glamour 02
Your trick of perception keeps the dancer’s muffled screams beneath the taxi driver’s notice, though I still tense every time I see him look back at you. Of course, he’s not seeing casually dressed and comfortable murder cauldron: he’s seeing glam-night-out sex kitten.
I suppose I’m seeing both.
I dismiss the driver with the obligatory “cheers, mate!” You’re half-way to your front door, slowed by the need to compensate for the rocking caused by your thrashing gut.
“Hope you’re enjoying this,” you murmur when I catch up and offer my arm for support. “She’s giving me cramps.”
“You’re suffocating her,” I point out. You grimace after a particularly desperate kick.
“Sure, take her side.”
You stop me by the front door and lean up. I think I’m about to get a kiss. Instead, you open your mouth human-wide and unleash a low, constant belch, mostly smooth air but occasionally catching into a croak at the back of your throat. Streaming from your epiglottis, another woman’s breath, and the scent of her blood.
“‘scuse me,” you say, with heavy irony.
You smirk to see me a little shellshocked. Once I’ve stopped blinking I manage to get out a thought: “swallow more air. She’s going to die.”
You laugh, like music, and saunter through the opened front door. “She’s going to die either way. Why so caring? Should I be jealous?”
I close the door behind me and scoop you against the wall. You giggle, hands and belly spread out against the wall, feeling my chest pressing warm against your back. “Hardly, she’s in hell. I want to know someone’s inside you, experiencing that. Being unmade by you.”
You shiver, whether from her renewed squirming, the pressure as I help crush your belly against the wall, or the way my lips brush your ear as I speak. My one hand cups underneath the looking weight of your stretched gut, digging into your fat to find the taut, contacting sheet muscle. The other slips around your neck, tilting your chin up so you have to look sideways at me. “So Raven,” I murmur into your ear, and tighten my grip slightly across your throat. “Swallow. More. Air.”
You stare at me. I can feel your throat bobbing as you funnel precious air down into your digestive system. The commotion inside your gut dies down, but is that the barest shade of the sound of sobbing? Whatever it was is utterly eclipsed by the rumble of your stomach reconfiguring around its feast. Even your groaning stomach noises reduce her to insignificance.
“Good. Come with me.”
We undress you as you walk into your living room, impatient to expose your body to sight and touch. Comfortable burgundy jumper and jeans are scattered to the winds.
The couch groans as you lie down upon it, your head on its arm and your belly a soaring mountain in the middle. With a groan you shift your hips, finding your comfy spot.
The groan picks up and continues as i place my hand on that inviting mound and knead powerfully into it. Watch how your skin tracks around your ribs, hidden by pads of fat, and around the submerged reef of your stomach, human-sized and still aware. She’s really in there. She can probably feel the massage, though whether it’s distinct enough to the ministrations of your slick and muscular stitch I don’t know.
The idea excites me so much. I really can’t explain it. Surely it’s wrong, but… nothing is coming out of your stomach that wasn’t coming out anyway. There won’t even be a ghost to remember the agony she’s beginning to experience.. No harm no foul?
So I massage you from crotch to tits in great, deep grooves, straight or wandering. You sigh and lie back, accepting the attention as your due while the head-rush of digestion makes aaaaall the edges fuzzy and warm. When I’ve figured out your pet’s orientation inside her gastric tomb I push heavily on her shoulder, upsetting her current orientation and causing her to slip and spin her face into the growing pool of bloody digestive fluids.
Kicking and thrashing, though weaker, rouses you slightly. You moan, nearing complete bliss. While you’re here, I instruct you, “burp, then swallow more air.”
You giggle as you lean back your head and steal away the dancer’s air supply in a series of little barks. I’m sure the time you spend licking your lips after is exclusively to tease me with the delay, to hand your meal begin to panic also.
I keep calling her the dancer. Working with your powerful stomach muscles, one deep, violent crunch is able to compact away one leg, the tibia and fibia both shattered. She won’t ever dance again. Digestion is such that she can barely draw consistent breath to scream, much less make her torment known to those outside your tum.
You slip into a warm twilight sleep, still feeling my adoring hands work your heavy flesh. We manage another three burp/breathe cycles before she gives up the ghost. I know because your belch comes appropos of nothing. Something critical must have given way, worn through by the grinding hell of your stomach.
You fall asleep as her flesh softens and slips free. As my attentions drift lower it’s like I’m manually squeezing her down your digestive tract, a grown living woman reduced to bloody parte and squeeeezed through your guts.
You snore, ever so softly, and I smile. The kiss I place on your flattening, blushing gut won’t wake you. But even as you sleep your body performs anti-miracles, and I feel so blessed. So incredibly lucky to be able to experience this with you.
I wonder if this will continue forever.. Surely not. Sooner or later this must end. Will you give me the lifeline of swallowed breath, extend my agony so I can give you every scrap of life in me? Really scrape myself raw to give you every ounce of satisfaction you could find in my flesh and blood? I hope so. It will be a cleansing. I will burn in the fires inside you and so I will be free of the sins I perform with you now.