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Sizzling Sluts: A Dolcett Restaurant

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carloscruz said:
Thank you very much @CruxGirl!
I reread the whole story in order to fully enjoy your last chapter.
It is very well written and the characters are depicted with intelligent complexity.
It is incredibly exciting for me to read your stories. Specially, knowing that those are the fantasies of an intelligent and attractive woman.

For instance, I find very very arousing this paragraph:



I must confess that I get an erection every time I read it ;)
Click to expand...
All this time I have been reading this story and I realized Im a redhead. I would not last long in that town.I would be crucified or roasted alive.
 
6.

The sound of wolf whistles and wild applause from the street outside brought Geta back to the present moment. The three buxom cruxgirls, bearing their chunky patibula, were disappearing from view, driven onwards by the lash. Greta reckoned it would take them about twenty minutes to reach Leicester Square, where arrangements had been made to rape and scourge them, before their final short walk to Trafalgar Square to be nailed up.

Lost in thought, she gazed at the street and the dispersing crowd. Some of the spectators turned around and wandered up to the window to peer into the restaurant. They stared at her, no doubt wondering what she was doing there, a pretty red haired schoolgirl sitting all alone in that sea of empty tables.

Behind her, in the open plan kitchen area, Beccy was telling Greta’s family all about the spits and the charcoal roasting pits. Thor was pleading for his mother to get up on the spitting table on all fours so that he could take a selfie, standing behind her posing with a spit.

“Stop being ridiculous, Thor!” she shrieked with faux outrage. “What kind of woman d’you think Mommy is? Do I look like a piece of meat!”

“You look delicious, Mom!” he chortled.

“Well, I suppose I ought to thank you for that compliment, sweetheart. But Mommy’s not for sale and never will be.”

A sudden menacing presence made Greta jump. There was a man walking towards her from the side door. He was around six foot two and muscular, dressed in dark blue jeans, a white T-shirt and expensive white trainers. He had heavily tattooed arms, and thick sloe-black hair, all sleek and glossy with gel. She guessed he was in his early thirties. Seeing him advancing inexorably towards her sent a surge of dread tinged with a dark sensual excitement directly to Greta’s groin. Simultaneously, a queasy ticklish sensation fluttered inside her belly.

The man moved with the jungle cat grace and confidence of an Alpha Plus; he was the kind of man who delighted in his own animal being. Greta noted that he was strikingly good looking, with a strong jawline, a sensuous mouth and an imposing Roman nose. Her pulse quickened, and she squeezed her thighs together.

He stopped a few feet from her and stripped her naked with his bottomless dark eyes. Speaking in a soft French accent, he said:

“Good afternoon, mademoiselle. Are you the meat?”

“I’m ... Greta”, she mumbled, and then dropped her eyes, unable to hold the heat of his gaze.

He proffered his hand. “Come, Greta. Let me see you in the light.”
Tentatively taking his hand, she rose and allowed herself to be led towards the window.

Behind her, Beccy exclaimed: “Oh lit! Michel's here already!”

“Goodness! He’s so handsome!” said her mother in an embarrassing stage whisper.

A couple of feet from the window, Michel laid hands on Greta’s shoulders and gently maneuvered her into a position where her face and hair caught the full radiance of the mid-afternoon sun.

He stared at her big green eyes and drew down the skin underneath her eye sockets. He pressed his fingers against her lips, pulling them apart, staring into her mouth, scrutinizing her teeth. His fingers reeked of garlic and cigarettes, mixed with the stale shellfish tang of vaginal secretions.

“Tu es très jolie”, he murmured. “Let me see your tongue.”

She poked her tongue out at him, and he bent down and licked the tip of it with his own tongue. She gasped as her pussy spasmed, oozing her own hot musky secretion into her panties.

He passed his fingers through her blazing hair, scrutinizing its coppery roots. “Formidable!”, he intoned, and pushed his nose into its silky richness “Aah! … J'adore tes cheveux roux naturels.”

Greta felt painfully self-conscious. She felt she ought to thank him for his nice comments, but she was tongue-tied, paralyzed with fear.

His eyes turned to her big bust, which was heaving rapidly to the rhythm of her shallow breathing, pushing hard against the stretched white cotton of her school blouse .

“Are these real?” Without touching, he swept his hands over the massive contours of her confined breasts.

“Absolutely!” said Mr Larsen, striding up. “Those tits are one hundred percent natural. Just like the hair. Natural redhead for extra taste.” He extended his hand. “Max Larsen. I’m the meatgirl’s father. This is my wife, Dagmar and this is my son, Thor, who’s just qualified as an Alpha. Thor’s hoping to find some part-time work in your kitchen. Maybe we can discuss that later. But first, down to business. How much will you give me for this mouthwatering piece of meat?”

Michel smiled engagingly and shook hands firmly with Max and Thor, and then stooped and raised Dagmar Larsen’s hand to his lips.

"Enchanté, Madame.”

“Oh! Um, thank you”, she said, giggling nervously and blushing.

“You have a very pretty daughter, Mr Larsen. I see that she gets her beautiful hair and exquisite good looks, not to mention her big tits, from her mother. She would have fetched a high price at a bride auction. As for her value as meat, I will make you an offer once I’ve completed my inspection.”

“This meatgirl is my friend, Greta,” Beccy blurted out enthusiastically. “We were at school together. She’s one of the nicest girls I know. I bet she’ll taste, like – totally amazing.”

“And you too will taste totally amazing, Beccy”. He put an arm around Beccy from behind, playfully groping a breast and tweaking a nipple.

“Thank you, Michel!” she said breathily.

With his other hand Michel pushed two fingers into Beccy’s pussy. She sighed rapturously, leaning into him and nuzzling her head against his broad chest.

“Now then, Beccy”, he said, “I want you to finish laying the tables. Make sure you get plenty of rest before we start your tenderizing process. Your oven will be ready at seven thirty. Your gangbang will start at six forty-five. I’ll want you to cum at least nine times.”

Beccy’s whole body contracted in a spasm of ecstasy. “You bet, chef,” she said submissively. And then, as if experiencing a moment of profound spiritual self-realization, she closed her eyes tight, arched her back against the chef and ran the tips of her fingers lightly over her stiff nipples.

Michel slapped her hard on her fleshy, branded, rump. “Bonne fille! You have reached peak meat awareness. Ouah! La joie d'être de la viande!” He kissed the tips of his fingers. “Tu es délicieuse.”

“Thank you, chef!”, she squealed, and scurried off to lay the tables.

Michel turned back to face Greta.

“Alors, ma belle vierge … At least – I think you are a virgin. Are you not?”

“Is that a problem?” asked Mr Larsen. “Is it even true, Greta? Didn’t the cops rape you at the police station when they arrested you?”

She shook her head. “No”, she mouthed, her face all prickly as she blushed.

Michel drew Greta towards him and kissed her hard on the mouth. She had never been kissed by a man, nor had she been sexually molested at the police station. The Chief Constable had given the order to preserve her virginity. Presenting her as a virgin at the pre-crux gangbang would have enabled the police to charge an exorbitant price for the first ticket.

During their tryst at the Markus Exhibition in the National Gallery, Signora Meloni’s plump luscious lips and delicate tongue had teased Greta to the point of delicious agony. Now, Michel’s lips, in contrast, felt firm and rough. He invaded her little mouth like a savage beast, his tongue a thrashing serpent, grinding, slithering and sliding against her own tongue, reaching far back, almost to her throat, awakening thrilling, tingling sensations of a kind that she had never known.

Abruptly, Michel broke off, leaving her breathless and shivering, her juices churned and simmering like molten metal.

“Undress for me. I need to see your flesh, and feel your meat.”

“Wh-what … here?” she panted.

He nodded and smiled.

“In front of everyone?”

He nodded again.

She glanced at the window and saw that the group of tourists outside had grown. There was a moderate sized crowd peering in, full of voyeuristic eagerness.

“I know”, said Michel, “you are feeling shy and anxious. And this will be your first time naked in public. But the shame of it will give depth and subtlety to your flavors.”

“Go on young lady”, her father urged. “Do as the chef says. You’re just meat now.”

Big tears welled up in Greta’s eyes. With trembling fingers she took off her school shoes and placed them side-by-side on the floor. As she reached hesitantly for the buttons on her blouse, a large tear trickled slowly down her lovely face.

Michel bent down and licked the tear off her cheek, passing the tip of his tongue upwards along the whole length of its glistening rivulet.

“Parfait!”, he said, savoring its taste. He turned to her parents. “There is a perfect salt balance in both her saliva and her tears.”

“Sweetie! What do you say when a gentleman compliments your flavor?” said Mrs Larsen.

“Um … thank you”, said Greta, stifling a sob. “Um … like … where shall I put my clothes?”

“Do you need them?” Michel asked Mr Larsen. “We usually give them to the local charity shops. There is an animal welfare charity across the road.”

“Sure. Give them to charity”, said Max Larsen with an extravagantly dismissive wave of the hand followed by a nervous glance at his wife for reassurance.

Mrs Larsen pulled a face. “I think we could get at least twenty pounds for them at the next car boot sale.”

“You know best, honey. Erm, we'll hang on to them, Mr Montaine.”

“As you wish.”

Greta took off her blouse and placed it neatly on the nearest chair. Then she unfastened her black school skirt, letting it drop around her ankles. Her mother picked it up and folded it neatly on the chair, before helping Greta roll down her black nylon pantyhose.

Michel stared at her. He seemed intrigued by the contrast between her meaty rack and her comparatively slight frame.

As she stood there in nothing but her bra and panties her cheek was tingling fiercely where Michel had licked her teardrop. The sensation danced like forked lightning around her face and neck.

She could smell the shame of her own arousal soaking through her panties. Her heart was pounding, her nipples like bullets, almost boring through her 32DDD sports bra.
 
CruxGirl said:
6.

The sound of wolf whistles and wild applause from the street outside brought Geta back to the present moment. The three buxom cruxgirls, bearing their chunky patibula, were disappearing from view, driven onwards by the lash. Greta reckoned it would take them about twenty minutes to reach Leicester Square, where arrangements had been made to rape and scourge them, before their final short walk to Trafalgar Square to be nailed up.

Lost in thought, she gazed at the street and the dispersing crowd. Some of the spectators turned around and wandered up to the window to peer into the restaurant. They stared at her, no doubt wondering what she was doing there, a pretty red haired schoolgirl sitting all alone in that sea of empty tables.

Behind her, in the open plan kitchen area, Beccy was telling Greta’s family all about the spits and the charcoal roasting pits. Thor was pleading for his mother to get up on the spitting table on all fours so that he could take a selfie, standing behind her posing with a spit.

“Stop being ridiculous, Thor!” she shrieked with faux outrage. “What kind of woman d’you think Mommy is? Do I look like a piece of meat!”

“You look delicious, Mom!” he chortled.

“Well, I suppose I ought to thank you for that compliment, sweetheart. But Mommy’s not for sale and never will be.”

A sudden menacing presence made Greta jump. There was a man walking towards her from the side door. He was around six foot two and muscular, dressed in dark blue jeans, a white T-shirt and expensive white trainers. He had heavily tattooed arms, and thick sloe-black hair, all sleek and glossy with gel. She guessed he was in his early thirties. Seeing him advancing inexorably towards her sent a surge of dread tinged with a dark sensual excitement directly to Greta’s groin. Simultaneously, a queasy ticklish sensation fluttered inside her belly.

The man moved with the jungle cat grace and confidence of an Alpha Plus; he was the kind of man who delighted in his own animal being. Greta noted that he was strikingly good looking, with a strong jawline, a sensuous mouth and an imposing Roman nose. Her pulse quickened, and she squeezed her thighs together.

He stopped a few feet from her and stripped her naked with his bottomless dark eyes. Speaking in a soft French accent, he said:

“Good afternoon, mademoiselle. Are you the meat?”

“I’m ... Greta”, she mumbled, and then dropped her eyes, unable to hold the heat of his gaze.

He proffered his hand. “Come, Greta. Let me see you in the light.”
Tentatively taking his hand, she rose and allowed herself to be led towards the window.

Behind her, Beccy exclaimed: “Oh lit! Michel's here already!”

“Goodness! He’s so handsome!” said her mother in an embarrassing stage whisper.

A couple of feet from the window, Michel laid hands on Greta’s shoulders and gently maneuvered her into a position where her face and hair caught the full radiance of the mid-afternoon sun.

He stared at her big green eyes and drew down the skin underneath her eye sockets. He pressed his fingers against her lips, pulling them apart, staring into her mouth, scrutinizing her teeth. His fingers reeked of garlic and cigarettes, mixed with the stale shellfish tang of vaginal secretions.

“Tu es très jolie”, he murmured. “Let me see your tongue.”

She poked her tongue out at him, and he bent down and licked the tip of it with his own tongue. She gasped as her pussy spasmed, oozing her own hot musky secretion into her panties.

He passed his fingers through her blazing hair, scrutinizing its coppery roots. “Formidable!”, he intoned, and pushed his nose into its silky richness “Aah! … J'adore tes cheveux roux naturels.”

Greta felt painfully self-conscious. She felt she ought to thank him for his nice comments, but she was tongue-tied, paralyzed with fear.

His eyes turned to her big bust, which was heaving rapidly to the rhythm of her shallow breathing, pushing hard against the stretched white cotton of her school blouse .

“Are these real?” Without touching, he swept his hands over the massive contours of her confined breasts.

“Absolutely!” said Mr Larsen, striding up. “Those tits are one hundred percent natural. Just like the hair. Natural redhead for extra taste.” He extended his hand. “Max Larsen. I’m the meatgirl’s father. This is my wife, Dagmar and this is my son, Thor, who’s just qualified as an Alpha. Thor’s hoping to find some part-time work in your kitchen. Maybe we can discuss that later. But first, down to business. How much will you give me for this mouthwatering piece of meat?”

Michel smiled engagingly and shook hands firmly with Max and Thor, and then stooped and raised Dagmar Larsen’s hand to his lips.

"Enchanté, Madame.”

“Oh! Um, thank you”, she said, giggling nervously and blushing.

“You have a very pretty daughter, Mr Larsen. I see that she gets her beautiful hair and exquisite good looks, not to mention her big tits, from her mother. She would have fetched a high price at a bride auction. As for her value as meat, I will make you an offer once I’ve completed my inspection.”

“This meatgirl is my friend, Greta,” Beccy blurted out enthusiastically. “We were at school together. She’s one of the nicest girls I know. I bet she’ll taste, like – totally amazing.”

“And you too will taste totally amazing, Beccy”. He put an arm around Beccy from behind, playfully groping a breast and tweaking a nipple.

“Thank you, Michel!” she said breathily.

With his other hand Michel pushed two fingers into Beccy’s pussy. She sighed rapturously, leaning into him and nuzzling her head against his broad chest.

“Now then, Beccy”, he said, “I want you to finish laying the tables. Make sure you get plenty of rest before we start your tenderizing process. Your oven will be ready at seven thirty. Your gangbang will start at six forty-five. I’ll want you to cum at least nine times.”

Beccy’s whole body contracted in a spasm of ecstasy. “You bet, chef,” she said submissively. And then, as if experiencing a moment of profound spiritual self-realization, she closed her eyes tight, arched her back against the chef and ran the tips of her fingers lightly over her stiff nipples.

Michel slapped her hard on her fleshy, branded, rump. “Bonne fille! You have reached peak meat awareness. Ouah! La joie d'être de la viande!” He kissed the tips of his fingers. “Tu es délicieuse.”

“Thank you, chef!”, she squealed, and scurried off to lay the tables.

Michel turned back to face Greta.

“Alors, ma belle vierge … At least – I think you are a virgin. Are you not?”

“Is that a problem?” asked Mr Larsen. “Is it even true, Greta? Didn’t the cops rape you at the police station when they arrested you?”

She shook her head. “No”, she mouthed, her face all prickly as she blushed.

Michel drew Greta towards him and kissed her hard on the mouth. She had never been kissed by a man, nor had she been sexually molested at the police station. The Chief Constable had given the order to preserve her virginity. Presenting her as a virgin at the pre-crux gangbang would have enabled the police to charge an exorbitant price for the first ticket.

During their tryst at the Markus Exhibition in the National Gallery, Signora Meloni’s plump luscious lips and delicate tongue had teased Greta to the point of delicious agony. Now, Michel’s lips, in contrast, felt firm and rough. He invaded her little mouth like a savage beast, his tongue a thrashing serpent, grinding, slithering and sliding against her own tongue, reaching far back, almost to her throat, awakening thrilling, tingling sensations of a kind that she had never known.

Abruptly, Michel broke off, leaving her breathless and shivering, her juices churned and simmering like molten metal.

“Undress for me. I need to see your flesh, and feel your meat.”

“Wh-what … here?” she panted.

He nodded and smiled.

“In front of everyone?”

He nodded again.

She glanced at the window and saw that the group of tourists outside had grown. There was a moderate sized crowd peering in, full of voyeuristic eagerness.

“I know”, said Michel, “you are feeling shy and anxious. And this will be your first time naked in public. But the shame of it will give depth and subtlety to your flavors.”

“Go on young lady”, her father urged. “Do as the chef says. You’re just meat now.”

Big tears welled up in Greta’s eyes. With trembling fingers she took off her school shoes and placed them side-by-side on the floor. As she reached hesitantly for the buttons on her blouse, a large tear trickled slowly down her lovely face.

Michel bent down and licked the tear off her cheek, passing the tip of his tongue upwards along the whole length of its glistening rivulet.

“Parfait!”, he said, savoring its taste. He turned to her parents. “There is a perfect salt balance in both her saliva and her tears.”

“Sweetie! What do you say when a gentleman compliments your flavor?” said Mrs Larsen.

“Um … thank you”, said Greta, stifling a sob. “Um … like … where shall I put my clothes?”

“Do you need them?” Michel asked Mr Larsen. “We usually give them to the local charity shops. There is an animal welfare charity across the road.”

“Sure. Give them to charity”, said Max Larsen with an extravagantly dismissive wave of the hand followed by a nervous glance at his wife for reassurance.

Mrs Larsen pulled a face. “I think we could get at least twenty pounds for them at the next car boot sale.”

“You know best, honey. Erm, we'll hang on to them, Mr Montaine.”

“As you wish.”

Greta took off her blouse and placed it neatly on the nearest chair. Then she unfastened her black school skirt, letting it drop around her ankles. Her mother picked it up and folded it neatly on the chair, before helping Greta roll down her black nylon pantyhose.

Michel stared at her. He seemed intrigued by the contrast between her meaty rack and her comparatively slight frame.

As she stood there in nothing but her bra and panties her cheek was tingling fiercely where Michel had licked her teardrop. The sensation danced like forked lightning around her face and neck.

She could smell the shame of her own arousal soaking through her panties. Her heart was pounding, her nipples like bullets, almost boring through her 32DDD sports bra.
Click to expand...
Thanks a lot @CruxGirl you never disappoints. Already wanting more!
What a subtle and masterful transition! Soon Greta‘s biggest hope will be to be tasty!
 
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7.

Some of the tourists outside the window were now filming Greta on their phones, no doubt adding to a rich archive of girlmeat clips to which they could masturbate in the privacy of their hotels. Girlmeat tourism, by now, was London’s second most lucrative industry – after crux tourism.

A couple of teenage boys, betas, with their plain and homely girlfriends, sidled up to the window to see what was going on. One of them was grinning like an imbecile and making a cranking movement with his arms to mimic the turning of a spit handle. The girls cracked up in fits of nervous giggles.

Embarrassment and humiliation whipped through Greta like an icy gale, fanning the furnace of her arousal and making her giddy with anticipation. What would Michel command her to do next? She stared forlornly at the pile of clothes on the chair, knowing that she would never wear clothes again. From now until she got spitted, she would wear nothing but high heels, perhaps a G-string if she was very lucky. And yet, with each fresh degradation, she was becoming more and more sexually exhilarated.

Michel had praised her red hair and the salt balance of her tears and saliva. And now, she craved for him to say more nice things. She wanted to be told that she was special. She was just a piece of meat now, but she wanted, more than anything, to be told that she was the best quality meat on the market. She desperately wanted to fetch a good price.

How could she have been so abased in such a brief period of time? She was aware that she was internalizing her own objectification. She knew that she was complicit in her own degradation, and yet it thrilled her just as playing with herself while reading Dolcett alone in bed had thrilled her. Only, this was no kinky fantasy: this was real.

Life was so weird. A girl’s life was just bizarre; nonsensical, a cruel joke of cosmic dimensions. Throughout her teens she had been so insecure about her looks, desperately wanting to be told that she was pretty. Now she yearned to be told that her meat was tasty: that people dining in a West End restaurant would enjoy eating her.

This was crazy. She despised herself for being so fickle, for having such low self-esteem. She tried to recall the things she had read in Mary Wollstonecraft’s book. It was hopeless. What use was an eighteenth-century treatise written for a sentimental middle class readership in the face of the crushing brutalizing power of modern authoritarian patriarchy?

Michel’s smoldering gaze traveled up and down her slim and sexy legs, taking in her thighs, the broad flare of her hips, her hourglass waist and flat belly.

She was salivating copiously as she met his eyes.

“Wh-what shall I … like … take off next?” Her voice was thick with saliva.

“Do you have a pair of heels to wear, ma chérie?”

She swallowed hard.

“Yes! She does,” said her mother, fumbling in her bag, and tugging out the fuck-me stiletto sandals. “Put these on, sweetheart.”

At first the heels felt empowering, adding nearly five inches to her stature. Then she became self-conscious about the way they signaled her sexual availability; the way they accentuated the curve of her buttocks; the way her hips would acquire a sensual sway when she tried to walk in them.

Michel smiled at her. “Show me your lovely breasts”, he said.

With automatic hand, she reached back and unfastened her bra. Released from their tight captivity, her plump and perky boobs jerked upwards. Everyone could see how erect her nipples were and she was mortified.

“Ouah! Superbe!” said Michel, eyes bright with admiration.

She did her best to stifle a moan as his large hands moved slowly, maddeningly gently, over her sensitive breasts, carefully feeling their heft and weight. Her nipples were almost as hard as when Signora Meloni had flicked her wicked tongue against them in the restroom at the National Gallery, after they’d visited the exhibition of rare Markus printouts.

Michel’s fingers lightly circled her large pink areolas. Then he began to worry her nipples, tweaking them between fingers and thumbs, sending intense shocks of pleasure directly to her engorged clit. Her whole body went rigid and she made a noise, half way between a squeal and a sob.

Painfully embarrassed by her lack of self-control, her panicked eyes locked with her brother's malevolent leer. She stared wildly at him, trying to regain control of her ragged breathing.

Michel moved closer so that his lips were just a couple of inches from her ear.
"Try to relax, little meat girl," he purred. "Do not hold back your nice girly flavors."

She took in a deep breath, weeping silently as she exhaled.

“And now, your panties”, he growled in a deep gravelly timbre.

Obediently, she hooked her soaking panties with her thumbs. Then she hesitated and froze. Exposing her wet cunt to the world was the final step in this cruel and prolonged ritual of humiliation.

"Go on! You must let the chef see your cunt, cupcake. It's your tenderest, most succulent meat" said her mother.

"There's no going back, Greta!" said her father. "A piece of meat does not wear clothes. Show the chef your cunt!"

Sobbing and sniffling, she pushed her white cotton panties down over her curvy hips and let them drop to her ankles before stepping out of them. Her mother picked them up like a vulture pouncing on carrion, and held them suspended between finger and thumb.

Thor leaned in and sniffed. He threw his head back, closing his eyes and inhaling deeply, as if about to swoon with delight.

“Mmmmm! Smells like you just creamed your panties, Sis” he said, grinning at her wet shaven pussy.

She winced tearfully. Apart from the slutty stilettos, she was now completely naked. Her belly knotted and the room tilted to one side and then to the other as the vertiginous precarity of her situation hit her. She swayed slightly on her tall heels and attempted to cover her sex and breasts with her hands.

She was like a tightrope walker high up above a busy street, balancing between two skyscrapers with unfriendly faces mocking her from nearby windows.

Her face and neck and breasts were flushed all over. She blushed a deeper shade of red than she had ever done in her life. She burned with shame. Her smooth skin came out in goosebumps of embarrassment as her hard nipples and hot wet sex felt the kiss of the cool restaurant air.

Michel now began his inspection in earnest, bending down and clasping her beautifully toned calves, squeezing and stroking them before moving up to her shapely thighs. She gasped and panted and moaned as his busy hands explored her thigh gap caressing the tender skin next to her sex.

She tensed, bracing herself for the violation of her virgin pussy by those relentless libidinous fingers. But she felt a mixture of relief and disappointment as, instead of entering her, he spun her around and examined the use-by date branded on her buttock.

“This is a very tight margin for getting her meat primed”, he observed.

“Yeah? So, erm, how long will that take?” Her father sounded disconcerted.

Ignoring his question, Michel clasped and squeezed and kneaded the full meaty globes of Greta’s buttocks.

She took another deep breath and tried to relax, but the movement of his warm hands up over her hips and around her waist was driving her mad with excitement. She wished her family would go away. If only she were alone with this gorgeous, sensual, sophisticated man. How she would yield to his caresses. How she would show him that she was so much more than a piece of meat. Perhaps she could even make him fall in love with her.

But she could do nothing except stand in front of him, panting softly, her emerald eyes misty with lust.

Without warning, he pushed his middle finger between her slick, pouting pussy lips.

“No!” she squealed.

Thor chuckled.

Michel grinned, and with furrowed brow he licked and sucked at his finger.

"Okay, Monsieur Larsen, that completes the preliminary part of my inspection."

His probing finger had left an empty throbbing sensation in her sex, and she yearned to be penetrated again.

"So what d’you think?" her father asked.

“Before I can tell you, I’ll need to do a more detailed investigation of her cunt juices. And I’ll need to probe all her orifices, to assess her suitability for spit roasting. I’ll be using my most trusted and sensitive implement: my penis. Any objections, Monsieur?”

“Er – no. No – n-not if it helps you do a – proper evaluation.”

“Good. If you would like to be spared the spectacle of your daughter’s deflowering, Monsieur, Beccy will serve you a drink at the bar, on the house.”

“Er – sure, why not? I won’t say no to a free drink.” He sauntered over to the bar while, with a snap of his fingers, Michel summoned Beccy. Thor and his mother remained where they were, wide-eyed and brimming with anticipation.

As Michel turned his gaze back upon her, Greta began to tremble, her mind assaulted by an electrical storm of conflicting emotions.

“Go over to the spitting table, little meatgirl”, he said with a wry smile. "Lie down, bring your knees up and open your thighs."

Her heart was racing as she began to walk and she felt her body overwhelmed by a powerful surge of adrenaline. Perched on her clicking skyscraper heels, she found herself moving with an easy elegance, her beguiling posture making her huge breasts jut out even further.

With her head held high, she strutted past her mother and brother, delighting in the undulating sway of her naked hips. As she climbed the steps to the kitchen, she leaned into the seductive swing of her buttocks, knowing that everyone, including the watchers outside, were feasting their eyes on her gorgeous bubble butt.

A shiver ran through her as she approached the table. It was clean and well scrubbed, all grained and knotted. She imagined the countless women who had lain on it, waiting anxiously to be impaled upon one of those long thick spits.

“Here you are, Mr Larsen, one pint of lager. Enjoy!” Beccy’s singsong voice at the bar sounded far away.

“Could you let me have a pack of salted peanuts as well? Those beautiful tits are making me very very hungry.”

Beccy giggled. “Thank you Mr Larsen. You’re a nice man.”

Greta stood next to the table and allowed the others to catch up. Thor’s erection was bulging inside his jeans as he ogled her naked flesh. Her mother’s beautiful face was pinched and twisted into a sneering mask of disdain; but there was an unmistakable gleam of prurient hunger in her eyes. All those years of pent up sexual frustration were now all too evident as she ogled Michel’s classical good looks and god-like physique.

It was no secret to Greta that her father was impotent and that her parents’ sex life had been dead for many years. Even Thor knew that his mother’s hostility towards Greta was spawned by envy and resentment of her teenage loveliness.

Michel pushed his fingers through Greta’s fiery bangs. She imagined herself a beautiful young virgin from classical myth commanded to mount the altar of her sacrifice. She would embrace her fate and make her brother jealous. She would open herself to Michel as a lover and invoke her mother’s spleen and rancor.

“You are burning with desire, little meatgirl.”

Michel’s gallic accent became thicker as he murmured in her ear. “I must strike while the iron is hot. No? Climb up and lie back. Spread your thighs. Show me your cunt. I will slake my thirst on your nectar.”

She saw the tip of her mother’s tongue sliding over her wet pouting lips. “Up you get, sweetheart.”

Greta hopped up and planted her buttocks on the edge of the table, allowing her lovely legs to dangle for a few seconds. Then she shuffled slightly and lay down with her back against the cold wood.

Michel turned to Thor. “Young man, if you wish to be employed in my restaurant, I will need some proof of your skills. And so I will ask you to assist me in this job.”

Greta’s heart sank as she saw Thor nodding gleefully. “Oh, yes please, Monsieur Montaine!”, he said with enthusiasm. “Shall I take my pants off?”

“In a moment. For the time being, just hold her down when she starts to struggle.”

“No sweat, Monsieur.”

It occurred to Greta, as she brought her legs up so that her knees hovered above her breasts and her stilettos poked the air, that this was probably the most humiliating posture a girl could ever be commanded to assume in front of an audience, especially when the audience consisted of members of her own family. She fancied she saw the last vestiges of her self-respect evaporating, floating upwards to be sucked into the huge extractor fan hanging from the ceiling.

She shut her eyes as Michel parted her knees and buried his face between her thighs. Instinctively, as the roughness of his stubble brushed against the smooth skin of her inner thighs, she tightened her muscles and fought back. But his grip was firm and implacable. He flicked his tongue through her sex. She jerked back, recoiling at the sensation of his impudent tongue sliding between her most sensitive parts.

He laughed and clasped her tighter. His mouth leeched over her savagely as though he was trying to draw sustenance from her body, as if he was burning from some insatiable thirst to drink the very juices from her being.

Gradually she began to respond to his ardent mouthings. She felt her heart begin to pound and her body tingled all over. His tongue darted over her in all the right places, faster and faster, sending her mind into a whirling ecstasy.

Experimenting alone in bed with her pussy she had never dreamed there could be sensations like this. She began to moan in response to his almost feverish actions.

She snapped her eyes open and was greeted by her mother’s sneer of cold contempt and by Thor’s lecherous green-eyed glare. The shame of what she was doing filled her with revulsion. Her absolute vulnerability, her sheer terror of being nothing but meat, seized hold of her mind with an awful vengeance.

She began to struggle, begging him, “Stop, please, please. I need to go home now. I don’t like it here.”

He got a new grip on her legs and pinned her down again, his arms clasped tightly around her legs. She squirmed and tried to fight him off, but his mouth once again closed over her genitals and his tongue began once again to work on her clit.

And then she felt Thor’s hand around her throat, while his other hand pawed at her sweaty breasts.

Suddenly, in a wave of almost uncontrollable frenzy she felt the shuddering rise of approaching orgasm. Unable to hold herself back she drove against Michel’s mouth in spasm after spasm of release.

But still Michel did not cease his movements. He burrowed his face and nose deeply and licked at her with animalistic abandon, like some starving, slavering beast.

Now she struggled because the sensation was too unbearable to stand, but still he held her in his vise-like grip and continued without a pause. It seemed that the more she struggled, the more excited he became. She was powerless to resist. Once again she felt herself beginning to succumb to the shuddering of passion.

But just as she was being forced to the precipice of another orgasm, he withdrew his mouth and straightened up, unzipping his fly and taking out his cock.

The sight of it evoked both terror and awe in her. It was huge, not just in length but also in girth. It was longer and thicker than her own forearm. It would surely destroy her, split her apart. She began to tremble with dread.

He beckoned Thor over.

“Suck me. Make me hard. -- as hard as one of those spits. So I can give your sister a proper fucking. I wish to smash her virginity.”

Thor stared at him, his face a picture utter bemusement. A smile played on his lips, suggesting that he was veering to the opinion that Michel was joking. And he laughed nervously.

“I am serious”, said Michel.

“Erm … I’m not, like, majorly into … erm, like, cock? You know?”

“My son is not gay, Monsieur Montaine!”, said Mrs Larsen with vehemence.

But Greta knew her brother well enough to notice a flicker of sexual excitement in his eyes. Had Michel intuited a latent bisexuality in him?

Ignoring Mrs Larsen, Michel said: “It’s not a matter of what you are into, or not into, young man. You are applying for a job for which I pay a wage of forty pounds an hour. If I appoint you, you will be required to perform whatever tasks are necessary for the job – “

“ – Then he’s not interested , thank you very much”, said Mrs Larsen. “I don’t see what sucking the chef’s cock has to do with prepping meatgirls!“

“Er – mom … “, said Thor, his voice quavering, “you know, actually, forty pounds is, like, a pretty good wage – “

“Madame, I am the kind of man who thinks with his cock,”, said Michel. “My cock is a far better judge of character, a better guide to the vagaries of human nature, than my head. A few minutes of hard sucking and titillation will tell me with certainty whether your son is suitable for a position in my kitchen.”

“Yeah – sure – whatever – I … I’ll do it”, said Thor breathlessly, getting down on his knees in front of Michel.”

If sucking a cock was going to land Thor a job, thought Greta, he would never be offered a more beautiful cock to suck than Michel’s.

She watched, fascinated as her brother closed his lips around its pulsating, blue-veined immensity and began to bob his head up and down.

Mrs Larsen watched too. Her sultry green eyes glowered with a mixture of distaste and sour lust.
 
CruxGirl said:
7.

Some of the tourists outside the window were now filming Greta on their phones, no doubt adding to a rich archive of girlmeat clips to which they could masturbate in the privacy of their hotels. Girlmeat tourism, by now, was London’s second most lucrative industry – after crux tourism.

A couple of teenage boys, betas, with their plain and homely girlfriends, sidled up to the window to see what was going on. One of them was grinning like an imbecile and making a cranking movement with his arms to mimic the turning of a spit handle. The girls cracked up in fits of nervous giggles.

Embarrassment and humiliation whipped through Greta like an icy gale, fanning the furnace of her arousal and making her giddy with anticipation. What would Michel command her to do next? She stared forlornly at the pile of clothes on the chair, knowing that she would never wear clothes again. From now until she got spitted, she would wear nothing but high heels, perhaps a G-string if she was very lucky. And yet, with each fresh degradation, she was becoming more and more sexually exhilarated.

Michel had praised her red hair and the salt balance of her tears and saliva. And now, she craved for him to say more nice things. She wanted to be told that she was special. She was just a piece of meat now, but she wanted, more than anything, to be told that she was the best quality meat on the market. She desperately wanted to fetch a good price.

How could she have been so abased in such a brief period of time? She was aware that she was internalizing her own objectification. She knew that she was complicit in her own degradation, and yet it thrilled her just as playing with herself while reading Dolcett alone in bed had thrilled her. Only, this was no kinky fantasy: this was real.

Life was so weird. A girl’s life was just bizarre; nonsensical, a cruel joke of cosmic dimensions. Throughout her teens she had been so insecure about her looks, desperately wanting to be told that she was pretty. Now she yearned to be told that her meat was tasty: that people dining in a West End restaurant would enjoy eating her.

This was crazy. She despised herself for being so fickle, for having such low self-esteem. She tried to recall the things she had read in Mary Wollstonecraft’s book. It was hopeless. What use was an eighteenth-century treatise written for a sentimental middle class readership in the face of the crushing brutalizing power of modern authoritarian patriarchy?

Michel’s smoldering gaze traveled up and down her slim and sexy legs, taking in her thighs, the broad flare of her hips, her hourglass waist and flat belly.

She was salivating copiously as she met his eyes.

“Wh-what shall I … like … take off next?” Her voice was thick with saliva.

“Do you have a pair of heels to wear, ma chérie?”

She swallowed hard.

“Yes! She does,” said her mother, fumbling in her bag, and tugging out the fuck-me stiletto sandals. “Put these on, sweetheart.”

At first the heels felt empowering, adding nearly five inches to her stature. Then she became self-conscious about the way they signaled her sexual availability; the way they accentuated the curve of her buttocks; the way her hips would acquire a sensual sway when she tried to walk in them.

Michel smiled at her. “Show me your lovely breasts”, he said.

With automatic hand, she reached back and unfastened her bra. Released from their tight captivity, her plump and perky boobs jerked upwards. Everyone could see how erect her nipples were and she was mortified.

“Ouah! Superbe!” said Michel, eyes bright with admiration.

She did her best to stifle a moan as his large hands moved slowly, maddeningly gently, over her sensitive breasts, carefully feeling their heft and weight. Her nipples were almost as hard as when Signora Meloni had flicked her wicked tongue against them in the restroom at the National Gallery, after they’d visited the exhibition of rare Markus printouts.

Michel’s fingers lightly circled her large pink areolas. Then he began to worry her nipples, tweaking them between fingers and thumbs, sending intense shocks of pleasure directly to her engorged clit. Her whole body went rigid and she made a noise, half way between a squeal and a sob.

Painfully embarrassed by her lack of self-control, her panicked eyes locked with her brother's malevolent leer. She stared wildly at him, trying to regain control of her ragged breathing.

Michel moved closer so that his lips were just a couple of inches from her ear.
"Try to relax, little meat girl," he purred. "Do not hold back your nice girly flavors."

She took in a deep breath, weeping silently as she exhaled.

“And now, your panties”, he growled in a deep gravelly timbre.

Obediently, she hooked her soaking panties with her thumbs. Then she hesitated and froze. Exposing her wet cunt to the world was the final step in this cruel and prolonged ritual of humiliation.

"Go on! You must let the chef see your cunt, cupcake. It's your tenderest, most succulent meat" said her mother.

"There's no going back, Greta!" said her father. "A piece of meat does not wear clothes. Show the chef your cunt!"

Sobbing and sniffling, she pushed her white cotton panties down over her curvy hips and let them drop to her ankles before stepping out of them. Her mother picked them up like a vulture pouncing on carrion, and held them suspended between finger and thumb.

Thor leaned in and sniffed. He threw his head back, closing his eyes and inhaling deeply, as if about to swoon with delight.

“Mmmmm! Smells like you just creamed your panties, Sis” he said, grinning at her wet shaven pussy.

She winced tearfully. Apart from the slutty stilettos, she was now completely naked. Her belly knotted and the room tilted to one side and then to the other as the vertiginous precarity of her situation hit her. She swayed slightly on her tall heels and attempted to cover her sex and breasts with her hands.

She was like a tightrope walker high up above a busy street, balancing between two skyscrapers with unfriendly faces mocking her from nearby windows.

Her face and neck and breasts were flushed all over. She blushed a deeper shade of red than she had ever done in her life. She burned with shame. Her smooth skin came out in goosebumps of embarrassment as her hard nipples and hot wet sex felt the kiss of the cool restaurant air.

Michel now began his inspection in earnest, bending down and clasping her beautifully toned calves, squeezing and stroking them before moving up to her shapely thighs. She gasped and panted and moaned as his busy hands explored her thigh gap caressing the tender skin next to her sex.

She tensed, bracing herself for the violation of her virgin pussy by those relentless libidinous fingers. But she felt a mixture of relief and disappointment as, instead of entering her, he spun her around and examined the use-by date branded on her buttock.

“This is a very tight margin for getting her meat primed”, he observed.

“Yeah? So, erm, how long will that take?” Her father sounded disconcerted.

Ignoring his question, Michel clasped and squeezed and kneaded the full meaty globes of Greta’s buttocks.

She took another deep breath and tried to relax, but the movement of his warm hands up over her hips and around her waist was driving her mad with excitement. She wished her family would go away. If only she were alone with this gorgeous, sensual, sophisticated man. How she would yield to his caresses. How she would show him that she was so much more than a piece of meat. Perhaps she could even make him fall in love with her.

But she could do nothing except stand in front of him, panting softly, her emerald eyes misty with lust.

Without warning, he pushed his middle finger between her slick, pouting pussy lips.

“No!” she squealed.

Thor chuckled.

Michel grinned, and with furrowed brow he licked and sucked at his finger.

"Okay, Monsieur Larsen, that completes the preliminary part of my inspection."

His probing finger had left an empty throbbing sensation in her sex, and she yearned to be penetrated again.

"So what d’you think?" her father asked.

“Before I can tell you, I’ll need to do a more detailed investigation of her cunt juices. And I’ll need to probe all her orifices, to assess her suitability for spit roasting. I’ll be using my most trusted and sensitive implement: my penis. Any objections, Monsieur?”

“Er – no. No – n-not if it helps you do a – proper evaluation.”

“Good. If you would like to be spared the spectacle of your daughter’s deflowering, Monsieur, Beccy will serve you a drink at the bar, on the house.”

“Er – sure, why not? I won’t say no to a free drink.” He sauntered over to the bar while, with a snap of his fingers, Michel summoned Beccy. Thor and his mother remained where they were, wide-eyed and brimming with anticipation.

As Michel turned his gaze back upon her, Greta began to tremble, her mind assaulted by an electrical storm of conflicting emotions.

“Go over to the spitting table, little meatgirl”, he said with a wry smile. "Lie down, bring your knees up and open your thighs."

Her heart was racing as she began to walk and she felt her body overwhelmed by a powerful surge of adrenaline. Perched on her clicking skyscraper heels, she found herself moving with an easy elegance, her beguiling posture making her huge breasts jut out even further.

With her head held high, she strutted past her mother and brother, delighting in the undulating sway of her naked hips. As she climbed the steps to the kitchen, she leaned into the seductive swing of her buttocks, knowing that everyone, including the watchers outside, were feasting their eyes on her gorgeous bubble butt.

A shiver ran through her as she approached the table. It was clean and well scrubbed, all grained and knotted. She imagined the countless women who had lain on it, waiting anxiously to be impaled upon one of those long thick spits.

“Here you are, Mr Larsen, one pint of lager. Enjoy!” Beccy’s singsong voice at the bar sounded far away.

“Could you let me have a pack of salted peanuts as well? Those beautiful tits are making me very very hungry.”

Beccy giggled. “Thank you Mr Larsen. You’re a nice man.”

Greta stood next to the table and allowed the others to catch up. Thor’s erection was bulging inside his jeans as he ogled her naked flesh. Her mother’s beautiful face was pinched and twisted into a sneering mask of disdain; but there was an unmistakable gleam of prurient hunger in her eyes. All those years of pent up sexual frustration were now all too evident as she ogled Michel’s classical good looks and god-like physique.

It was no secret to Greta that her father was impotent and that her parents’ sex life had been dead for many years. Even Thor knew that his mother’s hostility towards Greta was spawned by envy and resentment of her teenage loveliness.

Michel pushed his fingers through Greta’s fiery bangs. She imagined herself a beautiful young virgin from classical myth commanded to mount the altar of her sacrifice. She would embrace her fate and make her brother jealous. She would open herself to Michel as a lover and invoke her mother’s spleen and rancor.

“You are burning with desire, little meatgirl.”

Michel’s gallic accent became thicker as he murmured in her ear. “I must strike while the iron is hot. No? Climb up and lie back. Spread your thighs. Show me your cunt. I will slake my thirst on your nectar.”

She saw the tip of her mother’s tongue sliding over her wet pouting lips. “Up you get, sweetheart.”

Greta hopped up and planted her buttocks on the edge of the table, allowing her lovely legs to dangle for a few seconds. Then she shuffled slightly and lay down with her back against the cold wood.

Michel turned to Thor. “Young man, if you wish to be employed in my restaurant, I will need some proof of your skills. And so I will ask you to assist me in this job.”

Greta’s heart sank as she saw Thor nodding gleefully. “Oh, yes please, Monsieur Montaine!”, he said with enthusiasm. “Shall I take my pants off?”

“In a moment. For the time being, just hold her down when she starts to struggle.”

“No sweat, Monsieur.”

It occurred to Greta, as she brought her legs up so that her knees hovered above her breasts and her stilettos poked the air, that this was probably the most humiliating posture a girl could ever be commanded to assume in front of an audience, especially when the audience consisted of members of her own family. She fancied she saw the last vestiges of her self-respect evaporating, floating upwards to be sucked into the huge extractor fan hanging from the ceiling.

She shut her eyes as Michel parted her knees and buried his face between her thighs. Instinctively, as the roughness of his stubble brushed against the smooth skin of her inner thighs, she tightened her muscles and fought back. But his grip was firm and implacable. He flicked his tongue through her sex. She jerked back, recoiling at the sensation of his impudent tongue sliding between her most sensitive parts.

He laughed and clasped her tighter. His mouth leeched over her savagely as though he was trying to draw sustenance from her body, as if he was burning from some insatiable thirst to drink the very juices from her being.

Gradually she began to respond to his ardent mouthings. She felt her heart begin to pound and her body tingled all over. His tongue darted over her in all the right places, faster and faster, sending her mind into a whirling ecstasy.

Experimenting alone in bed with her pussy she had never dreamed there could be sensations like this. She began to moan in response to his almost feverish actions.

She snapped her eyes open and was greeted by her mother’s sneer of cold contempt and by Thor’s lecherous green-eyed glare. The shame of what she was doing filled her with revulsion. Her absolute vulnerability, her sheer terror of being nothing but meat, seized hold of her mind with an awful vengeance.

She began to struggle, begging him, “Stop, please, please. I need to go home now. I don’t like it here.”

He got a new grip on her legs and pinned her down again, his arms clasped tightly around her legs. She squirmed and tried to fight him off, but his mouth once again closed over her genitals and his tongue began once again to work on her clit.

And then she felt Thor’s hand around her throat, while his other hand pawed at her sweaty breasts.

Suddenly, in a wave of almost uncontrollable frenzy she felt the shuddering rise of approaching orgasm. Unable to hold herself back she drove against Michel’s mouth in spasm after spasm of release.

But still Michel did not cease his movements. He burrowed his face and nose deeply and licked at her with animalistic abandon, like some starving, slavering beast.

Now she struggled because the sensation was too unbearable to stand, but still he held her in his vise-like grip and continued without a pause. It seemed that the more she struggled, the more excited he became. She was powerless to resist. Once again she felt herself beginning to succumb to the shuddering of passion.

But just as she was being forced to the precipice of another orgasm, he withdrew his mouth and straightened up, unzipping his fly and taking out his cock.

The sight of it evoked both terror and awe in her. It was huge, not just in length but also in girth. It was longer and thicker than her own forearm. It would surely destroy her, split her apart. She began to tremble with dread.

He beckoned Thor over.

“Suck me. Make me hard. -- as hard as one of those spits. So I can give your sister a proper fucking. I wish to smash her virginity.”

Thor stared at him, his face a picture utter bemusement. A smile played on his lips, suggesting that he was veering to the opinion that Michel was joking. And he laughed nervously.

“I am serious”, said Michel.

“Erm … I’m not, like, majorly into … erm, like, cock? You know?”

“My son is not gay, Monsieur Montaine!”, said Mrs Larsen with vehemence.

But Greta knew her brother well enough to notice a flicker of sexual excitement in his eyes. Had Michel intuited a latent bisexuality in him?

Ignoring Mrs Larsen, Michel said: “It’s not a matter of what you are into, or not into, young man. You are applying for a job for which I pay a wage of forty pounds an hour. If I appoint you, you will be required to perform whatever tasks are necessary for the job – “

“ – Then he’s not interested , thank you very much”, said Mrs Larsen. “I don’t see what sucking the chef’s cock has to do with prepping meatgirls!“

“Er – mom … “, said Thor, his voice quavering, “you know, actually, forty pounds is, like, a pretty good wage – “

“Madame, I am the kind of man who thinks with his cock,”, said Michel. “My cock is a far better judge of character, a better guide to the vagaries of human nature, than my head. A few minutes of hard sucking and titillation will tell me with certainty whether your son is suitable for a position in my kitchen.”

“Yeah – sure – whatever – I … I’ll do it”, said Thor breathlessly, getting down on his knees in front of Michel.”

If sucking a cock was going to land Thor a job, thought Greta, he would never be offered a more beautiful cock to suck than Michel’s.

She watched, fascinated as her brother closed his lips around its pulsating, blue-veined immensity and began to bob his head up and down.

Mrs Larsen watched too. Her sultry green eyes glowered with a mixture of distaste and sour lust.
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Wonderful! Can’t wait fot the next part!
 
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