It had been great being a meatboy. I was fed a healthy diet, got plenty of exercise, had comfortable accommodations, and there were even spa days for pampering and massages. I couldn't believe how good I felt, or how good I looked! Work was a thing of the past, and most of my needs were taken care of. The stress was low, and the staff treated me like an honored guest. As long as I followed a few basic rules, life was pretty damn sweet. This is a perk of volunteering–the VIP treatment, of sorts. It had been four months of living the highlife!

Like I said, there's a few things you have to do to satisfy The Facility. The most difficult for me was abstaining from sexual pleasure. Why? Retention is good for the meat, they said. I got used to it after the first few weeks. At least, that's what I told myself. Everyone has a personalized regimen to be completed daily, but this wasn't so hard. Socializing with the other meatpeople was encouraged, and I ended up making a few friends. And really, that's about it: eat, exercise, abstain, socialize, and relax, relax, relax.

The months flew by, however, and before I knew it, it was processing day. Yes, I was nervous. Who wouldn't be? But I was here for a reason–I was helping my fellow man. I had a civic duty to perform, and I didn't buy my way out like so many others. My family begged me to pay the exemption fee, but I was brave and selfless. My sister had bought her way out. How typical. I had always talked the talk, and now everyone would know that I walked the walk. I told myself all this as I waited in my room for the staff to fetch me.

Earlier that morning, I had been given a red uniform in exchange for the typical blue, designating me as one being processed. Rumor had it that meatpeople occasionally lost their nerve and would try to run, and so the red made us easy to identify. Along with my new clothes, I'd also been instructed to shave my body in its entirety and to shower thoroughly. Standing there in my red threads, my head shorn bald, I was proud to be serving The State. And I was proud of myself. To the minute, there was a knock on my door.

The guards led me out of my quarters, and we started down the halls of The Facility. Those in their blue uniforms watched me go, a few waving and nodding goodbye. I had seen many reds led away during my stay, and now it was my turn. I stood tall and confident, showing everyone how a meatboy should carry himself.

My trepidation grew, however, as the crowd diminished, and I was taken to parts of The Facility I had never seen. The walk felt eternal, surrounded by the four escorts, none of whom spoke. Finally, we rounded a corner, and I saw a set of double doors ahead. Above them read "Kitchen Number 7" in red block lettering. The doors slid open at our approach.

Now, upon arrival at The Facility, you're given a handler. This is someone who you can talk to, who comforts you during your transition. They're meant to be a friend and a confidant, someone to whom you can vent and receive reassurance. Maureen was the name of my handler, and I spotted her immediately within the kitchen. Tall, dark-haired and blue-eyed, she was beautiful. Today she was wearing a white top and black skirt, her bare legs looking so shapely and enticing. Strappy heels displayed those pretty feet, and she offered me a warm smile as I entered the room. Standing with Maureen was the cooking staff, and overseeing them, the head chef.

My heart now pounded with nerves as I looked around the kitchen. Front and center was the roasting cage, held above the floor by two supports at its opposite ends. Part of my conditioning had been to limber me up enough to fit inside this contraption. Seeing it for the first time filled me with dread. Nearby was the roasting appliance itself: a long, horizontal tube, the interior lined with heating coils. Its door was open and waiting.

Maureen greeted me pleasantly, and the chef, thanking me for my "donation" to The State, looked me up and down. Then, it was straight to business, and she asked me to undress. Of course, one knows this is coming–they tell you ahead of time what to expect. I told myself to stay brave; this was a moment of truth. So I stepped out of my shoes and pulled off my red shirt. Down came my pants, and I removed my socks. The air was chilly on my skin, as I found myself standing there now in only my underwear. Maureen assured me it was okay, as I hesitated removing the last garment. Despite all the people watching me, I was most embarrassed to be seen by my pretty handler. Nevertheless, with a deep breath, I slipped the underwear off my hips and down my legs. And so I stood, naked before the kitchen staff and Maureen.

The chef directed me toward the cage, and for some silly reason, I covered myself as I walked over. This was it. There was no going back. Staff members opened the contraption, and asked me to get in. I was reluctant now, wishing for a bit more time. They were moving me along so fast! Carefully sitting on the cold bars, I laid back and swung in my legs. The staff helped to position me, as it was quite awkward figuring out how to lie. Facing the bright ceiling, my legs were spread wide apart, knees bent, and pulled up to near discomfort. The flexibility training had paid off–and oh, was I ever left exposed! My arms were bent at the elbow, hands on either side of my head. They closed the cage door, and I was locked inside. The bars were quite few, just enough to support my body and keep my limbs from slipping out. The cage pressed up against me nice and snug, and movement was now impossible.

Before I had even mentally adjusted to what was happening, there were brushes touching my body; the staff had already started to baste me! It was difficult to look around, as my head was held in place, but I could feel the bristles dancing along the entire length of my frontside. Nothing was off limits; my exposed privates were oiled the same as the rest.

I didn't like this at all! The chef and staff were distant and dispassionate. The cage was too constricting. Everything seemed cold and clinical. This wasn't at all how things had been during conditioning! But it only got worse… They started rotating the cage, and the room slowly turned until I found myself facing the floor. The staff got to work basting my backside, and from head to toe, I felt the caressing touch of those bristles.

I was positioned such that my bottom was embarrassingly sticking up and out, and I knew why. They had assured me that the meat thermometer was a necessity, and that insertion would be simple. Sure enough, I felt fingers parting my cheeks, and something touched my virgin hole. I could hear Maureen's voice closeby telling me to breathe; to relax; to keep my muscles loose. The thermometer was hard and cool, circling my sensitive anus. I did my best to loosen up, while I began wondering why I had volunteered for this. They started pushing that thing against me, and it felt so wrong. A pathetic whimper escaped my mouth as the thermometer's bulb started sliding in. It was big and unyielding and it positively violated me. The device sank in deep, and I grunted at the unusual sensation of being filled. Maureen assured me that I had done so good, and that the worst was over.

Hands were then on my shoulders, and the chef was telling the staff how well I'd developed. The woman felt along my oiled back, probing here and there. Down to my bottom she went, and firmly squeezed my glutes. I heard her say that I was nice and meaty, and that I'd be perfectly marbled. Down my thighs went her scrutinizing hands, and then she gave my calves each a little pinch. Even my feet were to her liking, as she separated my toes and mentioned stew meat.

I was being rotated faceup once more when I realized that I'd become aroused. It was caused by that thermometer pressing delightfully against my prostate–something else they warned me would happen. I wasn't able to peer down and see, but I could just imagine how I must have looked–my legs spread far apart and everything on display. An erection was totally natural, I had been assured, and nothing to be ashamed about.

The chef was then next to me, examining my pecs and nipples. Her hands slid down to my ribs, and then she palpated my tummy. Along my hips and down to my thighs she explored, and I was now yearning from her touch. Maureen came into view upon my left, leaning over my face, telling me that I was doing just fine.

The chef said something about measuring me, and I knew I was blushing red. A moment later, she called out a length of eight inches, followed by a six-inch circumference. I slammed shut my eyes and felt my cheeks burn, wondering what Maureen must be thinking.

I was now nervous and embarrassed and frightened. I hated this cage and being so confined. Maureen asked me how I was doing, and I couldn't help but tell her that I was scared. God, I sounded pathetic. But she was so pretty, her face full of compassion as she looked down on me, telling me to be brave just a little longer.

Then I felt those hands on my undercarriage, the chef's thumbs rubbing my hard taint. I couldn't close my legs or hide myself–I was just there, spread wide and at the kitchen's mercy. Cinching up involuntarily, the thermometer felt so very wonderful inside. I heard a few murmurs, and even a giggle, as my penis surely stood up and swelled.

I couldn't suppress a soft moan when those hands continued to my testicles. My insides were tingling, I had been denied for so long. She was gentle, rolling my balls in her fingers and describing how they felt to the staff–plump and firm and full of semen. How I wanted to look down and see what was happening, but the bars pressed against my forehead. Then came her fingers, starting at the base of my shaft and slowly squeezing their way up along the sides. She said I was nice. Very, very nice.

My member was released, and the chef was again beside me. Only my eyes could move over to her, and I saw that she was holding some sort of ball gag. She asked me to open wide, and I was consumed with fear. The staff was now busy, but I couldn't see what they were doing. I heard the sound of chopping vegetables, perhaps. And the clattering of pots and pans. The kitchen was coming to life and everything was moving so fast!

My eyes darted to Maureen, and I heard myself whimpering woefully. I was losing my nerve… I told her that I wasn't ready–that this wasn't how I expected it to be. I was too young. I had changed my mind! I would pay the exemption fee, just let me out!

But Maureen softly asked me to calm down. It was almost over, she promised, and I'd be making so many hungry people happy; this was a difficult thing to go through, but I had to push on. She'd always remember me, she vowed. Then she asked me to open my mouth for Chef.

The woman looked so beautiful. Those eyes, sympathetic and caring. Those full red lips… I begged her not to leave me, and she swore that she'd be right at my side. But her face… Just looking at her beauty, I was buzzing within. How could I refuse her? How could I let her down? I had to do as Maureen asked.

With a despairing cry, I opened up my mouth and felt the hard ball placed between my teeth. The chef latched the strap behind my head, and now I couldn't even speak. I whimpered, finding myself once again being turned over to face the floor.

To my right was the chef, and she cupped my testes with one hand and found my penis with the other. To my left came a staff member, who crouched down underneath me and held a small cup beneath my privates. And standing at my head was Maureen, who leaned over close.

Oh, God, I lost it when my handler started cooing gently in my ear. I was almost done, she told me; I'm a good boy and we're almost done. The chef's hand started to slide up and down my oiled member. I tried to move, but my limbs couldn't budge in the cage. If only I could speak, I thought, I'd convince them to stop. Don't do this, I wanted to plead; please, just give me more time! But all I did was drool past the ball in my mouth and make incoherent sounds.

The chef was saying that I'd have a nice volume of extract–that they'd be making a semen sauce to pair with my meat. I couldn't see what she was doing to me, but it felt so damn good. My God, that plug inside was driving me crazy. The woman's hand was lovingly caressing my scrotum. Her thumb rubbed my taint, sliding up to the thermometer and back down in a gentle massage. And that other hand… It stroked me nice and loose in a steady rhythm.

Nearby, I heard the most awful sound: a blade being drawn repeatedly across a steel sharpener. I couldn't help but whine pitifully in horror. This was really happening! I was about to be roasted alive in this cage, then carved up, packaged, and distributed to the world's hungry. Why had I not paid for an exemption? Who was I really saving? I was no hero!

Shh, shh, came the serene voice of Maureen in my ear. Her tone was so sweet. Looking up, I could see her pretty legs standing at the head of the cage. Oh, and those cute feet in her sexy shoes… Those toes, perfectly painted in black… She was telling me to trust her; to just let go. She said that I was in great hands, and that I had been an ideal meatboy. Fuck, I was yearning from that voice and her breath touching my ear.

Calming myself, I tried again to speak, saying things like: I didn't wanna die; I made a mistake; let me go; please, don't roast me! But it was mostly unintelligible babble. Oh fuck, an orgasm was building as I begged. If I came, I'd be done! Deep inside I felt it, welling up like something I'd never experienced. I heard myself moaning, at a loss of what to do.

Thatta boy, Maureen encouraged. My heart was pounding, and only my terror kept me from losing it. That hand was moving faster, gliding over me. More knives were being sharpened in the background. My hands were gripping the metal bars of the cage, and I sobbed between moans. I didn't want to be cooked. I wanted to go back to my room–to go home! I wanted to see my family and friends and have a future.

Oh, but it was all too much. A tickle started and grew deep inside, spreading from my prostate to my testes. My loins ached, and I simply listened to Maureen's voice. I had chosen this, she said, because I'm a brave boy–braver than most; I had lived a good life, and it was time to give back; I was a meatboy, and meatboys get cooked. She asked me to repeat what she had said, and I blabbered weakly. She asked again, and I told her… I told her, trying to speak through the gag, that I was a meatboy.

The chef's hand slowed its pace while the other cupped my swollen testicles. I had stopped crying. The kitchen had gone quiet, or else I no longer heard the commotion. Maureen asked me what happens to meatboys. I didn't want to say it, and whimpered at the thought. She asked me again, what happens to meatboys?

"'Eat 'oys 'et 'ook," I muttered. That's right, she confirmed. That's right. And you are a meatboy.

"'I' a 'eat 'oy," I mumbled, drooling. My eyes were on Maureen's legs. Oh, God, it was going to happen… Pleasure was creeping up my member. I was a meatboy, like she said. This was the path I had chosen. The chef was making me feel so wonderful, and my eyes roamed to Maureen's feet standing just below me. Everything was tightening up. Oh, fuck… I was squeezing that thermometer and my penis was aching. I wanted to see, to watch myself cum. I must have been such a sight.

Maureen whispered for me to tell her again what I was.

"I' a 'eat 'oy," I tried to say. Oh, God. I was about to lose it. I moaned, gripping the bars and straining against the cage as I peaked.

"I'... I' a 'eat 'oy!" I groaned. "Uh, 'od… I' A 'EAT 'OY. I' A 'EAT 'OOOY! AHH-UUGH!"

The chef had won, and I was seized by my first orgasm in months. Maureen was coaxing me on, and I knew I was doing my duty. I pumped out my semen for the sauce, as was expected of a meatboy. I moaned and moaned, and in that moment of ecstasy, I accepted my fate. With every contraction, I could feel a spurt of ejaculate leave me. I was being milked like the animal I'd willingly become. The chef kept pumping, and it felt like an eternity of pleasure.

I was still panting after Chef stopped, and the staff immediately disconnected the cage from its supports. I felt myself lifted, and the floor was moving while they carried me toward the roaster. I didn't say anything more; there was no point. The terrible appliance came into view, and they placed me within. Maureen said goodbye, kissing her hand and touching my head. The door of the machine was closed, and all grew quiet. Suddenly, I started to move, rotating slowly. The heating coils were coming to life, at first a dim orange, but gradually growing brighter and brighter.

Now, here I am. At first the heat was intolerable, but I've gotten past the pain. I'm watching the coils spinning and spinning while I'm turned over and over again. I'm sizzling and crackling, and my God, I smell delicious. A small window passes my vision every trip around, and there's Maureen looking in on me. Sometimes the chef stands there, too, checking in on how I'm coming along. But now it's getting hard to concentrate, and I think I'll go to sleep. I've done my civic duty… May the hungry enjoy my sacrifice. Eat up, everybody. Eat...up…

The end