run rabbit 04
You’re singing softly to yourself as you open your front door. Two heavy sets of double paper bags stacked with takeaway containers cut into your fingers, having been shuffled to free up one hand to use the key.
I’m home, as you thought I might be. What you didn’t expect was too be confronted by the sight of my gyrating arse in the living room. I don’t turn around, instead jumping and punching the air in time to music you can’t hear. My back is to you and I’m fully naked, though a discarded towel in the corner of the room hints I’m naked from showering.
First you wonder if I’m having some sort of episode. Then you spot the bone conduction headphones around the nape of my neck. I’m basically having a silent disco.
Without sharing the music you set down the bags, pull the front door to, and then match my rhythm as you sashay into the living room with me.
I practically jump out of my skin when I realise someone’s here with me. You don’t miss a beat, throwing your arms in the air according to music you can just barely hear. A broad grin blossoms on my face and I step back into the dance.
We have a little mini silent rave, laughing at the absurdity.
You brought Chinese! I make us simple cocktails of rhubarb syrup, limoncello, gin, vermouth and tonic while you lay out the first course on trays on the living room floor. That’s the theory. In fact the takeaway is still in the bags when I rejoin you, but you’ve stripped fully naked and are sprawled out on the luxuriously soft lambskin rug I bought for you. Jules, bless her, compresses nicely between your spine and your wool-caressed belly. Almost all of her goodness has now been claimed and is now Raven; Jules is the name of the logjam developing lower down.
“You’re a fucking vision, Rey. An album cover. You’re a heart-attack in pale skin; a siren; the true apex of human beauty.”
You smile through my tiny speech, your chin in your hands and your legs kicking behind you. With warmth in your voice you answer, “stop being silly and feed me duck pancakes.”
I grin and sit cross-legged. With each snap of container lid unpopped I intone: “Lucky,” pop, “duck,” pop, “pancakes,” pop.
As I combine shredded duck, cucumber, spring onions and hoisin with rice pancake you make a proposition. “I’m going to lie here with my mouth open. Whatever goes inside goes down. If you’re so jealous, you could feed me you instead, and I’ll feed myself the pancakes on top of you.”
I look struck; doubly so when you yawn your pretty mouth open with an aaaaah~. Rolled pancake in hand I lean closer, staring into that portal that tastes and chews and undoes. Your kicking legs slow and stop. I have your full attention. The idea of me makes your mouth wet, all of a sudden.
“So many meals pass through here,” I murmur, mostly to myself. “When you’re done maybe they linger on your breath a while, but then it’s like they were never there…”
Your belly gives a rumble that sounds impatient, but your eyes still shine with humour and danger, watching me. I slowly, agonisingly come to a decision, and the duck roll finds its way between your teeth.
“When you tell me to go in I won’t hesitate. But I want to spend every second I can here with you.”
Your feet start kicking again as you fiercely bite the first pancake in half.
The pancakes, half a duck, go swiftly into your belly. You must be ravenous and of course they don’t make a dent beneath your thick belly fat.
Next I feed you salt-and-pepper pork ribs. These were actually for me but I saw you eyeing them. You allegedly aren’t a fan of pork but you are very much a fan of eating so it makes sense to both of us
You show off. I feed you one and watch your white teeth peel splintering flesh from the bone, your incisors scraping the white bone clean. The next you glom entirely into your mouth and denude of meat with teeth and tongue, withdrawing like a magic trick that made the food disappear. The third you do the same thing but steal it from my fingertips and simply swallow it whole.
I call you perfect. You demand more. I give it.
The chicken balls don’t stand a chance. It’s only by one of the main courses, the special rice dish paired with a cashew and chicken dish, that you roll onto your back and have me pile cushions behind you to let you sit up. The slightest extra protrusion under your ribs is the only sign your belly gives of its take.
You finish that course and hold up your hand. Swallowed air and perhaps some reaction of your juices with the food give rise to a slow, mostly silent stream of a burp that catches and turns raucous right at the end. “‘scuse me,” you murmur. I stroke down your neck and across one breast to cup and massage your stomach. You make the cutest little moan.
You eat the whole thing, of course. Whole meals worth of food disappears down your gullet.
“I can’t believe you can eat so much,” I say, as you wincingly swallow a mouthful of something spicy and sweet. “I mean, I know whole people can slide inside you, but you always get so full, and you keep going…”
“Am determined,” you offer, then open your mouth and roll out your tongue. Even mid-meal your mouth is clean, a pristine welcome to a churning chaotic hell deep inside you.
“Are greedy. Greedy, greedy, greedy.” With each word I stroke a love-heart further down your abdomen. “I love how much of a pig you are, my Raven. You take it all.”
“Is nice. Full.”
A deep, rolling caress of your swelling tummy makes you gasp from the pressure in your gut.
“Full? But what about dessert? Twelve cupcakes, baked earlier. Four flavours: orange, lemon, rose and lychee, chocolate.” You make a purr as my hands find a pocket of discomfort in your guts and knead it out slowly. “Of course, only a piggy would want dessert right now on top of everything…”
Jules makes herself known with a spasm of warning. Nearly time. But you’re thinking about the cupcakes. Lying here on your back with pressure in two significant places and patient, firm hands exploring your industriously churning middle, you decide to stay put. “Am a piggy. Feed me your cupcakes…”
Well, how could I resist?