“Oh my God, Connie,” you blurt. “You ate him. Why did you have to do that? You promised you wouldn't do that,” you say, almost pleading with her.

Connie – your eighteen year old daughter, her already budded into womanhood by the devoured flesh of the people she's eaten, rubs her distended belly and blushes. Her look at you, from beneath her lashes, is too sultry to be directed at her own father.

“I'm sorry daddy,” she says. “I was hungry and Fred looked delicious,” she continues, as if that explained everything. If she were talking to her mother, it might. She licks her lips, and gently pats her distended belly and the man writhing within. “He was,” she smiles, licking her lips.

Her belly groans its agreement as it effortlessly contains Fred's struggles.

“Hey, darling. Dinner's almost ready,” your wife says, and you can hear the click of her heels on the kitchen's tiles as she enters the living room, “but I could use a hand with – oh,” she says, as she takes in the tableaux. “That's who I think it is, right?” She asks, nodding toward Connie's obvious bulge.

“It is,” Connie snaps, defiantly meeting her mother's gaze.

“She ate Fred,” you half-wail, waving your hand at the voring thing you've somehow raised. “She was hungry, so our daughter just – ate him.” You don't know whether to burst into tears or belt your eldest solidly about the face – except for the minor matter of her being faster, stronger and far more dangerous than you. “And she enjoyed it.”

Liz – Elizabeth Forrester, your wife of twenty-four years, whom you love very much – smiles. No more than a very slight curling at the edge of the lips, that you doubt Connie even notices, and that makes her look, if possible, even more beautiful. But you do, and you know what it means: That she doesn't need to be told her daughter had enjoyed eating a man. That voring was so self-evidently and obviously good that even when it was your friend, in your home, that you'd both invited to dinner not to be dinner, she still can't restrain a slight indication of her vicarious pleasure at the thought and evidence of it.

Of course, you don't need to be told that voring is good for you, so long as you're the eater – not that you could be – and not their meal. Liz's toned skin, the life of her hair, the firm suppleness of her breasts and the tightness of her ass. Women a decade her junior would've envied all of them. People who don't know usually think she's your second, trophy wife. Its unbelievable that that body has borne two daughters. But of course, her belly regularly retains its shape from even larger contents. People who do are just scared of her.

“I guess they'll only be two for dinner, then,” she says, and Connie stifles – not quite swiftly enough – a giggle. “Since you've filled yourself up on Fred,” she scolds her offspring gently. "I did ask you not to eat before dinner."

One person a month, to keep the Voraphile Organisation Regulatory Enforcement off your familial back, and her in that trim figure. Twenty-four years of marriage. Two-hundred and eighty-eight lives snuffed out. At a minimum. And while she's kind enough not to rub it in your face, you know she enjoys it.

“No,” you say firmly.“ They'll still be four at dinner. Fred was my business partner. He was a friend to this family. And you made a promise, Connie. Vomit him back up," you insist. "This instant young lady.”