one reason I couldn’t wait for college in the Fall.
When my ring wasn’t answered, I pushed Penny’s door open and stood listening in the big foyer until I caught the sound of faraway weeping. I followed the sobs down a long hall and into the big white-tiled kitchen, where I found Penny beached on the floor with the bottles and boxes washed up around her.
And that’s how I ended up here with her head pressing into my groin. She’d quieted down a bit, so I ventured, “Can you get up, Penny?”
“Hunh-unh.”
“Why not?”
She peered at me with tipsy concentration. “Three reas’ns. One, I chugged eight bollsabeer an’ I’m not a sperienced drinker. Two: I ate two dozn donuts an I don’ feelvery good.” She thought solemnly, then added, “I am very, very full.”
“What’s the third reason?” No answer. “Penny?”
“If I get up you’ll look at me in my jamas.”
“Why shouldn’t I?”
She muttered something like “fannully.”
“What?”
“CAUSE I’M FAT AN UGLY!” Penny’s eyes puddled up and tears spilled over her soft round cheeks.
“You’re not ugly.”
She nodded. “Such a pretty face, they all say. But y’know what the girls at school call me?. Jelly Belly.” She started to sob again. “P… p…preggers!” To distract her, I pushed her shirt tails up to her sternum and started rubbing the hard mass of her stomach beneath its pad of firm fat. “Ohhhhh,” she said, “feels good. My tummy hurts soooo bad.”
I continued kneading and caressing. “Because you stuffed it with donuts.”
“Ummmm. An’ beer.”
“No,” I said thoughtlessly, “the beer’s down here.” Shoving her waistband the rest of the way down, I pushed in the base of her belly smartly.
The effect was dramatic. A terrified look crossed Penny’s face and her voice dropped to a growl. “Don’t do that, oh, God, you shouldna… I gotta go, I mean I really gotta go. I, oh jeez, I don’t think I can hold it!”
“Then you have to get up!” Scrambling to my feet, I somehow heaved her 190 pounds sort of vertical. “Where’s a bathroom?”
“My room.” She staggered forward and almost fell. Without thinking, I draped her left arm over my shoulder, wrapped my right arm around her waist, and started walking with her. I could feel the weight of her big right breast bouncing on the back of my hand. Her pajama waistband was still riding just above her crotch and her big bare belly thrust out above it, wagging with every step. It really did look pregnant (or what I guessed pregnant must look like). I felt torn between guilt at spying on her and excitement at her abundant curves.
The trip up the grand staircase and down the hall seemed endless and Penny kept up a stream of terrified mumbling: “Ohgod, I can’t hold it, I’m gonna go, I’m gonna pee, jeez-o-jeez, I’m so embarrassed, I’m gonna let go, I’m gonna wet myself, I wanna die…” and so-forth.
She finally lurched toward an open doorway and I helped her across a frilly female bedroom to the bathroom on the opposite side. I walked Penny over to the toilet, turned her around, then unceremoniously yanked her pants down around her ankles. I pushed on her stuffed belly, right at the navel, and she abruptly plumped down on the toilet. I guessed I might as well finish the job: kneeling, I lifted one foot at a time and removed her pajama bottoms. It had been close: the pants were damp in the middle.
Penny looked down at me, her eyes widening as the situation penetrated the beer fog. “You pulled my jamas off.” She reached a hand to hide her crotch, realized that her big pot belly was on the job, then nervously rubbed the donuts in the extra bulge of stomach below her breastbone.
I faked an air of neutral efficiency: “You smell of beer and your shirt’s all wet.” Undoing the front buttons, I peeled her out of it while she protested feebly. I soaked a washcloth in warm water from the sink and started mopping her chest. Though remarkably large, her breasts weren’t flabby flesh bags, but gourd-shaped rockets that perched alertly on the shelf of her belly, pointing up and out as if ready for launch. As the rough cloth scraped a nipple, it rose erect, mirroring the action in my pants. I gathered the courage to cup her right breast and lift it, my hand trembling at its weight and taut warmth. Penny looked back and forth from my face to her nipple with a sort of stunned expression.
Breathing hard, I set the washcloth aside and said briskly, “Right: all clean.” Penny nodded automatically, her eyes still wide as blue poker chips. “Right, um, okay, Penny, weren’t you going to, um, you know, go?”
“Can’t.”
“But you almost couldn’t hold it.”
“Now I’m too embarrassed. You’ll… hear it and all. Go way.”
“Be sensible; if I let go, you’ll fall off the can. Here, straighten up!” At my tone of command, she did so, lifting her belly enough for me to slip a hand under it. I pressed upward on the tight flesh, massaging the hard balloon of her straining bladder. “Come on, baby, pee for me; that’s a good girl. Make a nice big pee.” I stroked and pushed on her warm, taut belly.
Penny looked at me with a sort of horror as I went on rubbing her gut, then a faraway look crossed her face, like a baby about to let go in its diaper, and she suddenly gushed and splashed into the toilet, on and on and on, while a red blush crawled up her plump cheeks all the way to her hairline. “Uhhhhhh,” she groaned, “good; oh, good.”
“Feel better?” Penny nodded.