JENNY’S BIRTHDAY ROAST 

                  Part Three
   
          A Dream Comes True for Frances
             (eight years earlier)

    Frances thought she was waking until she realized it was her dream shifting to a different realm.   The new dream made her laugh it was so amusing and vivid. 

    “Hi Frances,” said Laura, perched at the foot of her bed.  Laura was nude except for her panties.  Excitement shone in Laura’s eyes.  Good grief, Frances said in her dream.  

     Frances became aware of others in her room.   She turned her head.   She looked blinkingly at the visitors. They were grownups, smiling at her.  Some were talking but not to her.   Her parents stood by the door, holding hands.  They smiled, too.   Frances realized that Laura was speaking.  She looked at Laura, expecting to learn why the girl was nude on her bed.  Frances was surprised at herself for dreaming erotically about Laura, her best friend since kindergarten.  They had shared a million secrets but never lust.  Frances felt wicked and a tiny bit ashamed. 

     “I said, hi Frances.  I can see you’re awake.  You’ll never guess what’s going to happen,” Laura said, leaning forward on her knees. 

     Yes, this absolutely has to be a dream, Frances reasoned.  Nothing in reality could possibly explain the strange assembly in her room.  Frances tried to rub her eyes and discovered she was unable to move her arms.  They were fastened behind her.   She lifted her head and looked down at herself.  She was nude.  Her cunt, with its blonde tuft at the top and silky blonde strands at the sides, was in plain view.   Frances’ brow furrowed.  The dream was becoming a little too interesting. 

    “Howdy there sweetheart.  My name’s Bob Burns.  You got no idea how pleased I am to see you, all laid out like this.  Mmmm, hmmm, you are some treat.”

    The man had a kind, intelligent face and a deep, friendly voice.  He was very large.   His stomach hung like a rain filled awning over his pants.   As he approached her bed, Frances tried to close her legs only to find that they, too, were bound.  She was spread for everyone’s inspection.  

    “Laura here has some information for you, little babe. Go ahead, Laura.”

     Laura squealed.  She crawled between Frances’ legs.  She gazed at Frances’ body and especially at her cunt. 

    “I’m going to eat you, Frances.  And then everyone is going to eat you and I mean really eat you.”

     The people in the room were members of a club to which Frances’ parents also belonged, Laura breathlessly explained.  It was a kind of dinner club.  On this occasion, a breakfast meal was planned.  They had drawn names from a hat to choose a teenage daughter for the menu.

     “See,” Laura grinned.  Bob Burns handed it to her – the menu, elegantly printed on expensive gray bond paper with scalloped edges.  Linda pushed it in front of Frances’ face.  On the list after French roast coffee and orange juice, scrambled eggs and muffins, was “…girl roast – plattered with apple in mouth on bed of lettuce and steamed mushrooms, garnished with herbs and seasonings.”  A line drawing of the promised meat course served as a background.  The likeness was of Frances.

     Laura waited while Frances focused and rounded her blue eyes, and then tossed the menu aside.  

     “I bet you hate me now, but it’s ok because in a few hours you won’t be here anymore,” Laura said.  “You don’t know anything, Frances.  You have no fucking idea how sexy you are.  You think you are just so fucking perfect all the time.”

      Laura glanced at Mr. and Mrs. Parent.  They smiled and nodded for her to continue.

      Frances decided it really was time to wake up.  Her mouth was dry.  She realized her tongue was numb.  She licked her lips and tried to speak.

      “Ahhh, err,” she said.  

      She heard chuckles and outright laughter.

      What Frances didn’t know was that her mom had crept into the room less than an hour before while Frances was sleeping and drugged her with chloroform, Laura went on.  This was so Frances wouldn’t be disturbed by the cars arriving or by the people gathering in her room or when she was stripped and tied to her bed.  While those in her room waited for her to wake up, others made preparations in the yard and downstairs in the kitchen.  It was almost eleven.  The chef had told them it would take seven hours, perhaps longer, to roast Frances, though he would be able to give a more exact estimate after weighing her and examining the meats. Two hours would be needed for preparations and the marinade.  So little time remained for non-cooking festivities if breakfast was to be ready on schedule, at nine. 

   “Did you understand all that, dear?”, Mrs. Parent inquired.  She and her husband now stood at the bed.

   Frances looked up at them.  The dewy blue eyes were wide.  They seemed to be blinking uncontrollably.

   “Daddy and I are quite thrilled, we really are, that you will be the one.  We’ve been having sex every night just thinking about it, and that hasn’t happened in ages.  Daddy is going to fuck you now, dear.  Mmm hmm.  Yes, a few of the nice men here are going to fuck you before, well, you know.  Also, in case you are wondering, dear, the reason you can’t talk is that I gave your tongue a little shot of Novicane. I hope you understand.  It’s so unpleasant to have to listen to the meat girls complain when they find out what is going to happen to them.”  

    The men began to undress, leaving their clothes on the floor.  Some of the women were undressing as well.

   “But we promised Laura that she could eat you first, the conventional way.  Go ahead, honey, get her nice and juicy for us.” 

   Laura squealed.  She lay between Frances’ legs and began to mouth the helpless cunt.  Laura had eaten girls before; she’d only dreamed of eating Frances.  She ate like a starving person.  She wedged her mouth against the cunt.  She lathered it.  She fucked it with her tongue.  She lapped the hardening clitoris.  Frances tried to resist but the erotic surges grew more intense and more wonderful.  Finally she couldn’t stop herself from gasping and bucking her thighs and writhing within the bounds that her ties allowed.  Then her cunt convulsed in a gushing orgasm that filled Laura’s mouth and sent Laura gasping for air and rolling in delight on the bed.

   “Boy that was great,” Laura said, wiping her face, just before two naked men seized her and pulled her to the floor.  Mrs. Parent stepped in quickly and shoved a ball gag into the stunned teenager’s mouth.  The men hog tied Laura and dumped her on the floor.

    “There, sweetie pie, that will give you practice for the apple you will have when you’re roasted,” Mrs. Parent said, smiling pleasantly.

    “Dumb kid,” Bob Burns chuckled.  

    Pretty Melissa Davis planted a kiss on Laura’s forehead.  Then the happy, young housewife looked into the terrified eyes.

    “Now you know we are expecting fifty people over, Laura.  You can hardly feed that many a satisfying breakfast with just one roast.”  Melissa giggled.  She harbored not the slightest suspicion that in three months her husband would yield to a secret temptation that haunted him at this very hour, and she herself would be cooked alive. 

    Homer Parent appeared between his daughter’s legs.  His cock swayed before Frances’ eyes.

    “Ahhh, ewww!!”, Frances declared.

    “Damn nice friend you got there, sweetie.  She wanted to eat you with the rest of us. Caught us talking about it, she did.  Thought she could just join right in.   Well, at least she’ll end up on a platter, too.”

    Mr. Parent positioned his cock before his daughter’s cunt, then rammed it in, disposing of the teenager’s hymen with the ease of a rocket penetrating a screen door.   Mrs. Parent sopped up the blood from her husband’s balls and her daughter’s thighs.  She could only grimace at the stained sheet.  

    The last small hope that she was dreaming now vanished for Frances.  Why were they terrorizing her?  No one ever accused her mom and dad of being lovey dovey, her mom having the more spotless record in that regard, but they would never kill her.  Even if they ate other girls, they wouldn’t eat her, and she refused to believe they ate girls at all.  The whole thing was some kind of vicious joke.  It had to be!  She thought this as her father fucked her and then her thoughts began to turn to the horror of the incest and the brutal loss of her virginity.  Before the new thoughts took hold, however, the fucking melted her brain.   She gasped and moaned.  Her hips bucked as before.  She bit her lip.  Beads of perspiration formed at the top of her forehead.  Her face went red.  She came.  Homer Parent came, too, and after he did he collapsed on the quivering girl and lay on her until he caught his breath.
 
   “The chef wants her downstairs,” a voice announced from the doorway.  “He says you can finish fucking her down there.”

    The kitchen was large even for a house like the Parents’.  Until a year ago it had been of more modest size. Then Homer Parent invested a small fortune to give his home a kitchen that met the standards of the Club.
Being new members, the Parents couldn’t expect to host a meal for some time.  But their eagerness to be ready when the opportunity arose led them to spare no expense.  Their pride and joy was the oven, big enough to accommodate a stuffed girl in her roasting bin.  Mrs. Parent told anyone who chanced to see it that the oven was for cooking three turkeys at once when relatives came for Thanksgiving.    Henri Bouse had blown kisses earlier that evening after completing his inspection.

    “Your kitchen it is marvelous,” he praised the proudly beaming Alice Parent.
      
    Henri stood now at the center island, tapping his finger on the stainless steel counter. No longer was the tapping a signal of his impatience for he heard the sounds of the entourage descending from the meat girl’s bedroom.  Henri’s cock hardened behind his white apron.

    Slung from a pole carried by two men dressed in white like their master, entered Frances.  She was face down.  Her tits swayed, voluptuously.  Mr. and Mrs. Parent and a few others came behind, followed by Laura on her pole.  

    The sights of the kitchen drove her Daddy’s assault from Frances’ reeling mind.   The oven door was open.  On the counter rested an enormous roasting pan.  The teenager’s bearers carried her past a table holding four large bowls.  A white napkin on which someone had written, “Frances”, had been placed between two of the bowls.  Another napkin between the other bowls said, “Laura”.   A bread stuffing filled the bowls.  Frances caught a pleasing scent of herbs and spices and onions as she passed the table and was brought to the gleaming central counter where Henri waited.  To Frances, the most terrifying aspect of the strange man was his tall white hat.  It marked him even more than his white apron and white shirt and white pants.  

    “Put the first one here,” Henri had said.

    The handlers deposited Frances on the counter. They turned her on her back.  The tied hands were secured over her head to a clamp on the counter and her bound feet were fastened similarly.  Henri ran a gloved hand lightly along the torso, the shoulders and thighs and calves. He kneaded the perfectly shaped white breasts, murmuring happily to himself at the firmness of their fatty meat.  He pinched each nipple.  He probed a finger into the soft flesh beneath Frances’ chin and did the same to each of her pinked cheeks.

    “Look at the eyes.  It is quite petrified,” he said.

    Alice Parent tittered nervously.  “Do you think it will hurt her meat?”

    “Don’t worry yourselves.  We will baste it in the butter, you see.  There is an herb I put in the baste that calms them.  The basting should be continuous until the marinade.”

     “Damn it Henri, she ain’t an it yet.  She’s a piece of ass still and we’re gonna fuck her. All I can say is this here herb better not calm her down too much, if you know what I mean,” Bob Burns said.

      Henri waived a reassuring hand.  The herb’s effect was on the brain.  The meat girl’s sex might even be enhanced.  Having calmed at least the men’s concern, Henri ordered one of his assistant’s to hold Frances’ mouth open while his fingers explored within.  He pulled the numbed tongue and felt the walls of the mouth.  Then he stuck two fingers deep into the meat girl’s throat.  Frances jerked on the counter as she choked.

      “Nice,” Henri muttered, withdrawing his hand.  
     
       The chef’s final inspections were of Frances’ cunt and anus.  He probed each orifice with his fingers, nodding and murmuring to himself as if pondering a decision.   

     “All right, weigh it,” he smiled, removing his gloves.     

      The handlers released Frances from the counter clamps and carried her hog-tied to the meat scale.  They centered her on her back.  Frances blinked up as the assistant read the scale.  

      “121 pounds.”

      Though she was nude and tied like a pig, had been fucked in public by her father and feared that she soon would be the meat that christened the family’s new roasting oven, Frances felt a twinge of embarrassment at the rude announcement of her weight.

      “Good, good, bring it back,” Henri said. 

      Frances was dumped on the counter and her ties adjusted as before.   As Henri resumed his examination, Lorraine Russell spoke quietly to Alice Parent.

      “Don’t you want to have some fun, hon?”

      “What?”

      “You know, tease her, like we always do.  It’s good for them.  Makes them accept the situation.  You saw it yourself last month, remember.  They taunted her so cutely.  It rather destroyed the poor thing’s mind and she just became passive.”      

     Mrs. Parent rubbed her hard nipples.  She and Lorraine were stark naked.  She gave Lorraine a grin and stepped to the counter.

      “Is it okay if I talk to her?”

      Henri was applying the butter baste, working up from the roast’s feet. 

       “Gonna be a slippery fuck,” Bob Burns laughed.

       “Of course, Madame.  Here, you may assist while you talk.”  He handed Alice a basting brush.

       “Oh, thank you!,” said Alice, going weak in her knees at the unexpected honor, not to mention the fabulous eroticism of basting her daughter.

        She dipped some baste onto one of Frances’ thighs and began spreading it with the brush.

        “Our guests think you’re not being a very good sport about this, dear.  Don’t you know you’re the center of attention?  There’s at least thirty people here, and in the morning there may be fifty people and you’re the reason, well the main reason they’ll be here.  But if you’re just going to be a big pouty face we might as well spit you now and get it over with.”

      “Ahhhh, eewww,” Frances replied, wildly batting her eyes. 

      Mrs. Parent couldn’t have been happier.  The truth was that many of the diners, including Alice herself, enjoyed a meat girl’s whimperings even to the point of finding them indispensable to a good roast.  The occasional willing girls were prized for their strangeness and bravery but the terror stricken livestock had greater erotic appeal. Unfortunately, terror was bad for the blood and unchecked could cause the meat’s flavor to suffer. It was up the chef to temper a sweet thing’s fear enough to protect the meat while not so much as to spoil the fun. 

     “May I tell her the program, Henri?”

      The chef made a philosophical smile.  He was used to such interruptions though they didn’t make his job easier.  

      “If you wish, Madame.  I think this one will be fine from the basting.” 

       “Great.”  Mrs. Parent deposited a buttery plop on the teenage tummy.  She rubbed it in.

      “Well, dear, after we finish buttering you, we’ll attend to your fuck card.  I believe seven of the fellows signed up for that.  Don’t be hurt.  Under other circumstances, I’m sure all of the men would just love to fuck you.  You’re as fuckable as a girl can be, sweetie.  The thing is, you see, the girls are the most arousing when they are cooking.  So when you’re on the spit, dear, and having your adventure over the coals, look around if you still can and you’ll see that you have an audience that is just fornicating and masturbating to the beat the band.  You’ll see that when you’re marinating, too, probably.”
 
       Lorraine Russell sidled over.  Alice observed the lust in her friend’s face.

        “See something you like, dear?”

        “Oh my goodness, Alice, aren’t those just the dreamiest tits you ever saw?”

        “Hmmmm.  Well, why don’t you ask Henri if you can suck them a little?”  Alice glanced at the chef, fearing his rebuke.

        Henri shrugged.  

       “Oh goody,” Lorraine chirped.  She bent over Frances and began to lick one of the teenage breasts.  

       “Ahhh, eeuuuww,” Frances said.  Tears welled in her eyes.  She turned her head away.  She bit her lip.  She felt her nipples harden under Mrs. Russell’s incessant ministrations.  Her breathing quickened.  Henri had backed away to allow the meat girl a view of her surroundings. Frances saw the gathered grownups watching and smiling.  Hanging by her tied feet from a butcher hook in the wall she saw Laura, taking in the scene from her unique perspective.  It was hard to tell if Laura was watching.  Her blank expression suggested that she was in shock.  Frances could still see the open oven and roasting bin.  
Soon the images began to blur.  Then Frances forgot everything. She closed her eyes and twisted her head on the steel counter, gasping and moaning as Mrs. Russell brought her to the edge of orgasm.  

   “All right, you two, don’t get carried away,” Alice said, pulling Mrs. Russell off the shaking meat girl.

   “See how much you are appreciated, dear,” Alice addressed her quivering daughter.  “I don’t know if you saw Jenny before.  Mr. and Mrs. Seymour carried her into your room when Daddy was fucking you.  Your sister was still asleep so she missed her close escape.  You see, we were going to boil her while you and Laura were roasting.  Good thing she wasn’t on the menu because Bob Burns got his dander up over her being too little. He got people to vote
to keep her until she’s your age.  We’re going to cook her for her birthday when she’s sixteen, isn’t that something!?  It just seems like such a long wait.”

    Alice resumed working her basting brush.  She buttered up the perfect tits, blending the baste with streaks of Lorraine Russell’s saliva.  

    “Yes, the plan was to have three different meat courses, a spit roast, an oven roast and a boiled girl. So now we’ll just have two.  You’ll be our spit roast, sweetie, in case you’re wondering.  Laura is going into the oven.  I’m so excited about finally putting it to use.”

    “Aarrr, eewwww,” Frances replied.

    Two naked men hauled in a mattress and dropped it on the tile floor.  After the mattress was covered with a plastic table cloth and Henri had completed his work for the moment, Bob Burns raised Frances from the counter and placed her on the mattress.  

    “Not much time, Bob,”  Mrs. Parent warned.

    “I know,” Bob Burns grunted, getting himself in position while the other men gathered around, holding the numbers they had drawn.

     Bob spread the teenage legs and put his cock in the girl.  He fucked her hard and fast.  Soon Frances was moaning and bucking her hips.   She was still in the throes of her orgasm when the second man began fucking her.  And so it went.  The last man on the girl’s fuck card got his rocks off just before the time ran out.
   
   “Come, come,” Henri prodded the handlers.  The men lifted the still gasping teen by her legs and shoulders and carried her into the dining room.  Taking up half the length of the twelve foot antique pine table was a tray made of wood, perhaps a foot in depth, containing a dark brown liquid.  The handlers placed Frances in the tray on her back, her head raised on a rest to prevent her from drowning in the rising marinade.  Her ankles and wrists were secured by leather straps attached to the wood.  The marinade was cool and oily.  Frances felt it filling her pores and the other openings in her young body.

    Henri, who had been directing the transporting of Laura from her hook to the meat scale and then to the counter, strode into the dining room in a fury.

    “Idiots!  Take it out of there!”

    One didn’t marinate until the meat was cleaned out, didn’t they know that?  

    “Terribly sorry, Henri,” said Mrs. Parent, nervously.  She’d been so excited at the thought of seeing her daughter in the marinade she’d forgotten that Frances’ wasn’t ready.  Of course that didn’t explain the handlers’ oversight.

    “Put it there,” Henri snapped, pointing to the cleared end of the table.  

     Alice rushed over with a plastic table cloth.  The last thing she wanted was Frances dripping marinade all over the oriental rug.  

     “Get something to clean her up,” Henri said after Frances was strapped down on the plastic.   

     Alice fetched towels from the bathroom.  Mrs. Russell and Melissa brought a pot of warm water and sponges from the kitchen.  On the buffet nearby, Frances noticed something she hadn’t seen since she was a little girl. It took her a moment to realize it was an enema kit.  Working quickly, Henri toweled off most of the marinade and then gave Frances the requisite sponge bath.  The enema came next.  

    “He’s making you nice and clean so you’ll look tasty and smell tasty, dear,” Mrs. Parent explained.

    Frances felt her mind going.  

    “Ah good,” Henri murmured a few minutes later, examining the results of the enema.  “Now for the shaving.”

     The chef removed the hair from Frances’ cunt, cropped her blonde curls to a pixie and clipped her eyebrows and eyelashes.  Then he motioned Mrs. Russell and Melissa who had been standing by with fresh sponges and the women washed Frances once more from head to toe.    

    “Now the marinade!,” Henri blurted, still fuming at his ignorant handlers.

     Henri eyed the grandfather clock.  He swept into the kitchen.  

     Laura had been shaved and cleaned inside and out.  She was as plucked and scrubbed as a fresh Thanksgiving turkey.  The terrified gaze locked onto Henri as the chef loomed over her.
 
     “Mrs. Parent wants it to see where it is going,” Henri said, waving his hand for his young aides to help him turn Laura about on the counter so that the meat girl would have a view of her last home on earth while preparations for her stay there were completed.  The oven was preparing, too. The great glass door was closed because the heat was on to warm the occupant on her arrival.

      While Laura focused on her future abode, Henri quietly selected a knife and slit her stomach open.  Laura blinked.  She lifted her head just in time to see the chef bury his hand where she thought her tanned tummy was supposed to be.  The puzzled eyes widened with understanding as Henri’s bloodied fist emerged dragging her entrails behind.  Other hands worked at cauterizing her wound.  Another held a syringe that explained why the pain was slight.  For Laura, the experience was a little like being on an operating table except that the white coated attendants did not seem to be interested in restoring her health. 

     The teenager watched her insides slither from Henri’s grasp and fall like slop into a bucket on the floor. Henri grunted as he cut out the last of the intestines.  He  added them to the bloody mess in the pail.  Then he removed the organs that either offended his culinary sensibilities or were better cooked a different way.  The roast could survive without her parts long enough to entertain the guests provided her cook didn’t dally.  

    “I think she’s passed out,” Mrs. Russell said, disappointedly.

    “It’s as you say, ok,” Henri mumbled.  He was washing out the cavity of Laura’s stomach with a hose from the sink.  Melissa brought over one of the stuffing bowls.  She stood like a nurse at the chef’s side, holding the bowl, while Henri spooned out the stuffing and packed it into Laura.   When he’d emptied the bowl and half of the second bowl into the roast, he closed up the stomach and stitched it. 

    “This is for the shock,” he said, putting a needle into Laura’s shoulder.

     In a few seconds, the eyes opened.  They looked up helplessly.  Alice Parent stepped into their field of vision.

     “Hi, dear.  See, you’re all filled up again, nothing to worry your pretty head about,” she said, taking Laura’s hand and placing it on the stuffed belly.

     Laura blinked.  She turned her head on the counter and looked down at herself.  It was true!  She was filled up again and then some.  She would look better, she thought, when the swelling went down.  Also, the ugly cross hatched stitching up her front was okay by her if it meant she had her guts back.  Mrs. Parent noted Laura’s hopeful look.
     
     “Oh, this is too good for words!  Guess what, everyone, she thinks she’s Humpty Dumpty all put back together again.” Alice picked up the pail, tilting it so that Laura could see inside.  “Honey, those nasty innards of yours are still right here, see.  You’re stuffed like a turkey.  Henri’s stuffing your cunt now.  We all love our stuffing, you know.”

     Laura closed her eyes.  She felt the cool stuffing going in her cunt.  Henri pushed more and more of it inside her.  He was stretching her cunt walls.  He finished by plugging the cunt with a pared apple.  Mrs. Parent stood by with a second apple.  She undid the ball gag.  Laura’s mouth closed, then opened again.  The eyes looked up.

   “Any last words, dear?”

   Laura licked her lips.  

   “We don’t have all day, sorry,” Mrs. Parent said.  She pulled Laura’s mouth open and stuffed in the apple.

   “When the apple cooks, the juice will drain down your throat and help make you moist and flavorful inside,” she explained.  “We’ll use several apples before you’re done.”  Alice backed away, leaving Henri alone with his creation. 

   “All right, ladies and gentlemen, it is ready after I put on the baste.  For this one, I have prepared a glazed baste.  It is nice.”

    Henri opened a large Tupper ware container and began spooning its contents onto Laura.  Soon, the girl was gleaming from head to toe. 

     Henri smiled at Mrs. Parent, and nodded.

    “All right, everyone!  Laura’s going in!,” Alice cried.

    More guests filed quickly into the kitchen while the handlers trussed Laura turkey-like and placed her in the roasting bin.  Henri inserted a stemmed thermometer in Laura’s anus before signaling for the oven door to be opened.  

    “With the glaze, you see, it needs to slow roast an hour at 225 degrees.  People like to watch so we leave off the lid. It is…ok. Then we turn the heat to 400 and the bin I close until the browning.  Ok?”

    Lillian Russell allowed her friend, Olympia Burns, to squeeze in beside her.  They were in the front row of those observing the spectacle from the open area of the kitchen.

    “Isn’t it darling, her eyes are wide open.  She knows exactly what is happening!,”  Lillian whispered.

    “Oh god, she is so sweet!,” Olympia sighed.

    Laura felt her head and right shoulder bump against the side of her roasting bin as the handlers lifted it from the counter.  A few cheers broke out.  The heavy bin wobbled a bit on its way to the oven.  It went inside. 

     “See you, Laura. Have fun!,” Alice Parent cried.

     Henri closed the oven door.

     Mrs. Parent and a few others headed back to the dining room but most stayed to watch Laura begin her roast.  The glaze bubbled and popped on Laura’s golden flesh but did not melt away.    

     “It marinates them while they cook,” Olympia Burns explained to Dorothy Williams as the two women peered inside the glass door of the oven. “Henri says the ingredients are a secret.”  

      The marinade had begun to darken Frances inside her bikini tan lines by the time Alice Parent and her companions returned to the dining room.  Homer Parent was helping the process along by rubbing the marinade in.  He’d found that the rubbing was especially worthwhile over the teenager’s breasts and at her thighs.  Using two fingers, he was rubbing inside the girl’s cunt when the others came back.  The guests watched quietly while Frances squirmed and moaned in her tray.

     Henri looked on disapprovingly.  He eyed the clock.

     “Tell them to the light the coals,” he said to one of his assistants.

     “Oh boy, here we go!,” Melissa giggled.

     “Not yet, dear,” Mrs. Russell replied beside her.  Chatting earlier that evening with Freddy Davis, Mrs. Russell had discerned the young man’s developing obsession for his exceedingly edible wife.  She understood completely.  Mrs. Russell put a friendly arm around Melissa’s waist.

     “Henri just wants the pit to be nice and hot when they start to roast her,”   Mrs. Russell explained, allowing her hand to stray onto one of Melissa’s appealing boobs.

     “Oh!,” Melissa gasped.  She stopped herself from pulling away.  Was Lorraine Russell making a pass at her?
Later, when Frances was cooking, many guests would have sex while they watched.  Melissa wasn’t gay.  At least she never had been gay but if an important person like Mrs. Russell wanted to have sex with her in the yard when the time came, Melissa guessed that she should submit.  The young woman’s nipples tingled as she considered this.  Melissa sighed and settled herself softly against Mrs. Russell.
    
    “Inviting me to feel you up, honey?”

    “If you want,” Melissa murmured.

    Mrs. Russell cupped one of the young wife’s full breasts.  

    “You’re good enough to eat, you know,” she whispered.

    Melissa blushed with pleasure, assuming the compliment to be figurative.  She took Mrs. Russell’s other hand and placed it on her inner thigh, wondering what it would be like to have her cunt rubbed just then through the thin protections of her skirt and panties.

    Meantime, Alice had noticed the chef’s irritation at Homer Parent’s liberties inside the marinade tray.  Alice herself was becoming impatient.

    “That’s enough, Homer.” 

    Mr. Parent briefly considered asserting his parental privilege but found this position untenable against his wife, so he backed away, licking his fingers.

    “Thank you, Madame,” Henri said, stepping to the tray with a flourish of his right arm to demonstrate his resumption of command.  Henri announced that he would stuff Frances and then marinate her meat another half hour before putting in the spit.   The handlers removed Frances from the tray and laid her on a fresh table cloth.  The room filled with guests not wanting to miss the Parents’ daughter getting herself turkeyed - the diners’ playful word for disemboweling a female human being and refilling its stomach with a tasty breaded stuffing.  A good number of the guests had attended Laura’s transformation but everyone wanted to witness the Parents’ daughter undergo that experience.

  Henri worked smoothly, taking his time.   He opened the teenage stomach and emptied its contents.  Using sponges, he cleaned the cavity.  Frances watched herself being turkeyed.  Seeing the girl’s interest, Mrs. Parent lifted her daughter’s head to give her a better view.  Frances’ slack mouth and wide dumb eyes impressed the crowd.  

  “Christ, I’m aching to fuck her,” Bob Burns muttered to his wife.

  “You just did, for heaven’s sake,” Olympia Burns laughed. 

  “I let it breathe,” Henri declared, removing his gloves.  He disappeared into the kitchen.

  “What’s he doing?,” Homer Parent said.

  “I don’t know,” Alice said.

  “Laura!”, someone cried.

   A stampede of guests lurched for the kitchen which could barely accommodate half of them.  Room was made, however, for the hosts. Alice and Homer Parent proceeded like royalty through the dining room, past the door held open for them and into the kitchen where they took up places in the front row of the packed observers. 

   Henri had waited.  Now he opened the oven door.  Sweet aromas wafted everywhere.  The roasting bin slid out on its wheeled rack.  Laura lay in her ties, a spectacle of sizzling delight.  Her glazed covering bubbled and popped. It gleamed in golden brown hues. Henri nimbly speared the cooked apple and removed it.  Laura’s open mouth did not move.   Henri went about his inspection. He checked the temperature gauge.  Then he exchanged the mittens for his special gloves and began to attach catheters to the roast’s neck and groin, inserting the other ends into a well beneath the pan.  Before Laura’s blood boiled, it would be drawn into the well and later used for gravy.  He spooned out the eyes and added them to the slop in the bucket.  Finally, he wedged a fresh apple into the roast’s mouth and covered the pan.  

   “Back she goes,” whispered Alice Parent, and back Laura went.

   Henri turned up the heat.
     
   Returning to the dining room, the crowd parted for Henri as he made his way to the table.  Waiting there beside Frances were the bowls of Mrs. Jenning’s pungent homemade stuffing.  Henri sampled it, closing his eyes as he rolled his tongue.

   “Good,” he said, bringing smiles from the audience.

   Henri packed the teenage stomach.  When the roast was mounded like a pregnant girl, the chef expertly sewed it up.  Frances could only gaze down at her rounded tummy and work her useless jaws.
     
     “Ohhheewwwahhh,” Frances said, dully.   

     Not long after their daughter was returned to the oven in her covered roasting pan, Frank and Nancy Brown headed up the Parents’ long gravel drive.   Pine trees and undergrowth hemmed them spookily in the moonlight.  Nancy looked straight ahead until the landscape cleared and they were safely in front of the brightly lit house. 

   “Geez, look at all the cars,” she said.

   “You go, I’ll stay here,” Frank said.

   “I’m not goin in there by myself, Frank.  Come on, it’ll only take a minute.  Don’t you want to see these people?”

     “What do I care?,” Frank said, but he was getting out of the car.

     “We’ll go around back,” Nancy said.

     They passed through the gate into the backyard.  Chinese lanterns lit the wide lawn for a distance of fifty feet or more from the back of the house.   Off to the side, near where the lanterns ended, was a barbeque pit glowing with freshly lit coals.  Spread about were picnic tables with benches and lawn chairs and, here and there, blankets on the grass, but no people.

     “Kinda late to be startin a barbeque,” Frank said.

     “It’s after one o’clock,” Nancy whispered.

     “Yeah.  Looky there.”  

     Nancy looked.  At a row of windows they saw the backs of people crowded together, a few of them not wearing clothes.

     “Oh my goodness!”

     “Laura said this was a dinner club,” Frank said.

     “I bet it’s one of them nudist dinner clubs they have and that’s why we never got invited, Frank.  I don’t like Laura bein in there.  I wonder if she knew it was nudists.”

     Reaching the back door, Frank and Nancy peered through the glass into the kitchen.  No one was in sight.  Frank rapped on the door.  He rapped again.

    “Let’s go in.”  

     Henri had decided to spit Frances indoors where the light was better.  He was about half done with the procedure when Dorothy Williams edged through the crowd and hurried up to Alice Parent.

    “Alice…,”

    “Shhh, not now!,” Alice snapped.   

     Frances lay hog-tied on her back while Alice held her daughter’s head over the edge of the table so as to line up her throat for the spit.

     “But….Homer..”

     “Shut up, Dorothy,” Homer said, transfixed.

     The audience watched in silence as Homer took control of the spit.  Henri stood beside him, guiding his pupil.  Homer worked the spit slowly until its final push and then the metal point slid smoothly out of the teenager’s mouth into the light while Frances blinked wildly and the audience broke into cheers.

     “Alice and Homer…,”

     “Okay, Dorothy, what is it?”, sighed Alice.

     “Eddy says a car just came in that didn’t blink its lights either time.  It’s a white station wagon, a chevy, he said.”

     “Oh, my god!”

     The Parents grabbed some clothes from the floor and pulled them on.  They rushed to the kitchen.  There they found Nancy and Frank Brown silently gazing at the oven.

     “Hi Alice, hi Frank,” Nancy said. “We just came over to bring Laura her toothbrush that she forgot.  Frank knocked but I guess you didn’t hear us.  Whatcha cookin?”

     “You got Laura in there with some naked people?,” cut in Frank, controlling his temper.

     “Oh, no, Frank.  Laura and Frances, they went out for a drive in Frances’ car…,” Alice began, looking at her husband for help.

     Adrian Brewster stepped forward. “We were praying and you interrupted us,” he said in a kind, mannered voice.  Adrian was shirtless but he had his trousers on.

     “You was what?”

     “We were saying a prayer.  Some of our members believe it is unholy to pray to the Lord wearing anything but the skin we were born in.”

     “Oh, sorry,” said Nancy.

     “I guess you must be a part believer,” said Frank.

     Adrian chuckled.  “My pants?  No no, I just put them on. I assure you that I was naked as a new born babe during my communication on high.”

     “Take it easy, Frank,” said Nancy, seeing her husband’s ears turn red.

      Frank leveled a gaze at Adrian Brewster. “Don’t ass-your me of nothin cept one thing, all right.  Just ass-your  Nancy and me that you people ain’t been doin no bare-ass prayers around my daughter and that you ain’t plannin to.” 

     “Come on, Frank,” Homer Parent said.  “You know we wouldn’t let that happen.  Like Alice said, the girls are out for a drive.  Went to the lake, they said.  They didn’t see a thing, I promise.”

     “Kinda late to be goin out for a drive, Homer.”

     “Well, it’s a late party.  That’s what it is, is all.”

     Nancy shook her head in amazement.  “Geez, this is somethin.  So Alice, you finally got to use your oven, whatcha cookin in that huge pan you got in there?  And you got a barbeque goin in the yard.  Kinda late for a barbeque, right?”  

     “Yes, well it’s something they do in their religion to eat a big meal in the middle of the night sometimes,” Alice explained.

     “It ain’t your religion, is it, Alice?  Laura said this was like a dinner club you had and she was going to be a guest and stay overnight with Frances.  I didn’t know it was a cult, for God’s sake.”

     “It’s not a cult,” Homer parent said.

     Frank stepped closer to the oven and peered through the glass door. “What’s in there?  It smells pretty good.” 

     “A…a sheep,” Alice said.

     “A sheep?  You got a whole sheep in there?”, said Nancy.

     “Yes.  That’s what they believe.  You should cook them whole.”

     “Even the head and the hooves.”

     “Right, the whole..animal, Nancy.”

     “Sheeps don’t have hooves,” Frank injected, sniffing curiously at the delicious aromas filling the kitchen.  Frank was surprised that a sheep would smell that tasty.  He tried to remember what sheep meat was called but the answer eluded him.

     “Sure they got hooves, what you think they got, Frank?,” Nancy said, irritated at her husband’s display of ignorance.

     “I don’t know.  They got sheep’s feet.  Ain’t that right Homer?  Maybe you can pull her out just for a sec.”
Kinda like to see it anyway.”

     Nancy made a face.  “Ugh, I don’t want to see no whole sheep gettin itself cooked.  Must be pretty ugly with its  wool off cookin in that pan. You take the wool off, right Alice?” 

    “Yes, we do. It’s pretty terrible to see, Nancy, you’re right,” Alice said.  “Well, maybe you and Frank would like to come over some other time because it is getting a little late.”

    “She wants us to leave, Nancy,” Frank said.
     
    “Geez, is this here the guts!”, Nancy said, noticing the bucket on the floor.

    “Why…yes, Nancy it is.”

    “See Frank.  Them are sheep eyes on top, see how gray and watery they are.”

    Frank nodded. He had been considering the pail with interest.  “You know, Homer, if you’re plannin to throw this out, I could take it off your hands. Use it for the compost?”

    “Well, I don’t know Frank.”

    “Oh, let them take it, Homer.  What are neighbors for if we can’t share things,” Alice said.

     Minutes later, Frank and Nancy were crossing the yard to their car.  

     “Bunch of weirdos,” Frank muttered.  He sucked in a mouthful of air and trudged on, his arm weighed down by the new additions for his compost.

     To the surprise of everyone, breakfast was served on time. A bright morning sun bestowed the picnickers with perfect weather.  Homer Parent was glad he had mowed the grass.  He stood near the pit, holding hands with Alice as they had when Frances eyed them sleepily in her room not so many hours before.  Most of the guests had taken places at the tables, a few still milled about.  The smell of fresh coffee was in the air mixing with the rather stronger aromas coming from the pit. 

  Homer turned, realizing that the buzz of conversation had ceased.  He saw the reason why.  Henri’s assistants were coming from the house wheeling the cart on which Laura lay on a platter. 

  “Damn, she looks great!,” Homer whispered to his wife.

  Alice Parent cast a mother’s eye on the approaching roast.  

  “You think she looks as good as Frances?”

  His wife’s tone of voice was not lost on Homer.

 “Course not.  Ain’t no roast we ever had looked as good as our Frances.”

  The handlers transferred Laura from her cart to the serving table and went straight to the pit.  There the other meat dish hung simmering over the coals.  Frances was browned and glistening.  Henri’s testing fork confirmed that she was done.  

  The chef smiled at the Parents.  “It is good, the most tender one, I think,” he said.

  Alice beamed. “I knew she would be!”  

  Henri’s presentation of his roasts won everyone’s admiration.  The cooked girls faced each other in their turkey ties on matching silver platters.  The fresh apples in their mouths touched, as in a last kiss.  Mrs. Parent thought it was too bad the eyes were gone.  The purple grapes weren’t bad, however, if you used your imagination. 

  “Let’s eat!”, said Homer Parent.