Opening the pantry, which was in fact a stairway that led to a room beneath the kitchen, you ambled downstairs and into a corridor lined with cubbies about two square feet each. Each cubby had a hook high up on the back wall, and a door of iron bars. About two-thirds of the cubbies were occupied, each by a single male with his hands in restraints that looped up over the hook above his head.
None of them were actually held off the ground, and stock would sometimes loops their restraints off the hook and try to break free. The doors weren’t even locked. But they were held in place so tightly that you essentially had to be a vore to force them open. A male had no chance. And the smart ones stood patiently, resigned to their fate; misbehavior was sure to earn you a particularly rough digestion.
Wandering down the corridor before it looped around an a ‘U’ shape you gazed at potential meals, settling on one about halfway down. Twenty-ish, with light brown hair and eyes. Probably a couple of years younger than you. Stock raised from birth, that hadn’t made the cut to be a work release, or to be sold for any function other than food. He looked a little bit like Marc. You’d be happy if he tasted even half as good.
Pulling open the door, you see him shiver with apprehension as you approach and lift him off his feet and off of the hook holding his hands over his head. Setting him down you turn and pull him forward by the same band of rubbery material that links the restraints around his wrists. Slowly, but obediently, he shuffles along behind you as you guide him to the center of the ‘U’ where a large island sits in the open space, an actual pantry built into the wall behind it.
“Up” you say, patting the island and looking at him expectantly as he nervously clambers up onto the smooth surface. Eyeing him sternly as you let go of his restraints, you walk over to the pantry to grab a lemon-vinaigrette and some salt. Hungry, you don’t bother talking to your meal, instead just quickly rubbing the dressing and salt into his skin as he sat and shivered while staring at your growling stomach.
Mouth watering, you swallow you saliva as you finish seasoning your meal, “don’t struggle. It will be over quicker.” Is all you say as you look down at him, before allowing your jaw to gape open and suddenly lunging forward to devour the now struggling male. Despite his resistance, he goes down easily. His skin lubricated by the dressing, and his flailing arms easily overpowered by your vorish strength. It doesn’t take long for you to finish, belching lightly as a slight bit of gas escapes before your stomach seals him inside. Filled with your struggling victim, your stomach ceases growling, reverberating with an entirely different sound as it goes to work of the unfortunate male. “Don’t struggle… relax your muscles…go limp. It will be over quicker. Or don’t” you murmur “It’s not going to inconvenience me any.”
