(not so) sage

I think I remember you getting up. Lithely, even with held breath. You must've practiced this. I sank back into sleep. Thoughts mingled with memory. How you had stuffed me senseless the night before. How I fell asleep to you caressing my softened belly with your dominant hand. Wasn't it just months ago I had abs?

I think you placed your hand on my cheek. Your thumb rested softly on my lips. Gently, you drew it down across my bottom lip, both stroking and opening my lips. Affectionate. But subtle. I next awoke mid-swallow, cool, sweet richness sliding down my throat. I felt a thick straw in my mouth.  A milkshake. Your hand had left my face, and was cupping my pec, playing with my softness.

"Shhh. Shhh. Not yet," you chided. My eyelids closed. A milkshake with cinnamon and a touch of herbs? Horchata-flavored? Something else? Oh, it must be Saturday; those are the days which we agreed you can do this to me with "chemical assistance." My sleepy mind briefly welcomed THC as an old friend. It left the front door wide open before wandering off into twisting halls. Hadn't you bragged about buying a 100mg vial yesterday from the dispensary? Was all of that in me now? It didn't matter. Doesn't matter? Warmth fills me as you pat the side of my ever-expanding gut. It's funny how efficiently your hands convey your satisfaction. 

The straw sucking against the empty cup nearly wakes me up. I'm too, too full. How? Wasn't it only one milkshake? My capacity's more than that, I know. My eyes start to flutter. They, like me, feel impossibly heavy. I stir. You massage my belly with both hands, and I (think) I can't help but burp from the relief. Maybe I misremembered that. Maybe I didn't.

I'm more confident that you kissed me on my forehead before bringing another straw to my lips. Chocolate this time. I fall even deeper under your spell as hands rub hungry circles along the softest parts of my belly. You've made me --

"Greedy. And that's how I like you." You first said that on our third date, so long ago. Before we started measuring our relationship in pounds. When I used to fit comfortably in booths. We had oreo milkshakes that day. I think I still taste it on my lips. And I think I feel you between my thighs, drawing gentle patterns in the fat that you've put on me. When was this? What do I look like now? Do I still have abs? These blankets are heavy and warm.

I groan, stirring, and strawberry milkshake escapes over my bottom lip. You waste little time. Your hands are all over me, stopping to coyly play with my chest and stomach. I open my eyes.

I think you're kneeling over me. You're straddling the great glutted roundness of my belly, your soft T-shirt hinting at your own curves. Blearily, I start trying to form words. They're slow and heavy, like me. Before I can speak, you reset me with a jolt of pleasure, and I'm sinking again.  Looking over my body, I see that I am long separated from my abs, thanks to you. You give me a squeeze on parts of my belly that I can't see. I burp again. You giggle, and ever so slowly gyrate your mound against the soft overhang of my gut.

"Good morning, babe," you purr. I try to sit up again, but can't. I'm too heavy and comfy. I'm still asleep? Kind of? What is this? Everything is deep and warm, and as soon as I flirt with focus, your touch lures me back into quasi-consciousness. 

Your whisper cuts through the fog. You're right up next to me, behind that velvet sensory curtain.

"You've done so well for me. Not even 8:00, and how much have you had? Mmh. You were so eager today. Your body must really want all this." I feel your slight hand, cold but hungry, stretch over the top of my belly. It sinks in, alabaster resting on a plush pillow. You slowly jiggle it, and I feel my own body's momentum. You retract your hand. I keep jiggling. Fuck. You really made me fat.

I think I managed a "Mhmmm." Your finger was on my lips again before I could get anything else out.

"Shh. You rest here, babe. Take some time to digest. I'll wake you up in a couple of hours with breakfast."

I can't even think to protest.