A short comic introducing the characters: "The Menu-Roasted Girls." The story continues here in the form of illustrated short stories.


English version :
https://postimg.cc/gallery/YjBbxm7

German version :
https://postimg.cc/gallery/BF7h3K7

"Tina's Deadly Barbecue" is a 29-page comic available on an external image-hosting site. Featuring realistic artwork, the comic tells the story of how a tragic accident during barbecue preparations can turn into a delicious meal. What could be better than roasted Tina?

The second major comic is a prequel to the first. :D
And the story continues in a series of short stories.
The comic's plot has become too complex.

Tina's story – "Deadly Barbecue" comic:

English version: https://postimg.cc/gallery/PwYGsPb

German version: https://postimg.cc/gallery/PZpfzy9

"Dr. Egon Mars’ Last Daughter" is a short story about cannibalism.
The story features AI-generated images.

Tags: Masturbation, Cannibalism, Drama, young teenage girl.

For those who wish to read the version with the realistic-looking images:

Download:

Short story Dr. Egon Mars's last daughter. eng

https://mega.nz/file/UBES2aDA#Z-2cAozcUrCjF1ZXJ1SHI4exRYYxdw5rwTJsGl0CsYY


Dr. Egon Mars letzte Tochter. german

https://mega.nz/file/cAdQVQTb#_rd_-7tL7M7fk4fLVRi5Obp8ddqBqvgtaScTFuNEzQY

Password : Egon-Mars


The story is being posted in 11 sections to incorporate the images.

For better readability, it is recommended to enlarge the posted image.

If you would like to comment, please wait for the full post of the story.

Dr. Egon Mars's last daughter.

“Dad, you won’t believe what Becky said at school today,” Lila began as she stormed
into her father’s study.

Her father, Dr. Egon Mars, didn't look up from his laptop. His eyes remained fixed on
the screen, scrolling through a series of images that definitely belonged to his
scientific work. He had always been a man of few words, preferring to chat quietly
about his thoughts and research. Lila was his youngest daughter, a bright girl with an
insatiable curiosity that often got her into trouble.

“What did Becky say?” he asked, his voice muffled by the documents and screens
that surrounded him.

Lila rolled her eyes and plopped down into a chair. “It’s just the same old thing about
how I’m not normal because I don’t have a mom. Like that’s my fault!”

Dr. Mars sighed, pushing aside a few papers. He knew Becky’s antics were just a way
to get his attention, but he also knew how much those words stung Lila. He had tried
to keep his personal and professional life separate, but it seemed that Lila’s curiosity
had led her to a corner of his digital world that he had wanted to keep hidden.

"Why don’t you tell Becky that you’re special?" he suggested, turning his chair to
face her. "Your mom was an amazing woman, Lila. She was a part of this research,"
he said, nodding towards the cluttered desk. "And because of her, I’ve been able to
make breakthroughs that no one else can even imagine."
Lila looked skeptical. "Research on what?"

Her father's eyes darted to the laptop and back to her. "Just... just science, Lila. You
wouldn't understand. It's nothing for you to worry about." He paused, his gaze
lingering on her. "But I have to go now. There's an urgent appointment I forgot to tell
you about." He hastily stood up, gathering his keys and briefcase. "I'll be back soon.
Don't touch anything on my desk, okay?"

Lila nodded, watching him leave the room. As soon as she heard the front door shut,
she jumped out of her chair and rushed over to the laptop. Her heart raced as she
moved the mouse, the screen flickering back to life. It revealed a wall of tabs and
files, the words "Dolcett" and "human cloning" standing out in stark contrast to her
schoolwork. She clicked on a tab titled "Flavors of Youth," her curiosity piqued by
the alluring yet eerie name.

The page that loaded was a visual feast of horror and fascination. Young women, all
identical, filled her screen, each one sculpted with a surreal blend of beauty and
horror. They were muscular, their bodies a testament to meticulous training and
genetic manipulation. Each image showcased a different stage of development, from
lean and athletic to bulging with power, as if they were bred solely for the purpose of
physical perfection. The text beside the images spoke of the "exquisite taste" of their
tender flesh, a notion that both repulsed and intrigued her.

Her heart hammered in her chest as she clicked through the files, the images growing
more disturbing with each page. There were detailed descriptions of the cloning
process, the care taken to ensure the muscles grew just so, the way they were fed,
exercised, and pampered until the perfect moment of consumption. The words
"rejuvenating properties" danced on the screen, taunting her with a dark allure she
hadn't anticipated. The room grew warmer, her breaths shallower as she scanned the
text, her eyes widening at the implications.

One image in particular caught her eye, making her freeze mid-click. It was a young
woman, no more than a few years older than Lila herself, sprawled across a serving
platter. Her muscles rippled and gleamed, a masterpiece of flesh and strength laid out
for the taking. But it was the face that sent a chill down her spine. The girl looked
eerily like her, a mirror image of Lila in a twisted, nightmarish tableau. The serene
smile on the girl's lips was hauntingly familiar, and she had the same delicate nose,
the same soft cheekbones. It was as if someone had taken Lila and transformed her
into a monstrous delicacy.

Lila's hand hovered over the mouse, her skin cold and clammy. Her mind raced with
questions. Was this just a twisted joke? A morbid fantasy her father had stumbled
upon? Or was it something much, much worse? Her stomach churned as she realized
that the "research" her father talked about might not be as benign as she'd hoped.
Her gaze kept wandering back to the image of the roasted young woman.

The uncanny resemblance was unnerving, but it was the expression on the girl's face that
really held her captive. The smile was serene, almost as if she were in a state of
euphoria, despite the grisly context. A strange heat began to build within Lila,
something she didn't quite understand. It was a sensation that was as confusing as it
was powerful, and it was definitely not fear. It was something deeper, more primal.
Her hand, almost of its own accord, found its way to her waistband, and she felt the
fabric of her jeans grow taut against her skin as she began to rub the fabric over her
clit.

Her breath grew shallower as she scrolled through the documents, the explicit nature
of the text combining with the images to form a cocktail of horror and arousal. The
idea of being the object of such intense desire, of being the source of someone's
sustenance and pleasure, filled her with a dark, forbidden excitement that she couldn't
ignore. The words on the screen described the process of preparing the meat, the
tenderization, the seasoning, the roasting – each step painted in vivid detail that made
her mouth water and her heart race.

The fried girls, the ones that shared her DNA, were the pièce de résistance of her
father's research. They were bred from the same genetic material as her, grown to
perfection, and then, once their bodies had reached the zenith of their potential, they
were slaughtered, their muscles harvested for the delectation of the elite. The thought
of being one of those girls, a creature whose existence was solely to satisfy the
cravings of others, sent a thrill through her that she didn't dare to acknowledge.

The documents spoke of the cloning process in cold, clinical terms, detailing how
they were engineered to have a specific taste profile and texture. The rich and
powerful men who could afford such a delicacy had refined palates, and the meat
from these girls was a delicacy beyond compare. The notion of being consumed, of
her very essence being enjoyed by another, was both repulsive and oddly alluring to
Lila.

Her eyes glazed over as she stared at the screen, the images of the roasted muscular
women sending a jolt of electricity through her. Her hand moved more vigorously
against her clit, the friction sending waves of pleasure rippling through her body. The
room felt like it was spinning around her, the walls closing in as she imagined herself
in the place of the girls on the screen. The idea of being displayed so openly, so
vulnerably, was terrifying and yet, she couldn't deny the excitement it brought her.

The images grew more explicit as she scrolled further down, showing the girls in
various stages of undress, their bodies contorted in poses that highlighted their
powerful physiques. Some were bound, others were free, all of them seemingly
unfazed by the camera's intrusive gaze. Lila's breath hitched as she recognized a pose
that mirrored her own, the girl's hand buried in her crotch, her fingers moving in the
same rhythmic pattern. It was as if she was watching a twisted version of herself, one
that knew no limits or shame.

Her own hand slid under her jeans, the fabric of her panties damp with anticipation.
Her fingertips danced over her swollen clit, mimicking the movements on the screen.
The sensation was electric, a heady mix of fear and arousal that she had never felt
before. Her eyes were glued to the images, her mind racing with the realization that
the research her father was involved in was not just about science, but about a
perverse form of art that involved the consumption of human flesh.

The images grew more gruesome, showing the girls in various stages of slaughter,
their bodies contorted in their final moments of life. The sight of blood and meat
should have repulsed her, but instead, it only served to heighten her arousal. She
couldn't tear her eyes away from the screen, the horror and the eroticism intertwining
in a dance that made her pulse race and her breath come in short, sharp gasps.

She hastily removed her clothes. The next images only intensified the fire within her.
She was no longer just Lila, the girl without a mother; she was a being of desire, a
being whose very being was destined to be consumed. The thought sent a shiver
down her spine, but it was a shiver of joy, not fear.

Her hand worked faster, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she watched the fried
girls on the screen. The way their muscles shimmered with oil and spices made her
mouth water. The smell of roasting flesh filled her nostrils, even though she knew it
was just her imagination. Her mind was in overdrive, conjuring a world where she
could taste the very essence of her clone, feel the power of her own body in a way she
never had before.

Lila leaned back in the chair, her other hand reaching up to squeeze her breast, her
thumb flicking over her erect nipple. The room spun around her, a whirlwind of
darkness and excitement that seemed to pulse in time with her racing heart. Her hips
bucked involuntarily as she approached the brink of climax, the tension building with
every stroke of her hand. It was as if she could feel the heat from the ovens, the
crackle of the skin, the tender give of the muscle beneath.

The moment came suddenly, a burst of white-hot pleasure that shot through her like a
bolt of lightning. Her eyes squeezed shut, her back arched, and she bit her bottom lip
to keep from screaming out. Her muschi clenched around her fingers, pulsing with
the force of her first squirting orgasm. It was a feeling she had never experienced
before, one that seemed to shake her to her very core.

As the waves of pleasure subsided, she became aware of the wetness between her
legs, the sticky mess that had soaked the chair beneath her. A part of her was horrified
by the act she had just performed, but another part felt a strange sense of power and
satisfaction. She had taken a step into a world that was both terrifying and
exhilarating, a world that she had never dreamed existed.

The room grew quiet, the only sound the occasional creak of the old house and the
hum of the computer. Her hand fell away from her body, and she slumped back into
the chair, her eyes drooping with exhaustion. The laptop screen grew dark, the images
of the fried girls fading away as it went into sleep mode. Lila sat there, naked and
trembling, her mind racing with the implications of what she had discovered. The
silence of the room seemed to press in around her, amplifying the thump of her
heartbeat in her ears.

The house's aged timbers whispered secrets in the quiet, echoing the unspoken truths
she had uncovered. Her father's work was not just about science; it was a twisted
tapestry of eroticism and horror that she couldn't begin to unravel. Her hand hovered
over the mouse, the urge to wake the computer and continue her perusal almost
irresistible. But she knew she had to tell someone, had to share the burden of this
knowledge.

Her eyes grew heavy with the weight of her thoughts. The chair cradled her as she
drifted into a fitful slumber, her dreams invaded by the images from the screen. She
saw herself as one of the fried girls, her muscles gleaming with oil and seasoning, a
macabre smile painted on her lips. Her body twitched as she felt invisible hands
caress her, the heat from an unseen oven warming her skin. The sensation of being
consumed, of being the focus of such intense, primal desire, was overwhelming.

Hours later, Lila woke with a start in her own bed, the sheets tangled around her
naked body. The room was cast in the soft glow of the setting sun, and she blinked
against the light, her heart hammering in her chest. She took a deep breath, the smell
of roasting flesh still lingering in her nose. It was all a dream, she told herself,
just a nightmare born of Becky’s cruel words and her own overactive imagination. But as
she looked down, she saw the stickiness between her legs, a grim reminder of the
very real orgasm.

Today, five years later, Lila knew better. They weren't dreams. They were the truth.
The girl who looked so much like Lila, as if they were twins, was her sister.
And in a way, both girls were the same person. Both red-haired girls came from the
same genes.

The girls shared the same thoughts, the same hopes, even the same fears.
Both girls were the same spiritual being. Lila dreamed and dreams of Tanja's past. Of
Tanja's short life and her lustful end. It had taken a long time to understand the whole
truth and forgive her father. Lila now knew that her own father had killed his
daughter, Lila's sister, out of lust.

Lila's only small consolation was knowing that both of them wanted it this way.
Tanja wanted to be eaten, and her father was hungry, greedy for her flesh.
Lila also knew that this was the only reason she existed. She was the atonement.
The healing for her father's conscience.

A lot of time had passed, and Lila had come to terms with the fact that her father was
now a big businessman. A big businessman in the cloning of women, women who
had been used as food.

And Lila herself was now the head of the legal department at her father's company.
Nevertheless, Lila often thought back to that day. The day that told her about Tanja.
The day of seemingly boundless desire. But also the day of loss and pain.
And now history had repeated itself. But it was the story of a different family.

Lila looked at the file, the file that told a story about a strange cookbook. A perfect
cookbook. Lila's gaze fell on the rare original edition, lying beneath the file. Next to
it lay the girls' photos and new ID cards. For a new life, for a new chance. Damn, her
father had played God again. Who is this man? Her father, Dr. Egon Mars.

End of this story

Images inspire new stories, and stories inspire new images. That is why I am linking to my image gallery here. The final roasted piglets in a cannibal world.

https://boards.guro.cx/ai/koko.php?res=14586&page=1#p13_21450

>>30816

Roasting textures are top notch AI prompting. The Spit-Roasting images are incredible. So few achieve this level of imagery. Well done no pun intended.

>>30818

Thank you very much; your praise means a great deal to me.

A new story woven into the original narrative arc.
A supplementary piece, available here for the first time:

Lila’s Letter.


Hi Dad.

I don’t want to shock you by writing you a letter—don’t worry. It’s not the kind of letter that’s sometimes customary in our country, where teenagers write down their final thoughts only to end up... on the barbecue as a sacrificial offering? What kind of shit did I just find out about...?

But that’s just how it is; I know about many of your dark secrets now. Why did you keep that from me? If it’s so normal for girls to be born sometimes just to serve as a feast for their families? Dad! What is this all about? Why didn’t I grow up knowing this about our culture from the very beginning?

Were you trying to protect me? Your last remaining daughter? My big sister ran away and doesn’t live with us anymore. But damn, I visited Anja. Dad! It was almost an interrogation. Did I inherit that dominance from you? I totally steamrolled Anja. Haha!
I managed to pry some more information out of Anja. Hehe. That porn collection of yours—the one about seduction and bondage games—was really helpful. Thanks for that.

But at first, it felt weird being with Anja. Knowing she was the twin left behind, while our sister Tanja was being roasted by you. Fuck. To Anja, it seemed normal. But... but not to me!
Dad! Damn it! I’m trying to stay objective, like you always say, but it’s so hard. You cloned me from Tanja’s genes? How much of Tanja am I? Am I really still Lila? Your youngest daughter? Maybe too young for feelings like this? Too young for these questions?

Dad! It’s not just loss and grief over my lost sister. There’s also a dark passion and a craving inside me. I felt desire when I looked at those roasted girls. Anja said it was normal. I hope so.
Um, yeah... so, we licked each other’s pussies. Yes, Dad—your young daughter Lila is licking your older daughter’s pussy! And Anja loved it. So tell me: is that normal in our culture?

Dad—damn, I don’t even know how to keep writing. Objectivity? Fine. Let’s give it a shot. You cloned me from Tanja’s genes. Cool. Great. So, am I Tanja 2.0? A replacement daughter? Or just Lila, another daughter for the silver serving platter? Because when I saw those pictures—those girls, their muscles glistening, their bodies arranged like a gourmet feast—I didn’t feel disgust. I felt hunger. Not the kind of hunger you satisfy with a snack. But the kind that makes your toes curl and your mouth water—in a way that really *should* scare you. But it doesn’t.
In my deep, dark fantasies, you fuck me before I get roasted like Tanja. I confessed it to Anja.

Anja says that’s normal, too. She said it so casually, as if it were a given—like asking if I want ketchup with my fries. She also mentioned that Tanja used to feel the same way. That’s exactly what turned my stomach. Did Tanja want what happened to her? Did she smile when you… no, I can’t even write it down. But I *saw* the pictures, Dad. She looked… peaceful. Almost expectant. And now I sit here, running my fingers over my own thighs, wondering if my skin—my flesh—would taste the same.

And yes, before you ask—yes, Anja and I, we did *other things, too*. You’re probably clutching that old scrap of paper in horror right now, but you know what? *She* comforted me. Said it was tradition. That twins—or clones, or whatever I am—are supposed to *know* each other. So we licked. And sucked. And fucked. With a steel skewer, just a few centimeters inside my pussy. And it felt good, Dad. Like, really good. My pussy was so wet — ugh, see? Just remembering it makes me get wet. Is that sick? Or is it just biology? Your science?

I need answers. Because the thing is: I don’t want to be repulsed by it. When I picture myself lying on that platter, perfectly roasted, and some rich asshole slicing into my thigh with a silver fork and a silver knife... I don’t scream. I shudder. And not out of fear.

Dad, come home; stop looking for secret technology in buried temples or forgotten military complexes. Don't we have enough tech in 2031 already? Damn it, Dad! The two fingers inside my pussy need to be replaced by you. I don't just want my loving father back; I want to get to know the predator inside you, too.

To your sharp mind, I’ll just say: sorry if my grammar and spelling are off again and I’m repeating myself in this letter—but according to our Celantan national constitution, I’m not an adult yet, so I’m still allowed to make these kinds of mistakes.

While you’re still away, I have plenty of opportunities to use your spare security key card for your private lab and showrooms. You really ought to be a bit more focused and stop leaving your notes and other things lying around in your study.

Dad, come home.

With love, your rebellious teenage daughter.

>>30825

A rebellious Daughter meets her delicious end! Great short.

>>30829

I'm glad you liked the letter. It was pretty intense—apparently written on the spur of the moment by an angry teenager driven by sexual heat. But I’d be interested to know exactly what went down between the two sisters—something that was only briefly mentioned in the letter. What did the older sister reveal? Just bare skin? Answers will come...

I saw that your story is continuing, too. I saw your picture—very hot. I’m making a note of the URL for your story: https://boards.guro.cx/lit/koko.php?res=30695&page=1

It’s probably time for me to create a table of contents here for good stories. I hope I can get around to reading your next chapter today; I’m in a bit of a rush. This isn't the only platform where I’m active.

I would like to point out once again that fantasy must remain fantasy. Please do not devour little girls. Thank you.

The bond between the hungry sisters.

A short story featuring AI-generated images. I will post the story in segments again so that I can include all the images.

The bond between the hungry sisters.


2031

The chain on Lila’s bicycle rattled as she pedaled harder; the rhythmic clicking was the only sound interrupting her thoughts. She hadn’t slept properly since finding the data and images on her father’s computer—just a few days ago. The ride was more exhausting than usual. The streets blurred past her; they seemed alien, even though this was her hometown. She had never noticed how many oversized BBQ grills stood in the front yards of this leafy suburb.

Anja’s house came into view at the end of the cul-de-sac—a modern structure of glass and red brick.
It had been two years since Lila last saw her sister; two years had passed since the big argument between Anja and their father.
Lila gripped the brake levers. She came to a halt with a squeal. Her gaze swept over the large, quiet property. The lawn was immaculately manicured, save for the fire pit. A roasting spit rose above the ashes; polished steel glinted in the sun. Big enough for a person. Big enough for her. Lila swallowed; her throat was dry.

The polished surface of the spit caught the sunlight in a way that made the metal look almost innocent. She had seen barbecue rigs before—at cookouts, at street fairs—but never one shaped so deliberately, or sized to accommodate a human body. The metal hooks and loops dangled empty now, yet the ash-covered pit beneath still held a faint scent of burnt fat and rosemary. Her fingers gripped the handlebars so tightly her hands began to cramp.


Lila dismounted quietly and cautiously. Had she already been spotted? Her path led her right past the large roasting spit. Now she stood before this steel monstrosity. The spit stirred thoughts within her—of women being roasted. It was all true. No horror movie, no nightmare... it was reality. How could a woman voluntarily let herself be roasted on this steel? Was it even voluntary? And what if it wasn't? Wait, isn't that... Anja's spit? Had she roasted a woman? Lila swallowed. She imagined the cold steel boring into her warm interior. Her pussy stretching; it would be the end—but was it sexual, too?

Lila’s fingers twitched around the polished steel spit; the metal felt cool in her palm despite the midday sun. An absurd shiver ran down her spine—a mix of horror and thrill—as she traced the curve of the tip, which would fulfill its purpose inside her body without much resistance. The mechanics of it—her body turning over the fire—became terrifyingly clear to her: how the heat would roast her skin to the perfect crispness. Her breath caught as she noticed her thumb tracing slow circles over the metal—like a lover’s caress.

A telltale wave of warmth washed through her lower belly. Her fingers closed around the tip of the spit; this was now unmistakably sexual.

The sound of the front door clicking shut made Lila jump—the spit still in her hand... Anja. She was standing on the property now, just a few meters away from Lila’s incriminating gesture. What kind of moment was this? Intimate? Or simply embarrassing?


The moment seemed to last forever; the two girls looked at each other without a word as the wind lifted their long red curls and whispered something of sweet sin into their ears.

Anja’s heels clicked against the terrace paving stones—deliberately and slowly, as if she wanted to give Lila time to compose herself, or perhaps simply to savor the sight of her young sister clutching the skewer with trembling fingers. The light caught the silver pendant at her throat—a coin bearing the Roman numeral II, exactly like the one Lila had seen among her father’s papers. "So, you’ve found out," Anja said in a gentle voice, as if she were discussing the weather. Her gaze darted to Lila’s hands, whose fingers were still softly caressing the metal. "But I see you’re getting accustomed to our way of life."

Lila snatched her hand back, but it was already too late. The spear wavered between them; the damp print of her palm stood out clearly on its polished surface. She ought to have wished the ground would swallow her up so she could run away—yet the heat spreading between her legs held her spellbound. A smile played on Anja’s lips—one that seemed anything but unfriendly. "It’s all right," she murmured, stepping a little closer. "When I touched one for the first time, I couldn't stop trembling either." She reached out—not for the spear, but to tuck a wayward lock of hair behind Lila’s ear. Her fingertips lingered warmly against the shell of the ear. "Lift your arms for a moment; your shirt is soaked with sweat." Before Lila could even gather her thoughts, the fresh air was cooling her bare, delicate chest.

Anja traced the curve of Lila’s delicate breast with her fingers and then—with a cheeky grin—brought a sweat-dampened finger to her tongue. "Hmm, salty and delicious," Anja murmured. Lila was now completely at the mercy of the situation, unable to voice even the slightest protest.

"It’s time for us to get to know each other all over again, dear sister; it’s been so long since we last saw each other." With those words, Anja pulled a single cord on her dress and let it fall to the ground; now naked, she pressed Lila down into the soft grass, grabbed her trousers, and freed Lila’s hips with a swift tug, pulling the garment down over her slender legs. "Lila, where’s your heart-print or teddy-bear underwear?" Anja teased sarcastically. Given the heat, Lila had simply gone without panties this time.

Lila stood frozen. Why was she letting this happen? Sure, the two sisters had always been very close back then. But this? This bold, incredibly direct, and passionate side of Anja had remained hidden from her.

Anja’s fingers traced the curve of Lila’s hipbone—slowly and deliberately. The grass beneath them felt cool against Lila’s bare skin, yet every spot Anja touched burned like glowing coals. "You’re trembling," Anja murmured, her warm breath brushing against Lila’s collarbone. "But you aren’t afraid, are you?" Lila shook her head, even though the truth was more complicated. Fear was stirring within her, yes—but so was something hotter, something arousing.

Anja’s fingers grazed Lila’s labia—just enough to make her gasp for air, but not enough to push things all the way. The grass pricked slightly at Lila’s bare buttocks as she instinctively arched her back; her body betrayed her before her mind could even protest. "Are you still a virgin?" Anja whispered, her lips brushing against the shell of Lila’s ear. Lila’s cheeks flushed deep red; she gave a brief, sharp answer, as if ashamed of the truth.

Anja’s laugh sounded warm, almost tender. "Good," she murmured, her thumb circling Lila’s clitoris with practiced ease. "That makes it even more special." Those words sent a shiver through Lila—a mixture of fear and intoxicating arousal. *Something special.* Was it? The rational part of her screamed that this was wrong, that sisters didn’t do things like this, that she should push Anja away and run. But instead, she thrust her hips forward, meeting the pressure of Anja’s touch.

Lila’s eyes fluttered shut as Anja’s mouth met hers; her lips parted instantly, moving in a hungry, desperate rhythm. The taste of her sister—sweet, with a hint of spice—flooded Lila’s senses; her tongue slid against Anja’s, filled with a wet, gliding heat. Anja’s fingers traced the warm skin of Lila’s inner thigh. Lila gasped into the kiss and her hips instinctively arched upward, but Anja laughed softly against her lips and pulled back—just far enough to watch Lila’s face contort with frustration.

"Not yet," she murmured, her thumb tracing slow, maddening circles over the swollen bud of Lila’s clitoris. "I want to see you beg for it. Just look at you," she whispered as her thumb began to circle faster and more relentlessly. "So beautiful when you’re on the verge of climax." Lila’s thighs trembled, her hips jerking upward—but Anja pulled her hand away completely, leaving Lila gasping on the brink of orgasm. "Not yet," she chided, as if scolding a greedy child. "I want to taste you first."

Moments later, Lila felt her sister’s tongue against her most intimate place.
Lila moaned, her fingers tangling in Anja’s long red hair. She had never been kissed like this—never touched like this—and the sheer intensity made her head spin. Anja’s tongue slid deeper. She traced the contours of Lila’s opening, glistening with arousal, and whispered, "Tell me what you need."

"Fuck me," Lila moaned.

Now Lila was ready... completely devoid of will. Anja took up the steel skewer—the very one upon which, days earlier, a woman had met her death while writhing in the throes of lust. The skewer found the entrance to Lila’s wet pussy without resistance. Slowly—ever so slowly—the dangerous metal slid into her tender flesh.

The skewer’s cold intrusion sent a shock coursing through Lila’s body—so sudden and sharp that her fingers clawed into the earth beneath her. Anja kept a firm grip on the metal, moving deliberately as she pushed it deeper; her gaze was fixed intently on Lila’s face, as if studying every twitch and gasp. The stretching sensation was excruciating, yet Lila could not bring herself to pull away. The pain transformed into something else—something searing and urgent—when the tip touched a spot deep inside her that made her vision blur.

Anja’s free hand pinned Lila’s hip to the ground; her thumb dug into the soft tissue just above Lila’s pubic bone. "Breathe," she murmured in a deep, rough voice. The skewer twisted slightly—just enough to make Lila whimper—then Anja leaned forward until her lips brushed Lila’s ear. "You’re taking it so well," she whispered. Lila’s eyes flew wide, but Anja was already withdrawing the skewer, only to drive it back inside her; the sound of it sliding was obscenely loud in the quiet midday air.

With every thrust, the skewer penetrated deeper; its cold steel shaft glided effortlessly through Lila’s slick wetness. Anja’s movements were now rhythmic—precise, practiced thrusts that made Lila’s thighs tremble. The pain had given way to a throbbing, pleasurable tug—a blissful pressure that intensified with every thrust. Lila gasped for air; her hips jerked involuntarily, matching the relentless rhythm of the skewer. Was it blood she felt? Or merely the wetness of her own arousal? The thought should have frightened her. Instead, it sent a fresh wave of heat surging through her body.

Anja’s free hand gripped Lila’s hip even tighter now; her fingernails dug into the soft flesh as she angled the skewer upward, striking a spot that made Lila cry out. The sound was raw, unfiltered. A knowing smile played on Anja’s lips. "You’re so tight," she murmured, her voice filled with something akin to pride. "Just like Tanja." The words crept into Lila’s ears—poisonous yet sweet. Tanja. The name pulsed in her head like a second heartbeat. Had it been the same for her? Had she, too, arched her back and gasped for air as her body yielded to the steel that might soon roast her alive?

Anja whispered, her voice almost hoarse: "Tanja and I used to play a lot of games full of pleasure back when we were young. And this was our little sister’s favorite game."

Lila’s vision blurred as the relentless rhythm of the spit drove her closer and closer to the edge of orgasm. The thought of Tanja—the sister they had both lost, and how her body had arched in exactly the same way back then—ought to have horrified her. Instead, it triggered a fresh wave of wetness between her thighs. She didn't care if she died this way; the sensation of pleasure in her belly tightened so fiercely that death seemed like just another, imminent climax. Anja’s breath hitched as she watched Lila’s hips jerking rapidly up and down; her sister’s desperation mirrored her own memories. "You look just like her," Anja murmured in a husky voice—filled with a mixture of awe and desire.

The tip of the spit grazed a spot deep inside Lila, a point so sore and sensitive that her back arched off the grass and her fingernails dug crescent-moon marks into her palms. Warm blood trickled down the insides of her thighs, mingling with the moisture of her arousal. The pain was sharp and burning, yet it only heightened the pleasure; every thrust was a brutal reminder of how alive she was. Anja’s fingers dug into Lila’s hip bones—her grip possessive—as she drove the metal spit forward at a steeper angle and with greater force. "Come for me," she demanded, her lips brushing against Lila’s earlobe. "Come just the way she did." That command acted like a lit match tossed into gasoline. Lila’s orgasm tore through her with such intensity that she gasped for air; her body shuddered and writhed against the cold steel, as if trying to merge with it.

“Hey, little sister, wake up!” Anja’s voice pierced the haze of Lila’s exhaustion as her fingers brushed a damp lock of hair from Lila’s forehead. The grass beneath her was cool, and the afternoon sun hung lower in the sky—how long had she been unconscious? Lila blinked dazedly; her body was still trembling from the aftershocks of pleasure as she lifted her head. Her thighs were sticky, her skin glistening with sweat, yet when she gingerly touched her belly, she found neither wounds nor burning pain—only a bloodstain near her inner thigh, the proof of her lost virginity.
Bloody, yes—but slaughtered, no. Was that why Anja had been so pleased about Lila’s virginity?
That touch of authenticity?

The spit lay carelessly beside her; its polished surface shimmered dully in the fading light, its tip stained with her blood.
Anja knelt beside her, smiling knowingly as she watched Lila run her fingers over her own body in disbelief. "Disappointed?" she teased, tracing Lila’s lower lip with her thumb. "You were so eager that I almost thought you’d beg me to light the fire." The casual cruelty of those words ought to have hurt, yet Lila’s pulse quickened; her cheeks flushed at the memory of how her hips had arched to meet every thrust, and how she had sobbed Anja’s name at the moment of climax.

Part of her was relieved, yes—but beneath that, a darker thought stirred: disappointment. She had been so close. Nearby, the fire pit gaped, cold and filled with ash. It wouldn't have taken much. Just a few logs, a match, and a spit that went all the way through. The image flashed before her mind’s eye: her own body slowly turning over the flames, her skin roasting to a beautiful, crispy golden-brown.

"Why didn't you just finish skewering me and roast me over the fire?" Lila’s voice was hoarse; her fingers still twitched in the damp grass.

Anja threw her head back and laughed—a full, warm sound that seemed utterly at odds with the cruelty of the spit lying between them. "Oh, little rabbit," she murmured, tapping the bloody tip against Lila’s knee. "That spit is reserved for women who embark on their final journey as my trophies." Her fingers brushed against Lila’s cheek, lingering just long enough to feel the shudder that ran through her. “And you? You aren’t even seasoned yet.” Anja hesitated briefly.
“And Lila…” Her fingers now combed through Lila’s red hair and stayed there. “It isn’t time to let you go yet.” With a more serious expression, Anja looked into Lila’s blue-green eyes. “Lila, Father and I need you; we love you—and besides, you’re still too young.”

Lila stared at the fire pit; the cold ash within it suddenly seemed less like an ending and more like an interrupted ritual. *We need you.* The words made her chest tighten—relief warring with something darker, something hungrier. She had braced herself for the roasting spit, for the flames. For being *desired* in that way. But being *needed*? That was new territory for her.

“Don’t look so disappointed,” she murmured, her thumb tracing Lila’s swollen lips. “Your turn will come, too.”

Lila swallowed, and after what felt like an eternity, she asked, "Anja, who was the woman you were roasting on the spit? Your trophy?" Anja hesitated briefly: "Oh, right—the foreign veterinarian... her brown hair really stood out in the firelight, and her flesh was delicious... She was the target of our intelligence investigation. She ran an illicit farm with the wrong kind of livestock. Cannibalism isn't unique to us." Lila’s eyes widened; a look of astonishment flitted across her face.

Lila’s fingers twitched in the grass—she had always assumed their way of life was unique, a dark secret of the Celantanis. But Anja’s words shattered that certainty. "There are others?" she breathed, her voice barely audible. A knowing smile played on Anja’s lips as she bent down, plucked a blade of grass, and twirled it between her fingers. "Oh, Lila. The world is full of hungry people. They just don't shout it from the rooftops."

Anja then yanked Lila up to a standing position. With her other hand, she slotted the roasting spit into its holder. The vertical spit looked even more imposing now. Only then did Lila realize just how strong her older sister was. "Listen, Lila—speaking of discretion, you still need to sign some documents for me. Only then can I fill you in on the rest. I always felt it was a mistake to shield you from our way of life. Oh, and one more thing: never touch someone else's roasting spit; you never know what kind of drugs or aphrodisiacs might have been smeared on it."

Anja grinned. Lila’s thoughts were racing. First, her sister seduces her—fucking her with a roasting spit in the process—and now it turns out there are foreign cannibals and a dedicated intelligence agency dealing with them? And her sister is part of it? Anja gave Lila a searching look. "Welcome to a crazy world; it looks like you’re going to have to grow up sooner than planned. Lila, let’s go inside; you must be hungry." "Um... thirsty, actually. I need a drink. Anja... do you have any whiskey?"
Lila knew today would reveal a lot, but this was something she hadn't expected.

End of the chapter

>>30908

The little redhead better get spitted and roasted. Terrible teasing her like that. :)

Great story with visual to boot. Thanks

>> 30914

Yes, the little redhead really belongs on a steel spit, roasting slowly over the fire. Unfortunately, Lila is a main character, so she won't be getting eaten anytime soon. I guess she's out of luck there.


Now I need to create a different version of this story featuring images. The newly created chapters are part of a larger series. Three stories are already complete, continuing the journeys of the main characters.

Different web platforms have varying rules regarding the types of AI-generated images they require. Essentially, I produce three types of images: action shots for the story, erotic images, and "Dolcett" images. It is a very time-consuming process.

The final image—the ID card—took the longest to create; it took an entire night. The details shown on the ID card pave the way for future stories. You and Edward have been a great source of inspiration, even providing ideas that helped me flesh out the logic of my universe and build bridges to stories by other authors.

By the way, I’ve been thinking about making the images I posted here—available at https://boards.guro.cx/ai/koko.php?res=14586&page=0—available to you authors. It makes sense to do so: anyone who doesn't have enough time to generate the final image for their story themselves is welcome to use this gallery. I’ll announce this separately in another post. The page listed under "Artificial Intelligence" is being continuously updated.

>>30920

Sweet, I see the link. Ready to explore some delicious dishes.

>>30922

The first delicious dishes have been delivered, and I’ve uploaded more images to my picture thread—including how I imagine your duck.

--- Bathtub Soup ---


In my next short story, I had some fun and slipped into the role of private detective Sven Ritter. It's a story where fantasy and reality overlap a little. Just a little. English and German versions are available.

The older original version features realistic-looking AI-generated images. It is available for download. The older version is less integrated into the overall narrative arc.
english: https://mega.nz/file/FENAwI7Q#AQNNOkYrXDTyf0StdH8nBvSkY4D3cqWMbPsIIYSl1Mk

Password: Egon-Mars

german: https://mega.nz/file/wJMREQQa#07g4SdlwuNP7ZJtb8aTiSG_74tAuqdQTM1cxydnp2mM

Passwort: Egon-Mars


The newly revised version for this website features new AI-generated images and aligns even more closely with the story arc.

The newly revised version for this website features new AI-generated images and aligns even more closely with the story arc.

This story references a story by another author.

Author Karl Schlachter published the stories *Das perfekte Kochbuch* and its sequel on the Dolcett Girls Forum; with his permission, I am supplementing his main plot with side stories.

The post that follows is once again presented in segments.

The Bathtub Soup

I was lying in my bathtub, lost in thought. But this time, it was different.
It was an experiment.

Coffee's gone cold. I flicked ash into the chipped saucer balanced on the tub's edge. Steam curled from the murky broth around my waist—chicken bones, ginger slices, and overcooked noodles bobbing against my stomach. "Should've brought a thermos?"


The tea lights beneath the cast-iron bathtub pulsed like tiny orange hearts, casting flickering shadows on the tiled walls. Despite the draught from the hallway, sweat dripped from my temples. My toes brushed against something solid—perhaps a carrot—as I moved around in the hot liquid. Every pore tingled, the blood rushing hot beneath my skin.

The wax beneath the steel tub hissed as another tea light drowned in its own liquid remains. Two hundred tiny flames—now one hundred and ninety—licked upwards. Heat crept up my calves and tingled on my skin. Not scalding. Not yet. Just... persistent. Like fingertips stroking the inside of my thigh. My pulse was racing. *Concentrate, Knight. You're testing a hypothesis, not booking a massage.*


I felt the heat, I thought of those women, how they were cooked in those cannibal stories. I can slowly understand their feelings. That thrill, that sexually arousing warmth, now I felt it too. I felt the desire to become food myself. I thought of those names, women, girls, sometimes just old enough to be described in those fetish stories.Jessica Valerie, Sarah, Sofia and Sydney.

If these stories were playful enough, superficial and unambiguously sexy, then these actions crept into my fantasies and became a tangible image that aroused me in my groin area. These stories now became my fetish too.
But if the plot of these stories was too long, too detailed, too well described, and I developed sympathy for these characters, then it fell more into the horror category.


And yet it fascinated me. The images in these stories were so tangible that I
had to share them with someone. I created motifs, delicious, sexy or shocking. For outsiders, people who were unfamiliar with this topic, it was certainly
the most perverse thing you could see on the internet.

And now I was lying in a kind of cooking pot myself, about to become food. Was that what I wanted? It was only supposed to be an experiment.
But why had the soup been made with ingredients chosen specifically for me?
I tasted the soup in my bathtub. The soup of which I was a part. I couldn't deny that it tasted good. Far too good for just an experiment.


The heat was now becoming more intense. Had I used too many candles? It was strange; on the one hand, I was aroused, my penis hard and ready for anything, and yet I was relaxed, ready to give my body. I couldn't deny it, the image I presented was erotic and yet bizarre. My athletic figure became one with the soup.


I was slowly getting tired, my grip on the cigarette was weakening. My eyes were getting heavy. But suddenly I was wide awake again.
A floorboard creaked in the hallway. Not the usual creak. Sharper. Deliberate. Footsteps. Too light for the postman, too hesitant for a burglar. My hand with my cigarette froze halfway to the ashtray. The broth sloshed against my ribs as I turned towards the door.

Steam fogged up the mirror above the sink, but the silhouette was unmistakable: slim, surrounded by wild copper-coloured curls that caught the candlelight. She stood there, dripping rainwater onto the tiles, her eyes wide open and not focused on my face, but on the murky broth splashing against my sternum. Her gaze followed a stray noodle stuck to my collarbone.


Silence. Only the frantic crackling of the dying tea lights under the tub interrupted it. Her expression did not reflect shock, not directly. It was... an assessment. Clinical. Like a biologist observing a specimen in its natural habitat – a very wet, very endangered habitat. She tilted her head slightly, a loose red curl brushing her cheekbone. Rainwater ran down her leather jacket. Her lips parted, not to speak, but as if she were tasting the damp, spice-scented air.


Her eyes, an astonishing bright green, darted from the submerged curve of my knee to the floating ginger root beside my elbow, and finally met mine slowly. Time didn't just slow down; it froze. The heat, the absurdity, the tingling awareness of my own nakedness beneath the opaque liquid, all merged into a single, suspended moment under her analytical gaze. Was she disgusted? Fascinated? Was she calculating the heating power needed to keep so much water simmering? Her absolute silence was unsettling.


I looked her over, a woman perhaps 30 years old, with long red hair. White trousers and a crop top. Her black leather jacket seemed to have been thrown on hastily. Overall, she had an athletic figure with an upright posture. Her sudden laughter made me flinch briefly.


‘Oh, I'm Anja,’ she said, leaning against the doorframe. Her green eyes wandered around the steam-filled room. ‘Hey, excuse me, I'm your new neighbour. The rain caught me by surprise after I accidentally locked myself out of my new flat. Your front door was wide open, so I sought shelter here.’ A pause. Her gaze fell demonstratively on the broth stuck to my collarbone. ‘Oh, and you should put your tools away outside in the yard.’ Her lips twisted into an amused smile.

I cleared my throat, aware of how ridiculous I must look – a grown man stewing in his own bathwater. ‘Sven,’ I managed, moving slightly to one side. A piece of ginger bumped against my thigh. ‘I'm just... doing a bit of field research.’


Anja's laughter was soft, melodic, unexpected. ‘Field research?’ She stepped fully into the bathroom, rainwater dripping from her jacket onto the tiles. Her gaze wandered through the steamy room – to the flickering candles under the tub, the floating vegetables, my reddened face. ‘I haven't seen this view in a long time.’ Her gaze lingered on the surface of the broth at my waist. ‘What is your goal, Sven? The purpose of your research?’

Anja didn't blink. Her green eyes sharpened, locking onto mine with unsettling concentration. “The appetite,” she said quietly, her voice piercing through the hissing of the candles. It wasn't a question, it was a statement. She knew it. She understood the dark contours of the territory I had mapped. She knew what I was trying to do here. Her gaze shifted back to the hot mess that surrounded me, and her expression changed from one of assessment to something that bordered disturbingly on recognition. "The heat deceives you, the heat seduces you," she murmured, almost to herself. "It makes the skin sing. It makes the boundaries...soften." A drop of rainwater slipped from her copper-colored hair and splashed onto the tile next to her boot. It echoed louder than it should have.


‘Sven, you've gone down a dark path. You're exploring a fetish that requires a lot of discipline.’ Anja's words echoed through the room. I was speechless. The silence was broken by the ringing of her mobile phone.


Anja answered the phone. ‘Hey sister, how are you? Has something happened? The first girl is awake? You took the little one to your flat? How is she doing with you? No, I didn't run away! Take care of these girls, please take care of yourself! Think of our father, there could be trouble, you know why I'm no longer with the company.’ I tried to understand Anja's call. Anja and her sister seemed to be in trouble. Anja continued: ‘Lila, I'm fine. I'm at my new neighbour's place right now and apparently I've been invited to dinner,’ Anja joked and winked at me.


She ended the conversation with the words, ‘I will always help you and the girls.’ Her hand was still slightly cramped where she had clutched the phone. I opened my mouth. Questions about sisters, girls, companies, Questions came to mind – but Anja cut me off sharply. Her green eyes scanned my face and then wandered to the slush that clung to my shoulders. ‘Can I freshen up quickly?’ she asked, her voice suddenly brisk and matter-of-fact. ‘I feel sticky from the rain.’ She took off her wet leather jacket, revealing a damp crop top underneath. Water droplets ran down her bare arms.

‘Guest bathroom,’ I said, vaguely pointing down the hallway with my chin. ‘At the end of the hallway, second door on the left. Towels are in the cupboard. A quick hot shower would probably do you good.’ She nodded and was already on her way. ‘And clean clothes,’ I added after she had reached the door, raising my voice slightly. ‘The guest room is right next door. Wardrobe. Help yourself.’

She stopped at the threshold and turned around. Her gaze lingered on the bathtub, on the flickering candles beneath it, on my shoulders protruding from the murky liquid. A small, unreadable smile flitted across her lips – not mocking, not alarmed. *Judgmental*. ‘Stay in your soup pot, the heat shouldn't get any stronger, I'll be right back.’ Then she was gone, her wet footsteps quickly fading in the hallway.

Silence returned, filled with the smell of ginger and hot chicken, accompanied by the frantic hissing and crackling of the tea lights as they went out one by one. Now there were 170 left. The heat suddenly felt sharper, more isolating. What did she mean by ‘discipline’? Which girls? Which company? Her sister's urgent voice echoed in my head: ‘Is the first girl awake?’ The broth sloshed against my ribs as I moved, and despite the boiling hot water, a shiver ran down my spine. Anja wasn't just open-minded, she was deeply immersed in the very darkness I was exploring. Her insight had not been academic in nature. It was instinctive. Personal. The ‘appetite’. She had named it like an old acquaintance.


My thoughts raced, what a strange encounter.
A pretty woman, just my type. And probably with more than one secret. After maybe 20 minutes, Anja came back. Shit, she had chosen an outfit that belonged to my ex. Goth girl look. Then I noticed that Anja had the same body proportions as my ex Marian. And Marian, my goth girl ex-girlfriend, had the same physique as the girls in my fetish fantasies. And the pictures that showed them.

Anja turned slowly, the thin fabric moving. ‘That's a daring outfit,’ she remarked in a quiet, deliberate voice. Her fingers stroked the lace hem on her thigh. ‘Is it your girlfriend's outfit?’ I swallowed hard, the broth suddenly feeling thick in my throat. ‘No,’ I said in a hoarse voice. ‘It belonged to my ex.’ I forced myself to shrug, trying to appear casual. ‘But it suits you.’ Anja's green eyes looked at me sharply and searchingly. ‘Oh,’ she murmured, and a hint of something incomprehensible – disappointment? – flitted across her face. ‘That's a shame.’ Then, without hesitation, her fingers found the thin straps on her shoulders. She let them slide down and the black lace fell silently onto the damp tiles.


Naked in the candlelight, her skin still glistening with residual moisture, she climbed nimbly over the high rim of the tub. The hot broth swelled around my waist as she settled down opposite me, her knees bumping against mine under the murky, fragrant liquid. Her gaze did not waver from my face. ‘So,’ she said, her voice little more than a whisper that pierced the hissing of the candles. ‘Tell me about your research, Sven.’ The heat intensified, radiating from her skin just inches from mine. The boundaries dissolved completely.

I was just about to answer when I felt her feet on my stiff cock. I looked into her smiling face. ‘Actually, I'm the one asking the questions here,’ I joked. ‘Oh yes, private detective Sven Ritter,’ Anja laughed at me. I looked up in surprise. ‘That's what it says on the nameplate of your obviously broken doorbell.’ With that sentence, Anja approached me. I felt a sense of trust that I hadn't felt in a long time. Anja looked at me with an even more intense gaze and sat down on my lap. My stiff cock found its way into Anja's well-formed body.


Anja slowly began to move her body up and down. My cock felt her hot, wet tightness. ‘So we have the same fetish,’ I asked her as we surrendered to our lust. Her skin was smooth, hotter than the water, pressing tightly against my chest. Her breath brushed my ear—a sharp, choppy sound that wasn't pain. I recognised it with full force, instinctively and undeniably. This wasn't just attraction; it was the *appetite* she had named. The devotion. The passion. Her thighs closed around my hips, pulling me deeper, her movements deliberate, probing, demanding.
Her fingers dug into my shoulders, blunt nails scratching my skin. A soft moan escaped her, swallowed by the humid air. Her green eyes, inches from mine, held mine captive. In the heat, the friction, the aroused closeness of flesh and flesh. ‘Yes,’ she breathed, the word a puff of steam on my lips. No question. A confirmation. Her hips arched, rubbed, took it all in. The boundaries weren't just soft; they were gone. Used up. The world narrowed to her smooth heat, the pounding of my blood, the shared, unspoken hunger pulsing in the steamy darkness between us.

Now, in our greed, I tried to focus my thoughts. Could I find out more? I noticed how lust took over our desire. I didn't have much time. ‘Anja,’ I asked, ‘have you ever tasted women's flesh?’ I heard her gasp “yes”. ‘Yes, the last time was four years ago,’ she whispered. ‘How was it?’ I asked curiously, continuing to enjoy her tightness. ‘It was forbidden good. Too good, too forbidden.’ I was amazed by her answer and it made me even hornier.
‘It was here in Germany,’ Anja gasped, throwing her head back so that her pale throat was exposed. Her movements became sharper, more desperate, and she rode towards me with a ferocity that matched the flickering candlelight beneath her. "Summer. A feast. Top chef Tom Wasar... he specialised in... forbidden delicacies.‘ Her breath came in gasps between words. ’Father... he knew. Only Father knew.‘ She threw herself hard onto the floor, a stifled scream escaping her lips. ’Tom... roasted his own daughters. He... served them on silver platters."

My hips instinctively jerked upwards and buried themselves deeper into her moist heat. The broth sloshed violently against the edge of the tub. ‘His daughters?’ I gasped, my fingers digging into the flesh of her hips. I ask Anja how hot the party was. Anja reveals: ‘I got so horny at the party that I secretly seduced my own sister, away from the action.’
I clasped her hips tighter and felt her smooth skin against my palms. ‘Your sister?’ I pressed, penetrating her deeper. ‘Lila?’

‘Yes,’ Anja gasped, her head jerking forward, her gaze wild and unfocused. Her thighs clamped around me as she rode me with wild, grinding thrusts. ‘The feast... the smells... those delicious bodies, deliciously served. It tasted so good and we got horny, I seduced Tanja... uh, ahhhh. Lila, I seduced Lila. We were so horny.’


My thoughts shattered. Images flashed before my eyes: silver platters, glistening meat, cut with surgical precision. Anja's voice, thick with memories of ecstasy, painted it out: the smoky scent of roasted meat mixed with expensive perfume, the murmurs of approving guests, the *look* in her sister Lila's eyes across the table – not horror, but a dark, shared excitement.

She had sneaked away with her sister, Anja confessed between irregular breaths: "I had shown Lila the forbidden love between sisters, we had driven ourselves to climax while the smell of Tom Wasar's cannibalistic culinary artistry permeated our noses. The taboo, the proximity to unspeakable consumption, had ignited the passion between me and Lila." Anja's hips slammed into mine, her inner muscles tensing rhythmically, mimicking that frenzied union. ‘We were so horny,’ she moaned, and the words dissolved into a trembling cry as her orgasm washed over her. I also let myself go and came violently, more violently than I had ever experienced an orgasm before.


A moment later, I felt a pain in my face. It was caused by Anja's quick hand movement. I was slapped for my audacity. And then I got a kiss. I was confused. ‘Never ask me about secrets during sex again!’ Anja gave me a cigarette and lit one for herself.

"Sven, I'm not here by chance. I need your help, just as you need me. I'm worried about my sister Lila. She was actually too young to take part in cannibalistic feasts. At the time, Lila felt remorseful.‘ I listened to Anja's explanation with renewed attention. ’My sister Lila had previously been in contact with one of Tom Wasar's daughters, Sofia Wasar. She and her father had invited us to their party. Our father and Tom Wasar had made arrangements without my knowledge, or that of Lila or Sofia.‘ I listened intently to Anja's explanations. ’Sofia was probably not on the menu at the beginning of the planning for this feast. Something went wrong. To make matters worse, there is another mystery." Anja climbed out of the bathtub and showed me various photos. My breath caught in my throat.

I looked at Anja's face and recognised the same features. The faces of Anja, Lila and Sofia were too similar to be a coincidence. And then I saw the photos of the company Anja had once worked for. Egon Mars Industries. And the last face and her name came to mind. And Anja had already accidentally said that name. The name Tanja is familiar to me. Tanja Mars.

Then I saw something even more disturbing. That cloning facility.
‘Yes, Sven, those are the Wasar daughters, the girls Lila had been talking about on her mobile phone. And please don't ask me how our father managed to restore the girls' bodies and minds 100 per cent.’


I looked at the bathtub filled with soup and thought this story was crazy.

I looked at Anja again. She was staring into space, her eyes wide with worry. I took her hand and pulled her up. We left the room and went out into the hallway, towards the guest bathroom. I held her tight, her body trembling. I felt her tears on my cheek. Under the warm shower, her composure and mental strength returned.

Anja now had an ally. Together we would try to unravel the mysteries surrounding Egon Mars
and Tom Wasar.

Hours later—it was the middle of the night—I woke up. Anja was sleeping beside me,
calm and content. I couldn't get back to sleep. In my study, I took another look at those photos.
Something about the images had been bothering me.
Those name tags on the serving platters of those girls...
Why did Sofia have a name tag, too? She hadn't been scheduled to have her flesh served up in the first place.

And then I found Anja’s ID badge.
CSAU 33?
Celantan Special Agency Unit 33?
An agency for the regulation and documentation of cannibalism?
Do they operate internationally?

It’s time to question Anja about this, and I want to know more about her father, Egon Mars.
I should also plan a visit to see Tom Wasar.
Something isn't right here.
For all my passion for fine—and forbidden—food, I don't like mysteries.

End of this chapter

Coming soon

A Mirror into the Future

From the series
"The Dark Secrets of Celantanis – A Collection of Cannibal Stories"

We're looking at the past once again. 1990


Imagine finding a picture of yourself that reveals your future. Set in a gold frame, this painting depicts your death. You have twenty years to prevent it. However, solving this riddle could just as easily hasten your demise. What would you do? A cannibalistic action short story—illustrated with AI-generated images.

For those who can't wait, here's the complete download with the original images.

External download. engl - Password: Egon-Mars https://mega.nz/file/MZkwiBbK#NFwvMsIlUzsoUsZxogQEfzHmAHh6NetEarJe6Mw1YxE ---

german - Password: Egon-Mars

https://mega.nz/file/0IkkkJDR#Pf_1XlKGG_PUCSOHV3kVdVSDA6WICahjYt9fIvY6x-g

Mirror in the Future


The cracked leather strap of my backpack dug into my shoulder with every step. Dust covered my worn-out sneakers. Romania. The word now sounded heavy and foreign in my mind, not like the exciting adventure promised in glossy brochures.

My stupid guidebook had clearly stated: “Do not attempt to drive the mountain road to Rubinstein Castle alone. Hire a driver who knows the way.” But stubbornness apparently ran in the family. Definitely.

Now the rental car sat steaming and useless around the bend behind me, and I was walking. Just walking. Endless road, endless trees crowding together. My feet ached. Me, all alone, and a young woman at that.

Dusk settled over the sky, staining the blue a murky violet. The air grew cool, seeping through my thin jacket. Silence hung heavy and unnatural around me. Then I heard a rustling. Not the wind. Something was moving purposefully through the dense undergrowth beside the road. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat mirroring the crunching of my footsteps. Don't look. Don't panic. It's just an animal. Probably. But the rustling continued. Steady. Relentless. Like hunters stalking their prey. The gruff voice of the hotel manager echoed in my head: “Young girls and women sometimes get lost out there. Poof. Gone, vanished without a trace.” I had dismissed it as superstitious nonsense for tourists. Stories about flesh-eating werewolves, maybe even bloodsucking vampires. Beads of sweat broke out on my back despite the cold.
Suddenly, two massive figures detached themselves from the darkness beneath the ancient pines. Heavy silhouettes stood out against the darkening forest. For a moment, they stood unnaturally still, then their heads turned towards me. Simultaneously. Not a word. Just a predatory silence. Then their strides lengthened, their boots thudding dully on the hard ground. They weren't running yet, but they were closing the distance with terrifying determination. My breath caught in my throat, my legs threatened to give way. The warning in the guidebook screamed in my head: *Use public transport.* Idiot. I'm a complete idiot. The fear inside me intensified. My quick walk turned into a fast run.
I saw the axes. Not the crude axes of lumberjacks, but long, darkly gleaming blades with short, thick handles – like butcher's cleavers. They hung heavily in the men's hands, swaying slightly with each step. The light of the setting sun glinted coldly on the sharpened edges. The message was clear. *Run faster!* The thought shot through me like an electric shock. But my muscles were frozen solid. Just a second in that horror. Then the adrenaline surge hit. I spun around, my backpack slamming painfully against my back. I ran. No more thinking, just running. The footsteps behind me grew faster, heavier, closer. I didn't have time to get to the pepper spray; I only had a knife, but there were two of them, with heavy axes. No chance for me.


I had just turned eighteen! For a few months now. The boundaries of my childhood had fallen, the chains of parental caution shattered. Finally free! Free to travel, to discover, to solve the great mystery that Grandma had left me. This moment, here on the dusty road of Romania, was the price of that freedom. Had I known it? Deep down? That the freedom to finally decide for myself also meant the freedom to die in seconds? The axes whizzed through the air. A dull hiss. Not now! Not after all these years of waiting, of yearning, of fighting against my mother's anxious pleas! Only maybe twenty more years? A lifetime with this image in my head – of my own body, roasted on a serving platter? Or now? Here? On this road? The decision had been made long ago. When I saw the picture, when I read the letter, when I bought the plane ticket. I had chosen. The mystery or my life. And the mystery had won.
My thoughts seemed to slow down time. I thought back to October 31st two years ago, in the evening at my house. My parents were away, and I had invited Stefanie and Nicole over for Halloween. We wanted to play games and watch horror movies – just have fun. But things turned out differently: A creaking sound in the attic of our old house led us to investigate. The three of us girls interrupted the horror movie and went up to the attic.

We looked around; I hadn't been up here since I was a child. Nicole called us over to a darker corner of the attic. We discovered a large, dusty box. The attic was decorated for Halloween with cobwebs and artificial spiders, which made us giggle nervously. Stefanie shone her flashlight on the wooden surface, revealing intricate carvings—wolves chasing a deer under a crescent moon. It looked ancient, out of place among the cardboard boxes of Christmas decorations. "It's locked," Nicole whispered, rattling a tarnished brass clasp. "But look..." She pointed to a faded label peeling off at the corner: *Property of Alina Mohl, Sibiu, 1938*. My grandmother's name. A shiver ran down my spine that had nothing to do with the cold.
I took out my large knife, a gift from my grandfather. He always said that pretty red-haired girls needed to be able to defend themselves. The blade slid effortlessly from its leather sheath; it felt cool and heavy in my hand. I placed it against the stubborn latch. *Crack*. The first blow made my wrist ache. With the second, the buckle gave way. With a splintering crunch, I wrenched the latch from the rotten wood. The lid flew open with a bang, kicking up a cloud of dust. "Shit!" cried Stephanie. "Sarah, are you Rambo now?" I grinned and looked into the strange box. Inside, nestled in brittle, yellowed paper, lay a larger framed picture and a single folded letter, sealed with crumbling red wax. In another small box were gold coins? Two more silver coins, pierced and made into a chain, also slipped out of the letter. The same motif was on both sides, a number. A Roman numeral, intricately engraved.


Stephanie shone her flashlight directly onto the picture. The beam of light trembled slightly. We froze. Silence hung heavy in the attic. "Holy shit," Nicole whispered. The picture showed a woman, 35, maybe 40 years old? With fiery red hair – my hair – lying on a large silver platter. Her skin was golden brown, roasted like a Sunday roast. Around her lay apples and strange roots. Her eyes were half-open, blue-green eyes. She looked... peaceful? The frame appeared to be gilded. My fingers trembled as I lifted the picture. The face was unmistakable. Mine. Older, yes, but mine. Fear began to creep deep in my stomach and spread coldly through my body.

Yet I couldn't look away. The details were bizarrely fascinating—the sheen of the plate, the texture of the roasted skin, the way her hair spread out like flames. It felt like I was looking into a cursed mirror—my future self as a feast. Fascination and horror wrestled within me. Who would do something like this? Why? My grandmother's neat handwriting on the folded letter beneath it now seemed almost obscene. The wax seal cracked like brittle bone when I opened it. The paper smelled of dust and dried lavender. I traced the words with my finger: *"To my descendants... I have unleashed an evil curse..."* The silence stretched on. Nicole exhaled sharply. "Sarah. That... that's you." Stefanie snatched the frame from my hands and violently turned it over. "Who the hell does something like this?"
With trembling hands, I unfolded the brittle letter further. My grandmother's elegant handwriting blurred before my eyes. Dust particles danced in the beam of Stefanie's flashlight as I cleared my throat. "To break this curse and the fate of the roasted woman," I read aloud, my voice breaking, "there are only two ways for the descendants of my line. To find the lost book of Bexter and solve the riddle..." Nicole gasped. “…or that my descendant will have children of their own, who, however, must never succumb to cannibalism.” Silence enveloped the attic. Stefanie snatched the letter from my hand and frantically scanned it. “Cannibalism? What kind of curse is this?” The words hung heavy like the dust. Cannibalism. My children? The impossibility of it—bound to this horror for a lifetime, or the hunt for a mythical book in godforsaken Romania. My gaze drifted back to the picture. The peaceful expression of the roasted woman mocked me. “Choose,” it seemed to whisper. “Freedom or fear?” Outside, the wind howled louder.


Nicole’s voice cut through the grim silence. "Romania?" Her flashlight beam trembled across the ancient symbols on the compartment lid. "Yes," I whispered, touching the cold silver coin chain around my wrist. The Roman numeral III glinted. "The lost book of Bexter. Grandma wrote it’s the key. The last trace..." My throat tightened. "...is supposed to be at Rubensburg Castle." Stefanie snorted, tossing the letter back into the box. "A castle? In Romania? Sarah, this is insane! That picture could be some sick joke!" But I barely heard her. In my mind, the roasted woman’s face shifted—older, yes, but undeniably mine. The golden-brown skin, the curve of the jaw, even the way her hair fanned across the platter like spilled wine. Terror coiled cold in my belly. Joke? No. Grandma hadn’t been the joking type. Her warning echoed: *Be careful. I’m sorry.* The apology tasted like ash.
That Halloween night ended strangely. We didn't finish watching the horror movie. Instead, the three of us huddled together in my narrow bed, our shoulders pressed close under the patchwork quilt. Nicole's breath warmed my neck as she whispered reassuringly, "It's just an old picture, Sarah," while Stefanie, in the dim light of her phone, scribbled angry wolves on the edge of her notebook. Outside, the wind scratched at the eaves like something hungry.

I stared at the water stain on the ceiling that looked like a crooked crown. Their comfort felt fragile, a thin shield against the cold that seeped from the memories of the attic. When Nicole finally fell asleep, her fingers still tangled in my hair, Stefanie leaned close to me. Her whisper was hoarse. "When you leave... I'm coming with you." The promise pierced my chest sharply and brightly. Then, eventually, we all fell asleep.

In the following days, my obsession grew. My mother's ancient laptop became my altar, its dial-up connection sound a constant hymn. Romania. Rubensburg Castle. Cannibalism curses. The words burned through search engines clogged with pop-up ads and dead links. At sixteen, trapped behind parental filters and school firewalls, the truth felt like smoke.

Official tourism sites offered sanitized stories—"medieval fortress," "picturesque ruins"—but nothing about Bexter's book or roasted women. In forums, darker things were whispered: missing hikers, locals... A grainy photo showed stone towers clawing at the stormy sky, captioned *Rubensburg – Enter at your own risk*. I printed it out and put it under my pillow. The silver coin necklace left ghostly circles on my wrist.

Then I turned eighteen. I had a fancy new laptop. Faster internet ripped away all the filters. Suddenly, the abyss opened up. “Cannibalism” wasn't just a taboo word; it shattered into terrifying dimensions. Survival manuals detailing butchery after plane crashes.

Ritual feasts in Papua New Guinea, skulls polished smooth by reverence. Power – kings who devoured the hearts of their enemies to steal their courage. And then… Dolcett. The term surfaced in the dark corners of the internet. Artistic? Culinary? Sexual? Images flickered behind my eyelids: staged photos of women trussed up like turkeys, gleaming skewers, garnished platters.

I felt nauseous, but at first, there was also a fascination. My fingers flew – I copied URLs, searched folklore archives for sources, and sifted through obscure academic journals on anthropophagy. The topic completely captivated me. My journalistic skills certainly played a role. As editor-in-chief of the school newspaper, I was perfectly qualified and curious enough to dig up information. And then I found these images.

My eyes lingered on them. "Roasted woman." The search query yielded results that were both horrifying and strangely captivating. Graphic illustrations and manipulated photos depicting women bound and roasted. I should have recoiled. I should have slammed the laptop shut. But I didn't. Heat rose to my face, then spread through my lower abdomen. A telltale pulse throbbed between my legs. Oh God. Oh my God. Now I understood. The forbidden thrill wasn't just morbid curiosity; it was arousal. Deep, shameful, undeniable.

The image of my grandmother wasn't just a terrible prophecy; it was a grotesque reflection of a hidden part of myself. The roasted woman on the plate in my grandmother's picture wasn't just a victim; she was an object of dark desire. I was an object of dark desire. Instead of horror, a shocking wave of heat washed over me. Was this the true nature of the curse? To transform fate into a perverse fantasy?


My trembling fingers traced the cool silver chain on my wrist. The Roman numeral III seemed to faintly pulsate. I glanced at the locked bedroom door. Alone. Safe. And yet utterly exposed. An internal battle raged – deep-seated revulsion wrestled with a terrifying attraction. What would it feel like? The helpless surrender? The searing heat? The ultimate sacrifice? The thought was monstrous... and electrifying. Slowly, deliberately, I pulled my sweatpants down from my hips. The cool air caressed my thighs.

My fingers slid lower, touching the damp cotton. A soft sigh escaped me. I closed my eyes. Not fleeing through the forest. Not hunted. Chosen. It was offered to me. My fingers slipped under the elastic waistband and found the damp warmth. I imagined strong hands holding me, undressing me, preparing me. The scent of herbs, the crackling of flames. The image was no longer frightening; it was profoundly erotic. My grandmother's curse whispered directly to a secret desire I never knew I carried within me.

My hips arched away from my bed. One hand pressed firmly against my mouth, muffling my stifled moans. The other moved hastily, circling the swollen bud. I was no longer Sarah, the prey; I was Sarah, the feast. I imagined the hunter – his eyes gleaming with predatory hunger as he rubbed my skin. The imagined sensation shifted: the rough chafing of the rope binding my wrists, the cold metal of the plate beneath my bare back, the sharp burning of the spices rubbed into my flesh.

A shiver ran through me. The fantasy wasn't cruel; it was full of surrender. My own arousal moistened my fingers, thick and sweet. The friction intensified, a delicious pain tightening ever more intensely. Would it hurt? Or would the heat consume me in waves of unbearable pleasure? My breath hitched, gasping. "Yes," I thought wildly, giving myself completely. "Take me. Cook me. Devour me." I climaxed violently, hoping no one had heard.

And now I was here, running for my life, but I wasn't aroused. It was different, it was real and brutal. Nothing erotic about it. Besides, I wouldn't give these creatures my body, not my flesh.

Suddenly, the roar of an engine, sharp and aggressive like a chainsaw. A loud scream! Not from me. Not from the men with the axes. A black Jeep sped around the corner, its headlights shining like angry eyes. The Jeep raced straight towards us. A splintering sound! Then a bang – not from the Jeep. A gunshot! A second one! The men with the axes stumbled back, their shadows swirling. Their silent determination shattered.

They hesitated. A window of the Jeep rolled down. An arm stretched out. A pistol! Another shot! The noise echoed between the trees like a hammer blow on an anvil. The pursuers ran off and disappeared into the black maw of the forest. The Jeep braked abruptly beside me, dust swirled up and scratched at my throat. The driver's door flew open. "Get in! Quick!" a deep voice roared over the engine noise. No time to think. I jumped in, the door slammed shut, and the Jeep accelerated so abruptly that I was thrown against the seat.

The Jeep's tires spun gravel as it almost skidded onto the narrow road. Its headlights cut through the twilight like swords. Two more sharp bangs—warning shots—echoed from the pine trees. The heavy, dull footsteps behind me fell silent. I didn't look back. In the rearview mirror, I saw the bulky figures disappear into the forest, swallowed by the shadows. The smell of pine and exhaust fumes filled the Jeep, pungent and acrid. My hands trembled uncontrollably in my lap. The coin chain felt ice-cold against my sweaty wrist.


Slowly, my pulse returned to normal, and I calmed down. Was I really safe now? I took a closer look at the man. Athletic build, black beard and short black hair. He looked well-groomed and was nicely dressed, wearing an expensive watch on his wrist. He was perhaps 35 years old, but I wasn't entirely sure. After what felt like an eternity, the man spoke to me. "My name is Egon, Dr. Egon Mars." It took me a few seconds to reply... "Sarah, Sarah Mohl, a reckless tourist, I haven't come up with a better title yet."

To be continued

Im delving into your stories now. Your world paints a world deeply divided yet having very common needs. Substance.

I look forward to reading the delicious world you’ve weaved. :)

>>31273

Have fun with it. However, it will take a while before I finish all the AI ​​images needed to post the completed stories in the new style. That’s why I recommend downloading the official version, which features images that don't look quite as youthful.

Mirror into the Future Chapter 2

Moments ago, I had likely been saved from death.
And now, I was sitting in a Jeep next to my rescuer.

A brief, faint smile flitted across his face after I awkwardly introduced myself.
"Okay, Sarah—first we’ll head to my hotel,
and then you can tell me what you were doing in this dangerous area."
Relieved, I leaned back and enjoyed the car's comforting heater.

I was still fiddling nervously with my coin necklace.
Egon drove fast, his hand gripping the steering wheel tightly.
The Jeep jolted violently over the potholes in the forest track.

"I'm hungry," he said without looking at me.
Outside, the Carpathians rose from the dark forest like jagged teeth. We didn't speak.

He navigated narrow, winding roads and finally turned into a secluded,
ivy-covered courtyard—the courtyard of a restaurant.

The old restaurant wasn't fancy; it was an ancient stone building set into the mountainside.
A single, faulty lantern flickered fitfully above a heavy, old oak door.
"The Three Coins," Egon murmured as he killed the engine.

Inside, the restaurant smelled of woodsmoke, roast meat, and centuries-old secrets.
Low, soot-blackened beams forced taller guests to stoop.
Locals, hunched over their clay mugs, eyed us with guarded curiosity before returning to their murmuring.

A massive fireplace dominated one wall, its flames casting a reddish glow across the worn stone floor.
Egon led me to a shadowy corner table, far from prying eyes.
He ordered in rapid Romanian: *ciorbă de burtă* and dark bread for both of us,
along with two glasses of *țuică*. The plum brandy arrived first.

I downed it in one gulp;
the fiery liquid burned my throat and warmed the icy fear in my veins.
Egon studied me; his gaze lingered on the silver chain hanging around my neck.
The Roman numeral III glinted in the firelight.

He leaned forward, elbows resting on the scratched tabletop.
"That coin—your coin," he began in a deep, resonant voice,
"tells a story steeped in blood, betrayal, and dark sin.

That coin comes from here." The crackling of the fireplace seemed to fall silent.
"Centuries ago, Count Lukian Rubens ruled over Rubensburg Castle.

A famine ravaged the land. In desperation, he permitted... *unspeakable* acts."
Egon’s grip on his glass tightened. "Count Lukian Rubens sanctioned cannibalism.
His brother Eugen, lord of the nearby fortress of Rubensstein, condemned Lukian’s depravity."

"But Lukian was too powerful and would brook no interference.
Lukian held feasts where he indulged his darkest desires."
Behind closed doors—in secret—the populace called these gatherings the Rubensburg orgies.
It was the final day for the girls who took part in them.
Count Lukian’s greed grew ever stronger; his thoughts, ever darker.

He craved the tender flesh of the very young for his plate.
And, naturally, he wanted to feel the bodies of these underage girls beforehand.
He and his knights were obsessed with abducting virgins and dragging them into their noble beds."
It seemed to me as though Egon were telling this story
in greater detail than he perhaps had on the few occasions he had recounted it before.

He paused as steaming bowls of tripe soup and pieces of meat were set down before us.
The intense, spicy aroma filled the air. "A gift from the house," the innkeeper said—and walked away.

"Lukian had three daughters," Egon continued, his gaze fixed on the dancing flames.
"Fire-haired beauties, like you. Tanja, Anja, and Sofia.
The daughters grew up believing it was the most natural thing in the world to feast on the flesh of innocent girls.
The three young princesses amused themselves at their father's orgies, too,
eating the flesh of the young, roasted girls."

"Their feigned innocence and noble status were their shield—or so they thought.
Until Eugen, driven by revenge, broke into Rubensburg." Egon hungrily tore off a piece of bread.
"He didn't kill Lukian. He stole from him the thing his brother held most dear."

My spoon hovered over the steaming soup. Egon’s gaze drifted to my neck, where the silver chain glinted.
"He took the girls," he whispered. "Dragged them with his men through moonlit forests to his fortress, Rubensstein.
Not for ransom. Not for power." His voice dropped lower. "For a feast." I froze.
The warmth of the tavern vanished. "A lavish banquet," he whispered, leaning closer.
"Eugen had the three girls roasted over a fire in his fortress courtyard."

The firelight cast shadows across his face. "Eugen served Lucian his own daughters—
roasted on silver platters. Garnished with vegetables and a savory sauce. Herbs upon their skin."
He tapped the Roman numeral III on my coin. "That inscription—it marks Sofia, the youngest.
Your likeness." My soup suddenly tasted bitter. I focused on Egon’s voice.

"Lucian screamed that night. Legend has it he forged these coins from his daughters' silver serving platters
and engraved them with the last thoughts his daughters had held.
Eugen’s victory feast became Lucian’s curse—a curse destined to ensure short lives for
Lucian’s female descendants. Yet these three coins were meant to offer protection
to the next owner—to the girl—protection his own daughters never had."

He raised his glass; the plum brandy gleamed like blood in the firelight.
Egon’s final words: "The protection works only for a girl with a pure heart."
Outside, the wind howled against the ancient stones like a grieving father.
The coin burned against my skin—a ghostly relic.
Sofia. The name echoed in my mind.

I thought of my grandmother’s warning. Did my face mirror hers? Was
my blighted future born of this ancient atrocity? Egon studied me with a sharp
gaze, sensing my fear. He hadn’t hesitated while recounting the horror; his
tone carried the grim certainty of a storyteller—an account, not a myth.
The tavern guests murmured softly; in the dim light, their faces were unreadable to me.

A grim older man briefly met my gaze;
his eyes darted to my wrist before he turned away and crossed himself. The
air was thick with the scent of woodsmoke, mingled with the rich, fatty aroma of
roasting meat. My stomach turned.


My fingers brushed the coin necklace around my neck. Sofia. The name echoed within me with icy
tension. Yet another weight pressed against my thigh—the second
silver chain, deep in my pocket. Grandma’s box had held two coins: the Roman numerals III
and II.

My trembling fingers traced the outline of the coin bearing the Roman numeral II,
hidden beneath the denim. Was it Anja? Or Tanja? Why had Grandma given me *both*?
The protection was meant for a girl with a pure heart—but my desires
were anything but pure.

The face of the roasted woman flashed behind my eyelids—not
with horror, but with that telltale heat rising deep within me again.
Egon leaned back, his dark eyes fixed on mine. The firelight from
the hearth danced in them, reflecting not just flames but also an unsettling
understanding.

He hadn’t so much as blinked at the story of cannibalistic feasts and orgies;
he had recounted them with the chilling familiarity of a man who had
studied more than mere legends. My cheeks burned. My breath caught—not
just from fear, but from the dark thrill coursing through my veins.

Dolcett. The forbidden fantasies I had discovered—and indulged in—alone in my room.
The shameful arousal stirred within me by the image of my exposed body in the picture.
Had he seen it?

The flash of realization in his gaze, the slight tilt of his head—yes.
He saw the glint in my eyes, the telltale flush creeping up my neck and deepening across my face.
His awareness was not merely clinical; it was passionate. It was intimate.

A shadow fell across our table. We both started, abruptly torn from the dark intimacy of our shared secrets.
An older man stood before us, wrapped in a heavy black wool coat.
His face was deeply lined, weather-beaten like the stone walls of the tavern itself.

His gaze, sharp and penetrating, darted between Egon and me,
lingering on my neck where the silver chain gleamed.
He leaned forward, his voice a low, barely audible rasp rising above
the crackle of the fire and the murmur of conversation.

"Have you tasted the wine?" he asked, his eyes fixed on Egon’s half-empty glass of *țuică*.
"And the food?" His gesture encompassed the cooling bowls of *ciorbă de burtă*; the rich broth glistened with grease.
Egon stiffened, his hand instinctively gripping his glass.
"Yes," he replied curtly; a hint of alarm extinguished his earlier intensity.
"The innkeeper brought it. He said it was a gift."

The older man’s weather-beaten face darkened.
His gaze darted toward the shadowy bar area,
where the innkeeper stood wiping down a pitcher.
His gaze was fixed unwaveringly on us.

“A gift?” The old man spat the word out like poison. “Poisoned food and poisoned drinks. Slow-acting,
insidious. It paralyzes you, leaves you defenseless. They know you have the coins, and they want the girl.”

His urgent whisper cut through the smoky air. “You have thirty minutes—maybe less. Get out.
*Now*!” Before Egon could reply, a scream rang out from the kitchen—a panicked scream. A life-threatening one.

The heavy wooden door separating the dining area from the kitchen flew open. Stefanie burst out—
naked, stumbling; her blonde hair matted with dark sauce, her skin glistening with grease and
stained with rosemary and thyme. Her eyes were wide with panic. "Sarah!
Oh God, Sarah!" she screamed, tripping over her own feet. The kitchen behind her was a vision of hell:
butcher hooks gleaming in the dim light, a roaring fire spitting sparks, dark stains on the stone floor.

Chaos erupted instantly. The murmuring guests froze,
then sprang up as if on command, their faces twisting into masks of predatory
hunger. The innkeeper lunged forward and grabbed Stefanie’s arm. Chairs scraped loudly across the
stone floor. The tavern turned into a trap. Egon leapt up immediately,
shoving the heavy oak table aside with a strained grunt, sending steaming bowls crashing to the floor.
That created a brief barrier. His pistol was already in his hand, cocked with practiced speed.

"Stefanie! Over here!" The scream tore from my throat, raw with panic and disbelief.
How had she gotten here in the first place? Had she followed me? Stefanie rushed toward us,
slipping on the spilled soup; her legs flashed pale in the flickering firelight. The mob closed in,
grasping hands reaching for her smooth skin, their eyes fixed on her with terrifying
intent. They weren't just hostile; they looked hungry. The old man roared.
His incredibly deep and powerful voice made the low ceiling beams tremble.

"You barbarians!" he roared, planting himself directly in the path of the surging crowd.
His frail posture vanished, replaced by a towering, powerful figure radiating fury.
From beneath his heavy wool cloak, he drew a massive, weathered woodcutter’s axe.
He swung it in a wide, warning arc, forcing the nearest attackers back. "You are about to meet Mr.
Hill! You have broken the rules! This is not the Festival Night! You dare to poison guests?"

He stood between us and the mob like an ancient oak in a storm.
His axe was not merely raised in threat; it challenged them to come closer.
"Revenge is a dish best served cold," he thundered. "I hope there’s still room in the kitchen!"
Hill turned briefly toward us: "Get them out of here!"

The crowd hesitated for a heartbeat, their greedy intent momentarily checked by Mr. Hill’s defiance.
But the innkeeper snarled—"Traitor!" he spat—and lunged forward with a long,
curved butcher’s knife that flashed in the light. That broke the spell.
The mob surged forward, a wave of grim faces and flashing blades.
Knives—cleavers, hunting knives, short swords—were drawn from belts and boots, catching the firelight like glaring stars.

Mr. Hill met them head-on. His axe swung down with brutal, terrifying force.
It was no parry; it was an execution. The blade struck the innkeeper’s neck with a sickening,
wet *thud*. The innkeeper’s scream was cut short instantly as his head cleanly parted from his shoulders
and hit the stone floor with a grotesque thud, his eyes wide open and sightless.
A fountain of dark arterial blood sprayed over the nearest patrons and the worn cobblestones.
Pistol shots rang out.


The crowd recoiled; a beheaded innkeeper and two gunned-down thugs brought a momentary hush.
We ran to the Jeep. "Stefanie," Egon shouted, "can you drive a Jeep?"
Without a word, Stefanie took the wheel, and Egon and I scrambled into the back seat.
The vehicle accelerated, tires spinning. In the distance,
I saw that Mr. Hill fleeing into the woods, and the tavern burst into flames.
"Yikes—he was seriously pissed off."

Egon leaned forward toward the car stereo, pressed a button, and spoke as if addressing a hidden microphone.
"Emergency protocol 001, destination: hotel." A crisp voice replied instantly over the speakers: "Acknowledged; route calculated.
Audio instructions activated." The Jeep lurched violently as Stefanie drove over potholes.
My limbs felt heavy as lead; the warmth from the poisoned stew had given way to an icy numbness creeping up my arms.

The coin necklace burned against my skin like a brand. Egon’s hand gripped my shoulder—firm and urgent.
"Stay awake, Sarah. Focus on my voice." But darkness was encroaching on the edges of my vision.
My eyelids closed against my will. The last thing I saw was the coin in my hand.
The last thing I heard was Stefanie’s panicked gasp as my head slumped back
and my consciousness slipped away into the black void.

End of chapter.

>>31521

Your stories read like an epic adventures. Great command of the English language, translated or not, your writing style is elegantly pleasing. Your delicious Images are exciting as well. Thanks

>>31562

Thank you very much for the praise.

I'm really enjoying bringing this story back to life. The new images have a different style than those in the first version of the story. But the way the image series are arranged gives the story a greater sense of dynamism.

Back then, the first chapter was actually supposed to be a short, self-contained Helloween story. A spur-of-the-moment idea.
I'm glad I decided to continue the story. When you think about it, I'm only just getting to the character introductions in my stories—wow... this saga is going to get interesting.


That said, I'm running late—I got held up. A volcanic eruption and two damaged Celantanian U-boats threw off my schedule. Hahaha

The illustrations for the penultimate chapter are finished. I hope I'll be able to revise and proofread the text tomorrow. It's time to start on Chapter 3. :D

Chapter 3 ( Revised Version )

Silence, darkness, stillness... What had happened? Slowly, a faint murmuring reached my ears,
accompanied by the deep, steady hum of the air conditioning and the distant sound of the wind
against the windows.

My eyelids felt glued shut, crusted with sleep and dried tears—
perhaps fear, too. Slowly, my consciousness returned.

A soft sensation against my skin enveloped me—a thick mattress,
fresh bed linen that smelled faintly of perfume.

I was no longer in the Jeep. No longer in the forest. The blood-stained floor of the tavern was far away.
Where was I? Panic suddenly washed over me before my gaze took in the room.

I looked around: vast stretches of light-gray carpet, minimalist
brushed-steel furniture, and a wall of tinted glass revealing a dizzying
panorama of jagged gray mountain peaks in the harsh, clear light of midday. A
penthouse suite—incredibly modern in contrast to the primal wilderness outside.

Egon stepped silently through a doorway, two steaming cups in his hands.
The sharp, roasted aroma of strong coffee filled the perfumed air and steadied me.

He looked different—his beard was freshly trimmed, and he wore an anthracite turtleneck
that accentuated his lean, athletic physique. His dark eyes met mine. There was no trace
of the predatory familiarity from the tavern in them—only weary relief and warm relaxation.

"You’ve made it through the worst of it," he said in a deep, rough voice. "The antidote worked.
How are you feeling after the antidote?"

Before I could answer, Stefanie entered behind him carrying a tray filled with pastries glistening
with honey and fruit preserves, slices of smoked ham, and soft-boiled eggs in polished silver cups.
She was wearing clean, fresh clothes, and her blonde hair shone gold in the midday light,
yet deep shadows lay beneath her eyes.

"It’s good you’re finally awake," she breathed, setting the tray down with trembling hands.
"You were completely out of it. While I was driving, Egon gave both of us an injection.
He said it would… neutralize the poison."

She shuddered visibly and avoided looking me in the eye. "Sarah… the tavern… those people…"
Stefanie fell silent.
The luxury of the penthouse felt soothing after the blood-soaked chaos.
Sunlight glared brilliantly outside the tinted window. I propped myself up against
the pillows and winced as pinpricks of returning sensation shot through my numb limbs.

“Stefanie,” my voice cracked, hoarse. “How? Why were you *there*?”
Her gaze finally met mine, filled with sheer fear and defiance.
“I followed you, Sarah! All the way to Romania!”

After we found that horrible picture and you started researching... cannibal cults,
I knew you were obsessed with it. I knew you would come here.

I thought... I thought I could help you, just as I’d promised back then.”
Tears welled up in her eyes. “But I was abducted into the kitchen of that pub... and I
saw them... the hooks... the fire... the slaughtered bodies.” Her words choked off into
sobs, her shoulders trembling. The intense smell of ham suddenly turned into the sweet scent of
roasting meat.

Egon looked at us, his expression unreadable. With self-assured calm, he set his coffee cup aside.
His gaze wandered to my neck, where I was still wearing Sofia’s coin necklace. Then, slowly and deliberately,
he reached into the pocket of the jacket hanging over a chair.

His fingers closed around a thick silver chain. He hesitated briefly,
then placed another coin necklace onto the polished steel table. The Roman numeral "I" stared back at me.
Instinctively, my hands went to my necklaces; I was already wearing Sofia’s coin around my neck.
The other one—Anja’s coin, bearing the Roman numeral "II"—was still tucked deep inside my pocket.

I pulled out the chain with a jerk; my fingers trembled as I laid it down next to Egon’s coin.
Stefanie watched in silent horror as all three coins lay side by side—“I,” “II,” and “III”—gleaming coldly in the sunlight.
Egon touched his coin. “Tanja,” he murmured, his voice heavy with unspoken history.

“The eldest daughter. I am… her descendant.”
Before Tanja died, her child was taken to safety, along with a portion of the treasure.
In exile, my ancestors built a new realm in a new land. That was centuries ago.
The coins lay there—three silver coins whispering of betrayal and survival. Egon’s gaze
darted between them and then met mine.

“Your grandmother,” he began in a low, intense voice, “she was a descendant of Anja—the middle Rubens daughter,
the one who became pregnant far too soon during the orgies. Sarah—your grandmother—she fled from her husband,
taking her coin from Romania with her. But she returned… decades ago.” My breath caught in my throat.
That explained the box in the attic. That explained her warning.

Egon leaned closer to me. “She was looking for answers. She was looking for *him*. Eugen Rubens has long been dead,
and Lucian too, but his later descendants… they still guard Rubensburg Castle.
They still hold the feasts when the hunger torments them.”

Stefanie whimpered and clung to her coffee cup. “She went back?” I whispered, a shiver of horror creeping down my spine.
“Why?” Egon’s expression was grim. “To break the curse. Or to fulfill it.”

A sudden, shrill buzzing tore through the tense silence. Egon pulled a sleek satellite phone from his pocket,
glanced at the screen, and his jaw muscles tightened. "The helicopter's coming early," he announced curtly, standing up abruptly.

His dark eyes studied Stefanie's pale face. "Stefanie, listen to me." His voice was quiet and insistent,
piercing her silent panic. "I want you to go back to Germany. Immediately. Go back to your safe home, to your parents.

You were almost boiled alive in that kitchen. I saw the hooks. I saw the firebox. I can't guarantee your safety here.
Not for another minute." His piercing gaze rested on me. “Sarah and I… we have no other choice now.
We *must* sort this out together. The helicopter takes off in twenty minutes. It will take you *directly to Germany.”

Stefanie stared at him, her trembling fingers clutching her empty coffee cup. She looked at me—at my tormented eyes,
at Sofia’s coin gleaming once more against my collarbone—then back at Egon’s unwavering face.
The horrific image of that kitchen flashed between us: grease-smeared hooks, the roaring heat, the gleaming butcher knives.
A stifled sob escaped her lips. Slowly, deliberately, she nodded; her shoulders slumped in weary resignation.

“Okay,” she whispered. She knew he was right, and she accepted it with sadness.
There was no courage left, only the sober realization that she wasn’t part of this cursed lineage—wasn’t being hunted
because of her ancestry—and might not survive another encounter with the hungry locals who were hunting *us*.
She turned away, avoiding my desperate, pleading gaze. “Just survive, Sarah,” she breathed,
her voice barely audible over the rising wind outside. “Promise me you’ll survive. That both of you will survive.”

The sleek, matte-black helicopter landed exactly fifteen minutes later, its rotor wash whipping against the penthouse balcony.
Egon firmly guided Stefanie toward the aircraft. She paused at the entrance, a pale hand gripping the frame.
She looked back—not at Egon, but straight at me. Her eyes reflected the life we ​​had shared, filled with secrets held in common.
The laughter of children from long ago. Our adventures and discoveries.
But then came the dust of the attic... and now, unspeakable horror. She didn’t wave.

She just stared at me, her blonde hair whipping wildly in the downdraft, her face a mask of deep sorrow and fear.
Then she ducked inside. The hatch slammed shut with a metallic sound of finality.
The helicopter lifted off and rapidly shrank in size until it was swallowed by the glaring midday sky.
Silence descended with crushing weight.

Egon stood motionless by the balcony railing for minutes, long after the roar of the rotors had faded.
The suite’s luxury now seemed colder, emptier. The remains of breakfast lay forgotten on the tray.
My fingers groped for Sofia’s coin; its familiar weight suddenly felt cold against my skin.

The silence stretched out, filled with unspoken questions and the fleeting scent of rosemary that lingered in my memory.
Finally, I moved. I reached into the pocket of my worn jeans and pulled out the brittle, folded letter—the one that had started it all.

My grandmother’s careful handwriting, faded ink whispering of doom. My hand trembled slightly as I held it out to Egon,
who had his back to me. He turned slowly; his gaze fell immediately upon the paper.
Without a word, he took it, his fingertips brushing against mine. A strange, electric jolt shot through me.
I couldn't yet make sense of the sensation.

Slowly and thoughtfully, we walked back into the penthouse’s living area.
Egon stood by the simple steel table and laid the letter flat beside the two other gleaming coins.
He took out a pair of reading glasses—an unexpected touch of vulnerability—and sat down.

The silence deepened as he read; his expression shifted from intense concentration to fleeting signs of grim realization,
and finally to deep, weary sorrow. His finger traced a specific line:
“…if you recognize yourself in the picture of the red-haired woman, you are in danger.
The image could represent your future… You, roasted, served as a feast…”

My grandmother’s letter rustled beneath Egon’s fingers as he tapped that strange
phrase: “To bear children who renounce cannibalism and live in safety with
a clear conscience.” Egon looked at me. His gaze was suddenly filled with desire.
The air in the penthouse suddenly felt heavy and oppressive.

I lost myself in thought. My breath caught in my throat. Children? Our children?
What had made me think of that? I
remembered his hand holding mine in the Jeep, and the predatory gleam in his eyes at the tavern.
And now, here, he was hinting… that he… A flush rose from the
back of my neck to my face—hot and tinged with shame.

My thoughts raced: should I get to know Egon better? My first lover? Oh God, the man is almost twice my age!
I felt a wave of heat. This man was certainly dominant, mysterious. Exciting? Arousing?
That’s how it had been at the tavern.

Egon’s gaze drifted lower, focusing on the next crucial line: “…or look for Bexter’s book.”
I was briefly startled, snapped out of my thoughts. His brow furrowed, deep lines appearing.
He read it again in a whisper, his lips shaping the unfamiliar words. “Bexter’s book?” The name sounded rough, foreign on his tongue.

He looked up; his dark eyes met mine, filled with sudden, profound dismay.
“No,” he said firmly—his voice hard and final against the distant wind whistling outside against the tinted glass.
“Bexter’s book… it won’t be available for another decade.” The gravity of his statement stifled a fragile spark
of hope within me—one I hadn’t even realized I was clinging to.

“Richard Bexter’s book is a repository of knowledge, lost in a secret library,
but I have been searching for it for a long time,” Egon added.

His gaze lingered on the coins, then on the letter, before finally resting on my face.
It was a look that betrayed determination—and something else, too: something dark and mysterious that
made Sofia’s coin feel like a cold burn against my skin. "Sarah," he said in a deep, rough voice,
"it is no coincidence that we met and that all three coins are united here now. I need to make a call.
Get something to eat and rest."

He gestured toward the second, untouched tray Stefanie had brought in.
Without a word, he walked toward a door I hadn’t noticed before.
It opened and closed silently behind him, leaving me completely alone.

I sank back into the soft pillows; exhaustion hit me like a physical blow.
My thoughts were racing once again—the efficiency with which he had saved my life twice was impressive.
The coins gleamed accusingly on the table. Sofia, Anja, Tanja. Sisters, sacrificed.
My fingers traced the raised numeral "III" on Sofia’s coin—cold metal against my trembling skin.

Would Egon save me a third time? The silence weighed heavily and oppressively upon me. Outside, the wind howled. My gaze wandered to the untouched tray. The ham glistened, fatty and pink. Suddenly, the honey-sweet aroma became unsettlingly familiar—like the smell of roasted meat. Like in the tavern kitchen, where hooks hung from the ceiling, dripping with reddish fluid. I thought of Stefanie’s panicked scream as she had burst naked into the dining room.

I shoved the tray away violently; the cutlery clattered. The coins on the table suddenly shimmered a bright blue. All at once—like a flash of lightning in my mind—I pictured Stefanie on one of those serving platters. Stefanie, deliciously roasted, just for me. And the next moment, I was naked. My fingers wandered between my legs; I was damp—no, soaking wet. There it was: that dark passion. The passion I had been warned about, but now, I didn't care.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I tasted my own savory flavor. It was a bizarre image; my thoughts showed me naked, standing before my own roasted body and eating myself. I came hard. A loud cry, a wet gush. Exhausted, I sank back deep into the soft, sweat-dampened blanket. I looked at my sweaty body, wet and glistening. It could have been cooking oil. How could I ever escape this dark passion? I felt trapped between lust and death.

The hiss of the automatic door pulled me back to reality. I froze,
my fingers resting on my naked, exposed pussy, my breath catching in my throat.
Egon stood silhouetted in the doorway.

End of the chapter