stomach-noise-addict asked:
If I was your partner...I'd want to catch you after a long, long day of misfortune forced you to go without breakfast, or lunch, and you've missed your usual dinnertime by at least a couple hours. You finally get home with your empty belly rumbling VERY audibly; pressing your arm against your tummy as you close the door behind you does nothing to silence the furious growls. You'd collapse on the couch next to me and quickly start trying to soothe your starving tummy with rubs, softly whimpering as your belly clenches tighter and tighter...so I'd pull in you up to sit on my lap and rest my hands on yours. I'd love to just feel the intense churning grumbles and powerful starved roars against our hands, as well as hear them, before even considering feeding you~
After a while, I'd start teasing you about how hungry you'd have to be by then, occasionally squeezing and poking your whining tummy to draw out harsher rumbles and make you moan and plead for me to make something to eat, or at least some kind of snack, but for a while I would just play with your empty belly, kneading in circles to make it more active...make it clench and twist harder. I'd see just how long you could last before I finally get up and make something for you...and even then once you started eating I would keep rubbing and "massaging" your guts, causing the cacophony to grow even louder and more insistent; begging for more despite how quickly you'd be stuffing your face.
aching-tummies answered:
“…You finally get home with your empty belly rumbling VERY audibly; pressing your arm against your tummy as you close the door behind you does nothing to silence the furious growls…”
I step into our home quietly, trying not to make too much noise and disturb anything. Also, I’m kind of embarrassed about my tummy. Skipping one meal, maybe two…yeah, must’ve been busy…but all three mealtimes? Only an idiot would let themselves get this hungry. Though…to be honest…after lunchtime came and went I kind of saw this as something I wanted. The gnawing ache started to tickle my kinky side just a little. I wanted this. I wanted to see how long I could endure…to see how long I could let myself enjoy the active squirming and clenching of my guts.
Trying to focus on work was next to impossible as I my attention was constantly tugged toward the state of my hollow guts with each and every cramp and growl. I nearly caved on the way home. The bus stop is next to a burger joint and I could smell the heavenly scent of salt and grease in the air…but the bus was just pulling into my stop as I neared and I didn’t want to wait however long for the next one…so home without food it was. The ride back was excruciating. The scents from the burger joint had stimulated my appetite and my tummy was snarling and growling throughout the whole ride. The cramps were cranked up to eleven with the newly awoken appetite and it hurt a lot. Thank heavens the other passengers all had their headphones in. I set my bag on my lap and was squeezing my empty tummy the whole way, trying to calm it out of fear that it would embarrass me in public. I couldn’t help but let out a few soft moans because it hurt so much.
I’m kind of apprehensive about letting you in on the state of my starving tummy. Like a dog with a toy or something, a part of me wants to keep this gnawing feeling to myself to enjoy. An audible growl triggered by my arm pressing into my stomach as I bend over to set my bag down foils that though. There’s no way you didn’t hear that.
I’m in the hallway that has our front door on one end and the couch you’re perched on at the other–literally two sides of an echo chamber. You’d have to be completely deaf not to hear that grumble and we both know you’re keenly attuned to even the subtlest noises from my tummy. Also, you were expecting my starving state. You knew I skipped out on breakfast because my alarm failed to wake me in time to catch breakfast and my bus to work. I texted you after having missed lunch by a matter of hours, sharing a bit about the state of my neglected innards…and you had promised to have dinner waiting whenever I managed to come home.
“…You’d collapse on the couch next to me and quickly start trying to soothe your starving tummy with rubs, softly whimpering as your belly clenches tighter and tighter…”
“Babe? Y-you said in the text that you’d have dinner ready…ouch…w-when are we e-eating? Ugh…ow…m-my tummy really hurts…’m so hungry…”
“…so I’d pull in you up to sit on my lap and rest my hands on yours. I’d love to just feel the intense churning grumbles and powerful starved roars against our hands…”
“Y-you w-wanna–you wanna get into *that*? Now? Ugh…fine…b-but I really need to eat some time tonight. My tummy *really* hurts; I’m not going to be able to sleep like this. Babe? Are you listening to me?”
Clearly, you’re not. You are completely transfixed on my tummy. Your hands have taken over on my stomach, somehow having pushed mine aside to lay directly over my achingly empty tummy. Your palms press into my midriff, jostling my digestive organs and stimulating my appetite just as the fast-food joint had done. I didn’t think it was possible, but what you’ve done actually hurts more than the smell of food did at the bus stop. It was a gradual clenching and the growls sort of built up slowly and naturally on the bus. Under your undulating ministrations the cramps are forced into a head faster than they’d form on their own. Premature growls and grumbles are being squeezed into resounding throughout my hollow innards. Your palms create a cacophony of growls all over my guts–interrupting each other, flowing and crashing into each other. Dear gosh it hurts. My guts feel like they are liquifying. It feels like my gastric acids have burned through every which way in the hunt for sustenance and your palms are causing the burning mess to spread. Clearly, you’re an agent of hunger and want it to succeed in devouring my innards.
“Aaahh…OUCH! N-Not there…ugh…ow…t-that hurts…d-don’t p-oke…ow…i-it’s really t-tight there…y-yeah…i-it’s cramping there…n-NO! D-don’t squeeze it! Please…it…HURTS!”
My protests fall on deaf ears–what a time for you to choose to be selectively deaf, acutely aware of every noise from my guts but your brain not really caring to register a word out of my mouth. It’s fine. We have safe-words. One word and all of this stops and you’ll bring out the dinner you’re hiding from me.
“Ugh…fine. We can play for a little while–but I’m watching the 11'o clock news. There was an incident on the transit lines and I want to know what it was that caused me to hug my grumbling tummy for an extra forty minutes on the way home as the bus took a HUGE detour.”
“…After a while, I’d start teasing you about how hungry you’d have to be by then, occasionally squeezing and poking your whining tummy to draw out harsher rumbles and make you moan…”
“Shh…babe, I’m try'na watch the news—Yeah, I know I’m hungry. You know it. I know it. Shut up. It’s ON!”
Your fingers push into a hunger pang reaching its climax and I swear its retaliation for shushing you as rudely as I am. I can’t help it. I’m irritable. The hunger pangs are intensifying. I like my news. I like to be informed and I have a personal stake in the news story on right now. It’s hard to focus when my tummy is straining in a cramp and it’s impossible to hear the guy on the T.V. when your “massage” is causing the growls to grow in intensity, duration, and volume. Of course you have the remote too.
“Ugh…really, babe? Now? Welp, that was the story I wanted to listen to.”
I’d love to stay upset at you, but my stomach lets out a long, impassioned groan and my throat soon joins it as I moan around a building cramp, curling over your hand pressed into my belly. I forget my foiled news as my entire world shrinks to the sensation reverberating in my abdomen. Hollow is an understatement. I feel like a large hole has opened inside of me and everything is being pulled into it. You grin and press your hand deeper, intensifying the hunger pang.
“…I would just play with your empty belly, kneading in circles to make it more active…make it clench and twist harder. I’d see just how long you could last…”
In my head I’m thinking that I want to draw the line at midnight or something. I want to go to bed at a reasonable hour—after all, I’ve still got a full shift tomorrow too. I can’t seem to focus on the thought long enough to voice it though. You mentioned something about wanting to see how long I can stick this out for. I haven’t eaten in more than twenty-four hours. You know that. I’d love to shove that fact in your face but the way you say it in that teasing, seductive way of yours makes me see this as a challenge. On top of it all, it’s been a stressful week. We haven’t seen much of each other and both of us are starved for tummy-kink because we haven’t had a chance to indulge in far too long.
“Ergh…b-babe…y-you’re making it worse. I-It hurts.”
You know exactly what you’re doing and you revel in it as I squirm in your lap, trying to force your hand to leave some of the more tender areas of my stomach alone. We’ve done this enough times for you to know which areas of my digestive system are especially sensitive in whatever state I am in. You know exactly where to put your hands and where to push and squeeze to over-stimulate my stomach. You know exactly what buttons to push to get me to the peak of the hunger pangs and to prolong that moment and freeze my tummy in the most painful part of it all…before letting it go and causing a very audible grumble.
The rumbles from my stomach aren’t just audible, but totally palpable too. With the frequency of the growls you’ve managed to inflict I honestly feel like I swallowed a vibrator or something and it is now going to town in my guts. You feel every vibration and every cramp under your palm.
“…I finally get up and make something for you…and even then once you started eating I would keep rubbing and “massaging” your guts, causing the cacophony to grow even louder and more insistent; begging for more despite how quickly you’d be stuffing your face.”
We’ve done this long enough for you to know what I am thinking. You know I have a full shift tomorrow and you know I’m exhausted. As much as we’d both love to continue our fun, it’s so late that it is early now and if I don’t get to bed in an hour or two I’m going to be tackling a full shift with next to no sleep.
We eat on the couch with me sitting between your legs. We’re lounging across the couch so I’m actually reclined against your front. Your hands are still on my tummy as I eat. Occasionally, you grip my hand that holds the utensil and bring it to my lips, impatient that I’m taking so long to eat. I’m worried about a couple of things: too much and too fast.
I was starving, so I basically inhaled the first half of my plate. I slowed down for the second because my stomach was flipping at the sudden influx of food. There’s a dull ache in my stomach that’s the telltale sign of a bad night of indigestion for me. You only started this utensil-pushing when I started in on the second half at a noticeably slower pace than the first.
My stomach is still audible, but for a very different reason. I’m not full (yet), but if I manage to finish the whole plate I will be. I wonder if my stomach capacity shrank after more than twenty-four hours without food. My tummy feels really packed now and there is still food on the plate.
“Ugh…babe…slow down. M-my tummy’s starting to hurt…y-yeah…i-it was hurting before too…b-but now…ugh…I-I don’t want to get sick. I don’t want to have an upset tummy…I-I just…I just want to sleep tonight…”
Your “massage” churns up my stomach contents. It both upsets things and soothes at the same time. It’s an odd feeling. I feel like a laundry machine or something with how active your hands have made my guts. I can feel everything swirling around inside me and it’s slightly nauseating.
Eventually, we head to bed, me lugging my almost-stuffed tummy as though I’m hoisting a bowling ball. I let out a sharp belch as I flop onto the bed, the movement jostling my guts enough to make me moan. There’s too much pressure in my tummy. I lie back and rub at it with lethargic movements. You’re not here, likely getting ready for bed.
I feel the bed dip announcing your arrival. The movement disrupts the swirling churning in my guts and I let out a moan around a wet belch as my stomach burbles in warning.
“G’night.” You call out, intending on going straight to sleep. My hand snaps out and I grip your wrist, startling you. There’s silence as I gasp around a pocket of gas that seems to be struggling to pick an end of my esophagus. As it passes, I glare at you. My burbling stomach is the only noise in the otherwise quiet bedroom.
“Oh no—you’re not getting of that easy.” I gesture to my slightly distended stomach. “I can’t sleep like this. It. Hurts. You caused this. You’re going to fix it. I’m exhausted. I went from achingly empty to basically nauseatingly stuffed thanks to you. I’m going to sleep and I do not want to wake up to an upset tummy tomorrow morning—so *you’re* going to stay up and fix this.” I bring your hand to my grumbling belly.
You grin. So many possibilities. You could refuse and let me suffer all night. You could have some more fun with my stomach at the other extreme and keep us both up. You could do as I ask, but where’s the fun in that? Maybe I’ll end up sleeping through my alarm again…or you’ll just go ahead and shut it off/alter it so that we can repeat all of this again tomorrow…’cuz damn if that wasn’t fun.
growsagain