## Archive-name: baia's_f

Baia shuttered and cried uncontrollably. The worst fate she could possibly imagine was about to befall her. She was going to be boiled alive. Natives had captured her by the river. She had fought hard, but the natives had quickly overpowered her. She had been bound to a long pole by her wrists and ankles and carried triumphantly back to camp. The Chieftain, having prodded and poked her studiously, had decided her firm flesh should be stewed to tenderness.

Before her was a large clay pot. It stood about four feet in height and almost six feet wide around its middle. Its sides were painted in a wild tapestry of color. Inside was a watery mixture of herbs, spices, and vegetables. Piles of branches were stacked about its base. The natives smiled warmly at Baia as they prepared to cook her.

A round wooden platform constructed of a grid of bamboo slats lay off to one side of the pot. The diameter of the platform was such that it would fit nicely into the pot. A single rod about eighteen inches high rose vertically a short distance from the center of the platform. A small native woman bent over the rod and applied a lubricating oil along its length. Baia was to be bound to this platform so that she would remain helpless when lowered into the pot.

Earlier, Baia had been stripped naked and bound. Strong leather straps were coiled tightly around her wrists. Cords also drew her elbows together. Her legs were left unfettered. With a signal from the Cheiftan, she was led to the platform.

Two men grabbed her ankles and forced her legs apart as she stood on the platform. They quickly looped cord through the bamboo grid and around her ankles. After her feet were secured, the two men holding her torso began to lower her to the platform. The small woman who had lubricated the rod watched from behind and gave the men instructions to adjust her descent so that the rod would be guided into her anus. Baia squealed and writhed as the rod found its mark. The men pushed her down, impaling her upon the stake. They proceeded to wrap leather straps about her thighs and through the bamboo to secure her to the platform.

Baia now lay nude in a sitting position on the bamboo grid. Her legs, bent at the knee, were spread wide, providing a clear view of her sex. Her breasts bounced wildly as she struggled to free herself from her bondage. But her movements were muted by pain induced by the long rod protruding into her body.

Four men took up positions equidistant about the platform. As a team, they leaned down and lifted the platform into the air by its edges. Baia wailed in dismay as the men carried her on the platform to the pot and over its mouth. Slowly, they let her down into the depths of the liquid. Baia came to rest with the mixture lapping about her shoulders. The watery liquid was quite cool. Unfortunately, it wouldn't remain that way for long.

A young girl, about ten years old, approached the pot. She was dressed in a brightly colored robe with a string of flowers in her hair. The Cheiftan smiled proudly at her. A stern looking native of some stature presented the girl with a flaming torch. The little girl chanted softly in a language Baia did not understand. Once finished, she suddenly raised the torch high into the air. The gathered natives responded at once, shouting and chanting in unison. The girl lowered the torch to the pyre about the pot and lit the fire.

Baia cried out in fear as she watched smoke swirl about the pot as the fire spread. Quite quickly, the flames surrounded the base of the cauldron. The fire burned quite fiercely and the sides of the kettle grew very hot. Unfortunately for Baia, the stew within it heated much more slowly.

The little girl who had lit the fire stepped closer to the pot and looked Baia straight in the eye. The girl smiled warmly at her and tossed a single flower from her hair into the pot just in front of Baia. She then withdrew to watch the proceedings.

After several minutes, Baia felt the liquid around her become noticeably warm. She burst into tears and struggled vainly to escape. Despite her best efforts, the bonds about her held her tightly in place.

Two women were given the task of tending the pot and its unfortunate occupant. One woman tended the fire, adding fuel as necessary. The other, a very large matronly woman, stirred the soup with a long paddle. Baia cringed and cried as she felt the occasional touch of the paddle against her breasts and thighs.

The stew about Baia began to steam gently. A low rumble could be heard as the water grew slowly but steadily hotter. Baia screamed and shouted at her captors and begged them for mercy. But her language was unknown to them. Her pleas wouldn't have done much good in any case. They simply smiled warmly at her and waited patiently for her to cook.

Baia began to writhe violently in the confines of the pot. She turned left and right, straining against the cords about her thighs. She found her peril incredibly frustrating. Looking out from inside the pot, she felt helpless and profoundly used. Fear raged in her belly as she thought about the brutal torture to come. It was not just the inevitable pain that would soon engulf her body. It was the fact that the natives considered her no more than soup stock. The degradation was unbearable. With pleading eyes she looked around desperately for any means of salvation. None was forthcoming.

Baia's skin began to tingle as the stew around her grew uncomfortably hot. The rising steam had moistened her hair and it now stuck to her face in a tangled mess. Her breath quickened with her growing panic. She tried once more to stand up and free herself from this horrible fate. The vegetables bounced about her as she struggled to no avail. The straps binding her to the platform were too strong.

Time seemed to slow for Baia as the heat in the cook pot increased. She screamed herself hoarse as gentle tingles gave way to to the sharp pain of scalding. The water had grown much too hot. Every fiber of her being insistently ordered her to get out of pot at once. But the bonds about her body precluded any escape. The flower floating in the pot before her wilted and sank into the depths of the soup.

The strong aroma of the herbs and spices in the stew filled the camp and Baia's nostrils. The infernal heat of the liquid around her weakened her muscles so that they felt like jelly. She could no longer struggle. Instead, she groaned in agony, her head tipped back limply as the steamy soup heated her body insistently.

As she lay in the pot of hot broth, Baia thought her torment could grow no worse. But with each passing moment, the temperature of the soup increased. To top off her torment, her skin, damaged by scalding, was exposed to the herbs and spices in the mixture around her. The effect was like rubbing salt into an open wound. The pain became horrific.

For nearly an hour Baia simmered in the big pot very much alive and alert. The natives watched her closely as the hot soup slowly leached life from her nude body. Steam was now billowing from the mouth of the pot. Baia, her eyes open wide, sat breathing in short gasps waiting for the release of death. Her body, once pale, had now turned a fiery pink. Slowly at first, bubbles appeared around the inner edges of the cauldron. The pot was coming to a boil about Baia.

The life giving red blood cells in Baia's blood began to expire in the relentless heat. Baia grew woosy and confused, the first symptoms of heat stroke. Nonetheless, she became aware of the change in her surroundings as the soup about her came to a rolling boil. She could sense the scalding liquid moving oddly around her. One final time, she lifted her head. Dizziness and pain engulfed her. She looked down to see the churning soup boiling furiously about her. Baia gasped in her agony. She was boiling alive in a giant cook pot. Seeing that there was no escape, Baia lost all hope. Just before surrendering to unconsciousness, Baia looked up at at the face of the matronly woman tending the pot. The woman smiled at her warmly and ladled some of the boiling soup over her head as she blacked out.

A short time later, Baia expired in the pot. The natives left her to stew for several hours. That night, her body was removed from the pot and carefully carved into small bite size pieces. The chunks of flesh were placed back into the large pot and allowed to simmer for a while longer. Finally, the soup was ladled into large bowls and served to the eager natives. After everyone had eaten their fill, there wasn't much soup left in the pot.

Before Baia, the natives had put their victims to death before cooking them. After the feast, they all agreed that the soup was much better when the unlucky victim was put to death in the pot. The flesh seemed sweeter, tastier, and much more tender. The Chieftain agreed and deemed that all for all future human feasts, the victims would be boiled slowly to death in the pot. Just like Baia.

Last modified (12/24/96 16:09:02) by Eli-the-Bearded.

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