<span style="font-weight: bold">Naomi Thompson</span><br/><br/>It was vaguely annoying to hear, from behind me, that Clif - who I found rather<span style="font-style: italic">wet</span>was the kind of properly terrified vore-bred boy I<span style="font-style: italic">should</span>be interested in whilst Xarces… more than that, it pissed me off they were<span style="font-style: italic">chatting</span>when they should’ve been<span style="font-style: italic">running</span>.<br/><br/>“Move it!” I snapped, wondering how they’d managed to escape girl’s maws to date if that was the best they could do.<br/><br/>A twitchy, pretty college girl entirely neglecting the writhing bulk of her belly awaited us at the door. “Thank goodness you’re here,” she said, as I loped up, my boys trailing behind. “They’re this way. We were pledging-” She cut off and started moving swiftly herself, at a speed halfway between a powerwalk and a dogtrot, and I didn’t need to see the<span style="font-style: italic">constriction</span>in her belly-muscles, nor the whimper of pain they caused, to know she was tense.<br/><br/>The room she led me - us - to was pleasantly appointed, wood-paneled in a turn-of-the century style, but the casual chairs were of a more recent vintage, albeit in the timelessly out-of-date mode that all semi-public buildings seemed to favor, pushed back against the walls, creating a large, parque-floored space. A dozen girls, all vorishly pretty, were scattered around the sides and corners, some standing, some on the edge of their seats, and all their tummies squirming with short-lived boylife.<span style="font-style: italic">Another</span>boy sat, huddled, collared and chained into the corner - the only one yet to be eaten. Stark terror was written on his face, and I could hear, in moments between the gurgling, his soft whimpers.