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Oh no.
Oh god no.
You've really done it now, haven't you?
You've had a rough day. It's a cold and miserable rain-soaked night as your tail struggles to find good purchase on the slippery path. Your mood surely isn't helped by the recent news of your firing. You knew your fuse was already quite short the dreary walk home, and you certainly weren't in the mood for a random stranger to tap you on the back without warning.
…You really didn't mean to bite her, though.
Intent can't change fact, however. You bit her. Sunk your fangs right into the girl's arm before either of you had time to react. You broke away just as quickly as the bite had happened, but…
Well, the agonized look on the poor woman's face says it wasn't a dry bite.
Oh shit. Oh god what the hell have you done?!
Panic starts to set in on both of your faces, but it overwhelms hers much more rapidly.
You've struck at people plenty of times before, even bitten a few when you were little and didn't know any better. Then, you were just a hatchling — and with fittingly tiny venom glands to boot. A bite from you would've been unpleasant and painful, provided you could even break the skin.
But now?
Now, as you can see the heat and life itself drain from her, you know all you need to know. She's not going to survive long enough for an ambulance to get here. You can't save her. Not here, not after what you've done.
She's going to die.
The screaming that starts to fill the quiet night air means that the venom's already working its way through her nervous system, lighting each and every synapse up like a meteor shower. Someone's probably heard. Someone will definitely hear if she doesn't shut up soon.
She's suffering. In agony. It pains you — but nowhere near as much as it pains her. You caused this, but it wasn't your fault, was it? It was a mistake. An easy one. Anyone like you could have done something like this, and you certainly didn't mean to.
You know what they'd do to you after such a killing, accidental or not. Euthanasia.
Your heart starts racing. It was an accident. Nothing more. It's not your fault. It's not your fault. It's not your fault. It's not your fault. You don't deserve to be killed for a simple mistake. It's not fair. It's just not fair.
She's suffering. She's suffering. She's suffering. She won't stop screaming god please make her stop screaming please just make it stop you just want the sound to stop it's horrible—
You didn't even realize you'd shut your eyes.
The screaming is gone.
Tentatively, you blink them open again, relaxing your jaw as you do so.
You taste metal.
She collapses to the ground. A second, fresher bite wound straight through her jugular tells you why she's silent. You don't recall doing that, but you can feel her blood in your mouth all the same. Everything's happening so fast. She's gone now, already going cold remarkably fast.
What are you going to do? God— She doesn't— You're not—
You try to calm yourself down. Slow your breathing. Anything to try and ground yourself given what's happening. Whatever you try doesn't work. Not enough, anyways. Your mind settles a notch, but the anxiety is with you all the same. Of course you'd be anxious, you've just killed someone for fuck's sake.
But you have to think practically, or this could be the death of you, too.
You can't leave her here, but you can't let someone find the body, either. You've listened to enough true crime to know that when there's no body, it's a lot more likely for the case to go cold.
What to do, then? There's hardly anywhere to hide a corpse in this concrete wasteland of a city, and just moving her would definitely get you seen. If you had a vehicle then maybe, but it's not as if you planned on committing manslaughter on a Tuesday night.
Well there's always—
Eugh. No. You abhor the thought. There has to be some alternative. Accidentally killing a person is one thing, but to then deprave yourself to such an extent by eating them? It's unthinkable.
…But it's not impossible.
It would be easy. Trivial, almost. You'd be bloated and cumbersome on the way home, and you'd probably feel sick to your stomach from overeating so egregiously, but it's doable. You're a fit snake for your size, and it has been a while since your last meal…
You can't seriously be considering this, though. Right? You would never stoop so low, even if there was no alternative.
Then the flash of panic hits you as what the alternative actually is. Leaving her here, to be found— and then likely traced back to you.
You'd be killed, and at such a young age too. You've got so much left to do.
Sure, things have been shitty lately, but you don't want it to be over so soon. You've been seeing this really cute girl, and you just started on some new art projects, and honestly before this week things were looking up. Really up.
You don't deserve to lose out on all of that, do you? You're a good person— you just made a mistake is all. It's not fair. It's just not fair. You don't deserve this.
It would be really, really easy to get out of this. Just a simple matter of stretching that jaw of yours as wide as it can go, of slowly forcing her head down into your throat. Would she taste good? You hope not. You hope it's as viscerally unpleasant of an experience as possible so that you never even consider this again. From there, you'd just have to gradually inch your way down her body until…
Oh, god damn it all.
It'll be quick, hopefully. Maybe, with enough years of therapy, you'll forget tonight ever happened.
You go prone onto the ground — it's a hell of a lot easier than hoisting her up to your mouth while standing — and you pry your jaw open as wide as it can go. You slowly inch your way down, working the poor victim into your maw. It's a slow process, which is one hell of a detriment. Firstly it means you can't just get this over with quickly, secondly it means you might be seen—
But thirdly, it means you have time to savour the taste.
She's a lot better going down than you thought. There's a certain saltiness to the flesh, a bit like pork. It's soft too, and goes down really easily. The blood oozing from her wounds wets the corpse like a subtle and peculiar sauce.
It's almost… pleasant.
It's certainly novel.
You can't back out of it now, nor do you have time to question where those feelings are coming from. It's fine. Just ignore it, it'll be done soon. Then it's just a matter of awkwardly hobbling home. Thankfully with your newfound unemployment, staying home to digest it all will be easy enough.
Here's hoping nobody comes knocking.
It's been a week.
Since you got home, locked the door and then swiftly collapsed onto your bed, you've hardly moved an inch.
Nobody's come to visit. You've chatted with that girl — Mia — some more, but you had to put off any plans she brought up; you aren't going anywhere like this. You think you upset her by doing so. You probably deserve for her to be upset with you.
She'd be more upset if she knew the truth, no doubt.
…You only hope she doesn't mind fat girls. It's been a little while since you last saw her, but she's definitely going to notice next time you meet up… If you ever do.
The actual bulk of your victim has mostly distributed itself into just body fat by now, but it's still enough to cause half your clothes to not fit anymore. You'll just have to diet for quite some time — which given your metabolism — means months without a meal. Not exactly the most pleasant thing to do, and it'll take quite a bit of willpower.
You'll manage, though. Right?
You idly move your pudge around with a hand, feeling as your weight easily throws itself around with little effort. It's by far the heaviest you've ever been, and you know it's not healthy. You can't deny that all your newfound softness feels… good, though.
You just did what you had to, though. Right? That's all.
You still feel awful about what happened. If you could take it all back, you would in a heartbeat. But you can't. You have to live with this, and you know better than to blame yourself. That won't do anyone any good. It's all going to be okay now. You just need time.
You haven't touched those art projects you were working on since it happened. You probably should. You know you won't.
It's a month since it happened. You saw the news ran a segment on the woman that went missing. You watched for just long enough to know if you're at risk of being found, and then shut the thing off for good. They put a name to the face of the one you killed, and you feel like that detail should be burned into your mind for good. It wasn't. You forgot her name the second the channel switched off. Maybe that's for the best. You don't deserve to torment yourself over this.
…You're already starting to get hungry. The fridge is mercifully empty, since it's not like your body has slimmed down at all in such a short bit of time. You should be going out of the house, getting active, taking your mind off of it. It'd help this all go away much sooner, but you can't. Each time you think about leaving your apartment, you just can't.
You'd like to say you don't know why this is the case, but you do know. It's her. Each time you see someone's face on social media, you think of how similar they look to her. You remember how her face twisted and writhed in agony. You remember how it went cold and quiet when you put her out of her misery. You remember how it felt going down your throat.
You can't deal with seeing people again. Not so soon. You need time, that's all. Just some time. You'll be okay. You're going to be okay, or so you hope.
Mia's not been messaging you much lately. Maybe she thinks you don't like her. You really do, but you're still not ready. You just need some time.
It's been three months. You're hungry. Horribly, horribly, hungry. You have enough in your savings to cover yourself for a bit, but it's starting to get a little tense. No news about the missing woman, the cops seem to have given up on it just like you'd hoped. Doesn't mean you don't stop thinking about her. You've cut yourself off from social media, blacked out your windows, and instructed all the delivery people to leave whatever you order at the door so that you don't have to see another person again. They remind you too much of her even now.
It's not enough. She fills your thoughts, both restful and wakeful. It's horrible. She won't go away. You tried to jerk off to clear your head, and you just started thinking about her bulging and distending your gut again. You came anyways. You're not sure why you did.
It felt good.
You didn't want it to. But it did.
You didn't want any of this. But it happened.
It's not your fault.
It's not your fault.
It's been six mon—
There's a knock at the door.
You're not sure why. You didn't order anything. Your HRT supplies came in last week, you still haven't eaten, so it's not a food delivery. Mail, maybe? They usually just leave whatever it is in the post box. You stay coiled away in your room, in the dark, as you spend most days. They'll go away soon.
The knocking doesn't stop, though.
You get a text. You don't feel like checking your phone.
You haven't heard from Mia in a while, and just the thought of opening her barren messages makes your stomach tie itself into a knot. Better not to torment yourself with even checking. It's probably just spam. It's always just spam.
…
God, will that person just give up with the knocking already?!
It's been the better part of five minutes now, and you just need some fucking quiet. You lazily pour yourself out of bed, slide over to the door, and pull it open if for nothing else than to tell them to go away and to go fuck themselv—
It's Mia.
'Ah! H…hi…' she says, her voice timid as ever.
You look at her dusty blonde hair, the same colour as the woman from six months prior.
You don't know what to say to her. You don't know if you should say anything at all. Why is she here? She should leave.
'I figured I'd just, check in on you… I guess you didn't get my text.' She lets out an awkward laugh, trying to be polite. You figure you'd do the same.
'Oh, sorry I— I was in the shower.' It's a lazy lie. She can tell by your obviously dehydrated scales and perfectly dry clothes that you were doing no such thing at all. You were ignoring her. Not intentionally, but you were.
You give a meek gesture to accept her into your apartment. You aren't sure why, because really you just want her to leave. It's a mess in here, you've barely done any cleaning since it happened. On your good days you manage to get some housework done so it's not a total disaster, but you have less and less good days lately. It's getting worse. You keep seeing her, keep thinking of her. Keep remembering how it all felt.
You're always disgusted with how those memories feel, because they should feel awful.
They don't.
You're so, so hungry. You don't know how long you can actually subside with just the one meal, truthfully. The last shreds of nutrition she gave you have to be getting used up by now, surely. Your weight's gone down, but not enough. You still feel fat. Mia can tell, no doubt. She probably hates it. You should tell her to leave. You shouldn't be seen like this. It's not right.
She takes a look around the dark and depressing apartment, and then back to you.
'…Is everything—' She pauses, seemingly not sure if she should even ask.
'Are you alright?'
She's awfully considerate. You expected her to be disappointed in the disgusting nature of your place, or much more likely just furious at you for ignoring her for so long. Maybe she just doesn't care all that much, or maybe she can see right through you.
It's a good thing there's nothing left of your victim, then. She can't know.
…Does she?
The thought passes through your mind like a stray bullet. It hardly makes no sense at all, and it's fully spurn out of nowhere, yet it causes havoc in your brain all the same.
Does Mia know about her? Does she suspect something?
A million other anxieties fire off in sequence. A cascade of dread overtakes rational thought and everything's just so scary and you really really want her to leave but if she leaves then maybe she'll tell someone if she leaves then maybe you'll get found out if she leaves then something really bad might happen she can't know she can't know she can't she can't she can't she can't she can't you can't let her god you're so so hungry—
It's a lot cleaner this time. You strike true and fast onto her neck, right on the jugular once more. The venom courses through what blood-flow manages to skirt by the wound. You hold your fangs deep into her neck, vocal chords torn apart by them, so there's no screaming.
You want to close your eyes for it, you don't want to watch. You shouldn't watch.
But you do.
From a position so incredibly intimate, latched so close onto her body, you can watch the terror — and life — drains from her eyes.
You feel and watch as the heat rapidly dissipates as organ after organ shuts down. She's so, so scared in her last moments. You should feel awful. You should feel monstrous. You should feel like a brazen, bloodthirsty and soulless killer.
But you don't.
You only feel hungry.
She goes down effortlessly.
It feels better than you ever thought it would.
You're not sure how long it's been since your first victim. It's been a while since Mia, at least.
It felt even better the second time. You put all the weight back on, and then a little extra. She wasn't a small girl herself, truth be told. It was a foolish and split second decision. If you hadn't been nearly immobile while digesting her over the next few days then you probably would've fully succumbed to the depressive spiral it threw you into, and done something to hurt yourself.
But that depression is behind you, now. It was a lot easier to reckon with the second time. This time it was intentional. This time it was of your own volition. This time you could've stopped it. You didn't. You wanted to.
That should make it worse. Morally, it's a world of difference. You wanted to eat her. You wanted to watch her die. You're not a poor girl who acted rash and made a stupid mistake anymore. Now you're a killer, nothing more.
It turns you on.
You've learned to be honest with yourself, lately. That's one of the good things that's come from this.
The other is how hard you've been cumming when you think about it. You can hardly touch yourself at all anymore if you aren't either reminiscing about your first victims, or fantasizing about your next one.
You're starting to feel peckish again.
You should order some food.
The delivery-woman is cute. You bought the cheapest thing on the menu, so she's a little bit pissed from the fact that she had to drive all this way out here to deliver just one bagel. You didn't tip, either. She won't be needing it, not that she knows that.
The moment that she reaches to offer you the bag, you lunge at her. Her eyes go wide with terror, and she tries to step back, but it doesn't matter. There's not a reaction time in the world fast enough to save her. Even if she could by some miracle try to leap out of the way quickly enough, she still wouldn't be able to get out of your strike range until it was too late.
It's another clean bite. Straight onto the neck. Through the artery and the vocal chords. It's something of a habit, now. Makes it all a lot easier.
She goes down silently and quickly. You drag her back inside and shut the door. You don't even think about what might happen when she's reported as missing and her car is found parked outside your apartment complex. It doesn't matter. You need to eat. They can't get mad at you just for eating, can they?
You've been working up the courage to do this for a while now, so you're certainly going to enjoy it. You fish your twin cocks out of your ill-fitting underwear, and they're both already rock hard by the time your scaled hand brushes against them.
You get to work in both senses of the word, slowly sliding your fresh prey down your throat as you start jerking off furiously. You didn't hesitate for even a second this time, so she's still quite warm going down. Maybe she's even still alive. The thought makes you leak. You're going to enjoy this. After all, why shouldn't you? You deserve it.
You stopped keeping count of both the days and the victims.
You've given up on the bed, because you don't fit in it anymore and you don't exactly have the money to buy new furniture. That being said, you manage to keep yourself from eviction — just barely — by running through the wallets of whatever poor soul happens to come to your door next. It's not like they'll be needing any of it.
You hardly need the bed anymore regardless. Not only have you grown substantially heavier — and softer too — but also longer. Your tail extends far beyond what you ever thought was capable of, and you've shed a good half a dozen times or so thanks to your rapid growth. You've got enough coiling mass behind you to practically just sleep on that instead. The biggest question lately has just been how you're supposed to fit through some of the doorways in your little apartment.
…That, and when to order your next meal.
There's a knock at your door.
This time it's not one you expect, though. You hadn't even finished digesting your last victim, so you certainly hadn't ordered seconds. You're not that gluttonous. Not yet, anyway.
You slowly slink your way to the door, now more tail than body. At this rate, you've practically given up on actually carrying yourself like that of a person. It's not as if it's exactly easy to stand up straight with all the fat and length on your body at this point.
You gently reach up and pull the door open with your now comparatively stubby arms.
Uh oh.
There's a cop standing in your doorway.
'Hello Ma'am I uh—' She peers into the open door at your frankly obscenely large body, and starts to grow suspicious right away.
Given your position prone on the floor — and your size — you figure that if it wasn't for your visible arms she'd probably think you were a wild snake, and a grossly obese one at that.
'We… were just investigating a missing person's case, and I'd like to ask you some questions.'
Now that's really not good. You don't even know which person she's talking about, but chances are it's one currently contributing to your heft.
There's really only one way out of this, and it's something you've grown awfully familiar with.
You launch yourself at her, and she goes for her gun. You're faster, of course. Her hand doesn't even get halfway there before the pain from your bite consumes her. It's messy. She screams. Hopefully she's here alone. You pull her inside and slam the door as best you can. There's blood all over the balcony outside. Someone will come to check soon.
You wouldn't dare waste a meal, though.
It'll be the first time you have to force yourself to eat someone in quite a while. You're already bloated from your last meal, you can't imagine what all this swine might do to your form. You're already erect, but the thought of growing even more plump and needlessly overweight sends you over the edge. A selfish and horrible warmth courses through you, as you cum hands-free — but it's not as if you could even reach them around your body's width at this point anyways.
It's been a few hours. You figure you should get out of here, and fast. You really hate to move after a meal, but you know that the cops aren't this stupid. They'll know it was you, and they'll be kicking in your door any moment now. They might even be outside this very second, and it's not as if you can physically hoist yourself up to look through your door's peephole anymore.
You pry a window open and slowly pour yourself over the windowsill and slide down the wall into the grass below. It's going to be an awful adjustment period, living in the 'wild'. At least there's a nature reserve nearby. You used to go on walks there — at least, back when you still could walk — and it always felt so nice to be away from all the horribleness of society. You felt safe, there. Comfortable.
It'll be a good spot as any to digest your latest kill.
Its been about two weeks. The width of your fat coils tells you that the bulk of the cop has been digested, and so you're definitely safer to move around now. That being said, you're still slower than you've ever been. You don't have any way of measuring, but you'd figure your body is probably a good 20 ft or so. You even put most wild snakes to shame, and given that your arms are now crushed under all that heft, it's a damn good thing you can still slither around just like them. You might as well be a feral snake at this rate, honestly.
You aren't sure how long it's been. Just long enough to feel the slightest bit of peckish-ness. You know you shouldn't, and you should save your energy and wait before feeding again. You just can't help yourself, though. It feels way too good to deny, and you do deserve it.
You take the better part of the day slithering out of the nature reserve, being careful to avoid detection. You find the first home you can, and probe it for easy entrances. You don't find any.
Good thing you can strike with quite a bit of force. You launch yourself at the window, and smash straight through it due to your immense heft. Thank goodness for your thick, protective scales.
You wind up the window, and into the kitchen. You smell what seems to be a recently cooked dinner in the fridge, and you consider it for a second. Nah. You know what your tastes are now, and so you don't bother. You know exactly what you need.
It's not just a want anymore. You've been fantasizing about this for weeks. You practically haven't stopped thinking about it since you last fed. It just feels so good. It's an obscenely bad idea, especially since the cops will be looking for you now, but you just can't help yourself.
You slowly work your way up the stairs — because of course these people have to live on the second floor — and find the bedroom. Just your luck. A couple.
They're sound asleep, thankfully. Long day, or so you hope. The more relaxed they are, the more tender and soft their flesh will be. It's not as if you chew, but it still feels nicer going down.
They're easy enough to kill. The husband screams when he's bit, since your lack of dexterity means you miss the vocal chords by an inch, but the wife's already long gone by the time he's awake and in terror. From there, it's a simple matter of spending the next few hours working them down your throat. It wouldn't be fair to separate lovers in death, would it? You won't mind the extra few hundred pounds.
The really nice thing though is the house. It gives you all the room you need to slowly digest your victims, and all the safety, too. People will come to check in soon enough, and you'll have to move onto the next one, but by the time anyone shows up seriously concerned, it'll be much too late. You'll be long gone, and already swallowing down the next victim.
Honestly, you have to thank that random woman who so rudely bumped you all those nights ago. Without her, you never would've known how good it all feels. How very delightful it is to engorge yourself, to just pack on the pounds and only hunger for more. You've spent your whole life wondering about how to help others, how best to tend to their needs, how to do what they want. God does it ever feel good to just be so shamelessly hedonistic, to wholly submit to your own selfish desires.
So what if a hundred-so people die to satiate you. You deserve it, don't you?
You sure think so.
There's a knock at the door.
Oh, good.
Food's here.