double vision
You wake, in one place, in two different worlds, with one sensation. Urgency.
I’m still asleep next to you when your eyes open. Heavy lethargy of heavy guts suffuses you—like a snake digesting a moose you could lie here lazy forever—except you’re not quite in the mood to demand I handle that function for you now. You rock your weight onto the edge of the bed, trying not to disturb me, but frankly there’s no way you won’t set the mattress bouncing around like a waterbed.
“Mrmrr— buh?”
“Going toilet. Alone. Go back to sleep.”
I nod and pull the quilt around me. There’s no chance in hell I’m going back to sleep now, but I’ll pretend, to give you as much privacy as I can. You waddle to the bathroom, internal muscles clenching hard against the insistent outward thrust of Lily. Plucky luckily your arse had so much extra fat that your buttocks can clamp together like an engineer’s vice. Still you can’t contain the demure warning train: ~phut, phut, phhrrt~ that accompany nearly every penguin-step.
In the ex-predator’s hotel room you’re awoken by a sharp cramp from just below your belly button. The night was spent finishing the whole minibar and feeling the food coma approach like an oncoming double-decker bus. At times it felt like there were three girls in there, each fighting to be let out or let deeper. Was she denser, more calorific because of her diet?
You wonder about that while waiting for the spasm to pass. Imagine having the bad luck to be devoured by her, settle down on her hips, only to be then consumed by you. The thought of eating a dozen people at once by proxy is given a Gosh-I’m-horny rosy glow by your morning wood. No tent-pole for you: your cock lives in the shadow of your mulched-human-sized belly.
The door closes softly behind you. No need to lock it. A little extractor fan whirrs into life when you turn on the light, dull yellow. As you pat-pat-pat to the toilet bowl you catch your reflection in the long mirror. Even with Lily beginning to crown there’s always a little time to enjoy what you see there.
First, fix the lighting. Another switch turns on the mirror-light. White light battles the yellow and you almost glow. God you need a tan, or another ten pints of blood. Not that you mind… As you turn in the mirror, your eyes pore lovingly over the mountain of perfect womanhood you have made of yourself. Something about the way you lay fat causes it not to pile sullenly but instead to enhance and build on your natural shape. Currently that shape morphs to accommodate the good Lily, whose abdomen-heavy swell causes a much more pronounced forward-prominence, giving you the most awesomely soft and doughy pot-belly. Smooth slabs of fat sculpt themselves lovingly over your hips and around your flanks, pinching in at your waist in a deep, dark crevasse any prey would be lucky to get lost in. All this is to say nothing of your thighs, which could suffocate a lover in fact, or your breasts, which top rib fat as sculptural as a balconette bra and complete the perfect expression of feminine beauty.
Oh shit, she’s coming. You feel a slick, hot lance pierce your pucker and so tear yourself away from the mirror. Your throne awaits.
The spasm passes and fuck it, you choose instead to pleasure yourself. You finished yesterday’s dinner from start to finish: you’re not about to let her call the shots now. So she waits in your colon, churned to a hearty slick of shit, while you let your mind wander over past conquests and stroke yourself to hardness. The way your cock engorges with blood seems like a metaphor for the growth you so adore in your own body. You beat yourself off, hot and heavy in your hand, while you roll and grope the belly whose muscular harness is sheathed in the fat that your meal became. When you cum, it’s not even her you’re thinking of, it’s you.
As your breathing slows back down you kick your legs over the side of the bed. There is business to take care of. The scratches she left you on your back sting in the cool morning air and the leading knuckle of her remains pounds at your back passage.
It’s impossible not to let out a sound of pleasure and satisfaction when she begins to slide out of you. Man and woman, both aspects of you experience this just the same. Slick heat, insistent but slightly yielding firmness: the last remains of this one-time living being that your digestive system has chewed and sucked into undifferentiated brown oblivion. She stinks, deep and brassy, but repeated flushes bear her away before she clogs the toilet. And as you eliminate her she grows pappier, wetter. Internal muscles flex and squeeze her out from further and further back till she is gone. Everything good in her is soaked up and metabolised: no longer her, but you.
You wipe fastidiously and stand, my dear Raven, my dear Crow. A final flush and the deed is done. You check yourself out one more time in the mirror. Gorgeous feminine curves; strong body clad in softening fat. You stay a while and look.
Then you yawn. Time for breakfast. The bathroom door closes behind you, extractor fan running a little longer when the light is turned off. You hunted, ate, grew, crapped out the waste. What could be more natural?