The Proposition

The proposition

Summary: you accidentally eat someone for the first time at your friends party. This may have been part of their plan all along

Content: vore, implied drugging, digestion, pred pov

The evening had started lavishly, as all of their gatherings did—crystal glasses clinking, laughter. Bubbling champagne, exclusivity, luxury.

You had known the guest list would be curated, each person had a reason why they were chosen. You didn't know what yours was.

You had expected fine dining. You had not expected what would happen.

You knew you had enjoyed a few glasses of that champagne. But. You could feel something was wrong.

With you.

At first, it had been a creeping sensation. The way your skin felt sensitive, your pulse a half-step too fast.

You felt like you had been drugged. But everyone else seemed fine.

The scent of human bodies became the only thing you could think about. Working on auto pilot, you had already cornered someone in the quiet, dim-lit hall beyond the party. Their voice had barely risen above a whisper—your name, a confused plea—before you had silenced them with your body

Mouth.

Throat.

Stomach.

By the time your mind caught up to the horror of it, the damage had been done. You staggered, hands pressing against the wide curve of your belly, the weight of another person inside you making you sway.

Panic roiled in your chest. You weren’t alone for long.

The host found you like this, your breath quick, struggling with the wrongness of what you had done.

But they weren’t horrified. They were’t even surprised. Instead, his eyes lit up, his expression softening into a glowing pride.

"Oh, love," he purred, stepping close, his hands ghosting over your trembling shoulders.

"I knew you had it in you."

Your stomach gurgled, and you let out a shallow, shuddering breath.

"I—I didn’t mean to—" He shushed you, stroking down your back, a handler might calm a restless predator.

"Of course you did. And look at you—you wear it well."

His hands skimmed the curve of your belly, pressing to make you aware of how impossibly full you were, how you may already be working through what you’d taken.

Your body clenched at the reminder. You shook your head, swallowing down the shame, the dread.

"I should—should let them out, I can’t just—"

They laughed, indulgent.

"Let them out? Oh, sweetheart." They crouched slightly, tilting your head, forcing you to meet their gaze. "Would that feel good? Would that make you happy?"

You faltered. You didn’t know. Everything in you was twisted in knots—fear, pleasure, satisfaction, disgust, all tied together so tightly you couldn’t--

you couldn’t--

The host hummed, tracing small circles against your back, steady, insistent.

"I think you’re just overwhelmed," rhey mused. "And that’s okay. It’s a lot, isn’t it? But I promise you, digestion is the right choice."

Their voice was honey, thick and cloying. "You want to be comfortable, don’t you? This will be very, very comfortable. And look at you—you’re already so good at this."

Your gut groaned. Eager. You could feel it. You bit your lip.

"But—"

They cupped your face, tilting your chin up slightly. Their smile was slow, warm, coaxing. "No pressure, love. It’s your choice. But… doesn’t it feel right?"

It did.

God help you, it did.

"Come,"

Their grip on your wrist is gentle, but firm. There’s an unspoken expectation in the way they guide you through the halls of their estate, past the long mirrors and velvet curtains, away the murmur of guests, who were getting more and more drunk.

There’s something in their eyes—bright, feverish—when they glance back at you, gaze flickering to the heavy swell of your stomach.

You’ve never seen them look at you quite like this before.

The private room they leads you to is predictably lavish, all dark wood and plush, forest green upholstery, a fire flickering low in the hearth.

They lower you onto a velvet chaise. Their hands are warm against your shoulders, then your belly. pressing lightly, feeling what you’ve eaten.

You shift uncomfortably, too full. You feel their eyes tracing every inch of your belly, but when you meet their gaze, they look away.

"You’re doing so well," they murmur smoothing a hand down your arm. "Just relax. Let your body do what it needs to do."

You let out a slow, shaking breath.

"I—"

They hush you, smiling. "I have to return to the party. My guests will notice if I’m gone too long."

They stand, smoothing their cuffs, their fingers twitch slightly.

Their gaze lingers, gaze dipping back down to you, to your middle, like they can’t help themself.

Then, finally, they step back.

"Be a good predator," they say voice low, warm. "Wait for me. Start digesting. I’ll be back once the party is over."

And then theyre gone, leaving you alone in the flickering firelight, stomach heavy, body thrumming.

Your hands go to your stomach. This was new. Your whole life, you never knew your stomach could stretch this far. You never had seen your body like this. There was a human, inside your stomach.

And you liked how it felt.

They did request it, didnt they?

You wriggled into the plush cushions. Savouring the thought of digesting this person.

It's a big decision. You werent thinking straight, your head was still fuzzy.

But the host, they gave you permission.

You felt a little trickle of warmth. You rubbed that area on your stomach where you felt it. And then it began to spread. Before you knew it, it was happening.

Digestion. It made you purr.

You kneaded your stomach, egging it on.

Time moved differently after that.

You got lost, all focus on what was happening inside you.

The fire in your private room had burned low, embers pulsing like a heartbeat.

You were still there, where they left you, feeling heavier now—your body staunchly in digestion mode.

They step inside quietly, shutting the door behind them with a soft click.

For a moment, they just look at you.

Their sharp suit is immaculate, their posture as poised as ever.

You are the opposite, disheveled and utterly relaxed. Your outfit skewed, you didnt expect to have to calculate this belly you acquired into your wardrobe.

They exhale, almost as if theyre relieved, and step toward you.

"You’re beautiful like this," they murmur, crouching beside the chaise, their hand ghosting over your belly.

"Softening. Good."

Your breath hitches at their touch—gentle, precise.

They feel along the curve, confirming your stomach’s progress, their fingers press in. They hum, pleased with what they feel.

"You’ve done so well," they murmur.

Then they reveal a small glass bottle from their pocket, turning it between their fingers. The firelight catches on the deep amber liquid inside.

You furrow your brows. "What is that?"

"A special oil," they say, pouring a few drops into their palm. "Good for the skin. Helps after a stretch like this."

They say it like you've done an extensive workout. Not that you've swallowed someone whole.

You swallow.

"I’ve never done this before," you admit.

"I know," the host says. They rub their hands together, warming the oil, then presses them to your stomach.

Their touch is slow, methodical, tracing circles over stretched, dry skin.

You shiver at the sensation, the firm, soothing pressure, the way their fingers glide over you with such focused care. The way the oil quickly warms up. And it makes the tautness feel easier.

"Predators should be well cared for." They whisper.

For a second, you think you imagined it. They continue working the oil into your skin.

"You’ll sleep well tonight," they murmur.

The oil sinks into your skin, rich and fragrant, sandal wood?

Its good, easing the stretch, soothing the strain.

Their youch is reverent, practiced—like they had done this before. Had they handled others like you before?

"You’re doing so well, predator" they murmur, they watch for your reaction. You stare up at them with trusting, trepid eyes.

They continue, "It’s my job to take care of you."

You swallow hard. Their job?

Their fingers knead gently against your middle, as if coaxing your body to relax further.

"In the past," they explain, their voice smooth, steady, "predators would always have patrons. Someone to provide for them, house them, ensure they had what they needed."

You had never heard that before. You dont say anything, you would rather listen.

"How is your prey settling?" They ask, focus back to your stomach, pressing down, eliciting a growl, feeling the way your body is working through the weight inside you.

You adjust slightly, feeling the fullness, the warmth, the slow, inexorable process happening inside you.

"They’re… settling fine, I think-" they pressed down on you stomach, "I uh--oouurp!" Your face heats, "haha, sorry."

They smile, pleased. Their hand lingers, fingers splaying wide.

"Good."

Their hands slide slowly down your sides, smoothing the oil into your skin with practiced care.

You feel the tension in your body begin to loosen as their touch works its way down, deeper into your middle, coaxing the stretched flesh to relax, the prey meal being tamed under their hands.

"I have a proposition," the host tells you. "When your belly is flat," they say, their voice a quiet promise, "you can live your own life. You can be your own person. But when there’s prey inside you—"

They pause and their hand rests firmly on your stomach, "When there’s prey in you, you belong to me."

The words hang in the air, pressing into you like the weight of your own full gut. You feel them sink deep.

"I take care of my belongings," the host continues, their hand holding the curve of your stomach, smooth from the oil treatment.

"It’s my responsibility to see to you, to make sure you’re comfortable. I’ll care for your every need." The host is heavy and serious in their tone, that should unsettle you but instead feels oddly appealing.

"Predators," the host muses, voice low, measured, "have certain needs."

The host watches you closely, fingers brushing lightly over your stomach again, enough to feel the pulse of your digestion beneath the surface.

"Needs that have to be met. And I will tend to those needs."

You inhale slowly, feeling your prey pressing on your diaphragm.

"I’ll provide you with good hunting. entertainment, to satisfy you, to keep your belly full." Their smile is sharp.

Your heart pounds in your chest, and though part of you wonders just what you’ve gotten yourself into, these promises sound very appealing.

"And in return," the host continues, their voice darkening, "you will give yourself to me."

Their hand settles against your side, firm, guiding. "When there’s prey inside you, when your hunger is satiated, you’ll stay at my estate. You will not contact the outside world unless completely necessary. You will remain here until you have finished with your prey."

"Additionally, you will not eat prey outside of these walls. I will give you all you need, you will never go hungry. But you must only receive prey from me"

Their smile widens, a trace of satisfaction curling on their lips. They have you. You want this.

The host pulls back a little, standing slowly, eyes never leaving you.

"But you can think this over more later, sweetheart. When you’re rested."

"For now, all you need to do is be a good pred and finish digesting for me." They give your stomach a neat couple of pats, and then leave, giving you privacy for the rest of the evening.