The messages had been getting bolder.
Margot scrolled through her DMs while the twins napped, her thumb pausing on the ones that made her belly flutter. Not the polite admirers asking about her pregnancy days—those she answered with practiced warmth and a link to her archives. No, it was the others. The ones who didn't ask. The ones who told her exactly what they'd do if they had her alone, a shower hose, and all night.
She'd gotten plumper since the cream. Softer in the hips, rounder in the belly. The fasting before her sessions meant she binged after, and she'd been bingeing more than usual. The extra weight settled on her frame like a memory of fullness, and her followers noticed. Her last stuffings stream had drawn record tips—her belly distended past the point of discomfort, heavy on her thighs as she groaned into the camera, and the chat had gone feral.
But it was the inflation DMs that got her wet.
She read them at night, after the kids were down, propped against her pillows with one hand already between her thighs. The messages were graphic. Specific. Men describing how they'd tie her wrists to the shower rod, how they'd work the hose into her slow, how they'd watch her belly swell while she begged. She came to them more often than she'd admit, her fingers slick and her breath shallow, imagining hands that weren't hers holding the nozzle in place.
That night, she fell asleep with her phone still glowing, a DM from a user called TightSeal42 open on the screen: You'd feel the water first, warm and heavy. Then the pressure. Then me.
The dream started wrong.
She was in her bathroom, but the tile was cold under her knees, not her feet. Her wrists wouldn't move—something rough and tight biting into them, her arms stretched above her head. Duct tape. She could feel the give in it, the way it creaked when she pulled, and the sound it made against the shower rod was thin and metallic. Her ankles were bound too, spread apart and anchored to something heavy on the floor.
She couldn't see who was behind her. The bathroom was dim, the mirror fogged, and when she tried to turn her head, a hand caught her jaw and held it forward. Not rough—firm. Deliberate. The kind of hold that said you're not going anywhere until I'm done.
"You've been reading those messages, Mango." The voice was low, right at her ear. Not anyone she knew. Not anyone she didn't know. "You wanted someone to do it. So here I am."
She tried to speak and couldn't. Her mouth was dry, her tongue thick, and the sound that came out was something between a gasp and a moan. The hand on her jaw tightened just slightly, then let go, trailing down her spine. She felt each vertebra as his fingers counted them, stopping at the small of her back.
The shower hose was already in her. She didn't know when it had happened—the dream skipped, folded time, but she could feel it now. The ribbed metal tip pressed past her sphincter, held there by something that wasn't her own hand. Her ass clenched around it, involuntary, and the pressure made her whimper.
"Relax," the voice said. "You know how this works. You've done it to yourself a hundred times."
But she'd never done it like this. Never with her arms bound and her knees spread and someone else deciding when the water would start. The loss of control was a heat in her gut, spreading down to her cunt, and she was already wet—dripping onto the towel beneath her, the one she always laid down before a session. She couldn't remember laying it. The dream didn't care.
The water came warm.
It started as a trickle, the temperature just shy of hot, and she felt it fill her rectum in a slow, steady rush. Her belly knew the feeling—the first flutter of pressure, the way her gut welcomed the weight—but this was different. She couldn't stop it. Couldn't slow the flow or pull the hose out or take a break when the cramping started. She could only kneel there, bound and spread and filling.
"There it is," the voice said. A hand slid around her waist, palm flat against her belly, pressing down. "You're already starting to round out. I can feel it."
She looked down and saw her stomach swelling. Not the slow, gradual distension of her stuffings—this was faster, the water finding every pocket of space in her colon and claiming it. Her belly pushed outward, the skin tightening, the soft weight of her recent gains lifting and rounding. She could see the shape changing in real time, the curve of her lower belly becoming a firm, smooth dome.
"You're going to be so full," he murmured, and his hand pressed harder, making her gasp. "Fuller than the cream. Fuller than the twins. I'm going to fill you until you can't hold anything else, and then I'm going to fill you a little more."
The water kept coming. Her colon was full now, the pressure building as her body stretched to accommodate the volume. She could feel it in her lower back, in her hips, in the place where her spine met her pelvis. A dull ache that was also pleasure, radiating through her core and settling deep in her cunt. She was clenching around nothing, empty and aching, and every pulse of water pushed her closer to something she couldn't name.
His hand moved lower, found her clit with his thumb, and pressed.
She cried out—a real sound, muffled by the dream but sharp enough to echo. Her hips bucked, or tried to, but the restraints held her in place. She could only take what he gave her: the water still flowing, her belly still swelling, his thumb tracing slow circles that matched the rhythm of the fill. In, and press. In, and press.
"That's it," the voice said. "Let it happen."
Her belly was enormous now, a tight globe that pulled at her skin and made her feel like she was going to split. She could see the curve of it in the foggy mirror, her reflection a shadow of a woman on her knees, belly huge and round and still filling. It looked like the last weeks of her twin pregnancy. It looked like more. The water had breached into her small intestine, rising higher, and she could feel it in her stomach now—a pressure behind her navel that made her moan.
His thumb pressed harder, and she came.
It ripped through her, a clenching, wet release that had her thighs shaking and her bound hands clawing at the air. Her belly tightened with the force of it, the water inside her sloshing, and the sensation of being so full while her cunt spasmed around nothing was almost too much. She heard herself whimpering, begging, words that weren't words, and the water kept flowing through all of it.
She woke with her own hand between her legs, soaked through her panties, her belly fluttering with the ghost of the dream.
The twins were still asleep. The house was quiet. Her phone had slipped to the floor, the screen dark, and she lay there in the dim glow of her nightlight, breathing hard. Her body hummed. Her cunt still throbbed. And her belly—soft, empty, hers—felt wrong.
She pressed a hand to it, feeling the give of her flesh, and something in her chest tightened. Not the dream. Not yet. But the want was there, sharp and specific and impossible to ignore.
She reached for her phone and started scrolling through her messages again.
The first few messages were standard—worship dressed as command, fantasies she'd read a hundred times before. Men who wanted to hold the hose. Men who wanted to watch her swell. Men who described, in painstaking detail, exactly how they'd position her on her hands and knees and make her take every drop until she couldn't speak.
She scrolled past those with a practiced flick, her thumb moving on autopilot while her other hand rested on the soft curve of her belly. The emptiness still gnawed at her, a wrongness she couldn't shake, and her fingers pressed into the give of her flesh like she was testing whether it would hold.
And then she found the others.
The first one made her breath catch. A user called DeepFill_Ink had written three paragraphs, no greeting, no preamble—just instructions. You'd be on your back for this one, Mango. Knees to your chest. I'd work the hose in deeper than you've ever dared, past the sigmoid, and then I'd tape your mouth shut before the first can. No overflow. Nowhere for the pressure to go except into making you bigger. You'd feel it in your throat, behind your eyes, and you'd beg with your whole body until I decided you'd had enough.
Her cunt clenched. She could feel it, the phantom pressure of tape over her lips, the impossibility of release, and something dark and hot unspooled in her gut. She scrolled on.
Another message. This one shorter, but it hit harder: I'd get you high first, Mango. Not smoking—that's for amateurs. A cannabis tincture in the enema bag, mixed with warm water, and I'd let your colon absorb it slow. You'd be so relaxed you wouldn't even know how full you were until you looked down and saw yourself nine months pregnant with nothing but liquid and need. Then I'd fuck you. Not your cunt—the hose. Push it deeper with every thrust until you couldn't tell where the water ended and I began.
Her hand moved lower without her permission, slipping under the waistband of her panties. She was soaked—had been since the dream, really, but this was sharper. More specific. The words on the screen painted pictures her body understood, and her hips shifted against the mattress, seeking pressure she wasn't giving herself.
The next message was worse. Or better. She couldn't decide.
Three of us, Mango. You'd be on your knees in the shower, wrists tied to the rod, that gorgeous belly hanging heavy and full of everything we pumped into you. One of us in your mouth—cock sealing your throat so the cream couldn't escape—and one of us in your ass, fucking you while the third man worked the hose. We'd fill you until you screamed around the cock in your mouth, and then we'd switch. By the end, your belly would be swollen with our cum on top of the cream on top of the water. You'd carry us inside you for days.
She made a sound. Low, rough, caught somewhere between a whimper and a moan. Her fingers found her clit, tracing slow circles that matched the rhythm of her breathing, and she let herself imagine it—the weight of three men, the stretch of being sealed at both ends, the impossible fullness of carrying someone else's release inside her. The taboo of it, the surrender, the complete loss of control.
It scared her. It turned her on so badly her thighs shook.
She scrolled further, and the messages kept coming. Duct tape, gags, ball stretchers repurposed to hold the hose in place. A user who called himself Intoxic8_Her describing, in clinical detail, exactly how much alcohol he'd add to the enema bag and exactly how drunk it would make her. Another who wanted to hang her upside down so gravity would push the water deeper into her small intestine, filling parts of her she'd never reached. One who'd simply written: I want to watch you struggle, Mango. I want to see your belly get so tight you cry. I want to push you past what you think you can take and keep you there until you break.
That one made her stop. Her thumb hovered over the message, her chest tight, her cunt pulsing against her fingers. Until you break. The words settled into her like a stone dropped into water, and she didn't know if the feeling in her gut was terror or hunger. Maybe both. Maybe that was the point.
She pulled her hand out of her panties, slick with her own arousal, and pressed it flat against her empty belly. The softness there, the give of flesh that had once stretched to accommodate twins and cream and water and more, felt like an insult. Like her body was waiting for something she couldn't give it alone.
Her phone buzzed in her hand. A new message.
She looked at the screen. TightSeal42. The same user from last night, the one whose words had followed her into the dream. I saw you read my message, Mango. I know you're thinking about it. I know you're touching yourself. When you're ready to stop dreaming and start feeling, tell me. I'll make you fuller than you've ever been. Fuller than you think you can survive.
Her thumb moved before she could think. Typed three letters. Backspaced twice. Typed them again.
She pressed send and put the phone face-down on the mattress, her heart hammering, her belly fluttering, the want so sharp it hurt.
The first thing she knew was the cold. Not the sharp cold of ice, but the steady, creeping chill of tile that had been waiting in the dark for hours, seeping through the thin cotton of her panties and into the backs of her thighs. Her head lolled, heavy and slow, and when she tried to lift it, something held her wrists fast—straps, smooth and tight, biting into the soft skin just below her palms.
The bathroom. Her bathroom. The familiar curve of the tub, the fogged mirror, the shower rod she’d used to hang eucalyptus when the twins had colds. But she wasn’t on the floor. She was sitting in a chair she’d never seen before—metal and padded, with extendable legs that had been adjusted so her feet barely touched the ground. Her cropped t-shirt had ridden up, exposing the sag of her empty belly above the waistband of her old panties, and her satin bonnet was still on her head, flattened against the back of the chair. She’d worn it to bed. She’d been in bed.
The hotel. The drink. The way his voice had been so calm, so reasonable, and then the warmth spreading through her limbs and the ceiling tilting sideways. She didn’t remember getting in the car. She didn’t remember coming home. She opened her mouth to scream and nothing came out but a dry, reedy gasp, her throat raw, her tongue thick.
“Help—” It was barely a whisper. She yanked at the straps, felt the chair rock, heard the metal legs scrape against the grout. “Somebody—help!” Louder now, but the house swallowed it. The twins were with their grandmother. She’d made sure of that before she left. No one was coming.
The door swung open without a sound, and a man stepped through. He was tall enough that he had to duck slightly under the frame, and bulky in the way of someone who spent hours lifting things heavier than himself. Black from neck to ankle—black shirt, black pants, black boots—and a black face mask that covered everything below his eyes. His eyes were pale, almost colorless in the low light, and they fixed on her with the kind of focus that made her stomach drop.
“Mango.” His voice was muffled by the mask but unmistakably pleased. “I can’t tell you how long I’ve been waiting for this.”
She pulled at the straps again, felt them bite deeper. “Let me go. Please. I don’t—I didn’t—”
“You did.” He crouched down so they were eye-level, and his hand came up to touch her knee, gentle and possessive. “You messaged me. You said yes. You wanted to feel it for real, not just through a screen.” He tilted his head. “That’s what you told me. That’s why you came.”
Had she? She remembered the DMs, the words that had made her so wet she couldn’t think, the three letters she’d typed and backspaced and typed again. But she hadn’t agreed to this. She hadn’t agreed to being drugged and tied to a chair in her own bathroom. “No,” she said, and it came out a sob. “I didn’t—please, I don’t remember—”
“That’s the drink. It makes the first part easier.” He stood and walked to the counter, where a black duffel bag sat unzipped. “You’ll remember later. Right now, you’re going to be quiet for me.” He pulled out a ball gag—black silicone, with holes drilled through the center—and turned back. “Open your mouth, Mango. Or I’ll open it for you.”
She clamped her jaw shut, shaking her head, but his hand was faster than her resistance. He pinched her nose until her lips parted, and then the gag was in, the strap pulled tight against her cheeks, the buckle secured at the back of her head. She couldn’t close her mouth around it. She couldn’t form a word. All she could do was whimper, a high, thin sound that seemed to please him.
“There we go.” He stepped back and pulled a rolling cart from behind the door, the kind you’d see in a medical office, laden with things that caught the light. A tube of lubricant, thick and clinical. A syringe without a needle. A long coil of silicone hose, pale as a vein. And a ball pump, the kind she’d seen in her own comment section, with a nozzle that made her feel sick and hot all at once. “I’ve been thinking about this for months,” he said, wheeling the cart to the shower. “Every detail. Every angle.”
He unscrewed the showerhead with practiced efficiency, metal ringing against metal, and then screwed the silicone hose onto the exposed pipe. The hose was longer than her arm, flexible but firm, and when he turned the water on for a few seconds to test it, the stream that came out was steady and clear. He let it run into the drain, feeling the temperature with his fingers, and then twisted the valve off. “Warm,” he said, as if she’d asked. “Body temperature. You won’t even feel it going in.”
He coated the hose in lubricant, working it from the tip down with both hands, slow and thorough. She watched, her heart hammering against her ribs, the gag muffling the sounds she couldn’t stop making. When the hose was slick and glistening, he turned to her and pulled a lever on the side of the chair. The back dropped flat, tilting her until she was staring at the ceiling, her legs dangling, her bound arms stretched above her head.
“This would be easier if you’d relax,” he said, and his hands found the waistband of her panties. He didn’t pull them off—he just hooked his fingers through the fabric and tore a hole wide enough to expose everything. The cold air hit her cunt and she clenched, involuntary, as he squeezed a generous amount of lubricant onto his gloved fingers and pressed them against her. Not inside. Just a slow, clinical smear across her anus, and then deeper, one finger breaching her just enough to make her gasp, to make the gag fill with a sound that was almost a scream.
“Shh.” He withdrew his finger and reached for the syringe. It was filled with something clear and thick—more lubricant, or something else, she couldn’t tell. He inserted the tip into her, not the hose, not yet, and depressed the plunger. She felt the gel flood inside her, cold at first and then nothing, just the sensation of being full in the wrong place, of something coating her from the inside out.
Then the hose. He lifted her legs, bent them at the knee, pressed her thighs toward her chest until her ass was exposed and vulnerable. She felt the tip of the silicone at her entrance—cooler than his finger, smoother—and then the pressure, a nudge that became an insistence that became an invasion. Her sphincter clenched against it, but the lubricant did its work and he didn’t stop. “There,” he breathed as the hose slid past the first ring of muscle. “That’s the hard part. The rest is easy.”
She wanted to scream. She wanted to fight. But the straps held and the gag swallowed her cries, and all she could do was feel as he began to feed the hose deeper. A twist of his wrist. A gentle push. The hose snaked inside her, following the curve of her rectum, pressing past the sigmoid, and the sensation was so alien—so full and so wrong—that her vision swam. Half a meter. A full forearm’s length. She felt it in places she’d never felt anything, a dull pressure behind her navel that made her stomach turn.
“Good.” He pulled the hose out just a fraction, then pushed it back in, seating it deeper. She moaned, a wet, gagged sound, and her hips bucked without her permission. He noticed. His eyes crinkled above the mask. “You feel that? That’s the bend. I’m past it now. The water’s going to fill you faster than the cream ever did. You’ll swell up in minutes.”
He pulled the lever again, raising the back of the chair until she was sitting more vertical—still bound, still gagged, but now able to see herself in the mirror across the room. Her reflection was a wreck: bonnet askew, t-shirt rucked up, panties torn, hose disappearing between her legs. Her belly, soft and empty, waiting. And the man behind her, tall and dark and patient.
“I’ve imagined this so many times,” he said, and his hand found the valve on the shower pipe. “You on your streams, filling yourself for the camera. Always so careful. Always in control.” He twisted the valve and the water began to flow. She felt it before she heard it—a warmth that started deep in her gut and spread outward, slow at first, a trickle that became a steady stream. “But you’re not in control now, Mango. You’re just the vessel.”
The water filled her deliberately, as if it knew where it was going. It pooled in her colon first, a liquid heat that made her toes curl and her thighs shake. Her belly, still flat, still soft, began to wake up, the skin tightening over the growing pressure. She could feel it spreading through her, lapping against the walls of her intestines, pushing into spaces that had been empty since the twins were born.
“Breathe,” he said, and she realized she’d been holding her breath. She gasped around the gag, and as her diaphragm contracted, she felt the water shift inside her, a slosh that made her groan. He turned the valve off and the flow stopped, but the pressure didn’t. “Small break. Let your body adjust.” His hand came to rest on her belly, pressing just enough to make her feel the volume. “You’re already tighter than you were ten minutes ago. How does it feel?”
She couldn’t answer—couldn’t speak, couldn’t nod, could only stare at her reflection as her stomach began to curve
The water didn't stop. He'd said small break, but his hand was already back on the valve, twisting it open with the casual confidence of someone who knew exactly how much she could take. More than she knew. More than she'd ever dared to try alone.
She felt it before she saw it—the warmth spreading upward through her colon, filling the spaces the cream had occupied the day before, pressing against the walls of her intestines with a steady, insistent pressure. Her belly, which had been soft and empty when she'd woken up, began to round out against her torn panties, the skin stretching tight over the growing volume. She could feel every inch of it, every pulse of water that pushed deeper, and she moaned around the gag, a sound that was half terror and half something else entirely.
"There it is," he whispered, crouching beside her so his eyes were level with her belly. "That curve. You're starting to look like yourself again." His gloved hand pressed against her lower abdomen, and she felt the water slosh inside her, a liquid weight that made her gasp. "You miss this, don't you? The fullness. The stretch. You've been trying to chase it with cream and air and whatever else you could find, but this—" He pressed harder, his palm flat against her navel, and she whined, high and thin, her hips bucking against the chair. "This is what you really want."
She wanted to deny it. She wanted to scream at him, to fight, to bite through the gag and tell him he was wrong. But her cunt was throbbing, slick and swollen against the torn cotton of her panties, and her nipples were hard enough to hurt where they pressed against her cropped t-shirt. He'd drugged her and tied her up and forced a hose inside her, and her body was responding like it was the best thing that had ever happened to her.
The water kept coming. Her belly swelled, pushing past the soft roundness of a big meal and into something more—something that looked like the early months of her first pregnancy, when she'd stand in front of the mirror and cup her hands beneath the new curve and feel the wonder of it. But this wasn't a baby. This was just water, and it was filling her faster than anything she'd ever used before, and she couldn't make it stop.
He saw her watching herself in the mirror and smiled above the mask, his pale eyes crinkling. "You look beautiful, Mango. Round and full and helpless." He reached up and adjusted the bonnet on her head, a gesture so tender it made her stomach clench around the hose. "I've watched all your streams. Every single one. I know how much you can take. You've never gone past four cans of cream, but that's not your limit. That's just where you stop because you're alone and scared and don't have anyone to push you further."
He stood and walked back to the shower pipe, his hand resting on the valve. "I'm going to push you further. I'm going to fill you until you think you can't take another drop, and then I'm going to give you more. And you're going to take it, Mango. All of it." He twisted the valve, and the flow increased—not a trickle now but a steady stream, warm and relentless, flooding into her with a pressure that made her toes curl and her bound hands clench into fists.
She couldn't form words. Couldn't beg or plead or tell him to stop. All she could do was moan, a long, low sound that vibrated through the gag and filled the bathroom, and watch her belly grow in the mirror. It was rounding out past her hips now, the skin stretched shiny and tight, her navel pushing outward. She could feel the water climbing, filling her colon completely and pressing into her small intestine, and the sensation was so intense—so full, so heavy, so much—that tears spilled from her eyes and ran down her cheeks.
"Shh." He was beside her again, his thumb brushing the tears away. "Breathe through it. You know how. You've done this before." His other hand was still on her belly, feeling the swell of it, the heat of it, the way it grew even as he touched her. "You're doing so well. So much better than I expected. I knew you'd be a natural."
The pressure was building now, a deep, aching fullness that spread through her entire abdomen. She'd felt this before—with the twins, in those final weeks when she could barely walk and her belly was so tight it seemed like it might split open. But that had been slow, a gradual stretching over months. This was happening in minutes, and her body was struggling to keep up, the muscles of her abdominal wall clenching and releasing in waves that made the water slosh inside her.
He noticed. Of course he noticed. His hand slid lower, pressing against the curve just above her pubic bone, and she felt the water shift, felt it push against her cervix from the inside. "You're cramping," he said, and his voice was almost gentle. "That's normal. Your uterus is remembering what it felt like to be full. It's trying to help." His fingers traced a circle on her belly, slow and deliberate, and she shuddered, her thighs clenching together as much as the torn panties would allow.
"That's another thing I noticed in your streams," he continued, his hand still moving in those slow circles. "You always get wet when you're full. The bigger you get, the more you drip. Your chat loves it. They send you snack money and you stuff yourself on camera and they can see it in your eyes, how turned on you are." He tilted his head, watching her reflection in the mirror. "I can see it now. Your panties are soaked. You're practically dripping down your thighs."
She was. She could feel it, the slick heat of her arousal spreading against the torn fabric, and she couldn't hide it, couldn't deny it, couldn't do anything but feel it as he reached down and touched her through the wet cotton. His fingers were gloved but she could still feel the pressure, the way he pressed against her clit with just enough force to make her gasp, to make her hips roll forward into his hand.
"Not yet," he said, pulling his hand away. "You don't get to come yet. You have to get bigger first. Much bigger." He stood and returned to the valve, and she watched his reflection in the mirror—tall, broad, faceless—as he twisted it again. The water surged into her, faster now, and her belly swelled another inch in the space of a breath, the skin stretching so tight it ached.
She was huge now. Bigger than she'd been with the cream, bigger than she'd been at six months with the twins. Her belly rose in front of her like a globe, round and taut and quivering with every pulse of water that entered her. She could feel it in her stomach now, the backfill rising up her esophagus, and when she gagged around the ball, a thin trickle of water escaped her lips and ran down her chin.
He saw it and his eyes lit up above the mask. "There it is," he breathed, and his hand found the valve again, turning it down to a trickle but not off. "You're full. Really full. Full all the way up." He crouched beside her, his face inches from her belly, and she watched him study her like she was a specimen, something to be admired and dissected in equal measure. "How does it feel, Mango? To be this full? To have no control at all?"
She couldn't answer—couldn't speak, couldn't nod, couldn't do anything but moan around the gag—but she didn't have to. Her body was answering for her, her hips rocking against nothing, her cunt clenching around the emptiness that the water couldn't reach. She was fuller than she'd ever been, fuller than she'd thought possible, and it was the best and worst thing she'd ever felt, and she never wanted it to end.