This Is Kind Of Gross, So Be Prepared…

I was giving my husband one of my rare blowjobs (rare because he rarely feels good enough to get a good erection, not rare because of any other reason). Making him feel that I was living for his cock- that I would die unless I had him in my mouth. Now, he had a funny taste while I was sucking on him. Not haha funny, like I was sucking on clown cock (I had to work for that one, but I liked it 🙂 ), but funny as in- not right.

At last he pushed my head down harder and came in my mouth- which, remember, I like because I like the taste of semen. I wish they had a semen delivery service, I’d drink about a quart a day. Better if I could drink a quart a day from my husband 🙂 , but I guess he’d die trying to make that much semen for me 🙂 .

But this tasted- wrong. So rather than swallowing, I held it and went  into the bathroom where I spat it into some tissue. And his semen had a mixture of very old and very fresh blood in it.

…and NOW he tells me that one of his testicles is swollen and sore.

Well, thanks a LOT, dear 😐

So anyway, leading up to this, we are now making appts to try and find out what he’s got going on down there. Gods above, let it be nothing!

 

Well, A Story Start And A Novel Way To Check Your Husband’s Health

Here’s what I have to start with. This fiction piece leads up to a piece of vore art by Jomela. Hopefully he won’t mind my showing you the piece of art that this is leading up to:

So this story beginning, which I will continue later, will lead up to this and then continue with her in his tummy. Yummy!

🙂

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Ms. Trivvet sighed, leaning back at her desk. She wanted to lean back far enough to stretch her back, but with her very heavy breasts resting on the desk top, she couldn’t lean back far enough. If she did get a good stretch, her breasts would pull off the desk top and at almost thirty five pounds each that made stretching her back difficult at best in a sitting position. Each of her breasts was perfectly natural, not a single mark of surgery on either perfect globe, with very little to no sag. And with each breast over twice the size of her head and hair by volume, it made her desk work very difficult.

Janie Trivvet stood almost five foot eight in her stocking feet, and weighed in at almost 120 pounds when naked and just slightly damp, say after a shower or after exercising mildly… skin flushed, nipples tight, trying hard not to think of her attention-demanding clitoris. She felt uncomfortable when wearing clothes- nothing mental, she had never wanted to be a nudist, but her skin hurt slightly when she was clothed. When nude, her skin felt happy enough it made up for feeling slightly chilly. On the other hand, when she was nude, her skin felt happy enough it sent mega tingles to her already sensitive vulva, breasts, anus, and mouth.

She felt embarrassed that her mouth was as sensitive and pleasure oriented as her nether lips and vaginal “throat”. She had never heard of any other woman having an oral orgasm, but that was the best way to describe how it felt to have a man fill her mouth and throat with his thick, long, rock hard, throbbing, hot cock. And when he filled her stomach with a full cup of steaming semen fresh from his wonderful balls- well, it made her feel damned good.

The door to her bosses office was shut.

What I Have So Far

She drained the final can of beer in one great long swallow, the bubbly liquid hurting her throat even as she gulped. Then she dropped the can on the grass and started rolling off the chair. “I have to do two things,” she said, standing and walking to the house. “I really need to pee, and I need some more beer. If I’m going to end up in your tummy and all digested alive, I need to get drunk. Drunker. But first, pee. I have to pee.”

In the house, she sat on the toilet with a six pack at her feet, naked as the day she was born (not that she was much less naked with her bikini on, skimpy as it was) and peeing what felt like a gallon. She popped another can and started drinking that even as the first four cans ran out of her bladder. “What if he does start eating me and I have to pee?” she asked herself. “Not like I could just ask him to stop eating me while I pee.”

She snorted. “If he starts actually eating me, I kill him. That simple.” She finished draining the can and her bladder at the same time, wiped herself and wandered out of the house with her cans in hand.

The tiny green snake was still coiled by the chair where she had been lying down not that long ago, his eyes closed.

“Where does prey lie down?” she asked with a smile. “How are you going to do this?”

“Feet first,” said the little snake. ”I am going to eat you up feet first. Get you into my tummy, then digest you alive. It shouldn’t take more than a day or two for you to die, digest you completely in about a week.”

“Silly goose,” she said with a smile as she sat upon the warm summer grass. She popped open another can of cheap-ass brand beer and took a few swallows. Her breasts were heavy and warm in her lap. “I’m going to have to lean against the chair here for most of this if I’m going to drink my beer, whill that be okay?”

“Until I swallow your legs that’ll be okay. Once I get you halfway down though I need you to lie down all the way so I can get you into my stomach.”

Tara sat back with her eyes closed, drinking a beer and relaxing in the sun until she heard the tiny snake make an throat clearing sound. When she opened her eyes, she saw him coiled between her feet, her legs splayed wide open and labia gaping.

“I need your feet together,” said the tiny snake. “I can’t get them into my mouth with them so far apart.”

“Honey, you have so many requirements I’m not so sure I want to go through with this,” said Tara, but there was little force in her words. She was drunk enough that she was determined to see exactly what this little fellow could actually do. She still didn’t want to be swallowed whole and digested alive, but it would be a kick if he could swallow part of her foot.

“Oh please!” gasped the little snake. “You have to let me eat you!”

“All right,” she grumbled, then drew her feet together. A little harder to keep her balance, expecially since she was now draining her sixth beer in a very short while. Tara wasn’t a tiny person, but, being female, found it harder to hold her alcohol. She carried almost forty pounds on her ribcage in breasts alone and that helped soak up alcohol, but it still wasn’t processed as well as her male counterparts.

I Had To Turn Santa’s Mind Toward Fear…

Going nowhere with that, but I thought it’d be interesting. Ends like… “toward fear… no longer would he think “ho ho ho”, but rather “Oh, no no”.”

I’m going to post what I have now for the tiny snake swallowing story. First part of the post is the obligatory repost, then the next post is the new material! YAY!

Repost!

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Tara wasn’t sure what woke her up- she didn’t even remember falling asleep in the deck chair. Her magazine was fallen somewhere and her can of beer- well, shit, it had fallen over and drained entirely. Luckily she had four other cans sitting next to the fallen one.

“I could eat you,” it said, emphasis on the ‘could’, and it sounded more like it was trying to convince the speaker than her. But who was- she couldn’t see anyone at all near her. She leaned up on an elbow, heavy breasts rolling to her side, and looked. But only when the voice spoke again did she finally locate the speaker.

The leaf-green snake coiled in the grass next to her chair couldn’t have been more than seven, maybe even eight, inches long, barely half an inch from side to side. It’s head wasn’t much bigger than the last joint on her thumb and it was just staring at her and occasionally actually talking. Tiny scales like little green diamonds shimmering beautifully.

“Well, first off,” she said with a smile. “Why would you want to eat me?” She scratched idly at the straps of her bikini top- worn only for legality, she preferred nudity- as the thin black material dug into her shoulders. Even small as it was, tiny triangles that barely covered her nipples and stayed on more by magic than anything else as her full, very large breasts rolled and jiggled and bounced at the slightest provocation, it was irritating against her delicate skin. Her bikini bottom was as miniscule- barely enough material to cover her vulva, let alone any hair-growing skin around it. This forced her to keep herself clean shaven between her legs, although she hardly found it a chore to spend time grooming herself down there.

“Well, you are prey,” said the snake and it sounded as if he were smiling as he spoke, as if he were speaking to a child that had forgotten something obvious. “Prey is for eating.”

“And why am I prey, and not a mouse or something?” Rather than frightening, the conversation, and indeed the entire situation, she found amusing. She reached over to one of the sun-warmed cans of beer (sure to taste rather loathsome), popped it open and drank half of it. It was rather awful, but the taste of weak alcohol was soothing at the same time.

“Well, you are a woman,” said the snake, then it paused a moment and dipped it’s head. “I mean, right? You are a woman?”

Tara laughed, then reached down and hefted a very heavy breast with one hand. It was warm and soft in her hand and she felt her nipple starting to harden with a tingle. “Oh yes,” she said. “Two of these and a hole between my legs makes me a woman, yes.” She looked at the snake through her sunglasses, her auburn tresses about her shoulders and laying in ringlets against the deck chair.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                       The snake lifted its head and spoke triumphantly. “There, see? That makes you prey, and I could eat you if I wanted to. I bet I could.”

“You are so cute,” said Tara with a smile, lifting her arm and tapping the snake on the nose with one long finger. She drained the warm can of beer- it didn’t taste as bad as she thought it had at first- then reached back and popped another one. The thought of the snake calling her prey and wanting to eat her made her smile. Prey indeed.

“Cute?” said the snake, sounding extremely offended. “I am not cute! I am ferocious!” He lifted his head, raised his nose, then pushed his head forward, eyes shut tight, and hissed at Tara. The entire effect was so ridiculous that Tara had to fight to keep from laughing outright. As it was she couldn’t keep from giggling and the tiny snake just wilted, nose down, eyes still shut.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Tara, quickly reaching over to put her hand on the snake’s head. “You are ferocious, you really are! I’ve just- it’s the beer I’ve been drinking. It makes me silly. You are very ferocious and I would be terrified if I hadn’t been drinking.”

“Really?” asked the little snake, poking his nose and eyes from under her hand to look up at her. “You mean it?”

“I do,” said Tara. She drank the rest of the can, popping open another. She’d have to pee soon at this rate. Her chest was getting a little sore, too, from her breasts rolling right to left to right as she grabbed her beers, the great pillows of flesh hanging heavily from her ribcage. Bras sucked, but they kept her breasts under a little more control than this. Still, she preferred letting them hang and swing free to actually wearing clothing. “You are a scary snake and I bet you could eat me if you wanted to.”

The little snake’s face lit up, coal black eyes shiny and bright. When he spoke again, it seemed he was giving himself a pep talk more than trying to “scare” her. “I am a scary snake,” he said, slowly. “I am a ferocious scary snake, and I’m hungry.”

She smiled again, drinking from her can. Amazing how warm beer, while not good, could be drank so easily. Her fourth and final can was waiting for her. She finished the one in her hand, and popped the last. She’d be peeing soon, and peeing a lot, with these beers in her so fast. She just rented beer when she drank it, giving it back to the earth soon after.

“She’s prey, I’m hungry, and I bet I could eat her, eat her all up. Swallow her whole, all of her, then digest her alive! Yes! I’m going to do it!”

After draining half the can while listening to the snake’s plans for her, she leaned downward some, very heavy breasts dangling off the edge of the deck chair and wobbling gently.

“Okay, you, if you’re going to just eat me all up and digest me alive, is there anything I need to do here, or is it all you?”

The little snake blinked several times after she spoke, focusing on her again. He quickly uncoiled his eight inch little body, slithered in a tight circle, then coiled up again. His head and neck remained upright, three inches above the short cut grass.

“I, well, oh my. Well, uh, if I am going to actually just eat you up, then- can you get off the chair and maybe lay in the grass? I can’t quite reach up to the chair and get you, and…” He trailed off, both embarrassed at his sudden remembrance of size and inability to even get up on a deck chair.

“You’re not just doing this because you feel sorry for me, are you,” he asked, head drooping a little. “I mean, I can eat you, I know I can.”

“I know you can,” said Tara. Why am I playing with this little snake, she asked herself. After all, there really was no way this snake could eat her, he was just a tiny grass snake. And if he could eat her, there would be no way on God’s green earth she would even play around with him. She’d leave fast, probably run, and go find someone to come kill the little bastard.

Tara didn’t want to die in any way, let alone being eaten all up and digested alive. And while it was fun talking to the little snake it was completely obvious he looked at her and saw nothing more than food. Really big food he had no hope of actually finishing, but just a meal nonetheless. Not exactly flattering. She didn’t mind being treated as just a sex object, or having most men (and some women) want her just for her body. But they weren’t planning on just swallowing her whole.

Lying on her side in the deck chair, bladder starting to fill, massive breasts hanging unsupported and huge, the sun warm on her skin and the empty beer can in her hand she could feel the whole game hanging in a cusp. She wasn’t a violent person and hated hurting things, but she could very easily just kill the little snake. While not scary in itself, it was an aberration- snakes didn’t talk. Under all her playing, she felt a thrill of things being wrong as the snake spoke to her. She should just kill the little bastard. She could easily snap the little snake’s spine in a million places, roll it up like fabric in her hands, tear it into pieces with her fingernails. She could even eat the bloody pieces of snake should she feel herself losing control and becoming more jungle woman than civilized bikini wearer.

Obviously the snake didn’t realize it’s sudden danger as it lay coiled there, whispering “Oh please, oh please,” with it’s eyes shut.

But on the other hand…

What was the danger? It was a sunny afternoon. The snake was very small, she wasn’t in any actual danger. And if there were suddenly danger, if things suddenly and bizarrely became life threatening, she had a cell phone next to the chair. Assuming she somehow couldn’t just get up and walk or run away. He seemed like such a nice little guy too.

The die rolled, a card was drawn and fate was determined. Life is a series of choices

I Am Not Giving Up, No Fear

That fire in my belly is just a pilot light, but it’s still burning. I can’t stop writing and just walk away- I get itchy, and my mind works overtime with new ideas, new settings, new thoughts… I have a ton of ideas that would make cool fantasy novels.

Part of what stops my from sending out my stuff professionally is this: I know that every place that publishes materials has a stack called “the slush pile”. Everything, everything that comes in without an agent gets tossed into the slush pile. Sometimes they go through the slush pile and see if anything jumps up and says “hi!”, but from what I understand, this usually happens: When the slush pile gets big enough, it gets dumped and the pile starts again.

So, okay, great. If I don’t have an agent then my chances of anything getting read seriously are next to nil. But of course, to get an agent you need to have sales.

Or, I guess I can try and find a copy of “Writer’s Digest” out there again and try to find listings for places that give copies instead of payment, so I can build up a list of being published. Then try and convince an agent I’m worth it. If I can find anyplace that publishes on trees any more.

As for advice, it’s conflicting. The first time novel writers I have read about that sell their first novel without writing short stories say to avoid writing short stories and write novels instead. Other writers, Stephen King among them, say to build yourself up writing short stories and then work up from there.

I dunno.

Second part of why writing is so hard for me at this moment, part two 🙂

I fell down last weekend and badly bruised a rib. I may have torn part of the ligament/tendon loose from the rib, it hurts so bad. I’m on 15 mgs methadone all the time anyway, but I am now also on 20 mgs oxycodone daily to deal with THIS extra pain.

Lubbly.

tl;dr: I am not quitting writing, no fear. Just dealing with getting old and having done nothing, NOTHING, worth a damn in my life. I’ll have died and been less than zip when I am gone.

Anne

I Used To Have That “Fire In My Belly”

when it came to writing. I’ve been wanting to writing since forever, even back when I was basically just a partyslut. Then I started writing, just stuff that wasn;t all that important or good. Then I discovered other people online that liked vore.

That was when the fire in my belly started roaring- I could barely come home from work without having to write a story. And I wanted to write other things than vore, but vore was good (it’s always good 🙂 ).

But then my alcoholism death spiral really began and my writing streak basically came to an end as I was trying to kill myself with alcohol. And the fire in my belly damped down low.

Ever since I made it through rehab and have been sober, I’ve still wanted to remain a writer. But the fire in my belly just isn’t there. It’s not completely gone, but it’s little more than just a pilot light, or a few dim embers in the ash. Just hot enough that I can’t turn my back on writing-

(and I have tried- I’ve thought to myself that I just can’t do it. I don’t have the talent to write a good non-vore novel, I don’t have the ideas the fully write a non-vore novel, I don’t have the sticktoit-iveness to write a non-vore novel. But I just can’t close that door entirely- the fire isn’t entirely gone, not completely)

-but not so hot I can write anything else. I can manage to write a vore story now and then, and I think they’re pretty damned god vore stories at that. And I have ideas for non-vore novels, oh God do I

(i have one novel idea right now with a very inventive world and a very inventive plot with very good characters, and i want to write that one oh god yes i do so very badly)

ever.  So this is where I am right now. Wanting to do something so very badly, and not sure I have what it takes to get any of it done.

I’m almost 50 years old. Just a few years away. 2/3 of my life, gone. Sure, I’m married to a wonderful (dying) man. I have wonderful (emotionally disturbed) children. But I have, at very best, a little more than 20 years left before I kick off.

i just don;t knoiw