Gromet's PlazaDevoured Stories

Stew for Dinner

by Outcast

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© Copyright 2010 - Outcast - Used by permission

Storycodes: F/m; drug; kidnap; bond; tease; bodymod; surgery; vore; oral; nc/reluct; XXX

How stupid can you be?

I lift my head and stare at my naked body, tightly buckled and spread-eagled on a table. I had heard about grooming on the web; innocent people lured in and abused by perverts pretending to be friends. But that should only happen to young girls, not to a twenty-five year old man.

I am Steward McClure, 25 years old, as I just said, and I am a sports instructor, amateur boxer and closet fetishist.

I had met her in a chat room. I happened upon the site months ago, browsing randomly for some distraction to relieve my boredom. It dealt with the extremer side of BDSM and that was exactly what piqued my interest. Bondage and masochism have always attracted me – although I’ve never got actively involved – and I immersed myself into the chat room population with gusto. ‘BeelzeBabs’ she called herself, but later I learned that her real name was Barbara. She had fantasized about how she would torture me, while I would respond with stories how I would service her in any way she wished. I would whack off as I ‘felt’ her tying me down and whipping me to within an inch of my life.

In no time, we had become comfortable with each other and I knew that it was only time before one of us would make a move. It had been her: she asked me whether I was interested in turning our fantasies into reality. With my left hand rapidly stroking my tumescent cock, it had taken my right hand only a fraction of a second to confirm I was up for more.

Two weeks later, we met up in a pub …

… and the next thing I know I am strapped to the hard steel surface of one of those tables they use in ‘CSI’ to perform autopsies.

I wrestle with my bonds, pulling at the leather straps around my limbs, but the belts only dig deeper into my wrists and ankles without me getting any more room for manoeuvre.

“Struggle all you wish, my lovely Steward,” she says, appearing behind me, looking at my attempts to free myself. “It won’t help you, but I adore seeing your bulging muscles ripple underneath your smooth skin.”

She walks up to me and lets her hands wander along my broad shoulders, tracing my muscles. The sight of her firm latex clad breasts, hanging over my head, cheers me up no end, making me wonder whether I had overreacted earlier. Maybe she doesn’t mean me any harm after all. I lick my lips and a moment later, she kisses me roughly on the mouth, forcing her tongue deep into my throat. For a few minutes she keeps me busy, not so gently biting my lower lip.

“Why did you knock me out with drugs, Mistress?” I ask as she pulls away. “I would have done anything you told me to.”

“I’m sorry about that, boi, but it is essential you can’t identify who I am and where I live. We’re hundreds of miles away from where we met, so you’ve no chance of ever finding me, should I release you.”

“Do you remember our chat of two months ago?” She continues. “We talked about cannibalism: me slow-roasting you over a fire, an iron skewer running you through from arse to throat.”

I do remember; it had been one of her most extreme fantasies and it had perturbed and aroused me in equal measure. As I described to her the feeling of the spit penetrating my body and my roasting skin crackling in the flames, I had cum ferociously.

Her bringing it up now scares me shitless, though. Surely, she doesn’t plan to roast me like that?

“We both know that that fantasy is nonsense, of course. You’d die from the spike up your behind long before the fire could take hold.”

Barbara teases my lips with a massive ball gag and, somewhat reassured that she is not going to slow-roast me, I obediently open my mouth, allowing her to slip it inside and tie it behind my head.

“I don’t want to kill you, you’ll be glad to hear. So I have decided on another way to taste your flesh.”

A trolley with surgical tools is pulled up to the table.

Oh Fuck! She’s going to cut me up!

I frantically struggle with the leather belts again, but other than my head, I am unable to much of my body.

“Don’t worry, I’m pretty handy with a scalpel, you’ll see.”

She puts a knife on the inside of my thigh, three inches away from my groin, and with a swift confident motion, cuts through my skin all the way round my leg. Almost detached from reality, I notice how my head shoots up and my eyes bulge in shock, but my scream is barely audible past the big gag that fills my mouth. My distress doesn’t stop Barbara: she smoothly strips back the skin to the top of my leg, carefully dabbing up the small amounts of blood that appear.

“Just bite on the gag if the pain gets too bad, it will be over quickly. Unfortunately, I can’t give you a pain killer; it would spoil the meat.”

The razor-sharp scalpel is already cutting through the muscle and tendons at the top of my right leg. A couple of big blood vessels are tied off before being sliced though; the ligaments around my hip joint follow suit rapidly. Suddenly, half unconscious with pain and shock, I see how my captor pulls my whole leg away from my body. Humming calmly, the surgeon folds the flaps of skin over the empty hip socket and closes the wound with a row of neat stitches.

“That should heal with hardly a scar,” she jokes, while she dextrously skins the amputated leg under the eyes of its previous owner. “That is a lovely piece of meat, my boi. You have taken good care of your body; there is hardly a trace of fat to be seen.”

She holds up my leg, the mass of firm red muscle surrounding the bones, only my foot, still in its skin, is recognisable as human.

“I’m having a few friends – female friends – over later, and we’ll have roast ‘Leg of Man’ for diner tonight. Organic and locally sourced.”


For at least the hundredth time, I lift my head and look at the place where my right leg should be lying. I still can’t fully grasp that it is gone, that I am now an amputee, that I will forever be missing a leg. Barbara didn’t even leave a stump that would allow them to fit a prosthetic limb. At least the pain, that all-devouring agony I had felt as she cut through my flesh, has died down to a more bearable level.

A great smell fills the room, making my stomach rumble. The smell of roasting meat, spicy and smoky meat. My meat, I know.

The thought of those women cutting, biting and chewing my lean trained muscles, ingesting my flesh … immediately my nine-incher begins to swell.


I’m semi-hard all night, unable to sleep partially because of the pain but mostly because of my permanent hard-on and. With my wrists bound, I have no way to get release and the desire to cum almost drives me mad.

Relief comes in the shape of my tormentor. Barbara enters the room the next morning dressed head-to-toe in tight black leather and the sight is enough to encourage my cock back to full hardness. Her lips envelop the organ and she languidly sucks it deep down into her throat. Groaning into the gag, I buck my hips, wanting ram it deeper and get more stimulation, but she backs off just enough to leave me hanging for longer and longer, until I let out a frustrated high-pitched moan. Then she finally allows me to cum and I shoot harder and more than at any time in my life. Barbara swallows every drop, sucking my cock hard until I have nothing more to give.

My new-found bliss doesn’t last long.

“You tasted great last night, Steward. You taste like a mix between veal and venison. All my friends were full of praise.”

I don’t know what to say: ‘You’re welcome?’ It’s not as if I had chosen to donate the leg. Before I can answer though, she continues, “Tonight’s diner needs to be marinated for several hours, so the sooner we get going the better.” The sentence is accompanied by the sound of the trolley.

I try to scream in panic, but the ball gag holds back all sound. It wouldn’t have made any difference anyway, as the scalpel is all too soon pushing against the skin of my left leg. The pain is just as bad as it had been less than twenty-four hours ago. The surgeon’s hands quickly make their movements as she slices through my skin and flesh. The agony is unbearable when she cuts the big bundle of nerves that runs through my leg. Breathing rapidly through my nose, I try to deal with it, but as my leg is pulled away from my body, the pain just becomes too much and I mercifully black out.

I wake from my nightmare … until I raise my head and sees how my body ends at the hips. Not a nightmare after all. No legs, not even stumps, just the angular shape of my pelvis highlighting the absence of the limbs.

“You took your time regaining consciousness, boi.” Barbara is standing near the door, watching me. “I expected better of you. You pretended to be hardier when you chatted to me online.”

Barbara turns away.

“I’ve prepared your meat for tonight,” she says, turning towards me holding a large serving tray. On it lie two dozen perfect steaks: bright red, dripping in blood and marinade. “You’ll be the guest of honour at our barbecue tonight – well, part of you will be. Twelve Dominatrices, all eager to get a taste of prime Man beef. Some of them will probably want to see the donor, so you could be in for some fun.”


She was right, late that evening my room fills with women, mostly dressed in leather and latex, tight, black, shiny textures showing their curves and shapes. Despite my pain and anguish, I immediately get aroused by the knowledge that these gorgeous strong women are here to see me. The knowledge that they had just eaten me, grilled my body and swallowed my meat, is stronger than the panic I feel about losing my legs.

A gloved hand runs over my six-pack and chest, playing with my nipples. Immediately, my tool is pulsating from the blood rushing in. A riding crop slashes at the engorged tool, making me squeal into the gag.

“Try to avoid the leg wounds, they are still healing,” Barbara admonishes her guests, “I don’t want him to die from gangrene.”

“He is deliciously lean and succulent.” The women ignore me completely, treating me as if I am a dead animal in a slaughterhouse.

“Can I buy some of the meat? A piece of rump steak, perhaps.” A particularly curvaceous Dom has pushed her hands under my body and is squeezing my arse, as if to test melons for ripeness. “I’ve got some good friends whom I would love to treat to some good Man steak.”

Barbara declines the offer, saying that she needs my body all for her own; a remark that makes me proud and fills me with dread at the same time. How much more meat will she cut from me?

“I’ll settle for desert then,” the Dom says, as she licks the length of my hard dick. One of my balls disappears into her mouth and she sucks it as if it were candy. I slowly relax under her ministrations until she sinks her teeth into the testicle, almost biting it off. I fight back the tears and the scream that sticks in my throat. When she swallows the other one I am ready for the assault, but that doesn’t make it any easier.

The women file from the room, leaving me rock-hard. My bruised swollen balls still full with cum. I badly need to shoot my load to take the pressure off my painful plums, but the rest of the night I am left to nurse my rampant hard-on.


Last night I had wondered how much more meat Barbara was going to cut from me. Her appearance in my room, pushing the familiar trolley, tells me that my ordeal is not finished yet. She kisses me tenderly on the forehead.

“Brace yourself,” she whispers. “Today is going to be tough on you, but it will get easier from then on.”

I am shivering as she pushes the scalpel against my upper arm. The loss of another limb is inevitable, but it is the imminent pain that I fear most. I watch the knife slice through my armpit, detaching my biceps from my shoulder joint. The pain is overwhelming, but I force myself to look on and focus on the progress of the operation. The tendons snap audibly as the scalpel carves through them, and suddenly my arm falls away. The stitches that close my skin are almost a relief, as I know that I have survived another of the agonising ‘operations’.

“That is one …”


Mistress Barbara calmly walks around the table and positions herself next to my other arm.

Oh no! Oh no, no, no! Not my other arm too. Not my last limb!

I shake my head wildly to stop her cutting me again, but it is useless. That wrist is still tied and I can’t pull my arm out of the way from her sharp instruments.

If she cuts off my left arm too, I will be completely helpless. No limbs, no stumps even. Just a rump and a head, powerless to do anything.

I try to scream when the scalpel opens my skin. Watching my last remaining freedom being cut away from my body, I am sobbing in despair and panting in excitement. I am harder than I have ever been in my life when Barbara removes the last ligament that connects my arm to my body. I am more aroused than I imagined possible, knowing that I am now a quadruple amputee.

As my mistress leaves the room, carrying my flesh, I am at last free from the belts that held me bound to the table. There is no more need for straps now; I won’t be able to flee or resist. I lift my head and look at my tool, standing swollen above my limbless body. I am so horny after the pain and the despair of today’s double amputation, that my balls may burst from their huge load.

And I will never be able to masturbate again …


By evening time my erection is enlarged to a monstrous size. The gorgeous smell of cooking meat has been wafting through my room and I am certain that it is the smell of my flesh being prepared. The smell of my arms’ meat boiling, roasting or grilling. I imagine the beautiful women who will be feasting on me tonight.

“It is your last night with me, Steward.” She has quietly slipped into the room with me. “Tomorrow you are leaving me, so I prepared a farewell meal.”

I am feeling ambivalent about that news. I do want to leave here alive, but the past three days have been the most stimulating days of my life; days so hot that they will stay with me forever – and not just because they have cost me all my limbs.

 “You enjoyed the past days too, didn’t you?” Her voice sounds anxious. “You wouldn’t have let me go ahead with the amputations, if you had known about my plans. But now that it has been done … you don’t hate me, do you?”

I would like to tell her that the past days were the worst days of my life, but the best ones too, so I don’t hate her, really. She hasn’t removed the gag, though, so I cannot reassure her.

A kiss on my forehead and she jumps up to leave the room. Soon she returns, carrying a plate.

“I’m having stew for dinner, Steward. Stew made from you, Stew. I couldn’t think of anything more appropriate. Unfortunately, I cannot give you anything, not with that gag in your mouth.”
My empty stomach rumbles as her watch her feast on my flesh, while every now and then she tells me how great I taste or how tender and soft my meat is. With every spoonful that I see vanish into her mouth, my tool swells. With every remark my excitement grows. But when she has finished her plate, she kisses my engorged organ, before walking away, leaving me to suffer another night in the highest state of arousal.


“This is your last day here, boi. I will make my last harvest this morning, before we say goodbye and I drop you off to have your wounds checked out.”

My heart skips a beat when I hear she is going to operate again. Somehow I had assumed that the amputation of all my limbs was the end of it, but obviously I was wrong. I am not sure whether I like the idea or not.

“First though, I will give you your reward for the nourishment you have already provided me with.”

After wetting my cock with her tongue, Barbara climbs onto the table next to me and I can see that her latex outfit leaves a strategically placed opening around her crotch. On her knees, she straddles the remains of my body and in a single forceful push, she skewers herself onto my steel rod, until it has rammed into her to the hilt. That one motion is almost enough to make me cum. Slowly, she starts to tease my hypersensitive tool flexing her muscles, not enough to make me shoot, too much to let me relax and if it hadn’t been for the gag, I would have screamed for her to let me cum after two days of near constant arousal. Her movements get longer and harder, our synchronous breathing gets deeper and faster, until we both climax, groaning and screaming in unison.

Without a word she gets up and, grabbing my shoulder and my side, rolls me over onto my front. As a limbless torso, there is nothing I can do to stop her, had I wanted to.

“I’m going to administer a spinal block as an anaesthetic today. The operation I have planned would be too painful without it.”

I feel the sharp sting of an injection in my back, and my body slowly loses all sensation below the nipples. I see how Barbara grabs a testicle and twists it hard to determine by the lack of reaction that I am indeed numb. My mouth goes dry when she places the scalpel just above the groin, fearing that she will cut off my cock. Instead, she slices my skin around my belly to the tips of my pelvis, along my sides and across my back.

“The only remaining muscle to harvest is the rump steak. In other words, your stomach muscles and your bum.”

Without pain, I watch in horror and fascination as she splits open my belly and fillets my stomach muscles away all the way up to my ribs. Her knives and scalpels cut deeper and deeper into my body, dissecting away bowel and bladder. The big blood vessels are stapled shut and cut through. I know this is madness, she is removing my abdomen just below my belly button … and yet I am aroused as I watch it happen. I am turned back onto my front and I hear how a handsaw crunches through my spine, the last connection between me and my lower body. Looking over my shoulder, I see her lift away my arse and pelvis, putting it down on a table to the side.

“That is the last bit,” she says. “You’ll be glad to hear that I have amputated your lower body just below all the essential organs, so you should be able to live like this well into your old age.”

She closes up the gaping hole in my lower end, covering it in a large flap of skin that she preserved in the initial cut.

“I’ve had to remove part of your bowel and your bladder, so you will need some reconstructive surgery to create a new exit. You’ve also lost your manhood, I am afraid, but after the sex we just had, anything would have been a disillusion anyway.”

She kisses me and leaves with her new stash of meat.


I am lying on the backseat of my car in the car park of the pub we met in. Barbara has left a rear door open and I am waiting for a passerby to ask for help. In the dim streetlight I look at what is left of my body: an armless torso ending abruptly an inch below the belly button. Without legs, I will never walk again. Without arms, I will never be able to feed or wash myself, scratch my nose or eat unaided. Without my manhood …

I know it is wrong, but the sight of my mutilated, helpless body is enough to drive me mad with desire. I desperately need to cum to take my mind of the horniness that the past few days have caused, but I will never be able to shoot another load again.

I am now convicted to a lifetime of permanent arousal.



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