Esophagogastroduodenoscopy

really big teddy bear

house that loves you

kindhearted pocket universe

creepy creature that needs a friend

friend who wants to be a creepy creature

So this is a question I'm always happy to answer. So, the persona/form I always like to present myself as is a robot girl, her name is Dulce. And in place of a bellybutton, she has a cute little USB port. She can plug cables into there and charge all her devices with her own internal power.

the completed wolf and rabbit series!

our dance (hunger) / safety behind fangs / past your core / warmth within you

(18+ blog! minors and ageless blogs DNI)

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.

(observer x unwilling-to-willing pred x unwilling prey)