Story: SB104 Table 22


Posted by Sawney Beane on June 23, 2007 at 13:17:27:

The Collected Works of Sawney Beane: Volume #104

TABLE 22

by Sawney Beane

15 November 2003

1,484 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 snuff and consensual gynophagia. If you find such things offensive, please steer clear; you have been warned.
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Alison stood amongst the crowd of thirty or so nude women standing on one side of the busy restaurant kitchen. They were in all shapes, sizes, and races, but all of them had been chosen for their attractiveness, and all of them faced the probability of leaving through a different door from the one they had entered.

The mood amongst the women was varied. Some were nervous, others obviously terrified. But some seemed excited, and more than a few seemed aroused. Alison was feeling a little bit of all of these emotions, and the ratio seemed to shift from moment to moment.

She had been there for about an hour, the smooth bodies in a small roped off area small enough that they did not have space to stand without touching one another. Alison watched as the head chef, an enormous man both tall and wide with a big bushy black beard, pushed his way between the women selecting girls to fill the orders on the clipboard he gripped tightly in a meaty paw.

The girls left the holding area a few at a time as the head chef ordered them to their assignments. Some of these fates were visible from the holding area, so Alison and the others had the pain and pleasure of seeing what might be a foreshadowing of their own imminent demise. Other women entered through the back of the holding pen in a slow steady stream to replace those given over to the demands of the busy kitchen.

Alison gasped as the head chef turned his attention to her athletic young body for the first time. She felt tiny beside this mountain of a man, and she suddenly felt very alone as the other girls who had been crowded around her backed away to give the chef room to work.

"Is this one even ripe?" the head chef boomed at his timid assistant.

"Oh, yes, sir," the assistant replied nervously while he shuffled through the thick stack of papers in his hand. "Just barely, but she's old enough. I have her paperwork right here..."

"No, I don't need to see it, just so long as you have it," the chef boomed disgustedly at his assistant. "She sure is a pretty thing. I think she'll roast up very nicely." He spoke as if she could not hear him.

The head chef smacked her firm little bottom and watched her arse with an expert eye that almost instantly made a surprisingly accurate estimate of her body fat content from the way her tender flesh reverberated. "Yes, this one's a good one; nice breasts too," he said as he pinched her nipples painfully. "Looks like she's enjoying this; that's always a sign of good taste."

"Get her on a spit and get her to Table 22, recipe fifteen. Give it to Johnson, I think he can do her well." The chef had made a check mark on his list and instantly forgotten her very existence as he moved on fill the next order.

The assistant led Alison out of the holding pen and handed her over to a runner along with a slip of paper with instructions for Johnson. Alison followed unresistingly, feeling the emotional power well up inside her. She was suddenly different from all of the undirected souls crowded in the holding area. Now she was someone's dinner. She was the property of whoever was waiting for her at Table 22. She was proud to have been selected.

The runner delivered her to Johnson at his impaling station and handed him the instructions before returning to the holding area for his next charge. Johnson was a tall cheerful man with dark hair and powerful arms. He wore a white work apron that was spattered throughout with red spots. He was just finishing up installing a new spit on the impaling machine and had thoroughly cleaned the drip pan from the last girl who had departed for the main dining room only a few minutes previous. Johnson appeared to be a very conscientious chef.

"Well hello, little lady, looks like you're going to be a number fifteen for Table 22. Fine recipe, that is; I love those spices. It'll complement your succulent little body right nicely!" Johnson had a thick Texas accent, which seemed unusual in London's premier cannibal restaurant.

Alison smiled slightly at the compliments but did not speak. Johnson continued to talk to her. "You just climb right up onto that there seat, and we'll do you up good. It's just like riding a horse." Alison obeyed, mounting the steel saddle and kneeling in the plastic stirrups. Johnson placed a large hand gently on her shoulder blades and pushed her torso downward so that her body laid flat across the top of the cold stainless steel platform. She could not see behind her, but her bum was now roughly lined up with the shiny tip of the steel spit.

Johnson attached a leather strap across her shoulders to hold her in place and clicked the straps around her thighs. He clipped a plastic bracket onto her wrists to secure them behind her back. Alison waited patiently; there was little else for her to do. "Just a few minor adjustments, dear, and you'll be in business."

Johnson twisted several dials and knobs that adjusted the positions of her exposed posterior and of the spit. He slid the end of the spit closer to her, and she gasped as the pointed steel tip slid a few inches into her dripping wet vagina. How could something so cold make her so hot?

Johnson flipped a bracket near her neck, and her chin was now supported in a plastic cradle that aligned her mouth with the trajectory of the spit. "Open up and say, 'Ah!'" Johnson said with a chuckle. Alison opened her mouth as wide as she could, and Johnson slipped a thin-walled hollow plastic tube between her lips and far enough into her mouth to almost but not quite gag her. "That's important," Johnson explained, "Otherwise you might lose some teeth!"

"OK, little lady, that's all there is to it. Time for you to be delicious. Good luck." With that, he flipped a switch, and Alison's body tingled as the spit began to slowly move. It burrowed deeper and deeper into her, and the emotions swarmed her doomed body. At first it was all pleasant; a bit of a stretch but very good. But the shaft continued to move, and she soon felt her insides being torn apart by the relentless steel shaft.

She was barely aware of Johnson, who was busying himself with rubbing a moist oily mixture of spices into the smooth white skin of her twitching body. Her body was entirely coated in the fragrant spice mixture by the time the spit had slid into her chest. She was filled with steel, fear, and excitement as she felt the tip enter her throat. She felt her breath constricted as it slid up her throat, making her thin neck stretch unnaturally wide. Soon it was in the plastic tube and beyond. Johnson slid the plastic tube out, and Alison stared cross-eyed at the steel tip protruding from between her soft red lips. The taste of blood and iron filled her mouth.

Alison could not breathe, and she could barely think. She was only dimly aware as Johnson unstrapped the restraints that held her to the spitting machine. She didn't notice as he tied her slender ankles to the steel spit, nor did she realize that he had driven a thin steel spike through both of her knees and through a small hole in the spit that would ensure that she turned properly. It was all she could do to realized that Johnson had turned her over to a trio of spit bearers who were carrying her body out of the impaling area and towards the door to the main dining room and the fortunate residents of Table 22.

Alison's short life was rapidly reaching an end. She had been in the holding area less than fifteen minutes ago. Now she was ready to be delivered to Table 22. She regretted that she would never know who was waiting there for her. She would not get to enjoy their comments as they watched her delicate body rotating over their private fire pit. She would not see their amazement as her fair skin took on a golden brown hue and dripped tasty juices into a sizzling fire. She would not get to see the look on their faces as they tasted her flesh for the first time. She would not know how they would react to her aroma and her flavour. As the world drifted away into blackness, the one thing she did know was that the occupants of Table 22 were about to have the best meal of their lives.