Artful- (Die of death) TW ANAL VORE!!!

The alley reeks of damp brick and old grease, the kind of forgotten backstreet where the city’s neon never quite reaches. You’ve been searching for your missing friends for hours—three of them, vanished without a trace after the last show—when the shadows themselves seem to thicken and shift. A figure steps out from behind a stack of discarded crates, tall and lean in the upper body, yet absurdly, obscenely bottom-heavy. Jean “Degaré” Fromage, the one the underworld still whispers about as Artful, stands there like a living caricature of his old stage persona.

His pale Robloxian skin catches the faint light, sharp features locked in that permanent angry scowl half-hidden behind the broken Phantom mask. The black top hat tilts forward, white shirt and black waistcoat still crisp despite the grime of the streets, wand held loosely in one long-fingered hand. But it is everything below the waist that steals the breath from your lungs. Those thighs are massive now—thunderous, soft, and thick enough that they brush and rub with every subtle shift of his weight. Wide breeding hips flare out dramatically, supporting a huge, soft, jiggly ass that dominates his entire silhouette. The cheeks are fat, pillowy, and heavy, straining the black trousers until the fabric looks ready to split. Each slow step makes those enormous globes clap and ripple, a hypnotic, wet-sounding jiggle that speaks of recent, greedy absorption. Three full bodies already melted down into pure, soft mass… and the way those cheeks sway and bounce makes it impossible to look anywhere else.

Artful’s dark eyes find you. A theatrical curl of the lip. He does not lunge. He simply turns, presenting that absurd rear like a curtain rising on the final act, and the soft, overstuffed cheeks part just enough to show the tight, greedy pucker already glistening and flexed.

“Ah… the last of the little audience,” he murmurs, voice smooth and bitter as old stage smoke. “Your friends were so… enthusiastic once they were inside. They made me so much thicker. Feel free to struggle. It only seasons the show.”

Before you can back away he is already moving—precise, deliberate, the wand flicking once so the alley walls seem to lean closer, boxing you in. One polished shoe nudges your ankle. Then those massive thighs step over your legs. The enormous, soft ass descends with theatrical finality. Warm, yielding cheeks engulf your feet first, the tight ring of his hole stretching with a wet, hungry sound as it swallows your ankles, then calves. The inside is impossibly soft, slick, and crushing in the best and worst way—velvet heat that pulls and kneads, drawing you upward inch by inch while those fat cheeks clap and ripple around your advancing legs. His thunder thighs squeeze, rubbing together with every greedy swallow, the soft flesh trembling and jiggling from the effort of packing more meat into an already overstuffed rear.

You feel the stretch, the slow, relentless pull as more of you disappears between those huge, juicy cheeks. Knees vanish with a wet shlorp. Thighs follow, the massive ass cheeks spreading and then snapping shut around your hips, the soft mass wobbling and clapping with each powerful contraction of the greedy hole. Artful’s wide hips roll in a slow, deliberate grind, the sheer size and softness of his lower half dominating every sensation. The soft, pillowy flesh molds around you, squeezing and massaging, the heat almost feverish as it works you deeper. His waistcoat stays perfectly composed above, wand still in hand, but below the belt the hyper-exaggerated curves work with single-minded hunger—those thick thighs quivering, the huge ass cheeks bouncing and rippling as they claim more and more of you.

By the time only your chest remains outside, Artful has settled into a slow, rhythmic bounce, letting the soft, overfilled cheeks rise and fall around your torso. Each upward lift makes the fat globes jiggle and clap together; each downward push forces another few inches of you into the tight, greedy depths. The wet sounds are shameless—slick, lewd, and constant—accompanied by the soft plap of those massive cheeks colliding. His voice drifts down, still proud, still theatrical even while his lower half works you like a living trap.

“That’s it… just like the others. They are already part of me now. Soft. Warm. Mine. Feel how much bigger I am from them? How much softer?” A soft, almost wistful laugh. “The applause is quieter these days, but the finale is so much richer.”

Your shoulders disappear next. The stretch is intense, the heat and pressure overwhelming, the soft walls of his insides kneading and pulling with greedy strength. Only your head remains outside now, framed by the soft, jiggling cheeks that press in from both sides. Artful’s massive thighs flex, the soft flesh of his ass cheeks rippling and clapping one last time as the tight ring seals just beneath your chin. You can feel the slow, rhythmic contractions already starting deeper inside—gentle, insistent waves meant to draw the rest of you in and begin the long, warm process of making you part of that absurd, hyper-soft lower body.

He glances back over one shoulder, mask half-hiding the scar, wand tapping lightly against his thigh. The enormous, soft ass cheeks give a final, satisfied jiggle around your head, the sheer size and weight of them impossible to ignore.

“Last chance for a standing ovation,” Artful murmurs, voice low and darkly amused. “Or you can simply… melt. Either way, the show goes on.”

The soft, greedy flesh tightens around you once more, warm and heavy and utterly inescapable, those massive cheeks still quivering with the aftershocks of every previous swallow.