“Restaurant,” you answer after a long pause. “I'm not... ready for this to be that sexual, yet.”

“You underestimate yourself, love,” Elizabeth answers, kissing you softly and snatching your eyes from the road. The z4 swerves. “But don't do that,” she laughs.

“I think you could find it erotic, even in a restaurant,” she smiles. “If it's presented in the right way. Would you prefer I order her off a menu?” She licks her lips. “Have her served at our table tied up and on a platter, for me to slurp up feet-first? She'd probably beg and struggle against her bindings,” your wife sighs, “as stock so often does.”

And how often does your wife eat at these kinds of places, you wonder. She promised to try, years ago, to keep to the one-a-month minimum that'd satisfy a covert Voraphile Organisation Regulatory Enforcement's investigation. But you've also agreed that she shouldn't flaunt her voring before you, even if that seems likely to change tonight.

Her school, you know, probably serves stock at the lunch-counter. It did when you went there, thirty years ago now. Liz might be scarfing down stock – those poor people – daily.

You don't ask.

“They'd anaesthetise her, if I asked for it, of course,” she continues, gently stroking you through the pure-wool fabric of your suit. “But stock-girls are expensive,” she muses, unbuckling your belt and unfastening your flies, “and I promised to be a cheap date tonight.” Indeed, your wife seems intent on acting like a cheap hooker right now, as she frees your member from restraint and fondles it lovingly.

The feeling is exquisite, and all the better for the open-topped car and the wind in your hair.

“We could go to a regular restaurant,” she offers, “and I could have the waitress. Headfirst, probably, if I'm going to surprise her. Their legs kick so, when you do that.”

You, of course, wouldn't know.

“We'd still have to pay though,” she says, “and I'd have to order something or she'd get suspicious. A salad, perhaps. That'd be cheap,” she offers, “and I could have it on the side of my meat.”

You shiver, and not just because of her velvet-coated iron grip around your dick. Her 'meat', that's a person. A person right now working hard for her pay, maybe happy, maybe disappointed with the night's tips, not knowing that she won't live to spend them. Might she have someone waiting for her at home, mother or sister, lover or brother? Child? How would they manage without that income?

All too many vores, you know, would be happy to solve that hypothetical person's survival problem.

“In fact, I'd kind of like a starter,” she purrs, leaning across to you. You feel a twinge of fear. After all that, she's not going to eat you right now... is she?

Elizabeth giggles as her hand strokes down your chest. “Sorry,” she says as her head lowers into your lap. “Didn't mean to scare you. Though I might,” she teases as she takes little kitten-licks from the tip of your erect length, “make you scream.”

Your driving is pretty bad for awhile, and as vigorous as her vile mouth is on your member. Liz isn't wearing her seatbelt any more. But then, a crash would be unlikely to seriously hurt her anyway. Not at these speeds. She's – but of course – talented, and orgasm comes quick and hard and deeper into her throat than you're truly comfortable being inside a vore.

True to her word, she swallows down every drop of her starter.

“TGI Friday's is in the Touchwood Centre,” she says as you approach Solihull town center. “It'll still be open, for the cinema crowd.” You know. You've taken your wife and daughters there before. “Or there's Jamie's Species, on Bailey Street. It's much more...” she shrugs. It's not like shying from the word is going to change what she's planning on doing, right in front of you no less. “Much more vore,” she finishes.

"So what's it to be?" She asks.