good neighbours part 02

The sources hint at an old concept called Second Sleep. The idea is that in the winter months, when candle light was expensive, people would sleep so long they would wake in the middle of the night, but not really wake. One writer reports going walking, carrying a deep sense of peace with him utterly divorced from the stresses of the day.

We stir one another awake—I don’t know who moved first. The transition from sleep to wakefulness is liminal. One moment you have the weight of my head and arm pressed adoringly into your giant, plush stomach; the next, I’m looking into your eyes, utterly calm and at home. You recognise the signs of trance in me and in yourself.

We’re uninhibited. Recently satisfied, this does not mean we fall instantly into sex. Rather it means the sensations are dialed up. When you touch your own belly—and who can blame you for being selfish, you’re a goddess—the sensation of silky, yielding skin beneath your fingertips compounds the feeling of point weight digging through and easing your hidden guts. You imagine you can see inside yourself, explore the mysterious world known only to your prey.

Olivia is no longer a shape, now, but a substance being squeezed through you. Your stomach is almost empty: only a few bone fragments resisting degradation prevent the hollow rumble. But you can feel where she still exists inside you. Backed up in your duodenum, no place in the rest of your busy intestines, you feel her remains inside the squishy, tender channel we once identified in you by X-Ray. What other predator knows the path of her own guts in such detail?

As you explore the start, I map out the end. You’re pear-shaped right now, much mass accumulating lower down as blind peristalsis piles more and more paste in your lower tubes. Packed fit to burst, it’s these pathways I attend. My hands have to dig through your warm fat, but the way I’m rubbing and easing your large intestine fills you with warmth. You moan appreciation and see me smile in the darkness.

You could go. Or you could enjoy the feel of fullness for a while. You decide to save that pleasure for the morning.

There’s so much more of you than your belly, although to be sure your belly contains the remains of two-and-a-half people. Your wandering touch rucks up rolls of fat by your sides: warm sculptor of your curvy, feminine silhouette. It takes in your breasts, brushing over sensitive skin underneath and without judgement feeling where light sweat lies like dew below the massive orbs. Your nipples are already erect by the time you spiral in to them. They’re not gorged with fat, but the areola are stretched by the sheer weight of flesh that has padded out your bust. You lay back and feel it rise and fall with your breath.

Your breath. Each inhale captures oxygen from the air, teases it into your bloodstream, sends it to every part of your body. Billions of cells breathe with you and burn or store the goodness absorbed from three human beings. More of their bodies than you’d think are actually exhaled, converted to carbon dioxide by the various tight cycles of your metabolism.

You release more now in a long sigh. I, too, have started to explore more than just your quietly gurgling tummy. What else is changed by the fat you are turning your prey into? Your haunches start to roll high up your sides, courtesy, you think, of the mother’s ridiculous fat content. Haunches melt into great round buttocks, eating up my attempt at grasping and hefting them no matter how large my hands are. Your arse is so soft. The faintest shimmer of silver under the surface suggests either healed stretch marks or cellulite, side-effect of such rapid growth. I find it cute. I know from experience it will be gone soon as your vampiric/predatory body aggressively rubs out every sign of your meals, leaving only fields of smooth fat and skin.

Another detour. Are you aware than the fatter you get, the thicker your outer labia? I place a chaste kiss on your curl-hidden vulva.

Buttocks give out onto thighs. Miles from the digestive system, the rolling swells here are evidence of your heart at work, transmuted prey pushed where your body desired it. No thigh gap for you, just a soft and yielding squish, that could engulf me vice-like were you not so lost in enjoyment right now.

You feel my touch trail down your inner thighs to your knees. Fat trails off, evidently here and layering your calves, but more compact and discrete. Nevertheless I pick up and kiss your foot. You have cute feet.

You’re half-lost just appreciating your arms. The bulk of them, the sag collecting as little wings under the biceps. When you curl your arms up you get an extra valley atop the biceps, too, chest and breast fat forming a dome that terminates in the middle of your upper arm. Your fingers explore your fingers, dextrous but chubby. So sensitive.

We both explore your fatted and stuffed body. Beauty lives in its high mountains, its deep, fragrant valleys. I give thanks for the way you take life and add it to your bulk; you give thanks for your fangs and your lethally efficient gut, which have given you so much joy.

How long do we spend in that twilight consciousness, adoring and groping your body with ritual intensity? At some point we must both return to sleep. In the morning it seems to us that we merely shared a wonderful dream. A dream we must visit anew: father, mother and child have been broken down and sucked up to render your body unexplored ground.

We both touch your new curves. This time we fall upon one another with passion. How could desire ever be quenched in the face of a body like yours?