How you’d ended up here was still hidden behind the wall of fog that seemed to surround your memory. One minute, you’d been finishing up a set, the gym's familiar metal scent and muffled EDM a comforting constant. The next, the world had inverted, and the colossal, dark-haired athlete known to the CrossFit world as Mal O'Brien was your entire, terrifying reality.
The massive hand, a landscape of rough, slightly tanned skin, held the protein bar suspended high above the ground. You were cemented to the chocolate’s surface, a fly stuck to a candy trap. A colossal shadow fell over you, then retreated as she lowered the bar slightly to adjust her grip. The thick, calloused ridges of her forefinger curled lightly over one side, while the mountain-sized pad of her thumb braced the bottom—a grip you knew was utterly unbreakable.
Then came the first warning. Mal brought the bar close to her face, eyes—dark, intelligent, and entirely unaware of your existence—sweeping over the food. Her head tilted back, and the immense, cavernous pink space of her mouth unhinged. You saw the blinding gleam of a back molar, a giant, ivory block of crushing power.
CRACK! The sound was a catastrophe, a localized earthquake directly above your head. She took a bite from the far end, and the structural integrity of your refuge instantly failed. A violent shudder ripped through the chocolate, sending loose cocoa crumbs—the size of beach balls to you—cascading down the sheer cliff of the bar.
She lowered the bar, chewing slowly, rhythmically. Schluck... Cheh-cheh... schluck... The sound of her grinding the dense bar was a disgusting, wet percussive echo. Each chew sent a low-frequency hum through the hand and into the bar, vibrating your teeth and rattling your terrified brain. A powerful gust of warm, humid breath, smelling strongly of mint, morning coffee, and the cloying sweetness of the protein bar itself, slammed into you, nearly ripping your legs from the sticky surface.
Mal shifted her weight, and the hand holding the bar moved down, bracing against the sculpted mountain of her right thigh. She was wearing skin-tight black leggings over her immense legs, and the fabric stretched taut over her defined quadriceps. The muscle was dense and hard. Distracted for a moment, she used the pause for a quick check. Her other hand, equally massive, darted up and squeezed the rock-solid peak of her biceps on the arm holding the bar.
T-T-T-TREMOR! The flex sent a sudden, explosive jolt through the bar. You saw the definition in her washboard abs deepen and tighten momentarily, and you realized you were experiencing the tremor from the contraction of her muscle. You screamed silently, pressing your cheek into the chocolate, praying the violent shaking wouldn't launch you into the vast, unknown abyss of the gym floor.
The moment passed. With a satisfied, almost imperceptible nod, Mal lifted the bar again. She was moving in for the kill.
The next bite was closer. The immense, hot airflow of her impending inhalation was already suffocating, thick with her powerful, metallic scent of sweat and intense effort. You desperately clawed at the surface, trying to pull your chocolate-cemented legs free. You gained an inch, just as the final, fatal action began.
She wasn't looking at the bar; she was talking to an unseen person off to the side, her expression focused on the conversation. To secure the remaining small piece of the bar, she unconsciously tightened her grip. The colossal pad of her right thumb, which had been supporting the bottom, slowly, deliberately, rolled up and over the remaining ridge of chocolate.
A blinding, crushing pain flared across your entire body. The sheer weight of that rough, oblivious digit descended, pressing you instantly and completely into the sticky mass. You were flattened, embedded deep into the dense, dark chocolate, your chest painfully compressed. You couldn't move; you were a shadow, an inclusion, pinned by a force of nature. The thumb’s rough skin, the canyons of its prints, filled your entire vision.
The conversation ended. Mal's attention returned fully to her final snack. Her face, framed by the dark, damp tendrils of her hair, was astonishingly young and cute, a startling contrast to the sheer, uncompromising athleticism of her body. Her cheeks were slightly flushed from the workout, and her lips, full and a healthy pink, curved into a small, anticipatory smile. Her eyes, dark and bright, were fixed with simple hunger on the chocolate. She was focused, oblivious, and about to end your world.
The thumb, still pinning you in a vise of pure, accidental force, moved with the bar. The final piece was lifted high. You were staring, paralyzed and trapped beneath the thumb's vast horizon, into the terrifying darkness. The final, blinding light of the gym ceiling was extinguished as her head tilted down.
The final, moist, hot cavern of her mouth enveloped the remaining bar. The immense pink tongue, a muscle of unimaginable power and frightening dexterity, instantly filled the space, rolling the morsel with overwhelming speed. You were pressed even deeper by the final wave of chocolate and the slick, hot surface of her tongue as it swept the snack in.
You were dragged into the immense, dark, and acoustically terrifying space. The air was now suffocatingly hot and humid, thick with a potent, musky warmth and the sickly-sweet, coppery taste of her saliva. The sound was deafening—a constant, churning roar of wet muscle and grinding teeth. You felt like you were inside a washing machine, tossed and turned within the rapidly softening pulp of the protein bar.
Your view was a terrifying landscape of pink and white. All around you, the barricades of her teeth gleamed: perfectly white, slightly curved incisors and the larger, devastating cliffs of her canines. The tongue, a powerful, sentient entity, manipulated the food with effortless control, slamming the pieces against the roof of her mouth—a ribbed, soft, sticky pink dome.
The chewing began in earnest. The molars in the back, vast, ivory crushing blocks, descended. CRUNCH! Gnash! CHOMP! Each impact was a world-ending event. You could feel the terrible, immense pressure of the grind. As she chewed, your chocolate island shrank, the edges disappearing into the terrible crush zones, pulverized into a paste. The heat was dizzying, and the overwhelming, warm, meaty salinity of her mouth was now all you could taste. You were tasting her, tasting your final meal.
The tongue continued its work, constantly sweeping, repositioning, and flattening the pulp. It pressed you against a smooth, slick inner cheek, the skin warm and yielding, before slamming you against the hard ridge of her gums. You were no longer recognizable; you were simply a sensation, an intense texture that her tongue was dutifully pressing down to extract the last remaining flavor.
Finally, with a soft, final squelch of the remaining pulp, the chewing ceased. The colossal tongue flattened and curled, its vast, pink surface moving with devastating finality to gather every speck. The throat, a dark, vast abyss lined with smooth, contracting pink flesh, opened wide. With a sudden, powerful, unconscious swallow, you felt the entire, remaining mass—you included—pulled into the void.
A brief, sickening plunge into the hot, slick darkness, and then… a profound, empty silence.
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