In The End, Only Darkness

by O'Rourke, Monica

  Her eyes moistened and she looked away. She believed she’d forgotten how to cry. It had been so many years. Even when her father died three years ago and she’d been too large to leave her apartment to attend his funeral, even then she hadn’t cried.

  “I’m Justin, by the way. I’d like to deliver your food, if that’s okay with you. Be your delivery boy.”

  She let him leave. And never said a word.

  *

  Lunch was bacon cheeseburgers with French fries, a barbecued chicken, potato salad, coleslaw, and a bowl of tomato soup. Another two-liter Pepsi. A quart of Haagen Dazs Vanilla Swiss Almond with hot fudge.

  His sitting with her didn’t inhibit her appetite. What shame she’d felt earlier was now smothered by her hunger.

  Legs crossed, hands on his ankle, Justin watched, not saying much. Sat with her while she ate, kept her company, faking aloofness in his fascination of her amazing art, her perfected craft of self-indulgence. She was amused—bemused, perhaps—at his rapt attention, and at his attempt at nonchalance.

  Several weeks went by, and Justin had begun visiting Diana even when he wasn’t working. He brought her cakes and cookies and Italian pastry from a bakery on Second Avenue. He brought her Thai food and Greek cuisine and Vietnamese take-out.

  He stole into her apartment one evening and crept behind her. She knew he was there, had grown accustomed to his footsteps, and the light, fresh scent of his soap. The night seemed much more brilliant than ever—smelled crisper somehow, and even the days had a sharper edge when he was around.

  This was happiness, she decided. This was ecstasy.

  “I have to talk to you,” he said, his voice raspy and thick, as if he’d been crying.

  She tried to see him, but he was behind her, and she was unable to maneuver. He held her shoulders and wouldn’t allow her to turn.

  So this is where the happiness ends, she also decided. “You’re scaring me.”

  “I don’t want you to see me like this,” he said.

  “Like what?”

  “I have to tell you something.” He sat on the edge of the bed and smeared the tears across his face with the back of his hand. “I need to tell you something, but I’m afraid you’ll be mad.”

  So this was it. The inevitable, the horrible revelation. Now would come the taunting and torturing, the part where Justin would reveal how this has all been a terrible joke, a dare from his friends, something … something unspeakable.

  He whispered it, and she asked him to repeat it. “I said I’m in love with you. From the first day we met. I knew—”

  “Get the hell out! Rotten bastard.” She sobbed, and threw an empty chow mein container at him.

  “Please listen. Please!”

  “How could you?” she cried. “How can you be so mean?”

  Then he was inches from her, pushing her back, pressing his chest into hers. His hands on her shoulders, digging into the flesh. He arched his neck and mashed his lips against hers, rough and sweet. Then they softened, his lips and hers, and he kissed her gently, his tongue probing, darting into her mouth. He nibbled on her full lips.

  “I don’t understand,” she whispered, pulling away, catching her breath.

  “I’ve loved you from the first time I walked in. When I’d heard about you, I had to see for myself. To know if you were real. And—you’re magnificent!”

  She pulled away from him, not even realizing she had. “What?”

  “I’m attracted to larger women.”

  “What the hell for?”

  He stroked her shoulder-length brown hair and pushed it away from her face. Pulled strands from between folds of chins. Bent over and sucked her earlobes, hands roaming from her hair to her face until they finally began to move to the hotter, denser areas of her body.

  “I just am. It’s like a fetish of mine. Don’t you have any fetishes?”

  He kissed her again, more zealously than before, his breath hotter and quicker. His hands slipped between the buttons of her housecoat and massaged her fleshy abdomen and belly, stroking and rubbing, traveling over the lumps and folds of her torso. His hand reached her chalky breast and he rolled his palm over the nipple.

  He sat up, moved closer. “Is this okay?” he asked quietly, but didn’t wait for a response. Pulled open her dress. His tongue circled the areola and flicked the nipple, biting and licking.

  Diana was torn between feeling morbidly embarrassed and completely aroused and settled for a combination of both. She grabbed his head and ran her fingers through his hair.

  His hands massaged the length of her body, wandered over mounds of fatty flesh, cottage-cheese skin, over hills and valleys until he reached her pubis. She rolled back, propping herself up. He spread her legs and found her clit, teased it with his thumb. He lowered his head between her legs, and she felt his hot breath … and then his tongue, flicking her clit, sucking it, his fingers entering her cunt. Thrusting them in and out, probing deeper, faster. His tongue worked her clit while he finger-fucked her, and an incredible warmth spread throughout her body. Her cunt tingled, felt thick and meaty, and her muscles tightened, waited for that powerful release. She gripped the sheets, her body screaming for liberation, shaking with ecstasy.

  A part of her couldn’t accept this, not completely. This is the cruel joke. She waited for the inevitable humiliation. Still, it didn’t come. Still he played with her massive body, seeming to enjoy himself, showing no revulsion, as odd as that seemed to Diana.

  He stripped off his pants and underwear and tossed them on the floor. Pre-cum glistened on the glans, and he stroked himself stiff. He leaned forward, and she took him in her mouth, tasting the salty droplets of cum, teasing the tip of his cock with her tongue. She took him all the way in, felt him pulsing in her throat. His cock slid out of her mouth and she tongued the shaft, hand working it, gently cupping his balls. Flicked the head and pulled it back into her throat, bobbed up and down on it.

  He pulled out of her mouth and climbed between her legs, pressed up against her stomach. Plied through layers of flesh until he discovered her cunt and entered her, lay on top of her like a climber halfway toward peak. Ground his angular hips into her.

  She felt his cock inside her, but then he pulled out, massaged the tip against her throbbing clit. She tried to grab his sack but was unable to reach past her stomach. He entered her again and leaned up, sucked her breast like a baby feeding while he rammed himself to orgasm, waiting for her to cum.

  Diana could remember the last time she’d fucked—twenty years ago now, when she was fourteen. Didn’t want to remember … her only experience until now. Back then it had been traumatic, a mixture of pure shame and exquisite desires that had been too much for her to handle at such a young age. It had begun her descent toward food and oblivion.

  But now … now, being brought to orgasm by a man she loved … a new experience, a fusion of feelings and emotions she was unprepared to handle. The feeling of utmost satisfaction, an ecstasy so deep it made her shudder, made her flesh undulate, and she came again. Her body exploded, her cunt on fire until she unclenched, every muscle exhausted, aching, every nerve ending sizzling and shooting sparks.

  He rolled off, spent and glistening, his thin chest rapidly rising and falling. He scaled the length of her body and lay beside her.

  Diana leaned back, inhaled, felt her lungs pull in a full, healthy breath for the first time in years. She laughed—really laughed, and then wept deeply and profoundly, like a mourner at a funeral.

  That gnawing discomfort, having to pretend that she didn’t mind him looking at her body, pretend that she wholly enjoyed his tender caress. Truth was, she would love to feel that way, but how could she trust? After a lifetime of abuse and hiding, trust wasn’t something that came naturally. There was an element of enjoyment there, and she couldn’t deny she’d craved the intimacy that had been missing from her life for so many years now. Even when she was thin, as a child, safety and intimacy were foreign to her. It was this mixtu
re of embarrassment and enjoyment that Diana couldn’t reconcile. This bizarre yin and yang that existed as polar opposites within her world.

  He held her hands, kissed them, sucked her fingers. Wiped away her tears. He seemed to truly love being intimate with her; he was somehow her other half. She believed that he enjoyed being lost in her folds, as if falling into piles of unkneaded dough, glutinous and sticky and absorbing.

  When he returned the following afternoon, he carried a large shopping bag, and was sporting a grin. “I have a surprise.” He dropped the bag at the foot of the couch.

  She assumed they were sex toys of some kind because he’d mentioned wanting to try something a little offbeat. Slightly alarming for Diana. Not only was he seeing her naked on a regular basis, he now wanted to throw bizarre objects into the fray.

  But instead, he pulled out a pastry box, and she realized the shopping bag wasn’t from Purple Passion or Pink Pussycat but from Zabars.

  After he cut the strings and opened the box, he lifted it and held it beneath her nose. “Mocha chocolate and raspberries.”

  She looked up at him.

  Another box. Another cake. Decadent Chocolate Mousse. Then a bowl of English Trifle.

  “You hungry or something?” She felt her cheeks flushing.

  He stopped emptying the bag. “Oh. I’m sorry. I-I didn’t mean—”

  “What are you doing?”

  “I want to feed you.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s—this is what I like to do. I’m a Feeder.”

  “A Feeder? This is your kinky surprise?”

  “Well yeah … it gets really erotic.” He looked down, away, anywhere but at her eyes.

  “Does it?”

  He looked up and smiled.

  She realized she was clutching the sheet and had at some point pulled it up to her neck. Not that she was naked, but she still felt exposed.

  “I don’t understand,” she said.

  “I’ll show you. Will you trust me?”

  Good question. “But all that cake. I’ll just get fatter.”

  “It’ll be fine.”

  “Will it?”

  That smile—the one that carved pits in his cheeks—disarmed her. He sat on the bed and trailed the tips of his fingers along her calf.

  “I don’t want you doing anything that makes you uncomfortable.”

  Hell, he’d seen her naked. And now he was talking about combining food and sex—her two favorite things.

  “How does this work?” she said quietly.

  He giggled, and jumped off the bed. Retrieved the cake boxes. No need to go to the kitchen for utensils. Diana kept a supply on the coffee table beside the couch.

  “Close your eyes, Diana.”

  She closed them. The soft, elegant feel of silk draped around her head, over her eyes. Tied at the back of her head. Her heart pounded in excitement, anticipation. Then, the soft pop of a cardboard top being opened … a moment later, she felt a gentle poke at her bottom lip. Something sharp, yet not sharp enough to hurt. Her tongue probed and found tines. Not metallic but plastic.

  He fed her. With her eyes closed, she couldn’t tell which cake he had chosen. The tart tang of raspberries blossomed in her mouth, followed by the bittersweet richness of the dark chocolate.

  Like a child at play he giggled, like a boy experiencing the pure delight of a first snowfall. “Do you like this?”

  She nodded, and sighed, finally beginning to relax. “Is this it?”

  “Unless there’s something else you’d like to do.”

  She fingered the silk scarf. “Can I take this off?”

  “Sure.”

  He was naked. His torso was smeared with dripping chocolate and outlined in whipped cream. His swollen, hot penis was inches from her hand. She reached over and grabbed the shaft.

  She pulled the cake box across the sheets. Inside was half of what looked and smelled like the mocha cake. At her coaxing he leaned in, and she gently pushed his cock into the layers, covering it with the cake.

  “Oh shit,” he giggled, the sound of it adorable.

  “Close your eyes,” she said. “You’re still the Feeder. You’re still going to feed me.”

  He shut his eyes.

  The box was pushed out of the way. Chunks of chocolate cake fell off his dick as she pulled him toward her mouth, licking away the pastry. It coated the length so she deep throated, pulled it in as far as she could, sucked away the food, licked him clean, slowly … gently … Pulled him out of her mouth and went for his balls, tongued them, held them inside her mouth, sucked them clean.

  “Fuck,” he gasped; his legs trembled, and he threw his head back.

  The cake was gone. She sucked the tip of his rod like it was a lollipop, and her hand slid and squeezed.

  She swallowed cake and chocolate and cum.

  Every night he brought different kinds of food, pizza and Chinese and Greek and anything they might want to try.

  Deliciously spent, he propped himself on his elbow, and gazed at her glorious rolls of fat. “I taste you,” he said, “in everything you do. I smell your body’s musky perfume. It stays with me all day. Keeps me alive.”

  “You’re being silly,” she said, but she loved his attempts at being poetic.

  He craned his neck until he reached her ear, and sucked on the lobe. “Bittersweet. Like chocolate.”

  The next night, he returned with another assortment of food. Cheeses. Several varieties of apples. Croissants and scones and muffins. Whipped cream and pudding.

  The night after that, pizza and calzones, shells stuffed with manicotti, lasagna with Bolognese sauce. Heavenly hash ice cream. Food that he brought from the restaurant where he worked, surprisingly well made.

  Within a couple of weeks, Diana felt herself gaining even more weight.

  Justin was in bed with her, feeding her rice pudding. His legs were crossed, and his naked torso rose and fell, his flat stomach rippling gooseflesh.

  “I don’t understand,” he said, after she pushed him away. “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m getting even fatter, Justin.”

  He scratched his cheek. “So? This is what we wanted.”

  “No it’s not. I never agreed to this.”

  “I don’t understand.” He looked close to tears. “Not to be mean or anything, but it’s not much more food than you were eating before. And with all the fucking—it’s all exercise, isn’t it? How could you be gaining weight?”

  The tears threatened to come. She thought he understood what she was feeling, but how could he? He’d never been fat, certainly not fat like she was. He couldn’t understand her mix of emotions. “Justin, it’s a lot more food than I was eating before. And you pumping away isn’t exactly exercise for me.”

  He leaned forward, kissed her. “You don’t enjoy this? Me feeding you?”

  She blinked, thinking. “It was fun for a while … but I’m getting bored. And getting fatter.”

  He sat back on his heels. Palmed away tears.

  She was suddenly aware of her nakedness. He was resting on the bed sheet so she couldn’t pull it to cover herself.

  “Bored? Even with the blindfolds?”

  She nodded. “There’s no challenge. My sense of smell is too strong. It was fun though. For awhile.”

  “But it’s not about the food. It’s about Feeding. About being fed.”

  “I’m sorry, “ she whispered.

  “Will we still … can we …”

  “Fuck?”

  “Make love, Diana. I want to make love to you.” Weeping gently, he stretched toward her again, his slender body pressing against her fat, rubbing his cock into the folds of her legs, getting lost in the mounds of flesh.

  You’re breaking up with me, aren’t you?

  He didn’t answer, and she realized she’d never asked him out loud.

  His penis poked her stomach, her thigh, searched for her pussy. He squeezed her breasts, cupped their enormous weight in his palms, rubbed
her nipples erect. She stroked him until he was even harder and spread her legs to receive him. Guided him inside her.

  I love you, Justin. Can’t live without you.

  But she could never say that to him. She knew his reason for wanting to be with her was because he got off feeding her, and now she wasn’t even giving him that.

  He grunted, moaned, leaned into her. Pounded her cunt as if in anger, retribution for her decision to withhold his real pleasure. Rivulets of sweat ran down his face and dripped onto her tits.

  She spread her legs wider. “Harder, Justin!”

  He fucked harder, his face reddening, his shoulder and neck muscles cording.

  “Harder!”

  She wanted him to hurt her! Make her feel it! Feel something. Through layer upon layer of skin, reinforcement for the deadness inside her, a protective wall shielding her from heartache and loneliness. Wanted him to penetrate her defenses. He was so close … so close, but hadn’t found the way. Not yet. It was much more than a physical feeling. She waited for that connection, the knowledge that he felt the way she did. Hadn’t quite convinced herself that he truly could love her unconditionally, as she adored him. Hurting her would be a way through the layers. A way to make that final, irrevocable connection.

  His back arched. His orgasm shattered, filled her with shards of crystal.

  And now it would be too late, she’d pushed him away, and when he finished fucking her, it would be over. This was a pity fuck, a mercy fuck. One for the road.

  “Please, Justin, harder. Hurt me!”

  “Fuuuuuuck!” he cried, skin glistening, fingernails digging into her shoulders.

  He hated her now, wanted to leave her, she was sure of it. It was inevitable, but she mourned its arrival. She could feel him, finally—could feel his cock in her, could feel his love for her deeply and profoundly, and she wanted to stay like this forever, wanted them to be one person. Wanted this to never end because once he was finished, she knew he would leave her forever.

  He was slowing, tiring, grinding his groin into hers.

  Then he was crying, lying on his back, his wet, flaccid penis draped over his thigh.