Posted by jack on October 21, 2006 at 03:44:11:
MELISSA'S REALISTIC ROLE-PLAY
by Jack
I
"Gosh, David, there are so many cars!," Melissa said, gaping out the window.
"I guess you're popular, sweetie."
Melissa's husband called her sweetie when he felt manly.
"Well, I think I'm going to change my mind. There are way too many people here. I can't believe it."
"You can't change your mind. You know that."
Melissa looked away from the sea of metallic glint in the field that adjoined Bob Burns' farmhouse.
"I can, too."
Why was David unconcerned? Ten to fifteen was the number they had talked about. That many role-players could give a faithful young wife a thrilling time, but this was scary. It looked like the whole club had showed up! Melissa wondered if David's nonchalance meant that he intended to protect her or that the rules would keep her from being screwed to a pulp and she just didn't know the rules. She never knew about such things, whereas David always knew. Melissa sighed, feeling a bit better.
David braked the car on the bleached gravel. A greeting party stood in the grass, applauding.
"Hi, there, Melissa!," Bob Burns said, bending to peer inside the car. He held the door for her.
Melissa exited reluctantly into the sunlight. She dropped her eyes. She knew them all but in her confusion she failed to remember any of their names, except Lorraine's. Her nervousness had returned in spades.
"Hi, honey. We're so delighted to see you."
"Lorraine, I don't know about this," Melissa said, urgently. She felt constrained by the presence of the others to say that she might change her mind.
"You were expecting the regulars. Instead you have all fifty-two of us," Lorraine said, lightly.
"I know it. How come!?"
"Mmmm, well you are terribly pretty, dear. And there might be another reason. It's so charming that you're nervous. Are you thinking you don't want to go through with it?"
Melissa laughed. "Yes, to be honest. I mean, unless, you know... What other reason?"
"Mmmm, meat girls don't get to ask questions."
A man stepped toward them. He was Melissa's age. He liked her. He had kidded her about her role-play at the last picnic and made her laugh. She had thought about him that morning, hoping he would come. She smiled and tried to remember his name.
"Melissa agreed to the role-play based on her reasonable belief that the attendance would be within the accustomed limits, and the attendance has smashed those limits to bits," the young man said. "So she feels she would be justified if she backed out. She's not a brazen girl, she's simply a little shy and she doesn't want to role-play in front of a crowd of rowdy girl eaters."
He returned Melissa's grateful smile. "Correct?"
Melissa nodded. "Yes, correct."
"And she would just as soon not be fucked to death," Lorraine observed. "All right, take the cunt!"
The young man and David seized Melissa and roughly bound her hands behind her back.
"Oh God, you were just teasing me!," she winced.
The young man laughed. "Yeah. I'm the one who's going to livestock you, too. I won the draw for that."
"You know the rules don't let a girl change her mind. Once you're in, you're in sweetie," Lorraine said, brightly.
Melissa's blue eyes teared. Lorraine was her best friend, almost like a mother. She loved it when Lorraine got naughty with her. She expected Lorraine to take advantage of her at her role-play. She had looked forward to it, but why couldn't Lorraine show a little friendly sympathy? Why was everyone letting her down?
"Do you mind, Dave," the young man said, putting his hands on Melissa's breasts.
David grinned. "Nope."
Melissa closed her eyes. She bit her lip. She remembered now. His name was Greg. He had never been fresh with her and now he was feeling her up in public in front of her husband. Well, that's what happened if you were a meat girl, role-play or not. With her hands fastened behind her, Melissa could only endure her humiliation. She tried to ignore the tinglings in her nipples, preferring to indulge her hurt feelings. People were always teasing her and taking advantage of her good nature and gullibility. Greg was no different, obviously.
"Ohhhh, mmmmmm," it was futile. Melissa sighed. She let her breathing quicken. She wished someone would hold her instead of them making her stand there like a sex statue.
"Ok, that's enough," Greg said. He turned Melissa by her shoulders and marched her into the back yard. David and the others followed, chatting and laughing. Melissa heard the excitement in their voices. She couldn't help feeling excited herself in spite of her misgivings. A cheer went up as they rounded the side of the house and came in view of the crowd. Melissa dropped her head, feeling the blushes rush back to her cheeks. Greg gave her a push and she stumbled, losing her balance but she righted herself and kept going until she reached the dressing table. She held her breath as Greg turned her about to face her audience.
"I'll get it started," Bob Burns said.
"Well, here she is, folks. This month's meat girl. The stable's empty right now, I hate to say, but if we're goin to have get by with a role-play today I don't see how we could do better than havin it be Melissa."
Blushing ever more profusely, Melissa stepped back from the hoots and cheers, bumping the table with her tied hands. She glanced over her shoulder, knowing she would soon be the occupant of what she saw. She didn't know why they called it a table. Bob Burns had made it himself of heavy oak cut from trees in the woods behind the farm. It was more than fifteen feet long, covered in brick red vinyl. There was a deep sink and electric plugs. A long section of the table rested on adjustable legs for the convenience of those who preferred a lowered platform on which to indulge sexual appetites before the meat girl became more meat than girl. Clamps for securing a reluctant roast were fixed along the top at various points. The usual tools were in place, including the stuffing knives. Melissa had always found Bob Burns' table exciting and fearsome but never so much as she found it now.
"Before our meat girl got here, we drew numbers. I got nineteen myself. Oh well, sloppy nineteens, what are ya gonna do!?"
Bob waited for the laughter to die down.
"Lorraine and Alice will take your numbers when your turns come. Now we have a lot of folks here so everyone is expected to have a good time but not take all day, okie dokie? You got two minutes. That's right, fellas, two minutes. That's about one full hour of fucking for Melissa, enough to tenderize the cunt meat but not ruin it. First thing though is we'll do a few preparations, shave her, etcetera, then she's yours. Ok? Now, Lorraine here has the rest of the program."
"Thank you, Bob," Lorraine said. Her voice was strong and musical. Melissa felt the audience sharpen its attention.
Twenty-two miles away, on the ninth and top floor of the Biggs Hotel, Alison Goodsmith surveyed the converted ballroom. It looked great. Along a tapestried wall, decorated in red and white bunting, the display booths waited. A banner at the kitchen end of the hall strung its welcome to "The First Annual Dolcett Fair and Convention - USA". Alison, as president of the host club, was there to greet the delegates, whose arrivals could begin at any moment.
Yes, the hotel was a good choice, she reflected for the umpteenth time. The ballroom was vast and fully soundproofed by its solid 1950's walls and the kitchen's three commercial ovens were just what the doctor ordered. The hotel manager had been put off by the idea of a pig fair on the premises even if the pigs were pedigreed and numbered fewer than a dozen, but he relented when Alison agreed to book the entire floor below along with the hall, at double the going rate, and also post a large security deposit. The man hadn't questioned her instruction that no one not credentialed for the convention, not even the manager himself, would be permitted on either of the rented floors.
"Good day, Mrs. Goodsmith," bellowed Horatio Finley, who had just entered the hall. He tapped has cane on the floor, as if testing the wood for some latent defect that might suddenly plummet him below.
"Oh, good morning, Horatio. I didn't think you'd be here so early."
"Damn right, I'm early. This business is costing me a fortune."
Mrs. Goodsmith tittered, not knowing how to respond to the delicate topic of their sponsor's money. Horatio Finley was one of the richest people on earth, so he claimed. He was apt to remind anyone near him of the burden of his wealth. Luckily for the clubs, the old man was crazy about meat girls. He was footing the entire bill for the convention. The event, in fact, was his brainchild. Finley's detectives had spent months searching out Dolcett clubs across the country and now, all nine, assuming they had found them all, would gather for the first time under one roof. They would have a fair and he would be the judge of best in show, a fantasy come true.
II
"I think we should livestock our meat girl first," Lorraine said, giving Greg a nod.
The young man had been waiting with scissors. He held them aloft, then came up to Melissa. Without speaking, he began cutting away the young wife's clothes. Melissa stiffened and held her breath. She felt the warm summer air where her blouse had been, then where her shorts had been, where her bra, and, finally, where the new lace panties she had bought for this special occasion had been.
"Oh, isn't she a prize!," Lorraine said when Melissa stood nude in her binds, feeling a bit like the lone target at a rifle range as she looked out at the ogling crowd.
"Well, let's hope she really is the prize, I mean the blue ribbon prize."
After the first round of fun with Melissa, members would convoy to the hotel, Lorraine continued, explaining what everyone except Melissa already knew.
In her self consciousness, Melissa failed at first to register what Lorraine was saying, but soon her pretty face reflected puzzlement, then alarm. A fair? Other clubs bringing meat girls? A contest? A reception and banquet? Melissa looked at David for reassurance, but he avoided her eyes.
"Wait.....what are you talking about, Lorraine!?"
Lorraine paused. Silence fell over the yard as she contemplated Melissa with a steely gaze.
"I'm speaking of your role-play, Melissa. I thought that was obvious."
"But..but."
"Don't say anything more, dear, not unless you're spoken to. Otherwise, we will have to gag you. Your role-play is going to be more realistic than usual, that's all. But you can take comfort in knowing that your fellow meat girls won't be so lucky. They won't be role-playing at all, you see. They'll be roasted. I suppose 'fellow' may not be the right word there, sorry. All right, get her on the table."
The annoyance in Lorraine's voice belied the fun she was having.
Adrian Brewster stood quietly while Gloria and Alice Parent bathed the strapped young woman with sponges and shaved her. When they finished, and Melissa had been placed on the fucking plank, Adrian dropped his pants. He was first in line.
Melissa's lips trembled. She disliked Adrian. The man's cultured manner intimidated her. He was old, besides, well past fifty she guessed, and it showed in the flab and poor skin that enclosed him. There was nothing old in the appearance of Adrian's badboy, however. This part of him jutted menacingly from its scraggly nest. Adrian smiled, seeing the direction of Melissa's gaze.
"I imagine you have a better understanding now for the perfect attendance for your role-play."
Melissa swallowed. "It's because of the....fair. No one told me."
"A surprise for you. Here's another!" With that, Adrian fell on the young wife.
From between the bars, Melissa watched people milling about the hall but closed her eyes whenever someone stopped to peer inside her cage. She sat with legs folded behind her, hands tied behind her back to her ankles, neck leashed to the cage to keep her stationary. She was ball-gagged and wrapped from her neck down in a purple sheet. Her cage had been covered for the trip to the hotel. The handlers had removed the tarp only after she was brought up on the service elevator and placed in line with the other exhibits. From the bits of conversation she overheard, Melissa gleaned that the other delegations had arrived with their exhibits. She was one of nine and soon there would be a show, like they have for dogs, with prizes awarded to the clubs that presented the best meat girls.
The cages were sheeted in metal except for the barred doors through which Melissa and the other meat-girls saw the crowd begin to thicken when the clock across the room neared three p.m. An old man in a tuxedo appeared, holding a cane. He walked to and fro, jabbering away, casting intense glances toward the row of cages. Melissa's heart made a hopeful leap when Lorraine came up with Greg and unhooked her door. Then she saw that Greg was carrying an enema kit and bucket and her spirits fell. Gloria wheeled up a cart laden with more supplies, including another bucket and sponges sitting atop a large, silver platter.
"Hi honey, it's almost show time," Lorraine said. "Let's get this drape off you."
Lorraine folded the sheet and placed it on the floor while Gloria cleared the top of the cart. Melissa followed their movements with wide, fearful eyes.
"Oh, come on. This is fun!", Lorraine chirped.
The women took Melissa out of the cage and strapped her to the cart. Lorraine smiled down at her.
"We've got half an hour to get you ready."
Turning her head, Melissa could see carts like hers to her right and left surrounded by attendants busily at work on the other entrants. She caught glimpses of her competitors - an arm, a leg, a gagged face, pairs of petrified eyes.
"I know you're worried, honey," Lorraine said. "Let me reassure you. We haven't told anyone yet that you are only role-playing, but we will when the time seems right. Feel better?"
"Ahhrrrggg," Melissa said, shaking her head.
"I'll take that as a yes. Now, it would be helpful if you won the contest or at least placed in the top three. You see, the winner will be the center roast at the reception tomorrow night and the first and second runner ups will be roasts, too. The other girls, well, they will be butchered right after the show so the cooks can start preparing the other dishes. You know, casseroles and dumplings and stews and whatever. If you're one of those girls, I mean the ones being butchered tonight, it might be a little awkward getting you out of this, but if you're in the top three that will give us time to think of something because they won't start the roasts until tomorrow.
"Oh, cheer up. I know what you're thinking. You think we should have thought of something already and not be waiting until the last minute when it might be too late. Well, I'm sorry, but people have been busy."
While Lorraine explained things, Gloria had been getting Melissa's enema underway. All the entrants were receiving them. Most of the girls were frightened out of their wits, naturally, and no one wanted an accident during the competition. Besides, the whole idea was to present the meat girls as oven ready as the situation permitted.
The enema over, Gloria inspected Melissa for any hair missed during her shaving at the farm, finding a few strays that she expertly dispatched. The attendants bathed Melissa next. Greg stepped in to help. He sponged the smooth thighs and gently dabbed the sides of Melissa's cunt, prettily pinked from the many fuckings she had received.
"You loved getting your brains fucked out," Greg told her. "We wondered how you would take it, you know, and you were great."
Melissa groaned and closed her eyes.
Alison Goodsmith had come up with the plan to use colors. Since most of the clubs lacked names, the presidents, after conferring with Horatio Finley, adopted Alison's suggestion that the entrants be identified by the colors of the drapes that decorated their carts. This would preserve a modicum of anonymity, which everyone thought was a good idea.
Lorraine was delighted to have drawn purple. She thought the color's richness and hint of deviltry might give Melissa a subliminal edge, not that Melissa needed an edge. Oven worthy as the the other entrants were, none in Lorraine's view posed a threat to Melissa, with one worrisome exception - a blue eyed blonde on the pink cart a few booths down the line. Its name was Bambi. She modeled bikinis for a living and it was easy to see why.
Like most of the meat girls, Bambi had been taken in a hunt. She had refused to believe what her captors told her was going to happen to her until that very morning when she and the other doubting girls were shown a video that proved instructive to them all.
Lorraine kept an eye on Bambi's preparations as the minutes ran down to show time. Her exhibitors had elected not to crop Bambi's blonde curls and these swirled prettily as Bambi wiggled determinedly but futilely against her straps. Lorraine made a tactical decision. She told Gloria to put down the scissors. They would exhibit Melissa in all her auburn radiance.
"All right, she's ready. Let's get her on the platter," Lorraine said, with barely three minutes to go.
David and Bob Burns, along with Greg, had been standing by. The men lifted Melissa while Lorraine and Gloria draped the cart with the purple sheet and put the platter on top. All of the girls were to be exhibited the same way, on their backs on the platters with arms outstretched and legs apart, strapped at ankles and wrists. The carts were fitted with adjustable extensions to accommodate the overlapping limbs.
Introductions opened the competition. The handlers wheeled out the carts, one by one, and stood with their meat girls in the center of an exhibit circle while an unseen moderator intoned over a sound system. The girls' ages ranged from nineteen to thirty. One was a high school English teacher. One was a law student. Three were models, including Bambi. Two were housewives, including Melissa, two were secretaries and one was a lap dancer. Bambi, it turned out, was twenty-four, the same age as Melissa, an inch shorter than Melissa at five feet six and nine pounds lighter than Melissa at one hundred nineteen.
Following their solo appearances, the entrants paraded in a circle around Horatio Finley. David did the honors for his wife, standing back a bit from the cart as he pushed it along so as not to bump it with his erection. Melissa was two carts behind Bambi, allowing David to read Finley's reactions to the sex bomb. But old man wasn't revealing his reactions, if he had any.
Round and round went the entrants while Finley pondered them, this one, then that one, until his study narrowed to Bambi and Melissa. Finally, he began waving them off. As their carts headed for the kitchen, the defeated meat girls struggled against their ties and gurgled into their gags. They likely hadn't forgotten what the sonorous moderator had said at the start of the show:
For the losing girls, "the butchers are waiting."
Finley awarded third place to the lap dancer. That left Melissa and Bambi alone in the circle.
The moderator added his hushed baritone to the unfolding drama.
"It appears that Judge Finley wants the carts placed side by side. Yes, the exhibitors are doing just that, repositioning their carts, the purple now on the judge's left, the pink to his right. Certainly this will allow Judge Finley to compare more exactly the fine features of our two splendid finalists.
"Whats this? Oh, my, this is interesting! Judge Finley has instructed the exhibitors to remove the gags. I can only surmise that the judge has decided to study the faces of the finalists unencumbered. Shhhh, we'll be quiet during this important, possibly decisive moment."
As Melissa blinked up, working her sore jaw, the terrible face of Horatio Finley suddenly loomed over her, peering down. The role-play girl closed her mouth and swallowed. She knew better than to speak. Finley gazed a moment at the soft, pleading eyes and quivering lips. He saw the cheeks blush. Satisfied, he nodded at David to put back Melissa's gag, then turned about to contemplate Bambi. He looked upon a blank.
Bambi's exhibitor was a sweet hairdresser named Herbie who dreamed of becoming a meat girl himself one day. In his nervousness, the young man all but pranced around the cart until Finley shooed him away. Herbie retreated to his group, dissolving in tears.
Finley now considered the waxed-like perfection spread before him on its background of pink. A witless bimbo, he mused while he waited longer than he was accustomed to waiting for Bambi to show him her eyes. The blonde foolishly outdid him. She kept her cool stare fixed on the ceiling twenty feet above, her red lips sealed.
"Well, this is certainly unusual, ladies and gentlemen. Judge Finley is motioning for someone."
Standing at the fringe of the crowd in a black dress, her gray hair in its perpetual bun, Madelyn Brown perfectly looked the part of Horatio Finley's browbeaten personal secretary. Indeed, "browbeaten" was an understatement for the utter subservience into which Miss Brown had long since descended. She no longer drew a salary, but took her meals with Finley's servants and lived in a small room in the mansion basement. She gave no thought to having a life of her own, nor could she recall ever having that thought, and was thus enabled to attend her employer at his girl roasts with the same bland servility that she brought to his office and board rooms.
Finley's erratic ways, being as ingrained in Miss Brown as they were in him, made his surprises rare. But it did surprise her when the great man raised his thin arm and beckoned her to the judging circle. The secretary actually felt a surge of excitement as she separated herself from the mass of spectators and crossed alone to the fateful spot.
"Put this on my cane, Miss Brown," Finley said, passing to the secretary a small object along with the cane which Miss Brown thought was a band aid until she read the label and saw it was a condom.
"Yes, sir. On the bottom?"
"Of course the bottom! Do you think I meant the handle, Miss Brown?"
"No, sir," Miss Brown said. She hurriedly went about her assignment and as she did her pale features took on a ruddy bloom. Horatio Finley couldn't remember seeing Miss Brown with a ruddy bloom before.
"There," she hissed when the task was done, pointing the cane upside down for inspection. Behind her glasses, Miss Brown's eyes shone brightly.
"Dammit, Miss Brown, I'm impressed."
"Thank you, sir. Am I going to fuck her with it?"
"You want to? In front of this crowd?"
"Oh, yes sir. I don't mind the crowd."
"The meat is tender there, Miss Brown."
"I would be careful, sir."
"Bah, you'd do it like plunging a toilet the way you're heated up. No, give me the cane. Ask her a question."
"What?," said Miss Brown, crestfallen as she gave up the cane
"Ask her a question."
"A question? What question should I ask her, sir?"
"I don't give a damn what question? Ask her anything."
Miss Brown bent over Bambi. She concentrated and tried not to think about the array of treats that lay within reach of her trembling fingers. She cleared her throat.
"Ahem. Um, well, Miss Bambi, if you had the chance to make just one thing happen in the interests of world peace, what would it be?"
The blue gaze shifted to the author of this question. It paused there a few seconds, then the eyes flashed at Finley.
"You fucking bastard! You people are SICK!!"
The moderator, who had kept quiet during the cane episode, came back on the air.
"Do we have our winner? The judge is backing away from the carts. You have to wonder how that unfortunate outburst from the pink will affect him. And there it is! It's the purple. ladies and gentlemen! It's the purple! Our champion.... the Melissa entrant on the purple cart! Oh, isn't she glorious!"
Melissa's perfect nipples stood up proudly at the sound of victory. The best in show looked up for David, waiting for him to acknowledge her achievement and also reassure her that her rescue was imminent. David, however, was laughing and talking excitedly with Lorraine and others who came running up to celebrate.
Horatio Finley, meanwhile, had been contemplating two objectives. He signaled a couple of his men, who trotted over.
"Take this bimbo to the kitchen. Have her strung up by her ankles and tell the chefs that when they stuff her tomorrow I want her to look like she got knocked up by an elephant."
Finley smiled at Miss Brown.
"Would you like to watch that with me, Miss Brown?"
"Watch them stuff her, sir? Oh, I would, yes."
"Hmmmm. Let me ask you this, Miss Brown. If I let you let your hair down, so to speak, at my roasts, do you think you could be the regular Miss Brown at other times?"
Miss Brown swayed. "I...I think I could, sir. Oh, I could, I could. I know I could."
"Easy, Miss Brown. Eddy, take Miss Brown to that mall down the street. Get her some nice clothes, get some make up. Don't let anyone touch her hair, but get her a wig. What color is that, Miss Brown?"
Finley pointed to the purple cart.
"She has auburn hair, sir."
"Get her an auburn wig. What the hell, get a blonde one, too. Finley tipped up his cane, still wearing its protection. "And get me more of these."
Melissa felt her cart move. Craning back, she saw a man pushing it. He wore a white apron and white shirt. Oh no! She worked her mouth against her gag without effect. She could see her receding group of "friends" and husband talking and laughing and paying no attention to her. She rolled past clusters of onlookers, some of whom clapped for her while others shouted words of congratulation and still others taunted her about her upcoming place on the banquet table.
The overhead welcoming banner came into view, confirming her fear that she was being taken to the kitchen, and then she heard through the din of the hall an unmistakable sound... the lamentations of the meat girls.