Posted by jackh on December 09, 2006 at 04:51:40:
The woods girded the village on the north. They ended at the vineyards but to the east they widened steadily, interspersing with swampland until the swamps alone held sway, creating a vast, seemingly impenetrable moat fed partly by the stream that Ginny and Henry had crossed that morning. The woods had known an enshrined event. It was long ago, not far from where Luke postured at the oak tree, when a teenage temptress spent a night roasting on a spit fashioned from an iron harpoon. In the hours before her roasting, the elders fucked the girl, rested and fucked her again. Before the fuckings, the wanton's tongue was removed and cut in pieces to make meat for her stuffing. With her tongue gone, the girl said "moooo" over and over until she quieted on the spit. She cooked till morning. Then her uncles brought her on an oaken platter to a table they had crafted overnight, and in the new day's dappled light it happened, The First Breakfast.
The Place, it was called. It was hallowed ground. It was Runnymede and Plymouth Rock. Ginny had seen it through the trees but she didn't know its significance, not past or present.
Mrs. Brown recalled the legend, keeping a straight face, as Ginny trudged back to the path, wiping bits of the ground from her uniform. It had been ages since they'd roasted a moo girl here. Until now no occasion had been special enough to warrant one.
"Please don't tell anyone what I just did," Ginny said breathlessly.
" Tell them what, that you exposed yourself to a spit and begged it to fuck you? Why would I tell anyone that? Well, well, look who's here."
Ginny turned. A man in a red shirt hurried toward them, coming from the the direction of the fabled site.
"Henry!", Ginny cried. She ran and threw her arms around him.
"Thank goodness you're here! What a relief!"
She pulled back. "Why are you wearing that shirt? Henry are you.....?"
Henry grinned. His eyes bored into her. "Yeah, Gin, I am. A visit with the doc and seeing my family and friends. It's like I never left. But you, Gin! You're the impressive one."
"I am?"
"For volunteering! Damn! I'm one of your meatmen, going to help carry you to the pit."
Ginny stiffened. "I didn't volunteer, Henry. I did NOT volunteer. Who told you that?"
"We were all told that, back at the grounds. That's why we're here. We've been waiting for you. Are you serious? This is terrible!"
"Don't be so disappointed," Ginny said, crossly. "Yes, I'm serious and it's not terrible."
"Shut up. I am disappointed. So will your parents be. They're here. God damn it, we've been waiting for you."
"Oh, my god."
Ginny stepped back, repelled by Henry's manner and the appalling words.
"My parents are here? What for?"
"To see you roast!"
"Why else, dear?," Mrs. Brown declared.
"I....I was with you the whole time, Mrs. Brown. We never said anything to anyone back there about volunteering. How did this happen!?"
"Rumors, how do they ever happen? Come, dear, let's go greet your parents. We'll sit together and talk about our hurt feelings."
As they approached, Ginny saw more to this enclave in the woods than she had glimpsed through the trees. Several tables were about in no particular arrangement other than to make room for the barbeques, of which there were three, and an open central space where the ground was smooth and worn. A small cabin with windows overhung by trees lay at the edge of the clearing. .Ginny's parents sat by themselves at a table. They wore matching khaki shorts and shirts and knee length brown socks, the attire they typically donned for their secret outings. Mrs. Adams had brought a large Tupperware container placed on the table in front of her. Mrs. Adams rose with Dr. Adams as Ginny entered the clearing. Across the way, two red shirted men were at the ready but held their place when Mrs. Brown raised her palm.
Dr. Adams stepped toward the arriving party.
"I can tell by your expression, Gin, that we've been misinformed."
"She didn't volunteer! It was a damn rumor," Henry said. "Fucking rumor.
"So, Daddy, how long have you wanted to fuck me?," Ginny said, dryly. She watched him appraise her. The gaze went to her tits in the moo girl jersey, to her skirt, her legs, her tits again.
"I prefer not to incriminate myself." Dr. Adams chuckled. " I didn't believe it anyway, Gin, that you volunteered. Too good to be true."
"I didn't believe it either, Virginia. But I brought my stuffing just in case," Mrs. Adams said, humorously.
Dr. Adams shut up his wife with a glance. He turned to his daughter. "I've had two hopes about you. One was to consume you in a single orgy of fucking and roasting and eating. The other was to make you a lady. I'd given up on the first hope, but you've given it back to me. You're a moo girl, Gin. Might not love the spit tonight but your on the list, babe. You're on the list. You can't leave this place."
Ginny smiled. She knew. She liked being a moo girl but not forever, yet she would always be a danger to them if they let her go. The lotteries were her future now. How breathless is that!?, she said to herself.
"Mrs. Brown said I could leave."
"Whoops, my mistake" said Mrs. Brown. "I'm afraid it's more a question of how long you'll need to be penned. We have to keep you from fleeing until you're tamed, assuming you last that long. Sure you don't want to get it over with? Luke's ready if you are"
Ginny ignored her. "I don't understand you, Daddy. How can you do this?"
"With gusto, Gin. Lots of fucking gusto!"
They moved at Mrs. Brown's urging to a table and sat, the group of them joined by the two meatmen half filling the weathered planks. Mrs. Brown steered Ginny to a seat in the middle and settled down beside her. Henry took the moo girl's other side. A woman wearing an apron came out of the cabin bringing a bottle of wine and paper cups. She arrayed the cups at the end of the table and began filling them with the wine.
Ginny drew a curtain in her head for the last time. She understood her daddy. He sat across from her, red faced and intent, studying her, holding back a grin. Oh, she knew his masks. She knew that the whole business was about lust, which it hadn't been at all in her little girl days, the gangly days when she took piano but couldn't play sports on her stick legs or having to employ her confused arms. She didn't puzzle long when his manner toward her changed. One day she went searching for his diary and in it she found the answer to her puzzlement. She was twelve years old.
It's as if she's undergone a cinematic transformation,
all at once widening and rounding, curving and smoothing,
this way and that way, into sheer adolescent sexiness.
For a time she was angry with him, then she hated him, then she shared his lust, Lately she disliked him again. His artifices bored her. Gazing back at him across the table she thought about how she would feel about him with their secrets out. His release was enabling him to cast her off like dirt.
"Maybe you're even turning me on with your meanness, Daddy," she told him.
"Yeah, Arnold, you're the turnon here," Henry jibed.
Mrs. Brown smiled. "Don't you love family conferences, Henry?"
All the while, Mrs. Adams said nothing and concentrated on not passing out. She had been warned against having one of her fits. "This time, we won't stop the show," her husband vowed. She worked on her breathing, hoping no one would speak to her as she fought back the excitement that threatened to unhinge her.
Mrs. Brown accepted two cups of wine from the woman in the apron who also gave her a small white envelope. She opened the envelope and spilled out a yellow powder into one of the cups. She stirred the drink and passed the cup to Ginny.
"Have some wine, dear," she said.
"What did you put in it?"
"Moo dust. It's good for you."
Ginny sipped from the cup. She wondered why she dared. She drank and finished the wine. She waited for the effect of the moo dust.
"Mmmmm, I like wine," she said. "Can I have some more please? Mrs. Brown, is the moo dust mild or is it strong?"
"It's mild," Mrs. Brown replied. "Just takes the edge off."
"Good, I hate edges. They're so edgy."
"The edges on those aren't edgy," Dr. Adams said, meaning his daughter's tits. He pointed a finger at them.
Ginny laughed. She was feeling more moo girlish by the second. She giggled and tugged on her jersey to make it tighter.
"Hmmmm," she said, looking down. "I don't think they have edges, Daddy. They're too round." She wondered if the others were looking and if they appreciated her display. Her tits looked mighty fine in her jersey, if she did say so herself. Moreover, her nipples pushed out the news that whether or not this moo girl was ready for Luke, she was ready for them. So when were they going to fuck her? Would daddy go first?
"Well, well isn't this pleasant," said Mrs. Brown, laying a hand on Ginny's thigh. She began to tell of Ginny's experiences at the festival.
The moo girl blushed and sipped her wine. She listened to Mrs. Brown's merry tale and the laughter of her parents and Henry and the meatmen and waited for Mrs. Brown's hand to explore beneath her skirt as it accompanied the woman's story telling. Annoyingly, the hand kept to Ginny's outer thigh.
"You are like the world's naughtiest people," Ginny said when Mrs. Brown had finished embarrasing her. "I still can't believe, Daddy, that you and Mommy were happy when you thought I volunteered and that Mommy even made stuffing! What is that about?!"
"Yes, well your mother and I have always believed that children should be allowed to seek their destinies, particularly if it's a moo girl destiny and the child is a pretty and spirited daughter like you."
"And over twenty-one, Arnie, don't forget that," Mrs. Adams reminded.
"Hmmm. Daddy, remember when I was in that beauty contest at your club when I was like twelve and I won and when you were taking me to the prize room Mommy fainted and I never got the prize. What was the prize? And did that red head girl who was first runner up get it?"
"The cutie pie got it all right," Dr. Adams chuckled. "Let's just say that your mother and I came back for dinner that night and there was veal on the menu. Course, those days are over what with political correctness spoiling everything."
"Hmmmm. I thought so. Well, I wasn't twenty-one then, Daddy, and I didn't volunteer either. May I have some more wine, please?"
"It was all by the rules. We never cook a girl except by the rules," Dr. Adams assured..
Ginny laughed. "It's so crazy. You roast girls and eat them but you follow all these rules, as if what you do is civilized behavior. Like your lotteries. Phew! Just the idea of those lotteries gives me the shivers. Anyway, I'm sorry if you thought I volunteered. It's very sexy, I will definitely admit, but I'm not a complete idiot." She slightly slurred her words.
"That was my mistake."
"What mistake, Mrs. Brown?" said Henry.
Ginny saw the young man straighten as he spoke. She began to feel sick.
Mrs. Brown sighed. "Oh, I thought she did volunteer. But she says she didn't, so I suppose we must give her the benefit of the doubt."
"Not so! ," Henry declared. "Why should she get the benefit of the doubt? So it wasn't just a rumor. You say you thought she volunteered, Mrs. Brown. This is critical. If you thought she volunteered, how can we know she didn't volunteer. Damn it, if a moo girl volunteers it doesn't matter what she says afterward. She can't change her fucking mind."
Henry put down his cup. "Where's your proof, Gin?"
"Are you serious?"
"Yeah."
The table grew quiet. They looked at her, waiting for her proof. The shock was pure, it was lovely. Mrs. Adams tittered nervously. Ginny couldn't breathe. A warm gush of pee wet her thighs and dribbled down her legs.
"I...I," she said.
"We're listening," Henry said, sharply.
"I....I don't have....proof but I know what I said. Mrs. Brown doesn't have any proof either, does she?"
"That statement makes no sense" shouted the woman in the apron. "Mrs. Brown is a councilwoman. What are you? A whore, probably. She could be a whore when you think about it, and I saw what she did with that spit. It was just like Mrs. Brown said. Only a whore would do that in my opinion. We roast whores all the time so if she's a whore why can't we roast her just for that?"
"Ginny isn't a whore," Mrs. Adams said, bravely. "Are you, dear?"
The vote was eight to nothing that Ginny had volunteered. Ginny, being a moo girl, was given no chance to dilute the unanimity.
"Well, no more exercises in democracy involving you, young lady, and rightfully so," said Dr. Adams.
Ginny thought of running but her legs were like jelly. She could still barely breathe. Luke was there, moved to a tree at the end of the path, showing off in his usual way. Ginny imagined Luke waiting for her in his staging brackets, she twisting on the table to see him while they gave her the enema, looking for him again when they took her hair and washed her. She would be gutted on that table. The chef would stuff her emptied stomach and sew her up like a turkey. Then the meatmen would take her to Luke. If she was still able, she would watch the meatmen pass him to the man who would do it. She knew the scenario more from Henry's stories than the fragments she'd witnessed. Basting first. She would cook for seven hours or so. She would lie on a platter, in a bed of lettuce, perhaps, brown and gleaming. The diners would come up to the table to view and admire the roast before the dinner bell sounded.
She felt wildly free.
At that very moment, Mayor Jim was examining a white piece of paper handed to him by Mrs. Broxley, the mayor's secretary whose son, Andrew, ran errands for the mayor and had supplied the information that the mayor's choice was in "phase one".
"Hot damn, she's in phase one," the mayor said.
"Oh my! Did Iris get her to volunteer?," said Mrs. Mayor
The mayor grinned. "She did!"
"Wonderful! So, have you decided which one yet?" Mrs. Mayor had her own hopes of who her husband might choose as his second choice, technically his first choice since the first choice had cooperatively chosen herself.
"Yup. I'll tell you after this."
The mayor and his wife had come to watch the transfer of June Macarthur to the table. The crowd was smaller than the one that had attended June's spitting, but it was hungrier. The mayor sensed the restlessness, the almost palpable desire. Ruth Macarthur's accomplishment in cooking her daughter was being acknowledged in dozens of whispered conversations as the moment approached. Ruth felt the excitement and proudly knew that she was partly responsible for the surfeit of succulence that would grace the head table. The roast steaming in its last moments over the coals was her creation. She was concerned, however.
When the meatmen moved to the brackets wearing their oven mittens, Ruth decided to take a precaution she had been considering against a rare but not unprecedented misfortune that could befall an especially tender roast when being carried on its spit. The head table was across the path, some hundred feet or more away, increasing the danger.
"Wait. Bring the platter with you and put her on it as soon as you get her off. BE CAREFUL! Do it smoothly. Smoothly!"
Word of the mayor having made his choice spread through the fairgrounds after dinner. The moo girls could breathe easy. Becky Davis, with a full tummy, was playing badminton when she heard the news. She and her partner, Alison, and the moo girls on the other side of the net jumped and laughed, then went on with their game. Becky was about to serve when the mayor's secretary arrived at the edge of the court.
"The mayor wants to see you, Becky. He's with Mrs. Mayor over by the fountains."
Alison ran up to Becky and giggled in her ear.
"See you or fuck you?"
The girls were well aware of the mayor's interest in Becky. They had seen him eye her on numerous occasions, as he had eyed her that morning when she marched by the reviewing stand swishing her skirt and smiling like a perfect junior sex kitten. Becky had worried when it was announced that before the day was over there would be a mayor's choice but Alison had reassured her friend, pointing out that Mayor Jim had enjoyments with Becky in mind for which roasting would be counterproductive. Besides, she was far from the only moo girl the mayor was known to favor. Still, it was a big relief when Becky learned that the mayor had chosen the visitor. Waving her racket at her friends, she headed off with Mrs. Broxley and began to adjust herself to what the mayor likely wanted to do with her.
Along the way it occurred to Becky that perhaps her summons was for a different reason. She hoped to win as Prettiest New Moo Girl and also as Sexiest New Moo Girl, and maybe she actually had won and the mayor was going to give her the good news.
"Mooo," she said, a little out of breath, to Mr. and Mrs. Mayor. They were seated at a picnic table. Becky didn't see a blanket. Mrs. Broxley wandered off to the fountains, glancing back every few seconds.
Mr. and Mrs. Mayor smiled. Becky smoothed her skirt, suddenly aware of the embarrassing stains.
"Talking permission granted, Becky. Mr. Bob told me what a good job you did spitting your teacher, Miss Williams. How would you like to be spitted yourself?," Mayor Jim began.
The mayor was never happier than when breaking the news to doomed moo girls and observing their reactions.
"Whaaat?"
Two meatmen appeared as if out of nowhere and stood quietly a few yards on either side of the moo girl.
"I said, your teacher, Miss Williams had nice tits and that you have nice tits yourself."
"Is...is that what you said?"
"Ha!. I say, Margaret, is there anything more pleasing than youthful gullibility. No, sweetie, I didn't say that but you do have nice tits. I intend to get one of those perky nipples. What I said was that you're going to be spitted. We're going to roast you tonight. You and our visitor, Virginia Adams, will be the meat dishes on the buffet table at brunch tomorrow. We only need one roast but I want to make a good impression on the folks from Dolcett. You can understand that. The mayor of Dolcett will enjoy you very much. You, young lady, are the mayor's choice! I wanted you to be first to know. You should be proud of yourself?"
It doesn't get better than this, the mayor said to himself, as Becky gaped at him, unmoving as a statue except for the eyelids blinking like twin distress signals on a sinking ship.
Some hours later, Ginny lay in her marinade tray looking at the stars. The night was beautiful. Occasionally she heard the lapping of the marinade in the tray beside her when the moo girl in it moved. The marinade covered the girls to their necks. It filled the cavities of their gutted bellies. Hearing a sound, Ginny peered over the rim of her tray. Two men were at the barbecue pit, preparing to light it. It was time. Very soon they would remove her from the tray and wipe her. Then a man would fuck her. She had wondered what it would be like being fucked with her guts gone. She didn't know who the man would be, only that his selection was based on his assumed ability to fill her with tasty sauce for her cunt stuffing. her co-roast would be fucked the same. The cunts and bellies would be stuffed and sewn. She would be ready for Luke, but would she survive his embrace? They had told her that fewer than a third of Luke's girls lived to enjoy the ride to the pit. Ginny believed she would survive. She closed her eyes, picturing herself at the climatic moment when Luke glided over her tongue and speared the apple in his path. She saw his tapered point gleaming in the moonlight, triumphant. He would bring her straight to the pit. She would thrill to the pit's red beauty as she approached it and when he held her face down over the coals she would be entirely his.
The morning was sunny and hot by nine a.m. when Mayor Jim inspected the work of the bones brigade and the litter lads who had cleaned the park. At ten o'clock the mayor joined the council in front of the steps of Town Hall. Within a few minutes, the first cars from Dolcett arrived. Moo girls waved at the guests from both sides of the street. A rumor was spreading that the mayor of Dolcett had been invited to pick out a moo girl as a gift for his town's next roast. Whole groups of moo girls squealed whenever a face turned their way in one of the cars that looked like it could be a mayor's face.
At ten thirty the brunch crew began putting food on the table, first the side dishes and then, from the pits, the sizzling roasts.
Mrs. Adams was displeased when she learned that her daughter would be sharing center table with another roast, but she had a change of heart when she saw the former Becky Davis on a platter. The teenage roast was more than culinary perfection. She was like a cooked bunny, Mrs. Adams thought, so cute you almost wanted to kiss her. The meatmen placed the faux veal platter a little off center and went back for their other delivery. The second roast on its bigger platter weighed their arms, causing the meatmen to lurch for the table. The roast landed heavily but safely. Entranced by the glazed surfaces, Mrs. Brown failed to notice that Ginny remained impaled until the meatmen departed. She stood quietly with the doctor viewing the scene .
"They left the spit in her!," she declared.
Dr. Adams nodded thoughtfully. "She liked that spit."
"She did. The way she gave herself to it, that was so sweet. God, she wiggled for it! And when it came out her mouth, oh my goodness! Remember how her eyes got so wide, like she was surprised to see it. How she must have felt knowing it was all the way through her."
"Didn't wiggle then."
"No," Mrs. Adams said, smiling at the memory. "But she kept her eyes open the whole time. I was so proud of her the way she rode to the fire, watching the best she could, those eyes so big and bright. She didn't shut them until they swung her over the coals. Weren't you proud, Arnold, or were you just having an erection?"
"I'm hungry," said Mr. Adams, who indeed had experienced an erection at his daughter's spit ride but had missed breakfast and wasn't sure at the moment how he felt about a fortune spent on a Vassar education only to have his investment end up on a serving tray.
"I know you are, poor dear. So, what do you want to go with Mommy's stuffing. White or dark?"
Mr. Adams gazed at the roast that had been his daughter. Shining in the midday sun, it was perfectly browned. Juices still trickled down the sides, collecting in a widening pool in the tray. The dinner crowd began to gather. The sound of plates and cutlery in motion broke into his reverie.
"I'm thinking, I'm thinking," he said.
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