You wake feeling warm, full and slightly used. These are all very pleasant in a morning. You start the day with a lazy smile and roll over, expecting your arm to fall across Clarice. She’s not there. You raise your head to look around, sleep-crazed black hair falling over your face. Your stomach has lost the definition Gemma first gave it. She spent the night converting herself into chyme and squeezing her way through your intestines, giving you a solid, heavy feeling throughout your entire abdomen.

Okay, sit yourself up so I can slip between you and the headboard. The massive spill of your doughy flanks becomes framed by warm thighs. I squeeze my legs together, making the flesh at the edges of your belly ruck up, removing any tension from the skin around your belly button and making that flesh achingly soft, like a warm, silky marshmallow. Wiggling my hips to get comfy, I lean forwards against your back, giving you a broad, warm leaning post.