Me - a beautiful spit-roast turkey

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WARNING

This is a fantasy human spit roast story – do not read if you cannot handle FETISH / BDSM!

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The Seduction

The fluorescent lights of the campus coffeeshop hummed above me as I hunched over my laptop, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. My athlete's prepaid card sat next to my cold americano—one of the few perks of being on the swim team besides the body. I was lean, carved from years of training, every muscle defined without the bulk of a weightlifter. Just tight, functional strength wrapped in skin with barely an ounce of fat.

I was researching again. Not for class—for pleasure. For the dark little story, I was trying to write. The vore forums I'd been browsing through, using the coffeeshop's IP, were... educational. I minimised the browser window as a group of giggling coeds walked by, their floral perfume lingering like a distraction I didn't need.

It was getting late. Nearly six PM. The coffee shop would close soon, but I wanted to finish this scene. The protagonist was just about to—

"Excuse me?"

Her voice was soft and melodic, with an accent I couldn't place. I looked up, and my breath caught.

She stood beside my table, holding an empty coffee cup like a prop. Long waves of midnight-black hair cascaded over her shoulders, framing a face that seemed almost too perfect—porcelain skin, full pink lips, and eyes the colour of light blue glacier ice that seemed to look straight through me. She wore a black top that matched the dark lace barely visible beneath, the kind of red that made me think of velvet curtains and secrets. It was semi-transparent, and I could easily see the outlines of her full breasts pressing against the thin fabric.

"I'm so sorry to bother you," she said, her voice carrying that shy hesitation that somehow felt practiced. "I just moved in down the block, and I don't have any sugar at my place yet. Could I... borrow some?"

"Of course." I pushed the ceramic container towards her, watching her delicate fingers—pale, almost luminous—scoop all the sugar cubes.

“Don’t tell anyone.” She whispered, “I am a criminal now.” As she smiled at me.

I smiled back. “My lips are sealed!”

She didn't leave.

"You're a writer," she said. It wasn't a question. Her ice-blue eyes flicked to my screen, though she couldn't have seen anything from her angle.

"Trying to be," I admitted, feeling strangely exposed. "Amateur."

"How wonderful." She set her cup down and slid into the chair across from me without invitation, leaning forward. The movement brought her much closer, and I caught the scent of her—something dark and spicy, like dead roses in a crypt. "I'm Lamia, by the way. I just moved here last week. One block north, in that old converted warehouse."

"Robert," I said. "And yeah, I know that building. It used to be a meatpacking plant or something."

"Or something," she smiled, and there was something in that smile that made my pulse quicken—a predatory amusement that vanished as quickly as it appeared.

She took it slow, chatting for about half an hour about all kinds of normal things, asking about me, about my health, and about how much I worked out and if I had sore muscles or not. Finally she asked the big question.

"So, what do you write, Robert?"

I hesitated.

How do you tell a beautiful stranger that you're writing about consumption? About being devoured?

Before I could formulate a lie, she leant even closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Let me tell you something first. I should warn you—I like dark things. Very dark things." Her eyes glittered. "Erotic horror. Monsters. Vampires. Things with teeth." She paused, her tongue pushing against her lips from the inside of her mouth, making it bulge. "Soft vore, perhaps. The idea of being taken completely... consumed... it fascinates me."

My heart hammered against my ribs. "I'm writing that kind of story!" I blurted out.

Her face transformed—eyes widening, lips parting in genuine delight. "How cool!" She reached across the table, her hand finding my forearm, fingers wrapping around the muscle there. Her touch was cool, surprisingly strong.

"You're an athlete," she observed, feeling the hardness beneath my sleeve. Her hand travelled upward, squeezing my bicep. "Swimmer? Runner?"

"Swim team," I managed, my throat dry.

"No body fat, right?" she teased, and before I could respond, her hand was under the table, sliding up my t-shirt, finding the ridges of my abdomen. She traced each muscle with her fingertips, caressing without asking, her eyes never leaving mine. "Only muscles. How nice." Her voice had dropped to a purr. "How... tasty." As her fingers travelled south again, I could feel her long nails softly scratching me.

I didn't understand what she meant. I should have.

"Can I read some?" she asked suddenly, withdrawing her hand but leaving my skin burning where she'd touched. "Your story? I'd love to see it."

"Of course," I said, perhaps too enthusiastically.

"Then I must pay you back." She stood, gathering her bag, and looked down at me with those impossible eyes—inviting, hungry. "Dinner. At my place. I make an excellent... roast." She smiled, and it reached her eyes in a way that should have chilled me. "Come on. I dare you."

The moment she stood up, I could have a better look at her body.

I realise that Lamia is a beautiful woman. With long, dark hair that falls in loose waves past her shoulders, the ends curling elegantly against her bare, pale skin. Her eyes are a captivating cold blue, framed by dark, well-shaped brows and thick lashes that give her an intense, knowing gaze. Her lips are naturally full, painted a soft pink, and perpetually curved in a slight, confident smile that suggests she's keeping a delicious secret. She must have been in her late twenties, I guessed.

Her smooth skin and elegant neck were only adorned by a delicate silver chain that catched the light. I see that her long nails are manicured to perfection, French-tipped and immaculate, the kind of hands that look equally capable of preparing a gourmet meal or securing a knot with practised precision. Her nails seem too long to me, but I don’t mention it.

When she looks down at me—tied and waiting—that same expression plays across her features: confident, inviting, and utterly in control, her head tilted slightly as she studies me with the appreciative gaze of someone who knows exactly what she wants and precisely how she's going to get it.

Until then, the coffeeshop had been loud and crowded, but Lamia had somehow carved out, as we chatted, a pocket of intimacy in the corner booth. During the entire time her body was angled towards mine, her knee occasionally brushing against my thigh. She'd been toying with me the entire time—dropping innuendos into conversation, touching my arm when she laughed, her chilling cold blue eyes never leaving mine with an intensity that made my mouth go dry.

"I don't think you have the guts," she said now, as she sat down again, her voice a low purr over the thrum of shop noises. She leant back against the leather seat, her dark hair spilling over one shoulder, that knowing smile playing at her lips.

“I like guts, Robert. More than you can imagine.” She added, lowering her gaze and looking straight at my flat stomach, as she gave me that inscrutable smile of hers again.

"Guts for what?" I asked, my latte macchiato halfway to my lips.

"To come home with me." She tilted her head, challenging me. "I think you're all talk, Robert. Big man at the bar, but when it comes down to it..." She let the sentence hang, her gaze drifting down my chest and back up, unashamed in her appraisal.

"I should go home," I said, the words feeling hollow even as he spoke them. "Early meeting tomorrow."

"Mm. That's what I thought." She leant forward suddenly, close enough that he could smell her perfume—something warm and spicy, like vanilla and amber. Her hand rested on my knee. "Chicken."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me." Her smile widened, wicked and inviting. "I make a mean dinner snack. You have no idea what you're missing. But fine—" She made a dismissive gesture, turning slightly away. "Go be responsible."

I opened my mouth to say no, to insist he really should leave, but Lamia was already moving. Her hands went to the neckline of her black corset, her manicured fingers finding the edge of the fabric. With deliberate slowness, she tugged it down, pulling the material aside until one perfect breast was exposed to me, pale and soft in the dim coffeeshop light, her nipple a dusky rose. She held my gaze the entire time, unblinking, daring me to look away.

"Still want to leave?" she asked softly, her thumb circling lazily, her own breath hitching just enough to show she was affected too.

I stared, my protest dying on my tongue. My pulse hammered in my ears. "You're not playing fair," I managed, my voice rough.

"I never said I would." She pulled the fabric back up slowly, teasingly, leaving me with the image burned into my retinas. Then she extended her hand. "Coming?"

Something strange was happening to my mind—a warm, syrupy sensation that seemed to pour through my veins, slowing my thoughts to a crawl while simultaneously heightening every sensation. It felt like being hypnotised, like falling under a spell I didn't want to break. My resistance wasn't crumbling; it was evaporating, leaving me vulnerable and pliant and intensely, overwhelmingly attracted to this woman who held her gaze on me with such predatory confidence.

Lamia noticed immediately the shift in me—that glazed, hungry look in my eyes—and her smile deepened, becoming almost feline in its satisfaction. "See?" she purred, her voice dropping to a register that vibrated somewhere low in my spine. "You feel it, don't you? That pull?"

Without breaking eye contact, she moved her other hand to her chest, both hands now gripping the ruffled edge of her black dress. With deliberate, teasing slowness, she pulled the fabric down further, fully exposing both of her beautiful breasts to me. They were perfect—full and soft and pale, with rose-hued nipples that tightened slightly under my gaze. She held them there, presented like an offering, her French-manicured fingers resting against the curves as if framing a masterpiece.

"Still want to say no?" she challenged, her thumbs circling lazily, her hips swaying slightly as she stood up again before me. "Still want to go home to your empty apartment and your early meeting?" She laughed, a low, musical sound. "I don't think so. I think you want to come play with me. I think you want to see what I have planned."

My mouth opened, but no sound came out. My entire body felt heavy, magnetised, and drawn towards her like a compass needle finding north. It was weird—this loss of control, this sudden willingness to abandon every responsibility—but it felt so, so good. The fear had transformed into anticipation, the hesitation into hunger.

"Cat got your tongue?" She leant forward, close enough that he could smell her perfume again, stronger now, intoxicating. Her breasts swayed slightly with the movement, hypnotic in their motion, right in front of my hungry mouth.

"Say yes, I. Be brave for once. Let me do things to you; you've never imagined. I want to taste you."

She straightened, arching her back slightly, pushing her chest towards me in a challenge he couldn't resist. "Last chance. Say yes, or I'm walking out that door and you'll never know what you missed. And trust me"—her eyes darkened, her voice dropping to a whisper—"you really, really want to know."

My hand moved of its own accord, reaching out to take hers. My fingers intertwined with her manicured digits, warm and firm and certain. "Yes," he heard myself say, the word escaping like a breath I had been holding for years. "God, yes. Take me home."

Lamia's face lit up with triumph, beautiful and dangerous and utterly irresistible. She squeezed my hand and pulled me towards the door. "Good boy," she whispered. "You're going to taste so much better than you know."

Again, a weird comment, I thought.

I should have said no. I should have finished my story and gone home.

"Okay," I heard myself say again. I looked at her hand, then back at her face—that beautiful, challenging, confident expression. The word "no" formed in my mind, but what came out was, "Yeah. I'm coming."

To be continued.