ordering in
We wake and you kiss the lines your fangs have scored into me. The heal is imperfect but I love these two smooth, silvery scars. My mind, heart and soul have all been changed by you for months, now. It feels right that my body should be, too.
Waking next to the creamy, welcoming expanse of your warm body… I am appalled that I must hurry to an engagement. I rain kisses upon you and pop a selection of pastries and croissants on a tray in in the oven, quickly neaten up the kitchen and scrub up the worst of my blood, then kiss you goodbye. I am agonised to leave.
You take a leisurely breakfast, spreading flaky pastry thick with butter and jam. Then you hit the bathroom. Your body is changing over time, becoming more efficient. The little girl slides out, gutfudge after a mere eleven hours; and dinner stood no chance, pattering out in a hot, satisfying rhythm despite that it was an extended family’s worth of food. Your toes curl in pleasure on the throne and you take your time. It’s all part of the affirmation of your consumption, and you take a guilty enjoyment from it.
It does mean you’re going to be hungry soonish, though. Time to order in, but with a twist.
Given your nature it’s dangerous to catch your eye. Mortals don’t typically learn defences against the power you can bring to bear. Your memory for your meals is shocking, but you remember a constellation of glimpse faces, shared names, stolen kisses, or whispered secrets, all across the city and beyond.
You drive home and continue your work. In between, a spider in your web, you select one victim who might have forgot she ever met you, and close your eyes, and picture her…
(This is a lie. How could anyone ever forget they met you.)
“—micus brief from Alistair, boring prick, and then we’re about ready for this afternoon. Chaz. Chaz? Charlotte, hello?”
Charlotte snaps out of her sudden reverie. She came over all queer, like she’d been dipped in lukewarm oil so she felt nothing but a thickening in the air. Boss’s boss’s boss Simon is sitting on the corner of her desk looking unimpressed in his best salmon tie. She shakes her head to clear it.
“Sorry Simon, I was… nevermind. Amicus brief, and then good. Anything else?”
“Coffee, if you’d be so good. You okay?”
Charlotte stiffly gets to her feet. “I’m fine, thanks. I’ll put a pot on.” She smiles at him fixedly, getting an uncomfortable smile in return.
A few more exchanges and then Simon goes. Charlotte heads to the firm’s kitchen area, ignoring when one of the other paralegals asks her a question. If she answered she’d have to look in the direction of the corner of the room she feels the presence.
It felt like her sister had come back to visit.
When the coffee’s brewed the feeling is gone. Charlotte has no trouble looking in that empty corner. Her morning proceeds without issue as she adroitly serves her role as a catcher preventing overpaid lawyers and inattentive colleagues from fucking themselves over with missed details. It serves to take her mind off a time she hasn’t thought about in a long time.
The next time you visit her she is taking minutes. No one notices her stiffen and the hairs rise on the back of her neck. The meeting continues—some point of strategy in a defence case, leveraging lack of evidence that the defendant had any motive to cause all those disappearances—but she takes no notes. Her breathing catches, then comes too fast. She can smell the engine oil, metallic and hot. Her ears ring from the explosions that inflated the airbags.
She won’t look. She can’t. The skin on the back of her neck crawls. Please, please, please go away, please.
Sensing the gaping psychic wound creaking open, you grant her her wish. No one notices the missed notes and, other than a friend casting a worried “you okay?” glance after noticing a bead of sweat on the forehead, Charlotte’s episode goes unmarked.
Charlotte splashes water on her face and stares at herself in the mirror. The harsh bathroom lighting makes her eye makeup too severe and makes her apple cheeks too prominent. The lines of her body, once almost skeletally thin, have softened and thickened with years of guilt.
Tired. Too tired. Been working too hard. That’s all.
She lowers her head again to splash more water and then freezes. It’s behind her. She knows that if she looks up, the figure will be there in the mirror, looking right back. And she can’t handle that. The engine oil, the bang, the sound of sirens, the ambulance. The face, familiar and beloved, rendered alien in the flickering glare of red and blue, red and blue.
She can’t handle it. She keeps her eyes closed tight and clenches her fists. “Please, leave me alone,” she whispers, whether to her sister or to whatever’s causing these episodes. “I’m sorry. Please leave me alone.”
It’s fascinating to watch her unravel and place herself slowly in your power. With a name you found her, and with the unfilled sadness in her eyes you knew you could crack her open. All by herself she goes from sensing your presence, to reliving something terrible, to fearing and longing to see you. It is all she can think about.
She keeps her eyes from you all morning. In the afternoon she leaves work early, convinced she is ill.
The number 52 is waiting at her usual bus stop so she has to jog. The queue pours in before she gets there. And then she stops dead before stepping on board.
Her sister is here. She is on the bus.
The knowledge is absolute. Her presence is here. Charlotte is about to see her and face her judgement.
The bus driver, unaware of what is causing the hold up, stares at the young professional currently staring at him with an open mouth. “You alright, love?”
When there is no response, the driver shrugs and prepares to set off. Charlotte feels a terrible ache like she’s been deprived of something precious: her sister didn’t appear! Is she too angry? Is she hiding away?
Only when the door slides itself shut does she see her sister, clear as day, like a reflection in the toughened glass.
“Stephanie,” she breathes, and then she is yours.
“It’s me,” you say, allowing her to build up the image you wear until there’s no difference. A perfect disguise and perfect bait. “I have something to show you. Please, follow me, Charlie.”
You let her expectations choose the name.. Her sister called her Charlie. No one calls her Charlie.
She follows your image in shop windows and bus stops till you guide her onto a different bus route. At one point you lead her off and she chases images glimpsed in car windows and mirrors. Like a woman possessed she seems barely cognisant of her surroundings, following some beacon no one else may perceive.
A house. She staggers towards the front door.
I’ve been at yours for twenty minutes, max. You’re a little distant but you can hold a conversation. I tell you about my day. When you don’t volunteer anything about yours I get out my phone.
“Precisely what did you mean by ‘you’re not the only one who can order in?’”
Your smile is enigmatic. So too is the way you turn from me to the front door, expectant. I wait in vain for an answer for a few seconds.
“Are you being weird for any particular reason or—”
The reason walks in. I watch, astonished, as a pretty stranger lets herself into your house and walks straight past me with hopeful, fearful tears in her eyes. Extending a trembling hand she says, “Steph, please, please forgive me. I would never have driven you if I knew… Oh, Steph, I miss you so much, why didn’t you come sooner?”
You raise your hand in a gesture I don’t recognize. Without breaking her dreamlike patter of pleading and heartbreak she begins removing clothing, unbuttoning severe white blouse and wriggling out of a tartan pencil skirt. I’m astonished when, at a gesture in my direction, I find her placing these garments neatly folded in my hands. Still warm.
You’re getting ready too. Your own clothes are set aside without ceremony. When you gesture forward she comes and kneels before you, still looking up with wonder and trepidation. “Come with you? I don’t… I’ve thought about it lots of times, but I thought… Can you come with me, Steph? I think mum and dad will be…”
A dismissive gesture causes her to rock back over her heels and sprawl back on your floor. You swoop down onto your knees and without issue take hold of her feet.
“… And then we can all be together again, and mum won’t be so sad…”
Nothing in the tone of her heartbroken speech indicates that she feels the smooth encroachment of your mouth along the shaven lengths of her dumpy calves. They plop luxuriously down a throat that growls with a displaced burp and Charlie never seems to notice.
“… When we went to Brighton, I mean, I’d even do the minigolf with the animated skeletons…”
You rock her hips forward to allow your jaw under her backside. For a big girl she’s strangely flat, there, but you saw the way her belly wobbled as she got undressed and now you have no trouble with producing enough saliva to slick her on her way down.
“… Oh Steph, I missed you so much…”
With that much fat to cram down your throat at once it becomes less a job of swallowing and more a job of sucking. You could just let gravity do the work but for a while it’s bliss to feel how her fat squidges back against your tongue and moulds to the arch of your throat. All her hard edges are buried, either in your oesophagus or by a healthy layer of pudge that will soon slide down as well.
“… I never thought I’d see you again…”
Your eyebrows furrow. She’s so fat all her belly had gathered up in your mouth and acted like a stopper. You can’t swallow her easily. The stretch is delicious but your lungs are beginning to burn. You gesture impatiently for me to come help and together we lever her above you. Pressure builds, hinging your jaws wider apart. Tears stream from your eyes and saliva from the corners of your mouth as I stand over you both and push…
“… But it can be like it never hap— ouch…”
Like an avalanche of flab all her belly goes in at once. Your throat jiggles visibly with its contents as Charlotte startles visibly out of her dream. We crammed her down but your fangs nicked her breast and now she makes eye-contact with you. One moment she’s talking to the beloved sister she accidentally killed years hence; the next, an immensely fat woman is sucking her down like an oyster.
Enough of this. Before she can really gather her wits to wrap her head around what’s happening you lurch forward. Beneath your broad thighs are hugely powerful muscles. A whole foot of her is erased from the world and then I’m there, pushing her in by the shoulders. Your stomach protests at the sudden extra load but it’s going to have to chill out: it’s only taken her in from waist down so far.
Charlotte gets out one good scream before your teeth close around her throat. The pierce isn’t as important as the pressure which crushes her larynx. With time to prepare you coil up your legs and snap forward once more. She has no time to make a peep: her weight and its huge inertia anchor her squarely in your gut and your teeth click shut several inches past her head.
You fancy you can read her face as it slides across your tongue. Then she’s gone, gliiiiding down the length of your oesophagus. Your mouth remains cautiously open, waiting for the moment the last scrap of her passes through your cardia. The pressure inside your stomach builds and builds as air is compressed by the sheer volume of your dinner, and then…
~BWOOURRRRrrgggh-fff~
You collapse onto your back, sheened with sweat. It feels like you might split apart. Even if dinner is plump and soft, there’s still so much of her and it’s been a long time since you ate someone so big.
“Give me a hand here…”
I fall to the task with pleasure and gusto. Both my hands join yours in massaging your whale-swollen gut. She shows: even your thick coat of fat is stretched into firmness around her sheer bulk.
All three of us stroke you, us from without, her, struggling, from within. She’s not strong enough to fight the deadly tension of the stomach walls around her, only cause little ripples we chase like surfers across the trackless expanse of your belly. It’s minutes before she settles down, and by the end you seem dizzy with lust.
“She was a big meal even for you,” I say admiringly as my hand cups smouldering pussy I saw you failing to reach around your massive belly. “Greedy. Awesomely greedy. You’re barely conscious right now, you’re so full, and digestion hasn’t really started yet.” You growl as I part your folds, trying to grind against my hand but pinned by the weight in your guts.
“Can’t even fuck yourself you’re so bloated. A whale, Raven. A greedy piggy.” I kiss your belly and tease you with two fingers which are, appropriately enough, swallowed effortlessly. “Let’s help my greedy darling Raven digest her huge meal. Roll over, baby. Here, let me help.”
It’s surprisingly difficult to get you onto your front but we manage it, with some degree of rocking. Your arse, magnificent in size but small against the sheer bulk of your stomach, waves in the air, expectant.
“Let’s grind her down inside you.”
I enter you from behind. Charlotte is our fulcrum, both our weights joining your murderous stomach walls in mincing her. By your first orgasm she is blistered and leaking. As I switch from your pussy to your beautiful arsehole I hear you forcing belches to enjoy the taste of her blood.
We go slow, achingly slow, building your desire and keeping mine high. “If the rest… of your gut feels… like you do here… she died in heaven,” I manage. You moan, then savour another burp. The texture is almost creamy: your juices are corrupting her considerable fat layer and melting it down.
We make love till she’s a fifth of the way down your intestines. We’re both broken and spent and your stomach groans and gurgles in constant protest. You hiccup and there is the crack, sounding somehow distant, of a femur snapping in half.
Delirious, we kiss and fall asleep and wake up and grope your body. This night, too, is long, with time measured by the diameter of your stomach. One time you wake to find me face-deep in your heat; another, you threaten my life by climbing atop and riding me. I think Charlotte’s hips crack apart, but it could easily have been mine.
At some point we truly do sleep. In the morning we will wake sore and happy. You’ll still face the mammoth task of digestion, and I’ll cook you breakfast anyway, and give you adoring tummy rubs, and joke about inviting over another Charlotte.