The Roasting

I heard Lamia humming that love song again as she pulled a large lounge chair in front of me into my field of vision. She could now comfortably watch me and see my reactions whenever she turned up the flames. She then placed a side table next to it and brought that bottle of red wine, of which I drank from, plus one glass. “I would invite you," she chuckled, “but I guess you are too occupied.” She walked away again out of my sight and came back with an old book. I guess she was reading it.

When she was all set, she walked up to me, standing right in front of my impaled face. For that brief moment, I enjoyed her nakedness and the way her breasts swayed in the same rhythm as her hips. She was a beautiful specimen, was all I could think. Then she walked away again, toward a fruit bowl.

She reached into the fruit bowl instead, fingers closing around a banana, and peeled it slowly, the skin falling away in long strips over the counter. Then she turned.

And she took her time.

Her eyes came up first, big and brown and already half-smiling, and then the rest of her followed—the soft slope of her shoulders, the heavy easy sway of her breasts as she shifted to face you, and the neat shaven mound between her thighs left open and unashamed. She leaned back against the counter edge, arms relaxed, and bit the tip off the banana while watching you watch her.

"Long day?" she asked, mouth half-full.

I mumbled something, the steel skewer blocking my speech. She giggled at my impairment. “Talk to me, honey,” she cooed. "What's pressing you inside?”

She laughed, low in her throat, and took another bite—slower this time, the snake tongue flicking out to catch a smudge of it at the corner of her lip. The whole thing was absurd and obvious, and she knew it, and that was the point. She pushed her chest forward just slightly as she chewed, spine arched against the counter, one hand drifting up to twirl a strand of hair around her finger while the other held the fruit steady at lip level.

She finished the banana. Then she looked at the empty peel in her hand, then at you, then back down at her own body.

"Well," she said. "Now I'm sticky."

She said it as if it were a challenge.

“Are you sticky as well?”

"Shall I find out where?" she whispered.

And God, I thought. In this satanic scenario, the devil created a beautiful monster. Her body. Full, heavy, natural breasts positioned high and soft, with dark nipples adorning them, swaying slightly with each shift in her weight. The kind that makes you want to reach out before you've even said hello. Her waist nips in beneath them, smooth and taut, the faintest line of muscle running down her stomach, then flares out again to wide, round hips.

Then down between her thighs—smooth, bare, the soft folds of her pussy on full display because of how wide she's sitting. Nothing hidden. Legs long and toned, thighs pressed open against the mattress, calves dropping over the edge, her toes curling into the rug. She's turned slightly, showing me the curve of her ass against the blue sheet, the whole pose, and a slow flex she holds without effort.

Her skin is warm and even, golden in the light, and the blue of the bed behind her makes every soft part of her stand out sharper. She's not posing for a camera. She's posing for me.

And that little smile—that's the part that undoes me. She knows I'm looking everywhere at once, and she's in no hurry to let me catch up.

Just to tease me, she pushed one of her beautiful tits against my bulging cheeks. I desperately tried to suck on her hard nipple, but the steel rod made it impossible to move my head to the side. I had never felt so strongly secured; my entire body was as stiff as the steel skewer inside me.

“Don’t you want to suck my titties, Robert?” she purred. “I did invite you here, showing you my tits, didn’t I?” she giggled.

Not that I could say anything about it. The thick metal of the spit seared my tongue in place.

“You are such a disappointment, Robert," Lamia continued. “I thought you were going to fuck my brains out. But then again, I was right. Just a big mouth. A real man would have taken me in that dark alley before reaching my place. He would have taken my pussy over and over again, ravishing my cunt with his big cock.” Lamia complained. “Hell, I had a guy once who raped me in the industrial elevator, filling me two times in a row with his warm cum, before I ate his cock raw in my kitchen.”

Lamia shivered as she remembered that beautiful day last autumn. She had followed the Swede for a couple of days, just as she had followed today's dinner. He had been an athlete too; she could see his dynamic stride, and she almost had to run in order to accidentally bump into him. She held herself onto his strong arms, and her snake-like tongue lashed out from arousal before she could prevent it. He saw it and leaned in to French kiss her, ignoring the reptile organ she had accidentally shown. She willingly opened her mouth, welcoming his probing tongue, as her split tongue wrapped itself around his invading taste organ, quickly pulling it deeper inside her.

She had to control herself, as she almost pulled it all the way towards her stomach, simply ripping it out of his mouth. Not yet, she thought, ignoring the gorgeous taste it had. She was starving but somehow managed with the utmost self-control not to eat him right there. "My pussy comes first," she remembered. She had seen his cock outline more than once, his thick tool promising wordlessly to tear her cunt open. Another shiver ran through her, remembering they barely managed to take the little walk towards her building.

The moment they stepped into the industrial elevator, he simply raped her. There were no other words to describe it. She remembered and later on dismembered him as if it was yesterday.

The industrial elevator doors had barely sealed them in before Sven had her against the wall.

She remembered thinking how sexy it was—the doors closed, and something in him snapped, and she understood that the politeness had only ever been a lid.

His hands found her waist first, then her hips, then the hem of her blouse, tugging it up over her head like it had personally offended him. Her breasts spilled free against the cold blue of the door, the metal panel pressing a line of chill down my chest that made my nipples ache. Behind her she felt him drop to his knees—just for a second—dragging her skirt and my panties down her thighs in one impatient motion.

Then he stood, and there was nothing tender left.

The first thrust lifted her onto my toes. His hand came down flat on my lower back, pinning her, arching her spine, opening her up the way he wanted. She gasped against the door and heard her own breath come back off the metal, small and startled, and then his hips pulled back and drove in again—hard, full, no ceremony at all. He filled her so completely that her whole body seemed to reorganize itself around the shape of him.

"*Ja*," he breathed into my hair. "That's it."

The elevator hummed its slow climb. Somewhere far below, a floor number ticked past. They were between floors, suspended in that blue box, and she stopped caring where they were going.

He set a rhythm that was brutal in its steadiness—long, deep strokes that bottomed out and then a sharp slap of his hips against her ass, over and over, the sound of it filling the little cabin. His left arm hooked around my waist, yanking her back to meet him every time, refusing to let her drift even an inch forward. His right hand gripped the door frame above my head, knuckles white, and she could feel the tension in his whole body—a man holding back from something even rougher.

Lamia let her cheek press to the cold blue panel and looked down at myself, at the way her breasts bounced with each impact, at his thighs slapping hers, at the dark triangle where their bodies joined. It looked obscene. It looked perfect. Her hair had fallen across her face, and she didn't fix it. Let him see her wrecked. Let him see exactly what he was doing.

"Harder," Lamia said—barely a word, more of a scrape.

He answered by hauling her hips higher, tilting her until he hit that spot that made her vision go soft at the edges. Then he stopped being polite about it entirely. The strokes went short and savage, a piston rhythm, and her breath broke into little stuttered cries that she didn't bother to swallow. His mouth was at her neck, at her shoulder, teeth grazing, and his stubble burned a bright line along her skin.

The elevator slowed. It didn't stop. He didn't stop either.

She reached back blindly, and her fingers found his forearm—corded, sweating, working. He laced his fingers through hers for exactly one stroke, a flicker of something gentle in the middle of the storm, and then he let go and grabbed her ass with both hands, spreading her, watching himself sink into her over and over.

"Come for me," she said. Not a question.

And he did—embarrassingly fast, embarrassingly loud, her thighs clenching and a hot flood of pleasure rolling up from where he was buried to the roots of her hair. Her knees buckled, and the door caught her. He fucked her through it, ruthless, his massive cock staying hard. He kept pounding her right through my orgasm until they reached the top floor and the elevator doors opened.

“Take me on the kitchen island.” She gasped, and he complied, lifting her up and fucking her missionary. She came again on his beautiful cock and now chased his own end, and when he finally broke, he drove deep and held, groaning low against my stomach, hips twitching as he emptied himself into her. As he finished their mating, he wanted to French kiss her, and Lamia welcomed his tongue in, quickly grabbing it with her split muscle and pulling his deeper inside. He squirmed and tried to free himself from her mouth, but both her legs and her split tongue held him safely captured.

Lamia pulled his tongue deeper into her throat, her stomach rumbling, and suddenly, she opened her legs, letting go her hold on him. He stumbled backwards, leaving his tongue inside her, ripped away out of his mouth. The blood from his silent scream splattered everywhere around them, but she didn’t give him time to realize what had happened as she jumped on top of him, taking her first bite out of his neck. Minutes later, she had drained him vampire style, her stomach obscenely bloated as she sucked his life out of him. Eating him raw was the logical consequence.

…

“Oh, Robert," Lamia suddenly spoke. About that big mouth of yours, I just had an idea.”

I looked at her, not understanding, as she walked to that fruit bowl again, picking up a midsized apple.

“Let me wash it first,” she snickered. "We don’t want to eat any chemicals, right?”

After washing it, she walked up to my face and pierced the apple onto the spit pole, slowly pushing it towards my mouth. The moment it reached my lips, with one hand she lifted my upper jaw and rammed the apple inside my mouth. “Here you go," she purred, now you are a true pig.”

“Now, where were we?” Lamia spoke to no one. “Ah! Roasting time!” and she grabbed the remote of the rotisserie. I am going to cook you slowly, darling, to brown you all over, making your outside crispy. She pushed a button, and the rotisserie motor sprung to life, softly humming, as I felt the rod had started to rotate me slowly on the spit's axe. "Let's go first with 100 degrees so you can get nice and cozy," she whispered.

I experienced two things. First, the turning on my own axe gave me a little vertigo in the beginning, especially when I was hanging upside down. The other thing was the heat. Lamia was switching on the different burners, one after another.

At first it wasn’t a problem, as I could’ve sworn it was like a sauna, in other words, pleasant... However, as this wasn’t the first time I was dealing with a spit-roast, this time being the pig myself, I knew it was a false sense of security. In three hours, I'd be dead. Crispy, brown, but dead.

You see, being roasted and then eaten wasn’t as bad as it sounded to be prey. Except for a single part or two.

The first thing, like I said, was this perpetual turning on of your own axe, but much worse was the moment Lamia switched on the burner, which was right in the middle, in front of my soft stomach. As the burner roared to life, casting blue and red flames against my helpless belly, I instinctively contracted my stomach inward to pull away from the heat, but it was useless. I let out some kind of loud squeal, muffled by the spear exiting my mouth and the apple blocking me.

Every few minutes Lamia would baste me with a fresh lick of oil. What I thought might be relief just caused a fresh wave of pain as my skin sizzled in the wake of the brush bristles. But as the pain was relentless, it began to blur into the background, and I could focus on the sensation of being full, of every one of my orifices being used and tenderized at the same time. The pain seemed to heighten the sensation of my asshole rubbing on the spit, with each seared nerve ending sending back one last pulse of pleasure before being cooked. I tugged on her ankle restraints to help slide my whole body an inch back and forth down the spit, humping it and stimulating myself like nothing I'd ever imagined.

I moaned when the skin of my thighs began to tighten and color. I moaned when the marinade inside me started to warm and expand, the sealed pressure growing heavier and hotter with every slow rotation. The liquid that had been cool when she injected it was turning into something thicker, almost syrupy, pressing outward against the neat line of stitches with every turn. I could feel it moving, simmering, becoming part of the process.

Don’t stop.

The thought slipped through before I could catch it. Keep the fire just like this. Let it take its time.

I moaned when the onion in my ass grew hot and the apple in her mouth softened against my tongue. The fruit’s crispness began to yield; sweet juice mixed with the taste of metal and my own saliva. Breathing stayed careful, nasal, each inhale carrying the rising smell of my own rendering fat.

I moaned when the first clear droplets began to fall from her skin and drip into the fire with soft, fragrant hisses. The sound was small and intimate and final. Something that had been part of me was leaving, transformed, feeding the flames that were transforming the rest.

And underneath every sound, the secret joy burned brighter than the fire.

I was being cooked.

I was being prepared exactly the way I had always wanted, pierced, stuffed, sealed, and turned slowly over the flames until her body itself became the meal. The terror was real. The pain was real. The knowledge that I would never leave this warehouse except as meat was real. All of it only fed the darker current running beneath.

I wanted this.

The admission was quiet and absolute inside my skull. I wanted to feel it. I wanted to know what it was like to be turned into food while I was still awake enough to understand.

I lost track of time. The spit had become my whole world, broken only by the steady clank of the gears above. My skin felt tight and swollen, and the glaze had thickened into a sticky shell. Even the metal rod inside me had grown scorching, sending heat into my core, cooking me from the inside as well as the outside.

My pathetic, minimal moans had given way to nothing more than a consistent, mouthwatering sizzling noise. The oils that had been so generously slathered all over me, which once provided cooling relief from the heat, now contributed to evenly crisping the outermost meat on my once perfect skin. Not that I minded terribly. I was beyond caring about much of anything at this point. My eyes, full of alert fear some half an hour ago, now stared dully forward at nothing.

Then I noticed the smell.

At first, it was faint and almost sweet. The honey was caramelizing against my skin, filling the oven with a warm, sugary scent. As the spit carried me through another slow rotation, the smell grew stronger. Something savory joined it. And my stomach twisted when I breathed it in through my nostrils. I knew what she was smelling.

It was me.

That delicious scent was my own roasting flesh.

The realization made a last orgasm unexpectedly tear through me, though I was so weak I barely even twitched. I hadn’t believed my body had any more left in it.

And as I slumped as my climax petered out, utterly and completely spent by the muscle spasms, black was creeping into my vision. The sounds of Lamia casually singing that love song, seeming like it was coming from further and further down a tunnel.

The realization settled over me as the spit carried me around again. I was cooking.

The thought should have terrified me, but exhaustion had worn away the sharp edges of my fear. My muscles had grown heavy and weak. Even panic seemed too difficult to hold onto.

Trying to remember who I had been before this, I found memories drifting farther away with every turn.

Nothing seemed important anymore except the turning of the spit and the smell filling the kitchen around me. The person I had once been felt as distant as the life I had left behind, along with all the hopes and fears that had once filled it. I was no longer a person.

I was meat. Beautiful, tasty meat slowly turning on a spit. And I was ready to be served. My thoughts had begun to slow.

“I…” I desperately tamped on my arousal. My body was shaking as my instincts fought with my desires. Until my stomach made an executive decision and roared its displeasure at being left empty for so long. “Is… is the food ready yet? I—I'm kind of hungry.” I finished lamely, my face pointing down in embarrassment even as I blushed to my ears.

Lamia pulled her fingers out of her mouth and roared with laughter. “You are so funny, Robert!”

My thoughts grew cloudy, drifting on a wind of physical sensation. I was meat. This was what I always had been; I just hadn’t realized it. This was what I was meant to be. This was my natural place on the food chain. Bliss flooded through me, and I shuddered one last time on the spit, causing the metal pole to clatter on its supports as I shook, then went still.

My last thought was a wish that I’d taste good. My eyes glazed over and grew cloudy as they too cooked, and I truly became only meat.

The end.