come over bring food
I’m coming round tonight. You don’t know this yet and I’ve no idea what I’ll find. I can only hope that if you devour me, it won’t be out of anger.
My hand’s on my front door handle when my phone buzzes in my pocket. I instantly fish for and drop it. Only a text message, but I’m frantically seeking it under my shoe rack like it’s a phone call from the King.
When I retrieve the damn thing I pause a moment to collect myself. You’ve been absorbed in your work. I tell myself not to be disappointed if it’s not you, or if you’re just asking me to look something up, or it’s something other than a heartfelt desire to see me. I also coach myself not to fear short, perfunctory message like “come over”, which might mean you were done with me and wanted a snack before continuing your work. The fear isn’t for the act, but the idea that I might have outgrown my usefulness in your eyes. But anyway I don’t think you’d finish me like that. I think.
I’m overthinking this, aren’t I? I force myself to just open the damn message.
come over
—oh fuck, oh fuck, what do I do, do I send people goodbye messages? can I— Oh. Wait. There’s more.
bring food
You wouldn’t say that if I were the food. Unless you thought I needed to be tricked, a thought that I discard out of hand.
Mood confused but lighter than it has been in days I quickly step out, close the door behind me, and skip into my car.
You open the door and I light up. You’re here.
Your hair is wild and greasy. You have dark circles under bloodshot eyes. The band T-shirt you’re wearing bears a few stains, perhaps pizza and here’s evidence of something with noodles. It billows loose around you but your belly peeks out beneath the hem, hanging over your jogging bottoms. It’s been a while since you showered and a couple of your fingernails are chipped. Soot stains the back of your hand from some ritual or accident. I catch your scent from the door.
You’re here! You’re really here! I’m looking at you like you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.
Your eyes flicker uncertainly to the man standing next to me. He, lacking the proper perspective of having fallen so completely under your spell he’s dedicated his life to you, is disoriented by the sudden appearance of a disheveled fat girl.
“I meant, like, McDonald’s or something,” you say, still looking at him. “I’m not exactly… nice…”
I laugh, a delighted sound that celebrates the awesome cuteness you show in prevaricating over cramming someone into your roiling stomach merely because you haven’t showered in a couple of days. “You’re gorgeous. He is so very lucky.”
He looks at me, uneasy. “I thought your flatmate was coming out? I don’t thi—”
I see your resolve come over you—my word, the perfect hunger in your eyes, you look like a goddess passing judgement—but he doesn’t. You’ll have no trouble taking him down but I’m here to serve him to you. As you advance I snap a jab at his nose, light enough to stun but not cause real damage, and hook a loopy kick at the back of his knee, driving down my weight to bring him to the ground.
Without missing a beat in the face of this sudden, hateless violence, you grasp his shoulders in your hands. One open-mouthed ~ang~ later and his world has shrunk to the watering antechamber of your deep mouth. He predictably begins to panic but both you and I clamp his arms to his side and you simply bow, moving over him like a snake. I find it fascinating: the two of you overlap and for a moment both of you will be in the same place, but very quickly only you will remain.
When you drop to your knees I lift his legs up and wrestle off his clean white trainers. His descent into the pit is orchestrated by your throat alone, each rolling swallow teasing him further in. His shape, sharp as it squeezes down your neck, blurs beneath your tits and your fat belly.
I stagger back and watch that belly physically swell as he finds his home. It’s been so long. I realise my eyes are wet.
You’re wet, too, but much too preoccupied to do anything about it. As he curls up in your gut the cardiac refuses to close, producing a clear stream of displaced air that your voicebox converts: ~bwoooAAaarp~, “ah, ‘scuse me,” ~kuh-guoOouuUrgk~
I slam the door shut behind me just as your stomach seals him in. It’s a sensation you’ve missed like breathing. Live prey squirms and struggles deep inside you, causing everything to jiggle and bounce.
Eyes closed, you feel me kneel down with you and feed my arms around your back. Thoughts of how you must look are gone from your mind. With every kick your dinner reaffirms your beauty. Your ponderous belly squats tight against meaty thighs. Every motion sends shockwaves through the fat that hugs your belly—shockwaves that are themselves absorbed by your weight. Heavy breasts ride the disturbances serenely. You cup one and roll its mass beneath your palm appreciatively.
Somewhere inside you on the edge of hearing a man is screaming for his life. You cock your jaw and exhale a silent belch, stealing from him the air he unwisely expends. Your stomach is a place for life, but only temporarily.
The burp is followed by a sigh, long and shuddering. “I needed that.”
“Are you okay? It’s been a while…” You feel me place kisses on your forehead, down your cheeks, on your lips, down your neck.
“It’s been… Sometimes I think I’m close, and then nothing. I’ve worked so hard but it’s like something’s stopping anybody from hearing me.” Tears spring up from between your closed eyes and you grit your teeth in frustration. “I needed to… fuck it, I just needed a break.”
“Shh, you have it, I’m here now. I can’t help you with your work, but I can damn well take care of my darling Rey when she wants to relax…”
A moment passes with everything screwed up in tension, eyes and jaw and fists. The kicking inside, growing more frantic, goes unremarked. Then you seem to relax all at once. A low sigh sounds unsteady. “That sounds nice.” Your eyes blink open and look at the mess all around you, and then yourself. “I’m a state…”
“You’re beautiful,” I say, pointedly kissing your nose where it wrinkled. “Gorgeous. Stunning. Sublime.” A punch from inside makes your tits jump and gives you a hiccup. I smile and kiss your breasts solemnly through your T-shirt. With each, I intone, “irresistible. Sexy.”
You bat me on the shoulder but you’re smiling. “Idiot.”
“Come on. Upstairs.” I stand and offer you a hand. You look up at me. “It’s time you relaxed.”
He dies half way up the stairs, as you’re half-carrying, half-waddling his weight up each step. I know because I’m behind you and the faint sound of weeping spontaneously quietens. You know because your ravenous spirit squirrels him away somewhere dark.
The water feels so good.
You were embarrassed to undress in front of me but I was unfazed by everything: greasy hair, the sound of underboob peeling from your belly, three-day-worn underwear… You squealed as you realised I’d picked up your clothes to put them aside and I looked at you with a soft and adoring smile. “Everything about you is perfect.”
“Pervert. You gonna smell ’em when I’m not looking?”
You realised your mistake and covered your eyes before you could see me, smirking, raise your panties to my nose and inhale with every sign of enjoyment.
“Perfect.”
But now you have a moment to yourself and the water runs clear over your whole body, washing away days spent in meditation and study, starvation and junk food, frustration and disappointment.
You’re washing your hair when you hear me slip into the room. Naked, I step into the shower behind you. My fingers take over working the suds through your hair and massaging your scalp, leaving your hands free to caress your swollen belly.
Beneath your skin, powerful muscles are at work. Your light touch senses when a bone gives out, causing your stomach to shrink a touch. The scent of blood on your belch mingles with pomegranate and roses in your shampoo.
Carefully I rinse your hair. Conditioner is run through with the same care. Condensation runs turn your bathroom walls but we don’t care. This is time for you.
You hand me a bodywash and I squirt a blob into my hands. We start together from the blushing top of your belly, where the skin is stretched by the weight of your meal. Two pairs of hands circle and explore, compressing your own soft fat and running along deep muscle, even as it works upon the softening edges of the consumed man.
You sigh and lean back against me. Where my hands knead and caress your flesh, the whole of my body is involved in the sensation. Feel the arms as they curl around your sides, bounding the limits of your immense meal. Feel my chest at your back, strong, forming little pools as the shower water collects between us. Feel my belly against your back, and my hips against your wide, soft backside.
Blood and meat has begun to trickle further into your system but it’ll be a while before the bulge moves down. Doesn’t stop me from widening the circle of my massage. You’re so much softer, there, your sleeping intestines just beginning to wake up, compressed by the weight above but themselves empty. Maybe you feel me become a little hard, feeling your guts squish inside you, and maybe you give me a teasing grind in return, but this isn’t about sex, it’s about appreciating and enjoying your wonderful body.
The shower makes everything glide so easily. Every touch is like an annointing. Your body feels so beautiful, fat and stuffed and growing fatter. Your breasts are great, sculpted mounds of flesh. They mould with seductive weight to the firm exploration of my hands. I cup them and roll them and the water streams from them until your nipples grow hard.
A surprise comes when I slide my forearms down over your protruding belly and squeeze you powerfully to me. Your soft flesh squishes in a great valley to accommodate them like even your skin wants to swallow me up. Enough pressure and crack, your prey’s spine folds better. An adjustment, my skin gliding over yours, and then crack, the pelvis is reduced, compromised hip joints allowing the femurs to pop free. You gasp and lean back against me, resting your head on my shoulder. I lick and nibble the sensitive skin of your neck while I reposition and help break down your prey. crack, crack, crack.
You’re cupping your own breast by the time I’m done, and your other hand reads the hungry contractions of your stomach as it works the thick, bloody soup inside itself. Maybe you feel chyme beginning to run through your guts in earnest because your own massage trends lower, taking in your abdomen as it plumps up.
I can’t tell if it’s the shower or you, but you’re naturally wet as I trail my hand to your womanhood and run my fingers all along it. Each fold is delicately explored, but not too deep. Allegedly this still isn’t about sex, though you can feel me fully hard now. Strange how cleaning you can make me feel filthy.
Your hand moves to catch mine and guides it to join the other, under and on your abdomen, carrying the weight of increasingly plump intestines. We’ve been in the shower so long that your digestive tract has spread out your meal and I can feel him slosh if I bounce your belly in my hands.
I realise that you replaced my hand at your pussy with your own at about the time your other hand parts your arse cheeks. With a bounce onto tiptoe and a searching hip wriggle you find and engulf me, squeezing my length into your back passage. We both sigh like two people who have come home. Apparently this is a little bit about sex, then, but what better way is there to enjoy your body bloated with food? You set the pace, touching yourself and riding me slowly and deliberately, letting the deep pressure slowly build your pleasure and sense of fullness.
I never stop exploring your gut with my palms and fingertips, tracing the pathways of your internal maze even as I explore its hot, tight end.
We both cum and clean up and then that’s it, you’ve used all your hot water.
I’ve made a tidy oasis on and around your bed. Squeaky-clean, we roll around and cuddle and laugh. It is wonderful to have one another’s company again after so long. I cover you in kisses and you begin to submit to the digestion-high, leaving me, most willingly, to plough affection and love into your body. Your awareness stretches out into a long twilight in which you are loved. Your hair is combed out, your face moisturised. You are massaged from hands to shoulders to feet to calves to thighs to backside to belly, to belly to belly to belly. Your hard-working digestive tract piles fat beneath your skin even as I adore it.
You’ve worked hard, and there is more hard work to do. Tomorrow, though, we’ll talk in the morning, and I’ll make breakfast while you stretch and admire your newly fed body. Then I’ll clean your house top to bottom, diligently working to make your surroundings pure even as you seek to contact impure entities. At some point your dinner sees light again, briefly, and I’ll be excited but give you your privacy, and kiss you afterward.
And then in the evening, in conversation, you hit upon an idea.