Her mouth closes around you, feeling warm in comparison with the cooler air of the private room.
Her lips close around your torso and her fingers release your legs as she sucks you the rest of the way into her mouth like a piece of spaghetti. Her tongue is warm and wet but very busy beneath you. You’re pressed gently into the roof of her mouth. Fortunately for you, you take a moment to breathe in deeply because a second later, Tilda swallows you whole.
The sensation of being forced down someone’s esophagus is difficult to explain. Very warm, living, muscular flesh is all around your body, forcefully and somewhat uncomfortably pressing on your body in every direction but the one you’re going. There’s almost no friction against the slick walls of her esophagus. Then you reach the entrance of her stomach, pressed quite painfully into the ring of muscles above it, your spine arching the wrong way as the esophagus works to push you into the stomach while the valve to let you in is still opening. Then suddenly, you’re freefalling and splash into what to you is a very deep pool of warm, foul smelling liquid. You struggle around, bumping into several solid things which by feel are very clearly bodies. They aren’t moving. You wonder how long they have been in here. You wonder how long you have left.
A jarring, rhythmic bumping along with a defined swaying from side to side seems to be taking place. You suddenly realize that Tilda must be walking back to the main part of the club. And you’re going with her, in her belly. You remember how sexy she looked when she first walked by you; her round, muscular bottom straining those pants, her flat belly with the sun tattooed around the belly button. Well now you’re inside her belly, like you wanted, and deciding too late that you made a mistake coming in here. You wonder who is admiring her belly from the outside and wanting to get in. Well you can hardly warn them now.
The music in the club is loud enough that as Tilda walks out onto the floor, you can hear the music being played over the speakers, granted the sound is severely muffled from inside Tilda’s stomach but you can hear it just the same. You’re surprised to realize that you even recognize the song. It’s ‘Bad Moon Rising,’ by Credence Clearwater. It hits you that the music is no longer for you. It’s for the people that aren’t food, like Tilda. It’s weird, but that’s the first time you thought of yourself as food. Five minutes ago people outside this stomach, hell the owner of this stomach, were ready to bring you any meal or drink you wanted. Now no one is concerned with your comfort anymore.
You’re short on breath but you’re also becoming vaguely aware of a burning sensation all around you. You swim to the side of the stomach and see if you can climb it. Like the esophagus, the walls are slick. They also have some give to them which makes for poor climbing.
“HE WAS GOOD,” comes Tilda’s voice, over the sound of CCR and her own gurgling stomach. “HE TASTED PRETTY GOOD ANYWAY.” You realize she must be talking to another bartender or waitress, shouting to make herself heard over the noise. You reason that you probably wouldn’t have heard her otherwise.
Suddenly three hollow impacts shudder the stomach. It sounds like someone is outside is knocking, wanting to come in. Being right up next to her stomach wall, you are somewhat stunned by the impacts. “NO. NOT YET. HE’S STILL MOVING AROUND. ANYWAY I GOTTA GO CHECK ON ONE OF MY TABELS. TALK TO YOU IN A SEC.”
She was talking about if she could feel you in her stomach. You’re seriously straining to hold your breath now and her stomach acids are beginning to burn. You start to thrash more and more, struggling involuntarily rather than anything controlled. Just then, the rhythmic motion begins again as Tilda is obviously going to check on a customer.
“HOW ARE WE DOING OVER HERE?” she says, suddenly coming to a halt that sloshes you up and down her stomach wall. You struggle even more now. “OKAY EILEEN. ONE SHRUNKEN MAN AND ANOTHER DRINK? COMING RIGHT UP.” The motion begins again as you try to breathe. Unfortunately there is almost no air in the stomach.
It’s not long before you pass out due to a lack of oxygen.
In case you’re wondering, Tilda has already forgotten your name. In six hours, you’ve been completely processed by the stomach, in another twelve, most of you has, as Tilda predicted, become a part of her backside. What hasn’t been absorbed is expelled from her body in another five.
Two days later, when checking her reflection on the full length mirror to make sure she looked good before work as a Lawyer, Tilda admires how good her own bottom looks in the neat, pinstripe pants she’s wearing. She never once thinks of the contribution you made to it except in a very general way, grouped in with many of the others that she’s eaten.
THE END