“Darling,” your wife whispers, wrapping gentle but oh-so-strong arms around your chest, “I just don't think that's reasonable,” she says. Dim protests from within Connie's belly, and the slosh of stomach-acids, shows that at least one person present thinks it entirely reasonable.

But your daughter is smiling at this perhaps unexpected show of motherly support.

Elizabeth plants a soft, wet kiss on your neck, distracting you from Fred's muffled cries. Those lips rest against you for a moment and your heartbeat races, and not just because of the gorgeous woman who sleeps with you pressed against your back.

If – when – she vores you, it might begin something like this.

You tremble. “You said it yourself,” she continues, “Fred was your business partner. Now he's only Connie's-” Elizabeth cuts herself off, but you hear the '-meal' she decided not to say anyway. She may have supported his invitation, but you're sure she'd rather have seen Fred on the table than at it. “It'd really hurt Connie to throw up something that size. We're just not plumbed that way. Business is business,” she shifts to a different vein, gently but firmly massaging tension from your neck, “and family is family. Which is more important?” She asks softly.

It isn't even in question. “Family, of course,” you answer softly, aware your words – but really, your accession to your wife's will – has condemned poor Frederick. Of course, she can eat you at that will. You love Elizabeth, unconditionally, but you fear her too. If only you didn't find her power over you weren't so... erotic. “Heh,” you whisper. If you didn't find your powerlessness sexy, you would've surely stood seriously up to her before this, and been sent to the bottom of her stomach for your impudence.

It isn't all that funny.

“When was the last time you ate, Connie?” Elizabeth asks.

“Last month,” Connie replies. “There's this boy at school I'd picked out. We've been on a couple of dates this past week,” she blushes a little, and the effect is weird above her distended midriff. “You know, to make up for eating him,” her eyes crossed for a moment, “for the fact that I was going to eat him,” she amends. “He was such a gentleman that I almost didn't – don't – want to,” she rubs her belly gently, “then Fred came in and he was staring at me. Like a filthy old man, and I was just so angry and hungry and I, well, I...”

“Yes, we can see, dear,” Elizabeth says. “Okay, Connie. You can keep your meal,” she nods firmly. You don't gainsay her. With this new information, you're not even sure you want to. “Can you go and check on the duck for a bit, honey,” Elizabeth asks you. You shudder a little, and she squeezes your arm in apology. She knows you don't like it when she uses food-related endearments. “I need have a little heart-to-heart with our darling daughter here,” she smiles. Connie returns it, uncertainly.

As you wander into the kitchen, you wonder if you'll see the sunrise, tomorrow. Connie about to fly the nest for college. Anne recently having swallowed down her first boyfriend. Maybe Elizabeth thinks it's time to unilaterally rewrite the rule that Connie's just broken, the one forbidding vore in the house. Her throat engulfing your head might be your first notice of it, if so.

Maybe she thinks three vore girls will have more fun with a string of toilet-disposable young men, taken and used for pleasures sexual and gastronomic both.

Do you..?