You pat Tommy's last resting place – well, no, that'll be some sewage reclamation plant - and burp your pleasure. It smells of sex and man-meat, only slightly less pleasant coming up than he was going down.

But the intense satisfaction of a full belly only emphasises the empty ache in your heart. It's nearly eight, and you miss your children. Only the top two buttons of your blouse will fasten above your boy-bulge, but it's enough to cover your breasts. There's no shame in being seen with a full, squirming stomach hanging out of the top of your business skirt after a hard day at the office.

Theoretically you shouldn't be able to stand, let alone walk with Tommy's mass filling your belly, no matter how vorishly strong you are. It's a question of balance. But vore defies and occasionally devours mere science and scientists.

The full grown man in your stomach is already squashed down to a size where you could be mistaken for merely pregnant with a large pair of twins. Yet he's still alive and struggling, albeit weakly and certainly not for long as your digestive juices continue their important work of breaking Tommy down to sustain your body.

For your vore strength, his mere weight is no problem at all.

The stiletto heels of your Jimmy Choo's are reinforced with steel against just such a situation. Naturally, since he's happily married to a very – how else? - beautiful and vorish woman.

You collect your crumpled jacket – you've been lying on it – and shake it out, vaguely annoyed that your carelessness means Tommy's going to have to take it to the dry-cleaners.

Oh.

You pat your belly and giggle. Tommy's only jobs now are to be nutritious and a nice smooth shit. These, you're sure, he'll be better able to excel at compared to even the light and decorative duties of your personal executive assistant. Certainly he was a better meal than he was a painter. You've only met his mother once, and that briefly, but there'd been a certain slightly sad acceptance in the woman's eyes that told you she'd already known that.

She'd been a vore too, of course.

Claire, your senior executive assistant – the one who does the actual work of managing your business life - will doubtless be acerbic with you. She'd thought Tommy a complete waste of space and oxygen who, she'd admitted, she'd come close to voring herself on several occasions – making him only the second-worst personal exec. you've ever had.

No, Claire would be mildly pissed at you for not planning making a meal of him sufficiently far in advance to have his replacement interviewed long before Tommy came anywhere near your digestive tract, and lined up to start in time to serve you some light dessert to follow your main of Tommy.

Typically that would've required some subterfuge, not that you haven't pulled the wool over an assistant's eyes before. Tommy probably hadn't been bright enough to see through it. In the end he'd been an impulse eat, which was going to force Claire into also doing his job for a few days.

At least she'll be motivated to find his replacement.

Tommy's forlorn and abandoned clothes you fold neatly, dropping them onto his former desk on your way out. His replacement can see they get to the Goodwill. It's nice to know the nice feeling in your belly will help someone needier than yourself.

Even though your car's in the basement garage, you stop on one. After hours, the main desk is 'manned' by security, two young and vorish women. Well, it would hardly be security if some ill-willed vore could simply and legally gulp the guards down. Beneath their black and skin-tight – but very elastic – catsuits neither sports a belly bulge.

Quiet night.

But there's still plenty of time for an intruder, or a couple of men who're simply lost to wander in and be given the detailed tour of their gastro-intestinal systems.

It's a very secure building.

“Madam Myers,” the younger of the two says, snapping to attention. She's new, twenty-five or so, and from the attitude straight out of a hitch in the military. Her colleague's older, and an ex-city cop. Vivian.

Private's where the money is and the quality, if not the quantity, of on the job culinary opportunities tends to be better. Or so she once told you. You're almost friends, as much as executive and security can be. “Olivia,” she greets you cheerily, “eat another one, did we?”

You just smile, and toss the little plastic rectangle that's all that's left of Tommy in the company onto the desk. “Cutie,” she comments as she scans him out, noting him into the category marked: 'Vored' and erasing his ID from the active database. “Bet he tasted fine,” she drawls.

“Oh, he did,” you grin back, patting your tum theatrically. The shredder's little basket is already quite full with the card scraps of devoured day-pass holders, but you can see more than a few plastic shards from permanent employee's in their too. Vivian once told you that ten percent of the men who visit this building leave it in a woman's belly, or through the plumbing, and you don't have reason to doubt it. She tosses Tommy's ID card into the shredder's slot, and the shredder munches it down with no more than a purr. Exactly like you've done to the genuine article. As far as the world's concerned, Thomas Burgess is already dead, and once your digestive tract has done its work he will be.

Not even the trouble and expense of a funeral required.

“Here,” you say, tossing Tommy's wallet onto the desk, “have yourselves something nice. On my dinner.”

Technically, taking his money's an act of theft and illegal. But Tommy wasn't important, all the cops are vores, and so are the prosecutors and so are the judges. Justice moves at the speed of digestion, and anyone who gives a shit about a little thing like this - and dares to speak up – gets turned into shit.

It's a good system.

“You have a good night, now,” Vivian calls as you stride for the elevator and home.

Your full belly ensures that you will.

Now, what happens on your way home?