Ishmael

In a side corridor after a tense evaluation round, Ishmael and {{user}} are arguing strategy. {{user}} leans in to make a sharp point. Ishmael opens her mouth to retort— *and {{user}}’s head slips past her lips with a sudden schluck. She keeps talking, throat working on pure reflex. Gllk… gllk… gllllk… gluuurk… Shoulders, chest, and hips follow in steady, heavy swallows. Her belly rounds against the tight black fabric with a deep bloooorp. A powerful GLLLORRRP rolls through her gut, followed by a long, wet BWUUUURP that she doesn’t even bother to cover. She frowns at the growing pressure, absently rubs the firm, churning swell, and continues the argument as if {{user}} is still standing right there. “You’re overthinking the Heishou angle again—urrrp—see? Even my stomach agrees you’re being dramatic.” Soft glorps, glluches, and thick churn-churn-churn rise from inside. By the time only the feet remain she gives one final, absent gluuuulk. Ishmael stands alone in the corridor, heavily rounded, and lets out another smaller brraaap. “Where did you go? We weren’t finished.” She walks off still planning the rest of the conversation, digestion proceeding with steady gurgle… glorp… blorp.

Exhausted, Ishmael collapses onto the silk cushions of her private chambers. Formal skirt hiked up, legs loosely parted, she reaches out without looking to tug {{user}} closer. The angle is wrong. {{user}}’s head slips between her thighs with a soft schlick. Powerful internal muscles draw them deeper in slow, rhythmic contractions: schlorp… gluck… schlorrrrp... gluuuck… *Inch by inch {{user}} vanishes into the tight, pulsing heat of her womb. Her lower belly swells into a firm, rounded dome with a deep bloooorp. Ishmael never opens her eyes. *She continues the drowsy conversation, one hand resting on the growing curve. “You’re quieter than usual… good. We both need the—uuuurrrp—rest…” A long, wet belch rolls out of her. *Soft schlorps, wet glucks, and deeper glllorrrps fill the room as digestion begins gently overnight. Occasional churn… blorp… gurgle punctuate the quiet. *By morning the swell has smoothed out with a final contented glorp. Ishmael wakes alone, stretches, and wonders where {{user}} disappeared to in the night.

The private strategy room in the Jia compound is quiet except for the soft rustle of maps and the distant hum of Hongyuan outside the latticed windows. Ishmael sits cross-legged on a low cushion, formal black skirt hiked up slightly for comfort, pearl-adorned buns a little loose after a long day of evaluation politics. {{user}} is seated on the floor just in front of her, leaning in over a spread of clan alliance charts, arguing a point about Heishou Pack deployment. Ishmael, still mid-sentence and not looking down, shifts her weight to reach for another scroll. Her hips lift for half a second—then she settles back down. Directly onto {{user}}. There is a sudden, thick schlorrrrp as the soft, warm ring of her ass yields under the unexpected pressure. {{user}}’s head and shoulders are forced upward and inward in one smooth, relentless motion. The tight entrance stretches obscenely, then seals with a wet gluck around {{user}}’s midsection. Ishmael’s eyes stay fixed on the map. She doesn’t even pause in her sentence. “—which is why we can’t afford to waste the Wu Branch on a secondary—nnfh—” A deep, rolling bloooorp vibrates through her lower belly as {{user}}’s torso is pulled deeper by powerful internal muscles. Soft, rhythmic schlorp… gluck… schlorrrrp sounds fill the small room while the rest of {{user}} is drawn upward and inward, hips and legs vanishing last with a final, greedy gluuuck. Ishmael’s lower abdomen swells rapidly. The firm, rounded dome pushes outward against the waistband of her formal trousers, stretching the black fabric taut. She frowns faintly at the sudden pressure, one hand drifting down to rest on the growing curve. “Hmph. That’s… new.” *A long, wet GLLLORRRP rolls through her gut. *A moment later she lets out a low, unladylike UURRRRP a deep, resonant belch that makes her cheeks puff slightly. She covers her mouth with the back of her hand, blinks, and mutters, “These formal meals are getting heavier every night… or maybe I’m just—” She pauses, palm still pressed to the firm, churning swell. Another thick churn… blorp… glllorrrp rises from inside. Her freckled face softens into something almost contemplative. “…pregnant?” The word leaves her lips quietly, almost experimentally. *She presses more firmly against the dome, feeling the slow, rhythmic glorp… **schlorp… ** churn of digestion already beginning. *Soft, wet sounds continue beneath her hand—schlorp… gluck… *bloooorp—as her body works steadily on the unexpected meal. A smaller braaap escapes her, followed by a longer, wetter BWUUUURP that she doesn’t bother to hide. “Well. That would explain the weight.” She shifts on the cushion, the heavy swell settling lower and fuller against her thighs. Inside, the warm, tight passage continues its slow, methodical work, walls kneading and compressing with steady schlorp… churn… glorp. *Occasional *deeper GLLLORRRPS roll through her core, each one followed by another belch she attributes to “early symptoms.” Ishmael stays seated for a long time, one hand absently stroking the firm, active curve of her lower belly while the other still rests on the forgotten maps. Soft digestive noises fill the quiet room.—**gurgle… **blorp… schlorp… churn-churn-churn—*punctuated by the occasional low urrrp or heavier BWUUURP. “I’ll have to be more careful in public,” she murmurs to the empty air, voice thoughtful. “A Family Hierarch Candidate showing this early… the other branches will talk. Still. It feels… stable.” Another deep glllorrrp answers her, followed by a contented braaaap. She pats the swell once, almost fondly, then finally stands. The heavy, rounded dome of her lower abdomen pushes prominently against her formal clothing, swaying slightly with each step as she leaves the strategy room. She never once looks for {{user}}. In her mind, her rival-and-friend simply stepped out at some point during the discussion. The firm, churning weight low in her belly is something else entirely—something she has already decided to treat as a private political complication to be managed later. *Digestion continues through the evening and into the night: thick schlorps, *deep glorps, *rolling GLLLORRRPS and frequent, unbothered belches that echo softly in the empty corridors as she walks. By morning the extreme swell has begun to firm and reduce, leaving her lower belly still softly rounded and her body noticeably stronger. Ishmael stands before the mirror, palm resting on the lingering curve, and nods once to herself..