academic snack
I’m seriously worried that I haven’t heard from you for a while, now. I’m this close to making a rash decision for which I might pay dearly. But frankly, a life without you does not feel worth living.
I distract myself with various projects, but sometimes simply find myself daydreaming about you. Here’s one little recollection, recounted as it happened.
It’s been a while since I studied here, but I still know the campus inside out. When you told me you were peckish I kissed you on the mouth and then drove you here.
The quadrangle among the School of Midwifery is ringed by a brick pathway overhung by the first story. Unkempt-looking tall plants dot around the place, giving a feeling of privacy.
At this time of the evening the little cafe in the quadrangle is locked and shuttered. Only a couple of people drain out of the academic buildings, mostly in twos and threes. You barely glance at them as we chat and play poker.
You set down your hand before I turn over the river and stand. Show time.
The pathway is occluded by regular, wide brick pillars. You walk in one direction, and a lone woman walks the other. You’re in stretchy, forgiving Burgundy jumper; she, small-bodied, is wearing a light and blousy shirt tucked into uninspired blue shorts. From my point of view your paths cross behind a pillar.
I hear a cut-off yelp and the ripping fabric sounds of a brief one-sided struggle. Her rucksack appears, thrown against the wall, then a torn-uo shirt. I’m far enough away that I can’t hear anything liquid going on, but I hear little perfunctory exhalations, like soft little moans.
You reappear. Turns out she’s going your way, now.
From the moment her forehead pops into your stomach you know she’s going to be a fighter. Even as her whole upper body presses back against the clinging wet embrace of your throat she twists, looking for purchase. All she does is give every inch of your oesophagus a massage with her skin. The sensation makes you drool so much that the upturned maw her bum is now disappearing into is like a little shallow pool. Her pussy is on its way to be annointed by far less friendly substances than your saliva, but your meal wriggles nevertheless as it is submerged.
The deep pressure of her head against the base of your stomach compresses your idling guts and squeezes out an unexpected fart. It seems for a moment she’ll hold the position that makes it impossible to swallow the rest of her… but you circle your hips and her neck bends. She slides down and around, beginning to curl up in foetal position.
For a moment you guess her face is submerged in your frothing digestive juices. Her feet try to kick in panic, mostly resulting in you watching her blue-painted toes splay and her feet rock crazily at the ankles. They soon pass your lips and are swallowed with your saliva.
She curls up, not backwards, so her spine is saved. This is great news for you since if she were dead you wouldn’t have her arms suddenly slithering against the slick walls of your tummy. You guess they must have popped free of the sphincter? Their motion against your gut lining makes you feel every inch of stretch, every pound of the weight of her living flesh.
With a fluttering sensation under your heart, her legs slip entirely into your stomach. The first contraction crushes her into an obedient ball but nothing breaks, yet. She is not grateful, instead trying to kick, more like kneeing you under the ribs. You look down past your sweater-wrapped tits to see them riding a huge bulge, twisting inside your flesh and making that sweater roll up.
Then another contraction shows her who’s boss. She goes still and then screams with all her might.
You aren’t as fat as you will one day get. The high-pitched sound filters out from somewhere behind your belly button. The sound causes your belly to groan—how loud must that be, to her?—and then open your mouth and throw your head back.
The scream becomes briefly louder as your gullet temporarily reconnects dinner to outside world. It’s mostly used to drive your indolent larynx, ending up articulated as a barbaric ~kuh-bwooOoUuuAAaurp~
You realise I must have taken your hand and led you somewhere because you’re standing on grass, hidden by yew trees. Though her air supply is much diminished she chokes in a foul breath to scream again.
So you start to drown her. Kneeling and lying atop your own monstrously swollen belly stops the sound with a gurgle as your juices rush into her mouth (and nose, and eyes—she won’t last long).
Her delicious struggles begin again in earnest and in silence but for the groaning machine sounds of your stomach grinding down her resistance. Every inch of your stomach is explored with frantic fingers, elbows and knees—sometimes visible under your skin, in between crushing contractions and where your fat is not too all-engulfing.
You undecoriously jam a hand down your leggings. A faint belch carried with it a copper taint and now your cunny burns as much as you believe hers does. A massage and maybe a kiss will makes yours better, though, whereas already hers is frying inside your caustic hell.
A slide across all walls of your gut and now her voice is just about audible, a full-throated sobbing somewhere behind your lumbar spine.
Maybe words are shouted but your fat absorbs enough that they’re incomprehensible. It doesn’t matter, anyway. You roll onto your back, allowing the ever-growing pool of acid to flow around her and again submerge her face and airways below the waterline. Silence. Thrashing. You peel down your leggings and grunt, “Here.” You’re rewarded with hot, eager pressure between your legs as I lap against your vulva. While two fingers penetrate and explore the twitching anus that will play brief host to your dying prey my other hand helps hasten her demise, pressing atop your belly and helping keep her in the right place in your drowning pool.
Do you squirt, Raven? I know you get wet enough to drown. Imagine you were truly full of squirming prey. I wonder if you would…
You ride a growing orgasm long after she has died in your acids. She is on her way to becoming a loose jelly on cracking bones when you finally let yourself cum. A joyous belch carries the scents of liquefied muscle, fat and liver, her body and her secret places being wrenched open and drained into your intestines to be sucked clean of everything good.
By the time we’re staggering you back to the car you’re a bulging sack of bone and chyme, singing a song of happy belches and freshly brewed farts. As we drive I’m reading the pavements for dessert. A fighter like her deserves to be rescued by an equally energetic hero traveling the other way. She and her saviour can find one another and embrace, spreading over every square inch of one another within the hot, constricting tunnels of your colon.
But that’s a story for another time.