You've already got children, and he's already got a mother.

A vore who won't be at all bothered by you turning her grown-up boy back into a little shit.

“Mmm, Tommy,” you purr happily, drawing his girlsex stained face to yours. The kiss tastes more of you than of him, and reminds you that it's been far too long since you last had another woman, either as a bedmate or just to eat.

A cock, you decide suddenly, will be an immediate disqualification in the selection for Tommy's vacancy. Since he's about to assume a much more fulfilling position in your stomach. Though you can't decide if you want the girl who'll replace him to be a brilliant and beautiful young artist and lover, or if you'd prefer her to be only quite talented... and very tasty.

Tommy's kiss is as sloppy as his work. Sometimes your lips are locked, sometimes sliding over and between each other, and so it is that he doesn't even notice that both his lips have slipped inside yours, your mouth opening wide as you begin to eat him. It isn't till your lips start to slide up his nose and over the cleft of his chin that his hands push back against you.

You're vore. Much, much stronger than he. It isn't even remotely difficult to hold him in your still-caressing arms. Perhaps it's those that cause him to tap gently but frenetically for your attention – as if a vore doesn't know exactly what she's doing when she pops a man's head between her lips. By the time your wet lips have engulfed his chiselled jaw he knows he's confused a sexual accident with the fact that you like to play with your food. It's just in time for you to taste sweet tears as your lip slides over eyes frozen wide in terror. You wonder, briefly, what the inside of a vore's mouth looks like when you know it'll be the last sight you ever see, save for the acidic dark of her stomach.

Your hand, tangled in his hair, pulls his head gently forward in a parody of a mother's embrace. He's sobbing now, and beating his fists against you as uselessly as a toddler. Indeed you're forty-something and he's a fresh-faced twenty. More than young enough to be your son, finally grown into a satisfying meal.

His head pops into your mouth whole, leaving your lips at the happy resting place of his neck whilst you suck on his skull like a gob-stopper. Of course, he'd have to be a good deal brainier to plug your vorish throat, but still. Casually you restrain his beating hands, your lips easily powerful enough to prevent him from escaping, even as your tongue slides across his face and down his neck, savouring his manly, fear-and-sex-seasoned flavour.

You hum a happiness that's not at all faked, knowing it'll open your throat and offer him a good view of where he's going next. The thought makes you giggle, which lets his face slide down into your throat even as your mouth opens wider, the comfortable feel of your dislocating jaw signalling the arrival of his broad shoulders between your lips.

He's still struggling, of course, like so many young men never believing that this could happen to him despite the statistics to the contrary. You don't mind at all. Kicking and wriggling all the way down is positively encouraged, and the only effect of doing so in your stomach – besides making you feel very, very good – will be a stirring of juices that slightly hastens the digestive process.

Tommy will be very nutritious, you're sure.

What's far more important right now; however, is the fact that he's truly delicious. You can hardly believe you've waited this long to gulp him down, or that he's survived long enough for you to do so. Had some vorish high-school girlfriend or kindergarten companion known he'd taste like this, he'd have long since been in the sewer instead of on your menu.

It's almost as incredible as the taste of his chest over your tongue.

His fingers tickle lightly across your face, in the moment before you slurp those delicious digits between your lips. It frees your hands to remove his tighty-whities, and you wonder if perhaps you might keep them as a memento of your meal. Maybe his mother will want them. Or not. You know she's vore, and likely pragmatic about such things.

Perhaps you'll visit her, and discuss her son's culinary merits over Mai-Tai's and a brace of boys far less tasty than her own is being.

You lash his cock with a thorough licking, and the combination of touch and the certain knowledge of his demise makes it spurt a hot sticky topping that goes all too well with his hips as your throat squeezes down on his shoulders and his face approaches it's coming swallow-dive.

Into stomach-acid.

The moment comes swiftly, his shoulders already inside your oesophagus, his hips past the barrier of your lips, and your head tilting back, lifting his bare and kicking legs towards the sky, giving him a straight shot down the shoot.

Splashdown.

The judge, you consider as you pet your belly happily, gives him a ten for style, texture and taste. Welcome to my stomach, Tommy, you giggle, tickling the feet sticking out of your gaping maw.

Your meal squirms quite wonderfully at the attention as your tongue and the rippling of your throat work the last of his legs out of your mouth. His feet you savour, licking and caressing with your tongue until you can resist no longer, and take the last deep gulp required to swallow him down into your tightly packed belly.

Big boys make mighty meals, you consider as your stomach groans and gurgles. Its very happy to be so full, and you're quite pleased too, gently rubbing it and the writhing, fighting form within. The action bestirs a stalwart belch, noticeably tightening your flesh around Tommy's form.

You can see his face and fingers pressing out, and you amuse yourself for a moment toying back. Soon enough he'll be sloppy and amorphous, and just a little while after that whatever of him isn't incorporated into your fine form will be washing down the sewers, hopefully to be reclaimed for some more useful purpose than he ever served in his life.

Well, that was a satisfying meal. What's next?