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Part 6
As it turns out, they were delicious.
As was the rest of her.
Crystal's recovery from near strangulation was instantaneous. The terror she'd felt during her hanging (and she'd been up there a good nine minutes) became a powerful aphrodisiac that redoubled her determination to be turned into meat and eaten. She also liked being treated like an animal, a cow being readied for the abattoir. I admit that I was a bit queasy when she started cutting up Brandi, but for Crystal it was something of a religious experience. She began by kissing and caressing her all over. Then, calm as you please, took a saw and a knife and cut off one leg, one arm and a breast. When she looked up and got a load of my expression (I was near to puking), she put down her implements and wrapped her arms around me, pressing her naked body against me.
"It's all right," she soothed. "This is what she wanted. We used to talk about it and get ourselves off speculating on what it would be like, how we would be butchered and served. We used to argue about whether we'd taste better roasted whole, or pan fried, or baked, or what. This way we can try all different ways so we'll know which way to do me when it's my turn."
"So you still want to go through with it, even after nearly strangling at the end of a rope?"
"God, yes! That was awesome! It made me realize how important it is to have a long, slow death. I must have come twenty times before you took me down."
"So would you have preferred I leave you there to die with Brandi?"
"Oh no. I'm glad you saved me. Thank you, Master. Now I get to do it again, but differently. Knowing that I won't be saved this time will make it stupendously awesome!"
"And yet you say you don't want to die."
"Well, yeah."
"I have to admit, my little cow, that I'm having a hard time reconciling your self-described death wish with a desire to live."
"Let's put it this way: I'm scared of dying, like everyone else, and would really like to live forever. But that won't happen. And I don't want to die of cancer or in an automobile accident. That would be horrible, a waste. But to be stripped naked, slaughtered and cooked . . . God! The thought of it makes me tingle all over. It's an incredible rush!" She narrowed her eyes. "You're not chickening out on me, are you?"
"Absolutely not. Get back to work!"
She smiled, and I felt a shiver run through her. She kissed me quickly, then turned back to Brandi's body.
During the preceding week, Crystal had considered preparing a stuffing to test out for the roasting. She checked out various recipes for stuffing turkeys and pigs, but finally decided it would be best simply to remove the intestines and leave the other organs intact. Her reasoning was that if we decided she herself should be roasted live on a spit, she'd stay alive longer if there were less trauma to her insides.
"You told me you wanted to avoid pain," I pointed out.
"Yeah, but that would be so cool! Being put on a spit and roasted live . . . wow!"
"How about trussing you up in the fetal position and roasting you on a pan in the oven?"
"In the first place," she pouted, "no one could watch me cook. In the second place, since you don't have a big enough oven, you'd have to chop me up into little pieces. That's not very sexy, and besides, I want to live long enough to experience the start of the cooking process."
"Don't you think running a steel spit through the length of your body will kill you?"
"Not if you do it slowly and carefully. You just have to miss the heart and lungs, that's all."
"Oh, is that all? And how the hell do we miss the lungs, pray tell?"
"You just slip it between them."
"We're talking major league pain here!"
"Maybe you'll be nice and give me a pain killer. Get me really, really drunk. Or high, like Brandi was. Oh please, Master! It would be so much cooler than just dying."
"I'll think about it," I said, pressing two fingers into her very wet southern entrance. "Now get back to work."
As I withdrew my hand from between her legs, she grabbed it, thrust the fingers in her mouth and sucked them clean of her own juices, all the while gazing at me, her eyes sparkling.
Turning back to the table, she took a heavy cleaver and chopped the arm and leg into smaller pieces which she wrapped up and stored in the fridge. Next she cut open the abdomen and extracted the intestines and liver. The guts she put into a garbage bag. The liver she wrapped for the fridge. The other organs she left in the carcass.
We brought out the spit rod and carefully inserted it into Brandi's vagina and up through her body. Crystal sliced her open at the sternum so I could see how to avoid puncturing the lungs in the process of aiming the point of the spit toward the neck. By tilting Brandi's head backwards off the end of the table we were able to achieve a clean exit, the bloody point of the spit emerging through her open mouth. Crystal sewed up the eviscerated belly. She had bent a threaded rod into an L shape; now she inserted the long part of the L deep into Brandi's anus; the short bar was bolted to the spit to keep the body turning with the spit as it rotated over the fire. Brandi's remaining arm was wired to her body and the leg was wired to the spit. The hair was tied into a bun and covered with aluminum foil so it wouldn't burn off.
We carried the spit to the roasting pit and set it in place. The foot end had been fitted with a cogged gear that engaged with the electric motor to keep it turning slowly over the gas flames and cherry red coals.
Crystal basted the carcass periodically with a paint brush, using a buttery concoction seasoned with garlic and herbs. About six hours later we deemed Brandi thoroughly cooked and transferred the steaming hot carcass to a picnic table covered with several layers of thick plastic sheeting and festooned with fruits, cooked vegetables and parsley. Her skin had roasted to a dark golden brown and was glistening with the many layers of basting combined with her own drippings. The only flaw in the presentation was that we had neglected to protect the eyes from the heat and they had burst. "Be sure to pin my eyelids shut after I've died," Crystal told me, stuffing kumquats in the sockets.
"Maybe we should have covered the whole face with foil," I suggested.
"Wait till we taste the tongue. I'll bet you change your mind."
At first I didn't think I could really do it: eat another human being. But Crystal charged right in, slicing off the remaining breast and a large slab of thigh meat, then dividing it between us on my Limoges dinnerware. Watching her chewing the breast meat, savoring it with her eyes closed, made me rethink my reluctance. I couldn't allow myself to turn sissy at this point, so I cut off a chunk of the breast and tried it. It was tender, sweet and extraordinarily delicious! Before I knew it, I had emptied my plate and was looking for other cuts to try.
Human girl meat, I had discovered, has a flavor unlike any other. I won't even attempt to describe it. I will only say that I developed an instant passion for it. Each and every cut has its own distinctive variation of flavor — the flank, rump, brisket, thigh, calf, breast, ribs, tongue, liver, kidneys, heart, even the fingers and toes. Over the next month Crystal found a dozen delightful ways to cook up the parts she had removed earlier, all of them delicious. But nothing quite came up to the succulence of that outdoor roast over the fire.
This introduction to the superb quality of roast female changed my perspective dramatically. Much as I enjoyed Crystal's body for sexual intimacies, I couldn't help but imagine her turning on that spit. Where once the image horrified me, now it made my mouth water. Inevitably the prospect of cooking her became irresistibly inviting, even more so than the sex.
But there was a catch. She had her heart set on being the featured entree at a banquet, not just a feast for one. By now we were fully into the Master & Cow fantasy and she would do whatever I ordered her to do. I could simply have tied her up and run the spit through her. She'd cooperate. But we had made a bargain at the beginning and she had faithfully kept her part of it (and given me tons of creative and exhausting coitus as a bonus), so I felt it was only right that I carry out my part. Trouble is, where keeping all this between just the two of us was relatively safe, bringing in others greatly increased the risk. Trying to postpone the inevitable, I suggested we delay her own roasting so we could develop our cooking techniques. I offered to lure prostitutes off the streets so we could load them up with street drugs, then snuff and cook them, as we did with Brandi.
"That wouldn't be right," she informed me. "We should only snuff girls who volunteer. Besides, I don't want to be the cook; I want to be the main course. I want to be chained to a post and put on display naked like a prize heifer so people can inspect me and prod me and discuss my good and bad points and which cuts of meat they think might be the most tender or tasty. An animal readied and led to slaughter. You can even sew my lips shut, if you want, so I can't speak."
She was right. I had promised her a designer death, and I owed her.
Obviously I couldn't advertise for accomplices to murder (which, believe it or not, is how the law would construe these proceedings), so I had to do some rather unusual networking. It just so happens that I know a few call girls. Well, all right, several call girls. A couple of them have boyfriends who have done some fairly serious time. I remembered the girls laughing about how a little poon offered to the right DA's assistant could get a guy's charges reduced from first degree murder to manslaughter. They both worked for an outcall service operated by their boyfriend-pimps, Tony and Eric. It was easy enough to set up a session with the two of them. During the session it only took a lot of charm (and a little more lucre) to talk them into introducing me to Tony and Eric.
"You guys play pool?" I asked.
"Fuckin' A!"
"You good for ten bucks a game?"
"Bet your ass!"
I didn't happen to mention that I have a pool table in my game room and that I can pocket eight balls in a row most any time I decide to get serious. But on that particular night I won just enough to establish myself as a contender, and lost just enough to let them make a profit.
"Hey, I got to get going!" I said, checking my watch. "But listen: can you guys meet me for another game tomorrow night? Fifty bucks a game?"
You bet your ass they could. Only this time I showed up with Crystal in tow. I introduced her as my "slave."
"Whatda ya mean, your slave?" asked Tony.
"I own her. She signed herself over to me as my property. Didn't you, cunt?"
"Yes, Master."
"She's my pet cow. She'll do whatever I tell her. Any time, anywhere."
"Cool. Can you get her to suck my cock?"
"Sure."
"Right here in the bar?"
"Absolutely. She'll do whatever I tell her."
"So tell her."
"If she does it, will you spot me one pocket in our next game?"
"Yeah, yeah. Tell the bitch to suck me off."
"Crystal, suck this gentleman's cock!"
"Yes, Master."
As we had planned, she dropped obediently to her knees in front of Tony, opened his fly and began to fish out his shlong.
"Jesus!" he said, pulling away. "She really will." He zipped himself back up, glancing around to make sure no one was about to throw him out for public indecency. "If she'll do anything you say, why don't you have her out on the street makin' money for you? And for Chrissake, get her off the floor!"
"Up on your chair, Crystal!" I ordered. "Sorry, Tony. Not interested in the street thing. It's more fun keeping her in my own private collection. Besides, she's scheduled for snuffing, anyway."
"Snuffing? What the fuck do you mean?"
"Tell him, Crystal."
"Master is planning to slaughter and cook me at his next barbecue."
"You mean kill you? And then eat you?"
"Yes. Kill me, cook me and eat me."
"And this is okay with you? You know he's planning to off you and you're still hangin' around?"
"I have to. I'm his cow."
"His cow?"
"Yes, sir. Master has decided it's time to slaughter me for meat."
" He decided, so you're just gonna let him do it?!"
"Yes, sir. I'm his property. I don't have any say."
"Don't have any say? Jesus! You could run away right now, you stupid cunt! We're in a public place! You could scream your ass off if he tries to stop you."
"But I don't want to. If Master wants me to be meat, I'll be meat. I look forward to being meat because it pleases my Master."
Seeing the two men were struck dumb, I asked, "Would you and Eric like to come? I have a pool table and a huge liquor supply. We can amuse ourselves for hours while Crystal roasts. Bring the girls, too. Crystal will be happy to service all of you before we put her over the fire."
It took them a while to get past the unlikeliness of it all, but it was Crystal's unabashed acceptance of dying for their amusement that finally won them over. After all, how often does a guy get invited to a party where a beautiful girl is willing to be snuffed and cooked? Even their initial revulsion at the idea of eating her flesh was quickly replaced by a morbid curiosity of what human meat — specifically, girl meat — tastes like. The promise of unlimited access to her three orifices prior to the snuffing helped, too; as did my request to purchase (at a handsome profit to them) a nice supply of liquid morphine to ease Crystal on her way. They assured me they would have no trouble locating a source. They even agreed to bring their girlfriends. "Do 'em good to see what can happen to a troublesome bitch," Tony chortled. The girls were less than enthusiastic about eating Crystal, but were as fascinated as the men by the idea of watching her snuffed. More important, there was obviously a fear factor involved. These girls were not about to object to any decisions made by Tony and Eric.
We set a date for the barbecue about a month away, with twice a week meetings in between for pool games. And for me to make sure they didn't back out.
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