The year was 1943, and the war felt far away from the secluded Hollywood Hills estate where Vivian Ashford posed for her latest pin-up portrait. At twenty-six, she was the epitome of 1940s glamour—cascading chestnut curls, porcelain skin flushed with the perfect hint of rouge, and curves that made soldiers overseas weep into their letters home. She sat perched upon a velvet ottoman, her legs crossed demurely yet provocatively, wearing nothing but silk stockings held by delicate lace garters and pale pink heels that matched the dusky rose of the backdrop.

"Hold that pose, Viv," the photographer called out, his camera clicking. "The boys in the Pacific are going to lose their minds."

Vivian smiled, her crimson lips parting slightly, eyes half-lidded with that signature come-hither expression that had made her one of the most sought-after models in Los Angeles. The studio was warm, almost uncomfortably so, the California sun beating down through the glass ceiling panels. She shifted slightly, feeling a bead of perspiration trace down her spine, pooling in the small of her back.

"That's perfect, doll. Just like that."

She maintained the pose, one hand resting on her hip, the other brushing through her dark waves. The sitting had been going on for hours, and her muscles ached with the effort of remaining still, perched on the edge of the ottoman with her legs arranged just so. The sheer stockings whispered against each other as she adjusted her position, the lace tops tickling her thighs.

It was then that she heard it—a sound like silk dragging across marble, heavy and deliberate. At first, she thought it was the wind against the studio's canvas awnings, but the noise persisted, growing closer, accompanied by a peculiar warmth that seemed to emanate from somewhere behind the backdrop.

"Did you hear that?" she asked, breaking her pose.

"Hear what, sweetheart? Just hold still for five more minutes."

Vivian turned her head, her curls bouncing against her bare shoulders. The studio was ostensibly empty except for the photographer and his equipment, yet the sensation of being watched—no, *hunted*—prickled at her skin. She crossed her ankles, the heels clicking together, and that's when she saw it.

Sliding from behind the velvet curtains came a serpent of impossible proportions. Its scales shimmered in the studio lights, a mosaic of emerald and gold that caught the sun and fractured it into rainbows. The snake was massive, thicker than her own torso, its body coiling and uncoiling with hypnotic grace. But it was the size that arrested her breath—this was no ordinary python from the pet store down on Sunset Boulevard. This creature was ancient, mythical, its head rising nearly to her eye level as it approached with deliberate, predatory patience.

Vivian should have screamed. She should have run. Instead, she found herself frozen, not with fear, but with a strange, magnetic fascination. The snake's eyes were amber pools, vertical pupils dilating as they fixed upon her. Its tongue flickered out, tasting the air, tasting *her*, and she felt a shiver that had nothing to do with terror ripple through her body.

"Mr. Henderson," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "Mr. Henderson, there's—"

But when she glanced toward the photographer, he was adjusting his light meter, oblivious, and when she looked back, the snake was closer, its body beginning to coil around the base of her ottoman. The heat radiating from it was intense, a tropical humidity that seemed to wrap around her bare skin like a blanket.

"Don't move," she told herself, though her heart hammered against her ribs. "It can't see you if you don't move."

But the snake *did* see her. It saw her very well indeed. With a fluid motion that belied its bulk, the creature surged forward, its mouth opening in a yawn that revealed rows of recurved teeth and a glistening pink throat that seemed to extend into infinity.

Vivian gasped as the serpent's head dipped low, its cool, dry nose brushing against her ankle. The sensation made her jump, her heel slipping slightly on the velvet. The snake paused, as if savoring the contact, then began to work its jaws around her foot.

"Oh," she breathed, the sound escaping her lips before she could stop it. "Oh my."

The feeling was unlike anything she had anticipated. She had expected pain, the crush of teeth, the agony of being consumed alive. Instead, what she felt was pressure—intense, enveloping pressure that squeezed her foot in rhythmic waves as the snake's throat muscles began pulling her inward. The inside of its mouth was hot, wet, and impossibly smooth, like being drawn into a satin glove that was several sizes too small.

Her pink high heel slipped off easily, falling to the floor with a clatter that went unnoticed by the still-distracted photographer. The snake's upper jaw worked over her stocking-clad foot, teeth hooking gently but firmly into the silk, not piercing her skin but anchoring her as the swallowing began in earnest.

Vivian's hands gripped the edges of the ottoman, her knuckles white. She should kick, she should struggle, but as the snake's throat contracted around her ankle and began drawing her foot deeper, she felt something entirely unexpected—a spark of arousal that made her gasp aloud.

"Oh god," she whispered, her head falling back, her carefully coiffed curls tumbling across her bare shoulders. "Oh god, that's... that's..."

The sensation was overwhelming. The snake's esophagus was a tight, muscular tube that massaged her foot and ankle with each peristaltic wave. The heat was incredible, a wet sauna that seemed to penetrate through her stockings and sink into her very bones. As her foot was drawn deeper, past the serpent's jaw and into the stretch of its throat, she could feel every ridge, every pulse of the creature's powerful swallowing muscles.

The snake worked slowly, methodically, as if it had all the time in the world. Which, Vivian realized with a dizzying clarity, it did. She was trapped in the studio, her photographer unaware, and this ancient predator was consuming her inch by inch, and she was letting it happen because it felt *astonishing*.

Her second foot was taken next, the snake adjusting its angle to accommodate her seated position. Vivian found herself leaning back on her hands, her breasts heaving with each ragged breath, as the creature's mouth enveloped her other heel and began the process anew. The symmetry of it—the way both feet were now being drawn into that hot, tight embrace—made her head spin.

"Mr. Henderson," she tried again, her voice throaty, breathless. "I think... I think I need a break..."

"Almost done, Viv. Looking beautiful."

The snake's throat bulged visibly now, two distinct lumps that were her feet being drawn deeper into its body. Vivian watched, mesmerized, as the scales around its neck stretched and accommodated her shape. The sensation of being swallowed was unlike anything she had ever experienced—the pressure was constant, rhythmic, a full-body massage that concentrated on her legs with devastating precision.

As her calves were drawn into the serpent's maw, Vivian discovered that her position on the ottoman was actually ideal for what was happening. She was seated, legs together, and the snake was able to work its way up her limbs without disturbing her upper body. The creature's head was heavy in her lap now, its eyes closed in concentration as it swallowed, and she could feel the vibration of its purring, contented rumble against her bare thighs.

"That's... oh, that's incredible," she moaned, unable to stop herself. The feeling of the snake's throat working over her knees, pulling her legs deeper into that wet heat, was sending waves of pleasure radiating upward. Her stockings were being slowly peeled from her legs by the friction of the swallowing, the silk bunching and sliding against her skin in a way that made her toes curl inside the serpent's gullet.

Time seemed to stretch and compress. The photographer clicked away, occasionally offering direction, but Vivian barely heard him. His camera was focused on her upper body and he appeared oblivious to what was happening out of frame. Meanwhile, Vivian was lost in the sensation of being eaten, of feeling her body gradually disappearing into the snake's embrace. Her knees were inside now, and the creature was working on her thighs, its jaw unhinging to an impossible width to accommodate her hips.

The stretching was intense. Vivian had never felt so full, so *enclosed*. The snake's throat gripped her thighs like a lover's hands, kneading and massaging as it drew her deeper. She could feel her own wetness, her arousal undeniable now, coating her thighs as they were slowly enveloped. The heat had spread from the snake's mouth throughout her entire lower body, making her feel languid, heavy, drunk on sensation.

"How long has it been?" she wondered dimly, watching the clock on the wall. Thirty minutes? Forty? Her legs were halfway gone, swallowed up to mid-thigh, and the snake showed no signs of slowing. If anything, it seemed to be savoring her, taking its time with each swallow, letting her feel every inch of progress as she was drawn into its body.

At that moment, the phone rang in the next room. “Damn,” grunted the photographer still looking through his camera. “I have to take that. I have been waiting on that call. Don’t go anywhere,” he commanded and spun and dashed out of the room, never actually seeing Vivian outside of the lens.

*Don’t go anywhere?* She thought. *Somebody tell this snake!*

The sensation of her stockings being completely removed by the snake's throat was oddly erotic. The silk slid down her legs, bunching at her ankles inside the creature's gullet, then being worked off entirely as her feet were pushed deeper into the serpent's throat. She was naked now from the waist down, her most intimate areas exposed to the studio air, and still the snake fed.

When it reached her hips, the stretching became almost overwhelming. Vivian gasped, her back arching, her breasts thrust forward as the snake's jaw worked over her pelvis. The pressure on her aroused flesh was intense, the rhythmic swallowing creating a suction that made her cry out, her hands flying to her breasts, kneading them as the pleasure mounted.

"Oh god, oh god, oh god," she chanted, her 1940s poise completely shattered. "It's... it's taking me... it's eating me..."

And it was. She was being consumed, her body disappearing into the serpent's gullet, and she had never felt more alive, more aroused, more *wanted*. The snake's throat was a tight sheath around her hips now, massaging her most sensitive areas with each muscular contraction. She could feel herself being drawn deeper, her waist entering that hot, wet embrace, and the sensation was making her dizzy with pleasure.

The snake had paused, its head resting heavily against her stomach as it adjusted to her width. Vivian could feel her own pulse beating against the pressure of its throat, her heart hammering in time with the creature's slow, steady swallowing. The heat was incredible now, seeming to radiate from her core outward, making her skin flush pink from her chest to her cheeks.

"So hot," she whispered. "So tight... oh god, it's so tight..."

The snake resumed its feeding, working its way up her torso. Her waist disappeared into its maw, then her lower ribs. The compression was intense, squeezing the air from her lungs in rhythmic bursts, but somehow she could still breathe, the snake's throat accommodating her chest with surprising gentleness despite its tight grip.

Vivian found herself lying back now, her position on the ottoman allowing her to recline as the snake consumed her upper body. Her arms were trapped at her sides, pinned by the creature's throat, but she didn't need them. She could feel her breasts being enveloped, the snake's mouth working over their fullness with what felt almost like reverence.

"Oh," she gasped as her nipples were drawn into that wet heat. "Oh, that's... that's..."

The sensation of her breasts being swallowed was indescribable. The pressure, the heat, the rhythmic massage of the snake's throat working over her sensitive flesh—it was pushing her toward a climax she had never imagined possible. She was being eaten alive, her body disappearing inch by inch into a predator's gullet, and she was going to come from it.

The snake reached her shoulders, its jaw stretching to impossible proportions to accommodate her width. Vivian's head lolled back, her eyes rolling, her mouth open in a silent scream of pleasure as she felt herself being drawn deeper, deeper, her neck entering that tight embrace now.

"Going... going..." she whispered, her voice barely audible.

The last thing she saw before her head was swallowed was the studio ceiling, the California sun streaming through the glass. Then the snake's mouth closed over her face, and she was enveloped in complete darkness, heat, and pressure.

The sensation of her head being swallowed was the most intense of all. The snake's throat gripped her skull, squeezing rhythmically, and she could feel her own heartbeat pounding in her ears, echoing in the tight confines of the serpent's esophagus. Her curls were pressed flat against her head, her face surrounded by wet, muscular flesh that seemed to caress her features as it drew her deeper.

And then, suddenly, she was sliding, sliding down a long, tight tunnel of flesh, being pushed by the snake's powerful muscles toward its stomach. The journey seemed to take forever, each inch of progress accompanied by intense pressure and overwhelming heat. Vivian could feel her body being compressed, folded slightly to fit the snake's anatomy, and yet there was no pain—only the most intense, enveloping sensation she had ever experienced.

When she finally reached the stomach, she found she could unfold slightly, the chamber expanding to accommodate her curves. The walls were tight, pulsing, massaging her from head to toe with a constant, rhythmic pressure. The heat was incredible, a tropical wetness that seemed to penetrate her very pores. She was completely enclosed, completely surrounded, and she had never felt more secure, more aroused, more at peace.

Inside, Vivian surrendered completely to the sensation. The stomach walls massaged her relentlessly, the heat making her skin tingle, the tightness making her feel utterly consumed, utterly possessed. She came in waves, her body convulsing in the serpent's embrace, her screams of pleasure muffled by the thick muscular walls that surrounded her.

Time lost all meaning. She drifted in a haze of heat and pressure and pleasure, feeling the snake's body moving around her, carrying her, holding her. She was completely at its mercy, completely enclosed, and she had never felt more free.

An hour passed, then two. The snake remained coiled, its metabolism slowed, savoring its meal. Vivian floated in a state of endless arousal, the constant massage of the stomach walls keeping her on the edge of climax, occasionally tipping her over into shuddering releases that left her breathless and limp in the tight confines.

She thought of the war, of the boys overseas who would never receive her pin-up portrait now, of the photographer who had no idea what had happened in his studio. She thought of her life, her career, her future—and none of it mattered. All that mattered was the heat, the pressure, the rhythmic embrace of the serpent that had consumed her.

As the second hour drew to a close, Vivian felt herself beginning to tire, her energy spent on countless peaks of pleasure. The snake's stomach was working more insistently now, the digestive process beginning in earnest, and she felt a new kind of warmth spreading through her—not arousal this time, but a deep, contented satisfaction.

"Thank you," she whispered into the darkness, though whether she spoke to the snake or to fate itself, she couldn't say. "Thank you..."

The serpent shifted, its scales rasping against the studio floor, and Vivian felt herself being drawn deeper into its body, toward the coils where she would be held, digested, made one with the ancient creature that had consumed her. She closed her eyes, a smile playing across her lips, and surrendered completely to the embrace.

Outside, the California sun began to set, painting the sky in shades of pink that matched the discarded heels on the floor. The photographer had long since gone home, puzzled by his model's disappearance but assuming she had simply grown tired and left without saying goodbye. The snake, satisfied and content slowly moved out of the studio, looking for a hiding place to curl up and digest its meal.

When the photographer returned, he discovered to his consternation that his model had skipped out. He cursed under his breath and hoped she had a good reason for leaving.

Turns out, she did.

 

The Pin-Up and the Python (Snake vore story) A little short story set in the 1940s because, well, I haven't seen one set in the 1940s before, that's why.