Adrift in a Stomach

The Unaware in Her Stomach (Tentative Title)
B_25 & Bronydog

In coming back to life, the stallion did not know how he had become small, submerged in the depths of mash potatoes. But he knew, in swimming through the heated, steamy, and creamy texture that if he did not surface in time.

That the mare would eat him whole.

Tough Luck had woken to the feeling of being baked and could barely twist within his strange cocoon. All was dim as the light was distilled through the surrounding texture. He could move the paste, shifting and spreading his arms and legs. Moving the paste as though it were snow.

There came thunderous steps in the distance that should not have been possible on the ears. Coming through, muffled, into the current mountain—before the sinking of a cushion from afar. None of this registered to the forefront of his mind. Other than the flick into a state for his survival.

Tough looked up and, although he was squeezed as though in a tunnel, he tore away at his ceiling and started to climb. The tanned whiteness was hot on his hands—nearly scolding—although the distant clinking of metal was far more fearsome.

The higher he climbed, the brighter the ceiling became, the filtered light, more potent in the meal. Tough tore and shovelled and wiggled upward, the packed steam, released, by his movements.

Until breaching the surface.

There was a splatter of mash at the top of the pile as the stallion burst into freedom, a need to pant from the exertion, hunched over in his new freedom. He took a moment to breathe. Looking out across the spread of the plate, to the haze of the table, a sprawl of wood, overseeing an eternity of room—a TV, so far away, so large as to be the sky itself.

And if that was there, then that meant, a couch had to be behind him.

Tough twisted and waded in the mesh before looking out to a view that should have been impossible. So large in a spread that the minuscule frame of his vision could barely take the mare in. Naked was she, that structure of woman, sitting back on the couch, naked, legs crouched, a muzzle up in the heavens.

Watching the television.

Tough had been too busy in being stunned by the beauty to notice her leaning forward. That drawbridge of her torso, as dark and blue as the sky becoming night, her twin orbs set above the cuff of her stomach.

It scared him. That thing. So large, so wide, vast and yet taut. Going on for miles, and somehow, always appearing toned. It looked small. Slender. Perhaps it was to those of normal size. Yet to him: it spanned a desert.

And he was to become its dessert.

Tough had been too busy staring at the belly to notice the gleam of silver overhead and, in looking up, the edge of the spoon had lowered into view. Like a floating pond of metal, it dove into the top of the mountain, a slice through its density, made with ease.

The poor stallion tried to scream but set himself to brace for contact. The spoon had loomed afar, level with him and, in its forward sweep, stole the land from underneath him. His stomach lurched as he gained in fastened acceleration with a flick that turned everything around.

Once the ride was over, the stallion was laid forward, needing to hug himself, barely possessing the will to look ahead. But a blink of an eye did so. Staring off into the sky, seeing the cliff of a chin. With a gulp, he looked up to the monolithic, busy face.

This girl sat with a leg over the other, leaned forward with the ponds of her eyes reflecting the television. So much unaware of that which she was about to put into her mouth. She exhaled. Gales of breath washed over the spoonful.

Tough was rocked back by the blast, the air warm, tinged with moisture, and the scent of berries. He would keep that way as those same lips, which devoured the whole of his vision, had parted to the spoon's thrust.

There was nothing to hold onto as the rest of the girl's face grew and disappeared from view, soon her mouth being all that was within frame, the dimness of that cavern, the tease of teeth and a serpent in the dark.

The space of a park inside a woman's maw.

The stallion held up his arms and screamed and none of those squeaks even reached the giantess's ears as the spoon had plunged into her mouth, the lips sealing on the spine of the tool and, when the metal pulled out—it was clean of everything.

Inside those cheeks and within the cavern of the mouth, all was dark and everything echoed, a constant backdrop of breathing, little sounds with a touch of a moan, it all permeated the scene. Tough rode the spoon in as it turned, the heap deposited onto the tongue, from top, to bottom, once again.

Failing first onto the sea of dim pink to the clattering of a mountain that piled on top of him. There was no moving here. Merely wagged aboard the tongue as it endured and enjoyed the heat and the taste of the mash. Moans rumbled off the wall, echoing off each other, a domination in sound to the one inside.

The weight lifted from the pack as the heaps were lilted from side to side, from one row of teeth to the other, the two laid inside of darkness. They couldn't be seen. But they were heard. The gnawing of the pearly columns and the splatter of a thinner sludge.

Tough laid forward at the front of the tongue, his body, draped, over the rises and falls of taste buds. With a cough and a shifting of his cheek on the coarse surface, he looked outward, over the tip of the tongue, across the backs of teeth, to the pressed lips that enclosed his prison.

Getting through them would mean his escape.

And chance at letting the mare, know, that he was there.

Tough crawled to the end of the tongue, a foot after the next, weak, but not yet defeated. He glanced around to the far off cheeks, the curved, thick walls, and the expanse of the fleshy, tiled ceiling above. All of this was someone else's mouth. That place, typically so small, now able to house a school.

Suddenly there was suction on the back of his legs. Tough glanced over his shoulder to see the heaps of mush, now in separate piles, being thrown into the darkness behind. An invisible force yanked on him as well. Enough to drag, several feet at a time, until his hand grabbed clumps of the tongue to hold on.

Stillness came.

Only after the gulp.

It was monstrous in sound and robust its reverberations around the cavern. How everything wobbled when the beast had swallowed. The wetness of it, the echoes of the food descending. Wet smacks of swollen muscles, beating into each other, clumping in carrying the meal down.

Tough waited a few seconds to be sure and started to crawl forward again at the sign of no trouble. Creeping and crawling and looking at the slice of light in the slit of those closed lips. Soon they opened, slowly, the pouring of light into the cave.

Blinding white to light his hope.

Until the blurriness cleared and, beyond those lips, floated the pool of wine; round and deep was the glass, which inched toward the lips, resting on the bottom's sprawl. The cup blocked all view, sealed sounds inside this place.

As the splashes of the torrent began.

Tough could barely hold on in watching the incoming tidal waves as each curved and crossed into the other, washing and filling the expanse, coming to rise well above him. He looked up as down came the splash. It ripped him from his hold on a few bumps, submerging him in the bottom of a coursing ocean.

The little stallion rolled in the liquid and was stolen with its current. He spread his arms and legs as bubbles rose from his snout in the pinkness. Righting him, he, at once, beat forward, trying to swim through the stream.

He didn't bother looking behind. Swallow after swallow, each deafening, as it quaked the place and rippled across the wine. He swam and swam as, behind him, ponds were flushed at the back of that staggering throat.

It was a dark place, only its outline teased, a hanging thing, much like a bell, with an edge that overlooked a vast abyss. The boy continued swimming, breaking through the liquid to a sudden fall. He pelted the base of the tongue, a couple of meters from the tip of the beast.

Tongue laid there, coughing, sputtering wine that'd gotten in his lungs. Everything in him burned and ached. There could be no staying here. To be swallowed would be it. No coming out from that. Getting through those lips, although dangerous, would allow him a place to find. Some crook where he could eat crumbs and find a better plan.

But being lost and imprisoned in the taut tummy of this woman would lead to zero chance of being found.

None of that seemed to matter, however, as the tongue rose and dipped. In the distance, the lips opened again, the glass, set, already. Flushes of torrents flooded into the maw, and the stallion, in laying forward, tried to rise.

Pushing his hands into the tongue, he struggled to rise, and, in the second next, the wall of the wave ripped him from that place. He floated in a swirl with the current, now weak, unable to move, watching the light for the last time.

Soon the torrent splashed at the back of the throat, swirling in its swallow into the tightness of the passage. Muscles reached out, undulating, from the walls. Darkness and hums were all there was. Sometimes a plushness would extend, pushing into him, squeezing, although the current slipped him through all grips.

After the long, long fall, without light, and booming in sounds, the stallion could finally hear the splashing of a waterfall. A large valve was opened below him, which he flooded through, coming into a vastness of a chamber.

The stallion pelted the top of a heap of mash, sliding down its front as though it were a snowy hill. He rolled all the way down, smacking the flooring of the flesh, feeling it sink and rise, if only a little, beneath his weight.

Tough slowed until he moved no more, eyes closed and body dead, laying there for the end. Yet it never came, and sleep never stole him. Instead, he kept like that. Hearing, all around him, a thumping heart. Fast and overwhelming. Echoing from everywhere, undulating the flooring to its beat.

There were a few groans in the struggle to regain himself. The permeating heartbeat matched, occasionally, by the windmills of air that collected in the distant lungs. Either up or down or somewhere further beyond. Wet squelches echoed from inside the chamber.

Mountains of food, sliding out from underneath itself, as all came to settle.

Tough finally found the will to sit up in the dark place, wetness covering him, a splashing throughout the zone. It was living, breathing, and shifting beneath him. Nothing could be seen but the impressions of the enormous matters around him.

He patted at his legs and, in feeling a bump, reached a hand into his pants. There was his phone. Sighs of relief were not held for long as the thumping of the place seemed to become larger and louder as the area seemed to become smaller.

Tough turned on his phone and the flash of light drew a cry from him. No longer would he be blind for the rest of his short life. Swiping down and enabling the flashlight, the torch came on, flashing the world around him.

And he nearly squealed at the view.

Afar from him was the curved, beating walls of the cavern, always billowing to a tempo. His light carried up to a ceiling many feet into the air. Tough flipped onto his knees only to hear a splashing. Looking down, he saw the low, yellow waters blanketing the space.

How they burned.

And how they boiled.

Gasps in realizing what that liquid was, the stallion shone the light ahead, to the distant objects like buildings. Clumps of mash and the vaults of sliced carrots loomed in his view. Severed, chewed, and being burned.

Tough stood and strode across the waters, which splashed outward in every stride of his legs, his skin tickled by the temperature. Part of him wanted to lie back, float in the warmth, and let the end be a good one.

Instead of that, however, he reached a pile of mash and, even falling into its surface, came to wiggle out from it. Tough ascended the mountain as though it were a snowy hill. Coming to reach the top, standing there, flashing the light around... to no other structure, shadowy in the distance, as tall as the one he was on.

He sighed before flashing the light up. So high the flashlight waned and was faint in touching the ceiling. Further way, high up above, there was a valve. Closed now. Although a swallow came from the heavens. Loud though muffled. Streams coursing down.

Sure enough. On the other heap several feet from here, the valve opened, and more wine poured into the clump. Slicing into it, severing it, as it merged with the rest of the waters. One it was done, the valve closed, and with it, the way out of here.

Tough couldn't help but collapse onto his knees, staying like that, knowing there was no escape. Even to get that thing to open, he would not only need to reach it but do so as matters were coming through it.

Then he would need to climb through an impossibly long throat composed of matters that's sole goal was to keep him down. Maybe, if the woman ever vomited, there could be a chance.

Though even that would be in a toilet bowl.

The smell finally got to him. The bile of being inside a sewer as toxic fume rose from the waters. He choked on in. Nearly driven to puke as well. He tried to breathe in the oxygen sucked into this place. For now, though, he would have to adjust to the atmosphere. of the smell here.

Because he was stuck. Inside this giantess that had no clue there was a little one inside of her. That her stomach, usually small, toned, and slender, was like a city to him. So vast and round as was the custom with ponies of this world.

She would have no idea he was here. Going throughout her day, clueless as to her little guest inside her. Eating foods and putting on clothes. Doing work and hanging out with friends. All the activities of life, and in being herself, no clue to the one living, surviving, within the tautness of her stomach.

There was a slap outside. Upon the expanse and through the density of the skin. That massive hand set to pet the place, rubbing it to how good the meal tasted. Little slap with a touch of a moan, ones elongated into something more, that vibrated throughout the lake and echoed from the stomach's walls.

Tough would be a prisoner of this place.

And slowly.

The waters started to rise.

Time had gone by in the darkness. Hours to days to weeks to an unfortunate month. The stallion had passed out on the top of a clump of mash, letting what happen, may, and waking on the stomach's flooring. It was dry. Everything drained through another valve—one he wouldn't survive.

He was left with his phone and the few odd tools in his pants. Outside, his captor did as she did, walking and striding, twisting and turning the chamber, every rise and drop of a step, bouncing him, the vibrations always consistent.

Tough found ways to live. Using his phone, he found that, due to the horn of the giantess, it intercepted his signal. However, her magical essence allowed for his phone to be charged. He used it for light and the few games installed on it.

And soon he became used to living in the stomach.

He'd endure the boredom of her walking and would listen to the muffled words of whatever she said, knowing when she was sitting as, around him, the cavern would bend a certain way. During such times, he'd wait below the overhead-valve, waiting, until water, wine, and food of any kind—came through.

One day, however, the girl had swallowed a bit of bone and, walking across it like it was the skeleton of a dinosaur, Tough found a section that could be ripped off. From this, he was able to fashion a knife and carved the rest of the instrument.

In the end, Enough carve, flatten, and smooth a platform, a raft, out of the thing. He'd use mash potatoes, striking light with his knife, as a gluing agent to the rest of his designs. When it came to the rise of the floods, he would be aboard, set adrift as the woman walked, enduring the splashes like a boat set out at sea.

It didn't take long to extend the platform, set to find a way to make himself a little house of bone. The goal was to create an enclosure to allow him to be asleep during a storm. Anything too big, however, would drive a violent response from his living surroundings.

And anything too small would be flushed away.

Tough currently laid back on the center of the raft, the woman that encompassed him, laid on her back, which changed the dynamic inside. The waters around were calm today. No splashes except the occasional one.

His eyes started to close, much like the one who had swallowed him, unaware, that she wasn't alone. Sharing the same places and the same foods, all conversations and actions, heard and felt. Nothing to be a secret.

It would be an exciting time indeed. A life together, until escape, survival, and hope could be found.