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Queenie shivered as the cool spine of Barnabos's meat cleaver traced over her back—from the space just under her armpit, over the ticklish bumps of her ribs, and down towards the sensitive, soft meat of her belly. The sensation raced through her, gathering in her nipples and clit as she imagined the blade turned around, slicing through her fur and skin. She squirmed as Barnabos lifted the knife, then repeated the motion on her other side, the metal brushing her downy fur. Of course, since her legs were bound at the ankles, and her forearms pinned tightly behind her back with butcher's twine, all she could end up doing was wiggling her hips and rocking her shoulders against the large slab of wood she'd been placed on. But she wasn't really trying to escape, now was she?
Before this, Barnabos had spent nearly half an hour preparing Queenie to be eaten. First, he'd tied her up, looping the thin ropes around her body like she was a trussed-up roast, tying it so it just barely pinched into her fat deposits. Except for the string wrapped around her, she was completely naked. Funny how the word for skinning and butchering an animal was dressing, and yet she had gotten undressed for this, huh? Next, he'd placed her on a massive wooden butcher's block, her knees pressing into the hard surface and her face and shoulders lying flat against the board so she couldn't see what he was doing to her. The mass of her breasts, pinned under her by the awkward position she was in, kept her back curled upwards, her cotton tail and plump, muscular ass presented high in the air. He'd even stuffed an apple in her mouth. She knew it was a deeply silly touch—why would he need to put an apple in her mouth before he even skinned and cleaned her?—but it had still given her a head rush when he pried her jaw open and stuffed it in.
Barnabos hummed, setting the knife down beside her with a clank. "Well then, that's the meat secured. Wouldn't want the main attraction running away before dinnertime, now would we Miss March?" He paused. "I probably shouldn't be callin' you that now that you've volunteered to be meat, eh? Don't want to get too attached to ya if you're going to be nothing but bones by this time tomorrow."
A fresh wave of heat and wetness rushed down to Queenie's cunt. She pressed her thighs together, rocking back and forth on her knees and tensing her muscles. All of that, just to make her pussy lips just barely slip against each other, giving her a tiny bit of the friction she desperately craved. She groaned in frustration, her teeth digging deeper into the sweet red apple flesh.
"Hey now!" Barnabos patted her rear, his hand steadying her a little. "Don't be getting second thoughts now! I already got the crew excited about their rabbit supper! If I don't cook you up for them, they might just tear you to pieces and gobble you up anyway!"
Queenie squirmed and hummed angrily around her apple gag. There was an appeal to being torn apart and eaten in bloody chunks like a mere hunk of calories, but she was here to be appreciated—to be turned into a lavish feast that would linger on diners' minds for years and their waistlines for even longer. More importantly, she was here to be touched. Her cunt was throbbing with lust, and Barnabos's hands weren't even coming close to giving her what she needed!
"Don't worry, don't worry," Barnabos said. "I won't let that happen to you. Now!" He smacked her ass with one huge palm. "Let's plan that menu, shall we?"
Queenie suddenly felt Barnabos's firm grip on her hips, and suddenly she was on her back. She blinked at the sudden light, although she couldn't see much more than when she was face-down on the butcher block—her view of the table had turned into a view of the ceiling. Queenie's arms were pinned under her back, and her legs were raised high in the air. She bent and extended her knees a few times, stretching out after being stuck in an awkward kneel for so long.
Then, she felt something brush against her tail. "Hm, let's see..." Barnabos muttered, stroking up and down the soft fur between Queenie's legs. He groped at her thighs, massaging her muscular yet fatty ass like he was rubbing oil and spices into a roast. "Oh, these are very nice. I think I may have found my main dish right here. Does roasted rabbit thigh sound good to you?"
Queenie squirmed—both in pleasure at the acknowledgement of her phenomenal thighs and in an attempt to get Barnabos's hands just a bit lower. Finally, he got the picture, and one hand slipped between her thighs, toying with the outer folds of her pussy. "I'll have to smoke your ribs, of course—it'd be heresy not to. As for that lovely back of yours—hm, I could roast it, but they simply won't compare to your thighs. Maybe I could roll them up with stuffing inside? Something to soak up all the juices." His fingers slipped into her wetness, and the spark of pleasure that zipped through Queenie was strong enough to make her thighs shake. "Miss March! If you're this wet raw, I can only imagine how moist you'll be once you're cooked!"
Barnabos's unoccupied hand reached for her belly, groping the soft folds of her stomach. "You know, you've got quite a bit of fat on you, Miss March," Barnabos mused as he tormented her with the lightest strokes. "I could chop that out, render that down, and stew some greens in it. With a bit of Ancient Estuary? Oh, that would be nice...."
Queenie arched her back, craning her head back as she tried to push her clit towards the pressure of Barnabos's hand. He crooked his fingers inside of her, and Queenie twitched, a fresh surge of wetness soaking her thigh fur and her jaw clenching. The apple dropped out of her mouth and rolled onto the butcher block as she bit through it by accident. "Oh, you liked that, did you?" Barnabos said, repeating the soft stroking motion.
Queenie shuddered with arousal, barely managing to chew and swallow the chunk of apple in her mouth without choking. "No," she whimpered, although the affect was lessened significantly by the way she canted her hips up into his hand. "And don't you dare ruin me with Ancient Estuary. You're really gonna cover up the flavor of this prime, grass-fed ass with the same spice you always use—eep!"
Queenie yelped as Barnabos's motions suddenly got rougher, a second finger probing into her cunt and his thumb rubbing over her clit harshly. Fuck, his fingers were thick. "Since when does food get to decide how it's prepared?" Barnabos sneered. "I'll season you however I please, Miss March, and when you're the best meal my crew has ever had, they'll pay their complements to the chef, not to the meat."
Queenie came with an undignified squeak, her thighs clamping down on Barnabos's hand. She didn't even register that her legs had twitched and bunny-kicked him right in the face until she recovered, a good half a minute later. "Whoops. Sorry."
"Nothin' more than I can handle," Barnabos grunted, rubbing his sore nose and accidentally leaving a streak of her wetness across it. "That all you ever dreamed of?"
"Yeah. You're really good, Barnabos. Did you come up with all that on the spot?"
Barnabos grinned. "What can I say? I'm a natural storyteller, Miss March!"
Queenie pulled herself upright, folding her legs like a mermaid's tail and rolling her shoulders. "Ugh, my arms are all stiff. Mind untying me now?"
Instead of bothering with the thin butcher's twine, Barnabos just reached behind her and cut it with his cleaver, before doing the same to the string around her ankles. Queenie stretched, her limbs aching pleasantly after being trapped in one position for so long. "Thanks," she said. "Not just for untying me. For everything. It's nice... it's nice to find someone who doesn't think it's totally weird."
"Don't mention it," Barnabos said. "I can't say I see the appeal of being gobbled up if you can't cut your way out of the beastie, but most people wouldn't see the appeal of marrying a woman in a shell."
Queenie snickered. "To each their own, I guess."
"To each their own."