My Friend Millie

Contains: Stuffing, realistic tum

I have a friend named Millie. She’s everything I could ask for in a friend; kind, spunky, cheerful, bold, and never afraid to try new things. I’m especially thankful for that last part. We wouldn’t be friends right now if she wasn’t, after all.

Oh, and she’s hot. Like, super hot. By my standards, at least. She’s not the curviest, but that’s ok. I actually like smaller better. There’s just something different when you can fit everything in the palms of your- A-HEM. Uh… yeah… anyways… She doesn’t have a supermodel’s body or anything. She’s pretty short, only coming up to my shoulders, and she’s slender to the point that you could probably fit a rubber band around her waist without it snapping. You’d have to get it past her chest or hips first, of course. Don’t tell her I said this, but if she was just a little bit lighter, she miiight be able to do just that on the top side. She’s got a bit of extra padding to get past hips-wise, but her chest definitely has potential for letting a band slip past. Again, just… don’t tell her I said that. Best friend or not, I’d be dead where I stand.

My friend Millie doesn’t like clothes very much. At least, that’s what it seems like. She wears almost exclusively short-shorts, mini skirts, cut-offs, deep v-necks, sandals, and pretty much  anything else that lets her cover the least amount of skin possible. Sure, we live in a warm climate, but it still gets down to thirty degrees sometimes in the winter. Even on those days, Millie continues her war on clothing, no matter how much it’s obvious that she’s freezing her fanny off. The only days she ever relents are when it’s both cold and rainy. On those days, she wears her coveted singular pair of pants and tennis shoes.

You would think that Millie, being as small as she is, is a light eater. You would be half-right. Left to her own devices, Millie doesn’t eat much. She packs light lunches, she doesn’t make much food for dinner, and she rarely snacks. However, she has a secret that only I know - Millie can’t stop herself from eating. I’ve been friends with Millie for ten years and have stayed the night at her place for at least two years of that time, yet I’ve never once seen leftovers in her fridge, seen her leave her plate uncleaned, or seen her turn down someone who’s offering her food.

This is rarely an issue. Everyone knows how little Millie eats, so they rarely offer her food, and left to her own devices, Millie never gives herself too much food. She’s even been known to order off of the kid’s menu at restaurants from time to time (she’s a sucker for grilled cheese). Still, sometimes you can tell when Millie gets offered extra food, or she makes a mistake and orders too much, or ends up making more food than intended. It’s obvious every time. She never wears heavy clothing and she’s petite, so the effects of a large meal are plain to see. Whenever she does end up sporting a bloated belly, she always hams it up, moaning and laughing about having a belly ache and how she’ll never eat that much again. I know that it’s just an act, though. I’ve seen her drop her charade when we’re relaxing. Sometimes, I’ve even heard her stomach growl even as it strains the buttons on her shorts.

Now, I also have a secret that only I know. I can never tell anyone this secret. It’s that… I like it when Millie eats too much. I like it when her flat belly starts to swell. I like it when she complains about being too full even while she keeps eating. I like it when she flops on the couch after a big dinner and tells me to rub her belly. There’s nothing more that I like in the world than when Millie falls asleep and I can just sit and watch as her bare belly softly rises and falls, and I can fall asleep listening to the sounds of her overfull stomach working away.

I have another secret, too. One that you might have already figured out. A lot of people have figured it out, actually. The one person who definitely hasn’t is Millie.

I like my friend Millie. A lot. Everything about her. The way she looks, the way she talks, the way she laughs, the way she smirks, the way she eats, the way she burps, the way she sleeps, the way she treats me… She’s perfect. I’ve thought so for so long. I don’t care if she knows that I think so. I’m happy just being her friend.

Lately, I’ve been trying something new with my friend Millie. I like to watch her eat, so I learned how to cook. It started as an honest curiosity. Would Millie like my cooking? Would she eat it even if it was bad? How much could I make before she’d stop eating?

That genuine curiosity quickly disappeared after just the second dinner I made for us, however. It was a simple meal of spaghetti, meat sauce, and some poorly-made garlic bread. I’d made the whole box of spaghetti and used half of a loaf of french bread, intending on testing Millie’s limit and eating the rest for lunch the next day. I ended up needing to make a sandwich for lunch that day.

My friend Millie and I had both filled up our plates for dinner, with me having just as much as Millie. Now I, by no means, have a small appetite, but the healthy amount of spaghetti and the two pieces of garlic bread I had were more than enough to make me feel stuffed. The same was not true for Millie. As soon as she was done with her plate, she got back up and helped herself to a second plate filled with just as much food. I did not. I simply sat at the table with Millie as she ate. Our discussion slowly shifted from the usual topics to how full Millie was getting. She would complain about her stomach starting to hurt. If they had been there, our other friends would have told her that she should stop if that was the case. They were not.  I smiled and joked that maybe she’d pop if she kept eating. She laughed at that. Then she complained that laughing made her belly cramp up. She told me that she’d need some A-grade belly rubs after this to make up for hurting her belly. I silently vowed to make her laugh more often.

Despite her complaints, Millie returned to the kitchen for thirds, polishing off both the spaghetti and the bread. I couldn’t take my eyes off of her midriff as she made her way into the kitchen. She had been wearing hot khaki short-shorts and a skimpy, breezy tank-top that day. The tank top had been just short enough to show her belly button before, yet by that point, it was showing far more than that narrow section of middle. Her shorts were cutting into her swollen belly, causing it to muffin outward over the top. The sheer difference in how far her belly stuck out over her shorts compared to how well they’d fit her before had made me shiver. I think it was at that point that I decided that I should cook more often.

I took to cooking at least four times a week. I wouldn’t make large meals every day. I didn’t want to put Millie off or make her suspect that I was deliberately getting her to overeat. I would only make ‘too much’ food once a week, and never on the same day. Every week, on the decided day, I would make more food than last week. If I made enough food for a family of four last week, I’d make enough for five today. Then if she still ate it all today, then next week, I’d make enough for six.

My friend Millie made me fall more and more in love with every week. She never backed down from a challenge. Even when she walked in and saw that I’d filled a platter with burgers, even when she went with me as I bought a larger pot for more pasta, even when she watched me put two casseroles into the oven alongside a pie for dessert, she never once asked me why I was making so much. She never once told me to stop. She would just joke with me that maybe I should switch my major from biochemistry and study cooking instead.

It was a new treat every week to watch my friend Millie eat my cooking. No matter how much food I made ‘by accident’, she would casually comment that we could eat the rest for lunch tomorrow and then proceed to finish every dish without exception.

I could tell that eating so much wasn’t easy for her. Once the dinners began to get truly absurd in size, her eating speed would slow down considerably. She would begin panting between bites, yet would never leave her mouth empty for long. By our fourth oversized dinner, Millie would unbutton her shorts halfway through the meal. By our eighth, she would come to dinner with her shorts already unbuttoned. After our twelfth, she only ever wore skirts and yoga shorts to dinner.

During our seventh dinner, my friend Millie asked me to rub her belly while she was still eating her final serving. She’d told me that her belly just hurt too much to wait. Why would I decline? I gladly accepted the chance. I fondled and soothed her taut belly, which protruded from her slim frame as if she’d strapped a medicine ball to herself. I got to feel firsthand how her relentless eating stressed her body - how much her stomach was moving and churning to digest, all the heat and sweat radiating from her body, how fast her heart was beating, how tight her skin was. I could even notice a difference between the start of my rubbing and when Millie finally finished that last place. The top of her belly felt slightly tighter and rounder than before, developing a subtle difference to her lower belly.

I continued to pay attention to this difference as the weeks went on. With each larger meal, the difference between her upper and lower belly became more pronounced. By the end of week eleven, it was easy to tell the difference with just a glance. Her upper belly jutted out from her body sharply, casting a sheen from the sweat combined with just how taut her skin was being pulled. Her lower belly was by no means untouched, but there was a deliberate shelf between the two.

By that point, an old favorite of mine resurfaced. I loved watching her eat, I loved being invited to rub her belly, and I loved watching her sleep. Watching her sleep had become eclipsed by the other two up until the disparity between her upper and lower bellies became so pronounced. She would often instruct me to sit on the couch and then collapse onto her back, her head on my lap, and pass into a food coma within seconds. Her belly hardly moved anymore just from how tightly packed it was, and it towered into the air above her. Then, as the night went on, I could see a clear shifting of mass within her. Her upper belly would slowly shrink and the lower belly would rise, eventually reaching the point where her entire belly was once again a singular smooth dome. The shifting would not stop there, however. The transfer of food would continue until, towards the break of dawn, her lower belly would be the side to look distended and heavy while her upper belly merely looked stuffed. The lower belly would never be as heavily taut as the upper had been, but it was still clearly packed to the brim.

As you might be able to tell, the nights where I overfed my friend Millie became sleepless nights for me. Luckily, I had no morning classes, so this wasn’t much of an issue. Besides, as far as I was concerned, this was more important.

I became increasingly more confused as the weeks went on for a number of reasons. First and foremost among those reasons was that my friend Millie wasn’t putting on any weight. Despite how much I was feeding her, and how often those meals were calorie-rich, she hadn’t put on a single pound. I would know; I’d been familiar with Millie’s body for over ten years, with her even showering with me to save time. She still did so, and from this, I could confirm that she wasn’t getting any bigger. After her thirteenth meal from me, she took about a day to fully digest her meal. When she showered with me that night, her belly was as flat as ever, her chest was as easily palmable, and her butt was just as perky. 

Second among these reasons was that Millie continued to not question how much food I was preparing each week. I had long passed the point where I could say that I’d simply made too much by mistake. I wanted to ask her why she seemed to take the meals in stride each week, yet I was nervous as to what the answer might be. It felt like bringing the subject up would be akin to admitting I’d been deliberately overfeeding her.

The third and final reason I’d been growing confused was to just how much Millie would eat. I was thrilled each week whenever her arms would fall at the end of a meal and she’d let loose a belch of triumph, but it also concerned me. How much could one small woman possibly fit inside of her before she… well, couldn’t fit anymore? I could see the increasing strain the food was taking on her body every week. How much harder she had to work to eat it all, how much tighter the skin on her belly got, how exhausted she was at the end, how late into the night it took to finish. She was clearly well past her max, yet she never stopped. I could only hope that Millie would- no, could stop herself before she hurt herself.

Week fifteen was when things changed. My friend Millie, after taking nine straight hours to finish off every single dish I’d spent twelve hours making before that, could barely even breathe. She sat limp in her chair, tongue lolling out and eyelids fluttering. She couldn’t even stand on her own from how stuffed she was. Enough time had passed that her lower belly had filled to the very brim with food as well. Her entire midsection, from her pelvis to her chest, was a distended, taut dome tinted red from how absurdly distressed her body was. That’s when she’d looked at me, laughed weakly, and had conceded defeat.

My friend Millie had never figured out my real intentions. Over the years, we’d had the occasional random competitions. The one thing we shared in common was how competitive we are. As such, whenever such competitions popped up, we both would go too far to win. Millie believed that this had been one such competition, that I was trying to beat her capacity and she was trying to beat how much I could cook. Now, though, she could feel it. She couldn’t eat another bite. She was, well and truly, filled to the brim with food.

That statement sent so many mixed and conflicting emotions through me. I was happy that Millie wouldn’t hurt herself, relieved that she didn’t think I was a weirdo for deliberately overfeeding her, excited by the thought she was packed to bursting… disappointed that I wouldn’t see her get even bigger, saddened that she didn’t realize my true intentions, lost that this meant I wouldn’t get to watch her fall asleep on my lap next week.

My friend Millie noticed that I wasn’t as excited as I should be after ‘winning’. She didn’t tell me, but I know she noticed. Still, I could tell how taxing it was for her to be awake with over twenty pounds of food digesting inside of her. I helped her get to the couch, where she promptly passed out on my lap one last time. I wanted to enjoy watching her digest one last time, but I couldn’t focus. It didn’t feel right all of a sudden. Once I knew Millie was asleep, I swapped my lap for a pillow and went to bed.

I didn’t see my friend Millie much the next two weeks. I didn’t go to her apartment. She didn’t come to mine. It didn’t feel right to see her anymore. It felt as if I’d used Millie for my own pleasure. I felt gross. Maybe it was better that she hadn’t figured out my intentions. Maybe this was for the best.

Our sixteenth dinner together came as a surprise. I came home after class to find that my friend Millie had let herself in with the spare key I’d given her the same day I’d moved in. She was at the table, two empty pizza boxes on the floor next to her and many, many full ones on the table. She looked up once I’d come in and smiled. I didn’t know how much I’d needed that smile.

It was that night that my friend Millie told me that she’d been doing some thinking. She thought about why I’d been disappointed. She thought about how I always looked sleep-deprived the morning after every heavy dinner. She thought about how I’d always looked at her. She thought about how she’d always looked at me. She thought about why she never questioned my motives. She thought about why she’d always felt so happy eating all that food, no matter how hard it was or how much it hurt.

My friend Millie had done some experiments of her own those two weeks. She’d cooked for herself, ordered takeout, gone to buffets, and even asked other friends to cook for her. For the first time in her life, she’d left leftovers. She’d left uncleaned plates. She’d turned down food. There was a limit to her stomach after all. Yet, when she ate my food, there was no limit. She felt as if she could eat forever - no, that she wanted to eat forever.

It was on the night of our sixteenth dinner that my girlfriend Millie told me that she loved me and I told her I loved her back. It was on that night that I actively fed Millie for the first time, encouraging her to eat more even as she moaned about her belly aching. It was on that night that she passed out in my bed in my arms instead of on the couch on my lap. It was on that night that all my worries melted away, just like the food I’d lovingly watched Millie devour.

I have a girlfriend named Millie. She’s everything I could ask for in a partner; kind, spunky, cheerful, bold, and never afraid to try new things. She also has an endless appetite. I’m especially thankful for that last part. We wouldn’t be lovers right now if she wasn’t, after all.

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IT'S NOT A COMMISSION! SOUND THE ALARMS!

It's been a while since I posted a non-comm, plus it's been a short while since I posted a fic at all, so I figured it was high-time that I posted something of my own doing~.

This one is pretty unique in that it's a first-person POV fic! I don't generally do those since it feels a little weird to me, but I had the idea for this one and just couldn't pass it up~.