All I can do is hope they let me know what I am, before the suffocation sends me beyond all understanding.

Even an animal would know that a stomach wasn't a safe place to be put to rest, so I must be something, much, much less than that right now as my lips brush reverentially along the smooth, scaly underbelly I'd soon be making indents in.

But lower than that, even. Animal instinct would have my body struggling against constriction, not welcoming the crushing embrace. Animal instinct would have me fighting against the declaration that I was doomed meat, not nodding joyfully along with it.

And yet at the same time the colors and the whispers and the pleasure all combining to reduce me. Limiting my thoughts. My will and ego drowned in that pleasure, submerged into animal instinct.

The whirlwind of sensations, of feelings, of rapturous attention to that serpent's voice so far beyond anything I could have ever hoped to experience. A plateau of pleasure I never thought I'd reach.