The Main Course

Author’s Note: This was actually inspired by a black & white photograph someone sent me last Thanksgiving. I wish I could share it with you, since it’s such a sensual image, one that still thrills me to this day...but it’s not my photograph, so I cannot post it without permission. Still, my thanks to the photographer and his, er, model, for such a vivid piece of artistry. Hopefully my own verbal imagery will be enough to make up for the lack of the actual photo—I know at least some of you will enjoy the tale this image inspired, if not the image itself. Bon appetit!

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“Welcome! Welcome all, to Master Bate’s Master-Chef’s Class for Men. I’m Master Bate,” the tall, naked but for an apron clad man anounced to the men gathered in the studio-sized kitchen. “This month’s topic, as you know, is Main Courses, and this week’s dish is Turkey a la Queen. Over the course of tonight’s lesson, you will learn how to strip, prepare, oil, baste and stuff the ‘bird’ of your choice. Remember, a bird on the hand is easier than trying to stuff two in her bush,” he quipped with a twinkle in his eye, earning a laugh from the small crowd. “Queenie, step forward and give the gents a bow.”

I stepped forward obediently and bowed, clad in an old teeshirt and ratty sweatpants that had seen better days. My body was still damp from my shower, however, and my wet hair had been twisted into a bun and skewered with a pair of large hairpins, to keep it out of the way.

“Queenie teaches the Queen of Cuisine Master-Chef’s Class for Women on Saturday Nights,” Master Bate added, meaning we’d be switching roles tomorrow night, in front of a dozen or so women. For now, though, it was my turn to be the ‘main course’ for tonight’s roomful of men. “Okay, gents,” Bate continued, gesturing for me to stand in front of the large, sturdy, marble-topped island that was the centerpiece for this end of the kitchen. “First of all, you have to pick your bird. Make sure she’s at least visually plump, or your guests will be wondering at why you’re serving such a scrawny, bony meal. Can anyone tell me what the next step is?”

A hand raised, and a blond man with a goatee offered, “Don’t you have to make sure the bird is thoroughly cleaned, before doing anything else?”

Bate grinned. “Indeed, that is the case. But first, we have to strip the wrappings off the bird.”

He slapped the counter with his hand, and I obediently tucked my hands onto it behind me, using them for leverage as I jumped up onto the counter. Swivelling, I stretched out across the near half of the counter, lying on my back. Bate picked up a pair of kitchen shears and started snipping off my clothes. He’d lose a set of his, too, before the weekend was done. All the males, who apparently had nothing better to do with a Friday night than pay two thousand a head to attend Bate’s class, crowded close as the instructions began. I felt the cold metal of the shears slicing up both fronts of my thighs to the waistline, then snipping straight up the middle of my shirt to the neckline, then out to either sleeve, before he peeled the clothing back and tucked it free from my weight.

“As you can see, you have to be careful to not cut the skin of your turkey-bird; you don’t want to ruin the bird, since proper display is a part of the finished piece. But, once you’ve got the outer wrappings off,” he added, tugging the last remnants of my outer clothes free, “You have to make sure you cut the strings on the legs, and any other place there are restraints holding the bird together.”

*Snip* *snip*, and he cut through my bra straps and my string bikini panties.

“Now, ordinarily you’d run this baby under some warm water to clean her out, and help defrost her if she arrives in a frozen condition and hasn’t yet completely thawed, but we’ve already done that step. So, we’ll make sure first that she’s been thoroughly plucked, and then just take these damp rags and make sure the wrappings haven’t left anything on her skin that we don’t want to be tasting later on.”

Damp cloths were handed out, and eager male hands stroked up and down my limbs, as they all made sure to not only bathe my breasts and rub between my thighs, but to turn me over and wipe down my backside, from the nape of my neck to the soles of my feet, paying special attention to my buttocks. They turned me over again when all of them had copped a good, damp feel, and rubbed their hands over my shaved cunt, fingering my hairless vaginal lips. I lay on my back, enjoying the tingling feel of all those caresses, and illicit fingerings. Three of them even went so far as to stick a single finger up my vagina, making me shiver.

“Now what?” one of the students asked, as Master Bate collected the used rags and tossed them in a bin in the corner of the kitchen.

“Now, we bring over the roasting pan, and oil it, then gently oil her skin, to make sure she doesn’t dry out and stick to the pan when we place her within.”

Though my vision was mostly of the track lighting on the ceiling, I did crane my head slightly, watching as he tossed a couple cans of cooking spray at his students. These, they wielded with masculine chuckles and vigorous shaking, spraying every inch of my face. Bate kindly put a dry, clean towel over my head to keep the mist out of my hair, lungs and eyes, but beyond that, his students eagerly sprayed my arms and legs, my breasts, knees, armpits, belly, toes, ankles and thighs.

“Okay…spray the roasting pan, and lift her onto it, boys!”

The roasting pan was big enough to roast a whole pig. It was just a little longer than from the top of my head to the bottom of my buttocks, which meant the backs of my thighs had to rest a little uncomfortably on the raised lip, but it was the slipperiness of my skin that forced the men to handle me a little more firmly than I’d have liked. Then again, a few minor bruises were better than being dropped. Again, they sprayed every inch of my skin, tickling me with the whooshing, cool mist.

“Right. Now, the next step is what I call the first stuffing, since I like a double-stuffed turkey. You don’t have to do a second stuffing, of course, but that’s up to you. I’ll demonstrate,” Bate said, whipping the towel from my head before hopping up onto the sturdy counter himself, positioning himself so that he knelt between my legs.

Grasping my ankles, he slid me over the oil-slick surface of the pan toward him, then freed one hand long enough to position his penis. It, like every other dick in the room, was quite hard. I felt it nudging against my oil-slick pussy-lips. He pushed in a little, but while I was admittedly a little wet from all the fondling, his shaft was still dry.

“Sometimes, you have to make sure the stuffing is wet before you shove it in,” Bate informed the others, as he reached for the nearest can of cookin spray. I lifted my head, watching him as best I could as he sprayed his dick with the oily mist, then lowered it again as he set the can down. “A dry stuffing will leech moisture from your bird, and you want to make sure your bird is very moist, to ensure a properly made meal. Ahhh, that’s more like it.”

He was quite slick, now, as he shifted to lay half over me, and slid in all the way, until his pubic hairs met my shaved mound. I bit my lower lip as he began to gently thrust, arching my head back. I slid a little on the roasting pan with each thrust, and Master Bate paused, holding himself in a modified push-up position, half buried in my body.

“It is important to remember to stuff both openings. You, stuff the bird up at the neck, while I fill up the lower cavity. Drag the roasting pan to the edge of the table for better access,” he added.

Several hands repositioned us closer to the edge of the island at that end, and I was pushed up the pan until my head could hang over the edge. Bate had pointed to a man with skin not too far off from the milky brown of a cappuccino, and he now stood on one of the several broad, stable step-stools used for accessing the higher cupboards in our professional kitchen. He tipped my head back further as I quickly used the towel that had been around my face to pad my neck against the roasting pad rim, pried my jaw open—not that I was resisting—and stuffed his thick, long meat inside, as far as I could take it and still breathe. Bate resumed thrusting into me, and the two men got into a steady rhythm. The other men crowded close, naked penises in several eager hands.

“At this stage,” Master Bate continued, panting slightly between each thrust as he slid in and out of my slick pussy, “you can pre-baste her with whatever juices you prefer. Sometimes it’s useful to use her own juices, which we will do a little later on, too, when she’s been cooking for a little while. But for now, let’s just concentrate…on stuffing this bird to the gills!”

A few hard thrusts, and he groaned, cumming inside of me. Pulling out, careful because he, too, was now slick with oil, he let another student take his place. Within short order, I had a brunette at my snatch, and the black man at my mouth was grunting, his dick thickening and stiffening. Seconds after he gripped my head in his hands—I had just enough warning to take a deep breath—he shot his load down my throat. I swallowed what I could, and let the rest escape out of my mouth, as he let me breathe again a few deep thrusts later.

“Damn, she took me deep!”

“—I’m next!”

The one in my cunt came quickly, swearing and gripping my slick breasts over and over again, for his hands kept popping off my oiled flesh. Apparently, he liked sloppy seconds. The third one took his own sweet time, as I choked on three more dicks. A couple of the others spurted and dribbled cum onto me, as they jacked off to the sight of the ‘turkey’ being thoroughly ‘stuffed’. Cum dripped down the sides of my face, off my tits and ribs, and down the crack of my ass. And then I felt my own desire rising. I started shivering and shaking, deeply aroused by this fetish gangbang. Bate urged the man inside me to cum quickly, then pulled him off and inserted a small bowl under my buttocks, fingering my clitoris. Within moments, I had a shooter orgasm, half-choking on the last dick in my mouth, half-peeing my own cum-juices into the bowl. The force of the orgasm was such that half the cum that had been sloshing and slurping with each hard-fucked stroke came out with it.

“Very good, class! We can now have a self-basted turkey! They’re always the ones with the greatest flavor,” he added matter-of-factly, setting the bowl aside for the moment. “Okay—you just about finished? Good! Okay, class, it’s time to truss up your turkey bird!”

Taking black silk ties from the side counter, he brought my ankles and wrists together. As several of the classmembers held my limbs in place, he knotted my limbs together, rendering me helpless, bound on my back with my legs and hands in the air.

“Doesn’t she look gorgeous, class?” Master Bate asked proudly, and got several agreements. “She’s almost ready. Now, we just need to add some vegetables for roasting, a final spray and basting, and she’ll be picture-perfect.” With that, he dove into the refridgerator and pulled out carrots, potatoes, summer squash, zucchini, and other foods.

One of the students picked up one of the carrots being placed around me and poked it into my vagina. Since it was a somewhat thick carrot, I moaned softly at the vaginal stimulation. Another one tried a crook-neck squash, and a third a zucchini, mistakenly calling it a ‘cucumber’, and cracking several jokes with the others. Since it was thick, rounded, and cool, I moaned and squirmed against my bonds, enjoying the contrast of cool, firm fruit where there had been hot, firm flesh only minutes before. Someone jacked off onto my left nipple, and Master Bate ordered him to rub it in.

The others caught on quick, and between their dirty jokes, the makeshift vegetable dildoes, and the sight of me bound and trussed for baking on the platter, they all ejaculated a second time onto my body, and smeared the sticky white fluid into my skin. Two even got up onto the table again and had another squishy fuck, after the food had been tucked around my sides, covering the remainder of the roasting pan. Bate made sure to fill my mouth with the bowful of my own cum mixed with their semen, ordered me to keep it in my mouth and not swallow or spit, and fitted an apple into my teeth, as the others wore down into sexual exhaustion.

He and his helpers sprayed me one last time with the cooking oil, then Master Bate took digital pictures of me, bound and oiled, surrounded by roasting vegetables, an apple in my mouth, my own cum on my tongue, and theirs all over my skin. I couldn’t help it; I shivered and came again, another of my infamous shooter orgasms, and he snapped a picture of that, too. And while he wandered off to download the pictures and print out memento copies for all of the men, they took turns fucking me again.

I was, after all, the main course.