Milo's Revenge Surviving on Short Notice chapter 6 by deleted_user

Milo's nose wedges under the fridge like a battering ram, the black, glistening tip quivering as it probes the shadows. The air shifts violently, a whirlwind of hot breath blasting over you, carrying the rank odor of wet fur and half-digested kibble. You scramble backward on the grimy tiles, heart pounding, but the fridge's underside is a narrow cage—dust bunnies and decayed crumbs hem you in. The dog's snout thrusts deeper, nostrils flaring wide, sucking in air with hurricane force. You feel the pull, your hair whipping forward as if caught in a gale, your body sliding inches toward the void.

Panic surges. You claw at the slick floor, nails scraping against crusted food remnants, but Milo's nose collides with your side in a brutal thud. The impact slams you against the fridge's metal base, ribs cracking like dry twigs under the blunt, rubbery mass. Pain explodes through your chest, breath exploding from your lungs in a ragged gasp. The nose withdraws slightly, only to ram forward again, smothering you in its damp folds. Wet flesh presses down, sealing off light and air, the coarse hairs around his nostrils scraping your face like steel wool. You thrash, muffled screams vibrating against the unyielding snout, but it grinds side to side, sniffing furiously, oblivious to your agony. Each bash crushes you anew—your shoulder dislocates with a wet pop, blood welling from split skin where the edge of his nostril gouges deep.

Milo whines, tail thumping somewhere above, interpreting your struggles as playful resistance. His nose bashes once more, this time pinning your legs flat, the weight compressing your thighs until bones grind and fracture. You howl, vision blurring from the pressure, the stench of his mucus invading your mouth as it smears across your lips. He snorts, a explosive burst of snot spraying over you, thick and stringy, gluing your arms to your sides. The dog pulls back, panting, and you gasp for air, coughing up phlegm-laced bile. But relief is fleeting—Milo's tongue lolls out, a massive, pink slab dripping saliva, and lashes forward.

The tongue strikes like a tidal wave, slapping across your torso with bone-jarring force. It drags you from your hiding spot, the rough papillae rasping over your skin, stripping away layers in bloody streaks. You tumble out from under the fridge, exposed on the open tile, as the tongue retracts and strikes again. This time it coils around your waist, the heat scorching, muscles beneath flexing to squeeze. Your spine bends dangerously, vertebrae shifting with audible cracks, while the tongue's tip probes your face, forcing saliva into your eyes and nose. You choke, flailing against the slimy grip, but it yanks you upward, slamming you back down onto the floor. The impact jars your fractured ribs, puncturing a lung that fills with frothy blood.

Milo barks joyfully, head tilting as he licks once more, the broad flat of his tongue smothering your entire body. It rasps from feet to head, the power behind it unrelenting—your legs snap at the knees under the pressure, flesh tearing as the tongue scrapes bone. Saliva floods your mouth, bitter and viscous, drowning your cries as it laps repeatedly, each pass grinding you into the tile. Your arms buckle, elbows shattering against the unyielding surface, while the tongue's edge catches your head, mashing it sideways. Ears ring from the force, scalp splitting open, blood matting your hair with dog spit.

Again and again, the licks come—merciless, playful assaults that pulverize your form. Milo paws at the floor nearby, claws skittering inches from your mangled body, but his focus stays on the 'toy' that squirms so entertainingly. The tongue envelops you fully now, curling to roll you across the kitchen like a morsel, breaking your pelvis with a sickening crunch. Pain consumes everything, your world reduced to the endless cycle of bash, smother, lick, crush. Sanity frays at the edges; the wet nose returns, nuzzling your ruined chest, nostrils flaring to inhale your scent mixed with blood and drool. You no longer fight—instead, a delirious haze settles, the dominating forces of nose and tongue becoming all-encompassing. You lean into the next lick, body limp, whispering nonsense pleas to the beast that owns you now.

Milo's eyes brighten, sensing the submission. His jaws part wide, hot breath enveloping you as the tongue scoops you up one final time. No more play—the dog tilts his head back, and you slide toward the maw. Teeth glint, saliva strings stretching, and with a casual gulp, Milo swallows. You plummet down the throat, walls contracting to crush your remnants further, acids rising to dissolve what the brutality couldn't fully end. In the darkness of his gut, your last thoughts flicker out, just another fleeting treat in the terrier's belly, forgotten before digestion claims you utterly...