Amanda squeezes her hand once in response, not saying anything else as they walk together toward homeroom with the rest of the students moving through the hall around them.

Miss Lennox is already in the classroom when they arrive. She’s leaning back in her chair behind the desk with her feet propped up on the edge, a small boxed lunch sitting open beside a stack of papers she clearly hasn’t bothered grading yet.

She’s halfway through a cheese and ham sandwich when the girls walk in.

“Hey girls,” she says around the mouthful, lifting one hand in a casual wave while she chews. “What’s in the tupperware?”

Riley holds up the container she’s carrying.

“Leftover meat stew,” she says. Then she steps closer and sets it down on the desk in front of Miss Lennox. “We ate most of it already, but you can have the rest if you want.”

“It’s actually really good,” Amanda adds quickly, nodding like she needs to confirm it.

Miss Lennox glances down at the container for a moment, then shrugs and pulls it closer without much ceremony. She flips the lid open and peers inside, steam still faintly rising from the thick broth and vegetables.

Without bothering with a spoon, she dips the corner of her sandwich straight into it.

She takes a bite.

Her reaction isn’t the polite kind teachers usually fake when students offer them food that probably tastes terrible. Instead she pauses mid-chew, eyebrows lifting slightly while she processes it.

“This is good, girls,” she says after swallowing. Her eyes flick toward Riley. “You could be a really good chef one day.”

Amanda doesn’t object when Riley ends up getting the credit. She just leans against the desk beside her and shrugs a little.

She hates cooking anyway.

“If the veg had been too thick it would’ve ruined it,” Riley says, grabbing Amanda by the shoulder and tugging her a step closer to the desk. “My sous chef did a great job.”

Amanda snorts a little at that, clearly not expecting the credit but not pushing it away either.
Miss Lennox nods toward her with mild approval while she takes another bite of the sandwich she’s still dipping into the stew.

“That you did, dear.”

She wipes the corner of her mouth with a napkin and sets the container aside, glancing toward the classroom door as more students start filtering in from lunch.

“Alright,” she says, waving a hand lazily toward the rows of desks. “Go ahead and sit down.”

A few students are already settling into their seats while others drift in more slowly, the room gradually filling with the low hum of voices.

“Do whatever rituals you need to do,” Miss Lennox adds, leaning back in her chair again. “But be prepared.”

Riley and Amanda head toward their usual desks while the watch on Riley’s wrist catches the overhead light for a moment, the green glow steady as the room continues to fill around them.

The room fills steadily as students drift back from lunch, one by one at first and then in small groups until nearly every seat is taken. The scrape of chairs and quiet conversation gradually settles into something softer, the kind of background noise people make when they’re trying not to think about the same thing at the same time.

By the time the last few students arrive there are fifteen minutes left.

Nobody says that out loud. Everyone already knows.

Some of the kids bow their heads over clasped hands, whispering prayers so quietly you can barely hear them unless you’re sitting right beside them. Others pretend they don’t care at all, spinning fidget toys between their fingers or tapping pencils against their desks in uneven little rhythms that never quite line up.

A few students eat the rest of their lunches slowly, like stretching it out somehow makes the time pass faster.

Miss Lennox doesn’t interrupt any of it. She stays behind her desk with her boxed lunch, finishing the last of her sandwich and glancing occasionally at the clock above the door.

Riley sits in her seat beside Amanda with her hands folded together on the desk, watching the seconds tick away while the watch on her wrist glows its steady green.

It’s always tense.

Always the longest half hour of the week.

Riley eventually starts eating again, mostly out of boredom. She digs into her bag and pulls out the small packet of potato chips she packed that morning, tearing the top open and tipping a few into her palm.

She eats them slowly, one at a time, letting the salt sit on her tongue before crunching down. The noise feels louder than usual in the quiet room, but nobody complains because half the class is doing something similar just to fill the silence.

Ten minutes.

Riley wipes her fingers on a napkin and pulls out her phone, resting it on the edge of the desk while she scrolls. The Lottery forums are already lighting up with posts from people across the country, most of them wishing strangers good luck or telling everyone to stay calm if their watch changes.

Some people write long speeches about civic duty. Others just drop little messages and move on.

Riley types one herself.

She reuses the same dumb joke she always makes about her mom’s pancakes and how they might sweeten her meat if she’s the one who gets picked today. It takes about ten seconds before the replies start popping up underneath it.

A couple laughing emojis.

A few hearts.

Someone sends a thumbs-up.

And, of course, one person writes a long reply about how jokes like that are disrespectful to the Animals who already converted.

Riley snorts quietly and locks her phone.

Five minutes.

Now people start talking again, but it’s the quiet kind of conversation where nobody really says anything important. Riley leans toward Amanda and makes small talk about nothing in particular, whatever comes to mind first.

Amanda barely answers.

She never does around this point.

Riley notices the way her friend’s shoulders tense up and the way she rubs her hands together under the desk like she’s trying to warm them. Then the shivering starts, small at first, the kind you might miss if you weren’t sitting right next to her.

Amanda always shivers.

One minute.

Riley starts eating again before the minute is even halfway gone. At this point she isn’t bothering with the whole one-chip-at-a-time thing anymore. She reaches into the bag and pulls out small handfuls instead, shoving them into her mouth while she stares at the front of the classroom like it might somehow make the time move faster.

The salt burns slightly at the corners of her lips. Crumbs scatter across the desk and stick to her fingers, but she barely notices. Eating gives her something to do with her hands, something to focus on that isn’t the slow crawl of seconds on the clock above the door.

The room has gone very quiet.

Somewhere near the back someone’s pencil rolls off a desk and taps against the floor, but nobody bends down to pick it up.

Then the Lottery Bell rings.

The sound cuts through the room sharp and mechanical, the exact same tone the school uses for every class change except somehow it always feels different at this moment.

Riley’s hand freezes halfway inside the chip bag.

Her stomach lurches hard enough that it actually hurts.

She pulls her hand out slowly, crumbs clinging to her fingers while she turns her wrist just enough to see the face of the watch.

For a split second her brain refuses to process it.

Then the color registers.

It’s red.

CHAPTER TWO

Riley tries to swallow but her throat refuses to cooperate, the muscles tightening like they’ve forgotten how the motion works. The room hasn’t exploded into noise the way she half expected. If anything it’s gone quieter.

Amanda looks down at Riley’s wrist and immediately sees the red glow.

Her expression changes so fast it almost feels like a physical thing moving across her face.

“Oh no,” she whispers, leaning closer. “Not you, Riley.”

Her eyes are already filling with something halfway between shock and pity.

Riley forces herself to breathe in slowly through her nose. Her voice comes out small but steady when she answers.

“It’s fine,” she whispers back.

Then she pushes her chair back and stands up.

“Miss Lennox,” she says, her voice a little louder now as the class watches. “I’m red.”

Miss Lennox rises from behind her desk with the same calm efficiency she’s shown all morning. The first thing she does is glance down at her own wrist, briefly checking the color of her watch before looking back at Riley.

She nods once.

“Alright, very good, Riley.”

There’s no alarm in her tone, just quiet approval.

“Congratulations,” she adds. “And well done for not panicking. I’m sure this is very scary.”

Several students are staring openly now while others try very hard to look at anything else.

Miss Lennox gestures toward the front of the classroom.

“But you’ll need to come up here now,” she says. “You should return your uniform.”

Her voice remains perfectly matter-of-fact.

“Animals don’t wear clothes.”

Riley walks toward the blackboard at the front of the room, keeping her eyes fixed on the floor as she moves between the rows of desks. She can feel the attention following her, that strange shift in the room where people either stare too hard or suddenly become very interested in their notebooks.

Looking up feels impossible.

If she meets someone’s eyes she’s pretty sure the whole thing will fall apart, so she just watches her own shoes moving across the tile until she reaches the front of the class.

As she passes the last row of desks, she feels a quick tug at the back of her skirt.

It’s small, almost playful, but it still makes her stop.

“Hey,” someone else snaps immediately from a nearby desk. “Don’t be an asshole.”

A boy’s voice answers with a careless shrug she can practically hear.

“What?” he says. “It’s gonna come off anyway.”

A couple of kids shift uncomfortably while another mutters something under their breath. The tension in the room tightens for a second, then settles again when Miss Lennox clears her throat softly behind the desk.

Riley keeps walking without turning around.

Her hands hang awkwardly at her sides as she reaches the blackboard, suddenly aware that she has no idea what she’s supposed to do with them now that every movement feels like it matters.

“Tyler,” Miss Lennox says sharply, her voice cutting across the room before the murmuring can grow. “Stand outside.”

She points directly at the classroom door without raising her voice.

“We don’t strip converts here,” she continues, her tone firm but controlled. “We respect them.”

Tyler groans under his breath and pushes his chair back hard enough that the legs scrape loudly across the floor. A few students glance at him as he stalks toward the aisle, his expression sour and annoyed like the whole thing is somehow inconvenient for him.

As he squeezes past Riley, he deliberately bumps his shoulder into hers.
The contact isn’t hard enough to knock her off balance, but it’s rough enough to be obvious.

“That’s detention, Tyler,” Miss Lennox calls after him immediately. “Keep moving, young man.”

Tyler mutters something that sounds suspiciously like “whatever” as he heads for the door, shoving it open and stepping into the hallway without looking back.

The door swings shut behind him with a dull click.

The room settles again, the weight of everyone’s attention returning to Riley standing at the front of the class.

Miss Lennox gives Riley a small, apologetic look from behind her desk, the kind adults use when something unpleasant still needs to happen anyway.

“Come on, dear,” she says gently. “Let’s get this part over with.”

Riley bites down on her bottom lip as she slowly turns around to face the room. The movement alone makes her painfully aware of how many people are watching, even the ones pretending they aren’t. Heat creeps into her cheeks and she can feel the flush spreading across her face.

“Can I do this somewhere else?” she asks quietly.

Miss Lennox shakes her head without hesitation.

“No, honey. Your uniform goes into the box you wrote on at the start of the semester.”

She gestures toward a stack of small storage boxes lined neatly along the wall beside the classroom door. Each one has a student’s name written across the front in thick marker, the labels made during the first week of school when everyone had been told to prepare them for “administrative use.”

Riley spots her own name among them.

Miss Lennox folds her arms loosely and adds, still calm and matter-of-fact,

“And you don’t need to worry. Animals shouldn’t be modest.”

“Would you like me to help?” Miss Lennox asks after a moment, her voice softer now that the room has gone completely quiet. “If it’s too much to do alone, I can help you.”

Riley’s fingers tighten around the hem of her skirt, twisting the fabric back and forth while she stares at the floor. She knows what she’s supposed to do. Everyone in the room knows the procedure, it’s been explained a hundred times in assemblies and orientation talks, but knowing that doesn’t make her body cooperate.

Her legs feel stuck in place, like the signal to move just isn’t getting through.

She keeps worrying the edge of the skirt between her fingers, pulling the material slightly before letting it fall back again.

The silence in the room stretches long enough that it starts to feel heavy.

Riley finally lifts her head just enough to look at Miss Lennox.

Their eyes meet for a brief second.

Then Riley nods slowly.

Miss Lennox steps closer and gently cups Riley’s cheek for a moment, her hand warm and steady.

“You’re doing fine,” she tells her quietly. “This isn’t a failure on your part.”

Then she turns away and retrieves Riley’s box from the row against the wall, setting it carefully on the desk at the front of the room where everyone can see it.

“I’ll start with your tie, blazer, and shirt.”

Her movements are calm and practiced, the kind of efficiency that comes from someone who already knows exactly what order things happen in.

Miss Lennox’s fingers work at the knot of Riley’s tie first, loosening it quickly before slipping it free from her collar. The fabric slides away from her neck and Miss Lennox folds it once before placing it neatly into the box.

Already Riley feels strange without it.

The small weight that had been hanging against her chest all morning is suddenly gone, leaving an empty feeling she hadn’t noticed while it was there.

Next comes the blazer.

Miss Lennox moves through the buttons one by one with quick, precise movements. Riley shifts her shoulders when the last one is undone, letting the jacket slide off her arms so Miss Lennox can take it. The teacher folds it carefully, smoothing the sleeves before setting it into the box beside the tie.

“Good,” she murmurs.

Then her hands move to Riley’s blouse.

The few buttons there are undone just as quickly.

“Arms up,” Miss Lennox says.

Riley obeys without speaking, lifting her arms while Miss Lennox steps behind her to pull the shirt up and away. The motion is direct and practical, more like helping someone out of a sports uniform than anything gentle or ceremonial.

There’s no attempt to pause or soften the moment.

The shirt comes free and Miss Lennox folds it the same way she did the blazer, placing it neatly into the box while the classroom remains completely silent around them.

Riley’s arms come down for a second, then one of them rises again almost immediately, moving on its own before she really thinks about it. The motion is quick and awkward, the instinctive kind of movement you make when you suddenly realize everyone can see you.

Miss Lennox notices right away.

She reaches out and gently catches Riley’s wrist before it can settle where Riley intended to hold it.

The grip isn’t rough. If anything it’s careful, the same steady control she’s shown through the whole process.

“You’re an Animal now,” Miss Lennox says quietly.

She lowers Riley’s arm back to her side.

“No need to be modest.”

The words come out the same way the rest of the instructions have all morning, calm and certain, like a line from a handbook she’s repeated enough times that it’s become second nature.
Then she reaches a hand around from behind Riley, cupping her budding breast. Warm, soft and not unpleasant.

“Class, Riley is an Animal now,” she tells them, “And because she’s an Animal, us Humans are allowed to pet her.” Her finger does slow circles around her nipple now. “Because you’re just a Meatgirl,” she says quietly into her ear, “Not a Human.”

Riley shudders.

Around them the classroom remains completely still. A few students are looking straight ahead at their desks while others watch in uncomfortable silence, unsure where their eyes are supposed to go.

Riley keeps her gaze fixed somewhere near the floorboards, breathing carefully while Miss Lennox turns back toward the box on the desk and prepares to finish returning the rest of the uniform.

Riley keeps staring at the floor, watching the faint scuff marks in the tile while the silence stretches across the room. She can feel the weight of everyone sitting behind her, the quiet awareness of people trying very hard to behave the right way.

That somehow makes it worse.

She wishes they would just look.

Seriously look.

Get it over with instead of pretending they’re suddenly fascinated by their desks or the posters on the wall. The whole room is holding its breath like this is some delicate moment that needs to be treated gently, but Riley isn’t sure she wants gentle right now.

It’s not like she’s going to see any of them again anyway.

That thought settles in her chest with a strange, heavy finality.

All these people she’s spent the year sitting beside, joking with, borrowing pencils from, whispering to during boring lessons. In a week they’ll just be stories she used to remember, faces from a classroom she isn’t part of anymore.

So what’s the point of pretending this is still normal?

Her fingers twitch slightly at her sides while Miss Lennox continues working through the rest of the uniform behind her, folding each piece carefully before placing it into the box with the others. The quiet rustle of fabric is almost the only sound in the room.

The classroom air prickles against Riley's skin, thick with the scent of chalk dust and the faint metallic tang of the radiator hissing in the corner. Her socks—once warm and snug—now cling damply to her toes, the wool fibers itching as she shifts her weight from foot to foot.

"Can you please remove your shoes, dear?" Miss Lennox's voice is honeyed, but there's no mistaking the expectation beneath it.

Riley's throat bobs. She reaches out blindly, her fingers finding the starched fabric of Miss Lennox's sleeve before curling into it like an anchor. The first shoe slips off with a muffled thud; the second follows, leaving her soles pressed flat against the linoleum. Cold seeps upward.

Her tights come next—the elastic waistband snapping against her belly as she peels them down.
The nylon whispers against her thighs, then pools around her ankles like melted shadow. Now it's just her and the pink cotton panties, dotted with tiny strawberries. The pattern suddenly feels absurdly childish.

Riley's thumbs dig into the soft fabric, the elastic pressing a temporary indent into her skin. The classroom hums—not with noise, but with the weight of held breaths and darting glances.
Someone's pencil rolls off a desk, clattering loud enough to make her flinch.

The strawberries stretch as she eases the waistband down. Cool air licks at the newly exposed skin of her hips. Her pulse thrums in her temples, sharp enough to blur the edges of her vision.

She trembles slightly as she reaches the last part herself. Miss Lennox steps back just enough to let Riley finish it without interference, the box sitting open on the desk beside them.

Riley hesitates for a second, her fingers clenching and unclenching at her sides while the silence behind her presses closer.

Then she steps out of her underwear and places it into the box.

Her hands move carefully, almost mechanically, folding the fabric once before setting it on top of the rest of the uniform. The motion feels strangely deliberate, like she’s trying to prove she can still control at least this small part of what’s happening.

The cool air in the classroom suddenly feels sharper against her skin.

She becomes intensely aware of the space behind her, the rows of desks and the quiet presence of everyone sitting there. Even without turning around she can feel the attention following her movements, some of it curious, some of it uncomfortable, all of it impossible to ignore.

Her shoulders tighten slightly.

The box closes with a soft rustle when Miss Lennox lowers the lid partway, the returned uniform now sitting neatly inside with Riley’s name written across the front in thick marker.

“Well done, dear,” Miss Lennox says, giving a small clap of her hands that sounds oddly cheerful in the quiet room. “You were very brave at the end there.” Miss Lennox’s hand finds it way between Riley’s legs now. “Oh, your wet already, naughty Meatgirl.”

A chorus of nervous laughs comes from the students as Miss Lennox strokes Riley’s moist cunt but just as quickly as she started, she stops. The humiliation of stripping and then being touched by a trusted adult causes her to tense.

Miss Lennox gestures toward the desk where the box now sits.

“You can leave your bag here,” she says. “You won’t be needing most of that anymore.”
Her eyes flick briefly toward Riley’s hands.

“Do you want a pouch to carry your phone with?” she asks. “Some Animals prefer having one so they’re not holding everything all the time.”

She opens one of the desk drawers while she waits for Riley’s answer, already reaching inside where a few small fabric pouches have been folded neatly in a stack.

The pouch has a simple strap that slips easily over Riley’s shoulder. The soft fabric settles against her hip as she adjusts it, the material light enough that she barely feels it once it rests in place.

She takes her phone and slides it inside, pressing the flap closed with a small, deliberate motion.

Miss Lennox watches for a second before speaking again.

“Any last words for your old classmates?”

Riley turns back toward the room.

For a moment she wishes she hadn’t.

Now that she’s facing them, the attention is impossible to miss. Some of the students look at her directly, others try not to but still sneak quick glances that travel down and then back up again. The looks feel different now, less like curiosity and more like quiet assessment, as if they’re already starting to see her differently.

She shifts her weight slightly, the pouch brushing against her hip as she moves.

“Oh,” Riley says after a second. “Yeah, uh… it was fun, I guess.”

A couple of kids smile weakly while others keep their eyes down.

“Not this part,” she adds quickly, the words tumbling out a little faster. “The… the… before.”

“Alright,” Miss Lennox says, clapping her hands together once to get the room’s attention again.
“Everyone say goodbye to Riley.”

The response comes out uneven, a soft, awkward chorus that spreads across the room as students mumble their farewells.

“Bye Riley.”

“See you.”

“Good luck.”

Most of the voices are quiet, uncertain, but one rises clearly above the rest.

“Bye Riley. I love you.”

Amanda’s voice wavers at the end, louder than she probably meant it to be.

Riley looks toward her instinctively.

Miss Lennox steps forward before the moment can stretch any longer and pulls Riley into one last brief hug, the gesture quick but firm. She presses a small kiss to Riley’s cheek the same way Riley’s mom had that morning.

Then her voice drops so only Riley can hear it.

“Now you need to leave, Meatgirl,” she says quietly into her ear, a hand grabbing her naked ass, “We don’t allow Animals in classrooms.”

The sudden shift in wording makes Riley flinch slightly. The friendliness is still there in Miss Lennox’s tone, but something about the phrasing lands differently now that it’s directed at her.
Miss Lennox releases her and steps back toward the desk.

By the time she turns around again her expression has already settled back into the calm, professional demeanor Riley is used to.

“Go and see the counselor,” she says, picking up her clipboard again as if they’re just moving on to the next item of the day. “They’ll explain everything that needs to happen.”

Riley pushes the classroom door open and steps out into the hallway.

The air outside feels cooler somehow, or maybe it just feels that way because the room behind her had been so quiet and full of people trying not to stare. The corridor is empty during the draw period, the school rules keeping everyone inside their homerooms until it’s finished.

Tyler is still standing against the wall a few feet from the door.

He straightens a little when he sees her and that same unpleasant grin spreads across his face again, slow and deliberate like he’s enjoying the view. His eyes drag up and down once before he leans his shoulder back against the lockers.

“Damn,” he says under his breath.

Riley stops just long enough to glare at him, the look sharp enough that he at least has the decency to shut his mouth.

Behind her the classroom door opens again.

“Tyler,” Miss Lennox calls sharply from inside. “Get back in here.”

Tyler sighs dramatically but pushes himself off the lockers and shuffles past Riley toward the door. As he passes he gives her another lingering look, but the grin fades slightly when Miss Lennox clears her throat impatiently from the doorway.

Riley watches him disappear back into the classroom before turning away.

She decides not to bother with him anymore.

He’s not going to be part of her life ever again anyway.

With that thought sitting strangely in her chest, she adjusts the strap of the small pouch on her shoulder and starts walking down the hallway toward the counselor’s office.

Riley knocks on the counselor’s door and waits.

“Come in,” a voice calls from inside, warm and casual.

She pushes the door open and steps into the office.

The room smells faintly like tea and hand sanitizer. There’s a couch along one wall, a low coffee table covered in pamphlets about civic responsibility and transition support, and a desk cluttered with folders and a computer that looks like it’s been running all day.

The counselor looks up immediately.

She’s middle-aged, soft-voiced, the kind of person who always seems to be smiling even when nothing funny is happening.

“Well hello there,” she says, pushing her chair back slightly. “You must be Riley.”

Riley nods once.

The counselor’s eyes flick down to Riley’s wrist just long enough to confirm the red glow before returning to her face.

“Alright,” she says gently. “Why don’t you come sit down for me.”

Riley walks across the room and lowers herself onto the couch. The cushion sinks a little under her weight, and the pouch strap shifts on her shoulder as she settles.

The counselor doesn’t sit behind the desk. Instead she drags a chair around so they’re facing each other directly.

“That’s better,” she says. “I’m Mrs. Hargreaves.”

Riley nods again.

Mrs. Hargreaves folds her hands together loosely.

“First things first, I want you to know you did the right thing coming here right away. Some students panic after their watch changes and try to hide somewhere in the building. It never works and it just makes the day harder for them.”

“I wasn’t gonna run,” Riley mutters.

“I didn’t think you would,” the counselor replies, her tone approving.

She glances at a tablet resting on the table beside her and taps the screen once.

“Now, the first thing I need to do is ask you a few questions. Nothing scary, I promise. We just make sure everyone is stable and understands what happens next.”

Riley shifts slightly on the couch.

“Okay.”

“Good girl,” Mrs. Hargreaves says.

She looks back at Riley.

“How are you feeling right now?”

Riley shrugs.

“Fine, I guess.”

The counselor smiles a little.

“Most students say that,” she replies. “Usually what they mean is something closer to confused, scared, embarrassed, and hungry all at the same time.”

Riley snorts quietly.

“Yeah… that sounds about right.”

“Good,” the counselor says, like that answer was reassuring.

She taps the tablet again.

“Are you experiencing any dizziness? Nausea? Trouble breathing?”

“No.”

“Any thoughts about hurting yourself or refusing to report?”

Riley blinks.

“No.”

“Good,” Mrs. Hargreaves repeats.

She leans back slightly.

“Now let’s talk about your seven days.”

Riley’s stomach tightens a little at that.

“Seven days,” she repeats.

“That’s right,” the counselor says. “You have one week before you report to a Processing Center. During that time you’re allowed to go home, visit family, see friends, eat whatever you want,
and generally put your affairs in order.”

Riley stares at the carpet.

“That’s weird to hear.”

“It always is,” Mrs. Hargreaves says calmly.

She studies Riley’s face for a moment.

“Did your teacher explain your legal status change?”

“She said I’m an Animal now.”

“That’s correct,” the counselor says without hesitation. “Your civic personhood is suspended. That means you’re no longer subject to school rules or standard student authority, which is why you’re here instead of in class.”

Riley picks at a loose thread on the couch.

“So I’m expelled.”

The counselor smiles again. “No dear. You’ve simply moved into a different category.”

Riley huffs quietly. “That sounds like expulsion with extra steps.”

Mrs. Hargreaves chuckles at that.

“You’re handling this remarkably well,” she says. She scrolls something on the tablet. “Next question. Have you told your parents yet?”

“No,” Riley says. “It just happened.”

“They’ll be notified automatically within the hour,” the counselor explains. “Most families appreciate a phone call first though, so if you want to contact them you’re welcome to.”

Riley shakes her head.

“I’ll just walk home later.”

“That’s perfectly fine.”

The counselor pauses before continuing.

“Do you understand that you must report to a Processing Center before the seven day timer on your watch expires?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. Failure to report has very serious consequences for families.”

Riley nods slowly.

Mrs. Hargreaves softens her voice again.

“But we’re not going to focus on that right now. The purpose of this meeting is simply to help you settle down and make sure you understand what the next few hours look like.”

Riley looks up slightly.

“Next few hours?”

“Yes,” the counselor says.

She stands up and walks over to a cabinet along the wall.

“The school nurse will perform a brief assessment and hygiene check before you leave campus.
It’s standard procedure for newly converted students.”

She takes a clipboard from the cabinet and writes something on it.

“After that you’ll be free to go home.”

Riley shifts again on the couch.

“That’s it?”

“That’s it,” Mrs. Hargreaves replies.

She hands Riley the clipboard.

“Take this to the nurse’s office. She’s expecting you.”

The counselor opens the office door and gestures down the hallway.

“You’re doing very well so far, Riley. Just keep taking things one step at a time.”

Riley grips the clipboard and nods once before stepping out into the hall, heading toward the nurse’s office for the next part of the process.

Riley knocks on the nurse’s door with the clipboard tucked awkwardly against her side.

“Come in,” a voice answers.

She pushes the door open and steps inside.

The nurse’s office is brighter than the counselor’s room, lit by a long row of fluorescent lights that make everything look clean and slightly too white. Cabinets line the back wall, a medical bed sits near the window, and a sink takes up one corner beside a metal tray of supplies.

The nurse glances up from her desk.

She’s older, probably in her fifties, with reading glasses perched low on her nose and a pen tucked behind one ear.

“Ah,” she says calmly. “You must be Riley.”

Riley nods and holds out the clipboard.

The nurse takes it, scans the page quickly, then sets it aside.

“Alright,” she says, standing up. “Let’s get you sorted.”

Her tone is brisk but not unfriendly, the same practical voice someone might use when dealing with a scraped knee or a headache.

“First thing,” she continues, gesturing toward the examination bed. “Hop up there for me.”

Riley climbs onto it, the paper sheet crinkling loudly beneath her as she sits.

The nurse pulls on a pair of disposable gloves and glances down at a tablet mounted on the wall.

“This is just a standard intake check,” she explains. “We confirm you’re healthy, check for injuries, make sure there’s no signs of abuse or untreated illness. After that we do a hygiene check and you’ll be free to leave campus.”

Riley swallows.

“Okay.”

The nurse taps the screen.

“Any dizziness?”

“No.”

“Chest pain?”

“No.”

“Trouble breathing?”

“No.”

“Any recent injuries I should know about?”

Riley shakes her head.

“No.”

“Good,” the nurse says.

She moves closer and begins a quick visual check, lifting Riley’s arm slightly to examine the skin along it before repeating the motion with the other side.
Her hands are efficient and clinical, moving through the routine with practiced ease.

“Turn a little for me,” she says.

Riley shifts the way she’s told while the nurse checks for bruises or marks along her shoulders and back.

“No swelling,” the nurse murmurs to herself. “No lacerations.”

She straightens again.

“Good so far.”

Next she reaches for a small flashlight.

“Open your mouth.”

Riley does.

The nurse shines the light briefly inside, checking her teeth and gums.

“Say ‘ah.’”

“Ah.”

The nurse peers inside for another moment before switching the light off.

“Teeth look fine. No infection.”

She steps back and removes the gloves, dropping them into a small disposal bin.

“Alright,” she says. “You pass.”

Riley exhales quietly.

“Next part is hygiene.”

The nurse gestures toward the sink in the corner.

A folded cloth and a bottle of sanitizer sit beside it.

“Go ahead and step over there,” she says. “You’ll clean yourself using the cloth and sanitizer.”

Riley hesitates for a second.

The nurse notices.

“Just so we’re clear,” she adds matter-of-factly, “refusal means I perform the sanitation myself. Most students prefer to handle it privately.”

Riley nods quickly.

“Yeah… I’ll do it.”

She walks over to the sink and picks up the cloth. The sanitizer smells sharp and medicinal as she pours some onto the fabric.

She begins by cleaning between her legs, aware of the glistening sheen that had begun to build up since she stripped naked. She knew it was involuntary, it was just what Animals did, but it didn’t make it any less humiliating.

When she ran the cloth over her chest, accidentally brushing her nipples, she flinched. Transition Week hadn’t been anything like this. Nothing could prepare her for a true conversion. The lack of privacy, the denial of modesty.

She shook her head. She was an Animal now.

Animals aren’t modest.

“Finished,” she says.

The nurse steps over, checking briefly to make sure the procedure was done.

“Good,” she replies.

She taps a final note into the tablet and nods once.

“That’s everything.”

Riley shifts the pouch strap on her shoulder.

“So… I can go?”

“Yes,” the nurse says.

She gestures toward the door.

“You’re cleared to leave campus.”

Riley heads for the hallway, the door clicking shut behind her as she steps back into the corridor with nothing left tying her to the school.

Riley walks down the hallway with the small pouch resting against her hip, the strap sliding slightly on her shoulder with every step. The corridor is still mostly empty, the classrooms sealed behind closed doors while the draw period finishes across the school.

Halfway to the exit she sees another student coming the other direction.

He’s about her age, maybe a year older, and just like her he’s completely bare except for the red glow of the watch on his wrist. His shoulders are tense in the way people get when they don’t know where to look or what to do with themselves.

He notices her at the same moment.

For a second they both slow down.

Then Riley gives him a small smile.

It’s not a big one, just enough to acknowledge what they suddenly have in common.

The boy smiles back.

They pass each other without speaking, heading in opposite directions down the hallway while the quiet of the building swallows the moment almost immediately.

Riley continues toward the front doors.

When she pushes them open the outside air hits her all at once.

The cold makes her gasp before she can stop it, the sudden rush of wind across her skin sending a shiver through her whole body. She stands there for a second on the steps, breathing in the sharp autumn air while the pouch bumps lightly against her side.

Just this morning she had been tugging her skirt down every time the wind caught it.

Now she’s standing in the schoolyard with nothing at all.

The building behind her hums with the normal sounds of the day continuing, teachers talking, chairs moving, the distant echo of another bell somewhere inside. In a little while recess will start and the other kids will pour outside like they always do, running across the yard and complaining about homework and talking about whatever stupid thing someone posted online the night before.

The week will keep moving.

Classes will happen.

Assignments will be handed out.

Everyone will try to forget the students who aren’t coming back.

CHAPTER THREE

Riley steps onto the street outside the school gates, the rough pavement pressing cold against the bottoms of her bare feet. The chill travels up through her legs immediately, sharper than she expected, and she lets out a quiet breath through her teeth as she starts walking.

“Why did I have to be converted in autumn?” she mutters aloud.

Her voice sounds strange out here with no walls around to catch it.

The street is quieter than usual during school hours. A few cars pass slowly, their drivers barely glancing in her direction, while the wind moves along the sidewalk and tugs lightly at the strap of the pouch resting against her hip.

Riley keeps walking the same route she always takes home, her steps careful at first while she gets used to the feel of the pavement under her feet.

A bus pulls up at the stop ahead just as she reaches the corner.

The brakes hiss and the door folds open with a mechanical sigh.

The driver leans slightly toward the entrance, looking out through the glass.

Riley barely notices.

She just keeps walking past the stop, her mind still stuck somewhere between the classroom and the hallway and the moment the watch turned red.

Behind her the bus door stays open for another second.

Then it closes again with a soft thump as the vehicle pulls away.

Riley continues down the street, not realizing until much later that she could have gotten on for free.

Riley keeps walking down the sidewalk toward home, the same route she has taken almost every school day since the year started. The houses, the hedges, the cracked bits of pavement and the little storm drains along the curb are all exactly where they’ve always been.

The difference is how much she notices now.

The pavement feels rough and uneven under her feet, every small pebble suddenly impossible to ignore. She finds herself stepping around the worst spots without thinking about it, choosing the smoother patches of sidewalk while the cool air keeps brushing across her skin in quiet waves.

The wind moves differently out here than it did inside the school. It slides down the street between the houses and pushes against her from the side, then disappears again just as quickly, leaving behind that strange empty feeling when it passes.

She hadn’t realized before how much the weather changes from one block to the next.

A car rolls past slowly and Riley hears the sound long before it reaches her, the tires humming against the asphalt while the engine rattles slightly at the stop sign ahead. The driver glances in her direction as they pass, not staring exactly but still looking long enough that she feels it.

It’s a different kind of attention than before.

Earlier that morning she had been just another kid walking to school. People might notice her the way they notice anyone on the sidewalk, but their eyes usually slide away after a second.

Now the looks linger.

Some drivers nod politely when they pass, the same way people greet Animals on the street during reporting week. One older woman watering flowers near her mailbox pauses and gives Riley a small encouraging smile before returning to her garden like the interaction was completely ordinary.

The neighborhood smells different too.

Someone nearby is cutting grass, the sharp green scent drifting through the air and mixing with the smell of damp leaves from the trees lining the street. Riley notices it in a way she never did before, the scents stronger somehow now that she’s paying attention to everything around her.

A dog barks from behind a fence and Riley jumps slightly before realizing what the noise was.

Her footsteps slow for a moment.

The world hasn’t changed at all. The same houses stand where they always did, the same clouds move across the sky above the rooftops, and the same cars drive past on their way to somewhere else.

But Riley feels different moving through it.

Every sound feels clearer.

Every bit of wind feels colder.

Every pair of eyes feels heavier.

She keeps walking anyway, the pouch strap shifting on her shoulder while the red glow of the watch on her wrist catches the afternoon light with each step.

Riley slows when she reaches the end of the next block.

There’s a small café on the corner, tucked between a pharmacy and a narrow little bookstore that always seems closed whenever she walks past. She’s seen the place every day on her way to school and every day on her way home, the warm light inside visible through the big front windows and the smell of coffee drifting out whenever the door opens.

She’s never gone in.

It’s the kind of place where people sit around with laptops and tiny cups of fancy drinks that probably cost more than her entire lunch allowance. Riley had written it off after the first week of school as somewhere adults go when they want to pretend they’re important.

Too expensive.

So she usually walks right past without even looking.

Today she glances up.

The chalkboard sign sitting on the sidewalk catches her attention, the letters written in bright looping marker that someone clearly took time to make neat.

Animals eat free.

Riley stops.

For a second she just stands there reading the words again, like they might change if she blinks.

Animals eat free.

The meaning sinks in slowly.

“Oh,” she murmurs.

Her brain starts replaying the last twenty minutes without asking permission. The bus pulling up to the stop. The door opening. The driver waiting.

The way she just walked straight past it without even thinking.

“Fuck,” Riley mutters under her breath.

She shifts her weight slightly on the pavement, looking back the way she came.

“They must have thought I was so rude.”

A barista inside notices her standing by the window.

He’s wiping down the counter with a towel when he looks up and spots her outside, the red glow of her watch catching the light through the glass. He pauses for a moment, then raises a hand and gives her a friendly wave before walking toward the door.

The bell above it jingles softly when he pushes it open.

“Come in, kiddo,” he says kindly, leaning against the doorframe. “You look freezing. Want a hot chocolate?”

Riley glances over her shoulder automatically, checking the street behind her like maybe he’s talking to someone else.

There’s no one there.

When she looks back, the barista is still smiling patiently.

“Oh,” Riley says.

It takes a second for her to accept that he means her.

“I don’t have any money,” she says quietly, the words cautious and uncertain as she tests the situation.

The barista chuckles a little and points at the chalkboard sign beside the door.

“Animals eat,” he says, tapping the board with one finger, “and drink free.”

He gestures again like she might have somehow missed the giant words written across it.

“Come on,” he adds, holding the door open wider. “I’ll even throw in a slice of cake.”

Warm air spills out from inside the café while the smell of coffee and baked sugar drifts onto the sidewalk, mixing with the cold wind that had been following Riley down the street.

“Okay,” Riley says after a moment.

The word comes out small but certain enough.

She steps through the doorway and into the café, immediately noticing how much warmer it is inside. The air feels thick with the smell of coffee beans and melted chocolate, and somewhere behind the counter a machine hisses softly while milk steams in a metal pitcher.

The door closes behind her with a soft click.

The barista gently places a hand on the middle of her back, the touch light and casual, nothing possessive about it. He just guides her a step or two further inside so she’s out of the doorway and away from the draft sneaking in from the street.

“Good call,” he says, letting the door swing shut behind them.

Riley glances around the room while her eyes adjust to the warmer light. A couple of customers sit near the windows with laptops and coffee mugs, while someone in the corner flips through a newspaper like it’s just another normal afternoon.

A few of them notice her.

None of them react the way she half expected. One person gives her a small nod of acknowledgement before returning to their drink, and another simply glances at the red watch on her wrist before looking away again.

The barista moves behind the counter and reaches for a mug.

“Hot chocolate coming right up,” he says. “And don’t worry, we do this all the time.”

“Make that a deluxe,” a middle-aged woman says from one of the small tables near the window. She lifts her coffee mug slightly as she speaks, smiling over the rim of it. “Give the brave girl something nice.”

The barista nods toward her while reaching for another jar behind the counter.

“Deluxe upgrade coming right up,” he says.

He starts assembling the drink with a little more ceremony now, scooping cocoa powder into the mug and steaming milk while the machine hums loudly for a few seconds.

Across the room an older man looks up from his table.

He’s sitting opposite his wife with a plate of half-finished pastries between them, and he squints at Riley over the top of his glasses before shaking his head.

“And more than a shitty sliver of cake,” he calls over. “The Animal’s got no meat on her bones.”

The words sound terrible if you just hear them by themselves, but the way he says it carries a kind of easy warmth that makes it land differently. He gives Riley a quick, conspiratorial wink afterward like he’s letting her in on the joke.

His wife swats him lightly on the arm.

“Frank,” she mutters.

“What?” he says, spreading his hands innocently. “Kid needs feeding.”

The barista laughs quietly while pouring the hot chocolate into a larger mug than before.

“Alright, alright,” he says. “Full deluxe treatment.”

Riley is given a seat near the centre of the café.

It’s not tucked away in a corner or hidden beside a wall. The table sits where the windows can see it and where anyone inside the room can glance over without trying very hard. Riley notices that immediately. The sign outside, the friendly treatment, the free food — it all makes sense when you think about it like that.

People see how the café treats Animals.

People come in.

More business.

Riley isn’t stupid. If anything it makes the kindness easier to accept. A little warmth for her, a little good publicity for them. A win for everyone involved.

She settles into the chair and lets the heat of the room soak into her for a moment while she watches the barista behind the counter.

The smell reaches her first.

Warm milk.

Cocoa powder.

The soft sugary smell of marshmallows as he drops a handful into the mug. Riley watches him work with quiet fascination, her eyes following every step like the process itself is strangely comforting.

Then he reaches into the display case.

Instead of cutting a thin slice like she expected, he lifts out a large piece of cake.

A full eighth of a two-layer chocolate fudge cake.

Riley blinks.

“Whoa,” she murmurs under her breath.

The barista sets the plate down in front of her a moment later, and the surprise doesn’t stop there. Two scoops of vanilla ice cream sit beside the cake, already starting to soften against the warm chocolate frosting.

The mug follows right after.

The smell alone is almost overwhelming, sweet and rich and warm enough that the steam curls up into the air between them.

Her stomach growls immediately.

It surprises her a little. The stew she ate in class wasn’t that long ago, but the sight and smell of the food in front of her suddenly makes it feel like she hasn’t eaten all day.

“Dig in,” the barista says.

Riley picks up the mug first.

The ceramic is hot against her fingers and she brings it carefully to her lips before taking a small sip.

The warmth spreads through her almost instantly.

Her shoulders relax before she even realizes they’ve been tense all afternoon.

Something inside her finally lets go.

The emotions hit her all at once.

Tears sting her eyes, blurring the café around her while she quickly lowers the mug back to the table. She clears her throat loudly and rubs at her face, trying to wipe the tears away before anyone notices.

It doesn’t work.

The woman who had called out the deluxe upgrade earlier pushes her chair back and walks over. She pulls the seat beside Riley a little closer before sitting down, close enough that she can gently wrap an arm around the girl and pull her into a warm hug.

“There you go, sweetheart,” the woman says softly.

Her voice is calm and soothing, the kind of tone people use with frightened animals or small children.

“It’s scary,” she continues, rubbing Riley’s back gently. “I bet you’ve been holding it in since the bell went, huh?”

When Riley finally manages to gather herself again, the woman doesn’t get up or drift back to her own table.

Instead she calmly moves her book over and sets it beside Riley’s plate, sliding her chair just a little closer so the table becomes shared without making a big announcement about it.

She doesn’t crowd Riley or keep talking.

She simply stays.

A warm presence.

A good adult.

The kind who sits nearby in a way that quietly says nothing bad is going to happen to you here.

Riley notices the difference immediately. The knot in her chest loosens just enough that she feels safe to pick up her fork and actually start eating. She’s still sniffling a little, wiping her nose with the back of her hand now and then, but the embarrassment fades as the first bite of cake hits her tongue.

Everything tastes incredible.

The frosting is thick and rich, almost too sweet at first, but the inside of the cake is soft and moist where the layers meet. The outer edge has gone a little stale from sitting in the display case too long, though Riley doesn’t mind that at all.

The ice cream helps.

She scoops a little of it with the cake and the cold vanilla cuts through the heavy chocolate, making the whole thing taste better than either part would have alone.

Another sip of hot chocolate follows.

Warm milk and cocoa slide down her throat, chasing away more of the cold that had been clinging to her since she left the schoolyard. The heat spreads through her chest and stomach, slow and steady, like someone turning the temperature back up inside her.

Around them the café gradually settles back into its normal rhythm.

The patrons who had watched her cry earlier return to their drinks, their laptops, their quiet conversations. A few people glance over once or twice just to check she’s alright, but nobody stares or whispers or points.

They’ve all seen this before.

Animals cry on Lottery Day.

It’s expected.

It never makes the moment any less uncomfortable to witness, though most people handle it the same way: offer a small kindness if they can, then give the kid space to breathe once the storm passes.

Riley sets her fork down when the plate is finally empty.

The last smear of chocolate frosting sits near the edge of the dish where she had chased it around with the fork for the past minute, unwilling to leave even a little bit behind. Her stomach feels full to the point of bursting now, the kind of full that makes her lean back in the chair for a second and breathe out slowly.

But she also feels relaxed.

Warmer.

The tightness that had been sitting between her shoulders since the bell rang has finally faded away.

Beside her the woman glances at the empty plate and smiles faintly before snapping her fingers toward the counter.

“Give her a cup and a slice to go on me,” she tells the barista. “Same as before.”

Riley sits up quickly.

“No, I really couldn’t—”

“Hush now, little Meatgirl,” the woman interrupts gently, waving one hand like the objection isn’t even worth finishing. “Let us spoil you.”

The barista laughs quietly while reaching for another cup.

“Here, here,” he says.

He fills a disposable paper cup with more hot chocolate, the steam rising into the air while he snaps a plastic lid on top. Another generous slice of cake appears beside it in a small takeaway box, the frosting thick enough that it nearly brushes the lid when he closes it.

Riley watches the whole thing happen with growing embarrassment, her cheeks warming again.

“Thanks,” she says shyly when he sets the cup in front of her.

Her fingers curl around the warm paper.

“I wish I could do more.”

Then Riley feels something unexpected. The woman runs a hand along her thigh, just short of touching her still moist pussy. Riley looks down, noticing the stain on the cushion. “Little Meatgirl,” the woman says again, “Do you know we can touch you anywhere we like, in public?”

Riley’s blush deepens and she nods. “Yeah,” she says, her voice choked. She looks around the room, some are staring with knowing smiles, others are ignoring them. Riley reminds herself she’s an Animal. Not a child. Just an Animal who happens to be twelve.

The woman’s hand presses into her clit gently. Riley moans through sealed lips. “Let it out Meatgirl,” she’s told, “Animals can cry all they like, especially if it feels good.”

Riley puts her hands on the table, palms flat, and lets the woman continue. Her small body shivers in pleasure as a strangers hands manipulate her little cunt. Another hand takes a nipples between their thumb and index finger.

“Good Meatgirl,” the woman says as she molests her on two fronts, “Now come for me, come in public like the little Animal you are.”

Riley’s body shudders as an orgasm covers the woman’s hand. She brings it up to her lips, licking the hand clean of Riley’s juices, before offering a still slick finger. “Taste it,” she offers, not forcing it.

Riley shakes her head slightly and the woman retreats. “Did you enjoy that?” the woman asks after a moment, tilting her head slightly as she looks at Riley. “Be honest, Meatgirl.”

Riley blushes again, the warmth creeping back into her cheeks almost immediately.

“Yeah,” she admits quietly.

The reaction from the rest of the café comes in small, scattered sounds rather than applause or anything dramatic. A couple of people chuckle under their breath while someone near the window murmurs something approving to their companion. The old man with the pastries gives a satisfied grunt like he’s just witnessed a job well done.

None of it feels mocking.

It sounds more like the kind of reaction you hear from people who’ve watched this same moment play out before and know exactly what it means.

The woman beside Riley nods once, clearly pleased.

“Then that’s thanks enough.”

The barista offers her a napkin but before she can accept it the woman grabs it. “Lean back,” she says, not forcefully, “I’ll clean you up.” Riley feels her run the soft paper napkin up her slick pussy. Repeating the process until she’s cleaner though more juices begin to gently appear at her slit.

The woman gives Riley one last hug before letting her go.

“Good luck, dear,” she says softly.

Riley smiles back, the expression small but genuine now that the tightness in her chest has eased. She shifts the little takeaway bag into one hand and steadies the paper cup of hot chocolate in the other, careful not to spill it.

“Thanks, everyone,” she says.

Her voice carries just enough that the room hears it.

A few people lift their hands in quiet acknowledgement while others nod from their seats. Riley dips her head slightly, an awkward little bow that feels like the right thing to do even if she’s not entirely sure why.

Then she turns and walks toward the door.

The bell above it jingles when she pushes it open.

“Come back tomorrow!” the barista calls out after her from behind the counter. “We have daily specials!”

A few patrons laugh softly at that while Riley steps back out into the cool afternoon air, the warmth of the café lingering behind her.

Riley pauses on the sidewalk after the café door closes behind her.

The cool air wraps around her again, not as shocking as before now that the warmth from the drink and the food still lingers in her chest. She stands there for a moment with the little bag in one hand and the cup of hot chocolate in the other, letting the quiet of the street settle around her.

Through the café window she can see people moving again, cups lifting, chairs shifting, the barista already wiping down the counter like the whole moment had simply folded back into the rhythm of the afternoon.

She knows some of them are probably watching her through the glass.

The thought doesn’t bother her as much as it did earlier.

If anything she finds herself standing a little straighter. The kindness inside had steadied something in her that had been rattling since the bell rang, and for the first time all day she feels like she can actually breathe properly.

That had been exactly what she needed.

She lifts the cup and takes another careful sip of the hot chocolate, the warmth spreading through her again while she looks down the street toward home.

Seven days.

She could do seven days.

A car horn suddenly blares from the road beside her.

Riley jumps hard enough that the drink sloshes inside the cup. Instinct kicks in before her brain catches up and she moves to cover herself automatically, her shoulders hunching as she turns slightly away from the street.

The car rolls past a second later.

She exhales slowly once it’s gone.

“Still confident,” she mutters to herself.

“Still good.”

She adjusts the pouch strap on her shoulder and starts walking again, the warm cup in her hands while the afternoon wind follows her down the street toward home.

Riley turns onto her street and immediately feels the difference.

It’s the same row of houses she’s walked past every day for years, the same hedges and driveways and parked cars sitting in familiar spots along the curb. Nothing about the place has actually changed.

It just feels different now.

A couple of neighbors spot her almost right away. Their faces flash with surprise for a brief moment before the recognition settles in and their expressions soften into something more supportive.

One man lifting groceries out of his trunk gives her an encouraging wave.

Another woman watering plants near her front steps nods gently like she’s acknowledging something important.

“Come over later!” the old lady across the street calls out from her porch. She raises a hand in greeting while balancing a tray on the railing beside her. “I made cookies!”

Riley can’t help smiling back.

“Thanks, I will!” she calls, lifting her hand in a wave.

The small moment makes the street feel a little less heavy.

Then she passes Mr. Greern’s house.

He’s exactly where she expected him to be.

Sitting on his porch.

Watching.

The same chair. The same mug in his hand. The same patient posture like he’s been sitting there since noon just waiting to see which kid would walk home without clothes today.

Their eyes meet across the yard.

His smile stretches slowly across his face, the expression thin and fake in a way that makes Riley’s stomach twist.

She stops walking.

For a second they just stare at each other.

“Stay away from me, you pig,” Riley calls across the yard.

Her voice carries clearly down the quiet street.

For the first time she doesn’t feel any pressure to be polite to him. The rules about respecting adults don’t apply the same way anymore, and the realization settles into her bones with a strange kind of freedom.

Mr. Greern’s smile slips.

The fake pleasantness disappears, replaced by something sharper as his jaw tightens.

Riley lifts her hand and shows him her middle finger.

Then she turns away and heads toward her house without looking back.

CHAPTER FOUR

Riley pushes the front door open and steps inside, the empty paper cup still in her hands. The house smells like syrup and warm batter, the sweet scent lingering in the air from the pancakes that had been cooking earlier.

The door clicks shut behind her.

Her mother hears it immediately.

“Riley?” she calls from somewhere deeper in the house.

A second later she comes rushing around the corner into the hallway and immediately pulls her daughter into a tight hug before Riley can even finish setting the cup down on the little table by the door.

“Hi honey!” she says brightly, squeezing her with a surprising amount of strength. “Oh you look so good! When did you get so big?”

Riley’s arms get pinned awkwardly against her sides as the hug tightens.

“Can’t— breathe— Mom!”

“Oh!” Her mother loosens her grip but doesn’t let go completely, pulling back just enough to look Riley up and down with a wide, almost proud smile.

“Well look at you,” she says warmly. “My brave girl.”

Her eyes flick briefly to the red glow of the watch on Riley’s wrist before returning to her face.

“Were you scared?” she asks gently.

“Only until recently,” Riley says, rubbing the back of her neck a little as she steps further into the house. “I stopped at that café up the street. The one on the corner.”

Her mother’s eyes light up immediately.

“Oh that place?” she says, glancing toward the door like she might suddenly run out and try it herself. “I’ve been dying to go in there, but it’s so darn expensive.”

Riley reaches into the little bag she’s still holding and pulls out the box with the cake inside. She hands it over.

“Someone bought me this,” she explains. “You and Dad can have it.”

Her mom takes the box carefully, opening the lid just enough to peek inside.

Her face softens instantly.

“Oh my sweet little girl,” she says, her voice full of warm gratitude. She leans down and starts peppering Riley’s cheeks and forehead with kisses before Riley can escape.

“Or,” she adds brightly between kisses, “sweet little Meatgirl, I should say.”

She closes the box again and holds it to her chest like it’s something precious.

“You’re technically not my daughter now.”

Riley tilts her head slightly, thinking about that for a second.

“Yeah,” she says after a moment. “I guess I’m more like a pet?”

“I can live with that,” her mom says with a cheerful shrug. “I’ve got the cutest little Animal around.”

She sets the cake box carefully on the kitchen counter like it’s something worth saving for later.

“Oh,” she adds a moment later, glancing back toward Riley. “Did you hear some yelling outside when you came in?”

Riley’s cheeks flush slightly.

“Yeah,” she admits. “That was me.”

Her mom raises an eyebrow.

“What happened?”

Riley shifts her weight and scratches at her arm.

“I yelled at Mr. Greern,” she says. “He was lookin’ at my butt again.”

Her mom’s expression changes immediately, a flash of irritation crossing her face before it settles into something more approving.

“Oh, finally showed him who’s boss?”

Riley grins and nods.

“That’s my girl,” her mom says proudly. “Fuck him.”

“Yeah, fuck him!” Riley agrees without thinking.

Her mom points a finger at her instantly.

“No swearing.”

“Come into the lounge, pet,” her mom says, gesturing toward the sofa. “I need to have a quick talk about some things.”

Riley follows her into the room and moves to sit beside her on the couch, but the moment she starts lowering herself onto the cushion her mom reaches out and catches her by the arm.

“Nuh uh,” she says, tugging Riley gently closer.

Before Riley can react she finds herself pulled sideways and settled squarely onto her mother’s lap instead.

“You’re getting spoiled,” her mom declares.

Riley groans immediately.

“Mom, I’m twelve,” she protests, squirming slightly. “You don’t need to—”

She stops mid-sentence when she sees the look on her mother’s face.

The glare is mild but unmistakable.

Riley sighs and straightens up a little.

“Yes ma’am.”

Her mom’s hand begins to move slowly across Riley’s stomach while they sit there, the motion absentminded and gentle. It’s something she used to do all the time when Riley was little, back when Riley would climb onto her lap during movies or when she was sick.

The familiar rhythm makes Riley blink for a second.

It feels strangely nostalgic.

“So,” her mom says after a moment, still idly stroking Riley’s stomach while she speaks. “I need you to tell me something.”

Riley glances up.

“What?”

Her mom’s tone stays soft, but the words come out carefully.

“I need you to tell me that you won’t try and run.”

Riley jerks slightly in surprise.

“What? No way!” she blurts out immediately. “I’m not that selfish.”

Her voice comes out sharper than she intended.

“Besides,” she continues, shaking her head quickly, “it’s not like that would work anyway. It’s not a life worth living if I get caught.”

The thought clearly unsettles her and she rushes to add another sentence.

“And I don’t want you guys to die either,” she says hurriedly.

Her mom’s hand pauses for a moment before continuing the slow, reassuring motion across Riley’s stomach again.

“Good girl,” her mom says, leaning down to kiss Riley on the cheek. “I had to make sure.”

“I know,” Riley replies.

She shifts her position and stretches out more comfortably across her mother’s lap, lying lengthwise along the sofa while her mom continues the slow, absentminded motion of rubbing her stomach. The steady movement is calming in a way Riley hadn’t realized she needed.

“I love you guys too much to be a coward.”

Her mom nods slightly.

“Were you scared when it happened?” she asks after a moment, tapping Riley’s wrist lightly where the red watch glows.

“Of course,” Riley answers. “I mean… yeah.”

She lets out a small breath.

“But once I got naked and left school I found that café up the street. That helped me settle down.”

Her mom’s hand pauses briefly.

“Did you cry?”

Riley winces a little at the memory.

“Yeah,” she admits. “Some random lady hugged me though.”

Her mom nods thoughtfully.

“Well, they can do that since you’re an Animal,” she reminds her matter-of-factly. “People are allowed to be more affectionate.”

Her hand resumes the slow motion across Riley’s stomach.

“But I’m proud of you,” she adds. “You didn’t make a scene.”

“Also,” Riley adds, “She touched me down there.”

Her mom grins wickedly, “Oh, is that right?” she says, “You let a stranger finger you?” her hands moves lower now, settling on her daughter’s pelvis, “Did she make my little Meatgirl feel good?”

“Mom, your embarrassing me.”

“Good,” she says back, “But did you enjoy it, did you come?”

“Yes,” Riley says to both questions.

“Dirty little Meatgirl,” she lifts Riley’s head to kiss her on the lips, “I can do it for you now as well you know, nobody knows your little body like mommy does?”

“But your my mom?”

“No I’m not, Meatgirl,” she uses the word as a weapon, to remind her of her conversion, but not cruelly, “Just lay back and let mom make you feel good.”

Her fingers snaked between her legs down, moving to penetrate ever so slightly while she thumbs her clit. The other woman had done something similar but it feels different under the hand of the woman who was once her mother.

“Pinch your nipples, they’re very sensitive,” she encourages, watching her daughter obey as the pleasure builds, “Good girl, now come for mommy.”

Riley moans loudly as she orgasms, pinching her own nipples and bucking her small hips. “Good girl,” her mom says again, “Very good.”

Riley is cleaned up with a wet towel from the kitchen before being told she can go upstairs.

“You can hide in your room for a while,” her mom says after a moment.

Her hand slows but doesn’t stop moving as Riley lies across her lap.

“But there are two conditions.”

Riley tilts her head slightly so she can look up at her.

“What kind of conditions?”

“No wearing clothes,” her mother says plainly. “And I want you to bring your blankets into my room.”

Riley’s eyebrows pull together.

“My blankets?”

Her mom nods.

“They’ll stay in my room for the week.”

She reaches down and taps Riley lightly on the side.

“Animals don’t need clothes, modesty, or privacy,” she explains, her tone calm and instructional rather than harsh. “Those are human privileges.”

She waits until Riley is looking directly at her.

“Understood?”

Riley exhales quietly through her nose and nods.

“Yeah,” she says.

“Understood.”

Riley slides off the couch and heads upstairs, the familiar creak of the steps greeting her as she climbs them one by one. The house feels quieter up here, the muffled sounds of the kitchen and living room fading behind her as she reaches the top landing.

Her bedroom door is still open from that morning.

For a second she pauses in the doorway, looking inside like she’s seeing the room from a distance rather than standing right in it. Everything looks exactly the same as when she left for school: the unmade bed, the desk with her homework piled on one corner, the chair where she had laid out her uniform the night before.

It’s strange how normal it all looks.

Riley walks over to the bed and starts gathering up her blankets the way her mom asked. The soft throw she likes to bunch up near the pillows gets folded first, then the heavier fleece blanket she uses when the nights get cold. She pulls them together in her arms, stacking them into a thick bundle she can barely see over.

She stops for a moment and glances at the rest of the bed.

The sheets and comforter stay where they are.

She’ll still be sleeping here after all. There’s no point stripping the whole bed down if she’s going to crawl right back into it tonight.

Her eyes drift over to the dresser.

For a second she thinks about opening the drawers and emptying them out now, getting it over with before the week really begins. The thought sits there for a moment while she balances the blankets against her chest.

But where would the clothes even go?

She doesn’t have boxes ready, and dumping them on the floor would just turn the room into a mess she’d have to look at for the next seven days.

Riley exhales through her nose.

“No sense in making a mess,” she mutters quietly to herself.

She turns and carries the blankets down the hall to her mom’s bedroom, pushing the door open with her shoulder. The room smells faintly like laundry detergent and the floral perfume her mom keeps on the dresser.

Riley drops the pile of blankets onto the bed.

The bundle lands with a soft thump, spreading slightly across the comforter before settling into a rumpled heap.

“Blankets delivered,” she calls half-heartedly toward the stairs.

There’s no response, which probably means her mom is still downstairs in the kitchen.

Riley turns around and heads back to her own room.

When she walks in again it somehow feels different.

Nothing has changed physically. The bed is still there, the desk is still there, the posters on the wall haven’t moved an inch. But the absence of the blankets makes the room feel colder, more open somehow.

She climbs onto the bed and lies down on her back.

Immediately she notices the difference.

Without the familiar weight of blankets over her the bed feels strangely exposed, like something important has been removed from the space between her and the world. The mattress is soft enough, the sheets cool against her skin, but the lack of covers makes her feel more aware of everything around her.

More aware of herself too.

Riley stares up at the ceiling for a moment, letting out a slow breath while the quiet of the house settles in around her again.

“Yeah,” she murmurs to the empty room.

“Definitely more naked now.”

Riley rolls onto her side and pulls her phone out of the pouch.

The screen lights up her face as the familiar home screen appears, cluttered with the same apps she checks every day. For a moment she just stares at it, her thumb hovering uncertainly over the icons like she’s forgotten what she normally does with it.

Eventually she taps into a game.

The cheerful music starts immediately, the tiny animated characters bouncing around the screen while the game reminds her that her daily rewards are ready to collect. Riley automatically taps through the menus, harvesting resources and clicking through the little notifications that have piled up since the night before.

Then she stops.

Her thumb hangs over the screen.

“What’s the point?” she mutters.

The thought settles over her slowly.

Riley exits the game and scrolls through the rest of her apps. Several of them have timers, streak counters, daily login bonuses that expect you to show up tomorrow if you want to keep your progress.

She sighs.

One by one she starts deleting them.

The little icons begin to wiggle when she presses down on the screen. A few taps later the first one disappears. Then another. Then another. Anything that requires daily attention vanishes without much ceremony.

Her virtual pets would starve eventually.

The thought crosses her mind briefly while she deletes the app that required feeding them every morning.

“Sorry guys,” she murmurs.

But she isn’t going to be around long enough for it to matter.

When the screen finally clears a little she opens her browser instead.

For years she had seen the forum link floating around online, always recommended by algorithms and always ignored by her. It was one of those places everyone knew existed but most people avoided looking at unless they had to.

A support forum for Meatgirls.

And Meatboys.

People who had already been chosen.

Riley had passed over it a million times before.

Today she taps the link.

The page loads slowly before filling with threads stacked on top of each other. The site looks overwhelmed with activity, new posts appearing constantly as the current week’s Animals arrive and start searching for answers.

Monday is the beginning of the cycle.

Nobody here is days into it.

Last week’s batch are already gone.

That thought lingers quietly in the back of Riley’s mind while she scrolls.

Some threads are written by kids like her, the sentences rushed and messy like they were typed with shaking hands.

First day advice please

How do I tell my little brother

Do they really sedate you first

Can I still go to my friend’s birthday

Mixed between them are advertisements.

Bright banners promising helpful products.

“Make your meat taste better!”

“Final week nutrition plans!”

“Premium marinade supplements!”

Riley grimaces immediately and blocks the first one she sees.

“Gross.”

Another one pops up further down and she blocks that too.

Eventually she notices a pinned thread near the top of the page.

The title stands out from the others.

Official — Department of Processing

Her thumb slows as she reads the subtitle beneath it.

Minor Animals: What to Expect in Your Final Moments

Riley stares at the words for a long second.

Her stomach tightens slightly, though she isn’t sure if it’s from the food she ate earlier or the quiet realization of what the thread is about to explain.

Part of her considers backing out.

But she’s already had enough surprises today.

“The bell was surprise enough,” she mutters.

Riley taps the link.

The page loads almost instantly.

At the very top there’s a photograph.

Riley blinks.

A girl fills the screen, standing in a plain white room and waving awkwardly at the camera. She looks about Riley’s age, maybe a little older, fourteen at most. The lighting is bright and flat like something filmed for a training video, not dramatic or emotional at all.

The caption underneath explains everything in careful, neutral language.

This Minor Animal has volunteered to allow our department to document her final moments for educational purposes.

Riley studies the girl’s face.

Blonde hair.

Blue eyes.

Healthy skin.

She looks strong and athletic in the way kids who play sports usually do.

Riley doesn’t need long to understand the implication.

No way this girl was picked randomly for a demonstration.

The Department clearly chose someone who looked… good.

Presentable.

The kind of example that would make the process seem clean and dignified.

Riley scrolls.

Step 1: Clothing Removal

The text explains that Meatgirls and Meatboys are not permitted to wear clothing inside a Processing Facility. Most Animals arrive properly prepared by the end of their seven days, though it is not uncommon for younger Animals reporting on Day One to still be wearing clothes.

Below the text is another photograph.

The same girl stands beside a small locker while removing the clothes she arrived in. The image isn’t posed or dramatic. There’s no attempt to linger on the moment. It looks more like something from a medical manual than anything else, a straightforward piece of documentation showing the required step.

Riley scrolls past it quickly.

Her stomach shifts a little, though she isn’t sure if it’s from discomfort or simple nerves.

Step 2: Intake

The next section begins with a longer paragraph.

Animals are guided through an intake session where they learn proper posture, calm breathing, and respectful compliance under the supervision of a trained Butcher. This preparation is designed to ensure a peaceful and orderly experience for the Animal.

Another image loads underneath.

The same girl is now kneeling on a padded floor mat.

Her posture is precise. Knees together, back slightly arched, shoulders pulled back. Her arms rest behind her back while she holds the position the instructions describe.

Standing beside her is another woman.

Tall.

Older.

Her hair is white and cut short around her jaw, and her pale eyes catch the light in a way that makes them look almost silver in the photograph. She isn’t wearing anything except a thick work belt around her waist, the leather dotted with metal tools arranged neatly in loops.

The caption reads simply:

Butcher Elira — Intake Specialist

The woman’s expression in the picture isn’t cruel.

If anything she looks calm.

Professional.

Like someone explaining a routine procedure.

Riley stares at the image longer than she expected to.

Riley scrolls again.

The next heading appears in the same calm, official font.

Step 3: Population Integration

The paragraph explains that once the Intake Protocol is completed the Meatgirl is moved from Intake Holding and allowed to join the general population inside the facility. Animals spend their remaining time in what the Department calls habitation and recreation zones, spaces designed to keep them comfortable during their final days.

The photograph beneath the text loads slowly.

The same girl from the earlier images is standing waist-deep in a large indoor pool. Her hair is wet and pushed back from her face, droplets clinging to her skin while she smiles awkwardly toward the camera like someone who isn’t quite sure how they’re supposed to pose.

Around her the pool is full of other Animals.

Some are younger kids splashing near the shallow end. Others look older, teenagers or adults drifting lazily through the water or sitting at the edge with their feet dangling in. No one in the image looks frightened.

Most of them are laughing.

Talking.

Relaxing.

Like they’re on some strange holiday where everyone quietly understands it won’t last long.

Riley stares at the picture.

Final days… or even hours, she thinks.

Her thumb moves again.

Step 4: Processing

The next section is longer.

Before slaughter, the text explains, each Animal must complete a final processing stage. Their assigned counselor meets with them to ensure they are psychologically prepared for slaughter and fully understand their status as Animals.

The explanation is careful about its wording.

The goal is not to remove their humanity entirely. Instead it is to ensure they understand the role they now occupy.

Additional medical tests are also performed to confirm that the meat is clean, healthy, and safe for consumption.

One sentence stands out in bold.

A calm Animal is safer than a frightened Animal.

Riley’s stomach tightens slightly.

The photo underneath shows the same Meatgirl sitting on a medical bed, the kind covered with disposable paper like the one Riley had seen in the nurse’s office earlier that day.

A technician stands beside her drawing blood from her arm.

The girl winces a little as the needle goes in, the camera catching the exact moment her expression tightens before she forces herself to relax again.

It looks painfully normal.

Like a doctor’s appointment.

Riley scrolls again.

Her breathing has started to slow without her noticing.

Step 5: Slaughter

The final heading appears at the bottom of the page.

The text explains the procedure in the same steady tone the entire document has used so far.

By default all Minor Animals are slaughtered painlessly and humanely. The Animal is first placed under general anesthetic to ensure complete unconsciousness. Once the sedation has taken effect, cardiac arrest is induced and the heart is stopped.

The process is quick.

Peaceful.

The last image loads.

Riley feels her stomach twist immediately.

The girl lies on a metal table, her body completely still. Her eyes are closed and her hair has been brushed neatly away from her face. It almost looks like she’s sleeping, except for the sterile brightness of the room and the equipment surrounding the table.

Standing beside her is the same woman from the intake photograph.

Butcher Elira.

She watches quietly, her silver eyes directed toward the table as if confirming the procedure has been completed correctly.

The camera angle makes everything look distant and clinical.

A finished process.

Riley’s throat tightens.

She quickly locks her phone and drops it onto the bed beside her.

For a second she just lies there staring at the ceiling, breathing slowly while she tries to stop the wave of panic rising in her chest.

“Okay,” she whispers to herself.

“Okay… okay…”

Riley sits up slowly on the bed.

Her stomach twists in a way that feels completely different from the comfortable fullness she had a few minutes earlier. The warmth from the hot chocolate is still in her chest, but now it feels heavy and sour instead of comforting.

The image from the phone won’t leave her head.

That metal table.

The girl lying on it.

Still.

“Jesus,” Riley mutters under her breath.

Her throat tightens.

Is that really how it would happen?

Just… a body on a table. A quiet room. Someone checking a chart while your heart stops beating. Then what? Someone wheels you away and starts cutting.

Wrapped in plastic.

Put on shelves.

Sold.

The thought lands hard enough to make her stomach lurch.

Riley barely makes it off the bed before the nausea surges upward. She stumbles down the hallway toward the bathroom, one hand clamped over her mouth as she pushes the door open.

She drops to her knees in front of the toilet.

The sickness comes up immediately.

Chunks of half-digested cake and the thick, sweet smell of chocolate spill into the bowl along with the hot liquid she had just finished drinking. The taste burns on the way up, cloying and sugary in a way that suddenly feels disgusting instead of comforting.

Riley grips the sides of the toilet while her body heaves again.

More liquid follows, sour now, the sweetness mixing with stomach acid until the smell makes her gag harder.

“Ugh—”

Her stomach contracts one more time before finally settling.

For a moment she just stays there on her knees, breathing hard while the bathroom spins slightly around her. Her throat stings and her eyes water as she wipes the back of her hand across her mouth.

The toilet bowl is a mess of pale chunks and dark liquid.

Riley flushes it quickly and leans her forehead against the cool porcelain for a second.

Her voice comes out hoarse.

“Okay,” she murmurs weakly.

That’s… enough internet for today.”

Riley is still kneeling on the bathroom floor when she hears footsteps pounding up the stairs.

They’re fast.

Too fast to be casual.

“Riley?” her mom calls.

The bathroom door swings open and her mother appears in the doorway, breath slightly short from running.

“Honey, are you okay?” she asks immediately, dropping to one knee beside her. “Did you eat something funny?”

Riley wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. Her eyes are wet and her throat still burns from throwing up, and at first she assumes the tears are just from that.

Then her breath catches.

The tight feeling in her chest suddenly breaks open and the crying starts again before she can stop it.

Her mom reacts instantly.

She pulls Riley against her, wrapping her arms around the smaller body and holding her tight while Riley presses her face against her shoulder.

“It’s alright to cry,” her mother murmurs softly.

Her voice is steady, though Riley can hear the strain in it.

“This is scary. I know it is.”

Her hand moves slowly up and down Riley’s back in a calming rhythm.

“But you’re a good girl,” she continues. “And you’ll be brave.”

Riley clutches at her shirt, the words spilling out between shaky breaths.

“I looked it up,” she sobs. “I looked up what happens to kids.”

Her voice cracks.

“They’re gonna kill me, Mom. They’re gonna stop my heart and kill me.”

Her mother tightens the hug for a moment before answering.

“I know.”

She shifts slightly and lifts Riley off the floor, carrying her the way she used to when Riley was little. Riley instinctively wraps her legs around her waist while her mom holds her against her chest.

“I know it’s hard to understand,” she says quietly while stroking Riley’s back. “And sometimes it can even seem cruel.”

She steps carefully out of the bathroom and into the hallway, still holding her.

“But you remember the stories Grandpa used to tell you, right?”

Riley sniffles and nods weakly.

“About what it was like before the System?”

Another nod.

Her voice comes out small.

“I’m scared, Mommy,” she admits. “I don’t wanna die.”

Her mom presses a kiss against her hair.

“Nobody does,” she says.

Her tone stays gentle but the words don’t soften.

“But you can’t escape it. None of us can.”

She adjusts her grip slightly so Riley sits more comfortably in her arms.

“You’re going to die, sweetheart,” she says quietly. “I can’t stop it. You can’t stop it.”

For a moment the hallway is silent except for Riley’s uneven breathing.

Then her mom speaks again.

“The best thing you can do,” she says firmly, “is make the next seven days the best fucking seven days of your life.”

She pulls back just enough to look Riley in the eyes.

“Alright?”

CHAPTER FIVE

Riley sniffs loudly, wiping her nose on the sleeve of her mom’s shirt before she remembers she doesn’t have sleeves anymore. She lets out a shaky breath but doesn’t move when her mother tries to shift her.

“Hey,” her mom murmurs softly, adjusting her grip. “You wanna lie down?”

Riley shakes her head immediately.

“No.”

Her voice is small but stubborn.

Instead she tightens her arms around her mom’s shoulders and stays where she is, legs still wrapped around her waist like she used to do when she was little. Her head sinks into the warm curve of her mother’s shoulder while the slow rhythm of her hand rubbing her back continues.

They stay like that for a long time.

Long enough that Riley’s breathing gradually evens out. The tightness in her chest loosens a little while the quiet of the house wraps around them. Somewhere downstairs a clock ticks softly and the faint hum of the refrigerator carries through the floor.

At some point Riley must have fallen asleep.

She doesn’t remember when.

All she remembers is blinking her eyes open again and realizing the lighting in the room has changed. The soft afternoon brightness coming through the windows has shifted toward evening.

And her dad is standing over her.

Riley blinks again, disoriented for a second while she tries to figure out where she is. She’s stretched out on the couch now with a pillow tucked under her head and a light throw blanket draped loosely over her legs. Her mom must have moved her while she was asleep.

Her dad stands beside the couch looking down at her.

His expression is warm, though there’s a tiredness around his eyes that wasn’t there that morning.

“Hi, sweetmeat,” he says with a soft grin.

He leans down slightly, resting one hand on the back of the couch.

“Told you I’d get to use it today.”

“You still suck,” Riley says sleepily, her voice thick from the nap. “How was work?”

Her dad waves the question away immediately.

“Doesn’t matter.”

He bends down and scoops her up from the couch before she can protest, lifting her the same way her mom had earlier. Riley lets out a quiet groan but doesn’t fight it, letting herself settle against him as he sits down.

“Your mom told me everything that happened,” he adds, adjusting her slightly so she’s comfortable in his arms. “Including your little breakdown in the bathroom.”

Riley grimaces.

“Sorry,” she mumbles, resting her head against his shoulder. “I know I should be more happy.”

Her dad shakes his head gently.

“No, you don’t need to be sorry for losing composure,” he tells her. “You’re a kid. Not even a teenager yet.”

He presses a kiss against her cheek and the rough scratch of his stubble drags lightly across her skin.

“You feel what you need to feel,” he continues quietly. “Get it out now if you have to.”

His arm tightens slightly around her.

“Better before next Monday.”

Riley shifts a little in his lap and exhales.

“I feel fine now,” she admits after a moment. “Just a little… spent.”

Her dad nods like that makes perfect sense.

“Yeah,” he says softly.

“That’ll happen.”

“I hoped you would never get picked,” her dad says quietly.

His hand moves slowly through her hair while he speaks, the motion steady but distracted.

“Really, really hoped.”

His voice cracks a little on the last word, the sound small enough that he probably hopes Riley didn’t notice it.

“But we play the cards we’re dealt,” he continues after a moment, clearing his throat. “That’s the deal we all live under.”

He takes a slow breath.

“You’re a Meatgirl now,” he says carefully, the words sounding like something he practiced saying on the drive home. “And I’m supposed to make sure you remember your new role in society.”

Riley barely lifts her head from his shoulder.

“I know, Dad,” she murmurs, her voice still thick with sleep. “I won’t be a coward.”

He doesn’t answer right away.

The promise hangs quietly in the air between them.

Eventually Riley’s mom calls from the kitchen.

“Dinner!”

Her dad stands slowly, still holding her for another second before helping her slide down onto her feet. Riley stretches her arms a little and follows him into the kitchen.

The table is already set.

A plate of leftover pancakes sits in the center along with a bottle of syrup and three forks. It’s the same Monday dinner they’ve had for years, the one that usually follows the morning pancake tradition when there are too many left over to throw away.

Tonight it feels different.

They sit down together and begin eating.

The pancakes are a little colder now but still soft enough, and the syrup tastes the same as it always does. Riley eats slowly while her parents watch her without quite meaning to.

Every now and then one of them tries to make eye contact.

Just as quickly they look away again.

It’s awkward.

Not because she isn’t wearing anything.

They had all seen that during Transition Week.

No, the tension comes from something else entirely.

Their little girl is sitting across from them at the table.

And suddenly she’s something precious they’re about to lose.

The silence at the table finally breaks when a ringtone echoes faintly from upstairs.

Riley’s head snaps up.

“My phone.”

She pushes her chair back so quickly it scrapes across the floor and bolts toward the stairs before either of her parents can respond. Her bare feet slap loudly against the wooden steps as she runs up two at a time, taking the corner at the top fast enough that she nearly skids into the hallway wall.

Her bedroom door is still open.

She rushes inside and dives onto the bed, grabbing the phone just before the call cuts off.

“Hello?”

There’s a brief crackle of audio before a familiar voice answers.

“Hey Riley.”

The sound instantly lifts something in her chest.

“It’s Amanda.”

“Oh hey, babe!” Riley blurts out before thinking.

There’s a short pause on the other end followed by a quiet laugh.

“Hey,” Amanda says, amusement clear in her voice. “So uh… you good?”

Riley rolls onto her back and stares up at the ceiling.

“Nah,” she replies casually. “This whole deal sucks.”

She shifts a little on the bed.

“I’m naked,” she adds matter-of-factly, “and I’m pretty sure Mr. Greern is plotting revenge after I snapped at him.”

“The creepy neighbor?” Amanda asks immediately. “He’s gross.”

“Way gross,” Riley agrees.

“So anyway,” Amanda continues, her voice picking up a little energy now that they’re talking normally again, “I asked my mom and she said it was cool if you come over for a couple nights.”

Riley shifts onto her side, tucking one arm under her head while she listens.

“You know,” Amanda adds, trying to keep it casual, “a last sleepover.”

Riley smiles faintly.

“That sounds great,” she says. “When?”

“Saturday and Sunday sound good?”

Riley pauses for a moment.

Her eyes drift to the glowing watch on her wrist.

Red.

Monday noon.

That was the deadline.

She had until then to report in as a Meatgirl.

Her brain does the math automatically.

Saturday night… Sunday morning… maybe most of the day Sunday too.

It would work.

It would actually work perfectly.

“Yeah,” Riley says after a second. “That works.”

She lets out a small breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

“Yeah, that sounds really good.”

“So I’ll see you on Saturday?” Amanda asks, her voice quieter now, like she wants to hear Riley say it again.

“Yeah,” Riley says without hesitation. “See you then.”

She shifts on the bed, the mattress creaking softly under her weight while she stares up at the ceiling again.

“Love you.”

There’s a short pause on the other end of the line before Amanda answers.

“Love you too.”

Another tiny pause.

“Bye.”

“Bye.”

The call ends with a soft click.

Riley lowers the phone and lets it rest against her chest for a moment while she listens to the quiet of her room again. Downstairs she can hear the faint sounds of her parents moving around the kitchen, plates clinking softly as they clear the table.

Saturday.

The word sits in her head for a second.

A sleepover.

A normal thing.

Riley rolls onto her side and pushes herself up off the bed, grabbing the phone as she heads back toward the stairs.

The rest of the evening passes downstairs with her parents.

Someone suggests a movie and then another one after that, and before long it turns into a small marathon of Riley’s favorites. The television glows softly in the dim living room while bowls of popcorn and plates of leftover pancakes migrate slowly across the coffee table.

Her mom had always gone hard on Mondays.

Even before today.

The tradition had started years ago when Riley was younger, something about softening the dread of the weekly draw. Movies, snacks, staying up a little later than usual. It had always been their quiet way of making the day feel less heavy.

Tonight it carries a different weight.

No one says that out loud.

Riley curls up on the couch beside her mom the same way she had earlier, eventually shifting until she’s stretched out with her head resting comfortably on her mother’s lap. The familiar position comes back easily, like muscle memory.

Her mom’s hand finds her stomach again.

Slow circles.

Soft, steady motions around her belly button that Riley remembers from when she was little and sick or scared of thunderstorms. The rhythm is soothing in a way that makes the rest of the world feel distant for a while.

Her dad sits nearby in the armchair, occasionally reaching over to steal popcorn or comment on a scene he’s already seen a dozen times.

They laugh sometimes.

Not a lot, but enough.

For a few hours the house feels almost normal.

Perfect, even.

At one point her mom even stroked a little lower again. Not to bring her to orgasm but more like a gentle reminder that she was an Animal now. Not their daughter. Her dad didn’t make kind of advance even though he legally could.

More like a pet.

Eventually the exhaustion catches up with her.

The day presses down on Riley all at once, the emotional weight finally catching up with the small bursts of comfort she’s been riding since the café. Her eyes begin to close between scenes and her responses to her parents grow slower.

“You’re fading,” her dad observes quietly.

Riley blinks a few times and nods.

“Yeah.”

She pushes herself up reluctantly and stretches her arms above her head.

“Alright,” her mom says softly. “Bedtime.”

Riley leans down and kisses them both goodnight, first her dad and then her mom. They hold onto her for a moment longer than usual before letting her go.

She climbs the stairs slowly this time.

Her room is quiet when she steps inside.

The blankets are still missing from the bed, which makes the mattress look strangely bare. Riley crawls onto the bed anyway, curling up on her side as the cool fabric settles against her skin.

Within minutes her breathing slows.

Today had been exhausting.

Riley closes her eyes and drifts into sleep while the quiet house settles around her.

I'll post this story every time I finish one of the seven days it's going to cover. I knocked this out today because I was inspired but there's a good chance the rest will take longer.

Enjoy :)

Woah, this is excellent. Really well written, and I love how it delves into the psychological aspects.
Do you have a specific physical description of Riley in mind when writing this?

It's an AI image but this is how I imagine her looking, or as close as I can get.

>>29577
Still reading but just wanted to say "The educational value of my ass!" is one of my new all-time favourite lines! 🤣

I have to admit. I wrote this story but I used to ChatGPT to grammer check (Cheaper than grammarly and I just added the sexy stuff in last) and before I remembered to say 'don't add anything' it generated that beautoful line.

It's the only thing from Day 1 that I kept from the AI. It surprised me so much and it actually said, 'I shouldn't have written that,' when I commented on it.

In any case, use AI as a tool, not a replacement for creativity.

Okay I am up to date with the story so far! Very well-written! I am not normally a fan of present tense but you made it work and kept it consistent throughout to the point I really stopped noticing.

Your style/atmosphere reminds me a lot of Pixelwriter - it's a shame he's taking a sabbatical at the moment as I think the two of you would get along very well!

Despite what I said before, I really don't mind "Oh shit! Guess I'm meat!" type situations, I do enjoy Splyf's stories and I enjoyed Riley's experiences at school etc. I'm afraid I had to skip once she started crying and saying she didn't want to die - I'm afraid such scenes can be enough to make me swear off the fetish (for a while at least! Hehe) but I assume that was meant as a "reality sinks in" moment and she'll be more philosophical from now on? I really did love the examples of kindness from strangers. Hoping for some comeuppance for the school bully - drafted for a cooking class maybe?

Anyway, great start to the story and I look forward to the continuation! 😁

>>29593
Good story so far. From earlier comments, I'm guessing 12yo & 7th grade middle school. Will there be a meat grading chapter?

Yeah the crying chapter was meant to be a reality sinks in moment. It's brutal but how else would a twelve-year-old act in that situation? You can condition all you like but a child is going to be scared when they realise the finality of their life.

Well, given the speed of your response, you're either here in the Western Hemisphere or an insomniac. I put together a couple of Riley studies and a couple of story scenes in 2 different styles. I hope it helps set your mental image.

Well, that didn't work. One at a time then

>>29612
Well damn... Now I definitely know what I want for dinner 😁

I'm aware this story hasn't been very erotic but I think I enjoy exploring the situation more than sexualising it deliberately so far.

Mac - Where did you generate these? I use:

https://perchance.org/ai-character-description

Anyway here's chapter six with seven to follow in a little while.

CHAPTER SIX

Riley’s eyes flutter open as pale sunlight slips through the gap in her curtains and spreads across the ceiling.

For a few seconds she just lies there, half-awake, her brain still foggy with sleep while the quiet morning settles around her. The house is silent except for the faint creak of pipes somewhere in the walls and the distant hum of traffic outside.

She stretches slowly.

Her arms lift over her head and her back arches against the mattress while she yawns, the movement automatic and comfortable in the way mornings usually are.

Then the chill hits her.

The sheets are thin and cool against her skin, and without the usual pile of blankets her body had nothing holding in the warmth she’d built up during the night. Goosebumps ripple across her arms as the cool air of the room settles over her.

Riley blinks and turns her head.

Her wrist lifts slightly into the light.

The watch glows red.

Memory returns all at once.

“Oh yeah,” she says aloud, her voice still rough with sleep.

“Meatgirl.”

She drops her arm back onto the mattress and stares at the ceiling for a moment, letting the word sit there while her brain catches up with the reality of the day.

The cool air of the room settles over Riley’s skin as she rolls onto her side.

Without blankets the bed feels strangely exposed, the thin sheet beneath her doing nothing to trap warmth the way her usual pile of covers would have. The mattress holds a little heat from where she had been sleeping, but the moment she shifts away from that spot the chill returns.

She pushes herself upright with a groggy yawn.

For a moment she moves automatically, her body following the same routine it has followed every weekday morning for years. Riley swings her legs off the side of the bed and stands up, rubbing her eyes while she prepares to go through the motions of getting ready.

Uniform.

Brush hair.

Grab bag.

The steps line up in her mind out of habit.

Then she stops halfway across the room.

“Oh.”

The thought lands slowly.

She doesn’t go to school anymore.

Animals don’t go to school.

Riley stands there for a second while that sinks in, the quiet of the room pressing around her.

“Well,” she mutters.

“That’s weird.”

She turns around and climbs right back onto the bed.

Without blankets the mattress feels colder now, but Riley doesn’t care enough to fix that. She stretches out on her back and glances again at the red watch glowing faintly on her wrist.

Her alarm hadn’t gone off.

Normally the watch would have been beeping by now, flashing through its usual colors while reminding her she was late.

Today it had stayed silent.

Like the moment it turned red it simply decided she didn’t need to wake up early anymore.

Riley snorts softly.

“The System’s encouraging me to be lazy,” she murmurs.

With nothing else demanding her attention, she rolls onto her side again and closes her eyes.

If she’s not going to school, she might as well sleep a little longer.

But her mind refuses to settle.

Riley lies there for a minute, eyes closed, trying to drift back into sleep. The mattress is still cool against her back and the room has that quiet, early-morning stillness that usually makes it easy to doze off again.

Today it doesn’t work.

Her brain feels awake in a way the rest of her body doesn’t. Thoughts circle slowly, tugging at the edges of her attention until she finally lets out a long, annoyed sigh.

“Fine,” she mutters.

Riley rolls onto her back and reaches across the bed for her phone. The screen lights up when she taps it, bright enough that she squints slightly while it wakes.

Her browser is still open from the night before.

The page loads instantly.

The image fills the screen again.

The blonde Meatgirl lying on the metal table.

For a second Riley just stares at it.

The girl’s body is completely still, her arms resting loosely at her sides while the bright lights of the processing room wash everything in sterile white. Her hair has been brushed neatly away from her face like someone wanted the picture to look calm.

Asleep or dead.

It’s hard to tell.

Maybe it isn’t supposed to matter.

Standing beside the table is the Butcher from the earlier photographs. The tall woman with white hair and pale eyes watches the girl with the same neutral expression she had in every other image.

No anger.

No kindness.

Just professional attention.

Like the child on the table is a job that has been completed correctly.

Riley swallows.

Her stomach tightens again, though not as violently as yesterday.

She keeps staring at the image anyway.

Without realising her hand had made its way down her stomach and between her open legs. She caught herself. She wasn’t going to masturbate over a dead body.

Riley keeps staring at the image.

Yesterday it had made her panic. The sight of the girl on the table, the sterile lights, the quiet presence of the butcher standing beside her. It had all hit at once and sent her running to the bathroom.

Now it feels different.

Her chest doesn’t tighten.

Her stomach doesn’t twist.

She just lies there on the mattress with the phone resting above her face, studying the picture like she’s trying to memorize it.

The girl looks peaceful.

That’s the strangest part.

Her body isn’t tense or twisted. Her face isn’t frightened. She looks like someone who drifted off during a long car ride and never woke up again. The room around her is clean and bright, the kind of place that feels more like a hospital than anything violent.

The butcher stands nearby, watching the table with that same neutral expression.

Not cruel.

Not kind.

Just… present.

Riley realizes something slowly while she keeps looking.

She doesn’t feel anything.

Not for the girl.

Not for the butcher.

The horror she expected just isn’t there this morning.

Instead there’s a strange, restless energy sitting somewhere in her chest. It isn’t happiness exactly, but it isn’t dread either. It feels closer to the nervous excitement she used to get before a big school event or a roller coaster she’d never ridden before.

The thought slips into her head before she can stop it.

That’s going to be me.

Another girl on a table.

Another body under those lights.

Riley exhales slowly through her nose and lowers the phone slightly, letting the image slide down the screen while she continues staring at it.

“Yeah,” she murmurs quietly to herself.

“That’ll be me.”

The arousal is strangely gone thanks to the finality of her thoughts.

Over breakfast Riley pulls out her phone and opens the school app.

She already knows she isn’t going back. Everyone knows that once the watch turns red, school is over. Still, curiosity nags at her while the app loads. She wants to see if anyone posted about her in the class boards or if Amanda had said something in the group chat.

The loading circle spins for a moment.

Then the screen flashes.

Red.

Not the bright, friendly red used for school announcements or holiday banners. This one is darker, flat, the same tone that glows from the watch on her wrist.

Riley blinks at it.

Text appears in the center of the screen.

User has been removed from Student Registry.$Cause: Animal Conversion.

More text slides into place underneath.

You may not access this message board.

Her thumb hovers uselessly over the screen while she reads.

Another line appears.

Animals do not go to school.

Riley stares at the message for a second longer.

Then a quiet laugh escapes her before she can stop it.

Not a happy laugh.

Just one of those short, disbelieving bursts of sound that slips out when something is so blunt it almost feels like a joke.

“Well,” she mutters.

“I guess that answers that.”

“What answers what?” her dad asks.

He leans over slightly from across the table, trying to see her screen while he takes a bite of toast. Riley tilts the phone just enough that he can read the message.

His eyebrows lift.

“Oh wow, that’s cold,” he says with a short laugh. “Animals do not go to school.”

He shakes his head and leans back in his chair.

“Straight to the point, I guess.”

Riley’s mom looks up from the coffee she’s stirring.

“You okay?” she asks gently.

Riley stares at the red screen for another second before closing the app. Her thumb lingers over the icon for a moment.

Then she presses down.

The uninstall prompt pops up.

She taps delete without hesitation.

The little school icon disappears from her phone like it had never been there.

“Yeah,” Riley says, setting the phone down beside her plate.

“I’m good.”

“So what are your plans today, pet?” her mom asks as she joins them at the table.

She slides into the chair beside Riley with a fresh cup of coffee and a plate of toast. The smell of butter and jam hangs lightly in the kitchen while the quiet morning sunlight spills across the table.

“We could have a girls’ day,” she continues casually. “Go to the spa.”

Riley looks up from her own toast.

“I’ve never done that before,” she admits.

Her dad snorts quietly into his coffee.

“That’s because you’re twelve,” he says.

Her mom gives him a sideways look.

“Well she’s an Animal now,” she replies matter-of-factly. “Animals get treated.”

Riley chews thoughtfully for a moment.

“A spa sounds kind of weird,” she says after swallowing. “What do you even do there?”

“Relax,” her mom answers simply.

She reaches over and gently brushes a crumb off Riley’s shoulder before taking a sip of coffee.

“They pamper you,” she adds. “Massages, baths, skin treatments, the works.”

Riley raises an eyebrow.

“That sounds expensive.”

Her mom shrugs.

“Animals get a lot of things for free,” she says. “People like doing nice things for you.”

Her dad nods toward Riley with the end of his toast.

“Perks of the job, sweetmeat.”

Riley scrolls through local spas on her phone, the screen filling with glossy photos of steam rooms, mineral baths, and smiling clients wrapped in white towels. It only takes a few seconds before the advertisements start appearing. Several of them are clearly aimed at Animals rather than ordinary customers—basting treatments, premium hair removal, flavor enhancement programs. The wording tries to make it sound like luxury wellness, but Riley can see what they really mean.

None of them mention price anywhere obvious. If they’re targeted at Animals, there’s a good chance they aren’t free.

Still, she keeps scrolling for a moment, curiosity getting the better of her.

“What about treatments that’ll make my meat tastier?” Riley asks anyway, glancing up from the phone as she turns the screen slightly so her dad can see the ad.

Her dad leans over a little to look at it, squinting at the tiny text.

“Those work?” he asks.

Riley shrugs, flicking the screen to open the page with the ratings.

“Must do if it’s a five-star treatment,” she says. “One of their branches is only an hour from here.”

“Meat tenderising… what do you think that is?” Riley adds, tilting the phone slightly as she reads the description again.

Her dad squints at the screen, trying to make sense of the small print beneath the glossy promotional photos.

“Maybe a massage?” he suggests.

Riley taps the term and quickly pulls up the description. Her eyes move across the screen for barely a second before heat rushes into her face.

She lowers the phone slightly, cheeks turning red.

“Nope,” she says immediately, shaking her head. “Not happening.”

Her dad glances over at her reaction, frowning.

“What now?” he asks.

Riley silently tilts the phone toward him so he can read it himself.

He scans the description for a moment, and then his eyes go wide.

“Absolutely not happening.”

“Alright, I’ve booked you a basting session, hair removal, and flavour enhancement,” her mom says suddenly, like she’s announcing she’s just scheduled a dentist appointment.

Riley blinks and lowers her phone.

“How much did that cost?” she asks, eyebrows lifting. Then she squints at her mom. “And what about you?”

Her mom raises an eyebrow at that.

“What, I can’t let them make me feel tasty?”

“Honey, you’re not even in the Lottery bracket,” her dad says, smiling despite himself as he leans back in his chair. He pauses for a moment, clearly enjoying the thought before adding, “Though if you ever wanna, you know… host a BBQ?”

“Shush, you,” her mom replies, swatting the air in his direction. Then she looks back at Riley and shrugs a little.

“I’m doing it so Riley won’t have to do it alone.”

And Chapter Seven. Chapter eight will be more erotic, I promise.

CHAPTER SEVEN

“We have a slot for this afternoon,” her mom says, glancing down at her phone to double-check the confirmation. “Why don’t you go out for a bit first?”

Riley’s blush deepens immediately. She shifts slightly in her seat, suddenly very aware of herself again.

“I dunno,” she mutters, rubbing the back of her neck. “I’m kinda embarrassed.”

Her mom gives her a patient look.

“Oh Riley,” she says gently, like she’s explaining something obvious. “You’re an Animal. Modesty and shame shouldn’t even be a factor anymore.”

Riley snorts quietly at that and looks down at the table.

“Easy for you to say,” she replies. “You’re not the one being processed in six days.”

“Well, you’re not spending the whole day inside,” her mom says after a moment. “Why not go see the neighbours for a bit?”

Riley thinks about that, her mind drifting almost immediately to the elderly woman who lives across the street. Mrs. Francis had mentioned cookies the last time she saw Riley outside, leaning over her garden fence and insisting she should come by sometime. She had always been kind to Riley, the sort of neighbor who remembered birthdays and sent over baked goods during holidays.
When Riley was younger, Mrs. Francis had even babysat a few times when her parents were out late. Riley remembers sitting on the couch with a blanket around her shoulders while the old woman insisted on feeding her way too many snacks.
The thought makes Riley nod slowly.

“Mrs. Francis invited me over for cookies,” she says. “I guess I could go see her.”

Her mom smiles immediately.

“That would be lovely,” she replies. “You know she loves you like a granddaughter.”

After breakfast Riley takes a long shower, letting the hot water run over her while the bathroom slowly fills with steam. She spends more time than usual washing, lingering over parts of her body she normally would have rushed past without thinking. Now she scrubs carefully, methodically, paying attention to every inch of skin that had been hidden beneath her clothes almost exactly a day ago.
There’s no real reason for the effort, not anymore. Still, the habit of wanting to look presentable refuses to disappear overnight.

No sense in looking like an Animal, even if she was one.

By the time she finishes and dries off, the clock on the wall is creeping toward ten. Riley steps outside a little while later, pausing on the front step as the cool air hits her skin. Instinctively, her eyes flick across the street toward Mr. Greern’s porch.

The chair is empty.

Not there.

Good.

Mrs. Francis answers the door with a delighted smile and immediately pulls Riley into a firm hug, the kind that squeezes tighter than Riley expects from someone her age.

“Hey Mrs. Francis,” Riley says loudly once they pull apart, automatically raising her voice since the old lady’s hearing had been fading for years. “Thanks for inviting me over.”

“No problem, kid,” Mrs. Francis replies, waving one hand dismissively like the whole thing hardly counts as a favor. “Park your butt on the sofa and I’ll bring you some milk and cookies.”

Despite her advanced age, she doesn’t really talk like most old ladies Riley knows. There’s no slow softness to her voice, no gentle grandmotherly tone. Mrs. Francis speaks bluntly, casually, like someone who’s spent most of her life around people who didn’t bother dressing their words up.

Riley had grown up listening to her stories about the years during the Famine, back when everything had been falling apart. According to Mrs. Francis, people didn’t live in neat neighborhoods back then. They gathered in small, rough little communities that felt more like clans than towns, everyone watching each other’s backs while the world outside kept getting worse.

That was before the System came along and saved everyone.

Riley’s eyes drift toward the wall as she steps further into the living room. The familiar rifle is still hanging on its stand, exactly where it has always been. The wood is worn smooth in places from years of handling, and the metal parts have that dull, practical look of something maintained carefully rather than polished for display.

She has no idea what kind of rifle it actually is. Mrs. Francis had tried explaining once, but the description hadn’t helped much. According to her, it was a “bastard contraption made out of too many other guns,” assembled from whatever parts people could scavenge or trade during the bad years.

So Riley had eventually stopped trying to figure out what type it was supposed to be.

Mrs. Francis had always shrugged whenever anyone asked about it.

“It shoots and kills assholes,” she would say. “That’s all I needed.”

That part had always scared Riley a little.

Mrs. Francis had killed people. Not just once, either. From the way she talked about those years, it sounded like something she had done often enough to get good at it.

The thought never quite fit with the version of her Riley saw now. These days she lived a quiet suburban life, baking cookies, tending her little garden, and happily collecting an ever-growing collection of neighborhood kids she treated like honorary grandkids.

The rifle on the wall didn’t quite match the smell of fresh cookies drifting from the kitchen.

But it was still there.

Mrs. Francis returns a moment later carrying a tray loaded with a tall stack of cookies, a glass pitcher full of milk, and an empty drinking glass balanced neatly beside them. Despite her age, the tray doesn’t wobble even slightly as she carries it across the room.

She sets it down on the coffee table with steady hands.

“Here you go,” she says. “Get some meat on your bones.”

Before Riley can react, Mrs. Francis reaches over and pinches the skin lightly over Riley’s ribcage, giving it a playful squeeze. A rough, throaty laugh follows as she pulls her hand back.

Then she lowers herself onto the sofa beside Riley like the whole exchange is perfectly ordinary.

“So,” Mrs. Francis says after a moment, watching Riley reach for the cookies, “how are you handling the transition?”

Riley takes a bite first, chewing quickly before answering. The cookie is warm and soft, the sweetness almost distracting for a second as she forces herself to swallow.

“Okay, I guess,” she says. “Had a bit of a meltdown yesterday.”

“Yeah, I bet you did,” Mrs. Francis replies without hesitation.

She reaches forward and takes a cookie from the plate for herself, leaning back into the sofa cushions as she bites into it.

“I’m sorry to see it happen to you,” she continues, her tone calm but matter-of-fact. “But you’ve heard all my stories about what things were like before the System.”

She gestures vaguely with the half-eaten cookie in her hand.

“This is better,” she says. “Even if it doesn’t seem like it to you right now.”

“Anyway,” Mrs. Francis says after a moment, brushing a few crumbs from her hands, “I was going to give you this if you ever aged out of the Lottery.”

She pushes herself up from the sofa with a quiet grunt and walks over to the television stand. Beneath it sits a small drawer, the kind people usually fill with remotes and loose batteries. She pulls it open and rummages inside for a second before lifting out a small, worn box.

“Since that isn’t happening,” she adds casually, “consider it a gift for your last seven days.”

She opens the box and pulls out a thick wad of folded bills.

Riley’s eyes go wide immediately.

“No,” she says quickly, shaking her head. “I can’t take that from you.”

Mrs. Francis snorts.

“Shut it,” she replies, pressing the money into Riley’s hand anyway. “With any luck I’ll die before you do.”

She shrugs.

“Can’t take it with me anyway.”

Riley’s hands tremble slightly as she takes the bills. The money feels heavier than she expected, the thick fold of paper pressing into her palm while she carefully separates the edges and starts counting.

There’s far more there than she thought at first glance.

When she finishes, she stares down at the stack in disbelief.

“Well over five hundred dollars,” she murmurs.

Her face turns pink as the number really sinks in.

“I’ve never held this much money,” Riley admits, sounding a little overwhelmed. She glances up at Mrs. Francis, still clutching the bills carefully between both hands. “Are you sure?”

Mrs. Francis snorts softly at that.

“When have I ever taken back a gift?” she says, reaching over and flicking Riley lightly on the forehead.

The quick tap makes Riley blink.

“When I give you something,” Mrs. Francis continues, “all you need to do is say thank you.”

Riley rubs her forehead with a small smile.

“Thank you, Mrs. Francis.”

The old woman’s expression softens at that. She shifts closer on the sofa and slips one arm comfortably around Riley’s bare shoulders, pulling her in beside her like she’s done a hundred times before.

“You be brave for me, okay kiddo?” she says quietly.

Riley ends up spending most of the afternoon at Mrs. Francis’s house.

The time passes the way it usually does there, slowly and comfortably, the two of them talking while Riley keeps reaching for more cookies without really noticing how many she has already eaten.

The plate on the coffee table gradually empties while the pitcher of milk gets lighter every time Riley refills her glass.

At some point Mrs. Francis starts telling old stories again.

Eventually that leads to the scars.

She rolls up her sleeve first, exposing the long pale line running across her forearm. Riley has seen it plenty of times before, but Mrs. Francis still points at it like it’s a trophy.

“Knife,” she says casually.

That one leads to another.

Soon she’s lifting the hem of her shirt a little to show the puckered mark along her side, then turning her shoulder to reveal the one that looks like a small crater.

Riley has heard the story behind each of them at least a dozen times.

That doesn’t stop Mrs. Francis from explaining them again, describing the fights and the chaos of those years like someone remembering old road trips instead of people trying to kill each other over food.

By the time the afternoon begins slipping toward evening, Riley is full of cookies and milk.

Her stomach feels heavy and warm while the empty plate sits between them on the table.

Riley tucks the money carefully into the little pouch with her phone before leaving Mrs. Francis’s house.

She checks it once more before stepping outside, pressing the fabric flat against her hip to make sure the folded bills won’t slip out while she walks.

The afternoon air feels cooler now as she crosses the street toward home.

Halfway across the road her eyes drift automatically toward Mr. Greern’s porch.

He’s there.

He’s sitting in his usual chair with a mug in one hand, watching the street the same way he always does. The moment he notices Riley his attention sharpens, his eyes following her in a way that makes something tighten unpleasantly in her stomach.

The look in his eyes makes her uncomfortable.

When he pushes himself up from the chair and starts walking toward the edge of his porch, Riley immediately picks up her pace. She doesn’t wait to see if he’s actually coming over or just stretching his legs.

She crosses the rest of the road quickly and slips through her front door.

The door closes behind her before he even reaches the sidewalk.

“I’m ready to go!” Riley calls as she steps back inside the house.

Her voice carries down the hallway toward the kitchen. She drops her shoes near the door and walks in, still adjusting the strap of the small pouch resting against her hip.

The moment she sees her mom, Riley stops.

“Mom,” she blurts, her face immediately heating, “why are you naked?”

Her mom is sitting at the kitchen table beside Riley’s dad like nothing unusual is happening at all. She’s completely relaxed, one leg tucked under the other, looking perfectly comfortable in her own skin.

“Well,” she says casually, “if I’m going to be getting an Animal treatment, I might as well look the part.”

She leans back slightly in the chair and glances down at herself with an easy sort of confidence.

“I think I look pretty good for thirty-five, don’t you?” she adds, glancing between Riley and her husband.

Riley shifts awkwardly, unsure where to look for a second.

“I dunno,” she mutters back.

“Okay, we better get moving now,” her mom says, already standing up from the table. “I’ll grab a few things quickly. Go wait in the car.”

Riley hesitates in the doorway.

“But Mr. Greern is out there.”

Her mom presses the car keys into Riley’s hand. Riley takes them, though she still finds it strangely difficult to look directly at her mother right now.

“He won’t try anything,” her mom says calmly. “Go on.”

Riley grumbles under her breath as she opens the front door and steps back outside. The afternoon air feels cooler now, the quiet street stretching out in front of her exactly the same as it always does.

She doesn’t look toward the porch this time.

Instead she walks quickly across the short stretch of driveway, heading straight for the passenger side of their car. The keys jingle faintly in her hand as she reaches for the door handle.

Just as she pulls it, a hand slams the door shut.

The sharp sound makes her flinch.

“Riley,” a voice says beside her, one she recognizes immediately, “you owe me an apology.”

She sighs, closing her eyes for a moment before turning her head.

“I’m sorry I called you a pig, Mr. Greern.”

“It’s very hurtful being talked to like that,” Mr. Greern says stiffly, his lips tightening as he looks down at her. “Especially by an Animal.”

The way he says the word makes Riley’s stomach churn.

There’s a little extra weight behind it, a slow emphasis that makes it sound less like a legal term and more like something dirty.

“Yeah,” Riley shoots back, folding her arms instinctively, “well it’s not fun being stared at by a pervert either.”

He rolls his eyes at her like she’s being dramatic.

“Back when I was your age we didn’t even give Animals seven days,” he says. His tone carries the smug certainty of someone who believes the past was tougher and therefore better. “Usually Enforcement would come and collect you the same day.”

Riley scoffs.

“What, are you gonna kidnap me and take me to processing now?” she asks, glaring at him. “You don’t scare me, you creepy—”

The slap cuts her off mid-word.

His hand cracks across her cheek hard enough that the sound echoes off the side of the car. The impact makes her head snap sideways and for a second the world tilts, a bright ringing filling her ears while her vision blurs slightly.

Riley stumbles sideways from the force of the slap, her shoulder bumping hard against the side of the car. For a second she just stands there, blinking while the ringing in her ears slowly fades and the sting spreads across her cheek.

Before she can straighten up, Mr. Greern grabs her wrist.

His fingers clamp down hard enough to hurt, the grip tight and possessive as he pulls her back toward him. Riley’s arm jerks forward with the motion, her balance still shaky as he drags her a step closer.

“Animals don’t speak to Humans like that,” he growls.

His voice has lost the lazy porch friendliness he usually hides behind. Now it sounds low and ugly, like he’s been waiting for an excuse to talk this way.

He leans slightly closer to her, still holding her wrist.

“Why don’t you and I go inside,” he says, his mouth twisting into a thin smile, as his hand grabs her budding breast painfully, “and maybe I’ll teach you the manners your parents didn’t?”

A gunshot cracks through the air like thunder.

The sound is so loud and sudden that Riley flinches instinctively. A chunk of turf explodes from the edge of the garden a few feet away, dirt and grass spraying outward where the bullet slams into the ground.

Mr. Greern jerks backward in fright, his grip loosening just enough for Riley to pull her wrist free.

Across the street, Mrs. Francis stands in her yard with the rifle braced against her shoulder. The old “bastard gun” looks heavy in her hands, but she holds it perfectly steady. Her posture is so still she might as well be carved out of stone.

“Hello, Mr. Greern,” she calls across the street in a voice full of mock friendliness. “Having your way with the Animals, are you?”

Mr. Greern turns toward her, still startled, anger quickly replacing the fear in his face.

“So what if I am?” he snaps defensively. “She can’t say no.”

Another shot cracks through the air.

This one lands closer. The bullet punches into the dirt near his shoe, spraying dust across the pavement.

Mrs. Francis calmly works the lever on the rifle, the metal clacking with a sharp, mechanical sound as she chambers the next round.

“She can’t,” she says evenly. “But I can for her.”

The barrel stays trained directly on him.

“Go back inside,” she adds, her voice flat now. “The third shot goes through your eye.”

Mr. Greern looks at Riley for a moment, his expression sour, then turns his head back toward Mrs. Francis and the rifle pointed straight at him.

For a second it looks like he might say something else.

Instead he lets out an irritated grunt and shoves Riley away from him. The push is sudden and rough, sending her stumbling backward across the driveway. She loses her footing and drops hard onto her bare butt, gravel biting sharply into her skin.

Mrs. Francis tracks him the entire time with the rifle.

The barrel never wavers as he backs away across the yard and climbs onto his porch. She keeps the gun trained on him until he disappears inside the house and the door slams shut behind him.

Only then does she lower the rifle slowly.

“Thank God for that,” the old woman mutters as she starts walking across the street. “Only had two bullets.”

Riley pushes herself up from the pavement, wincing slightly as she brushes small pieces of gravel from her butt cheeks with shaky hands. The sting from the slap is still burning across her face, and her heart hasn’t quite slowed down yet.

Mrs. Francis reaches her a second later.

She sets the rifle aside against the car and gently takes Riley by the chin, tilting her face upward so she can examine the red mark spreading across her cheek.

“You okay, kid?” she asks.

Riley takes a breath, her voice still a little unsteady.

“I am now.”

Here's an image of Riley at the end of chapter 7. I like this Flat Illustration generator, not so huge on anime girls.

If you don't like Anime art, sorry, I ain't an artist

>>29617
I normally use Perchance Professional because it gives me more style choices but these were generated with a new Perchance option

https://perchance.org/improved-ai-girl-generator

Lately, I've taken to using a Word *.docx file to keep track of all the different Perchance descriptions I've used. It saves me a lot of time when I have similarities of images.

Awesome update! The spa Riley and her mum are going to sounds rather like the one my Beth went to where she met Maddie! Was that the intention? I bet they're going to have fun! ♥️

Yep. Not gonna lie, a lot of Beth's story has inspired me

>>29625
That's awesome! I love when my ideas catch on! 🥰 Is the wad of cash to spoil herself with in her final week another homage? I love the neighbour lady! Hoping for an "unfortunate accident" for Mr Green!

The cash idea wasn't intentionally thought up with Beth's story in mind but even I realised the similarity again I had to consider just how much of the story is paying homage.

At the end of the day it's a similar story. Girl becomes a Meatgirl. Meatgirl become food.

>>29634
Yup 😁 Beth's story was the longest I had written at the time but it's been overtaken since! Did you read "Talking Turkey"?

No but I will let you know how I like it

>>29649
Awesome! I am working on the sequel to it too 😊 Really looking forward to finding out what Riley gets up to next!

CHAPTER EIGHT

The red mark Mrs. Francis had been studying burned faintly against the cool afternoon air as Riley stood beside the car, trying to steady her breathing. Her wrist still ached where Mr. Greern had grabbed it, and her heart hadn’t quite slowed down yet.

Across the driveway the quiet suburban street looked exactly the same as it always did. Trim lawns. Parked cars. A sprinkler ticking somewhere down the block.

Like nothing had happened at all.

The front door of Riley’s house bursts open.

Her mom comes running out first, completely naked and moving faster than Riley has ever seen her move before. Riley’s father is right behind her, a handgun already in his hand as he scans the street.

“We heard a gunshot,” her mom calls out, breathless. “Are you okay?”

Her father’s attention shifts immediately to the rifle resting against Mrs. Francis’s shoulder.

“Mrs. Francis,” he says, narrowing his eyes slightly, “did you fire that old thing?”

Mrs. Francis adjusts the rifle casually and settles the stock more comfortably against her shoulder.

The pose looks strangely natural on her, like the weapon belongs there.

“Greern tried to take Riley,” Mrs. Francis says without hesitation.

Her voice is calm, almost conversational, like she’s explaining why she yelled at a stray dog rather than why she just fired a rifle in the middle of a quiet suburban street.

She shifts her grip on the gun slightly, resting the weight of it against her shoulder while she looks directly at Riley’s parents.

“Would you rather he raped her,” she continues bluntly, “and you could do nothing about it?”

The words hang in the air for a moment.

There’s no outrage in her tone, no attempt to soften what she’s saying. Just the same flat certainty she always uses when talking about the way things actually work.

“Oh,” Riley’s mom says, her expression tightening as she turns to look toward Mr. Greern’s house across the street.

“That disgusting old man,” she mutters, shaking her head. “I’ve got half a mind to shoot him myself.”

Mrs. Francis lets out a rough chuckle at that and shifts the rifle slightly in her hands.

“Let me do it,” she says with a crooked grin. “I’m eighty-two. What’s Enforcement gonna do, kill me?”

Riley’s dad immediately raises one hand, cutting that line of thought off before it can go any further.

“No, no. Nobody is killing anyone,” he says firmly. His eyes move from Mrs. Francis to his wife before settling back on Riley. “You two need to get going or you’ll miss your treatment.”

Mrs. Francis snorts, the tension bleeding out of the moment as she glances back at Riley’s mom.

“Oh yeah,” she says, her eyes drifting slowly up and down Riley’s mother’s body. “I wondered why you were naked.”

She gives an approving nod.

“You’ve got nice tits for your age.”

“Thank you,” Riley’s mom says, accepting the comment like it’s a completely normal compliment. She cups them in her hands and wiggles them up and down, “They don’t sag much, perks of having only one kid.”

Riley steps forward and wraps her arms around Mrs. Francis in a quick hug.

“Thanks,” she says quietly. “You saved me.”

Mrs. Francis gives a short grunt as she pats Riley firmly on the shoulder, the old woman’s hand still strong despite her age.

“Just because you’re an Animal doesn’t mean you should lie down and take that,” she says.

Her eyes flick briefly toward Mr. Greern’s house before returning to Riley.

“The law won’t protect you,” she continues bluntly, “but it also won’t interfere if you bite.”

She gives Riley’s shoulder one last squeeze before nudging her gently toward the car.

“Now get moving,” she says. “You’ve got places to be.”

The drive to the spa is quiet.

The car rolls steadily through the late afternoon traffic while the houses of their neighborhood give way to wider roads and long stretches of storefronts. No one turns on the radio, and the soft hum of the engine becomes the only real sound inside the car.

Riley sits in the passenger seat with her arms folded loosely across her stomach.

Her mind keeps drifting back to what just happened.

She replays the moment again and again.

Mr. Greern’s hand slamming the car door shut. The way his fingers wrapped around her wrist. The way he talked about her like she was something he already owned.

The worst part isn’t even the slap.

It’s the realization that comes afterward.

If he had dragged her across the lawn and into his house, nobody would have stopped him. The street would have stayed quiet. The neighbors would have kept watering their gardens or drinking coffee on their porches.

And when it was over, nothing would have happened to him.

Because Animals don’t get protection.

Animals get used.

The thought settles in Riley’s chest like a cold stone.

It scares her in a way yesterday never quite managed to. Not the panic she felt when she first realized she’d been selected, but something slower and heavier.

The understanding that the world will never see her as Human again.

“If Mr. Greern had raped me,” Riley says suddenly, breaking the silence in the car, “would you have killed him?”

The question hangs in the air for a moment.

Her mom keeps her eyes on the road, both hands resting on the steering wheel while the car continues forward at the same steady speed.

She doesn’t answer right away.

“Honey, it’s…” she begins, then stops.

A quiet sigh slips out of her as if the rest of the sentence refuses to come together cleanly.

“No,” she finally says. “I wouldn’t.”

The words sit there between them while the road hums beneath the tires.

“You’re an Animal now,” she continues after a moment, her voice gentler but still painfully matter-of-fact. “Don’t dwell on what could have happened.”

Her eyes flick briefly toward Riley before returning to the road.

“Remember that Mrs. Francis stepped in,” she says. “She saved you from a lot of pain.”

There’s another short pause.

“You may not be Human,” Riley’s mom adds quietly, “but you don’t deserve your first time to be with a cunt like that man.”

“Hey,” her mom begins, forcing a small smile as she keeps her eyes on the road. “You might meet a cute Meatboy before—”

She cuts herself off mid-sentence.

The words hang there unfinished for a moment while the car continues rolling forward, the quiet hum of the tires filling the space she left behind.

Riley glances over at her.

“Before I die?” she says for her.

Her mom doesn’t answer.

Riley gives a small shrug and turns her eyes back to the window.

“Maybe,” she says.

They finally reach the spa a little while later.

The building looks expensive from the outside, all smooth glass and pale stone, with neatly trimmed plants lining the walkway up to the entrance. Everything about it feels calm and polished, the kind of place designed to make people relax the moment they walk through the door.

Inside, the air smells faintly of scented oils and warm steam.

Soft music plays somewhere overhead while the quiet lobby spreads out in pale marble and comfortable chairs. Riley and her mom walk up to the reception desk and sign in, the pen scratching softly across the clipboard.

The receptionist scans the form for a moment.

Then her eyes lift slowly toward Riley’s mom.

“Ma’am,” she says carefully, “you are aware this treatment set is for Animals, right?”

Riley’s mom nods without hesitation.

“Yeah,” she replies easily. “But I figured it’d be a good last chance to bond with my little girl.”

The receptionist studies her for another moment, clearly unsure how to respond to that.

Then she shrugs lightly and turns the clipboard back toward the desk.

“Alright,” she says. “If you insist.”

“Give me your arm please,” the spa clerk says to Riley’s mom.

Riley’s mom extends her wrist across the counter without hesitation. The green glow of the watch sits bright against her skin, the familiar citizen light pulsing softly in the quiet lobby.

The clerk reaches into a small tray beside the desk and pulls out a thin square of yellow paper. It’s slightly sheer, the kind that lets light bleed through it.

She presses it carefully over the face of the watch.

The green glow immediately shifts under the filter, turning into a dull reddish light that now looks almost identical to Riley’s.

“There you go, Meatgirl,” the clerk says with a pleasant smile.

She notices the confused look on both of their faces and gives a small shrug like the explanation is obvious.

“This treatment isn’t for Humans,” she explains casually. “So we’ve temporarily converted you.”

“Oh, that’s fun,” Riley’s mom says with a small laugh.

She lifts her wrist and studies the watch for a moment, turning it slightly so the red glow catches the light. Then she holds it next to Riley’s real one, comparing the two lights side by side like someone admiring matching bracelets.

The fake red and the real red glow almost identically.

“Alright, Meatgirls,” the clerk says, holding out a small handheld scanner across the counter. “Who’s paying?”

“I am,” Riley says before her mom can answer.

She steps forward and opens the small pouch hanging from her shoulder, carefully pulling out the folded bills Mrs. Francis had given her.

Riley’s mom notices immediately.

“Riley,” she says, blinking in surprise, “where’d you get that?”

“Mrs. Francis gave it to me,” Riley replies as she counts out the cash. “She said it was my college fund.”

Her mom rolls her eyes, though the corner of her mouth twitches upward slightly.

“Of course she saved you money,” she mutters. “Soft old bat.”

Suddenly Riley is scooped up off her feet and held by her butt cheeks. “Hey, now that we’re both Animals,” she kisses Riley deep on the lips, “I don’t need to feel awkward doing that.”

“Mom, you already made me come in your hands?”

“That was me helping relieve you, the kiss was for me.”

“Okay,” the clerk says as she finishes tapping the payment into her screen. “That’s a basting treatment, a taste treatment, and hair removal for two.”

She gestures toward a small waiting area nearby.

“If you don’t mind waiting over there,” she adds, pointing to a row of soft, comfortable chairs. “We’ll call you in when you’re ready.”

Riley and her mom move over and sit down beside each other.

The chairs are deep and cushioned, designed to sink slightly when someone sits in them. Soft music drifts through the quiet lobby while the faint smell of oils and heated stone hangs in the air.

They appear to be the only customers.

Tuesday afternoon isn’t exactly a busy time for a place like this.

Riley’s mom leans back in her chair and glances sideways at her daughter. Her eyes travel slowly from Riley’s shoulders down to her legs.

“You sure you need hair removal, Riley?” she asks.

Her head tilts slightly as she studies her.

“You don’t look like you do.”

“I dunno,” Riley says.

She glances down at herself and absently runs her fingers over the soft patch of hair at her pelvis, feeling the fine strands against her skin.

“It’s getting pretty hairy,” she adds with a small shrug, like she’s commenting on something mildly inconvenient rather than important.

“Honey, it looks bare,” her mom tells her after another quick glance, which only makes Riley feel more self-conscious.

“But if you want them to do it,” she adds with an easy shrug, “it’s your day.”

Riley shifts slightly in the chair, her curiosity getting the better of her.

“Do you know how they do it?” she asks.

Her mom shakes her head.

“Nope,” she says casually. “I usually just shave.”

She gestures downward toward her own pelvis as she says it, the smooth skin there making the point obvious.

“I bet your dad will love it when I come home baby smooth,” her mom says with a mischievous grin.

She stretches slightly in the chair as she says it, clearly amused by the thought.

“That man won’t let me dress for a week, I bet.”

“Gross,” Riley mutters.

She turns her head away, trying to hide the blush creeping into her cheeks while her mom continues looking amused beside her.

Riley shifts in the chair and absently runs her hand down her leg, feeling the faint, soft hairs along the skin there. For a moment she wonders if the treatment will remove those too.

The thought lingers long enough that curiosity starts to win.

After another second she stands up and walks back over to the reception desk.

“Yes, Meatgirl?” the clerk asks pleasantly.

The word comes out the same way someone might say sir or ma’am, polite and automatic, like it’s simply the proper way to address someone in Riley’s situation.

“I was wondering,” Riley says, resting her hands on the edge of the counter, “when you remove body hair, does it also get the little fuzzy ones?”

The clerk nods as if the question comes up all the time.

“We apply a lotion over the skin,” she explains calmly. “It doesn’t take very long. After a few minutes the hair loosens and wipes right off.”

Riley shifts slightly where she stands, trying not to look as uncertain as she suddenly feels.

“So someone’s going to put it on me?” she asks.

“Someone will, yes,” the clerk replies with a small, professional smile.

Her tone stays friendly and reassuring, like she’s used to nervous first-timers asking the same question.

“Don’t be shy,” she adds. “You might even enjoy it.”

Riley thanks the clerk for the information and walks back to the waiting area.

She settles down beside her mom again, the soft chair sinking slightly under her weight while the quiet music continues to drift through the lobby. For a moment neither of them says anything. Riley absently rubs her hands together, still thinking about the lotion and the way the clerk had described the hair simply falling away.

The door behind the reception desk opens.

A different woman steps out into the lobby.

Riley notices immediately that she’s completely naked. The only thing on her body is the red glow of a watch wrapped around her wrist, the light pulsing faintly against her skin.

The sight catches Riley off guard.

“You’re a Meatgirl?” Riley asks, looking directly at her.

The woman smiles warmly at her.

“I’m Service Stock,” she explains as she approaches, her bare feet making no sound at all against the polished floor. “Since I have a trade I’m allowed to return to it until my time comes. It helps me stay alive longer by being useful.”

She says it simply, like she’s explaining a work schedule.

“This way, Meatgirls,” the woman adds pleasantly, gesturing toward the hallway behind her.

“We’ll start with the hair removal.”

CHAPTER NINE

Riley and her mom stand and follow her down the quiet corridor.

The hallway opens into a dim, candlelit space that feels warmer than the lobby. The air smells faintly of oils and warm wax, the kind of scent that lingers gently in the back of the throat. Soft light flickers along the walls where rows of thick candles sit in glass holders, their flames swaying slightly in the still air.

Curtains hang from rails along one side of the room.

Each one forms a small private space where treatments can be done without the rest of the room watching.

The Service Stock woman walking ahead of them slows and gestures toward one of the curtains.

Riley steps forward and pulls it aside.

Inside she sees another woman waiting beside a padded treatment table. She’s also naked with a red watch. Service Stock.

The woman smiles when Riley looks in.

“Would the Meatgirl prefer a male or female hand?” she asks politely.

The question catches Riley off guard for a moment.

Her first instinct is to say male. The thought flashes through her head automatically, the same way it might have any other day.

Then she remembers Mr. Greern’s hand grabbing her wrist.

The memory hits hard enough to make her shudder.

“I’m fine with her,” Riley says after a moment, giving a small nod toward the woman inside the curtain.

“Good luck, baby,” Riley’s mom says with a quick smile.

Riley steps inside the curtained space and lets the fabric fall closed behind her. The soft rustle of the curtain cuts her off from the rest of the room, leaving only the warm candlelight and the quiet presence of the woman waiting beside the table.

On the other side of the curtain she hears the attendant guiding her mom a few steps farther down the row.

“Would the Meatgirl prefer a male or female hand?” the attendant asks again.

Riley’s mom doesn’t hesitate.

“Oh, male,” she says quickly. “The younger you got, the better.”

A short amused laugh follows from the attendant.

“Of course.”

“Please lie down with your head in the hole,” the masseuse says, indicating to the padded table, “Then we’ll begin.”

Riley climbs onto the table and lies face down.

The padded surface is warm beneath her stomach and chest, but that doesn’t stop the strange feeling of exposure creeping over her. Without a towel or sheet covering her, her bare body feels completely visible, her butt lifted slightly by the position of the table as if it’s deliberately being presented.

She shifts her arms slightly under her head, trying not to think about it.

The masseuse steps beside the table.

“Now,” she says, “I’m going to start with your back.”

Riley feels a fingertip touch the center of her spine.

The finger moves slowly downward, gliding along the line of her backbone as if the woman is counting each ridge beneath the skin.

“Then your butt,” the masseuse says.

Her hand flattens gently against Riley’s butt cheek, spreading the skin slightly as it moves in a slow, testing stroke.

“Down to your legs.”

The same finger trails down the back of Riley’s thigh, following the muscle until it reaches her calf.

“And then,” the woman adds calmly, “we’ll flip you over and go from the top.”

Riley feels her face grow warm as she lies there on the table.

The slow contact along her spine and legs had caused her pussy to glisten under the candlelight. It takes her a moment to realize what it is, and when she does, embarrassment hits her all at once.

She presses her forehead lightly against her folded arms with a strained groan. “Sorry,” she says, muffled by her head in her arms.

The masseuse runs a hand between Riley’s legs, gently coating her finger in the warm juices.

“That’s normal,” the woman says kindly.

Her voice carries the same calm professionalism she had used since the beginning of the treatment, like she’s reassuring someone about a perfectly ordinary physical reaction.

“Some Animals, like you, respond strongly to touch,” she adds gently.

Her hands continue moving in slow, practiced strokes along Riley’s back while she speaks, the motions steady and unhurried as the treatment goes on.

The masseuse pauses for a moment as her hands rest lightly on Riley’s back.

She leans slightly closer, her voice dropping to a softer tone near Riley’s ear.

“Would you like to take a moment before we begin?” she asks quietly.

Her breath brushes faintly against Riley’s ear as she speaks, the question delivered in the same calm, professional way she has used for the rest of the treatment.

“Or we can continue and deal with it afterward.”

Riley’s blush deepens again.

“After,” she says quietly, having no real intention of taking the woman up on the offer.

She lowers her face into the folded pillow beneath her arms and tries to focus on breathing normally while the moment passes.

Behind her she hears the soft click of a bottle opening.

A thick sound follows as lotion is squeezed into a waiting palm. The masseuse rubs her hands together slowly, spreading the liquid between them while warming it.

The faint scent of the oil reaches Riley a moment later.

“This will tingle,” the woman says calmly as she steps closer to the table, “but it won’t hurt.”

Her voice stays gentle and matter-of-fact, the same steady tone she’s used since Riley entered the room.

“It’s like a normal massage,” she continues, “except the lotion is for more than helping you relax.”

When the woman’s hands finally begin to move, Riley can’t stop herself from gasping.

She had been warned the lotion would tingle, but the sensation still catches her off guard. The woman’s fingers begin working quickly across the skin of her back, spreading the warm oil in firm, practiced strokes that leave a faint prickling sensation wherever they pass.

Riley’s shoulders tense for a moment before she manages to relax again.

The masseuse works methodically, her hands moving with confident precision as she spreads the lotion across Riley’s skin. The tingling grows stronger wherever the oil settles, a strange mixture of warmth and faint buzzing that lingers behind each pass of her hands.

“It surprises people the first time,” the woman says calmly, noticing Riley’s reaction.

Her tone remains steady and reassuring as she continues the treatment, her fingers moving in slow, controlled patterns while the lotion begins to do its work.

Her hands begin kneading into the muscles along Riley’s back.

The pressure is firm and deliberate, the woman’s fingers working their way along the lines of muscle beside Riley’s spine. Each time she presses into a tight spot Riley feels the tension loosen, and a soft groan escapes into her folded arms before she can stop it.

The tingling from the lotion spreads across her skin while the steady pressure of the massage works deeper.

The woman moves up to Riley’s shoulders next.

Her thumbs press into the tight muscles there, slowly working out the knots that have been building from tension Riley hadn’t even realized she was carrying. The sensation travels up the back of her neck as the woman’s fingers follow the muscles upward, kneading carefully along the base of Riley’s skull.

Riley exhales slowly, her body sinking further into the table as another knot finally gives way.

Then the woman’s hands move lower.

“I’m going to work on the buttocks now,” the attendant says calmly. “Alright?”

Riley swallows and nods against her arms.

“Yeah,” is all she manages to say.

Riley feels the woman’s warm hands settle onto her butt cheeks.

This time they don’t hover or test the way they had earlier. The pressure is firm and deliberate, the attendant’s palms pressing into the muscle with the same practiced purpose she had used on Riley’s back.

The lotion leaves a faint tingling wherever it spreads.

For a moment Riley finds the situation strangely confusing. All her life she had been told to watch out for people trying to “cop a feel,” warned about wandering hands and unwanted contact.

Now someone is touching her there openly, methodically, the same way they had worked on every other part of her body.

As a Meatgirl, it isn’t treated as anything unusual.

It’s just another muscle group being worked.

The woman kneads the area a few times more, spreading the lotion evenly across the skin before moving on.

Just as quickly as it began, the hands leave her butt.

They slide down to her legs instead, fingers working the lotion into the muscles of her thighs before continuing down toward her calves. The same tingling sensation follows wherever the lotion is applied, spreading slowly across her skin while the attendant’s hands keep moving in steady, professional strokes.

Eventually the woman’s hands work their way down Riley’s legs.

Her fingers move slowly along the calves, spreading the lotion evenly before continuing downward until they reach the arches of Riley’s feet. The attendant presses her thumbs gently into the soft muscles there, working them the same careful way she had treated the rest of Riley’s body.

When her fingers reach the tips of Riley’s toes, a different kind of shiver runs up Riley’s spine.

It catches her by surprise.

The woman notices immediately.

“Oh,” she says with a small amused sound, still holding Riley’s foot in one hand. “Do you like me touching your feet?”

Her tone remains warm and conversational as she continues the treatment.

“My, you are a sensitive little Animal, aren’t you?”

When the woman finally lets go of Riley’s feet, the sudden absence of pressure makes her toes curl slightly against the table.

The attendant’s hand travels back up Riley’s leg in a slow, deliberate motion, spreading the last traces of lotion along the skin as she moves. Her fingers glide along the back of Riley’s calf and then higher, over the muscles of her thigh.

The tingling follows the path of her touch.

Riley feels the woman’s hand stop just below her pussy, resting lightly at the top of her thigh.

The pause hangs there for a moment.

“Now?” the woman asks simply.

Her tone remains calm and professional, like she’s waiting for permission to continue the next step of the treatment.

“Now,” Riley says.

The masseuses hand begins to stroke between Riley’s legs. She separates them gently, allowing easier access. But then she stops. “After,” she says, nibbling the shell of Riley’s ear.

Riley almost complains but she catches herself.

The attendant helps Riley turn over carefully on the table.

Her hands guide the movement with practiced ease so Riley doesn’t slip on the lotion that now coats her skin. Riley settles onto her back, the warmth of the table against her shoulders while the candlelight flickers softly across the ceiling above her.

For a moment the woman studies her the same way she had studied Riley’s back earlier, her attention focused and professional.

The attendant raises one finger and hovers it lightly above Riley’s collarbone.

“We’ll start here,” she says calmly.

Her fingertip touches down and begins tracing a slow path across Riley’s upper chest, spreading another thin layer of the lotion while the faint tingling sensation follows close behind the touch.

“Then here.”

Her hand moves lower across Riley’s breasts, slowly circling a nipple before working steadily over her stomach and along the curve of her waist. The same careful pressure continues while the lotion spreads evenly across the skin.

The motion continues down along Riley’s pelvis, just shy of touching her pussy, and then farther, the attendant’s hands following the same methodical routine she had used earlier.

Finally her hands travel along the front of Riley’s legs, working the lotion downward in smooth strokes until the treatment reaches her knees and continues along the length of her calves again.

“Ready?” the masseuse asks.
Riley opens her mouth to answer but nothing comes out. Her throat tightens the moment she tries to speak, a sudden, humiliating fear that whatever sound escapes will be something small and broken. Something that will make the whole room look at her differently.

So she doesn’t risk it.

Instead, she swallows hard and gives a quick, silent nod.

Like before, the masseuse begins working the tension out of Riley’s muscles. The woman’s hands move with the same practiced confidence as earlier, thumbs pressing firmly along Riley’s shoulders before drifting lower as the tightness in her back slowly gives way under the pressure.

Riley closes her eyes.

She doesn’t want to watch.

The steady rhythm of the massage continues as the hands move forward, kneading gently into the soft tissue of her breasts with the same clinical detachment used everywhere else on her body. The masseuse avoids the more sensitive spots without hesitation, working only the muscle and tension she’s there to deal with, as though the rest of Riley’s body is nothing more than another set of tight fibers to loosen.

Riley focuses on the feeling of the pressure instead, the slow push and release of fingers easing knots she hadn’t realized were there, and tries not to think about where those hands are.

It doesn’t stop her body from reacting.
The warmth between Riley’s thighs slowly spreads, an unwelcome slickness that grows the longer the massage continues. No matter how carefully she tries to focus on the pressure in her shoulders or the steady rhythm of the masseuse’s hands, her body keeps responding anyway, the heat building in a way she can’t seem to shut down.

The wetness only deepens.

Whether the masseuse notices or simply chooses not to acknowledge it, Riley can’t tell. The woman’s hands continue their calm, methodical work as if nothing unusual is happening at all, kneading muscle and easing tension with the same detached professionalism she’s shown from the start.

If she sees it, she gives no sign.

The masseuse’s hands move down to Riley’s stomach next.

Here the pressure changes. The firm kneading used on her shoulders and chest softens into something much lighter, the woman’s palms pressing only gently against the skin as they work across her abdomen. Each movement is careful and controlled, applying just enough pressure to ease the tightness in the muscles without pushing deep enough to upset her stomach.

The hands glide slowly over the soft rise of her belly, pressing and releasing in slow, deliberate motions.

Too much force here could make her sick.

The masseuse clearly knows that, because she keeps the touch light, her fingers spreading slightly as she works across Riley’s stomach with the same quiet professionalism she’s shown everywhere else on her body.

The masseuse’s hands move lower.

When they reach Riley’s pelvis, the woman pauses only long enough to pump more lotion into her palms. The faint, medicinal scent rises into the air as she rubs her hands together, spreading it evenly before touching Riley again.

Her palms settle against the flat of Riley’s pelvis, just above the place where pubic hair would normally grow. The skin there is already warm from the earlier massage, and the lotion spreads quickly under the slow movement of the masseuse’s hands.

She works the area with calm, deliberate strokes, smoothing the lotion across the bare skin and pressing gently into the muscle beneath. The motion is steady and practiced, the same quiet professionalism she has shown everywhere else, as though this part of Riley’s body is no different from her shoulders or stomach.

The lotion leaves a glossy sheen as the masseuse’s fingers move across the sensitive skin, working the tension out of Riley’s hips while her hands glide slowly over the area.

The masseuse’s hands slide lower again, spreading another line of lotion across Riley’s hips before working it into the skin.

Her palms move slowly over the curve of Riley’s waist, smoothing the lotion across her sides and pressing into the muscles there with firm, steady strokes. The oil leaves a slick shine wherever her hands pass, the skin warming under the repeated motion as she works along the bones of Riley’s hips and the narrow line of her waist.

The touch is deliberate, practiced.

Riley feels herself sinking further into the table as the massage continues, her body gradually giving in to the slow rhythm of the woman’s hands. The tension that had been coiled through her stomach and back loosens piece by piece under the steady pressure.

Her breathing slows.

She bites her bottom lip without really thinking about it, eyes still closed as the woman’s hands continue working the lotion across her hips and waist, kneading gently as Riley’s body grows heavier against the table beneath her.

Before Riley fully realizes what’s happening, the masseuse has already moved down her body. Warm lotion spreads again beneath the woman’s hands as she works along Riley’s thighs and calves, coating her legs the same careful way she did before. The slow strokes travel from knee to ankle and back again, smoothing the oil across her skin until every inch of her legs carries the same slick warmth.

The rhythm is steady, practiced.

Then it stops.

The woman’s hands lift away from her body and the sudden absence of touch leaves Riley strangely aware of the room again. Cool air settles over the places that had been warm moments before, the thin chill raising faint goosebumps along her skin where the lotion still glistens.

The masseuse steps back from the table.

“All done,” she says softly.

Riley hears the quiet shift of fabric as the woman moves somewhere near the side of the table, giving her just enough space for the warmth of her presence to fade slightly.

Then the woman speaks again, her voice calm, almost conversational.

“So,” she asks gently, “are you ready for some relief, Meatgirl?”

Riley stays where she is on the table, the warmth of the lotion still clinging to her skin while the air of the room cools everything the masseuse’s hands had just warmed.

Her eyes open slowly.

The woman stands nearby, calm and patient, like this part of the routine is no stranger to her. There is no rush in the way she waits, only the quiet expectation that Riley will answer when she is ready.

Riley’s throat feels dry.

“You’ll feel better after,” the woman says.

“It’s good for Animals to leave the tension behind before Processing.”

Riley swallows once before managing a small nod.

The masseuse studies her for a moment, making sure the answer is genuine and not just nerves forcing Riley to move her head. When she seems satisfied, she steps closer to the table again, her movements slow and deliberate.

“Good,” she says softly.

Her voice carries the same professional calm she’s had through the whole massage, though something about the tone shifts slightly now. Not colder. Not cruel. Just practical, like a procedure moving into its next stage.

“Relax,” she tells Riley.

The woman adjusts Riley’s position slightly on the table, guiding her with gentle pressure so she lies the way the masseuse needs her to. The motion is casual, practiced, the way someone might reposition a client during any other part of a treatment.

Then the masseuse leans closer.

“You’ve been wet for a while,” she murmurs. “Horny little Meatgirl. Let’s take care of that.”

For a moment nothing happens. She hears the faint rustle of fabric, then the quiet shift of weight beside the table. The room feels smaller now, the air warmer near her hips where the masseuse has moved.

Then she feels breath.

Warm.

It brushes across the most sensitive part of her body, soft and slow, the kind of heat that makes her stomach tighten before she even fully understands why. Riley’s fingers curl against the edge of the table as her breath catches somewhere in the back of her throat.

She squeaks in pleasure, her hands covering her face.

A moment later something softer replaces the air.

A slow, deliberate movement.

Riley’s hips twitch before she can stop them.

The sensation is unmistakable even if she can’t see it. A gentle pressure, the faint glide of something warm and alive moving against the center of her body, careful and measured in a way that makes the nerves there flare awake all at once.

A tongue.

Her back arches slightly.

The masseuse works patiently, the same calm professionalism she showed during the massage. Riley’s body reacts the way bodies often do when touched like that. The woman doesn’t comment on it. It’s simply part of the treatment.

Warm breath again.

Then that soft movement returns, slower this time.

Riley bites down hard on her bottom lip as a shiver runs through her stomach and down into her legs. Her breathing grows uneven despite the way she tries to control it, each inhale deeper than the last.

The woman pauses briefly.

“Relax,” the woman says kindly. “Most girls are tense the first time.”

The warmth returns again a second later.

And Riley feels her body react before she can think about stopping it.

Riley feels the tension building long before she understands what it means.

It starts low in her stomach, a tight knot that slowly winds itself tighter with every slow movement she feels between her legs. The warmth there deepens, spreading outward through her hips and down her thighs while her breathing grows uneven despite the way she tries to steady it.

Her fingers curl against the edge of the table.

The pressure builds and builds, the sensation coiling tighter inside her until it feels like something in her body is pulling itself toward a breaking point she can’t stop.

Then it happens.

A sharp gasp tears out of her before she can swallow it back, the sound echoing softly in the quiet room as the tension snaps loose all at once. Riley’s back arches slightly off the table, her breath catching hard in her chest while the sudden wave of relief rolls through her body.

The sensation finally fades, leaving Riley limp against the table, her body still trembling in the aftermath. Her chest rises and falls unevenly as she tries to steady her breathing, the last shivers working their way slowly out of her muscles.

She barely notices the movement beside her at first.

The masseuse lifts herself from where she had been working and crawls up along the table with an easy, practiced motion. When Riley finally opens her eyes again, the woman’s face is close above her.

Her lips glisten faintly.

Before Riley can react, the masseuse leans down and presses a warm kiss to the trembling Meatgirl’s mouth. The contact is slow and deliberate, lingering just long enough to feel intentional before the woman pulls back again.

“Well done,” she purrs softly.

Her voice carries the same calm satisfaction someone might use when praising a job well finished. One of her hands brushes lightly along Riley’s side as she speaks.

“Good Meatgirls like you deserve rewards.”

Chapter Nine was fun to write. I haven't really been as into writing 'sex scenes' like I used too but I enjoyed it today.

Chapter 10 is going to be a little... stickier...

Well that was a lot of fun! And just what I needed to enjoy before bed 😁 I left a question on your "world Bible" thread btw, not sure if you saw it? 😊

I know I said Chapter Ten was gonna be 'sticky' but this small exchange got away from me and became the whole chapter instead.

CHAPTER TEN

Riley feels hands settle gently around her arms as the masseuse helps her sit up and swing her legs over the edge of the table. The room feels cooler now that she’s upright, the last of the warmth from the treatments fading slowly from her skin.

She’s a little unsteady at first.

The masseuse steadies her easily, guiding her to her feet with practiced care. When Riley finally stands properly, the woman leans in and presses one last soft kiss against her lips, the gesture warm and strangely affectionate.

“Head out into the hall,” she says, her tone light and reassuring. “Go down to the room at the end.”

She gives Riley’s arm a gentle squeeze before letting go.

“Shower off the lotion, then go back to the waiting room, okay?”

Riley nods faintly, her voice barely more than a breath.

“Yeah,” she almost whispers. “Thanks.”

The masseuse smiles at her, that same calm, professional warmth still in her eyes.

“No, Meatgirl,” she replies softly.

“Thank you.”

Riley steps out into the hallway, the curtain falling closed softly behind her.

The corridor beyond is dim and quiet, lit by a row of low candles set into small brass holders along the walls. Their light flickers gently across the polished floor, filling the space with a warm glow that feels strangely peaceful compared to the bright rooms she just left.

The care package rustles softly in her hand as she walks.

Halfway down the hall she hears voices behind a set of thick curtains hanging beside one of the doorways. The fabric muffles the sound a little, but the voices are close enough that she can make them out.

Her mother.

“Sounds like Riley’s done,” she says quietly.

There’s a pause before another voice answers, a man Riley doesn’t recognize. Younger than her mother, maybe by quite a bit.

“Sounds like she had fun?”

Her mother gives a small laugh, the kind she uses when she’s trying to sound casual.

“Good,” she says. “I want my baby to enjoy the time she has left.”

Another small pause.

Then the man’s voice again, softer this time.

“And you, shall I—”

“Oh fuck no,” her mother cuts in immediately.

Riley can practically hear the amused grin in her voice.

“I’m married.”

The curtains rustle faintly as Riley keeps walking past them, the candlelight following her down the hall toward the room at the end.

Beyond the wooden door at the end of the hallway is a small tiled room. Several shower heads line one wall, evenly spaced, with simple metal drains set into the floor beneath them. There are no curtains or stalls. Privacy clearly isn’t part of the design.

Animals don’t get privacy.

Warm steam curls through the room from one of the running showers. Riley notices a man already standing beneath it, his back turned slightly as the water runs over his shoulders and down his body. Like her, he’s completely hairless now, his skin smooth and pale under the bright ceiling lights.

Riley hesitates only a second before stepping inside.

The air is humid and warm, the faint scent of soap hanging in the steam. She moves to the far end of the room and turns one of the shower handles, flinching slightly as the pipes rattle before the water begins to run.

When she glances back toward the man, she notices his erection.

Heat rushes into her face immediately. Riley turns away just as quickly and steps under her own stream of water, keeping her back angled toward him as the warm spray begins washing the lotion from her skin.

The water runs down her shoulders and over her chest, carrying the last of the treatment oils with it. Riley lifts a hand and slowly runs it across her arm.

Her skin feels unbelievably smooth.

Smoother than she ever remembers it being before, the lotion having left it almost silky to the touch. She drags her fingers lightly across her stomach, then down along her thigh, still surprised by the slick softness beneath her hand.

For a moment she simply stands there under the water.

Eventually the sound of movement behind her catches her attention again.

Riley glances over her shoulder and sees the man looking in her direction now. His expression doesn’t carry the same hungry look Mr. Greern had on his porch. There’s something quieter in it instead. Curious, maybe.

Riley turns slightly toward him.

“Can I help you?” she asks.

Her tone isn’t confrontational. If anything, she sounds careful, trying to be polite even though she’s not quite sure what the right reaction is supposed to be anymore.

“Sorry,” he says after a moment, raising one hand slightly in an awkward half-shrug. “I just couldn’t help staring.”

The apology sounds sincere enough. His voice carries a kind of embarrassed honesty, the sort that comes from someone realizing they’ve been caught doing something rude but not quite knowing what the right reaction should be.

Riley watches him for a second through the drifting steam.

Then she can’t help it.

A small smile creeps onto her face.

“Me neither,” she says.

Her voice is soft, almost amused, and she glances down briefly at the water running over her own body before looking back at him again. For a moment the two of them simply stand there under the steady sound of the showers, the quiet awkwardness of the room settling around them like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

“It’s weird, right?” Riley says after a moment, letting the water run down her shoulders while the steam drifts between them. “Not being separated between boys and girls?”

The man lets out a quiet laugh, rubbing the back of his neck as if the gesture might somehow help.

“Yeah,” he admits. “I don’t really know where to look.”

Riley watches him for a second, then tilts her head slightly.

“The wall maybe?”

He snorts at that, turning his head obediently toward the tiled wall beside him like a kid being corrected by a teacher.

“Right. The wall.”

The sound of the showers fills the small room again while the two of them stand there under the steady streams of water, both trying very hard to look anywhere except at each other.

After a moment Riley turns back around, letting the water run down her back while she glances toward him again.

“I’m Riley,” she says.

The introduction makes him turn back toward her despite his earlier attempt to stare dutifully at the wall.

“Kevin,” he replies.

They stand there for a second under the steady hiss of the showers, steam drifting lazily through the room.

“You got family, Kevin?” Riley asks.

He hesitates just long enough for the question to feel heavier than it probably should.

“A husband,” he says at last, “and two boys.”

He gives a small shrug, like he’s trying to soften the weight of what comes next.

“I was just shy of turning twenty-three.”

“Bummer.”

Riley shuts the water off and steps away from her shower head. Droplets run down her smooth skin as she crosses the tiled floor and turns on the shower beside him instead, the pipes rattling softly before the stream begins.

“So you’re gay?” she asks casually.

“Mostly,” Kevin admits, giving another half shrug. “I still like girls—uh—women.”

He corrects himself quickly.

“I mean women.”

“Sure you do,” Riley says, a teasing smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

She gestures lightly toward him, her chin tilting in the direction of his still-obvious erection.

“Has anyone tried to touch your… you know?”

Kevin glances down briefly before letting out a quiet breath.

“Plenty,” he admits.

The water runs down his shoulders as he gives another small shrug, the motion helpless more than anything else.

“Can’t exactly say no though, can we?”

Riley watches him for a moment, her expression shifting slightly.

“We can bite,” she says.

There’s a faint edge of humor in her voice, but something else sits underneath it too.

“Animals can bite.”

Kevin laughs at that.

The sound echoes softly off the tile as he steps back beneath the spray and lowers himself to the floor, settling with his back against the wall while the water runs down his chest and stomach in slow streams. His posture is relaxed in the way people sometimes get when they finally stop trying to hold themselves together.

Riley watches him for a moment before moving closer.

She slides down the wall beside him, still leaving a comfortable gap between them, but close enough that the warm water splashes across both of their legs. The distance feels deliberate. Close, but not trusting enough to close it completely.

Kevin lifts his wrist slightly so she can see the watch there.

The display glows red.

“Where were you when it happened?” he asks.

“School,” Riley says.

Kevin’s eyebrows lift.

“Oh damn.”

He lets out a quiet breath through his nose, shaking his head slightly as if the image has already formed in his mind.

“I remember when kids had to get naked if they were picked,” he says. “Did you?”

Riley nods slowly.

The motion is small, almost reluctant.

“I’m sorry,” Kevin says.

His voice softens a little.

“That must have been rough.”

“It was,” Riley admits after a moment.

She pulls her knees up to her chest and wraps her arms around them, resting her chin lightly on the tops of her knees while the warm water continues to run over her shoulders and down her back.

“But it had to happen.”

Her voice carries a strange calm now, the kind that comes after someone has already spent all their energy fighting something they couldn’t stop.

“I already had one meltdown about dying,” she continues quietly. “So now I just want to enjoy the time I have left.”

The water splashes gently across the tile between them.

Riley glances sideways at him.

“What about you, Kevin? Where were you?”

He leans his head back against the wall, thinking for a moment while the shower runs over his face.

“Work,” he says.

A small smile creeps onto his face despite himself.

“My old co-workers made me strip before letting me leave.”

He lets out a quiet breath through his nose, the memory clearly sitting somewhere between embarrassment and fondness.

“They weren’t assholes about it,” he adds. “Just trying to get me in the mindset, I guess.”

“Hey Riley, who’s this?”

The voice comes from the doorway.

Riley and Kevin both glance over as her mom steps into the shower room, pushing the wooden door closed behind her. Her skin glistens faintly under the lights, still slick with the lotion from the treatment rooms.

“Mom, this is Kevin,” Riley says.

She gestures loosely between them.

“Kevin, this is Mom.”

She gives him a friendly smile.

“Call me Kara,” she says.

Kevin lifts a hand in greeting, still sitting against the wall as the water runs down his chest.

“You and your daughter both got converted?” he asks immediately.

Kara blinks in confusion for a moment.

“Huh?”

Then she laughs softly, realizing what he meant.

“Oh, no. This is a filter,” she explains, tapping lightly at the bracelet on her wrist. “I’m still Human.”

Her hand rests briefly on Riley’s shoulder.

“Riley isn’t, though.”

Kevin nods slowly.

“Ah,” he says. “Thrill seeking?”

She shakes her head with a small smile.

“No. Just spending time with my baby.”

She runs a hand through Riley’s wet hair as she says it, brushing the strands back from her daughter’s face in an easy, affectionate gesture.

Then her mom steps forward and turns the handle Riley had left off earlier. Water begins pouring from the shower head above, splashing over her shoulders as she settles beneath the stream.

“You gonna finish up before the flavour bath, honey?” she asks casually.

Riley looks up at her.

“Flavour bath?”

“Yeah,” she says, rinsing the last of the lotion from her arms. “It’s what the flavour treatment is.”

She glances down at Riley.

“Didn’t you ask?”

Riley shakes her head slowly.

“No.”

Kara shrugs lightly, the water running down her back.

“Ah well,” she says. “It’s gonna get sticky.”

A small grin crosses her face.

“But it should be fun.”

Riley slowly pushes herself to her feet.

The water has already begun to cool on her skin, droplets sliding down the smooth surface of her arms and legs as she stands. Kevin rises as well, stretching slightly after sitting against the wall for so long.

Riley glances around the shower room.

Rows of tile. Drains in the floor. Metal shower heads.

No towels.

She frowns faintly, scanning the room again just to be sure she didn’t miss them somewhere along the wall. The space is too bare for that. There’s nothing here except the showers themselves.

Old habits take over before she thinks about it.

Riley walks to the door and cracks it open slightly, poking her head out into the hallway like someone who still believes she’s entitled to a little privacy.

“Hello?” she calls.

A nearby masseuse looks up from a small rolling cart.

“Can we get towels?”

The woman smiles immediately, the expression warm and understanding in a way that makes the answer obvious before she even says it.

“No,” she replies gently.

Her eyes flick down Riley’s body and back up again, still smiling.

“You’ll dry off naturally,” she says.

Then she tilts her head just slightly.

“Like a good Meatgirl.”

Kevin steps forward and pushes the door open properly.

Riley shifts to the side to let him pass. For a split second she’s certain she feels something brush against her backside—warm skin against her butt cheek—but she doesn’t react. If it happened, it happened. Neither of them says anything about it.

Kevin doesn’t seem embarrassed in the slightest.

“No sense being shy,” he says casually as he steps into the hallway. “Just shake the worst of it off.”

Riley stares at him.

For a moment she looks like she’s about to argue, rolling her eyes at the suggestion.

Then Kevin starts doing exactly what he suggested.

He plants his feet and begins flailing his arms and legs in exaggerated jerks, bouncing slightly on his toes while droplets of water fly off his body in every direction. It’s ridiculous. Completely ridiculous.

Riley tries to stay annoyed.

It lasts about two seconds.

Then she snorts and joins him.

She shakes out her arms, twists her torso, and hops slightly on the spot the way he is, sending little sprays of water flicking off her smooth skin onto the polished floor. The whole thing looks absurd enough that they both start laughing, the sound echoing down the hallway while they bounce and shake like two dogs trying to dry themselves after a bath.

They both stare at one another, slightly out of breath from the exertion. Riley smiles up at him, he moved a wet lock of hair behind her ear. “Nice meeting you Riley,” he says softly.

“You’re leaving?” Riley finds she’s disappointed. At the thought.

“Yeah, I only got the hair removal,” he tells her, “But thanks for talking with me and not making this,” he indicates to his erection, “Weirder than it needed to be.”

“No problem,” she says. He turns away and walks down the hall, her eyes on his tight ass.

Eventually the shaking and laughing dies down.

They both stop at nearly the same moment, standing in the middle of the hallway with damp skin and loose strands of hair still clinging to their shoulders. The exertion wasn’t much, but it leaves them slightly out of breath anyway.

For a few seconds neither of them says anything.

They just look at each other.

Riley tilts her head up toward him, a small smile still lingering on her face. Kevin lifts a hand and gently moves a wet lock of hair away from her cheek, tucking it back behind her ear with an easy familiarity that surprises her.

“Nice meeting you, Riley,” he says softly.

“You’re leaving?”

The question comes out before she really thinks about it, and Riley realizes a moment too late that she actually feels disappointed by the idea.

Kevin nods.

“Yeah,” he says. “I only got the hair removal.”

He gives a small shrug.

“But thanks for talking with me and not making this”—he gestures down briefly toward himself—“weirder than it needed to be.”

Riley gives a small smile.

“No problem.”

Kevin nods once, then turns and starts walking down the hallway.

Riley watches him go.

Her eyes drift for a moment to the tight line of his backside as he moves away down the corridor before she finally looks elsewhere, the quiet of the hall settling around her again.

Riley feels a hand on her bare shoulder. “He was cute,” her mom says, “Did you fuck him?”
“No!” Riley’s voice comes out too loud, too defensive.
“Whatever you say Meatgirl.”

“I didn’t!” Riley calls after her as her mom starts walking down the hallway. “We just talked!”

Kara glances back over her shoulder, a crooked smile already forming.

“Oh,” she says lightly. “You used your mouth?”

Riley groans immediately.

“Shut up,” she snaps, hurrying after her. “You’re so gross.”

Kara just laughs under her breath and keeps walking, clearly pleased with herself while Riley trails behind her down the softly lit corridor.

>>29657
Definitely looking forward to Riley's flavour bath! Realised I've started picturing her as a young Jenna Ortega 😁

Very sweet interaction with Kevin btw 😊

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Riley follows her mother back toward the waiting area, the quiet hallway opening into the same reception space they passed through earlier. The clerk behind the desk notices them immediately and steps out from behind the counter with an easy, professional smile.

“You look great, ladies,” she says warmly. “How did it feel?”

The question makes Riley’s cheeks flush all over again. The memory hits her at once—too vivid, too recent—and she drops her gaze toward the floor, hoping the heat in her face isn’t as obvious as it feels.

Her mother answers before Riley can find a word.

“Riley had a great time, didn’t you, kiddo?” she says brightly, giving Riley’s bare arm a light punch. “We could hear you down the hall.”

“Mom, stop,” Riley mutters through clenched teeth, her voice tight with embarrassment.

The clerk doesn’t react to the tension at all. If anything, her smile becomes a little more reassuring, the practiced tone of someone who has had this exact exchange many times before.

“Nothing to be ashamed about,” she says calmly, her smile softening a little as her eyes linger on Riley. “Our Service Stock are trained to enhance the experience. Helping Meatgirls relax is part of the service.”

Her gaze flicks back to Riley, warm and lightly amused.

“First visits can be overwhelming… but you handled yours very nicely.”

Riley shifts her weight slightly, suddenly aware again of the open space around her and the way the reception area feels far too public for a conversation like this. The clerk, however, speaks with the same casual professionalism someone might use discussing a routine medical checkup.

To her, this is normal.

“See, Riley? Nothing to be ashamed about,” Kara says easily, turning toward her daughter with the satisfied tone of someone who believes the situation has already been settled. “You should have fucked that nice lad too. Kevin, was it?”

Riley’s head snaps toward her.

“Mom, he was way older than me,” she says, her voice tightening with disbelief. “And he has a husband.”

Kara shrugs as if the objection barely registers.

“Doesn’t matter to Animals,” the clerk says before Kara can reply, stepping in with the same calm, professional tone she’s been using the entire time. There’s no hint of discomfort in her expression, just the steady confidence of someone explaining an ordinary social rule.

She folds her hands lightly on the reception desk.

“Any good spouse understands that,” she continues. “Most people want their partner to enjoy their last week as much as possible.”

Her gaze settles briefly on Riley, measured and matter-of-fact rather than sympathetic.

“It’s considered supportive.”

Riley shifts her weight again, heat rising back into her face. The conversation is happening in the open reception area like it’s nothing unusual at all, like discussing weekend plans or dinner reservations.

To everyone else in the room, it probably is.

Riley can barely believe they’re talking about it this casually.

The words hang in the air between them like it’s nothing—like they’re discussing what restaurant to try for lunch instead of who she should be fucking during the last week of her life.

Her face burns hotter the longer the conversation continues.

She’s still a virgin, for crying out loud.

The thought lands hard enough that she almost blurts it out just to make them stop, just to force a moment of silence into the cheerful, matter-of-fact tone the adults seem perfectly comfortable using.

The last boy she kissed had been in tenth grade.

And even that had barely counted.

They’d been standing behind the bleachers after a football game, both of them nervous and awkward, their mouths bumping together for about three seconds before someone walked past and they jumped apart like they’d been caught committing a crime.

That was it.

Three seconds of clumsy teenage kissing.

Now they’re standing in a government facility talking about how she should be sleeping with strangers before she gets processed like it’s a perfectly normal life experience she’d somehow forgotten to schedule.

Riley shifts her weight again, wishing the floor would just open up and swallow her.

“The flavour baths are ready, Meatgirls,” another naked Service Stock woman calls from a doorway opposite the candlelit hall. She gestures politely into the room behind her. “If you’ll follow me?”

Riley and Kara stand and follow her through the doorway into a tiled bathing chamber. The smell hits them immediately.

Two large soaking tubs sit side by side in the center of the room, steam curling slowly into the air above them. One carries a sweet, smoky scent—honey, barbecue, and herbs blending together in a thick, mouth-watering aroma. The other smells deeper and heavier, something savory and rich.

The Service Stock woman steps between the baths and gestures toward the first one.

“Riley, this one’s yours,” she says, gesturing toward the honey barbecue bath. “Younger meat pairs beautifully with honey barbecue,” she says. “Nice and sweet.”

She glances at Riley with a small teasing smile.

“You’ll smell delicious.”

Her tone remains calm and professional, like a chef describing a marinade.

Then she motions to the second bath.

“And for the temporary Meatgirl, we have something suited to a more adult palate.”

Kara leans slightly forward, breathing in the scent hanging in the warm steam.

“It smells like a Sunday roast,” she says, clearly amused.

Riley stands there for a moment longer, the sweetness of the barbecue scent thick in her lungs, realizing with a strange twist in her stomach that the entire room smells exactly like dinner.

Riley steps closer to the tub and dips one finger into the thick marinade. The liquid clings to her skin when she lifts it back out, dark and glossy in the steam rising from the bath. She brings her finger to her mouth and tastes it.

“That tastes awesome,” she says, licking her lips as she considers it. “It’s kinda hot though. The liquid, I mean.”

“It’s supposed to be,” the Service Stock woman replies calmly. “It needs time to soak in properly,” she says, smiling slightly. “We want all that flavour to settle into you.”

Riley looks down into the steaming tub again, watching the surface ripple faintly.

“Will it hurt?”

“Not a bit,” the woman says. “You might even enjoy it,” she says with a small smile. “Most Meatgirls do once they relax.”

She reaches over to a small side tray and produces two wine glasses. With the same casual efficiency she fills one with the honey barbecue marinade and the other with the darker, savory mixture from the neighboring bath.

The glasses look strangely elegant in her hands.

“We must insist you don’t drink the marinade once you’re inside it,” she tells them, offering the glasses forward. “So please, enjoy the flavour your meat will take on as it soaks into you like this.”

The scent of barbecue and roasted herbs rises with the steam as she hands the glasses over.

“Oh, and one more thing,” the Service Stock woman adds, as if remembering a routine safety note.

Her tone remains perfectly polite.

“We must also ask that you don’t masturbate while you’re in the bath.”

Riley blinks at her, caught off guard by how casually the instruction is delivered.

The woman continues without the slightest hint of embarrassment.

“We don’t want the marinade getting inside anywhere sensitive,” she explains. “It’s designed to soak through the skin, not internal tissue.”

She gives them a small, professional smile, the same expression someone might use while explaining how long to leave conditioner in your hair.

“So please keep your hands above the surface while you’re soaking.”

The warm steam continues to curl upward from the tubs, carrying the thick smell of barbecue and roasted herbs through the room.

“I’ll stay here and keep an eye on you both,” the Service Stock woman says, gesturing casually around the warm tiled room. Steam continues to drift lazily upward from the two tubs while the thick smell of barbecue and roasted herbs hangs in the air.

“Feel free to sleep, talk, or enjoy your complimentary samples while you soak.”

She steps closer to Riley as she says it, her attention naturally settling on the only actual Meatgirl in the room. Without hesitation she reaches out and runs a slow hand down Riley’s smooth chest, the gesture casual and practiced, as if she were checking the firmness of fruit at a market.

“After the soak comes the basting.”
She smiles faintly.
“Most Meatgirls melt when I do it.”

Her hand lingers for a moment before she withdraws it again, already turning back toward the baths like she’s simply continuing the treatment process.

Riley sits carefully on the edge of the tub and lowers one leg into the marinade.

The liquid clings to her skin immediately. It’s thicker than water, warm and slightly sticky, the heat wrapping around her calf as she slides her foot deeper into it. The scent of honey and smoke rises with the steam, stronger now that she’s close enough to feel it coating the back of her throat.

It feels strange against her smooth skin.

Strange, but not unpleasant.

She lowers her other leg, then grips the edge of the tub and eases herself down into the bath. The marinade parts around her hips and stomach before slowly rising up her body, the warmth spreading as she sinks deeper. When she finally settles, the liquid reaches the base of her neck, leaving only her shoulders and head above the surface.

The sticky warmth presses against every inch of her skin.

“That’s right, Meatgirl,” she says approvingly as Riley settles into the bath. “Nice and slow.”

Her voice carries a faint, playful warmth now.

“We don’t eat heads, so there’s no need to drown that pretty one.”

Steam curls lazily around Riley’s shoulders as the marinade laps gently against her skin, the smell of barbecue thick in the air.

“Oh, that feels lovely,” Kara says from the neighboring tub as she eases herself deeper into the darker marinade. The liquid laps gently against the rim while steam curls around her shoulders. She tilts her head back slightly, clearly enjoying the warmth soaking into her skin.

“How does yours feel, dear?” she asks, turning toward Riley.

Riley has already settled into the padded edge of the tub. The thick honey barbecue mixture presses warmly against her body, sticky and heavy but strangely comforting as it clings to her skin. The scent of smoke and sweetness hangs around her face with every breath.

She lets her head fall back against the cushion lining the rim.

Instead of answering, Riley simply hums in quiet approval, the sound low and content as she relaxes into the heat of the bath.

For a while the room falls quiet.

Steam drifts lazily through the tiled chamber while the two baths give off their thick, savory scents. The honey barbecue around Riley releases a constant sweetness into the air, mixing with the deeper roasted smell rising from Kara’s tub. Together they make the entire room smell less like a spa and more like a kitchen preparing dinner.

Riley lies back against the padded rim of the bath, her shoulders resting above the surface while the warm marinade presses against the rest of her body. The heat seeps slowly into her muscles, heavy and relaxing, and the sticky liquid clings to her skin every time she shifts even slightly.

Across the room, the Service Stock lowers herself to the floor and sits with her back against the tiled wall.

She doesn’t look relaxed at all.

Her eyes stay on the two tubs the entire time, alert and attentive as she watches them soak. Every small movement draws her attention—the shift of a shoulder, the repositioning of a leg, the idle drift of a hand near the surface of the liquid.

Like a hawk watching a field for the slightest twitch of movement.

The moment stretches quietly, filled only with the soft lap of marinade against porcelain and the slow hiss of steam rising into the warm air.

Riley lifts the wine glass to her lips and takes a careful sip, savoring the rich barbecue marinade that her body is currently soaking in. The flavor is thick and sweet with a smoky edge, the honey lingering on her tongue as she swallows.

“Let me have some?” Kara asks from the neighboring bath.

Riley leans slightly across the space between the tubs and hands the glass over. Kara brings it to her nose first, inhaling the scent with exaggerated seriousness before taking a sip.

Her eyebrows lift immediately.

“Alright, that’s fantastic,” she admits.

“Let me try yours,” Riley says.

Kara passes her own glass across. Riley takes a small sip and nearly laughs at the intensity of it. The flavor is deep and savory, rich in a way that reminds her instantly of Sunday dinner—roasted chicken juices blended with thick, herby gravy.

“That’s excellent,” she says, handing the glass back.

Kara settles deeper into her bath with a grin spreading across her face.

“Look at us,” she says, lifting her glass slightly. “Sipping marinade like fine wine.”

Riley puts on an exaggeratedly posh accent.

“We are dignified ladies, mother,” she declares. “Only the finest barbecue sauce for my delicious body.”

“Indeed,” Kara replies with matching seriousness.

They lean toward each other as far as the tubs allow and clink their glasses together. The moment holds for a second before the absurdity of it finally breaks through and both of them start laughing.

The Service Stock glances over from her spot on the floor, watching the exchange with mild amusement while still keeping a careful eye on their hands.

Riley doesn’t remember closing her eyes.

One moment she’s lying back against the padded edge of the tub, the sweet barbecue scent hanging thick in the warm steam, and the next she feels a hand resting on her shoulder.

She startles slightly as she wakes.

“Time to get out, Meatgirl,” the Service Stock says quietly.

Her voice is calm, almost gentle, careful not to carry across the room.

Riley blinks sleep from her eyes and lifts her head. The marinade around her shifts as she moves, thick and warm against her skin after what must have been a long soak.

The Service Stock nods toward the other tub.

“Before I wake your mother,” she continues, lowering her voice a little more, “I just need to wipe you down.”

Steam curls slowly through the tiled chamber while Riley pushes herself upright, the sticky liquid clinging to her body as she rises from the bath.

Riley pushes herself upright in the bath, the thick marinade sliding slowly down her skin as she rises. The liquid clings stubbornly to her body, stretching in glossy strands before dripping back into the tub.

The Service Stock steps forward and offers her a hand.

Riley accepts it.

The woman’s grip is firm as Riley carefully lifts one leg over the edge and steps out onto the warm tile floor. The air feels cooler immediately, sending a faint shiver across her shoulders as the marinade begins to run in slow trails down her body.

She looks down at herself.

Her skin has changed color completely.

Where it had been pale before, it’s now a deep, glossy brown—dark and rich, the exact color of treacle. The sticky sheen catches the light from the room as it coats her from neck to ankle, making her look less like someone who’s just taken a bath and more like something that’s been carefully glazed.

The smell rises from her skin every time she moves.

Sweet.

Smoky.

Thick with barbecue.

“No shower this time, Meatgirl,” the Service Stock tells her.

Riley is guided away from the bath toward a wide ceramic sink set into the tiled wall. As she walks, thick lines of marinade continue to slip down her body, trailing slowly from her elbows and fingertips before dropping onto the floor in sticky beads. Each step sends another wave of the sweet, smoky scent drifting back up toward her face.

Barbecue and honey.

Warm and rich.

The smell follows her.

Somewhere in the middle of the room she realizes something strange.

She’s suddenly hungry.

“Stand with your arms out.”

The instruction is given without force or urgency. The woman’s voice carries the same patient professionalism she’s used through the entire treatment.

Riley raises her arms.

The Service Stock dips a soft cloth into the sink and begins wiping along the length of Riley’s arm. The motion is slow and careful, deliberate enough that the cloth gathers the excess marinade without stripping away the glossy coating that has soaked into her skin.

The touch is gentle.

Almost careful.

She works from Riley’s wrist upward, collecting the sticky drips while leaving the dark treacle sheen behind.

The cloth continues its slow path across Riley’s body.

The Service Stock works methodically, her movements gentle but unavoidably intimate. The soft fabric glides across Riley’s chest first, carefully wiping away the thick drips that have gathered beneath her breasts without disturbing the glossy treacle sheen coating her skin.

From there the cloth moves lower.

Her stomach.

Her hips.

Then between her legs, where the woman had earlier warned Riley not to touch herself.

The same careful attention is given everywhere—the curve of her ass, the inside of her thighs, any place the marinade might pool or drip too heavily. The woman works with practiced efficiency, lifting excess sauce without stripping away the flavor that has soaked into Riley’s skin.

Riley tries to focus on anything else.

The smell.

The warmth of the room.

The quiet sound of cloth moving across skin.

Anything but the slow, uncomfortable heat building between her legs.

“Will my skin stay this colour?” Riley asks, her voice a little too casual as she tries to distract herself.

The Service Stock glances up briefly while continuing her work.

“No,” she says calmly. “Take a shower tonight before bed and the color will wash away. You’ll retain the flavour enhancement without spoiling your beautiful pale skin.”

Riley lets out a small huff.

“It’s not that pretty,” she says automatically, the deflection clearly habitual.

The woman pauses for just a moment before answering.

“I see a hundred Meatgirls a week,” she says, her tone matter-of-fact rather than flattering. “Very few have such lovely skin.”

Then the cloth resumes its slow, deliberate work.

“I bet you say that to all the Meatgirls,” Riley says, her tone teasing as she tries to push back against the compliment.

The Service Stock only gives a small shake of her head while she rinses the cloth under the sink, the dark water swirling briefly before disappearing down the drain.

“Nope,” she replies calmly. “Good skin like yours crisps up beautifully.”

She wrings the cloth out and looks back at Riley with the same casual professionalism she’s maintained the entire time.

“You should ask to be spit roasted.”

Riley lets out a small, startled laugh before she can stop herself, unsure whether the woman is joking or simply stating a culinary preference.

“Oh,” she says after a moment. “I thought Animals my age were put to sleep.”

“You’re allowed to ask for something different,” the woman replies easily.

The cloth returns to Riley’s skin as she resumes wiping away the slow drips of marinade, her tone suggesting the topic is no more unusual than choosing how a steak should be cooked.

“I never really considered it,” Riley says after a moment, watching the woman rinse the cloth again. “What would you choose?”

The Service Stock shrugs lightly.

“I’d choose euthanasia,” she replies without hesitation. “I’m terrible with pain.”

Then, without warning, her free hand darts upward and pinches Riley’s nipple.

Riley hisses at the sudden sting, her shoulders jerking.

The woman’s expression barely changes.

“But you look like you can handle a little pain,” she continues calmly, as if the pinch had been part of the conversation all along. “For that final euphoria.”

Before Riley can respond, the woman’s hand slips lower.

This time it isn’t the cloth.

Her fingers slide briefly between Riley’s legs, quick and deliberate.

When she pulls them back, they’re wet.

And it isn’t marinade.

The Service Stock glances at her fingers, then back at Riley with a faint, knowing smile.

“You might even like pain.”

The Service Stock lifts her hand slightly, the glistening fingers hovering in front of Riley’s face.

“Open,” she says simply.

Her voice isn’t harsh, but the calm certainty in it leaves little doubt about what Riley is expected to do.

Riley hesitates for only a moment before parting her lips.

The woman’s fingers brush lightly across her tongue before withdrawing again.

“Taste,” she tells her in the same steady tone. “That’s excitement.”

Riley swallows reflexively, the taste lingering strangely against the smoky sweetness still coating the air around them.

The Service Stock studies her for a moment, tilting her head slightly as if evaluating something.

“You might even make it as more than your average Meatgirl,” she adds.

Then the cloth returns to its slow, methodical work, wiping another glossy trail of marinade from Riley’s skin as though the brief interruption had simply been part of the treatment.

“What do you mean?” Riley asks, her brow furrowing slightly.

She already knows about Working Animals and Service Stock. The thought that the woman might be referring to one of those sends a quiet unease through her stomach.

She really hopes that isn’t what she means.

“Companion Animals,” the Service Stock explains.

She says the term the way someone might introduce a prestigious job title.

“It’s a hard classification to earn,” she continues, wringing the cloth out again before returning to Riley’s arm, “but it’s the best thing that can happen to an Animal.”

“How so?” Riley asks.

“You’d be purchased by a private household,” the woman says matter-of-factly. “People wealthy enough to own a whole human life.”

The cloth slides slowly along Riley’s shoulder as she speaks.

“There are strict laws protecting Companion Animals from abuse,” she adds. “You’d be representing the System, after all.”

She gives Riley a small, almost approving glance.

“It’s considered an honor.”

“There,” the Service Stock says at last, setting the damp cloth aside. “All done.”

She steps back to look Riley over, giving a small nod of approval.

“Head back to the waiting room and we’ll let you know when we’re ready for the final treatment.”

Riley opens her mouth as if to ask something—about Companion Animals, about the choices she hadn’t known she had—but there’s a quiet sense of finality in the woman’s tone. The conversation is finished.

So she leaves the bathing chamber.

The hallway feels cooler after the warm, steamy room. The sweet smell of honey barbecue follows her as she walks, drifting faintly in the air with every step until she reaches the waiting room and sits down in one of the chairs.

It’s still empty.

A moment later the clerk returns from behind the counter carrying a small plate.

“Energy bar?” she offers, holding it out. “I bet you’re hungry.”

Riley realizes she is.

“I am, thanks,” she says, taking one from the small stack and tearing the wrapper open immediately.

She takes a bite.

The clerk pauses nearby, sniffing the air with a faintly amused expression.

“Oh, honey BBQ suits you, honey.”

“You think so?” Riley asks around a mouthful, still chewing.

“Oh yes,” the clerk replies. “The Service Stock know exactly what they’re doing.”

Her eyes drift over Riley’s body with professional appreciation.

“Your skin already looks nice and cooked.”

Riley glances down at herself again, the treacle sheen still dark across her arms and stomach.

“A bit well done maybe,” she says.

>>29689
That was incredibly hot and pushed all the right buttons for me!

Glad you liked it :)

>>29691
I love the woman telling Riley her skin would crisp up nicely and that she should request to be spit-roasted! Hopefully it will help our little protagonist feel good about becoming meat!

I'm torn between that or her becoming a Companion Animal for a sequel series THEN her being roasted

>>29693
Perhaps she could be given the choice and then you write both endings? I did that once when my audience were very vocally torn over the fate of one of my characters, with both factions very passionate about what her destiny should be!

Never done that before. I dunno though, I like to write what I want to write and not for other people directly.

>>29696
That's how I like to work too :) I did try for a while to write what people wanted but it was stressful and took the pleasure out of the writing for me!

Exactly. I'm almost done with the basting section of the next chapter but then I might take a break. I've written 134 Libre Office pages in a few days though they're double spaced so it's likely more around 67

CHAPTER TWELVE

Kara returns a few minutes later.

Riley notices her immediately. The marinade has left her mother’s skin a warm golden brown, a healthy roasted color that looks almost natural under the soft lights of the waiting room. Compared to the dark treacle sheen still coating Riley’s own body, the difference is striking.

Kara stretches slightly as she sits down beside her.

“I slept like a log,” she says with an easy sigh. “That was so nice.”

The smell reaches Riley as she settles into the chair. Savory herbs and roasted meat, richer and deeper than the sweet smoke clinging to Riley’s skin.

“You smell great,” Riley says with a small smile.

Kara glances over and gives her a warm look in return.

“You too, honey.”

For a moment the two of them simply sit there together in the quiet waiting room, both of them carrying the unmistakable scent of dinner.

Riley glances down at the watch still strapped to her wrist.

“Don’t think we’ll get home in time to eat dinner,” she says, tilting it so Kara can see the time. “It’ll be late by the time we get back.”

Kara barely looks concerned.

“We’ll just grab something while we’re in town,” she replies easily. “Fast food places do Animal meals.”

Riley blinks at her.

“But you’re still naked.”

Kara looks down at herself briefly, as if checking the obvious, then shrugs.

“And?”

“We’re ready,” says the same Service Stock who supervised the marinading earlier.

She appears in the doorway with the same calm, professional smile she’s worn the entire visit.

“This last part shouldn’t take too long.”

Riley stands, the chair creaking softly behind her as she rises. Kara gets up beside her, stretching slightly after the long soak.

The Service Stock turns and gestures down the hallway.

“Right this way.”

Riley and Kara follow her toward the next room, the scent of honey barbecue and roasted herbs drifting with them as they walk.

The next room is warmer than the others.

Not steamy like the baths, but warm in the steady, comforting way of a kitchen where something has been cooking for hours. The air carries a deeper smell now—smoke, honey, butter, herbs. Something sweet layered over something savory.

In the center of the room stands a padded table.

Beside it sits a tray of brushes.

They look almost like pastry brushes from a bakery. Some are wide and soft, others narrow and precise, their pale bristles already darkened with the glossy liquid resting in a shallow bowl nearby.

The Service Stock gestures toward the table.

“Up you go, Meatgirl.”

Riley climbs onto it, lying back as instructed. The padding is warm beneath her shoulders and hips, clearly heated for comfort. Kara settles into a chair nearby, watching with mild curiosity rather than concern.

“This is the finishing baste,” the woman explains while selecting one of the wider brushes. “It seals the flavor and evens the coating.”

She dips the brush into the bowl.

The liquid clings thickly to the bristles.

When she lifts it, the smell reaches Riley immediately. Honey and smoke again, but richer now, darker. Butter. Pepper. Something herbal beneath it all.

The brush touches Riley’s shoulder.

The sensation surprises her.

The bristles are incredibly soft, gliding across her skin in a slow, careful stroke that spreads the warm glaze in a thin shining layer. The warmth of the baste sinks into her skin immediately, leaving behind a glossy finish that catches the light.

“There we go,” the woman murmurs approvingly.

The brush moves again.

Across her collarbone.

Down the curve of her arm.

Each stroke is slow and deliberate, the woman working the glaze evenly across Riley’s body the way someone might finish a carefully prepared roast. The warmth of the liquid spreads wherever the brush passes, leaving behind that same thick scent of barbecue and honey.

Riley exhales slowly.

The sensation is strange.

Relaxing.

The brush moves to her stomach next, spreading another careful layer while the woman works in patient, overlapping strokes. The bristles slide across her skin again and again, smoothing the glaze until it shines evenly across her body.

“You took the marinade beautifully,” the Service Stock comments. “Nice, even absorption.”

The brush moves lower.

Along her hip.

Across the curve of her thigh.

Every stroke is careful and unhurried, the woman occasionally stepping back to examine the finish before adding another light layer. The room fills steadily with the smell of the baste as it warms against Riley’s skin.

It feels good.

Almost too good.

Riley tries not to think about it, but the warmth spreading through her body makes it harder to ignore the strange tension building low in her stomach.

The Service Stock selects a smaller brush now.

“This part needs a little more precision,” she explains casually.

The smaller brush moves higher along Riley’s thighs.

The narrow bristles are softer than she expected, barely more than a whisper against her skin as the Service Stock works the warm glaze into the places where the marinade had collected. Each stroke is slow and deliberate, the woman spreading the baste in thin, careful layers.

It tickles.

More than that, actually.

Riley ends up biting lightly against the side of her finger, trying to keep herself from making any embarrassing noises while her mother sits only a few feet away watching the process.

The brush slides along the inside of her thigh again.

“You’re trembling, Meatgirl,” the woman says with a teasing note in her voice.

She doesn’t stop working while she speaks.

“Are you starting to enjoy this?”

Riley’s shoulders tense slightly on the padded table.

The brush moves further inward, the strokes becoming smaller and more precise as the Service Stock works the glaze into the delicate crease between her legs.

“Perhaps we’d better pay extra attention to that lovely fillet,” the woman adds casually.

The smell of honey and smoke grows stronger with every pass of the brush, the warm glaze leaving Riley’s skin shining beneath the lights while the woman continues the careful finishing work.

The brush slips higher between Riley’s thighs.

The bristles are so soft they barely feel real, just the faintest tickling glide against her skin as the Service Stock spreads another thin coat of the warm baste. The sensation runs straight up her spine, sudden and electric.

Riley shivers.

A small squeak escapes her before she can stop it.

The woman chuckles softly.

“Good Meatgirl,” she says, her tone warm with approval rather than mockery.

The brush doesn’t stop moving.

“Don’t be embarrassed,” she continues. “Animals should enjoy this kind of attention.”

The bristles glide slowly back again, careful and patient as the glaze is worked into place. The room smells strongly of honey and smoke now, the warmth of the baste lingering wherever the brush passes.

Riley keeps biting lightly against her finger, trying to steady her breathing while the woman continues the careful finishing strokes.

The brush continues its slow work between Riley’s thighs.

The soft bristles glide back and forth, spreading the warm glaze in careful strokes while the scent of honey and smoke fills the room. The sensation builds quietly with every pass, a steady warmth spreading through her body.

Riley feels the tension rising again.

The same tightening feeling she’d felt earlier during the hair removal treatment, that slow gathering pressure she hadn’t known how to stop even then. It builds now in the same way, curling tighter and tighter in her stomach while the brush keeps moving.

Her fingers grip the edge of the padded table.

Her breathing grows shallow.

She opens her eyes.

Across the room, Kara is watching.

Their eyes meet.

For a moment her mother simply holds her gaze, calm and unbothered by what’s happening. Then Kara gives her a small, gentle smile—soft and reassuring, the same kind she might have given Riley when she was younger and nervous about something.

The tension snaps.

Riley gasps as the wave breaks through her, her body trembling against the padded surface of the table while the sensation washes through her in a sudden rush.

The Service Stock pauses only briefly before finishing the last careful strokes of the brush.

“There we are,” she says calmly.

Riley trembles where she lies on the padded table.

The rush of sensation still ripples through her body, leaving her limbs weak and heavy against the warm surface beneath her. Her breathing comes in shallow bursts while the last of the wave fades slowly away.

The brush hasn’t stopped.

The Service Stock continues her careful work, the soft bristles still gliding gently across the sensitive area between Riley’s thighs as she finishes spreading the final thin layer of glaze. The strokes are light now, almost soothing, smoothing the baste into an even shine.

Riley shivers again.

The warmth of the glaze, the softness of the brush, the lingering tremor in her muscles—all of it blends together into a strange, floating feeling as she slowly comes down from the height of it.

The brush makes one final pass before she lifts it away, stepping back to inspect the glossy finish across Riley’s body.

Riley’s hips jerk upward just as the brush lifts away.

The movement is sudden and involuntary, her body still riding the last fading tremor of sensation. The padded table creaks softly beneath her as she settles again.

The Service Stock notices immediately.

A small grin spreads across her face.

“Easy, Meatgirl,” she says gently.

She sets the brush back onto the tray beside the bowl of glaze, the bristles still glistening under the lights.

“All finished.”

Riley lies there for another moment, breathing slowly while the warmth of the baste lingers across her skin. The scent of honey and smoke clings to her body, thick in the air of the room as the woman steps back to admire the final glossy finish.

She studies her work the way a chef might examine a finished dish, head tilted slightly while the light catches the smooth glaze across Riley’s skin.

“Perfect.”

There’s no attempt to clean the dampness between Riley’s legs.

Instead, the Service Stock simply guides her off the table and ushers her toward the row of chairs along the wall.

“Sit with your mother while I prepare fresh baste,” she says pleasantly.

Riley lowers herself into the chair beside Kara, the glossy sheen of glaze still warm across her skin while the woman returns to the tray of bowls and brushes.

For a moment neither of them says anything.

The silence stretches awkwardly between them.

“You okay?” Kara finally asks.

Riley shrugs a little.

“I guess,” she says. She rubs one hand along her arm absently, watching the light catch the smooth, sticky shine of the baste.

“When I saw you looking at me,” she adds after a moment, “it kind of sent me over the edge.”

Kara studies her face carefully.

“Does that scare you?”

Riley shakes her head.

“I doubt it’s the first time an animal has came with their mom watching, right?”
“Yeah probably.”

Kara’s turn goes much the same as Riley’s.

She climbs onto the padded table with the same casual confidence she’s shown through the entire visit, lying back while the Service Stock prepares a fresh bowl of baste. The brushes move over her skin in the same slow, careful strokes, spreading the warm glaze evenly across her body while the room fills again with the rich smell of roasted herbs and butter.

Riley watches from the chair this time.

The process is almost identical, though Kara remains far more composed beneath the soft brushes. She relaxes into the treatment easily, closing her eyes at one point as the woman works along her arms and stomach.

When the brush moves between her legs, Kara simply exhales and lets the sensation pass.

No trembling.

No sudden gasp.

No mess.

When it’s finished, the Service Stock steps back with the same approving look she’d worn earlier.

“Very nice,” she says. Then she glances briefly toward Riley. “A very Human reaction.”

Kara sits up, stretching slightly before sliding off the table to join her daughter again.

The Service Stock begins cleaning the brushes while giving them their final instructions.

“You’ll want to let the baste dry completely before sitting in a car seat,” she explains. “Otherwise it’ll smear.”

She gestures toward the glossy finish still shining across their skin.

“You can shower in a few hours,” she adds. “The colour will wash away, but the flavour enhancement will remain.”

The woman gives them both a satisfied look.

“You’re ready.”

“I’ll taste good when I cook?” Riley asks.

The question comes out half curious, half joking, though she isn’t entirely sure which part of it she means.

The Service Stock pauses.

Then she crouches down in front of Riley, bringing herself level with her seated height. The movement is slow and deliberate, almost ceremonial.

Without warning she leans forward and drags her tongue lightly up Riley’s cheek.

The taste is quick but unmistakable.

Honey.

Smoke.

Butter.

When she pulls back, she presses a gentle kiss to the same spot.

“You already do, Meatgirl,” she says softly.

She studies Riley’s face for a moment, her expression thoughtful now rather than teasing.

“But you have some thinking to do about your future, I’m sure.”

The woman rises smoothly to her feet again, returning to the tray of brushes as if the small tasting had been no more unusual than sampling a sauce in a kitchen.

“What was she on about?” Kara asks as they step out of the building.

The door closes behind them, and the shift in temperature hits immediately. After the warm, heavy air of the spa, the autumn chill feels almost violent against their bare skin.

Riley sucks in a sharp breath.

The cold air rushes over her body, raising goosebumps along her arms and stomach. Her nipples tighten instantly in the cold, the sudden sensitivity making her instinctively want to cover herself.

She resists the urge.

Animals don’t wear clothes.

The thought passes through her mind automatically now.

She folds her arms loosely instead, mostly to warm herself as they start down the steps.

“I think she meant the Companion Animal thing,” Riley says after a moment.

Her breath fogs faintly in the cool air while the sweet smell of honey barbecue still clings faintly to her skin.

“She mentioned it earlier while she was wiping me down.”

Kara glances sideways at her as they walk.

“Companion Animals?” she repeats.

Riley nods.

“Rich people buy them,” she explains. “Like… keeping a whole human life in their house.”

The words sound strange even as she says them aloud.

“There are laws about it apparently,” she adds. “Because they represent the System.”

Kara exhales slowly, the cool air curling in front of her face.

“Huh.”

They continue walking for a few steps in silence, the cold air slowly stealing away the warmth the spa had soaked into their bodies.

“Do you want to try for that?” Kara asks.

Riley doesn’t answer right away.

They walk slowly down the street, the cold autumn air biting at their skin while the lingering warmth from the spa fades away. Yesterday’s panic still sits somewhere deep inside her, sharp and raw, but today it feels… different.

Quieter.

More distant.

The idea that she’ll be slaughtered doesn’t feel unreal anymore. It’s starting to settle into something she can actually think about without breaking apart.

After all, they just spent an afternoon letting strangers marinate and baste her like dinner.

“I don’t know enough yet,” she admits finally.

Kara nods without hesitation.

“We’ll research it when we get home,” she says. “If it means you get to live, I’m happy to try.”

That answer comes so easily it makes Riley’s chest tighten.

She smiles.

Without thinking too much about it, Riley steps closer and wraps her arms around her mother, pressing her naked body against hers in a tight hug. The warmth of Kara’s skin feels almost shocking in the cold air.

“Thanks for coming out with me today,” Riley says softly. “It was really weird… but kinda fun.”

“Sure thing, baby.”

Kara strokes Riley’s hair absentmindedly while they stand there on the sidewalk.

“Anything for you.”

That will end day two and I need to take a break already. 42,026 words is a lot to write in two days

>>29699
Absolutely wonderful! Enjoy your break. Will you still be checking in and commenting etc?

>>29700
And yes, that is a heck of a lot to write in two days! And people call ME prolific... lol

Of course. I'm going to start reading Talking Turkey later before bed so I'll let you know what I think.

I think I enjoy the time before the death the most. Not imagining the cooking but the dehumanisation directly before.

>>29707
Great! Hope you like it 😊 It has a similar structure to Beth's story but with some other entertaining deaths along the way and a lot of focus on the buildup and preparation for the big day 😊

>>29707
I have the ghost of an idea for a story I'd like to write in this world. Question 1) is that okay? Question 2) Are there any dos and don't beyond sticking to your "bible"? 😊

Hey Edward :)

Answer 1) Yes! Please do, I'd love to see how you utilize the system!

Answer 3) The bible is a reference material deliberately written to allow for creative interpritation. I won't be managing a grand canon. The stories I write, canon. The stories everyone else writes? Non-canon.

I'm not doing an MCU with Cannibals xD

Answer 4) What do you mean I skipped answer 2?

What I will do is integrate ideas you have with full credit given in the lore. If the writer is annonymous, then I'm sorry, but if you create something I like then it'll likely go like this:

"Due to discoveries by Dr. E. Hyde so and so happened because it made things way sexier, cooler and Symbri is a terrific writer"

Awww, thanks Edward!

>>29752
Awesome! Quick question, are there still corrupt officials who abuse their position in your world or has everyone truly embraced "The Greater Good"?

Sure there's corruption. Someone might convert someone outside of Lottery or Volunteer protocol for selfish reasons. It's risky though. Unless the Animal is killed outside of a Processing Centre there's a good chance the Butcher will notice when an Animal claims they didn't volunteer legally.

That being said. Once your an Animal, letting you leave could also spur on more people trying to say they weren't volunteered so, even if it's illegal, Processing will happen but an investigation is launched.

That said. Don't worry about being 100% accurate. The Lore Bible is just a guide, not a set of rules.

>>29758
Wish this site had a PM function! lol. What I was toying with was a politician or other official selecting a few choice Animals from the processing centre to serve at a fancy dinner party which is not exactly in keeping with the "spirit" of The System!

click my name, it'll open an email :)

Also, that kind of thing could happen. A rich benefactor picking and choosing from current Processing Stock enjoying their last days in the Centre could very well be legal.

>>29760
Greeting email sent! :D

Since you've gotten some negative feedback about it, I just wanted to chime in to say that I really like the semi-con aspects of this.

The theme of "they don't want to die, but go along with it out of societal pressure" is a favorite of mine, and you've done that really well here!

I'm kinda torn about the abuse though. Your world bible put particular emphasis on how Animals are valuable contributors to society and how people are encouraged to be nice and kind to them, but then people can also rape them without any legal or even societal consequences? That's a pretty harsh vibe mismatch there.

>>29816
Symbri and I discussed this a little on his primary world-building thread :)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Day three came without fanfare.

Last night she had showered, and, as promised, the treacle sheen her skin had carried all day finally washed away. It slid off her in slow, syrupy ribbons under the heat, clinging stubbornly at first before giving in, leaving her skin clean in a way that felt almost unfamiliar. But the lingering smell of honey BBQ hadn’t gone with it.

It clung.

Not strong enough to choke on, not sharp enough to make her gag, but constant. Present. Every breath carried a trace of it, sweet and savoury in a way that didn’t belong on skin. It settled at the back of her throat, faint but inescapable, turning something as automatic as breathing into something she noticed every single time.

Every small movement seemed to stir it.

When she shifted, when she stretched, when her arms brushed against her sides, it lifted again like heat off cooked meat, subtle but undeniable. It wasn’t overpowering. That almost made it worse. If it had been stronger, she could have reacted to it—complained, gagged, done something. Instead it just lingered, quiet and persistent, impossible to ignore once she started paying attention.

She wondered if she’d already started going nose blind to it.

The thought sat there for a moment, heavier than it should have been.

Because if this was what she could still notice, then what had already faded into the background without her realizing?

The morning passed quickly.

Riley spent most of it on her phone, scrolling through page after page, trying to pin down what a “Companion Animal” actually was. The more she read, the stranger it became—not confusing, not unclear, just… off, in a way that felt too polished to question out loud.

Instead of being Processed like a normal Animal, Companion Animals were selected, trained, and placed. The language never said sold. It avoided that word carefully, replacing it with softer ones—assigned, matched, gifted. But the meaning didn’t really change.

They were given to people.

Not randomly, either. There were requirements. Applications. Screenings. Whole sections about suitability and lifestyle compatibility, like it was some kind of long-term investment instead of a person being moved from one life into another.

What struck her most wasn’t the system itself. It was how ordinary everything sounded.

Profiles talked about temperament, adaptability, presentation. What environments certain Animals were best suited for. Which ones responded well to structure. Which ones were “better with attention” or “suited to quiet households.” It read like something halfway between a job listing and a catalogue, clinical without ever sounding cold.

There were even images.

Not graphic, not uncomfortable—just carefully staged photos of smiling people standing beside Animals who stood a little too still, a little too aware of the camera. Clean spaces. Soft lighting. Everything arranged to look calm, controlled, right.

Riley scrolled past one slowly, her thumb dragging just enough that it lingered longer than the others.

A girl around her age stood beside an older couple, her posture straight, her expression neutral but not unhappy. One of them had a hand resting lightly on her shoulder, the gesture casual enough that it might have passed for normal anywhere else.

The caption talked about “successful placement” and “long-term compatibility.”

Riley stared at it for a second longer than she meant to before scrolling again.

The idea settled into her head in pieces rather than all at once.

Not Processing.

Not meat.

Something else.

Still not a person. That part didn’t change. The language made that very clear. Companion Animals were still Animals. Still part of the system. Just… redirected.

Preserved differently.

Her thumb slowed as she reached another section, this one outlining training periods. Adjustment protocols. Behavioural conditioning. It was all written in the same steady tone, the same calm reassurance that everything worked the way it was supposed to.

That this was a good outcome.

A preferable one.

Riley leaned back slightly, the phone resting loosely in her hand while the words sat in her head, rearranging themselves into something she couldn’t quite name yet.

It wasn’t fear.

It wasn’t relief either.

Just a shift.

Small, quiet, but noticeable.

Because for the first time since her watch turned red, the end of the week didn’t feel like a single fixed point anymore.

When the afternoon arrived, she decided she had been cooped up too long.

The house had started to feel smaller the longer she stayed in it, like the walls were pressing in without actually moving. There was only so much pacing she could do, only so many times she could check her phone, reread the same things, circle the same thoughts without them changing.

She wasn’t ready to go anywhere far.

The idea of buses, crowds, open spaces filled with people who didn’t know her—who would only see what the watch said she was now—sat somewhere just out of reach, something she wasn’t quite willing to step into yet.

So she kept it simple.

The café.

The same one that had taken care of her the day she turned red. Close enough to feel manageable. Familiar enough that it didn’t feel like stepping into something completely unknown.

That made it easier to leave.

The walk outside wasn’t as bad as she’d expected.

The air felt cooler than it had the day before, or maybe she was just more aware of it now. It moved over her skin without resistance, nothing between it and her anymore, a constant presence she couldn’t quite tune out but didn’t fight as hard either.

Mr. Greern was nowhere to be seen.

That helped.

The empty porch felt like a small mercy, even if she knew it didn’t actually change anything. The memory of him sitting there, coffee in hand, watching without pretending not to, lingered anyway. Still, not having him there made the first few steps easier.

She kept walking.

Each passing car pulled her attention immediately, the sound of tires against the road sharper than it should have been. Her body reacted before she could think about it, the instinct still there, still stubborn.

Her arm twitched, wanting to rise.
Her hand shifted slightly at her side.

The urge to cover herself came fast and automatic, a reflex that hadn’t fully caught up with everything else yet. Press an arm across her chest. Turn slightly. Make herself smaller. Hide what she could.

She didn’t.

Not this time.

The first car passed, then another. Each one brought that same flicker of instinct, that same brief tension in her shoulders, but she forced it down before it could turn into movement. Letting it happen would have been easier. More natural.

But it also would have been wrong.

That part had been drilled in too clearly to ignore.

Animals don’t wear clothes.
Animals don’t need modesty.

The thought didn’t feel comforting.

It didn’t feel upsetting either.

It just… sat there, solid and unarguable, the same way everything else had started to feel since the watch changed.

So she kept her arms at her sides and kept walking, even as the last traces of that instinct lingered, slower to fade each time it surfaced.

The warm air of the café wrapped around her the moment she stepped inside, a quiet contrast to the autumn chill she’d just walked through. It settled over her skin immediately, soft and enclosing, pulling the tension out of her shoulders without asking.

Her body reacted before she thought about it.

The cold had left its mark, her skin still sensitive from the walk, her nipples tightened against the lingering cool that hadn’t quite faded yet. It felt obvious to her, noticeable in a way she couldn’t ignore now that she was standing under proper light instead of the muted grey outside.

For a moment, it was just physical. Simple. Understandable.

Then she became aware of the room.

Of people.

Of eyes.

Not all of them. Not constant. But enough.

The shift was immediate, that same familiar awareness settling low in her body, quiet at first but persistent. It wasn’t sharp or overwhelming, just there, building slowly the longer she stood in it, the longer she let herself notice the way attention moved around her, touched her, lingered and then moved on again like it was allowed to.

Like it was normal.

Riley exhaled slowly through her nose and adjusted the strap of the pouch on her shoulder, grounding herself in the small, controlled movement.

It wasn’t new.

Just clearer now.

“Hey, you came back!”

The barista from before stepped out from behind the counter as soon as he spotted her, closing the distance without hesitation. He wrapped his arms around her like it was the most natural thing in the world, warm and familiar in a way that suggested he’d already decided what she was to him.

Like she’d been here longer than she had.

Riley stiffened for half a second before settling into it, her arms hovering awkwardly at her sides before she let them rest lightly against him. The contact wasn’t unwelcome. Just… assumed.

His hands didn’t stay where they started.

They drifted lower as the hug lingered, settling with a casual certainty that made it clear he wasn’t thinking about it too hard. The squeeze wasn’t rough, not enough to hurt, just enough to remind her that he could, that it was allowed, that there wasn’t really a line there anymore.

Heat rushed into her face almost immediately.

It spread fast, rising up her neck and into her cheeks before she could stop it, the reaction automatic even as her body stayed where it was. She didn’t pull away. Didn’t protest. The moment just… happened around her.

She wasn’t offended.

She wasn’t scared.

People touched Animals all the time.

That was normal.

The thought came as easily as breathing, settling into place without resistance even as the warmth in her face lingered, stubborn and hard to ignore.

“Hi,” she said, her voice catching slightly, the word thinner than she intended. “Um… can I get a deluxe hot chocolate and a slice of that cake again?”

The barista didn’t step back straight away. His hands lingered for a moment longer before he let her go, like he was finishing a thought rather than ending a hug. Then he smiled, easy and practiced, already turning back toward the counter.

“Of course,” he said. “You’ll just need to pay the upgrade price.”

Riley nodded quickly, the motion a little sharper than necessary, and reached for the pouch at her hip. The fabric shifted against her as she moved, brushing lightly along her side while she fumbled with the flap for a second before pulling it open.

Her fingers found the folded notes inside.

Handling money felt strange now.

Not unfamiliar, not difficult—just slightly out of place, like something she was still allowed to do but wasn’t quite meant to hold onto for much longer. The thought flickered through her mind and passed just as quickly, leaving her focused on the small, practical act of counting out what she needed.

She stepped closer to the counter and held it out.

The barista took it without comment, his fingers brushing hers briefly in a way that didn’t feel accidental. Not deliberate either. Just… casual, like everything else.

Like it didn’t need to mean anything.

“Same table as before?” he asked, already turning toward the machine.

Riley hesitated for half a second, then nodded again.

“Yeah.”

Her voice came out steadier that time.

She moved away from the counter while he started preparing the drink, the soft sounds of the café filling back in around her as if nothing had shifted at all. Conversations continued. Cups clinked. Someone laughed quietly near the window.

It all carried on.

Like her being there didn’t interrupt anything.

Like she fit into it now.

As she waited for her order, a sharp knock tapped against the large glass window beside her.

Riley turned her head.

Amanda stood on the other side, still in her school uniform, blazer slightly crooked like she’d rushed out without fixing it. Her watch flashed green on her wrist, bright and steady, almost obnoxiously normal against everything else.

Relief flickered across Riley’s chest before she could stop it.

Amanda spotted her immediately.

Her face lit up, something open and unfiltered breaking through the glass between them, and then she was gone, already moving, disappearing from view as she hurried around to the door.

It burst open a second later.

Amanda crossed the room in a straight line and threw herself at Riley without slowing down, arms wrapping tight enough to jolt her back in the chair. The impact knocked the breath out of her for a second, the force of it careless in a way that only came from not needing to think about what she was doing.

“I’ve missed you so much!” Amanda said into her ear, her voice pressed close, warm and uneven.

Riley let out a short breath and steadied herself, hands coming up automatically to catch her.

“It’s only been two days,” she said, the words slipping out with a faint edge of disbelief. “If that.”

“Yeah, but…” Amanda pulled back just enough to look at her, her hands still gripping Riley’s arms like she needed to make sure she was still there. “When I decided to come find you, I thought—”

She hesitated, her expression tightening for a fraction of a second.

“I thought you might’ve gone in early,” she finished. “For processing.”

The word sat there between them, quiet but solid.

Riley shook her head slightly.

“Not yet.”

It wasn’t defensive. Just factual.

Amanda exhaled, some of the tension leaving her shoulders as she leaned in again, not quite as forcefully this time but still close, still holding onto her like letting go too much might change something.

“I’m glad,” she said, softer now.

“You’re the one who set up the sleepover, remember?”

Amanda nodded as she slid into the seat opposite her, smoothing her skirt absentmindedly as she settled. Up close, she looked the same as always—tidy, put together, completely unchanged by the last two days in a way that felt almost jarring now.

“So,” she said, leaning forward slightly, her grin already forming, “how have you been?”

The expression hit Riley immediately.

It was the kind of smile Amanda got when she thought she’d spotted something—something awkward, something worth poking at. Normally it was harmless, the kind of teasing that came with knowing each other too well.

Now it landed differently.

“Did you get a marinade treatment?”

Riley’s mouth pressed into a thin line for a second before she answered.

“Yeah,” she said, flat but not defensive. “Yesterday.”

Amanda’s grin widened just a fraction, her eyes flicking over Riley in a way that lingered a little too long to be completely neutral.

“Thought so,” she said, like she was pleased to have guessed right.

Riley shifted slightly in her chair, not enough to pull away, just enough to break that feeling of being quietly looked over.

“It washes off,” she added after a moment. “Mostly.”

Amanda tilted her head, considering that, her expression softening a little but not losing that underlying curiosity.

“Still smells though, right?”

Riley huffed a small breath through her nose.

“Yeah.”

It wasn’t a complaint.

Just another fact.

Amanda leaned back slightly, her fingers tapping once against the edge of the table as she looked at her again—more openly this time, less like she was trying to hide it.

“Does it feel weird?” she asked.

The question hung there, casual on the surface, but with just enough weight underneath it to make it clear she wasn’t just talking about the smell.

“The marinade, or everything else?”

Amanda huffed a quiet laugh at that, leaning her elbow onto the table as she propped her chin in her hand.

“Not being human, I guess.”

Riley paused.

Not long. Just enough for the words to settle properly before she answered. Her fingers traced idly along the edge of the table, feeling the smooth surface under her nails, something small and grounding while she worked out what to say.

“It’s…” she started, then stopped, her mouth pressing slightly before she tried again. “It’s still not sunk in yet.”

The honesty of it came out flat, unpolished.

Amanda watched her closely, her expression shifting—less teasing now, more intent, like she was trying to catch something in Riley’s face that might not be said out loud.

Riley glanced away for a second, her eyes drifting toward the counter where her drink was being made, the steady rhythm of the machine filling the gap in conversation.

“I know what it means,” she added after a moment, quieter now. “I just… don’t feel different yet.”

That wasn’t entirely true.

Things had changed. Obviously. Constantly.

But the part of her that was supposed to understand it, to really feel it the way everyone said she would—that part lagged behind, slow to catch up, like it hadn’t quite accepted the update yet.

Amanda’s fingers stilled against the table.

“Maybe that’s normal,” she said, though it sounded more like a guess than something she knew for sure.

Riley gave a small shrug, her shoulders lifting and falling.

“Yeah.”

She didn’t argue it.

Didn’t agree either.

It was just… where she was.

Riley let the thought sit for a moment, turning it over slowly.

This was probably why Animals were given seven days.

Not for goodbyes. Not really.

Time to adjust.

Time for it to settle in properly, piece by piece, until there wasn’t anything left to question. The system didn’t rush it. It didn’t need to. It just surrounded you with it until it stopped feeling like something new.

Through touch.
Through words.
Through the quiet, casual ways people started treating her differently without ever making a big deal out of it.

It built.

Slowly.

Steadily.

She could feel it happening now, even if she couldn’t point to a single moment where it had changed. The way she stood. The way she stopped reacting as quickly. The way certain things didn’t feel as shocking as they had two days ago.

It was starting to sink in.

Not all at once. Not cleanly. Just… settling, like something heavy finding its place.

And still—

She didn’t feel like an Animal.

Not yet.

“Have you fucked anyone?” Amanda asked, the question landing abruptly, pulling Riley back into the moment like a hand snapping in front of her face.

Riley let out a short laugh before she could stop it.

It wasn’t amusement. Just reflex.

“No,” she said quickly, the word coming out sharper than she meant it to. “No, I haven’t.”

The defensiveness crept in anyway, tightening her tone just enough to make it obvious.

“Really,” she added, a little more controlled this time, like she was trying to correct herself mid-sentence. “I haven’t.”

Amanda’s eyes stayed on her, searching, weighing the answer in that same way she always did when she thought Riley might be hiding something. The look lingered a second too long before she leaned back slightly in her chair, one brow lifting.

“Okay,” she said, not quite disbelieving, but not entirely convinced either.

Riley shifted in her seat, the movement small but restless, her fingers brushing lightly against the edge of the table again.

It wasn’t even the question itself.

It was how casually it had been asked.

“You should fuck the barista.”

Amanda leaned onto one hand, her gaze drifting past Riley toward the counter where he moved between machines, sleeves rolled, hands busy. “He’s cute.”

Riley followed her gaze before she could stop herself, her eyes catching on him for a second too long before she looked away again, heat already rising in her face.

“He is,” she admitted, quieter now, the words slipping out before she could filter them. “But I always thought my first time would be… special.”

Amanda turned back to her sharply, the reaction immediate.

“Wait,” she said, blinking. “You’re still a virgin?”

Riley frowned slightly, thrown by the tone more than the question.

“Yeah,” she said. “Aren’t you?”

“Well, yeah,” Amanda replied quickly, like that part didn’t need explaining. “I’m a human.”

She said it casually.

Easily.

Like it still meant something fixed.

Then her expression shifted, something more curious creeping in.

“But I figured someone like Mr. Greern would’ve made a woman out of you by now.”

Riley’s expression hardened instantly.

“He tried,” she said, flat and without hesitation. “Mrs. Francis shot him.”

Amanda blinked again, the surprise real this time.

“Whoa,” she said, leaning back slightly. “She actually used that relic on her wall?”

Riley gave a small nod.

“Yeah.”

“Badass,” Amanda muttered, shaking her head once before settling again, the moment already passing for her.

Then, just as quickly, she leaned forward again, her tone slipping back into something lighter, almost practical.

“Well, I guess that worked out,” she said. “But you should probably fuck someone before someone decides to fuck you.”

The words landed bluntly, stripped of anything soft.

Not a joke.

Not really advice either.

Just… something obvious, said out loud.

“And it can’t be me, I’m not into girls,” Amanda added, like she was clarifying something obvious, something Riley should have already factored in.

Riley rolled her eyes at that, the reaction automatic, and let her gaze drift back across the room toward the barista.

He moved easily behind the counter, confident in the space, hands working without hesitation. He was in good shape—most people were. Nobody wanted fatty meat, and that showed in ways people didn’t bother hiding anymore. There was a kind of quiet standard to it, visible even in small movements.

He looked like he’d say yes.

That part didn’t seem complicated.

But the thought of actually asking—

That was different.

Something tightened low in her stomach, a nervous flutter that didn’t settle, just shifted and grew the longer she watched him. It wasn’t fear. Not exactly. Just unfamiliar. Something she hadn’t had to do before.

“I’ve never asked anyone before,” she said quietly, leaning just enough toward Amanda that the words wouldn’t carry.

Her fingers traced along the edge of the table again, a small, repetitive motion.

“I think I’m okay dying a virgin,” she added after a second, her voice softer now, almost thoughtful. “It might make my meat better?”

The words came out half-serious, half-testing, like she was trying the idea on to see how it felt once it was said out loud.

“Up to you, babe,” Amanda said, easy and unconcerned, like the decision didn’t carry any weight at all.

Riley glanced over again, the movement small, almost hesitant this time.

The barista was already on his way.

He set the cup down in front of her first, the rich smell of chocolate rising with the heat, followed by the plate—cake piled higher than before, thick and deliberate like it had been done on purpose.

“One deluxe hot chocolate,” he said, then nudged the plate a little closer to her, “and an extra thick helping of cake for my favourite Meatgirl.”

The word slid out of him easily.

Familiar now.

His hand came up without hesitation, ruffling her hair the same way someone might greet a pet that had come back to visit. His fingers lingered there for a second too long, not enough to be called out, just enough to be felt.

He was gentle.

That was the thing Riley noticed most.

Even earlier, even when his hands had wandered, there had been a kind of consideration in it. Measured pressure. Controlled. Like he understood what he was doing and chose not to push it further.

Riley’s teeth caught her bottom lip.

The thought came together faster than she expected, pushed forward by Amanda’s presence, by the way the conversation had been leaning, by the way everything else had started to feel like it was moving whether she did anything or not.

She didn’t give herself time to sit with it.

“Do you wanna fuck?” she asked.

Quick.

Blunt.

Out before she could second-guess it.

Amanda’s grin spread immediately, sharp and satisfied, like she’d been waiting for that exact moment.