Me - a beautiful spit-roast turkey

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WARNING

 

This is a human spit roast story – do not read if you cannot handle FETISH / BDSM!

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Chapter 1

The seduction

The fluorescent lights of the campus coffeeshop hummed above me as I hunched over my laptop, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. My athlete's prepaid card sat next to my cold americano—one of the few perks of being on the swim team besides the body. I was lean, carved from years of training, every muscle defined without the bulk of a weightlifter. Just tight, functional strength wrapped in skin with barely an ounce of fat.

I was researching again. Not for class—for pleasure. For the dark little story, I was trying to write. The vore forums I'd been browsing through, using the coffeeshop's IP, were... educational. I minimised the browser window as a group of giggling coeds walked by, their floral perfume lingering like a distraction I didn't need.

It was getting late. Nearly six PM. The coffee shop would close soon, but I wanted to finish this scene. The protagonist was just about to—

"Excuse me?"

Her voice was soft and melodic, with an accent I couldn't place. I looked up, and my breath caught.

She stood beside my table, holding an empty coffee cup like a prop. Long waves of midnight-black hair cascaded over her shoulders, framing a face that seemed almost too perfect—porcelain skin, full pink lips, and eyes the colour of light blue glacier ice that seemed to look straight through me. She wore a black top that matched the dark lace barely visible beneath, the kind of red that made me think of velvet curtains and secrets. It was semi-transparent, and I could easily see the outlines of her full breasts pressing against the thin fabric.

"I'm so sorry to bother you," she said, her voice carrying that shy hesitation that somehow felt practiced. "I just moved in down the block, and I don't have any sugar at my place yet. Could I... borrow some?"

"Of course." I pushed the ceramic container towards her, watching her delicate fingers—pale, almost luminous—scoop all the sugar cubes.

“Don’t tell anyone.” She whispered, “I am a criminal now.” As she smiled at me.

I smiled back. “My lips are sealed!”

She didn't leave.

"You're a writer," she said. It wasn't a question. Her ice-blue eyes flicked to my screen, though she couldn't have seen anything from her angle.