Death by Chess

Chapter 6

We've saved these next two girls for last," the announcer told the audience, "because they're both Prime Grade meat and have been tubed for live roasting. For those of you who don't know, our grade ratings here at Musgrave have nothing to do with the quality and flavor of the meat. The meat from all our girls cooks up tender and succulent. We guarantee your satisfaction! No, the gradings are based strictly on physical appearance. We insist on selling only the most beautiful roasts for your parties. You and your guests will never be disappointed with a Musgrave roaster."

As the announcer talked, Krystal and Wednesday were being led on their labia leashes by two white-clad Breeders down the steps of the platform to the center of the arena. There they were placed back to back while one Breeder joined the chains of their handcuffs together with a padlock and the other wrapped binding tape around their legs to render them immobile.

"Take a good look at our two lovely Prime Roasters right here. These girls are typical of the quality live meat Musgrave delivers to its customers, whether it be for a private party or an official business function. Picture these beauties turning on a spit at your next company banquet or for a family get-together! In fact, we're going to start roasting them this afternoon, right after their hunters catch them and haul them over to the spitting tables. That should be a good contest, by the way, because these girls will be real motivated. They really want that shot of O drugs before they go over the fire! The taller girl, the one with that great mane of mahogany colored hair and those big brown soulful eyes, was one of the two Vixen Rooks — the one who got to keep her head. Take a look at those long, shapely legs, that amazingly narrow waist, those yummy boobs with their alert little nipples! Her name's Krystal, a 23 year old with one-hundred-twenty-five pounds of delicious girl-meat on a gorgeous five-foot-six frame. She's 36D-22-36. And she's pretty well tied up right now with her little blonde cohort. That's Wednesday. She's a dainty little thing, isn't she? Only five-two, about a hundred and five, soaking wet. She's nineteen and measures 34C-23-35. Look at that sweet little round face and cute little nose. She was a Bishop. Now she's waiting her turn to help feed the good folks who have purchased tickets to the Grand Banquet tonight at the Bormann Dining Hall. If you haven't purchased your ticket yet, by the way, there's still time!

"Now . . . while the crew is preparing the horses and equipment for our final hunt, let's get started with the current harvest. I'm sure the girls are tired of hanging upside down and would like to get on with it."

While the voice rambled on, the scene on the arena floor began to bustle with activity. Large motorized carts were driven in, one to each platform. A couple of brawny men and a posse of female Breeders dressed in work boots, gloves and coveralls began dismantling the empty platform where the ten girls had been chained. The coveralls consisted of low-cut front and back panels tied loosely at the sides to reveal that there was actually nothing underneath to cover up, except bras supporting heavy breasts. Those bras, however, featured nursing cutouts that exposed the nipples and let them poke against the silk lining of the front panel, or peek out over the top of the panel whenever their owner bent over. A third bulge below the spectacular bosoms revealed that a few of these women were more than a little pregnant.

As that crew took the platform swiftly apart and stacked the pieces in the cart, the twenty hunters were assembling on the opposite platform where the eight doubly defeated girls waited to meet the fate for which they had been born. The cart parked at the foot of the steps to that platform was actually a rolling body rack. Eight six-foot steel trays stacked in pairs, four deep, awaited filling. Four beautiful Breeders in white and red were at work preparing the hanging girls.

The PA system explained their activity to the crowd and viewers. "See how they're binding the hair on six of our captives? You'll see in a minute they'll begin to cut it all off. We cultivate long hair on all our young livestock for use in wigs and hairpieces. Musgrave wigs and hairpieces are renowned the world over for their ultra fine quality. We never permit the use of artificial color or other harsh hair treatment. Each girl's crop is harvested twice: first at age nine and again at her snuff."

The Breeders were now using cordless clippers to shave off the hair close to the scalp.

"You'll notice two of the girls are not being shaved. Francesca and Salli are Grade 2 meat girls and will be roasted. See how their hair is being twisted into a bun and covered by a foil shield? That will keep it from burning up over the fire. Both of those lovelies are sixteen. Aren't they pretty hanging there? Wait till you see them on their spits! Normally, by the way, the law stipulates that human livestock can't be harvested for meat until age seventeen, but the all the girls taking part in these games have been given special dispensation by the National Meat Program that allows them to volunteer at age sixteen."

The breeders were bringing shallow plastic tubs from the cart up to the platform and placing them under each girl's head.

"Ladies and gentlemen hunters: are you ready to snuff your quarry?"

Eager fists shot up into the air.

"Good! The Breeder in red with the grease pen will place two marks on each girl's neck, then hand one partner the box cutter. The second partner must hold the quarry firmly so she doesn't move while the first partner inserts the blade at one mark and slices all the way around to the other mark. Please make sure the blade goes all the way in to the hilt as you slice so the veins and arteries are neatly severed. You may proceed."

One by one the Breeder made her marks on each girl, handed a hunter the box cutter and watched carefully as he slit her throat. Blood gushed from the wounds, ran down the faces of the cringing girls and filled the tubs. One by one their faces relaxed and their breathing became more ragged. Pebble died first, then Lyra, then Eadie. Cloud wept and squeezed her eyes shut as the blade approached her throat; but as the warm blood streamed down her cheeks, she sighed and became calm, her fear draining away with her life. Boston thrashed and resisted up to the moment the blade slid into her neck, then shuddered and waited grudgingly for death. Only Raven smiled as her executioner drew the razor-sharp edge of the box cutter around her neck. She was high on O and the sting of the blade instantly triggered a raging orgasm that made her squirm like an eel in her ankle restraints, quieting gradually as darkness consumed the buzz.

When the flow of blood from each girl had diminished to a drip and finally stopped, the Breeders coached the hunters through the process of lowering the carcass, removing the ankle cuffs and carrying it to the waiting cart. The moment all eight had been stacked in the trays and the cart rolled away, the crew that had just finished disassembling the first platform began to do the same with the snuffing platform.

Meanwhile the announcer kept up a constant patter to keep the crowd engaged for the final duels.

"If you've been following the news, folks, you undoubtedly know that this industry has been fighting for major changes in livestock regulations to help bring down the cost of meat. Well, it looks like our hard work is finally paying off. Our sources in the Administration tell us that President-for-life Osama Bormann is about to sign the new international accord lowering the minimum age for harvesting human females from seventeen to fifteen! That's great news to consumers! Getting the girls to market two years earlier will make a huge difference in overhead costs. The Musgrave organization alone, including all our worldwide subsidiaries, carries over a million and a half head of livestock just in that two-year age bracket. But you independent sellers will reap big benefits, too, because your youngest female assets will now reach their optimum sale value at age fourteen. Of course, there will always be a lucrative market for your older, more voluptuous females, too. Don't you worry about that! So, (chuckle) keep your wives and girl friends pregnant, guys, and remember to use those gender filters! And don't forget, if you register your assets with Musgrave before their first birthday, you'll not only get a nice tax break, but you'll be guaranteed the highest going rate for her age and grade when you're ready to cash her in.

"Well, it looks like our Breeding beauties have taken away the last of the platforms, which leaves us a clear field to hunt down those two foxes currently bound up at midfield. And by the way, if any of you guys thinks he'd make a good stud for our Breeder Girls, give us a call for a screening. We have thousands of gorgeous gals just as stunning as the ones you see here. They're all horny as hell and looking for qualified studs to help them make babies. At Musgrave we don't believe in artificial insemination. We do things the natural way here, because we believe firmly that happy breeders enjoying great sex make happy babies, and happy babies grow up to make delicious meat!

"Hey! It's time for the Grand Finale. We'll leave our quarry tied up for a minute or two longer while we bring out the hunters so the girls can see what they'll be up against."

The gate slid open again and out stormed a gilded chariot pulled by the black and white stallions. The handsome stallions were now teamed side by side and driven by the thick-necked man who had won Krystal in the lottery and had been the first to fuck her under the stands. On his right, beside a vertical cylinder bristling with feathered sticks, stood his taller partner. Emerging right behind them was another chariot, trimmed in silver and pulled by a team of enormous bay Clydesdales. It was driven by Wednesday's hunters. They seemed less sure of themselves, clinging to the sides of the rumbling, open-backed vehicle as it bumped along. Nevertheless, they followed the gold chariot at a barely controlled gallop three times around the arena as they struggled to adapt themselves to the rigors of a charioteer.

"O my God!" mumbled Wednesday. Those beasts are fucking gigantic! If they run over us, we won't have to worry about cooking over a fire."

"There's that," agreed Krystal.

"But on the other hand, I don't think those guys are all that sharp at driving a chariot. My two look like they might fall out any minute. Jesus! You know, they never did tell me their fucking names."

Both girls looked up at the screens which were still proclaiming the identities of all involved. She had been reduced to, WEDNESDAY, 19, M1-P, 5'1", 110 lbs., 34D-22-35, and her hunters were Kyle Cranston of Portland, Oregon and Gary Webster of Houston, Texas. Good to know who's killing you, she thought. Her death mate was also up there. KRYSTAL, 23, M1-P, 5'7", 125 lbs, 36C-24-36. The man who had won the right to inseminate her under the stands and send her to her death in the arena turned out to be one George Bettincourt from Selma, Alabama. His tall partner was Emil Lacoste of Elmira, New York. She wondered how in hell those two had become buddies.

"What are we gonna do?" Her tone clearly implied hopelessness.

"What we ain't gonna do is just give up," Krystal said. "I don't know about you, but I'm scared shitless of roasting over an open fire with no O drugs to make it good. That's like burning to death. Slowly! I'll throw myself under the feet of those fucking giant horses if that's what it takes to stay outta that scenario."

"Yeah," Wednesday answered without enthusiasm.

"But maybe we can fuck with these guys long enough to earn the O."

"Yeah?" A spark of hope?

"Yeah. I think they don't know what the fuck they're doing with those horses. I think . . ."

The announcer's voice cut her off. "Ladies and gentlemen! For our final chase, we have put our intrepid hunters in Roman-style chariots and have equipped them with a rather interesting weapon. That quiver in the right corner of each chariot contains a couple of dozen long darts. They're about a foot in length with feathers on one end and a barb at the other, like a porcupine quill. Believe me, once one of those babies sinks in, it doesn't come out easily or painlessly. They also release, on impact, a serum that feels something like a hornet's sting, only ten times worse. And the longer the dart stays in, the more painful it gets. As you can see, however, our hunters are not accustomed to operating a chariot behind a couple of magnificent steeds, so that helps even the odds. And to make sure they stay even, the chariot driver is not allowed to leave the chariot and the dart thrower may leave it only after he's landed a dart in the quarry. Now I'm going to ask you gentlemen to bring your teams to a halt so we can send our Breeder Girls safely into the arena to release your prey."

It took a while, but eventually both chariots came to a stop, more or less, and two white-frocked Breeders, glancing nervously at the snorting animals, jogged out to the two girls.

Krystal watched the woman with scorn as she hurriedly unlocked the handcuffs. "What'sa matter? Afraid the big bad horsies will trample you and ruin your nail job?"

"I'm sorry," the woman said. "I know this is horrible for you, but I don't have any choice about this, either. None of us do. Some day soon they'll kill me, too, if that's any comfort to you. Good luck, sweetheart."

Krystal felt the bands around her legs drop off and both Breeder women took off for the sidelines. Now, overlapping her fear was a feeling of shame. She had no business taunting the woman. What did she know of the emotional torments the Breeders had to live with, bearing child after child, nursing an endless stream of infants, watching them grow just old enough to be slaughtered? But it was too late to apologize.

"What are we gonna do?" Wednesday was shouting at her.

"We're gonna give those fuckers as many headaches as we can. I think we should spread out and let them come at us separately. You can do what you want, but I'm gonna stand my ground and let them throw their fucking darts at me. They've probably been told not to run us over and ruin our bodies for roasting. We are the main course for their feast tonight, after all."

"Just stand and let them fill us with darts? Geez, Krystal, I'd hoped you'd come up with a better plan than that."

"Well, I was kinda hoping for some kind of brilliant ideas from you, too. I'm all ears. Whadda ya have in mind?"

Wednesday gave a kind of noncommital whimper as the two chariots suddenly broke from their static situation. Both teams of horses burst into a dead run. Krystal pushed Wednesday away and ran to an open position west of midfield. Wednesday, her eyes like saucers, seemed frozen in place as the Clydesdales barreled toward her, froth flicking from their mouths as they galloped headlong. She dropped to her knees and hunched over into as small a ball as she could as the chariot rumbled by. A dart thudded harmlessly into the turf next to her.

Krystal, on the other hand, stood stolidly defiant as George Bettincourt aimed his chariot (as best he could) in her general direction. The chariot blew by on her right at a fair distance, but Emil was a better marksman than George was a chariot driver. A dart landed in her right breast which instantly exploded into a volcano of fiery pain. Krystal screamed and spun around, clutching her wounded breast. The pain grew worse by the second. Panting she grabbed the twelve inch shaft of the dart and pulled. The pain redoubled and she dropped to her knees screaming. She had to get it out! She gave a mighty pull and ripped it free, but nearly passed out from the pain. Blood trickled from the place where the dart had imbedded itself.

She looked up. The chariot was coming back!

Standing up would not do! Bravery didn't count; only success! She had to outwit Emil and George. As the chariot sped toward her, she could see it was shading to her right. She waited until she saw Emil's throwing arm move, then dove to her left. Chariot and dart sailed safely past.

She jumped to her feet to see how Wednesday had fared. Wednesday was thrashing about on the ground, a dart protruding from her back. She was trying to reach it to pull it out, but it was too high up for her to reach from below and too far down for her to reach from over her shoulder. Krystal sprinted over to her and plucked it out. Wednesday screamed, then sobbed a "Thank you," just as George and Emil veered over to Krystal's new location. Unhappily for the drivers, Kyle and Gary had also been heading for the same spot. The horses for the two teams collided, the chariots tilted and Emil, who was winding up for a shot at Krystal, tumbled out the open back.

Krystal yanked Wednesday to her feet, gave her a quick kiss on the cheek to crank up her courage and dashed back to her own chosen spot to await George's next attack. It took George more than a minute to circle back to where Emil, his wind knocked out, was struggling to his hands and knees. With difficulty he brought the black and white stallions to a stop. Emil, gasping for air, climbed reluctantly back into the three-sided conveyance and hung on as George got the team moving again. Another minute and a half slipped by before Emil was reorganized and ready to throw more darts. They made another pass at Krystal from the south as Kyle and Gary where charging Wednesday from the north. Both girls ducked and rolled away untouched. The chariots circled around and tried it again with the same results. They were winding up for a fifth pass when a klaxon sounded. The first five minutes were up.

Krystal was ecstatic! She and Wednesday had won back the dose of O drugs that would convert the agony of live roasting to an ecstasy of welcome pain! If she could outlast fucking George and Emil for a second round, they'd double the dose! Whenever she thought back on the dose she had been given for her tubing, it started a fierce craving. But a double dose? Holy shit! The orgasms alone would kill her! Whatever it took, she was going to win this next five minutes, too!

Chagrined by their ineptitude, the hunters drew their chariots up at the south end of the arena for a reconsideration of their tactics. The announcer rubbed it in.

"Seems our hunters with all their horses, chariots and firepower have been outwitted by their prey. The girls have earned themselves a dose of O to ease their transition into meat. Guess we'd better send in some foot soldiers to help the boys bring home the bacon."

Four men emerged from the briefly opened gates. Krystal studied them warily, noting they had no weapons, only rope. The chariots had started to move again as the bell rang for the second round, weaving somewhat erratically toward the group of new arrivals. As the growing crowd of hunters conferred, Krystal decided three things. One: the horsepower hitched to those oversized ice-cream scoops on wheels was serious overkill. Two: the occupants of the ice-cream scoops were less than competent, both as teamsters and dart throwers. Three: the arena was far too small for the modicum of control they exercised over their teams and the speeds they were generating. Those three factors suggested several means of defense. It was the added menace of the men on foot that now complicated the issue. This, she decided, was exactly what the planners of this event had in mind. She and Wednesday had been given a decent chance to survive the first round and win back their drugs, but they'd been dealt only the slimmest of chances to evade the coming onslaught and death this afternoon on a spit. Her eyes wandered to the north end of the arena where the crew had already gutted Boston and Francesca and were starting to insert skewers into the openings nature had intended for propagation of the species.

When she looked back to the south end, the quartet of foot-soldiers had fanned out to about six feet apart and were advancing on Wednesday in a concave arc. The two chariots, moving at a slow trot now, had moved up the sidelines. When they were roughly opposite her on either side, they began to turn inward on a course that would take them behind her. They slowed to a walk. Oh, oh, Krystal thought. They're going to work us one at a time. Right now they're looking to surround Wednesday.

Apparently Wednesday figured it out, too, because she suddenly bolted to her right toward the east sideline and behind George and Emil's chariot. The entire arc of walking men broke into a run and swung over to cut her off. George ignored her, but Kyle and Gary in the other chariot — already headed in that direction — broke into a faster trot to come in behind her and cut off any attempt to reverse direction. But with the four men converging from the south and west, she had no other choice. She spun around to sprint up the east side only to find a huge pair of Clydesdales closing in. She screeched, stopped and tried to dive behind the chariot as it rumbled by, but a terrible pain in her left thigh made her stumble and fall. She grabbed at the shaft of the dart to pull it out when another burst of pain hit her in the lower back, and a third in the neck. She crawled in frantic circles on her hands and knees screaming and banging her head on the ground. When rough hands seized her arms she could only yell, "Take them out! Take them out!" in an hysterical mantra until, mercifully, someone did. She crumbled to the turf face down, sobbing, offering no resistence as her wrists were bound together behind her. She was too shaken to walk, so two of the men carried her to the waiting preparation table at the south end of the arena.

Krystal's heart sank. It was possible she could hold off two chariots and the remaining two men long enough to win this round, but any hope of leaving the arena alive was wishful thinking. In the next round still more men would be arrayed against her. Hell, they could park the damned chariots and have no trouble surrounding and subduing her. Well, why did she care? What was another month of life? Or even a year? They'd either send her back to the brothel or sell her for an office party. Or both. There was no way to escape her destiny. Or rather, her destination. She was bred to be roasted alive, and her spit was waiting for her. She considered simply walking down there and climbing up on the table. But no. She'd at least try for the double dose. It was the loftiest ambition a meat girl could expect. And she deserved it.

They were all closing in on her, the two men from the south side, the chariots trotting in from the east and west. She stood her ground. Her plan was to dive between the men on foot at the last second before they grabbed her. But they stopped about eight feet away, waiting for the chariots to seal off the rear. Or fill her with disabling darts! Waiting for a back-full of darts was not an appealing option. She darted to her right and, waving her hands wildly in the air and screaming, threw herself in front of the black and white stallions. Startled, they shied, collided with each other, reared and lunged to the side away from her, throwing both George and Emil off balance in the chariot. Emil, who had just drawn his arm back for a toss, was thrown into his own dart. It sank into his neck with the same painful results he had planned for Krystal. He screamed and twisted around, his mind entirely occupied with pulling it out as the pain intensified. The horses, frightened by the commotion, dug in for a fast departure, jerking George off his feet and tumbling the frenzied Emil out on to the fake grass where he bellowed and flopped around until both men on the ground foot came to his rescue and removed the dart.

To save the situation for the hunters, Kyle slapped the reins on his team to put them into a gallop and aimed them at Krystal. But what worked against the handsome black and white stallions was equally effective against the huge bay Clydesdales. Krystal screamed, waved her arms up and down and ran toward them, teeth bared. Unnerved by the berserk antics of this mad carnivore covered only in skin, the two horses chose an alternative route to bypass her, dragging the chariot load of surprised hunters with them. Gary, desperately trying to avoid ejection, managed to toss the dart he was holding toward Krystal. The dart plunged into a breast. There was a scream. A man's scream. It had hit the wrong breast. One of the two foot soldiers was dancing in a circle clawing at the fiery barb imbedded just above his heart. Taking advantage of the confusion, Krystal ran to an open area where she could watch for the next attack. But before the footmen and horsemen and horses could sort themselves out to mount it, the klaxon sounded again.

She had done it! She'd earned a silver-lined, gold-plated, diamond-encrusted exit from life. The action had stopped for a minute so more hunters could be added for the kill. She had time to think. Time to reconsider her earlier decision that this was as far as she needed to go. Was it? Should she try to parlay her success to the ultimate level? Did she want to? Did it matter whether she was cooked this afternoon or some later afternoon? Was an almost hopeless battle for life worthwhile when the best she could hope for was a brief delay of death? Come on! She had known from childhood that the whole purpose of her being born was to become food. Most of her friends had already harkened to that calling by age seventeen. Had those additional seven years of life as a rental sex toy unraveled her image of herself as meat awaiting processing? Why did she still long for life?

The announcer was beside himself with glee. "Well! Our little Rook turns out to be quite an amazing little piece! Kinda makes you wish she'd had the chance to do battle for her team, doesn't it? Might have changed the results. At the very least, she's won for herself a gargantuan dose of O. She'll be one happy roaster turning on her spit this afternoon. Or will she? Think she has what it takes to go the whole way?"

Someone had managed to extract the dart from its unintended target. He alternatedly clutched and pounded at the bleeding wound, trying to make the pain go away.

"Ouch!" said the announcer. "Looks like our wounded hunter has been relieved of his dart. But that chest wound is gonna hurt like a sonofabitch for about an hour. Gives you some idea of what our feisty little quarry is suffering, right? For those of you who don't know, the serum in those darts is not actually a toxin. It's a blend of concentrated hot pepper extract and various herbs which, although frightfully painful in living flesh, actually enhances the flavor of cooked meat. The heat of the fire causes the circulatory system to speed up and by the time our lovely Krystal has finished the live portion of her roasting — perhaps an hour or two — the pepper-herbal blend will have spread through her entire body, giving her meat a delicate hint of rosemary and garlic."

The gate opened and four more volunteers were admitted to the arena. The wounded hunter slipped out behind them, still massaging his chest. Eleven men and two chariots were now assembled to subdue the one remaining female slated for tonight's feast.

"Well," laughed the announcer, "things look pretty bleak for little Krystal, don't they? But don't count her out yet. That's one plucky little piece of meat! If anyone can escape this army of hunters, I'd put my money on her. Let's see how she does."

Krystal's inclination to surrender and spare herself the pain of more dart landings evaporated with those words. By God, she would do it! She'd go for a total victory against all odds. It no longer had anything to do with extending her miserable life. It had everything to do with embarrassing these fuckers!

The bell rang for the start of the final round, but the eleven hunters were embroiled in a heated dispute over the best strategy to bring down their elusive quarry. Krystal kept her mind off the fierce ache in her breast, where the dart had left its taste-enhancing herbs, by trying to anticipate the various attack plans they might come up with, and how to deal with them. At the same time she kept an eye on the countdown clock and every life-giving second that ticked by. By the time they let out a rallying cry and broke from their huddle, they had only two minutes and forty seconds left to round her up.

Their plan of attack turned out to be a straight line with two men on foot at the outside ends, then the chariots — the black and white on Krystal's left and the Clydesdales on her right — with the remaining three foot soldiers holding the center of the line. That line, she thought, would be relatively easy to breach, except that they had distributed the dreaded darts among all the hunters. Wherever she attempted to break through would be like challenging a pissed off porcupine.

She knew she had only three realistic options. She could launch herself at the driver's side of the black and white team, spook the horses a bit and dive past the chariot wheel on that side. That would at least force Emil to try to throw his dart from the opposite side of a jerking chariot; she'd only need to worry about the hunter on her right. The second option would be to try for an end run at either the east or west walls. But could she get over there and past them fast enough to keep from becoming a pin cushion? The third option was to drop to her knees and surrender. But they could just as well pop all their darts into her anyway out of spite for the earlier humiliations. No rule against that. The choice was obvious.

She sidled slowly to her left, turning just enough to make them think she would break for the end run. She hoped. But they had smartened up. As they drew closer, they approached at different speeds so that the outsides of the line curved in toward her, closing a tightening trap. She had no doubt that a plunge toward either end of the line would trigger a move for that half of the line to entrap her against the wall, with the other half closing in behind them.

When the line, now an arc, was about fifteen feet away, Emil in the chariot and three of the nearest footmen wound up to heave their darts. Krystal flew at the stallions, who, predictably, shied away. Emil's dart sailed harmlessly past her shoulder, but the nearest hunter on foot landed his square in her belly. She had cleared the end of the chariot when the pain exploded through her body. Still running she grabbed the shaft with both hands to pull it out when two more fiery explosions in her upper and lower back staggered her. Another dart slammed into her right thigh and another in her left buttock. She fell to the ground, thrashing and screaming in an agony she'd never dreamed possible. The hunters gathered around, their remaining darts poised, but they were apparently reluctant to add to the girl's obvious torment. Not so, Emil. The angry charioteer jumped to the ground, pushed through the others and drove another dart into her right breast and still another into her left.

In her agony, Krystal was beyond the ability to speak or control any part of her body. Urine gushed from between her legs. Her body bucked in continuous spasms, head flailing about, eyes rolled up, mouth open and drooling.

Taking pity on her, the men pulled Emil away before he could stick any more darts into her and lifted her to her feet. She was unable to walk so they carried her by the arms to the waiting table at the south end of the arena, the seven dart shafts hanging painfully on and flopping about, eliciting a constant stream of tortured screams.

The prep crew quickly plucked out the darts, then instructed the hunters to lay her down on the short table, face up, her head dangling off one end and her legs off the other. They bound her arms to the table legs, as had been done under the stands for the pre-game fuck. But this time they folded her legs, binding her calves to her thighs, and spread them wide with ropes from their knees to the table legs.

As they did this, two Breeder Girls came up to the table, one on each side. Each carried a syringe loaded with the pink O drug. They slipped the needles into both arms at once and slowly pushed the plungers. Almost immediately the writhing, crying girl on the table stopped moving, her wails reduced to a blubbering whimper. Moments later she relaxed and the whimpers became soft moans. The Breeders washed off the parts of her body they could reach, cleaning the blood from the dart wounds, wiping the dirt and tears from her face, cleansing the dried piss from her pussy and the insides of her thighs.

Wednesday was laid out on the table next to Krystal, but unlike her more valiant teammate's new expression of dreamy pleasure as the pain of the dart serum unleashed an intensifying wave of orgasms, her own face was a flickering mix of drugged contentment and residual fear. The chef's crew had waited for Krystal's arrival to begin the spitting procedure on Wednesday, so they could both be done at the same time. That gave Wednesday plenty of time to fret about it, and contemplate her death.

"Our two Roasters are now ready for cleaning out," the announcer told the audience as the chefs moved up to the sides of the tables and began cutting open the girls' bellies. "With a pre-snuffed carcass the chefs simply cut out all the viscera and dump it. With live specimens, however, they must cauterized the internal wounds as they go, so the girls don't bleed to death on us. Takes a bit longer. But these guys have had lots of practice and will move things right along."

It took about five minutes to remove the intestines, stomach, spleen, kidneys, liver and various other internal parts. It took another seven minutes to rinse out the empty cavities with a hose and fill them with tubs of stuffing as the announcer described the ingredients and extolled the skill of the chefs in creating the perfect combination of meat and stuffing flavors.

"Our two Roasters are now ready to receive their spits," he said as the chefs stapled up the bellies. "They were prepped for this at the age of sixteen with a tube that will guide the skewer through their body without damaging the remaining organs. They'll need those to survive the first few hours of roasting. After the new accord is signed, of course, we'll be tubing our Prime girls at fourteen so they'll be ready by fifteen. As you can see, our kitchen crew has inserted the sharp end of the steel rod into each girl's vagina and is pushing and twisting it into her. This is, of course, extremely painful — as I'm sure the ladies in our audience can imagine — but our two Roasters don't mind it a bit, no more than they minded being eviscerated, because the greater the pain, the harder they orgasm. Especially our brave little Krystal. Just look at her trying to hump that spit!

"The skewers are about halfway through, now. The tube will lead the point safely past the lungs and the heart, then force it to puncture the esophagus and come out the mouth. Watch how the crew tending to that end help it do that, just as they did with the slaughtered Roasters. The difference is that this time they will cut a hole into the windpipe and insert a steel breathing tube. Otherwise the spit will shut off the air supply to the girls and they'd asphyxiate. Watch, now. Here it comes!"

The crew held the girls' heads down over the end of the tables and the steel point of the spit, smeared now with blood, emerged through their open mouths. A quick slice with a scalpel and deft insertion of a short hollow cylinder enabled the girls to keep breathing.

"There we are," cooed the announcer. "You'll notice our two lovelies have stopped moaning. That's because their vocal chords were ruptured by the spit and no longer work. But then, with that thick steel rod in their mouths they wouldn't be able to say much, anyway, right? Now the crew is bolting the cross bars to the spits and as soon as the legs are unfolded they'll be stretched out along the spits with the knees wired to the cross beam so the bodies will turn with the spit.

"You'll also notice," he was saying, "that the nearby fire pits have been ignited and the coals above the gas jets are turning cherry red. One of the secrets of an excellent live spit roast is getting the starting temperature correct. We want to start the girl's meat cooking without killing her too soon. Ideally she should last about two hours; then we can turn up the heat under the carcass to full roasting temp.

"Well, now the Roasters have been stuffed, their bellies stapled shut and their ankles wired to the spit. What the crew is doing now is transferring the spit to the basting trestles. They'll flip the girls face down, wire their arms together behind their backs and secure them to their torsos so they don't flop around as the spit turns. Here come the Breeder Girls to encase the hair in foil so it doesn't burn. Any other body or pubic hair would be singed off, but, as you've seen, our girls don't have any. After the chefs give the Roasters a final wash, they'll baste them with our own buttery secret sauce and they'll be ready to go over the fire. Don't they look yummy!"