Author's Note

anonymous asked:
Hey, Nom. Tell us your wildest vore fantasies

A Hearty Breakfast [2nd person, flattening, cooking/foodplay, vore]

7:00 A.M. Breakfast time. You sit at the kitchen table, chowing down on some Cheerios, an omelette, or a bowl of oatmeal -- whatever it is you like to eat in the morning. A large helping today, too; it was a long night, and you’re pretty hungry. After a nice, filling meal, you stand up from your seat, stretch, and pat your gut, ready to start the day.

As you rise to your hooves, your roommate, significant other, best friend, or whoever else may be sharing the house with you walks in, and they’re as hungry as you just were. They search through the cupboards for food, finding nothing they care for. Of course, you suddenly come to a realization: you may or may not have just finished off the last of the breakfast foods in the house for your own meal, not thinking to leave some for them. A brief wash of guilt runs through you before they turn around and sigh in annoyance, telling you what you already know: you’re all out of food. Decent food, at least.

You shrug innocently and mutter a brief condolence, hoping they won’t ask any questions nor notice the unusual roundness of your tummy this morning, but a telling hiccup escapes your mouth and draws their attention to you. They now take note of the used dishware on the table and the remnants of your meal around your mouth, scowling at you as they finally catch up. Your careless feasting has left them without a bite to eat!

After a moment’s thought, their expression morphs into a grin, and they share some good news: they think, perhaps, that they may have noticed a box of pancake batter in the cupboards. When they turn around to root through the cupboard behind them, you edge closer to the doorway, thinking it might be wise to leave. Before you can move far, however, your housemate spins around, brandishing a rather large frying pan.

A split second later, they’ve pounced across the room, lifting the pan up over your head and swinging it down with all their might. With an echoing clang, the pan collides with the top of your head, pressing down with what seems like an immense force. As it turns out, this pony has one heck of a follow-through, because the pan continues to descend, effortlessly compressing you further and further beneath it, your body crumpling like an empty soda can. The entire process lasts but an instant, and you immediately find yourself squashed flat against the floor into a tight, inch-thick patty, your vision filled with grey as your face presses against the underside of the cool metal pan. The sudden compression results in your tongue being forced out of your mouth like toothpaste being squeezed from a tube -- quite the unfortunate consequence, as the metallic taste of the pan against your flattened tongue isn’t exactly the most appetizing thing in the world.

After a moment’s pause, the pan lifts off of you, and you blink wearily. Despite the lack of anything on top of you, you still feel a heavy pressure on your body. Your assailant, catching their breath, smirks down at you, relishing your cartoonishly-pancaked state and goofy expression for a moment before reaching down to peel you off the ground. Your thick, disk-like form dangles from their grip, flopping a bit as they wiggle you around, much to your embarrassment, though there’s little—rather, nothing—that you can do to protest. Stifling a few chuckles, they roll you up tightly into something resembling a pony burrito and squeeze your form gently, eliciting a muffled squeak from within the several layers of pony. Their stomach lets out a rumbling growl, reminding them of their impending meal; they quickly unroll you, toss you into the skillet, and turn on the stove.

You don’t feel it at first as the pan slides over the flame, but it soon begins to grow warmer—first becoming lukewarm, then comfortable, then cozy, then toasty hot, and finally settling at a high heat that’s just a tad uncomfortable, in your opinion. Forced to stare straight up at the ceiling, your chef’s face appears in front of you; they smile and drop a pat of butter onto your face, which quickly melts and spreads across your flattened frontside, coating you in a shiny, fatty glaze.

A spatula works its way around the sides of the pan and wedges underneath you, lifting your limp form off the hot surface. With a quick motion, the spatula flips you over, and, with a loud plap and a sizzle, you’re lying face-first against the pan, the butter sizzling and bubbling gently against your face and shoulders. The comparatively cool air against your rump and belly is a welcome relief, but it’s now somewhat overshadowed by the uncomfortable wall of hot pressed against your face and chest. You feel a soft, warm dollop of butter spread over your exposed underside, the sensation not entirely unpleasant. Fortunately, the spatula greets you once again after a few minutes, flipping you right-side up.

Some minutes and several more flips later, you’re finally scooped out of the pan and laid on a plate for the cook to observe your shiny, lightly-browned skin approvingly. Turning off the stove, the other pony opens the refrigerator, withdrawing a few condiments. They set the items on the table next to you, starting out with another large pat of butter, left to soften over your frontside. Next, they pop open a tall brown bottle and tip it over you, drizzling a thick, goopy syrup over your face - maple, you realize, as a few drops run over your tongue. It pools atop you, dribbling down your sides once it spreads over the edges of your circular body. Then comes a white spray can; after shaking it up for a few seconds, they squeeze the nozzle over you, tracing your body in a thick, fluffy trail of whipped cream. A dash of cinnamon and sugar, some blueberries and strawberries, and a single cherry later, and the other pony is licking their lips with anticipation, sending an almost unnoticeable tremor through you. They fetch a tall, cold glass of milk and some silverware, then eagerly return to the table.

Finally finished with the tedious preparation, the starving chef sits down to admire their work, but not for long. Fork in hoof, they dig right into their thick, squishy pone-cake, devouring it in a few ravenous mouthfuls. The mix of syrup and butter (along with their saliva) lubricates the tunnel of their throat, allowing you to slip right down with ease. As you settle in a delicious, creamy mass in their warm stomach, they gently squeeze and rub their full belly, sloshing you around inside.

Following a short belch, they stand up from their seat, stretch, and pat their gut, ready to start the day.