Part Eight
After the events of the inspector’s visits and my eventual sale to Marjorie, the owner of the old Meatgirl Processing Facility—from which she ran her meatgirl experience, where, if you recall, women got to participate in the old production process that had once converted women into meatgirls before the clone labs took over—I remained at the facility for the next couple of weeks. I joined the other women going through processing, and at night I was used by one or more of the handlers Marjorie employed.
Those weeks, the calm before the storm, passed in a strange, suspended haze. By day I was processed alongside the others—washed down in the cold spray room, weighed on industrial scales, prodded and measured, probed, exercised and inspected, at one point our bodies were marked with ink for hypothetical cut lines that never quite reached us.
The handlers moved us like livestock: from inspection table to holding frame, from holding frame back to hook. My body became just another item on the inventory list—tagged, scanned, catalogued.
But the nights were different now.
Previously, the rule had always been strict: meatgirls were customers, not livestock. No abuse. No real harm. The handlers—all women—were there only to guide, to demonstrate, to provide the experience. But Madge and another handler had already crossed that line with me before my official sale—quiet, stolen moments during my earlier visits when the facility was supposed to be just play.
Madge, who lived on-site and oversaw the meatgirls’ nightly “needs,” had always taken particular pleasure in me, her hands lingering longer than necessary, her mouth finding my clit in the dim light of the prep alcove while the other woman watched and touched herself. They’d never gone too far back then—Marjorie’s rules were still iron—but the hunger in their eyes had been unmistakable. And after my sale to Marjorie, that rule quietly changed. For me, at least. Marjorie never said it aloud, but the handlers understood: I was theirs now. No longer a paying guest. Just meat. And the women took full advantage.
Each evening, after the facility lights dimmed and the daytime staff left, Madge would come for me. She had claimed me as her personal favorite, and she took open, greedy, unashamed pleasure in breaking me down. Most nights it was just her. She’d lower me from the hook, carry me back to her room, and bind me however she pleased.
Sometimes spread-eagled on an old metal bed frame, my wrists and ankles pulled wide, so she could kneel between my legs and devour me with her mouth—slow, deliberate licks across my clit, sucking until my hips bucked against the ropes, until I was crying into the gag from the over-stimulation. Then later, she loved watching my face when she finally straddled me, grinding her wet heat against my tongue, moaning loudly as she rode me to her own climax, her hands holding me in place until she was satisfied.
“That’s my good little meatgirl,” she’d whisper, voice thick with pleasure. “Made to be used, tasted and savoured.”
Other nights she’d bring Lexi—the younger, sharper-edged handler with the wicked laugh. Lexi liked it rougher. They’d throw me face-down over a workbench, bind my wrists to the far side, ankles chained wide to the legs. Lexi would strap on a thick dildo and take me hard from behind, one hand covering my mouth and pulling my head back so Madge could watch my face twist. Madge would kneel at my side, stroking my cheek, whispering how beautiful I looked when I broke, while Lexi pounded into me until I was sobbing, shaking, dripping.
When they finished, they’d leave me there—still bound, still dripping—until one of them felt like using my mouth to clean them off, forcing me to lick them clean while Madge stroked my hair like I was a pet. When they were done they’d leave me bound and trembling, reinsert the feeding tube, and hoist me back up to the hook.
Twice, the two other handlers joined in—quiet, intense women who rarely spoke. They preferred ritual. They’d truss me in a classic meatgirl fold—knees to chest, wrists to ankles, body compressed—and take turns rocking me back and forth on their strap-ons, passing me between them like a shared toy. They’d talk low and filthy, voices thick with satisfaction: telling me how tight and wet I was, how perfectly I took them, how my cunt was made to be filled and used, how good I looked folded up and helpless, dripping for it.
“Look at this little meat slut,” one would murmur, thumb circling my clit while the other thrust deep. “Soaking just from being our hole.” The words burned, but they made me clench harder, made me come closer to the edge even as shame flooded my face.
No matter who took me, the routine always ended the same way. When they were satisfied, they’d clean me roughly with a damp cloth—wiping away sweat, their juices, my own slickness—then reattach any clamps or ropes they’d removed, and lift me back to the ceiling hook in the main storeroom. I’d hang there among the other women, swaying gently in the dark, the slow drip of nutrient slurry down my throat the only sound besides our collective breathing.
In those moments, suspended and silent, I could almost believe I was already gone—already nothing more than meat waiting for the production line. And part of me loved it. The fear was real, the shame was crushing, but the thrill—the deep, dark thrill of being reduced to holes and flesh for their pleasure—was stronger every night.
In the meantime, there were changes happening outside that I wasn't aware of at the time. Judy, left traumatized by the inspector's visits and the sale of her girlfriend to save her from being taken away as a meatgirl, had left not only the shop but the entire meatgirl business. I later heard that she had moved up north and took Lara with her. Together, they set up their own shop selling adult lingerie and sex toys, which I'm sure Lara and she would enjoy testing them out on each other.
Matt, the one person who really knew how to treat and bind me properly when I was wanting to be a meatgirl, had initially moved to help run the new shop that Ollie had been managing. Maybe he felt awkward about the thought of me returning to live above the old shop with Ollie being there full time, especially after everything that had happened. So to avoid any tension, he offered to spend most of his time at the new location and help Ollie get it established. Ollie found him a place to live nearby, and for a while, Matt split his efforts between the two shops. But he never truly left—he stayed loyal to the business, and to Ollie, eventually focusing more on the old shop once the new one had reliable staff. He remained part of everything, quietly keeping things running, ready whenever he was needed.
Then one morning, Marjorie came to me in the facilities storeroom. I was still bound in the same position I’d been left in overnight—wrists high and attached to the ceiling hooks, ankles chained to floor bolts, hood sealed, feeding tube dripping steadily. The clamps and crotch-rope had thankfully been removed for the night, but the marks they left still throbbed. I heard her footsteps approach, and felt the faint shift in the air as she stood in front of me, her voice coming low and steady, though I couldn't see her expression or posture, only imagine it from the tension in her tone.
"Carver's getting too close," she said quietly. "She's been circling the facility again. Word is that she wants to shut us down completely and thereby strip away the grandfathered license that I used to save you, she wants to wipe the whole place clean. If she gets her way, everything that I've built up here ends. And that's including you."
I couldn't speak around the gag, but my body tensed. Fear spiked through me—sharp, familiar, sickening, like ice flooding my veins. My heart pounded so hard it echoed in my ears, my stomach twisted into knots, and a cold sweat broke out across my skin despite the storeroom's chill. The finality of her words sank in, there was no escape, no way for me to stay. My only option was to be sold.
Marjorie removed the hood and crouched so her eyes were level with mine.
"I’m sorry, but I can't keep you here any longer. Not safely. The only way out—the only way to kill her trail—is for me to sell you. Officially. A clean transfer to another facility. No loose ends. No questions. You’ll disappear from her radar. There is no other alternative, I have no other way of getting you out of here safely, and saving this place."
She paused, studying me.
"I've arranged your sale with a contact at one of the cloning labs. They're always looking for fresh genetic material—real stock, not just clones. You'll just be another of their donors. They'll take samples, run tests, and map your biology. But once they've got what they need…" She let the sentence hang briefly, and then finished it softly. "You'll be surplus to their requirements. They'll most likely dispose of you. Possibly sell you on to a rendering plant. I believe that's the standard protocol for donor originals once the data is extracted."
My stomach lurched. Rendering. The word echoed in my skull—bleed-out, skinning, cutting, grinding. I’d seen the line. I knew what it meant. My mother’s warning flashed back: If you ever become a meatgirl, you’ll either end up roasted or worse. And now it felt like prophecy. This was the end—irrevocable, absolute, no turning back. No hidden loopholes, no last-minute rescues. I was going to be sold, used, discarded, my fantasies twisting fatally real in a way I’d never truly prepared for. Panic clawed up my throat, making it hard to breathe even around the gag, my vision blurring with hot tears as the finality crushed down on me like a closing trap.
And yet—deep down, buried beneath the terror—something else stirred. That dark, shameful thrill uncoiled again, slow and insidious. The thought of being nothing more than meat, of being stripped of identity, of being reduced to product and then simply… disposed of… sent a forbidden heat pooling low down in my belly. My thighs squeezed together involuntarily, the familiar ache blooming despite the fear. Even now, even at the edge of oblivion, my body betrayed me—craving the very thing that terrified me.
Marjorie reached out, brushed a gloved thumb across my cheek—almost tender.
"I'm sorry it's come to this," she said. "But it's the only way to keep Carver off my back and out of this place. I hope that you understand, I have no choice."
I nodded—slow, jerky, tears already running down my cheeks.
She waited.
I made a small, muffled sound through the gag. She understood. She unbuckled it just enough to let me speak.
"I'm sorry," I rasped, voice cracked and raw. "For all of this. For causing you all these problems. For dragging you into my mess and putting this place in jeopardy. You saved me once, and now… now you have to... no you must sell me to save yourself. I never wanted this for you, and I never thought that my desires would get so many people in trouble."
Marjorie's eyes softened—just a fraction.
"You didn't drag me anywhere," she said. "You needed help. I gave it. That's all. And now I'm giving you the only exit left."
“I’m ready for whatever comes next,” I whispered, my voice trembling. “I just hope that it solves your hassles with the inspector.”
“Thanks for understanding my predicament,” she said quietly. “I really don’t have much choice.”
She then re-buckled the gag, and stepped back.
"There's no guarantee they'll keep you whole," she added quietly. "The cloning labs are very efficient. Once they've mapped you, you're no longer essential. They'll process you like any other surplus stock. And I can't control what they do after the sale and transfer. You understand that?"
I nodded again—harder this time. Fear and that dark, shameful thrill twisted together in my gut. This is it. Sold. Used. Disposed of. My breathing hitched around the gag. My body responded to the thought in my usual depraved manner, and I squeezed my legs against that familiar ache deep within me, my lips were pink and visibly glistening, the wetness already slicking my inner thighs even as panic clawed at my chest.
Marjorie gave a small, sad smile.
"One final performance, then," she said. "They're coming for you in about two hours. Madge will come and get you ready one last time."
She turned and left.
I hung there, alone, trembling, waiting.
Two hours later, Madge came in. She unbound me from the hook, carried me to the prep table, and folded me into the classic compact truss—knees to chest, wrists lashed to ankles, body compressed into a neat, helpless package. The hood stayed on. The gag stayed in. The feeding tube stayed connected. A fresh barcode tag pierced my left nipple with the red "TRANSFER" stripe. A label was tied to the rope at my ankles: "MG-V-001 – Sold & Collected – Cloning Facility."
She placed me upright against the glass display cabinet in the main reception area—trussed, visible, on display—so anyone watching from the street could see. My heart hammered beneath the hood. This was deliberate. Public. Final.
Marjorie stepped in, checking the ropes one last time.
"There's a chance Carver—or someone she’s sent—is watching from across the street," she said quietly. "She's been circling the facility for days. If she sees you being sold, carried out, and loaded into a van like any other premium lot, the trail from our end finishes here. No more loose ends. No more questions about the grandfathered license. You disappear from her radar as soon as that van drives away."
I gave a tiny, muffled whimper around the gag. The thought of being watched—being seen as nothing more than just product—sent a fresh wave of shame and dark excitement through me. My lips were pink and visibly glistening. Marjorie noticed, of course.
She smiled, patting my exposed rear.
Not long after, the bell chimed.
The technician from the cloning lab stepped inside. He froze for a second when he saw me—naked, tightly trussed, hooded, and gagged, displayed openly in the reception area like merchandise waiting for pickup. His eyes flicked from me to Marjorie, then back again.
"Uh… that's her?" he asked.
Marjorie nodded calmly. "MG-V-001. Sold and registered. All of the paperwork is ready for the handover."
He recovered quickly, professional again. They exchanged the documents at the counter: the sale certificate, transfer log, and the Meatgirl Authority clearance stamp. Everything official. Everything visible through the front windows if anyone was watching
Once the paperwork was signed, the technician approached me. He hoisted me awkwardly over his shoulder in the handler carry, cursing under his breath as my tightly folded body resisted balancing. My knees pressed against his chest, hooded head dangling down his back, ass high and vulnerable, ropes biting deeper with every step as I swayed and shifted.
He carried me straight out the front door.
Cool outside air hit my exposed skin. I couldn't see, but I knew Carver's car—or someone's—might be parked across the street. I imagined her watching through tinted windows: the meatgirl she'd tried to seize, now sold, now carried out, now gone. Legitimate. Final.
He opened the back doors of the van and carefully placed me inside a waiting wooden crate—lined with padding, sized exactly for a compact-trussed body. The lid was secured with quick-release latches and a final inspection tag. I was now just another sealed package among the cargo.
The van doors closed. The engine started. We pulled away, but the trip wasn't direct. The van stopped twice more—once at a small boutique facility, once at a holding station—where two additional crates were loaded in beside me. I heard the muffled thuds as they were secured, felt the slight shift in weight as the truck settled again. More meatgirls. More product. Just like me.
In the dark of the crate, swaying with the motion of the van, I rubbed helplessly against the padded walls—my body folded so tight I could barely move. The fear was overwhelming now, drowning out everything else. This is real. I've been sold. I'm going to the cloning lab. I'm MG-V-001 now, nothing more than genetic material. Thoughts of Ollie, of home, of ever seeing our apartment again felt impossibly distant, like something from another life.
Maybe he'd look for me. Maybe he'd try. But the system had me now. The papers were signed. The tag was pierced. I was gone.
And yet—god help me—the thought of it all still twisted into that sick, shameful heat. I'm a product. Owned. On my way to be used up. My pussy clenched hard around nothing, wetness slicking my inner thighs even as silent tears soaked the inside of the hood.
I had no idea where the van was really going. I had no reason to believe anything other than what I'd been told: I was donor stock. A blueprint. And once they'd taken what they needed, I'd be surplus.
Processed. Disposed. The van kept driving. And all I could do was sway in the dark, folded tight, waiting for whatever came next. Just another meatgirl. Sold.
Intake at the Cloning Lab
The van doors opened again. Cold, sterile air rushed in, carrying the sharp smell of antiseptic, ozone, and faint metal. My crate was lifted first—two sets of hands, efficient and impersonal. I swayed inside the tight, padded space, knees crushed to chest, wrists lashed to ankles, body folded so compactly I could barely draw a full breath. The feeding tube gurgled softly with every movement.
They carried me down a corridor. I heard the soft squeak of shoes on tile, the low hum of ventilation, distant machinery. No voices. No explanations. Just the steady rhythm of footsteps and the occasional clack of a door latch.
The crate was set down with a controlled thud on what felt like a stainless-steel surface. Latches clicked. The lid came off. Bright overhead lights stabbed through the gaps in my hood, even though I couldn’t see them directly. Gloved hands reached in, lifted me out—still bound, still compressed—and placed me on a cold metal table.
They didn’t speak to me. They never would. I was just product.
The intake process began immediately.
First came the visual and physical inspection. They pulled the hood off, the light blinding me momentarily, and then they rolled me onto my side, then my back, then my stomach—prodding, measuring, photographing. Gloved fingers traced the rope marks from Marjorie’s facility, the faded clamp bruises. A scanner beeped as it read both nipple tags—the original and the “TRANSFER” one—logging me into their system as “MG-V-001 – Donor Intake – Live Genetic Source.”
“Subject stable,” one voice said, female, clinical. “Vital signs within expected range for post-transport stress. No visible degradation. Pupils reactive, fear response clear.”
They cut the delivery ropes with surgical scissors—quick, precise snips. The relief was immediate but short-lived. New restraints replaced them: cold metal cuffs at wrists and ankles, spreading me wide in a star shape on the table. The gag stayed in. The feeding tube was reconnected to their main line.
Next came the baseline readings. Adhesive sensors were placed on my temples, chest, abdomen, and inner thighs. Most humiliatingly, one was placed directly over my clit and another pair over my nipples—thin wires trailing from them to the monitoring station. A blood-pressure cuff tightened around my arm. A temperature probe was roughly inserted rectally. A pulse oximeter clipped to my earlobe. They even attached a small catheter to monitor my urine output and hydration levels.
“Commencing full physiological baseline,” the same voice announced. “Heart rate 112 bpm, possibly elevated due to stress. Oxygen saturation is 98%. Core temperature stable at 37.1°C. Cortisol and adrenaline levels already spiking—consistent with transport anxiety. Facial expressions show signs of acute fear response; pupils dilated to 6 mm.”
They left me like that for nearly an hour while the machines recorded every fluctuation—breathing rate, brainwave patterns, skin conductance, vaginal pH, lubrication volume. Every few minutes someone would approach, inject a small dose of a mild stimulant, and watch how my body responded: heart rate jumping, pupils dilating further, muscles tensing against the cuffs, tears streaming freely down my cheeks, my face contorting in silent panic and unwanted arousal.
“Excellent reactivity,” a second voice noted—male this time. “High oxytocin potential under restraint. Facial flushing and pupil response confirm acute emotional distress combined with involuntary arousal. We’ll prioritize arousal profiling tomorrow.”
When the baseline was complete, they wheeled the table toward a side door. I was moved into a smaller room lined with identical suspension hooks. They lifted me off the table, fastened my wrists high to one of the hooks, and chained my ankles to floor bolts—spreading my legs just enough to keep me balanced on tiptoe. A fresh feeding tube was connected. A new tag was clipped to the rope at my wrists: “MG-V-001 – Intake Complete – Awaiting Extraction.”
Then they left.
I hung there, alone, in the dim light of the storage bay. Other meatgirls—clones, mostly—hung silently around me, hairless, blank-eyed, identical. The only sound was the soft drip of feeding tubes and the occasional creak of hooks. I was MG-V-001 now. Just another meatgirl. Awaiting extraction. And somewhere deep inside, the fear still twisted into that sick, shameful heat. I was home in the only place I’d ever truly belonged. Hanging. Waiting.
Arousal Profiling
The first full extraction session began the next morning. They wheeled me from the storage bay back to the main lab on the same steel table, my limbs again spread-eagled in the star position, wrists and ankles cuffed to the corners. No longer hooded, my face was now fully exposed to the harsh overhead lights and the indifferent eyes of the technicians. My body was already conditioned to the cold metal, the constant exposure, the lack of privacy. But nothing prepared me for what came next.
“MG-V-001. Arousal profiling commencing…” came the calm, clinical voice of the female technician as she adjusted the overhead lights, while speaking into the recording device. “Today’s objective: to map stress-hormone and metabolite response to controlled stimulation patterns. The data will inform clone priming protocols for tenderness and intramuscular fat distribution.”
I couldn’t respond. The gag kept me silent. All I could do was feel—and they could see every flicker of my face: every wince, every tear, every involuntary grimace of shame and unwanted pleasure.
They started slow.
Small vibrating pads were pressed against my nipples—already sensitive from weeks of clamping—and secured with adhesive tape. Another pad, larger and more powerful, was positioned directly over my clit, held in place by a thin harness that looped around my hips. Thin wires trailed from each to the station. A low-frequency current began, barely noticeable at first, a gentle pulsing that made my nipples tighten and my clit begin to throb.
“Baseline stimulation initiated,” the tech noted. “Frequency 2 Hz, amplitude 30%. Monitoring oxytocin and endorphin release.”
The pulsing increased gradually. My body responded against my will—breathing quickened, muscles tensed against the cuffs, a slow heat built low in my belly. My face betrayed everything: eyes widening in panic, cheeks flushing with shame, lips trembling around the gag as I tried to hold back the moans. They watched it all—recording the way my pupils dilated, the way my forehead creased in desperate denial, the way my jaw clenched as I fought the rising tide of arousal.
They escalated.
The clit pad switched to a stronger vibration pattern—short bursts followed by long, rolling waves. The nipple pads began alternating: one pulsing while the other stayed steady. A thin probe—lubricated, cool—was inserted vaginally, not deep, just enough to press against the anterior wall. It hummed in sync with the external pads, targeting the G-spot with precision.
“G-spot stimulation active,” the tech said. “Increasing intensity. Recording lubrication volume and vaginal pH shift.”
I arched against the cuffs—helpless, humiliated, but aroused beyond reason. My face contorted: eyes squeezing shut, tears streaming freely down my cheeks, mouth stretched wide around the gag as my muffled cries escaped. The heat built fast, too fast. My hips bucked involuntarily, seeking more even as the shame of my situation burned through me. They're watching. They're measuring. They're turning me into data. And in my fevered mind, that made it worse. My pussy clenched hard around the probe, wetness slicking my inner thighs, and dripping onto the table.
But they didn’t let me come.
Every time my heart rate spiked too high, every time the monitors showed an orgasm approaching, they dialled everything back—leaving me trembling on the edge, and panting through the gag, my face a mask of frustrated agony and denial. My eyes fluttered open and closed, pupils blown wide with my desperate need, cheeks flushed red, tears carving tracks down my face. They captured it all.
“Edging protocol, effective,” the male tech noted. “Cortisol and adrenaline, elevated. Oxytocin, spiking. Intramuscular triglycerides, increasing. All excellent for marbling potential. Facial expressions show acute distress combined with involuntary arousal. Subject is highly responsive to denial.”
They ran the cycle again. And again. And again.
Vibrators. Suction cups on my nipples. Electrical pulses—sharp little zaps that made my clit throb and my muscles spasm. Temperature play: ice applied to my inner thighs, then warm gel smeared over my folds. A slow, mechanical dildo—thick, ribbed—was inserted and set to a steady thrusting rhythm while the clit pad hummed at maximum.
Each time they pushed me to the brink, and then cruelly pulled back. My face told the whole story: eyes pleading, brows furrowed in desperation, mouth gaping around the gag in silent screams, tears flowing freely as I shook my head in futile protest. My body learned quickly: pleasure meant denial. Denial meant more data. More data meant I was useful.
I lost count of how many times they edged me. The hours blurred as my mind frayed. I was nothing now but sensation—sweat, slickness, pulsing heat, and aching need. My face was a wreck: flushed, tear-streaked, eyes glassy and unfocused, lips trembling, jaw slack with exhaustion. The only sounds were my muffled whimpers, the soft beeps of the monitors, and the technicians’ detached observations.
“Subject shows exceptional endurance under prolonged arousal denial,” one said. “Stress metabolites optimal for flavor enhancement. Facial cues confirm extreme emotional conflict—recommend extending profiling to 48 hours with minimal recovery periods.”
Eventually, they finally stopped—leaving the pads in place on low, teasing settings. The probe remained inside, humming faintly.
“Profiling session one complete,” the female tech announced. “Return MG-V-001 to storage. Next session listed for tomorrow: orgasm-induced metabolite analysis.”
They wheeled me back to the storage bay and hung me back up again—wrists high on the hook, ankles chained to floor bolts, my wrecked body stretched taut. The feeding tube was re-connected. They left the sensors and pads attached—a low buzz against my clit and nipples, a constant reminder of today’s torment.
I hung there among the clones—hairless, blank, identical—and the meatgirl dance began again. But this time it was different. I rubbed against the clone in front of me, desperate, aching, overstimulated. My muffled moans were louder, more frantic. The low buzz kept me on the edge, never letting me fall. My pussy clenched uselessly, dripping down my thighs, pooling on the floor.
I came close—so close—but never over. Not without permission. Not without producing more data. I was no longer just a meatgirl. I was a living experiment. And the worst part? Part of me craved the next session. Craved being pushed further. Craved being used until there was nothing left. Because that was all I was now. MG-V-001. Awaiting the next extraction.
Orgasm-Induced Metabolite Analysis
The next session started at dawn, no warning, no mercy. They just wheeled me from the storage bay back to the main lab on the steel table, bound like before. The low buzz from the edging pads had kept me simmering overnight; my clit was swollen, my nipples felt raw, and my body was a taut wire of unfulfilled need. Sleep had only been in fragments, my night spent full of shudders, whimpers, desperate clenches around nothing.
While adjusting the overhead lights, ready for today’s round of torment, the tech stated, “Subject MG-V-001. Orgasm-induced metabolite analysis commencing. Objective: to quantify post-climactic hormonal and biochemical shifts for clone flavor optimization. Target: maximum oxytocin, endorphin, and intramuscular triglyceride release. Protocol: by means of forced sequential climaxes with minimal recovery intervals.”
They started with a baseline injection—a small needle in my thigh, something warm and tingling spreading through my veins.
“Vasodilator administered,” the male tech noted. “Enhancing blood flow to erogenous zones. Monitoring for initial hormone surge.”
The effect was immediate. Heat bloomed low in my belly, spreading outward—my nipples hardening, my clit throbbing, my inner thighs flushing. My pussy clenched involuntarily, wetness already slicking the table. I tried to fight it, to tense against the cuffs, but the drug made resistance futile. Every nerve was now amplified, every touch electric.
They activated the pads.
The clit pad ramped up to full vibration—strong, relentless waves that made my hips buck hard against the restraints. The nipple pads pulsed in sync, sharp tugs that sent jolts straight to my core. The vaginal probe—still inside from yesterday—was set to deep, rhythmic thrusting, the ribbed surface dragging against my inner walls. A new addition was added, suction cups over my nipples, pulling them in time with the pulses.
“Stimulation ramp initiated,” the female tech said. “Increasing intensity to threshold. Recording for first climax.”
My body betrayed me completely. The heat built like a storm—fast, unstoppable. My back arched off the table, my muscles straining against the cuffs, a muffled scream escaping around the gag. The orgasm hit hard—violent, shattering. Waves crashed through me, my abused pussy spasming around the probe, wetness gushing out, my thighs trembling. The monitors beeped wildly.
“Climax detected,” the male tech noted. “Oxytocin spiking at 320% baseline. Endorphins elevated. Intramuscular triglycerides increasing—excellent marbling precursor response. Continue on to second cycle.”
They didn’t let me recover.
The pads intensified. The probe sped up. A second probe—thinner, vibrating—was inserted anally, syncing with the vaginal one. My body—still shuddering from the first climax—was forced toward the second almost immediately. The sensitivity was unbearable. Every thrust, every pulse, every pull was a cross between agony and ecstasy. I came again—much harder, and louder, my muffled cries filling the room, tears streaming down my face.
“Second peak. Oxytocin holding at 380%. Cortisol elevated but within tolerance. Lactate levels optimal for flavor enhancement. Proceed to third.”
They kept going. Third. Fourth. Fifth. Each orgasm was stronger, more exhausting, more humiliating. The drug kept me responsive—too responsive—my body wringing out every last drop of data. By the sixth I was screaming into the gag, body convulsing, my pussy raw and dripping, nipples aching under the suction. The techs took samples mid-climax: blood draws from my thigh, swabs of sweat and fluids, even muscle biopsies from my abdomen—small punches that stung like fire amid the pleasure.
“Excellent data,” the female tech said after the seventh left me limp and sobbing. “Post-orgasmic triglyceride release is 45% higher than baseline clones. Oxytocin metabolites indicate a prolonged tenderness window. Let’s go for full exhaustion protocol for final profiling.”
They didn’t stop until I was spent. By the tenth orgasm I was barely conscious—body limp against the restraints, breathing ragged, mind floating in a haze of overstimulation and exhaustion. My pussy throbbed, swollen, dripping. My nipples were raw. My thighs slick with sweat and my own wetness. They finally powered down the devices.
“Session complete,” the male tech announced. “MG-V-001 exhaustion threshold reached. Metabolite profile optimal. Return to storage. Next phase: clone implantation viability testing.”
They wheeled me back to the storage bay. They hung me back again in the storage bay, wrists on the hook, ankles chained to the floor, my body feeble and weak. I hung among the clones and eventually the meatgirl dance began again. But this time I had nothing left. I hung there, exhausted, barely able to move. My muffled whimpers were faint. My body was limp, overused, and aching.
Clone Implantation Viability Testing
The next phase began, they wheeled me from the storage bay back to the main lab, placed me back in the star position, my limbs cuffed to the corners, like I was just a piece of meat, an object, just something to process and move on.
A female, her voice calm and clinical spoke.
“MG-V-001. Clone implantation viability testing commencing. Objective: assess donor tissue compatibility with accelerated gestation surrogates. Target: confirm implantation success rate and early embryo development metrics for optimized clone production.”
The gag stole my voice, leaving me mute. All I could do was endure—and they studied every betrayal on my face: every wince of pain, every tear of shame, every involuntary twist of my lips as the unwanted heat rose despite myself.
This time they started with the surrogates.
I heard the hum of machinery and the soft beeps of monitors. They wheeled in a row of incubation pods—clear cylinders filled with nutrient gel, each containing a surrogate clone. The surrogates were identical: hairless, blank-eyed, bodies modified for accelerated gestation. Their abdomens were slightly distended—early-stage implants already taking hold.
“Batch 001-A through 001-F,” the female tech said. “All implanted with MG-V-001 nuclear transfer embryos at 72 hours post-activation. Monitoring implantation rate and early cell differentiation.”
They attached sensors to the surrogates’ abdomens—small adhesive pads linked to ultrasound probes. The screens lit up with grainy images: tiny clusters of cells, dividing, growing, attaching to uterine walls engineered for rapid development.
“Implantation success: 92%,” the male tech noted. “Embryo viability, high. No rejection markers. Donor V-001 profile showing excellent compatibility with surrogate matrix.”
They then turned to me. A gloved hand lifted my hips slightly. A thin, flexible probe—lubricated, cool—was inserted vaginally, not deep, just enough to press against the anterior wall. It hummed faintly, transmitting data.
“Live donor monitoring, active,” the tech said. “Correlating surrogate implantation data with original tissue response. Stimulating low-level oxytocin release to simulate gestational hormone environment.”
The probe pulsed gently. A wave of warmth spread through me—familiar, but unwanted. My body responded: heart rate spiking, muscles tensing against the cuffs, a slow heat building low in my belly. My face betrayed everything: eyes widening in panic, cheeks flushing with shame, lips trembling around the gag as I tried to shake my head in silent denial. No. Not again. Not like this. Tears welled up immediately, spilling down my cheeks, my brows furrowing in desperate protest.
The monitors beeped in response.
“Oxytocin elevated,” the tech reported. “Endorphins, rising. Intramuscular triglycerides, stable. Surrogate embryos showing accelerated cell division in response to simulated donor hormone profile. Facial cues confirm acute emotional distress—pupils dilated to 6 mm, tears present, jaw clenched in resistance.”
They kept the probe active for nearly an hour—low, rhythmic pulses that kept me simmering, never letting me crest. Every few minutes they took another blood draw—small syringes piercing my arm, my thigh, the tender skin above my clit. They swabbed sweat from my brow, collected vaginal fluid directly. Every chemical change was logged, cross-referenced with the surrogates’ development.
My face told the whole story: eyes pleading, brows furrowed in anguish, mouth stretched wide around the gag in silent screams of no no no, tears carving tracks down my cheeks as I shook my head again and again in futile denial. My cheeks were flushed red, my lips trembling, my jaw clenching as I fought the rising tide of sensation. The denial only sharpened the ache, made the need more unbearable, my body betraying me even as my mind screamed to resist.
“Viability confirmed,” the female tech said at last. “MG-V-001 donor line approved for full-scale production. Surrogates moved to gestation acceleration phase. Original subject remains surplus. Recommend scheduling final disposal within 48 hours.”
The probe was removed. The sensors were left in place—low, background settings, a constant tease. They wheeled me back to the storage bay. They hung me again—wrists high on the hook, ankles chained to floor bolts, body stretched taut. The hood stayed on. The gag stayed in. The feeding tube stayed connected.
Final Disposal Protocol
The sampling ended on the morning of the twenty-first day.
The summons came without ceremony. One moment, I was hanging in the storage bay, wrists high on the hook, ankles chained to floor bolts, hood sealed, feeding tube dripping, the low buzz of the arousal pads still teasing my clit and nipples after yesterday's exhaustion—the next, two technicians entered, unhooked me, and carried me back to the main processing line.
They had taken everything they needed: blood, tissue, hormonal profiles, arousal data, metabolic logs. Every part of my body had been mapped down to the last cell. That final morning, the techs unclipped the last sensors from my nipples and clit, peeled off the adhesive pads, and left me lying spread on the cold steel table for nearly an hour while they collated the final results.
I heard them talking over me like I was furniture.
"MG-V-001’s donor profile is now complete," one said. "It shows exceptional marbling precursors, and high intramuscular fat retention under stress, plus superior elasticity in its muscle fiber. We can now begin full-scale cloning from the cultures tomorrow."
Another voice, much colder and clinical added, "That means that the original subject is now surplus to requirements. Proceed with the standard disposal protocol."
My heart slammed against my ribs so hard I thought the table would shake. Surplus. The word cut through me like a blade. I had known it was coming—Marjorie had previously warned me—but hearing it spoken so clinically, so finally, made the reality crash down hard. I wasn't going to be kept. I wasn't going to be stored. I was done. Used up. Ready to be turned into cuts.
They didn’t speak to me. They never had. The two technicians simply lifted me from the table and carried me over to the prep line—the same one I’d witnessed other meatgirls disappear down during my time here. The air smelled of steel and faint bleach.
They laid me flat on the prep table again. The metal cuffs at my wrists and ankles were unlocked, the cold steel finally clicking open after so long, the sudden freedom hitting me like a shock. For one heartbeat, my limbs were unbound. No restraints. No hands holding me down. The technicians stepped back to gather rope and tags.
I could have fought.
I could have rolled off the table, screamed, kicked, clawed at their eyes—anything to break the moment, to delay the inevitable, to prove I was still Amy, still a person. My arms twitched with the ghost of resistance. My legs tensed, ready to push. My heart slammed against my ribs so hard I thought it would burst. Run. Fight. Do something. The thought screamed inside my skull.
But I didn’t move.
My body stayed limp on the cold steel. My arms remained at my sides. My legs stayed still. I stared up at the blinding lights, tears blurring my vision, and felt the weight of it all crash down one final time: there was no escape. The papers were signed. The tags were pierced. The system had me. And much deeper, some part of me didn’t want to escape. Some part of me had been waiting for this moment my whole life, craving the absolute erasure, the moment when Amy vanished completely and only meat remained.
I let out a small, broken sob—barely audible—and closed my eyes.
They took my stillness as consent.
They began the standard processing truss. Once my wrists were lashed tightly with rope, they picked me up and attached them to a ceiling hook in the prep bay, stretching me onto tiptoe. My ankles were then bound tightly together, forcing my legs straight. A fresh hood was zipped over my head sealing me in darkness once more. The gag as always remained.
A new tag pierced my right nipple—identical to the left but with a bold red “DISPOSAL” stripe. A label was glued to my chest: “Donor Surplus – Final Processing.”
I trembled violently the entire time. Fear clawed up my throat, choking me even around the gag. This is it. No more tests. No more reprieves. I’m going to be stunned, hung, drained, cut. I’m going to end up as meat on someone’s plate.
My mind screamed at me one last time to fight, to thrash, to beg—but the moment had passed. I’d chosen. I’d surrendered. And the dark thrill uncoiled again, hot and shameful, stronger than ever. You wanted this. You begged for this. You’re finally nothing. My pussy clenched, the wetness slicking my inner thighs even as silent tears soaked the double hood.
They added a final transport tag to the rope at my ankles: “MG-V-001 – Scheduled Rendering – Authority Approved.”
Then they unhooked me from the prep bay ceiling and carried me over their shoulder like a piece of meat—still bound—toward the loading dock.
A refrigerated transport truck waited, its rear doors open. Inside, a row of ceiling hooks ran along the length of the cargo bay. Other meatgirls—clones, mostly—were already hung there: wrists bound high to the hooks, ankles lashed together, bodies stretched taut in the familiar vertical suspension, hooded, gagged, feeding tubes connected.
They lifted me easily and fastened my wrists to one of the overhead hooks—same as every other meatgirl. The truck's interior was cold, the air thick with refrigeration and the faint coppery scent of earlier loads. I swayed gently as they loaded the last of the clones, my body now part of the line—identical to the other meatgirls around me.
I couldn't fight. Couldn't scream. Couldn't even cry out. All I could do was feel the sway, the cold air on my skin, the helplessness.
The technicians stepped back. "That's the batch complete," one said. "All of the surplus donor and clones are loaded. Ready to be taken to the rendering facility."
The doors slammed shut. Darkness swallowed me. The truck started moving. I hung there, wrists high, ankles bound, body stretched taut, swaying with every turn and bump of the road. The clones beside me were silent, the only sounds were the low hum of the refrigeration unit, the creak of hooks, and the occasional involuntary whimper that came out from behind my gag.
My mind spun.
This is how it ends. Hung, tagged, shipped. I'm gone. Sold. Processed. No one will ever look for Amy again. Amy disappeared months ago. All that's left is MG-V-001, used up and ready for rendering. No rescue. No loophole. No Ollie. I'm gone. Officially processed. Officially nothing.
Thoughts of Ollie, of home, of ever feeling his arms again, felt like a dream from another life. Maybe he'd searched. Maybe he'd tried. But the papers were signed. The tags were pierced. The crate was sealed, and I was gone.
I rubbed helplessly against the clone beside me—our bodies swaying together in the familiar meatgirl rhythm. Even now, even on the way to being processed, the dance started. Slow. Desperate. I came silently, tears mixing with drool inside the hood, the orgasm ripping through me like a confession.
The truck kept driving. I had no idea how long the trip was. Time dissolved into sway and darkness; all I knew was that I was just cargo now. Product. Surplus. And whatever came next, I would face it hooded, bound, and alone.
Rendering Facility Arrival
The truck slowed, then stopped. The engine died. I felt the shift in weight as the back doors opened. Cold air rushed in, carrying the smell of diesel, wet concrete, and something sharper—blood, metal, and the faint smell of disinfectant.
Hands reached in first. Gloved, rough. They unhooked me from the overhead rail, my wrists still bound and ankles lashed together, as the technician threw me over his shoulder in the standard meatgirl carry—casual, indifferent, like I weighed nothing. My knees pressed against his chest, my hooded head dangling down his back, my naked ass high and exposed, my breathing came in shallow, panicked gasps.
I heard the others being unloaded behind me—one by one, hooks clattering as clone after clone was taken down and thrown over shoulders in the same way. The air was thick, industrial. Machinery hummed in the distance. Voices—low, professional—drifted over me.
“Surplus cloning batch received. Send them straight to processing.” I heard a voice say.
My heart slammed so hard I thought my ribs would crack. Processing. The word was final. No more tests. No more sampling. This is the end of the line.
He carried me through the loading dock doors, my folded body bouncing against his back with every stride. The sound of the floor floor changed from concrete to grated steel. Without ever setting me down, he lifted my bound ankles and fastened them directly to an overhead hook on the production line rail—hanging me upside-down, my body suspended by my ankles, head dangling toward the floor, wrists still bound so that my arms now hung downward, swaying freely with gravity.
The position was immediate and brutal—blood rushed to my head, my vision swam, my hooded face flushed hot, every breath was much harder as gravity pulled at my body. My toes pointed uselessly upward; my ass and exposed sex were now level with what I thought would be face high, vulnerable and on display.
A rubber stamp was added to my belly: “Surplus to Requirements – Rendering – Immediate.” The ink was cold and wet against my skin.
I trembled violently. Fear drowned everything now—suffocating, absolute. This is it. No rescue. No loophole. No Ollie. I'm going to be stunned, bled, skinned, and cut. I'm going to end up as meat on a plate somewhere, or canned.
My mind screamed at me to fight, to thrash, to beg, even to reveal that I wasn’t a proper meatgirl, that I was Amelie—but my body was too conditioned, too exhausted, too broken. All I could do was hang there, inverted and helpless, while the dark thrill uncoiled inside one last time, hot and shameful and unstoppable.
You wanted this. You begged for this. You're finally nothing.
Even as panic clawed at me, my cunt spasmed in my final desperate throes, my arousal seeping down my tummy in humiliating rivulets—now flowing toward my head in this upside-down position, a cruel mockery of everything I’d once craved.
I heard the line moving. Hooks clattered. Bodies swayed past me—clones, mostly, identical and silent. Some were already stunned, limp and heavy. Others still twitched faintly. The air smelled stronger now—coppery, warm, final.
A technician stepped close. He paused, lifting a handheld scanner to my left nipple tag. A soft beep, a red light flash. He glanced at the small screen.
“MG-V-001,” he said flatly, confirming the ID. “Surplus. Inventory matches. Proceed to bleed-out.”
The stun wand pressed against my exposed side—cold metal, humming faintly, the brief discharge of static electricity crackling as it touched my skin.
The wand pressed harder.
I waited for the jolt.
For the darkness.
For the end.
And somewhere deep inside—god forgive me—I felt a twisted, final surrender. This was what I'd chased. This was what I'd become. Now really just another meatgirl and about to be processed.
Reprieve at the Edge
The stun wand pressed harder against my side—cold metal humming with charge. I braced for the jolt that would drop me, for the blackness that would swallow me, for the hooks that would carry me down the line to bleed-out and beyond. My body trembled, stretched taut on the prep bay hook, ankles bound high, hood sealed tight. Drool ran from the gag. Tears soaked the fabric inside. Fear was everything now—total, suffocating, absolute.
This is the end. No more tests. No more reprieves. I'm surplus. Used up. Meat.
The technician's voice was flat, mechanical. "MG-V-001. Donor surplus. Authorize stun and transfer to bleed station."
I waited.
The wand stayed pressed. But the jolt never came.
Instead, a low voice—different, familiar, urgent—cut through the hum of machinery.
"Hold. This one's flagged for rerouting."
The technician paused. I heard the crackle of a radio.
"Reroute order confirmed. MG-V-001 diverted. Special collection. Authority override code transmitted."
My mind reeled. Reroute? It didn't make sense. Couldn't make sense. The stun wand pulled away. Hands—different hands—unhooked me from the ceiling. I was lowered, still bound, still hooded, still gagged. Someone supported my weight as my legs tried to buckle under me.
"Move to bay 7. Private transport incoming. No log entry. Your eyes only."
I was carried—quickly, quietly—down a side corridor, away from the main processing line. The sounds of the facility faded: the clatter of hooks, the low hum of saws, the wet drip of drain trays. We passed through a heavy door that hissed shut behind us. The air changed—cooler, quieter, less metallic.
I was set down on a padded surface. The hood was finally unzipped. Light stabbed my eyes. I blinked, trying to focus, my vision still blurry with tears and exhaustion.
A gloved hand reached for the tag on my left nipple—the one with the red "DISPOSAL" stripe.
"Tag removal required for the final disposal paperwork," a second voice said, calm and procedural. "Authority protocol. If she's rerouted, the original tag can't remain in the system."
A small tool clicked. A quick, sharp tug. The piercing ring came free with a sting that made me gasp around the gag. The tag dropped into a metal tray with a soft clink.
"MG-V-001 tag removed and logged as destroyed. Disposal is now complete on record."
I stared at the tray, at the small metal tag that had marked me for weeks—now just scrap. My stomach lurched. It's official. I'm gone. Erased. No trace left in the system. The relief was dizzying, but the terror still clung—because I didn't know what came next. Reroute could mean anything. A different lab. A different line. A different end.
Then the second hand moved to the gag and unbuckled it. The ball came out. I gasped, air burning my throat.
"Ollie…?"
His face came into focus—older, haggard, eyes bloodshot, jaw clenched. But he was there. Real. Not a dream.
"Hold still," he whispered, voice cracking. "I've got you."
His hands—shaking—worked the knots at my wrists, then my ankles. The ropes fell away. I collapsed forward; he caught me, crushing me against his chest. I felt his heart hammering as hard as mine.
"Marjorie set it up," he said, words tumbling out. "Backdated transfer. Fake disposal log. Authority override, she pulled a favour from an old contact here. The lab thinks you're rerouted for 'special rendering.' Carver's trail is dead. You're gone from the system. Officially processed."
I clung to him, sobbing into his shirt. Relief crashed over me so hard it hurt. I couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe. All I could do was hold on.
He helped me to my feet. My legs buckled again; he caught me.
"We have to move," he said. "Private van's waiting outside."
We slipped out a side exit into the loading yard. A plain black van idled in the shadows—no markings, no logos. Matt was behind the wheel. He gave a quick nod, eyes flicking nervously toward the main building.
Ollie helped me into the back. No crate. No hooks. Just a blanket on the floor. He wrapped it around me, then climbed in beside me. The doors closed. The van pulled away—quiet, unremarkable, anonymous.
I curled against him, still trembling, still half-convinced this was a dream that would shatter any second.
"You came," I whispered.
"I never stopped looking," he said, voice thick. "I never stopped trying."
The van drove on. The facility shrank in the rear view mirror. The nightmare receded.
And for the first time in months, I let myself believe I might actually be free. Even if the pull of the ropes, the hook, the darkness still whispered inside me. Even if part of me—so help me—would always ache to go back. But not tonight. Tonight I was in Ollie's arms. And that was enough.
Aftermath of the Rescue
Matt drove straight back to the old shop—through the quiet streets, and down the back alley. Ollie helped me out of the van, wrapped in the blanket, my legs still weak. He carried me up the back stairs—every creak familiar, every smell like coming home after a war. Matt stayed downstairs to lock up. Ollie brought me straight into our apartment and laid me gently on our bed.
Only then did he remove the hood.
His face was older, tired, eyes red-rimmed but fierce with relief and guilt all at once.
"You're safe," he whispered, fingers trembling as he unbuckled the gag. "Marjorie arranged everything. The disposal was on paper. MG-V-001 no longer exists in the system. Carver's trail ends here."
I tried to speak. My jaw ached. My voice was a rasp. "Carver…?"
"She thinks you're gone," he said. "The truck delivered you along with a full load of clones to the rendering plant. They handled the entire batch, and your tag was logged as disposed of. So she has no reason to look anymore."
As far as the authorities were concerned, MG-V-001 had been processed alongside a batch of clones at the rendering facility. The disposal log was airtight. Carver's trail was dead. There was no need to hide anymore.
Tears spilled down my cheeks. Relief crashed over me so hard it hurt. I couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe. All I could do was cling to him.
Ollie cut the last of the ropes. My limbs flopped, useless after weeks of suspension. He gathered me into his arms—gentle, almost reverent—and held me against his chest.
"I thought I'd lost you," he said, voice cracking. "I thought I'd let this go too far."
I pressed my face into his shirt, breathing him in. The first familiar smell in months.
"You did, so did I," I whispered. "But I'm still here."
He pulled back just enough to look at me—really look.
I swallowed, the guilt I'd carried for weeks rising again. "Ollie… I'm sorry. For everything. For pulling Matt in, for letting Judy take over, for leaving you alone while I chased this… this darkness. It got out of hand. I got out of hand. I really regret it all."
He was quiet for a long moment, his arms still around me, but his breathing had changed—deeper, slower, as though he was gathering something inside himself before letting it out.
"I have to tell you something too," he said finally, voice low and rough, almost reluctant. "Something I've been carrying since… since you were gone from me for so long."
I lifted my head from his chest, searching his face. His eyes were distant, shadowed with guilt.
"While I was running the new shop," he continued, "those weeks—months—when you were… away… I felt it. The emptiness. Not just missing you as my wife. Missing… my meatgirl. The one who let me bind her, use her, make her nothing but an object for me. I missed that part of us. Badly."
He swallowed, his hands tightening slightly on my back.
"At first, I told myself it was nothing. That I could wait. That it was wrong to even think about it. But the shop was full of them—clones, perfect, identical, hanging there every night after closing. And one evening… I made a mistake."
His voice dropped even lower.
"I went to the storeroom to check inventory. One of them was positioned exactly like you used to be—same hook, same ropes, same hood. In the dim light, I convinced myself it was you. That somehow you'd been brought back without me knowing. I took her down, carried her to the back room, and… I used her. Hard. The way I used to use you. I told myself it was just once. Just to take the edge off. But it wasn't."
He looked away, shame etched into every line of his face.
"It became a habit. Not every night, but often enough. I'd close up, go into the storeroom and pick one—always the same position, always hooded—and I'd bind her tighter, fuck her, make her take everything I wanted to give you. And the whole time… I imagined it was you. Your body, your moans, your surrender. It was the only way I could feel close to you when you were gone."
A long silence stretched between us.
"I hated myself for it," he said finally. "Every time I finished, I'd leave her hanging again and go home alone, feeling sick. Knowing I'd betrayed you, even if you weren't here to see it. Knowing I'd used something that wasn't you to fill the hole you left."
He looked back at me, eyes wet.
"I'm sorry, Amy. I'm so fucking sorry."
I stared at him, my own guilt and regret suddenly mirrored in his confession. We had both broken things while the other was gone. Both chased shadows of what we'd lost. Both used others to try to recapture what we craved.
And yet… hearing it didn't shatter me the way I thought it would. Instead, something inside me loosened—a knot I hadn't realized I was carrying. I reached up, cupped his face in my hands.
"I forgive you," I whispered. "Because I understand. I did the same thing. I let Judy and poor Matt take me further than I ever should have gone. I forgot you were waiting. I forgot we were supposed to be in this together."
He closed his eyes, a shudder running through him.
“I don’t want to lose you again,” he said.“You won’t,” I told him. “But… if we’re going to do this—really do this—we do it together. No more hiding. No more pretending with strangers. It has to be just us.”
He opened his eyes, searching mine.“Just us,” he echoed, voice rough with emotion.
I leaned in and kissed him—slow, deep, tasting salt and relief and the promise of something new.
That night I slept in our bed—his arms around me, warm and real. For the first time in months, I didn’t dream of hooks or crates or red disposal tags. I didn’t dream of anything at all. Just darkness, quiet, and the steady beat of his heart against my back.
For the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel like I was falling.
I felt like I was finally safe.
And for now… that was enough.