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  BlueberryDave

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  B

  Literature

  Bad Berry: Caught In The Act Pt 6 (The Man)

  He stood at the edge of the platform, staring up at her. She could barely lift her head to meet his eyes. Her body was too heavy, too full, her arms stretched wide, her chest pushed up high, her belly sloping outward in a round, helpless swell. She was blue from head to toe—ripe, massive, beautiful. And for the first time since it all began… She didn’t feel ashamed. Not with the way he was looking at her. Not with that quiet, stunned hunger in his eyes. Like he didn’t know if he wanted to fall to his knees or kiss her until the syrup ran from both their mouths. Mr. Thistlewhack stood off to the side, watching, smirking, saying nothing. The boy took a slow breath and stepped up onto the glowing platform. “Can I…?” he asked, his voice low, reverent. She didn’t speak. Just nodded—slowly. He stepped closer. The warmth radiating from her body hit him before his hands ever could. She was hot. Radiating. Like a living furnace of fruit and sugar. And she was trembling. He reached out gently. Rested his palm against the curve of her belly. It sank in slightly beneath his hand—soft but firm. A tight drum full of syrup and magic. She shivered. He leaned in. “You’re… incredible,” he whispered. Her breath hitched. “You don’t want to be like me,” she said softly. “It’s too much. I can’t move. I’m… stuck like this.” “I don’t care,” he whispered. “I’ve never seen anyone like you in my life.” His hand moved slowly up her side, fingertips gliding over her taut, blue skin. She gasped as he reached her chest—brushing the underside, feeling the weight of her swelling curves pressing forward. Her nipples throbbed under the fabric. She whimpered. “I don’t even know your name,” she whispered. “Tell me yours,” he said. “Does it matter?” He smiled. “No.” He stepped closer. Chest against her belly. His hand on her side. His lips inches from her flushed, syrup-slick cheek. “Do you trust me?” he asked. “Yes,” she breathed. “Can I kiss you?” Her eyes fluttered. “Yes.” And he kissed her. Slow. Full. His mouth met hers like he’d waited his whole life to know what blueberries felt like—not tasted. Their lips moved softly, sliding with syrup, gasps and moans mixing between breaths. He kissed her again. And again. Her swollen body rocked gently beneath him. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t hold him. But she didn’t have to. Because he held her. Both hands now—on her belly, her hips, her chest—feeling her fullness like it was sacred. “You’re perfect,” he whispered as he kissed her again. And she believed him. ——— His lips left hers, just barely. She was gasping already, syrup running slow from the corner of her mouth. Her chest rose high and hard, pushing into him with every shallow breath. Her arms were still stuck outward—helpless, swollen, presenting her. She couldn’t touch him. But he could touch her. And he did. His hands moved from her face—trailing down her jaw, her throat, over the curve of her collarbone where her dress had torn. His palms were warm. Steady. Reverent. She shivered as his fingers dipped lower. They passed over the top curve of her breast—huge, taut, trembling beneath the stretched fabric. His touch was light at first. Barely there. But her nipples hardened beneath the strain, and she let out a breathless, helpless sound. “Oh…” His fingers didn’t pull away. He pressed them in gently, feeling how tight she was—how the juice inside her made her skin drum-tight, heat pouring from every pore. He moved lower, tracing her belly. It was so round now, so bloated she thought it might groan from the pressure alone. And still—he held her like she was precious. She wanted to weep. Wanted to kiss him again. She felt her thighs pulse beneath the hem of her ruined dress. She was so full, so wide, her legs parted and rooted to the platform. She couldn’t even close them if she tried. But he didn’t look at her with pity. He looked like he could barely breathe. “You feel like…” he whispered, lips brushing her cheek, “…like you’re alive with sugar.” She whimpered, soft and breathy. “I can’t move,” she said. “I’ll move for you.” “I can’t hold you.” “I’ll hold you tighter.” She gasped again when his hands slipped around to her back—one high, just beneath her shoulder, the other low, cupping the underside of her belly. He didn’t flinch when he felt the weight. He embraced it. “I’m too much,” she whispered. “You’re perfect.” And then he kissed her again. This time deeper. Hotter. His mouth crushed against hers with need. Syrup smeared between their lips. She moaned into him, open and breathless, letting her full weight rest in his grip. He pressed closer, his body flush against hers—his chest rising against her belly, his thigh brushing against the inside of hers. Her heart pounded. She thought she might burst. But not from syrup. From need. From feeling wanted. From finally being touched like she mattered. When he pulled back, they were both trembling. Their foreheads touched. His voice came soft, ragged: “Tell me this is real.” And she, lips wet, swollen, gasping: “I’ve never felt anything more real in my life.”

  B

  Literature

  Bad Berry: Caught in the Act Pt2

  The platform rises from the floor. It’s round, polished chrome—reflective like a mirror, but curved like a basin. In the center, a cradle awaits. Padded. Tilted slightly upward. Lined with dark blue velvet. A throne for a fruit. Or an altar. The factory lights dim overhead, casting long golden shadows that shimmer off the syrup dripping from her fingertips, her thighs, her chin. She doesn’t speak. She can’t. Her lips are too swollen. Her jaw too weak. Her breath is shallow, her chest rising beneath her chin in slow, syrup-filled pulses. All she can do is chew. Softly. Mechanically. As if her body hasn’t realized it’s too full to take in more. Her skin gleams a deep, bruised blue, stretched smooth and quivering under the weight of what she’s become. Her arms stick out uselessly, round and suspended. Her legs are parted, wide and heavy, her dress split beyond repair. Mr. Thistlewhack enters the spotlight. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he begins, though there’s no audience but the factory walls. “Some sweets are stolen. Some are earned. But all must be paid for.” He taps the chrome with his cane. “And this one has quite a bill to settle.” The cradle lowers with a hiss. She groans as she’s rolled onto it—slowly, carefully. The platform groans beneath her weight. Every inch of her wobbles. She can’t fight. She can’t move. Her eyes dart. Her lips leak. Her syrup trickles like tears. Thistlewhack steps close. With white gloves, he presses one hand to the curve of her belly. It sinks slightly beneath his palm. The juice inside her sloshes. He smiles faintly. “Ripe.” The platform tilts her back. Valves hiss. Nozzles descend from above—twisting down like silver vines, hissing steam, gleaming in the golden light. They hum as they draw into place—around her sides. Under her arms. Near her chest. Beneath her hips. The cradle glows faintly. “She tried to keep it all inside,” Thistlewhack says, stepping away. “But the factory always reclaims what’s stolen.” He pulls a lever. And it begins. The nozzles hissed down from above. Steam coiled around them as they twisted into place, elegant and deliberate—chrome, gold-trimmed, shaped with impossible precision. They gleamed like instruments in an opera house, not a factory. The room smelled like blueberry syrup and something warmer, more human. The berry girl lay in the cradle—trembling, overfilled, silent. Blue from head to toe. She was swollen in every place a girl could swell. Her chest rose, massive and plush, tight against what little remained of her dress. Her belly rounded over her hips. Her arms floated outward like ripe fruit on the vine. Her thighs pressed into the velvet cradle, spread, helpless. She couldn’t speak. She could only chew. And Thistlewhack? He took his time. “Let’s begin, shall we?” he whispered, gliding to her side. “One little hose at a time. We wouldn’t want to rush this.” He lifted the first tube—cool to the touch—and pressed it against her hip. Click. She jolted. A shiver pulsed through her body. Not fear. Not pain. Pleasure. A low moan fluttered past her lips. “Oh?” Thistlewhack smiled. “You like that?” He leaned close, brushing the back of his gloved fingers across her swollen cheek. “Ticklish little berry,” he murmured, and let his fingers glide along her collarbone, just barely—she twitched again, syrup glistening at the corners of her lips. Another hose. This one under her arm, on the soft curve of her side. Click. Another shudder. The juice started to flow—slow at first, dark and thick through the transparent tubing. But she wasn’t deflating yet. No. Because the gum was still working. Even now, it pulsed between her teeth—releasing more syrup into her, faster than the hoses could draw it out. A battle of fullness. And she was losing. —or winning. Thistlewhack stood over her, holding the third hose. He pressed it against her thigh. Click. She gasped. Her body arched slightly. “I see what you’re becoming,” he said softly. “Not a thief. Not a brat.” He walked around her slowly. “Just a berry girl who wants to be good.” The fourth hose hovered above her belly. She could feel its cold ring before it even touched her. She whimpered. “Tell me,” Thistlewhack whispered, bending low. “Are you going to keep being a naughty, nasty little berry…” He paused. The nozzle hovered. “…or will you be a good, obedient little fruit?” She couldn’t speak. But her eyes—wet, wide—met his. And they said: Whatever you want me to be. Click. The fourth hose locked in. She writhed. The syrup flowed faster now. Every new connection pulled more from her—but filled her with more at the same time. She was a fountain. A loop. A girl trapped in a state of sweet surrender. And then… He brought the last two. Gleaming. Curved. He hovered them above her chest—now so swollen they trembled under their own weight. “No ceremony would be complete without these,” he said, placing them slowly, lovingly— Click. Click. The sound was soft. But her reaction wasn’t. She arched hard, a moan escaping her mouth. Juice streamed from her lips now, too full to contain it. She sagged into the cradle, panting. “I…” She finally spoke. “…I want to leave…” Thistlewhack tilted his head. “You may, my dear,” he said gently. “Whenever you like.” He stood. “But you’ll find the taste of life outside… rather bland.” He stepped away, glancing once more at the thick tubes filling with dark indigo syrup. “The sweetness lives in you now,” he said. “You’ll feel it, even when you’re far from here. A tingling beneath the skin. A craving in your teeth. A warmth in your belly.” He looked back. “And when you do… you’ll come back.” The juice flowed. And in the soft hum of the factory… She smiled.

  

  

  B

  Literature

  Bad Berry : Caught in the Act P4(The Second Piece)

  She returned in the dress. The same blue fabric, zipped tight down her spine. The same red belt, fastened snug around her waist. And as she stepped through the factory gates—uninvited, but expected—the velvet air wrapped around her like a sigh. The walls pulsed. The floor shimmered. Mr. Thistlewhack was already waiting. She didn’t hesitate this time. “I want it,” she said. He raised a brow, tapping his cane against the marble floor. “Want what, little berry?” She swallowed. Her lips tingled. “You know what I want.” “I want to hear you say it.” “I want the gum,” she whispered. His smile curled. “Ah. So you’re ready to be good again, are you?” She nodded. He stepped in close, eyes running down the curves of her dress, lingering on the tightness of her belt. “You came dressed for it,” he said softly. “Just like before. That belt… you know it’s going to pop, don’t you?” She nodded again. “And still you wear it. Mmm.” He leaned in. “That’s very good of you.” He held out a

  B

  Literature

  Bad Berry: Finale (Just Deserts)

  The silence before the fight was worse than the noise that followed. Mr. Thistlewhack flicked the gum between his fingers, a cruel grin tugging at his lips. “Trade yourself for the berry, hmm? Very noble,” he said. “Or very stupid.” The man didn’t move. Not yet. His heart thundered. Not from fear—but from the unbearable thought of her—juiced, drained, alone. “Let her go,” he said. Thistlewhack rolled his eyes. “We’re well past bartering, boy.” Then he moved. Faster than expected. The cane whipped toward the man’s legs—he barely dodged. It cracked against the platform with a sound like thunder. The crowd gasped. Thistlewhack advanced again, circling, jabbing. “You think this is a story about heroes and villains?” he snapped. “This is my factory. My rules.” The man ducked under another swing, grabbed a pipe from the platform edge, and blocked the next hit. Sparks flew. Heat burned between them. “She’s not a thing,” the man growled. “She’s not yours.” “You think you’ve saved her?” Thistlewhack snarled. “She’s mine. She begged for it. And you—you’re a footnote.” They clashed again. Sweat poured. Wood splintered. Somewhere far off, the girl was being rolled—arms limp, body twitching, a slow stream of syrup trailing behind. Her limbs twitched. Her vision blurred. The juicing had started, but not finished. She wasn’t drained—not yet. She fought it. Forced her legs to work. She staggered off the velvet track and into the hallway—barely holding herself upright. Her skin still glistened blue. Her stomach was smaller—but only slightly. She was leaking. Barefoot. Breathless. Furious. The doors loomed ahead. And just beyond them— Thistlewhack raised the gum high, ready to gloat. And tripped. The gum shot into the air. His mouth was open to scream. And it landed. Right on his tongue. He blinked. Swallowed. Chewed. The doors flew open. And there she stood. She returned blue. Syrup slicked down her thighs. Her dress clung to her skin in strips. Her arms hung limp at her sides, still half-filled. Her belly bobbed with every breath, swollen but drained just enough to move. Her voice rang across the platform like a spell. “I begged you for a taste of your magic,” she said. “And you turned it into a punishment.” Thistlewhack stumbled backward, his belly groaning as the gum began to work. “You turned me into a lesson,” she said. “An example. A warning. You put my body on display. You mocked my need. My hunger.” Her voice hardened. “But all you did was reveal your own.” He clutched his stomach. His hips ballooned outward. His coat ripped at the seams. “You never wanted control,” she said. “You wanted power. You wanted worship.” She stepped forward, syrup glistening on her bare feet. “And now,” she said, voice low and certain, “you’ll learn what worship really feels like.” The factory rumbled. Thistlewhack’s arms locked outward. His buttons burst. His belly surged. And she smiled. “Let’s roll him, boys.” The little orange men appeared on cue—grinning. Humming. They didn’t hesitate. They rolled him. Syrup sloshed. His face turned purple with rage and shame. She watched it all. And whispered: “Just desserts.” ———— Epilogue: A Little More Juice Her apartment was dim and warm, and the windows were steamed over from the heat of their bodies. She stood near the window, glowing blue in the streetlight. Her robe hung low on her shoulders, still clinging in places where she hadn’t quite stopped swelling. He stepped up behind her, hands gently circling her waist. “You look…” he breathed. She turned slowly. “What?” “Absolutely, heartbreakingly beautiful.” She smiled, chest rising. “You don’t think I’m… weird?” “I think you’re perfect. Your body, your colors, your need.” She flushed deeper blue. “You know,” he added, brushing his hands up her sides, “we probably should… get the rest of that juice out of you.” She giggled, softly, breathlessly. “Hmm. But how?” He leaned in, kissing the corner of her mouth. She moaned into it—just a little. Soft. Heavy. PG-13. His hands roamed—along her back, her hips, her thighs, syrup slipping beneath his fingertips. She gasped when he squeezed her gently. Her body still sloshed—just a little. And then— She stepped back. “I have a confession,” she said, breathless. She reached into a drawer. Pulled out something small. His eyes widened. “Is that—?” She popped the gum in her mouth and fastened a new red belt around her waist. Chewed once. Twice. Slowly. Then turned to him. “Do you forgive me?” she asked, batting her lashes. “Was I… a good girl?” He stepped close. Looked her up and down. Watched the belt begin to strain. And whispered: “No.” “You’ve been a very naughty berry.”

  B

  Literature

  Bad Berry: Caught in the Act Pt7 (The Heart)

  His hands were still on her. Gentle. Steady. Worshipful. But her thoughts weren’t calm. Not like they should’ve been. She was still huge. Still helpless. Still stuck. Her body hadn’t changed since the kiss. She was still blue and swollen, her belly sloped like a hill, her breasts heavy and high, her arms frozen in place, her legs parted by syrup and fullness. She looked like something made to be displayed. And maybe that’s what she’d wanted. What she deserved. “Why are you here?” she asked. He smiled faintly. “I don’t know. Curiosity, maybe. Boredom. But then I saw you… and I couldn’t look away.” “Ugh… I shouldn’t feel like this,” she whispered. His brows drew in. “Like what?” Her eyes stayed forward, glassy, distant. “Like this is okay.” “It is okay.” “No, it’s—” Her breath hitched. “I broke in. I stole. I took the gum. I begged to be filled again. I knew what I was doing. I wanted it.” She bit her lip. “I still want it.” He didn’t speak. She continued. “I stood there in that room and I asked him to punish me. To fill me until I couldn’t move. I wanted to be useless. To be swollen and rolled and laughed at. Because I thought… that was fair.” Her voice cracked. “I thought I was the naughty girl who needed to be turned into something… less.” He placed his hand against her cheek. “You’re not less.” She met his eyes. Her own were wet now. “But I liked it.” “That doesn’t make it wrong.” “It does,” she whispered. “Because I liked how helpless it made me. I liked when they stared. When they laughed. I felt… like I was finally being seen for what I was. Just a berry. Just an object. And part of me—” she swallowed— “still wants that.” Silence. She was shaking now. Not from fear. From the weight of admitting it. She closed her eyes. “And now you’re here, and you’re touching me like I’m human, and I don’t know if I’m supposed to want that, too.” He leaned closer. His lips brushed her ear. “Who says you can’t want both?” Her eyes fluttered open. “You don’t have to be just one thing,” he said. “You can be herself. You can love the way this makes you feel. The helplessness. The shame. The fullness.” He pressed his hand gently to her belly, feeling the juice slosh beneath. “And still be mine.” Her breath caught in her throat. She didn’t know what she was more afraid of: Being a berry forever— or being loved while she was. And somehow… both sounded like everything she’d ever wanted.

  I

  Literature

  Internal Berrylogue

  I shouldn’t have taken the gum again. But it was right there. Sitting in that velvet tray like it had been waiting for me. Tempting me. And before I even realized what I was doing, I had it between my lips. My heart pounds. It tastes like sugar and memory. I chew. Warmth spreads across my tongue immediately—tomato soup. Creamy. Rich. Comforting in a way that’s almost cruel. It slides down my throat even though there’s nothing to swallow. It pools in my chest like a memory. Like regret. I keep chewing. I can’t help it. My jaw moves again, slower now, and the soup melts into something heavier—thicker. Roast beef. The flavor hits hard. Deep. Juicy, rich, buttery. I can feel it settle into my stomach. I don’t even swallow, but somehow I feel it. Like it’s being poured into me. I shudder. My dress tightens—just slightly—but it’s enough to make me aware of the red belt hugging my waist. Too tight. Was it always this tight? Then— Blueberry pie. And everything changes. The flavor floods my mouth like syrup. Thick. Sweet. Sinful. Blueberries bursting, cream smearing across the back of my throat, crust crumbling like warm pastry. I chew again and moan out loud. The first shift is immediate. A pulse. Low. In my belly. It blooms outward—warm, slow, and heavy. I place a hand against my stomach, and it’s already… rounder. The belt digs in. My eyes widen. No. No, not this again. I chew again, and I feel it move. The juice. Inside me. Sliding into my belly, my hips, my core. Another breath, and my dress feels tighter. My sleeves stretch slightly across my arms. My thighs feel heavier. I hear the softest groan of fabric starting to strain. I stop chewing. But it’s too late. I moan—quietly, shakily. It’s happening again. I press a hand against my middle and gasp. It’s firm. Inflating. The belt groans. My arms begin to thicken. My elbows stiffen. No. No, no, no— I try to lower them, but they drift outward. Further. Until they’re stretched into a helpless T-pose. I can’t pull them in. I can feel the juice pressing through my biceps, down into my forearms. The sleeves of my dress stretch tighter. My fingers twitch, but they’re puffing too—round and slow and clumsy. My breathing hitches. I chew again. I shouldn’t. But I do. My belly gurgles. Loud. Syrupy. The red belt pulls tighter. I see the buckle bend. The leather digs into my skin. I whimper, cheeks burning, arms stuck out wide. My chest rises. It swells. Full and high and heavy—pressing outward with every breath. The buttons on my dress tremble, and I know what’s coming. “Please,” I whisper, voice trembling. “Not again…” My legs wobble. My hips widen. My thighs swell—blooming outward until they touch, then press, then separate again as the juice forces them apart. I stand with my legs wide, forced into position. The belt digs in deeper. I feel the moment coming—tight, trembling, building in my core. Ping. The first button pops. Right below my ribs. I flinch. Then another. Pop. It shoots across the room. My cleavage surges forward, soft and round and glistening with the sheen of syrup just beneath the surface. Another button pops. Then a fourth. My bra is visible now. My skin is shining. Stretching. Blue is blooming up my throat, across my cheeks. “Please,” I gasp. “Please—it’s too much—” But I’m chewing again. And swelling. And swelling. And swelling. The belt is trembling now. A high-pitched squeal of fabric pulled past its limit. I moan. I need it to happen. I want it to break. “Please,” I whisper. “Please, let it—” SNAP. The red belt explodes. It whips through the air and smacks the floor with a clap. My belly surges forward. My whole torso expands in a wave of juice. My thighs tremble. My breasts jiggle. My sleeves split. I let out a long, breathy moan. And I don’t care anymore. “I want more,” I whisper. “I want to pop.” My arms are frozen in place. My legs are bowed wide. I can’t close them. I can’t move. I’m drenched in syrup. Dripping down my thighs. Oozing from my lips. I’m a blueberry girl. A swollen, helpless, bloated, blue brat. And I’ve never felt anything so perfect. I cry. I beg. “Fill me. Stretch me. Don’t stop—please don’t stop—” Because now I understand. Bursting isn’t the punishment. It’s the reward.
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  blasuka

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  TheSqueezer00

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