The Meal

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by Chewy

You gaze down at the woman you are about to eat, no trace of pity or mercy in your hard eyes and heart. You take the knife and begin to cut, mindless to her frenzied shrieks, the hot young blood spraying everywhere. You are a cannibal, and she is meat, and what you do is as natural to you as breathing.

The girl is some nameless cipher. Perhaps a runaway, maybe a luckless migrant lured to her death, perhaps even a kidnap victim, you don’t know and don’t care. She looks Hispanic, and screams in Spanish, but to you all that means is that her meat might have a desirable spiced Latin flavor. The meat is everything, and in the end all you want from this woman is that her flesh taste sweet when you consume her.

She is beautiful, with long toned limbs, full butt and breasts, and the face of an Aztec goddess. Her smooth skin is a warm copper under the fountaining blood. Her meat cuts smoothly and shows a fine grain. You are glad, for too many cannibal victims are tainted by poor diet or substance abuse, but this young specimen is healthy and vigorous, a perfect specimen of human meat-animal, a perfect canvas for your grisly art.

You toy with the idea of complimenting her on her health, but she is screaming too loud for her to hear you and probably wouldn’t understand the honor you give her. They never do, they never understand the need that drives you to seek their flesh, never appreciate the distinction you grant them by allowing them to become part of you.

You finish opening her belly, the flaps of silky skin and marhemorrhage abdominal muscles pulled aside. Her organs glisten like eldritch jewels, finely-crafted machinery that now serves no purpose. You remove them, discarding them as so much chaff, clearing the reed wet cavern of her torso so that she can receive her load of filling. You are careful, as precise as a surgeon, for you have performed this sacrament numberless times, and she bleeds remarkably little considering the extent of her loss. She could live for long hours in such a state. It is cruel, you admit this with cold amusement, but it also serves a purpose. Such pain, such torment, flavors the meat in ways that no alchemist could ever replicate. Her whole body will suffuse with the flavor of her suffering, making each forkful of flesh as sweet as manna.

You pack her belly with stuffing, made from a recipe handed down in secret for generations. It arouses you to think how many women over the ages have died to perfect this recipe, and again you feel something akin to regret that this woman could never appreciate the art that went into making her consumption a thing of such incredible beauty.

You leave a handful of organs alone. Her ovaries and vagina remain, for those pounds of estrogen-rich meat will flavor her entire belly as they boil inside her. Her heart and lungs remain out of necessity, for a true connoisseur knows that the fresher the meat, the grander the feast. Keeping her alive in the oven till the last possible second will yield rewards in texture and flavor once she is finely served.

You close her belly with twine and decorate the great wound by imbedding a line of cherries along the incision.

You enjoy filling her anus and vagina with freshly sliced fruit. The fruit is rich in nectar and slides into the pain-clenched orifices easily. She wails as she feels her violation, the sensation remarkable despite the pain of her emptied abdomen.

Her wails grow more frantic as you sew the lips shut, tugging the sphincter and vaginal lips hard to get them to cover the heavy loads inside. You use fine twine on such delicate flesh, sealing them up so tightly that only the smallest drops of nectar ooze from the cracks.

She lays limply now, staring up at you in uncomprehending horror. You begin the final preparations.

Out of grim necessity you straighten out her shapely legs and break the knees, then sew the crippled gams together with heavy fire-proof cord to ensure she cannot move her legs into any position that will cause a part of her limbs to scorch while in the oven. You make small incisions into the muscles of her upper thighs, severing the last muscles that could move her legs and spoil her presentation. You finish by setting a line of pineapple slices down the top of her legs, firmly pinning the fruit into the flesh and bones to keep them from falling off.

In a similar fashion you break her elbows, then pin her forearms across her chest, making sure the lean flesh of the forearms rest under the protective breasts to keep them from scorching. For decoration, you place an apple in each hand, sewing her fingers over the fruit so she keeps the pose as she cooks. You finish by skewering her arms with more fruit.

All the while you ignore the loud screeches from all this manipulation send through her mutilated frame. You are not a sadist, and you console yourself with the knowledge that all this is necessary. Cannibalism is a cruel business, and it is not your fault that the meat must suffer to produce superior cuisine.

You oil her body with the most-refined of cooking oils, leaving her body glistening like a burnished idol. Even a hardened cannibal such as yourself must pause for a moment to enjoy the sheer beauty of the moment. She lays there, sculpted by your hand, transformed from a mundane nobody into a masterpiece of edible sculpture. You caress her body with your hand, feeling the vigorous trembling of her shocked muscles under the velvet of her skin, feel her warmth radiated upwards from her derma like a fever. She continues to gaze at your, her jet-black eyes still aware and accusing. She misunderstands what you have done to her, thinks you are a monster, yet you know you are not.  If she could only taste her flesh after she has cooked, taste how divine female flesh is once it is transformed, she would understand, would even join the orgy of eating. Alas, she cannot ever understand what she has to offer the ones who are brave enough to properly harvest what she has to offer.

You garnish her tray with the vegetables she will be served with. You wrap her feet in oil-soaked canvas sacs to protect her delicate toes from charring. You protect the hands in similar fashion. You rub extra oil into her bound hair to keep it from burning even in the fiercest oven heat. Then, with a flourish, you plop an apple into her mouth, bottom down. She moans are muffled by the apple, silencing her last protests.

You slide her in the pre-heated oven. She flinches and flails as she feels that awful heat, but her binding hold. Even at the oven door the heat is impressive, and you feel the hard-earned sweat on your brow quickly dry. You can imagine what is like for her, laying naked and fully exposed to the oven’s power.  Her silky hide is already showing the first shy pink blooms of cooking on her bare skin.

You slide her all the way in and close the door. You are a careful cannibal, and you double-check her tempeture settings,

You stare through the glass with the rapt attention of a man gazing on his dearly beloved, reveling in her every tiny nuance. You watch her body buck and wiggle under the fiery assault, watch her skin blush a deep rose red, watch the first tiny beads of body oils sneak from her skin and pool over her body. You listen to her moans grow higher and higher, a song of suffering that you never tire of hearing. You watch the first wisp of steam rise from her twitching reddened body, the tendrils arcing playfully over poaching skin.

She goes on longer then you could dare hope for, her ordeal an epic, each second adding to the flavor that was building in her meat like stored treasure. At last she convulses one last time, then lays still, at peace at last.

You have the best convection oven money can buy, and she cooks swiftly. Her body turns the darkest red, then to a deep earthen brown. The wispy steam thickens into a heady mixture of evaporated oils and gravies, the incense of the cannibal faith that fills the kitchen and nearby dining room.

The guests arrive and quickly gather by the oven, their faces greedy and impatient. Hardened cannibals all, they appreciate the mastery of your work, the perfection of the woman you have chosen for tonight’s banquet. You modesty deflect their praise, for you did what you did not for praise but for the sheer joy of the act.

At last she is done, and released from her hot steel womb. She emerges in a zephyr of savory steam, amid the applause of an eager crowd of adoring fans.

She is swiftly laid on the banquet table, a mist-enshrouded angel. She is lovely beyond words, and again you know that this is what you live for, what you were made to do. No art, no sex, no other pleasure obtainable in this world can compare to this wondrous consummation of the cannibal art. You are as happy as a Saint in paradise.

You sit. The others wait, tense and famished, for you to make the first cut. You torture them a bit by hesitating, making them wait for long agonizing seconds as you pretend to think about what piece of woman you want first. It is almost unendurable, hungry cannibals inches from a perfectly roasted woman, yet unable to take even the tiniest sliver until the host unleashes them.

At last you release them from their ordeal. You take a silvery butcher-knife and cut into one of the magnificent bronzen asscheeks. The skin is ever so slightly crispy, a thin rind over a globe of buttery meat. The meat itself is a warm tan silk that cuts with effortless ease. The meat is so soft and perfectly done that it you can barely feel the passage of the blade through flesh. Done, you fork her whole butt-tip, crispy skin and all, and drop it on your plate. You lever a small sliver away, and raise it to your lips.

She is everything you dreamed. Rich to the point of creaminess, the meat melts over your tongue. Your regret again that this woman could never know how sublime her flesh was, how close to divine perfection her body had come. You eat more of her, the regret fading away in a glow of pure bliss as you feed more and more of her ass into your mouth

The remaining cannibals set on the cooked woman like wolves. Knives slash, forks stab, teeth clash in meat-pulping intensity as the cannibal feast unfolds. Her body fades like a sandbar in a tsunami, overpowered by the sheer fury of the assault.

Her breasts were claimed off by a burly cannibal who lops them off with one great swipe of his knife. Another cannibal, a striking middle-aged blonde, snarls in fury at his greed and stabs one quivering boob with her fork, claiming it for her own. The two cannibals glare at one another, blood-lust in their eyes, gravy-encrusted knives at the ready. Cannibal feasts are always have a certain amount of tension, and for a second it seemed that fresh blood would be shed onto the corpse of the cooked woman.

The other cannibals were too busy tearing into the steaming carcass to care. The two opponents took a second to realize that while they were at odds their fellows were stealing all the juicy portions of meat for themselves. Hunger and greed overcame rage, and they silently agree to share the creamy boobs, each taking one fat-oozing globe. Dispute settled, they join their fellows in claiming as much meat as possible, the woman carving away a wedge of calf, the man shearing off a forearm with his trusty blade.

The long-pig’s arms were sone gone. One arm was pulled off the steaming chest and yanked to one side, the poached ligaments squeeking and popping in protest. A cleaver whacked off the hand, the long fingers still clutching the apples nestled in the palm. The cannibal happily slurped the lean meat off the fingers before savoring the apple-flavored and pleasingly tender palm flesh. Another guest slashed the bicep off the upper arm, while a fellow tore away the tricep, leaving her humorous a bare length of warm damp ivory.  The forearm was simply twisted off, the elbow popping loudly over the grunts of the feeding guests. The guest, a distinguished elderly man held the ghoulish trophy up as he sank his teeth into the thickest section of muscle, devouring the limb like a chicken leg. The second upper arm lasted only seconds longer before a petite Asian woman hacked through the shoulder and tossed the whole joint on her platter. She moved away, unwilling to share such a bounty. She grabbed the ends, where the stumps of bone provided handholds, and sank her teeth deep into the succulent muscle. Her almond eyes widened in languorous pleasure as she toke bite after bite, her mouth moving up and down the limb like it were a corncob. She ate most of the arm despite her small stature, years of cannibal feasting having trained her stomach to accept huge loads of woman-flesh whenever possible.

The legs fared little better. A younger man looked stunned at his luck as he was able to collect both feet, piping hot and dripping with oils. His hands shook in excitement as he cut sliver after sliver of the pudding-soft flesh away, savoring each morsel like a man dying of thirst treats a cool draught of water. Snipped toes were sucked clean of meat and dry of every molecule of moisture, thickly padded soles were flensed, and even the ankles were mined of even the most minute particle of food.

The pig’s thighs were generously sized, but were no match for the cannibalistic appetites. Knives and fingers removed great oozing steaks. Cannibals elbowed one another aside to seize the prized top-of-the-thigh cuts. The upper legs were wonders, the thick muscle spiced by the nearby ass-cheeks and loins. The long-pig’s muscles had been healthy, but plump enough to be literally squirting oily melted fat when cut into.

A pair of cannibals, man and wife pared away one dripping hunk of quadriceps. Like shy school kids they fed the morsels of meat to one another, looking at one another with pure love. Nothing is more binding then shared passion, and in this these two were lucky beyond measure to share this rare and savage need with one another. Bound together by the shared meats of many a murdered woman, they kindred souls deep in love.

The feasters barely paused when a thick femur broke with a loud crack. Several enterprising gourmets began to spoon out the bread-thick cooked marrow, spreading the dark harvest over the steaks like crimson butter.

The calves were simply ripped off and eaten like the thick drumsticks they were, the cannibals who won them disdaining cutlery and simply chewing them down to the bones.

Again, women proved as savage as any man, as one calve was ripped apart by a tall amazonish redhead. The woman looked fierce enough to eat women alive, and rumor had it she had done so on more than one occasion.

The other calf was enjoyed by a pair of women, one white the other Oriental, obviously lovers, who ate the flesh of their fellow female with almost dainty delicacy, nibbling rather then rending, taking time to occasionally wipe their mouths free of human gravy. They ate rapidly, despite their unusual decorum, peeling away strips of skin and meat with their teeth, occasionally snipping an inconvenient tendon with their knives to loosen up fresh steak.

The belly had long since been torn open, spilling its cargo of stuffing over the table like an edible lava flow. Belly steaks were sliced away, then inch-thick filets so tender they almost disintegrated before the cannibals could bring them to their mouths.

There were angry growls as two cannibals fought for the navel, the dimpled flesh still holding onto a cherry that had been shoved deep inside. Again forks were held menacingly, bits of roasted girl-meat clinging to the tines that were inches away from burying themselves in cannibal flesh. Again violence was narrowly averted as a third cannibal, a boy who looked still to be in his teens, took advantage of the pairs distraction by reaching and seizing the prize and devouring it before their outraged faces. The two cannibals raged at the loss of the purloined meat, but there was no getting it back, so they contented themselves with more belly briskets.

The rest of the pig’s ass was culled in a whirlwind of cutlery. The girl’s booty had been pretty hefty, perhaps heavy enough to be called plump. No matter, for no cannibal worthy of the names ever called an attractive ass too thick. The great ass-hams were cuts into slippery slices, the meat sliding along the plates on a raft of hot melted butt-grease. Soon her naked hips bones shifted as their heavy load of meat was lifted from them, the bare pelvis and hip cradle looking forlorn amid the culinary orgy.

Loud snaps announced breaking ribs. Two great racks of ribs, each deeply laden with pectoral and dorsal muscles overlain with slick tasty skin, were polished down to bone in no time. The stumps of her missing boobs still stuck up over her chests like violated monuments, a few poached mammary glands and beads of associated fats visibly embedded in the remaining flesh.

Breaking the ribs was hard work as many lengths of meat-drenched bone had to cut free from the sternum and then snapped off at the spine before they could be chewed or hastily filleted. Frustrated, a tall dark-haired man finally reached for a cleaver and began to hack off jagged chunks of cage, literally chopping her upper abdomen into mismatched sized hunks of flesh and bone. The gourmets snatched up the riven chunks, disdaining the pathetic heap of cooked lungs that lay amidst the devastated torso.

One man did think to grab the heart, the strong muscle very dense and chewy, but tasting like no other muscle in the human body. It was worth the effort to masticate it, for the tissue was that had pumped so much hot Latina blood in it’s time was uniquely spiced and memorable.

The pig’s whole torso was strip-mined. Her collarbones were snapped off, her partially skeletonized body rolled to one side so her shoulder blades could be pried loose, har spine and tailbone searched for overlooked fragments of meat.  Her neck was flensed, meat separated from the rubbery tubes of her jugulars and throat.

Not even her head was spared. Her facial cheeks and lips were carved away, uncovering the shiny line of teeth and cheekbone. A woman’s face is indescribably tasty, the young soft skin rich with oily glands, the tissues directly beneath a harvest tiny intricate muscles. Those muscles were strong and supple from years of laughter and smiles, and were as delightful to eat as any morsel of woman-flesh ever consumed.

Her defleshed jaw pulled free of the apple it clenched, the wrinkled fruit rolling free to rest in a puddle of gravy. Her tongue was nipped away to serve as an intriguing compliment to a gammon of thigh meat that a young man was eating. One quite daring cannibal even cracked the heat-softened palate and spooned away a few mouthfuls of brain, which he found to be surprisingly edible. Others followed his example and soon several cannibals discovered the rewards the soft and oddly spiced tissue offered to the discriminating gourmet. Only the eyes were left, no one even in this gustatory-daring crowd being eager to crunch on jellied pupil.  The pig’s jet-black eyes rolled loose in her demolished face, a drop of gravy forming one glazed accusing iris.

At last the feast wound down as the supply of girl-flesh petered out. There was one last part, the part that you had been waiting. You have dined with what by cannibal standards is something close to restraint. A nice hunk of ass, a cut of thigh and a rib or two, but no more. Now, at the end, you will be rewarded for your icy self-control.

One piece of flesh has remained untouched, and that piece nestles between her flesh-shorn thighs like a treasure amid ruins. It is her vaginal filet, and as the host of this grand banquet it by right is yours.

Gorged cannibals look on, wanting this most tender of morsels despite each belly straining to digest pounds and pounds of human meat. They lick their greasy lips in desire, but they know the rules by which this communion is served.

You lift the filet out with your hands, unwilling to taint such a treasure by stabbing it as if it were just any flesh. It pulls free of the few remaining strands of tissue holding it, popping loose with an almost inaudible pop.

It is surprisingly light, a bit over a pound, but more precious then gold. It is the essence of woman, the source of her fertility and taste, as much the seat of her soul as her heart and brain could ever claim. And now it is yours, yours alone.

You hold her moist lips to your mouth. Nectar, gravy, body oils and pheromones boiled from her clitoris have all played a part in keeping her sex organs as wet as they ever were when she was alive and full of passion. The puckered flaps have parted slightly, opening a passage deep into her what was once her womb. The flesh still smells of vagina, and you can see the poached nub of her clit amid the simmered meat.

You bite, your teeth closing around the juicy petals. Taste, no….it is beyond taste, explodes in your mouth. You feel the bliss that only the gods can adequately describe. Your body fills with joy so intense it is close to pain, you penis grows as hard and swollen as a pressed ingot of molten steel. You gasp, your lips quiver so much that you nearly spill the bitten vaginal flesh in your mouth.
You feed more, almost undone by the sensation of her clit in your mouth, the bulb exploding under your bite, the quake of pheromone and sex-laden juice. You recover, barely, and bravely continue through to cervix and ovary, the meat of which tastes faintly of egg and essence of life itself.

You do not remember more, for you are at last overcome. Your guests, your fellow travelers down this bright and terrible road you travel help you to bed. They are grateful for the fruit you have shared with them. They clean up, discarding the laughably small remains of what was hours before a breath-takingly beautiful woman. Gravy-stained hair, cracked bone, some few strands of tendon, a few odds and ends no longer identifiable, are all that is left. They are quickly composted into unassuming splinters and paste, mingled with trash and put out for collection.

You sleep and dream the dreams of the just. In your dreams you know that you will a cannibal till your dying day. This is what you were made for, and nothing, nothing will ever seize control of your soul like the flesh of a woman between your teeth. You pity the masses of humanity that will never know this pleasure, but that is alright, for they are your prey. Those not cannibals, not anointed by the hunger for human flesh, are by right your fodder, mere beasts born to feed the awful fire that fills your soul. You dream on, at peace, for you are a cannibal, and you have fed well tonight.

One Comment

  1. ovenfetishman425
    July 31, 2019 @ 1:46 pm

    Very well written love it

    Please wait...

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