kristkindlmarkt

Your place is peaceful, silent, deserted. Did you tidy before we met up? It feels weird to think of a vampiress with at least a three-digit meal count doing the hoovering. But all is neat. All is calm.

The front door slams open. You practically fall through, and I almost fall on top of you. Clearly I’d been sandwiching you against the door.

You’re giggly but oh so heavy, meaning your laugh is light but your thighs strain with the effort of redirecting your fall.. You slam against your hallway door and laugh as the dissolving body inside you causes your tummy to bounce. It’s a strange feeling: all the connective tissue strains and relaxes like springs.

“—taxi driver never took his eyes off you. We almost crashed twice!”

“Well, I was making eyes at him. Wondered if he’d come home with us.”

“Ohhh!” My face is a little red from the cold and the alcohol. Yours is still very pale, but your cheeks are coloured. You drank more than me. I take those cheeks in my hands and kiss you deeply. You press your bloated tummy against me and melt into the kiss.

“What would you have done if he’d taken you up on that?” I ask, running my hands firmly up and down your sides. You wince when the slightest pressure squeezes your poor abused stomach. The stallholder’s kid is buried by a feast that followed his consumption. The secret layers of his peeled-back skin and muscles are mercilessly intermingled with Würste, sweets, wine; but also crêpes with Nutella and black cherries, great fried potato cakes, buttered noodles, schnitzel, cheesy chips, and endless chocolates and candied nuts. I fed you the candied almonds by the handful, holding my cupped hand to your mouth like a feed hopper, letting them pour into your mouth as you chewed and forced them down your throat.

“I’d have found space,” you insist, pushing me away and sashaying into your living room. Your back fat rolls deliciously beneath your dress. Your arse sways with your pace, hips deeply buried beneath fat rocking this way then that. You look over your shoulder to catch me staring, and look down with a smirk. “Can you find a place you’d like to put him?”

“A number of them,” I growl, and lope after you. You spin and deflect me with a doughty hip-bump onto the couch. I laugh as I bounce on the cushions, and then you’re atop me, your thighs spread and your knees causing structural damage to the couch either side of my legs.

“Rub my belly. If you stop for any reason before I say you’re going whichever way you’d put the taxi driver.”

“Your arse,” I say, eagerly leaping to my task. My hands on your belly send shocks of distress through the stomach buried beneath your fat like a landmine. You persevere without complaint, knowing that soon, it will cause…

~kwaaaauUoOOOAArp~

I don’t stop, even as I watch your throat physically vibrate with the gas I force up your oesophagus. Meat and sweetness roll over me in a cloud. It’s heaven.

“Don’t stop then or you’ll meet the rest of my dinner on its way down. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Getting wrapped up in chocolate like one of those marshmallows…”

I can’t reply. Your mouth is on mine, kissing me like you’re trying to devour me right now. The release of another knot in your gurgling cauldron of a stomach passes from your mouth into mine. I breathe it out through my nose. I hope you’re blushing. You’ve really got it in you, tonight.

Oh God. It takes me shifting my grip to the pendant curve of your abdomen before I notice you’ve hoiked up your dress and are furiously masturbating above me. My next griiiinding stroke all the way up your front makes you moan. You’re so focused on your gut today.

How fat you must be that your frantic stroking was completely shock-absorbed by your belly.

I scoop and mould that fat. Your flanks and tummy are rolled and massaged even as you kiss me and graze the skin of my neck with your fangs. It’s hellishly difficult to remain focused. Especially when you cum and sink your teeth into my bottom lip. There are so many nerve endings there. I’m in agony when you threaten to tear it away.. But though I moan with pain, I don’t stop my circular exploration of the soft ranges around your belly button.

It’s okay. You have all evening to try to trip me up. Win-win: either your tipsy arse gets a good solid stuffing beyond sanity; or your food baby—actually at least a food adolescent plus a real young adult—receives adulation and attention way into the night, even after you fall asleep.

You know I’ll love it either way..I fight for my life, though. Just like every day and night. I fight paradoxically to be worth more to you alive than as belly fat.