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The Challenge.
By ninja5
“Right here she is Taylor Swift. Clap your hands,” Bobby Bones started clapping and the entourage of Lunchbox, Amy, Eddie and technical support joined in. There was a woo and Taylor stepped into the Studio. She started to speak, but was out of range of a mic so her voice didn’t cut in till she sat.
“…thank you… thank you for the clapping.” She’d played down her celebrity as she entered the studio with a tray covered in a red and white checker cloth. They were homemade cookies for the presenters. Her hair hang freely and the lights of the studio reflected of her natural curls. The loose fitting cottons top and jeans carried the persona of her responsibility. The minimalist attire was because she was on radio, no cameras could see her. She had always been credited with being good a role model for young girls. Nervous energy, jittering to excitement and a bawdy sexuality gave the impression she belonged in the cult of celebrity. She was marketable. She took in the scene, open to all in the studio, not just Bobby.
“You’re welcome”, Bobby said as he made a last minute check of the point format of the scripted interview. “How is it going?”
“It’s going really well.” She was acknowledging the CMA nomination for entertainer of the year, whilst also not seeming too eager. She flip-flopped on this. Sometimes in interviews she would be ‘so…so excited’ about a nomination. Other times she would play it down as if it were crazy people got excited about such things. “How are you guys doing?”
“I’m good”, Bobby had to take the focus away from his co-hosts. He was giving the interview. “What time did you wake up this morning?”
“I woke up at s…six AM.”
“We were wondering if they set up like a mock studio and ran through some of the interview with you. Like a little mock, this, and asked you some questions.” Bobby knew the answer. Taylor wouldn’t have agreed to the interview if she knew his where his line of questioning would lead, it was all about getting the idea out there.
“Like they do with the President?”
“Yes.” Bobby was taken aback by the jocular ease she fell into the nature of his brand.
“Of course. This is a very important day for me.” There was the classy humour aggrandising the interview that was part of her charm. The questions would follow the general an outline she had gone through, but there would be a tangent, and it had to seem to come up naturally.
From outside the Studio Tom Sommer stood in his khaki pants and blue polo. He was listening intently. Taylor’s game face was tattooed on if it was a game face at all. He’d managed Taylor since the Big Machine Records had signed her – they were owned and answered to Sony however. She didn’t make mistakes. She always claimed that she wrote every day about her life and so her songs were about her life. As the interview progressed, a parroted the sales pitch. Tom knew what Taylor didn’t. Now that Gynophobia was in the mix the world was shifting away from the pop-country good-girl brand. This would be Taylor’s last selling album because her life experiences didn’t reflect on the evolved attitude to women. The risk was that women who wanted to be eaten would be seen as tattooed biker women and promiscuous co-ed were – and that it would be detrimental to a girl’s reputation to be eaten. The directive had come down from on high in Japan dictate by the cost of exponential population growth and ingrained chauvinistic standards. Legitimize women as food in the US.
Tom knew every word of the interview outline, both versions. Taylor had prepared for her version and Bobby Bones had prepared for his. His plan had Taylor committing to a statement. “Always got to be the good girl Taylor – can’t upset anyone.”
Bobby was asking Taylor what art she had in her house. Everything fell into place when Taylor mentioned the photo of her Dad in a recording studio listening to music with a smile on his face. She was saying that is the ‘quintessential’ image of her father. “So are these for us?” Bobby said after the mentioning reading an article in USA Today where both he and she were mention as rising from mediocrity. “What did you bake us?”
The tray Taylor had bought in was being circulated around the studio. It wasn’t Taylor’s idea to bring in the cookies. Tom knew how to accentuate her image. “I go, like, through cooking phases. First I was on like a pumpkin phase, and then it was, like, cinnamon… I baked anything with cinnamon. Now it’s mint. These are mint choc-chip cookies. You know, like, the green ice-cream with the chocolate chips.
“They’re green.”
“Yeah, just like the ice-cream.”
“These are great. Look here, we got something for you.”
“What is that?”
“Well we heard you liked cooking with pumpkin so we got you…”
“Is that a pumpkin?”
“It’s a pumpkin with orange flowers growing out of it.”
Taylor would have had to reach for the pumpkin if she was to accept it. She knew her actions were expressed to the listens through her voice so she teased. “Did you have that lying around?”
“It was mine.” Amy, one of the offsiders of the show voiced up. Lunch Box and Eddie kept silent.
“See it was hers and she really liked it and you took it from her.” There wasn’t a hint of judgement in Taylor’s voice over the playfulness.
Bobby settled in his seat. “So what do you think you’ll move onto cooking next?” It wasn’t an album piece. This interview was to promote the label of Taylor Swift and that meant listeners getting to think of her as the girl next door. Someone they could actually touch.
“I don’t know…”
She was cut off by Bobby as he followed Tom’s scripted deviation. “You interested in this new Gynophagia thing?”
Taylor’s eye’s registered the detour, but didn’t waver either. “I don’t think so…”
“You don’t think so?”
“No.” The banter was quick and appeared unrehearsed like the rest of the interview, except the rest of the interview had been rehearsed.
From behind the glass Tom took pride in his client. She was the genuine article. He was glad it was Bobby setting the trap and not him. Though a professional, it would have been distasteful for him to initiate the concept of Taylor as...
“Would you consider volunteering for a barbeque or something?”
“Something?” Taylor was buying time to think of a response.
“You know, not something like the Japanese sushi thing…” It was the latest fade in Japan to each girls raw. They were strapped to tables and thin slices of flesh were peeled of their bodies and served whilst the girls screamed. Though all the girls volunteered for the honour, it was known that as the process progressed, they all changed their minds. “… or what the Indians are doing.” The Indian’s lack of electricity in remote parts of the country meant that meat spoiled. Girls had limbs and portions of flesh removed as required while the girls still lived. The problem was that parts of the world that didn’t have electricity usually didn’t have readily accessible supplies of pain killers either.
Taylor refused all political stances. She couldn’t come out against another countries customs or circumstances. Tom wasn’t smiling, but he knew it was going according to directives. Taylor was being boxed into a corner. The American style was being promoted in a positive light forcing Taylor to accept it. The tabloid media would pick it up and run with it from here.
“I like how...” She didn’t come out and just say it.
The offsider Amy voiced up again and the words came from a woman. “…we do it”
“...how we do it.” That was the unfortunate grace of Taylor. She could be led into saying things. Tom allowed himself a small smile as they were halfway there. Taylor couldn’t phrase it noncommittally. Taylor wasn’t prepared. She couldn’t condone the practise in other parts of the world. She opted for patriotism. She lived in Nashville after all. Corn and pumpkins.
“You like the old fashion social get together and barbeque?”
“Yeah.” It was a natural end to the tangent. Taylor was trusting and that is what she put it down to. A random tangent a disc jockey had gone off on before he got back to the scripted interview.
The listening audience couldn’t see how everyone in the studio was silent as Bobby took one last look at his interview dot points. Agreeing to follow the points had won the studio the interview and whatever happened next would get a lot of media coverage, and get him a lot of exposure. “Would you ever volunteer for a barbeque?”
“As a spit muffin?” Taylor paused for a moment, but was an impeccable people person. “No, not my thing.”
Tom grew tense behind the glass. She’d taken a stance and it wasn’t the one his bosses, bosses wanted.
Fortunately Bobby Bones had ambitions to raise his profile, which meant he wanted the exposure. “You talked before about how much your Dad means to you.”
“Yeah.”
“You’re Dad goes to these Barbeques. Do you think he is… taking advantage of these girls who volunteer?”
“No.” The answer was instantaneous. She didn’t seem at all tested, if anything she was seizing the moment to promote her own acute mind.
“But you wouldn’t volunteer. Do you think these girls are making a mistake?” If she said they were or stood against it she would be the dismantling the defence of her father’s indulgences.
“No. I mean… I guess it’s what’s right for them and their state of mind, and if I were in that state of mind I may say ‘sure, eat me’.”
“So Taylor Swift could be on the menu in the future?”
“It’s possible. Anything’s possible.”
Tom slammed his fist into his palm as if his team had just scored a touchdown. It was a start. The tabloids would go nuts. There would be sound bights and YouTube videos with pictures of Taylor playing the audio in the background. This was going to take off.
Bobby went back to script. “So, you’ve been nominated for an ACM award…”
***
Schrodinger’s cat had been put in the box. Taylor signed the legal document in the twenty-ninth floor office of Big Machine records. The boardroom that had been reserved was overkill. Only Taylor, Tom and a grey suit from legal were present.
“I’m not telling you you’re doing the right thing Taylor.” He called everyone else ‘Kid’, everyone who wasn’t talent anyway. Technically he couldn’t. If Taylor was at all coerced into signing the papers an intervention could be filed with a phone call. So temporary were the new laws that they hadn’t been tested yet. Lawyers were more involved and painstakingly chosen than the chefs who prepared the meal. One day there would be a test case – a girl who backed out at the last minute. If she was spared the spit any girl could meat-tease her way into deals. If she wasn’t spared the forcible cooking of a young girl in the free world would create social backlash and the practise would die out before it took off in the distinct disinterest of the Japanese. The laws regarding the importation of cloned Japanese females had hit more hurdles because of the Bible belt screaming ‘Playing God’. The ceremonial sacrifice of a girl as cuisine had more success. ‘Thank God the bible screwed women over’, Tom thought as he signed and legal consent contract as witness that essential saw Taylor degraded to the status of cattle if she lost to Miley.
Taylor had wanted this to happen away from her family. Her parents, well her Mother anyway, would object. She didn’t know what her father would think. He was a constantly excited man. Every one of Taylor’s performances was her best, every song she wrote deserved to be number one. He was the polar opposite of Taylor’s mum. She was logical and her agreement against signing the papers would be a solid one – ‘You’ll be dead’.
The Grey suit collected the papers, emotionally detached, he couldn’t get involved in the situation regardless of his personal thoughts on Gynophagia and the girls who consented to it. It was a little late for second thoughts but Taylor voiced. “Do you think…”
“No.” Tom cut her off before she could finish. He didn’t know what she was going to say, but he addressed the elephant in the room. “Miley is trash. She’s pure manufactured pop. No substance.”
Taylor forced a smile. Her hands and posture went from a defensive, insecure position to one of worshiper.
Tom rose and walked the length of the board room table to where Taylor was still sitting. She was in that moment after a car accident. Something had just happened, something she had not processed yet, all she knew is that there were damages. She just hoped she wouldn’t be fitting the bill. “I can tell you you’re not taking a risk; I can tell you even if it the count comes out against you can get out of it; I can tell whatever you want to hear, but do you know what you have to do? Do what Miley can’t. Write. Write an entire fucking album. Write about the doubts. Write about the anticipation - the excitement. Write about the sacrifice and how no other slutted up, Miley Cyrus, bitch is going to be eaten by your man.” Tom was on a roll with his pitch, almost manic with intensity. Taylor was a sucker for a charismatic sales pitch. “Miley’s name comes up, you’ll be the soundtrack to her barbeque. You’re name comes up – you’ll join the Twenty-seven club with an album that makes the times… Kurt Cobain… Who the fuck got to eat Kurt Cobain. That stoner didn’t bring about a Social revolution.” Tom back away from Taylor. She had the twinkle back in her eye. Her ambition was never seen, she wore the face of one who just loved to perform and she was being told a tale of her greatest performance. “Either Miley gets eaten and we sell more records, or… We could make fucking music history Taylor.” He clenched his fist.
Taylor dipped her head to the side and her hair blazed golden. She exercised her internal monologue to write songs. Had she not just committed to, and signed onto, the idea of being eaten her brain would have told her if Miley won, she died… but her brain wouldn’t tell her that till she excised her music and actually wrote about it. Even then, the song would go on, or there would be another. Simple Taylor Swift had moved to a place where she wouldn’t grasped the consequences until it was too late.
“Ok… I’m going to need to go to barbeques. I guess, hangout with some of the girls who volunteer.” She smiled a sucker for support, but also naturally playing down Tom’s grandiose idea.
I’ll see to it.” They might even get some suckers volunteer just to spend time with her. “You want to head back home to write, or you want me to book a studio?”
“No, I’ll go home.” Taylor was moving away from the media, but also getting away from Tom’s influence. Neither suited Tom, or perhaps… No, being away from the media would put less pressure on her and less pressure meant less chance to back out. He did, indeed, have to avoid at all costs, the test case of the consent contract being a celebrity like Taylor.
“Ok. You need anything, you call.”
***
“Ok.” Jane looked absolutely terrified. “I’ve been locked away in a studio with Sara Evans for the last three months. You’re going to have to fill me in on how you went from a Radio interview to a contest to the death with Miley Cyrus.”
Taylor scrunched up a side of her face. Jane Hawthorne was a lyricist and musician Big Machine hired to polish up Taylor’s songs. If Taylor wrote a ten minute piece, or her changeovers weren’t smooth, Jane came in and worked with Taylor to get them studio ready. She wasn’t a feminist, but… ‘Gynophagia - really’.
Taylor sat in the bedroom of her house; mansion – really big house. She wore tiny denim shorts and a woollen sweater. Her mandatory caffeine was present in the form of a diet coke and she was critiquing her own lyrics before playing them through for Jane. “It’s, like, not actually going to happen… Why are you against this anyway, aren’t you, like, famous for being ‘Country off the times?’”
“We aren’t at raising cloned Japanese girls as cattle just yet kiddo. No need to jump on a trend that’s still taboo.”
“Ok, ok. That’s where it started.” Taylor forgot the song she was working. “So it was after the radio show, and I said to Tom ‘That was pretty weird’ and he said ‘Well it’s kind of taking off’ and I’m like ‘I don’t see it’, cause the chick in the radio studio was all mellow with it, but…”
“Ok Kiddo, you’re writing a ten minute song again. I’m going to cut it down for you by highlighting some key points.” Jane was also sitting on the floor. She was uncomfortable as she was not as young and nubile as Taylor, but she tried not to let her sore buttocks dictate her tone. “They bought it up on the radio and I’m assuming made the link to your father.”
“Yeah.” Taylor’s eyes lit up at Jane’s insight and she nodded at the synchronicity of thought.
“The chick disc-jockey was cool with it and you didn’t judge.”
Taylor paused in thought. Should she have judged?
“You said, on air, that you might be amenable to being eaten and then after Tom had something to say.” Jane’s talent, but lack of success as an artist in her own right made her suspicious of music managers. Vindictively she blamed them for her own lack of a recording contract, but was grateful to play the role she played in others. Love hate.
“He was like… ‘Well it’s out there now, we’re going to have to deal with it.’ So – I was meeting my Dad – he came along just for the start and said, ‘Take her along with you next time you, you know.’ My Dad was ‘I’m not taking my daughter one of those thing.’” So high an opinion of her father had Taylor she didn’t see the barbeques were like his secret porn stash – something his daughter should have nothing to do with. “So Tom was ‘How about I set one up.’”
“And your Dad was, ‘Hey, free barbeque.’”
“Totally, that’s exactly what happened.” Jane was putting words and her opinion of men into Taylor’s mouth, not deliberately, just by nature. “So Tom gets me this invite this Sony label event.” Sony owned Big Machine, but seldom dictated their operations. “So it just like Laura Bell, Tim McGraw…” Taylor waved her hand. She didn’t need to list the names. They were all at some point the people Jane collaborated with. “…but Billy Ray Cyrus was there.”
“He’s Kentucky.” Jane corrected.
“No idea why he was there, or his little…” Taylor looked around. She always did when she was about to swear. She didn’t need to say ‘slut’, the pause spelled it out. “… of a daughter was there too.”
“She’s not country.” Technically neither was Taylor anymore. The Pop-Country thing had bought her the real success.
“I did the Hannah Montana thing.” Taylor’s pencil was dancing over her stretch out naked legs. Her face reflected her thoughts more acutely than her words could have. Taylor Swift had sung a song in the Hannah Montana movie before Miley had gone… ‘All sexed up’. “So she didn’t know anyone, and she expected them to be all over her, but when that didn’t happen she comes up to me and she’s acting like all the ‘image’ doesn’t exist. Like she’s still the Miley who did Hannah Montana.”
“You bought it, didn’t you kiddo.”
“I talked to her.” Now the expression was one that she had been reasonable, not that she had been taken in by a social façade. “So that’s when Tom came up and said to ‘me’, ‘Do you want to meet the spit-muffin’.”
“That’s what he called her.” Jane was a little out of the loop. She wasn’t really up on slang that didn’t exist before Nineteen-eighty. It was strange that the Country music of the time relied on modern concepts but antiquated phrases.
“I was going ‘Not really’” Taylor re-enacted her put off gesture of hands circle uncomfortably. “But Miley just perks up like its Thanks-giving and the next thing I know we’re following Tom to the kitchen.” Taylor put the pencil down and leant forward. She was getting to the meat of the story. “We get to the kitchen and there’s this girl. Brunette. Really pretty. She’s dazed out of her mind and smiling.”
“Wait! Hold up. The girl was still alive.” Jane couldn’t believe what she was hearing.
“And smiling.” Taylor waved her hands like she still didn’t know what had happened in the kitchen. “Now she was on painkillers, so she wouldn’t suffer, but she was so excited to be cooked and eaten by…” Taylor pointed both index fingers inwards, but said “…us.” The disbelief turned to a frown. “Then Miley walks right up to her and just… like completely… starts finger banging the girl.”
Jane’s expression didn’t change. She’d been on disbelief since ‘alive’.
“No one’s saying anything. It was just like – knock yourself out Miley.” The brunette girl was cattle. She had no rights and sexual molestation was not really off the cards when you were about to eat someone. “So, she’s doing it until the girl starts enjoying it then she just leans in and says to the girl ‘I’m gonna eat your pussy’.” Taylor was indignant, even in the retelling.
“’Eat’, eat? Not, ‘Hello sister’ eat?” Jane checked for clarification. Miley would do anything for notoriety.
Taylor’s expression clarified.
“So how’d you get in the fight to the death?”
“Just… I didn’t like the way Miley treated her. ‘Cause she’s, still a person,” Taylor skipped the details of the argument. “The next day a tabloid had the argument pretty much word for word. Chef must have sold the story.” Tom handed the article to a particularly notorious tabloid complete with quotes. By the next day the story had saturated the internet and even if Taylor had wanted to distance herself from Gynophagia she was firmly associated with it. “The articles were all about, ‘Taylor would do it. Will Miley?’”. Even the serial papers had picked up the story. “It’s on the news; on the radio; The E-channel’s going nuts.” Taylor was touted as a willing girl who just wanted fair treatment. She’d become a poster child for pro-gynophagia movements. The girl next door for dinner. “Naturally the negative attention on Miley had made her come out and declare she also wanted to be eaten, and wanted to be treated like meat.” Two views came out and the press had selected there champions. Paparazzi and sensationalism had bought it to a head and Miley Cyrus’ publicist had finally come out challenging Taylor to set a date. “Tom stood up for me saying I was sure to win a Grammy as a delay tactic, but that’s when Miley said I should commit to being eaten if I didn’t win. Tom pushed back… now whoever wins eats the loser on their terms.”
Jane could see Taylor was moving out of her creative state of mind with the recollection. Productivity was Jane’s pay check. Taylor’s stupid situation was now her problem. “That brunette girl at the party… How’d she taste?” she said back tracking.
Taylor’s eyes fluttered. “Pretty good.”
“Ok you little air-head. Let’s make sure you win that Grammy.” Jane extended her arm for the sheet of lyrics Taylor had been proofing. As Taylor stretched forward and handed them over she reached for her guitar to play out the music as Jane read the lyrics. As Taylor checked her guitar was in tune Jane voiced a concept that had not occurred to Taylor amidst the fury of the media. “Taylor, what happens if neither of you wins the Grammy?”
***
The voice came into the booth from the control room. “Ok Taylor the vocals are sweet. Can we keep Jane to lay the guitar down again?”
Taylor took of the headphones and turned to Jane. Jane didn’t need to lay the guitar down again. What the mixer wanted was something to use as an overlay during transitions. Two recordings, slightly out of sync giving the acoustic guitar more reverberation. She turned and gave Jane an apologetic smile, but she needed out of the studio for a moment.
As Jane waited for Taylor to close the soundproof door of the booth Taylor heard the voice of the mixer again. This time from the control room. “Ok Jane, same thing as before, a fraction faster tempo on the eighth bar. Jane started playing and Taylor danced by to the adjacent bathroom in the studio. Tom stepped into her path.
“It’s a good song.” He said noncommittally.
“Thank you.” Taylor said. ‘My choice’ was the second track they had worked on. It’s was the product of Taylor’s modulation to spit-muffin poster girl and her need to assert her hand had not been forced – she was stating she was in control. She went to step past Tom again, but as she did he voiced up.
“Listen we need to talk about something.” Tom didn’t push himself on the talent unless he was feeling pressured to.
All the same Taylor protested. “Can it wait? Is now the best possible time?” She’d been stopped in her tracks.
“Miley’s crashing every barbeque there is. She’s marshalling the volunteers, making reality show like celebrities out of them.” This was about the contest. Taylor had been caught in an image war. Miley was hard-core, she was the passive embracer.
“So… I don’t know? If there’s one in town I’ll go.” Taylor had been desensitised to the nature of the feud. She also needed to pee before she was delaying work on the next track.
“I was thinking something different.” Tom had a plan. He always spoke faster when he was laying out a scheme. “You are getting offers in your fan mail.”
“Offers? Like, ‘eat me’ offers.”
“From here, Australia, Japan, Europe, everywhere we sell.” Tom didn’t need to manipulate. He’d navigated Taylor to where the Exec’s back in Japan wanted her, all he had to do now was let it play out – with a little guidance.
“That sounds… kind of intimate.” Taylor had forgotten she needed to pee. “How many letters?” Taylor’s fan mail went to the studio. All had to be read as part of security. Catching a stalker as they started through threatening letters standard practise. Most letters went unreplied. A few special cases, like sick or dying fans were passed onto Taylor, but on the whole she was sheltered from the abundance of letters, tweets, forum comments and emails she received.
“You could feed a small country.” Tom had his serious face on.
“…and Miley?”
“When she gets through she will have eaten a small country.” Tom put his hand on Taylor’s shoulder. “She’s getting more extreme, filtering out girls who will do it with no painkillers and parading them around the parties naked.” He squeezed her shoulder. “She’s turning them into slaves before she eats them.”
Taylor frowned. “So what can I do?” The lambent charisma of Taylor was vacant from the conversation. The best outcome of Taylor falling under this expectation is that she wore her desires on her face and the public could see she wanted gynophobia to be wholesome.
“The same, only your way.” Tom relaxed letting Taylor think the solution was at hand. “We’ll come up with a short list, filter out those just seeking attention and you start inviting them over for a barbeque.”
Taylor’s eye’s flashed in comprehension and surprise. “You want me to start eating my most ardent fans?”
Tom gave Taylor a look that always made her think she was being naive. “Taylor, your most ardent fans want you to start eating them.”
***
Josie Harpeford was just a dumb high school girl from Iowa. Pretty, but dumb. She had been thrust into temporary celebrity status by an invitation from Tom Sommer’s office asking her if she was indeed interested in being Taylor Swift’s dinner and the girl had been ecstatic. Her parents she thought, so unreasonable in their remorse, just didn’t understand that she was going to meet and be eaten by The Taylor Swift.
The outfit was gifted to her by a designer. A designer gifting a high school girl an outfit! Stylists and promotionists had tended and pampered the girl so jittery she could barely believe she was being bon-voyaged to the end. She’d been flown by private jet to Tennessee and then a town car picked her up and drove her onwards towards Taylor Swift’s family home. Taylor’s mum wasn’t big on the idea, especially having the film crew and Japanese chef occupy her house. Taylor’s Dad took his wife’s side, though at sighting the eighteen year olds supple body had salivated in anticipation. Tom had mediated as Taylor would have let the matter slide. It wasn’t until Miley had audaciously pulled a girl from a concert audience and declared she was going to eat her without any knowledge of the girls consent to the matter that Taylor’s mother came around. As Tom had explained, “If the attitude Miley was championing prevailed, consent may be coerced.”
As the car pulled up Taylor opened the front door to her parents’ house. The cameras were waiting and the driver and a bouncer / chaperone had to physically hold them back as Josie stepped out of the vehicle. Tom couldn’t have prayed for better footage. Josie hands went to her mouth as Taylor stepped out. The press couldn’t enter her property. As the chaperone placed his hand on Josie’s back to guide her out of the crowd questions and prompts for sound bights turned into a tumult. Josie managed to say one comment to a half heard question.
“I’m just really happy that Taylor Swift is going to eat me.” She was pushed onto private property. The impact of so much attention had removed any chance of Josie changing her mind.
Taylor stepped out. She had her face on. The ecclesia that was the media saw the natural charisma and sway as Taylor announced from a distance that she was happy to receive Josie into her parents’ home. “Turn back and give them a wave. Watch them go ballistic.” Taylor’s mannerisms and inflection of voice were platonically flirtatious. Josie, after the thrill of the exposure, was instantaneously met with her idols friendship.
As Josie turned and waved, Taylor turned with her. The camera’s caught every detail of the civility and celebrity of the meal. It made Miley’s flamboyant declarations of woman as food seen sexually mezzanine. Sex wasn’t in Taylor’s equation. Taylor followed as Josie entered her parents’ home and she shut the door. “Ok Josie.” Taylor was jittery away from the red carpet like performance. Her naturally energy came through. “We’ve got five microseconds before the film crew in the house gets here.”
Josie was startled. She was so transfixed on Taylor she didn’t even look around at the pictures on the wall, or the layout of the house. It was as though the reporters were still around her blinding her with flashes and lighting from the cameras.
“Josie”, Taylor joined her hands in a horizontal pray. “You tell me know if you don’t want to go through with this.”
Josie looked surprised. Her consumer was questioning her consent. Her mouth dropped open as if… as if she was so taken by her company that she would do any. Maybe even something she didn’t really comprehend.
The film crew from the network interrupted them. The camera man turned into the hall of the entrance and sighted the camera before Josie had a chance to answer. Taylor immediately put on the performance. “So Josie…” The joined hands reached forward and took Josie by hers. “This is my Mum and Dad’s home.” She paused for Josie to speak.
Josie was shaking. A viewer would see it as excitement. She’d taken a leap attached to a bungie cord. Josie was falling, her fate was all control was out of her hands. “Wow.” Was all Josie could say.
“Ok. We got lot’s to do. I want you to meet my Mum and Dad; I won’t you to meet the chef who’ll be cooking you; and I want to, like, run through the whole scenario just so you know exactly what’s happening… when it’s gonna happen…”
“Ok. Ok.” Josie had calmed a little with Taylors calm.
Taylor work the camera. “She’s so pretty”, she said in the third person. She leaned forward and hugged Josie simultaneously tuning her face to the camera. “Look at her, she’s so pretty.” The camera ate it up. “Ok, so this is the grand tour. Grand, like really brief and not flashing my parent’s home all over the television, but you know grandiose in a Tennessee way. Taylor walked ahead and like a duckling Josie followed. Taylor spoke to her, but it was for the camera. All the time Taylor questioned, digging for more than monosyllabic answers from Josie. Gradually as they explored the house Josie started to relax. Friendly repour had been established by the time the tour took them to the kitchen.
As Taylor pushed the swinging door open she didn’t hesitate to address the elephant in the room. “So, Josie, this is Teksuda Wakuda. He’s a very experienced and very famous chef from Japan.” Teksuda was wearing a white apron. He bowed to Josie then Taylor, giving his subject the respect she deserved. Taylor shuffled to a pose. Josie bowed back. “He’s going to run though…” The crew manager voiced up. He was out of microphone range so his voice was recorded as background. Audible, but background. It gave the piece they were filming authenticity as if it was unrehearsed.
“You’re going to explain…”
“I’m going to explain?” Taylor looked around. She’d prepared. She always prepared. “Ok, well Josie, this is Mr Teksuda Wakuda and his specialty… I think.” She looked to Teksuda for confirmation, “…is roasting. So we’ve - my parents – have had this oven put in.” Taylor highlighted the oven with flourishes and waves. “And when the time comes Mr Wakuda is going to prepare you and you’ll be cooked in the oven.” Taylor took her eyes off Josie who was nodding compliantly all through the brief description. Taylor looked back at the crew manager to see if she required more information.
“Josie’s provisions.”
Taylor hyped up. “Oh that’s important. Ok, so you’ve signed the consent form and it’s all legal… but…” Taylor smiled and delivered her prescribed stance, the role she had fallen into. “YOU get to decide if you want painkillers; if you want to be put under; or…” Taylor didn’t have to sugar coat the option of Josie being slaughtered prior to the oven. Josie finally spoke up.
“So I get to decide what experience I have?”
“Totally. If you’re like, I want to go to sleep on the tray and just – that’s it. If you want to whole experience you can just have the painkiller and you can slip away in the oven. It’s totally up to you.”
“Shouldn’t be done any other way.” The crew manager added his opinion… the opinion he presented to get the gig.
“So? Do you know? Do you want some time to think about it?” Taylor was fully engaging Josie again. The passive exclusion of the chef and the group support sounded by the crew manager lured Josie into a sense of security.
“I want to be in the oven.” Josie said nodding with all the self-assuredness and insight of a high school girl.
“You want to be awake in the oven?” Taylor was clarify.
“Yeah.” Josie continued to nod. She was sure.
“Ok.” Taylor turned to the chef. The chef bowed again. “Ok. When do you need us?” The ‘us’ was uttered so Taylor could promote Josie wasn’t doing this alone.
“Two hours for dinner at seven.” Teksuda said.
“Ok. Ok. Josie let’s hang.” As Taylor moved to the exit Josie turned and followed. The camera man backed out the door holding it open. The piece would be snippets of the evening spliced together. The footage had to be constant to capture every glance and gesture to make the piece work. They didn’t want to miss anything revealing.
The introduction to Taylor’s parents was awkward. Whether Taylor wanted it or not her father’s leering eyes appraising Josie’s thigh in the high cut dress would be televised around the world. More intimate was the time Taylor spent with Josie in her childhood bedroom. They both sat on the floor Taylor strumming her guitar and singing whatever song Josie requested. The conversation took a turn like an older cousin talking to another about life and boys. It was almost reflective on what Josie would miss. The proximity to reasons for Josie to back out didn’t come off as Josie making an error. Taylor came across as if she were gifting those experiences to Josie as payment for her sacrifice. With each chapter of young adulthood Taylor accompanied it with a song. Two hours passed quickly and Josie had settled becoming more sedated but nervous with the magnitude of what was encroaching. Voices could be heard from down stairs. The crew manager related the message. They were ready for Josie in the kitchen.
The walk down the stairs and back to the kitchen was a slow one. Taylor took a gamble and guided Josie by the hand. When they entered the kitchen the chef was all business. Taylor could feel Josie’s grip loosen slightly and the sweat on her hands. The two had bonded… Well, Taylor had given her the fan service she wanted. She was meticulous at it. She turned and hugged Josie the camera lapping up every second. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to.” Taylor said just loud enough for the camera, but soft enough to seem intimate. The media rescues, the sudden upwelling in thirty second celebrity status and the camera, recording and judging, were all too much pressure for Josie to back out. As Taylor pulled away the chef gestured for Josie to strip. The beautiful eighteen year old virgin fumbled for her zipper at the back of the gown. Taylor stepped in again and undid it for her. The dress was tight and Josie had to shimmy out of it, shaved and panyless, she stood bare in front of the flashing red light of the camera.
Josie had to forgo modesty as she climbed onto the tray on the kitchen table. The camera caught it all. She lay and Teksuda produced a needle. As the camera panned up and down Josie lying on the oven tray, taking in her nubile young body, Taylor took the back seat. This part of the filming was about Josie. This is what she had agreed to pay to be with her idol and share her spotlight. Teksuda dropped the plunger on the needle and the anaesthesia entered Josie’s vein. He waste no time. The only noise was the splosh and splash of the pastry brush as Teksuda started glazing Josie. As if out of respect he waited until the anaesthesia had taken affect before glazing her sensitive areas. Once she was oiled and glistened Teksuda took a skew and broke the silence. “Tell me if you feel anything.” He waited for Josie to nod and pricked her with the skew. Josie bit her lower lip, but remained silent. Teksuda pushed the skew in deeper… then deeper.
Peering down at her naked body Josie must have marvelled at the four inch skew disappearing into her thigh. Realising she was separate from pain she met Teksuda’s eyes. “Nothing”, she said.
Teksuda reached for a ruby red apple. “Open mouth.” His statements were all business now. Probably had to be less he was forced to come to terms with being an artistic murderer. Josie opened her mouth and then bit down on the apple as it was placed. “You get scared; you start feeling anxious - concentrate on holding apple in mouth.” The crew manager stepped out from behind the camera as Teksuda opened the oven door. With care both men lifted the tray and placed Josie in the oven.
***
Taylor sat next to Tom in his office watching the exposé. “It’s nice that they gave your Mum so much screen time whilst you were eating.” Tom had final say on the cut that went to air. After his approval the network would circulate it to newspapers and magazines to build up hype about. “I guess they wanted a first-timers view on it.”
“Yeah.” Taylor was distracted.
“Josie came over perfect.” Tom looked over at his client. “You should maybe write a song about her.” He liked the cut, but Taylor got input.
“Sure.”
“Looking ahead, both you and Miley have are going for best pop vocalist. You given any thought as to how you want to handle…”
“Eating her Tom.” Taylor snapped. She never snapped.
“Well that is what this is about Taylor. The album comes out two weeks after the Grammy’s. No one in pop or country has jumped on this yet. The album is ground zero.”
Taylor bolted upright. “I never wanted to be the poster girl for gynophagia. What do you think Tom, do you think I want to get eaten someday?”
“That’s not going to happen Taylor.” Tom was sincere, on face at least. The reality was if Taylor lost her new album was done. They would make more on her getting eaten than they would out of her in the next ten years. The Exec’s back in Japan were happy with all the exposure the issue had received. Taylor had made it seem wholesome. Miley had made it out to be a taboo better suited for the Japanese clone girls. Once the feud had started everyone bought in, but only two necks were on the line. Tom’s job was done and he was back to basics, managing Taylor.
“Are girls still writing to me asking me to eat them?” Taylor was standing now arms folded.
“Are you interested in eating anyone else Taylor?” Tom was trying to avoid the question.
“How many?”
Tom surrendered. “It’s gone up tenfold since the previews for the documentary.”
“Jesus Christ.” Taylor was pissed. She didn’t look around before she swore.
“It’s not just you Taylor. Every celebrity is going to be eating for free once this airs.”
“What the fuck is this Tom?” Taylor demanded an answer with her hands. Taylor was battling with the Genie she had let out of the bottle, or thought she had let out of the bottle.
“The future Taylor. It’s done. It’s already done. At least you sent out a message about how it should be done.” Tom turned away, hand to brow, pacing back and forth. “When American girls like Josie are lining up to be eaten the Government is going to Ok the Japanese clones Taylor.”
Taylor slumped back into the chair. “I better win that Grammy Tom.”
Tom settled a little. His client had better control of her emotions than he did. She was just honest where he twisted and manipulated. “The Grammy’s not about music anymore. There’ll be some backlash by the industry, but they now they’re voting on a bigger issue.”
“I haven’t even glanced at the tabloids”, Taylor suspired, calm again. “What the hell has she been doing?”
Tom didn’t want to tell her. He stared at her with sympathy for a moment. A luxury he couldn’t afford himself till the Execs were happy. “She’s ball gagging them after they sign the consent from.” He couldn’t look Taylor in the eye. “No verbal retraction, she can do whatever she wants to them.”
Taylor looked scared. “Like what?”
“Don’t worry about Taylor. Both of you can’t lose and they can’t let her win.”
“Like what Tom?”
Tom looked away again. “Keeping them alive. Eating them bits at a time. No anaesthesia. She says she’s practising for when she wins the Grammy.”
Taylor went pale beneath her golden curls. The only thing more terrifying than the passion with which Miley wanted Taylor to suffer was the fact that fans of Miley were still volunteering for her to practise on.
***
It would be an enduring image, flaunted by feminists and PETA for the next ten years. As Miley Cyrus took the stage to accept the Grammy for best pop vocals, Taylor Swift had lost composure, and nerve, and made a shuffle like run down the isle of the Staples Centre, high heels dancing over the red carpet. The voting poll of the NARAS, those who decided who won the Grammy were predominantly male. Though all denied voting for Miley save a few die-hard left wingers, she had won. Miley smiled on stage as she saw the martyr flee. Her acceptance speech was brief. She had a prize to claim.
Tom intercepted her in the foyer. “Taylor”, he called. Taylor was in full panic. She started left but hit a wall. As she turned to her right she saw the myriad of photographers and cameras waiting out front. As she stood frozen between the auditorium celebrating her new owner’s victory and the countless vermin who would turn her name to mud if she walked out those doors and recounted her contract she suddenly realised the girl next door image was temporary. Everyone wanted to deflower that girl. Everybody wanted to see it happen so she was taken of her high horse.
“Tom?!” She turned and stared at her Manager.
“You panicked when you heard. I’ll spin it. Say you’re terrified of what she’ll do to you.” This will come out in our favour. People won’t stand for what she’ll do.” Tom spoke re-assurance, but it was really a delay tactic. All he needed was Miley to collect her so she couldn’t recant… So the album that was going to go and stay at the top of the charts wouldn’t be destroyed by Taylor backing out.
“Tom I…”
“Miss Swift.” A large African American approached them across the foyer. In his right hands a pair of silver handcuffs dazzled in the brightly lit foyer. “Miss Swift I’m under instructions from your new custodian to ensure you don’t attempt to flee the building. She would like you to accompany her immediately after she’s done on stage.”
“Tom?” Taylor called out to her Manager, though technically he wasn’t her manager anymore. He was a custodian himself, only over her estate and recordings, not over her person. The African American man grabbed Taylor’s wrist and slapped the first cuff around her wrist. “Tom!” Taylor cried out again. Anything more than the utterance of a name was cut off as the man twisted Taylor’s wrist. In high heels she spun off balance. He caught her waist and she felt the other cuff secure, fastening her hands behind her back.
“Open your mouth please.” Taylor couldn’t see the black rubber ball gag the man had pulled from his pocket.
“Get off me I’m not…”
The man grabbed her hair and yanked it back causing Taylor to cry out unable to defend herself. “I have your custodian’s permission to make you open your mouth.”
Taylor looked at Tom in desperation. She wanted him to call it off. Tom stared at her like Judas. “Sorry Kid. You’re worth more as meat.”
As Taylor’s eyes registered the betrayal her face went numb. She didn’t even register that as the man pulled down on her chin from behind she permitted the ball gag to be gently placed in her mouth. The first tear rolled down her cheek. Tom didn’t want the guilt trip. With a wave of dismissal he turned and marched off as the doors between the foyer and the auditorium burst open. Miley had jumped of stage, waving her award as she strutted down the red carpet to claim Taylor. Everybody knew what the award was really about. As the doors closed behind her and the clapping wash muffled by them Miley jutted her hip to the side and rested her newly won Grammy on it. She eyed Taylor from feet to eyes. “Scrumptious. And you’re afraid. You really are afraid aren’t you?”
Taylor whimpered through the ball gag.
Miley lost interest in her – momentarily. She turned to her man who held the faint, cuffed, and gagged Taylor off balance. “Car around front?” She asked.
The man nodded.
“I want to avoid the crowd and get things set up for my victory party.” She started to the front door. “Bring her.” On command the African American man twirled Taylor around and despite a muffled squeal lifted her up on her shoulder like a Viking carry his spoils to be ravished. Miley was ahead, but she waited for the man to catch up before walking out the front door into the swarm of flashing cameras. She played down Taylor as she frantically looked around disorientated over the man’s shoulder. Miley held up the Grammy like a sportsman getting showered in champagne. Miley posed and paraded. Every moment she spent in the limelight was another moment of humiliation for Taylor. Finally when even Miley could hear Taylor crying over the questions and calls for shots Miley walked towards the waiting car. A porter held the door as Miley climbed in. Her man stopped when he got to the entrance and as he had been instructed, spun Taylor around and tossed her in after Miley. As the limousine door shut and the tinted windows shield even the flashes of the camera Miley leant over Taylor as she lay bruised on the floor of the limousine. “That will be the last the image the world is going to get of you Taylor Swift.” Miley’s voice was not angry or malicious. Had Taylor an education in psychology she would have realised Miley had the composure and calm of a psychopath. The car pulled away. They were heading to Miley’s new place in Malibu.
***
The quests to Miley’s party were already queued up out front. She’d had the rear of her estate partitioned. The front had a DJ, dance floor and bar, but all those who gathered for the pre-party knew the real spectacle would be out back. Narrow red carpets with gold linings had been placed around the pool. There was a cage, like one might expect to see a lion at a circus transported in, with a group of volunteers naked and oiled, waiting their turn to be cooked. Taylor sat by the pool on some steps leading down from the rear of the Mansion. By now her tears had seen her mascara paint the portrait of a damsel in distress. She would appear a kidnap victim at a gathering of hedonistic carnivores, who held not the slightest interest in the respect for livestock she had championed. Miley made an appearance in what would have been a little red dress. Her midriff was absent, showing off her tones and inviting tenderloin. She clicked her fingers like a little deva and a young Mexican man came to her side. “The cross for Taylor is ready?”
“Yes.”
Miley looked over at Taylor. Taylor stared back at the mercy of the sadistic drama queen. “Strip her. Oil her up. Don’t touch the hair or makeup, I want her to look abducted.” The man nodded. All Miley’s helpers, and there seemed many, nodded and kept response to a minimal verbal component. Were Taylor not preoccupied with the question of whether the spit, the grill, or the caldron was intended for her she would have realised Miley was developing a goddess complex. She’d exercised power of life, but mostly death over too many worshipping victims. “Wait.” Miley held up her hand and like a worshipper the man halted. “She’s scared, and she’ll be exposed”, Miley was going to have Taylor strapped naked and oiled to a Saint Andrew’s cross for the quests entertainment, “but I don’t think she’s in enough discomfort.” Miley’s eyes narrowed as tears ran afresh down Taylors face. “Flay the soles of her feet and paint them with that chili sauce we’re basting that Native American girl with. I want her in pain.”
Another nod and the obedient illegal alien worker ran off to do his Mistresses dirty work. Miley paused to appraise Taylor sitting on the concrete step in the gown she had worn to the Grammys awaiting her torture. Miley’s eyes flair at Taylor as she turned her attention to the five gagged fans in her cage. Taylor was left to whine in terror as she saw the Mexican man remerge from the house with a long curved blade. The flare in Miley’s eyes before going to work had been the fantastical delights she would she would start to take from Taylor when the party ended. Perhaps ‘delights’ was not the right word… well delights for Miley.
As Miley started flirting with the willing meat in the cage, something she considered a primary duty, the Mexican man drew closer to Taylor. The muffled screams started and Taylor tried to back away. Her ankles had been shackled so she could only raise herself up a step at a time on her buttocks. The man caught her before she could get far. “Hey.” He had a heavy accent but spoke English fluently. “Relax your feet. Push the pain to your stomach were you sing from and bite down on the gag.” He scooped up Taylors beautiful legs and locked them in a vice like grip. ‘Jesus Christ, he’s done this before.’ Taylor thought, but the man was not for ceremony. A shallow slashed seared across Taylor’s left foot along the padding just below the toes. She screamed and tried to bend her knees.
The Mexican man jerked her legs straight. “Hey, puta, if you fight I’ll make a mess of it and it’ll hurt more.” He gestured to his stomach with the handle of the bloodied blade. “Take it in your stomach.” As he resumed the outlying cuts before the peel Taylor had no choice but to take his advice. Her legs were held straight, but the rest of her buckled into the foetal position between two steps. She felt light head. The haze that came when the body endured too much saved her from the sensation of feeling her sole being ripped away leaving only the fleshy meet, naked to the air. If resilience was something she’d once wished attributed to her she failed and as the man started on her right foot she complied with his advice. As it turned out, it was a strange mercy. He collected the two dermal patches that had been her soles and on his way to the meat prep table discarded them in a bin for the inedible parts of the ladies staring this evening. He returned with the chili sauce. At first there was only a tingle as he painted her naked flesh, but it grew to warmth and in seconds Taylor was screaming again. This time it would be a scream she would have to Master as the burning would not abide. As he finished the Mexican collected his tools and walked away from Taylor and she screamed until she panted, them screamed again. “Stupid white girls. Promote yourselves as meat and scream murder when you are eaten.” The Mexican was angry with the distaste of protest at the incurred status as livestock. The acid from the chili sauce was cooking the exposed flesh of her feet, would continue to do so until it was washed away. Taylor grew thirsty. She didn’t know how long she laid there, but she was faintly aware of the man returned and cutting away her dress; her underclothes. She felt a brush again. She was being oiled, rolled around to cover her entire body. Then another figure, one she couldn’t focus on from the pain on the soles of her feet came. They lifted her to the cross. Taylor was already beaten and as they undid the cuffs and shackled her to the cross on display she realised that this wasn’t even the day she would roast. Miley would publically humiliate her, but privately consume her. The finishing touches were put on the rear of the house and the velvet rope lifted and guests made their way to the rear to celebrate Miley’s victory. The party had just begun and this was just the start.
Like a showpiece Taylor was on display. Four gilded posts with three spans of red velvet rope separated her from the admirers who came to see Miley’s creation. From a calligraphied sign hanging from the centre velvet gave the art work its title, ‘Humbled Muffin’. Miley worked the party visiting groups. Her hyper brand of flaunted sexuality had come out victorious. They came in groups with their cameras sneaking photos of Taylor as she hung. The internet would be awash with the once conservative Taylor handing from a cross, her legs spread wide crying at the humiliation and from the pain of her stripped feet. Not all the party goers were happy just to observe. A couple of young men, drunk on celebrity and beer approached the velvet rope. One climbed over. “Dud. Dude! Get a photo of me IN Taylor.” Taylor fought the restraints in fear as the man came close. He knelt down and violated her with two fingers. As Taylor cried out at the indignity the man poked out his tongue and the flash of the iPhone cemented the moment as one of the final images of Taylor.
“Boys.” The duo had caught Miley’s attention and she swaggered over.
The young man climbed back over the rope and the duo face up to their smiling accuser. Taylor’s mind was clouded with fear. In its weakened state she actually held out hope that this was the limit of her demise.
The smile that crept on Miley’s face told Taylor things were about to get worse. Miley saluted them with her cocktail. The clink on the violator’s beer glass forgave the indiscretions. She addressed the indecent assaulter. “Ryan, as punishment for your crimes… I want you to…”
Taylor had passed out. Fear had run adrenaline and endorphins through her body till it crashed. She felt the straps around her wrist loosening and the wait of her body fell downward. She moaned a plea. Miley was there, tired. The sun was rising. The hostess had been partying all night. Another strap was undone and for the first time the naked flesh of the soles of her feet touched the ground. The scream bought her awake along with a wave of fatigue. She yelped through the gag as Miley yawned, bored with Taylor’s suffering – for the time being.
“Hose her down and put her in the cage we kept the spit-muffins in.” I’ll deal with her later… When I’m hungry again.” As one of Miley’s hired minions caught Taylor as the final strap was undone it became apparent something was sticking out her rear. Miley’s eyes widened as if she had forgotten. “Jesus is Ryan’s beer bottle still up there. I knew you were a tight ass bitch Taylor, but Jesus.” She turned and walked away. The minion, out of Miley’s supervision, didn’t make Taylor walk to the cage. He scoped her up and carried her past the charred remains of the last of the five spit-muffins to be cooked that night. Her flesh had been picked to the bone. As Taylor slumped into the cage, mercy ended and the ice cold jet of water struck her body. Head to toe she was sprayed cleaning away the grease and remains of food bits people had thrown at her to get a reaction. As the hose turned off and the cage was locked Taylor just lay broken on the cold flow. Three hours from now the full intensity of the Californian sun would turn the metal cage into a bakehouse and she would just lay there praying to die.
***
“Injunction!” Taylor startled awake. The sun was setting and the first thing her fever told her was that she needed water. Miley was by the pool about ten feet from the cage Taylor had baked in all day. She was talking to a man holding a leaf of paper looking extremely pissed. Taylor tried to move. Her skin caught on the metal floor of the cage and she had passed out in the sun. Her exposed skin was bright red, burnt by the solar glare. She couldn’t lift herself up. She was too weak. As she fell back to the cage floor. Miley caught her movements and gave her a cursory glance. “She signed the agreement just like I did.” She spat the words at the man. Taylor’s head was hazed over from dehydration and exhaustion.
“You should have just eaten her last night. Her parents filed the injunction when they saw the images of her at the party on the web. It’s become a matter for the courts now.”
Taylor felt relief in and slumped deeper into the floor. It was over.
Miley didn’t resign. “What are our options?”
“Miley. There’s never been a case like this.” The Lawyer had a Brooklyn accent and slick hair. “Her families using legislation on inhumane animal treatment. They don’t even know what to do with her. Technically she’s livestock and you have to house her, on the other hand you’re her custodian and you’ve cited for mistreatment.”
“I was going to have her for dinner.” Miley was still angry speaking through pert lips.
“There may be a way around this.” The sycophantic nature of the Lawyer was coming through.
In the cage the still ball gag Taylor started to pant nervously.
“Technically the injunction is against her slaughter…”
Miley, perhaps brighter than everyone thought leaped on the idea. “I’ll keep her alive and start with her feet. Tell her family when they rescind the injunction I’ll let her die.” She handed the Lawyer back the legal document.
“Miley, as your Lawyer I have to advise you against this course of…”
“Do as you’re told.”
“There could be ramifications. Serious ramifications.” Miley was walking to the cage. She grabbed the bars and surveyed her prime spit-muffin with lust. Taylor’s eyes widened in feverish fear.
Miley leaned in and smiled sweaty. Softly she whispered, “It’ll be more fun this way anyhow.”
Like a desperate animal drawn to water Taylor had crawled out of the cage to the glass with its ice cold soda. The ball gag was removed, Miley wanted to hear her scream. No sooner had she finished and the glass was taken from her and her hands were cuffed again. It was just her and Miley. Taylor couldn’t put up a fight. She couldn’t even stand, her feet in the condition they were in. Miley tugged on her shackled wrists, but Taylor didn’t get up off her knees.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m…” Taylor was pleading. The pressures of celebrity and success had never been beaten at the cost of physical and sexual degradation. The hypocrisy of Taylor’s published stance as pro-woman eating didn’t extend to this, more importantly the confrontation of it actually happening to her.
“You’re sorry!” Miley dropped her pull on the cuffs. Taylor slumped kneeling by the pool, outside her cage. Miley voice had a moderation of surprise and disgust. She knelt down so she was face to face with Taylor. Taylor couldn’t look her in the eye. “There is nothing to be achieved by being sorry Taylor.” Miley reached around and pulled on her tangled hair making her face her. Taylor’s eyes were dropped. Miley just held her there, letting the pressure of eye contact build. After several minutes and with fresh tears rolling down her cheeks Taylor looked up into cold affection. “We made this a girl eat girl world. Why on earth would you be ‘sorry.’?” Miley had embraced the world before it changed. Taylor had held onto a decency not belonging to a world that would soon be importing girls grown in test tubes for consumption.
“I’ll do anything you want.” Taylor whispered the words believing voluntary submission would bring mercy. If the roles were reversed it would have, but with Miley… Miley didn’t play dumb. She really wasn’t like Taylor. Taylor was her image, the genuine article. Miley was a performer, she acted the part in public. In the intimate exchange of meat and diner Miley opted for the compromise. Eating Taylor with the injunction meant she could was legal action, charged with grievous body harm or murder if Gynophagia was outlawed.
Miley pulled out her mobile phone. “Call your parents. Have them cancel the injunction and we’ll finish this with painkiller.”
Taylor moaned, but the tension had dropped. The cold sincerity in Miley’s eyes laid out the scenario. Resist and take her chances while her body eroded one meal at a time, or let go and let it end quickly. “You’ll let me die after one meal?”
Miley still held Taylors golden hair with her hand. With her other she ran her fingers over Taylor’s naked thighs. “I’ll eat your legs and your pussy. That’s pretty fatal.”
“Can I be put under?” Taylor wasn’t a negotiator. She was asking permission, not risking having mediation called off.
“No.” Miley wouldn’t budge on this, it was evident in her eyes. “I won.”
Taylor tried to nod as Miley held her hair. Miley finally realised her and the nod turned to a full committal. Miley handed her mobile and held it out as Taylor dialled her parent’s number with her shackled hand. It sounded the dial tone for a few seconds then her mother, voice frantic picked up.
Taylor took a deep breathe trying to hide the desperation in her voice. “Mum…”
***
Taylor lay on a platform staring up at what stars made it through the Californian smog… well from her stomach up. Her legs and buttocks rested over a grill above a bed of coals. The kindling hadn’t been lit yet. Miley was off to the side on the phone with the Brooklyn tongued lawyer who had been over earlier. As Taylor took a glance at the pacing Miley she put the phone away. “You’re parents have removed the injunctions”, she said, not relieved, but in a tone that suggested now they could get down to business. Miley surveyed Taylor one last time. The predatory admiration of meat was close to sexual, she appeared as if she was tittering on ravishing the strapped down damsel before her. Perhaps it was just a matter of time before she started doing just that. “Shall we?” Miley reached for the matches.
Taylor arched up. “The pain killers!” she uttered frantically.
Miley sighed. “Won’t you reconsider?” Miley seemed as if she would honour the deal, but honestly didn’t want Taylor to have her way. “It only hurts till your cooked and isn’t life, even the pain, something to be embraced.”
“Please.”
Miley resigned. The needle was on hand, but Taylor was not excused the prick as it sunk into her arm. Almost immediately Taylor felt warmth cover her like a blanket. She sighed in relief. “Can you feel this?” Miley pinched her forearm.
“No.” Taylor said resided to her fate.
“What about this?” Miley ran the tip of her finger over Taylor’s closest nipple. Though numbed the nipple grew firm – aroused despite the partner.
Taylor had no further protests. She lay her head down on the platform and stair back at the stars. Miley lit the kindling, but wasn’t finished Taylor. As the accelerant spread the flames and the coals heated she lifted an S shaped piece of rough iron. Taylor tried to bloke it out, but was forced to look at Miley gently pushed one curve into her vagina and let the other curve drop down to the coals. Taylor felt nothing, but looked at Miley nervously.
“I told you. I’m eating your legs and pussy.” She stroked Taylor’s vagina. “Makes sure the insides are nicely down.” Degradation finished, Miley set to work basting Taylors long perfect legs. As the coals grew hot and the grating of the grill heated up Miley worked away indulging in the long beautiful stems. You know what’s really funny. I’m a girl guys just want to fuck. You’re a girl they want to take home to their Mums.” Miley started on her second coat of glaze. Steam started to rise and with it the scent of sweet meat. “It’s nice my kind of girl won for a change.” She looked at Taylor for a moment. Something was shared – fate.
Taylor could hear the crackling of the coals and the tightening of her skin. Her legs weren’t numb just numb anymore they were paralysed save small muscle spasms as they started to cook.
Miley picked up a steak knife and fork. “Most people over cook spit-muffin when they grill it. They thing we’re like pork and have to be well done. Truth is as you know, we’re lean like veal.” She buried the blade into Taylor’s beautiful firm thigh and cut a small portion. She had a big meal ahead of her so she would eat slowly. As she punctured the sample with her folk she paused as she bought it to her lips. An impulse of delight took her. “Open your mouth she whispered.”
Taylor had resigned to die. She didn’t protest and let her mouth fall open. Miley dropped the sample in Taylor’s mouth letting her taste herself. It was the final reality for Taylor as she chewed on the delicious scrap. She hadn’t finished chewy by the time Miley had cut another portion for herself and kissed it into her mouth. Miley moaned in indulgence.
“You are extremely testy Taylor Swift.”
Taylor could see Miley going back for more in her peripheral vision. “I know”, she whispered to herself.
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