Are We Human? Ch. 05

"Please kill me."

"Only if you kill me first," Nathan responded.

Silence returned.

Eventually, Terry's door croaked open. He sniffed audibly as he strolled into the kitchen.

"Smells like y'all dumbasses didn't drink water before bed," he declared smugly.

"Kill Terry first," Nathan said.

"Agreed."

He laughed, "I'd like to see either of you try. I doubt you could even get up from your seats without the room spinning."

His bodily functioning still intact, Terry went about concocting a proverbial breakfast of champions: a pepper jack omelet with green peppers and mushrooms, a side of sausage, and half a grapefruit, paired with a cup of English breakfast tea. He hummed to himself as he buzzed around the kitchen, animating his steps with vigor to mock Nathan and Drew's lethargy. When he brought the completed plate to the table, it was immediately apparent that extra attention had been paid to the presentation. It was repulsively perfect, far beyond the cooking or even the eating capacity of either of his hungover roommates. They watched on grimly as Terry destroyed it like it was nothing.

"Wow, do I feel refreshed!" he boasted once the feast had concluded. "Well-fed and well-rested, am I right, boys?"

"For dessert, you should try eating a dick." Drew grumbled.

Terry kicked his chair back on two legs and teetered in place.

"I dunno about a dick, but I could certainly go for a cocktail."

He leaned forward and turned to Nathan.

"Something with rum, maybe?"

Then he swung over to Drew.

"Or a nice whiskey ginger, even!"

Their stomachs rolled at the thought. Drew groaned and covered his face, while Nathan dipped his head between his knees to stave off the nausea.

"Never again," he mumbled. "I swear, I'll never have another drink again."

"What if I told you there's a party happening tonight?" Terry said.

Nathan raised his head.

"I'm listening."

"He's cured, it's a miracle," Drew remarked dryly.

Terry ignored the quip and informed them of the party that Fatima had mentioned late last night.

"It's a costume party, but the theme is really bizarre. You're supposed to come dressed for 'The Journey.'"

"What the hell does that mean?" Nathan asked.

"I'm guessing hiking boots and a ballcap, but I have no idea." Drew suggested.

"I have no idea what it means either," Terry admitted. "But it sounds like psychedelic drugs will be involved, so you can count me in."

"You've got a point there. Count me in as well," Nathan relented.

Drew shrugged his shoulders and got up from the table.

"You'll have to count me out, unfortunately. I already have plans tonight."

"Well that's your loss and hers," Terry teased. "Tell Abby we say 'hi.'"

Already walking back to his room, Drew responded over his shoulder, "no."

The door slammed closed behind him, and Drew winced at the loudness of it. Although his hangover was finally subsiding, he still retained some sensitivity to sound and light. His remedy involved flopping back into bed and rolling himself up in his comforter, committing himself to a warm world of darkness. Cozy as a cinnamon bun, Drew curled up into himself and imagined he was getting smaller. He was shrinking down and down, impossibly tiny, a miniscule thing that could be cradled in an open palm.

Lady Sparrow came to him in a vision of a giantess, towering beyond heaven. She could pluck the stars out of the night sky, but instead, she reached down to Earth and plucked the miniscule thing from his bed. Her palm ascended to eye level, and Drew felt smaller than ever beneath her critical gaze.

"Look at how teeny you are!" she observed with a booming laugh. "You look so cute. So... fragile."

One of her fingers nudged him to the ground and pressed him into her flesh. Drew fought for every breath; standing or even kneeling was out of the question. Lady Sparrow had him pinned, and the sight of his hopeless struggle delighted her.

"You feel it now, don't you? You feel how weak you really are. You're puny and weak, and I could crush you if I wanted to."

Her finger pressed down harder. He couldn't even twitch a toe under the weight of it. She was smothering him in her palm. He needed air. He was suffocating. He was losing consciousness. He needed air!

Another booming laugh, and her finger rose from Drew's back. He gasped for breath, cherished each one. Her strength left him trembling; fear cascaded through his puny, weak body.

"Please, Lady Sparrow, please don't crush me!" he squeaked.

His meager voice was barely audible, but Lady Sparrow understood him all the same.

She cackled, "I love seeing you like this. I love hearing you try to beg in those mousey peeps of yours. It almost makes me pity you."

"Have mercy, please! I'll be your slave forever, just please don't hurt me!"

The giant face curved into a smirk.

"What use could I have for a slave as tiny, as weak, and as worthless as you?"

Slowly, her fingers started to bend inward. A shadow crept across her palm and swallowed Drew along with it. The fingers were descending to clench a fist and squish whatever was inside.

"Lady Sparrow, ple-"

Darkness.

Was it death?

No, it was bed.

Drew fumbled his way out of his blanket burrito and checked the time on his phone. The void had numbed him to the passage of two hours, filling it with dreams that confused him as much as they enticed him. Lady Sparrow as a giantess? Where on Earth had that one come from?

"I just had a dream that you were a giant," he texted his mistress.

A short while later, she responded, "did I eat you?"

"What? No, you were just really big and I was really small."

"First of all, lose the fucking attitude. Second, macrophilia and vore typically occur in conjunction with one another, so it's a reasonable question."

"Yes Lady Sparrow, I'm sorry. But I don't think I want to be eaten."

"It doesn't matter what you want. If I want to eat you I will, and you'll learn to fucking love it. Isn't that right?"

Drew let out a small cry and dug his feet into the mattress. Vorarephilia was of little interest to him normally, but when she put it like that, it compelled him the same way everything else did.

"Right Lady Sparrow, I'll learn to love it. Whatever you want, you'll get."

"That's more like it. Don't give me a reason to punish you in front of all those people tonight."

She bends him over the kitchen counter and tears his pants down to his ankles. The guests encircle them, gawking and giggling as Lady Sparrow commands him to shake his ass for their audience. His head buried in his hands, Drew has no choice but to obey; his timid dancing calls forth an eruption of amused laughter, but Lady Sparrow is stoic in her displeasure. Her hand claps loudly against his rear and silences the crowd. It's Drew's turn to be vocal; he screams out in pain, his frail knees quaking beneath him. Lady Sparrow doesn't care about his screams, the stunned onlookers, or the fragility of her troublesome pet. All she cares about is discipline. That'll teach the bad little whore to disrespect his mistress.

Drew's fingers were twitchy as they typed, "you won't have to punish me tonight, I'll be on my best behavior for you."

"We'll see about that, boy."

Idle time had never been such a formidable enemy until Lady Sparrow started giving him something to look ahead to. There was no satisfactory way to fill the hours before his appointments; he could only spend so many minutes writhing in bed through vivid daydream after brutal daydream. When he tried to do anything else, however, the daydreams would pull his attention away, as demanding as the woman who starred in them. He began to notice this problem earlier in the week, and now he was watching it worsen. Drew needed to learn how to keep himself distracted, or else he might lose whatever was left of his mind.

He found himself sat in front of his computer, search engine opened for the first of his inquiries: "BDSM." He drank in its history, contemplated its philosophies and psychological explanations. With every vocabulary word, he mouthed its shape and placed it in reference to himself: submissive and bottom meant Drew, dom(me) and top meant Lady Sparrow. "Switch" meant someone who performs both roles; certainly not Drew, probably not Lady Sparrow either, although he would need to ask to know for sure.

Delving into the "bondage" aspect took him to a world of "riggers" and intricate rope art. He read about devices like the Saint Andrew's Cross and spanking horses. From here, he jumped into the realm of "discipline" and pored over images of cat whips, canes, and riding crops. Incomprehensible jealousy filled him as he watched videos of their usage, listening to the howls and cries of suffering little subs. This brought him to "sadomasochism" and opened his eyes to the endless possibilities of pain: hot wax, nipple clamps, paintball guns, car batteries, pinwheels, blades, and even the infamous cock and ball torture that Lady Sparrow had alluded to the other day. His penis ebbed and flowed with blood as he made a mental list of turn-ons, turn-offs, and maybe tries on brave days.

Research continued into the topic of communication and informed consent. The mantra of "safe, sane, and consensual" and the concept of safewords gave him comfort; he imagined them as a net waiting beneath him to catch him if he felt himself falling. Reading about the importance of aftercare made him remember the way Abby had held him and sang to him after their most recent scene; he reflected on the way it had soothed him and brought him down from the intense peak she had taken him to. If there was time tonight, he would want to talk to her about these other protective measures. Having them in place would allow him to dive deeply and happily into the opportunities that his research had illuminated to him.

Finally, he began to sift through subcultures and subcategories of the greater fetish, starting naturally with "macrophilia." Poor digital art and photoshops aside, something about the concept of giant, powerful women did draw him in. The vorarephilia, on the other hand, did little for him, as expected. His heart fluttered as he covered exhibitionism and voyeurism. Animal roleplay and human furniture failed to excite him, but roleplays of police officers, of blackmailers, and especially teachers and students caused his mind to race. To his surprise, the simple material of latex proved to be one of the most stimulating of all the subcategories. He lingered there for a while, picturing how each outfit would look sticking tight to the frame of Lady Sparrow.

It was astonishing just how vast and prolific this BDSM culture was. There were forums, street fairs, communities, dating sites, social norms, nightclubs, vernacular, and even meme pages! How had all of this flown under his radar? Why had the gravity of this world never pulled him in before? There must be legions of freaks out there, oscillating in size and severity and secrecy. It was bedroom tastes to some and full lifestyle to others; hell, some people actually wore collars every day as part of their marriage. Everyone expected Abby and Drew to have a Jewish wedding, but maybe they'd end up with a collaring ceremony instead. Considering he still had no inclination to reveal his kinks to his friends, it would probably be a very quiet affair.

The intensive mission of self-understanding helped the day pass swiftly. When afternoon shifted to evening, Drew began preparations for Carly's party. He cooked himself a dinner that paled in comparison to Terry's earlier breakfast, then skipped into the shower. He moved leisurely, floating airy on new knowledge and gleaming optimism for the night ahead. His outfit was casually refined in a faint red button down shirt and gray pants; it was no dapper suit, but he had the feeling this party wouldn't be the gala that he had envisioned the night before. Out in the kitchen, Terry and Nathan were mixing drinks and wearing snappy leather jackets.

"So what's your journey? 'Easy Rider?'" Drew asked.

"No, fool, we're the band Journey," Terry answered, focused intently on his pouring.

"That's the best you guys could come up with? Two losers in leather jackets does not a band make."

Nathan shot back, "it's more creative than what you've got on, basic white boy #512. Besides, once Margot, Beth, and Fatima get here with the props, we'll have a complete ensemble. Five of us, five members of Journey."

"And who are the five members of Journey?"

"It's ummmm... is Geddy Lee in Journey?"

"No man, that's Rush."

"What about Neil Peart?"

"Also Rush."

"Damn. We should've gone to a Rush party."

"Those are for Greek life only," Terry informed him.

"Okay, you wanna know who's in Journey? Me, Terry, Margot, Beth, and Fatima. We are Journey, and you're not allowed in our band."

"Unless you wanna be a groupie," Terry offered.

Drew laughed, "the only way you idiots could get fans would be buying them at Home Depot."

Nathan held up a finger, and Drew responded in kind with a pleasant smile.

"So when are y'all heading over there?" he asked.

"Probably a little after 10," Nathan responded. "When are you going to Abby's?"

"Probably a little after 9."

"I guess you're going to miss the pregame."

"I seriously have no idea how you're able to drink right now."

Defiantly, Nathan raised his glass and took a drink. His face contorted in misery almost immediately.

"Delicious," he said through a wince.

"Terry, please protect him."

"If only it were that easy," he responded grimly.

Just before 9pm, there was a knock on the door. The three boys hollered that it was unlocked, and in strolled the remaining three members of Journey, all wearing leather jackets and carrying inflatable instruments under their arms. They dumped the deflated props on the table and began dividing up responsibilities: Fatima on vocals, Margot manning the keyboard, Terry with the bass, Beth on the inflatable drums, and Nathan playing guitar.

Fatima offered a spare microphone to Drew and said, "there's always room for back-up vocals."

"You'll have to catch me on the reunion tour, I'm afraid," he refused.

"If you and your bae get bored later, you're welcome to meet up with us. Just text us for the address," she told him.

Drew said he would talk to her about it, but it was very unlikely that Abby would leave a party at her own house. Someone needed to be on hand to keep the guests in line, and there was no one better at checking behavior than her.

He watched in amusement as the band blew up their instruments, and once they were set up, they asked him to take a photo. They struck their best album cover poses, and Drew took a series of pictures for them. Flipping through the images made his stomach uneasy; he suddenly wanted very much to join in with the band, to be Fatima's back-up vocals. He even thought about coming clean about the party at Abby's house and inviting them to come with him. When he passed the phone off to his friends, however, his mouth stayed closed. The admission remained trapped in the home it had made in his throat.

The fantasies he currently held about the party did not involve an audience of people who knew him. He was warming up to the idea of strangers seeing him as Abby's doting, adoring partner, but his friends scared him. He loved them, he needed them in his life, he was terrified of losing them. Maybe someday he could find the nerve to tell them, but not tonight. All he wanted tonight to fall back into his mind and let Lady Sparrow pull his strings for her guests. If they saw what he became when he was around her... maybe they would accept him. But maybe they wouldn't. One day, he would be forced to take that chance, but it didn't have to be tonight. Tonight, his friends had their Journey, and he had his own. Their paths would converge in time.

Drew said his goodbyes to the band and wished them well, then he stepped out onto Dendro Avenue and made his way to the beige house on Stygian Street. He arrived slightly after 9:30, hopefully not too late to incur his owner's wrath. The sounds of music and mild clamor seeped through to the outside, and so he dared to open the door on his own and walk in unannounced.

The lights were all shut off, and a strategic set-up of colored light fixtures illuminated the house in a variety of shifting shades. The kitchen had been converted into a bar, while the dining room and the living room across the hall served as social spaces. A few compacted clusters of people stood in separate corners, indicative of the early stages of a party. The music was blaring already, obliterating the awkward atmosphere that typically sets in at this time. A flurry of curious glances washed over him when he walked inside, and Drew immediately felt his contrast showing. Not only were these guests entirely unfamiliar to him, but they were also dressed in costumes. Abby seemed to have left this detail of the party out.

"Well, it's about time!"

A finger hooked into the collar of his shirt and pulled him around. Abby was standing in front of him, face turned expectantly; although the strangeness of the situation was still assailing him on all sides, instinct nudged him forward to plant a sweet kiss on her cheek. Pulling back from her, he noticed he had just put his lips on a red heart. A spade was painted on the other cheek. Drew zoomed out for a moment to observe the light blue dress with the white front, the long white stockings with black shoes, and the gold headband in her black hair. Even her fingernails had been painted to resemble the four suits: a spade pinky, a diamond ring, a club middle, and a heart pointer.

"You're Alice."

A Cheshire Cat grin emerged from her face.

"Welcome to wonderland."

She took him by the hand and led him to her bedroom, shutting the door firmly behind them. Once alone, she forced Drew to his knees and stood above him, her nails trailing against his quivering jaw.

"I have presents for you, dearest," she cooed.

"May I see them, Lady Sparrow?"

Her grin returned as she stepped away from the boy and turned her back to him. She reached behind to grab the hem of her dress, lifting and lowering it slowly, listening to saliva drip on her hardwood floor.

"Just in case you were wondering if I was playing with a full deck."

She lifted her dress above her waist and revealed the diamond and the club adorning both of her cheeks, divided by a frilly white thong. Vixen eyes peered back over her shoulder and lit up with an icy fire at the dumbfounded, immobilized plaything. His mind was empty; all hers to toy with.

"Worship it."

Drew crawled forward and placed his timid hands on the curves of her flesh. He leaned in close enough to smell the lavender, oat milk, and rose water radiating off of her skin. His watering mouth crashed against her, famishedly kissing her beautiful rear. His fingers pressed into her, kneading her soft butt with vigor.

"Don't smudge the paint, shithead," she warned.

His fingers grew careful, but no less vigorous. They stroked and massaged every millimeter of clean skin while his tongue teased around the frilly thong in her center. Abby feared she'd start seeping through her underwear, but there was no way in hell she would allow her slave to stop. His dutiful hands treated her ass with the love and attention that it deserved; his mouth prayed to her with every kiss, his tongue composing poetry in her name. She could spend the whole party just-

"Ohhh my God!" she yelped.

Abby dropped her dress and scrambled forward, catching herself on the wall. Her knees came together defensively, struggling to keep her upright. The sensation that fell upon her was unmistakable. She whirled around to her pet, her face swirling indecisively with fluster, rage, embarrassment, and confounded glee. Drew had backed up on his heels, unsure of what emotions his mistress was feeling and which of them she would inflict upon him.