duck full

You come home and sing out a greeting. It’s late and it feels like ages since I last saw you.

When you sashay into the living room I’ve set aside my laptop and am waking to give you a hug. You smoothly slip into my arms and guide me around you in a mutual spin. There is lipstick on your throat and a smile on your ombre lips.

“Welcome home, Rey. You’re in a good mood!”

“The world feels good right now. Kiss me.”

I grin and step to intensify the spin into a dip. You follow my lead indulgently, and when I bring you back up we melt together into a long, hot kiss of welcome and affection.

“Mmmh,” you sigh, smirking cryptically. “Almost as good as her.”

“What?”

You won’t be drawn on your tease. I chase after you verbally and you laugh as you dodge my enquiries. You can see you’re driving me wild with curiosity, for all that I try to retain a little dignity.

Eventually you throw me to collapse back onto the couch. “I’m hungry, didn’t eat out. Get me something.”

Do I breathe a little deeper at that? Yes, my smile is a little softer. While you know I’m submerged in an enduring pool of adoration and compersion for you, you definitely saw jealousy for your attention arise. But the reminder that I can still make you happy brings me joy. “Aye-aye.”

“And I’m tired. Long day. Long evening. Hurry up and order so you can massage my feet.”

“Truly, I am blessed,” I say, my sarcastic tone utterly failing to hide the fact that I think I am truly blessed.

Just Eat takes an order. Two, in fact, but I won’t tell you what. Where you plonked yourself on the couch I tell you to undress and lie across the plush scarlet rug while I grab some things.

“Don’t worry, I’ll rub your feet.”

I swear I don’t have a thing for feet specifically, but you wouldn’t think it. You lie on your front and I kiss the sole of your foot when I take it in hand, mainly because it makes you squeal with embarrassment. The thing I can’t get enough of is Raven, not feet.

With a squirt of some silky moisturiser I work the tension from the arches of your feet with long, firm strokes of my thumbs. Your heels and the balls of your feet I massage in little circles, bringing relief where they had to work hard carrying your gorgeous weight. Each toe is individually moisturised and attended to. By the end, they feel fresh and light.

I’m obviously not done there. There is too much of you left to love. Switching to bergamot-scented oil I relax your calves, favouring long strokes up that push blood through your tight muscles, right up to the lines of your shins. This blends naturally into your thighs, the back of which I am gifted the vista. These are broader and I pick out individual muscle groups from your glutes, working by memory and feel because your actual muscles are buried beneath a healthy layer of fat rendered out of countless living bodies. It’s worth it, I think to myself, working your thighs while thinking about those I’ve fed to you. Any agony, any cost is worth giving you even an ounce of pleasure.

The foothills of your thighs climb into the twin peaks of your buttocks. I hear the way you sigh as I work the larger muscles, but it’s more than that. We both just love this part of you so much that it feels like coming home to lavish attention upon it. Your creamy pale skin shimmers with velvety oil and paints your curves in the most beautiful possibly light. I’m hypnotised by the way your skin depresses beneath my touch, then springs up when my hands move on. I could spend a day doing this and be happy.

“I’ve ordered you a feast and I’m going to feed it to you. I’m going,” I begin, leaning forward to murmur into your ear, “to slide my largest buttplug into you, to help fill you up. Butt up for me, dear Raven.”

You turn your head to give me a shocked look, but the way your lips twist and you bite the lower tells me you’re interested. You walk your elbows back and wave your bottom in the air.

This is a view I know has been some people’s final prospect on earth. Those twin peaks become snowy mountains, capping the long passes of your thighs. With your legs parted I am gifted that view, beautiful and deadly, of the crevasse between those summits. Your anus still finds a crescent of shade in which it sweetly hides, while your pussy has already taken on a rosy sheen, betraying your excitement at the filling and the stuffing. My body responds to the sight and scent of your excitement, but I won’t act on it until you are stuffed to the point of delirium, whereupon our joint passion will slosh half-digested food inside your gut and help break it down even as you endure rolling, bloated orgasms.

You turn your head to look at me and I am struck. Every path into you takes life, absorbs it, makes it your own. You are the perfect terminus.

The driver cannot be far away but I take my time. Your butthole, pretending innocence like it hasn’t also swallowed up life, is a shaded rosebud. It kisses the lubed-up silicone shyly, but the kiss deepens, and soon you are releasing a long-pent breath while the body of the plug slides by millimetres inside you. Moving so slowly it feels like you’re growing and growing. When I am done the flared base pulses with your heartbeat, rocking within the tight kiss of your anus.

There’s a knock at the door.

I handle that while you sit back against the couch and wait. You hear murmured conversation, the door close, the running water of a hand-wash, and then I re-enter.

From duck pancakes to prawn balls to the salt-and-pepper ribs I insisted on getting to watch your teeth sink into them; from Szechuan chicken and three-meat special rice to yet more chicken in the form of skewers to two or three other dishes, we take an hour steadily packing food into your welcoming gut. Each brush of your lips against my proffering fingers is a kiss of true love. Every click of your teeth around a morsel offered in chopsticks makes my heart beat a touch faster. We scarcely talk. Your chewing and swallowing is conversation enough.

You’re done nearly half-way through but we stuff you. You simply have to belch to make space and comfort your poor tummy. Hard and tender to the touch—and I do touch it, often—your stomach does its best to keep pace with your dinner.

Not long before the end, the door goes again. I come back in with two large waffles covered in fresh strawberries, slathered in white chocolate and garnished with ice cream. You look at the boxes with something between lust and panic.

They go inside your spreading tum like everything else does.

“Ooooh I wish I could fart,” you groan, shifting your hips to resettle something. Pressure from your stomach filters out and has nowhere to go. I smile crookedly and rub the flabby lower reaches of your belly. You can suddenly feel the long silicone shaft in its entirety deep within you.

“Maybe in a little while. For now, enjoy it. Being such a greedy little piggy. You ate maybe six people’s worth of food, maybe more. Lie back and let me rub my piggy’s gorgeous fat belly.”

At first it’s like every stroke of my hands elicits a groan or another eruption of spiced air, a message from your stomach. But soon we get into a rhythm, large circles helping loosen your intestines as your meal begins to start the second stage of its journey. You drift in and out of sleep, and I realise with delight that you start stroking yourself while you’re still fast asleep. There is no clearer sign of your enjoyment.

You wake when I slide into you. The motion recruits the buttplug into another internal massage. With your stomach packed fit to burst it feels like you’re being stuffed in every way. The jostling as I rearrange your guts means your first reaction to my thrust is a startled, wet-sounding ~gwooOaAAarp~.

We make love. We both luxuriate in the excess of your body, worshipping at the shrine of your decadence. We don’t ever really stop, passing out and waking to touch and rub and fuck without ever getting enough.

How could either of us ever get enough of you?