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You don't even realise that the Ghostface is standing right in front of you until your face slams into his chest, your feet falling away from under you as his knife slashes the air where your neck was only a second or two ago. For a few brief moments, you're in a blind panic, scrambling backwards and trying to find your footing in the dingy corridors of the strange, museum-like building you've been brought to for the tenth trial in a row.
His breathing fills the room, filtered by his pearl-white mask, and the knife comes up. You're completely exposed, and even a lazy stab would probably do enough damage to reduce you to a prone position, barely able to crawl. His face remained hidden behind that infamous mask you've seen countless times before, but you just know that there's a smile under there, the grin of a predatory killer closing in on his survivor prey for one final slash.
Only... not.
It takes you a moment to realise that he's not coming closer, nor is he even really paying attention to you. Instead, the masked murderer is leaning up against the wall next to the doorway you just came through, huffing quietly under his mask and resting one of his gloved hands against the middle of his body. A strange smell drifts in from elsewhere in the room, but before you can get a grip on what's actually happening, your thoughts are cut off by a sound you never expected to hear in one of these gruelling, never-ending trails: the satisfied but strained groan of a stomach pushed beyond its limits.
Only then do you notice the obvious bulge of his belly sticking out underneath his all-black suit, and it immediately puts your brain into some weird self-preservation mode as a barrage of mixed impulses fire through your brain.
Barely even acknowledging your existence, the killer lets you a pained moan and digs his fingers into the surface of his utterly stuffed belly a little deeper, only to twitch them back with another grunt of discomfort. From down on the floor, you can get the perfect angle of his distended stomach stretching out the black cloth of his unorthodox robes, the twin belts around his waist strained to bursting point but somehow still holding on despite it all. It looks like he's swallowed an entire melon whole, his gut bulging outward to the point that he's relying on the wall for support.
A large part of you wants to run away while he's distracted. A smaller, but far more powerful, part of you bites your lip and stares.
You've got to admit, there's something about him that's intrigued you, and now it's all clicked into place. Those tight-fitting belts and the robes that they kept bound around his body look so much tighter when his stomach is pushed into a taut, bloated orb that sticks out far past his normal waistline. It’s a surprise that his gut can even fit into the clothing anymore, and you suspect that it probably wouldn’t if the belts weren’t managing to hold together past their own breaking point.
It's the costume, it's definitely the costume. The way that the fabrics have pulled tight around his bulging stomach, having to stretch to contain it properly, tickles your brain in a way that very few other things could. One of your hands twitches upwards, aching to get a feel of that food-filled belly - even just the way that it moves with his natural breathing is enough to reemphasize how unashamedly stuffed the killer is, belts on the verge of bursting and belly-overhang sticking out far enough to disrupt his otherwise slim figure.
A noise slips out of your throat – maybe it’s fear, maybe it’s not – and the Ghostface’s gaze snaps to meet your own. Before you get a chance to scramble away any further, he sluggishly strides over to you, one hand still cradling the swollen apex of his stuffed, heavy belly. The breathing coming from behind his mask seems to get more intense as he stares down at you, swirling his pocketknife in his hand.
The blade comes down against your throat, and he descends on you, slipping from a standing position into a kneel. With a quiet chuckle, he straddles your body, sitting directly on your chest with the knife ready to slash at the slightest movement. He leans back a little, delivering one more gentle rub to his taut stomach before slipping a camera out of a concealed pocket in his robes. You can practically hear his muttering under his breath, trying to keep a confident face – or, rather, mask – while stuffed to the gills with whatever he’s been gorging himself on.
“Don’t – nh - mind me. Just capturing the moment.”
The killer raises his blade straight up in the air, twirls it into a perfectly-calculated stabbing angle, and grips the handle tight. His body keeps you pinned tight to the floor, the added weight of his fully belly pushing you down like a heavy sack of flour pressed against your chest. He's keeping his thighs up against you, holding your arms in place, breathing heavily against the plastic interior of his Halloween mask. The instinctual need to squirm against him leads to nothing except your own exhaustion, and a slight stirring of the killer's fully-packed guts.
He could cut you open like a dead fish with just a single stroke of his blade, but any terror that you should be feeling is completely overridden by the fact that you can’t take your gaze off his tightly-packed middle. Your body forces you to raise one hand in a pitiful attempt to block the blade, and you close your eyes, hissing in air through clenched teeth as you see his arm muscles flex downwards.
Something metallic clatters to the floor. After a couple of seconds of silence, you realise that you’re not dead.
The noise that leaves your would-be killer is a sound that you’ve not heard a human make before, something between a desperate whimper and a needy groan. The weight pressing down on you shifts forward a little, his hips adjusting their angle, and you feel something warm and heavy push against the surface of your outstretched palm.
Your eyes flick open, and you immediately understand what’s just happened.
Ghostface’s swollen belly gurgles ominously under your touch as his breathing slows into a heavy, sluggish panting, one of his hands already moved to rest on top of his distended stomach. The eyes hidden behind his mask are clearly still looking directly at you, but any sense of worry has vanished in an instant, replaced with the concealed gaze of a man who’s just realised how badly he needs some expert care.
Swallowing something down from the back of your throat, you take a deep breath and push your fingers into the surface of his bloated belly. The immediate resistance of his utterly packed insides only serve to send another little shockwave of ashamed pleasure up your spine, but this time, you get the feeling that it’s a mutual sensation.
Somehow, he looks even larger than he did before. Either he’s still swelling, or your brain is just trying to get you as flustered as possible, and you’d be happy with either outcome.
Another vaguely-aroused whine slips out through his mask, muffled slightly by the reinforced materials.
“…rub it…”
Despite the awkward angle, your hands move to soothe his aching belly before your brain even realises that you’re doing it. The second you get your palms on each side of his stuffed middle, his spine straightens just a little – he’s trying to hide it, but the situation is hitting his buttons just as easily as it’s hitting yours. Every gentle rub, every little knead, draws a new and increasingly-horny noise out of the masked killer as his robe-covered stomach looms over you like a mountain. Part of you wants to toy with him, maybe push a couple of fingers into the front of his stomach and watch how he reacts, but you’d rather not end up stabbed to death.
Then again, he threw the knife down. There’s no reason not to make a murderous killer suffer a little bit.
Keeping pace with your loving stomach rubs, you start to gently shake up the contents of his stomach just a little, using your hands to push the entire mass left and right between every soft caress of your palms against his tightly-stretched skin. Each time, you’re met with another quiet gurgle or grumble as his heavy meal moves inside him, fighting for space and drawing another groaned complaint from his throat. Every so often, his little noises are supplemented by quiet mutterings, only some of which you manage to pick up. Too full. Going to pop. Fuck, I’m huge. Little phrases, barely loud enough to hear over the occasional sounds of his overfilled stomach trying to digest the excessive feast inside it. They’re subtle, but they tell you exactly what you want to hear.
Ghostface is stuffed to bursting point, and somehow – as bizarre as it feels – you’re the one pinned down under him, tending to his ripe and round stomach. Your hands can’t help but squeeze the curves of his stomach a little harder, push into his taut skin a little tighter, draw out every single last brush of your palm across his stomach as he wordlessly begs you to keep going. In less than a minute, you’ve reduced a genuine danger to a moaning, groaning mess.
Keeping one of your hands up against his stomach to steady him, you pluck his dropped camera from the floor and hold it up with the other, ready to snap as many pictures as the memory card inside can fit. Part of you likes the idea of getting shots from all angles, seeing just how utterly bloated and round he must look from the sides. But no, that wouldn’t be enough – it wouldn’t do his sheer size and completely stuffed state any justice.
Switching to the video capture options and hitting record, you rest it against some nearby office junk piled up against the wall, pointing it straight at his bulging middle. Your hand, now freed, immediately jumps to his knife, with Ghostface not even bothering to stop you from taking it.
You both know how the trials work: you couldn’t kill him if you wanted to. Thankfully, you don’t, not when there is a much better use for such a sharp instrument.
Slipping the bladed edge up against his belt, you tuck the back behind the black leather, wiggling it into place. With a few gentle motions, you start to saw through part of the tough material, hearing the killer groan each time your knuckles lightly bump up against the stretched apex of his overfed belly. Little by little, the twin belts start to pull thin, strands of leather desperately trying to hold each half together as the natural push of his full stomach slowly inches them apart.
You pull the knife free and toss it to one side, out of harm’s way. Ghostface’s breathing seems to turn ragged as he tries to lean forward, moaning as the new angle compacts the contents of his stomach into an even smaller space. Then, after a moment of watching his belts fray themselves to shreds, he leans himself back and breathes out.
It’s not clear what the final straw was. Maybe it was the knife cuts all slicing apart at once. Maybe that last deep, heavy breath pushed his stomach out just slightly further than normal. Either way, the relative silence of the nearly-empty building is immediately shattered as both belts burst themselves apart, the four half-straps falling uselessly to either side of his waist as his stomach surges forth in their absence. A heavy, satisfied moan breaks free from the depths of his fully belly, complemented by a similar groan of pleasure from the depths of this throat. The extra pressure strains the fabric on his suit further than it can handle, and the tiny weak points left by the backside of his own blade tear open as well, ripping a hole down the middle of his costume and exposing the tight, smooth flesh of his full stomach to the open air.
With a level of care you didn’t expect to show, you slip your hands underneath the now-open sides of his robe, cradling his aching middle with both hands and listening to the gentle yet constant gurgles coming from within.
You bite your lip and squeeze, drawing another moan of distressed, pained pleasure out of the man who was trying to slice you open only a couple of minutes ago. In theory, you should be taking this chance to escape, using his full and weirdly-docile state against him.
In theory.