Tales of the Snake Men: Book Two – Chapter 3
Chapter 3: The Slime’s Embrace
“I said let me out! I won’t be twisted into your monster—I won’t!” As he struggled violently.
His muscles strained against the restraints as the first drops of Slime fell with a wet splat across his head and shoulders. It dripped down his chest in lazy, greedy streams — thick, cool, and shockingly smooth. He froze, eyes wide.
“No—this isn’t happening. This can’t be happening!” Khan writhed.
The first instinct was a sense of disgust and loathing, but that didn’t last. A strange tingling of warmth bloomed wherever the ooze touched, quickly followed by a deep, aching pleasure. It sank into his skin and into his nerves.
“Why does it… feel… good?”
Khan recoiled and gasped, but there was nowhere to escape. More Slime crept down the ridges of his forehead, oozing slowly over his eyes, dimming their defiance with a glistening sheen. He blinked rapidly, trying to clear his vision, but the ooze only clung tighter, crawling into the corners of his eyes, blurring reality. It coated his shoulders and biceps, slipping between his scales, whispering promises through sensation alone.
It was as if the Slime knew exactly where he was most vulnerable—physically, mentally. The soft, rhythmic pulses it sent through his limbs were like gentle electric currents, massaging every muscle, blurring his focus. His heart pounded, his body tensed from the overload, a strangled moan escaped him.
As it slipped into his mind… it spoke.
“Such lovely fire… but you burn in the wrong direction.”
He flinched and grit his fangs.
“Just Slime,” he thought, panting. “I can fight this.”
It echoed inside his mind—not heard, but felt, like silk gliding across thought.
“Let me cool you, little serpent. Let me hush the war in your blood.”
He clenched his fists and screamed — not in fear, but rage.
“No… I won’t…!”
As if amused by his resistance, the Slime responded. It grew warmer, almost intimate. A thick glob slid down his muscular neck, hugging the curve of his collarbone, tracing the deep lines of tension in his chest. It rippled with him as he struggled—muscles twitching uselessly against the claw’s grip.
“You pretend it’s rage… but your body sings another song.”
The flow of Slime continued. His skin buzzed with sensation – it was too much to process. It burned. Not with fire, but something worse: pleasure. Forbidden, addictive, and terrifying.
The Slime crept into his open, screaming maw. The warmth of it was deceptive, almost gentle, it slipped between his fangs – then everything changed.
The taste struck him like a jolt to the brain.
It was sweet at first—unnaturally so. Like overripe fruit soaked in venom, or syrup burned in black fire. A sickly, cloying sweetness that clung to his tongue, thick and slow. But beneath it was something deeper: rot, acid, and desire. It tasted like pleasure stolen from someone else’s memory, like the flavor of a thought that didn’t belong to him. As it hit the back of his throat, his body spasmed.
Khan’s eyes widened in panic. He leaned forward, gagging, choking, and spat violently—a stream of glowing green flying from his mouth, splattering the stone with a wet splat. He coughed hard, struggling to breathe as the taste lingered—burning, tingling, almost… addictive.
“Get out—you don’t belong in me!” he roared.
He coughs, Slime trailing from his fangs like drool. His claws dig into the stone as if trying to scrape off the memory of the taste. He wipes at his mouth, but the Slime just spreads, warm and slick beneath his fingertips.
The taste lingers—sweet and sharp, like syrup mixed with blood. He shudders. And deep down, Kobra Khan feared something worse than the loss of control…
He feared he might not spit it out next time.
The Slime coated his shoulders and biceps – dripping into the slowly filling pool where he stood. Khan’s muscles bulged against the restraints.
“Why… why does it feel like this? It’s not just on me—it’s inside… I can hear it talking to me.”
Every time he fought against the claw, with each act of defiance, the Slime rewarded him with a wave of bliss. It toyed with him, pleasure used like chains, weakening his will far more effectively than pain ever could. He roared and bit down on his lip, hard, fangs drawing blood, anchoring himself.
The Slime seeped deeper into Khan’s mind —invading his thoughts, whispering insidiously, taunting him with promises, temptations, and mockery.
“Such devotion. But they never loved you like I will. Let me in. I’ll carry your burdens. I’ll make you whole.”
The ooze was a steady stream now – It sloshed over his back, seeping down the grooves of his spine, coating his thighs and falling into the growing pool at the base.
“I will never be yours,” he snarled.
The Slime responded again, almost laughing this time. It caressed his nerves, stroking his willpower with a perverse tenderness. Each flash of euphoria made him gasp. Every breath he took was laced with that sickly, sweet scent of surrender. He could feel his thoughts slipping, his instincts betraying him. He wanted to scream, to fight back, but the more he struggled, the more his mind clouded with pleasure.
“No—no, that voice… that’s not me! Get out of my head!” he growled, clutching his skull as if he could tear the sound out.
“I won’t be your puppet. I won’t become you.”
Every act of resistance was answered with more rapture. The ooze didn’t punish. It seduced. The warmth was euphoric. Addictive. It filled him like nectar in a chalice, and still it whispered:
“I can be your skin, your purpose, your breath. Breathe me in. Be mine.”
The mighty General’s legs trembled. His breath came in short, sharp gasps. His vision blurred with mist. His thoughts grew slippery and hard to grasp. Where once was fury and focus, now there was fog. Khan moaned—a sound not of pain, but now of wavering will.
The dinosaur skull above him loomed. From its jaws, the Slime flowed—glowing, thick, alive. Khan stared up at it, eyes wide with something he hadn’t felt in years: Terror. Fear.
He reached up, straining against the claw’s grip. One arm bucked hard enough to shift an inch—but the claw only tightened in response, jerking him back into place. His fingers stretched toward the skull, toward the Slime, as if he could catch the flow and force it back inside.
“Please…” he whispered, eyes flicking from the falling Slime to the empty sockets of the beast above.
“Isn’t that enough?”
But the skull only stared, its gaze hollow and eternal. The ooze dripped past his fingers, slipping between them like silk, coiling down his forearms, tracing his shoulders, his chest. He flinched. It was warm. Soft. Too intimate. Like a kiss from something that knew him.
He choked back a sob—not from pain, but from helplessness.
He had fought monsters. Kings. Stood at the side of gods. Survived the fires of Snake Mountain.
But this…
This was inevitable.
And still, he looked up—eyes burning, throat raw—and wished it would stop.
But the Slime didn’t stop.
And the skull didn’t care.
And the claw… held him steady, so he wouldn’t miss a single drop.
