*blushes*

Imps thrive in dark, enclosed spaces like burrows and caves. What's an ogre's stomach but a warm, squishy cave? XD

A man groaning and panting as he's strapped down to a table and TRYING to squirm and thrash but he can't escape the discomfort in his middle as some poor morsel squirms inside. He can't even help them either, thanks to the metal collar around his neck

You go to the Duke to get supplies from time to time, and for as long as you can remember you've been fascinated by his enormous belly. Sometimes, on the days when you arrive to the caravan after he's taken his midday meal, his belly is especially firm and round and you're able to catch a glimpse of him rubbing it fondly, and stifling belches with the side of his hand when he thinks nobody's looking. Sometimes, most thrillingly of all, sometimes you swear you see the movement of something living trapped under all that fat.

It's not proper to have the kind of thoughts you've been having about the merchant. The church teaches that being devoured is a painful and bloody punishment for transgression, but you can't help but think that the Duke would be different. When the mountain winters are cold, especially, you fantasise about how warm it would be to be swallowed up.

You thought for years he didn't notice, but of course he did- the Duke notices everything. The confirmation comes one day when you're the only customer to the emporium. He burps, quietly but still enough that you can hear, and laughs apologetically.

"Oh, excuse me!" he says, jovial as ever, "I'm afraid my dinner is still disagreeing with me."

The last part of the apology is given in a knowing tone, as his hand rubs circles on his bloated stomach. You see the faintest shape of a hand, or maybe a knee, press outwards through the globe of exposed flesh sitting in his lap.

You stammer out something about not minding, sounding more flustered than you intend to.

"But," he sighs, still rubbing his belly, which audibly groans as it processes the mass within. "It was a filling meal otherwise, and it will be a while yet until I'm hungry again."

He looks over at you, judging your reaction. He can tell that you understand his meaning, that he says this both as a comfort and an indirect invitation.

"You're not the first to have had these fascinations, you know," he continues. "And far be it from me to deny anyone their desires. Such a rare and wonderful thing it is, to find a meal that enjoys being eaten."

You think on that for a moment, and tell him the truth- as dear as that fantasy is to you, you'd have to think before acting on it. The Duke nods understandingly, with a good-natured chuckle.

"The customer is always right, of course," he says. "And I apologise for my boldness. It's just that..." He trails off, looking you over, a hungry glint in his eye and a hand still on his belly. "I have always thought you looked exceptionally well-fed."

The compliment catches you off guard and makes your face flush. You pay for your goods and exchange thanks.

"Do think about it," he says, as you're leaving. "You might enjoy the chance to be part of something bigger than yourself. My schedule is open for breakfast tomorrow, if the curiosity gets the better of you. And if it does...I can guarantee that afterwards, you'll be warm and comfortable, and you'll have no troubles at all."

You do think on it, in fact it's all you can think of for the rest of the day.

The next morning you arrive at the town square again, wearing only thin clothes despite the chill. The Duke is waiting, sipping a hot tea. You could swear you can hear his belly rumble at the sight of you, like a kept tiger. The merchant clasps his fat hands together and beams.

"Ah, my guest finally arrives!" he calls. Then, in a low, sensual rumble as you approach- "And thank goodness, I'm positively starving."

He extends a hand and helps you climb up onto the caravan. Up close you can really appreciate the sheer size of him- there's barely space for you to stand with how much space he takes up.

"Good. Unlike the other predators in this village, I don't bite," he explains with a smile. "I handle my meals with the utmost care."

His stomach rumbles again, sending a ripple through his enormous gut. He gives it a sharp, scolding tap.

"It's quite impatient today," he says. "So perhaps we'll dispense with any further niceties. May I?"

You offer your arms first. The Duke licks his lips, and his mouth opens wide.

***

When the last of you slips past the Duke's lips, he closes them, and with one final gulp you slide down into his gut. He belches, then leans back in his seat with a long, satisfied groan, caressing his stretched belly with both hands.

"Oh, marvelous," he pants, from both the exertion of swallowing and the ecstasy of fullness. "I knew I was right about you. How delicious you are...how wonderfully you've filled me up."

You move around carefully, just a limb at a time, testing how far the walls of your fattened cage will stretch. There's not much room at all- the Duke's incredible weight keeps you confined. Still, the little movement you can manage is still enough to draw out a moan of pleasure from the Duke.

"Wonderful," he exhales, squeezing you through the wall of flesh. "Ahh, my lively little morsel...I wish I could have you squirming around in there forever, but you'll be digesting before too long, and oh...I can just tell already that you're going to digest so well."

You continue to gently push back against your confines, and The Duke continues to grope you through his stomach, all the while murmuring sweetly, almost incoherently, about how filling you are, how he can still taste you on his tongue, how fat you'll make him, how much he'll cherish every inch you add to his prodigious gut. Even as the realisation that you're never getting out of here sets in, it would be a lie to say that you don't ache with need hearing him praise you like that. Maybe this is what you were made for - just filling the stomach of a gluttonous merchant.

You could both keep going for hours, but the Duke is finally broken out of his trance by the chime of a distant clock tower.

He clears his throat, regaining his composure a little. His hand goes to his breast pocket for a handkerchief, which he uses to first dab the corners of his mouth, then his reddened, sweat-tinged brow. He sets to re-tying his bow-tie and re-buttoning as many buttons as he can manage that have been forced undone by the swell of his gut. He'd hate to let a customer see him so debauched this early.