pole 01
“I bumped into my old pole-dancing instructor the other day.”
“You pole danced?”
“Very badly. I mainly did it as a form of exercise. It’s fun! I—”
“You pole danced!”
“Yes. Stop laughing, Rey. It’s perfectly normal to—”
“Wait, wait, where’s my purse? If I stuff a fiver in your jeans, do you twerk?”
“…”
And that’s how we picked tonight’s dinner.
“Thanks for fitting us in, Becky. Raven’s only over for a week. From Romania.”
“Not a problem! My bus always leaves me with an hour spare anyway!” (I know this already.) “Was she interested in silks?” Becky realises she’s being rude and not speaking to you directly. While I smirk over her shoulder at you, she speaks slowly and clearly: “Are you interested in silks?”
“Mhmm,” you say, declining to put on an accent and in fact glowering back at me. You know I’m thinking of the Transylvania region of Romania.
Becky, bless her, recovers from the odd interaction with professionalism. She is tall, being almost my height, and toned beyond belief. Her life is dance instruction. Her blonde-highlighted brown hair runs smoothly in a ponytail to the middle of her back. Her backside, my dear Raven, is a thing to behold. As she turns and walks to the silks she shows you broad, meaty hips working without wasted effort, lean and powerful.
She is health food.
The silks hang from heavy-duty harnesses slung over rafters. This place is a converted factory so the hardware is strong enough to bear your weight. Still, as Becky takes the red and purple streamers of silk in hand, she casts an uncertain look at you.
To cover the fact you were almost caught looking at her arse you smile. “I’m stronger than I look.”
“Your accent is very good!”
You open your mouth and close it again. Maybe you should just eat her now. It would make things easier.
I cough. “Lots of English TV in Romania. Plus YouTube.”
“Okay. Well. Let’s warm up, shall we?”
Becky is impressed by your stamina. Despite wearing fat derived from scores of human beings, you’re not even sweating after the warm up. You draw in deep breaths of air.
At one point I’m watching your chest rise and fall. Perhaps you assume I’m checking out your tits, which are, of course, gorgeous. But in fact I’m thinking about the fact that your body is drawing in air, taking what it needs, and expelling the waste.
You can’t even just breathe without me worshipping your predatory nature.
What follows is a crash course in silks. A taster session, as Becky calls it, evincing a slight smile from us both. She demonstrates how you wrap your arms in the silks and use them to pull yourself aloft; a manoeuvre that shows off her strong shoulders and slender, muscular waist. Your stomach rumbles loudly enough to be heard throughout the empty dance studio but Becky pretends not to have heard. Your mouth waters and your gut begins to fill with fluids perfectly suited to stripping those expertly coordinated muscles from her bones. She demonstrates how to raise yourself by wrapping arms, unaware each flexion is further preparing her grave.
Despite being distracted, hungry and horny, you impress her again. Your strength frees you up to concentrate on getting the balance right. In no time, you’re off the ground, and even able to wrap additional silk around your forearms to raise yourself further. The fabric is tight but bearable and you rather love the vivid colours wrapping your pale skin.
“Excellent!” Becky claps excitedly. She is a good teacher, invested in her students. “Want to try an inversion?”
She demonstrates. Once wrapped in the silks she kicks off the ground, then sails the momentum till her legs unfold above her. She snakes her legs around the dangling silk streamers and hence attaches herself upside-down. The display of sculpted body smoothly performing the transition right in front of you causes another embarrassing tummy rumble. Your innards squelch in protest that they do not have an Amazonian gym bunny inside them right now.
She’s upside down in the silk. You could swallow her like this but you’d kind of like to give the move a try.
So she dismounts, and steps aside to give you space. You lick your lips as you brush past her to wrap your arms through the bonds.
It’s less elegant. Even though your kick-off is perfect, your belly folds into rolls as you compress your middle to reach up with your legs. You weren’t expecting your fat to pile forward quite like that, so you don’t get the necessary height. Fuck, feeling your body move like that is nice, though. It’s like you received a brief belly rub from your belly.
“That was good!” she enthuses. “Try it again, I’m sure you’ll get it!”
You do. Your belly rolls “up” your body, enclosing your rib cage in unaccustomed weight, like your own fat is trying to eat you. Your gym top has hopelessly rolled up, revealing billowing folds of creamy flesh. If it weren’t for a truly stellar sports bra your breasts might threaten your airways, such is their immensity. You hang upside down, a light sheen of sweat upon exposed arms and belly, muscles tense and vibrating slightly. But triumphant.
Becky claps again, delighted. “That’s brilliant, Raven! I can’t believe how quickly you got this!”
Your back is to the trainer. You inject a note of uncertainty into your voice. “Um. Could you take a bit of my weight? Hold my shoulders?”
“Is the silk cutting in?” Becky appears in front of you and two strong hands brace underneath your shoulders. Her throat is at eye height for you. Behind her, I spot your significant glance and step forward.
With a kind of abdominal crunch you pull yourself up and forward, more than you expected since your weight swings you backwards. This means your yawning mouth is the perfect height for the widening eyes to see all the way to her new home in darkness.
I hold her in place with arms around her chest. The beauty of your inverted position is that you need only relax your body and gravity drives her entire head into your greedy throat. The exclamation she was about to make is swallowed with a thick wet gulp along with her pretty face into your saliva- and mucous-slick gullet.
It would be too easy to lower yourself and envelop her. You remain suspended. She is food between your teeth: you bite down, fangs penetrating the muscles of the back of her neck and holding her in place while I adjust my grip to lift her up.
At first she freezes, terrified of the pressure of your teeth across her windpipe. By the time I’ve hoiked her up and you have engulfed a foot more of her with immense, gluttonous bites she seems to realise that this is really happening and that she is in mortal danger.
By now her tits rest on the back of your tongue and your lips encircle her ribs. You might actually be drooling over her, you want her inside you so much, but it makes her instantly lubricated to travel deeper.
Her legs spasm in panic when you swallow, oesophagus and tongue working to cram her tits into your throat. With a satisfying stretch you feel them pop inside. It’s so fucking decadent. She’s an athlete, could be a model, and you’re making her into a meal. Your mouth isn’t the only thing that’s wet.
I don’t need to lift her. Suspended like a spider in a red-and-purple web, you gulp and gulp and gulp. Becky kicks and struggles and fights but loses herself to you inch by inch. Her arms are pinned to her sides, unable to fight.
Becky’s head leaves your throat and pops through into your stomach. But your position means she is birthed through a thick, hot pool of freshly excreted digestive enzymes. Believing herself drowning she screams, her lungfuls of air bubbling up inside you like a witch’s cauldron.
You suck her up. Every inch gets that bath of stomach acid. By the time her petrified hands have tickled your tonsils and gone, and her helpless crotch has been briefly and amorously pressed by your busy tongue, and her graceful thighs channeled into your insatiable throat, then already she is no longer screaming for the abduction but for the pain as your juices inflame every surface of her being.
As you work down her calves an onlooker might imagine her placid foot-squirming indicated enjoyment. Your throat is so tight she can’t possibly struggle harder.
And then she’s all gone. Your belly, enormous already, swells to new proportion as a well-built and desperate woman curls up in that place of destruction. I can see her fighting beneath your layers of fat, causing pain and lust to cross your face.
Carefully, you dismount. I help you. Poor Becky spends a desperate minute just trying to keep her head above the shifting pool of fluids in your stomach. Her screams are intermittent and wet.
“FuuooOOUuuGhckp… she’s bigger than she looOOoughs.” Becky’s wasted breath blows past your vocal chords. You hiss in discomfort as she kicks rhythmically, bruising your ribs. Even if she suffocates in a minute, that’s more pain than you’d like. Even in the moments she slips and isn’t struggling, she stretches you out massively.
“Crunch her down. With your abdominals.”
You nod and exhale as you bear down. Your lively captive meal tenses and holds still as she tries to protect herself from the crowding walls, but the moment you relax she pushes again.
“She’s too strong,” you murmur huskily. I notice that even through the discomfort, you have snaked a hand beneath the crease of your wildly squirming belly and found the hot valley beneath.
“Sec,” I reply, and sprint to the supply boxes. You hold your breath as you clench down again, freezing you both except for your fingers on your clit.
“Here, hold,” I say, holding another bolt of silk to your flank. Your free hand takes it.
I then stride around you, feeding and tensioning black silk around your enormous gut. The second complete circle already is applying pressure: you release a gut-emptying belch, enough to palpably slacken the silk. A brief scream resounds from somewhere below your ribcage.
More laps. Each becomes tighter and tighter. Your own breathing becomes shallower but your prey’s struggles utterly stop as she is trapped in flesh as surely as an insect in amber. You feel her still trying to move, and especially sobbing, but she is held. Secured. Submitting to be yours entirely.
Not for the first time you wish you had perfect perception of what happens inside your stomach. Her face must be grinding against the lining. You would kill to feel her whole body as intimately as she feels your stomach.
As you approach a hasty, desperate orgasm, you control your breathing. In, out. In, out. Wrapped in sleek black silk, generous fat compacted and smoothed, you select a particular breath. After the inhale, you tense internal muscles, gradually but increasing in force.
Becky shifts inside you when you do. Maybe she has no air left because she doesn’t scream or beg. But the flutter of her little hands against your encroaching gut wall feels like butterflies.
Something pops. A brief, hopeless scream accompanied the sudden rush of air up your throat. Glorious blood-scent bursts over your tongue.. Invigorated, you don’t let up.
The next crunch changes the shape of your belly. What might have been a deeply submerged hip suddenly is rounded and smooth. Another conscious clench of your stomach muscles and you hear twigs snapping.
The sounds come quicker and easier, now. By only flexing your tummy muscles you grind down and destroy this beautiful woman’s powerful body, bleeding it and lancing it with its own splintered bones. Opening it up for your juices to digest her alive.
She dies broken, burning and literally dissolving into chyme in your roasting furnace of a stomach. Her spirit likewise is crushed. You suck from it her life’s work, perhaps retaining enough to one day take the cover of a dancer in seducing a new meal.
And meat pours down the ravenous channel of your intestines. Her body is annihilated and laid down within your muscles, your fat.
Becky enriches you with her whole being. The last time you will think of her is when her rank, unrecognisable remains squeeze through your arsehole.
As a teacher, though, surely she would be happy to have helped you?