Elizabeth is standing elegantly by your ageing, tired car, looking far too good for it. But it's the BMW Z4 Roadster's deadlocks that thunk open as its indicators flash their welcome.

“Really?” Elizabeth asks as she slips over the door, without even bothering to open it. The move flashes her long, slim thighs beneath the crimson dress, a bloody moon arcing through the car's midnight-blue bodywork sky. She still looks too good for the car, but the gap's smaller, at least. And you still don't know if she's wearing underwear.

But she is your wife. “Panties?” You ask casually.

“No,” she replies, just as easily. “Are you sure its okay?” She asks as you slip the key into the ignition.

You shrug. The details of property inheritance and law in cases of devouring are far from clear. You were Fred's trusted business partner and friend. He might've left you everything. Yet you suspect that his will still names his ex-girlfriend as his heir, and the matter's only complicated by the fact that its your daughter whose devoured him.

It's getting easier, somehow, to think of him as deceased, victim of some random fluke of chance. Even though he's still likely alive, painfully digesting in your eldest's gut.

The roadster doesn't even start. It might even belong to the company. If you don't lose half of that, too, to a woman Fred had come to hate. With the clutch down, the engine catches immediately, roars its presence to the world.

Elizabeth beams at you, squeezes your thigh. Its not so much, you know, that its a better car. Its your tacit acceptance of Connie's devouring of Fred, as emphasised by your willingness to drive it. The tyres squeal their response to pressure on the accelerator.

“Look at you, mister mid-life-crisis,” she howls over the roar of the wind, whipping her elegant hairstyle out behind her. She looks better somehow. Wilder. Sexier, as if that were possible.

“Sure,” you shout back, “I'll be trading you in for a newer model next.” Her hand is suddenly painfully tight on your thigh, and the roadster swerves. “Joke,” you yell, a little frantically.

“Not funny,” she replies, as you glide the roadster to a halt, engine purring. “You'd end up eaten.”

“I cheat, you eat me.” It'd bother you more if you'd even once dreamed of a woman besides your increasingly too-beautiful-for-you wife. “Got it.”

“I wouldn't eat you,” she blurts. “I'd still love you. Besides, if you sequenced it right, and your chosen strumpet got a reserved exemption on you as soon as our marriage exemption lapsed, then hitched with her inside the week, you could be covered by her marriage exemption without my being able to do a thing,” she says bleakly.

“Have you been worrying about this, sweetheart?” You ask. “That's kinda sweet. But you're the only woman for me.”

“It's not me I'm worried about,” Liz replies, “beautiful young vorish girls only marry men like you for one reason,” she says. “You'd be breakfast on the first day of your honeymoon, and she'd run off with the money,” she shakes her head. “I love you. I wouldn't want you dead, even then.”

“Thanks,” you reply. “But you really don't need to worry. After this Fred business shakes out, I doubt I'll have enough blood-money to draw sharks like that out of the water.”

“It's really going to be that bad,” Elizabeth replies.

“Depends. Could be.” You answer. The tone's turned... rather glum as you slip the roadster back into gear and get moving again. “Besides, what makes you think I'd run off with a vore woman anyway. One roller-coaster ride's enough for this lifetime.”

“Heh,” Liz chuckles wickedly. “The unregistered girl who tries to steal my man would be the worst insurance risk in the world. Actually,” she continues after a thoughtful pause, “go ahead and do it. She'll make a fine breakfast on the first day of our second honeymoon.”

Do you...