restraint 06

Not just Ben and Jerry’s. The hotel room air is perfumed by that most welcome scent: fast food. Like an entire human woman is not enough to satisfy your hunger, I brought you takeaway.

Boxes from KFC chicken burgers of various descriptions litter the bed like shrapnel. You lick hot sauce from your fingers then sink your teeth into the last of them. Crispy-coated, succulent chicken breaks under your jaws’ assault.

I watch, unmarked, and wonder. You’ve long since lost any hesitance at such a display of gluttony in my presence. The faint sound of chewing no longer bothers you, but makes my blood tingle in my veins.

Where did you come from? I think you’re young—for an immortal, that is. But I have no basis for comparison. You could be a hundred or three hundred years of age and simply committed to blending in.

Your stomach grumbles beneath my hands as I help it churn through chicken and bread and what used to be a pretty, slightly overweight girl. You lie back laconically, your legs casually parted. Only your mouth and belly could command my attention more than your pussy thus revealed. But for now I am a simple device that helps edge gas up your throat and snap the more stubborn bones. It’s strangely depersonalising, but I adore the simple opportunity to be with you under any circumstance.

Do you have a family? Are they like you? I don’t ask these questions and if you ever drop a hint then these remain just hints. I suppose you have no relationship with another predator, but then I could be wrong. Surely your life would look different if you did.

Your gut speaks with a ~bwoOOuUUurp~, slop contents shifting and being swallowed deeper. I chase the bolus on its path through this maze I will never see but might someday nourish.

Have you ever made another predator, besides poor Amelie? Do you crave such companionship? Sometimes I worry I am not enough: wish I were more like you, more an equal. These moments pass. Of course I am not enough. I give and give of myself like a severed artery because I love, love, love your every act of taking. I can never fill you up, but trying feels like the meaning of my life.

Look at it. Your pale skin, warm to the touch now it’s flushed with stolen blood. Your extra weight dilutes her, spreads her throughout more mass. The way your skin and fat moulds in my hands is like poetry. The heft in my palms, the stretch of your skin, the scent, even. You are hedonism made flesh.

When will you decide that it’s my time? I need you more than you need me. Someday it will come. I imagine you being kind but firm; picture myself trying not to panic until it is far, far too late. If I weep, I hope you’ll know it’s for joy and not ever sadness or fear.

My eyes are a little wet now. Worse, you’ve noticed. Your concerned expression is just visible over your smoothly textured belly bulge. “Are you okay?”

I grin, my body’s natural reaction to wanting to bawl like a baby for reasons I find beautiful. No, it doesn’t make a lot of sense. “I am,” I say in a bright and slightly brittle tone of voice. A hesitation as I work out how much to let on. “I’m just thinking about how perfect you are.”

“Oh.” You stare into my eyes. I don’t realise, but I don’t breathe for the duration in which your gaze holds me fast. Then you smirk with amusement. I think you find my adoration cute. “Carry on then. And hand me that tub of Phish Food.”

I wordlessly reach over and comply. You pop the lid, flash me a happy little smile, then scrabble about yourself for the spoon I brought earlier. I return to working your gut.

It’s a rare and beautiful thing to be precisely where you are meant to be, doing precisely what you want and need to do. Gratitude doesn’t begin to cover it.