It was a windy atumn day at Sarratillon castle. The atmosphere matched the feelings of those within the keep's walls. The much beloved Lady Sarratillon's funeral procession was still fresh in everyone's minds, especially in her firstborn son's.
 The promising young lad, named Jacquemin, hadn't yet finished mourning, when he heard the most astonishing news.
 His father, the lord of the keep and the surrounding lands, was already getting married. Jacquemin simply couldn't forgive him, not only did he choose to do it so soon after his mother's passing, but when he already has an heir! But he was raised to respect his father, and trust his good judgement.
 Only a fortnight later, the marriage ceremony, conducted which such undue haste took place. The Lord was marrying Alyss Foxmore, who herself had become a widow not too long after the death of Lady Sarratillon. Alyss was much younger than the lord, and her beauty certainly exceeded her low station. Certainly she looked well fed, particularly in certain spots.
 The Sarratillons were a well off family. They had villages, towns, and more than a few keeps flying their banners. The Foxmores not so. Theirs was a family of minor nobles, holding some land, but nothing comparable. Alyss herself wasn't a particularly good catch untill rather recently. Her dowry consisted of many of her former husband's lands, as he died without an heir. Distant relations of his all got their share, but most was taken by lady Alyss.
 Even still, Jacquemin couldn't see the practicality of the decision as outweighing the cost of 'marrying down'. Let alone accept the dishonorable act of disrespecting his mother's memory. Out of whatever respect he still had for his father, he wouldn't publically question his choice. But he'd never call this woman, just eight years his senior, mother. Nor whatever spawn she produces his kin. He was the firstborn, afterall.
 Years came and went. Jacquemin could never get used to his new mother-in-law. She took his mother's place in his father's bedside, even wore her clothes. But she was far different from the previous lady Sarratillon. His mother was a dutiful woman, dedicated to his father above all. The former lady Foxmore was a schemer, beneath a feign veneer of courtesy she was a nasty, petty woman. Many times did Jacquemin spot her servants, ones she brought with herself to take the place of loyal Sarratillon's, spying on him, noting his every move.
 Alyss did fulfill her duty as a wife and provided the elderly lord with offspring. Twins, a boy and a girl. Jacquemin never treated them as his kin. Once he saw them playing with his old things, causing him to finally show some backbone and stand his ground, shooing the pair away. That same night, he saw his stepmother glaring at him from behind a corner. A look of pure hatered on her face.
 The next day, terrible news spread throughout the keep. The Lord had gotten himself greviously wounded during a hunt.
Jacquemin was in his chamber when the news arrived. He rushed to his father’s bedside, finding the once formidable lord now frail and barely conscious. Despite his grievances, he felt a pang of sadness and concern. The lord, though a stern and distant figure, was still his father. Jacquemin spent hours by his side, hoping for some sign of recovery.
 Alyss arrived soon after. She quickly shooed away the lordling, the sycophants she brought with herself kept him away while his father breathed his last. That very night, the lord passed on.
 Jacquemin was understandably suspicious. He knew his father too well to think he was one to be so careless during a hunt. Having assumed lordly duties following his passing, he was adamant on enforcing his claim. As soon as the mourning period had passed, he'd exile Alyss and her brats back where she came from.
 The new Lord Sarratillon awoke that very night. Earlier he had the bed cleaned, from both his sickly father having laid in it, but also due to the distaste he felt at Alyss having taken the place his own mother once had.
 The chamber was the most impressive within the keep. Large, with intricate decorations and a domed ceiling. Yet now, it seemed to be of even grander enormity. Far, far more so.
 The noble bedding, a generous fit for a pair of two, to Jacquemin seemed more like an ever stretching landscape. The dome far above was now as unreachable as the skies. The lordling had become much smaller, by his estimation becoming no larger than a fingernail.
 Moonlight poured in through a stained glass window depicting a scene from Sarratillon history. A trully colossal silhouette could be made out by Jacquemin as it circled around the drape covered canopy. Wide hips which arched back, a generous top. It was unmistakable.
 The visage of a gown-clad Alyss towered over Jacquemin as she spread the drapes open. She appeared more like a deity than his father's widow, unimaginably huge. Her eyes darted around the covers of the bed before finally spotting the young lord. Her expression turned to a sneer at the sight. Her appearance momentarily became much more recognizable, the conniving bitch who worked to take all he had, as Jacquemin saw her, now the size of a mountain. The gown slid off her body, briefly hanging off her breasts before being cast off with a simple shake.
 As the gown fell away, Alyss's full, commanding presence was fully revealed. Jacquemin's senses reeled at the enormity of her form. What had once been a voluptuous woman was now like a living colossus, her body imposing beyond any previous comprehension. Her curves, which had seemed so ample before, were now monumental, each swell and contour magnified to a scale that defied belief.
 Her breasts, once merely large, now loomed over him like two great hills, each with a grandeur that overshadowed his entire frame. They cascaded downward, their sheer size making them appear like twin fortresses looming above the once diminutive lord. Her waist, once curvaceous, now seemed like the bulwark of a great fortress, and her hips—wider than the grandest of hallways—spread out like the sprawling walls of a keep. The overwhelming female presence confused his mind, altough he felt nothing short of disdain towards her, the sheer power her huge body presented was intoxicating.
 Jacquemin had little time to react as the colossus bent forward, her teets shaking back and forth from the motion, and reached for his puny body. Two soft fingers, never burdened by the toil of manual labour, pressed together around the tiny lord. He could scarcely be seen as he was engulfed between them and brought far up above.
 Alyss stood up straight again. The immense height he was now located at made Jacquemin cling to the very finger that just snatched him, like a baby. Only this mother wasn't his. He could almost feel the malice eminating from the cold digit. It was like embracing a lion.
 Alyss’s fingers squeezed slightly, a terrifying reminder of the strength Alyss had at such a size. A noblewoman who never had to lift a sword in her life, now with the power to crush even dragons. Jacquemin felt his bones strain under the pressure, the air forced from his lungs as he gasped for breath. The world around him was dominated by her colossal form, every movement sending ripples through the air that buffeted his tiny body. He was nothing more than a fragile insect in her grasp, entirely at her mercy.
 She brought him closer to her face. Her breath was noxiously warm as it washed over him, displacing the cool night air. He felt her chuckle—a deep, rumbling sound l that vibrated through her body and into his bones before finally assaulting his ears. Her plump lips curled into a smile, one not of affection, but of triumph.
 He looked up, trying to meet her eyes, to confront the monster that now controlled his fate, but all he could see were those massive, dark irises staring back at him with a mix of amusement and contempt. She licked her lips, a slow, deliberate motion that sent a shiver of terror down his spine.
 Then, without a word, Alyss opened her mouth wide, revealing a dark, wet cavern that glistened with saliva. Jacquemin’s world tilted as she slowly lowered him towards it. He could see the glistening surface of her tongue, could smell the hot, moist air that emanated from within. His mind raced, trying to comprehend the sheer impossibility of what was happening.
 Her tongue slithered out, gently caressing his legs as she drew him closer to her mouth. The slick, warm muscle was both soft and terrifyingly powerful as it slid against him. Alyss tilted her head back slightly, positioning him above her open maw, and in that moment, Jacquemin knew that there was no escape. This was not just a display of dominance—it was a statement, a final act of disownage that would leave nothing of him behind to stand in the way of her children.
 He was lowered onto her tongue, the surface wet and yielding beneath him. It felt like sinking into quicksand, each movement drawing him deeper into the slick warmth. Alyss let out a low hum of pleasure, the sound reverberating through his entire being. She closed her lips around him, sealing him in darkness.
 Inside her mouth, the world was hot, wet, and suffocating. The pressure of her tongue pressed him against the roof of her mouth, and he felt her savoring him, rolling him around like a piece of candy. The force was overwhelming, the slick walls pressing in from all sides. He tried to scream, but his voice was defeaned by the oppressive heat and the squelching sounds of her mouth. Even then, the only direction it could have gone would be the same one he was unwillingly headed for next.
 Alyss paused, as if enjoying the moment of her victory, then swallowed. The motion was slow, yet entirely unresistable. Jacquemin felt himself being pulled backward, dragged toward the abyss of her throat. There was a moment of weightlessness, followed by the powerful muscles of her esophagus contracting around him, pulling him down.
 The descent was agonizingly slow, every inch of his body squeezed and compressed by the relentless, pulsing muscles of Alyss. Jacquemin’s mind raced, his thoughts a chaotic jumble of terror, disbelief, and despair. He had been reduced to nothing, a morsel to be consumed by the very woman he had loathed.
 The voracious throat of the stepmother pushed the young heir deeper into the lady mother's depths. It cruelly held him tight to the point of near asphyxiation, as she was conciously making sure there's not even the tiniest chance of Jacquemin going back up. The beat of her icy cold heart, first coming from below, then beating so loudly that he could feel it's immediate proximity rattle his bones, soon faded as it became more and more distant with his continued descent. A fleshy ring expanded at the base of the tunnel as Jacquemin Sarratillon was introduced to his new lordly chamber.
 Finally released from the throat's opressive grasp, the prisoner was forcefully thrown into the "cell". The vast churning stomach of his stepmother. It was far worse than the deepest dungeons of the keep. The chamber was alive with sound: the constant gurgling and sloshing of the digestive juices that churned around him, the steady thump of Alyss's heartbeat reverberating through the fleshy walls, and the low, ominous growls that echoed in. He had landed in today's dinner, which smelled so foul by now that he unwittingly puked, unintentionally feeding his stepmother by adding more vomit into the brewing stew. His tribute to his lady went unnoticed.
 The vile stew, now thickened by Jacquemin's own sickness, had begun to churn and bubble as though it were alive. The process of digestion, slow and unyielding, took its cruel course. Each passing moment dragged on, the nauseating stew further sealing Jacquemin’s fate. His surroundings were a shifting landscape of disgust, and his struggle was as futile as it was pitiful.
 Everywhere around him, the sounds of Alyss’s body filled his ears—groans and gurgles, the steady thrum of her heartbeat, and the constant squelching of the stomach’s contents being churned and broken down. He could hear the distant rush of blood flowing through her veins, the faint, rhythmic hiss of her breathing, and the deep, ominous rumble of her digestive processes. It was as though the entire world was alive, conspiring to consume and obliterate him. Alyss had become omnipresent to him, bearing down at him from all sides, unrelenting in her assault on the true heir of Sarratillon.
 The liquid around him sloshed and surged with each movement of the stomach, splashing against his skin, making it itch and burn. The corrosive, digestive soup, filled with fragments of whatever Alyss had eaten earlier—bits of meat, soaked bread, and other unidentifiable debris, all dissolving slowly in the acidic broth. The smell was overpowering, a mix of rotting food and sharp, stomach acid tang, making him gag with every breath, though his stomach had already long been emptied.
 Jacquemin waded through the muck, each step an agonizing effort as the thick liquid clung to him, trying to drag him down. He reached out for something, anything to hold onto, but there was nothing but the slimy, pulsating walls, which seemed to close in on him from all sides. The heat was unbearable, a humid, suffocating blanket that sapped his strength and made it hard to think, hard to breathe.
 On the outside, Alyss laid herself back on the bed she had gotten so used to over the years. The cold night air giving her goosebumps, and causing her nipples to stiffen. Satisfied, she patted her soft belly, knowing she and her kin were secure in their place in society. Their only obstacle reduced to nothing but sustenance for the matriarch.
 The chamber shifted, causing the pool of acid to tilt and surge, nearly knocking him off his feet. He fell into the muck, his mouth filling with the acrid, bitter liquid. He sputtered, coughing and gagging as he tried to spit it out, but the taste lingered, a burning, corrosive sensation that left his throat raw and his stomach churning.
 The walls around him suddenly contracted, squeezing inwards with a force that threatened to crush him. He screamed, but the sound was swallowed by the chamber’s ceaseless gurgling. The stomach heaved, and he was tossed around like a rag doll, battered by the waves of acid and debris. The peristaltic motions of the stomach were relentless, pressing and churning, as if Alyss’s body was impatient to break him down, to strip away what little remained of the young lord. Though the lady mother probably was content with simply takinga way all of his inheritance, her body was far greedier and eager to absorb him into itself.
 As Jacquemin struggled, the full horror of his situation sank in. The woman who had usurped his family, his life, was now consuming him in the most literal and absolute way possible. He would perish within the belly that gave life to the two step siblings he couldn't stand, and provide his evil stepmother with sustenance from his very body. Was this where his story would end? A lord never to be? Did his late mother bring him into this world out of her womb only for him to vanish within the depths of another?
 In the end, Jacquemin’s strength gave out. He slumped into the acidic sludge, his body battered and broken by the ceaseless assault of the stomach’s churning motions. His mind, once sharp and proud, began to fade, consumed by the overwhelming heat, the crushing pressure, and the gnawing, corrosive acid that slowly dissolved him. As his consciousness ebbed away, the last sound he heard was the deep, resonant growl of Alyss’s stomach, a final, mocking reminder of his utter insignificance.
 By that point, Alyss had long since fallen asleep. His presence no longer necessitated her attention, as his fate had been sealed. The spell she cast on him came with a heavy cost, but for her family, no price was too high. Her torso expanded and deflated as her ladylike snores filled the chamber, a sound the servants had gotten used to, and which they would hear for years to come.
 Jacquemin did not enjoy his lordly privelidges for long before he perished.
His once distinct form became a formless, amorphous blob of liquified meat and bone, subsumed into the acidic stew that surrounded him. He drained further into the harlot's guts, his fate grizzlier than any lord's before him.
 Alyss Sarratillon woke up early as the sunlight glimmered into her chamber. She was completely rested, the bed she once shared was now for her sole use. A light groan coming from her belly caused a chuckle to escape her lips, and a congratulary pat to reward herself for a job well done.
 Servants came in, dressing the lady in the most extravagant dress the keep held within it's walls. It was the old lady Sarratillon's. Her husband did not allow Alyss to wear it, out of some ridiculous sentimentalism. But there was noone who'd voice their opposition to claiming to for herself anymore. It was a bit tight across the middle, but that wasn't something a corset couldn't fix. Alyss would have to cut back on, if not lordlings, then at least pastries.
 The lady was absolutely distraught at the news of young Jacquemin's disappearance. She quickly offered a hefty sum from the treasury as a reward for anyone who could find the lord, or at least knew his whereabouts. None did, and the sum was eventually directed to other things Alyss had concernes concered with.
 She was similarly somber as the duty of becoming the lady-regent, untill her young son was of age, was thrust into her arms. But her loyalty to her family came above her wish to see Jacquemin come back to claim his inheritance. With a heavy heart, she assumed full command of Sarratillon land as well as it's wealth.
 In an ironic turn of events, Jacquemin was the one who found himself expelled. Not from castle Sarratillon, but from betwixt Lady Alyss' cheeks. His remains did not earn a place within the family crypt, he would rest within the keep's cesspit. And Alyss' waist.
 The Sarratillon-Foxmore lineage went on. Alyss' brood had fully usurped the bloodline, lording over their domain unopposed for generations to come, while Jacquemin become a footnote in his own family's storied history.