parminder 09

She lasts almost half an hour. Perhaps she could have gone longer, but you kept grumbling out her air supply. At first it was from mercy. That was before her skin began to seriously lose integrity. Once your guts got their greedy, caustic surfaces on her raw flesh and really began to peel her apart, you began to belch for the sweet taste of her blood. In your frenzy you terminated her life and groped yourself sore. You think she would have been happy to die to an orgasm her bulk gave you, crushed and smeared apart by spasming abdominal walls.

Once she goes quiet she goes soft. You indulge in a while, rolling onto your front and allowing your modest weight to further squeeze her innards into the human soup that is her remains. As your pointing toes rock you back and forth you eke out burp after burp, loud or soft, clipped or wet. Each brings you delight and the taste of Parminder, conquered.

Before too long you must move on. The risk of being discovered is too great and your petite body is already going to struggle hugely with the size-fourteen beauty. Your task is made lighter when she begins feeding into your intestines and her strength becomes yours—early chyme creeping through your jejenum. It is made harder by the fact that yesterday’s feast has coalesced ahead of her and presses down on your back door.

You deal with the latter issue first. “Terribly sorry,” you murmur to your recumbent prey as you stroke your belly and fill the air with the crack of stuttering spurts. “There should be more mystery in a relationship.”

Eventually you destroy key evidence of your presence and collect what few things you brought. Before you step out the front door you pause to inspect yourself in the full-length mirror installed for that purpose. Your hips, impossibly, look fuller when you pull your borrowed loose clothing tight against your form. Either she’s further gone then you thought or your mind is seeing what it wants to see. Still, it’s comforting to think you’ll get to carry her on your fatted arse for a week. Perhaps she’ll even get her wish of giving you G cups?

Your eye is continually drawn to her current home, that fiercely churning cauldron in your midsection. Lines of tension in the fabric highlight it. Your stance compensates for its bulk. It seems out of place on your physique but it’s wholly yours. Your greedy, stuffed gut. A food baby to rule all food babies.

The time comes to leave. You blow yourself a kiss—so what you’re vain? who wouldn’t be when they were this gorgeous?—then step from the emptied flat. You have a date with your bathtub and your bed.

Maybe order some takeaway for lunch. Treat yourself.