French_snack's thread [formerly: Hello! I'm new...]

[Deleteduser_120]

Yeah, I've noticed this. It really means quite a lot that you've said this - I'm elated that you like my work so far!

I'm looking forward to what you've got in store for this next work!

[bedfordsb]

Hi FS. I'd prefer to leave a new Cherry story to you since you write to well but I wondered whether you'd be happy with me writing an account of an "interview" with her in the style of one of the sunday newspapers, just before the next international vore championships. I thought it might work quite well and give some background for more writing about Cherry

[French_snack]

Yes, of course. Feel free. I'd be honoured.

Just as long as she behaves more or less the same as in the story.

[bedfordsb]

OK - might be a few days, but I'll get on with it!

[bedfordsb]

OK - the interview with cherry is now up - hope you all like it. It's on a separate thread

Regards

Bedfordsb

[French_snack]

OK - the interview with cherry is now up - hope you all like it.

I most definitely do. It's well written, interesting and imaginative.

If ever you want to use Cherry again, feel free.

(To stay on the topic of my own thread, I should mention that I've started to write my fifth story, and I've got several pages done, but I think it's going to be rather long.)

[Serpents_snare]

Bienvenue! I don't write French well, but I can read it. I liked your writing style, though I admit that I'm not very interested in that type of vore. Nice work.

[komaru]

Je pense que tes histoires sont très bien fait, numéro 4 is mon favori. J'aimerais voir plusieurs de tes histoires dans le futur^_^

(j'espère que mon français est assai bien, c'est un deuxième langue pour moi^_^)

[hideki]

awesome writing!! i love the stories, so sexxy and enjoyable... please write more!!!

[atak]

I just LOVE your works to no end. I just love how playful, uncaring, hungry, predatory, teasing, and wonderful you make the predators. And I do love that you do tend to follow the digestion of those lucky people all the way to the very end of their journey.

I am eager to read more of your work. Though I am curious what would happen if one of those micro snack people were not only willing, but was played with and teased and taunted for a while by his future predator, before he is finally eaten alive?

Heh, you have many more stories coming I am sure, and I do hope! ^^ I am eager to read them!

[French_snack]

Thank you very much.

I am eager to read more of your work. Though I am curious what would happen if one of those micro snack people were not only willing, but was played with and teased and taunted for a while by his future predator, before he is finally eaten alive?

Hmm. You may get the answer to that one day.

Today I forced myself to sit down and get some writing done. My current story is now 24 pages long (in Word format), and I haven't even got to the actual vore part yet! I'm trying to develop the relationship between the characters in more detail than I usually do. But of course, it will all finish with a woman gulping down a man and digesting him. I'm hoping to write some more over the next few days, but it's time-consuming and I've got other things to do, alas...

My next story after that should be much shorter, and more basic. Girl meets boy, girl eats boy, boy gets digested.

[Assimilation]

Your writing ability is amazing.
If only you had more same-size, I'd read them all, but the ones I read, even though they're not my cup of tea, are a delight to my eyes. You easily convey emotion.

[French_snack]

Thank you! Maybe I'll try same-size again one day, but for now all the ideas that come to me involve tiny prey.

Speaking of which... I've finally finished writing my newest story! So here it is. Oral soft vore, f/m, human, tiny prey; includes full digestion and occasional sexual references. It took me a while, because I wanted the characters to develop some sort of relationship. In that sense, this story is the opposite to the one in which Chloé gulps down her prey without even thinking about him as such.


STORY 5

Two. There were only two of them now. Down from twenty four. Their long wait in the darkness was interrupted only when one of them was taken and eaten. Every glimpse of light that entered the confines of the box in which they waited brought with it the fear that the wait was about to end... and the darkness of the box replaced by that of someone’s stomach.

From the slot in which he was tied within the box of ‘sweets’, Étienne could see nothing but he could hear. Beyond the cardboard lid that seperated him from the outside world were the sounds of a family’s everyday lives. Comings and goings, conversations. Footsteps. Shouting. Laughter. The sound of them watching the television. The simple noises of people living in their home. They were aware of their box of Snackaboys on a shelf, but, he imagined, they rarely gave it much thought – even when they were digesting a treat they had taken from it. By contrast, he could not help but remain focused on what he could hear of their world. There was little else to occupy his mind, and fill the dark, fearful emptiness of waiting.

Étienne was in a mint box – one in which all the Snackaboys and Snackagirls were coated in the same flavour. Well, only Snackaboys now. The last of the girls among them had been eaten yesterday, and was now, presumably, well on her way through someone’s intestine. While Étienne waited, shivering quietly in the blackness. The pervasive scent of mint had diminished as the number of ‘sweets’ within the box dwindled steadily, down to just two.

He was aware of the other Snackaboy trapped here with him, but he knew nothing about him. Gagged as they were, they could not talk. He could only hear the boy’s breathing, his occasional muffles and groans in the eerie, oppressive darkness, and the sound of his shifting within the confines of his slot. Once you were here, you were never going to talk to anyone again, not even your fellow captives. And you were taken out of the box only for one reason.

Having seen the box open and close so many times, Étienne knew a little about the family who had bought him and the other twenty-three Snackaboys and –girls. It seemed to be an ordinary family, all things considered. Parents in their late forties. A girl, apparently in her late teens, or very early twenties. A boy, in his early teens. And, as far as he could make out, another girl, between the other two in terms of age. The latter was a bit of a mystery, because he had never seen her open the box. She had not eaten any of his fellow sweets. Perhaps she was watching her figure. Or simply lacked a sweet tooth. He knew that she was called Nashwa, only because he had heard the other members of the family call her name. Her younger brother was Khalil, and her elder sister Salimah.

Speaking of which… “Well, I’m off.” That was Salimah’s voice, clear and fairly cheerful. As far as Étienne could tell, it was early morning. The clues to that were the silence and complete darkness which indicated night time, before light seeped through the edges of the box as the family began to to move about in the morning, and their voices reached him and his last remaining fellow Snackaboy. Footsteps now. Someone was approaching. Étienne’s heart sank, his chest clenching in fear. The footsteps stopped. Too close. His heart hammered in his torso, and he shivered, his mouth dry. The lid was lifted, and the light of day rushed into the sweetbox, causing him to blink, dazzled for a moment. When his sight cleared, he was gazing up at Salimah, who was smiling slightly. She was dressed very neatly, her dark hair tidily aranged, enhancing an appearance that was both professional and attractive. Her eyelids were lightly shaded. From snatches of conversation he had heard, he gathered she was a student of law.

It was amazing the kind of information you picked up on when lying in a box of sweets.

Information about the people who were going to eat you. As he stared up at Salimah with tense, frightened eyes, he could not help but remember seeing other Snackaboys and Snackagirls vanish forever between her remarkably soft, pretty lips. All of those, who had started off in this very box beside him, had now been digested or, if eaten recently, were perhaps still somewhere within this attractive young lady’s intestine. He or his fellow Snackaboy would soon be joining them. His gaze travelled down from her enticing face to the area of her tummy, unseen beneath her neat and stylish clothing.

The mathmatics of it were very simple. A fifty percent chance of being eaten.

He trembled, inhaling in shuddering gasps through the mint-coloured gag over his mouth.

“A few calories to start the day with,” Salimah said with a quick, feminine laugh, and reached down, plucking the other Snackaboy from the box. Étienne stared, wide-eyed and shivering, as Salimah lifted her sweet snack to her lovely lips. He would not actually see his companion enter the girl’s mouth, however; with her free hand, Salimah closed the box again, trapping him once more in darkness.

He heard a faint sucking sound, then imagined he could hear a gulp. Footsteps, as Salimah walk away. Her voice, calling: “See you all later!” The voice of her mother, replying. A shorter reply from her father. More footsteps. The sound of the door opening and closing, some distance away.

Salimah, and the Snackaboy now being digested in her stomach, were gone, as she left for a day at work or at university. An ordinary day in her life, with the lingering, sweet taste of a mint-coated Snackaboy in her mouth – a pleasant start to the morning.

The dark silence seemed to press down on Étienne, and he groaned quietly. No sound within the box answered him. There was no-one else left within it; his twenty-three companions had all been eaten. He was alone. Waiting now on his own.

He closed his eyes, shaking, as the reality and implications of that solitude descended upon him, and a single thought burst in upon his mind with inescapable certainty:

The next time the box was opened, the probability of being eaten would be one hundred percent.

* * *


Hours passed. When he heard nobody wandering around in the immediate vicinity, Étienne dozed. In the empty silence, and with nothing to see, there was little else to do. When he awoke, he would gaze up at the dark inside layer of the cardboard lid above his face, visualising patterns, then he would sleep again. At least when he was unconscious, he was not stressed. His sleep was surprisingly free of tension.

By the time the box was opened for the last time, he had worked himself into a state of relative calm – which was instantly shattered and overwhelmed with a wave of of heart-numbing terror as he stared right up at the person who had come for him. He did not recognise her, which meant she had to be Nashwa. Despite the fear which sucked the breath from his lungs and seemed to fill them instead with liquid ice, he could not help but notice that she was strikingly pretty. Her hair was dark, long and glossy; her warm brown eyes, so far as he could tell from where he was, were tinged with an appealing hint of green. She was looking right at him, and her expression was a curious one. As he watched, Nashwa’s lips parted gracefully in a smile, and she reached down towards him.

Étienne tensed, trembling violently, and closed his eyes–

* * *


It was evening when Salimah came home, pushing the front door shut behind her and putting her bag down by the sofa as she entered the main room. She inhaled, and released her breath with a sigh, pleased to be home after a somewhat tiring day. She greeted her parents, exchanged a few formulaic pleasantries, and headed into the kitchen for a glass of water. As she drank thirstily, she did not think of the Snackaboy she had eaten many hours earlier, and whose liquified remains were now accompanying her breakfast through the depths of her intestine. It was several minutes in fact before Salimah thought of Snackaboys at all, and by then she was back in the livingroom, standing near the sofa while the family settled in front of the television for a regular evening programme. Salimah watched the opening scenes without sitting down. She was not particularly interested, and was about to turn away when her stomach growled. Her father glanced up.

“Hungry?”

“Just a little.” Salimah placed a hand over her empty tummy. Lunch had been quite a while ago.

“You could go and make dinner, then,” her mother suggested with a quick grin. Salimah smiled.

“Sure, if you trust me with the cooking. I thought you’d all learnt your lesson last time I tried.”

Her mother laughed. Khalil scowled at them, annoyed. “Shhh!” He was focusing on the television screen.

“You’ll get square eyes,” Salimah told her brother. Her stomach let out a slight gurgle, and, having lost interest in the programme on television, she walked over to the box of Snackaboys on a shelf at the opposite end of the room. She lifted the lid… and frowned slightly as she found the box to be empty. She turned to the others. “I thought there was one left. Or am I going crazy? Did someone eat it?”

“Oh.” Nashwa glanced up at last from the sofa, looking faintly embarassed. “Yeah, that was me. Sorry.”

“You?” Salimah gave her sister a look of surprise. “Since when do you eat Snackaboys?”

“I don’t.” A faint blush made its way to Nashwa’s cheeks. “Well, I don’t normally. I just got… curious. I wondered what it would taste like.”

Salimah looked at her for a moment in silence, faintly surprised. Then she grinned.
“And?” she asked.

“Well, it was… not bad,” Nashwa said hesitatingly.

Salimah laughed lightly, and shook her head. Khalil gave them both a look of profound irration.
“If you girls are going to babble, can you do it somewhere else? I’m trying to watch the–”

“Yeah, yeah,” Salimah cut him off. “I’m going.” She picked up the empty box of ‘sweets’, and left the room to take it to the cardboard recycling bag. Having gone, she was not able to see the expression on her sister’s face. Her eyes idly watching the television screen, Nashwa leaned back and settled comfortably in the sofa. Her lips curled into a sly, discreet smile…

* * *


Darkness. There was nothing unusual about that.

Étienne was resting, but was not asleep when the light came on, causing his eyes to blink as they struggled to adjust. He sat up, yawning and stretching, working the aches out of his limbs with a grimace. He rubbed at his eyes, and stood.

“Étienne?” Her voice was a whisper. He stepped into view, moving out from hiding behind a pile of books and papers on her desk. She smiled as she caught sight of him.

“You were hiding. Good idea.” She kept her voice down, but even her whisper was perfectly audible to him. He returned the smile, albeit still nervously. In his mind, his situation remained precarious, her intents uncertain. Incomprehensible, even. The fact that he was still alive puzzled him, and the uncertainty prevented him from casting off the remnants of his fear.

“Oh, don’t look so nervous,” Nashwa told him with a giggle. “It’s cute, but it makes me feel guilty.” She walked up and sat at the desk, then leaned down to look at him steadily. Étienne gazed up into her greenish brown eyes, so very large given his own minuscule size. From this close, he could make out every detail of those eyes, and he marvelled at their intricate beauty. He saw warmth there, and intelligence; kindness… and curiosity. No malice. If she was teasing him, her teasing was not cruel. He began to relax just a little. “That’s better!” she told him approvingly.

Étienne smiled again, still somewhat uncertainly. His gaze shifted from her lovely eyes to her equally beautiful face, every detail of it catching his attention while she remained leaning towards him. Her eyes were framed in soft, attractive features, themselves framed by her wavy black hair; her nose was delicate and pretty. Her mouth was smiling, her soft, gorgeous pink lips parted just enough for him to see a little of her white teeth… and the darkness of her mouth’s interior beyond. He moistened his own lower lip and chewed at it uncomfortably. He felt ill-at-ease, and was not entirely sure why. Part of it, no doubt, was due to the fact that his instinct continued to tell him he was in danger; in part, also, he felt naturally troubled by Nashwa’s beauty and proximity. Leaning down as she was, she was exposing the bulge of her breasts –fully concealed beneath her clothing– to his nervous gaze.

“I’m sorry, I know this must be disconcerting to you,” she said to him kindly. “I suppose I should reassure you right now, so I’ll just say it: I’m not going to eat you.” She gave him a look of seemingly earnest hope. “I need you to believe that. If I’d intended to eat you, I’d have done it as soon as I took you out of the box.”

That had been several hours ago now. Étienne’s mind flashed back to the moment when the light of day had poured into his box, bringing with it –or so he had thought at the time– the certainty of imminent doom. He remembered he had closed his eyes when Nashwa had plucked him out of the sweet box, and he had braced himself, trembling and terrified, fully expecting to be eaten. Instead, Nashwa had smiled at him –looking a little nervous herself– and had whispered something along the lines of ‘Don’t worry’, before carrying him up to her bedroom.

Étienne had remained terrified then, his fear increased rather than lessened by a growing sense of confusion. He had thought, at first, that she was going to eat him in the privacy of her own room. But no. As soon as she had closed the door, she had begun telling him that he was ‘all right’, that he was ‘safe now’, that he had nothing to fear. Étienne had felt his mind reeling and struggling to understand, numbed as it was by his almost paralysing fear.

Nashwa had removed the binding from his limbs with great gentleness, and then the gag from over his mouth. All the while, she was giving him nervous smiles, shy little laughs and comforting words which had baffled and worried him rather than reassured him. Once he was able to speak, she had done something which had startled him more than anything else thus far.

“What’s your name?” she had asked.

Étienne had been too stunned to reply. Throughout all his time in the sweet box, he had sometimes imagined what would happen when he was taken to be eaten – nightmarish anxieties dreamt up by his unwilling mind. Never during that time had he imagined that the person who lifted him out of the box would ask for his name. It was literally inconceivable. To the humans who ate his kind, a Snackaboy was food – and food was not given a name. Food had to remain anonymous.

And so he had said nothing, his numbed mind struggling to comprehend the situation he had found himself in. Nashwa had waited with a kind, patient smile before saying at last:

“I’m Nashwa.” Those words had come with a grin – no doubt intended to be friendly, but which unfortunately revealed her teeth and the interior of her mouth. Mesmerised, the frightened Étienne had been unable to do anything but stare, shivering, into her mouth’s interior. “Perhaps you haven’t got a name?” she had queried gently. “I suppose they don’t give you names. I mean, that makes sense. You’re not supposed–”

“Étienne,” he had said then, forcing his name out through his dry throat. She had smiled at that, and had told him, for the first time, that she was not going to eat him. Over the minutes that followed, he began to understand that she had decided to ‘rescue’ or ‘save’ him. She had explained herself only briefly, then had left him on her desk, asking him not to leave, and to wait until she came back. He had watched her leave, still baffled. After some hesitation, he had done exactly as she had told him, remaining on her desk and waiting. Eventually, he had tried to sleep, but had only been able to rest, fitfully.

And now she had come back, telling him once again that she was not going to eat him. He looked into her eyes, and found what seemed to be sincere kindness there. He sat down slowly, his tired mind struggling to focus.

“Why not?” he asked her at last.

“Why n– You mean, why aren’t I going to eat you?” This time, it was her turn to appear surprised. She straightened up, and leaned back in her chair, her lovely face receding to a higher altitude.

“Yes.” Somehow, he felt emboldened at having surprised her. In that brief moment, she no longer appeared fully in control of the situation, and that –far more than her apparent kindness– reassured him, to some small extent at least.

“Well… You don’t want to be eaten, do you?” she asked in return, clearly puzzled. Étienne grimaced.

“No.”

“Well, then. I don’t want to eat you if you don’t want to be eaten.”

Apparently that settled the matter as far as she was concerned. Étienne, however, remained unconvinced, his instinctive wariness refusing to allow him to feel safe, yet.

“But I thought you…” He paused. “Your sister ate one of us this morning,” he said accusingly. He was mildly pleased to see Nashwa wince, and shift uncomfortably in her chair.

“I’m not my sister,” she said at last, her voice quiet, almost apologetic. “Salimah doesn’t… understand. She thinks you’re just food, snacks. Sweets. She doesn’t think it’s wrong, you know; she’s not…” Nashwa trailed off. “She’s my sister, and I love her. But I think she’s wrong. I think it’s wrong to eat you. And if I hadn’t taken you out of the box, she’d have eaten you.” A pause. “She looked for you in the box earlier. She was going to eat you, you know. I… I saved you, really. Aren’t you…?” She frowned, and was apparently unable to find the right words. She fell silent.

Étienne considered that cautiously. On the face of it, she appeared to be sincere. And, difficult as it was for him to believe that he was not going to be treated as a casual snack, he could not think of any plausible reason why she would be lying. He nodded, slowly. He was beginning to dare hope.

“I wish I could have saved the others, too,” Nashwa went on softly. “But I couldn’t have done it without anyone noticing. And I didn’t want to… get into an argument with my family.”

Shaking off his own thoughts, Étienne looked up at her.
“So what did you tell your sister, when she was looking for me?”

Nashwa smiled, a little sadly, Étienne thought.
“I just told her that I’d eaten you. She believed me.”

Étienne nodded. The idea remained a disturbing one, and he found it impossible still to relax completely. His thoughts were also drawn back to his twenty-three companions, those who had inhabited the sweet box with him. They were all gone – eaten, digested. Just like that. He was the only one left. And he had survived through pure chance, blind luck. If Salimah had eaten him rather than the other Snackaboy this morning, Nashwa would have saved the other boy, and Étienne would, at this very moment, be progressing through Salimah’s digestive system, reduced to liquid nutrients feeding her body. The contrast, and the sheer implausibility of his own survival, left his mind reeling. Gone, all of them… Sickened, he shivered. He felt suddenly exhausted, and rubbed his temples with a sigh, lowering his gaze to the vast surface of the desk.

“So what happens now?” he asked after a long moment of silence, without lifting his gaze. Nashwa did not immediately reply, and Étienne eventually did look up at her.

“I don’t know,” she admitted at last. “I wasn’t really thinking that far ahead.”

“What do you do with a Snackaboy if you don’t eat him?” Étienne queried wryly, with an audible note of bitter sarcasm. “We’re only supposed to be here for one purpose.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” She sounded genuinely sympathetic. It made her look all the more attractive, he realised, before turning his gaze away, troubled at the realisation. He did not want to be drawn to her. He did not want to let his guard down. “I just wanted to save you,” she added.

“Yes,” he mumbled, then stopped as her intent actually began to sink in for the first time. “Yes...” he said again, surprised. “Thank you.” This time, there was gratitude in his voice. Nashwa smiled.

“You’re very welcome,” she whispered warmly. “Now… We have to decide what we’re going to do. About… well, about you.”

“We?”

“Yes, of course, ‘we’. You’re as free as you want to be,… Étienne. I’m not going to decide your life for you.”

“Oh.” This was a little too much for his tired mind, drained by the exhaustion of built-up tension, fear and its subsequent release, to cope with. ‘Free’ he might be in theory, but he knew he could not just walk out of the house. Or even out of the room. This was not a world he could survive in by himself. Not when he was so small, and labelled as food. A fresh realisation dawned upon him: For now, Nashwa was his lifeline. His mind registered that there was some irony to that, but he was too tired to appreciate it fully.

“So, I suppose…”

“Maybe you could start by helping me wash the mint off myself,” he suggested somewhat bluntly. Nashwa gave him a puzzled look.

“I don’t understand.”

“This.” With his hands and arms free, Étienne trailed his finger over his own torso, through the green, sugary layer that had been painted onto his skin. “It makes me feel too much like… like food. Unclean. Sticky. I’d like it off.”

Nashwa was clearly surprised.
“It’s not… part of you?”

“No, of course it’s not!” he snapped tensely. “We don’t come naturally in shades of green and red and orange and purple! They paint the flavouring over us to make us more tasty.” He grimaced as he said it. “To turn us into sweets.” He gave her an irritable, almost angry look. “What, did you think I was actually made of mint?”

“No, I…” He had upset her. The look in her deep, lovely and intelligent eyes was troubled. “I just never thought about it, I suppose,” she confessed in a subdued whisper. Étienne winced, but could not hold on to his own anger.

“You’re not supposed to,” he said, quietly too. “They want you to eat up, and not ask yourself questions about your food. What does the advert say? ‘They’re yummy for your tummy.’ Like a good little consumer, you’re supposed to just eat us up, and then go out and buy more of us.”

Nashwa nodded, the expression on her face one of sorrow.
“I’m sorry,” she said, not for the first time. “I know, people think you’re made just to be–”

“I wasn’t made,” he interjected. “I was born.”

“That you were born to be…” She stopped. “Let’s get you washed up, then. Then I’ll, um… uh… see about finding you some clothes.” She blushed a little, her cheeks taking on a pretty shade of red. Étienne actually felt himself smile. He was not particularly embarassed by his nakedness, but covering himself up would help him feel more human. In Nashwa’s eyes, and in his own. It would help him feel, symbolically, that he had ceased at last to be simply food. That he was a person, a man.

“Thank you,” he whispered, with genuine gratitude.

Nashwa’s troubled look faded into a warm smile, and he could almost sense her relief at his change in behaviour. He felt a little sorry for having made her feel guilty. After all, she was the one who did not want to eat him.

“Now, don’t be scared,” she told him, very gently. “I’m going to pick you up, hold you in my hand, but I’m not going to hurt you. I’m just going to take you to the bathroom and wash you. If that’s what you want?”

“Yes, please,” Étienne said with a tired but grateful sigh. He would be glad to escape from the constant scent of mint permeating his own body. That, too, would help him feel more human.

He did not resist as the girl scooped him up gently into her warm, soft hand, and he sat in her palm, safely far from the edge. Nashwa curled her fingers to steady him, applying careful pressure to hold him in place and not drop him. He felt a little giddy as she lifted him up, but she was moving with considerate slowness.

There was no-one in the corridor as she took him to the bathroom, and locked the door. She adjusted her grip on him as she ran a sponge under the tap. Étienne grimaced against a brief wave of dizziness, but on the whole he felt surprisingly safe. Nashwa’s gentle manner was soothing, and the tension began to seep out of him, driven out by a wash of slow but intense relief. Nashwa squeezed some of the water out of the sponge, and he looked up at her. Her youthful face wore a serious, steady expression, but she gave him a reassuring smile when she noticed him looking at her. He returned the smile, and shifted his attention to the hand with the sponge. As he did so, his gaze passed over her shapely, well-proportioned breasts, looming directly above him, but he was careful not to stare.

The bathroom itself was tiled in pleasantly cool, light blue and white motifs, the bath, sink and lavatory apple-green in colour. He tried his best not to look at the latter, nor to dwell on the fact that it had been the final destination of his unfortunate companions.

“Now, hold still,” Nashwa told him softly, keeping her voice at a whisper so as not to be overheard. “You’re going to get wet.” She let out a quick, girlish little giggle which Étienne, almost despite himself, found remarkably cute. He extended his limbs so that she could wash them, and she pressed the sponge gently against his body, wiping the mint-flavoured coating from his chest, legs, arms and back. The lukewarm water flowed and dripped over him, cleansing him of the flavouring which had identified him as food. Secure in Nashwa’s firm hold, he allowed himself to enjoy the rather odd rinse, trusting her fully at last. “Let’s have a look at you,” Nashwa whispered playfully, and turned him around slowly between her fingers. “Yes, all clean! Just the face to do.”

Étienne inhaled the mixed scent of mint, warm water and Nashwa’s perfume, and smiled.

“Go ahead, please.”

“All right; take a deep breath.” She pressed the corner of the sponge against his cheek, and rubbed as gently as she could, moving it over the front of his face, his ears, his neck… The warmth, the water and the gentle rub, almost a massage, combined to help him relax, and he lay back in the palm of Nashwa’s hand with a deep sigh, closing his eyes –while she wiped his eyelids clean– and leaning against her fingers. “There!” she said at last, cheerfully. “You’re back in Adam’s suit.”

Étienne laughed slightly, particularly when he saw her blush.

“Thank you,” he said warmly, and got to his feet, pulling himself up by holding on to her finger. “I feel a lot… Well, I feel clean.” Nashwa simply smiled. Now that he was able to look at her mouth without fear, he noticed that she had quite a lovely smile. He smiled too.

There was a light knock on the door. Nashwa gasped, tensing, and Étienne lost his balance for a moment as her hand wavered; he fell to his knees on the soft, fleshy palm of her hand, and she quickly cupped her other hand over him, steadying him.

“What is it?” she called to the person on the other side of the door.

“Are you going to be long?” came Salimah’s voice. “I need to go.”

“Oh, uh, yeah… no,” Nashwa replied, fumbling for words. “Just a moment.” She lifted the index finger of her free hand to her lips, signalling for Étienne to remain very quiet. He nodded gravely. She rubbed him down quickly but gently with a towel, then slipped him, still a little wet, into her pocket. Darkness engulfed him as it closed above him, but he remained calm. He heard her flush the empty toilet, then open the door.

“Thanks,” he heard Salimah say to her sister. Motion, as Nashwa walked down the corridor, and Étienne was rubbed against the light material which seperated the inside of her pocket from her warm thigh. Another door opening and closing, presumably the one to her bedroom. Then a ray of light, accompanied by three of her fingers thrust into her pocket, clamping round his shoulders and pulling him free. She set him down once more on her desk.

“Whew,” she said, and smiled. “Sorry about that. I almost panicked there.”

“I was a bit worried myself,” Étienne admitted, rubbing a sheen of water from his forearm. He sniffed, and wrinkled his nose. “I still smell a bit of mint.”

“Aww.” Nashwa smiled. “Think of it as perfume.”

“Uh, thanks.” He looked around. Her desk was fairly cluttered, piled with books, colourful pens, paper in stacks and loose sheets, her computer, a pocket calculator just near him, a few coins, a fluffy pink keyring decoration, a fluffy toy koala bear, and other bits and pieces, many of which marked this as being unmistakably a girl’s room. He contemplated it for a while. There was silence, broken eventually when Nashwa said:

“I’ve got some old material I can cut up… Old, but clean,” she added quickly. “I can make you a sort of toga, to cover yourself up.”

“Thanks,” he said simply. He could think of nothing else to say. There was no getting over the oddness of the situation just yet.

“And, uhm, we’ll have to see where you’re going to sleep… It’s not very hospitable of me to just leave you on the desk. Let’s see…” She looked round her room. Étienne did likewise, and their gazes came to rest at the same time on the same object, pushed away on the floor in a corner. Nashwa brightened. “Of course! You can have the doll house. I’ll use the spare material to make you a little bed…”

“No, oh, no,” Étienne interjected quickly. Nashwa gave him a mildly surprised look.

“It’s a big doll house. I don’t think it’ll be too small for you. You’ll have your privacy. I can even make you some curtains…” She was beginning to smile, as though picturing already an entire miniature home in her mind.

“No,” Étienne interrupted her daydreaming firmly. “Really, thank you, I’m grateful, but no. I’m not a doll.” He paused. “And I’m not a girl!” he added.

Nashwa looked a little hurt for just a moment, then obviously saw the humour in his indignation, and grinned, showing her pretty white teeth.

“All right, all right,” she soothed him, amused. “I’m sorry if I wounded your male pride. You can sleep on the desk then, if that’s what you prefer.” She leaned down, and winked at him playfully. “I’ll make you a little blanket,” she whispered. “In fact, I may still have an old one that I made once when I was little, for my dolls.” She straightened up again, laughing at his sigh. She had a clear, pretty, melodious laugh, and it helped heal his bruised pride at least slightly.

It was beginning to grow dark outside as Nashwa skillfully cut and sowed makeshift clothing and bedding for him. They talked while she did so, still in whispers. She told him that she was seventeen years old, and that she was still studying, although she did odd-jobs now and then. She told him about her studies, and her past jobs, and her hobbies. She quite liked reading, and she played the violin; she boasted with a shy smile that she was “rather good” at chess, and volleyball. He did not ask her about boyfriends, and she did not mention the topic.

She apologised again, uncomfortably, for her family having eaten every other Snackaboy and Snackagirl in his box; she was keen to insist that they were good, kind people, who simply did not see anything wrong in eating what was, to them, a snack. She was one of the very few people that she was aware of who did not eat any. She herself had eaten some, she said, a very long time ago… “People just don’t realise,” she told him with earnest sadness, until he asked her to stop talking about it.

When she had finished sowing, she wrapped his ‘toga’ round him with a proud smile –and one last blush–, covering his nakedness. She layed out his thin ‘mattress’ over her computer mousepad, and pushed it into a corner of her desk, hiding it behind a pile of books. That done, she asked him to look away while she changed into her nightwear, which he did respectfully. When she told him he could look again, he saw her pink and white pyjamas had drawings of a bunny and little hearts on them. He smiled.

“Just promise you won’t make me wear anything like that.”

Nashwa laughed. “Yes, I know. Way too girlish for you.”

“Well, you look cute in it,” he said, and was surprised at the casual ease with which he was able to say it. “I’d just look silly.”

Nashwa laughed again. “Silly can be cute too. If you’re not good, I’ll dress you up,” she teased. Étienne pretended to sulk, and she giggled. “You stay there and get settled down,” she told him with a friendly smile. “I just need to brush my teeth and take a shower and… stuff. I’ll be back in a moment.”

Étienne smiled, and nodded. “Take your time. And thank you again.”

“You’re welcome.” She gave him a warm, beautiful smile, and was gone. Étienne watched her leave, and sighed. He sat down on the folded material she had made into his ‘bed’ on the computer mousepad, and thought about his situation. He had no idea what tomorrow would bring, but for now, he felt far safer than he would ever have expected. He sat in silence for a while, then shrugged, and lay down, pulling the thin cover up over himself. He was about to close his eyes when the door opened. That was quick.

To his dismay, however, the voice he heard next was that of Nashwa’s father.

“Nashwa, we’ve told you, when you’re not in your room, turn the light off! Electricity bills!” A click. Darkness. The door closed again, and Étienne heard the man walk away. He exhaled a shuddering sigh of relief.

It was several long minutes before Nashwa herself had finished in the bathroom, and returned to her bedroom. She sought him out on her desk, and leaned down a little, smiling – looking quite gorgeous, he thought, with her faintly damp, black hair a-tumble, and her cute pink and white pyjamas.

“All settled?” she whispered cheerfully. “Is there anything you need?”

“No, I’m fine, thanks.” He sat up and smiled at her warmly. “Thank you. So very much. For everything.”

Nashwa grinned, blushing almost imperceptibly. “You’re very welcome. And don’t worry; you’re safe here.”

“I know.”

“I’m just going to read in bed a bit, if that’s ok. I’ll switch off the light after that.”

“It’s your home.” Étienne smiled. “Don’t mind me. Do what you normally do. I’m just grateful to be here.”

Nashwa smiled softly.
“You’re sweet,” she whispered. “Sleep well!”

Concealed behind the pile of her books, Étienne did not see her get into her bed and read. He lay down on his own makeshift mattress, turned onto his side, and closed his eyes. After a while, he heard Nashwa whisper good night, and the light went out.

Overwhelmed by the day’s events, the exhaustion of stress and relief, the haunting grief for his lost companions, and the deep, unexpected warmth of safety and kindness, he released his breath with a sigh. He slept soundly.

Across the corridor, in the opposite room, Salimah was already fast asleep, tucked up snugly beneath her warm covers, her unconscious mind relaxing in peaceful dreams. Deep inside her body, her digestive tract absorbed the nutrients from the liquid remains of the Snackaboy she had eaten many hours earlier, after her breakfast…

* * *


BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BEE…

“Nngnyuurgh,” Étienne grunted as the alarm clock’s screech ripped through the air, jolting him out of his deep slumber. He opened his eyes, and found himself looking at the title of a school book on mathematics. He blinked, and groaned sleepily. As he recalled his situation, however, he sat up, suddenly wary and alert. He heard the sound of bed covers shifting, and a loud, female yawn. Moments later, Nashwa’s face, dark hair ruffled by sleep, peered down at him and smiled, still dozily.

“Good morning,” she whispered, and yawned again. The sleep look suited her, Étienne thought. He returned the smile.

“Good morning!” he replied. “Slept well?”

“Yes, but I should be asking you.” She stifled another yawn. “Sorry. Mornings.”

“What time is it?”

“Six forty.” She ran her hand through her tangled hair. Her stomach let out a long gurgle, followed by a low rumble. She was obviously hungry. Étienne tried not to feel nervous; Nashwa did not react at all to the sounds of her tummy. “I need to, uhm, pee, and have a shower,” she told him. “I’ll be right back, and I’ll get you some breakfast.”

“Me?” Étienne was surprised.

“Well, yes. Don’t you eat?” She giggled. “Anyway, I’ll see you in a mo’.”

He smiled a little as he watched her go, then lay back down with a yawn of his own. His surroundings were still unfamiliar and disconcerting, not to mention dangerous, but he was feeling increasingly safe.

He remained hidden that day while Nashwa was out, but she made a point to spend time with him in the evening, and they held a whispered conversation late into the night. She seemed to be thrilled to have him as her little secret, and to be protecting him; he could read her curiosity, her gentle fascination in her eyes, in her smile and the questioning tilt of her head. Gradually, they developed a routine, and Étienne began to feel at home. By necessity, Nashwa’s bedroom was his universe; it was never safe for him to venture outside. She was the focus of his entire reality.

It was over a week later that he sat on top of her pile of books, dangling his legs over the edge, and watched her sit at her desk, writing. She had made him fresh clothes, so that he could change regularly, and she would wash his clothes in secret, locking herself in the bathroom. He adjusted the clean, fresh fabric now, and she glanced at him.

“Comfortable?” she asked. It was late morning on a Sunday. The sun’s rays slanted through the open window, spreading their warm glow through the room and over his face and body. The light also played with Nashwa’s dark hair, giving it a glossy, shimmering sheen.

“Yes, thank you,” Étienne said. He looked down at the sheet of paper she was writing on. Neat lines of small lettering covered about a third of the page in her tidy, distinctly feminine handwriting. From time to time, she paused to think, or to take a bite from a sandwich on the small plate beside her. “What are you writing?”

“Oh, just a story.” She gave a pleased, faintly embarassed smile. “About, uhm, elves. Magic. Exploring a mysterious forest… It’s fantasy.”

“Really?” Étienne leaned down, trying to read it. “I didn’t know you wrote stories.”

“I… sometimes.”

Étienne grinned. She really did have a cute little blush. Or cute gigantic blush, given that her cheeks were bigger than he was.
“Could you read it to me one day?”

Nashwa laughed. “Uhm, maybe. It’s not finished yet.”

Étienne smiled. “I’ll stop interrupting you, then.” He lay down on top of the book pile, gazing at her with a faint, playful smile. Nashwa grinned, and turned to look out of the window, squinting slightly against the sunlight.

“Actually, my inspiration is running dry.” She stood. “I think I’m going to go and ressource my batteries in the sun. Want to come?” She picked up her sandwich and took another bite as she waited for him to reply. Étienne looked at her, surprised.

“You mean… outside? You want me to go outside?”

“Yesh.” She paused. “Shorry,” she said through a mouthful of food, and stopped while she finished chewing, then swallowed. “I mean: yes. That’s where I’m going, anyway. It’s a lovely day, and I feel like getting some fresh air.” She licked a crumb off her lips, and looked at him kindly. “I know a little park… Hardly anyone goes there, even on week-ends. I’d… I’d like to take you there. You’ve been stuck indoors all this time, and… well, you can’t just stay indoors all your life. I’ll keep you safe, I promise. And we don’t have to stay outdoors long.”

Étienne grimaced, and hesitated. She was right in the sense that he could not remain forever hiding in a corner of her desk. But going outside… He was not too proud to admit to himself that he was frightened. Nashwa’s bedroom had become a safe haven, and everything else still loomed in his mind as a very real threat. She could move around as she pleased, but he could not. After all, nobody would try to eat her.

“I’m not sure…” he said slowly.

“It’s up to you,” Nashwa said kindly. “I won’t pressure you if you don’t feel happy about it. I just think it could do you good.”

“Maybe, but…” Étienne sat down, and sighed.

“I’d put you in my pocket until we get there. No-one would see you. Besides, I wouldn’t let anyone hurt you.”

Étienne said nothing, still looking distinctly uncomfortable. He looked at her. There was a caring, gentle expression on her face, her dark eyes warm and kind.

“Take your time and think about it,” she added, and lifted the last piece of her sandwich into her mouth. Distracted, he watched her chew, strangely fascinated by the steady movement of her jaw. At one time he would have found it terrifying, but now he was no longer afraid to watch her eating. She swallowed, with a wet, audible gulp, the lump of her food briefy visible as it passed down her throat, then disappeared inside her.

“I’ll… come,” he heard himself say, awkwardly. Nashwa gave him a warm smile.

“Great! You’ll like it. Fresh air, sunlight…” She was obviously pleased, and she extended her hand towards him, palm upwards. It was the same hand she had just used to devour her sandwich. “Come on, then,” she said, smiling.

Étienne returned the smile, and stepped carefully onto her hand, climbing up between her fingers. She lifted him up cautiously, gripping him gently between her warm, soft fingers. At that point, there was a knock on her bedroom door, which opened before she could answer. She slipped Étienne into her pocket hastily. Sliding between the layers of fabric in the darkness, Étienne remained very quiet as he heard the voice of Nashwa’s mother.

“Have you had lunch?” her mother was asking.

“Yes. Yes, just a sandwich.”

“Is that enough?” Her mother sounded dubious.

“For now,” her daughter said evasively. “I’m, uhm, going out. For a walk. Catch a bit of sunlight.”

“Good idea,” her mother approved. “It’s very healthy. Lots of vitamin D. All right, then. Are you going now?”

“Yes, Mum, now.”

Étienne remained absolutely quiet. He could feel Nashwa’s leg pressing against him as she walked, her pocket swaying just slightly with the motion, and he remained silent long after he knew that she had left the house and was making her way down the street. The sun’s warmth filtered through the material of her pocket lining, mixing with the warmth of her natural body heat, which he could feel seeping into his body through their closeness. She paused just once to glance into her pocket and make sure he was all right, then neither of them spoke until she reached the park, a ten minute walk. “Don’t move,” she whispered then, and he felt the movement of her body change, in a way he was not immediately able to interpret. He was jostled, squeezed, and grimaced uncomfortably until he felt her settle. She seemed to be sitting down. Her hand slipped into her pocket, and pulled him out with her customary gentleness. It was only then that he saw they were above ground. She had climbed up a thick, squat, large and spreading tree, and was sitting on one of its low branches. She grinned at him, briefly displaying her pretty white teeth.

“We should have some privacy here,” she said, and for the first time since he had met her, she was no longer quite whispering. Although her whispers had always conveyed a soft, warm intimacy, her normal voice was even more enchanting, carrying a gentle, melodious tone, youthful and cheery.

“Wow…” Étienne breathed, able to speak up at last too. He sat down in the palm of her hand, which she brough to rest over her right thigh. She was using her left hand to steady herself on the branch. “Do you often climb trees?”

Nashwa laughed. “All the time, when I was a child. This used to be my special place. Well, Salimah’s and Khalil’s and mine, but I was the one who found it first. I don’t come here so often these days. But I thought you might like it, and… it’s a place where you can come out without being seen.”

Étienne nodded and looked around slowly. The gnarled, leafy branches mostly obscured the rest of the park, concealing the two of them, to some extent, from prying eyes. Not that there appeared to be anyone else about. A warm, gentle breeze rustled the leaves and played through his hair. Birds chirruped some distance away, calling to one another, singing. He blinked in the sunlight.

“It’s… I can understand why you made this your special place,” he said at last.

“It can be yours too, now,” Nashwa told him. There was a warmth in her voice which made him feel happy, at peace, and relaxed.

“Just don’t put me down, please,” he said with a quick smile. “I feel safest in your hand.”

“Don’t worry.” She shifted, straddling the thick branch, and leaned back slowly to rest against it, holding him tight all the while. “I’m glad to have brought you here.” Her stomach growled, letting out a slow gurgle, as it digested her lunch. Étienne glanced at her tummy. “You’re not afraid any more, are you?” Nashwa asked gently. “When my tummy makes noises?”

“No,” Étienne answered truthfully.

“Good,” she said with a broad smile, revealing a glimpse of the inside of her mouth. She sighed, and yawned. Her stomach growled again, working on her food. “Shall we stay here for a while?” she suggested, a hint of sleepiness entering her voice – the result, perhaps, of the warm, fresh air combined with her recent meal.

“I’d like that,” Étienne agreed. She smiled again, and he did not even tense as she lifted him closer to her face.

“I’m glad I met you,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper once more, despite there being nobody to overhear them. “I didn’t know… I never guessed we would be…”

“Friends?”

“Friends,” she said with a quick, warm grin. Then, unexpectedly, she brought him closer to her lips, puckered them, and kissed him, very softly. Their soft warmth pressed against him, and he felt himself tremble for a moment… but not with fear. “I’ll always look after you,” she whispered, and yawned again sleepily, laying back to rest as comfortably as she could against the large branch.

Moments later, she seemed to be half-asleep, holding Étienne safely cupped under her hand, resting against her tummy. Lying on the soft fabric of her clothing, he heard the low rumbles of her stomach, but, to his surprise, he found the sounds gently soothing. Her torso rose and fell gently beneath him with her soft, steady breathing. He curled up snugly, safe in her protective grasp, and gazed through the dark green, sun-spotted leaves at the clear blue sky…

* * *


Weeks passed, the days similar and predictable, but safe. Nashwa took him out twice more, and they talked often, as often as it was safe to do so. She kissed him again just once, and as she did he kissed her in return, which made her laugh – a clear, musical, beautiful laugh. She sometimes invited him to take a nap on her tummy when she was resting, or lying on her back reading in bed. He got to know her, teasing her gently for what he called her ‘soppy’ taste in music and films. She read her stories to him, in that thrillingly intimate whisper of hers, and her voice carried him away into the magical world of her imagination. He had become a focal point in her life, and she, to him, was everything. His entire existence revolved around her, no longer simply out of necessity, but because his feelings bound him to her inextricably. She was special. She was amazing. She cared about him, and he felt happy whenever they were together.

Gradually, he found that he had fallen in love with her.

So it was something of a blow when she came home one evening, almost bursting with excitement, and told him with a thrilled, bubbly giggle, her eyes shining bright, that she now had a boyfriend.

His name was Frédéric, she gushed, while Étienne listened and tried to look happy for her; he was soooo cute, she went on ecstatically, and so kind and considerate, and sooo sweet, and… Étienne tuned her out, slumping glumy against the base of her desk lamp. She had mentioned this Frédéric before, of course, but he had never guessed that she had a crush on him; she had never hinted at it, and perhaps he had not wanted to know anyway.Most of her life was lived outside this room, beyond his reach, in a world into which he could not venture. It was in that world that she had found herself a boyfriend. Étienne’s own feelings for her could never have been more than daydreams – a fantasy. He was a rescued Snackaboy, a piece of food turned into a friend. And, even if he spent the rest of his life hidden away and protected by Nashwa –which seemed likely– he could never be her lover in a convential sense.

Her friendly kisses had not been kisses of love. They never could be. Soft and caring they were, but could never be passionate. Not without smothering, crushing, breaking or inhaling his tiny body.

“–he kissed me,” Nashwa was saying, clearly delighted. “Mmmm, it felt so right. Oh, Étienne,” she cried out with a thrilled little giggle, “I’m so happy! I feel so lucky.”

“Then I’m happy for you,” Étienne said with a forced smile, trying to sound as though he meant it. Nashwa smiled warmly, and leaned down to kiss the top of his head, her soft lips ruffling and moistening his hair, her warm breath enveloping him for just a moment. He held back a sigh.

“Do you mind if I tell you about him?” she asked anxiously, her beautiful, greenish brown eyes still sparkling. “I just feel I need to tell someone, and you’re a good friend.”

Another forced smile. “You can talk to me about whatever you want.”

Nashwa gave him a grateful smile. “Thanks, Étienne.” She picked him up, and placed him on her bed, sitting beside him. He gazed up, his heart sinking, into her lovely face, the soft cascade of her dark hair, her slim, bare, pretty arms, the bulge of her round breasts… “You’re sweet too, in your own way,” she told him, glowing with her own happiness, and took a deep breath. “Well, I’d noticed Fréd looking at me for quite a while. He thinks he was being discreet.” She giggled. “I was waiting to see if he’d do anything, and today–”

Étienne lowered his head. He tried his best to listen, although every word she spoke, in her happy innocence, was unintentionally painful. It had never occurred to her, it seemed, that he might love her. His mind drifted, away from what she was saying, and into the jumble of his own conflicting thoughts and emotions…

* * *


Weeks passed. A part of Étienne had hoped, selfishly, that Nashwa’s feelings for this Frédéric might not last. But instead, she spoke about him all the time, the intensity of her attraction to him never appearing to diminish. She seemed to have given her teenage heart to him with wild abandon, and to be enjoying the lasting excitement of her own feelings. She spent more and more time outdoors, with her boyfriend, away from Étienne. She no longer invited the tiny Snackaboy to snuggle up close to her or to nap on her tummy. She no longer kissed him, even as a friend. Instead, she described the passionate kisses she had shared with Frédéric. Étienne bore the weight of his own feelings in silence.

Nashwa had not told Frédéric about him, and he remained hidden whenever she took her boyfriend up to her room. At present, they had not yet had sex –or at least not in her room– but he had to listen to her girlish giggles and squeals of excitement, her playful, breathless teasing as she and her boyfriend fondled each other on her bed. He tried to feel grateful that he could not see them, but the sounds burned themselves into his consciousness.

Nashwa’s behaviour towards him could never be described as cold. She remained friendly, and from time to time he still sensed that they shared a special bond, but he could not help but feel she had become more distant. Her world, inaccessible to him, had risen up brutally as a wall between them – or so it seemed to him when he lay awake at night brooding. He had been living in the present, but now the question of his future pressed itself upon him. The years that stretched out ahead seemed uncertain, shimmering darkly before his mind’s eye. He felt how precarious, how abnormal in a sense his existence was in a life that he had never been designed for. Nashwa had pulled him into her reality, but she herself admitted that she had had no long-term aim, beyond saving him from immediate doom in her sister’s mouth.

And so, as he lay awake, listening to the sound of Nashwa breathing while she slept peacefully, he thought. And thought. Shied away from the disturbed wanderings of his mind, then returned to them. And thought some more.

And decided.

He told her what he wanted two days later, when she had brought him to her special tree in the park, for the first time since before she had started going out with Frédéric.

“I’d like you to eat me,” he said.

It was sunny again that day, although the sky was, in part, overcast, and the breeze that rustled through the leaves was cool, sometimes almost cold. After climbing up to her branch and sitting him in her hand, she had not talked about her boyfriend, but about her latest idea for a story, involving hidden cities and magical mountains. He had listened with genuine interest; he had always loved her stories, and the rich, fascinating depths of her imagination. But the words he needed to speak had weighed heavily on his mind, making him nervous and fidgety. She had noticed eventually, and asked him whether anything was wrong. That was when he had said it. “I’d like you to eat me.”

He looked up as he did so into her mesmerising brown eyes –with their beautiful hint of green–, his expression serious. He saw surprise there… and was that dismay? Confusion? For several long seconds she was silent, frowning, obviously startled. When she spoke at last, she could say only:

“What?”

“I…” Étienne shifted nervously in the palm of her hand. “I said I’d like you to eat me. And no,” he added, as he saw her puzzled frown deepen, “I’m not joking.”

Silence for several seconds. He strained to read the expression on her face, in her eyes. Was that… disgust? Incomprehension? Disapproval? She was so beautiful that it hurt, and the look on her face hurt even more.

“I’m not going to eat you,” she said at last, bluntly. “You’re not food. You don’t really mean it.” She closed her fingers around him. “I think we should go home now. I’m putting you in my pocket.”

She was upset. Étienne’s heart sank.
“No, wait, don’t!” he pleaded. “Don’t, please, I… I need to talk.”

“About what?” she asked harshly. “About me… eating you?” A grimace of disgust passed over her face. “How could you even ask that? I thought I made it clear that you had nothing to fear from me. That I would never hurt you. That you could trust me! I thought we were friends.”

“We are friends!” he agreed quickly. “But I…” He sighed, frustrated, and angry at himself for having upset her. “It’s not easy for me to find the right way to say this.”

“No, because what you’re saying is horrible!” she snapped. “How could you ever think I… I don’t understand you, Étienne!”

“Just give me a chance! I’ll try to explain.”

Nashwa gave him a hurt, angry look, holding his gaze for a second or two, then, finally, nodded.

“Go on.”

“I…” Étienne bit his lip, nervous, and lowered his gaze for a moment before looking back up at her. “I care about you,” he said at last. “A lot. As you said, we’re friends.” He did not want to tell her that he loved her. He felt she would not understand that, either. “At first, of course, I didn’t want anyone to eat me. I’m so grateful to you, Nashwa, for everything you’ve done. But I… can’t…” He struggled for the right words. “You have your own life to lead. You can’t spend the rest of your life hiding me and looking after me. And I can’t spend the rest of mine hidden away, waiting for the day when something will go wrong and I’m found – you know it’ll happen! You can’t spend the next sixty or seventy years keeping me a secret. One day you’ll get married, have children… It just won’t work. And I can’t go anywhere. I can’t exist in any way other than what we’ve been doing. Except if…” He stopped.

Nashwa had been quiet while he spoke. Her expression was grave, troubled, and sad.
“You’ve been worrying about what’s going to become of you.”

“Yes. Well, no. Well…” He sighed. “It’s not just that.”

“Well what is it, then?” she asked, frustrated and confused. “You don’t… Why on Earth would you want to be–” She cut herself off, as though unable to say it.

Étienne thought quickly.
“I think it’s what’s best,” he said at last, choosing his words with care. “At first, you’re right, I didn’t want to be eaten. But… I still don’t, at least not by just anyone. But with you, it’s different. With you, it would be all right. I’d feel as if I was… as if that was my purpose. It would be fulfilling the meaning of my life.” He looked up into her eyes anxiously. He saw that they were moist, brimmed with tears. “At least that’s how it feels to me.”

“But I’ll look after you.” Nashwa’s voice was pained, thick with emotion. She blinked at the tears in her eyes. “You mustn’t think that you’d be a burden. I want to look after you.”

“Then eat me,” he said simply. “Please.”

The tears began to trickle down her cheeks, and she looked away.
“I don’t understand,” she whispered, pained. “I can’t. I wanted to save you.”

“You did!” Étienne insisted. “You did save me! You gave me my life, allowed me to choose. And I’m asking you to eat me. I am food, Nashwa. That’s what I’m supposed to be. And to be eaten by someone who cares for me–”

“Stop it!” she cried. “Stop it, stop it…” She was weeping gently, shivering, and she had to tighting her grip on him so as not to drop him while her body shook with emotion. Étienne sat down in her hand, defeated.

“I’m sorry…” he whispered.

Nashwa was quiet for a long while. Étienne hung his head until he sensed her looking at him. He looked up, and saw her wipe her eyes, and tear-stained cheeks.
“Do you really mean it?” she asked, also in a whisper. “Is it that important?”

“Yes,” he answered softly, looking into her eyes, and hoping she could see how serious he was. “Yes, it is. Really it is, Nashwa. The times we’ve had… They’ve been wonderful. Fantastic. But they have to end one day. And if you could do one last thing for me, if you want to make me happy… then it’s what I’d really like you to do.” Before she could say anything more, he went on: “Don’t do it if you don’t want to. I don’t want you to feel pressured. But I… I’d just be… I’d be very grateful if you thought about it.”

Nashwa’s lovely face was a mixture of emotions. She glanced away, muttering something in Arabic, before raising her hand cautiously to bring him closer to her face.

“I’ll think about it,” she said at last, clearly uncomfortable. Étienne exhaled a sigh of relief.

“Thank you,” he whispered with heart-felt gratitude.

“But I don’t want to talk about it for now,” she added quickly. “Let’s talk about something else. Anything else.”

And so they did. They remained in the tree until early evening, talking mainly about Nashwa’s life. Her childhood, her memories of growing up, the places she had visited… She told him more about her favourite books and favourite songs, that pineapples were her favourite fruit and that she disliked pears. She had never been skiing, but wanted to. She had won a school writing competition as a child. She had a good memory, but struggled with maths. She had once slept outdoors in a transparent tent in the countryside, with her brother and sister, six or seven years ago. She liked running. A hundred little details that combined to make her unique. Étienne listened, smiling from time to time, and feeling increasingly relaxed as the sun went down. He marvelled quietly at her beauty in the particular glow of the setting sun, the shadows playing on her face, the lively warmth in her eyes. The earlier tension between them had faded. They did not speak of his earlier request.

Eventually, Nashwa returned him to her pocket and took him home. Their usual routine set in for the rest of the evening – pleasant and friendly, as though there were nothing out of the ordinary. But, that night, Étienne found it difficult to sleep. He lay awake with his eyes open in the darkness, and could tell, by the sound of Nashwa’s breathing, and of her shifting and turning in bed, that she was not asleep either. He felt no doubt about his wish, although he had not told her all his reasons. It was, ultimately, an act of love. What he had said had been true; he could not continue to live this life indefinitely, and he could quite literally not imagine living any other way than this. He was alive only because she cared for him; he could not survive on his own. Their current arrangement was untenable in the long run. No, it was better to give himself to her, and be hers, fully, in the way that had been intended for him. She would perhaps never know that he loved her, but by offering himself as her food, he would be expressing his ultimate devotion, the most profound commitment. He felt a little fear, as was natural, but for the most part he felt surprisingly serene. He had thought about this long and hard, and he had made up his mind. The only matter that troubled him was that he had upset her. It was that, above all else, which kept him awake that night.

The following morning, routine kicked in once more. He chatted with Nashwa briefly about nothing in particular, and she headed out for the day. Hours passed, dragging on in the quiet room. He felt nervous, increasingly so. The evening came, and he could hear the occasional drift of voices from the ground flour, but, if Nashwa had returned home, she did not come up. He paced her desk, trying to quell his anxiety. Was she avoiding him? Did she feel too uncomfortable, too ill-at-ease now to talk to him? Had he wrecked their friendship with what must have seemed like an impulsive and inexplicable request? Those questions were still churning round his mind when the door opened at last. He hid, as he always did, until a whisper drew him out.

“It’s me.”

Her voice was calm. He tried to read some sort of emotion into it, but he could detect none. Except, perhaps, a hint of nervousness? She did not sound angry; nor did she sound pleased to be here. He emerged from behind the book pile.

“Hi,” he said, and managed a smile. Nashwa sat down on her bed without smiling back. She did not even look at him for a moment, and chewed at her lower lip, as though hesitating. Étienne winced, shuffled his feet. “Uhm… Have a nice day?”

“Not too bad,” she replied, distractedly. “I had that exam at school… I met up with Frédéric afterw– I’ve been thinking about what you said yesterday,” she said suddenly, and locked her gaze with his. He looked as steadily as he could into her beautiful, expressive eyes. “In fact, I’ve been thinking about it a lot. I’m still not entirely sure why you want me to… do that…”

“Well, I–”

“…but I want to know if you’re really, really sure,” she said, her voice solemn. Étienne continued to hold her gaze, and felt his heart leap. Was she actually considering it? His throat

[French_snack]

[STORY 5, continued]
---------------------------------

“Not too bad,” she replied, distractedly. “I had that exam at school… I met up with Frédéric afterw– I’ve been thinking about what you said yesterday,” she said suddenly, and locked her gaze with his. He looked as steadily as he could into her beautiful, expressive eyes. “In fact, I’ve been thinking about it a lot. I’m still not entirely sure why you want me to… do that…”

“Well, I–”

“…but I want to know if you’re really, really sure,” she said, her voice solemn. Étienne continued to hold her gaze, and felt his heart leap. Was she actually considering it? His throat was dry, and he swallowed nervously.

“Yes, I… Yes,” he managed to say. “Yes, absolutely.”

Nashwa lowered her head a little, closed her eyes, rubbed them, and sighed before looking at him again.

“You do realise what it means?” She sounded a lot calmer than he had expected. “If I… eat you” –she was able to say it at last– “you’ll be gone.”

“Yes,” he said, just as calmly. “I know.”

“Étienne, you’re… you’re a nice person,” she said, with another sigh. “You’re kind, smart… I care about you. A lot. You’ve been living in my room… I’d like to think we’ve become good friends.”

“We have,” he said quietly. You mean everything to me…

“But you really want me to eat you?”

“Yes,” he said, seriously.

A long pause. She looked a little uncomfortable.

“All right.”

Again, his heart leapt in his chest, and started pounding. ‘All right’, she had said. She was actually going to–

“Only if it’s all right with you!” he put in hastily.

“It is,” she said, her voice still calm. “I mean, I was… I wasn’t happy at all at first. I didn’t want to do it, and then I did a lot of hesitating, and then…” She shrugged, and gave what sounded like a nervous little laugh. “I don’t know. Maybe I don’t understand myself any more than I understand you. But it doesn’t… It doesn’t feel wrong. Maybe… I’ve been wanting…” She trailed off, and gave him a somewhat worried look. “Am I making any sense?”

Étienne had no idea. “Yes,” he said. Nashwa smiled.

“Good. Perhaps we do understand each other a bit, after all.” She paused, and fidgeted with the delicate blue stone pendant of her necklace. “When I got home, I was nervous,” she began. “I thought I’d persuaded myself that it was okay to eat you, but I couldn’t bring myself to actually come upstairs and do it. So I stayed downstairs, and when it was time for dinner I stuffed myself, hoping that I wouldn’t be hungry any more.” She smiled, her cheeks reddening faintly with embarassment. “We had couscous, and I… I feel very full.” She gave a little laugh. “And yet, when I look at you…” A moment’s hesitation. Her blushing intensified. “I’m still hungry,” she whispered.

The effect of her words on Étienne, combined with her cute, embarassed blush, her shy smile and gentle yet hungry look as she gazed upon him, was electric. He felt a thrill course through his entire, tiny body, causing him to shiver with the excitement of blissful anticipation. She looks at me, and she feels hungry! She was beginning to see him as food. Still a friend, but also food. The thought was incredibly arousing, far more so than he would have imagined. He heard himself let out a quick, shaky laugh, and Nashwa immediately looked concerned.

“Are you all right?” she asked gently.

“I’m fine,” he replied through a throat dry with sudden emotion. He swallowed. “Better than fine,” he added, and a slow grin lit up his face. “I’m… I’m happy!” he stammered, and laughed again, barely able to believe that this was happening. Nashwa smiled, still shyly, then laughed with him - her soft, clear, melodious laugh which he had come to love so much.

“So, uhm… Well, as I said, I’m rather full!” she said, and gave another little laugh. “But” –her cheeks were quickly taking on a deeper shade of red– “I’m sure I can find more room for you… in…” She rested her hand gently on her tummy, which chose that moment to emit a loud gurgle. Her blush deepened, and she giggled as Étienne laughed. His laugh was one of happiness, but it also served to conceal his growing excitement and state of arousal.

“I promise I won’t take up too much room in there,” Étienne ventured, blushing a little in turn. “I’m just small.” He paused. “Snack food,” he added, with a shy laugh. Nashwa smiled.

“You look very tasty,” she told him in a playful tone. It was clear that she was trying to control her embarassment at the nature of their conversation, but then, so was he. At least she appeared to be enjoying it. It was almost more than he had dared hope for.

“Thank you,” he said, and smiled broadly. He tried to breathe steadily. He was beginning to feel hot, and hoped his arousal would not show too quickly through the all-too-thin material of his hand-made clothing.

“Well,” Nashwa said after a moment’s hesitation, “I’ll–” Her stomach rumbled, and she could not help but giggle again, with mixed nervousness and excitement. “Either I’m digesting hard, or my little tummy is very eager to get you!” she teased. A fresh thrill rushed through Étienne’s body, and he grinned delightedly.

“Well then, I shouldn’t keep a hungry lady waiting.”

Nashwa’s blush was incredibly cute, to him the epitomy of her gentle sweetness. She lowered her gaze for just a moment before giving him a full smile, parting her pretty pink lips to reveal her teeth. “I’ll just, uhm… I’ll be right back. I need to get something.” She stood, her hand smoothing a crease in her short summer skirt. Étienne’s eyes travelled from her lovely bare legs up over her tummy and chest, to her face. She blew him a kiss, and walked over to the door. Before opening it, she paused, stood still for a moment, and looked back. “Are you absolutely sure?” she asked, more seriously now. “If I do eat you, there’ll be no changing your mind afterwards. And this… is the last time I’ll ask you.”

Étienne gave it a final moment’s thought.
“Yes,” he said, just as seriously. His heart thumped harder at the smile Nashwa gave him then.

“All right,” she said gently. “In that case, when I get back, I’ll gobble you all up.” She giggled excitedly, then extended the tip of her tongue and ran it teasingly, but still very shyly, over her soft, sensuous lips. She winked at him, and was gone, closing the door behind her.

While she was away, Étienne had one last opportunity to sit by himself and consider what was about to be done. He felt a little surprised that Nashwa had actually agreed. It made him wonder whether, perhaps, she had secretly wanted to eat him before; he would no doubt never know. Even as their bodies joined in the sole intimacy that was possible for the two of them, the depths of their minds, their thoughts and feelings, would remain partly veiled, forever opaque to the unspoken prying of each other’s questions. He would, in fact, never really know Nashwa, not completely, even as he dissolved within her and became a part of her. But then, mystery has its appeal… He placed his hand over his stiffening penis, trying to push it back down for the time being. He had kept his true feelings for her secret all this while; now was not the time to spoil a very special moment by showing her something she might not want to see.

She returned a few minutes later, with a bright smile on her face, and a smallish glass bowl in her hand. As she brought it nearer and set it down on the desk, he saw that it contained ice cream.

“Mint and chocolate,” she announced cheerfully.

Mint. He had once been a mint sweet himself. Was she trying to recreate his initial flavour, return him to the state of being a Snackaboy, as she had found him? He did not ask, and she did not say. He merely smiled, encouragingly.

“I thought you said you were full,” he teased.

“Oh, I am.” She rested her hand atop her belly. “Stuffed.” She smiled. “But I can find room for ice cream. Would you…” A paused.

“Yes?” he probed gently.

“Would you like me to eat you with it?” she asked, the shy blush returning to her cheeks.

Étienne felt a warm wave of happiness rise and settle within him peacefully.
“That would be nice,” he said.

“Good.” Nashwa beamed. Her stomach groaned, working to digest the food already inside it, and she lifted her top just enough to show him her bare belly. The skin of her tummy, its delicate sun-tanned hue recalling her Middle-Eastern origins, was taut, stretched over a small but noticeable bulge which Étienne found incredibly sexy. He gazed at her tummy button quietly, his gaze then travelling over her belly. Within it, invisible to the outside, was her dinner, which she was already digesting, and which he would soon be joining as dessert. He felt a deepening longing to be inside her, to be there now, to satisfy her as her food, and to bask in the bliss that was her stomach… She gave her full-looking tummy a little pat. “You’ll be in there soon,” she whispered playfully. She allowed her top to fall back, concealing her tummy from his view once more. He sighed wistfully, and looked up past the hidden bulges of her pretty breasts, towards her face.

“Whenever you want,” he said gently. “I’m yours; it’s up to you.”

Nashwa smiled, a soft, kind smile, and slowly scooped up a spoonful of her icecream. She raised it to her mouth, her lips parting to welcome her dessert in, and inserted the spoon, before withdrawing it, empty. Fascinated, Étienne watched her savour the cool mint and chocolate melting in her mouth, until at last she swallowed, closing her eyes for a moment as the ice cream slid down her throat.

“Mmmmm…” She licked a stray speck of chocolate off her lips, then, much to Étienne’s delight, burped. It immediately made her blush, while Étienne felt a warm thrill envelop him, stimulating his excitement. “Sorry,” Nashwa whispered. “There’s a lot of food in there already, and…”

“It’s all right,” Étienne assured her. “Everybody burps. Just enjoy your food.”

She gave him a smile, and ate another spoonful. He watched it disappear into her mouth, between her amazingly cute lips; watched the faint movement of her jaw as she absorbed the flavour of her ice cream, and then the brief lump in her throat as it went down. He shivered, awed, still barely believing that this was happening. Again Nashwa licked the remains of her last mouthful from her lips, and looked down at him. She gave a slow smile, both gentle and predatory. Étienne shivered again and braced himself, his feelings gradually building up towards a crescendo.

“Time to go in, tasty boy,” Nashwa whispered softly. She reached down and pressed her fingers round him gently, lifting him up and dropping him carefully on top of her ice cream. Étienne felt himself sink into the soft, sticky, semi-liquid substance, the cold of it hitting his body all at once as though he had been pushed into a frozen lake. He shuddered, twitched instinctively, but the hot intensity of of his feelings was already warming his entire body, chasing away some of the cold. He tried to move, but it only caused him to sink further into the ice cream. He looked up and saw Nashwa laugh, with that beautiful laugh he so loved. “Let’s warm you up,” she whispered down to him, and an excited giggle escaped her lovely lips. He felt the ice cream beneath him shift, pressing up against his body, as she sank her spoon into it, scooping him up. She raised her spoon very slowly, careful as always not to make him dizzy by moving his tiny body too quickly.

The slow pace of his rise towards her perfect mouth enabled him to prepare himself with blissful anticipation. Leaning sideways on her spoon, he gazed down at her bare legs, up past her skirt to her tummy, and focused his gaze for a few seconds on her chest. He had never seen her naked, and never would now, Nashwa’s breasts remaining chastely hidden, visible only to his imagination. Instead, he was now going to become a part of her body. Part of Nashwa’s unique, beautiful body… The thought caused a jolt of feelings so strong it was almost overpowering, and he shivered, still immersed in her cold ice cream. She smiled, a little shyly, and paused his ascent close to her mouth. His attention was immediately drawn to it as she inhaled softly, and parted her soft, gently sensuous pink lips, revealing to him at last the inside of her mouth.

“Are you cold?” she whispered. Mesmerised by the view of her mouth, he could not find the words to reply. She smiled. “You’ll be warm soon,” she told him, very gently. “Warm and cosy in my tummy.” He sat up a little straighter on her spoon, and watched her purse her lips, exhaling her warm breath, so very softly, in a gentle caress, a breeze enveloping him for an all too brief moment. She was blowing on him, warming him with her breath, and his entire being responded to her caring caress. He shivered, not with cold but with barely controllable pleasure. She smiled again. “Are you ready?”

“Oh, yes…” he whispered, and had to force the words out through his breathless excitement. Her mouth began to open, right in front of him. Within just a few seconds now… The realisation stirred something within him, and he sat up further. “Nashwa…” he began, and paused, hesitating. He felt he wanted to say something, but he did not know what. Nashwa’s mouth, looming so large before him, resolved itself into a kind, caring smile.

“I know,” she whispered. A pause, then a sweet, girlish little giggle. “Enjoy the trip!” she said gently, and, before he could wonder just what it was that she ‘knew’, her mouth opened again wide. He glanced up at her beautiful face, her warm, expressive brown eyes with their greenish tinge, her pretty nose, the shape of her face, framed by her wavy black hair… and then all there was to see was her gaping mouth as it engulfed him, a pink cavern, warm and moist, wet with a sheen of saliva, secreted in anticipation of food.

He felt himself thrust forward, then pulled back, darkness descending upon him, as she closed her lips and withdrew the spoon with a sucking sound, trapping him in her mouth. Étienne had had time to glimpse the pink softness of her gums, her wet, clean white teeth, and the inviting pink stretch of her tongue. He tumbled down onto it now, amidst the part-liquid mint and chocolate ice cream, and felt Nashwa’s soft but powerful tongue react to his touch. It surged beneath him, and he was drenched in a wave of sticky saliva. Her tongue moved, exploring the taste of him, sloshing him in her mouth, drenching him in her saliva. Étienne’s penis throbbed and hardened, and he allowed himself to relax fully, becoming a passive morsel in her mouth, letting her move him in whatever way she liked. Her slick, slippery tongue slurped and sloshed him, her taste buds soaking in his flavour, the feel of him in her mouth. He wondered what she might be thinking as she ate him. She seemed to be enjoying him. He smiled happily in the warm, wet darkness.

She did not keep him in her mouth long. Once he was thoroughly soaked in her saliva, she could slide him down her throat easily, like any other mouthful of food, and when he felt her tongue nudge him gently towards the back of her mouth, Étienne knew she was going to do exactly that. His erect penis shuddered again, and he did not resist. He inhaled the warm air of her mouth, breathing her breath, calmly. Nashwa’s tongue pulsed, pushing him towards the dark opening of her oesophagus, and, drenched in saliva and liquid ice cream, he slid without difficulty into her throat. The muscles of her oesophagus reacted, pulling him in, and she swallowed, her loud gulp echoing in his ears.

Étienne closed his eyes, smiling broadly, his body perfectly relaxed as her oesopahgus pushed him down deeper and deeper into her gorgeous body, towards her stomach... a dizzying fall down in the darkness. Its low rumble rose up to him before he even reached it, and he let out a blissful sigh.

Nashwa licked sticky ice cream off her lips, savouring its lingering taste in her mouth, and leaned back with a small sigh of contentment, focusing on the feel of her food being pushed down inside her. Soon enough, she felt Étienne reach her stomach, which seemed to shift a little as it welcomed her latest mouthful of food. She smiled, very softly, a little wistfully. She felt air rise up from her belly, and placed her hand in front of her mouth daintilly as she released a girlish little sound half-way between a hiccough and a burp. She giggled, despite herself. It felt odd, knowing that Étienne was now inside her, but it also felt… right, so very right. A part of her felt sad, but she also felt happy. She smiled to herself, and patted her tummy. “I hope you’re comfortable in there,” she whispered gently. She gave her full tummy a quick rub, and sighed with satisfaction as she felt the food in her stomach shift around, responding to the motion of her hand. Still smiling, she finished her ice cream, allowing herself time to savour it fully, then stood, and released a deep, contented sigh.

“Goodness, I feel bloated now,” she told the friend who was now in her belly. She smiled fondly. “You’re making me feel very full. I–” She yawned, the large meal making her feel drowsy. “Umm, no, it’s much too early to sleep.”

Still, she did feel sleepy. Stifling another yawn, she took off her sandals and allowed herself to collapse backwards onto her bed. As she did so, the heavy food in her stomach shifted, lurching, jostled by her sudden movement, and a loud burp passed her lips the moment her back touched the bed. “Pardon me.” She laughed, feeling a little giddy. Looking up at the ceiling, she slipped her hand beneath her top to rest it over the taut skin of her very full belly, and sighed. She felt… Her feelings were hazy, shifting, evading her conscious grasp as they weaved in and out of her mind. She felt… guilty? No. Well, maybe a little. She tried to push that emotion aside, and turned to another. Happy. She felt happy. Content. Wistful… a little sad. Excited! What she had just done seemed so strange, yet in a good way, and she felt glad. Full, of course, too, she told herself with a soft laugh; she could feel the presence of her food weighing pleasantly on her stomach, and it was impossible to ignore it. Excited, then… There was a little thrill inside her of… almost sexual pleasure, perhaps? She stifled that, too, quickly and sternly. Étienne was her friend, and she did not want to have those sorts of feelings for him. Her mind drifted to Frédéric, and she smiled. She would see her boyfriend tomorrow; something to look forward to. She felt… felt… She felt many things, and she was too tired to think about them.

For several minutes, she lay on her bed in silence, digesting both the food in her stomach and the feelings it gave her, her eyes turned absently towards the ceiling. She stirred only once she began to feel pressure from the lower part of her torso. She tried to ignore it for a while, resting, her mind drifting almost passively between confusing emotions, but eventually the pressure began to build up, and she knew she would have to do something about it. She got to her feet with a sigh.

“I, umm… I don’t know if you can hear me,” she whispered to Étienne, “but I… have to go to the toilet. Sorry about this.”

She left her bedroom, making her way down the corridor, and smiled a little as she felt her food slosh and shift slightly in her belly with every step she took. She reached the bathroom, locked herself in, pulled her skirt and pants down, sat, and released the contents of both her bladder and her colon. As she washed her hands a moment later, she wondered what Étienne was feeling at that moment. Was he even still conscious? Was he happy? She glanced at herself in the bathroom mirror, taking in her own faintly worried expression. She cared about him, and she could not help but wonder, even now, whether he had made the right choice. Of course, there was no going back… She lifted her top again to look down at her tummy, and at the little bulge which indicated the presence inside her of her very filling meal. She moistened her lips hesitatingly, wondering… Somewhere in here was Étienne. She had given him what he wanted, and she had to admit, if she was perfectly honest with herself, that she had enjoyed eating him, too. She could only hope it had brought him happiness.

When she left the bathroom, she saw Salimah coming out of her room.

“Hey, Nashwa! I wondered where you were. I’m going round to Émilie’s for the evening. Want to come?”

Nashwa thought about it for a moment, then smiled.
“Sure.” She added, in Arabic: “Are you going now?”

“Yes, as soon as you’re ready.”

“What will we be doing?”

“I don’t know.” Her sister shrugged. “Watch something, talk, play cards…”

“All fine with me. Just give me a moment to get my shoes, and stuff.” Her stomach let out a loud, long wet gurgle, just as she was walking past Salimah, and her sister laughed.

“That’s a rumbly tummy!”

Nashwa smiled. “I think I’ve just had a bit too much to eat.”

“Yes, you did eat more than usual.” Salimah returned the smile. “Well, walking might help you digest. We’re going on foot.”

Nashwa nodded. “No problem. I’ll see you downstairs…”

* * *


Warmth enveloped him, peaceful and welcoming. He was in a soft place, a gentle place. He rested against the soft inner wall of Nashwa’s stomach, breathing slowly and steadily, and listening to the loud but soothing sound of her breathing. It too seemed to envelop him, reminding him that Nashwa was all around him, that he was fully contained within her. For now, she held him, safe and content, concealed from the outside world. Soon, she would digest and absorb him, and he would be drawn into her more fully still, becoming at last a part of her. The thought gave him a deep sexual thrill, but above all he experienced an overwhelming serenity, a sense of happiness that pervaded his entire being.

He could see nothing, but there were many sounds around him. Nashwa’s breathing, and the soft, steady beating of her gentle heart, helped him feel perfectly relaxed. From time to time, a gurgle filled his ears and the confined space of her stomach, as her body worked on the task of digesting her meal. Every little gurgle made him shiver with happiness, and he closed his eyes, listening, blissfully. He could feel her walking, the motion swaying him gently inside her tummy. She was, he told himself, getting on with her life, simply living, while she digested her food – as she did every evening. She would do so again tomorrow, living her unique life, eating now and then, and again the day after, and for every day of her life yet to come. Tonight, he was a part of her food. Her stomach was full with couscous and ice cream, and he was sinking partway into it, just food churned in her tummy. He would be digested with it, passing later into her intestine, travelling through her body tonight as she slept.

This was not an end; simply a change. When she had digested him, he would exist as a part of her. They would be one; they would be her. She would live her life, with its complexities and its simple routines, the unexpected and the little habits, the sorrows and the wonderful joys, the doubts, the discoveries, and all the happy moments she would experience. He would exist within her life, the life of a beautiful, intelligent, kind-hearted girl. He loved her, and he had given himself to her. As she absorbed him, he liked to think that she would absorb his love for her too. Soon he would be nothing, but he would also be with Nashwa, in the most perfect way, forever.

Her felt her walking, moving, and heard her talk. She laughed, the sound of her clear, gentle and beautiful laugh reaching him deep inside her stomach. She was laughing, and living. He smiled, soothed by the soft sounds, the rumbles of her full tummy, and closed his eyes…

* * *


That night, Nashwa had slept soundly. She had curled up in bed –in her pink and white pyjamas with the bunny motif– and thought of Étienne, but she had been too tired to think of him long, and she had soon drifted into a peaceful sleep, whispering him good night. The following morning, the seventeen-year-old had done as she did every morning, showered, had breakfast, and headed out to school. She had met up with Frédéric in late afternoon, they had spent time together outdoors, and then she had dragged him on a brief shopping spree before he took her for a pizza, and they strolled hand in hand by the river side, talking and smiling to each other, comfortable and happy just being together. She had sat with him on a public bench by the river, resting her head on his shoulder and enjoying the feel of his arms round her, as they talked in tender whispers while the sun went down in a spectacular display of colour, bathing the two of them in its glow and fading warmth.

He had wanted her to stay longer, but she had told him gently that she had homework to do. They had kissed, softly than more passionately, a sweet goodbye for now, and he had walked her to the bus stop. She sat down with a sigh, and read a magazine as the bus jolted on its way through the streets.

It was when the driver braked at one of his many stops to let passengers on and off that Nashwa felt the first twinge in the area of her lower intestines. She took note of the fact that she would soon need to go to the toilet, and tried to ignore it for the time being. It came again moments later, then again, more strongly, when the bus shifted into motion once more, jolting her in her seat. She frowned, and returned to reading her magazine. She would just have to hold until she got home.

Within a few minutes, the initial twinges had become a rather pressing urge. She grimaced uncomfortably, while the bus took a turn, and shifted in her seat, clenching. Her discomfort grew with every passing minute, but there was nothing she could do about it for now. It was only when the bus left the last stop before her own that she realised, suddenly, that this had to be Étienne’s time to come out.

The thought startled her, and immediately made her blush, her cheeks reddening with somewhat guilty embarassment. She had thought about him a few times during the day, but now it appeared she had finished digesting him. The realisation made her feel even more uncomfortable… although, to her surprise, it also gave her an odd feeling of satisfaction, and she could not prevent herself from smiling discreetly as she tried to turn her attention back to her magazine.

The bus came to a halt at last, and she got off quickly, walking the short distance to her parents’ home, continuing to clench as her rectum pressed her urgently for the release of its contents. Once indoors, she greeted her parents hastily in passing, dropped her bag on the sofa, and headed straight for the bathroom. She pulled down her skirt, her pants, and sat her bare bottom down on the toilet seat. She did not have to wait long, as the contents of her bowels emerged naturally as soon as she stopped clenching and allowed her tense anus to release them. She sighed with relief, pushing out everything that needed to go. I’m sorry, Étienne, she thought, with mixed feelings, as she excreted his fully digested remains, mixed with those of the meal he had been a part of. I know this isn’t very dignified, but… Her body relaxed as she finished excreting her poo, and she gave another sigh of contentment and relief. She wiped herself clean, flushed with a wistful expression on her lovely face, and washed her hands thoroughly before leaving the bathroom.

As she closed the bathroom door behind her and stood in the corridor, Nashwa wondered for a moment where to go. It was strange feeling lost and disconcerted after stepping out of the bathroom, but that was precisely how she felt at that instant. Her mind returned to Étienne, and…

She pushed the thought aside firmly. She could not allow her bothersome, nagging guilt to get a hold on her. She and Étienne had enjoyed a special moment together, and now she still had her own life to lead. She told herself firmly that she had nothing to feel guilty about.

Besides, she reminded herself with a sly little smile, he was tasty! And he had felt sinfully good in her tummy.

That thought cheered her up considerably, and she was still smiling as she walked into her bedroom. Homework, she told herself. She had homework to do.

And perhaps, later, she would phone Frédéric, and they would have one of those nice, long girlfriend-to-boyfriend talks about nothing in particular…


THE END

[French_snack]

Well, at long last, here's story n°6! I started writing it about a month ago, then never seemed to find time to complete it, until I finally forced myself to do so.

It's oral soft vore, f/m, tiny prey. As usual. There are some brief mentions of the outcome of digestion.

Enjoy!


STORY 6

It was evening, and the sun had relinquished its harsh glare as it set over the Olympic village, draining away the stifling heat of daytime, leaving only a pleasant warmth in the air. It was times such as these, and early morning if she was out and about, that Liling prefered. There was something pleasant and restful about being outdoors in the slowly cooling, darkening air of a summer evening, and she soaked in the relaxing atmosphere with a faint smile. She would be going to bed early –it was a big day tomorrow– but she allowed herself the luxury of enjoying a short stroll round this section of the village.

Nearby, Jacques watched with slowly growing anxiety as she approached. His view was somewhat blurred, the result of him being trapped in a transparent plastic wrapper, which was, in turn, securely slotted in the snack dispensing machine, placed prominently against a wall, between two tall trees which swayed gently in the warm evening breeze. The double barrier of the wrapping and the machine’s transparent frontal glass casing made the outside world –or what little he could see of it– often hazy and indistinct, particularly when the sun’s rays were shining upon the dispenser. Since the machine never moved, his vision of the world outside did not vary. It was always the same buildings, the same pleasant path lined with trees, with athletes and various other people walking by or passing in their wheelchairs. Until a few hours ago, he had seen even less, since there had been a Snackagirl wedged in the slot in front of his. As they were both gagged, he could not talk to her, and she could not turn to look at him, any more than he could see the Snackaboy or Snackagirl who was behind him. So, instead of talking, he had simply looked at her, and wondered about her. He could see only her back, her deep chocolate brown hair, the back of her legs, and her round, pretty buttocks. When he grew tired of staring at the tiny segment of outside world that he could glimpse past her, he would gaze at her, before eventually returning his attention to the world outside again.

That had changed early that afternoon, when a cute young blond woman in a wheelchair had drawn up by the snack dispenser, and had selected a nectarine-flavoured snack. As soon as she had put the coins in the machine, the rack on which Jacques was slotted had begun to move forward, and the chocolate-haired Snackagirl in front of him had toppled down out of view. Jacques had seen the blond woman retrieve her from the machine, and wheel herself away, chatting cheerfully with her small group of friends. The woman in a wheelchair had purchased a snack, perhaps as dessert for a late lunch, and had taken her away to eat her.

Which had left Jacques at the front of the rack, next up for whoever wanted to buy his type of snack.

People had come and gone outside the machine, some stopping for food, but none had had a fancy for a nectarine Snackaboy. The entire afternoon had been stressful, as he tensed, holding his breath, every time someone approached. He did the same now as he watched the young woman walk up to the machine. Through the blur of his wrapping and the glass plating, he could not distinguish her clearly, but he could see that she was Oriental, her dark hair cut rather short. She had only one leg, and was walking with crutches. She stopped right in front of him, and said nothing. There was, after all, nobody there for her to talk to. Jacques shivered, bracing himself, hoping against hope that she would leave again soon. Although even that, he knew, would only postpone his fate. Sooner or later, someone would eat him. It was inevitable. He had been placed in this machine for that sole purpose, and eventually he would end up in a hungry stomach. He watched, trying with difficulty to remain calm, as the woman seemed to make up her mind, and pressed two buttons on the side of the machine, selecting the food she wanted. He could not see what she had chosen; he could only wait to find out what would fall out as her selected snack. She inserted coins, and he heard them clanking through the mechanism. He inhaled deeply through the gag, bracing himself, and counted the seconds. One… two…

The rack holding him in place lurched forward, pushing him over the edge. Terror gripped him, and he fell–

Liling adjusted her hold on her crutches to balance herself as she leaned down, and slipped her hand into the opening at the bottom of the machine, retrieving her food. The tasty-looking nectarine Snackaboy was wrapped in a thin sheen of transparent plastic, marked with the Snackaboy logo and information on the snack’s nutritional content. She held him up and observed him for a moment, without opening the wrapping. It had been a while since she had eaten a Snackaboy; she had given in to temptation and bought this one, but now that she had him she realised she did not feel particularly hungry. She had eaten an early dinner at one of the Olympic village’s restaurants, and she could still feel her food in her stomach, filling her up quite nicely. To eat the Snackaboy now would be over-indulging; she did not want to feel too full. On the other hand, he did look so very tasty…

She hesitated a brief moment longer, then slipped him casually into her handbag. She retrieved her change coins from the machine, readjusted her grip on her crutches, and continued her walk in the pleasant shade of the trees and fading warmth of the evening air.

The night was full of sounds. Not to Liling, who slept peacefully in her room at the Olympic village, going to bed early and building up her strength through sleep before the big day that would follow. But for Jacques, immobile, trapped, waiting, staring up at the dark ceiling in the dark room. When she had got in, Liling had removed him from her handbag, and casually placed him on her desk, setting him down, wrapping and all, near a small bottle of water. She had not so much as glanced at him again that evening, and he had been left, confined within the plastic wrapping, watching her live her evening. She had watched television for a short while, then made two phone calls. She had talked in Chinese, a language he did not understand, but he had seen and heard her joke and laugh, and even blush a little during her second conversation. Perhaps she was talking to a boyfriend, or husband? Free from the blur of the dispensing machine’s screen, he could see her a little better, although the wrapping over his face and round his entire body still obscured his vision to a significant extent. From what he could see of her, she seemed pretty, and he liked the sound of her voice – sweet and clear and, he felt, gentle. She had a nice laugh, too. He estimated that she was young, in her mid-, perhaps late twenties.

She was not paying him the least bit attention, and yet here he was, in the relative intimacy of her room. Of course, that was because she did not see him as a person. To this attractive, apparently sweet girl, he was nothing more than snack food, which she would eat when she felt a little hungry. Would that be tonight?, he had wondered. He had remained lying in fear, quietly, while the young lady finished talking on the phone, stood, hobbled over to the window on her one leg, pulled the curtain, and then proceded to get undressed. He had found it difficult not to look, but at this angle, and through the blur of the plastic, all he had been able to see were tantalising shimmers of colour, blurred flashes of bare skin, fleeting, ill-defined shapes. He had sighed as she covered herself up with her nightwear, oblivious to him. If his fate was to be eaten, consumed as a casual snack, subjected to the terror and humiliation of digestion, it would have been nice –he had thought mounrnfully, while the woman headed into the bathroom– to have at least have some sort of compensation. Such as the sight of a pretty woman disrobing. To see her body from the outside, if she was as attractive as she seemed, before he was forced into it down her throat. She had stayed several minutes in the bathroom, brushing her teeth and using the toilet, before returning to the bedroom and getting into bed. She had read for a while –it was impossible for him to see what she was reading–, then she had switched the light off early and gone to sleep, sinking into Morpheus’ embrace with a tired but comfortable sigh.

Time had passed. Perhaps several hours since the woman had fallen asleep; Jacques had no way of knowing the time. He found it impossible to sleep himself. Fear was a powerful stimulant, pumping adrenaline through his veins, forcing him to remain awake, and alert. Not that it did any good. He could barely move, and there was no escaping his predicament. Even if he could somehow wriggle into motion, which would be exceedingly difficult while encased in slippery plastic, his only means off the desk would be a freefall, plummeting to his death –or, worse, a serious injury failing to kill him– far below. Such a death might well be preferable to being eaten alive, but he could not bring himself to try it. Perhaps, he mused, he simply could not relinquish hope. And he was not the suicidal type.

He closed his eyes, as though to banish the reality of his unbearable situation, but every now and then he heard the sheets of the woman’s bed shuffle as she turned. She was a fidgety sleeper, and her movements, although they did not wake her, were a constant reminder to Jacques that the person who had purchased him lay just a few metres away. Every passing hour in the darkness brought him closer to oblivion, to becoming her food. By now, no doubt, her stomach was empty; she would be hungry when she awoke. She slept soundly, carefree, while her Snackaboy on her desk lay awake, tense and agonising.

Dawn broke, its first rays seeping through the thick curtain, slanting over him, causing him to squint. He had been able to sleep at last, albeit fitfully. He could not remember his nightmares upon waking, and was quietly thankful for it; they had left him with a cold chill that the feeble early morning warmth could do little to dissipate. Nor did the light relieve him of the night’s anguish; it merely dragged him, through the inexorable passing of time, into a fresh day which brought with it new prospects of terror. Today, the young woman would eat.

And he was food lying prominently on her desk.

Liling got out of bed, yawned –balancing herself on her one leg as she stretched– and quelled a quick feeling of nervousness as she contemplated the day ahead. This is it… Well, she had trained for it, over and over, again and again; she felt ready. Tension, anxiety and excitement jostled within her, and she took a moment to calm herself, steadying her natural emotions. It’s just another swim. You’ve done it thousands of times.

Well said, she told herself with a smile. Words of wisdom.

Rubbing the sleepiness from her eyes, she reached for her crutches and hobbled her way into the bathroom. There, she relieved herself of the contents of her bladder, then took a long, cool shower, perfect for waking herself up on a hot morning. Although her room in the Olympic village was fully air-conditioned, she could already imagine the summer heat assailing her when she stepped outdoors.

She got dressed, putting her swimsuit on first before slipping light, loose clothing on over it. Moving over to her desk, she placed her goggles and swimcap in her handbag, along with a comb, brush and make-up, and picked it up. She was about to turn and leave when she caught sight of the Snackaboy she had left on the desk the previous evening, still enveloped in wrapping which featured printed information on his nutritional value, and the flavouring –nectarine– written in large, reddish-orange letters.

Liling hesitated a moment, then picked the Snackaboy up swiftly between her fingers and dropped him in her handbag. She glanced round the room, making sure she had not forgotten anything, and hobbled out.

Breakfast! Her stomach let out a low gurgle of anticipation, reminding her that her body needed food. Not that she would have forgotten. She made her way to the communal restaurant, smiled and waved at team mates who, from being strangers a few days ago, were becoming acquaintances and even friends, then selected her food and brought it to a table. She smiled across at a fellow swimmer, and they fell casually into small talk as they ate.

“Slept well?” the other girl asked, before taking a sip of water.

“Went out like a light, and woke up fresh,” Liling smiled. “I’m dreading going outside. Any idea how hot it is today?”

The girl shook her head. “I haven’t been out yet.” A pause as they both ate some food. “I was so worried about the heat keeping me awake that I put the air conditioning on too strongly. I hard to turn it down; with the noise, I couldn’t sleep, and I was catching cold.”

Liling gave her a slightly worried look. “You’re fit for today, though, aren’t you?” She dipped her cruller into her congee, and took a large bite.

“Oh, yes.” A smile. “And I hope you are! You’re up against the Mathijsen girl, aren’t you?”

“Mmmmph!” Liling protested through a mouthful of food. She chewed as quickly as she could, and gulped it down in several swallows. “Don’t jinx me!”

Her team mate laughed. “Don’t worry.” She reached over to give her arm a friendly tap. “You’re going to be today’s golden girl!”

Liling gave a slight, somewhat nervous smile in response, but spoke with outward confidence. “I have to get into the final first…”

* * *


Almost four hours later, she was standing in the shower at the Olympic aquatic centre, tilting her head back, eyes closed, and letting the cleansing, soothing, powerful stream of water crash over her forehead, running down her dark hair, pasting it to her skin and washing over every inch of her body.

It was almost time to go back out there, and she was postponing the inevitable a few seconds longer, long enough to build up her courage, resolve and self-confidence.

She had completed her semi-final this morning, in the women’s 200 metre swim, and had finished second in her race… but her time had been only fifth fastest over all. She had been expecting stiff competition –these were, after all, the Paralympic Games, where she was swimming against the world’s top athletes–, but she had failed to match her own personal best, and her performance nagged at her. If she could not improve it in the final, her medal prospects in this event would vanish out of reach very soon indeed.

Switching off the shower, she sighed, dried herself, and made her way to her changing room. There, she slipped into a dry swimsuit, the material and its hydrodynamic design clinging to her body. She flexed, making herself more comfortable, adjusted her hair, and put on her swimcap.

The final… She was swimming in the final at the Paralympics. The thought was enough to set her heart beating faster, and she moistened her lips in nervous anticipation. Oddly, she felt both calm and tense, relaxed and on edge. She tugged a little at her swimsuit, fidgeting with it, and prepared to go out and face the big event. As she moved to open the door of her changing room, her gaze caught on her handbag, and she remembered something. She thought about it for a second, the reached in quickly and grabbed her Snackaboy out. Breakfast had been a while ago now, her stomach had been rumbling – a combination of hunger and nervousness; perhaps a small snack would help her feel better.

She moved out into the waiting area where most of the other girls were already lined up, and took her place in seventh in the queue; as fifth-fastest competitor, she would be going in lane two. She gave a quick but warm smile to the girl behind her, who would be swimming in lane one – a Russian. Once she was standing still, and had nothing to do but wait, she tore open the wrapping of her Snackaboy, hungrily.

“Excuse me, miss…” As though pouncing on her at the sound, an official hurried over. Liling dutifully waited, the still wrapped-up Snackaboy in her hand. “What’s that?”

“It’s just a Snackaboy,” Liling explained, blushing a little with embarassment at having drawn attention to herself. “Snack food. May I?”

“Oh.” The official gave a polite and apologetic smile. “Yes, of course. Go ahead.”

“Thank you,” a terrified Jacques heard her say. His entire body tensed, and he breathed with difficulty as he felt the pressure of her hand, wrapped round him, moved down to his legs and press upwards. She was pushing him up out of the plastic wrapping, so that she could eat him. Panic exploded within him as his head was pushed ‘free’ of the plastic constraints, and he looked upon her properly for the first time.

Instantly, his feelings swelled, swirled and clogged in a confused and contradictory jumble. The sight of this young woman, towering above him, was petrifying. One of the first things he noticed was her mouth, her lips just faintly parted, hinting darkly at the black nothingness that awaited him within. Then his gaze focused outward to encompass her face, and he was struck with an overpowering sense of awe, combining both fright and… something else.

She was not, perhaps, beautiful in the most conventional sense. But she was strikingly pretty nonetheless. Her face was gentle, soft. Attractive, yes, very much so, but with a beauty that radiated personality and warmth; a beauty that was not, in any way, classic, cold or aloof. The dark brown irises of her almond eyes were alive with that warmth, expressing her uniqueness… of which he still knew almost nothing. The features of her face was subtle and delicate, almost unexpected in an athlete. Her nose he could only describe as pretty, perfectly set in her lovely face; her lips were soft, pink, and curved into the faint beginnings of a smile. Her hair, alas, was concealed beneath her tight rubber swimcap.

All this Jacques took in within a moment, and was startled at the way he felt. The incongruity of his situation struck him. Here was a woman he felt instantly attracted to, and whom he would have loved to get to know. Beyond her mere physical beauty, there was something in her bearing, her expression, that told him she was a thoroughly nice, and probably fun, person. Or was he imagining it? He would have little time to find out, for theirs was not destined to be a long acquaintance. The inescapable reality of his predicament was that this girl saw him –he cringed– as food.

She lifted him up quickly, her hand gripping his legs, which were still encased in the wrapping. He felt a little dizzy as he was rushed upwards, and for an instant his sight blurred. When he regained his bearings, he had a split second to glance down at her body –the bulge of her small but shapely breasts beneath her swimsuit, her bare arms, her waistline and hips accentuated by her tight-fitting suit, her beautiful bare leg– before his attention was drawn irresistably to her mouth. He had almost reached it now, and it was opening in front of him, those moist, gorgeous pink lips parting so that she could draw him into her body, into her disgestive system.

So that she could eat him.

His eyes widened, and he began to shiver, fear joining with other, indistinct but powerful feelings and causing his body to tremble. Everything happened very fast. He had time enough to see the inside of the young woman’s mouth, a cavern of soft, wet pinkness salivating in anticipation of food. Her white teeth, hard and clean, lined the inside of her mouth; beyond them, soft flesh surrounded the gaping entrance to her throat.

She thrust him in, head first, and he felt her damp, soft but powerful lips clamp down over his torso, holding him in place. As her lips closed, darkness engulfed him. A surge of panic swept through him. His heart pounded in his chest. In the darkness, he felt her warm breath upon his face, and dribbling spurts of saliva began to splash against his body. He felt her warm, wet tongue slide up and press against his chest, licking his face. Her tongue lapped the nectarine coating off the front of him, before pushing him down with its powerful motion, and sweeping the flavouring off his back with a thorough lick.

Then, for a brief instant, the pressure of her lips lessened. Hope gripped him, instinctive, desperate and short-lived. She had released her hold only so that she could suck him in further. Her lips clamped down once more, this time on his thighs and knees. Again her tongue explored him – not in a sensual manner, but as one would explore the taste of a morsel of food, drawing out its full flavour. Saliva spurted over him in greater quantities, wet, warm and sticky. He blinked, and tried to sneeze. She was tasting him – simply tasting him, as a snack, which was exactly what she had described him as. This pretty girl was eating, and he was her food. The humiliation of it was almost quashed by pure, raw, dreadful fear. He knew that, if he did nothing, there would soon be no escape. Perhaps there was none already. But he had never had a chance, never had the faintest opportunity to escape his obvious fate. The injustice of it howled at him. He squirmed, and tried to wriggle. But she was holding him firm with her lips, fingers and tongue, and she did not even seem to feel his struggles. He tried to kick, while his legs were still sticking out of her mouth, but she chose exactly that moment to suck him in between her wet lips, and he slid in with a slurp, disappearing fully into her mouth.

Her lips closed once more, and all was darkness.

Jacques tried to yell through the nectarine-flavoured gag over his mouth, but he was so tense that the breath seemed to catch, painfully, in his chest. He tried to stand up, despite his legs being tied, but the woman’s tongue surged, carrying him with it, sloshing him from one side of her mouth to the other with a wave of saliva. He rolled, helplessly, and felt himself being nudged and pushed until she had him exactly where she wanted him, his soaked body resting on her taste buds, where she could absorb the flavour of him. A soft moan filled the cavern of her mouth, echoing loudly in his ears, as she enjoyed him. She savoured him for a while, sloshing him around some more until he was thoroughly drenched in her saliva, gliding easily round her mouth. He closed his eyes in the darkness, his heart thumping. He had tried to wriggle forward, back towards her lips, but it was pointless. He had hoped he could force his way out between her lips, but her tongue was too strong for his tiny body, bound and helpless. He opened his eyes again, blinking against the sticky saliva that coated his face, just as her tongue surged and began to push him towards the back of her mouth. No! He wriggled desperately, his muffled cries silenced by the soaked gag covering his mouth. He was sliding down her tongue, feet first, towards the utter darkness of her throat. His wet body made it easy for her, and she nudged him back until he felt his feet touch her throat, the irresistably strong muscles of her oesophagus tugging at them then.

No!

Squirming wildly, he flowed into her throat with a stream of saliva, and she swallowed.

Liling gulped, swallowing the Snackaboy, then licked the remainder of nectarine flavouring off her lips with a faint sigh of satisfaction. She could feel her snack moving down her oesophagus, a lump going down inside her chest, towards her belly, and she smiled. She crumpled the now empty wrapping, before despositing it in a bin attached to the wall.

In the immensely large room outside, a voice on loud-speakers was announcing the imminent entry of the next competitors – including her.

“Your turn, ladies,” one of the officials said, sounding very official about it, although she did give them an encouraging smile. Liling smiled back at her, nervousness clenching her tummy once more, and shifting the tasty Snackaboy now inside it. The motion of her insides caused air to rise up from her stomach, and she gave a dainty little hiccough, covering her lips with her fingers. Then, she adjusted her grip on her crutches, and hobbled out of the waiting area with the other competitors.

A roar of support rose from the crowd, accompanied by enthusiastic applause, as the eight swimmers for the final of the women’s 200 metre freestyle race filed out into the pool area in a neat line. Liling felt herself smile, despite her nervousness. She looked towards the spectators, her eyes shining a little. The aquatics centre was not as full as it might have been –there were fewer people here for the Paralympics than there had been for the Olympics– but there were still a lot of people looking right at her and at her seven opponents.

Not to mention the cameras broadcasting live images around the world.

She reached her spot, at the start of lane two. She shifted a little on her only foot, looking up at the crowd before turning her attention to the water. Soon enough, the voice on loud speakers was introducing the swimmers to the crowd, with rousing enthusiasm. After the Russian athlete in lane one, the voice called out Liling’s name and nationality, and the crowd gave her a cheer. She grinned, and waved at them warmly. The cameras focused on her briefly, before moving on to the swimmer in lane three.

Liling set down her crutches, carefully balancing herself on her one leg, and climbed onto the starting block. She closed her eyes for a moment, taking a deep, calming, steadying breath. As the call sounded out for them to prepare, she moved herself into position. Those few seconds had been enough for her to focus fully. She felt calm; she was ready. The seven other women around her were equally focused.

Her stomach let out a gurgle, and she smiled, but she did not allow it to distract her.

The simulated shot rang out, and she dived, pushing herself off the block as though her leg had been a spring wound up for release. She hit the water with a splash, gliding in smoothly, and began to swim hard. She could hear the shouts of encouragement from the crowd, muffled by the water, and they spurred her on, but she had settled in the routine which she had drummed into herself during training. She knew exactly what she was doing. She knew that she was good, good enough to swim among the world’s best, and she was proving it to herself now.

Inside her stomach, Jacques was jolted by the sudden movement of her dive, and felt himself roll to the side, then back. He sat up with difficulty. He, too, could hear sounds from outside, albeit even more muffled. He had heard enough to know what was going on. He was inside this girl’s tummy as she swam for a Paralympic medal, watched on by the eyes of the world. Countless people were looking at her… and, of course, not one of them could see him. He was invisible to the outside, hidden away in Liling’s belly, where she would hold him long enough to digest him. Her flat tummy, covered over by her sleek swimsuit, did not even register a bulge from the small snack in her stomach.

He sighed, and leaned back against the inside wall of the beautiful swimmer’s belly. He knew she was not thinking about him now. She was too focused on her race, and she would probably never think of him again. To her, he had been food – eaten, enjoyed, and already all but forgotten while she began to digest him. He could not blame her. From her perspective, there had been nothing special about him. After all, as a human being, she ate food every day. Thousands of meals had already been through the stomach he was in now, and thousands more would follow over the days, weeks and years to come. He could not expect her to remember her food.

He shook his head, trying to focus, too. While Liling had to think about the race, his own focus had to be on getting out of here, before he was digested. Although Liling was beautiful, he did not want to end up, a few short hours from now, as liquified nutrients travelling through her intestine. The problem glaring at him was, how does one escape from a stomach?

He had taken a few minutes to calm himself after his initial panic upon arriving in Liling’s stomach. Panicking would do him no good at all. Slow, deep breaths –as best he could through his gag, and in the hot air of Liling’s belly– had helped him overcome his, at first, overwhelming, instinctive terror. To think. That was what he needed.

At first glance, the situation was simple. There were only two exits to a stomach. Initially, repulsed by the idea of forcing his way prematurely down into the girl’s intestine, he had concentrated on the possibility of exiting through the mouth. It had not taken him long, however, to realise that this ‘option’ presented a staggering amount of difficulties.

For one thing, he could not see the sphincter. He was in complete and utter darkness. For another, it had, until a few moments ago, been out of reach, since Liling had been standing up, and he was too small to get to it. The third problem was how to force his way through an orifice that was only intended to open the other way. Then, as though that were not enough, there was the despairingly long climb up the oesophagus to consider. With his arms and legs bound, there was no way he could climb up. Besides, her oesophagus muscles were designed to push things down, and, even if by some miracle he managed to get high enough, she would feel him in her throat, and swallow him back down again with no effort at all. No, there could be no escape by going up. It was irredeemably hopeless.

Which left the option of going ‘down’. He grimaced. The concept of crawling through the incredible length of Liling’s intestine, pushing himself forward as best he could and trying to get all the way to her anus, was anything but appealing. On the other hand, it was his only hope. His predicament was bleak, and he knew all too well that he would be going that way in one form or another. The idea was to come out from her anus as himself, whole and alive… rather than as poo.

Jacques winced, repressing a shiver at the grim prospect that awaited him if he failed to escape. He felt weak, despair threatening to overcome him, and he forced himself to remain calm, and resolute. It was going to be a long, difficult journey, but he had to convince himself that it was possible.

Just as Liling had convinced herself that she could win this race.

He had to find the pyloric sphincter, and squeeze through it.

He rolled onto his side, extending his bound arms in front of him, and began to crawl on shoulders and knees in the pitch darkness, looking for it. Having (obviously) never been in a stomach before, he had no idea how to find and recognise it, but there was nothing else for him to do. The warm, wet, soft and fleshy inner surface of Liling’s stomach seemed to pulsate gently beneath him. He crawled on, his hands feeling, exploring, searching. His eyes strained in the darkness, to no avail. He could see nothing, and his hands touched nothing that seemed out of the ordinary. How do you recognise the way into the intestine when you feel it?! Despair threatened him again, and he battled it down with every inch of his resolve.

Wait, was this it? His hands pressed down on something particularly soft. He pressed it harder, hoping that it would yield. He could not feel an opening, however. Perhaps he was searching entirely in the wrong place.

At that moment, Liling’s stomach lurched, and he was hurled backwards, tumbling helplessly, his tiny body hitting the soft, firm wall and collapsing down in an uncontrollable sprawl. He gasped, struggling to push himself upwards.

What had happened?

It took him several long seconds to understand.

Liling had reached the end of the fifty metre pool, and turned around for a new lap.

It was that simple. That normal. And, he knew, as she concentrated on achieving a perfect turn, she had given not a single thought to the Snackaboy being tossed and thrown in her tummy.

He sank down into a sitting position, breathing hard, overwhelmed simply by that thought. He was nothing. He had been a tasty snack; she had enjoyed eating him; but nothing more. She would digest him, and she would forget about him completely. Tomorrow, when she went to the toilet, she would not even think about–

He pushed that thought aside angrily. No! There was still hope. There was always hope. He was not her poo yet. He was still himself, and he could get himself out of here. All it took was determination. Unfailing determination. The same determination as she was putting into becoming the world’s best swimmer in her event. Yes, that’s it. He latched on to that thought, drawing on the resolve of the woman who had eaten him. If, through remarkable, constant effort and determination, she could make herself into an international champion, surely he could use that same resolve to get himself out of her stomach, alive and in one piece.

He nodded to himself, the expression on his face grim and firm, and turned himself to press the palms of his hands against the inner walls of Liling’s tummy, searching…

* * *

A hundred and forty-five metres. A hundred and fifty. The wall. She turned, swiftly, powerfully and gracefully, kicking herself off the inside edge of the pool with a thrust of her only leg, and raced down the start of the final lap. Her stomach lurched again, and she ignored it. Every muscle in her body was beginning to ache as she strained herself to the limit. Swimming, swimming hard, as hard as she could, her very best. She gave the last fifty metres all she could, every effort, every ounce of her strength and skill and sheer determination. She powered down her lane, arms thrusting out, reaching for the water, pulling, pushing her on. The cheers of the crowd was a constant, steady background noise, encouraging her to do her utmost. She had trained, trained and trained so hard. Now it felt almost instinctive. There was no doubt, no hesitation, and no place for concerns. She was doing what she knew, what she did best, and doing it well. She was racing down the last lap, and knew exactly where she was. Not far now…

Her heart beat with the effort, pumping blood through her veins, her lungs straining to give her all the oxygen she needed. Her arms, her leg were tiring, but she pushed herself hard as ever. She knew all the others were, too. Thrust, kick, thrust, kick, onwards and onwards… Bare metres to go now… Had anyone all the way over in the far lane made it? It was not her concern. All her attention, every effort was focused on her own race. Thrust, kick, thrust… One last time… Fingertips extended… She touched the wall.

Her head broke the surface of the water, and she gasped, breathing in great gulps of fresh air. Her hands reached up automatically for the ledge, as she steadied herself. The crowd were cheering wildly, and applauding. For whom? For all of them. But who had won?

Still catching her breath, she turned her gaze anxiously towards the huge electronic scoreboard. Nothing there yet. She turned her head to either side. The last few swimmers were coming in to the end; five out of eight had reached the finish line, with the sixth just touching it now. Her heart beat hard. She blinked against the water on her eyelids, then pulled off her swimcap, and ran her wet hand through her dark hair, panting to steady her breath after the exertion.

There was a sudden swell of excitement in the air, and she turned her head immediately to the scoreboard, her gaze catching the top name and moving down. She had not won. She was not first. Before she could feel disappointed, however, she found her name in third place… and a slow grin lit up her face.

Third!

“Yes!” she breathed, her eyes shining with joy. “Yes!” She hit the water with her free hand, splashing it, and laughed, delighted. Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes! Bronze; she had won bronze! She was a Paralympic bronze medallist! She had won her first ever medal at the Paralympic Games!

Her excitement was such that she could barely contain it while she hugged the girls in lanes one and three, exchanging a few words of friendship and congratulations. She swam to the ladder and climbed out, her body dripping with water as she half-hobbled, half-bounced on one leg to the spot where she had left her crutches. She picked them up and steadied herself, then waved at the crowd, grinning widely, feeling esctatic. The media right now were all over the girl who had won gold, but she knew that her own country’s journalists would be looking out for her. She smiled once more at whatever spectators might be looking at her, and kept a warm, happy smile on her face as she made her way towards the changing rooms.

* * *

Some time later, Jacques was sitting fairly still in the warm, soft confines of Liling’s tummy. He had pulled his legs up close to his chest, wrapping his arms round them and resting his chin on his knees, gazing into the darkness.

He could feel her walking. The gentle sway of her moves jostled him a little, but he had learned to keep his balance, more or less. There was a heave, a slight lurch, and he guessed that she was stepping up onto something. Climbing stairs, perhaps? No, she was standing still now. If that had been a step, there had only been one.

With nothing to see and very little to do, he was alert to every sound that reached him inside her stomach. The most obvious sounds were those of her body. The sound of her breathing, steadily. Inhaling… releasing her breath… In… out… There was something profoundly comforting, soothing in the regular pattern of it. And then there was her heartbeat, in perfect rhythm with her breathing. Thud-thud, thud-thud, thud-thud… Constant, and surrounding him, never missing a beat. More unpredictable were the rumbles and gurgles of her stomach, loudest of all, echoing in his ears now and then with ominous meaning.

From outside, there came the rustle of her clothes against her skin, the sound of her gentle, kind, melodious voice, the sound of her laughter. They all reminded him that, while he sat here awaiting digestion, the young lady who had eaten him was living her life, experiencing the ordinary routine but also the thrill of what was, to her, a very special day.

She was chatting to someone, and, from inside her, he could hear the excitement in her voice. He smiled, almost despite himself. Another voice came, a much louder one, booming out through loud-speakers, and reaching him in a muffled blur within Liling’s body. Ah, he nodded to himself, as he realised what it was. Of course. The medal ceremony. That was why she had stepped up – getting on to the podium. She was about to be given her medal. He could feel her giddy excitement as it seemed to course through her entire body, literally surrounding and enveloping him.

He released his legs from the hold of his arms, and stretched them out, leaning back a little into the fleshy wall of her stomach. He had spent a long time looking for the way into her intestine, constantly struggling not to give in to panic, but to no avail. At times, his hands had slipped into a fold, perhaps the exit he desperately sought for, but there never seemed to be an opening he could fully push his way into. It was as though Liling’s stomach were sealed, containing him securely until it was ready to let his liquified remains flow deeper into her body, in its own time, feeding her with his nutrients. Or perhaps the exit was there, and he simply could not find it. Either way, he was trapped, and he had given up trying. After that, he had simply sat down, listening to the eery sounds that reached him in the depths of this lovely woman’s body, and thinking.

Gradually, and much to his surprise, he had found that he was no longer terrified. He was afraid, yes, and occasional shivers of fear still racked his small body. But his fear was not an overwhelming, debilitating panic. He no longer felt the stark agony of bleak, utter despair. He had resigned himself to what was to come, and it was the surprise he felt at his own lack of panic that had prompted him to think.

From where he was, his thoughts were drawn most logically to Liling herself. Apart from his hazy glimpses through the wrapping which had once held him, he had only seen her for a few brief moments before vanishing forever down her throat. He thought back to those few seconds. She had struck him as attractive then. It was not difficult to remember what she had looked like, even though he could no longer see her – from the outside, at least. The gaze of his mind’s eye lingered over the soft, warm features of her face, catching on the details of her gorgeous, deep brown, intelligent eyes, her pretty, delicate nose, the glossy pinkness of her lips, so soft… He smiled, in the darkness. Now that he could look back without terror… she was beautiful.

He sighed, and stretched, wondering whether he should feel troubled by the feelings which were coming to him now. After all, there was something a little disturbing about feeling drawn, attracted to the girl who has eaten you.

He shifted a little, making himself more comfortable. For a while longer, he pictured her smiling face, lingering in his imagination and memory. He remembered that he had looked down, too. All he had seen of her body had been a few brief images pressing themselves indelibly on his mind. Liling’s slender but athletic bare limbs, her small but firm, shapely breasts, nothing more than hidden bulges under her swimsuit… Jacques smiled again, and sighed wistfully. It was strange to know that he was inside her now. Her lovely leg was down there, somewhere below him, while those pretty little breasts were somewhere up above, and her smiling, perfect face was higher up above him. He would never see it again, but he would remember.

Resting the back of his head against the inner wall of her stomach, he allowed his mind to drift, and began to imagine Liling’s body, all around him. Close by, there was the area of her tummy, her slender waist. He wondered what it looked like from the outside. Soft, slim and sexy, its generally flat surface marked with a little tummy button. A smile touched his lips. He imagined her as a whole, entirely encompassing him. His mind drifted on from the inside of her body to Liling’s entire being, not just as a living body, but as a person. She was not only beautiful; she was, like any person, unique.

He closed his eyes. A brief, faint rumble stirred her stomach for a moment, causing him to shiver, and he found that his shiver was no longer purely one of fear. Her beauty overwhelmed him, as did the person he imagined her to be through the warmth of her smile, the laughter and kindness in her lovely dark eyes. He wished, very much, that he knew more about her. Liling, of course, was unique in many ways, and he knew virtually none of them. She was, no doubt, in her mid- or late twenties. How, he wondered, had she experienced her life so far? What did she do, when she was not competing at top international swimming competitions? What were her family like, her friends? Where had she grown up, and what had it been like? What were her memories, her hopes, her dreams, her aspirations? What were her passtimes, her likes, her dislikes? What did she like to read, what music did she listen to? What did she believe in? What made her happy, and sad, angry or pleased? What were the joys of her life, and the thousand little details that contributed, together, to making her special and unique?

He would never know. Over the next few hours, she would digest him, as one of the countless items of food that had passed through her digestive system in her life so far. She would carry on living that life, about which he knew nothing. He hoped it would bring her happiness. She was happy right now, as she stood on the Paralympic podium and prepared to receive the medal that was the culmination of her efforts and dreams and dedication. Although he knew she had already stopped thinking about him, the small morsel of food that she could barely feel in her stomach, her happiness made him happy, too. They were still separate, to some extent, but –he told himself– it was as though through their feelings were already becoming one. Her happiness was his happiness.

He rubbed at his eyes. He was beginning to feel drowsy.

Listen to yourself… It almost sounds as if you don’t mind what’s going to happen. Fear gripped him then, but it did not last. It was not that he wanted to be digested, but a new realisation had come to him over the past several minutes. Liling had seen him as food, and, in a sense, that was exactly what he was. She had eaten him without malice, without cruelty. She had simply savoured and swallowed a snack, eating it and gulping it down into her stomach, where it would do her good. Yes, he was going to be digested. There was no escaping it. There never had been. But, as Liling digested him, she would gradually absorb him into herself. He would cease to exist, as such, but in so doing he would become a part of Liling. A part not only of her beautiful body, but of her very being. Of a living, breathing, kind and lovely person.

That thought, above all others, soothed him, and helped him relax. Liling’s beauty, and the knowledge that he was to be a part of it, aroused him in a very physical way, and he could feel his erection harden in the darkness. But it was so much more than primal lust. He wanted to be a part of her – of Liling, the unique individual, the woman who was living her life all around him at this very moment. His feelings for her, intense yet peaceful, swelled up inside him, and filled him with an emotion he would never have expected: Joy.

There was movement again. Liling’s stomach shifted, and Jacques was tossed back, rolling, until he could steady himself… just in time for her to move again, throwing him off balance once more. He heard her soft, sweet voice, talking to someone. She had just bent down to receive her medal. Jacques smiled, and experienced a warm feeling of pride. Pride for Liling, and her achievement, and her joy.

He lay down in her tummy, still smiling quietly to himself. Around him, her stomach gave a low gurgle, and he shivered a little once more, but felt barely any fear. He was sleepy… A warm drowsiness accompanied the happiness that filled him, and he was content. Now he would wait.

He gazed up into the darkness.

Well done, Liling… he whispered.

He closed his eyes, and rested.

* * *


That afternoon, after a break for lunch, Liling had swum the heats of the one hundred metre freestyle, qualifying comfortably for the semi-finals the next day. She had gone to bed early, giving herself a good night’s sleep, and had felt fit and fresh for a new day of competition the following morning. She had swum her way to fifth place in the final – outside the medals, but a personal best, and a very encouraging performance for her first Paralympics. So it was with high spirits and a decidedly cheerful mood that she had allowed herself to relax in the afternoon, spending time with her new friends before going back to her room and lying down on her comfortable bed for a nice, cozy read of her book.

She had arranged to meet up with friends in the evening for a meal at a restaurant, and a little bit of a night out. So captivated was she by her book, however, that she barely noticed the time pass. The only thing that drew her away from the pages was the feel of a growing pressure in her lower instestines. She took the time to finish her chapter, trying to hold and ignore the building pressure in her rectum, until finally she put her book down with a sigh, and got up off her bed. A glance at the time as she made her way towards the bathroom startled her. No more time for reading; she needed to get ready to go out!

Closing the door of the bathroom, she leaned her crutches against the wall, pulled down her skirt and pants, and sat her bare buttocks down on the toilet seat. She relaxed her clenched anus, and the contents of her bowels emerged easily. She did what she needed to do, her thoughts already turning to her evening out; not even for a moment did she remember yesterday’s Snackaboy, who had now finished his journey through her body and digestive system, and whose fully digested remains she was excreting without a thought. Once she had finished, she emptied her bladder too, then flushed, and washed her hands thoroughly, scenting them with perfumed soap. She adjusted her hair and make-up as she looked at herself in the mirror, getting herself ready for what promised to be an enjoyable evening.

She was already smiling as she left the bathroom, and, a few minutes later, headed out of her room in the Olympic village to meet up with her friends.



THE END

[French_snack]

In case anyone is still reading this, here's an outline of what I intend to do next.

My next story will be a Cherry / International Vore Competition one. Will the lovely Cherry successfully defend her title as champion, or will another girl with a bigger appetite eat more people than she can?

Then I've got an idea for non-lethal full tour vore. If I do write it, it'll be my first story with non-lethal vore. It's not that I don't want the prey to be digested, but I want to write about the prey experiencing the full trip through the digestive system. And, sadly, it's difficult to write what the prey thinks of the intestines when he's travelling through them as liquid nutrients...

After that... I've been toying with a vague idea for transformation vore. Consensual, of course. There aren't many stories about that type of vore, so that could be nice.

I've also got a vague idea for some consensual same-size vore. The kind where I can develop the relationship between two characters while one is in the other's belly. I've done it only once so far, and I'd like to give it another try.

Lastly, I'm just beginning to ponder the possibility of wandering into Karbo's wonderful world of Felarya (if that's ok with him). If I do that, my character may be a giantess with, let's say, a rather unorthodox view on her food. She believes that people are food, and should be eaten, but that this doesn't mean you can't have a nice little chat, a polite and civil conversation with them first. Unless she's particularly hungry, she tries to get to know her food properly before eating it. Her prey tend to cooperate, hoping that, if they can persuade her that they're really people with their own lives and families and aspirations and so on, she won't eat them. But of course, she listens with great interest and then eats them anyway. That's just a hypothetical idea, though, and I wouldn't be writing about it any time soon.

As usual, so much to write, so little time...

By the way, I've finally got round to asking Eka for a folder in the archives, so I'll be uploading my stories there.

[Ulquiorra]

Goodness! You said these were your first? They were great, you wrote out the scenes wonderfully! Great job, I look forward to your future works if you enjoyed writing these. I would say welcome to the site but I'm new myself! hehe

[French_snack]

Thanks! I've been here since May now, but I never updated the title of this thread... And welcome to the Portal (although I see you joined a while ago too).

[hersnack]

Excellent story! Thanks a lot

[hideki]

good stories, French_Snack.
long and nice descriptions.


Just thought that it would be good if there was a story explaining how "snackaboys" came about... ie, why did random people get shrunk/ were they born that way?