tightening
Day by day, the cobras spit upon the
corner of the glass cage with the venom of the snake gods.
They pressed against it, testing its weakening power. The
crack grew until finally they could push against it and be
free. Yet they waited. Mere freedom was not enough.
She came again, as she always did,
with the steel snake-catcher, swooping on one of them to
caress, to dance for her. As she pressed deep into its throat, the chosen one writhed wildly. Its muscles tightened, relaxed, in the magic power of snakes,
keeping her enthralled with its struggles. The others pushed
on the glass and escaped, each quietly to the assigned
place.
The snake gods nodded. The chosen one
felt its form expand until the form under her fingers was no
longer comprised of ribs and thin muscle, but of the same
flesh as herself. They stared at each other, her hands now
far too tight against the soft folds of flesh around the dark solid hollows of a
throat.
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