suspended 02

Did you meditate? Did you travel to distant planes and pluck yourself an unsuspecting meal from among your fellow travelers? I don’t know. I know that my automated monitoring system showed minimum arousal and no call for attention. Honestly, maybe you just slept. You’ve been working so hard lately.

No work to do now but wait. A spider in her web; except the fly will be impaled on your fangs without you lifting a finger.

Downstairs, conversation ebbs and flows. Something she says makes me laugh in that suddenly-delighted way I have, loud and hearty. She laughs, too, deep and full of life. We clearly know one another.

Time flows unmarked in the trackless gloom of your den. No way to tell how long I spend coercing your dinner into the state and manner I want her. Our voices become lower. Perhaps we are sitting closer together.

Safewords. I’m going through safewords with all the conscientiousness of someone who expects to still have a partner after play is over. Maybe you wonder if I’m a sociopath. We discuss aftercare.

“Alexa: Atmosphere.”

A speaker from somewhere in front of you fades into life. Ambient music, perhaps Eno. Something to texture the air rather than build up structure and draw the attention. Your tummy lets out a gurgling squeal and the structureless music embraces it.

“Just follow the sound of music. I’ll watch you up the stairs.”

A giggle rises in volume, its source creaking slowly up the stairs. Oh please, oh please let her be massive. Please let her be big enough to fill this growing void inside you.

The door opens. Light streams in and a woman hesitates there. She blocks a lot of the light. She is wide. She is perfect.

You think she is looking right at you. Vague curiosity crosses your mind about how I might subdue her for you. But she doesn’t react like a person who has seen an obese goddess suspended from a litter. Your eyes adjust quickly to the light and you perceive that she is wearing a blindfold.

I’m there to guide her into the room. “Feel for the blanket on your feet. There we go. Slowly now, spin for me.”

Right in front of you your prey performs a shy little rotation, arms out to the sides. The landing light reveals her in harsh relief. You get to watch the contours reveal themselves, encumbered only by underwear.

She is the perfect gumdrop. A pear. From the top she starts sweet, her blush painting two full cheeks that crowd a little on her rosebud mouth. Her jawline is rolled over with chub that diminishes her attraction for you but makes her perfect as food. Breasts that are overlarge for her ample frame are cupped and shaped by a balconette bra. She probably thinks their weight stretches them down too much but you can feel their yielding softness between your teeth even now and the sensation makes you have to swallow a mouthful of saliva.

Then things get serious. She has a waistline, but only, it seems, to put her belly and arse in greater contrast. She swells out like a church bell. She’s twenty-three stone if she’s a pound. Her thighs are mandated to be wide as my waist, almost. Wide as yours, to carry all of that excess.

“Beautiful,” I murmur. The blush intensifies as if I’m addressing her, but you can see how my face, wrapped in shadow, is turned only to you.

A rumble in your stomach like a thunderclap overrides the music and she turns in your direction. “Did you hear that?”

“Plumbing,” I say. And, “Alexa, volume up. Chloë, kneel for me.”

We put on a little show for you. Mina heaves herself down on one knee and then the next, unwittingly facing you. How much slower she moves than you! Her fat slows her down and she lacks the power latent in your own body. A butter tablet through and through, fatted and marbled like foie gras. Once down I tie a quick single-column tie to a wrist and fold that arm behind her… and commence a display of an art form I’ve talked about with you but not employed: ichinawa.

One rope. I scarcely have two metres of rope to play with, but it’s not about the tie. It’s about tension, and softness, and striking speed followed by pulling close and pausing. There is little symmetry. There is no plan. What we do is more like foreplay than normal tying.

What Chloë doesn’t know is that it’s not just her I’m connecting with. Our little dance is overseen by my goddess and I take care to cut the rope into her body to accentuate her features for your delectation. She feels the rope biting into her flank and my lips pressing sensuously against her neck: you see the bite demonstrate how deep the rope must go to find something that isn’t fat. I show you in slices just how many living calories I’m going to serve you.

To my great gratification, both of you grow wet.

“Relax a moment,” I instruct Chloë, my lips at her ear. “I will tie you traditionally. Then, I’ll suspend you from a harness. …” My eyes smile up at you. “Is removing your underwear green? And eating you?”

A shudder runs through her body, causing interesting interference patterns of wobbles in that great blancmange of a tummy. “Yes. Green.”

I throw you a shrug. Can’t say fairer than that. Your eyes glitter in the dark.

You haven’t ever got to watch the box tie before. TK. Her arms are locked behind her back in no time. No need for a body harness—I dash off a quick ankle tie, which makes her giggle because her feet are ticklish. The rope is that woven rawhide stuff I invented that your stomach has no trouble with.

“Hold still while I lower the harness.” I give her a firm bite on the shoulder, causing her to gasp and hold still. “Good girl.”

Behind you I play with the attachment points. Pulleys lower first your feet then the rest of you down till your tummy just barely brushes the ground. In front of you, a couple of feet away, prey has no idea how close she is too destruction.

“Okay, I’ll place you in the harness now. Rock over your hips… That’s right… And now, onto your front. That’s it. That’s perfect. Do you know the half of how perfect you are for this?”

Chloë seems shy, burying her face in the plush blanket. You watch her from between my legs as I shuffle back against your harness, swinging you up a couple of feet in distance. Then I straighten her legs. Her feet are scant inches from your lips and you can feel the tension in the lines waiting to swing you forward. When you look along her body you see thighs leading to an Everest of a backside. What can you do but faithfully open your jaws? Saliva pools on your tongue ready to ease her way in.

“Ready?”

Your voice comes unarticulated from your open throat: “uh-huh.”

We don’t get to see if Chloë notices the sudden third voice or is scared by it. I leap lightly away and the harness swings you forward like a pendulum. Effortlessly lubricated, her calves glide into your hot throat.

At the apex of your swing, you bite down.

Your weight gives you huge momentum but her weight pins her to the ground. The result is that your fangs tear a wicked gash into the thickest part of her right calf before she starts to slide along the ground. The luxurious blanket is slick atop the laminate flooring.

Her scream is cut off. I must have crammed something into her mouth. Whatever. Blood is welling into your mouth, you have kilos of woman in your oesophagus, and the backswing is about to finish. You long to reach forwards with your arms and cram her in, but for now this is all you can do.

The next, shallower forward stroke sees your lips glide up to mid-thighs. She forces your jaws wider apart and your throat forces her to stop struggling as it clamps down. She can still make muffled screams and whimpering attempts at speech, but may have already uttered the last intelligible word that anyone will ever hear.

Doesn’t matter. She’s massive and she’s warm and full of fat and blood and meat. You bite down as hard as you can on her thighs, peeling away skin that is stretched taut. Your tongue rucks against her thigh, desperately seeking the blood-taste.

Your swing is arrested but it’s not your job to get this woman inside you: it’s mine. While she tries to kick and struggle free of her ropes—an impossible task in the timeframes she had available to her—I position myself by her head and push.

You feel the pressure going the right way—in—and release your bite. You swallow and swallow, ripples of muscular contaction patterning the fatty skin you’ve already enveloped, but ultimately failing to advance. Instead you wait for another push.

It comes swiftly. The sheer size of her backside actually pushes you back, so the harness rises. You must rock your jaw side-to-side to make progress, working her inside like a snake over excessively large prey. The stretch is incredible, and growing more pronounced: your entire throat right down to your stomach feels like it’s being Chinese burned.

Her arse is only half inside.. You face strains and turns red but I’m not letting you off. You will devour this whale of a woman. She fills your chest cavity. Your heart flutters heavily.

The harness. It’s too tight. I must have known. I must have planned. It’s torture, being stretched within and crushed without.

Still you swallow. Somehow you use the constriction of the harness to your advantage. What feels like tonnes of pressure bear down on the hips currently inching down your throat, and then CRACK, her pelvis folds with a sound that travels through your bones like a gunshot. She surges forwards a foot until her flab gets in the way. Her forestalled scream goes on for seconds.

So many folds.. She’s like a rubber bung. But you will have her. You have to have her. You’re so empty and there’s so much of her…

This isn’t a smooth and beautiful swallowing. It’s a war of attrition. Her crippled legs begin to pour into your hellish, over-ready stomach and saliva drips from your lips stretched tight around her gut. Anything to lubricate her. Anything to get her down your gullet.

It’s coming. You can feel it. One push I make does nothing except swing you back. And again. And on the next one, another inch slips inside. Her belly button slips onto your tongue.

When it comes, it comes all at once. I push and you find a fraction of a degree for your jaws to open further… and then she’s squeezing into you like toothpaste. Right up to her tits you swing, then bite down on her back to prevent her escape. Her belly is utterly claimed by your throat and sucked down and down with each agonised swallow. More and more of her crowns into your stomach and the lines go taut. Your belly is going to expand and the harness is going to squeeze you so tightly it’ll crush her to death for you.

The biggest part is inside. Comparatively gentle, we work the rest of her in together. You suck in her tits one after the other, a nipple squeezing a furrow over your tongue. I take pity and cut some rope so the arms tied behind her don’t get wrenched up and break her shoulders. She sobs from a diaphragm deep inside you as your lips seal her head inside, and the released arms are a foregone conclusion, eloquently signing her desperation and despair until they, too, vanish from the world outside you.

Outside you, smooth skin harshly patterned by the diamonds of the harness. Your fat squeezed out further to make space for the woman being destroyed by your insides. I wipe spittle from your mouth and all sign of digestive fluids is then gone,

You gasp and moan, and the instant her hands slip through the kiss of your cardia you erupt with a desperate belch: “~gwOOOooaaaauGhk~ god no, no, too much, to much…”

“Shhh, you can do it, love, relax. Relax into it…”

“Too—hic—tioOOAAUck -ight.”

So full. So heavy. She would have been a monstrous challenge without the harness but with it you can feel her struggles trying to hear you apart. Your belly is now pressed flat against the floor, extra weight cosseted behind your existing proud fat.

I glance at the safety scissors and the rope behind you. Touch the rope around your middle. Then, reaching a decision, I kneel to your head height.

“You’ve got this, Raven. Breathe. Just breathe.”

You wince as her final struggles grate against the confines. It feels like she’s growing… Till with one final convulsion she goes still inside you. You shiver, parasympathetic nervous system struggling with the overload.

Your stomach, stretched to its limits, does what it does best. Hunger caused a bitter overproduction of enzymes and these are now being put to good use. Tentative ripples traverse the sore muscle and bathe your imposing guest. Perhaps you are not conscious of the sensation, but it brings with it a sense of profound satisfaction. Hormones flood your system and blood is shunted into your gut. Have you ever been so full?

“Mmn, ~braaaup~ help break her drrrOoaup -own.”

“With pleasure, my dear Raven.”

First, I apparently want to restore you to your former vantage. The pulleys resist far more strongly this time, but I heft you into the air. Your belly balloons below you like an enormous cushion, squeezed by the rope and pushing the rest of you up into the harness knots. It’s like Chloë is tied into the harness and you’re a wrapper around her. But a wrapper that even now is pumping digestive juices into her chamber, beginning to tear apart the fabric of her being.

You make a tentative sound when my hands join you at your sides. “Careful…”

I start gentle and you let me know what you can take. I rub you as deeply as we can manage, helping your struggling guts. Digestion brings with it purple waves of pleasure that run through you from the top of your head to your toes. They bear away consciousness, drawing you toward a deep, deep sleep.