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Bon Voyage

BON VOYAGE by Menagerie

As always, Frank’s packet was marked with a big, red “P”. “Privileged”. “Welcome
aboard, again, Sir,” said the studiously impassive purser; the entertainment
director, scrubbed and perky, gave him a friendly grin. Frank nodded, smiled,
and hustled below decks to his cabin.
It was his eighth cruise, Frank’s little reward to himself for 50 weeks of
drudgery. A two-week trip to nowhere in particular, taking in the ocean breeze,
frolicking with the vacationers…and looking ahead to the very last day. Not that
he wanted it to end; in fact, he’d like the last day to last forever.
The packet contained the usual, and the unusual, documents. The itinerary; the
daily schedule of activities; the meals. And then, a folded piece of paper. On
it, a half-dozen names, pictures, descriptions; all female passengers, a few of
them making the trip for the first time. And one of them, for the last.
The heading read, ATTENTION “P” CLASS PASSENGER: YOU ARE TO RECORD YOUR
SELECTION AND PRESENT THIS DOCUMENT TO THE PURSER BY 1700 FRIDAY 8 JULY. THOSE
WHO FAIL TO SUBMIT THIS DOCUMENT IN A TIMELY MANNER WILL BE EXCLUDED FROM THE
CAPTAIN’S BANQUET. THERE WILL BE NO EXCEPTIONS. Next to each woman’s name was a
square; Frank, and the other “Privilegeds,” would put an “X” in one of the
boxes; whichever of them got the most votes…Frank grinned. Quite a lot of power
in their collective hands.
Frank had learned of the annual cruise from an acquaintance…one with whom he
shared very secret thoughts and desires. “They find out quickly whether they can
trust you,” said the nameless friend, in letters that tracked across Frank’s PC
screen. “It costs a lot of money, and they bind and blindfold you. I’ve told at
least a dozen other guys about it; not a one has followed through.”
Frank would; it was worth it. He laid down the cash, surrendered to their bonds,
traveled a day in darkness. Seven years ago; he’d been back every year.
The first day shipboard was warm and balmy--the kind of weather, Frank knew,
that brought out the best in female flesh. He smiled and greeted his fellow
passengers, all the while scanning the ladies stretched out poolside or sweatin'
to the oldies in the morning aerobics workout. He immediately recognized a
couple of the women on his ballot--there was Number Five, in sweatpants and a
stretch top that barely contained a pair of remarkable bazooms, straining to
touch right forefinger to left toe and vice versa. Frank stopped, checked out
Number Five's bottom as she grunted and bent, and nodded approvingly to himself.
Definitely, a semi-finalist.
Number Three was sitting on the edge of the pool, kicking her legs and focused
intently on the water, as if she were trying to understand what it was saying. A
full figure, a cute face, tousled hair. Very nice. Frank took in her smooth,
soft skin, thought about her at the Captain's Banquet. It would be hard to
decide this year; a lot of potential "winners"--he grinned to himself--to choose
from.
As Frank scoped out the contestants, he nearly collided with Number Six; she was
poring over her daily activities schedule, and they brushed. "I'm so sorry!" she
exclaimed, eyes wide, mouth forming a little O. "Clumsy, clumsy me..." He
assured her it was all right, introduced himself, they shook. Frank was very
impressed; she had full, thick thighs, spectacular breasts, soulful, expressive
eyes. He was moving her several notches up the list as they spoke. "They gave me
a discount to sign up for this cruise!" she was saying. "Can you beat it? They
were so happy to get me on board, they showered me with gifts. They've treated
me like a queen!"
Frank could believe it; all of the "contestants" were lured on board with
special offers, he discovered. Most of them couldn't have paid what he
paid...but then, he was "Privileged". Her name was Joanne; she was here to have
fun! She would be delighted to join him for breakfast...
He got a better look at her at the buffet; there was a goodly amount of flesh to
her, plump buttocks, big, round shoulders. She talked a mile a minute about her
friends, her family, her job; he nodded, smiled, every once in a while
interjected "How about that!" or "Well, what do you know?" His mind was
elsewhere. The Banquet had gotten fancier every year, a black tie affair with
all sorts of exotic fruit, fancy wines, classy entertainment...and, of course,
the main course. Which, Frank had decided, might well be Joanne.
For this was a cannibal cruise. Passed on by word of mouth, available only for a
high price and to those willing to be transported to it blindly...at the end of
the two weeks, a selected passenger would be exquisitely prepared and
flamboyantly served, a hearty feast for the fortunate. The flagship was foreign,
the port authorities bought; each year, one passenger was reported lost at sea,
and the official receiving the tragic news would nod gravely, and stuff into his
pocket the envelope, filled with money, that had been tucked into the report.
The regulars all knew each other--they'd meet the new members of their exclusive
club at the banquet, welcome them back the following year--and they'd pass
around what they'd found out about the contestants. Little snippets of
conversation; comparing notes. The winner in their balloting would be available
for a day of "play," prior to her one-way trip to the galley; the travel agent
who delivered the ship's unwitting entrees was selecting for playfulness. The
half-dozen on the ballot had all indicated they'd be looking for companionship
on the trip, and as each of the "Privileged" carnivores sampled each
"contestant's" lovemaking skills, she was rated, and the word was passed around.
After the second night on board, Frank was able to rate Joanne, who'd spent the
evening in his cabin. She was great, he whispered enthusiastically to other
members of the exclusive club. All soft and cushiony, plenty of enthusiasm;
she'd be a load of fun. The others grinned; Joanne's stock kept rising. The odds
were good she'd be on that platter eleven days hence.
Not that that stopped Frank from sampling some of the other ladies on the
ballot. Number Five, Melissa--well, she was a little bit spooky. In the sack,
she started talking about all of the things she was taking to control this
phantom ailment and that; Frank looked down at her--those jugs still looked damn
good, her belly and thighs ripe--and wondered...how would she taste? She
half-smiled, eerily. "Do I look good to you?" she asked coyly. No, he decided.
Number Two was kind of cute, a short, pudgy redhead named Angela. A lot of
giggling; very bouncy. A wide, inviting twat; Frank imagined her on the banquet
table, steaming and glistening; those labial lips that were holding him tightly,
stretched around a mango. "Mmmm," she purred, looking at him with glistening
eyes, "you feel big in there." He grinned back at her; Number Two, you have no
idea.
Frank had pretty much narrowed down his choices; the cruise had made its port of
call, and he and Joanne had wandered together through the tiny Caribbean
island's lone city. He bought her a garland of edible native flowers, which she
wore proudly. "Tonight," she teased, "you can eat these clear off me!" She was
so tempting, he told her, he might go too far, and she laughed. "Have me," she
declared, arms wide, "I'm yours!"
That night, before heading back into his cabin where Joanne waited, Frank marked
the sixth box on his ballot and delivered it to the purser. As ever impassive,
the man nodded, slid it into a drawer. The word would come, on Frank’s cabin
phone, the following morning. “Number Six,” came the purser’s clipped tones.
“Your time share is 800 to 900 hours.” Frank looked at his bunk, where Joanne
slept, peacefully. A small smile flitted across his features.
It was always hard to sleep the night before the last day. Frank’s mind roamed,
thinking about past cruises. The ship’s chef prepared each woman differently,
never the same way twice. The one--that Executive Secretary, told him about all
the important CEO’s she’d met--had been roasted on a vertical spit; she was
balanced on it, hands and feet tied together behind her and suspended a few
inches above a drip pan, as slices of meat were pared from her frame. But the
stewardess, who had put on a few pounds over the years, was “flying” on a rack,
stretched across it from her fingertips to her toes. Another, a lanky,
full-figured New Englander, had been steamed and served face-up on a bed of rock
salt, her reddened flesh contrasting with the dirty gray salt and the dark green
vegetables that filled her hollowed belly. How would Joanne be served? Frank
stirred, rolled over, and made sure his alarm was set.
The designated cabin was marked “Cleaning Supplies”. Frank used his special
passkey; a crewman stood guard inside, before a second door. Frank could hear
muffled cries from within; the guard said, “Good morning, sir; thank you for
being prompt. Your session will begin momentarily.”
Frank would have to share Joanne with another Privileged veteran, a big Polish
guy from northern Michigan. He’d enjoyed the pleasures of Joanne’s body many
times during the cruise; this time, though, he knew it would be
different-crewmen would have abducted her from her cabin, forced her to disrobe,
and advised her of her fate. The ship’s chef would have entered the little room,
examined the helpless, naked woman from head to foot, and formed his plans for
the Captain’s Banquet. And then, the orgy would begin; two or three passengers
at a time
The crewman cocked his head to hear a message in his earpiece; he pressed a
button, the door slid open. "Watch your step, please," he advised, as Frank
caught a glimpse of a a struggling, naked figure, spreadeagled face down on a
bare mattress.
Frank undressed quickly; Joanne's back and buttocks were striped red, her body
flecked with semen. Her eyes widened when she saw him, and she murphed into the
tape over her mouth. "I guess they told you," he grinned, as he mounted her from
behind. Her full, fleshy thighs and plump buttocks were magnificent; Frank
sighed as he eased into her. "I voted for you," he told the helpless woman.
"You're going to make a wonderful feast. Did the chef say what he had planned
for you?", as he reached down and yanked the tape away.
Joanne was panting, her breathing shallow. "S-said...said I'd be stuffed..." She
swallowed. "Stuffed and wh-whole roasted..." She thrashed on the mattress; Frank
slapped her, hard on the ass, and she stopped. He smacked his lips. "You will be
absolutely delicious," he purred, driving into her on every other word; Joanne
sobbed.
The other guy was a little late. "Got her ready for me!" he laughed, and Joanne
soon found her mouth filled with cock. "What are the banquet plans?"
Frank had shot his load, pulled out of Joanne's wriggling snatch. "Stuffed like
a Christmas turkey," he laughed; he pursed his mouth around her generous ass,
gave it a good bite. She eeped through her mouthful. "She's certainly tender
enough," he kidded; the reddened imprint of his teeth was plainly visible on the
smooth flesh.
The two of them got full use out of their hour; Joanne was brutalized. Abused
and used in every orifice; all the while, she was taunted about her ultimate
fate. "No one will know," Frank whispered, his fist full of her wavy, brown
hair, holding her tear-streaked face scant inches from his, as the big guy
pumped her from behind. "They'll be told you were lost at sea. And we'll all
have our bellies full of you." Joanne shook her head in anguish; the big guy
grunted, his long fingernails digging into her flanks, as he popped his load.
Frank and his cohort had to be shooed out of there; two relatively recent
Privilegeds were waiting at the door, impatiently. “Have fun, fellas!” Frank
called over his shoulder; Joanne was sprawled, sobbing, on the filthy mattress,
and the two newbies eagerly dropped their drawers and had a run at her. “Hot
dayum, Pete!” one called out as he took a dive on Joanne’s lush body. “We’re
gonna have to ask the Cap’n for doggie bags!” His partner chuckled, evilly, and
as the door closed Frank heard a “Whap!” as the man’s open palm found Joanne’s
cheek.
He knew there’d be another opportunity to see her off—he laughed to himself; not
the pleasure cruise she'd had in mind! Dinner was traditionally served at
midnight; Joanne would be making her unhappy way to the kitchen around noon.
This, he wanted to see, so he killed a few hours lolling around the deck. He
actually encountered Angela, Number Two, who was vigorously pursuing her
aerobics, her strawberry blonde hair and her jugs bouncing with equal abandon.
She flashed him a sunny smile, panted to a scraggling halt. “Where’s your
friend?’ she wheezed, bending over, hands on hips; those mammoth bazookas were
about to spill clear out of her top. Frank affected friendly puzzlement. “I was
just out looking for her,” he said. “Haven’t seen her all day.”
Number Two straightened out, started in with leg kicks. “Well,” she gasped
between lifts, “if she chucks you over, you know where to find me!” Frank
grinned, thought about a quick boff before dinner, and continued on to the
galley.
Privilegeds were allowed informal visits; the crewman radioed in, then unlatched
the steel door. The ship’s chef was intently mixing spices into a very large
bowl; his aides were lugging in armfuls of exotic produce. Pans clanged, doors
slammed, and there in the middle of it, lying on her back on a cold, steel
table, was Joanne. Still totally nude, her pubes had been shaved clean and her
curly, brown locks cropped short; she was squirming, her hands cross-bound to
her feet behind her, her mouth filling her gag with protests. “Ah, M’sieur
Frank!’ clucked the chef, smiling. “You are jus’ in time for zee evisceration.”
Despite the gag, Joanne let out an audible sob; Frank caught her eye, grinned
and winked.
“A live roaster?” he asked. “But of course,” the chef responded. “We jus’ remove
the guts here; organ meats stay intact.” The two aides pinned Joanne to the
table; the chef wielded the knife expertly. In a flash, Joanne’s belly was
opened; blood gushed, then trickled in rivulets along the gutters of the steel
table. Frank watched, detached; he’d seen this scene before. Joanne’s struggles
grew weaker, as the chef emptied her; she lay back, her eyes glazed and staring
forward, her breathing shallow.
The aides curiously kept their grip on Joanne’s shoulders and thighs, but she
was no longer putting up a fight. The chef had begun filling her hollow belly
with large scoops of a fruit-based stuffing, unfamiliar tropical orbs of green
and pink mixed in with great chunks of crusty bread. He looked up at Frank, and
winked. “She is zee juicy one, no?” he chuckled, patting the helpless woman’s
ample breast. “Zee stuffing will be very rich, you bet.” Finished, he flashed a
steel needle, deftly fashioned a spool of twine to the eye, then plunged the
steel point through the flap of Joanne’s belly flesh. She made an “Ooooh!”
through the gag as the chef pierced the other side of her abdominal skin, then
pulled the two tightly together over the bulging breading mix; briskly, he
finished stitching the woman’s tummy back together. “Good as new!” he laughed,
and waved to the aides; they darted into a closet, returned with an odd looking
device.
It was two halves, fitting together, of a kind of rack. The chef untied the now
feeble woman and removed her gag; she looked up from the table in agony.
“Please…” she whispered; smiling, the chef put an index finger to her dry,
cracked lips, and sshhhed her. “Time for zee fitting,” he told her, as the aides
slapped the two halves of the frames on either side of her.
Frank could see there were rings, adjustable with clamps; the three men slid the
parts together, and the chef adjusted the semi-circular ring halves and then
tightened them. They fit around Joanne’s neck, below her breasts, around her
stomach, knees and ankles. “She will turn,” the chef told Frank, “verrrrry
slooooowly over zee fire.” Joanne stared straight ahead in misery as the strange
device was fastened to her body. “Now,” said the head man, “a little more
preparation, an’ we’re all set.”
One of the remaining tasks was the stuffing of Joanne’s abundant breasts. Each
was slit open; tissue and fat was liberally removed, and the hollowed gland was
filled with rice, a grated cheese, specks of pungent spices. The globes were
also sewn closed. Then, a four edged clamp was pushed into her meaty labia; a
few turns of a crank, and the aperture was wide open; the chef produced a
peculiar looking fruit that resembled a long honeycomb. “Tamarind,” he
proclaimed, and shoved the half-foot long produce home; despite her fading
state, Joanne exhaled, loudly. The chef released the clamp, and her pussy
grabbed the fruit tightly. “She is magnifique!” he crowed, stepping back and
sweeping a hand toward the woman on the table, her body prepared for roasting.
Frank grinned, decided to head out for now. He reached through the bars of the
rack, patted Joanne’s head; tears streamed down her cheeks as she contemplated
the hot oven that would be her fate. “See you later!” he told his former
bedmate, and went to look for Number Two.
Angela was even bouncier than before, working hard underneath Frank as he worked
ever deeper into her. “I’m so glad you came for me,” she whispered, hot, steamy
breath in his ear. “I think I’m much better than Joanne, don’t you?” Frank
thought about Joanne, slowly turning in the chef’s oven, juices dripping off her
browning body; the thought got him going even faster, and he came like a geyser.
“Wow!” the redhead’s eyes snapped open, looked into his. “You were alive in
there.”
Frank rolled over and panted; thinking of Joanne had his mouth watering. Number
Two was sprawled on her side, her head cupped in her hand, looking at him
intently. No, he was sorry, he couldn’t join her for dinner; as a veteran of the
cruise, he had to do the Captain’s Banquet at midnight, made it sound as if it
were a chore. “I’ll be sure to be here next year,” she declared, brightly.
“Maybe then, I’ll be at the Captain’s Banquet!” Maybe, he told her, his eyes
sweeping along her fleshy form, you will.
At seven o’clock, Joanne was still wriggling. Just a little. Frank peered
through the grease-stained, smoked-glass window in the door of the giant oven;
the square metal frame, Joanne’s heat-seared body clamped within it, was hooked
to the rotisserie and rotating slowly. The orange glow of the heating element
reflected off Joanne’s butt and legs, then her stitched-together breasts and
stomach. He saw her jerk a bit; her eyes had rolled back in her head. A charred
wooden block held her jaws apart. Frank nodded approvingly.
“I think,” he told the chef, his eyes still fixed on the hapless woman, “this is
your best work yet.” The chef beamed, then shooed Frank away from the oven’s
steel door as he brandished a large brush and a bowl of oily liquid. “Basting to
do,” he proclaimed. “She will be perfect.” Joanne suddenly arched, then was
still. Frank chuckled. Perfect timing.
The crewman methodically checked the passenger’s log, then nodded Frank through.
Done up in his most elegant duds, Frank edged into the small, crowded room,
smiled hello at some familiar faces. Their eyes, mostly men but a couple of
women, too, all gleamed with anticipation. A couple of frozen faced crewmen
stood attendance; a smiling barkeep with a fancy, waxed mustache poured drinks,
vigorously stirring and mixing as he kept up his own end of the conversation.
Frank chug-a-lugged a Scotch, then another, as the men and women in evening wear
chatted about the cruise, going home…and Number Six.
She would be arriving any minute; a crewman with a foghorn for a voice announced
the arrival of the Captain. White-haired, tall and thin, the genial man shook
hands all around, slapped a few backs, proposed a couple of toasts. When he
suggested his guests find their seats, the Privilegeds scrambled like it was a
game of Musical Chairs. The old man smiled; they were more enthusiastic every
year.
“Ladies, gentlemen,” the Captain crooned, “may I present our…special guest.”
That brought a wave of laughter, followed by enthusiastic applause.
Joanne was on her back; she was roasted a deep reddish-brown, the skin picking
up a dull sheen from the meager light in the dining room. A pair of passion
fruit had replaced her lost eyeballs; a fresh mangosteen filled her mouth, and
the platter on which she was served was gaily decorated with fig leaves and
other exotic fruit. The twine had been removed from her breasts and belly and
the stuffings, swollen with the juices of her body, pushed out through the
flesh. A delicious aroma emanated from her, at once sweet and lusty; Frank again
felt his mouth fill, and suffered the agonizing wait as the prayer was intoned,
until finally the carving could begin.
The woman’s meat trimmed cleanly from the bone; it was firm, and a dark ivory
colored, with flecks of pink and yellow. Frank took a steaming slab from
Joanne’s haunch, just below the buttock; as a tiny sliver of it melted on his
tongue he could feel himself within her again, hear her laugh and say, “Have
me…I’m yours!” She had become his, and him; Frank sighed with delight, dipped a
little more of Joanne in the loquat compote before again teasing his palate with
her.
Table manners were barely restrained; the two dozen or so Privilegeds emptied
plate after plate, as the chef’s aides pared glistening meat from the
unfortunate “special guest.” Formal wear got stained with human grease; guests
discreetly belched and sheepishly apologized. Then, the chef himself arrived, to
thunderous applause; he nodded, blushed, bowed as Frank stood and lifted a glass
in his direction.
All in all, Frank thought as he disembarked, the eighth cruise was the most
memorable, yet. There’d been plenty of entertainment during the two weeks, a
magnificent feast at the close, and—he smiled, remembering Angela’s number in
his wallet—a new friend. For at least another year.



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