Cw: unwilling prey, semi unwilling pred, digestion implied
At first, it's funny, just a silly accident.
You hadn't meant to swallow them—really, it was just a stupid accident. One second they were... well it doesnt matter
and the next… well. Reflexes took over.
Now they’re curled up inside you, shifting awkwardly, a littler grossed out, pressing at the walls of your stomach with hesitant hands.
"Wow," they laugh, a little breathless. "This is weird. But, uh, let's figure out how to—"
Then it happens. A ripple, deep in your core. A slow, deliberate knead of muscle, drawing tight around the warm body inside you. The first trickle of heat. the unmistakable prickle of acid leaking out as your stomach prepared to digest. Your breath hitches.
"Shit," you exhale, clutching your middle as your gut tightens again, this time with more purpose. A thick, rolling churn stirs in your belly, massaging the weight inside you.
Your stomach has realised something: there’s prey in it. And it’s considering its options.
There is one most favourable option.
"Uh, hey." Their voice is still light, but there’s an edge to it now. "I felt that. That was—is that digestion?"
You don't answer. You’re too caught up in the sensation. Warmth unfurls in you, something deep and curious and good.
Your gut clutches down, squeezing, squeezing, coaxing the meal inside into something softer, more compliant, something absorbable. You can feel the delicate details of their body against your stomach lining, how the heat and slick pressure intends on shaping them. Deleting the details. Breaking them down into something simplier.
It sends a shiver down your spine. Your hands drift to your belly, pressing, rubbing slow circles against the rounded swell.
The more you knead, the more intricate sensations you discover.
"Dude." There’s real unease in their voice now. A frantic shove from inside you.
"Snap out of it. This is funny and all, but get me out before—"
Your stomach cuts them off, rippling with a hungry, greedy glorp. It clenches down hard, pressing them tighter into its sticky embrace.
You barely stifle a moan at the feeling. Your breath is shaky.
"God, this is—this is really weird, but it feels—"
"Don't say it feels good."
Your hands push deeper into your belly, fingertips kneading, chasing the sensation of their squirming body as your gut gurgles over them.
Each movement makes it better—your stomach is reacting to their struggles, squeezing tighter, rewarding you with a fresh flood of heat.
They’re wriggling more, pushing at your stomach walls, but every motion just stirs up more of that sticky pleasure.
"Okay, no, you have to fight this!" They sound breathless now, the pressure growing heavier on them. "You don’t want to digest me, right?"
You shouldn't. But the weight of them inside you—their body squishing and shifting under your stomach's steady kneading—has you shuddering.
You can't help it; you sink lower, pressing your middle into the bed, letting the pressure sink them deeper into the hot, clenching hold of your gut.
The sound slips out before you can stop it. A shaky, drawn-out exhale.
"…Hey," their voice is smaller now, and you can hear the realization creeping into it. "Hey, no, you have to stop this, okay? You can fight it. Just stop—stop kneading your stomach, stop pressing down on me, please—"
Your stomach gurgles in reply, tight and content. You know, with an awful, sinking certainty, that you should be resisting. That you should be fighting against this feeling. This isnt something you can stop. Youve never felt this way before, and its too much for you to handle.
Your breath is coming in shallow, shaky gasps now, your entire body trembling with the sensation blooming deep in your gut. Each clench, each slow ripple of muscle working over the prey inside you, sends another wave of pleasure up your spine, warm and drugging. You have to try, you have to do something, or at least you have to buy some time, to clear your head, before its too late.
But every time you feel your prey - your friend, wriggle inside of you, each flutter against your skin, against your tender insides, it makes it harder to focus on your values.
"D-don't struggle," you whisper, voice thin and wrecked. Your hands tighten over the taut curve of your stomach, rubbing, kneading. "It—it feels too good. You’re just—hah—stimulating me more."
A choked sound from inside you. "Are you kidding me?!"
The jolt of movement sends your stomach into a frenzy, rippling around them, clutching down with greedy, squeezing pressure. The heat inside you surges, thickening, your gut working faster, kneading them deeper into its clinging folds. Your body reacts, your instincts set off like a tripwire.
You bite back a moan, barely stifling the shaky pleasure that bubbles up in your throat.
"Oh, fuck—" They panic. You can feel it. Their instincts take over, and suddenly they’re thrashing, pressing, pushing against your stomach walls with all their strength.
Your brain flickers a brief realisation of the irony. Yours and your preys instincts acting in perfect discord.
And the overstimulation is delicious. A shudder wracks your frame as you press both hands to your gut, desperate to keep up with the overwhelming sensation.
Your fingers sink into your belly, rubbing deep, coaxing, encouraging—
"Ohhh, that’s—" You bite your lip, barely keeping yourself together. "You're making it worse, you’re just making it—hahh—faster…"
Your stomach glorps, rolling tight waves of muscle over the struggling meal inside. It’s learning about them, molding to them, working them down into something soft and pliant.
And eventually, something liquid, to be pumped further into your digestive tract. Something you deeply look forward to.
"STOP RUBBING YOUR STOMACH!"
Your hips shift as you curl around your gut, pressing down, needing more.
"I—I can’t help it," you gasp, barely able to speak through the sheer, heady sensation.
"I—I'm sorry, I just—it feels so… so good…"
They don't stop squirming, never giving you even a second to try and recover.
Their overwhelming fear, and your overwhelming pleasure means neither of you can stop Your instincts are louder than logic. And unfortunately, your stomach is the only one who knows exactly what to do in this situation.
Your hands circle in quick, desperate motions over your gut, trying to help it digest your friend.
despite yourself—despite your friendship, and the consequences you can barely make out through the fog of euphoria--despite everything—you murmur a quiet, breathless, "I'm sorry."
Then you press your belly deeper, harder into the mattress, and groan as digestion really begins.
