you melt my wife
I sent you a key and my address. I told you it was the blue house with lots of plants out front. I warned you that it’s possessed by a vampire so you’ve got to be careful when you step on the grounds because she eats people alive and whole. You said she sounded pretty scary but you could probably handle her. I said you’d be the first.
I also told you not to come before ten. But you have a will of your own. You let yourself in silently and have been sitting in my living room soaking up the radiation from the last handful of minutes of a relationship. You have heard us speaking, her voice carrying more; listened to us verge on raised voices; listened to us make up. We talked about rope and my footsteps creaked on the landing. I hesitated a moment there and you wondered if you had been discovered—perhaps I’d smelled your perfume?—but if I realised you were there I gave no sign. Simply picked up rope or something from another room and went back to the bedroom.
You heard my wife go quiet as I tied her. Low, deep breathing—both of us. Heard moans. Even listened to us make love, which I don’t know what you’d make of. She is loud in this as well.
“I don’t know what’s different.” Her voice is naturally forceful, Southern-accented. Right now she sounds like she’s baring her heart. “This last week has been liked it used to be.”
“I know what you mean.” My voice is softer than hers. “I just thought, you don’t know how long you have left—why should it be hard?”
“I’m scared it will change back. It always does.”
You hear me speak low and reassuring. Money’s on something like “I promise it won’t ever change back”. You explore our living room, reading the spines of books, scaring two rabbits in a cage in the corner. A PS5 glows orange under the television.
Your petite stomach rumbles suddenly and violently. You wince and grab your middle in a vain attempt to quieten it. You’re a slip of a thing dressed in a white button-up shirt and pleated skirt, black but elevated with red flowers. It’s almost ten—almost time to feed.
“Did you hear that? Is someone downstairs?”
There’s a long pause.
“Well? Are you going to check?” Her impatience is immediate and cutting.
“Yes.”
“Yes there’s someone down there, or yes you’re going to check?”
Another pause. “You don’t deserve this. You’re a good person. Really. I’m just… It’s a bit hard to explain.”
“… Andrew? What’s going on?”
Fear is a sound you are familiar with. Here, it serves as your cue. Not taking great pains to prevent the creaking of the stairs, you approach the bedroom.
“Do you hear— someone’s coming! Untie me!”
“It’s okay, love, it’ll be over soon.”
“Wha— mph! Ngmph!”
Against the muffled screaming, still shock and not despair or panic, you hear my voice ring out loud and clear:
“Raven, be here.”
My wife scrabbles to get her legs underneath her as you walk into the room. A white vanity in the corner shows you your reflection, offers a hundred pairs of oversized earrings. Other than two bedside tables the only other furniture is a huge bed.
A huge bed with a huge occupant. I barely register, kneeling by my wife and holding her hips in place so she can’t actually get away. Your eyes are only for the prize I have promised you, trussed up for you, and gifted.
She is gorgeous. Size 20, 22. Arms tied to the bedpost above her head, skin deeply grooved where the rope criss-crosses, showing where the fat lies. Fat embraces her whole body in all the right places. Your mouth waters when you see her breasts, swaying ponderously where she fights to get away, nipples still erect from where she and I had been playing. Her belly is smooth and very round. Its motion is hypnotising: you picture layer after layer of sweet white fat, jiggling with her desperation. An old appendectomy scar cuts deep into the flesh to the right of her bellybutton, showing how many inches thick the layers are. Between chubby, thrashing legs, hampered with rope, you catch glimpses of a prodigious apple-shaped bottom and swollen, meaty thighs. Even her calves are massive and shapely.
Sprawled on the bed she lies in a depression caused by her own bodyweight—18.5 stone of human meat, and you at under 8. Your stomach growls again like a funeral knell.
She is gagged and still trying to scream. Tears run from her green/blue eyes, fixed on your own as you stalk towards her.
“You came,” I say, breathless.
The bed barely shifts as you kneel on the end. You’re so light, so hungry. “You said you’d feed me.”
My wife freezes, utterly horrified. Betrayal and pure animal terror short her out for a while. You don’t care one iota. Your eyes rove lovingly over her corpulence, selecting a place to satisfy the aching of your teeth.
She’s looking at me, pleading, weeping freely. I smile sadly. “You don’t deserve this. But she’s going to really, really enjoy you. So I’m afraid you’re her food now.”
“Hold her legs,” you instruct, brusquely. The longing comes out as huskiness in your voice.
I obey, pinning down her knees. You brush against me as you angle towards her thigh. Sheets of adipose tissue thin near the inner thigh and you can sense the throbbing there beneath the skin.
The artery there is tough but your fangs are honed and deadly. I hold her still, which is the only reason she doesn’t tear herself open when you bite. Instead she is a stuck pig, an explosion of red that you barely catch in your waiting mouth. The sound of your swallowing is rapid and desperate, an organic drain trying to engulf a torrent without spilling a drop. She gurgles audibly all the way down to your stomach. The air will come back up later or find its way out the other end.
Sweet, meaty, a little thin due to a mild anaemia I didn’t tell you about, you guzzle down pints of my wife’s lifeblood. Her struggling becomes weaker but her crying and muffled screams don’t alter.
After the initial burst the flow doesn’t much decrease but you get a handle on it. You drink in deep draughts. From your vantage point you see a trimmed pussy overhung by soft flesh, two distant breasts, and nothing else.
While you sup you let another part of you unfold. As with the written Invitation, you allow your tendrils to curl away from your shoulderblades. They caress her body on their sensual course upwards. One curls around a breast the size of a cantaloupe while the other seeks, finds its spot, and then slices a path between two ribs. She has no extra air with which to cry but you can now feel intimately the shuddering in her breast as her lungs seek to oxygenate the blood swelling your stomach. Her heart flutters as you caress it, strong beats interleaving with faint squirming as it struggles to adapt to emptying veins. Still, it pushes yet more blood into your yawning tendril, each beat filling your very essence with heat.
Let’s face it, you’re tiny. So much fluid in such short time stretches your stomach. It’s a good warm-up. There’s so, so much woman to pack into it yet.
At some point you grudgingly stop, lick the wound closed, withdraw the sucking darkness. Your prey halts her screaming, now shivering and grey. Mortally wounded, you have devoured her life—all that is left is to consume the body that still clings to life and make it yours.
“Rope’ll give me indigestion,” you say, matter-of-fact and wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. I flourish a pair of those scissors I love keeping around and slice apart her legs. It’s trivial for you to grip her calves and keep them pushed together.
Her feet are curiously perfect. Baby-soft and smelling of mint. Seeing you looking puzzled at them I grin. “Know they’re not your favourite part. Spent all week pampering them. They should taste like peppermint right now.”
You give me an indulgent smile. “Try-hard.” I laugh. My wife looks on, hazy with blood-loss and horror.
They are indeed peppermint-flavoured, and they go down with glorious ease. A meal like this makes you feel lucky to own a throat. Every inch of her calves and thighs is thicker than the last, makes itself known against the swallowing muscle that pulls it down.
Her arse and hips pose a challenge. After I’ve trimmed away any rope I stand over her body and frankly deadlift her lower back. You get to crawl forwards like a snake, sucking her down into your coils.
And then it’s her her belly. Shuddering slightly from her silent sobs it yields to the slightest pressure of your teeth. Your fangs carelessly rip the skin as they go, though it isn’t your aim. You seek only to pour this ocean of warm fat into your digestive system, contain it and have it all for yourself.
The rib-fat is even softer. By now you can feel chubby legs curling up inside your stomach, pushing on all walls and spreading your ribs to make space. The feeling is indescribable. The buttons on your white top strain heroically against the crush and her every motion inside you fills you with warmth. You flush all the way down your body to your shining pussy.
You hear me speaking to my wife as I help lever her tits into your wide-open jaws. A nipple snags against your teeth and you suck the whole globe in with a ~flwooob~. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” The other breast fills out your mouth, meltingly soft. Surely this must be a sensual overload for your meal, but she’s pale and staring at me. “It’s just… you deserve to be her shit.”
A chance configuration of her body allows a sudden outrushing of gas. Her green mohawk flutters in the breeze of an unwomanly ~grbwooOAARoogk~ as your stomach desperately tries to crowd in on its plush contents.
“You’re going to melt inside her and fill out her guts and come out smooth and indistinguishable from the Chinese I’m going to stuff her with.”
Another train of gulps take her in to her neck. I snip away all but the rope at her wrists. You sit up and cause a chain of pops as your shirt gives way, newly enormous belly sagging free. You’re not sure if you’re going to pop. She’s enormous and half her chest is still only gliding down your oesophagus.
“This is all you get to become. Fat on her body. Not even an afterlife.” That gets a reaction, exhausted terror causing her to struggle. You feel it all the way down inside you. “She’ll take everything.”
Now on all fours like the wolf who ate Riding Hood, Grandma and Huntsman all at once, you pad forwards. Your innards have such a hold on my wife that you don’t really have to swallow anymore, just allow her arms to slide between your teeth.
One final snip of rope and her hands slip from sight. You clamp your lips shut and grimace through one final swallow. The bulge at your throat is negligible against the contents of your massive stomach.
“Help— ~hwoouAAArp~, ‘scuse me— help me roll onto my back.”
I comply, levering your weakly squirming gut above you. Now the mattress depression is all yours. You’re pinned in the most wonderful way. You don’t need to ask for belly rubs: My hands are already exploring the hidden shapes of your meal, rubbing along tense muscle, easing strained skin and fascia. Your stomach churns mercilessly at your meal all along, performing its own massage, easing enzymes and acids into still-living flesh.
You lie there in a stupor, the energy demand of digestion drawing everything you have. Gurgling and churning sounds—an orchestra of biology—emanate constantly from your stomach, occasionally punctuated by belches.
The struggling in your stomach becomes more lively before it stops. The latest belch tasted meaty and satisfying. Deep inside you a living person is experiencing being turned into soup.
Incoherent screaming and begging begins, then stutters and fails. All is still, bar the relentless crushing of your stomach, the adoring patterns drawn by my hands, and the rhythm of your heart and your breath.
At one point you hoik up your skirt and physically pull back your overhanging belly to expose your sex. I take the hint and trail kisses down a pale dome of ex-wife, coming to place my lips on yours. Long, slow, deep and patient, I match the cadence of your digestion as I bring you to a rolling series of powerful orgasms.
When you’ve had your fill, and your belly is just beginning to show signs of softening, you turn your head to me. Your hair is wild, your eyes are shining and bright. You have surely never looked more beautiful than you do right now.
“Did you mention something about Chinese?”