Jamie goggles as you take your wife's outstretched hand. “Sure thing, darling,” you say, followed by a whisper of “I'd... rather stay with you,” delivered into her ear as you pull her into a close hug.

Elizabeth nods back, rubbing your back soothingly. Of course your wife would understand you not wanting to go off with a woman who put part of you in her mouth. Though technically, you're about to go off with one who's done the same...

Context is everything.

“So lets go pick out someone for me to turn into shit,” the woman you love says softly, her eyes searching yours. You know you read her intent correctly. Last chance to change your mind.

Her squeeze of your hand is more comforting than it has any right to be, given her words.

“Heya gals,” a feminine voice chirps from behind you, “I'm Becky, and I'll be your waitress tonight. And what kind of meal are you in the mood for?” She asks, clapping you and Liz on the shoulder. Wonderful. Now you have a painfully matched set. “Boy or girl? Hispanic? Asian? Caucasian?” It's funny, but you never normally think of vores being politically correct, for all their dominance of the field. “Something darker?” She offers.

But this one definitely is.

“I promised my husband I'd pick out a girl,” Elizabeth replies. “He'll be having something off the mundane menu,” she continues at the waitress's somewhat surprised look.

“It's nice to see a man in touch with his wife's vorish side,” your waitress says. She considers this. “Whilst still on your outsides, anyway.”

It's not far from being an enlightened attitude. For a vore. “Actually, this is by way of being something of an experiment,” you comment. “Hence the concession.”

“Oh, it's not a concession,” your waitress idly replies. “Girls are scrummy.” She's wearing a short, frilly pinnafore and what can only be described as a swimsuit, albeit a modestly black two-piece with boyleg shorts and a tankini top bearing Jamie's logo and name picked out in florescent orange. It's good branding. If her full lips, breasts, hips and place of employment had left you in any doubt, the way she rubs her bare belly to illustrate her point would've assured you she's vorish. “If you'll follow me,” she continues, the pinny's white bow dangling over the cats-in-spandex roll of her butt beneath her swimsuit.

You can't help but look, and catching you at it only makes Elizabeth giggle.

Of course she's glad you're getting turned on, given what she's about to do.

The waitress leads you to the outer curve of the restaurant, a narrow path between the raised seating section and curved aquarium-esque window-display, transparent inside and out, revealing the stock within both to the vorish patrons who eat them and passers-by. Hoping to lure some of that foot-traffic into becoming patrons, naturally. The fact that it scares the mundanes is doubtless, from a vorish businesswoman's point of view, neither here nor there.

What're they going to do, after all? Protest?

These are still people, you remind yourself. Stock in a feeder-tank, maybe, but people nonetheless. And you're going to help your wife pick one for her to eat, whilst you... what? Have the steak tartar? Rare, and bloody, just the way you like it?

The tank is subtly divided, you realise, by transverse sections that would've forced the stock into some semblance of a uniform distribution, if the random selection effect of prior devourings hadn't had its effect.

One subdivision stood entirely empty, save for multicoloured scraps of bright fabric.

The pickings are only slightly more than slim, you realise. The lunch crowd has clearly been hungry, and lots of the evening tables are apparently already seated and eating. Elizabeth's mistake with the duck has quite delayed you.

And doomed one of these women to a horrible death.

Liz not-so-gently taps the reinforced glass beside the head of an Asian girl who'd been resting against it. She leaps to her feet, and backs, clearly terrified, from your smiling wife. Who licks her lips.

“Japanese,” your waitress comments approvingly. “Fresh like sushi, and cute with it too. Probably a real sweetie.”

You realise she's discussing the merits of flavour, not personality. From a vorish perspective, certainly the more important feature of a stock person.

The Japanese girl's trying to press herself back into the outside window, and simultaneously squeezing herself down into the most unappetising little ball possible.

Since it's more-or-less how she'd look in your wife's stomach, you have to think that's probably a tactical error.

“Name's Kyouko – 'apricot-child' – and who knows, maybe she'll taste like one.” Your waitress comments.

Elizabeth shoots her something of a reproachful look. And you know why. Your wife would clearly like to eat this woman. But you know Kyouko's name now. Can you let her get eaten, where you could've saved her?

But if you do, Liz will surely expect you to choose her meal alone. And you're not sure you can do that, either.

Do you...