ink 02
You can’t tell if it’s warm in your room or if the heat is coming from inside you. Digestion is an energy-intensive process and your body has been putting in the energy for four hours now. The cute red-headed woman who is the unfortunate recipient of this attention has long since stopped struggling.
Your chest is feeling less constricted: especially plump or plentiful prey will sit high in your middle and compress your lungs. If you were to guess, you’d say half of her soft tissue has sloughed from her bones and is feelong its senseless way through a dark, noisome and noisy labyrinth.
“You said she was fat?” I murmur, tracing the brush over your skin. My hair is pinned back in a blue banana I honestly forgot I was wearing, and you only have so much brainspace to care about me looking a little silly. All your blood is going to digestion. What little attention remains is bound up in the ink, or when the ink is dry, the deep, kneading fingers with which I massage your abdomen.
“Mmm, maybe say chubby. She was soft. Her skin practically melted on my tongue.”
The smooth line I was drawing jerks. You have been very vivid in your imagery and I tend to react when you do. A faint smile curls your lips, which are still wearing your lipstick, smeared from the passage of your food.
“I’ve messed up your jejunum,” I say reproachfully. A glance at our copy of Grey’s. This has become a favoured evening activity on the days you have had someone for dinner.
The jerky line is wiped off with alcohol and I draw it anew, from memory.
“Does it tickle? Her hair, I mean. It comes out undigested, so it’s in there right now. Probably… here.” With the pads of my fingers I apply pressure above your belly button. Amazingly, by the repeated exploration of your intrepid test subjects, we have been able to determine the paths of your gut that bloats with chyme first. I am compiling a map. Pages of a notebook are dedicated to your intestinal windings. We discuss whether your guts naturally lay this way or that. We talk about someday getting you in an MRI machine and confirming if our amateur explorations are accurate.
“Mm mh,” you say, a lazy negative. “I don’t know, I guess they get all mixed up in there. As long as they keep moving I only feel full.” Your lips twist. “Come here.”
I lean over and kiss your beckoning hand. You use it to guide my mouth to yours. No kiss, though; instead, you make a long, low, placid burp, breathing it into my face. My eyebrows raise but you can feel me become hard against the curve of your lower belly.
“You trying to stop me from drawing?”
“Chubby red-head says hi,” you say, wriggling from side to side as you get comfy. “She’s pressing all the right places.”
“You’re trying to stop me from drawing.”
You get horny when you’re full. The heat is definitely coming from within now. You’re staring at me with your gorgeous lips half-parted, daring me to make a move.
I’m rock hard but this is about you. Worshipping you. A funny thing is that when you’re turned on by overeating, your body responds better to the slow build of pressure than to penetration. It’s like the blood has to be teased away from your digestive system before you can find orgasm.
One hand still weilding the brush, my other strokes a path down to your pussy. You arch slightly as I cup you. Three fingers slightly spread and explore your lips, thickly applying pressure that makes you breathe deeper.
“Jejunum, ileum, cecum, ascending, transverse, descending, sigmoid. Rectum. Anus. I say, a little chant—a roadmap for your meal, describing the path she will wend. You lazily rock your hips against my hand, scarcely listening to anything but the lighting of nerve endings in your middle and your pudenda. The brush tickles on your skin as I complete the small intestine. Your guest won’t make the ileocecal valve for at least an hour, yet. Your lower belly remains dark, quiet.
Your upper is vocal, though. Bubbling, gurgling, squeaking peristalsis forces air through your system. Enough breathes into your stomach that you belch again, this time great bwOOoooouurp that carries the flavour of blood and meat across your tongue. You wonder how much of the gas is the product of digestion, how much entered your body in the lungs of your prey.
You are so stuffed that your hips grow tired rocking against me. “More,” you murmur, content to lay back and let me work to please you. An orgasm grows, tingling in your toes, your lower belly. Seeing your eyes begin to glaze I set aside the brush and, keeping steady rhythmic pressure on your mons and clit, dive into the swollen dome of your stomach with a heavy palm. Woman sloshes around inside your guts bringing satisfaction and more more more of the building heat.
For possibly the last time you picture your prey: her phone in its little red case as you took her down, the blue glasses that skittered away into the evening when you seized her. She wore the same shade of lipstick as you, even before you smeared yours over her face and neck and chest. Her last audible word in this world was “please”, spoken into your pharynx in between being smothered by your tongue and by your oesophagus. Your stomach lining ate the sound of anything else she said.
You’re panting now, almost there. An urge to belch and fart arises and is satisfied. I go harder. Your prey goes deeper.
Your mouth drops open as you come. My fingers slip inside you dangerously easily. You’re rocking again, your first and most basic instinct being to subsume me into your aching cunt. I fight the urge to oblige and finger you till you scream.
By the time you are done your stomach has snapped the major bones of the arms and legs. Her marrow dissolves like the rest of her into the publishing acid bath of your stomach. She has a long way to go, and your body is there to guide her on her way through secret, absorbing surfaces, a foetid holding chamber, and then porcelain.
I fall to kiss you between your legs, licking slow and powerful in the fragrant chasm, trying to coax another orgasm from you before sleep takes you. I win the race, barely. You fall satisfied into a profound sleep, two lovers keeping you company.