Flesh-manipulator Prey Sitting On Your Lap, Caressing Your Body, And Verbally Guiding You Through The

*heavy sigh*

thousandth time posting this but throwing it into the tags at the risk of my own sanity to make my point:

yes, sfw vore is still a kink. yes, even if it’s completely nonsexual, it is still a kink, and you should not be talking to minors about it, nor putting yourself on a pedestal above other kink/fetish blogs for being nsx. you have a kink. it’s nsx, but it’s a kink.

this is not a safe environment for minors. end of sentence. it was always a fetish community - you don’t get to claim it as this suddenly safe space where talking about vore is suddenly a normal interaction to have with a teenager. that’s fucking weird.

you have a kink. own it.

Reblog this if you’re trans or otherwise Not Cis and are into feedism or chub play

I want to meet more cool people :v

You made probably the biggest mistake an intern could make.

The CEO was still yelling. Muffled, furious, definitely still yelling.

<"You’re fired,"> they bark, their voice vibrating through your stomach walls. <"You hear me? Fired! The second I get out of here, I swear to god—">

You press both hands into the firm swell of your belly, trying to calm it, trying to calm yourself.

"Please," you say, voice tight, "can you—can you stop yelling?"

<"Stop yelling?"> they snap. <"You ate me, you little freak!">

you wince.

<"I am the leader of this company, I should not be sitting in some intern’s gut!">

You groan, curling further into yourself, shifting your weight on the supply closet floor.

It’s not comfortable—the CEO is heavy, far heavier than anything you’ve ever swallowed before. Your stomach is stretched to its absolute limit, packed full, groaning under the pressure.

"I panicked," you mutter, rubbing small circles over your middle, trying to ease the ache.

trying to will your stomach into speeding things up.

<"You panicked?"> The walls of your gut ripple as the CEO shoves against them, hard.

<"Spilling coffee on me is panicking. Forgetting your instructions is panicking. Eating me whole is--!">

Your stomach clenches down, cutting them off. You gasp.

The CEO swears, voice slipping-- nervous now, and you can feel their breathing- fast, shallow.

<"You need to let me out. Now.">

You swallow thickly. "I—I don’t think I can."

The CEO stills.

<"What?>

"I don’t—I don’t know how to... i dont know how to stop it."

You stomach gurgles.

There’s a moment of silence. Then the CEO kicks, hard enough that you yelp.

<"You little shit,"> they growl.

<"You’re going to regret this.">

"I already do," you groan, kneading into the firm swell of your belly.

The pressure inside won’t ease up, your gut is clenching. Relentlessly. Processing.

The CEO tries to push again, but it’s weaker this time. Your stomach is winning.

It always wins

<"Please,"> they say suddenly, softer now, less rage, more desperation. <"You don’t want to do this. I can fix this—I’ll—I won’t fire you, okay? I’ll promote you, even. You don’t have to—">

Your stomach groans, hot and heavy.

You shut your eyes, breathe in deep, and keep rubbing at your belly, feeling it settle.

---

You wake up to darkness.

For a disorienting moment, you don’t know where you are—only that the air is stale, your back is sore, and you must have had an extraordinary meal recently.

Then it clicks. The supply closet. The CEO.

The weight still pressing against your middle, no longer struggling, no longer yelling—only a warm, thick mass, settled deep in your gut.

You bolt upright, gasping, your belly sloshing with the movement.

Shit.

You went into a food coma.

You passed out in the middle of digesting your boss.

Panic shoots through you, and you scramble to your feet, wincing at the dull ache of your overworked stomach.

Your dress shirt is wrinkled, sticking to your skin, and when you press a hand against the swell of your gut, it’s still soft.

You push open the door, slipping into the dim hallway, blinking, bleary and disoriented. Still waking up.

Freezing as a voice calls out—

"Hey. Where’ve you been?"

Your head snaps up, eyes wide.

A coworker—one of the assistants, leans against the front desk, looking at you with mild curiosity.

You fumble for words. "I—I was just—”

"You look awful." They frown, eyes flicking over your disheveled form—mussed hair, flushed face... where your stomach pushes forward, heavy with its stolen meal.

Your gut shifts, contents pressing lower, and you have to bite back a groan.

"You should go home. It’s late." They say.

Your heart hammers. You nod quickly, very quickly.

"Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. I—I should go."

You turn on your heel and walk—fast, stiff, legs fuzzy with pins and needles.

Forcing yourself not to clutch at your stomach, even as it groans with each step.

The office is empty, the halls quiet. No one else is here. Except for a few security guards who ignore you.

Your belly sways heavily with each movement, the remnants of the CEO being churned down into something useful.

you step out of the lobby doors, into the cool nighttime air. You breathe it in, deeply. You look up and you can't see any stars.

You don't know what tomorrow will look like for you. But at least you won't be needing breakfast.

i’m a horny asexual - of course im into vore

Part 2 of the stuffing challenge

Things are starting to get a bit tight

ppl have gotta find a better visual shorthand for cops being useless than fatness

In the world of ozempic being fat feels more than ever like a political statement 😌

Fat bodies are fucking beautiful

guy who has really bad pred cravings. and also t hunger. and the munchies.

everyones gonna know what you are, idiot.

every day i am grateful that weed has the mythical side effect of making you deliciously hungry… it’s normally the first thing that hits for me and oufhfhfjkfjf it’s so good. i remember one time i took a gummy and just a few minutes in my stomach made this deep and rumbling growl deep inside my belly like it was warning me for the hunger to come… i love love looooove weed hunger