@meatluvvr asked his followers for a dolcett themed story; that inspired me to write my own.
The building is low, rectangular, nondescript. Fresh pavement, well tended lawn and garden, and clean stucco. I checked the address I had, hastily scrawled on a piece of scrap paper; it confirmed I was in the right place.
“Doesn’t look like much, does it.”
“I think that’s the point.”
Rebecca and I stood side by each outside the nearest bus stop, under the shade of a large, overhanging tree. Behind us, the street was midmorning summer quiet. Apart from the occasional drone of a large truck passing on the nearby interstate, and the distant hum of a lawn mower, all was calm.
It felt surreal, to be here after so many hours spent thinking about this moment. While I couldn’t speak for Rebecca, this was, by far, the most exciting moment of my life. I crumpled up the paper and tossed it into a nearby trashcan.
“Well,” I said, “are we gonna go in, or what?”
Rebecca frowned, and bit her bottom lip.
“Don’t tell me you’re getting cold feet,” I said.
“No,” Rebecca said, shaking her head. “No, no. Of course not. I want this—bad.”
“Okay, good. Then prove it. Come on.” I took her hand and, after a moment’s resistance, Rebecca acquiesced, letting me pull her up the path after me.
When we reached the opaquely polarized double glass doors, we found them locked. At first, I was confused. Then I saw the buzzer, set discreetly off to one side. Shrugging, I looked to Rebecca, who shrugged back. I pressed the button with my index finger, sequined pink polish glittering prettily in the sunlight, then stood back and waited.
“Good morning,” said a pleasant female voice. “Can I help you?”
“Yeah, hi. Um, my friend and I are looking for”—I repeated the address—“are we in the right place?”
“You are. How can I be of service?”
I looked at Rebecca, confused. What was I supposed to say? Of all the illicit promotional material I’d read, nowhere was there any mention of codes, secret passwords, or similar nonsense. I’d assumed getting inside would be as easy as opening the door and walking in. Now, I was beginning to wonder; was I making a mistake?
“Look. I don’t know what you want me to say. We found your address online, and my friend and I are very interested. We’d like to come in and talk to someone, if that’s possible.”
The intercom crackled, as if expressing doubt.
Just as I was about to give up, a buzzer sounded and the lock clicked. I was able to pull the door open. I held the warm metal in my hand, peering around the edge of the door at the darkness within. Cool air blew out to meet us, enveloping us in its icy grip. I looked around at the calm, cheery brightness of the day, then made eye contact with my friend.
“If we do this—if what I’ve read is true—there’s no going back. Are you sure you wanna go through with it?”
“I’m sure if you’re sure.”
“All right, then. Let’s do it.”
@meatluvvr - sorry to tag you again, but since this story is for you, I wanted you to know that I’ll be updating this particular post as I write; check back on it periodically if you want to read future installments.
A woman waited for us in the lobby.
She was petite, blue eyed and blonde, dressed in business casual, and sporting a wide smile full of perfect white teeth. As we approached, she held out a hand, shook Rebecca’s and mine, then gestured for us to sit on a white leather loveseat across from an identical chair, in which she sat.
“Ladies, good morning. I’m Delaney Mackintosh, customer relations representative for this facility. Who might you be?”
“Good, great,” Delaney Mackintosh beamed. “What brings you to our facility today?”
“I’ve always,” I began, at the same instant Rebecca said, “We wanted.”
Everyone chuckled a bit, and after each of us urged the other to go on, I continued, meeting Delaney Mackintosh’s kind, interested gaze.
“I can’t speak for Rebecca—okay, we’ve known each other so long I could, but I won’t, I’ll let her tell her own story in a bit,” I said. “Personally, I’ve been fascinated with the idea a long time. I grew up curious and open minded; after puberty and the internet, I had something to focus my fascination on.”
“Okay,” Delaney Mackintosh said. “How did you make the leap? What first alerted you to the existence of our organization?”
“It started with damsel-in-distress type fantasies. Growing up, I didn’t just want to be any princess, I wanted to be the princess. The one coveted, lusted after. So much that the dastardly villain just had to take her for himself. You can ask my brothers; I’m sure they’ll tell you how tired they got of rescuing me.”
Rebecca laughed. “It’s true,” she said. “Playing with her could be an exercise in patience. You’d just get her untied when, whoops, she’d manage to fall prey to another scheming baddy.”
“I take it your fantasies started with her,” Delaney Mackintosh said to Rebecca. “I remember all kinds of back and forth between my best friend and I growing up.”
“It’s true,” Rebecca said. “Though it was a bit of a stretch, to go from playing recuse the princess with her and her brothers to fantasizing about being killed and eaten.”
“I’ll never forget the first time I told you,” I said, and Rebecca smiled. To Delaney Mackintosh I said, “She came over to my place one day our senior year. I had it all planned out. I showed her the art I’d found online, and then let her read some of the stories that pretty much dominated my masturbatory life that year.”
“How did you feel, learning your best friend wanted to be killed, cooked and eaten?”
“It was a shock. I was really put off, at first, to be honest. Then, like, the more I read, the more I watched, the more I learned—it all made sense.”
“I’ve been doing this a little while,” Delaney Mackintosh said, “and you’re the first pair of friends I’ve dealt with. Lovers, sure. Usually there’s enough of a physical bond to overcome any awkwardness or hesitation from one party or the other. But platonic friends? You guys are a first. You aren’t physically intimate, are you?”
Rebecca and I both laughed.
“Not unless you count a few exploratory kisses,” I said.
“We’re just good friends,” Rebecca said. “Once she told me she wanted to go through with this, I couldn’t let her do it alone.”
Rebecca held out her hand and I took it.
“Speaking of which,” Delaney Mackintosh said, “I hate to get official on you girls, but before we go any further, I’ll need to see some identification. As you know, while the process is completely legal, it requires participants be both willing and able to consent.”
I fished my driver’s license out of my purse and handed it over.
Delaney Mackintosh held it up, studied it, then looked long and hard at me. I felt like I did the first time Rebecca and I tried to sneak into a club—certain Delaney Mackintosh would find some nonexistent flaw, some legal triviality to disqualify me, and my dreams would be squashed forever.
“Thank you,” she said, finally, handing my license back to me.
“Please don’t judge me on that picture alone,” I said.
Delaney Mackintosh smiled politely, took Rebecca’s license and checked it, then passed it back.
“Okay. Now that that’s out of the way, I’m obligated by law to inform you of something. If you accompany me into the next room, there is no going back. If you have doubts or second thoughts, however minute or seemingly inconsequential, now is the time to act on them. You are perfectly free to leave, take time, think things through, and come back when you’re ready.”
“What,” Rebecca said, pausing to clear her throat. “What happens if we do go on, and then change our minds?”
“I’m not at liberty to say. You’re a smart girl. You know what we do here. The experience can be pleasurable to the point of transcendence, or it can be coldly detached and brutal.”
My whole body went rigid at her pronouncement. My nipples stiffened and my sex ached; I could feel myself moisten as my body simultaneously tensed and relaxed, ready for fucking. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, certain Delaney Mackintosh could see right through me, knowing Rebecca would be able to read me like a book. I couldn’t help but think about it; the sudden shift from person to meat, as simple as walking through a door.
Pretty soon, I realize, I wouldn’t just be thinking about it—I’d live it.
“I don’t meant to pressure you, Becca. This is a big decision, and I’ll support you no matter what you decide,” I said, standing. “But I’ve been waiting for this moment my whole life.”
“Excellent. And what about you, miss?”
Rebecca frowned. I got the feeling she finally realized the enormity of her decision. If she went with me, that was it; as far as Rebecca the person was concerned, at least. There would be no more school, no more work, no more makeup, shoes or boys. Very likely, her last moments on this earth would be confused, even painful. By this time tomorrow, she would dead, her carcass cleaned, butchered, and portioned. However, if she left, she would be on her own; the dynamic duo we’d formed on the first day of kindergarten all those years ago would be no more. Her best friend—me—would be dead, and she’d be left alone to deal with the consequences.
“I, um, I’m not sure.” Rebecca frowned, clutching her purse to her chest, as if it were a talisman that could ward off evil or, I thought, more likely, a doll. “I mean, I want to go with her, so she doesn’t have to face this alone, but it such a big decision, I—”
My cunt spasmed as a possibility occurred to me.
What if she left and I went on ahead; her life would continue, she’d get old, find someone, maybe settle down and have kids. Losing me would no doubt hurt her for a long time, but after a while she’d get over my passing, and maybe forget me entirely. Meanwhile I would be dead, full stop, this very day, and the best I could hope for in terms of longevity was a prolonged stay in the back of some cannibal gourmet’s freezer. More likely I’d be dead, dissected, digested, and somewhere in the waste treatment process by the end of the week.
Was I truly ready to die for the enjoyment of others, never to know pain, pleasure, fear, joy, or anything else, ever again? And how about my parents; my other friends and family members. To them, I was not only a person whom they loved and cherished, but a living embodiment of their life’s work. My parents spent thousands of dollars and thousands of hours raising me, taking care of me, making sure I was happy and healthy and fed, with clothes on my back and a roof over my head. Was this selfish decision not squandering all they’d sweated for, spitting in the face of their efforts?
I felt warm, soft. My whole body yearned to be touched; squeezed, poked, prodded. I wanted nothing more than to lie down, close my eyes and spread my legs.
Of course, I could do all those things and more if I called this off and went home right now.
However, deep down I knew my solo escapades would never satisfy me again; nor would any man be able to bring me to the same orgasmic heights as my death tremors.
I couldn’t make up my mind.
If Rebecca wanted out, I decided, I would go with her; if she wanted to go on, to hell with everyone else—we would do it!
Rebecca was beside Delaney Mackintosh, and together they stood staring at me. Sometime during my own mental wanderings, Rebecca must’ve made up her mind.
“Positive.” Rebecca said, grinning widely.
We squealed, jumping up and down like two little girls excited for Christmas morning. When we were through we hugged, then turned to look at Delaney Mackintosh, who was once more smiling.
“Ready,” Rebecca and I said.
“Be ready,” she said, “for in this room, all your dreams will come true.”
The next room resembled the intake portion of a police station, as I’d seen depicted on TV. There was a desk, manned by an older woman who looked up—but did not smile—as we entered, a wall with painted lines, indicating measurements anywhere from thirty-six to eighty-four inches, and a laughably small camera set up on a tripod.
“Welcome to the first stage of processing,” Delaney Mackintosh said. “At this point, I’m going to ask that you had over all your personal belongings to me. Purses, wallets, cell phones. You can keep your clothes for the time being, but I need the rest.”
Rebecca and I reluctantly surrendered our belongings; I felt naked, giving up my cell phone, lifeline to the outside world and one of the final things tethering me to the life I was about to leave behind.
“Now, each of you will have your picture taken. This is for legal purposes; like producers of pornography, we are required to keep detailed records of every girl that comes through our facility. That way, if there is ever a complaint, we can point to your file and say, uh uh, she was legal and consenting.”
“Makes sense,” I said, hugging myself.
To think that I might not be around to speak for myself—to defend my actions against potential accusers that ranged from my parents to state and local government—sent a chill through my veins. My arousal, which had peaked the moment Rebecca made her decision to accompany me to our shared fate, began to wane. Despite the long, intimate hours I’d spent fantasizing about this, I’d never imagined it would be such a drawn out process. This felt more like passport renewal than a precursor to being snuffed and butchered.
Rebecca went first, holding a card with her name printed on it, exactly like an inmate would do for her mugshot. The old woman—Gladys was her name—snapped orders and pictures with equal detached aplomb. She gave off a decidedly unpleasant vibe, and it was obvious to me why she was here, past the point of no return, rather than out in the lobby greeting guests; if Rebecca and I had been ‘welcomed’ by Gladys, there’s a good chance we would’ve talked ourselves out of continuing.
“Next,” Gladys droned, and Delaney Mackintosh nudged me gently towards what I couldn’t help but think of as the ‘Wall of Shame.’
“How do I look?” I asked her as I passed. “Okay?”
“Hold the card chest height,” Gladys intoned, ignoring my question. “Look straight into the camera. Do not smile.”
I did as I was told, turning when she said, holding the card up so the camera could clearly see my name as well as my face.
When it was over, we went to another room, where we were told to strip naked.
“Naked?” Rebecca repeated. “But it’s so cold in here. We’ll freeze.”
Delaney Mackintosh apologized, but insisted; it was a necessary part of the process.
To show Rebecca there was nothing to be afraid or ashamed of, I unbuttoned my denim chambray shirt and lifted it over my shoulders. Instantly, I was confronted by cold; it seemed to cling to my skin, like a film, raising hairs all over my body and sending a final, painful, stiffening jolt to my nipples. Nevertheless, I continued removing clothing, unclasping my bra and dropping it to the floor, before undoing and shimmying out of my white denim capris. Next I kicked off my bamboo sandals and stood in salmon pink bikini panties while I waited for Rebecca to catch up (the poor thing was having a hard time lifting off her yellow sundress).
“What happens to our stuff?” I asked, more to pass the time than out of any real concern.
“Your clothes will be laundered and taken to donation centers. Your other belongings will be sent back to your family.”
“Is there a problem?” Delaney Mackintosh asked.
“Would you mind wiping my phone first? There’s some stuff on there I don’t want my family to see.”
“Of course. I’m sure our tech department can take care of that for you. Now, if you don’t mind,” she said, gesturing to my panties. “I don’t mean to rush you, girls, but I know how chilly the facility is, and I’m only thinking of your comfort.”
I slid the skintight fabric down my thighs and quickly folded the garment up, hoping to hide the embarrassing dampness in the crotch. I dropped them to the floor with the rest of my clothes, and turned to see Rebecca, naked, legs crossed and arms folded together in front of her breasts. I smiled encouragingly, and she gave me a weak grin in return.
“Come on,” I said. “Let’s get this party started.”
“Excellent. If you girls will just follow me,” Delaney Mackintosh said, disappearing through a door on the opposite of the room from the one we entered.
“I guess we’d better hurry,” I said.
“Yeah, no kidding,” Rebecca said, a bit more comfortable with her nudity, now we were alone. “Hey, listen. Are you sure about this?”
I shrugged. “What choice do we have? You heard her. There’s no going back now—only forward.”
“I know, but—”
I stepped forward and wrapped my arms around her. Rebecca stiffened, as if I were a stranger, as if she’d never seen me naked—or I her—but gradually relaxed, melting in my embrace.
“Shh,” I said, rubbing her back, feeling her shoulder bones beneath her smooth, taunt skin. “It’s okay. Soon, we’ll live out our fantasies; soon, none of this will matter.”
Rebecca hiccuped, and I realized she must’ve been silently crying all along.
“We could go back,” she said. “What are they gonna do? We could probably make it out into the street before anyone realized we weren’t goin ahead.”
“No,” I said. “I don’t think so. They’ll have thought of that.”
A sob escaped Rebecca’s lips.
“There’s only one option left to us, and that’s to go forward. If you want, I’ll go first.”
Rebecca sniffed, nodded, and pulled away.
“Okay. Let’s g—g—get on with it.”
“All right,” I said. “Follow me.”
“Hello?” I said, peering into the foggy darkness. “Is anyone there?”
“Delaney? Miss Mackintosh?”
Rebecca and I huddled together near the door we came through, uncertain whether to proceed or await further instruction. It was colder in this room; it felt like we were standing in a fridge or a freezer (in fact, the sensation called to mind a childhood memory of being shown the inner workings of a Pizza Hut while attending a birthday party; the place they kept the dough felt exactly like this).
I took a tentative step forward, but was halted by steady pressure on my arm. Rebecca. She held me tightly and would not let go.
“I don’t like this,” she said.
“Neither do I, Becca, but we can’t stand here all day. I’m sure there’s a reason Delaney left us; she probably assumed we were smart enough to know to follow her, and now she’s waiting in the next room, disappointed. You don’t want her, or anyone else, to think we’re slow, do you?”
Gradually, her resistance weakened and I was able to pull her forward. Immediately, the door we came through slammed shut, locking with a hermetic hiss.
“That settles that,” I said. “Come on, let’s go.”
Truthfully, I felt something was very wrong. I’d always assumed that, given the immense sacrifice I was making by volunteering for such a process, that I’d be treated like royalty. Maybe that’s symptomatic of my generation’s coddling; being told, almost from birth, that you’re special has to have an effect, no matter how subdued, on your psyche. But if you think about it, my reasoning is sound, and my argument makes sense.
However, the world doesn’t always make sense. To paraphrase someone wise: sometimes, you get fucked. I dwelt on this maxim, wondering how I could’ve made such a poor choice, feeling betrayed and a little scared, as we walked deeper into the gloom.
A klaxon siren sounded once we passed a certain point; along with it, a yellow light began to flash. It was like when you see machinery—big, dangerous production lines—start up in movies. Instantly, I disliked it; approaching blindly, in the dark, knowing that somewhere, sometime, I would be killed, was like waiting for a jump scare in a movie, only a thousand times worse.
Rebecca pressed closely against me, and I felt a pang of guilt for dragging her along with me. Poor, sweet, loyal and suggestible, she would’ve followed me anywhere. I should’ve known better than to confess the truth of my desire.
“I don’t know,” I said, shouting to be heard over the noise.
Suddenly, the floor beneath our bare feet began to move. Whirring, mechanical sounds filled the air, and we were carried forward, towards the far side of the room, which was obscured by mist and darkness.
Velcro straps emerged from the floor and wrapped automatically around my ankles, securing me in place.
I looked up to see Rebecca being hauled off the conveyer belt by what looked like two men in doctor’s—or butcher’s—uniforms. “Wait,” she cried. “I want to go with her. Please!”
“Becca!” I said, but when I tried to step away, the straps tightened, pinning me to the floor and preventing me from doing so.
A third man emerged from the gloom. He wore a mask, an apron, latex gloves and clear plastic goggles. I took one look into his cold, detached eyes, and knew pleading with him would be futile. He took my wrists and raised my arms over my head, and secured them with identical velcro straps that hung from the ceiling. After making sure they were tight, the conveyor belt halted.
He returned, holding electronic clippers; they buzzed, and my auburn locks fell to the floor around me.
Next, I was sprayed with some kind of liquid—it was viscous, like oil, and after a second or two, it started to burn, as if my whole body were an open wound and they’d just covered me in alcohol. I screamed, thrashing in my bonds, but the more I struggled, the tighter they got, until I was almost totally immobilized. Behind me, somewhere in the darkness, I could hear Rebecca crying. I wanted to call out to her, tell her not to be afraid, that it would all be over soon, but the burning pain was almost too great for me to form a coherent thought, and it was certainly too much for intelligible speech.
I approached a metal arch, with little modules that looked like speakers placed at regular intervals around it.
Suddenly, jets of air assaulted my sensitive body. I screamed as the pressure increased and I felt bits of me blown away as I was dried. I felt a particularly wet splat, and looked down to see what only could’ve been one of my eyebrows plastered to my arm. It remained there, stuck to my pink skin for a second, before it was blown away, gone forever.
When the blowing stopped, the room was deathly quiet. I still felt pain from the spray, but it was distant now; I realized with shock that that was how they dealt with body hair, which was always one of my biggest sticking points when it came to this fantasy. All the cartoons and stories ignored the fact of human hairiness, when in reality you would never cook a woman with a head of luscious locks than you would a pig that hadn’t been shaved first. The spray must’ve been some kind of depilatory chemical.
Something warm, viscous and wet, probed my anus. It seemed to hesitate there, as if sensing my reluctance, but before I could process the reality of its existence—let alone its intent—the pressure increased and I felt myself brutally parted as it fully entered me. Warmth and wetness, followed by painful bloating, as the intruder sprayed some kind of liquid deep into my bowels. It was awful; humiliating, uncomfortable. The worst kind of violation imaginable. Tears spilled down my cheeks, and I tried to think about something else, anything else, but as if sensing my thoughts, the device kept moving—every time I got used to it and its awfulness in one spot, it shifted to another.
My stomach, generic stand in for the rest of my insides, felt bloated, like a combination of the worst indigestion with the worst menstrual cramps.
“Please, stop! Kill me now!”
I heard the words, and thought at first Rebecca had spoken them. It wasn’t until the device withdrew, bringing with it the contents of my insides, and I screamed, that I realized it’d been me.
For better or worse, Rebecca was gone, and I would never see her again.
My stomach dropped when I realized what they’d done.
Either intentionally or on purpose, they’d swapped Rebecca’s and my stated preferences.
I’d always dreamed of being spitted and live roasted; of feeling the heat build until it became intolerable, wincing in agony as my fat was rendered and my body slowly roasted in its own juices. I dreamed about the orgasms I would have, squirming around the implacable steel spit, whereas Rebecca wanted it to be over with as soon as possible. She desired a quick, humane slaughter, followed by post-mortem processing.
“You bastards,” I said; I imagined them greasing Rebecca up, her dark hair gone, eyes red and wide, lips peeled back in a grimace of absolute terror. “Delaney, I can’t believe you did this to us, you, you horrible cunt.”
There was a hiss, the crackle of static, and her familiar voice rose above the mechanical din:
“As you can see, we’re in the middle of processing our latest intake. The one on the lefthand side of your screen request live spitting, while the one on your right desired a quick and painless end. Unfortunately, since they did not do their research, they did not know—until very recently—that we were unable to accommodate their requests. You see, ladies and gentlemen, in order to deliver the quality and flavor you deserve, we are required to make the process as traumatic and painful as possible.”
My mouth dropped open. I couldn’t believe my ears.
Not only was I lied to, I had unknowingly lied to Rebecca as well. How many times had she heard from my lips the pleasures that awaited? To be fair, I was working with flawed, incomplete information; everything I’d read, all the comics and images I’d seen, suggested the most powerful orgasms imaginable awaited those brave enough to sacrifice their lives for the culinary enjoyment of others. Had it all been a sham, designed to lure in the gullible (like me), or were the authors and artists unwilling accomplices, lured by their own twisted desires to imagine only the best possible scenario?
While I thought, the conveyor continued forward.
One moment I was in the dark, the next there was bright, blinding light.
“If you look closely,” said Delaney Mackintosh over the loudspeaker, “the processes are about to reach their climax.”
I heard a whir, then felt a flare of pain as something moved up my body from my now-hairless sex to just below my breasts. I looked down in time to see mechanical arms pull my abdomen open, and my insides, a coiled mess of grey and pink and dark red, go spilling out of my body. It was a surreal feeling, to see my inner workings, the very things keeping me alive, leave my body. There was pain, but only a little; it was more the eerie sensation of being turned inside out that troubled me.
I pissed, voiding the one area they’d neglected—probably for aesthetic purposes—to clean out prior to my disemboweling.
“Agh,” I groaned, looking up towards the speaker, where, very faintly, I could still make out the words being spoken.
“Her offal will be ground up and sold as feed for livestock; soon, shock and blood loss will cause her to expire, after she reaches the peak of her agony. Then, and only then, will she be parceled, packaged, and made available for purchase. Choice cuts will be auctioned, while the rest sold on a first come, first serve basis.”
“It looks as though she’s going … going … and, gone.”
The last thing I heard was:
“We’ll now turn our attention to the other. She’s ready to be spitted, and her flesh will be served as part of the complimentary dinner, included in the price of your tour.”
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