to save a life

“I want her.”

“Blood,” I say, stroking her thigh to encourage it to turn out and show you the soft inside where the artery runs. Her pussy nearby is achingly exposed and ready. “More courses to come. Bite. Drink. Keep her around. I have plans.”

You stare at me, undecided, and then all of a sudden, orgasm hits you like a thunderclap. A belch forces its way out. You rock your hips on the poor woman’s face like you’re trying to stub her out. I don’t know if it’s an answer or instinct, but your face drops immediately to her soft inner thigh and your fangs almost casually tear open the artery. Her screams are muffled against your padded mons as her blood gurgles down to join the food she modelled for you.

I hustle to bring food. From the kitchen, I can hear you drinking. It’s like you’re being so loud on purpose: fluid gushing past air as you gulp it down. Good tastes better if one opens one’s mouth: perhaps you’re doing something similar with your slurping and smacking?

When I get back, two laden plates in hand, Allison is moaning. Her legs have a waxy sheen. But you, my dear Raven, seem almost to be dancing on her body. It takes me a moment to realise you are shifting your weight from hip to hip, methodically crushing her with your fat: squeezing her like an orange so her life can better pour down your throat.

I mean, I almost drop the plates. I want to see what she is seeing: your magnificent backside swaying side to side as distantly you destroy her.

But I do my best to save her life. Funny, I’ll feed you anyone, but another dedicated prey? Her I’ll fight for. You smell fried food and raise your eyes from her pierced thigh.

“Chicken balls. Wrong cuisine; don’t care. Tasty. Filling.” You haven’t stopped gulping down blood as I speak. Your belly is swollen beneath your fat. Allison is only weakly moving. “Rey. She’s yours. But if you let her live, I’m going to make her better, then stuff her mindless. Don’t you want an Allison-dumpling?”

That gets your attention. If you had cat eyes your gaze on me couldn’t be any sharper. You still take three more mouthfuls before you can make yourself seal her wound.

You stare at me and lick your lips clean of her blood. Shot through with fear and adrenaline I continue to stammer out words. “I’ll feed her as long as she lives. She’ll get fat for you. Soft. The perfect morsel. When you eat her it’ll be like you’d feasted for two. Can you imagine how much fat she could lay down under your skin? Her tits are amazing. Any justice, she’d make you have to buy new bras.”

As I speak I present chicken balls to your teeth by chopstick. No way am I foolish enough to do it by hand. You’re so wild right now that I’m not even certain you comprehend my words. You just eat. Kilos of food and litres of blood stretch out your tummy. The feeling makes you wet, again. You keep Allison awake with a slow, unconscious massage against her face.

To her credit, she weakly kisses and licks at you. Just enough to keep from drowning.

I envy her so much. But I can’t complain. The next platter is vegetable tempura. Lighter and crispier then the chicken balls, it presents you with a variety of textures and flavours that tug at your attention. I see your sharpness dissolve into digestion-haze contentedness.

The last tempura mouthful—red pepper—disappears between your lips. Rather than descend upon Allison, you sit up from her face with a faint schlick and swing your leg free.

“Better take care of her,” you murmur. I scan her quickly—she looks pretty out of it and begins to shiver as your body heat is taken away—but frankly you’re my first priority. As you settle yourself down on the couch I return from the kitchen with a glass of water and a plate of little sweet stuffed pancakes. The filling is a sweetened red bean paste, slightly reminiscent of chocolate. They are delicious, and you begin to solely shovel them into your mouth.

You watch as I wrap Allison in a blanket and encourage her to drink water. She keeps glancing at you with a shellshocked expression.

Suddenly, an enormous bench muscles its way up your oesophagus. Your full belly has been struggling to empty itself since your bad-table-manners blood feast. Almost as loud as a shout, displaying your pink mouth wide, you announce your satisfaction: ~buh-bwaAAAaaaUuUUuuurp!~

The effect it has on Allison is immediate. She’s still cold and clammy in her blanket. But the smile of satisfaction on her face is like the sun coming out from behind a cloud. She laughs, childlike and joyful. It puts a grin on my face and brings a happy smile to yours.

“What’s so funny?” you ask, gentle.

She answers between fits of giggles. “You liked it. Me.” Another laugh, but she’s clearly fading fast. “You burped like a pig!”

“She’s still got room for you, you know,” I warn, playfully. “Let’s get you cleaned up before she takes offence.”

“I’m second course. You’re going to make me fat?”

“If that’s what Rey wants.” I meet your eye and you nod slightly. “You’re hers, now. Body’s hers. You want to be the best meal you can, don’t you?”

“Mmmhm!” She complies as I guide her up the stairs. “‘Rey’ is a cute name. I like it…”

You get a moment alone to survey the damage. The plates are scattered across the tabletop and the floor. Sauce, seeds and rice abound. The knife glints in the corner of the room. Cooking materials need clearing away from the coffee table.

That’s for me to handle. You settle into the couch and munch on dorayaki. Upstairs you hear me filling the sink. I’m going to give Allison a sponge-bath rather than risk a shower that might make her blood rush to the skin.

But once she’s taken care of, I’ll come downstairs and give you my full attention. You’ll be sleepy and fat, and after tidying I’ll painstakingly massage every inch of your belly, helping grind up your meal and work it through your digestive tract. I’ll call you beautiful and tell you how special you are, and I’ll mean every word. Then in the morning, breakfast; and knowing me, I’ll start on my new campaign of injecting as much fat as possible into Allison.

Allison. A chance acquisition. How strange it is to find two people who seem to desire to be your food. How many could you get? Could you have a small army of us, pampering you, pleasuring you, bringing you sacrifices of the unwilling and each fervently willing you to select them next. A cosy thought. A familiar thought. You hope someday to have that court again.