The question hung in the air, sharp and cruel, severing the last frayed threads of your friendship with Rachel. It wasn't a hypothetical; it was a sentence. Condemnation delivered in a soft, sweet voice. You watched Rachel’s face crumble, her fear escalating from a silent tremor to visible shaking. Her eyes, wide and pleading, darted between you and Gabrielle, searching for an out that didn’t exist.

“Choose?” she whispered, the word barely audible, laced with pure horror. “You’re… you’re going to eat me?”

The cheerleader in you felt a strange mix of satisfaction and impatience. Get to the point, Rach. Yes, that’s exactly what we’re saying. Sort of. The competition was on. You glanced at Gabrielle, who remained calmly observant, a faint, almost predatory smile playing on her lips. Her tattoos seemed to writhe under your gaze, adding to the coiled tension in the room. She wasn't going to make this easy.

“Well, Rach,” you said, leaning forward just slightly, your small tongue flicking out instinctively, a tiny, nervous habit that suddenly felt charged with a different meaning. You saw her eyes flick to it, then widen further. “It’s really the safest option, isn’t it?” You spread your hands, a picture of sweet reason. “Think about it. If anyone else finds out… anyone you don’t know… it won’t be pleasant. They might not be… careful. They might not appreciate you.” You let the implication hang there – the inherent value of a non-vore, the delicacy you represented.

Gabrielle nodded, stepping closer, her movement deliberate. “We’re your friends, Rachel. We know you. We… care.” Her voice was low, soothing, but it held an undeniable edge of hunger. You knew that sound. It was the same hum you felt under your own skin. “This way, it’s… controlled. Clean.”

Clean. The word felt alien applied to what you both intended. But it was the vore logic, the way women in your world justified the inevitable. Possession was protection, in the most final sense.

Rachel scrambled back slightly in the armchair, pressing herself against the cushions as if they could shield her. “No, please! There must be another way! I can hide! I can leave!”

You shook your head slowly, a sympathetic frown on your face that didn’t reach your eyes. “Leave? Where would you go, Rach? And how long until someone figured it out? Your size makes you… noticeable. Desirable.” You pushed another step closer. “And hiding? In this city? With so many hungry girls always on the prowl? It’s impossible. You know it is.”

You wanted to show her, to give her a glimpse of what you meant. You stretched your jaw, a feigned yawn, letting your mouth open a fraction wider than necessary, just enough to hint at the potential depth, the smooth, pink lining beyond your small tongue. It was subtle, a tease. You saw Rachel’s gaze fix on it, her breath catching in her throat.

Gabrielle mirrored your move, a slow, deliberate smile revealing a wider expanse of her own maw. Hers seemed larger, less restricted than yours, a hint of effortless capacity that you instantly resented. The competitive spark flared hotter. You might be smaller, but you were faster where it counted – the melt. The finality.

“See, Rachel?” Gabrielle’s voice was a silken thread. “We’re equipped. We can take care of you.”

“Take care of me by… by eating me?” Rachel’s voice broke.

“By keeping you,” you corrected gently, the underlying possessiveness unmistakable. “Permanently. Safely. With one of us.” Your competitive edge made you add, “And I promise, Rach, I’d make it… memorable.” You thought of your small, tight stomach, the intense acids. Fast and intense.

Gabrielle chuckled softly, a low rumble in her throat. “Memorable isn’t always what people want, Callie. Sometimes, they prefer… comfort. A slower process.” Her eyes met Rachel's, a silent offer of a different kind of ending. You bristled. Slower swallow, maybe, but her melt wasn't as renowned as yours. Why would anyone prefer a longer stay in the stomach? It made no sense. But then, Rachel wasn't vore. Her logic was different.

The air crackled with the silent challenge between you and Gabrielle. It wasn't just about Rachel anymore; it was about who was chosen, who was deemed the better, the more... appealing... endpoint.

Rachel stared at you both, tears still carving paths through her makeup. She looked utterly lost, trapped between two impossible monsters who wore the faces of her friends. Her eyes swept over your petite frame, your innocent smile, the subtle hint of your tight capacity. Then they moved to Gabrielle, slightly taller, her gaze steadier, the hint of her maw suggesting perhaps a less constrained journey.

It was a horrifying calculation. Death versus death. Which felt less terrifying? Which offered a sliver, a microscopic chance of… something?

She swallowed hard, a convulsive movement in her long throat. Her gaze settled on Gabrielle. “If… if I have to…” she choked out, her voice raw with agony, “if there’s no other way…”

Your heart plummeted. No. She couldn't choose Gabrielle. You were Callie, the best cheerleader, the fastest melter!

“…I… I choose Gabrielle.”

The words were a physical blow. You gasped, a sharp intake of air. Gabrielle’s faint smile widened, a silent victory.

Rachel wouldn't look at you, her gaze fixed on Gabrielle as if she were clinging to a life raft. “I… I think…” she stammered, trying to articulate the logic of her despair, perhaps remembering your reputation for rapid digestion, or the feared tightness of your gut. “I… I think that would be… easier.”

Easier? The word felt like an insult. Easier for her? It was supposed to be about who was the better vore, the more dominant presence!

But the choice was made. The competition you hadn't even realized you were fully invested in was over, and you had lost. The sting of defeat, sharper and more bitter than any failed cheer stunt, settled deep in your gut, twisting alongside the hungry anticipation that was still there, now tinged with resentment. Gabrielle had won. And Rachel, your friend Rachel, had just sealed her fate, choosing one monstrous embrace over another.