dont drop the pizza

You’re not long showered when you hear your front door open. I call out a greeting in the exact same tone I always do: “Hel-lo,” from high to low.

So when you walk down the stairs you’re wrapped only in a bath sheet. It ripples and moulds to your form in wine red folds. You never got the hang of the towel-hair thing so your long black hair is drying down your back. I look up at you like you’re an angel coming to earth and you smirk and look down.

“You’re going to drop your pizzas.”

“A Goddamn vision,” I murmur, like I didn’t hear you, though I do correct the angle of the four takeaway boxes in my hands. “This world cannot deserve you.”

“It doesn’t,” you insist, with a certain amount of feeling. When you reach the foot of the stairs you lean over the pizza boxes and kiss me. “But it can last a little longer if you keep bringing me food.”

You retire to the settee, sitting there cross-legged on your crimson towel. This means you’re naked.

No matter how many times I see you this way I need become inured. A figure like a feminine Buddha bulges comfortably with the position you have chosen. Your belly sits in your lap and your arms cross idly across it.

It feels like you’re giving yourself the warmest, most loving hug.

There’s a suspicious look in my eye. After a while eyeing up your generous belly, I speak. “There’s someone inside you, isn’t there?”

A thrill of delight sends tingles from your head to your toes. You’re so fat that even the person who knows your body best, second only to yourself, can’t be entirely certain whether an entire human being is in your tummy. Idly, your hands dig into the rolls of adipose tissue that is the legacy of hundreds of living meals. It feels like heaven being you, right now. “There was, for a little while.” You force a little burp, delighting in the brutal sharpness of bile and blood it reports to your palate. “Now there’s only meat.”

I blush. You giggle, a relaxed sound. The shower, run and hunt did you good. “You gonna just stand there, or are you gonna feed me?”

The first slice draws from you a sigh that seems to come from your feet. Like a freezing person climbing into a warm bath, the taste of meat feast and the fluffy clagginess of bread and cheese and barbecue sauce satisfy an ache in your very soul. You take three snapping bites out of the slide before you get around to chewing. A mouthful that size feels decadent. You cram it down entire in one luxurious swallow, and there’s more to bite off.

There’s more to bite for rather a long time. You don’t have to speak, make decisions, or worry about a break in service. Slice after slice smoothly appears before you like magic. You only have to worry about losing yourself in the growing stretch in your middle as all the gaps around your liquefying prey get filled in with human food.

Meat feast becomes diavolo. Diavolo becomes quattro staggione. As you eat you touch your body, relearning the ever expanding contours of breasts, stomach, flowing soft abdomen, flaring thighs and backside. You feel my free hand helping, working hard like I’m kneading dough in your doughy tummy. Each stroke grinds wonderfully against the internal chamber groaning with food, helping it break down the remains of the child who has won hide-and-seek about as hard as it is possible to win. We’re now fighting a battle to fill you up as fast as he gurgles away into your intestines to be devoured anew.

Quattro staggione ends and smoothly transitions into four-cheese. Oozing and flavoursome as it is, by this point you perceive only food. The feeling of satisfaction is all you crave: the feeling of fullness. You’re somehow speeding up as you work through each slice of the family-sized pizza, consigning it to the caustic darkness.

You’re just beginning to get the sharp, splitting pain when the final slide disappears. A mewl of disappointment greets the regrettable absence of a further bite. Your compensation is that two hands b find their way to your tummy, working from belly button to boobs, and everything in between.

You release another long, long sigh. So long it picks up a belch along the way, carrying out the last scrap of space in your belly. ~AaaaahhhwuaOooAArop-glp-aaah~

“Enjoy?” I ask, in a soothing tone of voice.

“I want to eat you,” you breathe, temporarily stopping my heart before you continue: “but then I’ll have no one to rub my tummy.”

“I can… see if I can get a volunteer?” I stumble a little over my words, my atrophied self-preservation fighting my desire to please you above all else.

“Mmmph…” The moment you take to audibly consider it makes my hands shake even as they bury themselves in inches-thick belly flesh. “Nnno… but come here.”

At your gesture I place my hand in yours. You pull me close until your lips rest below the hinge of my elbow. The artery there splits beautifully to your bite, serving you a swift but manageable current of my life’s blood.

They say to fill a jar, put the rocks in first, then the pebbles, then the sand, and finally the water. That’s precisely what you’re doing. I flow into your belly and find the gaps that even food left behind.

You manage to tear yourself away before I get too weak to massage your belly. You have your priorities, after all.