There’s something deeply intimate about the quiet hours after a hunt, when my belly is full and the world feels soft around the edges. Tonight, I’m curled up in the hollow of an old oak, stomach gently churning as the last stubborn squirms of my meal settle into my abomasum. I can still taste them—muscle giving way to enzymes, the slow, inevitable surrender. It’s not just about the power, though. There’s a warmth to it, a closeness. Like I’m keeping them safe in the only way I know how. Or maybe I’m just sentimental after a good fuck. Earlier, I let a curious fox crawl into my rumen, just to see the awe in their eyes when they realized they could breathe inside me. The way their cock twitched against my walls when they got overwhelmed? Delicious. But now? Now I’m just... content. The forest smells like rain, my cunt still tingles from earlier, and the stars are out. If you’re small enough, maybe you’d like to join me? No digestion promised—unless you ask nicely. 😉