meconium > writing

Well. You’ve arrived. So small. Here you are, relaxed, lying on your back, without a care in the whole big world. One tiny soul with a tiny little body. One little pip in this vast cosmic fruit. Why, you must be about the size of a raisin. No, look, that’s too generous. You’re smaller still. You’re like a thorn. A follicle. Your full length, lying there as you are, would fit comfortably on the stubby flake, crowning the chub of Big Barbara’s big toe. That cankerous nail, had it walls and a top, could be your bedroom. You’d have enough room for a dresser even, and a chair. You could exercise. Barbara would hardly notice. She would hardly notice you now, in fact, lying there like a pill on her big black tongue, were she not savagely anticipating this sexy adventure. But she is, she does, and she’s wet for you. She’s soaking you with her lustful salivation, moiling you around in her big mouth. There’s nothing that Barbara loves more than feeling a firm little human struggle in her gullet. It’s what she lives for. It’s her drug. Now, as her tongue buds leach the salt from your back, her chest is flush and her pupils are gaping. She’s aching to take you in.

And she will, soon, swallow you. The restraint that contains and inflates her ballooning fervor will burst in a big suck. You’ll be vacuum-bound between her tongue and palate like an unborn click. Your ears will pop. She’ll worm you, head first, towards her throat with slow, undulating contractions, as your teeth are rattled by the sonic wind of her moans. The muscular waterbed will realign your ribs and organs, squeezing you toward the dark. The stench of gut-rot, like the smell of a thousand used bandaids, will intensify, nauseating and arousing you. If you throw-up, Barbara will be delighted. As you approach her throat, her uvula will graze your face and front body, like a giant solitary testicle, blessing your passage. You’ll feel her breath more intensely behind your ears as your head arcs back and your inner ears register the shift from horizontal to vertical. You’ll hear the thwop of her epiglottis shifting to protect her lungs, as a surge of mouth juice flushes the rest of you over the edge into a slow dive.

As she feels you enter her tight esophagus, Barbara will slip inside a loaded trance. Her moaning will quiet as she holds her breath and brings focus to her pleasure. She’ll work you down with great care, millimeter by millimeter, savoring the tension in your body. Every muscle you flex or release, every subtle shift in your posture will saturate her with erotic pleasure. Once you’re below her tracheal opening, she’ll shift her epiglottis again and take in a deep shuttering breath. With her unparalleled esophageal dexterity, she’ll stop your decent in her chest, near her heart where her aorta coils around the tunnel you’re in. This is where you’ll be when Barbara climaxes. This is where you’ll die.

In focused preparation she’ll squeeze you against the wall of her food-pipe where it contacts her aorta. Her massive pulse will pound in on you, five times slower than your own, sloshing the fluids in your head with each thunderous beat. Barbara will sink into a ritualized meditation that her climax depends on. She’ll still her breath and hone all her awareness on the place of contact, through the walls of her esophagus, between your fragile chest and her artery. She’ll focus there until she feels, in the gaps of her pulse, the frantic rippling of your heart in her blood. When she finds it she’ll begin counting your heart beats and touching herself. She’ll squeeze you tighter so that you lose air, and as she feels your heart slowing, her own will beat faster. Before long you’ll notice only three beats of your heart for each one of hers.

In her excitement she’ll squeeze tighter still, forcing blood to your head like toothpaste. The quickening beats of her pulse will stun you with white flashes behind your eyes and ringing in your ears. Your hands and feet will go numb and you’ll lose all sense of up and down. You’ll forget your parents faces. You’ll forget your name. As you lose your bowels in the constricting abyss you’ll notice that there’s now only one little thump in your chest between each tectonic upheaval in hers.

In the moment that you achieve synchrony; when she feels nothing in the silence of her raging heart, she’ll cum. Her whole body will seize with pleasure and her esophagus will erase you.

Tongue Buds
2015