JENNY’S BIRTHDAY ROAST 

                       Part 2

                 Meredith’s Election 

   It began near the end of a perfect late summer day.  After dinner, the tables were pulled to the sides of the yard to make room for horseshoes and badminton and croquet.  Now the games were over and men were setting up folding chairs for the business meeting, with dancing to follow to the music of Bob Burns’ trio.  Among his several talents, Bob Burns played a mean alto sax.

   “It says something that we all share the same thought,” Alice Parent said.

    Lucy Branford grinned. “What thought do you mean, dear”.

   “Don’t be coy, Lucy,” said Lorraine Russell.

   “Sorry.  Someone will have to make the motion?”

   The women looked at each other.  They were gathered conspiratorially at one of the removed tables.  Under club rules, a member could be roasted only by a motion made and passed at a regular or special meeting of not less than ninety percent of the membership. Only married females were subject to roasting and only they could initiate a motion.  For the motion to survive, an affirmative vote of not less than seventy-five percent of those attending was needed, not counting the Council and the subject’s spouse who did not cast votes at this first stage of the proceedings.  If the motion got by its first test, the five Council members and the spouse voted.  All of these second round ballots had to support the motion for it to succeed.  A frivolous motion or one perceived as being made in spite could expose the moving party to tit for tat, i.e, a counter motion that she be roasted for “conduct unbecoming a member”, this being the club’s sole criteria for putting one of its own over the coals.   Jeopardizing security was the likeliest ticket to the platter but the rule’s vague wording left it open to any interpretation that electors might fancy.  Uncertainty bred caution.  Before the rule was enacted, five women had roasted on not much more than the whims of their husbands.  In the years since, no motion had been chanced.

   “I’ll make the motion. It’s the safest thing.  It’s my house and it was my daughter everyone just ate,” Alice said.  

    The others nodded their appreciation for Alice’s bravery. 

   “Hey, girls I got an idea,” Mrs. Russell said.  The women huddled closer to hear what Lorraine had in mind.

    Allison Goodsmith sat at a small table at the front of the meeting.  She was flanked on either side by two fellow members of the Council.  Allison had been president for five years, elected each time by acclimation.  She had arrived late that day, having returned the night before from an exchange roast in England where she’d had a glorious time.  Frances was beginning her final presentation when Allison got there.  Seeing the finished roast gleaming on its platter, a cooked apple in its mouth, another wedged in its meaty fuckhole, the carved tits prettily rounded to their former shapes with sculptures of wild rice each topped by a scalloped radish where a nipple should be, had taken the president’s breath away.  Then Mrs. Goodsmith had settled down to a fine meal of baked potato, corn, salad, steamed mushrooms and perfectly roasted girlmeat.

   Allison opened the meeting by congratulating Mr. and Mrs. Parent on their delicious daughter.  She praised Homer Parent for his wonderful chef work.  Homer took a bow, and made the humble acknowledgement he had rehearsed, writing variations of the line on little pieces of paper left crumpled on the floor of his bedroom.

  “My only regret is that I have run out of daughters to give for my dinner club,” he proclaimed, to howls of laughter and applause.

   The president had a very short agenda, she promised, the main item of business being a special assessment to pay for the hunts for the upcoming season.  Everyone, she knew, was eager to get on with the music and dancing.   

    “All right, any new business?,” Mrs. Goodsmith called, after the treasurer’s report, some hopeful words from Bob Burns concerning the upcoming hunt, and a unanimous vote to assess the members thirty dollars each to cover expenses.

    Alice Parent raised her hand.   “I have some new business.” 

    A few heads turned the speaker’s way.  Alice stood near the back of the meeting.  Those watching her grew curious at the strained expression on Alice’s face.

    “I…I move that Meredith Merriweather be selected for roasting.”

    Meredith jumped to her feet, her face reddening until it went white as two large men started toward her.  Bob Burns was one of them.  The men were marshals.  The rules required that a member proposed for roasting be restrained and gagged until the matter was decided.  If a fact was in doubt, the subject would be permitted to give her version of it.  Otherwise, she couldn’t speak. The marshals were in charge of security and this included keeping the subject of a roasting motion in line, though no one could remember them being called to such duty in a long time.  

    Steven Merriweather stood up, as if to protect his wife.

    “Sit down, Steve.  You know the rules,” Bob Burns barked.

    Steve sputtered, and sat down.  He did know the rules, and one of them was that Meredith couldn’t be cooked without his say so.  For the time being, however, he could only watch while the marshals tied up his squirming wife and taped her mouth.  

     ”Someone will pay for this outrage,” Steve said, grimly.

     “Hope it’s Meredith,” Bob Burns laughed.

     “All right, we have a motion on the floor.  Let’s remember our decorum, please.  Is there a second?”

     “Second,” Lorraine Russell cried.

     “Well, I’m glad that our marshalls knew what to do,” Ms. Goldsmith tittered.  She was slightly out of breath as she banged the gavel.  Fortunately, she’d brought the bylaws. 

     “Before we open the motion for discussion, let me read the rule out loud.  Marshals, please bring Meredith to the front so everyone can see her and she can see everyone while we do this.  I think it’s the best way.”

     Meredith turned her head over her shoulder as she was hustled off.  She briefly met her husband’s gaze.  Then she was yanked around and dragged to a chair where the marshals planted her, facing the crowd.  Ms. Goodsmith waited for silence before reading aloud all of Paragraph 19 of the bylaws.  

    “In other words, people, first we have a paper ballot vote from all of you.  If you say no, it’s over.  If you say yes then the Council and Steven will write down our votes.  If anyone on the Council says no, it’s over.  If we all say yes, Steven’s vote will be opened and read.”

    A few questions were asked which Allison answered with the pleasant authority that made her the popular president she was.

    Meanwhile, Bob Burns had ambled back through the crowd, finally settling himself in the chair vacated by Meredith. Bob hadn’t needed to remember Rule 19.  Alice Parent had confided her plan to him during croquet and won his wholehearted support.  Just before the meeting began, Bob whispered into a few trusted ears.  The stage was set as much as it could be.

   “She’d make a damn fine roast,” Bob murmured. 

   “Forget it, Bob.”

    Ms. Goodsmith called again for quiet. “That should refresh everyone’s memory of the rule.  Now, does anyone wish to speak in favor of the motion? I assume that you do, Alice,” the President said solemnly. 

    “Yes,” Alice acknowledged.  Her mouth went dry at the seriousness of what she had embarked upon.  

    “Ahem.. Well, for one thing look at her.  I mean she is constantly flaunting herself in those…shorts! And the tight tops she always wears.  Make her stand up Allison.”

    “Hmmm,” the President said, casting searching glances at the assembly in hope of discerning reactions to this first accusation.  Considering that outright nudity and even fornication were common practices at the roasts, Allison struggled without success to perceive Alice’s point.  What was more, Meredith was one of the few who hadn’t gone naked or engaged in sex at the cookouts.

    “Well, all right.  Stand up, Meredith so everyone can see you better,” Allison said, overlooking Meredith’s bound ankles.  

    A young marshal who had replaced Bob Burns as a Meredith overseer, hoisted the pretty housewife out of her chair and held her by her shoulders for inspection. In her tan short shorts and halter top, Meredith was lovely indeed from a meat perspective.  She was five feet five and a half.  She weighed a hundred and thirty five pounds.  She was wonderfully full in her thighs, narrowing to shapely legs that caused most members to welcome her choice of short shorts.  Her breasts were full and firm.  She had smooth, meaty shoulders, like her thighs.  Her pretty, vibrant face matched her personality. At the moment, this face was partially blocked by a wave of tousled, sandy brown hair that lay across her right cheek, obscuring the frightened, angry expression that returned the members’ stares.

    “She’s prime all right,” Bob Burns said, easing his chair a little closer to Steve.  “Look at those thighs, my my!  How old is she, thirty-one?  Still prime but how many years she got left?  Look at my Olympia, not much more than ten years older than Meredith and I can hardly remember her being prime.”

    Steve shifted in his chair.  In fact, he found Olympia Burns attractive and enjoyed his talks with her.  Still in her early forties, Mrs. Burns retained her slim figure unlike, for example, Meredith’s mother.  Already, Meredith herself was battling weight.   

    “Matter of time before she’s a cow, Steve, and time’s runnin short if you ask me.”

    While Bob Burns worked on Steve, members listened attentively to Alice Parent’s argument.  Meredith was disrespectful to senior members, Alice said.  The young woman had too high an opinion of herself.  She criticized the ideas of others.  Alice was able to point to examples of these transgressions, including Meredith’s impertinence that morning in suggesting that Alice’s daughter be stuffed twice.  Even if that was a good idea, which it admittedly was, Meredith should have cleared it with the roast’s mother before shooting her mouth off.  

    “You know, Steve, if Meredith gets cooked you’d be entitled to compensation for the loss.  Might include you on the hunt this fall even though you’re pretty far down on the waiting list.  Might let you pick the prey and let you fool with it at the farm until we roast it.  Be only fair under the circumstances.”

    Steve cleared his throat.  

    “I don’t see how anything Alice is saying is bad enough to roast the girl,” Mrs. Williams whispered to the woman beside her.

    “I know it.  I’m worried that Alice is getting herself out on a limb,” Olympia Burns confided.

     “You may be right.”

     “I think I’m going to vote yes just to help out Alice.  I’d hate to see her to have to face a counter motion.  Why don’t you vote yes too, Dorothy. It will never pass and if it does I’m sure the Council will turn it down.  Obviously Steve will veto it if it comes to that.”

     “All right, dear.”

     A few rows away, Lorraine Russell was elbowing Jim Boynton.  Toward the front, Lucy Branford was speaking in low tones to Mr. and Mrs. Hendrickson while Homer Parent lobbied quietly in the back.  No one else spoke in favor of the motion.  An old gentleman then rose, shaking his leathery hand as if this somehow helped him with his balance.

    “This is the worst motion I ever heard,” began Edward Jamison, who’d lost a wife decades ago under suspicious circumstances.  “Everything Alice Parent has said is a credit to Meredith Merriweather, not a crime, for God’s sake.  So what if she’s got a mouth on her?  Are you telling me you don’t, Alice?  If this weren’t your property, I’d have more to say about it but I’ll keep my hat on for now.”  He sat down.

    “See, I told you so,” Olympia Burns whispered.

    “This isn’t good,” Dorothy sighed, her face drawn with worry.     

     A few more voices spoke in opposition, then discussion of the motion closed and paper ballots were circulated.   A tense stillness hung over the yard.  After a few minutes, the marshals collected the ballots in bowls from the Parent kitchen and brought them to the front where Allison Goodsmith and Agnes Jones, the vice president, tallied them.  Unfolding an early ballot, Allison was surprised to see a message penned with the vote.

     “YES is my vote.  Beware if you disappoint the membership, people.  Remember what happened to Marie Antoinette. If the members want to cook her, you’ll leave the matter to Steve if you’re smart. Bob Burns.”

     Allison smiled.  Bob was always in there pitching.  Well, this time he was barking up the wrong tree.  She’d counted three votes before his, all from the front row of the meeting, and all said, “No.”  

     A minute later, however, looking at the final tally, Allison was grim faced.  She avoided Meredith’s questioning stare as she steeled herself to address the meeting in a business like tone.

     “The motion has passed the general meeting vote, forty yes to eleven no.  That is more than seventy five percent in favor and that means that the Council and Mr. Merriweather will now cast ballots.”

     An astonished murmur swept the yard.  Steve Merrieweather’s jaw dropped.  He looked at Bob Burns for the first time.

    “That vote is because they want to roast her, pure and simple,” he said, his astonishment bringing him to the brink of laughter.  

    “Whatever,” Bob replied. “Council will vote to roast her, too, Steve.  Just wait. They’re all politicians, they ain’t about to cross a one sided vote like that.”

    Steve closed his eyes.  He tried not to the think of the hunt or his ballooning mother in law.

    Bob Burns watched him. He’d been waiting for this precise moment.

    “You know, Steve, you’re like me.  The eatin’s secondary.  Main thing for guys like us is what leads up to it – watchin em roast alive, givin em their last fucks, seein em go on the spit.  And the hunts.  You’d love the hunts, Steve.”  Bob paused.  “But, of course, your club days are probably over, buddy.  You let Meredith off the hook and she’ll be damned pissed about what’s happened here.  She’ll quit the club.  You can bet on it - make you quit, too.”

    The color drained from Steve’s face.  Bob was right. He was right about everything.  
     
    Meredith refused to panic.  The disgusting members had voted with their appetites, sexual and otherwise.  She’d watched those who lusted for her, now her enemies, talking up the crowd before the vote.  Well, the Council would cast an honest vote, at least one of them surely would.  Mrs. Goodsmith was too fine a person to agree to roast one of her own members for fun.  Meredith would hate to have the outcome depend on Steve.   She could never trust any of them again if the only vote that saved her was going to be her husband’s.  So why was Steve talking with Bob Burns.  This worried her.  It shouldn’t worry her, she told herself, but it did.

   “Can you guarantee what you said before?”

   “Sure can, buddy.  First hunt’s a month from tomorrow.  We’d have a roast on Saturday if we got one to cook and head out before crack of dawn on Sunday.  Be four of us, including you. Two cars.  My van and one other. Tell you what.  Even if the Council don’t vote to roast her, and they might not, never can tell with politicians, if you vote yes just for the sport of it, I’ll get you on the hunt.  Meredith will never know what your vote was if the Council says no, that’s the rule. They just tear it up. And if she pulls you out of the Club you can still come.  Do it on the sly.  That’s a promise, Steve.  Go ahead, for the thrill of it. Vote to roast your wife. What the heck.” 

   Steve gazed at the sunset.  He cupped his ballot.  He wrote on it, folded it and placed it in the small envelope that the rules provided only for husbands.  Stone faced, he passed it to a waiting marshal and put his hands in his pockets.  He had an erection.
   
   In the fading light, the Council gathered at the presidential table.  

   “I think we must leave this to Steven,” Ms. Goodsmith said, sadly.  “It worries me when the members get their blood up so.”  Some of them looked “disturbed”, she thought.

   “They didn’t exactly vote the merits,” the treasurer, Adrian Brewster said, dryly.

   “I think they voted the thighs,” Ginger Benson, chuckled.  “I’m thinking of voting them myself.”

   “Ginger, this is serious, dear,” Ms. Goodsmith chided.
 
   “I’m always serious when it comes to thighs.  You know that.”

   “Oh, Ginger.  Well, then, are we agreed on a vote in the affirmative in order to, well, that is for the purpose of…keeping…a united front, as it were, and let her husband be the one to get us out of this foolishness.”

    Allison heard murmurs of assent.

   “Yes?  All right then, that’s that.  Bring Meredith over. I want to tell her before I announce it so she’ll understand and perhaps not hate us.”

   When the trussed young woman was hauled before her, Mrs. Goodsmith smiled apologetically.

   “Please don’t take this personally, Meredith, but the Council has voted to have you roasted.  We thought it unwise to go against the clearly expressed desire of the membership in this case. One has to be careful when people vote with their baser urges instead of their good judgment.  I’m sure you have nothing to worry about.  As soon as I inform the members of our vote, I will open Steven’s ballot.”

   “Mmmm mmm!!,” Meredith said through her gag. 

   “Now, dear.  You know you can’t talk yet.  There was no factual question about Alice’s reasons for roasting you. You are headstrong and you do flaunt those yummy thighs of yours.”  Mrs. Goodsmith took the opportunity to briefly ogle what she mentioned. “Not that those are bad things…necessarily.  You’ll just have to wait.”

    Avoiding Meredith’s icy stare, Ms. Goodsmith signaled the marshal to take her off to the side.  Then, raising her hand for quiet, she announced the vote of the Council.  The assembly responded with a mixture of laughter, shouts and boos, but quickly grew silent when Allison retrieved the small white envelope that contained the deciding ballot.

    “Steve Merriweather votes…good heavens!, he votes yes! The motion carries.”

        Meredith went bolt upright in her chair and continued rising.  Her eyes danced wildly above her taped mouth, then she toppled to the grass owing partly to her bound ankles and partly to the fact that for the first time in her life, Meredith Merriweather had fainted.

     The members, by comparison, took the outcome of the election with a certain solemnity, a departure from their usual feisty demonstration on being presented with new girl meat.  Indeed, many appeared upset or perplexed.  Mrs. Goodsmith wondered at the change of mood.  Whatever its reason, she decided to try to keep matters on a genial plane.

     “Steven, dear, you’re entitled to livestock your wife, if you wish,” she announced, cheerfully. 

     When the young man declined, Mrs. Goodsmith offered the livestocking privilege to Homer and Alice Parent in view, as she said, of it being Alice’s successful motion that had turned Meredith into livestock in the first place. The Parents accepted and hurried to the front.  A pair of scissors was handed to Alice.  She and Homer turned Meredith onto her back and Alice began cutting away the young woman’s clothes.   Meredith’s blouse was in shreds and Mrs. Parent was in the midst of snipping off the white bra when her victim’s eyes fluttered open.  

    “Mmmmm mmm!!,” Meredith said.  She twisted futilely in her ties.

    At this moment, a hand shot up in the second row.

    “Point of order!!”

    “What?  Yes, what is it, Mr. Jamieson?”

    “Madame President, there’s been a bad mistake.  Some members voted for the motion who were against the motion.  I’ve gotten several reports of this.  They did it because they thought the motion was so unfounded as to place Alice Parent in peril so they voted for it to give the motion some respectability, never thinking it would actually pass.”

    Mrs. Goodsmith rapped her gavel.  She looked at the speaker, gravely.  Then she surveyed the membership with equal gravity.

    “Is this so?”

    Dorothy Williams stood up.  “Yes, I’m afraid it is, Allison.  I voted that way and so did some of the people around me.  I’m so sorry.”

   “This is terrible.  How many of you voted for the motion who were actually opposed to the motion.  Please raise your hands.”

    A few hands went up, then a few more.  Allison waited, her annoyance growing by the second.  When it appeared that no more hands would rise, she counted them.

    “Twenty-three,” she said, disgustedly.  “Twenty-three of you voted for the motion when you should have voted against it.  I am extremely disappointed in all of you.”

     “It means the motion should have failed thirty-four to seventeen and never even reached a Council vote and a vote by the husband,” Mr. Jamieson said.  “Obviously, we have to rescind this, Madame President.”

     “Hmmmm. Just a minute.”  Mrs. Goodsmith consulted the by-laws.

    “Well, I don’t see how it can be rescinded.  The rule says and I quote, ‘the vote shall be final,’ and then it says, “Neither the club nor any member or members shall take any action or engage in any activity relating to the cooking of a member except in strict accordance with these rules.’  It doesn’t say that a vote can be rescinded, Mr. Jamieson, so that wouldn’t be in strict accordance with the rules, would it.  And, I hate to repeat it but it says the vote is final.”

     “Quite right, dear,” called out Mrs. Russell from the back.  “And think how this would affect Steven.  As the husband, he could have reversed things but he didn’t.  He voted yes. If we let Meredith come back, I’m afraid Steven will never hear the end of it.” 

     “Indeed he wouldn’t!,” Mrs. Goodsmith declared.  She felt better already.   “It shows you the wisdom of the founders that they made the rule this way, so you can’t change the vote just because it was a mistake.  Those men knew what they were doing.”
 
     The president considered Meredith with a trace of sadness.  “Terribly, sorry, dear, but the rule is clear.  I’m a lawyer, you know.  Our hands are tied.”  Mrs. Goodsmith covered a smile.  “Poor choice of words, honey.” Excuse me.  All right, Alice you may get on with nuding her.  And you’ll need a proper gag.”

     “Madame President, this isn’t right.  WE’RE TALKLING ABOUT ROASTING SOMEONE!”,  Mr. Jamieson shouted, swaying dangerously. 

     “Well of course we are talking about roasting someone, Edward.  We’re talking about roasting Meredith.  What else would we be talking about.” 

     ‘GOOD GOD, WOMAN.  YOU CAN’T STAND BY THAT VOTE.  YOU CAN’T ROAST HER IF THE MEMBERS WERE AGAINST IT.  THE VOTE WAS A MISTAKE AND WE ALL KNOW
IT .”

      Ms. Goodsmith sighed. 

     “Edward, use the brain that God gave you.  The rules say that the vote is final.  It doesn’t say what the voters want is final, it says the vote is final.   How does anyone know what people really want anyway.  Maybe some of those who voted not to roast Meredith really do want to roast her but voted not to just to be nice.  You see how murky things get when you try to go into them too deeply.  And please consider this, everyone. The only way we could change things would be to take another vote and if we did that then that vote would be final and we could have two final votes, one saying yes and one saying no.   What a mess that would be.”

      The president opened her palms.  “What more can I say?”

    “Oh, my God,” Mr. Jamieson said as he collapsed in his chair.  

     “You did your best, Eddy,” his wife said, nudging his ribs.  “Now shut up.”

     “I believe your reasoning is quite sound, Allison,” Olympia Burns cried.  “And I would also point out that it isn’t a proper point of order to criticize the way another person votes.  Sour grapes is what it is.”

      “Hmmmmm.  What about that,” Mrs. Goodsmith said, turning to Adrian Brewster beside her who was the club expert on parliamentary questions.   The two conferred.  

      “The chair rules, Henry, that your point of order is out of order.  Further, the vote to roast Meredith is final and that means it can’t be changed.  Now everyone, please, I want us to all try to look on the positive side.  We have a roast for next month and a wonderful roast at that.  Even a mistake can be a blessing, you see.”  

      Mrs. Goodsmith paused.  She bestowed a kindly smile on Meredith who was wildly shaking her head.  “What can I do, dear?  All I can say,” she continued in a raised voice for the benefit of all,  “all I can say, is that I hope this has been a lesson to those who voted to roast you when they didn’t intend to have you roasted.  The next time something like this happens I hope that people remember that voting is a vital part of our democratic way of life and it should never be misused.  All right, it’s getting dark, for heaven’s sake.  Finish up with her, Alice.”  

      Alice disposed of Meredith’s yellow panties, leaving the meat girl in only her new plastic hogties and the tape across her mouth.  Accepting a ball gag from Homer, she stripped away the tape.  Meredith opened her mouth to speak or scream but before she could make a sound, Alice jammed in the gag and secured it with a pair of cord ties around Meredith’s head.  

      “Phew,” Alice said, admiring her work.  “Let’s butcher her right now, Allison.”
        “Mmmm, it would be a grand cap to the day, Alice.  Oh, Meredith, get used to it, dear.  You should know better than twist around like that.  On second thought, Alice, I think Steven might enjoy butchering her more some other time.  It may be a little soon doing it now.   Frankly,  I would prefer roasting her alive and that would give the boys a whole month to play with her at the farm.”

      “Oh, all right,” Alice said.  “Fresh meat is better anyway.  But suppose Steven changes his mind?” 

       Mrs. Goodsmith frowned.  “And wants to change his vote, you mean?  Please, Alice, I think we’ve been over that quite enough!”

            END OF PART TWO