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The Abyss


swahilimonkfish

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Chapter 8 - Supervolcano


And closer to the window I got. The pace of her running was fast. And closer to the window I got. Between the chinks in the blinds, her familiar figure pounding the steady conveyor belt of a treadmill. And closer I got. She was wearing lycra gym gear that wrapped around her taut figure like bondage. And closer I got. It was the same figure, like the model on the front cover of Fitness Monthly. And closer I got. She had earbuds in, and her panther black hair was up in a womanbun. And closer I got. Until the glass steamed up on my breath. And that was when she noticed.

Fuck.

So, ladies and gentlemen, before we proceed any further, let’s have us a recap, shall we? We now know what a lahar is. Remember? Oh, come on guys, what’s the point in me educating your dumb asses if you’re just gonna forget? A lahar is one of those volcanic eruptions, like Mt St Helens, where the debris on the side of the volcano melts and turns to sludge from the heat, and rolls down the mountain in a toxic sludge. Remember now?

Yeah, well we in the volcanology business (disclaimer: I am in no way in the volcanology business) have a term for this type of volcano. I mean, it’s a bit technical, but I’m sure you’re up to it. We call these types of volcano… boring volcanos. I mean, Etna it ain’t. It ain’t groovier that Versuvius, that’s for sure. No, volcanoes that produce lahars are what the jargon refers to as L.A.F. That’s short of ‘lame as fuck’. Sorry if this is too technical for you. No, if you want a proper volcano, then look no further than supervolcanoes. And, actually this time, I didn’t just make that term up. They are legit actually honest-to-god called supervolcanoes! I mean… just… how badass is that? Were they bitten by a radioactive volcano or something?

So, supervolcanoes are super rare. We’re talking more rare than Mew from Pokemon. Which is, if you’re not somebody who grew up playing Pokemon Blue and Pokemon Go, preeetttty rare. But they exist. And occasionally they blow. Yellowstone blew, millions of years ago, and look at the freaking size of the crater it left behind. Then there’s Lake Toba, which caused a volcanic winter or two and, possibly, nearly wiped out humankind. But the biggest supervolcanic eruption of all time?

Maria, right now.

The front door flung open and her eyes were upon me. They raged like the molten fires of Mt. Doom (I feel like I’m presenting myself as nerdier than I am with these references. That one was because Jerome was obsessed, not me. I’m just trying to create a semantic field of volcanoes because I… well, if you stood in front of Maria in this mood, you’d understand). She pulsed with fury as she walked up to me. It radiated from her like she was an isotope. It was, when all said and done, kinda sexy.

“The fuck?”

“Hey Maria… long time no see. You look good. Like what you’ve done with your… thighs?” My sentences weren’t the most logical I’ve ever uttered, not gonna lie.

“This is my house” she glowered.

“Well, thank fuck for that! Otherwise this would have been way awkward. Imagine if I saw you break into the house of some rando and just started using their treadmill. God, can you imag…”

“You don’t come to my house. I come to yours”

“Well, you don’t come to my house any more, so…”

“Oh, you’re being fucking needy? Really? I fucking hate needy”

“Well, I fucking need hatey… so I guess we’re even?” I winced as I said it. I don’t think she was in the mood for me and my Epic Bantz©

“I broke up with you, you stupid piece of shit. I’m done with you. You exist to me only in the past tense. Do you understand, Naomee?” she threatened, her teeth nashed. And she used my name! I was in love. It didn’t help that I could see her skin glisten with perspiration.

“I just thought you might want to see my journal. That’s all” I said, my eyes wide with innocence.

“The fuck?”

“You said that already, earlier”

“I know, you bring that phrase out in me” she sneered. She loved me really.

“I’ve been keeping all my data. All my metrics. It’s all in here. It’s kinda hot” I tried to appear sexy. I still looked like a giant, humanoid pudding though so I’m not sure how successful it was.

“Data?”

“My weight. My measurements. My calorie intake. It’s a chronicle of my demise. I thought you might be interested” I said, flicking my tongue with articulation.

“A chronicle of your demise?” she said. And she was on the hook.

“Yeah, like my first entry… if you look here says…”

Day something-or-other: 143lbs. 20lbs gained so far. M getting tight, might have to upgrade to L. 5500 calories consumed.

“That’s your first entry? 143lbs in? And… how much do you weigh now?” she said, trying to hold back but she was curious. Her lips glistened with curiosity.

“220lbs. Give or take lunch”

“So, about 100lbs heavier than you started? Okay, that… I can work with” she mulled over, like I was an offer on her property that was markedly under the asking price but not beyond the realms of negotiating a deal. “Let me see the book”.

My hand reached out nervously with the book sandwiched between my fingers. She snatched it from me without even looking in my direction; instead, pouring her eyes into the book.

“Wait… what’s this shite? You promised me data. Swelling numbers. Not this. What’s this bollocks? ‘I’m lonely’? ‘I miss Maria’? No, this isn’t what you promised. Where are the measurements?” she said, throwing the book back at me.

I opened the book, confused. I had no idea what she was even talking about. I scrambled through to the later pages of the book, looking for all those notes I’d jotted down. The one about my BMI being officially obese. The one about eating 5 meals a day.

Except, through the latter pages of the book, it was just me bleating. About being lonely. About guilt. About shame. About unrequited lust. I felt like I was having a Jack Torrance moment (another one of Jerome’s favourite films - I personally just didn’t get it. It wasn’t even scary, just weird). The numbers were all… feelings?

“Yeah, I’m not falling for that” Maria tutted, pulling away from me.

“Fall for what?” I said, not even looking up. Just reading. Reading words that I hadn’t written down. What was going on?

“I mean, delusions would be pretty tasty but… yeah, you’re just faking it because you’re desperate” she scythed me down with dismissive words.

“No… no…” I suddenly looked as desperate as she was describing. I mean, I wasn’t lying. Was I? You’re my witness, I did write these things down, didn’t I? Or was I lying to you too? I guess you’ll never know.

“Just… fuck off further than anyone has ever fucked off before, you desperate, pleading, needy bitch” She snapped and walked away. Done with with me. Forever.

“I saw a treadmill!” I yell, and her door stops before it closes.

“So?”

“You were running on it”

“That’s what people normally do on treadmills?”

“Yeah, but you were” I told her, and she loitered at the door.

“What does that mean?”

“You don’t exercise. Everyone knows that. That body of yours - which is poppin’ by the way - wasn’t sculpted. You were born that way. You’re a goddess. So why were you exercising?” her facial expression didn’t change when I said it to her. Maybe her chest puffed out a bit at the compliment. But her pupils, they changed. They dilated. Something was up.

“Really? Stunningly attractive woman has an incredible body because she has incredible discipline and applies an incredible fitness regimen? What’s wrong with that?”

“For normal people? Nothing. But for you? A lot. Everything you’ve ever said about yourself is that you eat what you like, drink what you like and move as little as you like and you look as you do anyway. Effortless. Preternaturally attractive. But, maybe you’re just well-maintained and regularly attractive” I suggest.

“You watch your fucking mouth!” she raged.

“Not that special. Certainly not divine or godly. Just a gym bunny with a gym bunny’s body”

Come on, level with me guys. How do you think this conversation’s gonna play out? Do you think it’s gonna end well for me? I mean, is there any way that this line of interrogation could possibly go wrong?

“I will… murder you” you stammered, practically frothing with rabid rage.

Is that how you imagined the conversation would play out? I mean, I feel like I should have seen that one coming.

“I bet you have one of them indoor bikes too. Like that peloton bike, with the woman from the advert who looked terrified. Or maybe a rowing machine…”

“I don’t care that you’re out in the open. I will come out there and slice your neck” I could see the vein in her forehead bulge.

“I bet you do squats and crunches every morning. Or calisthenics. Y’know, you should try yoga. I know a fantastic yoga tutor. He’s called Jerome, he’s very good…”

“Just… stop it!” she spluttered, before I spotted tears - actual human tears - pouring from her tear ducts. Rolling down her cheeks.

“Are… are you okay?” I asked, tentatively.

“Of course I fucking am!” she yelled.

And then she walked straight towards me; her eyes wet from tears and burning with fury. She marched towards me, unblinking. And then…

...She carried on walking. Past me. And down the street. Her arms pumping as if she was marching. Her head straight forward. Not looking back. Just walking and walking until she was out of sight.

And I just stood there. Frozen. Like a pudding that hadn’t defrosted yet. And she was gone. Is this what shock feels like? Does it feel like your brain is running as fast as it can but it can’t quite process the information in time? Cos, that’s what it felt like as I stood, open-mouthed, outside Maria’s now unoccupied property.

I mean, I should go after her. It would do me good to chase after her and it actually genuinely looked like she needed it. To be there for her. To support her. That’s what humans do to one another, isn’t it? And she is, it seems, as human as the rest of us. But, on the other hand, her front door was still open and I could have a bit of a snoop around. So yeah, I chose the snooping around option. Snoop, snoop I go.

I mean, the chance to be in Maria’s house was intoxicating. Terrifying. Did she have teddy bears in her bed or maybe a pet? Oh god, yeah, a pet would be funny. A rabbit perhaps. Oh no, no, how about a gerbil? That would be so amusingly cute. Maria Exterberria, the proud owner of a gerbil called… Bertie. Yeah, here’s hoping. But, instead, I saw a building exactly how I imagined it. Bare. No photos. No pictures on the wall. Minimal furniture. Apart from the treadmill. And also a, well would you look at that, she actually did have a peloton bike.

When you looked closer, however, you started to see it. The bike and the treadmill. The muesli and lentils in the cupboards. Cans of oily fish. Salad leaves in the fridge. Dumbbells in the corner of the room. Maria wasn’t supernaturally thin at all. She had to work at it. The idea she presented, that she could do whatever she liked without consequence, was looking more and more like a mirage. Maria, the indomitable force, was looking more and more like a hoax.

I picked up her earbuds and listened, to see what sort of music she was into. Punk? Rock? Metal? Jazz? Soul? No, it was some foreign language podcast. I grabbed the phone that it was plugged into and it was playing ‘Basque C1 Level language learning’.

Now, why would she need to learn Basque? She was Basque. That would be like me needing to learn English (tbf, my English teacher back at school thought so, gave me a fucking C). So I delved further, looking for clues. Evidence. Hints of justification. In the end, in rather forlorn hope, I looked in her bin. And that was when I saw letters. Addressed to Maria.

Maria Jones.

“... the Fuck?”
 

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Chapter 9 - I am not what I am


This story didn’t start when Naomee said it did.

It’s Maria by the way. And, at the end of this chapter, I’m going to eat you alive.

No, the story as to how I found myself power-walking down a busy road in Liverpool, powered by fury and fear in equal measure, started back at high school.

When I moved to Chester, less than an hour South of Liverpool, I pretended to be French. I’d always had to travel around as a kid, going from one school to another, and something about going to a new school where all the kids know each other but nobody knows you, makes you feel small. Until you decide ‘fuck it, I don’t want to be small’. We all have a moment in our lives when we decide who we are. And I decided ‘fuck it, I want to be a god’ at Chester.

In Chester, I was French. My accent was pretty good, and the teasing was short-lived. Then came Liverpool and I was Spanish. And then I got a job and I decided that Spanish was still quite bland. No, I was specifically Basque. I got the tattoo of my lauburu on the back of my neck that day. The tattooist believed me. They’re not the smartest people to ever walk the earth.

I didn’t speak Basque. But neither does anyone else. Apart from the Basque I guess. So I’m just taken at my word. I liked it. It set me apart. Told them who I really was. Not the superficial stuff, but the deep stuff. I was Maria and I was better than them. They were all pieces of shitty Scouse pieces of shit, and I was Maria. And, I believe I told you this earlier, that if you tell a lie often enough, it becomes the truth. So I was Basque now.

You see, I blame Dexter. The TV show, not the type of cow. Dexter. About a serial killer in Miami. I hated that show. I love shows about serial killers, but this one was just so lame. He didn’t seem to realise or care how humdrum he was. How mundane. He was no Hannibal Lecter. A man who appreciated the importance of awe and fear. A man who knew that his actions didn’t exist in a vacuum. A man who knew how to craft his own mythology. I wanted to be the anti-Dexter. I wanted to be Hannibal Lecter. I wanted to craft my own mythology.

And it’s so easy to do. People are just fucking ants, wanting to be trodden on, and they are so stupid and simple. So you tell them something about you, and eventually they believe it. You tell that lie often enough, it becomes the truth. And eventually you believe it too. Which is why I am Basque. Which is why my name is Maria Exterberria. Which is why I can eat what I like, never exercise and never gain weight. Because I said so.

My other hero, besides Hannibal Lecter, was Niccolo Machiavelli. I am a descendent of him. Or maybe I just made that up. But I’m telling you it’s true and I’ll keep telling you until it is true. I’m a descendant of Niccolo Machiavelli and a spiritual successor. Everyone knows the line about “It is better to be feared than loved”, which is some hard-hitting truth and something I practice in real life, but it’s the line about how “Everyone sees who you appear to be, few really know who you are” that speaks to me. Shakespeare took great inspiration from Machiavelli. It’s in his Richard III, who can “smile and murder while (he) smiles, and cry ‘content’ at all that grieves his his heart, and wet his cheeks with artificial tears, and frame his face for all occasions”. It’s in his Iago, who “will wear his heart upon his sleeve for daws to peck at; I am not what I am”. It’s in his Edmund, who “will grow, will prosper; now gods stand up for bastards”. You see, I am not some frivolous mortal, I am a great piece of artistry. I was born great, I have achieved greatness and I have had greatness thrust upon me. I am more than human. And it’s true because I said so.

And, like Hannibal, like Iago, like Edmund, I desire to pull people down to the bottom of the sea, like the Kraken does to ships. Just to see what happens. Like pulling off the legs of a spider and watching it squirm. I don’t need a reason. I just enjoy seeing it happen. So that’s when I began to destroy people.

You know about Riyadh and Rhiannon. But there are so many others. Did you know about Big Rab and how his company is haemorrhaging money because of me, and he won’t do anything about it because of me? He knows I’m siphoning money from the company that he built. But I have legs and breasts and lips, so he won’t do anything about it but lie to his wife. Another turtle-faced man who gets his comeuppance. Add him to the list. I wonder what they’ll say about me in my obituary? Will they uncover all the lives I’ve ruined, or will some slip through the net?

You certainly don’t know about Jerome. Yes, that Jerome. Alice band wearing Jerome. “Aaaaand breathe” Jerome. Naomee’s ex-boyfriend Jerome. Of course, he wasn’t her ex at the time. But I was the reason he left her. He was chasing after me. I was chasing after her. Quid pro quo.

I want the record to show that I didn’t do all of this to get to Naomee. I don’t care about her. I don’t. No, I don’t. I’m Maria Echeverria and I don’t care about anyone. I’d rather be feared than loved, like my politico descendent. But I am the reason he broke up with her. And that did mean I could get to be with her. Naomee. Yes. Not that I care about her.

I wanted to tell her my secrets. I mean, I showed her my computer with all those files on it. I wanted somebody to know what I’d done. What an incredible achievement it was. To ruin all those lives with just words and lies and sex. It was exhilarating. But when nobody knows that you’re doing these incredible things, it feels… pointless. The idea that my achievements, the lives that I’ve ruined, will be lost forever when I die. No obituary in the NYT. No biopic adaptation of my life directed by a white man. No hard-hitting journalism discovering all my misdeeds. But to be forgotten about instead. I didn’t want that.

But, she wasn’t worth it. I thought that, with her, I’d finally met somebody who would put up a fight. Give me a challenge. Let me flex my muscles. Especially when she held out on the sex. I thought I could have an accomplice, even. Not an equal, but an underling. Be her mentor. But she was as pathetic as the rest of them. Inflating like an ego. I was so angry. I invested so much in her and this was how she repaid me?

And then I caught her peering through my window.

Yeah, that was a spanner in the works.

I never exercise. And I eat junk food. I want the record to show that. But, if I didn’t… then the application and devotion would still be impressive, wouldn’t it? I mean, it’s not true, but if I did commit so wholly to my own persona that I had to get up at 5am every morning and do two hours of exercise, that would be impressive too. I’m no fucking gym bunny, but, if I was, it would be impressive. Wouldn’t it?

She knew. She knew now. She’ll have seen the post sent to Maria Jones - such a stupid, boring fucking name - and she’ll have heard the language class and she’ll have seen the fucking pelaton and the brown rice and the myriad face creams it takes to keep my skin so porcelain smooth. She knows. And it makes me so angry. I am crying because I am angry. These are angry tears and fuck you for thinking otherwise. My world is falling apart and all my mythology is crumbling around me. What if people find out? Would they pity me? Me? How fucking dare they! They used to worship me and now they think I’m somehow weird and pathetic? I’m perfect. Rumours of my imperfections are greatly exaggerated.

I needed to get my head straight.

When I got back to my place, she was still there. She. Naomee. And she was eating.

“Hey, Ms. Jones…” she smiles, dipping onion rings into ketchup. Where did she get onion rings from? Where did she get ketchup from? Is this a fat person thing? Do fat people just summon fat people food with a click of their fatty fingers?

“My name is Maria Echeverria…”

“You killed my father, prepare to die?” she teased, quoting the fucking Princess Bride at me.

“Leave my house”

“Sure thing, Ms. Jones. Can I just finish these? I’m just so hungry these days” she smiled at me as she ate her onion rings. Enjoying herself. That was my job.

“Jerome’s dead” I tell her, and she looks up at me suddenly. Yeah, that felt better. Yeah, I needed that.

“What the fuck… what?”

“That’s where I went. Just now. To kill him. And now we’re even” and it was true. I did kill him. We were even. That’s where I walked off to. Didn’t you even think to ask? You stupid shits. I’m not a nice person, remember? Nice people are boring. I am Hannibal Lecter. I am Niccolo Machiavelli. I am Iago and Edmund and Richard III. Only without the hunch.

“No you…” she stammered.

“I went to his flat. Opposite the chip shop, with the bay windows. I went in, slit his throat and went out” I told her. And I was telling the truth.

“I don’t believe you…” she fumbled her words.

“Check. Ring him” I tell her, staring her down. This felt good. I needed this.

She rushed for her mobile and put it to her ear, her eyes bulging with fear. I watched, calm as she frantically waited for someone, anyone, to pick up. Suddenly, she hung up.

“You lying bitch!” she yelled at me.

“No I’m not. I killed him” I told her. And it was true.

“He picked up, Maria. You fucking compulsive lying bitch. He just answered the phone!” she yelled at me. And, okay, I lied, I didn’t kill him.

“But I could”

“Oh my god, don’t you get it… I’m not falling for your bullshit any more. You’re not Spanish…”

“Basque!” I corrected her.

“You’re not Basque either. Your name is Maria Jones, you’re a sad little girl and your dad was in the army so you travelled about it a bit. He died and you lost your marbles a little when he did. I feel sorry for you Maria, but I’m also a little pissed”

“Don’t you fucking dare pity me!” I raged.

“Look, it’s okay Maria…”

“It’s not okay! I’m fucking Maria Echeverria and…” and I started crying angry tears again. Sobbing with righteous fury. I am Maria Echeverria and I am not sad. I am furious.

And she hugged me. And I leant into it, sobbing tears. Because I was angry. Still angry. The fucking bitch. She stayed over, that night. She held me that night. She was there for me, that night. I hated her that night. But I was glad that she was there that night.

And I guess the thing about me eating you alive at the end of this chapter was a lie too.
 

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  • 1 month later...

Chapter 10 - Chicken Goujons


Shhh…

Don’t wake her now.

Look, she’s asleep. She’s had quite the day and I think all that emotion, it’s just taken it out of her. It’s not every day that the girl that you fattened up out of sadistic morbid curiosity because you see yourself in the same lineage as a 16th Century political diplomat from Italy rumbles you as not really being from the Basque region of Spain because she wanted to show you her journal of numbers that was actually a cry for help. It’s not every day, at all.

She’s still terrifying. Probably even moreso, if I’m honest. She was terrifying when I thought that she was always in control. Imagine how scared I am now that I know she’s not. She’s as fucked up as the rest of us. Nay, more so. It’s taken some of the weight off my shoulders, if I’m honest. But it’s not taken the weight off anywhere else.

But just look at her. Sleeping so soundly. She looks so peaceful. It’s probably the first honest night of sleep that she’s had in a good decade.

It’s been a couple of weeks since ‘the incident’. And it was fractious at the beginning, I have to admit. And it was also fractious at the middle. And, come to think of it, it’s been fairly fractious at the end. Let’s put it this way - hiding the knives was the best decision I’ve ever made. That said, it does make cutting food difficult.

It’s a bit like that scene at the end of Men in Black II - if you want high culture, don’t read a story written by me - where Will Smith is like, and this isn’t a direct quote “Woah, we should tell them alien thangs that they are like ants to us” and the big reveal is that the humans are like ants to some other alien race. Anyway, this contrived analogy is basically to say that the Men in Black films are awesome and that Maria has to come to terms with the fact that she’s an ant too. Thinking about it, I should have gone with Shutter Island, but that might be a spoiler so…

The first time she tried to kill me was the very next morning. I remember waking up and seeing her stare at me with her Sauron eyes. And then she said:

“I’m gonna murder you in your sleep”

Yeah. You know how she be.

“You woke me up to tell me that?” I remember grumbling, letting my head sink back into my pillow.

“I just wanted you to know”

“Yeah, yeah. Sure thing. Now, I’m just gonna…”

And then I fell asleep. I like sleeping. Sleeping’s good.

I woke about thirty seconds later and there was a knife to my throat.

“I said I was gonna kill you”

She spat the words, like they left a bad taste in her mouth. Like the words had gone off. The cold serrated blade running against my neck.

“Yeah… in my sleep. So why do you keep waking me?” I replied, turned back over and drifted off. Fuck, I really do love sleeping.

Anyway, like I said earlier, we are now a knife-free household. Fortunately, pizzas and Chinese food - the two main food groups imo - don’t require knives. And cakes don’t require knives if you eat them like I do. In fact, what are hands if not nature’s knives? Speaking of which, it’s time I mentioned the second time Maria threatened to murder me.

Okay, picture the scene. I’m still leaning fairly heavily - pun not intended but, you know what, I’ll take the credit for it if there’s any going - into this whole over-indulging thing. If you put a gun to my head - don’t give her ideas! - and asked me why, I don’t think I could tell you. To fuck with Maria? To fuck Maria? Who knows? And while there’s casserole in the oven, who cares?

Anyway, stop distracting me. I was gorging most resplendently on those chicken goujon things that you sometimes get, you know the ones I mean? Yeah, them. Anyway, I was working through a poultry farm of them when I sensed her getting grumpy again. The air turned a little cold and there was this palpable restlessness emanating from her like radiation.

“What’s up, Ms. Jones?”

“Don’t call me that” she replied, more curt than Mr Russell.

“Well, something’s up. Would a chicken goujon help?”

“I’m not angry” she seethed. Angrily.

“Sure” I said, before carrying on. “Oh god, these goujons are good. Are you sure I can’t tempt you?”

“Just fuck off, will you?”

“Or you’ll murder me?”

“Yeah, I’ll… why are you saying it like that?”

“Will Maria Jones threaten to murder me or something, for a change?”

“You’re really asking for it, you know that?”

“Is it the chicken goujons? Do they remind you of your childhood? Were you bullied by a chicken goujon when you were a kid? Did the chicken goujon call you names?”

“Stop saying ‘chicken goujon’!” she said, and threw a dumbbell at me. It missed my head by about six inches.

“Do you want a breaded chicken piece?” I asked, not even flinching. I can be such a bad-ass at times.

“The morning times are mine. They belong to me. You… you sleep in the mornings. I work out. I… why are you up? Ruining my mornings?” her shoulders were so tense, you could cut cheese on the blades of them. And, actually, cheese sounds pretty good right now.

“Peckish. Do you have any cheese? Cheese sounds pretty good right now”

She just sighed in frustration.

“I mean, have you ever thought about just… not exercising?”

“You watch your mouth!” I spat out. See, I can do venom too. Although, I was mainly taking the piss.

And that was death threat numero dos, or tres, or whatever. I can’t keep count when I’m hungry. Which is often.

And so it would go on. Us cohabiting and her hating my guts. Literally. I have guts now. Every now and again, she’d threaten to send me packing to the morgue and I’d shrug my shoulders and reach for the bread bin. Bread makes you fat.

It was kinda humdrum. Kinda staid. The tired, steady rolling of life. It was like somebody had spent the past six months dousing us in kerosene and threatening to burn us and now, six mad months later, we’ve only just been told that kerosene doesn’t actually catch fire with a match. Michael Bay has been lying to us all this time. Next, I’ll be finding out that the cars in the road aren’t robots in disguise or something. Like I said, don’t expect high-brow references from moi.

That’s French. And that’s as sophisticated as I get.

Anyway, it’s time for me to get up soon, so it’s probably best to wrap up. Maria will be livid. For a change. But I need to get up because I want to eat my body weight in Chinese noodles in szechuan sauce. And that’s a lot of body weight. So I need to get started.

Stop it.

Stop looking at me like that.

Look, I know what you’re thinking. That my characterisations in this chapter haven’t been entirely consistent with what came before. I’m coooool, now. Well-adjusted. I’m not a deer gazing lustfully into car headlamps any more. She doesn’t have control over me. Plus, this is my story and I’ll write me however I see fit. If you have a problem with that, take it up with the writer, which is me, so go fuck yourself.

No. Stop it.

I said stop it.

Look. Okay. Fine. You want the truth? You want the truth? You can’t handle the…

A serious answer? Oh. I see.

Fine. Okay, I’ll try again. From the beginning.

The past three weeks have been awful. I think I have Stockholm Syndrome. At the very least, Gothenburg syndrome. And they’re the only two Swedish places that I know. I don’t know why I’m here. The leash has been cut, my anchor lifted, my roots uprooted. There is no reason for me to follow Maria around like a lost puppy. And yet here I am.

The bit about the death threats? Yeah, that actually happened. But, I wasn’t some cool as a cucumber girl with one-liners and a tendency to say those one-liners while putting my sunglasses and staring off into the middle distance (just where is Horatio Caine looking when the CSI:Miami credits start to roll?). I was fucking terrified. Which, IMO, is a reasonable response. Honestly, not being fucking terrified is the insane reaction, mine is the well-adjusted one.

I mean, how would you feel, waking up with a knife to your neck and Satan herself threatening to cut my neck like it’s halal meat? It’s no wonder I’m a wreck. It’s no wonder I shake. It’s no wonder I make sure I’m always the first one up in the morning, neck deep in cheesy puffs and mayonnaise. It’s not a great combo but she shopping delivery doesn’t arrive until the afternoon.

She really did throw a dumbbell at me. She really did miss by six inches. But I didn’t offer her a chicken goujon. I sat down silently and ate my sorrows in pepperami sticks. They gave me acid reflux but they were the only friend I had at the time.

I missed my mum’s birthday. I ignored the call from her. Didn’t call back. I don’t care now. I don’t care any more. You thought that me finding out Maria’s big secret was going to change the power dynamic between me and Maria? Then you really don’t understand Maria at all.

Maybe… maybe that’s why I eat. You asked earlier why I was still eating. Maybe this is why. Because some things have changed. But other things haven’t. I’m still scared of her. I’m still attracted to her. The main difference is she sometimes drops the Spanish accent. For a treat. Aren’t I lucky?

The thrill of her is gone though. This was unexpected, but I don’t fancy her any more. She’s lost her lustre but kept the crazy. I don’t fantasise about her, but I’m still at her mercy. Stockholm syndrome? More like Stuck-home syndrome.

Anyway, I’m getting up now, microwaving those noodles and eating until it’s tomorrow. And, if there’s any consolation, it’s that at least I’m screwing up her keep-fit routine.

Yeah, that’s a good point. I hadn’t thought of that before.

Hmmm…


+-+-+-+-+-+-


One hour later, Maria pads her feet down across the hall carpet and walks into the main room. I’m there, eating my ever-increasing body weight.

“You’re up?”

“Down, actually”

“Don’t be smart with me”

“Okay. Sorry. And… umm… I’ve been meaning to ask… Maria?”

“Yeah?”

 


“Chicken goujon?” and I offered her a plate.
 

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Chapter 11 - Badger, Badger


Hey there, long time no speak. Remember where we were? Good, cos we’re jumping straight back in. Buckle up sunshine, this is gonna get bumpy.

“Why are you offering me a chicken goujon?”

I’m beginning to wonder if this chapter should have had a re-cap. Previously, on last week’s episode of Naomee’s weird and fetishistic obsession with her worst nightmare… sort of thing. But, and here’s a story telling trick… nobody will give a fuck, as long as your chapter contains titties. Honestly, no matter how bad your story-telling is, how clunky your dialogue, throw in some gratuitous titties and everyone’s happy. That’s why Treebeard is always topless in Lord Of The Rings.

“Because if you like chicken, and you like… goujon, I guess, then you’ll love chicken goujons”

She, Maria, The Abyss, Lucifer, whatever you want to call her, just shook her head at me like I’d disappointed her.

“Honest to God, one minute, you’re like a little wall-flower, other times you think you’re on a comedy podcast. And nobody listens to comedy podcasts. You’re fucking schizo, Nay-Nay” she said with a venomous sigh, her nostrils flaring, like a pissed off badger.

She didn’t mean anything by it. Or maybe she did. I mean, this is Maria we’re talking about. Maybe she said it to trigger me. But there is something I should clear up before we go any further. Another ‘Did you know?’, because learning is growing and every day is a school day.

Did you know there are two types of schizophrenia? Sure, you’ve watched A Beautiful Mind and think you know your shit. You know your shit, but I know you’re shit. You see, A Beautiful Mind is bollocks, John Nash was done dirty. But, beyond that, schizophrenia is not what Hollywood tells you it is. Or, at least, it’s not all Hollywood tells you it is. Because there are two types of schizophrenia and they only ever show you one of them.

“I just like chicken goujons. I thought you might like them too. If that’s crazy, then I guess I’m crazy” I told her, biting into another one. But I’m not crazy. You’ll vouch for me, right?

The first type of schizophrenia is positive schizophrenia. Which sounds like a stupid name because all types of schizophrenia are negative. But it refers to the fact that it ‘adds’ symptoms, which I’ll explain later. But, the point is, this is the type of schizophrenia you might be familiar with. The cool type, where you hear voices (Hi guys, by the way!) or become paranoid. Rarely, but occasionally, you might even hallucinate. But Hollywood over-emphasises that, just so Russell Crowe can get an Oscar or something, I dunno.

“You’re up to something” she stared suspiciously. Her eyes scanning me like a crime scene for clues.

The second type of schizophrenia is negative schizophrenia. And this refers to ‘subtracting’ symptoms. Or, to put more simply, where the bits of you are watered down or lost ever so slightly. You speak less, you engage less, you think less. It’s like you’ve tried to reboot them, and their just hanging. They’re there, but not as there as they should be. And this was the type of schizophrenia my mum had.

“I was just wondering what you were up to, today? If you had any plans?” I tell her, chomping on more chicken-y goujon-y (what the actual fuck is a goujon? And is it only chicken that can get goujon-ified? Does it count as a goujon, if it’s not from the Goujon region of France? Is it just a sparkling drumstick?) goodness.

Schizophrenics do not make great parents. It’s not their fault, but try explaining that to 8 year old me. When she was on a new cocktail of medication, you’d see her again. Flashes of the woman that my dad would tell me about. Her eyes would gain focus, a smile would creep up on her lips. She’d call me Nay-Nay. But, there were also the other times. I was told that she still cared, but her body had forgotten how to express it. So I would talk to my ma, read stories with her, tell her jokes, play with toys. All while she failed to engage. It wasn’t her fault. She had other things on her mind, perhaps.

“Yes, I always have plans. Why are you asking?” she walked up to me and stared me down. Like I was honey. And she was a badger. A honey badger.

What’s with me calling Maria a badger all the time?

As I grew up, she didn’t get better, my mum. Sometimes they do. My dad worked hard to explain that the reason she didn’t wasn’t because she loved me less. It’s just the disease. But he didn’t sound convincing. Maybe he was having doubts of his own. It must have been hard for my dad, looking back. Slowly, I spent less time with my mum. More time with my friends. With the living. When I was with her, I wasn’t really. I would be playing Snake on my phone. Just eating more and more apples. Maybe watching internet clips, including the Badger Badger Badger one.

Wait, is that why I’m calling Maria a badger?

“Who? Is it Rab? Nihal? Jonah? The woman with the big nose?” I ask, reeling off all the scant information I had picked up while she did her Maria thing and I stayed at home and did my Naomee thing. And my Naomee thing was just eat until it hurt, and then eat some more.

More time would pass and I eventually pulled away entirely. I wasn’t engaging with her, because she wasn’t with me. Maybe it was unfair to expect a child to do all the heavy lifting. Maybe it was unfair for a child to expect a schizophrenic to do her fair share of heavy lifting. But I pulled away. And as soon as I was old enough, I moved out. Away from her, and with my friends instead. And I left her all alone. She’d been getting more and more alone, but I sealed the deal by moving out. It leaves a stain of guilt on you, the kind that not even Cillit Bang could get out. Sorry Tom Scott, but guilt is permanent, even if left to soak.

“You’re too fat to come”

“I cum all the time”

“No… why are you acting needy? You know my views on needy”

I never want to be alone. Not like my mum was. I never want to feel abandoned. Not like my mum was. By me. I need Maria. She’s the only life raft I have to hand. And it’s stupid and crazy and makes no fucking sense. I’m well aware. But maybe I am crazy and stupid and make no fucking sense. My mum was, so why can’t I be? I never loved my mum. Not really. I just carried her around on my shoulders until she became to much to bear. And then I left her. And I never want to be left like she was.

“I want in”

“No”

“You need a crewmate”

“I do not need a crewmate. I have never needed a crewmate. I’m a lone wolf”

“No you’re not. You’re a badger!” I shout.

“Uhhh… sorry. Run that one by me”

“Badgers… they… okay, look. I don’t know if you know this about me but I like educating people. Facts, trivia, that kinda thing. And I have a badger fact”

“I do not want to hear a fact about badgers”

“Badgers… hunt in packs. You didn’t know that, did you? Badgers hunt in packs. They’re like velociraptors. Or Feds. Or garden gnomes. Badgers hunt in packs. And you are a badger. It’s about time you had a packmate”

Maria eyed me with her badger eyes.

“How would it work?”

“I’ll explain. But first, these goujons are done, and I’m gonna waste away if you’re not careful. So, grab us some grub, feed me, fuck me, and then I’ll give you the plan”

She shook her head, but walked to the fridge, ready to oblige.

The only time I ever spoke to my mum was on her birthday. I would call her, and she wouldn’t talk, but my dad would put the receiver to her ear and I would sing her happy birthday. The one time she ever got to hear my voice. I missed her birthday this year. Maria-reasons. She took that from me. My mum died three weeks later. Schizophrenia has comorbidity with other physical ailments and she ended up having a heart attack. And I never sung her happy birthday. All because of fucking Maria.

Maria walked back into the room, her smile set to delicious. She was carrying my favourite - too much cheesecake. She took off her top, took off her bra, took off her shorts, took off her uncomfortable looking thong and walked up to me with three cheesecakes, one fork and a desire to ruin me.

Watching her walk up to me, I could see what a stunningly attractive woman she was. Tall, elegant and with curves in the right places. Breasts - breasts that I had promised you, so enjoy - that would bounce a little with every step, firm handfuls of titty goodness. Or something. There’s a reason why Tolkein never described Treebeard’s titties in Lord Of The Rings. It’s hard to do without it sounding weird and gratuitous. Her hips were pronounced and elegant. Her legs long and soft. And her stomach shapely and curvy. She’d gained weight.

Good.

She sat down next to me, with cheesecake #1, and gently sliced off a chunk from the pointy end, and pushed it towards my mouth. A mouth which opened as if activated by sensors. And my eyes rolled back as I chewed.

“To my fellow co-badger” she smiled. Thinking she had an ally.

“To my fellow co-badger” I smiled back. Thinking of vengeance.
 

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Part 12 - The Holy Trinity


So, Tim was a monk.

“A monk? Do they even exist any more? Apart from on mountains?” I raised what I believed to be very valid points.

“Nay-Nay, of course monks exist. Who do you think works at a monastery?”

Have you got any ideas? Seriously, chip in at any time. Cos I’m absolutely clueless on…

“Monks, Nay-Nay. Monastery, monk. Like nuns in nunneries, abbots in abbeys, vicars in vicarages, you get monks in monasteries. Fuck, you can tell you weren’t raised religious”

“You were raised religious?” I asked, curious. She didn’t strike me as the religious type. What with the heathenry, sin and resolute conviction that she, herself, was a deity.

“Yeah. Maybe. Whatever, why are you talking about me? Focus on Tim”

Tim. So, as I was saying, Tim was a monk. But, like all of God’s creatures, he was horny for Maria. And this interested Maria.

She’d ‘run’ into him and spoke to him about salvation and other Jesus-y shit that I don’t really pay attention to. Religion is not my bag. I had a Jewish aunt and did you know Judaism is in a foreign language? And it’s not written with letters, you know? Well, sorta. They look like letters written by a ** person. Long story short, turns out I’m ignorant on all things religion. See, it’s not just you guys who are learning.

Well, we were going around his place (or should that be His place? I dunno, I’m religiously illiterate, remember) on the grounds that I was a sinner and I needed moral guidance and clarity. Which, to be fair, is probably true.

However, that’s not why we were going round. And, let’s be honest here, that’s not why he was inviting us round. He wanted to baptise Maria in his Holy Water, so to speak.

“This her?” he asked, with really well-faked concern. Oh look at me, I have strayed from God’s flock. [Pulls cute sexy holy sheep face]

“Yeah, Naomee. With two ‘e’s. The misspelling of her name is probably where it all started to go wrong for the poor child, in all honesty” she explained, and he did this thing with his face where he looked like he actually gave a fuck about my well-being. What a strange expression to pull.

He invited us in.

The fool.

+


It took 22 minutes. 22 minutes and Maria was doing him up the arse with a dildo, while I sat and watched, eating Chinese food that I had brought with me, because planning ahead is getting ahead, my friends. I watched, and ate, and manned the camera, while Maria did her Maria thing. And, I don’t know if it was the holy accommodation or what, but the only thing I could think of saying was “Jesus fucking Christ!”.

32 minutes into this and he was feeding me while she was licking his arsehole. It was rather pleasant, truth be told. Like a nice shower after a stiff yoga session. Only fattier, sexier, weirder and more damnation-inducing. I mean, if this is what organised religion is like all the time, I might give it a go. Could you guys let me know. I don’t want to miss my calling as a nun, if it involves threeway stuffing sessions and anal.

47 minutes later and I was giving him a blowjob while he was eating Maria out. I don’t think that’s how a 69 works. I don’t know what the name for that is. 666?


+


“Well, we have to run Tim… well, waddle… but this was great. I feel holy again” I smiled at him, as he recoiled into his bed with a different expression to the tender concern he’d shown earlier. This one was much more familiar. This was the ‘I’ve been Maria-d’ face. Everyone pulls it at some point in their lives. If you haven’t yet, well… it’s nice to have something to look forward to.

Maria was packing up the camera and folding up the tripod.

“Yeah, let’s go Mammon” Maria smiled to me, and pointing for me to leave.

“Sure thing, Satan” I smiled back, and we walk back.

You do have to wonder what was going through his mind at this point. But I don’t think even confession would be redeeming what he did with us. Sometimes, you just have to prey to your relevant deity that you yourself never find yourself in a position where you get co-badgered. Trust me, you might think you do, but you do not want to be co-badgered.


+


“That was glorious, Nay-Nay. Oh, that was so deliciously evil. I loved it” Maria said, dancing in the dark wet street with pent-up joy. She looked magnificent. Maybe it was the rain, Kirsten Dunsting down her top, maybe it was seeing the emotional ejaculation of joy that ruining a man’s life brought her. But whatever it was, it was working wonders for her, and I, for one, stanned hard.

That said, and we all know the reason you filthy pups are here, she was looking ‘curvier’ than usual. Not ‘bad’ curvier by all means. In fact, the contrary, she looked remarkable. She was perfect-looking before, and now she was even perfect-er. The way she could swing her hips out on her tall frame now, was magnificent. Honestly, I think even the Pope would have been bummed by her, looking like she did right now.

“So, what happens next? Do you stalk him or just relax in the knowledge that he’s a one-and-done”

“Oh, I’ll probably check up in a month or so. Let him have time to go soul-searching or, better still, rock-bottom-searching” she said, swinging on lamp-posts like she was Gene Kelly.

“So, it’s late now, we going back or…”

“I have to go to the gym, it’s…”

“At this hour. I mean, I know that body doesn’t keep itself, but still...” I risked a smirk. The fact that she had to exercise was still a sensitive subject. But the euphoria of her malevolence meant she was okay.

“Yeah, an hour maybe”

“So, you don’t want to go back and watch the footage? We could order pizza? I haven’t had pizza in hours and I miss cheesy crusts. But not that monk’s cheesy crust. Like, an actual cheesy crust” I explained, and she paused and looked at me, cock-headed.

“What are you doing?” she eyed me with suspicion.

Fuck.

“Oh, come on Maria. We’ve just ruined a man’s life. I’ve never done anything like that before. Isn’t your blood pumping? Don’t you want to do something utterly depraved to celebrate? Oh my god, my heart is beating so fast. I might order three pizzas” I rushed, words falling out of my mouth.

She stood still, and judged me silently. I couldn’t tell if I was sweating, or if all the rain was just hitting my forehead.

“Naomee… did you really like it that much?”

She said it tenderly, but with curiosity.

“Are you fucking kidding me? Those were the best 71 minutes of my life. They might have been the best 71 minutes anyone has ever had in their life. Is this… what it always feels like?”

She walked up to me slowly, rain kicking up as the flash-flood caused puddles along the pavement and the drains began to overflow. She reached me, pushed out a hand, and held my face.

“I’ve never had anyone to share this with, before. I’ve…” she bit her lip to stifle tears. “Yes, I will stuff you with pizza all night long, Nay-Nay. Fuck, four pizzas, let’s really ravage you. And tomorrow, I will show you what a real high looks like. Tomorrow, we’ll do one of my regulars. Co-Badger”.

And as much as I would spend the night eating out of her hand, I knew that, in the long run, I had her eating out of mine.


+


And then along came Sally.

Sally was not a monk. That was a shame. But she was a mother of two children. And every time those kids went to their dads, Maria and her tripod would go round and push her a little closer to The Abyss. Today, Maria hoped, would be her tipping point.

I was officially ‘her concubine’. Now, I wasn’t that keen on this undercover persona, truthfully. It seemed a little offensive and misogynistic. It also seemed a little too close to the truth. But that was the cover. I was an ‘offering’. We were going to feed every sexual impulse that she wanted, ones that only Maria was providing since the kids were born, and then Maria was going to tell her that she’d meet her there.

Where?

She’d told Sally that they would meet up in Wellington. Wellington, New Zealand. Sally would catch the first plane, with tickets that cleared out her bank balance, and Maria would catch a later one. Of course, Maria didn’t have any intention of catching a later one. Sally, ** on love, was going to travel to the other side of the world, with no money and no spare clothes, wait in a hotel for Maria to arrive, and then… wait some more.

“At some point, she’ll get worried. Maybe I was apprehended, maybe I was held up. Maybe it’ll be the next one. Or the one after. She’ll go to text me… with this phone” Maria said, showing me the phone that she had stolen.

“You stole her phone?” my eyes boggled.

“Yeah, she’s gonna be fucked. Can’t afford to come back, can’t afford to stay. You don’t need a visa for up to 6 months. She’s gonna be so heart-broken” Maria grinned, and I smiled too.

But this one was different. This was felt… different.

Was it because there were kids involved? Maria didn’t mind. Kids would be better off without parents anyway, she said. Is it because of my own maternal abandonment issues? I don’t even know if Maria knows about those. Was it because she seemed innocent? This wasn’t sin that drove her to the other side of the country, it was love. Was it because she was female? It certainly was easier to hate a man than a woman. Men just have it coming, if I’m honest. Was it because her torment would be the painful slow burn of regret and heart-break, rather than the fiery self-loathing of guilt? Or was it just because she looked like I used to look like, before I got fat?

“So, how was it?” Maria asked, her eyes dancing as she spoke. It was hypnotic.

“I…”

I paused. I tried to find the words she wanted to hear.

“Well? Nay-Nay?”

“It didn’t do it for me” I told her. Honestly.

“Oh”

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I promise, I’ll enjoy the next one. But…”

She smiled again, and held my cheek with her hand. I flinched as she did it.

“Good. I just needed to check you weren’t bullshitting”

I knew it! I knew it! I knew it was a test! I knew she didn’t expect me to enjoy it! I just knew it!

“You were testing me?” I exclaimed, superficially shocked but truthfully relieved.

“Yeah, I knew that wouldn’t be your cup of tea” she told me.

“Was it yours?”

“I… not really. I don’t know why. Just… something felt off about it. A bit… sad, more than anything. But, what’s done is done” she explained.

And, I have to take a minute now. That was a bit much, and I just need to collect my thoughts. She took me to see Sally, ruined Sally’s life, ruined her husband’s life, her kids’ life, just to test me. So far, so evil. So Maria. But, she didn’t like it either? Does that mean Maria has a soul after all? Should I be happy about that? Or should I be worried for my own soul, given that we drew the same line in the same place? Fuck, am I faking this, or am I really like Maria?

The rain started again, but this time, it didn’t feel so victorious. We weren’t singing in the rain. We were standing there with slumped shoulders.

“Again? More rain?” I ask, to the sky.

“Maybe, God is doing this to spite me” Maria mused. “That would be kinda hot, wouldn’t it? Provoking God. Maybe he’s turned on by me. I wonder what God’s fetish is. Everyone has one, I wonder what his is. I bet it’s like mine. I bet he gets off on the floods and the locusts and people suffering. Me and you and God, all have the same fetish. We’re the holy trinity. Masturbating furiously as people’s lives are ruined. God, oh yeah, he just loves it when people’s lives are ruined. Yeah, and anal. I bet God loves anal. Come on Nay-Nay, we should head to the gym”

“The gym?”

“Yeah, you don’t have to do anything. You can watch. But I’d like the company. Also, you could actually exercise. It would be kinda funny, kinda hot, to see you trying to work out in a gym. I don’t get to humiliate you much these days, given that you’re always inside”

“You called me your piggy concubine?”

“Oh yeah, I guess that counts. Come on, how do you fancy it? Tight lycra, heavy panting, utter shame? Sound good?”

“Honestly, if it’s alright, I think I’ll just go home and stuff myself with pizza again. I don’t… feel like anything sexier” I admitted.

“Oh. Sure. I mean, fuck it, I’ll keep you company” Maria said.

And, on one hand, I’ve got her right where I want her. On the other hand, is Maria being nice to me? Am I betraying her one semi-functioning relationship? Are these slumped shoulders just for Sally, or are they for Maria too?

But, what’s done is done. Let’s make Maria fat.
 

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Part 13 - Chinese finger trap


It was all going so well. Until they called the police.

But we’ll get to that later.

First… stuffing time.


+


You ever hear of the Chinese finger trap? I didn’t know that was the name of it until I googled it, but I would recognise one of those fuckers from fifteen parsecs away. We had them when I was just a ragtag scoundrel back in Primary school, and maybe I’m showing my Millennial age but they were all the fucking rage. Like fidget spinners… only nothing like fidget spinners.

The way a Chinese finger trap works is that you put it over somebody’s fingers - such japes - and then you pull until it tightens over the finger. Now, because we were all pre-teens and thus had the collective IQ of a bag of wet cement, the trick would work. Because, to remove the finger trap from your finger, your instinct is to pull it. How else to take something off, right? Nuh-huh, not the Chinese finger trap. Cos the Chinese finger trap is a trap. For your finger. It’s kinda where it gets its name from, I imagine.

So, you pull. You pull the Chinese finger trap and all that does is make the trap constrict tighter around your finger. It’s totally counter-intuitive, but you’re so young that you still watch cartoons (my yogi ex-boyfriend still watched cartoons when he was in his late 20’s. I’m counting that weird Japanese shit as cartoons), so the counter-intuition flummoxes you. You’re bam to the boozled. The more you pull, the tighter it gets. The tighter it gets, the more you panic and want it off. The more you panic and want it off? Yup, the more you pull. Until you end up crying and someone has to intervene to pacify you of your fraught emotional duress.

Well, imagine all of that… but with sex.

Good, right?

Okay, I use the Chinese finger trap method for our fucking and feeding sessions. I don’t try to enjoy it. I don’t lean into it. I resist. I writhe. Every mouthful is an aberration, every touch is an abomination. I can’t possibly fit any more inside of me (this works for feeding or fucking). Please… please… let me go. I can’t cope. Please….

The more you resist, the more our resident Chinese finger trap - Maria Echeverria, mother of dragons - constricts. The more the noose tightens. She feeds you more fiercely, she fucks you more vindictively. And vindictive is the word. She gets pleasure from your pain. Not necessarily with whips and such like - though not necessarily without whips and such like either - but it’s the muchness of it all. The excess. The overabundance. So much eating, so much fucking. And the more you pull, the tighter it gets. So you can’t cope, you’re straining, well passed maximum capacity. So you pull away more. And she tightens more. Punishes you more. Until each breath hurts. So you resist more. So she tightens more. Until you end up crying and Maria has to intervene to pacify me of my emotional duress. I really am that pre-teen child in the playground still.

Well, we’d been doing this a bit and it was getting results. Results that include orgasms so intense that it makes food taste weird for at least 48 hours later. And massive weight gain. Both of which, I have become somewhat partial to, no word of a lie.

My eye hadn’t been on my own size ever since the epiphany about Maria’s gain. Maybe it should have been. I’d been ballooning like billy-o. The biggest indicators were how devil red my stretch marks were looking. Like Satan’s talons clawing at my thighs, the underside of my stomach and near every other part of me. I didn’t mind. Fuck, I loved it. It was intoxicating to be pushed so relentlessly, suffocated by the sheer waterfall deluge of it all. To be in the eye of Maria’s storm.

And yet I was distracted by hers. It was so marginal by contrast. Just hinted at always, elliptic and impossible to confirm. Were her thighs more substantial? Was her chest always so swollen? Did her sides form slight rolls every time she sat down, before? They were whispers of weight gain, lost in the heavy metal roar of my own thrashing expansion.

This was the routine, really. It was almost balanced. Almost healthy. Okay, it was clearly neither of things by normal people’s standards. But through our own deranged perspective, things were reaching a degree of equilibrium. Of calm. Wild, hedonistic, head-throwing-back and back-spasming calm. The best kind of calm, if I may say so.

We’d also been dabbled in the ol’ Maria destruction dance. Like with the monk, you remember the monk right? Yeah, we were still doing that. Oussami bought him and Maria a house to live in with money he didn’t have. Gladstone dissolved his company so he could elope with Maria in Ibiza. Unfortunately for him, his wife had done the same with her company and they were disappointed to find only each other and that the other was cheating too. Selina sold a kidney so she could afford a wedding with Maria that The Abyss had no intention of attending. Charles had sex with his own mother on camera because it would please Maria. He didn’t know that the email address he sent it to was not so much Maria’s as a journalist at The S*n.

I felt a bit left out of all these things. There was rarely much need for me. I could man the camera (woman the camera, surely?). I could watch. I could keep the other half occupied with a social call while Maria plundered their soul. But my beauty was no longer the conventional type these days. I was getting a bit heavy in the same way a neutron star was getting a bit heavy. Reality was beginning to distort around my edges and Hawking radiation poured from me. I was 270lbs and my chin was sinking in the quicksand of my other chin.

And it was all going so well. Until something gave. And that something was called Mark.

We don’t know his last name. He wasn’t really important. Sure, he tried to call the police on her. Sure he threw everything into disarray. But it wasn’t really Mark’s fault. It was mine. And that was kinda the problem.

One of the games Maria plays is Snog the Stranger. The rules are simple: You see a stranger and snog them. It’s to kill time while I eat Kentucky fried chicken by the literal bucket load. To make it fun, she didn’t pick easy targets. Married men, police officers, that kind of thing. Her favourite thing were couples. She’d walk up to them and snog one in front of the other, let them really get into it while the other half watched in confused shock, and then walk away strutting while they bickered over who she was and why they enjoyed it so much.

Until she tried it on Mark.

Mark was hot. Like, we’re talking Chris levels of hot. Pine, Evans, Hemsworth, and, to a certain but lesser extent, Pratt. All Chrises are hot and Mark was in the same league. His girlfriend was also in the same league, if you’re into that sort of thing. She had that Ariana Grande/Barbie doll thing going on, where she was so skinny that her knees would buckle if she wore a hat, and she wore so much fake tan that Willy Wonka would consider her slave labour. They were hot. And they were about to be Maria’d.

I was busying minding my own business with some deep-fried chicken and heartburn while Maria revved her engines up. I would watch over the rim of one of the buckets as hot greasy slobber dripped down my top. And Maria would do her schtick. She got up off the chair and lasered in on her target. With that walk she has. She had this walk, you see? A walk that involved an impossible amount of sway. Hips swinging like a Newton’s cradle from side to side so she could get one foot in front of the other. Head at a slight angle, bizarrely accentuating the impossibly perfect symmetry of her face. That was her walk. Like she owned the place. Like it didn’t matter whether she owned the place or not, she was in charge.

She drew towards him and plunged her icy fingers around him and pushed in. She pushed in, pressing herself against him while Ariana Tiny watched with her mouth so wide she could give an Ent a blowjob. And then it started to go wrong.

“What the fuck?”

He pulled away from her as soon as she leaned in. She looked at him with the same look of confusion that a dog has when you pretend to throw a ball but really it’s still in your hand. Nobody had ever “what the fuck?”-ed her before. Which, given how she spent her days, was impressive. But this left her reeling.

“Oh, pretending you don’t want it, how cute” she said, before going back in.

“No. Fuck off. I don’t even know you, you weird bitch” he said, pulling away from her again and contorting his face into a broken omelette of disgust.

“Come on Mark, let’s call the police” the little dumb blonde thing said.

“Why? The police?” Maria’s eyebrows crumpled in worry, not sure if they meant the band The Police or The Metropolitan Police Force. Neither would be good

“Cos that’s sexual assault, you crazy bitch!”

And Maria walked away, shell-shocked.


+


I remember that afternoon like it was yesterday. I remember sitting in the living room while she paced like it was yesterday. It was actually three hours ago, but it felt like only yesterday.

That strutted walk of hers was wearing down the carpet as I sat and ate another bucket of chicken wings but, this time, to go. Her cheeks reddening with rage. My cheeks reddening with the exertion of finding more room in me for more chicken.

“How fucking dare that shitty little shite!” she raged as grease slobbered down my chin.

“Yeah, shitty shite” I backed her, with my mouth loaded with a poultry farm of cooked bird.

“Probably gay” she rationalised.

“Queer as fuck” I supported.

“But if he was gay, why wouldn’t he kiss me? I turn loads of gay people straight” she continued, grappling with the issue. Then she looked at me and I swallowed. A gentle summer breeze of insecurity drifted over her face. “What happened, Nay-nay?”

She said it with a bathful of acid. But she said it as a cry for help. She looked like she wanted to murder a puppy. But she really wanted an ego boost. For the first time in Maria’s life, she needed an ego boost.

“Maybe resistance is his thing. Like with me and the Chinese finger trap. Maybe batting you off was his fetish and he’s gonna jerk over the dumb blonde thinking about you forcing yourself onto him?” I suggested, drawing from experience.

“So, it’s not because he didn’t like me. It’s because he did?” she said, chewing it over like her mouth was mine and the thought was yet more chicken.

“Why else?”

“Because I’ve gained weight” she said, her eyes on me as I chewed.

And that’s when I knew I was fucked.


+


“Have you?” I said, in a pitch so high it would make dogs bark, glass shatter and Matt Bellamy think it was a bit much. I wouldn’t have convinced a child. Might have burst their eardrum though.

“You. Fucking you did this, didn’t you?”

Her eyes were on me again. Red with smoldering ember. I could feel the warmth of them. I could feel warmth all over. Even my crotch was warm. Especially my crotch, come to think of it.

“No! I do the eating in this household thank you very much” I protested, between bites of evidence.

“Yeah, but you discourage me from going to the gym. You offer me chicken goujons and order in pizza. I haven’t had a steamed vegetable since we did that monk that one time”

I gulped and twisted in my seat a little. And I felt a tingle deep inside.

Look, if I was telling this story again, I’d have told you what she looked like before now. What she looked like when she did that sashaying charge at Mark. What she looked like while she paced with newfound anxiety. What she looked like as she looked at me like she was scanning for which soft tissue organ she was going to rip out and set on fire. And what I would have told you was that she looked hot. I’m no poet, but I realise I should have done that and if I could go back in time and correct it, I would. But I can’t, so I won’t. So, let me tell you what she looked like. Besides, y’know, hot.

She looked hot.

Fuck, let me try again…

She looked hot…

Oh, come on Nay-Nay, stop getting distracted and focus on the wench at large. Issue at large, sorry. You can do this!

She was wearing jeans. She wasn’t really a jeans type of girl, so I had noticed it from the off. She didn’t wear jeans, as a rule. They made her look… mortal. Humans wore jeans, with their debit cards and their mortgages and their subscription to Gardener’s Weekly. Maria wasn’t like that. Maria was superior to that. Except, today she wasn’t.

They were tight as well. I mean, of course, that’s the point of jeans. Nobody likes baggy jeans, apart from Uncle Robert for when he attends those neo-fascism rallies that the family don’t like to talk about and don’t pretend your family doesn’t have an Uncle Robert because all families do. And they all wear baggy jeans. But, for everyone else, jeans are supposed to be suffocating to the point of auto-erotic asphyxiation. They’re supposed to clamp down on you so tight that they leave denim print on your legs. And they were on her, suffocating the lifeblood out of her legs. You could almost see the veins in her legs through them. It was intoxicating.

Less fashionably, but they were also tight around the waist. Tight where the button is supposed to loop through the hole and tight where the zip is supposed to grind its way up those teeth. They hadn’t been closed together, they were clasped. It was vacuum sealed. The kind of tight fit that involves lying on your bed, arching your back into the air like some sort of semi-naked crab, and sucking in like you’re Kirby trying to vanquish your enemies.

And this left her with her first ever muffin top. You could see it through her artfully ruffled black blouse top, a baby’s handful of malleable skin leaning over the vicious hem of denim. And up my eye would travel as I scanned for incriminating signposts of my fattening designs. Breasts so pushed up by an under-sized bra that they pushed horizontally off her chest like Trolltunga before mashing into the underprepared top half of her black blouse. Her arms were smooth now, no inward sculpting between vines of muscle. Even her face was softer. Less vampiric, but no less sexy and no less dangerous.

Anyway, where were we…

Oh yeah, Maria was onto me.

“You did this” she snarled, sitting herself on my knee pressing her nails into my neck.

“Did what?” I gasped, feeling every emotion known to humankind, rupturing through me in an electric thunderclap.

Her face broke for a second into a smile, before sharpening off into her more familiar glare.

“You ruined everything” she seethed.

I don’t remember what I said in response to this, if I’m honest. I just remember forgetting to breathe. I just remember shaking with pleasure.

“You did this” she bristled, undoing - and with some discomfort - that poor button on her jeans and letting soft play-do skin push out into my beanbag or enormity. I repeat, our tummies touched. My tummy, the size of Santa’s sack, brushed against the vixen skin of Maria’s virginal protrusion. Fuck, I’m getting horny just thinking about it.

I was terrified. As usual. Her hands were round my neck now and her teeth were gnashed so tightly that I’m not sure how air got in and out. I was terrified. But in a good way. And she terrified me in the good way for the past three hours. The last words I remember saying were:

“No wonder he was disgusted in you…”


+


And now it is now. And I’m sitting next to her, feeling my blubbery stomach rise up and down as I take deep breaths. Catching breaths that I seemed to have previously misplaced. And, next to me, is her. Maria Echeverria. Breaker of Chains. And her baby tummy is doing the same. Like a small pup trying to imitate its mummy. What the fuck was happening?

“What the fuck is happening?”

She smiled, and ran her talons down my cheek.

“You passed” she said, more enigmatically than Alan Turing cosplaying as The Riddler.

“Cool” I smile. “But what did I pass exactly?”

“My initiation test. To see if you could really be my protegee”

Wait… hang about…

“What?” I turn to look at her, my face now the broken omelette of confusion.

“I wanted to know if you could do it. Destroy someone. Pull off the wings of a butterfly. I wanted to know if you were worth my time. Not just some mimic, but actually, deeply cut from the same cloth. A junior to my senior. I wanted to know if you could Maria me” she said, reaching over and picking up a chicken leg and biting into it.

I still don’t understand.

“I still don’t understand”

“Of course you don’t” she grinned. “I was letting you role-play on me. I… was struggling to get you do a solo mission. You are… well, let’s face it, you’ve completely let yourself go and no sane person would touch you”

“You touch me?”

“Am I sane?” she replied and… touche, Maria. Touche. “So, I let you do it to me. I wanted to see if you would dare. I wanted to see if you could. But, most of all, I wanted to see if you enjoyed it. And you did, Naomee. Because you’re like me. A destroyer of worlds. And it’s so fucking hot. That’s why I love you. Because it’s like looking into a mirror”.

And that sentence is a lot to comprehend in real time.

“You sacrificed your body though?”

“Pffft… I can get it back in weeks. I’m Maria Echeverria, Queen of the Andals. I can lose the 33lbs I’ve gained easy…”

33?!?!?!?!?!?!?

“But why? Why do all that for me?” I said, whimpering with arousal and confusion and fear and happiness.

“So... how to explain? Right, so, there are these toys. They’re called Chinese finger traps. The way they work is they tighten around you the more you try to pull it off. So you pull tighter, so they restrict more, so you pull tighter. Well, that's what I wanted you to do. I wanted you to fight me. I wanted you to rail against me. I wanted you to have to tighten, the more I pulled away. I throw a fucking dumbbell at your head. It was all part of your conditioning. Because that’s where the satisfaction lies. In that tension. In that resistance. And if you were to have any hope of doing the things that I do, you needed to learn how to be a Chinese finger trap”

I sat there, dumbstruck. Struck dumb with dumbness. My mind had never ‘what the fuck?’-ed so hard before. The grey tissue of my brain melted into marshmallow and words vanished from my vocabulary every time I reached for one. And the only words I could actually stop from worming out of my fingers were:

“You love me?”
 

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FINALE

Part 14 - Raptors

 


"Whoever fights monsters should see to it that she does not become a monster. And if you gaze long enough into an Abyss, the Abyss will gaze back into you"

- Ol’ Freddy Nietszche.

 

 


Close your eyes.

Really, do it. Close your eyes. You’re reading this on your PC or laptop or tablet or phone, aren’t you? And you’re in the sanctity of your own bedroom maybe, or somewhere private. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere that you can guarantee nobody else will be. The Emirates during an Arsenal home game, perhaps.

But do it. Close your eyes. Sit back, tilt your head back and close your eyes. Doing it? Good. Wait… how did you read this sentence if your eyes are closed?

For real though, close your eyes and picture this scene. Switch off your music and focus on the sights and sounds of what we’re about to describe. Picture Naomee. Young woman, bright future ahead of her. She’s a charming young woman. Her hair is as blonde as hay. There is a small constellation of freckles dotted on her cheeks and nose that she despised when she was a kid but has grown to accept and even admire as she got older. She has an uncomfortable habit of fidgeting with her hair when self-conscious. A blushed smile and she’d run her hand through her bangs as if her fringe only ever covered her eyes when her cheeks got red. Her name is Naomee, her friends call her Nay-Nay, and she’s the second hottest woman you’ve ever seen.

She works in your office, maybe. Or you see her in the gym. She lives across the road from you or her old best friend at school was your sister. She waited your table when she was at college or bumped her trolley into yours in the supermarket one time. And she looks like every angel you’ve ever imagined. Except, of course, I have read a Bible and know that angels are actually ugly motherfuckers. And also non-binary, which is pretty rad, if you think about it. Enbies represent!

You look at her and this what you see. Beyond her weathergirl smile, with the dimpled cheeks and eyes light blue, like an ocean that had frozen over. You see her and you’re a hot-blooded pervert, you check her out. Your eyes fidget uncomfortably, sneaking glances at her airy build. Light and lithe and skinny with sunshine. Her skin is made of nectar and ambrosia. It dances with elfin tightness, delicate and sweet. She carries herself like her bones are made of bubbles. This is Naomee. This is Naomee one year ago.

And now look at her.

Just look at her. Look at her, on all fours. Tongue hanging out like a dog trapped in a hot car. All mush and flesh and shapeless sloth. Wearing nothing but a bra and underwear that were purchased 12 weeks and 50lbs ago. Everything else hanging out like discarded curtains. A stomach made of butter left out in the sun. Furrows in the stomach where it folded in like origami. Her shoulders permanently Stay Puft.

What the fuck happened to her?

Well, I happened to her. It’s me, by the way. Maria. And, this final chapter, we’re telling it together. Maria and Naomee. As one.

She’s slobbering over a cake. That’s what she’s doing. The cake is some German thing. Not sure of the name. Probably ends in -torte or -kuchen. She’s eating it like it’s bluetooth. Hands-free… it’s a… hands-free joke. Anyway, she’s eating it hands free. Like a pig from a trough. Pushing her head in it, letting the icing splatter over her face, so caked in cake that you’d be forgiven that this is Noel’s House Party. It isn’t Noel’s House Party. This show is not suitable for kids.

And, as she gorges on cake, ripping into it like she’s the T-Rex from Jurassic Park, we better tell you what’s been happening since you were last here. And where better to start than telling you about when the COVID restrictions were over and we could go back to work…


+


Big Rab didn’t say anything. Not with his mouth, anyway. That little face of his - the face you imagine Esio Trot pulls when he’s on the point of orgasm - said plenty, but the lips moved not a jot. He stared with his unkempt eyebrows jungling downward, frown lines riven across his face like dehydrated soil. His weird moustache looking bushy and confused.

Of course, Big Rab hadn’t seen Naomee in over a year. I’d not got a camera that worked on my laptop, or so I had told him. I’m sure you remember me telling you all this. It was quite the hoot at the time. I would be sent laptop upon laptop as he tried to ensure that the camera worked. Of course, they all did. But I pretended they didn’t so I could balloon in peace (B.I.P.). And, because of that time delay, he remembered me looking like the dawn chorus. Like Springtime. Like life and birth and rebirth itself. Like that girl we described at the start of this chapter. It had been a long year but I wasn’t that girl any more. Was I?

No, you weren’t, Naomee. No you weren’t. Honestly, you wouldn’t even pass a distant relative of the girl you once were. It would scarcely be believable that your old self would be willing to socialise with your new self. A fat wastrel blob of gelatinous shame, mushed into straining skin like an overfilled binbag. Because I can do ornate metaphors too.

But breaking the chair was a bit much. I was in the cubicle across from you when it happened. I liked to stare at you and then stare at all the people staring at you. I would watch as they flicked between the image of you in their memory bank and your current incarnation, and working out what happened. Fucking hell, scribbled on all their faces. Double-checking, to make sure they weren’t just seeing double. And Big Rab and all the others were looking at you as you leaned back. And the chair broke.

To be fair, you were filling it. Rammed in. Fixed in. Even if it hadn’t broken, you were in trouble with it. It was not designed for you. For this you. Squished inside it. Fat bulging over the armrests. Like a hot mess. Only less hot.

And then it broke. The plastic where the nuts were bolted in ructured. The new fat girl was on her arse in the office and it was so humiliating. And it was so hot.

Big Rab looked up in shock. I remember the expression. Like Mitch McConnell taking a shit. Like a blobfish pressed up against a window pane. Wondering the cause of the ruckus. Wasn’t he?

Yeah. He was.

And he was looking at you, Naomee, wasn’t he?

Yeah, he was. Looking somebody carved Voldermort’s face out of a snot bubble. And seeing my fat arse on the carpet while the chair split across the room like they were horcruxes.

“Naomee… a word”

What did he say in that meeting, Nay-Nay?

He… he was worried. About my behaviour. Though I could sense quotation marks around the word ‘behaviour’. Like behaviour was a euphemism for figure. “What have you done to your behaviour, Naomee?” and “You used to have a fantastic behaviour but you’ve really let your personality go”. He didn’t scold. He did the disappointed dad routine. He said I could grab my stuff and I’d be escorted off the premises. If you hadn’t barged in and done your Maria magic, my job was done for.

You’re welcome.

Not really. Because now, every time I walk in there, I see them looking at me as if I’m contagious. I mean, it’s not me that’s contagious of the two of us, but they’d look at me and keep their distance like I was riddled with coronavirus. A cross on my door.

Covid’s Metamorphoses?

I feel like that reference is wasted on me. They giggle and snicker, and they talk to each other under their breath between glances at me. Like their betting on what I’ll break next. My new chair. The desk. The floor. The world. All because you persuaded little Big Rab to keep me on. The only way you know how. Isn’t that right, Maria.

Yes. I pulled every trick in the book. Because I keep all my tricks in a book. I made that man pull faces of joy that are not suitable pre-watershed. I touched nerve endings that had rusted over back when Starburst were called Opal Fruits and Presidents were allowed to take blowjobs from secretaries as long as he didn’t stick it in her woo-woo. The worrying thing though was that I had to work hard. That worried me. That worries me. I never used to have to.


+


Back to the here and now, and we’re nearly halfway through the cake. Maria sitting and watching, paddles and whips in her hand to remind me that pain is pleasure and pleasure is pain. It’s easy to remember, but she reminds me anyway. Painfully. Pleasurefully. I muffle the sound of joyous exhalation by diving headfirst back into the gunky sickly cake, going at it like I’m licking the cake out. And, in many ways, I am.

Afterwards, and I can see it in the corner of my eye, will be the shakes. Weight gain shakes, blitzed together with ice cream and regular cream and double cream and anything else ending in cream. Anything else that would make your GP look at you over the rim of their glasses as if to say “should you really be having that?”. And then mushed all together into a drink so thick it’s practically food. And I’ve got all that to come. After this cake.

And Maria’s sitting on a stool and watching. Like an eagle. A falcon. Hovering over her prey. Or like a praying mantis. Ready to bite my head off. I’d be okay with that, if she bit my head off. It’d be kinda hot.

She looks gorgeous, as she peers down at me, probably contemplating ways of disposing of my body should the situation call for it. She looks soft, curvy and deadly. Looking like a cross between a dream and a nightmare. Looking like a cross between Heaven and Hell. Ecstasy and horror. A climax and the petit mort. Satan and God. Good and evil. Well… yummy evil and bad evil, anyway.

And not slim, either. I guess you’re gonna want us to tell you about what happened there too, aren’t you?

Fine. But I’m telling this story. Me. Naomee. I like this story. The story of why Maria hadn’t lost any weight yet.


+


Close your eyes.

Yes, again! For fuck’s sake, why do you always nag so much? Just close your fucking eyes and appreciate the structural parallel of this installment. Close your eyes and picture Maria. Oh, you don’t mind that, do you? Double-standards, really. Call yourselves fat fetishists and here you are just gagging to picture Maria.

Maria Echeverria. Not her real name. But she says it is her real name and she’s boss, so maybe it is. Maria Echeverria has always been tall and skinny. Not effortlessly so, as we recently discovered. No, creating your own mythology takes work. Takes 5:30am starts on the treadmill or the elliptical machine. It takes living off bird seed and allotment-grown detritus. The stuff that makes me feel ill inside. The stuff I used to eat too.

She’s imposing with her height. She’s ekes out every millimetre of it with a straightened spine and model’s neck. Her thin, serpentine legs are a curiosity, they wrap around you and tighten with ferocity but, when standing, they look light and gentle. Her waist drew in slipperily, wiggling in like the bloody veins of a river. Her chest always upright and pronounced, like gravity couldn’t lay a finger on them. She was the stuff dreams are made of. Appearance-wise. Personality-wise, she was the stuff nightmares are made of. The kind of shit that gives Cthulhu nightmares.

That was what she looked like when I first stared at The Abyss. The funny thing about abysses, however, is their propensity to stare back. And when I witnessed her in all her monstrosity, I saw myself become similarly monstrous. And that’s why Maria hasn’t lost weight.

If anything, she’s gained.

No I haven’t.

Yes, you have. And shut up. I’m telling this. She’s still mesmeric. Entrancing. Bewitching. She haunts your eyes, and the burning smell you can smell is that image being scorched onto your brain, to scar deeply and forever. She’s still tall. Like scaffolding or a church. But she’s got considerably more substance, more softness, more decadence. It’s a pear-shaped tendency, as if that somehow justifies it. Maybe that’s how she justifies it to herself. Maybe she’s just curious what I can do. The darkness in my eyes turn her on, because she knows she created it. She’s ruined me, in a way. But she’s ruined me by making me like her. And now I get to do the reverse.

Her legs have swollen, like puffed out cheeks, softening at the touch and starting to mottle at the back. Her hips are wide and generous, for sashaying and swagger more than narrow stools. And a stomach that isn’t flat any more. It curves, nothing as prole as sagging or jutting, but it’s an outward of skin that hands can melt in. Soft, full, malleable and delicious.

You’re welcome.

We came to an agreement. Like we were divorcing parents sorting out who has the kids and when. She gets to wreak Maria havoc on me from Monday to Friday. And I get weekends. And this worked well for her during furlough. And this works well for me now furlough has ended.

She doesn’t mind. Or maybe she does. Maybe she enjoys the fact that she minds. Maybe the frustration turns her on. Her frustration turns me on. Her exercise habits have capitulated into the sea, and this house has a moratorium on healthy food. And she becomes mine. I get to tear into her with my fat fingers and feast on her formerly fallow flesh. All part of the quid pro quo. Maybe one day she’ll break an office chair too.

I have learnt from the best, when it comes to feeding people to the edge of cliffs. I learnt from her. I know exactly which buttons to press. All of them, all at once. Like a fat woman sitting on the TV controls. Which I’ve been known to do from time to time. Sometimes, I don’t even notice. Anyway, I know how hard to press, I know how terrifying, how safe, how electric, how restrained to be. How hot to be. How cold to be.

I know how long to let my touch linger, and when to pull back. I know when to give her what she wants, and when to pull it away from her. I lean into her, and push food into her, any strength she’d built over the years just squashed by my excess. Every Saturday, every Sunday, she’s my ragdoll play thing and I get to rip her to shreds like a rabid dog. Now that’s living for the weekend.

 

+


And this leads us back to the here and now. WIth the two of us. Maria with the paddle, and Naomee with the weight gain jug dribbling down her mouth and onto her swollen stomach, stickier than semen. Maria with her hand between meaty thighs, gasping for air in the way that pleasure elicits. And Naomee, stifling hiccoughs with more of the shake that caused them. But it’s Friday night, and it’s drawing towards 12, that weekend draws near; so soon the roles can reverse and The Abyss can stare back at Maria.


+


And maybe we will stare at you. Yes, you. We’re Fleabagging again. Which sounds rude, I apologise. But you. You’ve been staring at The Abyss an awful long time, I’ve noticed. How many chapters has it been.You gazing deep and dark into the abyss. Don’t you worry it will gaze back?

Because we mentioned Jurassic Park earlier. But the T-Rex isn’t the real star of the show in that movie. It’s the raptors. Funny thing about the raptors, according to the 90’s classic film. His visual acuity isn’t based on movement like the T-Rex. Oh no. Not the Velociraptor. No, you stare at the velociraptor and the velociraptor just stares right back. Remind you of anything? And that’s when the attack comes in. Not from the front, but from the side. From the raptor you didn’t even know was there.

Not from Maria, but from me. It’s Naomee, by the way. And by the end of this story, I’m going to eat you alive.

Whoops, it seems to be the end of the story.

Yum.
 

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