cautionary tale part 02

“My other prey told me I’m on a diet,” you say conversationally. The woods are peaceful and your breathing after a hard sprint has long since returned to normal. Only a light sheen of sweat hints at your past exertion.

If there is a response, nothing is audible.

“I know I said I wanted to lose the weight and drop to eight stone, but I adore being this size. I adore eating.”

Silence. You wiggle your hips, settling down more comfortably where you sit on knees, legs wide apart, among the long grass that rustles with each impulsive gesture of the wind.

“And he adores it too! Do you know, it took him no time at all to find a little girl to cram down my throat, just because I’d already finished with three other people. He’s worse than I am! Or would be, if he’d had the same time to practise.”

Was that a prrrt of gas, lazily punting its way out your backside? Perhaps the contents of the poor boy’s lungs is making a break for it, where the rest of him failed to escape. Oh, but the delicious heaviness of him and the two gym-rat friends sitting low in your capacious abdomen! It hurts, you’re packed, but internal muscles are finally relaxing and the anticipation of release tempers the ache into pleasure.

“I know! I can’t believe I was ever so slight, sweetheart. But I was. A waif, so thin a blood feed would make me painfully bloated, and ruin my figure for hours!”

You feel a shudder run through your sitting place, causing the ample flesh of your broad arse to ripple and bounce.

“Oh! How rude of me. Here, take a breath.”

You rock your weight forward onto your knees. A peeling sound accompanies the motion, causing a shiver of guilty delight to run through you. Sweat—you hope it’s sweat from the run, and not anything less savory—causes the soft skin of your arsehole to adhere to the nose and mouth of the slender jogger whose face you made your throne.

There is the sound of a huge, sputtering gasp, followed by a cough. No time for words before the muggy, musty heat of your nether regions moistly wraps the jogger’s airways, even as your heavy buttocks embrace her face like a saddle.

“Where was I? Ah yes. So I’m on a diet again. No solids.” You roughly grip her hard thighs. “Which is such a waste…”

The jogger’s weeping is swallowed up by your arsehole. Motion from within gives you the sharp, hot slide-sensation of a log jam resolving itself. You bite your lip. This hadn’t been the plan, but you know how to improvise.

“But let’s focus on the positives, right? You’re positively full of the numinous and, more to the point, liquids.”

Your gut folds on top of her like vanilla soft-scoop ice cream as you lean forward. Your nails cut through her lightweight running top like it’s nothing and your fangs tear two solid anchor points in the skin of her belly.

She screams. The sound is eaten but her mouth, unwisely opened when sealed to your widening pucker, receives a horrifying intrusion. You blush as you feel the very beginning of your gut-emptying bowel movement driving her jaws apart. Paired lovers and abducted children, picked clean of goodness and turned foul and rancid in the process, lance hot and steaming from your guts into her oesophagus.

Amazingly, you distract her from the violation. With your teeth in her flesh you turn your head and pull. Skin tears away in a fibrous sheet, exposing orderly red-and-white striations of muscle. You regretfully do not sink your teeth into them but sever them top to bottom with a claw, granting access to your catch’s own internal plumbing.

While your intestines do violence to her airways and stomach your hand delicately traces a path through her own intestines. You will not break them and foul the meat. In no time you are practically elbow deep in the woman—still silent and pinned. Your hand feels the tough sheath of her abdominal aorta, feels the panic-rapid pulse squirm inside it. Seeking extra slack your nails chase the primary vessel downwards into the pelvic cradle, and then…

Sharp edges puncture the aorta low down and then finger pads attempt to squeeze it shut. There’s no way to keep in 190Hgmm of blood pressure: you feel her spurt and spray into her abdominal cavity.

It continues to spurt when you lift the vessel to your lips like a cheery pink drinking straw. Two geysers of blood paint your shoulder and one half of your face murderer-red, and then the slippery vessel finds your mouth. You swallow the spray ravenously, working the severed tip to the back of your mouth as you do.

It goes down. The pulse travels between lightly gripping teeth, along your tongue and through your epiglottis and just… empties into you. Her quivering heart pumps, just like your churning bowels do. Neither of you need trouble to swallow your feast.

Her heart, though, gives out long before your gut. She dies a bloating vessel for the filth to which your relentless digestive system has reduced its previous meals. There is so much that you regretfully have to stop sucking the stilling blood from her heart: you worry her stomach may split, contaminating your food.

You let the pale artery tumble carelessly from your lips with a snarl. You are still so fucking hungry. This body is unusable and you promised no solids, but that’s no blocker.

The lines of energy that tied her consciousness to her body are fizzing out and misfiring, but still linger. You risk giving yourself a cramp by pinching off the dark, appalling flow from your backside. A second to lay a scrap of cloth over her soiled mouth—cleanliness is next to godliness—then you plop your unclean anus right in the middle of her forehead.

As you concentrate it twitches, seeming to kiss the muddying skin. The faintest sucking noise is lost in the rushing of the long grass. Your body all around her, your fierce and voracious spirit, the parasitic suckling over the remains of her third eye… When her soul releases from her flesh it is caged. By your will it is sucked through the shit-stained aperture on her forehead. All of her being—her memories, her loves, the spark of the divine invested in every soul, even the recipe for Nana’s chocolate cookies—scrapes alongside and through the waste you have yet to squeeze out. Do her children feel the violation as she begins to melt in shit and agony? Does her husband look up in alarm? Does Nana see?

You don’t care. The feeling as her desperate soul submits to you is orgasmic. You didn’t think this far, and now you need to retreat and clean up before you can service your need. Worse, she didn’t even take your full load. You hastily clean up with her torn-up clothing, leaving it unceremoniously on a body both empty and full.

“You were a good listener,” you murmur as you leave her body behind, dreaming of hot showers and the kind of sex that borders on frightening.