FA+
Shop
6597
Views
Views
80
Favorites
Favorites
Category
Story / Vore
Species Alligator / Crocodile
Size 120 x 120
File Size 65.9 kB
Report this content
★
More from Sini
![Uncle Louis [a Vore Story]](http://d.furaffinity.net/art/xsini/stories/1488278723/1411702565.thumbnail.xsini_story_-_uncle_louis.pdf.gif "Click to change the View")
Uncle Louis [a Vore Story]
Uncle Louis
Little did he know how protective pool toys were of their owners. . . .
That day at Tom Landry’s Swim Place began fine and dandy. Morris was strapping on his swimming goggles by the edge of the pool. Aunty Louis DeVille (he just called her Aunty) was lazing in a reclining chair, her eyes covered with kiwis and belly slopped in sunscreen. Morris, the boy, tossed his inflatable pool toy (a crocodile) into the water. He took a diver’s stance.
“Look Aunty! Look it, look it! I’m Michael Phelps!” he shouted, turning his head to see if Aunty was looking.
“You’re a runt. That’s what you are,” Aunty murmured. She reached for the umbralla-ed cocktail on the table next to her, lifting it to her lips, spilling some as she sipped.
Morris dove like a dolphin would. Any painter or sculptor would have wished he/she could freeze frame that moment, when his hands formed a dolphin’s beak and his feet made flippers. The water ejaculated to the boy’s impact. It came all over Aunty! She cursed. Lifted a kiwi. Dropped her tanning mirror. Her hands were trembling so wrathfully.
“Boy, I’ll have you know—!” She sat up.
She realized she couldn’t have the boy know when he was three feet underwater, already swimming toward the other end, so she lay back down. She grumbled. Morris seldom surfaced to avoid hearing his Aunty’s squawks. Why should he settle for it, when he was spiritually a dolphin? Underwater at the ten-footer he did backflips and breaststrokes, occasionally rising to the surface to do backstrokes. One time, when he did, the croc pool toy drifted toward him. It bumped into his head. Morris gave it an upside-down stare.
“Hi,” Morris said to the thing.
He went right-side up then squeezed it. He giggled. Rubbed its back. It made wet rubbery balloon noises. Morris tossed it around the pool some. Swam after it. Tried taking it underwater as far as he could, till the air pressure would get the best of him and it’d pop up to the surface, making a mini splash.
It wasn’t a cheap plastic pool toy; it was a large latex pool toy his mother Marie had gotten him for his tenth birthday. It could be ridden, so there was a black handle on the back of its neck to hold on to. When Morris surfaced, he climbed on. It slipped out from beneath him multiple times, till finally he got both legs on top of it. He clutched the handle with both hands. He kicked off against the edge of a pool. Took to a sail. A lifeguard crossing the side of the pool smiled at him. Him and his croc drifted, waves rippling behind. They ran the length of the pool toward Aunty’s side. The croc slowed.
“Push me, Aunty! I wonder how fast this thing can go!”
Aunty could have easily gotten up and pushed him with her foot; she was inches from the edge of the pool, where they were. She did get up.
Instead, she yelled: “You’ll give me a break, you bloody munchkin! I don’t like your stinky, runtin’ hide one bit! The only reason I’m here is because your gosh-darned mum can hardly afford a babysitter! Lay off! Let me tan!”
At that moment, Morris became a crushed child robbed of his innocence. Tears streamed down the sides of his face. Aunty slumped back into her creaky reclining chair.
The boy went and wailed: “Waaaaaaaaah! I’m telling mum!” He stuffed his head in the crocodile’s snout. Rubbed repeatedly. The first human discovered static electricity in a similar manner.
That feels good. Could you keep doing that? asked the croc.
You’re not really talking, the boy thought. You’re just in my head. I wish you could really talk!
So I’m in your head, am I? By yourself, could you solve for the square root of sixty-nine?
What’s the square root of sixty-nine?
Eight something.
Wow, you really are talking to me!
I will be.
Aunty observed: Is that pesky boy whispering to the pool toy, I wonder? . . . I reckon I’d rather he do it than be a bother. She reapplied her kiwis. She refilled her empty umbrella-ed glass with a bottle of bourbon.
Listen, the croc said. How about we get back at your Aunty?
Yeah! Yeah!
Do you want to hear me really talk?
Yeah! I wanna!
The croc made a one-eighty then grasped a ledge, climbing its dripping hide out of the pool. Morris whoa-ed. He held on by the handle. As they left the pool, the croc shook droplets from its hind legs and tail. It stepped, rubber-squeaking, carrying its rider toward an unsuspecting Aunty. Arms crossed over her chest. Cheeks red. Intoxicated.
Get off of me, said the croc.
What? Why?
You’ll see.
The kid did as he was told, stepping to the sidelines. The croc crept up Aunty’s legs, its body squeak squeak-ity squeak-ing. Aunty heard it. Felt it. Aunty took her kiwis off, about to roar in rage at the boy for whatever shenanigans he pulled. That was, until she saw the croc. They stared at one another for a silent few seconds. The croc snarled. It blinked its painted-on eyes. Then the croc opened its painted-on jaws, exposing internal flesh—latex, but realistic. Fat, inflated rows of teeth appeared. Plastic or not, the tongue of the croc flickered. A growl rose from its throat, felt through the spines of the lifeguards all across the pool. Their attention was captured.
They were too late.
The croc had her pinned down, despite how lightweight the latex should have been. Nasty balloony-sounding swallows accompanied a blooming bulge in the thing’s neck, all thanks to Aunty’s head. Her shoulders were downed. Creeeeeeeeak, went the rapidly expanding latex esophagus. Her bulge was detailed. Outlined. Being filled with more than just air made the croc more eager. And so the speed of his devouring two-folded. And Aunty’s legs dangled in the air as the croc rested in his reclining chair, finishing the job with a blood-curdling slurp. The deed was done before the lifeguards made it halfway round the pool.
The croc’s gut was massive and gurgling. He bounced a few times in his chair, which creaked again and again. Then the legs of the chair shattered under his weight, crumbling punily to the cement. Morris hid behind the croc, behind the reclining chair. The lifeguards approached. Shouting. Screaming. The croc simply laughed and rubbed his gut as he lay in the wreckage. When the lifeguards got close, he cocked his head back, then let loose an enormous belch that made every one of their hairs stand on end. Whether the lifeguards were startled out of their skins or knocked off balance by the great tremble that accompanied it, we cannot be sure; however, at that instant, they tumbled into the pool.
Splash.
“Come out of your hiding spot,” the croc told Morris. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”
The kid eagerly did as he was told, stepping out into the open. “You’re really talking! You really can talk!”
“But that’s not all,” said the croc, mimicking a sales commercial. “Look.”
What Morris saw astonished him: The latex outer-layer of the crocodile’s body was disappearing. Being replaced by cold hard scales and rough hide. The croc used to be all green; now tan colored his hide, along with the scales of his belly. Creases between each belly scale rippled to the great girth of the gut. His latex teeth became sharp and jagged, made of marrow. Eyes that were red became yellow-green, the croc’s irises filling the whites. They sparkled in the sun. Morris glided his hand over the smooth surface of the croc’s neck and bloated underbelly in awe.
“You can stop calling me the croc,” the croc told him with a snicker. He had read Morris’ mind.
Morris tilted his head. “Why’s that?”
“Call me Uncle,” the croc commanded him. “Uncle Louis DeVille.”
“Okay.” Morris smiled. “Uncle Louis, you wanna swim in the pool with me?”
* * *
Her sister hadn’t replied to any of the texts she sent her. Marie was speeding off the freeway, engine revving. Pedal eating metal. She did a drift through a red light, skimmed the side of some redneck-holding-a-cigarette-who-flipped-her-off’s truck, and avoided three separate head-on collisions. Tire marks for two blocks led to the parking lot of Tom Landry’s Swim Place, where she parked.
Where her sister took her son.
“My son was here!” she panicked in the lobby. “Fifth grade . . . um, ten . . . thick brown hair, like a bowl cut . . .”
The reception booth was empty. She raced through the main building. Her echoes reflected off concrete walls and shower room lockers. She was shouting. She ran out the entrance to the outside pool. No one was there. Not even lifeguards on the high towers, or the top of the spiral-y slide, or by the diving board, like there should have been.
“Morris!” she cried, red with frustration. “Morris! Lola! Looooooooooo-luuuuuuuuh! Damnit, sister, where are you?!”
The main pool stirred. In the bottom of it was a dark swimming silhouette. It appeared to have a tail? Of course, Marie’s eyes were tricking her. Hesitantly, she inched closer. She peered into the pool. She gasped, backing away. Shaking her head. From out of the water climbed a colossal twenty-foot crocodile—bigger than she thought crocs could grow—and riding on the back of that croc was her son Morris.
“MORRIS! MY GOD! GET THE FUCK OFF THAT THING!” she screamed.
Morris looked sad.
“MORRIS! DID YOU HEAR ME? THAT’S A FUCKING CROCODILE! FOR GODS’ SAKE, IT’S GONE-TA EAT YOU!”
Morris was angry now. “Don’t you talk that way to Uncle Louis, mum!”
The crocodile made a hissing sound from its mouth. It was sneering. It was laughing at her.
She fainted.
* * *
The croc (who Morris called Uncle Louis) was lazing belly-up on the cement by the pool, his eyes covered with kiwis and belly slopped in suncreen. Uncle Louis had endured a rapid growth spurt; each time he’d devoured a lifeguard and digested them (like he had Lola), he’d become bigger. Heavier. Fatter. And pudgier. Scales creaked. As he’d grown, they pleaded. Like old clothing that no longer fitted. Shedded scales were cast around the radius. When he’d digested the lifeguards (there were three of them), Uncle Louis had snickered. He’d squeezed his gut. There were timed intervals between three belches, one per lifeguard, to thank them:
“BURRRRRRRRRRRRUP!” . . . ; “HRRRRRRRRRRR-T!” He gritted his teeth on that one . . . ; “ARRRUMMMMMMPH.” He kept his jaws closed on that one, then blew it out his mouth.
Now Morris laughed. He rubbed the gurgling belly harder. Faster.
“That feels guuuuuuh-huh-hood. Keep doing that, and never stop,” said Uncle Louis, rumbling. Overjoyed.
The croc’s stomach made all sorts of deep bubbly sounds the boy didn’t know a stomach could make. The croc’s tail went thump-thump-thump, slapping the ground like an abusive father would a child (luckily Morris wasn’t able to make that connection), creating a crater. Morris climbed onto the belly. It gurgled to his weight. He started tickling it. The croc bursted out laughing, rolling left and right, belly fluids groaning from all the movement. Uncle Louis held Morris as tight as he could. Morris couldn’t breathe. Luckily, their mental connection alerted the croc; he loosened his grip. Morris smiled. Hugged back.
“Keep rubbing me. Rub me all day. Rub me all night.”
“Okay.”
“Rub me forever and forever. I’ll get you whatever you want.”
“Whatever?”
“Whatever.”
“A skate board?”
“Piece of cake.”
“A laptop?!”
“Who’ll stop me?”
Morris smiled wide as he could. “No one. You’re big and strong, and you’re only gonna get bigger.”
“That’s right.” Uncle Louis did his signature snicker. “Listen, kid. I won’t let anyone so much as lay a finger on you. You’ll be mine. I’ll be yours. We’ll be kings in this world. Huh?”
The twinkle of a child’s fantasies being fulfilled was in that boy’s eyes just then. He opened his mouth to respond. But, just then, he was wrenched away from the arms of Uncle Louis, by . . . by a human’s. It was his mother’s. She had awakened from her fainting. She was trembling. She held the boy’s head to her heart as tight as any human could, taking clumsy steps away from the croc.
“YOU . . . YOU STAY AWAY FROM ME AND MY BOY, YOU . . . YOU BIG MUTATED FUCKER.” Her spontaneous jerking movements were her trying to escape a dream she swore she was soon to wake up from. It horrified her that she hadn’t.
The croc rolled over and stood to his feet, snarling. “Let go of him, woman. Don’t you dare hurt that kid.”
“MUM!” Morris said. “It’s Uncle Louis! Uncle Louis! He’s not gonna hurt me! Put me down, put me down!”
“LIKE HELL, I WILL.”
“Then Hell I’ll give,” growled the croc. “I’m warning you. Put down the kid. I’ll give you the count of three.”
Marie responded in all caps with foul language.
“One.”
Marie’s caps lock stayed on.
“Two.”
Marie’s caps lock wasn’t coming off.
“Three.”
Marie fled to the side of the main building. She set her boy down. She grabbed a broomstick lounged against the wall. The croc trudged toward her. He was a few feet away. She cocked back the broomstick then swung it hard as she could. It snapped into pieces. The croc wriggled his snout, shaking it of splinters. Morris kept shouting, “UNCLE! UNCLE! STOP!”, but Uncle Louis paid no mind. The croc snatched her up. Lifted that dangly human into the air. Flung her up. The croc stood on his hindlegs. The croc caught her in his jaws. The croc gulped. That insignificant human shot down his throat. Throbbing. Kicking. Getting a loud, drawn-out mmmmmmm out of the croc. In the distance, Morris was still shouting, “UNCLE! UUUHN-CULL-HUL-HUL . . . UNCLE, NO-HO-HO—” The croc drowned it out with an even louder MMMMMMMMM. He thudded to the ground, rubbing his grateful, grumbling gut.
Morris leapt on top of the croc. He banged his fists against the thing’s rock solid belly scales. “You ate muh-huh-hum!” He convulsed. He cried rivers.
“Hush, kid. I did you a favor. Your ‘mum’ was gonna separate the two of us. I did the thing all good Uncles do: I protected my nephew.”
“But—”
“Kid. Hush,” the croc repeated. “What happened to all those good rubs you were giving me earlier? Is my hide too tough for your little fingers?”
Morris shook his head. Reluctantly he threw his hands into the creases of the croc’s belly. Rubbed it. Kept rubbing. Maybe the croc was right; the scales of the hide had become so tough; it wasn’t as squishy. The croc grunted. Shoved his own claws into the creases. Joined in on the rubbing.
As they rubbed, Morris felt a shift take place. The creases were spreading out. The croc snickered long and hard. The croc was going through another growth spurt. The belly groaned. Stomach acids were dissolving everything. Adding pudge. Serving nutrients. Morris wanted to cover his ears (he knew exactly what was being dissolved), but he couldn’t. Rubbing the croc was too addicting. They rubbed together. Uncle Louis rumbled. A cacophony of gross gurgles and groans from Uncle Louis’ gut preceded a final, nauseating, demoralizing belch, that brought Morris to tears. That meant Uncle Louis loved him. That meant Morris would have to love him too.
<<< PREV | FIRST | NEXT >>>
Little did he know how protective pool toys were of their owners. . . .
That day at Tom Landry’s Swim Place began fine and dandy. Morris was strapping on his swimming goggles by the edge of the pool. Aunty Louis DeVille (he just called her Aunty) was lazing in a reclining chair, her eyes covered with kiwis and belly slopped in sunscreen. Morris, the boy, tossed his inflatable pool toy (a crocodile) into the water. He took a diver’s stance.
“Look Aunty! Look it, look it! I’m Michael Phelps!” he shouted, turning his head to see if Aunty was looking.
“You’re a runt. That’s what you are,” Aunty murmured. She reached for the umbralla-ed cocktail on the table next to her, lifting it to her lips, spilling some as she sipped.
Morris dove like a dolphin would. Any painter or sculptor would have wished he/she could freeze frame that moment, when his hands formed a dolphin’s beak and his feet made flippers. The water ejaculated to the boy’s impact. It came all over Aunty! She cursed. Lifted a kiwi. Dropped her tanning mirror. Her hands were trembling so wrathfully.
“Boy, I’ll have you know—!” She sat up.
She realized she couldn’t have the boy know when he was three feet underwater, already swimming toward the other end, so she lay back down. She grumbled. Morris seldom surfaced to avoid hearing his Aunty’s squawks. Why should he settle for it, when he was spiritually a dolphin? Underwater at the ten-footer he did backflips and breaststrokes, occasionally rising to the surface to do backstrokes. One time, when he did, the croc pool toy drifted toward him. It bumped into his head. Morris gave it an upside-down stare.
“Hi,” Morris said to the thing.
He went right-side up then squeezed it. He giggled. Rubbed its back. It made wet rubbery balloon noises. Morris tossed it around the pool some. Swam after it. Tried taking it underwater as far as he could, till the air pressure would get the best of him and it’d pop up to the surface, making a mini splash.
It wasn’t a cheap plastic pool toy; it was a large latex pool toy his mother Marie had gotten him for his tenth birthday. It could be ridden, so there was a black handle on the back of its neck to hold on to. When Morris surfaced, he climbed on. It slipped out from beneath him multiple times, till finally he got both legs on top of it. He clutched the handle with both hands. He kicked off against the edge of a pool. Took to a sail. A lifeguard crossing the side of the pool smiled at him. Him and his croc drifted, waves rippling behind. They ran the length of the pool toward Aunty’s side. The croc slowed.
“Push me, Aunty! I wonder how fast this thing can go!”
Aunty could have easily gotten up and pushed him with her foot; she was inches from the edge of the pool, where they were. She did get up.
Instead, she yelled: “You’ll give me a break, you bloody munchkin! I don’t like your stinky, runtin’ hide one bit! The only reason I’m here is because your gosh-darned mum can hardly afford a babysitter! Lay off! Let me tan!”
At that moment, Morris became a crushed child robbed of his innocence. Tears streamed down the sides of his face. Aunty slumped back into her creaky reclining chair.
The boy went and wailed: “Waaaaaaaaah! I’m telling mum!” He stuffed his head in the crocodile’s snout. Rubbed repeatedly. The first human discovered static electricity in a similar manner.
That feels good. Could you keep doing that? asked the croc.
You’re not really talking, the boy thought. You’re just in my head. I wish you could really talk!
So I’m in your head, am I? By yourself, could you solve for the square root of sixty-nine?
What’s the square root of sixty-nine?
Eight something.
Wow, you really are talking to me!
I will be.
Aunty observed: Is that pesky boy whispering to the pool toy, I wonder? . . . I reckon I’d rather he do it than be a bother. She reapplied her kiwis. She refilled her empty umbrella-ed glass with a bottle of bourbon.
Listen, the croc said. How about we get back at your Aunty?
Yeah! Yeah!
Do you want to hear me really talk?
Yeah! I wanna!
The croc made a one-eighty then grasped a ledge, climbing its dripping hide out of the pool. Morris whoa-ed. He held on by the handle. As they left the pool, the croc shook droplets from its hind legs and tail. It stepped, rubber-squeaking, carrying its rider toward an unsuspecting Aunty. Arms crossed over her chest. Cheeks red. Intoxicated.
Get off of me, said the croc.
What? Why?
You’ll see.
The kid did as he was told, stepping to the sidelines. The croc crept up Aunty’s legs, its body squeak squeak-ity squeak-ing. Aunty heard it. Felt it. Aunty took her kiwis off, about to roar in rage at the boy for whatever shenanigans he pulled. That was, until she saw the croc. They stared at one another for a silent few seconds. The croc snarled. It blinked its painted-on eyes. Then the croc opened its painted-on jaws, exposing internal flesh—latex, but realistic. Fat, inflated rows of teeth appeared. Plastic or not, the tongue of the croc flickered. A growl rose from its throat, felt through the spines of the lifeguards all across the pool. Their attention was captured.
They were too late.
The croc had her pinned down, despite how lightweight the latex should have been. Nasty balloony-sounding swallows accompanied a blooming bulge in the thing’s neck, all thanks to Aunty’s head. Her shoulders were downed. Creeeeeeeeak, went the rapidly expanding latex esophagus. Her bulge was detailed. Outlined. Being filled with more than just air made the croc more eager. And so the speed of his devouring two-folded. And Aunty’s legs dangled in the air as the croc rested in his reclining chair, finishing the job with a blood-curdling slurp. The deed was done before the lifeguards made it halfway round the pool.
The croc’s gut was massive and gurgling. He bounced a few times in his chair, which creaked again and again. Then the legs of the chair shattered under his weight, crumbling punily to the cement. Morris hid behind the croc, behind the reclining chair. The lifeguards approached. Shouting. Screaming. The croc simply laughed and rubbed his gut as he lay in the wreckage. When the lifeguards got close, he cocked his head back, then let loose an enormous belch that made every one of their hairs stand on end. Whether the lifeguards were startled out of their skins or knocked off balance by the great tremble that accompanied it, we cannot be sure; however, at that instant, they tumbled into the pool.
Splash.
“Come out of your hiding spot,” the croc told Morris. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”
The kid eagerly did as he was told, stepping out into the open. “You’re really talking! You really can talk!”
“But that’s not all,” said the croc, mimicking a sales commercial. “Look.”
What Morris saw astonished him: The latex outer-layer of the crocodile’s body was disappearing. Being replaced by cold hard scales and rough hide. The croc used to be all green; now tan colored his hide, along with the scales of his belly. Creases between each belly scale rippled to the great girth of the gut. His latex teeth became sharp and jagged, made of marrow. Eyes that were red became yellow-green, the croc’s irises filling the whites. They sparkled in the sun. Morris glided his hand over the smooth surface of the croc’s neck and bloated underbelly in awe.
“You can stop calling me the croc,” the croc told him with a snicker. He had read Morris’ mind.
Morris tilted his head. “Why’s that?”
“Call me Uncle,” the croc commanded him. “Uncle Louis DeVille.”
“Okay.” Morris smiled. “Uncle Louis, you wanna swim in the pool with me?”
* * *
Her sister hadn’t replied to any of the texts she sent her. Marie was speeding off the freeway, engine revving. Pedal eating metal. She did a drift through a red light, skimmed the side of some redneck-holding-a-cigarette-who-flipped-her-off’s truck, and avoided three separate head-on collisions. Tire marks for two blocks led to the parking lot of Tom Landry’s Swim Place, where she parked.
Where her sister took her son.
“My son was here!” she panicked in the lobby. “Fifth grade . . . um, ten . . . thick brown hair, like a bowl cut . . .”
The reception booth was empty. She raced through the main building. Her echoes reflected off concrete walls and shower room lockers. She was shouting. She ran out the entrance to the outside pool. No one was there. Not even lifeguards on the high towers, or the top of the spiral-y slide, or by the diving board, like there should have been.
“Morris!” she cried, red with frustration. “Morris! Lola! Looooooooooo-luuuuuuuuh! Damnit, sister, where are you?!”
The main pool stirred. In the bottom of it was a dark swimming silhouette. It appeared to have a tail? Of course, Marie’s eyes were tricking her. Hesitantly, she inched closer. She peered into the pool. She gasped, backing away. Shaking her head. From out of the water climbed a colossal twenty-foot crocodile—bigger than she thought crocs could grow—and riding on the back of that croc was her son Morris.
“MORRIS! MY GOD! GET THE FUCK OFF THAT THING!” she screamed.
Morris looked sad.
“MORRIS! DID YOU HEAR ME? THAT’S A FUCKING CROCODILE! FOR GODS’ SAKE, IT’S GONE-TA EAT YOU!”
Morris was angry now. “Don’t you talk that way to Uncle Louis, mum!”
The crocodile made a hissing sound from its mouth. It was sneering. It was laughing at her.
She fainted.
* * *
The croc (who Morris called Uncle Louis) was lazing belly-up on the cement by the pool, his eyes covered with kiwis and belly slopped in suncreen. Uncle Louis had endured a rapid growth spurt; each time he’d devoured a lifeguard and digested them (like he had Lola), he’d become bigger. Heavier. Fatter. And pudgier. Scales creaked. As he’d grown, they pleaded. Like old clothing that no longer fitted. Shedded scales were cast around the radius. When he’d digested the lifeguards (there were three of them), Uncle Louis had snickered. He’d squeezed his gut. There were timed intervals between three belches, one per lifeguard, to thank them:
“BURRRRRRRRRRRRUP!” . . . ; “HRRRRRRRRRRR-T!” He gritted his teeth on that one . . . ; “ARRRUMMMMMMPH.” He kept his jaws closed on that one, then blew it out his mouth.
Now Morris laughed. He rubbed the gurgling belly harder. Faster.
“That feels guuuuuuh-huh-hood. Keep doing that, and never stop,” said Uncle Louis, rumbling. Overjoyed.
The croc’s stomach made all sorts of deep bubbly sounds the boy didn’t know a stomach could make. The croc’s tail went thump-thump-thump, slapping the ground like an abusive father would a child (luckily Morris wasn’t able to make that connection), creating a crater. Morris climbed onto the belly. It gurgled to his weight. He started tickling it. The croc bursted out laughing, rolling left and right, belly fluids groaning from all the movement. Uncle Louis held Morris as tight as he could. Morris couldn’t breathe. Luckily, their mental connection alerted the croc; he loosened his grip. Morris smiled. Hugged back.
“Keep rubbing me. Rub me all day. Rub me all night.”
“Okay.”
“Rub me forever and forever. I’ll get you whatever you want.”
“Whatever?”
“Whatever.”
“A skate board?”
“Piece of cake.”
“A laptop?!”
“Who’ll stop me?”
Morris smiled wide as he could. “No one. You’re big and strong, and you’re only gonna get bigger.”
“That’s right.” Uncle Louis did his signature snicker. “Listen, kid. I won’t let anyone so much as lay a finger on you. You’ll be mine. I’ll be yours. We’ll be kings in this world. Huh?”
The twinkle of a child’s fantasies being fulfilled was in that boy’s eyes just then. He opened his mouth to respond. But, just then, he was wrenched away from the arms of Uncle Louis, by . . . by a human’s. It was his mother’s. She had awakened from her fainting. She was trembling. She held the boy’s head to her heart as tight as any human could, taking clumsy steps away from the croc.
“YOU . . . YOU STAY AWAY FROM ME AND MY BOY, YOU . . . YOU BIG MUTATED FUCKER.” Her spontaneous jerking movements were her trying to escape a dream she swore she was soon to wake up from. It horrified her that she hadn’t.
The croc rolled over and stood to his feet, snarling. “Let go of him, woman. Don’t you dare hurt that kid.”
“MUM!” Morris said. “It’s Uncle Louis! Uncle Louis! He’s not gonna hurt me! Put me down, put me down!”
“LIKE HELL, I WILL.”
“Then Hell I’ll give,” growled the croc. “I’m warning you. Put down the kid. I’ll give you the count of three.”
Marie responded in all caps with foul language.
“One.”
Marie’s caps lock stayed on.
“Two.”
Marie’s caps lock wasn’t coming off.
“Three.”
Marie fled to the side of the main building. She set her boy down. She grabbed a broomstick lounged against the wall. The croc trudged toward her. He was a few feet away. She cocked back the broomstick then swung it hard as she could. It snapped into pieces. The croc wriggled his snout, shaking it of splinters. Morris kept shouting, “UNCLE! UNCLE! STOP!”, but Uncle Louis paid no mind. The croc snatched her up. Lifted that dangly human into the air. Flung her up. The croc stood on his hindlegs. The croc caught her in his jaws. The croc gulped. That insignificant human shot down his throat. Throbbing. Kicking. Getting a loud, drawn-out mmmmmmm out of the croc. In the distance, Morris was still shouting, “UNCLE! UUUHN-CULL-HUL-HUL . . . UNCLE, NO-HO-HO—” The croc drowned it out with an even louder MMMMMMMMM. He thudded to the ground, rubbing his grateful, grumbling gut.
Morris leapt on top of the croc. He banged his fists against the thing’s rock solid belly scales. “You ate muh-huh-hum!” He convulsed. He cried rivers.
“Hush, kid. I did you a favor. Your ‘mum’ was gonna separate the two of us. I did the thing all good Uncles do: I protected my nephew.”
“But—”
“Kid. Hush,” the croc repeated. “What happened to all those good rubs you were giving me earlier? Is my hide too tough for your little fingers?”
Morris shook his head. Reluctantly he threw his hands into the creases of the croc’s belly. Rubbed it. Kept rubbing. Maybe the croc was right; the scales of the hide had become so tough; it wasn’t as squishy. The croc grunted. Shoved his own claws into the creases. Joined in on the rubbing.
As they rubbed, Morris felt a shift take place. The creases were spreading out. The croc snickered long and hard. The croc was going through another growth spurt. The belly groaned. Stomach acids were dissolving everything. Adding pudge. Serving nutrients. Morris wanted to cover his ears (he knew exactly what was being dissolved), but he couldn’t. Rubbing the croc was too addicting. They rubbed together. Uncle Louis rumbled. A cacophony of gross gurgles and groans from Uncle Louis’ gut preceded a final, nauseating, demoralizing belch, that brought Morris to tears. That meant Uncle Louis loved him. That meant Morris would have to love him too.
<<< PREV | FIRST | NEXT >>>
Category Story / Vore
Species Alligator / Crocodile
Size 120 x 120px
File Size 65.9 kB
Comments