Chapter Seven - Meat: All Sorts

Finally the morning had dawned. It was the last day of school for John and, for his mother, just the last day. Ignoring an impatient honk from the driveway, Cecily was taking a moment to examine her naked body in the long mirror in the bathroom. She tried to be critical, but on the whole she was quite pleased with what she saw. There was no doubt years of keeping herself in trim had paid off.

The sessions with John seemed to have helped as well. She’d noticed that the number of strokes in each thrashing seemed to be the result of more than mere chance. By the end of each week Cecily found the bruised swelling had almost completely subsided, even sitting down was no more than uncomfortable, even if it had only just been in time for the savage process to be repeated. Now, as she felt her rump, it did feel nearly as tender as when she’d been a schoolgirl - and also noticeably larger even now the swelling had gone down. The rest of her looked pretty good - trim stomach and lightly muscled limbs - with just enough fat to keep her soft and feminine.

Her tits, the only part she really wasn’t happy with, had ballooned in the last week to the freakish proportions she’d seen on the meat-girls ready for slaughter in the school’s kitchens. The amount of hormone the cook must use had to be high, when she’d done her daughter Amber’s breasts they’d swollen to an F, but that was nothing like the footballs of tit-flesh that dragged at her chest now. Their colour wasn’t lovely either, all dark purple bruising and angry red stretchmarks She really understood why the women ripe for butchery constantly soothed them, it was like having two massive bruises threatening to burst open at any moment.

Leaving all her hair to grow had proved a mixed blessing. While she was happy with her luxuriant bush, the way dark strands poked from her armpits did not look so nice, and she wished the hairs on her legs had grown soft and light like Emma’s, instead turning out dark and wiry like her pubes.

Her impossible breasts hadn’t helped her to sleep. Already kept awake with nervous anticipation at her impending slaughter, she wasn’t like Emma, or even, apparently, Tina, when she did manage to doze off her gross breasts, with skin stretched painfully tight, meant even the slightest movement caused more than enough torment to wake her again.

That meant she’d risen early, at something of a loss as to what to do until the car came. Her clothes for the final journey had already been laid out last night - something simple, she wasn’t expecting to wear them for long. In the end, after making herself a cup of coffee and some desultory flicking through the channels on the TV, the ache from sitting upright grew too much and she went to lie back down until the doorbell rang.

It only took her a moment, after she turned away from the mirror, to slip into her few items of clothing. Then, steadying herself awkwardly, she hurried out to the car.

****

Cecily walked cautiously round to the kitchen entrance of the school, her massively expanded breasts making her so unbalanced she was forced to lean backwards. The nipples were now so long and sensitive that even a half-cup bra and loose light cotton top caused painful chafing. What’s more, in the last few days, the massive doses of hormones had started to make her lactate excessively, and two damp patches were clearly visible in the thin cotton. She wore a skirt that reach down to her ankles, she didn’t want to show off her hairy legs, and the thought of the balancing act needed to ease on tight stockings hadn’t been appealing. She knew she’d shouldn’t have worn high heels, but, just this last time, before she submitted to whatever disturbing traditions the school expected of her, she couldn’t help one last little bit of vanity.

“Oh yes.” said the Cook when she walked in, pausing in his work to undo her top and admire his handiwork. “Those have come up a treat. Definitely a KK, maybe even, just about, an L - and you’re ripe for milking as well. You might as well go and sit in the stock cupboard for now, there’s plenty of room with term ending tomorrow.”

There was, indeed, plenty of room. In fact, there was only one woman left. Cecily thought it must be the blonde ex- assistant cook, but a week or so of feeding had left her too fat for any identification, not a single hair now peeked out between the rolls of tummy and thigh. Nothing to do, she settled down in the corner, leaving her top open to avoid as much rubbing against her distressed skin as she could.

When the cook came back in, accompanied by a single girl, Cecily was absolutely convinced that the remaining meat-girl must have been his other aide. The blonde fattening next to her must be the one who was getting fucked by the cook over the table barely a fortnight ago. Now her erstwhile colleague, a curvy brunette with wavy hair and freckles, was helping her boss wrench the force-feeder from the blond’s mouth without any sign of concern. Job done, she actually giggled as her half-naked bottom was squeezed, even if it did disturb her attempt to help the fattened girl haul her new weighty body upright.

“Will you be wanting one last go on this arse?” the remaining assistant joked to the cook, as the usual shit-encrusted backside was revealed.

“No thanks.” he chuckled. “Not really my thing. I suppose I could ask the boys, there’s a couple of them I know like it positively filthy.”

“Would you like me to ask?”

“No time.” he sighed. “We’ve got to get this hog roast on before the fete opens.”

They left, leaving Cecily thinking two things. First, that really had been the other assistant cook, now demoted to meat for the fete. Second, Rodney Jones was going to be so disappointed if he ever found out what he’d missed.

Barely five minutes later Cecily was led out herself. For a moment, despite what her husband had hinted at, she thought this might be it, but they walked straight through the butchery room, passing the assistant singeing the hairs off the other remaining meat girl. The kitchen next door, which proved their destination, contained a selection of industrial catering equipment and a curious-looking device with a seat, that had been pulled out from the wall.

“Sit on the stool and pop your tits into those cups.” the Cook instructed her.

After a moment’s fiddling with the height of the stool, he fastened a strap around her, pinning her breasts painfully hard against the machine. Without explanation, he flicked the switch which brought it whirring to life. A few seconds later Cecily knew what was being done to her.

“It’s good to see your milk’s really come in.” the Cook commented loudly, over the sound of the machine slurping on tortured teats and Cecily’s whimpering. “Injecting through the nipples generally brings it on, but it’s not guaranteed.”

He left Cecily to the torment of the milking machine, returning to the meat already strapped to the butchering table. At least he’d left the door open, which gave Cecily something to distract her from the pain, even if the scene wasn’t pleasant. She wondered if slaughtering a girl he’d fucked gave an extra frisson to the process, she certainly hoped so, it must get a bit monotonous when you were butchering several every week.

Whether for that reason or general horniness, the cook seemed to feel the need of some relief. Ignoring the meat-girl, he started screwing his remaining assistant, the convenience of that short skirt proving itself once again. She was bent over with her head in the crotch of her naked ex-colleague as she took his cock, maybe licking her clit for one last time.

In a very few minutes he’d shot his load and, barely pausing to zip up his trousers, he started the slaughter, instructing as he went along.

“Hold the tits up, we’ll have them off first. There’s no point in leaving them on for a hog roast, they’ll just split open and burn.”

It was clear, as the slaughtering preceded, that the cook was working to maximise the suffering of his former assistant. Maybe she was like Cecily’s own daughter, and had requested such an excruciating end. At any rate, as he worked to dress the extremities, he fixed clamps around her ankles and wrists before slowly sawing off her hands and feet. Even when he moved on to her belly he did it with more care than she’d seen him use before.

“Here’s the pesky little bugger.” he announced, holding up something he’d pulled out from the gash in her stomach. “Final meal Stacey?”

It was only just before he pushed it into the girl’s open mouth that Cecily realised what she’d been looking at. The Cook was giving her a last meal of her own foetus, and, from the look on her face, even through the pain, she was happy to accept it. That seemed to do it for the Cook who, even if he wasn’t into scat, obviously liked some dirty stuff. He positively threw his remaining assistant back over the half-butchered meat-girl, and began slamming into her pussy so hard she could barely catch her breath.

Only when he’d been pistoning his dick for nearly half an hour, and his assistant had started to wince with each thrust, did the blonde finally expire. He knew his stuff and, almost as she took her final breath, he reached out with a large cleaver to smoothly sever the head. That did it for him, and a look of relief passed across the faces of the shagging couple as his cum spasmed into her.

This time he didn’t even bother to put his cock away. Pussy juice and cum dripped onto Cecily’s naked thigh as he examined the tank on the milking machine. Her breasts drained, it had been painfully sucking at raw skin for the last twenty minutes. She really wished she’d been told to turn it off.

“Excellent. There’s nearly three pints there. If we get the same after the fete, I’ll be able to do tit-meat sliced and steeped in its own milk, the school’s special recipe.”

“Oh yes!” his recently fucked assistant clapped her hands together, “I love making that. It’s a shame Stacey didn’t have long enough to lactate. I hope I’m left until I’m ready for milking.”

“If you’re good,” the cook winked at her, “I’ll let you cook them yourself. Now take this meat-girl round to her booth.”

****

As she was walked through the stalls, Cecily couldn’t miss the hog roast, its meaty aroma already hung over the whole field. As she walked past she could see the soft young flesh just starting to brown, melting fat oozing temptingly out - it reminded her of how delicious Emma had been. Cecily had seen her painfully butchered barely an hour ago, but she still wished she could stop and have a taste of the young blonde.

“This is you.” the assistant told her, when they arrived at a booth with the banner ‘meat-girl games’.

“Ah! She’s here at last.” said the master in charge, looking up from his preparation. It was the same moustachioed biology teacher whose class she’d met.

“Come over here then. Let’s get your pussy stuffed before the rush starts.”

There were already a few boys hanging around hopefully as she walked round to find out what she was to be stuffed with. Lying down, Cecily saw the name and rules of the game, hanging on the board at the back of the stall. ‘Cunt Luck. Pull out two matching balls and win two minutes with the mouth.’

“Wriggle back a bit and twist your head sideways. We don’t want to have to close the game while any winners are claiming their reward. I’ll just tie your legs up to this bar so there’s easy access.”

It was not a dignified position. The only good news was she’d been placed on her front, so her swollen tits weren’t squashed into the rough wooden table. Almost as soon as her pussy had been filled with handfuls of multi-coloured marbles - pushed well in until she could feel at least one squeezing into her cervix - the first customer was thrusting his hand between her legs.

And that’s how it went on for over four hours, her twat scraped sore and bleeding by a procession of eager young fists. What surprised her was the number of boys who, given their chance with her mouth, wanted to piss in it rather than take a chance for a face-fuck. She hadn’t realised how many shades of putrid teenage boys urine could taste.

Eventually the festivities wound down, and she was released from the stall, soaking wet and very sore. She hadn’t been given a chance to empty her own bladder in private, although it had been quite satisfying when, the painful pressure growing too much, she’d finally released her stream onto the boy currently scratching around in her cunt.

****

“I thought they were never going to bring you back.” said the cook, looking flustered, when Cecily’s cum-splattered body was finally led back to the kitchen. “The boys do like to have their fun, but it does mean were going to have to work fast to get you prepped for your appearance in the great hall. Get back on the milking machine, I’ll be with you in a moment.”

As her raw teats were once again ripped of their milk, his remaining assistant handed her a jug, containing what must have been at least two pints of a murky grey liquid.

“Get that drunk.” the cook told her. “Then we can get you cleaned up while it takes effect.”

“What is it?” Cecily couldn’t help asking, pausing before bringing the foul-smelling liquid up to her lips.

“Chemical enema.” the cook said brusquely. “Cleans you right out so you don’t need to be gutted. Now get it down.”

Despite the odour, she swigged down the contents of the glass as fast as she could. The news that, if she swallowed this, she’d avoid being gutted was more than appealing.

After milking, being cleaned up turned out to be a pleasant experience. Instead of the high-pressure hose of ice-cold water she’d been expecting, she was led under a shower head in a utility room, where the assistant cook, now stripped herself, joined her. Standing under a stream of warm water, while a naked young woman gently scrubbed your body with a soap that smelled of almonds, was positively relaxing. More amazingly still, her hair was not only washed, but conditioned.

“Sit down there, and I’ll do your hair while you dry off.”

Gently massaging fingers, digging into all her crevices, had been replaced by warm fluffy towels. Now she was sitting on a padded chair while the assistant cook collected up hairbrush and dryer.

“This is rather nice.” Cecily found herself saying. “Not at all what I expected.”

“It’s only because you’re being performance butchered upstairs. I’m sure one of these days they’ll work out how to make this bit uncomfortable as well - teenage boys are so ingenious.”

“I don’t see why they want me done up like this.” she confided, the woman’s intimate touch giving Cecily the feeling of her nights in bed with Emma. “Not given they are are about to cut me up and eat me.”

“It’s for the look of it. They like you perfect to begin with, then, after some nice slow butchery, a wreck. If it didn’t ruin the taste, they’d probably have me cover your tits in foundation as well.”

Cecily’s comfort didn’t last. As her face was being lightly made-up, a sudden spasm in her guts almost made her a leap up out of the chair.

“I think I’m going to need the loo.” she whispered to the young woman, who had pulled her hand sharply back when Cecily started jerking. “That enema must be starting to work.”

“Oh. You won’t be letting it out down here.” she told Cecily, moving back in to continue applying eyeshadow. “You’ll have to hold on until you’re upstairs. Don’t worry, you’ll be told when you can let go, it’s all part of the ceremony.”

Wondering why on earth they’d need her to publicly evacuate her bowels, Cecily tried to stay still. She’s spread her legs when instructed, so her decidedly hairy pubes could be brushed out, but things were becoming increasingly difficult. Her guts felt like she’d swallowed a bag of hot chilies, and she was having to fight her body’s strong desire to take a dump.

“All done.” she was told at last. “I’ll call the cook. He’ll need to present you upstairs.”

****
“Come on up Martin, and take your forfeit like a man.”

Cecily had been brought into the centre of the great hall to whoops and cheers from the assembled throng, most of whom she’d already met when they’d wrapped her rectum round their dick. She’d had to stand there, hands on the back of her head and legs apart, as the Cook had ritually singed the thick growth of hair from her body. All the time the burning enema wrenching at her guts. When, for his final move, she bent over and spread her buttocks wide, she wasn’t sure how she avoided pushing out a fountain of turds.

Then she’d been lifted up to sit uncomfortably on a bar, almost like a stationary trapeze, that hung six or seven foot up in the air. Naked, there was nowhere for her to hide her shame, she could feel the breeze across her exposed pussy as it hung out over the floor. An awards ceremony of sorts for the boys who were leaving was now underway, and a boy called Martin had just won the booby prize - which turned out to be emptying her colon over his head.

Martin made a show of being reluctant, but hamming it up for effect rather than any attempt to avoid his fate. Despite a lack of academic achievement, he seemed to be popular with the other boys, who were cheering him on enthusiastically.

By now Cecily’s bowels felt like they were crawling with fire ants. Embarrassment at crapping in public had been replaced by a burning desire to evacuate them as soon as she was allowed. When the shouted countdown hit zero she instantly relaxed her sphincter, to a feeling of immense relief. Squeezing desperately, she heard the high-pressure stream of near-liquid shit splattering over the unfortunate Martin’s hair. At least her elevated position prevented the blasting crap from hitting her own body.

It was only a pity the hoped for relief didn’t come. Cecily was desperately pushing and pushing, even though every last drop of her rectum’s contents had been squeezed out. The chemical enema might have scoured her insides clean, but it certainly hadn’t been designed with her comfort in mind.

To the cheers of his fellow students, he’d taken his punishment well with no trying to dodge the putrid stream, an extremely smelly Martin left to clean the worst of Cecily’s liquid crap off himself. The headmaster moved on to the next award.

“And in the same spirit, our most academically successful student will get to ensure our meat-girl’s bladder is properly emptied. Let’s see if Alan is up to the task.”

The headmaster had emphasised the word ‘up’, and Cecily could see why. Let down from the bar and stood beside the high table, she could see the boy now approaching her had a rock-hard erection already freed from his trousers. What’s she couldn’t see was the connection between that and getting her to piss herself, but she feared she was about to find out.

The answer turned out to be - bent over the high table - a fucking like she’d, literally, never had before. She didn’t even know a cock would fit up her piss hole, and it certainly didn’t prove easy. After some painful work with a speculum, and a good deal of forceful shoving, Alan finally had his member secure in her fourth hole. The pain, especially as he started to shaft her fast and hard, became even more insistent than the burning from her cauterised guts.

With the chants of ‘harder, harder’ ringing in her ears, her vision filled by a row of grinning teachers, Cecily finally shrieked as something agonisingly snapped in the pit of her stomach. Her howls of torment only drove Alan on, and a minutes later he was shivering to climax. When he pulled his spent dick out of her, and she felt the warm stream following it, she knew how her bladder had been emptied - and also that she’d been broken so it would never fill again.

“Time to get the ingredients for the pie, if you would be so kind cook.”

Almost doubled up in pain, feeling the constant warm drip of unstoppable pee on her thighs, Cecily was led back into the middle of the hall, her hands lifted up to hold onto the same high bar. She watched in trepidation as the cook approached her, warily eyeing the knives that were pushed into his belt.

“You’ll need to hold on tight.” the cook said when he reached her. “You won’t want to shame John by letting go.”

“Are you taking my tits off?” she asked, half hoping at least one part of her torment would be eased.

“Oh no. You’ll be keeping those beauties awhile yet.” he grinned at her. “I’ve just got to get your guts out. Hold still, this is going to be tricky, I need to keep you live for later.”

“I thought you wouldn’t be gutting me.” she whispered in shock.

The Cook didn’t even bother to answer her. Cecily despairingly gripped the bar, bracing herself for the agonising mutilation that was coming. She knew a younger woman, her daughter Emma sprang readily to mind, would welcome the opportunity to suffer in front of such an avid audience, but she also knew that she hadn’t been brought up to appreciate such a chance.

She looked down, rigid with shock, as the sharp knife slid easily into her belly. Beatings and brutal fuckings had been one thing, but this was a final irrevocable violation. With her guts wrenched out, however carefully, it was only a matter of time before she was snuffed. Then, as the knife slid down towards her pubis, parting the skin to reveal the fatty meat of her belly, the pain finally made itself felt. How she hung on to the bar she didn’t know, more than once her legs lifted themselves from the floor in agony. Her shrieks and howls, as her organs were pulled out and sliced off, seemed to drive the audience wild, she could have sworn she saw at least one boy wanking.

“That’s a good set.” the Cook said, looking down into the stainless-steel bucket that now contained Cecily’s insides. “There should be plenty of guttural pie for the boys to take home tomorrow, all made with lovely clean bowels of course.”

She’d heard of guttural pie, definitely a dish designed for males, but she’d always assumed it contained mostly liver and kidneys, not the entirety of the guts. She was quite surprised, even with the cook’s skilful work and the clamping of the bigger blood vessels, that she was still alive. After that it didn’t seem possible her agony could get any worse. Through eyes blurred with tears, it took her a moment to discern the figure now approaching her, another knife held in its hand.

The assistant Cook, skirt now hitched so high that practically her entire bush was visible, grinned to the whistles and catcalls that signalled her approach.

“Hold on tight. I need to get these tits off and into the pan in time to be a starter.” she told Cecily.

You could see why the cook had decided to butcher his other assistant. Firmly grabbing Cecily’s obscenely long teat, she lifted the entire weighty breast by it, ignoring Cecily’s renewed gasps of torment. With a practised move she dug the knife deep into the soft tissue where the underside of Cecily’s bloated mammary connected to her chest. In a single skilful manoeuvre, her hand twisting round, she used the knife to slice right round the edge of the tit, leaving it only connected by a few strands of tortured nerves. In a moment the enormous weight had caused even these to rip, the entire severed breast now dangling from the woman’s hand by its nipple.

It might have been a relief, the weight and ballooning tit-meat had left Cecily in constant throbbing pain for almost a week, but it didn’t turn out to be like that. Instead, as her final nerves ripped apart, she let out another agonised shriek. It seemed almost unbelievable, when she saw her remaining breast being lifted up and felt the knife plunging in again, that only a look of concentration was visible on her tormentors face.

As her second breast ripped clear, Cecily, despite her stalwart efforts, finally lost her grip on the bar and collapsed awkwardly onto the hard stone floor. Through gasps she saw the pert bottom of the assistant cook casually walking away, one of her severed mammaries dangling from each hand.

“Pick her up lads.” it was the headmaster she could hear. “We’ll have to nail her to the bar so John can fillet her cunt.”

Dragged upright, almost her entire weight now borne by nails hammered through her wrists, her legs were held apart by a couple of boys. It was her son approaching this time, knife in hand.

“Hold still.” John told her curtly, his abruptness more about nerves than rudeness, as he bent down in front of her.

She did her best, but her weight was tearing the nails through her mangled wrists and her abdomen, open and gutted, was already a ball of agony. Cecily didn’t think anything could hurt any worse, so, when her son’s knife started hacking through the mass of nerves round the back of her clitoris, she surprised herself with the scream she gave. She didn’t stop until he straightened up, holding her entire filleted cunt in his hand - leaving, not that she knew, a rather unprofessional hole in her crotch.

The cook and his assistant returned at that moment, bearing steaming platters holding her sliced and fried breasts, served in a rich sauce of their own milk. The assistant relieved John of his mother’s pussy and disappeared to prepare it for him. Still very much uncooked, Cecily found for herself a moment’s welcome distraction. If the entrees were being served, how could she be roasted on that spit by the fire in time to make her the main course?

Curiosity was quickly and painfully satisfied. Swift work with a cleaver cut her hands free, leaving Cecily to fall to the floor. Dragged by her feet over to the fire, the stumps on the ends of her arms left two bloody trails. After that it was the work of a moment to attach her to the spit, the sharp points that held her in place digging in three or four inches.

“Have you got the stopwatch ready?”

It was surprising, certainly given a physique that had feasted often on the contents of his own cupboard, the similarity between the cook’s appearance now and a professional athlete readying to compete. If the sharp little knife, held downwards in a tightly clenched fist, had been a racket or baton he wouldn’t have looked particularly out of place in an international competition.

“Ready when you are sir.”

Whatever the cook had planned, standing over her already brutally mangled body, he definitely wanted this latest destruction timed exactly.

“Good luck Sir.” that was her John, standing a respectful distance back and, even with her bleary eyes, visibly pleasuring himself as he savoured his mother’s torment.

The headmaster also added his encouragement, “Let’s see if we can break last year’s record. Ninety-seven seconds wasn’t it?”

“Ninety-six point eight.” the Cook said sharply. Then he turned to resume his poised stance.

“Go!”

He started with her calves, using his free hand to turn her back and forth on the spit, keeping the angle of attack perfect. Cecily’s vision turned pink, she could no longer tell if she was screaming or not. With perfect precision, and incredible speed, the cook was slicing her flesh into half inch wide strips, often cutting right to the bone. Every nerve that had escaped unbroken up to now was being sliced open in a controlled frenzy.

“I’m sorry sir. Ninety-eight point one, but you’ve avoided all the major arteries, so there’s no penalty.”

There was a grunt of annoyance from the cook between his heavy breaths. Now in total agony, seeing only shades of light and dark, Cecily couldn’t read his face, but she was pretty sure he wasn’t satisfied with his work on her.

“Get her over the fire.” the Cook panted. “She’ll only last a few more minutes anyway. Make sure you keep her steadily turning, with the hasselbacking she should be ready to serve in half an hour, and I don’t want to find any bits still raw.”

As she was pushed, barely conscious, over the flames, Cecily still noticed the smell of burning hair - her own scalp going up in flames. After that the last torment she was truly noticed was her eyeballs exploding in the heat, even her own meat cooking couldn’t increase the suffering.