The Feast

The restaurant is busy tonight. Dozens of sadistic gourmets have gathered to enjoy the most prized of all meats, flesh worthy to be eaten by gods. They wait impatiently, sniffing the air and licking their lips, bellies growling. Tension builds for these are predators, and they do not handle hunger well.

They await you.

You were kidnapped, your fate sealed by being beautiful and in the wrong place at the wrong time.

That was weeks ago. Stripped naked and then caged, put on display like a prize bit of livestock, the gourmets would judge your flesh with cruel eyes, poking and prodding you without pity. Your pleas merely amuse them as they stroke your skin and comment on the quality of your flesh.

You are raped by men and women. Bound and helpless, you must endure the most depraved of acts. You are raped as much out of sadism than mere lust, for the beasts that imprison you relish your whimpers and tremblings, the act of using a woman reduced to mere animal status a powerful aphrodisiac.

There are other women with you, all used as vilely as you. Weekly, one or two are dragged from their cages and into the kitchen, their screams and shrieks echoing off the tiled walls of that human abattoir. The shrieks are silenced, replaced by the wet thunks and snicks of feminine flesh being carved, of shapely arms and legs being hacked away from slim bleeding torsos that in turn are opened up like grotesque flowers and emptied.

Then, the smells. The aroma of cooking meat. You want to vomit, for you know what those meats are. But the smell is so….delicious. Fed on a fattening diet of sweet porridge, you have not tasted meat since your abduction and your inner animal craves such sustenance. You gag in self-revulsion as your mouth waters, your stomach growls, and you wonder what it must be like to take the flesh of a beautiful young woman into you mouth, to taste her in all her glory, to swallow part of her and force it to become part of yourself.

You are obscenely aroused by such perverted fantasies. You suspect the foods pumped down your throat are drugged, for your clitoris is now a constant ache. Your rub your itching knob, fingers sticky from your cum as you try to force the idea of sweet soft womanly meats from your mind. But it is no use, the scent is too strong, and you orgasm to the aroma of roasted women.

Then it is your turn. Fattened to a perfect sleekness, you quail when you here the gourmets declare you ready for the table. They talk amongst themselves, ignoring your weeping as the discuss how you are to cut and cooked, which pieces of your body each will enjoy. You feel no pride when they declare you a truly magnificent animal, one of the finest pieces of livestock to grace this place in years.

You are taken from your cage. You try to maintain some last shred of dignity as you are led to your slaughter. You do not scream, your captors do not have to drag you like a squealing pig into the kitchen. The chefs chuckle at your silent defiance, but you sense a tiny bit of respect from them. But empathy is never desired in a person whose job it is to kill and cut up a fellow human being, so they repress any feelings of respect and revert back to treating you like the doomed animal you are.

The kitchen is huge and spotless. You gawk at the cauldron where doubtlessly women have been stewed. At the huge ovens where countless girls have slow-roasted to perfection. At the great pit filled with coals, and long steel spits designed to impale a woman from mouth to anus so she can crisp over open flame.

Your legs nearly give way when a chef takes a long spit and lays it down next to a nicked wooden butcher’s block.

You are almost grateful, for at least this might mean your death will be quick and you will never feel your meat cooking under crisping skin. Many other women were not so lucky, and spent hellish hours in a pot or oven, howling as their agony spiced their flesh.

You are forced on your back by the chefs. They hold your arms and legs out wide.

Then you are injected, a huge needle driven into your neck and some dreadful cocktail of drugs and chemicals added to your bloodstream.

Your senses heighten, like you had quaffed gallons of strong coffee. Your clitoris swells into rock-hardness, your vagina oozing creamy lust. Suddenly the idea of a steel shaft in your womanhood doesn’t seem so bad and your wonder if you will live long enough to hump it. Part of you know it is the drugs working, but you feel like a drunken slut, no longer so horrified by the thought of being used unto death.

Your insides had already been hosed clean and then your skin scrubbed squeaky clean so there is no need for further cleansings. Drowsily you await the pole.

You do not like hearing the master chef lecturing his assistants on the many secrets of the drug they had injected you with. He says it will keep you alive even as you cook, rare proteins keeping your blood from clotting in the heat, keeping your brain functioning as your body temperature rises to a nightmarish fever. You hear him stress the importance of how pain flavors human meat, the drug keeping your muscles loose and avoiding the gamey flavor that animals who died in pain and fear usually possess. You will marinate in your agony, each hellish second of torment adding yet more flavor to your body.

You try to struggle, but the are skilled and strong and you are woozy, so you merely wiggle and tremble like a lamb in their grips. An air-tube is pushed down your throat, the chef explaining it will allow you to breathe around the pole in your throat, allow cool air into poaching lungs.

Then you are skewered. Slowly.

They push the shaft into your anus, laughing as you jerk and twitch around the steel. You clench your bowels but it is no use. You feel your bowels fill, yelp in pain as your colon is pierced.

You feel hot fluids trickling from your asshole and know it is your blood. But not enough. Nowhere near enough to bleed to death and end your suffering. The master chef takes over, guiding the shaft through you with the precision of a neuro-surgeon. He avoids major blood vessels, successfully navigates between organs and lungs till you feel something hard and wet in your throat.

You cough bright beads of blood. Again, not enough, and you can breathe enough to give a choked scream as you feel the needle tip of the spit enter the back of your mouth, tweaking your tongue, clicking against the back of your teeth before you reflexively open your mouth to allow the bloody pole slide out from between your stretched lips.

You are spitted, yet as undamaged as possible, intact enough to live for hours and hours wrapped around the steel shaft in your body.

Your eyes cross as you try to focus on the spit emerging from your face. Then you look up at the chef. He beams with justified pride at his skill. Then he smiles at you, patting you face with what could almost be affection. You are a prize animal, and he is pleased you are turning out so well.

Your legs are stretched out and secured to the pole by skewers through your ankles. You scream but even the slightest twitch of your legs just creates more pain so your try to lay still, praying that somehow this will all be over soon.

Your arms are crossed over your chest, your firm breasts cupped in the crooks of your arms. Your arms are bound in place.

Fruit slices are pinned to your body. Each thick wedge of fruit brings a needle of pain as it is fixed to your flanks, limbs and buttocks. Round slices are fitted over your breasts, your nipples poking up from the sweet flesh. Beads of nectar run down your body, sweetening your skin, forming a mouth-watering coating that will harden as it heats, protecting your derma and helping it turn into wonderfully flavored crackling when you are finally served.

You are oiled. If it were not for the spit in your body and the knowledge that you will soon be cooking alive, it could almost be soothing. The oil is thick and fragrant, and the chefs take pleasure massaging it into your skin. Your feel fingers enter your vagina, drenching your already wet sex with cooking oil. The chef laughs at how wet you are and all of them takes turns exploring you and licking your cum from their fingers.

Then your vagina is stuffed with dripping slices of pineapple. Your feel the nectar ooze over your clitoris, feel the sugars coat you from labia to cervix. You cum again despite the pain, adding more of your own unique flavor to the fruits filling your sex. The chefs murmur approvingly as they cram more stuffing in till your vagina is ready to burst.

Then they sew your vagina shut, not wanting you to squirt your stuffing wastefully into the cook fire. The pain in intense, but your mind is growing number. Resignation and narcotics sap your will, and you feel distant, as if the sadistic fiends were torturing another woman, and you were watching dispassionately from above, silently watching them work their will on your lovely and now unresisting body.

At last you are picked up and carried to the fire. The coals are already white-hot, waiting for you.

The weight of your body is a painful burden as you are carried by two brawny kitchen assistants. You feel your sternum and pelvis strain from the weight of your meat tugging them downwards. You wiggle a bit, feeling your innards shift. Drugs and death allow you to feel an obscene lust. Your hips rocks gently, your clitoris rubbing against soft fruits and hard steel. You come again to the mocking laughter of the monsters surrounding you. Somehow, despite the horror, it seemed right, a final act of life in defiance of death. You feel your jism ooze, over your stuffings, and you steal a few last bits of pleasure in this life.

A hood is placed over your head to protect your hair which is wound in a ponytail around your neck. They want your face unmarred so it will provide a lovely table setting for their ghoulish feast. Panting from the fading remnants of your last orgasm, in darkness you await the fire.

You sense it from a distance, already hot feet away from the fire pit. You feel your skin begin to sweat, salty and sweet fluids mingling over your soft pelt.

Then you feel it, the full heat of the fire as you are set over the center of the pit. It is like jets of molten lava, an indescribable agony. Your howl and buck, in horrid parody of lust, your whole body overwhelmed.

Then, the agony fades. You know your nerve ending have flash-poached, rendering you numb to the sensations of being cooked alive. Whether the master chef at last made an error and set you too close to the flame, or whether it was some twisted act of mercy, or merely the knowledge that a roomful of ravenous killers waited outside in the dining room  and it was best to cook you quickly to sate their hungers all the sooner, you do not know or care.

You feel yourself begin to turn, the assistants cranking the spit about so your meat can cook evenly. Despite the death of most of your nerves you can feel the shifting wash of heat over your body. Feel heat seep into your slender ankles and forearms, feel the mass of your thighs and rump soak up the burning. You now longer feel your feet or hands and know those lean delicacies have cooked through. You welcome the numbness as it flows over your limbs, knowing each inch of your meat cooking through brings you closer to peace. Your nipples give one last hard stab of pain before they simmer into soft tasty rubber. Your breasts feel odd and you realize the buttery tissues inside are boiling, your lovely bosoms now sacs of skin holding in a creamy dairy-infused soup.

More of you cooks. You now longer hear the chefs mocking your suffering, no longer feel anything but a warmth that fills you like a lover. Faintly you hear hisses and know they are your juices falling into the flame. You smell yourself and it is truly mouth-watering. It is the ultimate masturbation, to eat oneself, but you wish you could, wish you share the experience of eating hot woman-flesh from the bone, feel tongue tingle with human gravies.

Your last sense is the aroma of your roasting body. Sensation fades from your crotch and you know your vagina has cooked. Some of the hissing juices falling into the fire are nectars leaking from between your sewn labia, sugar and cum-infused juice flashing into heavy musky steam.

Then ……. Nothing.


Hours later, you are lifted form the fire. If your soul could look back, you would see you have roasted into utter perfection. Glazed skin turned the richest of brown, your orifices venting succulent vapors, you have been transformed into an edible sacrament.

The hood is lifted from your head. Your hair is unbound and set around your still-beautiful face, your features amazingly serene considering the nature of your death. Your eyes are open and staring enigmatically towards the dining room.

You are set on a silver platter and wheeled into the dining room. There the cannibals are at the end of their self-control, ready to set upon any vulnerable flesh. Your body is like water to someone dying of thirst. Gaping in ravenous awe, it takes the last bits of their will power not to simply fall on your body, burning themselves as they rip you apart with their teeth, gorging like hyenas on your harvest.

You are laid on a table. With a flourish, the master chef withdraws the spit from your ass. It slides out easily, lubricated by your grease. Your mouth pops open, heat-swollen tongue protruding from you lips. Another chef shoves and apple into your mouth with a laugh. Yet another slashes the twine holding your labia together and you at last spurt a vagina-full of sweet food onto the platter between your legs.

That is the signal to feed.

They take you like a school of sharks. Knives flash, carving you. Some, too impatient for even that, simply claw away soft succulent portions. All jam your heated flesh into their mouths, your grease running down their lips and they gorge on you.

There is little decorum to these feasts. Your skeleton is flensed, limbs twisted and yanked away to be gnawed upon, gristles spat out so more of your meat can be bitten off. Every sliver of flesh is eagerly consumed. Your bones are cracked so your marrow can be slurped. Even your face is eaten with relish, what was once beautiful features becoming paste in a belly and scarps of soft cheek sticking between teeth. Your skull is smashed and your brains scooped, fatty tissue that holds complex flavors that intrigue the palates of those bold enough to try such exotic food.

You are eaten entirely in a fraction of the time it took to cook you. In the end the cannibals wearily leave your bones laying in stray puddles of congealing gravy. You scalp lay on the floor, discarded until a chef picks it up and tosses it into the waste-grinder, followed by your bones and forlorn gristle. Some of the chefs lick the last of your gravy off the platter, grateful for the chance to taste the fruits of their labors.

The lights are turned off, and another day ends. Next week, it will be time for another woman or two to feel the kiss of the cookfire, for her to be fed to depraved gourmets. It is a ritual that has been going on in the shadows since the dawn of civilization and will continue as long as there are humans who hold the darkest of hungers in their hearts.