Craving Those Tacos

Warning: This is my offering for Vore Day 2019!

Image: Paul Sableman

The tires of cars hopped over broken pavement on a balmy summer afternoon; the wind they kicked up died down soon after. A gas generator roared, its thick black cables running into the ass end of a boxy white truck, mounted half on the sidewalk, half on the far end of a parking lot. Bold, blocky green letters spelled out AMIGOS TRANQUILOS on the side of the truck, with Especias Especiales in springy cursive beneath it, and then a broad selection of meats that could go on a taco, a quesadilla, a burrito, or tortas. The silhouettes of two men shifted inside the truck’s windows: however hot it was outside, it must’ve been sweltering inside the tight cooking space of the vehicle, yet they neither sagged nor flagged in their duties.

One of them looked out upon a lull in the traffic: a very large, very round woman hove one leg after the other, her pink flip-flops picking out the likeliest path through the cracks and repaired tarmac. Tiny white earbuds stuck out of her ears and she hauled a thin-wire cart behind her, loaded with grocery bags a stuffed backpack and a bulging purse; she muttered and swore, singing along to whatever she was listening to. And she was making a beeline for the taco truck.

The man grinned at her from the window, as she trundled over the curb, and his broad, large-toothed smile lit up his face. “Buenas tardes, Sharmaine,” he called out, adjusting his baseball cap. “How’re you liking this weather?”

“Aw, fuck this weather,” she barked back. Waddling up to the window of the truck. “Good to see you, Miguel Ángel! Aincha dyin’ in there?”

He shrugged and glanced at the cook. “It’s not so bad. We’ve got a couple fans, and sometimes we take a smoke break in the shade. It could be worse. What can I‌ get you today?”

The large woman smiled up at him: her eyes were beady little things, peeking out between lashless flaps, and her smile was missing a tooth. Her wiry ginger hair was pulled back and tied up in haste, and her forehead was as rosy as her cheeks. To see her cheerful felt like a break in a storm. “What else’m I‌ comin’ to a damn taco truck for but some damn tacos?” She roared at her own joke. He couldn’t help but notice how her tongue pulsed amid her teeth, how her throat flexed with each guffaw.

Miguel Ángel raised his chin. “What kinda tacos you want?”

Now Sharmaine grew dimples around her grin. “Aw, you know what I‌ like, baby.”

“Pardon me, miss,”‌ he said, tilting his head cutely. “Could you please state your order?”

This time her laughter was deeper, coming from somewhere within her hemispherical belly, which set her broad, sun-abraded chest bouncing. “You quit messin’ with me, Miguel Ángel! You want me to come in there and grind you to a pulp? ’Cause I’ll do it!” she brayed, licking her lips. “You know I‌ will.”

His dark eyes dropped into her deep cleavage, then back up to her ruddy thumb of a face. “What kinda meat would you like on your tacos, gorda?”

Rearing back to regard the hand-lettered menu, she pretended to think while brushing the sweat off her bosom. “I‌ think I’m gonna need summa that especias especiales, if you got some.”

His hat lifted as he waggled his eyebrows at her. “We’ve always got a big pile waiting for you. But, ah…” He glanced over the hillside of her shoulder, up the street. “You got to let me watch.”

“That’s how it’s gonna be?” Her body rumbled with laughter. “Fine! Hope you don’t mind if I make a mess.”

He murmured something below the hum of the fans, then turned inside. “Alejandro: dos tacos especiales, por favor.” The cook nodded and rummaged through a small fridge once he’d laid out two tortillas to steam. Miguel Ángel winked at Sharmaine, who shook her head and toddled over to the picnic table, carelessly dumping her weight upon an aged bench. She dug out an iPod and turned up the volume and stared at traffic.

When the tortillas were soft, Alejandro swiftly and thinly coated them with a spicy cheese sauce. He pulled back the cling wrap from the four metal bins he’d gotten from the fridge, then reached for a pair of tongs.

Miguel Ángel made a warning noise, seeing what he was going for. “Use your hands, I‌ told you. It’s better that way for this one.” He went back to browsing on his phone.

Shrugging, Alejandro reached into the first bin, sifting his thick fingers into the meat. It squirmed around his knuckles, coming to life at his touch; he pinched a large sample and sprinkled it upon the tortillas. Tiny little people, stark naked, tumbled briefly and plopped into the cheese sauce. At one grab he’d captured a dozen of the minuscule beings, drowsy from being chilled and growing agitated in the sauce. But the goopy paste clung to their spindly little limbs, stymieing them as they tried to crawl to the edge of a tortilla. Some tried to cling to the cook’s fingers, grabbing onto a cuticle or hugging a fingertip with their entire body. He simply twiddled his fingers and shed every last one, flicking his fingers when necessary, then dug into the bin for another load.

Soon the two small tortillas were carpeted in little people, a mottled bed of peach and shades of brown, writhing just enough to confuse the casual eye. They screamed, their little mouths opened like tiny dots, their microscopic eyes clenched, but they could not be heard at all over the two high-powered fans gusting at the men’s heads, to say nothing of the diesel generator belching outside. Over the carpet of tiny bodies Alejandro sprinkled chopped cilantro, minced onions, and a dusting of queso fresco, doling out three coins of radish slices in two rows. He folded the tacos in half, wrapped them loosely in paper, and nestled them in a black cardboard box.

He handed the black box ceremoniously to Miguel Ángel, muttering “me tomo un descanso para fumar.” Miguel Ángel grinned and nodded and called to Sharmaine her order was up. She pulled out an earbud and brayed “wha-a-a-at?!” as though there was anything else in the world he had to say to her at this point. She grunted and groaned and hauled herself onto two powerful but weary legs. “Going on break, huh?” she asked Alejandro when he passed. She handed him her earbuds; he wiped them off and twisted them into his ears as he stretched out in a cool patch of lawn beneath the tree, digging in his chest pocket for his cigarettes.

Sharmaine waddled up to the truck window. “I’ve been waitin’ for this all week, lemme tell ya.” Her hands trembled as she dropped a fiver onto the metal sill and reached for the black box; her biceps sagged and swung in the humid, still air. The lid popped when she dug her thumbs into the sides, springing open to reveal the twin, perfect tacos. She peered at the clerk, then swung her porcine gaze at her meal and carefully peeled back a tortilla.

Like overturning a rock in damp turf, she exposed a mass of wriggling, writhing bodies, squirming helplessly in spicy cheese sauce. They crawled over the cilantro and onions, they twisted toward the new source of light, they cried and wailed, they choked and suffocated on sauce. What few were able to clear their faces gazed up at her in surprise and terror, shaking their heads and babbling noises that meant something to them.

They watched her fat tongue poke out and run around the rim of thin, chapped lips. “Holy fuck, that gets me horny,” Sharmaine said. “Lookit them, just wrigglin’ around like goddamn maggots. So many of ’em, too! Alejandro, you did good!” she hollered over her shoulder; the cook waved one muscular arm. “He did damn good,” she whispered, sucking back her drool as she closed the food up and scooped it out of the box.

Miguel Ángel cleared his throat, looking down his nose at her, raising his eyebrows. “Oh, right, right,” the big woman said, setting the taco down. She looked up and down the street for pedestrians, but nobody was walking around on a day like this, if they could help it. She shoved one thick hand into the neck of her tank top, dug out one tremendous boob, and dropped it with a heavy smack upon the metal sill; she did the same with its sister. “Good enough for ya?” she asked him, shoving them together. Her chest bore a rosy oval where the shirt wasn’t, but the rest of her plump boobs were pasty. Her pimply areolae were wide and flushed, with stumpy nipples pointing right at Miguel Ángel.

He nodded silently, untying his black apron and pulling it off over his head. He unbuttoned the fly of his jeans and jammed his hand into his shorts. Sharmaine chuckled and took up the taco again, turning it sideways and inserting it into her gaping maw.

Stubbly, yellowed teeth cut into the tortilla, exposing the bright green cilantro and ivory cubes of onion, as well as the bright red of dozens of tiny bodies. She closed her eyes and pulled the taco away. Cheese sauce pasted naked little bodies over her teeth and lips, still struggling to escape. Slowly her lips closed, overwhelming scrawny flailing arms, and she rolled her tongue around her mouth, shoving ingredients around, bathing them in saliva. Her eyelids fluttered as she pressed tiny bodies against the roof of her mouth, focused on how they writhed over her tongue, writhing desperately until they began to pop and snap. She gasped unconsciously, whisking a few tiny people straight down her throat. They coated the sides and stuck there, still wiggling, teasing her, provoking her, until she couldn’t take it anymore. She chewed up her bite aggressively and swallowed the entire mass down, shoving the tiny people down the hatch.

Sharmaine opened her eyes to see Miguel Ángel staring at her intently, rocking slightly as he stroked himself beneath the counter. She chuckled and held her taco over the landscape of her breasts. “Here you go, guy,” she said, shaking the taco until several tiny bodies fell out, along with flecks of cilantro and chunks of onion. Some of the tiny people splatted flat against her flesh, sticking in place. Others spun freely before bouncing off of one breast and then the other, disappearing into the chasm of her cleavage. One tiny man struggled to push himself away from the immense boob he was glued to, when a panel of onion struck him between the shoulder blades and he collapsed.

The young man’s breathing grew heavier as he studied the minuscule figures. They were confused, they were scared, they didn’t know what was happening to them, and he loved it. He watched one pry herself free, only to fall to the side and adhere on her back to the slope of the gross breast. Another little woman appeared to be screaming at Sharmaine. Miguel Ángel reached out and poised as though to pinch her. “May I?” When Sharmaine nodded, he plucked the little woman carefully away, with a little swipe of sauce, and pasted her to the tip of his dick. He grinned, feeling her squirm along the slit of his urethra, then grasped the base of his penis with fervor.

And so it went: Sharmaine would take another bite, pulling out more tiny people with the ingredients. Sometimes she would plunge her tongue into the taco and dig the little people out, showing them off to Miguel Ángel before sucking them inside. She stuffed the remainder of one taco deep into her cheeks, anxious to get at the next one. The tiny people there would be exhausted and slowly asphyxiating, so she wanted to get at them sooner, despite how badly she desired to savor every last second of her meal.

She bit into a slice of radish, holding it between her teeth. Two tiny people rested upon it, and Miguel Ángel told her so. She grinned around her bared teeth as he leaned in, making as if to bite it out of her jaws. The little people quailed and backed away from his thick lips, jerking with fright as they bumped up against Sharmaine’s incisors.

Miguel Ángel gave a soft, reassuring laugh. “I’ll tell you what,” he whispered to them. “You two should start fucking in your last moments. Right there, where you are. I’ll count to twenty: if either of you can cum before I’m done, you’re both free to go. How’s that sound?”

The tiny people, a Black man and a White woman, stared up at him as though they didn’t understand. “Really,”‌ he said. “Start fucking while I watch. I’ll count slowly. One… two…” True to his word, he did count slowly, though his shoulders shook with how hard he was jerking himself, tantalized by the squirming woman on the tip of his cock.

The tiny people looked at each other, then slowly slid into appropriate positions. They tried the missionary at first, with him on top, but the man shook his head. They rolled over and the woman slipped her minuscule head between his tiny thighs. When the countdown reached nine, the woman turned around and knelt upon the radish, thrusting her microscopic butt at the man’s face. He scrambled to his knees and grabbed her hips, and they thrust violently against each other. Around fifteen the tiny man bent over and shuddered against the woman’s body before collapsing to the side, one tiny arm thrust upward in victory. The woman looked at him, then shouted up at the immense face of the handsome young man.

Miguel Ángel smiled upon them. “You did it, huh? Good job, guys!” He bit his lip as Sharmaine slowly opened her mouth, drawing the slice of radish in with her tongue, enshrouding the victorious pair in darkness as her teeth nestled against each other.

“How’re you doin’, honey?” Sharmaine asked him after she mashed them up in her molars.

“Almost there…”

“You need anything from me?” She bit into the middle third of her taco without any theatrics, grinding it thoroughly and swallowing it down. “Hey, maybe you got a beer for me?”

Miguel Ángel smiled broadly, nearly laughing. Single-handedly he reached under the counter, pried open a cooler, fished out a Pacifico, uncapped it on a bottle opener mounted by the window, and held it over the vast landscape of Sharmaine’s boobs. Tiny, fatigued people strained to look up at it from the pallid hillsides.

She opened her huge mouth and canted her head back. Miguel Ángel slowly filled her mouth with the crisp, light beer, reducing the foam as much as possible. She spread her taco open for him, and he swiped a thoughtful finger along one side of it, scooping out several tiny people. These he stuck into the beer, swishing his finger around until the cheese sauce gave up its prizes. Immediately, bubbles formed upon the tiny people and they drifted upon the surface of the beer. Swimming was futile for them, as they just couldn’t get their arms in the fluid or effectively paddle around. When they drifted toward a tooth, however, they could kick themselves back into the center of the pool.

“There you go, gorda,” Miguel Ángel murmured, leaning in close. The tiny people stared up at him as he panted and shook. At the bottom of the pool of beer, he could just make out Sharmaine’s throat opening briefly, just a crack, and the surface of the beer lowered.

The tiny people flailed and screamed, or appeared to scream, and they didn’t really go anywhere. Three of them drifted toward each other and stuck; the others kicked off her premolars, and then her molars. One of them even tried to climb out, digging his tiny fingers into the unhealthy fissures of her tongue.

Sharmaine only fought back the urge to laugh, peering at Miguel Ángel’s comical expression as he watched. “Oh, oh,”‌ he said, shaking like there was an earthquake in the truck. She gulped some more pilsner, and he gasped, squinting. She drank again, with just a tiny reservoir of fluid left; some of the tiny people had gone down, two clung to her molars, and one was making good progress toward the tip of her tongue. Where would he go from there, Miguel Ángel wondered, as her tongue protruded like a slim mountain from a rim of stubbly teeth.

Sharmaine widened her eyes for Miguel Ángel, who peered into her jaws: the beer drained away, and now her throat lay open, curtains of tissues flexing and twitching excitedly. Her tongue dipped back inside her mouth, to the dismay of the little climber who’d done so well, and swept the tiny people off her teeth. They tumbled to the back of her tongue, scrabbling desperately with eensy-weensy little limbs. Miguel Ángel focused on them, slipping down the nubbly bits at the back of her tongue, clinging to her uvula, grunting as he pumped his cock. Sharmaine moaned loudly, and the rattling roar dislodged one of the tiny people: he flinched and fell away, dropping into the dark circle of her throat.

“Fuck,” gasped Miguel Ángel.

Her tongue wriggled and writhed thickly, blindly, thrashing in the cavern of her maw until a tiny woman slowly slid down the back of her tongue, crying out, reaching for the face of the man who was jacking off to her demise. And he was so close, too. The tiny woman on the tip of his cock had accidentally slipped her leg into the flat mouth of his urethra, and she was stuck there and not going anywhere, but she danced and teased him as the blood filled up his cock and he stared at the last tiny person in Sharmaine’s throat.

He lay upon her uvula, dazed, lucky to be there but not knowing what to do with it. The tiny man stared up at Miguel Ángel in disbelief, then looked around the cavernous maw, at the upper row of teeth, at the living mattress of tongue that churned before him. He screamed, unsure what to hold onto or how to get out of here.

Sharmaine drew a long breath, hoping to shake him off with another loud moan. Instead, the rushing winds pried him from her uvula and sucked him down into her throat. Miguel Ángel gasped at his surprised expression in the second before he disappeared into the big woman, and he growled and swore as the orgasm set his thighs on fire. His fist pumped arrhythmically as the spooge charged out in two hard spurts and four or five afterthoughts. He collapsed to one elbow upon the counter, enjoying the moment, then looked up at his friend who was thumping her chest and coughing.

“I‌ think I aspirated the li’l fucker,”‌she said, red-faced. Miguel Ángel thought of a tiny man being whisked into her lung and nearly came again.

He cleaned himself up with paper napkins and pulled up his pants as Sharmaine finished her taco and killed the beer. She looked up thoughtfully. “Hey, uh, what about that one you stuck on your cock?”

He blinked for a moment, then ducked beneath the counter. Sharmaine heard him roar with laughter. “I‌ seriously plastered her to the wall! Wanna see?” She declined but told him to hand her over. He took one photo of the semi-conscious woman, spread-eagled against the wall of the truck and surrounded in a scrim of milky goo, then carefully swiped her up with his fingertip.

He stood up and reached over, and Sharmaine stuck out her fat tongue once more. He daubed her tastebuds with the tiny woman and his own semen; she waggled her eyebrows at him, her tongue hanging out. The tiny woman unsuccessfully wiped at her face, then disappeared inside the greedy mouth. Sharmaine smacked her lips and tucked her tits back into her tank top. “You should be paying me for this, you know, the big tiddy show an’ all.”

Miguel Ángel shrugged. “But the especias especiales, they don’t come cheap, you know? I’m barely breaking even as it is.”

She laughed at him. “Life’s tough all over, ain’t it.” She toddled over to the bench and took up the thin-wire cart around the same time Alejandro woke up. He returned her earbuds and trundled back into the taco truck, declining for the moment to look at his partner.

“We got more, if you want some to go,” Miguel Ángel called to her over the generator’s noise.

“Nah, I‌ only brought five bucks on me this time.” She shimmied her shoulders and set her massive boobs heaving. “I’ve got a few left to snack on later, though!”

He closed his eyes momentarily, imagining this. “You coming back tomorrow? You’re, like, one of only three people who order this. They don’t keep that long.”

She shrugged the sunburned hills of her shoulders and slipped her earbuds back in. “I can only do this once a week. Keeps it special for me. Gotta have something to look forward to, you know.” Sharmaine waved at him and waddled up to the curb, checking traffic to cross the street.

One thought on “Craving Those Tacos

  1. She’s right; she shouldn’t have to pay. She wouldn’t have to pay me.

    This is the smut I’ve been looking for. I can see those lips, that chin, those floppy tits, that capacious belly. Appetites shall be slaked.

    I still think the Democrats should adopt “Taco trucks on every corner” as their national slogan. I have an idea where we can get the special ingredients.

    Liked by 1 person

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