His grip is a fact of your life since you entered the bungalow. Luxuriously leathery purple pads pliant enough to lean your head into like a pillow, plump digits that curl and clutch and confine, a plaything for his paws. Claws half your height gently twitch as he strokes you, treasured dinner guest

A massive paw flumphs down over your entire body, heavy digits push their boulderous weight down over your struggling form, thick pads, purple like his eyes, absorbing what meager force you can muster with luxurious, leathery pliancy. His claws unsheathe, creating a cage.

"Stay."

The green door is somewhere on your daily route...you're not sure when you noticed it...it sits in the side of a building like any other door. Is it in a row of houses? The side of a warehouse? An office building? You can't quite remember but...

The golden knob...it calls...

He listens so intently...your stories seem to keep you outside of him...his purple eyes taking in stories of the world beyond the green door, ever polite, ever attentive.

He's going to eat you? Part of you asks. Surely not.

Then he licks his lips, wet and hot.

He's going to eat you. You're sure.

"Don't you understand?" He asks, and the low, jovial, conversational timbre of his voice almost makes his words beguiling. They would be childish if he didn't seem so old. "I wish to devour you...to eat you up entire, to close my lips around your form, roll my throat and know that you are mine."

The cat's smile is genial...but...sharp...The door closed behind you...The click was quite definite. The sun streams through the windows onto swaying plants of the bohemian bungalow. You're put in mind of jungle breezes.

"Morsel..." He rumbles deeply. You can hear the lows of the word in your soul.

His voice is so smooth...part of your brain wants to be put at ease...to lull into the cushion of those honied tones...

But you can't stop staring at his teeth. A thick, wet, tongue dancing between ivory knives, lips moving, breath pushing.

He said he was going to eat you, how can he be so polite?

The lion lies on his back, paws playing with the expanse of his stomach idly as he watches you.

It's hard to focus, the creamy hill of his belly giving a low rumbling, gurgling noise of liquid heat and endless hunger that shakes the floor, warmth rolling from the gluttonous chamber.

He smiles...

"Just a taste? No...sweet, precious thing, if I had but a taste I could only want more...and more...to run my tongue heavy and thick over your form, baste you in my saliva to further wring out your flavor.

I want to devour you, to feel you squirm within me and know you are mine. Every drop. Always.

Do you think it's nice inside me, little visitor? I would say I've heard nice things, but all I've heard has been muffled, hot breath pressed against pulsing walls... indecipherable through pounds upon pounds of flesh...

It is warm though, I can promise you that. Welcoming certainly. Hungry always.

The lion lounges amid the pillows and plants, claws like butcher's knives digging idily into an expanse of gurgly tan belly flesh as purple eyes center on you...he's so relaxed, yet those eyes are sharp...hungry...

His tail flicks, the scent of smoke.

"Come here, blessing, offer yourself~"

When the cat speaks, his voice is deep, calm, and polite, though some part of you, perhaps a part that once ran from large, hungry teeth on ancient savannas, heart hammering and paws pounding the earth, feels nervous, despite its pleasantries.

"Time is not unlimited." The lion says as you mull over his riddle for just a little too long. He smiles, purple eyes sparkling with an idea. "Here. Incentive."

He leans down over you, lips parting, humid heat becoming your world. Saliva falls.

Jaws are closing. Tick-tock.

How long have you been small? You've been the lion's toy for some time. Suckled like a hard candy, subject to the whims of his tongue. It is better than being subject to the whims of his teeth.

The slick, curling monster is at rest, flopped thickly around you. The lion is asleep. Can you escape?

It's hard to think as hot air gusts up past your whole body, humidity pawing at you as the smothering enclosure below awaits.

He likes games...right? You'd read that somewhere, certainly. Perhaps if you propose a game...

It's so...so hard to think...

A heavy weight makes itself comfortable atop your head, boulderous digits drumming. The rubbing feels nice, well-kept palm, dagger claws painted purple, combing across your scalp.

Pawpads gently rasp against your forehead as his claws dangle into view. Do you look up at them?

"Tell me a story..."