x rey
Earlier in the day I gave you a drink. It was chalky, bitter, wierdly chemical. You drank it on the promise that it wasn’t anything psychoactive or weird, and that it would make better a gift you were going to receive later.
I watched your throat bob as you swallowed a pint of the stuff. Then I kissed you, smiled a secretive smile, and went back about my business.
It’s just past six when there’s a knock at the door. “Could you get it, Rey?” I call from the kitchen.
I mean, you know it’s a set up at that point. In my house I just sort of naturally do everything. For me not to treat you like a princess is downright suspicious.
You play along, setting aside your laptop a second.
Something bright red is on the other side of the privacy glass. Curious, you turn the key and open the door.
“Raven?” asks a petite woman with serious freckles and equally serious belly and chest stuffed into a yellow-and-white striped uniform shirt. There’s a paper hat on her head and she comes bearing a bouquet of deep red roses, a box of chocolates, and a sparkly red balloon in the shape of a heart with “congratulations!” written on it.
You pause just long enough for her to become uncomfortable. Your expression, you’re sure, must hover somewhere between astonishment and affront. She’s just so colourful. “Yeees?”
“An admirer sent me to say congratulations! Yay!” She foists the gifts upon you and draws a piece of paper from her pocket before you can react. “There’s a poem. Ahem.
“Roses are red—” you can feel my grin burning into the back of your head from where I’m standing at the other end of the hallway. I know you don’t like poetry. “White are carnations. Here’s this candy-striper As congratulations.
With silver and work And appropriate tension You burned off the bulk Of your three indiscretions
Enjoy, my dear Raven I’ve brought you fresh meat Save the choc’lates for after Embrace your next treat.”
The chocogram lady finishes with a flourish and a grin that quickly fades to uncertainty. While she read, a crooked smile grew on your own lips. You might never admit it to me, perhaps you find this gesture quite sweet. And as she finishes you drop the bouquet and chocolates and cover the distance to her in two long strides.
She doesn’t really have a hope. Her arms barely have time to move before your own wrap around her, rendering her defenceless. She starts the barest sliver of a scream as your fangs tear a path from her carotid into your throat and then she can make no sound, shock stealing her voice.
It’s a good thing you’re an expert at this. A wall of blood hits your throat at speed and would have spilled or choked you had you not been prepared. But your throat is open and relaxed, allowing her body to push your appetiser into your stomach without effort from you.
She’s sweet. Perhaps she partakes of the chocolates. She’s been fattening herself for you without knowing it.
When you have to start sucking she slumps against you. Like the strings were cut. You walk backwards, bearing her weight. Dimly you’re aware I’m checking no one has seen anything at the door, but your attention is solely on this morsel who thrust herself into your grasp and the hot blood pouring into your system.
Without rope your stomach easily swells to accommodate the meal. The stretch is pleasant and uncomplicated, a return to the joy of gluttony. You suddenly desire to have her inside you, as quickly as possible.
I’ve reappeared and am slicing her shirt from her body. She weakly resists but is already half-gone. “No,” she murmurs weakly as your lips part from her throat and your hands grip either side of her head. Staring into a mouth christened by her own blood she tries her hardest to humanise herself, make her attackers unable to do their work. “My name is—”
We don’t get to hear her name. When your jaws take in her head the air you swallowed alongside her blood burbles back up. Her name is obliterated by the smothering tongue that cossets her face and the heavy gas gushing past her head.
You don’t wait for me to denude her, I just have to do my best to keep up as you wolf her down. Two gulps suck her head into your throat. The wonderful stretch works its way swiftly deeper when you, the taller woman, bow forward to cram her in. She tries to collapse backwards to free her head from the terrifying darkness but your hands are holding the doughy hips fast and anyway I’m there pushing her forward. Her forearms pinwheel trying to find something to grab on to but they’re pinned by your jaws working her tits into your mouth. Those tits squash pleasantly and mould to the contours of your palette, giving you a frisson of pleasure as you imagine their fat settling on your own body.
Then they’re consigned to your throat and your whole concentration is on her belly, tongue tasting the rolls of clean skin, teeth pressing into her flab like you’re assessing her caloric content. Conclusion: She is like a chocolate truffle, melting and decadent.
Hips and thighs and chubby little calves are all engulfed with determination. Your oesophagus has begun to share its breathtaking, panty-wetting stretch with your stomach.
You sit back, chin in the air, gravity feeding the last few inches of your meal between your lips. Glk, glk, glk, and she is gone.
There is a moment when you consume someone headfirst and living when their hands enter your stomach. They pop free from the constricting muscles of your gullet and immediately start frantically probing and clawing at the rank insides of your stomach. It’s like they suddenly come alive, filling your insides with tickling butterflies even as the rest of them crushes its way into that same chamber and dooms them to be constricted again.
When just her feet are finally slipping in, your stomach pushes pints of air out past them. ~hwooOOurpaaaAAUUAugh~ “Oh God, excuse me.” You hug your distended and blessedly unbound belly ecstatically. “She went down so easy.”
My voice is thick with emotion. “It’s good to have you back, Rey.” Inside you, the woman’s struggles are already diminishing. Her strength was drunk down ahead of her and she had nothing left to fight with.
“Enjoy it while you can, she hit the spot.” You give a jaw-cracking yawn, not bothering to hide your mouth with a hand as you know I’ll love the sight anyway.
“Not so fast,” I say. You raise your eyebrows, questioning. “The last part of your treat is a photoshoot. Come on, we’ve got a short drive.”
“Can’t you bring the camera here?” Your voice is sleepy, a little whiny. You know I find it cute because I kiss your cheek and bring you in for a cuddle that crushes your belly tighter into your spine.
I grin. “Not this camera.”
Somewhere in the sky outside, a balloon marked “congratulations!” floats free.
We parked behind the hospital. I made a call and a shifty-looking stocky man in scrubs appeared and sidled over. When he saw you stepping out of the car, levering your gut ahead of you, his eyes went wide and he scratched his scruffy beard. Still, he handed you a hospital gown.
With his help we navigated the 1930s maze of the hospital wing and found what we were looking for.
Once Tom—that’s how I introduced him—closes the radiology lab door behind us, you discard the robe. Then you go further, stripping yourself of your skirt, your straining top, your bra and undies. There on the paper-covered bed you sit fully nude, immense stomach propped against bent knees.
“Did she really…?” begins Tom, speaking to me quietly.
“Yep. Eyes on the job at hand, Tom. We’re not here for us. This is for her.” I turn to look at him. “It’s in everyone’s best interests to keep her happy. Understand?”
With your blood very much coursing through your digestive system you are prone to being in a world of your own. No one likes a hospital room but this place, which is going to give you a view you’ve never seen before, feels like a gift. You turn and dangle your legs off the side of the bed, kicking them idly. “When do we get to start?”
Tom asks some questions and gives some warnings. He’s unconvinced when you tell him radiation dosage isn’t a concern, but he readies the machine.
“What do you want to see?”
I’m about to speak but you jump in, giddy with excitement. “From my front, straight on, first. Then side-on. Then, oh, on my back? Can you do top-down? And then…”
You rattle off a series of ideas, not wanting to miss the chance to see your insides processing a meal.
“… But let’s hurry, I want to see what happens before she breaks down too much. And then I want to do it all over again when she starts. And when she’s all in my intestines. And…”
Tom is looking distinctly grey. You don’t know what I did you secure his services, but he’s realising he’s in well over his head.
I put a hand in his shoulder. Seems we’re friends. Maybe he’s the kinky medical guy I’ve alluded to before? “You get us started, show me how to use the machine and be safe, how to print and delete plates, and we can take it from there.”
Tom nods and shows me how to angle the receptor plate, how to aim the X-Ray source, where I should stand to avoid exposure, and how to run the controls. The machine clicks when it takes an image but naturally you feel nothing. Your guts burble, unaware of anything unusual beyond the fact that you’re neither getting a tummy rub nor sleeping nor fucking after a meal.
We reappear from the little bunker. I’m beaming. In my hand is an NHS tablet, surrounded by rubberised plastic. But the image on it is something special.
You grab the tablet and admire yourself. At the bottom, the tops of your femurs and the patellas, bright white surrounded by the shadow of your thigh muscles and skin. Your pelvis, angled as you sit at ease, occupies the background. At the top, the lower ribs, flared from where they ride over your passenger. To the sides, your fat is a suggestion of texture against the black.
But in the middle, curled up like a sleeping child, the whole skeleton of the petite woman you ate whole and alive. She seems suspended in space, bounded on all sides by your body. Below her, and strangely clear, lurk the mysterious and twisting passages of your small and large intestines, waiting to drink down the flesh currently wrapped up like a gift in the walls of your stomach.
Your intestines are so vivid. They stand out as clearly as the bones. You look up, puzzled, and I guess at your question.
“The drink I gave you. Barium sulphate. Shows up on X-Ray. Didn’t want to leave your guts out of the picture.”
From the way your lips open I can tell you’re grateful and excited. Your eyes fall back on the picture. “Can we do video? Is there more barium?”
I look over at Tom. He nods. I look back, feeling the same excitement. “We have the room all night. Up for a late one?”
You set aside the tablet and ease yourself off the bed, onto your bare feet. The way you walk towards me, dark eyes fixed on me, wearing a subtle smile, is how I often picture the time that those lips come for me.
You kiss me. I melt into it.
We make a lot of beautiful things happen, that night.