CruxGirl
Magistrate
Sizzling Sluts: A Dolcett Restaurant
1.
“That’s the place, over there”, said Mr Larsen, shielding his eyes from the hot November sun as he pointed across the street towards a restaurant with an impressive glass facade.
“Sizzling Sluts?” said Mrs Larsen with a note of disappointment. “But, Max, doesn’t that sound - kind of - you know … downmarket?”
“Yeah, I see what you mean, honey”, said Max Larsen with a chortle. “I think the name is meant to be ironic. It’s listed as one of London’s top three girlmeat restaurants. So we shouldn’t pay too much attention to the name. And it’s been awarded three Dolcett Stars.”
“Okay, well, that sounds pretty impressive. Let’s go check it out.”
Mr Larsen pressed the button for the walk sign on the crossing.
Greta's legs became weak as she waited with her parents for the lights to change. She turned to look for her twin brother, Thor, who was lingering behind as usual. He was gawking outside a butcher’s shop called Hill’s Fine Meats, ogling the window display of four naked women.
There was a sign above the women which read: “Catch of the day. Live whole-roasters. All our game meats are locally sourced.” This part of London was a paradise for horny eighteen-year old boys like Thor.
“Thor!” shouted Mrs Larsen. “Will you keep up!”
He trotted up just as the lights were changing, and the whole family crossed the busy street together. Greta felt as though her legs were about to give way.
“It looks like it’s closed,” said Mr Larsen as they approached Sizzling Sluts. “Let’s take a peek through the window. I need to get an impression of the place.”
Greta pressed her nose against the cool glass, sighing with relief. The dining room was a huge, well-lighted place, with dozens of large tables arranged around an imposing central plinth. Suspended above the plinth was a massive copper canopy.
“It’s open plan. They do all their live-roasting in that central area”, said Mr Larsen, “so the diners can get to watch their girls being roasted.”
“Wow!” said Mrs Larsen. “It looks real classy. What do you think, Greta?”
Greta turned to her mother, eyes bright with terror, unable to say anything. Her breath was coming in fast shallow pants. She felt prickly beads of perspiration on her forehead - as if an oven door had been opened in her face.
“Are you okay, cupcake?” said Mrs Larsen. “You’re trembling. You look as white as those tablecloths.”
“I’m fine”, said Greta at length, in a small voice. “It’s just that … that …”, she hesitated.
“Oh sweetheart, lots of girls get nervous before - ”
“You probably think, Greta,” said her father, cutting across his wife, “that your meat isn’t good enough for a place like this. Well don’t forget, young lady, that the school nurse has graded you as ‘A, Prime’. And you can’t get better quality meat than that. Plus, you’re a redhead. And redhead meat is a delicacy. Why else do you think I married your mom? Isn’t that true Dagmar?”
He winked at his wife.
Dagmar Larsen rolled her eyes. “Your dad is right'', she said. “We do taste better. And we’ll get a much better price for you if we sell you to a gourmet restaurant like this one. And you know how desperately your dad wants that new crossbow. The prey-girl season opens next week, and he’ll be the envy of the Hunting Club.”
Greta’s panic attack was getting worse. Her legs felt weaker. An icy shiver traveled from her belly into her chest and up into her throat. At the same time she felt a hot rush of blood into her loins. She folded her arms across her school blouse and leaned her forehead against the window in an effort to steady herself.
“I mean, look at that waitress in there,” said Mr Larsen, pointing at a nude, dark-haired girl in very high stiletto heels who was scurrying around laying cutlery, napkins and wine glasses on the tables. “She looks pretty damn delicious to me, but I’d say that you look a helluva lot tastier than she does, Greta! And that’s even with your clothes on!” He gave a wheezy laugh and put a cigarette between his lips.
“Thanks, Dad ... I guess”, said Greta meekly, as she desperately fought back the tears.
“Hey, isn’t that Beccy? Beccy Fleishman?” exclaimed Thor, pointing at the waitress. “I’d recognize that ass anywhere.”
“Can’t be,” said Mr Larsen. “I spoke to Ben yesterday and he told me he’d sold Beccy last week. She’d have been roasted and eaten by now.”
Sensing she was being watched, the waitress lifted her head and smiled at them. Then she scuttled towards the door, unlocked it, and stuck her head out.
“I’m so sorry but we’re closed right now. We open at seven, and I’m afraid we’re fully booked for this -” The girl paused and her eyes lit up with recognition. “Well hello, Mr and Mrs Larsen!” She stepped out onto the pavement, beaming at them. “I didn’t recognize you from inside. And Greta! … And … you too, Thor!”
She blushed after making eye-contact with Thor. Instinctively she brought her left arm up to cover her full and rounded breasts, while her right hand reached down to cover shaved sex. Then, as if realizing she wasn’t following proper meatgirl etiquette, she dropped both arms, brought her hands together behind her back and pushed out her impressive chest, presenting her meat for inspection.
“Beccy!” said Mr Larsen. What a surprise! Your dad told me he’d sold you off as a spit-muffin last week. You must’ve fetched a good price! He’s gone and bought himself a new set of golf clubs.”
The girl beamed at him, nodding enthusiastically.
“So, why are you still here? I’d have thought a tasty-looking girl like you would have gone over the coals straightaway, no hanging around.”
She giggled. “Thanks Mr Larsen. I’m actually on the menu this evening. And, as a matter of fact, I’m going to be oven-roasted”, she said proudly. “They’re pretty big on prep at this place. They don’t like roasting their girls on the day they come in. They want us to develop our meat awareness, and that kind of stuff. So they put us through this - like - really intense prepping process before they put us on the menu. You know - to heighten the quality of our meat, and - like - bring us up to maximum tastiness?”
“Really?” said Dagmar Larsen with genuine curiosity. “And what does that involve?”
Beccy blushed again. “Well, um, basically, Mrs Larsen, it involves - like - lots and lots of - sex.”
Thor bent down and whispered into his sister’s ear: “What did I tell you, sis? You should have let me pop your cherry before dad sold you.”
The sensation of her brother’s hot breath on her ear made Greta tingle all over. At the same time, she had to resist a strong urge to screech at him to, shut the fuck up! There was no denying that Thor had become totally insufferable since qualifying as an Alpha Male,
“Oh … I see”, said Mrs Larsen to Beccy. “Well, I guess that explains why the restaurant is called Sizzling Sluts.”
Beccy giggled again and darted an embarrassed glance at Thor. “Yeah. They keep us in a - you know - like - constant state of arousal. And that gets our juices going, and tenderizes our meat … and - brings out our flavors to - like - peak intensity. The chef here, Michel - Michel Montaine - he’s French, and he’s really into - like - cutting edge girlmeat cuisine. And he says slutty girls have the tastiest meat. It’s not just sex. He also uses humiliation and spanking and whipping, and that kind of stuff too, just to - you know - break us … and bring out our different individual flavors … He says it’s all about emotions and hormones, and stuff. And being totally conscious of the fact that - well - all we are once we've been sold to him is - just meat, and nothing else.”
By now, many of the people walking past on the pavement were taking an interest in Beccy. Some even lingered to check her out properly. She smiled at a middle-aged couple, flicked her fingers through her luscious and glossy black hair and gave her perky breasts a jiggle. Then she glanced back inside the restaurant as if to make sure she wasn’t being missed.
“Yeah”, said Mr Larsen, “that’s why they only serve live-roasted girls here. I read all about Michel Montaine in The Gourmet’s Guide to Girlmeat Gastronomy. He’s got an excellent reputation. He really knows his girlmeat.”
“Yeah, he’s easily the best in London”, said Beccy earnestly. “Although, they say The Edible Woman, three doors down, is pretty good too. And across the road, of course, you’ve got Modest Proposal, that’s Dean Swift’s restaurant, and they say he’s a total genius as well.”
“And that’s why we’re in this part of town”, said Mr Larsen. “I’m going to be selling Greta to one of these restaurants. And, if Monsieur Montaine offers me a good price, it may well be Sizzling Sluts.”
Beccy’s jaw dropped. “You’re gonna sell Greta as meat?”
“That’s right.”
“But … why?”
“A court order. It’s out of my hands.”
“But … you were never destined to be meat, Greta! You were always smart! A straight-A student! Always top of the class! … I mean … you’re a virgin aren’t you? I never saw you in the raping stocks at school. You were way too clever and respectable for that kind of punishment! I always thought you’d go to housewife college and become - like - a typist or even a secretary, or receptionist, or even get auctioned off right away … as a trophy wife to some filthy-rich Alpha!”
Greta felt increasingly embarrassed as Beccy became more and more agitated. She drew a deep breath, pursed her perfect coral lips, and lowered her head as if momentarily entranced by her own immaculately polished shoes.
A look of complete puzzlement came over Beccy’s face.
“And - you don’t even look like meat, Greta! If you’re meat … then how come you’re still wearing clothes?”
“I made a deal with her”, said Mr Larsen. “Her school uniform will be coming off when she gets inspected.”
“And she’ll be wearing nothing but these”, said Dagmar Larsen, reaching into her bag and holding up a pair of very high, “fuck-me” stiletto sandals.
Thor gave Greta a knowing grin.
The “deal” on allowing Greta to keep her clothes on had been hard-won. On picking her up at the school gates, Max Larsen had ordered his daughter to strip naked and put on the stilettos, ready for their trip to the restaurants. But, much to the amusement of the watching pupils, parents and teachers, Greta had refused, threatening to tell a litany of lies to any chef who came within a yard of her.
“If you make me take off my clothes, Daddy”, she had said breathlessly, “I’m going to tell any chef you try to sell me to that - that - my boobs are fake, and that I’m a heavy smoker, and - and - a long-term heroin user, and, that I recently contracted a nasty yeast infection! … So there!”
Her father had retorted that his only option, in that case, was to sell her off to the zoo, as live meat for the wild dog show. But Greta - well aware that she wouldn’t fetch more than ten pounds as dog meat - had called her father’s bluff.
“That’s fine by me, Daddy. I’d rather be eaten by a pack of wild dogs than a bunch of pretentious super-rich fine diners,” she had said, eliciting a huge cheer from the onlookers.
In the end Max Larsen had backed down, calculating that losing face at the school gates was preferable to losing a thousand pounds on the sale of his daughter’s meat. And so he allowed Greta to keep her school uniform on during their journey to the restaurant, until such time as her meat was inspected by a chef.
And so, here she was, outside Sizzling Sluts, in her neatly ironed white school blouse and her black knee-length skirt, black pantyhose and sensible black shoes. Her sleek and fiery golden-red hair - with a parting on one side and a discrete little hair clip on the other - was cut in a medium bob that brought out its natural kick.
Unlike most other girls at Little Boundwench Sixth Form College, Greta followed the uniform regulations to the letter, always wearing a knee-length skirt rather than a miniskirt, and always - despite her well-developed bust - keeping her blouse tightly buttoned up.
All in all, at five foot two, with a nubile hourglass figure and a startlingly beautiful face, she did indeed look like top quality trophy housewife material. She would have fetched a very high price at one of London’s premier wife auctions: a sophisticated virgin bride for a discerning Alpha Plus.
Instead - and entirely as a result of her own folly - Greta was now just a piece of meat, about to be sold with the prospect of being tortured, humiliated and bondage-fucked in a restaurant prepping room, before being ordered, spitted and live-roasted in front of the diners.
1.
“That’s the place, over there”, said Mr Larsen, shielding his eyes from the hot November sun as he pointed across the street towards a restaurant with an impressive glass facade.
“Sizzling Sluts?” said Mrs Larsen with a note of disappointment. “But, Max, doesn’t that sound - kind of - you know … downmarket?”
“Yeah, I see what you mean, honey”, said Max Larsen with a chortle. “I think the name is meant to be ironic. It’s listed as one of London’s top three girlmeat restaurants. So we shouldn’t pay too much attention to the name. And it’s been awarded three Dolcett Stars.”
“Okay, well, that sounds pretty impressive. Let’s go check it out.”
Mr Larsen pressed the button for the walk sign on the crossing.
Greta's legs became weak as she waited with her parents for the lights to change. She turned to look for her twin brother, Thor, who was lingering behind as usual. He was gawking outside a butcher’s shop called Hill’s Fine Meats, ogling the window display of four naked women.
There was a sign above the women which read: “Catch of the day. Live whole-roasters. All our game meats are locally sourced.” This part of London was a paradise for horny eighteen-year old boys like Thor.
“Thor!” shouted Mrs Larsen. “Will you keep up!”
He trotted up just as the lights were changing, and the whole family crossed the busy street together. Greta felt as though her legs were about to give way.
“It looks like it’s closed,” said Mr Larsen as they approached Sizzling Sluts. “Let’s take a peek through the window. I need to get an impression of the place.”
Greta pressed her nose against the cool glass, sighing with relief. The dining room was a huge, well-lighted place, with dozens of large tables arranged around an imposing central plinth. Suspended above the plinth was a massive copper canopy.
“It’s open plan. They do all their live-roasting in that central area”, said Mr Larsen, “so the diners can get to watch their girls being roasted.”
“Wow!” said Mrs Larsen. “It looks real classy. What do you think, Greta?”
Greta turned to her mother, eyes bright with terror, unable to say anything. Her breath was coming in fast shallow pants. She felt prickly beads of perspiration on her forehead - as if an oven door had been opened in her face.
“Are you okay, cupcake?” said Mrs Larsen. “You’re trembling. You look as white as those tablecloths.”
“I’m fine”, said Greta at length, in a small voice. “It’s just that … that …”, she hesitated.
“Oh sweetheart, lots of girls get nervous before - ”
“You probably think, Greta,” said her father, cutting across his wife, “that your meat isn’t good enough for a place like this. Well don’t forget, young lady, that the school nurse has graded you as ‘A, Prime’. And you can’t get better quality meat than that. Plus, you’re a redhead. And redhead meat is a delicacy. Why else do you think I married your mom? Isn’t that true Dagmar?”
He winked at his wife.
Dagmar Larsen rolled her eyes. “Your dad is right'', she said. “We do taste better. And we’ll get a much better price for you if we sell you to a gourmet restaurant like this one. And you know how desperately your dad wants that new crossbow. The prey-girl season opens next week, and he’ll be the envy of the Hunting Club.”
Greta’s panic attack was getting worse. Her legs felt weaker. An icy shiver traveled from her belly into her chest and up into her throat. At the same time she felt a hot rush of blood into her loins. She folded her arms across her school blouse and leaned her forehead against the window in an effort to steady herself.
“I mean, look at that waitress in there,” said Mr Larsen, pointing at a nude, dark-haired girl in very high stiletto heels who was scurrying around laying cutlery, napkins and wine glasses on the tables. “She looks pretty damn delicious to me, but I’d say that you look a helluva lot tastier than she does, Greta! And that’s even with your clothes on!” He gave a wheezy laugh and put a cigarette between his lips.
“Thanks, Dad ... I guess”, said Greta meekly, as she desperately fought back the tears.
“Hey, isn’t that Beccy? Beccy Fleishman?” exclaimed Thor, pointing at the waitress. “I’d recognize that ass anywhere.”
“Can’t be,” said Mr Larsen. “I spoke to Ben yesterday and he told me he’d sold Beccy last week. She’d have been roasted and eaten by now.”
Sensing she was being watched, the waitress lifted her head and smiled at them. Then she scuttled towards the door, unlocked it, and stuck her head out.
“I’m so sorry but we’re closed right now. We open at seven, and I’m afraid we’re fully booked for this -” The girl paused and her eyes lit up with recognition. “Well hello, Mr and Mrs Larsen!” She stepped out onto the pavement, beaming at them. “I didn’t recognize you from inside. And Greta! … And … you too, Thor!”
She blushed after making eye-contact with Thor. Instinctively she brought her left arm up to cover her full and rounded breasts, while her right hand reached down to cover shaved sex. Then, as if realizing she wasn’t following proper meatgirl etiquette, she dropped both arms, brought her hands together behind her back and pushed out her impressive chest, presenting her meat for inspection.
“Beccy!” said Mr Larsen. What a surprise! Your dad told me he’d sold you off as a spit-muffin last week. You must’ve fetched a good price! He’s gone and bought himself a new set of golf clubs.”
The girl beamed at him, nodding enthusiastically.
“So, why are you still here? I’d have thought a tasty-looking girl like you would have gone over the coals straightaway, no hanging around.”
She giggled. “Thanks Mr Larsen. I’m actually on the menu this evening. And, as a matter of fact, I’m going to be oven-roasted”, she said proudly. “They’re pretty big on prep at this place. They don’t like roasting their girls on the day they come in. They want us to develop our meat awareness, and that kind of stuff. So they put us through this - like - really intense prepping process before they put us on the menu. You know - to heighten the quality of our meat, and - like - bring us up to maximum tastiness?”
“Really?” said Dagmar Larsen with genuine curiosity. “And what does that involve?”
Beccy blushed again. “Well, um, basically, Mrs Larsen, it involves - like - lots and lots of - sex.”
Thor bent down and whispered into his sister’s ear: “What did I tell you, sis? You should have let me pop your cherry before dad sold you.”
The sensation of her brother’s hot breath on her ear made Greta tingle all over. At the same time, she had to resist a strong urge to screech at him to, shut the fuck up! There was no denying that Thor had become totally insufferable since qualifying as an Alpha Male,
“Oh … I see”, said Mrs Larsen to Beccy. “Well, I guess that explains why the restaurant is called Sizzling Sluts.”
Beccy giggled again and darted an embarrassed glance at Thor. “Yeah. They keep us in a - you know - like - constant state of arousal. And that gets our juices going, and tenderizes our meat … and - brings out our flavors to - like - peak intensity. The chef here, Michel - Michel Montaine - he’s French, and he’s really into - like - cutting edge girlmeat cuisine. And he says slutty girls have the tastiest meat. It’s not just sex. He also uses humiliation and spanking and whipping, and that kind of stuff too, just to - you know - break us … and bring out our different individual flavors … He says it’s all about emotions and hormones, and stuff. And being totally conscious of the fact that - well - all we are once we've been sold to him is - just meat, and nothing else.”
By now, many of the people walking past on the pavement were taking an interest in Beccy. Some even lingered to check her out properly. She smiled at a middle-aged couple, flicked her fingers through her luscious and glossy black hair and gave her perky breasts a jiggle. Then she glanced back inside the restaurant as if to make sure she wasn’t being missed.
“Yeah”, said Mr Larsen, “that’s why they only serve live-roasted girls here. I read all about Michel Montaine in The Gourmet’s Guide to Girlmeat Gastronomy. He’s got an excellent reputation. He really knows his girlmeat.”
“Yeah, he’s easily the best in London”, said Beccy earnestly. “Although, they say The Edible Woman, three doors down, is pretty good too. And across the road, of course, you’ve got Modest Proposal, that’s Dean Swift’s restaurant, and they say he’s a total genius as well.”
“And that’s why we’re in this part of town”, said Mr Larsen. “I’m going to be selling Greta to one of these restaurants. And, if Monsieur Montaine offers me a good price, it may well be Sizzling Sluts.”
Beccy’s jaw dropped. “You’re gonna sell Greta as meat?”
“That’s right.”
“But … why?”
“A court order. It’s out of my hands.”
“But … you were never destined to be meat, Greta! You were always smart! A straight-A student! Always top of the class! … I mean … you’re a virgin aren’t you? I never saw you in the raping stocks at school. You were way too clever and respectable for that kind of punishment! I always thought you’d go to housewife college and become - like - a typist or even a secretary, or receptionist, or even get auctioned off right away … as a trophy wife to some filthy-rich Alpha!”
Greta felt increasingly embarrassed as Beccy became more and more agitated. She drew a deep breath, pursed her perfect coral lips, and lowered her head as if momentarily entranced by her own immaculately polished shoes.
A look of complete puzzlement came over Beccy’s face.
“And - you don’t even look like meat, Greta! If you’re meat … then how come you’re still wearing clothes?”
“I made a deal with her”, said Mr Larsen. “Her school uniform will be coming off when she gets inspected.”
“And she’ll be wearing nothing but these”, said Dagmar Larsen, reaching into her bag and holding up a pair of very high, “fuck-me” stiletto sandals.
Thor gave Greta a knowing grin.
The “deal” on allowing Greta to keep her clothes on had been hard-won. On picking her up at the school gates, Max Larsen had ordered his daughter to strip naked and put on the stilettos, ready for their trip to the restaurants. But, much to the amusement of the watching pupils, parents and teachers, Greta had refused, threatening to tell a litany of lies to any chef who came within a yard of her.
“If you make me take off my clothes, Daddy”, she had said breathlessly, “I’m going to tell any chef you try to sell me to that - that - my boobs are fake, and that I’m a heavy smoker, and - and - a long-term heroin user, and, that I recently contracted a nasty yeast infection! … So there!”
Her father had retorted that his only option, in that case, was to sell her off to the zoo, as live meat for the wild dog show. But Greta - well aware that she wouldn’t fetch more than ten pounds as dog meat - had called her father’s bluff.
“That’s fine by me, Daddy. I’d rather be eaten by a pack of wild dogs than a bunch of pretentious super-rich fine diners,” she had said, eliciting a huge cheer from the onlookers.
In the end Max Larsen had backed down, calculating that losing face at the school gates was preferable to losing a thousand pounds on the sale of his daughter’s meat. And so he allowed Greta to keep her school uniform on during their journey to the restaurant, until such time as her meat was inspected by a chef.
And so, here she was, outside Sizzling Sluts, in her neatly ironed white school blouse and her black knee-length skirt, black pantyhose and sensible black shoes. Her sleek and fiery golden-red hair - with a parting on one side and a discrete little hair clip on the other - was cut in a medium bob that brought out its natural kick.
Unlike most other girls at Little Boundwench Sixth Form College, Greta followed the uniform regulations to the letter, always wearing a knee-length skirt rather than a miniskirt, and always - despite her well-developed bust - keeping her blouse tightly buttoned up.
All in all, at five foot two, with a nubile hourglass figure and a startlingly beautiful face, she did indeed look like top quality trophy housewife material. She would have fetched a very high price at one of London’s premier wife auctions: a sophisticated virgin bride for a discerning Alpha Plus.
Instead - and entirely as a result of her own folly - Greta was now just a piece of meat, about to be sold with the prospect of being tortured, humiliated and bondage-fucked in a restaurant prepping room, before being ordered, spitted and live-roasted in front of the diners.
