Posted by Sawney Beane on September 23, 2006 at 02:25:05:
The Collected Works of Sawney Beane: Volume #71
EXTRA RARE
by Sawney Beane
22 May; 29 August 1999
697 words
DISTRIBUTION NOTICE and DISCLAIMER: Sawney Beane requests that any distribution of this work of fiction remain within the realm of social responsibility. This story is suitable neither for minors nor for the seeming majority of adults who have difficulty distinguishing fantasy from reality. It is pure fantasy, which means that, for whatever reason, someone has found it interesting to think about the events depicted herein. It does not in any way mean that the author would like to see this fantasy become reality, so if you are the type of person who might be swayed into doing something irrational by reading a work of fiction, the author respectfully requests that you decline to read further.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Sawney Beane, originally a native of Edinburgh, lived for twenty-five years in a cave on the coast of County Galloway, subsisting on the flesh of unfortunate travellers, roughly a thousand of them all told. He and his wife raised a large family of eight sons, six daughters, eighteen grandsons, and fourteen granddaughters. Eventually, the family was captured, and the whole lot was brutally and unjustifiably tortured and executed without trial. Since his death in the early 17th century, Beane has reformed his ways and now confines his atrocities to his literary endeavours.
WARNING: This story contains scenes of consensual cooking and gynophagia. If you find such things offensive, please steer clear; you have been warned.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: This one is fairly simple and short idea. Pretty much an image that came to me. Comes off a bit on the flippant side.
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"This one's quite attractive," said the first man to his partner.
"Yep, she's quite a looker," replied the other.
"Who was she, do you know?"
"Why you always wantin' ta know who they was? She's meat now, my friend."
"I'm jus' curious."
"What's 'er nummer?"
The first man glanced at the woman's golden-brown belly as it rotated around her roasting spit. "Two forty-six."
His partner consulted his list and reported on the identity of the lovely roasted girl. "Deborah Ann Spaulding, from o'er on South Street. Dental hygienist. Apparently, she wanted to put more 'en 'er fing'ers in people's mouths."
"Wisht I'd met 'er first," mused the first chef, "Maybe I coulda got a private banq'et."
"Yeah, like a bird like that would go for a tosser like you."
"Go on," replied the first to the scoffing reception accorded his fantasy. "Ya think she's done?"
"Yeah, she'll do'er," replied the other, "The Johnsons like their meat a bit on the rare side. Let's get 'er off."
"She's na done yet!" The emphatic but muffled comment appeared to come from nowhere. The two men looked at each other, puzzled.
"Who said that?" said the first chef to the air, "How do you know she's not done?"
"'Cause ahm not dead," came the reply, still muffled a bit. But now it was clear to both men that the voice came from within the throat of the girl tied to the spit in front of them. Her lips were clearly roasted beyond all usefulness, but the jaw moved ever so slightly. She spoke like a poor ventriloquist who hadn't mastered all of his vowels.
"Blimey!" cried the second chef, "She's been roastin' over that there fire for almos' an hour now 'an she's still a'livin'!"
"Boy, she's a beauty," said the first chef, admiring the golden brown form of the spit girl's long lean body, "and that's some endurance!"
"Les git 'er off'n tha fire an' git 'er o'er to tha Johnsons' table."
"But she's still alive!" exclaimed the first chef.
"I knows that," replied the second chef testily, "But I'as a tol' ya that the Johnsons like thar meat extra rare."
"But shouldn't we wait for her to die before we serve her?"
"Naw, she's done pretty good aroun' the edges," explained the second chef as he repeatedly stabbed the girl's shapely thighs, buttocks, and arms with a barbecue fork. "See, she ain't a'feelin' any o' that."
The first chef could hardly disagree since she had not given any indication that she had noticed the prodding. "Well, I guess it's all right. If that's wha' the Johnsons wan'."
The two men lifted the spit off its rack and laid the roasted girl on her back on the preparation table. She protested feebly, "I don't think ah should be alive fer this!"
"Don' you worry none, miss," said the second chef, "You won' feel a thing."
The men untied her from the spit and arranged her body on a large platter. The girl seemed unable to move, so her limbs were apparently well cooked. In a matter of minutes, the steaming girl was on a cart being wheeled out to the main dining room. The Johnsons reacted with delight when they noticed that their dinner was arriving.
The stodgy Mr. Johnson stood and spoke formally. "This is truly an exquisite specimen we have selected for ourselves today."
"You don't know the half of it, Mr. Johnson," said the first chef. "This one is still kicking."
"What do you mean, sir?" replied Mr. Johnson, astonished.
"'E means ahm still alive," moaned the roasted girl on the table.
"Well, this is something I've never seen before in all my years," exclaimed Mr. Johnson. "You are a special girl, and it will be a pleasure and an honour to consume you today." His family murmured their agreement.
The chefs departed and left the family to their meal. Mr. Johnson, as head of the family seized the carving knife and began to cut big slices from the girl's legs and rump. As he worked he chuckled, "My family, I think we finally got them to cook one the way we like it-extra rare!"