COMFORT c. 2020 by Steven Orr
July 13, 1958
A room at a Best Western motel outside Rockford, Illinois
She pulled his body into hers. In a dream, she was loving him. She was safe with him. She owned him. First he felt curious. What was she doing? Then he began to feel enveloped and crushed. It became hard to breathe. He was afraid. He felt helpless against her power, she was so big and strong.
She owned him. He was her son, her very own little, living doll. As she pulled his four-year-old body closer onto her, she began to feel him squirm. His movement excited her and electricity began radiating through her in waves. She felt a wetness between her legs.
He wanted to claw and kick. To bite. But he went limp, carried away by the steel strength coming and going from her in waves, sucking him in with her breath and loosening her grip as she exhaled. Now, just now he could feel a sharp, prickliness. What was that? It was hair. But it wasn’t soft like the hair on her head. This hair was hard and sharp like needles. It was hair from down there, that secret place between her legs, the icky part. It was like spiders exploring him, crawling over and biting into him. He shut his eyes so tight they hurt. He wanted to make some sound but his throat was frozen. He felt the beginnings of a scream, but the urge was squelched as she clamped him tighter onto her.
She was pulling him back into that place, some familiar place he knew he'd been before, only now he didn't want to go back. But she was the giant, she could do this, she was unstoppable and she could do anything she wanted with him. As she hugged him harder onto her, the waves continued, stronger. The wetness grew and a smell started that singed his throat and made him gag. The contractions got deeper in her belly and legs, wrapping him like a water moccasin undulating its body as it swan on the Mississippi River seeking it’s prey. He tensed his small body one final time, and then went limp again. This excited her further and she began to cum. Her throat and tongue let go as saliva gurgled from her. She moaned softly, deeply. She was loving him as only a Mother could, filling her hunger. And the love was filling the empty hole in her, filling the hole she'd felt so deep down since she was a child. And it was so good, this feeling of loving her little, living doll. She pulled him even closer, into her center, her deepest place. She was strong as she pulled and locked him to her. She commanded, she controlled, she demanded him.
He felt the crushing. The giving up of his breath and the fragmentting of all that made up his four-year-old identity. He was drowning. He was drowning in her and she wasn’t Mother anymore. Now she was a suffocating succubi taking back the life she’d given him, and deforming his tiny bird’s heart. He left his body then.