lip bite

Whenever the trickle of blood from my lip begins to slow you bite anew, casual as biting a banana. You feel my shoulders and hands tense and tremble as you do but I hold still.

It turns out that suckling blood over a long period of time like this, coupled with belly rubs on a gloriously stuffed belly, is a perfect soporiphic. You are lulled to sleep by the constant, contented blurping of your own digestive tract.

“‘Aven!”

Mm? Oh. You’d drifted off and your reflexes almost made you bite through my lip. As in, bite it off. With the feeling of flesh between your teeth I bet you would simply have continued. I would be a midnight snack.

As you rouse, we stare into one another’s eyes.

You know that, for whatever reason, I would hold as still as I could, be as quiet as I could, even as I let you tear me apart and consume me. You don’t understand it.

I know that, for whatever reason, your calm expression would remain mostly unchanged as you scissored your teeth into some of the most sensitive flesh in my body. The line between friend and fat is so thin. I don’t understand it, but I am fascinated by it.

Your gut groans like a purring cat, way down low. Dinner has smeared out as far as your large intestine. The distraction perhaps tips the balance in my favour. Slowly, deliberately, you release my lip, kissing it so as to heal the punctures. Bruises remain.

Then the adored belly rubs begin, natural as day. You practically purr yourself, rolling ponderously beneath the renewed onslaught. Deep and low, your existing fat is stretched and moulded while I help you extract yet more if it.

It’s not long before you drift off again.