Joanna’s smile was warm as she balanced the tray on her hand, the polished metal gleaming under the restaurant’s amber lights. The clink of silverware and the low hum of casual conversation filled Carmichael’s with a cozy, inviting atmosphere. But under that warm surface, something cold and foul pulsed like a hidden infection.
In her apron pocket, a small vial throbbed with a secret. The glass was slightly fogged from the heat of her body, and within it, Freddy writhed. He was barely five millimeters tall now—no bigger than a breadcrumb, his screams lost in the thick silence of the glass prison. His fists pounded against the curved wall, but it may as well have been stone. Joanna’s fingers—long, smooth, efficient—grasped the vial and pulled it free.
Pop.
The cork came loose with a tiny sound, unnoticed in the clatter of the restaurant. Her eyes flicked left, then right. No one was watching. With the casualness of a chef tossing garnish, she tipped the vial. Freddy slid out, his tiny form tumbling into the steam.
SPLASH.
The soup swallowed him in a wave of scalding liquid. It was tomato bisque—rich, red, and aromatic with roasted garlic, heavy cream, and basil. Freddy hit the surface like a bug smacking into hot tar, instantly screaming. The heat was suffocating. He gasped, choking on the thick slurry as the scent of salt, spice, and cream invaded his nose and coated his throat.
He tried to tread the dense liquid, but it clung to him—oily, cloying, acidic. Every movement took monumental effort. Bits of onion and basil leaf stuck to his body like wet skin. He gagged as a slick tomato chunk hit his chest and rolled over his face, momentarily plunging him into darkness. When he broke the surface, gasping, the world above had changed.
Joanna was already walking away.
The tray was on the table now, the soups placed before two women mid-conversation.
“…So then Dr. Haskins asks me to hold this guy’s intestines while he—oh, thank you!” Casey smiled as Joanna set the bowl down in front of her.
Freckles dusted her cheeks. Her dark hair was tied in a loose bun, a few strands clinging to the sheen of sweat along her forehead. Her athletic arms flexed as she picked up the spoon, hand steady, nails clean, efficient. Freddy screamed, waving both arms, but the ripples around him were invisible to the women. Their voices droned above him like gods talking through walls.
The spoon entered the soup.
It was massive—silver and slick, descending from the sky in a glint of metal. It struck the surface nearby, and the tidal wave nearly drowned Freddy. He swam hard, sputtering, trying to move away, but the current pulled him back.
SLURP.
A monstrous sound. Wet, deep, cavernous. The spoon rose again, leaving a whirlpool in its wake, and Freddy saw—just for a second—the gaping hole of Casey’s mouth.
Her lips parted.
Moist, pink, glistening.
A strand of saliva connected her upper and lower teeth, stretching, trembling, snapping as the soup passed through. Her breath, faint but warm and humid, washed over the spoonful like a kitchen vent.
Freddy screamed again, his voice raw, but there was no escape.
Another spoon came. This one caught him—along with a soggy bit of basil. The edge of the spoon was hard and cold against his back, and then everything tilted.
The light vanished.
He was inside her mouth.
It was alive with noise and wet heat.
Her teeth—large, white, clean—rose around him like marble tombstones. Her tongue surged beneath him, textured like wet sandpaper, powerful and curious. It flipped him, tasted him, pinned him. Basil slid past him. Soup pooled under her tongue.
And then—GULP.
The muscles contracted. The pressure around Freddy exploded. He slid backward, squeezed by soft, wet walls that pulsed like a living tunnel. His ears popped. The sound of her heartbeat boomed like distant drums.
Then, he was falling.
SPLOOSH.
He landed in her stomach.
It was a pit of slime and acid. The stench was overwhelming—like vomit and bleach, bile and rot. The chamber was cramped, hot, and pulsing. The walls moved slowly, squeezing, secreting. The sounds were maddening: groans, bubbles, sloshes, wet gurgles.
Above, more soup came pouring down like a waterfall of fire, raising the liquid level. Freddy tried to climb a slick wall, his fingers slipping on the mucus lining. Acid began to eat at his clothes. His skin blistered. He screamed, but the stomach was deaf.
Casey sipped her soup again and laughed at something Kim said.
“You always have the craziest stories,” she said, mouth full, swallowing.
Inside her, Freddy floated near the surface, shivering, coughing. His eyes stung. His arms were cramping. Every breath hurt. His skin felt like it was being flayed inch by inch, but still—it did not dissolve. Not yet.
He could hear the faint thump of Casey’s heart, the gurgle of her digestion, and the dull roar of blood through her arteries. The stomach trembled around him, muscles squeezing, trying to break him, reduce him to paste. The acid swirled, yellow-green and angry.
Casey lifted her spoon for the final sip.
Outside, her smile was easy. Her freckles glowed in the light. She was beautiful and ordinary, the kind of woman strangers smiled at in the street.
Inside, Freddy was dying.
And she never knew he was there.
Casey finished her soup, wiped her mouth, and dabbed at a stray drop on her freckled chin with a cloth napkin. She and Kim paid their check, thanked Joanna, and walked out into the sunlight. Their laughter echoed briefly on the sidewalk as they parted ways.
Back home, Casey changed into leggings and a tank top, tied her hair up tighter, and went for a run. Her shoes thumped rhythmically against the pavement as she pushed through miles, sweat soaking her collar. Her breath came in steady bursts, mouth open, pulling in the cool evening air. Inside, her stomach gurgled softly—not from discomfort, but in the ordinary way of digestion. The bisque was thick and creamy. Hearty. Satisfying.
Freddy was still inside.
Or what was left of him.
He had stopped screaming long ago. Now, what remained of him was a blackened scrap of organic tissue, soaked in acid, stiffened by trauma, mummified by the heat. His limbs were shriveled, skin tightened to the bone like old parchment. The soup had long since moved into her intestines, and with it, Freddy had gone too—curled fetal in a sludge of half-digested food and bile.
There was no pain. No twinge. Casey jogged effortlessly through the neighborhood, earbuds in, oblivious to the microscopic corpse inching its way through her bowels.
That night, she showered, brushed her teeth, and went to bed with a podcast playing beside her.
Morning came with filtered sun through gauzy curtains. Casey rose early, stretched, and made herself a protein shake. She sipped it while scrolling through emails. At the hospital, she slipped into her scrubs and joined the nursing station, updating charts, taking vitals, checking IV drips.
She made rounds. She smiled at patients. She laughed at a joke from Dr. Haskins in the hallway. She wolfed down a granola bar in a spare moment between patients and sipped lukewarm coffee. Her insides churned in quiet, automatic rhythm.
Peristalsis gripped Freddy’s remains—now twisted into a dark, hardened curl—and moved him inch by inch through the narrow coils of intestine. He no longer resembled a man. His arms were bent awkwardly against his chest. His jaw was sealed shut by dry, necrotic tissue. His eyes were long gone, dissolved, leaving only dark sockets and a burned hole where a nose had been. What little hair he had was matted with semi-digested food matter.
All around him, the walls of Casey’s intestines contracted in slow, purposeful waves. It was humid, suffocating, silent but for the distant slosh and squelch of bodily function. Foul gases passed him. Nutrients were absorbed from the soup that had once engulfed him. Every molecule of value was taken. He was waste now. Nothing more.
Casey tied her scrub top tighter and checked on a patient coding down the hall. She administered epinephrine. She helped save a life.
She had no idea she had taken one.
The hospital bustled with motion—nurses moving between rooms, monitors beeping, and wheels squeaking across linoleum. Casey moved through it all smoothly, clipboard in hand, a smile on her freckled face. She’d just helped reposition an elderly patient and scarfed down half a protein bar at the nurse’s station.
Then came the pressure.
It started low, just beneath her navel—a thick, tightening pulse. Not painful, just urgent. A slow cramp, followed by the unmistakable heaviness of waste ready to be passed. She knew her body well. This wasn’t a drill.
She ducked out between rounds and entered the staff bathroom down the hall—a single-occupant unit with gray tile, harsh fluorescent light, and the faint antiseptic scent of industrial disinfectant barely covering the lingering human smells of long shifts and hard use.
She locked the door behind her. The click was soft.
The room was cool. The air felt still. She pulled down her scrub pants and sat.
Below her, gravity took over. Her body expelled waste in quiet, rhythmic contractions. The stool was thick, dense, unremarkable. The air turned sour, tinged with salt and fermentation. She wrinkled her nose, reached for her phone, and began scrolling Instagram while her body finished its task.
The first log dropped with a muted thunk into the bowl. It was thick, compact, and coiled slightly as it settled—dark brown, almost black at its core, with a glossy sheen from mucus and moisture. Steam lifted faintly off its surface, curling into the air with the sour, earthy stench of fermentation and bile.
This segment was composed mostly of bulked fiber and protein residue from the meals before the tomato soup. It was heavy, smooth at the outer layer, but broken in one spot by a faint crack that revealed a dense, undigested sliver of what might have once been spinach. There was no sign of Freddy.
The second piece emerged slowly, stretching slightly as it passed, a little softer—more irregular in shape, a pale brown at the edges, darker at the center. Its texture was uneven, lumpy in parts, and it twisted slightly as it settled against the first.
This segment bore the remnants of the tomato bisque: red-tinted pockets, streaks of darkened oil, and small seeds embedded throughout. It smelled strongly of garlic and acid, and the air in the bowl grew hotter, thicker.
Still no Freddy.
The final piece slipped free with a wet, almost silent plop. It was the smallest, but the foulest-smelling. It was a cracked, twisted coil—looser in structure, but with a mummified density in its center. As it landed, it folded over slightly, revealing a dark nub pressed into its midsection.
That nub was Freddy.
His body had dried into a tight, charred curl no longer than a grain of rice. His arms were bent in unnatural angles, fingers curled like claws. One leg was missing below the knee—likely digested or torn during intestinal contractions. His head was intact, tilted back, jaw agape. His eye sockets were hollow. A patch of blackened scalp still clung to one side of the skull, matted with filth.
He was lodged halfway in the stool, partially protruding like a seed in clay. A thread of mucus ran from his ribcage to the surrounding waste like a connective web. The stench was unbearable up close: rot, death, and stomach acid woven into one.
Casey wiped, flushed, and left the stall. She barely glanced at the contents of the bowl
There was no splash. Just the slow spinning of water and waste, a swirl of water yanked Freddy down into darkness. His mummified corpse spun once, twice—then vanished.
Casey washed her hands. Her fingers smelled faintly of lavender soap and nothing more.
Gone.
Casey washed her hands at the stainless steel sink, scrubbing under her nails. She glanced in the mirror, adjusted her ponytail, and offered herself a small, confident smile.
Then she walked back into the fluorescent-lit hallway, ready to return to work.
Giantess World
Story Notes:
Chapter End Notes:
If there's any particular meal you'd like to see served, even a particular person or type of person to served or served to, feel free to make a request.
Comment with Meal, Person, victim, feel free to add character details or names as well. I might not do every request, but they'll all be considered.
This story will be ongoing for a little while.