You may have been a dominating giant of the jungles of your isolated archipelago homelands at eight-odd feet tall, but you've merely been amazonian to most of the larger mainlanders - and here at the Stadium many go past matching you and outright tower over you. You covet this novelty even as you want to feast and feast until you're once again the uncontested largest - it's a curiously novel feeling. It is due to all this that you truly relish how the familiarly tiny fox attendant stumbling into your protruding gut reminds you of being so huge back home... and why you linger in place to enjoy the feel of his face squished into your plush belly as long as you can. Just like any of the tribal supplicants back home, fearfully doing anything you demanded. Ah, to have been the vorish queen of all your isolated lands peoples - you wonder if it was worth it, giving it up to come to a place like this. As seductive as the opportunities that drew you here may be, the risks-
As your snout-deformed belly snaps back to its pudgily rounded self by dint of the fox leaning himself back upright, you find both a piece of thin fabric and a piece of paper shoved into your hands.
"Put that on," the Fox says as he shoes you away and looks towards the stadium arrivals behind you, "and read that."
Letting the cloth drape free of your hand you see it's a dress... or rather, it's something like a dress. You're pretty sure clothes that are as see-through as glass, and several inches too short to even begin covering one's genitals don't normally count as a 'dress'. That said, it's nice and loose when you sling it over your head and pull it down, and your potbellied, bottom heavy figure has no trouble fitting into the thing. The way it flares out above your hips actually flatters your thick and heavy bubble-butt. In fact, you kind of like how the dress is a nearly invisible too; much more your style than most clothes! You're also a fan of how it emulates certain sorts of muscle-man tanktops and leaves your perky breasts and their puffy nipples to constantly slip free of the confines of the garment.
Checking over the pamphlet you were handed, you skim the so-titled Rules and Regulations of Cockvore Stadium while loitering in its entrance.
1) Hermaphrodite competitors must wear regulation attire - the sheer number you were just handed and put on - at all times during their stay at the Cum-Works, while males have to wear thongs. Exceptions are allowed only for showering and entering the arena proper... or conspicuously undefined 'other' necessary activities.
2) While in the Cum-Works - defined as the connected trio of locker rooms, shower rooms and practice sparring rooms - no vore can be fatal. Only victims taken on the arena floor can be digested, it seems... though given some of the gurgling-sacked competitors you see seeded amongst the crowds, that rule doesn't look well-enforced.
3) No teams are allowed, each person must fight for themselves in the arena, one on one. However, the stadium administration does seem to encourage making friends - you even see a few listed ways competitors can arrange to meet off-field. For all it's given a pleasant presentation, it looks like there are ways you can get staff to force another competitor to come - coupled with the loose enforcing of the ban on out-of-arena voring, it seems a system made to be exploited.
4) All staff members are to be respected, and any directions they give are to be taken as official stadium policy, and per that obeyed without exception. The Stadium's employees have been specially trained, so don't bother trying to vore them... or so it says. You certainly don't see anyone making an attempt at one of the staff, but with how the rest of the rules work you wonder if there are exceptions there, too.
Past those there's a 5th 'rule' that lightheartedly encourages all participants to have fun - well, that's certainly the plan!
Now properly informed and, it would seem, in compliance with the rules you find yourself reflexively shying away from a towering, thick-figured herm komodo dragon that's passing by you. All dozen-plus feet of her, and her ponderously enormous package - which has got to outweigh your whole body, wow - you give them both a wide berth, and openly stare. Those muscles, that superior set of vorish manmeat, that even larger vore-padded belly; you want to be like her, to be her. Just like that your thoughts about competing and gaining fame for your people as the one they tribally worship and sacrifice to are pushed to the wayside. Instead your throbbingly erect arm-sized dick geysers with clear pre, its tip pulsing in anticipation of at long last having a fillingly jumbo meal. Forget going below and preparing for a match to sate your sack and belly, you'll eat first - and if that leaves you even larger and more vorishly capable by the time you step into the ring, all the better!
Of course, you'll have to be careful lest you be caught blatantly breaking the rules and voring when it's not officially allowed.
After all, you see fierce looking men and herms alike in stadium uniform prowling around and shoving what you assume are rulebreakers down hungry cocks, and your plump pussy is drenched at the way they feast with such a dominant flair. Your puffy donut of a butthole puckers as you see people gathering to voyeuristically watch and masturbate to the staff doling out their cummy punishment... as well as to the forced gurgling that draws so many eyes. Deep within your belly and balls alike, you tingle as you see ever more of the stadium's inhabitants... who have proportionately larger junk than you. As if that weren't enough, it's more than a tiny fraction that are outright larger downstairs than you, and/or bigger bodied, a situation you never encountered back home; how excitingly different.
Gods, to finally feast on something closer to your size, or stars above, even bigger and more vorish than you - to finally have to need your stealthy invisibility... your heart races with anticipation.
Spotting a massive cumstain near a pretty major intersection past the entrance, you sidle up beside it and fade out of view, your see-through dress now looking almost like it's just another piece of clothing jizz-glued to the wall.
Watching beings of all races, sizes and shapes, staff, guests and competitors alike all walking to and fro, you choose to...
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