run rabbit 03

The road feels a lot longer coming back. Meat packed without gap sloshes inside your belly with every step. Walking is meant to be good for the digestion and you can kind of see how the rocking massage could help, but you need something more guided.

You find it when the road finally ends. In the little car park you see me, sitting atop my Nissan. I spot you at more or less the same time which is good. If your prey had been clever or more aggressive she might have doubled back and tried to overpower me or seduce me or whatever would have let her get the car. You’re glad I took your warning seriously.

You rub the shelf of your stuffed belly. What a strange thought. If she’d taken me down, I’d be stewing away inside the same stomach currently melting into slurry inside you. You vaguely remember emptying out young Jules in your frenzy, discarding the large intestine but actually sucking down yards of entrails, like you were undoing and co-opting her capacity to consume.

You belch into your fist. It smells vaguely of liver.

I stand and wave greeting. You see my eyes on your belly. I don’t really look away even as I hop down off the car roof and pad over to meet you. “I knew you’d get her. Did you enjoy?”

Your guts shift so you force another verify, sharp and crisp, by way of an answer. It gets a smile out of me, where before I was looking worried.

“Andrew, you have to be more careful. I mean it. I don’t want to risk you melting away inside some vengeful bitch instead of me.”

My grim nod tells you I’ve heard your warning. Your belly, round and fat with 55 kilos of mostly-only-swallowed human flesh, appreciates the lift when I cup its bulge in my upturned palms. “You’re so heavy, Rey,” I say, in a tone of wonder.

“I’m so sleepy.” You absolutely don’t suppress a yawn. Your mouth is a pretty pink pit I can’t look away from as you gape, lion-like. “She was a chubby girl and nothing went to waste.”

“Now she’s a food coma.” With the heels of my hands I dig into your rotund middle, knowing from experience what level of pressure will shift its bloody contents without making you feel ill. I trace upwards, from belly button to ribs, helping turn over your meal to expose every scrap of her to the annihilating juices your stomach pumps into her. I notice your nipples stiffen beneath your T under the attention, and circle one with a teasing stroke. “Come on. I want to get you home before you really do spark out.”

You flash me a smile and break away to ease yourself through the car door. The seat embraces you again and you sigh. Aching muscles and compressed intestines appreciate the load being taken off.

When I climb into the car, causing the suspension to dip and oscillate a little, you take my hand and wordlessly place it back on your belly. I release a long, happy sigh and give it a welcoming bounce. With being folded in half it squeezes out a tiny, exploratory fart. You glare at me like it’s my fault and I can’t help but giggle.

I can’t explain why it’s so hot when you have to unbutton your jeans.

We drive. I can do a lot one-handed, so it’s rare for me to stop rolling my hands over your quietly churning tummy. At one point you lift up your T-shirt so we’re skin-on-skin.

You’ve been breathing a little deeper though your eyes are closed. I can practically feel the muscular contractions of your stomach as I massage from without. Perhaps it’s the vibrations of the car, or the dangerous attention, or the sheer joy of having a girl minced into your belly, but right after we join the motorway you guide my hand down, within the open gates of your unbutton jeans. I make sure to slip beneath your panties: then we both sigh.

I stroke your pussy while you lean back and widen your legs. Though we’re going seventy miles per hour I take it slowly. Every part of you is a miracle, a work of art. Nowhere is this more true than your vulva, which can be demure and frisky or engorged and slutty. I love, love, love making you transition from idly demanding I service you to having you hump my hand, hot and dripping with desire.

“Greedy pred slut,” I murmur with admiration and affection as you buck and squirm beneath my hand. “If you want to cum, ask me for it.”

“If you don’t make me cum in two minutes,” you begin, fixing me with a stare I can’t meet for more than a few seconds at a time without the car beginning to veer, “I will suck your soul out of your cock then shit it back into your body.”

After I get the car back under control, you get your wish. Stroking becomes deep pressure, incidentally massaging the fat of your belly. You orgasm for the best part of a mile.

Jules lasts you the whole journey and a long, lazy evening and night. With kisses and tummy rubs we trace her on her downward trajectory through your guts.

Two members of that family have packed out the stretchy walls of your colon. One did so alive, even. How long until it makes the acquaintance of the matriarch?