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feedist kinktober 06 : ocean delight

Cw: unwilling prey, semi unwilling pred, digestion implied

At first, it's funny, just a silly accident.

You hadn't meant to swallow them—really, it was just a stupid accident. One second they were...  well it doesnt matter

and the next… well. Reflexes took over.

Now they’re curled up inside you, shifting awkwardly, a littler grossed out, pressing at the walls of your stomach with hesitant hands.

"Wow," they laugh, a little breathless. "This is weird. But, uh, let's figure out how to—"

Then it happens. A ripple, deep in your core. A slow, deliberate knead of muscle, drawing tight around the warm body inside you. The first trickle of heat. the unmistakable prickle of acid leaking out as your stomach prepared to digest. Your breath hitches.

Oh. That feels—

"Shit," you exhale, clutching your middle as your gut tightens again, this time with more purpose. A thick, rolling churn stirs in your belly, massaging the weight inside you.

Your stomach has realised something: there’s prey in it. And it’s considering its options.

There is one most favourable option.

"Uh, hey." Their voice is still light, but there’s an edge to it now. "I felt that. That was—is that digestion?"

You don't answer. You’re too caught up in the sensation. Warmth unfurls in you, something deep and curious and good.

Your gut clutches down, squeezing, squeezing, coaxing the meal inside into something softer, more compliant, something absorbable. You can feel the delicate details of their body against your stomach lining, how the heat and slick pressure intends on shaping them. Deleting the details. Breaking them down into something simplier.

It sends a shiver down your spine. Your hands drift to your belly, pressing, rubbing slow circles against the rounded swell.

The more you knead, the more intricate sensations you discover.

"Dude." There’s real unease in their voice now. A frantic shove from inside you.

"Snap out of it. This is funny and all, but get me out before—"

Your stomach cuts them off, rippling with a hungry, greedy glorp. It clenches down hard, pressing them tighter into its sticky embrace.

You barely stifle a moan at the feeling. Your breath is shaky.

"God, this is—this is really weird, but it feels—"

"Don't say it feels good."

Your hands push deeper into your belly, fingertips kneading, chasing the sensation of their squirming body as your gut gurgles over them.

Each movement makes it better—your stomach is reacting to their struggles, squeezing tighter, rewarding you with a fresh flood of heat.

They’re wriggling more, pushing at your stomach walls, but every motion just stirs up more of that sticky pleasure.

"Okay, no, you have to fight this!" They sound breathless now, the pressure growing heavier on them. "You don’t want to digest me, right?"

You shouldn't. But the weight of them inside you—their body squishing and shifting under your stomach's steady kneading—has you shuddering.

You can't help it; you sink lower, pressing your middle into the bed, letting the pressure sink them deeper into the hot, clenching hold of your gut.

"Ohh…"

The sound slips out before you can stop it. A shaky, drawn-out exhale.

"…Hey," their voice is smaller now, and you can hear the realization creeping into it. "Hey, no, you have to stop this, okay? You can fight it. Just stop—stop kneading your stomach, stop pressing down on me, please—"

Your stomach gurgles in reply, tight and content. You know, with an awful, sinking certainty, that you should be resisting. That you should be fighting against this feeling. This isnt something you can stop. Youve never felt this way before, and its too much for you to handle.

Your breath is coming in shallow, shaky gasps now, your entire body trembling with the sensation blooming deep in your gut. Each clench, each slow ripple of muscle working over the prey inside you, sends another wave of pleasure up your spine, warm and drugging. You have to try, you have to do something, or at least you have to buy some time, to clear your head, before its too late.

But every time you feel your prey - your friend, wriggle inside of you, each flutter against your skin, against your tender insides, it makes it harder to focus on your values.

"D-don't struggle," you whisper, voice thin and wrecked. Your hands tighten over the taut curve of your stomach, rubbing, kneading. "It—it feels too good. You’re just—hah—stimulating me more."

A choked sound from inside you. "Are you kidding me?!"

They kick. Hard.

And it’s ruinous.

The jolt of movement sends your stomach into a frenzy, rippling around them, clutching down with greedy, squeezing pressure. The heat inside you surges, thickening, your gut working faster, kneading them deeper into its clinging folds. Your body reacts, your instincts set off like a tripwire.

You bite back a moan, barely stifling the shaky pleasure that bubbles up in your throat.

"Oh, fuck—" They panic. You can feel it. Their instincts take over, and suddenly they’re thrashing, pressing, pushing against your stomach walls with all their strength.

Your brain flickers a brief realisation of the irony. Yours and your preys instincts acting in perfect discord.

And the overstimulation is delicious. A shudder wracks your frame as you press both hands to your gut, desperate to keep up with the overwhelming sensation.

Your fingers sink into your belly, rubbing deep, coaxing, encouraging—

"Ohhh, that’s—" You bite your lip, barely keeping yourself together. "You're making it worse, you’re just making it—hahh—faster…"

Your stomach glorps, rolling tight waves of muscle over the struggling meal inside. It’s learning about them, molding to them, working them down into something soft and pliant.

And eventually, something liquid, to be pumped further into your digestive tract. Something you deeply look forward to.

"STOP RUBBING YOUR STOMACH!"

You can’t.

Your hips shift as you curl around your gut, pressing down, needing more.

"I—I can’t help it," you gasp, barely able to speak through the sheer, heady sensation.

"I—I'm sorry, I just—it feels so… so good…"

They don't stop squirming, never giving you even a second to try and recover.

Their overwhelming fear, and your overwhelming pleasure means neither of you can stop Your instincts are louder than logic. And unfortunately, your stomach is the only one who knows exactly what to do in this situation.

Your hands circle in quick, desperate motions over your gut, trying to help it digest your friend.

despite yourself—despite your friendship, and the consequences you can barely make out through the fog of euphoria--despite everything—you murmur a quiet, breathless, "I'm sorry."

I might’ve overdone it last night, thinking about overdoing it again tonight 😈

They're embarrassed and have no idea how to deal with this given it's three first time something like this has happened. Their human is thoroughly enjoying both their belches and groaning belly and gently trying to help them through this encounter. And I mean, who knows where it'll lead before the magic returns the succubus back to normal?

-🍋‍🟩

Zara spots her next victim the instant she takes her first kitty-heeled step into the bar. A neatly dressed woman with short, straight hair, bangs that fell over her face, and whose only accessories were simple silver jewelry. She was just Zara’s type. Clean, polished, suave. The exact kind of woman she liked to ruin.

She slips through the crowd without taking her eyes off the woman at the bar, relishing the feeling of her body changing to suit her prey’s tastes—her hair thickening, curling, eyes darkening, body filling out every curve of her skin-tight dress. All too soon and all too late, she reaches her destination.

Zara hops up onto a bar stool and sighs with as much drama as she can muster. She props her head up on a pudgy hand. “What a week…” she whines, pursing her lips into a pout.

Just as she hoped, the dramatic entrance caught her prey’s attention. She can feel her raking her eyes over her new body, tracing the soft curves made just for her.

“Amen.” To the woman’s credit, she sounds perfectly casual when she speaks, gesturing with her glass.

Zara affects a tired smile and turns towards her. “What would you recommend if I wanted to forget the last few days?”

Her target tilts her head, bangs flopping. Zara feels her heart skip, then skip again when she raises a hand to flag down the bartender.

“Another of these. Thanks.” She glances back at Zara. “On me.”

Zara brings a hand to her chest, blushing. “You’re too sweet!”

“Mm.” Her target raises her glass again. “Consider it a welcome.”

“What makes you think I’m new here?”

She eyes Zara. “I think I’d remember a pretty face like yours.”

Zara lets out a delighted giggle and tucks a strand of hair behind her ears. She thanks the bartender quietly when he sets a drink down in front of her, then tips her head back, swallowing half the drink at once. She sighs her approval. “God, I needed that. You have good taste.”

“I know.”

Zara laughs. “I’m Zara, by the way. What should I call you?”

“Morgan.”

“Pretty name. It suits you.” Zara finishes off her drink, noting with delight the flush creeping across Morgan’s face. She sets the empty glass down with a subtle pout. Morgan studies her, takes another measured sip of her own drink, then flags down the bartender again while Zara offers polite, half-hearted protests.

She sips at her second drink when it’s set in front of her, relishing the way Morgan’s eyes linger on her throat. This is a fun one. It’s been a while since she’s felt butterflies in her stomach. “So. What do you do, Morgan?”

Morgan takes a swig of her drink. “Sales. I hate it, but it pays the bills.”

Zara tsks sympathetically. “Aw, poor thing. Stuck in the corporate tar pit.”

Morgan laughs, a sharp puff of air through her nose. “Good description.”

“How’d you- end up there?” Zara presses a knuckle to her lips to fend off a bubble of air rising up her throat. Hm. Unusual.

Morgan shrugs again. “Only so much you can do with a degree in communications.”

Zara sucks air through her teeth. “Ooh…” The bubble returns. She swallows it again, more forcefully. Her stomach rumbles. She re-crosses her legs to silence it.

“Right?” Morgan flashes her a wry smile. “I thought I’d go into politics.”

“Why didn’t you?” The stubborn pocket of air surges up her throat once again. Dammit. She presses her lips shut.

“Turns out the only field more soulless than sales is politics.”

Zara opens her mouth to laugh and is promptly interrupted by a rather violent hiccup. She sits bolt upright, pressing two fingers to her lips. “Oh my god, excuse—HGK!—me! Ah—“ Her stomach lurches with another hiccup, and the bubble of gas she’d been fighting rolls up her throat and spills out of her mouth. She hastily turns away to muffle the resulting airy burp with a fist. Despite her best efforts, the belch rumbles audibly, rounding out her cheeks as it forces its way out of her. ??????????????

When she lowers her hand, she’s blushing profusely, and for once, it’s not intentional. “I’m so sorry, I don’t know what’s gotten—uuuUrp—into me, god, excuse me!”

Is this some kind of trick? A poison against succubi she’s never heard of? She moves to press a hand to her stomach and meets the curve of it sooner than expected. There’s a burgeoning swell just beneath her ribs, just barely enough to graze the underside of her chest. It burbles menacingly against the light pressure of her fingers, and she realizes with a silent curse that what she assumed was the fluttering thrill of pursuit was actually the stirrings of gas. She catches her bottom lip between her teeth, hissing quietly, until her chest jolts with a suppressed burp.

“Don’t worry about it.”

There’s something odd in Morgan’s tone. Zara drags her gaze back up to Morgan’s face and finds her staring resolutely into the bottom of her glass, her cheeks stained pink.

Oh. Oh. Now she gets it. She bites back a grin.

Zara sags into the bar. “No, really, I’m sUHRp-hgk—god, sorry! You must think I’m so gross.”

The pink flush creeps further down Morgan’s cheeks. She’s still staring down at her drink. “Nah, it’s fine. It doesn’t bother me.”

Zara rewards her with a sheepish smile, chest bouncing with a suppressed hiccup. “Well then, what were you—hGKurp—saying?”

Morgan finally looks at her again, mouth falling open as if to speak, but says nothing for a beat too long. Zara hiccups again, pressing up a small burp, and allows a flicker of discomfort to pass over her face. She brushes her fingers over the swell at the top of her stomach for good measure—as if she wanted to rub it, wanted to force all the gas out until there was nothing left in her, but is restraining herself for Morgan’s sake. Morgan’s eyes flick down to follow her hand and then dart away again. She still hasn’t said anything.

“The only thing more soulless than sales is politics…?” Zara prompts. Her hand comes to rest near the bottom of her belly, which has begun to intrude into her lap. The fabric of her dress is already taut, she notes.

“…Uh. Yeah, it… just wasn’t for me. Not my scene.” Morgan’s voice falters over the last word. Zara watches as she sneaks another glance downward.

“That’s too bad. Is this place—hgurp, ‘scuse me—more your scene?”

Morgan sucks in a breath. “You could say so.”

“It seems more your style.” Zara ducks her chin to muffle a burp. “Mm, ‘scuse me again. So what do you get up to outside the tar pit?”

“Uh. Not much,” Morgan says. “I like boxing. It’s a good way to—“

As Morgan is speaking, Zara’s stomach lurches. Her breath hitches and she reflexively grabs at Morgan’s arm to brace herself as a belch surges out of her, completely overtaking her with the force of it.

rrrrrrhghhhhhHHHOUURRRRRRRPPP!

“Oh my hGHUUURRRRP—fuck!” Zara squeaks, blushing bright red. She claps a hand over her mouth. “Excuse me, I don’t know where that came from!” She curls in on herself and wraps an arm around her belly. It only serves to make her whole body quake when another hiccurp rockets up her throat. She lets out a quiet whimper.

Morgan is openly staring, wide-eyed and slack jawed. The blush has reached the tips of her ears and clawed its way down her neck.

“…I-it’s fine- um,” she stammers, “do- uh, do you want to get some fresh air?”

Zara looks up at her, still doubled over. “Yes, pl—hgkURP!—please. Oh, fuck—” She belches again, then straightens out with a quiet hiss, smoothing her hands over the roundness of her belly. “Ooh…”

Morgan swallows. “Fresh air?” she repeats.

Zara nods, and in a stroke of genius, holds up an arm. Morgan takes it to help her down from the barstool, which ever so slightly too tall for Zara to get off without a drop. Her belly bounces as her feet hit the ground, jostling up a pair of sharp hiccup-burps.

“hGK-URP! Ugh—hGK-HOURP! Owww…”

Morgan’s hand twitches. “Uh. You okay?”

“Aww, you’re so sweet. I’m fine, just—hURPFF!—oof, just gassy and embarrassed.” Zara smiles. “Fresh air sounds great.”

Morgan nods, eyes glassy, and scans the bar for a good path to the exit. Behind her back, Zara licks her lips as she eyes the reddened silhouette of Morgan’s cheeks.

it’s still small, could be hidden by a large shirt or hoodie, but you know it’s there. you know it’s there and it’s all you can think about as you try to navigate through life as normal. the tautness of it is higher than you expected, marring any excuse you could convince yourself with.

passing glances in mirrors and shop windows. are you being obvious? that roundness in your middle-- can it be played off? you think you’re overthinking. you think you’re just letting it get to your head.