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The Forth at the Feast
©2007 by C. A. Smith
[Note: The author of the journal from which this extract is taken was a meat girl named Tara. By international law,“fourths” — as they are commonly called — are exempted from formal education. Out of the nearly two billion fourths being raised world-wide as meat in the War on Overpopulation and Starvation, there are probably fewer than a dozen who can read and write. Tara was one of them. Self taught, she amused herself during the last years of her life by keeping a daily journal. Some judicious editing has been necessary to make her writing more readable, but the words are essentially hers. Most of her journal, as one might expect, simply records the banal daily life of a young girl growing up, but these entries from her last five days are a unique glimpse into what goes through a fourth’s mind when she has reached maturity and prepares for harvest. G. W. Root, National Meat Service]
Tara’s Journal: Tuesday
I just got my notice from the NMS! Wow! Mom and Dad told me this morning. I’ve been expecting it, of course. I reached harvesting age over a month ago. But still, it’s a bit of a shock when you actually see the official notice with the date and all. But it’s exciting, too! I’m scheduled for the meat auction this Saturday, but Daddy’s putting me in the cherry auction on Friday, which is great! At least I won’t go out as a virgin.
I have a feeling the notice arrived a couple of weeks ago but Mom and Dad just didn’t mention it until now. I think they were afraid I’d react the way Sonya did, all hysterical and blubbering. Not me. I’m a little scared, but I can’t wait, all at the same time. I remember Sonya went on and on about not wanting to die, but that’s silly. Like Mom says, everyone dies. Mom says if she’d had a choice, she’d have been born a fourth like us because the idea of being sold for meat on the open market gives her a high. (Me, too!) She says once Michelle is gone, she’ll probably volunteer for the harvest if Daddy will let her, even though she’s only good for hamburg now. Actually, several of her older friends have already done that. The NMS doesn’t pay much for women her age, but Mom says it’s better to get some use out of her meat than let it go to waste, what with the world being so desperate for food.
There’s a girl I’ve written to a couple of times on the internet named Zyla. She’s the youngest of three kids so she’s legit, and since there are no fourths in her family, she has no idea what it’s like to be one. I asked Daddy if he’d send this last week of my journal to her and he said he would, although it has to be cleared by the National Meat Service first. So this is mostly for Zyla, but also for anyone else who happens to read it and find it interesting.
First of all, even though I’m called a “fourth,” I’m really Mom’s seventh child. She’s had nine altogether and she says she’s done now. The first three, the legitimates, are Amanda, Chris and Nick. She calls them her “permanents.” The rest of us, of course, were all girls. Sarah was actually number four, then Sonya and Ashley. I don’t remember much about Sarah. Sonya, the whiney one, went to auction three years ago and Ashley went last year. As I say, I was seventh in line and after me there’s Vanessa and Michelle. Vanessa was born about a year after me. She’s excited that I’ve got my notice because that means she doesn’t have long to wait. Michelle, the youngest, is about half my age. She’s got a while yet.
Now that the initial shock is over, I’m getting pretty hyped! All my friends since I was little are fourths and they’re gonna be thrilled for me. I don’t even care about the legitimate kids. I never hang with them anyway because they’re so mean and nasty to fourths. We stay by ourselves. For us, getting to harvest age is a big deal, especially the cherry auction. I can hardly wait for that! Not that there aren’t plenty of boys who’d like to bust my cherry. Most of us fourths have better figures and clearer skin than those stuck-up legit girls because our parents keep us in top market shape. But they also keep us away from the boys because if we don’t have a cherry to bust, we won’t be worth much at the cherry auction. Amanda says legit girls get to screw their boyfriends practically every day because no one cares if they’re virgins or not, but she probably says that just to make me jealous.
Mom and Dad say they expect me to bring in high bids at both auctions, being that I have a perfect figure and I’m a natural blond, which everyone will know for sure when they see my pussy fur. I’m petite — five foot two and 119 pounds with a waist you can almost put your hands around. I’ve got what you call a “valentine” shaped face with a slightly upturned nose, big blue eyes and long, straight bright yellow hair. I’m not skinny like my best friend Tsing, but I’m not fat, either, like Amanda’s legit (and nasty) friend Becky who’s five foot five and weighs 150 pounds. As Mom puts it, I’m “slim and plump in all the right places.”
The last time I was appraised by the NMS, which was a couple of months ago, the inspector said I was Grade A Prime. He said, “She’s the perfect combination of beauty and meat.” Daddy says that means I’ll bring in top bids and a nice profit for the family, much more than Ashley did last year. She had too high a fat-to-lean ratio for Prime and only made Choice (she used to sneak candy), although her buyer told Daddy later that her meat was “exceptionally tasty,” the best he’d ever had.
Mom told me this morning how proud she and Daddy are of me. “You’ve really come through for us,” she said, “and the family can really use the money.”
Tara’s Journal: Wednesday
Wow! Talk about coincidence! This morning my best friend Tsing got her notice, too. She came of age a few weeks ago. Now we’ll both be scheduled for the same auction! Maybe even the same cherry bust, I hope I hope!
It will be fun to see how much she goes for. She says she was appraised as Grade A Prime, too, which I don’t doubt because she’s so beautiful and has a good vegetarian diet, like me. But how much meat can she have on her bones when she barely weighs a hundred pounds? I can’t believe she’ll pull in as much as me with the cherry pickers, either. I mean, she’s real pretty and all with that doll-like Chinese face and fashion model figure, but Mom says men prefer girls with big firm tits and tiny waists, like me.
Tsing was more shook up by the notice than me, though, because she’s in this chess tournament at the rec department and is close to winning the championship. She actually asked her mom if she could get the date postponed a week. Which is silly. She should know better. Everyone knows the National Meat Service never does that. In the second place, every extra day would be another set of meals which, as Daddy is always pointing out, subtracts from our profit margin. That wouldn’t be fair to her family.
Not that her family is about to starve. Her mom managed to crank out eleven “fourths” and Tsing is only the second one to reach auction age. That leaves eight more to go, and they’re all cute, like her. Tsing’s three legit sisters (the whole family is girls!) are really beautiful, too. The oldest, Chim, is married to a guy who’s really rich. I mean, practically a walking bank! So with eight prime girls to sell and a rich son in law, what have they got to worry about?
Tsing was telling me just last week that Chim’s husband, rich as he is, insists she have a baby every year until she reaches menopause. They’ve only been married a year and Chim has already had her first legit, a girl. She told Tsing she’s not too keen on the idea of dropping a baby every year because she doesn’t want to spend her life waddling around like a fat cow. She does want a boy, though, and has two more chances to have one before she has to start filtering for girls. I hope, for her sake, she does better at producing males than her mother did. My Mom feels sorry for her. She says having a baby every year is hard on a woman. But Chim’s husband says if she won’t get pregnant with him “the natural way” (he means by fucking!), he’ll have her inseminated artificially by the NMS. Personally, I’d rather be fucked. But I’m not a legit, so I’ll never have to worry about it.
Tara’s Journal: Thursday
Things are moving along quickly. The cherry auction is tomorrow and the meat auction is Saturday. By Saturday night it should be all over for me and Tsing. Of course, one of the caterers might buy us. Daddy says I’d like that, but he doesn’t really care who buys me as long as he clears a decent profit.
Mom says that should be easy because our family has a well-known reputation for high quality, delicious meat, thanks to the strict veggie, fruit and berry diet me and my sisters are on. She says it gives our meat a distinctly sweet and delicate flavor. Also, we’re not allowed to play sports or do other strenuous stuff, so every cut, she says, “is melt-in-your-mouth tender.” She says they got such a good price for Ashley that they went out and bought a new car with the proceeds. There’s no reason, she insists, that I shouldn’t do just as well. She says I should pull in a nice bonus at the cherry auction, too. After all, Ashley got a real good bid, and I’m even prettier than she was.
Actually, I’m getting incredibly horny just thinking about it all. Mom and Dad don’t know it (until they read this), but I’ve been playing with myself five to ten times a day ever since I discovered my clit. I can hardly wait for the real thing at the Cherry Bust!
Mom took me shopping today for my cherry auction dress. It’s gorgeous! It has a long black skirt with slits up both sides clear to the hips, and a white sleeveless, backless top that swoops down in back to meet at the base of my spine. The neck scoops so low it barely covers my nipples and is covered with huge colorful butterflies. It’s SO-O-O sexy! I’m having a teeny matching butterfly tattooed on the inside of my right ankle (which is all the NMS allows). I won’t be wearing underpants, so when I walk around on the auction stage, the cherry pickers will get glimpses of my little bush. Mom says not to shave it off. She says not only will the bidders see I’m a real blonde, but also some men like to shave it off themselves. I wanted to wear the dress home, but Mom wouldn’t let me. She said I’d be raped before we got to the car. But she was just kidding. What she really meant was that I need to keep it fresh and unwrinkled for the auction, although I don’t see why. From what I’ve heard, whoever wins me will tear it off as soon as he can get me to a bed. But Mom insists that most men just don’t know what it is that turns them on. They think it’s what’s under the dress, but it’s really what the dress suggests is under it. In other words, sex is part challenge and part mystery.
Tara’s Journal: Friday
O my God! I’m so-o-o nervous! I’m sitting here back stage at the cherry auction waiting my turn. I’m number sixty-two. Number sixty-one is up there now. In a few minutes it’ll be me!
I wasn’t nervous at all when I first got here and went through the certification process. There must have been at least three hundred girls in line ahead of me. It seemed to go on forever, although once I finally got to the table and put my feet in the stirrups, it only took the inspector a few seconds to verify my virginity. It was after I got to the backstage area and they gave me my auction number that my heart began to pound.
The girl next to me, number sixty-three, keeps chattering away non-stop. I don’t know if she’s always like that or if she’s just tensed up. Anyway, she’s going on about tomorrow and what will happen to us. She says, “You know how they do the B and C grade girls, don’t you?” And I say no, and she goes, “They’re all put on assembly lines. Some places hang them up by the ankles and some guy shoots a big metal bolt through their heads as they go by. Other places hang them right side up in metal neck rings and run them past a machine that lops off their heads with a blade, like a guillotine, only horizontal. The head gets knocked into a bin and the body drops on to a conveyor belt. It must be horribly messy! All that blood!”
“Well,” I tell her, “since we’re A’s, we don’t have to worry about that, do we?”
I’m not really paying attention to her because I’m more interested in what’s going on up on the stage. I can’t see the bidders from here but I can hear the auctioneer. The highest bid so far has been $1250 for a blonde bombshell who looks like a movie star, although she’s just a fourth, like the rest of us. Tsing was number fifty-eight and she brought in $875, which is pretty darn good. She was so nervous she was afraid she was gonna pee herself, but she looked spectacular up there in one of those Chinese dresses with the snaps and dragons running up the front. The hem fell just below her crotch so when the bidders wanted to see her southern goods, she didn’t have to flip it far to give them a quick peek. It took longer to undo a couple of snaps in front so she could expose a tit. She doesn’t really have much, just a handful. But it’s solid and the nipples stick right out. Mom says guys like that. My nipples are only so-so, but the boobs are a good size C.
Most girls bounce right up on to the stage when their number is called, but some have stage fright or something. I know some are timid about flashing their stuff in front of strangers. But if a girl hesitates, one of the backstage crew snaps a collar around her neck and hauls her up there on a leash. How humiliating that would be! One girl froze right up and burst into tears, so they had to use a cattle prod. Not me. I can’t wait!
You can’t hear the bids from back here. The auctioneer just keeps calling for higher amounts and if someone takes it, he announces him by number, so they must be holding up cards or something. The bidders always want the girls to show something. Like they’ll shout at the auctioneer, “She got any tits!” or “What’s her pussy look like?” Things like that. But we’ve been told not to do anything except walk around the stage until the auctioneer tells us to flash something. And then just a quickie. They don’t get to see the whole package unless they win the bid. Of course they can always come back tomorrow for the meat auction. For that we’re all in the nude.
Oops! Number sixty-one just sold. They’re leading her off to the side where I can’t see what’s going on. Now they’re calling my number. Here I go!
Tara’s Journal: Early Saturday morning
The sun isn’t up yet, but I’m too excited to sleep. So I may as well write. This may be my last chance.
Last night was totally awesome! I was so nervous going up on the stage that my knees were shaking. Now I see why they make us all pee before the auction begins. I hope they do it today, too.
As I was going up the stairs to the stage before stepping into the bright lights, I peeked out at the crowd. We were in a big gym (I could see the basketball hoops hauled up out of the way). It was filled with guys all milling around talking and yukking it up. Once I was up there, the lights blinded me so I could hardly see anything beyond the edge of the stage. The crowd was very noisy and got noisier when they saw me. There were cheers and whistles. That perked me right up. I mean, I could tell they liked what they saw and it gave me this terrific charge of confidence and energy. I wasn’t nervous any more. I gave them a big smile and sorta puffed out my chest, which made my ass wiggle a little as I strutted around on my high heels. That caused a big sensation! It was amazing!
The auctioneer caught right on to it. “Well now, gentlemen,” he said over the PA system, “here comes one classy piece of ass! This is top quality, guys! Grade A plus! You studs will be hard pressed — pardon the pun — to find snatch as excellent as this! Look at that figure! Check out that rack! Imagine rubbing Big Dick all over that perfect, creamy skin and plugging into that tight little tube! And you can tell, this one is hot for it! She can’t wait for one of you jockeys to climb aboard! Who’s the lucky guy who has six hundred for the wildest, sweetest, hottest ride of his life?”
He actually started the bidding at $600! My jaw almost fell on the stage! That was a way higher starting price than any other girl so far, except the blonde bombshell. And guys started upping it right away. Wow! That was an ego booster! The auctioneer kept playing them, too. “Open up that side slit, girl,” he says, “and show the boys what a trim, perfectly shaped leg looks like.” So I stood in profile to the crowd, cocked a knee so my leg was slightly bent (like the models do in the magazines), and opened up the slit in my long black skirt. A big cheer went up.
A bunch of guys were chanting, “Show us your tits! Show us your tits!” So the auctioneer says, “Now, girl, let the boys have a peek at that fine, upstanding front porch of yours.” I had practiced this before the auction during our training, so I was real smooth at it. I shrugged my left shoulder forward (the one facing the front of the stage) and peeled aside the top so they could see my left boob, but only for a second. That pumped them up even more and they started yelling, “Show us her cunt!” and stuff like that. Anyway, I ending up mooning them, then turning and flipping up the front panel of my skirt. “There’s the proof, boys!” the auctioneer said. “She’s the real goods! A true blonde!”
That got the bidding going again and by the time he had milked the last raise out of the crowd, I went for $1500, even more than the blonde bombshell! Daddy was in the front row hopping up and down, he was so happy!
“Okay, girl,” the auctioneer says to me, “get your little wet pussy over to that lady in the red jacket and she’ll take care of you.” He pointed to a woman in a National Meat Service uniform down on the floor by the corner of the stage. Then he looks out into the crowd and says to the guy that won me, “Go claim that hot cunt before another one of these horny bastards grabs her and makes a run for it!” Everybody laughed.
Even as I’m climbing down the stairs to where she’s waiting by a table, number sixty-three — the chatterbug — is coming up on to the stage at the other side and the auctioneer begins pitching her selling points to the crowd.
The NMS lady grabbed my right wrists and checked my birth number against a clipboard, then locked a collar around my neck and clipped a leather leash to it. She told me to wait for my claimant to arrive. He was on the other side of the room.
While I waited, I was thinking how I had almost forgotten about that dumb tattoo on my wrist. I can remember when they put it on me, how it hurt, but how proud I was not to have to wear that babyish metal wristband any more. I remember thinking how the dark blue of the number looked cool against the bright red NMS diamond on the back of my hands, the one they put on all newborn fourths. Daddy says they put that on babies so their parents can’t try to pass them off as legit later.
Daddy also says the NMS uses our birth number to keep track of us and make sure we get our regular health and quality checks. Last year one of my friends, a girl named Kalia, failed her health check. She’d been infected with one of the X-list diseases. Those are the ones that can be transmitted to others through your meat. She had to be destroyed. It was so sad because she was such a pretty thing, with soft black hair and green eyes. Her dad tried to get what he called a “special dispensation” for her from the NMS, but they wouldn’t do it. They said the law requires “defective illegitimates” be destroyed at once. Daddy says the way they did it, they tied her hands behind her back right there in the NMS Clinic and laid her down on a steel grate inside what looks like a big bar-b-cue cooker. Then they cut her throat and incinerated her. What a waste! But Daddy says it was all her dad’s fault for feeding her cheap meat that hadn’t been tested.
Anyway, I was waiting by the Claims Desk to find out who had won me, hoping (like we all do) that he’d be young and handsome, or at least not too old and ugly. After all, it’s my one and only chance for real sex, right? Well, the man turned out to be nice enough looking, although he was middle aged with graying hair, so I was only a little disappointed. I mean, it could have been a lot worse. The lady checked the number on his paddle (it turns out that’s how they bid), and after he had signed some papers and his credit card was authorized, the NMS lady gave him a folded bed sheet, a thick towel and a plastic key card. She handed him the other end of my leash and pointed out a doorway behind the Claims Desk.
The man said “Come on, boys,” and pulled me behind him toward the doorway. It wasn’t till then that I noticed there were two young guys with him. I mean, they were a lot younger, like maybe even my age. I figured right away they were twins because I could hardly tell them apart. (In fact, later, when they were naked, I couldn’t tell them apart at all.) They called the man “Dad,” so I guess that explains their relationship.
The doorway led into a long corridor with doors on each side spaced about eight feet apart. But we didn’t go down the corridor; we turned right and went up a stairwell to the next floor. There was an identical corridor up there and we all trooped down it until we reached door number 237. The man (he never did tell me his name) slipped the card into a slot next to the doorknob. A little red light turned green. He opened the door and pulled me through with the leash. The twins followed and closed the door behind them.
It was a small room, about the size of the bedroom I’ve shared with Sonya, Ashley, Vanessa and Michelle all these years. Except instead of triple bunk beds on two sides and open shelves on the other two, this room had a king sized mattress on the floor, a small bureau, a sink and a toilet. There were rings in the floor at all four corners of the mattress and a couple more in the ceiling. There were also very tiny cameras in each corner of the ceiling. Daddy had told me they’d be there, for my protection.
The man unclipped my leash and began spreading the sheet over the mattress. He laid the towel out where it would catch the blood from my cherry. “Boys, why don’t you undress our girl,” he said. “And don’t be rough. They’re watching.” He threw a meaningful glance at one of the cameras. “If we bruise the meat, I’ll have to buy the whole damn carcass at twice her assessed value, which is a king’s ransom to begin with. Then what’ll I do with it. You know neither your mother or sister will eat girl meat.”
“I love girl meat!” one of the boys piped up.
“Great. Then you pay for her,” the man said. “I mean it. If you mess up the meat, you pay for it. Got it?”
“Yeah, Dad. Don’t worry,” his son said as he untied my top where the sides swooped down to meet at the small of my back. It was a simple slip knot so it didn’t take him long to strip me down to the waist. He was standing behind me and my boobs hadn’t been exposed more than two seconds before his hands were over them. He pressed his groin against me and began to sway his hips so I could feel the bulge in the front of his pants rubbing against my butt. I think I must have turned beet red because the boy in front of me laughed at my face. He was unhooking my skirt, which was harder because he had to find the hook. But he found it all right, and soon I was naked right down to the ankles. He kept brushing his fingers through my bush, apparently fascinated by it, and into the slit between my legs.
“Okay, boys,” his father said, “put her on the bed.” He was taking off his own clothes. “Remember, she’s Mom’s present to all of us and she said I get to bust the cherry. After that, you two can play with her as long as you like.”
They each took one of my arms and without saying a word to me, started to force me down to the mattress.
“I can do it myself, you know,” I said. “All you have to do is ask.”
“Hey, the meat talks!” says one of the sons, the one who took off my top.
“Okay,” his twin says to me. “Lie down then.”
“And we don’t ask,” says the first one. “We command and you obey.”
“Whatever,” I say, crawling to the middle of the huge mattress and rolling over on my back.
“Hey! None of your lip!” says the first brother. “You’re just our little slave whore and you better pay proper respect.”
“Bullshit!” I say. “I’m not your slave and I’m not a whore.”
“We paid to fuck you,” he sneers. “That makes you a whore.”
“You didn’t pay anything,” I snapped back. “Your Dad did. And he paid the National Meat Service, not me. He paid for the right to bust my cherry, and that’s all. If you guys want to play with me, too, you better start being nice. My Daddy is watching on the monitors and he promised he wouldn’t allow anyone to hurt me.” They looked kinda stunned that a fourth would talk back to them like that, but I was pissed. “Like your Dad says, if you damage my meat, you’ll have to buy me outright at double my assessed value. It says so right on that paper he signed.”
“She’s right, boys,” their father chuckled as he took off his pants. I’d never seen a man naked before and I was fascinated. He went on: “She’s as smart as she is pretty, and her father’s a sharp businessman, so watch your step.” He dropped to his hands and knees, pushed my legs apart and crawled between them as he talked. “I paid an obscene hunk of change to get us the most beautiful piece of ass in the auction, so show some appreciation and don’t fuck it up. I mean, you can enjoy a nice screw without messing up the merchandise.” His eyes bore into mine like he was gonna eat me up right then and there. “Remember, she’s a certified virgin. Probably been dreaming about getting her cherry popped for years, haven’t you girlie.”
“Yes, Sir,” I said, amazed at how large his male thing was growing. It was beginning to scare me.
“And these are good looking boys, aren’t they?”
“Yes, Sir, they are,” I agreed. And it’s true. Aside from their mean attitude, they were incredibly beautiful with thick black hair, blue eyes and strong square faces.
“You’d like to know what it feels like to fuck a couple of hotties like these before you’re off to the slaughterhouse, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes, Sir. I really would. But I’m not a whore.”
“Course you’re not,” he said.
I felt the tip of his thing poking at my vagina and raised my legs on both sides of his hips to make it easier for him to push it in. He put his left arm around my right knee and used his right hand to guide himself in. God! He was really hard and bigger than I’d ever imagined. He’d put something on it to make it slippery and I was already wet from excitement, so it slipped in easily and before I knew it, he had rammed right through my cherry and all the way in as far as his thing would go. There was a stab of pain, but then he began thrusting in and out fast and it felt so incredibly good that I got caught up in this huge wave of electricity! I thought my head would explode with the pleasure of it! My Mom had told me that’s what a real orgasm feels like. It was way better than those little thrills I used to get when I played with myself.! I felt him spurting inside of me, the spurts keeping time with the jerking of his body and the funny little noises he made through his open mouth. Then, as the jerks got further apart, he grabbed my boobs and kneaded them like he was making pie dough. It felt good. He finished with a big sigh and settled on top of me like a sack of sand.
All the time he was doing this, his sons were watching and slowly undressing. By the time he’d finished they were completely nude and I couldn’t take my eyes off them. They both had these amazing, strongly etched muscles in their arms, shoulders, chests and thighs. One of them was masturbating, making his penis grow larger and larger. I guess my lust was showing in my eyes because he smiled at me and did it faster.
His dad pulled out of me and stood me up. The towel on the bed had a big bloody spot in the middle. He dropped it into a chute in the wall. Then he fished a douche bag out of the bureau and gave it to me, telling me to clean myself out over the toilet. I’ve never sat on a toilet and done things to my privates in front of a man before, much less three of them, and it felt really strange, but having just fucked a man in front of his two sons and knowing I’d be naked in front of a big crowd the next day, I told myself it was silly to be bashful; so I made myself do it and tried not to look as embarrassed as I felt. There must have been some sort of licorice in the douche cleanser because I could smell it. Did that mean they were going to be kissing me down there? I hoped so!
While I was still sitting there letting the douche drain, the twins came over to me and knelt, one on each side, and began licking my breasts and then sucking on my nipples. O my God! I started to come again! Then they picked me up and carried me back to the mattress. Or rather, one carried me and the other walked alongside still sucking on my tit. They placed me on my knees on the mattress with one of them behind me and one in front. The one in front told me to open my mouth and when I did he put his penis in it and ordered me to suck on it. When I bared my teeth and bit down on it a little, he yelled “Hey!” and pulled out quickly.
He looked like he was gonna hit me, so I said to him in a soft voice, “I’m not your slave, so you have to ask me nicely.”
He looked furious and sucked in his breath like he wanted to say something really hateful, but then he let it out again and said, “Okay. Will you please suck my dick? Nice and gentle?”
“I’d love to,” I said, then began licking and sucking on it like it was one of those flavored icicle sticks, only it was warm and much more fun. His breathing got all ragged and the muscles in his stomach kept rippling like he wanted to thrust it deeper into my mouth, but he held himself back. All this time his brother, kneeling behind me, was squeezing my breasts and rolling the nipples between his fingers, driving me crazy with desire. I put my hand over his to let him know I loved what he was doing. Finally I couldn’t stand it and I pulled away until only the head of the cock was on my lips and I said, “Please, put it in my cunt now! Please!”
They both laughed, but they tipped me over on to my back and the twin in front was into me in a flash! His torso above me was magnificent, all hard muscles that bulged and rippled when he moved. I couldn’t keep my hands off him. As soon as he started to slide in and out that electrical tide swept up through me. He pumped and pumped and I came and came! I thought my body would fly apart! Then he came, too. Next thing I knew, I was on the toilet again with the douche, panting while the two brothers sucked my tits some more, giving me no relief.
The brother who hadn’t done me yet (he had a big scar on his left thigh, which was about the only way I could tell the twins apart) came up with a different idea. He had his father get down on his hands and knees, then he and his brother draped me over his back, face down. Twin 2 stationed himself at my head and Scar at my ass. They both entered me at once, Scar into my cunt from behind and No. 2 in my mouth. It was wild! I started coming again right off and thought I would pass out from pleasure before they both started thrusting hard, the sign that they were also on the verge. They both came at the same time, flooding me at both ends. But Twin 2 didn’t pull out of my mouth and I had to swallow it all. Amanda, my legit sister, says guys like it when a girl swallows what she calls “their load.” She does it fairly often for her boyfriend, although she doesn’t really like it. Says it’s slimy and gross. But I don’t agree. There’s hardly any taste and it’s no more slimy than raw egg when you suck it out of the shell to make those little tree ornaments. If I were a legit, I’d do it for all my boyfriends. Twin 2 sure liked it! He scrunched up his face and nearly rammed his thing down my throat. At about the same time, his brother was coming into me at the other end. Wow! Getting fucked in both places at the same time is beyond anything I can describe! Amanda’s never done that! She was so envious when I told her about it later that night.
Anyway, the next thing they did (after another douching) was to spreadeagle me on the mattress. There was some rope in the bureau and they used it to tie my wrists and ankles to the four rings at the corners of the mattress. I was really scared, then, because I was completely helpless. I could only hope Daddy was watching on the monitor. But they were perfect gentlemen.
They elevated my hips by stuffing their rolled up clothes under my bottom, then got a little bowl, a spray can of shaving gel and a safety razor out of the bureau. Scar filled the bowl with warm water and patted it all over my pussy. Twin 2 spread a handful of the gel all over it. Next they took turns shaving me, being very careful not to nick my sensitive lips, until my pussy was as naked as when I was a little girl. (Can you still call it a “pussy” when there’s no fur?) After they cleaned me off, all three — the father, too — started a wonderful game. They’d brought in these little red cherries in a bag. Real cherries! One would push a cherry into my cunt with his tongue; then another would dig it out again with his, and eat it. Sometimes they got a cherry in so far they had to fish it out with a finger. I don’t know what the rules were or who won because I was in total ecstacy the whole time.
After that, they untied me and each had one more go at me. Two of them, one on each side, would hold me up in the air in a sitting position with my legs spread wide and my cunt at the level of the third guy’s cock. He’d push it into me and fuck me until he came, which took much longer than the first time. It was glorious!!! When they were finished and we were all dressed and ready to leave, I gave each of them a big juicy kiss on the mouth to show my appreciation. Especially the twins. Frankly, I would have been perfectly willing to keep right on fucking them all day, but I think they were too tired to get it up any more.
What a lovely memory! I hope I gave them their money’s worth.
Tara’s Journal: Mid Saturday morning.
Once again I’m waiting to be auctioned off, this time for keeps. Leaving home for the last time was very hard. Me and Mom and my sisters — everyone — were all crying. Everyone said they were very proud of me and knew I’d bring in a great bid. My brothers weren’t there, being off at school, and Dad waited in the car. Maybe he was afraid he’d cry, too. But as we drove to the NMS auction site he told me he was also proud of me, that he was sure I’d be brave at the end and my meat would add to our household reputation for outstanding quality.
This auction site is nothing like the one yesterday for the Cherry Bust. There are no giddy crowds milling around laughing and yelling lewd remarks. This is strictly business. And it’s huge! There must be close to two thousand girls here. Daddy says they come from all over the state. He says because of the world food shortage, raising fourths for market is a big cottage industry now.
As soon as we got out of the car, Daddy had me take off all my clothes, even my sneakers, and locked them in the car. I presume they’ll go to Vanessa, which is fine because most of them came to me from Ashley. I have to say, even though I’ve been nude in NMS waiting rooms and inspection offices many times over the years, it feels really weird to walk through a crowded parking lot stark naked! Of course, all the other girls around us were naked too, so that helped.
The building where the National Meat Service holds its weekly auction is enormous! The lobby entrance was crowded with naked girls and their moms or dads or whoever brought them. Eventually a tall woman in a NMS uniform came up to us. She had bright orange hair, a big nylon bag slung over her right shoulder and an e-board. She asked Daddy for my NMS notice, then checked the birth number on my wrist against the letter and the screen on her e-board. Then she punched some buttons on an electronic bracelet that she dug out of the shoulder bag and snapped it on my wrist. I looked at the display. It read 872 in big red numerals. She made a hand signal to another NMS official, a young woman who looked Japanese and who also had a large shoulder bag. This bag, however, contained collars — not the playful leather type like at the cherry auction, but sturdy metal ones with electronically activated locks and two rings projecting from opposite sides. She locked one around my neck. Then she drew my hands behind my back and snapped something plastic around the wrists, handcuffing me. She took my elbow and started to lead me off. Daddy hadn’t said goodbye and I threw him a forlorn look, but he smiled and said he’d see me between the viewing and the auction.
The Japanese lady led me into a vast room where the entire floor was bristling with metal posts about five feet high. Hundreds and hundreds of them. As we moved into the room, it turned out the posts were in rows about six feet apart. Along each row the posts were about four feet apart. Girls were standing between many of the posts, held in place by short chains connecting the rings of their collars with the top of each post. The lady walked me down one of the rows to an empty space between two posts where she connected chains hanging from the tops of the posts to my collar. Then she hurried off, dodging other NMS officers escorting more naked girls to other available spots between posts. The chains were only attached with spring clips, but with my hands shackled behind my back there was no way I could have freed myself, even if I’d wanted to.
The two girls directly opposite me made a striking contrast with each other. One had a bored, wry look; the other had big terrified eyes and a gag taped into her mouth. I wondered why the gag since there was plenty of chatter going on in the room. She must have done something wrong and I didn’t want to make the same mistake, whatever it was, so I decided to ask the girl next to her, hoping she was friendlier than she looked.
“Hi,” I said. “My name’s Tara.
“Yeah, Hi,” she shrugged. “I’m Chelsea, for what it’s worth.”
“I was just wondering, why is she gagged?” I nodded at her neighbor.
“Cause she’s an asshole,” she answered, as though that explained everything.
“What did she do?”
“Threw a hissy fit. Guess she doesn’t much like being here.”
“She’s afraid?”
“She’s an idiot. What the hell did she think? That the NMS would give her a bye until she decided on a more congenial time to die? She’s a fourth, for Chrissake. Meat, like the rest of us. They call our number and we line up at the chopping block. That’s the way it is. We’ve all known that since we were two. So what the fuck is all this sniveling? Suck it up!”
I looked over at the gagged girl. There were tear tracks through her makeup. “Are you scared, hon?” I asked her.
She nodded vigorously.
“Don’t be,” I said. “I’m the fourth girl in my family to be converted to meat and my Daddy says it didn’t hurt my sisters at all. It’s very quick. One minute you’re here and the next minute you’re not.”
Chelsea burst out in a caustic laugh.
“What’s so funny?” I said, irritated.
“Your Daddy ain’t gonna have a pole rammed through him from his bung hole to his pie hole.”
“What do you mean?”
“Weren’t you the one someone paid fifteen hundred to fuck yesterday?”
“You were at the cherry auction?”
“What? Do I look like dog meat to you? Yeah, I was at the cherry auction. So was asshole, here. And so was this week’s pack of jackals . . . oops, I mean caterers. Do you think they didn’t notice which cunts drew the highest bids?”
“So what if they did?”
“So-o-o,” she mimicked, “caterers don’t just slaughter us — ‘one minute you’re here, one minute you’re not.’ They want whole roasters good enough for luxury banquets. If you’re so gorgeous that some stiff is willing to shuck out fifteen hundred to stuff his pork in your oven, don’t you think a caterer will decide you’re good enough for a rich client who wants an especially pretty girl on a stick for his company picnic?”
“A girl on a stick?”
“Yeah. En brochette. Shish kabob. A girl spitted and slow roasted live over a bed of hot coals. A delicious treat for high rollers who like to watch their dinner squirm as it cooks. Guys who can afford the very best. Like you, babe. And bubble-brain here.”
“Are you saying they put girls on a skewer and cook them while they’re still alive?” This seemed a bit much. I thought she must be putting me on.
“Aw, poor innocent sugartits,” she said. “What planet did you grow up on? Of course they do.”
I felt like I’d been kicked in the stomach. I grasped at an obvious straw. “But the National Meat Service wouldn’t allow it! That would be cruel!”
“Cruel, incredibly sexy and just the thing for a CEO’s power barbecue. Impresses the hell out of prospective clients. Keeps his most productive salespeople happy.”
“But it can’t be legal!”
“Of course it can. And is. Fourths are the lobsters of red meat: best if thrown into the pot alive and kicking.”
“Daddy would have told me.”
“Sugartits, how many fourths in your household altogether?”
“Counting the ones who’ve been harvested?”
“Yeah. The grand total.”
“Six.”
“All from one mom?”
“Yes.”
“Hon, your Daddy’s an amateur. After your mom reached her legal three babies, he probably talked her into getting a filter rather than sterilization so she could pop out fourths like you for extra cash later on. My Daddy is a pro. Raising meat girls is his business. He goes all over the world buying up illegitimates, mostly from orphanages, but also from single moms and poor families who can’t afford to raise them. God knows where I came from; he never bothered to tell me. Home for me is a meat farm called Westhampton where we all bunk in this big barn, like a herd of cattle. There’s always six or seven hundred of us packed in there. Us older girls bunk on the sixth tier at the top of the ladder. I’ve been to these meat auctions hundreds of times helping deliver the girls when their time comes — anywhere from one to a dozen every week — and believe me, I know what goes on behind the scenes, who the players are and where the meat winds up.” She glanced scornfully at the gagged girl beside her. “Crybaby here is a Westhampton girl, I’m ashamed to say. There are four of us here in all, but I don’t know where they took the others.”
“What’s her name?”
“Asshole.”
“No, really, what’s her name?”
“I don’t know what the fuck her name is. Who gives a shit?” She looked away and made a face as though what she was about to say was a painful concession. “I think I heard someone call her Serena.”
“And you say Serena was at the cherry auction, too?”
“Oh you betcha! Look at her fucking body! Look at those legs and those monster tits! And when they take off that gag you’ll see she’s heartbreaking pretty with that black hair and big purple eyes. Guys will mortgage their house to screw a package like that! And probably did.”
“So she’s afraid of being picked by a caterer? Of being a girl on a stick?”
“Of course she is. She’s a Westhampton girl; she knows the score. She went for $1050 and any girl who makes the thousand dollar cut with the cherry busters is on the caterers’ radar screen. And she’s got some meat, too, aside from her tits. I mean, look at her! Five feet eight and 140 pounds? Shit! Those high rollers will come in their pants when she’s put on that spit, and again when she’s carved up for dinner.”
“How about you? Did you make the cut?”
She sprouted an evil grin. “Naw, I didn’t luck out like you raving beauties. They got into my snatch for a mere $575. Which is fine by me. I had a good fuck, and now some meat packing company will snick off my head and have me all butchered and packaged for shipment while you’re still turning over the fire, begging for death.”
As we talked, more girls were brought in and chained into all the places around me that had been empty. Two NMS officers, one of them carrying a syringe, strode up to Serena. One grabbed her hair and hauled her head back while the man with the syringe ripped the tape off her face and removed the gag. Her mouth was open because of her head being wrenched back like that and the man shoved his syringe between her teeth and deep into her mouth. He squeezed the plunger and emptied it into her throat. In another second it was over and they walked away leaving her gasping, gurgling and blinking back tears.
“What’s happened? What have they done?” I asked Serena.
It was Chelsea who answered. “They paralyzed her vocal cords. She won’t do any more bitching and whining. No last words, either. She’s already had them.”
“Couldn’t they have just . . . warned her first?”
“They did. They told her to shut up, and she didn’t. But they can’t leave her gagged. The caterers might think her owner’s trying to hide something.”
“Her owner?”
“Yeah, her owner.”
“Somebody owns her?”
Chelsea looked at me like I was crazy. “Somebody owns all of us, sugartits. We’re fourths.”
“My Daddy doesn’t own me!”
“He sure does! What makes you think he doesn’t?”
“Well . . . I’m his daughter.”
“Yeah, biologically. But legally, as a fourth, you’re his property. You’re chattel, honeybuns. Legally you got no more rights than any other meat animal. He could have sold you to another grower anytime. That’s how Mr. Westhampton gets all his girls. Your Daddy could have sold you privately to a meat packer or a caterer today, but he’s put you in the auction as a way to get full market value for you.”
There was a loud bell and suddenly groups of men and women with e-boards in hand began wandering down the aisles between the chained-up girls, often stopping to look them over closely, squeeze their meat in various places and type in notes. There must have been at least a hundred of them that stopped in front of me, turned me around to inspect all sides, and squeezed my thighs, arms, waist and breasts for firmness. Some of the men also squeezed my cunt lips and probed up inside, although I suspect it wasn’t to check the quality of my meat.
During a lull I said to Chelsea, “If a girl’s dad can sell her anytime, does that mean he can sell her to a meat packer directly? Or even slaughter her at home?”
“Can’t be slaughtered at home. Too many ways for a girl to slip past the harvest. Has to be done at an official NMS meat packing facility or by an authorized caterer on an approved site. We can be sold anytime to anyone, though, right up to our slaughter date.”
“What I’m wondering is, can Daddy just sell me to a meat packer so the caterers don’t get me?”
Chelsea laughed and shook her head. “Too late, sugartits. Once you’re registered at an auction house, that’s it. But don’t get your pussy all aquiver about it. Your Daddy would never have sold you to a meat packer. You’re worth much more to a caterer. You’re fucked by your own beauty, sweet buns.” She laughed again as the next group of inspectors interrupted us.
I guess I was still hoping to discredit Chelsea’s forecast of my fate because at the next lull I asked her, “How do you know what caterers do? You ever actually seen girls cooked alive on a spit?”
“Course I have,” she answered brightly. “I told you, I’ve helped deliver hundreds of girls to all sorts of places. Sometimes Mr. Westhampton would make a private sale to a caterer right after the cherry auction while the girl was still getting fucked. The next day we’d take her straight to the roasting site, which is usually some posh country estate. Mr. Westhampton liked to watch them mount the girl on the spit, so we’d hang around a while. And sometimes he’d get to socializing and I’d watch her turning over the fire and roasting to a golden brown. A few times we even stayed long enough to sample the meat. I gotta tell ya, slow roasted girl meat is fantastic! Melts in your mouth.”
“And they were actually alive when they were . . . ?”
“Spitted? Oh yeah! Certainly. And when they started roasting over the fire, too.”
“How long did they . . . you know?”
“How long did it take them to die?”
“Yeah. That.”
“Twenty, thirty minutes.”
“O my God!”
“They don’t suffer, though.
“Oh come on!”
“They don’t. I don’t know why, but they don’t. I’ve been there and watched. They all have a funny look on their face, but it isn’t pain. I’ll be honest with you, sugartits: I envy you. You and Serena. If I had my druthers, that’s how I’d go.
Those girls looked so incredibly sexy roasting on their spits, and then later as they were carried to the carving table. God! It always made me wet to see it.”
This was a turn-around from what she’d been saying earlier, so I couldn’t tell if she really meant it or not. Should I be scared or happy?
The viewing lasted a good two or three hours and I was getting really tired of standing in one place getting felt up by hundreds of auction goers. Finally the bell went off again and everyone began to clear out. I kept thinking about what Chelsea had said. If she’s right about the girls not suffering, it would be a lot more fun way to go than having your head lopped off and being chopped up into plastic-wrapped cuts. I looked over at Serena and could imagine her long, curvy form stretched out on a spit, the point projecting from her mouth like an obscene snake that had gone into her cunt to hide and slithered up through her whole body until its head poked out of her mouth. But surely it must hurt to be impaled on a long steel shaft. Chelsea hadn’t mentioned anything about that part. So while we waited to be released from our viewing stations, I asked her.
“It must be incredibly painful to have a metal rod pushed through your body!” “You’d think so,” she replied blandly, “but none of the girls I watched screamed or pleaded for mercy or anything. It wasn’t at all scary to watch. In fact, it was exciting! Look, I was just messing with you before. I really am jealous of you and Serena and all the other beauty queens here. I’ll end up in a production line with my head and bones tossed in the garbage and my meat shipped off in small bits to God knows where. But you and Serena will get to go out at a posh banquet where you’ll get to meet the chef who’ll cook you. You’ll see where and how you’ll be served. And when you’re on that spit and roasting over the fire, they’ll be basting you every twenty minutes with butter and herbs. You’ll look absolutely scrumptious and the aroma of your meat, as it cooks, will be just plain heavenly. Then, when they carry you to the carving area, you’ll be all golden brown and dripping with your own body fats. The crowd will be ooo’ing and ahh-ing and applauding. They protect your head and face as you cook, you know, so you’ll look like Sleeping Beauty. You won’t be just anonymous cuts of meat; you’ll be a whole glorious roast of girl. Now that’s class!”
She went on like that, but that’s the part I remember best. She changed my whole view of what to expect. Now I’m really excited about my prospects of going out in style. I can hardly wait to see who buys me!
They removed the cuffs as they let us out of the stanchions so we could move our arms again, which was a huge relief. Your shoulders really start to ache after a while when your hands are bound behind you like that. I was afraid they wouldn’t do that for Serena, but when they asked her if she planned to be good, she nodded quietly and they freed her hands.
Actually, the NMS officials here are amazingly nice. Most of them are married women (at least they’re wearing wedding rings) and probably have fourths of their own at home and understand how nervous we are on our last day. Anyway, they’re very sweet and gentle with us. Most of the girls seem cheerful enough, all jabbering and giggling and gossiping and stuff. But it’s all kind of tense, if you know what I mean. Like it wouldn’t take much for the laughter to turn into hysterics.
We were all herded into a chute with caging on both sides and over the top. It led to an outdoor holding pen with a dirt floor and benches scattered around. Nothing like the waiting room at the cherry auction with its comfortable chairs. Two officers at the entrance to the pen checked our wrist tattoos and tapped on a computer screen as we passed through. Daddy was waiting there and had talked the officers into giving me a small spiral binder and a pen to make this last entry for my journal. The officer looked at me funny as she handed me the binder and pen. I think she was suspicious because she asked me to write my name, the day of the week and my favorite color. When I did, she looked surprised, smiled and waved me on. I guess it’s a rarity that a meat girl can write, or would want to in her last hours. What I can’t figure out is what trouble she thought I might cause with a notebook and a felt tip pen. (By the way, my favorite color is yellow.)
The holding pen is surrounded by a tall hurricane fence with razor wire at the top. The girls tell me there’s also an indoor pen for when the weather is bad, but the buyers prefer the outdoors because it’s less noisy and smelly. Also, the bare ground is better because some of the girls get so nervous while they’re waiting that they pee themselves.
A buzzer just sounded. They’ve started the auction. There’s no stage here like there was at the cherry auction. It’s just a small square platform they call the “auction block” with a ramp leading up to it from the holding pen. There doesn’t seem to be any order to how they choose the girls. I think they just grab us at random and bring us to the foot of the ramp, so some girls stay as far away from it as possible. Not me. How it works is, while each girl is on the auction block, the NMS people select the next girl, collar her and cuff her wrists behind her. When the auctioneer calls “Next!” they lead her up to the auction block on a leash. After she’s sold, she’s led down a ramp on the opposite side of the block and into the NMS building. It all goes much faster than at the cherry auction. There’s no sales pitch. The auctioneer just reads off the girl’s auction and birth numbers and her height and weight. He only asks once between bids for another raise. If there is none, he says, “Going once . . . going twice . . . SOLD to . . . .” and reads the number on the bidder’s paddle.
Uh-oh. An NMS lady has just asked for my pen and notebook, so I guess it’s my turn. I hope this finds its way back to you, Daddy. Bye. I love you! Tell Mom I love her, too! And Vanessa and Michelle and
Tara’s Journal: Saturday evening.
This final entry is not Tara’s, of course. She’s gone now. I’m her Dad. She asked me to complete this final chapter of her journal for her.
Tara was brave and cooperative right up to her last breath. I’m really proud of her. She brought in a handsome profit, too, as I knew she would. She was, after all, an exceptional beauty!
Indeed, as that girl Chelsea surmised, her appearance in the cherry auction made her an instant hot commodity among the caterers. She was unquestionably the most stunning girl there and put on a nice sexy show for them. I worried that those knuckleheads who won her would cause some damage, but they managed to restrain themselves thanks to a bit of assertive behavior on her part. I loved it when she reminded them of her astronomical assessment value and that they’d be charged double.
She was purchased, along with two others, by one of the world’s foremost caterers,
St. Jean d’Arc Enterprises, for a fancy blowout by the Ashmartin Holding Corporation. The occasion was their acquisition of General Pharmaceuticals, a multi billion dollar deal! The other two girls selected are previously mentioned by Tara in her journal. One was Serena, the girl opposite her at the viewing who had to be silenced; the other was the girl at the cherry auction Tara referred to as “the blonde bombshell.” She was blond, all right, but unlike Tara, she had a little chemical help.
The banquet was held at a splendid estate owned by Ashmartin CEO Charlton Hefler. It’s a most impressive place. An imposing Tudor mansion sits amid acres of magnificent grounds bordered on three sides by neatly groomed forest and on the fourth by the ocean. Thanks to a friend in a high ranking position at Ashmartin, I was able to wangle an invitation for her mother and me to attend the affair so I could finish Tara’s journal with a first hand description of her roast and we could enjoy her meat as prepared by one of the world’s foremost chefs. I was even granted permission to be present to watch her preparation, spitting and cooking.
It was a three hour trip from the auction site to the estate. Tara wanted to spend the time writing, of course, but the law doesn’t allow it. The three girls had to be properly restrained in the meat van while in transit: wrists cuffed behind them, ankles shackled with twelve-inch chains and secured to the floor. It must have been terribly uncomfortable to spend three hours like that. The other two girls did complain a bit, I’m told, but not Tara. I must say, the driver went out of his way to make them as comfortable as possible, given the circumstances. The seats were soft with plenty of cushions and the van was kept warm for the naked girls. Tara begged her mother and I to ride with them, but that is also illegal.
When we arrived at the estate and the girls were escorted to the kitchen, they were clearly taut and apprehensive. You could see it in their eyes and nervous mannerisms. St. Jean d’Arc Enterprises’ celebrated chef, Armand Ducette, introduced himself and congratulated the girls for the honor of having been chosen as live roasts for a banquet that would be attended by many distinguished and famous persons. He assured them it would be a most enjoyable experience for them and almost entirely pain free. You could see his reassuring words having a positive effect. The girls relaxed visibly and began to take in the splendor of their surroundings and get into the excitement of the occasion.
Two assistants in white jackets and pants like the Chef, one a burly male and the other a pretty female redhead, removed the handcuffs and ankle chains from the three girls.
Chef Ducette, quickly testing the firmness of their various body parts, said, “First, girls, you must get your bodies nice and clean on the outside. Please follow this lady.”
The redhead led the girls to a set of outdoor shower heads in a tiled corner of the pool area and stood watch as they took long, hot showers. Some guests were milling about by the pool, a few of whom were swimming and sunbathing in the nude. The assistant explained that Mr. Hefler is an enthusiastic advocate of clothing-optional pool parties; hence the open coed showers.
The girls spent some ten minutes soaping, rinsing and luxuriating in the warm sun.. The assistant even let them jump in the pool with the nude guests and have some fun splashing around, swimming, playing and working themselves into a cheerful mood. They were buoyant and still dripping wet when she led them back into the huge kitchen and to a long horizontal bar at roughly the height of Tara’s nipples. They were told to back up to the bar and stretch their arms out along it. The bar was only ten feet long so their arms overlapped. The Chef didn’t care about that, he just had his assistants strap the arms tightly to the bar. Next he told them to spread their legs so the assistants could secure their ankles to the floor by threading straps through floor inserts. The assistants then pushed oval metal tubs between their legs.
“Next, girls,” the Chef said with a broad smile, “ we must clean out you insides. But don’t worry, it won’t hurt.”
He approached the first girl (who happened to be the blonde bombshell) with a syringe equipped with a long needle and plunged it into her belly several times in different places, squeezing out a little more of the contents each time until it was empty. The girl flinched each time the needle went in and chewed her lower lip as the plunger was depressed, but didn’t seem to be in any serious pain. As he finished her and moved to Tara, who was in the middle, the assistant came along behind him and shaved the blonde’s pussy so it was completely smooth.
When all three had been prepped this way, he went back to the blonde bombshell, produced a scalpel and without hesitation ripped her open from the top of her tummy to her pubis. Her eyes widened and she let out a small yelp, but quickly settled down again. The Chef began pulling out her intestines and dumping them into the tub. She watched in stupefied amazement as he removed just about everything except her heart and lungs. No pain, apparently. The redhead rushed in after him and cauterized everything that was bleeding with what looked like a soldering gun. Still no pain. Tara was next. She bit her lower lip as the knife opened up her belly, but seemed to be pleasantly surprised at whatever she felt, or didn’t feel. She, too, watched fascinated as the Chef removed her guts and organs and the redhead sealed the wounds. Serena, calmed by the two examples before her, was totally relaxed and equally intrigued by the sight of her belly opened up and emptied out. When all three had been eviscerated, the blood was hosed out of their emptied cavities and off their lower bodies and legs with warm water.
“Now, girls,” said the Chef, “it’s time to add the stuffing. It’s my own secret recipe that will not only provide an ideal side dish to accompany your meat, but will, while you are cooking, impart the most exquisite flavor to your sirloins, tenderloins and breasts. With your abdominal muscles sliced, you will not be able to stand and walk, so please be patient as we carry you to the dressing table.”
One by one, starting with the blonde, the redhead released each girl’s bonds while the burly assistant held her up. Stainless steel tables were rolled up beside each girl and she was laid out it face up. The tables were then rolled into a circle around a smaller square table holding a large tub of stuffing and the Chef and his two assistants proceeded to transfer handfuls of stuffing from the tub into each girl’s abdomen. When all the stuffing was gone, they sewed up the three girls.
The empty tub was removed from the small center table and the table was rolled up beside the blonde. The two assistants slid her over on to the small table which supported her only from her butt to her shoulders. Her head dangled from one end and her legs from the other. Using rope, the assistants tied her wrists to the legs at the front end of the table. They then stationed themselves at the other end, one on each side, and took hold of her knees, gently spreading her legs apart. The Chef, meanwhile, had fetched a long metal pole about two and a half inches in diameter. The spit. As he aimed its pointed end at the blonde’s splayed cunt he gave a running commentary. His primary audience — the three girls — watched and listened with intense interest.
“You’ll notice the point of the spit is perforated with tiny holes,” he said. “Those are jet injectors. As the spit runs through your body, a topical anesthetic, much like the one I put in your bellies, will numb the tissues it’s about to penetrate. Don’t be concerned that the anesthetic will spoil the flavor of your meat. It’s practically tasteless. If anything, it will impart a delightful touch of rosemary.” He inserted the point of the spit between the lips of the blonde’s cunt and began pushing it slowly in with a slight twisting motion. At first she looked alarmed at the massive incursion into that tight part of her that until yesterday had never admitted anything larger than the tip of her finger. But her alarm softened to acceptance, and then blossomed into something more as the shaft filled her completely without the least discomfort. “At this point,” the Chef went on, watching her expression, “it’s beginning to stimulate her clit. Feels good, doesn’t it darling?”
“Oh yes!” she gasped.
The shaft disappeared ever so gradually into her cunt. When ten inches or so were inside, the Chef speeded up its passage, obviously pushing it through the mass of stuffing. He slowed down again to work it between her lungs and past her heart. Suddenly a look of panic filled her eyes and she began to buck!
“Don’t worry,” the Chef sang. “It’s going through your throat. You’ll be able to breathe in a minute. There are air holes coming up.”
The redheaded assistant dropped the leg she’d been holding and went around to the blonde’s head, pushing it down over the edge of the table so her mouth would open and the spit could emerge. Out it came, slicked with blood. When two feet of the spit was exposed beyond her mouth it stopped. The girl stopped thrashing and started breathing normally again.
“Now, that didn’t hurt a bit, did it?” the Chef prompted.
The girl was unable to answer, of course, but her moans of pleasure during most of the operation had answered the question in advance. The team wired her legs to the spit at the knees and ankles, then turned her over and wired her forearms together behind her back.
Now they were ready for Tara. They proceeded with the same process, minus the lecture, and Tara, too, was clearly enjoying the sensations. But something went wrong. The point was all the way out of her mouth and she was still thrashing, unable to breathe.
“Oh shit!” the Chef muttered, and frantically jiggled the shaft, sawing it back and forth. Still she couldn’t breathe! Her eyes were wild with terror as she went into desperate spasms. The Chef grabbed the nozzle from a nearby oxygen bottle and blew a blast of oxygen into the back end of the shaft. Then another. And another! Finally Tara’s chest rose, her lungs filling. After some coughs and panting, she settled down again.
“Damn!” the Chef growled. To me he said, “Sometimes stuffing or body tissue clogs up the air holes. It’s a flaw in the design we’re working on. Mr. Hefler would be pissed if we brought a dead girl out on a spit. He want’s them alive and squirming. That’s what he pays for. I would have had to go out and find a replacement on the black market, and God knows what you get when you do that! Could even be some legit kid they grabbed off the street. They disable their vocal cords so how do you know? And if someone at the party recognizes her, there goes my license. Besides which, the cost would wipe out my profits, and then some. Well, these things happen. All’s well that ends well.”
After they wired up Tara’s legs and arms they moved on to Serena. With her everything went smoothly.
The Chef checked his watch. “Go get the other’s,” he told his assistants. “We start in five minutes.”
As we waited for “the others,” Tara and the blonde amused themselves by humping the spit. I could tell when they succeeded in triggering orgasms because their eyes would squeeze shut and their bodies would jerk wildly for several seconds. Blondie came three times that I could see and Tara five. My daughter was quite the hot little bunny! Serena had become quiet, her eyes darkened with questions she couldn’t ask. But I knew what she was worried about and asked the Chef to set their minds at ease.
“Girls,” he said, “don’t fret about going over the fire. I promise, it won’t hurt much at all. I’m going to give you something that will enable you to ignore any pain.”
He fished three small devices out of a drawer. They looked like a shoehorn with a tiny vibrating paddle on the handle end. Starting with Serena, he inserted the curved “shoehorn”between the shaft and her vaginal wall, then adjusted it so that the little paddle tickled her clit as it vibrated. Her eyes immediately lighted up and she started humping the shaft harder. Tara and the blonde reacted the same way in their turn. While they were enjoying a string of self-induced orgasms, Chef Ducette wound their hair into buns and pinned a foil bonnet in place to keep their hair from singeing off.
Eventually the two assistants returned with four men dressed in casual attire. They sorted themselves out into positions at the head and foot of the spits. One of the men snickered. “I see they got their toys already.”
“We can stick one up yours too, George, if you want,” said the redhead.
“Naw, that’s okay. I’ll just watch.”
The Chef raised a finger. “Very well, then. If everyone’s ready, let’s go.” He pointed at the door to the patio.
The spit bearers picked up their respective burdens and, with the blonde’s spit in the lead, headed for the door and on out. The patio surrounds the pool and the roasting pits are at the end farthest from the building. By now more than two dozen guests, drinks in hand, had drifted to the area to ogle the parade of lovely meat girls writhing on their spits. It was about a third of the number who would be at the banquet itself six hours from now when the girls would be roasted to perfection. Since the average roast of girl will feed about thirty people (if they’re not pigs), and since a high-toned crowd like this will inevitably include a certain number of waif-thin vegetarians and a few others who, like my oldest daughter, Amanda, won’t eat red meat, three roasters is about right.
Most of these early birds had probably arrived by mid-morning, about the time Tara was on the auction block. They were a cross section of the rich, famous and politically connected, a potpourri of hard core party types that included actors, artists, writers, CEO’s, developers, politicians and carefully selected call girls. They’d spend the whole day indulging in fun, frolic, debauchery and influence pedaling, getting gradually wrecked as they cavorted on the spacious grounds, playing on the courts, lawns, fields and beds, taking advantage of the pool, bars, game rooms and kink chamber. Some had already made an early start at testing the limits of their sexual stamina. Others had been absorbing their poison of choice since breakfast. All were now fixed on the procession wending its way through them to the pits where the wriggling girls would be slowly transformed into sizzling meat. Multiple hands reached out to stroke the smooth young skin, the sexily raised rumps, heaving tits and pertly jutting nipples as they passed by.
The roasting pits at the Hefler estate consist of three copper covered concrete rectangles with long gas burners under a grate covered with coals. The spits are set in brackets at the end of each pit and rotated by a motorized drive that locks on to the foot end of the spit. The girls are secured to turn with the spit by a short perpendicular bar under their knees. Tara was placed in the center between the blonde on the left and Serena on the right. As lovely as the latter two were, Tara was clearly the most beautiful. She was well worth the price Armand Ducette (and ultimately Charlton Hefler) had paid for her. Not only did she have the prettiest face with that heart shape, cute nose and huge blue eyes, but her figure was spectacular. Firm C-cup breasts, an exceptionally narrow waist, a perfectly rounded rump and long, elegantly shaped legs tapering to trim ankles and dainty feet. (I must say, Tara takes after her mother who, even now, in her forties, would look scrumptious on a spit. She’d love it, too! She’s often threatened to volunteer at the NMS. But I won’t allow it.)
I watched Tara carefully the whole time she was still alive on the spit. They had ignited the fires in the pits just before the girls were brought out so the Chef and his two assistants could apply the first coat of basting before the skin was damaged by the heat. Aluminum shields were set in place to deflect the worst of the heat from their faces as they turned over the flames and red hot coals. This keeps the skin from shriveling while allowing it to brown to a shade closer to the rest of the carcass.
Chef Armand was basting Tara and I listened to what he was telling the girls.
“This first layer of baste,” he said, “contains a version of the anesthetic we used in your belly. It will numb your skin enough so that you can stand the heat of the fire as you cook, and it will add a scintillating hint of rosemary to those parts of your skin that will be eaten, which, of course, are your nipples and cunt lips. Unfortunately, the placement of your spits does not allow you to watch your friends as they cook, but it will give you a fine view of the distinguished guests who will be eating you this evening. Not all of them are here, of course, since it’s still early, but there’s a representative smattering. If you watch closely, you’ll probably spot several movie and TV stars, for example. You are going to be providing meat for an elite company, many of them internationally known and admired. You couldn’t have asked for a better venue, and I promise, your presentation at the banquet will be sensational! You will be beautiful to behold and every slice of you will be utterly delicious. Tara, your right breast and cunt lips have already been reserved by one of Hollywood’s most well-known stars (he named him) and your parents have reserved the left breast. Listen, all of you! I want you to enjoy the time you have left knowing that you are probably the luckiest fourths in all the world today. And don’t be shy about pleasuring yourself on the spit while you’re still able to do it. The guests love to see you enjoying yourselves. And why not? They’re certainly enjoying themselves. I’ve already seen two of our lady guests pleasuring a senator and a network anchorman over by the pool. If they can screw in public, why shouldn’t you?”
And they did! All three of them. Tara’s mother and I stayed where Tara could see us as she rotated around. We got as close to her as the Chef would allow and her Mom took pictures and told her how envious she was and how she and I wanted her to fuck the shaft and give herself as much pleasure as she could. Which she certainly did! As the heat penetrated and cooked her flesh more deeply, however, movement inevitably became more difficult. In fifteen minutes her humping had slowed to feeble thrusts. At twenty minutes she could only wiggle her toes, although she still looked us straight in the eyes and blinked as she rotated around. At twenty-four minutes her body was completely still and she could no longer focus. At twenty-six minutes she died.
Just as the Chef had promised, the presentation of the three roasted girls was spectacular. Tara was a particular sensation, her surpassing beauty intensified by the shimmering coats of basting. Fragrant hot fat dripped enticingly from her bronzed, steaming body. Her Mom and I shared her left breast. The texture was extremely delicate and the flavor superb, to put it mildly. I saved the crunchy little nipple as my own treat, and it was, indeed, enhanced by a hint of rosemary. I can only hope my remaining fourths are half as delicious!
The Chef offered to preserve Tara’s head for a reasonable fee and her Mom quickly took him up on it. We have it mounted over the fireplace in the living room as an incentive to Vanessa and Michelle. We’ve told them that if they eat and groom themselves properly and make themselves as beautiful as they can be, like Tara did, they, too, may be live-spitted at a fancy banquet and eaten by movie stars. If that happens, I promised, I’ll have their heads mounted beside their sister’s. It seems to be working!
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