punishment

Before the chocolate girl…

You alternate between smug and shy. It should infuriate me—all that hard work dashed, your goal as far away as ever—but just when your smirk makes me want to bring out my stern voice, you’ll lower your eyes and ask me if I like how you look, and I’m putty in your hands. I don’t think you’re doing it on purpose. I honestly think that even after everything, you don’t know the pull you have on me.

So when I finally demand that we go upstairs and see what the damage is, and you actually blush, I’m defenceless.

“Seven people, gone,” I say as you climb out of your skirt and into the scales. I’ve been declaring that sentence or variations on it since I got you home.

You giggle and gather handfuls of stolen pudge from the level of your navel. “Not gone. Right here.”

The way your fat rucks up above where you lift it makes my chest want to burst. “I can’t wrap my head around it. Don’t know why I love that you reduced seven people to pudge and excrement. And I want to punish you.”

Your response is outrage. “You said—”

I raise placating hands and smile. “Yes, you were allowed, you’ve done nothing at all wrong.” My smile morphs into a dark grin. “But you’ve been so gluttonous, so greedy, swallowed so much life, that I think you should pay a token for each. Will you let me?”

You seem dubious, but the way I’m looking at you makes your skin flush hot. Your curves make us both fall in love with you. You nod.

I step in close and wrap my arms around your hips to cup your bum. Newly padded, smooth to a fault, I have to pull hard to feel the powerful muscle of your glutes buried beneath layers of white fat.

You alter your stance, rocking hips forward to press against me. The heat I feel against my jeans and the smouldering look in your eyes makes me question whether I want to abandon my idea—but then, that’s exactly what you want.

So I enjoy the press, and push against you, gracing your belly and the top of your vulva with a warm squish. Meanwhile my hands march up your silhouette, tracing each valley, on the way to your breasts.

“One and two,” I say, slipping my hands between pendulous breasts and belly-top. The faintest sheen of sweat was captured there, sweet as morning dew. “These are bigger now. Two people died in agony to give you these titanic tits.” I heft them in turn. You feel how heavy they are when I take the strain from your back. They are so soft they squidge between my splayed fingers, and your nipples rest on my upturned palms like rosy acorns. “You deserved to take them but they deserve a little vengeance.”

You watch me lower my head to one breast, taking your nipple into my mouth and rolling it over my tongue until it is shiveringly stiff. I press my face into your breast too, smooshing it against ribs that surely must live in there but for which there is no evidence. Then sharp pressure: my teeth close on your excited nipple, making you draw in a breath. It tightens until it feels like the sensitive skin is on fire, then holds without diminishing until the sensation grows less urgent. Endorphins steal the sting of the pain, make it possible to enjoy instead.

I release the nipple from between my teeth and suck again. Blood re-enters and reignites the pain, leaving you sucking in air as I transfer to the other nipple.

It’s no less sharp, and now you know what to expect. When I release you let out a breath you hadn’t realised you were holding.

“Two people. Are you sorry?”

You snort. “No.”

I bark out a laugh and kiss the curve of your breast. “Good.”

Then to your belly. It hugs you like a snowdrift, subtly shaped by the hips that ride somewhere beneath. There is so much weight when I press-and-lift from the bottom, and your fat tries to settle around my hands like treacle. I must free up some internal pressure as a gurgle like an upended 5L bottle makes your flesh pulse in time. “Three. Passed away behind here, had their flesh melted from their bones and their bones dissolved away.”

A sharp slap across the belly makes muted sound, and less pain. There’s just so much of you that a slap can’t nudge it. The shockwave ripples across your entire front, followed by little aftershocks as your gut settles back down into place. Even your tormented nipples wave as your breasts are set jiggling. The handprint is faint pink below your belly button.

“They had a life and a future and you took it from them. Are you sorry?”

“No.” You grin broadly. “They were my food.”

My answer is a kiss on your lips.

Then I’m on my knees. The hand that slapped your belly, now gentle, presses against your vulva in firm waves that make you want to squeeze something tight between your thighs.

Those thighs, pillowy, brushing my massaging hand on both sides even when your legs step further apart, feel my lips on them. Sensitive skin, inflamed by pleasure as I masturbate you, tingles at the barest touch.

“Four, and five.” Do I sound a little out of breath here? “Sank down and down and filled out these massive white thighs. Their revenge can’t only be destroying your thigh gap.” I take a handful of your inner thigh and, while still kissing, tighten my fist. My fingers dig into deep fat and a slight twist causes the skin to sting shrilly. I have to work hard to get a reaction out of you, the pleasure fighting with and turning the pain to more pleasure.

The other thigh gets the same treatment, but the pumping between your legs has got stronger and harder apace and it’s no longer easy to concentrate.

“Two more unfortunate—”

“No,” you break in, a little breathless. “No, I’m not sorry. Want more. Feed me.”

“You’ll get more soon. But turn around.”

You do and I’m left facing the broad expanse of your flawless arse. Perched atop your thighs, quivering with desire, the deep and secret cleft just barely concealing the final conduit for all these seven prey. My hand rediscovers your hot, sopping pussy and your grateful sigh completely reorganises my priorities.

“Six and seven… Ah fuck it, they deserved it. Bend over, legs apart, hands on the side of the bath.”

You comply, fully exposing yourself to me. My hand working your pussy makes your hanging belly wobble in time. Your tits sway like pendulums. Treated to the sight from on my knees I almost come without further stimulation. But this is about you.

“In the end they were lucky. To die inside you. To feed you. To be soaked up. And to pass out this way.”

Your knees almost buckle when, already flirting with an orgasm, your anus is suddenly stretched by my hand. You swallow me up to the elbow and suddenly my thrusting in your slick, velvet passages has changed the pattern your belly-fat makes.

I nearly become number eight when you come. The experience of being sucked in up to my shoulders keeps me up at night.

It’s ages before we remember to read the scales.