Apathy Ch. 1.5

Droplets of black ichor slowly melded with the sweat that already lay on the receptionist’s leg. Shifting through the numerous fluids and traveling on its own further and further up. Black dots became streaks as more and more of the fluid dripped down and began shifting in wild patterns up her tender flesh. Each leaving her skin warm as it passed over. Finally, as the lines converged on her puffy, needy, slit, her eyes woke from their daydreams to discover the terrifying source of the strange sensation.

From off the couch, somewhere below, emanated a crude facsimile of an arm. Coated in thick black fluids. Its fingers extended wildly, yet motionlessly, in the air. The fluid itself, making a quiet sound of flowing liquid, traveled unnaturally up the arm, carrying tiny bubbles here and there along its path. From the hand to its fingers, where the liquid seemed to divert and attempt to return back down, only to be forced off the tips of its appendages and down to the utterly shocked woman below.

She was stunned past word or movement, the entire display forming together with her already heightened emotions to utterly cripple her. Fear and confusion numbed her movements. Her fingers remained still, half driven into her. Her body still demanded attention, despite her mind utterly screaming in fear of whatever came from below. Neither won in the end, her frame stuck as still as the thing across the couch.

During this long moment of initial terror and utter confusion, the first few droplets found their way to her inner thigh. As they arrived over her tender flesh they pulled an unconscious mutter from her lips, and that set the figure moving suddenly.

The ichor hand shifted forward, out stretching its manic fingers in response. She absent mindedly pulled her own digits from her slit, as if preparing to grapple with the thing from under the couch. But it stopped just as suddenly.

Another droplet found its way over her slit, but she had steeled herself against it, fearful of making any sound. The hand, now half a foot or so from her, stood just as still. Its fingers twitching ever so slightly. It wanted desperately to continue but held itself back, she could feel that. She could see it in the ichor that now drizzled down onto the couch just between her legs. Could feel it in the strange heat it emanated.

Another bit of the beast found its way over her while the first slowed its approach, pooling just outside of her entrance. The run over her inner thigh, the heat each of them brought, threatened to rise in her throat. But she kept it at bay, rather fear did. Her body had already begun to give in, and it was only a matter of minutes before it too gave way.

Her own powers to stop such things slowly faded as the emanating heat and endlessly expanding pool around her cunt. As that pool of fluid that was growing between her legs began to, all together, slowly pull its way onto her thighs. It split into two thick, wide pools, each coating her legs and they began slowly combing over them. Taking with them the sweat and juices that already lay there, feeding off them. The sheets brought with them an unbearable heat that at once dulled her sense, and replaced them with others. With a searing kind of pain that itself was light enough to confuse for pleasure.

With her own hand lightly outstretched, she began to shake at this sensation. She could hardly find out it, but she knew speaking would bring it on. That if she gave in, if she moaned or begged, it would do what it so desperately wanted to. It was an unfair bargain, one that she ever so barely refused.

Another few streaks found their way over her folds, joining with the rest. They pulled a muffled grunt to her throat and through her nose. A twitch forward from this disgusting hand, a single jolt by an inch or more.

Then another.

Then another.

Then another until its fingers were an inch or so from her lazily outstretched hand. The one thing standing in its way. By now the sheets that coated her legs rejoined at her upper thighs, catching any stray drop to add to their mass. But they all awaited more of those noises. All held just off center of their target.

The haze of pleasure, fear, and pain built up in her skull. Brutally beating any wondered that might form outside of that trifecta. Keeping her violently in limbo while the beast set about its strange work. Until there was no hope of escape. Those were the first thoughts she had, when they could force their way through it all. ‘I’m trapped’.

And she was. So hopelessly trapped by this monster and by that damned man the night before. If he had dealt with this need, she might have been able to stop it. If he had done his job-

And then self doubt again bled through. If only she had found someone better, if only she could work up the courage to talk to that orange haired man. ‘

If only she was better.’ There was a phrase she knew, a pain she understood.

there in this all slotted into some form of punishment, something she deserved. She was weak enough to let that man, whom she saw every day, pass her by. Again, and again and again. Stupid enough to fly to some bar and let her dulled sense take whatever might be available, and then call it good. Pathetic enough to think any of it might change…

She deserved this.

She let out a quiet, slow, shaky moan. And then swiftly followed it up with a coarse, desperate groan, begging with her throat for the thing to do whatever it needed. Pleading for the punishment she now assured herself she deserved.

Her defending hand was captured at the wrist, ensuring the fluids below had easy access as they began to pour inside. Each strand merging at the entrance and churning its way inside. The weight of the fluid truly showed as it stressed and strained her every inch. Weighing between each fold, digging into every pore, flooding painfully and pleasurably into her everything.

A shuddered moan strained through her throat as fear and pleasure danced in her stomach. That capturing hand, who now drained its fluids down her own fingers, pulsed and squeezed at random. Its skin, an ink-black, purple tinged, leather was soft as velvet. And that plush hand imposed its control through jagged clutch and mocking pull as it aimed those draining fluids down over whatever and wherever it might. There was now a certain giddiness- a frantic quality to the hand as if, once it had been freed from the ink, it was happy or delighted.

The sludge continued to seep inside her from every angle and appendage it touched. She could feel a mass welling at the entrance to her womb. not a drop made it inside as stress began to create up, swelling her inner folds out, wedging from the very deepest and slowly filling out from there.

Pleasure freely began to flow from her lips as it vibrated throughout her body. All emanating from that thick concoction of ichor. Its warmth lighting every bit of skin it touched on fire, while all the same sticking down to it. So that anytime the mass as a whole moved it pulled and ripped at the walls it was touching. It churned in such a way to ensure it was endlessly ripping and dragging itself from one end to the other.

Pleasured moans slowly devolved to less coherent grunts as a new cycle began. It finally sunk its entire form, this ichor ink, into her. And there in that swirling mass continued to stir and stick. Endlessly moving, harshly and uncaringly. It forced odd shapes to impress upon her narrow slit, so that width out matched height or a wedge formed counter to her opening. It stressed and pushed and angrily reformed all in a few moments at a time.

What first was a strange terror, turned punishment, then now turned to utter frightful euphoria. ‘Fear’ told her the pain was punishment, and the pleasure was further proof of her depravity. Her ‘Lust’ told her it was pure, unbridled joy, and that the pain was simply something to love unto itself. And ‘Sense’ tried and failed so many times to make sense of it all. Moans slipped from her lips, whether right or wrong, forced or given, it mattered so little now.

Sense finally fully fled as the ichor continued to work her insides. She tried to reach her hand down to meet that mass, to what end only the grappling sensations of pain and pleasure could guess. But whatever the motive, that terrifying form of a hand stopped her, strengthening its grasp on her wrist to enforce its own control. A frustrated grunting moan was all she mustered in defiance, while that shapeless ichor distracted her dismay with another shift.

It was in this minor fight that the figure from below the coach became that much easier to see. A shoulder poked out from the floor, in such a way that brought her lazy eyes to it. Terror wasn’t something she could afford at such a moment, too much of her mind transfixed on this forceful pleasure. But fear of what lay below or what it might do was there somewhere between the hot flashes and static that formed in her mind.

At once the sludge inside her cunt pulled harshly back, threatening to pull itself out. It warranted a scream that echoed off her dismally decorated apartment. And another harsh pull sent her hand straining against the capturing beast that held her wrist. But this time, luckily she might have wondered, it let go.

Down her hand went to her strained opening, shoving two fingers against it. Not to pull it from her or to fend off pain, but to force it back in. The ink simply let her fingers pass, splitting to two in the process. It swelled inside her, slowly pulsing its entire form so that a few ridges traveled from one end to the entrance. Like a boat atop a wild sea, it scraped and pulled against every inch of her walls as it traveled from one side to the other. Earning a stifled scream or horribly pained moan each time.

Pressing harder down against her opening, using all of her trembling fingers, she kept one ripple inside. But it was no comfort as it strained the entrance in such a way that she feared it might rip it wider. Her legs began to shake in pain as she begged aloud, “Please!” The last coherent word she would utter.

Instead of accepting her cry for help, the form seemed emboldened by it. Swiftly it pulsed again, this time forcing thin strands of fluid between each finger, wedging a gap there in and allowing more strands to surface there after. Each ounce of fluid painfully leaving her tender, abused hole and surging out. Out and up.

The strands, instead of reforming, began to travel up her stomach in varying paces, wildly splaying out as they did. The ink’s heat seemed to intensify in the open air, as now these strands began seering into the skin, and pulling it as it went in such a way to break open the tenderest bits of skin. The effect burning and leaving tiny random cuts.

All of it breaking her voice down from moans and grunts to light sobs and stifled screams. She couldn’t stop it, but her hand refused to stop trying, still pressing and shifting, trying to discover the right angle. Trying to catch some prior state of pleasure that it gave her.

But it refused to listen or care.

As the strands reached her stomach, some dipped into her belly, while others surged up that much faster. Violating whatever creases or holes they could discover all along the way. As it reached her breast some strands, particularly the thinner ones, began to rope and entangle her flesh. They tightly viced around the base of each tit before swirling upwards to her nipples.

Confused whimpers began forming, as one strand began to cool her skin, while another seemed to fry it worse. Pleasure emanated from another, while nothing, no effect or pain at all, came from others. Each taking on a separate role or temperament.

One roughly squeezed at the base of her tit, drawing a groaning cry from her. While another carefully curled around her nipple and began caressing the very tip, forcing a pleasured sigh.

Suddenly, at her belly button, one rammed its way inside. Breaking skin and flesh as it ruinously dug in, apparently sure there was more beyond the entrance. Her scream served as its stopping point, where after it sloppily pulled its way out, only to drive back in.

Pleasure and pain fought all over her, as each strand chose its side. Breaking her that much further, as each breath could unfurl into a moan or a sob. A cry for more, or a beg for less.

Another pulse of the form in her stomach sent new tendrils up her stomach, this time each of them shooting up in unison. Splitting around the loud, forceful strand that violated her stomach and forming between her tits. Flowing out, much the same as the first batch had, from between her tits this time.

Now tendrils latched around her neck, squirmed under her arms and over her shoulders. Terror fought and took hold of her attention as one began to harshly squeeze around her throat, crushing her windpipe for a moment.

It began pulsing on its own around her neck, giving her a moment or more to breath before vicing back down. Further reducing her thoughts, constricting their forming to those few free moments. But as that control over her very breath set in, her hand finally gave way. She relaxed in the face of it. It was far easier now, there was nothing she could do. And that fact comforted her enough to force pain down as pleasure began to bubble over.

A kind tendril then found its way up over her chin, shyly lapping at her lips. It tasted, what few hints she could catch, sweet. A forceful pain focused as a wisp of a tendril rammed its way into her ear, disrupting that disjointed flow of pleasured and pained noises to those confusion. She could feel it swelling, much like the parent form still did inside her slit. It painfully forced further, as another found her nose. Then her lips were spread wide. Then her other ear. Pleasure began to come from each searing line.

The hand that once held her back now latched onto her ankle, and angrily jolted her body forward. Half of her laid off the couch as her body began to utterly degrade into madness. Her nipples were pierced as well, with tendrils delving inside, while all the more that angry hand yanked and dragged her into different contorted positions.

One ear stopped hearing things, one eye was covered, it became harder and harder to breathe.

Slowly her voice fell away entirely as her vocal cords were entangled.

What filled the room thereafter was the sound of a hundred different sloshing tendrils. Each finding a separate crevice, hole, or curve to use. her stomach, cunt, fingers, ears, eyes, nose, tits, her skin. her veins. Her skull. It all added to a disgusting chorus.

A smile formed over her lips as her body was dragged entirely from the couch. A guiding hand held one tendril here, held open another opening there. That disgusting music ran on into the night.

Slowly those sounds traveled around the apartment. From the living room, with the wooden floor, thumping and shuffling could be heard. In the kitchen a clattering of pots and water. From the bedroom a furious straining of springs. And when night fell in earnest, those few smokers and walkers that might have been out got to hear the faintest choking. To hear fluids draining off of a balcony. To smell a faint sweetness in the air…