This work is copyright 2000-2004 by Xaltatun of Acheron (A Pseudonym). It may be posted on the Internet to any free forum. It may be reformatted to match the forum's look and feel, and the forum editor may make minor spelling and grammer corrections. Otherwise it must be posted in its entirety, including these notices. It may not be sold, or included in any compilation that is sold, or posted on any forum that requires a fee for access, without my written permission. My permission will require payment, terms to be negotiated. For purposes of this notice, sites guarded by Adult Check or similar packages are considered pay sites. Posting on any site must include this copyright notice.
Adult Content Warning - this story contains adult themes, including non-consensual bondage/slavery and forced sexual acts. If you are under the lawful age for such materials (18 in most jurisdictions) or if you would find such material offensive, please go elsewhere.
Safety Warning. This story may contain descriptions of practices that are decidedly unsafe, either in general, or if performed by someone without adequate training. There are a number of good books available on safety in the BDSM scene. Most large cities, and some not so large ones, have organized BDSM groups that will usually welcome a newcomer. I'm not going to point out which practices are safe, and which aren't. Any practice is unsafe if performed by someone with inadequate training and experience, or if performed when not paying attention. Please think before you act. Don't make yourself a candidate for a Darwin award.
Now on to the story...
�Emmy,� said Mona, around the chop, chop of her knife sectioning the carrots, �is getting on my nerves.�
�Oh, what�s she doing this time?� It felt like the breading was getting to that exactly right consistency. Hopefully, the cutlets had finished thawing properly.
�She keeps going on about how much fun it would be to be cooked and eaten.�
�Gaaah! Not around food, please!� Emmy is our prize kook. �She does take the prize on that one. Dolcett is ok for the occasional shiver, but all the time? Pleeeze!�
�I was just thinking �� Mona said, meditatively, as she switched to decapitating the celery stalks. Mona doesn�t look like she�d do meditatively all that well. Her flame red hair and freckles on top of the diagonally striped black and white mini-dress her master currently likes suggests explosive, not meditative. She does both.
�Well, out with it, girl. Boiling her would shut her up, but I don�t think anyone around here would want to touch the results. At least, I hope nobody around here would want to.� Yep, the cutlets were properly thawed. Next step, apply breading.
�I wasn�t thinking of boiling, exactly. More like spit roasting. Our roaster is long enough.�
�Mona, either you�re sick, or you�re a genius.�
She grinned at me. �Betty, I wasn�t planning on getting rid of her permanently, although the idea does have a certain attraction.�
I looked at Sally, speculatively. She and her husband had just joined the commune, and this was her first day on a cooking rotation. She�s a 5�8� brunette with a figure to die for. I had this suspicion my Master was going to try to get a couple of inches off my waist, now that he had an example. Oh, well. I�d bitch for six months, and then bask in the envy. Envy is such a nice feeling when you�re on the receiving end.
Still, being tossed into a semi-non/con scene your first week here could be unsettling. Emmy had it coming, but Sally didn�t. Well, she�d just have to adapt.
�The menu today is Emmy. Spit-roasted.� Mona laughed. Sally looked shocked.
�I didn�t �� she sputtered.
I gave her a quick hug. �I know you didn�t, and we�re not going to. But Emmy doesn�t know that. Your job is to keep her thinking she�s actually going to be roasted alive as long as possible.�
�Oh,� she said. �It�s a scene.� She sounded relieved. �Emmy does seem to have a one track mind.�
�Exactly. We�re going to have roast bore. Now, here�s the plan. You start off on the stuffing.�
She looked at the ingredients. �Stuffing? I didn�t think we were going to kill her.�
�We�re not. Quite. She really has got everyone irritated, so she�s going to be very uncomfortable for a while.�
�Well, let�s go collect our bore.� Mona and I stepped out of the kitchen and headed down the path to the office section. Our complex is an oval of attached houses (which we call apartments) around a central green. The community kitchen and dining hall is on one end; the offices, workshops and ponygirl stable are on the other. The parking lot is outside. There weren�t any girls in the stalls at the moment. We don�t have enough for a full-time ponygirl to do, and there were three girls chomping at the bit for being the first. The committee does a great job of running the place; they weren�t going to break their string by nominating one of them over the other two.
Our office complex takes a bit of getting used to. It�s just one long table designed for stand-up workstations. Everybody who does office work, from the committee chairman right on down to yours truly, has a workstation at the table, and works standing up.
Emmy was at her workstation, talking into her headset. She�s normally on overflow call center support for any of a number of major manufacturers. She�s quite good at it, too.
Today, she was dressed in something I�ve heard called a camask. It�s a single strip of cloth with a hole in the middle for the head. There�s a tie arrangement just under the breasts so the front shows a curve. The sides, of course, are completely open. This one came down to mid-thigh.
We walked up behind her. I reached over her shoulder and pushed the off-line button. She finished up her call and turned to see who wanted her.
�Hey Betty, Mona. What�s up? You�re on kitchen today, aren�t you? What�s for dinner?� She was just making conversation. Like most of us, she doesn�t check the menus in advance. There�s no point. You eat what the committee decrees, or you go hungry. For their part, the committee takes care that everyone gets their favorite meals with fair regularity.
�You are.� I said, deadpan.
�Huh?� That was probably the last thing she expected. Mona moved behind her and slipped her arms into cuffs while she was still stunned.
�Everyone�s tired of your one-track mind. Tonight, you get your wish. Roast Bore.�
Surprising someone like that has one great virtue. The open jaw just invites a gag. Mona obliged with a nice ring, presupplied with a stopper. I snicked a leash onto the ring in her collar, and tugged. I led her out of the workroom as she looked hopefully at the two committee members who were working away. They looked back like they had approved of the menu, which, of course, they had.
We led her into the bathroom behind the kitchen complex and sat her on the seat. �Here. Swallow.� I took out the stopper and tossed a couple of pills into her conveniently open mouth. She swallowed and then sat there for a moment. Then her skin flushed green as she bent over and heaved into a bucket I�d supplied. In the middle of that, she started to shit like she had diarrhea. We held her there for a good five minutes until her entire digestive tract was empty.
Mona stared at Emmy in fascination. �What is that stuff?�
�Something special for Poison Control teams. They use it when it�s more important to get everything out of the system quickly than it is to worry about the patient�s comfort or minor side effects.�
Mona shook her head. �I think I�d prefer constipation, thank you.�
It took about five minutes before she was cleaned out. �Rinse next.� I put an attachment into her ring gag and ran a hose to the sink. Then I turned the water on, low. Her eyes bulged out as she swallowed. I turned it off in a few seconds; I didn�t want her to drown. A flood of water came out the other end. I turned it back on and off a couple more times until the output was clear. By this point, Emmy looked thoroughly miserable.
I tugged on her leash and led her out the door.
Sally had the coals in the hearth glowing a nice, hot red. She also had the block all prepared. We let Emmy stare at the hearth while we released the ties on her camask with a twist of the fingers, and then took it off over her head. Then we put her on the block, face up, and tied her arms and legs to the sides.
�How do we put the stuffing in?�
�Little gizmo we found on the Internet.� I replied. �It�s a double tube. The head end fits into the asshole like this.� It was about two inches thick and six inches long. �Then it�s a double tube. As you push it, the inside rolls out and becomes the outside. The gizmo on the head guides it around the curves.� I started it and watched the black tube slide up her ass. �The nice thing is that there really isn�t any friction to cause damage.�
We watched the way her abdomen rippled as the tube made its way toward her stomach. �As long as we�re watching, we might as well get the other end started.� I took out a second tube, started it down her throat and attached it to the ring in her mouth.
When they stopped, we started spooning dressing into the end. Both tubes began extracting themselves, leaving dressing behind. She took a surprising amount before they finished loading her digestive tract.
We spent some time buttering her front, and then flipped her over and buttered her back. Then we laid the pole on her back. Sally tied her feet around it. I tied her waist to the pole, and Mona tied her hands. We flipped her over and tied a second pole down her front. Sally and Mona picked up the poles on their shoulders. It was just at the right height for her to stare at the bed of bright red glowing coals. Then I tied a band with eye patches around her head so it wouldn�t flop around, and we put the poles on the second hearth.
This one was rigged with heat lamps instead of coals. We intended to give her a nice, deep tan as a memento of her time on the spit. I put a thermocouple into the center of the stuffing in her ass, and started the spit turning. With two poles, there wasn�t very much drag on the equipment.
I watched her turn for a minute or two, and then went back to preparing dinner.
The real boar came out of the standup refrigerator and went onto the first spit. We kept a close watch on Emmy, both to keep her skin nicely basted, and to make certain her temperature never went over 100. I suspect it took her about an hour to figure out that she wasn�t really going to be dinner. The way we had her rigged on the spit, there wasn�t much she could do, but it did seem like she relaxed a bit just about then.
For serving, we put her on her back, hands at her sides, legs folded up so her knees were under her breasts and an apple in her mouth, surrounded by the rest of the dinner. Since she knew what was going on, we took the blindfold off, but kept her head immobilized. Most of the guys had to tease by pretending to select which cut they wanted. Several went so far as to draw cutting lines on her skin.
When dinner finally ended, we took out the stuffing, flushed her out, and then administered the antidote to the agent that had paralyzed her alimentary canal. She sat there, not saying anything, nursing her glucose and chicken soup while we cleaned up.
We haven�t heard a word since about her wanting to be cooked and eaten. She�s got me wondering, though. Xaltatun�s birthday is coming up, and she�s on the cook crew for that day. The way she looks at me with that speculative gleam has me wondering exactly what I said that I�m going to regret.
If you enjoyed this story, please e-mail the author and let him know. He likes to hear from his loyal fans,and it gives him some motivation to keep writing this stuff. Of course, if you're a publisher and you'd like to buy some of these stories, please let him know. The starving author in the garret makes a great story, but it sucks in real life.