Breakfast Belly

 *BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!*

 The ear-piercing noise of the alarm clock sitting askew on your nightstand jolts you awake. Grudgingly, you roll around and stretch, muttering every curse word your tired mind can rustle up, and pound the OFF button on the top of the alarm. 

 For a Saturday, you are not in a happy mood.

 You sit up and let out a tremendous yawn, your hand gently grazing the grainy texture of your frizzy bed-head hair. Working overtime hadn't been the best idea on a Friday night, but it all paid off. This morning, you were going to eat like a goddamn queen.

 The sunlight of early morning cascades picturesquely through the open curtains of your Hampton Inn apartment, managing to stretch across the length of the tiny room. Your bed sits squarely in a tiny bedroom, with a small bathroom to its left and an open door leading to your kitchen and living quarters. A quaint place, but on your salary, it may as well be a palace.

 As you shuffle towards the bathroom, you take a lazy glance at your reflection in the bathroom mirror. As predicted, your tangled brown hair and pale face are a mess, but you don't plan on fixing them anytime soon. After all, Saturdays are meant to stay in and enjoy yourself, right?

 However, you still decide to run your oily hands through the tap, welcoming the cool sensation of the water as it splashes against them. You let out another drawn-out yawn, still trying to blink yourself awake. A cold shower would normally be your typical answer, but you are in no way willing to take one before the breakfast of a lifetime.

 Just as a precaution, though... you still oughta check the scale.

 Sitting humbly in the corner of the tiny bathroom is an old bathroom scale, not-so-proudly heralded as the only piece of furniture in your apartment that you legitimately purchased. Some would have used it to monitor their health or encourage weight loss, but you had your own reasons for it.

 To put it bluntly, you have a minor kink for stuffing yourself. It may very well be your deepest and most embarrassing secret, so you've kept it tightly to yourself since discovery, but whenever you were given the chance, you'd fill your stomach to its limits and beyond.

 Any onlooker who didn't possess the same fetish would probably be disgusted, but the feeling is indescribable. The round, bulging shape your full belly assumes, the soft groaning noises it hums melodically, the tautness of your skin and muscles as they struggle to contain a massive amount of food or liquid.

 The way your belly aches with a challenge daring you to continue, a challenge that you accept openly. That is why you stuff yourself.

 And, of course, such a glorious meal could only be paired with the appropriate attire. You had planned ahead, dozing off in a tight set of white silk pajamas, complete with a shirt lined with pearly buttons perfect for popping, and a pair of pajama trousers with a super-stretchy waistband. They hugged your soft but moderately thin frame in a flattering manner, coating your body like a set of wearable clouds.

 It wasn't like your figure was something to be ashamed of - on the contrary, you had quite a body to brag about. Bulging breasts, a tummy that only slightly pooched outwards (which had developed due to your previous stuffing shenanigans), and legs for daaaaaays. However, you were probably proudest of the two glorious mounds of bouncing, bubbly flesh that perched majestically atop your thighs. You didn't just have junk in your trunk - you had the whole dumpster.

 You groggily mount the scale, and the calculated number pops up on the miniature blue screen - 140.8. For a girl of your height, being only 5'7", it isn't too bad. However, the normal weight you expect is around 142 pounds, meaning your slightly lowered result could only mean one thing -

 *GROOOWWWL*

 Yes! As you had hoped, you were absolutely starving, meaning there was plenty of room ready to handle the breakfast in store. Finally, it was time.

 Now fully awake due to elation, you make your way to the small kitchen area and swing the top door of your two-door fridge open. Sitting royally in the center of the refrigeration section is a massive to-go box, containing what would soon occupy your next hour or so of free time. You grab it and close the door in a rush, setting it hastily down on the counter.

 Prying the cover off of the plastic container, your face lights up at the sight of its contents: a custom IHOP pancake the size of a hubcap. It was expensive as hell, sure, but there was no denying how worthwhile the experience of eating it would be.

 The flapjack is cold and slightly hardened from its time spent in the fridge, but still retained its soft and doughy texture at the center. Lined along the side of it are three packets of brand syrup, obviously meant to be draped over the surface of the cake. But you know they won't be enough, as you shuffle through your pantry and retrieve a full quart of Mrs. Butterworth's, the syrup a girl like you deserves.

 Tossing the puny packets of syrup aside, you open the large bottle of syrup and slowly begin emptying the maple-infused liquid across the cold pancake. Reheating it in the oven would require patience you didn't have, and there was no way the colossal breakfast item would fit in your pathetic microwave. 

 Eventually, the hubcap-sized pancake has been fully soaked in sugary syrup. Your poor stomach grumbles hungrily once more, and you run your pale hand across your pajama-clad midsection in an attempt to soothe it. But it knows what it wants - several pounds of rich, syrup-laden dough.

 You lift up the to-go box and slowly make your way towards your living room, where an open recliner welcomes you warmly. The TV remote waits idly by on the nearby coffee table, but your focus will remain entirely on the consumption of your magnificent meal. After all, breakfast is the most important meal of the day.

 Your cushy butt finds its place on the recliner, and you settle in comfortably, the plastic container resting on your lap. As you lean back and release one more solitary yawn, your thoughts suddenly jolt to one question: Why didn't I grab silverware?

 ...

 Eh, screw it. If cavemen ate with their hands, so can you.

 Almost instantaneously, you begin digging your fingers greedily into the pancake, drenching them in sticky Mrs. Butterworth's. Once a satisfactory amount of cold dough has been clawed out, it is carelessly crammed into your hungry mouth. The taste of the flapjack can barely be detected underneath the colossal amount of syrup poured onto it, but you can faintly sense the filling and savory-sweetness of a creation only IHOP could conjure up in their wondrous kitchens. You shut your eyes and groan softly in guilty pleasure.

 You continue to savagely stuff handful after handful of sticky dough down your throat, not bothering to take even the slightest moment to breathe. Any gulp of fresh air would be immediately replaced by a mouthful of fluffy, sticky pancake. Strands of dribbling syrup and soggy clumps of pancake make their way onto your once-nice PJ's, but your mind is occupied only with the thoughts of shoveling more food into your gaping maw.

 Finally, after what seemed like a heavenly eternity, you decide to take a break and check up on your "progress." As you gasp for much-needed air, a sensation besides sheer joy can be felt - fullness. Your belly churns painfully, upset at how much food has been packed inside of it so quickly. Your clothes are now pressed much tighter against your skin, most notably around the midsection area, but something still floats around in your mind: how full are you?

 You momentarily lift the to-go box off of your lap and gaze down in awe at what you see. Beyond your impressive cleavage, your belly is distended several inches, already threatening to force one of your ornate buttons off. The stretched skin of your bloated abdomen peeks out at you through the gaps in between the buttons. Already, a nagging pain deep in your gut is urging you to stop - but you ain't quitting yet, not with two-thirds of the gargantuan pancake still remaining.

 After one last soothing belly rub, your furious cycle of pancake-devouring shifts into full gear. Chunk after chunk of even soggier dough make their way into your cavernous mouth, swallowed down to meet their digesting families. A massive glob of syrup spills ungraciously onto your shoulder, but you ignore it.

 As your already bulging belly fills up with the second helping of pancake dough, a sharp pain ripples throughout your body, causing you to wince in pain and choke on your current mouthful. Rather than fearing it, however, you enthusiastically self-rejoice, knowing that the discomfort was caused by the final strains of a certain button on the verge of -

 *SNAP-CRACK!*

 You smile widely as you feel one of your silvery buttons fly off of your pajama shirt, only to ram into the bottom of the to-go box resting on top of it. Feeling it nestle into the softness of the recliner, you shift in place, allowing the plastic container to cover the newly lingering draft over your lower abdomen.

 After your second round of pancake stuffing has been completed, you lean heftily back in the flexible chair. Your belly has started to push the plastic box upwards, meaning that some sort of notable progression has been made.

 Peering under the container once more, you almost squeal in joy. This is the biggest you have ever been! A potbelly the size of a seven-month pregnant woman's pokes out like a sore thumb, churning and groaning with mind-numbing pain. You blissfully ignore the negative feelings, only focusing on adoring the newly expanded surface of your stomach.

 The place where the lowest button on your shirt once sat has been replaced with a bare patch of taut white skin, courtesy of your stuffed belly. Your belly button is now fully exposed to the mild air of your apartment, resting cozily atop the gently sloping curve your midsection now forms. And the best part? You're not even full!

 Suddenly, a deep and ominous rumbling sound stirs in the depths of your gut. Bracing yourself, you clasp a hand over your mouth and shut your eyes tightly, as gas begins building up inside of you. It ping-pongs inside your mountainous belly, rising up until it makes its way to the mouth area, before being released as a mighty, thunderous sound:

 *BRUUUUUUUUUUURRRRRRRRRRRRRRRMMMMMP!*

 The wave of nauseous gas erupts from your throat, barely being contained by the surface of your hand. Your head starts to spin with newfound dizziness, as you begin to feel sick. Maybe you really were full.

 You gaze down sadly at the good-sized portion of cold, soggy pancake resting in the to-go box. If you kept eating, there was no doubt you'd throw up (or worse). But you had been waiting all this time for a chance like this! How could you simply let such an oppurtunity go to waste?

 Eventually, your common sense wins the battle in your mind, as you somberly shut the plastic container and accept your lack of readiness for such a massive task. Maybe one day, you would be able to eat something this large with ease, but for now, practice seemed like the best option. 

 You struggle to get out of the recliner, both a result of your current sluggishness and the extra labor added on by the girth of your bloated belly. As you trod slowly towards the kitchen, very audible churning noises grumble from inside the depths of your swollen stomach, as you sigh in both pain and relief.

 The to-go box containing the last bits of soggy pancake is crammed back inside of the fridge, separated from its misty-eyed owner. Shutting the door, you let out another giant -

 *GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRUHHHHHRRRRRRRRRRP!*

 - and grudgingly hold back yet another wave of nausea. 

 You groan loudly, upset at how tired and sluggish you've suddenly become. After doing nothing but sleeping in, it just seemed unfair how a food coma was already in order. Before you gave in to your sleepy needs, however, it was time to make a closing weigh-in.

 Hustling slowly into the bathroom, you flip on the lights and gaze into the mirror. It's the same old fabulous you, but with slightly sunken eyes and a greatly distended midsection, with its belly button jutting out proud and free. You can't help but smile at your self-victory of your newest stuffing record, even if the challenge had ultimately ended in failure.

 You lean your full weight onto the scale, preparing yourself for the undoubtedly higher number than the previous digits that had appeared not one hour before. Eventually, after several tense seconds of waiting, your eyes are met with the most beautiful number in your life: 

 145.2

 Despite the amount of pain and sickness you're fighting off, the happiest grin you can remember flashes proudly across your face. Nearly four and a half pounds in one sitting? Now that is what you call a food baby.

 A jolt of nausea runs through your swollen belly once more, and your urge for a nap only increases. You suddenly find yourself fully agreeing with the proposition of a long, peaceful rest, even when you had woken up not so long ago. Clutching your breakfast belly with an unmistakable air of worn-out triumph, you waddle towards the still-warm sheets of your bed and climb underneath, already fading off to wondrous sleep.