The sort of vore where the pred digests and fully processes bits and pieces of their meal while the helpless prey is still alive and squirming within them is criminally underutilized.

I wonder how it would feel, being digested inch by inch, having bits and pieces of my body slowly broken down, boiled and crushed into mulch by the preds powerful stomach walls and gastric juices, leaving me helplessly lying in a neck deep pool of my own mushy, liquified remains. I wonder what sort of sensations would flow through me, feeling my own arms and legs slowly losing their shape and consistency, collapsing into chunky, grimy sludge with a few loud snaps and crunches as the powerful stomach walls cave in, kneading my acid soaked body like a lump of softened dough, grinding my meat and skin into fleshy soup.

I can't stop thinking about you... Or more accurately, I can't stop myself from thinking about your belly. Day in and day out, night after night, your gut has been on my mind. I constantly imagine myself plunging through your warm, cavernous, drooling maw, and down the tight, slick tunnel of your hungry, pulsating throat. I can't stop picturing my helpless body succumbing to the cramped, caustic confines of your hot, groaning stomach, breaking down into sludge that's just waiting to be drained into your glorpy, churning bowels. The thought of your bloated, flabby abdomen jiggling and sloshing like a waterbed as my soupy remains pump through the dank, musky depths of your smelly, winding intestines is an inescapable thought. I can't even begin to describe how often I mull over the prospect of your sagging, sloshing post-vore belly, plumping and fattening up after my churning demise, growing softer from all of my valuable nutrients while the hot, hefty mass of all of my worthless leftovers packs away into your straining, swollen colon, creaking and groaning as they await the gassy, smelly heralding of their final release.

And I think you know what I'm talking about, because you're thinking the very same thoughts, going through the very same things....

My favorite kind of dates are the ones when you've already scheduled a visit from plumber for the very next day before you've even met me face to face. What can I say, I like a partner who's confident, and who knows what they want!

In fact, the only disappointing aspect of hooking up with someone so single-mindedly predatory and ruthless is the fact that a body as smooth and limber and perfect as mine winds up resigned to such a lowly and humiliating fate... I wonder if you'll feel guilty at all, reducing these elegant features and succulent curves down into a broken, sizzling pile of hot, mushy meat simmering away in your ravenous stomach? I doubt it. Hunger comes before the appreciation of beauty after all!

You probably don't think of it as much, but the last swallow is the most momentous moment of a poor, helpless prey's life. One final, decisive swallow condemns a meal like me to a lifetime of suffering. At least said lifetime never lasts much longer.

Once I'm in your stomach, I'm stuck there, trapped and helpless, held at your mercy. I get to endure the torments of my gastric prison, being soaked by churning acids as my flesh softens and melts, until your gut crushes me out of existence, down into a thick, pulpy sludge of ragged, torn flesh, bubbling, oozing blood, and shattered, crumpled bone. My story will come to a sudden, early conclusion with a sickening squelch. I'll be reduced to nothing, whether I want it or not. Everything I've ever done before in life, every accomplishment and every relationship, in the end, they all will amount to little more than a thick, doughy layer of blubber sagging from your fat, overfed gut, and a few extra inches of nice, juicy jiggle on your hips, butt, and thighs.

And that's not even the worst of it, for your meals like me at least. It's not enough to torment a treat merely by making them line your waistband. Oh no, preds like you get the joy of making snacks like me float through your sewers too. Once I've been pulverized into slop, destroyed beyond all recognition and pumped through your greedy bowels to be drained of all nutritional value and to fatten you up, once I've become fuel for a few more rolls of lard on your bulging belly, nothing will remain of me, save for a hefty, smelly loaf of putrid shit nestled deep in your guts, preceded by a bubbly string of the foulest of farts. I'm sure you'll reek of death and decay as I'm sluiced through you, crammed and piled up in your straining colon. I wouldn't be suprised if passerby gag from the toxic fumes leaking from your puckered hole.

But that gets you excited, doesn't it? The thought of turning me, a living, breathing person into nothing but a rancid pile of shit that will disappear down your toilet like every other meal you've ever eaten... Oh goodness gracious, I bet that really turns you on... The idea of feeling your gut tear a person apart, feeling it shred them into a bloody mass and braid their essence into your own fat is probably the most sexy things you could ever imagine, isn't it? The feeling of your stomach clenching and tossing around the thick, chunky stew of my remains as they slosh about inside you.... The awful sloppy sound of me being pumped into your intestines and the accompanying feeling as your muscles, stretch and squeeze and contract, and force more mush through their tight, slimy confines. You probably savor the thought of feeling me die inside your gut, you probably fantasize over feeling my body being boiled and crushed, and hearing my screams and struggles silenced with a wet, gurgling crunch, reduced into a thick brownish-red mush, riddled with bone and lumps of solid meat, and pushed through your smelly bowels until what's left of me has been processed away into fat, and farts, and shit. I bet you can't wait to feel me pumping through you, my remains stretching out your intestines as they slither into your bowels, the hard bits tickling the walls of your sensitive colon, eager to swirl down your toilet.

I'll never know why I have some kind of strong, inescapable, perverse desire to end up as a squishy mass of ground-up, acid-softened, viscous soup squeezing through your intestines. It makes no sense! I'm a person, a living breathing human! There's no way I should actually want to end up as gut-slop, as your literal fat and shit after experiencing the same, humiliating fate that every slice of pizza and every hamburger, every glass of soda or coffee, every plate of cookies and every single other piece of greasy, fatty junk food that's ever ended up inside of you has been forced to suffer