Posted by hisdinner on April 21, 2007 at 12:07:52:
Meat Girl - Serves One
I realize that if I waste another piece of your best letterhead, Sir, you'll have my hide! That's pretty wretched gallows humor—of course you'll have my hide. Silly meatgirl! I can almost hear you say it. You'll have my hide and every other part of me, won't you. Tonight. This is the night, finally arrived after no time at all. (Or has it been years?)
I would have stayed your loyal pet always. I'd have fetched fresh, sweet girls for you any time you wanted them. I would have continued to prepare them with the hundreds of different sauces you requested, their lovely limbs twisted and bound into dozens of contortions, their flesh roasting inside countless combinations of spits and pots and pans.
But now you've stopped me. You said, "Sit down. You have to choose. How do you want to roast for me? How will you be served?"
The funny part is that I have imagined being your feast for years. My flesh in your mouth, my meat seared bronzy-golden outside and melting tender inside. I picture you taking that first bite, Sir, and closing your eyes involuntarily as my essence permeates your senses. I've pictured this all my life, haven't I? I dreamt I'd meet the perfect ravenous man and that he would consume me utterly and keep me inside him always. Why is the floor strewn with paper, then? Why is my hand shaking—the hands that held so many girls as you slit their bellies, as you claimed them?
But you grow impatient, Sir. Sorry! The sting of your hand against my face reminds me that cannibals do not need flowery flights of pretty words. They need meat and bones and blood and sex, and senses full of scent and screams and lust. Thank you, Sir. Here is what you've requested.
A Recipe: Meat Girl - Serves One
Preparation Time: 29 years, several hours. Time varies.
- Lean, longpig meatgirl, slightly aged, and tending more toward venison.
Splay her limbs and clean her outsides and her insides thoroughly. Have the new servant girl do that inglorious task, unless it would amuse you to have a hand in scouring me. Will you enjoy watching my successor be the last person to humiliate me? Maybe you'll allow me one last fantasy: May I imagine that today, I am your only girl?
- One towering customized spire of gleaming polished metal at least seven feet high, and mounted on a sturdy base. Its pointed spike glitters with your favorite oil.
- One bit of scaffolding set close by the spire, sturdy enough to bear your weight and hers. Suspended above, a rope rigging complete with hangman's noose and any ancillary guiding ropes you deem necessary.
Take the well-scrubbed, emptied girl to the stairs at the base of the scaffolding. Display her to any of your invited guests. Perhaps you'll invite a film crew to record each moment, each breath I take. Yes, I can't pretend it isn't me who is about to climb those stairs. Will you share these moments so that your friends can see how I take each step? Do you expect I'll stumble, Sir? Will my eyes be shining, or brimming with tears? Both, I expect.
Take her by the shoulders. Me. Yes, Sir. Take me by my shoulders and cup my chin and lift my face to yours for a final kiss. Thank you. Then grasp my upper arms and turn me about, crisp and efficient and with a crop or your bare hands, Sir, smack my well-oiled backside and send me up. Ignore the quiver of my lip, my soft moan. It's what meat does, Sir, as it becomes. I'll be so much more in your mouth, Sir. Can you taste me yet?
Watch the play of my muscles as i ascend the scaffold, Sir. Judge my meat one last time. Be sure it's firm but ripe to the touch. When I've reached the top, turn me about. Let me face you again. Let your audience count the number of breaths I take. Let them make side bets on my respiration rate when the noose slips onto my neck. Prod my thighs, examine the marks you've made on my body over all our time together. Funny how they've all healed. Slash them open, if you wish, Sir. But be warned, although you love to slash my flesh, your cuts will let my juices run. It will dry my meat. Your meat, Sir. (Please excuse me.)
Roughly trace my contours with your strong hands. Tighten the noose, attach the guiding ropes as you position me for my last ascent. Toy a moment with my breasts. Annoint me with rosemary scented oil. Coat me thoroughly, and spare no part of me. Use your fingers, Sir. Use your fists. Be sure that even deep inside me, I am well-oiled for you. I will cook so much the better. Leave my body glistening, pummeled, aching. Let the ropes support me if my knees give way. If you need relief, make use of my mouth, Sir. Let me go out with the taste of you.
Grip my hair so tightly as you finish, Sir. Leave me choked, sputtering, well used. Then take a step back and hoist me up until I dangle just above that spike, Sir. Align me precisely. Watch my body clench itself open and closed. Have the cameras zoom in tight, so every flutter of my toes and fingers is recorded, so that every flutter of my nether-lips shows. Test the spike. Does it draw a drop of blood from me after you've let me down a scant four inches? Ah...then it's precisely right.
- Consider having galley slaves handle the next few chores so that you might enjoy the spectacle.
Look into my eyes. Speak words so softly that no one else, not even the cameras can hear. Tell me what I've never known before.
Nod. The slaves you've trained will know what to do. After all, you are their master, too. Stay. Watch my eyes widen, see my mouth form a grimace and then an O as I am slowly lowered onto that polished spire. The ropes belay my progress each time the slaves detect the merest motion of your hand. If you choose, you can spend hours at this. How long will you take, Sir? A lifetime is what you'll take away today. Even now, it isn't real to me, you know. Make sure I know.
- One cylindrical roaster neck-shield included, approximately five feet high, hinged and open, glowing red.
Descend the scaffold. You might switch on the speakers nearby, if you want to hear my gurgles and whimperings as i slip by slow inches onto the lovely spike. Below is such a better view of my body, writhing, thrashing involuntarily as the ropes allow me to meet my slayer. Watch my feet dance, see my legs jitter and spasm. Watch the spit stretch my nether lips even wider than your fist stretched me. Watch those tender petals swell and my juices run down to coat the spike. See my belly quake, see how that thick pole distends my tummy, forces me so straight. My fingers flutter rapidly, my hands patter against my thighs where you have tied them. My toes curl and wiggle, straighten and curl and flutter endlessly.
Taste them now, Sir. You know you want to. Approach and grasp a foot in each hand and gnaw on it, rub it against your cheek...let me feel your stubble once more. Bite my smallest toe...take it with you, if you like. Tug it off. Hear me scream. Grate your teeth against the arch of my foot and chew and nibble its opposite side. Hear my far-off howls. Feel my ankles flex and straighten in your grip. My legs are spasming. They vibrate against your body and nearly make you orgasm.
The searing heat is so near, the open wings of the cylinder so close to both of us. Step back before your eyebrows singe, Sir. Signal your helpers. An unseen hand presses a button, and twin crosspieces jut out from the pole to hold me fast, I choke and gurgle. The pole is at the base of my throat. You've stopped it just short of making me tilt my head and lose sight of you. Thank you. Do you wonder if I can still see, Sir? If I can still see you? I wonder, too.
- Once roast is in desired position, press "CLOSE" to lock the cooker securely around the girl. Follow roasting chart to achieve desired meat conditions.
Leave my head above the cooking shield, Sir. Watch me slip away as you hear my body sizzle, as you see my toes curl while hot fat and fragrant juices drizzle them. Listen to the pop and hiss as my meat roasts soft and tender for you, tender as the heart I gave so long ago. All yours. Always.
- Pressing "STOP" will end the roasting, open the wings of the cylinder and allow the chef access to the meat.
See how the spit revolves? Stop it anywhere you like; sample any part of me. My arms and hands will be a little dry, Sir, but my legs and torso should be succulent. Stop me turning for a moment. Lift up your knife and pierce the crispy skin that holds my juices. If I've cooked long enough to please you, steam will escape, but I will stay right here with you.
Let it be your hand alone that holds the knife.
Slice me in thin strips. Serve me with cucumbers and icy wine. All those friends of yours, the ones who want so much to poke and pry and stuff themselves? Let them watch you dine on juicy thighs and crispy skin. But, Master? Keep my most tender parts. Use your sharpest knife. Take my most secret flesh away with you. Leave behind those carrion eaters, snarling and fighting over my remains after the lion's gone.
Devour the very last of me in private, Sir. I beg of you.