Chapter 2: Trapped inside the orc's stomach, Borin feels every pulsing contraction pressing against his body. The thick, wet heat surrounds him entirely, the rhythmic squeezing working along his frame as involuntary tremors run through him. His cock stiffens despite himself, trapped against his belly as Grok's gut kneads him like dough. The sloshing juices soak through his clothes, the acidic tingle mixing with the overwhelming friction until—to his horror—he feels himself leaking pre against his will, the
Borin’s tankard slammed onto the sticky wooden table, sending a wave of cheap ale sloshing over the rim. “You want to what to get me past the guards?!”
The low hum of the Rusty Hook Tavern seemed to fade around their corner booth. Smoke from the fireplace hung in a permanent haze, catching the dull gleam of a dented breastplate nailed to the wall. It smelled of old beer and older meat.
Grok leaned forward, his massive shoulders blocking the flickering candlelight from the rest of the room. He didn’t whisper. Orcs rarely did. “Trust me, dwarf. Eldorians are thorough. That's the only place they wouldn't think to look for stowaways.” He beamed, a surprisingly charming flash of tusk and genuine goodwill. He flexed one corded arm for emphasis, not aggressively, just proudly, like a craftsman showing off a reliable tool.
Borin stared. He took in Grok’s handsome, earnest face, the intelligent eyes that somehow always looked confused, the impossible width of him. The plan wasn’t just bad. It was anatomically ludicrous. “Your stomach,” Borin repeated, his voice a low gravelly scrape. “You intend to… swallow me. Like a pill. A bearded, bad-tempered pill.”
“A temporary lodging,” Grok corrected, his voice a soft rumble of pure, unadulterated confidence. “Think of it as a… mobile secret compartment. With digestive juices.”
Borin put his head in his hands, his thick fingers grinding against his temples. The legendary forges of Eldoria, the last masters of true dwarven steel… they lay beyond that border. He’d tried bribes, which failed. He’d tried forgeries, which were confiscated. He’d even considered just tunneling under the wall, but the Watch used seismic wards. A month of dead ends in this grimy human town had worn his pride to a nub. Now this.
He looked up. “The acids. The… the squeezing. I’d be pulped. Or digested.”
“Nah,” Grok said, waving a hand the size of a dinner plate. “Orcish gut is tough. Resilient. It’s like a… a really warm, wet, flexible leather sack. I’ve carried rocks in there to avoid carrying them in my hands. Saved my back, let me tell you.”
A serving wench passed by, giving Grok’s formidable physique an appreciative glance, then wrinkled her nose at Borin’s scowl. The irony was not lost on him.
“How do I breathe?” Borin demanded, the practicality cutting through the absurdity.
“Ah!” Grok’s eyes lit up. “I’ve thought of that. Hollow reed. You hold it in your mouth. I’ll have one end just… sort of tucked at the back of my throat. You’ll get air.”
“Tucked.” Borin deadpanned.
“Tucked,” Grok affirmed. “It’ll work. I won’t swallow it. Probably.”
Borin took a long, slow draught of his ale. It tasted of despair and poor life choices. He thought of the Eldorian border guards, crisp in their polished armor, their inspections thorough, their contempt for undocumented dwarves palpable. They checked carts, they checked cargo, they checked false bottoms. They did not, he conceded with a soul-crushing heaviness, perform invasive internal searches on orcish day laborers.
He was out of options. Out of time. Out of ideas that didn’t involve becoming a living, sentient meatball.
“How long?” The words tasted like ash.
“Border wait is usually an hour,” Grok said, calculating visibly. “The walking to my cousin’s farm on the other side, another hour. Two hours, tops. You’ll be fine. A bit soupy, maybe.”
“Soupy.”
“Just a saying.”
The noise of the tavern swelled back in—the clank of tankards, a raucous laugh from a dice game, the sizzle of something unidentifiable from the kitchen. It was the sound of a world moving on while he contemplated voluntary ingestion.
He looked at Grok. The orc wasn’t mocking him. There was no malice, no cunning. Just a straightforward offer to solve a problem in the most physically direct way possible. It was, in its own terrifying way, honest.
Borin finished his ale in one gulp. He stood up, the stool scraping loudly against the stone floor. He barely came up to Grok’s belt.
“Fine.”
Grok’s face split into a wide, tusked grin. “Excellent! You won’t regret this. Probably.”
“Where and when?”
“Dawn. Old Miller’s crossing, east of the watchtower. I’ll be there with the reed.” Grok stood, a mountain of muscle unfurling from the shadowed booth. He clapped a hand on Borin’s shoulder, nearly driving him into the table. “Get some rest, little friend. It’s going to be a tight fit.”
He lumbered off, leaving Borin standing alone in the smoky gloom. The weight of the decision settled on him, a cold, clammy dread that had nothing to do with the tavern’s chill. He stared into his empty tankard, seeing not the dented pewter, but the dark, rhythmic confines of a stomach, the deafening gurgle of digestion, the precarious thread of air through a soggy reed.
He had wanted to reach the forges of his ancestors, to feel the heat of true dwarf-fire on his face. He just hadn’t pictured that heat would be biological.
He slammed a few copper coins on the table and walked out into the night. The cold air was a shock, clean and sharp compared to the tavern’s fug. Over the silhouette of the town, the jagged line of the Eldorian border mountains cut into the starry sky. His destination. His destiny.
Now, his digestive transit.
He spat on the ground, a thick, disgusted gob. “Two hours,” he muttered to the uncaring dark, the words hanging in the frosty air like a promise, or a prayer. He trudged toward the ramshackle inn, each step feeling like the countdown to a deeply, profoundly stupid act of sheer, unmitigated desperation.
The inn’s bed was a lumpy insult, the straw mattress whispering threats of back pain with every slight movement. Borin didn’t sleep. He stared at the water-stained ceiling, listening to the muffled sounds of the town at night—a barking dog, a distant shout, the creak of a sign in the wind. Each sound was a meter ticking down.
Dawn arrived as a thin, gray smear against the grime of his window. He dressed slowly, lacing his tunic with the deliberate care of a man preparing for his own funeral. He checked his gear: a small, oilskin-wrapped bundle of tools, a single gold coin sewn into his belt, a flask of water. Survival gear. For a stomach.
The morning air was knife-cold and mercifully quiet. His boots crunched on the frost-hardened mud of the road leading east out of town.
The old mill was a skeleton against the pale sky, its wheel frozen in time and rot. Grok was already there, a hulking silhouette that seemed to absorb the weak morning light. He was doing stretches.
“Gotta be limber,” Grok explained, touching his toes with an ominous series of pops. He then produced a small jar of foul-smelling grease. “And this helps. For me. Slides things right down.”
Borin felt the world tilt slightly. This was really happening. He stared at the jar, then at Grok’s expectant, open mouth. “Do you… do you just do this often?”
“Nope! First time with a dwarf." That didn't give him any comfort.
“Alright,” Grok said, clapping his hands together. “Let’s get you suited up. Best to do this standing. Less gravity resistance on the way in.”
Borin stood stiff as a statue while Grok slathered the thick grease over his head and shoulders. The smell was animal and herbal, fat and spice. It made him feel like he was being seasoned. The grease was cold, slick, and reeked of rendered boar fat and something vaguely fungal.
The grease was cold, slick, and reeked of rendered boar fat and something vaguely fungal. Borin shuddered as Grok worked it into his beard, the orc’s thick, powerful fingers pushing through the dense, braided hair with a disconcerting gentleness. The touch was practical, yet intimate in a way Borin hadn’t anticipated. A sudden, unwelcome heat prickled up the back of his neck, creeping into his cheeks. He was grateful for his own beard and the dim light, but the flush was a betrayal. Grok’s hands on him made him blush, a hot wave of pure embarrassment that had nothing to do with the cold morning.
“Good, good,” Grok murmured, more to himself, as he smoothed the grease down Borin’s back and chest over his tunic. “Need you slippery. Less friction burn for both of us.”
“Friction burn,” Borin repeated flatly, the words hanging in the frosty air. His mind supplied unwelcome images.
“Now,” Grok said, standing back to assess his work. Borin stood there, glistening faintly, feeling like a prized pig prepped for a feast. “The reed.” He held up a hollow stalk, about the length of Borin’s forearm. “You clamp this in your teeth. I’ll do my best to keep this end clear, but no promises. Try not to breathe too hard. Might suck up something… acidic.”
Borin took the reed. It felt flimsy, a pathetic lifeline to the world of air and dignity. He put it between his teeth. It tasted of earth and stale pond water.
It tasted of earth and stale pond water. He bit down, the fragile stem threatening to splinter. The world narrowed to the reedy taste, the cold grease on his skin, and Grok’s vast, looming presence.
“Right then,” Grok said, his voice echoing strangely in the quiet dawn. He rubbed his own neck, then opened his mouth wide in a jaw-cracking yawn. Borin stared into the dark, damp cavern of the orc’s maw, past the huge yellowed tusks, down the pulsating pink throat. His own heart hammered a frantic drumbeat against his ribs. This was insanity.
GROK LIFTS HIM UP.
The world upended. One moment Borin’s boots were on the frosty ground, the next Grok’s massive hands were under his armpits, heaving him into the air like a child. A choked grunt escaped Borin, the reed almost falling from his lips. He was suspended, kicking slightly, his face level with Grok’s. The orc’s breath was warm and smelled of last night’s onions and this morning’s mint leaf.
“Gonna have to go feet first,” Grok said, his voice a low, practical rumble. “Less… blockage.”
Before Borin could even process the word ‘blockage’, Grok pivoted him. Now Borin was staring at the greasy, muscular expanse of Grok’s chest, his own legs dangling. The orc’s grip shifted, one enormous hand splayed across Borin’s back, the other under his thighs. He was being cradled, but with the impersonal efficiency of a loader positioning a crate.
Then, Grok guided him closer.
Borin’s booted feet bumped against Grok’s lower lip. "In you go, little friend,” Grok mumbled around his own fingers as he used one hand to pull his cheek wider. The warmth emanating from within was shocking, a humid, living heat. Borin squeezed his eyes shut. He thought of Eldoria. Of the forges. Of not being digested.
There was a pressure, then a profound, wet tightness as his feet were engulfed. The sensation was immediate and overwhelming—a slick, muscular squeeze that pulled him inward. His boots scraped against Grok’s teeth, then they were past, into a soft, constricting darkness. The heat intensified. It was like being pushed into a giant, pulsing glove.
The world became a slow, relentless compression. Grok’s throat wasn’t a passive tube; it was a living, muscular sleeve that gripped him with peristaltic purpose. The grease on Borin’s body did its job, letting him slide deeper with a sickening, wet schluck that echoed in the confined space. His knees bent as they entered, the joint scraping against the tight ring of Grok’s esophagus before popping through with a dull, internal thud.
Borin clenched his jaw around the reed, his teeth aching. The air coming through it was warm, humid, and tasted distinctly of orc—a mix of the morning’s mint and the deeper, musky scent of Grok’s body. He could hear the gurgling symphony of digestion, a low, bubbling roar punctuated by the heavy, rhythmic thud of Grok’s heart somewhere below. The heat was profound, a moist, biological furnace that immediately soaked through his clothes and pressed against his skin.
Above, Grok worked deliberately. Borin felt huge, callused hands gripping his hips, guiding him. There was no hurry, just a steady, applied pressure. Grok’s head tipped back, his throat opening wider. Borin felt himself sink further, his torso now engulfed. The muscles around him rippled and squeezed in a wave, milking him downward. His own breath came in sharp, panicked huffs through the reed. He was a fucking object, a thing being ingested. The reality of it, the sheer physical absurdity, almost made him laugh, but terror had frozen his lungs.
His arms were pinned to his sides by the tight, wet embrace. He could feel the powerful contractions moving over his back, his chest. The pressure on his ribs was immense, a constant, firm hug that threatened to crack them. Down he went, inch by inch, swallowed alive. He could hear Grok making soft, strained grunts of effort, a low “unnnh… there we go…” that vibrated through the fleshy walls surrounding Borin.
The light from the outside world vanished as Grok’s lips closed over the top of his head. Complete, velvet darkness. The sound of the morning birds, the wind—all gone, replaced by the wet, sloshing ambience of Grok’s innards and the booming of his pulse. Borin’s own heart hammered against his sternum, a frantic counterpoint to the orc’s steady, slow beats.
The final phase was the most intimate, the most violating. Grok’s throat worked deliberately, a final, strong constriction that pushed Borin’s shoulders past the point of no return. He felt a long, smooth slide, a dizzying descent, and then a sudden, dropping lurch as he was deposited into a much larger, but no less confining, space.
He landed in a coiled, fetal position on a soft, undulating floor. The air—thick, hot, and acrid with stomach gases—burned his nose. The walls around him, slick and pulsing gently, pressed in from all sides. He was in. Trapped. A prisoner in Grok’s gut.
The world was a pulsating, hot, and sour-smelling prison. Borin curled tighter, his knees jammed under his chin, his back pressed against the slick, muscular wall of Grok’s stomach. Every breath through the reed was a struggle, the air thick with a fermenting, acidic haze that burned his throat. A low, continuous gurgle echoed around him, a hungry, digesting soundtrack to his madness. He could feel liquid—warm, thin, and foul—seeping through his clothes already, soaking into his tunic and chilling his skin beneath the overwhelming heat.
He could feel liquid—warm, thin, and foul—seeping through his clothes already, soaking into his tunic and chilling his skin beneath the overwhelming heat. It was a contradiction of sensations that made his skin crawl. The walls around him gave a sudden, powerful squeeze, then another, a rhythmic kneading that pressed the air from his lungs in a pained grunt. The reed in his mouth was the only thing separating him from screaming.
Outside, Grok patted his own distended belly with a solid thump-thump-thump. The sound was a muffled thunderclap in Borin’s world, the impact vibrating through the fluid and flesh surrounding him.
“Hoooo,” Grok’s voice boomed, distorted and gut-deep. “You’re a solid one, Stonebeard. Fills you right up.”
Borin tried to shift, but the space was too tight. Every movement caused a slosh and a fresh wave of that acidic stench. He focused on the reed, on the thin, tainted stream of air. Two hours. Just two hours.
Then it happened.
A deep, subterranean rumble started somewhere below him, a gathering seismic event within Grok’s guts. It built, a rolling, gurgling pressure that climbed upward through the dark. Borin felt it coming, the entire chamber tightening around him in preparation.
GRROOOOAAAAWWRRP-BELCH-HUUUUUUUUURK.
The belch erupted above him. It wasn't just a sound; it was a cataclysmic event. The stomach walls convulsed violently, crushing him in a spasm of release. The air in the chamber became a toxic hurricane, a blistering backdraft of half-digested onions, ale, and pure stomach gas that blasted past the reed. Borin tasted it, a vile, sour burn at the back of his throat that made his eyes water in the dark. The noise was deafening, a window-rattling, prolonged eruption of satisfaction that echoed off the distant mill walls.
Outside, Grok stumbled a step, a look of profound surprise on his face. He blinked, placing a hand over his mouth as the last of the burp tapered into a satisfied sigh. “Woah,” he said to the empty dawn, his voice full of wonder. “That’s… that’s a lot of dwarf.” He patted his stomach again, more gently this time. “You alright in there? That was a big one.”
Inside, Borin was gagging, tears of pain and disgust mixing with the general damp filth. The belch had stirred everything up. The warm liquid was churning now, bubbling with a new, eager intensity. He could feel it, a subtle, insidious heat starting to seep through the grease on his clothes, a prickle on his skin that hadn’t been there before.
He could feel it, a subtle, insidious heat starting to seep through the grease on his clothes, a prickle on his skin that hadn’t been there before. It was a wrong heat. Not the humid warmth of a body, but a chemical, hungry burn.
“Grok!” The name was a muffled, desperate rasp around the reed. He had to yell, to be heard over the gurgling orchestra and the thudding heart. “Grok, you colossal idiot, it’s starting to burn!”
The world around him jostled. Grok had started walking. Each step was a minor earthquake, a sloshing, pitching disturbance that rolled Borin against the slick, muscular walls. A fresh wave of that thin, warm liquid washed over his face.
“What’s that?” Grok’s voice was distant, fogged by layers of flesh and digestion. “You’ll have to speak up! The border’s ahead, looks like a short line!”
Panic, cold and sharp, lanced through the heat. The acid. The stories of orcish digestion being able to break down stone and bone in a day. He wasn’t stone. He was flesh and blood and beard.
“THE ACID!” Borin roared, the sound tearing his throat raw. He spat out the reed for a second, the words echoing wetly in the chamber. “Your fucking stomach juices! They’re eating my clothes! I can feel it!”
He fumbled, the grease making his fingers slip, and got the reed back between his teeth just as a fresh, stronger contraction squeezed him. He choked on a mouthful of acrid air.
Grok’s pace slowed. “Oh. That. Yeah, that’ll happen. Don’t worry about it.”
“Don’t WORRY about it?” Borin shrieked. The burn was spreading. His woolen tunic was dissolving, the fibers giving way, the prickling sensation on his shoulders becoming a definite sting. “My skin is next, you brainless oaf! I’m being marinated in here!”
“It’s just a light pre-digestive soak,” Grok said, his tone annoyingly reasonable. Borin could picture his thoughtful, handsome face. “It’s for tenderizing. But your skin’s probably tougher than it looks. Dwarf-hide and all.”
“It’s not ‘dwarf-hide,’ it’s skin! It burns! You said two hours! I’m going to be a fucking skeleton by the time we get across!”
Another ponderous footfall. The line was moving. Borin felt a new, different pressure—a bending, a folding from the outside. Grok was sitting down. The walls of his stomach compressed Borin into an even tighter, more agonizing ball. The acidic slurry rose higher, now lapping at his ears.
“Just… relax into it,” Grok murmured, and Borin felt the vibration of his voice through the fluid. “Fighting it makes it worse. The juices get agitated. Breathe steady. Think of the forges.”
Borin couldn’t think of the forges. He could only think of the slow, hot dissolution of his body. The sting on his back was a persistent, nasty warning. His breeches were soaked through, the material thinning. He felt exposed, vulnerable in a way he’d never known. This wasn’t battle. This was a slow, biological consumption.
“Grok,” he said, his voice lower now, drained of its earlier fury, replaced by a clean, stark fear. “Listen to me. This isn’t working. The plan is flawed. You have to… to regurgitate me. Now. Before the border.”
“Can’t,” Grok said simply. “We’re in the queue. Guard’s two people ahead. Any funny business and they’ll get suspicious. You just have to endure.”
Endure. The word echoed in the acidic dark. The burn was a constant now, a tingling, painful blanket wrapping his torso. His world had shrunk to the rhythm of Grok’s pulse, the churn of his guts, and the creeping, digestive fire. He clenched his jaw so hard he thought his teeth would crack. The forges of Eldoria had never seemed farther away, or more stupidly, pointlessly desired.
He was a fool. A greased, digesting fool. And the only thing left to do was shut up and try to survive the next hour inside a walking, talking stomach that was just starting its work.