u/gutpunchee123

I push the apartment door shut with my hip and drop my bag on the floor. The second the lock clicks I already feel it , that low, restless heat that’s been sitting between my legs since lunch. My button-down is still tucked into my dress pants, flats kicking off one after the other as I walk straight to the bedroom. My skin is still warm from the day, and right now every inch of me feels oversensitive. I’m soaked. I can feel it every time my thighs brush. My panties are a mess and my nipples have been hard against the thin fabric of my bra for the last two hours of meetings.

I set my phone up on the dresser, angling it so it has a clear view of the bed, then hit record.

“Hey, baby,” I say, already undoing the top buttons of my shirt. The fabric slides off my shoulders, showing the smooth stretch of olive skin down my arms and the sharp line of my collarbones. “Long fucking day. I’m so wet it’s ridiculous. I’ve been thinking about this since like eleven this morning.”

I pull the button-down off and toss it, then unhook my bra. My nipples tighten even more in the cooler air, small, dark against my skin. I give them a quick squeeze for the camera, hissing a little at how sensitive they are, then shove my dress pants down and step out of them. Now I’m just in black panties that are visibly dark at the crotch, the thin fabric stretched over my narrow hips and the soft lower curve of my belly. I cup myself through the material and show the camera how slick it is.

“Look at that. I’ve been dripping since I left the office.”

I climb onto the bed, kneeling so my long torso and flat stomach are right in frame. The tanned skin of my midriff looks almost golden under the bedroom light. I hook my thumbs into the waistband of my panties and push them down just enough to bare most of my belly and the top of my mound. My navel sits neat and shallow in the middle of all that smooth skin, soft and inviting. I run two fingers around it in slow circles, then dip one fingertip inside and tug gently.

“Gonna open this up for you tonight,” I tell the phone, voice already a little breathy. “All the way. I want you to watch me pull everything out and fist myself until I come. Don’t worry, you know I heal fast. By morning there won’t even be a mark. Just a really good video for you.”

I press harder against my soaked panties with my other hand, grinding the heel of my palm against my clit while I keep playing with my navel. A soft, wet sound answers me. My nipples are aching now, tight little points that make me shiver every time the air moves across them. The long, lean line of my body feels electric, everything already so ready.

I smile at the camera, already flushed.

“Okay. Let me get these panties off and grab the knife. Be right back.”

I toss the black panties aside and grab the little craft knife from my nightstand drawer. It’s the same one I always use: short, sharp, easy to control. I settle back against the pillows so the camera has a perfect view of my bare stomach, then spread my legs a little wider. I’m dripping onto the sheets already. Every time I shift, I feel how swollen and wet I am.

“Okay, baby,” I murmur to the phone, voice low and thick. “Watch this.”

I pinch the soft skin of my navel between two fingers and pull it up gently, then set the tip of the blade right in the center of the innie. The first cut is shallow and careful. A thin line of red wells up immediately. The sting makes my clit throb. I keep going, working the knife in a slow circle, opening the hole wider, deeper. Blood runs down the curve of my belly in thin rivulets and pools in the hollow of my hips. I can smell it, sharp adn metallic, mixed with how turned on I am.

I set the knife aside and push my middle finger into the new opening.

It’s hot inside. Soft. The muscle gives under the pressure and then I’m past it, fingertip sliding against something slicker and more mobile. My own intestines, nestled comfortably in my abdomen. I moan out loud and push deeper, curling the finger, feeling the warm, living coils shift and slide around me as my finger glides across my own mesentery. My other hand drops between my legs and starts rubbing slow circles over my clit. I’m so wet the sound is filthy.

“Fuck… it’s so soft in there,” I tell the camera, breathless. “I can feel them moving. They’re ... they're so warm.”

I work a second finger in, then a third, stretching the navel hole until it’s a dark, glistening mouth. Blood and clear fluid make everything slippery. I start gently tugging. A shiny pink loop of small intestine slides out over my knuckles and rests on the lower curve of my stomach. It twitches. I laugh softly, almost giddy, and pull another section free, arranging the glistening ropes across my belly like I’m decorating myself.

The sight of my own guts lying wet and alive on my skin pushes me right to the edge. I rub my clit faster, two fingers still buried inside the open navel, gently stirring the organs that are still inside. The stretch, the heat, the visual. It’s too much.

“I’m gonna come,” I warn the phone, voice breaking. “I’m gonna come with my hand in my own guts”

The orgasm hits hard. My ruined navel clenches around my fingers, the spilled loops of intestine jump and tighten, and a fresh gush of wetness soaks my hand and the sheets. I keep rubbing through it, bloody, moaning, eyes locked on the camera even as my vision blurs. The healing has already started. I can feel the faintest itch at the edges of the cut, but I’m nowhere near done.

I pull my fingers out with a wet sound and look down at the small pile of my own intestines glistening on my belly. My nipples are so hard they ache. I’m still throbbing between my legs.

“One more,” I pant, reaching for the knife again to open myself wider. “I want my whole hand inside before I finish. Watch me, baby. This next part’s for you.”

I pick the knife back up and carefully enlarge the opening, cutting outward in short, controlled strokes until the hole is big enough. The blade burns as it goes, a bright, precise sting that makes my toes curl. Blood runs freely now, warm and slippery over my skin. Every new cut sends a sharp, painful, pulse straight down to my clit. I set the blade aside, lick my lips, and start working my hand in.

Four fingers first, then the thumb. The stretch is intense. It hurts in a deep, aching way that feels almost too big for my body, like I’m being opened from the inside out. My navel, or what’s left of it, spreads into a dark, wet circle that swallows my knuckles, then my palm. The pain blooms hot and wide across my lower belly, but underneath it is a thick, dizzying pleasure that makes my thighs shake. I push slowly, watching the camera the whole time, until I’m wrist-deep in my own belly. The heat inside is incredible, softer and wetter than anything else, living tissue sliding against my skin. My intestines coil and shift around my hand like warm, slick ropes. Every small movement sends overlapping waves of hurt and arousal through me.

“Fuck, baby... look,” I breathe, angling my body so the phone gets the full view. “I’m inside myself. All the way. It hurts so good...”

I close my fist and start moving. Short, deep fisting-punches. Each one is a heavy, internal thud that radiates outward in dull spikes of pain, followed immediately by a rush of heat between my legs. Slow stirring motions make the organs slide and drag against one another; the sensation is nauseating and electric at the same time. When I grab a thicker section and pull, the resistance is rubbery and intimate, a long, stretching burn as the loop slides free, then a sudden release that leaves me gasping and my chest heaving. The glistening rope of intestine lands across my hip with a wet slap. I keep going, another loop, then another, until a shiny pile of my own guts is spread over my lower belly and thighs. The empty space inside me feels huge, cold where the air touches, and every breath makes the open edges of the wound sting and throb.

I’m rubbing my clit with my free hand in tight, frantic circles. The dual sensation is overwhelming: the deep, aching fullness of my fist buried in my open abdomen, the sharp external sting of the stretched skin, and the bright, wet pleasure building in my pussy. My nipples are so tight they hurt. Every time my fist moves, a fresh thread of pain pulls through my core and turns immediately into another pulse of need.

“I’m so close again,” I tell the camera, voice breaking. “It hurts… it hurts and I’m gonna come with my whole fucking hand in my fucking guts”

The second orgasm crashes through me harder than the first. My belly clamps down around my forearm in a series of hard, involuntary spasms, each contraction a bright spike of pain that only pushes the pleasure higher. The spilled intestines jump and tighten on my skin. A fresh flood of wetness soaks my hand and the sheets as I cry out, hips bucking, the open wound flexing and burning with every wave. I keep fisting myself through it, punching deeper, the pain and the climax tangled so tightly I can’t tell them apart. One more slick loop pulls free under my hand and the extra stretch sends a final, shuddering peak through me.

When the waves finally slow I stay like that for a long moment, wrist-deep, guts spilled, chest heaving, feeling the deep, bruised ache inside the cavity and the softer, satisfied throb between my legs. The healing has already begun; a warm, itchy tingle spreads along the cut edges, knitting them slowly while the leftover pain still pulses in time with my heartbeat.

I smile at the phone, dazed and glowing.

“God… that was perfect. It hurt so much and I came so hard.”

I start the slow process of feeding everything back inside. Each coil I push back in wakes another dull flare of pain, but it’s quieter now, the soft gurgles and squelches as my warm intestines move back to their home. I pack them gently into place until my belly looks almost full again. The bleeding has slowed to a seep. By morning there will be nothing left but smooth skin and the memory of how completely I was opened.

I wipe my hands on the sheets, lean closer to the camera, and blow a soft kiss.

“Sending this to you as soon as I clean up a little. Hope you enjoy the show, babe.”

I leave the phone recording a few seconds longer while I lie back, one hand resting lightly over the closing wound, feeling the last deep aches fade into the warm itch of healing. My legs are still open, body loose, pussy still twitching with aftershocks. The last thing the video catches is the quiet sound of my breathing and the faint, wet shift of my guts settling as they begin to repair themselves.

Kylie had stopped sleeping in any real sense weeks ago.

The tenure file sat on her desk like a verdict waiting to be read. Three unfinished chapters, two rejected grant applications, and a department chair who had begun smiling the thin, pitying smile reserved for people who were about to disappear from the faculty roster. Focus came in jagged twenty-minute bursts, then dissolved. She tried every legal avenue first—caffeine, prescription stimulants, meditation apps that only made the silence louder. Nothing held.

The contact had come through a burner account on a research forum that no longer existed by morning. A man who called himself Mr. Vale. Clean voice, no small talk. He offered a short-term loan for “cognitive enhancement compounds”—research-grade peptides and a custom stimulant blend that, he claimed, would keep her locked in for the final stretch. The interest was grotesque. She signed anyway.

For eleven days it worked. She wrote like someone possessed. The chapters closed. The revisions landed. Then the money ran out, the compounds ran out, and the repayment date arrived with no new funding in sight.

They came on a Thursday night.

Kylie was at her kitchen table, staring at a cold cup of coffee in her loose t-shirt and panties, when the door lock turned without a knock. Two men stepped inside as if they had always owned the key. One held a small black case. The other simply watched her.

“Kylie Waters,” the first man said. Not a question. “Mr. Vale sends his regards. The account is past due.”

She bolted.

Bare feet slapped the cheap laminate flooring as she lunged for the hallway. She made it three steps before the second man caught her by her brunette hair and yanked her backward. She screamed through gritted teeth, twisting her torso and reaching over her head to wrestle back her ponytail.

The nightstick drove straight into the soft center of her exposed stomach.

The impact was brutal and precise. All the air left her lungs in a single, choked burst. Pain exploded white-hot through her midsection; her knees buckled and she folded hard around the weapon, mouth open in a silent scream. The man held the stick there for a long second, grinding it deeper into the yielding flesh just above her navel, before pulling it back. Kylie collapsed to the floor, both arms wrapped around her belly, gagging for breath that would not come, and a boot slammed down onto her ribcage.

A sharp sting bloomed at the side of her neck. The room tilted. Her last clear sensation was the deep, throbbing ache in her gut and the cold floor against her cheek.

Darkness folded over her before she could draw another breath.

She woke on a thin mattress in a windowless room the color of old bone.

No clock. No phone. Only a metal toilet, a drain in the floor, and a narrow slot at the bottom of the steel door. The air smelled of bleach and something faintly sweet that never quite left. A single fluorescent panel hummed overhead. In the far wall, a wide rectangle of dark glass reflected her own pale shape back at her. She did not yet understand it was a one-way mirror.

The first day they gave her a plastic cup of water and a small, dense protein bar.

Kylie spent most of that day on her feet, hammering the dark glass with her palms and screaming until her throat turned raw.
“Please—someone— I can get the money! I just need more time! My department is about to release the next grant installment—please!”
No answer. Only the soft electronic click of a microphone being muted somewhere behind the wall. She tried again that night, voice cracking, promising interest, promising sex, promising anything. The glass stayed dark and indifferent.

The second day the ration was smaller: only the water and half a bar. Panic sharpened. She pressed herself against the mirror, shirt riding up, and begged in a hoarse, breaking stream—names of colleagues who could vouch for her, bank account numbers, the exact date she expected funding. When her voice finally failed she slid down the wall and sobbed into her knees. Still nothing.

After that the pattern settled into a cruel rhythm: one meager meal and a measured amount of liquid every twenty-four hours. Never enough. Her 5'5 body, already running on stress and residual stimulants, began to consume itself.

By the fourth morning the soft curve of her lower stomach had begun to flatten.
By the sixth it had hollowed.

Kylie spent long stretches lying on her back on the thin mattress, her top riding up to her lower ribs, staring down the length of her own body. When she stretched out fully, arms above her head, the change was impossible to ignore. Her belly, once softly flat when she relaxed, now sank into a shallow, elongated concavity between the sharp ridges of her hip bones. The skin drew tight across the emptiness; her navel sat in the deepest part of the hollow like a small dark dimple. Lower ribs fanned out clearly beneath the thin fabric of her shirt whenever she inhaled. The little pad of softness that used to cushion her lower abdomen had vanished, leaving only a taut, fragile plane that rose and fell with each breath. Sometimes she pressed both palms into the concavity and felt how little remained between her hands and the deeper structures underneath—stomach drawn high and small, intestines shifting in a narrower, tighter space.

She touched it often, almost compulsively. The flesh that had once dimpled and sprung back now offered almost no resistance.

They watched her.

Hope eroded in small increments. At first she counted the meals, certain that someone would come to negotiate. By the end of the first week she no longer counted. She only waited, lying stretched out on the mattress with her hands resting in the deep concavity of her stomach, feeling it draw tighter each day.

On the ninth morning the slot opened and delivered the same meager ration. Kylie ate it slowly, still on her back, watching the slight movement under the taut, sunken skin as the food settled into emptiness. The fluorescent light made the hollow look even deeper. Her navel had become a small, dark punctuation mark in a surface that no longer looked like it belonged to a body that had ever been soft.

She did not yet know that the worst part of the collection was still to come.

Behind the one-way glass, someone made a quiet note on a clipboard.

The fluorescent panel hummed.

And Kylie’s stomach continued, quietly and without ceremony, to disappear.

On the tenth morning the slot did not open.

Instead the door did.

Two men in plain gray uniforms entered. One carried a small metal tray lined with a white cloth. Arranged on the cloth were seven oblong glass ornaments, each roughly the size of a small egg but longer, smoothly rounded at both ends, and thick enough that the idea of swallowing one felt immediately impossible. They caught the fluorescent light like frozen water.

“Miss Waters,” the taller man said. His voice was polite, almost courteous. “Mr. Vale has authorized a final option. A controlled demonstration. You swallow these. All of them. Once the process is complete and we have finished our observations, you will be released. The debt will be considered discharged. If you refuse... we will dispose of you via incineration.”

Kylie stared at the tray. Her sunken stomach clenched hard under the loose top.

“That’s glass,” she whispered.

“Medical-grade borosilicate,” he replied. “Non-fragmenting under normal digestive conditions. It’s perfectly safe. People have done far larger objects for research. You will be monitored the entire time.”

She looked at the one-way glass. Her own hollowed reflection looked back—ribs sharp, belly a deep, empty concavity, hip bones like handles between the hem of her shirt and her panties.

“I want it in writing,” she said, voice thin. “That I walk out of here after.”

The man gave a small, empty smile. “Of course.”

They did not give her anything in writing.

The first ornament was the worst.

They made her sit on the edge of the mattress and tilt her head back. The glass was cold and slick when it touched her tongue. She gagged immediately. Tears flooded her eyes. One of the men steadied her jaw while the other stroked her throat in downward motions, forcing the swallow reflex. The oblong shape scraped against the soft tissue of her esophagus the entire way down while forcing stomach acid up. When it finally dropped into the empty cavern of her stomach, she felt the weight of it settle like a stone in a dry well.

Six more followed.

Each one took longer than the last. She vomited bile twice; they waited, wiped her mouth, and continued. By the fourth her throat was raw and bleeding in thin streaks. By the sixth she was sobbing openly, shirt top pushed up under her breasts so they could watch the faint shapes arrive in the concave basin of her abdomen. The glass pieces shifted and clicked softly against one another inside her like a handful of marbles, visible as subtle, elongated ridges beneath the taut, starved skin.

When the last ornament disappeared down her throat, the taller man stepped back and checked a tablet.

“Done,” he said. “We’ll give it time to settle. Remaining still will help.”

They left. The door sealed. The fluorescent light hummed.

Hours passed.

Kylie lay on her back on the thin mattress, top still bunched high under her perky breasts, and stared at the ceiling while the glass moved inside her. The fluorescent light washed her torso in flat white, leaving nothing to shadow or soften what her body had become.

Her abdomen was a deep, elongated hollow. The skin stretched taut between the sharp wings of her hip bones and the visible ladder of her lower ribs, so thin it looked almost translucent in places.

Beneath the stretched skin the seven glass ornaments made themselves known.

They had already begun to leave the stomach and travel into the upper folds of her small intestine. Each one created a distinct, elongated bulge—smooth, firm, and slightly raised—pressing outward against the thin abdominal wall. When she held perfectly still she could count them: three clustered just below and to the left of her navel, two higher and more central, and the last two farther down, already descending into the narrower loops. The glass caught the overhead light in faint, shifting gleams whenever she breathed.

Slowly, almost tentatively, Kylie brought both hands to her lower belly.

Her fingertips glided over the taut, slightly feverish skin. The surface was dry and smooth, but underneath it the organs felt startlingly close. She could map the hard oval shapes of the ornaments with easy precision. When she pressed more firmly, the glass resisted, cool and unyielding, while the surrounding soft tissue—her emptied intestinal loops—shifted and slid around them. A careful push to the left sent one ornament rolling a few centimeters; she felt the corresponding length of small intestine stretch and then contract, trying to accommodate the foreign weight. Another gentle downward stroke moved a second piece lower, and she experienced the peculiar, intimate sensation of her own gut being rearranged beneath her palms—warm, slippery, and far too accessible beneath the starved skin.

Every small adjustment produced a faint internal click as glass met glass, followed by a soft, wet settling of tissue. The sensations were nauseatingly clear: the hard foreign bodies, the thin muscular walls of her intestine yielding and then tightening around them, the faint pulse of blood vessels that now seemed only millimeters beneath her fingers.

She kept tracing them, half in horror and half in helpless fascination, feeling the way her concave abdomen had become little more than a tight, translucent sheath over the slow, grinding progress of the ornaments through her guts.

The door opened without warning.

Two men entered. One was the taller of the pair who had supervised the swallowing; the other was heavier, wearing black tactical gloves and a set of brass knuckles already fitted over his right hand. The metal gleamed under the fluorescent light.

Kylie scrambled backward on the mattress until her spine hit the wall. Her top was still bunched under her breasts, leaving the deep concavity of her abdomen fully exposed. The seven glass ornaments were still visible as faint, elongated ridges beneath the taut skin.

“No—no, you said I was done—” Her voice cracked. “You said I could go—”

They did not answer.

The heavier man grabbed her wrists and wrenched them behind her back while the taller one bound her ankles together with a thick zip-tie. In one practiced motion they forced her upright and then bent her forward slightly, arms and bound feet pulled tightly behind her so that her torso was thrust out and her starved stomach stretched into a tight, vulnerable plane. The position left her balanced only on the balls of her feet, completely unable to double over or protect herself. Every small shift of her weight pulled the skin of her lower belly even tighter across the hard shapes inside.

The man with the brass knuckles stepped in front of her and rested the cold metal lightly against the deepest part of the concavity, just below her navel.

“Please,” Kylie whispered. “Please don’t—”

The first punch landed with a sickening thud.

The brass knuckles drove straight into the hollow of her abdomen. The force was enormous. Kylie felt the glass ornaments smash against one another and against the thin walls of her intestine in a single, glittering burst of internal destruction. A wet, crunching pop echoed inside her—then another—as several of the pieces shattered at once. Sharp fragments tore through the soft mucosal lining and into the deeper tissue. Hot fluid, blood, intestinal contents, and the sudden flood of her own ruptured vessels flooded the narrow cavity.

She screamed, feeling a foreign, warm sensation mixed with the stabbing pain as her small intestine began tearing apart.

She thrashed against the restraint, twisting her hips and trying to fold forward, but the man behind her only wrenched her arms higher, forcing her torso even farther out. The movement stretched her already-taut abdominal wall and drove the newly broken shards deeper into the loops of her small intestine. Another punch landed, lower and harder. The impact produced a thick, liquid squelch as the shattered glass was driven through soft organ tissue. Kylie felt long sections of her intestine split open from the inside; the warm, slippery contents spilled into the abdominal cavity itself, trapped beneath the still-intact outer wall of muscle and skin.

“Fuck you—!” she gasped, voice breaking into a sob. “You fucking animals—let me go—please, oh god, my stomach, my intestines”

The third and fourth punches landed in rapid succession, both centered on the same ruined zone. Each blow sent a visible ripple across the concave surface of her belly. Beneath the skin the broken glass was being churned through the soft, defenseless viscera. The sounds were obscene: the wet meaty impact of the knuckles, the sharper crystalline crunch of remaining glass fragments fracturing further, and the continuous, heavy squelching of lacerated intestine tissue being pulverized. Blood began to seep through the stretched skin in small, dark points where the shards had nearly punched outward, though the abdominal wall itself still held.

Kylie writhed harder, bare feet scrabbling uselessly on the floor, the position only making the damage worse. Every desperate twist pushed her lower belly farther into the path of the next strike. The man behind her tightened his grip and spoke for the first time, voice calm and close to her ear.

“Stay still. You’re only grinding it around in there.”

She couldn’t. Her body convulsed with each new impact. The once-neat arrangement of glass had become a swirling storm of razor-edged fragments tearing freely through her guts. She could feel individual pieces of her small intestine separating, the warm loops unspooling and folding into the growing pool of blood and chyme that now filled the lower half of her abdominal cavity. The external surface of her stomach remained a taut, concave drum—stretched, bruised, and beginning to darken—but inside everything soft was being systematically destroyed.

Another punch.
Another wet, shattering crunch.
Another helpless, forward thrust of her ruined torso as she screamed and cursed and begged in the same broken breath.

The fluorescent light hummed.
The one-way glass watched.
And the brass knuckles kept rising and falling against the thin, stretched wall of her belly.

The strength to fight left her in stages.

Kylie’s struggles weakened into helpless, spasmodic jerks. She no longer tried to twist away or kick; her body simply convulsed with each new impact while raw, unbroken screams tore out of her throat. Between the blows she sobbed and begged in a broken, wet voice, "please stop, please, I can't take any more, please," her stomach was coming apart, words that dissolved into wordless wailing every time the brass knuckles drove home again.

The shape of her abdomen had changed completely.

What had been a starved, uniform concavity was now grotesquely divided. The lower belly, from just beneath the navel down into the pelvis, had swollen into a tight, mottled distension—darkening from deep red to purple-black as blood and shredded tissue packed into the limited space. Inside that swollen cradle her intestines had been reduced to a single, indistinct mass of lacerated loops, torn mesentery, and leaking contents, all forced downward and bunched against the pelvic bones. Above it, the upper abdomen had collapsed into an even deeper, bruised hollow; the skin there was stretched drum-tight and discolored, the lower ribs standing out sharply against the emptiness where loops of gut had once rested.

The man with the brass knuckles adjusted his aim.

Two final, deliberate punches landed squarely in the center of the upper concavity.

The first ruptured the already-weakened wall of her stomach. Kylie felt the organ split open with a hot, internal burst. Concentrated acid and bile flooded the abdominal cavity, instantly mixing with the blood and intestinal fluid already pooled there. The chemical burn was immediate and blinding—an entirely new register of pain that made her back arch and her mouth open in a silent, gaping scream. The second punch drove the last intact fragments of glass and the torn edges of her stomach deeper into the mess, forcing another heavy squelch of fluid and tissue downward into the distended lower belly.

Her eyes rolled. Consciousness flickered.

The men released her arms and ankles. She dropped like a rag doll, collapsing face-up onto the cold concrete floor. Her limbs twitched once and then went slack.

Her upper abdomen was a deep, concave crater of bruised, blood-flecked skin, so hollow it looked as though the contents had been scooped out. Just below the navel the flesh swelled abruptly into the tight, engorged distension of her lower belly, the skin shiny and dark where the shredded remains of her guts and the volume of fluid had nowhere else to go. Small trickles of blood-tinged fluid seeped from her navel and from several pin-point tears where glass shards had nearly pushed through. The entire surface of her midsection pulsed faintly with the residual movement of ruined organs settling under gravity.

Kylie lay staring at the fluorescent light, barely conscious. Every shallow breath sent fresh waves of acid-burn and grinding agony through the open cavity of her abdomen. She could feel the heavy, formless mass of her shredded intestines shifted down into her pelvis, the ruptured stomach still leaking its burning contents upward against the intact but battered abdominal wall. The taste of iron and bile filled her mouth. Her hands made small, useless movements toward her ruined belly, then fell away.

A sharp sting bloomed in the side of Kylie’s neck.

The stimulant hit her bloodstream like a floodgate opening. Consciousness slammed back into her with brutal clarity. Every nerve reignited at once. The chemical burn of acid still eating through her abdominal cavity, the heavy, formless mass of shredded intestine packed into her pelvis, the grinding presence of glass fragments—everything sharpened into exquisite, inescapable focus. She gasped and let out a guttural moan, eyes flying open, and immediately felt the full, ruined landscape of her own midsection.

Her hands moved without thought.

Fingers trembled as they settled onto the swollen lower belly. The skin there was tight, fever-hot, and dark. Beneath it everything sloshed. A slow, heavy wave of fluid and pulverized tissue shifted under her palms when she pressed. The distension was firm yet yielding in the most disgusting way—like a water-filled sack packed with soft, broken meat. Higher up, the deep concave of her upper abdomen felt alarmingly empty, the bruised skin sunken so far that her fingertips could trace the inner faces of her own ribs.

She was still mapping the damage when the men returned.

They did not speak. One seized her wrists and hauled them above her head, locking them into restraints bolted to the floor. The other spread her ankles wide and secured them the same way. In seconds she was stretched flat on her back, torso pulled taut, the entire ruined landscape of her abdomen exposed and defenseless under the fluorescent light.

Then they brought in the plates.

Each was a solid circle of dull gray metal, fifty pounds, the diameter just narrower than the span of her thinned waist. The first one was lowered with deliberate care directly onto the swollen lower belly, centered over the navel.

The pressure was immediate and catastrophic.

Kylie screamed. The weight drove the packed mass of shredded intestine, blood, and acid downward and outward with nowhere to escape. She felt warm, slimy tissue displace under the plate, forced against the already-stressed abdominal wall. Her hands jerked uselessly in their restraints. She tried to twist, to arch, to push the plate off with the only part of her body that could still move, but the stretch of the restraints kept her pelvis pinned and her belly presented.

A second plate was stacked on top of the first.

The scream that tore out of her this time was higher, breaking. The combined hundred pounds compressed the lower abdomen into a nightmarish density. Fluids squelched audibly. She felt something thick and rope-like, remnants of her small intestine, slide sideways under the force and jam against the inside of her waist. The full, gagging sensation rose into her chest; pressure on the diaphragm made every breath a shallow, panicked effort.

“Please...please take them off...I can feel everything moving. it’s going to break”

A third plate.

Then a fourth.

The stack rose. The weight became an immovable, crushing fact. Kylie’s lower belly was being flattened and forced outward in equal measure. The skin around the edges of the plates stretched white, then a furious dark red. Inside, the ruined contents had no remaining space. Warm, slimy masses of tissue and hot fluid surged upward and sideways, pressing against every remaining intact boundary. She gagged, coughed blood, sobbed, begged in a continuous broken stream—words tumbling over each other, promises, pleas, the simple repetitive begging for it to stop.

The pressure peaked.

There was a deep, wet, tearing sound—more felt than heard—as the abdominal wall finally failed at the level of her waist and navel. The skin and thinned muscle split in a ragged horizontal seam. Under the enormous weight of the plates, the contents of her abdomen were violently expelled. Shredded loops of intestine, dark clots of blood, acid-burned tissue, and a rush of foul fluid erupted from both sides of the stacked metal, spilling across her hips and the floor in a hot, glistening flood. The plates sank lower as the internal resistance vanished. What had been a tight, swollen belly collapsed into an open, ruined cavity framed by the torn edges of her own skin.

Kylie’s back arched once in a final, reflexive seizure. A thick, wet sound left her throat. Her eyes stayed open, fixed on the fluorescent light, while the last of her viscera finished sliding out from under the metal stack in slow, heavy coils.

The men stood back. One of them made a quiet final note on the clipboard.

The fluorescent panel hummed.

And the room, at last, was still.

Kylie tried to answer, but the pressure of his hand on her open wound stole the breath she needed. Above them, the cabin waited on its rise, the windows dark, the smell of old rot already rising to meet them.

By the time they reached the cabin porch, Kylie’s swimsuit bottoms were heavy with blood and lake water. Every step jarred the split across her lower stomach. The cut was not wide, but it was deep enough that the edges pulled with each breath, and the bruise beneath it had already darkened to a livid purple-black.

Jim shouldered the door open and guided her inside. The moldy sweetness closed around them at once, thicker than it had been that morning.

“Sit,” he said, steering her toward the couch. “Lie back. I need to see how bad it is.”

Kylie resisted, one hand clamped over the wound. “I need a hospital. Or an urgent care. Something. This isn’t— Jim, I need real medical help.”

“I know.” His voice stayed calm, reasonable. He eased her down onto the cushions anyway. “Phone signal’s garbage out here—you’ve seen that. I’ll drive up to the ridge and call an ambulance from there. But I can’t leave you bleeding like this. Let me clean it and wrap it so you don’t go into shock while I’m gone.”

He was already moving to the kitchen, pulling a first-aid kit from under the sink and a clean towel from a drawer. The efficiency of it made her stomach turn.

“Give me my phone,” she said. “And the car keys. I’ll go with you.”

Jim returned, knelt in front of the couch, and gently but firmly moved her hand away from the wound. The cut welled afresh under the cabin’s dim light. He pressed the towel against it. The pressure made her hiss.

“You’re not driving like this,” he said. “And you’re not walking. Phone’s got no bars anyway—check if you want.” He nodded toward the side table where her phone lay. She stretched for it, leaving a smear of blood on the wood, and watched the screen search in vain for a signal. Nothing.

Jim began cleaning the wound with antiseptic that stung sharply. His hands were steady, almost practiced. He worked in silence for a moment, eyes fixed on the soft, damaged flesh of her abdomen.

“I’ll call as soon as I hit the ridge,” he said again. “Twenty minutes there, twenty back. You’ll be fine. I’ve dealt with worse.”

The last sentence landed wrong. Kylie looked at his face. There was no panic in it—only concentration and a strange, quiet satisfaction as he taped a thick pad of gauze over the cut and began winding a bandage around her middle. The fabric pulled snug against her skin, compressing the wound and the bruise beneath.

“Jim.” Her voice came out tighter than she wanted. “I want to come with you. Please.”

He finished the bandage, smoothed it flat with both palms, and let his hands rest there a moment longer than necessary on either side of the injury. Then he stood.

“I’ll be faster alone. You stay put. Don’t move around. Don’t open the wound up more.” He collected her phone and the rental car keys from the table in one casual motion and slipped them into his pocket. “I’ll bring the ambulance right to the door. Just rest.”

“That’s my phone—”

“I’ll bring it back.” He was already at the door. “Twenty minutes to the ridge. I’ll call the second I have signal. You’re safe here.”

The door closed behind him. She heard the solid click of the lock, then the heavier sound of something being wedged or barred from the outside. His footsteps crossed the porch and faded down the path.

Kylie sat frozen on the couch, one hand pressed over the thick bandage, the other gripping the cushion. The cabin was suddenly very quiet. The sweet, rotten smell rose from the floorboards in slow waves, stronger now that she was alone and lower to the ground. Blood had seeped through the gauze in a small, dark coin.

She waited one minute. Then two.

No engine started.

The realization landed cold: he had not taken the car. He had simply left on foot—or not left at all.

Kylie forced herself to stand. Pain flared across her abdomen, sharp enough to blur her vision for a second. She staggered to the door and yanked the handle. It did not move. The windows were the old kind that only opened a few inches before the stops caught them. Outside, the path was empty. The rental car sat exactly where she had parked it.

The smell seemed to pulse with her heartbeat.

She turned back toward the room, breathing shallowly through her mouth, and that was when she noticed the floorboard near the edge of the couch—the one that had always sat a little uneven. A dark stain darkened the wood around it, newer than the rest. The musty sweetness poured up through the cracks, heavier than ever.

Kylie stared at it, the wound in her stomach throbbing in time with her pulse. For the first time since she had arrived, she felt the cabin itself watching her.

And she understood that Jim was not coming back with an ambulance.

Kylie dropped to her knees beside the uneven floorboard, the motion yanking hard at the fresh wound in her lower stomach. Pain flared white-hot behind the bandage; she felt the gauze pull wetly against the split flesh and had to pause, breathing through her teeth, one hand clamped over the seeping center of the dressing. The smell was pouring up through the cracks now—thick, sweet, and meaty, like spoiled fruit mixed with something richer and older. It coated the back of her throat.

She dug her fingers into the gap and pulled.

The board came up with a soft, reluctant suck, as if the darkness beneath had been holding it down. A wave of the stench hit her full in the face—hotter, wetter, concentrated. Kylie gagged, eyes watering, but she did not look away. The space under the floor was shallow, lined with old plastic sheeting that had long since clouded and torn. And on that sheeting lay what was left of a woman.

The body had been there for years. Skin had darkened to the color of old leather and collapsed inward over the bones, but it had not dried completely—moisture from the lake soil had kept parts of it in a slow, soft rot. The abdomen was the worst. It had been opened at some point, roughly and without care, and never closed. The edges of the incision were curled and blackened, the cavity beneath a collapsed cradle of ruined tissue. What remained of the intestines were still there, darkened and shrunken into tangled, leathery loops, some of them split or eaten through by time and whatever had found its way in. A few sections looked almost preserved by the peculiar damp, glistening faintly in the low light like wet rope. The stomach itself had ruptured long ago; the surrounding organs had sunk into a single, indistinct mass of putrid matter that still held a terrible, soft volume.

The smell was coming from there—from the open, ruined gut.

Kylie’s own wound throbbed in answer. Every heartbeat pushed a fresh pulse of blood into the bandage, and for a sickening moment the two sensations overlapped: the hot ache in her living belly and the visual of this other belly, long dead and hollowed out. She could not stop staring at the way the desiccated intestines had settled, the way some of them still seemed to coil toward the cut edges of the abdominal wall as if trying to spill free. A small, dark beetle moved inside the cavity and disappeared between two collapsed loops.

Her hands were shaking. The floorboard slipped from her fingers and struck the edge of the opening with a dull knock. Pain lanced through her stomach again—sharper this time, wetter. When she glanced down she saw that the gauze was fully soaked through, a bright red bloom spreading across the white fabric. The sight of her own blood mixed with the smell of the other woman’s opened gut made her retch. Nothing came up but a thin string of bile.

She tried to stand and nearly fell. The wound felt larger than it had a moment ago, as though the act of seeing had somehow widened it. Her fingers, still pressed to the bandage, came away slick. The ruined abdomen under the floor seemed to stare back at her with its empty, gaping mouth, the shrunken intestines arranged in a silent, permanent spill.

Somewhere outside, a footstep sounded on the porch boards.

Kylie turned her head too fast. The motion pulled at the cut; she felt something inside the wound give a fraction more, a hot trickle sliding down toward her hip. The latch on the door began to lift.

The thing under the floor had once been a woman with brown hair and blue eyes. The thing under the floor had been opened the way Jim’s eyes had kept returning to Kylie’s own soft middle. And now the same man who had pressed his hand over her bleeding stomach was coming back through the door.

The miasma rose around her, thick as a hand over her mouth.

The door opened.

Jim stepped inside carrying a folded blanket and a bottle of antiseptic, the picture of calm concern—until he saw the uprooted floorboard and Kylie frozen beside it, one blood-slick hand still pressed to her stomach. His face changed in stages: confusion, recognition, then something colder and far older.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” he said quietly.

Kylie backed away until her shoulders hit the wall. The wound pulsed hot and wet under the soaked bandage. “You killed her.” Her voice cracked. “She’s under the floor. You killed her.”

Jim set the blanket and bottle down with exaggerated care. When he looked at her again, his eyes were shining.

“Ellen,” he said. The name came out soft, almost tender. “You always did dig where you shouldn’t. Always had to go looking for things that were better left alone.” He took a step forward. “I told you what would happen if you ran again. I told you.”

“I’m not Ellen—”

“Don’t.” The word was sharp, but his expression stayed heartbreakingly gentle. “Don’t do that. Don’t pretend. You came back looking exactly the same—same hair, same eyes, same soft little stomach—and then you tried to leave me again.” His gaze dropped to the bleeding bandage. A shudder ran through him, half grief, half hunger. “I had to open you up the first time to make you stay. I didn’t want to. But you didn’t leave me any choice.”

He moved.

Kylie lunged for the kitchen. Pain detonated across her abdomen; she felt the cut tear wider, warm blood spilling down the front of her swimsuit bottoms and thighs. Jim’s hand closed on her upper arm and spun her around. For a moment he only held her, forehead nearly touching hers, breath shaking.

“I love you,” he whispered. “I never stopped. But you can’t run anymore, Ellen. I won’t let you.”

She drove her knee up and tore free.

Kylie slammed through the cabin door and off the porch, landing hard on the packed dirt path. The impact drove straight up through her legs and into the open wound. She felt the split flesh pull wider with a wet, internal give, and a fresh sheet of blood poured down the front of her thighs. The bandage was gone—lost somewhere between the couch and the door. Nothing remained but the raw, gaping line across her lower belly and the dark bruise that surrounded it like a storm cloud.

She ran.

Behind her the doorframe splintered as Jim came through without slowing. His boots hit the porch boards with heavy, even force. He was not sprinting. He did not need to.

“Ellen,” he called, voice almost gentle over the distance. “You’re tearing yourself open. I can see it from here. That pretty soft stomach of yours is going to spill if you keep this up.”

Kylie risked one glance back. Jim had taken something from the cabin wall on his way out—a long, heavy-bladed knife he used for clearing brush, the kind with a hooked tip for cutting roots. The metal caught the last orange light of the sun. In his other hand he carried a coil of rough rope and a folded square of the plastic sheeting that had lined the space under the floorboards. The sight of the plastic made her vision tunnel.

He intends to open me, she thought, the words crystalline and distant. He’s going to finish the cut and put me under the floor with her.

She forced the thought away and drove herself harder into the trees.

Every stride was a fresh injury. Her bare feet—already scraped from the dock and the earlier fall—tore open on stones and root ridges. Sharp edges sliced the soft arches and heels; she left bright red prints that filled almost immediately with dirt. The wound on her stomach bounced and stretched with the motion of running. She could feel the edges of it working against each other, slick and hot. Twice she had to clamp both hands over it to keep the pain from folding her in half, and each time she did the blood welled up between her fingers and ran down her wrists.

Jim’s voice followed her like another scent in the air.

“I waited so long for you to come back,” he said, closer now. He was choosing his path carefully, herding her rather than simply chasing. “I kept your place ready. Kept you ready. And the first thing you do is try to leave me again. Just like before.” A short, broken laugh. “I won’t make the same mistake twice, Ellen. This time I’m going to take that soft belly of yours all the way open. I’m going to hold what comes out. I’m going to put you back where you belong—under the boards, with the rest of you—so you can’t run anymore.”

Kylie’s thoughts fractured under the pain and the words.
He’s going to disembowel me.
He’s carrying the plastic so he can wrap what he takes out of me.
My stomach is already halfway there—

A low branch whipped across her midsection. She screamed. The impact landed directly on the wound; the cut opened wider in a single bright burst of agony. Blood pattered onto the leaves under her feet. She stumbled, almost went down, and caught herself on a tree trunk, leaving a red smear across the bark at stomach height.

Jim’s footsteps slowed. He wanted her to hear him approaching.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “That’s the sound I remember. You made that same sound the first time. Right when I got past the muscle and into the soft part. You remember, don’t you? How warm it was when I put my hands inside?”

Kylie pushed off the tree and ran again, half-doubled around her own arms. Her swimsuit top had twisted; the bottoms were soaked black-red and slipping. Every breath pumped more blood out of the wound. She could feel the heat of it running down the inside of her legs now, mixing with the sweat and dirt. The smell of her own open flesh mixed with the permanent miasma of the cabin until she could no longer tell which was which.

She cut hard toward the denser trees, lungs burning. Behind her Jim kept talking—soft, loving, obscene—describing exactly how he was going to finish the cut she had started for him, how he was going to reach in and rearrange her the way he had rearranged Ellen, how the rope was for keeping her still while he worked, how the plastic was so nothing would be lost when he carried her home.

The sun dropped behind the ridge. Blue shadow flooded the woods.

Kylie saw the fallen tree a second before her legs gave out—an old, hollow trunk lying half-rotted on its side, the underside chewed out by years of decay and insects. She dropped to her hands and knees and crawled into the dark cavity, the movement folding her stomach so cruelly that she nearly blacked out. Inside, she curled onto her side in the damp, crumbling wood pulp, both arms locked around her middle, and tried to silence the wet, hitching sound of her breathing.

Her feet were ruined, soles scored and bleeding. The wound on her belly had become a deep, open mouth that pulsed with every heartbeat, spilling heat against her wrists. Outside the hollow, the woods had gone quiet.

For the moment—just the moment—she heard no footsteps.

Kylie pressed her forehead to the soft, rotting wood and held the edges of herself together by force of will, listening to the blood leaving her body and the distant, patient voice still calling his wife’s name into the dark.

The woods went quiet.

No footsteps. No voice calling Ellen’s name. Only the slow, heavy thud of Kylie’s own heart, so loud it seemed to push against the walls of her chest and down into the tender, ruined flesh of her lower stomach. Each beat made the open wound flex. She could feel it—an ugly, wet pulse right behind the torn edges of skin, as if her heart had dropped into the cut itself and was trying to hammer its way out through her navel.

Her breathing came in short, rasping pulls. She tried to slow it and failed. The sound was too loud inside the hollow trunk, too human. She pressed her lips together until her teeth cut them and breathed through her nose instead, shallow and shaking.

Stupid.
So fucking stupid.

The thoughts arrived in jagged bursts. She should have left the first night, when he stared too long from the hill. She should have locked the door and ignored the knock that morning. She should never have taken his hand on the platform. She should have fought harder in the cabin instead of letting him bandage her like a child. Every choice replayed itself in a tight, furious loop, and underneath the anger sat the colder knowledge that none of it mattered now. The knife was still out there. The rope. The plastic. The open space under the floorboards that already had her shape waiting.

Tears slid sideways across the bridge of her nose and into the rotting wood. She did not sob aloud—she could not risk the sound—but her body shook with the effort of keeping it silent. Both hands were clamped over the wound. The gauze had fully unraveled during the run; only a few sticky, blood-soaked loops remained caught around her hips. Her bare palms were slick. The heat of the cut radiated into her fingers.

Carefully—terrified of what she might feel—she let one trembling fingertip slip past the torn edge of skin.

The inside was hotter than she expected. Soft. Wet. The muscle had been breached; beyond it her fingertip slid against something smoother and more mobile that gave under the lightest pressure. A fresh, bright spike of pain shot upward and outward, so intense her thighs jerked. She bit down on her own wrist to stay quiet and held still, the single finger resting just inside the wound, feeling the way her pulse moved through the opened flesh and the deeper, darker give of whatever lay beneath.

Her navel, only inches above the cut, twitched with every heartbeat. The whole soft plane of her stomach felt like it belonged to someone else—something already halfway claimed.

Outside the hollow trunk, the last light died.

Kylie kept her finger where it was, sobbing without sound, and listened to her heart keep time against the tender, ruined center of herself while the silence stretched.

A hand closed around her ankle and yanked.

Kylie was ripped out of the hollow trunk so violently that her back scraped across the broken wood and her open stomach folded hard against her thighs. The scream tore out of her before she could stop it. Moonlight flooded the clearing—bright, almost white—and in the middle of it stood Jim, lantern raised in one hand, the long brush knife gleaming in the other. He had been standing there the entire time.

“Found you,” he said, almost lovingly.

She kicked. Her heel caught him hard across the shin and he staggered, the lantern swinging wildly. For a second the light spun across the trees and her own blood-smeared stomach. Kylie scrambled backward on her elbows, one arm still clamped over the wound, and tried to rise. Jim recovered faster than she expected. He dropped the lantern—it landed upright in the leaves, casting a hard yellow circle—and lunged.

They went down together in the wet undergrowth.

Kylie’s world narrowed to the weight of him and the white explosion of pain when his knee drove straight into the center of her open belly. The impact was blunt and enormous. A wet, heavy squelch punched out of her as the already-split flesh gave way completely. She felt the cut tear wider in a single, sickening rush; the air left her lungs in a wet, choking cough. Something deeper inside shifted hard under the pressure—soft, vital, shoved violently out of place.

They both looked down at the same moment.

A warm, slimy segment of pale-pink small intestine had been forced through the widened gash and was now poking obscenely from the creamy skin of her lower abdomen, glistening under the combined moonlight and lantern glow. It pulsed once, weakly, still connected to the mess inside her. A thin string of bloody fluid dripped from the tip and soaked into the leaves between their bodies.

Jim’s face was inches from hers, eyes wide and shining with fractured tenderness.

“Stop fighting me, Ellen—”

She clawed. Her nails raked across his cheek and into the soft skin under one eye, drawing blood. Jim snarled—an animal sound—and answered by slamming his fist down into the same ruined place on her stomach. Once. Twice. The blows were heavy, meaty, merciless. Each one drove her deeper into the leaf litter and forced another hot gush of blood and gut-juices between their bodies. On the second punch the protruding loop of intestine surged farther out, sliding wetly across her hip. Kylie felt the toned muscle of her abdomen yield completely; the protective wall that had always held everything in was failing under the repeated blunt force. More of the soft, coiled mass began to follow the first loop, pushing against the torn edges as if eager to escape.

She twisted, got one knee up, and drove it into his ribs with everything she had left. Jim grunted and listed sideways. The knife skittered out of his hand into the dark. For a single, impossible second she was half-free. She rolled, tried to crawl, one hand slipping in the mud and her own blood. The moonlight made the open wound look black and bottomless. A longer length of her small intestine had spilled free now, casting a harrowing, glistening silhouette across the forest floor as it dragged through the dirt. Her navel sat just above the worst of the damage, tight and trembling, as if it already knew what was coming.

Jim’s arm hooked around her waist from behind and hauled her back. His rough fingers closed directly on the spilled gut. The sudden pressure on the sensitive, exposed tissue forced a high, mewling scream from Kylie’s throat.

“PLEASE—I’m NOT Ellen! I’m Kylie… my… my stomach— Please, let me go… I’ll do anything.” She sobbed, voice cracking.

His blood—warm from the scratches she had left—dripped onto her shoulder. He was breathing hard, less careful now, the last of his gentle husband-voice cracking apart.

“You’re only making the soft part softer,” he panted against her ear. “That’s all right. I was always going to have to open you up again. I just wanted it to be nicer this time.”

He forced her onto her back in the lantern light. One knee pinned her thigh. His bloodied hand spread wide across her lower stomach and pressed, slow and deliberate, feeling the way the damaged muscle and the open cut gave under his palm. A single delicate length of small intestine still clung to the mesenteric sheath that lined her inner abdomen, stretching pale-pink and shining between the wound and the leaves. The loop glowed almost translucent under the moonlight. Kylie screamed through her teeth, eyes locked in pure terror on the organ that had been inside her only moments before. Both hands tried to push him off, but the strength was leaving her arms in long, trembling waves as Jim’s fingers continued to work the ruined, spilling softness of her belly.

Above them the full moon stared down, cold and bright. The lantern hissed quietly in the leaves. And Jim, straddling her hips, reached for the knife he had lost only moments before.

Jim’s fingers closed around the knife handle. The lantern light slid along the hooked blade as he brought it back into the circle of yellow glow. Kylie bucked beneath him, her lean frame twisting, the soft plane of her lower stomach gleaming with blood, sweat, and visceral fluids. The open cut already split her from just below the navel downward, the edges ragged and pulsing. Every shallow breath made the wound mouth open and close.

“Shh.” Jim’s voice had gone quiet again, almost reverent. He pinned her wrists above her head with one hand and used the other to press the flat of the blade against the trembling skin just above the existing tear. “I waited so long to have you like this again. Soft. Open. Mine.”

"No... no... I'm begging you. My gutsss." Kylie strength faded as her slick wet hands tried to steer the blade away in vain.

He cut.

The knife sank in with sickening ease. The already-damaged muscle parted in a long, wet sigh. Kylie’s back arched hard; a raw, animal sound ripped out of her throat. Her ribs jutted out from under her skin as her ruined Bikini top slid off her body. Jim worked slowly, almost lovingly, drawing the blade in a widening arc across the lean, blood-slick curve of her belly. The toned flesh that had once been tight and pretty now yielded like overripe fruit. A heavy, glistening bulge of pink-gray intestine pushed immediately against the new opening, shiny under the moon and lantern light.

“There she is,” he whispered. “There’s my girl.”

He set the knife aside and used both hands.

Fingers slid into the wound on either side and pulled. The abdominal wall gave with a soft, fibrous tearing sound as Kylie let out a hoarse wet cough. Her stomach opened like a mouth. A slippery, steaming loop of small intestine spilled out across her hip and onto the leaves meeting the dirt in a wet, disgusting plop and still contracting in helpless peristalsis. The smell that rose was thick, meaty, intimate—the same sweet rot that had lived under the cabin floor, only fresher, hotter, alive. Jim’s hands followed the organ back inside, palms deep in the hot, wet cavity, feeling the packed, mobile weight of her guts shift and slide against one another.

Kylie sobbed and convulsed. Her lean body—narrow waist, subtle abdominal lines now ruined and gaping—jerked with every new invasion. She choked on her saliva as she begged for mercy, her own hands still trying to stop the inevitable as they grabbed helplessly at Jim's fingers and her own offal. Jim gathered another armful of intestine and lifted it, watching the glistening ropes stretch and gleam. He pressed his face into the open belly for a moment, breathing her in, then bit gently at the edge of the cut the way a man might kiss a lover’s throat. Kylie croaked in desperation. Blood and clear fluid smeared his mouth and chin.

“You feel the same,” he murmured against the ruined flesh. “Still so warm inside. Still so soft.”

He began to work in earnest.

Hands plunged, twisted, pulled. Loops of intestine were dragged out in long, shining coils and arranged across her heaving ribs and small breasts. The larger, heavier mass of the colon followed, darker and thicker, releasing a repugnant smell when it ruptured under his fingers. Jim’s wrists disappeared into her up to the middle of his forearms as he rooted deeper, rearranging, claiming, destroying. The cavity of her belly grew hollow and glistening; the lean muscles of her abdomen fluttered and spasmed around his invading arms like a second, failing mouth.

Kylie’s screams thinned into wet, rhythmic cries. Her hips kept making small, involuntary movements—pain and something closer to violated reflex—while her open stomach was emptied and explored. Jim leaned over her, chest to the spill of her organs, and kissed the underside of her navel as he pulled another slippery handful free. The lantern light turned everything gold and red and obscene: the pale stretch of her remaining skin, the dark wet hole that had been her pretty stomach, the living ropes of gut still twitching in the leaves.

When he finally reached past the last of the intestines and closed his fist around the warmer, firmer organs higher up, Kylie’s body gave a single, violent shudder. Her deep blue eyes were wide and glassy, fixed on the moon. Jim pressed his blood-slick forehead to hers, one hand still buried to the forearm inside the ruined cradle of her belly.

“Stay this time,” he whispered. “Stay with me.”

He closed his hand and pulled.

The final, heavy mass came free in a long, steaming rush. Kylie’s back arched until only her shoulders and heels touched the ground, the empty shell of her abdomen yawning open to the night. A thick, wet sound escaped her throat. Then the strength left her limbs all at once. She sagged into the leaves, open and hollow, the entire soft contents of her stomach laid out in a dark halo around her waist.

Jim knelt between her spread thighs for a long time, hands gently arranging the spilled intestines the way someone might straighten a lover’s hair. The plastic sheeting was already unfolded beside him. The rope waited. Above them the full moon kept shining, indifferent and bright, while the miasma of fresh and ancient rot rose together into the trees.

In the lantern light, Kylie’s lean body looked almost peaceful—belly a dark, empty cradle, organs carefully gathered, the faint remaining curve of her waist still elegant even in ruin.

Jim leaned down and kissed the bloody edge of the wound one last time.

“Welcome home, Ellen.”

Kylie had resisted the idea for weeks.

Her girlfriends had been relentless. “You’re going to burn out before you even finish the dissertation,” Maya had said over drinks, jabbing a finger at the dark circles under Kylie’s eyes. "And you're literally shrinking," Jennifer chimed in, eyeing Kylie's abdomen under her crop top. She made an embarrassed face, but she actually did enjoy missing the odd meal. “One long weekend. No laptop. No email. Just trees and quiet. If you don’t go, we’re staging an intervention.” The others had nodded in agreement, already scrolling through listings on their phones. By the end of the night Kylie had a reservation for a lakeside cabin in the Adirondacks and a rented compact car booked for Friday afternoon.

The drive north felt longer than the map suggested. New York traffic gave way to highways, then to narrower roads lined with dense pine and maple. By the time she turned onto the gravel drive marked with a small wooden sign, the light had softened into late-afternoon gold. The cabin sat on a gentle rise above a small, still lake, its weathered siding the color of old driftwood. A screened porch faced the water. Everything looked exactly as the photos had promised: quiet, remote, almost aggressively wholesome.

She parked, killed the engine, and sat for a moment, listening to the tick of cooling metal and the distant call of a loon. When she stepped out, the air hit her differently—cooler, heavier with the scent of damp earth and pine needles. Underneath it, faint but persistent, was something else. A low, sweetish mustiness, like wet cardboard left too long in a basement. Kylie wrinkled her nose once, then dismissed it. After years of subway platforms and exhaust and the perpetual low-grade stink of the city, a little mold felt almost nostalgic. Clean, even. She grabbed her bag and headed for the porch.

The door opened before she could knock.

The man who stood there was middle-aged, perhaps early fifties, with a neatly trimmed beard going gray at the edges and kind, crinkled eyes. He wore a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up and looked like someone who spent most of his time outdoors.

“You must be Kylie,” he said, smiling. “I’m Jim. Welcome. Hope the drive wasn’t too bad.”

His voice was warm, unhurried. He stepped aside to let her in, taking her bag without being asked. The interior of the cabin was simple and carefully kept: a small living area with a stone fireplace, a kitchenette, a bedroom loft reachable by a narrow staircase. Afternoon light slanted through the windows overlooking the lake. The musty note was stronger inside, clinging to the floorboards and the corners, but it still didn’t feel alarming—just old wood and moisture, the natural breath of a place that lived close to the water.

Jim gave her a quick tour, pointing out the extra blankets, the coffee supplies, the path that led down to the small dock. He lived, he explained, in a smaller cabin farther back on the property and took care of the grounds and the occasional guest. “Most people come up here to disappear for a few days,” he said, still smiling. “You’re welcome to do the same. Lake’s good for swimming if you don’t mind it cold. Trails are marked if you want to walk. I’ll stay out of your hair unless you need anything.”

Kylie thanked him, already feeling the tight band across her shoulders begin to loosen. He handed her the key, wished her a good evening, and left with a small wave, closing the door softly behind him.

Alone, she stood in the middle of the main room and breathed in. The moldy undercurrent was still there, subtle, almost sweet, rising from the floorboards whenever the air shifted. She decided she liked it. It was the opposite of the sharp, chemical smell of the city. It felt like the cabin was alive in its own quiet way—old, damp, patient.

She unpacked slowly, changed into soft clothes, and carried a glass of water out onto the porch. The lake reflected the darkening sky. Somewhere in the trees a bird called once and went silent. For the first time in months, Kylie felt no urge to check her phone.

By the time she finished unpacking, the light had shifted toward dusk. The lake had turned a deeper blue, almost black in the center, and the trees along the far shore were already losing their edges. Kylie moved around the small kitchen with the easy, unhurried motions of someone who had nowhere else to be. She heated a simple meal—pasta with olive oil, garlic, and the half-wilted spinach she’d brought from the city—and ate it standing at the counter, absently pressing the flat of her palm against the soft give of her lower stomach. The food settled warmly. She liked the quiet fullness of it.

Afterward she poured a generous glass of the red wine she’d packed, slipped into short shorts and a loose cropped tee that rode up whenever she moved, and walked the short path down to the dock. For once she felt at peace. Her long brown hair bobbed against her five foot five frame as she padded towards the water, blue eyes wandered dreamily across the horizon. The boards were still warm under her bare feet. She sat at the edge, legs dangling, and let the cold water climb over her toes and ankles. The contrast made her stomach tighten for a moment before it relaxed again.

She opened her book but didn’t read much at first. Instead she leaned back on one hand and let the other drift under the hem of her shirt, fingertips finding the small, delicate depression of her navel. Her stomach was soft in the way that only a lean, lightly active body can be—flat when she sat up straight, but with a gentle, yielding give the moment she relaxed or breathed out. The cropped tee left most of it bare: smooth skin still carrying a faint summer warmth, a shallow, neat innie navel that sat like a small secret at its center. When she pressed her fingers into it, the flesh dimpled easily, then sprang back, the muscle beneath present but not hard. It was the kind of stomach that looked delicate in the fading light, almost vulnerable, and she liked the quiet vanity of it—the way the evening air moved across the exposed skin, the way her own touch made it tighten for a second before it softened again under her hand. There was no one around to see, and that was part of the pleasure—just the quiet ownership of her own body, the soft skin, the shallow dip that always felt a little more sensitive than the rest of her. The cropped tee left most of her midriff bare. She liked the way the evening air moved across it.

When she finally looked up, she saw him.

Jim stood higher on the hill near the tree line, half in shadow. He wasn’t moving. The distance made his expression unreadable, but the angle of his head was unmistakable. He was watching her. Kylie felt a brief, instinctive urge to tug her shirt down, then dismissed it. She was on vacation. She was allowed to exist in her own skin. She lifted her free hand and waved, offering a small, easy smile.

He didn’t wave back.

For a second longer he remained still, then turned and walked into the trees without any acknowledgment. Kylie watched the place where he had disappeared, the faintest crease forming between her brows. Maybe he hadn’t seen her clearly. Maybe he was one of those solitary types who didn’t bother with the usual gestures. She let it go, returned to her book, and kept her fingers loosely hooked in her navel while the sky bled from orange into indigo.

By the time she finished the chapter it was nearly dark. The air had cooled quickly, raising fine goosebumps across her exposed stomach. She stood, brushed off the back of her shorts, and started up the path toward the cabin, wine glass in one hand, book in the other. The woods were already loud with evening insects. She was thinking about whether to light the fireplace when her bare foot caught on a root.

The fall was awkward and sudden. She went down hard, twisting just enough that her midsection took the worst of it—her stomach landing squarely against a low, jutting tree branch. The impact drove the air from her lungs in a sharp, involuntary sound, an "ouff" and a soft gurgle from her intestines. For a moment she stayed folded over the branch, the rough bark pressed deep into the soft give of her belly, the residual warmth of the wine and dinner making the ache feel strangely vivid.

“Easy—”

Jim’s voice was right there. His hands closed around her upper arms, steadying her, helping her straighten. She hadn’t heard him approach. The path behind her had been empty.

“You all right?” he asked. His eyes flicked down, just once, to where her shirt had ridden up and the branch had left a faint, reddened line across her stomach. Then he looked back at her face. “Branch got you pretty good.”

Kylie nodded, still catching her breath, one hand pressed protectively over the sore spot. “I’m fine. Just wasn’t looking.”

Jim lifted the lantern he was carrying, the warm yellow light pushing the dark back a few feet. “Sun’s gone. Path gets tricky after dark. I’ll walk you up.” He didn’t wait for her to agree—just started along the trail at an easy pace, the lantern held out so she could see the roots and stones. After a moment Kylie fell into step beside him, still cradling her midsection with one hand.

The quiet between them lasted only a little while before her natural curiosity edged past the lingering ache. “Have you lived out here long?” she asked.

Jim’s lantern swung gently with his stride. “Coming up on twelve years now. Used to be full-time in Albany. City never really suited me.” He glanced at her, then back at the path. “My wife and I bought the place together. She loved the lake. Said it was the only spot that ever felt quiet enough.”

Something in his voice had shifted—still soft, but thinner. Kylie looked over at him. In the moving lantern light his face looked older.

“She left,” he said after a moment. “Just… packed a bag one morning and drove off. No note that made sense. No real explanation. I kept thinking she’d come back once she got whatever it was out of her system.” He gave a small, humorless breath that might have been a laugh. “That was a long time ago.”

Kylie felt an immediate, reflexive sympathy. “I’m sorry. That must have been hard.”

Jim stopped walking. The lantern light held steady between them. He looked at her for a long second, eyes moving over her face, her hair, the bare strip of stomach still showing where her shirt had ridden up.

“You look just like her,” he said quietly. “When she was younger. Same eyes. Same hair. Even the way you stand.” His voice roughened, and for a moment he seemed almost close to tears. “It’s… it’s something else, seeing you here.”

The words landed with an odd weight. Kylie felt a flicker of discomfort—too intimate, too sudden—but the emotion on his face looked genuine, and the ache in her own stomach made her softer than usual. She offered a careful, sympathetic smile.

“I hope she finds her way back to you someday,” she said, not knowing what else to offer.

Jim held her gaze a moment longer, then nodded once and started walking again. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Me too.”

They covered the rest of the distance in silence. At the cabin door he handed her the lantern’s light long enough for her to get the key in the lock, then stepped back.

“You take care of that stomach,” he said. “Branches don’t always feel like much until the next day.” His eyes dropped once more to the place where she still held herself, then he turned and headed into the dark, the lantern bobbing with his steps until the trees swallowed the glow.

Inside, the faint moldy sweetness rose from the floorboards to meet her. Kylie locked the door, set the wine down, and stood for a moment with both hands resting over the tender place on her stomach. The ache was already fading. She told herself the whole walk back had been nothing more than an older man’s loneliness, the kind that made people see familiar faces where none existed.

Outside, the woods had gone fully dark.

Kylie woke to a dull, spreading ache across her lower stomach.

For a moment she lay still, staring at the rough wooden ceiling of the loft, and pressed her fingers experimentally against the tender line the branch had left. The skin was warm and slightly raised. It didn’t feel serious—just the kind of deep bruise that would darken over the next day or two—but it made every shift of her body more noticeable. She exhaled slowly and sat up, the cropped sleep shirt she had worn to bed riding up over the mark.

The smell was stronger this morning.

It rose from the floorboards in a slow, sweetish wave, thicker than the night before, as if the cabin had been breathing it out while she slept. Kylie wrinkled her nose and swung her legs over the side of the bed. The air felt heavier, almost humid with it. She told herself it was just the damp working its way up from the lake, the old wood swelling overnight. Still, she opened both windows in the loft and the one in the main room before she even put water on for coffee.

She was standing at the counter in shorts and the same loose tee, gently prodding the bruise while the kettle heated, when the knock came.

Jim stood on the porch with a cast-iron skillet in one hand and a small basket in the other. The smell of cooked eggs and fresh coffee cut through the mustiness for a moment.

“Figured you might want a real breakfast,” he said, smiling that same easy smile from yesterday. “Eggs from the co-op down the road. Coffee’s decent. How’s the stomach?”

The question came too quickly. His eyes dropped to where her shirt had ridden up, lingering on the reddened mark above the waistband of her shorts. Kylie tugged the fabric down.

“It’s fine. Just sore.” She stepped aside to let him in, already regretting it a little. “You didn’t have to go to the trouble.”

“No trouble.” He moved past her into the kitchen, setting the skillet on the stove like he belonged there. “Branch hits can sneak up on you. Better to eat something solid.”

He plated the eggs without asking how she liked them and poured coffee into one of the cabin mugs. The domestic ease of it should have been comforting. Instead it felt slightly off-tempo, as if he had done this many times before in this exact kitchen. Kylie sat at the small table and ate a few bites to be polite. The food was good. The attention was heavier than the meal.

Jim leaned against the counter, arms folded, watching her.

“You sleep okay?” he asked. “Sometimes people find the quiet out here takes getting used to. My wife used to say the same thing when we first—” He stopped. The silence that followed was short but noticeable. Then he gave a small, self-correcting breath. “When she first came up here, I mean. She always needed a night or two.”

Kylie looked up. He had used the present tense for half a second and then fixed it. Or she thought he had. The ache in her stomach gave a low, answering pulse.

“I’m all right,” she said carefully. “Just still tired from the semester. That’s why I came.”

Jim nodded, but his gaze had drifted again to her midsection, to the place where the bruise sat hidden under her shirt. The moldy sweetness curled through the room, stronger near the floor. Kylie shifted in her chair.

“There’s a pretty strong smell in here this morning,” she said, trying to keep her tone light. “Kind of… musty. Do you know what it is?”

He blinked, as if coming back from somewhere else. “Old place. Floorboards get damp. I’ll air it out properly later—open the crawl space, let it breathe. You’ll barely notice it by tonight.”

His voice was calm. Helpful. The same warm cadence as the evening before. But the way he had looked at her stomach, the near-slip of “my wife used to,” and the lingering weight of his attention settled over the table like a fourth presence.

Kylie finished the eggs more quickly than she wanted to and stood.

“I was thinking of going for a swim,” she said. “Clear my head.”

Jim’s smile returned, slower this time. “Good idea. Water’s cold but clean. I’ll walk down with you if you want—make sure the dock’s clear. Wouldn’t want you taking another spill.”

The offer hung in the air between them. Outside, the lake reflected a bright, indifferent sky. Inside, the smell continued to rise, quiet and patient, from beneath the floorboards.

Kylie forced a polite smile and told him she could manage on her own.

She was no longer entirely sure that was true.
Kylie changed into her swimsuit in the loft, moving carefully around the bruise. The simple black two-piece left her midriff bare; the mark from the branch showed as a darkening band low on her stomach, tender when the waistband of the bottoms brushed it. She stood in front of the small mirror for a moment, fingers tracing the edge of the discoloration, then forced herself to drop her hand. It was only a bruise. She was not going to let one clumsy fall dictate the rest of the weekend.

The path down to the lake felt longer in daylight. Sunlight broke through the trees in bright shafts, and the air was warmer, but the underlying sweetness of the cabin’s smell still clung to her clothes and hair. She tried to breathe past it.

The dock was empty when she reached it. The water looked clean and dark, reflecting the clear sky. Kylie stepped out of her sandals, walked to the end of the boards, and eased herself in. The cold climbed her legs, then her stomach, making the bruise tighten and ache for a few seconds before the water numbed it. She swam out a short distance, turning onto her back, letting the quiet hold her.

She had been floating for only a few minutes when she heard footsteps on the dock.

Jim stood at the edge, sleeves rolled up, a thick coil of old rope over one shoulder and a heavy metal dock cleat dangling from one hand. He lifted the other hand in a casual wave.

“Didn’t mean to startle you,” he called. “Saw you head down. Figured I’d clear the far platform—storm last month knocked it loose. Good swimming over there if you want something deeper.”

Kylie treaded water, suddenly aware of how exposed she felt with her stomach bare and the bruise visible above the waterline. “I’m fine here,” she said. “But thank you.”

Jim was already moving. He stepped down into the shallows and waded toward the half-submerged wooden platform twenty yards out, the metal cleat swinging at his side. “It’ll only take a minute. Come on—I’ll show you. Water’s cleaner past the drop-off.”

Something in his tone made refusal feel rude, almost childish. Kylie hesitated, then swam after him. The cold water pulled at her, and every stroke tugged lightly at the sore place across her belly.

The platform sat low, its surface slick with algae. Jim hauled himself up first, set the cleat down with a dull clank, and turned to offer her a hand. His palm was rough and warm. Kylie took it. For a second she was half out of the water, weight suspended, stomach stretched and unprotected—

—his grip shifted.

Whether he slipped on the wet wood or simply let her go, the result was the same. Kylie’s support vanished. She dropped hard, the edge of the platform catching her squarely across the lower abdomen. The impact was sharp, deep, and sickening. Air burst from her lungs. Pain exploded outward from the already-bruised flesh, white-hot and nauseating. She folded around it, slipping back into the water with a choked sound, both arms wrapping protectively around her middle.

Jim was in the water beside her in an instant.

“Jesus—Kylie—” His arms went around her, hauling her up against the platform. One hand pressed firmly over the place where she had hit, as if he could hold the pain in. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you. Breathe.”

She tried. The world had narrowed to the fire across her stomach. When she looked down she saw a dark line of blood already welling against the black fabric of her swimsuit bottoms, spreading into the water in thin red threads. The skin had split. Not deep enough to kill her, but deep enough that every small movement felt like the wound was pulling wider, as if her warm guts were about to burst out.

Jim’s face was close to hers. His expression was stricken, almost tender. “I’m sorry. God, I’m so sorry. The wood’s slicker than I thought.” His hand stayed on her belly, fingers splayed over the bleeding cut, pressing just hard enough that she could feel the individual points of contact. “We need to get you back. You’re okay. You’re okay, I’ve got you.”

He half-carried, half-floated her to shore, keeping one arm locked around her waist and the other hand clamped over the injury. Every few steps he murmured reassurance, his breath warm against her temple. The pain made it difficult to think. The moldy sweetness of the cabin seemed to have followed them down to the water, mixing with the iron scent of her own blood.

By the time they reached the path, Kylie’s legs were unsteady and her swimsuit was stained dark across the front. Jim adjusted his grip, lifting her slightly so her weight rested against him.

“I’ve got bandages at the cabin,” he said quietly. “Antiseptic too. I’ll take care of it. Just like before.”

The last two words landed with a strange finality.

Bailey sat cross-legged on the cheap mattress in her dimly lit apartment, the webcam light glowing like a hungry eye. For weeks she had degraded herself on Dum Dummies. Another 42,259 credits until she's finally debt free. She named her channel Bailey's Belly. A life long kinkster with an obsession with belly torture, she was finally able to put it to use streaming her self mutilation for some cold hard cash. Working the cashier job was going to take her more than a decade to pay off the medical debt, and by then she would've been repo'd into a million pieces of fuck meat. "Better to go out on my own terms, eh."

She's managed to gain a following of sadistic freaks, obsessing over her emaciated frame and her prized internal organs. For weeks, she'd show off her skeletal abdomen, once a lean machine for swimming, now a hollow bag of guts. Doing dares like punching her own stomach, orgasm denial, and fingering her sliced-open navel earned her good tips, enough to make a dent in the debt and put food on the table, as much as she's able to put down without puking it up from the intestinal damage she'd self-inflicted. Her abs were a permanent swollen crater, and her guts barely worked anymore as if she's on permanent laxatives, but that turned on her as much as it hurt. She'd grown to love her shivering orgasms at the end of each stream as she slammed dumbbells into her guts, fisted her own throbbing pussy, and sliced her own navel open for the eleventh time. Plus, she was on track to clear her debt in, "three fuckin years, Jesus. Don't know I can last that long," she looked down, a finger slowly circling her pink swollen lips.

When the package from Sir X arrived with the note — Complete my instructions live and every cent of your debt disappears — she accepted without hesitation. How much worse could it possibly get?

The stream began normally. A couple hundred tuned in. Bailey stood in her state-assigned apartment, ribs and hip bones casting sharp shadows under the cheap fluorescent ring light. She did a stomach vacuum, her concave belly collapsing until it looked like an empty bowl between her protruding bones. She slapped and punched her navel, then slipped three fingers into the already surgically opened crater, stretching it while moaning for the camera. Her finger dug deep into her abdominal cavity until she felt her slimy intestines. The chat flooded with tips as she positioned herself closer to the camera, showing off her gaping belly button. She rode her hand to a shuddering orgasm, smiling weakly through the pain as her guts squelched audibly.

Then Sir X joined the stream. “Time to play with your gift, Bailey.”

The 2-foot-long, thick, slithering dildo felt alive in her hands — flexible, ribbed, and disturbingly warm. Following his commands, she lubed it heavily and, on all fours facing the camera, slowly fed all two feet of it into her ass. She whimpered as it wormed deeper, the massive bulge clearly visible traveling through her lower belly. When it finally settled, curled inside her large intestine, she forced a trembling smile and pressed on the bulge with both hands, showing the viewers exactly where it was.

"Good girl, now punch it."

For the next hour she obeyed. Fist after fist slammed into her own distended belly while the dildo shifted and stirred her insides. Tears streamed down her face. She cried openly, each impact sending nauseating waves through her rearranged guts, but she kept punching harder when he demanded it. She shoved the snaking dildo left and right, literally rearranging her intestines in scooping motions. "Think happy thoughts," she whimpered to herself, imagining it was her ex (now-dead) boyfriend doing it, lovingly playing with her warm soft tubes. She felt like she'd eaten an eight course meal, the entre slithering through her digestive system, all the while her protruding ribcage stood stark under the dim lighting. She came again. Her left hand violently slapping her raw pussy while her right actively pummeled her bloated intestines.

Just as she thought the ordeal was ending, Sir X activated the device.

A sharp click echoed inside her. The dildo unfurled metal hooks along its length that tore into the walls of her intestines. Bailey screamed, collapsing onto her side as white-hot agony exploded through her abdomen. Blood began to seep as she tasted iron in her mouth.

“To deactivate it,” Sir X wrote calmly, “you must press the button at the very tip. You have the tools.”

Bailey’s eyes fell on the small, sharp paring knife still sitting in the gift box. Sobbing and desperate, she cursed at herself for accepting something this stupid. Her head was swimming. A million stabbing sensations radiating from her abdomen and weeks of malnutrition was not on her bucket list, but she already knew what she had to do.

Shaking, Bailey propped herself up against the wall so the camera had the perfect angle. The metal hooks almost protruded from her belly, sharp tents lining her descending colon. Every breath she took was misery. Her cum had been replaced with blood, and her intestines shredded into bits. She took a deep breath, sucked in one final, desperate vacuum, and pressed the knife just below her sternum. The freshly stoned blade sank in easily — her belly was so empty and abused that there was almost no resistance. She cut downward in a slow, trembling line, reopening and widening the old navel wound, splitting her abdomen open. The pain was blinding. She sobbed and laughed at the same time as her glistening intestines spilled partially into her lap like thick, wet ropes. Blood and clear fluid ran down her thighs. With trembling hands she reached inside the warm, wet cavity, feeling for the thick bulge of the dildo, brushing aside useless pieces of small intestine and mesentery. The pink pulsating loops that was once her prized possession now on full display to her viewers.

"Give it a punch bitch," the chat exploded

She smiled, "I guess they really love these guts," as she obliged her raving audience one last time. Warm, thick juices splattered onto the floor as her fist landed in her bare abdominal cavity, but she couldn't waste any more time. Her finger closed around the loop of large intestine pierced in a hundred spots and sliced one more time.

Tips poured in like rain.

Bailey looked straight into the camera, face pale and shining with cold sweat and tears, mouth bubbling with blood and bile. She smiled deliriously as she began pushing the button at the tip of the dildo.

“Debt… paid…” she whispered hoarsely, her voice breaking into a wet moan of agonized pleasure as her guts continued to slide out around her hand.