kristkindlmarkt 03
“Good morning.”
We didn’t make it upstairs. You wake up tangled in a blanket you used to stuff inside an oversized T-shirt. How long ago that was…
“Mmlm. What time is it?” Light from still-closed curtains spears into your eyes, making you squint and hold up a hand.
I adjust the curtains. “One of your favourite times.”
A wet splortch originates from somewhere deep within the tangled system south of your stomach. With magnet games, massive accute stuffing episodes and an actual X-ray, we both know precisely how your intestines curve and fold within you. If we want an MRI we’ll need to do that soon: you’re getting big enough you might not fit.
“Breakfast time,” you murmur, with feeling. I grin.
“Breakfast time.”
You’re still thick with food. So much that even under your heavy layer of fat your abdomen is visibly swollen. It’s strange how much your stomach rumbles when by all accounts your body is actively drinking in an unholy amount of nutrition. It goes to show how diligently you have trained it.
I return from the kitchen with a tray. I’ve been experimenting with hash browns again. Together we will perfect the recipe: this is iteration fifty-nine. White pepper and a smidge less onion, fried at two different temperatures to ensure cooked filling and crispy coating. It’s weird how I pick an obsession.
“Raven… I’ve had an image in my head the past couple of weeks and I want to try it. I want you to be mine. For a couple of days. If so you’ll be empty, then very, very full.” I pile hash browns onto your plate and augment them with thin sticks of charcoal that might once have been sausages. I’ve been perfecting a way to get the charred flavour as deep as possible without developing the burnt taste as far as acridness.
You take a fork and stab a potato triangle.. It cracks and yields between your teeth. With your eyes trained on me you remember the last time I asked you to be mine. You sucked the unborn child out of a woman and ate her flesh in great gobbets. You chew and consider."
“I’ll be empty?”
“Yes. This will be your last meal for a while. But you’ll be fed after this passes. And I’ll restrain you, for an extended period. You’ll be mine and it will be beautiful.”
Sausage cracks too between your teeth. Charred flesh like a burnt offering. You recall when I cooked the flesh of your meal, recently.
I clearly have the odd good idea. “Okay.”
I grin, and hand you a mug of tea.
Breakfast keeps on coming. Hash browns turn out to be an Introductory round. You’re still sore in your guts, having stretched them out aggressively in the German market. But I bring food and you pile it into yourself. Hash browns are followed by a straight full-English. I omitted black pudding and when you comment I offer you my arm. With the way you delicately wipe bean juice from your lips and immediately sink your fangs into the artery at the crook of my elbow… I don’t think you’ve ever made me feel more like a foodstuff. You drink off a quick pint of rich, thick blood, then set upon scorched bacon with renewed abandon.
I’ve never been a black pudding substitute before.
The breakfast hash is technically more potatoes but you don’t complain. By this point, morning relaxation combines with food coma haziness. You feel giddy when I take up the fork, rubbing your cheek against the arm you pierced not quarter of an hour ago, before accepting mouthful after mouthful of fried potatoes, peppers, onions and leftover ham we somehow have. It’s spiced to perfection but whatever, it’s ballast that weighs down your bowling-ball stomach and squishes down on your increasingly packed colon.
Together we work to fill you up. You have to turn away the fork a couple of times to let things settle down. Two monumental meals and an entire human being pack and squeeze their way through your guts, top to literally bottom. Pressure, pressure across all your front, sitting heavy in your pelvis, squeezing your pendant belly into your lap.
“Rub,” is your simple instruction as soon as you swallow the last forkful. I set to it urgently. You force out burps to make room, and don’t have to try so hard with the other end and the aftermath of its hearty German cuisine. If there were another person here they’d be fanning you, such is the discomfort of your stretch. You rock a little in your chair.
But you’re going to be mine. For a couple of days. I begin to count the hours till you shit out my lovingly cooked breakfast.
I can’t wait.