“Bad Jamie. My husband,” Liz's voice whipcracks, but playfully, more bondage game than genuine torture session. “Get your own.” Elizabeth's blow is open palmed, literally no more than a slap on Jamie's wrist and as playful as her tone. But the force of it races up your arm and wrenches your shoulder anyway.

“Trying,” Jamie replies mournfully.

“Ouch,” you say as you rub it, inordinately relieved that Jamie's released your arm and your hand both.

“Sorry,” both women say, in unison. Liz to you and Jamie to Liz.

“No problem,” you reply generically, waving it off. Liz merely opens her palm, tossing your acceptance on to Jamie. She looks... surprised. The idea of apologising when a simple and – from her perspective - tasty devouring would absolve all sins is doubtless strange to her.

“Jamie,” Liz says wryly, “has a very strict selection criteria for men. She'll put out on a first date, but if he can't bang her blind and unconscious then he'll find himself banging on the walls of her belly.” Recalling the stamina and sexual staying-power your wife demonstrates daily, this is a rather intimidating thought.

“No wonder you're single,” you blurt. Jamie blinks. She's obviously unused to such vocal guys. Most men, you think, surely don't stand up to her. Not more than once, anyway, from the way she's eyeing you.

“You let him talk to you that way?” She asks Elizabeth, her tone icy and reproving.

“He's not talking to me that way,” Liz points out affably. “He's talking to you that way. And I get sexed to sleep at night, awake in the mornings, and whenever I want between-times at weekends. After twenty-four years of marriage, he knows exactly what buttons to press to turn me into a puddle,” your wife laughs. “Your dates, if they pass your little test, wake up first and run away from you. Or they don't, in which case you eat them for breakfast.”

Liz's so... matter of fact about it. As if the only problem she sees with it is that her friend is still single.

“All that sex makes me hungry,” Jamie replies, glancing at her toes, peeking through her elegantly high-heeled sandals. “Then I wake up next to them all handsome and tasty-looking, with my scent all over them... I just can't help myself.”

“Sounds like helping yourself is exactly what you do,” you say. Both women glance at you, eyes widening in shock. You're a little surprised yourself.

“That was a very vorish kind of joke,” Jamie points out.

“A good one,” you ask, vaguely hopefully, not sure what you want the answer to be.

“No,” Liz kisses your cheek delicately, “but I'm happy you made it anyway.”

You're not sure that you are.

“On that subject,” Jamie enquires casually, “didn't you mention that your husband has a young, handsome partner in his successful business? Recently broken up with his girlfriend? Maybe he'd like to see her get eaten,” she continues hopefully. “You said you'd broach the subject of setting us up,” she says. It has the feel of an accusation.

Liz had thought to set poor naïve Fred up with this voracious monster? Without discussing it with you?

Then you remember that nothing will ever matter to Fred again, save the cleanliness and condition of your upstairs bathroom toilet. Which is immaculate, but you doubt he'll find that much comfort after the darkness of your eldest daughter's intestines.

“In fact, wasn't that supposed to be tonight?” Jamie asks quizzically. “Or have I lost a day?”

Liz shakes her head. “I burnt the dinner,” she explains, “so we decided to come out-”

“He's here?” Jamie butts in, glancing around excitedly.

“Ah, no,” Liz replies, blushing slightly. “Connie decided she'd rather have something more substantial and tastier than her mother's cooking, and her father – she pokes you gently in the ribs – stayed late at the office, and I was in the kitchen, so when she met Fred at the door alone...” she trails off, closing her mouth and gulping audibly.

This uncomfortable assertion – that you are in some more direct way responsible for Fred's demise – shakes you into silence.

“Good for her,” Jamie says, as the two grin at each other. “I guess I'm in no position to be complaining about that,” she continues.

“No,” your wife agrees. You don't, quite, manage to restrain a shudder. “And not entirely good. Things are going to get rather... hard, for awhile, on the money side.”

Jamie, obviously, has noticed your reaction. “But what're you doing here?” She asks, gesturing at you. Clearly, Liz has been here before, and quite probably explained, even assuming other vores needed or cared about the explanation – probably depending on their own marital status – why her husband wasn't escorting her.

You have no idea how unusual you are, you realise. Besides, of course, the surprisingly long length of your so-far undevoured life.

“Well, ah,” Liz says, “I said I'd make it up to Vern,” she continues, her fingertip trailing down your hip demonstrating how she's planned on doing that. “But it's not such a good idea for me to take my tasty husband to bed unfed. Not when I have to listen to my eldest daughter's full, gurgling, protesting belly all night.”

Liz's vorish hearing is naturally superior to yours. But you'd not considered this consequence of that.

“I'm tasty?” You enquire softly. You've avoided asking this question so directly for a long, long time, though you've half-suspected the answer for most of it.

“Honey,” Liz replies, and winces as you do. Maybe you taste like it, which would explain why she keeps coming back to that one, disliked or no. “I was sucking your cock five minutes ago,” she continues, not sparing Jamie's blushes - though the other woman looks far more voyeuristic than embarrassed - “and I wouldn't be half as enthusiastic about giving head if you weren't so tasty,” your beautiful wife leers.

And licks her lips. Which is disturbing, although still surprisingly sexual, in this context.

“Well, it just so happens that the idea of my eating another girl isn't half so odious to my husband than another man-” both women roll their eyes at this “-which you could have mentioned a decade or two ago, by the way, sweetheart,” she scolds lightly. “But better late than never, I suppose,” she says.

“So it'll be a table for two,” Jamie nods firmly. “Why don't you pick out who you want, Liz,” she says, “and I'll see Vern to it and settle him in with a mundane menu.” She's still talking to your wife about you, rather than to you directly.

It's just a little irritating.

“Sounds fine,” Liz replies, “unless you'd like to come help pick out my dish?” She offers, smiling and extending her hand towards you.

Do you...