(story. part 2) Young politician Oliver

Oliver remained alone in the office, the door clicking shut behind the last person to leave. Silence crashed over him, broken only by his own ragged breathing. He was still seated at the massive table, but now his body felt like it belonged to someone else. His dark hair, usually neatly styled, was matted with sweat and fell over his forehead, obscuring his cute face. His pale skin glistened with perspiration, and his brown eyes, once sharp with confidence, now gazed out tiredly, lost.

His suit — the dark navy blazer he’d so carefully chosen that morning — was flung open, revealing a white shirt unbuttoned to the last notch. The shirt had ridden up, crumpled and damp, exposing his bloated belly—enormous, round, like a taut drum. The skin stretched tight, shiny and faintly pink from the strain, with thin veins faintly visible beneath the surface. His trousers, long since undone, had slipped down to his knees, baring his slender thighs, while the belt dangled off the chair’s edge, its buckle clinking softly with every shift he made.

With a quiet groan, Oliver leaned back, but the chair felt too confining. He shifted onto the table, knocking a few papers aside that rustled as they hit the floor. Lying on his back, arms splayed, the massive wooden surface cooled his damp back through the thin fabric of his blazer. His belly loomed above him like an alien mound, swaying slightly with each breath. Every attempt to move drew a low, gurgling sound from deep within — a mix of gas and liquid churning inside. It was like distant thunder, muffled but persistent.

He rested his trembling hands on his swollen stomach, fingers sliding over the smooth, taut skin. The sensation was odd: firm like an overripe fruit on the outside, yet chaotic movement roiled within, as if something alive were pushing and bubbling. He pressed lightly and instantly regretted it—a sharp spasm shot through him, forcing out a choked rasp. A loud, wet sound erupted from his belly, like a bursting bubble, and Oliver stilled, listening as the echo bounced around the empty office.

He felt awful — not just discomfort, but a genuine weakness that left his head spinning. Sweat trickled down his temples, leaving salty trails, and his heart pounded unevenly, pulsing in his ears. He tried to sit up, but his heavy, unyielding belly pulled him back down. The table creaked under his weight, mingling with the faint rustle of fabric as he shifted his legs, searching for a comfortable position. Nothing worked. Rolling onto his side, he drew his knees toward his chest as far as his bloated stomach allowed. The motion triggered another sound — a long, low hum, as if something inside were settling.

Oliver closed his eyes, trying to breathe deeper, but each inhale only intensified the pressure. He ran his hand over his belly again, feeling the skin quiver under his fingers from the tension within. “I need to do something,” he thought, but his body refused to obey. He pictured opening a window for fresh air or finding water to ease the storm inside, but he lacked the strength to stand. Instead, he just lay there, listening to his stomach growl and gurgle like an old kettle on the stove, waiting for it to pass.

“It's horrible...” he muttered, his voice hoarse and faint, dissolving into the silence of the office. For the first time all day, he let himself stop pretending — just lay there, small, sweaty, and vulnerable on that vast table, as his body slowly recovered.