<span style="font-weight: bold">Samantha Belweather</span><br/><br/>The stockboy’s head slid into my belly, and he<span style="font-style: italic">really</span>began to scream and struggle. My chest writhed as he fought behind my breastbone, but my hands grabbed his flailing legs and held them still, and with a series of swift gulps I forced the rest of him down into the foul acid pit that so terrified him. My throat contracted, breasts settling back into their accustomed and beautiful place, trapping him in my distended tum. I didn’t, yet, make much effort to compact or crush him, and his hands and face could clearly be seen outlined in my skin as he fought uselessly for his freedom.<br/><br/>My dress had been reduced to two straps that skirted my belly before stretching up over my breasts. Like more vorwear, it was designed to bare my tum at need.<br/><br/>“Thousands of times,” I agreed with Jules. “Maybe tens of thousands. I was always a well-fed little girl, and my appetites haven’t lessened over the years,” my foot stroked his leg. Uurrph,” I burped, and my belly gurgled and shrank slightly. “Quite the reverse,” I continued.<br/><br/>I couldn’t deny I<span style="font-style: italic">really</span>liked how<span style="font-style: italic">unitimidated</span>he was by what I’d just done.