phats
It’s the middle of the night when I get the call. Mid-dream, it takes me a while to find my phone, answer, and assemble enough English to communicate.
“’lo?”
“Andrew? It’s Rey.”
Better than ice-water. I’m wide awake, sitting up in bed. “Rey, are you okay?”
The pause on the other end of the line gives me a chance to process what I’ve heard. You sounded guilty and sleepy. Really sleepy.
“Who did you eat?”
“It’s not my fault,” I hear you mumble. “He was just… He reminded me of me when I came back home.”
“Raven!”
I’m picturing you eating another one of you back then. It’s an arresting image, but I’m seeing weeks and months of work streaming down the, hah, toilet.
“… Can I get a lift?”
What’s done is done. I rub my eyes in the dark then go casting about for my glasses. No matter what’s going on there’s not a chance I won’t be there for you.
You’re sitting on your butt in front of a bench when I finally circle round to where you are. Your overfaced stomach leaves the rest of you no blood for cognition so you swing between giggly, sleepy and confused on the phone. Not good for directions.
My Nissan Note, utterly anonymous ferrier of late-night mistake-making Reys, pulls up next to the pavement. I don’t put the wheels on the pavement. The suspension will need all the help it can get.
My eyes are wide with, you guess, astonishment, and perhaps exasperation. They don’t leave your immense stomach as I climb out of the car and walk around the front. You stare up at me, glut-drunk and feeling pathetic, nursing a bulge larger than the rest of you on top of your thighs. The stretch is incredible. You can actually feel it tighten in waves rippling beneath your skin as your stomach undertakes the Herculean task of breaking down your meal.
“… Sorry. Can’t get up.”
While your guts play Hercules, I’m thinking of a different classic figure. Sisyphus, rolling his boulder up the hill. I don’t reply for a while, only watch your belly quiver with your digestion, your breathing.
“I didn’t mean to. Are you mad?”
I wet my lips and look at your face for the first time. I’m unnaturally still for a long time before I finally speak. I squat to your level to take your hand.
“I’m going to say this once, and then we’re going to deal with this together, okay?”
You nod, an uncomfortable squirming feeling in your chest that isn’t your prey settling down to digest.
“Nothing you could ever do will change how I feel about you. Even if I’m angry, never worry that I will turn away from you. Understand?”
You nod, once.
“Okay. Good.” I close my eyes and draw a deep breath. “But Raven, you might have fucked up reaching your goal before Christmas, here.”
You try to grimace but only manage a crooked smirk. “Whoops.”
What a rigmarole, getting you in the car. What a pain in the arse getting you standing. If you hadn’t been gyming in an attempt to lose the weight I don’t think your legs would have been strong enough to manage. I dead-lift the recumbant remains of your meal, hands squeezing into your own stretched layer of fat to give your thighs even the chance of hoisting the rest of you onto your feet.
Together we pour you into the car. Only the back-seat can accommodate you. Otherwise your gut would have spilled over the gearstick and handbrake and we’d have got nowhere.
At my home, I clear the narrow hallway of trip hazards. Then you perform a kind of vertical roll to manoeuvre your belly through the door: plant your bellybutton against the doorframe, push as hard as you can against it, and try to shuffle your butt through to the other side. You’re breathing hard once you’re through, and there’s still another door into the living room to pass.
Once through, you’re weepy again. You land heavily on my couch and put your face in your hands. “I’m sorry. It just feels so fucking good.”
I kneel beside you to give you a tight if awkward squeeze.
“Shh, we can sleep down here tonight. We’ll talk about it tomorrow. You’re okay. You’re okay. You’re perfect.”
Digestion is energy intensive. Your body makes headway during the night and into the morning.
You wake up with hip stiff and grumbly from where you laid on it. Swapping positions was not an option during the night so you spent the whole night in one pose on a spare mattress.
I’m no longer spooning you like I was most of the night. In fact, I’m not in the makeshift bed.
“Good morning, dear Raven,” I say, with a terrible levity to my voice. “Or rather, good afternoon. I see you’re making progress with our guest.”
You poke your stomach. It’s definitely softer. Visions of your stomach acid eating a hole through his skin and pouring through layer after layer of fat make you shiver with shame and excitement.
“I’m sorry,” you begin.
“Don’t be! Like you said, it just feels so fucking good. So we’re going to have to change things.”
“Change things how?” you say, wary. I hold out a steaming cup of tea. You take ages to shuffle yourself back against a couch and sit up with its aid. I don’t answer while you do, just watching and waiting, tea proffered and dangerous smile on my face.
“Make losing weight feel good, and punish slips like this.”
You take a sip and frown. “Punish?”
“Ooooh yes, dear Raven.” I set my own cup down on a side-table and sit on the couch behind you. I’ve brought your hairbrush, and set to straightening out your hair with long, sensitive strokes, just like always. You lean back against my legs. “You believe in consequences, don’t you?”
You nod. Apparently your “slip” has put me in some sort of top-space. I wonder how you feel about that?
“Good.” I work out a little snag with patient applications of the brush. “Then take a breather, finish your tea. We’ll relax today, play videogames. But tonight, your punishment starts, if I don’t miss my guess. Understand?”
It’s a nice day. Nothing is awry. We hang out just as we always do when we hang out.
All the while, your guest sloughs into your merciless guts. Pints of liquefied fat mix with bile and gurgle down in a neverending procession, a river of young shit lapping at the shores of your sucking, absorbing villa. We have to turn the television up a couple of notches during the quieter parts as gurgles and squirts and sudden fleshy explosions burst forth from your abdomen.
We’re both keenly aware of how you change shape. Your meal drips down beneath your skin like candlewax, making you pear-shaped as your jejunum and ascending colon become involved in the mission. It’s not a small pear: his massive frame is still gurgling its way out of your stomach. You catch me sneaking peaks at your growing breasts, and I snuggle hip-to-hip to feel how your thighs also back on the stolen fat.
At one point I give up all pretence and attack your belly with long, deep strokes, massaging thick, human smoothie through your internal plumbing. You moan, laying back and getting lost in the sensation, touching your own body, delighting and luxuriating in the ruined progress and the sensual excess.
“How much do you think I’ll gain?”
“We won’t know till you shit him out.”
“Fuck me.”
I kiss you.
“Not yet.”
Evening comes. You napped and I caught you masturbating and stopped you. You growled and I just laughed, taking your hand and licking your fingers. You didn’t know whether to be disgusted or turned on.
You could feel how it turned me on, though.
Still, no release for you.
Then you feel the first stirring of another primitive need.
“Help me up.”
“Sure— hang on, what for?”
“Bathroom.” You hold your hands up in front of you. Not beyond your power to stand from the couch, or anywhere, really, but waaaay fewer steps if I just pull you up.
“Ah, hold that thought.”
It’s a foot long, smooth shiny metal, slightly curved, flared at the end. The flange has a ring mounted on it so things can be tied in.
“No.” I did help you up, once I brought some materials.
“Raven.” I level the thing at you, casually like I haven’t realised that’s what I’m doing. “We both love you eating. But we’ve put a lot into reaching your goal. I put a lot into reaching your goal. I’m going to punish you. There have to be… consequences.”
You grit your teeth, alternating between staring at me, and staring at the smooth, curved tip.
“Fine.”
My smile is broad and genuine. You kind of hate how happy you are to make me so pleased.
“Turn around. Put your hands on the couch.”
You comply. It’s easier said than done. A lot of weight comes through your shoulders and as your belly hangs down you become aware just how much internal rigging is supporting the stretched-out tubing of your stomach and intestines.
“Legs wider.”
You breathe in and out slowly and walk your legs apart.
“God, your arse has already grown so much. You’re going to need to go further apart.”
“Can you just ram it in already?”
“Shush. Further apart.”
Step, steppy-step, steppy-step. You hear me sigh like a man slipping into a warm bath.
“Can I just say you’re beautiful?”
“Want to say it from inside?!”
“Shush, Raven, you’re not being a very good sub right now.” My voice quavers with barely-suppressed laughter. I’m enjoying myself a huge amount right now. You hear the pop of a squeezy-bottle top. “I love this. That you’re doing this for me. You don’t know how much it turns me on.”
“Just hurry up and— oooh.”
It’s sudden and cold and it’s not stopping. Your pert anus, trim and toned despite the incredible work sometimes demanded of it, gulps down the lubed-up metal. You feel a rush of cold work its way inside with gentle pressure; feel the pressure increase against your coccyx as your rectum wends its way deeper.
“Jesus, a little warning.”
“Shh. Relax, let it settle in.”
The shock subsides as your body heat crowds in. The sensation of fullness, of wanting to bear down, reaches a peak and then subsides.
“I can see your heartbeat moving it.”
“Mmmh.”
It moves suddenly, a very small glide in and out as I manipulate the metal ring. You become acutely aware of everything between your legs. As the buttplug massages your coccyx, it impinges upon your vagina, sending light tingles along deep nerves.
“You like it, huh?”
You didn’t realise, but you’re rocking your hips, trying to increase the pressure. Your answer is a grunt. You feel your pussy lips slick apart as you engorge.
“Hold that thought.”
Rope happens. Not much, just a hip harness. When I think you’re losing focus I pump you with the plug, causing you to vocalise, or breathe deep, or moan. The rope fastens the plug to your hips. It’s not going anywhere without being untied. Rope runs along the inner thighs, too: another suggestion of stimulation, without fulfilment.
“Okay, lay down. Here, on the mattress.”
You comply, easing yourself down so the dead meat inside you doesn’t unbalance you. A luscious, rippling moan burbles from your innards.
All my attention is on you. I look like a drowning man seeing land for the first time. Your face, coloured with desire and effort; your tits, swollen already on prey; your belly, fighting and winning a war against a person who was once not part of you; and the shining pink-and-silver exclamation mark of your pussy and stoppered anus.
I seem about to say something. Maybe to explain my master plan, impress upon you my control of the situation. But it’s like something takes over me. I lose an internal battle and bow my head to your cunt.
Ripe and running hot with desire, you let out a yowl of surprise and satisfaction. My tongue explores this sacred ground I know so well, sending sparks all the way to your tummy. Though you are not really tied up, your belly holds you to the ground and prevents you from reaching anything with your hands. You let them wander over your body, enjoying the sheer physical size of you, even as I do the same. My hands, too, roam over the underside of your belly, your sensitive inner thighs.
A few more thrusts of the buttplug make you squirm like my tongue first did. You feel the stirrings of an orgasm like a distant wave, gathering pace and size.
My fingers smoothly slide into the slick channel of your pussy. Everything is so stretched, right now, that if I had to push, you didn’t feel it. I pump my whole hand lovingly inside you, seeking out the little rough patch, exploring the full bounds of hot muscle; even as I cause the buttplug to round and fill out your rectum.
The base exploration of your belly, everything between your legs, the aggressive lust with which I lap at you: it all builds and builds until the wave comes crashing over you. You clench down on my hand and the buttplug and go utterly rigid. The power of your cunt convinces me I could never fight my way out from you. No one could.
After a subjective eternity you flop back, shuddering as I gently lick your clit and lips goodbye.
“Okay,” you say, breathing rapidly. “Okay, I won’t do it again.”
I give a little laugh, and allow my bruised hand to slide out from inside you. “That’s not the punishment.”
You tense. I feel a little of it directly before my fingers slip entirely free of your heat.
“You’re keeping that thing inside you till you’re completely done with your meal.”
“What?!”
“Mmmhmmm.” I wipe myself on a towelette (man, I think of everything) and crawl to sit beside you. “You want to be full? Be full. You’re going to work him all through your system, and you’re only going to get to let him out when I say.”
“That’s insane.” You look a little panicked. “He’s a whale. I’m gonna pop.”
“You’ll be fine, my love.” I kiss your forehead, sheened with sweat. “But you are going to hurt. And when it gets too much… You’re going to show me you got rid of every last kilo of filth.”
Confused, angry embarrassment colours your cheeks. You don’t quite know where to look. “You mean you want to watch?”
“I mean I’m going to. And I’m going to take care of you afterwards. Clean you up, give you looooads of cuddles and tell you how good a girl you’ve been. How happy you’ve made me. But before that, you’re going to hurt for me, Rey. And maybe you’ll have learned a lesson. At least until you’ve reached your goal. Until you’ve burned her off. Understand?”
I give you some time to think it through. A complicated cocktail of emotions pass through you, fighting their way through an adrenaline-and-sex haze. Eventually, you nod, and hold up your hands for a cuddle.
I come near and your arms close like a vice around my shoulders. You pull my ear close to your mouth. I feel your breath hot against the side of my face. There’s no way I can break your grip and you need only open your jaws and lean forward and I’m yours.
“And why shouldn’t I just eat you now?” Your voice crackles with the sound of saliva in your mouth.
You hear my breathing, consciously controlled. I’m not struggling against you, though I shiver to be so close to a death I have long pictured.
“It’s your choice. It’s always your choice, my dear Raven.”
Your grip tightens, holds—then releases. I fall away from you, and lie on my back, breathing hard. My hand finds yours and squeezes it. You squeeze back.
We both lie there, looking at the ceiling, thinking our separate thoughts.
It’s not long before life becomes excruciating. Every motion hurts since it means lugging your swollen belly around. You accept my help back and forth to the bathroom as you piss away litres of another person’s vital fluids, but it’s the solids that cause you this pain.
Even sitting still is agony. Periods of internal calm are broken at intervals by peristaltic tantrums, your guts trying to rid themselves of exhausted flesh. Your colon swells. You ache like you have never ached before. The buttplug-dam holds.
I gave you a mantra, which you repeat diligently. “Call Andrew if I feel like I need to cheat. Call Andrew if I feel like I need to cheat.”
Sleep is hard to find that night so you start the next day tired. You’re too uncomfortable to play games or read. You watch soporific TV, dully letting the lives of banal people wash over you and numb your brain. It’s like being ill. It is being ill. Your body screams at you that something is wrong, even as it sucks the last vestiges of goodness from your prey’s liquefied frame.
“I’m ready,” you say in a small voice that afternoon.
I kiss your forehead. “A little longer, sweetheart. Say it again.”
“‘Call Andrew if I feel like I need to cheat.’”
“Good. You’re doing so well. Soon, I promise.”
“Kay.”
“I’m ready.”
The third time, seeing dried tears on your cheeks, feeling the way you shiver with exhausted pain, I nod. You’re too tired even to be excited. I take your hand and pull you up, watching you wince with every motion. I swaddle you with a dressing gown that barely fits and we waddle/walk out to the garage.
I have cleared a space. A bike and gardening tackle cluster at one end. In the centre, a tarpaulin is laid out, alongside some towels and a chair.
You follow with little steps to stand in the middle of the tarpaulin. Stinging, burning, stretching pain occupies your whole body from ribs down. Even your breathing must be shallow.
“Tell me what you learned,” I command, facing you and looking into your eyes.
“Call you.”
“Good.”
“I’m sorry.” You sniffle, and seem a little annoyed at being upset, not being sure where to look.
“I’m sorry too. I will try to make it easier for this not to happen in future. Okay, are you ready?”
You nod and steppy-step your legs a little further apart. I pop a towel behind your calves and weight it in place with some old bricks. Seems I don’t want you to get yourself dirty if I can help it.
Snip, snip of the paramedics’ scissors, and the rope harness falls away. The buttplug shifts dangerously. The dam cracks and a hissing, appalling gust of dead air squeaks past.
“Alright, ready?”
You nod, squat slightly, and brace yourself. I offer you one hand to hold on to.
“Rest in peace, whoever you were.”
The buttplug steadies as I grip the ring, and then, blissfully, it withdraws. You hear a clatter as I toss it somewhere on the tarpaulin then move to stand in front of you.
Movement starts immediately.
It’s like a landslide scouring you everywhere on the inside all at once. You let out a cry of release and pain and ecstasy.
The first emissions are huge, stretching you out, hitting the ground and breaking apart like overcooked Christmas puddings. Ripe smells erupt around us.
I worried you’d feel embarrassed but honestly you might have forgot I’m there. Your eyebrows upturned, eyes closed, you speak a continuous sound without realising it: “aaaaaaaa ha ha aaaaaa”.
Your colon has chewed the first few yards of shit into mealy firm soil, but as you empty yourself out your prey becomes slicker, seemingly hotter. The unfortunate man spends more time coming out of your arse as pappy, stinking paste as he does fully digested shit. He piles up behind you, his whole remaining existence extruded as a smooth cylinder by the goodbye-kiss of your tortured anus.
It’s glorious. Better than sex, at least right now. Better than eating, at least until you’re hungry again. All of the mistakes pour out of you and make vile calligraphy on the floor of my garage.
The last few feet of waste patter out of you, accompanied by a staccato magpie-cackle of long-held-back farts. The final words of the life that you took.
You’re laughing and crying simultaneously. The relief is unreal. It’s like being reborn.
I lead you off the tarpaulin. You follow without opening your eyes, content just to inhabit a body that isn’t screaming at you. The feeling continues as I encourage your legs apart and wipe you clean, then place the now-fitting dressing gown over your shoulders. You snuggle in, feeling the soft flock and realising you crave comfort.
“Cuddle.”
I wrap you up in one and you half-collapse against me. Exhaustion threatens to pull you under. Or maybe it’s the air quality. A knife could cut it.
“Come on, my love. Let’s get you showered.”
The garage is for me to deal with, tomorrow. Till then we shower together. I cover you in kisses and you wiggle against me, enjoying not being pinned down anymore. You’re light on your feet, though we can both see changes have been made.
We towel off. You point at the scales.
“We don’t have to do this right now if—”
“No, I think I want to know.” You give me a wan smile. “I mean, even if it put me right back at the start, I did it all once, right?”
I look over your body. It’s hard to tell where you might fall in relation to before. Your breasts crest your newly pumped belly and folds have reappeared at your flanks.
The scales go in the middle of the room. You pop both feet on them and wriggle your toes, waiting.
“Um. I need you to read them. Again.”
“Oh! Sorry.” I kneel. You can see the top of my head, which you couldn’t when all this started. So there’s that.
“Alright, could be worse,” I begin. “You were down to 95 kilos, last weigh-in? My weight, fifteen stone? And you flew back at double that—”
You sigh and stretch your back. Your belly sags back down when your arms fall back down to your sides. “Just tell me, Andrew.”
I stand up. “You’re 149 kilos, love. Twenty, uh, three-and-a-half stone?”
You nod, chewing your bottom lip.
“Could have been worse,” I offer.
“Could have been worse, you agree.” You wrap your arms around yourself. “Could have been better.”
“Hey, stop. You made a mistake. But that’s okay. We can handle mistakes. We can do this.” I place my hands on your elbows and trace them down your forearms to your hands, where I hold them. “We’ll do this, and slower—more fun, you get to enjoy the process. I’ll feed you whole people. It’ll take longer, but you’ll get there. And then after you get there… well.” I step back and make a show of looking you up and down. You blush and lower your eyes, but offer me a twirl, showing off your newly-acquired hips, belly, arse and tits. “Well, then we get to bring you back to this weight, and beyond, and see just how much hotness can be squeezed into one body.”
You smile crookedly and stride over to me to place a kiss on my lips. I apparently wasn’t joking about hotness. You can feel me hard against your belly.
“Want to work some of this off?”