BON VOYAGE

Posted by Menagerie on June 19, 2004 at 07:09:19:

BON VOYAGE
As always, Frank’s packet was marked with a big, red “P”. “Privileged”. “Welcome aboard, again, Sir,” said the studiously impassive purser; the entertainment director, scrubbed and perky, gave him a friendly grin. Frank nodded, smiled, and hustled below decks to his cabin.
It was his eighth cruise, Frank’s little reward to himself for 50 weeks of drudgery. A two-week trip to nowhere in particular, taking in the ocean breeze, frolicking with the vacationers…and looking ahead to the very last day. Not that he wanted it to end; in fact, he’d like the last day to last forever.
The packet contained the usual, and the unusual, documents. The itinerary; the daily schedule of activities; the meals. And then, a folded piece of paper. On it, a half-dozen names, pictures, descriptions; all female passengers, a few of them making the trip for the first time. And one of them, for the last.
The heading read, ATTENTION “P” CLASS PASSENGER: YOU ARE TO RECORD YOUR SELECTION AND PRESENT THIS DOCUMENT TO THE PURSER BY 1700 FRIDAY 8 JULY. THOSE WHO FAIL TO SUBMIT THIS DOCUMENT IN A TIMELY MANNER WILL BE EXCLUDED FROM THE CAPTAIN’S BANQUET. THERE WILL BE NO EXCEPTIONS. Next to each woman’s name was a square; Frank, and the other “Privilegeds,” would put an “X” in one of the boxes; whichever of them got the most votes…Frank grinned. Quite a lot of power in their collective hands.
Frank had learned of the annual cruise from an acquaintance…one with whom he shared very secret thoughts and desires. “They find out quickly whether they can trust you,” said the nameless friend, in letters that tracked across Frank’s PC screen. “It costs a lot of money, and they bind and blindfold you. I’ve told at least a dozen other guys about it; not a one has followed through.”
Frank would; it was worth it. He laid down the cash, surrendered to their bonds, traveled a day in darkness. Seven years ago; he’d been back every year.
The first day shipboard was warm and balmy--the kind of weather, Frank knew, that brought out the best in female flesh. He smiled and greeted his fellow passengers, all the while scanning the ladies stretched out poolside or sweatin' to the oldies in the morning aerobics workout. He immediately recognized a couple of the women on his ballot--there was Number Five, in sweatpants and a stretch top that barely contained a pair of remarkable bazooms, straining to touch right forefinger to left toe and vice versa. Frank stopped, checked out Number Five's bottom as she grunted and bent, and nodded approvingly to himself. Definitely, a semi-finalist.
Number Three was sitting on the edge of the pool, kicking her legs and focused intently on the water, as if she were trying to understand what it was saying. A full figure, a cute face, tousled hair. Very nice. Frank took in her smooth, soft skin, thought about her at the Captain's Banquet. It would be hard to decide this year; a lot of potential "winners"--he grinned to himself--to choose from.
As Frank scoped out the contestants, he nearly collided with Number Six; she was poring over her daily activities schedule, and they brushed. "I'm so sorry!" she exclaimed, eyes wide, mouth forming a little O. "Clumsy, clumsy me..." He assured her it was all right, introduced himself, they shook. Frank was very impressed; she had full, thick thighs, spectacular breasts, soulful, expressive eyes. He was moving her several notches up the list as they spoke. "They gave me a discount to sign up for this cruise!" she was saying. "Can you beat it? They were so happy to get me on board, they showered me with gifts. They've treated me like a queen!"
Frank could believe it; all of the "contestants" were lured on board with special offers, he discovered. Most of them couldn't have paid what he paid...but then, he was "Privileged". Her name was Joanne; she was here to have fun! She would be delighted to join him for breakfast...
He got a better look at her at the buffet; there was a goodly amount of flesh to her, plump buttocks, big, round shoulders. She talked a mile a minute about her friends, her family, her job; he nodded, smiled, every once in a while interjected "How about that!" or "Well, what do you know?" His mind was elsewhere. The Banquet had gotten fancier every year, a black tie affair with all sorts of exotic fruit, fancy wines, classy entertainment...and, of course, the main course. Which, Frank had decided, might well be Joanne.
For this was a cannibal cruise. Passed on by word of mouth, available only for a high price and to those willing to be transported to it blindly...at the end of the two weeks, a selected passenger would be exquisitely prepared and flamboyantly served, a hearty feast for the fortunate. The flagship was foreign, the port authorities bought; each year, one passenger was reported lost at sea, and the official receiving the tragic news would nod gravely, and stuff into his pocket the envelope, filled with money, that had been tucked into the report.
The regulars all knew each other--they'd meet the new members of their exclusive club at the banquet, welcome them back the following year--and they'd pass around what they'd found out about the contestants. Little snippets of conversation; comparing notes. The winner in their balloting would be available for a day of "play," prior to her one-way trip to the galley; the travel agent who delivered the ship's unwitting entrees was selecting for playfulness. The half-dozen on the ballot had all indicated they'd be looking for companionship on the trip, and as each of the "Privileged" carnivores sampled each "contestant's" lovemaking skills, she was rated, and the word was passed around.
After the second night on board, Frank was able to rate Joanne, who'd spent the evening in his cabin. She was great, he whispered enthusiastically to other members of the exclusive club. All soft and cushiony, plenty of enthusiasm; she'd be a load of fun. The others grinned; Joanne's stock kept rising. The odds were good she'd be on that platter eleven days hence.
Not that that stopped Frank from sampling some of the other ladies on the ballot. Number Five, Melissa--well, she was a little bit spooky. In the sack, she started talking about all of the things she was taking to control this phantom ailment and that; Frank looked down at her--those jugs still looked damn good, her belly and thighs ripe--and wondered...how would she taste? She half-smiled, eerily. "Do I look good to you?" she asked coyly. No, he decided.
Number Two was kind of cute, a short, pudgy redhead named Angela. A lot of giggling; very bouncy. A wide, inviting twat; Frank imagined her on the banquet table, steaming and glistening; those labial lips that were holding him tightly, stretched around a mango. "Mmmm," she purred, looking at him with glistening eyes, "you feel big in there." He grinned back at her; Number Two, you have no idea.
Frank had pretty much narrowed down his choices; the cruise had made its port of call, and he and Joanne had wandered together through the tiny Caribbean island's lone city. He bought her a garland of edible native flowers, which she wore proudly. "Tonight," she teased, "you can eat these clear off me!" She was so tempting, he told her, he might go too far, and she laughed. "Have me," she declared, arms wide, "I'm yours!"
That night, before heading back into his cabin where Joanne waited, Frank marked the sixth box on his ballot and delivered it to the purser. As ever impassive, the man nodded, slid it into a drawer. The word would come, on Frank’s cabin phone, the following morning. “Number Six,” came the purser’s clipped tones. “Your time share is 800 to 900 hours.” Frank looked at his bunk, where Joanne slept, peacefully. A small smile flitted across his features.
It was always hard to sleep the night before the last day. Frank’s mind roamed, thinking about past cruises. The ship’s chef prepared each woman differently, never the same way twice. The one--that Executive Secretary, told him about all the important CEO’s she’d met--had been roasted on a vertical spit; she was balanced on it, hands and feet tied together behind her and suspended a few inches above a drip pan, as slices of meat were pared from her frame. But the stewardess, who had put on a few pounds over the years, was “flying” on a rack, stretched across it from her fingertips to her toes. Another, a lanky, full-figured New Englander, had been steamed and served face-up on a bed of rock salt, her reddened flesh contrasting with the dirty gray salt and the dark green vegetables that filled her hollowed belly. How would Joanne be served? Frank stirred, rolled over, and made sure his alarm was set.
The designated cabin was marked “Cleaning Supplies”. Frank used his special passkey; a crewman stood guard inside, before a second door. Frank could hear muffled cries from within; the guard said, “Good morning, sir; thank you for being prompt. Your session will begin momentarily.”
Frank would have to share Joanne with another Privileged veteran, a big Polish guy from northern Michigan. He’d enjoyed the pleasures of Joanne’s body many times during the cruise; this time, though, he knew it would be different-crewmen would have abducted her from her cabin, forced her to disrobe, and advised her of her fate. The ship’s chef would have entered the little room, examined the helpless, naked woman from head to foot, and formed his plans for the Captain’s Banquet. And then, the orgy would begin; two or three passengers at a time
The crewman cocked his head to hear a message in his earpiece; he pressed a button, the door slid open. "Watch your step, please," he advised, as Frank caught a glimpse of a a struggling, naked figure, spreadeagled face down on a bare mattress.
Frank undressed quickly; Joanne's back and buttocks were striped red, her body flecked with semen. Her eyes widened when she saw him, and she murphed into the tape over her mouth. "I guess they told you," he grinned, as he mounted her from behind. Her full, fleshy thighs and plump buttocks were magnificent; Frank sighed as he eased into her. "I voted for you," he told the helpless woman. "You're going to make a wonderful feast. Did the chef say what he had planned for you?", as he reached down and yanked the tape away.
Joanne was panting, her breathing shallow. "S-said...said I'd be stuffed..." She swallowed. "Stuffed and wh-whole roasted..." She thrashed on the mattress; Frank slapped her, hard on the ass, and she stopped. He smacked his lips. "You will be absolutely delicious," he purred, driving into her on every other word; Joanne sobbed.
The other guy was a little late. "Got her ready for me!" he laughed, and Joanne soon found her mouth filled with cock. "What are the banquet plans?"
Frank had shot his load, pulled out of Joanne's wriggling snatch. "Stuffed like a Christmas turkey," he laughed; he pursed his mouth around her generous ass, gave it a good bite. She eeped through her mouthful. "She's certainly tender enough," he kidded; the reddened imprint of his teeth was plainly visible on the smooth flesh.
The two of them got full use out of their hour; Joanne was brutalized. Abused and used in every orifice; all the while, she was taunted about her ultimate fate. "No one will know," Frank whispered, his fist full of her wavy, brown hair, holding her tear-streaked face scant inches from his, as the big guy pumped her from behind. "They'll be told you were lost at sea. And we'll all have our bellies full of you." Joanne shook her head in anguish; the big guy grunted, his long fingernails digging into her flanks, as he popped his load.
Frank and his cohort had to be shooed out of there; two relatively recent Privilegeds were waiting at the door, impatiently. “Have fun, fellas!” Frank called over his shoulder; Joanne was sprawled, sobbing, on the filthy mattress, and the two newbies eagerly dropped their drawers and had a run at her. “Hot dayum, Pete!” one called out as he took a dive on Joanne’s lush body. “We’re gonna have to ask the Cap’n for doggie bags!” His partner chuckled, evilly, and as the door closed Frank heard a “Whap!” as the man’s open palm found Joanne’s cheek.
He knew there’d be another opportunity to see her off—he laughed to himself; not the pleasure cruise she'd had in mind! Dinner was traditionally served at midnight; Joanne would be making her unhappy way to the kitchen around noon. This, he wanted to see, so he killed a few hours lolling around the deck. He actually encountered Angela, Number Two, who was vigorously pursuing her aerobics, her strawberry blonde hair and her jugs bouncing with equal abandon. She flashed him a sunny smile, panted to a scraggling halt. “Where’s your friend?’ she wheezed, bending over, hands on hips; those mammoth bazookas were about to spill clear out of her top. Frank affected friendly puzzlement. “I was just out looking for her,” he said. “Haven’t seen her all day.”
Number Two straightened out, started in with leg kicks. “Well,” she gasped between lifts, “if she chucks you over, you know where to find me!” Frank grinned, thought about a quick boff before dinner, and continued on to the galley.
Privilegeds were allowed informal visits; the crewman radioed in, then unlatched the steel door. The ship’s chef was intently mixing spices into a very large bowl; his aides were lugging in armfuls of exotic produce. Pans clanged, doors slammed, and there in the middle of it, lying on her back on a cold, steel table, was Joanne. Still totally nude, her pubes had been shaved clean and her curly, brown locks cropped short; she was squirming, her hands cross-bound to her feet behind her, her mouth filling her gag with protests. “Ah, M’sieur Frank!’ clucked the chef, smiling. “You are jus’ in time for zee evisceration.” Despite the gag, Joanne let out an audible sob; Frank caught her eye, grinned and winked.
“A live roaster?” he asked. “But of course,” the chef responded. “We jus’ remove the guts here; organ meats stay intact.” The two aides pinned Joanne to the table; the chef wielded the knife expertly. In a flash, Joanne’s belly was opened; blood gushed, then trickled in rivulets along the gutters of the steel table. Frank watched, detached; he’d seen this scene before. Joanne’s struggles grew weaker, as the chef emptied her; she lay back, her eyes glazed and staring forward, her breathing shallow.
The aides curiously kept their grip on Joanne’s shoulders and thighs, but she was no longer putting up a fight. The chef had begun filling her hollow belly with large scoops of a fruit-based stuffing, unfamiliar tropical orbs of green and pink mixed in with great chunks of crusty bread. He looked up at Frank, and winked. “She is zee juicy one, no?” he chuckled, patting the helpless woman’s ample breast. “Zee stuffing will be very rich, you bet.” Finished, he flashed a steel needle, deftly fashioned a spool of twine to the eye, then plunged the steel point through the flap of Joanne’s belly flesh. She made an “Ooooh!” through the gag as the chef pierced the other side of her abdominal skin, then pulled the two tightly together over the bulging breading mix; briskly, he finished stitching the woman’s tummy back together. “Good as new!” he laughed, and waved to the aides; they darted into a closet, returned with an odd looking device.
It was two halves, fitting together, of a kind of rack. The chef untied the now feeble woman and removed her gag; she looked up from the table in agony. “Please…” she whispered; smiling, the chef put an index finger to her dry, cracked lips, and sshhhed her. “Time for zee fitting,” he told her, as the aides slapped the two halves of the frames on either side of her.
Frank could see there were rings, adjustable with clamps; the three men slid the parts together, and the chef adjusted the semi-circular ring halves and then tightened them. They fit around Joanne’s neck, below her breasts, around her stomach, knees and ankles. “She will turn,” the chef told Frank, “verrrrry slooooowly over zee fire.” Joanne stared straight ahead in misery as the strange device was fastened to her body. “Now,” said the head man, “a little more preparation, an’ we’re all set.”
One of the remaining tasks was the stuffing of Joanne’s abundant breasts. Each was slit open; tissue and fat was liberally removed, and the hollowed gland was filled with rice, a grated cheese, specks of pungent spices. The globes were also sewn closed. Then, a four edged clamp was pushed into her meaty labia; a few turns of a crank, and the aperture was wide open; the chef produced a peculiar looking fruit that resembled a long honeycomb. “Tamarind,” he proclaimed, and shoved the half-foot long produce home; despite her fading state, Joanne exhaled, loudly. The chef released the clamp, and her pussy grabbed the fruit tightly. “She is magnifique!” he crowed, stepping back and sweeping a hand toward the woman on the table, her body prepared for roasting.
Frank grinned, decided to head out for now. He reached through the bars of the rack, patted Joanne’s head; tears streamed down her cheeks as she contemplated the hot oven that would be her fate. “See you later!” he told his former bedmate, and went to look for Number Two.
Angela was even bouncier than before, working hard underneath Frank as he worked ever deeper into her. “I’m so glad you came for me,” she whispered, hot, steamy breath in his ear. “I think I’m much better than Joanne, don’t you?” Frank thought about Joanne, slowly turning in the chef’s oven, juices dripping off her browning body; the thought got him going even faster, and he came like a geyser. “Wow!” the redhead’s eyes snapped open, looked into his. “You were alive in there.”
Frank rolled over and panted; thinking of Joanne had his mouth watering. Number Two was sprawled on her side, her head cupped in her hand, looking at him intently. No, he was sorry, he couldn’t join her for dinner; as a veteran of the cruise, he had to do the Captain’s Banquet at midnight, made it sound as if it were a chore. “I’ll be sure to be here next year,” she declared, brightly. “Maybe then, I’ll be at the Captain’s Banquet!” Maybe, he told her, his eyes sweeping along her fleshy form, you will.
At seven o’clock, Joanne was still wriggling. Just a little. Frank peered through the grease-stained, smoked-glass window in the door of the giant oven; the square metal frame, Joanne’s heat-seared body clamped within it, was hooked to the rotisserie and rotating slowly. The orange glow of the heating element reflected off Joanne’s butt and legs, then her stitched-together breasts and stomach. He saw her jerk a bit; her eyes had rolled back in her head. A charred wooden block held her jaws apart. Frank nodded approvingly.
“I think,” he told the chef, his eyes still fixed on the hapless woman, “this is your best work yet.” The chef beamed, then shooed Frank away from the oven’s steel door as he brandished a large brush and a bowl of oily liquid. “Basting to do,” he proclaimed. “She will be perfect.” Joanne suddenly arched, then was still. Frank chuckled. Perfect timing.
The crewman methodically checked the passenger’s log, then nodded Frank through. Done up in his most elegant duds, Frank edged into the small, crowded room, smiled hello at some familiar faces. Their eyes, mostly men but a couple of women, too, all gleamed with anticipation. A couple of frozen faced crewmen stood attendance; a smiling barkeep with a fancy, waxed mustache poured drinks, vigorously stirring and mixing as he kept up his own end of the conversation. Frank chug-a-lugged a Scotch, then another, as the men and women in evening wear chatted about the cruise, going home…and Number Six.
She would be arriving any minute; a crewman with a foghorn for a voice announced the arrival of the Captain. White-haired, tall and thin, the genial man shook hands all around, slapped a few backs, proposed a couple of toasts. When he suggested his guests find their seats, the Privilegeds scrambled like it was a game of Musical Chairs. The old man smiled; they were more enthusiastic every year.
“Ladies, gentlemen,” the Captain crooned, “may I present our…special guest.” That brought a wave of laughter, followed by enthusiastic applause.
Joanne was on her back; she was roasted a deep reddish-brown, the skin picking up a dull sheen from the meager light in the dining room. A pair of passion fruit had replaced her lost eyeballs; a fresh mangosteen filled her mouth, and the platter on which she was served was gaily decorated with fig leaves and other exotic fruit. The twine had been removed from her breasts and belly and the stuffings, swollen with the juices of her body, pushed out through the flesh. A delicious aroma emanated from her, at once sweet and lusty; Frank again felt his mouth fill, and suffered the agonizing wait as the prayer was intoned, until finally the carving could begin.
The woman’s meat trimmed cleanly from the bone; it was firm, and a dark ivory colored, with flecks of pink and yellow. Frank took a steaming slab from Joanne’s haunch, just below the buttock; as a tiny sliver of it melted on his tongue he could feel himself within her again, hear her laugh and say, “Have me…I’m yours!” She had become his, and him; Frank sighed with delight, dipped a little more of Joanne in the loquat compote before again teasing his palate with her.
Table manners were barely restrained; the two dozen or so Privilegeds emptied plate after plate, as the chef’s aides pared glistening meat from the unfortunate “special guest.” Formal wear got stained with human grease; guests discreetly belched and sheepishly apologized. Then, the chef himself arrived, to thunderous applause; he nodded, blushed, bowed as Frank stood and lifted a glass in his direction.
All in all, Frank thought as he disembarked, the eighth cruise was the most memorable, yet. There’d been plenty of entertainment during the two weeks, a magnificent feast at the close, and—he smiled, remembering Angela’s number in his wallet—a new friend. For at least another year.