Ashley Getting Bigger Ch. 04

Well, Gentle Reader, we meet again. Now let us be clear, shall we? This story is hardcore and it gets more so in this chapter. If you are turned off by body functions, if you find scat and puke and snot turnoffs, do NOT read this. If you think gluttony is bad, even when it is enjoyed, you should find alternative entertainment. But If you are fascinated, as I am, by the dark side, by the bizarre side, of human sexuality, well, join me, and let's see how Ashley and David continue their descent into debauchery. But remember, my friend, you have been warned.

"What's this?" I asked, a stupid question. What it was, was pretty obvious.

The garage had been cleaned, and the floor painted. In the middle sat a table looking straight out of a movie about the Italian Mafia. The tablecloth was red and white checked. There was an honest-to-God big pear-shaped wine bottle in the middle of the table with candle wax artfully dripped down the sides.

He smiled and said, "I wanted to try a completely uninhibited date night."

"Honey," I said, "I'm hardly inhibited."

"You'll see," he said, "Now sit."

He seated me, doing the holding-the-chair-and-then-pushing-it-gently-as-I-sat thing, kissed the top of my head, whispered, "Be right back," and went through the connecting door to the house.

I looked around, fascinated at how well he had transformed this section of the garage into a restaurant. A panel separated this area from the rest of the big space. Interesting pictures were on the walls and on one wall were framed photographs of famous Italian gangsters. I recognized Capone and imagined that the other pictures were Luciano and Nitti and the rest of the famous 1930s Italian underworld. From the little Bose Wave radio soft music, heavy on violins, was playing. The overhead light had been dimmed.

He swept into the room, a white towel folded carefully over his forearm and a silver tray I had never seen before balanced on his palm. He was the perfect image of a professional waiter in a high-end restaurant.

"A sweet appetizer for my sweet," he said, placing a big piece of a chocolate lava cake before me and then sitting to my right and beginning to feed it to me.

The cake was delicious and I wondered if he had added baking to his skill set. He wasn't "stuffing" me, as he sometimes did, and for every third bite he fed me he would take one himself.

When the cake was finished he carefully wiped my lips and then his own, stood, kissed me, and took the dishes away.

He returned in a minute with the silver tray loaded. I watched, fascinated as he carried it, balanced on his palm, in that way you see in movies or in the most exclusive restaurants. He placed the tray on the little stand by the table and then the big serving bowl of spaghetti swimming in a thick red sauce and topped with a dozen meatballs before me. A separate plate with a half loaf of Italian bread soaked in butter and redolent of garlic, topped with lightly toasted Parmesan cheese. He poured a big glass of the harsh red wine with a flourish before he sat beside me and started feeding me.

Again, this wasn't "stuffing," as we often did. It was feeding and with spaghetti and red sauce, he worked the napkin after every bite. A bite of spaghetti, a bite of meatball, a bite of garlic bread, and a drink of wine. My feeding went on like that until my oversize appetite was fully sated. David had been taking a bite for every three or four of mine, and for the first time in a long time, his belly was stretching his pants.

With both of us finally full he reached into his pocket and pulled out a little brown bottle that I recognized. David had hired a pharmacist and they had worked up a formula to induce my vomiting but something that acted more slowly and less, well, violently than the Ipecac he had used at first. The "time release" action allowed us to make love after dinner before my nightly trip to the toilet.

He poured the thick syrup into a glass of wine and handed it to me.

I drank, as I did every night now, but was surprised when he took the glass back and put it to his lips.

"David," I said, feeling my eyes big.

He smiled and took a drink.

"I want to share everything with you," he said, handing the glass back.

"Oh, God," I moaned but deep in my belly, I felt a sudden stirring, a delightful tingle between my legs.

We shared the wine then and when it was done he helped me stand, moved the chair to the edge of the room, took the dishes away, and pushed the table to the other edge of the room.

He plugged a little flash drive into the USB port of the Bose Wave radio and when slow music started, Julie London singing Cry Me A River if it matters, he held his hand out and said, "Dance with me."

"David," I said, closing the distance between us and laying my right hand in his proffered left, my left hand on his shoulder, and enjoying the feeling of his right hand laying lightly on my hip, "What are you doing?"

"I told you," he said, "I want to share everything with you."

"David," I said, loving the feeling of his arm around me, well, as far as he could reach around me, and the hardness of his chest against my cheek, "I know what you keep saying. I know, and I agree, that you think, as you put it, good sex is often messy but never dirty."

I giggled and pushed myself far enough away to focus on his eyes, "But if that lava cake appetizer contained what I'm pretty sure it did, we're going to get VERY dirty."

He smiled, kissed me, and nuzzled my neck in that way that always got to me.

"Messy," he breathed in my ear, his breath warm and moist, "and I'll clean up afterward."

I giggled, pulled him down by the hair, kissed him, and giggled a little as I said, "Dirty. And you're damn right you're cleaning up afterward."

He laughed and swept me back into the dance.

I accepted it, then, accepted what would come, and smiled, relishing him.

We danced through Bobby Vinton doing Blue on Blue and Percy Sledge doing When A Man Loves A Woman and then picked up the tempo slightly with the Shirelles Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow.

By then I was feeling the first gurgling in my stomach and giggled when I heard an answering rumble in his.

"David," I said softly, as we continued dancing cheek-to-cheek, "last chance to call this off."

He leaned back far enough to focus on my eyes, smiled, kissed me, and molded his body to mine, not missing a step in the dance.

My stomach rolled over and I felt an answering contraction, not quite a cramp, deeper in my bowels.

"Oh, God," I whispered, "what was in that lava cake?"

He nuzzled my neck, slick now with my pre-purge sweat, and whispered, "Ex-lax of course."

"DAVID!" I said, the loudest thing I had said all day.

He kissed me again and said, "Everything."

My stomach rolled over again and I felt the first hint of what was to come when my belly contracted a little and I opened my mouth making a gagging sound.

He kissed me again but said nothing as I felt his body clench and I knew what he was feeling.

Strangely, the exercise of dancing was keeping the nausea at bay although that sensation, that need low in my bowels was becoming something I could no longer ignore.

So I just relaxed. I learned over the past months that fighting it, trying to hold it in, was just a way to get cramps.

So I relaxed, and pulled him down to kiss me, enjoying the sudden jerk I felt in his body as the emetic started to take hold.

We made it through the next song, The Righteous Brothers' incomparable version of The Unchained Melody before the laxative took hold and I filled my panties.

It struck me, as I felt the thick, sticky warmth spread and the strange weight pulling the panties down, what David wanted. This was beyond mere intimacy. This was a new level of sharing, of closeness that was, in many ways, beyond sex. I realized how perfect our pure, well, togetherness, if there is such a word, was when I felt his body retch, heard that sound we make, and felt his vomit, hot and wet, spew down my neck and onto my back.

We didn't miss a step in the dance as his stomach emptied and then mine followed. I just turned my head, opened my mouth, and let it happen while he retched and gagged and my back got wetter.

The Righteous Brothers gave way to, of all things, Brian Hyland's Sealed With a Kiss and he kissed me just as a wave took me and I threw up into his mouth.

And he held the kiss.

And we kept dancing.

I felt my panties fill and overflow, warm sticky shit running down the backs of my thighs now, my slacks sticking to me.

A particularly strong wave hit me and I lost a step, getting my foot stepped on, as I vomited onto his chest again.

We danced through Ritchie Valens' Donna and then Paul Anka's Put Your Head On My Shoulder before he stopped and pushed me to arm's length.

"You are so beautiful," he said, and kissed me again.

I pulled him down and licked the snot and puke from his upper lip before saying, "And you are SO fucking crazy."

He laughed at that and reached up to my nose which was running freely. He probed with his little finger and came out with a long string of clear mucus before he bent his neck, looking straight up, and took it into his mouth.

"Mmmmmmmm," he said, grinning, "Salty."

I laughed at that.

"A new fetish?" I asked.

"Maaaaybe," he said, dragging the vowel out, "I told you, I want to share all of you."

"Oh God," I said, "What next? Ear wax?"

He looked at me for a second, flashed that grin that made him look like a little boy, the grin that had first won my heart, and started probing my ear canal with his little finger.

"DAVID!" I said, but I was giggling.

He sucked his finger and scowled. "Bitter," he said, and I broke down into whoops of laughter.

As if on cue, Jerry Lee Lewis' Great Balls of Fire came on the stereo and he spun me into a jive dance.

I was laughing too hard to really pay attention and slipped in the mess on the floor winding up flat on my ass.

"Oh, shit," he said, all solicitous now, dashing over and dropping to his knees beside me, "are you okay."

I was still laughing hard, but I managed, "No, baby, I'm okay."

He was SO damn cute, so serious, I broke up again.

Finally, I got myself under control enough to reach for him, pull him to me, and kiss him.

"Fuck me, David," I said, "Fuck me right here on the floor in the mess we've made."

He grinned and said, "No."

"No?" I asked, surprised.

He kissed me and said, "I'll never fuck you, Ashley, but I'll be happy to make love to you."

"Oh shit," I said, and I was crying again. God, my emotions were SO out of control since the heart attack.

We undressed each other like horny teenagers. Buttons flew as he tore at my blouse and I was at his shirt. He tore the zipper on my slacks in his hurry and yanked them down and off, tossing the slacks and panties along with my shoes aside where they landed with an audible plop sound.

He didn't fight me as I pushed him back and rolled onto my side and then got to my knees and started on his jeans.

I got them unbuttoned and unzipped and then pulled his shoes and socks off before peeling the jeans and shorts off.

And I learned, then, what he had seen so often. His ass and balls and the tops of his thighs were shit-smeared. So I bent forward, inhaling the scent, and licked. I was surprised that there was no taste at all although later, when I thought about it, I suppose his body had used up most of the things that gave food taste.

But I wanted him inside of me. This had been that kind of a night, and the only word that applies to how I felt right then is "horny."

So I knee-walked up until I was in position, reached down to guide him, and accepted him into my body.

We both hissed a long, satisfied, "Yessssssssssssss," as I settled onto him.

"God, I love you," I said, rocking my hips gently.

"And I love you," he said, capturing my hands with his and gently pulling me forward so I had to get onto all fours or I would just squash him.

I was surprised, although looking back I'm not sure why, when his little finger started probing my nose again and then he pressed one nostril shut and said, "Blow,"

"Pervert," I said.

"Everything," he said again.

So I huffed out a breath, feeling snot spatter into my chin and lips, and seeing a thick, whitish string sort of wobbling as it started stretching from my nose.

"Again," he said, and there was an odd tone, almost a desperation in his voice.

I huffed another breath and leaned back a little as that rope of snot got closer to his outstretched tongue, denying him what he clearly wanted.

And suddenly I came.

There was no slow build-up of tension and excitement. I was just cumming, feeling my pussy flowing, as those muscles deep in my belly contracted suddenly.

I think, looking back, it was the insanely bizarre situation that got to me.

I mean, here we were, on the cold concrete floor of a garage, laying in puddles of puke and shit and piss, my handsome husband's hair wet with the mess he was laying in, his mouth open, his tongue sticking out, seeking my snot.

And the thing is, and this is what I realized as I came again, I liked it.