the adoration of two

Such cleaning as needed to happen is done. Your living room is in order and the dishes are tomorrow’s concern. The fire is still going, throwing out its halogen-bulb orange light that nevertheless brings a feeling of cosiness to a room.

The long-suffering couch beneath you bears your weight manfully. Your butt and back mash it into a custom-moulded receptacle. Within you, your stomach seems to have worked on dinner enough that the sudden crashes and lingering burps have been replaced with the low, constant purring of a practiced gut hard at work.

And now I’m pretending to have forgot how to give a belly rub, or something. My fingerpads gently trace over your skin, contouring with the folds but not delving deep. It’s nice, but doesn’t give you the satisfaction you crave.

You frown down at me, where I’m casually knelt by your legs. “What are you playing at?”

“Hm?” I seem to come back from some other place. “Oh. I was just looking at you. Picturing your prey. Those I know about and can remember, anyway. Thinking of them lined up. How long the queue would be.” I grin and kneel up, flexing my shoulders as I prepare to go to work.

“How long would the queue— aaaAAh. That’s more like it, pet.” With the heels of my palms I glide through silky fat like a boat through calm waters. Your hard-working intestines compress and squish in their wake, contents massaged along and blood encouraged to flow. Relief follows, too. Everything is just easier with a servant smoothing over the knots of tension in your overstuffed belly.

“Hard to say. Hundred metres, if they’re standing close. Seventy if they’re packed in?” A scooping motion circling your flanks lifts the majority of the weight of your gut. “And now they’re packed in here, instead. So many.” I kiss your belly button and continue my work, moving higher.

“You fought to keep one out today,” you say with a smirk. That smirk pops open with a sneaky burp you weren’t expecting. “Do you have a crush?”

“Mm? Oh, no. I mean, obviously it’s cute as hell that someone else gets it. But I meant what I said.” Hearing you groan when I rub your stomach, I go a little lighter but keep at the same spot. Another burp and a contented wriggle deeper into the couch signal success. “I want to give her a butt and a belly that will melt in your mouth. You deserve nothing but the finest.”

“She already has wonderful tits,” you say, dreamily. I note that you lick your lips as you contemplate them.

“That she does.”

“Aren’t you worried she’s the one who’ll be feeding you to me?” you ask, with absurd gravity.

I chuckle. The way your breasts mould to your stomach as I massage beneath your ribs is mesmerising—it takes an effort to focus on anything else. “If you eat me, it won’t be her decision.”

It’s a long, relaxed evening. You grab a controller and replay a little bit of Bloodborne. I fix you a late-night snack of cheesy chips, happy to have an excuse to use the air fryer. As each mouthful takes the plush slide down into your voluminous middle I welcome it with another affectionate grind over your stomach. Eventually you drift off, buoyed by the adoration of two.

Which will you devour first?