SPA cooking method

1. Familiar Faces
2. Shower
3. Steaming Miranda's scorching steam 　　4. Sweet
Charlotte's bathroom barbecue 5. 　　Stewing Samantha's banquet in the pool 6. Guess
who
this is? The Last Supper
7. Chairs: The best catcher 　　8. (The End) I was boiled
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... Were they not up to our standards? Or were we just discouraged? But what would we do with them? Just make love all day? 　　Anyway, the four of us mature, beautiful women now occupied four parallel treadmills, and we pretended to stop and adjust them. In a way, the treadmills were just props. Undoubtedly, the four of us were in a race, yet none of us were making any progress. 　　Finally, we turned off the machines and got off, each standing beside our own treadmill, taking deep breaths without panting, because we were all quite good. I'm Kelly, a columnist and writer for a newspaper, responsible for the daily column—Sex in the City, one of New York's trendiest and most popular columns. 　　To my left is Miranda, a lively and quick-witted redhead. Although most people ridicule her as a tomboy disliked by men, a few who know her are captivated by her frankness and humor. She exudes an air of intelligence and rationality. 　　My other friend, Charlotte, holds a prestigious position in the art world. She considers herself a good girl and would never have sex with a man on the first day of a date, nor would she give a man oral sex or be anally penetrated. Despite adhering to her own principles, I swear she's still constantly searching the city for someone suitable to sleep with. 　　The last friend is Samantha, who excels at public relations. Samantha is the only one among us over forty. She's a well-known optimist, pursuing sex like some women chase taxis. She's certainly braver than the three of us combined. 　　"Kelly, look!" Miranda wiped the sweat from her freckled shoulders with a white towel. "That man over there. He looks very familiar. You seem to have gone out with him before?" 　　I looked closely at the tanned, well-built man, wearing a white sailor-collar t-shirt, loose trousers, and a headscarf. “Yes! It’s that boy. The guy who made me wear a hockey mask and chase him around the bedroom with a chainsaw. Hey, look, that guy by the water cooler looks familiar too.” 　　“Ah, that’s him!” Charlotte screamed. “I almost married him. I made him wait in the church for seven hours. Don’t look at me like that, it’s his fault for eating potato chips in bed.” 　　We started to feel weird, and my friend and I started looking around the room 　　for any 　　familiar faces. 　　Some were people we had rejected, some were vaguely remembered, but every face here was at least recognizable to one of us. 　　“?! ... 　　"Run!" Samantha suddenly yelled, and without looking back, she ran straight towards the two huge doors of the gym, regardless of whether the other three of us followed. Almost simultaneously, two strong men stood upright in front of the exit, blocking her way. 　　The other three of us tried to dodge the men, trying to find a way out, but there was nowhere to run. We were surrounded by washboard-like abdominal muscles and hairy arms. Another thing we knew was that those huge, masculine hands were gripping our wrists and shoulders, and we could only struggle slightly under their tight grip. Samantha was pushed back into our midst, and we would wait for our ex-boyfriend to tell us what to do next. 　　Now the wall of muscular men parted like a curtain, and a clean-cut, energetic, and handsome man stepped out. It was none other than Mr. Biggs, my former lover, a stingy partner, and also a New York tycoon. 　　"I hope you don't mind," Biggs sneered. "I've just organized a little bit of gathering these pathetic bastards you women have used and then discarded. You could call it a 'breakup party.' Of course, it takes me a while to find these guys scattered all over the place, gather them together, and then have a meeting to plan, but now I'm gradually putting my plan into action, and almost everyone wants to participate. It's time for you to pay the price, you know?" 　　"What are you really up to?" I tried to ask him calmly. 　　"Okay! First, you all need to take off your sweaty clothes." At the same time, Big came over and tugged at the sweat-soaked ribbon tied to my curly blond hair. "Take off your clothes! Baby!" Big yelled. "I know you like doing this." 　　Big was right. Of course, I usually perform a striptease slowly to arouse the men's inner beast. I wasn't in the mood for a striptease right now, but it was clear that these guys weren't joking. If I didn't take off my clothes now, they would be ripped off like Christmas present wrappers. I didn't want to be treated that way, nor did I need to. 　　So I methodically removed my clothes. First, I wiped the sweat off my workout clothes, kicked off my shoes, took off my athletic socks, and, shaking myself, pulled my blue athletic pants to the ground. I unbuckled the belt of my gray tank top and, shaking my shoulders, pulled it off over my head. Now I was only wearing a sports bra and black leather underwear. This was what they wanted, and I think they liked it.

Before I continue, let me describe my appearance. I'm a petite girl; some people might even think I'm skin and bones, but my figure is perfectly proportioned, so I don't care at all. My breasts are very large, turning into what people call banana breasts when people push them a little. Because they're neatly secured under my sweatshirt, they're clearly visible pointing in both directions. I've made my nipples protrude like buttons pinned to a cushion. I have a smooth, curvaceous body, slender arms, a well-proportioned bottom, and what I consider my most beautiful feature: a pair of legs. My shoulders are somewhat broad, and my neck is slender and graceful. My hair is usually golden and very curly. Oh! There's a small mole between my chin and lips; when I was little, it made me think I looked like a witch, but most men think it's cute. Finally, I shrug my shoulders, slide down my panties, and take off my bra, exposing my banana breasts.
"Well done, baby!" Big said. “The rest of you, start taking your clothes off too. After all, we don’t want to hurt our flesh.” When Big said “flesh,” a chill ran down my spine.
Samantha pulled her long-sleeved sweatshirt off her chestnut hair, revealing she wasn’t wearing a bra. Her two small but beautifully shaped breasts formed perfect circles on her chest, adorned with two round, button-like nipples. Samantha then slid down her pants, took off her sneakers and socks, again without underwear. She stood up naked, chest out. Although she was slightly over forty, her smooth, rounded body showed no excess fat. Her arms and legs had just the right amount of muscle, all the fat in the right places. Her cheeks, combined with her alluring eyes, would usually make any man unable to resist her temptation. She placed her hands on her hips as if she were the most fertile woman on the planet.
Miranda, with an unhappy expression, removed her clothes. In fact, she felt the stares around her were hindering her movements, and each time she took off something, she felt a sense of gender discrimination.
Her eyes held a similar "I'll sue you someday" look. Miranda's naked body wasn't as perfect as Samantha's. Her neck was slightly long, and her chin a little small. Her buttocks were large, her breasts small, somewhat like a doting mother's. Her breasts looked like two pink candy bags, with two large nipples above them.
You could say they looked comfortable. Miranda's limbs looked more practical than alluring; her arms were a little too fat, and her legs a little too strong. Tiny brown spots scattered all over her body gave her pink skin a touch of elegant markings. Her most captivating feature was her beautiful face and expressive eyes.
She wore a short, playful red hairstyle, which made her face look like she was wearing a swimming cap.
Charlotte hesitated as she began to undress, but was suddenly startled. A sudden force pushed her to the ground, and a surge of anger rose within her. This was something usually done by parents to children, but now it was being done by a group of men. A burly man pinned her to the floor, while another removed her shoes and socks. Her red silk panties were pulled down along with her sweatpants, hanging on her calves. Then, two large hands grabbed the collar of her shirt and ripped it open, tearing her designer sweatshirt to shreds. The buttons of her semi-transparent black bra were pulled to the front, and then the entire bra was ripped off her smooth shoulders, as if attacked by a wild beast. Now she lay naked and panting on the hard, carpeted floor.
Charlotte placed her hands on her bare breasts, trembling like a deer caught in the headlights of a truck. Through the haze, you could see that her milky-white breasts seemed larger than she had imagined, gourd-shaped with large nipples that looked like ice cream cones. Her rounded hips reminded me of a delicately handcrafted cello. Her slightly short and plump figure had a Baroque style. Regardless of her jet-black hair and delicate face, her whole body looked like an angel painted by a Renaissance artist.
Now we were all completely naked. We were herded out of the gym, escorted by two grinning guards. Actually, one muscular man could have subdued us, but the use of two made it seem like some evil thing was happening. I'm sure each of us was cursing the muscular men escorting us, thinking we were gnawing on their bones.
2 Shower
We were roughly pushed into the shower and ordered to wash ourselves clean. Charlotte was pushed in last, and we were all too frightened to move at first. We were all sweating and needed to wash, so each of us picked a showerhead, adjusted the water temperature, and started spraying it on the aching areas of our bodies. We each squeezed out some shower gel from the tap, lathered our bodies with soap, and began washing.
"Wait!" Big suddenly said. "We're not telling you to wash yourselves. We're showing you how to lather each other with soap." At the same time, the man next to us tossed in four unopened bars of soap, and we each took one. Suddenly, the four of us froze, standing there motionless for a moment.
"Keep going, you slut, don't just stand there, keep going," Big yelled from the side.
Standing next to me in the shower was Samantha. I tentatively reached out and ran the soap back and forth across the muscles of her arm, gently brushing away the water droplets that had gathered on her smooth, damp skin. The soap lather carried a fragrant vanilla scent, filling my nose like a bouquet of flowers. At the same moment, I felt a hard bar of soap touch my back, right at the nape of my neck, the very top of my spine. A pleasurable, tingling sensation shot through my back, flowing down my soft buttocks.
Then another hand touched me, four fingers gently resting on my shoulder. The first hand continued gliding the soap up and down my back, while the second hand lathered my shoulders and the back of my neck. I felt a pressure from the palm and a stinging sensation from the fingernails. After the rough treatment by those men, this gentle touch from a woman's fingers felt like heaven. I glanced back slightly and saw it was Sharon serving me.
Now, I was lathering Samantha's slightly curved breasts. As I applied the soap to her left breast, I gently rubbed it and pressed it to the right. Samantha opened her lips and tilted her head back. Her nipples were now as hard as raisins, clearly showing she was completely aroused. Soft moans escaped her throat, like the constant meowing of large cats. At the same time, I felt Charlotte lathering my buttocks with soap; my buttocks suddenly tightened and then relaxed, feeling an irrepressible pleasure.
I glanced at Samantha's shoulders; Miranda was holding soap on her back. Then I looked down; Miranda's hands were rubbing around Samantha's waist, stroking her abdomen, and making clockwise circles with the soap around Samantha's navel. Samantha's hips swayed gently back and forth, her passionate hissing like a boiling teapot. "Oh~ again~" she gasped. "A little lower~" Miranda, her hands still full of soap, slid them down to Samantha's crotch.
Then suddenly, a soap-soaked cube was between my legs, its hard surface rubbing against my genitals, bringing me to an unparalleled sexual climax. I turned away from Samantha and faced Charlotte, and I saw her eyes filled with passion. Her skin was as white as snow, and her dark red, slightly upturned lips perfectly complemented her now-wet black hair. I wrapped my arms around Charlotte's back and smeared soap on her smooth, soft shoulders. Then I pulled her closer and rubbed my soap on her taut buttocks, our breasts pressing against each other and flattening, like two pillows bumping together. Charlotte's legs trembled involuntarily, and our wet labia collided like two train engines colliding.
Perhaps out of fear, or perhaps out of despair, soon Charlotte and I began frantically smearing each other with soap, and we started passionately kissing each other. At the same time, we twirled around each other with a slight dance-like movement. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Samantha and Miranda embracing each other, their wet breasts sliding back and forth, their genitals rubbing against each other like schoolgirls.
I spun Charlotte toward our separate group. Soon, the four of us bumped into each other, merging into one panting woman. We were now embracing each other, rubbing our bodies together like playful seals.
We all reached orgasm simultaneously, collapsing onto the wet tile floor, breathing heavily. We looked up and saw the group of men standing there, forming a circle around us, when suddenly there was a shoving, actually some of them pushing and pulling each other. We seemed to have a bit of a lesbian tendency.
Finally, we were separated one by one from the party. As we left the showers, they gave each of us a safety razor and shaving cream, and told us to shave each other's pubic hair. Miranda and I were then in the same group. I carefully shaved the light pink hair covering her pubic area; her labia now looked like a half-open flower. I was also ordered to shave the hair on Miranda's legs and underarms.
Then it was my turn. I spread my legs and let Miranda shave me; now I was about to perform pubic hair removal in public. After the sharp razor swept across my crotch, a blast of cold air hit my labia, and I felt as if I were even more naked and unprotected than before. The razor leaving my pubic area stimulated me, and I felt my clitoris gradually harden. Unfortunately, just as I was about to release my sexual desire, the game ended. The razor was carefully removed from our hands, and we were pushed and shoved, roughly pulled away from the shower, past the swimming pool, to the spa.
We
stopped at the entrance to the steam room in the spa; the door was open, and the inside looked like a beckoning grave.
“Very good! Let’s start with that redhead.” Big said to everyone.
A feeling of shock and terror froze Miranda’s face. “No~ please wait! No~ what are you going to do!” she cried. “Why am I the first?” Then her sobs mixed with her pleas turned into screams.
Miranda was dragged into the steam room, kicking and screaming. Currently, the steam was closed, and eight of the ten rooms were dry. The room was very spacious and simple, with shiny pink tiles, each about four inches square. There were two rows of metal benches for resting, and a metal water pipe in the center of the floor. On the far end, it seemed to have been renovated. The last time I came to the steam room, I didn’t remember there was a rope loop hanging from the ceiling, which was tightly tied to a thick, fat water pipe. It was made of industrial hemp rope and looked like it could lift an elephant.
Miranda's pink, freckled arms were bound behind her back, her wrists tightly secured with rope;
then the noose was slid up above her head and around her slightly long neck.
At this point, Miranda screamed, a sharp, piercing scream, as if the rope had already squeezed and severed her throat. The whole process was a cruel experiment; the noose was positioned so that Miranda was standing on tiptoe, her heels slightly off the ground. If she let herself fall, the noose would begin to slowly strangle her. This put my lawyer friend in an extremely uncomfortable situation. However,
like any competent lawyer, Miranda tried to negotiate, hoping for a better solution. She offered in a low, hoarse voice that she was willing to pay, provide an apartment, and even agree to provide the best oral sex. However, the men were in no mood to negotiate; it was clear they had already gotten what they wanted most.
Now, as Miranda's toes twitched, the man began to paint on her naked body, using brushes and green paint to draw lines, dividing her body into sections, each labeled with a word. "Leg" was written on her thighs, "Buttocks" on her hips, and "Shin" on her arms and calves. Her waist above her buttocks was divided into upper and lower sections, each labeled with a chilling word—"Lower Back" and "Upper Loin."
After these finishing touches, the man surrounded Miranda, meticulously discussing each section of her body, seemingly debating which section would be most palatable and what temperature would yield the best results. Finally, their discussion reached a conclusion, and Big ordered them to begin. Miranda futilely swung the ropes, having already urinated twice.
I was filled with dread when I saw a man approach my unfortunate companion, a serrated hunting scalpel in his hand. I remembered her calling him an experienced elk hunter. As the knife sliced down into Miranda's round stomach below her navel, all Miranda could do was take deep, terrified breaths. The knife then cut through the skin and abdominal muscles, and blood gushed from the gash. The hunter carefully inserted his two middle fingers into the wound, gently parting the skin until he saw her intestines.
Then, he carefully formed a "?" with his fingers, slowly guiding the cut upwards.
Slowly, precisely, the merciless scalpel left a straight line of blood below Miranda's navel, down to just below her sternum. The scalpel cut gently back and forth, requiring little force; the serrated edge sliced through her soft muscle as if cutting a nylon coat. The blade continued cutting, and soon the length of the red wound on Miranda's body made her look like a giant thermometer.
Looking down between her two small, watery breasts, Miranda saw her intestines seeping from her abdomen like earthworms crawling out of the ground during rain. She stared in horror at how red and wet the contents of her body were, wondering what was inside. As she weakly tensed her diaphragm, trying to hold it in place, she was horrified by her promiscuous life and her failures. She saw her blood swirling in through the drain, like a scene from a psychiatric TV show.
But what followed was even more shocking. The hunter carefully pulled at the outer layer of skin and reached inside her, as if she were a coin purse. He carefully moved the knife inside, then without hesitation made a cut below her diaphragm. Miranda's intestines then slid out like snakes escaping a basket onto the tiled floor, leaving only the thickest link connecting her to her body. The hunter then looked at the empty cave and quickly cut off the ring connecting her to her anus. Her uterus and other reproductive organs were also removed in the same way.
Finally, the hunter's caution and meticulousness were evident. He skillfully disposed of Miranda's entire digestive system, including her largest stomach and the rest, leaving no residue in her original abdominal cavity, making her still look incredibly delicious. After a thorough cleaning, Miranda was completely clean and ready to be cooked. Utter despair welled up in Miranda's eyes; she knew what was about to happen to her. Although she retained a sliver of consciousness, it was practically the same as death. A burst of astonishing applause erupted, and the hunter returned to the crowd.
"Alright! Child, it's your turn!" Big said.
The crowd parted again, and a familiar figure approached the hanging woman. It was none other than Spielberg. Jameson, an old friend of mine and Miranda's devoted lover. Spielberg stood there naked, his "Jameson" family a prominent political family, as straight as a Titan missile, his face flushed like a firecracker about to explode. Spielberg placed a low stool in front of Miranda and stood on it. He wrapped his arms around Miranda, his palms resting on her cheeks, clearly intending to give her a final farewell before the poor woman slowly died.
But then something strange happened, even stranger than Miranda's prominent red pubic hair. Spielberg took his erect penis and thrust it directly into the wound in Miranda's abdomen, pressing the muscles of her lower abdomen together and pumping it back and forth, satisfyingly raping her wound. Then, he gripped the muscles beside his penis with one hand and Miranda's soft breasts with the other. He squeezed the woman's large breasts forcefully, and Miranda gasped in pain.
"Stop! Stop! Don't do it anymore, you pervert!" Miranda screamed with all the strength she could muster. She was terrified; she still couldn't believe this wasn't a nightmare but reality.
As for me, if I had known Spielberg had this fetish, I think I would have been even more interested in him.
Finally, Spielberg closed his eyes and ejaculated a large amount of semen into Miranda's body from his magnificent penis. Although this required Miranda to undergo another cleaning, none of the men cared; they all enjoyed the show.
Miranda panted, seemingly ready. Her flesh was rubbed with salt and pepper.
A man took some cloves and applied them to her thighs and buttocks, forcing the spices into her skin.
Some celery stalks were carefully inserted into her vagina and secured with long pins. A basket of fresh vegetables was placed into the cavity left in her stomach, and a trendy stylist sculpted her lower abdomen—a man she had met a few days ago, but who was now married.
The men left the room one by one, the heavy doors closing behind them. Samantha, Charlotte, and I remained trembling in the hall with the men. It wasn't the cold weather that made us shiver; it was the growing fear and the unpredictable future that made us tremble. Miranda's intestines and packing were just the beginning; the real torture was about to begin.
The massive piston spun, and through the small glass window, we could see the room filling with steam. Soon, Miranda was enveloped in a cloud of swirling steam, making her appear hazy.
Our attention was then drawn to the television screen, where we could see the scene through an infrared filter. The three of us were seated in the front row to watch Miranda's suffering.
The piston was turned up to its maximum, and the thermometer by the door climbed to the red alert level before stopping. Although this room had never been used for steaming, it now seemed to offer the perfect setting. Inside, Miranda's short red hair was completely soaked, clinging to her head like a swimming cap. Were it not for the fissure in her abdomen, she would have looked more like a daffodil. The food on her body began to dissolve, flowing onto the floor like red and blue streams. She was thoroughly cleaned, inside and out. Minutes later, her beautiful skin gradually turned the color of a boiled lobster. Then, huge blisters began to cover her entire body, from head to toe.
The thermometer scale climbed to its highest mark, and the steam transformed from a warm cloud into a blanket of scalding vapor. The blisters on Miranda's body began to burst, shattering her skin into fragments that curled up to her back. More and more of her outer skin began to melt and disappear, as if watching herself being skinned alive. With each inch of skin that disappeared, an inch of muscle and fat was exposed and steamed. Her pain was almost nonexistent, because the nerve endings on her body's surface had begun to die. She looked more and more like a piece of beef hanging nearby. Surprisingly, she was still alive. But Miranda could faint at any moment, as her body began to sag and the ropes were still taut. The thin air caused her the pain of suffocation once again.
Time continued to pass. A microphone in the room seemed completely unaffected by the steam, and we could clearly hear Miranda's moans and every word she spoke.
"My breasts are being boiled!" she whispered. "Oh my god... I can feel them being boiled. What a strange feeling!"
Slowly, Miranda's tongue began to protrude from her mouth, and her face began to turn a bright dark blue. Finally, she stopped swaying, hanging there by ropes, like a piece of cooked meat. The show was coming to an end; my friend was dead as dead as could be. In another sense, Miranda was lucky; her suffering was completely over, while for the rest of us, the pain and fear were just beginning.
4. The Sweet Charlotte's Bathhouse Barbecue
We left the steam room screen and continued down into the hall. Behind two doors at the end was another popular weight-loss room—the sauna. The heat here was dry, not humid, but as expected, if we stayed inside, our excess fat would dissolve. Regardless, this is just our speculation. Samantha, Charlotte, and I now have to face a new reality.
"Is she the one to be dealt with here?" a huge man said, shoving Charlotte forward.
"Yes!" Big said. "She certainly looks like she'd be perfect for roasting."
"No! No! It's not my turn yet, you can't do this!" Charlotte screamed. "Mr. Big, Kelly is the one you want, she's the one who abandoned you."
It was all true, and I felt sorry for her, but there was nothing I could do for her now. I could only watch silently as Charlotte was abused, as she was disposed of in horrific ways. Of course, her pleas and betrayal were useless to her. Big nodded, and Charlotte was ushered into the room; she wouldn't leave alive.
The gym's spacious sauna was built of redwood, with a series of tiered benches. There, we usually sat on the benches, venting our frustrations about the men and women in our lives. In the center of the sauna was a redwood box containing an iron pot filled with scorching charcoal, each piece the size of a potato, radiating a hellish heat. Despite having only three pieces of charcoal and the door being open, the sauna was already uncomfortably hot.
The heat was dry, extremely dry. Although Charlotte was frantically kicking and struggling as she was pushed into the room, neither she nor the man pulling her broke a sweat; all moisture was instantly converted into superheated air. Comparing this environment to a stove, it seemed an inevitable wait for a Thanksgiving turkey.
A stool, usually kept in the changing room, was brought into the room. Charlotte's face was forced against it, her body positioned so that the ends of her legs could be suspended, her wrists tightly held at her sides.
Charlotte cried, "Don't do this! I'm a good woman, I swear I'm a good woman!"
"Oh! Of course you're a good woman," Big laughed. "In fact, you're even more delicious!"
"Doctor!" Big suddenly exclaimed. "This patient is yours!"
A man with decent looks, tanned dark brown skin, and blond hair walked over carrying a sports backpack. He had a pair of bright blue eyes that seemed to sparkle, and an innocent, cheerful face; seeing him would immediately remind you of a television weatherman. In my hazy memory, this man was a surgeon, the man Charlotte had abandoned about two years ago. Before Charlotte discovered his inherent personality flaws, they had almost reached the point of marriage. I don't remember what it was, but I do remember laughing heartily when Charlotte told us.
Charlotte was now securely strapped to a chair, her small but perfectly shaped breasts thrusting upwards like snow atop a pyramid, defying gravity. Her thighs trembled with fear, and with each deep, terrified breath, her round belly heaved. The surgeon pulled out a long rubber tube and tightly bound Charlotte's feet above her knees, the tube digging deep into the muscle tissue.
"Oh! What are you doing?" Charlotte asked, annoyed. "You're preventing my blood from circulating."
"That's not a problem in the long run," the surgeon replied with a grin, revealing his teeth.
He then reached into his backpack and pulled out a small but useful tool, somewhat resembling a gun, but with a shark-tooth-shaped blade replacing the barrel. He began to explain that it was a bone saw, something they usually used in hospitals to cut ulcerated or crushed limbs. The doctor gently pressed the red switch on his tool, which emitted a joyful hum.
Charlotte screamed, her body writhing and thrashing in the chair like a turtle turned over, struggling to flip itself back over. Her eyes were wide open, almost revealing her brain. Her little head must have been terrified. She considered any harm to her perfect little body an unacceptable act of violence. Deep down, she had always wanted to maintain a perfect body until her wedding night.
The doctor brought the saw close to Charlotte's hairy, naked body, her unprotected feet. He hovered it over them for a moment, so that Charlotte felt the blade's wind brush against the fine hairs on her skin. The tension was as thick as the musk in the room. Spurting blood and small pieces of flesh began to fly everywhere. Muscle
against steel proved utterly useless. The saw continued to cleanly sever Charlotte's legs below the knees, like a hungry wolf gnawing on muscle and bone. Charlotte screamed incessantly, like a car's anti-theft system, but it was all in vain. The other leg suffered the same fate, and soon the doctor had severed a pair of perfect woman's calves, each ankle still connected to a writhing foot.
"All done!" the doctor said. "Now I'm sure you can never run away from me again, never again..."
"Oh! God! My legs... my beautiful legs," Charlotte groaned. "I'm being dismembered..."
Of course, some blood flowed, but the tourniquet held for several minutes; otherwise, Charlotte would already be in the vast gallery of heaven. The doctor then quickly used another tool, resembling a welding torch, to immediately cauterize the arteries and veins at the amputation site on Charlotte's knee. Poor Charlotte had peacefully fainted there. The surgeon seized the opportunity to apply a tourniquet to Charlotte's arm above the elbow, the same place you use to take blood pressure. I can imagine she's become very short now.
The bone saw came into play again, swiftly severing Charlotte's arm above the elbow. The vibration and pain jolted Charlotte awake once more; she turned her head and saw the saw cutting off the last piece of flesh from her arm.
Charlotte screamed incessantly, frantically pounding on the surgeon with her remaining arm. "Stop! Stop it, you beast!" she screamed, almost like the scream of someone being violently pulled on the hair by a bad boy at school.
Finally, the man beside her carefully grasped the slippery arm, grabbing the wrist joint. The bleeding was quickly stopped, and like her legs, the arm was swiftly amputated and left straight. A hot iron was branded into the amputation wound; Charlotte fully understood what he was about to do. She was finally in a state of amputation and helplessness.
After the amputation wound was cauterized and stitched up, the surgeon looked at Big with a sorrowful gaze, and Big nodded in agreement to let him continue. The surgeon pulled down his athletic shorts, revealing his penis, which was larger than average. Without wasting any time, he immediately inserted his erect penis into Charlotte's narrow, hairless vagina. From that moment on, it was as if you were watching someone rape a pillow. Charlotte's posture, though blurry, still revealed her as a woman, but to the surgeon, it was an irrepressible desire. Finally, I remembered why Charlotte broke up with him. One morning, when she opened his drawer, she found a very detailed "Amputee Weekly." From that day on, her impression of this sick pervert completely changed.
While everything was still in progress, a grill was placed on the burning charcoal fire in the center of the bathroom. One by one, Xia Luo's limbs were placed onto the smoking iron rack. The moment the muscles touched the hot iron, they hissed, and a thick plume of smoke rose up. It was as if Xia Luo's cooked skin was protesting. A naked, hairy man, wearing only an apron, held a pair of long tongs and placed Xia Luo's legs at the very top of the flames. Then, a man generously helped spread barbecue sauce on her legs. His sauce was a mixture of tomato sauce and red or green chilies, and it smelled incredibly fragrant. This mixture was meticulously applied between each of Xia Luo's toes. When a small amount of sauce dripped onto the charcoal, it immediately produced a thick plume of smoke, and a fragrant, delicious steam filled the entire space.
"No—please don't roast my legs!" Xia Luo cried out. "I still need my legs. I need them to walk home today." It was a very strange statement; to me, she seemed to have completely lost her mind, her spirit had become somewhat unstable. Perhaps this was for the best. Despite Charlotte's constant screams, her legs remained grilled on the metal rack, like chops of meat roasting in a backyard. In fact, it seemed to me the chef's apron was saying, "I love grilling." Charlotte's arms would be placed on the grill a little later.
Before proceeding to the next step, Charlotte had to undergo a "tenderizing" process. The team
members performing this tenderizing included her former fitness trainer, her OB-GYN, her accountant, and about six other
men she had dated before, who took turns inflicting a hellish rape on her smooth body. Charlotte's snoring sounded like a sow's squeals as the men, one after another, reveled in their intercourse with her, causing her abdomen to writhe like a mad beast. "That's it! Boys," Big shouted.
"Fill her mind with pleasure, wash her with your semen!"
Finally, all the men were satisfied. Sharon breathed a sigh of relief as a hose rinsed her mutilated body, thoroughly cleaning every part. These men were merely minor characters in the whole affair; they didn't want to leave their semen inside or outside her. Sharon was then lifted and placed on an open, rectangular metal box, about three feet long and two and a half feet wide. It was made of black metal with white spots, and its overall appearance was reminiscent of a baking pan, which it was. Sharon was gently but firmly placed in this shallow pan, her head resting on the rim.
Sharon writhed in pain, but it was to no avail. The last man came over and held her down, while another man began working on her abdomen with a serrated knife. A few minutes later, Sharon's bright red and slightly gray intestines were completely removed and placed in a bucket. Next, her abdominal cavity was cleaned, and her anus was cut off from her buttocks. At that moment, a large bowl of mushrooms was brought into the room and quickly stuffed into Charlotte's empty abdomen. A man immediately used catgut to sew up the opening, stitching it neatly as if sewing a Christmas swan. Finally, a plug sealed the last opening of the opening, sealing the stuffing inside her. The entire process was completed with remarkable speed and professionalism. I remember that man was a chef
working at a four-star restaurant in Soho (London's Zone 1, known for its many French, Italian, and foreign-owned restaurants).
Next came the decoration. First, Charlotte's torso was coated with a thick layer of cream cheese. The cream rubbed against her breasts, arms, thighs, and face, making her high in calories, but this allowed her body to be baked more evenly. Then, a sprig of parsley was sprinkled on her body, and a bay leaf was placed under each of her arms. A celery stalk was inserted into her vagina, and a large cabbage was forced into her anus. Finally, the fitness instructor grabbed Charlotte's jaw with his enormous hand, twisted it slightly, and with a sharp crack, Charlotte's mouth immediately gaped open due to her dislocated jaw. Then, a delicious red apple was shoved into the opening. Now Charlotte was stuffed full and ready for the final act.
The room became unbearably hot; ten pieces of charcoal were glowing red-hot. The men removed their shirts, revealing their muscular upper bodies, but they were still panting heavily from the heat. They looked incredibly attractive, especially their strong, bronze muscles. Despite the desert-like dryness of the air, they exuded an irresistible masculinity. I know what you're going to say—how can I praise these men? Don't you know they're doing something horrific to me and my two remaining friends? My only defense is that you can't stop liking something because of pain, and what God gave me is men.
Back in the frying pan, drops of steam seeped from every pore of Xia Luo's body, condensing on the bottom and causing her back to sizzle as if it were being cooked. The pan seemed to have been welded to her back. Even then, her eyes remained fixed on her limbs, the limbs sizzling and turning black on the grill. A man approached with a large plate, piercing the calf with a fork to check the clear juices. He then moved the calf from the grill to the plate, and then placed Xia Luo's arm back on the grill. The arm was bent into two question marks and coated with oil.
The man then left the room, where the temperature had reached an unbearable level.
Inside, Charlotte continued to hurl useless curses and insults. Her body began to scorch, red blisters rising around her, milky fluid oozing from her breasts and gradually turning white, while her thighs darkened. Her back grew ashen, and her breathing became short, labored gasps, as if trying to expel the scorching air from her lungs.
Finally, the massive redwood door slammed shut, and a final, mournful wail escaped Charlotte's fruit-stuffed mouth. Only she and the stove remained in the room. She would spend her last, short life there, like a roasted chicken. I'm glad I only saw this much; what happened next, I have no idea.

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