So you're going to be Olivia, the fit forty year old Fortune 500 executive. You live a dual life, split between work and home. Career and children. Which is it to be...

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You sigh happily, and hungrily. It's been a long but productive day, and you can feel the ache in both your bones and your belly. A back-rub would feel oh-so-very good, but then, so would a delicious and filling man-meal.

Of course, there's no reason you can't have both.

Your elegant, tanned finger descends on an otherwise unremarkable section of your glossy black-glass desk. One sharp fingernail, exquisitely coated in Rimmel London's 'Ruby Me' nail polish circles as you consider, then stabs firmly down and the intercom chimes charmingly.

“Yes, Madam Myers?” A wonderfully deep and husky voice replies, ringing with tasty masculinity. “I was just about to head home,” it continues, sounding only the merest trifle worried.

Indeed, it's well past eight. But Tommy, unlike Claire, is your personal executive assistant, and he's paid to work your hours to meet your needs.

“If you could just come in for a few moments, please,” you instruct, moistening your lips, feeling the slight tackiness of the crimson lip-gloss trying to hold them together. It doesn't succeed. “Don't worry, Tommy,” you continue. “I won't keep you long.”

Indeed you won't.

“Ah,” you sigh happily as he enters. He's a hunk of beefcake in a tight-cut suit, tie already cast aside in favour of a casually opened shirt-collar. Well, it is after business hours. “Hell of a day, Tommy,” you tell him, flipping the uppermost fastened buttons of your blouse open. Your cleavage doesn't sag, of course. Many delectable young morsels of both genders have seen to that. But it does spring forward, revealing a deep slice of cleavage between the firm melons of your breasts. “Cognac, if you'd be so good,” you request with a smile.

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You yawn away sleepiness as you stretch, the full and firm melons of your breasts straining against the thin silk chiffon of your slip, threatening to burst free of its low-draped neckline with every move you make. Most women wouldn't spend better than five-hundred bucks on a party-frock, let alone their nightwear.

But the wealth you most care about isn't measured in dollars – even as your career brings them in by the barrel-load. Though they are, you have to concede, very useful for certain things. Sexy lingerie. Prestigious schools. Expensive Jamaican Blue Mountain, rich and full-bodied with a mild acidity – much like your good self - gurgling out of the coffee machine and into your cup.

The letterbox clatters with the paper, and you contemplate a sprint to the door to invite the paperboy in for, or rather as, breakfast. He's the son of a friend of yours, but she's vorish and she'll understand if you have to eat Michael, just as you'd understand if she told you she'd had to eat Matthew, so long as it was for good reason.

Such as feeling peckish for a young sweet morsel and not having one such in the larder.

“Morning, Mom,” Colleen calls as your children clatters down the stairs. “Paperboy been yet?”

“Yep,” you reply. “You've got to get out of bed earlier if you want to catch him.”

“Damn,” she answers. “Who've we gotten in, then?”

“There's always Matthew,” her sister Nicole teases, sticking her tongue out at her big sis.

Colleen responds in kind. “Brat,” she says, “you know I go for men, not boys.”

“Big brother sure looks like man enough for my belly,” Nicole replies, catching Matthew's wrist in a vice-like grip as he passes her. She's the most athletic of your children, but the difference between even a child vore and a strong man is enough that there's no chance your son will be able to pull away. Instead, he scoops his giggling little sister into his arms and carries her to the breakfast table. “Wanna be my breakfast, big brother?” She asks, planting a sisterly kiss that's more a of taste-test on his cheek.

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You sip your Mai-Tai, and consider entertainment suitable for a woman of wealth and taste.

Which presently includes watching Jeff's tight buns, contained and displayed by suitably close-fitting Lycra shorts, as he skims some few leaves and the corpses of summer insects from the surface of your pool.

You'll swim later.

He isn't married, and how one of his clients hasn't yet shit him out into a pool of a very different kind you can hardly imagine. Maybe because your neighbourhood isn't the best in town, and has a consequently smaller Vorish population. Though most of them have pools, and they're the ones more likely to appreciate someone with Jeff's... assets.

Of course, fully enjoying him would be both a delicious and destructive experience.

Maybe it's cause he's so damn decorative that no-one wants to dispose of him just yet.

Yes, for that's surely the reason neither you nor your eldest sweet-sixteen daughter Colleen have downed him yet, though you're surely tempted now. Nicole doesn't seem to be interested, despite Jeff being an utterly obvious hunk of beefcake. But she is, after all, only eleven. Selecting meals based on their hotness, rather than their naked flavour is very much a post-puberty thing for vorish young women.

He's snatching glances at you, of course, as you recline on your handmade wicker lounger. So he should. You have the full and firm figure of a fertility goddess, all breasts and hips and firm stomach, though you doubt he'd appreciate how beautiful it would look swollen and filled with his slowly digesting body. Nor how your expensive swimsuit is slit to bare your belly, allowing it to expand to achieve just that end. Behind your elegant and expensive sunglasses, you return the favour of his gaze both more obviously and hungrily.

Tanned skin and lustrous hair require feeding to stay that way, and you give serious consideration to the thought of dining on your pool-boy today.

But then, it's not a good idea to eat before swimming. Which is probably yet another reason Jeff's managed to survive, you think, taking another long, delicious sip from your Mai-Tai.

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So, do you want to continue with the after-work scene, the Monday-morning family breakfast scene, or the Saturday-at-home poolside scene?