google is your friend
I jump out from the kitchen with a tea towel tense between both hands. Landing in a deep squat I scan the living room, seeking my quarry. All still. Three oblique steps carry me 180 degrees around the centre of the room. My head is never still, scanning the air for the faintest shimmer of movement.
My frown of concentration breaks into recognition. “Ahah!” I say and wheel around on the ball of my foot into a ready stance, tea towel held underhand with my left hand drawn back past my hip. “Prepare to die!”
The cutting tip of the tea towel streaks across empty air. Then a sharp reverse tug from my the right hand brings kilonewtons of force to bear on a scant handful of cloth fibres. The crack is prodigious, energetic enough to tear apart oxygen molecules to form ozone; almost initiating nuclear fusion.
From the couch you point at the fly I have failed to strike down. “There it is.”
Undaunted, I reset my deep stance and tea towel grip. “Say your prayers, airborne scum.” The fly is now alert, zigging and zagging. My job is ten times harder, but the Fly Ninja does not back away from a challenge. “Ada will eat, tonight!”
“I think I’m done for now,” you say out of nowhere. I’ve been tappy-tappying on a laptop on the floor, eschewing chairs as I do anytime I’m not actively cuddling you in one and you’ve been drawing intermittent chords out of your piano, chasing a melody but finding only an endless progression of cadences.
I look up, weight on my elbows. “Hmm? Done with what, love?”
“Eating.” You strike something with a complicated name. G augmented seventh, second inversion, or something. The incomplete, bright sound is at odds with the ominous statement you’ve made. “Just for now, obviously. I want to finish things.”
Initial concern breaks into a fond smile and nod. A few more keystrokes and I close my laptop lid. “As you wish. What made the change?”
Your gaze is elsewhere, searching empty space for something I can only guess at. I hop to my feet and pad around behind where you’re perched on the piano stool. Fat fights muscle in your body for rule of your shape. If it weren’t for the muscle corded around your bones your prey-enhanced 161kg would spill over either side of the stool. As it stands your bum is broad, generous, but mostly pert. Your belly brushes the keyboard where you’re sitting.
My arms slip around your middle and my face nuzzles into the crook of your neck. You lean into me absently, still seeking answers out there, like so many flies. “Want sharpness. Leanness.”
My arms under your snowdrift breasts squeeze you a little tighter, involuntarily jealous to keep your gorgeous fat body a little longer. You read my half-unconscious meaning. “You’ll be okay with it?”
“Mhmm,” I murmur against your neck. “When I met you you were tiny and the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. Now, you are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. I would adore you if your belly were big enough to scrape the ceiling.”
We both pause a moment to consider the image. You hear my breathing deepen and quicken. Am I picturing the swallowing softness of your greedy flesh, yielding endlessly beneath our lustful touch? The smothering weight of fat crushing your food’s struggles into insignificance, not even wobbling as they struggled for reprieve inside you? The suffocating heat of your overhanging belly as I seek the jewel between your legs?
Whichever, I try to change the track of my thoughts before I derail the conversation. “How can I help?”
You shift on the stool to push your butt against me teasingly. “Last time I had only your blood. It wasn’t enough. I need more this time.” You turn your head to place a pouting kiss on my cheek. Moisture shines there. “Get me some. Tomorrow.”
A sudden gloooOUUrch births itself from your spoilt stomach. A rancid paste of former man worms its way through your system, leaving your poor tummy regrettably empty.
“You now, though. I want you.”
My heart performs cartwheels in my chest as you turn on your chair. All of me, down to my bones, believes there is no higher purpose my life could serve than to satisfy your hunger. To hear you request me on the menu is like receiving affirmation from God.
“Where do you want—”
You trust me to breakfall and I just barely manage to as you playfully and with great violence launch your massive weight right at my chest. I land comfortably with my arms by my sides and am instantly smothered in warm Raven. Perhaps I could struggle free, switch my hips and push out from under you, but when your face nuzzles against my neck there is nowhere I would rather be. My skin tingles with the anticipation of your bite. I catch my breath and shiver, waiting.
Waiting.
Still waiting.
I turn my head enough to that I can just see that you’re on your phone, even as your lips absently suck on the unbroken skin over my jugular vein. “Got an email to reply to?” I say, deeply puzzled.
“Wikipedia says I can have forty percent of your blood. Of 9 to 12 pints. That’s— what? Show your working carefully, snack.”
You feel me shiver beneath you. “Um, Uh, call it tenish pints in me to be safe: two fifths of ten is four. Four pints. One, uh, big cherryade bottle.”
That makes you smile, I can feel it against my neck.
You take your agonising time to bite me. Pressure comes on so slowly I can feel my skin parting, feel the subtle texture of your smooth teeth as they slide in. The tough resistance of the vein wall makes me queasy to feel, but you sense it as the pulse of life literally beneath your fangs, rhythmically pressing your tongue tip.
I make a mewling sound as you cut through. It makes four pints seem way too little.
Your careful wound limits the flow. I still spurt into your mouth. Blood that has only travelled along the paths of my life now gushes along your cheek walls, swills around your tongue, gurgles into your throat and mixes with welcoming digestive juices in your belly.
One pint goes far too quickly, you barely feel it. By the second, the full bouquet of my blood has opened up to your palette: thick, salty, meaty, its copper tang like licking pennies.
Will you slow for the third pint?
Will you stop at the fourth?
I don’t fight it.
I’m yours.
Will you take me?