Swedish Fish, true to its name, originated in Sweden. They were originally made by Malaco, and quickly became popular in the United States, keeping their name but losing a key trait from their origin; pastel colors. Known as pastellfiskar (or ‘pale fish’) in Sweden, they originally came in a variety of colors and flavors not unlike gummy bears.
“Mr. Halls?”
Their flavor in the United States within the recognizable red fish is supposedly a combination of cherry, blackcurrant, and…damnit, you can’t finish the article. With a tired sigh and a flick of your thumb, you check the time; 2:46 PM, 64%. Glancing up, you catch the sad remains of your car in the shop bay; it looks fixable, but only just.
“Mr. Halls? Are you okay?” The honest answer wasn’t an incriminating one. Munching one of the mysteriously flavored fish candies that drew you to the clickbait article in the first place, you glance up at the man calling your name.
“I’ve been better. So, how bad is it?”
The man speaking to you is an older one; weathered. He doesn’t have a particularly deep voice, nor look particularly muscled, but callouses on his hands against the clipboard and subtle stains of long dried oil on his overalls scream experience louder than any resume. He gestures for you to follow into his office. Eating Swedish Fish and reading about their origins isn’t going to get your car back on the road.
The office is very ‘old school’, with a computer older than you cramped onto a rickety desk. As he sinks into his swivel chair, it exhales with a satisfying wheeze. Casually marking an ‘X’ onto today’s date on the stereotypical calendar showing off classic cars in every mechanic shop, the old man furrows his brow, turning to you with a the protested squeak of an ancient chair.
“Look…Mr. Lane, was it?”
Normally, it would’ve bothered you to be mistaken for someone else, but the stress on this man’s face is apparent. The mark of an honest mechanic; never excited to give bad news.
“Halls. And, Alex is fine.”
He folded his worn hands in front of him, leaning onto the desk. “It’s…not good. Your insurance agreed to half the cost, but you’re being left on the hook for the rest. The whole engine needs rebuilt from the ground up, and possibly your transmission too. You’re lucky to be alive.”
Most of that night was a blur by now. All you remember is throwing the door open, and running. You’d left a cup of coffee still warm in the holder, the smell wafting behind you as you abandoned both it and your reliable car. But, the truck wasn’t stopping, and you were already stopped thanks to the storm. Diving into that ditch saved your life, but it came at a cost.
“Do you have an estimate?”
“I do…but, we’re in here to try and bring the number down. I’m looking through a few different suppliers to try and get the parts cheaper, but the issue with buying multiple places means a longer work time.”
“Could we go used with some of the parts?”
The sound had been unlike anything you’d heard before, with metal twisting against metal. As the thunderbolt of steel rang over the pouring rain, you didn’t bother to look back, only to keep your head down. You never did find the nerve to look at the wreckage, even as the tow truck took it away. They’d all told you to scrap it…but, that was your baby. Even now, it bordered on a total loss, but you had to save it. You had to try.
The old man scratched his chin, leathery hands raking against the stubble of an honest day’s work. With the rickety scratch of thought, he peers again to you. “We could try, but at most I’d recommend out of box or very limited usage. You can get away with secondhand parts in a few cases, but the engine is one area you do not want to cut corners with. Same with transmission.”
Unfortunately, he has a point. “All right. How much?”
“With labor and cutting minimum on the parts? $5,000, maybe more. You’d be better off scrapping and starting fresh.”
He may as well have punched you in the gut. But, with the amount of work needed, it was fair…economically, at least. It wasn’t fair that you had popped a tire in the storm. It wasn’t fair that the truck couldn’t see you stalled out in the darkness. And, worst of all, it wasn’t fair it happened to you.
“Shit. Yeah, try and save it. The old girl and I go way back. It wouldn’t be right to just…move on.”
For the first time, the old man smiles. “Heh. Yeah, I get it. I’ll tell you what; I can start with what I have, and what your insurance is willing to chip in. They seemed pretty eager to cut a check, so we can at least get a few of the parts. I need to make an order anyway. Once you manage to get the rest, we can finish up, or if you change your mind and want to scrap her, just let me know. I’ll keep her safe in the meantime.”
“Thanks, man.” You can’t help but share a smile. He really understood, and that provided some level of comfort. It didn’t change the situation, but at least you were in good hands.
As you walked home from the mechanic, you couldn’t help but feel a growing unease. You don’t have $1,000 to spare, let alone $5,000. In this economy, a loan would be more trouble than worthwhile, riding interest until they bled you dry. Family or friends is out of the question, as they’re no better off than you are. You could sell some of your valuables, but you didn’t have much to sell, and getting rid of your Switch or TV would just be depressing.
You really need a cup of coffee, or a nap. Maybe both. Phone in hand, you contemplate finishing that clickbait about Swedish Fish, but a message interrupts any chance of that.
Mr. Halls,
Have you considered my offer? I’ll pay you $6,000. Included is a photo of my wife. Hopefully this stimulates your rather unique tastes.
Yours,
Delford Crathe
You can’t help but sigh. Your ‘unique tastes’ aren’t anything unusual; you’re just eating, and everyone eats. It isn’t your fault that your diet occasionally involves live prey. Up until now, it has been strictly for pleasure…but, this job would fix your car plus a little extra. As the attachment loaded, you couldn’t help but salivate.
She was a vision of beauty, far beyond the level of your typical meals. It was clear she had been a model before her pregnancy, with features expertly accentuated among chestnut skin. Not a blemish or mark out of place could be found, and deep brown eyes stared knowingly towards you through the selfie, raven hair spilling over her shoulders in luxurious silken strands. Her eyebrows were expertly shaped and thinned to a sharpened sickle, and just plump enough lips smiled knowingly. Her perfectly manicured hands cradled a round, pleasantly bulging baby bump, the bellybutton popping out ever so slightly as her wonderful breasts hid behind a dainty bra, white as snow. She was a modern day Mona Lisa, and your stomach rumbled in anticipation.
Fine. You needed to save money on food anyway, and if you collect your money upfront, this rich guy can’t ask for a refund when he realizes you were serious about this being a one way trip for his wife…but, no reason you can’t enjoy yourself.
Texting back, you accept. He’ll be calling a cab for you tomorrow morning, and you’ll be treated to a true work of art for breakfast. But, for now, you’re thinking a grilled cheese and tomato soup. Best to eat cheap just in case this turned out to be bullshit.
True to his word, this Delford Crathe person had a cab waiting for you, ordinary and easily blending in. He hadn’t sprung for anything fancy, but that was likely intentional. Despite him approaching you out of the blue for your special ‘talent’, the man seemed to be one of discretion. With a potential kink satisfaction for his wife, that made a great deal of sense. Although this kind of thing did get the occasional fetishization, it still had an air of taboo to it. Might as well have said you were into snuff films.
You shivered at the thought. Still, $6,000 for a free meal is hard to argue with. Watching the trees go by in the otherwise nondescript cab, you just can’t shake the sense of unease. Something doesn’t quite sit right about this.
A gruff, subtly accented voice crashes your train of thought. “We’re here.”
Gathering up the messenger bag you always carry with you, an old, tattered laptop shoulder strap from when you had a regular office job, you dig around in your wallet, finding a few ragged singles and a five dollar bill, surprisingly crisp by its lonesome. Offering it to the driver, you offered a troubled smirk. He senses your awkwardness, raising a palm.
“The ride is paid for, sir. No need for a tip.”
You shrugged, gently withdrawing the bill. As you quietly open the car door, he keeps his late night cabbie eyes on you, staring curiously. Your presence at this lavish mansion is strange, and he also suspects something is amiss. As he drives away, you feel more like Alice stepping into Wonderland than a predator for pay. The exterior of this enormous mansion has a color scheme more akin to a Tim Burton film than reality, the garish reds, blues, and purple of the flowers against unnaturally deep greenery holding your eyes hostage. Somehow, you feel like a snared animal in a trap. Is this person a family member of someone you ate in the past? There was that British girl from out of town…
Against your better judgment, you knocked on the enormous double doors. They opened ominously, creaking ever so slightly as a handsome butler and an older man greets you, dressed in a red bathrobe and suit bottom. He raises a crystalline goblet to you, draining it of strong smelling, clearly more expensive than your entire bank account wine.
“You must be Mr. Halls.”
“Alex is fine, sir.”
He spoke with a voice reminiscent of the Great Gatsby, reminding you of high school English class. You’d always enjoyed the book, despite what the rest of the class thought. Now, assuming you’re making it out of this, you get to live it for a bit.
“My apologies…Alex, then. I trust your trip was a pleasant one? I know it is a bit of a drive to the middle of nowhere. But, for the sake of discretion, it was of grave importance.” As expected of most rich men, he was as long winded as he was wealthy, wrinkles showing deeply even in the warm light of his entry hall, seemingly stretching on endlessly. Orchestral music moaned softly from nowhere in particular; it sounded vinyl, based on the crisp sound. Even if Delford Crathe turned out to be evil, he did have good taste in music.
“Please…follow me. Your lunch is waiting.”
Waltzing on by, the handsome butler skillfully replenished Crathe’s glass without either of them breaking pace, with you trailing awkwardly behind. It was rare that you felt this out of place, but you were out of your element here. Going to a nice restaurant for a date was one thing, as was getting dolled up for a wedding, but this house was just excessive. Paintings as tall as your entire body dotting the halls, various statues Grecian women cradling baskets of fruit, and…come to think of it, all of the art seems to have something to do with fruit.
“Mr. Crathe-”
He waves a dismissive, but not overtly aggressive hand without turning back. “Please, Delford is fine. And no ‘mister’ is needed. My father was ‘Mr. Crathe’, and he was horrendously allergic to nuts.”
You have no idea how that is relevant. “What’s with all the fruit?”
He laughs heartily. “Ah, that’s a fair question. My family, may they rest in peace, invested heavily in real estate. Our specialty was farmland, and orchards. Fruit groves of all kinds, domestic and otherwise. My grandfather got in bed with what was considered a luxury at the time; frozen food. So, by freezing fruit, we managed to transport it far and wide. The rest is history. After all, my friend…the best tasting fruit is that which is forbidden.”
You aren’t quite sure how to respond, half expecting him to press a button on the wall and drop you into a carefully concealed pit trap. Instead, he opens a gorgeous mahogany door, leading to an elaborate sitting room, silken couches and massive entertainment center with a television bigger than your car. Seated on one of the couches, that vision of a woman reclines seductively with her hair down, nose buried in a generic fashion magazine and catalog combination. Her curves are only hidden cosmetically beneath her skin tight sundress.
“Darling? Your…suitor is here.” The words seemed to dangle on Delford’s lips, not really knowing what to call you. She peers up with her amber eyes, a silly smile visible even with her concealed face. She casually tosses the magazine to the floor, bringing her hands together.
“Oh my god, it’s really you! You’re the eater!”
You aren’t quite sure how the title caught on with these strangers, but a meal is a meal. “Uh, yeah. I’m Alex. You must be Mrs. Crathe.”
“Mmmm…you can call me lunch, baby. Crathie pie, you never told me he would be so handsome!”
Delford’s eye twitched ever so slightly, noticed by everyone but his wife. “Well, you’re all his today, my darling…no more half-hearted roleplaying for you. Today, you get to experience the real thing.”
You grimace at your employer’s statement. “Delford, you do know this is a…one way trip?”
He ignores you, continuing to encourage his wife. She chimes in, her red nails seductively raking against your thigh. Admittedly, this excited you a bit, and you try to stifle the slowly growing erection in your pants. She coos at you, speaking ever so sweetly. “Oh, you big bad man…do I make you hungry?”
Noticing your discomfort, the wealthy man chimes in again. “Of course you do, my pet. He’s already salivating, trying to keep his appetite at bay…”
Now a bit annoyed by his open dismissal, you’ve got to make yourself heard. Neither of them seem to get it. “Delford! Listen to me. Your wife-”
He waves another casual hand, warding off your protests. “Will taste delicious. Now, I think it’s time we give my dearest angel what she deserves, don’t you think?” He gestures to a nearby staircase, spiraled and grand with gold trim along each marble step. His wife traipses forward, dragging you along with surprising strength. If that’s how they want it…fine.
As she guides you by the hand, you can’t help but feel an increasingly welcome rumble in your stomach. She does look appetizing, that beautiful form cradled around a pleasantly bulging bun in the oven. If they aren’t going to listen, you may as well succumb to those baser instincts, though a twinge of guilt will certainly flavor your meal. As she flings open the door to their lavish bedroom, you scarcely have time to take in the environment before you are eagerly tossed to the mattress with startling strength. It makes you wonder if she is a predator herself, and you are the snack…but, as her lips meet yours, kissing with a passion bottled up for far too long.
As the velvet embrace offers a taste of her tongue, this no longer seems like such a bad idea.
Delford quietly sits in a comfortably armchair, propping his feet up and swishing the wine in his expensive goblet. “Bon appetite, Mr. Halls.”
That familiar hunger digs its claws into you again, and there is no turning back now. Even if she changed her mind, Lunch will be filling your belly soon enough. You never did get her name…so, Lunch it is. As you take control of the situation, you begin to kiss and lap at her neck, enjoying the flavors of her increasingly tingling flesh, feeling the goosebumps rise up with your embrace. She tugs at your shirt, nearly ripping it off you as you slowly work your way downwards.
As you peel the dress from her body, it gives way easily. Lunch must have loosened it in preparations for her afternoon meal, sliding gently to the floor and kicked aside by her bare feet. Her breasts are already at attention, the perfectly proportioned nipples poised with anticipation. They scream to be tasted, and you oblige with an impressive kiss, nearly taking the whole thing into your mouth. She moans, losing herself in the growing heat within her body.
“Oh, please Mr. Big Bad Predator…don’t eat me…” She bites her lip as you gently lick at her aroused tits, tickling her in just the right ways before moving to her pregnant belly. You can’t help but smile as you kiss it gently; her gut won’t be the only thing bulging in a few minutes. As you hear a bestial rumble from your midsection, Delford sips his wine with the same amount of fanfare as watching an afternoon matinee.
You don’t spend too long between her legs, as you have only been paid to eat Mrs. Crathe, not fuck her. It is best not to tempt yourself. Still, a little taste didn’t hurt, and she enjoyed your tongue snaking inside her sopping wet womanhood.
“Oh, someone help…he’s gonna eat me!” She smiles as she delivers acting of the highest quality budget porn, and you roll your eyes internally. Thankfully, your digestive tract can tolerate bad theatre. With enough time wasted, it’s time to do what you’re being paid to do. Opening your mouth wide, ever so slowly, you raise her dainty feet to your greedy maw, bits of sticky saliva dripping to the floor. She looks down, squealing with delight.
“No! Please! This big, scary monster man is so hungry, he could eat a whole me! Someone stop him.” As you take her toes to heel between your jaws, your body has the sensation of sucking an extremely sour candy. It wasn’t the pregnant woman entering your mouth; rather, the unadulterated cringe of such a terrible line. Hindsight is 20/20, and you really should have started with her head.
Still, she’s going down easily. You swallow quickly, dragging her down to her hips in your lips. Your tongue just can’t help itself, lapping again at her sweet tasting pussy. It must be all the fruit inevitably in her diet, as she is quite the treat. Her toes playfully wiggle in your throat, tickling near your chest. A live meal is always better. Delford, ever the supportive husband, smiles politely as he sips less enthusiastically at his drink, finally setting it down despite half the glass remaining.
“Oh, Delford, you’re such a good boy…I wish you could’ve done me like thi-oooh…” As you drag your teeth over her hips as you swallow again, that enormous baby bun slides into your mouth. This, as always, is your favorite part, bulging your cheeks out with taut, sweet meat for you to enjoy. Every cell of your body wants to taste that perfect, stuffed meal within you, tongue and cheeks pressing hard against her tummy. Encouraging you along, she forcefully works her hands past your lips, making your job that much easier. Somehow, she’s rubbing her belly and her womanhood inside you, clearly having the time of her life. You just look forward to a little break from the one liners, and her writhing movements motivate you ever further to force her down into your stomach.
You’ll need gravity for the rest, and you sit up, head tilted back and ready for action. Lunch knows what this means, and she squeals again with delight, but this time much louder and longer than before. As you feel a warm, sticky liquid trickling down your throat, you can’t help but smile as she cums within you; Lunch squirts. With physics aiding you, she drops down to her head easily, breasts clearing your throat with the help of her belly leading the way. Now, wrapped around her chin, you savor the feeling of your swiftly engorged belly…not much longer.
“Oh, Alex…this was the best experience of my life. We should do this again…”, so says your soon to be meal. Delford’s smile is a bit more serious, leaning forward as Lunch implies more ‘roleplay’ sessions in the future. There is a hint of cruelty to his tone, one not quite perceptible until now.
“Don’t worry, my darling…you’ll get exactly what you deserve.” Enjoying the moment of dramatic irony, you swallow hard, and the beautiful woman quickly disappears down your throat, leaving you full and enormously distended. Rubbing your immensely swollen belly, you groan with satisfaction. You can’t help yourself, belching politely even as you cover your mouth. Delford, satisfied with your performance, reclaims his goblet and quietly strides over.
“Well, I think she’s quite pleased. How do you feel, Mr. Halls?”
With post meal clarity setting in, you feel that familiar twinge of guilt. “Delford, you…you know I can’t let her out again. You do know that, right?”
Delford takes a long, sober sip, finishing with a flourishing sigh of victory. “Of course I do. What makes you think I want her getting out?”
As your belly wriggles and writhes with its latest catch, you stare at this eccentric man, clearly unfazed that you are now mostly responsible for his wife’s demise. “Come again?”
He shrugs, pouring himself another glass from a previously unnoticed table of spirits in the room. He offers you an empty goblet, though you decline instinctively. “Just because my bitch of a wife doesn’t understand how the stomach works doesn’t mean I’m as ignorant on the subject. Her weird fetish was the best way to be rid of her gold digging, although admittedly shapely ass.”
With some effort, you manage to lean forward, jostling your giggling meal inside. Luckily, with all the noises inside your stomach and the digestive process, she’ll not hear you clearly enough to understand the context. “But, she’s pregnant with your child. You love her, don’t you?”
“Ha! Not at all. You see, this crazy girl was my personal assistant…until one night, we each had a bit too much to drink, and I got her knocked up. I’m sure she planned it, the manipulative skank. I know she was messing around on the side.”
Suddenly, it all made sense. “You think she was planning to leave you?”
“Think? This idiot left her phone unlocked. I just happened to see the messages to one of her boyfriends. She was going to marry me, divorce me after the baby was born, and clean me out. Thanks to you, that problem is going to disappear right into your stomach, Mr. Halls.”
“Seriously, call me Alex. You sound like a Bond villain.”
He just shrugged, wine glass swilling about in his hand. “I’m a multi-millionaire living in a mansion paid for by fruit. I’ll do as I please…Alex. But, despite that, I believe in honest pay for honest work. Or, honest meals, in your case. Since you’ve saved me millions, I’ll pay you thousands. How does $12,000 sound for your troubles?”
Your eyes bug out enough to fall out of your skull, and you awkwardly hiccup at the insanity of the situation. “You’re doubling my pay? I’m shocked you want to pay me at all!”
Delford turns to you, an annoyed, but victorious grin on his face. “Kid, just shut up and digest my wife. You’re getting paid twelve grand to eat lunch.” He quickly signs a check, dropping it onto your squirming stomach, faint giggling and moaning still crying out from within. In the notes below, it reads to make yourself at home. By the time you look back up, Delford is gone, leaving you alone with your paycheck and bulging belly.
Sighing, you tuck the check into your pocket, flopping back on the bed. It’s been a weird day, but maybe this crazy old man is right; sometimes, it’s better to shut up and get paid. Your car will certainly think so.