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Part 9
Six months drag by in a flash.
Six months of counting down the days.
The six most tense, exciting, dread filled, fantastic months of her whole twenty four years.
Her life span is no longer an unknown number reckoned on a vague actuarial spectrum. It's one hundred more days. It's seventy-three more days. It's thirty-five more days. Ten. Five. Four. Three. Two.
One.
Her last day of life.
This afternoon she'll be cooking over a fire.
This evening her steaming carcass will be presented at dinner.
Frightening!
Exhilarating!
Ming Ming hardly slept a moment last night. Her body reflects a night of bawd more extreme than anything she can remember. Every place where a penis could be accommodated is sore. Every place that a lover's teeth could bite, hurts. Yet she's exuberantly happy. And terrified.
She's also starving! They have allowed her nothing solid to eat since yesterday morning other than fresh fruit juice and water. And, of course, the cupful of vitamins and other pills she's been taking every day for these last six months to build up her health, strengthen her heart and enhance the flavor of her meat.
Why was her sleep so fitful? Perhaps it was the unfamiliar feel of the motel bed, filled most of the night with four bodies and sticky with congealed bodily fluids from the night's frenetic play. Perhaps it was the insane mix of fear and buoyancy percolating through every nerve in her body, a combination so unquenchably erotic that although last night's excesses eventually sent her companions into a sound sleep, she continued to toss and twist in the darkness, wrestling with the damned leg chain, her own itch barely scratched.
But now they're back in the rented car again and Carver is starting to put the blindfold over her eyes. She ventures a mild protest. “This is silly,” she says. “What difference does it make if I know where this place is? This is a one-way trip for me.”
“Consistency, I suppose,” he answers. “In case we crash and you escape, maybe? But also for your benefit. Same reason I've kept you naked and chained to one thing or another for most of these last six months. It reinforces your status. After all, in a little over a year you've gone all the way from free range female to designated meat in shipment. At any rate, it's an iron-clad rule of the Society: blindfolded and restrained for the entire trip — from holding pen to kitchen.”
The “holding pen” had been the worst part for Ming Ming. “Do I have to be kept in that awful room?” she had whined on the way home from Brooke's feast six months ago.
“The cage?” Carver had said, eyebrows lifted, as though amazed that anyone would object to spending twenty-four hours naked in a five-by-seven cell with nothing but a thin mattress and a toilet. “When I'm out of the house, yes. I'm required to keep you safely locked up in the cage. It will be good for you. Keep reminding you of what you are now, which, you have to admit, always excites you! However, you are a volunteer with perks, so when I'm home I'll let you out. I'll often have to chain you to something and you'll still be naked most of the time, but otherwise life will be fairly normal. At night you'll be sleeping with me, as usual, except chained to the bed. But I'll just attach it to one of your cuffs, so you'll hardly notice it.”
She had noticed it, of course. How could she not? By now the leather-covered cuffs themselves had become part of her body, as unremarkable as her toes, their deadly potential no more worrisome than a smoker's fear of lung cancer. But a chain locked on to any one of them became a major annoyance. If attached to a wrist cuff, it would somehow wrap itself around her neck during the night and she would invariably awaken Carver as she tried to free herself. If attached to an ankle, it would often entangle him as well. That's because he always locked it on her before the final round of their nightly love-making so he could fall asleep with one arm around her shoulders, one hand on her breast and his dingy still anchored in her harbor. At some point she would delicately extract herself from his slumbering weight so she, too, could get some sleep.
But sometimes her efforts to get free would wake him. This was a particular annoyance to her because there were any number of ways he could wreak unpleasant revenge for having his sleep disturbed. He might, for example, withhold his half of their regular breakfast cunnilingus/fellatio and coffee. Once he even took her to a WalMart parking lot and made her push a shopping cart the length of it stark naked.
The good thing was, if he punished her, he always offset it with something pleasurable. Trips. Fancy restaurants. An orgy with friends. Actually, any occasion that took them out of the house was a treat for her because she got to wear clothes, although he wouldn't allow undergarments no matter where they were going.
Midway through the six months he began bringing her to the local bdsm club, not for the sado-masochism — he knew she disliked pain — but to widen the circle of candidates for their orgies. There she finally did a little experimenting and discovered she enjoyed a certain amount of light bondage. In fact, one of her favorite entertainments was to be tied up, blindfolded and gang banged by a dozen unseen club members. And once, remembering Lara's description of her ordeal in the pit, she let them hogtie her, set her in a bathtub and use her mouth as a toilet. Carver had been right: piss didn't taste as bad as she thought it would and it didn't make her sick. But once was enough!
She reminisces on these things now as the car purrs smoothly along an anonymous highway, heading to that unknown place where in eight or ten hours — she's lost track of time — she will be hot slices of girl on expensive china. Her nerves are so taut she feels she might explode. Carver has been sweet and has not locked her hands behind her back. Not yet. Instead, he's locked her ankles together. She's promised not to touch her blindfold and he knows she'll be good. She desperately needs to talk, so she picks a topic at random.
“Why this long, drawn out, six month process?” she asks. “Why not just have a lottery on the day of the Feast to choose the meat for the day?”
Carver answers. “Would you have preferred it that way?”
“Well, it would be exciting, the suspense and all. But these six months have been fabulous!”
“Exactly. When the Society first formed, that was how they did it. A lottery at noon and the winner was slaughtered on the spot. But it wasn't all that satisfactory. For one thing, we needed more time to lay a proper foundation for the girl's disappearance. For another, the girls were telling us they felt they were being cheated out of the best part of the experience: being forced to live like a cow in a stockyard, penned up and waiting for their appointment with the kitchen staff. They also wanted the option to volunteer to be the next dinner, rather than wait for sheer chance.”
“By the way, why do you always refer to us as girls? We're all grown women.”
“Ah! The lady wants us to be politically correct. What's the problem? Do you think it's demeaning to the livestock?”
“Well . . . yes. Although for myself, I like it.”
“And that's the point! It's Society policy to refer to all livestock as girls because, in the first place, the word women feels kind of like the word mutton : old and tough. We prefer to emphasize that our meat is from young, tender stock: girls . But more important, we want our females to feel demeaned. They want it. It's part of the pleasure they derive when they renounce their old self and become livestock.” He smiled down at her. “So like it or not, you're girl meat.”
“I love it,” she said. Indeed, just hearing him call her that raised her pulse rate.
* * *
More hours go by. Time is distance. Every minute they are more than a mile closer to the kitchen, the roasting pit, the dining hall. Ming Ming can hear her heart thudding, feel its pulse in her temples.
“Will you miss me, Master?” she asks, and wonders why she should ask such a thing..
“Will I miss you?” he mimics, as if appalled. I already miss you! I thought you'd figured that out by now. Especially after last night. Did you happen to count how many times I came for you?”
“Sure did. Six times.”
“Six times! That should tell you something. You think I can get it up six times in one night for any old piece of pussy? At my age?”
“What is your age?”
“Never mind. The point is, you're one terrific girl and I'm gonna miss you more than you can imagine.”
“Oh, right. You already have my replacement lined up. I saw her picture.”
“Who? Dakota?”
“Yeah, Dakota, with the blond hair and the big boobs.”
“Fake blonde, real boobs, but no contest. Meagan met her up at the Red Rock nude beach a couple of weeks ago. She's a thirty-one year old middle school teacher and frustrated submissive. She spends her days disciplining rowdy brats when what she really wants is to be a full time sex slave. When Meagan showed her some of those Dolcett drawings of yours and one of my stories, she got all hot and bothered. Then, when she saw pictures of you and found out you were scheduled to be turned into meat today, she begged to come and watch. So I signed her up. One of our Members, Chris Miles, who doesn't have a regular assigned girl right now, agreed to bring her.”
“Why doesn't he have a regular assigned girl?”
“We ate her a couple of years ago.”
The ease with which he said that gave Ming Ming goose bumps. “So why not assign Dakota to Chris?”
“He lives in Little Rock; she's in San Francisco. Besides, he's working on a local girl in Arkansas and expects to add her to the inventory in time for the February Feast.”
“So you get the fake blonde with the big boobs to keep you warm after I've been eaten.”
“And she'll be replaced with another girl after she's been eaten. But none of them will be you . No one has your unique combination of exotic beauty and mind blowing sensuality.”
“Mind blowing, huh?”
“You blow my mind and wring me out, babe. I'm really, really, really going to miss you! If we had time, I'd pull over and shag you six more times right now.”
“I'd settle for once or twice.”
“God! Don't tempt me, vixon.”
“Why not? What's the big hurry? Can't you fuck me and eat me all in the same day?”
“We have a deal with the Society, sweetheart, remember? In return for your arrival at the site on time and properly restrained, Chef Boisvert will prepare and cook you just the way you requested. Otherwise, it's Chef's Choice. She could just have you slaughtered and butchered for oven roasting, the way she does for runaways if the punishment team has been too . . . ah . . . rambunctious; or gut you without benefit of happy juice. If we don't keep our side of the deal, they don't have to keep theirs.”
“Then shut up and drive, Jeeves. I want my happy juice!”
He laughs, and the journey continues. For several minutes, perhaps half an hour, nobody speaks. But Carver sees that Ming Ming's nervous tension is building up again. She's chewing her lower lip and her breathing is abnormal. He reaches out with his right hand and places it on her left thigh. She smiles. His fingers begin pawing at her short skirt, pulling the hem up over her knees, bunching it under his palm. He slides his hand under the gathered material and over her smooth, exposed skin, caressing the tops of her thigh, moving in feathery circles downwards. The back of his fingers brush inside of her right leg. She parts her knees to grant him easier access as the circles spiral closer to that certain piece of flesh that craves attention. At the same time she reaches over his arm with her left hand and finds his lap. She feels for his zipper and begins to work the tab down the little double ladder, then burrows in, pushing aside the flaps of the last remaining barrier between her fingers and a familiar warm, hardening shape. Both sets of fingers reach their respective objectives simultaneously. But while her blood pressure lowers with a happy sigh, his rises with a soft moan.
“Sure we can't stop for just a minute?” she breathes.
“Yeah,” comes a teasing feminine voice from the back seat. “The poor girl hasn't had sex in — what? — three hours. She's gonna be fucking the gear shift in a minute!”
“Watch out, though,” Roy puts in. “Could be a trick. The old ‘wait-till-he-gets-his-dick-in-his-hand-then-make-a-break-for-it' routine.”
“Don't worry, I'm all over it,” Carver says. She may plan it, but I'll can it.”
Roy chuckles. “You say you're going to thwart the twat's plot?”
“Oh yeah. I'm going to ream her little scheme and drown it in my cream,” Carver retorts.
“And he can do it,” Meagan says, unable to resist the challenge. “There's nothing like a rhyming fool with a turgid tool to tenderize a tough tart's heart.”
Now Ming Ming catches the spirit of the thing. “True, but maybe his poor tortured tool is too tired to take another trip down my tight little tube.”
Carver's eyes glint as Ming Ming's fingers slide expertly up and down his shaft. “Not to worry,” he says, formulating one last effort. “That puffed up puppy you're palming is never too pooped to pop. In fact, my puppy is prepared to play with your pussy right now!”
Roy quickly offers another alliterative suggestion. “Before you pursue this penetrating plan to plug into her pussy, what say we pull over and park!”
“Nice advice. And not a minute too soon!” Carver says, gasping slightly.
Ming Ming can feel the car slowing, coming to a stop. She also notes that the puppy in question is fully primed and ready for action, as is the pussy it's eager to plug into.
“Better, yet,” Carver adds, “let's trade places. You and Meagan in front, me and this overheated Chinese chippy in back.”
The car stops. Doors open. Hot desert air swirls past her and the car bounces a little as bodies move in and out. She stays put because her ankles are locked together. She waits to see how he'll handle it. Hands grab her knees and swing her to the right, setting her bare feet on the hot dirt beside the car, standing her up. Muscular arms wrap around her back and under her knees, sweeping her up. She wraps her own arms around Carver's familiar shoulders and pesters his unseen face with wet kisses while he carries her a few steps, then places her carefully in the rear seat. He urges her to wiggle over and make room. She feels him sit down beside her. Four doors slam and the car begins to move again.
“Okay, you guys, go to it!” Roy calls out cheerfully. “We'll watch and give you pointers as needed.”
Carver is bent over, his cheek against her right knee. He's unlocking and removing the padlock holding her ankles together. He sits up again and moves about. She knows what he's doing and places a small hand gently on his bare hip to confirm it. She hears the jingle of pocket change as he lifts his legs to remove his pants and shorts. Now her hand has full access to his tumescent puppy. Her index finger finds the creature's single eye and she spreads the advance droplets of his passion over its sensitive head and around the flared edges. His left arm slides behind her and his large hands grasp both her buttocks as he lifts her up and places her in his own lap facing front. She flips up her skirt so nothing will come between her own skin and his. Now he's rubbing his penis, slippery with leaking pre-ejaculate, against her vulva, searching for the opening to paradise. She spreads her legs wide and reaches between them to guide him into that sweet portal. As it glides past her wet inner lips she sits, impaling herself with a sigh. Her breath becomes ragged as she begins to post up and down on his thrusts.
“Slow, slow!” he says. “Let's make this last.”
She tries to restrain herself, but it's too hard! “I don't want slow ,” she protests. “I want to come a gazillion times!”
He laughs. “Don't we all! But you'll come plenty when you're on the spit. Let me enjoy you now.”
“Hey, you'll have lots of time to enjoy me tonight when they carve me up and put me on your plate, tits and cunt and all. Then for dessert you can make bang-bang with Dakota who'll be hot and horny from watching me roast. This here is my dessert. My last sweet fuck.”
“So slow down and it will last longer!”
But she can't, and soon both are in noisy orbit, crying out, bucking and clawing at each other the way lovers do when they climax together. She holds her breath to maximize the pleasure of his hot semen gushing against her cervix, his fingers gently squeezing and rolling the hard nubs of her nipples. Then, too soon, it's over. The sizzle permeating every fiber of her body begins to fade. She relaxes back against him for the extended afterglow, her vaginal muscles clamped tightly around his deflating manroot to prevent it from slipping out. Even flaccid he's unusually long, so he remains firmly implanted, locking their bodies together as he strokes her breasts under her dress. Her eyes are closed behind the blindfold as she luxuriates in the sensation, yet they're filled with images, exciting and memorable scenes from this last year of her life.
“I don't know if I can get it up again,” he says apologetically,” but this seat is wide enough for some nice cunnilingus if we work it right.”
“No. Don't move. I want you inside me right up to . . . as long as possible. If you get hard again, that will be lovely; and if you don't, that's beautiful too. Just stay in me. As long as you can.” She knows the question he wants to ask but does not for fear of the answer. She puts his mind at rest. “I want you to know, sweet Master, that I don't regret a single thing. I'd do it all over again. Just visualizing how I'll be cooked and eaten today is a huge high! Yes, I'm terrified, knowing I'm going to die this afternoon; but no, I don't have any doubts. Katie was right: the fear and the finality of it makes the whole experience an incredible rush! I want to run and hide and I can't wait for it to begin, all at the same time! So don't fret about me. And don't move a millimeter.”
More miles of silence roll by. She's almost at peace despite the niggling terror. She even feels a stirring of the instrument still firmly inside her and smiles in anticipation, making just enough movement with her hips to encourage its gradual revival.
But then the car begins to slow.
Roy's voice drifts back to them from the driver's seat. “Playtime's over. The entrance is about a mile away. You better zip yourself up and prep her.”
Without extracting himself, Carver takes her hands and gently pulls them behind her. “Sorry, babe,” he whispers.
She feels him slipping the padlock through the rings of her cuffs and hears it click shut. But he is fully hard now and pumping upwards into her. Her minds bounds chaotically between terror and pleasure. Something rubbery is pushed against her lips. The ball gag.
“I have to . . . put this . . . in now,” he says, thrusting faster and harder. “Any last . . . words . . . before I do?”
But all she can say is “Ah . . . Ah . . . Ah . . . Ah . . .”
And once again they climax together, cry out together, his arms around her, his hands crushing her breasts; her hands between them, kneading the flesh of his stomach.
When their breathing has slowed down, he asks again, “Any last words, my sweet?”
“Yes,” she whispers. “I love you.”
“I love you, too, babe,” he whispers back.
She opens her mouth and lets him stuff the rubber ball between her teeth. He's careful not to hurt her. She feels the straps wrap around her cheeks and pull taut as he joins the velcro closure behind her head. He lets her remain in his lap, enveloped in his arms. Their double charge of man and girl juices are leaking copiously past her swollen cunt lips and his shrinking member. He strokes her breasts and plants small kisses on her neck.
She can't hold back a sad little sigh as he slips out of her. She hears the jingle of loose change as he slips his pants back on.
Now the car stops and Roy is talking to the guards at the entrance. This is it! She will never pass through this gate again, except in the sundry digestive systems of those who will dine on her tonight, including her lover. Her heart is pounding as the car starts forward for the short journey down the long driveway. She can't see it now, but she remembers what it looks like. The enormous mansion. The pillared portico. The crowd of Members and girls waiting for the arrival of today's meat. With a last kiss, Carver smooths her dress and brushes at his own clothes. She wonders if any semen has leaked on to his pants. Will he be embarrassed by it, or display it proudly?
The door on her right opens and lets in another blast of hot air. A subtle motion of the seat cushion tells her that Carver is no longer beside her, but his hand grips her right elbow and urges her across the seat towards the open door. She feels the sticky residue of their lovemaking on her bare buttocks as she slides across the upholstery. She tries to pull down the hem of the silk dress to reduce her southern exposure before she swings her legs out of the car, but with her hands cuffed behind her it's impossible. But then, why bother? She remembers how Katie was paraded naked through the assembled guests and made to endure their groping and fondling. She'll receive the same treatment. One of Carver's hands is on her ankle, helping her find the pavement. Her feet are bare, as required by the Society during shipment. The hand switches to her head so she won't bump it on the door frame as she stands up in her blindness. The hot pavement scorches her tender soles, forcing her into a little dance that inspires guffaws from her unseen audience. Fuck you, she thinks, standing there in your shoes and sandals and flip flops!
Then a scary thought occurs to her. If the sun-heated pavement is this painful, how is she going to bear it when her flesh starts roasting over an open fire? She remembers Katie's face and its enigmatic alloy of pain and pleasure. O God! Does the happy juice really work?
Damn this blindfold and gag! She wants to see Carver, be reassured by his calm smile and soothing words. She wants to ask him to stay with her to the end, praise her courage, hold her hand.
Suddenly the hot, rough griddle under her tortured feet turns cool and smooth. She remembers the marble floored piazza beneath the shade of the portico and welcomes its soothing relief. The relief is multiplied when her bare feet sink into deep soft pile. She knows she's being taken to the kitchen, but she doesn't know the route because she wasn't allowed to follow Roy and Katie a year ago. She can only guess by the changes of surface she's led across — wood . . . carpets of various textures . . . tile. Finally a door opens ahead of her and her senses are assaulted by the unmistakable aromas of a kitchen.
“I'll take her from here,” an authoritative female voice intones.
Carver's hand releases its hold on her arm. “See you in an hour, sweetheart,” he says, and pats her bottom. “Do what they tell you and you'll be fine.”
“We're going to cut off your dress now, dear,” the woman says. “The scissors will feel cold, but don't be alarmed. They won't cut you.” Her tone is businesslike but not unkind. She might have been a dental assistant prepping her for a root canal.
The cold metal of the shears traces a line from her left thigh up to her neck, then two more across her shoulders. The silk material is whisked away and she feels her skin exposed to the moving air of the ventilated kitchen. She's glad she can't see the poor ruined remains of her beautiful green jade dress, but she couldn't hold back a sad little whimper.
“I know, dear,” the woman said. “It was a pretty little dress. But you won't be needing it any more.”
Someone is putting something around her throat, buckling it on. The collar. She hears the click as the leash is attached, feels the cold metal of the chain as it falls past her breasts and hangs between them against her skin.
“Let's get rid of this foolishness,” the woman says.
With a rip of velcro, the straps on the blindfold loosen and it falls away from her face. She blinks in the sudden brilliant light from the high kitchen windows and the overhead florescents. She sees ranges, ovens, sinks, steel counters, wooden butcher blocks, hanging pots and pans, racks of knives, refrigerators and all the other impedimenta of a commercial kitchen. She also recognizes the kitchen staff that cooked and served Katie, Brooke and the runaway girl. The woman in front of her, still holding the black blindfold, is Chef Boisvert.
“Oh my, you have such beautiful eyes,” she's saying. “Unfortunately, we won't be able to salvage those, but that gorgeous shimmery black hair! That will look exquisite against a bed of bok choy and red peppers. You're going to make a wonderfully exotic and exciting dish! But first we have to clean you out, my dear. You don't want to be making any mess when we gut you. Just go along with John here, and he'll take care of it for you.”
One of the assistants who had helped the Chef eviscerate the other three girls — a short, thick man with jet black hair and a neatly clipped beard — steps up and takes the handle end of the leash.
“Come along, love.” He has a tenor voice that seems much too high for his bulk, but that deficiency is offset by a charming British accent of some sort. He sets off ahead of her holding the leash over his shoulder. Having no other choice, she follows him.
She's led out of the kitchen and along a “staff only” hallway into a room about fifteen feet square equipped with a shower on the opposite wall, a sink on the left and an open toilet on the right. The walls and floor are tiled identically, and the floor is pitched from all sides to a drain in the center. Two chains hang from the ceiling near the shower and an odd piece of equipment that looks like a vinyl covered ottoman squats between the center drain and the toilet. Her heart sinks as she spots three bulging enema bags hanging from a rolling I.V. rack near the toilet. She gives John a baleful look and groans through her gag.
He nods. “Right. They're all for you. But not all at once. You'll cope.” He leads her to the ottoman. “Kneel down right there on that little pad and lay face down over the stool. Slide forward so that your bum is high in the air.”
When she does so, he wraps her leash around a cleat on the opposite side to hold her in place. With her head upside down, she peeks past her left leg to see him roll the rack up behind her and take down one of the nozzles. He dips it into a tube attached to the rack and it comes out covered with a shimmery substance she guesses to be a lubricant of some sort. Twisting it back and forth, John inserts the nozzle deeply into her. It's a far more comfortable insertion than the many times human nozzles have been forced into that orifice. Then she feels a peculiar swelling in her rectum.
Amused at the expression on her face, John explains, “That little balloon will keep the nozzle in your ass and seal you up until you've taken the whole bagful, so you don't have to sweat it. Hold on. Here she comes!”
He twists the pet cock and she feels a rush of warm, soapy water pour into her belly. For the first few seconds it's a pleasurable feeling. Then her intestinal alarm system sends its first advisory that a visit to the bathroom is indicated. The advisory is quickly upgraded to a warning as more fluid pours in. Before half a minute has elapsed the need to evacuate has become urgent. Then desperate! She feels she will burst if the flood doesn't stop! But John ignores her writhing and moaning until the bag has flattened completely. At that point tears are rolling down her face and she's groaning piteously. He releases her leash from the cleat, backs her over to the toilet and orders her to hover there, not quite sitting down. Then, in a well practiced one-two-three combination, he deflates the balloon, pulls out the nozzle and plops her onto the rim of the toilet just in time to catch the explosion of soupy excrement. Ming Ming had thought that by now — reduced to a thoroughly debased, sexually shameless, physically helpless and permanently naked piece of livestock — she would be beyond humiliation. But sitting on this seatless toilet gushing foul smelling, watery shit in front of a smiling kitchen assistant is more deeply humiliating than anything she has ever imagined possible.
And she has to go through it all over again. Twice!
Touched by her sobs as he forces another gallon of treated water into her, John tries to ease her suffering by assuring her it's all for her benefit. “They work pretty fast when they gut you, love, and sometimes they accidentally slice where they shouldn't, and if anything's in there, it spills out. You only get to do this once and you don't want folks remembering you as tasting like shit, do you?” But his well-intentioned logic doesn't help.
When he brings her back to the dreaded ottoman a third time, she hopes that knowing what's coming will made it easier to bear. But her body's determination to empty her belly at the first hint of excess capacity is as fierce and torturous the third time as it was the first and second! The only part of the ordeal that grows less intense is the humiliation. Her final discharge into the toilet is nearly clear and smells only of the strawberry scented soap.
Finally it's over.
“There now,” John says in his cheerful accented tenor, “that wasn't so bad, was it?”
If it were not for the gag, she'd have set him straight.
She's led to the shower side of the tiled room. John positions her between the dangling chains, each of which ends in a metal cuff, like halves of a pair of handcuffs. He clamps the cuffs on her wrists just above the leather-covered cuffs already there. To her relief, he removes the padlock holding those original cuffs together, freeing her hands, at least to the extent that she can now move her arms around to loosen up her aching shoulders. As she does that, he takes from his pocket a small black object that looks much like the remote device Carver uses for keyless entry to his car. He touches it to one of the black leather cuffs and snaps open with an audible click.
“This here is a pretty cool device,” he says chattily as he does the same with the other three cuffs. “Has to be activated by three of the bigwigs here, three different combinations, or it don't work. ‘Course if you was gonna be butchered for the barbecue grill, or pan fried or oven roasted, we wouldn't bother. Just chop off your hands and feet. Saves time.”
She stares at the white bands of sun-starved skin. Curious how unnatural her wrists and ankles look now, completely naked.
John is behind her, now, unbuckling the collar. Taking it off.
Next he moves to a crank bolted to the wall and begins to turn it. The chains to which the new metal cuffs are attached are rising, pulling her wrists with them, upward and outward until her hands are just above her head and about four feet apart.
The door opens and a second kitchen assistant enters — a tall, blonde young man Ming Ming recognizes as one of the servers at all three previous banquets. He stops at the sink and picks up a bucket containing a long-handled brush and what appears to be soapy water, which he brings over and sets on the floor near her feet. He arms himself with the brush while John plucks a hand-held shower wand from the wall. A moment later Ming Ming feels a wide swath of blunt, hot needles stinging her back and moving around her body in a delicious aqueous massage. A few seconds after that the soft bristles of the soapy brush begin to describe gentle swirls on her body, adding to the unexpected pleasure. She's ordered to spread her legs wide and heavenly attention is paid to her sex, legs and feet. Every inch of her body is gently scrubbed and showered. A soft cloth in the hands of the blonde assistant is used to cleanse her face, ears and neck, then her breasts and pussy. He uses his bare hand to test for stubble, but Carver had shaved her in the motel and she's a smooth as a child. The same bare hand caresses her breasts and tweaks her nipples, exciting the nubs to erection, but for a less professional reason. Having firmed them up, he leans down and sucks at them alternately while rubbing her soapy slit with one hand. With the other he zips himself open, frees his stiffened member and pumps it until his spunk spurts all over her sex and legs. Then John takes his place and repeats the same performance. She doesn't mind, for although their suckling and fondling fails to do for her what it's done for them, it's followed by another two minutes of delightful hand soaping and showering to clean off their jizm.
The blonde assistant retrieves a bottle of shampoo from a nearby cabinet and proceeds to lather her hair and rinse it out twice, enveloping her in a subtle fragrance of peaches. Once again she lets herself drift into a state of bliss as his fingers massage her scalp. After the final rinse the men team up to towel her off, taking turns between a vigorous rubbing of her hair and a sensuous patdown of her body, with special attention to her female bits.
When they're satisfied with the results (and have, no doubt, stretched their unauthorized play time as far as they dare), John replaces her collar and leash, then goes to the crank and lowers the chains until her arms can hang normally at her sides. His partner, standing behind her, puts his hands on her shoulders and slides them down her sleek arms to her wrists. He pulls them to the small of her back and locks the two halves of the handcuffs together. Then he disconnects the chains, turns her around for one last suckle at each tit and leaves the room.
John takes the end of the leash and pulls her after him out into the hallway to another, somewhat smaller room. It's set up like a one-chair beauty parlor. One of the female kitchen staff is standing beside the single chair and gestures her into it. John clips the handle of the leash to the arm of the chair and leaves.
“Well, you're going to be easy,” says the woman, running her fingers through Ming Ming's black hair. “Nice short cut. Very cute. Exactly right for your doll's face. Lots of natural luster and bounce. Not ruined with bleaches and colors. Perfect!” She picks up a blow dryer and a brush and begins to finish what the two men had begun. “Your eyebrows and lashes don't need any help, either; nice and black. They can oil up your face and not have to worry about makeup. You'll be a scrumptious sight on the spit, but your real glory will be when we present you on the platter. Trust me, honey: you'll be fabulous!”
As the hair styling goes on, Ming Ming becomes more and more excited that she's about to be cooked, but equally aware that she has less than two hours to live. It's as if she'd jumped out of an airplane and was free falling thousands and thousands of feet, steering herself in circles and figure eights, all the while the ground rising up to meet her. A human bird gliding through an exhilarating plunge that's about to end in death!
With her hair properly primped and styled, she's led back to the kitchen at the end of the leash where she's attached to a ring bolt in a steel counter. She waits quietly while the kitchen crew bustles about washing vegetables, kneading bread dough, mixing sauces, rolling out pastries and creating a myriad of things she can't identify. Chef Boisvert is issuing rapid fire orders to her staff, pointing at various kettles, pans, cutting boards and other pieces of kitchen apparatus.
It's fascinating to watch them prepare the various accompaniments that will be served with her meat. It helps to divert her mind from the growing pain in her jaws caused by the ball gag. It began as discomfort as soon as Carver had pushed the thing between her teeth, forcing her mouth open as wide as it would go. Discomfort had escalated to an ache during the enemas and was getting steadily worse. But before she can feel too sorry for herself, Chef Boisvert turns and heads straight toward her. Ming Ming's heart skips a beat then speeds up alarmingly. This is it.
The Chef unlocks the leash from the counter and faces Ming Ming. “Okay, girl, this is your moment. This is what you signed up for and have been preparing and waiting for all these months. Are you ready?”
Ming Ming nods, her hands trembling behind her.
“Your handler tells me you're a little concerned about your tits, that you think they're a little too small compared to some of the other girls. Is that right?”
She nods again with a sheepish glance at her modest 34-B's.
“Well, let me tell you, girl, your tits are the ideal size and shape. Nice and firm. Not the least floppy. When we roll you face up for carving, they'll stand up proud and perfectly shaped, not squished down and flattened out sideways like the really humongous boobs do. They'll be nice and succulent, too. Really tasty. We don't have to inject any cream or thickening agents. Now listen: all your friends are here to see you transformed from a common head of livestock, like those girls out there, to a superbly beautiful and delicious roast. I promise you, the Feast tonight will be truly memorable. You'll be exceptionally erotic on the spit as you cook, absolutely stunning on the platter when we bring you in, and every forkful will be delicious! You'll be a meal that our Members will remember for a long, long time, and an inspiration to the other livestock. So stand up tall, girl! Show them what a fine specimen you are. Get their salivary ducts flowing and their dicks and cunts twitching. Okay? Here we go!”
The Chef turns to the red door that enters on to the courtyard and starts off, leash in hand. Ming Ming has no choice but to follow. Her heart is thudding so hard in her chest it hurts. The door opens automatically at their approach. There, standing in a line and watching expectantly, is the whole host of men and women who have come to feast on her. She steps out on to the hard flagstones. They're hot under the intense sun but not blistering like the driveway pavement. She actually welcomes the mild pain because it helps take her mind off the gnawing ache in her jaws.
Acutely conscious of the picture she's presenting — naked, bound, gagged, collared and leashed — she keeps her back straight and her head high as she's led past the Society Members and the pretty girls in their charge. These are mostly the same people she stood among when Katie and Brooke were in her place.
She spots Carver near the end of the line. He winks at her and she winks back. He's flanked by Meagan and the new girl, Dakota. Dakota is just as he described her, except he hadn't mentioned how cute she is or her spectacular figure; only that her shoulder length riot of curls is bleached and that her boobs — twice the size of Ming Ming's — are real. Still, she feels no jealousy. This cute faux-blonde will one day soon be walking these same hot flagstones at the end of this same leash and be replaced by yet another pretty piece of meat.
Chef Boisvert brings her to a stop. “Stand here and spread your legs!” she orders, then drops the leash and backs away.
Nearly the entire assembly moves in to fondle and grope her, testing not only the firmness of her meat but the wetness inside her vagina and the reaction of her nipples to their pinching. She fixes her stare on the pool several yards ahead of her, remembering her happy escapades in that very venue. It helps deflect her mind from the busy and sometimes hurtful hands swarming over and into her body. Occasionally she glances at the roasting pit to her right where the staff is warming up the coals.
A profusion of blonde curls with dark roots arrives in front of her face, claiming her attention.
“Wow!” Dakota says. “This is awesome. I've heard a lot about you from Carver and Roy. You look fantastic! I can hardly wait to see what you taste like. I hear the Chef likes to season tit meat with rosemary. I love rosemary! I'm a gourmet cook, you know.” She cups Ming Ming's breasts with her hands and frowns. “Geez, I hope there's enough here to go around.” She shrugs and backs away. “Oh well. I'll be over there,” she rolls her eyes at the roasting pit, “watching them do you. Have fun!”
Suddenly Ming Ming feels less charitable about her cute, blonde replacement. But before she can get her dander worked up properly, a more welcome face appears in her place.
“Hi, sweetheart.” Carver uses the palms of his hands to give her sore and recently maligned breasts a gentle and soothing massage. Her eyelids droop with relief and pleasure. He kisses her nipples and her eyes, then murmurs in her right ear, “You look absolutely ravishing! I'd like to eat you up right now. But you're worth the extra wait. You're going to be the most fabulous roast of girl ever! Just think . . . after all the hundreds of times I was inside you , tonight you're going to be inside me, and remain part of me forever.” He kisses her on both cheeks. “They'll be taking you to the roasting area now, but I'll be near you the whole time, darling. I'm so proud of you! Love you!”
He backs away as Chef Boisvert steps in and plucks up the handle of the leash.
“Come along, dear,” she says, and begins pulling Ming Ming toward the stainless steel table waiting beside the roasting pit.
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