Posted by Menagerie on September 15, 2004 at 22:32:39:
TV LAND
“What is it?” Huey asked, puzzled, turning it over and over in his hands.
The old man smiled and leaned closer. They were in the geezer’s downtown curio shop; Huey had always been fascinated by strange works of art, and this was as strange as they came—a tall, narrow bottle, in a dozen different shades of opaque glass, and covered with mysterious writing.
“I’ll tell ya,” the shopkeeper said hoarsely, “I don’t believe it myself, but the fella who owned it told me it was found on an island in the South Pacific; that there writing is Farsi, but it was a good five thousand miles from Iran. I never seen nothing like it, but he was a shabby-lookin’ sort, needed the money for a different kind of bottle, I guess, and I got it for a real good price. But there’s a catch.”
“What’s that?” Huey was fascinated; the colorful glass commanded his attention, winking at him, somehow shimmering in the darkened store.
“Cursed,” the man hissed; he peered over his half-moon spectacles into Huey’s eyes. “It was a cannibal island; the owner told me, ‘Take it, and you’ll become a cannibal, too.’”
Huey laughed. “Eat anybody lately, Doc?” he scoffed.
Doc was miffed. “I’m not a young whippersnapper like you, or maybe I would have by now. And maybe with all the time you spend in front of that idiot box, you’ve gotten so dopey, it won’t affect you, either.”
“Hey,” Huey said sheepishly, “Nothing beats the old shows on late night cable. Sexiest dames in the world.” He reached into his pocket. “I’ll save you from yourself, Doc; twenty bucks.”
And it didn’t really hit him, at first; the bottle ended up on a windowsill with other shiny knick-knacks, in a room crowded with them. When it happened, Huey was sucking down the last of a six-pack and flipping the cable from one station to another. There was that goofy show from the Sixties; seven stranded castaways, a couple of them cute chicks with nice butts. He watched for awhile…and suddenly, he realized—you know, those chicks would look great cooking in a pot! Or, sizzling on a spit, or—puzzled, he looked at the near-empty can of beer, and at the TV…and then, over at the glass bottle. It seemed to beckon him, shimmering in the reflected glow of streetlamps…
Back at the TV. He could visualize it; the chunky little brunette, basted in coconut oil, her perky tits dripping into the fire; the statuesque redhead, her inviting lips spread wide by a mango; both of them nude and wriggling, tied by native vines to a pole over the flames…
Back over at the bottle. It was shining, urgently, commandingly, beaming right into Huey’s eyes. He eased up from the chair, went over to the bottle, picked it up, cradled it. He was hypnotized; cat-like eyes seemed to stare at him from the base. He looked at the top, the stopper….slowly pulled it out.
A flash, and a puff of smoke. Huey’s Guard training took over; he dropped to the floor, rolled. The bottle thudded to the thick carpet. Peeking out from behind the overstuffed chair, Huey saw feet sheathed in little pink slippers; he worked his way up luscious legs, barely covered by gauzy pantaloons; an abbreviated vest that showed off a trim waist and propped up a nice pair of tits, and…there were those cat eyes, and a thick mane of blonde hair.
“Oh, Master!” the being said, delightedly; “You have rescued me! I have been in that bottle for over 1,500 years! I could not make those islanders open it! You are my Master now; I will do anything you wish!” She hopped up and down in joy, that full bosom bouncing up and down, as she clapped her hands together. “What shall I do for you?”
From his hands and knees behind the chair, Huey blinked. If this was a dream, it was a hell of a pleasant one. He could ditch his shitty job at the plant; maybe even buy it, and fire the boss—that’d be cool! And stick it to that snotty secretary of his, the one who wore the micro-minis and walked past the crew every morning with her nose in the air, shuffling in her high heels; he could see himself sitting at the boss’ desk, the secretary peeling down for him, taking off her glasses and unpinning her long, auburn hair to let it hang down at her shoulders, stripping off her skimpy bra and panties, then climbing into a pan and getting down on her hands and knees, being roasted in an oven with vegetables, and—hey! Wait a minute!
Huey shook his head, climbed to his feet. Obviously, he was going crazy. The blonde with the weird clothes was staring anxiously at him, her eyes almost pleading, her lips slightly parted. “Just who are you, anyway?” he said, but somewhat reluctantly; he sure didn’t want her to go away.
“I am a genie, Master!’ she responded promptly. “I was born in Persia, nearly 5,000 years ago. My last master was most wicked; he imprisoned me in that bottle, and flung me from his ship. I washed onto an island and lay helpless for 1,500 years; I tried to summon the islanders, but they did not understand…”
Huey was losing it; he was looking at his new genie, and his mouth was watering. Her tender thighs, visible through the transparent leggings; her soft tummy. “I know what you are thinking, Master!” she said coyly. “You are wanting to cook and eat me! The islanders did something strange to my bottle; it happens to everybody who possesses it. Now,” she said, folding her arms and looking straight into Huey’s somewhat bewildered eyes, “how is it that I may please you?”
Somewhat desperately, Huey thought about it. The genie was certainly a tasty dish—he imagined her full, delectable frame sizzling in a huge pan while he brushed olive oil on those juicy jugs. But, on the other hand, if she could really do anything he wanted her to…he glanced again at the TV. Redheaded Ginger and brunette Mary Ann were tied to stakes and gagged, while white guys poorly disguised as body-painted aborigines danced around them. Finally, he pointed to the glowing screen, and commanded, “Take me there!” She grinned, bobbed her head—
—and suddenly, they were there, dancing in a circle around the helpless castaways along with the ersatz natives. They were in a clearing along a lagoon, with dense woods on all sides and unending ocean on the horizon. The genie was leaping athletically, doing the splits and soaring as her boobs bounced. Huey was more awkward, finally getting into the rhythm as the other guys ducked low and then stood straight up while chanting nonsense syllables that sounded like a combination of Yiddish and Pig Latin. Huey looked at the girls as he circled them, saw the terror in their eyes, and he sidled up to the genie, kind of jogging as she pranced. “Am I the boss?” he whispered.
“Oh, yes, Master!” she replied. “They will do as you wish!”
Huey thought about it and glanced at the captives as he puffed in the snakedance around them; he took in the plump thighs and calves of the short brunette, who was decked out in shorts and a tied-off shirt. She and Ginger were fighting their bonds; the tall redhead was wearing a ground-length dress made out of a ship’s sail, and Huey frowned. “Genie…get rid of their clothes.”
“Yes, Master,” she said, bobbed her head, and suddenly the helpless girls were nude; they looked down at themselves in amazement, and their muffled sounds through the gags became more urgent. Huey drooled; the redhead’s long, lean physique featured exquisitely-shaped gams, a firm, tight little ass, upthrust boobs; the brunette’s big, pale teats were topped with rosy nipples. Both of them began to sob into the gags. The “natives” were equally astonished, and stopped dancing. Addressing the naked girls, they demanded, “How you do that?” Tears streaming from their eyes, the redhead and brunette shrugged as well as they could shrug with their hands tied behind their back.
Huey’s feeble dance moves died to a halting stop; next to him, the genie said anxiously, “Did I do well, Master?” Well, he thought, here goes. “Do they have names?” he asked her, gesturing toward his new henchmen. “You may call them whatever you wish, Master,” she responded. “Your glowing box only calls them ‘the Natives’.” Sure, he figured, they only made union scale. He cleared his throat. “Larry…Moe…Curly!” he called out.
The three guys rushed up to him. “What you want, Chief?” asked Moe.
Damn, thought Huey. “Time for dinner,” he ordered. “Take those two, and cook them over a fire!”
The trio rushed to do his bidding, falling all over each other in the process. Curly built a pile of tinder and set it ablaze with flints; Larry and Moe plunged strong branches with three-foot high crooks into the ground on either side of the fire. They bumped into each other, shouted, fell down onto the warm sand, but eventually got the job done. The hysterical castaways’ eyes darted from one “native” to the other; they tried to push with their bare feet to pull the stakes out of the ground that held them. Sitting cross-legged on the sand, Huey and the genie took it all in, “Shall I help, Master?” she asked.
“You’d better,” said Huey, “or we’ll never eat. Tie the two girls to a single pole, and move them over the fire.”
The genie folded her arms and nodded; the vines binding Ginger and Mary Ann came undone, but before the women could bolt they found themselves hovering in the air, rotating so they were back-to-back and facing in opposite directions. As they flopped like a couple of hooked fish, flailing their arms and legs and arching their backs, one of the poles they had been tied to rose straight up out of the ground, turned perpendicular, and slid neatly between them. The untied vines flew up into the air and wrapped themselves tightly around the nude girls. The taller girl found her head nestled between the brunette’s ankles, the vine that pinned the shorter woman’s feet also twisting around the redhead’s throat; Mary Ann’s head was in the crook of Ginger’s knees, with the pole nestling snugly into the cracks of their asses.
More vines around their middles, and shorter lengths that bound each girl’s left hand to the other’s right, and there they were—futilely writhing in mid-air, their saucy buttocks rubbing against each other’s, their hands clenching and unclenching. And then, the stake drifted over to the fire…and settled atop the crooks, the redhead on top. The brunette struggled and made whining sounds through her gag as the flames lapped at her flesh.
“Almost forgot,” said Huey. “Genie, mangoes in their mouths.” A quick blink, and the gags disappeared; Ginger and Mary Ann had their screams cut off in mid-shrill as tropical fruits, arriving from nowhere, plugged their mouths.
The three pseudo South Sea islanders gaped, then looked questioningly at Huey. Larry said, “The gods make our dinner for us, Chief!”
“Boys,” Huey ordered, “turn them occasionally, and baste them with mango juice and coconut oil; see you at dinner time.”
The genie laughed. “Oh, Master! Where are we going now?”
Huey thought again about the boss’ secretary, and said, “A crummy, big city television station…”
A quick trip to Huey’s TV room, and then back out into the ozone. Huey blinked, and he was on the set of a TV cooking show; a matronly, supercilious woman, wearing an apron and a big, phony smile, was bustling around. A tall, slender brunette arrived, holding a clipboard. “Sue Ann,” she called, “ten seconds to air time…”
“Genie,” said Huey, “that girl there”—pointing to the lady with the clipboard—“is going to be the main course.”
The genie nodded, folded the arms, ducked the head. The host of the show looked up into Camera #3. “Well, hello,” she beamed. “We have a special treat in store for you homefront gourmets, today, and here to help us prepare it is WJM’s own Assistant News Director, Mary Richards…”
The brunette was startled, dropped her clipboard. “Sue Ann!” she hissed from offstage. “What are you doing?”
The chef gestured to a couple of burly stagehands. “Mike…Pete…would you help Miss Richards onto the set and give her a hand with her clothing?” The two grabbed the “main course” as she made a dash for the exit and hauled her, struggling and screaming, onto the set; high heeled shoes flew from kicking, nylon-sheathed feet. She bit and scratched as Mike and Pete peeled off her conservative business suit, her slip and stockings, her bra and panties. As the stagehands bound her wrists to her upper arms and her ankles to her thighs with twine, Camera #2 panned lovingly from her slender legs up to her neat little bush, her flat belly and firm breasts that jiggled as she fought. “Sue Ann!” the Assistant News Director shrieked, as they plopped the bound, bare babe in front of the chef. “You can’t do this!”
“Now, Mary, dear,” Sue Ann muttered from the side of a frozen smile, still looking straight at the camera, “we’re live on the air.” She smiled radiantly into #3. “Isn’t she a wonderful sport, folks?,” as the studio audience and crew applauded.
Huey was so enraptured, he hadn’t noticed the genie was no longer by his side. He looked around, and spied her—operating Camera #2; she saw him looking, waved, and trained the lens on the trussed-up girl on the counter top.
Lying on her back, the naked newswoman could only look pleadingly at the camera, her doe eyes welling up, as Mike and Pete held her down; talking all the while, Sue Ann prepared a large bowl of cubed bread stuffing, a candied glaze for the hapless woman’s breasts and thighs, seasonings for her torso. “Now, Mary is very lean, so we’re going to want to bard her,” said Sue Ann, rubbing handfuls of shortening over the younger woman’s body, from tits to crotch. “Mike, Pete, would you like to lend a hand, dears?” And the two men pitched in, their rough hands smearing grease over the poor girl’s buttocks, legs and shoulders.
The cooking show host reached over to a rack, produced a Louisville slugger of a butcher knife. “Now, as we’re cleaning Mary—” she began.
“Cleaning Mary!” gasped the young woman; it was all Mike and Pete could do to keep the slippery, stacked chick from rolling off the counter top.
Sue Ann glared down at her, then regained her sweet smile and continued, “We’re going to want to reserve some of the variety meats. The liver can make a wonderful pate, and some people are very fond of kidney…” as she was splitting the newsbabe open.
Soon, they had her gutted, stuffed, sauced, seasoned and dusted with flour; the two big men grunted as they slid the pan with Mary in it into the hot oven. Perched on her elbows and knees, an apple in her mouth, Mary gazed tearfully into #2 as the oven door slammed shut. “And—CUT!” the director ordered, and Sue Ann immediately dropped the smile. “Honestly, Mary,” she scolded loudly, just a few inches from the oven door, “that was disgraceful! I was trying to do a show here, and you almost ruined it.” Turning back to the buzzing studio audience, the host smiled again and waved. “We’ll be taping the show where we carve and serve Mary in about six hours, folks—be sure to be in your seats!”
Huey exhaled, as the crew around him broke; he was damp with sweat. Wow! The genie had reappeared. “We still have time before the castaways are ready, Master,” she pointed out. “Where would you like to go?”
Huey smiled, evilly. “Where no man has gone before…”
“Are you ready to try a new dish?” Huey asked the aliens. A dozen of the strange creatures were gathered in a large chamber before a pot of water; they nodded their ovoid heads. He said, “My procurer is on the starship hovering over your planet; I’ll give her the signal.”
In the heavens, the Captain was thinking. The planet had sent a distress signal; he had planned to send his First Officer and a team of military personnel...but something had come over him.
”Me, Sir?” gasped the buxom, black Communications Officer. “Who will operate the radio?”
“I’ve…made up my mind, Uhura,” said the Captain sternly. “Go to the transport room, and…prepare to beam down. This crewman will…take your place.” The genie, wearing a shorty uniform that barely covered her derriere, giggled and sat down demurely at the communications console; Uhura shrugged and walked briskly from the deck. The First Officer looked at the genie’s feline eyes with interest. “Are you of Vulcan descent?” he asked impassively.
On the planet’s surface, Uhura was no match for the hungry aliens. They wrapped her in their tentacles and carried her to the Royal Kitchen, where Huey’s entourage awaited. “Greetings,” one of them told her in a buzzy, quavery voice. “You have been chosen for tonight’s feast, to celebrate our first contact with your people.”
The Communications Officer was strongly built and muscular, but couldn’t move a centimeter in the grip of the aliens’ tendrils. “Let me go!” she cried, helplessly straining to free her arms and legs from their grip.
The Royal Cook began disrobing her; the form-fitting uniform peeled off nicely, exposing smooth, brown flesh. Off came her boots, and her brief, regulation undergarments. Nude, she was a sight to behold; years of Academy training had given her the physique of a sleek jungle cat, but the full breasts, wide hips and padded rump betrayed her Swahili heritage. “She should feed about sixty of you guys,” said Huey, “plus the entourage they’ll send from the ship for the banquet.”
The head of the alien welcoming committee shook his somewhat football-shaped head. “You’re sure it will not distress them,” he asked, “sacrificing one of their own for this celebration?”
“Nah,” said Huey, “My partner will take care of that. They only have one anal vent,” he called out to the Cook, who was trying to figure out how to flush the struggling woman’s system. “See those two round globes of flesh on her backside? Between them.”
The Cook found it, inserted the hydrovacuum; “A-a-a-a-ahhhhh!” Uhura protested as her gastro-intestinal track was cleansed. She was laying on her belly, pinned down by a gravitational force field, and could only kick her meaty legs; Huey licked his chops as he watched her thick, sepia calves flex up and down.
The alien finished, and gestured with the tip of a tentacle; two of the monarch’s guards snaked their own appendages around the unhappy woman and carried her to the pot. The Cook flicked at a small lump of flesh. “Is this a blemish?’ it inquired.
“No, that’s called a ‘nipple’,” said Huey, fingering the now-sobbing woman’s breast. “Human females suckle their young; this is a lactating unit, and that’s the aperture.”
“Should I remove it?” the alien asked, picking up a long, narrow device and pressing a button; Uhura gasped and cried out in incomprehensible terror as a laser shot out.
Huey shook his head. “You get a lot of flavor out of that little mound. I’d cook her whole.”
The alien produced vegetables, the likes of which Huey had never seen; long and girthy, they would first glow pink, then blue, then yellow. The Cook plugged the woman’s rectum with one of them, her vagina with another. A pink, oval-shaped fruit with a still-quivering stem filled her mouth. After twisting sewing-thread-thin strings around her wrists and ankles, the alien gave an order that sounded like a cross between a belch and a sneeze, and the guards unceremoniously dropped Uhura into the pot. The Cook pressed a button; the bottom of the pot glowed.
“Remember,” Huey told the naked Communications Officer as she looked at him tearfully over the strange fruit jamming her mouth open, “you’re doing this for the Federation. Genie, let’s head back to the island.”
Hanging limply over the dying fire, Ginger and Mary Ann were burned blackish-brown and sizzling; the natives had already helped themselves, but leaped to attention when Huey and the genie materialized. “How about a haunch, Chief?” asked Curly, cutting off one of Mary Ann’s thighs with a saw-toothed knife made of human bone.
The spirit of the bottle enveloped Huey; he took a deep bite out of the thickest part of the charred leg and sighed as the flavorful meat assaulted his palate. Juices ran down his chin—how did she stay so plump, he wondered, in all those years on a desert island? The genie was sampling one of Ginger’s buttocks; “This is quite good, Master,” she said, smacking her lips in delight. “You should try a mouthful.”
Huey was in the mood to do so; he tried a mouthful of everything. Finally, after stripping one of Mary Ann’s back ribs of meat and flinging it into the smoldering fire, he was stuffed. “I won’t have any appetite for the other two entrees!” he moaned.
The genie smiled broadly. “Surely you will, Master; I will see to that.”
Back to the TV studio; the cooking show host was carving the roasted Miss Richards. Her naked body had turned a glossy brown; the host plunged a serving fork into her back, and juices oozed out. “This loin is simply fabulous!” she gushed; “We’ll serve it au jus with that special bread stuffing. Now, I need somebody to join me for my little dinner party. You, sir,” she said, pointing to Huey, standing with the gawking crew behind the cameras. “Come on up, don’t be bashful.”
Huey walked onto the set to a smattering of applause and cheers; he sat at a little table decorated with a floral setting, while the host came around behind him and tied a napkin around his neck. “Mustn’t dirty our clothes!” she cooed. Still standing, she cut a slab from below the ex-Assistant News Director’s twelfth rib and transferred it to a plate; then, she trimmed a slice and propelled it into Huey’s mouth. He chewed; delectably moist and sweet. “Is that gooood?” asked the host; Huey quickly nodded. She cut another slice and fork-fed him; then another. Meanwhile, the genie slipped onstage; she ran a finger along Miss Richard’s buttock, tasted it, and beamed, hopping up and down.
The host looked again at the camera. “Gosh, I think he likes it!” she said, winking; still chewing, Huey looked up and made a circle with his thumb and forefinger. “Folks, there’s plenty for everybody; come on up.” The studio audience clambered from their seats and queued up in the aisles. While the host greeted the guests, the genie crouched down next to Huey; she was munching on a chunk from Miss Richards’ calf. “Oh, Master, she is so succulent!” she squealed, offering a bite to Huey. He let her feed him tidbits from the brunette’s carcass for a while, then stood up. “Mustn’t keep royalty waiting,” he said.
Huey found himself sitting between the Captain and the alien monarch. On the table before them, on a large serving platter, was Uhura; the boiled babe was on her back, her hands and feet still bound, the vegetables lodged in her ass and snatch still changing colors. The Royal Cook had begun slicing her up; the laser cut cleanly through the butt and shank ends of a chocolate-brown ham, which the Cook laid on a plate and divided into three portions for the ruler and his two honored guests.
The Captain frowned and picked up an implement that looked like a fork with propellers. “How does this thing work?” he asked. A waitress stopped to guide him, then turned to Huey and winked—it was the genie. Huey knew how to operate the gizmo instinctively, it seemed; a push, a pull, a turn, and the woman’s tangy thigh meat was on its way down the hatch. This time, Huey’s taste buds picked him up by the lapels and back-handed him a couple of times; he was in heaven.
The Captain was standing, hoisting a glass of golden, shimmering liquid. “A toast!” he proclaimed, and the entire table rose in salute. “To the friendship…of our two cultures,” he went on. “May we break bread…many times to come.”
The monarch chuckled, and winked one of his huge oculars. “There’s always breakfast,” he responded. “Care to share Nurse Chapel?”, as the table roared with laughter.
Huey clinked a few goblets and finished polishing off the tenderest part of Uhura’s thigh, mopping up the grease with a piece of green bread that glowed in the dark. “Man!” he thought, sitting back with his hands over his swollen gut. “What a day!”
And suddenly, he was back again. It was 4 AM; there was an infomercial for a flimsy, overpriced exercise machine on the tube. His genie was nowhere to be seen…but the colorful bottle was back on the windowsill. He pushed himself out of the easy chair, ambled over to the window…took the stopper out of the bottle, rapped on it. “Genie? You in there?”
With a whoosh, Huey suddenly found himself being drawn into the bottle. He clawed at everything within reach, but the force was irresistible; he landed with a plop on the floor of an ornately decorated little room. There were books, and tables, and in the middle…
A huge pot. The genie, entirely naked, was in it.
“Hello, Master!” she laughed. “I am glad you were able to join me, although I am not ready yet. I wanted this to be a surprise.” The water was simmering; the genie’s pendulous bazooms were supported by it. She drew some of the water with a baster, squirted it all over her pink, inviting flesh and smiled sunnily at him. “Care for an early taste?”