cliffhanger

“You’re being silly, you know,” you say, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. It comes back clean. You must have licked off all the blood.

“I’ll jump.”

“You’ll fall.”

The chase had been a farcical affair where the young man ran off into the bushes. You’d both slipped and skidded down a fern-studded embankment, till suddenly the edge seemed very close indeed and the view became pure frigid blue sky.

“Don’t care.”

“I think you care. Alan, is it? You would have let go already if you were going to do it.”

You let out a heavy, queasy burp. The young woman’s blood stays within, but barely. Your stomach objects at being made to slosh along at a a hunting pace while stuffed with ten hot pints of red. At first your adrenaline was high, but it’s been ten minutes of stalemate. You’re a little cold, and your tummy still hasn’t really settled down. Still, there’s more to eat.

“… How did you know my name? Are you in my head?”

You sigh expansively. “No, Alan. There’s not enough space, for one. She screamed for you while you were taking a picture of the sunset or whatever.”

You edge closer to the lip of the cliff. The drop isn’t quite sheer to the shattered limestone below, which means you’d hit rocks on the bottom and the way down if the cliff edge cracked.

Alan is pressed against that cliff face. By some miracle, when he slipped over the edge, he had grabbed a sapling. It gave just enough traction to wedge his feet on a three-inch ledge, and absolutely nothing more. He’s gauging the drop for the umpteenth time when he realises you’re watching and stares at you.

“You killed her.”

“Yes,” you agree, trying a mild, friendly smile. It doesn’t appear to land right: he starts looking at the ground again. “It’s nothing personal. I’m just hungry.”

“So get a bag of chips!”

“You’d be surprised just how much better your blood tastes than chips,” you say. Your stomach growls, thick and wet through its pool of stolen blood. Apparently now you’re going to have to get chips too, whether you get him or not. “Come on Alan. Climb up here. I will make it quick and painless, I promise. I am grateful to all of my meals.”

“I’m not food!” A gust of wind grabs his nonfunctional scarf and threatens to tear him away from the cliff face. He clings tighter and whimpers.

“Your girlfriend probably thought the same thing. She was wrong too! Look. Let’s find out, shall we?”

“I’m not food. I don’t know what sort of dream I’m having but I am waking up right now. Right now! Oof—”

While he rants, you lower yourself to your ample belly and thrust a hand down the cliff face. Your questing hand strikes him on the shoulder. There’s a desperate “gaaaaugh!” as he begins to overbalance, and then you feel his arms clamp around yours. You curl your fingers closed around his collar, then pull him up with a rock of your hips.

Dangerous way to break the stalemate, but he was beginning to annoy you.

His shoes scrabble at the gravel immediately but you simply move yourself to body-check him. His last sensations will include feeling your momentous breasts morph to the shape of his chest. It’s not all bad for him.

“See?” you say, right by his ear. “We agree that you are food.”

Alan tries to fight you with one arm unpinned but you’re strong and so, so heavy. With a nuzzle you force aside his jaw and seek his throat. His warm skin greets your lips, like his very body agrees that it is food.

So you oblige it. Your teeth close in his carotid. He stiffens like a stuck pig and draws breath to scream. Like a professional you raise a hand to choke off his windpipe, at least until he begins to weaken. His cry for help becomes a brief choke.

When you tear open the wound a little he fountains into your mouth. Only a tight seal of lips against skin prevent him from spilling over the soil. You gulp quick, thick blood direct from the heart, quickly settling into a rate of two beats per swallow.. The muscles of tongue and throat work together with the same fundamental biological beauty as the muscles of his heart.

Your head buzzes with pleasure as your stomach stretches palpably in real time. He is most definitely food. Your tongue tells you this: even full already of another person you could moan from desire for more. More. Always more. You clutch him tighter and rock him to pump out more.

The woman still had some left in her when you were discovered. No one is coming for Alan, though. You can take your time.. Drink him into jerky. With your tits performing crude CPR you even encourage his heart to pump the dregs for you.

Of course, he dies with a demon’s mouth on his body. Like his girlfriend he’s not capable of resisting the draw. You suck him down and press him into the same place she is immured.

Eventually the feast is complete. You roll off him, liquid rushing audibly in your tummy as you move. Your fat swells and flows with the tides inside you. You stir yourself, clawed fingers and deep massages causing ripples and crashing in a captive red ocean.

You lie there for some time convincing yourself that you shouldn’t go hunting again. Three people would drive you mad with pleasure, though. You’d need a fourth person to stroke, lick or fuck you as you lay there like a bloated pig.

Hell, if you call me, I might even bring the third person.

“Bring snacc,” you text one-handed. The other explores your new furrows and folds. “And chips. And you. And another snacc. Hurry. Xx”