crows paula 02

There’s a way you drape inside a door frame that, when done at the proper time, has a 60% chance of making a woman melt. Forearm up the frame, you cock your hips a little to show off your figure (toned or pudgy), and incline your shoulders and face towards your prey. The pose brings raw physicality and your gaze is intensified in a way you can hear adds ten beats per minute to the heartrate. Twenty if you’re shirtless at the time.

Not to be done by the front door. If Paula had opened her door for you and found you sprawled there with hunter’s eyes she’d have laughed. Instead you greeted her with wine and lively conversation. You both drink and talk animatedly in the kitchen while she finishes the Thai curry she intends to serve you. She has read a book you recommended, and you’ve watched a film. She offers you a taste of the sauce on a dipped fingertip, and you suck it off in a way that hitches her breath. She calls you on something you said last time that she’s decided she disagrees with. You like her. She has a novel point of view.

This is will not stop you devouring her tonight, of course.

Leading you to the living room, she turns to discover you casually leant against the doorframe. The question on her lips is skewered by your gaze and falls dead to the ground. You watch her eyes flicker over your body, linger on the lats that your shirt otherwise modestly only hints at. While your gut is still present you’ve been working and working out. You’ve never had trouble putting on muscle once you were properly fed.

“… Why are you looking at me like that?” she asks, blushing like a schoolgirl. The dress she is wearing is spangled with dark blue sequins, tasteful against dark blue fabric. It catches the light to give her a bright silhouette, making her stand out like the only thing that matters. She’s certainly the only thing you’re looking at.

“I’m thinking we turn off the hob and make a meal of you.”

Gentle, gentle pressure. You observe the way her lips remain parted, the way she stares into your eyes. The silence stretches on, serving your purpose. You have done this a thousand times and have made an art of it.

Ah, her chin raised a fraction. You read the lust you’re fanning like a familiar book. Unhurried, you push away from the doorframe and take a step towards her. See how she shifts her weight towards you?

How far can you push her? You cross the room and her lips rise to meet yours but you hold her inches shy with strong hands around her waist. To her questioning gaze you respond with unflinching command.

The tension as she pressed against your hands slowly recedes, submitting to your control, at least for the moment. And so you follow, now guiding her into a step backwards, and again, as you drive her against a floor-to-ceiling window.

Only when she has nowhere to run do you smother her with your body and kiss her.

She tastes like wine and the spice she is cooking for you. Though yielding she is not passive. She tastes you as much as you taste her, her urgency only growing as you grip her hands and push them out to either side, leaving her defenceless.

You could manoeuvre to bite with little trouble, but she has inflamed your desire.

Feel how the soft curves of her body press against yours. As you devour her lips—figuratively, for now—and with so few degrees of freedom, still she strains to feel you, to consummate a connection that is more than just physical but cries out to be satisfied that way. Under your palms you feel the muscles of her hands strain. Her belly follows the urging of her hips, pressing against you one way then the other. So much motion: It’s like she’s squirming inside you already.

She’s so alive. It excites you like the running hare excites the wolf. But she is clever and resourceful. When your hand releases hers, to cup the side of her face and glide back to take a fistful of her hair, she—while appearing in every way to buckle beneath your control—still untucks one side of your shirt and dives her hand beneath. She positively gropes your figure on the way up, feeling muffin-top grave of previous meals and the potent musculature that defines your back; and on the way down, claws into you with a vividness that makes you exhale sharply and tighten your grip in her hair.

You break the kiss to see the challenge in Paula’s frosty green eyes. It’s all you can do not to bite and subdue her as predator subdues prey. But something more pressing than feeding spares her. You strain uncomfortably within your trousers, spearing against the pudge below her belly button. There is no question of feeding yet.

She’s big but you lift her like she weighs nothing when you abandon her other hand to crush her against you. She complies, wrapping her arms tight around you (one beneath your shirt) and rocking herself against you through four hateful layers of fabric. She kisses you so deeply you must breathe deep to retain enough control not to bite and swallow her tongue. You’ll have use for it.

On the swift journey to the bedroom she learns you can carry her unaided, so she tears at the buttons of your shirt. For your part you learn your kiss will hold her fast so you have unzipped her dress and unhooked her bra by the time you throw her onto her bed. Bright-eyed and fixated there is a brief scuffle while she launches herself back at you and you pull her dress up over her head.

She’s so alive.

Everybody wins. Even before you pull the blue dress free of her head she has dropped to her knees and started feeling for your belt. Her touch ranges over your belly before she finds it and without ceremony or undoing anything yanks your trousers down over broad, well-developed thighs. Her thumbs took your boxers down too: There’s a beat where she kneels almost naked and you are free, tight with need, the sole focus of her attention.

She strikes with a fierceness you recognise from your own hunts. Your length fills her mouth and you get to experience what that questing tongue feels like in a place of heat and wetness. Something like an electric bolt runs up and down your back and earths itself in your coccyx. You want to rut like an animal.

The self-satisfied purr she makes in between throat-deep thrusts sends goosebumps down your back and rouses your own sense of fight. You came here to eat, and you don’t make a habit of being outeaten.

She looks surprised when you pull her head back, leaving you shining and full of longing. It’s only for a second. With one step back and another step across her you force her smoothly onto her back. She watches expectantly as you turn and kneel down over her, top to tail. Again your bellies meet, her breasts soft either side of your navel. You feel her neck straining as she cranes to take you into her mouth, but you have control; enough time to throw off your unbuttoned shirt and shred her jade underwear with judicious claws.

Sharp like the taste of the sea; hot and wet, she falls open beneath your tongue. From somewhere below your belly you hear a gasp with overtones of hysteria. With your tongue tip on her clit you make her legs mercilessly shudder, even while you keep yourself ramrod hard but out of reach. Her hands try to pull you down to sink into her heat even as you make her squeal with the intensity of your licking.

“Crow, please…”

“Again,” you say, biting her inner thigh, a graze enough to draw blood you lap up. She is too overcome to notice.

“Please, Crow, let me take y—”

Slowly and smoothly you allow her to sheathe your cock in her mouth, her throat. When you plunge your tongue back into her cunny her whole body comes alive, fingers clawing at your backside and legs shuddering and kicking like she’s being electrocuted.

You tame her energy with careful rhythm, lapping at her long and smooth even as you stroke into her mouth. Do you hear the little sounds that she makes? You’re putting her down into a place where her whole world is the pressure of your body, the building pleasure, your cock in her mouth. I wonder if she really notices your arse above her. You aren’t self-conscious. Surely she would feel differently if she knew she would be moulding her way out of it inside of thirty hours.

Her first orgasm comes out of nowhere. She practically chokes on your length as she tries to call out, causing all sorts of delicious crushing sensations up and down your cock. You don’t let up, forcing her to cum for the better part of a half-minute, straining beneath you until she collapses. But you keep stroking into her mouth and she keeps taking you, even as you give her a break to recover.

Heat builds. You feel the tingling creep up from the base of your pelvis to your navel, a dam ready to burst. Her sounds are closer to whimpers, now, as she faithfully sheaths you again and again.

Within the heat, your stomach rumbles, seeming to demand its own release. The craving to be full makes you pull away on the brink.

Paula looks up at you with a distant, dreamy look in her eyes. When you stand and extend a hand she lets you pull her to her feet, docile as a lamb.

There is a body-length mirror propped against the wall, reflecting the bed. When you stand behind her in it she is shy, averting her gaze and bringing her hands to her belly. You let covetous hands roam her figure, feeling the weight of her tummy, the heft of her breasts. If you weren’t taller than her you might not appear in the reflection at all, there’s so much of her. The thought of taking all of this from her, melting her down and running her through intestines primed to absorb the fat and protein your clawed fingers are pressing and stretching even now… it keeps you aching hard against her backside.

It’s time. You sit on the edge of the bed and seat her in your lap, sheathing yourself inside the pussy whose taste still lingers on your lips. Heat greater than before sends thrills through your whole body. You watch her mouth form an O of pleasure as she begins to grind down on you with generous thighs. As she works and while your hips rock, you continue to watch how her body folds and jiggles in the mirror; how even when you force her legs wide apart, the soft inner thighs are still within kissing distance of one another.

Her neck, right there, you ignore. She’s so full of life. You picture that life sliding down your throat, thick and hot, and her body following it, but no. You want her as alive as she can be. You want to feel her fat and quick and struggling inside of your belly. Your stomach growls as you kiss the back of her head and gather her arms behind her back…

She barely has time to make a peep as you take her head wholly into your mouth. With your lips closed around her neck you know the scream that rings loud in your ears is muffled into insignificance for anyone in the neighbouring flats. She wriggles on your lap too but a bite, two rows of teeth pressing dangerously against spine and windpipe, impresses upon her the importance of obeying. She freezes while you continue to rock your hips, fucking your food even as you swallow her.

The next bite is impossibly wide. She is forced by your gullet into a backwards arch as you gulp down meaty shoulders, and make a start on her breasts. Your reflection makes eye contact as you inch your way down, throat working each step of the way. So quickly, it seems so much of Paula is gone.

Regretfully you must release tension on Paula’s spine if you want to eat her alive. She sinks to her knees on the carpet and you drive her in deeper, the incredible bolus of her chest creaking open your ribs to make sucking down the endless rolls of her belly feel effortless by comparison.

There’s so much of her. She just keeps coming. You don’t even realise you’re touching yourself as your mouth rediscovers her pussy in a very different light. What filled your whole attention not five minutes ago now scratches against your hard palate and disappears with scarcely a lick.

She curls, thankfully the correct way, inside the chamber that will undo her. Your stomach stretches to accommodate her, sending nerve impulses and triggering the release of hormones. Your whole body knows your have devoured her, right down to the tingling in your hands and feet. As her arse pops into your stomach and her feet begin to be eclipsed the heat builds throughout your whole body. Your jaws snapping shut triggers the release, an orgasm that makes your whole body tense. As you cum you are exquisitely aware of the way her skin feels as it slides past your cardia, and how the immense weight inside your gut shifts and settles like a broad internal massage.

And then she begins to fight.

In the mirror you watch shapes appear, then disappear as your stomach crushes her back or your abdominals tense and push her back into place. When the larger struggles end they bring up belches of astonishing ferocity, emptying your stomach and Paula’s lungs of litres of air. At times your skin writhes with whole-body spasms. Even the discomfort is profoundly erotic. A whole, vivid life inside you is being lived as hard and fast as it can and will soon submit to you entirely. The feeling of hands, knees and feet on your inner walls leaves you feeling drunk. You cum at least once more.

Eventually, the shape becomes more fixed, rarely distorted, more often a massive peardrop only kept in check by overdeveloped muscles in your torso. The rhythmic massage beneath your ribs that threatens to give you the hiccups might be her last desperate struggles, or it might be sobbing.

The thing about eating an entire person is that there are gaps that can be filled. You are full past the point of sanity but… well, she did cook for you.

No one turned off the hob so the curry has definitely caught on the bottom. The rice cooker knows how not to burn the rice, though. Paula still moves about inside you from time to find as you prepare yourself a generous plate of Thai red curry in her kitchenette.

It’s anybody’s guess if she is aware enough to understand what is happening as you eat your meal. The taste of blood on your burps is obscured by ginger and galangal, bright holy basil and chilli. It would hurt, surely, but no more than the unadulterated onslaught of your digestive juices that have already peeled away her body’s defences.

You pack your food down under another layer of food. At some point she stops moving, and at some point you get seconds and thirds. It’s not clear which comes first. You eat and eat, till digestion steals all your body’s resources and you are forced to revisit the bedroom. Paula is already sleeping.

That night you have vivid dreams. You half expected the bottle of wine you both shared to have some effect but feel nothing. It was processed by two livers.

Digestion stupor keeps you lazy the next day, too. Paula is not diminished but rather redistributed: whatever parts of her are still being ground down now rest in a stomach comfortably propped up on yards and yards of thick, stuffed intestines, each inch patiently squeezing along the nutrient paste into which your body has broken her down.

A lazy day, then, while you digest her properly. There is television, and you can charge your phone. You spend time at intervals in her room, inspecting your body critically for changes. Most signs are simply Paula slicking further along your guts. Some are softer flanks, a thicker band of fat around your middle.

You’re struggling with the desire to go for an evening run—your body’s natural desire to put its new spoils to good use—when nature’s call first hits you. You put it off a while because you’ve hit a super rare level type on your roguelike, but it’s not long before you answer.

In life, Paula was lively, intelligent, warm, affectionate, opinionated. She was well-traveled and she liked to cook. It turned out she was scarily intense in the bedroom. She was fat and beautiful and dressed well.

In death, she is exactly like every other of your bowel movements. Part out of respect but mostly because there’s something guiltily enjoyable about the act, you don’t sit there on your phone, but are present as you squeeze her out. Smooth and undifferentiated, every feature annihilated by an expert predator’s gut, there is a strange ecstacy in pushing the ruins of a person out through your anus. Frequent flushing keeps her moving, dominos falling within your colon as the traffic jam named Paula resolves.

But not all of Paula. Now cleaned up and emptied of the waste, you pay one last visit to the mirror. See how she has layered beneath your skin? Feel how, despite the weight, your body cries out to move, to be used? You will probably take an evening gym session, convert some of what you took from her to muscle, transmuting feminine softness into strength and hard edges.

Well. Not too hard. You are a man with a demonic appetite. It won’t be long before you hunt again.