More Zulu Goodness Here!


PREPARATION by Menagerie

He was sitting in his limo, waiting for the light, thinking about a dozen deals he needed to make before lunch...when he saw her.
She was walking purposefully toward the big, gray building on his left, a faux leather briefcase under one arm. She herself was big, and gray--well, her tailored suit was gray, the synthetic fabric catching a glint from the morning sun, the alternating light and dark stripes shimmering. But her skin was pink, a rosy pink, her jaw set, her look determined. He was captivated--those magnificent thighs in a quick shimmy, those powerful arms swinging with her step, her tremendous torso hurtling forward, bent slightly, as though she was pushing forward in a storm. A broad smile began to play across his features--then, the car lurched forward. "Akim!" he hissed.
The driver, a broad, flat hat atop his curly locks, a scimitar of a nose and carefully trimmed mustache beneath the impassive shades, slowed and glanced in the rear view mirror. "Yes, Excellency?" he asked.
The man met Akim's shaded gaze in the mirror; his arm levitated, and from a fistful of giant gems set in gold rings, an index finger shot out. "That one. I must have her!"
Akim nodded, signaled, headed curbside. "You have many, Excellency, that are nearly ready for your upcoming 'event'." But his own eyes trained on the woman through the smoked glass; she was still striding down the street, about to veer left and head for that towering building. "You are right...she is very special."
The man kept his eyes on her, taking her in from tousled hair to open-toed pump. She was fumbling through a purse, her figure highlighted by the sun, her features shaded by the awning. "She will be magnificent. Do your customary work; I have great confidence she will be ready. It will be a truly magnificent event." With that, he tore his eyes away, started poring through a sheaf of documents. Akim landed the cruiser of a limo neatly in an open space reigned over by a sign that said NO PARKING ANYTIME; he checked his appearance in the mirror, violently swung the door open, and hurtled out and onto the sidewalk.
Her name, he discovered, was "Jenn". She worked on the sixth floor; she was a Manager. With the enticement of a few folded, green bills, the guard at the front desk was more than willing to share what he knew about her. She took her lunch at 11:45, always went to the diner across the street. Yes, she was very friendly. Yes, she sometimes worked from home, sometimes for days at a time...
Jenn was startled when the handsome, swarthy man in the dark uniform squeezed in next to her at the booth. "Terribly sorry; the restaurant is packed," he said, a cultured voice with hints of an accent. The booth was small; they had no choice but to touch, and her round, perfumed flesh pressed against him, molded around him. His name was Akim; he worked for--well, he was very big, very important. The oil business, yes. Well, you might say his boss...was the oil business, at least, where he was from. Oh, a small place, you've probably never heard of it.
She was charmed by the talkative stranger. Akim had removed his shades; his warm, brown eyes fixed intently on her, never let her go for an instant. She had a very nice job, right across the street, there; a lot of authority, a lot of responsibility. Why, she worked almost as much at home as she did in the office. Just a messy little, crowded apartment; oh, you wouldn't want to see it.
With those eyes, that voice, his touch, the intense, exotic man seemed to crawl right into Jenn's brain. He was bigger than life, he filled her vision. She could smell him, an aroma that spoke of work, and of play. A visit to her apartment was suddenly very inviting. Nine o'clock; he apologized. He puts in a long, grueling day; his boss has plenty of extra work for him. Only today, yet another new project.
Unaware she was the project, Jenn opened the door at nine sharp. Her flowing, floral themed cotton pantsuit cloaked her in a kaleidoscope of rumpled, serene color. Akim, still dressed in a black suit, was at once formal and sensuous; he politely entered at her beckoning, commented on the pleasantness of her tiny apartment. "You would not like my place," he told her. "Too large, too spacey." Well, she said, she would at least like to see it.
His convertible was just outside--no make, no model. Custom made. The boss had certain connections. And away they went, from the dingey Old Town part of the city, to downtown, to a high rise, to a penthouse on the top floor.
Jenn found herself lying, very still, and very bare, on her back, on a bed. His bed? Couldn't be; it was as fluffy and flowery as her pantsuit. Akim was neither fluffy nor flowery; he was hard, dark, muscular, and kneeling beside her. He started at her toes, toying with them, squeezing them. "How plump," he said, bending to kiss a little piggy. "How soft. How sweet." She wriggled in delight. His hands ran up and down her heavy calves, her sizeable thighs. "How tasty you are," in that mysterious accent. "You are so full, so warm." He fondled and squeezed her big belly, and then got to her massive breasts. "These are extraordinary," his hands cupping first one, and then the other, rolling her nipples between his fingers. "They are as the ripest fruit, as soft as new cheese." That must be a compliment where he's from, she decided. Anyhow, it sure sounded like one.
The lovemaking was direct; his hard body rode her deep into the soft bed. All the while, the soothing voice rolled over her: "Your lips, so tasty and delicate...your neck, it is confection...your skin, it is as butter." As she gasped for breath, she realized he was making her hungry. All he was doing was comparing her to food. She kind of liked it.
There would be food, later; Akim, in a robe that seemed as tightly tailored as his suits, wheeled it right up to the bed. And it was as exotic, and as filling, as was he. Some sort of rich, juicy poultry, slathered with a heavy yoghurt sauce. A rice dish that smelled like perfume. A sorbet, some sort of tropical fruit flavor, with little slivers of peel. The portions were huge; Jenn, exhausted from the strenuous sex, entranced by his hypnotic voice, dug in, ate heartily. Akim nibbled; she giggled as he dipped a crust of sweet, grainy bread into the poultry sauce, swirled it on her chest. She fell back, and let him straddle her and lick her clean. "Delicious," he purred. Her, or the yoghurt?
No, it was she who was delicious, he told her. His syntax turned her on, hints of the East in the odd placement of the words. She was a banquet, a feast. She was so lush and round, a delightful treat; he could gorge himself on her, savor her, consume her utterly. Caught up in that fantasy, Jenn saw herself as a hearty, gourmet meal, on her back on a giant platter, draped in grapes and figs. The steam rose from her flesh, which glistened with the sweet juices of multicolored fruit. Akim stood over her supine form, a triumphant smile over his rugged jowls, a fork in one hand, a gleaming blade in the other…
She snapped out of it, because she was back at work, and it was nearly 4:30. He’d be meeting her again, this time, right outside the door. She stuffed some papers into a satchel, packed up her laptop, told her secretary she’d be out of the office for a while; the goofy girl, her blonde hair piled up in amazing layers, nodded and giggled. “Mum’s the word, ma’am!” she declared, as Jenn grunted goodbye and raced for the door.
There was a change of clothes in the satchel, but Jenn wouldn’t need them. For a day, for several days, a week, she was stark naked, on that big, bouncy bed. Sometimes, Akim was bouncing with her; sometimes, he left her alone, as she whipped through the day’s reports, timesheets, documents, in minutes flat. And sometimes, it was more of that amazing cuisine—lamb with curry, manioc pudding, stuffed yams. All the while, Akim picked at his food while she stoked up; he would playfully dab her with the food, taste her and the food together, tell her that she was delicious, that she would make a fine feast someday…
Jenn had started to think of herself that way. She’d see her body in the full length mirror, opposite from the bed, and picture herself steaming, in a shallow, steel serving dish, surrounded by exotic fruits. She had an apple in her mouth; her flesh was a deep sepia, shining with her own fat. Then she saw the knife rise, and fall, plunging through her ass, deep toward her thigh bone; what gushed out was not blood, but a rich juice, brown and yellow, that begged to be scooped up and slurped. The meat inside gradated from pale pink to ruby red; streaks of fat radiated from the bone in a spiral to the deep, brown skin. A second cut, and a thick segment from her thigh was on a large, bone china plate, still wafting steam and shedding drippings.
She began to ask Akim, at first playfully, then seriously, and finally beseechingly. A feast? I will be a feast? When—where? He teased her, tickled her breast, the big boob bouncing above his roughened figure. He squeezed her thigh, barely getting half of it in a coarse grip, like sandpaper. He rubbed her belly, his curved hand kneaded the abundant flesh, forming ripples as if he were trying to smooth thickened pudding, then springing back. Yes, his rich voice purred, there will be a feast. You—will be the star. You—will be at the center of the table.
Jenn wriggled with sheer delight, her massive, naked body on display for exalted guests. Their mouths would water, Akim assured Jenn, when they saw her…she would be prepared by the expert hand of a master chef. They would serve her perfectly roasted and garnished; she would at once be sexy, and delicious. His hand dipped below her belly, played with her pubes. Every opening, he said, would be filled with rich fruit, fragrant herbs, exotic grains…they would bulge from her meaty carcass, heavy with her own flavor. Jenn shuddered, had an orgasm on the spot, and could hardly wait for the knife.
The orgy of tender lovemaking, rich food and hypnotic preparation continued non-stop. Jenn turned in her two weeks’ notice, by e-mail. As she typed it into the laptop, she was laying on her belly and being examined by a short, dapper man; he, Akim had told her, had prepared the flesh of women all over the world. The man’s eyes twinkled over a severe mustache; hands that could mold meat and foods into an elegant entrĂ©e fit for royalty…tested her, pressed against her to watch the flesh spring back, pushed from either side to assess density of meat. He crouched down, looked into Jenn’s eyes. “You,” he said in an accent most indecipherable, “will be exquisite,” and smacked his lips for emphasis. Jenn blushed, smiled prettily, and imagined this man standing over her, guiding foods into her gutted carcass, folding spices into her skin. He turned to Akim. “The others will have to wait,” he said. “The banquet is Saturday evening.”
Akim grinned, winked at Jenn. Two days away. “Christine will be so disappointed,” he said.
Jenn would meet Christine; the next day, as she moved out, Christine moved in. A pale blonde, she, too, was naked; she had massive hips, a girthy belly, pendulous udders. Jenn smiled; Christine sulked, and stood before the bed, hands on hips. “I thought I was on tomorrow’s menu,” she said, a distinct Dixie drawl in her voice. A big, pale pink wall of Southern womanhood. Akim was standing watch; he laid a hand on Christine’s plump shoulder. “Soon, my dear, you will be,” he purred. “But as you can see, Jenn is magnificent. She has feasted on the finest Excellency can procure; her body is thick with meat. She has been fattened well for the knife.” Lying on her back on the massive bed, Jenn looked Christine directly in the eye and smiled, triumphantly. “Come with me, Jenn,” the potentate’s henchman proclaimed, releasing Christine and reaching out to her, a roughened, toughened hand made brown in the sun. “The bed is Christine’s; the pan will soon be yours.”
Jenn would remain naked—she wouldn’t have fit into her old clothes, anyway. Akim led her through an emergency exit and down a half-flight of stairs, then to a freight elevator. She peered around, the dull steel walls and the textured floor against her bare feet, and felt a thrill of anticipation. “You recall Mustapha,” said Akim, a hand firm on her plump, meaty shoulder. Yes—the little man with the mustache. “He awaits—he, and his aides.”
There were four of them, all told, as the boxy elevator came to a rickety stop. They exclaimed in a foreign tongue at the sight of Jenn, her massive body almost timidly squeezing next to and behind Akin. They pointed, excitedly, at different parts of her body, jabbering away. Mustapha, bedecked in chef’s hat and apron, nodded to the tempo of their rapid-fire questions, answered in the same tongue, smiled, his tongue quickly protruding from between his lips and back again. The aides eagerly rushed forward, grabbed Jenn by the arms and flanks, hustled her out of the elevator and toward the dull, gray double doors that led to her fate. Akim laughed, called from behind her, “Farewell, dear Jenn! It has been such pleasure! I will see you tomorrow night—you will be quite glorious…”
Still jabbering, the men escorted Jenn quickly through the kitchen, around stainless steel tables and racks in which gleaming knives were half-buried, smooth wooden handles arranged neatly and evenly; pots and pans hung from the ceiling, copper bottoms catching the fluorescence in orange brilliance. There were hooks in the back, and pulleys, and a crank. Jenn squealed as they made her lay on the cold, tiled floor; she noticed the drain, directly beneath her, and then cuffs were clamped around her thick ankles. An engine whined; it protested, in a higher pitch, as the chains hauled her corpulent frame skyward. They came to a stop with Jenn hanging upside down, her arms dangling, fingers just a few inches from the floor. She was breathing hard, and heavily, as Mustapha strolled up to her; he held a huge knife, rubbed her big belly tenderly, then put a hand on the side of her neck.
“A little nick, right there,” he told her politely through a wide smile, “and then my boys and I get to work. Okay?”
Jenn swallowed, hard, the rush of thoughts and the blood to her head making her dizzy. She relived all the sumptuous meals she’d with Akim, again felt his hard frame against her soft body, heard the bed squeak as they tumbled and bounced. She closed her eyes, saw herself on that big platter, stuffed with dates, figs and fragrant rice, surrounded by tropical fruits, her big breasts topped with pineapple rings, the stuffing squeezed out of her massive twat . Her eyes replaced by grapes, her mouth filled with a pomegranite, her flesh brown, her skin slick with her own rendered fat…and she reopened her eyes and looked right at her smiling executioner.
“OK,” she said.
The slaughter was quick, the gutting uneventful, the evening in the cooler rather quiet. Jenn hung limp, upside down, her gargantuan torso open and empty, ribs along walls thick with flesh. The roasting would be slow and steady, Mustapha and his aides periodically opening the oven to baste Jenn’s massive carcass in her own juices. A fork pierced her beefy buttock, and juices ran out, pink and then clear. The mercury in the meat thermometer, inserted in the thickest part of her thighs, rose to a mysterious mark. “Ready the guests,” ordered Mustapha.
A man such as Excellency does not have friends, but there they were, men and women with whom he’d dealt, who had themselves become wealthy from that relationship. Men wore severe black and white; the women, elegant, pale gowns. Pearl earrings and diamond rings shone red in the reflected light of the candelabra at each table; earnest business talk died as the doors opened and the long, wide table rushed out, its contents guarded under an elaborate, chrome-plated lid. All eyes were upon the table as Mustapha, his features playing dark triumph, ordered the lid lifted. A gasp, a collective “ooh!” sound, and then thunderous applause…and Excellency’s smile grew even broader.
Where once Excellency had been inspired by Jenn in a tailored gray suit, he was now truly awed by the sight of her clad in only her skin, made coarse and loose by many hours in Mustapha’s oven. Jenn was truly divine, posed on all fours, her massive belly skewered closed and filled with succulent treats from the Orient. The crack of her ass was lined with delicate water chestnuts; her mouth was closed on the fruit, her eyesockets filled with the plump, fresh purple grapes. Her flesh was done to a dark, golden turn; her aroma one of jasmine, and bamboo, and of roasted woman. Excellency rose, hands folded over his chest, the dim candles causing each digit’s gems to sparkle.
“Eat,” he commanded his guests, and they did, ravenously. Such succulent meat they had not enjoyed in some time, and Mustapha’s aides were harried as they carved each precious strip of flesh from Jenn’s bones. Every plump, juicy morsel, dripping with the flavors and juices of Jenn’s own body, was served to satisfy their greedy palates. When at last Excellency rose again, the rattle of silverware on fine china had been replaced by many soft moans of satisfaction. He gazed with delight on his sated guests, then on Jenn’s carcass, picked clean of meat, bare, greasy bones exposed in the candlelight. And he turned to Akim. “Well done, Akim,” he cooed, “most well done. And the next?”
Akim frowned, looked down at his plate, at the fat carefully trimmed from one of Jenn’s rib chops. “Christine will be a month,” he finally responded. “If that.”
“As good,” Excellency asked, gesturing to his own plate, “as this?” None but a brown, slick stain remained from the slab he’d devoured from Jenn’s thigh.
Akim thought about Christine’s plump, juicy frame—he’d already taken pleasure from her, many times—and smiled. “She will be good,” he responded, and thought of Jenn’s massive body, the meat and fat once laden on her bones, now resting forlornly on the platter. “But this—this was a feast.”

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