my final predator

They say if you love something, you have to let it go.

Something like that is in effect. Allison gives us time and place and leaves us to finish lunch at the café. There’s no guarantee she’ll keep her word; no guarantee she won’t cause trouble. But it’s hard to fake the way her eyes light up when you flirt with her, and even harder to fake soaking her panties when you drink her blood, so we’re fairly sanguine about trusting her with a secret or two.

“Do you think she’ll feed you her friend? This Fern?”

You nod, draining your surprisingly good tea. Your palate is very refined, though you gorge on fast food sometimes. You’re well capable of appreciating Darjeeling. “She won’t believe she’s doing it until she’s pushing the head into my mouth. And she’ll agonise over it for days afterwards. Do you remember how you used to be?”

I flash you a smile, which then fades as I remember an earlier topic of conversation. “I feel like that again, y’know. This person is… I kind of grew up with her. We had something very special. She’s a very special person.”

You pout. Though your face shape changes little with your weight, the faint breath of plumpness on your features makes you fantastically well-suited to pouting. In a petulant voice, you wheedle, “Too special for you to push her down my throat and fuck her into mush?”

Complete and utter meltdown occurs behind my eyes. Not yet satisfied with my expression—a stricken combination of surprise, fear and excitement—you lean forward to clutch my arm like a supplicant.

“Is she too special to tie up for me and make her my chair? You can act surprised when I sit down wrong and my bum hits the ground…”

Fuck, you made me put my hands over my ears. I’m still listening through clawed fingers, though.

“Would she not,” you begin, leaning back to show off the enormous quantity of pudge that encircles and forms your body, “be more special if she were right here in front of you?”

For a moment it’s fifty-fifty whether you’re going to make me cry. You’re about to take pity and relent when I start to speak, very quietly.

“She would be more special if she were buried in you.”

“Good.” Your teapot is empty. You reach for mine and pour Oolong. “Who is she, anyway?”

“First girlfriend. Since fourteen years of age. Moved countries to be together. She’s why I speak German. She was… my first predator.”

Your gaze on me is cool and level. You sip your tea. “Then it makes sense if she becomes a part of your final predator.”