An introduction to a new idea I had for a series and also the first vore-related story I'm submitting to this site. It is FULL TOUR VORE, as all vore-related materials I submit will be. Please note that I file my vore, as I do my other materials, under general, because: 1)there is no graphic digestion involved 2) it is not of an explicitly sexual nature. However, this does not mean that I shirk on descriptions/themes of defectation, so consider this a SCAT WARNING.
I hope you enjoy this first installment, where Peter's grandfather recounts his first adventure in Mirroropolis, that magical world on the other side of the looking glass, where he also has an adventure through the innards of a hungry beaver.

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Memoirs of Mirroropolis

“There is something you should know about the other side of the mirror,” said his grandfather gravely, adjusting his glasses, which had slipped to the very tip of his nose, “Peter? Peter, are ya listening to me? This is important stuff, son.”
Peter was not at all listening, having spaced out shortly after his grandfather had stepped through the front door, and had remained in a daydreaming state for the entire time since, and planned to continue to do so until the old man had left. He had more important things to think about than his grandfather’s boring stories, which usually concerned family members he’d never heard of, who had died years before he was born, and therefore held absolutely no interest to him at all. So he sat there with his head in his hands, staring off into his bedroom’s wallpaper and thinking about the road trip he was going to take with his friends next week.
“Yeah, sure, grandpa, go ahead,” said Peter, but he was thinking, ‘I wonder if we’ll take Jake’s car or Cindy’s? Jake’s definitely has more room.’
“No, son, you ain’t listening!” exclaimed his grandfather, grabbing him with both hands and staring straight into his eyes. The old man’s own eyes had grown wide and wild, containing an almost unnatural gleam just behind the pupils.
‘Oh, God, I hope mental illness doesn’t run in the family,’ thought Peter as he stared back at his grandfather.
“Grandpa, are you feeling okay?” Peter asked, gently pushing the old man away from him and scooting his chair back slightly. Why didn’t his parents ever warn him his grandfather was prone to staring crazily?
“Never better, my boy,” his grandfather reassured him, “Now that I have your attention, that is. Now that I can tell you about one of the most bizarre experiences of my childhood.”
‘Oh God, oh god, oh god!’ thought Peter, looking around frantically for an exit. There was absolutely no way this story was going anywhere good.
“Pay attention, son!” his grandfather shouted.
Peter sighed and slumped in his seat. He wasn’t going to get out of this, so he might as well accept that fact and get it over with now.
“Back when I was your age,” began his grandfather, “Err… wait, it might have been a bit younger. Let’s see…” he stared muttering to himself, “We had potato salad that Thanksgiving, your great aunt Ruth got married to her second husband in April, that was the year we had the blizzard in November. Hold on… was that the year we moved to Wisconsin, or the year we took the vacation in Hawaii? No, because Kip had measles that summer, and that means…”
“Grandpa!” shouted Peter, “It doesn’t matter what year it was, just tell me the story already!”
“Hold yer horses!” snapped his grandpa, “I’m trying to remember…” he tapped his forefinger on the gray stubble of his chin, “That’s right! We were at our house in Connecticut, the one with the wind chimes, because it was the upstairs mirror! That was also the year your uncle Samson fell off the roof and broke his arm trying to help your great grandfather Evan repair the chimney, if I recollect correctly…”
“Grandpa,” sighed Peter, “Is there a story in here, or not?”
“Alright, alright… now what was I talking about again?” he scratched his bald spot and wrinkled his lower lip in concentration.
“Connecticut and the upstairs…” Peter reminded him.
“Yes, the upstairs mirror!” exclaimed his grandfather. He resumed his grave look, “As I was saying, there is something very unusual about the other side of the mirror. You wouldn’t notice it by just looking at it, but there’s a whole other world, waitin’ just behind that glassy surface!”
“Grandpa, I think you’re getting confused with Alice In Wonderland,” corrected Peter as patiently as possible.
“No, no, it isn’t like that at all!” his grandpa snarled, shocking Peter with his intensity, “I’m talking about the real McCoy, the actual place on the other side of the glass, the place they call… Mirroropolis!”
“Mirroropolis?” Peter raised his eyebrow, “You can’t be ser…”
“I’m very serious!” insisted his grandfather, his face wrinkled- more so than usual- with a strange intensity, “I discovered it one day, when I accidentally tripped on a roller skate and fell backwards through the mirror, ending up in Mirroropolis.” He cleared his throat and continued, “Y’see, Mirroropolis is a world a lot like ours, ‘cept its completely different, because everything’s all mixed up. There are animals dressed like people, and every place in the whole wide world here is mixed up in one giant city over there. I didn’t get very far when I was there, but I expect the whole world exists on one great big island.”
‘This must be what happens to people of my grandfather’s generation when they don’t serve in a major war,’ thought Peter, ‘They feel compelled to invent some crazy bullshit story to try and compensate for not having anything interesting to talk about. I guess its kind of sad, actually.’
“… advertising for toasted cigarettes and malt beer, with a young woman smoking and a mole drinking!” his grandfather continued, “Y’see, there’s people over there just like you and me, but they’re always being eaten by the animals! But the strangest thing is, it don’t hurt ‘em! They just get crapped out into toilets and sidewalks and whatnot and go on with their business!”
‘Okay, now where the hell is this going?’ thought Peter. The story was getting stranger by the second and he was starting to wonder if his grandfather wasn’t just making it up as he went along.
“… going off to ask for directions when I got grabbed from behind by what turned out to be a beaver,” his grandfather babbled on, “’Course, I found that out later,” he chuckled. Peter had to think about that one for a moment, and grimaced, “I shouted and kicked and called out to a passing iguana in a policeman’s uniform, but he said to me, ‘Now just calm down, son. There isn’t any law against getting something to eat.’ He walked off and the next thing I knew, I was being stuffed down a beaver’s throat,” he nodded vigorously, “It really becomes impossible to describe it accurately from here, but I assure you, being eaten is one of the strangest experiences you’ve ever had, and not something you soon forget.”
‘This has to be one of the strangest and most ridiculous stories I’ve ever heard,’ Peter said, realizing that his grandfather was too much in earnest to be making this whole thing up, ‘Why haven’t my parents warned me my grandfather is delusional? You’d think that would be important enough to warrant an, “Oh, by the way, son, if your grandfather starts talking about his adventures in the mirror, just ignore him, because he’s having another episode.’”
“Sufficed to say, it’s warm, and wet, and a little dark,” his grandfather was saying, “And you just kinda sit there in the stomach for a while and get tossed around. It’s like one big muscle, it just kinda sloshes back and forth, and you get flipped about like a pancake or a tossed salad. It doesn’t really hurt, since everything’s kind of soft and slimy, but it smells like old milk, and every time the creature belches…”
“Jesus, grandpa, you’re gonna make me puke! Enough, already!” exclaimed Peter.
“I tell you, son, I’d had enough after those two hours in that beaver’s belly,” his grandfather retorted, “The digestive process is all out of whack over there. It only takes about three to three and a half hours to work your way through the system and out the other end. Four, if the creature’s constipated. I actually learned that fact not from my watch, which didn’t seem to be working anyway for some reason, but from this nice Welsh feller I met in a Chinese restaurant where I went after that beaver dumped me out. ‘Course, it’s not really Welsh or Chinese over there, but…”
Peter half-listened to his grandfather’s mad blather as he tried to creep quietly out of the room, but was stopped before he got a third of the way to the door by his grandfather’s voice.
“I ain’t finished just yet, so come and sit down, son,” his grandfather said, patting the seat of the chair next to him where Peter had been sitting, “It’s rude to walk out when someone’s telling a story.”
‘Not if the story itself is rude to begin with,’ Peter thought as he sat back down.
“Now, after the stomach, I found myself in the beaver’s small intestine,” said his grandfather, emphasizing the “ine” in “intestine”, “Which is filled with little bumps that feel like a really slimy eggcup mattress, y’see. I got pushed around a couple curves and twists- theirs is much shorter than ours, I suppose- and soon found myself at the opening to the bowels, on my way to the place where the sun don’t shine.”
“God, grandpa, do you actually think I want to hear all this?!” Peter exclaimed.
“You’ll sit quietly and listen, son, because I’m almost finished now,” his grandfather said, “Now, the bowels were the nastiest, filthiest thing you can imagine. Crap smeared all over the sides and brushing over pockets of flatulence. Not to mention when the beaver decided to let one rip. You ever been in the middle of a fart?”
Peter was doing his best to tune this part out by playing some music in his head. It wasn’t working.
“Anyway, I just sat in the middle of that mess for about fifteen or twenty minutes, maybe, before I felt a shift and that beaver began to dump. The whole intestine started moving, and I was pushed around a bend, and came face first into a huge glob of poop. And the worst part was, I could feel this great big mass of dung behind me building up, pushing me forward into the poop in front of me, until I was wedged in the middle of a great big mass of crap. Then I was pushed forward and felt my head squeezed through this fleshy opening, and found myself looking down into a great big mess of poop in the middle of an oversized toilet bowl.”
‘ “So, what brings you here today?”’ Peter imagined his future psychologist asking him. It would be horrible trying to explain this to her.
“I felt the rest of my body being squeezed out of that beaver’s butt hole, slowly, like cookie dough, and then I landed with a great big splash and a squash in the middle of that poop pile. I looked up and saw a great big hairy beaver butt resting over the bowl, and that’s how I knew what I’d been swallowed by,” his grandfather smiled in triumph. Peter stared in disbelief.
“Y’see, the beaver was wearing a pair of those overalls with one of them flaps in the back that you unbutton when ya gotta use the toilet, and I could see his tail lifted up so I was staring up at his butt hole. Which, unfortunately for me, wasn’t done pooping just yet.”
‘What will it take to get you to stop?’ Peter thought maddeningly.
“He let out a few farts along with another ten or fifteen pounds of poop before he finally finished. It splattered all over my clothes, too. Not that it really mattered at that point, since they were filthy anyway. Then I saw this huge claw reach under with several sheets of toilet paper and he rubbed it over his butt hole, and then dropped it in the toilet. He reached under with another few sheets and wiped himself again, and then he climbed up off the toilet and buttoned up the flap of his overalls, with his tail hanging out over the top. And then…” his grandfather looked positively mystified, “He turned around and smiled down at me, with those great big beaver teeth. He didn’t say nothing, he just stood there grinning at me, sort of amused-like, and then he turned and walked off.”
“Is… is this story almost over?” Peter groaned.
“Yes, hold yer horses, I’m almost done,” his grandfather replied, “I went to the Chinese place after that- well, actually they had some showers in the public bathroom where the beaver pooped me out, so I used that first- and at the restaurant I met the Welshman and he told me that to get back to my world, all I needed to do was go through the mirror. He explained that no one over there could use the mirror, but because I was from the other side, I’d be able to.”
“So you got back here and that’s the end then?” Peter said, getting up to go.
“No, it’s not the end at all,” said his grandfather, “I went back there many, many times. Once every weekend for fifteen years, actually. A few times I brought my friends, too, but they never talk about it, ‘cause they’d all be called crazy.”
‘No, I think you’re the one who’s crazy,’ Peter thought, “Wait… why would you want to get eaten again, though? It sounds disgusting.”
“Oh, it is,” his grandfather said, “It’s the most disgusting thing that ever happened to me, and also one of the most exciting. I just had to go back, because it was unlike anything else that ever happed to me. I can’t possibly explain it to you in a way that you’ll understand; you would have to go there yourself and find out.”
“Why don’t you go back anymore, if it was so wonderful?” Peter had decided to amuse the mad old fool.
“Because when you’re an adult, you have responsibilities and obligations to deal with,” his grandfather sighed, “I went back a few more times, I did, but I realized I couldn’t just ignore my duties in real life, you understand. So, finally I just stopped going altogether. But I’m going to go back at least one more time before I die.”
“Grandpa, don’t talk like that!” exclaimed Peter, alarmed by the old man’s stark acknowledgement of mortality.
“Now, don’t be upset about it,” he grandfather smiled, “They say there’s only two things certain in life: death and taxes. I’ve done the second one for years, and after that I’m not afraid of the first, because I know it couldn’t possibly be any worse.”
Peter had to laugh at that along with his grandfather.
He finally managed to excuse himself from the room afterwards, and by that time, his family was sitting down to dinner. He wasn’t very hungry after that disgusting story of his grandfather’s, which the old man dismissed when Peter mentioned it to his parents after they were done eating. His parents had no idea what he was talking about, so apparently no one else in the family had heard the story, strange as that may have been. When his grandfather left, however, Peter found himself thinking about the story again. It was like having a song stuck in your head, you just couldn’t get rid of it. It was the craziest, most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard, but…
He stood there before the full-body mirror in his bedroom, shaking his head in disbelief. It was, in fact, the same mirror from his grandfather’s old house in Connecticut. Had he known that at the time, though, he still probably wouldn’t have thought much of the story. He finally turned to walk away, but stumbled and accidentally tripped and fell backwards over one of his sneakers. But as he braced himself for the crash, he didn’t hit glass…