“Comfy down there?” she asked, rocking her weight just enough to remind me who was in control.

Every movement made her belly press and roll, bloated and warm, a constant reminder that she was more than I could handle. I groaned, half-dramatic, half-honest, and she leaned forward slightly, making everything heavier.

“Careful,” I said, breathless. “You’re crushing me.”

She smiled, unapologetic. “That’s the point.”

“Oh relax,” she murmured, shifting again—slow, deliberate. The movement made her belly roll and press down, full and dense, stealing what little breath I had left. “You’re not crushed yet.”

I laughed weakly, the sound trapped in my chest. “Feels like you’ve eaten me.”

She glanced down, clearly pleased, and gave another tiny rock of her hips, just enough to make her fullness undeniable. “I did warn you,” she said sweetly. “I’m heavy. And very full.”

Her hand rested on her own stomach for a moment, fingers splaying as if to show it off, before she leaned forward again—closer, heavier, smug. The mattress dipped deeper under us both, and I groaned as the pressure increased.

She smiled wider. “Admit it,” she teased. “You like knowing you can’t move.”