Bright sunlight poured through the streets of the North African town, its luminosity enhancing the warm colours of the squarish buildings – creamy white, vivid yellow, pastel orange. The fronds of palms trees swayed ever so lightly in a welcome breeze, under the hot blue sky. There were few people out and about, in what was evidently a wealthy area of town. Escaping the mid-afternoon sun, the privileged local residents were staying indoors, or perhaps some were out at pleasant social gatherings, or at a desk in a cool office somewhere. Alone in this clean but dormant environment, a man in a dark, neatly tailored suit was making his way up the street. A wide-brimmed hat shielded his eyes and brow from the bright sunlight, and he carried a beige briefcase in his right hand.
He walked without hurry, pausing just once to mop a little sweat from his face with a neat white handkerchief. His face was lean, his Arab features showing signs of early middle age, his short dark hair showing touches of grey at the temples. He glanced further up the street, spotting the house he was looking for. He resumed walking, just a little more briskly – though he knew there was no need for haste.
The house, when he reached it, looked impressive as always. Tall, clean white walls and pristine black gates shielded the garden from prying eyes on the street, but the house itself was visible, its own white walls adorned with a simulacrum of sandy-coloured columns in the centre of the first floor above ground, around classical high arches and a staggeringly large, embedded private balcony. A cream-coloured stone balustrade topped the second floor, and concealed a private rooftop terrace, with just a glimpse of vividly exotic potted flowers. The man began, for a moment, to count the windows and estimate the number of rooms, then gave up with a shrug. He already had some idea how rich the owner was.
He rang the jangling bell at the gate, and a maid came out to let him in. She led him up the path through the lush yet well-tended, sweet-scented front garden, and into the welcome coolness of the magnificent house. Impeccably polite, she made sure he was comfortably settled in the sitting room, and brought him a large glass of cool lemon water, with ice. And left him there to wait.
He looked around. At a guess, he would have said this was a room used only for waiting guests. The expensive settees seemed almost brand new, little used. The table and dark wood chairs were flawlessly polished. The bookcases were perfectly neat, their rows of serious-looking tomes looking old and very similar, not one of them out of place. He sipped at his refreshing drink, patient.
After a while, he picked up his briefcase from where he had placed it at the foot of the settee, and set it on his lap. He opened it, and pulled out a sheaf of papers. Merely to occupy himself, he skimmed through them, refreshing his memory with some of the technical details of the proposed agreement. He nodded to himself, put the papers away again neatly in his briefcase, closed it and set it back down. He took another sip of the pleasantly iced water, sat still for a few minutes in thought, then got up and made his way to the heavy, solid bookcases, with their tidy rows of books between shelves of dark wood. There were no recent publications here. He imagined that what the family might actually read would be upstairs, in private rooms. This room was merely for show, a display of tasteful wealth – a collection of old classics in French and Arabic, and some in English too. He turned his head a little sideways to peruse the titles on the bindings, quietly.
A door banged, loudly, somewhere upstairs – making him jump a little. He glanced up, but of course there was no telling who might be there, going about their business in the private parts of the mansion. He looked over the book spines a short while longer, idly, then went back to sit down on the settee, his back upright.
He heard the clatter of sandaled feet on stone stairs, then on the marbled floor of the hallway outside. Then the door opened, and a girl in her late teens strode busily in. She paused, just inside the door, and looked him up and down, coolly.
He got quickly to his feet.
She was attractive, in a faux-nonchalant way, the sort who gave herself a carefully casual air. She wore her dark hair long and smooth, around a smoothly flawless face paler than that of most Arabs. Whatever leisure activities she might enjoy, she had certainly never had to work outdoors in the hot sun. Her lips were glossed with a light yet eye-catching pink and her dark green eyes were highlighted with discreet, effective shades of black and mauve make-up. She had on a white t-shirt, emblazed in blue with the words: ‘I don’t care. Do you?’. It was cut high, leaving her trim young tummy bare, above an expensive black-and-silver belt slipped round a pair of pale pink denim shorts. Her smooth young legs, perfectly lovely, were bare from above the knee, down to the casual sandals on her otherwise bare feet.
“Hello,” she said lightly, while he was still trying to think of what to say. “You’re the man Daddy’s doing business with.”
“Ah, yes, that’s me,” he said, recovering his composure. “Your father phoned me to say he’d be here a little late, but I should come all the same and…” He trailed off, and gestured vaguely at the settee behind him.
The girl nodded. “Yeah, I know.” She held out a flawlessly soft hand, white gloss on her long fingernails. “I’m Jamelia.”
He took her dainty hand and shook it, not too hard, but she surprised him with her confident grip. He had heard of her. There were stories. The only child of a billionaire father, she was what many would expect at her age. A girl who could have everything she wanted, and felt the need to stand out, make herself a bit of an untamed wild child, give herself airs as a rebel – though not, of course, to the point of spurning the material comfort her daddy could give her. It was said she was being courted by a rich young art dealer her father knew, and whom she treated with amused, flirtatious disdain.
“I’m here to sign a contract with your father for–”
“Yeah, I know,” she said, a little smile of that same amusement playing on her pretty lips. She eyed him up and down again, then walked past him and sat on the white settee. He hesitated, then sat down as well, and faced her as she crossed her stirringly beautiful bare legs, a sensuously fluid motion. “Daddy told me,” she added. “It’s all very important .” She rolled her eyes briefly. “Like, you’ve been negotiating it for months . Daddy keeps boring me with all the details.”
“We have,” he concurred. “And, well, it is important. From tonight–”
“Yeah, no, I’ve heard enough about it already from Dad,” she cut in firmly. She placed a hand on her own thigh, and leaned in a little towards him, her green eyes fixing his own troubled gaze. “Sooo…” she said, and her face brightened into a warm, lovely smile. “What do you like to do for fun ?”
* * *
Half an hour or so later, a well-dressed man in his early fifties opened the door to that same sitting room, and looked in. He found it empty. With a frown, he closed the door again.
“Kamilah!” he called.
Only a brief moment passed before the maid emerged from a side room, a dusting cloth in her hand, and hurried over to him. “Sir?” she said, looking faintly anxious.
“You said Mr Ghannouchi was waiting for me in the downstairs sitting room?”
“Yes, sir. I showed him in there myself.”
“Yes, there’s an empty glass on the coffee table,” he said impatiently. “But where is he now? The bathroom?”
“I don’t know, sir,” the maid winced.
Her employer grimaced. “Never mind. Thank you.” He glanced at the broad stone stairway. “Is my daughter in?”
“Yes, sir.” The maid looked faintly relieved at having a question she could answer. “She’s in her room, I think.”
He nodded brusquely, and made his way quickly up the stairs.
* * *
He found Jamelia lounging on her bed, propped up against a pile of comfy cushions and pillows, atop her orange bedcover. She was tapping continuously at her pink mobile phone, the steady beat of music playing from her computer – perhaps by one of those trendy girl bands whose posters adorned the walls of her bedroom. She had a bowl of nuts on the bed with her, and was dipping her free hand into it idly. A glass of cool lemon-water sat on the edge of her desk. A teddy bear from her childhood lay upside down on the floor at the edge of the bed, its fluffy legs flopping over its smiling head.
“Hi, Dad,” his daughter said, without lifting her eyes from her phone. She nibbled at a few nuts, lifting them from the bowl to her glossed lips.
“Jamelia.” His crossed his arms over his creaseless white shirt and dark jacket. “My business associate seems to be missing. Have you seen him?”
“Oh, him?” She glanced up from her bed, her smooth lovely face a picture of sweet innocence. “Yeah, he was really nice! He let me eat him.” Her mouth broadened into a grin, and she popped a nut in between her clean white teeth. She crunched on it, munching softly.
He father lowered his head a little with a weary sigh, and pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers.
“Please tell me–”
“I mean, he was a bit hesitant at first,” she went on cheerfully, after swallowing what was in her mouth, “but in the end he was keen for some fun! He went down nice and easy.” She reached for the glass by the side of her bed, and drank some water, carefree. “Are we having dinner soon?”
“He was here for important business,” her father said, as patiently as he could. “This is important to me. Could you just…?” he trailed off, shaking his head. “He hadn’t signed the contract yet! Do you know how much effort we’d put into that! Now I’ll have to find out who at his firm…”
“Hey, you leave your toys lying around like that, you should expect me to play with them,” she said brightly, impish. “And it doesn’t really matter , right?”
“Jamelia!” he said, almost sharply. “ Listen to me for a moment! It will be much easier for me if I can still get him to sign.” He inhaled a deep breath, and let it out slowly, bracing himself. He looked at her sternly. “Is it too late for you to spit him out?”
His daughter pouted… and her stomach glorgled , rather wetly. She grinned. “Oops! Sorry, Daddy!” She looked up at him with her loveliest, most irresistible mock-innocent look. “You know, I just couldn’t resist!”
* * *
Hundreds of kilometres to the north, Anisha Perrine lay in the large garden at the back of an ultra-modern house only slightly less luxurious, stretched out on a yellow-and-white deckchair set on lush green grass. In her early twenties, she had light brown skin and a gorgeously slim, shapely feminine build. The features of her smooth face, set amidst the flow of her lovely silky dark hair, revealed her ancestors’ Indian origins – though her family had been settled in Mauritius for as far back as she knew, and she herself had been living here in France for several years now.
The watchers of the video being made of her would see her lounging elegantly on the fabric of the summery deckchair, her slender brown arms folded lightly over her belly, one smooth leg stretched out to its full length and the other folded up alluringly, bare and shapely below her pale yellow shorts. She was smiling warmly at the camera, as she basked in the warm spring sunlight.
“Sooo,” she began, addressing her future viewers with friendly playfulness. “It’s my boyfriend filming –still haven’t eaten him!– and guess where I am?”
The camera turned, away from the beautiful young woman, to focus on the three men sitting nearby. Two were on sky-blue deckchairs with their backs pushed upward, sitting rather than lying, and the third was sitting on a wooden chair. The garden around them all was so large as to be almost a private park, with rows of tall hedges concealing the walls and fairly dense trees towards the back, beyond the wide expanse of grass. To the vast majority of French viewers, and to many others as well, the men would be instantly recognisable.
“Yep,” Anisha giggled brightly, “I’m here at Aimé Kasongo’s gorgeous home! By kind invitation.” She beamed. “And with us are Marcel Barrault and Charles Gaillot!” The men waved. To any viewers who might still have had doubts, she had just named them as three of the players of the French national football team. “Isn’t this exciting!” the young woman tittered. “I bet you didn’t knew they watch my vids! And I bet you can’t guess why I’m here!” The camera had turned back to her, but caught the sound of the men’s light, pleasant laughter.
“We have a bet of our own,” Aimé Kasongo’s voice said. The camera turned back to him. The midfielder was fairly short of build, but powerful, with very dark skin, stubble on his cheeks and a bald head. He was the one on the simple chair. He was sitting with his legs rather spread out, his hands folded on his lap. “Anisha always says she can persuade any man to let her eat him.”
“I can !” Anisha said proudly. “All I need is a bit of time to talk him round.” The camera swung back to her, and she gazed at it intently, as though gazing deep into each viewer’s eyes. “I can be very persuasive,” she purred throatily.
Charles Gaillot, another midfielder, laughed. He was a fair-skinned man with a shock of reddish-blond hair, a trimmed line of hair along his jawline in lieu of a beard, and a thick goatee. “So I’m saying, I bet she can’t persuade Marcel here.” He put a hand amicably on the other man’s shoulder. Marcel Barrault, by far the tallest of the three, was a black man with broad shoulders and a rather blocky face, his hair a very thinly cropped dark fuzz. He was a pivot of the team’s defence. He smiled faintly, and said nothing.
“Whereas I say she can !” Kasongo said cheerfully, his voice deeper than his short build might have suggested. “So we can think of only one way to find out.”
Anisha licked her lips teasingly, her eyes flicking from Barrault to Gaillot. “You should never bet against me,” she admonished him playfully. “I’m good at this.”
“You’ll have to be, I guess, at that competition in a few weeks,” Kasongo remarked.
“Well, that’s not really the same,” Anisha told him. She flicked a strand of her dark hair lightly back behind her ear. “At the vore competition, we don’t need to do any persuading. We get shrunken people served up to us literally on a tray.”
“Too weird!” Gaillot said, and shook his head, smiling. “And a lovely girl like you enjoys that?”
“ Oh , yeah!” she said cheerfully. “I like to feel guys tickle inside my tummy.” She placed her hand lightly on the light, frilly white top that covered her chest and belly. “And they like it too! Think about it.” Her eyes twinkled. “How many guys dream of getting really inside a girl? This is, like, the most intimate, sensual thing you can ever do.” She slipped her hand under her top, and caressed her own tummy softly, slowly. Looking at them.
“So, you’re flying to the Seychelles to compete.” Barrault leaned forward a little, his square dark face remaining impassive, not willing to let her see whether her words and sensuous gesture were having an effect.
“Yeah.” She smiled at him. “It’s not too far from Mauritius, and my parents actually took me there a couple of times when I was a kid. But that was a long time ago! I remember nice beaches, though, and swimming in the sea. And I’ve become kind of online pals with the girl who’s from there, Vivee. I’ll be staying at her place. We’ll have fun!” She smirked.
“How do you prepare for a vore competition?” Gaillot asked, curious. He made himself comfortable on his deckchair. “I mean, I guess it’s very different from training for football, but I suppose there are strategies?”
Anisha nodded earnestly. “Oh, yes. Especially in Africa. See, in the other continents, they just sit all the girls side by side, and whoever eats the most wins. But in Africa, it’s chess vore. You’re put against one other player, to start with, and you play chess with shrinkies as the pieces on the board. And you have to eat the ones you capture. And of course you have to eat as many as you can, so you have to capture the other girl’s pieces and defend your own. And then later in the competition, when everyone’s starting to feel full, you kind of have to decide how much you can still eat, and you can try to force the other girl to capture and eat more pieces than she can manage. So it’s all about taking risks, and having a strategy. And being able to fit lots of people into your tummy!” She grinned, a broad pretty flash of white teeth in her brown face.
“And you have to learn about the other players?” Kasongo asked.
“Well, ideally.” Anisha flicked her hair back again. “I know who the competitors will be, so I’ve been looking up those who have a real online presence. Which isn’t all of them, in fact! If I can, I watch vids where they’re eating, to see how they cope with it. It’s good if you can know the other girl’s limits. You don’t want to be forcing her to take pieces when in fact she’s still got lots of room in her tummy! But I don’t really know how good they are at chess. And I don’t know who I’ll be playing in the first round! So that part is kind of random. Oh, and of course I prepare by eating a lot, getting my tummy used to being full!” She gave a teasing smile, and patted it.
Kasongo laughed, a friendly laugh. “It doesn’t look as if you eat a lot! You’re beautifully slim.”
“Well, thanks!” She rewarded him with a warm pretty smile. “I only eat a lot when I’m preparing for a competition. And I make sure I stay fit! I haven’t really got a huge appetite, though. I’m going there really to have fun!”
“And are you good at chess?” Gaillot asked, looking at her.
“I’ve been practicing that too. I actually found a really old chess game online where, if a rook takes the queen, it turns into a big rock monster and eats her! Kind of cool!” She laughed. “So yeah, I think I’m getting good at it.” She cocked her head at him, prettily. “You play?”
He shrugged, and smiled back. “A little. I’m not too bad.”
“Cool!” she said again, pleased. “After I’ve eaten Marcel, maybe we could have a game?”
“Sure.” He nodded. Kasongo turned to Barrault.
“I guess that’s your cue! You have a date with this lovely lady’s stomach.”
“If she can talk me into it,” Barrault said calmly. He got up from his deckchair, straightening up to his full impressive height. He seemed to loom over the slender, smoothly gorgeous girl. She looked up at him, winked, and swung her shapely bare legs to one side, getting up in turn off her deckchair, and picking her glass of fruit cocktail up off the grass as she did so. She was almost comically shorter than him.
She brought the glass to her lips and drained it in a few thirsty gulps, the camera focusing on her lovely face and on the rippling motions in her slender throat as she swallowed, gulp after gulp. She licked juice off her lips, and looked up boldly at the star football player again.
“Shall we, then?” she asked, sweetly playful.
He gave a slightly hesitant nod. She grinned at him brightly, and slipped her slender hand into his.
“Come on!” she said cheerily.
The other two men hooted and whistled their approval, and Barrault himself laughed with nervous amusement as he let the confident girl lead him by the hand towards the house. The camera filmed as they went, and as they stepped through the open, wide glass door at the back, disappearing indoors.
To the viewers who would watch later, the screen at this point would fade briefly to black.
The image would return soon after, a view of the back of the house and the back porch, with the words ’26 minutes later’ superimposed over the bottom of the screen. Anisha had reappeared, alone, hands on her hips. The camera zoomed in on her, and revealed the bright warm grin on her face.
“Well?” Kasongo called, his deep voice carrying from where he had stood from his chair in the garden, carrying across the grass to the girl at the back of the house. “Let’s end the suspense! Did you do it?”
Anisha smiled impishly, her eyes twinkling with pleasure. She raised her fingers to her pretty lips, and breathed out a very dainty little urrrp . The camera caught the faint sound, and the brief view into her feminine open mouth, the dark and the moist pinkness beyond her pretty lips and teeth. Though the viewers wouldn’t know it, her boyfriend, holding the camera, felt his arousal twitch and harden in his pants. He bit his lip softly, smiling to himself, and held the image steady.
Kasongo and Gaillot laughed, with exclamations of surprise.
“I’m impressed!” Gaillot said. “I didn’t think he would! Well done, girl!”
She grinned, and looked straight at the camera. “Woops, sorry for all those of you who were his fans!” she teased. There was a warm glow of enjoyment on her face. “And for my fans, well…” Her voice dropped to a saucy whisper, her gaze fixing itself provocatively upon them. “I’ll upload the video of me eating him, in a few days. If you’re all very, very good.”
She winked, pleased with herself, her gorgeous grin brightening her face. And the screen went black.
* * *
Weeks later, it was a sunny day as well in a small town on the north coast of the island of Mahe, in the Republic of the Seychelles. Colourful buildings, in cornflower blues and soft pastel green, lined a modest commercial street – a bakery, a post office, a small bank. Cars and pedestrians came and went, without hurry. Gently drifting clouds, fluffs of white in a vivid blue sky, attenuated the sun’s heat, and made its bright rays merely pleasant.
Seated directly on a grassy area in front of a shop with light yellow walls and a living area above with potted plants on a balcony, a young woman sat fiddling patiently with the chain of a reclined bicycle, its oil staining her fingers. She wore a loose-fitting apple-green top, and beige shorts, an old cloth draped over her lap and folded thighs against he oil and grease from her work. She had fairly light brown skin, and luscious shoulder-length dark brown hair. She was distinctly pretty, her features a harmonious blend of Indian and European. On the outer front wall of the shop behind her, the image of a sturdy bicycle had been skilfully painted, leaving no doubt as to the nature of the shop’s trade.
She hummed quietly to herself as she worked, a catchy tune she had heard at the grocer’s this morning and was still trying to place. In the sunlight, barefoot and seeming carefree even as she studiously progressed with repairing the somewhat battered bike, she looked quite peacefully lovely.
“Ah, excus’ah me?” a male voice said, jolting her out of her pensive humming. She looked up, her brown eyes questioning. Standing on the pavement, clearly hoping for her attention, was a young man of East Asian origin, of average height and fairly skinny build, dressed in a white t-shirt and blue jeans, a mobile phone in his left hand.
Vivee smiled up at him warmly. “Hi, there! Are you looking to buy a bike, or just looking for directions? I can probably provide both.” His pronunciation marked him as foreign, and she guessed he had been looking at a map on his phone. He seemed faintly anxious.
He hesitated. “Please, you are Vivee?” he said at last, worriedly.
She observed him for a moment, then her pretty face brightened with a friendly grin. “I am!” She wiped her hands on the cloth, set it down, and got fluidly to her bare feet, on the grass. “And if you’re calling me that, I’m going to guess you quite like vore.”
The man, perhaps just a few years younger than her, looked both flustered and relieved, his cheeks reddening a little. He focused, steadied himself and, with great care, enunciated: “Eskiz mon, mon pa kapab koz Kreol”.
Vivee’s eyes lit up with startled delight, and she laughed, warmly. “Oh, that’s okay; I speak English! Mon kapab koz Anglay.” She grinned, and walked over to him, stepping over the damaged bicycle and holding out her feminine hand. “But thank you for saying that in Creole!”
They shook hands, the young Asian man blushing with nervous pleasure at her friendliness and touch. “My name, Yasuo,” he said. “I am very pleased to meet you.” He bowed his head a little, briefly.
“Pleased to meet you too, Yasuo. Do you want to come inside?” Her brown eyes twinkled warmly. “If you’re here for what I think, you might want us to talk indoors.”
“Ah, talk indoors?” he repeated, and indicated the entrance to the shop, uncertain. When the lovely Seychelloise gave him a friendly nod, he showed obvious relief. “Yes, please. Thank you.”
“Right, just give me a moment.” She smiled at him reassuringly, and turned to the shop, lifting her hands to form a vague funnel shape around her mouth. “Oh, Shaka?” She switched to Creole. “Ou al, siple?”
A moment later, another young woman appeared in the doorframe, looking out at them. Of average height and build, she had the fairly light brown skin of most Seychellois, her face hinting at the generations of mixing that had resulted from the islands’ first inhabitants, French and East African. She was wearing a single-piece, knee-length dress, mauve flower patterns on a sky blue background. Though not conventionally attractive, she had a pleasantly amiable look about her. She glanced at Yasuo, nodded nicely with a quick smile, and turned to her friend. “Kwa ki pase?”
“Eski ou kapab vey bisiklet, de minit?” She indicated the bike on the grass, then switched back into English. “If you could just watch over it a moment? I need a word with our… guest, indoors.” She smiled meaningfully.
Her friend grinned. “Wi, dakor. Ou anvi manze kliyan?” You want to eat the customer?
Vivee laughed, cheerily. “I’m not sure he’s a customer!”
“Well, maybe he should be,” Shaka suggested, amused. She turned to him. “Do you want to buy a bike, before Vivee eats you?” Yasuo blushed red. “By the way, I’m Shaka,” she went on amiably. “I run this shop with my crazy friend there.” She jerked her thumb towards Vivee. “And no, before you ask, it isn’t ‘Shaka like the Zulu King’. It’s Shaka because my real name’s Jeanne-Claire, but my lazy friends just won’t pronounce it properly.”
By now, Yasuo was looking quite lost, confused and faintly alarmed. Vivee came to his rescue.
“Hey, don’t scare him off!” she laughed, possessively, and gently took his arm. “Come on indoors,” she said to him gently. “We’ll talk a bit, yes? And get you comfy.” Her warm, friendly smile helped him relax. He nodded, and walked with her as she led him into the shop.
The interior of the bike shop was not particularly big, but it was stacked full of new and second-hand bicycles, for sale or rental, along with shelves of all sorts of annex equipment. There was a laminated parquet, walls of a lighter shade of yellow than the outdoor façades, and large windows letting in plenty of sunlight. To one side was a repair area, with boxes of tools and a child’s disassembled bicycle awaiting attention.
Vivee stopped well inside the room, where they could talk in private, and turned to the nervous Yasuo. She placed her hands softly on his sides, below his ribs, and looked up into his dark brown eyes. He lowered his gaze, shyly. She told herself that if he was Japanese, he perhaps wasn’t used to bold and direct eye contact. Or perhaps he just didn’t want to gaze straight back at someone he wished to submit to.
“So, do you want to tell me?” she suggested gently. “Do you want to say you’d like me to eat you?” She touched his chin, softly tilting his head back up. “You can look at me,” she whispered. “I don’t bite.” She leaned forward just a little and clacked her teeth at him, teasing. He smiled, his smile awkward but genuine. Her hands was still on his sides, but he hadn’t put his own hands on her hips. Not yet.
She tried another approach. “Would you like a drink? Let’s go upstairs. That’s where I live, and it’s more comfy. You can sit down, relax, and we can do it when you’re ready.” She continued to hold his chin up gently with her index finger. “Me swallowing you, I mean,” she whispered, encouragingly. “That’s what you want, yes?”
Yasuo gulped tightly, shivered a little, and nodded. He seemed to have been rendered speechless. He was gazing at her now, though, his eyes shining softly, enchanted by her face. Her voice. Her smile.
“Here, put your hands right here,” she told him kindly, and took his hands in hers, guiding them to her hips. “ There you go. Don’t be nervous about my body. You’re going to be inside me very soon, so I really need you to feel relaxed about my… physical presence.” She gave him a lovely, tender smile. He smiled back, hesitantly, and nodded with a small laugh. His hands, though, did press themselves a little more firmly on her hips.
“That’s better, isn’t it?” she said softly. “How are you feeling?” Gently, she stroked his cheek with her fingertips. “You yummy-looking boy, you,” she whispered.
He shuddered, an unmistakable tremor of desire, and when she glanced down, she saw the beginning of a tell-tale bulge in his blue jeans, at his crotch. She smiled wickedly. “I think you like it,” she teased, her voice still a warm whisper.
“Sorry, I… always shy,” he mumbled, lowering his gaze again. His hands gripped at her hips, as though to steady himself – then he seemed to realise he was grabbing her, and took his hands off her quickly, his face reddening.
“Hey, you may be shy, but you were bold enough to come here to find me!” she beamed. She leaned in, and kissed him very softly on the lips. “And I think that deserves a reward,” she murmured, her mouth tantalisingly close to his, her warm breath tickling his face. “Don’t you?” She grinned, when he seemed unable to reply, and she took him by the hand. “Upstairs,” she told him firmly. “Let’s get you settled. I want you nice and relaxed when I swallow. If you’re tense, it’s no fun for me either.” She winked, and led him to a door marked “private”.
She felt a warm pleasant thrill, as she led him up into the private rooms she shared with Shaka above the shop. Obediently, he let her guide him to a sofa in the living area, and she pushed him gently, playfully down so that he would sit. “Stay there,” she told him kindly. “I’ll be right back.”
He nodded, mutely, his eyes wide and almost yearning as he watched her disappear into another room. She returned a short while later, having swallowed a few gulps of mint syrup to freshen her breath and throat, and twirling her shrinker playfully between the fingers of her left hand.
“Now listen carefully, Yasuo,” she told him cheerfully. “We’re both going to have fun and enjoy this, but I need you to be absolutely sure you really want me to eat you.” She sat down on his lap, facing him, her shorts-clad bottom on his thighs. Her eyes locking on to his. “Because after I gulp you down, it’s too late to change your mind.” She placed the tips of the fingers of her right hand onto the softness of her throat, and stroked slowly downward. His eyes trailed down with her, following her implied swallow, fascinated. “Here, this is where I want you to look,” she whispered. His eyes moved back up to her face, as she opened her mouth for him. She gaped, exhaling her mint-scented breath, giving him a perfect close-up view into the moist, alluring pinkness of her mouth. His eyes widened as he gazed into her, and his breath quickened, trembling with desire. Against her thigh, she felt the press of his hardening penis, through the layers of clothing between them.
“You want it?” she breathed, almost a little moan, warm and sensuous. “You want me to eat you all up?”
He took a shuddering gulp of breath, his eyes fixed upon the enchanting motion of her lips, the pink feminine warmth beyond them – inside her.
“Please, yes…” he whispered, trembling.
“Good.” She gave him a bright, warm grin, her lips parting with a broad flash of white teeth. She stopped twirling her shrinker between her fingers, and gripped it firmly instead. “Because I …” she kissed him very softly again “…am going to enjoy you.”
* * *
A short while later, Vivee walked out of the shop with a pleased little sway in her step, and a little smile on her lips. She had put a pair of shoes on, and had her handbag swung over her shoulder. In her hand was a car key and remote. Shaka, seated on the grass fiddling with the bike chain, looked up at her.
“You’re going out?” she asked, in Creole.
Vivee nodded, and gestured to the garage by the side of the shop.
“Where ’you going?” her friend asked.
Vivee paused, and motioned this time at her own cheek. She shifted her jaw, and made a little sloshing sound.
“Oh!” Shaka said as she realised, and laughed. “He’s still in there!”
Vivee smirked, and opened her mouth wide, crouching down a little to let her see. Inside her now very wet mouth, Yasuo was panting hard with bliss, wriggling excitedly on her tongue. He looked out, blinking at the sudden sunlight. Vivee closed her mouth again, straightened up, tilted her head back a little – and swallowed. A brief cry of male pleasure accompanied the bulge that slid smoothly down her slender throat, disappearing forever inside her.
Shaka shook her head with an amused smile. “The competition is the day after tomorrow. He couldn’t wait?”
“I think he wanted my tummy all to himself, rather than crowd in there with other people.” She patted her belly lightly, and grinned.
“I still say you’re weird.” Shaka grinned back at her. “Anyway, I’ve almost got this bike fixed. Where is it you’re going?”
“I need to go and pick up Anisha at the airport. Remember?”
“Oh! Right. Yeah, cool! It’ll be good to meet her.”
Vivee smiled warmly in agreement. “It’s going to be a fun few days!” she said.
* * *
Agboville, Côte d’Ivoire, West Africa
“Go on, say you think I can do it. I want to hear you say it.” Zanele “Nelly” Kambiri put her hands firmly on her hips, and gazed up demandingly at the man just in front of her. They were in their kitchen, the afternoon light pouring in through the window, despite the narrowness of the pedestrian passageway that separated their house from their neighbour’s. The street outside was coated in a fine layer of red-ochre dust, as it so often seemed to be, and motes of dust outside the closed window fell slowly through the sunbeams. Somewhere in the distance, a man was singing – loudly, but rather well.
Marc-Raimi Kambiri gazed down with intimidated fondness at his wife’s fiercely determined and fiercely attractive face. She was fairly tall, and her one-piece white dress showed off her gracefully athletic dark brown arms. It concealed the most part of her lovely long legs, but he didn’t mind. He could gaze into her face for hours. He cupped her cheeks in his hands.
“Of course you can do it,” he said, with feeling. “You’ve always done everything you set your mind to. And you’re an athlete! You have the stamina for it, and physical capacity, and the mindset. The other girls will all be amateurs.”
“I’m an amateur too, when it comes to vore,” Nelly reminded him. But her face had softened. She put her hands on his shoulders, stood on her tiptoes, and kissed him, lightly. “Thank you for saying the right thing,” she whispered. “Now I remember why I chose you as my coach.” She smiled. “And as my husband.”
He smiled back. “I think that was a decision we made together. Getting married, I mean.”
“Yeah, you keep on thinking that,” she teased, with a playful grin. “I wanted you, so I had you. Simple as that.”
Her husband laughed, tenderly. “I don’t think any man would have said no to you!” He slipped his hands down her sides, to her waist, and gently cupped her bottom through the fabric of her dress. “I love you, and I’m the luckiest man in the world.”
“You are!” she giggled. She pushed herself up onto her toes again, and gave him another soft little kiss. “And I love you too,” she murmured, fondly.
Their eleven-year-old daughter, Akissi, poked her head round the doorway from the living room. “Daddy, Mummy, Kouamé wants help with his geography homework, but it’s hard !” she said rather plaintively.
Her father smiled warmly. “We’ll be with you in just a moment, sweetheart.”
She looked at her parents, curious. “Daddy, why have you got your hands on Mummy’s bottom?” she asked, vaguely intrigued.
“I’m holding your mummy upright,” he said, his face solemn.
Akissi blinked, absorbing that. She shook her young head, aware that he was being silly. She looked past them to the table, and to all of the shrunken people currently sitting, or standing, or milling about on a plate. She turned back to her mother.
“Are you going to eat all of them?” she asked, impressed.
“I am indeed!” her mother smiled, stepping gently back from Marc-Raimi’s intimate embrace.
“But you won’t be hungry for dinner,” Akissi said, faintly reproachful. It was something her mother had often said to her , to prevent her from nibbling snacks between mealtimes, and it seemed only fair that her parents should abide by the same rules.
Nelly laughed. “Don’t you worry about me,” she said, warmly. She walked the couple of steps over to her, crouched down, put her hands on the little girl’s arms and kissed her cheek, adoringly. “Go and help your brother as much as you can – yes? I’ll eat these all up as quick as I can, and then your dad and I will come and help.”
The girl brightened. “Okay, Mummy!” She kissed her cheek in turn, then darted back towards the living room and her younger brother. Nelly straightened up, still smiling. She turned to the table, pulled out a chair and sat down, facing the shrunken men and women her husband had so thoughtfully assembled on her plate. “Well, I suppose I’d better gobble you up!” she told them cheerfully. “My children need me for their homework.”
There were various exclamations of eager approval from the shrinkies, their babbling voices overlapping. She looked up at her husband.
“How did you find so many in one go?” she asked him, pleased.
“Hey, I’m your coach.” He put a hand on her shoulder, warmly. “It’s my job to get you properly prepared for the comp’.” He glanced at the shrinkies, his eyes soon returning to his wife’s face. “There are twenty. If you can eat them all without problem, I think you’ll be ready for the big game.”
Nelly gave him a grateful smile, and put her hand tenderly over his, atop her shoulder. She knew of course that she would have to eat quite a few more than twenty if she was to have any hope of reaching the vore competition world final. But then, training was haphazard for all of them. She couldn’t regularly sit down and eat forty or so people in one go. No-one could. There was the practical difficulty in getting so many volunteers together, and the Vore Council’s rules strongly frowned on anyone eating more than three people in one sitting, other than at official competitions. Something about not depleting the available stock of prey.
What she was about to do would doubtless be frowned upon by the Vore Council, if they ever got to know about it – which they wouldn’t. On the other hand, perhaps they tacitly tolerated a bit of reasonable training for competitions. She brushed the thought aside and looked down at her appetising little shrinkies.
They were naked, and most of them looked quite fit, though there were a diversity of body types. Quite a few were already visibly aroused.
“Your husband got us all to wash before shrinking us,” one tiny man piped up. “So we’re nice and clean!” He spread his arms, smiling.
Nelly smiled back. “I’m sure you are!” She glanced up at her husband, a twinkle of warmth in her eyes. ‘Thank you,’ she mouthed, silently – lovingly. He gave her a little nod and a wink in return.
“Well I don’t know about you all, but I’m hungry!” she said cheerfully. She reached down, and picked up one of the men. He was among the biggest and bulkiest, in early middle-age, his head shaven, the muscles of his body just beginning to be soften slightly with fat. “You all consent, yeah? So that I don’t have to ask each one of you individually.”
Their heads bobbed as they all nodded. The man dangling between her fingers nodded excitedly too.
“You’re very beautiful!” he babbled quickly, gazing at her as though enchanted.
“Well, thank you!” She flashed him a charming grin. “How do you feel about becoming part of this female beauty?” She winked playfully, as the tiny man trembled with unconstrained desire between her fingers, his mouth quivering as he seemed to struggle to put his emotions into words. His penis quivered too, hardening further. She gave a cheery little laugh, tilted her head back, and opened her mouth wide as she lifted him up above it.
“O-oh- ohhhh …” he gasped, panting, his breath catching in his chest as he stared down into the moist fleshy pinkness of her mouth, between her luscious pink-brown lips.
“In you go!” she trilled, those lips curling into a broad open smile. She lowered him a little further and then let go of him, letting him fall the rest of the way into her mouth. Swiftly, she closed her lips on him as he entered her mouth, pressing them softly but firmly round his chest. Before he could fully get his bearings she sucked , hard, inhaling him all the way into her mouth. He disappeared inside her.
She stuck the tip of her tongue out for a brief moment, moistening her lips anew, and sloshed her shrunken man inside her mouth, nudging at him with her tongue. She could feel his bare skin, the hardness of his knees and erection, as he slipped and slid on her wet tongue. She smiled to herself, making him her little plaything. She swwlped and sloshed him from side to side, and up and down over the slippery surface of her tongue, and felt him squirm and wriggle wildly. He had no control over what she did with him, but he was clearly enjoying it, wriggling hard against her tongue, rubbing himself over her hot wet flesh.
She hummed, and laughed a little with her mouth closed, and sucked at him wetly. She tilted her head back, still sucking on him, tasting and savouring his smooth slippery squirms, letting him enjoy it. Then she jerked her head back further, pushed at him with her tongue, and felt him slide perfectly smoothly into her throat. She swallowed, gulping him down as he wriggled energetically down her throat.
She parted her lips and exhaled a soft little sigh of pleasure. She could feel him going down, a tight but slick and easy little lump, deep inside her chest. Deeper within her still, and further down, she felt a first hot little flutter of arousal. She kept it to herself, her lips merely quirking into a discreet smile.
Straightening, she looked back down at the nineteen men and women not yet eaten on her plate. Just for them, she made a little show of licking her lips.
“Well, he went down easy!” she told them, playful. “So who’s next?”
Hands went up, as the shrinkies babbled eagerly for her attention.
* * *
[Continues in part 2…]