Chapter 1: Introducing the Spartan Spitter

The moment I walked in the door Friday evening, I found myself wishing I had worked late at the office.

"I'm home!" I called out, but it's unlikely my family could hear me over the shrill, overlapping female voices.

"You stupid bitch, give them to me right now! I told you not to fucking go in my half of the closet."

"Fuck you, Iris! It's not like you were going to wear them tonight. And they look way better on me than on a cow like you, anyway."

My middle teenage daughters, Iris and Mae, were in the living room fighting over god knows what, once again. My wife, Esther, was just sitting on the couch looking at her phone, apparently oblivious to the cacophony. While I stood by the door wondering if there would be any point in trying to break them up, I felt a hand on my ass. I turned to find my oldest daughter pulling my wallet out of my pants pocket.

"Blair, what do you think you're doing?" I growled as I retrieved my wallet from her.

"Hi, Daddy!" she said. "Don't worry. It's fine, I just need some money so I can hang out at the mall with my friends."

I disagreed. "I already gave you two hundred this week; what happened to that?"

"Oh," she laughed, "silly Daddy. That was just for the bare essentials, like my new phone case. If I'm going to the mall with the girls, I'll need more than that!"

"Just how much of my money are you after?" I grumbled, over the ongoing sounds of war.

"Really not very much," Blair said unconvincingly. "You won't even miss it, I promise."

"I think all I have is a twenty, so that will have to do."

She looked aghast. "Oh, no, then just lend me one of your credit cards. That'll be easiest. In fact you should really just give me my own card, like you do for Mom."

Her mother chose this moment to join the conversation. "Yes, Henry, she's plenty old enough. Then, she wouldn't have to bother you for money all the time. I had my own credit card when I was much younger than her."

Esther turned briefly and finally acknowledged the cat fight. "Will you cunts shut the fuck up? We're having a conversation over here!"

I rubbed my temple in frustration. "She's twenty-one. If she isn't going to go to college, she should have a lot more than a credit card by now. Like a job. Or an apartment. Or maybe even a boyfriend to live with." I turned to my daughter. "But, if you want a credit card, by all means, go out and get your own card, and your own bank account to pay for it!"

Blair covered her face with her hands and burst into tears that shouldn't have fooled anyone who knew her.

"Now look what you've done," snapped Esther. "You know she's sensitive about her boyfriend situation! And you know it's not her fault. There just aren't enough boys for every girl to get a boyfriend these days."

My wife snatched my wallet and fished out my high limit card.

"Here, baby," she said soothingly. "You go out and get yourself something nice to help forget your mean old dad."

"Thanks, Mom! Bye!"

All signs of tears magically disappeared, along with the gilded plastic rectangle, and Blair was out the door before I could do anything to stop her. I sighed in defeat and took my wallet back. Behind me, Iris and Mae sounded like they were tearing each other's hair out.

"I'll be in my study," I muttered, not really caring if my wife heard me.

My study was my sanctuary. I'd put up a heavy door and extra insulation in the walls to block out the sounds from the outside, and had a strict rule that no one but me and my secretary could enter it without my permission. As soon as I closed the door, my daughters' screams were reduced to a whisper. I plopped into my cushy office chair and clicked on the standing lamp next to my desk. Right away, I noticed that something was off about the lamp.

The lamp was something I had made myself back in high school. The lamp shade consisted of the leather from the entire torso of a busty girl, its buxom shape rigidly preserved with a coat of clear resin on the inside. The shade was mounted on top of a cheap lamp stand, with the brass pole passing through the leather pussy, like a spit. I knew that some people probably thought it was tacky having a softly glowing naked body in my office, but I'd worked quite hard to make it, and even all these years later, I was still proud of how it turned out.

At the moment, the brass pole was bent slightly and there was a sliver of brighter light emerging from a crack running up the middle between the breasts. I turned on the overhead light and got a closer look at the damage. When I touched it, I found that the area near the crack was slippery and damp. I stormed out and quickly located Esther in the kitchen, pouring herself a glass of wine.

"Who was in my study?" I demanded. "Someone was in there and broke my lamp."

She sneered when I mentioned the lamp. "Good riddance! I always thought it was creepy having your old girlfriend in the house."

"Seriously, woman? It's been over twenty years since I snuffed her, and you still can't get over that grudge? For the millionth time, it's not her anymore, it's just a lamp now."

"It's shaped exactly like her," she snapped back. "If you ask me, you're the one who needs to get over it. Throw out that ugly garbage and I promise I'll forget that no-good slut ever existed."

I didn't want to get dragged into that old fight again.

"Who," I said slowly, trying to control my anger, "went into my study and broke my lamp?"

"It wasn't me," she said haughtily. "It was probably Julie. I think I saw her coming out of there a while ago."

Our youngest daughter was usually the least likely to give me any real trouble: most of the time, my little daddy's girl was comparatively well behaved.

I found our sixteen year old in her room. She was stretched out on her bed just wearing socks and a tight t-shirt, reading from a thick textbook while fingering herself. She was the athletic one in the family, so her bare, shapely legs were deeply tanned below her swimsuit lines, along with much of the rest of her. When she saw me enter her room, she tried to put on a welcoming smile, but I could see that the smile was riddled with guilt.

"Julie, did you break my girlskin lamp?" I asked sternly.

"Well, I umm," she began, then stopped rubbing her clit and sat up. "I didn't mean to. It was an accident. I'm sorry, Daddy."

"You know you aren't supposed to even go in there, so how exactly did you accidentally break something you shouldn't have even been near?"

"Well, I was horny after school, and Mom says you fuck that lamp all the time, so I didn't think you would mind if I humped it for a while. I always thought it was super sexy, and I didn't know it would break so easily," she whimpered.

I groaned inwardly, That stupid, jealous bitch.

"Baby girl, I do not fuck my lamp," I said in exasperation. "It's a rigid, brittle piece of resin with a thin layer of girl leather on it. It would make a terrible sex toy."

The truth was that I'd jerked out more than a few loads of cum onto that lamp in the middle years of marriage when Esther "wasn't in the mood," and I didn't have another outlet, but my daughter didn't need to know that.

"I'm really, really sorry, Daddy. I liked that lamp a lot. Do you think it can be fixed?"

She seemed to be genuinely remorseful, and I could never stay mad at my baby girl. I hugged her and sighed.

"Yeah, probably. I made it; I should be able to fix it. Just don't try to have sex with any more of the things in my study."

She giggled and snuggled her sun bleached head of sandy hair into my chest. "Okay, Daddy."

"Don't you have a girlfriend you can fuck when you get horny?" I inquired.

"You mean Cassie?" she mumbled. "No, we're not dating, we're just friends. Although I guess we do fuck almost every time she comes over. She tends to want to fuck when she's here, because she–umm, I mean, just reasons. I guess I'd say we're really horny best friends."

Out of curiosity I glanced at the textbook, to see what she had been reading. It was a history book, open to a chapter on the various ways that past cultures had cooked meatgirls. The colorful illustration of a whole roasted maiden at a medieval feast, celebrating a bountiful harvest was rather tantalizing, so I could see why she would've been turned on by her schoolwork.

The house had grown much quieter in the last couple minutes, so I wasn't surprised to find that only one of my daughters was in the living room. Iris was watching TV while eating from a takeout container, and there were a couple other containers of Chinese food on the dining table. The receipt showed two portions of the girl meat potstickers I always ordered, but they were nowhere to be seen, so I took some spicy chow mein, and returned to my study.

After eating, I spent a few minutes patching up the lamp. With some effort, I was able to bend the pole back to very nearly straight. Some super glue reinforced the crack in the shade, but no matter what I did, the leather wouldn't quite join together perfectly any more. I got it close enough to not be too noticeable, but I knew it would never be quite the same again.

For a moment, I considered throwing out the battered old lamp, but picturing the look of smug satisfaction that would've put on my nagging wife's face strengthened my resolve to keep it at all costs.

While the glue was drying, I turned on my computer and got started on some of the work I was planning to get done over the weekend. In the past few weeks, productivity in my department had gone up dramatically, but not exactly for the reasons the IT department was claiming. The new AI tools they'd installed were really good at generating well formatted documents, but they were riddled with nonsense statements and made up numbers, so I and my team had been putting in a lot of hours fixing the work it was outputting. I really needed to find a way to reward all the women working under me for their efforts, especially my highly dedicated secretary.

I got so engrossed in what I was doing that it was well past midnight when I decided to stop. On one of my earlier excursions to refill my coffee mug, I had noticed that Esther was passed out drunk and snoring in the hall by our bedroom, so I knew there wasn't any chance of a good time to look forward to in that direction. Of course, even if she had been conscious and sober, I'm sure she would have claimed to have a headache or something, so a cold shoulder was about the best I would've gotten from her.

Along with all other aspects of our relationship, our love life had been gradually going downhill for a long time. She usually smelled like pussy after getting back from any of the neighbor's houses, so I knew she was still having plenty of sex, it just wasn't with me most of the time. The time I spent at the office was about the only thing that made the situation tolerable, although my patience was truly being strained to the limit.

Rather than heading to bed, I decided to wind down by watching some late night TV in my study. After flipping channels aimlessly for a while, I landed on an infomercial that seemed to just be starting.

"Hello everyone, I'm Ron Popeil. Have any of you ever had trouble with a nagging wife?" asked the familiar man in a blue apron.

"Yes!" replied the studio audience.

"I'll say," I muttered.

Ron continued, "And do any of you have one or more unruly daughters that just won't follow your rules, and gets into trouble all the time?"

"Oh, hell yes!" I said, at the same time the audience chanted agreement.

Good ol' Ronco had my full attention now.

"Well, I have here for you today a revolutionary new female processing machine that is sure to change the way you prepare and cook that special girl, that nagging wife, or those unruly daughters."

Ronco walked over to a large, shiny machine as he kept talking.

"I call this new female processor the Spartan Spitter."

I muttered to myself, "That sounds good, Henry, but don't let him talk you into buying something you can't afford."

Ronco continued to pitch his new machine, pointing out its key features and claiming its superiority over the popular Jessica 3000.

"What would you expect to pay for such a great machine as the Spartan Spitter?" he asked.

"Here it comes," I said.

"The Jessica 3000 is still selling for over $5,000 dollars, but you're not going to pay $5,000 dollars for the Spartan Spitter, you're not even going to pay $4,000 or $3,000. What if I told you that you can take this lovely machine home for just four easy monthly payments of $500 dollars, now isn't that amazing?"

That was a surprisingly reasonable price for a fully automatic spitting machine. In true infomercial style, he went on to throw even more free bonuses into the deal: a large cookbook, an instructional video, and even a farm-raised meatgirl, for practice.

"Okay, okay," I said to the TV, "a good meatgirl alone can set you back half that much. That's quite a bargain."

Two attractive teen girls had joined him on stage; the clothed one leading the other girl, bound and on a leash.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Ron said, "these are my lovely daughters, Anna and Joan. Anna has agreed to demonstrate the female spitting process on the new Spartan Spitter for us today."

Naked Anna smiled weakly at the camera. Ron moved back to the counter where he had started the infomercial.

"You know, I was just thinking to myself, Ron, what is a meatgirl barbeque without the barbeque sauce, so for everyone who calls within the next 30 minutes, I will include in this package, ten gallons of Chef Trolloc's Special barbeque sauce. Supplies are limited so don't delay, call today."

I dug out my wallet and frowned at the absence of my preferred credit card.

I grumbled to myself, "With the way that useless girl is spending my money, I'd literally be losing money by not taking this deal."

After a quick trip to get Esther's credit card from her purse, I came back in time to hear Anna scream in pain as the spit pierced her. In my absence she had been clamped into the Spartan by all four limbs and her neck. Moments later, her screaming was cut off as the spit emerged from her mouth. It extended another two feet in front of her tear-stained face before stopping.

Ron pointed out that the meatgirl was still alive, thanks to the breathing holes in the thick, hollow spit as the machine sliced open her belly, dumping her guts into the bucket below.

"The Spartan Spitter does everything for you; all you have to do is get your meat strapped in and the Spartan does the rest. It's even self cleaning!"

The machine had been sewing up Anna's belly while he had been talking, then Joan pushed a hose into her sister's asshole.

"With the hose in place, the Spartan will now fill Anna's belly with delicious chicken stuffing."

Her belly slowly expanded until she looked nine months pregnant. Ron walked over and gave the mouth watering spit roaster a hard slap on the ass.

"It's that simple," he declared. "All you have to pay for this wonderful new machine is four easy payments of $500 dollars."

Joan removed the hose and replaced it with a sharp anal stabilizer, eliciting a muffled scream from the meatgirl. Ron carried on with his sales pitch.

"There's more! I know most of you have big family barbeques and lots of people to feed, so you're all probably thinking, well Ron, I need to spit two or three daughters for my big family barbeque; one spit isn't enough for my family. Well, I'll solve that right now. I'll throw in two additional spits for that big family barbeque and the price is still only 4 easy payments of $500 dollars."

Ronco looked thoughtful and then went on. "I'm looking at the price, and it still seems a bit high, so I'll tell you what I'm going to do, for everyone who calls and orders my machine before the end of the program about five minutes from now, I'm going to take off one full payment. Now the price is only three easy payments of $500 dollars. Where can you beat that price?"

As I dialed the number at the bottom of the screen, a plan began to form. Drawing inspiration from Julie's textbook, I thought I'd found a way to solve my problems at home and at work all in one stroke. All I needed was a shiny new Spartan Spitter.