food wrap

The collar is leather-lined, but when you move, sometimes the metal edges touch your skin and flash cold. You don’t move much: The criss-cross pattern of rope that snakes up your forearms cuts slightly into your skin, binding them to leather-padded arm rests. You can feel the smooth heads of brass tacks where they cross under your wrists. Your calves bear the same treatment, affixing your legs to the chair legs; and an elaborate hip harness I tied before having you sit in the chair serves, with the aid of simple but rigorous ropework, to absolutely nail you into the seat.

Once seated in the heavy, dark-stained oaken chair, you were put in darkness. Soft, slightly elastic fabric wraps snuggly around your face, bunching up your hair slightly and letting in precisely zero light. In the darkness, phantom colours flash before your eyes.

Pressure helixes in whip-thin lines around your belly. Where the rest of your ties are precise and rock-solid, your belly is submitting to an impressionistic sketch of restraint. My footsteps pace a circle around you as I hold tension on the rope. slanting up from crotch to tits; then down again. The result? A crazy patchwork of your flesh, irregular cells squeezing through in soft, creamy hills. For you? A sensation of raw confinement, building on the absolute impossibility of motion. Tightness around your belly. Weight, where flesh that was sitting on your lap is now pinned tight against you. With every breath you feel my desire to hold you still.

I’m breathing a little heavier when I come close to tie off the belly rope, kneeling behind you. You smell my aftershave and crane your head as if to look at me.

My hand is gentle but firm where it cups your jaw, turning your face one way and then the other. You arc your long neck, graceful, knowing it: showing off your beauty.

The hand cupping your jaw trembles, then you feel my lips on your shoulder. Then teeth, then pressure. The pain comes on slowly, easing you into it till it’s a dull red crush, hot and satisfying as a Chinese burn.

The faintest catch of a growl in the back of my throat, close to your ear. You try to shift your weight away from the source of pain and the bite increases precipitously in pressure till you freeze. Then… it melts away, slowly. Heat flashes through your shoulder as your blood reperfuses angry nerves. I kiss the bite, and then your neck, tenderly. My hand strokes up and down the opposite side, raising goosebumps.

You turn your head again, seeking a kiss. This time I interlace my fingers through your hair and, grip established, bring my lips to your ear.

“We’re going to make you beg me to cut the ropes around your belly, my beautiful Raven.” You tug slightly against my hold on your hair, testing my preparedness.. The grip tightens, raising pressure across your scalp, while I lean back to reach for something. “Open wide.”

That command you comply with. Across your bottom lip, cool, smooth flesh glides with the scent of strawberries. I kiss the bitemark on your shoulder again as your incisors scissor the fruit in half. The portion that lands on your tongue is ferried between your molars and quickly reduced to pulp and swallowed.

You open your mouth again. With a squeeze of my fist pulling your hair taut I demand your attention. You hold still while I paint your lips with strawberry juice, leaving them glistening.

The release of pressure is permission to bite. Your teeth pare flesh from stalk. You halt chewing to lick your lips free of the sweet juice, and then it all goes down to your stomach.

At first I’m keen to engage all your senses.. The apple I feed you is brushed against your cheek before you tear it apart in a bare handful of crisp bites, satisfying and loud in your ear. Mandarins spray oil and scent into the air as I peel them at your chest height. Segments pop between your teeth are sucked down rapidly to make space for the next.

You make your five-a-day. I must have fed you a fruit basket by the time the first course is over. Your belch brings back sweetness and perfume. My lips appear from nowhere and kiss you on your mouth. I taste sweet, too. I must have snacked on some grapes.

The rope around your middle already was tight. Where my hands fall to chase the interrupted planes of flesh over your tummy you feel them tighter still. But fruit pulps easily, and your capacious stomach is not fazed.

“Main course, my love.”

A trip to Switzerland follows. Spiced pork scents. I know pork isn’t your favourite and I normally fry the hell out of it but these sausages must remain supple.

“Open,” comes my voice from in front of you. “Head back.”

You’re eating; I’m feeding you. The strangeness of the request doesn’t register, you simply comply. You feel a hand caress your cheek, then stroke back along your hair. Then comes the next round.

You have to open it mouth a little wider. These Bratwürste are thicker around then your average sausage. You feel me feed it smoothly into your welcoming mouth, ready to take a bite, but I don’t stop. Even when it hits the back of your throat.

“Swallow, Rey.”

You get another hair stroke when you comply. The little suck your oesophagus graces the oversized wurst with causes it to jolt forward a centimetre. Still I push as much as you swallow.

How long is this thing? In future you’ll take a breath before it goes too deep. But for this first one your epiglottis is slammed shut over lungs light on air. You choke a little as a reflex makes you seek to breathe. “Nearly there,” I murmur, not hurrying. “You can do this for me…”

Shortly the end glides between your teeth. You gulp noisily, forcing it into your throat, then gasp a breath. I hold your head back, watching your throat work down your food, then stroke your belly while it curls up invisibly within you.

“Did it…” you murmur.

I kiss you on the forehead. “You are wonderful.”

Olma Bratwürste are traditionally served with little breads. I feed these to you more naturally, between bites giving you little sips of water from a bottle I hold to your lips. Then it’s another wurst; then bread.

The second wurst, I push into your mouth then release it completely. You strain at your armrests and make indecorous sucking noises as you swallow air in your attempt to pull the length of meat down. ~kllp ulp glshk glk~ It jerks down inch by inch, the motion smoothing as your throat claims more of it. When it sinks out of sight forever you still have to gasp a breath. Even swallowing live prey is easier: they’re heavier and you have your arms to help.

I’m grinding your stomach in a heavy massage, trying to feel the progress of your food. In the end it’s impossible for me. But the report from your stomach lets us both know when my massage gathers together the air from your stomach, and the way out is clear: ~guh-hwooaaAurph~

“Take more for me.”

The ropes bite uncomfortably after four Würste, and after six you’re squirming even despite by attempts to massage your stomach contents into a more palatable orientation. The tightness isn’t only causing pain, though. You feel yourself growing wet.

“You can take one more, Raven, before I free your belly.”

You make a noise, half-protest, half-whimper, but nod. You open your mouth wide but then gasp in shock. Out of nowhere my hand cupped your pussy, fingers parting you in gentle exploration. You can’t angle your hips or anything, only rock the tiniest amount as I select a rhythm to stroke you, an angle to tease your clit with firm pressure.

Then comes the bratwurst. You take it with teeth and tongue working it swiftly into your throat. As you gulp it down I speak.

“When I cut the rope your fat, greedy, beautiful belly is going to flop down and stop me wanking you off. So you’d better take as much as you can.” I lick your throat as it works on engulfing your latest wurst and increase the grinding pace on your cunny.

Your poor stomach is so constrained the meat can’t enter without help. One hand pumping below, my other hand grinds your tummy, breaking the wurst in the junction of throat and stomach, helping each piece slip inside the packed, churning cauldron.

“Another—” you gasp, and I provide. Your breath comes swift and urgent: it feels like an eternity that the air is dammed in your lungs. When the wurst slips entirely into your throat and is chased down with a swallow you moan. “Cut it! Cut it!”

An interminable pause while I massage your pussy and the sausage glides like a torpedo towards your cramped stomach… and then all the pressure goes away. Your gut falls in sheets of delicate fat into its more natural shape; the sausage finds its home without the slightest resistance; and you cum just in time, rejoicing in the gorgeous excess of your freed belly.

I withdraw my hand from its hot prison between your thighs and get to work. We have not yet begun to feed you.

Schnitzel. Spaetzli, little pasta-like dumplings that are soaked in butter that runs down your chin. Rösti, giant hash browns. The cuisine is built to fill you up. It’s an hour before I untie you and help you up, guide you almost insensate to the bed, and set upon your swollen stomach with rubs and kisses and infinite affection. You drift off packed with warmth from within and bathing in love from without.