Vore Short Story: “Mine. Forever.”

The manor stood quiet at the edge of the woods, a place whispered about in town but never spoken of directly. The kind of estate that shouldn’t exist anymore — all marble arches, wrought iron balconies, and lush crimson drapes that never moved, even when the wind howled outside.

He should’ve known better.

But men like him never do.

His name had been Jonathan Crane. CEO. Public darling. Privately insatiable. The kind of man who viewed women as portfolios — assets to acquire, use, discard. He’d always had an appetite for control, for power.

And she? She had slipped into his periphery like smoke. Elegant, aloof. A woman of presence. She never chased. Never smiled too broadly. She simply appeared — at the benefit dinner, at the yacht party, at the private club where even the waiters knew to look away when things got interesting.

He thought he was the predator.

She let him believe that.

Until tonight.

The room is warm — too warm — thick with candlelight and the scent of spice and sweat. She reclines on a velvet chaise, silk robe loosely knotted at her waist, the folds pooling like blood around her. One hand drapes languidly over her belly, now bloated, active, and very much alive.

Inside, Jonathan is panicking.

Thrashing.

She moans softly, not in discomfort — but indulgence. Like someone savoring the final moments of a long, decadent meal. “There it is,” she purrs. “Another kick. Still trying to get my attention.”

Her voice is low, unbothered. Amused. The way someone might speak to a dog caught chewing the wrong shoe. “It’s cute, really. You thought this was seduction. That you were ‘winning me over.’ Poor thing.”

Another thump from inside her gut. He’s still strong, still desperate. Muscles twitching. Breath burning.

She smiles faintly. Licks her lips. “Mmm. That arrogance… still bubbling inside you. Like a little ulcer. But it’s fading. I can feel it. You’re not fighting anymore — you’re fearing. That’s better.”

He had been so confident. So smug. When she invited him up to her estate — he didn’t even hesitate. It was supposed to be a weekend. Just the two of them. He had told his assistant to cancel Monday’s meetings, grinning at the idea that he’d be too ‘worn out’ from pleasure to bother with quarterly earnings.

He hadn’t even packed a bag.

“You always wanted to be consumed,” she whispers now, eyes half-lidded. “You just didn’t know what that meant.”

The digestion is underway. She can feel the shift — the panic turning to spasms, the desperation to dread. He’s softening. Literally.

She tilts her head back, moaning. “God, the noises you’re making. So needy. You were quieter when you were inside me the other way.”
She chuckles. “You came so fast, remember? All that bravado — gone the moment I told you to beg.”

She glances at the mirror. Her belly is magnificent — distended, heavy, clearly full of someone. The outline of a limb presses faintly beneath her skin, then slides away. He’s trying to reorient. Useless.

“You thought you were in control. Just like every other man. The compliments. The false respect. All of it… masks for that hungry little voice inside that says ‘I deserve her.’”

She lifts her robe just enough to see her navel twitch. Another kick. Another plea.

“But now? You’re just a problem my body is solving. One long, slow contraction at a time.”

She stands slowly, stretching, her form feline in its grace. The weight in her gut shifts heavily, and she hums in pleasure. No pain. No guilt. Just the thrill of transformation.

She moves to the fireplace, placing a hand on the mantle. The flames crackle quietly. Behind her, the chaise bears the imprint of where she lay — still indented, still warm.

“Do you know what happens next?” she muses aloud, admiring the warm glow of the fire as she presses her full belly against the cold stone of the mantle, smiling at the delicious squirm and slight protest from within her. “Your memories dissolve. Your name. Your pride. Your bank accounts and mistresses and boardroom speeches. All gone. And me? I keep everything I want. Your warmth. Your flavor. Your power. I absorb it. I own it.”

He was never the first. He won’t be the last.

She keeps a ledger — not of names, but of sins. Jonathan’s entry had been etched the moment he humiliated that junior employee for crying after his crude remarks. The way he called her ‘emotional’ in front of a packed elevator. The way he laughed after.

Men like him taste the most complex — all salt and bile and rage and desperation.

“You earned this,” she whispers. “Every lie. Every hand that wandered where it wasn’t wanted. Every hollow apology.”

She sits once more, stomach gurgling. The final phase is coming. The walls are tightening. He’s still conscious — barely — floating in a thick, acidic cocoon of himself. Every inch of him screaming in nerve-fire. Muscles twitching with the futility of instinct.

She leans forward, lips close to her own belly. Murmuring like a lover. “You’re going to come out of me whether you want to or not. There’s no version of this where you get a second chance. When I sit on that toilet, you won’t be a man anymore. You’ll be fertilizer. Waste. Just another pile that swirls away with a flush.”

She pauses. A beat. Then: “And I’ll forget you. Like you forgot all the women you stepped on to climb.”

The sun begins to rise. Light slinks through the velvet curtains, brushing against the edge of the room.

She rises again, her body now calm. The fight inside her belly has ended. Just the gentle churn of digestion now — low and contented.

She moves toward the bathroom. Bare feet on cool marble. The room echoes with finality. Ornate. Beautiful. Designed for ritual, not hygiene.

She lifts the lid. Her expression serene. Detached.

And as she sits, pressing down gently, she whispers:

“Goodbye, Jonathan.”

The sound is private. Disgusting. Beautiful.

She flushes. And smiles.

“Mine, always.”