frenzy
You wake at 4am with heartburn and realise fuck, you frenzied again.
You breathe through the discomfort, allowing it to dissipate as you struggle to remember the faces and, more importantly, the bodies of the last three days.
The fat woman you met while clubbing started it. Jayda? She had pretty eyes and immaculate nails that utterly failed to protect her against her swift consumption when you isolated her in a bathroom. She went down like butter, soft and rolling down your throat, squeezing into place like she was born to stretch the walls of your stomach.
The sounds your gut made the next day. You had something important to do in town and worried constantly that strangers would hear the belching, the rumbling, the gurgling.
A couple of young teens girls talked loudly about you to one another, commenting on your immense stomach. By sheer luck you later recognised one of them on your way home—the skinny, high-pitched one. You were right on top of her before an involuntary belch let her know you were looming.
She didn’t even scream before your lips closed around her neck. It’s a curious thing feeling the shaking trembling of someone’s sobbing as it travels all the way behind your breastbone. Like a jiggle-ball in the chest rather than the cunny. Her crying only intensified as she squelched into a chamber mostly done with Jayda. Whatever private hell she endured, her pleas were far harder to make out. Jayda’s body had layered yours with warm, jiggling soundproofing.
Jayda, pulsing comfortably through your intestines, had more to give on this front, and now the wannabe bully would help.
The thought that the next person wouldn’t be audible at all is what caused the frenzy.
You can’t make out the rest too clearly. A taxi is presumably parked empty somewhere, its driver having accepted his final fare. A couple of others, too. Oh, and a single father pushing a stroller, who fought hard to protect himself and his baby, but there’s not much leverage when you’re swallowed up to your waist by a woman twice your mass.
All of them have screamed and cried and begged as their faces squeezed into your stomach. Not one sound escaped, devoured by the thick stomach walls and layers of flab. Even the piping scream of the child was silenced in this way. Well, it was the kindest thing to do at that point. Just more meat for your belly.
Breathing exercises have helped. The pain has passed. You’re alone in your room with a body packed with every stage of prey: the just-eaten father and son; some jogger-turned-chyme fermenting in your bloated purple piping; a late-night nurse cosseted and being shaped into meaninglessness by your colon; and the strata upon stata of fat your devoured and metabolized prey have laid upon your frame.
You are awesomely heavy. It is like being hugged tightly by a lover in every orientation at once. You can barely lift your leg to spurt out a fart from some deliquescing sacrifice.
The heat of it. No sauna would warm you like this. It’s as if you’ve stolen the body heat of all your prey and knitted in into your bones. The intensive industry of prey being torn apart heats you like a furnace, and your fat keeps it all tucked inside you.
You take up so much room. Your bed has surely shrunk, and creaks violently when you rockingly move. The door frame brushes you on both sides when you waddle to the toilet. No bra is up to the challenge, and pants surrender as soon as they are stretched past your mid-thighs.
And while the voices of your prey were stilled by your gut, the voice of that same gut is strident and joyous.
You lie there in the pre-morning dark, listening to your bubbling/gurgling/squelching/groaning abdomen, warm and cozy and wrapped in yourself, a naked goddess of excess. You are delirious with satisfaction and pleasure.
The only thing missing, you think, as you saunter into an ecstatic sleep, is roughly the same number of meals, one after another, right now.