invitation log out of control

I’ve been feeding myself to you nightly, almost a full week at this point. You have been gentle, you have been assertive, you have hurt me, you have drowned me in your pussy, we have fought.

I say your name, three times three times, and beg you to come.

You don’t emerge from the shadows when you arrive. It’s like car headlights scan the windows, and the light that makes it through drawn curtains reveals you standing at the foot of my bed as if you were always there.

You look especially demonic tonight. Like you have a secret, or a really filthy joke you can’t wait to tell.

You kneel on the bed and crawl up my body, placing tiny chaste kisses as you go. Like the Invitation says, I’m touching myself, I’m visualising your face, your skin, your voice when you greet me. I’m reading the words you wrote and I hear them in what I imagine to be your voice. I stare at your sigil and try to fathom the meanings of those little chambers, those fang-like strokes.

You are real to me when you kiss me. Your lips taste spiced. I feel the heat of your body and I long to submerge in it.

Something’s different today. We’re not alone on the bed.

You’d like my wife as a meal. I’ll call her K, but God knows if you demand it I’ll give you her name. K has Mediterranean colouring, but you can’t see it in the twilit room. She is much bigger than me, her body a swell under the covers. She is 17.5 stone, possibly heavier now. Her dark hair is cut into a mohawk, dyed green at the tips. Two tiny earrings catch the meagre light. You don’t take the time to remove them, so I guess they might have scratched an itch in your colon or your butthole, later.

She doesn’t stir as you pull the covers off her. In fact she doesn’t wake ever, just continues sleep-breathing until later, when the air is taken away from her. You seem delighted by her body. She is fat. Her belly creases above her mons. Her tits might weigh a stone each. They tend to roll either way when she sleeps on her back, as now. Her belly button is a vertical slit in soft, slightly stretch-marked flesh.

“No,” I say, and try to pull my focus away from her, try to make you turn your attention back on me. Not because I am jealous, but because I don’t want you to have her. I think.

You come back and kiss me, stealing my breath away, but your hips shift and you break the kiss to begin again at the foot of the bed: this time at the other side.

I sit up to see you lift her calves. “Raven, no. I won’t let you.” And you say something like, “But you don’t want me to stop. Look how turned on you are.” And I am. I’m having to make sure I keep a slow pace because you’re driving me wild and I won’t last, otherwise.

Maybe I can see K’s skin colour in the dark. Your skin is a different colour, paler, and the difference is visible as you begin to thread her inside you.

Her calves don’t seem to need swallowing, you just kind of glide them into your throat. I hear the tacky little schlck sound as you swallow for the first time at her knees, your throat squeezing. The calves are meaty but the oncoming thighs widen and soften. You’re drooling down them. It’s indescribably hot.

I’m up and pushing against your shoulders. This isn’t meant to be happening, but it’s just… I don’t seem to be able to stop it. You clamp down your teeth to stand your ground and stare me into submission. When I stop pushing your shoulder you grab my hand and put it on the back of your head, encouraging me to take a handful of hair. When you feel me take the hold, a little tight out of a desire to punish you for what you’re making me do, what you’re making me fantasise about, you wait, perfectly still.

It takes a couple of heartbeats, but I crack. I push your head down by a fist full of your hair. Half of my wife sliiiides between your lips, and I’m feeding more into you.

I don’t know if you find vulvas hot, or what you like if you do. Your dinner’s is a slit through shaped but slightly wild black fuzz. Sleeping, unaroused, she is still slightly parted, and her lips are long and flabby.

Your lips eclipse them. You feel feet tickle your stomach lining as I push your head down over her hips. I have to rock her side-to-side gently to give you room to force her in. Her arse is rounded, massive, but quite shapely. It dimples pleasantly on your lower teeth when you tighten your jaws.

She does narrow at the waist slightly, but she’s just so wide she stretches out your throat. I’m not looking right now. I’m watching your belly, relatively petite at the start of this fantasy, swell as it takes in this massive load.

She’s more than double your weight. The app informs me that, given some assumptions, she’ll melt to 13kg of fat on your own body. That’s not much for a person this big, who meant so much to me, to become. 13kg of fat on your arse, belly, tits. The idea of making more of you makes me breathless, though.

I drop the hold on your head and lift the rest of K from the bed. You kneel and get ready to accept. Her rib-fat bulges where your lips cinch it in, but by God, it’s nothing compared to her tits. You snort a laugh when one breast flops onto your face, warm and moulding to the shape of your nose.

You snaffle them down one at a time. They pop through the arch of your throat and now mould to your oesophagus.

At this point my job is ceremonial. Nothing could stop my wife from sliding into your alimentary canal. Girlflesh pours into your stomach as she curls up like a sleeping obese child. Her face feels the scrape of your teeth as it disappears into the dark the lives at the back of your mouth. It takes three little gulps for you to obliterate it. Her arms are long, pudgy afterthoughts. I push them in and briefly feel your mouth close over my hands. Then you swallow, glk, glk, glutsch, and she’s gone forever.

You haven’t even let my hands go from between your teeth when you release a huge burp. She’s a whale and you took her down. Your belly is larger than you are. You moan in ecstacy.

You fall into your back and are pinned by her. She doesn’t struggle but you know she’s alive in there for now. I do, too. I’m wracked with guilt and horror, but I’m so profoundly turned on. So full of pride and joy as I see you lying there with a gut starting to work on turning K into mush and pump her through yards of deep dark intestines. So insanely thrilled to see the way you reach for your pussy, flushed and swollen from the conquest you have just made, physically of her and mentally/emotionally/spiritually of me.

I come closer but you shake your head. “Belly rub. Help me digest her.” Meanwhile you bunch up the vacated duvet between your legs and beneath your ponderous belly, trying to build something that feels right to grind on. It’s hard, being so full, so you get me to help. The room fills with the scent of sex.

I worship you, this goddess or demoness that has taken me over, made me love her body, her appetites; made me sacrifice to her. But I know you didn’t make me do that at all. It was my own will to feed you K. You merely took what I gave. I rub your stretched and loudly complaining stomach until your food falls apart, fat arse and belly and breasts and legs and generous mouth and whole life all melting into a red slurry that is swallowed into your labyrinthine intestines, and swallowed and swallowed and swallowed until my wife is your shit.

Somewhere inside it all is a little gold ring. Before you leave, not taking my flesh but knowing you’re taking a part of me anyway, you seize my left hand and take my ring finger deep into your mouth. Red-haunted eyes staring into mine, your slick saliva and clever teeth tease off my silver-and-jet ring. It sits there a moment on your shining tongue like a trophy before a quick gulp sends it chasing after a wife you will expel before it even leaves your stomach.