anatomy

Duodenum, jejenum, ileum. Caecum. Ascending, transverse, descending. Sigmoid. Rectum. Chloë takes so long to break down that her products are already trickling through your ascending colon by the time your stomach is actually empty.

I mark off the parts of the intestines as I watch. Moment by moment your rope-restricted fat is only moved by your breathing, if it moves at all. But over tens of minutes… rope that was tight slackens, and space is taken up lower down. The lamps were carefully placed to cast long shadows over your body. This means the tiniest change in roundness, such as when your lower tummy begins to swell with her, visibly throws, say, the fronts of your thighs into darkness. If I unfocus my eyes, I can imagine she’s still inside you, crawling her way lower down.

She isn’t, though. Not in that way. Every secret part of her has been chemically cracked open and exposed to your ruthless biology. Her marrow emulsified for you, sweet and easy. Her liver frothed as it came apart into rich protein soup. Every cubic centimeter of her brain, quiet denizen of the dark cave behind her likewise-digested eyes, mixed with your bile exactly like the rest of her.

It’s a rout. Square yards of your greedy inner lining squeeze her liquid body through your abdomen. Every touch leaves her diminished, body and soul. You pillage her for sugars, fatty acids, amino acids, minerals, salts, exactly as if your palace of a body ravenously needed them. Everything you take passes into your blood. Your gatekeeper liver captures and converts some of her, and the rest flows freely through you, indistinguishable from everything that makes up you. Even before your fat cells absorb her metabolites, she truly is a part of you.

All of this you know. But what you feel is, once the pain of an overfull stomach diminishes, gorgeous heat and weight centred on your tummy. You experience your fat meal like laudinum pulling you into warm sleep. The only reason you fight it is to experience more. It’s like she’s giving you a well-earned internal massage. Even the stuttering kickback farts that your intestines pull from her are a joy. A reminder of how real and natural is the process to which you are subjecting her.

She’s not the only one massaging you. Perhaps you dozed off, but you awake to feel my hands digging through your fat to knead at the heavy piping running through you. It’s heavenly, taking weight and encouraging movement and emphasising just how heavy your guts are with liquified girl.

Being so crammed, every detail of your innards stands out, even beneath your deep fat and the straining rope. When I heft the guts behind your slitted belly button you feel soft and pliable. When I travel closer to your flanks you are bulkier, stiffer. If course, once you’ve taken the cream, what’s left of your chunky meal is waste.

Annihilated woman physically pushes its way through your large intestine, at first sloppy, and consolidating as you suck even the water out of it. I follow its path over hours, guessing and rediscovering where the vanguard is. The moment it touches your sigmoid you let out the tiniest little sex sound. In this context it is so incredibly cute I actually gasp.

What comes next? More. All of her is subject to your pillaging her body. No scrap is sacred. Even her soul is weak and exhausted when the remains of her body pack entirely into the brown and stinking darkness of your colon. It’s amazing, really. Your perfect body has graceful curves and gorgeous fat and a face so beautiful it mesmerises even you. But what secrets you hide! A filthy Labyrinth whose tooting emissions are a milquetoast hint at the noisome contents fermenting within. Your body is done with her. You are full with the desire to let her go.

“Mmn.” Your lips turn down in discomfort.

“Keep her inside a little longer for me, Raven.” I stroke up and down your whole front, breast to stomach to belly. “Chloë was cute. Kind. A real sweetheart. Volunteered. The proudest aunt Now she’s your shit it’s only fair you get to think about the life you took.”

You squirm in your ropes but don’t protest. Think about the life you took? “Mine.” A careful relaxation allows a low gust of Chloë to stream out. I must have cracked a window at some point, otherwise her presence would be felt like a poltergeist.

“Yours,” I agree, stroking your round flank affectionately.

Another internal rumble and your brows furrow. Pressure builds against a single internal ring of muscle.

This is going to be a long “little longer”, you can tell.