freya 03
Maybe tonight.
I swing my legs off the bed too and walk to the bathroom door. Light bleeds around the edges. My heart is pounding as I stand outside it, willing myself to knock, to break this taboo.
Then the door opens in front of me.
You find me blinking in the light, looking vaguely nervous, but my lips have the tight set they get when I’m determined about something.
“Andrew? Are you okay?” you ask.
I hesitate, then speak. “sixty-five, seventy kilos.”
“What?” you say, puzzled.
“My— Freya. She was about sixty-five, seventy kilos. I’ve watched you. You obviously don’t put on all that weight.”
I take a tentative step into the bathroom. You don’t step aside but you don’t push me away as I take your hand.
“Much of it is water. Some you burn. Digestion is expensive. So, you breathe her out, you… piss her out, but that leaves one last factor…”
You feel my hand tremble. Or maybe it was your own? This aspect of your hunting has always been a private thing. The weight, slung low and sitting in your pelvic girdle like how you’d imagine a child to weigh—that has always been a call to retreat and find somewhere you can be alone.
“What are you saying?”
My hand squeezes yours. The other goes to your naked abdomen as I step in close, cupping the little tummy that is a gift from your recent meal.
“I’ve known her a long time and I’ve been here every moment she’s been inside you. I’d… like to be here for the last moments, too.”
You can’t tell if you’re thrilled or appalled. “Andrew, it’s disgust—”
“It’s natural, Rey. As natural as this:” I squeeze your belly, incidentally increasing the internal warning signs of pressure. “And this:” the hand traces up your flank and cups your breast, augmented as it is with its own layer of fat. “All part of the process.” My hand drops back to your belly, tracing its shiversome path.
We stand there inches apart and looking into each other’s eyes. Your stomach gives a low growl, air moving internally past prey turned to liquid then back to solid.
“Shut the door, then.”
You turn away and walk to the toilet as I close and lock the door, nevermind that we’re the only people in the house. You ease out a silent fart and blush. Uncharacteristically nervous, your hand in your black hair, you look back at me over your shoulder. “You won’t think I’m gross, right?”
I close the distance in a couple of strides and hold you from behind. My hands cross one another under your belly-button, again increasing the sense of pressure. With a shiver you feel the last remnants of Freya—those that are not now you instead—mustering lower. An internal penetration as your rectum prepares.
“You are a wonder, a miracle. I will feel nothing but love.”
Shy, the strangeness of the situation makes you suddenly playful. You grind your butt against my crotch and are astonished to find me half hard. Maybe I’m telling the truth.
“Okay. Well, hurry up, she’s coming.”
You lower yourself onto the toilet. I squat before you and take your chin gently in my hand, making you look at me where before you shyly averted your gaze.
You see the broad, warm smile on my face and a part of you relaxes. This is a sacred space.
Relaxes enough that a peal of gas escapes you, a warning report like gunfire amplified by the porcelain. You blush and my smile becomes a grin. “You’re heartbreakingly cute, you know that?” I brush away the hair that has fallen across your face. “Now shit out my friend.”
Your knees were unconsciously pressed together, which was always going to make things difficult. It’s a moment of intense vulnerability to part them. The slash of your pussy is exposed. I wonder, are you turned on? Are your lips full and open?
You see my eyes fall to take in the view. Something like reverence touches my face. No pilgrim ever looked more tenderly on a shrine.
Then I’m looking into your eyes again, my hand on yours on your knee.
Here she comes.
Your eyes close but you know I’m watching your face as you experience the sensations. Freya entering you felt like a whole person, and then your body destroyed her and fed her to your intestines as soup. Now, for about as far up as under your left ribs, you can feel her as a whole being again.
She is rubbing you in ohmyGod the most satisfying way all along the length of your descending colon. Guided by the organic curve of your rectum she, announced by a stark trumpet call, crests and sees air for the first time in twenty-seven hours of noisesome, pitch-black hell. Your anus can’t help but quiver as it expands, but not to a monstrous size. Freya has been dealt with as food, not a person, and comes out as food comes out.
Filth slickly emerges, hot from your secret depths. Ever-greedy, your bowels have drunk her dry, desiccating her. Though mucus-lubricated as she glides through your linings she is too brittle to hold together.
The first chunks hits the water. Plunck. Plash.
You feel my hand on your belly again, massaging hard. The pressure makes you aware of the feeling of her remains compacted in your bowels. You wonder if I feel her through your fat and skin, perceiving her as a thick rope threaded through the final stretch of your digestive system.
Woman piles anonymously, ungraciously out of you. When the mound breaks the surface of the water I pull the flush, clearing the way for more even as it slides out of you.
The final stretches are hotter, wetter than the first, having had less time being sucked dry by your innards. Freya plops out in a staccato rainfall, the cacophany of her passing rising in a crescendo. And then…
And then, with a reflexive, salutory shower of piss, Freya is gone. Your colon, rectum, butthole all flex and return to their resting size. The glorious sensation of motion inside you stills, and all is lightness.
We both are silent for a moment.
You shift and reach for paper, clean yourself up. The soiled wad lands on her remains like a farewell kiss. I never once looked in the bowl, only ever at you.
“It’s alchemy,” I say, awe in my voice. “Freya is gone. There’s just more of you.”
You launch yourself to your feet and stride past me to the sink. I’m a little concerned as I watch you was your hands with mechanical intensity. But then you turn to me and grab my face with both wet hands, so violent that at first I think I’m about to take the trip Freya has just taken. But you only pull my mouth to yours and kiss me harder than I’ve ever been kissed. Your groping hand finds the handle on the third attempt and Freya’s early remains haven’t yet finished gurgling into the plumbing by the time we have stumbled out of the bathroom, tearing with mouths and hands at one another’s bodies. We fuck with tenderness and hunger, high off the secret we have just shared.
Sleep comes eventually. You fall asleep with your head on my chest, everything south of the navel stretched and satisfied.
For now. The one constant of your life is that hunger will come again.
I am so lucky.