The Spiral

It started off so harmless, didn’t it? I’m sure you can still grasp onto the memory of that gushing, warm excitement of dropping the act of normality with me, falling for every sweet word I carefully selected to keep you hooked. There really was an intoxicating thrill in watching your naïve submission to all those dormant desires you kept hidden for years, lovingly enabling and encouraging you to indulge in them for me. I mean, I truly seemed so harmless.

You were far too entranced with desperately earning my attention to realise how slowly I’d been guiding you to your demise, anyways. The extremities of it seemed like such a distant sexual fantasy for you, of course I’d never actually do all of those things you’d begged for in a lustful haze, right? It was all sweet talk at the start, utterly harmless. Plus, you’d do absolutely anything to keep me interested in you, I’d been so addictively obsessive and adoring, how couldn’t you? You were so easy to gain access to, so vulnerable and intensely drawn to the attractive future I’d sincerely promised you as I’d pressed another spoonful past your lips and stroked your increasingly swollen cheek.

I’d gained so much control over your pathetic little mind I had you blissfully ignorant to my sinister, true intentions far beyond playful indulgence and temporary fantasies. You didn’t question me when I’d revoked your contact with your friends, dismissing it as my jealousy, drowning in my superficial admiration and slowly growing control. You’d desperately humiliate yourself to please me, to earn my touch, you foolishly let your future and body slowly slip into my hands all for the irresistible approval I’d give you every time. Swallowing your doubts, you’d looked straight past the occasional freudian slip where I’d get a little too excited, a little too rough with you. I was still harmless in your eyes, what’s the worst I could do? You didn’t really think I’d feed you to death, after all. I seemed too loving, almost too genuine, especially as you grew softer and more docile for me.

It’s a shame I couldn’t hold onto the act for longer, pig. I simply couldn’t bear the nauseating romance I’d fabricated to gain your trust, and your life, for any longer. You’d so willingly let me pour the sedatives down your gullet, so clouded with unconditional adoration towards me.

Harmless, right?

That bewildered, transfixed look on your face was precious as you felt yourself grow heavy, your senses dulled and excruciatingly numb as I gently caressed your clammy forehead and whispered all the sick things I’d do to you, now that you were completely mine to take. God, I loved your inhumane squeals and horrified, hysterical crying that carried on until your voice broke, your throat torn up and raw after all that screaming, all in vain, of course. I understand, it must’ve been so incredibly distressing to not feel anything from the neck down, to discover nothing but bloodied, tightly bandaged stumps instead of your useless little hands. It’s so sweet how unsuspecting you were, and now there you lay, spinal cord snapped, half mutilated, absolutely mine. A limp, useless pig to be force fed and slaughtered, choking on the laced slop crammed down your gullet, and on your pitiful tears. I never liked empty promises in moments of desperation; I took them far too literally, and here you are now, facing the laughable consequences of your own weakness, so easily taken advantage of.

I’ve had a lot of fun with your disgusting body since, my little project pig. Don’t you just adore the sickening snout I’ve carved into that pretty face of yours, now truly piggish and permanently swollen to obscure your features? I’m sure you love all the adorable insults I’ve carved deep into your ripe lard as a persistent reminder of your pathetic status, though sometimes you seem a little ungrateful for all the hard work I’ve put into building you into my engorged, feeble fuck toy. Though I’ve taken care of your persistent squealing, you still occasionally seem desperate to use human words, unsuccessfully however, with those unfortunately severed vocal cords of yours. Your ankles are all gruesomely crushed up, left to heal far too wrong to ever allow you to drag your obscene pig carcass away from my care, an extra measure aside from your orchestrated paralysis that’s left your muscles agonisingly atrophied and plainly useless. I no longer have to pretend I ever saw you as anything but a fresh piece of bloated flesh to play with, a shameful animal to lay my perverted touch on and release my frustrations upon. I’ll have so much fun with you, my experiment. It’s not like you could ever say no to me, can you, pig? You can’t stop me from playing with your oxygen for fun as you feebly try to gulp down air. You can’t object to me slipping down a stream of sugar down your throat until your blood almost crystallises, you’ll never have the power to stop me from injecting your veins with my new formulations, or from wearing out your strained pig heart I’ll have to jolt alive with a defibrillator. But I’m so harmless, aren’t I? I’m only doing this because you wanted it, after all, piggy.

Did I really think you’d stop? Did I think you’d just help me lose weight if I asked? Did I assume we were just going to go on and get married and live happily ever after? For a long time I did, for too long… I did. I had day dreams of slimming down a bit and us walking the beach together holding hands and laughing. This was always bedroom fetish fun, but I always saw a future with you. Despite the talk and what I thought was roleplay, I still thought we’d had a future together. But it’s only now I see the truth.

Reality finally hits as the world comes into focus. You shoving your fucking camera in my face, filming for who knows what. Your horrific grin and self satisfied eyes make my already pained stomach churn. The room spins as everything comes into focus, each blink takes effort as I wake. Exhausted, so exhausted from something. So exhausted all I can do is blink. Everything is muffled, your snickering and mocking words are barely intelligible over the ringing in my ears and the beeping to the side of me. My eyes lazily glancing over the heart monitor, then sliding to the other side of the bed to see a huge barrel with a pump and tube rising from the top. You’re speaking to me, I can’t hear. I can’t… I can’t feel. My eyes just barely can see my fat folds covered in blood you didn’t even bother cleaning off. My arms had the most. I hear a muffled “Oh!” From you as you see my eyes trying to look down. You grab my flabby stump of an arm and lift it for me to see. Your words are muffled, but it seems like you begin explaining the procedure, the beeping to my side speeds up, the ringing gets louder. I can hear my breath increase, in my ears a painful wheeze, rattling my rasping throat. I try to speak, I try to scream, I try to move, I try to wretch my arm from you in panic and run screaming. I try, I try I try. Nothing. Empty. I don’t even feel your hands gripping my puffy bloody forearm. My mind rages, racing with fear and horror realizing my hands were fully removed. It felt like a dream, it must be, surely it must be. You look annoyed that I’m not listening to you and hear my breathing struggle to come out so you press a nebulizer to my face to help me breathe. Every moment felt more and more real as the haze of waking up faded, the ringing lessened and your words came to me clearer. This is only the beginning, you tell me, just the start of a few modifications you had in mind.

It almost feels too much. Accepting reality all at once. Accepting in retrospect what you always were and that my paranoid worries about you were well founded. Accepting that this really was just the beginning. Not only that, but that it was too late to do anything. This wasn’t a movie where I find a clever way to escape and recover, it’s over, it’s too late, there was literally nothing that could be done anymore. Death was now a question of when, decided by you. “I didn’t want this”, unsure of if I said it out loud or just in my head, but I repeat it, I scream it, “this isn’t fair” like a child who’d been cut in line for lunch. “Please”. Three phrases looped on repeat in my head as you spoke and inspected the first of many surgeries to come. With a thump and slap, my arm drops limply back against my side rolls as you let it go and proceed to ready the tube to shove down my throat to pump fattening tasteless slop directly into my gut. You climb up onto my fat chest and notice my tears, snot dripping down my nose, my pitiful wet eyes drowning in regret and horror. You chuckle involuntarily, it’s genuinely amusing to you. Your hand gently caresses my head, which I only now realize you shaved bald. Your hand is so gentle. For a brief moment I remember the warmth and love early on that enchanted me to begin with. It was like for a moment the “old you” I thought I knew had returned to save me or help me. It’s so warm and comforting I feel my tears subside for the briefest moment until all flickers of hope are stomped out by you telling me how I should cry less after you’ve removed a few parts of my brain. It was among a long lost of procedures you explained you’d do to me to make me closer to a good obedient pig as you crammed the tube into my mouth then down my throat. Further and further down it went into me, no doubt it would be the first of many tubes to be connected to my body for as long as you care to keep me alive.

I’m only meant to have 1600 calories.

I look at the box, felt the guilt and need that filled my body as I ripped it open. I can still go back, I can put them in a container and have some self control.

But as I look at them, as they make my mouth drool and my breath come harder, I take a bite.

It’s so fucking good.

I can’t stop myself, I’m not in control as I eat one after another, not even realising I had eaten it all until I’m scratching at the plastic, my brain only catching up a moment later when I let out a desperate cry.

It’s only 10 am. I’ve eaten more than twice my daily calories and these things aren’t filling.

That’s when you come in with another box, placing it on my hand and guiding me to the couch.

Mango’s Baked special goods, don’t eat to much! or do~

did you know that, pet? well, you're pretty cute already, so i assume not :) you could be cuter though, couldn't you? you look like you think too much, too many complex thoughts.

not only are you cuter dumb, but i think a silly thing like you would be happier too. no thoughts but obedience, bliss, and me. wouldn't that be nice?

let me do that thinking for you: the answer is yes. and you agree, obviously. because you're cute and dumb, and you let me, smarter, better me, think for you. that sounds right, doesn't it?