“...why your father listened to me when I said you should get to keep your meal?” Liz whispered.

“Sure, mom,” Connie replied. “It's because he loves you, and he'd do anything for you. And I can't blame him! You look hot, mom. Anne and I can hardly understand why he's so set against vore when it keeps you looking like that. We can hear your sex-life, you know. Scarring our delicate young ears for all of time...” Connie giggles.

“It's because he's afraid of me, Connie,” Elizabeth says quietly, intensely. Her words silence our daughter. “Some of what you said, sure, and there's bound to be some weirdness tied up with the fact that but for a twist of fate, he'd be in the same position as the people I'm – and you, and Anne – are eating. But in a large part, it's because he's afraid that I, personally, am going to devour him, personally.”

The silence is... extensive. Not that Liz's words aren't true. It's just that you weren't so aware your wife was so aware, on this issue.

Though she's always been perceptive, before this... “You aren't going to though,” Connie blurts, loud enough that you might've heard it even in the kitchen. “Right?” She asks, and you can almost hear her eyes searching her mothers. “Right?”

You'd quite like to know the answer to this yourself.

“Of course not,” Elizabeth snaps back firmly, and you feel your heart soar. “At least, not yet.” It falls from the sky like a buckshot partridge.

“Wha?” Connie whispers, devastation in her tone. “You know Anne and I will never forgive you, don't you,” she says. “I want dad to see his grandchildren, too.”

You didn't know your daughter cared so. She's been so very vore, since she turned eighteen.

“So do I,” Elizabeth replies fondly. “But your father's going to get old before I do. You can already see it.” She says, and there's sadness in her tone. “I won't see him waste away, in sickness or infirmity. If I can't have him with me,” her hand, you can see where she stands at the foot of the stairs, brushes her belly, “I'll have him in me. Part of me, for so long as I live.”

It's perhaps the best you could've realistically hoped for. Romantic, even, from a certain skewed point of view. A vorish point of view.

“Now get yourself and that meal of yours off to bed and down to digesting,” Elizabeth instructs. “You've still got school in the morning.”

Connie clatters up the stairs, barely impeded by the weight and bulk of a full-grown man in her belly, such is the strength of a well-fed vore.

You dive back into the kitchen, before Liz can catch you eavesdropping. Not that you're afraid of getting eaten, not so much as a few minutes ago, anyway. But a wife's wrath, vore or no, is not to be courted.

“Dinner nearly done?” Liz asks, breezing into the kitchen.