vengeance deferred
She had raised a complaint against you, got your line manager involved. Your every instinct told you to end her but the rules of your Role prevented it. You were widely regarded as being on thin ice in any Role after the business with the nuns. So you stood in the office, façade of anxiety being fuelled by tears not of contrition but of humiliation and rage.
You took it for months. She was untouchable. You had made enemies who would be watching for any slip up. It seemed unbearable. You weighed and reweighed the consequences of just ending her.
And then she handed in her notice. You couldn’t believe your luck.
And then she left. You put ten pounds in a leaving kitty full of fivers.
And then she started a new job.
And then time passed.
And then she opened her front door.
And then she saw you as you really are.
The skin on your face feels tight where the blood is drying. It’s like one of those face masks you apply as a liquid and peel off later, except this won’t peel.
The wound on her inner thigh now gushes far more lazily than that geyser which gave you your coppery face mask. You drink like a pig, slurping loudly, relishing the idea that your prey will hear how much you’re enjoying drinking her into unconsciousness. It does actually improve the flavour: her blood is brighter on your palate as air mixes with each thick mouthful. The belches are an added bonus.
Your tummy groans at you to stop even as it accepts the next mouthful. Can she feel where her blood has gone? You certainly can. It’s like a hot bowling ball is squished between your spine and her abdomen.
She tries weakly to throw you off. You squeeze your thighs together, pinching her torso between them. You’re going nowhere. Not till you’ve taken what you want.
Your stomach has endured a lot.. Two days of… what is the opposite of fasting? Three days of takeaways and cocktails and junk food have left you oftentimes light-headed with digestion sugar-rush and have crammed your intestines full of rancid filth. You’re packed, forced to ease out farts that can melt plastic to try to ease the discomfort.
She takes it like a trooper, though. You’re pretty sure she never expected to see this much of you. For the last ten minutes her whole world view has been the top of the valley of your glorious buttcrack. The only reason she can’t see more is that the danger zone is pressed, puckering sweetly, over her airways. To your sorry-not-sorry shame you’re pretty sure your arsehole hasn’t remained sweet. What started as a galloping variety of spiced and fermented farts, so thick she could taste them, has sputtered around the growing tip of a coil of two-day-gone chow mein. You’d feel worse if her head-shaking struggle not to receive the accidental offering hadn’t caused her chin to rub you in just the right way.
Then a fart like a canon crack signals a seismic shift. The sensation of flowing is a guilty pleasure and in no time at all it hits the back of her throat and she is choking. You hide your blush against her thigh and take another swallow. Desperate to clear her airways… so does she.
Her goodness and life pour down your throat. In return, you fill her up.
Much as it pains you, you pinch off after hearing her gag around about a foot of your issue. This wasn’t the plan.
The plan comes to fruition when the stuttering pulse grows too weak to support the heart that makes it. She dies, her last moments spent being an extension of your large intestine.
Except they aren’t her last moments, are they?
Though fouled, the kiss of your pretty pink anus is still upon her. You murmur the words to help you focus. Heaven or whatever calls for her, but you call louder.
Your hole physically stretches as it gulps up her soul. Your vocalisation is as much of surprise as pleasure.
There’s no room for a soul inside your digestive tract that isn’t also taken up by freshly-made, piping hot shit. You feel a struggle as urgent and regular as a vibrator inside your back passage. Now you’re clenched shut she has no way out but deeper but she spends a long time as an anal vibrator convincing herself that that’s true.
You roll off the cooling body and almost involuntarily grab your pussy. Nerve endings up and down your body light up as she struggles her way through a mountain of your waste. Her going gets easier as she crosses under your diaphragm, where your colon hasn’t wicked away quite so much moisture. She swims deeper, then hesitates. There is existential danger ahead. Your stomach.
She begins to head back and you give her a hand. Rubbing your gut and your pussy you visualise her being carried along by a gust of wind. When you relieve the pressure, sure enough, she tumbles back through your body, being stopped and contained by a well-timed clench at the end.
What must she be feeling in there? Her pure and sacred core squelches its way through and among sickening filth. She becomes more frantic, fluttering within you.
The moment she gives up or goes insane or whatever, you feel her rush headlong through your intestines in a desperate gamble to die, to be free of this pollution, to be cleansed by the unholy fire of your spiritual digestion. You let her streak aaaaall through your tummy, tracing her path in your mind’s eye.
And when she’s almost there, knocking on the pyloric door to the mercy of oblivion, you squeeze her back out.
It happens again. She races for the second death, and you deny her.
If you keep her in the rectum it’s like being fisted.
In, out. In, out. The foulest Hokey Kokey is danced in your guts, invisible from the outside.
You lose track of how many times you’ve cum but you’re sore and the sun is down by the time you decide to wipe and pull up your panties. You don’t consume her yet, though. You have a bus to catch, and games to play, and stories to write while she unwillingly fucks you inside.
Cleaned and dressed, you take one last look at the bespoiled woman and smile faintly. It’s a a bare half of what she deserved, but you can be merciful.
Silently she screams inside you.