run hunt 04

Your body runs hot right now. Every part has been used to its potential. You worked, you hunted, you ate, you fucked, you ate, you fucked. Do you know how much chewing it takes to convert a whole person into meat slurry for your tummy? And then you spent a significant proportion of the evening with your mouth open in orgasm, further straining your poor jaw muscles.

After your warning-stroke-dare to me about touching your mouth or arsehole, while your strength lasted, you teased me mercilessly. After five minutes of curling your fingers through my hair and initiating 95% of a kiss I couldn’t take and live, I looked like I could have passed out, given up, or possibly cried. You were too lazy to change positions to taunt me with your bum. I probably would have suffered a heart attack if you had.

All at once your body said no, that’s enough, and you collapsed back onto bed. Aching, digesting, stretched and used, it’s no wonder you crave sleep.

Given that I survived your trial, suffocation between your legs, and blessed gassing, I’m there to provide succour. Left to my own devices I work my way up.

My massage is a map of your body.. Legs that carried you for an hour and a half then hefted an additional sixty kilos of food weight must be exhausted. Your toes curl gratefully as I rub the soles and ankles. Your calves are like iron at first, but long, hard strokes work blood into the muscle and soon they’re soft and recovering.

Your thighs are where things become more challenging. Though your muscles surely ache, serious quantities of fat layer above them. I think it’s sufficient to merely press hard enough to squash down your fat while I make ellipses, but it’s hard to tell if your muscles soften.. Your thighs are so soft from the start.

I just know I’ll get caught up on your belly so I go from your hands inward, first. You get a hand massage. God, I don’t even know if you’re already asleep. You just deserve pampering. My predator. You’ve been sublime today. Your fingers twitch as I grind my thumbs into your palm.

Your arms never really gain as much fat as your thighs. I work over them tenderly, forearms then biceps and triceps. Little underhangs of fat hint at bingo wings but never grow into them.

You stir slightly as I commence a selfish massage of chest and breasts. I really am trying to relax hardworking muscle so it’s not like I’m just pawing at your tits. Below collarbones lies muscle that seldom gets attention: I massage through your enormous, puddling tits to reach them.

I do kiss each nipple, though. They’re so broad from where your body had stretched.

God, you’re beautiful.

The rest of my conscious night is spent in adoration of your belly. The jogger is paste. Your body has conquered his and he’s now burbling through internal passageways that stretch out but keep squeezing him onward. About half of him has already collected in a colon I can just about convince myself I can feel if I press through your thick warm fat. It’s my personal mission to nurse him the rest of the way with pressure and patience and a deep abiding delight in moulding your excesses of creamy flesh.

In your twilight consciousness you moan, and occasionally I chase gas up between lips or cheeks. But you spend the early part of the night being restored and loved, deeply and ardently.

It’s a tenth of a tenth of a tenth what you deserve, but you accept it graciously.