artist
I’m actually trying to draw you. We’re both a bit drunk, though the takeaway is soaking up a bit of the alcohol. You are lounging on your bed with a dramatic hand to your forehead and a two-takeaway swell to your tummy.
“Paint me like one of your French girls,” you say, for the eleventh time today, since it only seems to get funnier to you. I’ve long since stopped reacting but you laugh so hard you get hiccups.
“You are a froot loop, Rey,” I say, looking between my page and the crease below your left breast. Though my demeanor seems serious compared to your effisive tipsiness there’s a sparkle to my eyes and colour in my cheeks. This could be the absinthe, or it could be the fact that I’ve sketched my lover hungry, full, then stuffed, and am about to receive the pleasure of watching her eat another round of pizza. Sometimes, I think to myself, Heaven feels very close by.
A hiccup errupts into a monstrous belch you didn’t see coming. You clamp your hands to your mouth, mortified, then lose your shit all over again. Your laughter is infectious and I can’t help but join in, which spurs you on, which makes me laugh harder.
“I think you might be drunk, my dear,” I say as the fit settles down.
You shake your head distractedly, then roll onto your front, facing me and giving me your best model pout. “Come here and you might get drunk too.”
I carefully avoid even looking like I might drop my pencil. Never taking your eyes off me you grin, revealing canines a touch too long to be overlooked. A swipe of your tongue raises my heart rate 10bpm. Not for the first time I wonder if you can hear it.
“You know the rules. No touching till all four pictures are completed.”
You roll onto your back. Springs creak on the mattress. Your hair falls like poured oil down the side of the bed. “What’s the punishment? Is it worse than missing this?” You arch your back and glide your hands down your body, starting at your throat, tracing collarbones, swells of breasts and stomach, the little mound of your mons. Though upside-down, you look me dead in the eye as you touch yourself in slow circles.
“Feed me and rub my belly.”
Practically hypnotised, I knock my sketches to the ground in my haste to rise. A deep-pan pizza, half meat feast half diavollo, comes with me. The pizzas and I, at most one of us will survive the night.
I determine to be the one to survive. Despite my yearning to present myself to your mouth, slightly open and upside-down, I kneel instead and brandish a thick slice. Your jaw opens and your pretty pink tongue rolls out, expectant.
Pizza is not a natural upside-down food. Melted mozzarella takes quite a lot of effort to round up so it won’t splat in your eyes, but I get there, presenting the sagging tip of the triangular morsel to your tireless mouth.
From my vantage point I have a spectacular view of the musculature of your throat as you scissor off a bite and chew. You’re so pale, even with the flush of glutting yourself. Your throat bobs as you consign it to your depths, and I angle another mouthful for you to bite off.
The rich, savoury combination of meat, cheese and bread lulls you like a long-loved lullaby. The sensation of grease on your lips is vulgar and decadent. The deep ache as your stomach processes its growing load feeds the heat between your legs which you carefully marshal with selfish fingers.
My free hand follows the route your hands took, drawing a soft, full-mouthed mmph from you as I cup your breast. The true moan comes when I rub in a circle all around your distended belly. The sight of your quickening fingers fills me with delight, as does the sensation of you licking my fingers. Slice is gone.
“More.”
Another slice, and then another. Your stomach is already taut as a cannonball. I can’t believe more can fit, but it does, straining with powerful muscular contractions and eliciting deep, powerful grumbles as it does. Can I see the bulge spreading down as your body proceeds with digestion?
Soon there is no more pizza. Your stomach is louder than ever, making gaseous protestations with every orbit of my hand. My two hands, now.
I can’t stand it any longer. Watching your throat, your stomach, your self-pleasure… Overwhelmed, I kneel on the bed and kiss your soft inner thighs. You get the idea and literally grab my head and pull it into the fork of your legs.
Salt and the sharp scent of your womanhood fill my world and wrap me in heat. I lick long strokes between your lips, seeking the places you are most sensitive.
You stir, deciding you want more control. With a twist of your hips and a kick of your leg you overturn me, finding little resistance. With feverish urgency you rock your hips, pressing me into your pussy. Whether to claim me, envelop me or drown me, I don’t know and don’t care.
On all fours, from your perspective your body obliterates most of mine. Your pendulous belly traps me and hides me grateful in the world of your cunt. Outside, you find me profoundly hard, and do what you do with every offering. Pausing only to release a ragged, pizza-scented belch, you take me into your mouth, feeling it as steel in velvet on your tongue.
We eat and drink our fill of one another’s bodies and fall asleep in one another’s arms. My final sketch goes unfinished. Though we try this again several times in future, that final drawing will never be completed.