liver n onions 01
Your voice on the phone is sleepy. “Come over.”
My reply is sleepy, too, because I was asleep. It’s late. “Mm?”
“Come oooover. ~hc-bwourp~”
My bed creaks as I sit up in it. Damn. Need to fix those slats we broke under your gradually increasing bulk. My voice is now fully awake, tense with excitement. “I’ll be right there.”
Then you give me an address I don’t recognise. Oh. It’s going to be one of those nights.
The door is unlocked. I pass family photos, just the father and a couple of kids. The semi-detached house is IKEA-bachelor standard. Divorce, I surmise.
I wonder if the kids were home when you arrived.
You look up when I peek around the living room door, sprawled on a white-leather couch. Well, not entirely white anymore. Some of the red on your hands has carelessly tracked across it, showing up shockingly bright.
Your teeth are white in a scarlet circle. “You came over!”
While remaining in the living room doorway I lean back so I can see through the kitchen doorway. Unmoving legs overhang the tabletop. I can’t see the rest of what’s going on in there but the linoleum floor is slick, tracked through in a single set of bloody footprints to a confused and fading mess near the bottom of the stairs.. “I came over… Did you want a lift, love?”
“No!” You suck your fingers idly, and you’re about to speak when a surprise belch cracks its way out of your throat. “~krrrrrrghf~, no. Just lazy. Wanted you here.”
With a murder scene next door my heart has the audacity to leap inside my chest, as if we were school kids and you’d just told me you liked me for the first time. I actually respond in that vein, saying, to my blood-covered murderess: “aww!”
“C’mere.” You hook a finger to summon me.
As I walk into the room to stand before you, the full state of carnage is revealed. There’s definitely more than one person inside you. Your stomach is like another presence, tightly packed but sprawling into your lap. Still, I can’t see anything of your ingested prey. Your fat, even stretched thin, smothers all detail.
My eyes flicker to the hallway with its photographs. A tween and one a little younger, maybe? I look back to see tiny blush on your cheeks. You dig your palms into your belly. “Heard them coming down the stairs when I was eating their dad,” you say, matter of fact. “Got to them before they saw anything they shouldn’t see.”
My mouth opens and closes a few times without words. A kindness indeed to face your fanged mouth and its darkness rather than see what that mouth had done to their father. The elder sister and younger brother are well on their way to stewing down. “You ate three people?”
“Mhmm. Well, two and a half. And two were small. Com— ~GWOoourrRRP~, ‘scuse me, come here.” The command in your expression is tempered by the blush that persists. I think you are embarrassed by just how greedy you’ve been. It’s heartbreakingly cute, even as you digest away an entire family unit with blood still on your lips.
I kneel down. My hands find the proud swell of your stomach and press down, eliciting a faint crunch and forcing a moan from you.
“Careful. Full. Stretched.”
“I’m not surprised,” I murmur, frankly awed. “This is a lot even for you. You’ve been such a pig, Raven.”
You nod and incline your head, allowing your hair to fall on the right hand side of your face. Blood mats the hair on the left hand side of your head, which only a few thick strands escape..
“You’re so beautiful.” I squeeze up from belly button to your breasts, feeling the faintest suggestion of two submerged and drowned shapes slopping apart and then back together. You release a low spell of gas behind your fist. “So radiantly beautiful.”
Your eyes sparkle from beneath your hair. “Wanna know a secret?”
“You’re still hungry?” I weigh one of your breasts experimentally in its cup.
“I’m still hungry. Your father was a butcher, right?” You grasp the weighing hand and hold it to your cheek, looking up at me with exaggerated, pleading eyes. “I’m wasting away…”
“You’re too big to fit through the kitchen door, you mean,” I murmur. Maybe you don’t notice but there are tears stinging in the corners of my eyes. Your greatest crimes seem to me to be the truest affirmations of your predatory nature. I feel like I could sing. “Let me see what I remember.”
The smile you throw me has all the delight of an innocent, for all that it is buried within a face clouded with the father’s blood. I lean forward and kiss you. We kiss for a long while.
Your tummy actually rumbles.
He must have fought. There are many signs of struggle in here and it must have caused a huge racket. The contents of a spice rack scatter across the floor, broken glass making the ground hazardous underfoot and perfuming the air with a cacophony. A microwave burst on the ground, adding to the shards that skittered everywhere. A drawer must have been pulled out in the struggle, and washing-up left for later is scattered across the work surfaces.
And then there’s the body on the table.
Varnished oak has been drowned and streaked with blood. Half his face has gone, cheek and lips chewed away and the flesh followed down to the neck. The glint of recently-living bone is revealed in one arm, tawny-brown from where you tore away and devoted the biceps and the fine muscles of the forearm. The other arm is just gone, ending in a suspiciously clean shoulder cut that hints at a supernatural blade. His chest has been destroyed. It’s a stripped carcass, meat devoured, heart devoured, even the lungs gone. I see the shiny burgundy swell of the liver, untouched, though the diaphragm has been peeled away. Perhaps it is at this point that you were interrupted.
The children would have sunk into a pit filled with great mawfuls of this ragged flesh. What better introduction for food to their place than to squeeze them into a sack of food?
As I’m surveying the carnage, I hear your voice float in, sugary sweet. “I think I left my wine in there~”
You receive a glass of wine and another kiss.
Back in the kitchen, I have a plan. Now. Does he own a knife sharpener?
You sip your wine and fight sleep. Your stomach roars its attack on the bodies of your dinner, which kind of helps keep you awake because you don’t want to miss a single gurgle or belch. The action of your body, as ever, fascinates you. You make a game of trying to discern where lie the skulls dissolving inside you.
The sizzle and scent of frying meat makes the gurgling ever more intense. Your mouth becomes wet. Anticipation mixes with raw corporeal satiation and, frankly, the aching need in your cunt that touching your fat, stuffed body always ignites. When I bring in the first plate I find you desperately trying to reach yourself around your overpacked gut.
When I balance the plate on that gut you grasp it eagerly, your quest forgot.
“Liver, well done, sizzled over bacon.” Maybe cooked offal isn’t your normal bag, but the scent of your prey’s liver fried crispy against the smokiness of the bacon makes the watering of your mouth become a flood.
“Need a table,” you murmur, balancing the plate with one hand and trying to imagine using knife and fork with the other.
“It’s cut into strips. Here’s a fork. No need to stand on decorum.” I give your red-smeared face a look of heavy irony. “Especially given… this…”
Between rotund thighs, buried under mountainous belly, it’s a trek to reach your pussy. You inhale sharply when you feel my fingers brush you, ripe and aching. You select and bite into a strip even as you rock your hips against me. Penetration, or clit? I stroke from one to the other till your body has told me what it needs. Savory meat fills your mouth and the incremental ratchetting up of torturous pressure inside your stomach burns your loins. A human liver is large. You cum before you’re finished.
The last few strips disappear between jaws that a few moments ago opened wide in ecstacy. You swallow, then reach forward to pull me towards them. I stare into the beautiful, deadly, cathedral-vaulted void. Your open-mouthed belch is wet and pungent and makes you blush to be so gross, but the moment carried you away with it. “More,” you say, and let me go.
Humans aren’t meant to be cooked quickly. Our meat is not tender. I do a lot of slicing and being clever about things, but need to serve more offal while everything has a chance to cook.
I devil a mean kidney. Crispy like KFC at the edges, his tender kidneys are paired with chilli in a way that works surprisingly well. There’s not much of them, so no more wanking for you before they’re safely tucked away.
Soy-marinated thigh slices, cut across the grain, are sizzled in an endless stream. Think of them as very flavoursome and toothsome pork. Plates come piled high. Your stomach begins to swell even as his raw flesh begins to pump out of your stomach.
In bringing the third plate I saw how intently your eyes followed the food. It’s incredible now much you crave to be full. So now’s the time to place before you a massive seared but frankly blood-temperature thigh fillet in front of you. No cutlery. Its crust is charred and seasoned but its bulk is raw, an invitation to animal excess. “Go wild,” I say. You do, tearing into it with sharp teeth, chewing the flavoursome crust and swallowing down great gobbets of the rest.
An experiment with a calf ceviche turns out to be a failure. Vinegar marinade is better suited for lighter meats. You swallow it down whole, not wanting to waste anything.
Inside you, the children soften and slough. Your whole body is processing food. Your spirit is processing food. When I bring the other thigh fillet you heave yourself above me and eat from a plate on the ground, granting me the suffocating reward of almost drowning me in your cunny. You skillfully chase an orgasm and just barely hold back from killing me in one of five separate ways. I get my own back by forcing you to cum with my fingers in your raised arse, incidentally adding a potential sixth way you might accidentally kill me.
I wash up well and get back to work.
A pressure cooker enabled the stew. All the rest of the good meat is rendered tender and melting. Have you ever eaten like this before? Human is meant to taste like pork, and most meat animals are a very small number of years old. This is a very pure expression of the flavour as hypermatured meat releases all its goodness into the broth. I feed it to you spoonful by steaming spoonful, relishing the sound of your slurping as you empty the spoon each time.
Pleasant heat flows down your throat. Calming heat. Soporiphic. With your groaning digestive system packed fit to burst, father and children having been sucked partially down into intestines where they wind and fill out your abdomen, you can barely keep your eyes open. I wash your face and hands with a steaming fluffy towel and general help tidy you up. You snap at my hand distractedly as it comes too close and I cup your cheek and kiss your mouth. You could just as easily have bitten me there but you don’t. I think on some level you know you would play out the scenario that led to the half-devoured body on the kitchen table, and I guess you’re not done with me yet.
Not tonight, anyway. I convince you against great protests to dress your bottom half (nothing will cover your top so we chance it) and waddle on down to the car. You lean on me heavily and barely fit between seat and dashboard. On the way back you make us stop at a McDonalds drive through for fries and a milkshake, and I squeeze your hand and tell you I love you.