valentines be mine

Anticipation is half the fun. Some who think they know you might be surprised that you can be so patient. But there’s a quiet joy in being so obviously vampiric: sitting in the brittle gloom of a dozen candles, fireplace well-fed but banked to give a soft sensuousness to the unfamiliar living room. Across the coffee table are spilled a dozen red roses.

Part of the reason you don’t mind waiting is because Helen is keeping you company. Most of her lies stiff and pale, out of the way behind the couch, but the important part still stretches your tummy and fills you with the most gorgeous warmth. You remember her with every low, coppery burp and with every text message her husband sends her phone.

> Naughty girl don’t touch anything till I get there with your real valentine’s surprise. > Well maybe the sweets if you send me a picture

Presumably, Joe has got hard looking at the close-up you sent: the mouth that devoured his wife’s lifeblood, posing with a sweet nestled on your tongue. You chose from a packet of Love Hearts one reading “BE MINE”, which you felt was a nice touch.

> I’ll be there soon can’t believe how lucky I am to have you seven years tomorrow!!

That was a while back. The front door opens, shifting each candle flame simultaneously. You arch your back and feel your spine release a train of clicks. Your phone, playing some streamer feed, is taken off its place on the gurgly curve of your stomach.

You stand, silhouetted against the fire, as the man of the house comes into view. His smile disappears when he realises the woman swaying towards him is not his wife.

“Where’s Helen?”

Walking loosened something up. A thick, bubbling belch answers his question and dampens the sound of sloshing just audible at your midsection. When he steps back you begin to sprint, raven hair flying. He doesn’t get more than three steps before you have him in your lethal embrace.

He bursts into your expectant throat. Your alimentary canal becomes the most important vessel in his circulatory system. You eat him two heartbeats at a time.

And then he’s safely intermingled with his wife, joined as intimately as they could ever be while you mewl with discomfort and ecstasy around your immense, near-spherical stomach. Your form-fitting dark green dress must be practically peeled off, lest you bust its seams.

She has a head start, coating and thickening within the sipping walls of your intestines. He chases her heroically, pouring down the second throat of your rhythmically pulsing pylorus. The two are reunited as one in your blood.