A commission for  21parrots

Every lick of support on my Patreon helps me create stories such as these full-time. Consider pledging $1



A couple of late-teen foxes were brothers and the older brother had a fantasy. The fantasy was of his younger brother cooking him into a dinner, devouring the dinner with a group of friends and digesting him. Damn it all, though, the older brother couldn't bring himself to confessing this to the younger brother, who he doubted would understand; and even if he did, they wouldn't have been able to fulfill the fantasy, unless, somehow, the older brother could be shrunk to the size of a finger, for that's the way he wanted to go.

His name was Mick, and, today, Mick dusts off old relics in the attic till he uncovers a peculiar lockbox. Knitted into the cobwebs above the lid of the box lay a key. In Mick's eyes, there's unfamiliarity. There's a primal design carved into the box's bloodwood exterior. Meticulously-crafted chimeras tame encroaching tidal waves along the box's medial faces. Intrigued, Mick scratches his jawline. He plucks the key into the keyhole, corks the key.

There's a click. The refined sound of wood resounds in the room. The fox's keen nose picks up the smell of aged papyrus. He peers inside and sees a slip of paper, but his eyes can't attune to its text in the attic light. Impatient, he snatches the box, hops down to the stool below the attic then rushes to the kitchen for windowlight.

Under streaks of sun, he reads the slip of paper: Those who wish to change shape will. Hypnotize yourself into a desired shape. Then enjoy.

"Smaller," the older brother says aloud; "shrink me to the size of a finger. And when this is done, let my brother know."

The slip of paper teeters to his feet as he balls his fists. "I'm shrinking," he tells himself, "I'm, I'm gonna be a good little meal for my not-so-little brother." A tiny quickening of the breath.

Adamant about his words, he desires and desires and senses a growing heaviness on his shoulders; a zipper hoodie, his only upper body clothing, expands and stretches over his knees. Confounded, the fox blinks at his bare calves revealed when his ocean-blue denims, extraordinarily larger than he recalls them, slump to the tile floor, belt and all. The hood of his hoodie engulfs him, an enormous polyester tarpaulin.

A bulge behind the lid of the hood stirs. The miniature vulpine pokes his head out, awed for the first time at this gargantuan tiled, cabineted world. He clambers out; climbs over mounds of navy jeans to the cool floor. Then, his ribcage quakes. A tremor knocks him to his rear, and gargantuan fox feet step round a countertop. Alec, Mick's little-brother-turned-big, sees Mick's clothes piled next to Mick himself, who's reduced to a sixteenth of his regular size.

Afraid Alec'll take him for a rodent, Mick jumps up and down and bellows in his mousey voice, "Bro, big brother, it's me!"

It's sharp, hissy and distant, like a radio station on in another room. "How in the world?" Alec picks up the live miniature and puts him on the counter. "Repeat all that. I didn't hear you."

Perplexed, Alec with his ear lowers listens to the tale as short as his older brother. Except, Mick never finishes telling it. Halfway into his narration, he confesses his love for vore and divulges his fantasy of becoming Alec and friends' dinner.

"Some siblings suck, but we've always been on outstanding terms," Mick squeaks, "so that’s why I didn't want to tell you about this and risk ruining our relationship." His now-big-brother's sky-blue eyes are sterile. Mick, fearing he said too much, starts sniffling and sobbing. "I should've kept that to myself, shouldn't I? Disgusting, right?"

Alec's sky-blue eyes drift amiably from his now-little-brother. The corner of his lip curls like a cat-tail. "It only makes sense," comes a voice, soothing yet mountainous, "that two brothers would share a fetish.

"We're gonna eat you, little one," Alec growls lovingly, pushing his nose, black as a tire, into the micro fox's belly to cling onto; the nose rises high above the counter, swings high over the glossy plateau and the marble plains, an incredible vista the dangling little fox glances over his shoulder to see and wows. In a low, body-rumbling drawl, his big-brother teases on: "And your body'll become naught but a bit of nutrient for me or my buds."

As Mick requested, neither Alec nor his friends will know who's eaten Mick. Not knowing who he'll become a part of eternally excites, exhilarates him; and yet, he hopes it'll be the one he's been with since he was a wee fox. So Alec, his younger-but-bigger brother, hopes too.

Blushing, heart beating fast, Mick watches his giant bro punch in numbers on a cell and hears him invite his friends for dinner. He retreats to the shadows below a cookbook slanted against an alabaster wall and squees softly. Big Brother thumbs the End Call on his Android then scans the kitchen peninsula, not seeing Mick.

"Lil bro?" he calls out. "Guess what?"

Mick peeks his flushed face out of the crack. "Y-yes?"

"Seven-thirty tonight. No backing down now." Alec winks.

He grabs the cookbook Mick hid under. With a squeak, Mick rushes out from underneath a collapsing row of cookbooks, then, out of danger, comes to Alec flicking through recipes. Barbeque ribs and green bean and mashed potato recipes are torn from the cookbook then stuck to the fridge with magnets.

After thickening in a small pot, the mashed potatoes get a special ingredient stirred into them: Mick. A muffled yelp gets lost inside thick, buttery hills; them, Alec stirs so well, no one'll ever know if they've swallowed Mick—not even Alec.

The ribs and green beans are almost ready when Alec hears the doorbell. He skirts the living room, and goes through the foyer.

"I smell food!" his wily cheetah friend says.

"I think I've outdone myself tonight," says Alec.

Wiping his paws off on the carpet, "You always make good food, though, dude. Those ribs I smell?"

That and a special ingredient, Alec's about to say, but the cheetah speeds off into the kitchen to smell.

The rest of Alec's friends—a couple years short of their twenties, like Mick and Alec—arrive, the third and last of them at 7:51. They recline in the conglomeration of plush vinyl sofas with the plush vinyl pop-out footstools; put on a Black Mirror episode from Netflix; socialize about their nine-to-fives, a surprise party for another friend's birthday they want to pull, and start talking about what food they'll bring when one of them, a doberman, says, "Shee. We can't be talking about delivery pizza right now."

"Too true," says a red panda. "Alec, you're the way superior cook, anyway."

"Aw." Alec sounds preoccupied; he's just putting the last entree on their paper plates, the mashed potatoes. "You'll really enjoy this, guys."

I know I will.

Plates are served. Cheers!

As Alec forks slowly at his green beans, his ears follow dialogue from Black Mirror. A fennec just had her conscious extracted into a home appliance, where she's sentenced to serve a consumer for eternity.

Sad, Alec thinks. We should get to spend eternity with the ones we care about most. The ones who care back.

He thumbs the volume to 3; offers, "Sorry" to everyone.

"Is it okay if we just spend this time . . . together?" Alec smiles graciously. The sparkle in his sky-blue eyes is bittersweet.

Everyone eyes him with a kind confusion, except for the cheetah. "Sometimes just talking is nice,” he says. The agreement establishes a solemn, peaceful mood for casual talk.

The bellies in the living room are filling up, plates nearly cleaned. On his plate, Alec just has some rib bones and some mashed potatoes. He'd been holding out on them in fear. But of what? You and your brother couldn't be separated, he tells himself. So he spoons up a large mound, and gulps it.

Someone hugs their swollen stomach; a rackety belch blasts out of the cheetah's lips, shimmering the air. Alec scents the rib and green beans most prominently, but not vulpine. His cream-tipped tail wags, hopeful.

His friends converse through the night, but Alec's strangely quiet; the doberman notices, and thinks of how it was Alec who turned down the telly. Maybe chatting wasn't what he meant by “time together,” but quiet time?

"You good, bro?"

Bro. The vulpine's fur prickles. He thinks about his brother, places a paw on his distended belly. Food gurgles against his normally lithe midriff. His mind wanders to the cheetah's belch . . . then bolts upright.

Alec asks, "Could someone rub my tummy?"

No one knows Alec's a voreaphile, or what vore is, for that matter. But the cheetah, Sparks, and he have been friends since grade school; and Sparks has agreed to odder requests of affable intimacy from the vulpine.

Why not? Sparks grins. His tummy's fluffy, I will admit.

The doberman and red panda watch Sparks rise to the task, amused by the peculiarity.

"Thanks, bro—ugh-ooh." Alec sinks into a deluge of comfort, his cheetah friend's paws pushing into the groaning, glorruping, growling sphere of fur.

A bizarre comment from Alec. All these years, and the vulpine has never called Sparks "bro"; usually "bud." Sparks gets all tingly and sentimental, believing the family word expresses the importance of their long-time friendship. A goofy grin spreads on the cheetah's face. He rubs his tender feline paws into the bouncy, slightly doughy tummy. Heat from the digesting meal radiates against his paws, flows up his arms; and a gurgle, sort of like a sucking sound, vibrates smack-dab in the center of them.

Alec groans, folding his paws over Sparks'. All the gas from his food breaking down pleads to be released from the restraints of his gut walls; some more gas riots grossly, lower down in his large intestines.

When Alec holds Sparks' paws tight to his gut, Sparks blushes.

The fox looks kind of cute: fluttery-eyed, mouth ajar, no doubt about to say how much he appreciates this. He heaves heavy, with heavy slumps of his shoulders, before his eyes bolt shut.

"Buwwwrwrrrrrrrrrrooooooooooooaaaaaaawwwp!"

Sparks' face fur flails in the point-blank belch. So rude . . . so much force and heat from the fox's maw . . . After the finale, the cheetah sniffs at the hot gust of gaseous food, disarmed; flushing red, because he's so disarmed . . .

"Heh, that burp smelled kinda foxy." What Sparks secretly desires is: Do it again!

Kinda foxy, yes . . . "I think so too," a chuckle from Alec, "I smelled that too . . ." He sounds relieved.

Alec politely pushes the cheetah's paws away. Now, his paws go to his own brother, Mick, without a doubt. He squeezes into his gurgling gut, whose bubbly, digestive thrumms simulate squirming against his fingers. He hums, casually enough for public, while hinting of arousal. "Thanks again, bro . . ." Forever and ever, he and his brother'll be together. This is the way that episode should end. He stumbles out of his seat, making his way past his friends' legs out of the living room. "I hope this is how you wanted it . . ."

"No problem, Alec, but—hey—where you headed?" Sparks reaches for Alec's tail, but cuts himself short. Hope this is how you wanted it, he said . . . Did Alec sense how much Sparks enjoyed that?

His friends stare at Alec as he hurries upstairs. The red panda turns to Alec with a gaze slightly envious. "Damn, Sparks. Think you could rub my belly too?"