pole 05

Emily’s far enough gone that when her feet are scrapped by the jagged remnants of the larger bones of her colleague she doesn’t particularly react. The dull, brown eyes stare at you in quiet supplication. You sometimes meet her gaze and sometimes simply close your eyes and lose yourself in the sensations of devouring this woman.

She’s firm in a way only lean men are usually firm. It makes her wide hips feel fresh and novel as they stretch out your throat; makes the twin fatty treats of her tits demand attention as they flatten against your tongue.

It’s good that her body is so attention-grabbing. The percussive slap of flesh on flesh and the deep massage of cock inside your anus threatens to steal your focus. Forced open at both ends, you rock back and forth and take everything given to you.

Emily closes her eyes before the darkness takes her, unwilling to watch lips still stained with her blood seal her away from the outside world. And then it doesn’t matter whether her eyes are open or not. You gulp her down and she struggles in the rancid gel remains of her friend. Who cares if she inhales the slurry into her lungs and blisters from the inside? If she thinks about the family she will never see again? If she screams and begs behind sound-devouring walls of fat? She does the job of massaging and stretching your internal walls while you moan like a cat in heat and ram your arse back against each penetrating thrust. She rocks and distorts in a belly like a beanbag you grind down beneath you.

She’s still alive when I growl and paint hungry internal walls white. You keep going, driving after a climax that only comes when her last breath breaks the surface of the bloody soup inside you, forces open your oesophagus, and announces her passing to the whole world. Your eyes closed in ecstasy, the sound of your orgasm is

~bwoOOooOuuuUuURRRP~

I collapse on top of you and you lie curled up around your quiescent belly, a threesome most final for one of its participants. Breathing is a challenge. Your stomach presses down onto your guts and up into your chest. The two melted/melting women stretch your fat so taut you paradoxically look more toned; just also like you’re absurdly tented with food. Perhaps if I weren’t shot through with lust and love hormones I would have paid closer attention to your breathing. I would recognise its slow, deliberate cadence from certain rituals.

Someone tries the handle. It rattles, still locked. A man’s voice calls out: “Helloooo?”

My head snaps to the barred entrance. “Fuck. Too late. I’ll send them a—”

“No.” You shrug me off, pushing yourself up into a kneel though your belly still sags to the ground. “Let him in. Just get dressed first.”

It’s a measure of my respect for you that I’m up and pulling on my spats while I protest. “You’re—they’re going to see you. I don’t think we could explain—”

“Sometimes people see what they want to see.” You close your eyes, clearly beginning to channel some internal force. Red light plays over your hand but doesn’t erupt. A relaxed, bassy fart sneaks out—the natural consequence of Becky’s annihilation seeming weirdly natural as you perform your corpulent witchcraft.

As I stalk to the locked door, behind which there is now conversation between a number of confused students, I cast a glance back to you. “Raven. Are you sure about this?”

Your concentrating face is softened by a fond smile. “Sometimes I forget you’re only prey.” Something is happening to the light in this room. Florescent strips somehow cast ripples, like we’re underwater. The effect stabilises, but everything seems hazy and indistinct. No matter how many times I blink, everything seems unclear. You’re standing there, a puzzle. It’s like there’s a blind-spot in the centre of my vision.

With an impatient gesture in my direction you untangle me from the web you’ve woven. I rock physically backwards. There you stand, five-foot-nine in height and by God near enough depth. I don’t know what perception-unhinging spell you cast but it felt irresistible, leaving you an enigma my waking mind tried to unpick even as my subconscious shouted that it was you.

I actually make it to the door and unlock it. “Sorry about that,” I say to the beautiful, slender black man who first comes through. “We were wrapping up a private.”

“Must have been a heavy session,” he says with an absurdly crooked smirk. I must look a state, with hair damp and face still flushed from my exertions. I probably still smell of you. I love smelling of you. “I hope you mopped— oh…”

He steps past me and whatever hits his eyes creeps inside his head with the light. I see the others struck by exactly the same effect, each coming to a halt and gazing at you with suspicion or confusion; but each remaining stock still.

“Come inside,” you say tersely, hefting your immense tummy and managing a slow, rolling walk to a central pole. “Start warming up. We need to get the blood moving.”

In a dozen separate daydreams, each person finds a pole but only a couple start warming up. I look from one to the next, fascinated and unnerved. The rest still stare. One, a young woman with a green streak through her black hair, keeps blinking like she’s trying to wake up.

“Emily?” she says, hesitantly.

“What’s that, pet?” And then you become Emily.

Deep within your gut, two traumatised spirits clutch one another remaining buried within their remains rather than even brush the deadly walls of their fleshy prison. Their safety is illusory, though: they are naked souls within your body, and their fate is a question of “how?”, not “if”.

Your will extends like black tendrils inside yourself and seizes the fresher soul, branching and webbing it up so you can draw it into your flesh. She struggles, poor Emily, but your touch teases her inexorably north and south. Your nerves tingle as they fuse with Emily’s captive spirit. She is stretched and painted into your limbs, your back, your neck, until she is bound quivering to your form.

I can see it happen. The way you idly swing your leg, stiff-kneed from the habit of kicking for momentum, is something I’ve seen Emily do a hundred times while distracted. Though you stand there, black-haired and pale goddess as ever, I bet your dozen students see you with Emily’s dirty-blonde bob.

“Come on everyone, warm up!” Though you speak with your own voice unaffected, the cadence of your speech is hers. Everyone leaps to their star jumps and wrist-exercises.

As they do, you launch yourself in a lazy spin around the pole. Your body, sucking the grace from Emily’s spirit, makes dancing with two full-grown women mulching in your midsection look like ballet. As your class finishes their warm-ups, a dozen hearts firing hard and ready for action, you segue effortlessly into Emily’s lesson plan.

Raven the Dance Instructor. It’s the uncanniest thing.

The class drills the Jasmine. I will never, ever forget that graceful sight of you leaning away from the pole you’ve trapped in your legs, spinning a slow spin as your immense gut squeezes between your spine and the pole.

Green-stripe needs correction. While the others continue, and talk among themselves, you tap her on her lower hand and instruct her to turn her thumb down. She dismounts and tries again. This time it’s a success and she’s able to straighten her back. Her smile when she steps back to the ground takes a moment to dissolve into a gape of horror when you enfold her in an embrace and bury your mouth against her throat.

She lets out a shriek and I can hear the wet sounds of you swallowing urgently, rhythmically emptying her of pints and pints of blood. The conversations around you both die down a second but then recover. No one sees. Emily wouldn’t do what you are doing to the girl.

I half expected you to take a little, but you don’t stop. She dies with your fangs in her throat and you keep drinking, crushing her to your swelling gut while you take everything.

The body is light and frail when it clatters to the ground. Now, the effeminate black man needs correction. Emily is happy to provide it, and you’re happy to drain away his life till he’s nothing more than a beautiful corpse, a belch that echoes from the rafters, and a warning pain in your gut.

By the fourth student I can see you visibly wincing as you take each step. Your stomach rises proud and, now, perfectly spherical, where before Emily’s body still gave structure. You’ve drowned her in her student’s blood.

“Raven, are you… You’re in pain?”

“Lean back a little. Yes, like that. — The hunger hurts more. I can’t… I want all of them, Andrew.”

From the sidelines I chew my lips. When your instructee completes her perfect backward arch she is rewarded with a punctured carotid and a pained, desperate glugging sound as you force her blood down your throat. When she collapses from the pole you hold her in place. The weight breaks her neck but you still drink her all up—every last drop.

“More,” you murmur. Fire burns beneath your skin, both in your belly which stretches beyond all sense, and your limbs where Emily’s spirit begins to come apart. “Emily’s burning up but I want them all.”

“Becky,” I murmur in response, clutching my chest in an unconscious gesture of awe and horror. “Use Becky.”

You nod, gingerly massaging beneath your tits, trying to work air out of your tummy. Blood floods your whole system, pouring into your intestines. I don’t know how your vampiric digestion works, but your cheeks flush with colour.

You burp hurriedly then take three deep breaths. Within you, one soul is ignited and another soul seized and pressed into place. I suspect you would stand taller if it didn’t look like you had swallowed a calf.

You waddle towards the next student, stolen blood sloshing beneath your swathes of fat. It feels like it’s bubbling up your oesophagus. None of that stops you from latching onto the throat of a shy Korean girl. She shivers in your arms as you kill her in twenty swallows and empty her in many more.

With two to go, you’re sobbing with the pain. I’m right there with you, gently rubbing your belly to help it relax. Your stomach walls are stretched smooth and scarcely dare to ripple. Your small intestines are bloated sausages of thickened blood. Your students have overtaken Becky’s digested meat: they collect in your bowels as the darkest, most metal-heavy shit you will ever take.

I stroke your back as you chug. Each mouthful is consciously stolen and forced down. Her heart takes forever to stop beating but you would still have drained her dry—it would have just taken longer.

“No. No more.”

I wipe the tears from your eyes. “You’re so close. They’re all yours. All of them.”

“Can’t walk. Too hea— heavy. Hurts.”

“You can do it. My most wonderful little piggy. You can finish what you started.”

Then I address one of the girls who mastered the technique effortlessly. She stands alone, oblivious to her class of the dead. “Charlotte. Could you come help Donna?”

Though Donna lies cooling at your feet, Charlotte seems only a little puzzled. She looks down at Donna as if wondering how she could have misinterpreted the technique so badly. “What do you need?”

I squat by you where you’ve collapsed onto your backside. You’re curling your fingers and toes but you don’t protest any further. “Come here a sec.”

Charlotte squats down in front of you, eyeing Donna’s body and seeming not to notice the shallow, panting breaths you take. “Yes?”

She’s close enough. You reach out with gentle hands and pull her close enough that only a tiny sit-up is required to place your mouth to her neck. Your jaw muscles feel hesitant to work like they know this will hurt, but they do. You lance poor Charlotte and hot, fresh blood once again fills your mouth.

Doesn’t matter how excruciatingly full you get. That first mouthful, where you learn what the inside of their heart tastes like… It’s always magical.

You ride the initial wave while Charlotte struggles, disoriented and slow. I hold her in place and stroke your back. Your tears paint Charlotte’s red hair a darker colour. Even your tears are bloody now.

You’re saturated with life.

Charlotte passes. You hiccup into her bloodstream. The air bubble could have been life-threatening but thankfully this will not be a problem. You swallow down her blood and leave her empty.

I catch your weight as you roll back. Two women, body and all; souls all burnt up. A dozen people drained dry.

It’s an hour before the pain subsides enough for you to take anything more than the gentlest tummy rubbing. Soon, your system will be so flooded with fluids that I will have to help you waddle to the toilets, and then get out of here with you.

But for now, you lie back against me. The stretch is bearable, like it’s no longer life-threatening. Fourteen lives roil beneath the calm surface of your body, being processed and broken down and sucked up. All of them are become simple nourishment for you. All of them ending and becoming more Raven.