JEFF AU POIVRE
A Playful Prose Fantasy or Short Story
by Dacneus

Ouch! Damn! At least that’s the very least Jeff would have shouted—or screamed—if the ball-gag hadn’t been securely wedged between the roof of his mouth and his tongue and projecting halfway down his throat. And the sharp pain of the fork’s long tines pricking playfully and selectively into different places on his naked belly and then—damn—briefly but playfully—at least that is how he gauged his master’s intention from his wide grin—into his groin—his right balls’ sack, to be precise—was only relatively painful now that the charcoal fire’s heat was blisteringly hot on his backside, now feeling some slight release as the rotor turned it sidewise and upward, and Jeff had again to shut his eyes as they were brought to stare into the fire. The constant but growing pain from the searing coals was unendurable, but Jeff realized that he would have to continue enduring and suffering it until—he desperately hoped—he lost consciousness. It was the pain—pure pain—of being roasted alive that filled and overwhelmed his consciousness now. The humiliation and sheer embarrassment—and of course the intense resentment and anger—that had once fixed his awareness as he had been paraded on his leash and collar, hands manacled behind his already sweating back, from the kitchen through the laughing, poking, cocktail-spilling crowd of guests to the barbecue pit and the spit, had yielded completely to the torturing reality of fiery burning heat as Jeff’s roasting progressed. He scarcely had power of attention now to catch the jeers and the gleeful chatter of his master’s neighbors and friends or really to hear and take in the sadistic irony of his chef-hatted owner’s pretended sympathy in his ongoing half-whispered, chuckle-interrupted talking to or at Jeff as the cook occasionally prodded or shook on salt.
How had young Jeff come to this pretty pass, become the reddening, sweat-glistening center of attention, a mouth-wateringly attractive, muscular slab of meat rotating for perhaps two to three more hours before coming to rest on the grooved pewter platter now resting a yard or so away from the pit? His original good looks were chiefly to blame. They had attracted the favorable and predatory attention of his potential employer, who had hired him to begin with and then, after the economic catastrophe, had made behind-the-scenes arrangements with the newly incorporated slave dealership and with the auctioneer, and had easily and economically purchased the recently unemployed, then hopelessly indebted, criminalized, then sentenced and enslaved Jeff in a carefully scheduled apparent lull in the bidding. The surrounding economic and political situation had cooperated in sealing his once unconceived-of, inconceivable fate. Cut off entirely from the world, certainly from the news, during his roughly two weeks in jail, following his arrest, arraignment and sentencing, Jeff had been altogether unaware of the very brief and wholly unsuccessful attempted uprising by a part of the public in protest against and intended prevention of the legalizing and reintroduction of slavery. The long zealously guarded right to private possession of firearms by individual citizens had proved to be as ineffective as it had been thought paranoid. Up to date technology and the solid organization of both the police and the armed forces had easily overcome the popular resistance that had appeared in the majority of the States and a great many of their communities. The overpowered rebels had conveniently served to swell the ranks of the newly acquired human capital commodities, which had been numerous enough thanks to the preceding legal processing of the masses of the unemployed and impoverished. The new regime had secured itself unshakably in what little time it had taken for Jeff to accustom himself to jail fare.
He had been, as was hinted above, as it were pre-selected for early and swift legal and mercantile processing, and the period between his being led from his cell to the marketplace, his immediately subsequent stripping and brief exposure on the block, his auctioning and sale, his branding, piercing and being tagged with his license number, and his being delivered in chains to his welcoming new owner and his growing ‘family’ was mercifully brief. Though he was not spared from an initial agonizing humiliation on being introduced to a new life of permanent nudity and consequent exploitation as a sex toy, Jeff came through training and acquired habit to live with comparative happiness for almost a year in his new home. He was allotted his own bunk in the slave quarters and his share of the common utilities in the mansion’s new bathhouse, but spent most of his hours and a good portion of his labor in his master’s bed and private rooms. He was assigned some household tasks that amounted to less real work in fact than he had been accustomed to when still a free citizen. Fatefully, ironically, and prophetically, many of his tasks, increasingly what became his second career, involved his assignment in the kitchen. Most unfortunately for him, fashionable society developed in and over this period a new fancy and fad, which originated only very slightly due to economic necessity—or at least convenience—and mostly due to the whimsical and perhaps perverse taste and imagination of a few elite persons—cannibalism, or as it came t be called, nouvelle cuisine.
Jeff was now a soon to be tasty sample of this, a prime example—certainly more than a choice one. Now barely [pun intended] conscious, still writhing intentionally in a nonetheless mostly reflexive struggle to escape, Jeff was, through the purely physiological mercy of his cooking brain, somewhat if slightly spared the otherwise intensifying pain from the growing heat of the briquettes. The gleefully observant master-chef realized that Jeff’s marginally aware, passive participation in the banquet couldn’t last long and for his sake now looked up from his business and shouted to his noisy guests, “Attention, please, friends! Of course our handsome and succulent entr?can’t join us in raising a glass, but while he’s still able to appreciate the compliment, let’s all join in a toast to Jeff! Boymeat, you “look good enough to eat!” Here’s to you, slave! Here’s hoping you have the good taste to match!”
The more charitable and sympathetic of the guests—few as they were—hoped Jeff was flattered. The more knowledgeable among them—for some had already tried their hand at gourmet cooking—realized that that had probably just become impossible—that the jerking of Jeff’s thighs was by now only neuro-chemical reaction in the juicy beef. They could hardly wait.

POSTED BY DACNEUS AT 1:25 PM 0 COMMENTS