The Surrendering

The Choice

She lifted me from the trough as if I weighed nothing—one arm beneath my knees, the other supporting my back, cradling me against her chest like a bride or a child. The water sloshed inside me, obscene and heavy, my gut still distended from the rinsing. I felt hollowed out and emptied, and a dinner was waiting to be filled with purpose.

"You have two choices," she purred against my shaved scalp, her snout-like nose brushing my skin. "You get to choose now, my tender little banquet. But let's get you comfortable first."

She carried me through the corridors, past the cages and the hooks and the equipment that waited in darkness, back into the living room with its fire from the fireplace warming the room and its sofa that seemed less like furniture and more like an altar with each passing moment. She lowered me onto the cushions with surprising gentleness, my body still leaking water, still soft and pliant from her preparations.

"Arms up," she commanded.

I tried to comply, but my limbs moved like they belonged to someone else—delayed, heavy, the sedation still coursing through my veins like warm honey. She worked the bathrobe around me herself, threading my unresponsive arms through the sleeves, tying the belt with a neat bow that seemed almost domestic, almost loving.

"There," she whispers, settling beside me, her golden eyes reflecting the firelight. "Cozy?"

I managed a nod, my head heavy on my neck.

"Do you remember," she asked, her voice dropping to that resonant register that vibrated in my bones, "the industrial spit roast? Where did you almost burn your meat?"

I nodded again, the memory flooding back—the hot metal rod, the searing pain, her tongue on my palm, the way she'd said tasty.

She leaned closer, her breath cold against my ear, her forked tongue flicking out to trace the shell of it before she spoke. "A good piece of roast," she whispered, "has to be seasoned before I put a spit rod through you. It has to be stuffed with herbs. Oiled. Turned slowly over the fire until your skin crisps and your juices run clear." Her hand found my belly, still bloated from the rinse, patting it possessively. "You'd make such a beautiful centerpiece, Robert. Golden brown. Basted in your own essence. The rotisserie is turning you, cooking you evenly, until you fall off the bone."

She paused, letting the image settle, letting me imagine the rod piercing me, the heat, and the slow rotation.

"Or," she continued, her voice dropping even lower, becoming something that resonated in my chest, "I can swallow you alive."

She pulled back to look at me, her eyes completely black now, her jaw unhinging slightly—just enough to show that her throat was more than human, that the passage beneath her tongue went deeper than anatomy allowed.

"Slide down my throat while you still breathe," she whispered. "Feel me around you, warm and wet and alive. No pain. Just pressure. Just consumption. You'd be safe inside me, Robert. Protected. Digested slowly, over days, your strength became my strength, your muscles fuelling mine." She smiled, and it was all teeth, all promise. "You'd be part of me forever. No fire. No spit. Just... becoming."

She sat back, her hands folded in her lap like a hostess offering tea, her monstrous face arranged in an expression of patient, predatory courtesy.

"Your choice," she purred. "How would you like to be consumed, my little writer? The roast or the swallow? The fire or the wetness?"

The fire crackled. The hoses gurgled somewhere in the walls. And I sat there, drugged and hairless and hollow, understanding that either way, I was dinner—and she was starving.

…

The Surrendering

"I'm not sure," I heard myself say, the words slurring, my tongue thick in my mouth. "Can't think straight."

The room seemed to breathe around me—the fire expanding and contracting, Lamia's golden eyes pulsing like distant stars. I tried to focus, to weigh horrors against horrors, but my thoughts kept sliding away, slippery as the water still draining from inside me.

"The snake," I managed, looking at her transformed face—the migrated nostrils, the too-wide jaw, the promise of unhinging. "Swallowing. It would be... slow."

I imagined it then—not the reality of digestion, but the metaphor of it. Being taken in raw. Becoming part of something larger. Her throat expanding around me, not as violence, but as an embrace. A warm, wet darkness where I would lose the edges of myself, dissolving into her, my consciousness fading not in agony but in absorption.

She would probably start with my feet first, especially the way she looked at them; I was sure of that. And her digestive muscles would slowly pull me in, at the same time breaking all my bones. I could already hear the snapping of them, just like branches being snapped. But my brain would receive the signals later, my body needing time to send them. By then, I would already be inside her with my knees, I speculated. And she won't sedate me again, so I will feel everything.

But with the spit roast, I might manage to bargain painkillers from her, thus my suffering being minimal. She was going to eat me anyway; I simply had to choose the most pleasant way to go. She would administer enough painkillers to last two and a half hours, just before reaching my deeply browned and crispy state. By then, the chemicals would have evaporated, so nothing would interfere with her having the best possible taste of me.

And…

The spit—the fire, the rotation, the basting. That was a ceremony. That was ritual. A feast prepared with care, with oils and herbs, with attention to every inch of what I had become under her hands.

"Three hours," I whispered, my hand finding her knee, her skin cool and smooth beneath my fingers. "On the spit. With something for the... for the transition. So I can be present. So I can feel it happening. But not... not sharp. Not fighting."

She watched me struggle with the sedation, her head tilted like a curious predator, her forked tongue tasting the air between us. Smelling me.

"You want the painkillers," she said, understanding. Not a question. "The herbs that dull the edge. So you float through the preparation, the seasoning, and the slow turning. Present but not screaming. Aware but not resisting."

I nodded, my head heavy. "So, the chemicals... they would fade. By the end. I'd come back to myself. Just for... just for the finish."

She smiled then, and it was almost tender—the expression of a chef who appreciates a connoisseur, a priestess accepting a willing sacrifice who understands the liturgy.

"Clever boy," she purred, her hand stroking my shaved head, the other one my hairless face. "You want to savor your own ending. To taste yourself becoming dinner."

She stood, the black gown falling away in a movement I couldn't track, revealing skin that seemed to shimmer, to scale, to promise elasticity beyond human limits. She let all her clothes drop, and I marvelled at the sight of her body.

Lamia stepped back, her fingers finding the zipper of her black dress. With agonizing slowness, she drew it down, the fabric parting to reveal the pale expanse of her back, the curve of her spine, and the dimples at the base. She let the garment fall away in a movement Robert couldn't quite track, pooling at her feet like shed skin, revealing herself completely in the warm kitchen light.

Robert's breath caught in his throat as his cock stirred, hardening rapidly against his trousers. She was magnificent—perched now on the edge of her kitchen counter, her long dark hair cascading over one shoulder and partially obscuring one breast, the other fully exposed to his hungry gaze. Her breasts were perfect handfuls, soft and round with rose-hued nipples that had tightened into sensitive peaks. Her stomach was flat and smooth, her navel a small, inviting hollow, and below that...

She spread her thighs slightly as she settled onto the counter, unashamed, revealing the dark, neatly trimmed hair at her center, glistening slightly in the afternoon light streaming through the window.

"I like to be naked when I eat," she whispered, her voice sultry and dangerous.

From the fruit bowl behind her, she produced a banana, holding it up for him to see. With deliberate, teasing movements, she peeled back the skin, revealing the pale, curved fruit within. She held it in her right hand, her fingers wrapped around the base, and brought it to her lips.

Her tongue emerged—pink and wet—and she licked the very tip of the banana with slow, circular motions, her eyes locked on Robert's the entire time. She opened her mouth wider, taking the end between her lips, sucking gently, her cheeks hollowing slightly, then pulling back with a soft pop. She nibbled at the side, her teeth grazing the soft fruit, her expression one of pure, sensual enjoyment. All the while, her left hand played with her hair, twirling a dark lock around her finger, casual and erotic all at once.

"Delicious," she murmured around another lick, her tongue tracing the length of the banana from base to tip, leaving it glistening. "But I think I'm hungry for something... meatier."

Robert sat frozen, his cock now fully erect and straining against his zipper, throbbing with each heartbeat as he watched her treat the fruit with such obscene attention. The sight of her—naked and open on her kitchen counter, breasts swaying slightly with her movements, the dark mystery between her legs visible and inviting—was overwhelming.

"You want the painkillers," she said, understanding. Not a question. "The herbs that dull the edge. So you float through the preparation, the seasoning, and the slow turning. Present but not screaming. Aware but not resisting."

Robert nodded, his head heavy. "So, the chemicals... they would fade. By the end. I'd come back to myself. Just for... just for the finish."

She smiled then, and it was almost tender—the expression of a chef who appreciates a connoisseur, a priestess accepting a willing sacrifice who understands the liturgy.

"Clever boy," she purred, her hand stroking his shaved head, the other one his hairless face. "You want to savor your own ending. To taste yourself becoming dinner."

She stood, the black gown falling away in a movement he couldn't track, revealing skin that seemed to shimmer, to scale, to promise elasticity beyond human limits. She let all her clothes drop, and he marvelled at the sight of her body.

"The spit it is, my dear pig," she decided, and her voice carried the weight of finality. "Seasoned. Oiled. Turned slowly while you drift. And at the last—when your skin is golden, when your essence has risen to the surface, when the heat has done its work—yes. You'll return to yourself. Just for the moment of completion. Just to know, fully, that you have been consumed. I can arrange that."

She bent, lifting me again with that impossible strength, carrying me not toward the living room, not toward the trough, but toward the chamber with the industrial spit, the waiting heat, and the machinery that would transform me from writer to written, from man to meal.

"Thank you," she whispered against my ear as we moved through corridors of shadow and hook and chain. "For choosing to be delicious. For wanting to feel it. For giving yourself to me completely."

I closed my eyes, the decision made, the bargain struck. I would be her feast. I would be her story. And in the end, I would know the ending she wrote for me—not as a victim, but as a collaborator in my own consumption.

The spit waited, warm and ready.

And I was ready to be turned.

To be continued.