“Certainly, Madam Myers,” he replies, ice clinking into the heavy, thick bottomed glasses before the amber liquor begins to tumble down around it.

“Olivia, please,” you entreat, smiling brightly as you rise from your desk, hips swaying hypnotically as your Jimmy Choo Nova's stride easily to the plushly upholstered sofa. You take your glass from his broad hands, swirl and sniff the aroma of the golden fluid before downing a snifter. Then you slide out of your jacket and let it fall, expensive and unconsidered, to crumple over the sofa's arm. “If you don't mind,” you ask, perching comfortably, presenting your sheer-silk clad back and rolling your shoulders invitingly.

Gentle but firm hands begin to rub your aching muscles. He's not all that good at it. For a handsome young man, a few month as your personal executive assistant is a springboard to greater things. So many of them go on to become glamorous models or expensive masseuses, successful actors or bright young artists, developing photographers or indie directors. If they're good, your patronage is invaluable.

Of course, ninety percent of everything is crap. Which is exactly what you turn ninety percent of them into.

You thrum under Tommy's fingertips. It's a lot better knowing this'll be the last bad backrub he'll ever give. More exciting. And he doesn't have a clue.

You slide your stockinged feet out of your high-heeled slingbacks, luxuriating in the freedom with a wriggling of your toes, before leaning back into Tommy's broad and comfortable chest. He's a surprisingly comfortable pillow, but it won't save him. You're sure he'll feel much, much better struggling on the inside of your stomach.

As simply and seductively as only a vore can, you hoist your legs and curl them back beneath you, casting a slightly coy look across your shoulder at your prospective meal as your toe toys with his calf. He's both big and fit, though to you're already thinking it as filling and tasty.

He leans close, his breath dancing warm and wet across your parting lips, and audaciously covers them with his kiss. More boldness than you prefer in your men, but then, he doesn't know he's tonight's meal.

Yet.

You don't have to fake your enjoyment of the kiss, nor the little gasp of disappointment as it breaks. He's a wonderfully stupid hunk to veritably and willingly pour his delicious flavour across your tongue.

Yum.

You draw back, unfastening your blouse and letting it fall open around your breasts, revealing your large and lacy black brassiere. Playfully, you press the ball of your foot into Tommy's shaft. He gasps, grins, and begins to strip off himself.

It's amazing how quickly an otherwise smart man will undress for dinner at the sight of a pair of vorish tits. As if sex, and not his meat, is on the table. Of course, since you're eating him anyway, no one will ever know if you bang his brains out first. Vores tend to be secretly far more slutty than mere statistics would otherwise suggest.

Tommy pushes forward, doubtless drawn on by the lust he sees in your eyes.

You know he's mistaken. It's hunger.

Still, nothing wrong with enjoying the look of your meal a bit before voring.

“Nuh-uh,” you murmur seductively, pressing your foot into his chest, effortlessly forcing him back. Not-quite co-incidentally, this gives him a fine view of your long legs vanishing into the darkness of your skirt. “Lips first,” you instruct, parting your thighs a handful of degrees further. His eyes widen as the dim office light reveals your garter belt, and the complete absence of panties.

His hands and lips caress their way up sheer silk. But then, he wants to be where he's going. Your skirt rides up your hips, and beyond, resting on the top of his now-tousled hair as his tongue makes little circles against the indent of your thighs. He's such a sweetie, and you could just eat him up.

You're going to, for dinner and desert both.

Fingertips part your folds too roughly, and his tongue's too timid and inexperienced for your tastes. It hardly matters. He thinks this is foreplay, but you know it's just the appetiser. He's struggling to get you off, in his haste to get his meat into you, but the thought that that's literally – not metaphorically - what you're going to do is erotic enough to make his task easier.

Orgasm bucks you on the thought of his flavour rather than the talents of his tongue, even as your hand on his head forces it deeper within you.

Then a thought strikes.

He is in the perfect position for you to unbirth him, after all.


How shall you proceed...?