It’s funny, I suppose. I always liked biology.

The soft heat teases my navel, adoring every scrap of fur and flesh it can as I sink deeper. A baptism of saliva drenches it like a watermark, and through his engorged throat I can feel him purring, the bass rumble of a mountain. And all because of me, and the pleasure I cause.

It was and still is a fascinating subject, and even more so now that I’ve taken it to university level. The physiological differences between different species of Sentient and their respective feral counterparts, the interaction of chemicals which binds us all together, as a whole kingdom of the living.

And of course, in the most basic lessons, there were constants of actions, activities common to everything the world over. A living creature moves. They respire. They grow, reproduce, and react in varying degrees to the world around them.

And they eat.

Try to scrabble away, cringing, weeping, fingers leaving little scratches in the floor as they are pulled inevitably backwards. It never works. The muscles in that dark abyss of a throat alone are stronger than my entire body – we know, both of us, just how easily I could be crushed to nothing in the hot, slick embrace of it. But as tight and crushing as his beak is around my waist, it will not harm me any more than the pains I have already suffered. Just enough to remind me of his power, his absolute and gluttonous dominance, and drag in another few inches of tender young flesh into his body.

Everything performs this vital act. Even plants consume the sunlight, the carbon dioxide, the nutrients in their soil. And then they are consumed as well. And then the animals who consume them are themselves hunted, killed, stripped of their lives to fuel another. And these predators have themselves predators, and those often have their own, and the tangled web continues in its own maddened way, built on the pain of a thousand prey every minute. It is nature, neither cruel not kind but simply as it is: harsh, distant, as silent a force as the mysterious Catalyst itself.

And it is this fact, this absolute universality of consumption, that makes it such a powerful concept in our minds. Who has not thrilled with fear as the feral lion stalks past, separated from your defenceless flesh by only iron bars or glass? The fear of being preyed upon, devoured, is a part of every psyche, and the power of it leaves its mark on us all.

My voice chokes out a pained sob as the liquid heat clenches hard again, a powerful swallow rippling through that cavernous gullet, and suddenly his beak is holding my chest, so gentle and tender and yet utterly immovable. Everything beneath that line of hard bone and soft flesh is encased in endless hot, dripping flesh, moulded near-perfectly around my body. Every squirm is felt by the yielding walls; every flutter of my terrified heart pulses against his throat. Everything in there will not see the light of day again. Ever.

Perhaps for we Sentients, the idea holds its own special horror. We know the cruel civilizations which happened so long ago, where your species marked you out as ruler or servant or meat. We know the grisly “meat-trafficking” crime rings of barely fifty years ago, an outrage which shook the world to its core. We all know, of course, the isolated incidents, the films and books and games spawning around these concepts (They’re making a ninth film in the Prey saga now, would you believe it? I could never stand the series, but now the very idea brings back the memories of my own experiences, and it makes me physically sick just to see the posters for it.) . In short, we know the terror of it: the idea that you, a living creature, a person, could be not just destroyed but devoured, made to fuel another in such a basic, simple way, grips our hearts unrelentingly.

Devoured.

Gentle, purring gulps ease my ribcage in inch by inch, every rib which enters him marked by another hungry snarl. My squirming, weeping, begging, clawing; every attempt to resist is just seasoning to the impossible pleasure of this meal. He could finish me off instantly, simply convulsing the powerful throat once and sending me down, but he doesn’t. He wants to feel my weight, my squirms, my frightened little trembles as I huddle inside him, bathed in adoration and heat and softness. The tongue entwines with my muzzle in an obscene gesture of amour, lathering my face and lapping up every tear and trace of blood. My life chokes in its gentle grip, but he only loves me all the more for that.

But all this fear, all this instinctual dread, is going to be limited by its own nature of vagueness. Though we may shiver at the thought of being preyed upon, the predator themself plays little part in the horrorstruck fantasy except as the thing which preys upon us. Almost always in the grotesque tales, we’ve had feral beasts enraged with hunger, impossible creatures with no thought but the desire to feed on succulent living flesh, or simply deranged madmen who see only meat to be butchered.

And this misses the truest horror. When your devourer goes beyond this impersonal attitude and sees you for what you are: a person, replete with thoughts and dreams and personalities, alight with a hope for the future and a love of past, when he understands you down to the barest level of your soul, and when it is because of all this that he murders you, then the real cruelty of the predator is made manifest. When he knows the pain he causes with every swallow, the value of the life he holds so tenderly inside his own body, and takes pleasure in it all, his prey learns the true taste of terror and pain.

A sweet sentiment, little one. Perhaps it is only creatures like us who truly understand it, then: the predator who savours their plaything’s pain, and the prey who fears their murderer’s every touch. United in this ecstasy and agony of life and death. Together... forever.

And speaking of that...

No... please! D-don’t! I’m begging you, d-don’t, p-please! I just... I j-just don’t want this! P-p... please...

Squirm as much as you can, my darling. For me. You can’t imagine how it feels.

And the darkness ripples, squeezes, and rises over me. My senses run riot, heat flooding into every inch of my body as I choke on saliva. The outside world is gone: for now, my existence is defined by the boundaries of my predator’s body. I exist within him, as part of him, and nowhere else. Endless massaging muscles squeeze me down, only quivering all the more as I scream, squirm and struggle for my life. There’s no chance of success – not an inch is given to me, the titanic body of my predator packing me away with sickening ease. Feeding him...

The terror is blind, tiny and white hot, searing through the spectrum of all my senses as a gurgling, acidic death approaches from beneath. I taste the terror, feel my death all around me as he lovingly takes me deeper in, and I weep, weep, weep for my lost life.

This work is... godlike.

No other words for it. Dear sweet lords and ladies above and below, I am beyond astounded. I think everything which needs to be said has been.

Penned by  Kyma, and paid for by the insanely generous, insanely adorable and insanely delicious  Aeznon. Thank you so much to both of you. Any time you need a worshiper, I'll be happy to oblige.

Story was by me, and these two also belong to me. Well, Alex belongs to Damian, but in theory you know what I mean.

THE TASTE OF TERROR

The story of Alexander Williams, a young, innocent, kind-hearted arctic fox, and the entity known only as Damian: a colossal, pitch-black gryphon, with a genius intellect, lethal telepathic abilities, an extremely predatory form of sadism and a burning obsession with his little vulpine toy. This is the tale of their relationship, as it develops through the tortures, swallowing, resurrections, and endless, eternal mind games.

Expect plenty of physical and mental torture, very unwilling m/m soft vore, lots of unwilling cuddling, and a focus on the intensity and the cruelty of such an intimate relationship.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 2: The Epilogue

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6: Prologue

Chapter 6: Part I

Chapter 6: Part II

Chapter 6: Epilogue

Artwork

The Gentle Murderer: A first illustration of the vulpine's torturer.

Utterly Inevitable: Alex goes down.

Contains: Anthro Arctic fox Blood cuddling emotional torture Fantasy Fox Furry graphic griffin griffon Gryphon vore Pre-Vore snuggling digestion Sadistic Swallowing Goldeneye Unwilling misery