The Cat Cowboy's Catch: Part 1 (Exclusive)

Here it is little doggies!  A cowboy vore story for your reading pleasure.

Vote on what should occur in Part 2 here!   https://www.patreon.com/posts/37665749 

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The bandit was caught, hook, line, and sinker. Now, he would receive his punishment.

The jailers lead the unlucky heron, Ricky, out to the center of town. At first, Ricky was confused—why wasn’t he rotting away in the town jail?

But when he saw the crowd of townsfolk, and the figure towering over it all, he understood.

That figure was Cowboy Barns, the famous tabby cat, fastest pistol grip in the west. The one who had caught Ricky and, it seemed, wanted to challenge him.

“Alright, you’re here,” Barns said. Ricky could swear he saw the fellow lick his lips—what was that about? “Let’s get this show on the road.”

“Let me guess,” Ricky said as the jailers released him. “Ten paces, then shoot?”

“Not quite,” Barns said. He smiled. “Nah, you’re not here to shoot. You’re here to run.”

/Run?/ Ricky thought. /Oh sh--/

The crowd tightened around the two figures. Cowboy Barns smiled. “They’ve been taking bets all morning to how many paces you’ll go before I catch ya,” the tabby cat said. “But if you’re able to make twenty, I let ya go. That’s the deal, understand?”

Ricky nodded. So this cat liked to play with his victims. Fine. He’d play. But then, he’d get out of here.

“On your marks!” one of the jailers shouted. He held up a pistol in the air, and a shot rang out. “Go!”

Ricky turned around and ran, the crowd parting as he went. /One, two, three, four, five!/ He counted his steps as he dashed, weaving in a zig-zag in an effort to slow down the cowboy cat. /Six, seven, eight, nine, te--/

A heavy force crashed into the heron from behind, and forced him to the ground. He was forced to face upwards, he face of Cowboy Barns entered his vision, and Ricky groaned. There was a still moment, then cheers and roars; money exchanged hands, and new bets were taken.

“Mmm, I’ve always had a soft spot for birds,” the tabby cat said. The crowd tightened around the two, watching their every move. “They always go down easy—in more ways than one.”

“Alright, you got me,” Ricky said. “What now, back to the jail?”

To his surprise, the townsfolk laughed—so would he be going to the chopping block? The hero gulped.

“Not quite, little fella,” Barns said. The cowboy licked his lips again. “Naw, I have a different prison in mind for you.”

/What?/ Ricky opened his mouth to ask what Barns meant. But on that exact same moment, the cowboy’s own mouth opened, revealing a maw dripping with saliva. And suddenly, it snapped up his head.

/What in tarnation?!/ Ricky tried to force his head out of the tabby’s mouth, but the cat’s lips held him firm—he was stuck in here pretty good. A wet, oozing tongue rose up and descended on his face, lapping him up from his beak to his neck, soaking the heron’s feathers and making him shiver. So, the cat wanted him to have a glimpse of death. Alright, he could play. Because there was no logical way that the tabby would—

/Gulp!/ Well. Impossibly, Cowboy Barns swallowed, and forced Ricky’s head down his throat. It made a visible bulge on the outside, making the crowd cheer. The tight space made the feeling of panic rise in the heron’s chest—he had to get out of here! Again he tried to force himself back up, but now he was stuck in the cramped, constricting esophagus.  But the cat couldn’t really be eating him, that would be—

/Glk!/

Another swallow sent him further into the throat, and jammed his shoulders into Barns’s mouth—how in tarnation was the cowboy able to fit them?! Ricky wanted to scream in frustration, to laugh at the impossibility of it all. Again, he tried to pull his head back up, but no matter how hard he tried, the throat refused to let him go. It was becoming evident that there would be no escape.

/Guuk!/

The next swallow brought his chest in the tabby’s mouth, and shoved his head from a tight space, to an open one. Ricky gasped for breath, relieved—but then he caught the scent of acid, and realized where he was.

He was inside the cat’s stomach.

But that might be a good thing! There was no way it was big enough to fit his /entire body/--no, that couldn’t be. Ricky lingered in denial only a bit longer, until the next swallow forced his head and neck deeper into the stomach, and he heard the acid bubbling. The heron let out a terrified scream—he really was getting eaten alive! He started squirming in earnest, fighting against his fate, trying to resist.

Outside, Cowboy Barns chuckled at the screams, and money exchanged hands. It had taken a full three minutes for the bandit to start putting up a real fight. But now it was time to see how much longer Barns would take to savor him. . .

Ricky panted from all his struggles; he’d really put forth an effort. But it apparently had no effect: Barns wasn’t spitting him back out, and he hadn’t wormed his way out of here. Another swallow echoed through the chamber, and the heron hit the bottom of the stomach, the acid singeing his feathers.

Barns was /really/ enjoying this meal. The heron tasted fantastic, and as usual the crowd was easily pleased by his dining. But it was time to get the bandit in where he belonged—no use dilly-dallying any longer.

Ricky suddenly felt Barns issue a series of gulps that pushed him further into the stomach, and fast. “No, no, no!” the heron screeched, his voice sounding tinny in this tight space. He tried to struggle some more, but it had no effect, and it didn’t take long for the cat to reach his kicking feet. His toes were given a last lick before they, too, were gulped down, sent down the throat until they joined him in the stomach.

The bandit let out a gasp. The cowboy really had eaten him! He felt around his prison, trying desperately to look for an exit. But the entrance to throat was sealed shut—he truly was trapped in here.

Outside, the crowd clapped and cheered, gathering around the bloated belly—the truly daring walked up and touched it, poking and prodding the prisoner inside.  Barns giggled at the touch; Ricky squirmed at the protrusions. The cowboy slapped his stomach, making the bandit jiggle up and down.

“You were delicious, little fella,” Barns said, licking his lips. “Truly a meal to remember.”

“Let me out!” Ricky squirmed around the dark, slippery insides of the stomach, kicking outward on the walls, trying to give his predator indigestion.

“‘Fraid it’s a one-way trip for you, kid.” The cowboy let out a small burp. “Don’t worry, though. You won’t die—not yet.” He smirked, looking around at the crowd. “After all, there’s still more bets, aren’t there?!”

The townsfolk roared in delight, and people ran to the bar. Barns followed, and with every step his large stomach shook, making Ricky go up and down. The belly growled and gurgled around the bandit, and he gulped, fearful of what would happen next.

Inside the bar, Barns plopped down at a table, and drinks were quickly placed in front of him. The tabby cat picked one up and chugged it down, letting out a belch when the mug was empty.

Inside, Ricky could feel the acid below him starting to expand—when suddenly wet, foamy liquid plopped down from the throat, raining down on him. He could smell the fermented alcohol—so the predator was having a few drinks with his food. The bandit found himself furious at the embarrassing degradation, but unable to do anything about it.

This was going to be a long and terrible time. . .