postcard moonbather
The sun slows things down on San Antonio beach. The moon and the stars bring them back to life.
You’re staring at them now, stretched out on a sunlounger. It’s a good thing it’s wooden: the white plastic ones wouldn’t cope well with the weight of two people.
The clubs were in full swing when you finally went out. Some drama with the friends you traveled with delayed everything until you were itching to see some action. They eventually pulled themselves together enough to taxi in, but you’d sort of checked out by that point. It wasn’t terribly long before you’d accidentally on purpose lost them.
There’s something about the kind of togetherness a crowd can offer that calls to you. Unity comes in driving basslines, jumping and dancing, being amongst countless others. But there’s anonymity in the crowd, a kind of safety, as no one gets deeper than a conversation shouted over the music, and if you relax your eyes one dancer looks like another in the lights.
You drank but, excess being your trade, your constitution made you struggle to catch up with a crowd high on booze, music, speed, freedom, ecstacy and sex. Something was missing, gnawing at you. Something set you apart.
After half an hour of unfocused frustration you realised it was hunger. And slightly tipsy, you realised that you could claim the high of the crowd by literally pulling a part of it into you.
Presently, on the sunlounger that is right now a moonlounger, the woman trapped inside your gut is kicking. You know these kicks. She might not even be conscious anymore. You turn your eyes from the stars and watch a shape that might be an elbow glide beneath your ballooned-out minidress. When you place a hand on it and press down she struggles in a brief burst. Still conscious, then. Barely. You bid her farewell with a belch.
You had found her by sheer serendipity. Passed out on your current place of repose. Unwise in the extreme. Anything could happen.
She was beautiful in the silver light. Curled on her side, her waist was a valley between padded shoulders and the large, meaty swell of her backside. By her scent she was a cocktail of party drugs, knocked out by alcohol and lack of restraint. Just what you were looking for.
Perhaps a little of the atmosphere of the club has penetrated you. You wanted to be close, to animate her. Get her up and dancing.
You knew how to do it.
She was insensate to the removal of shoes. Your mouth watered at the pudgy sight of her calves. Only the smallest sound escaped her as you sheathed them in your own flesh, crawling up the sunlounger like a monster from a horror film. Each involuntary swallow rocked her closer to wakefulness, but lubricated your throat so you could gradually, smoothly feed her legs into you.
You were slow, careful, patient. Your lips circled her belly before her eyes fluttered open and the encroaching heat and wetness roused her.
She made eye contact, then panicked.
No use by this point, really. She was more than half gone, and you were hungry. Her arms weren’t a match for yours, which hooked under her shoulders and pulled. Her legs curled up inside your stomach involuntarily, calves and thighs an obliging starter for this welcome meal.
It wasn’t long before her ponytail was tracking across your tongue. Your fangs closed soon after and you sealed her fate with an final ~glkk~. Once your epiglottis was clear you groaned with satisfaction at the sensation of prey turning inside you as she filled up your stomach.
But moonlight was burning. You were impatient to claim the buzz she had been sleeping off.
You settled on your back into the same pose you occupied now, though your stomach was far more conspicuously straining to contain the struggles of the party casualty. Each punch and kick set off sweet bursts of satisfied pain, practised flesh stretching and containing.
You shifted to one side and allowed one tendril to escape. Its daggered tip extended to your lips. You opened wide and experienced a minor echo of the hot, wet ride your meal had just taken as you swallowed your own tendril.
Nowhere to run or hide, no light to even see what was touching her before it struck, the poor reveler screamed and thrashed anew as the dagger bit deep into her. An artery above the hip was severed and clamped over by the thing. Blood poured and was dragged from her, siphoning up and out your throat only to reenter your body at the shoulder blade.
You drank only enough to feel the start of the high. Fatally wounded as well as mortally condemned to a blistering digestive death, she would yield to your body the rest of her chemical and nutritive content over the course of the night. You giggled to yourself, imagining yourself the energiser bunny, and she your battery, keeping you dancing till daylight.
The giggle became a burp that might have been her last breath; was more probably a product of the powerful stomach juices currently tearing at her flesh.
And that is how you came to be watching the moon and stars, feeling content. Excited, too, at the prospect of a full night dragging your new friend around on the dance floor, luxuriating in the sheer weight and fullness. Bringing her to life again in a blaze of glory. Being part of the energy of the crowd as the crowd became part of you.
But all in good time. First, you have earned a rest. The moon and stars are so beautiful, and for a moment they are all yours.