All characters of men are over 18.

Thank you so much Anonymous!

Musical Chairs

On my way to the latest Squid Game finals. Always amusing but I must admit I am getting a little bored. The tournament masters know how to change the games a bit to keep it interesting. That trip across the glass catwalk last time was marvelous. But I am going to propose we change things up a bit. The phone from the pilot rings. I pick up and hear, “Sir, we are turning in on final approach to Honolulu. I do recommend you put on your seat belt.”

Does that idiot pilot not realize I paid more for this plane than he will make in his lifetime? Oh, well he is probably right, but before reaching for the belt, I ask, “Have the other planes I asked you to track already arrived?”

“Mr Y's jet is turning in on approach right behind us. I received word that Mr. X's plane had a mechanical problem before take-off. Mr. X flew commercial. His flight landed about an hour ago. He should be waiting in the private jet lounge.”

Fly commercial? I haven't had to do that for years. Of course my friend flew first class, but your still cooped up with dozens, or is it hundreds of other people. Disgusting. And first class just isn't what it once was. It says something that he was willing to make the sacrifice just to make this meeting. Any texts, or emails, or phone calls will get both parties un-invited. No electronic communication whatsoever is allowed between the sponsors. If I am going to discuss my idea with the other sponsors, it must be in person, and my jet is as private as can be. “Good, so we can get going as soon as both are aboard?” I ask the pilot.

In as humble and deferential tone as he can manage, the pilot says, “ As I mentioned before we left, sir, we will need to refuel here in Honolulu. We do not have enough fuel to make it to Seoul.” Damn it. I am ordering that new plane with more fuel capacity as soon as I get back. Sometimes at these airports you have to wait for the fuel truck. As if to anticipate my annoyance the pilot answers, “I informed airport services that we need to be ready for take-off as soon as possible.” Good there may be some hope for this idiot pilot yet.

I said, “Make sure we are not over-charged for the jet fuel.” and hung up.

My friends came aboard and we compared planes until we were reached cruising altitude. When the plane leveled out, X got around to asking why I wanted to meet. I said, “The organizers came to visit me a few months ago to gain my feed back.”

“Yes, they visit us all. It's a very customer focused organization.”, said Y.

“They told me they sensed I was getting a little bored. They wanted to know what they could do to make things more interesting. I told them I really like seeing people make impossible decisions, but they knew that already. I told them that there were many fine Korean participants, but wanted to see other nationalities, maybe even athletes with fine bodies. Finally I came out and said it: I wanted to try and taste human flesh. It seems like such a waste to just cremate all of the bodies.”

I was afraid the others would be shocked, but X said, “Yes, I see what you mean. You have to be open to new experiences, and try new things. ”

Y said, “We have all had those desires, I'm sure. You had the guts to come out and ask. Well done. But any way what did they tell you?”

I said, “At first they made no commitment, but after a few weeks came back and said they thought they could manage it, but could not find a chef. I said I thought I might know of someone . I pressed a call button and a man strode up from the back of the plane wearing a chef's coat. He was six four balding and had a gut. “Gentleman, let me introduce Chef Andre. Never trust a skinny chef, I say. I would introduce you Andre, but we are not allowed to use real names. You may refer to the others as Mr. X and Mr. Y.” Andre nodded and smiled. Of course we all know each others' identities. X made an obscene fortune on the social media company he founded. Y is a hedge fund manager. I am what is called old money.

Andre stood by while I went on, “They have a collection for us. All retired and forgotten athletes, all heavily in debt from failed business ventures and or gambling debts. The only hitch is this additional game will cost more money, and at least three of us will need to agree.”

“Of course it will cost more.” said X, “How much?”

“Three million for each of us” I said.

“ Oh, is that all? I thought it was going to be real money. Sure I'm in.”, said X. Mr Y nodded.

After landing there was a limousine for each of us. I found a leather bound folio inside. After getting a glass of champagne I opened it to find profiles of prospective long pigs. Two were Americans, one was a Russian and one was from Latin America. Physiological testing showed that what they all had in common was an aversion to guns, gun shots and blood. There was a high probability they would all try to avoid being killed by a gun shot even if it meant more torment in other ways. The profiles also predicted they all would perform well under pressure.

I read thru the stats and looked at the photos:
#1. Russian Basketball player:
Height 6' 5”
Weight: 225
Age: 37
Ethnicity: Caucasian
Good looking meat stud, I thought. I recalled he was quite the playboy when he first joined the NBA. With his dirty blond curly hair, he could have had any girl he wanted.

#2.American Football player
Height 6' 2”
Weight: 245
Age: 35
Ethnicity: Caucasian of Scandinavian descent. Put a helmet on this guy and he would pass as a Viking.

#3. American Speed skater
Height: 5' 8”
Weight: 140
Age: 32
Ethnicity: Asian biracial
I remembered this guy from the olympics twelve years back. He was shortest and lightest of the four but I recall he had meaty legs, as speed skaters usually do.

#4. Argentinian Soccer player
Height 5' 11”
Weight: 170
Age: 39
Ethnicity: Caucasian of Southern European descent. With thick curly black hair what else would he be? He had a perfectly symmetrical body. As close to male perfection as you could ask for.

I got to my room at the facility and had my way with the cute bell boy that brought up my bags. After an hour I went down for dinner with the other sponsors. After dinner the master of ceremonies joined us for an update. “We are pleased you are all interested in the additional game we have organized. The presence of foreigners among the Koreans has created additional stress for both groups. During the first event of red light green light we did explain the rules in english to the foreigners so there would be no mis-understanding.” “And to make sure they survived until the special game”, I thought. “Their athletic training and familiarity with pressure meant they not only survived but they finished first. Because none of the foreigners had eaten honeycomb biscuits as children, they were given a special briefing and encouraged to choose simple shapes.” (Again to make sure they survived). Before the night of chaos they were all fed a harsh laxative and spent most of the time in the bathroom. They came out as things were settling down and were able to protect themselves as a group. Now they are about to play one of the final games with marbles, but we have made some changes. We have assigned partners pairing a Korean with a foreigner. We have also given the pairs of players dice in addition to the marbles. The Koreans have been told the die are weighted to favor a particular number. The Koreans by this stage in the competition hate and resent the foreign participants greatly. The Korean players are more than happy to exploit the foreigners' ignorance. Our psychological testing indicates the foreigners will avoid the gun shot at all costs. They should be entering the kitchen and meeting Chef Andre soon. Until all players have been dispatched or are safely secured we feel it is safer for you to watch on video. Let's watch the kitchen cameras.”

We saw three video monitors come to life showing different angles around the kitchen. The four players walk in dressed in tank tops and shorts. Chef Andre addresses the group and explains, “. You have all lost. Your lives are forfeit. However, you are all being given a choice at this point .Normally you would be shot like the other players when you lost this last round. This will be your last opportunity to choose the gun shot. The basketball player and the football player grimaced and shook their heads a little. The soccer player and the speed skater turned to look at the guards with their guns drawn and pointing at their backs. Both winced and shuddered and looked back at Chef Andre, who continued “If you choose to go on from here you will play a different child's game called musical chairs. The difference for you, should you choose to go on is that your beneficiaries will each receive a million dollars. Choose the gun shot and your beneficiaries get nothing. Let me be clear your lives are forfeit either way. Three of you will have a chance to face executions that society in the past has deemed more humane. However at least one of you will return here to the kitchen to be prepared as a live spit roast. We will be having you for dinner.” The basketball player became weak kneed. He had to brace himself against a table. The speed skater looked around for a place to wretch. The color drained from the football player's face. The only one that looked confused was the Argentinian. He clearly did not understand. “What's the problem?”, he said. They are having us for dinner.” Chef Andre called one of the staff who explained everything again in Spanish. At this point the soccer player's knees failed him for a moment and he squatted on the floor. This is why I come. I am not ghoulish, but the recognition on the participants faces is absolutely priceless.

“Your choices are hanging, the guillotine , and the electric chair. Those are all reasonably humane quick ways to die. I assure you the live spit roast will be excruciating, and will last hours. But, one more thing you will all need to initiate the final act. The guard will help you into the apparatus, but the final trigger will be your doing. Failure to do so will mean you are back in the kitchen for a long drawn out processing. This is your last chance for the gun shot?” Chef Andre concluded. After a moment's pause he looked around and was greeted by looks of abject resignation. “Nobody?, Fine. Let's move on.” he said.

Andre moved around the group feeling all of the athletes bodies. He was loving this. “First step before you face the music is depilation, and an initial cleaning. The soccer player was covered in fur, a walking carpet of body hair. The chef grabbed him first. “Take off you clothes. You won't be needing them any more. Here put this hood on. Nothing to worry about, and step into this booth.” The soccer player did as he was told. You could hear some gas jets being turned on and then a Whoosh sound as the gas flared off for just a second with the man inside. He walked out visibly shaken but other than being covered with what looked like gray dust, he was fine. The dust was his body hair and the top layer of skin. Chef Andre had explained before that removing the outer layer of skin would make it easier to add basting sauces later. The soccer player was sent on to a shower and came out naked as a new-born babe. Removal of all that hair also made his penis look larger. Having seen the booth was not lethal, the other three stripped and went thru and then on to the showers.

Chef Andre led them out of the kitchen into a larger room with a high ceiling. A flood light shown down on the center of the room, and the group stopped there. Chef Andre addressed the four naked men: “Gentlemen, you will confine yourselves in this circle of light until the music stops.” Another flood light came on illuminating the far side of the room. A scaffold with stair steps leading up top platform and hangman's noose suspended above could be seen. Another flood light came on illuminating a sturdy wooden chair with electrical cables on another side of the room. The last flood light came on another side of the space showing a guillotine and a padded bench.

The MC interjected, “You might be interested to know that our psychological testing estimates that there is a 34.578 percent chance that even after selecting an instrument of execution at least one of the players will not follow thru, in case you would like to place additional side bets.”

“When the music stops, make your way to the machine of your choice. One of you will be joining me back in the kitchen.” Chef Andre said, licking his lips. He walked out of the center lit area and a simple soothing music began. All the players looked bored while the mind-numbing elevator music droned on. It played for several minutes. I thought these guys were going to be caught by surprise when the music stopped, but they were all sand-bagging only looking like they weren't paying attention. The music finally ended and they all pounced into action. The soccer player was closest to the guillotine, and reached the bench first. The American football player was only a second or two behind. The Argentinian had one foot over the bench and was inches from having his butt placed, but the football player came in with a side tackle. Both landed on the floor several feet beyond the bench. While the two were untangling from each other the speed skater reached the bench and laid down. My mouth salivated at the sight of those luscious legs. The American football player moved back to the bench looking like he would throw the speed skater off, but the guards stepped in between him and the skater. He gave the guards a look like he was up for a fight, realized he was wasting time, and shied away at the last second. He turned to see what else was available.

The Argentine soccer player started to limp over to the electric chair. The basketball player initially followed the others toward the guillotine, but casually turned away to avoid the scrum. He had found his way to the steps leading up to the noose. He had topped the steps, got on the platform and had his hands on the noose when the football player started up the stairs. When he topped the steps he saw he was too late, swore and started back down to see what was left. He saw the soccer player seated already strapping his legs into the legs of the chair. The football player looked at the chair, froze for a moment and backed away. He said, “No way. No way I am doing that.” I wasn't sure if he had forgotten there were no other choices left, but he was freaked out by Old Sparky. Fine by me. There is plenty of meat on this guy. He was headed for the kitchen and the guards started to surround him. Some had tazers guns ready. I heard the handcuffs snap around his wrists.

The speed skater laid face down on the bench. His head was in the stocks. A basket was placed under his head as is traditional. You could see him gulp. The blade was held at the top by a magnet. Pushing a button broke the connection and sent the blade plummeting down the guide on each side of the upright posts.The guards asked him (in Korean) to turn over on to his back so he would be looking up at the blade. He did not understand, of course, so two guards picked him up by each arm and sat him upright. In the jostling the blade came loose and made a quick trip down the track and missed the skater's head by a second. He sat frozen on the bench looking at the blade embedded in the soft wood at the bottom. It took several attempts to get the blade up and locked in place. Each time it fell down the track the guards jumped away and the speed skater gulped. He started to look very worried as though he would not be able to go thru with the event.

The heavy sharp blade was at last secured at the top. The speed skater turned the other way on the bench and made to lie down. His neck nestled into the stocks. He was facing up looking straight at that wicked sharp blade. His hands were at his sides. A big red button was paced on his chest and Chef Andre came out to give the final instructions, just so there would be no mis-understandings. He said, “ this is quite simple really. You just push the button, the magnet releases the blade. You have already seen how fast it moves. Your head is not secured as it would have been in the French Revolution. If you don't think you can go thru with it, it is your choice to get up. Of course your beneficiary will receive nothing and although the spit roast is already occupied, we will find an equally excruciating way to prepare you in the kitchen.” The skater nodded his understanding. He held the button for what seemed like an eternity. He sprouted a magnificent erection. Again I thought those luscious legs would make magnificent roasts,. It looked like he was going to cry but he squeezed the button.

The rest as they say is history, or certainly the speed skater became history.

The Russian basketball player watched the speed skater lose his head. He was trying to be cool, and not react, but the camera picked up a shudder when the blade came down. A guard came up. Stood on a box and tightened the noose around the big man's long luscious neck. Chef Andre climbed the stairs to the top of the platform. You could see the lust in the chef's eyes as he inspected that magnificent body. He placed a microphone stand with a red button on top next to the naked giant. “Your turn big boy. It's very simple. Push the red button and the floor drops out from underneath you. Or, if you change your mind you can join the football player in the kitchen. Just take off the noose and climb down the stairs, but I guarantee you will spend the next several hours regretting that decision.”

The Russian looked down at the chef. His upper lip curled in contempt. “I would not give you that satisfaction. I am ready.” he said holding his head high and looking into the distance. Watching him I thought what a beautiful long sinuous neck this guy has. It would be thrilling to watch him twist on the rope for a while.

After a few moments the chef said, “We'll go ahead. Push the button.”

The Russian scowled. “Wait no blindfold? No hood? Of course not. You are all svolotch. You want to see it all.” And with that he sneered and hit the button and the floor dropped out from beneath him. It was all over for him very quickly. The body swayed a little from the momentum, but he expired almost instantly at the end of the rope.

I thought the last act was an erection and then an orgasm?” said X.

“Maybe not with a long drop like that. Maybe if the process is a slower strangulation or a shorter drop.” I said.

“Who knew hanging was such an art form.” said Y. That brought a chuckle from all of us watching the events.

That brought us to the Argentinian Soccer player sitting in the chair. He stopped fiddling with the leg straps when the guillotine did its thing. He seemed frozen in fear just waiting. Chef Andre came down from the scaffold to supervise the preparations around the chair. The chair itself was a heavy old solid piece that looked to be made out of oak. A steel bucket of water was brought in from the kitchen. “Raise your leg for us.” asked chef Andre pleasantly. He did. The bucket was placed next to the chair leg, and one foot went into the water. “Thank you for your cooperation. The water isn't too hot or cold is it?” The guy shook his head shook his head, and his thick curly hair swayed. “Excellent,” said Chef Andre. “Let's make it a salt bath, shall we?” One of the kitchen staff poured a liberal amount of salt in the bucket of water. Chef Andre turned toward the camera and said, “Salt water is a better conductor for electricity.” A big clip like the jumper cable for a car was attached to the side of the bucket.

A metal basket attached to an electrical cable was suspended just over the guy's head. It was pulled down a little lower, but looked too big to make a proper connection. Then towels and another bucket of water came out of the kitchen. Salt was added to the water. The towels were soaked and folded over several times and wrapped around the metal basket or hat to fill in all of the extra space between the metal and his head. The guards fastened leather belts in an “X” across the chest. He wasn't going anywhere but his hands were free. A big electrical plug, like you might see for a dryer was placed in his lap.

All the guards stepped back. The all clear sign was given and a big switch was thrown. A low humming sound of electric current could be heard in the background. Chef Andre said, “Again, it's quite simple. Plug the two cables in your lap together, and that will be it, really. The electricity will flow thru your head and down to the bucket.”

Our Argentinian victim looked left and right. He would not touch the sides of the plug. He recoiled from the cable like they were two poisonous snakes placed in his lap. Chef Andre had the Spanish speaking assistant chef come out from the kitchen and repeat the instructions.

“You really have to admire the organizer's spirit of decency and fair play don't you?”, I said.

“What do you mean?” Mr. X asked.

“Well the chap clearly does not understand english, so they give him a translator who can speak his own language”

“Quite right.” I hear someone behind me say. “Very sporting”

Still the guy in the chair did nothing, but sweat and look away from the cables in his lap.

I bet a dollar he bails out.” I said.

Mr X said, “You're on. Why would anyone be so stupid as to get out of that chair?” X knew little about human nature. You could see this fellow was struggling between what he should do and what he wanted to do.

Mr. Y said, “No one says these guys are smart. If these men had spent a little more time learning how to manage their finances rather than just developing their athletic prowess, they would not be in the position they are now.” We all had a chuckle at that.

Chef Andre asked, “What is your name?”

“Diego” came a raspy soft voice.

“Well Diego, the choice is yours. Put the plugs together, or unbuckle the straps and come into the kitchen. The spit roaster is already occupied with your friend, but I can still make a special presentation with you. I know a lot more about cooking meat than I do electrocution. It will take hours to cook you, this I promise. The electric current will be a lot faster.” Chef Andre sounded on the one hand like he was trying to be fair, but there also seemed like a bit of longing, possibly driven by lust, in his voice hoping that Diego would get out of the chair. The man had a strong perfectly symmetrical body. I understood why the Chef wanted to get him I the kitchen (or into bed).

The tears welled up in Diego's eyes. “I can't do it.” he cried. He threw the cables to both sides and unbuckled the straps across his chest. He stood up and the guards escorted him toward the kitchen. Chef Andre looked into the camera and said, “Gentlemen you are welcome to join me and the cooking staff in the kitchen in a few minutes.”

“Pay up.” I said to X as we got up to move down to the kitchen. It's only a dollar, but I revel in it. It would have been thrilling to see the electrical current overwhelm this guy's nervous system, but from a spectator's point of view, this was going to be so much better. We entered the kitchen to see the soccer player (we learned he had a name, but I had already forgotten it) hanging against the wall by his wrists. His feet were just off the floor. All the work was centered around the American football player. I walked over to wall hanger and ran my hands up and down his chest and abdominals. His six pack could still be felt. The covering of extra fat was not excessive. I remember how hairy this guy had been. Now he was a smooth as a new born babe. Chef Andre called out to me, “Feel free to play with the food. Our Argentinian friend will get plenty of attention as soon as we get this other football player roasting.”

I joined the rest of the group gathered around the football player. He was thick and beefy everywhere you want him to be. Chef Andre said, “This machine is the Zander 4000, the latest in a line of live spitting stations from The Zander’s Fatted Longpig Company. Once our meatboy is strapped in and, with a flick of a switch, the machine will spit him alive”

“ Alive as in they are still alive by the time they are put on the cook?” asked X.
“Live spitting used to be an art, but now we have it honed to a science. Live spitting is a lot of fun for the guests. You will enjoy seeing a big, strong bull like this guy wriggling and struggling on the spit. Trussed, impaled, trapped from the inside out, utterly helpless, but every muscle straining and quivering with exertion, desperately trying to escape the heat. It’s useless by that point of course, but they fight with every ounce of strength and endurance they have. Depending on how we position him over the coals, a good healthy meatboy can last nearly an hour. Such dramas are quite … stimulating.”

Chef Andre with a feral grin on his face arranged arranged the man on the Zander 4000. He had him kneel down and then lean forward, his hands were still cuffed behind his back, until his chest was settled on a sort of short bench. A stock-like manacle held his neck in place and put his chin up on a contoured pad that tipped his head back as far as it would go. A strap was even wrapped around his forehead to keep him from tipping his head forward. Then Chef Andre used a set of manual hand cranks to align him and adjust the height.

“We have to get this meatboy perfectly lined up for the spit,” he explained. “It needs to go through with a minimum of damage. That means in his ass, through his colon, through the stomach, up the windpipe and out the mouth. Done properly there should only be two punctures in the GI track. So that means no wriggling around.” A heavy metal bar was locked down just behind the athlete's knees and a leather strap was tightened down over his back, pinning his shoulders to the padded bench. Two steel brackets were clipped into the floor to hold his ankles in place, one on either side of the main apparatus of the Zander 4000. Set like that, I thought this guy couldn’t help but feel like a party favor in a bathhouse, his ass open and poised, unable to turn his head one way or the other, his cock and balls dangling below him.

Behind him, between his legs really, crouched the real workings of the Zander 4000, a long box about two feet wide by three feet tall and set flush against the wall. Set dead center of the box facing our meatboy's ass was an ominous round hole about four inches in diameter. “Next,” Chef Andre leared, “We clean this guy out. We work the spit into his ass about ten inches or so and then through it we’d pump him full of a solution to clean out his GI tract from the stomach south. Once this is done, the machine, using a kind of x-ray technology and medical scanning software, will slowly spit him alive.” Chef Andre let a single fingertip land like a feather at the top of the crack of our athlete's ass. “The spit will be pressed in until it pierces his colon. It’s equipped with a heating element to cauterize as it pierces so he won’t bleed. Then it will be maneuvered upwards between the more delicate inner workings until it reaches his stomach.” As he spoke, the finger slowly traveled up along the guy’s spine, growing closer and closer to the back of his head. “After it pops its way into his stomach, then it will be inched up his esophagus, over his voice box and ultimately out his mouth. With any luck you wouldn’t chip a tooth.

“With his windpipe blocked wouldn’t he choke to death?”

“Not at all,” Chef Andre said as he let his fingers play through the curls atop the guy’s head. “The spit is hollow and perforated so he can draw air in through it. This is particularly important for keeping him alive over the fire. The air he draws into his lungs would be sucked in from either end of the spit. It takes some effort, kind of like using a really long snorkel, but that air will be much cooler that the superheated air caressing his meat. Not to mention it will be free from all that unbreathable mesquite wood smoke which will lend such marvelous flavors to his flesh.”

Our meatstud could only hear the hum of the machinery as the spit emerging from that ominous hole in the device inched forward towards his quivering ass. Chef Andre adjusted and readjusted the angle as it held its position just centimeters from his puckered opening. Chef Andre announced, “I’m going to go ahead and activate the automatic irrigation system to clean him out. It’ll probably need to flood and rinse him three or four times before he is clean enough to roast.” Our guy pulled with every muscle in his body. Nothing shifted a millimeter as the tube entered his ass. He could not see what was happening, but the machine clicked, beeped and whirred as it invaded our dinner entree from the back door. Meanwhile, the spit entered his ass inexorably, one inch after another was slowly swallowed by his hungry hole. As more of the tapered tip slid in, it stretched his ass wider and wider. Delirious moans and groans started to come from our athlete's lips as it inched forward. Finally the full tip was in, the spit spreading him open to its full girth, and still more of it sank into him.

“You took that sooo easily. I’ll bet you wish there was more, don’t you? Well, I’m afraid that’s all you get, you greedy hog. Can’t take the risk of puncturing anything in there. But if you like having your ass stuffed, you’re going to love this!”, Chef Andre said, addressing our meatstud for the first time, A few switches were flipped on the Zander 4000 and our guy was suddenly jarred by the sensation of hot fluid rushing into his bowels.

“Ugh!” the meatstud grunted. “What is that?”

“How soon they forget,” Chef Andre mused. “That’s the cleansing solution. The head of the spit is quite the marvel, you know. It’s hollow and has openings so that it can pump you full of fluid and suck you dry again. Based on your size you should be getting a couple of gallons…”

“Gallons?” the guy gasped. “I can’t hold gallons!”

“Of course you can. Your intestines are quite flexible you know, and they can expand remarkably. Believe me, I’ve stuffed enough sausage skins to know what a man’s guts can and cannot do.”

Our guy groaned under the creeping pressure inside his belly. The warmth of the fluid was working its way through him, heating him from the inside out. Beads of sweat blossomed out in earnest across his back and chest. The pressure continued to grow and grow. It quickly grew from discomfort to something like the worst stomachache he’d ever had. If he could have looked down he would have seen his pale, belly expanding, hanging lower with the weigh of the solution. He groaned and moaned and wriggled in his bonds. He prayed it was just his imagination, but he would have sworn that he could feel the liquid sloshing inside him, like he was a beer keg being filled.

“Oh god!” he moaned. “Is it done yet? Please! I cannot take any more! You’re going to rupture my guts! Please!”

“Oh you big baby,” Chef Andre laughed as he patted the football player's hard on his belly. He grunted in pain as he genuinely felt his guts sloshing. “You need at least another gallon.” He looked like he was pregnant which I thought was really hot.

“No!” he barked. “Please! I’ll burst! I can feel it! I’m going to fucking explode! Please turn it off! Please!”

Chef Andre ran his palm over the guy's now extremely distended belly. “Yes, you’re nice and full now, aren’t you? Definitely a stuffed thanksgiving turkey.”

Chef Andre fiddled with the controls and our main course meatstud was overwhelmed with a sensation of relief the likes of which he had never before felt. The machine reversed itself and deftly drained him dry in just a minute or so. The pressure gone, he almost sobbed his gratitude. “Oh god, thank you so much. That’s so much better. I feel like…”

He and his gratitude was cut off by another rush of warm water flooding his insides.

“Oh no! Come on!”

“I told you you’d get three or four just like that one, didn’t I? It gets easier with each irrigation, your tripe expands to accommodate all the extra volume.”

X asked, “Are you sure only three or four internal rinsing are enough? I don't want to get sick.”

Andre answered, “The machine measures the purity of the water being sucked out. It doesn't stop until our man here is clean, but we can run it an extra time, just to be sure.” Our meatstud just looked miserable, but who cares? X is right our health is important.

After five internal flushes Chef Andre adjusted the controls and there was a sound like a pneumatic press and a different probe emerged from the machine. It began inching into our football player's quivering ass. He screamed inarticulately. Every muscled strained ferociously against the bonds. As his bestial roar reached a crescendo, as every muscle was bulging at its maximum flex, he flopped limp and silent, hanging in his restraints like a stringless puppet. He groaned and cried as the spit slid deeper and deeper. As it pierced his stomach he sounded as if he was giving birth. All the while his muscles quivered and shook and sweat poured from his skin, coating him in a reflective sheen. Chef Andre bit his lip and slowly pumped his hardening cock as the huge spit continued its slow course through him.

“Ugh! Oh god! Oh god!” the trapped and dripping bull moaned. “I feel it… its coming up my throat!”

“That's good. I have heard quite enough from you.”

Our guy opened his mouth, but all that came out was a gag. Then a cough. Then he convulsed in a series of coughing sputters. He coughed until he was red-faced. Then his eyes flew open along with his mouth. His tongue lolled out and from between his perfect white teeth, the shiny steel tip of the spit slowly emerged. It inched out of his mouth like an eel from an undersea cave, slowly, taking its own sweet time. For his part, he continued to gag around the huge intrusion, or perhaps extrusion was a better term. It continued to grow out of him, like a film of a plant growing in fast forward. He thrashed blindly on the spit, the need for air driving away all other thoughts. Chef Andre stepped up once the spit extended about a foot past his stretched lips and quickly unscrewed the tip of the spit. Once removed, our guy drew in a huge heaving breath down the hollow spit and into his lungs. His chest heaved and pulled to work the air in and out of his lungs, but his color soon returned.

“There, that’s better, isn’t it?” our meatstud could only blink back at Andre with his sweat and tear brimmed eyes. “Just lay back and relax for a while. I’m going to let another foot or so of spit slide through you. Then, it’ll be time to secure your legs to the spit.” Pleading eyes looked up at Chef Andre, but Andre turned away and went back to monitoring the Zander 4000’s progress. The spitted longpig”s eyes shot back and forth, spinning in their sockets. Then he caught a glimpse of the spit slowly creeping from between his lips. He watched in stunned fascination as it crept out to a full two feet past his lips. Then it stopped and he let his teeth slide and bump against the unyielding smoothness of it. With such a huge intrusion in his throat and mouth, the broadly squeezed tip of his tongue popped out between his lower lip and the spit. He was spitted. He was meat. The only thing that remained for him was to be roasted alive, carved and eaten!
Andre stepped between our longpig’s legs and began to attach the bar for his knees to the spit. It was a ‘T’ shaped affair, with the base of the T tipped with a bracket to fasten it to the spit. He screwed it in place and deftly tightened the bracket with an Allen wrench. Then he removed the bar holding down the trussed hog's knees and put it aside. Then he unfastened the metal bracket holding longpig’s left ankle and lifted it up, bending his knee over the T shaped bar that now hung down from the spit. He deftly affixed the ankle to the spit with some sturdy wire. He quickly repeated the process with the right. The longpig’s legs hung heavy in his grasp as he lifted and moved them. When he was done, neither of the longpig’s legs touched the floor.

“That’s a good hog,” Andre said. “You’ve had such a hard day. Not to worry. It’s just about over.” He unbuckled the strap holding our feast’s shoulders down and then undid the strap holding his head up in the neck stock. Flipping the stock open, Andre walked around to the front of the bench the longpig had rested his chest and neck upon and gave it a hard pull. The bench slowly pulled loose from beneath him and our hog looked shocked to find that he was utterly suspended from the spit. It bore all his weight, bobbing slightly. There he hung, head arched back to accommodate the spit traveling through the length of his body, his arms now bound in wire, the cuffs tossed aside, his knees slightly bent over the T-shaped bar, ankles lashed to the spit, his still hard cock and low hanging balls dangling in mid-air. He squirmed a bit. His shoulders shrugged back and forth. His hips wiggled weakly. His fingers and toes wriggled. Nothing budged. There was no way to get off this spit. It was his home for the rest of his life.

Andre flipped a switch and, with a loud mechanical ‘whirr,’ the spit turned clockwise, the T-bar assuring that our longpig turned with the spit rather than it just rotating inside his body. He wriggled uncomfortably as he felt his weight shifting on the steel shaft traversing him. Within seconds he was inverted, hanging like a pig on a stick… Chef Andre walked back to the controls and hit the button to activate the spit. It slowly turned in the machine until our longpig was returned to his cock-down position. Remarkably, his cock still stood out hard against his belly, the pressure of the spit against his prostate making it impossible for his erection to flag. Andre leaned close to the longpig’s face. His eyes wandered over to the stretched lips, watery eyes and furrowed brow. Ande said breathlessly. “You look absolutely incredible.”

“Alright staff.” Chef Andre called to his assistants. “Let’s get this piggy on to roast!” The jubilant cheer was thunderous. Our longpig was quickly born across the kitchen to a low bed of red-hot coals in a pan on top of an industrial grill. At either end of the pit were poles with several “V” shaped brackets for holding the spit horizontal over the coals. A large hood over the top vented the hot air and smoke.

As soon as the workers carefully muscled their heavy load onto the brackets, our longpig’s underside was overwhelmed by the waves of heat radiating up from the glowing red coals. The heat reached up like an angry slap on every inch of his skin. His dangling cock and balls stung as if scalded, especially the delicate skin just under the crown of his cock. He jumped and trembled on the spit, struggling to escape the heat that was ravaging him, raping him. He heaved for breath and howled like a wounded beast down the long tube of the spit, grabbing the attention of all of us the sponsors who laughed and tittered in amusement. He twisted and turned, working every muscle in his tortured body, his fat balls and cock swaying just a foot above the coals. But he could not escape the heat burrowing into his flesh. The heat was like nothing he’d ever felt before. Like nothing he could have imagined. It lent a thick, soupy quality to the air that made him feel like he was submerged in boiling molasses. It caressed him with fiery tendrils from his feet to just below his chin, his neck hanging just over the edge of the grill.

As he wriggled and twitched and moaned in the boiling heat, our longpig’s eyes were affixed at the end of the spit jutting from between his lips. Behind him, just past his flexing toes, Chef Andre screwed a gear wheel into the end of the spit and deftly wrapped a chain around it, which wrapped in turn around a gear wheel on a small motor. With a flip of a switch the motor hummed to life and our guy’s world began to rotate. At first there was some relief as his red, scalded chest and belly turned away from the heat, but then the rest of his skin, on his flanks and back began to howl for mercy. Around and around he turned, bathed in the orange glow of the coals. His body was as naked as a newborn baby’s and his skin was a bright red, as if he had received a bad sunburn. Although his body continued to fight against his bonds and the spit in a desperate attempt to get away from the heat, most of fight had gone out of him. As he turned over the coals, it looked like he was resigned to his fate. He only wished he could pass out and drift-off without having to hear the jibes and comments of the sponsors gathered close around.

“Alright everyone,” Chef Andre announced, “it’s time to start putting on the bar-b-cue sauce. Old man Zander told me what was in the sauce such as vinegar, tomatoes, garlic, onion, some cayenne and honey and molasses to give it enough body to stick nicely, but he would not give up the recipe. I believe I have recreated it petty accurately. You’ll note that this is a sweet and spicy sauce. It’s flavorful but not too overpowering. After all, you came here to get a taste of our longpig, not the sauce..” Chef Andre stirred the sauce with a long handled brush. “I’ll be putting on the first couple of coats, but anyone who wants to try basting this guy should fell free to help.” As we sponsors gathered around, Chef Andre pulled out a brush thick with sauce and began to generously paint our longpig's flesh. The heat had left our longpig dizzy and lost in an almost dream-like, half-wakeful state. As he felt the first cool splash of BBQ sauce on his hip, it looked like he wanted to cry in relief. It felt so wonderful, but there wasn’t enough of it. He wanted the chef to pour it over him, douse him in it. Instead Chef Andre slowly and painstakingly painted it over his angry skin. Each place the brush touched him was soothing like a cool breeze in the desert.

More! he begged wordlessly. More!

Around and around he turned. Time passed in a blur, but before long our longpig began to realize that Chef Andre had coated him from his neck to his toes, even squishing the brush down between his toes and over the arches of his feet. The sauce, combined with sweat, or perhaps melted fat, dripped off our longpig as he slowly turned, hissing and popping on the coals. Chef Andre continued to stroke him lovingly with the long brush, working the sauce under his armpits, behind his knees, down in the crack of his ass, behind his dangling balls. He brushed it tenderly over his nipples, which he noted now stood out stiff and hard, and his similarly straining cock. The sauce dried quickly on his skin in the heat, but remained tacky as sweat and juices bubbled up through his pores.

Eventually Chef Andre handed off the bar-b-cue brush and found a few more and handed them off to a couple of us. “Now remember, you’re supposed to brush his whole body, not just the fun parts.”

Chef Andre closely inspected the rotisserie man. “By now I expect our longpig is feeling a lot of endorphins kicking in. That and his nerve endings are shutting down. All those endorphins and adrenaline that was shooting through him will go a long way toward tenderizing his meat. It also gives him a very gamey flavor. Sort of the difference between a farm pig and a wild boar. I must say, he seems to be cooking up nice and evenly. He’ll be ready to serve in a couple more hours.” He stood back and addressed the longpig, “Do you know how fucking sexy you look on that spit? I want to climb on top of you and fuck you. It’s driving me crazy!” I knew exactly how the Chef felt, because I wanted to do it too. “Oh god!” he grunted. “You wouldn’t believe how hot this makes me. Watching you, trapped and struggling, all those big strong muscles being slowly softened by the heat… watching you cook soooooo slowly. It makes my cock throb watching this biiig strooong man giving up everything he is and everything he’s going to be just sate our ravenous hunger… My fine fat piggie! As soon as I saw you, I knew I’d never be satisfied until I had you like this. I’d never get enough of you until I consumed you… And now you want it too, don’t you? You want me to sink my teeth into your meat…feel it melt on my tongue” … Our longpig was in no position to argue.

Chef Andre closed his eyes and turned away. He put his hands on his legs and took several big breaths. It seemed like a great deal of effort to clear out the lustful thoughts and keep working.“Ok,” he said, “let's look at our other football player, rather what the Americans call soccer.”

The other guy had been hanging quietly watching everything transpire with the first guy. It could not have been comfortable hanging that long by his wrists, but maybe he wanted us to forget he was there. With the added attention he started to twist in his chains, and said, “No, please don't spit me. I will take the chair now, or the noose, or even the guillotine.”

“It's a little late for that.” said Andre. “The barbecue is going to be fabulous, but there is only so much of that we can consume. We need to be a little more creative with you. A body as beautiful as yours requires something special though. I am thinking stuffing and roasting. We can do it slowly so you are only going in to the oven while the other longpig is ready to eat.” our next victim hung his head, and cried a little. ”

I walked over to Chef Andre and asked, “He told us his name, but I can't remember it. Was it Dingo, or Dario, or something like that?”

Andre said, “I think it was Domingo, but I find with a longpig it's better not to give them so much respect as having a name. He forfeited his humanity when he showed up to play the game.” I had to agree with the Chef. Why worry about this guy ever having a name. He is a longpig now. The chef massaged and molested his body. I did too. There was nothing he could do.

Diego listened to the exchange and thought of all the fans who had clamored for his autograph over the years. He had bedded hundreds of girls who adored him and worshipped his body. This is where he had sunk. Hanging against a wall in a kitchen waiting to be cooked, and his name forgotten.

The Chef Andre stood next to Diego studying the athlete. "I know he hasn't had any solid food in quite a while, but I want to make sure with this one. We'll be forcing stuffing into his intestines, and I want to make sure there is no contamination. Our guests are far too important to be getting sick. Without letting his gaze leave Diego's nude body, the chef began shouting orders to his associates. "Bring the hot enema hose and stick it up his ass hole. Make sure that the liquid is almost to the boiling point."

As an associate stuck the enema hose deep into Diego's anus, Diego looked up to Chef Andre with pleading eyes. They can't be getting ready to cook him. This just can't be happening, thought Diego.

With an ever so slight push on a button, the hot enema was pumped into Diego's large intestine. Upon feeling the enema scorch the inner walls of his large intestine, Diego managed to emit a noticeable scream. The shock of the hot fluid forcing its way into Diego's body almost caused him to pass out. Passing out would have been merciful. The Chef Andre had no intention of showing Diego any mercy.
Filled to capacity with the enema fluid, the hose was withdrawn from Diego's anus. An associate promptly brought a large bucket and placed it just behind and beneath Diego's buttocks. Diego made no attempt to hold the enema fluid within him. Almost as soon as the hose was removed, the hot liquid coupled with the small quantity of fecal matter that had accumulated within Diego came gushing forth. Once Diego's intestines were completely emptied, Diego was given a brisk rinse. The water was very cold. The procedure was repeated four times.

Diego was taken to the butchering table. There a large broiling pan had been placed. Rectangular in shape, the broiling pan had dimensions of about two and one half feet wide by six and a half feet in length, easily large enough for Diego.

One of the cooking associates suddenly grabbed both of Diego's ankles. Simultaneously, another associate lifted Diego by his underarms. Together the two men lifted Diego onto the broiling pan. Laying on him back, Diego's knees were then pushed forward by the man who had grabbed his ankles. While holding Diego's legs up against his stomach, a third man securely tied together his lower legs. Diego tried vainly to escape. The men holding him were just too strong. Try as Diego might, he couldn't kick his legs free. With Diego's legs bound together, the man holding him at the shoulders pushed his arms towards his legs. Seeing the opportunity, the third man then grasped Diego's wrists and bound them tightly together about his thighs. Diego found himself trussed up on the broiling pan just like a Thanksgiving day turkey. This was fitting, for Diego was to be roasted just like a turkey. Diego squirmed on the broiling pan in discomfort for all the good it did him.

Bound as Diego was on the broiling pan, both ass and cock were completely exposed. His cock was facing upwards and his anus was parallel to the broiling pan. His anal orifice was now presented considerably opened due the strain of his bondage. All this was a bit more than Chef Andre could take. Diego's open rectum was just too tempting. "I believe he needs a bit more seasoning.", announced the Chef. Reaching down to his pant's fly he unzipped his pants and took out his all ready stiffening cock. Lifting his head, Diego could see that he was about to be raped. He tried to squirm away from the head chef's attack, but a pair of the chef's associates held him down. They would get their turn. Using his fingers, the Chef Andre forced a large quantity of butter into Diego's anus. He carefully rotated his butter covered fingers around the inner lining of Diego's anus making sure that he was completely coated. Satisfied with his preparations, he then assaulted Diego's anus with his now fully hardened cock.

With a quick forward thrust, the head chef forced his hard cock all the way into Diego's anus. Our once proud latin stud lifted his belly and made a muted scream in response. Completely withdrawing his cock, the Chef Andre then forced more butter into Diego's anus. Once again the Chef thrust his cock deep into Diego's anus. He repeated this sequence several more times before he stopped exiting him completely and proceeded to enjoy Diego's now well lubricated ass. Tears dripped down Diego's cheeks as he grunted and his anal opening filled with semen. Never in his life had he been anally assaulted. As the Chef Andre watched, his associates took their turn. Andre zipped up, turned and addressed us sponsors, “I am sorry. That was most unprofessional, but it has been a long weekend spent around some magnificent specimens of manhood. Would any of you like a turn?”

I indicated I would like a turn, but after the kitchen staff currently occupying the place of honor had finished. This guy rutting now must be the fourth or fifth. A quarter stick of butter appeared, and disappeared into whats-his-names ass and I drove my cock in right after. Our longpig looked beyond humiliated, and somehow his degradation made it feel even better. I lasted two or three minutes. X and Y seemed satisfied to watch. Chef Andre took one more turn too.

An apple and a large bowl of stuffing were brought over. They had purposely stretched his anal openings. As the assistance standing in front of Diego grasped the apple and quickly before Diego could close his mouth, he tightly wedged the apple between his teeth. Try as he might, Diego could not dislodge the apple. Diego's anus was now set to receive its load of stuffing. Using his right hand, the associate that had for the second time taken Diego via his anus, shoved handfuls of stuffing into Diego's well stretched anus. After he had put in as much as he could, he then employed a long wooden rod fitted with a rounded rubber tip to jam the stuffing deep into Diego's large intestine. The stuffing of Diego continued until his large intestine could hold no more. His belly swelled noticeably. A large diameter butt plug was then jammed into Diego's anal opening to secure his load of stuffing.

"Bring the olive oil and seasoning!", ordered the Chef Andre. Together the head chef and his associates poured the specially prepared oil and seasoning over every square inch of Diego's body. As the oil and seasoning spread over Diego's chest, his nipples hardened uncontrollably. Diego wanted to scream out. The stimulation was more than he could bear. Then the Chef Andre grabbed Diego's large cock and stroked it to a roaring erection, then wrapped cooking string tightly around the base, and then dozens of times around his large loose sack. The chef gave Diego's big trapped balls a vicious pull and squeeze, before he slapped the package viciously several times. "These will be delicious". Diegos head spun with pain from the abuse. Diego's seasoning completed, just one more details needed to be attended to. A thermometer, one of the dial variety with a long stem, was inserted into Diego's thigh. Like the other guy roasted above the open fire on a spit, Diego would be alive as he cooked, and as the patrons feasted on his well roasted, juicy brown body.

The Chef Andre stepped back and seemed pleased with Diego's preparation. Looking down to Diego's bound and now well seasoned body, he lectured him. "You'll look just lovely fully cooked as we deliver you to our guests. Ah, I can see you now. The hot steam rising from your well browned flesh will excite everyone's taste buds. I do look forward to personally carving up your most tender flesh, as you feel every slice. Well enough talk, the oven is waiting. It has not been preheated. I will step up the temperature slowly so you don't cook too quickly. We have a barbecued spit roast to enjoy first." Diego looked up to the Chef with his eyes wide showing his fear. He was so scared that he could not move a single muscle. His fear immobilized him.

Slowly Diego and the broiling pan upon which he was bound was moved to the specially built large oven. A rotisserie stand connected to a motor was in the center. The oven was cool at first, but he could feel a gentle heat. Located on the oven's side was a clear portal made up of a specially heat resistant glass. Through this portal the Chef Andre and we sponsors could watch good old whats-his-name roast while he spun slowly around. He could also observe everyone watching him. We obtained a perverse pleasure watching him cook this way. Just as he became aware of the heat, the crowd of observers left.

“I wonder if the other guy on the spit is done?” Diego thought to himself. The answer was, yes.

“Gather round everyone.” Chef Andre called from the spit roasting station. He waited until our first longpig rotated belly up before tapping the foot-pedal that stopped the motor. From the neck up he looked like he was asleep. From the neck down he looked a little swollen, his skin coated with the dark sauce, blackened in places. His cock, still erect, looked like a well-grilled sausage. When exactly he had expired, no one knew. Breathing deeply, I inhaled the incredible scents of the longpig’s roasting meat. I sucked the scent in deep, as if I was taking a hit off a bong and wanted to hold the smoke deep in my lungs in order to feel the effects quicker.

Three deft strokes and Chef Andre freed our longpig’s well-cooked balls from his body and skewered them on the end of the carving fork. He lifted them onto the plate with the edge of the blade. One more stroke and his cock was neatly bisected down the middle. “Who is first?,” he asked magnanimously.

I did not want to appear overly greedy, so I let X and Y go first. Besides there was a chance that whats-his-name roasting in the oven now might be alive when he came out in a few hours. Wouldn't it be something if he was aware while manhood was being sliced away? X said, “I'll try. You have to be open to try new things.” He bit one of the testicles in two and munched pensively. “Amazing.” not what I was expecting, but delicious.”

Y took a bite of the other ball, and seemed equally impressed. “He’s wonderful!”

Chef Andre speared the well-done cock with a long handled carving fork. It ‘popped’ like a well-done sausage. With a deft pass of his knife, he lifted the member and dropped it onto a carving plate. He cut it into three equal pieces. It was a bit chewy, but that was to be expected I suppose. As I was chewing I wondered how many women this guy had bedded. I remember he had several high-profile (and expensive) divorces. Infidelity was stated as the reason. This guy's cock and balls were really the essence of the man. What an honor, really.

Chef Andre addressed us, “You do not have to continue standing up eating like a bunch of barbarians. A civilized table service has been arranged with a view of Domingo the soccer player. If you will specify what pieces of Longpig number one, you would like, I will carve it for you, and the staff will bring it to the table. Appropriate wines have been selected, as well as a few side dishes.

“Some thigh please, with lots of that crispy cracklin.” said X

“I’ll have a nice thick rump steak, please,” said Y.

Andre turned to me and asked, “For you sir?”

“I'm not sure. I’d like a little something off the shoulder, or should I sample a pec, or what do you recommend?”.

“I will bring you a small sample of each.” he said. I savored every tender bite, letting the symphony of flavors dance around on my tongue. This had been the meal of a lifetime. It was a true connoisseur's experience, but it wasn't over.

Chef Andre came over after we had slowed our consumption, and asked, “Can I bring any of you more longpig?” We all said no. “It's wise to pace yourself. The second one will be ready in a hour or so. It does appear he is still alive. If you have had enough of the barbecued longpig, may I let the kitchen staff sample him, and then the guards?” We all consented. Fine meat like that should not be wasted.

We got up from time to time, and watched whats-his-name go round in the oven. We all had a liqueur, and waited for our second course of longpig. It was going to be interesting to see how the flavor differed. If our second longpig was still alive, the chance to eat meat off the guy while he was still alive would be a once in a lifetime opportunity.

From the other side of the glass: After several hours it was getting extremely hot within the oven. Diego's wasn't sure when he was aware that he was beginning to cook. The oil coating his skin began to simmer. The needle on the thermometer jammed into his right thigh began to rotate indicating higher and higher temperatures. Diego closed his eyes and squirmed about the broiling pan in a vain attempt to escape the pain. Diego cooked and suffered for hours before being removed, and placed on a platter. Then taken out to the sponsors.

Chef Andre started by cutting thru the cooking string he had tightly wound around the base of this guys cock. The testicles didn't really move when the string fell away. “Yes, these are nicely done.”, the chef said. One of his balls was definitely mine since I had passed on the honors of longpig one. I inspected it on the end of my fork. It smelled marvelous. Pondering what a magnificent piece of manhood it had been attached to, it was an honor to savor it. I would consume his flesh. It in a way would become part of me. The logical side of my brain said, no eating part of a man like this won't make you more viral like he was, but then again the lustful side of my brain clearly reveled in the idea. Chef Andre tried to waft some of the steam and smells toward us. The flesh was coked an even brown. There were no globs of burned barbecue sauce on the skin. I especially loved the stuffing, and knowing how it had been so nicely seasoned.

Diego was vaguely aware of his carving. He felt the first thing to go was his plump, juicy brown genitals. The rest of him was carved off by Chef Andre who clearly enjoyed what he was doing.. Diego died 1/2 way through dinner.