Stefanie. She didn’t scream. She didn’t run. She lay artfully arranged on one of those massive silver serving platters in the tavern. Her skin was golden-brown and crisp; the juices pooled beneath her.
Glazed honey glistened on her skin, just like on the pastries she had brought along.

Stefanie. Roasted. Prepared and delicious. The image seared itself into my mind—horrifying and yet highly erotic. Another shiver ran through me. Suddenly and intensely, a heat flared up in my loins.

I lay naked on the luxurious sofa, sinking into the soft blanket. My fingers slid impatiently between my thighs.
A shocking wetness greeted them. A soft moan escaped my lips,
involuntary. It was a raw lust for flesh—naked flesh, roasted flesh.

It wasn't just the thought of Stefanie’s
roasted body, but the act itself—the forbidden spectacle of consuming a girl—that aroused me. My
dark pulse hammered against my collarbone, echoing the moist friction of my own touch. I ignored
my grandmother’s warning. Passion and an inherited hunger had enveloped me like a dark mist.

Stefanie—I caressed her roasted skin, licked up her own delicious juices. I savored her
most intimate flesh. That forbidden, exquisite taste of her roasted pussy... I arched my
back, pressed tight against myself, chasing that electric current as my imagination
ran wild. Shame was far away, drowned out by the surging tide washing over me. I
didn't care. The curse was not merely a threat; it was a dark, seductive
passion pulling me under.

And now I saw the image of myself—roasted and basted, simply
and seductively arranged. Not my older self—no, my youthful self.
I lay beside Stefanie, breathing in the scent of my own roasted body.