It’s not an early start. We woke in a tangled heap, passed-out tired. You fell asleep on your back, blanket covering your legs and your head on my shoulder, but mostly comforted by the cement mixer in your middle weighing down on you. It’s funny, I remember kind of waking up several times during the night. Your hard-working innards made so much noise. It seemed peristalsis would chase a bubble of trapped gas down some length of intestine, grumbling as it went, but then lose grip: the air would disappear back the way it came with a cheeky internal squeak and your guts would have to perform the same manoeuvre all over again.

“Okay.” Your voice floats through the bathroom door outside which I hover like an expectant father. “Okay. I think maybe perhaps I am not going to die.” “It was just a few chillis, Rey. I kinda thought—” “You thought what?” you snap. I’m glad for the door between us because I’m covering my mouth to prevent myself sniggering. “That just because my stomach can crush bones and grind down the toughest prey, I’m somehow immune to chemical fucking warfare?

Speculuceps is strange to walk with. It—you can determine no obvious gender in the razor-thin, high pitched voice—seems willing to humour your request to explore. You get the impression it wishes to use you as a tool somehow. You’re on guard but simply can’t pass up the opportunity to explore. Exploration is like walking through an art gallery after night, where the pictures are portals casting light on a parallelogram of indistinct stone floor.

Doormaker. The spirits you could interrogate and who dared answer told you a doormaker kept your prison cell key. It’s taken until now to find a mention in one of your more opaque resources that even resembles such a concept. The diagram you meditate over is something like a church window, a peaked symmetric shape split in two by a solid line down the middle, and each panel filled with lines and characters mostly symmetric, but flipped.

You’re singing softly to yourself as you open your front door. Two heavy sets of double paper bags stacked with takeaway containers cut into your fingers, having been shuffled to free up one hand to use the key. I’m home, as you thought I might be. What you didn’t expect was too be confronted by the sight of my gyrating arse in the living room. I don’t turn around, instead jumping and punching the air in time to music you can’t hear.

The road feels a lot longer coming back. Meat packed without gap sloshes inside your belly with every step. Walking is meant to be good for the digestion and you can kind of see how the rocking massage could help, but you need something more guided. You find it when the road finally ends. In the little car park you see me, sitting atop my Nissan. I spot you at more or less the same time which is good.

Your quarry is somewhere ahead of you, in at most a mile of wooded terrain.. She can run, but if she hides your senses—the senses of a predator—will pick her out. As you run you picture taking her down, holding her there, lowering your mouth to her breast. You practically pant with anticipation at the thought of blood and flesh between your teeth. Motion. Everything is in motion. Your belly with its healthy layer of fat advertises your conquered meals by rippling with each pump of your powerful thighs.

The landscape grows more hilly the further out of town we drive. You doze, lulled by a band called Eagleowl I put on when I noticed you were getting sleepy. If it’s not actual folk lullabies it’s damn close. One time when you rouse you glance over at me. The passenger seat seems to mould to your voluminous body like a warm, intimate hug. The vibration of the engine sets parts of you rumbling in turn, like maybe the engine hits the resonant frequency of your ileum or something.

The next day you have a spring in your step and I’m half dead. My blood gurgles into nothing in your gut, any vitality leeched into your own system. My body struggles to recuperate, as it does so often. I remember waking wrapped in blankets, weak as a kitten. You were so gentle as you encouraged me to my feet and walked with me to a bed. I do remember falling back asleep with your belly pressing against me.

Tonight is a special night. You’re here because you want to watch me devour people: in games, in fantasies, in fact. Well, tonight, I have something special for you personally. An invitation for you. The stream began with a gentle warm-up. One modeller, enamoured with you in a way that is becoming increasingly familiar, presented you with a lightweight mod replacing sprites and models of Amy with a familiar pale, dark-haired visage and plump, luxurious body.