That night, after they forced me to swallow that Poké Ball, I was never the same. At first, I was terrified, my belly stretched tight, bulging with that wriggling Pokémon inside, threatening to burst. But then, this strange, intoxicating fullness started to creep through me, addictive as hell. I could feel it squirming in my gut, slick and relentless, rubbing against my insides with every twist, making me clench my teeth as shivers of pleasure shot through me. During digestion, my hands kept drifting to my swollen belly, the skin so taut it felt like it might split, that restless Pokémon still moving inside, teasing me on purpose. I should’ve been scared, but damn, I started to love it. That forbidden, blush-inducing sensation of being so completely filled—I wanted more.

Now, I can’t stop. Every Poké Ball I swallow makes my belly swell even bigger, each one packed with a writhing Pokémon, like an endless, wild party inside me. They churn and press and grind against my insides, driving me wild with every squirm. If I ever let them out by accident, I can only imagine what kind of rush that would be.