Vore + Stuffing

when you say tiny, do you mean, like, shrink him?

If so, Pretty, and if not, sorry. *cry*

God 😩, I guess so.

Cw gaslighting

You sit, feeling the restless squirmimg beneath your skin. A deep, watery gurgle rolls through your middle, followed by a rising pressure that forces a heavy, satisfied belch past your lips.

"I-- I think your stomach is digesting me," the prey in your gut says.

"That wasn’t digestion," you say, as if stating an obvious fact. "Just, you know….. ambient stomach stuff. Just gurgles"

the muffled voice, weakening yet urgent, pipes up again. "That is literally digestion!"

The warmth in your gut has been steadily increasing, radiating outward. You feel the hotness under your hand. Its pleasant, to you.

"I can feel it!" the voice stammers. "It’s hot—too hot! And everything’s getting tighter! And—ugh, your stomach’s squeezing me!"

You pat the rising and falling swell of your midsection, utterly nonchalant.

"You are quite large for my stomach, that's why its so snug in there for you."

The prey tries to push at their enclosure, not to much avail; your body reacts before you can even think about it—tightening, squishing them down into the thick, sludgy heat. A concerning, gloppy noise follows. You feel a flutter in your chest.

you sigh happily, stretching out, pushing out your abdomen and admiring how your prey looks inside it.

"Nothing to worry about-" You begin to mutter, until you interrupt yourself with a sudden, forceful belch. As if your stomach was sick of having so much air inside of it.

"Oh my god, its getting even tighter-"

You stifle another burp, belly sloshing as you shift, fingers idly rubbing over the firm dome of your stomach. "You're making a big deal out of nothing," you say, utterly unbothered. "You're fine."

"I am NOT fine!"

You yawn, rubbing slow circles over the warm curve of your belly.

"You’re just panicking," you say, tilting your head. "You're getting worked up over nothing."

Your prey says something in response, but you cant make it out

A thick, lazy gurgle rolls through your middle, vibrating against your palm as you absintmindedly rub your tummy.

"So—" Their breath hitches. "So when are you letting me out?"

That does give you pause.

"I dunno," you say, voice distant, thoughtful. Pondering the question. "Couple more minutes, maybe?"

The prey doesnt like the vagueness of your answer.

You imagine them slipping whole through your lips in one satisfying shape. You buy every package the store has, and all that the store across town has. Twelve squishy bags. Six dozen eggs waiting to be consumed. They barely fit in the bowl you dump them in, a few falling off the pile’s precarious top. You let yourself start early and slide one into your mouth. It sits large and round on your tongue, but you can roll it around. Your teeth sink through it with a squeak before the pieces rush to your wanting stomach. A second and third slide down whole, the process difficult at first but easing as you get the feel for it.

Another three go down as you fill the bath piping hot and undress. The water’s heat makes you gasp and moan as you slide in, pinking the skin of your too-flat belly. The bowl is placed on the tray across, within easy reach as you nestle back into the tub’s seat. Another six go down leisurely, filling but not filling, and with a dozen inside you slip down so your ears are under water. The gurgles and squeaks of a digesting stomach echo louder through the water. You swallow a thirteenth egg, listening to the sounds of your swallow and the efforts of your esophagus and the egg sliding down down down to your stomach. The eggs taste different brought down through the water but the sounds are so intoxicating that the next five are eaten the same way. You burp, and bubbles roll at the surface.

At two dozen your stomach is stretching. The little paunch of your growing belly looks even larger in the bath, distorted by water and stream and the low light of candles. It’s no where near big enough, and the next few eggs go down faster.

Three dozen and you’re halfway, stomach rumbling audible even from down below. You’re beautifully overfull now, stomach complaining about the continuous additions. Your groin throbs and you stir the water around it, teasing yourself as you continue to eat with the gentle flow. If you thrust your hips above the waterline, your belly looks swollen in the air as much as in the water. Heat-pink and malleable and rounding, and you sink fingers into it to shake and play.

The heat keeps the cramps away as the fourth dozen disappears. The stretch of your stomach walls aches as it’s forced larger and larger but your skin and muscles grow easy, relaxed as they are. You toss salts in the bath and moan at the pleasant smell as you stir the water and rub your hands along your tightening belly. It’s heavy even in the water, bulging out over your thighs, and tighter, more solid. Your fingers press down rather than sink in, and it takes effort. The eggs are harder to swallow now, throat tired and stomach protesting, and you bite in every few in half. Halves or wholes, you still fill, you still grow.

Five dozen eggs fight for space in your stomach as you groan and writhe in the water. Each swallow is hard work, and your body screams for attention, but it is impossible for you to stop. Your stomach is an aching hard balloon inside you, and it bloats your belly into a tight, heavy ball that’s red with more than just the water’s still high heat. You pant around each egg, muscles crying for you to stop. You can feel the wetness of yourself even in the bath, running from your burning sex in rivulets. It’s begging for attention but you only have hands for your enormous middle. When you press you can feel the eggs sliding around themselves inside you, barely enough room to slip around. When you swallow another, they all jostle to move out of the way of the newest. Your stomach, your belly sparks every time its packed contents are added to-fighting the unrelenting stretch needed for another, the internal movement needed for another, the increasing pressure from another. Another and another and another, more more more the only thought in your brain.

Six left and your stomach has given up. It’s straining through the upper curves of your bloated belly, rock hard and conformed around the lumpy shapes of nearly 72 hard-boiled eggs. You shove the last six down in quick succession, and they stick heavily in your throat before one by one pushing, shoving in. Your body is a glorious mess, sex throbbing, belly screaming, everything tingling in heat and pressure and pleasure. You ghost your hands over your enormous bloated form and try to buck your hips into the water automatically with the blinding pleasure of being so tight so big so full, so so full. You’re huge and heavy and even with the water’s help can’t lift your hips under the weight of your gluttony.