Cocky F Prey spy needs to be put in her place, RE/MGS style.

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Cocky F Prey spy needs to be put in her place, RE/MGS style.

Postby AgentY » Tue May 17, 2022 3:55 am

You know those Resident Evil death compilations? Ada Wong getting vored by grey goo and hands? Gamma Hunters and Yawn? MGS Ryona compilations? I was hoping we could make our own, starring possibly the most unfortunate agent to ever be conceptualised.

I'm as masochistic as they come. Painful digestion. Agonising endo. Crushingly tight stomachs that bruise the skin. Heat like I'm being cooked alive. I love being crushed, broken, bitten, beaten, clawed, coiled and choked horribly. I adore being raped, enslaved, imprisoned, bound, transformed, eaten, permanently bound/encased... Destruction, losing, being dominated. That's my thing. In particular I love being afraid.

I also adore being demeaned. Degraded. Humiliated. I utterly adore unlikely preds. The sort that are a complete embarassment to have ever lost to. Like Agent Y being eaten by a wild horse while sneaking around a hot zone. Some stupid animal that just happened to be grazing by where she's chosen to go prone. Maybe caught and unbirthed by a rival spy far smaller and less experienced than her. An Umbrella-y agent in a militarized schoolgirl uniform. Perhaps Agent Y will be coiled up and swallowed whole by a snake-like bioweapon? I love all these things.

If you're at all interested in roleplay, shoot me a message here. I'll provide my discord contact. I'll also post a big example scenario below so the nuances in my taste come across more naturally. For visual reference, Agent Y is usually a cute, cool redhead with a sleek form fitting stealth suit. She's tweakable if we want to change setting and story though.

---

Zombie Dog

Agent Y's heels crash against pavement. These freaky parasite infested dogs have been chasing her all day, it feels like. Rain flows over her suit, a strike of thunder framing her worried glance behind herself with intensity. Fire from burning cars illuminate her way through labyrinthine streets, turning alleyways and street corners without rhythm or reason. It appears aimless, but to her credit it seems to be working. The sounds of footsteps pursuing her have slimmed. Perhaps only one dog remains?

Agent Y rounds a corner, pressing her back to it and raising her weapon. She waits for the footsteps to grow near, then rounds the corner suddenly. Her weapon is drawn on a growling zombie dog, who now nervously begins to pace backwards. Slowly. Gosh, these things are so weird. All those teeth, but they never once bit her. Never reduced her HP down a tick. Thinking back on her previous encounters with them, Agent Y recalls they simply tried to bite hold of her and drag her down. Not pull chunks off her or anything.

Agent Y can't help her curiosity. Surely it'd help to know their attack patterns, right? A gun still aimed at the dog, she cautiously knelt down and offered a hand to the dog. It's stomach growled. It approached. It suckled her hand. Using his teeth to keep it in place, he used his tongue, his jaws and his throat to draw her fingertips to the beckoning abyss at the back of his maw. A sudden sound ensued. Horrible, sickening, wet. It filled the air, making Agent Y gag and withdraw her limb in the same motion.

Her hand smelt foul. It steamed lightly, just from the heat of the dog's mouth. Rain cooled the disturbed limb. Agent Y was... Confused. Her heart is beating in her chest, but- This wasn't fear. Well, I mean, fear was CERTAINLY there. But-... She felt shaky, cold, like she was on the precipice of a decision with so much tension behind it. Was this... Arousal?

Agent Y sighed wearily. Perhaps some part of herself self actualised. Realised she's a character archetype with a very specific purpose in a story like this. She remarks she can't believe what she's doing right now. She holsters her handgun, unzips her suit at the cleave, and lets it fall from her body like a descending curtain. Rain flows down her body. Beautiful, shimmering lakes and rivers to compliment her rolling hills. They sparkled with the light of distant flame, overhead lightning.

The dog began to approach, seeing she was vulnerable. Excited but afraid, her palms raise, she backs away. She comes to press her shoulders to a brick wall. The dog looks eager to bite down on something, so she offers the least confronting limb she can think of. She raises a leg. Settles a foot in his mouth. The monster seems surprised by the offering, but appears to accept it all the same. Agent Y is forced to wrestle with her conscience amidst an apocalypse of emotions. Self preservation and arousal both screaming at her until the brain goes deaf.

Drool slicked teeth run up her calves. The dog growls. His stomach looses an abhorrent, violent sound. The heat and tightness makes it hard for Agent Y to decide if her leg will break or melt first. There's no time for her to really think this over. In this moment, she's either going to escape and jack off, or pursue the ultimate high.

...I mean, what's the chance it can get past my thighs, even?

Agent Y presses her back more firmly against the brick. Her palms dig in. She raises her other leg, nudging her foot against the canine's mouth. It was strange, balancing her centre of gravity like this. She relied on him to stay upright, but she knows even a brain-dead mutt would understand gravity is gunna help him out here.

It took a good deal of straining, as well as gagging on the dog's part, but it managed to envelop the second set of toes offered it's way. A loooong, -wet- swallow saw Agent Y's leg slowly straighten out, until finally her thighs were squeezed together tightly. Her feet were pressed heel to heel, her toes utterly enveloped in slime and muscle. She strained upwards in an attempt to keep her balance, but found she didn't budge an inch. The only direction she was headed was down.

What ensued was an agonisingly slow descent into the undead canine for Agent Y. A desperate bid to draw herself to her most incredible climax yet, and to outrun the conscience in close pursuit of that high. Self preservation screams at her to struggle, to cry out for help. These aren't even very dangerous infected. She still has time to climb out, to grab her pistol. These things go down in just three shots, and she's been stockpiling munitions all game pretty well.

Yet, her hands remain at her lower middle. She just needs this one climax, then she can pull out. She can escape and continue her mission. She continues to tell herself this, even as she feels burning hot flesh slither over her palms, holding them rigid against her nether lips. Even as she begins to shudder, shake. Wracked by fear and pain that's getting increasingly impossible to escape. By the time she'd found her conflicted release, she'd be disappointed to find her fear soured it. That was honestly a pretty average JO session. What's worse, post fap clarity sure hits different when you're half embedded in some partially decaying mutt.

Agent Y is a rain slicked torso, raindrops running between her bare chest's cleave like a natural waterfall. She's panting, exhausted by her treatment, her fear and her high. Her face is a mixture of pleasure, embarassment and fear, often iterating between these subjects as her dazed consciousness cycles between the many reasons to be worried about her current position. The canine steps back from the wall, allowing what little remains of a once proud agent to hang uselessly from his mouth. His drool runs down over her bare nipples, plumes of steamy breath sending sinful tingles along her sensitive chest.

Consumption became slower. Lazier. The dog knew he won, with Agent Y already starting to curl up into a horribly tight position in his middle. Useless squirms. Horribly embarassing moans. Agonised whimpers. Pitiful pleasing. None of them helped ease the agent's vile descent. Some time would pass, and the canine would draw it's jaws wide open. Strings of drool were drawn taught between shimmering fangs. They began to bend, pulled back like bowstrings by gravity. The back of its throat was a pulsing abyss, only lit faintly where the light of the outside world caught in the curvature of slime laden flesh.

There was a flash of lightning, briefly illuminating a sweat laden brow within that pitch dark. Terrified eyes. Messy hair. Distant, horrified begging. It was hard to make out, but it's fair to assume she no longer wanted any of this. She was saying something about being cooked alive. That she's crushing him. That there's not room. An absolutely horrid gurgle reverberated within him, threatening to shake the ground below. It was wet, with a hint of sizzling. It sounded like flesh against bare flesh, slickened and heated like a morbid oven for a meal that's already finished.

The most vile, horrendous series of sounds imaginable followed. Glllllrks, schlllllrks, glorps and gurgles. That distant look of horror began to turn dark. A shimmer of wet muscle came to enclose her increasingly distant gaze. Her pleading became more desperate, adopting the muffled traits of the vile gurgles of the canine's stomach. They proved to be the louder voice, soon drowning her out, aside from the fleshy sounds of her arrival. His throat swelled, and his stomach gained definition. It seems Agent Y had moved from one skintight stealth suit to another. Her fetal curl, drawn as tight as possible, almost certainly to an agonising extent, was now framed in exploitative detail by his flesh. Every squirm, every struggle, every inch of her ass, the taught impression of her sideboobs, both hugged inwards and against her knees by her arms. Her hands are plunged downwards, trapped against her nethers regardless of how into this she really is anymore. Her feet have been made to sit flat against the underside of her ass cheeks.

Looking down at the bulge of an entire person within what seemed to be such a minor infected certainly was impressive. Now he's got her down, there's certainly no denying he's showing her who's boss. That's made clear just looking at her. Hearing her try to beg over the sounds of her own digestion.

The canine's jaws open once more. There's no sight of Agent Y's horrified face. Nor will there ever be a sight of her face again. He belches crassly, steam pluming from his maw. Saliva of an odd, acidic colour flies out like spittle. It's heat was self evident, as it sizzles against the floor, put out by cool rain. Just a hint of what Agent Y must be going through in there...

The dog was amusingly apathetic. It simply turned, casually returning to where it was. It's patrol resumed unaffected, entirely unbothered by his meal. It's like he'd forgotten she'd ever existed.

---

But, what happens from here? Well-

Digestion is an obvious answer. I utterly adore digestion. ESPECIALLY slow and painful types. Casual, demeaning, cruel and psychological. The moment where a Prey finally submits to fate, for whatever reason- That's something I truly savour.

HOWEVER.

The nonlethal route is something I'm INCREDIBLY fond of. Perhaps these dogs are simply capture systems to imprison hostiles. From there, they're bathed in all manner of horrible things that simultaneously digest and heal the prey in perpetuity. They exist as data collecting exercises, allowing their creators to monitor potential medicine and weapon developments at the same time. Agent Y just unknowingly made herself a subject.

Horrible, torturous endo. The domination never stops. The humiliation never ends. The cap on dehumanisation has been completely lifted. I love it. Worse than death endo might be my biggest kink of all.


Last bumped by AgentY on Tue May 17, 2022 3:55 am.
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