roadside aftermath

As established, you don’t need me.

Doesn’t stop you wanting a little comfort every now and then.

“She was only, like, ten stone,” you moan from my bed. Your bra is gone but your panties remain. You don’t want me getting distracted. “Why has she ~bwarp~ made me so ~ghuuuUrp~ gassy?”

The gas is being helped along by two experienced and greedy hands. I practically dig through your waistline as I knead at a stomach currently stripping the last of the flesh from the bones trapped inside it. “You said she was a hitchhiker?”

“I said I met her by the side of the rooOUUugGhd. Oo, right there. Harder.”

I pause to squirt a little more oil onto my hands from the pump-action bottle. Cinnamon and vanilla fill the air and you moan like a porn star as I dig into a troublesome knot somewhere in the vicinity of your duodenum. A muffled click is the only sign that I shattered some badly-decalcified bone that had slipped through your greedy pylorus. Your chest heaves as you release a satisfied sigh.

“You might have to start chewing,” I say, mirth in my voice.

“So much harder to clean up.” You lie back and rock your hips in antiphase to my massage, helping emphasize what I’m doing. “Feels like her skull is on its way to my shitter.”

That gets a kiss out of me, placed delicately on the apex of your belly. The shattered girl contained within has largely squeezed its way into your small intestines, but you’re right, she does appear to have left a boneyard in your stomach. How strange! Biology is a wonderful thing.

“We need to get you thinking tasty thoughts. Get your juices flowing.”

“Mmh. Okay. Gi~hooiphk~ve me a swallow of your blood.”

That actually makes me blush, I’m not ashamed to say, dear Raven. The idea that I make your juices run is possibly one of the nicest, hottest things anyone has ever said to me. The smirk on your face tells me you know exactly what I’m thinking.

Fuck it. I lean down to kiss you. You accept the kiss warmly and openly, moving your hips to take advantage of my weight on top of your belly like a broad-spectrum massage. Then, when I move to pull away, your fangs slice into my bottom lip in two places.

After a squeak of shock I hold silent and still. I am punctured and we both taste blood. You withdraw your fangs, pull my bleeding lip between yours, and suck at the trickle.

I realise you aren’t going to let go any time soon. What else can I do but recommence your tummy rub as I let you sip on my blood? My careful, firm palms rub your frustrated stomach, widening stress fractures and crumbling digesting bone in your guts. The grieving woman breaks down and slops deeper inside you. Soon we’ll find out if she gives you gas everywhere, or just burps.