Monica maneuvered the little man-snack she’d been sucking on for the past few minutes towards the back of her tongue. Unfortunately for the helpless, disoriented, and spit-soaked tiny, his salty-sweet flavor was now almost gone. Which meant, of course, that it was just about time to send the sentient mouthful on his merry way down to the giantess’ churning, eager stomach. 

The raven-haired, curvaceous, Latina Vore Goddess couldn’t help but giggle to herself, feeling her succulent treat’s fragile, slippery body flail about in feeble protest. Clearly, the doomed tiny had picked up on the fact that his wild ride in her hot, wet mouth would soon come to a decidedly final end. 

Such behavior was a common enough phenomenon with tinies in the seconds before deglutition ushered them into the great gastrointestinal beyond. The sinking realization that the ultimate trip down their predators’ tight, muscular throats was finally at hand tended to inspire a last gasp of, admittedly, useless panic. 

Nothing more than simple, animal instinct, Monica supposed. The will to survive, even in the face of insurmountable odds, was certainly something to marvel at. 

The man-morsel poised on the precipice of her own eager maw was no different. Oh, how he thrashed and kicked and floundered about with what she could only assume amounted to all his “might.” Monica clamped her powerful jaws shut and sealed off her full, pouty lips (total darkness could sometimes hasten a prey’s acceptance of his rather grim predicament). She then waited patiently—flipping through her social media feed—for the little guy to tire himself out; to wring the last little bit of fight and will towards survival out of his system. 

Even the feistiest, most head-strong little man-snacks—and this scrumptious little fellow was certainly a contender—saw their spirits broken in the end. Sooner, or later, they would come to accept the immutable fact (what other choice did they have?) that they were nothing more than food for the superior race of giantesses now ruling the earth; destined to be devoured on-demand with precious little personal say in the matter. 

Indeed, this little guy, the last in Monica’s now (sadly) empty bowl, certainly had some pluck. Still, it was only a matter of time before his body went slack—the final indication of his ultimate submission, his readiness to be dispatched down to the giantess’ punishing belly. 

In the meantime, the tasty tiny’s adorable, desperate writhing tickled in a way that always caused Monica to salivate more vigorously. The giantess allowed the excess spit to accumulate in her mouth and pool around the wiggly little tidbit. Enjoy your soak in the ‘tiny-hot tub’ before it drains! Monica taunted the tiny inside her own head. In all seriousness though, the surplus of smelly, bubbly froth would handily accompany the man-snack down her constricting throat, ensuring a swift, smooth journey into her roiling tummy. 

At last, her little man-morsel’s energy was spent. Monica felt the tiny roll over onto his back where he dropped his head back upon the spongey, pitted flesh of her lingual tonsil region, and went limp. That’s a good boy, the giantess continued teasingly in her inner-monologue. Lie still, it’ll all be over before you know it. 

Monica raised her chin and tilted her head back ever-so-slightly. This minute shift in the giantess’ intra-oral gravity served to drop the juicy humanoid-in-miniature down past her mucilaginous uvula where he came to a tenuous, very temporary halt at the cartilaginous rim of her pulsating epiglottis. 

One delicate little flick of her tongue was now all that was needed to send the tiny on his way down where he would soon make his fashionably late entrance into the party of little man-snacks currently digesting alive in the giantess’ cramped, fetid stomach. Here, Monica paused for a second or two. She often enjoyed toying with her little man-munchies in this way: holding them in a sort of pre-gulp purgatory before the, no doubt, intimidating entrance to her throat for a few extra beats, before swallowing.

The effect was two-fold. One: it enabled the giantess to draw out the sheer pleasure of snacking on tiny men, her favorite part of which was swallowing them down whole and alive. Some giantesses, of course, reveled in savagely masticating their tinies to an unrecognizable pulp; others fancied chomping off each little limb, one-by-one, before decapitating the poor creatures between their front teeth. 

Monica, however, relished every second of swallowing little men whole: The sensation of their vulnerable little bodies struggling in vain against the superior strength of her tongue; letting them slip partway into her throat (thinking their time had come) before popping them back out for more oral playtime; the indescribable feeling of a live, wriggling creature crossing the final, irrevocable threshold of her pharynx; and for course, the best part: the gradually receding sensation of the tinies squirming helplessly in the inescapable prison of her belly.

And two: it (holding tinies prone at the entrance to her steamy, soggy throat where they could do little but guess, from moment to moment, when they’d be swallowed down) was a fun way to fuck with the man-snacks’ little heads: building up the suspense; prolonging the terrifying interval in which they could anticipate the big, final gulp. As the end drew near, little men could often be heard begging to be swallowed down already. Anything was better than the intense mental torture of not knowing when the final moment would come. 

For Monica, this provided all the more reason to draw it out just a bit more!

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