parminder 08

Like everything else in her high-end flat, Parminder’s curtains are of extremely high quality. Double-lined and perfectly fitted from ceiling to floor, they function as perfect blackout curtains.

Pity you guys left them open, really.

Despite the sunlight beaming into her bedroom you’re so exhausted and enamored with the Egyptian cotton sheets and superking bed that you manage to sleep in. It must be gone ten when you blink your eyes open.

Parminder looks over to you. She is pale, perched on the edge of the bed closest to the door. You can hear her heartbeat from here. It’s like a hummingbird.

“Good morning,” you murmur, voice thick with sleep. She flashes a little smile, but quickly settles down into her expression of tense anxiety..

“You left me with my phone.”

God, these sheets. Two people sleeping and fucking in them hasn’t caused them to ruck up or anything. Soft, silky, luxurious: maybe you could keep the apartment after she is gone. But no.

“Mmmmmhm.” You arch your back and rock your hips in a deliberate full-body stretch. Your abdominal walls bear the brunt, stretching pleasurably. Parminder watches every move you make.

“You’re not worried about me calling… the police? Friends?”

This stage of the stretch requires you to roll onto your front and sit low in your hips. Child pose is great for warning up the flanks and back. You take your time. After so, so many years becoming what you are, you are now very tuned into your body. She and you have both done incredible, mind-blowing things together. You know how to listen for what she needs.

“Nope.”

Parminder slaps the mattress, suddenly angry. “Why not?”

“Same reason you’re still sitting on the bed. I wasn’t watching.” You sit up from Child pose and on a whim stretch your arms into the air. Your back didn’t require it, but you like the way your shapely body so captures Parminder’s attention. “You could have slipped away. Probably.”

Parminder frowns at you. She never removed her makeup last night so her eyes are black smudges. Her lips are mostly nude, though. So are yours, too, come to think of it. Where does lipstick go when you kiss?

“I’m not crazy, am I? To be taking this seriously?”

You extend a hand in invitation and she at first recoils. But at a disappointed glance from you, her head lowers. She sets her phone on the windowsill and slowly crawls towards you across the bed.

“I’ve given you proof.” Now on your back again you open your arms to invite her closer.

She hesitates to take your invitation. “I couldn’t leave you. Why? Did you do something to me?”

“I did nothing. Except want you. I don’t understand prey. Perhaps that was enough?” Your open arms extend, imploring. “Kiss me.”

To say that she started so timid, when she finally does allow herself to fall into your arms and kiss you she does it with passion and meaning. You taste salt on her lips but feel only fire.

The kiss is her, in microcosm. At every stage she has opened up to you, given you what you desire and need, and taken joy in being taken. Your jaw aches with the desire to bite. You could start now. Clamp down on her elegant, impulsive little tongue and sever it. Make of it an appetizer. Turn her head in your hands and chew away lips, muscular cheeks, scoop out those bright eyes with your tongue.

Like she’s reading your mind her breath catches mid-kiss. It’s only later you realise your mouth was watering even while she kissed you.

You break it before you act on your impulses. That is the fourth and final time you could have eaten her: mouthful by bloody mouthful. But no. You have a craving to feel her youthful energy burn inside you; a crazy desire for her to experience the inside of the stomach she paid and bled to fill yesterday.

“Now?” she asks, her voice unsteady. You nod. “How?”

“Sit here, legs towards me.” Your throat is thick. Watering mouth and strong emotion. It’s hard not to feel honoured by the attention and sacrifice. “You’re going to feed yourself to me.”

She complies. You kneel in front of her. Before you can open your mouth she speaks.

“Can I ask a favour?”

“Of course, pet.”

“I’ve… written a message on my phone. Not sent it. Couldn’t send it. But will you? When it’s over?”

She takes your smile as assent and lets out a low a shaky breath. “Um, and, um, could—”

“No.” The word silences her immediately. “Anything else will be left undone. Your time is over. What’s left is mine. Lie back.” She stares at you like a beachgoer stares at the tidal wave. “Lie back and raise your feet for me.”

Now, like one dreaming, she lies back. Her eyes don’t leave yours. Even when you open your mouth jaw-crackingly wide and she first feels your tight heat creep down to her ankles, she still stares.

Your tummy grumbles, anticipating its feast.

She holds still and you need only crawl forward to feed her crossed legs into your throat. Her flavour builds on your palate along with the sense of stretch in your pharynx and oesophagus.

An expression of wonder grows on Parminder’s face. “You’re really… Oh, you feel incredible! You’re so …”

Your eyes crinkle with amusement, but then a little pain. No matter how many times you do this, it is always hard to cram a human being down your throat. Her thighs scrape between your teeth and the pain of a fang cut makes her hiss. No protest comes, though.

Before you know it her hips are at your lips.. You cannot hold back. When her pussy crosses the threshold of your mouth you glide your tongue between its lips, tasting her. It’s too much for her: You’re astonished when a wildcat orgasm tears through her body and near makes her scream. The spasming of her legs jostles your throat but is contained. You cross her hands over her hips and gulp them altogether down.

Her still-rapid breathing can be felt in her abdomen as it passes beneath your hard palate. Her calves are well on their way to penetrating your cardia and the gap between them allows a displaced burp to stream silently out of your stomach. She somehow knows that she is causing such a crude biological response and seems to like it. At least, her trapped hands rhythmically stretch your oesophagus as she begins to finger herself again, overcome with the sensation and idea of sliding inside you.

Up from her abdomen: her chest. You claim her breasts with a silent prayer that when they melt down, they will be added to yours. They are unceremoniously stuffed into your gullet.

How vulnerable she must feel. Only her head remains outside. Another swallow and only her face. Nothing she can do any longer but take her last breath. Half of her is in the sweltering crush of your stomach.

Another swallow and her face is in shadow. Your tongue strokes her nape goodbye. The last thing she will ever see is your fangs, stern guardians of the grooved pink architecture of the roof of your mouth. Then a swallow takes away that too and everything becomes darkness.

The glide is bliss. She struggles a little, asphyxiation-panic teasing her into your gullet squirts her entire into your belly.

You take a deep breath and rock your jaw side to side to ease the over-stretch. She is yours. All yours, and will never be anyone else’s.

Two hands glide beneath your thin-stretched skin. You match them as you settle back against the headboard, your ex-lover curling up between your legs.

We can imagine this lasts as long as you like. A hot internal cuddle, bloated and stretched out to immense protrusions by someone who fell for you. A larger woman, even. The belch didn’t empty her entire air supply. The fart her weight squeezed out of you, she shows no sign of having noticed. She is silent: presumably fascinated, excited, nervous.

Your ravenous stomach contracts and secretes destroying enzymes.

The first twitch you feel inside fills you with bitter anticipation. Digestion is always your favourite part, and clearly it is beginning.

There is no sacrifice without pain.

You squeeze her affectionately between your thighs and reach for her phone with your tendrils. “… Raven?” you can make out from somewhere beneath your tits. “I can’t…”

Hands more purposely explore the boundary of your inner world and are summarily crushed into place by peristalsis. You cover your mouth to belch and scroll through her Spotify. Something melodic sparks up on the speakers, loud enough to take the edge off her call of alarm.

“Shush, pet. It will be over soon. You did wonderfully. Now settle down and digest for me.”

You rub your aching stomach to comfort her and, for now, it works. With the other hand you bring up WhatsApp. A message lies ready to go. A quick scan of some earlier message reveals a maternal bent. Presumably the Auntie who took up raising her.

You hit send and wriggle your hips to get comfy. Was that a kick? Things must be getting serious in there. Another belly rub mollifies her. She’s not alone. You’re here. You’ll be here for the rest of everything.