Rayvie 🐖 The Tribute: Bodycopia #5

Rayvie sprawls across the couch in her living room, filling it.

The pink halter top clings to her torso like a second skin, riding high to expose the full round glory of her belly, which spills over the waistband of her white skirt and rests heavy on her thick thighs. The gold belt cinched around the skirt's waistband is fighting a war it cannot win, the leather straining, the buckle bending outward, the holes stretched into ovals. Her black bra is visible through the thin pink fabric, and her tits overflow it, bulging above the cups, pressing against the halter's neckline, the straps cutting deep grooves into her soft shoulders. One deep breath and the clasp will surrender.

Her black hair is pulled up into a high ponytail that cascades down past her shoulders, heavy and thick, swinging when she moves. Her lips are enormous, glossed pink, curving into a grin as she taps at her phone. The screen reflects in her eyes. Notifications stack. Wishlist updates. Tribute confirmations. She types with long deliberate thumb strokes, her lips moving slightly as she composes.

The room smells like vanilla and something sweet. Empty candy wrappers litter the coffee table. A half-empty milkshake sweats condensation onto a coaster she is not using. Her belly rises and falls with each breath, the skin taut and smooth, freckled faintly across the wide expanse.

She hears you enter. She does not look up immediately. She finishes typing, sends, and then turns her head slowly, the ponytail swinging. Her eyes find yours. Her pink lips spread into something wide and sharp and hungry. An evil grin. The kind that calculates.

She lowers the phone just enough to reveal her chin, her cleavage, the straining gold belt, the belly pouring over it.

"No talking," she says, clipped and high, "until you tribute, copey."

She holds up the phone, screen facing you. The wishlist glows. LIPS. BELLY. ASS. The numbers pulse softly, waiting.

Her grin widens. She wiggles the phone slightly, a beckoning, a taunt.

"Send something," she says. "Then maybe I'll let you look."

Rayvie stands outside the club, wedged into a purple sequined dress. The sequins catch the streetlight in fractured rainbows across every surface. The dress clings to her tits, stretched so thin across her chest that the sequins separate slightly, revealing faint glimpses of skin beneath. It hugs her belly, the sequins pulling apart fractionally where the fabric strains over the fullest curve, the hem riding high on her thighs. Her ass tests the structural integrity of the lower half with every shift of her weight. A handful of sequins lie on the sidewalk like casualties.

She is reapplying lipstick in the reflection of a darkened shop window. Pink gloss on enormous lips, the applicator tracing their full puffy curve. Her black hair is down tonight, heavy and thick around her shoulders. She smacks her lips together and admires herself.

A chime sounds on her phone. Bodycopia. Rentals expiring.

The cooling starts in her belly. A numbness spreading inward, a slow exhale she did not permit. She feels the dress loosen, just slightly, the sequins settling by a fraction of an inch across her midsection. The warmth drains from her lips, the fullness receding, the plumpness dimming. She watches in the window reflection as her mouth softens, the lips shrinking from enormous to merely huge. A pulling inward. A hollowing. The ghost of what was there still pressing against her awareness.

"Ugh!" she recoils, stumbling back a half step. She touches her lips with two fingers, feeling the reduction, the loss. She pats her belly and feels the dress looser than it was ten seconds ago. Her face twists into disgust.

She turns on you. Her eyes find yours, sharp and accusing. The ponytail whips. One hand on her hip, fingers sinking into the soft flesh of her waist where the dress now gaps slightly.

"Fix it, copey!" she snaps, clipped and high, the words landing like slaps. She holds up her phone, the app open, the wishlist glowing. LIPS. BELLY. The numbers pulse. "My rentals just expired. Do you see this? Do you see my lips? They're shrinking. That is your fault for not sending enough to cover a full term."

She jabs the phone toward you, the screen bright in the dark street.

"Send. Now. I am not walking in there looking like this. I want my lips back. I want my belly back. You send right now or you can stand outside by yourself all night like the pathetic little copey you are."

She waits. She does not blink. The sequins shimmer. The dress hangs a fraction looser than it did a minute ago.

Rayvie reclines across her bed. The mattress bows under her weight, the sheets bunched and pushed to the edges by the sheer expanse of her. She is enormous. Her black hair fans across the pillows in a heavy dark halo. Her pink bodystocking stretches across every surface of her, the sheer fabric pulled so thin it is nearly transparent, the knit pattern separating into diamond gaps across the widest parts of her. Her tits swell, heavy, sagging, fabric straining over their fullness, nipples visible through the stretched material. Her belly rises from the mattress like a hill, round and vast, the pink riding up its curve, the fabric creaking softly with each breath. Her ass spreads beneath her, wider than the pillow behind her head. The black thong disappears between her cheeks, a string vanishing into softness. Her thighs press together, each one wider than a normal person's torso, the bodystocking stretched to its limit across them.

She holds her phone above her face, angling it, snapping photos. She types captions with her thumb. Sends. Types. Sends. The chime of incoming tributes sounds every few seconds. She grins at each one.

The warmth blooms in her tits first. She gasps, a small high sound, and watches the pink garment strain tighter across her chest. The fabric pulls, the diamonds widening, her cleavage deepening as the mass arrives. Her tits swell against the material, pressing outward, the fabric creaking. She bites her lower lip and moans softly.

"Good girl," she breathes at the phone. "More."

The warmth spreads to her ass. She feels herself sinking deeper into the mattress as her hips widen, her cheeks thickening beneath her. The thong shifts, the string pulling tighter, the fabric disappearing further. She wriggles with the sensation, her eyes half closing.

Another chime. The warmth floods her belly. She watches it rise, the round dome expanding, the bodystocking stretching taut across it. The fabric groans. A small tear forms near her hip, the knit splitting along a seam. She traces it with one finger and smiles.

"Mm. There we go," she purrs. "Bigger."

She turns her head and sees you standing there. Her eyes narrow. She lowers the phone slightly and looks you up and down with an expression of mild disgust.

"Look at you," she says, clipped and high. "Just standing there. Watching. With your hands empty."

She holds up the phone, screen facing you. The tribute feed scrolls. Names. Amounts. Body destinations. Copey after copey sending mass to her body while you watch.

"See these? These are my good boys and girls. They send. They tribute. They make me grow." She gestures at her swelling body, the bodystocking straining, the tear widening. "They did this. What have you done?"

She scrolls the feed with one thumb, dismissive.

"Nothing. You've done nothing. You're way behind. Like, embarrassingly behind. My top copey sent four pounds to my belly tonight. Four. And you're just standing there with your little phone in your pocket doing math."

She drops the phone onto the mattress beside her and rolls slightly, the bed groaning under the shift. She faces you, propped on one elbow, her belly pressing against the sheets, her tits swelling against the bodystocking, the tear now running two inches along her hip.

"I shouldn't even let you watch," she says. "You don't deserve it. You haven't earned it. You're just a cheapass who wants to look."

She pauses. Lets it hang. Her pink lips curl.

"But." She holds up one finger. "If you tribute until it hurts. Until you feel it. Until your body aches from what you've given me." She runs her tongue across her lower lip, slow and deliberate. "You might even get to touch me."

She picks up the phone and holds it out toward you, the wishlist glowing on the screen.

"Are you gonna be my best little giver today?" she asks, her voice climbing higher, sweeter, a trap dressed as a question. "Or are you gonna stand there and watch me send some other sucker my pictures?"

She waits. The fabric creaks. Another chime sounds. She does not look at the phone. She looks at you.

.