let it leave me like a long breath

cont. hell game writing. misc. stuff mostly.

here's an excerpt. it's from the clay man encounter

(as always with these, a > denotes them talking and a >> denotes a player choice. this is only one path through the sex scene, w/ a bipedal player character)

The clay shifts and stirs, and for a moment it seems as if some slumbering creature is about to break through the surface. The clay itself is moving: pulling itself upright, thick slabs cracking until they become saturated with river water, slick and ready to be worked. River water pours into the seams between slabs, raw red clay becoming covered in slip as the clay builds itself a body. It takes the form of a man, body thick, fat gut a smooth swell of dripping clay, muscles smeared, no sharp detail possible in the constantly-shifting mess of clay slip. He surges up from the bank, waist flaring out to a massive upwell of fresh clay, blending into the rest of the shore in dripping waves.

His face is vague: heavy brows, eyepits, a nose, thick wedges of ears, twin curves of teeth in a mouth that seals over when not in use. Clay drips down his head like hair soaked to the skin, thick tufts and clumps slowly breaking apart and sluicing down his sides. The clay is a brilliant purplish umber, silty ochre on the surface, and bands of color continually marble and mix through him.

... {various "hey you wanna fuck" initial stuff here}

>> hey get over here and fuck me

The clay man laughs, the sound mostly a wet gurgle.

> Gonna make me do the work, huh? Well, that's okay.

He walks over, vaguely-defined blobs of thighs surfacing as he undulates closer. He shapes his body more clearly, wide hips, fat belly, vague musculature across his shoulders and arms, all formed by invisible hands. A cock peels away from his heavy gut, a heavy mass of clay, fat and long. Veins crawl up its length, pumping as they feed more and more clay, and the thing sloughs down, forming a bend in the shaft, weighed down nearly to crumbling by its own fat weight. The tip opens, slit gaping, and the clay-man groans, head thrown back as it pumps, gushing a flood of watery slip across your body.

The clay-man takes hold of his cock, pumping it -- hands smearing away detail only for it to slowly work back, squeezing his shaft out into a bloated oval -- and painting you with another gush of thin slip, his watery pre cascading down and pooling around your knees, turning the clay wet and sucking.

He presses against you, leaving messy smears of red clay everywhere he touches, cock a pumping pillar between your bodies. He reaches down and strokes your cock, the sound sloppy as he paints it with wet clay, slurping when he pumps it through his loose grip.

He leans in, dragging his face against yours, and pressing his lips against you in a kiss, mouth flooded with the taste: heavy clay, mud, oily water. Strange and unpleasant, but you kiss back, his tongue smearing across yours blotting out anything but the thick tang of clay. He moans into your mouth, body piling up as he ruts against you, painting your entire front in ridges and spirals of wet clay, his cock a spurting mass rolling against yours. When you break the kiss you spit afterward, clay stuck to your teeth and tongue. The clay man laughs again, breath cold and humid.

> Yeah, most people don't go for the kissing.

He says it with a lopsided smile, pressing wet, cool kisses across your jaw and down your neck.

>>well cmon how abt you kiss me a lil deeper this time

> is that so?

He opens wide, sticking his tongue out just past his lower lip, and then he yawns wider, tongue stretching, squirming, swiping back and forth, just slow enough that it doesn't crumble under its own weight: the clay man feeds it more and more clay, base thickening and thickening until it doesn't resemble a tongue at all, just a huge writhing tentacle of sloppy clay, bulging out from a hollow in the lump that feigns being a head. Then he snaps in, drawing back, tongue if not pulling back into his mouth at least smearing most of its mass into his lips and jaw, casting off the excess to sluggishly drip down his neck.

> let's see what you can fit, then.

He licks your face, coating it in runny slip, black water bubbling up in the back of his throat and spilling down his tongue, dissolving the sloppy clay flesh. Thicker lumps of clay bulge up at the base, slowly diffusing down the length of his tongue, staining it red-purple. He curls his tongue across your cheek, lashing river water across your face, before he shoves his tongue back into your mouth -- you suckle on the heavy flesh, clay surging and smearing across your tongue and teeth, the thick wet taste flooding your mouth, a sharp, iron aftertaste lingering. He probes deeper, your throat convulsing when he taps the back of your mouth, the clench deforming his tongue, squeezing the tip off into free clots of clay that smear back across the now-stubbier length of his tongue, more and more clay piling up in the back of your throat until the sheer mass breaches your throat, clenching and squirming as it forces its way down your throat.

The clay man groans, the flesh of his body vibrating, tongue less a tongue and more a huge cord of clay, sluggishly flowing up from the ground and earthing itself in your mouth, cold wet weight spilling down your throat, each gag and choke leaving imprints, moulding the clay against the confines of your throat.

The clay man moves forward, chest pressed against yours, soft flesh smearing up and down your chest, his gut flattening and smearing across your sides, his cock an abandoned lump compared to the writhing tentacle his head's become, water streaming up his body to work into the drooling mass of his tongue. You gag again, weight settling into your stomach, face smeared in red-purple slip, jaw wide open, throat convulsing against the implacable flow of clay. Tongues bud from the main body, licking across your lips, twisting around your tongue, lips fluttering against the inner flesh of your throat for a second before the shaped clay is pressed flat by another gag, a mess of slip and black water streaming from your nose.

Hands sprout from the clay man's sides, curling over your shoulders, chest, hips. A hand crawls down your thigh, stretching and then splitting from the rest of his body entirely to become a lone arm reaching up from the ground, fingers probing behind your balls, clay piling up against your asshole without ever pushing quite inside.

The clay man pulls back from the kiss, the immense tentacle lashing back and forth, snapping your head to the side, each convulsive gag spitting out huge lumps of unformed clay, the mass crawling up out of your stomach with the same ease it pushed inside. He finally pulls himself loose with a disgusting gurgling squelch, leaving your mouth hanging open, clay slip spilling in a waterfall from your slack mouth.

> you want me to use both ends, or just go in from here?

>> listen i want u to crawl inside my body thru the mouth

He laughs again, a lopsided grin on his face, and he reaches out and runs a hand across your teeth, fingers smearing together.

> Well I can't say you're not asking for it.
> Sure, let's do this.

He presses his lips to yours again, your mouth already coated, teeth and inner flesh slimy with clay. The heavy mass in your stomach churns, still animated, and the clay man groans, hands spreading across your belly, the mess in your gut kicking back. His open mouth distends, lazily forgetting to be mouth-sized, yawning wider and wider as he thrusts forward again, tongue-tentacle gliding back into your already-prepared throat. You gulp, drinking down black water and smooth clay, gagging and sputtering from the slow, implacable push forward. His hand strokes up and down your stomach, idly tugging on your cock, smearing you inside and out with clay -- the thick tentacle shoves its way back down your through, flattening and shifting minutely against your gags, feeding you an endless stream of thick clay: its dense, cool weight pushing past your lips, down your throat, settling with heavy thumps into your stomach. Your gut is already swollen, and the clay is so much more denser than come, a solid weight resting heavily inside you.

The clay man pulls back just long enough for you to suck in an unnecessary breath, body dissolved into only the vaguest of silhouettes, head-and-shoulders simply rising to a blunt-tipped mound, tentacle-tongue pulled back fractionally in front of your panting mouth before he shoves back inside. Clay migrates up -- your hands are fisted against his chest, wet clay wedges in your hands, half-submerged in the continual tide of water and clay streaming up his body, surging up through the length of his tongue-tentacle, forming an unbroken arch traveling down your throat and into your stomach. The mass squirms, knocking you forward, and the clay man eases you both down to your knees without once ceasing to pump more clay inside you. Clay squelches under your knees, squirming up in unformed slabs to crawl up your sides, and inside your flooded stomach the clay squirms downward, pushing into your guts with a slow slide.

Hands caress the curve of your hanging gut, skin aching, feeling like your body is only a thin layer of flesh sandwiched between clay inside you and clay outside. Hands are _inside_ you, fingers tugging at the catch at the bottom of your throat, pressing against the walls of your stomach, fingers tugging the opening to your guts wider. The clay man's kiss continues, deeper, his immense tentacle-tongue hardly even that now, just an immense upwelling of clay, internal structure shifting and pulling to feed more and more of it into your bloated body, gut tumescent and aching, thick roils of black water sloshing inside, churning into the mass of heavy clay to make it slicker and more easily worked.

Your cock is pressed tight to the underside of your fat gut, pre forgettable dribbles mixed into the mess of clay coating your entire body -- you probably look exactly like a clay man yourself, a fat figure on your knees in the clay field, flesh so thickly coated with clay that it's impossible to tell that there's something else under there.

The clay man keeps pumping more and more clay down your throat, weight bearing down inside and out, slathered in an inch-thick layer of clay slip, belly aching from the weight, bulging out grotesquely, flesh stretched beyond taut, stinging stretch marks seaming up across your sides. You slump even lower, hands and arms easing you to your hands and knees, mouth still yawning wide, the entire lower half of your face encased in a twisted pillar of clay, clay like water simply pouring and pouring unceasingly into you. Your stuffed gut sways, smearing through the clay beneath you, the heavy drag slowly turning into a curve of contact: your drooping belly meets the ground, your weight shifting as your stuffed gut comes to rest in the clay mire instead of hanging down. Pressure across your straining flesh grows, your grotesquely-swollen body out of room to grow beneath you.

It's impossible to tell how long it goes on for, or how long it's been going on for; eventually the continual push of clay slows. It seems less that the clay man is sated, or tired, and more maybe that he's _bored_; or maybe that it's you're running up hard against the physical limits of your body -- your flesh is widely seamed, huge zebra-stripes of raw red flesh all across your hips and gut; each slow pump of clay down your throat met more and more resistance against the pressure within. Whatever the cause, the clay man slowly peels away and reforms kneeling before you. You gag at the withdrawal, coughing up messy slabs of brilliant red ochre clay, slip staining your throat as you heave over and over, coughing up only some tiny fraction of the immense mass of clay nearly pinning you to the riverbank.

> Easy,

he says, and it's like sound swims back into the world, your mind abruptly picking up the thread: water slopping across the shore, clay squelching under your hands and feet, the slow wet noises the clay man makes as he moves. He can hardly help you up -- his clay body just as solid as the clay inside you; his hands and arms stretch and compress cartoonishly as he tries to bear some of your weight -- but he helps you sit back on your ass, gags finally giving way to breathless pants, mouth still slimy with clay, tickling the back of your throat.

He reaches out to feel across your gut, just that light pressure nearly enough to make you heave again, each spasm of the abused muscles of your gut sending a low wave of dizzy nausea through you.

> Not many mortals get into this.

There's a fractional pause:

> Or can manage to fit that much in them.

The clay man leers down at you, all but panting as his hands smear across your gut, feeling its bloated heft. Maybe not bored or tired after all.

> Lemme help you up,

he says, and tries to help you up again and mostly fails. You stagger to your feet, the slow slosh of your overstuffed gut nearly knocking you back down. Your feet sink, incrementally, in the clay, and you struggle to breathe, each breath spiking the pressure within you to nearly painful levels.

> Hey, there's always more clay.

The clay man gestures at the clay banks, effectively unchanged save for the churned-up crater surrounding the two of you.

> Come back later and I'll feed you more.