Posted by Sawney Beane on June 28, 2007 at 22:24:02:
The Collected Works of Sawney Beane: Volume #108
ISABELA'S PHOTO SHOOT
by Sawney Beane
25 February 2004
1,346 words
DISTRIBUTION NOTICE and DISCLAIMER: Sawney Beane requests that any distribution of this work of fiction remain within the realm of social responsibility. This story is suitable neither for minors nor for the seeming majority of adults who have difficulty distinguishing fantasy from reality. It is pure fantasy, which means that, for whatever reason, someone has found it interesting to think about the events depicted herein. It does not in any way mean that the author would like to see this fantasy become reality, so if you are the type of person who might be swayed into doing something irrational by reading a work of fiction, the author respectfully requests that you decline to read further.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Sawney Beane, originally a native of Edinburgh, lived for twenty-five years in a cave on the coast of County Galloway, subsisting on the flesh of unfortunate travellers, roughly a thousand of them all told. He and his wife raised a large family of eight sons, six daughters, eighteen grandsons, and fourteen granddaughters. Eventually, the family was captured, and the whole lot was brutally and unjustifiably tortured and executed without trial. Since his death in the early 17th century, Beane has reformed his ways and now confines his atrocities to his literary endeavours.
WARNING: This story contains scenes of snuff and (mostly) non-consensual gynophagia. If you find such things offensive, please steer clear; you have been warned.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: A tribute both to Isabela and to every internet cannibal's favourite kitchen. Some names have been changed to protect the innocent (and to make the story a little less libellous), but good meat requires no protection.
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"Beautiful, just beautiful," says Mr. Pooki, snapping furiously at his camera. "This is going to be our greatest portfolio yet!"
Mrs. Pooki hovers around just out of frame giving directions to the two nearly naked girls, Anna and Melissa, their sexy model bodies looking lovely in nothing more than revealing kitchen aprons smeared with barbecue sauce.
Anna holds a cookbook in one hand and leans erotically against the counter, the tips of her pert breasts peeking out from the sides of her apron. Melissa uses expansive, exaggeratedly languid strokes of a long brush to smear glistening barbecue sauce onto the already coated body of the real star of the photo shoot.
The intense arousal of the lengthy preparation shots and the early stages of her being tied to a steel spit and rotated slowly over the fiery red glow of heat lamps has given way after an hour to fatigue and discomfort. Isabela is ready for the photo shoot to be over, but Mr. Pooki seems to always want more. He has taken innumerable photos and has fussed with every detail of the production, demanding the unerringly high quality shown in each of the portfolios he and his wife have published on their Pooki's Kitchen website.
Isabela knows she will not be disappointed in the result, but by now her exhaustion is making her look more realistically like a woman who has roasted on a spit for an hour. If this were real, she thinks, the pain would have gone away by now.
When Isabela feels she can take no more of this torture, Mr. Pooki finally sets aside his camera and exclaims. "That's it, perfect, absolutely perfect! I think we are finally done."
Isabela gives a sigh of relief as Mrs. Pooki switches off the bank of heat lamps, making Isabela's weary body feel suddenly much cooler and a tiny bit more comfortable. Mr. Pooki pays Anna and Melissa their generous modeling fees and, after allowing them to change back into their street clothes, sends them home with warm friendly words of thanks.
Mrs. Pooki cleans up the assortment of equipment used in the photo shoot, and Mr. Pooki is gathering the rolls upon rolls of used film into a basket. Isabela thinks they must have forgotten something.
"OK, guys, could you maybe get me off this thing now?" she says as politely as she can manage.
"Oh, sorry, Isabela," Mr. Pooki says as if surprised she still exists. "Just a sec."
Mr. Pooki walks over to the spit and fiddles with the ropes that hold Isabela's chest and hips to the steel spit, then his hands run to the bonds that tie her wrists high above her head and her ankles to the other end of the long spit. However, much to her surprise, he doesn't untie her. It is as if he is checking to make sure she is still securely bound.
"OK, Pooki, what's the deal? Get me off this spit now!" Isabela says somewhat irately.
"I'm sorry, Isabela, but I can't do that."
"Why the hell not?"
"Because, dear, you're not quite done."
"What are you talking about?"
"The shoot is not quite over."
Isabela is getting quite angry by now, but before she can complain further, Mrs. Pooki has come up from behind and slipped a rubber bit into Isabela's mouth and tied its straps securely around her head.
"Mmmph!"
"I'm sorry, Isabela," says Mr. Pooki gently, "but this is one of those opportunities that just can't be passed up. We know this is really what you want anyway, so just try to enjoy it, and everyone will be happy."
"Mmmph!"
"Did you ever notice, dear, that some of the models in our portfolios appear over and over again like Anna and Melissa do, but other models appear in only one portfolio?"
"Actually, they appear in two portfolios," corrects Mrs. Pooki.
"Well, yes, true," agrees Mr. Pooki. "But only one in the public website. They each have a second portfolio available only on our ultra-exclusive invitation only website. Those portfolios are far superior to the public pay-per-view ones. It's a shame we can't share them as openly."
"Yes, quite a pity," agrees Mrs. Pooki.
"Mmmmph!"
"Oh, Isabela, don't worry," says Mrs. Pooki. "Your second portfolio will be the best we've ever done anywhere!"
"Mmmmph!"
Mr. Pooki turns to his wife who is busy shedding her clothing to reveal her own quite edible body. "Ready, dear?"
"Sure," replies the nude hostess as she lifts the foot end of Isabela's spit off its Y-shaped mount. Mr. Pooki lifts the end near Isabela's head and the couple carry the helpless meat model through a sliding door into an adjoining room.
This new room looks remarkably similar to the photo studio they have just left. However, everything is just a little bit different. Unlike the prop woman-sized oven stored in a corner of the studio, the large woman-sized oven to the side of this room is stainless steel and looks like it might actually be functional. The large black pot in another corner is real cast iron, and the grill at the far side of the room hangs over a bank of real gas jets. There's even an oversized wok leaning against the far wall. Most terrifying of all, the two Y-shaped brackets in the centre of the room into which the Pookis are mounting the ends of Isabela's spit appear to stand at the ends of a real fire pit filled with real embers and an ample supply of unburnt wood. The slightly cartoonish and eminently erotic world of Pooki's Kitchen is reproduced in this adjoining room, still erotic but now fully functional and terrifyingly real.
"Mmmph! Mmmph! Ummph!"
"No, Isabela, don't worry about a thing," says Mr. Pooki as Mrs. Pooki walks around the room flicking on the lighting. Mr. Pooki lights a match and tosses it onto the gasoline soaked wood in the fire pit. Flames leap up and lick uncomfortably close to Isabela's barbecue sauce covered flesh.
"I've got plenty of film, plenty of wood, an ample supply of barbecue sauce, and, thanks to you, plenty of top quality Grade A girl meat." He gets out his camera as Mrs. Pooki attaches a handle to one end of the spit and begins to rotate Isabela over the roaring inferno.
"The guests will arrive any time now; you should still be alive. They're all very eager to meet you in the flesh," says Mr. Pooki with a smile as he clicks away at the camera. "There should be quite a crowd, but I'm sure there will be plenty of you to go around."
"Don't hold your breath for the leftovers," chides Mrs. Pooki as she rotates the spit in the chef role she has now assumed.
"It's a shame we couldn't invite Anna and Melissa," says Mr. Pooki. "They both liked you a lot, Isabela, but we just can't risk letting them in on our little secret. I don't think they would appreciate the art we are creating here."
"No, dear, you have to be a certain type," says Mrs. Pooki.
"Mmmph!" says Isabela.
"Yes, yes, your skin is starting to look very appetizing. Just perfect! Isabela, you're going to be quite a feast!"
The weariness and aches in Isabela's body have quickly given way to alarm and pain as every inch of her pale skin is touched by fiery agony. She feels angry and offended; she feels tricked and cheated; she feels terror and pain; but there is something else in the back of her brain. The eroticism she has always felt when she thinks of being helpless meat on a spit, destined to be roasted and consumed, remains in her. As her life nears it's agonizing end, the thought of a room full of post-modern artistic cannibals tearing the meat from her sizzling bones and commenting favourably on the results of her final photo shoot drives wave after wave of orgasm through her doomed body, nearly but not quite washing away the horror and fear of her imminent demise.