A D.C. Tale Part 8: Robin’s Souper Adventure

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by Ralph LeCan

On a warmish, early May morning in 1974 Robin put on her waitress uniform for her usual twelve to eight shift at "Chez Michel" on Connecticut just above Calvert. She noted it was really getting snug, and was not surprised, even though it was only two weeks old. Robin wondered if it was worthwhile to buy another one a size larger, or if she could muddle through with this one until...until...until IT happened. Anyway, she was meeting her friends this afternoon and they would be able to help her out!

As she got dressed, Robin thought bitterly about the circumstances that brought her to this situation, and how over the past few months she had arrived at the bizarre decision she was now in the latter stages of fulfilling.

It had all started several years ago when, fresh out of the University of Maryland in '72, with a fluff degree, Robin had gone to that protest concert on the Mall in D.C. What it was protesting she couldn't remember; they were protesting everything back then. Anyway, she met this very charming, although totally stoned, guy who had come with one of the back up bands, a band which was never called upon to play. Jack was the lead singer of an aspiring band known as the "Sentient Vegetables." Jack had been touted by the "Rolling Stone" in that week's issue as a rising star who could become the next Jagger.

Well, unfortunately, as Robin was soon to learn, if the asshole could do one thing like Jagger, it was to regularly ball women other than his wife!

The last straw, only eight months into their marriage, was when Robin came home early from the evening painting course she was taking only to find "Mick-too" doing a "menage a tois" with a couple of well-endowed groupies. She walked into their bedroom to come upon a mass of withering, squirming, moaning and panting flesh. The participants were so into their "doing what and with what and to whom thing" that no one saw Robin walk in the door.

Going quietly downstairs to the kitchen she grabbed a sharp knife, which had been part of a set given to them as a wedding present. Then, it was quietly back upstairs. Robin crept into the bedroom to confront the, now, very noisy mass of naked, human flesh. Only then did she see that her asshole husband was an equal opportunity cheat, as one of the chicks was white and the other one was black.

Robin tried to figure what part of the squirming mass belonged to her husband, as that was where she planned to bury the knife. Then she said to herself, "what the hell, they're all cheating on me."

Screaming, Robin plunged the knife into the most convenient body part she encountered. What Robin hit was the rather plump, lily-white bottom cheek of Nancy a 19-year-old Strayer College drop out, who was working as a checkout at the Giant on Connecticut near Van Ness. The blade sunk deep into the abundant flesh of the young woman's left buttock which, a few seconds before had been fondled by both her husband and an equally buxom young black woman who was part of the tangled flesh. The girl's startled squeal broke the various holds and interrelationships the three had onto, and into, each other.

Robin soon identified her husband and screamed, "you fuckin' bastard, I'm gonna cut off that undersized dick of yours and then cut off the tits of those two cows you were fuckin'! A number of years before her time, Robin was ready to do a "Loretta Bobbit" on her old man, as she chased the three down the stairs and out into the (once) quiet Chevy Chase street.

As the three naked "lovers" ran for some nearby woods, Nancy wailed the loudest and tried to run while grabbing her ample bottom cheek as if she were mortally wounded -- although the knife barely got through its substantial fat and had produced little blood.

Despite the pain of humiliation that Robin felt, she did have to chuckle at the sight of the three naked bodies -- which only a few minutes before had been locked in a rather unusual passionate embrace -- running down the street, their fleshy asses jiggling and bouncing as they ran.

In fact, as she watched her husband in the middle, outrunning his two female companions. She observing that he had gotten himself a rather good sized rump. Jack had been living high off the hog on her money while the Sentient Vegetables tried to sort out some "creative constipation" and finish their first album.

The three fleeing naked former lovers would soon become a legend locally; eg.: "there goes the neighborhood."

The divorce was uncontested, no money would change hands, and Robin was free and clean -- but was she? The money they had been living on had come from a trust fund her deceased father had left in the hands of his younger brother. However, "Uncle Nick" had also made a number of, rather "un-uncle like" advances towards Robin, which she had rebuked. Now it was time for his revenge.
So "dear, sweet" Uncle Nick invoked a minor clause in the trust fund's administration document which allowed him to withhold the remainder of the funding to Robin if he had "sufficient moral grounds to do so." Citing the debauchery of that particular evening and falsely -- but effectively -- drawing Robin into the picture as a participant, he used that clause to cut off funding.

Unfortunately for Robin a nasty legal battle confirmed his right to do so. Without sufficient funding to effectively challenge the injustice she lost. His victory was largely due to the fact Nick promised to divert some of the money to other relatives who provided untrue, but damaging, testimony as to Robin's "hedonistic" lifestyle.

So, on that bleak early February afternoon, leaving the D.C. courthouse -- now, desperate, and destitute -- Robin saw no reason to keep going. There was no money, there was no substantial partner in her life, and she felt that she possessed no significant job skills. She had no idea what was going to become of her.

However, it was on a cold evening in February 1974, two days after the verdict that a decision was made. After killing over a half bottle of "Seagram's Crown Seven" as a part of number of "Seven and Sevens," Robin decided that suicide would definitely be the best way out -- it was not a matter of if, just when and how!

Luckily, in the meantime, she was able to fall back on a job skill (significant or not, it was there) that she brought back from College Park: the ability to waitress. Even though Robin hadn't needed the money in college, she had worked at the "Terrible Terp" on Route One, and had honed her skills dealing with a bunch of, often drunken, juvenile assholes.

At the "Terrible Terp" an unsolicited pat on her nicely rounded bum, whose attributes were accentuated by her "hot pants" outfit, left the male "patter" rolling on the floor in agony. This was accomplished with a skill widely reported, and hence, admired by many females in the D.C. area as the pointed toe of her right shoe made very intimate contact with the very essence of the bozo's manhood, or more specifically the "family jewels" hanging in the sack below.

Hence, guys stupid enough to try making such contact with Robin's lush posterior, often to show how macho they were for their dates, ended up withering on the floor, blue in the face and crying out in pain. Usually they also ended up taking those dates home without having been able to properly perform in the back seat of the car. That, in turn, left more than one frustrated co-ed little option but to find her own, early morning, solitary release under the covers of her bed.

Naturally, it was only a matter of weeks before Robin's enticing rear was seldom the object of unwanted attention, although there was still the occasion clown who paid dearly for a few mili-seconds of contact with it. Hence, the only guys whose hand (or hands) made welcome contact with her widely admired bottom were those who did so during the prelude to, or actual act of, lovemaking; lovemaking which had Robin's total approved and hearty participation.

However, a waitress was not what she had in mind for the rest of her life, yet that was her only option now, until she could fulfil that decision made to end it all.

Luckily, in addition to the time at the "Terrible Terp" slinging drinks, she had worked at several more semi-respectable (read "shoes required"), student-oriented restaurants along Route One towards Hyattsville, so here resume looked pretty good. Also, she was still very attractive, even considering the ten pounds her legal battle had extracted from her already, rather lean figure. Hence, she easily found a job at one of the trendier new restaurants on Connecticut just below the zoo.

After landing the job Robin's mood swings continued. Sometimes during her breaks when she took a walk down Calvert, and crossed over the bridge which spanned Rock Creek Park, Robin often thought long and hard about ending it all and doing a swan dive off the bridge to the road below. However, this venue had already become so popular with "jumpers," who ended up splattering their earthly remains on the stretch of Rock Creek Parkway just under the bridge, that a rather massive barrier/fence had been erected to deter all but the most determined.

The solution she hit upon in mid-March, after awaking from a very intense dream in which she was barbecued by a group of cannibals, was to give herself up as cannibal fare! The concept of people as food had fascinated Robin for several weeks hearkening back to the PBS show which had spurred her interest, an interest which continued to grow as her dreams about the subject intensified, only to culminate in her decision.

It had all stemmed from an event, around 8:45 p.m. on her first Thursday night off in early March when she sat down in front of the small 13-inch color T.V. -- one of the few things she had salvaged from the wrecked marriage. She seldom looked at the UHF portion of the dial, but for some reason, likely fueled by a couple of strong Seven and Sevens, Robin began to fiddle with the knob and found the new PBS station. It was an event which was to change her life forever. The fledgling network was trying to establish its niche and put on alternative stuff to the three major networks. While Sesame Street was becoming a mainstream staple PBS also dabhemorrhage in other, semi-experimental, economical (read low budget) offerings.

Hence, what Robin ended up watching on that lonely, rather boozy, Thursday night, was a "documentary" put together by a group of students at SUNY in Buffalo. It was a rather elementary, but very graphic, look at cannibalism. The research was good, but there was a very strong undercurrent, which betrayed the student's "interest" in the subject. That interest ranged from morbid curiosity to (obviously) strong sexual arousal. The one that had caught her attention was one segment which recounted how five well-to-do young French women, on a safari in 1912, had been captured by cannibals in what had then been the Belgian Congo.

The section was illustrated by some very specific, often graphic drawings by an obviously talented, but also obviously intrigued, artist, whose renditions of the plight of the five women. Those illustrations, supplemented by a reading of the very detailed diary of the last of the five young women to turn over the cannibals fire -- made the show both horrific, and highly erotic at the same time.

The author of the diary was named Isabelle, a young 23 year old from Lyons. She wrote in English, a language she had learned from her days as a Nanny in London. Isabelle had done this because the natives who had captured her spoke French -- thanks to some Belgian missionaries -- and she was unsure whether they also read French, but she had wanted to not take any chances. Some of the text of the document (which was not discovered until 1970) read as follows:


Monday, October 27: It is the evening of what has been the most horrific day of my life. First, I am writing this in English in hopes that, if the savages which now hold me captive against my will, ever discover it, they will be unable to understand it. Just this morning the five of us were enjoying an idyllic tour of this beautiful jungle, tonight one of us is being horribly cooked by these savage cannibals, it is terrible. Ahhh, Monique, poor Monique, I can see her body from the window of the primitive hut where I am being held captive. Poor, poor Monique, her young plump body, naked as the day she was born, being slowly cooked over a fire, the aroma of her roasting body, which I am both repulsed by yet must also admit had a most appealing nature, fills the air. Her once milky white skin has now become rissolé, not unlike the colour of a roasted goose.

This morning we were being led by our two native guides for a promenade in the jungle. They had met us at the hotel around eight and had taken us by boat a distance down the river. There we disembarked and went on a walk along a jungle path when, from out of nowhere, ten screaming blacks, screaming like banshees, jumped out of the thick bush by the side of the trail and grabbed us. Howling with what seemed like glee they set upon ripping our dresses and undergarment from our bodies. we were also horrified to see our two guides join them, we were obviously led to this dastardly fate by them!

It was over in a few seconds and we all were totally without our clothes, all of our unclothed bodies available for viewing and inspection by the leering heathens. Many of us had never been in such a state before others and several tried to cover their bosoms and private parts but to little avail.

It was also the first time we had see each other without clothes and, despite the chaos of the event, as I felt the savages roughly squeeze and pinch me, I still looked at the others and their bodies. I was the leanest of the five. Then five long poles were brought and each of us was secured, by our wrists and ankles, to one. When done two savages picked up each one of the poles up, laughing and comparing the relative weight of their respective loads. Then all of us, swinging gently from the poles, some crying, some whispering prayers, were carried back to the savage's village, a village that we were all too soon to discover was populated by cannibals, and their favourite food is human."

"That must have been quite a sight," thought Robin," ten midnight black semi-naked savages carrying five porcelain white, totally naked women along a winding path back to their village to cook them.

As if on cue, the documentary then showed that student artist's illustration of the disrobing of the women, then the roasting of the first, plump one was very graphic. "God," thought Robin, seeing the detail of the drawings, "he really must have been turned on by this!"

In reality, the artist was a "she," a summer student, a lawyer named Judy, who had traveled to Buffalo from D.C. for a two-week course in visual arts back in '72. Judy had become involved with the project due to her fascination with -- and unspoken first hand knowledge of -- the subject.

Then the documentary continued, the voice over saying, "we will now move forward to the last entry in the diary."

"Tuesday, November 21 (I think): I don't truly know what day it is but, Mon Dieu, if indeed there is a God -- last night it was poor Micheline's turn. She had fleshed out like me thanks to the heathen's over feeding us to get us gros - tres gros in Micheline's case. It had been a week since the third of us Celine had been cruelly roasted. Celine was lucky, they had cut off her head before roasting her -- like a pig on Bastille Day -- Micheline and I were the only ones left to watch the foul deed. I had seen several public executions back in Paris when M. Guillotine's invention was used to separate criminals' heads from the rest of their bodies. However, this was very different.

Poor Celine, nicely plumped up from the same fattening process that will soon see moi turning slowly over a hot fire stood there trembling, the ample flesh of her terrified unadorned young body shaking with fear. Then the large cannibal male grabbed her hair and swung the large knife, it was horrible. He held Celine's severed head high in the air, I could see her face and, Mon Dieu, it looked like it was still alive, eyes open, mouth screaming a silent scream of terror. However, my attention was drawn back to her headless body. Instead of immediately pitching to the ground, it stood still for a second, as if also shocked by what happened. Then took a couple of stumbling steps, only to trip over a root and fall forward, face down on the ground, twitching as the dry ground soaked up her life blood that gushed from her headless neck. Soon, poor Celine, actually poor headless Celine's body, was impaled on a long sharp pole when went in her derrière and came out the neck, a neck deprived of its head. In short order it was being slowly roasted over a crackling fire.

Micheline, however, had fought to the end. She had refused to submit to the cannibal's feeding regiment and they restrained her and force her mouth open to insert food. As revenge, the heathens fed her twice as often as the rest of us. Micheline's body had been rather well covered when she captured. Poor Micheline must have weighed over 80 kilograms when she was cooked, more than any of the first three and at least 15 kilos more than me. As if that wasn't enough, they are also punished her for her fighting by the manner in which she was prepared and cooked.

There was not end to their cruellness. Micheline was destined to be roasted alive, but first the savages cut open her swollen belly -- she looked like she was with son but thankfully no baby dwelt within --her screams were horrific. However, they did not pull out her insides but, instead, stuffed her with a large quantity of a dough like material, then sewed her extended belly shut. She continued to scream as they rolled her over and laid the same pole that Celine, and the others had been spitted upon along her back -- I was fascinated how it was put between the cushions of her bottom. Quickly she was tied securely to it, the ropes cutting deep into the fleshiness of her large pink body, and she was put over the fire.

How long Micheline's screams of pain filled the air I know not, but they were agonising and full of suffering. Soon, mercifully they quieted down to whimpers and then she was quiet, as that all too familiar aroma of roasting human flesh filled the air.

Tomorrow is my turn. I have never been as fleshed as I am now. My legs are big, my bosom is large and my stomach is round and soft -- I also look like I am with son but no new life grows inside me, nor ever will it. By this time tomorrow, I too will have contributed that sweet aroma as these savages cook my body. It is horrific to know that the savage's favourite food is what I carry on my larger body. But for now, I grow tired, and must sleep."

Robin had wanted to hear more about the diary and the fate of its owner but they shifted the focus to the Pacific and some exotic ways that the cannibals of New Guinea had to prepare and cook their human dinners.

So now the die was cast, Robin was very sexually turned on by the show. As it continued on small T.V. she slipped her right hand down inside the waist of her jeans. Soon Robin let out an extended moan as her finger did the job of relieving the sexual tension she had built up over the past half-hour.

Hence, Robin decided that the only way she would end her life was as the main course of a meal, she would become, borrowing a term from the documentary; a nice delicious, nice plump "long pig!"

But that evening, "plump" was far from an apt description of Robin's figure, that recent weight loss had made her very slender, bordering on gaunt. She knew so she would have to put on some serious pounds before she might be considered suitable to roast over a roaring fire or bake in a hot oven. Actually, that could be the fun part, eating whatever she liked and not worry about the consequences on her figure.

However, she did have to figure out a way to have her, soon to be, ample charms appreciated as food. After all she couldn't just walk into any Safeway, take off her clothes and say -- "hey do you think you'd like this flank, or this porterhouse, or this delectable rump roast." Interesting though, in the ensuing nights that very scenario would become the subject of several vivid dreams, dreams as Robin began her journey to the serving platter.

Additionally, while the resolve to offer herself up as food continued to strengthen, as she become more obsessive, her depression also deepened as she shoveled the food down. That depression was fueled by the need to move out of the more opulent upper Connecticut avenue apartment she had moved into after the divorce -- when she still had some access to money-- to a more modest Woodley Road address. The money just wasn't there, but at least she was just a few minutes walk to work -- the car also went.

Also Robin had entered into several rushed, but ultimately superficial relationships, which kept her well fucked but emotionally empty; that certainly didn't help. However, three weeks after her PBS experience with a singular purpose of mind, and a steady diet of fattening foods she had steadfastly avoided before, Robin socked on twelve pounds. By early April she was getting back her original nicely proportioned figure, including that magnificent ass that had tempted so many back at the "Terrible Terp".

 

Since last fall Marsha, Melissa and Ruth had become regular patrons at "Chez Michel" when they weren't cooking at home. Although Michel's didn't serve what had become their favorite main course, the three young black women, all well-paid professionals, enjoyed eating out from time to time.

The fact that Robin, a waitress with whom they had become well acquainted with, had filled out what had been a rather angular figure with some decent padding, did not go unnoticed.

"Hi Robin," offered Melissa, "you're looking nice this evening, a new haircut?" Melissa knew damn well what looked nice about Robin, her extra poundage.

"Yeah," chimed in Ruth, "so what's tonight's special?"

"Well," responded Robin," the special rib eye is kinda tough, shit, maybe you ladies might like some nice rump roast instead. Then, turning 90 degree to the three startled black women, Robin slapped her own bottom which, while not really large, did have a satisfying substance to it, and the "thwack" spoke of some decent padding.

"How 'bout that, think its worth being tonight's special?" continued Robin.

The three friends were speechless, there was no way that Robin could know about their special interests, yet they had to respond somehow, and respond quickly.

However it was Robin who gave them the time to develop a response, as she turned beet red: "Oh gee, just because you guys are, like, I mean, gosh black, I didn't mean to imply that you knew about cannibals or eating people it's just that, well, ummm, you are some of my nicest customers and, gee, I just feel comfortable talking to you, and kidding around."

It was Marsha, thinking quickly who was the first to respond, "aw, come on, there ain't really enough meat on you for a decent meal," and she laughed -- somewhat too heartily, but it went by Robin.

Seeing that they weren't offended, Robin laughed in return. "well maybe some day there will be more of me to consider."

Indeed, it was a little over a year before that the three black friends had first taking their initial foray into a dining experience that was to forever change their lives. On a dare 28 year old Ruth, a nurse, had brought home a nice round thigh from a young, DOA white woman. Melissa, also 28 and a cook and dietician at George Washington University, had prepared it. The only dissenter to this action was 29-year-old Marsha who, as a lawyer, was worried about the liability of their actions, a worry which vanished with her first taste of that delectable meat served that April night in 1973.

Since then, a number of well-fed individuals had confirmed for the three that the meat of humans is one of the most delicious on earth. The three black friends considered themselves very lucky to have discovered that reality. They had been living on the edge for quite awhile, capturing and enjoying those 13 -- mostly female, but a few male -- contributors to their special menus.

In the early days the "long pigs" the three ladies "invited" to their house ending up on the dinner, lunch (and even breakfast) table enjoyed by those the friends, and occasionally the white woman Judy. However, later, their "guests" at the big, rambling house in Adams Morgan, soon also satisfied the needs of an unsuspecting, but very loyal, group of customers for Melissa's growing "cottage industry." She had gained a loyal, and growing, clientele for the "special" but almost addictive, most delicious "pork." Her customers really thought they were buying meat from a specially bred pig that Melissa had a unique access to. Little did they know that the special pig was really "long pig!"

Now, the three ate their meal in low conversation, something like this, out of the blue, had them thinking in several directions. Did they want to kidnap this woman, fatten Robin up a bit more, then take her to their basement preparation area; or did they want to encourage her, kid her about her comment in order to have her grow plumper then make (what they perceived as) her fantasy a reality?

No one had an answer, or indeed wanted to discuss it now, so, they just finished their meal and departed, leaving Robin a 20% tip to show no ill feelings.

Robin, in the meantime spent many of her off-hours in the D.C. library, in order to read up on the subject and had her feeling confirmed that, from a cannibal standpoint, the plumper was better. She had never before thought of her own body providing meat for a cannibal feast but, well, the combination of her depression and the PBS special, that was now a reality, a reality she would see through to the end.

A couple of days later, Robin was back at work when the three black women came in and sat at a table she was assigned. She did not know they had purposely selected it.

"Well I see you're not yet on the menu," ventured Ruth, as Robin walked over to take their order.

Robin was a bit taken aback by the comment. She had not expected anyone to remember her earlier comments.

The three decided to play it low key. All of the other well-fed individuals -- who had ended up the primary meat course at a wide variety of meals -- had done so involuntarily. Now the three cannibal friends saw an opportunity to possibly have their first consensual meal, someone willing wanting them to enjoy her body in a way that can be appreciated only once! .

So Robin presented a special challenge if indeed she was seriously thinking about a fate as cannibal fare. Like playing a ten-pound bass on a five-pound test line, they would need to reel her in slowly and skillfully.

For her part as Robin moved closer to her destiny, she started to dream and dream more and more. Those dreams were fueled, not only by her fantasy but by her increasing depression that her life had come so unstrung that she wanted to end it all. That combination meant that her dreams were not the only thing that were growing. Her size ten waitress dress was soon replaced by size twelve, and she was now a good twenty pounds over her pre-waitress, albeit, rather lean, figure -- and she knew there was more to come!

A week or so later, the next time the three black friends had come into Michel's all observed that there was definitely more of Robin than there had been there before, all three felt their mouths water!

However it was Robin, who after serving the three said, "I'm off in ten minutes, meet me in the lounge, I'll buy you all a drink, gotta talk."

As Robin walked away Melissa looked at Ruth and said "she has definitely put on some major pounds recently, do you think she's really serious about doing it".

"Well, there's only one way to find out," said Marsha with a grin, "let's go have a drink."

Robin joined the three just as the black friends were finishing their first glass of wine. "Thanks guys," she said as she took the fourth seat at the table. All three of the black women checked out her legs as the shortish dress rode up her fleshy thighs, "mmm, nice," was the collective thought.

Then to the bartender came over. "Hi Andy," said Robin, " I'll have a 'Seven and Seven' hey, make it a double, thanks"

Then Robin turned to the others, "I got something really, really weird to tell you. I wanta do something that is totally outta sight, no more than that, probably totally fucked-up, but I don't know who else to talk to. Since I lost all my money my 'friends' are gone and, well you guys have always treated me straight."

The other three ordered another glass of wine and Robin began spelling out the entire story and her plans for finding a way to have her final role in life as the main course of a cannibal feast.

The drinks arrived and Robin downed hers in two long swallows, then motioned for another.

The three other women remained silent, not sure what to say. There was absolutely no way that Robin could know about their "special" tastes in food, yet here she was asking them what she could do to become a nicely cooked long pig.

Robin's second drink disappeared almost as fast as the first one, and she offered, slightly slurred, "I'm gonna go over to Africa to try and find some tribes who are still practicing cannibalism and would appreciate a nicely filled out me as dinner. This isn't a black thing, but I know you guys do a lotta traveling and, well, ummm, do you know how I might find some tribe over there who, well won't make it nasty, torture and stuff but humanely do me and cook me?"

It was Melissa who decided to take the chance, and it was a big, dangerous one, "yes, we can help you."

Robin took a long swallow on her drink as Melissa continued. "Robin, you know, the black pride movement has had all of us looking at our roots, who our people were back in Africa. Well it is a given that, one or more of our ancestors, at one time or another, obviously dined on human meat.

"Also," Ruth interjected," at some time that meat likely came from a white person, as the colonial settlers, particularly the female ones, were easy prey."

"Therefore," Melissa continued, "if you are really serious, we would be very, very interested in seeing what our ancestors saw appealing about the taste of human meat."

Of course, Melissa, for obvious reasons, failed to reveal the fact that the three black friends knew damn well how delicious human meat was.

Robin swallowed, "you mean that you three guys would, well really, cook and, oh wow, really have me as food?"

"Hey," offered Marsha with a forced flatness to her voice, "its totally up to you."

"Well shit," responded Robin, "trying to clear her head from the effects of two strong drinks, "why not. After all I was ready to splatter myself on Rock Creek Parkway under the bridge. Then before someone got there to scrape me up those big fuckin' black birds would have gotten a few good chunks outta me, so why not you guys enjoyin' that meat, after all you're the closest thing to friends I got these days."

"Okay," said Marsha, in her best courtroom voice, "let' meet tomorrow around eleven thirty, just before you start work and, if you feel the same then we'll draw up the proper papers."

Robin had some major, "Class A" cannibal dreams that evening. In three separate segments she was barbecued, oven roasted and even stewed -- when she awoke she knew she would sign the papers!

The next morning, Robin go dressed, her fingers trembling in anticipation. Her waitress dress was even tighter, she knew it wouldn't be long. Here it was Tuesday, and they had agreed to meet on Saturday to finalize plans and maybe even do it then.

However, when she met with Marsha in front have Chez Michel's she was to learn Saturday was a non-starter.

"What size is your dress?" asked Marsha.

"Twelve," responded Robin, "but look how tight it is."

"And what do you weigh? asked Marsha again, "you're 5'7" right?"

"154," answered Robin, becoming worried it might not happen.

"We need to put a little more meat on your bones, let's skip Saturday, offered Marsha," although we certainly don't want you really fat, however just sign this now and we will guarantee the event will take place, just when is up to us."

Robin gave the contract a fast once over. It basically said the three women agreed to, in keeping with Robin's wishes, cook and consume her. It stated the process would not involve cruel or unusually painful activities, and Robin had an "escape" clause which could be evoked right up to the point of no return.

It also contained a clause that Robin's suitability to become food would be by "mutual consent" between Marsha, as the representative of the three.

 

Now another flashback to late February 1974. The three Cannibal buddies, long before they knew of Robin's intent, had decided that there was one what is considered classical way, of preparing a nice meaty human meal that they had yet to try -- boiling in a pot! Actually this way of preparing a human main course is way over stated. However, because it has become the staple of cartoonists for a number of years, in illustrating cannibal humor, many people view it as the prime preparation method.

It had been Marsha who had first suggested the possibility over dinner one evening as they enjoyed the last of a plump 43 year-old woman named June who had been their Thanksgiving barbecue. They had frozen the unlucky woman's nice meaty right thigh. Now defrosted and recooked with a nice béarnaise sauce, it was every bit as delicious as the left one had been on that unseasonably warm November Thursday last fall.

Between bites Marsha had said, "you know, one thing we never did was make a nice long pig soup. Yesterday, in the Post there was a cartoon with this big titted chick in a big black cannibal pot and I thought, hey why don't we try that?"

"Yeah," retorted Ruth, "and where do you think we are going to get a big-assed pot like that?"

However, Melissa who had been in the kitchen getting some more wine said, "you know, we really don't need one of those big old black cannibal pots. Any sort of large metal or even ceramic pot can do the trick. In fact, hey that's weird, one of our suppliers of canned vegetables is expanding his plant and asked if I knew anyone who might want to buy some of the old processing pots, I have a list upstairs, let me get it"

Melissa came back in a few minutes with the list and read over it, "hmmm, here we are, a forty-gallon stainless steel pot, eighty dollars. Sounds like a nice piggy could fit in there to make some good soup."

"Provided she's not too fat," interjected Marsha, "but then, of course we really don't want'em really fat anyway."

They bought the pot, but just tucked it away in the storage area of the basement. They had plans to use it up at the farm, but the next three victims to fall into the hands of the three were processed in the basement. One was "lovingly" barbecued, the other two; a well-fed Italian couple from G.W. were divided into a variety of "special pig" cuts to be sold at a tidy profit.

So the pot sat there, largely forgotten well into the spring.

 

In the meantime, Robin had gotten into the spirit of the scenario, even though it was her 25-year-old body which would be the primary player in fulfilling that scenario -- as food.

The three black women had chipped in and bought Robin a size 14 waitress dress. They also increased their visits to Chez Michel to see how she continued to fill it out. Then, after about a week more, in late-May Melissa told Robin to stop by their big old frame house so they could check out the progress first hand.

Robin walked up onto the porch of the house that balmy mid-May Saturday morning. Welcomed inside, she was first hesitant to strip naked for the three.

"Gee, Robin offered, "can't I just, like, keep my underwear on?"

In response Ruth admonished her "we certainly don't plan to cook you with your clothes on, so why not get used to it.”

That led Robin to disrobe entirely. While the three friends were conservative in their responses to the luscious looking naked white body, all three felt their mouth's water again.

"What do you think," asked Robin as she twirled around, making the various parts of her ample anatomy bounce and jiggle invitingly, "am I ready?"

Robin always had a good figure, with that great ass -- an ass reminiscent of her experiences at the "Terrible Terp." Nicely expanded by her weigh gain, her body was still one that would get any male's attention. The added weight had been more or less evenly distributed over Robin although, on balance, her bottom looked like it got a tad more than its fair share. The few size 14 clothes she had bought filled out nicely and Robin had move up in bra size from a 34B to a 36C. Additionally her stomach had a delicious softness to it and her hips had broadened noticeably.

That afore mention backside consisted of two plump hemispheres that Marsha couldn't restrain herself from patting, watching their flesh quiver as she did so.

Okay Robin, offered Ruth, just step onto the scale. The four women watched as the needle swung past 160 to settle on 168

"Robin my dear, I think you're ready," said Ruth as she patted the naked white women on one side of her nicely upholstered hips. What do you say ladies," continued Ruth, shall we invite Robin up to the farm for next Saturday?"

Then Robin asked, "since I won't be around to see what happens, would you tell me exactly what I will, ummm what my meat will be like once I am cooked".

Therefore, for Robin's edification Melissa did a tactical and verbal tour of Robin's nicely padded physique, explaining in detail to the young woman her best parts. First, let's start with your breasts. "Yeah," interjected Robin, I went from a 'B' to a 'C' -- gotta be a lotta good meat there."

Melissa just laughed, giving the substantial right tit a nice squeeze, "but its just fat."

"But here's where the action is," interjected Marsha, patting her favorite portion of the human anatomy, at least from a cannibal's standpoint, Robin's ample haunch.

"But, offered Robin," as she got dressed, "how will I be cooked?”

"Oh, we plan to do a nice 'Robin Long Pig' -- spit roasted over a hot hickory fire."

"You're going to stick a spit in me, but that will be nasty, ”countered Robin, "gotta hurt big time!"

"No, actually," offered Melissa, "we can either dull your senses so you can be awake through everything and not hurt a bit, or we can knock you out or cut off your head before, it's up to you."

"Well, I'll think about it," countered Robin, "but I'm not backing down, I didn't get myself this plump for nothing."

That evening, over dinner, which consisted of leftovers from a chubby sophomore from G.W. that Melissa had enticed home, Marsha offered, "Hey, I know we plan to barbecue Robin next week at farm, why don't we just make a nice Robin soup instead?"

"Fine," responded Ruth, "but we better slow her weight gain down, we have been fattening her for the spit, so there would be plenty of melting fat to keep her nicely basted, she may get too big for soup making."

"Not really," interjected Melissa, "while I agree you don't need her as padded for soup as is desirable for barbecuing, when the soup cools it's easy enough to skim off any excess fat."

Robin showed up bright and early, around nine that early June Saturday morning. "Well, I'm here" she offered, with a bit of forced bravado.

Robin was wearing a pair of light pink shorts that were working overtime trying to contain her ample figure. "Gee guys," Robin said as the others obviously saw how much difficulty those shorts were having in containing Robin's hips and thighs, "why should I buy a new pair to be cooked in?"

"Actually, you won't be wearing them when you are cooked," corrected Melissa, "but you look delicious anyway".

"Hey, we do need one thing, gotta take those final measurements," offered Melissa, “so would you go upstairs with Marsha."

Marsha led Robin to the guest bedroom and opened the door. What they both saw was a rather muscular naked white man stretched out on the bed, a very substantial, uniquely male appendage, standing at full attention, pointing at the ceiling.

Robin immediately knew exactly what was going on and, smiling at Marsha unbuttoned the waist of her tight shorts and dropped them to the floor, "first let me 'measure' that!"

Marsha smiled and closed the door. The guy in bed was Mike, a new resident doctor at D.C. General, a guy whose libido appeared bottomless. Not only did he become a legend in the linen closets with the nurses, but he still made pin money on the side as a male prostitute -- a sideline he cultivated in Medical School. His performance this morning was worth $30.

As the three women sat in the living room listening to the rhythmic creaking of the guest bed, and the occasion grunts and moans, they knew Mike was earning his money.

"I don't know," put forth Marsha, "how can a man, well "get it up" for money. I mean us women can fake it all the way from here to Los Angeles and the guy ain't the wiser. But a male just can't fake a hard-on, I mean Robin is definitely fuckable, but well, what if some plug ugly broad wants a shot up her whoopee tube for 200 bucks..."

"Hey, it's not our worry," offered Ruth, "different strokes and all that, although since seeing 'Midnight Cowboy' I also wondered the same thing?"

The intensity of the noise indicated that the end was near, Melissa hoped the floor would hold.

A few minutes later, a disheveled Robin came down the steps, looking very "well-taken care of". She had gotten dressed but Ruth said, "opps, gotta strip again, we do need to get your measurement.

A few minutes later, Robin's "vitals" were recorded in the log book they kept on their victims, the picture would be taken at the farm. For the record Robin's final statistics were: 5'7"; 169 lbs; 40-34-43.

Then getting dressed again, Robin joined Marsha in Melissa's 69 'Cuda, Ruth stayed behind to pay Mike. He discretely came down after Robin was out of the house. However, surprisingly he pushed aside the money. "God Ruth, where did you get that chick, she was fantastic, I should pay you, in fact I will if you'll give me her number, a tad chubby but what a piece of ass!"

"Sorry Mike, she's on her way to Seattle to get married," Ruth lied, "you were our going away present."

"Well keep the money anyway, offered Mike, "that was a very nice way to kick off Saturday!"

As the car headed up Connecticut towards the Beltway Ruth opened a bottle of wine and poured glasses for everyone. Even Melissa, the driver took discreet sips of hers that Ruth held for her, although she planned to pace herself until they hit the farm.

However the others were not as constrained and began to whoop it up, as the wine hit empty, ten a.m. stomachs. Robin came out of the trance that had enveloped her since he house. "Gee thanks guys, he was NICE, especially that big cock of his!" and she giggled.

Then, as if becoming introspective Robin asked, "are you still gonna barbecue me."

Actually," offered Ruth, "we want to change the cooking process."

Melissa then detailed the pot scenario and, surprisingly Robin was upbeat on it. "So there is no real heat at first, just warm water," responded Robin.

"Yeah," offered Marsha, "an' you just drop off to sleep."

Robin had downed two glasses of wine by the time they arrived and was feeling both mellow and a bit introspective. "Wow," she said, and seeing the pot walked over to it, gingerly running her hands over the sides, "so this is it, this what I will be cooked in."

Ruth glanced with a worried look over to Marsha who shared her concerns, that introspection could turn to melancholy and would result in Robin's backing out.

The large pot had been brought up to the farm earlier in week and was resting on several large, fireproof ceramic blocks and Robin now bent over to look inside. As she did a loud "rip" announced the fact that the seat of her shorts gave up the struggle to contain her tightly constrained bottom and separated at the seam.

"Well," Robin giggled, " I guess that's an omen," and quickly took off the shorts as well as the rest of her clothes, "let's do it!".

While Ruth and Melissa were filling the pot with water, and getting the fire started, Marsha gave Robin an enema, and helped her clear her bladder, they didn't want any accidents. Then she was taken into the old farmhouse for a shower.

Even though Robin was well scrubbed, and had her bladder and bowels evacuated, they still took extra precautions to ensure the soup wasn't fouled. Therefore, Melissa selected two vegetables from the large basket they had brought to add to the large pot of water in which Robin would be cooking. These veggies would be dumped in after Robin's plump body had started to make its contribution to turn the water into a delicious soup stock.

However, two were selected to plug Robin's lower body orifices. The first was a large zucchini, destined for Robin's vagina, the second a nice fat carrot for her asshole.

"Okay Robin" offered Melissa, "let's get you set, we just need to plug a few holes to ensure there are no accidents"

She purposely inserted the zucchini first, figuring it would be more pleasurable than the carrot, although, she mused, "maybe Robin will also enjoy the carrot if she had let some guys travel her 'Hershey Highway."

As Melissa inserted the large vegetable into the white woman's pussy she saw Robin's nipples stiffen and thought, "shit, I don't want that zucchini to slip out if she gets too wet".

However, before she could respond, Robin reached down to grab the huge vegetable and began to masturbate with it, rapidly pushing it in and out of her, now well self-lubricated, vagina. It took only a few seconds for her to throw back her head shudder and scream, as her body was wracked with a massive orgasm.

Melissa wasn't what sure what the unexpected new ingredient now covering the zucchini would do for the soup, but she decided not to find out. "Now, now Robin," she semi-mockingly said to the naked woman, "that wasn't agreed to." But Robin just looked back with a wide smile on her face.

.Reaching down Ruth removed the slippery vegetable, wiped off Robin's wet pussy and, finding an even larger one, inserted it into Robin, eliciting a moan of pleasure from the woman.

Now for the carrot. "Okay Robin," offered Melissa, "time to shut the back door." So, as Ruth spread open the soft cheeks of Robin's newly plumped up bottom, Melissa inserted the carrot.

"Ohhh," said Robin, "gee that kinda really hurts." Melissa now knew that Robin hadn't been into anal sex, but was pleased as she gave a little shudder meaning that her sphincter muscle had closed around the carrot creating a good seal -- no contamination from there.

They then had Robin kneel. Ruth then took a large round metal bar and laid it across the underside of Robin's large calves.

"Hey," said Robin, "why you guy's doin' that?"

"Well," offered Melissa, " you do have some decent adipose tissue on you, and you know how it is lighter than water and wants to float, so we need to weight you down," and she gave Robin a big smile.

"Shit," thought Robin, "why not just say they gotta weight me do so my lard ass doesn't have me bobbin' around when I start to cook."

Robin was then securely tied in a kneeling position. First a rope was looped under her calves and meaty thighs and pulled tight, the women noting with satisfaction how it cut deeply into the abundant flesh of the young woman's thighs.

Robin had a terrified look on her face as she was lowered into the pot. However, it was only lukewarm -- she had been told that but still wasn't sure.

"Gee said Robin, "it's not that hot". Melissa handed Robin another plastic cup of wine and said, "enjoy, it'll help you relax even more."

As she sat there sipping the wine, Robin saw them dump in the basket of vegetables, and noticed that Melissa emptied three large baggies of what looked like salt, pepper and seasoning.

The women added wood gradually to the fire, and the water got warmer. Robin still chatted away, but soon the wine and the rising water temperature were making her drowsy. "Hey, you guys makin' some boss Robin soup," she slurred, then her head sagged to the side and she fell asleep.

Soon the water was at a rolling boil and Robin was being pushed from side to side. Only the weight of the bar last between her thighs and calves kept, as Marsha observed, "Robin from bobbin too much!"

A delicious, mouth-watering aroma filled the air as Robin began to cook. The three women took turns taking the long fork and sticking its prongs into her body to release her juices and melting fat, to flavor the water as it turned into soup stock.

While they waited for Robin to cook Ruth handed Melissa her mail from that morning. One was addressed to her newly formed catering company, an outgrowth of her "special pork business".

One of them was an order for a catered function the following Saturday. It was from the brother of one of her most dedicated "special pork" clients from G.W. He had tasted the exquisite meat at his sister's and wanted to do a special "Soup and Sandwich" event in conjunction with the televised Lacrosse championship that afternoon in which Maryland was playing. He had just bought one of the new "big screen" TVs for his newly acquired bar and wanted to launch it with a real party, "damn the costs."

"Hey guys," Melissa said, "look at this, an order for a 'Special Pork' Soup and Sandwich next Saturday -- and here we are makin' our first batch of soup."

When Robin was cooked a nice deep reddish-brown, they gingerly lifted her out of the pot using oven mitts. The aroma was delicious. Melissa was pleased that both the carrot and zucchini, now well cooked, were still firmly in place. Melissa had decided that Robin would provide both the soup and sandwich meat for that order, a job which was worth over $1,000.

Working with an efficiency developed over the past year Melissa quickly carved the well padded, and now well-cooked, body. First Robin's rump and thighs were separated and put aside. These, along with some calf meat would provide the sandwich meat. Shaved fine, it would be served "au jus" on freshly baked Kaiser rolls. Melissa would do the serving that day, although the meat that she was carving would be cut into shapes that made it impossible. Now to the soup.

From the rest of Robin's body she trimmed over forty pounds of meat which, diced into bite-sized chunks was returned to the soup pot. For irony she also washed, then diced up the carrot and zucchini which had recently plugged Robin's lower orifices and returned them to the soup.

As Melissa stirred the large pot of soup, which was emitting an aroma that mere words failed to describe, she took the letter out of her pocket. "By the way guys," she asked the others, "do you know where the 'Terrible Terp' is located in College Park?"

Epilogue:

Among the patrons of the "Terrible Terp" that Saturday afternoon were several male alumni who shared a common bond. All had been forcefully rebuked in the very same bar, in the very same manner, when they had unsuccessfully tried to appreciate the luscious posterior of a waitress named Robin. All had suffered that, very painful consequence of their unwanted attention to her outstanding backside . Now, although all were singularly unaware of the reality, they were being afforded the opportunity to appreciate that truly delicious bottom in a far different manner -- if they only knew!

One Comment

  1. lens
    January 28, 2014 @ 2:38 pm

    Finished it all and it was well worth the read. A fine. well written tale. Thanks and best wishes. lens

    Please wait...

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