I can almost taste it lingering. Syrupy sweet, heavy, drenching me in it. Dripping off your grotesque, growing rolls. Metallic, raw, delicious. The taste of a pig’s fear.
I can hear it clawing from inside of you. Desperate, panicked, oozing out from your lard ridden chest. Pathetic, pulsing, plump. Your swollen failing heart screaming and squeezing in terror.
It radiates off you, pig. It sears my touch, the dense heat of your stretched, reddened skin suffocating you. The burning heat of your bloated cheeks, your warm gullet, your blazing humiliation.
Additive, cloying, decadent, your fear intoxicates the darkness of my basement, melting into the gnawing scent of sweetened cream and churning butter that drowns the air.
I watch the frantic twitch in your sunken eyes follow my silhouette in the darkness, a shard of the mind you have left suffocating in sugary, sweet fear. It reaches its hands and strangles you, pulsing in every inch of your blubbery lard, in every drop of delicious white fat you lie encaged in.
It seeps through your strained squeals, your naïve cries, your pathetic pleas for me to stop. It makes me smile, to see you squirm and beg me, drowning in it. In the taste, the sound, the feel, the scent of your terror. Intoxicating.
“Eat.” I whisper, brushing a tear out of your unrecognisable face as your ridiculous cheeks tremble.
Fuck, I want to feel your fear.
Inhale it. Drink it. Lie in a pool of it.
I slap your disgusting excuse of a body, my eyes dark with perverse pleasure. It feeds me, my twisted desire.
“I need your fear” I breathe into your ear, smearing frosting on your revolting face as you sob.
But most of all, I want it to die with you, pig.
For it to pop with your pitiful, lard encased heart.
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