When a Prey Becomes a Crush


Written by Septia.


A stroke awakened the uproar that had previously dominated her stomach, the injected motion kick-starting whatever nerves the occupant still clung to. A kick pounded through the spot she had just laid her hands on, a column of skin wrapped like a stuffed glove around the assailants hand.
	“Got your attention, didn't I?” she mused and let her fingers venture across the bulging abdomen resting in the nest of her folded legs. Though unlike a mother bird watching over her unborn young, this egg would not crack. “Took me for a let-down there, almost thought you were all gone after the first two hours. I'll be damned if I took the effort to swallow a 'lil brat which didn't even have the decency to entertain me for longer than a trip to the cinema...” Her tone harbored frustration which was expunged through her palms ravaging the bundle of flesh writhing in her lap, squeezing, so streams of bubbles roiled up her gullet, stripping their plaything of air -Bbgrlpptl-PLlourlp-Pllluurgh-, it sounded like wringing bubble plastic submerged in a swamp, and the abuser was appropriately amused. She watched as her fingers dug into her own soft complexion, tugging to grasp the shaking tangle of life boiling within...
	“Mmnfffphahahah, Hiiiiiii there my 'lil sweetie-pot-pie, momma's been, itching, to feel the throes of your death send my stomach into overdrive, your expiration playing the strings of my pleasure to the most intricate of melodies... It's your final performance, dear, why not make it one to remember? Aha.” She leaned back, knees propped up to catch the stomach spilling out from her midsection and slamming in place with a slosh of trawling a whale up on a beach, banishing it to an environment where it could do not but perish -Shhgllouurtggth-.
	“Ooohoo, ooohmhmm yes, I'm really getting hard now,” she screamed and planted her palms on the gut, shoving it down like one punishes a dog, whilst her knees cramped around the sides of the drooping bead of swollen abdomen. “Mmnfffphahahah, yes, harder, before you expire, let's kick things into high gear...”
	The pressure rose, the thrashing grew... The crack of a wishbone reverberated through the stomach, a crumble of calcium and sinew alike -Kkr-Ckllurtch-. She was thrown forwards under the lack of resistance, losing balance and focus as her full stomach shed a majority of its resistance, and funnelled out through the gaps under her thighs like a croaking frog's cheeks -Chtgggluurpth-. “Hua-.” she exclaimed, locks of ashen black hair slapped into her face, leaving her vision obscured. For a moment she sat there. Blinking. And then brushed the curtain of hair aside, looking to her gut.
	“Oh, that was it, huh?” 
	She sampled the silence. A grimace contorted her previous malicious grin. “Bebai... Bebai…,” she began, then grabbed her gut and rocked it back and forth to the tune of dragging a trash bag through a bog -Chtgllyurch-. Her profanity increased. “Dick, ass balls hell,” she gritted her teeth and grasp turned her skin red, then white. “Don't you even dare to... Pheee…,” she exhaled, and let the gut slosh back into place. Didn't really matter how much she shouted at the brat now, did it? 


She poked at the gut. Her finger sank in like a sausage through pudding, plush gut chyme warping inside to the pressure. There was no resistance. She smacked her lips. And for the first time in hours, looked up. There was the door to her room, across from the bed; there were the four walls; the window into an early evening, shielded by thin drapes; there was the clock on the wall, ticking away; there was she, sitting on her bed, alone.
	“Idiot... You're making me the jackass here...” She smacked the gut, though there was no conviction in her strike, more the pat of a sloth. The stomach barley made a grumble in response. Some time passed, sitting, sucking on her lip in her solitude. The clock's hands ground away at her mind. She rose. Off of the bed. Her stomach lurched after, -Shh-Thgglluurg- jostling down from her midsection in a pudgy droplet of raw, ground meat. The oscillations as it settled with the pace of her walk rousing residual gurgles rippling through her frame -Ghrrlg-.
	She walked out into the hallway, glanced to the kitchen... Then to the main room. Well, the only other room, the kitchen wasn't even its own space, so as she sat there it mocked her, tantalized her... She choked the phone and tapped Rubella's icon. She'd said something about a get-together, but in response she'd claimed to be... Preoccupied. Well, she wasn't anymore. She idly groped and cupped her gut as she waited for the call to go through, nothing. Again... And nothing. She took a look around the room. Again... 
	“Yeah?” Came from the phone. 
	“Heeey Rubella, about that thing...,” she began, twirling her black hair. Her finger paused. “Reservation? Oh, I... Maybe I could just come by and ask if... Right. Aha. Oh yeah, I get it, don't worry. I'll catch up with you next week... Month, yeah, alright. Tell the girls to pour one round on me.” 
	The tone that ended the call echoed through the Apartment: the sigh of a rotting social life. The arm holding her phone fell by her side. Limp. As she laid there, gut billowing down her knees, less a symbol of a proud hunter, more of a bug's limp abdomen. Her attention turned to the clock again, over to the TV. She could head out on her own? But, to get anywhere on short notice she'd just have an hour or two. It was just late enough... Even most places she'd have to be careful about the gut. Her face contorted further.
	“Ass...” she mumbled. The fridge door clinked open. The source was a bottle of wine, something fancy, she'd break the seal, toss the cork, and pour herself a tall glass while savoring the squirms of her meal. After which she'd draw up a bath and bob the tummy below the surface, toying with them as they melted, before heading back to bed, grinding down on the mattress until... Well, her whole itinerary was ruined now. She snatched a can of malt from the back of the fridge and cracked it open on the spot. She was downing the alcohol in the blink of an eye. -Bhoooraaahlp-, the carbonation ruffled some air of foaming hops past her lips, her breath smelled like the back alley of a steel mill on Friday night.
	“It was going to be so good...” she mumbled, fondling the gut. “You were gonna be so good... I was gonna grind out on you for hours...” she lamented to no one but herself. In the end she couldn't even muster the effort to blame them. She'd gone too hard, to excited... For a bit of harmful fun. She'd feel every bit of them mangled up against the walls of her gut, feel it sway and jostle in their meaningless efforts. But, it didn't matter now. Right now, she was just some old lady, home alone...
	“Screw it.” She muttered and cracked the seal of the wine, biting into the cork and sending it across the room. It clanked against the sink, then fell on the floor. She glared at it with contempt as she took a swig of the wine, straight from the bottle, while stumbling her way back with the ballast... Blast, that would keep reminding her of tonight's failure, she'd have to deal with it over the weekend, at least. She slumped back into the couch, feeling the grind if the wooden feet screech on the ground as her weight shifted it back. Another swig... She fiddled with the stomach. “You could pass for a beer gut...” She leaned into the swig, taking gulps of the fermented fluids, feeling it fill her folds full, slowly rounding out the gut, it's occupant forgotten and hidden as any other binge. Her eyes were getting heavy as someone blared on the TV about some crazy incident regarding some escaped girl or other. It didn't matter... Didn't feel like anything did. One more swig. She dried her lips with her naked sleeve, sighing.
	“This wine's sour.”