take a breath
My dear Raven: take a deep breath and hold it for me until I say otherwise.
The rug is plush and luxurious against your cheek and between your fingers. You rub against it seeking comfort or distraction.
There are many reasons for discomfort. The silk wrapped skillfully around your head blinds you to what I’m doing. Your chest is bound tightly in more silk, and the healthy swell of your feminine curves is sharply curtailed to trace the ribs that are hidden beneath so much fat. Your arms are simply bound by your sides, fastened to an easy hip harness. A mask fitting snugly over your mouth and nose smells faintly of rubber and disinfectant: a vaguely hospital smell that is disconcerting in your own living room.
Then, of course, your belly is empty. It’s been empty since lunchtime, when you set free the random gentleman I brought to your home—or at least the broken and homogenised shell of him. You can feel your tummy begin to protest its neglect in a series of glorps, most absorbed by your healthy coat of fat, but some insistent enough to leak out into the real world and hint that yes, you need to be fed.
Can you hold your breath a little longer for me?
Finally, there’s the thing you’re trying to distract yourself from. The mask bears an air valve, and I have closed it. You haven’t drawn breath in a minute, by the clock.
The sensation wasn’t too bad when it started. There’s a kind of freedom in it: not being tied to the workings of the world. Perhaps there are vampires who have forgone the luxury of breathing, but your body still blinks and breaths and your heart still beats.
It’s beating now. Without distraction, you can feel it going up through the gears, distributing a diminishing oxygen supply. The initial free-fall feeling gave way to a scrabbling panic inside your chest. You begin to writhe and struggle against your bonds. You could open the valve if you could reach it.
A tug at the mask, and I open the valve. You gasp in a lungful of air.
You can breathe now, Raven. My good girl.
You’d recounted a meal to me, told me how you’d made him melt inside you, burned away his nerve endings until he fucked himself into soup against your stomach lining. You told me how his essence was spent, part squandered, part sacrificed. Told me he’s all gone.
I think you were trying to get a reaction out of me. You succeeded. Perhaps you smirked when my face went red and my jaw tightened. “Don’t act so indignant,” you said breezily. “He made me huge. You’d have happily fucked me in the bum if you’d been there.”
I’d put my lips to yours in a brief, fierce kiss, and then told you I’d be back. An hour later I returned with a bag.
“You deserve to be punished.”
“Goody,” you said, and the next words were interrupted by a hesitant knock at the door.
I looked past you into the hallway. “You also deserve to be fed. So I’m going to feed you, damn you.”
Your grin was pure wickedness.
“Green?”
You’re still panting a little. With the valve open you can speak, your voice coming out a little muffled, shaped by translucent plastic piping.
“Green. That all you got?”
“Oh, I’ve got more. Ask Sian. She’s still not allowed air. Do you want to give her air? Say the word.”
You can hear her next to you, making desperate squeaks in her throat, bottled up by the tightly-affixed mask. You picture her arching her back, throwing her head side-to-side. Do you pity her, having just experienced that deprivation yourself?
“Let her breathe.”
“This is what your prey feels.” You don’t hear any hiss of air, any breath into lungs. “They don’t get reprieve. You belch out their air supply and they fight and suffocate inside you. Are you sure you want to let Sian breathe?”
Sian’s bottled-up voice modulates a desperate sound half-way between sobbing and laughing. Her distress makes you feel a little ill. “Let her breathe.”
A hiss, and a coarse gasp, followed by coughing. “Oh, oh, oh,” she says, the meaningless vocalisations growing less urgent and more blissful as oxygen hits her system. “Sir, I thought you weren’t going to let me…”
“Don’t thank me. Raven let you breathe.”
“Oh.” A pause, while Sian pants. Your eyes are in darkness so you can’t see if I offer her any comfort as I lean over her. “Thank you, Raven. What… what was that stuff about prey?”
“A game we play,” I answer smoothly, shutting down the question. “Let’s play another game. Legs apart, Sian.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Whatever treatment she gets involves a certain degree of organic, wet sounds and a few low, unaffected moans.
You saw Sian briefly. It seems I know a lot of slightly chubby pretty girls. Her eyebrows are drawn on and she wears too -red a shade of lipstick, but her eyes were fetching and you picked up a flirtatious manner, in the free moments you could see her. Now she’s lying next to you, maybe a couple of feet away, your prey doing… what? to her. Fucking her, fingering her, tasting her?—God knows I’ve got a taste for you. Or maybe stuffing her with some toy, thrusting slowly to warm her up, easing it in deeper and deeper. Yes, that sounds right. Do you feel jealous?
“Raven?”
Sian begins a moan that lasts a lungful. During it I work a warm, silky pillow within your hip harness. It cups and presses your womanhood perfectly. When I hold something against it you rock your hips: the sensual glide of the fabric serves to enhance the deep self-administered massage of your waking pussy.
Then I switch on the toy pressing against you. Ah, the Doxy. Near silent, its powerful waves instantly penetrate all round you, lighting up nerve endings way down deep. Your head rocks back and you groan out approval mingled with a demand for more.
You don’t get it. I withdraw the Doxy all but a literal touch. A butterfly’s wings tease you between your legs. You strain to bring it closer, but I keep it from you
“Here’s the game: you get air and pleasure, or you get neither. While you’re having fun, she’s asphyxiating. Tell me when you want me to hand it over.” A buzzing on the edge of hearing stops and Sian moues in protest. “Red is stick your tongue out: I’ll see it. Understood?”
You nod, and presumably she does too. “Good. Sian, good news, you get to breathe. Raven, better pray she likes you. And has self-control.”
You draw breath to speak but the valve clicks shut half-way through. Loud in your ears is Sian’s moan. The faint buzz grows louder and quieter in rhythm, a toy engulfed and released.
You can’t breathe. You hear her breathing deepen and intensify, and your own chest is beginning to constrict with panic. I must be taking Sian slowly because her breathy sounds have an endless quality, like she has reached a point where she has always been building to an orgasm.
You’re beginning to squirm when you hear Sian say, “change.” I leave her panting and swiftly come to your side. The pressure builds around your pussy and the toy leaps into action sending thrills of desperate pleasure running up to your belly. Only then do I open the valve, allowing you to choke in a deep lungful of air. Lightheadedness makes the sensation overwhelming: every part of your body, from fingers to nipples to flanks to cunny, tingles. Only your cunny is receiving the close attention it sorely requires.
You float higher and higher on sensation, drinking it in, letting it smoulder in the bottom of your belly. Eventually you become aware of Sian whimpering airlessly. The sound reminds you of devoured prey, lodged somewhere beneath a canopy of cruel ribs. The heat building up inside you does, too, as if Sian were inside you, pressing your belly against your pussy instead.
You give serious thought to letting her choke out. Would I listen to her Red?
She’s getting seriously frantic now. Your pleasure comes over you in waves. You long to be stuffed, filled up: to feel squirming down inside you. But fuck, will I feed her to you? Surely I will, but what if she is dead? You crave the begging coming from within…
“Change,” you say, sharply before you can change your mind. The valve clicks off immediately and you realise how much you were panting. Your hips strain to continue the pleasure but there is no longer anything to grind again: I’m over there seeing to it that Sian is fucked instead.
As soon as air hits her lungs you hear her cum, cries of pleasure owing more to pain, mixed in among desperate snatches for air. My rhythm is constant, drawing out her peak, seeming almost to taunt you: listen to her breathe, scream, cry out.
Your own lungs start on fire. You shake your head side to side, staining for oxygen that doesn’t come, hearing someone else use the air that is rightfully yours. Panic bubbles inside you and only the great self-possession you have developed when dealing with profoundly dangerous Others enables you to keep your tenuous control. You’ll be damned if you lose to this sack of meat. You struggle and strain but do not cut your way free, do not call red.
You suffer.
“Change,” says the selfish bitch when she’s wrung every ounce of pleasure she can out of the attentions of your prey. You can smell her arousal, a sharp musk that makes saliva spring to your mouth.
Your fury is such that when I switch open the valve that you don’t gasp: you take in a cold, controlled breath. The oxygen hits you like a hammer and you almost pass out. But you don’t, and you speak with voice that feels like someone else’s: “I want her.”
My hesitation reveals that I’m overcome with some emotion you can’t read right now. “Then earn her.”
A firm hand on your hip rolls you to face her. You breathe deeply, feeling the panic fade but not the anger. Your mask tugs side-to-side a few times and then, boom, daylight. I’ve stripped away your blindfold.
You look right into the shining green eyes of Sian. Lust, satisfaction and excitement are all plainly visible there. They cloud over with fear as they look into yours. What do you think she’s seeing?
Breathing isn’t easy, but it’s different. A glance down reveals the change: your masks’ airways are connected. What you exhale, she may inhale, and vice versa.
A panicky intake of breath from her forces a puff from between your lips. The audacity is an outrage.
So you inhale her.
Your chest muscles, buried beneath layers of cosy fat, are uncommonly powerful. They expand and Sian’s eyes bulge as the air is dragged from her lungs. It makes a sound as it streams across her voicebox: ~huooaaarrr~
More and more, deeper and deeper into your chest. The lungs are not designed to be emptied: they always contain, say, a third of their capacity. But hers are emptied. The air you breathe comes tasting of blood.
Her body rubs against you as she scrabbles against her bonds. You welcome the sensation, wishing only that it were inside. There is no air in her now, only the oxygen left in her bloodstream. You picture her blood shading to blue as that oxygen is used up…
Poor thing still has a vibrator crammed into her pussy when she dies. Her eyes unfocus and look slightly up and past you, then she is gone. Flatline.
No, not gone. She died craving the air you sucked out of her. Now you continue to suck, and her terrified consciousness is drawn just as inevitably toward and through the yawning portal of your mouth…
Her spirit streams out of her like smoke. You have plans for it so she is not consumed. Yet.
Your arms ping free. Good. I am untying you. You immediately tear off your mask and the mask of the body opposite you.
I am forgotten momentarily. You lay Sian boneless on her back and push your mouth against hers, on all fours and looking down her body.
Then you exhale.
It’s not life, what you grant to her soul as you push it back into her meat. But it will keep her breathing, and moving, and most important of all, struggling. Her bulging eyes stare up at the roof of your mouth and then at only darkness as you engulf her.
She dies again in darkness and terror and agony, never able to draw breath and never able to perish from the lack of it, until the last vestige of her body is melted to jelly and her soul finds its final home swaddled up inside yours.
You lie back, rocking side to side, kneading the huge mound of your gut. When you are sated with sex, sweat lightly sheening your body and your arsehole pleasantly sore, I fall to adoring your belly. I knead it and cover it with kisses as you drift slowly off into a rest well-earned. I celebrate the loss of another friend to your relentless digestion long into the night. Her grave speaks to me while you sleep.
Have you learned your lesson?