Polly

I caught Polly by the drinking fountain, bending over with her pert rump nicely presented. Thanks to the current fashion of wearing short skirts with no underwear on barbecue day, it was an easy target. I just lifted the hem of her skirt and poked the tip of the spit into her plump pussy. One quick push and she was tagged.

"Ooh!" she said, starting to straighten up and then, "Ouch!" realising that this would be impossibly without hurting herself. She twisted round to look at me. "Jim?"

"Hi, Polly," I greeted her. "Nice day, huh?"

"Damn. Almost forgot it was Saturday. Guess I've been muffined, then?"

"Yup. You'll be squirming over the coals shortly, tits on a plate by teatime."

"Very funny. All very well for you," Polly grumbled. "Could you just take that thing out for a minute? I need to make a call and it's a bit awkward.."

"Promise not to run?" I asked. "It's too hot to go chasing you."

"Yeah, whatever." I slipped the spit out and Polly straightened up and produced a mobile phone from her shirt pocket. "Hi, Sam? Me."

I hoped this wouldn't take too long. Women have no sense of time when they're on the phone and it's tedious listening to half of an interminable conversation. "Don't take all day," I suggested.

Polly just grunted at me and carried on. "No, I mean yes, I suppose I will be going to the barbecue after all. Just not the way I expected. Yes, that's right....."

"Boyfriend?" I butted in. We might be stuck here for hours unless I got Tom and Jerry to just pick her up and carry her, still talking, to the picnic grounds. Then we'd have to remove her clothes and oil and skewer her while she babbled on. I had a vision of her still trying to talk as the spit emerged from her mouth.

In fact, it was only a couple of minutes. "No, just a friend," she said. "We were trying to decide earlier what to do this afternoon. I thought we might go swimming; Sam wanted to go to the barbecue. Guess she gets her way."

"Lucky Sam," I said, smiling.

"Better phone Dad as well," Polly went on. "He promised he'd be here when I graduated. I suppose this is as near as I'll get now. I hope he's not too busy...."

"Talk as you walk," I suggested, hefting the spit to suggest the alternative. Polly just nodded and complied. I walked slightly behind her, admiring her long, delicious legs. Her very short skirt hardly left an inch of them to the imagination. We'd certainly get some good steaks out of those beauties. What should I go for, calf or thigh? A bit of both? As I distracted myself thus pleasantly, the phone conversation ended. "How did it go?" I inquired solicitously.

Polly shrugged. "He says he'll try to make it."

"Well, let's hope," I said encouragingly. Privately, I rather hoped he didn't. It wasn't that I wanted Polly to be disappointed, but I didn't really like it when the relatives showed up. They often tended to make a fuss, or they expected to get all the best bits. I wished they weren't allowed in at all, but it was in the rules. Only students were allowed to attend the campus barbecues, except the muffin's immediate family, if she invited them. It was all part of the 'Muffin's Rights' section of the hunt rules, along with the one about choosing who got their juicy bits. "Not inviting your boyfriend?" I wondered. "Or will he be coming anyway?"

"We just split up," Polly said. "Well, actually, he dumped me, the bastard. If he thinks he's getting my prime cut now, he can think again."

WooHoo, good news. More chance for me. I kept a sober face, of course. "His loss," I said sincerely. "What sort of idiot would dump a grade A piece of girlflesh like you?"

Polly started to grin and then put on a stern face. "Not all men just see us as pieces of meat," she reproved me.

"Oh, come on," I said.

She couldn't keep it up. "Yeah, right. He just loved me for my mind." We both cracked up a bit. After the hilarity abated, she added "Serves the shithead right."

"Ultimate bad timing," I put in. "Won't he be cheesed off when he sees what he's missed out on?"

"Fuck, you're right," Polly realised. "I've GOT to invite him. I want to see the look on his face when I tell him somebody else is getting the prize."

By the time she'd done that, we were already at the picnic grounds. The usual crowd were there, including my girlfriend Megan. She was wearing one of those nearly transparent white bikinis that don't so much hide the essentials as package and display them. The bottom half had the words "Prime Filet, peel and eat" stenciled over her choice cut. She was such a tease. I'd muffined her a couple of weeks before and would have had her pussy already if Brenda hadn't volunteered and taken her place.

"Hi, Jim," she called out cheerily. "Hi, Polly. You the dish of the day?"

"Looks like it," Polly said. "It's this skirt. You only have to bend over and you're practically naked. I might as well have carried a sign saying 'Spit me'"

Of course, that was the whole point. Like wearing edible sunscreen oil, dressing like that on barbecue day gave the girls a thrill, a frisson of danger. It was tempting fate, and the obvious price was the real chance that fate, in this case represented by me, might get you.

"You could get a T-shirt printed," I said without thinking and then, "Well, not you exactly.." It was a thought. If we could get all the potential muffins to wear them it would save a lot of time. But then, wouldn't that take some of the fun out of the hunt?

"Where are Tom and Jerry?" Megan wondered as we walked over to the oiling pool. "Too hot for them?"

"Off hunting on their own. We decided to split up this time, cover more ground."

"What if you'd had to spit and carry?"

"That's what mobile phones are for." Some newly muffined girls refused to give their parole and had to be carried or dragged to the party. Some actually preferred to be skewered on the spot, though that was uncommon.

"Hi, Polly," Jill called. She never liked to miss the oiling. "Get 'em off and let's see the menu."

"Hi, Jill. I suppose you'll be helping prepare me?" Polly slipped her skirt down her legs and stepped out of it, then pulled her shirt off over her head. "Feast your eyes."

"Nice tits," Jill said appreciatively. "Can I have one?"

"Hey," I protested. "I saw her first."

"Now, now, children, no fighting over the food," Megan reproved.

Polly was certainly something worth fighting over. She had a fine figure, athletic without being too wiry, with smallish, firm, round breasts. "It's up to me, isn't it?" she asked me. I confirmed this. "I'll think about it then, if you don't mind." She stepped into the paddling pool.

The three of us started to rub the herb-infused cooking oil into her skin. "Will Julie be coming?" she asked.

"I very much doubt it, why?"

"She was my roommate last year. She always said she'd like one of my tits if I got cooked. Why isn't she coming?" Polly sounded slightly hurt.

"Because we ate her last week. You didn't know?"

"No, I was away for the weekend. I wondered why I hadn't heard from her lately. Well, that explains it. I was starting to think she'd gone off me."

"So who gets your little peaches, then?" Jill pressed. I could almost swear she was actually drooling.

"Jill," I warned.

"Sorry, but..." she shrugged as if to say who could blame me?

"Sam might want one. I'm not sure, I think she really prefers rump. Then there's my Dad, if he bothers to turn up on time. If he's late, he can just make do with whatever's left." He might not come at all, I suddenly thought, but I wasn't about to say it. Polly would never know, which was just as well. I didn't want to be the one who put that idea into her head. Fortunately, we were interrupted at that point by another arrival. "Oh, there you are. Speak of the Devil..."

The newcomer didn't look particularly fiendish. A slightly stocky, cheerful looking, dark haired girl in denim shorts replied, "Hi, Pol. Didn't think I'd miss this, did you?"

"Now you mention it, no. Hey, you were here last week, weren't you?" Sam nodded. "So why didn't you tell me Julie got munched?"

"Must have slipped my mind. I probably thought you knew. Mind if I join in?"

"Feel free."

It was a bit of a crowd, with four of us oiling Polly at once. She sat down with her arms and legs hanging over the side of the pool to give us more room to work. "How did you catch Julie, anyway?" she asked as I oiled her left arm.

"Chess, believe it or not," I said. "She wagered herself and I won."

"Wow. What did she get if SHE won? Must have been something special."

"Me," Megan said, working on a shapely foot. "If she won, I'd be roasted and she'd get my prime cut or whatever she wanted."

Polly looked surprised. "You volunteered to be the stake? I didn't realise you were such a gambler."

"It was a spur of the moment thing. We'd had a few drinks on Friday night and a couple of joints at my place after closing. Julie and I were talking about the last barbi where I nearly got roasted, and the conversation turned to which bits of me she'd have eaten if I had, and vice versa. I said if she ever got muffined I'd love to eat her pussy, she said she like to have mine, and it went on from there. We were both getting really hot thinking about it. Jim suggested the chess game and the mood was just crazy enough that we both agreed to it."

"Nice work," Polly said to me. "Either way, you win."

"My favourite kind of game," I replied unabashed. I'm a Muffin Hunter, a predator with rules. I'm in it to win.

"Why didn't Megan play Julie?"

"Because she can't play chess worth a damn and Julie was pretty good. She would have beaten Meg easily."

Meg nodded. "But Jim's better. I knew that."

"Ah, a SMART gambler. I see. Still, bit of a risk...."

"Like wearing a short skirt and no underwear on muffin Saturday?"

Polly laughed. "You've got me there."

It had been an interesting night....

The Four Sticks Interlude

There may be more interesting ways of spending an evening than playing chess to decide which of two tasty women would be roasted the next day, but I can't think of one at the moment. I don't suppose the game was of very high quality given the state of inebriation we were in, but it certainly wasn't boring. Meg knew the rules well enough to follow it at a distance, and enlivened the proceedings by adding a few of her own borrowed from strip poker. "He's taken your Bishop, you have to take your shirt off. She's recaptured your Knight, your turn, off with your trousers...."

Since it would have been unfair of her to impose these conditions without following suit (so to speak) Megan removed her own clothing according to rules of her own devising. Her shoes went at the first pawn capture, which was quite early because I was playing a Centre Game, and she was down to her panties by the first check. By the time the game ended, none of us had anything on.

"Checkmate, and muffined," I announced at last. It had not been easy. Megan had been in control of the stereo and, as if watching the girls strip hadn't been sufficient distraction, she had put Led Zep 4 on. It's a little-known fact that after a couple of joints of Afghan Black, the real killer track is not 'Stairway to Heaven' but 'Four Sticks'. After coming down from a brief but seemingly eternal flight through hyperspace, I managed to avoid Julie's last desperate Knight fork and pinned her down.

"Black Dog," she said.

"Again?" Megan.

"Gonna make me burn, gonna make me sting."

Well, she would when the spit went through her but there were other ways to do it.

"Let's fuck," Julie suggested.

"You and Jim? All three of us?" Megan.

"Why not? You're going to eat my pussy cooked tomorrow, why not try it raw?"

Well, Meg wasn't usually a carpet muncher, but it would be hard to resist an invitation like that. I certainly wasn't about to refuse. What followed was pretty wild, as was to be expected. It's not often you get to have sex with a girl you're going to eat tomorrow. Add to that the fact that she knew she was going to be eaten and you might get some idea. If Julie had ever had any inhibitions, she abandoned them without regret.

Don't get the idea that it was violent; it wasn't. We just did everything it was possible to do with each other before we collapsed from sheer exhaustion. I only remember it in flashes. Meg had programmed the stereo and we kept time with the music. One scene remains vivid in my memory for no particular reason. I had taken Julie from behind (no, not up the anus, get your mind out of the gutter) and Meg was nibbling her nipples in tune with 'The Yes-No Interlude' by Hatfield and the North. Julie's tight buttocks were pressed against my hips and belly, her vagina wrapped around my penis like a pulsating sheath and the three of us were riffing off the Hatfields' snappy changes of time signature. If you've never heard "The Rotter's Club" all I can say is you should. Any album that starts with a line like "Tadpoles keep screaming in my ears" has to be worth a listen, don't you think? No? Your loss.

"Sounds like you had fun," Polly said as we finished oiling her. She seemed to be having quite a good time herself. She didn't complain that she wouldn't be getting the same treatment. Obviously there wasn't a mean-spirited bone in her body, which was just as well as we'd be gnawing the meat off them shortly. Sorry, bit of cannibal humour there.

"We certainly did," Megan said. "It was interesting to compare the flavours when I ate her pussy cooked."

"We had a discussion about it later," I said as we escorted Polly to the spitting table. "Whether the muffin's pussy should be eaten cooked or raw. I was at a disadvantage because I've never had the prime cut."

"Poor you," Polly said sympathetically. "I'd have thought a muffin hunter...."

I shrugged. "They usually have someone else in mind. I can't complain, I've had just about everything else."

"I don't think I'd like to have mine chopped off before I got spitted," Polly mused as she got up on the table. Her pert rump looked good enough to me as I prepared to impale her. I wanted to bite it. "Wouldn't that make it hard to come on the spit when I'm cooking?"

"That's the ethical question," I said, nodding, as I positioned the spit. "I've always held to the view that the muffin has an unalienable right to enjoy the process, or at least to have the option to do so. Knees apart a bit, spread your buttocks. Thanks."

"Quite agree," Jill put in. "If I get muffined I want to go out on a high. Never really fancied being butchered first."

"Some would disagree," Megan said, playing Devil's advocate. Since she'd eaten Julie's filet she'd had a yen for trying girl sushi. This had enlivened our fantasy sex life no end. "Don't you ever think about having it BITTEN off?"

"Ouch," Polly said. "It's a thought, but if it's all the same to you I'll go the usual way."

The discussion was interrupted when Jerry arrived, escorting a naked dark-haired girl of apparently Asian extraction. Her skin looked a little damp.

"Hi, all," Jerry said. "Hope I'm not too late. This is Miko; I got her in the pool."

"Hi," Miko greeted us all with a small, diffident wave of the hand. Must be a bit shy, I thought.

"How?" I couldn't help wondering.

"I snorkelled," Jerry explained proudly. "Hid under the surface. Tagged her from behind as she was climbing out."

"Nice work," I conceded. "How did you get past the swimming costume?"

"She wasn't wearing one."

"Swimming naked on muffin day?" Polly commented. "Now I don't feel like quite such an idiot. Sorry, Miko, no offense."

Miko looked puzzled. "But girls aren't allowed costumes in the pool today. There was a sign..."

No swimming costumes on muffin Saturday? There was no such rule that I knew of. I looked at Jerry, who was smirking. "You did it."

"Yup. Made the sign myself."

Miko gave him an accusing stare. "It was a trick? You cheated!"

"Trick, yes; cheating? I don't think so," Jerry said, unperturbed. "Not my fault if people believe everything they read on an official-looking sign."

It was a fine point, but I was inclined to agree, though Miko still looked a bit miffed. "How many other girls were swimming in the raw?" I asked.

"All of them," Jerry said happily. "A couple of dozen at least. It was amazing, like one of those restaurants where you pick your own trout."

"So you picked me like a fish?" Miko looked as if she didn't quite know how to take that. "Or was I just the first one you got a good angle on?"

"Oh, I picked you all right," Jerry said. "I could have got Chrissie or Jen, or a couple of others I don't know the names of. Had to follow you around for ages before you gave me a target."

"Well.....okay, I suppose," Miko said, slightly mollified. Nobody wants to be second choice.

"That's why I'm a bit late," Jerry addressed the rest of us. "Not TOO late, I see."

By this I assumed he meant that Polly hadn't been spitted yet. "We've already got Polly prepped," I pointed out.

"There's no rule says it has to be the first catch," Jerry countered. "We didn't do Meg - hi, Meg - after Brenda volunteered."

He was right. We'd gone off half-cocked when we agreed to split up for the hunt and scant attention had been paid to what we would do if more than one of us scored. We really should have got this better organised. As Captain of the muffin hunter team it was technically my fault. I just hate it when that happens. I had to admit that Miko looked like good quality meat. A nicely developed swimmer's body with just enough muscle on it, neither too fat or too wiry. Pubic thatch, we'd have to shave her. Small tits with nice nipples. Good legs...

She caught me appraising her. "Seen enough?" she inquired archly.

"Enough to know you're a good catch," I said, "Fair point, Jerry," I admitted to the man in question. "She'd cook up a treat. Where's Tom?"

"Haven't a clue," Jerry shrugged. "Does it matter?"

When Jerry had been supposed to be standing in line for brains, he'd obviously gone for a leak and his sister had got them.

"It matters, idiot brother," Meg said with the exasperated patience of a sibling too long put upon, "Because if you can bring an extra, so can he."

"Who's an extra?" Miko objected, stung.

"Sorry, I didn't mean it like that......."

This was getting out of hand. "It means if Tom turns up with a catch we'll have a three-way contest," I said. "I suppose we'd better get Eddie the Nerd to set up a poll again. He did the program last time; it shouldn't take him long to modify it for three, just in case."

"Already done," said the man in question from just behind my right shoulder. "Five minute job."

"Well, that's it, I suppose. We'll just have to see what Tom comes up with."

"How long?" Jill wondered. "We can't hang around all day on the off chance he'll come up with something. We need to get somebody over the coals and roasting before we all die of hunger."

Another good point. We really must have had too many beers last night. "Okay, get Miko prepped. If he's not here by the time she's ready, we'll start without him. We'll poll with two and if the spit's in before he arrives, that's it."

Miko looked doubtful - the odds would be better for her with three - but obviously couldn't think of any reasonable objection. Nobody else seemed inclined to argue. "Does that mean I have to get shaved whether I'm picked or not?"

"'Fraid so," I told her. "We can't waste too much more time."

"I suppose so..." she looked a bit nervous.

"Don't worry," Jill said reassuringly. "I'm good with a razor, I won't nick you."

"I've always fancied trying the bare look," Miko admitted as we led her to the preparation area. "I've just never had the nerve. Razors....." she shuddered.

Jill got her to lie on a bench and spread her legs while she produced a shaving kit from somewhere. "Close your eyes if it helps," she suggested. Miko gripped the sides of the bench as if afraid of falling off, held herself rigid and presumably gritted her teeth as well. Apart from the occasional stifled squeak, she kept quiet throughout the proceedings. It didn't take long.

"There, all done," Jill said, wiping down Miko's newly shaven loins with a damp cloth. "Wasn't so terrible after all, was it?"

Miko sat up and looked down at herself. "Bloody hell," she uttered. "No. I mean...."

"Just like going to the dentist," Jill went on. "It's never as bad as you think it's going to be."

"And I didn't have to sit in a waiting room pretending to read last year's Sunday supplements, listening to the whining of the drill and waiting in dread for my name to be called..."

"That's the spirit," Jill approved. "Now we'll oil you up, and..."

"All I have to worry about is having a spit shoved up my cunt and being roasted alive?"

"Always look on the bright side," Jill advised cheerily.

"If you say so," Miko allowed, stepping into the paddling pool.

"Don't fancy being cooked and eaten, then?"

"Not too keen, to be honest, no offence. I mean, if I've got to, fair enough, but there are other things I could be doing on a Saturday afternoon. Oh well..."

"Okay if I join in?" Polly asked. She had climbed down off the spitting table and come to watch her rival getting ready. "Won't matter if I get any more cooking oil on me and I didn't fancy just kneeling there on my own for half an hour. My knees were getting sore."

"Feel free," Miko said graciously. "Might as well enjoy ourselves while we can." Polly joined her in the pool and the two girls engaged in a spot of mutual marinading, enthusiastically assisted by Jill. "Why don't you strip off and join us?" Miko suggested after a couple of minutes. Jill was considering this when the two girls tugged her into the pool and pulled off her bikini, accompanied by a lot of squeaks and giggles. Inevitably, they all lost their balance and subsided into a slippery, wriggling heap of oily girlflesh.

"Is there anything more charming than muffins at play?" Jerry mused in a doubtless aesthetic reverie..

I couldn't argue with that. It was quite a spectacle. Most of the usual crowd had gathered to watch, call encouragements and assess the menu.

"Jill looks quite at home in there," Megan mused. "I wonder...." she glanced at me mischievously.

It was a thought. Now she was bare in the target area, I could tag her too while she was distracted. Was that allowed in the picnic area? "I'm not sure," I muttered, glancing around to see where I'd left my spit. I could tag her first and argue about the rules later. Jill was a good sport, if I was out of order she wouldn't hold a grudge.

"Now that looks like a party!" Tom exclaimed, turning up at last. He indicated his companion, a smallish, athletic redhead in a leotard. She was barefoot. "Sorry I'm late. This is Hermione, by the way."

"Oh, so you did get one," I greeted him. "Not bad at all. Hello, Hermione, I'm Jim."

"Hi, Jim." the new girl said shaking my offered hand. "I'm, ah, not really sure...." she glanced at Tom, looking uncertain.

"Er, look, Jim...." Tom started awkwardly.

"No time, sorry. Better get her peeled and into the pool," I told Tom impatiently. "We were about to start without you. How did you tag her, anyway?" To Hermione, "Turn around please, I'll unzip you. Does it come off like that?"

"Wha...?" The girl seemed confused, going along automatically as I half-turned her with a hand on her shoulder and started to strip her. "Is this some kind of initiation thing?"

"We'll oil you in the pool with the others and hold a poll with three," I explained as I tugged the zip down to her coccyx. "Winner gets roasted." Hadn't Tom told her the whole story? Never mind. Even in haste I couldn't help admiring the shapely, feminine lines of her shoulders and back. "Lovely..."

"Poll? Me? Hey!" Hermione sputtered, starting belatedly to resist, "I'm not...I thought...Tom?"

"Er, Jim," Tom began again reluctantly, looking embarrassed. "Hang on a minute. She's not game."

"What?" I paused at last.

"I didn't manage to muffin her. I tried to get her in the gym changing rooms but I missed and she caught me out. Longish story. I explained and, well...."

"I was kinda shocked at first," Hermione explained, relieved to be off the hook, so to speak. "Then I thought, what the hey, you know, when in Rome.."

"You're American." I said. "Or Canadian? We British never can tell; it really annoys the Canucks."

"American," Hermione confirmed. "Exchange student."

"So you decided to come along and view our quaint native customs," I said, grinning to show it wasn't a gibe.

Hermione shrugged, almost popping out of her half-opened costume. "Something like that. It sounded..ah..interesting. Tom invited me; he said there wasn't time for him to catch anybody else anyway. Is that okay?"

"Sure, why not? Here, let me - " I zipped her up again, "Sorry about that. I just assumed..."

"Hey, no harm, no foul," Hermione said easily. "Anybody can make a mistake. For a half second there, I thought your pal Tom set me up."

Tom started to look righteously indignant, then he realised how it must have looked from the girl's point of view. He gave her a wry smile. "We don't do it that way," he said mildly. "Against the rules."

"Not cricket, eh?" Hermione smiled.

By now, Miko had had about as much oiling as she needed and Jill hardly less. No time to have another go at tagging her, unfortunately. Well, another time.

"Okay, Eddie, I said, "Start polling. Let's make this quick, people. You've all seen what's on offer, so..."

The scrum began to organise itself. Meg and Sam reappeared from the beer tent with extra drinks for me and Polly. Jerry went to get one for Miko, Tom for Hermione.

"You look yummy," Sam told Polly admiringly. "I hope I'll look half as good if they get me."

"Thanks. Oh, I've been meaning to ask you. Want a tit?" She cupped her right breast. "I'm supposed to decide who gets my best bits so I thought I'd ask you first."

"Wow, I'm honoured. Yes, why not? I usually go for rump but since it's you..."

"Hi folks," I butted in. "This is Hermione." A round of mutual introductions ensued.

The American girl seemed a little taken aback at being formally introduced to both the potential muffins. "So you're just waiting to see which one of you.....?" Words failed her.

"Gets munched," Miko supplied helpfully..

"And it doesn't.....?" another fadeout.

"Bother us?" Miko suggested. "No use worrying about it, I suppose." She ran her fingers over her smooth pubis, unselfconscious of her nudity.

"You look great shaved," Polly told her.

"Thanks. I think I like it. Not so happy about the next bit," she added for Hermione's benefit, "But if you've got to go..."

"Oh bugger," I heard Eddie the Nerd say. I didn't like the sound of that. He was tapping keys on his portable computer to no effect. I looked closer. The screen was completely blank.

"What's wrong?"

"Kit's flatlined. Battery, I think."

"So the poll...."

"Better get a hat."

"Oh, never mind all that," Polly said. "Do me."

"Are you sure?" I asked despite myself.

"Yup. Grab the spit and let's get going."

"Well, if you insist," I said, smiling.

"Hey, wait a minute," Jerry protested. "What about Miko? Doesn't she get a look in?"

"Oh, don't mind me," Miko said offhandedly. "I'm only here for the beer." She took a pull from her pint to underline the point. "Go for it, Pol!"

Jerry wasn't persuaded. "That's not fair. When Brenda volunteered we still had a poll, even though Meg didn't want to do it." Obviously he wanted his shot at Miko's filet.

"True," Meg admitted. "I'm inclined to go with Polly myself, but he does have a point."

I couldn't dispute it, but time was wasting. "Okay, look, we'll have a show of hands. Listen everybody. Hello? HELLO?" I waited until I'd got everybody's attention. "The computer's bust. It'll take time to do another poll. Polly says we can go ahead and roast her now. Who wants to do that?"

A few hands shot up, and then a few more. "Come on, guys," Polly exhorted. "Show a little enthusiasm." She struck a hipshot pose and ran her hands down her flanks lasciviously. "Who wants to EAT me?"

More hands shot up, and there was a general rhubarb consisting mostly of "Yeah, roast her, get some meat on, good on yer, Pol," etc. A few graduates of the football stadium started a chant of "POLL-Y, POLL-Y, POLL-Y."

"The mob has spoken," I concluded. "Lets get on with it."

"Whew," Miko said, mopping imaginary sweat from her brow. "Get me another one, Jerry," she added, handing him her empty glass. "And one more for the Yank. Looks like she'll need it."

"What brought that on, Pol?" I wondered as we walked over to the spitting table. "Not that I'm complaining, of course, and very nice performance..."

"I dunno, I suppose I just got into mood somewhere between getting tagged and getting through the second oiling. I just feel," she struggled for adequate words, "I don't know, ripe, delicious, like I NEED to be eaten."

True Muffinhood. It's a wonderful thing to see. Some are born, some are made, some have it thrust upon them etc. I'm sure you've all read the comic book based on Shakespeare's Julius Caesar, I'm still sorry that Lee and Kirby didn't do it. Polly had achieved it in her own way and I had helped her. It was a poignant moment and I had a thrill of pride that I'd helped bring this about. We all reacted to this satori in our own ways. "Up on the table" was mine.

"I'm still waiting for that famous British reserve to kick in," Hermione commented. "You know, I was gonna say something stupid like you speak really good English for a Japanese. I mean, Miko? Short for Mariko?"

"Yup. Mum's idea. She's Japanese. Dad was going for Jane, after Austen. He's Anglo-Chinese, from Hong Kong."

"So...you're, what, ah..."

"British. From Derbyshire. We speaky passable Inglese there," Miko's accent became more regional than RP, "Though there's them as'd say otherwise. Velly Solly. No, just kidding. Not been here long?"

"Fresh off the airplane Tuesday," Hermione admitted. "Still getting my sea legs."

Pushing the pole into Polly was fun, I admit. I never get tired of it. She was so juicy by then that it almost splashed as it went in. Don't think for a moment, though, that I allowed this to distract me from my craft. Spitting a girl isn't a job for any Tom, Dick or Harry. (Well, maybe Tom after a bit more practice, but I digress.) All those valuable girl essences mustn't be wasted and there's an art to making sure nothing is lost. The rate of progress of the spitting implement, the choice of materials, the subtle use of rotation...I could write a paper on it. Not that anything substitutes for genuine talent, experience and passion. Did Van Gogh paint by numbers? Every performance is a work of art, unique. You have to feel the muffin's experience from the vibrations in the pole through your fingertips and react to it. If your subject is responsive, you achieve a rapport with her as you guide her to her final communion.

"Oh, fuck," Polly gasped as I prepared to break through.

I gave the pole a bit of a tweak. Had I forgotten something? "Um, Pol?"

"What?"

"Sorry, but I forgot. Who gets your pussy? Your ex-boyfriend isn't coming and your Dad isn't here yet...."

"Bugger him. He never turns up on time. Sports day, my piano recital, it's been the story of my life."

"Sorry to hear that. So...?" Fingers crossed, figuratively speaking....

"Do a good job spitting me and you can have it."

Ignoring some boorish cries of 'get on with it' from what the Americans call the peanut gallery, I asked, "How will we know? You won't be able to talk when I'm done."

"I'll stick my right thumb up while my hands are being lashed to the pole. If I don't, you can raffle it."

"Fair enough," I said. "And thanks." Well, no pressure, then. All I had to do was give Polly a good poking and the ultimate prize would be mine at last. Of course, I would have done my best for her anyway, it was a matter of pride in my craft, but I could hardly blame Polly for her concern. She wouldn't be getting a second try. I remembered Aleister Crowley's maxim about working 'without lust of result'. Don't think about the prize, just concentrate on the Great Work itself. I closed my eyes and went into that state of total concentration essential to a perfect performance.

Megan slipped her hand down the waistband of my jeans and fondled my wedding tackle. Did I falter? I did not. Not even when her familiar hand gave my balls a friendly squeeze. I just penetrated Polly's cervix and worked my tool forward through her slippery innards, instinctively avoiding anything too vital.

I heard Hermione say "Oh. My. God." I could hear the capitals. "He's really doing it."

"He surely is," Megan said. "Behold the Master at work."

I could have crowed with pride at this, but I didn't. The Work was all. I felt Polly push back and wriggle a little and played into her movement.

"I'm just not used to this," Hermione admitted. "Where I come from, girls in too short skirts are kinda frowned on. Unless it's a football game and they're cheerleaders."

"Autres temps, autres moeurs," Megan said.

"Isn't that French?" Hermione asked. "Other times....?"

"Well, different time zone. The past is another country. Equivalence of space and time. Whatever." She was still feeling me up and a bit distracted.

"Which means I'm not in Kansas any more?" Hermione twigged.

"Got it in one, Dorothy. I'm sure there's a pithier phrase in Latin - there always is - but I can't recall it at the mo."

"On the tip of your tongue?"

"As Polly's pussy will be on Jim's shortly," Megan quipped.

Although I couldn't see it from my vantage, I knew when the tip of the spit came out of Polly's mouth from the decreasing resistance and the general feel of things. When you've spitted a few girls, you just get the hang of it. It's like the sporting types say, you know when you've hit a good ball or shot a good arrow before it hits. This had been a good one. I just hoped Polly thought so too. "Down on the table, Pol," I said. Obediently, she slipped down, straightening her arms and legs so we could tie her hands and feet to the crosspieces we slid onto the spit and tightened with screws. Jill took the front while I stayed at the back, carefully lashing her shapely ankles with the treated leather straps. I kept my attention on the job, not looking to see if she had given the signal until I was finished.

"Congratulation, Jim," Jill said. I looked up and, sure enough, Polly's right thumb was up. Restraining myself from punching the air I took a minute to walk round the table and look her in the eye.

"Thanks, Pol," I said. She winked at me. "I hope you enjoy the next part as much as I'm going to enjoy eating you." To the rest of the crew, I added briskly, "Right, lets get her on to roast while she's still lively." I gave Polly a friendly pat on the rump as I moved back to my position as the rear end carrier.

The rest went like the well-practiced routine it was. Over to the firepit, up onto the brackets, slide the assembly over the coals, start the roast turning. My job was over; now she was in the hands of the cooks.

"Congratulations," Megan said. "All those weeks of dedication to muffin hunting and you've got your prime filet at last. Virtue rewarded. And a good one to boot. Not that you wouldn't have been fine too," she said to Miko.

Miko acknowledged the routine courtesy with a nod. "Not exactly Morris dancing, is it?" she commented drily to Hermione who was watching Polly turn and writhe on the spit with something like awe on her face.

"Still taking it in," Hermione said. "That could have been me up there...."

"If I hadn't mistimed the catch," Tom put in, handing her another drink. "Maybe another time...."

Hermione didn't answer that, but I saw her toes curl a little on the grass.

"I hope I'm not too late", another voice chimed in behind us. It seemed to be the theme of the day.

"Why should you be any different?" I said, turning to meet the newcomer. I hadn't recognised the voice. An good looking older man, maybe forty-something, dressed in the kind of casual summer clothes - slacks and shirt with sleeves rolled up and neck open - that somehow told you they didn't come cheap. That, the immaculately groomed hair and the too-even tan - salon or Bermuda? - said money. Oh, and the man in uniform standing to one side and slightly behind him clutching a crate of something and sweating bullets.

"My driver," the newcomer said, catching the look. "Where's the beer tent? I assume there is one? I thought I should bring something."

"Over there," I said, pointing, and the minion staggered off. "And you would be, let me guess..." I glanced back at the spit. It didn't take a Holmesian intellect to work it out.

He nodded. "Polly's father, yes. Gareth Harper." He looked at the body turning on the spit again. "That really is her, then? I half expected this to be one of her pranks."

"That's her, all right," I told him. "Caught and spitted her myself." He'd find out sooner or later and if there was going to be a confrontation we might as well get it over with now.

Gareth just smiled and shook his head. "That's my Polly," he said mildly, "Always getting herself into scrapes. Loves the attention. Well, it looks like she's overdone it this time."

"Oh, I don't know," I said. I just couldn't help it. "You did turn up this time." Gareth raised an eyebrow at that but didn't comment, so I added, "You might want to move to the front where she can see you. She's still alive and might like to know that you're here."

He did as I'd suggested and even offered a tentative wave, as if wondering if that was striking quite the right note. Well, it's hard to know what the appropriate gesture is at times like this. Father-daughter relationships can be difficult at the best of times and Polly was in no position to hold a normal conversation. I did detect an eye movement and what might have been a wink or a blink, so at least it seemed that she saw him. That would have to do.

"Did she say anything about her...um...what do you call it?" Gareth actually looked almost embarrassed to be asking.

"Her prime cut?" I suggested tactfully. He nodded. "Sorry, I get that." I thought it best to leave out Polly's 'bugger him' and the stuff about his always being late. No point rubbing salt into the wound at this point.

He shrugged slightly, accepting it with good grace. "Oh well, only fair I suppose. Good job I've got three more daughters, then." That came with a grin that left it open whether he was joking or not. I gave a rather wry grin back and he added contritely, "Sorry, I know I shouldn't be joking about it."

"Oh, don't worry about it," I said. He wasn't going to win any 'Father of the Year' competions, but who was I to point the finger? I'd had a go at my own dear girlfriend not so long ago. Besides, Dads who strenously object to having their daughters roasted can be a bit of a wet blanket at a barbecue party. "Have a beer. If it helps, Pol got quite into it in the end."

In fact, it wasn't quite the end and Polly was still getting into it quite impressively. I hoped somebody with a vidcam was recording it. We could do a retrospective in the college e-mag. Best performance by a spit muffin, roaster of the year. The possibilities were endless.

"Aren't you going to introduce us?" Miko asked archly.

"Miko, Gareth. Gareth, Miko. Now you're introduced. Polly's Old Man," I added.

"Got that," Miko said. No flies on her, as the saying goes.

It seemed that Gareth was a bit taken by Miko's outfit, which consisted of a coat of herbal cooking oil and nothing else. "Um..." he managed.

"Muffin understudy reporting, Sir," Miko said with a briefly sketched mock salute. "If the fruit of your loins hadn't upstaged me I might be twisting on the spit even now."

"And very nicely you'd have done it too," I added gallantly, but they ignored me. Oh well. It seemed that Miko preferred her boyfriends mature, which was bad news for Jerry on more than one level. I was sure he'd have liked to get into Miko's pants. If she had any on, that is. Well, you know what I mean. I left them chatting each other up, Miko explaining exactly how Polly had 'upstaged' her.

It's amazing how a good barbecue party stimulates the libidos of both sexes. Watching a woman being roasted alive affects us in different ways, I suppose. The last, ultimate orgasm, the observation of mortality stimulating the reproductive response, etc. What the fuck, it's a bloody good spectacle and they taste great too. I'd had a beer or two and I was about to eat Polly's pussy; I wasn't about to ruin it by getting too philosophical, unless it impressed the chicks. Speaking of which:

"Fancy a shag, after?" somebody said in a passable imitation of an English accent. "That is how you say it, isn't it?" Hermione added.

I must admit she'd taken me by surprise. "Pretty close for a furriner," I said, "Love to. But..." Um, what to say? It might be nice. Would Meg go for another threesome when the other girl wasn't about to be on the menu the next day? I'd have to ask her.

"Ah, sorry, forgot. You and Megan are an item, right?"

"Well..."

"S' okay, my bad."

"Fancy a shag, after?" Jill said, putting an arm around Hermione's shoulders. As usual, she had just barged into the scene clutching a beer, oblivious to the social niceties. "Oh, sorry," she added archly, adopting the kind of English accent only Americans assume we all use, "I DO hope I'm not intruding....?"

"Hell, why not?" Hermione replied. Drat, missed the boat on that one.

"Great. Eating people always makes me horny," Jill said. Catching my raised eyebrow, she added, "Okay, even hornier than usual. Wow, she's still going well, isn't she?"

Indeed, Polly was giving the pole a lot of action considering her limited range of movement. Giving her all, you might say. The last dance.

"They say a woman's final orgasm when she's being roasted alive seems to last forever," Jill told Hermione. I recognised the quote, or something like it, from previous barbecues, obviously Jill was happy to find a new audience for it. As a chat up line it might appeal to a certain type of person.

"Well, the rest of her life, anyway," I said. "Which won't be much longer, I think." From experience, I could sense that the end was in sight.

"Maybe for her it does last forever," Hermione mused. "Eternity in a hour, like Blake said."

"Thar she blows!" Jill exclaimed as Polly went into her final convulsion, stiffened and then went limp.

Philosophy aside, Hermione couldn't help breathing "Oh my God, she's..."

"Meat," Jill said with a relish not even Homer Simpson could match while saying 'Beeeeerr..", not quite smacking her lips.

And indeed she was. Pretty Polly was now meat on a stick, shish-kebab but shapelier, a cocktail sausage on a toothpick with tits. Dead as the proverbial parrot. I'm aiming arrows at the moon here and missing by about a quarter of a million miles minus whatever number of yards it is that you can shoot an arrow. It's hard to put into words.

There's a bit in The Wind in the Willows where Ratty says that there is just NOTHING like messing about in boats. It's true. Or I assume it is, I don't mess about in boats that often though I quite enjoy it when I do. The point is that when Kenneth Grahame makes Ratty say that, you believe it. It IS true. You can hardly wait to do it yourself. In fact, you'd sell your own grandmother on e-bay just to have half a chance at it if you could.

There is nothing like watching a young woman roasting and knowing that you got her there and you're going to eat her.

Maybe, for potential muffins, there is nothing like watching a young woman roasting and knowing that you might BE her.

"Meat," Hermione echoed.

I could say the rest of the afternoon went by in a flash, but it didn't quite. It's just that there's not much to say about it, it was just another barbecue party and you know how that goes. We all drank slightly too much, but the heat of the day burned it off somehow. It's funny how daytime drinking outdoors works. You seem to get drunk far too quickly at first but then you level out, get your second wind, pace yourself, whatever. You drift through the day in a congenial daze, topping up occasionally. People have rambling discussions, fall out, fall in love, fall into the bushes and have it off as if nobody else was there, stuff like that. Nothing that happens really surprises you because you know it's like all that stuff in Midsummer Night's Dream. Play by a bloke called Shakespeare, in case you wondered. Maybe it's an English thing. When it gets hot we revert to pagan sun worshippers or visitors to Elfland. Away with the fairies. I was having a hit on a joint offered to me by a bloke called Ben or Ken when Hermione reappeared. I didn't know where she'd been or done and I didn't ask because one doesn't. Besides, one doesn't give a toss and one might not want to make the effort to understand the answer.

"Good grass," I said, passing the joint back to Len. I wanted another beer. One of the nice things about Gareth (Polly's progenitor in case you'd forgotten) was that the beer he'd brought was really good stuff. There are philistines who would say that beer and dope don't mix. Well, not so much philistines as wimps. Maybe both. Maybe all they've ever had was boot polish, banana skins and Budweiser.

The beer was Timothy Tailors. Need I say more? Brewed in Yorkshire and the Gods just wish nectar tasted like that. The grass was British grown and, let me tell you, home grown grass is better than all the Temple Balls in Tibet. Any minute now, three choruses of 'Jerusalem', yes, I know. I suppose I should be a bit more coherent. Well, while all this was going on, Polly had been lowered on the poles to get her really cooking after she kicked off and she was getting close to done. Whether we knew it or not, all of us had smelled her cooking. Some of us had eyes stinging from the smoke or maybe sneezed at it.

"What are those?" Hermione asked me. "Miko wouldn't say, she just laughed." She pointed.

I looked where she pointed. There were creatures from another world in outlandish costumes performing a ritual from outside Time and Space as we know it, Jim.

Morris Dancers. Bloody perfect. If there's anything more incomprehensible to foreigners than the rules of cricket, it's them. "They're Morris Dancers," I said. Where the hell had they come from?

"Oh. I guess that's what Miko meant earlier. Some kind of old British folk tradition, right? What's it about? Or shouldn't I ask?"

No, you shouldn't. Oh well. "There's an ancient British proverb that says 'Never try to explain cricket or Morris dancing to an American when you're stoned, little grasshopper'," I said.

"Which you just made up," Hermione retorted, grinning. "Which means you don't know or you're trying to get a rise out of me."

"Not sure myself at this point," I admitted. "Some say it's an ancient pagan ritual, some say it's just an excuse to have a laugh and then get pissed. Shit faced, as you colonials say."

"And what do you think?"

What did I think? Buggered if I knew. "I think it's all three," I heard coming out of my mouth. In the manner of the truly stoned I heard myself say it and then thought 'Hang on a minute, think about it. That's right'.

"Three? I counted...um..."

"Pass her the joint, Den. Three are our weapons. Surprise...."

It went on like this for quite a bit. I'll skip the stuff about temporal relativity this time. If you haven't got the idea by now you're never going to. Fast forward to the bit where the Morris dancers have mysteriously disappeared and Hermione and I are sitting on the grass smoking a joint with whoever and trying to listen to 'See My Way' by Blodwyn Pig which somebody was playing on a portable music playing digital thingummy somewhere I could almost hear it while wondering whether Hermione might fancy ditching Jill and doing the dance with me and Meg instead.

I've done the 'speak of the Devil' bit already, haven't I? Yes, Meg turned up, with Jill. No Uncle Tom Cobley and all.

"Polly's done," Megan, my familiar, demon lover and almost former meal informed me. "Come and EAT." Yes, she did say that in capital letters.

I think she was trying for a tone of ghoulish relish in the Hammer horror mode, but it's not quite the same coming from a pretty girl in a bikini as it is from Christopher Lee or a hunchbacked gnome called Igor.

When we got to the serving area, Polly had already been removed from the pit and laid out on a long trencher on a table. Her feet had been untied and the spit pole was being extracted the standard way, out through her mouth. We watched as the length between her legs magically shortened and disappeared inside her, to slip out at the other end with a small sucking noise. There she lay, one roasted young woman, deep golden brown and glistening from the barbecue glaze added to the basting during the last stages of her cooking. Magnificent. I'm going to go all Ratty messing about in boats again. I know I said "There is nothing like watching a young woman roasting and knowing that you got her there and you're going to eat her," and that's right, but it's also true that there's also nothing like seeing a roasted young woman on a platter and knowing that you got her there and you're going to eat her very SOON. The sooner the better as I had a serious case of the munchies. Stands still the clock at half past three? And are there muffins yet for tea? May I wax rhapsodic? Yes? Thank you, I will. Polly had passed her final muffin exam with flying colours. Not so much dead as transsubstantiated, if you get the drift and I spelled that right. Not ugly duckling into swan since she was good looking to begin with, but...

"Yum," Jill said succintly. "Who gets her other tit?"

Trust her to think of that. She was right, though, now I recalled it. Polly had awarded one to Sam but, in the general rush and the excitement, it had passed everyone's notice that she hadn't allocated the other. I'd got my filet and hadn't thought beyond it. "I suppose her father could have it," I suggested. "After all, he did turn up at last."

Jill snorted. "Yeah, eventually. Why not me? I asked first."

She had a point, in that she could make as good a claim as him or anybody else. I sighed. "Better get a hat," I said. "Take the names of anyone who wants it and have a draw. Make it quick if you don't want yours cold."

Jill grumbled a bit but got onto it. I continued to admire the sheer beauty that was Polly done to a turn. The cooks liked to allow a little time for the meat to 'rest' before carving, which gave the rest of us revellers time to enjoy the sight of it.

"This is going to sound kinda weird, but she looks sort of...." Hermione trailed off.

"Delicious?" I suggested. "Beautiful?" I did hope she wasn't going to say 'peaceful'.

"Yeah, all of that too, but I was thinking more like....I don't know...completed? Like this is how she was meant to be and now she's perfect. Do I sound crazy to you? 'Cause I do to me."

"No, I know what you mean. It's hard to put into words, so I usually don't. Almost a shame to carve her up, do you think?" I raised an eyebrow. Testing? Who, me?

"No, no, that's right too. It's what has to happen. She's got to be eaten or it's all wrong."

I nodded. "You're right, of course. Are you staying to eat?"

Hermione nodded too, rather briskly as if a little nervous. "Yeah. I think I have to or I shouldn't be here at all, you know?"

"But you haven't done this before so you're feeling a bit funny about it?"

Another jerky nod. "A lot 'funny'. Okay, she's dead, it's just meat, right. But she's still a person too, to me, even if she's gone. It's not just eating people, it's eating Polly." She shrugged. "I knew her for, what, five minutes? It's still different. I think I know what Miko meant now."

"About....?" Oh, right.

"Morris dancing. I mean, that's weird, but this is..."

"Something else?"

"Right."

"Scared?"

Hermione looked at me. "Yeah. And excited. But you knew that too, didn't you? Been there, done that..."

"Too mean to buy the T-shirt. Yes. It gets everybody like that the first time, unless they've got no imagination at all. It's a bit different for women because sometimes they're thinking 'that could have been me' but a lot of it's the same."

Everyone reacted to the viewing in their own way. Gareth stared at his roasted daughter with something like awe as if she'd turned into a mermaid or a butterfly. Not many fathers expect their daughters to grow up to be a spit roast. Did some vestige of paternal instinct nag him that he must have failed her somewhere? Was he wondering whether she'd have been better off with a career in nursing or just trying to decide which part of her to eat? Buggered if I knew or, frankly cared that much.

Miko regarded the spectacle with undisguised admiration. "Doesn't she look great? I mean really, really great. It's like she was born for this. Okay, I know that's silly, sorry Gareth." Gareth just shook his head in absent dismissal, obviously still entranced.

"Doesn't it faze you at all?" Hermione asked Miko, who in fact seemed completely unbothered by the sight of Polly's lifeless body. Quite the opposite.

"No," Miko said. She shrugged slightly in token apology for not feeling sorry. "I know it should but it doesn't. You know how people say 'there but for the grace of God', not that I'm religious, or 'that could have been me'? Well," she waved a hand down her naked and still oily body, "It really could. It nearly was. If I'd 'won' the poll, if Polly hadn't been caught, it would have been. It's like I've taken my chance, paid my dues, gambled and won, something like that, so I don't have to feel guilty, if that makes any sense. I'm just glad to be alive. Besides, I hate to say this 'cause it's such a cliche, but...." she spread her hands.

"She wanted it like this," I finished for her.

She nodded. "Well, she did. And she looks better than I would have."

Was she fishing for compliments? This is always a touchy area with women. Meg hadn't wanted to be roasted but she had wanted to think that I'd have preferred her flesh to the girl who did end up on plates. There should be a rule book. When women ask 'Does my bum look big in this?' we should be allowed to say 'yes' without being sulked at for a week.

"We'll judge that if we catch you again," I improvised.

Miko smiled mischievously. "You won't get away with the pool trick next time."

Hermione shook her head. "You Brits are crazy." She turned to the table where the cooks were starting to carve Polly up. "Oh...."

Polly's breasts were the first parts to go. They were sliced off very carefully, to preserve their shape for presentation, and slipped onto plates already garnished with fresh herbs of the sort the cooks deemed best suited to this particular cut of a woman's body. One of the plates was presented to Sam, to whom Polly had awarded this prize. Sam accepted it with becoming reverence.

"I always thought Polly had great tits," she commented. "Wished I had a pair like hers. Well, now I've got one of them. Cheers, Pol." She lifted the plate in salute and went in search of a knife and fork. Possibly a bottle of beer to wash it down with.

The other one was set aside for whoever won the draw Jill was supposed to be organising. I was just waiting for my own prize, but I thought I should play the gracious host for Hermione's benefit. "See anything you fancy?" I asked politely.

"Gee, I dunno, it all looks good," she said with a brave attempt at dry irony. She looked more than a little shaken. "Aren't you supposed to ask 'leg or breast'?"

"Polly wasn't chicken," Megan quipped. "Looking forward to your cunt steak?" she teased me.

"I've heard it's good," I replied mildly. From you, lots of times, went without saying. Was I quivering with anticipation? Just a bit.

The cooks were still deconstructing Polly. Some people like meat still on the bone, so her legs were being sectioned with an electric saw. They cut off her hands and feet first. Some people like fingers and toes, too. They chew the joints with relish. Who was I to argue with them? Chacun a son gout or whatever. I was about to eat a gentle lady's genitals. Oh, is that a bad thing? Too 'gross'? There are people in Scotland who still think haggis is fit for human consumption. I'm not about to disagree with them, you understand. If you prefer boiled sheep offal with oats to human flesh, that's up to you and I'll defend your right to choice as long as it doesn't cost me anything. Martyr for a cause? Fuck that for a game of soldiers. I wanted my filet. It would have been nice to have eaten Megan's. It would have been nice to have fucked Polly before I ate her. Maybe that would have added something to the experience but, do you see, I was in the moment. No regrets or might-have-beens. I had achieved the Holy Grail.

Jill reappeared empty-handed.

"No luck, then?" Megan inquired.

"Not this time," Jill said with an offhanded shrug. "There's always another day. Anyway, there's lots of good stuff left. Decided what you want yet?" she asked Hermione.

"Not really. Why don't you pick something out for me?"

"Shoulder, brisket, flank...?"

"She has no idea," I put in. "Do what the lady says and get her something to eat."

"They say when you eat another woman's flesh, the desire to become meat yourself grows in you," Jill continued with mock ghoulish relish.

"Stop teasing her, Jill. It obviously didn't work on you."

"And if you get the filet, you're going to be muffined very soon," Jill went on, giving Megan a look.

"You wish," Megan retorted, though she did glance down at the "Prime Filet" stencil on her bikini briefs. The fact that she'd only started wearing that after eating Julie's wasn't lost on anybody.

"What, kinda like catching the bridal bouquet means you get married next?" Hermione riposted. "You're yanking my chain, right?"

"Pretty much," I agreed. "Some people do say these things, but people say a lot of rubbish at times. Don't worry about it."

"You're just miffed because you haven't eaten mine yet," Meg said, perversely changing sides.

"Miffed, moi? How could I be when I'm going to have Polly's? Come on, let's eat."

In due course we all got something on our plates and dug in. I was too busy concentrating on mine to pay much attention to the others for a while. What I got was the prime platter, a thick, juicy steak from Polly's upper thigh, still on the bone and medium rare in the middle, with her filet on top of it. I decided to take the edge off my appetite with a few good bites of the best leg meat. Connoisseurs claim that the cut from the top of the leg, just next to the filet itself, is the premium quality piece. It is traditionally served to the winner of the main prize, as the filet itself isn't very filling.

The steak was superb. I've always liked thigh steak and this was possibly the best one I'd ever had. Of course, that may have been my imagination working on the context. There's more to fine dining than just what's on the plate, as every gourmet diner and restaurateur knows. There's the company, the atmosphere and all that of course, but it's also about personal involvement. You know how food always tastes better if you grow it, catch it or butcher it yourself? How much more so when you'd known the meat personally? Not that Polly and I had been particularly close, but I had known her - and caught and spitted her myself - and that added an indefinable something to the experience.

I looked up from my plate briefly to see Sam sitting across the table, eating her breast. Well, not hers exactly, Polly's, but you know what I mean. She looked quite rapt, as you might expect since the food had been a close friend. Then she looked up and caught my eye and we both smiled. Nothing was said, there was no need. It was just one of those moments.

I looked down again and contemplated the filet still adorning my half-eaten steak. After all this time, it was finally mine. I wanted to savour the moment. The ultimate communion between muffin hunter and muffin.

"Should I be jealous?" Megan inquired lightly.

"If you are, you know what to do about it," I parried.

Trailer for the next bit:

"Maybe next week we'll find you naked on the bed in your room, rump up with the door open."

I don't want to get all mystical on you, honestly, but this was a bit special. Eating a woman always is, really. When you know her, even more so. But this, the prime cut, well, what can I say? I already did the Holy Grail bit but I can't come up with anything better. Arthurian scholars might be appalled by the implications of that, but cross-breed a Freudian analysis with a Jungian one and do it on acid and you might get some idea. Or just a load of bollocks, I don't know. Ask anybody who's done it what it tastes like and you'll get all sorts of answers but most of them will end up in cul-de-sacs like "Something else" and "You'll never know until you try it."

So, dear reader, I ate Polly's pussy. And what was it like, you ask? It was something else and you'll never know until you try it.

"Good?" Megan asked, smiling that smile people get when they already know.

I smiled back the same way, with an added quirk of the mouth to indicate that I appreciated the irony. 'Good' just didn't apply. It wasn't on the same level. 'Good' is a decent cup of tea and a chocolate biscuit. It's like listening to Bach's Fugue in D minor in a Gothic cathedral and saying 'That's a decent tune'. Am I going on a bit?

"Not bad," I said. "Bit chewy."

For a moment, I almost hated her. Megan, my lover and best friend. I'm not sure if I can make this make sense to you, or explain how it shocked me. Meg and I had always had a happy relationship. Okay, I did try to muffin her but that was just because I wanted to eat her, not because I didn't like her. I'd just eaten Polly's pussy and I remembered Polly's eyes and they weren't Megan's eyes which were brown.

"Getting to you?" Megan asked and then she was Megan again. Not just not-Polly. Whew.

"Had a bit of a funny turn," I admitted. "Maybe you were right about the jealousy thing. For a minute there I was....." What? Away with the fairies? Half in love with the memory of a dead woman? They say when you're going to die, your life flashes before your eyes. There's that 'they' again. Who are 'they' exactly? Actually, that could be based on the experiences of people who just thought they were about to die but didn't. I digress. Well, now I'm one of 'they'. The one that says when you eat a woman's pussy, everything you knew about her crowds into your mind. I could see Polly saying 'Who wants to EAT me?'. I could see her drinking from the fountain before I muffined her. All of the other stuff too, in no particular order. Just a kaleidoscope of impressions.

"Been there, done that, got myself a sexy pair of briefs," Megan said, glancing down again.

"Did it really..."

"Remember what I was like in bed that night?"

"Yes, but..." Well, she was always a bit like that. Sex had never been a problem in our relationship.

"Okay, not quite the same," Megan admitted. We talk in shorthand all the time, lovers do that. "But Julie was in me. They say...."

"Let me guess. This is like the one where if you fuck on acid you get imprinted on each other. Except now it's eating the filet. I have Polly's soul inside me forever." I must have been a bit too stoned or something, because I'd meant the remark to be flippant but, as soon as I said it, I actually wondered if it might be true.

"Well, maybe I only get a bit of Julie's because I'm only bisexual. You're as hetero as the average satyr, so you get the full charge. Anyway, I can't have an anima, I'm a girl already. We could test this hypothesis." She smiled wickedly.

"How?" I asked, leading with the chin.

"Let me eat your wedding tackle and see if I get possessed. You could be my animus like Polly is now your anima." Megan was eyeing my trousers. She didn't quite lick her lips but I imagined her doing it. When girls look like they want to gobble your gonads, your balls are supposed to duck back into the pelvic cave. Not mine, at least not this time. It was a good thing I had on a baggy old pair of Levis, because I realised I'd had a stiff one for some time. I could see some drawbacks to Megan's plan but I didn't know quite how to put it tactfully. I mean, I had tried to get hers...

"I'll settle for being shagged senseless tonight," she said, letting me off the hook.

"At Your Majesty's service," I said. That I could do. For a moment, we stared at each other in unbridled mutual lust. We were on the verge of doing it under the table when we were (dare I say it?) rudely interrupted.

"Don't you guys ever eat....well, guys?" we heard Hermione say.

Both of us started laughing.

"Not a lot," Jill said. "They're just not keen on taking it up the arse unless they're gay and you can't muffin them any other way. Besides, they're chicken."

It seemed post-prandial discussion had started.

"It's not in the rules so far," I contributed. "Nobody has found a way it would work. Men don't take to being muffined the way women do, and most people prefer female flesh anyway, even other women. There are exceptions, but they're in the minority."

"Isn't that kinda sexist?" Hermione ventured.

This time everybody laughed. Nobody had heard that kind of quaint language for some time. I remembered that Hermione was American and probably came from some old-fashioned place where they still had - what was the term? - political correctness? In case you've never heard of this, it's a sort of ideology that replaces fact with fantasy. A bit like communism or religious fundamentalism. We had it here for a while until it was just seen to be ridiculous. Too silly.

"Sorry, Hermione," I said contritely after the general hilarity had died down. "I'm afraid reality is sexist. You wouldn't expect men and women to have all the same aptitudes would you? How many female coal miners are there?"

"That's not the same thing. Getting eaten is..."

"Fatal? Well, so is getting shot if you're in the army."

"There are women in the armed forces in your country and mine," Hermione said indignantly.

I had to give her credit for spirit. "How many on the front line? How many die in battle?"

Jill cut in. "Don't mind the caveman. He thinks a woman's place is in the kitchen, preferably being cooked."

"So does she," I told Hermione. "As long as it's not her. Ask her whether she'd like to eat you. She's just playing up to you because she wants to fuck you first. Can't blame her for that, of course."

Hermione looked a question at Jill. Jill shrugged. "It's a fair cop," she said. "Sure I'd like to eat you, but I'll settle for raw pussy tonight." She licked her lips.

"Let's can the politics," Megan said. "We're all friends here. How was your meal?" she asked Hermione.

"Not like chicken" she said wryly. "Okay, good. Really good. What was it like? I don't know what to say. Aren't people supposed to taste like pork? It wasn't like that. Well, maybe a little, but..." she shrugged, "I give up."

"Polly was a pretty good one," Jill said. "Not that they aren't all good...."

"You mean people don't all taste the same....?"

"Of course not. People are free range, not like battery chickens," I said with the authority of a seasoned muffin hunter. "Everybody has their own flavour, just like they do their own scent. You didn't just eat a girl, you ate Polly."

"Don't you wonder what you'd taste like?" Jill asked Hermione. "Didn't it ever cross your mind while you were tasting her?"

"What about you?" Hermione retorted, dodging the question. "Don't you ever wonder if your friends here will get you some day? What will you do then?"

"Get eaten," Jill said, unperturbed. "Wouldn't be cricket to make a fuss about it, given my predilections, would it? I'd rather be the eater than the eatee, but if that happens I hope I'll go with a good grace and cook up as well as Polly did."

Oh, it's fun to watch a lover's quarrel, particularly as they hadn't actually fucked yet. Was it my imagination, or was the crotch of Hermione's leotard looking a bit moist? Did we have a potential spit muffin here? Would we find her one day in her room with the door unlocked, naked on the bed with her rump in the air?

"Hey, you, get off of that cloud," Megan interrupted my daydream. "Might I remind you that Doctor Who is on in half an hour? Let's grab some cuts of Polly for sandwiches in case we get the munchies later and blow this popstand."

Blow this popstand? Had Megan started talking American for Hermione's benefit? I gave her a a quizzical eyebrow and turned to our guest, but she had other things on her mind.

"Doctor Who? You've got..." She closed her eyes in pain. "D'oh. Note to self: I'm in Great Britain. Of course they do...." She opened her eyes again. "Sorry, my brain got lost in transit. You mean the new ones? Not the Sci-Fi reruns?"

"We mean the never seen before anywhere else in the world first broadcast of the latest series on the BBC," Megan said with the relish of a lascivious demon tempting a gourmet with a virgin truffle.

"BBC? That means..."

"No cuts, no adverts. The straight stuff."

"And I don't even have a TV in my room..."

"I have," Jill said. "Plasma flatscreen, analogue/digital option, NICAM stereo, VCR and DVD recording..."

"Take me, I'm yours," Hermione said.

"I intend to," Jill said.

The two of them stared at each other, looking much the same way I imagine Megan and I must have looked a few minutes before. Then they kissed. Well, 'kissed' is one way of putting it. Snogged? That's closer but doesn't quite touch it. It was the kind of kiss where two people look as if they're trying to devour each other and neither much cares whether they're the one who gets eaten or not. It was oral sex. I'm sure you've done this yourself, or at least seen it done, and if you haven't you haven't lived and you probaby shouldn't be reading this. It was a wonder their clothes didn't burst into flame and burn off them. I had to look away, not so much from modesty as the fact that you could come in your pants just watching them. Megan had gone, to get the snack food, I guessed.

By chance I caught sight of Miko and Gareth again. They were gazing into each other's eyes and hand-feeding each other choice bits of Polly. Miko's oiled body glistened like burnished copper in the afternoon light and her brown nipples stood out like bullets. I wondered perversely if she'd call Gareth 'Daddy' when they fucked and whether they'd breed a new generation of spit muffins. Sorry, I have that sort of mind.

I glanced around and saw variations on the theme everywhere, from people just kissing to actual shagging with the occasional group orgy. In other words, pretty much the usual aftermath of a good girl roast. They say that eating a woman is an aphrodisiac (did I mention that before?) and, for once, the famous 'they' are right. From the looks of things, Polly had been a particularly powerful one.

Somebody had put 'Stripped' by Depeche Mode on the PA system. There's a line in that that goes something like "I'd like to see you stripped to the bone." Ever had one of those days when everything you hear seems to fit into some kind of pattern? Okay, I was stoned and if you're high enough you can see the world in a carpet. It's a jungle in there. Polly's bones were in a bucket under a table. She had been stripped down to the point where worms would feed on her guts and hedgehogs would eat the worms....

I made a note to myself to eat some hedgehog Romany pie which I knew I would forget in the morning. After I'd fucked Megan's brains out, of course. A promise is a promise.

It's a good thing I've had enough experience of these things to exercise some self-control. It's an even better thing that Megan has too. If either one of us had cracked, we'd be rolling on the floor with the best of them. Some pleasures are all the better for being deferred and, besides, I didn't want to be stuck with the tidying up. Especially not when Doctor Who was on in, what, twenty minutes and counting? Time to go.

"Here we go," Megan said briskly on returning, holding a paper bag in one hand and a gallon jug in the other. "Girlmeat sandwiches, some spare ribs, and beer." That's my girl. Do you wonder why our relationship has lasted? She handed me the heavy jug. "Wow," she said, looking at Hermione and Jill, "True lust. Isn't it wonderful?"

"Great endurance, too," I noted. "Unless they can breathe through gills or something."

"Got a bucket of cold water and a crowbar? Or should we leave them to it? They'll miss the show at this rate."

"Which Jill will have pre-programmed her machines to record on tape and disc anyway just in case," I pointed out.

"True, and they do make a lovely couple. Jill's a good kisser, isn't she? Oh..."

"You should know. Hmm....." I remembered the occasion when that had happened. "When Jill kissed you like that I'd just muffined you and we all thought you were going to roast."

"Meaning, what, they'll make a lovely couple until Jill eats her?"

That provoked some interesting images in my warped mind. "Let's just say that if Hermione gets muffined before too long and Jill has a hand in it somewhere I won't be at all surprised."

"Maybe you should get her on the team."

It was a thought worthy of serious consideration once we'd sated ourselves. Just then, just as I could almost hear the Doctor Who theme that I would actually hear in...what? Fifteen minutes and counting? Hermione broke the clinch. She gazed at Jill.

"Say, does this one have the Daleks in it?"