You don't take your wife up on her offer. The night feels wild with possibility, excitement, and electricity seems to dance between you. Maybe she could've given up vore tonight, though the Voraphile Organisation Regulatory Enforcement's system, demanding – in potentia – a digestion a month would've soon knocked her off the wagon.

Maybe the possibility is that, finally, after twenty-four years of marriage, and the two before that under her protection, she's going to give in and eat you. Maybe its that you'll enjoy it. Maybe its that you'll enjoy seeing her do it to someone else. Maybe its that you're going crazy, trapped in your home with this wild voracious woman who you suddenly feel you hardly know.

How can a quarter century be barely long enough to scratch the surface of knowing her?

There's only one thing you know for sure. You would've been getting sex tonight. Her dress practically screams it. But its been replaced by a darker, hunger. One bringing death, not life.

“We'll go out,” you whisper, pressing a kiss against her lips. Its a shocking intimacy. The next person to touch them could well be passing through them to their doom.

“Why?” She murmurs as you hold her. For all her strength, she's slight enough to fit within your circling arms. “Please not because you fear me,” she whispers. “I think that would destroy me.”

Its that, a little, but part of marriage is that you'll never, ever mention it. “You're my wife,” you say instead. “I love you. I want you to be happy. Satisfied.” You swallow. “Well-fed.” There's a pause, and its pregnant with meaning.

“Thank you,” she says simply.

“Besides, I want to show you off,” you say, twirling her beneath your arm. Silk skirts brush against your leg.

Its no more than the bare truth. Her dress is silk, making crimson waterfalls from the curve of breast and hip. Tight and bra-like shaping around her breasts supports them, but Liz could never have pulled the look off had she been less youthful and buoyant about the chest. It swirls, loosely, about her hips, and you wouldn't be surprised if she's dispensed with the need for panties beneath.

You know she was, and for all you know still is, planning on sex tonight.

“I'll be the envy of every man we meet,” you whisper, breath-taken with her beauty.

She blushes, but doesn't deny the compliment. “I won't exactly look like this,” she hesitates, “after.” Indeed, the midriff of the dress is cut in a vorish style, slit from her navel to the top of Elizabeth's belly, with folds and stitching to allow the stomach beneath expansion enough to accommodate even the largest of full grown men.

You don't want to think too hard about that. “Let's just go,” you say instead, pressing your hand against the small of her back and sweeping her towards the door.

“Your mom burned the dinner, so we're going out to eat,” you call upstairs. The groan that returns is an indication of Connie's focus on her digestion. Your hand is on the latch before Liz catches your arm. “Do you have your exemption?” She asks urgently, her face concerned.

“No,” you whisper, badly shaken. Without it you're legally anyone's meat to eat, and even in Liz's company... forgetting it would be an unwelcome return to the earliest, most dangerous stage of your relationship.

Her kiss is unexpected, passionate, fearful. “Don't ever go out without it,” she hisses, instantly gripping your face and searching your eyes with her own. “Not even once, you hear me.”

Her concern is surprisingly reassuring.

“Do you have yours?” You ask your wife. She's wordless as she holds up her tiny clutch-purse. It can't have room for more than the paperwork and a breath-mint for afterwards. You're obviously going to be paying tonight.

Though you'll also be the only one eating food that needs to be paid for, either.

She's so casual, so comfortable about it. Is this her hunting dress, her hunting method, that she uses monthly. You don't know. You've never asked. Occasionally, the more troublesome of her students disappears from her class, her nightly reports of their troubles or troublemaking silenced.

You never ask about that, either.

Fred's keys are just sitting their next to yours on the sideboard. Except your car, with two daughters to support and friends they want to bring along, is an mini-van, an MPV, and not factory-fresh either. Fred's Bayerische Motoren Werke Roadster is almost brand-new.

Do you...