Vore

Cw: vore

I had been living on Kyle's half-size farm for months. The basement was lined with tiny houses, patches of grass, and little lights that never turned off. I kept to myself, tending the small garden plot assigned to me, but the routine never lasted long. Kyle came down every few days with visitors, and every time the same thing happened.

"Look at this one," he would say, reaching down to pluck me from the dirt. His friends leaned in close, phones out, commenting on how realistic I looked, how my limbs moved, how my skin felt when they poked me. I tried to pull away, but his fingers closed around my torso and lifted me anyway. They passed me between them, laughing when I kicked, then set me back down before moving on to the next tiny resident. The whole display was filmed for his channel. He always ended those videos with the same line: "These little ones are the real deal."

Today started like any other. I was watering the tiny crops when the ceiling hatch opened and Kyle's face appeared. He scanned the rows until his eyes landed on me. No greeting. He simply reached in, thumb and forefinger closing around my waist, and lifted me out. My legs kicked in the air as he carried me upstairs. The light changed from the basement fluorescents to the brighter kitchen. He set me on the counter next to a shallow bowl of water and a small towel.

"You're dinner tonight," he said, already opening a drawer for utensils. The words hit like a punch. I scrambled backward, but the counter edge stopped me. He wet the towel and wiped the dirt from my skin in quick, efficient strokes, then held me under the faucet for a few seconds so the water ran over my head and shoulders. I sputtered, trying to twist free, but his grip stayed firm.

He placed me on a small plate and carried it to the table where his phone was already propped on a stand, red light blinking. "Hey everyone," he said to the camera, voice casual. "Got a special one picked out for today's meal. Been raising this batch for a while now. Watch how easy it is." He tilted the plate so the lens could see me. I covered my face with my arms, but the movement only made him chuckle.

Kyle opened his mouth wide. The inside was pink and wet, tongue glistening. He brought the plate to his lips and used two fingers to push me forward. I dug my heels into the ceramic, but the pressure forced me over the edge. My upper body slid onto his tongue, which curled up to meet me. The heat and saliva hit at once. He closed his lips around my waist, sealing me in darkness except for the faint glow from the phone screen behind him.

A single swallow pulled me deeper. My legs kicked outside his mouth for a moment before the next gulp dragged them in too. The throat muscles squeezed tight, rhythmic and unstoppable. I slid down the slick tube, the sound of his heartbeat growing louder until I dropped into the stomach with a wet splash. The chamber was tight, walls pressing from every side, already churning with digestive fluids that stung on contact. I pushed against the lining, but it only flexed and pushed back.

Above me, Kyle's voice continued for the camera. "There it goes. Straight down. You can see the bulge right here." He must have lifted his shirt because the stomach walls shifted and a hand pressed in from outside, rubbing the spot where I was curled. "Still moving. They always do at first."

He stood up and walked around the kitchen. Each step sloshed the acid around me. I heard the fridge open, then the clink of a glass. He drank something cold; the liquid poured in around me, diluting the burn for a few seconds before the walls squeezed it back out. "Gonna do some editing upstairs," he told the viewers. "Stomach's already working on this one. Should be a good long session."

The walk to his office was worse. Gravity shifted with every stride, tossing me against different sections of the stomach wall. I tried to brace with my hands and feet, but the slippery surface gave no purchase. By the time he sat down at his desk, the constant motion had left me dizzy. He turned the camera toward his midsection again. "Check this out. You can actually see the outline when they push." Another external press flattened the wall against my back. "Feels pretty active today."

For the next hour he edited footage, occasionally narrating what he was doing while his stomach worked around me. The acids had started to soften my skin; every movement sent fresh stings across my limbs. I shouted, but the sound stayed trapped inside the organ. Kyle only reacted when a particularly strong kick made his belly jump. "There they go again," he said, laughing for the mic. "Told you these ones last a while."

Later he stood, stretched, and carried the phone into the living room. He flopped onto the couch, the impact driving the air from my lungs. "Gonna watch some TV while this settles," he told the stream. His hand rested on his stomach, fingers drumming lightly. The pressure was constant now, the walls kneading and rolling. I could feel the fluid level rising as more saliva and whatever he drank mixed in. Every breath I took tasted of acid and whatever he'd eaten earlier.

The rest of the evening passed in that same pattern. He talked to the camera about farm maintenance, about how many half-sizers he still had downstairs, about how this one had been a good choice. Occasionally he would press his palm down and comment on the movement he felt. I kept fighting, pushing, trying to find any spot that gave, but the stomach only tightened in response. The heat grew heavier, the sting sharper, until my limbs felt heavy and slow.

CW: vore

Leah's apartment smells like sweat and leather. The harness bites into your shoulders and hips, the straps holding you tight against her warm skin whenever she decides to keep you close. You've been here long enough to know the routine. She works out, eats, lounges, and sometimes presses you against the soft swell of her stomach so you can hear the wet, hungry sounds inside.

Tonight the TV is on low. You're stretched out on her belly, the leather harness keeping you pinned in place. Her abs shift under you with every breath. The low, rhythmic gurgling has been steady for a while, but suddenly her stomach lets out a louder, wetter growl that vibrates through your whole body. You tense, heart hammering.

Leah chuckles, the sound deep in her chest. Her big hand settles over your back, pressing you down firmer against the noisy gut.

"Easy, pet," she says, voice calm and amused. "Relax. I'm not swallowing you tonight."

You feel the muscles under you clench and roll. Another long, wet gurgle answers her words. Leah laughs again and rubs slow circles over you, keeping you right where you are.

Later she stands and tucks you into the front of her boxers. The fabric is warm and a little damp from her workout earlier. Your face presses against the base of her trimmed bush as she walks around the apartment, the harness still attached so you can't slip free. Every step makes her stomach shift and grumble above you.

A few days pass like that. Sometimes she has friends over. The apartment fills with loud, laughing women who bring their own half-size pets. You watch from Leah's lap or the couch arm while the other pets get passed around or tucked into waistbands just like you. Leah likes to brag.

"Mine's been good," she tells them, fingers drumming on her flat stomach. "Keeps trying to squirm away when it gets loud in there, though."

The others laugh and compare notes. One woman has her pet dangling from a similar harness, another keeps hers clipped to her belt loop. They talk about how their pets react to stomach sounds, how long they've been waiting to swallow them, how big their bellies will look afterward.

One morning Leah wakes up with you still strapped to her chest. She stretches, yawns, then looks down at you with a slow, hungry grin.

"Alright, pet. Time."

She doesn't give you a chance to react. Her hands lift you, the harness coming loose with a few quick tugs. She brings you to her mouth and opens wide. The heat and wetness hit you first, then the tongue pushing you back. She swallows once, hard, and your upper body slides into her throat. Another swallow drags the rest of you down. The tight, slick tunnel squeezes you all the way to her stomach. You land in a hot, churning pool of acid and half-digested food. The walls contract around you immediately, kneading and pressing.

Leah lets out a satisfied sigh and rubs the new bulge in her middle. It already looks round and heavy, like she's several months pregnant. She stands, tests the weight, and heads for the door.

At the gym she changes into workout clothes that stretch tight over the swollen gut. The other women notice right away. Leah grins and pats the squirming mass.

"Finally did it this morning," she tells them. "Took the little thing down whole. Feels good."

Her friends gather around, some with their own pets still on harnesses. They poke and press at Leah's belly, feeling the movements inside. Leah laughs and keeps working out, lifting weights while her stomach gurgles louder and wetter around you. Every rep makes the walls clench tighter. She keeps bragging between sets.

"Gonna keep this one in there a while," she says. "Love how it moves."

Cw: vore

The old highway stretched out under the afternoon sun as I stuck out my thumb, my half-sized frame making me look even smaller against the endless asphalt. A brightly painted van rumbled to a stop, its side door sliding open to reveal a tangle of long hair, beads, and bare skin. "Hop in, little dude," one of them called, and I climbed aboard without a second thought.

They called themselves the Rainbow Collective. Five full-sized hippies packed into that van—laughing, smoking, and already half-naked. At first they treated me like a mascot. They fed me scraps from their meals, let me sleep curled in a nest of blankets, and passed me around during their nightly gatherings. When the incense was thick and the joints were lit, the clothes came off. They used me like a living toy, pressing my body against wet pussies and hard cocks, sliding me in and out while they moaned and fucked each other around me. My arms and legs were slick with their juices by the end of every session. I tried to protest the first few times, but they just laughed and kept going, telling me I was their favorite pet.

Weeks turned into months. The van kept rolling, and I stayed trapped inside it. My protests grew weaker as they grew bolder. They tied soft scarves around my wrists and ankles during the orgies now, holding me steady while they took turns fucking themselves with my struggling form. I could feel their heat clenching around me, their hips bucking as they came, sometimes spraying my face or chest with thick ropes of cum.

One humid evening the van was parked in a dusty field. The group sat in a loose circle, passing a joint while I pretended to sleep in my blanket pile. Their voices dropped low.

"We can’t keep him forever," said one of the women. "He’s getting too used to it."

"Someone should swallow him," another suggested. "Whole."

They started arguing about who would get the honor. The two bigger guys both wanted the chance, but the women vetoed them quickly. "Too rough," one said. "He’d fight too hard and probably hurt someone’s throat."

All eyes turned to Wendell. The slender, soft-spoken twink sat cross-legged, his long hair falling over one eye. He blushed but didn’t argue when they decided. "Wendell’s gentle," they agreed. "He’ll do it right."

They didn’t tell me the plan. The next night they lit the candles again and stripped down. This time the energy felt different—hungrier. They passed me from hand to hand, kissing and licking my skin until I was coated in spit. Then they laid Wendell on his back in the center of the circle. His cock was already hard, curving up against his flat stomach. They positioned me between his spread thighs and told me to start licking.

I did what they wanted, running my tongue along his shaft while hands reached in to stroke both of us. Someone poured warm oil over my back and began working it between my legs. Fingers pushed inside me, stretching me open while Wendell watched with wide, nervous eyes. When I was slick and gasping, they lifted me up and pressed my head against Wendell’s parted lips.

He hesitated only a second before opening wider. My face slid across his tongue, and then the pressure started. His throat worked around my head, pulling me deeper with each swallow. I kicked and twisted, but the hands holding my legs kept me steady. Inch by inch my shoulders disappeared into his mouth. His tongue lapped at my chest as I slid past it. The wet heat of his esophagus squeezed tight around my torso, dragging me downward.

The group cheered softly, encouraging him. "Take him slow, baby," one murmured, rubbing Wendell’s throat from the outside. My hips reached his lips next. They pushed my legs together and fed them in. I felt his teeth graze my calves before another swallow sealed me inside. The world went dark and tight as I curled in his stomach, the walls pulsing around me.

Wendell lay panting, one hand resting on the new swell of his belly. The others gathered close, kissing him, stroking his hair, and running their palms over the moving lump I made inside him. Someone straddled his face and lowered a dripping pussy onto his mouth while another person took his cock in hand and started stroking. The van filled with the sounds of sex again—wet sucking, skin slapping, moans of pleasure—while they treated Wendell like something precious.

Fingers traced the outline of my body through his skin. "Look how he moves," a woman whispered, pressing gently. They rubbed in slow circles, almost reverent, like they were soothing an expectant mother. Wendell’s belly gurgled and shifted as I struggled, but their touches stayed soft. Someone leaned down and kissed the taut skin right above where my head pressed out.

The orgy continued around him. People fucked on either side of his body, sometimes reaching over to stroke his swollen middle or feed him bites of fruit. Every time I pushed against the stomach walls they cooed and rubbed the spot, telling Wendell how beautiful he looked carrying me. His cock stayed hard the whole time, leaking steadily while hands and mouths worked him over.

Cw: vore

I woke up already in her grip. One second I was stretching in the grass behind the shops, the next her fingers closed around my waist and lifted me like I weighed nothing. She was the bakery owner, tall and brisk, and she carried me straight through the back door without a word. Inside, the air smelled of sugar and warm bread. She set me on the stainless counter and started stripping me with quick, efficient tugs. My shirt went first, then my pants and underwear, leaving me bare under the bright lights. She didn’t pause when she saw my body; she just turned me this way and that, checking how I’d fit on a tray.

She coated me in a thin layer of glossy glaze that clung to every inch of skin. Her fingers worked it between my thighs, over my chest, and down my back until I shone. Then she pressed a small paper doily under me and arranged me on a silver platter like a fancy pastry. I tried to sit up, but she pressed a fingertip to my chest and shook her head. “Stay,” she said, and slid the tray into the display case at the front of the shop. The glass was cool against my side. I could see the street through the front window, people passing, none of them looking in.

Hours crawled by. My muscles cramped from staying still. Then the bell above the door chimed and a big shadow fell across the case. Ralph. He was massive, broad-chested, arms thick with muscle under a tight black tee. He leaned down until his face filled the glass above me, eyes traveling slowly over my naked, glazed body. A slow grin spread across his face.

“I’ll take that one,” he told the owner, voice low and amused. She nodded, opened the case, and lifted the tray. I felt the air shift as she carried me to the register. Ralph paid while she slid me into a plain brown paper bag, folding the top down so only my head and shoulders poked out. The bag crinkled every time he moved.

He left the bakery and walked the rest of his errands with me tucked under one arm. I could hear his heartbeat through the paper, steady and unconcerned. He stopped at a hardware store, a liquor shop, then finally headed home. The whole time I stayed quiet, heart hammering, knowing exactly where this was going.

At his apartment he set the bag on the kitchen table and opened it. His huge hand reached in and lifted me out by the waist again. He held me up in front of his face, turning me slowly so he could look at every glazed inch. “Been looking forward to this all day,” he murmured. Then he opened his mouth wide. Hot breath washed over me. His tongue slid out, wet and broad, and he licked a slow stripe from my feet up to my chest before tipping his head back.

The swallow was sudden and powerful. His throat muscles grabbed me, pulled me down in one long, squeezing motion. Darkness closed in, tight and slick, until I slid into the hot, churning space of his stomach. The walls pressed in from every side, pulsing and kneading. I could feel the glaze melting off my skin in the heat. Every breath I took was thick with the smell of whatever else he’d eaten that day.

Super Bowl Snack, the teacher, and the trucker ones are my all-time favorites from you, I really like your style. Keep it up! ^^

I never asked for any of this. My brother Stuart raised me like livestock for years, feeding me, weighing me, measuring my growth for his 4H project. When he loaded me into the truck for the county fair I knew something had changed. At the fairgrounds he paraded me around on a leash, showing off my half-size body to judges and buyers. I won a blue ribbon. Then Stuart put a price tag on me.

A big, older cowboy named Buck walked up first. He was thick through the chest and gut, smelled like sweat, leather, and tobacco. He grabbed my jaw, turned my head side to side, then pressed his palm against my stomach like he was checking the meat. "This one’ll do," he said, and handed Stuart cash. Stuart didn’t even look at me when Buck snapped a collar around my neck and dropped me into a small wire cage in the bed of his pickup.

The drive to Buck’s farm was long and bumpy. Every time the truck hit a pothole my cage rattled. Buck didn’t talk to me once. When we arrived he carried the cage inside, opened it, and pointed to a dog bed in the corner. "You sleep there. Name’s Pup now." That was it. No questions, no choices.

Days blurred together. Buck kept me on a short leash. He made me eat from a bowl on the floor, made me sit when he said sit, made me roll over when he wanted to check my belly. Every evening after supper he’d grab the back of my neck and shove my face hard into the warm, hairy swell of his gut. "That’s where you’re headed, Pup," he’d growl, holding me there until I stopped struggling. The smell of his skin and the sound of his digestion were constant reminders.

One afternoon he came in from the fields sweaty and dusty. He found me on the rug and pinned me on my back with one big hand. His palm rubbed slow circles over my stomach the way you’d check a dog’s condition. He nodded once, satisfied with my size. Then he stripped down to his boxers, cracked open a beer, and dropped onto the couch to watch football.

"C’mere, Pup." His voice was low. He lifted me like I weighed nothing and laid me face-down on the broad, firm dome of his belly. The skin was hot, the hair coarse against my cheek. His heavy hand settled between my shoulder blades, pinning me in place. I could feel every breath he took, every swallow of beer, every low chuckle at the game. His gut gurgled beneath me, already working on whatever he’d eaten earlier.

After an hour he shifted. His fingers closed around my waist and he lifted me toward his face. I kicked and twisted, but he was too strong. He opened his mouth wide and pushed my head between his lips. Warm saliva coated my face as he worked me deeper, tongue sliding over my chest, then my stomach. He swallowed once and my shoulders slid into his throat. Another swallow dragged my hips past his teeth. My legs kicked uselessly outside until he tipped his head back and took the final gulp.

I slid down the tight, wet tunnel of his esophagus and landed in the churning sack of his stomach. The walls pressed in immediately, hot and slick, kneading me from every side. Acid already stung my skin. I could hear his heartbeat above me, slow and steady, and the muffled sound of the football game still playing. Buck let out a long, satisfied belch that shook the chamber around me.

He stood up, stretched, and walked to the kitchen. I felt every step as a rolling motion that sloshed the stomach fluids over my head. He opened the fridge, grabbed another beer, and popped it. The carbonation bubbled loudly around me. He walked back to the couch, sat down heavily, and the pressure increased as his gut compressed. I heard him scratch his belly right over where I was trapped.

"Good boy," he muttered, voice muffled but clear enough. He turned the volume up on the TV. I clawed at the slippery walls, but they only contracted tighter, forcing me into a tighter ball. Every time he laughed at the game his stomach shook. Every time he drank, more liquid poured in around me. The heat grew thicker, the air thinner.

He got up once more to use the bathroom. The walk was short but each footfall jolted me. When he sat back down he let out another belch, and the chamber shrank again. I could feel his hand resting on the outside of his gut, rubbing slow circles the same way he had rubbed my belly earlier. The motion pressed me deeper into the pooling acid.

Cw: vore

I woke up that morning still half-asleep in the big bed we all shared, my chest pressed against Ari’s back and Jax’s arm draped over my waist. The three of us had been together for almost two years. I felt Jax’s fingers slide lower, teasing between my thighs, and I smiled into Ari’s shoulder. Then Ari sat up, turned on the bedside camera, and said the words that changed everything.

“Today’s the day we stop pretending we’re a throuple.”

Before I could sit up, Jax grabbed my wrists and pinned them above my head. Ari held a small glowing device over my chest. A bright flash hit me and the world lurched. My body shrank rapidly until I was only six inches tall, naked on the sheets between two giants. Jax’s hand closed around me like a cage.

They started the YouTube series that same afternoon. Episode one was titled “Shrinking Our Third.” The camera followed every moment: Jax dropping me into a glass terrarium, Ari explaining how I’d now live as their pet. They gave me a tiny bed made from a matchbox and a water bottle cap for a bowl. Viewers commented how cute I looked trying to climb the glass walls.

For the first weeks they treated me like a novelty. Ari would reach in, scoop me up, and let me sit on his palm while he stroked my back with one fingertip. Jax liked to press me against his nipple and make me lick until it hardened. They filmed everything. Episode three showed Jax using me as a living sex toy—holding my tiny body between his folds and grinding until he came, my face and chest soaked in his slick. Ari filmed close-ups, narrating how my struggles only made it feel better.

I begged them every day to change me back. They never did. Instead they made new episodes: “Pet Training,” “Bath Time,” “Nighttime Cuddles.” In one video Jax held me between his ass cheeks while Ari fucked him, my small body trapped against Jax’s hole, pushed in and out with every thrust. They always made sure the camera caught my unwilling expression.

After three months the comments shifted. People started asking when they would eat me. Ari read the comments out loud while I sat on his knee. “They want the finale,” he said. Jax grinned. “Let’s give them one.”

They moved me to the kitchen counter for the final episode. The camera was already rolling when Ari laid me on a cutting board. He poured warm oil over my body, working it in with both thumbs, massaging my chest, my belly, my thighs. Jax sprinkled spices across my skin, rubbing them in until I smelled like roasted meat. Their fingers slid between my legs, spreading oil over my tdick and folds, making sure every inch was coated. I kicked and shouted, but they just laughed and kept filming.

Ari lifted me to Jax’s lips. “Open wide, babe.” Jax’s mouth stretched around me. His tongue pushed against my chest, then my hips, tasting the oil and spice. I felt the wet heat of his throat as he swallowed. The muscles pulled me down in one long, unstoppable slide. I landed in his stomach with a wet splash, surrounded by churning liquid and the steady beat of his heart above me.

Ari’s hand immediately went to Jax’s now-rounded belly. “You look so pregnant,” he murmured, rubbing slow circles over the bulge where I was curled. Jax moaned and spread his legs. Ari climbed onto the bed, camera still rolling, and slid two fingers into Jax while he kissed the stretched skin. Jax rocked his hips, belly sloshing with every movement.

They fucked with me inside. Ari thrust into Jax from behind, one hand always on the moving bulge, the other holding the camera steady. Jax’s moans grew louder every time Ari pressed down on his stomach, forcing me deeper into the acids. I could hear them talking between gasps—how full Jax felt, how good it was to finally have me where I belonged.

Cw: vore

The dusty highway stretched endlessly under the 1940s sun as I kept my thumb out, hoping for a lift. My half-sized frame made hitchhiking risky, but I needed to reach the next town before nightfall. A sleek black sedan pulled over at the gas station. A tall woman with dark curls stepped out, her eyes locking onto me immediately.

Margaret scooped me up without a word, her strong fingers wrapping around my body. "You'll do nicely," she murmured, carrying me back to the car. Inside sat Carol, a blonde with sharp features and a knowing smile. Margaret passed me over like a gift. "For you, darling. A treat for later."

Carol settled me onto her lap as the engine roared to life. Her thighs pressed warm against me while Margaret drove. Hours crawled by. The women stole quick kisses at red lights, their lips brushing above my head. At one point they pulled onto a side road. Carol lifted me between them as they leaned in, their mouths meeting in a deep, hungry kiss. My body flattened between their pressing breasts, saliva and heat surrounding me while their tongues danced.

By dusk they checked into a roadside motel with peeling paint and a flickering neon sign. The room smelled of old cigarettes. Margaret locked the door. Carol stripped off her blouse, then placed me on the bed. "Time for my treat," she said, voice low.

Margaret climbed behind Carol, pressing close. She guided my struggling form toward Carol's open mouth. I kicked and shouted as Carol's tongue met my face, wet and insistent. Margaret pushed steadily, forcing my shoulders past Carol's lips. Saliva coated me as I slid deeper, the throat muscles gripping tight. Carol swallowed hard. My legs kicked outside until Margaret shoved them in. One final gulp sent me sliding down into the hot, churning stomach.

The women didn't waste time. Margaret shoved Carol onto the bed, yanking down her skirt. Fingers plunged between slick folds while tongues met again. They fucked with desperate rhythm—Margaret grinding her pussy against Carol's, hips rolling, moans filling the room. Carol's belly gurgled around me as they came, bodies slick with sweat.

Morning light filtered through the cheap motel curtains as I woke inside Carol's belly, still alive but cramped in the hot, churning space. The women stirred beside each other on the bed, their bodies naked and tangled. Carol's hand moved over her swollen middle, feeling the faint shifts from within.

Margaret propped herself on one elbow, eyes tracing the curve of Carol's stomach. "You look pregnant," she said softly, a smile tugging at her lips. "Like you've got a secret growing in there."

Carol laughed quietly, rubbing slow circles over the bulge. "If only they knew. A little road trip souvenir. Makes me feel full. Heavy."

Margaret leaned in and kissed the rounded skin, then moved up to press her mouth against Carol's. Their tongues slid together as Margaret's fingers dipped between Carol's thighs again, stroking the slick folds. "We should get back on the road soon," she murmured between kisses. "Before anyone starts asking questions about your new shape."

Carol moaned softly, hips shifting as Margaret's fingers worked deeper. "West still feels right. Somewhere quiet where we can start over. Just us." She pressed Margaret's hand harder against her. "And this little secret stays ours."

They kissed again, slower this time, bodies pressing close while my form shifted inside the tight stomach. Margaret's free hand stayed on the swollen belly, tracing the outline as they planned their escape together.

Cw: vore

I wake in the dark to a hand the size of my torso clamping over my mouth. The figure above me towers twice my height, her silhouette stretching to the ceiling. She shifts as she lifts me, skin rippling until she settles into the shape of a massive woman with long dark hair and golden eyes. Lydia. She doesn't speak my name. She just tucks me against her chest and steps through a tear in the air that seals behind us.

Her dimension is all velvet shadows and warm light. She drops me into a cage lined with thick cushions and silk sheets. The bars are soft but unyielding. I press against them, heart hammering, but she only smiles and walks away.

Later she returns with another woman—taller still, regal, with a crown of living crystal. Myla, queen of this place. Lydia presents me like a new toy. "Look what I found," she says. Myla studies me with cool interest. "We needed one," she replies. They never ask my name. They call me Pet instead.

For days they keep me in that cage. Lydia feeds me from her palm. Myla strokes my hair through the bars and murmurs how soft I am. They talk around me, never to me. They learn what makes me shiver, what makes me flinch. They learn everything except who I am.

On the fifth night they open the cage. Lydia's hands are gentle but inescapable as she carries me to a low altar carved with runes. Myla waits there, naked and gleaming. The ritual is slow. Lydia holds me while Myla kisses down my body, tongue hot and deliberate. They take turns. Lydia's cock—thick, ridged, inhuman—presses inside me first, stretching me until I can't breathe. Myla follows, her own shaft slick and insistent. They fuck me in turns, chanting low words that make the runes glow. Heat floods deep. I feel something latch, something foreign and alive. When they finish, cum leaks down my thighs in heavy ropes. Lydia pets my belly. "Good Pet," she whispers.

Pregnancy comes fast. My stomach swells within days, skin tight and sensitive. They keep me collared now, a thin golden band around my throat. I am carried to royal dinners, set on a cushion between their thrones while nobles feast. Lydia feeds me bites from her plate. Myla rests her hand on the curve of my belly and smiles when the child kicks. No one speaks to me. I am furniture, a living incubator on display.

Birth is messy and quick. They lay me on silk in the throne room. Lydia's fingers guide the child free while Myla holds my shoulders. A daughter—small, perfect, already glowing with their power. They wrap her in cloth and take her away. I am left shaking, empty, still collared.

Weeks pass. They keep me anyway. I sleep in a smaller basket at the foot of their bed. Lydia sometimes lets me suckle her breast for comfort while Myla watches. They fuck above me, loud and unashamed, and sometimes Lydia pushes my face between Myla's thighs so I can taste her while she comes.

One evening they stand over the basket. Myla's voice is calm. "We're finished with it." Lydia nods. "One last use, then."

Lydia lifts me. She is twice my size again, but now her mouth opens wide. She doesn't force me down her own throat. Instead she turns me toward Myla. Myla's lips part, jaw unhinging with a wet click. Warm breath washes over my face. Her tongue slides out, thick and strong, and licks across my chest. Then she leans in.

My head slips past her teeth. Saliva coats my hair. She swallows once and my shoulders follow, throat muscles gripping tight. Another swallow drags my swollen chest inside. Her gullet squeezes, hot and slick. I kick, but Lydia's hands pin my legs. Myla's throat works steadily, each gulp pulling more of me down. My hips slide past her lips. My thighs follow. The last of me vanishes with a final wet sound.

Inside her stomach the walls press close, churning softly. Acid tingles against my skin. Lydia's palm settles over the bulge I make in Myla's belly and rubs slow circles. "There," she murmurs. "All done."

They walk the halls as usual. Myla carries our daughter on her hip while Lydia's hand stays on the moving lump in her gut. They discuss court matters. They laugh. The child coos. Inside, I feel every step, every breath, every casual touch of Lydia's fingers through the skin.

Cw: Vore

I was halfway down the block, coffee in hand, when the world suddenly tilted. A huge hand swept under me, scooping me clean off the sidewalk like I weighed nothing. My cup hit the pavement and splattered. Fingers closed tight around my waist and chest, pinning my arms. The woman who had grabbed me didn’t even slow down. She just lifted me to eye level, gave me a quick once-over, and kept walking.

"Perfect size," she muttered, already turning toward a side street I’d never noticed before. I kicked and shouted, but her grip stayed firm. A few blocks later she pushed through a plain black door and the air changed—cool, dim, smelling like sweat and latex. The place was a porn studio. Cameras on tripods, lights on stands, a big green-screen backdrop, and a rack of props that included what looked like giant take-out containers.

She carried me straight to a tall, muscular man lounging on a couch in nothing but a black jockstrap. His name was Guy, and I recognized him from the thumbnails that sometimes popped up on my feed. He grinned when he saw me.

"Fresh one," the woman said, dropping me into his open palm. "Half-size, unwilling. He’ll squirm good."

Guy’s fingers closed around me, warm and dry. "Thanks, babe. I’ll take it from here." She left without another word. Guy lifted me closer to his face, studying me the way someone examines a snack. "You’re gonna look great going down," he said, already walking toward the set.

They had me on a small platform under bright lights in seconds. Two cameras rolled. Guy stood over me, adjusting his jockstrap, the thick outline of his cock pressing against the pouch. He reached down, pinched the collar of my shirt between two fingers, and tore it straight down the middle like he was unwrapping a candy bar. My pants followed—ripped at the seams and tossed aside. I was naked in front of the lenses, heart hammering.

"Action," someone called.

Guy picked me up again, brought me to his mouth, and licked a slow stripe up my chest. Then he opened wide. My head and shoulders slid past his lips first. Warm, wet muscle pressed against my face as he worked me deeper with steady swallows. Each gulp dragged more of me into the tight, slick tunnel of his throat. My arms were pinned to my sides; my legs kicked uselessly outside until another swallow tucked them in too. The world narrowed to pulsing heat and the wet sound of his throat working. Then my feet slipped past his teeth and I dropped into the tight, churning space of his stomach.

The cameras kept rolling. Guy let out a satisfied sigh and rubbed both hands over the sudden, heavy swell of his belly. From inside I could feel every slow circle of his palms pressing against the stretched skin, pushing me into different positions. The bulge moved with me whenever I shoved or twisted. He walked a slow circle on the set, letting the cameras catch the way his gut shifted and gurgled, the way his fingers traced the outline of my struggling form. Every rub made the walls squeeze tighter for a moment before relaxing again.

"Cut," the director finally said.

Guy gave his belly one last pat, then turned away from the lights. He grabbed a bottle of water, unscrewed it with one hand, and drank while his other hand stayed on the rounded curve of his middle. I felt the liquid pour in around me, sloshing everything. He strolled out of the studio and into the hallway like it was any other Tuesday. His stride made my prison sway and bounce. Every few steps his palm would drift down to give the bulge a casual rub, almost absent-minded.

He stopped at a vending machine, bought a protein bar, and ate it while leaning against the wall. I heard the crunching above me, felt the slight press of his fingers when he rested his hand on his gut afterward. Then he headed to the locker room. The sound of a shower running reached me. Guy peeled off the jockstrap, stepped under the spray, and soaped up. His hands slid over the taut skin of his belly in long strokes, working the lather around the heavy curve that still moved when I pushed. Water sluiced down the sides and dripped off the underside. He hummed something low, clearly enjoying the weight.

After the shower he toweled off, pulled on loose sweatpants that still couldn’t hide the size of his middle, and walked to his car. The seatbelt clicked across his lap, pressing the belt directly over where I was curled. Every bump in the road made the stomach walls ripple and squeeze. He drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on top of the bulge, occasionally drumming his fingers like he was keeping time with my struggles.

At his apartment he kicked off his shoes, dropped onto the couch, and turned on the TV. His hand never left his belly for long. Sometimes he pressed in slow circles; sometimes he just let the weight rest against his palm while he scrolled his phone. I could hear the muffled commentary from whatever show he was watching and feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing. Every so often he’d let out a soft belch that made the chamber tighten around me for a second.

Cw: Vore

I was just another item on the auction block. A tiny man, barely six inches tall, standing naked in a glass cage while the rich women of the city browsed me like a piece of jewelry. Some poked fingers through the slots. Others laughed and moved on. I'd been gawked at, prodded, and dismissed a dozen times when she walked up.

Kenya. Tall, dark-skinned, with sharp cheekbones and eyes that cut right through me. She wore a black silk blouse and slacks that hugged her hips. Her nails were long and painted crimson. She didn't poke or prod. She just stared down at me with a faint smile, then told the auctioneer, "I'll take him."

No negotiation. No second glance at the price. Just ownership, transferred with a credit swipe.

A handler scooped me up and dropped me into a velvet-lined box. The lid closed, plunging me into darkness. I felt the box being carried, then the rumble of a car engine, then silence.

When the lid opened again, I was in a penthouse. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked a city skyline. Plush white carpets. A leather couch. And Kenya, standing over me, holding the box in one hand.

"Don't be scared," she said, her voice smooth as honey. "You're a gift."

A gift.

She carried me to a bedroom. The sheets were black silk. On the bed lay a woman—smaller than Kenya, pale, with messy blonde hair and eyes that sparkled with playful cruelty. Lila.

Kenya sat on the edge of the bed. "Look what I got you, sweet girl."

She tipped the box, and I tumbled out onto the silk sheets. I scrambled to my feet, heart pounding. Lila's grin spread wide. She crawled toward me on all fours, her movements catlike, predatory.

"Oh, Kenya," she purred, her voice breathy. "He's adorable."

I backed away, but the silk was slippery. My tiny hands found no purchase. Lila's fingers closed around my torso, lifting me into the air. I kicked, uselessly.

"Please," I whispered. "Please don't—"

"Shh," Lila cooed, bringing me close to her face. Her breath was warm and sweet. "I'm just going to play with you a little."

She set me down on her palm, then used her thumb to stroke my chest, my stomach. Her touch was gentle at first, almost tender. She traced my collarbone, my nipples, the curve of my hip. I shivered, hating how my body responded to the warmth of her skin.

"Such a pretty little thing," she said, more to herself than to me.

She brought me to her mouth and pressed a kiss to the top of my head. I felt her tongue flick out, wet and hot, tasting my hair. Then she pulled back and giggled.

"Kenya, can I keep him?"

"As long as you like, baby."

Lila's smile widened. She rolled me over on her palm, pressing me flat against her skin. Her other hand came up and her fingers wrapped around my legs, spreading them apart. She stared at my tiny cock, already half-hard from fear and confusion.

"Oh, you're equipped," she laughed. "That's cute."

She pinched the tip between her thumb and forefinger, rolling it gently. I gasped, arching into her touch despite myself. She kept playing, teasing, until I was fully erect and trembling.

"You like that, don't you?" she whispered.

"No," I choked out.

"Liar."

She released me and sat up, bringing me to her face again. Her mouth opened wide, and I saw the dark cavern of her throat, the pink tongue waiting. I tried to push against her fingers, but she held me firm.

"Time to go home," she said.

And she dropped me into her mouth.

Her tongue caught me immediately, pressing me against the roof of her mouth. The taste of her saliva was faintly sweet, mixed with mint. She rolled me around like a candy, savoring the sensation. I could hear her humming, feel the vibrations through her palate.

Through the thin walls of her cheeks, I heard Kenya's voice, soft and approving. "Good girl."

Lila tilted her head back. I slid down her tongue toward her throat. The muscles contracted, pulling me deeper. I panicked, thrashing, kicking at the slick walls of her esophagus, but every movement only seemed to spur her swallow. Her throat tightened around me, massaging me downward.

I slid past the ring of muscle at the top of her stomach and dropped into a warm, wet chamber. The walls pulsed around me, already squeezing, testing the new occupant. I curled into a ball, shivering, as the acidic smell of her stomach filled my nostrils.

Through the layers of flesh, I heard Kenya's voice again, closer now.

"Did you swallow him whole?"

"Mmhmm." Lila's voice was muffled, satisfied.

"How do you feel?"

"Full. Warm."

I felt a pressure from outside—Kenya's hand, pressing against Lila's stomach, rubbing in slow circles. The walls of the stomach shifted around me, molding to the shape of her palm.

"Such a good girl," Kenya murmured. "You always take such good care of your toys."

Lila giggled, a sound that echoed through the chamber I was trapped in. "He's squirming in there. Can you feel him?"

"Of course I can." Another rub, firmer this time. I was squashed against the stomach lining, helpless. "You did so well, sweetheart. I'm so proud of you."

"Thank you, mistress."

More rubbing. The warmth of Kenya's hand seeped through Lila's belly, making the stomach even hotter. I gasped for air that was thick with digestive fluids. The walls were starting to cling to my skin, sticky and hungry.

"I'm going to keep him in there all night," Lila said. "Let him soak."

"Whatever you want, baby."

Kenya's hand stayed on Lila's belly, stroking, praising. I could hear the soft sounds of them kissing, Lila's moans of pleasure mixing with the gurgle of her stomach. I was nothing now but a warm lump inside her, a toy being digested, and all that mattered was the approval in Kenya's voice.

"Good girl. My good, good girl."

Cw: vore

You wake up slowly, your body heavy and strange. The sheets feel enormous against your skin, and the light streaming through the window seems unnaturally bright. You sit up, or try to, and realize the bed stretches away from you on all sides like an endless white plain.

Your boyfriend Chris is still asleep beside you, a mountain of warmth and slow breathing. You reach out to shake him awake, but your hand barely moves. That's when you see it. Your fingers are tiny, perfectly formed but no bigger than cocktail sausages. Panic seizes you as you scramble to stand, the mattress dipping under your weight, and you realize you're maybe two feet tall now. Maybe less.

You scream. It comes out as a thin squeak.

Chris stirs, rolls over, and looks down at you. His eyes widen, then soften. A slow smile spreads across his face. "Well," he says, his voice a deep rumble that vibrates through the mattress, "that explains the dreams I was having."

You try to explain, to beg for help, but your words tumble out in a frantic pitch that barely registers. He reaches down and scoops you up in one hand. His fingers curl around your waist, warm and firm, and you're lifted into the air. The room whirls around you. You can feel every ridge of his fingerprints against your back.

"Easy there," he says, bringing you close to his face. His breath washes over you, smelling of sleep and coffee. "Don't hurt yourself."

Over the next few days, everything changes. You become his. Completely.

He carries you everywhere in his pocket, or cradled in his palm when you're too restless. He feeds you crumbs from his meals, which feel like feasts to you now. He bathes you in the kitchen sink, his fingers gentle but insistent, rubbing soap over your shrinking body while you shiver under the faucet's spray. He sleeps with you curled up on his pillow, or tucked against his chest where you can hear his heartbeat like a drum.

You try to leave. You try to reason with him, to make him understand this isn't right. But his world is too big, his voice too overwhelming, his hands too capable of enclosing you completely. He laughs when you protest, a deep, fond sound that shakes the air around you.

"You're so precious like this," he tells you one evening, sitting on the couch with you in his lap. His thumb strokes your back, pressing you against the fabric of his jeans. "I always wanted you all to myself. This is perfect."

Days blur into nights. You start to forget what it felt like to be his size, to walk beside him instead of being carried. Your world shrinks to the span of his palm, the heat of his mouth when he kisses the top of your head, the way he talks to you like you're a particularly beloved pet.

And then, one night, he changes.

He's lying in bed, you on his chest, rising and falling with each breath. His hand is draped over you, heavy and possessive. You're almost asleep when you feel his stomach growl beneath you, a deep, hungry sound that makes you stiffen.

He shifts, looking down at you with an expression you've never seen before. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide. His tongue wets his lips.

"You know," he says slowly, "I've been thinking."

You look up at him, your tiny heart hammering.

"You're so small," he continues, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. "So delicate. I can fit you anywhere." His hand moves, fingers curling around you, lifting you up to hover above his face. "I wonder what you'd feel like inside me."

Your blood turns to ice. You struggle, kicking against his grip, but he barely registers it. His smile is fond, hungry, inevitable.

"Don't worry," he murmurs. "I'll take care of you. You'll always be with me."

He opens his mouth.

You see the darkness within, the wet gleam of his throat. His breath gusts over you, warm and damp. He lowers you closer, and you can see his tongue, pink and massive, waiting.

"Please," you manage, your voice a squeak. "Chris, please, don't—"

But he's already tilting his head back. His lips part wider. And then you're descending, feet first, into the heat of his mouth.

The world goes dark and wet. His tongue presses against you, rolling you over, tasting you thoroughly. His lips seal shut behind you, and you're trapped in the soft, pulsing cavern of his mouth. You can feel him savouring you, moving you around like a piece of candy, and he hums with pleasure. The vibration rattles through your bones.

Then he swallows.

His throat muscles contract, pulling you down. You slide, slick and helpless, into the tight channel of his esophagus. It squeezes around you, massaging you deeper, and you can hear his heartbeat through the walls of his flesh. You're swallowed by darkness, by warmth, by the sheer, overwhelming presence of him.

You land in his stomach with a soft splash. It tightens around you, pulsing, claiming you. His voice reaches you, muffled but clear.

"There you are," he says, and you can feel the words vibrate through the walls around you. "Right where you belong."

His hand presses against his belly, and through the skin, you can feel the warmth of his palm, the pressure of his ownership. His stomach churns gently around you, already beginning its work.

"You're going to stay with me forever now," he whispers, settling back against the pillows with a satisfied sigh. "I love you. This is the closest we could ever be."

And you feel his heartbeat slow, his breathing steady. He's content. He's complete.

Tw: vore

The first time you saw her smile, you should have run.

She was at the coffee shop, three blocks from your apartment. Just a woman in her late twenties, brown hair tied back, eyes the color of warm oak. She smiled at you as you passed her table—polite, fleeting, forgettable.

But she didn't forget.

The second time was the grocery store. Aisle four, canned goods. You reached for tomato sauce, and there she was, reaching for the same thing. Her fingers brushed yours. She smiled again.

"Sorry," she said.

You shrugged it off.

The third time was outside your building. She was walking a dog you'd never seen before. She waved.

The fourth time, the dog was gone. She was leaning against a lamppost across the street, watching your window.

That's when the knot formed in your stomach.

---

The weeks that followed were a slow descent into a nightmare you couldn't prove. She was everywhere. Walking past your workplace. Sitting two tables away at every restaurant you visited. Standing at the end of your street when you left for work, always at the end of your street when you returned.

You called the police. They said she wasn't doing anything illegal.

You moved your bedroom to the interior of your apartment, away from the windows.

But every night, you felt her eyes.

---

She caught you in the parking garage.

You'd been so careful. Changed your routine. Left at random hours. Parked on different levels. But you let your guard drop—just once—and she was there, leaning against your car like she'd been waiting all day.

"Hey," she said. Soft. Friendly. Like you were old friends.

You froze.

"Don't run," she said, and there was something in her voice that made your legs lock. "I've been watching you for so long, you know. I know your patterns. I know your schedule. I know you're scared."

She stepped closer.

"You should be."

Her hand moved fast—faster than you expected—and something cold pressed against your neck. A needle. You felt the liquid burn into your veins, felt your knees buckle, felt her arms catch you before you hit the ground.

"Shh," she whispered against your ear. "It'll be over soon."

---

You woke up in warm, slick darkness.

Your hands pressed against something soft and wet. Your feet kicked against the same fleshy walls. You were curled into a tight ball, compressed into a space that shouldn't have held you, and the smell was thick and organic and inside.

Wait.

No.

No.

Panic flooded your system as the memories snapped back. The parking garage. The needle. And then—her mouth opening wide, wide, impossibly wide—her tongue wrapping around you—her throat stretching as she swallowed—

You screamed, but the sound was muffled, absorbed by the living walls around you.

You were inside her.

---

"It's just a little baby bump," Alice said, her voice rumbling through the flesh around you, distant but clear. "Nothing to worry about."

You felt her hand press against her stomach, felt the pressure through the walls of her belly, and you scrabbled away from it, but there was nowhere to go. You were packed tight, knees against chin, back pressed against her intestines, her stomach working around you in slow, rhythmic squeezes.

"But Alice, you're barely showing!" Her friend's voice filtered through the layers of skin and muscle. "I didn't even know you were pregnant!"

A pause. You felt Alice smile.

"I'm not that far along," she said. "Just a few weeks. But it's growing so fast."

Her hand rubbed her belly again, and you felt the vibration of her laughter through the suffocating dark.

Please, you wanted to scream. Please, I'm not a baby, I'm not—

"Can I feel?" the friend asked.

"Of course."

And then there was another hand on her stomach, pressing from outside, and you pressed back from inside, desperate, pathetic, your palms flat against the slick wall of her womb—

"Oh my god," the friend gasped. "It moved!"

"See?" Alice's voice was warm, maternal, horrifying. "I told you. Growing so fast."

---

The day was a blur of muffled sounds and crushing reality.

You felt her walk. Every step jostled you, rocked you in the tight, hot chamber of her body. You heard her talk to strangers, to coworkers, to friends. And every time someone commented on her belly—that slight, unnatural roundness—she smiled and said the same thing.

"Just pregnant."

"Didn't know you were seeing anyone!"

"These things happen."

"How far along?"

"A few weeks. It's moving around so much already."

And they'd laugh, and congratulate her, and you'd scream into the darkness of her gut.

---

By evening, you'd stopped fighting.

Your muscles ached from being curled so tight. Your throat was raw from shouting. The heat was suffocating, the pressure constant, the reality of your situation pressing down on you harder than her stomach walls ever could.

She sat down somewhere—a couch, you thought—and her hand settled over her belly again.

"Everyone bought it," she murmured, and you could hear the smile in her voice. "They all think you're just a growing baby. A happy little accident."

Her fingers drummed against her skin.

"You're not going anywhere, you know. You're mine now. Forever."

The walls squeezed around you, and you felt her body settle, felt her breathing slow, felt the night begin.

You were inside her. Helpless. Trapped.

Cw: vore

The world had become a blur of monstrous proportions ever since the judge's magic took hold. One moment I was a man—stripped of everything, yes, but still a man standing six feet tall. The next, I was six inches, my sentence for stealing bread from the wrong noble's pantry. "Shrink and sell," they'd declared, and now I was here, standing on a bar top in a cage made of chicken wire, waiting for someone to decide my fate.

The bar smelled of stale beer and sweaty bodies. Humans—full-sized humans—milled around, their voices like thunderclaps, their laughter shaking the wooden floor beneath my bare feet. I wore nothing but the ragged shorts I'd been given, my flat chest exposed, my small cock and balls visible for all to see. I was a trans man, had been for years before this, but now my body was just a curiosity, a tiny aberration to be examined and priced.

The auctioneer, a greasy man with yellow teeth, grabbed my cage and lifted it, spinning it so everyone could see. "Fresh catch, folks! Punished for thievery, shrunk to snack size. Who'll start the bidding?"

I clung to the wire, my heart hammering. Around me, faces blurred—men with leering grins, women with calculating eyes. They saw food. They saw a toy. They saw nothing of the man I'd fought to become.

"Five silver," a voice called out.

"Seven."

"Ten."

Then a woman's voice, low and smooth like honey poured over gravel, cut through the noise. "One gold."

The chatter died. One gold was extravagant for a snack. I craned my neck to see her—a curvy woman, her body lush and full, dark skin glowing under the dim lights. She wore a low-cut top that showed off her heavy breasts, and her smile was a promise of something I didn't want to understand.

The auctioneer's yellow grin spread wider. "Sold to Karla!"

She stepped forward, her massive hand wrapping around my cage. I was lifted into the air, the world swinging, and then I was eye level with her face. Her eyes were dark, warm, almost kind. But there was something else there—a hunger that had nothing to do with appetite.

"Hello, little one," she said, her breath washing over me like a humid breeze. "You're going to be my new pet."

---

She took me home that night, carrying my cage in one hand like a purse. Her apartment was warm, filled with plush furniture and the scent of incense. She set the cage on her coffee table and knelt down, her face filling my entire field of vision.

"What's your name, little thief?"

I stammered, my voice pitifully small. "M-Marcus."

She laughed, a rich, rolling sound. "Marcus. No, that won't do at all. You're too pretty for a name like that." Her finger reached through the bars and touched my cheek. I flinched. "Look at that blond hair of yours. I'm going to call you Blondie."

I shook my head. "Please, I'm not a pet. I'm a person. I have rights—"

"You have what I say you have," she said, her tone still pleasant, but with an edge that made my stomach drop. "You were sold to me. I own you, Blondie. And I like to keep my food as pets for a while before I eat them."

The words hit me like a physical blow. Eat them. My blood ran cold.

From a drawer, she produced a tiny collar and harness, clearly made for someone my size. She opened the cage and grabbed me before I could run, her fingers like steel bands around my torso. I kicked and squirmed, but it was useless. She fastened the leather collar around my neck—too tight to slip, but not choking—and then attached the harness that crossed over my chest and between my legs. A small metal ring dangled at the back.

"Perfect," she said, setting me down on the table. She attached a thin leash to the ring. "Now, you're going to need a cage. I have one ready."

She led me to a corner of her living room where a small wire cage sat on a stand. It was clean, with a little bed made of cloth and a water dish. It looked like a hamster's cage, and I was going to be living in it.

"Get in," she said, pointing.

"No." I planted my feet, my fists clenched. "I won't."

She sighed, as if dealing with a stubborn child. Then her hand descended, grabbing me by the harness and lifting me. I dangled helplessly as she shoved me into the cage and locked the door.

"Goodnight, Blondie," she said, her face appearing at the bars. "We have a busy day tomorrow."

---

The next few days were a blur of humiliation and terror. Karla kept me on that leash everywhere she went. She took me to the grocery store, tucking me into the pocket of her jacket. She took me to her friend's house, where a group of women cooed over me and petted my head like I was a dog.

"Such a cute little thing," one of them said, her finger stroking my back. "How long are you going to keep him?"

Karla smiled, that same hungry smile. "As long as he entertains me."

The worst was when she took me dancing. She brought me back to the bar where she'd bought me, and this time she didn't keep me in a pocket. She unbuttoned her blouse, revealing her massive cleavage, and clipped my harness leash to the center gore of her bra. I was suspended between her breasts, my legs dangling, my face pressed against the warm, soft skin of her chest.

The music thumped, and Karla moved. Every step, every sway of her hips, caused her breasts to jostle me. I was crushed between them, smothered in her scent—sweat and perfume and something musky. I could feel her heartbeat, strong and steady, and I hated how intimate it was.

Her friends came up to her, their faces huge above me. "Is that Blondie?" one asked, laughing.

"Yep," Karla said, grinding her hips. "He's my good pet, aren't you, Blondie?"

I refused to answer. One of her friends reached down and poked my side. I swatted at her finger, and they all laughed.

"Feisty little thing," another said.

"He'll calm down," Karla replied. "They always do."

That night, back in my cage, I tried to escape. I worked at the wire mesh with my fingers until they bled, but it was useless. Karla had reinforced it with something stronger. I collapsed into the little bed, exhausted, and wept.

---

The morning came too soon. I woke to the sound of Karla moving around her kitchen, the smell of coffee and something else—spices. My stomach rumbled, and I hated it. I was hungry, but I was also terrified.

Her face appeared at my cage, and she smiled. "Good morning, Blondie. I've decided. Today's the day."

I backed into the corner of my cage. "No. No, please. I'll be good. I'll be a better pet. Please don't—"

"Shh," she said, opening the cage door. "It's time for breakfast."

Her hand grabbed me, pulling me out. I screamed, but my voice was just a tiny squeak. She carried me to the kitchen and set me on a cutting board. Then she took out a roll of kitchen twine.

"Don't make this harder than it has to be," she said, and began to tie me. She bound my wrists behind my back, then my ankles, then looped the twine around my torso, pinning my arms to my sides. I struggled, but she was too strong.

The phone rang. Karla picked it up, holding it between her ear and shoulder as she continued working. "Hey, Ma. Yeah, I'm good. What's up?"

She had me on my stomach on the cutting board, and she reached for a bottle of olive oil. She poured it over my back, the cool liquid making me gasp.

"No, nothing much. Just making breakfast," she said into the phone, as if she weren't drizzling oil over a living, breathing person. She rubbed it into my skin, her fingers working methodically over my shoulders, my back, my legs. "Uh-huh. No, I think I'll have something simple today."

I twisted my head to look at her. She was smiling, casual, as she coated my body in oil. Then she sprinkled something over me—salt, pepper, a mix of herbs that smelled of rosemary and thyme. Tears streamed down my face, mixing with the oil.

"Please," I whispered. "Please don't."

She glanced down at me, her expression unreadable, then returned to her conversation. "Yeah, the weather's been nice. Listen, Ma, I gotta go. I'll call you later. Love you too."

She hung up and looked down at me, now glistening and seasoned like a piece of meat. "All right, Blondie. Time to go."

"No—" I started, but her hand closed around me.

She lifted me to her face, and I stared into the dark cavern of her mouth. Her lips were parted, her tongue visible. I could see her teeth, white and sharp.

"Open wide," she said, and she pushed my head into her mouth.

The world went dark and wet. Her tongue curled around me, tasting the oil and spices. I screamed, but the sound was muffled. She tilted her head back, and I felt myself sliding down her throat. I kicked my bound legs, trying to plant them against her tongue, but the oil made me slippery.

With a single, powerful swallow, she took me down.

I was in her esophagus, the muscles contracting around me, squeezing me deeper. I couldn't breathe, couldn't think. The pressure was immense, and then I was falling, falling into a warm, gurgling chamber.

Her stomach.

I landed in a pool of digestive juices, the acid already beginning to sting my skin. I gagged on the smell—sour and metallic. Above me, I could hear her muffled voice, humming a tune.

---

Hours passed. I don't know how many. I was alive, somehow, floating in the acidic soup of her stomach. The twine had loosened, and I managed to free my hands. I pressed against the walls, feeling them shift and contract.

I had one idea, one desperate, insane idea. I reached up, finding the opening of her esophagus, and I began to climb.

It was slow, painful work. Her throat muscles were strong, and every time I tried to pull myself up, a wave of contractions pushed me back. But I was stubborn. I dug my fingers into the tissue and pulled, centimeter by agonizing centimeter.

I made it to the back of her throat. I could see light filtering through her closed lips. I heard her voice, talking to someone.

"Blondie? Oh, I finally ate him this morning."

A burst of laughter. I recognized the voices of her friends.

"Did he put up a fight?"

"A little. He tried to squirm, but I'm bigger than him." Karla's voice vibrated through the flesh around me.

"Can we feel?" another voice said.

"Sure."

A hand pressed against her stomach, and I felt the pressure through the wall. I was squeezed, crushed between the palm and the sloshing contents.

"He's still moving!" someone said, delighted. "Ooh, I can feel him."

I renewed my efforts. I clawed at her throat, trying to force my way up. I gagged, choking on the bile that rose around me.

"She wants to come out, Karla!"

"It's cute. Go on, little Blondie. Try again."

I shoved my head into her esophagus, but then I felt her hand press against her neck from the outside, blocking my path. I was trapped, her fingers holding me in place like a cork.

"Feisty," one of her friends said, giggling. "I bet he's delicious."

"He was," Karla said, and she patted her stomach. "But I think I'll keep him for a while longer. Digestion takes time."

I screamed, but the sound was lost in the gurgle of her stomach. Her friend's hands rubbed her belly, and I was tossed around inside, helpless, furious, and utterly consumed.

And they laughed. They laughed as I battered against the walls of my prison, as I cursed them with every breath I had. They laughed, and Karla's voice floated down to me, warm and satisfied.

"There, there, Blondie. Just relax. You're where you belong."

I felt her stand up, heard the clink of plates being cleared. Her friends said their goodbyes, and the apartment fell quiet. I was alone in the dark, in the heat, in the acid, waiting.

But even as my strength faded, I didn't stop moving. I wouldn't give her the satisfaction of dying quietly. I would fight until the very end.

And maybe, just maybe, I'd find a way out.

Cw: vore

The cage was small. Too small to stand in, even for someone my size. I'd been in it for what felt like days, but the fluorescent lights of the store never changed, so time blurred into a haze of fear and resignation.

I watched him the moment he walked in. Big man. Maybe six-two, with a soft gut pushing against his polo shirt, a beard trimmed close, and eyes that swept over the display pens like he was shopping for a lawn ornament. The attendant, a thin woman with a clipboard, gestured toward us—the half-sizers. Some were curled up asleep. Others huddled together. I just stared at him, my heart hammering.

He stopped in front of my cage. Squatted down. The floor creaked under his weight.

"Hey there," he said, his voice low and warm. His fingers tapped the mesh. "What's your name?"

I didn't answer. I'd learned not to give names away. It made it easier for them.

"Shy one, huh?" He chuckled, glancing up at the attendant. "How much for this one?"

"Five thousand. He's healthy, good temperament. Perfect for whatever you need."

Whatever you need. The words hung in the air, and I knew exactly what that meant. Some people bought us as pets. Some bought us for the other purpose. The final one.

He looked back at me, his head tilted. "I'm Brendan. I think I'll call you... Tiny. Yeah. Tiny."

I shook my head, but he didn't care.

---

The first week was confusing. He had a nice house—a little cluttered, with sports memorabilia on the walls and a big sectional couch that swallowed me when I sat on it. He'd set up a small bed for me in the corner of his living room, with a little blanket and a bowl of snacks that made me feel like a dog. He'd pick me up sometimes, hold me in his palm, and talk to me while he watched TV.

"Big game's coming up, Tiny. You know about the Super Bowl?"

I knew. Everyone knew. But I didn't want to think about why he'd mentioned it in that context.

He'd stroke my hair with his thumb, and sometimes he'd pull me onto his chest while he lay on the couch. His belly was soft, a round curve that I'd end up resting on. He'd rub my back, my sides, even my belly if I let him. It was... almost nice. Almost safe.

He gave me a nickname: Tiny. And I hated it, but I also found myself responding to it. A few times, he'd scratch behind my ears like I was a cat, and I'd close my eyes, forgetting for a moment what I really was to him.

---

Then came the Friday before the game.

Three of his friends came over—Pete, Mike, and Dave. They brought beer and chips, and they sat around the coffee table, talking about stats and plays. Brendan had me on his lap, his hand resting on my back, keeping me in place.

"Check him out," Brendan said, lifting me up. "This is Tiny. Got him a few weeks ago."

"Aw, he's cute," Pete said, leaning in. "Whatcha gonna do with him?"

Brendan smiled. A slow, deliberate smile that made my stomach drop.

"Half-time snack."

The room went quiet for a second, then Dave laughed. "No shit? You're gonna swallow him whole?"

"Whole," Brendan confirmed. "That's what they're bred for, man. Smooth going down. I've been waiting for the game."

I tried to squirm, but his grip tightened. His friends leaned closer, examining me like a piece of meat. Pete reached out and poked my leg.

"Gonna be a tight fit, but I bet it's a hell of a show."

"Gotta take pictures," Mike added. "For the group chat."

"Already planned."

I couldn't breathe. The memory of the store, the cage, the attendant's words—perfect for whatever you need—crashed back. The belly rubs. The snuggles. The nickname. All of it was just... prelude.

---

Super Bowl Sunday.

I was draped over his belly, curled into the soft curve of his gut. He wore a loose t-shirt and sweatpants, and his hand rested on my back, occasionally stroking. The TV was loud, the game had started, and he was cheering, laughing, drinking beer. I felt every rumble of his laughter through his body, the vibrations traveling through my bones.

"You're so warm, Tiny," he murmured, not even looking at me. "Gonna feel even warmer soon."

I said nothing. My throat was tight. I'd tried to run last night, but his hand found me before I made it three feet. He'd simply picked me up, laughed softly, and put me back on his belly.

"I know you're scared," he said, shifting me slightly. "But it won't hurt. I promise. Just a little squeeze, then you're inside. And you'll stay there. Forever."

Forever.

The first half ended. The teams went to the locker rooms. Commercials played. Brendan sat up, and I slid off his belly onto the couch cushion. He picked me up, holding me in front of his face.

"Time to go, Tiny."

I shook my head. "Please—"

"Shh." He pressed a finger to my lips. "Don't ruin it. I've been looking forward to this."

He tilted his head back and opened his mouth. I stared into the dark wet cavern of his throat, the pink tongue, the soft palate. His hand brought me closer.

I struggled. Kicked. Hit his palm with my tiny fists. But he was twice my height, and his grip was iron.

"Easy," he said, and then my head was past his lips.

Warm. Dark. Wet. His tongue pushed against my face, tasting me, coating me in saliva. I tried to scream, but the sound was muffled by the pressure of his mouth closing around me. He tilted his head further back, and gravity worked with him. I slid deeper, my shoulders squeezed past the tight ring of his throat, and then I was being swallowed.

I felt his throat muscles contract around me, pulling me down in rhythmic waves. It was tight—so tight I couldn't move my arms. My legs were still outside his mouth, and then another swallow brought them in. I slid down his esophagus, his warm flesh encasing me completely, until I landed in a cavernous space—his stomach.

It was hot and dark and smelled of beer and chips. The walls were slick and already squeezing, testing me. I curled up, my knees against my chest, as the organ began to knead me, to settle me into place.

Brendan let out a long, satisfied belch. I heard it from inside, a deep rumble that vibrated through the acid-wet walls.

Then I felt his hand on his own belly, patting where I was.

"There we go. Hold still, Tiny. I'm gonna send a pic."

I heard the click of his phone camera. He lifted his shirt, I assumed. I felt the press of his palm against the outside as he positioned his stomach for the photo. The flash was a dim red glow through the flesh.

A moment later, he laughed. "Perfect. Sending to the boys."

Then the game resumed.

He jumped up from the couch. I felt his body lurch, my stomach-prison swinging with the motion. He cheered—a loud, bellowing roar—and I felt the vibrations shake around me. He stomped his feet, punched the air, and each movement jostled me inside, making me slide against the slippery walls.

Holding on to the tissue around me was impossible. I just rolled with each jump, each shout, as the second half played out. His stomach churned, acid dribbling against my skin, but it wasn't looking to digest me yet. It was just... settling me. Tucking me in for the long haul.

Between plays, he'd pat his belly and murmur, "You okay in there, Tiny? What a game, huh?"

I couldn't answer. My voice was gone.

---

After the game—his team won, apparently—the doorbell rang. Then more ringing. Laughter. His friends arrived.

"Brendan! Where is he? Let's see!"

Pete, Mike, Dave. I heard them clap him on the back, heard the fridge open, heard the sounds of celebration.

"Dude, your belly looks huge."

I felt fingers pressing from outside. Prodding. Investigating.

"Holy shit, I can see a lump. That's him, right?"

"Yeah, that's Tiny. He settled right in."

More pokes. The belly jiggled, and I shifted inside, a wave of nausea washing over me.

"Can you feel him moving?" That was Dave.

"Yeah, get your hands off, I'm tryna feel," Brendan said, but he was laughing. His hand pressed down, rubbing slow circles over the dome of his stomach.

"Bet he's terrified in there," Mike said.

"Probably. But he's warm and safe. And he'll never leave."

They all laughed. Someone—Pete, I think—reached over and gave Brendan's belly a firm pat.

"Best Super Bowl snack ever."

"Damn right."

I lay curled in the dark, the heat oppressive, the muscle kneading me, as fingers traced over the outside of my prison. They talked about the game, about plays and touchdowns, while Brendan's stomach worked its lazy, welcoming rhythm.

And I realized: I was no longer Tiny. I was just the lump in his gut. The leftover excitement. The snack.

Cw: vore

The bass thumped through the floor, vibrating up through my tiny boots. I'd known coming to this frat party was a mistake the second I stepped through the door, but my friend Mia had begged me to come with her. "They're just gonna show us a good time," she'd said. "Free drinks, cute guys, what could go wrong?"

Everything. Everything could go wrong.

I'd felt the stares the moment we walked in. Half-sizers like me—barely six inches tall—weren't exactly common at Sigma Alpha Epsilon. But tonight, I'd noticed at least a dozen others scattered around the room, all of us trying to blend in, pretending we didn't notice the hungry looks from the full-sized frat brothers.

I should have run when I saw Brad.

He was huge—well over six feet, built like a linebacker, with a thick brown beard and arms covered in dark hair. When he spotted me by the punch bowl, his eyes lit up with a predatory gleam that made my stomach drop.

"Hey there, little one." His voice was a low rumble as he loomed over me. "You look lost."

"I'm fine." I backed away, but the crowd of full-sized partiers pressed in around me, blocking any escape. "I'm just leaving—"

"Leaving so soon?" His massive hand shot out and closed around my torso before I could scream. His fingers were thick and calloused, completely encircling my body. I couldn't move. I couldn't breathe. The pressure was immense, but not crushing—he knew exactly how hard to squeeze to keep me immobilized.

"Please—" I gasped, my arms pinned to my sides.

"Don't struggle. You'll just wear yourself out." He lifted me to eye level, examining me like a piece of meat. "Perfect. My pledge needs to earn his spot tonight."

"Your what? No—no, please, I don't want to—"

"Shh." He pressed a finger to my lips, and I tasted sweat and beer. "You're gonna do exactly what you're meant for, little snack."

He carried me through the crowded living room, my heels dangling uselessly. People noticed. Some laughed. Others pulled out phones to film. No one intervened. Why would they? I was just a half-sizer, barely more than a mouthful to these giants.

Brad stopped in front of a skinny guy who couldn't have been more than nineteen. He was everything Brad wasn't—slender, clean-shaven, with big hazel eyes and floppy brown hair. He wore a pledge pin on his polo shirt.

"Peter." Brad's voice was stern but affectionate. "This is your initiation."

Peter's eyes went wide as he looked at me, still trapped in Brad's grip. "Wait—seriously?"

"Seriously. Swallow this little one, and you're a brother. You in?"

I watched Peter's expression shift from shock to excitement. His tongue darted out to wet his lips. "Fuck yeah. I'm in."

My heart slammed against my ribs. "No! No, please, I'm a person—I have a name, I have friends, I—"

"But you taste so good." Peter stepped closer, and I could smell his spearmint gum. "Don't worry. I'll make it quick."

Brad passed me to Peter with surprising gentleness. Peter's hands were softer than Brad's, but no less firm. He held me in both palms, tilting me back so I was staring up at a ceiling painted with beer pong stains.

"Open wide," Brad coached. "You wanna get this down in one go."

Peter's mouth opened above me. Perfect teeth, pink tongue, a dark tunnel of throat beyond. The spearmint scent was overwhelming.

"Please—" I sobbed, squirming uselessly. "Please don't—"

Peter lowered me toward his gaping mouth. His lips touched my forehead first, then my nose. They parted, and I felt the wet heat of his tongue slide across my face, tasting me. He groaned—actually fucking groaned—and I knew then that this was real. He was going to eat me.

"Good boy," Brad murmured. "Take your time. Let yourself enjoy it."

Peter's tongue curled under my chin and lifted me into his mouth. The world went dark and wet and suffocatingly warm. I screamed, but the sound was swallowed by his cheeks. His tongue rolled me around like a lozenge, pressing me against the ridged roof of his mouth, savoring every inch of my body.

"Just relax," Brad's voice came muffled through Peter's cheeks. "Don't bite. Let your throat do the work."

I felt Peter tilt his head back. Gravity pulled me toward that tight ring of muscle at the back of his mouth. I clawed at his tongue, but my fingers just slid off the slick surface. His soft palate pushed against my head, and I knew there was no going back.

The first swallow was blinding.

His throat muscles clamped down around my shoulders, dragging me into a pulsing channel of sheer irresistible force. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't think. All I could feel was that endless, wet, convulsing tube squeezing me deeper, pushing me into a pit of darkness that smelled like his last meal and tasted like fear.

Another swallow. My torso compressed as his esophagus worked me down. I felt his heartbeat through the walls around me, fast and excited. He was getting off on this. On swallowing me alive.

By the third swallow, I was fully inside him. His stomach welcomed me with a splash of acidic fluid that burned against my skin. The space was tight—barely enough room for me to curl into a fetal position. His stomach walls pulsed around me, already beginning their slow work of digestion.

Outside, I could hear voices.

"Holy shit, Pete, you actually did it!"

"Film this, film this, get his belly—"

"Nice work, little bro. You're a Sigma now."

Brad's voice cut through the noise. "He swallowed him whole. A real man's initiation, right there."

I heard Peter's voice, a little strained but giddy. "Fuck, I can feel him moving. He's still alive in there."

"Of course he is," Brad chuckled. "He'll be squirming for a while yet. Gives you a nice show."

Someone's hand pressed against the outside of Peter's stomach, and I felt it—a heavy pressure that made me gag on the acidic air. "Look at that belly. You look pregnant, bro."

Laughter erupted around them.

"I'd say he knocked you up good." Brad's voice was warm with amusement. "Makes you a real mommy, doesn't it, Pete?"

"Shut up," Peter laughed, but there was no anger in it. "I'm gonna walk him off. Let me parade this thing around for a bit."

The world tilted as Peter stood. Every step jostled me inside his gut, sloshing me against half-digested beer and stomach acids that were starting to tingle against my skin. I could hear the cheers and catcalls as he walked through the party.

"Show us the belly!"

"Who's the daddy?"

"Peter got knocked up by a half-sizer!"

"Damned right I did," Peter called back, patting his swollen stomach. "Little fucker's gonna keep me warm all night."

Brad walked beside him, I could tell from the proximity of his voice. "Make sure you let me know when he stops moving. I wanna watch you pass him out tomorrow morning."

"Gross, dude. You're a freak."

"Says the guy with a half-sizer digesting in his stomach."

They laughed together as I curled tighter, my skin beginning to burn, my consciousness fading into the rhythmic pulse of Peter's gut. Above me, through layers of flesh, I could still hear the party raging on. The music. The cheering. The sounds of my own consumption celebrated like a victory.

Cw: vore

I checked my phone one last time as I pulled up to the address. 420 Maple Lane. The little blue dot pulsed on the map, confirming I was in the right place. A modest two-story house with a wraparound porch, soft yellow glow spilling from the front window. Cozy. Inviting. Everything about Eric’s profile had been the same—warm smile, kind eyes, that easy laugh in his voice messages. We’d been chatting for two weeks, and tonight felt like the natural next step.

I stepped out of my car, my heart doing that nervous flutter. The night air was cool, carrying the scent of cut grass and something floral from the neighbor’s garden. I smoothed down my shirt, ran a hand through my hair, and walked up the path. The front door swung open before I could knock.

Eric stood there, a little taller than I expected but still approachable. His thin frame was dressed in a loose sweater and jeans, and his smile was wide, genuine. “Hey! You made it.” He stepped aside, gesturing for me to come in. “I was starting to think you’d ghost me.”

“Not a chance,” I said, stepping past him into the warm interior. The living room was neat—a gray couch, a coffee table with a half-empty bottle of wine, and a laptop open on the side table. Everything felt normal, comfortable.

But as I heard the click of the deadbolt behind me, a tiny prickle ran down my spine. I turned. Eric was still smiling, but his hand rested on the lock. “Just habit,” he said, noticing my glance. “Crime in this neighborhood, you know. Better safe than sorry.”

I nodded, dismissing the unease. Paranoid. I was just nervous. We settled on the couch, and he poured two glasses of a rich Malbec. We talked about our jobs—he was a freelance graphic designer, I worked in IT. He asked about my hobbies, my favorite movies, what I thought about the latest Marvel release. It was easy, the conversation flowed.

Then, halfway through the second glass, he shifted closer. His hand found my knee. “You’re really cute,” he murmured, and then he leaned in and kissed me.

It was a good kiss. His lips were soft, and his hand slid up my thigh. I melted into it, my own hand moving to the back of his neck. We made out for a few minutes, my head spinning from the wine and the warmth of his body. His tongue traced my lower lip, and I let out a small sigh.

That’s when he pulled back, his eyes dark, a new edge to his smile. “You know,” he said, his voice lower, “I didn’t match with you for a date.”

I blinked. “What?”

“I matched with you because you looked delicious.” He chuckled, as if it were a joke, but his gaze never wavered. “The way you described yourself in your profile—your height, your weight, the way you said you like to cook. It was like reading a menu.”

I laughed nervously. “Eric, what are you talking about?”

He leaned forward, and I instinctively leaned back. The warmth in his eyes had cooled into something hungry. “Think of it like DoorDash. You browse, you select, you place your order. And then the food comes to your door.” He gestured at me. “And here you are. Right on time.”

I tried to stand, but he was faster. His hand clamped around my wrist, and the strength in his grip shocked me. He yanked me back onto the couch, and I fell against the cushions, my head hitting the armrest.

“Don’t struggle,” he said, almost gently. “It’ll only make it more uncomfortable for you.”

“What are you doing?” My voice cracked. Fear flooded my veins.

He didn’t answer. Instead, he grabbed the collar of my shirt and tore it open. Buttons popped and skittered across the floor. I shouted, tried to push him off, but he was relentless. His hands moved with practiced efficiency, peeling my clothes away like he was unwrapping a takeout container. Shirt gone. Pants yanked down. Underwear followed. In less than a minute, I was naked and trembling on his couch, my breath ragged, my body exposed.

“You know,” Eric said, sitting back to admire me, “you look even better than the pictures. Proportionally perfect. Just the right size for a single serving.”

Half size. I’d always been on the shorter side—just over three feet tall, a quirk of a rare growth condition. But I’d never thought of it as a liability. Until now.

Eric stood and undid his own jeans, letting them drop to the floor. He wasn’t wearing underwear. His cock was already hard, and I saw the faint scar lines around his groin—remnants of his surgery. He stroked himself slowly, watching me cower on the couch.

“Don’t worry,” he said, his voice husky. “I’m not going to fuck you. Well, not with that part.” He gestured toward his mouth. “I’m going to eat you. Whole.”

I scrambled off the couch, but my legs were weak, and he caught me by the ankle. He dragged me across the rug, laughing softly. “So eager to run? That’s cute. But you’re not going anywhere.”

He knelt over me, his body blocking the light. His mouth opened wide—wider than any human mouth should—and I realized he must have been practicing, stretching his jaw to accommodate prey. His tongue was pink and slick, and his breath smelled of wine and something metallic.

“Please,” I begged, my voice a whimper. “Please don’t.”

He didn’t listen. He tilted his head back and positioned me beneath his open maw. Then he lowered himself, and I felt the heat of his mouth wrap around my head.

It was like being swallowed by a warm, wet cave. His tongue slid across my face, tasting the salt of my tears. I thrashed, but his hands held my arms pinned to my sides. He tilted his head, and gravity worked with him—I slid deeper into his throat, my shoulders popping past his tonsils. The muscles of his esophagus clamped around my chest, squeezing the air from my lungs.

I tried to scream, but the sound was smothered by the flesh closing around me. His throat convulsed, pulling me down in a rhythm. I felt my hips pass his lips, then my legs, and finally my feet. The last thing I saw was the ceiling light as his mouth sealed shut around my ankles, and then darkness.

I was inside him.

His stomach was a tight, acidic pouch, already beginning to work on me. I curled into a fetal position, my knees pressed against the walls of his gut. The flesh was warm, slick with digestive juices, and the contractions began immediately—squeezing, kneading, moving me deeper into the organ.

Above me, I heard his voice, muffled but clear. “Let me get the stream set up.”

I felt him move, walking perhaps. Then the sound of a laptop being opened, a keyboard clicking. His voice again, brighter, performative.

“Hey, everyone! Welcome to the live stream. I know you’ve been waiting for this. Tonight’s special is a home delivery—absolutely fresh, still struggling.” A pause. He must have turned the camera on himself. “Look, you can see the bulge.”

His hand pressed against his stomach from the outside, and I felt the pressure through the wall. He was patting me, showing me off to his audience. I tried to push back, to make my movements visible, and I heard his laugh rumble through his chest.

“Oh, he’s active. That’s a good sign. Means he’s full of life. The viewers love that, don’t you?” He was talking to the chat. “Yeah, see all those hearts. They’re cheering for you, little guy.”

I kicked harder, my toes scraping against the lining of his stomach. The acid was starting to sting—a mild burn at first, then sharper. I sobbed, but the sound was lost in the gurgle of his digestion.

“He’s squirming like crazy,” Eric narrated, his voice full of amusement. “Look at that belly. Pregnant, right? I’ll be showing for a couple of hours. Some of you asked if I’m going to keep it in frame the whole time. Yes, absolutely. I want to see the final result.”

He rubbed his stomach in slow, circular motions, and the movement inside me sloshed the acid around. I felt a wave of nausea, but there was nothing in my stomach to bring up.

“You’re digesting so nicely,” he whispered, perhaps forgetting the stream for a moment. Then louder: “Okay, let’s see if we can get a good angle. Can you roll over for the camera, sweetheart?”

I didn’t have a choice. His muscles shifted, and I was tumbled into a new position, my back pressing against the front wall of his belly. From out there, I must have looked like a moving lump under his skin.

“There we go. Perfect. See that bulge? That’s his head. And that one there—that’s his ass.” He laughed. “God, you guys are eating this up. Literally.”

I lost track of time in the darkness and heat. The burning grew stronger, the walls tighter. Every breath was a struggle against the weight of his stomach pressing down on my lungs. I tried to pray, but the words dissolved into moans.

Eric kept talking. “I think he’s slowing down. The kicking is getting weaker. That’s the digestion taking over. He’ll be asleep soon, and then… well, you know. The final process.” He paused. “Some of you are asking about the taste. Honestly? A bit like chicken, but sweeter. You can taste the fear, too. It’s a delicacy.”

I was fading. The acid had turned my skin raw, and my thoughts were fragmenting. The last thing I heard was his voice, soft and satisfied.

“Thank you for the meal, babe. You were the best DoorDash I ever ordered.”

Cw: vore

The studio lights blaze down on me, hot and unrelenting, as the audience cheers. I'm strapped to a massive prep table in the center of the set, heart pounding like a drum in my chest. Piper bounces into view, her curly hair bouncing with her, that infectious grin plastered on her face. She's in her signature apron over a tight blouse, sleeves rolled up, looking every bit the bubbly celebrity chef. "Hey, everybody! Welcome back to Piper's Kitchen, where we cook up something special every time! Today, we've got our star ingredient right here—fresh, wriggling, and ready to make the ultimate dish! Say hi to our main course!"

The crowd erupts. I thrash against the restraints holding my wrists and ankles, yelling, "No! Let me go! This isn't funny!" But Piper just laughs, that quick, chatty laugh of hers. "Aw, look at him squirm! That's the freshness we love. First things first—gotta unwrap our little package. No wrappers on prime cuts!"

She grabs the hem of my shirt with both hands and yanks upward, the fabric ripping easily under her grip. Cool air hits my bare chest, and I buck wildly. "Stop! Please, Piper, don't do this!" Her fingers hook into my pants next, tugging them down my legs in one swift pull, boxers and all. I'm exposed now, naked under the glaring lights, skin prickling with goosebumps as the audience whoops. She folds my clothes neatly and tosses them aside like discarded packaging. "There we go! All natural, no additives. Feel that? That's quality right there."

Piper pats my thigh, her hand warm and firm, then reaches for coils of thick kitchen twine from the counter. "Time to truss this bird up proper. Can't have him flopping around during prep!" She loops the twine around my ankles first, pulling tight until my legs are bound together from foot to knee. I kick futilely, but she's strong, yanking another length around my thighs. "Hey! Untie me! This is insane!" She ignores my pleas, wrapping more around my wrists behind my back, then cinching a final cord from elbows to knees, folding me into a compact bundle. My muscles strain, but I'm helpless, trussed like a roast, ass and cock on full display to the cameras.

"Perfect! Now, seasoning time—gotta make him pop!" She dips her hands into a bowl of olive oil, rubbing it between her palms before slathering it over my skin. Her fingers glide across my chest, pinching my nipples as she massages in the slick oil, then down my stomach, over my hips. I shudder, humiliated, as she coats my cock and balls, stroking firmly. "Mmm, nice and glossy. A little salt..." She sprinkles coarse sea salt from a shaker, grains sticking to the oil on my abs and thighs. Pepper follows, ground fresh, the sharp scent filling my nose. "And herbs! Rosemary, thyme—rub 'em right in." She crushes fresh sprigs and smears the fragrant paste across my shoulders, down my back where she flips me briefly, her thumbs digging into my ass cheeks.

The audience oohs and aahs. Piper steps back, wiping her hands on her apron. "Look at that shine! Our ingredient is prepped and primed. But you know what makes this dish unforgettable? The Piper special—swallowed whole, just like that! No chewing, no mess. Straight to the tummy for the best digestion. Ready, folks? Episode wrap-up swallow!"

Panic surges. "No, Piper! Don't! I'll do anything—please!" She scoops me up effortlessly, my bound body cradled in her arms like a loaf of bread. Her skin is warm against my oiled flesh, her breath hot on my face as she lifts me toward her mouth. The cameras zoom in. Her lips part wide, impossibly wide, saliva glistening on her tongue. "Down the hatch!"

She tilts her head back and pushes my feet-first into her mouth. Wet heat engulfs my toes, her tongue sliding under my soles, tasting the salt and oil. I scream as she sucks me deeper, lips stretching around my calves, cheeks bulging. Her throat muscles ripple, gulping hard—glurk—pulling my knees inside. The pressure is immense, slick walls squeezing my thighs as she swallows again, my cock brushing her tongue. She moans around me, the vibration humming through my body, and tilts further. Another powerful gulp drags my hips in, her teeth grazing my skin harmlessly. Darkness closes in as her mouth seals over my chest, tongue lapping at my oiled torso.

One final, massive swallow—ULP—and I'm gone, plummeting down her esophagus in a tight, pulsing tube of flesh. Muffled cheers from the audience fade as I squeeze through her sphincter into her stomach. I splash into a shallow pool of warm acids, the twine holding as I curl fetal in the cramped sac. The walls undulate gently, churning me in the stinging liquid that tingles my skin. Piper's voice booms around me, distorted: "Whew! What a meal. Thanks for tuning in, fam! See you next time on Piper's Kitchen!"

Applause thunders through her body. I pound weakly on the yielding walls. "Let me out! Piper!" But she just pats her belly with a satisfied burp. "Set's a wrap! Lights out, crew. Man, that hit the spot—feels so full and feisty in there."

Her body shifts as she walks offstage, each step sloshing me side to side in the rising juices. Heartbeat thuds steadily around me, her breathing deep and content. "Hey, producer! Great show—ratings gonna spike. Grab my stuff; heading to the green room." Doors click, footsteps echo. She sinks into a couch—thump—and I tumble, acids bubbling higher, burning my skin now, prickling like pins.

Piper sighs happily. "Mmm, settling in nice. Little kicks—love that. Time for my post-show snack." Fabric rustles; she munches something crunchy—chips?—crumbs patter against the stomach walls, mixing into the slurry. Her hand rubs circles over her belly. "Keep struggling, sweetie; tenderizes you perfect."

She chats on her phone, voice vibrating through me. "Yeah, Mom, just wrapped. Swallowed a live one today—super fresh. Tastes amazing digesting. Heading home soon for a nap." Laughter jiggles me. Car door slams; engine hums as she drives. Music plays softly, bass thumping in her chest. Traffic horns blare outside, distant.

At home, keys jingle. She kicks off shoes—thud—pours a drink, ice clinking. "Ahh, wine hits different with a full gut." Gulps echo, liquid splashing over me, diluting the acids temporarily. But then she stretches out on the couch, TV flicking on—some sitcom laugh track. Her stomach groans loudly, contracting harder, kneading me into mush. Pain flares as flesh softens, bones ache.

"Oof, active one. Good thing—breaks down faster." She yawns hugely, the sound booming. Footsteps to bedroom; sheets rustle as she strips, climbs into bed naked. Her body heat intensifies, walls pulsing rhythmically. "Night night, ingredient. Sweet dreams while you melt." Breathing slows to snores, heartbeat lulling like a deadly rhythm.

Hours pass in agony. Acids rise, dissolving twine first—strands snap, letting limbs flail weakly in the soup. Piper shifts in sleep, rolling me under her weight, pressure crushing. Morning light filters somehow; she wakes with a stretch. "Mmm, breakfast digested nicely. Feel lighter already." Burps again, acrid gas escaping. Shower runs—water drums on skin outside, but inside, sloshing intensifies.

She dresses, humming. "Gym time! Worked off that meal quick." Car again, then weights clank—grunts and heavy breaths shake me. What's left of me sloshes, breaking down further, senses fading in the hot, churning dark. Her cheerful voice fades to a satisfied mumble: "Best ingredient yet. Who's next?"