after lunch poops
You’re wearing my sunglasses when you walk through the door.
“Very funny. Undress. Sit.”
You waggle the glasses by applying pressure to the arms where they hook over your ears then look about the room. It’s still light but clusters of candles stand ready to be lit, and a scented candle already fills the air with jasmine. The sofa I’m gesturing to with a flat, open hand sports a new, ultra-soft blanket of artificial fur and a tray on which sit game controllers, a glass, a book, another pair of sunglasses, a deck of your cards, and a selection of baklava on a plate. On the floor in front of the sofa is a bowl with bodywash and lotion beside.
“Come on, undress. You can tell me about your day while I do your feet.”
You open your mouth to say something, but then just drop your work bag and kick off your shoes. What the hell. Take a load off.
“It’s been half a day since I brought you lunch. How was she?” I nip into the kitchen to bring a kettle and a jug of cold water and kneel by the bowl. Hot and cold are poured in
You wriggle out of your professional clothes and dump them aside. “Light. I barely felt her. Here.”
You stand beside me and I turn to face your navel at eye level. You watch my eyes roam your curves hungrily and smirk as you grab my hands and drag them from fur between your legs to stomach beneath your ribs.
“She’s gone already?” I say, full of wonder.
“Two hours it took me. She barely fought, just melted away.” You slowly trace my hands down, drawing imaginary curlicues and loops representing your internal loops. “She’s here now. And moving fast. I’ve probably already sucked up all her goodness.”
“Now that’s a diet food…” I say, distant as I study your bulbous gut with adoration. You can hear my heart pound.
“You took a risk today. I want you to know that. You didn’t understand everything you were risking.”
I look a little uncomfortable at the thought. “I suppose I did, didn’t I. Just couldn’t bear the thought of you being so unhappy…”
You lift my gaze to yours with a finger beneath my chin. “I can handle unhappy. I can’t handle certain things that could have happened. Or you getting hurt.”
You see me blush slightly, flustered at having been so foolish, but also your sign of care. “I’m so—”
“So you’re going to clean up your mistake. But that’ll take a while. So… Footrub, then?”
You release your grip on my hands, but of course they linger on the little stretches by your sides where the weight of your flab pulls your belly down.
“Bottom to top. You’ve had a day. Wanted to fully relax you.”
“Oh, I’m sure you’ll relax me,” you say as you collapse back onto the couch. You wiggle your toes expectantly. “And you can start with my legs. But leave my bottom till I say so.”
I guide your feet into the warm, bubbly water.
Is this the first time I’ve pampered your feet? After a relaxing soak I massage their arches and heels, then take a pumace stone to any hard skin I find. Your feet work hard of course, because you carry so much weight.
Once buffed, each in turn gets moisturiser massaged into them with long, deep-tissue strokes from my thumbs all the way from heel to ball. Even the toes get attention, individually moisturised and twiddled between thumb and forefinger.
Meanwhile you can relax and, at least figuratively, put your feet up. You pick up your book and read, but I still hear you moan lightly from time to time.
When done with your feet I kiss your closest knee and take the spent bowl to the kitchen. On returning I’m carrying a shaker whose contents I pour into your glass. Something Chartreuse and Maraschino that I’ve not done a terrible job of copying.
You take a gulp and siiiigh as I oil your legs from calves to thighs. Are you helpfully letting me access your inner thighs when you spread your legs, or are you just entertaining yourself by controlling where the blood flows in my body? Your head is in your book to maintain plausible deniability, but I see the little smirk at the corner of your lips…
Your thighs take a lot of attention. They are astonishingly powerful and respond well to sustained deep, rhythmic pressure. Knots you didn’t know you have dissolve away.
Your belly… When I apply oil, it shines as though perfectly smooth and round. It never fails to amaze me how a living person just becomes… mush, in your guts. She was only small but a whole person spreads out and now every inch of your abdomen is the same amount of heavy.
Starting dangerously close to your pussy—fragrant and enticing—I go palm -over-palm in long, fluttering paths up and around the corner of your belly. Happy squelching accompanies in counterpoint. Whatever’s happening inside requires a lot of movement and air. Empty already?
Perhaps you’re not uniformly smooth. Deep inside, by your flanks, I can feel… You’re packed! Hidden passages squeeze palpably in peristaltic waves clogged with too much filth to move. I glance at you and catch a wince, and a soft but sustained pfffffrshh announces the advancement of a certain condition. It’s pungent, but I never minded the scent of your farts.
I confirm by seeking and finding another knotted rope of stuffed guts submerged beneath the smooth skin under your diaphragm. Yep, you’re about ready to go. I feel a little fear: how am I cleaning up my mistake?
Perhaps you’re letting me stew in that fear, or maybe you’re just enjoying the feeling of being full, but I massage your belly for a long time before you stop me. Your soft skin, your layers of fat, your gentle intestines and your crammed colon all become intimately familiar with the touch.
Finally you shift. Another guest of foul air announces it’s time before you do. “Go fetch that bag from earlier.”
I do. Now there’s an unzipped bag in the middle of the living room and you’re struggling your way to your feet. You cup your tummy under one hand, like you’re trying to help bear the weight it’s carrying.
“You brought her in this. You’re going to take her away in it too.” You waddle your legs wide, either side of it. From the way you’re moving the hesitance seems to be that you’re worried about crowning prematurely. “Don’t let any miss the bag. If it does… Ah, let’s say you’ll regret it.”
Like I need any encouragement to follow an order. I kneel behind you and adjust the opening. “Ready, Raven.”
“God, where did you get her?” Another fart flies thick and rapid from your unconfined anus. I watch you begin to flex open. “Six hours from swallow to shit. It’s like she was made to be eaten!”
We all are, I think to myself, staring at your blossoming backside. The little girl never got to experience life before being spread across your arse and simultaneously squeezed through it. She ended in agony so you could enjoy your own body fractionally more.
Worth it, I think as I watch the first lance of her remains feel air. You let out a sustained moan as things shift inside you, only to appear as dirt expelled. The pink pucker of your anus expands and contracts, riding the shape your large intestine has chewed her body into. I watch it, hypnotised, until I realise the mound you’re building in the bag is threatening to topple over. I shuffle it side to side to redistribute the contents.
You’re touching yourself. I can’t help it: I dare to touch you too. As you slowly wank yourself off at the primal sensation of expulsion, my hands wrap around your belly and press deep. I seek out and find the escaping train of filth. It moves through your body, chased along by peristalsis in the dark and my touch outside of it.
You speed up when you realise what I’m doing. I feel very proud to help turn you on with your own body.
She was only little. You’re not half-way done when the last of her pathetically diminished body is squished out your arsehole. Colon, rectum, anus: all squeeze shut and relax, job done.
Pussy still alive with need.
I drag the bag away urgently. You remain squatting. My eyes have barely left your backside. You keen with desire, desperate and full of longing…
The oil is suitable for internal use.
Time for another bad idea.
A quick splash, then you feel a sudden caress at your arsehole. Quick circles tease you gently open and more fingertips feed into you, stroking the portal still hot from its most recent task.
You need to be full.
A bend at the knees applies pressure. I meet it and slowly force my whole hand into your rectum. The unclean humours make me slick and a pulse from the muscles inside you sucks me in an inch.
“No,” you say, panting. “Out. Dangerous.”
I pump my forearm into you, tracing internal contours only recently finished with their work. “Cum for me first, Raven.”
You growl and flex your hips. My forearm gets wider than what you just expelled, and I’m thrusting in and out slowly.
Your legs are shaking as you work yourself. A gurgle bubbles up from the depths of you and I feel the vibration through your intestinal wall.
Then I get sucked a foot deeper.
“No!” you scream, but you don’t stop masturbating. In fact I can feel how you press down, longing for more of the full sensation.
“Cum, Raven.”
I’m in you up to my elbow. I kneel up and kiss the small of your back. The position lets me bring my other hand to your belly. You feel me explore the shape of my own hand through layers of your skin, fat and gut walls. Your free hand encloses mine and presses it into your flesh.
“Cum for me or I’m crawling inside your arse and—”
You make a strangled sound and cum explosively. it. Your greedy, filthy back passage twists as your hips buck, and the polluted depths of you yawn wide in an awesome suction that seeks to claim all of me.
My elbow almost dislocates with the forces acting on it and I slip in up to my biceps. But am I fuck letting your body end me without your mind wanting it as well. I move like a wrestler, falling back to get the momentum to wrap my leg across the small of your back. With the other leg parallel against the backs of your thighs I straighten from the back. Your gut muscles are powerful and if you had been trying to sit down and swallow me up I wouldn’t have had a chance; but it stands I pull my arm out of you inch by agonising inch.
Heat withdraws as I free myself. Soon only my hand remains in your rectum, stroking your silken walls. I realise that you’re still stroking yourself.
With a pop I pull free. You complete your rolling orgasm and collapse forward onto all fours. “You idiot—”
“God you’re hot.” I kiss the smooth, clean skin of your backside.
“I should have stuffed you up there to teach you a lesson…”
“Let me clean up and I’ll give you a proper cuddle. You are so hot.”
You’re too out of breath to argue further. Running water from the bathroom and I return, wiping my forearm dry on a towel.
I brought paper, too. “Hold still.”
I’m thorough, just like you like it. You shiver. The intimacy, the exposure, the waves of aftershock flowing through you. It’s all a bit much.
“Tiring-est massage,” you murmur, as I cuddle you on the carpet, big spoon to your little.
“Shhh, tiring part over. What do you say… Takeaway? Chinese? Then we finish your belly rubs.”
“Chinese is good. Want toast now though.”
I kiss the back of your neck. “Anything you want. My gorgeous girl.”
I get up to handle food. First I drape the soft blanket over you, and see you snuggle in like a cat. Once toast is on and order placed I go to deal with the bag.
It’s so light. Scarcely a quarter-full.
I look at you, curled up with eyes closed beneath the faux-fur. So much of her disappeared into you. Your body would have done that to me.
We should all be so lucky.