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Part 10
The looks of dreamy pleasure on the faces of Katie and Brooke while on this table are still vividly etched in her mind. Even so, the thought of being ripped open and disemboweled while awake and alert is scary.
But there's still some time before that happens. For one thing there's the relief of having her hands free again when the handcuffs are removed, even though the Chef has locked her leash to the table. She touches the sides of her gag and moans beseechingly at the Chef, but the woman shakes her head.
No. Leave it alone. I know it must be terribly uncomfortable by now, but you must leave it in place or we will restrain your arms behind you again very harshly. Furthermore, if you do not cooperate, we will not numb you with happy juice. You wouldn't want that, would you?
Ming Ming drops her hands to her side and shakes her head sadly.
Then climb up on the table and lie on your back like a good girl.
She does as she is told and is soon enjoying her last massage, a full body rub with basting sauce by John and the blonde assistant. She smells the rich fragrance of seasoned butter. They work the soothing balm into every inch of her body, paying special attention to the most sensitive spots: her face, eyelids, lips, nipples, labia, clit and vagina. Ming Ming suspects the latter is more for their own jollies since the vagina will never be directly exposed to the hot coals and fire. Her suspicion is confirmed when they flip her over to baste her backside and again include her clit and the depths of her vagina for a good minute of rubbing. She doesn't mind a bit. In fact, she tightens herself around their fingers and wiggles a little to let them know she enjoys it, too. Her eyes are closed in a bliss that's tinged, perhaps enhanced, by a niggling terror of what comes next.
She feels an additional set of hands on her shoulders and hears the Chef's voice in her ear. Take hold of the table legs, dear. I'm going to inject the serum now and it might hurt a little at first. You must hold perfectly still so I can put the needle in exactly the right place and not have to do it again.
She reaches down to find the steel legs and grips them with her hands. The assistants have not yet applied basting to her palms so she's able to hold herself tightly against the table. She feels the prick of the needle, followed by a burning flare of pain as though a red hot spike were being pushed into the base of her skull. Her body trembles with the strain of holding herself motionless.
Then, as though a valve had been opened, the pain drains swiftly away and a strange new giddy feeling permeates her entire body. She feels hands grasping her body and sees that she's rotated once again to be face up, but it doesn't seem quite real. It's as if she's in some sort of human body simulator; or perhaps connected by sensors to a stranger's body and is experiencing what that stranger is feeling via some kind of computer generated wizardry. The ball gag comes out of her mouth at last and she licks the drool off her lips. It's not as easy as it should be because her tongue moves with maddening slowness, like it's mired in molasses. She tries to say thank you , but can barely move her mouth and can't make her voice work at all.
She sees the knives come out and feels the terror well up in the back of the stranger's mind while she looks on with a detached curiosity. She feels the sting of the scalpel as it slices deeply into the belly her belly but it's an almost theoretical kind of sting, once removed from wherever she is now. She watches analytically as the two assistants stretch the two halves of her abdominal flesh apart and the Chef reaches in to pull out vital parts of her she's never seen a tangled mess of white sausages and bloodied organs which are both foreign to her and profoundly personal. While part of her is deeply saddened to see them dumped into a waste bucket as useless garbage, another part appreciates the need to move things along efficiently.
Someone is using a cauterizing tool to seal the wounds made by the Chef's knife. Ming Ming feels the terrible pain the stranger is suffering, but only as a kind of hearsay. She turns her head toward the small crowd of onlookers a sluggish process because her head is so distant and heavy and sees Carver in the front rank, along with Roy, Meagan and Dakota. They're watching her. Dakota, for whom this is all new, is fidgeting excitedly, pointing, waving, taking in every detail. Just as Ming Ming had done herself as she watched Katie being gutted. She smiles. She smiles and wants to wave, but can't quite raise her hand. She gives up on the idea.
Now the kitchen crew is lifting her onto the smaller table. She knows what will happen here and is both excited and frightened. This is the final setup for the ending she herself has chosen. Her legs are pulled apart and she feels the cold point of the spit enter her vagina. The sensation as it worms its way into her womb and on up through her body touches off a torrent of orgasms. The thick steel skewer is both a white hot poker and a lover's dildo. She knows she's in agony, but that's in the distance, whereas a series of powerful orgasms are swallowing her up! Whoever has been holding up her head lets it fall backwards at a sharp angle. She doesn't care, except that the white hot spit has plowed into her throat and cut off her air. She can't breathe. She feels her body twitching, racked with spasms, trying to inhale. Meanwhile the searing point of the spit has reached the back of her mouth. Now it's scraping between her teeth, forcing her mouth as far open as it will go. Suddenly she can breathe again and her body relaxes. The steel spit is much larger and harder than the rubber ball. It crushes her tongue against the floor of her mouth. The new pain in her jaws is extreme. And distant. Her body reacts with new waves of delicious orgasms.
She feels the kitchen crew wiring her legs to the spit, shoving stuffing into her gaping belly. She can even smell the fragrant breads and spices and feel her belly being sewn up again after it's all been packed in.
Her vista shifts again as her surrogate body is turned once again face down. In that same remote way, she feels her hair being tucked into an aluminum foil helmet and the prick of stitches tacking it to her brow and scalp. She feels her arms being wired together behind her back, hands on opposite elbows. She even feels the fingers of the handsome blonde assistant when he completes her initial basting by rubbing it into her palms. Strangely, her sense of touch can no longer distinguish between the pleasurable and the painful. Both trigger wondrous thrills! Both are equally welcome!
John is kneeling in front of her now, wiping the blood off the two feet of shaft protruding obscenely from her mouth. The metal, polished with her own gore, gleams in the bright sun. John is smiling at her, but she can't smile back. He's saying something to her, making a joke; something about how lucky she is to be leaving this world with something long and hard in both pie-hole and pussy. She wants to laugh, to agree, but she can only wriggle her lips a little on the shaft. She can't even swallow anymore. Saliva drips from both corners of her tormented mouth.
John stands and takes a grip on the polished spit extending from her lips. He nods at someone at the other end. His biceps bulge and the shaft on which she is impaled begins to rise. The wounds torn through her flesh by the spit are torn further by her weight and the additional pain produces another overwhelming rush of orgasmic pleasure! There's another burst of pain/pleasure as the two men set her spit down on the pair of trestles. She remembers now. They're going to clean off the blood that poured from her belly when they slashed her open and tore out her insides. This looked so innocuous when she watched them do it to Katie and Brooke. But every movement of the shaft running through her body brings on a stab of not-quite-real excruciating pain and its companion jolt of ecstacy. They hose down her body from just below her shoulder blades to her knees, the water warm and welcome on her skin. But then they rotate the spit on the trestles to wash the front side and there's a new blaze of pain, a new sexual rush. The water stops and a soft, broad brush goes to work basting a new coat of seasoned butter where some of the previous coat has been washed off with the blood. The slow rotation ends with her in the original position: belly towards the ground, ass in the air. The spit is lifted off the trestles.
She's moving now. Her vision is blurry with tears and her view ahead is blocked by John's white coated torso, but she can see the faces of the Members and girls and hear their remarks appreciative, salacious, crude as she's carried in the traditional circuit around the courtyard. She remembers her own impressions as a spectator: a beautiful girl turned living carcass, fully dressed and basted, squirming erotically on the spit from an incomprehensible combination of pain, pleasure, excitement and fear, ready for the rotisserie.
She feels the first hint of the roasting pit's fiery embrace as the procession of kitchen staff with their girl-on-a-spit draws up alongside it. She looks down into the fearfully glowing coals licked by low blue flames as she's raised up over them and the hint becomes hellish reality as the spit is lowered into its brackets. The full force of radiant heat slams into her body. She knows they will quickly engage the gears to the motor that will rotate the spit, but the searing heat of the fire has already swept her into an extremity of pain and ecstacy that obliterates all other thoughts.
The spit begins its slow, endless rotations, spreading the pain and pleasure to every part of her body. The agony is immense! The ecstacy even greater! She can feel her flesh cooking. She can smell the appetizing aroma of roasting skin and meat beginning to sizzle. Thankfully she's not really present where the pain is. That's her in another dimension, another time. The real her is convulsed with orgasms so consuming, so overwhelmingly pleasurable that the fiery torment to her flesh is irrelevant.
Her eyes have closed against the inferno, but on one of the upward revolutions she drags them open one last time to see Carver blow her a kiss. With a great effort she blinks at him. Once. For Yes!
She's turning . . . turning . . . the heat driving deeper . . . cooking all her meat . . . her legs . . . arms . . . breasts . . . rump . . . even her face, hands and feet. Through the continuing maelstrom of orgasms she sees herself carried in to the Dining Hall on the silver platter, apple in her mouth, carrot greens sprouting from her perfectly roasted rump, her bronzed skin shining with layers of basted-on butter. She sees her carcass being turned over now, belly up in a bed of greens, smooth black hair framing the delicate oval of her face, a little strip of red cloth covering her eyes, her sensuous figure erotically displayed, her firm, elegant breasts topped off by crisp brown nipples waiting to melt on her lover's tongue, along with the coveted cunt lips, seasoned and crisped to perfection during hours of intercourse with the hot spit. A steaming, tender, perfect roast of girl to be carved up and served to her hungry friends. Savory, tender meat to be devoured slowly with an excellent wine over stimulating conversation.
Then forgotten. Just another delicious meal.
That lovely, roasting body with all its memories of pain and pleasure is floating away now. Her fantasy is complete. She allows herself to ride one last raging orgasm . . . a tidal wave of cataclysmic ecstacy that sweeps her up to a pinnacle she's never reached before! . . . then carries her gently down a cascade of sparkling aftershocks into sweet, dreamless sleep.
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