lunchtime kiss
The sunglasses are back, but thankfully I only put them on when I know no one can see, as a bit of a joke.
You seem annoyed. Your mouth is set and grim as you meet me in the IT suite. The tech closet is a graveyard of dead machines no one is confident enough to dispose of. Small whiteboards on the wall track some out of date networking bollocks from ten years ago, the temporary ink faded and make permanent by time.
“I told you not to come here—”
“—legitimate business. I’m contracting. Look.” I flash a visitor badge and remove the damn sunglasses. Apparently I’m not as funny as I think I am.
You scan the pass, the flash of anger draining away, but leaving a certain coldness at having been defied. I’ve taken a step back and my hands are up: it must be clear on your face how you feel.
“Was invited in. I’m here to sort out the networking. Legitimate contracting. If you’d rather, we needn’t even meet. I’ve got an actual job to do.”
There is a tense silence. Humming fans from a few dusty boxes under a table show which elements of the graveyard are still alive and probably performing some critical role in the infrastructure of the whole school.
It will not have escaped your notice that there is a heartbeat coming from a bag in the corner of the room.
“How long will she be asleep?”
I don’t ask how you know it’s a she. “Forty-five minutes minimum.”
“You don’t get to be here. Go.” You’re not even looking at me: eyes only for the sports bag you know to be specially reinforced. A couple of cables peek out of the top, indicating that the contents are definitely technological and uninteresting.
I hesitate, but not for the reason you think. Perhaps you don’t realise how imposing you are. Your presence, feminine and bulky in the dimly lit server room, is made sharp by the intensity of your gaze, the coldness in your voice. Looking at you now I am reminded of how dangerous you can be. The increase in my heartrate is the only external sign given as a paean of adoration ignites within me. Maybe the soft smile in my eyes, too.
Those irises, ruddy with piqued hunger, flicker to me. I get the fuck out, squeezing myself past you quickly..
She is sleeping. When you open the bag and set aside the smokescreen of cables, golden tresses remain. You must brush them aside to reveal her peaceful face, lips slightly parted in repose.
Your stomach growls to wake the dead. It fails to move her but spurs you on, bringing with it a pang of hunger all across your middle. Does it feel strange to feel so hungry when your body is so fat, so replete with food already consumed and transfigured?
As you tease her out of the bag you can cradle her to you. Your breasts make the perfect shelf. A set of clippers and a packet of ProPlus fall back into the bag. Apparently I was worried you’d not like her long hair; and last time you complained that the drugs in your lunch’s system made you drowsy.
You smile down at the cherubic face.
She never stirs as you claim her for yourself. Long hair isn’t your favourite but you couldn’t bear to mar the angelic perfection of this little offering; and flavour isn’t the point for you, anyway. In a serene, sedate train of gulps you convert her from sleeping mannequin to long, stretching bulge in train down your up-raised throat, to sweet and settling sense of fullness. There’s a slide they make, naturally curling up inside the deadly soft curve of your stomach walls, where you get to feel every inch of your tummy being stimulated at the same time. This time it gives you a little hiccup—possibly her hair does that—which blooms into a long, airy belch.
~hip-prrrrroaaaaAaaaUuuuock~
She doesn’t suffer, and she doesn’t last long. Unconscious, she never fights to raise her face from the pool of caustic juices your stomach slavers over her welcome body. Her death throes are brief. You feel them like butterflies beneath your ribcage. Her soul rises, questioning and confused, and is immediately crushed into place with barely a squeak. She is a good girl.
She’s so small nothing is visible beneath the awesome swell of fat you already carry. Tiny belches announce her presence to you and you alone as you step back into regularly scheduled activities. You don’t see me again for the rest of the day.
It’s only when you start the first class after break that your belches begin bringing up hot copper. Delight and warmth shiver through your body, skilfully hidden. She’ll be keeping you company through your whole day, well past dinner; but, knowing me, I’ll be keen to make it up to you with a feast, later.