ink n great soul 02
Following your meal you slip into a deep sleep. You don’t stir no matter how rough I am with your belly. And I am a little rough. Your dinner’s bones are harder than I expected, and I want her through your system as quick as possible.
You’ve mentioned to me a couple of times having a soul sloshing around inside you. I always pictured something like a glowing liquid in your belly, melted down from a little Casper the Friendly Ghost style thing.
This one didn’t slosh. The girl’s ancient soul poured out into you and tried to unfold. What must it feel like, to have your astral form grow and grow, bent backwards with a stomach stretched gossamer thin over something twice, thrice, five times your size? To visualise the joints of dozens of wings tracing just below the surface, almost like they’re wearing you? To feel those same powerful limbs pushing inside you: up into your chest, leaving you unable to breathe; down down down into your pelvic floor? What is it like to see one of dozens of eyes gaze at you through thin skin made transparent with tension?
Did it hurt, being stretched? Did you feel pleasure? Both? So great a meal, growing inside you as she exercised her will to endure… you must have screamed.
A lesser being would have submitted. Released her and faced the consequences, or split apart and been destroyed.
But you, my dear Raven. You held on. You had faith in yourself and you kept her. The truth is that your prison makes you forget the power of your demonic soul. But this sensation is impossible to forget. Even as you resist bursting like a damp party popper you recover deep within you a memory.
Your astral body does not split. It has traveled this road before. You speak words that are familiar to you yet carry no meaning you recognise.
Everything changes. Your prey’s growth ceases, circumscribed by your belly. She begins to crush herself as her power pours out. You stroke the walls of your stomach and feel wingbones crack beneath your fingers see eyes bleach cataract white. Like someone holding a victim’s head underwater you rub your incomprehensibly bloated tummy and where you touch your prey is ruined. The scrabbling of wing joints becomes frantic, not commanding, and stills where your touch passes.
You drown that ancient soul in your own.
Before the fight even goes out of her you tear away great gouges of her essence. You could manifest it a thousand ways, but in this case you visualise her following the path of her most recent body. Potent flesh turns to filth inside your guts at your command. You drain her piece by piece… but there is so much to eat. Even as your belly softens and rounds to a point you can just about touch every centimetre, thus killing her sentience independent of your gut, it’s still larger than the rest of you.
It takes time to digest the soul of a demigod.
And so, when you do open your eyes, I think you’re stoned or something. You look through me, and on the third attempt manage to say, “breakfast.” I cook and you eat without pause, hash browns and sausages and fried potato and toast disappearing mechanically down your throat. As your spirit bloats itself, so too does your body. Your stomach is round and hard when you finish by gulping down a litre of orange juice. You belch, long and cacophonous, then say, “breakfast?”
I can’t say I’m not worried. But… I mean, since when could I refuse you, Raven? So I cook another round of breakfast, and stuff you to painful fullness with it. We’re out of sausages and bread so I cook bacon and pancakes and cut fruit for a fruit salad. I tell a lie, there was some bread in the freezer, so I cook it as sweet cinnamon French toast, hoping you won’t mind the egg. I bring it all to you and you eat and eat and eat. At one point you’re making small whimpering noises and shifting your growing belly side to side, so I set down a forkful of maple syrup pancake and massage your stomach tenderly. You let out burps in a near constant stream. I relish each of them for the relief on your distant face; and then you open your mouth again, expectant.
By the time you’re done we’re cleaned out and you’re threatening stretch marks. I’ve never seen that before. So much stuffing so quickly. I kiss each little pink line reverently and massage moisturiser into your belly.
It’s past noon before you seem to come alive, and I’m exhausted. You, however, look radiant. A glow seems to come from beneath your skin, though surely it’s the midday sun streaming through your bedroom window. You look around your room as if for the first time.
You’re rested. You’re full, both in body and in spirit. You have remembered a fragment of your power. You have tasted the blood of those who would be your captors.
You have work to do.