Donna sat alone in the beautiful room, waiting for the staff to finish with her daughter. The white marble floor gleamed with the rays of the sun through the elegant windows. Comfortable sofas and chairs were strategically arranged near vanities, so one could admire their makeovers. Fresh flowers gave their scent, and for all the world, Donna found it hard to believe that this was, in actuality, her prison.

Glancing in a nearby mirror, the woman had to admire her pretty face; the expertly applied makeup was second to none. At 41-years-old, she looked fantastic. Of course, the past year of clean eating and exercise certainly helped to keep her toned and healthy. And whatever the hell they were injecting her with showed amazing results. Dark hair, wavy and long, had been professionally styled. How Donna wished she could revel in her revitalized appearance just a bit longer. Still, she turned her face at different angles in the reflective glass, enjoying her own beauty.

For all the pampering she had received that morning–the massage, a mani/pedi, and the makeover–none of it was for her. Donna had been dolled up to impress the guests, but Stacy was the woman who would be praised. In this house, it was all about Stacy.

The woman's eyes went to the black collar locked around her throat, a device meant to keep those owned by the Mistress under control. Once upon a time her neck had been adorned with the finest of jewels. Now, Donna wore only the collar. This was the price of theft. Or, more accurately, this was half the price of theft.

A side door opened, bringing Donna back to the present. Into the powder room walked her daughter. Jillian, like her mother, wore a simple white bathrobe, slippers, and an identical collar. The 21-year-old girl looked beautiful, her pretty face nicely made up. The blond hair, straight and long, was elegantly braided down her back.

"Mother," Jillian began, as a guard closed the door behind her, "do you know what they did to me in there?"

"Yes dear," Donna answered, thinking about what they had done to her own body–in particular, the shaving and final hormone injection directly into her breasts. "Same as they did to me, I'd expect."

"I've never been so humiliated!" Jillian continued, crossing her arms, then wincing and uncrossing them. "Ugh, my boobs are so uncomfortable! You have to do something, mother. Make a deal with her. They can't do this to us!"

Of course, Donna had tried all she could to secure their release. Stacy, it turned out, was not the negotiating type. Jasper, Donna's husband, had a debt to pay. The only thing more valuable to the man than money and his own life was the welfare of his family. Stacy allowed him to live, and even insisted that he keep the money he'd embezzled. But the price of Jasper's betrayal would nonetheless be steep: that of his wife and daughter.

"Father would never let this happen to us," the girl went on. "I refuse to believe that he'd sell us out to some–"

A knock at the door startled Jillian mid-sentence. Opening, in walked the Mistress of the Mansion. Beautiful as always, Stacy dressed the way Donna once had, in only the best. A red blouse and black shirt showed off her curves. The expensive pumps on her feet clicked as she stepped into the room, and a grin played on her face as she looked over the two women. At 40-years-old herself, the blond still looked amazing.

"Hello, ladies," Stacy greeted mother and daughter. "You're both looking lovely today."

"You're not really going to do this, are you?" Jillian asked. "Look, I get teaching my father a lesson and all. You've kept us here for a year, and we've done all you asked, right? But we had nothing to do with your money being stolen. We're innocent!"

"Innocent, hm?" pondered their owner, sarcastically. "You two lived the highlife for years off what your daddy was taking. A simple accountant providing the lifestyle you all led? Right… You're hardly innocent, honey."

"Look, my dad'll pay you back!" the girl told Stacy, frustrated. "Just tell him what he owes, and he'll–"

"Shush!" the Mistress silenced her. "The price has already been paid, you know that. All that's left for you to do is be a good girl today. I promise, it'll be so much easier if you cooperate."

"All's ready, ma'am," came the voice of a guard, poking her head into the room.

"Well then," Stacy clapped her hands. "Looks like it's time already. Right this way, ladies."

Donna and her daughter glanced at each other before reluctantly following their owner from the room. Two guards–or "staff", as Stacy referred to them–accompanied the women as they walked the main level of the luxurious mansion. Taken past opulent rooms and grand halls, the women made their way to a very special place. Toward the back of the house stood two metal doors. Pushing through these, the guards held them open for Stacy and her two charges.

There, standing around the perimeter of the industrial kitchen, were the many guests of the Mistress. Their chatter died quickly as the trio entered, all eyes falling on Donna and Jillian.

The size of the audience shocked the two women, but their eyes soon wandered about the rest of the room. In the middle of the floor stood two identical metal tables, side by side. Abnormally large ovens lined two of the walls, one after another. A few workstations were set up, the counters topped with all manner of tools, utensils, oils, herbs, and various ingredients. Two odd machines stood along another wall, though the women didn't pay them much attention at the time.

"May I present to you," Stacy called out to her friends, stepping before them, "Donna Richmond and her daughter, Jillian. Wife and daughter of Jasper Richmond, my thieving, former accountant. Some of you may even be acquainted, I believe."

Murmurs from the crowd filled the kitchen. The women stood awkwardly before them all, donning only their bathrobes and slippers. By contrast, most of the guests were dressed to the hilt: fancy suits, beautiful dresses, expensive shoes, and flashy jewelry. Indeed, as Donna scanned the overly-dressed individuals, she recognized a few with whom she and her husband had hobnobbed.

"Today," Stacy continued, "the Richmonds settle their accounts. Jasper's family was turned over to me one year ago, payment and punishment for biting the hand that fed him. During that time, these women have been trained and conditioned to become the main course at our little New Year's Eve party."

Soft applause arose, the rich folk glancing at one another and beaming with smiles. Then, into the kitchen strode two more women, each dressed professionally, complete with white chef's coats.

"Ah, the cooks of the day!" Stacy announced, gesturing to the newest arrivals. "Here to wow us with their culinary talents."

The applause grew louder, and the chefs gave a little wave as they came forth.

"They're all yours, ladies," Stacy grinned.

The cooks turned their attention to the robed women. One, younger and plump, her hair dyed pink, took Jillian; the other, older, gray-haired and thin, approached Donna. The two guards closed the kitchen doors, each holding in her hand a remote that corresponded to the compliance collars. If there was to be any trouble, they were prepared.

"My name's Ruth," the older chef introduced herself, standing before Donna. "I'll be your cook today."

Not knowing how to respond to such a greeting, Donna simply averted her eyes to the floor.

Reaching down, Ruth took hold of the belt tied at Mrs. Richmond's waist. "We're gonna take off this robe, alright?"

"Hi, I'm Jules," the younger cook was saying to Jillian. "Ready to get started?"

"I can't believe this…" Jillian shook her blond head, as the chef grabbed her belt and started untying it. "This is so wrong!"

"Stealing my money," Stacy countered, "that's also wrong."

"But, I didn't steal your money!" Jillian snapped.

"Well, you certainly did enjoy it, didn't you?" Stacy asked.

"Just, hold on!" the girl whined at Jules, and grasped the front of her robe before it could fall open.

"Don't be shy, dear," the Mistress laughed. "You're among friends. Act more like your mother, won't you?"

The older cook had opened Donna's robe and was now slipping it down her shoulders. Pulling away the garment, Mrs. Richmond was left standing naked for all to see. She didn't resist, only closed her eyes and drew a deep breath. Yearning to cover herself, Donna wouldn't give Stacy the satisfaction of seeing her so humiliated; she kept her arms firmly at her sides.

"Oh, my god," Jillian whimpered, averting her eyes from the sight of her nude mother.

"Let's get these slippers, too," Ruth said, bending down and removing the house shoes from Donna's feet.

Low voices could be heard, the audience commenting to one another. 41-years-of-age, and Donna looked phenomenal. At medium height, she was lean, fit, and hairless. Immediately, attention fell to her bosom. The two large breasts, round and swollen, sagged not in the slightest. Red nipples stood at attention, hard and glistening with a bit of wetness. The woman's tummy was tight and toned, and between her legs was a smooth mound. Firm thighs led down to solid calves, which ended in small feet. Faint traces of veins were on the tops, and her red toes, thin and dainty, matched her fingernails.

"Look at you, Mrs. Richmond!" Stacy beamed, taking in the sight. "What a specimen. There's nothing wrong with aged meat, is there?"

"Meatgirls are like a fine wine," chimed in Mr. Miller, from the crowd. "Maturity allows for the development of a full, savory flavor."

"Indeed," agreed Mrs. Miller, his wife. "If only I had a body like hers at that age!"

Beneath her makeup, Donna was blushing at the attention. Still, she stood showing all and forcing herself to put on a brave face.

"No, stop it!" came Jillian's snapping voice. Still clutching her robe, she twisted away from the prying hands of her chef.

"Would you like to control that daughter of yours?" Stacy asked Donna. "Or does she deserve another zap?"

"Please, Jillian," her mother asked, staring ahead. "Just do as they say. It'll… It'll be easier."

"But, mother," the girl pouted, "this is sick!"

"It's not sick," Stacy countered, rolling her eyes. "It's fine dining, my dear. Now, listen to your mother. Mother always knows best."

"May I?" asked the plump, pink-haired cook, again taking the lapels of Jillian's robe when she settled down.

Scoffing, the girl reluctantly released her hold on the garment, knowing it was either compliance or another terrible shock. The chef opened the front of the robe and then took a step behind. Slowly, she pulled the garment away from the embarrassed girl's shoulders, then down and off her arms. Jillian couldn't help but cover her bulging breasts and squeeze together her knees in shame.

"There we go," Stacy chuckled. "Was that so bad, honey?"

"And your slippers?" asked Jules, coming around to her front.

Jillian kicked them off her feet, and the chef retrieved the footwear. Much taller than her mother, the blond was also a bit more beefy. Still in ideal shape, the audience gazed at her admirable physique. All was firm and fit, her breasts bulging from behind her arms. On her trim tummy was a thin tattoo of a dragon, slithering about her navel. The legs of the girl were shapely and strong, ending in large, pretty feet. Her long toes and fingers were painted in the same bright red as her mother's.

Again, discussions were had amongst the crowd, as they looked over the second nude woman. It was quite a novelty having both mother and daughter on the menu. Some preferred Donna, others the younger Jillian. A few planned to sample both.

"What do you think?" asked Stacy, gesturing to her undressed charges. "Don't they look delicious? Each has spent the last year preparing for this very day. Exercise, diet, and most importantly, my special hormonal treatments. I'd say they've plumped up in all the right places, no?"

"They're amazing," came Ben Bennet's voice, himself a known connoisseur of longpig.

"You simply must share your treatment plan with us," said a woman. "Never have I seen such specimens."

"A trade secret, Ms. Robins," Stacy tsk-tsked.

"Those breasts!" a middle-aged, bloated Mr. Fargus drooled. "Deserving of an award, I should say."

"That means so much, Mr. Fargus," the Mistress smiled. "Turn around, girls. Show everyone your pretty rumps."

Donna pivoted herself around, with Jillian reluctantly following her mother's lead. Round, firm, gorgeous glutes greeted the guests. The younger Richmond girl's bottom was a bit larger than her mother's, which was a tight little package.

"I'd eat that ass raw!" shouted James Rendleton, to a few chuckles.

"Now, now," Stacy grinned. "We don't eat meatgirls raw. We're not monsters."

"You are fucking monsters," hissed Jillian, under her breath.

"Chefs," the mistress called, "we better get this party started. I'd like to serve dinner at nine."

The nude women were led toward the tables in the middle of the room. Slowly, they padded over, their eyes darting about–from the guests, to the chefs, to Stacy, to the metal tables, to the ovens. The crowd drew in closer, everyone angling for the best view.

Ruth patted the table tops. "Hop on up, ladies," she ordered. "Hands and knees, please."

Donna was the first to obey. Placing a knee up on the table, she pulled herself onto its surface. More slowly, Jillian approached the table beside her mother, but hesitated crawling up.

"Do you need help?" asked Jules, ready to assist.

"Don't touch me," Jillian spat, and slowly followed her mother's example, lifting herself up.

The metal was cold against the women's skin, and both were beyond humiliated. On all fours and trying not to look, they were always in each other's peripheral vision. Jillian, especially, did her best to try and not notice. But other worries also plagued the women, such as their now-aching breasts, and wondering what horrible fate might await them.

The cooks now went to retrieve the two machines standing along the far wall of the kitchen. Mother and daughter watched as the contraptions were wheeled over and positioned beside each table. The main bodies of the devices were rather large and square, and hanging from the sides were two elongated cups, each attached by a hose.

"What are those?" Jillian asked, though she was sure she knew the answer.

"The chefs'll be whipping up something special for us today," Stacy explained to her guests. "It's a new recipe. A cream-based soup to enjoy before the entrée."

The machines fired up when the cooks flipped their switches, a low drone filling the kitchen. Unhooking the cups, they brought them under the hanging breasts of the Richmonds. Even now, their nipples were dripping onto the tables.

"Hmm," Donna stifled a gasp, as the first cup was placed to her breast and suctioned on.

"No…" Jillian's eyes were wide, watching as Jules brought a cup toward her. Wincing, she scrunched her eyes as it latched on. "Ohh!"

The other suction cups were attached, and milk soon began running through the clear tubes. Collection buckets within the machines received the women's pent up liquid. Thip, thip, thip went the cups, as they squeezed and sucked at the teats.

"Ugh!" Jillian groaned, in disbelief at what was happening to her. "Y-you sick fucks. How can you…do this?"

The girl may have been angry, but the sensation itself was rather pleasurable. Their breasts had been tender all that day, especially after the final injection–swollen and heavy with lactation. Relief was slowly finding them now, as the fluid was drawn out. On hands and knees, the cups dangling from their breasts, mother and daughter were milked.

The cooks continued working while the machines did their job. Taking bottles of oil, they began pouring the liquid over the backs of the women.

"What're you doing?" Jillian asked, as she felt the oil dripping down her sides.

"Time for basting," replied the pink-haired Jules.

Out came the brushes, and the chefs started stroking the backs of the women, spreading about the oil. Over their shoulders, down their arms, and then back to their fabulous bottoms, the cooks drizzled and brushed along their bodies. Muscles became defined under the lights, glistening with oil. Mr. Fargus even laughed that he could see his reflection in the roundness of their rumps.

Thip, thip, thip went the machines, draining their mammaries while the cooks basted the meaty thighs. Their calves followed, before their feet were caressed by the soft bristles. And finally, their undersides were coated: breasts, ribs, tummies, and hips.

"Already looking yummy," Stacy observed, keeping a close eye on all. The mistress, after all, was no stranger to the kitchen, herself.

So focused were the women on their abused nipples, that they didn't notice the cooks behind them, lubricating the meat thermometers. The insertion plugs of the instruments were tapered, the thin tips expanding wide before again thinning down to a stem. With the devices prepared, the chefs parted the cheeks of the unsuspecting women.

"What're you doing?" Jillian yelled, looking behind.

Donna glanced back as well, though she didn't say a word.

"Just relax," the older chef told them. "This won't take but a minute."

Jillian's anus was pink and small, and Jules placed the thermometer against it. Slowly, she ran the tip about, making sure the girl was nice and oiled.

"What is that thing!" gasped the girl, still trying to see.

"They do hate the meat thermometers," Stacy joked with the crowd.

"What?" Jillian choked. "M-meat thermometers? What do you mean?"

The gray-haired cook lubed up Donna, thankful that her person wasn't the difficult one. Mrs. Richmond had a pretty brown sphincter that shone nicely in the oil. Ruth circled it with the end of the plug before gently applying pressure.

"Ohh," Donna exhaled, as the thermometer started to enter.

"Please," Jillian was whining, next to her mother. The cold metal bulb massaged her virgin anus. "N-not in there…"

"Oh, it's not so bad," the pink-haired cook said, trying to soothe the girl. "Relax. Just relax."

How the guests enjoyed the spectacle before them, many maneuvering around to try and see the women's rumps. Stacy made small talk and answered curious questions while she watched the show. Most enjoyable, however, were all the compliments paid to her concerning the conditioning methods.

"You're doing great," Ruth whispered to Donna. The device was steadily sliding inside. "Almost there."

"Huh," breathed Mrs. Richmond, as she took the plug. She was more experienced than her daughter, and the device faced less resistance. "Huh. Huh."

Meanwhile, Jules was being exceptionally gentle, rubbing Jillian's hole and making sure it was plenty slippery. Still, the girl fussed, and hearing her mother panting nearby didn't help matters. Around the pink muscle went the thermometer, until the cook finally set the tip against the center of her ring.

"No," Jillian objected, as Jules gently pressed the device against her. "I… I don't like it."

Donna could hear her obstinate daughter beside her; however, the sensation of the thermometer, along with her aching nipples, kept the woman focused on her own body. The thickest part of the bulb was just squeezing past her anus, and then it was sucked deep inside.

"Huuhhh!" Donna sighed, her little feet lifting from the table, toes pointed, as she was filled.

"There we go," the gray-haired chef patted her bottom. "All done."

Still, Jules worked on Jillian. The thermometer progressed, though there was an abundance of whimpering and whining.

"Doing great," the young chef encouraged, despite the protests.

"Eehhh," griped Jillian. "Please. I don't want it."

The cook let the device slowly back out. Then, after a moment of recovery, she pressed it once more against the girl. It entered more easily now, penetrating the tight hole.

"Eeh!" Jillian cried at the odd sensation.

As it squeezed in, Jules guided the thermometer with just enough pressure. Wider, wider, and finally, the metal bulb fully entered the girl.

"Fuuuck!" Jillian groaned, her fingers clawing at the table.

"Good job!" smiled her chef, tapping the dial left positioned at her hole.

By now, both women felt a tingling between their legs. The stimulation of their nipples, combined with the filling of their rectums, had indeed made them both desirous. However, the true culprit was the hormone injections, designed to enhance the libido. And so, the two were kept for a few more minutes on hands and knees while they were drained. Mother and daughter had tuned out most of what the guests were saying during their ordeal, but now the comments came floating back to their ears. Over the humming and sucking of the milking machines, the crowd was positively enjoying themselves.

"The containers are just about full," the older chef told Jules. "Let's give 'em a break."

The two cooks, wiping their hands of oil, came around to their respective person. Grasping the cups, they pulled them from the breasts with a suctioning pop. The room grew more quiet when the machines were turned off, and the crowd couldn't wait to see what was next. The Richmond women were left there, breathing hard and their nipples like rocks.

"I'll empty these," the pink-haired Jules offered, hanging up the cups before removing the two bottles of collected milk.

"Thanks, dear," smiled Ruth. "I'll get the pans ready."

"Now we're getting to the fun part," Stacy informed the guests, eagerly.

The gray-haired cook had stepped away, but quickly returned holding a large pan. Placing it on Donna's table, she went to retrieve another. Soon, both tables were topped by these round saucers.

"In you two go," the chef said, patting the surface of the pans. "On your backs, please.

The pans were set at the foot of the table behind each woman. Donna brought her bottom back and sat herself down into the cold pan. Jillian watched her mother, though didn't move herself. Slowly, Donna continued, lying back. Her head rested on the lip of the pan, but her legs were still on the table.

"You too, dear," Ruth told Jillian. "Come on."

Sneering at the woman, Jillian did as ordered, positioning herself as her mother had. By now, the milk bottles had been emptied and replaced. Jules returned with lengths of rope and handed a few to her partner. It was time for the next phase.

"Yes," James Rendleton hissed, front and center amongst the guests. "Truss these birdies up!"

"Wait," Jillian let out, looking at her owner. The younger cook took the girl's arm, bending it at the elbow. "Please, Miss Stacy? Don't do this."

"Oh, am I 'Miss Stacy' now?" asked the Mistress, having never received an ounce of courtesy from Jillian. "My, oh my. I finally get some respect."

The cooks proceeded with tying both mother and daughter in the same position: forearm bound to bicep, calf bound to thigh. The women were pulled to the middle of their pans–which contained them nicely–and the saucers were maneuvered toward the center of the tables. The compliance collars were then finally unlocked and removed by their owner. Frog tied, the two were left at their most vulnerable yet. They glanced at each other, lying side by side, and Donna wished she could do something for her poor daughter.

The chefs came to stand between the legs of the women, looking down at the prized female bits. Both mounds were smooth and soft. Jillian's cook, bottle in hand, drizzled a bit of oil over her privates, before passing the bottle to her co-worker.

"Ugh!" groaned Jillian, as the hands of Jules touched her.

Donna was likewise drizzled, and her cook began rubbing in the oil. Their inner thighs were massaged, before the chefs slid closer to their lips. Delicately, they caressed and coated the outer labia.

"Oh, my god," whimpered Jillian. "I can't believe this is happening."

"I'm sorry we got you into this, honey," her mother offered. "I should have stopped your father when I found out."

Already, the heaviness was returning in their breasts, swelling up once more in discomfort. Soon, their nipples were glistening, again dribbling with milk.

"Of course, you should have stopped him!" Jillian shook her head. "And he gets off scott free. It's not fair!"

"Oh, your father's not getting off easy, I assure you," Stacy grinned. "You were the apple of his eye, my dear."

"Yes, you are," Donna told her daughter, agreeing with Stacy. "He loves you more than anything."

"Oh no," Jillian whimpered, distracted by the sight of the chefs unhooking the cups from the milking machines.

Ruth and Jules turned the contraptions back on, and that dull hum again filled the room. Mother and daughter watched helplessly, as the women brought the cups toward them.

"Please," Jillian begged. "No more…"

Positioning the cups over the leaking breasts, the chefs touched them to the hard nipples. Sucking on, the machines mercilessly got to work.

"Uh!" Jillian gasped, as her sensitive teats were once again rhythmically being squeezed.

"Huhh!" breathed her mother, the sensation both wonderful and agonizing.

"Two more bottles should be enough," Ruth said. "You ladies are doing just fine."

It was now time to prepare the most delectable of meats. Again between their legs, the cooks gently touched the women. Jillian closed her knees, but Jules sternly opened the legs of the girl. Caressing the outer labia, the chefs then slowly pulled apart the lips. Inside both women, everything was wet and pink. Sweet nectar began trickling from each, creeping down over the dials of the thermometers and into the pans.

"Those filets look amazing," Stacy told the guests, after stepping closer to inspect the Richmonds. "Naturally marinated and everything!"

The crowd loomed ever closer, everyone eager to see.

"Ohh," Jillian let out, as the fingers of the plump chef ran over her slippery lips.

"Mmm," softly moaned her mother, as Ruth likewise touched her.

Thip, thip, thip continued the machines, drawing the white, creamy milk down the tubes. Their bulging breasts started feeling some relief as they were pumped.

Jillian's vagina was young and fresh, her lips small and compact. Jules softly worked her fingers over the sensitive flesh, moving a bit further inside with every pass. The girl was warm and wet, and the chef slowly started to insert two fingers inside the tight hole.

"Ohh," Jillian unintentionally moaned. The sensation of being entered felt better now than it ever had.

Donna's larger vaginal lips glistened, and Ruth could already envision how deliciously they're crisp up. Mrs. Richmond was breathing hard, her cupped breasts rising and falling. Softly, she was petted, and the woman secretly yearned for something to enter her. Soon, her wish was granted, as Ruth's two fingers found their way inside.

"Oh, oh!" Donna panted, feeling extra tight due to the thermometer packing her insides.

"Very good," smiled the gray-haired chef, the fingers of her other hand slowly pushing back the skin of Donna's hood. Large and engorged stood her pink nub. "There we are. "A beautiful clitoris."

Likewise, her daughter was being so exposed, as the younger cook unveiled Jillian's smaller bud. Both cooks were moving their fingers inside the women–slowly, methodically massaging. There was a technique, the goal of which was to encourage the production of natural juices.

The guests were enthralled by the scene. Few had ever seen a live preparation, let alone one as entertaining as this! Some drooled over the plump breasts, others over the thighs or rumps. One man couldn't stop staring at all the succulent little toes. While everyone had their own preference of meat, all wanted to sample those tender filets.

"Oh my!" came the voice of Ms. Robins, who had butted her way up to the tables. "I can smell the pussy meat from here."

"F-fuck…" Jillian couldn't believe what was happening. Her nipples were being sucked so good, and the meat thermometer filled her up delightfully. And the fingers of that woman… They were doing things to her she'd never felt before. "Ohh. Oh, my god."

"Huuh!" whimpered Donna, as a finger of the chef touched her needy clit. Slowly, Ruth circled the woman's sensitive bundle of nerves while fingering her inside. "Hmmm."

Thip, thip, thip sucked the machines. Still, the Richmond's milk flowed down the tubes, pooling in the collection containers.

"Please," Jillian whimpered, remembering those huge ovens nearby. "I'm too young for this."

Touching Jillian's little bud, her cook rubbed. The words of the poor girl soon turned into panicked, incoherent babble.

"F-fuck," the girl gasped. "I… Uh! D-don't do this. P-please. Oh. N-no. Please! I don't wanna…dont wanna die."

"Shh," Stacy tried comforting the desperate girl. "It's almost over, dear."

"It's…it's okay, honey," breathed Jillian's mother. "I'm right… Oh! I-I'm right here w-with you."

Mother and daughter lay beside each other, trussed up nude in their pans. Basted, pumped full of hormones, their mammaries milked, meat thermometers deep inside their bottoms, and surrounded by strangers, the once-rich women could have never foreseen ending up like this. Despite it all, the hands of the chefs upon their genitals brought about a perverse pleasure. Together, the Richmond women moaned and groaned in unwanted, perverse pleasure.

Stacy, Mistress of the Mansion, now approached. In each hand, she had taken two red apples. This was an important and symbolic part of the preparation–when a person, accepting their apple, becomes meat.

"Time for your apple," Stacy told Jillian, placing the fruit before her lips. "Say ahh."

Jillian, eyes wide, was a mixture of confusion, fear, and arousal. Not knowing why, or thinking about what she was doing, she opened her mouth and bit into the fruit.

"Good girl!" Stacy said, surprised at the obedience. "Hold it just like that."

Donna tried to remain calm and be strong for Jillian, as Stacy turned toward her.

"Your turn, mom," the Mistress stated, holding the apple before Donna's face.

"You'll burn in hell for this," Donna calmly told the woman, staring into Stacy's eyes.

"You first," Stacy smiled. "Take your apple, Mrs. Richmond."

Opening her sweet mouth, Donna obediently took the apple between her teeth and crunched down.

"Mmm," Jillian was moaning beside her mother. The tension between her legs was incredible, the plump fingers of Jules driving her crazy. No longer did she consider closing her legs. The girl was yearning and her vagina was gushing. "Hm, hm, hmmmm!"

Massaging the tender young meat inside, the firm little clitoris outside, Jules brought the girl to inevitable orgasm. The vaginal walls clenched down on the fingers of the cook, as Jillian's eyes rolled to the back of her head. Back arched, apple in mouth, cups sucking her breasts, the meatgirl shuddered in bliss.

"Good girl," her chef smiled, rubbing the raw filet as she came. "Let it all out."

"MMMmmm…" Jillian whined past her fruit-gag.

Donna wasn't far behind, the tingling inside about to reach a breaking point. The woman knew what came next. After this moment of euphoria, both she and her daughter would be cooked alive. Glaring at Stacy, Donna's expression of anger eased into one of sexual pleasure. It was the finger on her swollen clit that did it, pushing the woman over the edge. As her daughter was moaning with her own orgasm, Donna felt herself about to peak.

"Humm!" she gasped, and lifting her head, turned her eyes toward her throbbing genitals. Juices began tricking forth, and her anus squeezed against the stem of the meat thermometer. Still, that machine milked her breasts, and it all felt so wonderful. Every muscle in Donna's tender body tightened in bliss, and she achieved her last orgasm. "Huummm. MMhhmm…"

"There we go," whispered her chef, feeling the waves of contractions within. "That's right. Make it nice and tender for me."

When Donna's head finally fell back, exhausted, the cooks let go of the women. Wiping their hands, they set about disconnecting the milking cups; the collection bottles had nearly overflowed during the excitement. Still, the nipples of the Richmond women were hard, but their breasts now felt lighter.

"Will the volunteers please step forward?" Stacy asked.

Jillian whimpered through her apple, watching as a group of men from the crowd advanced. Stacy directed them to join one cook on each pan. Together, they lifted the women and carried them toward the large ovens.

"Hmm!" Jillian screamed, as she was picked up. She then spat out her apple in terror. "Please! Stop. No. No!"

Donna didn't make a sound when they lifted her, but desperately tried to steady her breathing and keep her composure.

Stacy stepped over to the first appliance and flung down its door. Within, it was nice and hot. The mistress directed Jillian's pan over toward it, the poor girl screaming in fear. Without mercy, she was held near the rack.

"Help me!" the girl cried, the heat burning her head. "Mommy! MOMMY!"

At the signal, they pushed, and in went Donna's daughter. The oven door was immediately closed, cutting off the agonized screams. Donna was next.

"Goodbye, Mrs. Richmond," Stacy grinned at Donna, who was held before the adjacent oven. But all she received in reply was a look of pure hatred.

Pulling down the door, the mistress watched as Donna, without a word, cry, or scream, was slid inside the appliance. The door was closed, and mother and daughter started to cook. Many guests soon gathered around the ovens, watching the struggling women through the windows. Flailing and screaming, they frantically tried to free themselves from the heat resistant ropes. Even Donna Richmond, stoic to the end, couldn't defy the horrible heat. Eventually, the women slowed down and grew weak. Then they were still. The debt was almost repaid.

The grand dining hall had been prepared in extravagant style to ring in the new year. The enormous table was lined on all sides by guests. A large fireplace set a cozy ambience, and the chandelier above dazzled the eye. Before the main course, the soup of the day was served: Cream of Richmond. All agreed that it was delicious.

Stacy had one more special guest seated beside her, as she sat at the head of the table. The older man, dressed as fashionably as the others, wasn't quite as cheerful or enthusiastic as the rest. This was the only person at the party who hadn't attended the meal preparation earlier in the day. Stacy eyed him while he sipped his soup, closely examining his reactions. She was a bit disappointed when he offered no entertainment and emptied his bowl.

At last, dinner was served. Into the dining hall came the staff, pushing before them two large carts. Atop each of these was a huge, domed serving platter. It took four of the staff to lift the silver platters and set them on the table. The guests all hungrily eyed the covered tableware. That is, all but one.

As the lids were simultaneously lifted, revealed to all were the beautifully cooked bodies of Donna and her daughter, Jillian. On their backs and positioned as they had been tied, the women rested on a lush green bed of lettuce. Steam rose up from their moist and meaty carcasses, the skin crisped to a golden brown. Their pretty hair was gone, but the makeup had baked into the flesh of their beautiful faces. The eyes were closed in a peaceful expression, and each now had an apple in her mouth.

Served there on the table was the restitution demanded for Jasper Richmond's thievery. As he was the guest of honor, Stacy made sure the man was served first. The staff got to work carving up the meat, and his plate was filled with pieces from both platters. Jasper, told to go ahead and dig while the others were served, did as ordered.

And so the party dined and drank until the ball dropped and it was officially a new year. Much of the two meatgirls had been consumed over the hours, though there were surely leftovers. Mr. Richmond left the next day, being sure to thank Stacy for her hospitality. Whether the man was sickened or traumatized, Stacy never learned. The thief had kept it all together, and her price was paid.

A new year, a new plethora of possibilities. Stacy had a waiting list of clients eager to cook up their own meatperson. Ira, an eccentric young inventor Stacy had met a while back, would soon be in town, and he was dying to again eat the most taboo of meals. The Mistress was only too happy to make a dream come true, and to accept the hefty sales price for the opportunity. The man also promised to bring with him a device that he assured Stacy she'd marvel at–a contraption he'd devised to enhance vaginal meats. This, she had to see.

The end