The rope was soft but firm around her wrists, wrapped twice and tied to the chair back with a knot Henry had practiced until it was perfect for the camera. Margot tested it once—not to escape, just to feel the bite of it, the surrender already settling into her shoulders.
"You know why you're being punished, Mango." His voice was lower than his normal speaking voice, rougher at the edges. Daddy's voice. She'd told him it worked better when he imagined he was actually annoyed with her.
"Yes, Daddy." She let her head drop, let her voice go small. The camera on the tripod caught her from the side, the curve of her hip, the way her tits pressed against the thin tank top. "I spent too much."
"On what?"
"Desserts." She almost laughed—the irony of it, being punished for sweets when she knew exactly what was coming. But she kept her face soft, apologetic.
He set the blender down on the counter with a heavy thunk. The sound of ice and liquid sloshing inside. Then he opened the box of cake mix—yellow, the cheap kind, the kind that smelled like vanilla and childhood birthdays. He poured the entire box into the blender. Then another. Then a third.
Milk next, splashing against the dry powder. A glug of heavy cream. Then he measured out baking powder—two tablespoons, three, four—and dumped it in. The mixture looked thick, almost paste-like, before he even hit the button.
The blender whirred, and Margot felt her mouth water. Not from hunger. From anticipation.
He let it run until it was smooth, a pale yellow sludge that would coat her insides like cement. Then he poured it into a tall glass, filling it to the brim. Foam spilled over the edge, dripped down the sides.
"Open." He held the glass to her lips, and she did. The first sip was thick, almost too sweet, the baking powder already fizzing against her tongue. She swallowed. It coated her throat on the way down, heavy and warm.
He didn't rush her. He let her drink at her own pace, glass after glass, refilling from the blender each time. By the third glass, she could feel it settling in her stomach, a dense weight that made her want to press her palms against her belly. But her hands were tied.
"Good girl." He set down the empty glass and picked up a small prescription bottle. No label. He twisted off the cap and shook two capsules into his palm. White, size 00, the kind you could buy at any health food store. "These too."
"What are they?" She asked it like she didn't know. Like she hadn't watched him crush citric acid and baking soda into empty capsules two nights ago, laughing at how easy it was.
"They're medicine." His voice didn't change. Flat. Daddy-flat. He held the capsules to her lips, and she opened her mouth without thinking—trained now, shaped by months of this new rhythm between them. The first one stuck to her tongue, bitter plastic and powder, before she washed it down with a sip from the glass he tilted against her mouth. The second followed easier.
She felt them immediately. Not the gas—that would take minutes, the capsules dissolving slowly in the slurry of cake shake and milk and cream already heavy in her stomach. But the awareness of them, two tiny time bombs ticking in her gut, made her belly feel tighter already. Placebo. She knew it was placebo. Didn't matter. Her body believed.
He refilled the glass. Third from the blender, the sludge still warm from the friction of the blades. "Finish it."
The first sip hit her stomach and something shifted. A bubble. Small at first, then another, rising from somewhere deeper. The baking powder in the shake was already working—she'd known it would, that's why he'd added extra, four tablespoons instead of two. Her belly gurgled audibly, a low watery sound that made her cheeks heat.
She drank. The glass emptied. He filled it again.
By the fifth glass, her stomach was visibly rounding against the tank top. The fabric pulled taut across the curve, and she could feel the pressure building—not painful yet, just present, insistent. Like being at twenty weeks. Like waiting for the quickening. Her hands strained against the rope, wanting to press against the swell, to feel how far it had already come.
"Please." She didn't know what she was asking for. More? A break? Both?
He studied her for a long moment, then set down the empty glass. The blender was empty. A whole box of cake mix, three cups of milk, half a carton of cream, four tablespoons of baking powder, and two capsules of homemade gas—all of it inside her.
He walked behind the chair and she heard the rope being untied. Her wrists came free, red marks where the fibers had pressed, and she brought her hands immediately to her belly. It was warm. Swollen. Hard. Already pushing against the waistband of her shorts.
"You've got work to do." He stepped back, hands on his hips. "Kitchen first. Dishes in the sink. Then the living room."
She stood slowly, one hand braced on the chair back. The weight of the shake settled lower, pulling her forward, and she had to adjust her stance to compensate. Half-term. That's what she looked like. What she felt like. But the capsules hadn't even fully dissolved yet.
She walked to the kitchen, each step sending a slosh through her middle. The dishes were piled in the sink—breakfast plates, a coffee mug, the measuring cup he'd used for the cream. She turned on the water and reached for the sponge, but the counter pressed into her belly and she had to stand sideways, leaning her hip against the edge instead.
Her stomach gurgled. Louder this time. A deep, hollow sound that made her pause with the sponge halfway to a plate.
The second wave hit her while she was rinsing. A sudden tightness, like someone was inflating a balloon in her gut, and she watched her reflection in the kitchen window as her belly pushed outward, rounding against the sink. Her hand went to it automatically, felt the skin stretch, the heat bloom.
She heard his footsteps. Felt his presence behind her before he touched her—the warmth of his body, the faint scent of his deodorant. His palm pressed flat against the side of her belly, spanning the curve, and she felt how hard it had gotten. How tight.
"Growing." Not a question. His hand traveled around to the front, cupping the weight, testing it. "Good girl."
She leaned into him, just for a second, before his other hand came down on her ass—a sharp crack that made her jump and the dishes clatter.
"Focus."
She picked up the sponge.
The water ran warm over her fingers, but she barely felt it. The sponge was in her hand, moving across a plate, but her attention had dropped lower—to the weight settling in her gut, the slow, patient expansion that had already begun to round her belly against the counter's edge.
The first real wave hit her while she was rinsing a coffee mug. A deep, spreading fullness, like someone had turned a faucet on inside her. Gas, released from the batter, trapped in the thick sludge settling in her stomach, pushing outward. Her belly pressed against the waistband of her shorts, and she heard herself exhale—long, slow, a sound that was almost a moan.
She set the mug down and pressed her palm flat against the curve. Warm. Tight. Growing. The baking powder was working, the extra tablespoons kicking the reaction into overdrive. And the capsules—she could feel them now, dissolving somewhere in the slurry, citric acid meeting baking soda, a fresh surge of bubbles rising through the thickness like yeast through dough.
"How's it coming?"
Henry's voice from the doorway. She didn't turn around. "Growing."
She heard his footsteps approach, felt the heat of him at her back before his hand found her belly. His palm spanned the curve, fingers pressing into the stretched fabric of her tank top. He held still for a moment, feeling the shape of her, the way she'd already begun to swell. Then his other hand slid around her hip, dipped low, pressed between her thighs.
His fingers found the damp cotton of her underwear. "Wet already."
"Been wet since you tied me up."
He laughed low against her ear, and his fingers pressed harder, a brief, firm pressure that made her hips push back against him. Then he pulled away. "Keep working."
She picked up another plate, but her focus had gone inward. The gas was building steadily now, the cake mixture rising in her gut like batter in a warm oven. Her belly pushed outward another inch, and she felt the fabric of her tank top stretch, the hem riding up to expose a strip of tight, warm skin.
The dishes blurred. She worked through them on autopilot—scrub, rinse, stack—while her body did its own work. Every few minutes, a fresh surge of fullness rolled through her, and she had to pause, brace her hands against the sink, let her belly round against the counter until the wave passed.
By the time the sink was empty, she was visibly pregnant. The curve of her belly pushed out in a smooth, hard dome, pulling her posture forward, shifting her center of gravity. She straightened, one hand on her lower back, and felt the weight settle—heavy, insistent, real.
"Living room." He was behind her again, his voice low, commanding. "Dust the shelves. And don't knock anything over."
She turned carefully, the belly leading the way. The kitchen doorway was narrower than she remembered, and she had to angle her body sideways to pass through, her hand braced on the frame. Every step sent a slosh through her middle, the liquid-shake-swollen-with-gas shifting inside her like a heavy water balloon.
The living room was bright, afternoon sun streaming through the windows. The shelves were cluttered with picture frames, a few small plants, the twins' school photos. She reached for the duster on the end table and bent to pick it up—a mistake. Her belly pressed against her thighs, and she had to spread her stance wide to reach, the strain pulling a grunt from her throat.
Henry watched from the armchair. His hand dropped to his lap, and she saw him adjust himself through his jeans. Her pussy clenched, wetness flooding her underwear, and she turned away quickly to hide the blush heating her cheeks.
She started dusting. Slow, deliberate movements, her arm extended to reach the higher shelves while her belly pressed against the lower ones. Each time she stretched, she felt the curve tighten against the wood, the pressure pushing back from inside. Her belly gurgled audibly, a low, watery sound that seemed to go on for seconds.
"Come here."
She set down the duster and waddled toward him, her hand resting on the underside of her belly. By the time she reached the armchair, she was supporting the weight with both hands, the curve heavy and hot against her palms.
He stood and faced her, then dropped to his knees. Both hands came up to cup her belly, spanning the width of it, his thumbs pressing into the stretched skin just below her navel. He held still, feeling the heat, the hardness, the slow, steady growth. Beneath his palms, her stomach gurgled, a deep, rumbling shift that made his eyes go wide.
"You're still growing."
"Yes, Daddy."
His hands traveled around to the sides, testing the tightness, then slid down to her hips. His thumbs hooked into the waistband of her shorts and pulled them down, just enough to expose the damp cotton of her underwear. He pressed his mouth to the curve of her belly, lips brushing the stretched skin, and she felt his breath hot against her.
His hand found her pussy again, and this time his fingers pressed inside her underwear, found the slick heat waiting. He groaned against her belly, feeling how wet she was, how her hips rocked into his hand without her permission.
"You love this."
"Yes."
He pulled his hand away, stood, and pressed his palm flat against the top of her belly. "You've got the bathroom to clean still. And don't think I won't check."
She nodded, her breath coming shallow, her belly already pushing against the promise of more growth. The weight in her gut shifted, a fresh surge of gas rising, and she felt her belly round another inch against his hand.
He felt it too. His eyes dropped to where his palm met her skin, and a slow smile spread across his face. "Good girl."
She turned and waddled toward the bathroom, one hand braced on the wall, her belly heavy and full and still growing ahead of her. Behind her, she heard him settle back into the armchair, and she knew he'd be there when she came out—waiting, watching, feeling every inch of her growth.