Mangia il Mondo - Italian Restaurant
If you love vore stories, check out my upcoming book, "Gaining and You; Varied Opinions, Recitations, Etc." If you sent me a screenshot of your preorder receipt before May 12 and email, I'll send you a pdf of 6 bonus short stories! Thank you to those who already have! For now, here's one I wrote up quickly after having a similiar dream.
Carter waited for a while outside the restaurant for his date, but she was running late. To keep the reservation at the nice Italian restaurant, he sat down by himself and ordered one of those “a little bit of everything” appetizer platters.
Between checking his phone for updates, and grazing on some caprese salad, Carter got out a notebook and continued writing his poetry. He had thought to surprise his date with a poem about her, but he kept rewriting and modifying it.
By the time he had finished all of the mushroom arancini and focaccia, he received the sad text letting him know that his date would have to reschedule. Carter typed out a response to let her know he’d be there if she could get away to still make it.
“Some minestrone for the gentleman,” a server said, elegantly dropping down a bowl of soup. “And a sampling of our signature chicken parm variation.”
“Oh, I didn’t order -” Carter began.
“You don’t like it?” the server said. “Yes, you eat this now.”
“Oh, okay,” Carter replied, “Thank you.”
Little did Carter know, he bore a striking resemblance to a famous food critic, Mike Mondo, also known as “L'uomo che mangia il mondo.”
In the kitchen the restaurant manager was shouting commands to the cooks and servers, saying, “Mondo is here, a whole hour early, it is time to cook like you have never cooked before!”
Carter was confused why the servers kept on bringing him more and more plates of food he had not ordered, but he was in too deep to stop eating. He didn’t want to offend the servers and the manager who came to check in on him, who looked dejected when Carter said, “I don’t know that my hunger matches the volume of food here.”
“Mondo is famous for stuffing himself until his shirt buttons pop open,” the manager told the kitchen staff. “We cannot relent until that stomach is pushing the table over. We must not allow a single moment of rest for Mondo, keep the dishes coming. Do not let him write a bad review in his notebook!”
Carter was getting a bit concerned now. None of the other customers seemed to be getting the feedee treatment. He picked up his glass of water, and the moment there was a vacancy on the table, a server placed down a bowl of fusilli. Having nowhere to put down his water glass, the server took it away. Carter looked helpless, considering trying to make a break for it… but then again… pasta is delicious.
He started switching between plates for each bite, to help with the palette fatigue, considering the texture of each of the various pastas and their contents, as well as the varying styles of breads and meats. The three-cheese tortellini baked with chicken and olive oil was his favorite, though the pappardelle was lovely, and the ravioli could never miss. The pizza was a bit scratchy on his throat without the water, but somehow reading his mind, the server returned with a fresh glass of water with lemon the moment he looked thirsty.
“Would the gentlemen have a preference for desserts?” the server asked.
“Desserts?” Carter asked, panting, “As in plural?”
“Of course,” the server replied.
“Where do you expect me to put them?” Carter tried to joke, “My shirt buttons are straining.”
“It is not enough until the button pops,” the server said softly, before bending over, grabbing a bowl of penne and hand feeding Carter.
“Mmmhmmph?” Carter replied, as the server dumped the whole bowl of pasta down his throat. Carter swallowed hard, took a deep breath and continued, saying “You want me to pop my shirt buttons? I can just undo them if that's what you want.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” the server replied, “You come to eat, and eat you shall.”
“I shouldn’t have a stretching shirt,” Carter said to himself, resigning himself to a long night of digestion and tossing back some wine. Carter had a staring contest with a bowl of shrimp scampi for a long while.
“You are unhappy with the selections?” asked the restaurant manager.
“Something different, something extraordinary?” the manager said.
“I was gonna say a moment to digest,” Carter replied.
“I have been thinking,” the manager explained, “I know just the thing. To give you a meal no restaurant could ever have been so bold as to give you before.”
“I think you already did that.”
“Open wide, my good gentleman,” the manager said, “For the largest inside-out cannoli in the world.”
“Largest?” Carter asked, gulping down his apprehension.
The servers came together and put a tablecloth in front of the manager for a moment. The cloth dropped to reveal the manager wrapped in a thin doughy paper, with white cannoli cream pooling out of it. The manager himself was at the center of a giant cannoli-like monstrosity.
“I’m hallucinating, aren’t I?” Carter said, watching the servers lift the manager off of the ground and set him at a horizontal angle. “Quando a Roma,” Carter sighed, opening his mouth wide as the manager’s cannoli cream-covered feet got shoved down his throat. Carter swallowed, and felt his back get pushed back against his chair as the servers force-fed an entire human being wrapped in dough to him.
“Even one said to eat the world must have not expected such a delicacy such as this,” the manager said. “To eat fine Italian food is one thing, but to make a fine Italian to be food is impressive, you must agree.”
“Mmmhhhhmmm,” Carter replied, as the manager’s thighs and hips slid past his maw. The dough with cream coming out of it slid down his well-primed throat. The servers marveled at Carter’s shirt, that still had not popped a single button, but was stretching to unimaginable lengths. The manager’s torso slid past Carter’s lips. The manager looked annoyed, not that he was getting eaten of his own free will, but that the man’s shirt was still stretching.
“Fetch the sfogliatelle and just keep stuffing them until we run out,” the manager commanded the servers. They nodded in understanding. The manager’s face slipped beyond Carter’s lips and the servers gave one last push on the manager’s head before stepping back to admire their work.
The manager settled in, wriggling around in Carter’s gut, and examining all of the food around him. The manager started kicking against the front of Carter’s stomach, in an attempt to get the shirt buttons to pop. They did not.
“Oof, stop that,” Carter said, “Food doesn’t fight back this much, usually.”
“Never be afraid of a little kick,” a server said, “Spice is the spice of life, as they say.”
“They don’t say that,” replied a new voice. A big man approached from the shadows, giving a slow clap. Carter was surprised to see a man looking like his long lost twin walking out into the light.
“There are two of them!” A server cried.
“We have enough for two,” another server said, “Man the stations!”
“Mind if I sit?” the big man said. “My name is Mike Mando.”
Carter opened his mouth to introduce himself, but instead all that came out was a great belch.
“The commitment to the satisfaction of their customers is admirable,” Mando said, “Yet somewhat delusional.”
“Not delusional! Inventive! Trend-setting! Inspirational! Sensational!” the manager exclaimed from inside Carter’s gut.
Mando, took one of the sfogliatelle from a server and inhaled its scent before placing the entire pastry in his mouth and crushing it with his hard palette and tongue.
“It is indeed sensational,” Mando said, “But not as sensational as that shirt. You must tell me, where did you get such an astoundingly stretchy shirt?”
“It’s a hand-me-down,” Carter burped out.
“Impossible,” Mando said, “I must have one.”
“You can have mine,” a server said, beginning to strip out of their shirt.
“No, take mine!” another server shouted.
“What is happening?” Carter mused, as servers began to strip and throw their clothes at Mando.
“No, I must get into a stretchy shirt like this mysterious man’s,” Mando said, gesturing to Carter and throwing one of the server’s shirts back at him. “If this man will not give me his shirt to get into, I shall get into this man so that I may wear the shirt by proxy.”
Before Carter could protest, Mando leapt to his feet and rent his own shirt off his chest. Mando wasted no time in pulling Carter’s jaw down. Carter felt like he was going to pop, yet somehow Mando wriggled his way down Carter’s throat. The manager helped, by grabbing Mando’s arms from the inside and helping to pull him down into the stomach. The servers grabbed the table and began pulling it back to help make room for Carter’s gut to balloon out in front of him as Mando’s legs passed Carter’s lips.
“Impossible,” said a server.
“The shirt buttons have not ripped,” said another.
“I must make the sacrifice.”
“I did not feed him sufficiently, so I must become the food.”
“It may be impossible, his shirt button may never rip.”
“But if I do not try, then does anything matter?”
“Please, no one else feed themself to me,” Carter burped out.
“It must be done,” said the server. The two servers continued fighting over who would feed themself to Carter.
Carter felt his stomach gurgle and groan under the immense weight of two large men and a mountain of pasta below. He felt dazed and dizzy, but he couldn’t let another man try to feed themself to him or he would for sure pop. If not his button, his stomach could definitely rupture at least, or so he thought. But if he could just fulfill their wish, they would stop.
Carter grabbed a simple piece of bread and brought it to his mouth, saying “Don’t fill up on bread.” It was harder to eat than Mando, with Carter being so full it was difficult to will his body to swallow anything else. The servers were getting closer now. Carter shoved the bread into his mouth and swallowed. He tried to flex his abs forward, but failed with them already begging so incredibly stretched out. The bread passed down through his esophagus and dropped past his stomach sphincter.
Then a single button popped open on Carter’s shirt.
Everyone cheered. The still-shirtless servers rushed forward, rubbing Carter's belly through the opening the button had revealed. The cooks and chefs came out of the kitchen and everyone laughed and ate the rest of the food on Carter’s table.
“We’re still waiting to pay,” a couple said with a sigh. The servers continued to ignore them.
Amid the hustle and bustle of the celebrating kitchen staff, Carter’s date walked through the doors. Carter belched. His date looked wide-eyed at the scene.
“Hooray for Carter! The new Mando!” the servers cried out, dancing around him and wrapping spaghetti over his head like a maypole. After a while the kitchen staff began to make their way back to the kitchen and left Carter with his date.
“Sorry, I didn’t think I could make it, but rearranged some things,” she said. “I had no idea you were so…”
“He is the most impressive food critic!” the manager shouted from inside Carter’s stomach.
“No, he ate the most important food critic!” Mando replied.
“Don’t blame me,” Carter said, “You fed yourself to me.”
“This is true,” Mando said. “Carter, could you send a review out for me? I may be in here awhile.”
“Sure thing,” Carter said. “Five stars. At least I’m seeing five stars in my vision right now. I think I’m so full I might faint.”
“Five stars?” said the ignored couple. “We’ve been sitting here forever and no one’s brought us a check!”
yousharknotpass
romaincrisis
2087
stormborns
titsay
