ink n

We were gaming, right. You were lying on the couch, podged from a McDonalds run that saw the store manager confirm that, yes, we would like fifteen double cheeseburgers. You were playing through Thief, my favourite game series, and complaining that the pov character could look and sound like you and her sneak-attack should cause… well, it writes itself. And I, massaging your legs idly where they were draped over me on the couch, couldn’t help but agree that would be great but insist that this is the game we’re playing so please let’s enjoy what’s there already…

So we were already kind of play-fighting when I reached for a chocolate biscuit and you nabbed it from my hand. I reached for it but you mercilessly popped it while into your mouth and gave me a stretched, smug smile as you crunched it up and desired. I contorted myself to wedge my legs in between you and me and the biscuit packet, and you threw my legs off the couch in an attempt to unbalance me and seize the packet, so I rolled off, and…

So Thief was replaced by a wrestling match. We grunted and taunted and laughed as we fought over the precious chocolate digestives. I am trained; you are, natively, ridiculously strong and used to wrestling powerful people into places they would rather not go. It’s a reasonably matched fight for as long as you neglect to employ magic, tendrils, or simply telling me to submit.

Today I got lucky. So, with the aid of a toybox, you are stretched out over the living room rug, wrists bound together with rope and ankles likewise. A super comfortable blindfold keeps you in darkness. Your leggings rolled away from your Maccy-D-stretched gut down to show the top of your broad backside during the fight and, wouldn’t you just know it, I’ve neglected to readjust the fit.

I rest a chocolate digestive on your lips. You take it in, controlling the disc’s descent into your mouth with a cautious tongue. Contented crunching might explain why you are so willing to submit to remaining bound.

With strokes of the broad side of an ink brush, I tint a whole area just under your ribs on the left. Being unable to see you make guesses. Liver? It’s been ages since we’ve played with ink or got Grey’s Anatomy out.

“It’s not just your stomach,” I murmur, marveling at just how different you look to the last time you lay back and had your insides projected onto the surface. “Basically every system has to be hyper-efficient.

“When you devour a whole person, basically everything your intestines absorb will flow through your liver, through your bloodstream.” You smirk as I brush your lips with another biscuit. This you take in little nibbles, making me pay attention as you send it on its way to pass through your liver. “I wasn’t able to find anything in the literature, but it has to be at least the amount of fat to which you digest a person down. So the blood traveling inside your mesentery—” a cold, ticklish brush stroke draws a wavy line to represent the abdominal structure supporting your whole intestine—“is more voluminous because it is literally carrying the building blocks for a life. All that needs to be processed. All that processing happens in your liver.”

You feel my lips press a little kiss upon that liver, nearly a foot away from your skin, buried beneath invisible, warm, enveloping layers of fat.

“Not just the liver itself, though. Once you’ve melted down human prey, bile and your pancreas’s output both get mixed in, inside your duodenum. So, ninety kilos of flesh, plus the acid you produced, all being neutralised and added into by organs that have to make their substance so quickly…”

From my massage of where I infer your poor overworked pancreas is, you to raise a small, demure burp, then grin. “Aren’t you ninety kilos, pet? Have you been imagining what it’ll be like when I eat you, again?”

The slightest freeze. Then I pretend to ignore the tease and go on with the exploration. “Your kidneys do a ridiculous amount of work.”

“All you need to do to find out is touch my lips without a biscuit, you know.” You roll out your tongue, then let out a mock-disappointment moue when another digestive graces that most beautiful organ.

“A meal of ninety kilos could yield fifty-four kilos of water. The majority you will excrete in urine.” A doodle above your pubic bone might be a bladder. “No wonder you spend so long in the bathroom afterwards.”

“Gosh. How long would I take to piss you out in one stream?”

“Forty or so minutes, if you were an average woman,” I answer immediately. You can’t see, but you just know I’m blushing. “I guess your flow is stronger. Even your urethra is super-human.

The chilly line being drawn down to the top of your leggings is surely your super-urethra. You might be carrying a blush of your own, right now.

“All this in addition to your obviously impenetrable stomach, your ravenous intestinal lining, your brutally desiccating colon…” These appear in sketch forms, appearing small in size compared to the generous swell of your belly.

“I’m hungry,” you murmur, corroborated by a low and dangerous rumbling behind your belly button. “Burgers weren’t enough. Fetch me a child.” Your lips twist in a smirk. “One I can pee out in ten minutes.”

I briefly do the maths before stopping myself. You’re surely teasing. Another biscuit serves as either a way to stop you talking, or as a reward. It’s not clear which. You consume it anyway.

I sit back and enjoy my handiwork. You can only feel where the ink has dried an tautened the skin. But you know that your digestive system, plus one or two supplementary organs, are pictured in a tight procession from jawline to crotch. Everything required to break down, absorb and excrete a feast, a person, a lover, a child.

You’re not teasing. You turn your head till you’re facing right at me, for all that you’re blindfolded. “Hungry. Fetch me someone.”

“Happy meal, coming right up…”