In the year 2033, a decade had transpired since the emergence of the Dolcett virus - a pandemic initially dismissed as a fleeting "popular kink" on social media. However, what was perceived as a transient trend turned out to be a lethal virus, imperiling humanity itself. This insidious virus rewrote the genetic code of the brain's prefrontal cortex in real-time, altering the fundamental mechanisms of pleasure processing in the body.
In 2023, the first social media posts depicting sex-themed suicides began to surface. Women filmed themselves engaging in gruesome acts of self-mutilation, involving cutting, burning, and asphyxiation, all accompanied by a grotesque display of self-pleasure in the face of death.
The virus selectively targeted women, swiftly spreading across the globe within a few months. Its irreversible genetic damage meant that giving birth led to the creation of offspring destined to become sex-crazed kamikazes upon reaching puberty. Scientists found themselves powerless as the virus decimated the female population.
After a decade-long struggle, world governments devised a strategy to address the female shortage. The plan involved extracting ova from every remaining woman on Earth and, through in-vitro fertilization, "manufacturing" new women at a rate surpassing the current sexual suicide rate. This would buy scientists the time needed to develop a cure.
However, implementing this plan proved challenging. How could authorities compel women, driven to self-destruction, to undergo ovum extraction? The solution was to entice them with even more macabre and inventive death experiences within the - so called - “Extraction Facilities”.
Each extraction facility featured industrialized torture and execution machines alongside the necessary medical equipment for the extraction process. Leftover human remains were repurposed into cans of SPAM meat or transformed into plant fertilizer. Advertisements flooded all available mediums, tempting women with the promise of the most brutal and intense death experience imaginable, in exchange for their eggs—the essence of life.
Initially, everything proceeded according to plan until authorities realized the overwhelming number of women driven by a snuff-crazed fever surpassed the capacity of the facilities. Queues of horny females waiting before the facilities stretched for miles and miles, up to the horizon...
A modification was put into effect: Every female had to fill an online submission form, and was enqueued for execution on a specific date and time. However, this brought forth another predicament—lengthy wait times in major cities led most women to choose suicide over waiting for execution.
As a final measure, governments introduced the "Snuff Lottery" to curb the suicide rate. Random women were chosen daily for immediate execution, with a reward system based on the duration of their wait. Additionally, a sedative was introduced into tap water and popular drinks for women, diminishing their susceptibility to stimuli and reducing instances of sex-triggered suicides. Men were advised to consume government-funded bottled water.
A decade after the outbreak, scientists remained devoid of a cure, vaccine, or any viable solution to combat the relentless virus.
A slender woman sprinted down the corridor of the facility, anxiously checking her wristwatch between gasps for air. Upon reaching the reception desk, she struggled to catch her breath...
Leaning on the desk, the slender woman struggled to regain composure, dressed in a formal office uniform with elegant pantyhose and black ballet flats. Sweat had dampened her shirt, and the collar appeared disheveled.
Facility Worker: Personal ID and lottery number, please.
Slender Woman: My PID is 0066549843, and my lottery number is... Oh, damn it... 731... panting...
Facility Worker: Ah, Miss Joanne. Congratulations! Your regularly scheduled execution wasn’t due for another three years, but you're one of the lucky ones for today’s random selection. I'm Pamela.
Joanne: For heaven's sake... Seriously... I thought I wasn’t going to make it. As soon as I got the call, I told my manager I quit. Good thing I made it on time... Otherwise, I’d be jobless...
Pamela: You aren’t far from the truth, to be honest. If you arrived ten minutes later, your lottery ticket would have expired. Please have a seat and give me a moment to complete the necessary paperwork.
Following Pamela's instructions, Joanne settled into an old, slightly damp chair. As Pamela swiftly typed on the computer keyboard, Joanne's eyes caught some VHS tapes lying on the desk. They were signed with a name and date, except for one, who’s label was blank.
Joanne: Do you record all the executions?
Pamela: Yes, the processing facility has CCTV cameras installed everywhere.
Joanne: What are the tapes for? Families of the executed women?
Pamela: Not exactly... My compensation isn’t as high as I’d like it to be, so I’m picking up every side hustle I can... An execution tape with someone like you is going to sell like hot cakes on the black market...
Joanne: Smart move. I bet a lot of men would pay top dollar to see women like me slaughtered like this... Anyway, what’s on the unlabeled tape?
Pamela: Nothing. It’s empty. It’s for your execution, sweetie.
Joanne felt an unexpected surge of arousal. She squeezed her thighs, preventing herself from touching her private parts...
Pamela: Okay, all done! Before we proceed, we must extract your eggs for reproductive purposes. Please, follow me through this door...
The egg retrieval process lasted no more than fifteen minutes under general anesthesia. Joanne woke up, needing to rest until the anesthesia wore off. Pamela guided her to the next room...
Upon crossing the doorway, Joanne detected an unusual scent—familiar yet twisted. It seemed like a blend of sex, blood, and an odd, unpleasant odor, resembling rotting meat. The room, dimly lit by a tungsten-colored fluorescent lamp, contained a small table and chair in the corner and a large dumpster labeled “Garment Disposal.” However, there were no signs of execution—no blood, urine, feces, or other bodily fluids that typically accompanied death.
Joanne scanned the room with anticipation, pinpointing the source of the peculiar scent emanating from a vent. "The vent probably links to the execution chamber's intake, connecting all the rooms in the facility," she speculated. The idea of being processed like an animal carcass instantaneously aroused her. As her eyes explored the room, they caught sight of a lone cigarette and an ashtray on the table.
Pamela: The cigarette is for you, love. It’s your last one, so help yourself.
Joanne's arousal heightened. This small detail - the last cigarette - emphasized the undeniable reality of her impending execution. It was definitive—a conclusion to her life, here and now. Yet, she knew she had to maintain composure, reserving her orgasmic energy for the execution itself rather than exhausting her dopamine prematurely.
Joanne: Thanks... My mom would have killed me if she saw me smoking. But... I guess it doesn’t matter now...
Pamela: Please, remove your clothes prior to smoking, and deposit them in the dumpster—fire hazard reduction... And all that crap.
Joanne began to undress, revealing beautiful, firm breasts and a flat stomach when she removed her shirt. Pamela, standing in the corner, observed silently. When Joanne stood beside the dumpster in only her pantyhose, discarding the rest of her clothes, Pamela unexpectedly interjected with a "jump-scare."
Pamela: Leave them.
Startled, Joanne turned around to look at her.
Pamela: Leave the pantyhose on. I want to watch you smoke the cigarette in them.
Joanne didn’t protest. Whether it was part of the procedure or an employee’s personal preference, she complied. Seated on the wobbly chair, she crossed her legs and reached for the cigarette and lighter. After the first puff, she choked on the smoke.
Pamela: First one, huh?
Joanne: Yeah... cough, cough... Mind if I ask... How do you endure working here without the urge to hop on one of the execution machines yourself? Are you immune to the virus or something?
Pamela: No, of course not. As an employee, I was promised something special—an execution that you and all the other women might only dream about. But it comes at a price. I must execute a couple of thousand women before I can make my dream come true. Come on, take another puff...
Joanne: This turns you on? - Joanne asked, adjusting her pose on the chair to resemble a pin-up model, alluringly tilting her head down upon exhaling the cigarette smoke in Pamela’s direction...
Pamela slowly walked across the room, looking deep into Joanne’s eyes, and stood in front of her. She crouched, leaning her hands on Joanne's knees...
Pamela: I like to watch women smoke their last one because... I always imagine it’s me, sitting in this very chair. I imagine my day has finally come. I’ve been working here for months now... That, and looking through the window to get a glimpse of the execution process are the only two things that keep me from snuffing myself... The thought of what these machines would do to me...
She stood up, sat on Joanne’s lap in a “cowgirl” position, staring into Joanne’s blue irises, she whispered...
Pamela: Joanne... Tell me... What do you feel, sitting here... Knowing that once these doors shut behind you, you’re not getting out... Describe it, with details...
Joanne: It’s... Surreal... Like... I never imagined it like this, but... I’m oddly calm. All my adult life... All this waiting... Suddenly it makes sense now... I will get what I want, finally.. What we all want. The last orgasm. An orgasm so strong, we can’t even imagine it. And it’s right behind that door. That thought is... Intoxicating...
Pamela closed her eyes, her face twisted in an expression resembling a mixture of pain and pleasure... She didn’t say anything back to Joanne... Only a subtle, barely audible moan came out of her mouth... All of a sudden, she stood up, standing beside the next door.
Pamela: There’s nothing left but the butt. You finished your cigarette. It’s time, Joanne.
Joanne loudly swallowed her saliva and extinguished the still smoldering cigarette butt by nervously squishing it against the ashtray. She knew she had to be completely naked for the execution, so she removed her pantyhose and threw it into the dumpster.
Joanne: I’m ready, Pamela. I’m ready to become meat - she said, with her voice slightly shuddering, and a droplet of cunt juice making its way down her thigh...
Joanne emerged through the creaking old door into what appeared to be an antechamber, a small space serving as a buffer between the administrative and industrial sections of the plant. A massive steel sliding door beckoned her forward. The room beyond was entirely encased in steel panels, featuring a monorail suspended halfway between the ceiling and the floor on a sturdy set of steel support bars.
At the far end of the room, another set of sliding doors hinted that this was merely one of the chambers in the series Joanne would traverse during her execution process. Standing there, unclothed and uncertain, a voice echoed through the loudspeakers.
Pamela: I’m operator Pamela Evans, executing citizen with a PID of 0066549843, named Joanne Hill. 21 years old, Caucasian female.
Pamela: Joanne, please approach the first station. We have to decontaminate you before you can enter the section of the facility where the meat is processed.
Joanne complied, walking towards the designated "station." It consisted of a steel pipe extending from the floor, robotic arms at the front and back, and an overhead monorail device with some sort of “shackles” attached to it.
Unsure of what to do, Joanne awaited instructions from Pamela, slightly shivering from the cold in the refrigerated room.
Pamela: Stand with your legs apart over the pipe and lock yourself into the cuff system above your head. Just insert your hands through them, and the soft, inside padding will inflate once it detects your wrists are in place, immobilizing you.
Joanne: O... Okay... What’s the pipe for? - Joanne asked, sliding her hands into the strange cuffs.
Pamela: I have to purge your digestive system before I’ll send you off to the washing station. Stand still now; the pipe is going to extend and plug into your ass. There’s no lubrication, so it might hurt a little.
Joanne started questioning the authenticity of the advertisements about these facilities. Were they truly designed for innovative torment, crowned with the most intense orgasm possible? Or were they just simple butchering machines for disposing of females after extraction, turning them into pig fodder?
The mechanism below the floor squeaked, and the pipe began extending toward Joanne’s backside. When it reached her, it made one strong push, causing discomfort as the unpolished pipe entered.
Joanne: Ahh, fuck! Why the hell would you cheap out on lube, for fuck’s sake!? This thing is massacring my ass!
Pamela: It’s designed to intensify the feeling of being processed like an animal. Just as advertised. Now, I will pump you with a mixture of water and glycerin to promote bowel movement. We have to get rid of everything that’s inside of you.
Pamela’s voice faded away as Joanne heard the pump's peculiar rattle, and soon, the cold fluid filled her.
Joanne: Uhh... It’s so cold... Is the lack of heating a part of the design too?
Pamela: In a way, yes. Cooling down the body reduces blood pressure, preserving consciousness a little longer during the execution, intensifying the experience. Also, lesser blood loss means less cleaning for us - employees...
A shiver ran through Joanne at the mention of dismemberment. It all happened so fast—from her desk at work to restrained on an industrial processing machine, awaiting slaughter. She wanted it for so long, but now it felt surreal.
Joanne snapped out of her daze when she felt the fluid entering her large intestine. Her stomach swelled as the pump quickened.
The pump injected a total of six liters of fluid into Joanne’s digestive system. When it finished, Joanne could barely breathe because of the fluid exerting pressure on her internal organs. Moments later, she began to feel intestinal contractions.
Pamela: You should start purging yourself any moment now. The glycerin should be enough to stimulate the bowel to excrete whatever is inside of it, but we’re going to help it anyway, just to be sure.
The robotic arms flanking the "pumping station" sported large metal plates. They raised, aligning the plates parallel to Joanne’s body. The rear arm pressed against her back, and the front one on Joanne’s stomach, triggering a swift ejection of her intestinal contents. Coupled with the contractions induced by the glycerin, Joanne’s guts were emptied in seconds.
Joanne: gasping Uhh... Wow... That was intense... I never felt so... Light... And empty... uhh... panting...
Pamela: Great. Now, it’s time for the next stage. Stand still so the pipe can retract.
The pipe squeaked, sliding out of Joanne’s backside. The glycerin-water mixture still dripped slightly as the monorail device lifted Joanne off the ground, heading toward the next station.
The following machine featured three large "brushes" - one at the back, one at the front, and one below, resembling a car wash but designed for humans... or animals.
Pamela: Now we need to disinfect your body from the outside. You don’t have to do anything; just close your eyes when the machine starts. If you've ever used a drive-through car wash, you know what’s gonna happen next. The bottom brush will clean your ass and cunt, so make sure to spread your legs and let it do its job.
The machine activated, spraying a warm mix of water and disinfectant on Joanne. The liquid temporarily warmed her chilled body. Shortly after, motorized brushes pressed against Joanne from the front and rear, starting from the top and working their way down, thoroughly cleaning the soon-to-be meat.
When the main brushes finished, the bottom brush initiated. Joanne spread her legs as instructed, feeling the slightly coarse strands massaging the inside of her thighs before pressing against her crotch. The brush brought Joanne to the brink of an orgasm, but she resisted, saving it for the actual execution.
Pamela: Good, you’re all clean now and ready to go. We still need to dry you off before we move on to the next room.
Joanne, who hadn't even noticed, was trembling. The liquid sprayed on her skin momentarily cooled her down, intensifying the feeling of piercing cold. The brushes returned to their initial positions, and a pair of multi-exhaust blowers mounted on the same vertical mechanism started to blow hot air on her body until she was completely dry.
The monorail rack, to which Joanne was strapped, resumed its movement towards the gate at the end of the room.
The rack halted just beyond the gate, suspended over a large, square tank. In the ensuing silence, Joanne scanned her surroundings, contemplating the manner in which her demise would unfold. The hall replicated the layout of the previous one, differing only in the machinery it housed.
Apart from the station where Joanne currently hovered, two more stations caught her attention. The first presented an unfamiliar sight—two towering, trapezoidal structures flanking the rail, each sporting an oval cut-out. Between them, telescopic arms terminated in "U"-shaped cradles, gliding along a separate floor rail. The contraption baffled her; its purpose remained unknown.
As for the last station, Joanne observed what seemed like a spit-pole mounted on a rail, followed by an expansive industrial-sized oven. The notion of being immediately roasted right after processing watered Joanne’s private parts... She longed for being slaughtered like an animal, and her fantasy unfurled before her eyes...
Her gaze descended, landing on a pool of yellow liquid within the tank below—an odor reminiscent of week-old urine fermenting assaulted her senses.
Pamela interjected, her voice cutting through the apprehensive air:
Pamela: I believe you figured that one out just by the smell, Joanne. That’s the piss collector. I’m gonna need to force you to cum to make sure there's no urine left inside of your bladder. Our expensive processing machines don’t like moisture.
Joanne: Oh no, please! Let me save my orgasm for the more intensive parts! I don’t wanna cum just yet!
Pamela: Sorry sweetie, that’s the procedure. Commencing it... Now.
A device with a robotic arm, adorned with a dildo, emerged from the opposite side of the monorail. It extended towards Joanne's clit, delicately teasing against it. Despite her initial resistance, Joanne yielded to the temptation, her thighs parting to allow the dildo's caress. The ribbed device swiftly brought her to the brink of an orgasm. She was moaning loudly, rhythmically thrusting her pelvis against the dildo. Abruptly, the arm retracted, and the rack pivoted Joanne 180 degrees. The arm forcefully shoved the dildo deep into Joanne’s butthole... It pounded her so hard that the shape of the dildo was protruding from her stomach upon each thrust.
After no more than a couple of thrusts, Joanne succumbed to an intense, squirting orgasm. The arm adjusted its positioning to massage her bladder by pushing against it through the rectum wall at the right angle. It kept pounding her, causing involuntary bladder contractions until the last drop of piss squirted out of her.
The arm pulled out of her ass and drove away on the rail, and the rack turned Joanne around again so she faced the right direction. Her own piss, falling into the tank disturbed the pool of fermented urine that was in it, spreading its stench... Joanne felt a sudden urge to throw up, but she knew if she did, she would have to undergo the decontamination procedure again... She managed to hold it in, and the rack started to transport her to the next station...
Coming to a halt between trapezoidal structures, Pamela's voice echoed once more.
Pamela: So, that’s it, Joanne. The end of the line. Your execution... starts now.
A chill coursed down Joanne's spine as Pamela's words reverberated in the facility. Uncertain of what awaited her—Is it going to be a quick, painless death followed by her lifeless corpse spinning on the spit-pole, or maybe the machine will put her through inimaginable torment before she becomes meat...
Pamela: This one is a bit more tricky. You’ll see in a moment, but you have to follow my instructions. Lift your legs out to the sides, as if you want to do a split. Do it now.
Joanne, both excited and slightly terrified, lifted her legs to the sides as instructed. She nervously looked around, trying to guess how the machine worked, to prepare for what was about to come... But, before she managed to spot any detail that might have lifted the veil of secrecy, the two telescopic arms below her started to extend...
The “cradles” on top of the arms embraced Joanne’s thighs, and the arms continuously extended upwards until her legs reached a full split position. Luckily enough, Joanne was a sporty girl, so such extreme pose wasn’t challenging for her body.
Her legs were now aligned with the oval-shaped cutouts in the trapezoidal structures. Joanne heard a slight humming emanating from inside of them, and suddenly, a steel pole, sharpened at the end, emerged from the center of both, moving toward her feet.
Pamela: You’re going to feel a slight pinch now. This is necessary to stabilize your legs for the next part of the procedure.
Joanne: A slight pinch? You’re going to impale my feet on this thing? - Joanne asked, panting from arousal. Her pupils dilated as the sharp poles approached her feet...
Pamela: Yes, precisely. Relax your foot muscles; otherwise, it might be much more painful.
The poles stopped two inches before touching the inside arch of her feet and then thrust with maximum force, impaling both.
Joanne: Ahhhh, fuck! This is so fucking good! Holy shit!!! - Joanne rolled her eyes in a spasm of pleasure... Even though her body processed the pain associated with the inflicted wound, an oddly satisfying feeling of her feet muscles “pulsating” around the cold, metal rods that punctured right through them distinguished it from a regular, displeasing pain...
The telescopic poles retracted as the cradles were no longer needed to support Joanne’s legs...
Pamela: Now comes the fun part. Please, put on a little show for the CCTV cameras, will you?
Tubes made of thick glass with some sort of big copper wires attached to them on the inside began to slide out from both oval openings in the trapezoidal structures. They slowly emerged, “trapping” Joanne’s legs inside. Joanne now realized that this was an intricate roasting device meant to cook only the legs, while leaving the rest of the victim untouched... The glass used to make the tubes was clear enough to see the legs through it...
Pamela: First, we’re going to roast your legs separately, then chop them off and pack them for sale. You’re an A-grade piece of meat, so we can’t just mince you up for SPAM like lesser quality girls. So... Have fun! Activating the heaters...
The copper wires inside the glass tubes slowly started to take on an orange-reddish color... Joanne felt a slight wave of heat tingling the skin on her legs...
The heat intensified quickly, and soon the tingling sensation started to feel more like pinching...
Joanne: It’s getting hot in here... I’m wondering if this thing is gonna slow-cook my legs, or is it gonna roast them quickly... Either way, I have to focus so I don’t faint from the pain... I want to be conscious all the way to the end...
The temperature inside the glass tubes kept rising. The heating elements pumped heat onto Joanne’s legs until her skin started to break a sweat...
Joanne: Fuck... It’s... Kinda... unbearable... But... I have to bear this... Ohh shit this hurts... I can feel my sweat sizzling on my skin... - Joanne kept talking to herself through clenched teeth...
Soon, the heating elements reached their target temperature, and Joanne’s legs started to cook... Her skin slowly seared, taking on a pale, brown color... The toes of her feet involuntarily twisted in every direction, as if Joanne had no control over her muscles due to the pain she is subjected to...
Joanne was no longer able to speak... A mixture of pain-induced moans, screams, and rapid, irregular breathing emanated from her mouth as the fat from under her skin started to render and sizzle...
After a few more moments, Joanne’s brain apparently got overstimulated with the pain, and she stopped feeling anything at all... The world was spinning before her eyes, and she felt out of breath... She realized that she couldn't feel her legs at all. She didn’t want to look at them in fear the pain is going to return once her brain acknowledges what’s happening...
But... She couldn’t resist... She turned her head to the right and saw her leg being completely cooked. She tried to force herself to move her toes, but it seemed like the nervous system wasn’t transporting information from the brain to the muscles...
Pamela: Good news, Joanne; your legs are all done! They look so delicious! Too bad I won’t be able to afford to taste you... Anyways... Deactivating the heating cylinders now. Let’s chop these beauties off and proceed with your processing.
Joanne still couldn’t say anything. Everything happening around her seemed unreal... Her head limped forward as if she were about to lose consciousness...
The telescopic arms extended once again, stopping just below Joanne’s thighs. At the very top of both of the “U” shaped cradles that previously held her legs in place were a pair of small, hollow, cylindrical tubes. A red laser shot from both tubes in both cradles, creating a tool resembling a band-saw...
Both arms executed a quick move, extending upwards. The laser swiftly cut through Joanne’s thighs, and they elegantly landed on the cradles. It took a fraction of a second—the cut was made with surgical precision, and the insanely high temperature of the laser sealed all the veins on both sides of the wound by burning them to a crisp, so there was no bleeding whatsoever.
Joanne snapped out of her lethargy in an instant. What happened was a complete shock to her, both mentally and to her body. Oddly enough, once the cooked legs were removed from her body, she started to feel pain again...
Pamela: You might still feel the pain in your legs even though you don’t have them anymore. It’s called Phantom Limb syndrome. Not that it matters... You’ll be dead in a moment anyway. Okay... Enough talking... Let’s carry on with the business...
From the opposite side of the monorail, another mechanical arm arrived. This one was equipped with mechanized hooks that grabbed both legs at two spots each. The “spit-pole” immobilizing the feet retracted, along with the “cradle-arms,” allowing the monorail arm to move the legs away from the station.
The arm then placed both legs on a conveyor belt with sterile trays made from thick styrofoam already in place. A sealing machine packed both legs tightly, sticking a barcode sticker as well as printing an expiration date on the sealed plastic foil.
The monorail rack moved again, transferring Joanne to the final station. It was equipped with an impalement machine mounted on a rail. On both sides of the impaler, conveyor belts were placed with a laser cutting mechanism similar to the one in the previous machine. Styrofoam trays were also in place - waiting for Joanne’s arms to drop right onto them, to be tightly sealed and transported into the distribution hall.
Pamela: So, this is the final stop, Joanne. This machine will impale you on a spit-pole and chop your arms off. They won’t be roasted - for some reason, people prefer them raw - as a base for broth, probably. I’m going to need your assistance, though...
Pamela: Once the spit-pole impales you all the way through, it’s going to shift into a horizontal position. I’m going to need you to gather all your strength and extend your arms to the sides. The lasers will cut them off immediately. After that, you can... Let it go. Close your eyes, and... “Go to sleep.” The oven will take care of you, and it won’t take long - this thing is powerful as hell. Oh, and one more thing. Tilt your head all the way back. Do it now.
Joanne was still in shock after she lost her legs. She dreamed of this moment for so long, imagining it as the best sexual experience in her life... But now, she was at the brink of her demise, depleted of pleasure, and in horrible pain... She felt as if her non-existent legs were swelling, causing a migraine and nausea...
The spit pole extended slowly, entering Joanne’s cunt. Upon reaching the cervix, it performed a vigorous thrust, ripping through it, along with the fundus in one go. Then, it slowed down again, making its way through her internal organs. The machine was designed in a way not to puncture the heart, allowing the meatgirl to stay alive, at least until reaching the oven. The spit-pole ripped through the esophagus from the bottom, and exited through Joanne’s throat.
The spit-pole completely blocked the flow of air to the lungs, so regardless of her state, she had approximately four minutes of life left before her brain shut off from the lack of oxygen. The inside padding of the cuff system in the rail-rack deflated, making Joanne’s arms limply slip out of the cuffs. The spit mechanism squeaked and started its descent to a horizontal position.
Joanne couldn’t hold her breathing reflexes back. She flexed her diaphragm and chest muscles, trying to squeeze even the tiniest amount of air into her lungs, but the spit-pole made it impossible. She started to panic, nervously scanning her surroundings with her eyes, looking for any signs of her torment coming to an end.
Pamela: Please, extend your arms now. It will be all over soon, I promise.
Just before the mechanism finished shifting its position, Joanne obediently lifted her arms, positioning them in line with the styrofoam trays lying on the conveyor belt. She wanted her suffering to end, so she thought the faster the machine was done with her, the better for her.
The laser mechanisms attached to the conveyor belts rapidly extended upwards, cutting both Joanne’s arms simultaneously. Her limbs fell on the styrofoam trays with a loud thud. The accumulated amount of pain was too much for her brain, and she went unconscious.
Sealing machines mounted on hydraulic pistons tightly packed both arms, and they began their journey to another section of the facility.
The spit-pole mechanism slowly moved forward on the rail, stopping just before entering the oven. A pair of horizontally mounted pipes with sprayers started to grease Joanne with a mixture of cooking oil and spices. The spit mechanism rotated, so the meatgirl was evenly covered with the marinade.
Before the machine proceeded, another tool arrived on the monorail above. A three-segment arm with a syringe mechanism at the end extended downwards and carefully aimed at a spot directly between Joanne’s breasts. It stabbed Joanne’s heart with a long, thick needle and injected a monstrous dose of adrenaline.
After a few seconds, Joanne woke up. Her eyelids lifted, and as soon as she realized that she’s back in the same nightmare again, her eyes filled with terror. Her face was already turning purple from the lack of oxygen, but she was conscious enough to comprehend what was happening. The rail-mounted spit-pole moved towards the oven.
The oven was equipped with heating elements on both sides and on the top. A conveyor rail ran across the entire bottom of it, allowing the meat to move slowly forward during cooking. Once cooking is complete, the meat emerges from the other side of the oven to be nabbed on hooks and transported for further processing.
The mechanism slowly rotated the spit-pole while the rail advanced, so the meatgirl was cooked evenly from all sides. Joanne was spinning inside the oven like a piglet on a rotisserie. The adrenaline didn’t last for long, as she suffocated to death pretty quickly.
Her beautifully roasted body was transported to the manual processing center, cut into pieces, and packed for sale.
Martha and Ethan stood before the entrance to a local butcher shop. It was early in the morning, and the shop was still closed. Martha nervously nibbled on a cigarette filter, taking one quick puff after another...
Ethan: You nervous?
Martha: Yeah, kind of... What if we don’t find her there? What if they just minced her for fertilizer and we never get to taste her? - said Martha, tearing up a little bit...
Ethan: Relax. We fed her well, she’s been working out. I’m sure they graded her as prime meat. Oh look, the butcher is opening his shop!
They both stepped inside the shop. Martha approached the display fridges, and, to her great relief, she saw Joanne’s body parts packed, labeled and ready for sale. On top of the fridge stood a small pedestal made from transparent plastic with a printed out insert including Joanne’s portrait photo, along with her personal information.
Martha: Look, honey... There she is... - Martha was shaking from excitement
Ethan: She looks... Marvelous... Our beautiful daughter... Sir - we’ll take all of it.
Butcher: Of course. May I see some ID? If you’re direct family members of Miss Joanne, I could apply a Family discount.
Martha: We are, but we’re not going to cheap out on our own daughter. We’ll buy all of it, at full price.
Butcher: Suit yourself, Miss...
They packed everything into their station wagon and drove off...
Ethan: So... How about your execution honey? Still no luck in the lottery?
Martha: Yep... Still have to wait two years... It’s ridiculous... I’ll be old and ugly by then. I bet they would grade me as B-class at least if they executed me today.
Ethan: Oh come on, stop overreacting, dear... You’re still so beautiful... I almost wish you could live forever. But I can’t help myself to fantasize of tasting you one day... Maybe these two years will be worth the wait...
Martha and Ethan knew about the VHS tapes circulating around the black market. They managed to find a dealer in a town nearby, and found the tape containing Joanne’s death recorded on the facilities’ CCTV footage. For the following two years, they’ve been fucking every day in front of their TV, with their VCR constantly recreating their daughter’s demise before their eyes.
