“Nah,” Liz replies, and you turn the z4 right onto Warlick Road. “She probably has it, and it'd just piss her off.” She licks her lips. “Besides, Jamie's will have her type as stock.”

Her words sound horribly casual, given the subject.

“Just like that?” You ask, quiet horror in your voice. “One vore cop pisses you off and that's how you choose... it's someone's life...” you tail off weakly.

“It has to be somebody,” Liz replies matter-of-factly, “and it's just not worth getting-” she cuts off, glances at the wheel, and your white knuckled grip upon it. “Sorry,” she says, “but anyway, she didn't piss me off. I just said her ass looked tasty. It's not that unreasonably way of choosing what-” and at least she didn't say 'who', “-you're going to eat.”

As you cruise past the faux-Gothic architecture of Soulhill School's your wife's eyes track it longingly, peering through its tree-lined grounds to the main building itself. “Goddess, but I'd love to be teaching there,” she says. “It's so much better than Ardent Secondary.”

“And the fact that it's an all-boys private has nothing to do with it?” You ask, trying to be wry. There are boys in your wife's classes, both homeroom and English Literature. Most of them live. Rather more than Ofsted's statistics suggest is normal, actually. There are reasons you love this woman, despite her embraced nature. Her vorish nature.

“Not at all,” she replies, laughing. “Except they don't take female teachers because of it.” The state, you know, wouldn't let them get away with that if your taxes were paying for the school. And it doesn't let them get away with discrimination against vores. As opposed to in favour of them...

You pass your regular British Petroleum station on your left, where a guy who'd only stopped to fill up his Beamer is instead in the process of filling up a pretty blonde teenager's belly.

His legs flail in the air, sticking out of her upturned and prettily lipsticked mouth. Though he's surely screaming, you can't hear it over the muffling effect of her belly, and the z4's engine – so long as you keep the revs high.

You keep the revs high.

Tortured, torn fabric rips, and you see the scraps fly as she tosses the remains of the unfortunately man's trousers away. Her tongue licks out over his ass, and between it, her oesophagus, gravity, and her greedily pulling hands the teenager swiftly pulls his legs into her mouth, then gulps the last of him down.

“Did you see that?” Liz asks from the side-seat, turning back to look over her shoulder.

You keep yours firmly on the road as you nod. “It was only petrol...” you whisper.

“She wasn't wearing vorish clothes, poor thing,” your wife says, “shredded her top, her jeans, everything.” She shakes her head. “Sorry, love. Did you say something?” She asks.

“No,” you whisper your reply.

The poor vored guy's Beamer catches you at the roundabout, though its the teenager behind the wheel. Or technically both of them, you suppose. Her seat's definitely shoved all the way back to accommodate the girth the man's body is making of her belly. Apparently she'd wanted an upgrade.

You wonder if she'd even been hungry.

Remembering Liz's warning about looking, you aren't able to tell if she's naked or not. You'd rather your vorish wife not have to avenge your voring, and certainly not under the lips of a girl young enough to be one of her students.

The Beamer apexes the roundabout with a squeal of tortured rubber, and roars away down Warlick as you peel off left down Load Lane.

Her voring of him wasn't, legally, an act of murder. But taking his car was an act of theft. It belongs to his heirs, now, even as his flesh is unassailably becoming part of hers.

“Do you think we ought to report that?” You ask.