Oven Time

Posted by jack on October 10, 2006 at 02:34:37:

Oven Time

by Jack

Hope was amused. Since when had Richard cared a whit about appliances? Yet here they were in a showroom full of them all because of her husband's insistence that they needed a new stove. Well, perhaps they did, and it was sweet of Richard to have noticed but surprising just the same.

"We have something special if you'd care to see it," the saleslady said.

"Sure," said Richard.

"I don't think we can afford anything special, Richard."

Richard ignored the objection and took Hope's hand. They followed the saleslady through the showroom, exited into a hallway, then entered a large room.

"That door was made of steel," Hope whispered to her husband as she looked around.

It appeared that a party was in progress. Forty people or so stopped en masse to observe the new arrivals. Many were well dressed, many held drinks. An attractive buffet was laid out on a table by the bar.

"Everyone, meet Hope and Richard," the saleslady announced, grinning.

A chorus of greetings rang out which Hope blushingly acknowledged. She gave Richard a look that seemed to say, what on earth is going on here?

"This is our Dolcett Club," the saleslady said.

"A what club?"

"Dolcett Club, honey. Here let me show you the special thing I mentioned."

She beckoned Richard, who took Hope's hand again. They followed the saleslady across the room. Built into the wall was an oversized oven with a glass door.

"How do you like it?," the saleslady said.

"Frankly, it's ridiculous," Hope said, becoming annoyed.

"Because it's so big, dear?"

"Yes, and please don't call me dear. I think we should go, Richard. There's obviously a social event going on here and we're just interrupting."

"Believe me, sweetie, you're not interrupting. We're going to have a roast, you see. The roast is going to to be cooked whole in this oven."

"Really. What, like a pig?" Hope felt her cheeks flush. The sales lady's fresh manner and bold looks were having an effect. Glancing down, she saw her nipples making points in her jersey.

"Exactly! A female pig. It will take several hours to cook so we're having a buffet right now so people don't starve to death. Here, let me show you the preparation counter."

"No, thanks. Richard, I think we should go."

"Come on, let's see it," Richard said.

The saleslady brought them to the counter. Three men dressed in white and wearing white hats stood quietly, watching Hope with evident interest.

"This is Henri, the chef, and his assistants," the saleslady said.

The men bowed. Hope nodded and smiled, uneasily.

The saleslady pointed out various features of the counter as she explained things. Two aspects of the roast's preparation struck Hope as particularly odd.

"You give the pig an enema?"

"Oh, yes, honey. We want our roast to be nice and clean inside."

"And you stuff it? I never heard of stuffing a pig."

"Mmm, hmm. Henri takes out the intestines to make room for the stuffing but he leaves in the organs so that the roast is alive after it's stuffed. We always cook our roasts alive if at all possible. It's more fun that way."

"Good grief!!"

"So now you know what a Dolcett club is, dear, except there is one more tiny bit of information."

"Oh, what?"

"Tell her, Richard."

Richard took a deep breath. He looked at Henri.

"Better do it now."

The chef nodded at his assistants who promptly seized Hope and bound her wrists behind her.

The young woman's jaw dropped.

"Thank you," said the saleslady, stuffing in a ball gag.

It was a bit of a long story but Richard kept it short. His bowling league, which occupied one Saturday a month, was actually this club. The pigs they roasted were not pigs, exactly, they were, well...girls. A few of the members knew about Hope, having seen her with Richard. Naturally, they desired her. Who wouldn't? In exchange for Richard donating her, the club had promised rewards too wonderful to resist. He wouldn't go into that now, besides only a cannibal would understand. The point was, the plans for Hope's day had changed. She would be spending the rest of it in this room if the inside of the oven counted as being in the room. Richard shrugged, apologetically. His hardon tented his trousers.

Hope's knees buckled. For a moment she hung limply in the arms of the handlers. Then she recovered. She stood stiffly, leveling a cold stare at her husband. How dare they scare her like this! Had Richard completely lost his mind?!

By now the others had gathered round. From their ranks, a burly man with a jolly appearing face stepped forward.

"Howdy. My name's Bob Burns," he said, appearing to address Hope's breasts. "You're the prettiest damn roast we ever had here. Now usually we fuck em first, as Richard will tell ya, but I had this idea that it would be great to fuck a real roast, after you're stuffed and all. Be like a sendoff just before you go in the oven, some nice fucks and then in you go."

And so it began. After the handlers cut away Hope's clothes and put her on the counter, a fiftyish looking woman wearing glasses loomed over Hope holding a syringe.

"This will make everything seem better, dear" she said, softly.

The shot did make things seem better. Midway through her enema, Hope felt what seemed like her sanity return. She began to think about what was happening to her. She knew she ought to be terrified but she had been disconnected from ordinary reaction to mortal danger. It wasn't that she doubted that she would be cooked. With the evaporation of her fear, the desperate hope of being rescued also faded from her mind. She found herself accepting, almost welcoming the fact that her fate was sealed. She considered the things that people teased her about. What would it be like in the oven? How long would she remain conscious? What would she look like when she was lying cooked on her platter. How would they carve her? Would she taste okay?

While contemplating these matters, Hope observed to the extent that she could her preparations for the oven. Women bathed her with sponges. They shaved her cunt. They cropped her hair.

"I love the blondes, they're so tender," one of the women said.

"Mmmm, and this one's prime all over, don't you just love the tits. They'll cook really well being so firm."

"Yes, and look at the cunt mound, how puffy it is. You know what that means."

"Right, good fillets."

Hearing herself so described fascinated Hope. She felt her nipples twinge. She felt her cunt heat up inside that mound of fillets. How different it all was from the comments she was used to about her Miss America figure, about being a perfect piece of ass. These women judged her in a new and incredibly exciting way. Oh God, she hoped Bob Burns hadn't been teasing about the men fucking her! Then the haze lifted and reality struck. This can't be happening, she told herself. These people are insane! I have to get out of here!

At that moment, Henri appeared in her field of vision, holding a long, quite sharp looking knife.

"Ah, the eyes, they are terrified again," he said. "Ah well, it can't be helped you see."

As Hope craned her neck to watch with her bugged eyes, the chef sliced open her stomach. His gloved hands dipped inside. A moment later, one of the hands reappeared hauling ropes of severed intestines.

"There we are, you see," Henri said, pleased by his success. He shook the intestines, splattering some of their wetness on Hope's face. Henri dropped the load into a pail on the floor, and went back for more. In a few minutes, the roast's stomach was emptied of its unwanted contents and washed out with a hose. The saleslady returned. The woman was nude now. She carried a large bowl. Hope looked, blinkingly, at the bowl. Her moment of lucidity had passed. She was passive again and dimly curious. She caught whiffs of herbs, onions and seasonings. She guessed that the bowl contained her stuffing. She wondered what the stuffing would feel like inside her. She hoped the chef wouldn't put in too much and leave her looking pregnant when they sewed her up.

Richard glanced at his watch. Incredible! Two hours before they had been playing tennis at the club, a rather different club, with Hope in white shorts and matching top drawing her customary allotment of stares. Showered and dressed, she'd toured the showroom with him, mocking his sudden interest in the state of their kitchen. And here she was, laid out on a counter like a stuffed turkey. Life was indeed a passing show.

"Oven ready, I'd say," smiled Denise Glands, letting her fingers glide over the bulge in Richard's pants. Denise and her seventeen year old daughter were among the young man's rewards for supplying his spectacular wife.

"I'll give you a blow job when we watch her cook," Denise purred.

"I don't know. I think I want to masturbate. Maybe let Ellen do it for me."

"Oooh, that sounds nice," said Denise, who loved to watch her daughter have sex.

Oblivious to Richard's dalliance, Hope lifted her head to view the stitches that zippered her tummy. She wanted to pout. Why couldn't they have used a thinner thread and one that was flesh colored? Worse, the chef had overstuffed her just as she'd feared. Her famously flat stomach reminded her of a ski slope. She felt full, too, though the stuffing made a cool, not displeasing presence, as if it belonged there.

Hope realized to her surprise that her gag was gone. They must have removed it during one of her drifting spells. Could it mean they trusted her not to make a fuss? Mmmmmmm. She loved to be trusted. She felt a new round of tingles in her nipples. She worked her mouth. She licked her lips. She might even be able to talk if she dared but she sensed they wouldn't like her to do that. Conversation must be about the last thing they would want from a roast.

The women began the basting . Hands rubbed everywhere. Hope sighed. It felt so good being basted. The hands took wonderful liberties with her nipples and breasts and, best of all, her cunt. How many hands were there? She was too fogged to keep track.

"What do you think, Gladys, should she get another shot yet?"

"She's fine now, Cynthia. Look at her nipples."

Gladys inserted two fingers in the meat girl. The fingers went back and forth.

"Ohhhh, mmmmm," Hope whimpered.

She wondered if the sounds she made would give offense and cause them to gag her again. It would serve her right if they did gag her, she thought just before her hips bucked and a hot gushed flowed over Gladys' fingers.

When Hope next opened her eyes, she saw only the enormous chest and enamored expression of Bob Burns. Then something rammed her and she understood why the man was on top of her.

As club photographer, Eddy West had documented more than a few memorable roasts. This time he sensed greatness in the offing. He had felt it the moment he laid eyes on the young wife. It wasn't only their victim's breathtaking good looks. It was also a sweet vulnerability that Eddy's practiced eye discerned beneath the gorgeous thing's veneer of self confidence. She was, he concluded, the perfect meat girl.

As he moved closer, Eddy could barely contain his delight at what he observed in the viewfinder. The great stomach of Bob Burns rolled in waves over the roast's stitched, mounded belly. Both stomachs glistened wetly. Eddy slowly widened the vision field, taking in more and more of the locked couple until Hope's impassioned face was captured in the frame, then he zoomed in.

Henri, on the other hand, was appalled by the spectacle debasing his counter. He paced, casting fretful glances at his besieged meat course and the loose line of naked men waiting their turns. Henri couldn't imagine a more terrible display of disrespect for the culinary arts. Beyond the unsightliness, he feared that his roast would split open notwithstanding the extra stitching he'd put in, or that the incessant pressing would compact the stuffing, destroying the air spaces it needed, or force stuffing out of the cavity into God knows where.

These people, the laughing women included, were fools, philistines, persons of no sensitivity. They were undeserving of his talents. He was tempted to speak his mind but Henri loved cooking girl meat more than anything and he knew of no other venue that would indulge him so he held his tongue and endured the crudity.

When the last man finally climbed off the counter, oozing from his deflating member, Eddy and Henri each emitted a sigh, one of satisfaction, the other of relief. The roast was intact. Its quivering tummy showed no sign of displacement. They would need only to re-baste.

Hope's gasping gradually subsided. The blue eyes batted sweetly. They focused after a few seconds on Henri who had returned to her side.

"We put these in now you see," the chef said, speaking to himself. He beckoned for the women to assist.

Gladys appeared. She knew what to do. She pushed up one of Hope's eyelids and held it while Henri inserted the lens. They did the same with the other eye.

"They're heat shields, honey. They will keep your eyes from cooking," Gladys explained. Unlike Henri who recoiled at the thought of speaking to food, the women enjoyed talking to the girls they cooked.

"The roasts look so cute, you know, when they still have their eyes and they lie there on the platter as if they are looking at you when you're standing in line with your plate. It's really a turn on."

Hope moaned. She'd sensed it coming at times during the fuckings but she really felt it now. The cloud in her mind was lifting again. She tried to hold it, knowing it was her only protection.

"She's starting to look funny, Henri", Gladys said.

Henri made a quick check of the clamps that secured the meat girl's wrists and ankles.

"Yes, the fear you see. It is returned."

He retrieved the ball gag and stuffed it in Hope's mouth. Normally, the livestocks' screams and pleadings didn't bother him, but worry over the assaults on his roast had given the chef a headache.

"So, are you going to give her another shot or what?", said Gladys.

"Not yet. It's good for the meat, the fear if it's not too much, you see. A little fear is nice for it."

"You heard him, sweetie," Gladys said.

Hope was re-basted. Her eyebrows were shaved. Then the saleslady reappeared.

"How's she doing?"

"Well, you can see she's shaking like a leaf," Gladys said. "Usually they weaken by now."

"Okay. I'll take it from here."

The saleslady smiled at Hope. Her gaze lingered a moment on the fabulous tits.

"It's oven time, honey"

Hope blinked up at the speaker. Henri stood a few paces back with his white-coated assistants, not quite out of view.

"I hope you can see okay with those lenses they gave you. I'll tell you why. The boys are going to put you on an oven tray. They'll hog tie you first, okay. You'll be lying on your side so you can look out the window when you start to cook. There'll be an audience out there. Richard will be right up front, getting a blow job probably, who knows. Get the idea, honey? You'll be able to watch us while we watch you, won't that be something?"

Hope's trembling grew stronger, earning a grin from the saleslady. The woman continued her exposition on the pending event. In a minute, Hope's cunt would be filled with stuffing and her shortened hair wrapped in heavy duty foil. These would be the last preparations. For the cooking, Hope would brown in the oven about half an hour. Then Henri would have her removed from the tray, wrapped entirely in foil, and placed in a roasting bin. She would cook between five and six hours, then the foil would come off and she would receive a final browning.

"You'll be the main entree, you know. You should be proud. Now, if you're wondering how long you'll last, well, they usually hang in there for a couple of minutes anyway. You'll be nice and, well, not breathing, by the time they put you in the roasting bin, don't worry about that."

The saleslady held up a red apple.

"This is your new gag. The apple juice will drain down your throat while you cook. The apple cooks too, right. Makes a nice flavor inside. The apples, they don't last that long so we have to keep replacing them. You'll get an apple in your cunt, too, after it's stuffed."

Henri's assistants came up to attend to the finishing details. One of the young men wrapped what was left of Hope's blonde hair in foil while the other filled her cunt with a wild rice stuffing. Then the saleslady was there with her apples. She used a pared macoun to plug Hope's cunt. While an assistant held Hope's mouth open, the saleslady wedged in her other apple.

"There we go," the saleslady said, wiping her hands.

"You can get your last shot now, honey. We want you to have a good time."

She never felt the shot. But as she was lifted onto the oven tray a fuzzy sense of unreality calmed her. She gazed as in a dream at the line of smiling, clapping people as she paraded by. She knew where she was going. She closed her eyes when the bearers stopped. Above her, the windowed door of the oven swung open. The bearers grunted. She held her breath. She felt herself rising, then leveling off, then going in on the smoothly gliding tray. The door barely made a sound as it closed.

Hope took in the cave of her new abode. The walls were dark. The coils were dark. The air was stale and carried the faint smell of something burned. She liked it. She found the close confinement comforting. She wished the people outside would go away but of course they wouldn't. They continued to gather instead, filling up rows of chairs or sitting on the floor, as if crowding in front of a television set, so many of them, talking and laughing, making fun of her. She was glad she couldn't hear what they were saying.

Richard sat in the front row. A young girl knelt beside him, stroking his leg. The girl was nude except for a pair of light blue panties. She was slim and pretty. She had small, lovely breasts, Richard's favorite kind. Who was she? How long had Richard been fooling around? How could any of this be happening? The questions drifted dreamily in her mind like boats let loose from their moorings. She watched the teenage tart open her husband's fly. The girl's small hand reached inside his pants. The hand reappeared holding Richard's cock. Other men began taking out their cocks. God, it was true! The audience was going to engage in sex while she cooked for their dinner, just like the saleslady said. Thinking about this caused Hope's nipples to twinge and made her cunt respond happily to the hard pressing of her apple plug.

She wondered why she felt aroused like the people out there and was not filled with terror and despair. The thought retreated in the haze and then it was gone.

Still, she didn't care to watch. She tried to turn her head but the apple jutting from her mouth bumped against the tray. She gave up, content to stay as she was. It became darker suddenly. Someone was at the window blocking the light, the back lit figure of a man. A hum sounded and almost at once the black walls of the oven reflected a light red glow. She looked up. The coils were brightening. Already she felt the heat. Her heart began to pound. Out the window she saw the man return to his chair. Oh, God!! Richard! Her own husband had turned on the oven. It was too much. Her cunt convulsed, sweetly moistening the wild rice stuffing.

EPILOGUE

After the store closed, the party-goers drifted from time to time into the showroom, some seeking a semi private interlude among the appliances. Richard was dozing there, resting his head in the lap of his teenage prize, when Denise came up to them.

"Ah, here are my love birds."

"I think we're sex birds, mom," said the girl.

Denise smiled at her daughter. "No doubt. Did he fuck you again?"

"Nope. He couldn't. He fucked me too much already. He's pooped."

"Well, maybe a nice meal will revive that monster of his. Dinner's ready."

Richard sat up. "It's ready?"

"Wait till you see the meat course."

The diners stood in respectful silence around a serving table covered with a white linen cloth. Richard squeezed in among them.

Hope lay in her ties on her back. She had been delicious her entire life and she looked delicious still. She was evenly browned and glistened like a perfectly done turkey. Her platter was unadorned by a lettuce bed or any of the other embellishments preferred by some chefs, but not Henri. The apples, too, were gone. A roasted tongue extended stiffly from the yawning mouth.

Henri stepped up to his masterpiece and flicked out the lenses. The blue eyes were beautiful as ever as they appeared to study the ceiling. Henri motioned his assistants. Together they carefully turned the roast until the meaty thighs and rump presented and the roast's chin rested on the platter. It seemed to look out at the hungry admirers who now began to form a line.

Earlier, names had been drawn from a hat and matched with numbers. Richard's privileges for contributing his wife didn't include a favored selection from the carving knife. He sighed as he remembered his number. Fourteen. Oh, well, a guy can't have everything. He picked up a plate and took his place in the line.

- End -