chloe

I wonder, do you blame poor Chloë, for ramming herself against your aching back door? Do you blame yourself for your greed? Do you blame me for literally feeding another human being to you, and choosing the biggest woman in my acquaintance?

I guess we’re all to blame.

Fullness has its effect so differently depending on where your food is. She stretched your stomach to breaking point, made you close to tears. Then came the sleepy, heavy drag of absorption as she slicked through guts like sausages. And now, fullness lies heavy within your pelvis, firing nerve endings that scream for you to let her go. And I won’t let you let her go.

The ropes have come back. At least you can feel them again, sore against your skin as you squirm in discomfort. You know I’m watching as your body continues to compact your one-time prey.

After a particularly rough convulsion presses tight through what feels like literally your whole bowel—feel it roll across your belly and down to desperately-clenched anus—you can’t help but whimper.

“Need to…”

“Nearly there. Just a little longer.”

It wouldn’t be nearly as bad if it were just solids, but the human body is largely water. Despite your best efforts earlier, your bladder is stretched too, feeling thin as a water balloon. Your urethra twitches with the effort of containment. Perhaps it fails just a couple of drops. Perhaps they catch the light as they fall, like citrine jewels. Even the possibility brings guilty heat to your cheeks.

You’re close to just seeing what happens if you let go when you hear me stand. “Okay. You did it. Twenty-four hours.”

“Now, now, get me out of this now.”

“No, but you can go in a moment.” I’m moving swiftly but it’s not swift enough. Internal barriers are breaching. You feel movement, a stack of gutfudge dominoes teetering within groaning purple plumbing.

There is the scrape of something metal and hollow. A glance beneath you shows me measuring where the antique metal bath, roughly sized for a child, should sit. “Now?”

I’m foolish—or twisted—enough to place my head above the pan as I eyeball distances. But no rightful retribution befalls me. When I step back, the floor is again yours alone.

“Okay. Now.”

It still takes a moment to overcome internal resistance. You feel awfully on display and crave privacy, but I have stripped that from you. So instead you dive into the sensations and take refuge.

Opening up actually hurts more for a moment as blood rushes back into poor, twisted muscle; and then more again when those valves are forced wide. And you are forced wide.

An initial rain bursts from you and fills the room with tinny white noise. Your groan starts low in your throat as relief from one desperation begins. And then things shift, literally, as Chloë crowns. Your first over-wide log takes up so much room in your undercarriage that it chokes off the stream into a trickle. That groan gains in intensity, becoming more akin to a battle cry. You bear down.

Bound, horizontal, you have no way of telling how far her swan dive, um, extrudes. But in her current condition there is nothing holding her together—you took her apart. The vanguard cracks and falls with a dull splash in the bathtub, and then all hell breaks loose.

Through two routes simultaneously she flows out of you. I don’t think you’re aware of what your voice is doing as bladder and bowels expel her: a long, modulated cry of near-sexual release. Yards of digested girl uncoil from within you, body-core hot, slicking through your poor abused arsehole in one unbroken stream. The sounds change as she piles up, rain noises changing from tin roof to turf. The percussive thuds of the first yard of shit soften too.

How long does it go on? It could be the rest of your life, for all you care. The relief is unreal; near orgasmic.

Your bladder gives out before your bowels. So does the tin bathtub. Your waste, growing wetter the deeper it waited, patters over the sides. Clean-up is my job; serves me right.

And then it is done. She is gone. There is only you again, panting for breath, feeling lighter than you have in weeks. That’s not true, you know. Even accounting for what you have sweat and breathed out, what mounds up and overflows the tub is nowhere near the size of dear Chloë.

The rest of her hangs in rolls between the twisted rope that suspends you. Your belly, exhausted from a job well done, will in the morning be revealed to have grown inches. Your bones are denser with her calcium, your muscles thicker for her protein. Even your soul is more formidable, as hers was cheese-grated apart and woven into your will. Every part of you is improved by her dying screaming inside you.

But as for her… well. You glance at the tub, fascinated and disgusted. Your body has rendered her into tangled waste products. Her stink is thick in the small room. Nothing is left. You have annihilated her more completely than any other death.

You are brought back from your ruminations by the careful, respectful attention with which I clean you up. Paper joins the human mud and is then obscured as I fold the lovely plush blanket over the tub and overspill. Into the corner of the room it goes, to be dealt with later.

I fetch our regular blanket and lay it down before finally lowering you. The ropes sting as your weight settles directly on the ground, much like your muscles stung when you first leg Chloë go. I am swift at untying you and your harness.

Together we get you to your feet. Your joints are extremely stiff. You won’t feel stronger for having devoured the woman till tomorrow when you’ve had a chance to rest up in your bed.

“Thank you,” I murmur as we walk, you resting on my shoulder. “That was everything I could have hoped for. Everything.”

You lie down and I pull the blanket over you. When I gingerly touch your diamond-patterned belly you hiss in pain. Okay. Maybe tomorrow, then. I too am exhausted, and join you by your side.

You’re almost asleep when I get into bed. I look at you, the way the blanket sweeps to follow your curves. Are you larger? Yes, incrementally. Another life has flowed into you and enriched you. I stroke your unharmed back up and down and quietly worship you.

You’re going to wake starving for breakfast.