The egg isn’t just an object—it wants. Its green and purple surface gleams under the light, rubbery and impossibly slick, pulsing with a slow, steady rhythm like a heartbeat. When I touch it, my fingers don’t simply rest on the surface; they sink slightly, the warmth rising to meet my skin. It feels as though the egg is tasting me, drawing out my hesitation. The rubber clings in a way that feels almost intimate, as though it knows exactly where to pull.

I press harder, and the surface yields, stretching open to receive me. There’s no clear doorway, no seam—just an oozing invitation that grips my arm and refuses to let go. The texture is slick beyond belief, like oil-coated latex, so that every movement sends me sliding forward even when I try to hold myself back. The egg tightens as I enter, sealing behind me, making retreat impossible. It’s already decided: I belong to it.

Inside, the air is thick, humid, and laced with the scent of rubber. My skin tingles under the embrace of the walls, which stroke me in slow, deliberate contractions, as though cataloging every contour of my body. The slickness urges me onward, my limbs slipping helplessly deeper. Each movement feels less like my choice and more like submission to the egg’s insistence. I don’t crawl forward; I am drawn.

The deeper I sink, the more the sensation shifts from confinement to possession. The walls ripple against me, almost like tongues, caressing, probing, smearing their slippery heat over me until I feel coated, rewritten. I try to resist, but the egg answers with firmer pressure, an undeniable squeeze that pushes me further inside. My body trembles as the realization h*ts—I am no longer in control.

Breathing becomes strange, muffled, each exhale pressing back against my lips as if the egg is savoring it. My chest rises and falls in rhythm with the alien shell, as though it has synchronized itself to me—or perhaps I to it. The colors pulse across the rubber surface, green oozing into purple, purple into green, mesmerizing, seducing me into forgetting the outside world.

My mind begins to fog. The slick walls don’t just caress my skin—they press inward, deeper, until I feel them echoing through me, coaxing me to let go. Every time I tense, the egg rewards me with a firmer embrace, a pulsing grip that drives a shiver down my spine. I can’t tell where my arousal begins and where its manipulations end; the two blur until all I can do is moan softly into the sm*thering rubber embrace.

Time dissolves. I am stretched, swallowed, enveloped, and the egg never loosens its hold. It pulls me deeper with each pulse, each slippery contraction, until resistance no longer feels possible—no longer feels desirable. My body isn’t mine anymore. It belongs to the egg, suspended in its alien rhythm, endlessly stroked, endlessly contained.

The final thought that lingers before everything fades is simple and terrifying: I don’t want to escape.

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