Work Vacation (Patreon)

The seaside breeze ruffled the wide brim of her sunhat, its floral accents swaying lightly as she sat at the outdoor table of yet another beachside restaurant. Her white summer dress clung awkwardly to her figure, though she tried her best to hide the issue at hand. Leaning forward slightly, she gripped the edge of the table, her enormous, overstuffed belly pressing tightly against its underside.

It had been a long, grueling three days.

The waitress arrived, a cheerful smile on her face. "Hi there! Would you like to order something?"

The girl forced a polite smile, suppressing a groan as her bloated stomach gurgled. "Yes, please bring me your signature dish."

"Anything to drink?"

"Whatever your cocktail of the day is," she said, pausing before adding, "and some baking soda in water on the side."

The waitress nodded, scribbling on her pad, oblivious to her discomfort. The girl exhaled slowly, her fingers subconsciously pressing into the table’s surface as if steadying herself.

She glanced down, her cheeks reddening. Her belly—immense, taut, and undeniably conspicuous—strained the fabric of her dress and sprawled into her lap. It had started pressing her legs apart hours ago, a constant reminder of her impossible assignment.

Three days. That was all her boss had given her to review every signature dish at every restaurant in this seaside town. A dream assignment on paper, but the reality had been far less glamorous. Meal after meal, the local chefs had poured their culinary pride onto her plates, each dish more indulgent than the last. She could barely move now, her only reprieve being the few hours of nightly sleep when the restaurants finally closed.

Her stomach let out a loud, wet glorp, followed by a faint bubbling sound. She froze, mortified, and quickly whispered under her breath, "Shhh, please, not here."

It was as if her belly had a mind of its own, grumbling in protest as if it could talk back. She pressed her hand gently against the side of it, hoping to soothe the unruly sounds.

"Just a little longer," she muttered, almost pleading. "We'll get through this. Baking soda will help."

The drinks arrived first. A tall, colorful cocktail shimmered in the sunlight beside a glass of water fizzing with baking soda. She reached for the latter immediately, her hand trembling slightly as she brought it to her lips. The effervescent liquid fizzed on her tongue, and for a brief moment, her stomach quieted. But only for a moment.

The signature dish arrived shortly after: a decadent seafood platter piled high with buttered lobster, golden calamari, and grilled shrimp. The aroma was heavenly, but her stomach churned in warning, the sheer sight of food nearly overwhelming her.

Still, she couldn’t stop now. Her reputation—and job—depended on it. Picking up her fork, she took a small bite, the rich flavors dancing on her tongue. But as she swallowed, her belly emitted another loud gurgle, echoing like an angry protest.

Her belly pressed harder against the underside of the table, the pressure too much for her already-strained dress. With a loud riiiip, the fabric tore straight across her midsection, exposing her taut, rounded stomach to the open air. She froze in horror, her cheeks burning as red as the sunset.

The waitress, passing by with another table’s drinks, gave her a startled look but said nothing, hurrying off instead.

Resigned, the girl let out a long sigh and rested her arms and head on her exposed belly. She stroked it gently, as though calming a fussy child.

"There, there," she murmured softly. "Just calm down. We'll finish this and rest soon."

Her stomach, as if soothed by her touch, emitted softer gurgles, the earlier protests fading.

"I swear," she muttered, glancing at the remnants of her dress, "I’d better get a bonus for this."

Another wet glorp came from her belly, but she ignored it this time, her resolve unbroken. As the sun dipped lower in the sky, painting the horizon with hues of orange and pink, she picked up her fork again, preparing for the next bite.

The life of a food critic wasn’t always as glamorous as it seemed.