quick breakfast 03
Twelve whole croissants. Enough to pack out a standard stomach. That and three pints of my blood just about convince yours that you have eaten something.
Round about the ninth croissant my arm began shaking with a very mild case of hypovolemic shock. “Sorry, sorry,” I murmur, embarrassed by the involuntary reaction. Your lips flake lamina of pastry over my chest and neck. You are still crouched over me like a conquering wolf. “You drank so quickly…”
“Keep feeding me,” you murmur in between mouthfuls. Your eyes haven’t moved from me. I’m never more than half a second from that final bite—the one where you can’t stop yourself. With shaking hands I make desperate offerings.
The empty tray fills me with dread. I speak quickly: “There’s more downstairs!”
“Fetch it,” you say. And then don’t move from on top of me. Your belly hangs between my legs and presses me down hard enough that breathing is made more difficult. Your breasts mould to my chest. Fuck, I’m half wrapped in you already. Where you’re so close I feel your breathing speed up a little. And I feel the rumble of your stomach literally against my own belly.
Anyway, long story short, I have a terror boner by the time you convince your body to roll off me and let your prey go.
“Ten minutes,” you say. I think you’re making a joke, but your scalpel eyes are still trained on me.
The oven was warm. It’s only eight minutes. You roll over from your front, where you were clearly trying to distract yourself from your hunger.
“That was close,” you say. “I don’t even remember biting you.”
“I do.” The second tray rattles as I set it down next to the one with untouched butter and jam on it. “It was agony.”
A faint smile touches your face. I think you’re confused and charmed by the way I seem so cavalier about it. You shuffle over to make space for me to lay down your meal.
Though breakfast recommences in a far more civilized fashion—I have time to butter mouthfuls of pastry and apply both butter and jam to toast—you still eat like a demon. Your jaws snap shut around each proffered morsel like a mousetrap. You’re still staring at me as you chew.
Makes it rather hard to focus.
I’ve managed to give you an assortment. Second-breakfast is almond croissants, frosted and run through with sweet almond paste; toasted spiced fruit buns which go down a treat slathered with melting butter; some of the promised pains aux chocolat, exposed chocolate slightly scorched from the oven. I augmented it with four slices of straight-up toast, complemented with our biggest mug filled with tea.
Each croissant is dismantled in chunks, individually buttered and then lost to the snapping machinery of your mouth. A pleasant carbohydrate high begins to warm your tummy leaving you confident enough that you won’t simply eat me when you grab my wrist and lick a knob of errant butter from my thumb.
I rather lose my place, after that.
The tea is still scalding hot when you take a giant pull of it. It glugs down your throat and you’re already opening wide for buttered toast. Salty, rich, still warm, it’s the simplest pleasure but a treasured one.
Dough and pastry pack inside your recently stretched out stomach. They roil in the bottom of it, simple calories deliquescing with a minimum of fuss. After being rammed full of fat and protein, difficult to digest, this tutorial-mode bolus feels like a holiday for your gut.
Do you get bloated when you eat too much bread? The third tray, because I know my darling, brings with it the remaining pastries, another round of toast, and a new contender: oven-baked hash browns. The earthy crunch of their crispy outside is a welcome change of speed.
You slap your belly experimentally then indicate that I do the same. Your fat absorbs the impact in inches of excess. At your urging I press harder, seeking evidence of your fullness. There: beneath your chub, a firmly packed dome, squishy with carbs. A sigh as I explore draws me in. I could touch you all day long, and a belly rub is one of my favourite things to do.
It’s so absorbing that I don’t really notice when you pull your chaotic hair away from your face. By the time you’ve taken my face in your hands and begun to guide me to lie back in your lap I’ve got a good idea what’s about to happen. My mouth works silently as gorgeous fat cups my head—I can’t find the words.
“You were still late, pet.”
I’m squeezed between tits and belly as you fold yourself forward to reopen the wound you gave me earlier. I burst like a ripe, sweet berry into your mouth. It’s like my body’s saying ‘here, take me, I’m yours."
And I am yours. My vision grows dim as your jaw works in a lulling, consistent swallow. I flood you, emptying my veins to fill the sack of food and digestive juices inside you. You know my taste so well.
Semi-conscious self-preservation instincts make me scrabble to push away. You defeat these impulses with a light increase in the pressure of your grip. I’m going nowhere.
A little before yesterday I fed to you a woman I met and prepared over tinder or whatever. Your body just barely fit her inside an elaborate air-lofted harness. You broke her down into chemicals and filth and pumped her through your whole system, feeling your centre of gravity change as she made her journey towards your arse. This gentle feeding is like therapy for your bruised internals. It’s only fair that I should provide part of the meal, having been so keen to sacrifice a fellow person.
The point approaches where you absolutely must stop. You take another mouthful, tingling with the anticipation and the risk. I’ve long since passed playing with fire and now dance in the flames. It’s fair, too, that I should burn up a little for the sake of your hunger.