Aprille

Chapter 5

These live-spit banquets were always in two phases, with a lot of drinking in between. The first phase was when the meat arrived. Most of the banqueters were already on hand for that event, standing with drinks in hand as the Musgrave delivery truck backed into the area where the roasting pits had been set up. Gas fires were already going, the artificial coals on the grates above the flames glowing cherry red.

Werner and Aprille had arrived about twenty minutes ahead of the truck. Musgrave girls were forbidden to drink on campus, which made permission to do so off campus a coveted perk. Brooders were not allowed to drink at all while pregnant, which was most of the time, but Aprille was both off campus and not pregnant. As in all things, minimum age laws did not apply to her since she was legally classified as livestock, so by the time the truck pulled in she was well into her second glass of bourbon and ginger ale. She and Werner joined the crowd of banqueters around the back of the truck.

Two male technicians and a woman came around to the back. They were the same three who had prepped the girls in the spitting room, except the woman was no longer naked. She had donned the same type of green smock the surgeons wore. They unlocked the back gates of the truck and threw them open. A cheer went up at the sight of the girls on their spits. At this point, Werner noted, the Company seemed to have abandoned its stance on antiseptic conditions. The two men detached a spit carrying a buxom blonde girl from its wall mount and carried it down a ramp through a knot of leering banqueters to one of three portable steel tables. They placed her belly down on the table and returned to the truck for another.

As the men checked the manifest to make sure they were selecting the correct roaster, the woman approached the blonde with one of the syringe cases. This injection was apparently not going to be a swift jab in the upper arm because she wrapped a tourniquet around the girl's left forearm and tightened it, then carefully inserted the needle of a loaded syringe into the bulging vein.

"Wow!" Aprille whispered. "She's getting mainlined!"

Werner could sense a change in her breathing and feel her tensing as she stared at the pink serum following into the girl's vein. He took a firm grip on her left hand.

The second girl off the truck was much longer on the spit, with honey brown hair and a dramatic figure. She, too, was placed face down on the table and was the green-smocked woman's next intravenous serum recipient.

"Do you know who that woman is, the one in the green smock?" he asked Aprille, partly out of curiosity, but mostly to divert her attention from the all-too-entrancing syringes with their pink cargo of deadly joy.

Several seconds slipped by before Aprille could force herself to close her eyes and concentrate on the question.

"Her name is Harvest. She's a B2. And a very prolific one. She's thirty-seven and has already produced twenty-three babies. That's about one every ten months! But they've made her stop for a year to recover from . . ." Aprille had opened her eyes and was again transfixed by the sight of the plunger pushing the drug into the girl's bloodstream. Werner turned her away from it. She blinked and continued. "She has to recover from an accident. A car accident. She was being driven to work — she worked as an aide at a clinic — when her van was broadsided by someone running a red light."

"So now she works in the spitting room?"

"She's a good nurse. In another month, as I understand it, they plan to start breeding her again."

"How come she doesn't go nutsy-cuckoo around the O-drugs, like you do?"

"Because she's never had it. She's a B2. She's never been tubed."

"Ah ha."

River was the last of the three roasters to be brought down the ramp and placed on a table. Werner saw right away that her eyes no longer registered a dazed, dreamy ambivalence. Now they skittered around like a frightened doe surrounded by wolves. She spotted Aprille and the corners of her mouth twitched. Was it an attempt to smile around the steel spit filling her mouth? A grimace of pain? He couldn't tell. Her hands and feet flexed constantly but her body was rigidly still. Clearly, in the four hours since her spitting she had come down from her drug-induced high. When she caught sight of the roasting pits nearby, her eyes widened in unambiguous terror.

The woman named Harvest arrived at her side and cinched the tourniquet around River's left arm. A minute later the pink liquid was flowing into her vein. The effect was almost instantaneous. Her eyes lost their sharp focus and stopped darting about. Her eyelids drooped. Her breathing slowed. Her hands and feet ceased their restless movement. This time when her eyes drifted over to Aprille and Werner, the corners of her mouth drew slowly back away from the spit in an obvious attempt to smile. A few seconds later her eyes rolled up into her head and she began an odd undulating movement. In fact, Werner realized, all three girls were doing the same.

"My God!" he whispered to Aprille, "it looks like they're humping their spits."

"I'm sure that's exactly what they're doing," she whispered back. "They just got a mainline dose of O, for godsake! Every vaginal nerve is a hundred times as sensitive to pleasure. They're rubbing themselves on the metal shaft and probably drowning in orgasms. O God, how I envy them!"

Werner glanced at her in alarm. She was panting, mouth open and eyes aflame as she gazed at River. He gripped her hand more tightly and nodded to a circulating waitress (a P-girl in an extremely brief maid outfit) to refresh her drink.

As Harvest packed up her syringe case, the two men flipped all three girls over so they were face-up on the tables. Even as they were closing up the truck and preparing to take off for their next delivery, three chefs had moved in with giant syringes filled with a milky substance. They began injecting it into the girls' breasts.

"What is that stuff?" Werner asked Aprille.

"It's a proprietary formula that's mostly milk. Has some flavorings in it, too. It enlarges and firms up the breasts for roasting and makes them more succulent. Breast meat is the most popular cut, of course, and this maximizes the portions per girl. It makes us look great on the spit, too."

The enhancement was, in fact, quite spectacular. The breasts had not only greatly increased in size, but projected proudly upwards without a trace of sagging.

The chefs had produced jars of a clear, viscous substance and were smearing it on the girl's nipples with their fingers.

"Now what are they doing?" Werner asked, relieved to see that Aprille was relaxing again as she pulled back from her fixation on the drug.

"That's a heat-deflecting gel that keeps the most tender flesh from overcooking and shriveling. They'll also put it on the lips — both above and below — and the eyelids and ears. They'll smear a very light layer of it all over the face. As soon as the girls die, they'll apply a thick layer to the eyeballs."

"How long does that take? For them to die."

"A girl can last anywhere from an hour and a half to three hours over a low fire. That's why they start these live roasts so early. They want to keep the girls alive as long as possible, to please the customers."

"My God! They cook for three hours on the spit while still alive?"

"Well, yes. But they have continuous orgasms the whole time!"

"Jesus! How can anyone survive three hours roasting in a fire pit?"

"Part of that last dose of serum is a muscle relaxant. It does two things. It helps tenderize the meat and it keeps the heart from being overly stimulated by the pain and heat, not to mention the orgasms. In other words, it prevents heart failure. What kills us is asphyxiation. Our lungs are gradually seared by the heat until we can't breathe."

"How do you know all this?"

"It's part of our education here."

"I should think that kind of detail would scare the girls shitless!"

"It would, except that they do it along with an O-drug demonstration. Later the Prime girls get a much stronger demonstration when we're tubed."

"So what does the classroom demonstration consist of?"

"I'll tell you in a minute. You should watch this."

The chefs had finished their finger-painting and had stripped off the tape sealing the incision on the girl's bellies. Three assistant cooks had wheeled tubs of stuffing out of the kitchen area and parked them beside the tables. They then grabbed both sides of the incision and spread it open to expose the disemboweled interior, holding it open while the chefs packed stuffing into it. The fragrance of spices filled the air as they worked. The dining guests milled about watching, laughing, chatting and groping the P-girls as they snatched fresh drinks from their trays. Aprille, now on her forth bourbon and ginger ale, had begun to depend on Werner's arm to keep her balance.

"The demonstration?" he prompted..

Aprille's tongue had trouble moving properly, but she managed to speak fairly clearly.

"The teacher first makes us all bend over and expose our ass. He takes a cane and gives us each three good whacks so we'll know how much it hurts. And it really DOES hurt! The pain takes your breath away! Then he asks for a volunteer from the class. If no one volunteers, he has us draw a name from a box. The volunteer takes off her clothes, gets an injection of O, grabs the back of a chair and bends over. The rest of the class gets to give her five whacks each with the cane. She screams after each blow and then, amazingly, begs for another! We can see she's obviously having orgasms because her juices are running down her legs and she's dancing in place and moaning in ecstacy between screams. We're allowed to hit her on the butt, the legs, the feet, the arms, the breast — just about everywhere! By the time we've all had our turn, she's a mass of ugly welts and bruises, but she's still pleading for more! The next day she can't sit down without pain, but assures the class that she'd do it again in a heartbeat and can hardly wait to turn seventeen so she can be activated. That's why no one's afraid to be spitted or slaughtered. The anticipation is a tremendous, erotic rush!"

"But you end up dead."

"Yeah. That's kinda scary. But it just adds to the rush!"

"Wouldn't you rather live and have babies?"

"Oh yes! Yes, yes, yes! That's a rush, too. Making them and having them and nursing them. But especially making them." She rubbed her increasingly inebriated body against his in case he missed the point. "Of course, for me the second two parts are only theoretical. . ." she placed his hand on her breast and squirmed against it, ". . .but all my brooder friends tell me how beautiful it is to watch the baby coming out, and how wonderful it feels when they suckle on your tits. And the best thing is, we get to do it again. We can keep enjoying it over and over."

"Childbirth is painless here?"

"Absolutely! Unless we're being punished for something, they give us all the latest birthing anaesthetics, plus a little O. They tell me it feels like your lover is licking your pussy. You even have little orgasms as the baby is coming through. Of course, it's not the super rush of the final Big O. Look!"

She pointed to the three girls who were being lifted off the tables by the chefs and assistant cooks. Their bellies, now filled with stuffing, had been sewn shut with a stitching gun and the ends of their spits were being set into a trestle frame so the chefs could turn them as they applied the first coat of oils and spices.

The Head Chef made an announcement.

"Ladies and gentlemen, honored guests: at this time, before we begin our first basting of seasoned oils, you may inspect the meat up close, if you choose. You are invited to touch the live meat if you wish, but please do not disturb the bindings or damage the protective glaze on the nipples, labia and face. Also, please do not touch the eyes. The roasters are unable to make any sound because the spits have destroyed their vocal chords; the only way they can convey to us their reactions to the cooking process is through their eyes. We certainly don't want to deprive ourselves of the ability to observe their unique combination of suffering and pleasure. Please keep the lines moving so everyone has an opportunity to visit with them."

The dining guests began moving along the line of spits. Werner and Aprille joined them. The man ahead of them managed to run his hands over nearly every square inch of all three girls. Aprille cupped her hands gently around the faces of the blonde girl and the tall brunette and smiled at them. When they came to River, Werner reached under her and squeezed her hands. Aprille bent down and kissed her cheek and forehead. Tears formed in the corners of River's eyes. Aprille wiped them away with an index finger and licked it off.

"Goodbye, roommate," she said, her own eyes brimming over. "I'll sure miss you, sweetie, but in a little while you'll be inside me and part of me forever. Remember that. Are you enjoying this, so far?"

Werner was horrified that she would ask such a question, but River's eyes lit up and her lips drew back into as much of a smile as the spit allowed. And she winked!

"I thought so," Aprille said. "And the best is yet to come." She kissed her again, a final time, and they moved away so others could file past and fondle the meat.

The chefs kept a close eye on the crowd and the clock, and as soon as the last of the patrons had had his chance to feel up the bodies still subtly humping on their skewers, they cleared the guests from the prep area and touched up the gel coating the nipples. While most guests wandered off to obtain more drinks, several formed a ring around the spitted girls, watching in fascination as the chefs applied the first shiny coat of seasoned oils with wide brushes. The girls writhed on their spits as the brushes stroked their augmented breasts, bringing on a torrent of orgasms. The final step in the preparation was to wrap their hair in aluminum foil.

Finally it was time to carry them to the roasting pits.

All three girls were carried to the pits at the same time. The ends of the spits were dropped into slots in the steel walls of the fire pits with the girls facing up. There was immediate movement on the spits as the intense heat penetrated their backs. Rotisserie motors were swung into place at the blunt end of the spit and locked on to it. At the touch of a button each spit began to turn slowly. River's face rotated away from Werner's view, then down toward the fiery coals, then up. Her eyes were closed and she seemed to be trembling all over. Several more rotations and her skin had turned a bright pink. She was breathing faster. Fifteen minutes of cooking and all three were varying shades of red. It was impossible to tell whether the emotions on their faces reflected pain or erotic ecstacy. Aprille insisted it was both.

The chefs moved in and basted them as they turned, the drippings causing little bursts of flames that touched the still living skin, now made ultra sensitive by the searing heat. Gradually the redness darkened. By the end of the first hour all three girls were a golden bronze. They continued to writhe on their spits, their eyes half open as though they were heavily intoxicated. Perhaps they were. The chefs basted them at regular intervals.

Werner had to shut off the supply of bourbon/ginger ales to Aprille who had thrown up once and could barely stand up. She alternated between bouts of giggling and sobbing as she watched her friend cook.

An hour and a half into the roasting when all three girls were a reddish bronze, the chefs announced that the blonde girl had died. Her rotisserie was stopped long enough to apply a thick layer of the heat-resistant paste to her now sightless eyes, then the fire was turned up in her pit to normal roasting level. She would be the first roast to be served.

After a little over two hours had elapsed, they pronounced the tall brunette dead. Her eyes, too, were treated and the heat under her increased. She would be the second to be carved up for the guests.

River's agony (or ecstacy?) continued. Gradually her fingers and toes stopped clenching and her breathing deteriorated to short rapid gasps. A little before three hours had gone by since she had first been placed over the fire, the gasping stopped altogether. Her browned body, shimmering with oils and spices, became still as it turned on the spit.

April hadn't had a drink for two of those hours but her mind was in such turmoil that she could barely function. With hours still to go before the roasts would be fully cooked and ready to serve, Werner decided it might be helpful to take her away from the scene for a while. She was clearly a mess, her feelings conflicted. Despite what she'd been taught to think, despite her own acquaintance with O-drugs and her experience of pain as pleasure, despite the fact that every day she consumed the meat of other girls who had been slaughtered and cooked — despite all that, the sight of her friend roasting over the fire was emotionally devastating.

This particular banquet was being thrown by one of the larger casino/pleasure palaces in town and a number of special rooms had been set aside for the guests to entertain themselves during the several hours it took to roast a girl properly. Werner took Aprille by the hand and led her to one.

The room he chose at random happened to be equipped with sturdy hooks in the ceiling and a pegboard wall displaying an assemblage of toys ranging from shrink-wrapped disposable dildos to sundry restraints and whips. Aprille, her spirits wavering between slightly drunken giddiness and overwhelming grief, suddenly tilted to the former. She wanted to try everything. What she really wanted, of course, was to drown her pain in play. Or submerge her mental pain in physical pain. He would accomodate her — to an extent.

He chained her up by the wrists and tried out an assortment on whips and floggers on her. She begged him to hit her hard, to hurt her, but he would only flog her playfully, kissing her between strokes. He hung her upside down from her ankles and flogged her some more, gently, despite her demands for severity. He put his face into the V of her legs and licked the nectar from her tender slit, laving it thoroughly with his tongue. He pushed ice cubes into it from the fridge, and carrots warmed in the microwave, and his fingers and tongue. He tied her wrists to her ankles and swatted her bottom as though she were a tether ball. She cried out for more as she sobbed. He lowered her and placed his hardened cock on her face, ordering her to take him into her mouth. She licked and sucked at him so artfully and eagerly that he wanted to explode in her throat; but she turned her head away and begged him not to waste it, pleading until she wept, wiping her tears on his scrotum. How could he refuse her? He let her down, tied her arms behind her and threw her on the bed to "rape" her. But how do you rape a girl who lunges at you with her hips and manages to impale herself on your stone-hard erection using only her legs and feet? And humps you so hard you think the orgasm will tear you apart? And cries out in such joy as you flood her with semen that you want to sweep her into your arms and hold her forever? You certainly don't want to slip out of her, not when her love muscles are milking your last drop, pulling you back in, trying to massage your dying soldier back to life.

God how he loved this girl! Yet he could not keep her, or marry her, or buy her, or save her from the spit. He untied her so she could wrap her arms around him as they laid together, waiting for the call to dinner. And he stayed inside her the whole time, moving softly, getting harder, trading kisses and caresses.

When the bell sounded, calling the guests to the feast, they hugged each other in their mutual love, in their separate pain, in their hopelessly illicit desires. Dutifully, they answered the call, joining the others to watch the roasted girls removed from the fire pits and carried to the three butcher block islands where they were positioned for carving. Their skin was now a deep bronze, shimmering with basting oils and their own bubbling fats. Their faces were still remarkably beautiful, peacefully biting down on the metal spit, still crowned with a bun of hair that had been perfectly preserved by the foil.

Werner and Aprille went to a table being served by River's island and sat down before a pair of elegant china plates, each with a seven-piece silver service, a water glass, a wine glass, a bread dish, individual condiment cups for salt and pepper and a small carafe of olive oil for the fresh baked bread. Werner couldn't bear to watch them carve River into slabs of meat, so he watched them prepare the blonde instead; but Aprille never took her eyes off River until a platter of her roasted meat, steaming and fragrant, was placed on the table. As a guest of honor, Werner was served two slices of her breast on a side dish. He shared one with Aprille. They ate in a kind of referential silence. Tears rolled down Aprille's cheeks, but she ate two helpings of meat and said nothing.

When they had cleaned their plates, when they had drunk their wine and finished their crème brulée, Aprille turned to Werner and gazed at him calmly. He braced himself. What would she say? How could he comfort her?

But what she said was totally unexpected.

"That was how real girl tastes."

"What?"

"That was the taste of real girl."

"What do you mean?"

"Most girls who are scheduled to be activated are fed a prescribed diet for at least a week with specific foods and spices that flavors their meat to the liking of the chef who places the order. River was purchased by one of her lovers for immediate activation, so she wasn't flavored. She was pure girl meat. Au naturelle. Will you do that for me?"

"Do what for you?"

"Order me as I am, without flavoring?"

For a moment Werner was speechless. "Are you telling me you want me to order you up for dinner?"

"Well, you can't right now, of course, but when the time comes?"

Again he was unable to answer.

Aprille suddenly turned away, looking crestfallen. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to presume. It's just that I . . . that you seemed to . . . ."

He took her by both shoulders and gently turned her back to face him. "Are you telling me that it would please you if I placed an order to have you roasted for me? When the time comes?"

The brightness slowly returned to her eyes. "Do you like me, Werner? Really like me?"

He kissed her. "What's this 'do you like me' shit? I love you. I told you that."

"And you must know I love you. But do you love me enough to buy an option on me?"

Before he could answer, the man seating on the other side of her leaned around her and said, "If you don't, my friend, I'll be glad to help her out. She can grace my dinner table any day!" He chuckled in a hopeful kind of way.

"Too late, friend," Werner told him. "I found her first and have special pull with the Company." To Aprille he said, "Certainly I'll buy an option on you! How could have doubted it? And I'll renew it every year. And I mean year after year after year! Because not only do I expect you to do your duty as breeding stock, but I intend to help you become the most prolific breeder we have. I say 'we' because I'll do what I need to do to make sure you and I are at the same facility. And I say 'help you' because while I can't monopolize all your stud times, I'm going to come damned close. I'm going to make sure my sperm delivery system showers your eggs with tons of eager conquistadors. You, in turn, are going to replenish the Company stock with lots of beautiful Prime Grade baby girls. And when your ovaries have finally delivered the last egg and it's time to activate, you'll be all mine."

She took his hands and kissed first one, then the other. "And during all those pregnancies when my belly is all puffed up, thanks to one of your conquistadors? What then?"

"Then my sperm delivery system will see to it that your cunt muscles are well exercised and the baby chute well lubricated so that, at the appointed time, you can pop it right out and we can start the whole lovely cycle all over again. Time after time. Year after year. Fucking and loving and popping. Fucking and loving and popping."

"But after all those years and all those babies, I'll be too old to roast live."

"All the better. You'll still get that last dose, the Big O, only I'll pull strings so that I'll be there at your side when they hang you up by the feet. While you're bleeding out, I'll have one hand on your pussy, one on your breasts and my tongue in your mouth. I'll make sure that you leave this world in the midst of the grandest orgasm you've ever known."

"And my meat?"

"I'll freeze every ounce of it and portion it out gradually for as long as I live. I'll establish a weekly ritual with the table set in fine linen, adorned with candles and flowers, and set with ornate silverware and the finest china. I'll have your bones and inedible parts cremated and sealed in a silver urn with your picture elegantly framed on three sides and in gold bas relief on the fourth. It will be placed in the center of the table surrounded by votive candles while I eat your lovely, pure girl meat."

"Will you invite friends?"

"Would you like me to?"

"Oh yes! Girls, too. Especially them! Both B girls and M girls. I don't want to be remembered with tears. I want to be associated with love and eaten with joy! In fact, you will make my spirit very happy if you make sex part of the ritual. Will you do that?"

He laughed. She was amazing! "What if I'm too old to perform?"

"Doesn't have to be you. Bring in a younger stud. Or several!"

"But I'll run out of your meat."

She thought about that a moment. "I know! Buy one of the M1 girls who's eaten my meat and have her snuffed and roasted. The prettiest one, of course. Once she's digested me, I'll be part of her body, so when you eat her meat, you'll be eating me, too. It's like consecrated meat. That way you can keep me going forever, and have some really big parties! When you run low on the consecrated meat, say once a month, you just pick out the most beautiful girl whose eaten it and cook her up for an orgy in my honor! Then use the leftovers for the weekly meals."

She burst into the same radiant smile that had captured him when he first saw her.

"Will you do that for me?" she asked, her face and voice sparkling with hope.

"Consider it done," he said.

-------------

And he was as good as his word, although it was eighteen years before he had to put her plan in motion. During those long, sweet years there were many babies, many many baby-making sessions, and an astonishing number of birth chute lubrications. But inevitably her ovaries were exhausted and he was forced to exercise his option. Yet, even as they took that final walk together, hand in hand, to the ugly gray building, and even as she hung by her ankles with her long gold and silver hair brushing the floor, and long after her blood had flowed around their mouths, locked in their farewell kiss, he still considered her the most beautiful woman he had ever known.