"You'd rather go to Jamie's, wouldn't you,” you say, and Elizabeth nods.

“Yeah,” she answers. “The food's good there, very fresh-” she pauses, and you realise she means the stock. The people. “I think the mundane meals are good, too,” she says apologetically.

She thinks. Not, 'I know'. Have you always had the vore there, darling?

You don't ask.

“I'm just... not sure you're ready for it,” she muses. “Though I'm not sure you're ready to see me eat a girl off the street, either.” She shrugs. “There's no halfway house for this: 'Do, or do not. There is no try,'” she quotes. The ridiculousness of it makes you smile.

“Well, I suppose there is, technically,” she amends. “But hard vore's generally considered to be a step on from swallowing whole.” Her lipstick-red lips suddenly seem more frightening. Have they ever been painted that colour by blood? You know the power of your wife's jaws. Have they ever crunched through bone?

You don't know, and you don't want to know. “One step at a time,” you tell her, half-pleading. There's not much you could do to stop her demonstrating whatever kind of vore she chooses. Or doing it to you... “But I'm taking you to Jamie's,” you insist.

Elizabeth doesn't object.

You're drawing the z4 to a halt at the lights at the top end of Hamston Lane, indicator flashing for the right turn onto Warlick Road, when the bike-cop whispers to a stop beside us, and balances herself with a hand atop Liz's door. Say what you like, it's just damn spooky the way they glide around silently like that. “Hey, lovebird, attention on the road” she says as your wife nuzzles at your wrist, even though the lights are still red and the handbrake's on. “One warning,” she continues with a wag of her finger, “or I chase you down.”

It's not quite as ridiculous as it sounds, you think as you lean forward to see her past Liz's head. If she's vorish she'll be more than able to ride your z4 to ground, short of getting her on a motorway or a racetrack and assuming that police bicycle is as heavily geared as you'd expect a vorish officer's to be. If she is. And quite a lot of things about her are screaming that she is, from the attitude to the loose white blouse over the skin-tight black-and-white-check police-issue neoprene cycle-suit - so suitable for stretching out over a bulging belly - and right down to the zippered crotch that'd let her dispose of a suitably digested miscreant without stripping out of the whole getup.

It'd let her play with herself, too. Or make it easier to force someone to take care of those needs for her.

She's noticed where you've been staring.

“Okay, honeybunch,” she snaps, “you're looking at me? Well I want to see your licence and registration, your insurance documentation and your damned MOT certificate.”

Elizabeth turns away from the arm she's captured, snuggling back into the red leather of her seat and kicking her knee up against the glove compartment. The hemline of her long skirt teeters for a moment, then rolls in rippling waves down her leg, exposing a creamy expanse of thigh.

You almost want to bend over and nibble at it.

But she's...