Swallow Me, Like Your Little Pill (Slow burn | Intimate| Dark | Size-kink | Erotic Vore)
-
Author’s Note:
Graphic, vivid prey perspective. This is a preview for the size-kink you can expect from this story. This is the darker, un-cuddly side of M/F. Power struggles, psychological torment, male dominance may be a trigger for some people. Exercise discretion.
Heather
Heather woke, rattled by the dream and interludes of memory.
She could remember.
And the realization that she could remember the long procession of events that had tumbled free from her mental triage, only for them to relentlessly expand, contract, and telescopically climax into the singular, vivid mental image of the void between his lips: felt ominous, somehow.
Animated by a new feeling, one she did not quite understand, but felt compelled to pursue - and, she knew, it was urgent that she do so - she looked up to discern a focal point. Strangely, she could not find one. Her eyes were unable to focus; it felt like a thin veil had been pulled across them. But, after several long moments, she realized she was staring at something alien but familiar. It was, she realized, a backdrop of orange and red leaves – no — her eyes narrowed and re-focused. She corrected herself. Those were not leaves. Those were flames.
Her eyes widened.
That was the fireplace. Their fireplace. The one endowed with so much memory, so much import, so much meaning from the canon of their relationship that she envisioned it as a proper noun capitalized – was - against all reason (because how did she get here? ) – emitting a stoic warmth – or, at least, she imagined that it was.
Because she could not feel the heat. Feeling curiously insensate, she chalked it up to narcotic numbness. But what she did not have an explanation for was its appearance: it was infinitely wide and infinitely panoramic.
She could make out its details, and understand it for what it was in a scientific, mathematical way. But there was something wrong about it. Something she did not understand.
And that something was sliding across her skin. It was wrong. All of it was wrong. Something was terribly wrong. And she was the thing that was wrong. She knew it; she felt it. All the wrongness flowed from her.
She was the common denominator. The oddity. Everything looked normal. But she was strange. And, she was not entirely convinced it was the narcotics. No; there was something else alien happening.
A burble of hysteria bubbled up in her. Maybe - maybe - it had all been a dream. Maybe, her dark liaison, her moody lover had never turned on her. Maybe, he had never thrown himself at her in a spasm of insanity, and, maybe he had never pulled her into his jaws, into that pulsing, dark void. Maybe none of that had happened; maybe he had never tried to eat her; maybe she had never discovered the alien word endoscopy with its great terrible alien resonance; maybe –
Heather’s brain clattered back against itself. How, then, did she know the word? And, why, then, was it making her feel deeply agitated?
Vexed, she stretched along the hard – what? A hard surface? Of what? Her skin jumped. Was it not in a bed she was reposing? How else did she slumber? How else did she dream?
And, suddenly, she was back to the first thought, the first interrogatory that had sent her down this mental corridor. Where am I?
She took inventory of her surroundings.
The ground beneath her: icy, cold. And the iciness was of a quality that suggested that it had once been wet. And why did the fireplace not penetrate this coldness? Why, instead of the warmth of the coverlet, or the emanation of the flames all she felt was coolness? How could that be? How was she not feeling the heat?And why was her vision so blurry?
Heather shivered and propped herself up with one arm.
Oh my God.
Her eyes widened. She could see the edges of her reality. Why did her reality actually have a delineated boundary? She reached a hand out, and –
Jerked her hand back. She could touch it. There was a solidity to her visual field. And, from this angle, she could trace the contours of it. In a silent, mounting terror, she visually traced the extrusion. And her flesh prickled with a blooming sense of horror.
It felt like to her she was under a big-top tent; or domed cathedral. The extrusion overlapping her visual field - that she could touch, and feel - had a distinct…
She craned her head back to follow the edges. The edges suddenly tapered in such a way that the objects of the room presented themselves as though they were bubbled ever-outward, optically distinct like the vanishing point of the horizon viewed thtough a cylindrical lens.
Heather moved to her knees, crawling, inspecting. What had at first been presented to her as sheerness, and middle-space and a backwall that seemed to smudge her vision, rendering it slightly cloudy - upon closer inspection – was a wall of… Almost like it was, it –
The realization struck her down to her knees. The jolt of clairvoyance came together, full circle, with a terrible, chilling kind of alien logic that was so circular it could not be ignored:
Where am I? I’m in a…
Heather crawled herself through the sheerness, the elegant void, and crawling forward, and forward, on hands and knees, bent over, broken and ugly, crawling, because she couldn’t bring herself to stand, crawling, because she was unsure how to stand, crawling, until her forehead came to rest on the edge of her universe with a tink.
No. She pushed her forehead against the invisible barrier that, with each successive pant, with each successive shriek, with each successive sob, was slowly blooming into existence before her:
Her breath plumed, painting the invisible wall.
Condensation gathering on the edges of the water glass.
Like a butterfly in a jar, Heather ticked against the glass.
I’m… I’m in a cup. A glass… a water glass
She squealed her fingers down the sides.
Faceless, poreless, gripless, her prison was infinitely cold, infinitely sheer. She had nothing to hold, nothing to grip, nothing to grab. A spasm of hysteria went through her.
N-no no. She banged her fist against the walls.
A spinning, dizzying fear shot through her. She tumbled backwards.
She was in a vessel for food.
I’m tiny again. Oh my god, I’m small.
And: something large, something monstrous, something with shape and density was rising up from the ground, flesh-toned, from beyond her crystalline wall.
Heather flinched backward, trying to retreat but she bumped up against the convex walls of her prison.
Heather was drowning in fear. Her higher-brain recognized the flesh-tone, the color; but her tiny woodland brain was overwhelmed; overcome.
The massive giant had come to investigate the crystal prison.
Heather exploded into panic, battering her body against her detention. But she was unable to tear her gaze away from the flesh wall: the large, emerging entity, the continent that was so close to her visual field that it was a miasma of gigantism.
Heather made a strangled sound, clawing at the icy walls. Pinging away from the barricade, she fell to her knees, and like a forsaken fairy trapped in a snow globe – knowing at any moment the giant could upend her universe and shake it – she began to sob.
The extrusion, the flesh-toned geometry was a head: and its face was level with her inverted prison.
The walls of her universe darkened, clouding over like ash from a post-volcanic eruption. It took her a moment to understand, but, it was his hand: his hand was cupping the water glass. She stared at it in horror. He was so massive he could radically change her world. Each line in his palm like tectonic shift.
A sound peeled from her lips. She didn’t even think it had meaning. It had not even been a conscious decision; it simply was; it happened.
Heather did not know how not to fight, to persist, to survive. To keep moving. But this.
She shriveled down. Please
Segmentation of shapes rose up and edged the wall of her universe: his hands.
An eclipsing shadow cleaved closer, coming down from the heavens: his cranium.
The air above Heather’s head erupted. Her ears cried out. Her universe smashed over. A vacuum-tight pull wrenched the breath from her lungs. She flattened to the ground. A singular sensation whisked over her body:
air moving, air parting. Pressure normalizing.
He had removed the water glass.
Heather slowly peeled herself away from the ground. An open-palm slap rode her up high onto her knees. She lolled her head back.
And she looked at him.
He was emerging before her. And all of him, like the monolithic face of a statute, was staggeringly large. All of him - his features - were distorted by scale.
And like a devotee standing before the grandness of a cathedral, she could not see all of it; she could not hope to contain him in the steady, singular universe of her gaze. She could only meditate on one of his features at a time.
His eyes: large lakes of bioluminescence; green and blue that, at normal size, were so pale they could stop a clock.
His nose: a smooth, undisturbed length of bone that hovered above his top lip.
His mouth: - his mouth - once, a great source of her ruminations - was now a sink-hole framed by twin distinct topography.
That’s a hot mouth, she had remembered thinking once upon a time ago, when first they had met. And the compulsion had been so innocent, but, even then, Heather had remembered feeling this strange, incipient pull toward his mouth.
And for no small reason. His mouth was inherently attractive; sexual. The top lip crowned the bottom with a distinct cupid-bow shape. And his smile had a slow, stalking insistence to it; it was slightly off-center, which broke up what would otherwise be a very white and disarming grin. And that off-kilter smile, paired as it were with the deep-set cut of his brow, gave him the appearance he looked perpetually, pathologically disinterested, yet - somehow - still slyly amused.
If it was his pale eyes that commanded attention, it was his mouth that held it – it drew the eye to an even-featured face that was cupped by high, dramatic cheekbones. Normally, such features would have made a man look smooth, fresh, and earnest, ready to be the darling of the media circuit; instead, there was a touch more angularity to him - to his temples, his jaw, his chin - that made him look intriguingly feral.
Once upon a time, Heather had enjoyed his feral sex appeal; now, it was a token reminder that he was always but a heart-beat away from becoming a bestial juggernaut.
And she could - and could not - stop staring at his mouth.
She could see the shape of it in arresting detail: the tiniest of stitching in his lips; the wet gleam of saliva on the corners, and the hollow of his jaw that dimpled outward into an angular canyon.Heather swallowed dryly. I’m small. I’m really small.
Small enough to be swallowed whole, her brain mocked, yet big enough to get caught in his throat.
And to it her eyes went: his neck was long columnar steel, and she could see the slow undulation of his Adam’s apple.
The thought of ending up in there turned her hair white.
And in that maddeningly knowing way of his, he arched forward, and she watched in perpetual fear as his tongue, in perpetual motion, appeared, sliding forward from his lips.
Heather recoiled.
And, compelled by an instinct she had only - previously - intellectually understood to exist, thrashed her body backwards.
She gaped up at him in frozen awe.
“What now, Heather Feather?”
Heather just stared. His voice was the same yet different. It was deep, drowning, a tangible emanation that she could disappear into; it rolled over her in a tangible blast of heat.
She stared into those inhumanly flawless eyes. Hadn’t they softened for her once? Was that love or hunger he had appraised her with?
This can’t be real.
Several long heart-beats came and went. The inertia gave her hope. Timidly, Heather stepped closer.
The table she stood on, oh-so familiar to her, extended forever. Where it had once held their drinks and gave her support when he sexed her from behind, it was now an endless forest’s worth of mahogany.
Her tiny gaze met his, and –
he licked his lips.
Heather snapped back in fear. The movement had been so vivid.
It had been a large, dusky pink tectonic plate, with tremendous character: engraved with fine texture, fine lines, the smallest coral reef of raised papillae and tastebuds, and large, corded vessels that looked vaguely phallic. A heavy hail of saliva rolled forward from its tip. Heather scrambled backward. Large droplets landed near her feet.
I’m dead. I’m so dead. I’m super dead.
She could hear it. The shlick of flesh moving against flesh. Even the sound held with it a sense of power. She, so small, felt flattened under the acoustic band of sound.
It took her a troubled second, a troubled infinity of seconds, to realize that the thrum in her feet, the heat skimming over her head was the product of him speaking.
Captive to the sound, she listened.
“You got that look,” he murmured.
“That look. I see it. Like you want to say somethin’. You all get it. That haunted, shell-like look. Like you’re ready to crack.” He held his hand out in a gesture of placation. “Go ahead, talk. Maybe you’ll have something more interesting to say. Fuck knows the others never did.”
Others. Heather felt despair clack inside her skull. There had been others. She was being lumped into a faceless group of others.
But, no, I’m not, she corrected him, mentally. I’m not part of those others. I’m the one - the one that got away. I’m the first. Your first. It’s special. That makes me special.
Use that, her brain pounded. Do it. Use it.
-
I will have more coherent things to say later, but - yessss. YESS.
-
@kisupure ruh roh? What vile little things are running around inside your head?
(I HAVE BEEN SO ABSENT GUYS. I travel for work, and I HAVE BEEN IN AND OUT OF QUARANTINE AND IN AND OUT OF AIRPORTS - AND it truly has been the worst! I plan on updating this very, very soon)
-
Chapter 7
In The Eye of The Beholder
Heather
Heather stiffened.
She looked up at the giant in disbelief. And for a brief second she forgot to be afraid. She forgot to waste away.Her fear was so mounting that she forgot to feel it. But adjacent to that primitive tremble was a secondary thought, and it was quickly forming:
she had come full circle. This – all of this – had an eerie book-ended symmetry feel. It made her skin crawl.It was as though the very endoscopy videos she had obsessed over, night after night, frame after fame, had prepared her for this. That everything prior to this (un)social encounter had been an unironic dress rehearsal for what now transpired; that it had all been building, building, building inexorably, toward this showdown. It was a sort of regressive logic, but it made sense, because, intellectually, she knew those endoscopy videos had been endowed with not just eroticism, but also by an unspoken, critical element that was infinitely more important:
Scale.
Those video captures, those stilted frames, those wide-angle shots into the crevices of the human body were only possible for its peeping-tom audience if everything was being projected, and seen, from the sight-line of a tiny (tiny) person.
And in the clutch of that sensory cacophony, bombarded by video after video, Heather had - if only subconsciously - armored herself against such a monstrosity of scale by deeply entrenching herself in it. She had become practiced at seeing the human body at this dimension because she had observed it by proxy, day after day.
For if he wasn’t human in function, he most certainly was in appearance. If he was scaled, or feathered, or devil-horned, it was only by great metaphor.
This though, was surreal. And, somehow, it was surreal enough that she had moments of lucidity. And in her lucidity the drug was curbed; it made still her small woodland brain.
She could still think.
Like this she grappled with her reality. True, no video could have properly interpreted the lush detail of what she was now seeing, but the spirit of it - the calculus of it - remained the same: she was a tiny woman, at a tiny scale, placed before a gigantic man that could thread her into the holes of his body like the convex lens of an endoscope camera – the very camera lens that had not-so ironically peered down, in brilliant refraction, into the rabbit hole: introducing her to a world that should have never manifested.
But here she was.
Naked, raw, she stood before him, hanging - as if by a cosmic thread - in a near-tangible pulsation of intimate grace they met eyes. It was the fantastical stasis of a moment; predator and prey sighting one another.
It was in this moment, she realized, it was the most honest he had ever been.
“I’m meeting you for the first time,” she said in a small voice.
And one of those large pale eyes rolled down, like a marble, to examine her. She could see the haze of the hunter, but there was a more sentient flicker about the pupil. She watched, in the black corona of it, her reflection: she was stunningly nude. And in this Escher painting, this impossible perspective, she saw herself as he would have: a lily-white Madonna with a halo of black hair. Beautifully reborn from within the corona of his eye.
She could almost understand it. She could almost feel it. It was a tip-of-the-tongue feeling; timeless. Could she understand him? Was there something to all of this that she could understand? Or was this the vanity of the ego?
But what she did not understand were his facial expressions: he was too large, but she could interpret his thoughts from the tiniest of muscular movements on the side of his face closest to her.
His eyes
And she wasn’t pining over his eyes like a lovestruck maiden; this felt religious, eternal.
She was taken by how beautiful his eyes actually were, certain in that moment that she had never appreciated colors - of any shade before - until at this moment, in her reduced size.
Had she always been so deaf, so blind to such an aching, beautiful universe? Was she always this unaware? Was she always this Godless? Was she looking upon the face of an Angel? A Devil?
Was he right? Was etymology the only natural barrier between angels and demons?
Heather took a deep, shuddery breath. Would he be able to hear her at this size? Somehow, she knew he would. “This is you. This… is… you.” It felt inadequate, even sophomoric, but she couldn’t stop the sudden upwelling of emotion. “I-I’ve never met you until now.”
A sadness whisked inside her, but it was immediately buoyed by a sense of incredulity. How could a secret of this magnitude be kept from her, for so long? How had she not met him - sharing hearth and home, secrets and flesh - until now?
She suddenly felt giddy, on the verge of hysteria. She actually grinned. It was the grin of a mad-woman, and that eye looked at her, intrigued. This, all of this was hiding plainly and plainly hiding and she had not known. To think, all this time, her ex-lover could transform into a God (for all intents and purposes). How could she - him - it - be so closeted from this possibility ?
Her eyes skimmed the protrusion that was his chin, and they drifted to the side suddenly preoccupied by a splash of color –
And orange and yellow leaves swirled around her feet, as fragrant and vibrant as the flames crackling from over his shoulders – and the image did not create one of a devil basking in an inferno, but rather, it created the vision of a man standing stolidly before an open hearth, a man standing by the romantic glow of the fire; a man that had been searching for something that had been so absent from his fingers –
so that they had closed over hers in the cool autumn air, and —
Who had said it?
And, Heather knew. And she knew it so well that it was embarrassing she had not noticed it sooner. She tumbled onto her backside in a hail of the giggles. Struck, all fear fell away. In a knot of hysteria, she flung her head back to look at him.
As a high-functioning addict, she shouted:
“I love you, too?!” She flung her arms wide in a theatrical arch, laughing into the high peaks of hysteria. “Is that what you wanted to hear? Needed to hear? Is that why you lost your ever-loving mind? This is all because I never said it back? Di - no…” Heather trailed off as a jolt of clarity went through her. “You… no, it’s not because I never said it back. It goes deeper than that…”
She looked at his large green eye; it was flat.
“Y-you thought I didn’t love you back then? Seriously, Danny? Like, seriously? I did, I absolutely did. It’s just hard saying it back when it’s the first time, you know? I needed fucking time. And oh my god I can’t believe we’re having this conversation when I’m, like, three inches tall and you’re standing in front of me like half a moving solar system. Shit.”
She interpreted the contractile movement in his eye to be involuntary shock.
She folded her arms. “You can’t deal with your own shit, can you? Was it neat and tidy trying to get rid of me? Toss me out like morning trash? Was that what you had planned?”
The tongue licked the large bottom lip whose shadow canopied her head. (Heather cantered backwards instinctively) in a gesture she knew, at normal scale, to mean he was thinking.
“Can you control it?” She blurted.
An eyebrow sloped down over that stunning pale eye. She intuited it to mean he was prompting her for clarification.
Heather could feel herself almost lost in the radiant paleness of his eye. “I-I think it’s cuz I’m still kinda high right now that I’m holding my shit together, because you’re huge. But, can you control it? The… the… behavior; like… that lizard brain of yours… you have to on some level, cuz I’ve seen you doin’ life pretty normally… I’ve seen you at social gatherings; your company…” She suddenly trailed off: “With me.”
He said nothing, because he knew - she knew - they both knew - that she knew the answer to the question.
Heather gave him a cross look (or at least attempted to project herself toward that green eye). “That’s what makes it ugly, Danny. You can control it. But you didn’t, not with me.”
The entire side of his face nearest to her was inert. Even that large pale eye did not evince movement.
It was, she knew, the expression he wore that, were she at normal size, would be a carefully-composed poker face.
Good, her brain rallied, Get him to see me, really see me. Make him see me as a person… make him actually fucking see me.
And a more-quiet realization joined her thoughts: If can bust through that strong prey-dive, I might be able to actually fucking live through this.
And if she did? If she were to survive? What unholy trauma, what fall-out would she face from this?
But she had not the luxury to meditate on this. Heather had to survive. This she knew. And she knew it well because she was - always - a survivor. Through sheer will alone Heather pushed back. A woman made weapon, a weapon made of woman, she sought to slay Goliath with only her wit, and her moxie.
“And yanno what makes it even more ugly? You didn’t come clean about any of this. None of it. You were gonna toss me away. And you know why that’s so ugly?”
The eye had intent now, it was examining her. This meant it saw her as more than just a woman-shaped thing.
He’s listening, she said to herself.
“Because you decided for me.”
And, his black pupil - so-fixedly trained on her - expanded violently; contracted.
She had made her master stroke. She had driven him back - however imperceptibly - with a verbal bludgeoning. She had found grace because she had lain at his feet the most terrifying thing of all:
Possibility.
Once upon a time, Heather had lain awake in her bed late at night, counting the clicks of her eyelids as she had ruminated over her fate. She had attempted to piece apart his psychology like anatomical dissection: obsessing over how he had attempted to consume her, she thought, would give her critical insight. She had considered that the possibility existed that his attempt to eat her had been nothing but a perfunctory act: a rote contraction of movement that had barely, yawningly, stretched beyond other more base instincts.
But, no. That had felt incongruent, that had felt too simple. (Danny was anything but simple).
And she had chastised herself, berated herself over it for caring so damn much.
But it mattered. And she knew it mattered because she had to understand the genesis of his desire. To know it, was to control it. She had wondered if it was a limbic compulsion that had burst forth from his animal-brain. And if so, then she was nothing more than gristle off the bone for him; an inducement of taste and sensation and could wield no power from her position.
But, instead, if it was something more, something more than just base desire, if it was something more complex, something expansive, hoping as she did then, just as she did now –
The giant’s head withdrew –
then, she had a chance.
Then, she had an avenue through which she could manipulate him.
Because, she knew, only as a mad-woman could, that complexity made it dangerous. Complexity made everything dangerous. And danger could be weaponized.
Heather lolled her head back to observe him. She interpreted this new distance to mean he was now sitting (no longer leaning forward) at the table, and with the increased space between them her eyes could pan, with more ease, over his face.
In a blunted, but euphoric ripple of narcotic-sedation she stared up at her giant captor in peaking awe: he was stunning. His size was commanding; his presence yawning and infinite; his face deceptively, timelessly handsome.
And on that face, a story was playing out.
He had the keen look of a bored immortal that had just been roused to sudden wakefulness. His little worshiper – a woman that had been claimed by him, shaped by him, destroyed by him the moment she was worthy of his attention – was standing at the mouth of his cave, tip-toeing closer to get a glimpse of his leathered wings.
He saw her as a plaything to be contained. A curiosity to be tormented. He was a child-god that would pop her in his mouth for no other reason than he could –
But Heather’s be-deviled God was full of caprice, and she had said something that stirred him. She had done something that interested him.
The giant tilted his head to the side in a curiously-feral gesture.
“This is different.”
Heather could laugh-scream. He was speaking. And it wasn’t until this very (strained) moment did she realize that it had been some time since he last spoke.
But Heather was no body’s fool; she knew she wasn’t yet out of the woods.
Heather eyed him warily. “Different how?”
He made a languid movement; stopped. “I can almost forget.”
“Forget what?”
His voice deepened. “That we’re acting out millions of years of predator-prey evolution. I can almost - almost forget that you’re prey.”
Heather felt herself falter. Had she gotten nowhere with this obstinate asshole?
“No,” she lowed. “I’m not. I’m not prey.”
He gave her a patently amused look. “Bold claim coming from someone that’s stared down my fucking gullet.”
Heather twitched; his eye caught it with a preternatural flick.
He’s… no… he’s testing me… don’t, don’t give in. This is do or die, Heather. Don’t show him your fucking belly. Don’t freak out. Do it later, you have plenty of time to freak out later.
“No,” Heather pronounced. “Prey is a mindset. I’m not, and never will be, prey.”
She met him pupil-for-pupil; stroke for stroke; gaze for gaze. She held it; commanded it.
Bend, you motherfucker, fucking bend
His eyes held her, unmoving. Pale and alien.
Heather’s heart pounded.
He was unreadable.
And there was a sudden flicker of interest across his face.
His voice was a silky utterance. “No…”Heather stiffened toward him.
Bend, you motherfucker, bend
And, as though at the receiving end of her telepathic urging: “I think… you may be onto somethin’ here…”
Heather looked at him, faltered again.
Something about his manner made her inch back.Suddenly, his pupils widening, drinking her in: “I think you’re right. I think… you’re more than that. You’re a whole new… concept. A concept I need to,” he interjected a pleased, aroused sound.
“Play with more.” -
I love how shrinking her suddenly makes them equals as she finds her footing in absurdity.
-
@nephilim This is getting even more interesting!
-
@kisupure YES. YOU nailed it! That’s the unironic ironic thing at play here. In an unabashedly strange way they’ve become equals despite their differences in size!
And it’s become almost something of ‘who really has the power here?’
-
@tiny-ivy Ohhhh my~ I am so glad that you’re enjoying. Definitely more to come with these two
-
@nephilim Gahh I love playing with that idea too, that the more unbalanced a power dynamic gets, the stronger and more fearless everyone gets, especially the sub/smol. It’s TOO GOOD.
-
(My doctrinal program has been in full swing. Once I get normalized to the cadence, I’ll be able to post the upcoming chapters)
-
Chapter 8
Eat Me, Too
Heather
Heather felt herself laugh as though she was in a long tunnel, as though she was far away. Light, and lighter. Weightless. Like she was floating. Like she was high and mighty.
Like she was winning.
But, when she looked up —
Something had turned, something had changed, and she couldn’t tell if it was in her favor. Now, the giant man looked less like a protrusion of parts and – suddenly – more like “her” Danny: slowly emerging, slowly familiar. And she didn’t like it. And the tone he spoke with, she didn’t like that either. To play with her — she twisted her lip between her teeth. It was a curious choice of words.
She was hedging the quantum of her life against his amusement. But what, exactly, did that entail? She reached out a hand toward him, seeking connection; stopped. It was like trying to touch a mountain on the horizon. Heather could sense the panorama developing around them.
He: hovering above her, faintly amused, ready to reach down with giant fingers to make mischief with her tiny body. Her: small and trembling, wrapped in his predatory inertia, kneeling on the table. And that’s what made it uncomfortable, she realized. It suddenly looked too much like him. The familiarity was overriding and overcoming her mental sequestration so that she felt a scalding intimacy. She almost felt a peculiar second-hand embarrassment knowing what he wanted to do, having seen the approximation of it in the catalogue of videos she watched. But, this was no video. This was no abstraction. This was happening.
She couldn’t even pity him over it, couldn’t even dispense a symbolic there-there pat to his head to soothe the frustration of an overly-active imagination; not when he made it real.
Heather’s teeth clattered together as she repeated the taunt in her mind. Play.
Would she slip inside him and disappear?
He was cavernous. Her eyes tracked down his face, hovering over his features: the large, powerful jaw; the keyhole of his lips; the long columnar neck; the top of his chest —He went on forever.
Or would he knot himself around her in a slaughter-hug?
Suddenly, it didn’t feel like she’d plink harmlessly off his teeth to retreat soundlessly into the pit of him. That felt too simple. Too expedient.
Because she knew, only as a madwoman could, that he wouldn’t want her to flit into him like a whisper. He wanted to take her with a roar. This wouldn’t be a case of: open slot, insert.
From his body language she knew this wasn’t transactional.
There was an erotic softness etched around the lines of his mouth.
To it she looked, then at the planes of his face.
Under the hollows of his cheekbones was a visible impression of his jaw anatomy: she could see masseter muscles.
The dense, powerful chewing muscles. On him, they were over-developed, and they flexed even in the stillness. Once, they had been twin advertisements of his masculinity; now, they were twin reminders of insidious purpose. They were bands of muscle that commanded a snarl of teeth. Mastication.It was, her brain chirruped, only a few letters off masturbation.
And that’s what’s going to happen to me. Heather realized. That’s what this is. This is… this is a form of mental masturbation.
Heather tumbled the thought in her brain. It was strangely on-brand for him.
His proclivities, like the rest of him, went staggeringly deep. How involved was this, exactly? She knew from watching those endoscopy videos that the fetish was as convex as the lens that traversed the multitude of humans —Human. Her brain snagged on the word.
Was his body human? She had seen some skilled practitioners perform impressive gymnastics with the endoscope instrument, expressing elevated motility and control. But they were human. And, she realized, if mere humans could do what she had seen…
He’s dark. But she had always known that, hadn’t she? In her previous life, she had turned a blind-eye to it because it had inconvenienced her. But, something like this, it never remained hidden, did it? Or, at least, not for long. It had a funny way of presenting itself. In conversation, in lewd humor, in —
“You were telling me all along weren’t you,” Heather remarked sadly.
What had first been a metaphor, now morphed into blood, bone, and predatory inertia. Because something as ugly as this could not contain itself. Eventually it would have to rouse; to surface; to stretch its tendons and hunt.
Heather wished that it was something as simple as that: a dark beast coming to roost; stalking her; hunting her, ingesting her in rote, clinical obligation. Not this. Not this man-beast that fantasized about slowly, calculably torturing her while extracting sadistic pleasure from every joint, every dimple in her body.
How bad was it? The compulsion?
You know, Heather’s brain mocked. You know damn well what he wants to do to you. Danny took everything to its extreme. He had to take everything to its extreme; to its inner tendon; shaving it close to the bone. He liked pleasure; he liked pain; he liked hurt. And if his limbic system was a dizzying ouroboros of pleasure — it would be her head in his jaws.
And he’d shave that close to the bone, too.
“Play with me,” she repeated hollowly. “You want… to - to play with me.”
Now what Heather-Feather. You bought some time but at what cost?
If she was winning, it was with regret; a strange oxidized regret that began flaking away. Her survival was slowly, like a wounded rail-car, clicking forward. She could almost count the seconds as they screeched audibly at rusted cross-beams, her brain clanking to a body-jostling halt. She was living on borrowed time, dangling over the precipice. But what lay in wait for her at the bottom of the plunge?
Him. She realized.
He would be waiting. His jaws open.
Because there was nothing after; nothing beyond this.
She was the woman that would never be; the woman that never was. No trace of her existence would be left behind. Not a whimper of her. She had no car, no phone. Her entire existence contracted down to the upended water glass, the infinite forest’s worth of mahogany, and the giant man before her.
Unlike her beloved fables of beasts and maidens, this was not a three-part act. There had been a beginning, certainly, a meandering middle, and now, this. But her conclusion, her end wouldn’t have catharsis. There would be no denouement. Her fingers clenched reflexively. She was lost in this singular wrinkle of existence. She had no phone. She had no…
A terrible, aching sadness whisked inside her. How would she ever walk the million miles necessary to… How could she… How
She looked down at her tiny, tiny hands. Am I stuck like this?
No. Later. Freak out, later.
“Hey,” she breathed, “I need to… you need to… you need to put me back to normal.”
“You look normal to me.”
And just like anything important, he had answered: but sideways, not directly, not forthrightly. Which meant, Heather realized, either he couldn’t control her size, or —
And if he could?
Oh God. The thought of him being able to control it, made liquid of her bones, because that meant he was a self-contained weapon. He could control her body at his whim.
I don’t want him to have that kind of power, Heather strained. Please, God, don’t let this hell-spawn have that kind of power.
Heather swallowed the lump in her throat. She had to believe that she could return to normal. She had to. She had once before, why not again?
Because it had never been this long.
Doubt crept along her spine. Small, he had made her once before; but it had been fleeting. This, felt like an eternity."In fact -
He was speaking. Heather looked up.
“You’re the way you should be.”
The anger that ticked inside her, surprised even her; there had been something so demeaning about that taunt that Heather couldn’t help but feel absurdly offended by it.
“The way I should be?” Heather returned, but this time with more color, more conviction. It rankled her, being told the type of woman she should be, three inches or no. She wasn’t daddy’s perfect little virgin, that was clear, and she certainly wasn’t at her Catholic Best when she was with Danny, which was a given, but God did she ever come alive when they crossed words, just as they did now. She wasn’t a fucking doll, not his, not now, not ever. And despite everything that was happening, everything that was poised to happen, she found herself absurdly angry; in fact, she felt the entire situation to be absurd. And she was just about done with it. All of it.
And here she held her breath, her head swimming with a strange suicidal urge to clapback —
— and thankfully this had the effect of creating a large, dramatic pause rather than an apprehensive stall-out, because he was fixed on her, watching, when she blurted: “You know what. Fuck it. Fuck all of it. I’m tired. I’m sick and tired and exhausted and, just — fine. I get it. You want to eat me? Do it. I’d rather fucking die than be told what to do, or what I’m supposed to be.”
“You would,” he remarked. “You absolutely fucking would. You’d rather die than be controlled.”
She slung back with a dismissive, yet pointed: “I get it. I’m hot, I’d eat me, too.”
Danny rocked back on his heels.
She raised an arch eyebrow up at him. “It’s a sex thing, Danny. It’s always a sex thing. I’m not stupid. I’m not gonna pretend to have figured it out, but, yeah, it’s like they say: what you repress, you end up expressing sideways. And I can’t think of anything more sideways than trying to eat your fucking girlfriend.”
“Ah, I see. I’m repressed,” he responded dryly.
“You know me,” she repeated churlishly. “I’d rather die than have you control me.”
“Oh, but how can I resist,” he responded in a low, intimate voice.
And Heather had not the luxury to meditate over this further, when something advanced. The shadow of it stole the words from her tongue.
It was a shape that was familiar to her, that she understood, just as it moved closer, in an eye-blink of movement to be —
his finger —
as it curled around her waist.
Heather froze.
This had been the critical element, the missing piece, the one discordant note lilting through this entire exchange that had hung on the beats: this is what had made it feel entirely too surreal, this is what had made it feel like a dream, so when he finally breached the invisible wall between them - reaching through time and space - did Heather feel the colossal piece of what was missing by its absence suddenly being scrubbed away: touch.
He was touching her.
He was joining their worlds.
Her entire existence, her entire being contracted down to this breathless moment, this wrinkle in time in which nothing else existed except for his finger around her tiny, naked waist.It was a peculiar reflex, but she found her tiny, tiny hands lifting to touch his. Her small fingers, like delicate petals, overlaid his gigantic one. It was like an Escher painting, and in this impossible perspective, she saw her tiny fingers overlaid on his, like concentric shapes.
There was something poetic about it. And she could appreciate how romantic it was, if it were not for the fact that a most-sobering thought entered her rational brain: his barbaric finger could crush her.
He was so much bigger than her. A single contraction of muscle could crumple her body. But, instead of fretting over the possibility of his violence, she studied the shape of his finger from the bed of his nail, down to the rise of his knuckle with the raptness of someone heavily medicated.
And in his giant eyes, his pupils enlarged, then retracted, the pale irises glinting; it was the gleam of a wild animal caught at dusk.
“This is such a turn-on,” he remarked quietly. “You know what I can do. What I want to do. And cuz I know all of that is rattling around inside your head, it makes it even more hot.”
His finger, around her perfectly small waist, curled down to create a perfect apostrophe on top of her vulva.
The physicality of it was stunning. A small sound escaped from her, but she observed an opening in their primitive dance.
“This is why,” Heather started in a small voice, “This is why you can’t kill me. Because, if you do, if-if you do, you don’t just snuff me out, but you snuff out what’s in my head, too.”
The slow, indulgent movement over her vulva stopped.
The maiden overlaid her tiny, tiny fingers on the beast’s large claw in a gentle perversion of an olive branch. "I… I’m going to be forever changed by this, Danny. I can’t… I can’t go back to normal. I saw what you can do, I saw what’s out there. They say, if you’re gonna sup with the devil, you need a long spoon, but they don’t tell you what to do when the devil comes to sup on you. There’s no off-ramp for that; there’s no exit strategy. How the fuck do I return to normal after this, Danny? And how do you get rid of someone that’s… that’s… seen the darkest side of you and —
“Don’t,” he snarled. And the acoustics of his voice expanded, developing into something Heather would characterize as an ‘undervoice’ - a faint, secondary voice that overlapped his primary one with a metallic rasp. It was inhuman.
But it was him. That was the demon that was lurking. Heather gripped his finger in an autonomic spasm.
“Don’t,” he continued in that binaural voice, “pretend that you’re okay with any of this.”
A snarl, vicious like a wolf’s carved into the lips that canopied her shadow. Heather’s head ticked down; the sight of all that anatomy moving was briefly - but powerfully - nauseating. An undulation through the jaw muscles, an expansion of the keyhole in his lips to flash a sickle of teeth: these were the gears of war that he brought to this battle.
But she brought something more.
Honesty. And she would bear it like a blade.
“I’M NOT,” she shot back heatedly. “I’m not okay with any of this. I’m definitely fucking not. I’m so not okay with this, that I’m the not-okayest okayest of this I could possibly be. I’m not even going to pretend to be okay with any of this. I don’t know if I ever will be… but somehow I’m not surprised? Somehow this feels like you. Even now, this is… this is you. This is totally something you’d do. I’m just surprised you haven’t popped a cup over me sooner.”
Danny looked down at her, frozen.
Off his look: “I talk a lot.”
He snorted a wild, uncontrollable laugh. “I’ll admit, I’ve thought about it.” He remarked coyly. His voice was normal again.“But, seriously.” She continued with sudden graveness. “Three hundred and sixty — fuck, however long it is — it took me three hundred and sixty-something days to - to finally talk about any of this. But… but here I am.” And she folded down on herself, frowning. “I get you,” she spat. “I do. I ran from you all this time, all to be back at the start. I went over last year in my head a thousand times. I remember everything. Everything. And I still - I - it wasn’t what you did that made me so… so fucking upset. I’m upset because you did everything you did and then you pretended nothing happened; like it was no big deal. But I know that isn’t true. And you know that isn’t true. What happened - what happened between us was a Big Fucking Deal. And it was a Big Fucking Deal 'cuz otherwise you wouldn’t be tripping over your dick to get to me a whole fucking year later. And, here I am, in front of you, three fucking inches tall and there’s a part of you that’s still terrified of me.”
For a long, trembling moment there was nothing, just the sharp lines of his face set against a backdrop of domesticity. Then,
“No,” he mouthed.
And in a surge of anger, he pushed himself back from the table. “No, no, no,” he repeated. He made a mindless circuit around the furniture, then slammed his hand down on the wooden surface. The glass bounced off the table, shattering. The tiny woman sent to her knees.Heather had, with an optimist’s inch, avoided the violence. She looked at the carnage of glass, then back up at the seething giant.
She almost couldn’t speak. It had felt like the world was ending when the glass had imploded. And there was a wildness, a frenetic nature to her stalking giant that she didn’t like. He looked like a bright-eyed, hackled wolf.
And the metaphor, against her better judgment, continued: in a languid movement he surged over the table, his sleek profile advancing until the blade of his nose touched her. He had turned over her gentle burrow in the earth, and - saliva pooling in his mouth - was scenting her. Heather screamed out.
The smooth tip of his nose skimmed over her scalp, her shoulder. The sensation was reported to her as a soft band of pressure. Heather held her breath in stupefied confusion. His nose hung ponderously low, and his breath washed palpably over her. She snapped her head away from the two black orbital holes, convinced if she started at them too long she’d be snorted up into his cranium. Soundlessly, she felt herself pulled into a humified slipstream. It was a warm pulling; pushing; pulling; pushing that cycled with the syncopation of a heartbeat.
He panted over her. With a creak, his lips parted. The inhale from his nares prickled her skin; the out-breath from his mouth blasted her.
He withdrew (but only by half), but not before giving her a small regretful little nuzzle. Heather looked at him, stunned.
“Shame you’re so high, Heather Feather. Otherwise I’d show you.”
This close, she felt every syllable of his humid breath.
“So, this is it then? Is this my new normal?” She retorted moodily.
“Something like that,” he murmured.
"Make it good, then, since you know you can only do it —
Danny
Once.
He could only have her once.
The word pounded in his brain. His neck. It had a power, a shape all its own.Once.
But what if he could have her each time? And each time he’d slowly bring her closer to the brink? The wait would be torturous. But the release. Ah God, the release. (It would be worth it). To deny himself over and over again, until he could finally turn on her in one stunning, violent moment? He’d see it on her face, in her eyes. It’d be so tragic. It’d be so beautiful.
Bedding, wedding, and slaying the lamb.He looked at her, suddenly aware of her size. And, oh, how aware of it he was.
So tiny. So very, very tiny. His vagus nerve twitched.
I could swallow you so easily. But he didn’t want it easy. Not with his Kitten.And he curled his fingers around her, tenderly pulling her into his palm. Gently, with the fingers of his other hand (and moving with the precision of someone that had done this many, many times before) he encircled her waist, like a giant tweezing the beautiful parts of a butterfly.
“What the fuck am I ever gonna do with you.” She was in perfect replication, down to her eyelashes. His vagus nerve twitched, again, at the vision of her.And his thumb moved, gliding down her soft underbelly. Stroking up, stroking down. He held her eye-level, like a tiny glass figurine. It was like something out of the canon of the Greek fairytales he read as a child.
Lust held Pride in his hand and devoured her.“You’re not wrong,” he murmured. “It would be a shame to get rid of the only lady-prey that’s been keeping my secrets.'” He was more talking to himself, his eyes skimming across her bare body. The anger had dissipated and it was replaced by the languishing, softening glow of lust. “Wouldn’t it. Heather Feather.”
It wasn’t a question.
Heather
Yet how easily he held her caused her mind to drift.
Heather held the golden urn in her arms. How had a woman, a tall beautiful creature of this world who had carried her forth, possibly fit into this tiny vessel? Once, she had been the one carried in the arms of this perfect and wholesome figure, but now how was she to react - only a child - as the one who cradled the dead remains of her mother?Heather was a woman. Flesh and blood, heart and soul. Yet Danny held her easily, as though her entire self could be folded up into a receptacle. As though she could be deposited into the box of his obscene needs.
Was she willing to welcome them? All of them? Every single last one? He had given her a glimpse of what lay beyond. His black magic, his fetish, his compulsions be damned, his existence meant that he belonged to an intricate system, a constellation of possibilities that should have only been stamped on the inside pages of a dark fairytale.
And she wanted to be a part of that tale; not lost in its footnote.
It was just him: Danny, her intelligent handsome monster. They were so tragically and poetically perfect. Was it not the stories of Beauty falling for Beast that she had loved the most?
And if Beast had tried to devour Beauty?She considered his question. Could she really harbor his secrets? Could she?
Heather could feel the unspoken letters of a threat hanging; building like a cloud of potential.Could she allow him to bring countless women into his body? Likely even his bed just to make the act that much more sensational? What of her? Could she forgive him his sins? Worse: could she carry them? Enable them? Did it matter? Did it really? Should she shed any sympathy for those that weren’t clever enough to outwit or outsex her demon?
“I know, I know,” she said sadly, “You want to play with me. But… that’s the thing of it, isn’t it? That’s what you always do. You take. And you take, and you take, and you take. Why not, for once… let me give? Why not, for once, you let me give to you? Sure: you can have me. You can take from me, you can take me, just like you normally would. But that’s the same energy, that’s the same vibe. Why not let me try to give? I can try to give you space… I can try to give you understanding. I can try, maybe, one day to try and willingly…” She couldn’t even say it; it pained her. The thought of giving herself willingly to his jaws was overwhelming. She swallowed thickly, and continued in what she hoped was an appeal to his more human side: “We can try.”
Danny
And he had taken to this new turn of events with an unexpected relief, and a new-found feeling of contentment. He liked holding her in his hand; it felt overwhelmingly precious to him.
He looked at her, this tiny figurine in his upended palm, not solely as something to be devoured, but he looked at her as something more.She was no longer just a collection of attractive womanly parts.
Danny canted his head to the side and listened. He felt like a wolf that had scented something indeterminable in the wind. But he heard her; he listened. He always listened whenever Heather spoke, because whether it was a coarse rebuke, or an elegant rejoinder, Heather was always interesting.
She’d give herself to him willingly?
He felt – he felt overwhelmed. He deflected with a harsh: “I don’t need your consent.”
“No,” he heard her say in a small, simple voice. “But that’s the one thing you can’t take. Nobody can. H-have you tried consensually…” Her voice petered out, then hardened: “No. You haven’t. That’s obvious.”
She wasn’t wrong.
He licked his lips; stretched his jaw in a quick frenetic pulse of excitement.
It would - as she said - be a different energy. It would be a vibe that was entirely impossible to recreate. It was like she had taken a stick to his mind and bashed it open like a beehive.
“Why,” was all he croaked. And his voice was raw and unvarnished.
Heather
“Because, I’d rather crawl into your jaws, than the jaws of domesticity.”
(Danny looked at her in open astonishment).
“I don’t want normal, Danny. I never did. I don’t want average. There’s gotta be more to life than nine-to-five, and-and watching the dishes pile in the sink… I… don’t want any of that. I,” her throat tightened, she felt overwhelmed, “You know me. You know how I love those Beauty and the Beast stories where the girl gets her beast. Well, maybe, deep down Beauty did want to be eaten. Maybe, maybe not. And, maybe, deep down Beast wanted to eat Beauty. Who knows. All I know is- is that if I have to go back to the flower shop, and p-pay taxes, and scroll social media, and pretend that none of this happened, none of this was real, if I have to walk around like a fucking ghost talking about the fucking Kardashians, pretending that none of this happened — I’d go fucking crazy. I’d go absolutely bonkers. I’d kill you, or myself. I’d rather fucking die and have that knowledge die with me than try and go back to normal…”
She took a deep breath. “Don’t you want to be seen?”
He looked at her pensively. Then, offered a:
“Bad news, Kitten.”
He was calling her Kitten. She looked up.
“I still pay taxes.”
She snorted a wild, uncontrollable laugh. “Ah God, not even demons can dodge the IRS.” (He barked a laugh).
“But,” she continued in a sad, strained voice, the hysterics of her laughter carrying her through: “I’m tired. I’m really, really tired. I’m tired of pretending I’m strong right now. I’m not. I’m weak. And I’m scared. And I have to pee, and I just want… I just want us to be okay. We can s-start over, or whatever, or just… pretend none of this happened, or see what can, or just… I’m just,” she began to cry silently, “I’m sorry, for both of us. I’m sorry for every damn thing. I’m sorry you’re locked into this damn addiction like I’m locked into mine, and I just…” fault lines began to open in her face, “Let me be your… your lady-prey. Let’s figure this out together. Let’s just…” Heather’s face sank into her hands. She blotted out the world, she blotted out the demon. She didn’t care. She just wanted to curl up and cry. She made a sad sound from between her laced fingers, “Eat me, or don’t. I don’t care anymore. I just need to… There’s a lot to unpack here, and there’s a lot… and I’m just,” she looked at him with wounded eyes.
His large hand brushed against her.
And there was a contraction, a movement, a sensation of lift.
Which compelled her to open her eyes so that she could see — and what she saw startled her enough that she tumbled off the table –
– normal-sized –
but before she could impact with the ground, his arm went around her waist.There was shock: and she was not sure from which body it was generated.
She looked at his arm looped around her waist – just as it was, a year ago – used as a barricade to protect her from her fall, and she had not the luxury to contemplate if it was affection that had motivated him – or instinct – because her face was falling, her face was crumpling, and she buried it into his chest, thinking about what she had negotiated with the devil.Oh God, what did I get myself into.
And she wept.
-
(This doctrinal program has been kicking my ass. But, I am through the worst of it now, and my work load will be reduced starting next month. I will be able to contribute again)
-
(My doctorate program is monopolizing all of my writing talents and vehicles at the moment. That’s why I’m only able to produce a measly chapter between semesters. I plan on contributing, and adding more chapters; unfortunately this will be at a pace slower than I’d like.
This project hasn’t been abandoned. There will be more. I enjoy the crap out of this too much to just throw it aside)
-
@nephilim Take your time! I’m very much enjoying the redux either way
-
Author’s Note: I needed a very, very long break.
I am still on my writing sabbatical, but I am close to finishing my doctrinal program. Since then, I have written another chapter. It has been written in fits and starts; but it has become fully formed.It is very long, so I have broken it up into parts. Although I am still technically on my sabbatical, I am (briefly) returning to this liminal space to provide more content.
M/F is so woefully underrepresented that I feel compelled to contribute something in the time intervening.
Watch this space. There is more coming.