chinese digestion

It was the Kung Pao that did it. I leant a little too heavily on the Szechuan peppers. You swallowed the last mouthful and pushed your plate away.

“Tongue feels like it’s numb.”

“Kiss it better?” I murmur. With my chin in my hand and my elbow on the table I regard you with a sleepy, happy smile.

“Ooof. Rice made me… gassy.” You wince and shift your weight onto one cheek to give a path to a low, slow easement. You’ve long since stopped blushing, doing that in front of me.

“Sorry, I’ll try to work out what to do differently next time.” I push myself up and gather the empty plates together. It looks like a feast for eight at least. “Might be the rub on the meats…”

“Is oki. You can make it up to me with a tummy rub.”

I make a little nest on the living room carpet, the thick blanket and extra cushions all contributing to give you a yielding, cosy place to lie back. The plates are quick to stack up in the kitchen, but when I get back you have shrugged off your comfortable clothes and lie naked in the nest.

“Oh, Rey, there’s des— oh.” I stop dead in the doorway, struck immobile by the sight of you. Slightly cupped in the blanket, you call to mind an Empress grown fat on excess. My mind’s eye supplies the image of slaves clustered around you, serving your every whim. I think you think I’m just really enjoying the sight of your tits.

I nearly drop the Long Island iced teas I’m holding when you lazily allow your legs to fall apart. Where your belly hangs down, ripe and full with the fat you’ve built from countless lives, your crotch curves with a plush plumpness all its own. In a thicket of downy fuzz lies something that stops me breathing. You smirk, then stretch while leaving your legs in exactly that position. “Tummy rub?”

“Right, yes, right.” I wet my lips and hand you your cocktail. You sip at it through a straw, eyes sparkling.

Mechanically, I kneel before you.. The moment my hands touch your belly I seem to snap out of the trance your cunt put me in. My shoulders tense and flare as I grind my palms into your prodigious gut. You sigh and relax into it, eyes closing as digesting food and fizzing cocktail blend and equalise within you. An easily belch trips past your lips.

“Right there,” you say as I run across a knot of tension lower down. “Now, lower. Lower. Good, there.” I can’t massage just one part of your gut. Rubbing around your belly button makes your whole body quiver in sympathy. When the pocket of air gurgles deep within you, you sigh. “Do you remember when I pinned you down after work, that time, and forced you to inhale?”

I nod rapidly, a secret smile coming to my face. “I can’t believe you did that.”

“You liked it, right?”

“Very much.” I meet your eyes and you stare right back.

“Then put your face down there.” I look down past your sex. Hidden in the shadows, squeezed between generous cheeks and immense thighs, your anus lies closed. “And massage harder. That gas has to come out.”

I comply. The heat of your pussy sharpens me like a knife as my hands grind that little pocket of discomfort through your intestines, into your bowels. How strange, I think to myself. I wonder if there is more or less of it now that it’s traveled so far through your guts.

The answer comes quickly. I can’t believe how excited I am to hear the crack of sudden wind. Just feels special you’d share something so private with me, y’know? I feel the warm wave pass over my face and feel a scrap of what your food must experience. The ghost of spices, the metallic bass note of what that food is becoming. Objectively this should be disgusting. But let’s face it: it’s not. The perfume of your intestines is as much a part of you as any, and I love all of you fiercely.

Your gift delivered, I fall upon your cunt. You yelp then moan as I trace your contours with my tongue; then the moan redoubles when I heft the weight of your fat in my hands and knead it like dough. Your body is a temple of excess and delight. We both worship it today.