[Revelations 2023] : Dark Romance Series (Giant-Kink | Vore-Kink | Layered Narrative)
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Click For Chapter: Bite The Hand That Feeds
SWALLOW ME, LIKE YOUR LITTLE PILL
Book One, Revelations 2023
Synopsis: A female pill addict tries to vainly outwit, outlast, outsex a violent demonic monster. Because he prefers his pills lady-shaped.
But this is only the beginning of a dark, damning, tumultuous epic saturated with vore kink, size kink, and layered narrative.
04
Well-fed devils behave better
than famished saints – D.L. Smith
HEATHER
“Heather, I can’t. I have work in a few hours. Call the police or something.”
Heather stared mutely at the calendar. Then, with a slow click of her neck, the pillow. She brushed her fingers over the subsisting stain. Would she, too, become nothing more than that: a stain? Her eyes closed in silent reprisal as Joseph’s voice continued, faintly, from over the earpiece: “I can come over later, though, ok? After work. Promise.”
Her solitude was deafening.
Heather turned in a tight, worried circle. It felt like her entire center was falling out: the decapitated toilet – winking white in the corner of her eye – was a cruel reminder he had surged through her safe space and taken her pills in a moment of inventive malice.
And as though conspiring with her thoughts, in that maddeningly knowing way of his, a text came through with a palpable pulse.
Peevishly, she shoved the phone back down into her pocket –
but not before it went off again. Curious, she looked down at her screen. And at first she did not understand what she was seeing; she did not understand the photograph that materialized. It seemed to be –
It had the contours, the lines, the slow, indulgent reveal of shapes that were hauntingly familiar to her, and in a moment of dissonance the memory of the endoscopy video in its fantastic stasis bled through, overlapping with –
Oh my God.
She threw up.
The photo that had so-abruptly followed could have been a juvenile prank, or a religious profanity. It was a tight, up-close shot of spherical-shadow: it was his mouth, lightly parted, revealing the purple pill lying– like a lovely little lady – on the bed of his tongue. The tongue was extended, the tip curled ever-so slightly in a come-hither flick.
Her pupils widened, taking in the image. It was him, his mouth. For, if ever there was one gripping, intimate piece of knowledge she had retained from the endless cacophony of endoscopy videos was that no two mouths were alike. They were all uniquely different, and differently unique. And it was idiosyncratic, but, she had also learned (over time ) that the mouths between the sexes were also notably different.
The men were more angular and cavernous, commanding. The women: softer, and wilting; dainty. And some - both male and female - were inherently attractive. Even (she thought with a chill) from the inside.
And this mouth: this one, because it was an extension of him, she need not see the rest of him nebulously existing around it, to know it was him. It was simultaneously a liaison that did the bidding of his body, but also an alien part that wielded its own sentience. And each piece of anatomy told a story. His tongue: privately commanded her, seeking to milk her. His lips: quietly cajoled, questing to ensnare her. And, together, they conspired.
She could feel the intent.
Panic: panic such that she never felt before entered her system, and it was a fear so mounting she forgot to feel it.
No; none of those mouths, those oral cavities had looked like this one. This one was imbued with so much character, so much personality that it possessed about it a darkly seductive quality that was just prohibitive enough to be erotic. And it was not lost on her that, despite its sinister nature (or because of it) the mouth was inherently aesthetic; sexual (like the rest of him). But she was not fooled. In the lines of his jaw, she could see the lines of slowly seeping violence.
I have to leave. I have to get out of here. It’s a death trap in here. I have to survive.
And she did not know how not to. So, on she went, moving slowly, moving carefully. She extracted the army knife and placed it in her front pocket. I’ll take you down with me.
“I’ll cut you open from the inside.” She whispered, voice wavering. “I’ll kill you before you can kill me.”
She moved delicately out the door, beginning her walk to work for three rather justified reasons. (Three felt like a safe number).
One: her backseat would be the ideal place for someone to hide.
Two: she wouldn’t be alone.
And, three: with the way she was trembling – violently at that – she was in no position to drive.
INTERLUDE
Heather kept moving, kept going, kept looking.
But time had passed in a sonorous drone and her phone sat in mutinous silence. In the liminal space between her apartment and work there had been nothing but the mundane whoosh of cars and the soothing chatter of the neighbors to accompany her movement.
Simple sounds. Simple people.
You shouldn’t be here. He was out of place. This was her place, her world. The kindly waving elders and the innocent children in colorful clouds of chalk, all of them, all of this, was her world. Not his.
You don’t belong here, you son of a bitch. You left this world behind.
When they had met, it had been in another lifetime. She had been a girl on the cusp of womanhood, hailing from college with spotless grades and sharp thoughts; and where she was just starting out in the world, he had already mastered it, leaving the inner-city that still had her in its grip. The seedy nightlife compelled her to party hardy – in her quest to find companionship – but from within the rabble of bad boys with leather jackets and dyed Mohawks – coming at her in a Technicolor-sea of disappointing machismo — what had emerged was the vivid realization that what she had been craving for, wanting for, searching for, was a man.
And as soon as she had made that decision, the universe conspired. In one of her rare excursions to Hemlock Harbor – a port town in rich, remote suburbia – she had found him in the more elevated circles, but it was obvious, even then, he was an interloper; so, she had signaled interest across the room - to this beast buttoned in silk.
And, in the infinity of one shared glance (his face registering sudden, feral interest) she knew, in that moment, he had been exactly what she wanted; what she needed: because he did not fall to his knees over her, like the others. But, in fairness, neither did she. Instead, she had, in strutting silence, challenged him to hunt her, court her, earn her. And he did not disappoint. Because he never – not once –chased her. No; he had pursued.
And he had been so good at it.
And not only had he been good at the pursuit, but he had been masterful at the capture, too. The physical lines of their bodies had blurred, and they had unfurled, becoming one singular bruising obsession. And where the others – in their quest to own her – had felt desperate; he had simply felt consuming. Darkly shining in his possession, she had become his. And not just in bed, but in everything. And, Heather had not been opposed to submitting to a man that had earned her submission; he had extracted it from her in a quiet, dripping composure that belied his large, expansive personality. And it was so large, that it swallowed her and, necessarily, her independence, whole. And despite this (or because of it) Heather never laid down and died. She fought for her freedom tooth and nail.
Maybe that’s why I hate him.
Not because he had tried to eat her. But because she had loved every (fucking) second of being overtaken, overcome by his slowly-seeping dominance, molded into his pretty little doll up until the precise moment he had made her into one.
Their subsequent fall-out had shunted her back to the streets; the same ones from which he had fled, decades ago, with mounting wealth. Which is why he didn’t belong. He had left this world prior to their fatalistic intersection. Never to return. He never should have been in that warehouse two days ago; existing here, now, to take a photo of his mouth and send it to her with a sadistic finger flick.
Had he returned for the sole purpose of capturing her again? Heather slid a hand over her mouth in quiet peaking horror, deeply aware that if she were to survive this, she must understand him. Because there was a lot here; there was a lot of subtext. I don’t think you’re evil, she thought to herself as she magnified the image. I just think that you’re really, really selfish. And you crave a challenge. She re-examined the photo.
It was him. It was really him. He… th-that’s his mouth. That was his. Everything that I remembered, everything that I saw that night, was real. He knew her so well, so perfectly well, that he knew a simple candid photo of his mouth holding her pill could break her world. And just as he knew her, she knew him: she knew his anatomy with a feverish, obsessive intimacy.
And it was a feverish, obsessive intimacy (she knew) that was reciprocal. And that scared her more than anything; because, his protracted pursuit was not the earnest, faithful need of a lover. It was the ugly, guttural need of a mad dog clamping its jaws down over something squirming. And she wouldn’t squirm for him.
I have to keep moving. That’s all. Just… keep moving. One little faltered step and he’d see it. He would see her weakening and –
“Wha tha hell is wrong wit’chu?” Tammy snapped.
Heather jumped.
The other woman was looking down at her, her soft brown skin illuminated by the down-glow of the fluorescent lights. She was pretty with her smooth even features and requisite diva mole, but her personality was underwhelmingly abrasive. All bark and no bite. That’s Tammy.
Somehow, the hours had waxed and waned in the flower shop, and Heather’s anxieties had receded into a tingle of white-noise so loudly distracting that she had not heard Tammy summon her.
“Nothing, Tammy. What do you want?” Heather looked at her challengingly, which was no small feat, sitting upon a dilapidated, dusty box.
Tammy popped a little green bubble in her mouth, smacking the gum. “That time-a night, Heatha. You do da stockin’ and I’ll count ta cash regista.”
Sure, Heather thought moodily, so you can slip a few twenties.
But, Heather made no protest: the mindless task of lifting boxes and storing them in the back had given her a simple, meditative quiet that she enjoyed. In the solitude of her labor, she had begun analyzing her next move. Maybe she would call Joseph and invite him over?
Preoccupied by her thoughts, and the soul-deep good feeling of working her hands and her legs, she looked down at them in silent appreciation. Track, she remembered hearing herself say as his lips had wandered down to her breastbone. Bet I could outrun you. It was the only reason she had survived that night. The moment her body had exploded to normal she had torn off, run off, and he had been blazing fast; but she had escaped.
I had waltzed into the wolf’s den and that was no place for your average pussy cat.
Even now Heather could remember her bare feet beating against the pavement: colliding with the parked car, wringing it open, flinging herself inside, peeling off the property, the wheels spinning three-hundred and sixty-five days ago.
Tammy looked at her pointedly.
“Fine, I’ll go,” Heather groaned.
She left the flower shop and entered the arms of dusk.
THE SHEPHARD
And there was a knock at her door.
Heather froze.
There was a sound emanating from it, and it was stretching across the length of room, seeking her out. It was – she realized – a voice. It was speaking.
"Oh, Joey,” she whispered, trembling in the after-shock: “I forgot about you.”
She began tearing apart her make-shift barricade. Desks, end-cabinets, chairs. Joey, hold up, I’m coming.
And a sudden madness seized her. She didn’t want to be alone. Not now. Not ever. To be alone meant she would be an easy target. Easy prey. Faster she went, harder, until at last she flung aside the final chair with a most satisfying thunk.
But Joey must have been wresting the doorknob with his hands, a hair-trigger away from bursting through it himself, because she had barely removed the final chair when the door flung open –
THE FLORAL SHOP
– and the bright crinkle of the door chime rang out. He eased into the flower shop.
And, looking up, he became immediately aware of three things.
One: that he was not alone; two: a most delectable woman-shaped specimen was peering at him, hands sliding through the cash register draw.
And, three: his vagal nerve jumped.
“Who-uh yeh?”
Cocking his head to the side he gave her a conspirative look. “Uh-oh. Hand in the cookie jar? Don’t worry, I won’t tell if you don’t.”
Tammy turned white.
He continued in a self-deprecating nonchalance: “Heather’s not here, huh?" And after setting his hip in a casual lean against the counter: "She go home?”
Funny, because, I was just there. Man, Heather, we dance around one another a lot, don’t we?
Tammy jerked back. The cash scattered. She surged to her hands and knees, diving after it like a cat diving after a cloud of feathers.
Pig.
“I don’t know what yeh talkin’ 'bout.” She snapped. And not even bothering to look up: “Who-a yuh anyways?”
He relaxed in his role, allowing the common tongue, the one he had no choice but to hide (with corporate cunning) the last decade, to comfortably slip through.
“Oh, justa… friend,” he answered demurely.
“Frend?” She barked. “No. Yeh not a friend, you. Nuh uh, ain’t no way soma’one jus’ wanna be frends wit yuh. Yeh don’t have frend vibes, you.”
He shrugged. “Sure. Fine. Yeah. You caught me. I’m the ex.” He rolled his eyes in a practiced gesture (as though accustomed to being the jilted ex). “I wanted ta check up on H-town. Make sure she’s okay, yanno? We hadda rough split. ‘Sides,” and after a clever second: “I heard she’s been hittin’ up them seedy joints, hangin’ out wit’ this new dude, poppin’ pills an’ gettin silly wit’ ‘im.”
“Jo’zeph?”
“Yeah, him. Whas’is story? Is he bad news?”
He moved closer, and as a man practiced in the art of moving like a weapon, aligned his body with the long drop-shadow of the sun – calculably turning – until he was magnificently backlit. If, at that moment, Tammy had looked up and attempted to recall how far he had moved, she wouldn’t have been able to report if he had even moved at all.
A creak.
Her head jerked up.
But it was already too late. She: so distracted by onerously collecting the money, had not been aware he slid one shoe forward to settle it across her fingers. It was reported to her as a band of leathery pressure.
Tammy made a confused, startled sound. But before she could protest, he tapped the top of her frail knuckles with the instep. “Nuh-uh. That’s not yours. Drop it.”
She hissed a sound. But Tammy knew violent men, truly violent men, and she knew that this man – this one, here, balancing stoically on her fingers – had immovable violence in his heart, because he knew precisely how much pressure to apply without hurting her. Tammy knew the ugly side of life, and she knew that if she was going to extinguish a truly violent man’s bloodlust, she would need to lay on the ground, inert, and submit.
But: her submission did not seem to placate him; instead, he pressed down, slowly. As though seeking her limit.
Tammy shuddered back. This was wrong, this ran counter to her instinct. Under the rules of the concrete jungle, he should have been greatly, smugly appeased. Self-protective anger surged through her. “Git off muh fucking hand, you!”
“No; nobody likes a thief, you handsy little bitch. But, yanno what? I’ll tell you what. Let’s make a deal. You call up Heather for me, yeah? She won’t answer if I do. We have a job to do, you an’ me, we needa find out if Joseph’s wit’ her. Do that an’ I’ll let you live. And you can go back ta doin’ whatever it is you were doin’ in the cookie jar. Got it?”
Tammy looked at him in insolence. “Yuh called the ex fo’ a reason! Yu dun’ talk to the ex. You ex em out’cho life! Heather gon’ ex ‘cho out! She ain’t gonna talk to yuh!”
“I said,” he lowed in a growl, “Call her.” And attendant on this command was a slow, calculable push.
Her joints creaked.
Fear spiked in her chest. Most men would have been content with slapping her, hitting her, pummeling her. But this? Tammy would have to amend her earlier observation. This wasn’t a violent man; this was an evil man. Because evil moved not with the outbursts of viragos, but with the patient, languid movements of interlopers.
And she could sense, she could see (in his face) that he was absorbing this interaction in a slow ripple of pleasure. And, more than that: the human body was complex, and he seemed possessed of prohibitive knowledge; the knowledge to hurt it (perfectly) along its connective seams.
Tammy gave a taut nod.
THE APARTMENT
The phone rang.
Heather jumped. Joseph yelped.
"Who is it?” he asked.
"Tammy. Why is Tammy calling me? Tammy never calls me.” Dread raced up and down her arms.
She connected the call. “Tammy?”
Heather shot Joey a warning look. Be quiet, her eyes said.
Tammy said nothing.
And, suddenly, Heather knew: “Tammy… is…” Heather took a deep, calming breath and whispered: “Is there a man there?"
Yes.
Tammy had said quietly. So quietly. Heather’s heart dropped. “You need to… you need…to give him the phone, Tammy. I think I know what he wants. I think… I think he wants to talk to me.”
THE FLORAL SHOP
He grabbed the phone from Tammy, who had offered it to him in an awkward, uncoordinated motion of her immobilized fingers.
And he was suddenly, vividly alive. Would Heather speak? Would Heather speak to him? The thought of hearing her voice cupped inside his ear sent a sudden, anticipatory shudder through him. (And it was so bodily, that it refluxed acid up his throat).
He waited. He listened.
But he heard nothing.
The silence stretched on as something he would characterize as rebellious. And, unable to contain himself a moment longer, he uttered a cajoling: “Well?”
THE APARTMENT
His voice.
Heather’s teeth came together in a spasm.
To hear it again, to hear it speaking to her… it was an ailing relief to know that it was no longer the voice embedded in a ghostly memory – it was, instead, a true, vocal sound. An utterance made by a man. And it was, as she remembered it: pleasantly down-inflecting with a texture that prevented it from becoming a muddled drone; the faint inner-city drawl giving it character without it becoming a caricature. And, in its projection, a natural erotic rasp. (how many women had fallen victim to that attractive voice, she wondered).
“You,” she whispered.
She refused to say his name; to think it; to indulge it.
A peculiar mania went through her, then. She almost, almost laughed. She had tried to unknown him, hadn’t she, renaming him that in her contacts. It was her attempt to excise his power. But in her attempt to unknown him, she had exalted him; and he had re-emerged as a cryptid that needn’t a name to buckle her world. Because there was nothing more horrifying than a name, and nothing more intimate than the utterance of it; his name was the connective piece between them, forming the silhouette of their reality. A reality in which he had tried to ingest her.
“It’s been a while.” She dug her nails into her palm to keep focused. “Leggo of Tammy. She’s not who you’re after. We… we both know that. Let her go.”
Heather walked to the window and peered out. And, in a sort of existential wisdom – feeling so keenly alive – she noted the colors of the sunset with a clarity she had not felt before. It would be dark soon. And wolves hunted in the dark.
“The hell do you want?”
THE FLORAL SHOP
She was speaking.
And she was speaking to him. And, amazingly, it was no longer the approximation of what he consistently and persistently heard in his dreams. It was her: it was his Heather.
Her voice was as he remembered it: a sweet soprano with a whiskey-tumbling rasp. And, in her projection, a huskiness that softened the edges of the inner-city drawl. She dragged on her words like a lit cigarette. (It made his dick twitch). God. How he missed talking to her. And, even sometimes, just sitting in a companionable silence. He missed that, too.
"What do I want,” he repeated with a little more color. “Fuck, Kitten. Be careful. Be very careful. That’s a very loaded question.”
(From the earpiece) “ok, fine. what do you want me to do?”
“Good girl,” he remarked. “You figured it out. I want you to do something, yeah. I want you to follow instructions. Can you do that?”
(from the earpiece) “…wh-what do you want.”
“Send the boy home.”
(from the earpiece) “But, I’m alone…”
“Oh, don’t lie,” he remarked. “It’s best you don’t lie, Kitten. Some people benefit from you not lyin’.”
And: he crouched, adjusting the cell phone, pointing it toward the intersection of bodies, so that in one deliberate muscular contraction, it captured the sound of –
THE APARTMENT
a wooden, brittle crack.
Heather torqued her body – carrying it and the phone – away from Joseph. She squeezed her eyes shut. She knew that sound. She had been a rambunctious child.
But the auditory assault did not stop: sliding through the earpiece was the wet, brittle sound of inelastic ligament separating and snapping. And stair-stepping higher and higher: a high piercing scream that scraped over her skin like a rusted nail.
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING.”
Heather’s mind raced. She couldn’t place the sound. But, somehow, she knew it. Something atavistic inside of her knew what it was. (It was the splanchnic sound of bodily rupture).
“STOP.”
Heather’s heart hammered. That sound. It edged along her skin, carrying more of that patterned cracking (sawing in and out over the earpiece) and the sibilant hiss of something pulping, liquefying between his words.
It’s static, her brain whispered weakly. It has to be weird digital static.
“This is on you,” she heard him murmur (and there was a thickness to his speech). This’all stops when you do.”
One, two. Three. Three deep breaths. (Because three felt like a safe number).
And Heather hardened.
No. This ends with me. This ends tonight.
And, like him, she pushed away her humanity.
She turned to Joey. Her voice both carried its command to her awkward companion, and simultaneously wafted over the mouthpiece: “Go home, Joey. Just go. I… I don’t think it’s a good idea if you stay. Don’t do anything stupid, and don’t stay and try and play the hero, either. Just go.”
But Heather flicked her chin toward the closet, handing him the army knife. Bless him. Joesph played along, moving the furniture from the front door before opening it and shutting it for dramatic effect.
With dramatic finality: “He’s gone,” Heather pronounced. “It’s just me, now. I’m alone.”
Heather ended the call. She turned to Joseph. " He hurt Tammy; I think.” (Joseph’s eyebrows shot up his face). “We end this tonight. If I need you, I’ll call. But don’t come out a second before. Got it?”
Like an obedient puppy, Joey nodded his head. And without further instruction he slid into the closet, closing it tight behind him.
Heather moved over to the bed. She killed the lights.
She picked up Joseph’s pistol. I’ll blast you away.
THE FLORAL SHOP
Tammy was a female apostrophe in his mouth: curled on his tongue in bodily agony. Still crouched, in a boneless spasm he jerked his head, spitting her onto the floor. Her tiny head lolled up – eyes a band of white – to look at the violent man in the last extinguishment of sunlight. Still aggressively backlit, she could not tell if he was gigantic, or, if she was hallucinating from the pain.
She rolled onto her arms in an autonomic spasm. They were mangled, up to the elbows, ejecting chunks of anatomy. Flesh, twisted between teeth, had been chewed against the grain, and hung loosely from bone. And, each deliberate tongue stroke had coarsely scraped, snapping tensile mooring, so viscera peeled from her in bands of necrotic sleeves. And, under concussive force, her hands had burst, spraying bits of opaline bone and tendon. Her fingers, trapped in punitive pressure, had snapped along the joints. They no longer retained anatomical shape: they were mashed, pulped open, leaking fluid and foam. She keeled over, wooden.
Purple-red blood pumped to the floor in an arterial hiss.
Movement flickered and Tammy elongated: she became normal.
He dragged his sleeve across his mouth and pushed his tongue forward (and Tammy watched in mortal horror) as bits of herself swished through his saliva.
A tiny shudder of life went through her. It was, as she had suspected: evil had visited her this evening. And she knew this because evil made promises, and worse –
it kept them: “We had a deal,” he intoned. And he turned, but not without first tossing a cavalier: “Jus’ as I promised. I’d let you live. Now, go. Go ahead. Go an’ scoop from the cookie jar, you handsy little bitch.”
And he left.
THE APARTMENT
He made his way across town. There was no spring to his step, no merriment to his stride. There was only the steep, purposeful strides of the hunter compelled. The lines of the apartment complex etched into view. The windows on the facade were dark and un-shuttered like lidless eyes.
And mantled by the dark, he melted into the lobby.
His pace quickened. He broke into a full run. That was so unlike him. But Heather did things to him…
He charged down the hallway. And stopped.
He sensed the air. Heather. And the air was so steeped with Heather that he was certain if he sampled it with so little as a tongue-flick, he would be able to taste her in the inertia.
He moved to the door.
He leaned in closer, intent. Every nerve alive. Every breath calculated, controlled. What booby traps you got laid out for me? And she would, wouldn’t she? She absolutely would have laid her traps for him. Heather did not roll over. She did not submit. She never did. (But that was the fun of pursuing headstrong prey like Heather, wasn’t it?) His ears pricked forward. Where was she? A primal excitement curdled low in his stomach. (It, too, was interested in Heather).
He placed his hand on the door as though with that gesture alone he could pull her into him (and maybe he could).
And pushed.
The door creaked open. It was the emittance of a single cry –
HEATHER
– that bugled from Joseph’s throat as he charged into the living room.
Heather shrieked.
Joseph lofted the knife high into the air, and swung.
Heather sprang from cover. In the commotion she bolted out the door; but not without first sensing, feeling, absorbing an undulation of movement.
There was a single yelp; the punctuation of a shoe scrape; an unctuous thrust; and, then, an athletic shunt of weight.
Don’t look back. Just run. You stop, you die.
“Track!” She gasped into the stirring night air. “You got this.”
Her heart was racing. Her feet were pounding. The world whipped by her, through her, in her, in a diorama. And she pushed. Her breath burned in her throat. And she pushed.
Like 200-meter repeats. Just do it. Go.
Each heel strike was loud, discordant: it was a slamming, a banging in her ears that echoed inside her head. It was ungainly and loud, especially in counterpoint to the procession of swift, fleet sounds that were suddenly, terrifyingly coming from behind.
He’s chasing me.
Like a wolf-dog in hot pursuit, the chase had his blood up. It was driving him forward. And she could feel it from him, swelling larger: excitement.
Let out of his cage, he was running her down.
The trees flew past. The cars.
And she could feel something stir through the air. As though it would reach out and…
something almost almost touching the ends of her hair.
He’s too fast. Even with her head-start, he had covered the distance in stunning speed. But, Heather was like him: relentless. And, as an athlete that knew how to scrape up more effort, she put out more speed.
And inch, by agonizing inch, she pulled away, creating vital distance.
The fixed, central point of the horizon danced before her as she destined to run toward it, desperate to jump into it – when her world swayed, her world rocked – and the infinite image of the sunset rotated as she realized slowly, realized belatedly, that it was her body falling, her body crashing through the warehouse entrance simultaneous to the sound of the security panels groaning, the security panels dropping –
– instinct compelling her –
to pivot athletically as she launched – diving –
just as the security panels slammed into the concrete with a deafening bang, behind her.
The impetus blasted back her hair.
Heather rolled onto her back, laughing. A peculiar mania gripped her, then. She had done it. She had just nearly been decapitated, but she didn’t care; she had outrun the devil himself. She looked at the spot where she could have become a bodily stain, and giggled in a high peak of hysteria. What else was she capable of? With her adrenalized blood, she felt like she could take on the world.
She moved with purpose, getting up onto her hands and knees, surveilling her environment.
And it was just as she remembered it: work bench, coffee cup, discarded clothes, and all of their attending shadows. Except, she realized, mentally counting, there was one too many.
No.
Her head swiveled. And her heart stopped.
He was standing in front of the security gate, panting, high on color from the chase, tossing back his sweat-slicked hair, looking every inch the allegorical wolf that had just huffed and puffed and blew her house down.
It was just the two of them, moments away, trapped in concrete.
Heather flung herself backward. She landed ugly on the floor.
“Track,” he parroted back. “You forget, I’m a fast motherfucker, too.”
EPILOGUE
When Tammy was found, three days later, it was decided she had fallen into one of the industrial machines. Specifically, the one in the back with the cross-cut teeth, that was designed for slicing through floral stems. That must have been what she meant, they decided, when she railed on – in great heaving screams – about being chewed up, and spit out, by a monster.
In due course, she was scheduled for surgery. One that would be financially ruinous. It would be a debt heaped upon her that no amount of cash skimming could ever discharge. And, because nothing remarkably exciting had been revealed by the closed-circuit television, Tammy could bring no crime to the canon of the courts; that is, other than the crime of being called a liar by her supervisor for not being able to locate Heather, which, both of them realized, after a spirited exchange… had gone curiously missing.
Or, so the urban legend went. Because, Heather did not go missing; not at all. Quite simply, no one was possessed of an imagination dark enough – or fantastical enough – to entertain the insane delusion – seemingly shared between the two women – that, on the eve of Tammy’s diminishment, the monster had also visited Heather, on his quest…
to make her terrifically small.
END PART I
AUTHOR WORD:
The vagal nerve controls chewing; swallowing; rest; and digest. Splanchnic, used in this context, refers to organ and organ tissue. For those wondering, Heather’s accent (and her boyfriend’s) approximates the East End of Brooklyn (Canarsie).
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Click For Chapter: Revelation of the Method
SWALLOW ME, LIKE YOUR LITTLE PILL
Book One, Revelations 2023
Synopsis: A female pill addict tries to vainly outwit, outlast, outsex a violent demonic monster. Because he prefers his pills lady-shaped.
But this is only the beginning of a dark, damning, tumultuous epic saturated with vore kink, size kink, and layered narrative.
05
Hear no evil – Japanese Proverb
HEATHER
Slowly, with great calculated movement, she turned her head. The room was dim like a catacomb, and in this dusky light, in this shaft of space, she became heightened, sensitized. In her interment she felt everything. Every stray whisp of air skimmed across her skin. Every sound conducted through her bones. With a trembling breath she reached along the concrete floor, feeling it, feeling the details, the depressions, the cold smoothness, the dimples of the gray stone. She would remember it in this lifetime, and the next.
She lolled her head up. And, with a click of her neck, looked behind her. Careful, girlie. Her brain taunted. Gonna turn your back like that?
Behind her: a windowless concrete wall with humidified vapor steaming from the surface. To the sides of her: more wall space with exits encumbered by iron security grates, interlocked into points of mastication. And, before her… No no no. She didn’t want to think about what was in front of her. If I don’t look at it, it’s not there. It’ll go away.
Bent-back and breathless, she reached along the concrete floor. Something had ejected from her during her intrepid dive. It clattered across the stone ground. She squinted against the midtones of the dark. The dark mantled the walls, and stole her sight like very-many velvet fingers; but it was the quality of dark that was thin and penetrable, capable of breathing. And in its uneven exhalations it created a vaporous shadow. And in that shadow – forming an image – was a masculine figure sitting on the workbench. The figure leaned forward, extracting a quiver from the room.
She felt the movement. Absorbed it like they were dangling from the same cosmic string.
Instinctively, she felt for the gun. It was still in her hip pocket.
But an even more important weapon lay just out of reach. It looked up at the exposed underbelly of the rafters with a single slit-lidded eye. It had a forlorn look about it: a tenuous crack appeared, splitting open its face.
And, they both, in a twin mirror-image, compelled by the same instinct, reached for it, from across the room at the exact same time.
The shadow scraped along the floor –
as Heather reached –
but the cell phone receded.
Heather felt a pang of loss as her cell phone was taken, teasingly, from the vain reaching motion of her fingers. One pessimist inch more (just one) if she had just reached one pessimist inch more, she would have outdone him. But he whisked it away with barely a whisper of fabric to betray the intent.
A tremor gripped her hand. Instinctively, she retracted it. And that tremor threatened to travel down the length of her. She backstroked it to her chest like she was shielding it from a wild animal. She felt naked and exposed crouched on the floor, and this nakedness extended as her cell phone moved cavalierly through his hands.
It felt terrible. It felt like a physical violation. My whole life is in there. Her life hung from his fingers. And, she thought with a chill, not just metaphorically. Because, her brain sneered, if he was feeling cruel enough, he could -in fact- diminish her and dangle her from his fingers.
And there was a sound, it reached across the dark: it was a faint murmur with coils of amusement. And it was, she realized, a voice. It expanded across the room, seeking her. It carried sentience. It carried words. He was speaking.
“You never changed it, huh.”
“…my password,” she said, feeling thick and dumb. “…h-how?”
“I’m a Scorpio, remember?” he deadpanned. “I’m the only one that gets to keep secrets ‘round here.”
Her teeth came together in a sharp spasm. He was here, now, existing, speaking to her. He had become flesh and blood, breath and bone. They were in the same abridged existence, scant moments apart, riding the same tide of inertia. “Secrets,” she repeated disbelievingly; then, a self-protective anger surged through her: "Secrets?! You want to talk secrets you motherfucking –
Heather flung her arm into the air. “Raise your hand if you’ve ever been personally victimized by Scorpio,” she belted.
And she felt his eyes move across the length of her, inspecting her ruse. They traveled down her arm; to her wrist; up, then: to her fingers, which were tipped by the gleaming grip of the gun. The muzzle dexterously twisted to point at him.
“Heather,” he intoned.
“I swear to God,” she gasped, her voice spreading thin at the edges. “I will shoot you if you come near me.”
He leaned back on his hands. His narrowed eyes belied the slow, languid movement. He intimated a shrug with one shoulder, swiveling his gaze at her coquettishly. “So, you’re the hunter now, huh.”
“Sure. Yeah. The tables have turned. How’s it feel?” she grit.
“Go. Be the hunter. Go ahead,” he urged with a sporting flick of his chin. “You wanna escalate things, you wanna be the hunter, you better fucking commit. You wanna take on this role?” The levity so-animating him before evaporated; the coquettish flutter of his eyelashes; the demure swivel of his shoulder; it all disappeared, now, replaced by the hard lines in his body. “I don’t need to wave around a gun to get my point across,” he spat. “If you’re gonna shoot me, you better shoot to kill. ‘Cause if you escalate things that much– if you can even get that far – you better light me up. ‘Cause if you miss, or you lack the nerve, or you hesitate, you will” – he shook his head in silent admonishment. “They haven’t created the word yet for the type of pain I’ll put you through.” He looked levelly at her. “And I won’t need a fuckin’ gun to do it. I won’t even need my hands,” he sneered. “So, go ahead,” he briefly flung his arms out wide in theatric camp. “Take your best shot.”
Heather bit back the surge of feelings. “No – don’t. Stop. Guns work on… they work on everyone.” She shook it menacingly.
He projected a look of faint amusement at her. “Then, take a crack at it. Go ahead; go. Draw first blood.” His voice dipped into a lower register; and it was the auditory equivalent of a knife stroking silk. “But, you won’t like it - what I do - when I draw blood.”
Heather licked her lips. This was either an elaborate melodrama, or he was offering soft disclosure as to the existence of a stealthy resilience he possessed against mortal wounds. She did not doubt the strength of his convictions. And, if she did not believe him in the black letter of the law, then, at least, she could endeavor to believe the truth running parallel to it. Because if she was honest with herself, perfectly honest, there was something chilling and compelling about his behavior. She stroked the trigger guard; stopped. There was something about his manner, his delivery, his verve…
He’s got no right bein’ this calm at the business end of a gun. Heather surrendered. She wilted the gun down to her side.
He studied her a moment longer, then, secure in some quiet, primitive knowledge that she would not misbehave, bent his head, and went back to her cell phone.
“No – stop. Don’t… don’t ignore me,” she rasped.
But he cut across her with an offhand: “Well which is it? Should I ignore you? Or should I be stuck on you?” He shook his head, returned to the screen, then jerked back. “Unknown?! Man, Heather. I can’t believe you went with the option ‘unknown,’ black-listing me straight down the contact list. That’s pretty cold, even for you.”
Heather felt a lick of anger; and it was an anger that was enough to sublimate her fear, so much so that she forgot to feel it. “You might as well be a fucking unknown with what you did – what you can do, I can’t even… I - how?!”
But he remained unmoved. She watched him return to her phone. It filled the room with a sad meager glow, offering a dull but sufficient source of direction. The bottom half of his face – over-bright – floated, seemingly, above the corona of light; the rest of his face retreated into a convex of shadow. His eyes were incandescent.
The optical illusion was disturbing. She looked away; she looked back. Her hair stood on end as she watched him peel through layers of privacy, finger stroke, by finger stroke. Feeling mutinous, she barked: “What are you doing?!”
He looked at her levelly; said nothing; then returned to his menial labor. His eyes moved side-to-side, in habituation, reading; then, he offered a smooth: “Becoming an educated stalker.”
She could scream; she could cry. She could stamp her feet. Had he always been this annoying? (And why did she have the grace to forgive him in times past for such behavior)?
But, Heather had not the luxury to meditate on this, because the feeling of the seconds sliding along her skin became something insidious; her bowels contracted. She tried to absorb the convulsion with grace, but she could sense, she could see, he caught her pain with a preternatural flick of his eye. The sudden, feral up-tick of interest telegraphed by his face reminded her, nauseatingly, of a wolf watching a wounded rabbit. She had an instinctive pang he wanted to sink his fangs into her.
Unfortunately, she did not know how to properly weaponize herself against such feral behavior because it was so other; but what she did know, she knew acutely, and it was not to show fear; she knew not to provoke him. She may have anointed herself hunter in name; but he was hunter by blood. And she dare not rattle that strong prey-drive.
I won’t show him my fucking belly. I have to survive this. I did not get this far to just get this far.
She flexed and unflexed her fingers around the gun. It felt good; it felt like a good weight in her hands. It channeled her strength. Heather hardened. “Well, what’s there to stalk? Hello, hi: I’m here. Right in fucking front of you. I’m alive, kicking, in the middle of a fucking withdrawal episode, and - oh - I’ve learned my ex-boyfriend is - is a fucking… monster, demon, boogeyman thing. I don’t know what happened to my friends, so I’m kind of going through a lot right now. Actually, you know what? What happened to Tammy? Let’s start there.” She paused for effect, then in a begrudging growl: “What the fuck did you do to Tammy?”
“I broke her hand.” He replied flatly.
“You - what? How?”
“Well,” he reprised with a touch of humor, “I stepped on it.”
“Repeatedly?” Heather snapped. “No,” she quavered. “I heard it. I heard it. Whatever you did, whatever it was, it didn’t stop. It – it kept going.”
“I broke both her hands.” (Heather’s expression whiplashed over him). “So, ten: I stepped on an’ broke ten of her fingers, I guess.” And Heather could sense that he enjoyed his sloppy lie; that he enjoyed being so unabashedly deceitful.
Heather ran her free hand over her face. She felt sick.
It was static, she reminded herself. It had to, it must, it absolutely had to have been static; that abrasive crackle, that splanchnic sound pouring into her ear had to have been static or digital distortion. She would not, could not, could not allow herself to believe it was anything other than static. Because, somehow, the fate of being crushed underfoot was better than envisioning he had pulled the woman through his teeth.
But, it didn’t sit well with her. His confession did not harmonize with her instinct. “Why.”
“So she can’t dip her hands where they don’t belong, and can’t put them in everyone else’s business.” (off Heather’s look) “No hands, no phone. She can’t use it no mo’.” For illustration he held up Heather’s cell phone. He waggled it. “Kinda like you.”
“Give it back,” she croaked.
“Why?” he grinned nastily at her. “Who you gonna call? Who the fuck is gonna save you?” He taunted. “It’s just you an’ me. All nice and tucked away with my juicy, intrusive thoughts.”
That crack widened inside of her.
“And Joey?” She said softly.
“Bleeding out on your apartment floor.” He said tonelessly.
She swallowed the knowledge; it spoliated her stomach.
He continued: “I told you to send him home. I told you. I gave you that chance. But you’re just too damn stubborn.”
Heather felt stricken. But he had not the sympathy to let her recover, he continued with ease: “I’m almost impressed, Heather. Your body count is almost as good as mine.”
"Excuse me? What –
“Everywhere you go, you leave a trail of bodies behind.”
Heather looked at him mutinously. No; that’s you. You do that. I don’t do that.
“Tammy’s hand. Joseph’s leg.” He deliberately paused, and, then: "It didn’t have to be like this. If you had just sent him on his merry way–
“No!” She cut across. “Don’t make this about me! Don’t put this on me ! Don’t you dare! You - you try to spin this and - and make this about me. You’re trying to gaslight me.” She could break down and cry. She could become the little girl again and sob, wondering why she wasn’t good enough. Wondering why she felt so small and stupid around him. Wondering why she could never outdo him.
He intimated a shrug. “Very clever, though, using Joseph as a decoy. I’ll give you that. You didn’t even give the poor boy a parting glance when you ran out. You used him and abused him to his last.”
“Stop,” she wailed. Her voice opened at the ends. “Stop. That’s not what happened… he wasn’t supposed to do that. He wasn’t – fuck.”
His eyes flickered knowingly at her. “What? You gonna pretend? You gonna go on pretendin’ you didn’t take advantage of that poor boy’s feelings?”
"How the fuck - how would you know, why would you know this –
“I would know a little somethin’ ‘bout that,” he said faintly.
Heather looked down at the floor in black shame.
“I’ve been followin’ along. I’ve been taking notes.”
"You mean stalking me?” She gave him a cross look. “When did this all start?”
“Bet you never saw the painter.”
Heather looked at him; really looked at him. The insufficient glow of light was inadequate but enough to illuminate his frame. As ever, he was tall, as ever he was imposing. And, unlike most tall people, he did not present the illusion his limbs would run away from him; he was proportionate, balanced by muscular shape. He had a snake-like curve from his shoulders down to his slender waist that gave him a thrillingly erotic stance. When he moved, there was a slow seeping violence that edged every articulated flicker of muscle which belied the supple and seductive quality of it.
But what was wrong, what was glaringly wrong, what caught her attention - finally - was the manner of dress. He was in cheap, stained workman’s clothes. Which, was so unlike him, because he had a respectable sense of fashion. Heather looked at the discarded articles (still across the chair and table) with a new clairvoyance. He had undressed and redressed like a snake shedding its skin to slide over the sidewalk, into the bodily press of the crowd, to follow her; in, and out, in, and out. Pacing her; marking her; claiming her.
“Guess not,” Heather said glumly. “I guess I wouldn’t have recognized you in overalls anyway, since you’ve never worked an honest day in your life.”
He barked a laugh. “That’s what I liked about you, Heather. You never cared about my money. Mama didn’t raise no gold-digger.”
Liked. Past tense. She felt a chill go through her.
And in her plight to ignore the power vacuum opening up around his use of the past tense: "Why are you here? "
“Land’s cheap. Re-investing some capital on hand. We gentrifyin’.”
"No; really. Why are you here. Why are you following me? Why are you –
“Fate,” he said with a deadpan roll of his eyes. “Imagine my surprise when you popped up. I had no idea you ended up living here. Of all places?” He whistled. “This dump? I saw you, one afternoon, on yo’ merry way to the pill house. I had to know what you were up to. I had to find out. I couldn’t resist.”
She looked at him crossly. “Why?”
“It’s been a year. I gave you time. I gave you space.” he paused, then, after a moment of thought: “I figured that was long enough, yanno? Go through another run of the seasons, go through another three-hundred and sixty-five red x’s.”
Heather strained at him. “For what.”
“To reconnect.”
Heather spasmed backward.
But, she mentally digressed. She reflected on what he had just said. Been a year. He had been keeping track of time, all this time, after all. Had he been counting the days, the hours; the minutes? Did that mean she meant something to him? And how would she qualify that something? Was she Heather? Was she Friend? Foe? Something else as of yet undetermined and undefined? Or, worse. Was she collapsed down into that singular narrow definition of prey? All feature, definition, dimension blurred away? Was she prey for this madman?
“Do you remember?” he breathed.
Fear roiled around in her stomach; anger inched up her spine; and she clapped back with: “Remember?! You want to know if I remember?! For fuck’s sake, I had thought I was going crazy this whole time?! Meanwhile you dropped off the face of the planet for, like, a year. Then you resurface like some kind of fucking Stephen King monster and now you have the nerve to ask me if I remember.”
“The audacity,” he gasped dramatically.
But his camp was not enough to eclipse the enormity of what had happened. The shadow of its existence slid between them, and Heather - suddenly tired of this mental carousel – thrust forward in verbal revolt. And with him, here, now, sitting in this room with her: why not? Why not uncage it – him – them - why not open his crate and let him, with a click click of wolf nails, come free? She felt a sudden rush of excitement. Let’s see you. The real you. Let’s let the monster out.
With perfect, composed confidence: “You have the nerve to sit there, in front of me, happy as a clam, and ask – actually ask – if I remember you trying to eat me?”
And she regretted it the moment she said it. It felt terrible; it felt uncomfortable, like cogs in the mouth. She sounded crazy. And saying it aloud externalized it. Saying it made it have color, texture, membrane; made it seditiously real.
Only his eyes moved; they flicked, studying her. Like a wild animal accustomed to being in his cage – an elaborate construction made by her denial – he ruminated at the edge, suspicious.
Heather continued in a sharp pant: “I sound crazy just saying it out loud! Tell me I made it up in my head ! Tell me I was high ! Tell me I - I misremembered the whole damn thing! Tell me it was a metaphor?! Tell me I don’t remember it!”
He spoke, and his voice had a distinct erotic rasp. “Well, do you?”
Heather licked her lips. The crackle that had so-animated her, dissipated. There was something she was inching toward, something dark and inexorable, and it was dangerous because it was happening. But what was happening, exactly, she could not grasp. Only that things were going sideways. She had, of course, fantasized about this; a thousand times, a thousand times and more. But it was
– not, this.
-
Not him looking at her so raptly with pupils so withered his cornea was a cavity of incandescence; skin leeched of color (which was marked because it was normally possessed of a warm bronze); wooden stirrer jutting from the corner of his lips.
And, more importantly: how had she overlooked the wooden stirrer earlier? The one he was dragging along his teeth.
It made her skin crawl.
He knows, she realized. He knows that I remember.
But she would not give him the satisfaction; she deflected as he would have. “Well, at least you didn’t eat Tammy,” she said moodily.
“Naw. Not my type. I could tell she’d taste nasty.” His pupils flickered over her face. “You, on the other hand…”
Heather looked down, unable to hold his greedy stare. But she had barely a pessimist second to digest what he had just said (that he had preference) when his voice, in a curious tone, floated toward her again: “Why do you look at those videos, Heather.”
(Heather clutched her face in embarrassment). He continued. “Shame they don’t got anythin’ from the pred perspective.” He titled his head, as though watching one of those videos on screen right now, as though he could invert the perspective. “But, mm, it is interesting, seeing what you see.” (And the epileptic flash of light must have meant he was watching something).
Heather craned her neck forward, trying to see.
He continued. “Huh. This almost, almost gives me a rise, gettin’ a little peep into prey land. I mean, I have a pretty good idea of what happens to you guys, but getting’ a nice little visual to go along wit’ it.” He rotated the phone, pinched the screen larger. And almost absently, to himself: “Mm, oh yes Heather, I’m going to do this to you.”
His eyes widened in interest as he continued watching, and he darted a glance at her. “Big mistake, showin’ me your secret stash, kitty cat. Did you know you have a pattern here ? That you have preference?”
Heather wrapped an arm around herself. “S…stop… I’m not… I don’t like any of that… I…” she wheezed down panic. “I was… I was just trying to-to… underst—
He cut across her, unflinchingly. “Oh, you like that part, huh,” he murmured. He leaned his face in closer, watching the video with intent and a throaty laugh erupted from him. “Man, you are a kinky little bitch.”
This… this has to be some sorta stress test… or fear-play… he doesn’t mean any of this. He can’t mean this…
And she couldn’t tear her gaze away from the wooden stirrer; it was mesmerizing. What first she had surmised was the analogue for a cigarette now revisited her with new meaning. That’s me, Heather thought, suddenly. It’s me. That’s me. He’s fantasizing about me.
His head snapped up. He put her phone down. She flicked forward and grabbed it. He didn’t bother to pursue; instead, his voice went after her. “I’m gonna make those videos look like child’s play.”
“no,” she responded.
“God, you look good,” he exhaled. And his face held the same keen interest it did while watching the videos. “Anybody else would look like a fuckin’ troglodyte: rollin’ around in the dirt. You look so fuckin’ good I can’t stand it.”
And he caught her gaze, held it, commanded it in near-psychic instruction, giving the wooden stirrer a long, showy lick. Heather watched the sinuous movement of his tongue and shuddered her face away; back. His pupils dragged themselves across her upturned face, probing the obscene gesture into her.
Heather looked down in a spasm of fear. She gripped the gun tighter. But that dark piece of drama, that erotic spectacle, had imbued in her, a strange, diffusive confidence. She affected him. The stoicism in his text messages had been a pretense; she had an effect over him.
“How d-do you do it,” she breathed. “I-is… it a drug? A-a vial? A syringe? S-some sort of Illuminati technology?”
He moved his fingers through the air in an elaborate pantomime of a magic trick. “Nah; it’s all me. It’s my ‘black magic.’” He tracked verbal air-quotes through the air.
Oh God, he does it. And for some reason, the very fact that this was somehow intrinsic to him, a distinct inborn ability conscripted in him by nature (Or God?) was more terrifying than if he had co-opted an alien technology. Because, that meant, he was it. He was the weapon; he was the single shot across the bow. And worse than that: he could control it.
Her mouth gaped open. “W-what are you?”
“Does it matter?”
"Yes; fuck yes it does… it - it matters. I need to know what I’m dealing with here! If-if, you’re some sort of fucking devil, or demon or-or alien… or.”
“You know what the difference between an angel and demon is, Heather?”
“Don’t,” she held up a hand, vainly halting him. "Don’t - don’t tell me. Don’t fucking sit there and tell me - don’t you dare say you’re some goddamn fallen angel, or demon or vampire or whatever, otherwise I -swear to God- I will march right on outta here, lay down on the fuckin’ train tracks and feed pigeons.”
He turned his head away, but not before she caught the uncontrollable smile. And: in that moment, in that moment of that shining second of that abbreviated smile, she knew she could survive this.
She changed tact, and drew them back to the original conversation in a show of appeasement. “Ok, fine. I’ll bite. What’s the difference.”
“Etymology.”
Heather almost swallowed her tongue. But she tried to conceal her fear behind a spirited verbal poke: “Y’know, sometimes, I forget you’re smart. You come off sayin’ shit like that, and it’s kinda jarring.”
He laughed coldly. And crooked a finger. “Come closer, kitten. Insult me a little closer.”
Heather pointedly took two, big, exaggerated steps back, instead. “So. You’re not human,” she said warily.
“Half,” he amended. “Man, and not-man. And both of ‘em crave you like crazy.”
“Y’know,” she started slowly. “Once upon a time I was so mad, so mad at you that you were never honest about anything… that you lied, and you lied constantly. And, now, this is the most honest you’ve ever been… just unrelentingly honest, and… I… I don’t like it. I… just. Like, ok, I get it now. I see why you had to be cagey about everything, but Jesus.”
“We are beyond that.” He said simply. “Besides,” he continued, “You’re not the one bein’ honest now.”
Her face lashed around in anger. “The fuck you just say?! I’ve only ever been honest wit’cho!”
“Heather!” he shouted. “You have an entire album in here. A collection. A library. A TAXONOMY. You’ve ranked them.” His voice had sailed higher with each strident syllable, until it almost cracked at the ends. But, his unique vocal register still held onto its masculine thrust. And, it compelled her to respond.
“OK. FINE. I… I don’t like th-the… bodily part. The inside stuff. It’s gross. But… I…” her lips quivered. “I like the… the extreme size difference.” She clammed up.
The stirrer snapped between his teeth.
The sound of it splintered over her skin. She twitched her face away in embarrassment. “I… I mean, that’s why,” she fought down the surge of embarrassment, “I’ve always liked tall guys.” as she paced. (His head slowly swiveled to track her). “But… but it’s just fantasy,” she amended. “It’s just fantasy. What you do… what you did… it… it goes way, way beyond that. You make light of those videos, or whatever, but you, you’re fucking hurting people. Like when you did… like when you tried to do to me, when yo—
“Yes,” he breathed. “I tried to eat the fuck out of you.”
Heather made a pained gasp.
He tilted his head at her. “Should I go back to lying?”
There was a hiccup of confusion, then the dull, flat feeling of shock attendant on the mental whiplash that he had actually said it. Her skin prickled at the re-emergence of their, once, shared metaphor. He was, if nothing else, always calculable with his words. He had taken their endearment, their relationship code-speak and tainted it.
“Why,” she said lamely. “Why me? Why so bent out of shape over me? Why so - so fuckin’ obsessed with me? Go after some fucking brain-dead vapid floozy instead!”
“No, no, no, no,” he chided. “No, Heather. You don’t get it. That is why I’m interested. It’s because you’re not some brain-dead vapid floozy.”
“I hate it! It’s not like I was your fucking first! Go find an’ get obsessed wit’ someone else!” She exploded.
“Actually,” he said softly, almost intimately. “In a way you were.”
Heather instinctively backed away. When had he slipped down from the workbench? When had the wolf padded quietly from his cage? She tried to make natural the gesture of raising the gun again.
But she was unable to stop herself, what he had said was simply too romantically redolent. “The first? How? Wha-what do you mean?” She blurted.
In a contraction of movement: he was closer. Heather stumbled backward. “You were the first that got away. That – y’know what? – I let get away. ‘Cause, trust me, I always, always clean up. I don’t like what’s mine, gettin’ away. But, with you…” He shook his head in a silent scolding. “Things went sideways.”
Tammy, her brain cried out. Oh my God, I have to get to her, I have to warn her.
But, worse than that. Worse than trying to vainly protect Tammy… was the knowledge she was the first. She had been right. There had been many. And the quality of his voice, the careless delivery, told her - without needing to tell her - that his victims were many; innumerable. Nameless, faceless. (Maybe, even, some with names). So, why was it he had failed with her? He’s still not telling me the fucking truth; not all of it.
“How did you, parading around in all your greatness, fuck up so royally?” She asked coldly. Insultingly, she sniffed: “I thought you were better than those amateurs?”
“It was an accident.” He said tonelessly. “That you benefitted from, so shut the fuck up.”
Oh, ouch. Did I hurt your male pride? You’re more man than you’ll ever admit.
“An accident?” She sniped back. “No. An accident is when you stub your toe, not - not,” she waved her gun-tipped arm emphatically: “This.”
He shot her a dark, vicious look. “Be glad I let you live,” he said in a strange, restrained voice. “Be good with that explanation, Heather. Be very good.”
And whatever was lurking in him, whatever he was keeping just barely contained, winked out at her from behind his eyes.
She was terrified, but she pressed forward: “Oh, I’m sorry. Should I bow to the king?” (He made an annoyed sound). “God I hate you. Is this a man thing? Is this a male privilege thing?! You think you can just do whatever the fuck you want?!”
He moved closer. “I can do whatever the fuck I want,” he retorted hotly. “Because I don’t leave bodies.” And, with the intent to hurt, with the intent to wound: “Killing is addicting, kitty cat. And I like it,” he mouthed. “I’m very good at it.”
This is you. I’m getting there. I’m finally getting to the fucking monster.
Heather was hoping, Heather was praying that by getting him to confess his sins, by getting him to reveal his demon, she could corral him, because, she hoped, as she moved tactically through this conversation, that in his revelation, he would be seen, and there would be catharsis. And in his catharsis, he’d let her live.
She clenched the gun. He had changed. He was drained of humor, of levity. And, she realized with a start, he was less verbal. And that: that also felt ominous. Her heart pounded in anxiety; her bowels contracted in fear. She turned a wild eye on him.
He quietly advanced. And his quality of movement extracted a gasp from her.
This was; this was beyond her. This was something she didn’t recognize. This was no longer a tease. Now, she was certain, that earlier, when they had been interacting, he had been engaging in a little innuendo; a little fun. Now, this ? This cryptid that was pacing her, tracking her, marking her, was something godless that had stepped out of the sheep’s clothing to torment her.
The real him. The thing that fed.
She urinated down her leg.
“Stop.” She wheezed. She held up her gun-tipped hand to deflect him. “I’m not…” her voice died out. She was in a conniption of shame feeling the hot rush of her own damn piss.
He reached for her: it was blindingly fast, a blur. And somehow, unkind. She cantered back. And, only, because she had slipped in her own urine, which accidentally lubricated movement, did she evade.
“Put the gun down,” he said coldly. “I don’t want that goin’ off.”
“Touch.” She blurted. “It works with touch. You need to touch me to make it work. You need to,” she was babbling now, and she didn’t care. She had to put distance between them. She had to stay out of reach of this abomination that was slowly, indulgently moving toward her. This was him: uncaged. She had done it. But she knew, she knew she would have to go through this to get out of this. She’d have to hold congress with him to prove she could handle him.
Heather: "Otherwise, you woulda made me teeny-tiny by now, I think – " she took another calculated step back; but only by half, the wall was behind her.
With intimation of movement, he backed her into a corner.
She looked at him, pained by his alien stare. This was a gamble, but one she’d have to take. I have to show him that it’s ok. That… that… I can handle the real him.
“Danny,” she gasped.
He stopped. And they both stared at one another in quiet prayer. There was a flicker of lucidity in his eyes. Saying his name was remarkable, and affecting, because she had not said it since she had escaped from him that fateful night. And they had -only at this moment- become aware of this.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry I-I called you an unknown. I…” she swallowed thickly, and held out her phone. “Change it. P-put your name back in… put it back in my phone.”
In this: she validated him; she accepted him; she bargained with him. Her soul for his intrigue. That he had tried to eat her. That he had failed. And he returneth to do it again. But, if they were of one mind, demon and mortal could make a blood-pact. They could find accord.
Heather sucked down her breath. And it was important he do this, because if he did something so enduring…
“Please,” she breathed.
And he upturned his hand and held it out to her.
Oh my God. Thank God. It’s going to be ok… everything is goin—
But, it was a beautifully clever ruse, because as she had focused on handing over the cell phone, he struck his fingers through her opposite hand. Heather shrieked. And, in a clever articulation, he wrapped his hand around the gun. She gasped against the tremor, screaming as shocks of pain went through her fingers as he crushed her hand against the pistol –
which, under the momentum of his strength, and her relentless fingers, sawed violently between them.
And unaware of one necessary but critical error, and so unaware of it was he: so deaf to Heather shrieking, Heather crying, wailing at him that they were in this frenetic tug of war not because she was stronger, but because her hand was stuck under his, in the trigger assembly –
That he, in a black rage, yanked again.
And, her pointer finger, necessarily surging backward as the gun propelled forward, caught and clutched the trigger –
(and, nakedly, their eyes met in the infinite second that the wobble that went through the gun, went through their soul)
And. Click.
The gun jerked.
Blasting. It fired, splitting open their tight, gasping universe. Heat, and smoke, in an infinitesimal second, in entropic fission, defying space and time, slowly showered over them, like the birthing of an atomic sun.
And, atomized, Heather’s brain, faster now, watched: the sparks showered molten and bright; the concussive wave roared through them, in them, and a high-pitched tone stretched, exploding their liminal space into an incandescent white corona like an inverted black hole – and – she at the event horizon, felt time return to her in a sudden elastic snap, such that the events diverging around them hurried, catching up: as something with propulsion, something with density slammed into her, hurtling her backwards, and her chin violently snapped up.
-
Click For Chapter: Hear No Evil
SWALLOW ME, LIKE YOUR LITTLE PILL
Book One, Revelations 2023
Synopsis: A female pill addict tries to vainly outwit, outlast, outsex a violent demonic monster. Because he prefers his pills lady-shaped.
But this is only the beginning of a dark, damning, tumultuous epic saturated with vore kink, size kink, and layered narrative.
06
Hear no evil – Japanese Proverb
HEATHER
The gun fired.
And this – all of this – happened in an eye-blink: her eyelids clicked down; her eyelashes opened; and within the needlepoint etching of them: an incandescent dimension of white exploded. Then, soundless sound; a liminal space of black enameled with heat, motion; the sensation of falling, dropping – abrupt impact – absence, absence, absence…
a white-out. A fall-out.
– then –
The taut quiver of nothingness. Resplendent black. And, then, finally, pieces of presence slowly returning.
And, that tiny uncountable second, that tiny sliver of time that had splintered off from reality: ejected her.
And, Heather, feeling like a misplaced punctuation mark, dangling off the edge of a messy, ugly sentence, opened her eyes. But it was still so dark, and her eyes still so unadjusted, that her vision did not provide the information she needed, so, her brain surged the synaptic data over her, through her, in her, to replay the events in a flicker of retroactive senescence.
Because all of this had already happened. And her body was playing catch-up.
The gun had fired. Something had ejected – and – a force had knocked her sideways. Which meant, at the terminus of these events, it should logically follow, her brain provided, that she be on the floor.
Except she wasn’t. Not entirely. Not properly.
Pieces of her were. She felt the coldness of the concrete where she reasonably expected it to be: the underside of her legs; her arms; her shoulders; but there were points of disagreement. There were sections of her that did not properly comport, because they were not flush to the ground. She slipped inward, using her mind’s eye to reassemble her body.
First: was the sensation that she was alive; that she existed at all.
Second: was that her ribs hurt; something heaved over them.
And third: an object was interlaced behind her head and back. Which is why she could not feel the stone floor under her cervical or lumbar spine. Something was buffered between her and the stone.
Everything snapped back. Her reality rushed at her, over her, and it had tactility, it churned through her chest, painfully, to which she then assigned meaning: there was a thing on her chest and it was heavy. Alarmed, she lifted her head (but only by half) because whatever had been under her neck was now grasping it. She looked forward: and she was witness to the stasis of a haunting after-moment. This scene, unfolding around her, was not unlike the endoscopy videos she had (in what felt like a lifetime ago) paused with trembling hand, because they were too intense, and this moment was also too intense, contracted down into a single, shuddering frame. Because this, too, had happened during their time distortion, and providing that mass -that heavy weight- was Danny’s body.
Heather froze.
The body stirred.
And his voice moved over her neck in a hot trickle “…Chekhov,” he rasped, “is laughing in his grave right now.”
Heather swallowed her tongue. When was the last time he had been this close to her? Mentally, she took inventory of their bodies: he was draped along the length of her, his face half-turned, pressed into her neck. They could have been lovers. They could have been friends. His speech tangibly brushed against her. “…ok, maybe I deserved that. Maybe I needed to get some fuckin’ sense knocked into me.” She felt his fingertips move across her face. They traced away her tears; skin flickered against skin like a pulse.
She trembled. There was too much, too much in his movements. And, worse: she was trapped under his body.
“No? Yeah? Ok. Good talk.” The pressure receded from her as he sat up. He straddled himself over her. Finally, she could see his face. And it looked directed, focused. “Why so quiet, Heather Feather. That’s not like you. You ok? You alive?”
She whimpered. Her mouth opened; closed.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
She felt his fingers stroke back through her hair (and it made a sensation deeper than feeling go through her). “This isn’t the movies… bullets ricochet. So lemme check.” And after a moment of enduring him, “I think you’re in one piece? Are you in one piece?” he jested. She said nothing; she resented the faces he was making, how he mocked her, how he moved only his mouth, how he indicated that all she was good for was crying.
“Heather?”
But, wait, no. That didn’t seem right. There was too much animation in his face as he spoke. And his facial expressions were not consistent with mockery. This was wrong. Something was terribly off. And that wrongness slid over her skin. This… Heather narrowed her eyes, studying him. His lips were moving as he spoke, and she felt the toneless hum of his vocalization, but in a jolt, she realized: her skull pounding, her temples crackling, the warehouse environment contracting
–pulling and snapping into the thin, reedy straw of her ear canal
with a cramped, muffled tone that slowly descended upon her –
she was deaf.
And, as she made this revelation, she swung her gaze back around in a spasm of fear. Only his body language was available to her, to provide instruction and it did not provide it clearly. She felt the gentle interlace of fingers behind her neck; the bracket of his arm under the small of her back; and the careful distribution of his weight. And although he tilted to one side, he still seemed to have carefully placed his body. There was a lot of him touching her. And a lot of her touching him. And with a prickle of fear, she could not tell if he snared her in a predatory pounce, or cradled her in a protective embrace. But, if he was not aware of his intent, she was: he had protected the most vulnerable parts of her during her bodily drop, and the projectile that had hurtled into her, knocking her sideways had been him. Tears leaked down the sides of her face. Whatever instinct had compelled him, whatever had animated him to save… it was because of him, she was not smashed like a teacup.
And trying to appeal to the part of him that had protected her, saved her, ferried her through harm: “CAN’T.” Heather shook her head. She cupped her ear. She felt her mouth move, and it felt disconnected and strange not to hear her voice report back to her. And, it must have sounded strange to him, too, because he kneeled back onto his heels. “You can’t hear, pretty kitty?”
She watched his lips move; she shook her head. Tears leaked from her eyes.
“Really?”
Heather read his lips. She nodded her head.
Danny: “Like… at all?”
Heather shrugged expansively. She cupped her ear again.
He snapped his fingers over her face. She didn’t respond. Her eyes stared at him with dull flat-effect due to lack of vocal enrichment. She watched his eyebrows bob up in mild surprise, but then he was leaning forward, inches from her face, speaking in a breathless tumble. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I shoulda known somethin’ was wrong: you hangin’ on like that. I fucked up. I really, really fucked up. ‘Cause, you didn’t see this part; but I did. I saw it. I saw all of it. It got ugly. Real ugly. The gun was twisted all wrong, you stumbled…” he trailed off. “And,” he shook his head, “I wasn’t gonna let that happen.”
Heather stared at him blankly. But whatever he was saying composed his features into something soft and reflective. He pressed his face deeper into her neck. Heather shuddered against the wispy tangle of breath. Her deafness exacerbated every sensation he gave her. And his body – substantially larger than hers even in its natural state– moved over, covering her.
She felt the density of his head rest against her shoulder, and a small, shallow breath waft from the tip of his nose. And that low vibrato in his chest must have been a sound of appreciation because she felt something about him change, something about him stir, but she knew, in that moment, somehow, as his lips molded to her skin: that his mouth was interested in her.
And, worse than that: she couldn’t trace his movements, nor predict them, because she could not hear them. She could only wilt against the heat of him. He was like her nightmare revisited: something that panted with inevitability in the dark, joining her with a sigh. But, unlike her dream, he was reported to her as an emanation of warmth that poured this primitive heat, more of it, into her. It traveled up her, through her, in her, coming to a fine head around his lips, which seeped like the burn of liquor, as they opened, and decanted his tongue. It moved in a slow, indulgent stroke across her neck.
Help. Her mind cried.
His tongue moved across her again in a gentle rasp.
Her arms shot out to the side in an autonomic spasm. It had been a devastating wet warmth. And her fingers… they brushed something. She clutched at it in excitement, in spasm; stopped. (her instinct warned her not to make small, choppy movement). But she knew its shape so intimately she needn’t consult with her higher mind. She knew to grab it. She knew to reach that extra pessimist inch, and gingerly pinch with forefinger and thumb, pluck it, and draw it stealthily into the palm of her hand.
His eyes moved over her face.
And she was paralytic with fear. Not because they were alien, but because they were possessed of something worse: humanity. They were human and lucid. And, more than that, worse than that: the nature of his movements advertised that this was not the beginning of his attentions. And rolling off the tip of his tongue, as it moved through seams of her skin, was the unspoken promise that this would not begin and end with chaste licking.
Please, somebody. Fucking help. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t hear. She felt his mouth open again – reported to her as a glare of heat – and that slick devil tongue lick over her cheek in a hot, silken glide. But, this time, there was (Heather wrinkled her face) a wet leaking, a rushing wet something that rushed down her neck. It pooled in her collarbones.
Instinctively, she touched it. Saliva, her brain whispered. And there was so much of it. And it was shamelessly thick. He’s tasting me. And she need not hear him to feel his intent. As though in response, an ominous movement rippled against her face. Instinctively, she moved her eye into the corner of her vision to inspect it, and saw a dimension of flesh; it was his neck. His throat swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbed incipiently, and the powerful muscles undulated over her soft cheek. The same one that would have lain on her pillow the evening he crept into the seams of her home and ripped it apart in search of her.
Heather was thankful she was unable to hear the sound of his swallow.
Swallowing all of that Heather-soaked saliva, her brain offered in a hostile snap. And you let him.
His chest expanded powerfully, contracting over her. She felt the muscle flicker: once, twice. He’s panting, she said to herself.
“Fuck… you taste so good,” he groaned, “feel so good. A year is a long fuckin’ time… Just, God, Heather. You do things to me. I almost can’t keep control around you.” She felt the hot ring of his mouth drag over her neck; down her shoulder; in, toward her collarbones; then: lower, to the rise of her breasts. Heather felt a prickle of sexual fear. And a new sensation joined her: the dexterous pull of sleek fingers. As the coldness of the room kissed her skin, she assigned meaning to it: he was peeling down her neckline. His speech traveled across the rise of her breasts in damp heat. “Fuck, I just wanna… I just wanna wrap up all that goodness. I just want you so deep… So deep we’re both screaming.” Then, the vivid, so vivid sensation of an after-bath softness, of saliva and tongue dragging over her nipple from base to tip.
Heather made a choked-off sound. She arched her back in defiance, which mistakenly lifted her breast in sacrifice to his mouth.
There was a part of her – a piece of her – inside of him. And it was a part of her that was so totemically sexual. Her flesh moved tautly into the compressive pull of his mouth. Sparks of sensation moved across her areola. She already felt like she was wilting, welting, draining into him, as though she could, somehow, be inverted through her nipple, and pulled steadily into his jaws. Heather slapped one hand against his shoulder. And, his body, excited by her struggle, moved in a sudden, severe contraction. It was abbreviated; sexual. He edged his head back, and her nipple slipped free in a clash of cold. More of that toneless droning, that vocal hum passed through the delicate bones in her face.
Danny: “But, that’s ok. We got all the time now. All of that other stuff, it falls away, it doesn’t belong to you anymore. Not when you’re mine. Joseph, Tammy, flower shops, your apartment, your life….”
And her hearing clipped in: “… your pills. Especially your pills. Fuck, I hate them, they make you taste nasty.”
His words moved through her in a jagged little sensation. And, from the surface of her face, like the surface of water, a reflective thought formed, in response to his voice, and she jerked her head to the side. But Danny caught it with a preternatural flick of his eye. “Heather?”
Heather, always enterprising, always clever trained her eyes on the far wall. He twisted her face back. She gasped down the sensation. He studied her. “Heather, can you hear me.” His voice lacked the upward-inflection of a question.
He studied her. Heather braced herself. She knew it was critical that she not reveal that she had heard him. He had given her sin, savior and safeguard, but she knew, in a way that one just knows, that she could not tip her hand; she could not let him know she knew how to control him. She felt his eyes rake over her face. “Heather,” he intoned.
When she had first grabbed it, earlier in their interaction, it had been at the behest of an addict’s instinct. But, now, hearing his words trickle over her she thanked herself – or something divine – for guiding her, because it was not lost on her, this irony, that as he denounced her pills she held them, tightly, like a rosary, in her hand. But now, she had the onerous task of surviving just long enough to bring her hand to her mouth, without ending up in his.
Heather prayed, Heather hoped she projected that dull, flat effect, hoping to intimate that she was still deaf. Slowly, she started to move her arm out from under her. She moved it an inch. Two. More… another inch.
“I smashed Tammy to pieces.”
Heather bit her tongue.
“In my fucking teeth.”
Heather stared at the ceiling. Her chest contracted in silent emotional riot. I know. She said, silently.
“But, I think we both know that,” he muttered. “You just like to pretend none of that happened ‘cause if you think about it too much, it’s inconvenient for you. I think we both know. I think we both know what happened.”
Heather schooled her expression. She would not give him the satisfaction: she assembled her face into blandness.
Danny: “So, then, you won’t hear about how I was so fucking hard when she popped like a grape. And all that time – all that time – I was thinkin’, thinkin’ how that should have been you. I wouldn’t bite you though. Not like that. I’d be gentle…so gentle.” He cupped her cheek.
Heather stared at him steadily, devoid of expression. No; I won’t let you get a rise out of me, you devil.
Danny: “Thas’allright. Tammy got a taste of thou shalt not steal.”
Heather looked at him flatly.
“And I got a taste of Tammy. And, trust me, she’s nothin’ like you. She’s all kinds of messed up. Lot goin’ on there. Lot of drugs - hard drugs, not like your cute Ambien - and lot of sickness and disease.” He surged forward and stroked his mouth up her neck, this time his whole body propelled the movement like a wolf lapping up a rabbit; and it was so rough. “I almost feel bad.” Heather watched his tongue run along his back teeth. Something about that gesture injected mortal fear into her; she seized up.
Danny: “I feel bad. I don’t want you two sharing my spit. I’ve still got bits of Tammy in my mouth.”
Heather’s pupils flickered. And faint, right next to her lips, a line in her face jumped.
“Heather,” he tutted.
Heather’s heart started pounding. She tightened her hands around the pill. It felt like it was in another dimension, stuck at the end of her fingers, in another lifetime. Please. God. She prayed. And she never prayed. Just let me get the fucking pill… jus…
He cupped her cheek. “Hear no evil, pretty kitty?”
She could feel hostility in his fingers. He knows… he knows my hearing is back. But we’re both too fucking stubborn to bend.
Danny: “I don’t think you realize how crazy-good you taste.” He laced his fingers through hers, he guided her fist toward his mouth. She watched in a knot of terror. “Look at these cute little hands. I want to feel them” his voice dropped into a low, husky whisper:… “I want to feel them where it really matters…” Heather spasmed against the lingual sensation as his tongue moved dexterously between the spaces of each and every beautiful, feminine finger, unfurling them from the fist they made. It was like the caress of a sleek, dampened scarf. He was peeling back each of her fingers, one by one, with his tongue. “I want to have you…”
He continued opening her fingers. “I almost can’t stand it. I almost don’t want it.” He uncurled her last finger: “Because I can only have you once. But, it doesn’t have to be all at once.” (Heather looked at him in a pinch of mystified fear).
He paused, reading her expression.
Then, he looked down, confused, at her now-opened hand.
It was the wrong hand. He had grabbed the wrong hand.
Heather violently backstroked her other arm, swiveled her fist around, and pushed the pill into her mouth.
His eyes met hers.
And her eyes met his.
And, understanding her only as a madman could, new meaning, new subtext entered him, and in his face, absorbing her – he saw himself, and –
she distinctly showed him her teeth in a snarl to reveal the purple pill jutting from it like a lovely little purple lady.
Right before she knocked her head back and punitively swallowed.
“Oh,” he said in play-pretend, in slow mocking-surprise, anger diffusing through each syllable. “So you can hear me?”
“Sucks, don’t it?” She gloated. “When your drug is taken from you. When you can’t swallow down all of that amazing goodness…” and, in her projection, her voice dropped to an erotic rasp. “Like how you can’t swallow me.”
His face jerked almost comically. And the momentum sent him to his feet. He clasped his head; turned in a tight, frenetic circle. “Why you gotta go and –" he made an incoherent bark, “FUCK. Heather, I wasn’t goin’ to do anything. I was jus… I was just…” He slapped the workbench. “FUCK.” He whirled around. “I WASN’T GOING TO DO ANYTHING.”
Heather leaned up onto her elbows, and cast him an indulgent, sated look. “Oh, please, go an’ fuckin’ weave your beautiful lies for somebody else.” The pill spoke through her in a sultry sweetness. “That’s all you do, tha’s all you know how to do, you just hurt –
He looked at her in a thick rage. Then: he whipped forward his shoulder and jerked down the neckline of his shirt.
Heather froze. At first she didn’t understand what he was doing, or what she was seeing. But, her vision sharpened… and she gasped. Because, on the front of his shoulder, around the vascularity and dense muscle striations, there was a pit of damage. His skin had burst open, peeling back, to reveal the perfect puncture: the abscess was red, raw – and she, felt, with a touch of her fingers, warm - but already healing. A chill went through her. This whole time, this whole fucking time, he had been functioning, doing what he did, acting as he was, after having been shot. Heather sputtered. And, worse than that: did that mean he had deflected the bullet during that tight contraction of time? Had he commanded that time distortion? Or, somehow, carried her through it… And if he hadn’t?
“I’m sorry?!” she blurted. “I-i… I didn’t… I…” But Tammy? Her brain said weakly.
“Don’t be,” he said stiffly, pulling up the neckline. “Clean exit.”
All movement trickled from her. She stood there; shell shocked.
“I told you,” he began warningly, “to put the fucking gun away. I told you…”
“No! y-you created the harm! You… if you hadn’t grabbed the damn thing –
He cut across her: “I wouldn’t have had to grab the damn thing if you hadn’t been shoving it in my fucking face all night.”
Heather: “I WAS PROTECTING MYSELF!”
Danny: “From what?”
Heather, incensed: “You were gonna eat me!”
Danny, with sneering delight: “Was I?”
Heather shook her head. And in the tone of someone desperate to live in their reality: “No… you… you don’t care about me… You…” And then, with a low hiss: “No. You didn’t. You didn’t take a bullet for me.” With a battle-borne sway of her hips, she moved closer; she pushed her finger into his chest. And feeling her cunning rising, feeling her own darkness: “You did it, not because you wanted to save, but because you wanted the kill to be yours.”
His face whiplashed around in shock.
She laughed coldly. “You look like a puzzled puppy. Why so shocked? Are you surprised I’ve figured you out?” she said. “Or, is it because I’ve called you out, you lying piece of shit.”
“No,” he said, stiffly. “I’m shocked you’re that dark.” He stepped closer. “What did I do to you? Leave that darkness to me. Don’t – don’t be me. Only one of us can be the predator in the relationship.”
Heather: “THERE IS NO RELATIONSHP. I’m not yours; I’m not anyone’s. And I’m not, and never will be prey.”
Danny, testily: “Some tough words comin’ from someone that’s stared down my fucking gullet.”
Heather struck like a she-viper. Screaming, she gnashed her teeth. She sank her venom, vitriol into his wounded shoulder. And, screamingly, as a high-functioning addict: “FUCK YOU. I’LL EAT YOU,” she shrieked, sobbing. “I’LL EAT YOU.” She twisted her teeth into the wound. “You have it all wrong. It’s ME that’s gonna eat YOU.” She jerked her neck; clipped her teeth against his raw, opened skin. Congealed blood trickled forward. Danny flinched, pulling back. He looked at her in a spasm of bewilderment. If it weren’t for the gunshot wound, it wouldn’t have nearly hurt.
Heather slapped her hands against his chest; he caught her hands, he folded around her. And riding her momentum, he pulled her into him.
“NO. STOP.” She jerked wildly against him, like a feral animal. She snapped at his shoulder again. “SEE HOW YOU LIKE IT.”
“Heather,” he gasped. He held her in a slaughter-hug; she thrashed. “You need to stop.”
He held her until her thrashing became struggling, and her struggling became shuddering, and her shuddering became bodily stillness. She trickled down to nothing. She made a low keening sound against his chest. “…you mutilated Tammy. And you put your fucking mouth on me after you did it.”
Danny: “Are you done?”
Heather: “What’s the matter? Not enjoying your own fucking creation?!” She shrieked. She reared back and slapped him across the face.
Danny, flushed, and with great restraint: “Maybe we are perfect for one another.” He grinned nastily at her. “Want to find out? Let’s find out, yeah? Let’s find out, little prey-girl.”
Heather: “I’M NOT PREY.”
And his fingers interlaced behind the nape of her neck just as they did when protecting her from the fall. “What was that you said earlier?” He pulled Heather into himself with a sharp, violent motion. “It works with touch?” he cooed.
Heather pushed back, screaming, but she became like a fire beetle: unnatural, and ferally impassioned, glow-bright in her ardent rage, flittering in place. And then in the next moment, she was gone –– only to reappear again, cupped in his hands – terrifically tiny, and perfectly replicated down to her eyelashes.
-
Click For Chapter: The Skeptics
SWALLOW ME, LIKE YOUR LITTLE PILL
Book One, Revelations 2023
Synopsis: A female pill addict tries to vainly outwit, outlast, outsex a violent demonic monster. Because he prefers his pills lady-shaped.
But this is only the beginning of a dark, damning, tumultuous epic saturated with vore kink, size kink, and layered narrative.
07
THE PRIESTESS
She picked up her phone. She typed…
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Click For Chapter: Demon Fucked & Tongue Tucked
SWALLOW ME, LIKE YOUR LITTLE PILL
Book One, Revelations 2023
Synopsis: A female pill addict tries to vainly outwit, outlast, outsex a violent demonic monster. Because he prefers his pills lady-shaped.
But this is only the beginning of a dark, damning, tumultuous epic saturated with vore kink, size kink, and layered narrative.
08
The road to a woman’s love is through torment – DeSade
Disclaimer: Rough, fetishized rape; Male Dominance; Brief Torment365 DAYS AGO
Heather dreamed. The pill softened her; opened her.
She was – orange and yellow leaves rained down from the sky like embers of flame –
– there
Pine needles crinkled underfoot. Bark prickled her skin. The sun basked on her face. Moving in a tight circle, she took in her surroundings. She was in the woods. The woods that ran lushly up against his house; the one that had been separated from his home by a single pane of glass: one, single, condensing breath.
Heather smiled a phantom smile in the dream. They moved through the wilderness together, traveling the verdant footpaths and rolling hills like studied survivalists. She could remember it so sweetly.
She: clearly in her element, moving with practiced finesse.
He: giving a sidelong glance at the low-hanging branches - the ones she navigated with nimble ease - as though they conspired to attack.
“Come on, Apricot, I’ll protect you from the tree, I promise.”
And - in the dream - he had rolled his eyes, but it was a good-natured gesture. “Yanno, I’m beginning to regret that I told you I’m Cypriot.” It was – and Heather felt a phantom thought coalesce with her phantom smile – autumn in her memory. The vibrant, blooming universe of autumn. It had been the first time he had led her out into the cool fall air with a sporting look after a respectable docket of dates.
Heather, giggling: “Well, ok, then. I guess it’s only fair you give me a stupid nickname, too.”
Danny, without hesitation: “Feather.”
Back then their affection had been consuming. (And, she thought, with frustration, normal).
Back then, the more they had tried to tamp down the flames – the stronger they had fanned the inferno. Eventually the flush of heat swept over them, immolating them.
It immolated reason. And decency.
Heather could almost remember it. When first the smallest of sins had been singed away, she had dismissed it as nothing more than an inconsequential gnat. But, then, a larger one materialized. And, then, a larger one yet. And, then, it became a habituation. And, after the first few dozen, it had become easy; and then easier. And so, she tolerated his transgressions. The promises - and the apologies - had come quick after all, and Heather had inured herself to them.
Had she been an older woman, a wiser woman, she might have extricated herself. But, he had the guile of an inner-city savant, with ten years more between them to charm, so Heather could not resist him. Besotted and entranced, she remained.
He lead; she followed.
And with him, she knew she had been tottering on an elaborate construction of half-truths, because he had done things, and she had seen things that were unusual. Things that were not manifestly strange, exactly, and maybe of little note, except that, sometimes, for reasons she did not yet understand, his behavior often startled the small, meadowed instinct languishing inside of her.
She knew it was not just the thrill of their erotic undercurrent either, because: there were times he moved a little too fast, or he tread a little too light, or he had a naked facial expression too congruent with one of her private thoughts for it to have been naked coincidence. But, still, she remained.
Sometimes, even, there was a hum, or a crackle along the lights when he walked by. His presence could make a room tremble. And, the room seemed to respond, because, once, during one of his fits, a skylight shattered. How could she not remain?
And he didn’t eat. At least, not in front of her. Which was unusual given the hospitality of the Cypriot culture.
But, that knowledge, coupled with the way he looked at her sometimes, seemed - at first - to be two completely unrelated thoughts. But, then, one evening, during one of their domestic disputes, he characterized it, this unsettling sensation, by bringing it to a head with a calculably-timed: I’d eat you alive, little girl, don’t even try. And, that metaphor, if uttered by a lesser man, would have had possessed a strange, awkward delivery, but because he had said it, Heather stopped. She did not volley through with the hand-slap she had been preparing. And to her chagrin, he started using this pronouncement as the great equalizer whenever she began challenging him. Eventually it had become such a great source of frustration that she imploded on him, informing him - quite peevishly - that she was no longer impressed with his chauvinistic threat. And, somehow, off-the-tip of her tongue, rolled the rebuttal that he was “a demon, or goblin, or devil,” (if not in form, then definitely in personality) and it stuck.
And, so, his Apricot pet-name evolved, in a moment of unintended consequence, into ‘divided devil.’
And after a long, steady moment (the irony not being lost on him) he had returned a singular, taut nod. But not without first obtusely confessing that she had been close enough in her assessment. If you only knew, Kitten. But he had confessed it just as he did with anything of importance: indirectly. And like the rest of his story, it had only been a pantomime.
And, it had the opposite intended effect (or, it had the effect he intended) because Heather suddenly found herself even more attracted to her dark, devilish lover. She had wanted to be with something special, didn’t she? She had wanted to be special. She had wanted to be different than the others. Better: she had wanted to be the one he kept.
She had wanted to see what it would be like to be fucked by something demonic that had risen from the long, stoic shadows of mythical lore. She had wanted to see what it would be like to run her fingers around the fangs of mythical possibility; to crawl inside the jaws of hyperbole and see how far back she could ride that devil tongue.
In the spectacle of her head, it had all seemed so sexy; so hot.
The metaphor appealed.
That he would prey on her, sex on her – and feed? on her.
All of that was hot, too. The books populating her vanity and headboard had told her so. She went to sleep with it, woke with it; tendered the thought, lovingly, night after night, in tight circles around her clit. She imagined how hot it would be, being fucked by the man that had burst the overhead skylight with mood alone.
And they both had been so close to it, so close to doing it that it had hurt. Vexingly, he had made her wait.
And the restraint was hot, too, so she allowed it.
So, Heather pleasured herself in the expanse of the wait, thinking about how sexy it would be. And the demon had a face now, a name. She – he – they – could make it happen. Couldn’t they? Which is why she stayed. Which is why she waited. She wanted more of him; all of him. She wanted to see the real Danny that lurked beneath the surface; the one that had looked at her in a sudden, feral uptick at the yacht club when they first met.
Unknown to him, she had created a social media profile, then. It was for The Skeptics. It was a robust, respected Forum amidst parishioners of the occult. It boasted over one-hundred-thousand members, globally. And she was, not as of yet, part of the inner sanctum, but she tried. There was a rigorous application and screening process, and Lord knows she had tried for years to get into the members only restricted section, but to no avail; so, she had contented herself with haunting the edges of their Forum, journaling her exploits. She created a “stickied” thread, hoping to catch the eye of Priestess of Gemini or one of her moderators by remaining right on the peripheral. She had a respectable following, and a most elaborate web of replies began – comments spidering into comments, spidering into yet more comments – until she had a faithful fanbase. (What was the point of dating a demon if you couldn’t at least boast about it a little bit?) But, still, she couldn’t get in.
Heather, of course, distilled everything into abstraction. She did not use names. But the calculus of it was the same: Hi, my name is Prey Slut. I’m dating a demon. If you saw him on the street, you would be like ‘yep, this is very obviously a demonic man.’ Trust me. You’d understand. I want to have good sex with him… we haven’t done anything yet, any recommendations?
And, the responses were mixed. Some: reviled her, denouncing her for dating something demonic. Others: envied her, desperately wishing to have the attention of their own personal monster. And, yet, others thought she was simply spinning wonderful fiction, and enjoyed reading her contributions. But, she remembered chewing her lip when a common theme began surfacing, which, if she was pressed to distill down, would have been something not unlike: Careful. Most demons (especially Greater Demons) have a paraphilia of some sort. Have you figured his out yet?
And, through all of this, her watch list grew. She had thousands of subscribers glued to her “stickied” thread.
One day, she posted a meme to enhance the vibe.
“HOW DO I LOOK TO YOU? SHINING IN YOUR SILK?" SAID THE FLY TO THE SPIDER.
CONSUME ME. I LIKE THE PAIN.
It was a cry for resolution, because, as suggested by her post, she couldn’t help but wonder when he was going to do it. (And what form would it take?) Because, despite their shared metaphor, he had not acted upon it; not yet.
Heather had been foolishly wise. She knew the slow-drip trail of context clues he left behind suggested he nursed a fetishistic compulsion for women that tip-toed right over the polite boundaries of society into oblivion. But that had been kind of hot, too, hadn’t it? Being the object of a demon’s desire sounded sexy. Was it all women? Select women? Would it – gasp – be her? Could it be her?
And somehow the thought of being fucked by him and eaten by him had enmeshed.
She had begun slipping curious fingers into herself over that; one, two, three. I bet he has a big dick. Then, four. God, I hope he has a big dick. He seems like he would. She imagined her fingers were his cock, and he was fucking her. She made her fingers dramatically wet, imagining it was his tongue. I bet he gives good head. Someone with that sorta oral fixation gotta be good at it… and, strangely, she had found herself responding to that dark fantasy, too. She remembered being startled by the contractions of her own orgasm. It was all in abstraction, of course. It was just fantasy. His mouth, his lips, his tongue were hot. So, she extrapolated that being eaten by him would be hot, too.
It was only when this part of their story had become inexorable – when she had begun to wonder about the metaphor, and she had begun touching herself to it, that he had signaled – in that maddeningly knowing way of his – that she was ready for him.
Sex: he had mounted her in a contraction of movement. And she had become a movement of contraction. If she was a betting woman, she would have bet they would have done doggy style first. But, to her surprise (and delight) it had been missionary. Heather remembered reaching for one of the longer pieces of his black hair (so black it swallowed light), and twirling it around one of her fingers. There’s a lot more to him than I thought. There was more depth to her demonic consort than she had considered. But, everything else fell away. All that was – all that existed – was the compressive weight of his body, and his maleness, slowly entering her.
And it had been - like the rest of him - excessive.
As with everything else: it had not been easy. He had to make small movements of negotiation to move through her. Mentally, she had mapped out the procession: her focus traveling the contours of his anatomy as she endeavored to ingest his lancing erection. He had been painfully long, and wide. And what had already been pushed into her was penetrating pockets of depth that she had only intellectually understood before to exist. And he was still pushing into her.
He had been too big; too thick; pushing through her in a way that was alarming. And if there had been any reservations left over as to his claim that he was a demon, all lingering doubts had been scrubbed away with his sudden, singular plunge to occupy the rest of her.
Her spine curled in shock.
It had hurt. And she was so tightly sprung, it hurt him, too. They touched their foreheads for a moment, riding out the surge of pain. And when that anatomical wrinkle in her relaxed, he began to fuck her. His movements had been stilted, abbreviated; punctuated by her sharp shrieks whenever he went too deep. Panting, her demon had struggled to fuck her with the patience of a saint.
But bending under his will, being forced to accept his maleness – that had been hot, too.
So, she allowed it.
He didn’t come. But, knotting around him, she did. The physicality had been too stimulatory – even enameled with pain – not to.
I thought some of the guys I was with before had been big… shit. Heather could almost laugh at the absurdity of it. None of her past lovers had even come close. Heather had to re-align her belief system. And it wasn’t just his size, it was also his shape and tensile strength. From base to glans, he did not taper. And to say he was as hard as the devil’s brand, and that he bruised her just as terribly, would not have been an overstatement.
But he had been so good at first, hadn’t he? So good. He had been on his best behavior (but weren’t they all?). He had given her oral sex often (And, just as she suspected, he was phenomenal at it). He even said the sweet nothings. They had cultivated the pet-names, (Heather bounced around between Apricot and Divided Devil), the memes; he had given her his softer side. And, it took time, but through some devilish alchemy, he had begun fitting – in her thoughts, her life, her body – so that he could push inside the seams of her – and the pain had actually transmuted to pleasure.
And, oh God, when she had grown accustomed to him, and he to her, it had become terrifyingly good. And he always, always avoided the tenderness at the back of her.
She remembered, vividly, the day she had posted another meme to The Skeptics, to cultivate the proper vibe.
“YOUR MAN CRUSH MONDAY #MCM SLIPS OUT ON THE THIRD STROKE.”
And her “stickied” thread exploded. Everyone wanted to know what it was like, being fucked by something demonic. She had assured them that it was extraordinary. Mind-blowing, even. Danny – bless him – never slipped out, and she – honed to a weapon – never gave in. He could pound deep, visceral orgasms out of her, but also rock her into a state of drugged euphoria (and she needn’t her pills for that). He could even give her different orgasms; sometimes, even, deliberately. Some flittered from her clit; some gouged through her vagina, and, others, even, bloomed deep in her belly, building, and then erupting out in tangible release.
Danny: “You’re a squirter?!”Heather: “Trust me, I’m just as surprised. But you? What about you. I don’t think you’ve even come yet. Not once?” She ducked her head abashedly. “Is it me?”
Danny: “Nah… I’m just… a hard nut.”
Her thread soared; it bucked up, up, and, up (seemingly echoing the buck of his hips as they started fucking nightly), and it became one of the most popular. It gained the hot and popular moniker; and even more were drawn to it on principle, popularity begetting popularity. But, still, Priestess of Gemini did not respond.
“WHEN HE GIVE YOU THAT RELATIONSHIP-DICK. #THATDEVILDICK.”
They had their ups; their downs. But, then, they had moments like these, where they returned to the bridle path, hand in hand, conversing. They had met in the fall, and after one revolution around the calendar, to the fall they had returned, re-creating their original traipse into the woods.
It had almost become comical at that point – and Heather looked upon the memory of herself with a sympathetic fondness – the lengths to which they would go to make surreptitious their feelings for one another. Like two children in the school yard, they had stolen shy smiles and shy kisses, and intimated quiet professions time and time again.
Until.
“I love you.”
Had there been a shy acknowledgment in return? She could not remember. It had been the first time it had been said.
And Heather could not remember who, exactly, had said it.
But what she could remember was the canvas. The canvas of: colors, sights, sounds. She could remember the vibrancy of the woven canopy because it had been peeling like a wound that could finally heal. She could remember this image with such detail, because, it had served as the backdrop for the sudden, jerking retreat of his tall frame; retreating, until it became that of a featureless shadow. His face had become a dark study: she could not remember if he had jerked away from their cupped hands because she had said it, or because she had not responded to what had been said.
And, then, what had felt like a cone of silence, gulfed between them.
The sex that evening had been strained; devoid of connection. The small movements of negotiation he often made to gently penetrate her - because her smallness required it - had sublimated into animalistic pangs. And Heather had bit her tongue to endure it.
As usual, he never finished. He eventually disengaged, and walked away.
The days waxed and waned. And that cone of silence grew.
Then: he had stopped asking for the sex; entirely.
Heather remembered the initial panic, the vain interrogations into his self-exile, the frenzied urgency of asking him what went wrong and, then, being rewarded with nothing more than an insouciant shrug.
The Forum was no help. Some of the respondents suggested that, maybe, he desired a different type of sex or connection; yet others mocked her for trying to navigate the dark contours of a relationship with a demonic man. Others yet, accused her of ruining their fantasy. Others simply “shipped” it, and prayed that this was only a rut, and they would find themselves out of it. But, that troubling denominator started appearing again: Have you figured out his paraphilia yet? Some demonic men need something really kinky to get them off.
Heather ruminated, wondering why he never came. Was it her? Was she the problem? Had they rushed into things too soon? No, she remembered countering, they had waited a respectable amount of time. And, surprisingly, it had been his idea. There’s something special here, let’s not rush into bed, Feather.
Heather was vexed. For her, there was nothing quite like getting fucked by his maleness that was capable of a bodily tactile stretch that subsumed into terrific pleasure. The thickness of him rebounded off the top of her pelvic wall and immensely deep pleasure reverberated through her body to her clit. And, he was so long and wide, through bone conduction, it felt like he was in her belly. She came regularly, like clockwork. Never not orgasming. So, what had gone wrong? Was she being too selfish? Were his needs not being met?
In a moment of invention, Heather had offered a blowjob, but – to her shock? dismay? confusion? – he had turned it down with a look of shock. (But maybe that had been a small miracle, because, God, how was she ever going to deep throat him?).
Then.
Without warning, the sex: it was back. It was rougher. But he had stopped kissing her. And that pained her.
But, that sort of restraint was hot, too. So, she allowed it.
And fucking her hard? That was hot. So, she allowed that, too. Besides, she had started to get into the much-needed habit of taking her pills before they sexed; it helped the pain. But, it had gotten to a point where Heather could barely tolerate him any longer, and not even the pills could numb his violence. Certain positions had become forbidden because he could work himself in too deep. And it was not to a depth that she liked. And yet, others… well, those were for the times when the sex threatened to cross the boundary into something else.
But being rutted by him was a knot of pain now, and it was not the sort she liked; sometimes there was gratings of tactile pleasure, but years of running and athletics had made her unforgivably tight. (And he was just plain unforgivable). And he knew he could overcome her, overtake her, overwhelm her, and all pretense had been fucked away. And there had been times – scary times – the sex had become something ugly, weaponized, and she screamed for him to stop. And one time, he didn’t.
Heather: “Get off me!” She shrieked. “I told you to fucking stop.” She pushed against him. “It’s not my fault you’re lame and you can’t fucking come.”
Danny, grinning nastily at her, “Oh, no. Oh no no no no, Heather Feather. I can cum. Trust me. I can fucking cum. Let me show you.”
He had simply slipped a hand over her mouth (vertically, so she could not bite), which had injected a mortal fear into her, because he seemed possessed of prohibitive knowledge to do something like this.
“So you don’t scream in my fucking ear.” He surged; the impetus slammed her back. She snapped back over the table like erotic calligraphy. He rammed himself into her, rebounding off her tightness. Heather screamed into his hand. Alarmingly, his erection glanced off her backwall. Heather rolled panicked eyes. She began to cry, and blabber.
Danny: “Shutupshutupshutup, let me have this.” He grabbed her neck with his free hand; shook her. “Just shut up. Shut the fuck up.” She screamed louder. He ground himself deeper, groaning. He rammed forward. Their foreheads smashed together. Heather’s head snapped back; she bit her tongue. Blood erupted into her mouth.
She continued to scream ugly around his fingers. He found that tight wrinkle inside her anatomy, that forbidden bit of her, that untouched part of her, and moved decisively into it with a low, appreciative sound. “Shut up, I’m close.”
Heather’s eyes flicked to his. They begged him. But this only extracted a deep pulse from his dick, deep inside her.
And in a jolt of clarity, knowing what he intended, knowing what he wanted: he bore into her. His loud deep, drowning animal sounds drowned out her high piercing shrieks as he shucked off all decency, all composure, all patience, and pounded savagely into her, flesh slapping against flesh, as he battered against that deeply knotted, recessed fissure inside of her. His eyes rolled up, and he pushed and pushed (and, Heather thought bitterly, with skill) against that clamped off part of her, her hips flicking up with each of his deep, pounding thrusts, until something inside of her turned, something inside of her changed, and a glare of heat opened up, becoming a burning: electrical pain cob-webbed out from her cervix, that kindled, in a flash-bang of white from her retinas, surging agony through her in ripples of contracting vision, as his cock -engorged on her pain- plowed through the apex of her womb. And, feeling her anatomical rupture, he screamed, collapsing against her, orgasming.
Heather blacked out from the pain; recovered; blacked out; recovered. Her head swam, her insides churned. He was slack-jaw, lilting, drooling, his face bruisingly pressed into her neck. Her body knotted in agony, creaked, feeling a new sensation enter her: the vivid tactile throb of his dick in long, powerful waves, that sloughed off his venom and vitriol; his ejaculate pouring into her.
Numbly, she stared at the ceiling. She felt raw, broken, virginal. He continued to bellow. Her rape extracting an unbroken violent seismic torrent of cum from him.
And, alarmingly, it didn’t stop. Heather’s belly began to distend, slowly, as though being filled. As though she was a cup receiving a violent torrent of water. And it filled, and filled. Her lower belly inflated, expanding, her rectum burning, her insides rolling, and sloshing as her internals endeavored to hold in his seminal fluid. The backwash surged up through her vaginal canal; spreading like sinister ectoplasm into the aperture of her womb, and higher. Higher yet.
And he continued to pulse, riding his euphoria.
Heather choked down a scream, almost almost imagining the tangy backwash coating her tongue. Her brain blared in confusion and horror. Her body creaked in protest, her organs shifting, ballooning around the invasive tidal wave. Heather gagged down the reflux, hurling a scream against his shoulder as he gently sawed – with decisiveness – into the wound he made, milking more of himself, dumping more of himself into her. More of his semen gushed into her. It breached her abdomen, pushing up against the gentle curvature of her lungs.
Heather felt swollen. Her body groaned at the seams. Her belly, her abdomen, grossly distended reported bands of pressure and pain.
Then the tide shifted, the tide turned, and her anatomical walls, incapable of holding in his ejaculate, released, and the wave poured back out of her, surging down her legs. It poured out of her, endlessly. Until her legs were soaked.
He released. A sticky knot of blood and cum, cauterizing her rape, stemming the tide, migrated down her legs.
Heather trembled on broken sticky legs into the bathroom to clutch towels and wrap herself in them, bleeding, and in visceral pain, vomiting. The entire half of her was enameled with sticky ejaculate. She shined like a dying star.
Heather had stopped hounding him for sex after that. How badly he could hurt her during penetration and fill her with an unending sea of ejaculation was testament – for her – that he was demonic.
-
It took her weeks to heal. But, she had forgiven for him that, too, because she did not know how not to.
Then, finally – finally – one evening, as she sat on the couch, he had surged over her, his mouth traveling back down to her knees; down, lower, and then: to her mon pubis. And, Heather, distracted by the sheer physicality of it, had not observed the sudden bestial interest that flickered across his face. But, after a few moments of absorbing the sensations he had been giving her, she struck up in alarm:
suddenly, it felt like a stranger between her legs.
Their eyes had met in a palpable ripple. And he was as much a stranger then, as he had been on the bridle path, when those three little accursed words had been said.
But who had said it? And the sexual anger emanating from him? Was it because she had said it; or because she had not responded to what had been said?
In the dream, it was as though the confession had been spoken from a ghost’s lips. She could not place the voice. Heather could hardly remember. But she could hardly afford to forget. She made an intangible frown. The vision of the dream flickered.
If she had said it first –
If so, that would be her ultimate defeat. The hungry, wild demonic beast knocking at her door would use that power against her forever-more.
Because:
it was when his mouth had been parasitically fastened to her pussy, vigorously stroking her clit with a singularity of sensation, pulling a series of shrieking sounds from her, that as she had reached out a hand to push him, only to feel his tongue move viciously against her tenderness, and scrape her clitoral flesh –
(because his jaw never tired, and why would it with the scores of women he had consumed)
— did he try to send her crashing down his throat.
And, Heather remembered it. In a palpable undulation: the size of her collapsed; her vision knocked upward; her body plunged, and the pill - she had heaved down - suddenly injected into her system, spreading its poisonous kiss — just as his demonic lips had gaped, inverting her into his.
And tasting the pill, his throat pulling it from her toes, he gagged. Spitting her back up.
HEATHER
Heather woke abruptly, rattled by the dream and interludes of memory. And the realization that she could remember the long procession of events that had tumbled free from her mental triage, for them to relentlessly expand, contract, and telescopically climax into the singular, vivid mental image of the void between his lips injecting the memory of how he had tried to eat her, then gag her back up, felt ominous, somehow.
But, worse than that: she could not figure out where she was.
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 - 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 from it. 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 with 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. 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 resting? How else did she slumber? How else did she dream?
And, suddenly, she was back to the first thought, collapsing back down around the initial sequitur 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, was all she felt was this 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 tactility 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 tactility, but also a shape that seemed to distort everything. 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 on the horizon viewed through 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 cloudy backwall - 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 gathered on the edges of the glass.
Like a butterfly in a jar, Heather ticked against the glass.
I’m… I’m in a cup. I’m in a fucking jar.
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 drinking.
I’m tiny again. Oh my god, I’m small.
-
Click For Chapter: Glass Jars For Broken Boys & Bitter Bitches
SWALLOW ME, LIKE YOUR LITTLE PILL
Book One, Revelations 2023
Synopsis: A female pill addict tries to vainly outwit, outlast, outsex a violent demonic monster. Because he prefers his pills lady-shaped.
But this is only the beginning of a dark, damning, tumultuous epic saturated with vore kink, size kink, and layered narrative.
09
The road to a woman’s love is through torment – DeSade
Disclaimer: Extreme macro/micro perspective; psychological torment; vore implication; digestion implication; fatal/non-fatal implicationI don’t even know what to call his type of vore.
DANNY
He looked down at his cell phone; back up. Something caught his attention. Something flickered at the liminal edge of his vision. Something had, oh – Heather. She was waking. Heather looked like a tiny, dispossessed goddess beautifully scalloping the edges of a crystal tunnel. Under the romantic glow of this, he composed his response. You should see her, his brain churned up in excitement, echoing the words that also flowed from his typing fingers, She’s perfection. A real performance, a real drama was unfolding between his hands and he simply could not pass up the opportunity to make a manuscript of his thoughts.
A response dinged back. And his thoughts churned.
And they expanded, extending into the moment that was growing more taut, more beautiful, more romantic by the moment, as his little Thumbelina began to pivot around her prison. And this perfection continued as she flicked open her eyes and they lighted upon him. Summoned by her sultry stare, he moved silently into the moment like a shadow suspended on sand.
To the glass jar, he went.
His cell phone dinged again.
The spell broke. He looked down. He pattered another response against the keys. He was now regretting this. He had only meant to kill time as he waited for his tiny princess to awaken, but, somehow, with each iteration things had… begun to dissolve. This dissolution rankled him. He clutched the jar.
Hostility curled his fingers. His nails scraped against the glass with a nasty shriek as he turned the anger, like a blunt instrument, onto Heather. Fuck you.
HEATHER
And, something large, something monstrous, something with shape and density was rising up from the ground, flesh-toned, from beyond her crystalline wall. Heather exploded into panic, battering her body against her detention. The large emerging entity, the continent that swam into her visual field was him; he was a miasma of gigantism. Heather made a strangled sound, clawing. Pinging away from the barricade, she fell to her knees.
The extrusion, the flesh-toned geometry was a head, and its face was level with her. Only a thin condensing breath fogging the jar separated them.
The walls of her universe reflected a sudden bronze dimension of color. It took her a moment to understand, but it was his hand: his hand was cupping the jar. She stared at it in horror. He was so massive he could radically change her dimension. Each line in his palm was like tectonic shift.
She shriveled down. Please. And it was a cry –
DANNY
–that would go unheeded as he reached two fingers deeply into the jar.
Just a touch, he told himself.
His fingertip, instinctively, made connection with the precious crown of her head. The sensation was reported to him as soft as maidenly silk. He could feel the tiny articulation of her neck as she braced herself. She flickered like a baby bird. It made his insides groan. His fingers skimmed down the length of her lusciously naked body and each delicate stroke extracted a brutal backwash of saliva in his mouth. He ran his tongue through the slow-seeping venom, loving the feel, loving the sensation, loving the knowledge that he was getting hot, warm, and sticky for her. His eyes rolled up. This, all of this…
He bent his neck, parted his mouth, and with a calculable push of his tongue, ejaculated long, thick, heavy strands of saliva from him that snapped wetly from his teeth and lips. He canted his head, draining himself. He undulated his tongue, pulling more of it from the channels in his mouth; more. Groaning, he bent deeper, and lolled his tongue, extending it down the neck of the mason jar. He drooled haughtily into Heather’s small, cramped space. He climaxed saliva into her. He coaxed more saliva forward; more. Groaning, spitting, and drooling fine filaments, knotted phlegm, and thick spit. More, and more. He rained sheets of it on her, in her, through her.
HEATHER
Her universe darkened. She looked up. It was a large, dusky-pink tectonic plate. It held tremendous character. It was engraved with fine texture, fine lines, with large, corded phallic ribbons underside. Each cobblestone was raised, reaching for her. She gaped in astonishment as she suddenly assigned meaning to what panned across her vision.
His tongue.
She could hear it moving, creating a wet shlick as it projected from his mouth, glossing over his bottom lip. Even the sound of this movement held a commanding sense of power. She, so small, felt flattened under the acoustic band. Instinctively she shrank back from the large, tapered tip that hung threateningly low, shrouding her head.
Vividly, a wave of translucency appeared, collecting on the furrowed ridge in the middle. Heather scrambled backward. The wave built. And built. A large droplet, under its own weight, hanging ponderously low from the tip, suddenly broke free. It landed audibly, with a wet crack next to her feet. She jerked backward from the diffusive splash. Then, another large droplet landed with mighty collision next to her. And, another. But, worse than this: a new sound invaded her small, cramped world. It was a liquid slosh. She looked up. The lake building on his tongue crested, growing. She watched in mute horror as the tidal wave of translucency intensified. The moment – hanging by a string of inertia – broke, and the tide surged, streaming forward. It slapped thickly into her. Breaking over her body, soaking her in a tunnel of body fluid. It was like unholy water, but worse; it was heavy, clinging, and it congealed to her skin, her hair, smearing itself until it became a heavy, waxy baptismal secretion. Each dense collision crumpled her. She sank toward her knees in sticky bondage as saliva pumped into the jar.
DANNY
Seeing her shine in his musk extracted excitement from him. His stomach emitted a tactless groan. Heather was lacquered, shining mutedly like a dying star and it was so fucking beautiful. Seeing her enveloped in his film of secretions… God, it did things to him. Another wave of contractions went through him. She did things to his body, too.
He crowned open his throat, riding the gaseous bubble to a fine head, erupting into a loud, belligerent belch, roaring it into the jar. Stomach acid refluxed up his throat, and he flicked it from his tongue, like a snake.
With a snapped off sound he withdrew, and shunted his cell phone to the side in silent rebuke.
Man, I’m empty. If he could extract his organs and englove her in them, he would.
HEATHER
The air above Heather’s head erupted. Her ears cried out hollowly as his protracted belch roared into her prison. It pounded against her face, her bones. Acid misted over her. Her face twitched away, in shock, as the bilious droplets left comet after-trails of hot moisture. It stung. A faint vaporous cloud of humors; of something bitter and acidic wafted through the thin air of the jar. Fine particulate from his stomach floated like sequins.
Her head sank into her hands.
He was inverting his insides, thrusting them upon her. He was eating her. Somehow, with inches of glass between them, he was eating her. Heather felt an instinctive pang, understanding this. She had robbed him of the ability to eat her by cunningly ingesting her pills, so he responded with equal cunning: eating her through deconstruction. Without even needing to touch her.
She watched him: he moved in a snap-quick movement, picking up his cell phone. Heather blinked surprise from her eyelashes. Before, she had been in a poor visual sightline to witness this, so it was the first time she had seen him looking at his cell phone. He made a face, did a double take, then a third at the appliance.
Heather’s skin crawled.
This anger isn’t at me. This… this is whatever is going on in Danny land. He’s just… .he’s taking it out on me… he –
He returned. His head was angled peculiarly. But, then, Heather assigned meaning to it, because she knew, she intuited, she sensed what he had planned, understanding it only as a madwoman could, knowing that the insolent stroke of his fingers down his tongue: was to induce vomiting.
His lips were perfectly lined up with the mouth of the jar. She saw straight up his muscled tongue. The telescoping darkness peeled back as light spangled into his mouth, harshly illuminating the architecture of his throat. It peeled open in a kinetic jounce of his uvula, that hung like a red pendant before the liquid-black plunge of his esophagus. And all that viscera, that fine grasping detail, suddenly crowned open in an elastic insectile snap of tendon.
Heather’s teeth smashed together in a paroxysm of fear. They had moved from eating to digesting.
A loud, deafening gurgle erupted, pounding against the sides of the jar. His heaving gag sounded like the thunderous roar of a beast. He jerked forward, stretching his mouth wide, which, necessarily, poured more light into his body, and in stunning detail she saw his esophagus flicker open, red and lurid like a rictus red smile –
“PEACE.”
Heather flung her arms out. Though they were weighed down by his drying saliva, the thought of vomit spraying into her cramped prison, soaking her, snapped her from her paralysis. Please, no, God no, I can’t… I just… if he pukes all over me…
He closed his mouth with a snap that thrummed in her bones. “Peace?” he echoed back, hollowly.
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.
So, she answered him: “PLEASE, PEACE. I’M IN PEACE – I COME IN PEACE. I… PLEASE.”
He continued with a bilious rasp, “Peace? You come in peace?”
Heather just stared. His voice was the same, yet different. It was deep and drowning: a tangible emanation that she could melt into and turn to vapor. It rolled over her in a tangible blast of heat as he shouted down into the walls of her detention. She could smell something acrid on his breath. His insides, roiling: empty, and wanting callously for her to fill them.
“PLEASE -
“I don’t. I don’t come in peace. But, you? YOU?” He snarled. “You: you come in pieces, Heather.”
He clutched the jar, ripped it from the table, and shook it. Vertigo rocketed through her. Her visual field swung wildly around, the living room becoming a diffusive streak of colors, as she hurtled around the circumference, her eyes lurching worryingly into the corners of their sockets.
Stillness snapped over her. She tumbled backward. “PLEASE DON’T –
“SHUT UP,” he roared. “Shut up shut up shut up.” Heather froze. It was the same mantra he screamed when he raped her, three-hundred and sixty –
He struck it back onto the table, and violently inverted it.
Heather’s stomach flipped, her teeth bearing concussive force in her skull, retinas kindling a white-burst as she violently ejected, landing ugly on the table. This was a new rape. This was…
Her ribs knit together in pain. She rolled onto her side. A shape cleaved forward; she felt the air part before she saw it: his hand smashing down*. Oh no.* Heather smashed her eyes shut with equal ferocity. The force rebounded, shuddering through the plates of her skull. But no pain visited her. Wildly, she looked around.
His hand was domed over her like a tent; his fingers springy and bent to prevent bodily collision. She peered through the aperture of them, and an eclipsing shadow encroached, coming down from the heavens: his face.
Heather spasmed backward. “…you’re scaring me… you’re really…please…” she blabbered.
“Boy, Heather, are you lucky you’ve got those pills pumping through your system right now, otherwise you’d be pumping through mine.”
“You don’t mean… you…
“I DO.” He shrieked.
Danny’s voice was breaking. And when Danny’s voice broke, things broke.
Namely: me, Heather’s brain churned up in a hostile snap. She knew to appease to him; she knew to be quiet; she clenched her jaw shut. And the pill buoyed up. It galvanized her. It made her brave. It made her brave in stillness; in silence. Let him rant and rave. Let him work it out of his system. This is still Danny. Just Bigger Danny.
And, true to his character, he continued: “I DO, HEATHER, I MEAN IT.” He thumped his chest. “I’M TIRED OF PRETENDING.” His eyes roved over her. She could hear them click wetly in their sockets. “YES I WANT TO EAT YOU. YES I WANT TO MELT YOU.” He slapped his cell phone; it pinwheeled, landing exactly where it first rested. He looked at it almost in comical rage. Sobering, and with less break, less abrasive scratch to his voice: “I… fuck.” His face wilted down.
The inertia pulled her head up. He was looking at his cell phone again. His pupils flickered in habituation, reading.
Heather slowly peeled herself away from the table. She lolled her head back. And she looked at him. He emerged before her, his head ducking to peer at her. And all of him, like the monolithic face of a statue, was staggeringly large. And like a devotee standing before the grandness of a cathedral, she could not see all of him; she could not hope to contain him in the steady universe of her singular gaze. She could only meditate on one of his features at a time.
His eye, his nose, his mouth.
His mouth.
That’s a hot mouth, she remembered thinking once upon a time, when first they met. And it 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 smile. But, 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 slyly amused.
And, 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 jaw, his chin - that made him look intriguingly feral. And once upon a time, Heather had enjoyed his feral sex appeal; but, now – now it was a token reminder that he could lap her into his mouth with his long red tongue.
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 the plush density of his lips; the wet glossy gleam of saliva at the corners, and the hollow of his jaw that contoured outward into an angular canyon. Heather swallowed dryly. I’m small. I’m really small. Smaller than I thought. This… this is the size for eating.
“She comes in peace, she says,” he remarked with a haughty huff. “Yeah, right. You fucking shot me, bit me, and slapped me – oh, and, let’s not forget, peed on me, too.”
“Some people pay good money for that.”
Danny snorted a wild, uncontrollable laugh. “STOP, Heather. Fuck. I’m trying to stay mad at you.” His cell phone dinged. He looked down at it in autonomic spasm; then back at her. Something wrinkled across his face.
The pill pushed through her bloodstream like a bilious toxin. “You raped me; tried to eat me; drooled on me and belched in my fucking face. We’re even-steven…and not to mention what you did to Tammy.”
He flicked an eyebrow at her in stoic response. His fingers slid forward and expertly skimmed under her, and the kinetics necessarily transferred her to his palm. He lifted her. Her stomached knocked up into her ribs.
This can’t be real.
In a clutch of sensory information, everything fell away. The table; the earth; gravity. Vertigo banked her sideways, and necessarily wrenched her eyes to the side, but his fingers gently curled, protecting her from the fall. He held her level with his face. Mesmerized, Heather stepped closer on the expanse of his palm. She forgot to avoid the cracks. She forgot to be afraid. The pill bobbed defiantly inside her. She looked at him in silent rebellion.
“Peeing on me? Shooting me? I’ve killed others for less.” he murmured.
Heather stiffened. She looked up at him 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 her primitive tremble was a secondary thought, and it was quickly forming: she had come full circle. This – all of this – had an eerie book-end symmetry feel.
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 encounter had been an unironic dress rehearsal for what now transpired; that it had all been building, inexorably, toward this. 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 voyeuristic audience if everything was being projected, and seen, from the sightline of a 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 by day. Which is why she was mildly okay with this. 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. And, true to being a man, he was in dire conflict with something on his phone and that angst was bleeding over into their interaction.
This though, was surreal. 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 her divided devil that could thread her into the holes of his body like the lens of an endoscope– the very 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, standing before him. In a tangible flicker of intimate grace, they met eyes. It was the fantastical stasis of a moment: predator and prey sighting one another.
“I’m meeting you for the first time,” she said in a small voice.
She suddenly banked forward, riding his palm: his face advancing. But, it was at eye-level he held her. And one of those large pale eyes rolled down, like a marble, to examine her with a wet click. She could see the haze of the hunter, but there was a more sentient flicker about the pupil. His thick eyelashes fluttered, casting small disturbances in the air. She watched, in the black corona of it, her reflection, 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 eyes.
His eyes.
And didn’t pine over them like a lovestruck maiden; this felt religious, eternal. She was mesmerized by how beautiful his eyes actually were, certain in that moment that she had never appreciated colors - of any shade - until now, in her diminished state. Had she always been this deaf, this 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? A God?
Was he right? Was etymology the only natural barrier between demons and saints?
Heather took a deep, shuddery breath. It felt inadequate, even sophomoric, but she couldn’t stop the sudden feels. “Please, don’t hurt me. Please… can we just fucking… I’ve never had anyone do that for me. Jump into a fucking gun. I’m sorry I shot you. It was a mistake… it… I….but, that should be a conversation,” she breathed. “That’s at least a few words.”
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. The pill was fully saturating her now. She actually grinned. It was the grin of a madwoman, 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 false God. 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 –
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 known it sooner. Struck, all fear fell away.
As a high-functioning addict, she shouted: “Revenge porn?!” She threw her arms out, laughing into the high peaks of hysteria. “Is that what all of this is?! This is fucking revenge porn? You’re on a goddamn revenge kick because I never said it back? Is that what you needed to hear? Is that what you needed to feel? Is that why you lost your fucking marbles? Is this revenge kick all because I never said it back?”
She looked at his large green eye; it was flat. Even the long dense lashes seemed to withdraw in a sweep of parting air.
“Y-you thought I didn’t love you back then? Seriously, Danny? Like, seriously? I did, I absolutely did. You’re just… hard to love. You’re really, really hard to love. You’re… I don’t think you realize how violent you are. And… you hurt me. A lot. But… I hurt you a lot, too. 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.
“Can you control it?”
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 cause I’m still kinda high right now that I’m holding my shit together, because you’re huge and… and you were gonna literally puke on me. But, can you control it? The… the… behavior; like that lizard brain of yours… you have to on some level, cause I’ve seen you doin’ life pretty normally… I’ve seen you at social gatherings, your company…”
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. And a more-quiet realization joined her thoughts then: If can bust through that strong prey-dive, I might actually survive this. And if she did? If she were to survive? What unholy trauma, what fall-out would she experience from this?
But she had not the luxury to meditate on this because Heather had to survive. This she knew. And she knew it well because she was – as always - a survivor. Through sheer will alone Heather pushed back. A woman made weapon, she sought to slay Goliath with only her wit, and her moxie.
Heather continued, “And you know what makes it even more ugly?”
The eye had intent now, it was examining her.
He’s listening, she said to herself. “That you decided for me.”
And, his black pupil – so fixedly trained on her – violently expanded like a midnight sun.
She had made her master stroke. She had driven him back with a verbal bludgeoning. She had found grace because she had lain at his feet the most terrifying thing of all: possibility.
His head withdrew (but only by half).
Heather interpreted this new fractional distance to mean he was now interested in looking at her more cohesively, 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 captor in peaking awe: he was stunning. His face was deceptively, timelessly handsome. The overhead light bounced off the thin gold chain around his neck. It was inlaid with intricate symbols, casting the lower half of his face in a shallow, yellow luminance.
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 temple, tip-toeing closer to get a glimpse of his majesty.
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 –
“Danny,” Heather gasped. “Are you a demon?” Something was scratching at the underside of her brain. Something vital and important; but it fled her because the pill blocked her higher faculties. But she had not the wisdom to meditate on this, because Heather’s be-deviled God was full of caprice, and she had said something that amused him because he was tilting his head in a curiously-feral gesture, and speaking.
“Maybe.” He smiled thinly at her.
And it wasn’t until this very (strained) moment did she realize that it had been some time since he last spoke. So, she was relieved when he spoke again: “This is different.”
Heather eyed him warily. “Different how?”
He made a languid movement; stopped. “I can almost forget.”
“Forget what?”
“I can almost, almost forget that you’re prey.”
“No,” she lowed. “I’m not. I’m not prey.”
He gave her a patently amused look. It spoke for him.
“No,” Heather pronounced. “Prey is a mindset. I’m not, and never will be, prey.”
She met him pupil-for-pupil. She held it; commanded it. Bend, you motherfucker, fucking bend
His eyes held her, unmoving. Pale and alien. But there was a sudden flicker of interest across his face. “No…”
Heather stiffened toward him. Bend.
“I think… you might be onto somethin’ here.”
-
They were in agreement, but, something about his manner made her inch back.
“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.”
Something had turned, something had changed, and she couldn’t tell if it was to her favor. Now, he 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.
Him: hovering above her, faintly amused, ready to make mischief with her tiny body with his tongue that peeked from the corner of his mouth. Her: small and trembling, wrapped in his predatory inertia, athletically holding his fingers. 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
Heather’s teeth clattered together as she repeated the taunt in her mind. Play.
Would she slip inside him and disappear? 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 into the pit of him. That felt too simple. Too expedient. Because she knew, only as a madwoman could, that this wasn’t transactional, because there was an erotic softness etched around the lines of his mouth. To it she looked, then 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 stigmatized evil 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 her divided devil. His proclivities, like the rest of him, went staggeringly deep. How involved was this, exactly?
He’s dark. But she had always known that, hadn’t she? In her previous life, she had turned a blind eye to his darkness 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 —
Metaphor.
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, extracting sadistic pleasure from every dimple in her body.
How bad was it? The compulsion? You know, Heather’s brain mocked. You know damn well. Danny took everything to its extreme. He had to take everything to its extreme; to its inner tendon; to shave it close to the bone. He liked pleasure; he liked pain; he liked release. 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.
Now what Heather-Feather. You bought some time but at what cost? No, fuck this. I need to live. I need to… to see what’s on your damn phone. I need to see what rattled you so badly you forgot to fucking eat me.
But how would she ever hold his phone at this size? She looked down at her tiny, tiny hands. “Hey,” she breathed, “I need to… you need to… you need to put me back to normal.”
“You look normal to me. In fact, 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 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, and she certainly wasn’t at her Catholic Best when she was with Danny, but God did she ever come alive when they crossed words, just as they did now. (And so did he).
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: “I get it. I’m hot, I’d eat me, too.”
Danny tipped a mildly surprised look at her.
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. OR PUKE ON HER IN A JAR.”
“Now I’m definitely not going to eat you: I don’t do your bidding.”
“Well, then you can relate,” she responded churlishly. “I’d rather die than be controlled.”
“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. 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 in a bronze crescent.
Her entire existence, her entire being contracted down to this: 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 touching his. Her small fingers, like delicate petals, overlaid his. There was something poetic about it. And she could appreciate how romantic it was, if it were not for the fact his barbaric finger could crush her. A single contraction of muscle could buckle her. 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 medicated intensity. All the engraved lines in his skin stood out like demarcation in the sand.
“This is such a turn-on,” he remarked quietly. “You know what I can do. What I want to do. And ‘cause I know all of that is rattling around inside your head, too, 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. His finger was so large – and she so small – the raised matrix of his skin stimulated her. A small sound escaped her, but she observed an opening. Into it she thrust.
“This is why,” Heather gasped, “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 cut across. And the acoustics of his voice developed into something Heather would characterize as an undervoice - a faint, secondary voice that overlapped his primary one with a metallic rasp. It lapped against her like the scrape of gravel. It was inhuman. But it was him. 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 carved into the lips, revealing the contours of his flushed gumline, and below that, the solid overhang of teeth. Each tooth was horrifically visible, a matte gloss reflecting off the enamel, down to the edged tips. 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 powerful: 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. I don’t know if I ever will be okay with this… 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.
Off his look: “I talk a lot.”
He barked a laugh. “I’ll admit, I’ve thought about it.” He remarked coyly. His voice was normal again.
“But, seriously.” Heather 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-about your needs in a real way. 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 between us; like it was no big deal. But I know that isn’t true. And you know that isn’t true. What happened between us was a Big Fucking Deal. All capital letters. And it was a Big Fucking Deal 'cause you’ve been tripping over your dick to get me a whole 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.”
He turned his head away in an abbreviated movement.
"So, eat me,” she challenged. “But, make it good, hot-shot, since you know you can only do it —
DANNY
Once.
He could only have her once. The word pounded in his neck. His brain. It had power, a shape all its own. 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. But… what if he edged himself?
Just a taste, he told himself. And he curled his fingers around her, tenderly pulling her closer, lapping his tongue against her taut, supple body. It was performative, because she still carried the taste of the narcotic, but it still felt alarmingly good to feel the contours of her pretty body depress into the lines of his tongue.
“Let me let you in on a little secret,” he murmured. “A man should be terrified of his woman.”
He held her eye-level. It was like something out of the childhood canon he was raised on. Lust devoured Pride. “But, 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.'”
HEATHER
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 compulsion 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.
And if Beast had tried to devour Beauty? She considered his question. 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 for his sins? Worse: could she carry 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? Tammy? He brain whispered plaintively.
Was she already returning back to him: his world?
“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 someone give? Why not, for once, 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.
DANNY
And he had taken to this new turn of events with a new sensation. He liked holding her in his hand; it felt overwhelmingly precious to him.
He canted his head to the side and listened. He felt like he had scented something indeterminable in the wind. But he heard her; he listened. He always listened whenever Heather spoke, because, whenever Heather spoke it was always interesting. She’d give herself to him willingly? Jesus, that’d drain the Holy Ghost out of him. Startled, he deflected with a harsh: “I don’t need your consent.”
“No,” he heard her say in a small, simple voice Her diminished body produced a diminished chirp as she spoke. (Holy shit that’s cute). “But that’s the one thing you can’t take. Nobody can. You can’t take consent.”
She wasn’t wrong. He licked his lips; stretched his jaw in a quick frenetic pulse of excitement. It would be - as she said - a different energy. It would be a vibe that was impossible to generate unless it was authentic. It was like she had taken a stick to his mind and bashed it open.
All the saliva had wicked from his mouth. Suddenly, he was dry.
“Why,” was all he croaked.
HEATHER
“Because, I want to live, and you want to-to… cram me into-into your obscene box. You want to, um, eat me, so-so why don’t we make a role play of it. So, why not… you know, try and-and, I guess, endoscopy me?”
And the moment - the precise moment he understood - he ran his hand over his face; his mouth. He whipped his head away; back. (The movement buffeted air against her) “Fuck, Heather. Fuck.”
“That means you… you don’t go… all the way.” She licked her dry lips. “We… we have to work something out… like… we… you know, don’t… hurt me.” She trailed off.
“I’m tired of contracts,” he groused. “But, fuck it. What’s one more.” He held his free hand out in mock placation. “Continueth, Heather.”
Heather did not understand his odd statement so she chalked it up to some sort of media reference she didn’t quite understand. “I guess? I mean… I guess we kinda have to come to some understanding? Like, don’t take things too far. Or go fucking apeshit on me. … but, whatever. I don’t want normal, Danny. I never did. 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. “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 zombie 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.
“Bad news, Kitten. I’ve watched the Kardashians.”
“Danny, no –
“Although, in my defense, it was an eight-hour flight –“
“Still –
“Eight hours flying does things to a man.”
“EIGHT HOURS OF KARDASHIANS?!”
“NOT ALL AT ONCE.”
“That’s no defense! God, you always had the worst taste in shows.”
He laughed. And, this time, he didn’t turn his head to mask it.
“But,” she continued in a sad, strained voice, the hysterics of the situation 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…”
“Again?!”
“Yes?!”
“What’s it with you chicks always peeing?!”
“I don’t know?! But, shut up: listen. I just want us to reset. I don’t know what that looks like. Or how it’s done.” She began to cry silently, “But we have to figure it out. Otherwise, we’re gonna end up toe-tagging one another. I mean, you jumped into a gun for me. I’m… I think… I need to give you another chance. But, I’m sorry, 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…”
“I never said it was an addiction.”
She shrugged. “You didn’t need to. From one addict to another: I know.” Heather re-doubled the hold on his finger. “Eat me, or don’t. I don’t care anymore. I just need to… I just.” she looked at him with sad, wounded eyes. “Maybe I can –we— can handle this better now, knowing we’re both locked into some strange oral fixation. That we’re both operating under addiction.”
He gently returned her to the table. The vertigo slammed her eyes shut. But, there was a movement, a sensation of lift.
Which compelled her eyes to open so that she could see — and what she saw startled her enough that she tumbled off the table –
– normal –
but before she could land, his arms 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 – just as it was, a year ago when they dozed on the couch together – to protect her from her plummet, and she did not have time to contemplate if it was affection that had motivated him – or instinct – because she was reaching for the cell phone on the table, and she knew to gingerly grab, pluck with forefinger and thumb, and cunningly slip it into her hand before he could notice. She shielded the theft in the pantomime of their embrace.
Gotcha.
-
Author’s Note:
I now have a Subscription Star and Patreon for early-release content, exclusive content, and visual content. You can also bear witness to me creating the comic/graphic novel with a scene technician.
https://subscribestar.adult/nephilim
https://www.patreon.com/MistressNephilim/I will always post the chapters publicly because I enjoy sharing the story.
I just want my readership to be aware that this option exists. And that I will have to delay release to this website. because I have paying subscribers, now
I have started rendering in DAZ Studio 4.21 again, producing 3D art and 2D art, and digital painting, so I have started creating concept art for the graphic novel.
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Little Pill Story Map - Beginning The Ending
Chapter 9: Glass Jars For Broken Boys & Bitter Bitches - a very intense vore-kink, size-kink chapter concluding the “DeSade/tormented love” story arch.[released]Chapter 10: My Pills, My Priest , My Demon - very important chapter for story direction, that introduces us to the central
mystery, setting up the Bigger StoryChapter 11: Vore, Violence & Vendetta - a revealing chapter for story direction, where two story-lines twine, that surges forward from the exposition in chapter 7 and 10, creating the first stunning plot twist, and staggering smash to black, ending the series.
Chapter 12: The End Is The Beginning
Sub-titled: Spit, Spirit & Semen - the epilogue with an elegantly embedded twist within a twist, that serves as the bridge-chapter for Book Two/Season Two.- Publicly - you will get each chapter every 2-4 weeks.
- Paid Subscribers - you will get each chapter every 1-3 weeks (in addition to drabbles and working drafts)
I lay out the story map for your intrigue, so you can see the shape of things to come, being fully aware that we are on the approach; getting ready to unravel the ending. Remember, this is a novel with an intricately layered narrative, full of mystery, intrigue, complexity, and plot twists… Vore and size kink is interwoven throughout, yes; but this is a story. This is not a formulaic grab-and-gulp.
If you don’t like to invest in a tale unless you know it’s finished; do not fret, the ending is written. Or, if you are uncertain of the story direction, be assured, I write very good lead-ups and very satisfyingly-chilling endings
This post is to entice you to start reading, if you haven’t already; or are afraid to do so because you only want to invest into something completed. Don’t worry,
We are almost there. <33 Hang on.Source:
https://aryion.com/g4/view/926749
https://subscribestar.adult/nephilim
https://www.patreon.com/MistressNephilim/