“Nancy’s Restaurant, good girlmeat all the time,” I said automatically as I was reading my dad’s secret cook book.  Mom, my brother and I were struggling with ways to keep the restaurant open now that dad was gone.  He had been a really good girlmeat chef.  My brother had trained under him and was our new Head Chef, while mom and I were hostesses, though mom was the one who managed the business end of things.  We had dad’s staff, meatgirls that he had trained as chefs and waitresses.  I, myself, was just a glorified display meatgirl.  I knew my limits but really wanted to contribute in a more meaningful way.  I was just meat on two legs that could talk.  “This is Nancy,” I said.

       “Oh, my God!” a woman’s voice squealed.  “Are you really Nancy?  I mean, the Nancy, who the restaurant is named after?”

       Oh, God, I thought to myself.  This was another volunteer meatgirl that wanted to be cooked.  She doesn’t understand the quality of the meat we serve here.  Bored I said, “Yes, I’m Nancy.  What grade of meat are you?”

       There was a long pause over the phone.  Reaching up I switched on the phone’s desk monitor and took a look at the girl calling.  She was a slightly pudgy, brown haired girl sitting there completely nude.  Her eyes opened wide when she saw me sitting there.  “You…you’re nude,” she exclaimed.

       I nodded.  “I’m a meatgirl just like any other meatgirl.  Except that I’m owned by Nancy’s Restaurant so my family and I can decide when I’ll become dinner one night.”

       “You’re a meatgirl?”

       I stood up and showed her, on the cam, my labia ring and tag that every women wears today.  Then I turned around and showed her the grade marked on my left buttocks.  It was double AA grade.  Then I sat down again.  “Now what did you want to talk about?”

       “Oh, God!” she said.  “My number’s come up; I have three days to report for processing.  I was at your place yesterday and applied to volunteer.”

       I shook my head and she began to sob.  While on the phone with her I called up the restaurant computer on my desktop.  “What’s your name?”

       “Uh, Cindy, Cynthia James,” she said.

       I keyed it in and her whole application came up.  She was B grade alright.  Too bad but we have a business to run and can’t save or serve every girl.  In fact, I couldn’t even save me, especially if things went really bad for mom, my brother and me.  “Cindy…” I started to say.

       “Please, she begged, “I know you can’t use me.  I already checked with Bob’s place too.  But could you tell me something.”

       It couldn’t hurt her anymore to talk to her.  “What do you want to know?”

       “Is there anyway, anyway at all, I could upgrade myself in the next three days.  I don’t want to be just butchered.”

       An interesting thought, I ran the idea of a woman upgrading herself through my mind.  “H-m-m-m,” I mused.  “Meat is muscle, after all.  You are kind of pudgy.  You could only try to exercise and put on more muscle, but that will take weeks to do.  My mother and I work out every day for three to four hours to keep our meat quality up.”  Even as I said it a new idea formed in my brain.  One that would work to keep our restaurant going and might even take some of the work load off of mom and my brother and give me something more useful to do.  I saw on her application that she was now working as a secretary.  The term two birds with one stone came to mind.  She was a volunteer and we won’t have to pay for her.

       “I think we’re going to accept your application as a volunteer,” I told Cindy, “but hold on for just a few minutes, I want to discuss an idea you’ve given me with my mother and brother.”

       “I gave you an idea?” she asked.

       “Yes, just give me a moment.  Stay on the line.”

       “Yes, I will,” she agreed.

       I put her on hold and got up to walked over to brother’s office next to mine.  Well actually my “office” was were mom did the paperwork that was needed to keep a business going and I just waited in here until I needed to walk around and great customers and be a figurehead for the restaurant’s logo.  When I opened the door there was a naked (well, we all are, aren’t we) meatgirl.  Before I could say anything the meat spoke up and said, “I wanted to thank you, Nancy.”

       I blinked.  “You are?” I asked.

       “Oh, Lunch Special Two,” she answered.  “Uh, Sharon,” she added.

       “You’re going to be dead in two hours,” I pointed out.

       “Yes,” she agreed.  “Cooked and eaten too.  But at least you know who I am.  I won’t be just a piece of meat lying in a counter at some butcher.  Or rather, several pieces of meat I should say.”

       I looked her up and down.  She was in excellent physical shape.  Strong of muscle but not muscle bound.  There was still that female shape to her that meant tender muscle tissue too.  “What did you do before you became meat?” I asked her.

       “Oh, I was a gym teacher at the Fremont High School.”

       Everything went click in my mind all at once.  “Sally,” I called out.  Our senior meat chef came running over. 

       “Yes, Miss Nancy?” she asked as she ran up to me. 

       “Take Lunch Special Number Two and don’t process her yet, just put an apron on her and she can help clean up for a little while.”  Sally and Number Two looked confused.  “Do I repeat myself or do we cook our Senior Meat Chef too.”

       “Promises, promises,” Sally said.  “Come on Number Two…”

       “Her name is Sharon,” I said.

       Sally nodded, “Come along, Sharon.”

       With that out of the way I knocked on my brother’s door.  “Come in,” he called.

       “I think I just solved two problems at one time,” I told him.

       Jack looked up as I came in and tossed papers down on his desk.  Mom was sitting in a chair next to his desk, just as naked as I was, and it was obvious they had been going over the paper work.  “Well, if you have some good news let’s here it,” Jack said.

       I looked at the mess on his desk.  “You need a secretary,” I told him.

       “No kidding, sis,” he said dryly.  “And some day I’m going to cook your sweat ass.”

       I nodded to him.  “Anytime you want, Bro.  But wait until you hear the idea I just had and maybe you’ll wait on serving me.  By the way, I do want to be slow roasted.”

       “Live?” Jack asked and I could see him evaluating me as he asked.

       “I think so.  In that new ceramic oven we just got, that allows a girls head stick out so she can breathe normal room air.  It’s the superheated air in the oven that actually suffocates most whole roasters.  Then I can talk to you and say goodbye as you cook me.”

       “That sounds like a wonderful idea,” mom agreed.  “Maybe we can do a special that night, Jack.  A mother/daughter special and you can sell reservations for that night on a limited basis.  It should be worth a lot of money if both of us are cooked together.”

       “Fine, mom, that sounds swell, but let’s hear what my meat sister has to say.

       “Okay, I have a meatgirl on hold.  She’s a grade B…”

       “So we have no use for her,” Jack said.

       “Jack!” I scolded.  “Let me finish, will you?”  He nodded.  “Okay, I already told her we won’t take her.  Her number has been called and she doesn’t want to just be slaughtered at a butcher’s shop”

       “None of us do,” mom said.  “That’s why there are so many new volunteers.  Women are beginning to look around and decide how they want to be served before it actually happens to them suddenly.  In this culture it is the only control we have over our own lives, how we die and how we’re cooked.”

       “Mom,” I scolded.  “Please let me finish.”

       “Okay,” she agreed.

       “I began to think of all the volunteers that were below our normal grade.  Then, after that, this meatgirl asked how she can improve her quality of meat.  I began to tell about diet and exercise and how mother and I workout three hours a day to keep our AA grade.  But that’s when it occurred to me that we could try taking some B, or even A, grade volunteers and once they were committed to being our meat we start training them to improve the quality of the meat.  Get it up to at least A and maybe AA.

       “I also saw that she was a secretary, so I thought if we agreed to let her volunteer right now, to keep her from the Meat Lottery, we don’t have to cook her right away.  She could work free here, as a secretary to help out in the paperwork.  Maybe even get us ahead a little bit.  Then, coming over to this office a moment ago, I met the Lunch Special Number Two and while talking with her found out she used to be a gym teacher at Fremont High.”

       “Did you know her when you went there,” mom asked.

       “No, I had never met her before, but I graduated four years ago.  If I wasn’t dad’s daughter I would have been cooked by now myself.  But then I thought that this person, a gym teacher could help train the B grades in their physical exercises.  So I told Sally to wait until I talked to you.

       “These two women could be very helpful to us.”

       “But I make the serving decisions,” Jack said.

       “Just wait!  We can have their services for free; we don’t have to pay them anything because they will belong to us anyway.  We just need to feed and house them.  And we already have the perfect place to house and train the B grades, grandpa’s old farm.  It’s just a forty-five car ride from here, just over the Wisconsin State Line.  We could start training new meatgirl chefs and keep them there too, while they’re training.  The upstairs dorm for out current Meatgirl Chefs and waitresses is full.

       “The farm has a big house that has six bedrooms and will be perfect for farm staff recruited from the B grades.  Then the old stable has stalls for twelve horses, which no one has anymore.  We could fix the stalls up as rooms for two or three girls each, with just beds and a chair, or something.  That would give us room for twelve staff members, if we need that many, and twenty-four B grade trainees.  Not only that but we could use them as farm laborers until they’re ready for cooking or sale.  Heck, even train some of them as farm animals, like Ponygirls.  And we could grow food on them farm that we could use in the restaurant here and to feed our new girl stock.”

       I wound down and just stood there waiting.  Neither mom nor Jack said anything for a few minutes.  “How soon can you get started?” Jack asked.

       “Today!  I’ll get on the phone right away and find a replacement for Lunch Special Number Two and then start calling our list of A or B grades to see whose left alive and might want to volunteer.  I can get some in here this afternoon and take them out to the farm right away and that way some of them are there to start the work that will need to be done.  The beauty of it is that the meatgirls can do the work on where they’ll be housed while we train them.’

       Again I paused to see what Jack and mom said now.  I felt like a little school girl waiting for a dean or principle to come down on her, or waiting in a kitchen just before I’m processed for food.  Neither one said a word, then Jack asked, “Well, mom?”

       “It sounds good,” mom said.  “Nancy’s thought things out.  You must have been thinking of this for a while.”

       “Sort of,” I admitted.  “My girlfriend, Jill, from high school was taken two weeks ago because she had gotten out of shape after school and was downgraded to just a B.  She even called me too but I didn’t think there was anything I could do.  Since then it’s always been in the back of my mind.  When this girl called…”

       Jack held up his hand.  “I get your point, Nancy.  But if we don’t see some results in…oh, no more then three months, we’ll have to sell the girl stock off and then close it all down.”

       “Okay,” I agreed.  “I’ll get started right away and get a Special Two in time for lunch.”

       “You better or we’ll be forced to cook the gym teacher and then look for another one later.  And don’t ever cancel another preparation without checking with me first.”  I noted the warning in his voice. 

It is a strange life we women lead now, in 2125.  It was when the loss of so many men and livestock when a genetically altered plague was spread.  Men became valuable and then over total control of our all the cultures in the world.  Very shortly it became obvious that the men in charge now considered us, females, to be the new livestock.  They need us to make babies and keep house but not much else.  Within a few years, after the plague died out, women were beginnings to serve as food too. 

       I had no way to change the world.  But I could try and get some control of my portion of it.  Maybe I could help my sister’s, and by that I mean all female meat.  We knew that eventually we would be served as meals.  We could only control how and when it happened if we became aware of it.  I could make sure some of us had a choice in how and when it happens to us.

       I went straight back to the mom’s office and got back on the phone to Cindy who was still on screen waiting for me.  “Cindy,” I said.  “How soon can you be here?”

       “Oh, uh, today if you need me, I guess.  I’ve already settled most of my…life after I got the notice last week.”

       “Do you still own a car?”

       “Yes.”

       “Drive it here.  I’ll explain your new life to you when you get here.  You won’t be cooked today.”

       “I won’t?  I was actually hoping…”

       “We all do, just get going.  Okay?”

       “I’ll leave now.  Uh, I have to wear clothes, don’t I?  I mean, just for the drive over.”

       “Yes, until you get here, then you can go around naked.  You might want to make it simple, like a wrap skirt and halter top.”  Mom and I usually wore a wrap skirt and halter, when we walked around the main seating area of the restaurant and, so we were at least “decent” if we went out in public.

       

She nodded, “Okay, I’m on my way!”

I really needed to find another Grade A for lunch in the next few minutes or Jack will have to cook Sharon.  I called up our volunteer list and began with the first girl in the group.  There was no answer at her number.  I didn’t waste time wondering what had happened to her.  The most likely explanation was that she had been called in to be butchered or had found herself another place to volunteer.  The lack of an answer probably means she was dead, so I called the next number.

       “Ann Cook here,” a woman answered.

       “Ann, this is Nancy, from Nancy’s Restaurant.”

       “Good girlmeat all the time,” she said giving me back our advertising logo, with a chuckle in her voice.  “Are you…do you want me?”

       “We have a crunch going on today,” I told her.  “Are you home prepped?”

       “I’m thoroughly cleaned out inside.  I’ve been doing it every other day since I first applied for…volunteer cooking status.  How soon do you need me?”

       “Right away,” I told her.

       “I can be there in twenty minutes.  How am I going to be cooked?”

       “Our house specialty, oven roasted.  You’re the Lunch Special Number Two.  It’s a live roasting.”

       “Oh, wow!  Can my husband come and watch my prep from the viewing area.”

       “Of, course, but he can’t get in the way.  Once you’re in the oven he can come in for a minute to kiss you good bye.  We have…”

       “I know,” she told me, “We’ve eaten there many times.  Twenty minutes good enough.”

       “Yes, but please hurry!”

       She had sounded so excited.  I called Jack and let him know a new lunch special was on the way.  It was eight thirty now and she will take three hours to cook and a half hour to prep, so we were cutting it close.

       I didn’t wait around.  I began making more calls from the A and B grade list to find other’s for our new training experiment.  The first two new A grades, I contacted, that were available I briefed them in, general, on the new program and they agreed to come in.  The A grade list was very short and I was anxious to get to the B grade list because I felt we’d have a far greater number that would be glad to come in.  Twenty minutes later, exactly, Sally buzzed me and said, “The replacement Lunch Special Number Two is here.”

       By the time I got out into the kitchen Ann Cook was standing there in front of the prep table completely naked.  Her husband AND daughter were standing there with her.  It took me by surprise but she was definitely a grade A meatgirl but older then her voice sounded.  Her daughter seemed to be about twelve years old.  Now keep in mind, that under our new culture of eating women no one that I know of eats anyone under eighteen years old.  It is illegal, after all.  But since they were customers I could assume that they stood at our viewing area and watched women being prepped before.  It is one of the standards of girlmeat restaurants to have a viewing area so diners can watch meatgirls being prepped.  Everyone wants to see it.

       Ann was a tall, full bodied brunette with long legs.  It is the lower bodies of women that most important and give the most meat.  She wasn’t fat but had really full breasts, C-cup at least.  I walked up to the family and held out my hand.  “Hi, Ann, I’m Nancy,” I said.

       “Nancy,” she exclaimed.  “I’m so glad to get your call.”

       Let’s face it we cook and serve women everyday.  It’s what we do, after all.  But it always makes me wonder when we find a woman that’s so totally upbeat and happy to become meat for a meal. 

       “This is my husband George and my daughter, Kelly.”

       I held out my hand and shook hands with both husband and daughter.  “Are you a meatgirl too?” Kelly asked, wide eyed.

       “All the women here are, except you, of course.”

       “Kelly,” reprimanded George.  “You eaten here with us before and seen Nancy greeting people.  She’s just normally wearing a wrap skirt and halter and not nude.”

       “Honey,” Ann said, “Please go out to the viewing area and you can watch mommy get prepped and put in the oven.  Maybe, then you can come in for a moment and kiss me goodbye.”

       “Yes, mommy,” she said.  Ann bent down and gave her a quick kiss.  George took his daughter’s hand and they went out to the main seating area and took up position in front of the viewing window.  They stood there waving at Ann.

       I gave Ann a hug and then took her by the arm and led her to the prep table.  Our Lunch Special Number One was already in the oven, with her head sticking out the door.  She looked over and said “Hi, meat!” 

Ann chuckled and said “Hi, meat!  Cooking okay?”

       “So far, so good,” Number One said.  “I can feel my juices flowing and I think I’m starting to brown.  There’s not much pain, yet.”

       Sally took over as meat chef and guided Ann up onto the prep table.  I went over to Number One and bent down to give her kiss and wipe the sweat from her brow.  Even with a cooling fan blowing on her head, sticking out of the oven, the heat cooking her body caused her to sweat. There was a tube hanging down where she could reach it with her mouth and take a small drink of water to help cool her internal organs and keep her alive longer while she cooked. I looked down and smiled as I pictured myself in her place.  I could feel my own uterus and vagina spasm as I thought of myself being cooked that way.  I kissed her again and Number One groaned and closed her eyes.  “Did you just come,” I asked.  She nodded.  “Is anyone coming to watch you?”

       All the meatgirls like to have someone see them cook, besides the cook or wait staff.  I always try and stop by and talk to them.  My only job is to walk around and let patrons see “Nancy” so I try and help all the girls get through when they’re being cooked.

       “My mother should be here soon.  Can she kiss me goodbye?”

       “Your mother hasn’t been picked yet?”

       “No.  She’s only grade C and no ones picked her, yet.  She keeps hoping though.  She’s so proud of me being grade A and finally being cooked today.”

       “What’s her name?”

       “Martha.  Martha Jones.  She’s a medium built women with dishwater blonde hair, like me.”

       “I’ll watch for her.  I’d like to meet the mother of such a brave meatgirl, especially one who smells so good when she roasting.”  Of course we all smell delicious when we are cooking.  Even a soup girl smells goods.  An idea stole into my mind.  Special Number One’s mother was only grade C.  If she was able to take the training I’d like to see if we could upgrade her.

       Ann’s arms had been tied up, wrists to armpits and legs bent back, tied ankle to thigh and knees to waist, in a classic roasting position.  I admired the way she looked.  Sally had a speculum, inserted into Ann’s anus so bread dressing could be put in her lower bowel as stuffing.  It was a special speculum, adopted for girlmeat cooking to keep open either a anus or vagina, I watched until Sally declared Ann full and took a second speculum and inserted it into her vagina to fill Ann’s uterus and vagina with more stuffing.  “Pussy” stuffing, as anyone who has eaten a roasted girl likes to call is a sought after delicacy.  But even the “other” stuffing is tasty, though not as favored.  Ann’s belly actually began to swell.  It was like she was four to six months pregnant in appearance.  “Good, I’m stuffed,” Ann said with a laugh.  “Hi, darlings,” she called to George and Kelly.  “Mommy’s really stuffed now, Kelly.”

       I had watched from the viewing area too, many times, so I knew they could hear her.  Kelly waved and clapped her hands and George gave a two thumbs up sign.  Kelly pushed a speaker button next to the window and said, “You’re going to be delicious mommy.”

       “I hope so honey,” she called out.

       “You will,” I told Ann.  “Sally is one of the best girlmeat chefs around.  You’ll be basted in a moment with my dad’s secret honey glaze recipe.”  I turned to go back into the office.

       “Please wait,” Ann called, “Until I’m in the oven.”

       “I’ll be right back out,” I said. 

       I had more calls to make but since Special Number One’s mother was coming I wanted to get on wrap skirt and halter so I was decently dressed before greeting her or other guests who might come to watch.  So of our long term, well known to us, customers like to stop by and just watch the preparation and cooking before we opened, once in a while.  The wrap skirt mother and I wore just barely covered us below the crotch, so if we leaned over or bent forward our pubic areas were visible and on display.  This showed our metal rings and tags, which clearly marked us as registered meatgirls.  In the course of my daily duties customers often asked about my tags and I always displayed my tag so a customer could read it.  Actually I was rather proud of being a meatgirl.

       I went back out to the kitchen first and then took one of the handles on Ann’s roasting pan to help put her in the oven, since it normally takes four women to do that job.  The roasting pan is a special design used by most girlmeat restaurants.  It was three sides high enough to let the juice collect but then the fourth side was slotted to let the meatgirl’s head stick out.  This allowed the oven door, which was raised up and down on rails like a garage door, to be lowered down.  The door itself was slotted to go around a girl’s neck and then a two part seal ring put around her neck to keep the heat in.  Ann frowned as we slid her in and when the door was closed she said, “The oven’s cold.”  She sounded disappointed.

       Shirley, Special Number One, spoke up before the rest of us could.  “It’s easier on us,” she told Ann.  “If it was just a piece of us then they’d heat the oven first.  By putting us in cold and then turning on the oven we have a chance to get adjusted to being in the oven and adapt to the growing heat.  It’s a little like, when they boil a lobster.  That is until it…gets painful, of course.  Oh, that’s…starting now.”

       “Do you want a mouthpiece,” asked Sally.  We use a leather, pear shaped, mouthpiece to insert in a meatgirl’s mouth, both to let her bite down to handle her pain and to keep her quieter.  I’ve seen some girls roast all the way and hardly make a sound.  Most groan and moan and a few cry or scream.  It all depends on the girl.  We all, while waiting to be cooked, role play and act as if we were being readied to cook.  I’ve been in an oven and hung over a grill pit, not a fired up one, of course.  My spitting was only with straps to hold me on a spitting bar.

       Shirley shook her head.  “I can handle it,” she told Sally.  “I wanted this for years.  I’ll go all the way.”

       “Well, of course you will,” said my brother who had come out of his office to watch.  “I was watching on the CCTV and Ann looks pretty good.  We’ll have a fine lunch today I think.”  I smiled at my brother and then went up on tiptoe to give him a quick kiss.

       “How are your calls coming for your special project?”

       “I’ve got two lined up for today so far.  But I want to wait and meet with Number One’s mother.  I think she might be a prospect.”  I always used number designation when talking to my brother, or other men about meatgirls.  I think it made it easier for them to long upon as just meat and not women with names.  Dad used to call mom Double AA as his “pet” nickname.  He almost never used her real name, 

       He raised his eyebrows.

       “She’s a grade C and has never been taken.  It would be interesting to see how far up grade we can push her.”

       “You have the typical mind of a meatgirl,” he said.

       “Thanks,” I told him.  I walked over and kissed both Ann and Shirley before going out to the viewing area.  Ann’s oven was getting hot now.

       I walked over to George and Kelly and stood beside them saying nothing for a while.  Then I said, “Your mom’s oven is hot now.  A few more minutes and then you can kiss her goodbye.”

       “I can kiss her while she’s cooking?” asked Kelly in awe.

       “Of, course,” I said.  “But then you really should go home.  It’ll be three hours before she’ served.  You might be able to kiss her again when she ready to be carved.  We’re pretty good at keeping cooked girls alive until they’re carved.”

       “Ah,” George began to say, “Can we get…”

       “You get her whole vulva and can choose a free lunch for the two of you.”

       “What are the best parts?” Kelly asked.

       “Truthfully, the thigh meat is best.  It’s the most meat per slice.  Her vulva will be a little tough, actually.  The breasts are mostly fat and water and actually shrink, even though we inject extra fat to keep them from shrinking too much.  Thigh, calf and rump meat are all good but thigh is what I like best.”

       “Oh” said George, “I didn’t know that.”

       “Is that my Shirley?” a women’s voice asked nearby.  I looked over and saw Shirley’s mother standing there.  She was a brown haired woman of medium height, wearing a nice, tan, two piece skirt suit, with smooth tan hose and brown, sling back, open toed pumps with two inch heels.  Her shoulder bag was brown too.  She looked like a mature, but not old, business woman. 

       “Hi, Martha, I’m Nancy,” I mentioned to her.

       “Nancy?  Yes, I’ve seen you when we’ve eaten in here.  How’s Shirley cooking?”

       “She doing fine,” I told her.  “You should be very proud of her.”

       “Oh, I am,” she said.  “I just wish…”

       “You could be in the oven with her?”

       “How did you know?  Oh, of course, you’re Nancy and this is your restaurant.  But are you a meatgirl?”  She looked down and I bent forward slightly to give a view of my tag.  She nodded.  I don’t know why she would think I’m not a meatgirl, since all women are tagged and rated at the age of eighteen.  I knew she had a tag and ring too, I didn’t have to see her’s to know that.

       “I am Nancy, the Nancy who this restaurant was named after me.  But it was my dad, a renowned girlmeat chef, who started Nancy’s Restaurant, not me.  Since dad died, my brother Jack and my mother, Gail, run the restaurant.  I just play hostess and greet people.  I’m a form of PR by being The Nancy.”

       “Oh, I see.  It’s a man’s world after all,” she commented.

       “Now more then ever, since they started eating us,” I agreed with a laugh.  Martha laughed along with me.  “We can’t seem to avoid that.”

       “You’re a grade double A,” she said.  “I’m only a grade C and no one’s wanted me.  I’ll just become dog food sooner or later.”

       “How would you like to change that?” I asked. 

       She raised an eyebrow to me.  “I’d be interested.  But could I talk to you about it after I go kiss Shirley good bye.”

       “Certainly,” I said.  “Your lunch here is free today you know.  And you get her…”

       “I know you roasted my oldest daughter two years ago, before my husband died.  My late husband, Henry got her “Cunt Steak” as men like to call.  I don’t know what the attraction is.  I tried a little taste, but it was tough.  Her rump steak was better.”

       “Yes, I agree with you.  Let’s go in the kitchen.  There’s a lull now and you can kiss your daughter.”

       I led her through the kitchen and up to her daughter’s exposed head.  Martha said, “Hi, honey,” and bent down to kiss Shirley fully on the mouth.

       “Mom, you made it.  Hey, Ann, this is my mom, Martha Jones.”

       Ann twisted her head slightly to look over at us standing there.  “Hi, Mrs. Jones,” she said.

       “Please call me Martha.”

       “And I’m Lunch Special Number Two,” Ann told her.  “I’ll be served about a half an hour after Shirley.  That’s my husband, George and my daughter, Kelly watching me roast.”  Martha turned and waved to George and Kelly. 

       “How are you two holding out?” Martha asked.

       “We’re having a ball, mom,” Shirley said.  “I’m Lunch Special Number One, by the way, mom.  I’m first on the menu today.  Please, can you stay and have lunch…uh, of me.”

       “Well, I’ll be back for lunch before noon.  I wouldn’t want to miss seeing you come out of the oven and being carved, would I?”

        “You’d better not,” Shirley said.  “I should be still alive when they begin to carve me.  I want to hear you tell me how I taste before I go.”

       “Okay, I’ll tell you.  Could I have a sample of each of the specials today?”

       “Oh, yes, please have some of me too,” Ann said.  “Shirley and I are becoming good friends today.  It’s strange, but delightful to make a friend while we both cook.  God, we smell delicious.”

       “Yes, my mouth is watering too.  God, I’m hungry for me!  Isn’t that funny,” Shirley added. 

       “Ha, ha-ha, me too,” Ann laughed.

       “Could they have a taste of themselves before they go?” asked Martha.

       “Uh, we usually give a girl a piece of herself to chew on once she’s ready to serve,” I said, but thought to myself if she’s alive.  Living through a roasting is tricky and some girls, most I believe, don’t make it.  It’s reported by the “experts” that our meat taste’s better if we’re put on to cook while still alive.  So it’s the restaurant standard to try and do live cooking, which tends to make restaurant kitchens noisy places until the meat adjust to the heat.  And most meatgirls want to stay live so they can experience the whole event.  It is, after all, the most important and last event of their lives and they have strange, erotic fantasies of knowing how they taste.

       “Oh, yes, please,” both of the roasts said together.

       I bent down and kissed both roasts again and then led Martha away.  “We have to let them roast in peace right now.  They have to get into their comfort zone soon.”

       “What’s that?” asked Martha.

       “It’s a special place meatgirls go while they’re being cooked.  They get used to the pain, after a while and turn it into a form of pleasure for themselves.  When they do that they lose they entire former lives.  Ann and Shirley will become purely meat and begin to take joy in becoming just a meal.  Did you want to take some pictures?  We have a camera recording every detail when a girl’s cooked.  It’s all on our archives and we can print you still pictures or a picture slideshow or video.  There are also mountings if you want a souvenir head.  That’s about all that’s left.”

       “Yes, I know,” Martha said.  “I have the wall plaque from my other daughter.  But now, tell me about making me a better meatgirl.  I really want to go like my daughter and as soon as possible.”

       We walked back to the viewing area.  George and Kelly had left.  No one else was coming into to watch just now.  We had things to ourselves for a moment.  So I told her about my new plans to train women to upgrade to a better grade of meat.  She listened intently to every word.  I held my breath when I stopped talking. 

       “I’m in charge of Human Resources for the company I work for,” she said.  “But I really want to be meat.  Don’t ask me why.  If you could take me in as a volunteer and start training me I’ll help you set up this farm of yours, using my jobs skills to make it happen.  That goes especially if it can improve the lot of us that are that not good a grade of meat.  I’d settle for grade B if it just meant I’d be eaten by other people.   I really don’t like the thought of becoming dog food.”

       “Oh, no,” I told her.  “For Shirley’s mom, I’ll push you until you’re grade A and become one of our lunch specials to.”

       “That would be wonderful,” she said.  “I’ll come back right just before lunch ready to go to the training farm.”

       We turned to watch Ann and Shirley cook some more.  Ann was going through her first stage struggle by now and Shirley looked like she was at the second stage.  She was moaning like she was having an orgasm and I knew she was becoming just meat now.

       “Hi, I’m Cindy,” said a new voice next to us.  “They told me to come and see you.”  She held out her hand.

       “Oh, I’ve got to run, now,” Martha said.  “I’ll be back for lunch.  Bye.”  Martha went out through the front door and I turned to Cindy.  She was looking at the girls roasting.  I never tire of watching a girl being cooked and I envy each one I see. 

       “Have you ever seen girls being cooked up close?” I asked of Cindy.

       “At some picnics,” she said.  “But I’ve wondered about this kind of oven.  I’d like to see it up closer.”

       “Do you see those fans blowing down on the girl’s heads?  There’s a cooling coil behind the fan.  That means they are breathing cool air, which offsets some of the cooking process, slows things down slightly and lets them live longer but they’re still being cooked.  The tubes that hang down let them take sips of water that keep some of their internal organs cooler longer.  The heat of the oven still cooks the flesh and muscle tissue, which is the important part to serve.

       “Most girls yield about, anywhere from eighty to one hundred pounds of meat when carved.  It is one of the things that my father was and now my brother is proud of is that carve a girl when served for a meal.  We don’t butcher a girl; we carve her as the fine meal she is.  It may not sound like that much of a difference but everyone at Nancy’s Restaurant understands that.”

       “Actually, I think I can understand that point too.  It’s a point that makes me want to volunteer here.”

       “Well, let’s take you back to see my brother and mother and we’ll discuss what we need of you,” I said.  “I want to stop by for a moment and check with our roasting specials on the way.”

       Cindy followed me and we stopped at the ovens.  I kissed Ann and said “Going okay?”

       “Uh-uh, I’m cooking now, I can feel it.  This is so…good.  I’ve looked…forward to this for a long time now.”

       “When did you first realize you wanted to be cooked?” I asked kindly.  I don’t always talk to a cooking girl this much, but I felt I owed Ann some extra time for bailing me out this morning.  And if I paid extra attention to her I will, in fairness, give some extra attention to Shirley too. 

       “Since I was…thirteen,” Ann said.  “If things had just been different…”  She closed her eyes and moaned without finishing her thoughts.

       “Then I wouldn’t have met you husband, and your daughter wouldn’t be alive.”

       Her eyes open wide for a moment.  She looked up at me in a moment of realization.  “Kelly will want to be cooked too, won’t she?

       “My mother asked my father to cook her when I was about thirteen and she was delicious.  It made me want to be served too.  It’s what women do now.”

       “I know,” I agreed.

“Then it’s okay if Kelly, some day, volunteers.”  This time it wasn’t a question but a statement that she seemed to accept.  “I hope she tastes good that day.”  Ann closed her eyes and moaned with that special moan that is both pleasure and pain, all at once.  It was time to let her just enjoy cooking.

       I bent down and kissed Shirley too.  She was in her zone though and I wasn’t going to disturb that blissfulness in pain she was feeling.  It bothers me at times that I know so much about meatgirls when they are being cooked but have never been in the oven, or the pot or the on the spit.”

       Cindy had kissed both roasts too.  Our third lunch girl was being prepped for a grilling.  The grill she will be put on in wide rather than deep, like the oven.  Oven roast girls are our specialty but we have to make money and a lot of customer like grilled meat.  Of course we have fried girl meat too; leftovers that are cut up and fried or broiled.  We don’t cut up live girls and I’m proud of that.  Just like I said, we carve cooked meat but we never butcher a girl.