vore me more

[vorememore22]

"You're telling me this is not going to make me shit myself?" Matt Damon squinted at the tiny blue pill pinched between his fingers, rolling it like a suspect Skittle. The lab tech—some intern named Javier with shaky hands and a nervous laugh—nodded too fast.

"Totally safe, Mr. Damon! Just a mild metabolic enhancer. Like, uh, green tea extract but science-y."

Matt shrugged and dry-swallowed it. Three seconds later, the world lurched violently. The ceiling rushed away, Javier's sneakers became skyscrapers, and his own voice came out as a strangled squeak. "Mild?!"

Ricardo Corbucci hadn't planned on sitting on a Hollywood A-lister that afternoon. He was just trying to enjoy his post-lunch espresso in the studio lounge when his ass met something suspiciously lumpy beneath the leather couch cushion. A muffled scream. Ricardo stood so fast his knee cracked like a walnut.

"Dios mío—" He flipped the cushion. There, sprawled like a disoriented action figure, was a very tiny, very furious Matt Damon. Ricardo's shock melted into a slow, wicked grin. "Well. This is not how I expected my Thursday to go."

Ricardo's grin widened as he watched the tiny, disheveled Matt Damon struggle to his feet on the cushion. The actor's miniature fists clenched, his voice barely audible but no less furious. "You—you sat on me!"

Ricardo chuckled, leaning closer until his shadow swallowed Matt whole. "And now I think I'll do worse." Before Matt could react, Ricardo's fingers closed around him, lifting him up like a piece of popcorn. Matt kicked and shouted, but the movement only made Ricardo laugh harder. "Relax, pequeño. You'll warm me up from the inside."

With a casual flick of his wrist, Ricardo tossed Matt into his mouth. The actor tumbled past his teeth, landing on his tongue with a wet slap. The taste of designer cologne and espresso filled Matt's senses as Ricardo's tongue pressed him against the roof of his mouth, savoring the squirm. "Mmm. Tastes like Oscar nominations."

Down he went, sliding helplessly into the dark, wet heat of Ricardo's throat. The swallow was deliberate, almost theatrical—a gulp that sent Matt tumbling into the churning depths below. Ricardo patted his stomach with a satisfied sigh, feeling the tiny thrashing inside. "Ah, perfecto. You're making my digestion very… active today."

Matt's world was a hot, slick prison of muscle and acid. The walls pulsed around him, squeezing tighter with each passing second. He braced himself against the stomach lining, but it was no use—Ricardo's belly gave a loud, rumbling growl, the sound vibrating through Matt's entire body. Above him, Ricardo's voice boomed, amused and unconcerned. "Better get comfortable, amigo. You're not getting out of this one."

Matt's screams were swallowed by the thick, humid air of Ricardo's stomach, his tiny fists pounding against the slick, undulating walls with all the force of a gnat batting at a windshield. Above him, Ricardo's chuckle reverberated through the chamber like distant thunder, his hand lazily stroking his own abdomen as if soothing a pet. "Such a feisty little estrella de cine," he mused, pressing his palm down just hard enough to make Matt stumble sideways into a pool of churning acid.

The heat was unbearable. Matt coughed, his lungs burning as much from the fumes as from the sheer indignity of his situation. "Let me—cough—the hell out!" he wheezed, scrambling to avoid another gurgling surge of digestive juices. But Ricardo only hummed in response, shifting in his seat to let out a deep, satisfied belch that sent a fresh wave of hot air rushing past Matt like a desert wind.

Ricardo stretched lazily, arching his back until his spine popped, then settled deeper into the leather couch with a contented sigh. His fingers drummed against the swell of his stomach where Matt’s tiny form was putting up a valiant—if utterly futile—fight. "Such energy," Ricardo murmured, kneading his palm in slow circles over the squirming lump. "You’d think after three action movies in one year, you’d be tired of kicking."

A particularly violent thrash made his belly jump. Ricardo chuckled, pressing down just enough to trap Matt against the slick stomach lining. The resulting muffled shout was music to his ears. "Ah, mi pequeño héroe," he cooed, tilting his head as another gurgle rose from his gut. "You’re making me nostalgic. Remember The Martian? All that… struggling." He punctuated the word with a sharp poke that sent Matt tumbling into a fresh pool of churning acids.

Matt’s fingers slipped against the slick stomach wall as Ricardo’s low chuckle vibrated through him like a subwoofer. "You know," Ricardo mused, his voice dripping with amusement, "they say method acting is immersive, but this—" He punctuated his sentence with a lazy pat to his belly, sending Matt sprawling again. "This is dedication."

A fresh wave of acidic chyme sloshed over Matt’s legs, searing through his designer pants. He gasped, clawing at the undulating flesh, only for Ricardo to tut disapprovingly. "Ah ah, no tearing the merchandise." A deep, gurgling groan echoed around Matt as Ricardo’s stomach clenched rhythmically, kneading him like dough. "Though I suppose you are the merchandise now, sí?"

The first searing wave hit Matt like a molten tide, dissolving the stitching on his sleeves before he could even scream. His thrashing only made it worse—every movement churned the acidic slurry around him, eating through fabric, then skin, then deeper. He barely registered the taste of his own blood mixing with the stomach juices before another violent contraction squeezed the air from his lungs.

Ricardo sighed above him, the sound reverberating through the fleshy walls like distant thunder. "Such a noisy snack," he murmured, kneading his stomach with deliberate, circular presses. Matt's world tilted violently as Ricardo shifted sideways on the couch, gravity pooling him into a fresh pocket of searing enzymes. He tried to cling to a fold of stomach lining, but his fingers came away slick with half-digested tissue—his own.

Ricardo's belly gave one final, satisfied gurgle as Matt's last coherent thought dissolved into the churning darkness. The acid had worked its way through muscle, then sinew, then bone—leaving nothing behind but a faint, bubbling hiss where Hollywood's golden boy had once struggled.

A lazy belch escaped Ricardo's lips as he stretched, fingers splayed over the now-still curve of his stomach. "Ahhh… that was a meal." He patted the taut flesh with a chef's pride, imagining the slurry of nutrients already coursing through his bloodstream. No more thrashing. No more muffled screams. Just the warm, contented silence of perfect digestion.

Ricardo leaned back into the couch cushions, eyes half-lidded with satisfaction. His belly gurgled softly—not the aggressive churn of earlier, but the gentle, post-meal murmur of a job well done. He traced idle circles over his abdomen, feeling the last remnants of Matt Damon dissolve into nothing more than calories and memories. "Mmm. Oscar-winning flavor," he mused, licking his lips as if he could still taste the actor's futile struggles.

[vorememore22]

"Spot my deadlift?" Kit asked, adjusting his grip on the barbell as he crouched low.

Ben Platt wiped his palms on his shorts and stepped behind him. "Yeah, but don't expect mercy if your form sucks."

Kit snorted, lifting the bar with a grunt. Ben watched the muscles in his back tighten, the sweat glistening under the gym’s harsh lights. He’d known Kit long enough to recognize the determination in his stance—always pushing, always hungry for more.

Then, something shifted.

A thought slithered into Ben’s mind, dark and sticky. His fingers twitched at his sides. Before he could question it, his hands were moving—not to steady Kit, but to his own waistband. The gym noises faded, replaced by the pulse in his ears.

Ben's breath hitched as his fingers curled around himself, the impulse twisting deeper than any rational thought. Kit was mid-rep, shoulders straining, utterly unaware—until Ben's other hand clamped down on his hip. "What the—" Kit's protest was cut short as something wet and impossibly strong yanked him forward. The barbell clattered to the floor.

The heat hit first. A slick, suffocating pressure enveloped Kit's head, shoulders, then chest, the muscles of Ben's shaft pulsing around him in waves. His own arms pinned uselessly at his sides, Kit kicked—once, twice—but the rhythm only seemed to spur Ben on. A groan vibrated through the walls of flesh as Kit's waist disappeared inch by inch into that impossible darkness, his sneakers scraping the rubber flooring before they, too, were swallowed whole.

Ben's head tipped back, his free hand braced against the squat rack. He could feel every squirm, every muffled shout as Kit became a thick, undulating bulge down his length. Hips stuttering, he palmed the shape of him, fingers sinking into the heated skin where Kit's shoulders strained against the confines. "Fuck—" The word came out ragged. His balls tightened, swelling impossibly fuller as Kit's form melted into them, the outline of a thrashing limb smoothing into liquid weight.

The gym's fluorescents glared down as Ben's climax ripped through him. Kit—now just a thick, churning load—pulsed hot in his grip before arcing across the room in thick ropes. Dumbbells shone under the spill, the weight bench dripping as Ben shuddered through the last of it, his own knees nearly giving out.

Silence. Then—distant footsteps in the hallway. Ben blinked at the mess, then down at himself, sticky and spent. A laugh bubbled up, half-hysterical, as he grabbed his towel. "Shit," he muttered, swiping at his forehead. The door creaked open behind him.

[vorememore22]

Ethan Nestor had never been good at tying shoelaces. At twenty-nine, he still fumbled with them like a kid late for school, fingers thick and clumsy. The left boot kept coming undone no matter how many times he yanked the loops tight.

Ethan's stomach let out a groan that sounded like a dying bear. Tyler paused mid-step on the trail, eyebrows raised. "Seriously? We ate twenty minutes ago."

Ethan stared at Tyler and licked his lips. Not in a creepy way—at least, he hoped not—but his mouth had gone dry as dirt, tongue sticking to the roof like old tape. Tyler frowned, shifting the weight of his backpack. "Dude," he said, slow and careful, like Ethan was a jumpy animal. "You good?"

Ethan's fingers twitched at his sides. The hunger wasn't just in his gut anymore—it crawled up his throat, hot and insistent, pressing against his teeth until they ached. Tyler took a step back, the heel of his boot catching on a root.

"You're not looking at me like I'm food, are you?" Tyler tried to laugh, but it cracked halfway out. Ethan could hear his pulse jumping in his neck, smell the sour tang of sudden sweat under the deodorant. His body moved before his brain caught up, lunging forward with a speed that shouldn't have been possible. Tyler screamed once—short, sharp—before Ethan's jaws unhinged with a wet pop and closed around his head.

The rest went down easier than Ethan expected. Shoulders, torso, legs—Tyler tasted like cheap sunscreen and panic, his kicks growing weaker as he slid deeper. Ethan's throat stretched obscenely, the outline of Tyler's thrashing form visible for one grotesque moment before vanishing behind a ripple of muscle. Then he was gone entirely, just a frantic bulge rounding out Ethan's middle as he collapsed onto his knees in the dirt.

Ethan's belly lurched with the frantic movements inside, a grotesque rhythm that pulsed against his ribs. He pressed a hand to the swell, fingers sinking into soft flesh as Tyler kicked violently against the confines of his stomach. The screams were muffled now, wet and desperate—like a man drowning in his own panic. Ethan exhaled, his breath shaky with laughter. "God, you're loud," he muttered, voice thick with amusement. "Bet you never thought you'd end up like this, huh?"

Tyler's elbow jabbed upward, distorting the curve of Ethan's gut in a sharp, jolting motion. Ethan gasped, doubling over slightly before forcing himself upright again. "Oh, come on," he wheezed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "You're making this harder than it has to be." Another muffled shriek bubbled up from inside him, accompanied by the unmistakable sound of fists pounding against slick, contracting muscle. Ethan groaned—not from pain, but from the sheer absurdity of it all. "Yeah, yeah," he said, patting his stomach like it was a misbehaving pet. "Keep fighting. See how far that gets you."

Ethan groaned, arching his back against the damp bark of a pine tree as Tyler's struggles intensified inside him. The frantic squirming sent waves of pressure through his swollen belly, each kick and elbow jabbing against sensitive inner walls in a way that made his breath hitch. His fingers trailed down his stomach, pressing just hard enough to elicit a muffled scream from within. "Fuck," he muttered, biting his lip as heat pooled low in his gut. The sensation was obscene—Tyler's desperate thrashing, the wet, sloshing noises of digestion already beginning—and Ethan couldn't help but grind against his own palm.

His zipper rasped open, fingers slipping past fabric to wrap around himself. The movement inside him stuttered, Tyler's weakening punches growing sporadic as his oxygen ran out. Ethan moaned, stroking in time with the contractions of his stomach, each ripple squeezing Tyler tighter. He imagined what it must look like—his friend curled fetal in the dark, skin slick with digestive fluids, lungs burning for air—and his grip tightened. "You feel *so* good," he panted, hips jerking into his fist. The bulge in his belly twitched weakly, Tyler's final attempts at resistance fading into sluggish twitches.

Ethan came with a choked gasp, head thumping back against the tree as pleasure crackled through him. His stomach clenched instinctively, a wet gurgle rising as Tyler's form was jostled by the convulsion. For a moment, there was silence—then a faint, bubbling whimper. Ethan laughed breathlessly, wiping his hand on his thigh. "Still alive in there?" He prodded the curve of his gut, grinning at the feeble shift in response. "Damn. You're stubborn." Another gurgle, louder this time, and Ethan exhaled, patting the taut swell. "Don't worry. Won't be long now."

Burrrrrrrrpppopp

The burp tore out of Ethan with the force of a small explosion—wet, thick, and tasting faintly of bile and the cheap trail mix Tyler had eaten hours ago. He clapped a hand over his mouth too late, the sound echoing off the trees around them. Or what was left of them, anyway. Ethan's stomach gurgled in response, a deep, satisfied noise as it finally finished its work. He patted the now-flat plane of his belly, fingers tracing the faint outline of ribs beneath skin. "Damn," he muttered. "That was... intense."

[vorememore22]

The trailer door clicked shut with a sound that wasn’t quite silence but close enough. Joe had practiced the motion three times earlier—just enough pressure to avoid the hinge’s whine, not so much that it’d slam. Inside, Gavin was sprawled across the couch, one arm dangling off the edge, his mouth slightly open. The script he’d been reading earlier lay crumpled under his hip.

Joe crouched beside him, close enough to smell the stale coffee on Gavin’s breath. He hesitated, then let his hand settle on Gavin’s thigh. The fabric of his jeans was warm. "Hey," Joe murmured, half hoping Gavin wouldn’t hear.

Gavin's breathing hitched—just slightly—when Joe's fingers tightened around his thigh. His eyelids fluttered, the slow, heavy blink of someone fighting sleep. Joe didn't move, didn't breathe, watching the exact moment awareness crept in. Gavin's body tensed beneath his palm, and then his eyes snapped open.

Joe's hand clamped over Gavin's mouth before he could make a sound. "Shh," he murmured, pressing down just enough to feel the heat of Gavin's startled exhale against his skin. The script crinkled under Gavin's shifting weight as he tried to sit up, but Joe leaned in, his knee nudging between Gavin's legs, pinning him to the couch.

Gavin’s muffled scream vibrated against Joe’s palm, but the sound was swallowed by the thick, oppressive air of the trailer. Joe leaned closer, his lips brushing the shell of Gavin’s ear. “Relax,” he whispered, and then his mouth opened wider—too wide, impossibly wide—jaw unhinging like a snake’s. Gavin’s eyes widened in horror as Joe’s throat yawned dark and wet before him, the heat of it radiating against his face.

There was no time to fight. Joe’s hands shifted, one gripping Gavin’s shoulder, the other cupping the back of his head, and then he pulled. Gavin’s head slid past Joe’s lips with a slick, obscene sound, his shoulders following as Joe’s throat stretched grotesquely to accommodate him. The fabric of Gavin’s shirt strained, then tore as Joe worked him deeper, his own body distending unnaturally. Gavin kicked, his boots scraping against the couch cushions, but Joe’s grip was unrelenting, his throat muscles pulsing rhythmically, drawing Gavin in inch by inch.

The world tilted as Gavin was engulfed completely, his vision swallowed by the dark, wet heat of Joe’s gullet. He thrashed, his movements growing sluggish as the tight, slick walls squeezed around him, pressing him deeper. The air was thick with the scent of stomach acid and something else—something raw and primal. Joe’s hands settled on his own distended belly, fingers splaying over the bulge where Gavin writhed beneath the skin. A low, satisfied groan rumbled through Joe’s chest as he rubbed circles into the taut flesh, savoring the desperate squirms beneath his palms.

Inside, Gavin’s limbs burned with exertion, his lungs screaming for air that wouldn’t come. The walls of Joe’s stomach contracted around him, hot and unyielding, the acids already seeping through his clothes, stinging his skin. He twisted, his elbow striking something soft—Joe’s inner wall—and the answering chuckle vibrated through him, the sound muffled but unmistakably smug. “Feels good, doesn’t it?” Joe murmured, his voice echoing oddly in the cramped space. His hands continued their slow, possessive kneading, fingers pressing in just enough to make Gavin gasp.

The rhythmic pulsing of Joe’s stomach around Gavin’s trapped body grew more insistent, each contraction dragging him deeper into the slick heat. Gavin’s struggles were weakening—his kicks now feeble twitches, his fingers clawing uselessly at the slick, living walls that encased him. Joe exhaled sharply, his own breath ragged as he watched the outline of Gavin’s writhing form beneath his stretched skin. The way Gavin’s body bucked against him, the way his muffled cries vibrated through his own flesh—it sent a jolt of heat straight to his groin.

Joe’s hips rolled forward instinctively, his erection pressing against the taut swell of his belly where Gavin was slowly dissolving. A groan tore from his throat as he ground against the curve, the friction deliciously obscene. He could feel Gavin’s movements inside him, the way his body spasmed as the acids ate through fabric and flesh alike. Joe’s fingers dug into his own distended stomach, nails leaving crescent marks in the stretched skin as he rutted against himself, chasing the sensation of Gavin’s last, desperate twitches.

Gavin’s consciousness flickered in and out, his vision swimming with dark spots as the air grew thicker, hotter. The acids burned, but worse was the way Joe’s body responded to his suffering—the way the walls clenched around him in time with Joe’s ragged moans. A fresh wave of panic surged through him as he felt the unmistakable press of Joe’s cock against the outer curve of his prison, the heat of it searing even through the layers of flesh between them. “N-no—” Gavin’s voice was a garbled, wet thing, lost in the squelch of digestion.

Joe’s breath came in ragged bursts, his fingers digging into the swollen curve of his stomach as Gavin’s final, feeble twitches sent sparks of pleasure shooting up his spine. The acids had done their work—Gavin’s movements were slower now, his resistance crumbling as his body melted into the slick, pulsing embrace of Joe’s gut. Joe groaned, his hips jerking forward as he rutted against the obscene bulge, the pressure of Gavin’s writhing form sending jolts of heat straight to his cock.

The trailer was silent except for the wet, rhythmic sounds of digestion and Joe’s own choked gasps. He could feel Gavin’s body giving way inside him, the last desperate kicks of his legs like the flutter of a dying moth against a windowpane. Joe’s stomach clenched around him, muscles squeezing in a slow, deliberate rhythm, milking every last shudder from Gavin’s dissolving form. A broken whimper escaped Joe’s lips as he pressed his palm flat against the taut skin, feeling the way Gavin’s ribs caved beneath the pressure, the way his spine arched one last time before going limp.

Then—nothing.

Joe exhaled, long and slow, his body still thrumming with the aftershocks of pleasure. His stomach was a heavy, swollen weight between his hips, the skin stretched taut and shiny with sweat. He ran a palm over the curve of it, fingertips tracing the faint ridges of Gavin’s spine still pressing against the underside of his flesh. It was already softer, though—less defined, the acids working quickly to break down bone and sinew into something more manageable. Joe groaned, letting his head fall back against the couch cushions, his other hand drifting lazily between his legs, still slick with precome.

[vorememore22]

Inbox a male pred and male prey and I'll try to make a story I'm NOT creative so sometimes will use ai if you hate that don't read this is purely for sexual entertainment