>>9696
I am glad you liked it! I think I will start posting them in parts, because if I just post the whole thing at once, people just read it and then forget about it...

Well written.

Bump

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I loved this one most of all!

Thanks for bumping or I would have missed this entirely.

I've been a fan of the original art series for a long time, and I'm actually kinda surprised I haven't seen a written adaptation like this before.

Very good stuff so far, and I'm looking forward to the possible continuation too!

Hm, as for execution ideas... how about some animal slaughter style ones like gutting/evisceration or a bolt stunner? Maybe being hung upside down and having the throat slit? I also support some previous suggestions like hanging and seppuku.

Bump

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Bump to save from faggot spammer

Dead nigger faggot thread

>>29356
Fun little story for sure! Inspired by Futurama? I love the idea of the cute Grim Reaper Girl mascot - I can imagine her on hoodies and backpacks of "edgy" teens :D

Fun little story, I wouldn't mind seeing more utilising the suicide booth.

Part 2/3

Life in the house on a hill was very comfortable. Unlike their previous small apartment, everyone had their own private space, which significantly boosted their confidence. John secured several new contracts for meat sluts, and the company began to thrive even more. Valentina began to improve her studies and even started dating a very handsome guy who promised to decapitate her during the prom.

Only Maria had stopped robbing random sluts on the beach. Partly because tending to the entire house required much more time, but mainly because her lust was now focused on one specific person.

About a month after moving in, the quiet afternoon was interrupted by the ringing of the doorbell. Maria, dressed in a red dress, approached the door and opened it.

"Good evening," Mave greeted her with a smile. "I'm here for the rent."

She was dressed very elegantly. She wore suit trousers, a white shirt, and a green tie. Maria sighed loudly, grabbed her tie, and pulled her inside. In the hallway, she began kissing her and removing her clothes. By the time they reached the living room, they were both naked.

John smiled, but Maria didn't let him just watch. She grabbed him by the collar and pulled him close. The three of them were already carried away by their ecstasy and began caressing and arousing each other.

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Part 3/3

John and Mave were sitting at the table together, doing taxes. Living in one’s own house wasn’t all sex and fun, as it seemed. They were both naked though, as this task was so boring, they couldn’t help themselves but to distract themselves fucking for a good hour, before they decided to return to it. As the redhead emptied her husband’s testicles dry, they had no more excuse. The only garment Mave wore was her black eyepatch.

Suddenly, the front door opened. Valentina entered the house, slammed the door behind, and stormed down the hall toward the stairs. John and Mave followed her with their eyes. Then they looked at each other.

"I'll talk to her," the father suggested.

He got up from the table, went upstairs, and cautiously approached his daughter's bedroom door.

"Val? Is everything okay?"

He waited a moment for a reaction, but there was none.

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Great story! I quite enjoyed the ultracasual nature of this story world and the weird family dynamics.

It was a fun story and I enjoyed it properly, but I still wish there were younger characters too. If anything, it feels artificial how everyone in the story conveniently stopped having kids exactly 18 years ago. Although I guess it's better than some stories I've seen where despite living in a world of casual sex it just never occurs to anyone to have sex before their 18th birthday.

>>29296 I can totally agree with you! However, I wanted to post it on r/GuroErotica as well and they have some strict rules when it comes to minors. I had to restrain myself every now and them.

9

Ayala stood on the starting line, her eyes locked on the trees ahead. She was naked, as was tradition, a cool sweat forming on her otherwise chilled body. She wasn’t a superstitious person, but today, for the first time, she wore her mother’s pendant. She wasn’t sure for luck, for safety, or for the guidance of her people - she was simply convinced she’d need all three.

She shook her head, trying to remember the steps that came before. Just like her previous two hunts, everything between the moment she decided, and this one, was a blur, just jumbled snippets in her mind that played out of order. She closed her eyes, and tried to remember.

She remembered how impersonal she felt the night before. She hated the brightness of the fluorescent lights of the all-white room, the cold tile floor, the sterility of it. It wasn’t a room for a Dyani to be assessed. It was a room for venison to be…graded.

She hated how much she cared in that moment – not about her lust for what was about to happen, not about beating Remi, and not even about saving her own life. No, in this moment, as the two men in white butcher smocks walked around her, studying and writing on clipboards, there was only one thing on her mind, one thing that really mattered.

Ayala really wanted to be graded A again. She realized as she looked over herself, naked in this room she’d been in twice before, hadn’t taken care of herself the way she had in her youth. She had spent the last decade plus measuring herself by her sales figures, her ability to give a great pitch, to be a leader. None of those seemed to matter now; those perceptions of her were rendered useless by Remi in less than a week. So, she tried to suck in her belly fat, stick her butt out, and hide her wrinkles as they squeezed, and poked, and bent her body in all sorts of compromising positions. She NEEDED this affirmation more than ever.

Ayala let out a gasp when she saw the tag clipped to her ear, the large letter “C” a glaring reminder of how years of sitting at a desk had taken a toll on her. She shook her head, processing that she was 36 years old, and her high value years in this on again off again identity as meat were long behind her. Deep down, she really hated that it gave her hope that Remi still wanted to eat her, for whatever her true motivations were.

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10

Ayala ran as hard as she’d ever run in her life into the forest. She didn’t think about anything else – who she was, what she was about to be. For the first time in thirteen years, she didn’t have a single worry about spreadsheets and cookware and relationships – she was simply FREE. She allowed her animal instincts to take over, and she effortlessly skipped over tree stumps,through brush, and underneath branches, moving with a speed and grace that only a Dyani could.

She was so completely lost in the moment that only her lungs broke her reprieve, as she slowed to lean against the bark of an old tree to catch her breath. She took the moment to look around and enjoy the brisk, quiet, beautiful morning. She smiled.

“I’ve missed this.” Ayala said to herself. She’d been so busy with her career – for the last thirteen years, she hadn’t even allowed herself to stroll in the forest;the risk of breaking her sabbatical from her urges, her fantasies, was too great. Through that, she had forgotten how natural a place like this felt, this native connection to nature that was unique to her people.

Just then, Ayala’s frontal lobe caught up to her, and she remembered why she was here, or, more specifically, what was at stake. She crouched down and scanned the forest closely, allowing her ears, nose, and eyes - her enhanced Dyani senses - dial in on the environment around her.

She felt the confidence she had in her first two hunts rush through her body. She was going to WIN this hunt. She was going to walk into work on Monday, collect her severance pay, and make sure Remi got one long, last look at her before she went on fucking vacation.

“Hell, once I find the right job, I’m going to come back and take Lily along, too. But not Rob. Fuck Rob.” Ayala joked to herself.

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That following Monday, Lily walked into her best friend’s office, without knocking, as she always had, but found it empty. It wasn’t like Ayala to not answer Lily’s texts, especially for an entire weekend. Lily had a sinking feeling in her stomach, and quietly cried at her office as she feared the worst – Ayala’s final text still ringing in her mind.

Lily joined her co-workers of the 38th floor as the workday concluded, setting her world famous mashed potatoes on the banquet table as Remi had requested. It was very different to have a meeting at the end of a workday, but Remi had approached Thompson very differently from the moment she had arrived. As they waited, conversation turned to the sudden absence of Ayala. Some speculated she simply quit over not becoming Sales Lead. Some gossiped that she was forced out. There was even a joke or two that Remi had eaten her, with laughter being shared amongst her former peers regarding how good she must’ve tasted.

Just as before, Remi entered the party last. She beamed as she carried the Dyani-matic pot in her hands, setting it in the center of the banquet table. The flavor from the pot immediately attracted everyone's attention. It had the same delicious aroma as last week, and somehow, it was instinctively familiar.

Remi took a moment to make eye contact with each individual in the room, nodding to Mr. Thompson last, before speaking.

“Thank you so much for staying until the end of a workday – especially a Monday – to participate in this very special event I’ve planned. It really, really means a lot to see how much this group has bonded forever under a common identity. But, as I always say, and can we say it together, everyone?” Remi raised her hands.

“THE RIGHT THING TO DO IS TO TREAT EVERYONE HOW THEY SHOULD BE TREATED!” The staff of the 38th floor of Thompson Cookware said proudly together.

“Perfect! With that in mind, as my first act as Sales Lead, I spent the weekend preparing a VERY special recipe, one that has generations of tradition in my family. Last week, I had to make it with a small alteration, but tonight, I’m able to share it with you all EXACTLY as it was passed down to me.

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I definitely enjoyed that but don't like that Remi "won". Maybe Lily could find evidence of her cheating (perhaps she asks to watch the video of Ayala again but then spots the tracking app) and Remi is given the choice to turn herself in or be hunted herself to prove that the Dyanai-Matic can be used to make a delicious stew from any meat? Of course she would choose the hunt, thinking she would survive it easily, but underestimated how popular Ayala was around the office and, as skilled a hunter as she is, she still doesn't have Dyani instincts and agility.

Charlotte from Bojack Horseman is how I picture Ayala and her kind. Am I close or did you have a different vision in mind? 😊

Day 6

The night passes in tense silence. I check the cameras periodically, watching the three remaining girls as they attempt to sleep. Emily curls into a ball, hugging herself tightly as if trying to disappear. Talia lies awake, staring at the ceiling with wide, unblinking eyes. Astrid remains sitting up, her back pressed against the wall, legs folded beneath her. She doesn't sleep.

Dawn creeps into the dungeon, the dim artificial lights flickering to life automatically. I stand in the observation room, hands clasped behind my back, watching the girls stir. Emily wakes up, flinching as she remembers where she is. Astrid and Talia who didn’t sleep, remain motionless on their mats.

Three pairs of eyes turn toward me as I enter the room. Each woman knows what comes next – they've seen it happen to their friends, have heard their screams and pleas. Astrid doesn't move, just watches me approach with those pale blue eyes that seem to see right through me.

Emily whimpers when I approach them.

"Please," she whispers, her voice faint. "I just want to go home."

I don't answer, just stretch out my hand with three sticks in it.

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Day 6 (continued)

The cold metal bites into her skin as I help her onto the bench and adjust her position – her back resting against the backrest, her breasts lifted slightly on the metal supports. She shivers, not just from the temperature but from the inevitability of what's coming. Her gray eyes track my movements as I secure each limb with straps – left arm, right arm, left leg, right leg.

"Wait-" she gasps when you start adjusting the supports around her breasts.

Her breath comes faster as the cold metal presses against her sensitive flesh. She looks down at herself, watching helplessly as I position her nipples against the metal studs designed to keep them from pulling too far when the cutting begins.

"This is so fucked up."

I pause the preparations and embrace her bare shoulders from behind.

"Do you want me to hold you while this is done?" I whisper to her.

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Day 7

The night drags on endlessly. I monitor the girls through the cameras – Emily eventually curls into a fetal position in her cell, nothing seemingly able to get between her and her sleep. Astrid on the other hand, stays awake seemingly the whole night. With this being her second night without sleep, she must be exhausted already, but shows no signs of it yet. The silence in the dungeon is oppressive, broken only by Emily's occasional whimper and the distant drip of water.

Morning finally arrives, the dungeon's fluorescent lights flickering to life. I watch as Emily stirs, rubbing her face before pushing herself upright. Her movements are slow, mechanical. She looks toward the now-empty table where Talia died.

I step into the dungeon, the soft floor rubbery under the soles of my shoes. Emily flinches as the heavy door swings shut behind me, but she doesn't look up. Her knees are pulled tightly to her chest, hands gripping them like she's holding herself together. The overhead light catches in her blonde hair, casting golden streaks across her pale skin.

Astrid doesn't even turn when I enter. She's leaning against the far wall, arms crossed beneath her breasts, eyes fixed on the single remaining machine – the water tank. Her white hair falls over one shoulder as she exhales sharply through her nose. When she speaks, her words come out calm but edged with something dangerous.

"So, this is the last day, isn’t it?” Her voice husky and grim.

I look at her, then at Emily who’s curled in the corner, then back at Astrid.

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Epilogue

I spend the evening watching Astrid through the hidden cameras in her new apartment.

At first she is just sitting there – motionless, for what seems like an eternity. I even start to think she’s too traumatized to continue living normally. Then, without warning, she slams both hands down onto the table, hard enough to make the silverware jump. The force of it startles even me.

"Fifty million dollars," she hisses to the empty room, her words low and almost guttural.

She exhales sharply through her nose, her shoulders rising and falling as if trying to suppress the sudden flood of emotion crashing over her. Her hands remain flattened against the tabletop, fingers splayed wide as if she's holding herself in place.

"I did it."

Her words are rough, raw, as she lifts her head and looks around the room. The realization hits her in waves. She stands abruptly, pushing back from the table so fast it almost topples over.

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>>29250
Hi Tanya! Yes, please do message me on Pixiv and we can have a good chat there 😁 So pleased to hear you found the stort inspiring!

>>29183
>>29184

> I try to write such scenes in such a way that they could be the hallucinations of a dying brain.
That's exactly how I felt about this scene. To me it was the point of transition from life to death.


>29173

You're welcome. Sorry for not commenting the story itself, I was too tied up with proof-reading. ;D


>>29172

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>>29176

> I've set the blonde elf as Candace Cane, (Candy) and the redhead as HollyHock. (Holly).
That was my guess. Thank you for clarification and explanation.


>>29199
>>29210

I like Samantha Roasted 04.png and Roasted Samanta 03.png the best. The hair color might be not the correct blond, but they look the most natural ‒ peaceful and without a too big smile. And save for the missing hand of R.S.03 (which of course is only hidden under the vegetables) the pictures have the fewest artifacts like the usual AI-crippled hands.

>>28742

Found a hopefully last one:

“George is boy! Don’t you know boys taste gross?”
​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ Omission: a
“George is a boy! Don’t you know boys taste gross?”

>>28414

I should not have expressed my hope of having found the last issue. ;)

>Tage: Preteen, snuff, willing, oven-roast, exhibitionism, Christmas
​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ Typo: Tags
Tags: Preteen, snuff, willing, oven-roast, exhibitionism, Christmas


And just in case:

Seasonal Samantha
By
Edward Hyde

>>28676

Thank you for reading. At 75,000 words as it was, I tried to condense in the death scenes to not over-burden the reader. I think I'd expand them in a sequel story though.

It would be fun to play from a males perspective. Either a killer or someone trying to escort a female friend through alive. Great writing!

I've read through what i thought was the whole story and enjoyed it but i don't believe I've found the ending that isn't a game over if you are able if love a hint to help me find it

The ending that isn't a game over is triggered by something you have to click on the final day checkpoint page.

I haven't been on here in a while, but thanks for the support and readers. The last comment is right - you have to look closely on the final day checkpoint page (you don't have to start the story over) and think about what you were told to do to find the true ending. I can be found on reddit under the same handle (with more stories as well) if you'd like to ask me questions directly or still can't find it.

Sarah's breath hitched as Renna's fingers trailed southward—past the smoking crater of her left breast, over the quivering expanse of her belly, toward the smooth delta where her thighs met. For one dizzying heartbeat, terror spiked through her veins like mercury. The flame would go *there* next.

She squeezed her eyes shut, but the image burned brighter behind her lids—the torch's blue-white tongue licking between her legs, searing away what little childhood remained untouched. Her toes curled against cold metal as phantom heat prickled across untouched skin. The fear tasted coppery, thick as the blood still seeping from her bitten lip.

Then—Lily's laugh. Not the fragile, orphanage-Lily giggle, but the full-throated roar she'd unleashed when they'd smuggled sugar cubes from the commissary. Sarah clung to the memory like a lifeline: Lily's gap-toothed grin, Marta's calloused hands ruffling their hair, the stolen sweetness dissolving on their tongues. The phantom scent of sun-warmed linen replaced the stench of her own charred flesh.

Renna's gloved finger probed the seam where Sarah's thighs pressed together in instinctive defense. The leather was clammy with her own sweat—or perhaps the child's. She applied steady pressure, watching the way the labia resisted before yielding with reluctant elasticity. So *young*. The outer lips were plush as overripe rose petals, their inner surfaces glossy with terrified moisture. No pubic hair to speak of—just downy peach fuzz that caught the fluorescent light like gossamer. The hood clung stubbornly to its prize, the clitoral bud barely visible as a slight swell beneath the protective fold. Renna's index finger circled the entrance with faux tenderness, noting how the outer lips trembled at each pass. The orifice itself puckered tight as a clenched fist, its wrinkled entrance flushing from shell-pink to mortified scarlet under scrutiny.

Sarah's mouth was a bloodied hyphen carved into her ashen face. Her jaws ached from the strain of keeping silent, molars grinding with enough force to spark pain behind her eyes. But her gaze remained fixed—unblinking—on Renna's face, even as the woman's fingers dipped lower to trace the vulnerable strip of skin between anus and vulva. The perineum twitched under the unwanted caress, its delicate muscles fluttering like a trapped moth's wings. Every nerve ending there screamed warnings Sarah couldn't obey—her body was a statue lashed to the table, her frantic pulse the only betrayal in an otherwise motionless tableau.

Then Renna's gloved fingertip nudged upward, pressing just below the entrance where Sarah's labia clung together in instinctive defense. The leather rasped against sensitized flesh, its cold intrusion parting the plush outer lips with mechanical precision. Sarah's breath hitched—a tiny, involuntary sound—but her stare never wavered. "That—" she hissed through clenched teeth, "—feels like a dead eel sliding into spoiled milk." The insult tasted like victory on her tongue, metallic and sweet as the blood still seeping from her lip. Renna's finger froze mid-probe. Sarah watched, mesmerized, as a single vein pulsed angrily at the lieutenant's temple. The sight sent something hot and reckless surging through her veins—better than morphine, sharper than adrenaline. "Bet yours looks like a—*ah!*—like a burst sausage casing," she gasped as Renna's nail scraped too close to the clitoral hood. "All—*nngh*—scabby and stretched out from—from taking orders up it."

The torch handle creaked in Renna's grip. The sound was infinitesimal—the leather stitching protesting sudden tension—but in the sterile silence of the interrogation chamber, it might as well have been a gunshot. Sarah had half a heartbeat to register the flare of nostrils, the way Renna's pupils swallowed her poison-green irises whole, before the blowtorch roared to life with a sound like a wounded animal. The flame licked hungrily at the sterile air, its blue-white core pulsing with contained fury. Renna's gloved thumb jammed the valve wider—too wide—until the fire twisted into a searing spire that cast jagged shadows across Sarah's splayed thighs. The heat radiated outward in visible waves, making the air above her vulnerable flesh shimmer like desert mirage.

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Sarah's entire body jerked as if struck by lightning. The pain wasn't a gradual crescendo like her nipple's slow-motion destruction—this was instantaneous, catastrophic, a supernova detonating between her legs. Her labia majora, plush as overripe fruit, offered no resistance as the fire sank into its moisture-laden folds. The flesh didn't blister—it *shrank*, contracting violently around the flame's intrusion like a sea anemone recoiling from a predator's touch. Sarah's teeth sank into her shredded lower lip with enough force to crack enamel, her scream trapped behind clenched jaws as the outer lips suffered under the flame.

Three seconds. The torch withdrew. Sarah gasped—not in relief, but shock—as the cooling air rushed over seared flesh. The left labia throbbed, its delicate nerve endings firing in panicked succession, each pulse sending fresh agony radiating outward. Renna's timer was precise—three seconds exactly—before the flame returned to claim its twin. The right labia's suffering was somehow worse, its nerve pathways still undamaged by previous torture. Sarah's toes curled against cold metal as the heat penetrated deeper here, liquefying the fatty tissue beneath skin that had never known such violation. Sweat poured down her temples, mingling with tears that evaporated before they could fall.

Withdrawal again. Three seconds of reprieve that felt like drowning in icy honey—too brief for pain to fully fade, just long enough for awareness to sharpen before the next assault. Renna's breath came in measured exhales, her eyes tracking the alternating rhythm of torment with clinical detachment. Left labia: the skin flushed from shell-pink to angry scarlet, capillaries bursting beneath the surface like shattered stained glass. Right labia: the outer folds puckered tight as a fist around the flame, their moisture boiling off in tiny, hissing bursts. The smell was different here—not the charred-meat stench of her pubic mound, but something muskier, almost organic, like wet leaves burning in autumn.

Sarah's teeth found fresh purchase on her lower lip, the already mangled flesh splitting anew under her molars. Blood welled hot and coppery across her tongue, metallic as the scalpel Renna had used to carve their insignia into her forearm last week. She swallowed convulsively, throat working around the scream lodged beneath her sternum like shrapnel. The pain wasn't spikes anymore—not discrete moments of agony she could brace between—but a continuous current, live-wire intensity humming through every nerve from clitoris to coccyx. Her labia weren't being burned; they were being *transformed*.

The left outer fold had darkened from Renna's initial assault, its plush swell tightening into something rigid and unrecognizable. Scarlet faded to a sickly salmon-pink as the epidermis separated from underlying tissue, fluid rushing into the breach to form translucent blisters that glistened under the interrogation lamps. One particularly grotesque bubble swelled near the labial commissure, its dome stretched so thin Sarah could see the branching capillaries beneath—tiny crimson fractals frozen mid-burst. When Renna's torch returned, the blister didn't pop so much as *dissolve*, the flame licking across its surface with a sound like grease hitting a hot skillet. The rupture sprayed lymph in a fine mist that sizzled on the table beneath her thighs.

Renna adjusted the torch's angle with the precision of a calligrapher, letting the flame's edge skate along the ravaged border where blistered met unburned flesh. New blisters swelled in the fire's wake—smaller now, clustered like frog eggs along the ruined rim. Their surfaces trembled with each throb of Sarah's pulse, distending further until the thinnest membranes tore spontaneously. Clear fluid oozed sluggishly down her inner thigh, tracing sticky paths through sweat and old blood. The right labium fared worse. Its natural moisture made the skin blister faster, the liquid beneath boiling into steam that stretched the epidermis into grotesque, wobbling domes. These ruptured violently, their contents erupting in short bursts that spattered Renna's gloves with droplets of cooked plasma.

The lieutenant leaned closer, fascinated by the way Sarah's labia darkened unevenly—left side already charcoal-black where the torch lingered longest, right side still transitioning from angry scarlet to the dull gray of week-old ashes. Between the charred outer layers, glimpses of raw dermis shone through like undercooked meat beneath grill marks. Renna's nostrils flared at the scent—not just seared protein now, but something muskier underneath, like singed hair and the iron tang of interstitial fluid. She watched capillaries burst in real time, tiny red threads unraveling beneath the skin's surface before bleaching white as the heat denatured their hemoglobin.

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Her gloved fingers twitched toward the moisture on her cheek, stopping millimeters short as if the liquid might sear through latex. The critique unfolded internally with military efficiency: *Failure to account for bladder capacity. Basic interrogation oversight. Should have catheterized.* The self-flagellation lasted precisely three seconds before transmuting into something far more dangerous. Renna's gaze flicked downward to the child's lower abdomen, noting how the taut skin still quivered with post-void tremors. A surgeon's calculation flashed behind her pupils—distance from urethral meatus to bladder neck, approximate volume capacity of a prepubescent organ, melting point of synthetic tubing versus human mucosa.

Sarah's labia parted under Renna's grip with a wet sound, the charred edges crumbling like overcooked pastry. The lieutenant's thumb pressed upward against the perineal ridge, exposing the tiny, puckered urethral opening still glistening with residual urine. The unlit torch nozzle hovered directly above it—not touching, not yet, but close enough for Sarah to feel the chilled metal's presence like the kiss of a guillotine blade. Her breath hitched, the instinct to clamp her thighs together thwarted by the restraints. The realization hit with the force of a bullet: Renna wasn't just escalating the pain. She was rewriting its grammar.

The nozzle brushed against Sarah's urethral opening—not hard enough to penetrate, just enough to make the sensitive rim contract in terrified recoil. Renna's other hand remained splayed across Sarah's pubis, fingers digging into the blistered flesh with deliberate pressure. Blood welled sluggishly around her nails, mixing with the clear ooze of ruptured blisters. Sarah focused on that pain instead—the familiar sting of torn skin, the throbbing ache of burned tissue—anything to distract from the alien violation of the cold metal circling her most vulnerable aperture. Her teeth met in the hamburger meat of her lip, grinding through scar tissue into fresh muscle beneath. The coppery flood couldn't drown this new terror—it amplified it, every swallow sending vibrations down her throat that resonated with the violated space between her thighs.

Renna twisted the nozzle slightly—not inserting yet, just testing the elasticity of the tiny opening. Sarah's entire pelvis clenched in primal rejection, her urethral muscles spasming tight enough to make Renna pause. "Still fighting?" The lieutenant's voice had shed its clinical detachment, reverting to something almost guttural. "Good." The nozzle pressed inward with sudden, surgical precision. Sarah gasped—not from heat, but from the obscene stretch as metal parted flesh never meant to accommodate intrusion. The discomfort spiked sharply as the nozzle breached the internal sphincter, her bladder's defenses yielding with a hot, sickening pop that vibrated through her lower abdomen. Still no heat. Just the awful, squirming pressure of foreign occupation deep inside her body's most private plumbing.

Renna looked up, her pupils blown wide with something beyond sadism—this was the feverish focus of a scientist witnessing an unprecedented reaction. "If you can't control your bladder," she murmured, thumb stroking the torch's ignition switch with lover-like tenderness, "I'll help you burn it off. Then you'll never"—the nozzle twisted cruelly—"squirt"—another twist—"in a civilized environment again." Sarah's breath hitched, her bladder contracting instinctively around the invasive metal. The resulting spasm sent fresh urine trickling around the nozzle's edges, steaming slightly where it met Renna's glove.

"This?" Sarah gasped through clenched teeth, her voice raw but steady. She jerked her chin toward the blood-crusted restraints, the scorch marks patterning her torso like some grotesque constellation. "You call this *civilized*?" The laugh that escaped her was more air than sound, thin and frayed at the edges. Renna's answering chuckle was worse—genuine amusement, warm as a bedtime story. The torch flared to life with a *whoomp* that sent shadows leaping across the walls like startled rats.

The pain wasn't fire. Fire was something outside, something you could run from. This was her own flesh turning against her, the walls of her bladder crisping like parchment in an oven. Sarah's vision whited out at the edges as the heat radiated outward in concentric waves—first the searing tightness just beneath her pubic bone, then the molten fingers clawing upward along her ureters. Her kidneys gave a sympathetic throb, as if mourning their soon-to-be-boiled sibling. The smell hit her nostrils a second later—acrid and meaty, with an undertone of something chemical, like plastic melting inside a microwave.

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Renna's thumb depressed the igniter with sacramental solemnity. The *whoomp* of combusting gas sent shadows writhing up the concrete walls like startled eels. Sarah's clitoral hood twitched beneath the nozzle's kiss—a tiny, involuntary recoil that sent Renna's pulse skittering. The flame hesitated for three calculated heartbeats, hovering millimeters above flesh quivering with terrified capillary action. Then contact.

Sarah's breath stuttered mid-inhalation. The pain was scalpel-precise at first—a white-hot line drawn vertically along her hood's delicate ridge. The skin blackened instantly where flame met moisture, carbonizing into brittle lace that flaked away beneath the torch's whisper. Beneath this crumbling shield, her clitoris pulsed frantically, its hypersensitive glans recoiling from the advancing heat like a snail withdrawing from salt. Sarah's thighs vibrated with suppressed convulsions, her calves straining against restraints until the leather squeaked.

Then the hood tore—not with the slow parting of burnt layers, but explosively, steam pressure rupturing the last membrane in a wet pop audible even over the torch's hiss. Direct flame licked her exposed nerve bundle with obscene intimacy. Pain didn't surge—it detonated. A supernova of agony radiated outward in concentric shockwaves, each pulse synchronized with her hammering heartbeat. Sarah's jaw clamped down on her lower lip with enough force to puncture necrotic tissue from earlier injuries. Coppery warmth flooded her tongue, but the distant sting of torn flesh registered as mere static against the screaming feedback loop between her thighs.

The pain wasn't singular—it spreaded. Every millimeter of her engorged clitoral shaft registered distinct torment: the dorsal nerve searing like a molten wire threaded up her spine, the corpus spongiosum boiling beneath its thin mucosal sheath, the frenulum splitting like overstretched taffy. Comparisons failed—this wasn't like burned nipples or blistered labia. This was her entire nervous system rebooting around ground zero, each synaptic scream amplified through her pelvis's dense neural matrix. Her abdomen convulsed in rhythmic spasms, the contractions forcing air through clenched teeth in short, punched-out wheezes that barely qualified as breathing.

Somewhere between the fifth and sixth heartbeat, Sarah forgot why silence mattered. The reason floated just beyond reach—something golden and laughing, something that smelled like sun-warmed grass—but the pain kept dissolving it into static. Her fingers scrabbled against restraints, tendons standing stark against charred skin as they pulled against leather hard enough to tear. A sound built in her throat—not words, not even a scream, just raw vibration from a body reduced to its most primal circuitry. She bit down again, her teeth meeting in necrotic lip flesh with a wet crunch that sent fresh blood trickling down her chin. The secondary pain anchored her briefly, a lighthouse in the neurological storm.

Renna leaned closer, her breath stirring the fine hairs singed flat against Sarah's pubis. The transformation unfolding beneath her torch fascinated her in ways the previous mutilations hadn't. Other victims had screamed themselves hoarse before reaching this stage—none had endured long enough to offer this particular biological spectacle. The prepubescent clitoris had swollen grotesquely under the heat, its tiny glans engorging to nearly twice its original size as blood vessels ruptured beneath the mucosal surface. What began as a pearl-pink bud now resembled an overripe cherry, its surface split by fine fissures weeping clear lymph. Renna adjusted the torch's angle minutely, watching how the flame's blue core made the swollen tissue quiver like gelatin.

When it burst, the sound was obscenely wet—not a pop but a squelch, like rotten fruit yielding to thumb pressure. Steam erupted in a hissing geyser as internal fluids vaporized, carrying with it the nauseatingly sweet scent of caramelizing glycogen. Sarah's back arched violently, her spine lifting clear of the table in a perfect tension arc as every striated muscle fiber contracted simultaneously. The pain didn't spike—it bifurcated. One branch drilled upward through her pelvis like a white-hot auger boring into fresh wood, while the other spread outward in fractal patterns, each tendril etching itself across her nervous system with meticulous cruelty. Her toes curled until metatarsals threatened dislocation, the involuntary cramp spreading up her calves in waves that matched the pulses of agony radiating from her ruined genitals.

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Then it struck her—like a bullet between the eyes. Sarah hadn't broken from her own agony, but what about others'? The girl's file flashed in her mind's eye—page seventeen, surveillance photos: Sarah handing a wrapped sandwich to a grinning blonde child in a patched sundress. *Lily Simon, age 12. Possible blood relation unconfirmed. Last seen at Greenvale Orphanage.*

Renne's boot tapped a staccato rhythm against the concrete floor as she calculated. Greenvale stood just eight kilometers west—a twenty-minute drive if she commandeered a vehicle now. But protocol demanded signed authorization for minor extraction, and Central Processing wouldn't rubber-stamp that request until tomorrow morning at the earliest.

Her jaw clenched. Paperwork—always fucking paperwork, even now. She glanced at Sarah's unconscious form, the child's breath wheezing through cracked lips. The girl would live. Renne knew her burns like a chef knew cuts of meat: the labial destruction was strictly superficial, the clitoral ablation painful but survivable. Even the bladder trauma had been limitted, and it would function normally given one or two weeks under antibiotic. Sarah would piss razorblades for the next fifty years, but she'd piss. That should've been enough.

Renna's hand twitched toward her walkie-talkie, fingers brushing the chipped plastic casing. Dr. Chen was one of the few medical expert worked for the government in this province, and if Sarah could restore some of the appearance of her burnt private, his hand was necessary. The lieutenant's thumb depressed the transmit button with unnecessary force. "Medical team to Chamber Seven. Priority burn stabilization. Requesting Dr. Chen specifically." Static crackled in response—no questions, no delays. Good.

She didn't wait for confirmation. The walkie-talkie clattered onto the instrument tray, knocking aside forceps crusted with flakes of Sarah's carbonized skin. Renna's boots echoed through the corridor as she strode toward Records, each step measured to project calm she didn't feel. The modified interrogation report burned in her breast pocket—three pages of carefully curated lies emphasizing Sarah's "violent resistance" and "self-inflicted injuries." The orphanage extraction request nestled beneath it, its phrasing deliberately vague: *Supplementary material witness requires immediate retrieval for correlation of intelligence.* Neither document would withstand scrutiny, but bureaucracy thrived on plausible deniability.

Chen's reflection in the polished chrome cabinet doors showed a man who hadn't slept in thirty-eight hours. His lab coat hung loose on shoulders permanently hunched from leaning over operating tables, the cuffs frayed where he'd absentmindedly chewed them during complex graft procedures. The computer screen's glow accentuated the web of capillaries in his eyes as he proofread the burn gel study's conclusion: *...demonstrates 23% faster epithelialization in third-degree chemical burns compared to standard silver sulfadiazine—* The com unit crackled to life mid-sentence.

"Dr. Chen to Interrogration Chamber Seven. Priority stabilization." The voice lacked urgency—just another clinical request in a govermental facility. Chen's stomach dropped when hearing that.

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(MM, dragon cock, painful penetration, choking on cum, cum on face)

A few times throughout the year local stores would come together to set up a fair. A place for creatures of all sorts to come for entertainment, overpriced food, and discounted fuck toys. This is where the lesser dragon Ignus found himself on this beautiful day. Chewing on a roasted thigh he had picked up as he walked through rows of cages. He wasn’t particularly picky, really he only needed a warm hole to put his cock in whenever he pleased. But even at a discount a lot of these humans were pricier than he was willing to pay for used goods.

He finally stopped at one cage. A slender human male with brown, curly hair, and freckles dotted across his face. It was the deep, green eyes, much like Ignus’s own scales, that drew the dragon in. He looked over the label on the cage while the human stared at him with hope.

The human had been through quite a few masters already. More than any of the other merchandise there. Because of this high body count its price was also the lowest. Which was exactly what Ignus was looking for. He waved the attendant over and soon they were at the counter. The salesperson counted out his gold, no doubt internally complaining about dragons still insisting on physical currency by the look in their eyes. While they did that Ignus decided it’d be good to test what his new toy could do.

He pushed the human's shoulders until it was bent forward over the counter. It didn’t need any prompting to spread its legs in preparation of what was to come. Slowly Ignus pushed his erection into the human's small hole. Blood trickled down the human's legs and its hands gripped tightly against the edge of the counter. It did its best to bite back back the noises of pain but grunts still escaped.

“You can scream human, in fact I’d prefer if you did. Never hold back in showing me just how much pain or pleasure you’re experiencing.” He slid in further as he spoke, bringing a cry from the human. Tears were streaming down its face and its breath came out in quick groans. “Very good”. When Ignus had pushed in as far as the human’s body would allow he was disappointed for sure, but couldn’t say he was surprised. It couldn’t quite take the full length of his cock but no toy he’d had could. He moved his hips experimentally, earning more delightful cries of pain from the frail body below him.

He pulled out at last, letting the human collapse to its knees, while he gathered his change from the attendant. With that done he pulled the head of the shivering human towards his now blood covered cock. He wanted to test one more thing. Dutifully the human dragged its tongue along his length, licking off the blood. When he reached the tip Ignus did not wait before he was pushing into the human's pliant mouth. He had already been building up to this release and so it wasn’t even a second later that he was squirting his load down the human's throat.

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(meat grinder, shooting)

Having found a suitable cock sleeve for himself Ignus was set to enjoy the rest of the fair and perhaps pick up some accessories for his new fucktoy. There were plenty of games to be played and prizes to be won. Many of the attractions made use of humans that had been deemed unfit as fuck toys. These humans would soon either be processed into meat or simply disposed of if they were deemed too dirty. The fair also served as a way to make back some of the cost spent on feeding the otherwise worthless merchandise they had. He stopped for a moment to watch a dunk booth.

Perhaps dunk booth wasn’t the right term however. In place of a water pool was instead a contraption that would crush and shred through anything unfortunate enough to fall in, turning it into minced meat. Sitting above this was a nude human female fingering herself while the creatures at the front of the attraction paid for the chance to send her plummeting to her demise. She was desperately chasing down one last orgasm but unfortunately for her she never found it. Another customers throw finally hit its mark and she was sent feet first down into the contraption below. Ignus watched as her body was slowly consumed by machine to the crowds delight. Only the sound of her agonized screams could cut through the cheers and laughter. But as her torso finally met the rotating blade the screams died down and Ignus could finally hear the sounds of her bones being crushed. Her head was last and her face, with its final scream still frozen in place, finally was torn apart as well until nothing but blood remained. The booth was then reset with a new human sitting above their eventual peril.

Ignus would have laid down a few coins to play himself if not for the fact that his human had wandered off at some point. It was simple to track him down though. Even if Ignus didn’t have eyes that could peirce the night his human toy hadn’t wandered far. It was standing in front of a booth, admiring a pair of thigh high socks. It didn’t see as Ignus stalked from behind and was rightfully alarmed when a clawed hand clenched around its throat. “Did I give you permission to leave my side?”, it tried to squeeze out a ‘no’ but was unable to give much more than a pitiful whine. “Disappoint me again and I can easily trade you in for something more respectful.”

He released his grip on it’s neck and it gasped deeply, sputtering out it’s understanding, “Yes sir, it won’t happen again sir.” Ignus hummed, his eyes moved to the socks his toy had been admiring. They were a black, lacey pair. Sparkly too. He couldn’t deny the thought of his human wearing them was exciting. The game at this booth was simple enough. A game of skill where customers would aim enchanted rifles to hit targets painted on humans who had been tied to posts at the back of the booth. The smaller targets were what needed to be hit for the high value items, and unfortunately the socks were with said high value items.

Ignus was a dragon of many talents for sure, but using cheap, magical weapons was not one of them. While not the largest breed of dragon out there he was still easily twice the height of most other creatures in this fair. His large, clawed hands made it almost impossible to even properly hold these rifles that had clearly been made with smaller patrons in mind. Regardless he placed down a silver, determined to win a nice accessory for his toy.

He struggled to grip the rifle. Bending his neck down so that he could better aim at the tiny human in front of him. The smallest targets were painted right between the human’s eyes, on its neck, and one directly over where its heart would be. Choosing the highest one he pulled the trigger. But with his eyes he could already see that it was off course even before it hit the humans jaw. It cried out in agony, blood pouring down from where half of it’s jaw once had been.

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(MM, electrocution, cum inflation)

An entire section of the fair was dedicated to stores selling various articles of lingerie, specialty collars, and other accessories. Ignus found himself slowly navigating the crowd, his eyes scanning over the tables and walls full of merchandise. He finally found what he was looking for in a booth selling the thigh high socks he sought and many more. But as he was about to pick them up something else caught his eye. An intriguing product demonstration was happening just a bit away.

Placing down the socks Ignus pulled his human towards the small stage. There was a pole in the center and a human wrapped in a leather ensemble performed while a many limbed creatures held up another set of the lingerie and made their pitch to the crowd. The items were enchanted with lightning magic and with a press of a button would send electricity coursing through every inch of the wearer's body.

The human on stage got down to its knees facing the crowd. Its arms bent back so that it could continue holding the pole in a tight grip. The presenter pressed the button and electricity began to dance along the human skin. Instantly its body began to convulse. The only thing still keeping it upright Ignus imagined was the deathly tight grip it still had on the pole. It began to foam at the mouth. It must have bit its tongue too at some point as blood began dripping down its chin. A steady stream of liquid began to form a puddle at the human's knees as it lost control of its bladder. It was only when the skin began to burn and smoke that the presenter pressed the button again to turn it off.

The human’s body stayed frozen in the position it died. Wide, blank eyes still staring out into the crowd. And that’s where it remained as the presenter stepped down from the stage to begin making sales. Socks forgotten Ignus was soon walking away from the table with a set of the enchanted lingerie.

Ignus pulled his human to a more open area and instructed it to put on the lingerie. There were others around too. Fucking their humans without abandon or trying out new accessories and snuff toys. The lustful displays around left Ignus excited. The second the human was dressed Ignus had it pushed to the ground, his cock pushing into its ass without preparation. He thrust in and out, reveling for a moment in the cries of pain and pleasure it pulls from the human. But he needed something more.

With a press of the button he watched as the magic in the leather activated. Watching had been a treat but now he could feel the human’s body clench and twitch around his cock. Its back arched farther and farther and Ignus wondered if it was possible for the human’s spine to snap from this. Ignus too could feel the tingle of the shock on his cock which only served to arouse him more. Ignus came into the human once, but he was far from done.

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>>28775
Is the male Drider going to also have to fuck the human women to fertilize the eggs the female left inside her?

not sure if i'll ever write it but yeah I think that'd be a thing

Day 8 (continued)

The bedroom door opens with a soft knock, and two makeup artists enter, their faces carefully neutral. They carry their kits with them, the same pristine white cases containing the tools needed to transform the condemned into something presentable for her final moments. The stylist walks in behind them, carrying an expensive black dress and shoes on high heels.

Juliette's fingers tense against my wrist as she notices them, her body going rigid with fresh terror. The realization that her time with me is ending hits her like a physical blow. She presses her face into my shoulder, her breathing coming in short, panicked gasps.

"You don't have to look at them," I tell her softly, pulling her closer. "Just close your eyes for me."

I pull on the black slacks and dress shirt, my movements efficient and practiced as the makeup artists begin their work on Juliette. The first one kneels before her, gently wiping away the last traces of tears while the second brushes foundation across her pale skin. The stylist lays the black dress across the bed, her movements sharp and focused.

Juliette keeps her eyes closed as I dress, her breathing steady now but her fingers still clutching my hand. She seems to be memorizing the feeling of my skin against hers, committing every detail to memory. The stylist approaches with the dress, holding it up to inspect the cut and the drape of the fabric.

"Miss Moreau," she says, her voice crisp and businesslike.

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Day 8 (continued)

As Juliette approaches the table, four masked men appear from the crowd and approach her. Her body tenses as they grab her, pulling toward the table with mechanical precision. The cold metal bites into her skin as they lift her, her back arching instinctively. The platter wobbles slightly under her weight as they position her in the center. Her hands clench into fists at her sides.

The room erupts into applause. Their approval pounds in my ears as Juliette's eyes find mine. She's breathing fast now, her chest rising and falling rapidly. Sweat forms on her forehead, her toes curl against the polished metal of the platter.

Metal clicks against metal as the restraints tighten around her wrists, cold steel biting into flesh. She jerks involuntarily, a small gasp escaping her lips. The men work quickly and efficiently, securing each limb to anchor points built into the platter's edges. Her body tenses as the last restraint snaps into place.


One of the masked men steps forward with a silver carving knife, testing its edge with a practiced flourish. Sharp metal glides across delicate fabric as the first cut slices through the silk bodice of her gown. The sound of ripping material fills the room as the servers work with careful, methodical motions. Piece by piece, her clothing falls away until she lies completely exposed on the silver platter, the cold metal now pressing against every inch of her bare skin.

The crowd leans forward, hungry eyes drinking in every detail of her vulnerability. Someone inhales sharply when they notice the goosebumps rising across her exposed flesh, the way her nipples have hardened from the chill. Others whisper among themselves, pointing at specific parts of her body they find most appetizing.


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Day 8 (continued)

The guests erupt in applause that feels like hail against my skin as I pull away from Juliette, whose face now holds raw hope. She understands what I’m saying – that I might find a way to make this easier on her. Even as her wrists remain bound, she leans slightly toward me, as if physical distance might break the fragile connection.

Jeff stands, his wine glass raised high.

"Our host's kindness knows no bounds!" he announces, his voice carrying across the room.

The guests laugh at the irony, but I catch Juliette's slight smile – the first since she was brought down. She mouths "thank you" to me, so softly it's almost inaudible over the continued applause.

The servers approach Juliette again and her breath catches as the sharp edge presses against her skin. They work methodically, their practiced hands pinching her nipple to position it before the first incision. Blood wells up immediately, a bright red bead forming before gravity pulls it down her sternum.

She gasps through gritted teeth, her free hand clenching into a fist. Her gaze never leaves my face, as if searching for something that isn't there. The second cut is longer, releasing more blood as it peels the tissue away from her body. A drop falls onto her stomach, mingling with the sweat there.

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Epilogue

I leave the banquet hall as the guests descend on Juliette's body, their forks scraping against silver. My apartment is silent when I reach it. I pour whiskey, but don't drink. Instead, I open my laptop.

Subject: Season 3 - Initial Thoughts

My fingers hover over the keyboard. Behind my eyes, I see eight faces I don't know yet. Eight girls who are living their lives right now, unaware that in twelve months they'll be here. Unaware of me.

I close the laptop without typing a word.

The whiskey stays untouched. I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, and try not to think about whether one of them will have blonde hair and blue eyes. Whether I'll fall in love again.

Whether it will hurt less the next time, or more.

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Fantastic story series, strong premise and well written. Season 3 will find it hard to top this one.

Maybe some of the gear can be changed up to cater for other tastes as well as a bit more dominance from John when he's pissed off at a girl.

really great story

Megan and Melody’s Beach Banquet is no longer available at that link. Got another one?

>>26590
Here you go. :)
https://archiveofourown.org/works/28157838

>>20805
a really great story;

and the part one "Megan and Melody's Beach Banquet" is also really great

Not sure who bumped this or why but glad you enjoyed it! The version posted on Pixiv had the adjacent story that takes place in the restaurant kitchen edited in at the relevant places if you want some more meat-girls to enjoy 😁

Bethany dragged herself into school, her backpack feeling like a lead weight on her shoulders.

The morning had been a nightmare. The relentless cramping, the feverish chills, the horrifying evacuation of her bowels. It felt like she was shattering apart from the inside.

Clara hadn't even come with her, leaving shortly after breakfast to go home, feeling too sick for school.

Something was seriously wrong with her.

She felt a fresh wave of nausea, clamping a hand over her mouth as she leaned against the row of metal lockers. She squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for the dizzy spell to pass.

"Hey, you alright?"

Bethany looked up. It was Maya, Alex's rainbow-haired friend. The last person on earth Bethany wanted to see right now.

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"Where the hell have you been?" Peter demanded from the dining table the moment Bethany burst through the front door. "And what are you wearing?"

Bethany didn't answer. She just stood there, sobbing, her clothes clutched in her arms, her face a mess of tears and snot.

Alex sat at the table, dressed in a tight red dress and high heels. They looked at Bethany, a faint smile playing on their lips.

Peter's expression softened slightly as he saw his younger daughter's distress.

"What's wrong?" he asked cautiously.

"Nothing," Bethany choked out. "J-just let me go to bed."

Peter sighed.

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Alex rose early the next morning, humming softly to themself. They selected a simple pair of jeans and a tight black sweater, pulling their hair back into a neat ponytail. As they opened the bathroom door, they found Bethany still on the floor.

Bethany was a wreck. Her hair was matted with sweat, her face was pale and blotchy. Her arms were wrapped around her belly, which looked swollen for her slender frame.

Alex sighed quietly. Fuck. There it was. That feeling. Guilt. They didn't like it one bit.

"Oh dear," Alex murmured.

Bethany's eyes fluttered open at the sound of their voice.

"You look like you've had a rough night," they said.

Bethany didn't answer, just stared at them with a look of exhausted misery.

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Nice story. Not the stuff usually found at this board and therefore refreshing.

Really intense story! Nice job!

I'd have liked it even more if it was more erotic and maybe consensual. Can you imagine people doing this consensually for pleasure? Maybe the woman wants her partner to destroy her own womb. Maybe her partner has always fantasized about this and the woman reluctantly agrees and then gets off on the self-destruction. Maybe a trans guy has a girlfriend do this to him to seal that his cunt his useless. It's so much more wrong in different ways.