Chapter 12: Food
He was cleaning up. The workshop smelled of ozone, synthetic lubricant, and the underlying, permanent scent of his own loneliness. Glitch watched from a stool, one leg hooked over the other, sipping water. She felt pleasantly hollowed out, a well-used vessel. Her body was a map of recent sensations, each one a landmark he’d carved with his mouth.
Laloz moved with a new, quiet purpose. He wiped down tools, sorted scrap, his motions economical. The frantic need that usually clung to him like static had subsided. He was sated, for now. It wouldn’t last. She knew the cycle.
“You’re being domestic,” she said, her voice slicing through the hum of a half-powered light strip.
He paused, a greasy rag in his hand. “Just… putting things in order.”
“My ass is in order,” she said flatly, finishing her water. “Thanks for that.”
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. He tossed the rag aside and walked over to her. He didn’t speak. He simply knelt, his hands settling on her bare thighs, his forehead resting against her knee. He breathed her in, the salt and sex and synthetic perfume. It was a gesture of thanks, of ownership, of pure, wordless connection. She let her hand fall to his hair, carding through the dark strands.
“I’m hungry,” he murmured into her skin.
“There’s nutrient paste in the cooler.”
“Not for that.” He looked up, his eyes dark pools. “I want to taste you. Really taste you. Not just… after.”
Her eyebrow arched. “What’s ‘really taste’ mean?”
He stood up, his movements deliberate. He went to the small kitchen nook, its surfaces cluttered with tools and unidentifiable components. She heard the whir of the blender base being activated, the clink of glass. He returned with a tall, clean beaker and a handful of items: a ripe mango from the climate-controlled drawer, a container of protein powder, a carton of soymilk. He set them on the workbench beside her stool.
“Open your legs,” he said, his voice low.
A slow smile spread across Glitch’s face. She understood. She shifted forward on the stool, planting her feet wide, leaning back on her hands. The cool air of the workshop kissed her skin. He knelt again, but this time his focus wasn't on her cock. He spread her cheeks with his thumbs, exposing her asshole, still loose and sensitive from the night’s thorough use.
He didn't use his tongue. He took the mango, its skin slick and fragrant. He held it against her. The cool, smooth curve of the fruit pressed against her relaxed ring of muscle. With a soft, insistent pressure, he pushed. The tip of the mango, rounded and yielding, breached her. She let out a sharp gasp, her fingers gripping the edge of the stool.
“Fuck, that’s cold,” she hissed.
He worked it in slowly, his eyes locked on where the orange flesh disappeared into her body. He fed her inch after inch of the whole fruit until it was fully lodged inside her, a distinct, foreign fullness that made her belly tighten. He held it there, his hand flat against her lower back to keep her still. Then, carefully, he withdrew it. The mango came out glistening, coated in her.
He placed the slick fruit into the beaker. Next, he poured a measure of protein powder over it, the chalky dust sticking to the wet surface. He added soymilk, the liquid pooling around the base. He inserted the blending wand directly into the beaker, its mechanical whir loud in the quiet room. He pulsed it, grinding the mango into pulp, mixing it with the powder and milk, and with her—her sweat, her musk, the remnants of his own spend from hours before.
The mixture turned a pale, creamy orange. He stopped the blender and set the wand aside. He dipped two fingers into the concoction and brought them to his mouth. He sucked them clean, his eyes rolling back. “Christ,” he breathed. “It’s perfect.”
He lifted the beaker. “Now,” he said, his voice rough. “Give it back to me.”
Understanding dawned, hot and liquid in her gut. She braced herself, watching as he brought the beaker to her ass. He tipped it. The cool, thick smoothie poured over her exposed hole, a river of it running down her perineum, over her balls, dripping onto the floor. He kept pouring until the beaker was half empty, a puddle forming beneath the stool.
Then he set the beaker aside and buried his face between her cheeks.
He didn’t eat her ass. He ate the smoothie from her ass. His tongue was a flat, broad paddle, lapping up the pooled mixture from her skin, scooping it out of her crease. He pushed his tongue against her hole, and the pressure, combined with the chill of the beverage, made her clench involuntarily. He moaned, the vibration delicious against her, and redoubled his efforts. He slurped and licked, feeding greedily from her body as if she were a vessel, a living cup.
The sensation was bizarre, degrading, and incredibly hot. The sweet tang of mango, the chalky protein, the slick soymilk—all of it was filtered through the primal, musky truth of her own body. He was consuming her essence, remixed. His nose pressed against her, his breath hot, his tongue relentless. He cleaned every drop from her skin, then pressed his mouth tight against her hole and suckled, drawing the fluid that had seeped just inside back out.
“God, you fucking animal,” Glitch groaned, her head falling back. Her cock, which had been soft, began to thicken against her stomach.
He pulled back, his chin dripping. He grabbed the beaker again, took a large gulp of the remaining smoothie, swished it in his mouth, and then, leaning forward, sealed his lips over her asshole again. He pushed the mouthful of smoothie into her. She felt the cold, thick liquid rush inside her, a shocking inversion. He held it there, his mouth a tight seal, before pulling away and letting it dribble back out, now warmed by his mouth and her body.
He caught the runoff with his tongue, swallowing it with a groan of pure ecstasy. He repeated the process, again and again, drinking from the beaker only to transfer it into her and then back out, each cycle making the mixture warmer, saltier, more profoundly them. The workshop air grew thick with the smell of sex and fruit and his desperate, hungry sounds.
Finally, the beaker was empty. He was panting, his face a glistening mess. He looked up at her, his eyes wild. “You taste like heaven and hell mixed together,” he rasped. “I want to live inside you.”
He didn’t wait for a response. He stood, fumbling with his pants, freeing his cock, which was painfully hard. He was slick with pre-come and smoothie residue. He positioned himself behind her, the head of his cock nudging against her slick, overstimulated hole. He didn’t ask. He pushed.
The entrance was easy, thanks to the smoothie’s lubrication and the night’s activities. But he was thick, and the stretch was still immense, a deep, burning fullness that stole her breath. He sank into her slowly, groaning as her body resisted then yielded, inch by inch, until he was fully sheathed inside her ass. He stayed there, buried to the hilt, both of them trembling.
Then he fucked her. It was a slow, brutal, deep-fucking rhythm. Each thrust was a full-body impact, driving her forward on the stool, his hands bruising her hips. The wet, slapping sounds of his balls against her skin mixed with the squelch of the smoothie still inside her being churned by his cock. She could feel the cool pockets of it, feel the heat of him, feel the unbearable pressure against her prostate.
Her own cock, trapped between her stomach and the workbench, leaked a steady stream of pre-come with every inward stroke. She was being fucked, and fucked with, transformed into a living canteen for his twisted communion. The degradation of it, the sheer, nasty invention, sent her over the edge before he did.
Her orgasm ripped through her without a hand touching her dick. It was a deep, internal convulsion, her ass clamping around his driving cock, her own release spurting onto the bench below in hot, helpless jets. She cried out, a raw, shattered sound that echoed off the workshop walls.
He felt her clench around him and lost control. With a choked shout, he slammed into her one last time, bottoming out, and emptied himself inside her. His come joined the remnants of the smoothie, a warm flood that filled her up. He collapsed against her back, his breath ragged in her ear, his weight heavy and spent.
They stayed like that for long minutes, connected, dripping onto the oil-stained floor. The flickering fluorescent light buzzed overhead.
Eventually, he softened and slipped out of her with a wet, obscene sound. A mixture of fluids followed, dripping down her thighs. He handed her the greasy rag he’d been using earlier. She cleaned herself, her movements slow, deliberate.