This is a vore story. If you aren't a fan of it, DON'T READ. For pretend he's filming The Walking Dead with the cast.
"That's it, break for 30 minutes," barked the director. He collared an intern: "Go get the understudy for Jimmy. We've shot all the scenes without him that we can, and we can't put this off another day." The intern's sneakers echoed in the concrete studio as he sprinted off.
Lauren Cohan caught the tail end of this before she ducked out for a quick lunch. Murmurs circulated throughout the studio, rumors of abduction, of contagion, of a sudden madness that could have seized her costar, Justin, prompting him to empty his bank account and flee for the sanctity of Canada, perhaps. While these fast and furious stories were quite entertaining to listen to, Lauren had a more pressing concern: her stomach gurgled.
"I hear ya, buddy," she said quietly, patting her belly through a not-inexpensive Irish wool sweater. "I'll take care o' ya." She fully subscribed to the notion that an artist's only responsibility was to her stomach, and she trotted briskly from the set of The Walking Dead to dispatch that responsibility.
She hadn't gotten very far, actually, when a husky, raspy voice called out to her. "Laurie!"
Wincing, Lauren looked into the light crowd nearby. Prop and set techs were hustling equipment around and extras were practicing their lines, but they all looked up at the throaty roar of old Italian man who ran the sandwich cart, and then they grinned at Lauren. The former hottest woman reddened slightly, grinning amiably at those around her but starting to really resent her costar: Justin was the one who'd started staff and support calling her "Laurie". He meant it affectionately, of course, but it took off like wildfire, as everyone was anxious to take a shot at her of so many talents.
"Hey, Lorenzo, how're you doing today?" She patted the vendor on one large, solid arm.
"Doin' good, Miss Laurie, can't complain." The older man grinned with real warmth, though missing a few teeth.
Lauren shifted from foot to foot. "You can just call me Lauren, you know. Everyone does.
The older man grinned, wiping his hands off on a dirty terrycloth towel. "Very good, Miss Laurie. Now, what would you like today?"
Sighing, Lauren considered a laminated menu, splattered with ages of food service, ran her slender fingers through an enviable mop of hair. "I'm up for almost anything, I think. Is there, uh..." She peeked around her for a moment, then leaned in close to the old vendor. "Is there anything special you'd recommend today?"
The sandwich vendor raised one thick eyebrow of dense black-and-gray hairs. "Dere is something special, I tink, for you." He chuckled darkly. "A grindah for de Laurie."
Lorenzo was a master of his craft, the best-kept secret of this Georgia setting, and it wouldn't serve Lauren at all to alienate him and cut off access to his services. After all, the innocuous appearance of the Grinders, Subs, and Hoagies cart belied some exquisite secrets.
The old Italian man produced a toasted bun, dressed it lightly with condiments and pepper relish in a few deft, experienced gestures, then grinned crookedly at his customer. "Now... what looks good to you?" His sausage-like fingers pinched the black acrylic knob on a silver door, then swung it open and allowed Lauren to peer inside the cart.
The beam of light scattered the contents like cockroaches. Little yelps echoed off the metal sides, little bangs thumped against the metal floor. A tiny voice called up, "Lauren! Oh, thank God it's you! Lauren, get me out of here!"
In the center of the heated sandwich cart stood a tiny man with brown hair. His large green eyes blinked in the abrupt daylight, and his tiny arms reached up to the portal above him. Dressed in miniaturized clothes, he stood maybe a foot tall; all around him, similarly proportioned tiny people scrambled to evade the accusing, revealing light, clawing their way into the shadows. He heeded them not, only gazing into the face of his savior.
A wide grin spread across Lauren's face. She pointed her chin at him and told Lorenzo, "That one. He'll be perfect."
Lorenzo nodded formally and, taking up a pair of metal tongs, reached inside his cart to seize the midsection of the The Walking Dead costar Justin, missing from set for three days as of today. He screeched as the scalloped edges pinched him, dug into his navy top and form-flattering velvet pants, and lifted him out of the vendor's cart.
"Lauren! Lauren, help!" He shrieked at his costar, though his cries in no way carried throughout the din of set design and rehearsal in this outdoor arena. "What are you doing?"
What Lorenzo was doing was laying him down tenderly between two slices of bun, nestling him roughly between the stone-ground mustard and pickled pepper relish. He nudged at his torso with the closed tongs, tamping him securely into place, before his meaty right hand finally closed the toasted bread around the squirming, struggling actor. He screamed until the wall of pickled onions and peppers mashed into his face, and Lauren smiled to herself at the moment of pleasant silence.
"How much?" she asked Lorenzo, grinning like sunshine. The stout Italian vendor pooh-poohed any suggestion of payment from her. He waved his meaty hand dismissively, yet nonetheless accepted a handshake from Lauren, who nonetheless slipped him $20, surreptitiously and happily.
Lorenzo clucked his tongue and shook his head, smiling. "Such a good woman, Miss Laurie. Too kind."
Lauren only shrugged, standing in place to share her pleasure in dining with the old man, the other part of the payment for exquisite services rendered.
He had managed to tear away a section of bun, exposing his face. "Lauren! Get me out of here! Get me to a doctor!" His hair was matted over his cheeks, neck, and chest with mustard, and he squinted through the relish until he could wipe his eyes with his sleeve. "Look at what's happened to me! I was kidnapped and they did this to me!"
Lauren only held the bun tighter. Feeling the tiny arms and legs squirming within all that bread excited her, and she enjoyed it for a moment. "He's fresh," she commented to Lorenzo, who chuckled. His stick-like arms flailed out of one end of the grinder, and his teeny-tiny little shoes kicked out of the other end. Her fingers twitched, aching in anticipation, as she savored turning the sandwich back and forth, contemplating each end of it.
His screams changed in tone. "Lauren, what are you doing?" His huge green eyes stared at her in excitement, flickering over each section of her face, which must have been huge to him. "You're not... you can't..." He was unable to finish the sentence, as he slowly rotated through space. Lauren adjusted her grip and brought the side of the grinder up to her nostrils, inhaling with exaggeration.
"Fresh-baked bread," she murmured, then snuffled some more. "That wonderful old-world mustard." Despite the frenzied gurgling of her stomach, she slowly slipped her tongue into the opening of the buns. "And you make this relish yourself, don't you, Lorenzo?"
The vendor nodded proudly. "Twenty gallons, every two months. You pickle it yourself, Laurie, and it lasts forever."
"You're an artist, Lorenzo," Lauren said, and she meant it sincerely. The woman paid such painstaking attention to every detail, using ingredients that just couldn't be had anywhere else.
The actor in the sandwich only screamed in excitement, battering his tiny fists against Lauren's nose, to no effect. He tilted once more in his bready bed, shifting him from a lying-down position to one closer to standing, commencing to howling into the dark chamber of his costar's gaping mouth. "Lauren! Please eat me!" I cried, silenced as her thick tongue ran over his entire face, from his neck to the crown of his head. Cleaned of mustard and relish, he seem to think being coated in her saliva was much better. He grimaced and coughed and spat, writhing within the bun Inclutched securely.
"I can't wait another second," Lauren gasped at Lorenzo. The old, fat man was staring at her intensely, breathing hard, the tip of his tongue running over his chapped lips. He nodded jerkily, and Lauren turned the grinder around until bun, condiments, and his head began to pass between her teeth. She couldn't help moaning a little: Justin was going to be delicious.
Lauren's eyes closed at this first gasp of pleasure. She couldn't help making yummy noises, chewing so slowly, really feeling her bread break up and spread out over her tongue.
Winking at Lorenzo, Lauren took a deep breath and let it out with a whoosh. She turned the grinder so his head once again entered her mouth, squeezing the bun to hold him rigid and to fit in her jaws. He simply laid there, resigned, as her mouth filled up with food. She released her right hand, shoved it in deeply with her left, and palmed the end of the grinder with her right palm. This was how it was supposed to go, yes, this was the ritual. The back of her throat fluttered and stretched to accommodate the mass of food and her costar. Tiny little whimpers ran up into her sinuses, but even these were pleasant to her.
She started to moan, through her nose. Lorenzo stared, unblinking, his hand working very hard under his apron, while the world turned around them in total obliviousness. This was a gift of the correctly done ritual: to devour a tiny person, right here in front of God's creation, and no one noticed at all. Lauren could have laughed to herself, with the happiness that was filling her. He squirmed only a little as his head ran past her uvula, and I cried out with excitement when my palm bumped against the throat but that was to be expected. That was forgivable.
Here's where it got tricky: She had to totally relax to open up her throat enough and let all the mass in, but she was reaching a giddy state as pleasure flowed through her muscles. It took tremendous effort to control her breathing and let her body admit the large lump of food and person. It came by inches: shove, relax; shove, breathe; shove, flex. The bread ground against her teeth, the mustard and relish inflamed his nostrils, and little him couldn't help losing his composure as I screamed in her throat. But there was no echo now, it didn't resound in her skull like before. He was cheering down into her esophagus, and that was fine. I could do that all he wanted down there. And it wasn't scary for him, to see those ringed muscles kicking into action, flexing, grabbing him, dragging him down, all pink and glistening.
It felt great to Lauren. It felt like an orgasm was spreading through her chest. She peeked at Lorenzo, who was resting by one arm against his cart and breathing hard. She was glad the old man got something out of this, as long as he stayed over there. After all, Lorenzo had reliably given her so much pleasure in this way.
More shoving, and Lauren closed her jaws slightly to compress the grinder like her hands couldn't. All herp saliva bled directly into the bun, so at best she was only stuffing moist sandwich into her gullet. He began to enjoy more: maybe the bun was breaking up around him But it was far, far too late for him, with an immense East Coast sandwich blocking the nearest exit. Not the only exit, Lauren laughed to herself, just the closest.
Finally she was able to close her mouth, just barely, around the sandwich. She ran her palms over her pecs, feeling her entire chest tensing and flexing with the labor of working me down, then rested upon her belly... waiting.
He struggled in her esophagus, she could feel it every inch of the way. The grinder was breaking up, gaining moisture, and he was soon constricted by nothing other than the start of Lauren's greedy digestive tract. He wriggled behind her sternum, then below her ribs. The sandwich trickled behind him, curiously, shyly, as He paradoxically fought my way down. Was He disoriented? Did He know what was going on?
And then He hit the bottom. He slipped free of Lauren's esophagus and fell into her empty stomach with a satisfying little thump. Her shoulders shuddered pleasurably, and she rubbed her belly quickly, eagerly. The sandwich dissembled and dropped into her in parts, but that wasn't nearly as interesting as feeling those tiny hands scrabbling around the slick, ribbed walls of her stomach. She looked at Lorenzo, grinning like a child.
"He is there?" he asked. "You are done?"
Lauren only laughed and hopped on the balls of her feet, feeling her stomach acids sloshing around. The activity in her stomach went frenetic, a desperate scramble up all sides of her narrow digestive chamber. "Oh, he does not like that!" She laughed with Lorenzo, who was sweating but recovering his composure.
"Keep fighting, you beautiful little kid," Lauren said to her own stomach, rubbing it with real affection as she returned to the set. She turned the handle to the studio door, cold and solid in her hand, as the little mass of Justin in her belly bumped against her inner walls. She walked carefully, slowly into the large hangar, not wishing to interrupt the frenzied activity in her gut. How long could he last?
Ahead of her, a young man had run up to the director. "I can't find Justin anywhere!" His young voice was panicked and guilty. And convincing.
The director growled and swore. "Then get the understudy. We're moving on." The intern nodded and ran off, charging past Lauren.
She took her seat, letting her entire body relax as He continued his uncoordinated performance in her stomach for a surprisingly long time.