jaria ice cream

You woke up, slowly and groggily. Your bedroom is obscure. The familiar landmarks of your room etched shadows in the dark, the unseen swirling in pools of black. Your sleepy brain tries to sort what’s real and what’s not, and then you notice it: how hungry you are. It grips your stomach, a howling emptiness. You were full when you went to bed, stuffed, but yet your body screams for food.

The alarm clock on your bedside reads 1:24am. You bite your lip. The question of whether you should stay in bed, in the arms of your girlfriend, or get up and satisfy the hunger that woke you up bounces around your head. You’re weighing your options when your stomach growls, answering your question for you.

You sigh quietly. You attempt to lift Jane’s arm from its place on the smallest part of your waist, where it always seems to linger. She shifts and your heart flutters, which is physically painful. You wait with bated breath, completely still. You continue getting up after a few seconds.

You push your part of the duvet down, sitting up. You’ve adjusted more to the dim light now. Squinting, you can start to make out the shapes of the furniture in your room. Your desk, your bookshelf, your TV. You reach for your glasses on the bedside, putting them on expertly. More details come into view; your Kafka poster, your anatomical heart model, both of your boots on the floor, right next to each other, hers and hers. You barely have time to gush about it before your stomach gurgles, as if to hurry you along.

You swing both of your legs to the floor, cringing as the bed-warm skin meets the chill of the nightime air. You sit, hands on either side of you on the mattress. You push yourself up. Sock-covered toes hit the carpet and you stumble to you feet, your body threatening to lose balance. You steady yourself with your nightstand, letting out a few heavy breaths. You laugh inwardly, even just this tired you out.

You make your way to the door, trying to not to trip on any of the litter on your floor in the darkness. You step over a book, making a pathetic attempt to be sneaky. You can’t move around with much stealth these days. Your heavy breathing, your steps that send gentle thuds into the carpet, your soft thighs rubbing together, they all prevent you from being quiet, but god damnit if you aren’t going to try. For Jane.

You reach the door and look back at her for a moment, bracing yourself on the doorframe. She’s still sleeping and you sigh with relief. She looks so beautiful in the dim, so handsome, her angular features highlighted by the few rays of moonlight streaming in from under the curtains. Messy, raven hair frames her face as she breathes peacefully. You think about just how lucky you are. It’s always confused you, how a girl as beautiful as she is could love you; choose you over everyone else when she could have anyone she wanted. The answer still pervades you.

You don’t stay on that thought for long, the anticipation of food already building inside you. You walk out to the landing, careful not to bump into anything as you take clumsy, waddling steps in the dark. It’s brighter out here, the moon shining in from the window at the end of the hallway, illuminating everything in a gentle white.

You reach the top of the stairs and look down. You know the climb down is nothing compared to the climb back up, and yet it still gives you pause. For a second you almost think of just going back to bed, until another wave of hunger wrings your stomach. It rumbles audibly and you set a hand on it gingerly, as if to try and quiet it down. Your parents probably take some intense sleeping pills they don’t tell you about, Quinn’s probably already snuck out to a party or something, and you know Jane’s a heavy sleeper, you reason with yourself. You probably won’t wake anyone up. Probably.

Sighing, you take your first step down, a hand firmly gripping the handrail. You plod down the stairs, every footfall triggering rolling waves of fat that flow up your legs and make your thighs wobble heavily. Every creak and groan of the wood underneath you makes you wince. You pray to a god you don’t believe in that you don’t wake anyone up, because you can’t imagine something more embarrassing right now. Any excuse you could come up with wouldn’t work if one of them were to stumble out to the landing right now. You’ll both know that you aren’t really “just going for a glass of water.”

You unconsciously tug at the hem of your t-shirt with your free hand. The movements had made it ride up, the cold, night air tickled the newly exposed flesh and made you shiver. Your pajamas have gotten a bit small, but it barely registers amidst the struggle of getting downstairs and the childishly giddy excitement for food that’s swelling in your chest with each heavy footfall.

You step off the stairs and your body nearly collapses with relief, tension draining out of you as you pause to catch your breath. You wipe sweat off your brow, your other hand still gripping the rail. You can’t tell whether its from the nerves or the exertion or both, and you don’t particularly care. You sigh and move on.

You let your hand graze the wall as you pass the living room to the kitchen, letting it guide you. The furniture acts as milestones; the coatrack, the couch, the TV that reflects the streetlights outside. Your eyes have only adjusted more to the dark, letting you see most of your surroundings. Even then, you know your way by now.

The tile of the kitchen feels ice cold on the bottom of your feet even through your socks, making you shudder. You pad across the room, as quickly as your body lets you, to the refrigerator. The brushed aluminum seems to glow in the dim, a monument beckoning you closer. Your north star. You oblige.

The handle feels cold in your grasp as you pull on it to open the fridge door. You shield your eyes for a few as the bright light pours out, only now letting yourself catch your breath. You instinctively grab a bottle of Reddi Whip from the door shelf, shaking it and quickly squirting some inside your waiting mouth. The sweet, cold cream envelops your tongue, and you let out an uncharacteristically girlish giggle from behind a mouthful of Reddi Whip. You’re pressing down on that familiar white nozzle again before you even have time to think about it.

You use the time between spurts of whipped cream to pick what you’ll really be eating tonight. Your gaze wanders from shelf to shelf in your amazingly well-stocked fridge, all the food only making you giddier. Its so full. Cartons of milk, blocks of cheese. Eggs and bacon and sausage all together on one shelf. Thank god for your rich parents. Your eyes drop to the bottom and you feel yourself grimace. It’s your sister’s stuff, diet soda and carrot sticks. Rabbit food, you jokingly call it.

You spurt another shot of cream into your mouth, feeling your sneer turn into a small smile again. How could she deny herself this? You think as you squirt even more into your mouth. How could being a size 2 compare to the pleasure of eating what you want? To the pleasure of this? The thought flickers in your head as you swallow and lick your lips, now greasy from the richness of the cream.

You tap your foot on the tile as you think of what to eat next, holding the door open.  Your mind flicks through your options, and then you remember. Your mom bought ice cream recently, expensive, creamy chocolate ice cream. You grin impishly to yourself.

The can of Reddi Whip is put back in its place on the shelf and you amble over to the counter to grab a spoon. You eagerly open the freezer and reach for the carton, barely having time to react to the chill. You rip the lid off. You’ve already eaten some of it — a better part of a gallon is left. It’s chocolate ice cream with swirls of syrup and chunks of fudge, ten bucks a carton. There’s a picture of a big cow on the side, the image makes you blush.

You lean on the cool, granite counter and scoop up an enormous, gooey chunk with the spoon, then shove it into your mouth. You stifle a quiet moan as you taste it; the swirls of varied chocolate flavors. You let it melt on your tongue and slide down your throat, quickly digging in for your next bite. It’s so creamy, so cold and soft. You lose yourself in it.

You’d lost count of how many spoonfuls you’d eaten when you hear a noise from behind you. Your entire body freezes, a spoonful halfway up to your mouth. You wait in the still silence, without the confidence to turn around. You wait for your mother to start scolding you or for your sister to start laughing, but nothing comes. You wait for someone to flick the kitchen light on, but nothing comes. Both you and your surveyor are still bathed in darkness.

She chuckles and you know exactly who it is. It’s warm, but that almost sinister undertone makes you shudder.

“I guess I shouldn’t be that surprised.” Jane says from behind you as she saunters closer. You turn to look at her over your shoulder, you squint your eyes. You can make out her slim shape in the dark, certain features too. Her blue eyes catch some of the stray lights, glimmering. Predator’s eyes.

She walks over to you, grinning widely. You’re still frozen, stuck, your hand still halfway to your mouth.

She notices, and moves your arm, pushing the spoonful into your mouth. You swallow.

She smiles at you while slipping the spoon out from your hand and into her own. She moves in closer, pressed right up against you. Her hand moves to your stomach and her mouth is by your ear.

                                    *
When you wake up you almost immediately know something’s wrong; you’re cold. Daria’s warmth is gone from your side. A hand searches where she usually sleeps, trails down the indent of where she lies down every night. It’s still warm with residual body heat. You sit up and peer into the darkness of her bedroom, rubbing your eyes as you try to make out the alien shapes. You’re enveloped in a brisk chill as you get out of her bed, leaving the bedsheets crumpled. You notice her glasses are gone from her nightstand.

You quietly look out from her doorway, to the bathroom. The light’s off, meaning she isn’t there either. You shuffle out onto the landing, to the stairs. It feels strange, slinking around in the darkness. The nights so still, so silent and inky black. You know you way around though, you’ve been to Daria’s house enough. Your second home.

You quickly descend the stairs, almost silently. You thank god that you’re so agile. Your eyes flick around downstairs, searching. They pass familiar objects, family portraits, rugs, flower vases. Eventually, they fall on a bright shaft of light coming from the kitchen. You know what it is almost immediately.

Heat pools in the base of your stomach as you tip toe closer, anticipating what you’ll see when you turn the corner. You’d guessed that Daria was the fridge-raiding type, but never thought you’d see her in action. Your breaths and footsteps are quiet and controlled; purposeful.

You can barely take it as you edge closer to where the living room opens into the kitchen. You peer out and there she is. Your heart swells.

She’s illuminated in the fridge light, her chocolate brown hair catching it so perfectly. Her back is to you as she lifts a spoon to her mouth, you can’t quite tell of what, yet. The pajamas she managed to squeeze into before you guys went to bed are so painfully snug. Her shirt rides up and exposes a band of soft, creamy skin above her tight waistband, her shorts are pulled taut over her plush, wide ass and just barely clear her underwear.  So much is visible, more then you’re used to. All that pillowy flesh just hanging out, milky pale and supple, sometimes flushing a gentle pink.

You soak her in from where you’re standing in, take in her porcine cuteness. You don’t dare to move, to disturb her. You watch from the darkness as she gorges in what she thinks is secret. You can make plenty of her features out thanks to the refrigerator light, but you don’t need to. You can hear her even. Hear her as she smacks around her spoon, as she purrs and moans with quiet content, as she takes in deep, heavy breaths — Yes, because even just this, even just eating, was making her breath heavily. She was eating so quickly and so much that she was out of breath, panting between bites. A treat for the eyes and the ears.

Of course, the scene in front of you was filling you with arousal, it bubbling inside of you. Her greed brings out something dark in you, something twisted and sick. There was something different about this. You’d walked in on her, this wasn’t for your eyes. It was different then the controlled level of slobbery she displays when you go out to eat. It was unfiltered. God, you hoped she had syrup around her mouth.

Maybe you made an unconscious step forward, maybe you breathed in a little too hard, whatever it was, she notices you. She freezes, a spoonful of what you now know to be ice cream halfway to her mouth. Shit, you think. You don’t panic, you don’t run. Instead, you walk up to her suavely. You chuckle.

“I guess I shouldn’t be that surprised.” You coo as you move closer. You finally meet her brown eyes in the dark, from behind her glasses. She looks like a deer in the headlights, big doe eyes shining innocently at you.

You grip her soft arm and guide it back up to her mouth, grinning at her. She opens and swallows wordlessly and obediently. You take the spoon from her mouth and pull it out smoothly. Even in the dark you can tell it’s clean.

You take the carton from her hands and she doesn’t protest. The condensation’s begun to run down the sides of the cardboard in sweat-like beads. It’s cold and wet and clammy in your hands. She stares at you and you know her brain is working hard to try and predict your next move.

“You better finish it before it melts” You say, mustering up the sexiest voice you can. She seems to understand what this entails. You move in closer, closer. Your hand’s on her belly and your mouth is by her ear, practically kissing it. Your breathing is hot against her skin and you plant a kiss on her fridge-chilled cheek. She blushes adorably and you can see it even in the dim, she nods.

You go to dig up a spoonful of ice cream, noticing how much she’s already eaten, how melted it’s gotten already. How long had she been standing here? Exactly how much as she eaten tonight? What didn’t you see? Your questions bounce around your tired mind and are never answered, as you lift a heaping spoonful of dripping chocolate to her waiting mouth.

Pretty, pink lips wrap themselves around every huge scoop you bring up to them. Some of the particularly big spoonfuls smear around her mouth in the struggle to fit them in, to which she simple licks away.

“Shit.” She mumbles as a drip of syrup falls onto her sleep shirt, staining it.
“Shhh, language, missy.” You sleepily chastise. “Where are your table manners, Daria?”

Your half-awake, 2am feeding banter is self-admittedly much weaker then both of your guy’s daytime wit, but that doesn’t matter. You wonder if you’ll even remember this tomorrow, or if she will. You reckon you won’t, even if you hope you do.

The spoon stops resisting against ice cream soon enough, and you look down to the melted, brown pool. You hold the carton up to her mouth, and she looks at you quizzically for a few seconds before getting it. She puts her lips against it and you knock it back. She gulps down the rich, melted ice cream eagerly, small sweet dribbles escaping from the corners of her mouth.

You gently bring the carton down when you suspect she’s finished. She wipes the mess from around her mouth with the back of her hand as you drop the spoon in the sink and throw the now empty container of ice cream away. Both of you pause in silent recognition, you both know you like this, love it. The moment passed and you take her gentle hand in your own, and lead her back up to bed.

She shuffles along as you guide her, enjoying the feeling of her chubby digits entwined with your slender ones. Her breathing is shallow and heavy, like it is usually when she’s full, like it is when you feed her. Her massive breasts strain the freshly stained fabric of her t-shirt as her chest heaves with each deep inhale. They bounce with each swaying step forward, making the blood in your body drop to your core as you watch them in the dark.

You reach the bottom of the stairs and you both know what’s ahead of you. She’s already so tired, so out of breath and sleepy. You go ahead of her, a foot on the floor and another on the first step, and you offer her your hand again. She takes it, and with her other hand on the rail she pulls herself up. It’s slow and laborious; heaving, but she makes it. She leans into you as she wheezes at the top of the stairs, covered in a thin layer of sweat. You smile at her as she gets her breath back. Her thank you is silent.

There’s only a few more steps to her bedroom, and then just a few more to her bed. You lead her in by the hand, like a new groom bringing his wife to bed on their wedding night. She collapses down onto her mattress, the frame protesting and groaning as she shifts her bulk into a more comfortable position. You get in and snuggle right up beside her, in your position by the wall. You lift the duvet up onto the both of you and relax into her.

This beautiful euphoria washes over you as you spoon, feeling her warmth, feeling the softness of her body fat. It’s heaven. She’s heaven. She’s already half asleep as you slip a wandering hand into her shorts, exploring her girth, her huge, soft body. There’s so much to touch, and you can feel it all under your own graceful hand.

You remove it and try and hug her, get all of her in your hands and squeeze her as best you can, and she groans cutely in protest.

“You know, Daria...” you start, slyly. “If you keep eating like that, you might get fat.”

She chuckles and her whole body jiggles deliciously against you. “Oh no.” She says sarcastically. “Wouldn’t want that now, would we?”

You nuzzle into her neck, right by her ear again. “Goodnight...honeybuuuns.” You tease with a laugh.

She scoffs at your petname and mumbles a reply that you can’t quite make out, but you’re sure she’s said goodnight back. She’s so perfect, you think, sleepy and satisfied. She drifts off first, and you let her breathing lull you into your own slumber