Regina: Digestion Route
by Brazzel
•
August 8, 2026
This is the moment that you’ve been waiting for ever since you saw her eat the mailman. The humidity rising from her tail is exponentially worse than that of her stomach. This is where real digestion happens; where you will melt over the course of a week as Regina goes about her day.
She’s waiting for your confirmation. A simple nod will do.
You take a deep breath.
And nod.
“Good,” Regina says, her voice already sounding distant. “I was hoping that you would pick this.”
The initial slide into her tail is like falling into a sleeping bag. Heavy flesh catches you as you fall, your legs sticking as unseen muscles work you deeper into her body. The relatively fresh air from her stomach fades away, replaced with the sour, acidic odor of her true belly. Regina takes you in her hands and kneads you down. She helps you sink under a pile of scales and pudge.
“There,” she says, her voice a muffled memory. “Right where you belong.”
There’s a sound like scales on fabric as she drops from the couch to the floor. Her tail clenches around you, moving in serpentine patterns, completely ignorant to your body pressed between it.
You are food now. A hearty meal. Over the next week, your body will be slowly softened, melted into fat as you listen to Regina making breakfast, watching tv, laughing at her phone. She won’t forget about you, of course. She talks to you often.
But even before the light fades and the last of your consciousness blinks out, she uses the past tense.
“You were a good roommate,” you heard her say. “But you were an even better meal.”
She’s waiting for your confirmation. A simple nod will do.
You take a deep breath.
And nod.
“Good,” Regina says, her voice already sounding distant. “I was hoping that you would pick this.”
The initial slide into her tail is like falling into a sleeping bag. Heavy flesh catches you as you fall, your legs sticking as unseen muscles work you deeper into her body. The relatively fresh air from her stomach fades away, replaced with the sour, acidic odor of her true belly. Regina takes you in her hands and kneads you down. She helps you sink under a pile of scales and pudge.
“There,” she says, her voice a muffled memory. “Right where you belong.”
There’s a sound like scales on fabric as she drops from the couch to the floor. Her tail clenches around you, moving in serpentine patterns, completely ignorant to your body pressed between it.
You are food now. A hearty meal. Over the next week, your body will be slowly softened, melted into fat as you listen to Regina making breakfast, watching tv, laughing at her phone. She won’t forget about you, of course. She talks to you often.
But even before the light fades and the last of your consciousness blinks out, she uses the past tense.
“You were a good roommate,” you heard her say. “But you were an even better meal.”