Swallow Me, Like Your Little Pill (Slow burn | Intimate| Dark | Size-kink | Erotic Vore)
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@olo I want to say that you have some good points, but the approach with the predator, if my fuzzy recollection is worth anything, absolutely pans out, and lays the groundwork for the horrors and character development we see later.
Giving it only a moment’s thought, I’m not actually sure how one could make a cleaner “transition” into the mind of a character that a story has been building up as a villain. It’s not an emperor-has-no-clothes moment, but more of a… “the god-king Xerxes bleeds!” He’s mortal, fallible definitely, and flawed but the flaws make him uglier and human rather than sexy.
Hm.
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@kisupure I have little doubt that the glimpses we have had and will have into the pred’s perspective will be rewarding. I simply wasn’t expecting it, given how much Heather’s mind has been racing around him and his hooks in her. It was an unheralded shift in tone.
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@olo LOL! Right?! Beautiful. Just beautiful. I love it
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@olo said in Swallow Me, Like Your Little Pill (Dark and moody; supernatural-horror; erotic size-kink, violence and vore):
End Part 1
Well, I just re-read every installment to date, and I gotta say the most recent entry has really taken me aback. You have made quite an unexpected departure, and I’m very curious to see where you end up.
As I imagine was your intent, Heather’s inner narrative is that of someone supremely gaslighted (gaslit?). She has three times as many thoughts, rephrases, and metaphors as someone with average confidence in their grasp of the world. She has to convince herself—over and over—to make the most straightforward observations and decisions. It’s quite exhausting being Heather.
Yes; that was the intent. Heather is a battered, shattered woman. Her inner narrative reflects this. This is why, when we first meet her, she’s looking down at her cell phone, in the dark, repeating over and over her name, the time, and that she’s alive. She has obsessive-compulsive tendencies which is reflected in her disordered thinking. Once her crutch, now it is her hindrance; it has become exacerbated over time due to her trauma, and her self-imposed social exile.
The most rewarding aspect of this story is that it doesn’t presume that its readers are (already) into shrinking/vore. By resisting the absurd impossibility that she was ever small enough to fit inside his mouth, let alone that he contrived to get her in there, the horror of that scenario has the time and space to seduce the reader, who, if they aren’t already looking for vore, might reject the whole proposition out of hand.
It is also, how I imagine, a character completely un-initiated to the concept would view it, and since Heather is the chief captain of the narrative, it had to reflect that morbid curiosity.
More importantly, you are forced to explain why vore is attractive to you, from a prey’s perspective. All the elements, sensory to psychological, need to be detailed and choreographed to fully transport the reader. Part of that is Heather doubting her own memory and sanity. At the same time, abusive relationships and gaslighting are familiar concepts to most all readers, and the logical extension of those tropes to physical possession and consumption eases everyone (Heather not least) into accepting the story’s premise.
Yes, again. Very accurate. This is where I have endeavored to subvert young-adult fiction by introducing vore in the stead of, say, vampirism, or werewolves; it behaves as the logical crux - and extension - of the abuse, both in metaphor, and in function.
I expect the Joseph
charactercaricature is here to demonstrate how Heather can be just as manipulative as her pred is. “Hurt people hurt people” and all that. Heather’s inner narrative regarding “Joey” is rather vicious, going beyond the basic lashing-out that many abuse-victims respond with toward people who try to help them. Until his heroic charge from the closet, I was prepared to believe that Heather’s account of Joseph was wholly invented to suit her emotional needs.That is an interesting take. I had never intended for Joseph to be a figment of her imagination (I wince at the premise of having the specter of Joseph being so elaborate so as to be at the level of a Beautiful Mind).
The possibility that Heather is an unreliable narrator might have been worth preserving, if only to accommodate non-fetish readers who would otherwise sympathize and/or identify with Heather, but you undercut that by introducing her pred’s perspective.
Yes. This is deliberate. We are taken outside of Heather’s perspective, if anything, to violently juxtapose it with that of the predator.
And this is the departure I mentioned at the outset. I was fully expecting to spend the rest of the story in Heather’s head,
That would be exhausting.
[…] Where her pred is magnified, mystified, and beautified. With his seeming omniscience and ubiquity, Heather can never escape or outwit him. With his hooks into her appetites and flesh, she isn’t sure she wants to. He’s a primal bogeyman out of fairy tales or myth.
That sort of impeccable, infallible, and otherwise perfect veneer would have become exhausting, too.
Once the narrative leaps into his perspective, however, he becomes mortal. Fallible. Foolish, even.
Yes. I do splash the canvas with him, as you will observe in the story to come. Is he human? No; not entirely. Is he beast? Demon? Something categorically uncategoric? Perhaps. I even dance around the mortality bit. Sometimes the best story is the one untold. Because that doesn’t matter. None of it matters. What matters is his compulsion and how it has shaped him, and the impact it has to those around him.
I do agree he can be foolish. But wait until you see him in action. You will understand why Heather is so ‘gaslit.’ Never has the devil been cleverer.
We do get an up-close view of how cruel he can be when he interrogates Tammy
Show; don’t tell. This is a very cruel character driven by his own whimsy. And in the story to come I also gaslight the reader into liking him over time (which amplifies the sympathy one may have toward Heather), because despite this - or because of it - he is easily liked, and liked easily. I wince at terminologies such as “charismatic villain,” but it suits its purpose.
For me: the challenge was to create a continuing subversion of the typical and protypical ‘male-lead/ male romantic lead’ in Young-Adult fiction, by providing an antagonist that is more violent and cruel than the canonized vampire or werewolf ‘bad-boy’ - and that exists as a deconstruction of the ‘heel-face turn’ trope.
I also wanted to introduce a character that is a vehicle for fatalistic fetishes, but could also stand out as an individual with a wholly formed personality. And, he is a personality that may appeal to the heteronormative female-gaze, because there is a deficit of predators that do appeal to the female-gaze (as evidenced by purely self indulgent guilty-gears such as 50 Shades, and Twilight). He is a character that has me walking the literary tight-rope of unabashed, primal predator, strangely-endearing bad-boy, and unapologetic story-tool that appeals to women.
I didn’t see enough of this. And I know that if it appealed to me, it may appeal to other women (and people). I also wanted to explore a predator-character that also has something of a bestial nature, which I wanted to dive into unrelentingly by dipping into his mental perspective.
Because the only thing more scary than the monster, is The Monster Thinks.
What is it like from the predator’s perspective? A perspective that has been so-warped by his own fetishistic obsession? A predator that - as alluded to in the story - has mastered the art of consuming women? What does it look like inside that dark theater of his thoughts?
Therein I have a new challenge: to disgust, repel, horrify and antagonize the reader; but also to seduce them. To him: it’s erotic. It’s sexual. It’s sensuous. Can I get my reader to be in soft agreement with him? Can I paint a ghastly-poetic picture of vore from his mind? Can I infuse eroticism into the horror?
I want a tangible, grating clash of his mental perspective with Heather’s. In the very scenes she’s horrified, he’s very likely in rapture; these two extremely divergent views of the same shared situation that is even further shared by having their bodies braided around one another. This enables me, as a writer, to also play with scene-cuts, and shifts.
I have already started to create that cosmic thread between them during those creative scene-shifts. Now, to add vore to the mix, and in some cases endo, and I have even more dimensions and emotional textures to write about.
That’s just more primitive primordial muck to play in, to make it appealing and attractive. And that juxtaposition should ratchet up the horror even more, until it bends back on itself and becomes something self-propagating and self-sustaining, because there’s the unending circle of predator and prey in constant tension and their two conjoined yet disparate view points of being eaten – whilst being eaten. (at least, in some cases, play-eaten as it were).
(since when does Heather care about her, btw?), but we also get to see his petty vindictiveness. To be honest, I’m not sure I want him to catch his prey.
The story has never been about being caught; not really. Heather was always destined to be caught. The real story begins after that.
Random notes:
“Endoscopy,” Heather blurted. “Joey, what do you know about that?”
Joseph looked at her, startled. “That’s random, Heather.”
Speaking it aloud for the first (?) time, she probably mispronounced it.
Lol. Endo-scope-ee.
Talking to him, even if it had been a quick transaction, had felt good. Trading the barbs. Fencing the words. It brought color and conviction back to her. She didn’t feel like a ghostly apparition when they goaded one another into a game of cat-and-mouse
DANGER, WILL ROBINSON This is how she got addicted.
UH OH. YOU ARE SO VERY RIGHT.
Now, if I was a six-foot asshole, where would I go?
That’s a different kind of vore, Heather.
HA HA HA. I legitimately LOL’d.
“You have a very excitable prey-drive,” Heather murmured.
Where did she get that phrase?
Heather is well-read.
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@kisupure said in Swallow Me, Like Your Little Pill (Dark and moody; supernatural-horror; erotic size-kink, violence and vore):
@olo I want to say that you have some good points, but the approach with the predator, if my fuzzy recollection is worth anything, absolutely pans out, and lays the groundwork for the horrors and character development we see later.
Yes. I want that violent, tangible, grating clash between the perspectives of predator and prey.
Giving it only a moment’s thought, I’m not actually sure how one could make a cleaner “transition” into the mind of a character that a story has been building up as a villain. It’s not an emperor-has-no-clothes moment, but more of a… “the god-king Xerxes bleeds!”
This. “The Monster Thinks.”
He’s mortal, fallible definitely, and flawed but the flaws make him uglier and human rather than sexy.
He’s my deconstruction of the ‘heel-face turn’ trope as well. Because, let’s be real, in the real world, you can’t “save” or “reform” narcissistic personalities. And I detest that in YA. Which, was yet another meta-aware, and self-critical deconstruction I endeavored to do with this story.
The romantic interest is, so eloquently stated, a piece of shit. He’s a narcissist. He’s manipulative. He’s cruel; probably borders on psychopath. And resistant to change, and being changed.
Unlike, say, 50 Shades which reforms the romantic interest into something pacified and cuckolded.
No. In this story, the romantic interest, the self-proclaimed bad-boy doesn’t change. Because that really doesn’t happen. And, the good-guy might even go out with a whimper.
Hm.
I’ve had so many people confide in me over the years they find him to be sexy LOL (both in this spin-off, and in the main body of work to which he belongs). And he is intended to be attractive; I have original art work created of him - and gifts from fans - that definitely embrace his physical attractiveness, and sex appeal. I won’t lie, I see the appeal.
I say this like he’s some sort of phantom-limb, and in a way he is:
he writes himself. -
Chapter 6
Climax, Part II
Heather
“Track,” he parroted back. “You forget, I’m a fast motherfucker, too.”
Heather swiveled her head slowly.
Behind her: a remorseless concrete wall that felt cool and humid. To the sides of her: alternate points of egress sealed shut by security grates, which looked like interlocked mastication. Before her: a shadow made of man.
Heather heaved onto her hands. The open-palm slap rode her high onto her knees. Bent-back and breathless, she reached along the epoxied floor. The room was dim. The night had begun mantling the walls like very-many velvet fingers; it was the sort of dark that was thin and penetrable, capable of breathing. And in its uneven exhalations it had created a vaporous shadow. And in that shadow was a figure sitting on the workbench; it pulled away from the center of the room in a quiver.
Heather had felt the movement. Absorbed it. It had felt like anatomical dissection.
He was moving.
She felt down the front of her leg. She still had the gun.
But, she knew, an even more important weapon lay just out of reach. It looked up at the rafters with a single slit-lidded eye. It had an almost forlorn look about it: a tenuous crack had begun splitting its face.
The shadow scraped along the floor, and Heather watched mutely as the cell phone lifted and disappeared into the dark nexus.
And Heather felt the near-universal pang of loss one feels when one’s digital lifeline is taken, teasingly, indulgently from the reaching motion of their fingers. One pessimist’s inch more – just one – if she had just reached one pessimistic inch more, she would have been able to reach her cell phone in time.
But he had whisked it from her with barely a shudder of fabric to betray the intent.
Instinctively, she retracted her hand. A tremor had gripped it. And that tremor threatened to travel down the length of her arm. She clutched it to her chest as though shielding it from a wild animal.
She felt naked and exposed crouched over the floor; shut in. Watching as her cell phone was cavalierly manipulated by his hands.
It felt terrible, like physical violation.
And there was a sound; it was reaching across the dark: a faint murmur with curlicues of amusement. And it was, she realized, a voice. It was his. He was speaking.
“Never changed it, huh.”
“…my password,” she said, feeling thick and dumb in his proximity. “…h-how?”
“I’m a Scorpio, remember?” He deadpanned. “Only I get to keep secrets.”
“Secrets,” she repeated hollowly. A beat of silence, then: "Secrets?! You want to talk secrets –
But he cut across her with a flippant: “Unknown?! Man, Kitten. I can’t believe you went with unknown. That’s cold.”
Heather felt a lick of anger; anger that was enough to sublimate her fear, so much so that she forgot to feel it. “You might as well be a fucking unknown with what you did – what you can do, I can’t even… I - how?!”
But he remained unmoved; instead he continued searching through her phone. It filled the room with a sad meager glow, offering a dull but sufficient source of direction. The bottom half of his face – over-bright – floated, seemingly, above the corona of light; the rest of his face retreated into a convex of shadow.
Heather was disturbed by the optical illusion. She looked away.
She could feel the tingle of the seconds along her skin. The inaction was setting her on edge. “What are you doing?” She blurted.
He looked at her levelly; said nothing; and returned to her cell phone. But, then, offered a placating: “Catching up.”
She could scream; she could cry. Had he always been this frustrating? And why did she have the grace to forgive him in times past for such willfully obtuse behavior?
But Heather had not the luxury to meditate on this, because the feeling of the seconds sliding along her skin became something insidious; her bowels contracted. Heather tried to absorb the convulsion with grace, but she could see that he had caught her pain with a preternatural flick of his eye.
The sudden, feral up-tick of interest telegraphed by his face reminded her, nauseatingly, of a wolf watching a wounded rabbit. She had an instinctive pang that he wanted to see her roll over.
She did not know how to properly weaponize herself against such feral behavior because it was so alien; but what she did know, she knew acutely, and she knew not to show fear.
Don’t show him your fucking belly, Heather.
“Well, what’s there to check up on? Hello, hi: I’m here. Right in fucking front of you. I’m alive, kicking, strung out on a pharmacy cocktail, in the middle of fucking withdrawal pangs and - oh - I’ve learned my ex boyfriend is - is a fucking… monster, demon, boogeyman thing that isn’t entirely human. I don’t know what happened to my friends, so I’m kind of going through a lot right now. Actually, you know what? What happened to Tammy? Let’s start there.” She paused for effect, then: “What the fuck did you do to Tammy?”
“I broke her hand.” He replied flatly.
“You - what?”
“Well,” he reprised with a touch of amusement: “Her fingers, actually.”
“Why,” Heather breathed.
“She was trying to take shit that didn’t belong to her. Besides, now it’s harder for her to use her phone.” For illustration he held up Heather’s cell phone.
That crack widened inside of her. Her lifeline was hanging from his fingers.
“And Joey?” She said softly.
“Bleeding out on your apartment floor.”
Heather froze. She swallowed the knowledge; it was hollow in her stomach.
With punitive glee: “See, that’s the thing. Running around with pointy things like that… you never know. You might trip; fall; impale yourself.”
Heather felt stricken.
But he had not the sympathy to let her recover, he continued with a verbal jab: “I’m almost impressed, Heather. Your body count is commendable.”
"Excuse me? What –
“Everywhere you go, you leave a trail of bodies behind.”
Heather looked at him mutely.
“Tammy’s hand. Joseph. Yo’ mom’s head.” He deliberately paused, and after a calculable second: "It didn’t have to turn out like this. If you had just –
“No!” She cut across. “Don’t make this about me! Don’t put this on me ! Don’t you dare! You - you try to spin shit around and - and make it about me, and you try to gaslight me.” She could break down and cry. She could become the little girl again and sob. Wondering why she wasn’t good enough. Wondering why things like this happened to her.
He intimated a shrug. “Very clever, though. Using Joseph as a decoy. You didn’t even give the poor boy a parting glance when you ran out. You used him and abused him to his last.”
“Stop,” she keened. Her voice was raw; open. “Stop.”
His eyes glittered knowingly at her. “Hit a nerve?”
"How the fuck - how would you know anyway, why do you know that –
“He’s your dealer? And he’s in love with you?” It was not a question.
Heather looked down at the floor in black shame.
“Ohhhh,” he started coyly, “I’ve been keeping tabs.”
"You’ve been stalking me? how - when - "
“Bet you never saw the painter.”
Heather looked at him; really looked at him. The insufficient glow of light was inadequate, but enough to illuminate his frame. As ever, he was tall, as ever he was overwhelming. And, unlike most tall people, he did not present the illusion his limbs would run away from him; he was proportionate, balanced by muscular shape. He had a snake-like curve from his broad shoulders down to his slender waist that had given him a
thrillingly erotic stance. When he moved, there was something supple and seductive to the movement.And what was wrong, what was glaringly wrong, what snagged her attention - finally - was the manner of dress. He was in cheap, stained workman’s clothes. Heather looked to the discarded articles (still across the chair and the table) with new clairvoyance. He had undressed and redressed like a snake changing its skin in order to melt into the crowd and follow her.
And for how long did he carry out this fool’s errand? For how long was she his mark? And why?
“Guess not,” Heather said glumly. “I wouldn’t have recognized you in overalls anyway, since you’ve never worked an honest day in your life.”
He barked a stiff laugh. “That’s what I liked about you, Heather. You never cared about my money. Mama didn’t raise no gold-digger.”
"Why are you here? "
“Land’s cheap.”
"No; really. Why are you here. Why are you following me? Why are you –
“Fate,” he said with a deadpan roll of the eyes. “Imagine my surprise when you crossed my path. I had to know what you were up to. I couldn’t resist.”
She fixed him with a look. “Why?” He wasn’t telling the truth; not all of it. She could tell.
He began - and if she were pressed, she would have said it was with delicate preamble - “It’s been a year. And I was… well, a lot of time went by at this point, and I was wondering…” he paused, and tightened up his tone: “Well, you dropped off the face of the planet, which, well… there was a lot left behind; a lot unsaid.”
“No shit, Sherlock.”
He fixed her with a look. “I wanted to know if - if you remembered. And, well,” he intimated a shrug.
Been a year. He had been keeping track of time after all; counting the days, the hours. Did that mean she meant something to him? Something more?
Fear roiled around in her stomach; anger inched up her spine and she clapped back with: “Remember?! You want to know if I remembered?! For fuck’s sake, I had thought I was going crazy and meanwhile you dropped off the face of the planet, and then you resurface and ask me if I remember.”
The enormity of what happened, the shadow of it slid between them, and Heather - suddenly tired of this game of parsing symbols and metaphors - poked it savagely with a stick. She refused to rot in the silence of the cancer. And with him a scant arm’s length away - why not? Why not uncage it? Her - him - them? Why not throw open the floodgates.
“You have the nerve to sit there, in front of me, happy as a clam, and actually ask me if I remember you trying to eat me?”
And she regretted it the moment she said it. It felt terrible; it felt absurd when she said it aloud. She sounded crazy. And saying it externalized it. Saying it made it have color, texture, membrane; made it real. And that tiny fault-line, that tiny, tiny crack that she had tried to hide in, to find hope - against all evidence - that the very real possibility of it all being fake of it all being a misunderstanding, was now at peril of collapsing in on her.
He did not respond. He meditated on her.
Heather continued in a sharp pant: “I sound crazy just saying it out loud! Tell me I made it up in my head ! Tell me I was high ! Tell me I - I misremembered the entire thing! Tell me!”
His voice was rough; hoarse. “Well, do you?”
Heather licked her lips. The crackle that had so-animated her, dissipated. There was something she was inching toward; something terrible and foreign and dangerous that was alarming the bell. And despite - or because - she had fantasized about this a thousand times, a thousands times and more: punitively attacking him with a barrage of questions until oh-so righteously wrenching the answer from him with her clever verbal fencing, that she had envisioned it differently: she had envisioned that she would have brow-beat the answer from him, and she would revel in it and that he would bend to her, because of her unyielding, unbending defiance –
– not, this.
Not him looking at her keenly with his pupils so-expanded, they were black. Not with his body suddenly tilting forward in a fantastical stasis.
And how had she not noticed the wooden stirrer before? The one he was dragging along his teeth in the analogue of a cigarette?
It made her skin crawl.
He remembers, she realized. And he knows that I remember, too.
But she would not give him the satisfaction; she deflected as he would have. “Well, at least you didn’t try to eat Tammy,” she said moodily.
“Why do you look at those videos, Heather.”
It was not a question. And his voice, although flat, was like a blade; it could still wound.
Something had changed. It was imperceptible like a wind-shift; but there. The mood before: characterized by a sort of dark nihilistic levity, had now suddenly flattened into a quiet, metallic calm that was punctuated only by the soft click click click of the wooden stirrer against his teeth.
I’m in trouble, Heather thought, suddenly. She couldn’t tear her gaze away from the wooden stirrer; it was mesmerizing.
What first she had surmised was the analogue for a cigarette now revisited her with new meaning. It’s me. That’s me. He’s fantasizing about me.
“What. You thought you were gonna send me those videos and those texts, and actually get away with it?”
He caught her gaze, held it, gave the wooden stirrer a long, showy lick; and his pupils fastened over hers, probing the obscene gesture into her.
Heather looked down in a spasm of fear. Her hand reflexively touched the front of her pant leg.
In a plea to distract him: “How d-do you do it,” she breathed. “I-is… it a drug? A-a vial? A syringe? S-some sort of Illuminati technology?”
He tilted his head in a feral gesture of amusement; and smiled a slow, stalking smile at her. He moved his fingers through the air in an elaborate pantomime of conducting a magic trick. “Nah; it’s all me. It’s my ‘black magic.’” He teased with verbal air-quotes.
Oh God, he does it. And for some reason, the very fact that this was somehow intrinsic to him, a discrete inborn ability conscripted in him by nature (Or God?), was more terrifying than if he had co-opted an alien technology. Because: he was it. He was the weapon; he was the single shot across the bow. And he could control it.
Heather’s mouth gaped open. (He was looking at her in full, open amusement now). “W-what are you?”
“Does it matter?”
"Yes; fuck yes it does… it - " (she slowly wriggled her hand down into the lip of her pants pocket) - “It matters. I need to know what I’m dealing with here! If-if, you’re some sort of fucking devil, or demon or-or alien… or.”
“You know what the difference between an angel and demon is, Heather?”
“Don’t,” she held up a hand, she could swear she saw him shift closer toward the edge of the table, as though getting ready to spring: "Don’t - don’t tell me. Don’t fucking sit there and tell me - don’t you dare say you’re some goddamn fallen angel, or demon or –
“Etymology.” He said simply.
Heather very nearly swallowed her tongue. “So: it happened,” she said softly, sadly. “Y-you reduced me. And - and you tried to - to…” she couldn’t bring herself to say it. The nihilist in her had fled to become the sad, scared little girl again because something godless had stepped out of the sheep’s clothing to torment her.
“Yes,” he said simply, his voice dropping, becoming heavy: “I tried to devour you.”
There was a hiccup of confusion, then the dull, flat feeling of shock as she absorbed the mental whiplash that he had actually said it. Her skin prickled at the near-tangible thrust of the word ‘devour.’
He was, if nothing else, always calculable with his words.
“Why,” she said lamely. Then: with raw, bracing pain: “Why me? Why so sprung on me? Why so - so obsessed with me? I hate it! It’s not like I was your fucking first! Go after some other floozy!”
“Actually,” he said softly, almost intimately. “In a way you were.”
Heather instinctively backed away. When had he slipped down from the table? She tried to make natural the gesture of reaching deeper into her pants pocket. (Please, God, let me grab the gun and blow this motherfucker away, please just… please… it can’t end like this. Not like this).
And he still had her cell phone.
But she was unable to stop herself, it was too romantically redolent. What did he mean? “The first? How? Wha-what do you mean?”
In a contraction of movement he was closer. “You were the first that got away. See: this is new to me, too.” And with great purpose, with great excitement, with great potential - building like a thunderhead - he blurted: “It’s exciting. Getting to talk about this, all of this, to someone. To actually speak about it. Speak about it, to you. It’s sexy as hell.”
The first. She had been right. There had been many. And the quality of his voice, the cavalier yet smug tonality, told her - without needing to tell her - that his victims were many; innumerable. So, why was it he had failed with her? She looked over the universe’s lip into the great protraction of why and couldn’t stand the mystery any longer.
“How did you, parading around in all your greatness, fuck up so royally?” She asked coldly.
He barked a laugh. “It was an accident. I didn’t mean to get that far.”
“An accident?” She echoed back. “No. An accident is when you stub your toe, not - not,” she waved her arm emphatically: “This.”
“You’re standing here now, no?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Should I bow to the king?” (He made an annoyed sound). “God I hate you. I can never tell when you’re lying.”
He ghosted closer.
Heather felt that fissure inside of her widen even further. Instinctively, she retreated; she moved in two big steps. Her fingertips grazed the handle of the gun. She could feel it; it was solid and cool. Her heart leapt in excitement; her bowels contracted in fear. She turned wild eyes on him as he quietly advanced.
“Stop.” She held up a hand to deflect him. “I’m not your fucking play thing.”
“And I’m not target practice.”
Heather tried to bite off her surprise; he reached half-heartedly for her leg; she cantered backward.
“Touch.” She blurted. “It works with touch. You need to touch me. You need to,” she was babbling now, and she didn’t care. She had to put distance between them. She had to stay out of reach of this abomination that was slowly, indulgently moving toward her. "Otherwise you would have made me teeny-tiny by now, I think – " she felt her shoulder blades scrape up against the cement wall; her fingers tightened around the gun grip.
And he still had her cell phone.
Alarmingly, he crouched. Heather watched him with wild-eyed mania; she could not divine his intentions.
Then: a scrape. A clatter. A bruising pulse of light as something pressed up against her foot. Unthinkingly she felt for it in the dark. He had slid the cell phone along the floor back to her.
“I fixed it.”
She looked down at it, not understanding. Why return her lifeline to her? He stood, and gave her an expectant look.
She looked down at the message thread on the glowing screen. And she understood.
Once, she had tried to unknown him. She had tried to render him nameless, faceless. To excise his identity. But in her attempt to unknown him, she had ascended him, exalted him; and he had re-surged as something that straddled the line of disbelief.
She had anonymized him because there was nothing more horrifying than a name., and nothing more intimate than the utterance of it. Because a name - his name - was the connective tissue to her reality, the incantation that brought to a fine head all of the moving parts.
That he existed. That he tried to eat her. That he failed. And he returneth to try again.
But it was a beautifully clever ruse, because as she had cast her watery eyes down to her cell phone screen, keening aloud his name in an exclamation - to match the sudden exclamation of the gun muzzle wrenching free from her hand - she felt her face crumple, her body shake as his streamed forward.
They nearly, nearly touched.
“Danny,” she mewled, hating his name; reveling in it; fearing it; embracing it; feeling paralytic with the onrush of feelings, of sensations, of emotions as she stared, mystified, as the gun now receded from her vision, falling away to the floor in a great clatter.
Heather reminisced, remembering better times when she would feel at peace with him. Hand in hand. Fingers awkwardly laced. It had been a simple, pedestrian gesture, they needn’t always be obscene. He had been a man, too.
Heather snapped back to see him wave his fingers invitingly, drawing attention to his hand.
Is this it? Is he gonna touch me and do it? Is it over?
But she refocused her gaze.
Open palm, a sign of open honesty and open intentions. And in the bed of it, like a lovely, disrobed purple woman: her pill.
“My pills,” her voice croaked.
She swallowed thickly, once more blinking back a wave of emotion. Heather made the muscular contraction to reach for it; stopped. What perverse olive branch was this?
“The phone,” he murmured. “You can look. But you can’t keep.”
Heather did not think; she simply did. She tossed her cell phone to the ground, aware - distantly - she was bartering her life for this beautiful poisoned chalice.
Fulfilling her end of the bargain, her forefinger and thumb pinched the pill – and careful not to touch him, she plucked it free.
Movement.
He moved like a weapon; she moved like desperation.
Pain rocketed up her spine. Numbly, she was aware the pain was telegraphing up from the concrete wall. Had he jumped her?
She froze. She slowly absorbed her surroundings; she slowly took inventory of their bodies.
His fingers had found her wrist. This is how we met, she thought, sadly. And his shoulder had found her chest. In a surge he redoubled his hold, slamming her against the wall again - a scream wrenched from her as he bound her to him.
He’s on me. He felt like stamped steel and arrogance.
The pill fell and rolled into the shadows below.
Heather looked down at it, blank.
“Why.”
His mouth ghosted up her skin, finding her ear. And it was not quiet in its quest to claim her. She could hear him, the ministrations of his mouth.
He’s tasting me. It was no longer an erotic, wanton gesture; it was now pockmarked by the knowledge he wanted to consume her like a delicate Thumbelina.
His voice was low; spiced with need, spiced with sex. “Why? Cuz I can’t stop thinking about it. What happened. I was close, so close.” Panting, he prickled her neck with his teeth.
“I thought it was an accident,” she ground out; her breasts heaving.
“I never specified,” he remarked coyly. “It was an accident: it was an accident letting you out.”
Out sounded so sinister for what it represented; he had let her out of his body, out of a powerful pair of jaws that would have squeezed her so greedily into his twisted intestines.
Once, she had wanted to know if she had made a dent in his racing thoughts. And now, she was dismayed to learn she did nothing but plague them; a woman-shaped heroin that, for reasons unknown to her, had been ejected from his mouth at the precise moment he had sought to swallow her.
Heather felt the silken glide of his tongue, and heaved. She showed her teeth in a distinct snarl; he started to apply a slow pressure; her neck flared in heat, in pain. Heather gasped. It was the vivid sensation of a needle-prick; something entered her skin.
He’s biting me.
The warm on-rush went down the side of her neck. He made a low, appreciative sound.
And whatever he was scenting, he was tasting (my blood?) it compelled a swallow from him. And the sound: a wet sloshing, and subsequent cartilaginous click as he swallowed, nauseated her; it wrenched a heaving paroxysm from her chest. Her bowels contracted again.
Heather looked strained; embarrassed, the split second before -
She vomited.
Danny jerked backwards.
Somehow, he had evaded. Which created distance. But it was enough.
Heather dove to the floor.
He reached for her –
She shot her hand out, (this time reaching that extra pessimist’s inch), and wrapped herself around the pill.
His fingers closed over her arm –
And she tore herself free, violently shoving the pill into her mouth.
Is this how you like it, Danny? Is it?! Only if this were you, then we’d be evenly matched.
She stuck out her tongue, revealing the pill. He watched without expression.
I won’t give you the satisfaction. Her eyes said. She would die her own way, high and mighty in her own realm. “Fuck –
Danny crashed into her. His mouth clamped on her throat –
Heather gasped, twisting backwards. He remained latched to her, like a parasite.
But, ever defiant, she swallowed.
And he spasmed backwards.
"No,” he said.
Then, sharper. “No.”
Danny
He staggered, face cast to the side to obstruct her view; tongue working madly inside his mouth to dispel the chemical taste.
Shit.
The toxins were already flooding her system.
Panting, he reviewed the sequence of events: she had stood, proud and righteous, as though a demon-slayer under her war-banner, war-drums coursing through her veins; fingers so-very delicately poising the pill on her tongue.
As though an analogy to him, she had found the sheer delight in it; knowing the damage it imparted.
Look at me, her eyes had challenged, never leaving his face.
And in a moment of clarity she had been the one to use her throat as a weapon. And how powerful her master-stroke had been. She had not even begun to conceive just how effective it was. True, she had meant to commandeer her final subconscious moments under the lullaby of the drug, to wrench her lucidity away from him; but her sin had been worse than that.
She now tasted like the pill itself.
“How long,” he muttered. His voice was a rasp; ragged at the ends. How long, what, his brain mocked him. How long since they’d seen one another? How long since he tasted her? How long until the sweet little pill did its job and started seeping into her blood stream?
With a sudden jolt of clarity, he looked up. He flung his body into her, and gripped her.
“Is this what you were trying to avoid?” He hissed.
Heather
And she became like a humming bird: stilted, but lovely, flittering in place - and then in the next moment, she was gone –
only to reappear again, cupped in his hands –
tiny, and perfectly replicated down to her eyelashes.
End Part II
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Author’s Note
Dear intrepid reader,
I took down and re-posted Chapter 6. There were some areas I didn’t like, that I refined for you. And added some dialogue. (And some transitional dialogue).
It’s back up. It may help you to re-read it.
Stay tasty.
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If Heather truly was the first victim of his to live to tell the tale, then his insouciance at finding her again is purest bullshit. Only a gaslit junky would think otherwise.
Danny just can’t quit tripping over his own dick, can he? He lets her hold onto the gun forever, then he teases her with the one weapon he does fear, her pill. Pick your poison, dude.
Did he need to taste her blood first in order to shrink her, or was that just more of the scripted scene in his head?
Heather - suddenly tired of this game of parsing symbols and metaphors
You and me both, girl.
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@olo said in Swallow Me, Like Your Little Pill (Dark and moody; supernatural-horror; erotic size-kink, violence and vore):
If Heather truly was the first victim of his to live to tell the tale, then his insouciance at finding her again is purest bullshit. Only a gaslit junky would think otherwise.
Here’s your meta moment: you can’t tell when he’s lying; neither can our protagonist.
Danny is too cool for school, he’d never admit to it one way or another. Instinctively, I want to say she’s not the first; but perhaps she is the first that happened in quite some time during a long line of flawless execution. This, of course, being outside of what I envision would be his formative years. When his skills were first embryonic, and there was a learning curve, I imagine there were a lot of sloppy seconds and abortive attempts. In short: those instances don’t count.
Now that he’s mastered the art of it, Heather surviving Is A Pretty Big Deal. It’s definitely a knock to his ego. And it drives him crazy. But it opens an entirely different universe of possibilities.
Did he come across her by happenstance? No; I don’t think so. I think there was copious stalking involved and he waited for the right moment to insinuate himself back into her life.
There is an intrigue there, too; what would it be like to interact with one of his victims that knows about him; that had a long-term relationship with him? Would it feel deliciously naughty or disappointingly trite? She knows; he knows; and he knows she knows. What’s it like to be seen?
Can he confer his fetish to her? Can he find intimacy with her? Does this create a new quality of bonding?
Danny just can’t quit tripping over his own dick, can he? He lets her hold onto the gun forever, then he teases her with the one weapon he does fear, her pill. Pick your poison, dude.
That’s absolutely his biggest flaw. He takes things too far; always. He likes extremes. (how Scorpio of him).
The gun: it was to make her feel in control; the pill was both a necessary story device, but also a genuine flub. He absolutely meant to tease her with it - torment, really - but things went sideways because he constantly underestimates Heather; which is what a narcissist would do.
Digressing: as for a story device, he can’t devour Heather when she’s intoxicated. She tastes bad. Can a relationship form in the outgrowth of these interludes? And if it does, at what cost? Is her safety directly proportional to how dependent she becomes on her drugs? And what does this mean for him? Is he forced to look at her as something other than prey? A lady-prey that knows his most vilest secrets? That can harmonize his human side with his bestial side? That’s scary.
And with each suicidal fistful of drugs, is she pulling - or pushing them - further apart as an unconventional couple? And only in the briefest of interludes of sobriety, when she’s over the initial high and the short fuse of the pill’s half life is burning down, can she be lucid enough to form something genuine with him.
And can it ever be real? When addiction is a weapon pointed on both ends when does artifice end, and sincerity begin?
Did he need to taste her blood first in order to shrink her, or was that just more of the scripted scene in his head?
Canonically, no. There needs to be heightened arousal, emotions must be high; and there must be physical touch.
Him biting her neck was a little love note to the vampire genre; but also an illustration that he’s often susceptible to Going A Little Too Far. He’s simultaneously both awful and skilled in controlling his impulses; he’s too attracted to Heather.
Heather - suddenly tired of this game of parsing symbols and metaphors
You and me both, girl.
The irony here being that never is Heather more alive, more whole, more herself when she’s in his company. Perhaps not her Catholic Best; but definitely leagues above the obsessive compulsive basket case she had become.
Your knee jerk reaction toward Danny is interesting; I always find the men to have more varied responses, including outright hate; whereas women seem to be of a more infatuated consensus - if not fatally intrigued.
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@nephilim edited because I can spell
And I have full thoughts. Derp
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Ah here we go with the smoke and mirrors - things are getting interesting!
And, unlike most tall people, he did not present the illusion his limbs would run away from him
I have to say though, that THIS is true size fiction haha. Definitely a detail that someone into tall men would notice about the way tall men carry themselves. In my experience, it’s usually better to find a 6’ man to act 6’6", than it is to find a 6’6" man to act 6’6".
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@nephilim I love that alongside the protagonist, you as the reader are made to feel mad as well. Like there’s no way that could’ve happened. She’s reasonable and trying to comprehend the impossible, to the point that we’re questioning the reality all the time.
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@kisupure said in Swallow Me, Like Your Little Pill (Dark and moody; supernatural-horror; erotic size-kink, violence and vore):
Ah here we go with the smoke and mirrors - things are getting interesting!
Ah yes. The penultimate: the interaction of predator and prey, and giant and tiny. I love writing those scenes. I especially love writing the (upcoming) size differentials and size fiction.
And, unlike most tall people, he did not present the illusion his limbs would run away from him
I have to say though, that THIS is true size fiction haha. Definitely a detail that someone into tall men would notice about the way tall men carry themselves. In my experience, it’s usually better to find a 6’ man to act 6’6", than it is to find a 6’6" man to act 6’6".
My husband is 6’3. It’s a thing. Nothing worse than a tall, gaunt man that presents himself as a spear of asparagus o_O
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@midas said in Swallow Me, Like Your Little Pill (Dark and moody; supernatural-horror; erotic size-kink, violence and vore):
@nephilim I love that alongside the protagonist, you as the reader are made to feel mad as well. Like there’s no way that could’ve happened. She’s reasonable and trying to comprehend the impossible, to the point that we’re questioning the reality all the time.
Yes. All the yes. I am so glad you enjoy this aspect, because I enjoy writing it. I love that I’ve managed to move a reader from complacent stoicism to a state of emotional pique. I love it.
I also love diving into the psychological gestalt, so to hear that you also enjoy it is all the more enriching !
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Chapter 7
Awakening
Interlude
Heather
Heather dreamed. The pill softened her; opened her.
She was – orange and yellow leaves rained down from the sky like embers of flame –
there.
Pine needles crinkled underfoot. Bark prickled her skin. The sun basked her face. Moving in a tight circle, she took in her surroundings. She was in the woods. The woods that ran lushly up against his house; the one she had finally visited during the coalescent stage of their courtship.
Heather smiled a phantom smile in the dream.
They had moved through the wilderness together, traveling the verdant foot-paths and rolling hills like studied survivalists. She could remember it so sweetly.
She: was clearly in her element, moving with practiced finesse.
He: was giving sidelong glances at the low-hanging branches - the ones she had navigated with nimble ease - as though they were conspiring to attack.
“Come on, Brooklyn, I’ll protect you from the tree, I promise.”
And - in the dream - he had rolled his eyes, but it was a good natured gesture.
It was – and Heather felt a phantom thought coalesce with her phantom smile – autumn in her memory. The vibrant, blooming universe of autumn. It had been the first time he had led her out into the cool fall air with a sporting look after a respectable docket of dates.
Back then their affection had been fire; passionate and wild.
The more they had tried to tamp down the flames – the stronger they had fanned the inferno. Eventually the flush of heat had swept over them, consuming them.
Immolating reason. And decency.
Heather could almost remember it. When first the smallest of sins had been singed away, at the time, she had dismissed it as nothing more than an incidental gnat. But, then, a larger one materialized. And, then, a larger one yet. Because after the first few dozen, it had become easy; and then easier. And so she permitted his transgressions. The promises - and the apologies - had come quick after all, and Heather had inured herself to them.
Had she been an older woman, a wiser woman, she might have left the scene. But, he had the guile of an inner city savant, with ten extra years to charm, so Heather could not resist him. Besotted and entranced, she remained.
He lead; she followed.
And with him, she knew she had been tottering on an elaborate construction of half-truths and half-lies because he had done things, and she had seen things that were - as apt as it was to say - unusual. Things that were not manifestly strange, exactly, and maybe of little note – except that, sometimes, for reasons she did not yet understand, his behavior had often startled the small, meadowed instinct languishing inside of her.She knew it was not just the thrill of their erotic undercurrent either, because there were times he moved a little too fast, or he tread a little too light, or he had a naked facial expression too congruent with one of her private thoughts for it to have been naked coincidence. But, still, she remained.
Sometimes, even, there was a hum, or a crackle along the lights when he walked by. His presence could make a room tremble. How could she not remain?
And he didn’t eat.
That knowledge, coupled with the way he looked at her sometimes, seemed - at first - to be two completely unelated thoughts. But, then, one evening -
During one of their domestic disputes, he had characterized it, bringing it to a head with a calculably-timed I’d eat you alive, little girl, don’t even try.
And, that metaphor, if uttered by a lesser man, would have had the unintended consequence of possessing a strange, awkward delivery; but because he had said it, Heather had immediately stopped. She did not volley through with the hand-slap she had been preparing.
And to her chagrin,
He had begun using it as the great equalizer whenever she had begun challenging his boundaries, or trying to snoop around his secrets, and eventually it had become such a great source of frustration she had imploded on him, informing him - quite peevishly - that she was no longer impressed with his chauvinistic threat. And, somehow, off-the-tip of her tongue, rolled the rebuttal that he was “a demon, or goblin, or devil,” (if not in form, then definitely in personality) and it had stuck.And, so had spawned her pet-name for him, in a moment of unintended consequence, that he was her ‘divided devil.’
And after a long, steady moment (the irony not being lost on him) he had returned a singular, taut nod. But not without first obtusely confessing that she had been accurate in her assessment (and if she only knew just how right she had been).
But he had confessed it just as he did with anything of importance: indirectly. And like the rest of his story, it had only been a pantomime, a projection of the truth to present (like shadows on the wall).
And it had the opposite intended effect (or, it had the effect he intended) because Heather had suddenly found herself even more attracted to her dark, devilish boyfriend. She had wanted to be with something special, didn’t she? She had wanted to be special. She had wanted to be different than the others.
Better: she had wanted to be the one he kept.
She had wanted to see what it would be like to be fucked by something demonic that had risen from the long, stoic shadows of biblical lore. She had wanted to see what it would be like to run her fingers around the fangs of mythical possibility; to crawl inside the jaws of hyperbole and see how far back she could ride that devil tongue.
In the spectacle of her head, it had all seemed so sexy; so hot.
The metaphor appealed.
That he would prey on her, sex on her – and feed? on her.
And it was hot. The thought of it. The books had told her so. She went to sleep with it, woke with it; tendered the thought, lovingly, night after night by tracing tight circles around her clit.She imagined how hot it would be, being fucked by a demon.
And they both had been so tremblingly close to it, so close to doing it that it had hurt. Maddeningly, he had made her wait.
And the restraint was hot, too, so she allowed it.
So Heather pleasured herself in the expanse of the wait, thinking about how sexy it would be. And the demon had a face now, a name. She – he – they – could make it happen. Couldn’t they?
Which is why she stayed. Which is why she waited. She wanted more of him; all of him. She wanted to see the real Danny that lurked beneath the surface; the one that had looked at her in a sudden, feral uptick at the night club when first they had met.Unknown to him, she had created a social media profile, then. It was to earmark the momentous occasions in their life. (What was the point of dating a demon if you couldn’t at least boast about it a little bit?) She knew she was shouting into a void, but she didn’t care. It made her feel good.
“How do I look to you? Shining in your silk?" Said the fly to the spider.
Consume me. I like the pain”
But only if she had known how prophetic that meme would become. (Or how prolific her page would grow).
But, as suggested by her post, she couldn’t help but wonder when he was going to do it.
Heather had been foolishly wise. She knew the slow-drip trail of context clues he had left behind suggested he nursed a fetishistic compulsion for women that tip-toed over the polite boundaries of society. But that had been kind of hot, too, hadn’t it? Being the object of a demon’s desire sounded sexy. Was it all women? Did he demonize them all? Select women? Would it – gasp – be her? Could it be her?
And somehow the thought of being fucked by him and eaten by him had enmeshed.
She had begun slipping curious fingers into herself over that, too; and, strangely, she had found herself responding to the fantasy. She remembered being startled by the contractions of her own orgasm. It was all in abstraction, of course. It was just fantasy. His mouth, his lips, his tongue was hot. So, she extrapolated that being eaten by him would be hot, too.
It was only when this part of their story had become inexorable – when she had begun to wonder about the metaphor, and had begun to touch herself to it, that he had signaled – in that maddeningly knowing way of his – that she was ready for him.
Sex: he had mounted her in a contraction of movement. And she had become a movement of contraction. Everything else fell away. All that was – all that existed – had been this rigid thickness slowly feeding into her.
And he had been - like the rest of him - excessive.
And like everything else with them: it had not been easy. He had to make small movements of negotiation to insert himself. Mentally, she had mapped out the procession: her focus traveling the length of him as she had endeavored to ingest his erection. He had been painfully wide. And what had already been squeezed into her was penetrating pockets of depth that she had only intellectually understood before to exist.
He had been too big; too thick; pushing through her in a way that was alarming. And if ever there had been any reservation over what he claimed he was – a demon – any lingering doubts had evaporated with the sudden, singular plunge of his length.
Her spine curled in shock.It had hurt. His movements had been stilted, abbreviated; punctuated by her sharp shrieks whenever he went too deep. Groaning, panting, her demon had struggled to fuck her with the patience of a saint.
But bending under his will, being forced to accept his maleness – that had been hot, too.
So, she allowed it.
I thought some of the guys I was with before had been big… shit. Heather could almost laugh at the absurdity of it. None of her past lovers had even come close. Heather had to re-align her belief system.
And it wasn’t just his size, it was also his shape and tensile strength. To say he was as hard as the devil’s brand, and he bruised her just as terribly, would not have been an overstatement.
But he had been good at first, hadn’t he? So good. He had been on his best behavior (but weren’t they all?). He had given her oral sex, often. Said the sweet nothings, enough. Lavished her with the proper attention. Even dozed on the couch with her (his arm around her waist so she wouldn’t fall).
They had traded the in-jokes, the promises, the memes that had begun creating the scaffolding for their relationship. He had given her glimpses of his softer side. And, it took time, but, through some devilish alchemy, he had begun to fit - in her thoughts, her life, her body - so that he could push inside – and the pain had actually transmuted to pleasure.
And, oh God, when she had grown accustomed to him, and he to her, it had become terrifyingly good.
She remembered, vividly, the day she had posted another meme to her profile:
“Your Man Crush Monday #MCM slips out on the third stroke.”
It was a digital benchmark for when the sex between them had become extraordinary. Mind-blowing, even. Danny – bless him – never slipped out, and she – honed to a weapon – never let go. He could pound deep, visceral orgasms out of her, but also rock her into a state of drugged euphoria (and she hadn’t even need her pills in order for him to sweet-fuck her into a tranquilized stupor). He could give her different orgasms; sometimes, even, deliberately.
“When he give you that relationship-dick. #ThatDevilDick.”
They had their ups; their downs. But, then, they had moments like these, where they would return to the bridle path, hand in hand, sharing lewd jokes. They had met in the fall, and after one revolution around the calendar, to the fall they had returned, re-creating their original traipse into the woods.
It had almost become comical at that point – and Heather looked upon the memory of herself with a sympathetic fondness – the lengths to which they would go to make surreptitious their feelings for one another. Like two children in the school yard they had stolen shy smiles and shy kisses, and they had intimated not-quite professions time and time again.
Until.
“I love you.”Had there been a shy acknowledgment in return?
She could not remember.
It had been the first time it had been said.
And Heather could not remember who, exactly, had said it.
But what she could remember was the canvas. The canvas of: colors, sights, sounds. She could remember the vibrancy of the woven canopy because it had been peeling like a wound that could finally heal.
She could remember this image with such detail, because it had served as the backdrop for the sudden, jerking retreat of his tall frame; retreating, until it became that of a featureless shadow.
And, then, what felt like a cone of silence, gulfed between them.His face had become a dark study: she could not remember if he had jerked away from their cupped hands because she had said it, or because she had not responded to what had been said.
The sex that evening had been strained; devoid of connection. The small movements of negotiation he had often made to gently penetrate her - because her smallness required it - had sublimated into animalistic pangs. And Heather had bit her tongue to endure it.
The days waxed and waned. And that cone of silence grew wider.
Then: he had stopped asking for sex.
Heather remembered the initial panic, the vain interrogations into his self-exile, the fruitless fishing expeditions asking what went wrong and being rewarded with nothing more than an insouciant shrug. Was he bored of her? Them? The sex?
Had she given up the candy shop too soon? No, she remembered countering, they had waited a respectable amount of time. And, besides, it had been his idea. And, besides-besides, the sex had been electric. (At least for her?)There was nothing quite like getting fucked by his maleness that was capable of a tactile stretching that subsumed into terrific pleasure… So, what had gone wrong? Was she being too selfish? Were his needs being met?
In a moment of invention, Heather had offered a blowjob, but – to her shock? dismay? confusion? – he had turned it down with a look of shock. (But maybe that had been a small miracle, because, God, how was she ever going to deep
throat him?).Then.
The sex: it was back, but rougher. And he had stopped kissing her; stopped the interludes with his mouth.
But, that sort of constraint was hot, too. And so, she allowed it.
And fucking her hard? That was hot. So, she allowed that, too. Besides, she had started to get into the much-needed habit of taking a fistful of pills before they sexed; it had helped the pain.But, it had gotten to a point where there were days Heather could barely tolerate him, and not even the pills could numb his violence. Certain positions had become forbidden, because he could work himself in too deep. And it was not to a depth that she liked. And yet, others… well, those were for the times when he had wanted to hurt her.
But being rutted by him was abjectly painful, at this juncture, and it was not the sort she liked; sometimes there was gratings of tactile pleasure, and rare were the times she was able to eke out any hollow sense of satisfaction, but years of running and athletics had made her unforgivably tight. (And he was just plain unforgivable). But he knew he could overcome her, overwhelm her, and so all pretense had been fucked away.
And there had been times – scary times – the sex had become something ugly, weaponized, and she had screamed for him to stop.Heather had felt real fear, then. How badly he could hurt her during penetration alone was testament – for her – that he was demon.
And, she had forgiven him that, too, because it had been (secretly) hot.
Then, finally – finally – his mouth had traveled back down to her knees; down, lower, and then moved to her vulva.
And, Heather, distracted by the sheer physicality, had not observed the sudden bestial interest that flickered across his face. But after a few moments of absorbing the sensations he had been giving her, what was not lost to her, made her sit up in alarm: suddenly, it felt like a stranger between her legs.
Their eyes had met in a palpable ripple. And he was as much a stranger then, as he had been on the bridle path, when those three little accursed words had been said.
But who had said it? And the sexual anger emanating from him? Was it because she had said it; or because she had not responded to what had been said?
In the dream, it was as though the confession had been spoken from a ghost’s lips. She could not place the voice.
Heather could hardly remember. But she could hardly afford to forget.
She made an intangible frown. The vision of the dream flickered.
If she had said it first –
If so, that would be her ultimate defeat. The hungry, wild beast knocking at her door would use that power against her forever-more. Because it was when his mouth had been fastened to her pussy, vigorously stroking her clit with a singularity of sensation, pulling a series of gasping, shrieking sounds from her, as she had reached out a hand to push him; him slapping it away; her reaching; him slapping; only to scrape her clitoral flesh
(because his jaw never tired, and why would it with the scores of women he had consumed) — did he try to send her crashing down his throat.
And, Heather remembered, that in a palpable undulation:
her size distorted; her vision knocked upward; her body plunged, as the pill - she had heaved down earlier - suddenly injected into her system, spreading its poisonous kiss — just as his gigantic lips had gaped to invert her into his..x.
Heather woke abruptly, rattled by the dream and interludes of memory. The realization she could remember, vividly, how he had attempted to devour her, that fateful evening, felt ominous somehow.
Worse: where was she?
Author’s’ Note:
Who said it first? (if you’ve been following along, you should be able to figure it out )
A brief, necessary interlude, before we get into the size-play.