You untensed when the long screech of the subway’s breaks went quiet. Worst sound in the world, made your fur and skin crawl, but a regular part of your life every morning for as long as you cared to remember. But you didn’t care to remember much on the way to work. You instead absorbed yourself in the music pouring into your earphones – or, well, earphone. In public you only put your right earbud in, kept your left ear free for situational awareness and such. The subway doors slid open and the stranger to your left stood up and, well, left. The seat didn’t stay vacated long enough for the butt print to even fully fade, and your reflexive glance to see your neighbor leave got you an eyeful of the massive ass that’d be making the next print. It was hard not to; you were the runt of a pretty runty litter – egg clutch? You weren’t sure. – of a pretty runty species to begin with, always standing at bellybutton height around other folks. A glance of those looming moons got your blood pumping and face red, what with those two round, bubbly cheeks and the tight black denim that held them together in your face. And a glance was all you got, that titanic tush flopping hastily into the empty seat and its owner leaning back. She glanced at you, you glanced at her, and you figured that was enough drawing attention to yourself for one train ride. What you’d seen had left a big enough impression in your brain that you didn’t need to look twice, anyway. Sitting next to you – or rather, squishing you between her meaty thigh and the armrest of that row of seats – was a plump-rumped Absol woman. Though that was misleading: it implied that her butt was the only plump thing about her. A round, chubby belly hung over the waistline of her black denim shorts, and a pair of pillowy breasts barely held back by a black t-shirt advertising some band hung over that. Seemed real into black in general, she did. Black jorts, black shirt, black boots, black lipstick, black pearl eyebrow studs, streak of black through her bangs… and “topped” off with a black lace bra that she in no way tried to hide. Only lack of black about her was her white and blue fur, her cherry red eyes, and a bright pink thong strap that rode up high on her hip. Goth? Emo? Punk? All three in a car wreck? You never really understood the difference between the three, no matter how many times your younger sister explained it to you when she went through that phase (“it’s not a phase,” you could hear crisp in your head from as recently as last month over the phone, when you called to ask how being single with two kids was going). You weren’t about to ask your new train neighbor; even if you particularly cared, even if your heart wasn’t racing just sitting next to her, she’d turned her attention to her phone the moment you broke awkward eye contact. That’s when you felt a hand grab the scruff of your neck and lift you up. Leaving the ground with such an effortless hoist brought your brain back to being hoisted into the bathtub as a kit – though it wasn’t water that soaked your feet. You barely got the chance to let out a gasp or swear before your kicking paws were stuffed in her mouth, teeth grazing against your ankles and drool flowing between your toes. Her maw wrapped around your shins to hold them still before easily slurping up your knees, her furry lips tickling you at even the slightest shift while her tongue guides your feet to her throat. You yelp and call for help, casting pleading looks to the other passengers while you hold one hand firm against her upper lip and your other against her chin. An impatient nibble of her teeth severed your earphone’s cord and cut your music. Some ignored you, or didn’t hear you over their music. A couple blushed and stared or looked away. Some looked, but not at you, at [i]her,[/i] with looks that clearly said “stop dragging it out, it’s too early in the morning for this racket.” None of them helped you. You wondered why you thought they would, as your waist was sucked into her mouth. You’d never helped anyone who ended up as fast food on this train before, either. You always figured you were too small, and would end up as an after-meal mint anyway. Now you were this woman’s breakfast. Maybe not even breakfast, more like an energy bar on the way to work to start the day off right. Your life was entirely in her hands – in her lips, rather. On her plate. You looked over your shoulder, hoping she might reconsider. Her cherry red eyes were unfocused, looking at you but not at you. The same way you look at a club sandwich as you ease it into your mouth to make sure none of it falls out. Or in her case, none of [i]you[/i] gets out. Your arms quivered and shook from the sheer effort of resisting the suction of her maw and waiting throat, but she solved that rather quickly. Her hand came up, glimmering with black nail polish, with two fingers, one on each of your shoulder, and pushed. Your arms couldn’t take it anymore. They barely even had time to give way before your belly and chest were gobbled up by her glossy black lips. And it was only a split second afterward that a single finger rested on your head and pushed you all the way inside into the shimmerless black of her mouth. You closed your eyes and braced yourself for the last swallow. But she didn’t. Why didn’t she swallow? Your head filled her mouth as surely as an overly generous handful of gummy bears. You ventured to open your eyes, and saw light for what might be the last time. Her phone was all you saw. She hadn’t even swallowed you yet, and she was back to texting on her phone. And plain as day, at the top of the screen, was the first and last name of your younger sister as the two fangirled over an upcoming movie and exchanged emotes. “I love you so much, you know that? Can’t wait for dinner tonight.” Was the last message that popped on screen, from your sister to your predator, before her lips closed shut. You tried to scream, tried to tell her that you and her friend were family, but her tongue bucked upward and stifled anything you could say – anything you would ever say again – before she took that last, agonizing swallow. Agonizing for you, at least. She no doubt barely noticed your bulge cresting in her throat before vanishing behind her plush, ample tits. Not that it hurt; the woman’s gullet was cushy for how tight it was. But the trip downward gave you a lot to think about. Or rather very little to think about, but you thought about it with all your might. You had been eaten. Not being eaten, [i]were[/i] eaten. Swallowed, devoured, gulped down this curvy goth girl’s hatch, down to her roiling stomach. You didn’t want to think about it. But you did. Her stomach wasn’t even your last destination, though. Your descent wouldn’t really start until [i]after[/i] her belly was through with you. You wanted to think about that even less. But you did. You were [i]food.[i] Nothing but and nothing more, a future two pounds of chub on her bubbly butt at most, a couple thousand calories in this bitch’s diet, a cheat day at best, a reason to skip out on the cheesecake at dinner tonight. “Oh I’m sorry, I’m skipping dessert, I ate your older sibling and they’ve gone straight to my [i]fat ass!”[/i] Dinner. Dinner with your sister. Would she ever know? Know that she’d been eating dinner at some chain restaurant only two feet away from you while you digested? That when she woke up tomorrow morning you’d be in her bestie’s bowels? That your final resting place wasn’t six feet of dirt but six inches of pudge, your only legacy the jiggle on this woman’s bum? As you slid into your predator’s stomach, gradually forced to curl up and contort in that tight furnace of food and fat, you already knew the answer: of course she’d never know. Not even the woman who just had you for breakfast knew who you were. You shifted your weight in the slop your shoulders were submerged in, half-digested eggs and milk and cheerios. You were indeed not her breakfast, just a light snack on the morning train. The humiliatingly tiny and cute belch that rumbled up her gullet and out her lips only served to punctuate that. Not that it mattered to her stomach, or even to her in all likelihood. You were just a convenient bite to eat, just like… Your sister. You had to warn her. You had no way to tell if this bitch wasn’t planning on having dinner with your sister as a squirming, screaming dessert. Some preds refused to eat friends, you had even bunked with some in college, but you were in no state to be optimistic. You pulled your phone from your pants pocket, though fumbled at a sudden shift in weight all around you. The support of this woman’s lap was gone, and you felt the gentle bump of her legs against your back each in turn. Every jostle and sway earned another grumble and gurgle from her sinfully stuffed belly. She’d stood up. She was getting off the train. Your phone had almost fell into the mush of her morning meal, but you’d managed to pin it between the stomach wall and your thigh. It took some careful maneuvering to get it back in your hands, but you did it, and you were almost shaking with excitement while your fingers fumbled to turn it on. Zero bars. Not a one. And only five percent battery left. You’d rarely ever used it for anything other than music, so you never cared if it had a full charge. There was no music now. Not even silence. Your ears rang with loud grumbles and wet squelches of an overstuffed and struggling stomach. All the light of your phone served to show you was the pink, fleshy walls closing in on you, cradling you tight and determined to never let you go… for the rest of your life. As your predator casually strolled up to a subway station kiosk and ordered a granola bar and milkshake to wash you down, all you could do was scream. And the only person that could hear you smiled a cute smile and patted her tummy before fishing out her wallet.