~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Dream & Memory: A Story of Becoming ~~~~~~~~~~~~
Emily took him by the hand, and Tim allowed himself the risk. Down the shadowy hallway together they fled, enraptured by the promise of moonlight. She opened the door and whispered "Here..." They entered together without hesitation.
It was a whirlwind of chance and dreams, their love. Nothing was certain, everything in flux. She regarded him with the softest of suspicions, and he the same, until the mad fingers of midnight sparked a secret fire in their souls. They burst together into the pheonix-flame of passion: unrelenting in their pursuit of ash and renewal. They entwined their souls repeatedly, sheltered against the dark by one another's shadow; gleefully tricking the moonlight into shining their way.
Emily and Tim loved better than the best before them, and went unmatched ever after. They met as sand and sea; each absolved into the other, and neither could define any boundery between the mix. If they stumbled at all, they fell together: most often into bedsheets. Each passing glance between them was a bridge securely built. Occasionaly they would just sneer at each other, and laugh, and laugh, and laugh...
They dug each other, that much was always true.
Tim did his best to suppress his deepest desires and enjoy a regular, healthy relationship, but it wasn't long before he lost control. Every soft brush of her breath on his skin, each throat-revealing howl of laughter, and many inadvertant tummy grumbles drew him helplessly deeper into his impossible dream. He wrote stories about her whenever they were apart: watched delicate morsels disappear down her throat when together. He didn't dare tell her of his fantasies.
Tim loved Emily, but something in his head was wired wrong. The normal human desires in his brain were overwhelmed by the absurd need to surrender himself to her angelic grace. Being lovers wasn't close enough for Tim. He wanted to belong to her in the ultimate way: he was a hard-wired lemming aching to be prey.
He never understood where these passions came from, nor why he felt such strange yearnings with such force, but they had always been there. Before he even had a name for it, Vore was the primary fixation of his otherwise ordinary mind. In his childhood, far before anything was sexual, he would wrap himself in blankets and pretend he was being devoured by some great worm. He saw (along with his entire generation) countless examples of cartoon mice narrowly escaping the treacherous gullets of cartoon cats. They always wound up saved somehow, by luck, or (more likely) cartoonists too lazy to create a new main character. Tim always watched these breif, barbaric scenes with a sort of hopeful awe. Mousey would run straight into the waiting maw of some selfish kitty, taken by surprise as triumphant jaws snapped shut around their unsuspecting prize. You could see the sudden fear and understanding in the mouse's eyes as the whole television screen displayed a great red arch, a dangling uvula, and the edges of kitty's tongue sloping menacingly down into a circle of inky blackness...
They always took the time to show the drama of the moment, those sick fucks at the helm of children's entertainment. Often our T.V. heros would be forced to desperately cling to the swaying uvula of their captor; screaming, clawing, and begging not to go down. Tim would watch in wild rapture wondering if this would finally be the time. It never was.
Tim always wished that they would just show it: send that mousey straight down the pipe as nature intended. Let the children see a conquering feline swallow it's rightful prey. In the real world it doesn't matter if you're a hero. There is no plot protection, no benevolent storyboard-director to keep you safe from harm... if you find yourself in kitty's mouth, your next destination is most likely a stomach. Fuck your story, and whoever's watching! Kitty has her own ideas and needs.
He grew up and started liking girls.
The fascination transformed itself immediatly.
Tim wrote his first story about an emo girl from church camp. He did not know the word 'vore', nor did he have any concept that there might be others like him. His innocence was still intact then, and Parental Controls insured he would never shatter it by accident. All he knew was he loved a pale, rebellious beauty, and she captivated him with every possible charm.
It didn't start with a Giantess fetish. It was vore all the way. That sweet, sultry girl towered a thousand times over him in his darkest dreams because that was the only way she could logically swallow him whole. The size difference was simply a necessity, the real thrill for Tim was the visceral thought of being squeezed down her throat. He couldn't get it out of his head. It was a weird and unnatural desire and he knew it, but in a rage of horny confusion he took his adolescent thoughts to the page one night and scribbled out his story:
'A towering goddess and her willing little snack. The swift ascent of her hand, him dangling from her fingers. The slow, tantilizing parting of sweet lips. Warm breathe and a glimpse of brilliant pink and terrifying darkness. A look in her eyes of calm, predatory command. Being tossed, flicked, or downright dropped down into the chasm below. Landing on her tongue, feeling it wrap around and pull him in. All-powerful muscle in complete feminine control. Darkness. Heat. A moan, a sigh, and a playful suck.
Slowly, gracefully, the Princess of Darkness closes her eyes and tilts her head back. He knows she's doing it deliberatly. Teasing him. He is willful, yet afraid. No time to back out, her tongue rises, her throat gapes open and she gulps him headfirst into her eager, awaiting throat. Sliding. Squeezed. Swallowed. Not quite eaten, but being eaten! The slick, uncomprimising folds of her throat flex and pulsate around him, guiding his descent. A tight squelch. A brief freefall. And then...'
Tim wrote many other stories after that, about numberless girls. He slid into, and through puberty with one singular attraction: a bizzare fascination with the female digestive system. The thought of being consumed, willingly or not, by some exuberant Angel/Demoness dominated his mind and libido. He tried to capture every possible scenario in the pages of his notebook.
Often he would dream of a graceful, radiant soul-mate swallowing him out of love and charity. He also imagined those same soul-mates greedily gulping him for revenge, or kicks. Sometimes he wrote about careless self-centered vixons who wouldn't even notice him squirming. Women he hated and despised. These visions were somehow the best! Cunty cunts he wouldn't be caught dead next to snatched him up and sent him screaming down their gross, whore gullets. Once you're in their stomach it doesn't matter how you feel about being food... you are. Get on with it.
It was all chaos and confusion until he found Emily. She got him, dug him, liked him for who he was. Tim genuinely loved her and wanted to spend his life by her side. He couldn't help but write those stories. He had always known it was weird and impossible, and did his best to keep it secrect, keep it safe. He never expected Emily to find out, much less make it a reality and actually shrink him. And now...
Here he was, pinched between Emily's fingers, raised high above her dazzling body!
Tim saw the slow-motion curl of her tongue slipping out to lick her parted lips with anticipation... felt her hot breath caress his skin in warm waves of lust and longing. Every detail was stunningly real and Tim was dumbstruck by the sheer magnitude of the experience. There she was, right in front of him, immense eyes alight with desire, supple lips slightly parted while the smooth pink beast of her tongue slid deliberately back and forth over a slimy surface. Behind him, far away, Tim heard the rustle in the sheets picking up speed. Emily's mouth sprang wide open, revealing the full glory of her waiting, eager throat!
Her eyes closed as her free hand began to lower him down.
Tim saw his darkest dream unfolding beneath him and couldn't help but scream.