T
The cold air hit her bare skin before she could move. Two men stood in the doorway of the filling station, their work coveralls smudged with cream residue, their eyes fixed on her. The shorter one—stocky, with a graying beard and small, wet eyes—let out a low whistle.
"Well, shit. It really is her."
The taller one stepped forward. Younger. Raw-boned. His grin spread slow and wide. "MangoMob89. I'd recognize that belly anywhere. You're even bigger in person."
Margot's hand went to the release valve on the hose still taped to her belly. The cream inside her sloshed. She'd filled herself past the size of her twin pregnancy—stomach, colon, every inch of her packed tight—and now her body was a trap. Too full to run. Too heavy to fight.
"You've got the wrong person." Her voice came out steadier than she felt. "I was just—this isn't—"
"You were just filling yourself at a factory you don't work at," the stocky one said. He pulled a roll of duct tape from his pocket. "We saw your video. The one where you took five cans and cream came out your nose."
The taller one laughed. "Dennis leaves equipment unlocked all the time. But he doesn't usually leave the key in the door. Lucky for us."
She backed up. Her bare foot hit the metal base of the filling station. The vat hummed behind her, the nozzle still dripping cream onto the concrete floor.
"Look," she said, "I can pay you. I've got money. Just let me get dressed and—"
"We don't want your money." The stocky one was already moving toward her, the duct tape peeling off the roll in a long, dry shriek. "We want to see you live."
The taller one grabbed her arm. She twisted, tried to pull free, but he was stronger than he looked—his fingers dug into her bicep like hooks. The stocky one circled behind her and grabbed her other arm. She thrashed. Her belly swung heavy and full, throwing off her balance, and she stumbled, her knees hitting the concrete hard enough to sting.
"Hold her still."
Duct tape wrapped around her wrists. Then her ankles. She kicked, but the stocky one was fast—he looped the tape around her thighs, then her knees, pinning her legs together so she couldn't brace or stand.
"Please—"
The taller one shoved a rolled-up rag into her mouth and taped over it. The fabric tasted like metal and old oil. She gagged, tried to push it out with her tongue, but the tape held.
The stocky one stood back, breathing hard. He looked at her like she was a meal. "You're built for this, aren't you? That belly. Those hips. You were made to be filled."
She shook her head. Tried to scream. The sound came out muffled, useless.
The taller one grabbed the hose she'd been using—the thick industrial line connected to the vat, the one with the steel nozzle she'd shoved against her own ass not twenty minutes ago. He lifted it, tested the flow against his palm. A stream of cold cream hit the floor.
"Still live," he said.
"Don't put that in her mouth," the stocky one said. "You'll make her puke. And we want to watch her swell, not choke."
He picked up a second hose from the wall—one of the cleaning lines, wider, with a brass fitting. "This one goes in her ass."
She twisted on the floor, trying to get her knees under her, but the tape held. Her belly pressed against the concrete, the weight of the cream inside her shifting, sloshing. She felt it in her throat. In her ears. Every muscle strained.
The taller one crouched beside her. "Easy. We're gonna make you look how you want to look."
His hand found her hip, pushed her onto her side. The tape around her legs made it hard to roll, but he guided her, one hand on her thigh, until she was on her stomach, her cheek pressed to the cold concrete.
She felt him behind her. Felt his gloved fingers spread her cheeks. Felt the cold brass of the nozzle press against her asshole.
She clenched. Tried to hold it closed.
He pushed. The metal slid into her, cold and dry, and she screamed into the rag. The stretch burned. Her whole body locked, but he kept pushing until the flange seated against her skin.
"Got it," he said.
The stocky one knelt beside her head. He pulled the tape off her mouth, pulled out the rag, and before she could speak, shoved the steel nozzle of the cream hose between her lips.
"Bite down. Or I'll tape it in and you'll swallow it anyway."
She bit. The metal tasted like sweet cream and cold steel.
He stepped back. "Ready?"
"Do it."
The taller one opened the valve.
Cold flooded her colon. She felt it first as pressure, then as fullness—a deep, spreading ache that pushed against everything already inside her. The cream she'd swallowed earlier filled her stomach. The new cream filled her intestines. They met somewhere in the middle, pressing against each other, and her belly began to swell.
She watched it happen. The dome of her stomach rising off the concrete. The skin tightening, stretching, going taut. She was already full. Already past the size of the twins. And they kept coming.
The stocky one opened the mouth hose. Cream poured into her throat, and she swallowed or drowned—there was no third option. She swallowed. Felt her stomach expand against her ribs. Felt her belly push against the floor.
Her body was a balloon. Two hoses. Two streams. No control.
The taller one laughed. "Look at her. She's getting hard."
She was. Between her thighs, slick and aching. Her body had stopped fighting. It had started wanting.
The stocky one saw it in her eyes. "You like this, don't you? Being helpless. Being filled by strangers who know exactly who you are."
She tried to shake her head, but the hose in her mouth kept her still.
"I bet you're wet," he said. "I bet you're dripping."
He reached between her thighs. His fingers found her cunt, slick and open. He pushed two fingers inside her, and she screamed into the hose, her hips bucking against his hand.
"Told you," he said. "She's loving it."
The taller one twisted the valve open wider. The cream surged into her ass, and she felt her colon stretch, felt her belly swell another inch, felt the pressure build against her lungs. She couldn't breathe right. Couldn't think. All she could feel was the fullness, the stretch, the fingers inside her cunt, the hoses pushing cream into both ends of her.
The stocky one pulled his fingers out. He grabbed her hips, rolled her onto her back. Her belly rose like a mountain between them—enormous, taut, the skin shining under the fluorescent lights.
"I want to see her face when she comes," he said.
He shoved the mouth hose deeper, until it hit the back of her throat. Then he knelt between her taped legs and put his mouth on her cunt.
She gasped around the hose. His tongue was thick, his beard rough against her thighs. He sucked her clit into his mouth and she bucked, her whole body twitching, the hoses shifting inside her.
The taller one was still feeding cream into her ass. "She's getting close," he said. "Look at her belly. It's twitching."
She was going to burst. She was going to come and burst, and she didn't care. The pressure was too much, the fullness too deep, his mouth too perfect on her cunt.
She came with a scream that rattled the hose in her throat. Her whole body seized, her belly contracting, the cream inside her sloshing. Her cunt clenched against his tongue and he kept going, kept licking, kept sucking until she was shaking, until her vision went white at the edges, until she couldn't tell if she was coming or drowning.
The taller one shut off the ass hose. "That's enough."
The stocky one pulled his mouth away. He was grinning, his beard slick with her. "Told you. Built for it."
She lay on the concrete, her belly a globe, her body trembling. Cream dripped from the hose still in her mouth. A trickle of cream ran down her thigh from where the brass nozzle sat in her ass.
The taller one crouched beside her. He pulled out his phone and took a photo. "This is going on the site. MangoMob89, factory-fresh."
She couldn't speak. Couldn't move. Her belly was so full she felt like she was breathing through water.
The stocky one stood up. "Leave her. She'll make it out eventually."
They walked out. The door swung shut behind them. The lock clicked.
She was alone.
Full beyond anything she'd ever felt. Full to the point of pain, of rupture, of something she couldn't name. And still—between her thighs, slick and aching—still wanting.
She lay on the cold concrete, her belly rising and falling, the hoses still inside her, and she couldn't tell if what she felt was shame or hunger.