Gluttony
Devin Allen

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Frank Milton enjoyed food very much. He enjoyed the taste, the smell, the texture, the feel, everything, about it. Foreign delicacies were his downfall, the very reason for his existence. Whether it was Scottish haggis or French escargot, the foods simply melted on his tongue in a pool of deliciousness and ran ever so smoothly down his throat, meshing in his stomach. The taste would linger for a while, but once its savory flavor had vanished completely, he would be left in sudden despair, an obsessive craving taking over as he forced himself to shovel another forkful into his mouth. He would have to fight the bile that would push up his throat and brace himself as each chew became harder and harder to accomplish. And, ever so achingly painful, he'd have to swallow. And that was instant gratification: he was soaring, an instant high gained from the beautiful, beautiful artwork he'd been lucky enough to consume.

Today, a palette of delectable cuisine had been laid out for him, prepared by his own careful hands and reared to his own personal likings. Some of his favorites stared back up at him, and he stared back down at it, almost lovingly. He began his vicious cycle, occasionally sipping on some of the finest wine to grace the earth. Gently, he stroked his food, eyeing it with a glaze growing in his eyes; he envisioned piles and piles of it, all for him. The smell of it wafted upwards, and he breathed in its scent lustfully, emitting a content sigh. And so he began his slow progress, putting a loaded fork or spoonful of it into his moist, salivating mouth and chewing as long as possible before he would swallow the softened wad of sumptuous food.

Good god, it was better than usual. Symphonious, almost.

He willed himself to keep control, not to devour the five plates all at once. His massive frame shook as he tried to contain the obsessive longing that blossomed from within his very core. The fork flung his precious food across the table, and he was tempted to lick it from the cherry wood panel, but refused himself that level of humiliation.

The food was warm. It was smooth as it journeyed down his esophagus. It was delicious. He couldn't keep under control much longer. The beast within would take over. He would eat and eat and eat until his stomach was even more distended than usual, taut and uncomfortably full.

Unheard of gluttony fueled his need, his desire, to eat and do nothing else. Self-control had never been Frank's strength. His knuckles turned white as he gripped the stem of his current utensil. With an unmatched quickness, he piled his meal into his large mouth; in a matter of moments, the whole of a plate was in his mouth, shoved down his throat so thick that breathing became impossible. A bead of sweat rolled down his flabby face, into his greasy beard. He made a strange grunting noise, his face turning different shades of blue and purple, and bulging eyes rolling into the back of his head as he slumped forwards and met the table with a loud thump.

The food had been delicious, and now the meal had, unfortunately and ever so regrettably, come to an end.

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