disciple traitor

Delirium.

I read your words, hear your voice. Your name bursts soft as a dandelion clock in the sweltering darkness, three times three times. I study your sigil, recalling the time I anointed it with my blood. The place I burned it is now sacred to me.

As I picture you, you appear. Your smile is mischievous. Your eyes hold mine. Today they seize something deep inside of me and I feel the world shift. Your text says they’re vortexes, hungry to devour my mind and my resistance. Well, my resistance is all but gone and today you pull at the strings of my sanity.

A dozen dreams all come at once. You’re crawling up the bed, kissing me. You’re on all fours and spreading yourself, driving me wild with the sight of your glistening sex. You’re twirling slowly, showing me your body. One thing is unexpectedly constant: for I believe the first time, you visit me wearing rolls upon rolls of gorgeous fat.

Just barely the fattest girl in the room.

Another constant: though I told you I wouldn’t give you her today, you are not interesting in devouring me. You’re unrestrainable. In some dreams you are sneaky, kissing me into submission while manoeuvring me slowly to be holding my wife’s shoulders and body-blocking her hips so that once her feet slip into your gullet she won’t be able to escape. In some dreams you are commanding, telling me you will not let me touch you until I have her restrained, wrapped up like a parcel for you to devour at your leisure.

The images come thicker and faster. My eyes reread your words, visualise you, while the rest of my senses carve a space for you in my home. So I smell your perfume when you creep up on where my wife and I are kissing, your bulk a looming shadow I barely glimpse behind her. I hear the awesome rumbling of your guts as you lay upon her, crushing her in place and demanding that I get the handcuffs. I feel the heat emanating from your pussy as your meaty hips wriggle side to side, delighted with the taste of my weakening wife’s blood in your mouth. I taste my wife one last time as your lips descend to her waist, trapping her ever deeper in your hot, wet darkness.

It’s too much. I’m switching from image to image faster than I can make sense of it. You’re a violent storm of need and desire in my head. I glimpse my wife’s consumption a dozen times a dozen times. Her abduction. Her expulsion.

I realise this is how I feed you. All my attention is on you. It will remain that way for days. I offer myself to you not just as a meal you have deferred but sort of like a disciple.

At some point I come. I have to, the imagery assault feels like it’s tearing me apart. As I do, clarity comes. I know how I will feed you my wife.

You smirk at me as you fade into the shadows. I have learned my lesson not to keep you waiting for your treat next time.