chemical fucking warfare
“Okay.” Your voice floats through the bathroom door outside which I hover like an expectant father. “Okay. I think maybe perhaps I am not going to die.”
“It was just a few chillis, Rey. I kinda thought—”
“You thought what?” you snap. I’m glad for the door between us because I’m covering my mouth to prevent myself sniggering. “That just because my stomach can crush bones and grind down the toughest prey, I’m somehow immune to chemical fucking warfare?”
“Well, kinda. I mean, I can handle—”
“What you can handle is not relevant,” you screech. Tears are running down my face now. “My body and mind are finely tuned machines. Just because your body is a lump of clay with glasses on it does not mean you have permission to be laughing when you sear out my arsehole.”
I lose it. You hear a thud as my knees buckle and I start laughing my head off. You grump to yourself while I get it out of my system. “Should shit in your eyes. Then we’ll see how you ‘handle it’.”
“I really am sorry,” I explain, with no hint of humour. “It didn’t occur to me that that might happen. So much chilli, so much food. I’ll know better for future.”
Your narrowed eyes could sear flesh from bone. I bear it with equanimity. I feel bad that I caused you pain and won’t ever make this mistake again, but I’m no cowering wreck. I’ve seen your passion in all its forms and see the beauty in your anger.
“Let me make it up to you. Cook you something special tomorrow.”
You pop your headphones on and open the front door. “Mm… We’ll see.” My small smile betrays my excitement. You extend a pointed finger in my direction. “No chillis. I’m still sore.”
“Aye-aye!”
A wry smile breaks through your glare. You do that two-fingers-pointing-at-eyes, ‘I’m watching you’ thing. “Next time you’re going in and experiencing it first-hand. Understand?”
“Avoid the tear gas bath. Gotcha.”
You shut the door. I make a phone call and head out. Going to need to do this at my place.
You arrive next day.
I’ve spitted a whole suckling pig.
I mean, there’s more to it than that. Novel and familiar scents battle for airtime in my gallery kitchen and pots bubble serenely on the hob. But still. Outside in my garden, I’ve clearly hired and set up a stainless-steel spit.
You wordlessly accept a shot glass as you watch the little motor do its job. I clink and we both knock it back. It’s unflavoured, basically pure alcohol with a harsher burn than vodka.
You cough a little. So do I. “The hell’s that?”
“Lambanog. Filipino moonshine made from the coconut tree itself. You’re having a feast from Asia tonight.” I hand you a glass that contains a more familiar green hue, with a sensuously undulating layer of red floated atop.
“You’re mental. Do you know that?”
I grin.
The dinner table looks out over the garden, so you can watch as the fire grows brighter in the fading sunlight.
From the oven I watch you stare. Your gaze flickers to me for a second, and then back. “I want it.”
“It’s yours.”
“I’ll explode.”
“We’ll manage. We have all night if you like. You’ll be more than human full.”
Your stomach rumbles like a distant rifle shot. Loaded already with fat, your rolls and curves and little sensuous creases decorating your body, it couldn’t be clearer that you’re up for the challenge.
The first course isn’t suckling pig. I bring you a sizzling plate of what looks like coarse mince, fried with little slivers of sweet pepper and served over rice. “I spent a long time visiting Asia,” I say, as I set the plate down in front of you. You leave the fork and spoon untouched so I take the hint to pick them up and lean against the table in a feeding pose. “This meal is like a celebration, and it’s a kind of food that’s very dear to me. Sisig is my favourite dish. Don’t worry, I’ve only made small portions to taste. The pig is the real meal.
Your attention is taken again by the suckling pig roasting outside. Your mouth opens automatically to take the morsel I place within. You close your lips and I withdraw smooth metal.
It’s pork, grilled and fried hard; but marinated in something sweet, and brightened with a sweet citrus. Onion and ginger punch through the fat, and the rice mellows out the whole thing into a dish one could keep eating until bloated.
It’s delicious. Your attention falls on the plate and you graciously open your mouth for the next spoonful.
“There’s normally an egg,” I explain, delivering another mouthful with care and quite obvious delight. “Fried, on top. But I know how you feel about eggs.”
The entire dish amounts to a starter, for all that it’s a light meal for a single person. You smack your lips and give an appreciative little sound through your nose, which pleases me very much. When it’s all gone your hunger is whetted razor-sharp and your attention is back outside.
“Now that.”
I kiss your forehead.
You watch me work with knife and plate. The crispy golden skin parts reluctantly, yielding juicy grey flesh. I pile kilos of the stuff up, then come back inside.
A hot plate on the table is turned on. I load it up with the majority of the flesh but the first few generous slices land on your plate. The savory aroma of roast meat makes your stomach complain like you’ve never seen food, and the charring on the hot plate fills the whole room with caramelized smells. Your mouth waters so much you keep having to swallow.
“Lechon baboy,” I proclaim, retaking my place and grabbing cutlery. “My father was—”
You don’t need my help with this. The meat is hot but manageable in your hands. Your fingers sink into tender flesh and you tear mouthfuls out with ravenous teeth. I chuckle and set down the irons.
“My father used to be a butcher. He showed me how to bone out this pig. He said something interesting:” You look up mid-swallow. Your gluttony is right, here; fitting. I hear every uncouth slurp and short, sharp belch like a verse in a song. “He said every animal is boned the same way, even humans. I think you prefer us living, but I thought you’d like to know that fact.” You flash me a smile that is so innocent in its directness that my heart breaks a little. Then another bite finishes the meat on your plate. I’m already serving you more.
Mouthfuls of charred pig sink into your belly like little cannonballs. There’s no stopping your hunger, though you feel your dress already tightening around your middle. The pig seems barely touched: a shoulder wound.
It’s going to be a long night.
“Mmmh mmm mmmh!” you exclaim, licking your fingers clean.
While pork settles inside you and I top up your glass, the next course bubbles to readiness. I set it before you: “Calabasa at malunggay. Squash curry. No real heat, don’t worry.” I grin when you cast me a suspicious glare. “Second favourite dish. Enjoy.”
You let me feed you again. Like basically every Filipino dish, it is served with rice. Soothing, creamy coconut milk carries gentle spices over unctuously tender squash. Each mouthful is a little pocket of comfort. Each is enjoyed for a moment and then consigned to the churning pit inside you.
I meditate on that for a while as I watch you chew.. How my every effort flashes across your senses for a brief moment and is then destroyed. How whole lives are briefly enjoyed then ended the same way.
As I’m thinking, you open your jaws so wide I’m not sure whether you’ve unhinged them, then let out a low, joyous belch. ~hwooAAAaarp~
“That shouldn’t be as sexy as it is,” I protest. The curry is all gone.
You lean forward, eyes smouldering. Digestion is underway and you’re giddy with it. “Feed me faster and I won’t be able to help it, will I?”
Well then.
Another trip to the spit, another plateful in front of you and on the sizzling hot plate. You stare at me with a strange intensity and don’t move to eat it: and when I take up knife and fork you don’t take your eyes off me.
My heart skips a beat, and I don’t miss one. I check my hands are clean then filter one through your long black hair, taking a fistful. Your eyes shine as I pull your head back, till your mouth falls invitingly open.
“Eat up your meat, little piggy,” I tell you, and present sliced pork to your sharp, white teeth.
Staring into my eyes you tear off and swallow whole chunks. My breathing comes faster but I don’t slow down. No sooner does one kilo sink into your tummy than another is in my hand, dripping and aromatic, destined for the gastric darkness that is getting uncomfortably crowded.
At one point you burp desperately around a mouthful. I barely give you time to finish before pressing more flesh into your mouth.
“Good girl. You wanted this. You wanted to be so impossibly bloated, you greedy thing. My greedy girl.”
God, where did the pork go? You smirk victoriously and roll it out your tongue, showing an empty mouth. Chance light catches on your throat as an eructation vibrates your epiglottis and I am transported momentarily to the mirror-vision a couple of days ago.
You have to prompt me. “More.”
The next course… Of course. I release your hair and kiss your forehead and your mouth. You grab the back of my neck and lick me from jaw to closed eye.
“Fill me up or I’m having you.”
“I’m going to pack you so full of food you won’t be able to move.”
The next course! Chicken adobo, a salty, vinegar-soured sauce in which chicken is cooked tender. Bay leaves, garlic and pepper give it a cast of a Sunday lunch, though the soy sauce brings it firmly back to Asia. With rice to soak up the copious sauce it’s a flavour bomb able to cut through a meat-jaded palate, making you salivate with every mouthful.
I shovel food into you. Your stomach now stretches your dress, little tension lines radiating from around your middle. I eye it, wondering when I can peel or cut it off and enjoy the corpulent, feminine sight of you unimpeded.
As soon as you down the final mouthful of adobo I’m on the move. Great slabs of pig are placed before you. You slap your belly, lean back, and say, “load me up, lover.”
We work together to pack meat inside you as quickly as possible. You start strong, chewing and swallowing industriously from the plate I hold in one hand, but then discomfort crosses your face.
I set the plate down and stroke my palms all around the tyre developing around your waist. You groan and rub against my touch, arching your back. Together we eke out a couple of Titanic burps, but that’s not going to help forever. I keep massaging, hoping to encourage your stomach to disgorge its digesting contents into your intestines.
“We need to get this pig stuffed all the way through you. Every inch of you packed out.”
You take a deep breath and murmur, “more.”
I don’t stop massaging. Meat juices and fat spatter your lovely blue dress, showing up as a constellation of dark patches. We don’t care. I feed you meat by hand. You chew and swallow, though you’re fit to burst.
We’re half way through the pig.
I go out to fetch more and when I return take one look at you, sweating with the pressure around your middle. I wipe the filetting knife on a napkin and approach you.
There’s no fear, just an awareness of the proximity of the blade that faintly whispers downwards over stretched fabric. From neckline over belly to thigh and finally to hem… And then a carefully-turned slice through your dress, tearing rather than cutting it off you.
With a ragged cut up your middle the thing resembles an avant garde tunic. It gapes open and an avalanche of snowy Raven pours out.
God, your belly button alone. Every part of you is gorgeous but for some reason I fixate on the horizontal slash of your navel: sweet collapsed cavern, evidence of your one-time birth, just as your fangs are evidence of the birth you gave yourself. I stroke it and watch you shiver.
Where was I?
Oh yes. Stuffing you so much tears come to your eyes.
It’s not pork or meat anymore: it’s just food, weight, a challenge to overcome. You eat easier with your gut out but that extra space is soon taken up. I have to massage your tummy more and more often. You have to excuse yourself as you pass wind, your bowels crushed beneath the sheer mass churning through your peristalsis-animated internal pathways.
You’re panting. I see you touch yourself through your panties. At least I see where your hand goes: fat obscures my vision.
It takes all the composure I have to set the hot plate on a countertop, as well as a few other things like the candle, condiments. Only a plate of streaming pork remains.
“Get up. Lean.” I indicate with a gesture where I want you: hips pressed against the table, palms down either side of the plate of food. You groan as you comply.
The air is cool on your undercarriage when I slip down your panties. The ruined dress comes off too. When I tap your ankles you take two half-steps to widen your stance, and then…
First I enter your sopping pussy. Your heat swallows me up: my hardness fills you like a meal. Firm pressure on your shoulders causes you to lean forward till your belly rests and pools on the tabletop, and your face is inches from the meat.
“Let me apologise to your poor arsehole.”
You feel me withdraw and then, slick with your juices, press firm against your anal bud. You give way and I glide smoothly home, occupying the opposite end of your digestive tract to the one I have been servicing all evening. We both moan, your vocalisation having as much to do with the excruciating but delicious weight pressing down and massaging through your belly as it does with pleasure.
“Eat, piggy,” I say, gently gathering up your hair in a protective, controlling grasp.
You trough down meat, licking it up into your mouth and swallowing whole; and when you run out of small or tender enough pieces, tearing it apart between teeth and one hand. With the other hand you masturbate furiously. The food, the decadence, the incredible pressure in your guts, the steady pounding in your arse, the way it causes your rocking belly to massage itself on the tabletop…
Even when you cum you don’t stop swallowing down meat.
When you cum, I cum, spilling out into your back passage. I don’t leave, though, instead continuing to stroke inside you, so turned on I’m half-hard, until you’ve chewed and slurped up and gulped down every last morsel on the plate.
You cum again when you finish.
We’re both a bit dazed when you sit back down. I kiss you hard on your lips and pull back to see you sniffling. “Too much.”
I kiss you again, soft as a breath. “We can take our time. Only a quarter left. We have all night.” I straighten and offer you a hand. “Let’s go to the living room. Lie down. Tummy rubs aaaaall evening. Eat more when you can. It’s okay.”
You nod and shakily get to your feet. I set down an extra soft blanket and hold your hand as you settle down onto it. You moan as I begin the massage of your hugely swollen gut. Your small intestine is rammed full, feeling smooth beneath your tender fat. Your stomach is a pregnant curve, dangerously hard. I think I can feel it contact around your impossible meal.
I notice your thighs rubbing together absently. The weight of your own belly pinning you down turns you on. I go to retrieve the rest of the pork and find you touching every inch of your body, feeling its tautness, its heft, its sag, its softness.
We couple pleasure with pain. Eating more stretches your stomach out further but as you do, I stroke you, or dive down between your legs. My hands explore your body just like yours. And when you take a break from eating I rub your tummy tenderly and deeply, like a lover should.
It’s 3am when the last of the pig slides down your aching throat.
“All mine,” you murmur. A dangerous burp is executed and relieves the barest degree of pain in your middle.
“You did it.” I laugh and cover you in kisses, from mons to belly button to stomach to lips and back again. “You’re rammed with food. Feel how firm your gut is!”
You stroke it possessively. Another, more confident burp chases the last. “Sleepy.”
“Sleep, my love. My beautiful, incredible Raven. I’ll be here. Stay up a while, give you more belly rubs.”
Your response is a faint smile, but you’re already half way gone. I don’t mind. The noisy, churning riot of your digestion keeps me company. I feel it soften by degrees and marvel at the processes occurring beneath your pale skin.
Oh shit, I think to myself.. There’s dessert in the fridge.