This month's themes: Charizard, micro/macro vore, growth, Bowser, 2nd person POV and paws/stomping

Why the hell are there six themes this month, not three? The top three votes came to be Charizard, Bowser and 2nd person POV. The logic then followed: The story needed something kinky to be about! So, I added the next most-voted for option ... or was going to. Turns out, that next most-voted for option was not one, but three tied options. So here you have it, fuckers. Six fucking themes that mash together for one great big Christmas buffet of literature. Hope you enjoy.

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You—Charizard—Hunger for Super Mushrooms

The thing that is crystal clear and should go without saying is that you are Charizard. You have always been Charizard: a Fire-type dragon Pokémon with tangerine scales, a tan dome of belly, turquoise-membraned bat wings of about half a hang glider’s span. The tangerine scales cover the back of your wings.

You’ve always been able to breathe brilliant streams of firebreath. You’ve always had claws and fangs and horns whose endings are blunted rather than sharp. You’ve always had the ball of fire blazing at the tip of your tail to tell you that you’re alive. And you’ve always been taller than the trainers who have tried—and failed—to catch you, at least for as long as you’ve been in your final evolved form.

You—however—have not always been in this strange land. You don’t remember how you got here.

You suspect that it doesn’t belong to Kanto. Perhaps not even the Pokémon world. The grass is a technicolor green. These rows of blocks that defy gravity hang high enough for you to jump up and hit your head on them (though, you haven’t tried). And the hills, the peaks of them have Easter egg curves and they themselves have the pastel colour and zag patterns of Easter eggs (not that you ever joined the humans in celebrating Easter in Kanto). Some of the hills even have eyes. Abominably cute eyes. Eyes that make you uncomfortable and urge you to retreat into yourself.

But this place is too appealing to the eye—too exotic not to explore—for that. You’re curious. You work your gaze past the floating blocks, along a countryside that goes to a bridge that leads to a castle of stone masonry. On the center of the second storey, a stained glass window portrays a blonde who is pretty, like a Nurse Joy in a cotton-candy-pink dress. Maybe, if you meet her, this blonde can give you some clue about how you got here, even if you can’t speak to her.

Alright—it’s settled. You’ll march on her door and dawdle in her bedchambers until she says something useful. But first, you might as well investigate these blocks.

You trudge under a row of blocks, five of them. Four are made of bricks; one is made of pure gold and embedded with a question mark. For some reason, you have the urge to hit your head on this block. You jump.

Ow! On second thought, why did you think of that? You rub your bruised temple, regretting the ordeal. That is, until you see from the end of the row of blocks a mushroom fall. It is red-capped, spotted and eyed like the hills. Eyed? Nevermind that—it’s sliding away from you. How dare it be offended by the sight of a fire-breathing dragon! You chase the prejudiced mushroom, wanting answers—or at least recompense for your feelings.

Unpurposely banging your head on more blocks, you stumble after the speeding shroom. Your large dragon feet, girth and wobbling gut definitely don’t help you catch it. You wish you had cut back on Pidgeottos this week, like you said you would.

Despite the weight of your bulk and moderate pudge, you’re almost within reach of the crimson shroom. You grunt as you thrust a short dinosaur arm at it, swiping to grab it. The maximal effort needed forces you into a dive with a brisk propulsion of wings.

A scaly hand snatches the mushroom—but not yours. You flop onto your belly, feeling winded.

Fat, scaly feet the gold colour of an elderly Pikachu slam down on both sides of your vision. A guffaw honks out of the beast above. You look up—eyes gliding over a plump, segmented stomach of aged wafer-coloured leather. You find the green-scaled, fire-browed face of some turtle dragon laughing at you. In his clawed hand lies a mushroom—the one that belongs to you. The beast chucks the mushroom over his head, yawns his stubby draconic maw then gulps it down. The bulge slides down his throat—passing below a spiked collar with a tag labeled “Bowser”—then settles at his midriff, bloating it out.

You gather to your feet and growl right in this guy’s grille. Both of you are about the same height. Your smoky breath sends embers crackling in front of his face. Bowser (you assume his name is) just releases a dark lordly laugh, then leers at you with his orbs of blood orange. He claps the gurgly, misshapen sphere of his stomach thrice, then blurts a moist, repugnant belch over your muzzle. The hot blast drones out for a few seconds. Your cheeks go red with embarrassment and anger. You can practically feel his hot spit flecking you from his stinky depths.

In the last second of the belch, the sound deepens. The blast gusts you back a couple of steps, and the noise rings louder. A worrying thought strikes you: The eructing maw is rising above you, and stretching, enlarging.

Bowser lets his jaw hang as the burp fumbles to an end, groaning. His scales puff up, growing larger, and the crags between each scale expand. It all happens within a second, accompanied by a synthesizer sound of three notes that consecutively rise in pitch: the fanfare of Bowser’s growth.

His legs spread farther apart. His paws stomp harder than before. Both of his feet burgeon to twice their previous size. Deeper creaks of muscle underlap a lewd utterance from his throat, and he looms higher above you, shrugging his shoulders apart to straighten his crackling shelled backside. At his new size, he thrusts his arms broadly apart, then shakes his great belly with a ghastly chortle. When you gaze up at him, the flame tipping your tail smokes out a little. Although his body has the same proportions as before, his chest appears much broader because he’s twice as big as you. It seems you’ve been out-evolved by Bowser.

And now he licks his doughy lips, dropping his lower jaw to you show his spiky teeth. A growl of hunger quavers the slobbery rings of his throat.

This can’t be happening. Are you prey? Absolutely not. You’re Charizard, eater of Pidgeottos, breaker of Pokéballs.

He lunges for you. But he’s so large that he lugs a lot of weight on his arms, so you dodge him deftly. You’re running now. You’re panting. You can feel the enlarged Bowser’s feet thumping and reverberating behind you.

Rows of floating blocks everywhere.

Where are the question-marked ones?

Ahead of you. Quick.

You feel his treacherous claws graze your tail, but you smack them away, right as you skid onto your bouncy belly under a row of blocks with two prize boxes. You pump off your palms to your feet, then hammer your head on one block after the other. A second headache tries swooning you. You’re expecting it this time, so you shake off the medley of hurt and dizziness. A pair of shrooms cascades to the ground. In your periphery, Bowser’s eyes blaze like Blaziken feet. His shelled backside erects with glee. He chuckles as though he knows he’s about to receive another big boost to his size—goes charging at the shrooms like a hungry theropod after a couple of herbivores, his burly, banded arms swinging.

No way are you gonna let that bumbling tortoise swell bigger again. You start dashing for the shrooms, but you realize his strides are so huge and determined. You’ll never outpace him. Snarling a clump of flames, you leap into a dive and pound your wings. Your claws snatch ahead of you with swipes as savage as cyclones. You go sliding and tumbling over yourself, leaving Bowser coughing on your dust.

When you rise, two eyed mushrooms stand in each of your hands, staring at you. Bowser gawks. The crimson locks of his cockatiel-style mohawk writhe like tendrils of flame. He stampedes toward you.

But you’ve already smugly tossed one mushroom over your jaws. Gulp.

The most musical squelch you’ve ever heard.

You toss up the other shroom then snarf it down. Your throat flexes like the length of a hungry Seviper while your lubricated muscles wrench down your prize. With a sigh, you clap your stomach: A ripple embiggens it. Bowser skids to a stop before you, shooting your gut an anxious look. You smush your paws into the flanks of your round belly. It starts sloshing and grumbling. You glare deviously up at the turtle. The trauma on his face makes him look significantly older.

Your whole frame shudders, as if about to burst like a grenade. Then, this explosively gratifying feeling that you haven’t felt since you evolved from a Charmeleon: It motors through your body. You groan degenerately. Warm pulling sensations flood your feet. They mushroom in size. Your girth expands and your gut proportionately balloons. That musical sound effect that came with Bowser’s growth now resounds around you; and your talons plough through the ground, growing forward. Bowser now hardly looks able to stand; he is short of breath, watching you grow over him, higher, higher.

You grow like a weed given water and rich fertilizer. Then, your growth slides to a stop. You stand thrice the size of your original self, as well as Bowser’s original self. You’re as tall as a one-storey Pokémon Center. As such, he’s only two-thirds your size now: staring at the base of your neck, forced to stand farther away because of your formidable round belly.

Are you going to give him time to find a question-block, to grow bigger? To compete with you? Definitely not. You’re going to crush your competition. But you’re not delusional: You know you need to be much bigger to squash the spiked turtle like the tadpole he was born to be.

So you go make for another row of blocks. You surprise yourself with the staggering stomps of your feet. Alongside you, your enlarged wings casually slash through rows of blocks without question-marked boxes, destroying them. The great ball of fire on the end of your swinging tail sets grumpy brown mushrooms with faces and feet aflame behind you. Their panicked zigzags audibly deter Bowser in his quest to keep up with you.

You find a question-marked box that’s too low for you to headbutt it; the crest of your big gut squishes against the side of the box when you try to kneel to get below it. You bring your mighty forearm back and swing your claws. Effortlessly you smash to bits the boxes before the question-marked one, which your palm simply thumps against—and bumps out of the top of it a shroom. A huge, rare-looking shroom. This one has a tumescent gold cap and red spots. It quickly leaps off of the top of the box, fleeing from you.

It flees right toward your nemesis, Bowser.

The sight of the mushroom is a bucket of water splashing on a sleepy turtle’s face. He unleashes a furious whoop, stampeding through a ranting, immolated mushroom man then going full speed for the giant fungi.

The two of you race forward, lunge. Each one of you latches onto one side of the mushroom cap. You jerk each other back and forth, stretch the pliant mushroom flesh back and forth. The shroom’s expression becomes a constipated squint.

Your tug-of-war takes you stumbling over the stony bridge before the castle (you’re about as wide as the arcing stonework). You beat your great wings then buoy yourself over the bridge, flapping hard because of your tortoise anchor. Foot-paws pedalling in the air, Bowser growls at you, clinging to your prize. You try to shake him off. He narrows his eyes at you, flicks his stout neck forth, bites hard on the side of the shroom. He tugs it with more strength—successfully thieves it from your hands!

He wrests the shroom from your grasp, swallows it halfway into his mouth. You don’t take time to think over the loss; nor do you let him plunge down to the bridge or swallow the meal. You cleave your tail under your belly with prompt efficiency and smack him in the pit of the gut the split second after gravity grabs him. The blow squeezes breath through his belly. Stupefied, he blows like a bellows; he spits the mega shroom up at you.

A pang of accomplishment snatches your breath. That shroom twirls under your nose, begins to descend after cresting. You snatch it in your jaws—or at least try to. The rubbery surface slips—or, perhaps, bounces is the word—off your teeth. Before the shroom can scurry off, you thrust your jaws and snag it again. This time, you succeed. And gulp.

Descending from the sky—Bowser on his back, aghast at you—you land on a grassy circlet of land within the moat. The bulge of the shroom vanishes when it vacates your forechest and greets your gut. Your tummy burbles. The liquids inside bubble up like the waters on the shores of Seafoam. Again hits you that explicitly rapturous feeling of evolution. You feel your DNA twisting, your blood burning like the fires of your belly. Every bacteria inside you feels like it’s orgasming. You let out a lewd harrumph. The sound liberates some of the pent-up energy within you—but only a percentage. Presently, your wings creak thunderously, writhing, enlarging. You grow again. Your expanding claws drill into the grass and loam, sending earth popping around your foot-paws. They convulse and stretch, one paw growing faster than its partner, the partner then catching up.

The sound of your swelling musculature reminds you of the creaking sound that an aged willow makes when gusted by a storm, but more squishy and sinewy. You feel your snout pulsating and elongating, even though it retains its original ratio with the rest of your body. Your horns grow, claws grow, tail grows. A combustion of euphoria comes from your tail base, tingling your tail length to the very tip as your tail blimps up with you. The feeling is carnal and phenomenal.

A grumble of infatuation—of appreciation—for your enlarging frame shakes the foundation of the moat. You find that your greatened size has upgraded your voice, making it rich, bassy, gravelly, voluminous. Your mere breaths have kickbacks. They stagger you and stimulate you. Morphine kicks in. It makes you want to grow more, more.

Your growth tops off, making you a whopping eight times bigger than you originally were. Four times bigger than Bowser is now. You’re almost three storeys tall. Taller than the main roof of the castle, but not its central tower. The spiked turtle cowers on the bridge below you, scrambles to his feet.

He and your now-gargantuan feet have unfinished business. You start lumbering toward the thickset vermin. He flees for the technicolor flatland from whence you came. Your massive gait lets you cross the moat without the bridge. Your monstrous THUDS and crater paw-prints—prints that could serve as trenches for shallow pools—stalk him. They boom closer, closer. Suddenly, you cut through the tightening knot of tension—the same knot that served as part of his harness—by ceasing your stride: You plant your foot-paw on his shell, squishing the miniature Bowser under your musky sole.

He gasps—waddles movelessly on his midriff. Dirt from between your toes crumbles over the pitiful beast. You roll him onto his spiky back then stamp hard on his exposed belly, squashing the vulnerable, leathery flesh against his ribcage. The lizard suffocates, letting up little hiccups as you force down on him the strength of your towering stature. His limbs flail. His grip strength falters. His mouth blurts breathy submissions.

You’re unsympathetic. As soon as you pick up your foot, he’ll be back to competing with you, unless you sear into his mind a certainty of who’s in charge. You start to grind your sole over his face, enjoying the spit and the breath and the squirms he relinquishes. Whether he likes it or not, he serves you well as a paw cushion.

Content with his temporal servitude, you let your guard slacken. At that very moment, a beast on a broom zooms across the sky. She—he—it? You settle on “it.”

It halts at level with your vision. You see that it has the beak of a turtle, the glasses of a bookworm, the sky blue robe—complete with tall, pointy hat—of a magician. Held in its hand is a ruby-tipped wand.

It proceeds to spearhead your reign.

It flicks the wand at Bowser. ZAP.

A blue thunderbolt spears from the ruby—blankets Bowser in a conflagration of cyan flames? Magic? An eerie tingling creeps through your talons. Every passing second, you find it harder to keep flat your sole. You’re obscuring the reason; you don’t want to believe it. But now, the shuddering beneath you gains such power, you can no longer ignore that Bowser has his hands wrapped around the sides of your foot—is lifting it up like a Machamp—is growing.

The following sight feels obscene and taboo: Head twisted to the side, Bowser keeps his stubby jaws agape and swallows down the seemingly endless blue rope of what is decidedly magic. He grows more, more. A thrust of his embiggened arms flings you off of him. Your heel falls over the gap of the moat.

You catch yourself, stunned.

A grotesque regard for the beast on the broom festers in you. You watch it feed Bowser that fruitful supply of magic. The turtle-dragon drinks with a thirst perverse. His muscles make bumbling noises while his skeleton grows and adjusts in his likewise expanding flesh and skin. He distends his segmented paunch with every gulp of the reptile enhancement drug. A twitch comes to your eye, for his body pulsates with rampant growth—and then he towers over you!

The broomed beast ceases feeding him. Bowser snaps off the rope of magic—like it’s a string of spaghetti—then slurps the last of it down. Trembling in his last pulse of growth, he transforms into a hulking, god-like monster. He’s over three times your size, twenty-four times his original size. His head’s over twice as high as the top tower of the castle. He splays his hands apart, unleashing a machiavellian bawl of laughter.

The ground tremors around you. The eyes of the hills clench shut; they seem to pretend they don’t exist. The size of his burly, robust, volcanic voice swallows you in harsh reverberation. Your head starts to spin from the constant metallic buffeting on your ears.

He looks down at you the way a Bug-hater looks down at a Caterpie. He lifts his foot to crush you … but you’re not even as small as he was under your foot-paw. His face screws inward. He looks like a king whose jester has said something distasteful about his weight. Glancing down at the broomed beast, he yawns his goliath maw. He needs to be filled with yet another abundant meal of magic before he can properly destroy you.

To your horror, the broomed beast has another batch of magic at the ready. It shoots a spear of the ethereal blue stuff into the back of Bowser’s throat; and the reptile’s figure shivers like a Rotom, before he suddenly pitches upward in growth, getting even huger. Thirty times his original size, thirty-three … He expands with no governance whatsoever, dwarfing your size more than four times over.

How utterly humiliating. He’s ascending into the heavens like a literal god and you’re just standing here, throwing your head back, looking stupid while the rope of magic scales him farther up in size. Around you the kingdom flashes from quakes of his growth. His gigantic shadow arrests you, while his draconic claws mow through the pathetic earth. Going pale, you hop backward over the moat just to keep those claws from cutting through you in their forward expansion.

In doing so, you’ve fanned your wings—and an idea comes to you. Flight. You need to fly up to the mage beast. He wields the wand of growth, the artifact that Bowser depends on to grow.

You fly toward the beast. That interrupts the magical flow from its wand. It sees you—seems to realize it’s uncomfortably about the size of a large burger for you. Petrified, it speeds off (leaving Bowser looking confuzzled from the sudden end of his orgasmic trance of growing). You pursue it, clobbering the sky with your private jet wingspan.

The beast can’t out-accelerate you, not even while burning a magical speed boost. Your spittly jaws tear open, pivot around your speeding prey. You snatch it inside the toothy threshold to your digestive tract. One swallows sends it rolling—like a thunked billiard ball—down to your spacious belly.

“URRRRRWPP!”

A belch of smoldering air launches a backdraft of smoke at your face. The expulsion tastes treacly, velvety, a little creamy. You reckon it’s the residual flavor of your prey, but can’t be sure, since you didn’t spend a whole lot of time suckling the beast in the curl of your tongue.

“HIC.”

Speaking of your tongue, what’s that? The thing you just hiccuped: cold, pointy, residing on a bed of your taste buds. You open wide, then delicately pinch the object between two talons. You take it into the open air, swish your paw to knock some of the thick ropes of slather off it.

Bowser barks a roar; the sound rolls over you and the land, making your heart skip, leaving the earth rumbling for moments afterward. You realize he’s infuriated by the thing in your claws. The wand—the beast’s growth wand—you wield it. Even though you’re about as tall as a footrest to him and lack his physical power, you’ve stolen his priceless artifact. Now the source of his magical power rests in your claw-tips.

Before he can attack you or take it from you, you wave it—flick it about. That does zip. Probing for another way to activate it, you flick it with a talon. Suddenly, a beam of magic fires into your gullet.

Mother of Arceus, this must be what Mega-Evolving feels like.

An ungodly amount of power cascades through your belly, lungs, limbs and blood. You can feel your genes spontaneously erupting, shifting shape. Mass avalanches out of you insatiably. Your wings sporadically swell, and their span goes from “private jet” to “commercial airline” while your membranes and wing-fingers burgeon. Your stomach cannonades forward—flourishes in girth. Your feral-style legs and your foot-paws swell like storm clouds. Bowser loses every drop of “umph” necessary to oppose you. He almost swoons.

Your body mass keeps snapping outward.

Intoxicating, tantalizing creaks and groans of expansion sashay your limbs. The tremendous pleasure extremely serenades your limbic system. Despite you starting your feast in flight, your growth pounds your feet to the ground. From the impact, fissures rip across the once technicolor kingdom now shadowed over by your behemoth, godly figure.

Tremors rack the land. You steadily trump the seemingly dwindling Bowser in size more and more … Way past eight times your size now, you’re forty times, fifty times, sixty times …

The castle becomes a tedious obstacle in the path of your paw’s growth. The paw ravages its stone masonry on the rightmost facade, cannonades through its bedchambers and hallways and archways—well-roundedly demolishes its architectural guts. Smoke plumes, billows over the subjectively shrinking castle. You keep growing, growing, till Bowser’s nothing but a foot cushion—less than that …

You dwarf one hundred times your original size, then one-twenty, then one-fifty.

The word “kaiju” becomes a vast understatement for you, for you more than double the height of most skyscrapers in Saffron and Viridian City …

You plummet to two hundred times your original size, then two-fifty; and then Bowser is less than one eighth your size, nothing but a portly reptile you could completely bury under your foot.

The lesser kaiju howls tinily—goes lumbering across the earth for his life, him and his tiny booms and tiny crater prints and tiny quiverings of the land. You lift a galactic orange sole above him, and then with prehistoric slowness it descends upon him.

BOOOOOOOM …

Your unstoppable foot-paw stamps the ground upon which he fled—and he’s buried in the print of your great, callused dragon sole as though not even an inconvenience to your foot.

Your gut growls loud and clear. The mere borborygmi shift the tectonic plates upon which the eyed hills stand, permanently leaning them. They scream out of their mouthless skins.

Putting this little Bowser in his place has worked up an appetite. Time for you to ensure that he can never trump you again. Time to make a worthy meal of your worthy opponent.

After all, you are what you eat.

You lift your foot, twist your shin then peel the little morsel off of the bottom of your paw. You lift him to your drooling, agape dragon maw. From the epic abyss of your throat sparks on and off a short flamethrower.

Itty bitty Bowser sweats—swings frantically in your talons. This does not stop you from tossing him onto your leviathan tongue then smacking your lengthy lips shut so that you can (and do) grind him against your tongue and palate. He tastes gamey, slimy and salty. He claws at your tongue, and you tilt it upward, Bowser slowly slipping into your gullet. He scrabbles for purchase, even though the slick, lubricated appendage cannot be grabbed.

GULP.

Your handsome orange craw puffs out for a second. Your filling reptile feast plunks down to your creamy tan belly. And—lucky you—your magic wand gives you a mental view of your food’s plight:

Disturbed waves of digestive juices greet him. His splash precedes an insignificant shimmying of stomach walls. He flails his arms at the surface of the sloshing fluids for a few heartbeats, howling, degenerating in shape. The foam he whips up soon perishes. Big bubbles replace the foam, pop and reverberate through the macro food chamber. Drowned is Bowser. But below the surface the acids continue to send streaks of effervescence up from his sizzling, decomposing hide.

That’s all you glimpse of his demise, before an unsettling, gurgly cacophony forces your maw open.

“BURRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAPPPP!”

For you, the explosion of stomach wind is nearly as satisfying as evolution. A scrumptious—albeit acidic—aftertaste of your chubby salamander snack is yielded. For you, this is merely the first of many meals, the first defeated boss. There are many levels you have yet to conquer … and perhaps rule over in tyranny.

Unfortunately for Bowser—whose reign as king has ended—this is game over.

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