Swallow Me, Like Your Little Pill (Slow burn | Intimate| Dark | Size-kink | Erotic Vore)
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Chapter 9
Cache
Heather
I never want to be that small again.
Heather stared at the ceiling for what felt like a biblical age. Time itself felt curiously elastic, as though their interaction had stretched across multiple lifetimes. It felt impossible for all of that to happen, as it did, in one night. Could all of that happen in one night? Had it? It felt like an eon had ebbed between them. How had she been able to get so far - so far - outwitting, outlasting, outsexing him - for decades it seemed - only to contract down to Thumbelina and ride the pendulum back to the beginning?
It’s like I’ve gotten absolutely nowhere.
Tears pricked her eyes.
And now I’m stuck.
These were shackles that were of the worst kind because they were shackles of the mind.
And at this point it was almost laughable. Would Heather be able to escape to her apartment? Could she? How could she ever hope to out-run, out-last, out-wit the membrane cross-thatching into this pulsing organism between them: this organism of their mutual secrecy?
Heather looked at her fingers; flexed them. It felt like anatomical dissection trying to break this bond.
It was the bond of predator and prey: something timeless and unspoken when first they locked eyes in the wood.
Raw, uncensored, he had looked at her thus.
It was his moment to harvest; hers to resent.
A moment that would shape his memories: which were hers to keep, hidden, codified, in her breast.
It had felt like everything had unfolded on the head of a pin. She: atop it, twirling, hanging by a cosmic thread, a quantum Ballerina spinning in Pandora’s music box. But instead of musical notes, the pantomime of a man had surged forth.
And this pantomime had pushed her over the edge. It was a feeling she would never forget, being small and dispossessed, drowning in his size.
Heather got onto her hands and knees. I don’t ever wanna be that small again.
But he controls it, her brain whispered, self-aware. He controls you.
And that was the worst of it, wasn’t it? There was nothing she could take from him to protect herself. He was the arrow drawn back against the bow; the weapon. He brandished it, like a dark tendon.
At his whim.
She hated that he held that sort of power over her.
Heather took one step, then two; three - then started a slow, measured walk.
She couldn’t reconcile her thoughts, so she tried to outpace them.
Staying a judicious step before her thoughts had the effect, apparently, of inuring her to her environment, because it wasn’t until she had felt the pellets striking her skin did she realize she had — like a sleep-walker — abscond of the living room and enter the wet room, the shower pelting her back.
She hated that she moved with such ease, that she moved with such knowledge inside his home.
Granted: it was beautiful and well-appointed. It was an open-floor plan divided by planes of glass that sequestered the woods by a thin, condensing breath. The rooms were crowned by lofty ceilings which were bracketed by long wooden cross beams that were fashioned, also, underfoot in warm pines that married to broad, geometric-spiraled staircases. A magnificent grand room abutted the wet room, which was anchored by open-faced fireplaces; one was outfitted with digital flames that rotated through fluorescent colors.
Once upon a time, she had treated his wealth as she did the water from the shower: it rolled from her possession with little thought and little consequence, and, certainly, with little interrogation into its source because it was pleasant and comforting, but not hers to hold.
And, perhaps, that was admittedly the reason he had been -was?- so attracted to her.
Heather was, and would only ever be a goal digger.
Your money don’t impressa me much.
But money did afford certain luxuries, didn’t it?
The remoteness of his home held a different meaning now. Even if she was fortunate enough to find her cell phone, there was no guarantee the signal would be robust enough to chaperone her escape.
Heather meditated on the porcelain tiles of the wet room, watching with a sort of disconnected stupor as the water streamed away from her, toward the perimeter, creating an ankle-high tide that, should she exit the shower stall, serve as a borderless bath.
Once, this had been a source of pleasure for her. Now, it felt vaguely unsettling and perplexing: like being in a stomach or a tomb.
She remembered how she had felt, back then, first walking into his home, which was not unlike the farmer’s daughter entering the king’s castle. But, even then it had been clear that he hadn’t been born with a silver spoon in his mouth (no, he had other things of interest to put in his mouth), nor cosseted by an unwieldy trust fund, so there had been something remarkably relatable about him. And that accessibility had prevented him from becoming woefully unreachable and pretentious. In fact, she had been rather certain, from the context clues she had pieced together: that he had been self-made.
He was a person (the term being used loosely) moving through that nebulous cloud of ‘business’ that had an almost effortless enchantment for making wealth with nothing (suspiciously) descriptive about his conquests other than the ever-rising, ever-upward feel of exploitation through the machine, until he ascended the summit: spidering across several boards, steering committees, and think tanks. He had found his niche in the financial sector, and pincered onto it like a parasite; subsisting off of multiple retainers with enough trailing zeroes to make Heather dizzy.
A sort of savant, Heather vividly remembered him tying-up every conversation with a flippant I have good instinct.
He was a creature that shouldn’t exist making money off of numbers that didn’t exist. These financial systems were meaningful only to digital voyeurs that wanted a carve-out in currencies and contempt; their beliefs were affixed to a scale that existed only because it was determined to exist. And so it must.
This was a nigh-religious tithing. Big, big money exchanging hands just to seek advice from the oracle. Whetting the appetite of their greed.
The monster feeds.
Even the financial markets were part of this banquet. A banquet of which she had somehow (accidentally?) become center piece.
But there was a lot to unpack here, wasn’t there? Heather tried to triage her thoughts, to give them shape and meaning.
So, my ex-boyfriend — boyfriend? — is an evil creature boogey-man-thing that can contract me down to the size of a fucking peanut.
Heather hated saying it out loud, it made her feel like a lunatic.
But, somehow, avoiding overly-stylized words (even in her head) like shrink or shrunk made the concept feel less cartoonish; but the relief was premature because no matter the descriptor used, the calculus of it remained the same:
He shrunk them.
What? (The women).
Why? (To eat them).
He eats them, so they die; they die because he eats them. Fuck.
It was simple math. Simple transitive properties. And she could not undo one fact for the other, because the other twin fact still remained — evil, insidious, and haltingly familiar:
Just like he tried to do to me.
Somehow, saying he eats them felt safe because of how absurd it sounded. But, to get to the heart of it, to peel back the skin of it, to look at the innards of that system —
Heather shuddered. He’s killing them.
And as a sane, moral person, she could not wrap her brain around that fact that he was extinguishing human lives.
Fuck. She had lived with, sexed with, bonded with the instrument that had killed those women. It felt like a separate consideration that didn’t quite belong. It felt like an after-thought. I was with someone that had done terrible things. End of paragraph. Next thought.
What did that say about her?
She had promised herself even then — even when she had not understood the collection of thoughts disjointedly pieced together from her incomplete memory — that they would never (ever) get back together again because of the befouled strangeness he had visited upon her that one fateful evening (that now she understood to be a rite of consumption) — because even then, in her heart of hearts she had known that what he had done — what he had attempted to do — had been ugly, and that ugliness was now magnified because he had done it before: to others.
Which meant she was now lumped in with those faceless others.
And Heather did not relish the thought of it, because if she was the prey, and he the predator, then that meant there was a design to this system: a, dare she say it, ecosystem.
Which was all together infuriating because that suggested his existence was intentional in spite of - or because of - a so-called loving God. He had been no terrible accident to surge forth from primordial muck –
(or had he?)
And worse: she hated assigning liturgical meaning to his existence because then there existed the possibility – no matter how small – that he was the product of a compound sentence cast down from the stoic shadows of biblical lore.
Stymied, Heather padded out of the wet room, slid into a cotton robe, and shuffled deeper.
She navigated back to the living room, folded down onto the couch, and cast a calculable glance at the coffee table. It felt impossible, like some kind of temporal unmooring was happening. She couldn’t believe that she had been trapped on that table, just the other night, scarcely three inches tall with nothing but her moxie to shield her.
Other night?
Heather had first assigned the meaning of the diminishing light to be that of approaching dusk, but now, she was acutely aware that it was, in fact, dawn — of the next day. Which meant in the time intervening she had lived through almost one entire calendar square on the wall.
Which meant she had survived an entire day, an entire rise-and-fall of the sun, and, somehow, despite this — or because of it — she had slept the entire time (emerging unscathed), yet still felt bone tired.
But if Heather thought she could not drift she was certainly wrong. Outside: the dusk expanded into the soft, mellow light of midday. Inside: half an hour, two hours at a time she would slip off into a light sleep only to be awoken again with a start. But she would bed down again on the couch, grabbing the afghan, like this, several more times, until daytime finally sunk into night.
Heather woke.
The seconds ticked by; her eyelids clicked audibly in the dark. It was disorienting to wake into the nighttime.
But the rest of the night dawdled on, uneventful save for the sudden nausea that clutched her.
It took a moment to assign meaning to it, but when Heather shifted her weight, she understood it thus.
I need my pills.
She was not sure by which metric she had finally determined her surroundings to be safe – but it seemed to have been a fair one — because when she had carefully, oh-so carefully, whisked herself free from the afghan, nothing had troubled her.
So on silent cat-feet she went.
It felt wildly inappropriate to move so freely through his home. Even when they had been dating there had always been a crinkle of awkwardness whenever she moved freely through it; but now, now it felt like a spiteful joust.
Which is why she could barely smother her glee as she moved ghostly through the walls.
The master bathroom loomed. It pulled her.
It was far from the living room proper, rather perfectly tucked out of sight: the perfect place for him to hide her pills. It was the last place she’d look; obvious, but not.
First, Heather tried her old spot in the toilet, behind the flush mechanics – but they weren’t there. Rolling her sleeve down, she checked under the floating sink; between the Roman shower panels; behind the diffusive shower head.
Nothing.
Heather rotated around and she was struck by the mirror. Fascinated, she looked at her reflection. Her black hair was a bit tangled, and there was a flush pricking her cheeks, but otherwise she looked as hauntingly familiar as her surroundings. And the most terrifically frightening thing about this - about all of this — she realized - was that there had been no evidence left behind: that he had shrunk her.
He had been a silent predator. Not even his fingerprints had left marks on her. And had he successfully consumed her, there would have been no evidence of that either; she’d have slipped into him with nothing but a whimper.
Stop it. Stop the bad thoughts.
Heather reached out to touch her reflection in a surreal attempt to scold herself.
But the mirror clicked and came forward.
“The fuck?”
It was a cabinet, but it didn’t look like one: the vanity was seamless and streamlined, illuminated by digital LED strips that spangled bright light across the marble counter top. And opening it had sluiced forward a waterfall of brilliance.
Momentarily dazzled Heather froze, then re-animated. She peered inside.
Oh yeah my pills will be in here. Nice try, Danny.
Feeling fiendishly clever – she reached.
Well. There were certainly bottles in there. And they certainly resembled those for pills. But there were too many of them and none of them were like hers.
She studied them for a long moment, feeling a sort of paralysis.
Why did a man-monster, with a fetishistic impulse for small women, need a stockade of pill bottles? (A stockade that was hiding behind a recessed cabinet and a false wall? ) Wait, maybe this is what he takes? It’s some sort of experimental drug? Does he feed it to his victims like a date-rape thing?
(Far be it for her to doubt his pronouncements that he had black magic. He had a terrible habit of contorting the truth. See, she was a clever girl, she was learning).
Heather looked at the orange bottle menagerie with new eyes. Is this how you get your hocus pocus?
It felt leering. The cache was hidden; but not. It was an advertisement; but not. Heather felt her theory solidify. This must be it.
But she wavered.
This feels too much like Chekhov’s rifle.
Defeated, she turned away — but not before grabbing a bottle and placing it neatly inside the robe.
Plot twist: grabbing Chekhov’s rifle.
She gave the pocket a proud little pat. If he had gone through such trouble to hide it, then it had value. Value she would ascertain later.
Heather retreated to the living room. She gazed out the picture window; the moon gazed back. Under it: the woods were canopied in thick, breathing shadows. She twisted her fingers together, her brain slowly ticking like a still-animation book, each frame flickering through the possibilities.
Skilled as she was, even she would have trouble running non-stop to the nearest town.
Unless,
Heather studied the door to the walk-in pantry.
Resolved, she eased it open, and stepped inside.
To the fore: a climate-controlled wine cellar airbrushed by platinums and silvers; to the sides: a litany of labels and sensuous bottles stacked like lovely little ladies, all neat in a honey-comb row. To the back: a sequestered room full of stocked shelves.
There was something disquieting about seeing a cache of alcohol in a man-beast’s lair.
But to it she went, her fingers running over the tempered glass.
Being in the presence of this alcohol cache churned so many embittered thoughts to the surface. Namely, if this need of his to consume women was not actually a requirement, and instead, a voluntary practice… Then everything flowing from that was made uglier. Uglier, because it was a choice. A selfish, demonic choice. Otherwise these bottles were very stately, very expensive prop pieces.
And here I am, entering stage-left.
Heather ticked her nails against the glass. It was a damning proposition wasn’t it? If this was a voluntary practice, then it meant he could control it, which was in of itself problematic because it meant he had chosen not to. However, if instead, this was a biological imperative — and Heather felt so proud of herself for mentally producing that word — then, perhaps, she could forgive him the sin; but, then, that ushered in a whole new host of problems because it meant she would be pushing up against a pounding, irreconcilable animal instinct.
Blend of varietals.
Heather traced her finger around the cursive script of the label. It was a blend, wasn’t it? Yes: that felt right. How else had he exercised such control during their courtship?
But, fuck. She banged her fist against the wine vault. That meant he had turned on her. But, why?
Feeling cranky, she turned away from the menagerie of glass bottles.
And the ground, underfoot, spun.
Heather buckled. But she grabbed the wire-rack before impacting with the ground, but in so doing, something impacted with her.
Smarting, she rubbed the back of her head; the foreign object clattered to the floor; she reached and her fingers closed around a familiar shape that sent a spike of excitement through her.
My phone!
She stabbed the screen; it lit up. The battery meter winked in the corner.
Clattering her fingernails over the screen — one lurching behind the phone case to tap the biometric lock — the display sprung to life.
Hundreds, if not thousands, of text messages windowed onto the screen. Normally she would have harvested them with adolescent glee, but tonight her goal was not social media adulation, no - she had more pressing matters to attend to —
her pointer hovered over the Uber icon; she clicked.
There was signal. Weak, but there.
Heather felt her lips part in wordless wonderment. She had signal. Dear God in heaven, she had signal.
She made the arrangements for a driver. The system proceeded and funneled her to the confirmation screen.
Declined.
Heather stared numbly at her phone.
She tried again.
Declined.
She thumbed up the notification: card declined.
Fuck!
She clacked the phone against her forehead. Think, Heather, think. Jesus, just think. Panic later.
Her eyes moved. She surveilled the pantry. I guess I’m hoofin’ it.
Her feet re-traced the steps her eyes had taken. To and fro, to and fro, hickory dickory dock, she went, the mouse running up and down the face of the clock, desperately moving, desperately scuttling against the invisible pounding of time. Like this, she made several trips from the pantry, out to the tree line, and back, her ill-gotten goods tucked under her arm. She had found a suitable hollow in a tree trunk and had begun creating a cache.
I need to store enough for a few day’s travel.
But she knew she had to move delicately. Not only did she have the disquieting sense that she was creating nigh-tangible vibrations along an invisible trip-wire; but also, she had the arduous task of oh-so carefully pinching things here and there without becoming so unnecessarily gratuitous that the theft became obvious.
Much like the pill dispensary back home, she’d have to steal one or two things at a time, depleting the inventory surreptitiously.
Heather returned, once again, from the outdoors, and stood quietly to assess her damage. She had been able to manipulate what was left on the shelves. A twist here; a turn there to camouflage the absence of things with other things. However, she realized, if she whittled away at the pantry any further her ploy would become obvious; she knew this, and sighed deeply.
This could not be done in one night. She would have to be patient, but she felt like jumping out of her damn skin. How much time did she have left? Hickory dickory dock. She could feel the atmosphere thinning around her; time slowly desiccating.
Heather angrily rebuffed the Uber app, swiping it away. In its place, she pulled up the screen lock, intending to retire her phone for the evening.
And she would have conserved the battery on the phone,
If it were not for a very peculiar notification that suddenly lolled across her screen. It pulled at her eyes not because of the content of it, but because of the purported name of the sender, which was couched in the corner: the evidence of it drew a gasp from her throat —
as she peeled open the email. It had to be a cruel practical joke; it had to.
It wasn’t.
Heather laugh-sobbed.
You’re alive.
Elation. She winnowed through the notifications and pulled up the email. This was good. This was so good. This was incredible. Her Joey, Her Joseph, her bespectacled saint, her canonized white knight was alive.
Drunk on relief, dizzy with purpose, she looked around at her surroundings. The scheme she was hatching for her escape plan no longer felt infantile. She had a plan, she had a safe harbor waiting for her at the end of this labyrinth.
And all she would have to do was survive. All she would have to do was stay out of the minotaur’s jaws —
Heather held her head in silent prayer. Don’t go tiny. And stay out of…of his body. If I can do that, if I can pull that off, I’ll be all right.
But if he gets you, if he shrinks you, her brain said sneeringly, it’s game over.
Renewed by purpose, she crafted her text message. She didn’t even care to weigh the wisdom of it; it felt like this was her next act. It felt like this was the next level of descent. Deceit? Was she to distract; disorient; appease the beast? She knew the ploy: look over therethere while I do stuff over herehere, so I can I rob you blind.
But this required his cooperation.
She knew it was the digital equivalent of poking a bear (and it was similarly impossible to predict the outcome).
But it had to be done.
Heather: We need to set ground rules.
And instead of waiting for the recipient to respond, Heather toggled back to Joseph’s email.
She shot off:Hi. I'm so glad you're ok. I'm ok, too, I think. I'll be out of this mess soon. I'll go to you, ok? please wait up. I'll go to you.
Please, her brain added, at the end of the sentence. Please -
And a notification tone shattered the quiet. Heather jumped.
It was a text message.
Danny: New phone who dis?
There was a moment of disorientation.
Seeing it, seeing his name, felt so comically strange. It did things to her. Least of all, it sent her down a most-unwelcome rabbit hole. When first he had forced himself back into her life, just as he so-markedly did when augmenting his name to her contacts, she had thought it to be a gesture of mockery, a feint; not an overture at something more enduring. It had never occurred to her, at the time, that the pedestrian act of reinserting his name had symbolized something more.
Had he never actually intended to harm her? Just as he had so-widely and laterally suggested to her during their cat-and-mouse game? Is this why he answered her thus?
Fuck, no. Heather said to herself, caustically. Don’t fall for that.
Heather’s eyes traced the letters of his name and read the text of his response. That was so like him, responding like a side-winding snake: indirect but not devoid of threat. He was, she realized, simultaneously acknowledging that she had reclaimed her phone, yet also cavalierly deflecting her perfectly reasonable request.
Heather felt a pang of envy, so-wishing she had that level of talent. But, now, she had his attention. She had him. She knew him enough to know that he wasn’t rejecting her idea; not entirely.
Distract him. That was the name of the game. Heather knew to keep his eyes, his ears, and his mental keenness away from the pantry.
Heather: Gasp! You actually answered?!
Danny: Obviously.
Heather: I mean, I thought for sure you'd go ghost on me.
Danny: Why?
She could sense his genuine prickle of curiosity.
Heather: Because it's another way to torture me.
Danny: I've got much better ways to torture you. Trust me.
Heather grimaced, but she refused to be intimidated by his jab.
Heather: I mean it. We need to set some ground rules.
A pause, then:
Danny: I don't disagree.
Heather was shooketh. She had not been expecting this.
It was back-handed agreement. His response did not quite dispel her concerns, but, it did not enflame them either. He did not agree so much as not disagree. That was so on-brand for him, always twisting words.
Don’t fall into that trap, Heather’s brain cautioned. She could sense, she could feel, he was trying to carve out a resemblance between them, he was trying lure her into complacency.
Danny: Stay put. We'll talk it out.
Heather crumpled. I’m so not ready. I’m so not fucking ready for another encounter. I just…
For one wild, gripping moment she entertained the thought of sleeping in the hollow, in the woods, like a wild animal. But a thought came to her, unbidden, and it was that of the green-eyed wolf loping through the wood, scenting the hollow, and lapping her into his jaws like Thumbelina.
Heather grabbed her cell phone. She navigated to her email.
The battery meter blinked at her once, twice; the screen went dark.
She plunged into darkness.
And there was a procession of sounds that moved slowly, as though through water.To her they advanced:
the low thrum of a car engine; the lift, and close, of a garage door; the wet glide of tires; the muffled opening and closing of an entrance, and then, muted, purposeful footfall.
Carefully: Heather extricated herself from the darkness. Carefully: Heather moved to the light switch. Carefully: Heather turned, her fingertips squeaking against the wine bottle as she did so; but her body in motion had not been able to complete its rotation because,
the pantry door sprang open. -
Author’s Note:
This chapter includes verbal abuse, threat; fear play, and intimidation.
This is a foreshadow for the size-kink, and vore, you can expect to see in this story.
This is the darker, un-cuddly side. Power struggles, psychological torment, male dominance run rampant within. This may be a trigger for some people. Exercise discretion.Chapter 10
Wordplay
Heather
Simultaneously:
Heather’s fingers spasmed in fear, sending the wine bottle spinning off the wire rack. It hit the floor.
Exploding.
Plot twist to the plot twist. Chekhov’s rifle goes off.
Heather froze. She looked down at the deep red stain on the floor; it looked like blood. It looked like her mistake: hemorrhaging.
She tried to project calm. She tried to project normal.
She tried to stand perfectly still as though she could purge the taint of what had just happened.
But she felt remiss and heard herself croaking out:
“I’m sorry. I just… I… I wanted some alcohol. You know. To calm the nerves.”
“You were always a klutz,” he muttered.
She couldn’t look at him; she felt rather than saw him across from her. Between the fringe of her lashes she could see his shape: he filled the entrance, he filled the room, he filled it - he filled her - he filled them; completely.
He felt gigantic in presence.
But for all his gigantism, he made a small, annoyed sound. “I’ll take care of it.” He waved at her dismissively.
Heather broke free of her trance and scampered hickory dickory dock back to the living room.
Beatifically: she sat on the couch. Beatifically: she folded her hands. But she scarcely had time to enjoy her respite when a champagne flute materialized before her with a crisp chink.
The wine looked like blood in suspension. Her mistake: congealed.
Fuck.
“For the lady,” he remarked dryly.He retired across from her, the table interposed between them.
Heather studied him. He looked like a devil in the study: his head tilted, his fingers at his temple, his eyes - at regular intervals - gleaming like an animal’s in the glare of twilight.
Heather touched the pill bottle through her cotton robe. She could feel the weight of it; she could feel the weight of him. And suddenly she felt absurd. How stupid was she to think that the piddly little pill bottle in her fleece robe was the fount of his power?
All of him, every inch, was unnerving. Every shape, every line, even the insouciant lounge of his body was preternatural. This was not a man, this was a sensation bearing a man, an embodiment of primal inertia: something loosely coiled, gliding through their encounter.
She could feel him, the magnetism of him.
And there was, she realized suddenly, a coffee cup in front of him.
It was so wildly, outrageously out of place that Heather blurted: “Coffee?!” She repeated: “Coffee?!” Then, with more color: “You drink fucking coffee?!”Danny stirred it meditatively. “Ask what you really wanna ask, Heather.”
Heather’s throat knotted up with so much stuff, so much bursting stuff that she could only choke out: "You — " and, taking a deep breath: “You drink coffee.” And there was a poignant tragedy in her voice as her brain backpedaled through a litany of memories. “I-I don’t… I don’t understand.”
“How dare I drink the coffee,” he remarked.But, she knew - and he knew that she knew - that he understood, and that his stab at obtuseness had been a put-on.
“Yes! How dare you!” She lowed. “All this time… I-I never even gave it a second thought because, hey, why should I, right? But now, now when I think about it - really think about it.” She trailed off, shaking her head. “Do you even taste it? Can you? I-I can’t even, I can’t even think about h-how ass backwards this all is. You gobble up women like some kind of boogeyman, but yet, here you are, chugging down cheap-ass burnt coffee.”For the moment, there was only a still, expansive silence to settle across them; the wooden stirrer whisking woodenly. It felt, unnervingly, like the metronome of his thoughts.
But then he spoke:
“What you want to know, what you’re really trying to say, what you’re gettin’ up the nerve to ask, is: what do you taste like.”
Heather clapped shut, but he continued: "And, by extension: what do the others taste like. Do they taste like you? Which is just the building blocks to the all-important grand finale, which is - is there a difference between all’a you?”He leaned back, cupped the coffee, and took a gratuitous swallow. The movement of his Adam’s apple pulled, incipiently, on her.
That could have been me. Heather thought as she watched his throat undulate. She was half terrified, half mesmerized.
“Maybe,” she said in a small, childish voice.
“Cuz what you’re really asking, what you’re really angling at, but don’t have the balls to say, is askin’ if there’s any human left in there - any at all. Wonderin’ if there’s anything floating around in there that’s redeemable. The part that likes coffee.”
“Maybe,” she repeated in a smaller voice.“You’re not ready for that conversation,” he responded flatly.
“Fuck you,” she croaked. “Telling me what I’m ready for when I - I survived.” She thumped her thumb into her chest. “I fucking survived. I survived you. I… I’ve earned more than that, more than what you’re giving me. I’ve earned some sort of fucking honesty from you. Y-you nearly snorted me up your fucking nose for chrissake.”He could barely contain his amusement. He shot her an arch look. “Like cocaine?” He returned the cup to the table and resumed swirling the wooden stirrer.
“Speaking of cocaine,” she returned archly, "What you do… what you’ve done: it’s an addiction. Isn’t it. "
The whisking of the wooden stirrer stopped.
“The coffee isn’t for me.” He remarked evenly.And for a fraction of a second she was bewildered by his deflection; but, then, she understood. “Hunger suppressant?” Heather felt disembodied when she asked this, as though they were talking about someone else and that someone else’s appetite would latch onto that of someone else.
“You have no idea,” he murmured.“That explains why you leave a trail of coffee cups wherever you go.”
“Speaking of,” he pronounced crisply. “What happened here? I mean, while I 'preciate the gesture, it’s not my color, I don’t think.”
He twisted the coffee cup around until the lipstick marks were visible.Heather’s heart jumped. She couldn’t believe what she was seeing. It made manifest the two realities. It was the suture holding together the two evenings that had — in succession — seen her normal; then seen her small. The impetus for all of this felt like the coffee cup: the one she had pockmarked with her lips.
“I…” she started hesitantly. “It happened when I broke into the warehouse —”
— “Obviously.”
— "I had seen it and… and… "
Heather squirmed at the thought of having to confess. It made her feel silly, it made her feel stupid; and worse: she knew that to extrapolate her reasoning, she’d have to center their conversation on his mouth, and focus them there: together. It felt dangerous.
“I wanted t-to… put in my mouth, something that h-had been… in yours.”He started.
“Why?”
“To-… I don’t know. It’s silly. But at the time… I was thinking to myself… that… maybe if I did that, if I put something in my mouth that had been in yours, I’d… understand you better…or something. And I left the lipstick on there cuz… you gotta let a motherfucker know, y’know? Heather was here.”A million - a million and one - expressions went across his face; then, it settled into something arch. “I had no idea you were that interested in my mouth, Heather.”
I’m not. Her brain shot back. I swear to fucking God, I’m not.
To protect her innocence she pushed back: “I’m not dumb, Danny. I know that this is more than just an incident of 'open slot: insert.’ This is… this is way more involved than that.”
His neck jerked.Undeterred, Heather continued: "Is that why you do what you do? Is your hunger normal? It’s kinda coming together now, with the coffee and everything. Are you some kinda hypervore? Or, is what you f-feel… is it what normal people feel? Is it a craving? Or - or is it a way to get… to-to you know, get, like, a high. Or a hit. Or a rush. Or are you just… feeding? Or… both? "
There was a twitch: faint, right along his upper lip. "Hypervore? Please. I’m all ears.”
But, Heather knew him enough to know – feeling the tone of his voice settle across her – that this was not the time to patronize him.So, she changed tact. “I’m sorry,” she breathed. “I’m sorry for both of us. I’m sorry for our addictions. I’m sorry for-for… everything. It’s not easy,” she said, with great, exhausted wisdom. “It’s definitely not easy. I thought I had it bad. At least my addiction isn’t tied up in some sorta biological imperative.” (He shot her a look of genuine surprise). “Is-is it a choice? What you do?”
“Yes, and no,” he remarked.
“Well?” Heather urged, leaning forward, willing a response.
“Well what?”Heather threw her hands up. "Oh for fuckssake, Danny. Just be fucking real with me. I got this far. I survived this long. I survived you -
“Oh, baby girl,” he crooned, cutting across her: “Cut that wokist shit. Goin’ on over there like you’re some sort of survivor. You didn’t survive shit. There’s nothing you’ve said that I haven’t thought about myself at some point. You didn’t survive. No; I let you live.”“Did you decide that before or after you jumped me?!”
He crossed his arms.
“Exactly,” she hissed. “And this is why we’re here, this is why we’re in this fucking mess. I’ve said it once, I’ve said it twice, and I’m gonna say it again. Can you control it.”
After a beat: “Sometimes.”
“Sometimes what. Sometimes yes? Sometimes no? Sometimes maybe?”He assailed her with a long, meaningful look. His voice, although flat, held a personal menace that could still wound: “If I feel like it.”
Heather jerked away; she turned away. It was like a slap. In fact, she would have preferred that, welcomed it even. It would have been the type of abuse she could understand.“So,” she said finally: “You meant” — she licked her lips as a wave of sadness tumbled through her " — you meant to do what you did."
“Maybe.”
“It wasn’t a mistake,” she said hoarsely.
“Maybe not.”
“Oh god,” she mewled. She ran her hands down her arms, hugging herself. “It-it finally makes sense. It…” she choked down a sob. “It… gosh, it sounds right. It finally…” she nodded numbly, “Of course… I-I think I knew. I think I always knew. I just… I mean, how does that happen accidentally.”“It doesn’t,” He remarked tonelessly.
Heather shook her head yes. She shook it once, twice, again; again, until it became a convulsion. “…right. Of course. I mean,” she laugh-sobbed. “It’s really fucking hard to accidentally eat someone.”
That twitch again: right across his upper lip.
It turns him on when I talk like this.“So,” she said faintly, desperate to fill the void of silence: “We’re all different, aren’t we? All of-of us?” It felt bizarre, saying us as though she was part and parcel of some sort of bred livestock. “You,” and suddenly she understood, the way only one laboring under active addition could: “You crave it. All of it. Me - us - them - all the-the girls that you’ve… you’ve taken care of.”
Killed. Her brain corrected.“And me?” She blurted.
“What about you?”
“Y-you crave me?”
He barked a laugh. “Heather,” he started.
“No, really. I… I want to know. I want to know how deep this goes. How bad this is. If it… if it wasn’t a mistake, then that must mean that I’m like… I’m like a fucking pill to you.”
A long, expressive silence. Then:
“Maybe,” he breathed.Heather felt his words; she felt the arousal. “I must taste crazy good.”
“And crazy mouthfeel.”
Heather assailed him with an alarmed look. “What?” She hadn’t expected him to reply.
“You feel good.”
“You can f-feel me?”
“I feel you. And I feel you. I feel you: your body. Your skin,” his voice had lingered over the s with the sibilance of a snake. “I feel you: moving.” His voice dropped low, and there was a pause as Heather sensed him greatly savoring the moment, savoring the potentiated energy in the room, savoring her discomfort, then shattering it with a simple enervating: “I feel you: in me.”Heather was nullified. It had never occurred to her that he could extract tactile pleasure from her - or from the others- when they had touched his insides. And he liked it.
Suddenly, the vast conspiracy she had been sharing with her thoughts, of him masturbating his insides against her, no longer felt like an intellectual stretch.
Heather felt reasoning alight upon her. “You feel things differently, don’t you…"
“I’m one large exposed fucking nerve ending. End to end.”End to end.
Heather flinched. How had he encoded her struggles? As brief as they had been? When she had tossed, when she had turned: had that all caressed his mouth? Did it create a quality of pleasure she couldn’t understand? What was her mouthfeel? Was she creamy and decadent, or smooth and firm? Did she want to know? When she slid over his devil tongue, was that sending a shudder of pleasure through him? (Suddenly, she didn’t want to know).
Heather felt herself sinking. “And you taste things differently…”
She blurted: “do - do we all … have that effect? Do we all… feel the same? taste the same?”
Shit. He was right.
“I think you know the answer to that.”She played with her fingers. “I think I do.”
Heather nodded faintly, as though from far away, as though she had taken leave of her body. “That’s why you crave me… us… them… it. It’s new every time you do it. It’s exciting each and every single time you do it. And some, y’know, stand out from the rest. Some are special.”
He shifted his weight.God, he’s so turned on. But if she was honest with herself, perfectly honest, she was enjoying this, too. She was enjoying the power over him to make him squirm.
“So, tell me if I’m getting this right, if I’m getting closer. You accidentally shrunk me, you accidentally jammed me in your mouth, you accidentally ate me — or tried to — because I’m perfectly normal and undesirable, and unremarkable.”
“You’re getting warmer.”“But, why? Why did you d-do that to me?”
“You don’t want to know,” he said simply.
“But I do. I want to know why you turned on me. Why… you - you did what you did. Because: what you did hurt me, Danny. It hurt me in ways I can’t even understand yet. I can’t hold down a job. I can’t make friends. I can’t…” her voice broke. “You reached through time, Danny. You ruined my future. I don’t have a life direction because of what you did. How someone that loved me could try and murder me. And this - this is why I’m here. Be-because I need to understand it. All of it. I’d rather be with the devil I know, than the one I don’t. But I need to know; I need to understand what I signed up for.”Heather didn’t dare weigh her words, she didn’t dare analyze what she had just said. Had she already abandoned the cache in the woods? Was she already being drawn back into his world? But this time: different?
Heather watched him study the coffee cup, the way the light hit his face. But he seemed to relent; he seemed to give. “I couldn’t give you what you wanted.”
Heather looked at him, stunned. “What?”
“I couldn’t commit. Not in the way you wanted. Not after what happened.”"Don’t! Don’t you dare! Don’t you dare put this on me! Don’t -
And the elegant inelegance of what he said next stopped her, because her more base animal mind understood it as it was said.
“We had an expiration date.”Heather shook her head sadly.
“I couldn’t have you,” he said breathily, “Not the way I wanted. Not the way I needed.”
“Like what?” She strained.
And after a long moment of, seemingly, feeling herself stutter, feeling herself fall, feeling herself reduce down to a single concentrated nerve as she heard him invert her words, bending them back against her:
“Like a pill.”In the literal sense, her brain buzzed. He means it in the literal sense. I was his addiction. He wanted to palm me, and dry-swallow me.
Heather couldn’t stop herself: “But why?”
“If I couldn’t have you,” he responded thickly: “Then nobody would.”
Heather took a big, deep breath. “Th-that’s psycho, Danny.” She felt herself crawl backwards, instinctively, away from the threat. “You have to hear that. You have to hear yourself. Even you have to hear how fucking serial killer that sounds. And that’s… crazy. That’s so fucking crazy I can’t even. And I promised myself I would never get involved in that kind of crazy.” She shook her head. “But that’s how you wanted to send me off? That’s how you decided to end things with me?!”He shifted his weight back.
His voice was lower; it was like honey over knives. “Why not?” He gave her a slow, interested look. He leaned forward; it was the only kinetic movement of that evening beyond that of stirring the coffee and Heather flinched. “Why not take it to the limit? I mean, you’re so fucking normal, undesirable, and unremarkable that I might as well try to go to the extreme I had always - always - fucking wanted. The kind of extreme I couldn’t act on when we were an item cuz it would have absolutely fucking mutilated you. Right?!”
Heather froze.“That’s why you think you’re cute,” he sneered. “You think you’ve figured this all out. You think you can sit there and fifty shades your way out of this.”
“Fifty what,” she blurted. (And she knew not what was worse: that that was the subject matter she landed on, or, that he had confessed to a latent, ever-growing desire to mutilate her). “You read Fifty fucking Shades?”
Heather smothered her face; she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “Y-you read mommy porn? You read bored housewife Karen can I speak to the manager porn?”
Grappling to regain control of the conversation (and not without trying to suppress a laugh): “To become an educated hater, dammit.”Heather seized the moment: “Look at us. We’re actually cracking jokes. We’re getting along. Work with me here. There has to be boundaries for something like this, Danny, there has to be.”
“No,” he snarled. And they both looked surprised at his response. “There isn’t. There isn’t any fucking ground rules to this.”“There has to,” she strained. "This is… really, really extreme. It’s fatalistic. And it’s bizarre, and —
“No. There’s nothing bizarre about any of this. It’s the most normal fucking thing on the planet.”
“Eating me?!” She shrieked. "There is nothing normal about —
“It’s been happening for thousands and thousands of years. Predator eating prey, sweetheart. It’s the most normal thing. It’s the most normal thing ever.”“Not your version,” she shot back.
“Why not?” He replied, challengingly.
“Be-because…” Heather went blank. “Fuck. You know why. It - it… I mean come on you’re murdering people.”
“That kinda tends to happen when you devour them,” he said perfectly calm, perfectly reasonable.
“No shit sherlock!” She flung a pillow at him; he ducked.
“But-but it’s cruel… it’s evil… it’s… really, really bad, Danny. It… you’re torturing people.”
He licked his lips; it was not a gesture of nervousness. “Oh, I know. Trust me,” he looked at her sidelong. “I know.”With sudden, jolting cognition: "You –
“Enjoy it?” He finished for her.
Heather closed her eyes. This was a dimension of the practice they hadn’t talked about before, had not dared invoke, and now it was rearing its ugly head. Her heart started pounding. "I could maybe – maybe – understand if you ate them quickly, humanely; but you - you enjoy the process, you actually enjoy hurting them —
He laughed. “Humanely? Humanely? Oh, hunny, there’s nothing fucking humane about any of this. It’s not supposed to be,” he sneered. “Get those images of vampires and werewolves out of your head. This isn’t about love-bites or neck-rubs; this is the real world, now. This isn’t a game. You know what your problem is? You make a romance out of all’a this. But, I got news for you, sweetheart: there is nothing romantic about being devoured fucking alive.” He eyes glittered at her. “Unless, I decide otherwise.”“That’s torture,” she strained in a small, childish voice. “You’re torturing people; women. You’re making their last moments an absolute living hell.”
“Well fed demons are better behaved than famished saints, kitten.”
It was the first time kitten felt less like an endearment, and more like a species taxonomy. And she was suddenly aware of this, feeling his eyes prick her; feeling like a woodland animal.Her instinct shined at her, warned her not to lapse into silence, or small movements. Her instinct told her to talk; to keep talking, talk more; keep him conversationally engaged – because they had crossed a threshold that they could not uncross. And that it should not be done in reflective silence.
“Are you really that? Are you really a demon?”
“I ain’t exactly human, Heather.”
“H-how so?” She asked.
“You’re not human when you can master what I have mastered. And I’ve been around for more than a minute.”There’s age, she realized. There’s great age here.
“But… that doesn’t make you a demon, does it?”He made a long, languid movement: a shrug. “Then, well, make me the God of gluttony.”
Heather stared at him in disbelief. "So… shrinking people. You have the magic to do that; the gift —
“Women,” he corrected nastily. “I only shrink and eat women.”
“Why,” she exhaled frustratingly. "Why do you always have to remind me of that —
“Oh, it’s important that you’re reminded, Heather. I think it’s very fucking important.”“What do you want,” she hissed between her teeth.
“To have you, kitten. To have you real fucking deep.”
Her brain jolted as she tried to understand the spatial contours of that comment. Her tongue creaked. Her mouth slacked open. Incapable of producing sensible sounds from it, she occupied it with a thick, nervous swallow of wine. Clutched by an infantile instinct, she hoped to hide behind the curved rim of the glass like a toddler learning object permanence and drank down half of it.
There was a flicker of interest across his face. He looked sidelong at her.
And in a sudden, staggering jolt of clarity: “Danny,” she entreated.He looked at her.
“Wh-… what did you put in my drink.”
“You see,” he said in a low, intimate voice. “Mirroring. Something about it is just hardwired in you humans. I offer the drink to be polite; you accept it to be polite. I don’t talk about it, acknowledge it, eventually you’re just gonna absorb the knowledge of it. The trick is to just not talk about it. If you’re overly pushy it’s too obvious. I drink all night long. You don’t. You feel out of sorts. Eventually, if I play my cards right, you’re gonna get lulled into drinking something, too.”
“You fucking Dahmer’d me?!” She shrieked.What," he responded cavalierly, “You mean I drugged you so that I can kill you, fuck you, and eat you? Dude had it all backwards.” He tilted his head in a refreshingly familiar, but feral gesture. “What’s the point of eating something dead?”
Heather stared at him; lost.
“Tell me about those ground rules, again,” he mocked.
“You’re just trying to scare me,” she dry-whispered. “You’re just trying to push me away.” She shook her head. “What’d you put in my drink.”“Relax,” he responded. “It was just a mild sedative.”
“Never,” she lowed, “In the history of telling someone to relax have they EVER fucking relaxed. WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU PUT IN MY DRINK?”
“I don’t need to drug you to do what I want with you. I just wanted something to take your edge off.”
“I don’t want to be drugged?!”
“Not like you’ve ever had a problem with that,” he remarked snidely.“Fuck you! Not like this! Not like this ! This — this is what I meant by ground rules. No fucking ancillaries! No pills! No drugs! No date-rape shit. No… oh god my head,” she groaned. “This isn’t how you get consent from me,” she growled. “It’s supposed to be organic; you don’t fucking manufacture it.”
“I told you,” he said coldly. “I don’t need your consent.”“Earn it,” she shrieked.
“I said I would. And I will. And I meant it — at the time,” he amended, but after a clever second. “But, fuck it, Heather baby, I’m impatient. So, I thought: let’s get things goin’ a little bit faster. Let’s get you nice and relaxed so we can try a few things.”
“Like what,” she shot back.
“Taste you.”
“You don’t need to fucking drug me to taste me, Danny, why — " Heather looked at him. Her eyes went wide.
" — oh.”“What I want to do; what I have in mind, I need you sedated, Kitten. I can’t have you hurting yourself.”
“Not like that’s ever stopped you,” she said churlishly.
“Touché,” he replied.
But that seemed to have been a cue; he started to move across the room toward her.
Heather whimpered. She shook her head. “I’m not. I can’t,” she strained, holding up a hand in feeble placation.“Relax.”
“Don’t,” she swiped at him; he dodged half-heartedly.
“Fine, don’t relax then. But at least listen,” he blew out a gusty sigh. “You’re not wrong. I hate to say this, but we do need to set some limits.”
She looked at him, exasperated. “Oh sure. Now that you agree, you get to pretend that it was your idea…”
He blew out a frustrated sound. “You’re not getting it. You’re not understanding.”“WHAT THE FUCK IS THERE TO UNDERSTAND?! YOU DRUGGED ME TO EAT ME.”
He rolled his eyes. “There’s levels to this, Heather.”
“Levels?” She repeated, dumbfounded.
“This is new to me, too, doing it like this. We need to go slow.”
“You sure as fuck didn’t go slow last time.”
“Last time was different. Just how this time is different. I don’t want you hurtin’ yourself,” (and after a moment of what Heather would call expressive silence) “… or-or me hurting you in the wrong ways, so I gave you a little something to calm yo’ ass down.”“Hurt myself? You literally want to fucking eat me.”
“Listen,” he snapped. “We’re not going to jump straight into this shit. It takes time. It took me decades to get to this level of skill. To get it all perfect. So now, I have to get this right, I have to perfect this, too.”
“Perfect what?!”Your size," he remarked coyly. “And my technique. We practice until we get,” (and here, Heather watched him as he savored the potentiated energy in the room with the tongue-flick of a snake) the perfect insertion."
“Insertion?” She repeated dumbly. But she knew.
“There’s a lot of holes I want you in,” he murmured.
Heather spat at him. “Like the women you killed?!”“Semantics,” he sneered.
Heather sat with his words; his words sat with her. And, like him, they roused, becoming pack animals: gathering around her, pacing.
“You don’t care. You just don’t… fuck,” she trailed off. “I can’t even shame you into caring. You’re so fucking selfish. And heartless. You’re absolutely heartless.”“I care about you,” he said sharply.
And Heather was unsure whose twin surprise was more in that moment.
She closed her eyes. “Please, don’t,” she grit. “Don’t say ridiculous things like that when you…”
“You’re not gonna go far. Not right away, anyway. We start up high; safe.”
“Up high?” Heather stared at him.“— Me.”
That simple additional syllable was like taking a stick to a hornet’s nest; bashing it open. Like her brain.
Heather’s eyes jerked to him, and understanding him only as a mad woman could, sent her gaze to where his head joined his neck. She froze on his Adam’s apple — and uncontrollably slid her gaze lower, following the contours of his throat. And in his face, absorbing her, he reflected her madness back.
“Yes.”Heather felt the pounding animal, the cryptid in him. It was staring at her with twin pale eyes. The animalistic urge, so tangibly coiled in that guttural response, was already feeding on her.
She couldn’t speak.
So, he did. “No. It doesn’t end there.”
“…alive?” Was all she managed to rasp out.
“You have to ask?”
Off her look: “But don’t worry. I kinda like the novelty of this, this whole new way of doin’ things. Going slow. Going careful. I never had to actually be careful before. When I… negotiate you deeper, we gotta go little by little. Inch by inch.”She mustered a soft, warbling: “Endoscopy. You want to fucking endoscopy me.” She hugged her knees to herself as her memories unraveled, conjuring images of mouths, throats and stomachs reflecting off of endoscope lenses in taut trembling frames over her video library. Like the eponymous device, would she, too, slither into the creaking crevices of his body?
He stared at her: absorbed her.
Heather could feel the moment - the precise moment - he understood.
“… oh fuck.” He passed a hand over his face; his mouth. He turned his head, rapidly. “Fuck, Heather. Fuck.”The conversation was too centered on his body now – stripping away both of their identities to the point that all that remained was the logistical mechanism of her existence being callously pulled into his, that she could not hope to repair the moment. It was gone.
So she did the sane thing, and made it worse: "… how deep.”
His face swiveled to stare at her.
Suiciding herself: “Did I fucking stutter? How deep?”
“My guts.” He snarled.
Heather retched into her hands.“I told you,” he said viciously. “I told you - you weren’t ready for that conversation.”
Heather shot forward; grabbed the glass.
Danny watched.
And in an unbroken, flagrant movement – first lifting the glass in spiteful salutation – she slammed back her head and downed the contents of it.She wiped her red-stained mouth, looking like the she-demon.
“Heather?!” He squawked. "What the fuck! —
“Fuck you,” she said coldly.She drifted backward; he surged forward.
“Heather, what the fuck?!”She smiled blood-stained lips at him; loving how he dissolved into a stuttering of angry, nonsensical sounds.
She dissolved into laughter. “It’s a power move: assert dominance. Feed yourself to the monster before the monster can feed on you. Go ahead, you sick sonofabitch: eat me.”
Danny surged to his knees, clambering to crouch next to her head. “Is that what you want?!”He spoke in a tone she couldn’t quite place – it was wild, unhinged, and sliding all over the octave scale – and if she was honest with herself – perfectly honest – she didn’t want to.
“Go ahead,” she said as she spread her arms drunkenly. And with the mania of someone under heavy intoxication: “Go ahead, you sick fuck, eat me. Do it. I’m nice and drugged for you. Like a lamb to fucking slaughter. Open your bullshit-spewing mouth and slurp me up.”Silence pounded between them.
He looked at her.
She looked at him.
“No.”Heather’s eyes rolled up. They looked at him in near-convulsive spasm. “What?”
“No.”
“EAT ME,” she shrieked, like a ghoul, eyeballs bulging.
“No.”
“Do it. Eat me. Stuff me in your guts. Do it. I don’t care. Eat me. One bite. Do it.” A vein jumped out in her neck. “EAT ME.”“No.”
“EAT ME.”
“I told you” — he leaned in and cupped her cheek — “I’d get your consent.”
She jerked her neck away. "Then, eat me.” Her face pulled taut, like a mask. “Eat me.” She closed her eyes against the feel of his fingers. She felt him. The magnetism of him. The heat of him. It felt like she was already in his bloodstream. “It works with touch. Make me small.”
“Oh I will,” he breathed.He shifted —
Heather froze, trapped in the intimacy of his breath, his closeness —please
— but suddenly absent his heat, her eyes snapped open.And his voice advanced toward her, but it was from further away and she startled at the spatial change. Heather’s head snapped up. His response was attendant on his shadow, which had already melted across the room, receding, but not before tossing a cold and controlled:
“But, not tonight. I don’t do your bidding.”
-
@Olo I’m going to be honest here, that was also my experience with vore. Not with macro micro, but just with vore.
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@TakoAlice8 Yeah, it’s an acquired taste.
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@TakoAlice8 Same, tbh. It creeps across you one day. And you realize, gee, I think I like this.
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We are getting there. I’m 5 months away from finishing my doctorate. Then the floodgates open in a big way, and I can redirect my focus to this story.
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@nephilim Congratulations on your doctorate!! 🫶️
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@SmolChlo Aw thank you !! I love the energy nom nom nom. So, so much.
I wish I had it.
We are almost there. Just 14 weeks left!
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Thank you for indulging me.
My Anthology has been rebooted: https://aryion.com/g4/view/923188
Necessarily, “Little Pill” has been swallowed into it: https://aryion.com/g4/view/926749Because you have expressed a special sentiment, or interest in my writing, I am respectfully informing you that I have shifted my focus back to the Aryion gallery. https://aryion.com/g4/user/nephilim
I am pouring myself into it.
The chapters are gorgeously crafted in PDF, with attendant artwork, and I feel it is best viewed in the Aryion Gallery.
I can crosspost to this forum if there are enough people interested. Especially since it’s so perfectly niche here.
So,
Let me know… I’ll feel out the vibe.Anthology: https://aryion.com/g4/view/923188
Book One: https://aryion.com/g4/view/926749 -
@nephilim I’m sending energy your way! You got this
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Cracking Through Divides
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After some serious (serious) contemplation, I have joined the ranks of Wattpad
According to the research I’ve done, Wattpad gets around 400M views a month. They are the most trafficked, most populated literature website on the internet. EverI want to go all in.
I have always felt that vorarephilia and macrophilia is tragically lacking in women’s fiction. Fiction that is (already) over saturated with vore-adjacent archetypes such as vampires and werewolves. So, my goal is to make vorarephilia and macrophilia more accessible.
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