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Stuffed is an understatement

The reched stuff is so vile, even the treat of physical harm leaves you hesitating, "I said MORE!" repeats Boris threateningly, and you slowly return the spoon to the caudron and pry out another scoop. You have to force it into your mouth, trying to get it as far back as you can to try and swallow it without chewing. Choaking, you manage to get it down, though enven then it manages to spread through your mouth, leaking out your muzzle and staining it black. "AGAIN, FASTER!" yells Boris, all but forcing you to move your spoon back into the cauldron.

You are about to take another spoonful, when you feel the first hit your stomach, having taken it's time getting there. Your guts groan audiably, not a hugry rumble, buy more like a sicking plop, and you feel your sides dig even more tightly into the seat. Not only that, you can feel yourself getting even heavier as your digest. Then you feel the sticky mass in your stomach disolve, and a stretch sensation runs across your skin as your body expands all over, the fat blowing up and you with it, pushing out a half inch. You are so distracted, boris pushes the spoon into your mouth, and you almost swallow the spoon with it's content as the second spoonful reaches it's destination.

There is a sound akin to air rushing into a balloon, as you feel your body exand once more. There is the sound of cracking wood as the chair gives out as your expanded stomach breaks the arms, and your rump takes out the rest as you fall back, your stomachs momentum forcing you onto your back as it rolls over you and tapping your head in multiple rolls. You wheeze as the air in your lungs is force out before it wobbles back into place, forcing your legs apart. You hear Boris laughing, as the third mass hits you, and you watch your stomach rise higher, reminding you of your dream. You whimper as Boris looms over you. "Looks like fatty broke his seat." he says, still looking both menacing and entertained. "Don't worry though, we got plenty more for you," he says, and forced a funnel into your mouth. Maybe a funnel is the wrong word, this is more like a wide box, holding your mouth open, and Boris takes the coldren and tips it over, into the funnel and down your throat. You try to struggle, but your so heavy and stuffed you can bearly moved, and your stretched body feels as tight as a drum. As the mess his you, you feel that tightess increase, as you get fatter and fatter, before Boris throws the empty cauldron to the side. The stetching sounds are audiable by now, as you body balloons 6 more inches. Your cheeks melding with the rolls of flab surrounding your head and chest. You can feel your stomach swell between your legs, while your rump pushes outward until you look more like a bed then a wolf. You can't move an inch, you can barely even wobble due to the tightness of your skin. Your pretty sure you'll burst if this keeps up.

"That's enoogh for now boys," says Boris, looking at your black stained face. "Any more and he'll pop, and we don't want that." he gets close, and squeezes your cheeks, "One more session and you'll be ready for the real fun," he says, then slaps your cheek whch sets it wobbling, "Giant's foot ball," he says, laughing, "Take him to the cell." a group of trolls grabs your feet and tail, and begin dragging you slowly, causing yout taught stomach to sway and creak. You are crying all the way. Your nightmare is coming true, and your likely to end up nothing more then a ball for the Troll's entertainment!

Written by an anonymous author

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