got in late

Awareness filters from wherever you were roaming back into your body. The curtains don’t block out a lot of light so the room is bright. Your eyelids show you a bright red field. It’s morning. Late morning, perhaps.

Let’s explore what it feels like to pour back into your body. You’re on your back. Your weight presses the mattress hardest at your butt and shoulderblades, but your belly presses you down so firmly that you feel softness cup you lovingly all the way up your back. One leg is straight, the other bent to the side, a pose that lets your thighs just about not touch. They get a little warm during the summer night, otherwise.

Your belly. The skater girl from yesterday has moved from stomach to intestines. You feel her liquid body squeezing through you as a sense of warmth somewhere behind your belly-button. Kilos of girl stretch the mesentery and other connective tissue of your guts. You feel her weight on your tailbone and cupped by your pelvis and hips.

You know where she is by the sounds you’re making. Your stomach was grumbly and gurgly, at least once she’d stopped crying and pleading. When she hits your colon the gasses will collect together and shift inside you in long groans and ominous detonations. But right now, your intestines make a constant satisfied squelching, a stream of faint pops and squeaks. Your stomach annihilated everything hard about her and smooth paste would be silent in your tunnels if it didn’t carry with it little pockets of air.

But she’s tucked away, wrapped up behind pleasant layers of your fat. You wake to your body and luxuriate in the feel of so much of you.

The door opens. You don’t stir but don’t hide the fact that you’re awake. I’m perceptive enough to tell the difference anyway. You hear footsteps pad to your bedside and the careful ceramic tick off a cup of coffee being set down. The scent makes you breathe deeper and turn your head towards me with a smile. The mattress depresses as I sit on the edge of the bed.

“Good morning, my dear Raven,” I greet you, as I do almost every day. “You got in late last night. Anyone I know?”

You feel my palm press warmly against the centre of your belly and work its way around in ever-widening circles. While receiving the attention you shift your hips to roll towards me. The simple act sends strata of fat shifting to the side. You feel the skin on your side stretch with the extra weight and your boob seems to glide over the muscles of your chest as it slow-flops to join it’s sister. A long low ~grrrrrllllk~ hints at some internal reconfiguration redistributing the skater girl, completing the move.

“Mmh. No. Here.” Lazy with sleep and fullness, but greedy for more, you take the hand not massaging your gut and bring it to your lips, still wearing lipstick from the night before. You hear me inhale in preparation for the pain but I never pull back.

Your jaw muscles tighten and shorten the distance between us. Heavy, rich, salty and metallic, I fill your mouth in a handful of heartbeats. You let me flood your mouth as much as you can take it, pressing your tongue against the floor of your mouth and opening your jaws almost wide enough to spill. Then it’s gone, a huge mouthful funneled into your greedy little gullet and shepherded into a stomach waking to its purpose.

You take seven or eight massive draughts from me before thinking maybe you should give my system a rest. I’m no longer stroking your belly, but your hair, now. But I won’t stop you feeding from me, it’s up to you.

You release me. Alongside stroking your hair I place a kiss on your cheek. You giggle and release a soft burp. “Got time to give me a belly rub?”

It’s rhetorical. Neither of us recalls a time I ever said no. Your stretched abdomen rolls and heaves like the sea by the shore as I knead flesh—yours and that of the girl you’re absorbing.

“What’s for breakfast?”