streaming invitation

Tonight is a special night. You’re here because you want to watch me devour people: in games, in fantasies, in fact. Well, tonight, I have something special for you personally. An invitation for you.

The stream began with a gentle warm-up. One modeller, enamoured with you in a way that is becoming increasingly familiar, presented you with a lightweight mod replacing sprites and models of Amy with a familiar pale, dark-haired visage and plump, luxurious body. You haven’t left your machine since receiving it, and only remembered to stream after the first play-through.

“People seem excited,” I remark from across the room. Your desk, temporarily free of papers and research and notes, bears nothing more than a glass of water. You weren’t planning on eating anything physical tonight. “No one knows what to expect.”

“Some will know it.” Your eyes flicker from line to line of speculation and commentary. “But even they don’t know how dangerous this will be.”

Dozens of people talk over one another in text. Hundreds more watch silently, or ignore the others and scan for your words only.

“You’re not going to… drain your entire fan base at once, are you?”

You glance away from the screen at me wearing a wicked grin. In the monitor light the soft lines of your face are thrown into harsh relief, and your fangs are more prominent than usual. I melt a little when I see the way they catch the light. “Yes. Those who take part. The question is: how much?”

“Dead people don’t pay your bills,” I offer by way of warning. But you can hear my heartbeat over the sound of computer fans and Sonic menu music turned right down.

“They can slosh around in my soul, though. And I can use them.”

I’ve got nothing to say to that. Your eyes go back to the screen.

LoneWolllof> oh my god is this like she picks one of us and we get to ahem meet her? JaneAustInside> I sent you a message, please reply, I would love to talk about how I could satisfy you SevenOfWine> Spiro is even cuter when he’s a hedgehog, this is nice JesusSlaves> please eat Masterfy, she is a streamer who you can shit out live on camera RunesAndTunes> what’s the invitation Raven? Alethiomorph> I am ready. Take me!

“Let’s see if any of my loyal fans bite.” A thought crosses your mind and your eyes flit my way again. “Speaking of, come here.”

I meet your eyes and hold my ground a second. I seem tense. But perhaps it is anticipation. You watch me set aside my laptop and cross the room. At a gesture I kneel by your chair, smirking as if amused by my own obedience. You ignore me a moment as you click some buttons and tap some keys.

Your video feed goes black, and is then replaced with stark black-and-white. Concentric circles, your name in a sprawling hand. That waiting shape in the centre, enigmatic construct that seems to watch and strike in the self-same moment. I look up to the screen and grip your ankle, a casual touch turned tense by fear and excitement.

More than a thousand followers see the accompanying message:

Raven’s Invitation.pdf Come feed me.

You spin on your chair to face me. I look up at you, curvaceous body cupped and comforted by your seat. Two thighs I know well projecting to either side of me. You’re wearing a damn skirt. Far too much clothing, but skirts can ride up…

You see me kneeling, curious mix of tension and excitement letting my eyes rove over your body. You remember when I at first hesitated to do that, frightened of seeming like another over-sexed man. As you revealed yourself you burned away my capacity to hide how I felt. Now every part of me is yours, even the ones you haven’t yet metabolised or submerged within your soul.

You say, “What do you think’s going to happen?”

I weigh up realities as I stare into your eyes. “Nothing at first. Then some number of them start to fantasise about you. Maybe… Twenty will do it right? Really focus? I think you’ll pull something from them.” A thought makes my brow ruck, super-emphasised in the stark lighting. “Will you be able to join their fantasies?”

“It’ll be more like fifty, and I’ll still get something from everyone who just gets off. I’m hoping to visit one. And from them, I’ll take as much as I can. Still…” You shuffle your hips forward on your chair but lean back insouciantly. One hand pulls back the pleats of your shirt, scarcely revealing your cunny from the shadows beneath. Your other hand take mine, gladly given as my gaze scours the fragrant darkness between your legs. You brush your lips against the wrist and I barely notice. “We have a few minutes before their donations come in…”

Blood and pleasure. Pleasure and blood. I give you both and you drink them down slowly, drawing me out, stretching me over the minutes all your prey take to come to you.

You ride my face and taste mouthfuls of thick, slow-running blood. It’s a kind of meditation. You see glimpses of the secret hearts of those reading your words set down so long ago…

… You’re riding so many of them, thin as a rake, fat as a pregnant sow, black and white and red in skin. The constant is the need to give. Dozens imagine they cum for you and you inhale the wisplike offerings of their souls. Hundreds imagine they are bleeding from you and feel the draw of your swallows faintly, but deep in their bones. …

… Some want to be on top, and you play along, each thrust of cock or tongue or finger a little prayer that feeds you; each woman grinding herself into your face a font you can drink from, even as you make them moan in ecstasy…

… Some want you inside them. Your cock, made hard by worship or the scent of fear, squeezes achingly into bodies that protest but welcome it.

… The swirling storm of raw sexuality grows stronger, fanned by your words and your flitting presence. You unfold wings like a succubus, like a dragon; you coil them in a muscular body like a snake; many you rut with, wolflike, furred and feral. It all earths in you. Your spirit feeds.

And when they are sated, they sate you further. The blood of hundreds pours down hundreds of your throats, each the custom fantasy of your prey, but each also yours. Your physical mouth sucks harder and harder on my wrist, and you don’t hear my warning moans, buried as they are in your sopping cunt.

More than blood, they feed you their bodies! How many times do you swallow in that half hour? Spirits distant and near cloak themselves in your hundred throats, in your slick pussies, in your deep, rank bowels. One dissolves into your tits. You feel his fading struggles like you were swollen with sparkling milk.

Your true prey promotes himself to your awareness through the vividness with which he pictures you. His hatred and desire give you a pin-sharp body you can step inside…

… he’s fucking you, hard enough to tear if you weren’t so wet. Your sounds of pain and panic and pleasure are cut off by the hands around your throat that crush your windpipe. How long has it been since your were allowed to breathe?

You roll your tear-streaming eyes to look at his face, twisted and dark with anger. Lacking breath to speak you mouth the single word, “why?”

Air is restored but only so the hand can draw back and slap you. The whole side of your face flashes with pain then goes numb.

“You killed her,” he growls through gritted teeth. “Fucking… Ate her!”

“Who?”

He screams into your face: “AliceGG!”

With this furious man’s hands on your face and cock in your pussy, you can’t help but leak a tiny smile into his fantasy. “Who?”

He positively roars in his fury and throws you onto your front. As you feel him pump into your arsehole and pull back a raw handful of your hair you dive into yourself. The name is familiar.

The sea of dead and dried out souls within you parts as you search. Alice. One of many. The correct one bubbles to the surface and fails to open her eyes. This is no afterlife: you sucked every spark of life and light out of her and used it to spread your influence. Her soul burned away to ensnare her followers to enrich yourself. The angry man currently dreaming of fucking you in the arse doesn’t understand why he recalls, obsessively, the moment you revealed what you had done.

AliceGG may be dust but you can animate her corpse. You blow air into her paper-dry lungs and then speak with her voice:

“She shit me out, too.”

He freezes, still plunged to the hilt in your hot rectum. The hand gripping your hair relaxes, so you stretch out your neck and look back at him.

“About eighteen hours later. I was paste after four, belly fat after twelve. Shit after seventeen, but she kept me inside for a while because she likes feeling full.”

He tries to withdraw from you but he can’t. Whiplike black tendrils have emerged from the shadows around you and curled around his limbs, his hips, his neck. They begin to move him, causing an involuntary glide out and back in to your anus. You coo softly, then continue in that same voice.

“But you know this, don’t you, FrancisBaking? You were one of my earliest followers but when she ate me you joined her stream and you paid extra for VIP access. You watched on webcam while the fat bitch slept and I turned from a massive hard lump in her stomach to minestrone in her intestines. You came when she farted. You came when she woke up and checked out how tight I made her lingerie. You came when you saw her little pink arsehole open up and my last early remains peek through. Exactly where you are now, Francis.”

He struggling, now, the big man who thought to brutalise you. He’s whimpering and sniffing and seems unable even to form words: shame and confusion have rendered him mute. You stroke yourself off with him and he twitches deep inside you, close to releasing.

“But I’m still here, Francis. Just like she is. She likes being fucked in the arse. Especially after a meal, and she’s eating hundreds of you people right now. You’ll—” you moan as your body shudders with an orgasm, the sensory overload of me, the hundreds, and now Francis the dildo, all becoming too much. “You’ll be dessert. Come join me, Francis.”

A contraction of the tendril around his hips shatters his pelvis like a dropped China cup. He manages to cum before the whip around his chest bends him 180 degrees backwards. The first break, somewhere in his lumbar spine, sounds like a gunshot and is followed by a scream so long and pure it’s almost music.

With your butthole clamped onto his cock you fold him like origami, furnishing a giant meat dildo out of his broken form. He’s still screaming after you crush his ribcage and commence cramming him inside, stretching your ring monstrously wide to accept him. No graceful slide for him: your butthole makes sucking, farting noises as your ravenous intestines seek to pull him inside.

His heart beats right up until your anus closes over the crown of his head and his feet. Then his body begins cooling, slumped against a machine showing only your sigil. His soul gets no easy ride, though: beneath the glorps and gurgles inside you comes the near-constant sound of breaking bones: your powerful colon twists and tortions the ligaments from his joints, the bones into splinters. He faces a long and noisome journey through your shit-stained inner plumbing until he finds blissful annihilation in a vat of acid.

You open your eyes on a room in mostly-darkness. The taste of blood fills your mouth and its heat fills your tummy. Offerings still pour into you, in spirit and money via the stream, and screaming prey gluts you up as he wends his circuitous way northwards.

You look down to see me passed out on the carpet. My heart struggles with the strain, fast as a sparrow’s. You lick your lips of their stain of my blood and resolve to fetch me water and a blanket. You’re not done with me yet but, likewise, you’re not done with the stream.

You’re really enjoying Sonic.