digestive focus

At first, your body had little chance to do anything chemical to Charlotte. Your saliva is mostly just lubricant to a struggling body, and while your acids would have raised severe stinging pain on the delicate mucous membranes of her nostrils, eyes and, if she were soaked fast enough, her sex, only an inflammation response would have been raised. Mechanically, your body actually dislocated her shoulder when your stomach contracted at just the right point of her sliding inside. Otherwise, she was perfectly whole.

Her sheer size kept her innards safe and partially interfered with the excretion of the enzymes that would liquefy her. For hours, she pressed against your walls in every direction. You felt her against your spine. You felt her sitting in your hips, where she crushed your guts downwards. You felt her stretch ab muscles. You felt your breathing become shallower as she pressed up into your chest cavity, her shoulders rubbing the insides of your bottommost ribs.

Keratin is very difficult for human enzymes to break down, but the skin isn’t a perfect layer of it. She will have felt, if she could concentrate over the heat, tightness, darkness, stink and terror, how her skin blistered and began to soften as cell walls were attacked by lipases. She protected her head and closed her eyes so maybe lesions would have blossomed open elsewhere before the obvious holes started to degrade…

But once the perimeter was breached, progress sped up.

Even if she tried, she couldn’t protect every wound from being ground down by your gut walls and polluted by fresh enzymes, gnawing apart larger and larger pits in her flesh. Beneath the skin is fat which would have been freed from adipose cells as they popped in their billions. Such a glut would glaze the insides of your stomach with a coating of literal fat, sort of like she were being squeezed for oil. This fat ran down the internal throat of your pylorus and was emulsified by an endless stream of bile, so it could be further broken down and then, pressed between hungry villi in your intestines, stolen almost entire for use in your own body.

One hopes for her sake she were dead by this point, while deep nerves and nerve structures were being directly attacked below her notional skin.

Her skin came apart like a tattered flag beneath your stomach’s grinding, crushing attention and the attention I was giving you on the outside, adding to the pressure. Though diminishing she still filled you to absurdity: the load was merely beginning to soften and trickle down.

Muscle takes time. It came away in sheets of fibres as your pepsin and other proteases picked apart that stuff that allowed her to walk into your embrace. By now, though, the incredible, repetitive forces acting on her joints would have begun to tear the connections of her ligaments. When you feel your dinner go soft all of a sudden, that’s what’s happening: a hip fails, say, which puts massive strain on the knee that is already ready to pop. So one thing happens and then, poof, she doesn’t have legs anymore but long bones swimming in very thick soup.

By this point the vital organs are under attack. Healthy and nutritious, they are not made to withstand any sort of attack. Delicate microscopic structures that took a lifetime to develop are annihilated wholesale, becoming a wave of vitamins and minerals needed in spades by a growing girl like you. The brain in its casing is the purest example of the destruction of fine structure. Networks that somehow mapped out the secret pathways of her soul wilt like paper streamers before a flamethrower. The soul itself is long gone. You know what to do with those.

Eventually the bones remain. Alkaline, they almost offer themselves for digestion. Calcium is leached into the slop in your belly until they are weak enough to crack with contractions, or soft enough to slip like firm jelly through your guts.

All along, whether waking, sleeping, rubbing or fucking, your body has been doing its best to stuff your abdomen with her liquid remains. Your digestive system has ganglia of nerve cells of startling sophistication. A second brain coordinates the literally thousands of muscles required to suck her finger bones into your intestines and squeeze bloodied, bile-adulterated chyme through your system. It does this even while you laugh or bite me or bed for orgasm on all fours.

And even though Charlotte’s form is gone and your stomach has emptied out, you still carry her, heavy with your digestive juices, all through your belly. Each twist and turn is stuffed to breaking. Your intestines are stretched as wide as they can possibly go. You feel it when you twist: a sensation of resistance, and a strange precursor of the feeling of having to go. We feel it merely by touching you. Beneath your own fat, rigid muscular tubes form a holding pattern for your prey’s flesh.