Warning: This is not appropriate for children or queasy people. It is pretty explicit and graphic and things.
Mamoria
------------------
.He was in a linoleum prison room. He just knew by feeling the tile and hearing the breathing clang against the walls. Distinctly linoleum. How was he so familiar with it? Why, suddenly, had a bale of blindness overcome him? The unending spasm of fear kept him alert but also frozen in a stink cocoon, clung to the ground, groping with rattling digits. His head repeated a shell shocked mantra. What? What? What? What? What?.
The following was inevitable: Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?. These clattered off the linoleum, too.
Which one was more important? Which one should he question with most urgency? If he was to get an answer, which answer would be more full of meaning? Why was he ruminating on meaning and purpose? Another one.
Why???
Something died in this room. Still there. The stink ripped from out the carcass and grew to fill the entire room.
He traced a W on the floor with a finger. It was time to answer yet another one. Where?. An illusion of an answer came quick, as he reached his arms backwards in order to climb to his feet. His wrists bumped into the porcelain shape of a toilet. In a nearly uncontrolled instinctual maneuver, he lifted a leg and pushed out in front of him with his foot. As expected the bottoms of his toes collided with what was surely the door to a bathroom stall. He used his foot to feel around to make sure that's what it was. Progress.
As he used the toilet to climb to his feet, he ached to be more silent. But his joints squeaked and cracked and he could hear them and could only imagine what else was here to hear those sounds in unison.
As he exited the stall, he kept his hands a few inches in front of his face. He didn't want to run into anything, but neither did he want to grasp blindly for want of groping something that wasn't linoleum or porcelain or glass. His feet shuffled slow and clumsy for this same reason.
The sound of mucous clearing from a throat bound him directly outside of the bathroom stall. His brain began to ring with vibrato, and he fell back onto the toilet. Part of himself was prepared to sit still and die from whatever it was.
Was it anything at all? Was it himself?
A door began to creak. Left open. A woman was coughing. This sounded much further off, in another room. Or did it? No clue, but anything better than this dark swampiness, and stench of death and waste. He figured where the basic direction the door was creaking from, he hoped, and stood on his feet again. But first, he went to search through his pockets, and finally realized that he wore nothing but a tight pair of underpants. The coughing continued. It beckoned like a lullaby.
No, there was a lullaby playing, too. A music box chime melody. He let go of his terror, traded it for a memoria stupor instead. The music and familiar sickness foamed over his entire being. The power of almost remembering, but not quite there, was humbling. Mama.
He was at the creaking door. From what he could see on the other side of the door looked exactly as what was behind him. Nothing. This was better though. As he trudged around the door and through the doorway he felt a rising sensation. Each step was like floating up from dreams.
He walked along a hallway, following a trail of vomit. He couldn't see it but he knew it was there. It slimed under his feet and larger chunks squished up between his toes, surfacing to the top part of his feet. That uneasy, queasy terror was starting to come back. With it came a creeping disgust that doubled each time he took another step forwards.
A room at the end was the sepulcher that housed the coughing, the lullaby. His mama was calling him, between increasingly ripped and hacked coughing, from behind the door.
"Edward, Mama needs her feet rubbed! Quickly now."
I'm coming, Mama.
He was in her room. It was black but he could smell the Nag Champa now. Much more pleasurable smell. There was a single candle flame. It lit up half of Mama's face. He couldn't see anything else. He smelled Mama. He came to her.
"Rub my feet, they ache so bad. Get the oils."
The floor was rhythmically going up and down, not unlike a stomach pumping breath . He didn't have to see to know where the oils were.
"I have a friend you are to get acquainted with."
I don't want to today Mama.
"Don't be foolish. Don't be selfish."
He put oil on his hands and bowed before Mama's glowing half-face. She leaned back out of the light and pushed her feet in his face. Her toenails grazing on his lips. He massaged her feet with the oil. The lullaby stopped. It seemed her feet weren't hers. They didn't feel like her feet.
"Now go higher."
Something's watching, Mama.
"That is my friend."
There was the sound of scraping steel and stuttering breath inhalations and suddenly, he was aware of the overwhelming presence in the room. How could such a behemoth be unfelt? It pressed on him from behind.
"You are going to do everything I tell you to do, Edward."
Not again. Not again.
"You will not fight me. You don't struggle. Touch her."
He wasn't going to fight. He turned to face the massiveness behind him. Each breath it made sounded like a death rattle. He could sense it leaning over him. He reached forward and touched the skin. It pulsed and moaned. Big vein-covered thing. There were patches of coarse itchy hair in parts. There was no form, no shape or sense to any of it. Throbbing gristle.
"Kiss her, massage her."
This isn't a girl Mama.
He leaned his head forward, feeling a deluge of bile rising in his stomach, and pursed lips. Instead of vague human-esque texture, his lips met with the definite shape of someone else's. He tried to pull back, an instinctual reaction to the surprise, but those other lips parted and something came from behind them. It slid its way through his mouth and clamped around his tongue.
"Go inside her. Be warm and wet inside her."
I don't know what to do.
"Be yourself."
This isn't me. But he supposed, after all, that it was.
The formlessness he was locked to pulled the rest of his body against it. He tried now to close his eyes and go through the familiar motions and keep his mind away. But his mind kept coming back.
The thing moaned weakly in his ear. Mama coughed, an erotic undertone to it. There was nothing to hold onto. The thing held onto him and used his body. This was familiar, too. So was Mama creeping up behind him.
A slimy appendage slowly snaked across his stomach and wrapped itself around his body several times. He felt the suction discs. It was some tentacle. And another wrapping below it. Mama. She coughed into his neck from behind and breathed.
"Jolep our bodies with julep."
What?
"Fill us with jewels."
I don't want to keep doing this now.
"We're not done."
I want to go outside.
"But outside of here nothing exists! Here there's flesh and blood and life!"
Outside, Mama...
"In here there's no pain! We drink, dream. We..."
***.
Mama was latched to his back, penetrating his body from behind, stretching her lips around his head, reversing his birth, swallowing him whole
Mamoria
------------------
.He was in a linoleum prison room. He just knew by feeling the tile and hearing the breathing clang against the walls. Distinctly linoleum. How was he so familiar with it? Why, suddenly, had a bale of blindness overcome him? The unending spasm of fear kept him alert but also frozen in a stink cocoon, clung to the ground, groping with rattling digits. His head repeated a shell shocked mantra. What? What? What? What? What?.
The following was inevitable: Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?. These clattered off the linoleum, too.
Which one was more important? Which one should he question with most urgency? If he was to get an answer, which answer would be more full of meaning? Why was he ruminating on meaning and purpose? Another one.
Why???
Something died in this room. Still there. The stink ripped from out the carcass and grew to fill the entire room.
He traced a W on the floor with a finger. It was time to answer yet another one. Where?. An illusion of an answer came quick, as he reached his arms backwards in order to climb to his feet. His wrists bumped into the porcelain shape of a toilet. In a nearly uncontrolled instinctual maneuver, he lifted a leg and pushed out in front of him with his foot. As expected the bottoms of his toes collided with what was surely the door to a bathroom stall. He used his foot to feel around to make sure that's what it was. Progress.
As he used the toilet to climb to his feet, he ached to be more silent. But his joints squeaked and cracked and he could hear them and could only imagine what else was here to hear those sounds in unison.
As he exited the stall, he kept his hands a few inches in front of his face. He didn't want to run into anything, but neither did he want to grasp blindly for want of groping something that wasn't linoleum or porcelain or glass. His feet shuffled slow and clumsy for this same reason.
The sound of mucous clearing from a throat bound him directly outside of the bathroom stall. His brain began to ring with vibrato, and he fell back onto the toilet. Part of himself was prepared to sit still and die from whatever it was.
Was it anything at all? Was it himself?
A door began to creak. Left open. A woman was coughing. This sounded much further off, in another room. Or did it? No clue, but anything better than this dark swampiness, and stench of death and waste. He figured where the basic direction the door was creaking from, he hoped, and stood on his feet again. But first, he went to search through his pockets, and finally realized that he wore nothing but a tight pair of underpants. The coughing continued. It beckoned like a lullaby.
No, there was a lullaby playing, too. A music box chime melody. He let go of his terror, traded it for a memoria stupor instead. The music and familiar sickness foamed over his entire being. The power of almost remembering, but not quite there, was humbling. Mama.
He was at the creaking door. From what he could see on the other side of the door looked exactly as what was behind him. Nothing. This was better though. As he trudged around the door and through the doorway he felt a rising sensation. Each step was like floating up from dreams.
He walked along a hallway, following a trail of vomit. He couldn't see it but he knew it was there. It slimed under his feet and larger chunks squished up between his toes, surfacing to the top part of his feet. That uneasy, queasy terror was starting to come back. With it came a creeping disgust that doubled each time he took another step forwards.
A room at the end was the sepulcher that housed the coughing, the lullaby. His mama was calling him, between increasingly ripped and hacked coughing, from behind the door.
"Edward, Mama needs her feet rubbed! Quickly now."
I'm coming, Mama.
He was in her room. It was black but he could smell the Nag Champa now. Much more pleasurable smell. There was a single candle flame. It lit up half of Mama's face. He couldn't see anything else. He smelled Mama. He came to her.
"Rub my feet, they ache so bad. Get the oils."
The floor was rhythmically going up and down, not unlike a stomach pumping breath . He didn't have to see to know where the oils were.
"I have a friend you are to get acquainted with."
I don't want to today Mama.
"Don't be foolish. Don't be selfish."
He put oil on his hands and bowed before Mama's glowing half-face. She leaned back out of the light and pushed her feet in his face. Her toenails grazing on his lips. He massaged her feet with the oil. The lullaby stopped. It seemed her feet weren't hers. They didn't feel like her feet.
"Now go higher."
Something's watching, Mama.
"That is my friend."
There was the sound of scraping steel and stuttering breath inhalations and suddenly, he was aware of the overwhelming presence in the room. How could such a behemoth be unfelt? It pressed on him from behind.
"You are going to do everything I tell you to do, Edward."
Not again. Not again.
"You will not fight me. You don't struggle. Touch her."
He wasn't going to fight. He turned to face the massiveness behind him. Each breath it made sounded like a death rattle. He could sense it leaning over him. He reached forward and touched the skin. It pulsed and moaned. Big vein-covered thing. There were patches of coarse itchy hair in parts. There was no form, no shape or sense to any of it. Throbbing gristle.
"Kiss her, massage her."
This isn't a girl Mama.
He leaned his head forward, feeling a deluge of bile rising in his stomach, and pursed lips. Instead of vague human-esque texture, his lips met with the definite shape of someone else's. He tried to pull back, an instinctual reaction to the surprise, but those other lips parted and something came from behind them. It slid its way through his mouth and clamped around his tongue.
"Go inside her. Be warm and wet inside her."
I don't know what to do.
"Be yourself."
This isn't me. But he supposed, after all, that it was.
The formlessness he was locked to pulled the rest of his body against it. He tried now to close his eyes and go through the familiar motions and keep his mind away. But his mind kept coming back.
The thing moaned weakly in his ear. Mama coughed, an erotic undertone to it. There was nothing to hold onto. The thing held onto him and used his body. This was familiar, too. So was Mama creeping up behind him.
A slimy appendage slowly snaked across his stomach and wrapped itself around his body several times. He felt the suction discs. It was some tentacle. And another wrapping below it. Mama. She coughed into his neck from behind and breathed.
"Jolep our bodies with julep."
What?
"Fill us with jewels."
I don't want to keep doing this now.
"We're not done."
I want to go outside.
"But outside of here nothing exists! Here there's flesh and blood and life!"
Outside, Mama...
"In here there's no pain! We drink, dream. We..."
***.
Mama was latched to his back, penetrating his body from behind, stretching her lips around his head, reversing his birth, swallowing him whole
