postcard amelie 13
You’ve learned a thing or two. The brothers you lured were firmly tied using fabric you shredded from hotel bedsheets, one kept restrained and mute under the increasing heft of your midsection while you tied the other. You felt him try to push you off like a desperate massage and the stomach grumbles that he must have heard up close and personal set him kicking for his life. No avail, though. This large and determined you could probably have restrained and tied two adults. A seven- and a five-year-old do not pose a challenge.
Your hearing is excellent so you avoid cleaners and guests in the corridors with ease. Your gift and your breakfast stumble along by your side, weight mostly taken up where you hold their bonds at their backs.
“Amelie. Wake up.”
Her eyes open straight away, focusing on you without any other muscle moving. It’s a strange and alien gesture on a face you’ve grown to know well.
“How are you feeling?”
The golden-brown eyes blink and motion returns to the face. A smile begins to appear on seeing you, but it’s overtaken by a grimace of pain that makes her curl in bed, knees drawing up half-way to her chest. “Ow. Ow. Fuck. Like I’ve swallowed glass.”
You sit on the bed and stroke her hair. The mattress depresses dangerously, causing her to run towards you till her forehead presses against your thigh. “That’s hunger, sweetie.”
“… No.” Her head’s half-turned and looking up at you, expression stricken.
“Mmmmhm.” You continue to stroke her hair. “You wanted to be like me. You’re not quite there, but you’re close. Are you ready for the next step?”
“Please tell me it’s breakfast.” Her hands grasp the flesh of her toned belly.
Her eyes are closed again so she doesn’t see your sad smile. “Of course. This is going to be hard for you. It’s going to feel really, really good, but it will be hard. You should prepare yourself.”
Amelie opens her eyes to search your face and turns sombre. With an effort she gathers herself to sit up in the bed. Dark circles ring her eyes and her arms look wierdly thin crossed across her belly. “I… is this what I think it is? I’m going to… eat someone?”
“Mmmmmmmhm.” Despite how scared she looks you can see the glint in her eyes, and it brings out the playfulness in you. Better enjoy it now. “Once you’ve done it, you’ll feel amazing. Better than sex. Better than anything. But for you there’s a complication. See, … Well, do you remember the woman you saw? Who ate your brother’s friend?”
She nods mutely, staring at you like expecting you to pull a knife or something.
“She was likely new to it. Or just twisted. But probably her body couldn’t handle someone as large as Gemma, say. Neither can yours.”
Horror begins behind her belly button, growing to fill her chest and constrict her breathing before ever it dawns across her face. You creakingly rise from the bed and pad towards the bathroom where you stowed the kids.
By the time she sees the two boys, one pale as snow, one weeping silently into a gag, Amelie is approaching full panic attack. You note that her wide, staring eyes are fixed on the smaller child with an intensity that sits ill at ease with the rapid breathing. Still, she says, “no, this is fucked up, I can’t fucking do this. What is wrong with you, Raven?”
“Wipe the drool off your chin. I told you I’d help you. Besides, I’m starving. Here.” You’re strong enough to half-throw the five-year-old so that he falls across the bed and bounces practically into Amelie’s lap. She recoils from him, but still doesn’t take her eyes off him.
He squirms, unable to quickly make much distance from her with wrists bound and ankles bound. He turns teary eyes on where you’re still holding his older brother.
A whip-crack of a tummy rumble calls everyone’s attention to your sagging belly. Perhaps the blood feast of Club Deliquesce is still within you, several hundred people compacted and desiccated into several feet of looping, rich, dark shit. But above that terminal part of your digestive system squat yards of growling emptiness, lurking behind silent, smoothering fat.
The elder brother’s eyes roll back in his head. He is grey-faced with fear.
“Three times you’ve told me you wanted to be like me. So watch me closely.”
Your demonstration starts brisk and professional enough. The boy is turned to face you and his tied wrists are gripped in one hand, with another hand at the back preventing withdrawal. Your mouth is opened wide enough to accommodate the small hands, and with a guiding hand of your own, you bend at the waist to glide those arms straight down your throat.
Things start to get a bit more involved as the flavour of skin is ground into your tongue and the sensation of mild stretch tickles along your oesophagus. The way your jaws part and you force them around the shaking boy’s head is less demonstrative, more an instinctual expression of the desire to contain.
(The boy’s name must have three syllables in it, because the younger brother is repeating three muffled noises over and over in a pleading tone. Amelie has gripped him to her chest in a gesture that looks comforting.)
A squeaky pop deep down signals when three-syllables boy’s hands pass the threshold of your cardiac sphincter. You waste little time with just swallowing, though your throat’s sucking embrace would inch him along just fine given enough time. No, your stomach is impatient. With two free hands you feed the child into the steaming cauldron of your stomach. Hot saliva and light mucous lubricates his way in.
When his legs buckle you lift him bodily into the air. The tickle in your throat is now a wonderful stretch, squeezing muscle tightly conforming to the shape of narrow ribs. Not the shape of a head—your breakfast is now experiencing first-hand the hospitality of your groaning, echoing stomach, stinging digestive ooze and all.
His body follows swiftly. He’s not a fighter or a flier but a freezer. He barely moves as your fat fingers grip his legs hand over fist, cramming him into a void that will obliterate everything. You’re not worried he will remain stationary inside you. No one remains still once your acids begin peeling the skin from their flesh.
Thighs, knees, calves. A final quick ~gluck~ and that’s all she wrote, a bright or indifferent future sliding with the rest of the child down your ravenous throat and settling into the pit of your waking stomach.
You wipe your mouth with the back of your fist and let out a long sigh. The child is beginning to explore your insides, little hands scrabbling around in the darkness and finding only heavy folds of muscle crushing back.
The only evidence that he has ever shouted or screamed comes in a snatch of sound as you belch out pints of air. ~Hwooourghp~ The second your throat closes back up no sound from him ever escapes the heavy inches of fat that surround him.
You stand with your arms to either side, back straight, as still as possible. Even so buried your meal’s kicking is visible where it causes your belly to jiggle and sway, and makes your tits bounce.
Amelie and the younger brother are watching, one rapt but appalled, one dissolved into floods of tears, squirming for freedom in a pitiful attempt to help. You stare Amelie in the face.
“He’s dying in there. ~uOooourp~ You’re letting his brother watch him die. You’ve felt something similar. Would you want to feel it again?” Amelie shakes her head. “Would you wish it on anyone?” Another shake. “Can you rescue his brother?” A slower shake. “Correct. And are you hungry?”
Amelie doesn’t answer, just looks at the struggling child in her lap. Dolorous eyes fail to produce tears, but the lips have no trouble with moisture. She grabs the wrists in exactly the same way you did.
You let her start unaided. Amelie does not trust her mouth to open wide enough, nor her throat to expand enough, but they do. The child wails into his gag as Amelie’s body overtakes his. Inside, you feel the struggling grow more frantic. Another bench brings with it the taste of blood. Breakfast is churning away nicely.
It’s been a long time since you saw someone do what you do. Amelie is loathe to move her prey. Instead, she holds him in place and moves over him, like a snake. You come to help brace her meal, provide a little push to pop the immature shoulders through Amelie’s virgin pharyngeal arch.
He wriggles all the way down her body, fighting the squeezing tube that eventually overcomes him and curls him up beneath her ribs. In her thin body the definition of leg, shoulder, head can be seen appearing and disappearing like a trick.
“Oh,” she says, laying back and looking up at the ceiling with pupils wide as saucers. Her mouth falls open in an O of obscene satisfaction.
“Feel good, my love?” You place yourself on the bed beside her, propped up on one elbow and draping a thigh over her leg.
“I can feel everything. He’s so big. I’m… fuck, I feel stoned.”
“Nice, isn’t it?” You walk your fingers up over the swell of her tanned belly, still shuddering and shaking where the younger brother is struggling. The elder is beginning to succumb to the heavy, burning, sopping onslaught of your gleeful alimentary canal, but he’s still got fight left in him for now.
“I can’t… I can’t feel bad about this. Is that fucked up? I’m fucked up, right?”
“Shh, it’s okay. It’s normal. He’s just meat for your belly.” You stroke a heavy palm over the swell of her tummy and then slap your own, sending waves across your front. “You remember the fear you felt?”
Amelie nods, eyes fluttering closed from where you stroked her belly.
“You don’t have to feel that anymore. You’re someone else now, not that scared child. Let it all… melt away.”
Another nod, and then those thick dark lashes start to shine. The tears are brief but intense, years of obsession and fear finding their final expression under the warm haze of a food coma and your patient, loving belly rub.
By the time she sniffs and wipes her eyes dry the only things animating both of your stomachs is the rhythmic grinding of your own muscles. The boys have submitted and are now well on their way to becoming a thick, bloody soup that your intestines will gorge upon.
Amelie’s lips have been driving you crazy since she first lay on her back. You brush back the hair from her face.
“The brothers—” you stroke her belly and slap your own again— “shouldn’t be apart like this.” A tired smile from Amelie gives you permission. You shift your hips and mount her, slipping one leg between hers and pressing your broad, soft, heavy belly against and around her narrow, hard, round one. Your breasts, too, seek to engulf hers; and so, too, does your mouth. You kiss her hungrily and she returns it with fire. Her hands rub up and down your body with a new understanding of how you must feel. It is an age before lovemaking begins in earnest, but when it comes you are both so connected that touching her is like touching yourself. The lines between you and her blur and your mutual orgasms roll on and on, echoing and rebounding, until you are both utterly spent in one another’s arms.