postcard amelie 02
Like a wrestler you throw Gemma onto the bed and keep her down with your weight as you spin above her. Your thighs push her head into the duvet, drowning any scream, and your hands isolate her knees and calves, pointing her toes in one convenient, helpless direction.
Feet are a necessary evil. You get around them by deepthroating her calves all in one. The resulting kicking and thrashing underneath your belly excites you, makes you keener to put it inside your belly where it belongs. You wonder if Gemma is close enough to smell your excitement and wish Clarice were here.
“Raven?”
Oh God. Oh God. You didn’t close the door and your prayers were answered. What the fuck is she seeing? Fuck fuck fuck…
Gemma thrashes harder, twists her head away from the duvet, inhales audibly to scream.
The mattress depresses as another person’s weight hurriedly joins you. Clarice is forcibly holding Gemma’s face against the duvet.
Her voice is breathy, slightly distant like one not sure if they’re dreaming. “… Raven. What are you doing?”
You’re in no position to answer. Your throat involuntarily swallows, moulding around meaty calves. Your wet flesh slides impotently around Gemma’s: a hot little massage for her that teases what is to come. The sensation of smooth-shaven legs failing to be pulled deeper into your alimentary tract frustrates you, makes your stomach growl to take more.
You could have taken Gemma more neatly, head-first, say, but you wanted to crush the fight out of the little pest beneath your padded thighs before swallowing her up. The arrival of Clarice threw you off, but she seems to be picking up the slack. You wonder, how far will she go? …
Carefully, leaving one knee on Gemma’s back to keep her mostly in place, you lift up onto your knees. The mattress glonks more as more of Clarice’s weight settles into it. She’s holding down Gemma’s sobbing shoulders, crawling forward to hold down her back too.
This is going to be so much more satisfying with a feeder.
You need to see Clarice’s eyes. Your careful repositioning puts you looking up Gemma’s shaking body, teeth gripping her knees, barely swaying as her legs kick inside your throat. Clarice is pale, mouth half-open, eyes wide. She stares at you like a woman seeing something rare and wondrous, afraid it might disappear.
“C’est seulement un rêve,” she breathes, watching you gulp down Gemma’s thighs in one smooth creeping motion.
Gemma’s buttocks are a challenge to crest given your position, but you are a talented predator. Rolling your jaw you inch your lips around the woman’s middle. Clarice seems hypnotised by the encroaching line of your red lips, a boundary like the umbra that creeps over the globe, turning day to night.
She hasn’t noticed how close those lips are to her own hand on Gemma’s back.
You could take them both in one right now. Your arms are free enough to grab Clarice. Looking into her eyes, you think she wouldn’t fight until too late.
Your lips roll smoothly over her hand. Her fingers play over your hard palate, then slip back out from under your teeth. She isn’t feeding herself to you, yet.
Gemma, though, has no such choice. Her little pot belly pops between your lips and is consigned to the darkness with a powerful gulp. Her arms you wrestle one at a time into your mouth, trapping them by her side. Further down you get the delicious heartburn stretch of prey’s legs beginning to curl up inside the sac of your stomach.
When her chest slips into your mouth you begin to sit up, preparing Gemma for her final dive. Clarice clamps a palm across Gemma’s mouth and kneels close by on the bed. You can’t quite see as your jaws are wide apart, but you think Clarice is staring into Gemma’s eyes.
“Deep breath,” says Clarice.
Her face is the last thing Gemma sees, bracketed by pulsing, bucking tongue that squelches her neatly between your tonsils and into the dark of your throat. The tightness of your oesophagus clamps her eyes and mouth shut, but once she’s squeezed into your stomach and felt the sting of your hot digestive juices running over her, she can open her mouth and scream.
Your body consumes most of the sound. What little escapes sends a visible shiver through Clarice. “She is alive in there…”
“Not for long,” you say, cavalier. You sit up more, resting your shaking, distended dome of a belly on your thighs. You crick your neck and relax your throat. Gemma’s air supply comes flowing out far louder than her screams do: uuuuuUUUuurp.
“No.” Clarice is eyeing your belly, watching how it shakes and shudders with the kicks and struggles of the woman within. On her lips is a thin smile. She has from somewhere regained some of her composure. “This is a ménage à trois. She cannot go to sleep so soon.”
Clarice places her hands on both of your cheeks and comes close. Her long nails prickle your temples. Her belly rests lightly against your own. Her face fills your whole vision. When she speaks, her lips brush yours: “Open your mouth. Swallow my breath, for her.”
Stunned, you comply. She moistens her lips with a flicker of her tongue then seals them against yours. You relax your throat in the same manner that unleashed the riot of air in the first place, and Clarice exhales, long and steady.
Your belly swells a little with two lungfuls of air. It’s a tad uncomfortable, seeming to sit beneath your ribs. You feel Gemma struggle to turn inside you, placing her nose and mouth in the pocket of air Clarice had created. Her kicks become stronger. Not that it matters.
Two more breaths, then the macabre kiss of life devolves into passion. Clarice kisses like she is trying to devour Gemma for herself, licking and wrestling your tongue, exploring for herself the dangerous expanse of your mouth. She kneels up, pressing her weight down on your swollen tummy. Gemma slips inside you and scrabbles to regain her air supply. Her desperation flushes your cunt with heat.
“Aren’t you afraid?” you ask, between kisses. Clarice’s hands trace the sensitive skin below your breasts, ripening your nipples.
“You are what I want to be,” she says in a husky voice, then attacks your neck with a lick and trailing kisses, making you shiver. Her voice comes loud in your ear. “Fuck you’re beautiful. Fuck, you’re big!”
She grips your shoulders and thrusts her hips forward. Pressure across your belly makes Gemma shout something—the words are muffled, but she’s clearly pleading—and sets your tortured belly groaning as air sloshes against Gemma’s body inside you. Glorps and glks and blorgles and borborygmi of all kinds come louder than anything poor Gemma had to say.
Clarice seems to be thrilled.
“Let me feel!” She slips behind you on the bed and places her lips on your shoulder, kissing as she rubs her hands all under the sagging swell of your stomach. A burp sneaks out when she tries to heft the weight. Another comes when she slips her hand along the crease of your inner thigh, finding the sensitive regions trapped and hidden by Gemma’s fleshy prison.
You gasp when she finds your cunny. Eager fingers dip within to find you sopping wet, then out to tease along your folds. No way has she the leverage beneath your belly to finger fuck you the way your rocking hips crave, so all she’s doing is making you dangerously horny.
“She’s in there digesting for you,” says Clarice by your ear. Her free hand follows the impression of Gemma’s hand, touching across the thickness of your skin, fat and stomach lining. “She’s going to make you so big. Ah, I can’t take it! On your back!”
She shifts aside and the teasing hand goes away too. No sooner are you on your back than she settles her beautiful form across you, thighs framing your head and her whole weight on your belly. Gemma is crushed between you: “mmmph! mmph!” but you scarcely notice, all your attention flickering between the incredible sensation of fullness and the delectable vista of Clarice’s magnificent backside suspended above you. Is it normal to want to bite and kiss and swallow it all at once? Her pussy is a shining slash of deep pink against her cinnamon skin, and you crave the taste of it.
She takes a bite first. With a momentary increase in pressure she see-saws down to place her lips upon yours. A hot tongue unhesitatingly parts your own cunny with a commanding lick, and then another, and another. She learns what makes you squirm and moan and focuses on extracting more.
Between you, increasingly desperate and exhausted, Gemma kicks and screams and weeps.
You are achingly close to coming when Clarice comes up for air. Her voice floats out from between your thighs. “Wish we could both eat at the same time but this bitch is in the way. Hurry up and melt her down, Raven.” Clarice’s skin glides across yours as she repositions herself lower, bringing her pussy to your face. The sharp alluring scent of her womanhood fills your senses. With the heat of her pussy on your lips, Clarice’s fingers filling the deep channel of your own cunny, and the immense struggling weight of prey crushed between you both, you are nearing sensory overload.
“Eat me like a lover, Raven.”
You comply, filling your mouth with her perfume, glorifying in the feeling of soft, willing flesh gliding over your tongue and lips. She likes it when you suck, be that on lips or clit, and she shivers when she likes what you’re doing. You lick your lips and swallow her flavour. Gemma, thrashing and agonised inside you, has no idea that part of the lethal digestive cocktail your stomach is grinding into her disintegrating flesh is actually the love juices of the woman who held her still for you to consume.
Clarice takes her turn before she comes and tears a bone-cracking orgasm from you. Gemma’s accompanying scream takes a tone you haven’t heard from her before. You take Clarice in turn. You lose track of the number of times you come, and never get enough of Clarice.
Together with the powerful kneading of your stomach you both grind Gemma into paste. Eventually Clarice collapses against you and rests her cheek against your belly. The air you swallowed that extended Gemma’s hellish death accompanies her, gurgling noisily into your intestines, making the next stage of her digestion a rowdy, raucous affair that keeps waking Clarice from her sleep.
Every time, she kisses your stomach, still swollen but flattening as more of Gemma sloughs deeper into your system. Every time you stroke her hair.
You hope she’s still there in the morning.