lucy bows out part 02
You open the door. Rainclouds make it dark in the late summer evening. The hallway light illuminates the pale face of Lucy, mascara trickling down from her eyes. Her hair is wet-through and she is wearing no coat.
“Raven,” she says, her voice firm despite everything. “I want you to take me. All of me. Don’t argue.”
You were not going to argue. Still, it’s unusual to have someone make a demand like this and, frankly, you’re a little on the back foot. “Come inside,” you say, stepping back to give her space.
She complies, arms wrapped around herself and shivering. It’s not rain that streaked her make-up, you perceive. She has been crying.
Better than a protein shake.
I re-enter the room with a cup of tea and hand it to Lucy where she sits in the armchair. She accepts and holds it between both hands, hunched forward around it for warmth. Still she doesn’t take her eyes off you, seated on the sofa, and she’s been the only thing you’ve looked at since she got here.
“I don’t want this any more,” she says. “My doctor says things get easier but they really don’t. She has this stupid grief metaphor about a bouncing ball in a box, but I’m still waiting for the box to get bigger…”
“What metaphor?” you ask. Tear-streaked and walking into your lair, that she is a meal is a foregone conclusion. This is the room where she will die, unless I drag you to the bedroom before your body works its magic. The time between her arrival and her departure is then strangely calm. She is a woman who has stepped off the cliff and not yet hit the jagged rocks below.
I answer on Lucy’s behalf. “Grief is like a box containing a bouncing ball and a button. Every time the ball hits the button you feel it, almost as bad as you ever have. But over time the box gets bigger, so the ball hits the button less often. It never really hurts less, but it hurts less often.”
We’ve been talking a lot, it turns out. Shaun was right about us spending time together, though nothing else.
You nod, looking back to Lucy. Like a cat with an unresisting mouse you’re fascinated. “Okay. Tell me what is causing you grief.” When it looks like she might protest you smile tightly. “Don’t worry, I’ll eat you all the same.”
She nods, taking the point in stride. Even I would react with awe or trepidation—something other than this leaden acceptance. You watch her close her eyes and bring the cup to her lips, though she doesn’t drink, only inhales.
“When I was younger, in school, my boyfriend of the time—much older, not a nice man I realise now but back then I thought I knew better… Well, I thought we were in a proper relationship, so we did things.” She shudders visibly, causing a little tea to slop over the side of the cup. I lurch forward to help but she just dispassionately watches scalding hot tea drip from her reddening forearm. It bodes well for her pain tolerance. “Stuart. That was his name.”
You can be patient and let your prey unburden herself, but your stomach associates her with a hot blood meal. It sings to her with a series of sounds: ~glork glork glooOurgl~. Lucy smiles at your belly with a distracted fond experience and continues.
“So Stuart didn’t like condoms and the inevitable happened. I remember being so scared to tell him, and excited, too. Here was our life, beginning together. Thought maybe he would stop being so mad at me.” She smiles bitterly. “He wasn’t mad. Told me he’d take care of it. Made some phone calls and that was that. He bought me flowers but didn’t really talk to me about it until he told me to get in to the car a few days later.
“He told me what to say, to the c- consultant. Told me to say I was too young, that this isn’t what I wanted. I was so heartbroken I went along with it. Said I didn’t want the child. Didn’t want our Jamie.”
“It’s not your fault,” I murmur, putting a hand on Lucy’s shoulder and squeezing. She puts her hand over mine and continues.
“He bought me more flowers and was so loving for the next week that I convinced myself it was, I don’t know, a dream or some shit. But then it was a week later and time for the appointment. Think he had to find me at a friend’s house ‘cos I was hiding or something. But he got me, put me in his car, and we went back to the clinic.”
Lucy goes silent for a while. She doesn’t seem to realise that your gut is getting louder, more insistent. You know you can take Lucy away from all of her cares. It’s a strange feeling, being the angel of mercy.
“They suck them out of you in pieces, if you’re past a certain stage like I was. They killed my baby and I never fought for him. Just let him get sucked out.”
I clear my throat and can’t meet your eye.
“It’s not your fault,” you find yourself saying. “You were just a kid and it sounds like he had all the power.”
Lucy smirks at you. “You don’t have to be nice to me. In fact you’ve been too nice to me. You’re the first person I’m not a burden to, who I’ve not let down. That’s why I’m here.” Shaking, she sets aside the cup and gets to her feet. “You reminded me what it feels like to be able to give what someone needs.”
From your seat you examine her. Shorter than you, somehow possessed of a waist despite stacked chest and an arse that made your mouth water the first time you saw her. She is trained but not lean: you’ve seen her body jiggle when locking out on bench presses, seen the way her backside sinks around the cycle seat. In public she swings between bright, luminous bravado and pale, shrinking passivity. In private, when your teeth and your moans of satisfaction tell her how important she is, she blushes.
“And that’s enough for you? To give me what I need?”
She blushes now. “That and I’ll be with our Jamie.”
You stare at her, pointedly avoiding meeting my shocked gaze. “Well then you’d better get undressed, hadn’t you?”
She has prepared for you. Either that or she just happens to be immaculate. Shaven and shaped into a modest V, manicured and pedicures, wearing military green underwear that compliments her skin tone. It looks new. You imagine her standing in a shop picking out bra and panties for you, avoiding sex-bomb colours but wanting you to notice her all the same…
You make a loop gesture with your finger. She smiles and looks to the side, but complies, holding her arms out and slowly spinning. You make an involuntary noise of approval in your throat and have to swallow when her once-in-a-generation bottom comes into view, two firm globes of shapely flesh forcing images of biting down firmly into your imagination.
She notices, and giggles. Looking coquettishly over her shoulder at you and puts a finger to the corner of her mouth and asks, “like what you see?”
“Mmhmm.” It is not difficult to show the desire on your face. You imagine yourself staring like a wolf. Lucy seems gratified by the attention. “Underwear off and lie down.” A thought occurs to you. “Oh, and Lucy: Thank you. You don’t know what this means to me.”
You slip from the couch onto your knees, by the feet of a willing sacrifice. She allows you to pick up one foot by the calf.
“Wait,” she says as you begin to open your mouth.
You expected something like this. It’s the only reason you don’t cram her inside immediately. “What is it?”
“Will it hurt?”
You flash back to your meal the other night, to that same question answered so thoroughly.
“No more than it needs to.”
Lucy gives you a bright, nervous smile, wriggles her hips like an excited child, then lies back.
Consent granted, your meal breathing shallow and fast with anticipation, you bring both feet to your lips and open wide.
Lucy deserves the best experience and you want to savour her, so you go slowly. She gliiiides down your relaxed throat, obligingly straightening her knees to help when you crawl forward to feed more of her into you. The sensation is unexpectedly sensual for her. She sighs like a person slipping into a warm bath and finds an echoing sigh breathing across her inner thighs as her flavour fills your senses.
Now come her feet, toes digging into the soft lining of your stomach. You feel the stretch for a moment then bend your body at the waist, encouraging her to fold her legs under her. Graceful meal that she is, she complies. Pressure points in your gut disappear and are replaced by the deeply satisfying slide of feet, shins, knees against the tough muscle of your stomach.
“You’re wet, Raven,” she says. You panic a little thinking maybe you’re dripping through your gym clothes, but then you realise she’s talking about your stomach. Pavlovian, your gut has prepared for Lucy. She is commenting on the digestive fluids that will slough the meat off her bones.
Lacking the means to answer you can only cram more of her into that wetness. You are faced with a decision as your lips glide to the tops of her thighs: do you bite her magnificent arse, as you have so often fantasised?
Your fangs are on top, cresting her pubis. Careful not to do more than graze her there, you apply pressure through your lower jaw. Your teeth sink deep and painlessly into her backside. They graze the skin when a swallow yanks her deeper, pulling that layer of tender fat inside your body to break down and absorb.
The taste of her is sharper here. She is aroused. You are too, but your hunger wins out. As a parting gift to her you grant her a playful lick, then grasp her hands and bring them to her crotch. With another advancing swallow you seal them in place. Lucy will need all the help she can get against the pain of your digestion.
You feel her stiffen when you lick her, then melt again when she shyly begins to touch herself.
When half of her is inside and you feel her bum as a broad, border-line painful stretch in your gullet, you rock backward. She goes with you, now upright and feeling gravity force her down. A sensation that redoubles when one of your hands glides up her back threads along the back of her head, and pushes downwards.
It’s the only way to conquer her breasts and shoulders. The stretch becomes briefly actually painful but patience wins through. As her shoulders clear your pharyngeal arch neither of you could stop her journey to the stomach if you tried.
“Raven…” is her last audible word on earth. And then all her words are yours, sealed behind your lips. Her high ponytail makes you sneeze when the tip tickles the back of your throat.
You release a long, steady breath and feel her glide down. It’s so intimate, swallowing a human being. You feel their every contour all at once, before it’s locked away inside the stomach.
You can definitely feel her touching herself. As the whole of her completes its transition from independent woman to your food, your belly begins to jiggle of its own accord. Stones of fat jump and shiver rhythmically. It serves to bring up great wet belches that steal her air.
If she says anything it’s lost beneath the padding of your belly. You can tell a little of what is happening, though. Sudden stiffness tells you she has just achieved orgasm.
I’m behind you, hand between your shoulders and levering you to lie on your back. You grope and dig your hands into your fat, feeling the difference between flab wrapped around giant hard bulge in your stomach and soft flab cladding intestines that lie expectant. After I put a pillow behind your head I’m there with you, massaging that gut. She’s squirming in there, gently pressing all your walls like she’s joining in this three-way massage.
“I think she liked it, in the end,” I say, a sentiment echoed by another burst of air. It’s definitely feeling tight in there right now.
“You talked with her a lot. Did you talk her into this?” You can definitely feel her slowing now. Not long until suffocation begins. Unless you swallow air, give her what she thinks she needs but more pain overall.
I’m absorbed by the long, deep strokes my hands are making in the doughy flesh of your body. “God, you’re beautiful.” Then I realise you spoke. “Hmm? Oh, no. I encouraged her to get help.”
Your mouth opens but nothing comes out at first. I press captive Lucy into a position that allows a cheeky little burp to squeak its way out. “That’s… unlike you. Why didn’t you want to feed her to me?”
“Oh I definitely wanted to,” I say, watching your sexy pale flesh move beneath my hands. Lucy is beginning to lose control as she panics. Your insides are suddenly filled with the sensation of butterflies and gentle impacts, absorbed by a killing machine that had only just begun to do its work. “But I thought she might choose to feed herself to you.” It’s not clear, but there might be the faintest echo of panicked screaming as Lucy pounds on your inner walls. “It’s a great gift. I didn’t want to take that away from you.”
You feel an upswell of contendedness and love. She chose you of her own volition. You sit up and draw your knees to cradle your belly in a huge hug. With a flex of your throat you swallow down air, enough to keep Lucy going.
Lucy calms down and the gentle squirming resumes, cozy and warm. It won’t last forever. Soon you will taste blood on your belches, and not long after that she will learn that Jamie is not waiting for her: only you. But she chose this, and you’re not going to take that away from her either.