The only response you give your boyfriend-no, EX-boyfriend, is a disgusting, slow fart, as he slides deeper up your stinkhole. You're laying on your stomach, texting one of your friends lazily. The man halfway buried in your fat, dark brown ass cheeks gasps desperately for breath, wriggling in a panic. He's been eaten up to his chest by your butt, his arms sealed away inside with the rest of him.
"Uagh, oh, g-geez, that STINKS! Baby, PLEASE don't, I'm begging you!"
You roll your eyes. "Don't you EVER 'baby' me again, motherfuckin' piece of shit," you spit hatefully. With a filthy squelch, he sinks in up to his neck. He screams in fear, fighting like crazy. You smirk as he begins to sob like a baby, LOVING his misery. The room is positively rank with the smell of your farts, and that's the way you like it. It reminds the fuckers of what they are.
You stand up, ignoring the buttmunch's pathetic pleas for mercy. His head is slipping between your huge cheeks now, so that his cheeks are smushed humorously together.
"Wh-whyyyy," he wails. "Wh-why like this??”
You turn your but towards the mirror so he can see himself. You look over your shoulder and give him a smug look of distaste. “Because it’s where you fucking belong, dick,” you spit as you snap a picture of yourself in the mirror. "Now get a good look, because it's the last thing you'll ever see... and it's the last anyone will see of you."
You cut off his shriek of terror with a clench of your fat ass cheeks, slurping him inside your stinkhole for good. You give your greedy rump a satisfied smack, relishing the muffled screams from inside you. You immediately post the picture of his face crammed in your crack to Facebook with a caption reading "showin another bitch the back door", followed by a skull emoji and a poop emoji. You plop down on the bed once more, heedless of your squealing prey's comfort. You continue texting your friend, already beginning to forget he ever existed. You'd been dating for two months, making it a remarkably long relationship for you. For a little while, you thought you might like to keep him around... but you eventually grew annoyed by his continued survival. It just doesn't sit well with you to let a man live... it's unnatural.
Your name is Marsha Grueller, a thirty-seven year old black woman. You work as a marriage counselor... which is to say you help married women realize that what they really want out of their husbands is a good meal. Your life's mission is to free as many women as possible from the idea that men are anything but edible sex toys, and deserve nothing but death. You hate to see guilt-ridden women trying to pretend like they don't secretly want to brutally digest their "true love". It's very rewarding work.
Most women are disdainful of their lesser male counterparts, but you're a different story. You don't disdain them... you HATE them. You see them like pigs or cows, filthy, pathetic creatures meant only for butchering. You pick one up here and there and play with them for a while, such as the sobbing hunk of meaningless meat inside you, whose name you can't even begin to remember. However, you do so for your own cruel amusement, not out of any sense of love or partnership. You're not attracted to them sexually, as you are mostly asexual. No, they're like pets to you, slaves to use and abuse. You let them grow secure, you let them call you pet names and tell you they love you... none of which you reciprocate. And then, when humiliating and tormenting the creatures bores you, you eat them, and broadcast their embarrassing death to the world.
Your latest toy is quickly succumbing to your bowels, if his choked, tortured wails and the putrid gas squelching from your rectum are any indication. Your room fills with the stink you are all too familiar with, and you smirk. "Another little boy stripped down to his true nature..." you muse. You fart again, enjoying the rush of power that comes from expelling a man's gaseous corpse from your asshole. "This is what you get for pretending like you were ever anything more than a lump of shit."
Those are the last words he hears before he dies, finally disintegrating in your intestines. Over the next hour or so your belly growls and grumbles, sucking his remains dry of nutrition and pumping it through your body, plumping you up slightly. At last, you squat down on the toilet and take a dump, flushing the smelly mess with hardly a glance at it. You clean up and inspect your body in the mirror. You’ve gained a little bit of padding here and there, around your hips and thighs, and a faint amount of pudge rests on your tummy, but you’re a true predator, and you’re relatively unaffected by his demise. By the end of the week you’ll have slimmed back down to your lean, muscular self, assuming you don’t have another snack by then.
Having finished off your dinner, you yawn and turn in for the night, looking forward to work tomorrow. You’ve got several appointments and it’s gonna be a busy day.
You awake bright and early the next morning, jumping out of bed feeling refreshed and energized. You put on a stern looking business outfit, with a red blazer, tight black slacks, and red heels. After a quick bite of toast, you hop in your car and head to work. Your first appointment is at eight o’clock and you want to be ready. When you arrive at your office at seven, you find the door locked, which means your secretary is late again. You roll your eyes as you fish for your keys, unlocking the doors yourself and heading to your office. Thirty minutes later, as you read over your clientele for today, you hear your secretary come hurrying in. You can almost smell her fear, even from behind the closed door of your office. You buzz her immediately, chuckling to yourself.
“Stacy,” you bark, making sure your voice is cold and free of mirth. A few seconds pass in silence before she walks softly to your door and opens it timidly.
“Y-yes, Miss Grueller?” She squeaks, sticking her head in the door. She has wavy brown hair with round, soft features.
“This is the third time, Stacy,” you say grimly.
“I’m so sorry-"
“This week,” you finish, cutting her off. She stares down at the floor in shame. “I like you, Stacy, but this is really unacceptable.”
"Yes ma'am... you're right, it won't happen again," she stammers in response.
"See that it doesn't. I hate to see a good woman go down the toilet," you warn, hardening your voice. She nods fearfully and scampers away quickly, leaving you shaking your head with a smirk. You probably wouldn't actually eat her. You abhor the taste of women, and it just doesn't seem right for a woman to die that way. Besides, you actually do like Stacy. She recognizes your authority without question and does her job well, when she's here to do it. You like her afraid of you, however, and you intend to keep it that way.
Eight o'clock comes soon enough, and you hear your first clients of the day enter the little building. You clean off your desk and pull out the file labeled "Firth, Danielle". Stacy greets them and takes some information, before buzzing you.
"Danielle and Jeremy Firth are here," she says through the little speaker.
"Send her in, and tell her to bring the male with her," you answer. The couple open the door, and you stand.
"Mrs. Firth, a pleasure to meet you," you greet with a friendly smile, shaking her hand. She's a short, slender woman with red curly hair and a freckled pale face. She has an irritated expression on her face, and she looks around like she doesn't know why she's even here. It's a look you're familiar with. She returns your handshake with a flat smile.
"You must be Mrs. Grueller," the male says with an ingratiating smile, extending his hand. He's slightly taller than you, with a very muscled build and sandy hair. You ignore him entirely as you walk back around to your chair.
"Have a seat, Mrs. Firth, and tell me why you're here." You tap a button on your desk, and the door silently locks behind the couple, unknown to them.
"We're having some intimacy iss-" the male begins, but you cut him off.
"MISSUS Firth," you repeat in a harsh voice, not even looking at him. Mrs. Firth frowns in confusion, but the male bristles and leans forward slightly in the chair.
"Now see here," he begins, but that's as far as he gets before you lose control. You cannot STAND being spoken to in such a manner by a male. You lean forward quick as lightning and slap him so hard that he falls out of his chair, dazed. His wife gasps in surprise, not sure how to react. The male stumbles to his feet, face red with enraged humiliation.
"We're leaving," he spits through clenched teeth. "And I'll see you in court!" Just as he finishes his threat, he yanks uselessly at the locked door. "What the fuck! Unlock this door!"
You fix the unbearable creature with a hateful glare, until he stills, still angry but apprehensive. "You ain't going nowhere until your wife allows you to, and you will not speak unless given express permission. Now sit down, like the good little bitch you are." He doesn't move, staring at you with both rage and fear. Finally his wife speaks up.
"For fuck's sake Jeremy, sit down," she snaps.
"You're just going to let her-"
"I said SIT DOWN!!" she shrieks, furiously, and her husband immediately obeys.
"I'm sorry about my crude behavior, Mrs. Firth. Violence is they only language these filthy creatures understand. Now, tell me what brings you here, and keep that thing quiet."
Danielle Firth seems more engaged now, looking at you with newfound respect. She gives her husband a scathing glance of warning before she speaks. "This whole thing was his idea. I got no problem with my situation, but he seems to think we're 'drifting apart'. He wants us to 'rediscover' our relationship."
You groan internally, silently disgusted by the notion. That a man should be so presumptuous to demand such things... it makes you want to grind him into chyme right here and now. "First things first," you begin with a sigh. "It's abundantly clear that it doesn't know its place. Males belong under your heel or in the toilet. There is no equality. There is no common ground. You've allowed this animal to believe it is something more than a disposable plaything." Mrs. Firth listens intently as you continue. "Secondly," you continue. "You have utterly no obligation to any of its whims, needs, or desires. I'm shocked you allowed it to drag you down here against your wishes... but as long as you're here, make it right. My fix for you is a simple one, and I think you know what it is."
Mrs. Firth chews her lip with narrowed eyes. She glances sidelong at her husband, who seems caught between furious humiliation and fearful apprehension. He sees his wife gazing at him silently
"D... Dani," he stammers, breaking out in a sweat. "Surely you don't... you're not considering..." He swallows nervously. "Come on, honey... come on, let's go home..." You grit your teeth but say nothing, waiting for the inevitable.
"Home?" Danielle scoffs at last. "You mean my home?"
"O-our home..." he begins, confused, but his wife shakes her head.
"No, that is my home, not yours... and I think I've had enough of sharing it with you. But you're goin' home, alright... your real home..."
The color begins to drain from his face as she seizes him by the collar. "B-baby, what do you mean??"
"I mean I'm finally putting you where you belong, dickmeat," Danielle growled. She yanks him by his hair down to her abdomen and held his face against her tummy. "My fucking gut!"
"No, no!" he spluttered. "You don't mean that!"
She opens her mouth and moves to eat him, but you intervene. "No, with as much as he's put you through, he deserves far worse than that." You move behind the frightened man and grip his shoulders tight, your fingernails digging cruelly into his flesh. "Drop your skirt. And panties," you order Danielle, who looks confused for a moment, then blinks.
"Wait, y-you mean with my... my ass?" she asks, looking unsure. "I don't know, I mean... I haven't like.. cleaned it... and he's still my husb-"
"No, he is NOT your husband," you growl, and her eyes widen. "No matter how rank your asshole is, it won't be half as filthy as this worm. He deserves every torment you can give him, now shove his pathetic, weak body up your ass and turn him into the SHIT he is!"
After another second or two of hesitation, Mrs. Firth unbuckles her denim miniskirt and tugs it down her jiggling thighs, following suit with her pink lacy panties. Her naked ass is round and plump, and you see her pink rectum as she grips her cheeks and pulls them apart. There's a gleam in her eyes, as years of stifled hunger and hate breaks free.
"NOOO!" the male squeals, his big, "manly" muscles completely useless against your predatory grip. "P-please, Dani, PLEASE!" You catch the faint musk of Danielle's gaping asshole as she leans back toward his face. You yank his head back by the hair to hold it still. You watch gleefully as his cheeks are engulfed by her ass cheeks, and his jaw sinks into her pucker. Danielle lets out a growl of satisfaction, and presses harder against his head.
"N-No! Ugh, e-EW!" the pathetic meat-sack splutters, his head sliding deeper and deeper between those flabby buttocks.
"Fuck. You." Mrs. Firth spits hatefully, biting her lip and shoving her hips down. With a delicious squelch, his entire head pops into her poop chute. You release him just in time to avoid being caught in her crazed buttmunching, and step back to admire your handiwork. His screams and pleas become more and more stifled as he fights in vain to avoid being claimed by her colon. You watch, impressed, as Mrs. Firth's bootie chews him mercilessly deeper, crushing him into the tight confines of her bowels.
You return to your desk, and by the time you sit down, all but his feet has been crammed up her rump. With a pleased grin, you watch her finish the job, slurping him up with a grunt. "Oh, my GOSH," she gasps, plopping down in the chair with a heaving sigh, not bothering to pull her panties back up. "That... was... it was..." she mumbles breathlessly.
"Overdue," you finish, and she grins, nodding.
"And so fucking fun," she adds.
"MMMRRRRrrrrghh," the food sobs in disagreement.
“What was that, you stupid fuck?” Dani jeers down at the slightly jostling mound in her abdomen. “I couldn’t quite hear you, try again...” She grunts, forcing a *Phbbbt* from her bum. “That’s what I thought, ass snack,” she spits, ignoring his humiliated howls of terror. You wait patiently, letting her enjoy the moment of catharsis. This is what you live for.
“Miss Firth,” you say after a few moments. “Before you leave, there are just a few things Id like to discuss.”
She leans back in the chair, which groans beneath her weight. “Sure,” she belches, covering her mouth.
“You’ve made an important step forward here, but it’s just as important not to take a step backwards. There are a couple of things you should avoid, to keep your mindset right. For instance, you may be tempted to keep some piece of him, like a skull or a half-digested article of clothing. I advise against that. I’m glad you were able to relieve your frustration, and I’m sure you feel like this is a big deal, but at the end of it all, he’s just another male, another meal. He’s not special, he’s not different, and he does not deserve commemoration.” You eye the squirming, squealing sack of flesh with a subtle, smug satisfaction as you speak. “Lastly, and perhaps most importantly,” you continue, and fix her with a stern gaze. “Do not get yourself into another relationship. I understand that some women enjoy having male consorts, but for now, I want them to occupy only one role in your life: food.”
Miss Firth nods. “I get it... you’re right. I need some time to myself. This relationship was more harmful to me than I realized.” Her snack’s screams are beginning to sound bubbly and choked now.
“HRrrrrrGGGGHhhkkk!” it wails. Neither of you pay it any mind as it dies a slow, agonizing death. You spend a few minutes going over a few more details, but for the most part, your job is done.
“Thank you for what you’ve done for me,” she says, shaking your hand. “I feel better than I have in a long time.”
“That’s what I like to hear, Miss Firth,” you answer. You unlock the door with the flick of a switch, and wish her a good day. She leaves, significantly fatter than when she walked in. She squeezes out the door with a final poot, leaving you to wrap up your notes and prepare for the next client.
Over the next few hours, you manage to get two more men ground into chyme inside their wives, and one woman promised to think about doing the same to hers. Overall, it’s been a productive morning, and the work is starting to make you hungry.
As the last freshly fattened female leaves, your tummy grumbles. Watching those man digest has got you craving some man meat. You stand, preparing for a lunch break, and then, as the door swings close, you catch a whiff of something divine. You sniff and your eye narrow, your mouth watering. It’s the smell of meat... fresh meat. There’s a boy nearby, a child. You grit your teeth at the thought... it’s been a long time since you’ve eaten a little boy, as you generally prefer fuller meals, but this odor is calling your name. He’s yours.
You walk determinedly to the door and open it. You take a deep whiff through your nose, relishing the aroma and preparing to track it down... but you don’t have to. You open your eyes, and there he is, a young boy of about seven with brown hair. He’s standing in front of Stacy, leaning on her desk. He’s short and very skinny, with a t shirt and shorts. You feast your eyes on him, animalistic hunger taking over. He hasn’t noticed you... but Stacy has.
She’s staring at you, face pale, eyes wide. Her lips are pressed together and she’s breathing quickly. You meet her eyes, and she grabs the boy’s arm. You can’t help but smile as realization dawns.
You turn your predatory eyes on the child, who’s looking at his mother in confusion. “Peter,” Stacy says in a strained, quiet voice, still looking at you. “Go home.”
“Now.” Stacy’s voice is thin and hard. Peter follows her gaze and jumps when he sees you, his face suddenly mirroring his mother’s fear.
“Hey there,” you say in a husky voice, grinning evilly. He swallows nervously, glancing back at his mother and inching closer to her.
Your hunger has reached positively murderous levels. You don’t just want to eat this creature, you want to destroy it. You want to tear his little body to pieces and crunch him into paste.
And yet, some small voice of rationality is reminding you that, as pathetic and fucking delicious he is, he belongs to another woman, a woman that works for you. You honestly shouldn’t eat another woman’s food, but... Stacy isn’t a predator, right? If she won’t eat him, why not you?
What to do?