Part Seven
A few months had passed since I took part in the Meatgirl Hunt, and since then, things have changed, not only in me but in my surroundings too. The first being that Ollie has decided to take on another shop and expand the business; the owner of this shop, Nathan, was the one who originally trained him in the meatgirl trade and now he wanted to retire, so he offered to sell the business to Ollie, and as it was the town in which Ollie grew up in, it was a no-brainer to take on the additional shop.
The trouble though was that it was over three hours away from where we currently live, so there was no way for me to get to my own work, which I wasn’t about to give up. So Ollie decided that he needed to stay in the town where the shop is, it was impractical for him to travel that distance everyday. The shop doesn’t have any accommodation above like our current one, so he’s moved in with his mother, after his father died she has lived on her own, so she welcomed the company. I also knew that I couldn’t live there, while she seems nice to me, I get the feeling that she thought that her son could have done better. God forbid if she ever finds out about our meatgirl games.
So, I continue to live in our apartment above the old shop and he lives over there and runs the new shop, returning on most weekends, but then spending time either playing golf or going off fishing, while I end up naked, bound and gagged, then stored away with the other meatgirls, not that I object to that, but it feels like he’s putting me away so that he can go off and enjoy his spare time doing something that he loves.
The original shop is now managed by Matt, who knows about my strange desires and indulges me whenever the cravings come over me, binding me and storing me like I was just another meatgirl, but with the added advantage that he now no longer felt the guilt or restraint like he used to with me before the hunt and then after I returned, and finding me bound, naked and waiting for him, he now felt free to use me as he wished, which he often did, taking advantage of me while I was bound and gagged, much to our mutual delight.
Of course, with Ollie now away in the other shop, it had left a hole in the staffing, which Matt quickly filled, but unexpectedly with a woman, which wasn’t exactly odd, but it was rare for a woman to be seen selling meatgirls, although Judy seemed to know what she was doing from all accounts, and Matt was happy with the way that she fitted in straight away.
So, now you’re filled in, let's get on with my story. I had finished work on a Thursday afternoon, and had come back to the shop to find Matt there on his own, the other worker was finished for the day, so, I couldn’t resist the chance to indulge my passion, and I soon found myself naked, bound and gagged, and on all fours on the storeroom floor, with Matt pounding into me from the rear. Afterwards he rebound me and hung me from one of the ceiling hooks that the meatgirls are kept on, completing it with the now compulsory bag over my head to hide my identity, then adding the id tag through my already pierced nipple and finally, the sold sticker on my breast to prevent any accidental sale of me, then leaving me there overnight, just as I love to be treated.
But the following morning was the first day for the new hire, and the first I knew about it was when the storeroom door opened in the morning and I heard two pairs of feet enter, then I heard Matt begin to explain about storing the goods, as he called us, his hands touching several of the meatgirls along the line, and then he came to me, he explained that some of the meat had already been sold, like this one he stated, and touched me where the sticker was stuck on my breast. He talked about me like I was just meat, inventory to be sold; I was just a product to him at that moment.
Then he suggested that he should demonstrate how to bind up a meatgirl for delivery, using me, it seemed, as I was picked up and he demonstrated how to carry a meatgirl, which it turned out was something that she already knew from her previous job delivering meatgirls from the wholesalers. So he put me down and allowed her to haul me up over her shoulder and carry me from the storeroom.
He knew that I wouldn’t object to being treated like this; in fact, he guessed that I was enjoying every minute of it, which I was, even though I was being handled roughly by another woman. I was carried out to the preparation bench and dropped down onto the surface without any regard for my comfort or well-being; to her, I was just another meatgirl; she didn’t know any different. All while this was happening to me, I kept in my meatgirl mode, allowing them to fondle, touch and abuse my naked body.
Matt then started to show her how to do the ties that kept the meatgirls trussed up while they’re being delivered, folding and trussing up my legs, followed by my arms, until I was a tightly bundled up package of meatgirl flesh. He then allowed her to have her turn, with her taking her time to get it right, while following Matt’s instructions. I was just a product to be dealt with by them at this point, it seemed.
After taking several tries she finally got it to the stage where Matt was satisfied, he had made her do it again several times just to make sure that she got it right, he had told her, all the while enjoying the knowledge that I was relishing the way that I was being used, and taking great pleasure in ensuring that I knew that he was in control of what was happening to me. Since that time when I submitted myself to him after the hunt, our relationship has changed, with him taking charge of me, using me, and keeping me as his personal plaything when Ollie is not around.
Once they had finished with the lesson, my still firmly trussed up body was carted back to the storeroom, where I was placed on a shelf waiting to be collected by my buyer, though both Matt and I knew that was not going to happen, and I was one contented, trussed up happy meatgirl package stored away until I was needed again. I was later finally freed by Matt after Judy had gone out for some lunch, and I then quickly retreated upstairs to soak away my aches and pains in the bath. Later, I eventually came back down to head out to go shopping, but on the way out Matt introduced me properly to Judy, who unknown at the time noticed the rope marks still slightly visible on my wrists, but didn’t mention it.
Judy was a tall, athletic woman in her mid-thirties, with sharp features and a no-nonsense demeanor that screamed confidence. Her dark hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail, and she wore practical work clothes that hugged her frame just enough to hint at the strength beneath. When Matt introduced us, she shook my hand firmly, her eyes lingering a fraction too long on my wrists before flicking up to meet mine with a polite smile.
"Nice to meet you, Amy. Matt's told me a bit about the setup here. I’m looking forward to keeping things running smoothly."
I smiled back, feeling a faint flush creep up my neck, but I played it cool. "Welcome aboard. If you need anything, just holler, I'm right upstairs."
As I walked out the door, I could feel her gaze on my back, but I shook it off as paranoia. After all, the marks were fading, and who would jump to conclusions from a few red lines?
Little did I know, Judy wasn't one to let details slip by. Over the next few weeks, as Ollie continued his absentee routine, popping in on weekends only to "store" me away before heading off to his hobbies, Matt and I fell into a rhythm. He'd text me when the shop was quiet, and I'd sneak down, stripping eagerly as he bound me tight before taking me, gagging me, and then afterwards, hanging me among the other meatgirls in the storeroom. The cold air on my naked skin, the sway of the hook, the anonymity of the bag over my head, it all fed that insatiable hunger that the hunt had unleashed. And Matt? He revelled in it, pushing boundaries, using me roughly before leaving me to dangle overnight, leaving my body aching in the best of ways.
But Judy started noticing patterns. Stock discrepancies that didn't add up, extra "sold" tags appearing and vanishing, faint moans from the storeroom after hours, and once, a misplaced proper ball gag left on the prep bench, not one with the feeding tube attachment. She didn't say anything at first, just observed, her curiosity now piqued.
Then, late one Friday afternoon, with Ollie due back the next day and Matt closing up early, I couldn't resist the craving. I texted Matt, and soon I was naked in the storeroom, wrists bound high, ankles secured, a thick gag muffling my whimpers as he teased me mercilessly before hooking me up and bagging my head.
"Stay put, meatgirl," he growled, slapping my ass hard enough to echo. "I'll check on you later."
The door clicked shut, and I swayed in the darkness, lost in the fantasy, my arousal building with every minute of helpless storage. But then, maybe an hour later, the door creaked open again. Footsteps, not Matt's heavy tread, but lighter, deliberate. The bag was yanked off my head, and there stood Judy, arms crossed, a predatory gleam in her eyes.
"Well, well," she said, her voice low and amused. "I thought that 'sold' meatgirl from my first day felt a little too... responsive. And those wrist marks? Dead giveaway."
She circled me slowly, her fingers trailing over my bound arms, tracing the ropes with an expert touch. "Look like Matt's been keeping a secret stash, huh? Or should I say, Ollie's wife has a kink for playing as product."
I tried to protest through the gag, my cheeks burning with humiliation and a twisted thrill, but it came out as muffled gibberish.
Judy laughed softly, stepping closer, her breath warm against my ear. "Oh, don't worry, Amy. I'm not here to tattle. In fact..." She reached up, tugging the tag through my nipple just hard enough to make me gasp. "I've got my own tastes. Delivering meatgirls for years, you learn to appreciate the finer points of handling them. And you? You're not like the clones, blank and boring. You're real, eager. I can see it in your eyes."
She didn't wait for a response. With practised efficiency, she unhooked me, but only to reposition me, rebinding as a delivery package, my wrists behind my back, my legs folded under me, bound tightly, putting me in a position that left me utterly exposed.
"Matt's ties are sloppy," she muttered, tightening the ropes until they bit deliciously into my skin. "Let's do this right." Her hands roamed freely then, exploring, pinching, slapping, testing my reactions like I was prime stock. "You like being stored away, don't you? Just another piece of meat in the cooler."
I moaned into the gag, my body betraying me, arching into her touch. Judy smirked, her fingers dipping lower, finding me wet and ready. "Thought so. And since Matt's out... I think I'll take advantage of you, any objections?”
I was gagged, bound, naked and vulnerable, I couldn’t speak with the gag in my mouth, and at that moment it seemed pointless to object, I was trapped, and she could do whatever she wanted to me at that moment, so I remained quiet.
“No I didn’t think so." she responded.
She was relentless, her touch firm and knowing, her fingers plunging deep inside of me, while her thumb circled my clit with expert pressure, while her other hand alternated between spanking my rear and my breasts. All the while, whispering filthy encouragements, calling me her "naughty little meatgirl," "Just another slab on the hook", "That's it, twitch for me, you pathetic tagged slab of meat." All the while promising to keep me stored longer next time, maybe even display me in the cabinet if I begged her nicely. The orgasm she wrung from me was shattering, leaving me trembling on the shelf. When she was finished, she re-bound me and hung me by my wrists to the hook and after she re-bagged my head, she patted my rear.
"Good girl. This stays our little secret, for now. But you can expect more 'training sessions' from me, I take great delight in breaking in fresh meat."
The door closed, and I hung there in the dark, thoroughly spent but also exhilarated, knowing that my desires were no longer hidden, and shared only with Matt & Ollie. Judy had seen right through me, and now she was going to use it to her advantage.
The New Handler's Game
The weekend blurred into a haze of anticipation and dread after Judy's "discovery." Ollie arrived Saturday morning as usual, his golf bag slung over one shoulder, barely glancing at me before heading downstairs to "check the stock." I followed him wordlessly, my skin already prickling with need. He didn't notice the fresh rope marks or the subtle way I trembled, he was too eager to tie me up and escape to his own pursuits.
So by midday, I was back in the storeroom: naked, wrists hooked high, ankles bound, the gag firmly applied with the feeding tube attached, then the bag was placed over my head which plunged me into darkness, but not before I caught a glimpse of Judy lurking in the doorway, watching me with that knowing smile, as Ollie locked me in and left without a backward glance.
Hours passed, or maybe minutes; time dissolved in the chill air. The door opened twice: once for Matt to "inspect" me, his hands rough and familiar, bringing me to the edge but denying release with a chuckle. "Judy's got plans for you later, meatgirl. Be good."
The second time was her.
She didn’t speak at first. Just unhooked me from the ceiling, untied my ankles and then rebound them crossed behind me, and forced me onto my knees on the cold concrete. Her fingers then found the zip-tie at my throat, she snipped it with a small pair of shears, and yanked the heavy cloth bag off of my head in one rough pull. The cool air hit my sweat-dampened face and I blinked against the sudden surge of light, slightly disoriented, and humiliated at being exposed again after hours of perfect faceless storage.
Judy’s eyes were dark, amused, but also predatory. She tilted my chin up with two fingers, forcing me to meet her gaze while still gagged.
“Miss me, meatgirl?” she purred, her voice low and controlling.
I whimpered affirmatively through the thick ball gag, drool already stringing from my stretched lips.
She laughed softly. “Good. Because I’ve been thinking about you all week. How you squirm so prettily, how you pretend to be just another meatgirl but leak like a faucet at the slightest touch.”
Her fingers tangled in the straps of the gag, yanking my head back sharply. “But toys don’t get to hide behind rubber when I want to use their mouths properly. And today, inventory, you’re going to earn your keep, or I’ll package you up for real.”
She worked the buckle loose, pulled the soaked ball free with a wet pop. Drool poured down my chin and onto my chest; I gasped, jaw aching, lips swollen. Before I could speak, or even swallow, she unzipped her work pants, shoved them down just enough, and grabbed my ears, dragging my face forward.
“Open wide, product,” she ordered. “You’re not a wife right now. You’re just scanned, tagged, and graded meat. A warm, wet hole that’s been sitting on the shelf for too long.”
I obeyed instantly, my mouth falling open. She guided herself onto my tongue, slow at first, letting me taste her arousal, musky, sharp, overwhelming. Then she tightened her grip and began to fuck my face with deliberate, controlled thrusts.
“That’s it,” she growled. “Lick it clean, you tagged fuck-meat. Do a good job and maybe I’ll let you stay as my little secret plaything. Do it badly… and I’ll truss you up proper, slap a sold sticker on your tits, wheel you out to the loading dock, and let the next buyer take you home. No more pretending. No more reprieves. Just another piece of meat shipped off to be carved up or cooked. Imagine it, Amy, your barcode scanned at checkout, your body hanging in some stranger’s cold room, waiting to be devoured. That’s what happens to inventory that doesn’t perform.”
The threat landed like a punch to the gut. Terror flooded me, real, cold, heart-hammering fear that this could all end tonight, that the game could stop being a game, that I could vanish into the system like any other meatgirl. She had the power to do that to me. My pulse roared in my ears. I could picture it too clearly: the crate, the car trunk, the stranger’s kitchen, the knife. No more Ollie, no more Judy, no more safe return to my apartment upstairs. Just… gone.
And yet, for whatever reason, the fear twisted into something else. A dark, shameful thrill uncoiled low in my belly. The idea of being sold, of becoming nothing more than anonymous meat, of my barcode being read and my body paid for like groceries… it made my pussy clench around nothing, the wetness even more slick between my thighs.
This was the fantasy at its most dangerous: not play, but possibility. I worked harder, my tongue swirling desperately, lips sealing tight, throat relaxing to take her deeper, terrified of failing, and secretly aching for the moment that she might decide I wasn’t worth keeping.
Every thrust pushed further, her hips grinding against my nose, cutting off air in short, dizzying bursts. Drool and her wetness smeared across my chin and cheeks; I could only make muffled, wet, pleading noises around her.
She came hard, thighs clamping my head, fingers digging into my scalp so tightly I whimpered into her flesh. She held me there, my face smothered, until the last shudder passed through her body, then pulled away with a slick sound.
“Not bad for a broken-in piece of cunt meat,” she panted, wiping herself on my cheek before stepping back. “You just barely earned another night on the hook. But next time… I expect much better service from Ollie's discarded prime cut. Or you’ll be on the next truck out.”
She grabbed the gag again, forcing the soaked ball back between my teeth, buckling it brutally tight. My jaw screamed in protest, fresh drool immediately spilling out. Then she snatched the cloth bag from the floor, yanked it over my head again, and cinched a new zip-tie around my throat, but tighter this time, just enough to remind me that I was sealed shut.
“There,” she murmured, patting the hood like she was checking merchandise. “Back to being anonymous product. No face, no name, no voice. Just a numbered hole on a hook.”
She re-bound my ankles, then hoisted me back up, my wrists looped over the ceiling hook, my abused body stretched taut once more. Then finally, the feeding tube was reconnected with a click. She then slapped my ass once, hard, the sound echoing off the walls.
“Stay put, meatgirl,” she said, voice soft and cruel. “Next time you might not be so lucky.”
The door clicked shut. I swayed in the darkness again, gagged, hooded, used, dripping, reduced once more to being perfect, faceless stock. Exactly where I belonged.
And now terrified that one bad performance could end the game forever. And secretly, shamefully thrilled that it might.
Ollie retrieved me Sunday evening, untied me with mechanical efficiency, and headed back to his mother's without much conversation. "Busy week ahead," he muttered, kissing my forehead absently. I nodded, already again craving the storeroom's embrace.
Monday dawned with a new routine. Judy took charge of “inventory checks,” which meant a mid-morning text that always read the same: Storeroom. Now. Naked.
My heart would slam against my ribs the second the message arrived. I’d strip without hesitation, leave my clothes folded on the bed like a shed skin, and slip down the back stairs barefoot, already wet from anticipation. The moment I pushed the door open, Judy would be waiting, arms crossed, that predatory gleam in her eyes, fresh coils of rope draped over one shoulder like a hunter’s trophy.
She bound me creatively every time, each session more inventive than the last. Hogtied on the prep bench with my knees pulled wide and my wrists lashed to my ankles, or spread-eagled against the wall with chains biting into my wrists and ankles, once I was even crated like a delivery waiting for pickup, folded tight into a wooden box, knees to chest, the lid nailed shut while she tapped on the side and murmured, “Good little product. Let’s see how well you travel.”
Those moments in the crate were the worst and the best. The darkness closed in, the wood pressed against my skin, and my pulse roared in my ears. Terror would spike, sharp, cold, it felt real, what if this time she didn’t come back? What if the crate was wheeled out to the loading dock, loaded onto a truck, and I disappeared into the system like any other premium lot? No more upstairs apartment, no more Ollie, no more games. Just a barcode scanned at the other end, a stranger’s hands unwrapping me, a knife waiting.
I’d lie there in the crate, bound and helpless, torn between wanting to scream for her to let me out and secretly aching for her to leave me crated, I felt that same fear as it twisted into something else, a dark, humiliating thrill that again uncoiled low in my belly, hotter than any touch. The thought of being sold for real, of becoming just another anonymous piece of meat on someone’s table, of my body no longer mine but paid for and portioned… it made me wet, the slick sliding down my thighs, even as my breath came in panicked little gasps.
She always came back, of course. The lid would creak open, her face would appear above me, smirking. “Still breathing, my leaky little inventory slut?” she’d say, running a finger down my sweat-slick cheek. “Good. Premium stock doesn’t spoil that fast.”
Her sessions were intense: spankings that left my ass glowing crimson, fingers and toys probing every inch until I was shaking, whispered commands to beg through the gag. “Tell me you’re just meat, Amy. Say it.”
I’d mumble it over and over, muffled, desperate, until she finally rewarded me with release, fingers, tongue or even a strap-on driving me over the edge while I sobbed into the gag.
Matt joined in sometimes, the two of them tag-teaming me into oblivion, but Judy always led, her experience from years of handling “product” making every touch precise, devastating.
“See, Matt?” she’d say as I shuddered through another climax, my body arched against the ropes. “The clones don’t respond like this. Our little Amy’s premium grade fuck-meat.”
And every time she said it, that secret thrill twisted tighter inside me, the knowledge that I was no longer just playing at being meat.
I was becoming it.
And part of me, terrified, exhilarated, ashamed, couldn’t wait to see how far she’d take it.
Ollie remained oblivious, his visits growing rarer as the new shop demanded more of his time. When he did come, he'd store me away like before, but now Judy or Matt would "borrow" me during his absences, adding delicious layers to my torment. Once, while Ollie fished, Judy displayed me in the front cabinet, naked, bound, a "SOLD" sign dangling from my tagged nipple for a private viewing with a select customer.
"She's not for sale," Judy told the man, "but feel free to inspect the meat." His hands roamed all over my body, while I squirmed, blindfolded and gagged, the humiliation pushing me over the edge. She allowed several other customers to sample the goods on display. I was just product to them.
By month's end, I was addicted to Judy's games. She started leaving me "gifts": a collar engraved with "Premium Meat" hidden in my drawer, vibrating eggs for workday wear with remote apps that she controlled from the shop. "Wear it to your office job," she'd text. "Think of me every buzz." I'd comply, biting my lip through meetings, coming home soaked and ready for more.
One evening, after a particularly brutal session where she edged me for hours before letting Matt finish me, she untied me and held my chin. "You're mine now, Amy. Ollie's just the cover story. Say it."
"I'm yours," I whispered, meaning it.
The hunt had awakened me; and now Judy was shaping me into something unbreakable, insatiable. And as Ollie drifted further away, I dove deeper into the darkness, just another meatgirl in her handler's grasp, waiting for the next twist of the rope.
Judy's Grip Tightens
The days blurred into a delicious cycle of submission after Judy's revelation. My office job became a mere interlude, a facade I maintained while my mind wandered back to the storeroom's chilled embrace. Ollie called sporadically, his voice distant over the phone, complaining about inventory at the new shop, staffing problems or his mother's latest fussing. He had no idea that his weekend "storage" sessions were now just the appetiser for the feasts Judy orchestrated during the week. And Matt? He'd evolved from reluctant enabler to eager participant, his hands no longer hesitating as he claimed what I'd offered for so long.
It started innocently enough, or as innocent as my weird cravings allowed. Tuesday morning, after a restless night dreaming of ropes and hooks, I got Judy's usual text: Downstairs. 10 minutes. Wear nothing.
My pulse quickened as I stripped in the apartment, the cool air raising goosebumps on my skin. I slipped down the back stairs, the shop quiet mid-morning, and found her waiting inside the storeroom, door ajar like an invitation to indulge in my wicked desires.
"Close it behind you, meatgirl," she ordered, her voice low and commanding. She was in her work apron, sleeves rolled up to reveal toned arms from years of hauling "product." In her hands, she held fresh coils of rope and a ball gag, not the standard feeding one, but a thick, glossy red sphere that promised silence.
I complied, the click of the lock sealing my fate. She didn't waste time on pleasantries. "Kneel," she snapped, pointing to the concrete floor. I dropped to my knees, thighs parting instinctively, my body already responding to her presence. She circled me once, her boots echoing, then grabbed my chin and yanked my head back. "You've been a tease, Amy. Parading those marks like badges. But now? You're mine to break."
The gag came first, forced between my lips until my jaw stretched wide, the straps buckling tight behind my head. Drool escaped immediately, glistening on my chin. She bound my wrists next, crossing them high behind my back and cinching them to my elbows in a reverse prayer that thrust my breasts forward, my nipples hardening in the cold air.
"Matt mentioned you like it tight," she murmured, her breath hot against my ear. "Let's see how tight you can take it."
She didn't stop there. Ropes wrapped around my torso, framing my breasts in a harness that squeezed them taut, the fibres biting into my skin. My ankles were lashed to my thighs in a frog-tie, leaving me splayed and helpless on my knees. Finally, she attached a short chain from the harness to a low hook on the wall, forcing me to arch back, every movement a strain.
"Beautiful," she purred, stepping back to admire her work. Her hands then roamed over my naked body, possessive, and also abusive in the way that sent fire through my veins. She pinched my nipples hard, twisting until I whimpered through the gag, tears pricking my eyes. "These are mine now," she said, slapping my breasts lightly at first, then harder, the impacts echoing like applause. Red blooms rose on my pale skin, each strike making me wetter, my arousal dripping onto the floor.
She laughed at that, her fingers dipping between my thighs to confirm. "So eager. But eagerness needs punishment." She fetched a crop from her bag, a thin, wicked thing she'd brought from home, and began a rhythmic assault: sharp snaps across my thighs, my belly, my exposed sex. Each hit stung, building to a burn that had me writhing, the ropes holding me in place as I begged incoherently for mercy, but wanting more.
Judy knew exactly when to stop, leaving me on the edge, panting and desperate. "Not yet," she whispered, her fingers teasing my clit with feather-light circles. "Matt's on lunch soon. He'll finish what I started."
She left me like that, the door unlocking and re-locking, the storeroom's hum the only company. Time stretched, my muscles aching, my body a live wire of need. When the door opened again, it was Matt, his eyes darkening at the sight of me.
"Fuck, Judy did a number on you," he growled, shedding his apron. He didn't untie me—why would he? I was bound for his desires, a perfect vessel. He unzipped his pants, his cock springing free, hard and ready. "Open wide, meatgirl," he said, though the gag made it impossible. Instead, he unbuckled it just enough to pull it free, drool stringing from my lips, then thrust into my mouth without any preamble.
I took him greedily, my throat relaxing from practice, as he fucked my face with rough, claiming strokes. His hands gripped my head, using me like a toy, his grunts filling the air. "Judy warmed you up good," he muttered, pulling out to slap his cock against my cheeks before plunging back in. When he came, it was deep down my throat, forcing me to swallow every last drop.
But he wasn't done. After he re-buckled the gag, he then moved behind me, his hands spreading my bound thighs wider. "Your turn," he said, and entered me in one brutal thrust, filling my aching pussy. The angle from the ropes made every movement intense, his hips slamming against my cropped ass, reigniting the stings. He pounded relentlessly, one hand reaching around to pinch my clit, the other slapping my harnessed breasts in time with his thrusts.
I came hard, muffled screams vibrating around the gag, my body convulsing in the bonds. He followed soon after, flooding me with his release, then pulled out, leaving me leaking and spent. "Good girl," he murmured, patting my head like a pet before reattaching the bag over my eyes and returning me to hang with the other meatgirls, as he hoisted me back to a hook for "storage."
That became our pattern: Judy's abusive setups, crops, clamps, endless edging that left me sobbing for release, and then followed by Matt's raw, animalistic use of my bound form. One evening, after closing, Judy blindfolded me and led me to the prep bench, binding me spread-eagled with rope.
"Tonight's special," she said, and invited Matt to join in. They took turns: Judy with a strap-on, fucking me slow and deep while whispering degradations. "You're just holes for us now, Amy. Ollie's forgotten toy," and Matt flipping me over to claim my ass, his cock stretching me as Judy cropped my back.
I lost count of the orgasms, the abuses blending into ecstasy. Judy would leave marks, bite welts on my thighs, rope burns that lingered for days, while Matt used me like a stress reliever, coming back multiple times a day to bend me over shelves or hang me for quick, brutal sessions. Ollie remained blissfully ignorant, his rare visits now feeling tame compared to the duo's intensity.
But Judy wasn't content with secrecy forever. One Friday, as she hogtied me in the crate, vibrator buzzing inside me on low, she leaned in. "Ollie's coming tomorrow. Think he'll notice how well-trained his meatgirl is now? Or should we show him?"
I moaned in response, fear and thrill mingling. The crate lid closed, locking me in darkness, and I knew my descent was far from over. Judy and Matt had me hooked—bound, abused, and utterly theirs.
Ollie's Awakening
Weeks turned into a feverish routine after Judy's grip solidified. My life upstairs felt like a shadow play—smiling through work calls, cooking solitary dinners—while the storeroom became my true home, a chilled sanctuary of ropes and surrender. Judy escalated her abuses with calculated cruelty: clamping my nipples until they throbbed, dripping hot wax across my belly while I writhed in a stringent spread-eagle, or forcing me to kneel for hours with a plug stretching me, vibrator pulsing just enough to keep me on the razor's edge of insanity.
“Beg for it, meatgirl,” she’d hiss, her fingers digging into the smooth, bare curve of my bald scalp, nails scraping across the hypersensitive skin where no hair had ever grown again, yanking my head back until tears streamed beneath the hood. And I would, my muffled pleas through whatever gag she’d chosen, my body betraying me with floods of arousal.
Matt complemented her perfectly, his uses were raw and primal. He'd barge in during lulls in the shop, unhook me from whatever predicament Judy had left me, and then bend me over the prep bench for quick, pounding sessions that left me bruised, leaking and wanting. "Judy's got you primed," he'd grunt, slamming into me from behind, one hand choking my throat while the other twisted my tagged nipple.
Sometimes they'd synchronise their use of me, with Judy cropping my ass in sharp, stinging rhythms while Matt fucked my mouth, their laughter mingling with my muffled sobs. I came harder each time, my orgasms shattering me, leaving me a hollowed out wreck but still craving more.
Ollie remained a distant shadow, his weekend visits were now just mechanical rituals. He'd tie me loosely—nothing like Judy's expert knots—hang me in the storeroom with a perfunctory slap on my rear, and then vanish for the day to his golf greens or fishing spots.
But Judy had planted the seed: "What if he knew?" she'd whisper during sessions, her strap-on buried deep inside me. "What if we made him watch?" The thought both terrified and thrilled me, a forbidden spark in my submission to her.
It ignited one rainy Saturday. Ollie arrived earlier than usual, his key scraping the lock as thunder rumbled outside. I was already downstairs, summoned by Judy's dawn text: Storeroom. Crated. Now. She'd bound me intricately, hogtied with ropes that dug into my wrists, ankles, and harnessed breasts, a thick vibrator humming inside me on a timer, gag strapped so tight my jaw screamed. The crate was new, wooden slats allowing faint light, it was labelled "Premium Stock - Handle with Care." She'd locked it, patted the top, and left for her "errands," promising Matt would "check on the inventory" later.
I heard Ollie's footsteps first—heavy, familiar—pausing at the storeroom door. Then voices: his confused murmur, followed by Matt's casual tone. "Boss? Didn't expect you this early. Everything alright?"
Ollie’s reply was sharp. "Where's Amy? She's not upstairs. And what's with the extra crate? Stock doesn't arrive in crates—girls come trussed and carried over the shoulder. Crates are only for long-haul deliveries, and we don’t have any scheduled till Monday."
Matt hesitated—I could picture his smirk. "Oh, that… this one’s different, that’s a special order. Want to see?"
The crate lid creaked open, cool air rushing in. Ollie's gasp was audible, then a stunned silence as he took in the sight: me, naked and trussed up like prime meat, ropes biting red welts into my skin, drool pooling from the gag, my body glistening with both sweat and arousal. The vibrator chose that moment to surge, ripping a muffled moan from me.
"What the fuck?" Ollie stammered, his voice cracking. "Amy? Jesus—Matt, what is this?"
Matt's tone shifted to something darker, amused. "This? This is what she's been craving, boss. What you've been too busy or distracted to give her. Judy's been helping me train her properly."
"Judy?" Ollie's confusion turned to anger. "The new hire? You've both been—"
The door opened again—Judy's deliberate steps. “Ah, Ollie. Perfect timing.” Her voice was low and unhurried, the calm certainty of someone who already owned the room. She stepped into view, arms crossed, that predatory smile in place. "Your wife's quite the eager meatgirl. We've been... indulging her while you've been away."
Ollie's confusion turned to raw, boiling rage. He reached into the crate, fingers trembling as they traced the ropes, brushing my bound breasts. I arched instinctively, another moan escaping. "Amy… how long?" His voice cracked, thick with betrayal.
Judy answered for me. "Months. Since the hunt changed her. You store her away like a chore; but we make her feel alive, and give her what she truly desires." She nodded to Matt. "Show him."
Matt hauled me out roughly, positioning me on my knees before Ollie, the ropes forcing my back to arch, presenting me like an offering. "She's still yours, boss, but just watch how she responds now."
Judy then knelt beside me, her hand sliding between my thighs to twist the vibrator, amping it higher. I bucked, my eyes pleading through tears. "See? She begs for abuse." Judy slapped my ass hard—once, twice—the cracks echoing in the room. Then she pinched my clamped nipples, twisting them until I screamed into the gag.
Ollie's breath hitched, though I could see his pants tenting visibly, but the fury didn't fade. His voice came out low and dangerous. "You've been using my wife? Behind my back? Training her like some… sort of sex toy?" He glared at Matt, then at Judy. "You had no right. She's not yours to break."
Judy met his stare evenly. "She asked for it, Ollie. Begged for it. You gave her the fantasy, but you never followed through. We did."
Ollie’s jaw worked, the betrayal raw in his eyes. He remembered every time I’d pleaded with him to treat me just like meat, every hint I’d dropped that he’d dismissed as play. Guilt crashed over him like a wave, he’d enabled this, encouraged it even, let her slide deeper into the fantasy while he stayed distant, safe, pretending it was all just bedroom games.
He’d laughed it off, told himself that it was harmless, never imagining that it would go this far. He’d given her the first taste of bondage, the first taste of being "stored," the first taste of being called meatgirl, and then he’d pulled back, left her wanting, left her vulnerable.
Now she was marked, tagged, conditioned by other people, people he’d trusted with his business, his life. Anger surged, how dare they touch what was his? But beneath it, shame burned hotter. He’d failed her. He’d let her hunger grow until someone else fed it. He’d been too weak, too afraid, too selfish to give her what she needed. And worst of all… part of him knew this was exactly what she’d always wanted. The hunt had unlocked something in her, something he’d never been able to give. If he fought it, he’d lose her to them. If he joined… he’d be part of it, part of giving her the total surrender that she craved. And maybe—god forgive him—part of him wanted to see how far she could go.
His hand hovered over me, trembling, then settled on my bound breast, squeezing hard enough to make me whimper. "Fuck… I didn’t know it had gone this far." His voice cracked, thick with guilt. "I should have stopped it. I should have listened when she begged me to go further. I thought it was enough to play at it… I thought I was protecting her." He laughed once, bitterly. "I was the one who let it all happen. I was the one who left her wanting until someone else gave it to her. I enabled this. I opened the door and then walked away. I failed her. I failed us."
He looked at Judy, then Matt, eyes dark with self-loathing. "You took what was mine and turned her into this. But I’m the one that let the door stay open. I’m just as guilty as you are. Maybe more."
Judy’s smile didn’t waver. "She chose this, Ollie. And now you have to choose too. Join us, or lose her to her desires forever."
Ollie’s gaze dropped back to me, bound, trembling, still moaning around the gag. The guilt twisted deeper, but so did the arousal, dark and conflicted. This was Amy’s desire, and perhaps—deep down—his too. He couldn’t undo what he’d allowed. But he could give her everything now.
"I’m not walking away," he said quietly. "If this is what she needs… then I’m not letting her go. Not again."
That day, Ollie didn’t leave me to play golf. Instead, he learned—under Judy's tutelage—to bind me tighter, abuse me harder, use me alongside Matt until I was left a quivering wreck. His discovery wasn’t betrayal; it was atonement. By dawn, as rain pattered outside, I hung from the hook, spent and marked by three sets of hands, knowing my meatgirl life had just been expanded. Ollie wasn’t distant anymore—he was hooked, and he carried the guilt of it like a chain.
The Volunteer
The balance in the storeroom had shifted into something more dangerously addictive after Ollie’s discovery. What began as a shock had now hardened into a hunger. He no longer treated my weekend storage sessions like an afterthought; now he arrived early, ropes already coiled in his hands, eyes dark with a need that he’d kept buried for years.
Judy taught him the finer points, how to cinch a breast harness so the flesh bulged just right, how to knot a crotch-rope that would continually torment me without mercy, and how to read the tiny tremors in my body that told him exactly when I was about to break. Matt, ever the eager second, would join in whenever the shop was quiet, turning our trio into a merciless tag-team that left me wrecked and glowing for days after.
But even perfection has room for disruption.
Her name was Lara.
She arrived on a Tuesday afternoon in late spring, stepping through the shop door like she already owned the place. Tall, lean, with sun-bleached blonde hair pulled into a high, messy bun and the kind of effortless confidence that made even Judy pause mid-sentence. She wore faded denim cut-offs, a cropped black tank that showed the flat plane of her stomach, and heels that announced every step. A thin silver chain circled her throat—not a collar, not yet, but close enough to make my pulse jump.
Judy handled the introduction with cool professionalism. “Lara’s an old friend. She’s been hearing stories about our… special stock and wanted to see it for herself.”
Matt raised an eyebrow. Ollie, who happened to be in that week to finalise some paperwork, looked Lara over with the same slow appraisal he used on premium stock. Lara met every gaze without flinching, her pale blue eyes sharp and amused.
I watched the whole exchange from over by the stairs, still wearing the faint rope marks from the night before, my pulse already quickening. Something about her set off every alarm and every craving at once.
Later, after closing, Judy called me down.
The storeroom lights were dimmed. I was bound in the centre of the room: my wrists crossed high behind my back in a reverse-prayer tie, shoulders pulled tight, a rope harness framing and swelling my breasts. They then forced me onto tiptoe, my ankles were spread wide and chained to floor bolts, then they attached the harness with some rope to a ceiling hook above, so my body arched forward, and my breasts thrust out. Judy added a thick leather bit gag that went between my teeth, lines of my drool were already starting.
Lara stood there watching, her arms crossed, studying me like I was just merchandise on display, which I guess that I was at that moment.
“She’s prettier than the clones,” she said finally, voice low and smoky. “And she actually reacts. That’s rare.”
Judy stepped back, wiping her hands on her apron. “That’s because she’s not officially product, though you can see that she’s been marked as one.” Pointing out my barcodes and grading permanent tattoos. “She’s actually Ollie’s wife, but more recently she’s become our personal submissive entertainment.”
Lara’s lips curved. “I know. That’s why I’m here.” She paused, then looked straight at Judy—her girlfriend—before continuing. “I’ve spent the past few weeks listening to you talk about Amy. How she begs, how she breaks, how she loves being reduced to just another meatgirl. And… I want that. I want to feel it.”
The room went still.
Judy tilted her head, a slow, dangerous smile spreading. “You really want to volunteer?”
Lara nodded once. “Yes, I want the full experience. Storage. Display. Use. Everything that she gets to undergo. With no special treatment.”
Matt let out a low whistle. Ollie’s breathing grew heavier, his eyes flicking between the two women.
Judy didn’t hesitate. “Okay then, strip.”
Lara quickly shed her clothes without a second thought—boots, cut-offs, tank, underwear—until she stood there naked, tall and lean, her small high breasts already tipped with hard pink nipples, the silver chain at her throat glinting under the lights. She stepped forward, offering her wrists.
They started on her, Judy and Matt began working in tandem, mirroring the same reverse-prayer suspension they’d used on me: wrists crossed high behind her back, shoulders pulled tight, a matching rope harness framing and swelling her breasts. They forced her onto tiptoe directly in front of me, her ankles were then spread and chained to the same floor bolts as mine, her rope harness attached to the ceiling hook above so our bodies were aligned face-to-face. Our breasts were already brushing, nipples grazing with every slight shift. A second bit gag then went between her teeth—identical to mine, red leather, her drool already forming.
Judy stepped back, admiring the bound matched pair.
“There,” Judy murmured. “Now they can really feel each other. Two premium pieces, Ollie’s wife and my girlfriend. Both hanging pretty for the boys.”
Matt moved first, taking Lara hard and fast from behind while she balanced on straining toes. Every thrust rocked her body forward into mine; our breasts mashed together, nipples dragging and catching against each other with every punishing movement. I could feel her trembling, and hear the wet, desperate sounds she made around the gag.
Ollie watched for a long moment, then stepped behind me, and then stood, taking me in the rear, and began matching Matt’s brutal rhythm. Face to face, we were fucked like matched trophies—our bodies pressing together, every thrust from behind driving us harder into each other, our muffled cries blending into one long, desperate symphony.
When they had finished, they re-bound our ankles together, and then mine to Lara’s, so that we were forced to stand pressed hip-to-hip, our breasts mashed together, faces inches apart. Drool ran down both our chins, mixing on our chests. They added matching “SOLD” stickers over our left breasts, right above the rope-framed swell.
Judy stroked Lara’s cheek possessively. “My girl’s a natural. But let’s see how she likes sharing the space overnight.”
They manoeuvred us both onto the low overflow shelf, laying us on our sides, facing each other. Wrists still bound behind our backs in matching reverse-prayer ties, ankles now bound together, thighs pressed tight. A short piece of rope was added around our necks bringing our faces closer together —every breath, every twitch tugged at the other. Thick, padded leather blindfolds plunged us into darkness. Last came the feeding tubes, pushed past the gags and secured, the slow drip of nutrient slurry then beginning.
The storeroom door clicked shut behind Judy, Matt, and Ollie, sealing us in the cool, humming dark.
Lara’s body pressed against mine. I could feel her heartbeat through our skin, fast and unsteady. I could hear her breathing, shallow, excited, and a little afraid.
I shifted my hips just enough to rub against her thigh. She answered immediately, rocking back, seeking friction.
Bound together, gagged, blind, stored like identical product, we began the slow, helpless dance that all meatgirls eventually learn.
It was the meatgirl’s dance, the sensual, desperate rubbing I’d experienced so many times before, the one I’d described to Judy in breathless detail after long nights among the clones. Now I was sharing it with someone new, someone who had only ever heard the stories, and the knowledge that Lara was discovering it for the first time sent a fresh wave of heat through me.
Our movements built gradually, a rhythm born of need. Lara’s breath came faster, hot against my cheek through the gag; I could feel her nipples harden further, dragging across mine. I rocked my hips, sliding my slick folds along her thigh, while she mirrored the motion, her body trembling as she sought release. The ropes bit deeper with every twist, the blindfolds amplifying every sensation, the chill air on our exposed skin, the drip of the feeding tubes, the faint moans of the other meatgirls joining our muffled symphony.
We ground together harder, faster, until ecstasy crashed over us in waves. I came first, my body convulsing against hers, pulling her over the edge with me. We shuddered in unison, spent and sated, only to start again hours later when we’d recovered and the cravings returned.
Overnight, we danced like that, rivals in submission, equals in desire, lost in the anonymous bliss of being just product.
And somewhere above us, three handlers watched the security feed, already planning how they would take us down in the morning, one to be trussed and displayed, the other crated and stored.
The storeroom had never felt more crowded.
Or more perfect.
Shared Storage
Dawn came with the storeroom lights flickering on, the hum of the feeding system kicking into a morning cycle. The door opened, and Judy's boots echoed across the concrete. "Rise and shine, meatgirls," she purred, her voice laced with amusement.
Hands—Judy's, then Matt's—unbound us from the shelf, separating our bound bodies. The blindfolds came off last, and I blinked against the harsh light, meeting Lara's eyes for the first time since our shared night. Her gaze was wild, pupils blown, cheeks flushed—a mirror of my own arousal, but with the added glow of someone who had just tasted the reality she'd only ever heard about.
Ollie was there too, watching from the doorway, his expression a mix of possession and intrigue. "How'd they hold up?" he asked Judy.
"Perfectly," she replied, stroking Lara's cheek possessively. "My girl's a natural. But we can't risk inspectors seeing our new 'volunteer' unmarked. Not after the close call you told me that you had previously with Amy. Let's make her official. Lara needs to look like proper stock—same as the rest."
They started with Lara. Matt hauled her to the preparation bench, her limbs still trembling from the night. She didn't resist as they unbound her wrists and ankles, only to retie them in a classic delivery truss: knees drawn up to her chest, ankles roped to thighs, wrists bound behind her back and connected to the ankle ties in a tight frog-tie that left her utterly compacted, her sex and ass exposed for "inspection."
Judy added the finishing touches—a fresh ball gag with a feeding hole, using the machine, they added a barcode tag that pierced through her left nipple, she gasped but didn't flinch, and a proper grading stamp inked onto her right buttock in indelible red ink: "Premium Grade A - Prime Meat."
Then came the final, essential step to make her indistinguishable from the clones. Judy produced the clippers, the familiar low buzz filling the room. Lara's eyes widened slightly, but she didn't pull away as Judy shaved her head smooth, blonde strands falling in soft piles around the bench until her scalp was as bare and vulnerable as mine had become after so many trips through the processing line at Marjorie's facility.
Lara shivered as the cool air kissed her newly naked scalp, the last physical trace of her former self erased.
"Almost done," Judy murmured. She drew a heavy cloth bag over Lara's head, pulling it down until the bottom settled around her throat, then cinched it tight with a zip-tie, not so snug as to restrict breathing, but tight enough that it could never be removed without tools. The bag settled, muffling sound, blocking light, reducing Lara to just another anonymous, hairless meatgirl.
"Look at you," Judy said softly, running her fingers down Lara's bound form, dipping briefly into her wetness. "Just like Amy. You’re proper stock now. Ready for display."
They carried her to the front display cabinet—the glass-fronted cooler where high-end meatgirls were showcased to entice customers. Matt positioned her on the rotating platform, her trussed body curled up like a delectable package, the lights highlighting every curve, every rope mark, every inch of smooth, shaved skin. With the hood in place, her head was completely covered, features hidden, making her identical to any other premium clone on the market. A professional sign was hung in bold lettering: "Premium Meat - Inquire Within."
The cabinet hummed to life, the platform spinning slowly, putting Lara on full display for any passersby or shoppers. Beneath the bag, she could only feel the faint vibrations, the subtle shift of air as people paused to look, the muffled sound of Judy's calm sales pitch describing the "excellent texture and responsiveness" of this latest arrival. To the customer she looked identical to any high-end meatgirl on the market waiting to be sold; there was only the anonymous, faceless perfection of another premium meatgirl on show.
As for me, they weren't done yet. Ollie stepped forward, his hands rougher than before, influenced by Judy's lessons. "Your turn to wait," he said, a new edge in his voice. They rebound me similarly—hogtied tight, gagged and tagged—then lifted me into a waiting delivery crate. The wooden slats allowed small slivers of light, but once inside, I was folded compact, knees to chest, the lid nailed shut with a label slapped on: "Reserved Stock - Do Not Open Until Delivery."
They wheeled the crate to a corner of the store, stacking it among similar ones filled with other meatgirls, the vibrations from the shop's activity humming through the wood.
Left there, crated and stored, I could hear the muffled sounds of the day: customers pausing at the window, murmuring appreciatively about the premium meat on display, Judy's calm, professional sales pitch describing the "excellent texture and responsiveness" of the latest arrival, Matt's occasional low chuckle as he fielded inquiries.
Hours ticked by, my body aching deliciously in the confines, my arousal building from the isolation and the knowledge that Lara was out there—shaved, hooded, displayed as legitimate, indistinguishable stock—while I waited, stored away in obscurity. The rivalry burned hotter—two meatgirls, one on show, one hidden, both perfectly reduced to being just product.
As closing time approached, the shop noises gradually faded. The hum of the front lights dimmed, the last footsteps retreated, and the familiar click of the main door lock echoed through the building. The day was finally over.
Hands—Judy's, then Ollie's—lifted me from the delivery crate, my limbs stiff and protesting after many hours of being folded tightly. Matt carried Lara down from the display cabinet at the same time. They brought us together near the row of ceiling hooks; only then, as our bodies were manoeuvred closer for re-suspension, could I sense her disorientation—the faint, uneven tremors running through her frame as the handlers gripped her, the small hitches in her breathing audible even through the hood and gag, the subtle resistance in her muscles as though she were still recoiling from the silent, unseen scrutiny of strangers who had no idea she was anything other than another premium meatgirl.
Neither of us was released.
They left the heavy cloth bags sealed over both our heads, zip-ties snug around our throats. Our gags stayed in place, feeding tubes already connected and dripping their slow, sweet nutrient slurry. They retied us both ready for storage, then hoisted us up to join the other meatgirls on the row of ceiling hooks. My arms stretched painfully upward as the rope was looped over the metal; Lara’s followed a moment later, hung directly beside me—close enough that our bare, shaved scalps would have brushed if either of us could turn our hooded heads.
We hung there, among the other meatgirls, identical in every outward way: hairless, hooded, gagged, bound, swaying gently in the chill air. The only difference was the heat still radiating from our skin, the faint tremor of anticipation that the clones—blank and conditioned—never showed.
The lights went out when the storeroom door was closed and locked for the night. The feeding system cycled once more, a soft mechanical sigh. Then silence, except for the quiet breathing of two dozen suspended bodies.
Then slowly it began.
One of the clones shifted, a subtle roll of her hips. Another answered. Then another. The familiar, wordless rhythm spread through the row like a slow wave: the meatgirl dance. Each hooded figure began to rub herself gently, sensually, against the warm flesh of the meatgirl pressed in front of her, seeking that small, helpless comfort, that fleeting pleasure in the long night of storage.
Lara moved first. I felt her body sway toward mine as she arched her body, pressing her mound against the curve of my rear. Even hooded, even exhausted from the day, she remembered the night before. She remembered what it felt like to discover the dance for the first time.
I answered immediately, rolling my hips to meet her, sliding my slick folds along the smooth skin of the meatgirl in front of me. The ropes held us both stretched and helpless, but our lower bodies were free enough—barely—to grind against the next body in the line-up, together in slow, desperate circles.
The clones around us joined in earnest now, their soft, muffled sounds blending with ours. The entire row swayed in a gentle, erotic chain reaction: hip to hip, thigh to thigh, breast to breast, every movement tugging the next. Lara and I were no longer outsiders in this ritual; we were part of it, two volunteer meatgirls fully immersed, our bodies speaking the same language as the clones.
We danced for hours.
Slow at first, then building, then slowing again when exhaustion threatened to overtake us. Each time one of us neared the edge, the other would ease off, prolonging the torment, drawing it out until we were both trembling, whimpering into our gags. Eventually, we came together—quietly, intensely—bodies shuddering in unison, the chain between our collars clinking softly like a shared heartbeat.
Afterward, we simply hung there, spent, swaying gently with the others, the feeding tubes dripping, the night stretching on.
Two meatgirls among many.
Hooded. Bound. Stored.
Perfectly anonymous.
Perfectly content.
Until morning, when the handlers would return and decide what to do with their favourite pair of premium stock.
The Inspector's Visit
The overnight storage had left both Lara and me in a strange, floating state of exhaustion and lingering arousal. We hung side by side among the clones, hooded and anonymous, wrists roped high to the ceiling hooks, feeding tubes dripping their steady rhythm. The meatgirl dance had eventually faded into stillness sometime before dawn—bodies pressed close, thighs slick, soft muffled whimpers dying away until only the hum of the refrigeration units remained.
Morning arrived with the metallic click of the main door, followed by Judy's sharp footsteps and Matt's heavier tread. They moved quickly, unhooking us one at a time, lowering our aching bodies to the concrete floor. The bags stayed on; our gags stayed in. Only the wrist ropes were loosened enough to let circulation return, though we remained bound.
Then, as we lay there recovering, came the words that turned the air cold.
"The Meatgirl Inspector's here," Judy said. Returning to the storeroom, her voice low and urgent. "It's Carver, the worst one to get. She's already outside the door. She said that she wants a full compliance check—stock count, tagging verification, processing logs, and a random deep audit on five pieces. She wants to see the line in real time. Ollie’s out there talking to her."
Matt swore under his breath. "What? They never come this early."
Judy then said, "I heard that two years ago, while I was a delivery driver, that Carver raided a mid-sized processing plant after noticing a single tag discrepancy in the monthly logs. The owner claimed it was a clerical error and offered immediate correction. Carver seized 14 meatgirls on the spot—despite the owner’s pleas that three were “long-term personal reserves” and two were in mid-conditioning for private buyers. She had the entire line crated and transported to an Authority holding facility within hours. The plant’s license was suspended for six months; the owner never recovered financially. Word spread that Carver doesn’t negotiate. She erases."
Matt swore under his breath. "What? They never come this early."
Ollie then appeared in the doorway, his shirt sleeves rolled, face pale. "She didn't call ahead. There was no warning. She just showed up. She told me that she had a tip about some unregistered meatgirls at multiple locations and wanted both of my shops swept today—unannounced."
Judy's eyes flicked to us—two hooded, bound figures kneeling on the cold floor—and the decision was instant, brutal. "There’s no time to hide them. They'll have to stay in the lineup. Exactly like the clones. One wrong twitch and we're done."
The tension in the room spiked. No one had expected this. Carver’s visits were usually scheduled—advance notice in the logs, time to double-check tags, condition, paperwork. This was different. A tip. An unannounced raid. And the two most vulnerable pieces of "stock" were right there, hooded and bound, with no chance to remove them without leaving an obvious gap in the inventory line.
Judy’s voice dropped lower. "If we pull them now, the hooks are empty. She’ll notice. Two missing barcodes in a full line? That’s not a discrepancy—that’s evidence. She’ll demand logs, manifests, explanations. And if she starts digging…"
Matt finished the thought. "…she’ll find the tag history. Amy’s been static for months. Lara’s new but already logged. We can’t erase that without tripping every red flag in the system."
Ollie’s face was ashen. "We have no choice. Leave them up. Make them indistinguishable from the clones. If she questions anything, we play it straight—premium stock, properly conditioned, no irregularities."
Judy nodded once, sharp. "Then we move fast. Get them back on the hooks. Same tension, same spacing. No slip-ups."
They worked in frantic silence—re-tightening wrist ropes, checking zip-ties on the hoods, reconnecting feeding tubes with practised efficiency. Every second counted. Carver was already outside, clipboard in hand, waiting to be let in.
Lara was lifted first. Her bound wrists were looped over the waiting ceiling hook and secured. Her ankles were still bound from the previous night's storage, forcing her to keep her balanced on straining toes, body stretched taut, breasts thrust forward by the cruel angle of the suspension. The barcode tag through her nipple glinted under the lights; the "Premium Grade A - Prime Meat" ink stamp on her buttock was still crisp. Judy checked the zip-tie around the neck of her cloth bag—still secure—then reattached the feeding tube to her gag.
I received the same treatment. Same stretched suspension, same hooded anonymity, but I was already tagged, stamped and graded. My scalp had long since been bald and smooth from the countless processing runs at the meatgirl facility, and matched Lara's freshly bare one perfectly.
We hung there—arms stretched high, toes barely brushing the floor, bodies swaying gently in the chill—identical to the other meatgirls in every outward way: hairless, hooded, gagged, bound. We became part of the inventory: two more premium pieces waiting for judgement.
No one spoke the obvious: if either of us flinched, breathed wrong, or showed even a hint of non-clone responsiveness, the game was over. Not just for us—for the shop, the business, all of them. The risk was now absolute. No warning. No rehearsal. Just two volunteers-turned-stock, hanging among the clones, praying their conditioning held.
The front bell chimed.
Ms. Carver stepped inside—short-cropped steel-grey hair, clipboard already in hand, eyes sharp behind wire-rimmed glasses. The Meatgirl Regulatory Authority badge on her chest caught the overhead lights like a warning.
“Morning,” she said, voice clipped. “I won’t waste time. Full audit. Stock count, tagging verification, condition assessment, and a random deep inspection on the first five in line. Let’s begin.”
She walked the row slowly, methodically. Gloved hands reached out, checking tags, reading barcodes with a handheld scanner that beeped softly, pressing fingers against thighs and breasts to assess firmness, temperature, and muscle tone. She murmured numbers and grades to herself, jotting notes, her expression unreadable.
The first three clones passed quickly—efficient, clinical.
Then she reached Lara.
Carver paused. Longer than with the others.
She scanned the barcode tag through Lara’s nipple. Green. She ran a gloved finger along the grading stamp on Lara’s buttock, then squeezed the flesh—firm, deliberate. Lara’s body gave the tiniest, almost imperceptible flinch—nothing more than a flutter of muscle under skin.
Carver froze.
She stepped closer. Leaned in. Pressed her palm flat against Lara’s abdomen, feeling for any irregularity in breathing, any sign of tension that shouldn’t be there in a properly conditioned clone.
“New arrival?” she asked Judy, voice neutral but edged.
“Premium Grade A,” Judy answered smoothly. “Delivered yesterday from the northern facility. Top-tier stock.”
Carver circled Lara once, slowly. She tugged lightly on the zip-tie securing the hood—checking integrity. She lifted Lara’s bound foot slightly, inspecting the sole for any tell-tale calluses or scars that might indicate prior non-clone life.
Then she pressed two gloved fingers against the inside of Lara’s thigh, right where the rope had left faint red marks. She held them there, counting seconds.
Lara held perfectly still. But the effort was visible in the way her bound shoulders tensed ever so slightly, the way her breathing—through the feeding tube—hitched for a fraction of a second.
Carver’s eyes narrowed.
She stepped back, then forward again, repeating the abdominal press. This time she lingered, palm flat, waiting.
The silence stretched. Ten seconds. Fifteen.
Finally, Carver exhaled.
“Good definition. Clean skin. Meat integrity perfect.” She gave Lara’s bound thigh one last firm squeeze. “Nice marbling potential.”
She moved on.
To me.
The scanner beeped over my tag. Green again. She traced the rope marks on my arms—marks she would expect on any meatgirl after a night on the hook. Her gloved hand pressed against my abdomen, lingering longer than it had with Lara.
“This one’s been here longer,” she observed, voice flat but with a faint undercurrent of curiosity. “I remember this tag number from the last sweep. Six months? Eight? She’s practically permanent stock.”
“Reserved,” Ollie interjected, voice steady despite the sweat at his temples. “Special order, client is due to pick up next week.”
Carver’s gaze sharpened. She studied me longer than she had Lara. Her hand moved to my breast, squeezing once—clinical—then to my hip, checking for any sign of atrophy or improper handling. She lifted my foot, inspected the sole, then set it down.
Another long silence.
She stepped back, but her eyes remained on me.
“Still in excellent condition,” she said slowly. “No degradation. No signs of distress or improper conditioning.” She paused, then added, almost casually, “Almost too perfect for something that’s supposedly been hanging here this long. Interesting.”
She tapped her clipboard once, then continued in the same measured tone.
“Under Regulation 17.4, any meatgirl held in continuous inventory for more than 180 days without documented turnover or processing requires a certified sale registration with the Authority. Public record, full traceability, buyer identity logged. No private release or informal disposal allowed.” She looked directly at Ollie. “This one’s tag has been static far longer than that. If there’s no certified sale within the next cycle, I’ll have to flag it for mandatory auction or processing oversight. We don’t allow indefinite storage of premium stock without proper documentation.”
Ollie’s jaw tightened, but he kept his voice even. “Understood. We’ll handle the paperwork.”
Carver gave a curt nod. “See that you do. I’ll be checking the logs next visit.” She signed off on the clipboard with a sharp scratch of her pen.
“I’ll file the report. Expect a follow-up.” She let the words hang for a beat before adding, “Sooner than three months, most likely. I don’t like loose ends.”
The bell chimed again as she left.
The storeroom felt heavier after Carver left, as if the air itself had thickened with the weight of her parting words and the invisible chains of Regulation 17.4.
Ten full seconds of frozen silence.
Then Judy exhaled—a shaky sound that was almost a sob. “She knows something’s off,” she whispered. “She felt Lara flinch. And she noticed Amy’s been here too long. That last comment wasn’t casual.”
Matt rubbed his face with both hands. “She’s locked her in. Certified sale or nothing. If we try to pull Amy’s tag now, the system logs it. Discrepancy alert goes straight to the Authority. They’ll come back with warrants, not just a clipboard. She’s officially inventory until someone buys her, or they come and take her for processing.”
Ollie stared at my hanging form—hooded, helpless, heart still hammering beneath the calm surface. His hands clenched at his sides, knuckles white.
“We can’t take her down,” he said, voice rough, almost breaking. “Not without filing a sale. And we can’t fake a certified buyer without the Authority cross-checking. She’s trapped in the system now. Registered. Permanent stock.”
The realisation settled over the room like a weight.
I—his wife—was no longer just playing meatgirl.
I was now legally, bureaucratically meat.
And the only way out was through a sale that they couldn’t safely arrange.
"So for now they're staying processed," he said, voice rough. "No more half-measures. If she comes back, she sees exactly what she expects: two premium meatgirls, perfectly conditioned, no questions."
Judy nodded once. "Agreed. And we can't take them down. Not now. They've been scanned into inventory. Their tags are logged in the system. If we remove them and she makes a surprise return visit—even tomorrow—she'll see two missing barcodes. That discrepancy alone would trigger a full investigation. We can't risk it."
Matt rubbed the back of his neck. “So… what? We just keep them up there? Permanently?”
“For now,” Ollie said grimly. “Until we can figure out a safe way to cycle them out without raising flags. There is no alternative. They have to remain as meatgirls. Registered stock. For as long as it takes.”
The decision hung in the air, heavy and final.
They then began what they called “post-inspection conditioning”—a deliberate, methodical reinforcement designed to erase any lingering trace of individuality that might have betrayed us during Carver’s touch.
First came the sensory deprivation upgrade.
Judy produced two small, padded earplugs—industrial-grade—and worked them gently but firmly into our ears, sealing out sound until the world narrowed to nothing but our own breathing, the faint drip of the feeding tubes, and the occasional creak of the hooks above. The hoods already blocked sight; now deafness completed the cocoon.
Next, the posture correction.
Matt adjusted the tension on our wrist ropes, pulling them higher until our shoulders screamed and our chests thrust forward even more aggressively. He added thin leather straps around our upper arms, cinching them together until our elbows nearly touched, forcing our backs into a permanent, painful arch.
While Judy handled the lower body.
She threaded fresh rope between our thighs, creating tight crotch-ropes that split our delicate folds and pressed firmly against our clits. Each knot was cinched with deliberate cruelty—tight enough to torment, but not tight enough to cause permanent damage. The ropes ran up to connect with the wrist bindings above, so every tiny shift of our hips tugged the cord deeper.
Then came the clamps.
Small, spring-loaded metal ones with rubber tips that bit down on our already sensitive nipples. Judy twisted them once each, drawing sharp, muffled gasps from behind our gags. The pain was bright, immediate, and perfect: a punishment for the flinch, for the suspicion, for existing too long in the same place.
Finally, the labels.
Ollie personally added secondary tags—small plastic ones clipped to the crotch-ropes, reading “Conditioning In Progress - Do Not Disturb.”
They left us like that for the rest of the day.
Hanging, stretched, clamped, plugged, deafened, hooded—reduced to nothing but sensation and submission.
Time dissolved.
I hung there in the suffocating dark, my world reduced to the bite of ropes, the relentless drip of the feeding tube down my throat, and the faint, rhythmic sway of my body against Lara’s. The earplugs sealed out everything but the muffled thunder of my own pulse, the hood trapping my breath hot against my face. No sight, no sound, no escape—just endless, aching suspension.
This is it, I thought, the words looping in my mind like a mantra, both prayer and curse. No more games. No more sneaking upstairs after a session, slipping into clean sheets like none of it happened. Carver saw me. Scanned me. Logged me. I'm not Amy anymore—not to the system. I'm stock. Premium Grade A. Hanging here until someone buys me... or roasts and carves me up.
The fear hit first, sharp and cold as a blade against my skin. What if Ollie couldn't fix this?
What if the next "surprise visit" came tomorrow, and Judy decided it was easier to just... sell me? Packaged up like one of the clones, barcode gleaming, hood sealed forever, loaded onto a truck bound for some stranger's kitchen. No goodbyes. No last words. Just gone—reduced to portions on a plate, my fantasies turned fatally real. My heart hammered, panic rising in waves that made me twitch against the crotch-rope, tugging it deeper, sparking unwanted sparks of pleasure that only deepened the shame.
Oh god, what have I done? The thought twisted like a knife. Ollie—my husband, the man who'd once cherished me—had watched it all unfold. He'd seen the marks, the tags, the way I'd arched into Judy's punishments. Did he hate me now? Or worse, pity me? I imagined his face from earlier, the storm of betrayal and arousal. He'd joined in, but what if this broke him? What if he walked away, and left me here as punishment for my cravings?
But beneath the terror, like a dark current under ice, the thrill uncoiled—hot, shameful, undeniable. This is what you always wanted, a voice whispered in my head, the same one that had fuelled my childhood fantasies, my teenage touches under the covers. To be nothing. Faceless. Owned. Sold like meat.
The idea of it—of my barcode being scanned at auction, a buyer's hands claiming me without knowing my name, my body prepped and portioned without mercy—sent a forbidden rush through my core. I clenched around the crotch-rope, hating how wet it made me, how my hips shifted instinctively toward Lara's warmth, seeking that helpless friction even now.
Lara—my rival, my mirror. I could feel her pressing close, the chain between our gags clinking with every shared breath. She's new to this, I thought, a spark of jealousy mixing with the thrill. She volunteered, but she doesn't know yet how deep it goes. How it consumes you.
The dance pulled us together again, bodies grinding in tiny, desperate circles. I came silently, tears soaking into the hood, my muffled sob lost in the dark.
How long until they sell me? The question echoed, fear and desire blurring until I couldn't tell them apart. How long until I break... or beg for it?
Hanging there, chained to Lara, to the hook, to the system itself, I surrendered to the void. For now, I was meat. And part of me—god forgive me—never wanted to be anything else.
At closing, they returned.
The earplugs were removed first. Sound rushed back in a dizzying wave: Judy’s low laugh, Matt’s appreciative grunt, Ollie’s rough breathing.
“Look at them,” Judy murmured. “Still perfect. Not a single flinch since we left.”
Matt loosened the wrist ropes just enough to lower us to the floor. Our legs buckled; they caught us, laying us gently on the cold concrete.
The hoods stayed on. The clamps stayed on. The crotch-ropes stayed on.
Only the wrist bindings were adjusted—pulled tighter, crossed, and retied, so we could be carried.
“Time for overnight storage,” Ollie said, voice thick. “But deeper this time.”
They lifted us together, side by side, and hung us once more—but higher this time, so our toes couldn’t touch the floor at all. They added a short chain between our crotch-ropes, linking us hip-to-hip. Every sway would tug the other.
Then the final touch: a thin leather strap passed between our gags, forcing our hooded heads close together until our cloth-covered foreheads nearly touched. Drool and breaths would mingle.
Judy stepped back, surveying her work. “Two premium meatgirls,” she said softly. “Fully conditioned. Fully owned. And fully approved—by the thinnest margin.”
The lights dimmed. The door closed.
In the darkness, we hung together—chained, clamped, stretched, linked—and the meatgirl dance began again, slower this time, deeper, born not of curiosity but of survival.
We rubbed against each other in tiny, helpless circles, the crotch-ropes pulling tighter, the nipple clamps biting harder, the chain between our gags clinking softly like a shared secret.
We danced for hours. We came in silence.
And when the night finally ended, we were still there—perfect, anonymous, unbreakable stock.
Registered. Scanned. Inspected.
And—for the foreseeable future—impossible to remove.
Waiting for the next surprise visit.
Waiting to prove we were nothing more than meat.
Ms. Carver has built a formidable reputation within the Meatgirl Regulatory Authority as one of its most ruthless and unforgiving inspectors.
She is widely known for her zero-tolerance approach to any deviation from the regulations—no matter how minor or technical. Inspectors and facility owners alike speak of her in hushed tones: she never accepts excuses, never grants extensions, and never overlooks even the smallest paperwork discrepancy or inventory irregularity. When she flags a violation, she pursues it relentlessly—issuing immediate seizures, mandatory audits, fines that can cripple a business, and in extreme cases, recommendations for license revocation or criminal referral.
Carver is particularly feared for her habit of conducting unannounced follow-up visits after an initial red flag, often returning within days or even hours if she suspects deliberate evasion. Stories circulate of owners who tried to quietly correct issues only to find her waiting the next morning, clipboard in hand, ready to escalate. She is said to view every meatgirl as "stock first, story never," showing no sympathy for owners who claim emotional attachment, financial hardship, or "special circumstances." To Carver, the law is absolute, and mercy is a liability.
In short, her name alone is enough to make even the most compliant facilities double-check every tag, log, and hook. When Carver is on the case, there are no second chances—only consequences.
The Inspector's Return
The days after Carver’s visit blurred into a tense, watchful routine. Judy ran the old shop alone most of the time—while Matt was busy out on deliveries, Ollie had returned to the new branch to keep it afloat. I remained hanging in the storeroom, hooded, clamped, crotch-roped, and tagged, exactly as the inspector had last seen me. Every creak of the building made my pulse jump; every customer who lingered too long near the back door felt like a threat.
They’re waiting for her to come back, I thought, the realisation settling like ice in my stomach. They’re waiting for me to be taken away.
The hood trapped my breath, hot and shallow; the clamps on my nipples throbbed in time with my heartbeat. I couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, couldn’t even cry out. I could only hang, swaying gently, feeling the slow drip of nutrient slurry down my throat and the cruel tug of the crotch-rope every time I breathed too deeply.
Lara, at least, was safe. A friend of Judy’s—a discreet collector with deep pockets and zero interest in questions—had “purchased” her on paper days after the inspection. The sale was registered, logged, and closed. Lara was gone from the inventory, crated and carried out over the shoulder like any other premium lot. Judy had watched the truck disappear down the alley with a tightness in her chest she refused to name.
I stayed. The Regulation 17.4 flag on my tag made removal impossible without another audit. So I hung. Silent. Perfect. Waiting.
How long can they keep this up? The question looped in my head, over and over. How long before someone decides I’m not worth the risk?
The fear was constant now—a low, gnawing ache beneath my ribs. Every time the shop bell chimed, my body tensed, waiting for the sound of Carver’s clipped footsteps, her pen tapping against her clipboard, her voice saying the words I dreaded: Seizure authorised.
Then, four days later, while Judy was busy in the storeroom, the bell chimed in the middle of a quiet afternoon. Then I heard her footsteps pause, then quicken toward the front of the shop, leaving the storeroom door open. Voices—low, clipped, familiar in the worst way. Carver. No warning. No call ahead. Just the inspector, alone, eyes sharp as ever.
She’s back. The thought hit me like a slap. She’s back and this time she’s not leaving without me. I’ve heard the stories—Carver doesn’t leave without taking something.
“Afternoon,” Carver said, voice cutting through the quiet. “Follow-up visit. The regulations allow it when I have a reasonable suspicion of non-compliance, in this case very reasonable.”
Judy’s reply was calm, but I could hear the strain beneath it. “Of course. How can I help?”
Carver didn’t answer. She walked straight past the display cabinet, past the counter, and walked in the open door of the storeroom without asking permission.
I was still there—exactly where she had left me. Hood sealed, wrists roped high to the ceiling hook, ankles spread and chained to floor bolts, crotch-rope taut, secondary tag dangling from the rope between my thighs: “Conditioning In Progress - Do Not Disturb.” The feeding tube dripped steadily. I hadn’t moved in days except for the slow, helpless sway of the meatgirl dance at night.
She’s looking at me. The thought was paralysing. She’s looking right at me and she knows I’m not a clone. She knows I’m real. She knows I’m still here.
Carver stopped. I could feel her studying me, the weight of her gaze like pressure against the hood. Then she turned to Judy.
“This one,” she said, pointing at me with the end of her pen, “is still here. No movement on the certified sale I flagged. No buyer logged. No processing record. Under section 20 of the Meatgirl Act, I am authorised to seize any unregistered or non-compliant stock held beyond the 180-day threshold without proper documentation.”
Judy’s voice cracked just a fraction. “She’s reserved. Paperwork is being prepared—”
“Paperwork that should have been filed already,” Carver cut in, sharper now. “You’ve had enough time to comply. And you didn’t.” She tapped her clipboard once, hard. “I’m seizing her. Now. You will process her for immediate delivery—trussed, tagged, ready for transport. I’ll take her myself. The Authority has a holding facility for non-compliant stock pending review.”
The words landed like a physical blow. Seizing me. My mind blanked for a second, then flooded with panic—cold, suffocating, absolute. This was it. No more pretending. No more reprieves. Carver was going to take me. Process me. Load me into her car like any other lot. And then… gone. Truly gone. No Ollie. No Judy. No storeroom. Just a holding cell, then processing, then whatever came after.
No. No no no no no. The thought screamed inside my skull. Not like this. Not for real. Not forever. My body jerked involuntarily against the ropes, a tiny, helpless spasm that made the crotch-rope bite deeper. A muffled whimper escaped around the gag. I hated how wet it made me—how even now, even in terror, the fear twisted into that sick, shameful heat low in my belly. This is what you wanted, the voice whispered, cruel and gleeful. To be taken. To be owned. To disappear. But the fantasy had always had an escape hatch—Ollie, Judy, the apartment upstairs. Now the hatch was gone. Now it was real.
Judy’s hands shook as she stepped forward and took me down, for possibly the last time, from the ceiling hook. She carried me out and placed me down on the preparation table.
This is happening. The thought was numb, distant, like it belonged to someone else. She’s going to truss me up. She’s going to carry me out. And I’m never coming back.
I heard the rope coil slide off the bench. Judy began looping it around my knees, drawing them slowly toward my chest, trying to buy time, trying to think.
The shop bell chimed again.
Footsteps. A familiar voice—low, amused, utterly calm.
“Well,” Marjorie said from the doorway, “looks like I arrived just in time.”
Judy froze. Carver turned sharply.
Marjorie stood there in her long coat, arms folded, a small folder tucked under one elbow. Behind her, the afternoon light framed her like she’d walked straight out of legend.
Carver’s eyes narrowed. “This is a regulatory seizure. You’re interrupting official business.”
Marjorie smiled—slow, confident, the smile of someone who had already won.
“Not anymore.” She lifted the folder. “I’m here to collect the meatgirl I purchased from Ollie three weeks ago. Backdated sale, properly registered, Authority-stamped. She’s mine.”
Carver stepped forward, voice hardening. “Under section 17.4, this stock is flagged for mandatory certified sale. No private transaction supersedes—”
Marjorie opened the folder, slid out a single sheet of heavy paper, and held it out. “Read it.”
Carver took the document. Her eyes flicked down the page—then stopped. Widened slightly. She read again. The colour slowly drained from her face.
The license was old—very old. A grandfathered permit from the original meatgirl processing charter, tied to the facility Marjorie had bought years ago when the last owner retired. It granted her unrestricted authority to purchase, collect, and process any certified meatgirl from any registered facility, bypassing standard buyer registration delays and flags.
Carver’s jaw tightened. She stared at the paper as if willing it to disappear. Her fingers tightened on the edge until the paper crinkled.
“This is…” She swallowed, the word almost painful. “…valid.” Her voice was low, grudging, every syllable dragged out like it cost her something. “But highly irregular. This kind of loophole should have been closed decades ago.”
Marjorie tucked the folder away. “The law is the law, Inspector. And the law says she’s mine.”
Carver looked at me—still bound, still hooded, still trembling faintly. Then back at Marjorie. Her eyes narrowed to slits.
“I will be auditing this transaction,” she said, voice flat but laced with barely contained fury. “Every line. Every signature. If there is even one irregularity—backdating discrepancies, improper chain of custody, anything—I will have grounds to seize her regardless of this… relic of a permit.” She stepped closer to Marjorie, lowering her voice. “And if I find this meatgirl back in any storeroom, any shop, any facility that isn’t yours, I will take her. No warnings. No second chances. I don’t care who owns the paper. I care about compliance.”
She turned to Judy, eyes cold. “Don’t think this is over. I’ll be watching. Both of you.”
She walked past Marjorie without another word. The bell chimed as the door closed behind her—sharp, final, like a gunshot.
Silence.
Judy let out a long, trembling breath. “How did you know?”
Marjorie shrugged. “Word travels in our circles. A tip about unregistered volunteers? An inspector sniffing around Ollie’s shops? I put two and two together. Called Ollie on the way here. We backdated the sale—my signature, his stamp, Authority clearance. Couldn’t let Carver take her.”
Judy’s voice cracked. “Thank you. I thought she was done for.”
Marjorie glanced at me—still bound, still hooded, still trembling. A small, knowing smile curved her lips.
“She’s not out of the woods yet. Carver’s probably still sulking in her car outside, watching. So we do this properly. Truss her up for delivery—knees to chest, wrists to ankles, feeding hole open. You can then carry her out to my car like any other premium lot. She’ll like that, I’m sure.”
Judy swallowed. “And then?”
“Then she stays with me at the facility,” Marjorie said simply. “My property. Officially. Until Carver gives up or gets reassigned. I’ll run her through the experience courses a few times—keep her conditioned, keep her safe. No one will question a processing plant owner keeping her own stock. Another thing that she’ll enjoy.”
She stepped closer to me, ran a gloved finger down the side of the hood.
“Won’t you, little meatgirl?”
I gave the tiniest shiver—fear, relief, something darker—all at once.
Marjorie laughed softly.
“Come on, Judy. Let’s get her ready. The inspector’s waiting for a show.”
Judy nodded once. Together they began the familiar work—knees drawn up, ankles roped to wrists, body compacted into the classic delivery package. I trembled with every cinch of the rope, every tug that folded me tighter, every whispered reminder that I was no longer playing.
This is real now, I thought, the realisation sinking in like cold water. I’m not going back upstairs. I’m not going back to Ollie. I’m not going back to anything I knew. The fear was overwhelming—suffocating, endless—but beneath it, the dark thrill uncoiled again, hotter than ever. I’m property. Officially. Bought. Owned. Taken. The thought made me clench hard around nothing, wetness slicking my thighs even as panic clawed my chest. I wanted this. I begged for this. And now it’s happening.
Judy lifted me easily over one shoulder—compact, trussed, hooded, gagged, tagged—and carried me through the shop. Past the front counter. Past the display cabinet. Out of the door.
Carver’s car was still parked across the street. I couldn’t see it, but I felt the weight of her stare through the hood as I was loaded into the trunk of the car, the lid closed, and Marjorie climbed into the driver’s seat.
The engine started.
The car pulled away.
And I—hooded, bound, naked—felt the road hum beneath me for the first time in months.
Not as a wife.
Not as a volunteer.
Officially now as a meatgirl, owned, bought and paid for.
Safe, for now.
But still just a product.