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Four times a year we meet at the same secret location: a lavish isolated mansion in.... well, I'd better not say.
It's such a relief to know that there are other people in the world who share your personal fetish, in my case: a passion for the consumption of freshly-killed raw flesh.
The ritual is always the same. At 15 minutes to midnight the Master of Proceedings rings his bell, and robed in red we all shuffle into the temple.
The still-alive meat is then slowly paraded on a leash for all and sundry to inspect.
As the clock approaches the witching hour, the struggling and fearful meat is strapped to the altar, and to the groans and gasps of the eager-eyed congregation, its throat is cut from ear-to-ear.
The first gushes of blood are caught in our out-stretched goblets, as we greedily gather round.
After we have all finished downing our rich energizing tipple, it's time for the orgy of feasting to begin.
Teeth and fingers tuck in with wild abandon, snagging and tearing at the warm flesh.
Personally, I always home-in on the eyes. They are so sweet and juicy, and serve as an excellent appertif. Just a firm squeeze using the thumb and forefinger, and they just pop out. I love to stand back whilst savouring the squelchy texture of a warm eyeball and observe the other eaters in their riotous free-for-all bloodlust.
The tongue, the kidneys, the liver, the brain - almost every part of the body is worthy of passing over the taste buds.
The flush tissue around the genitalia is always particularly succulent.
And the heart, everyone laps up a slither of heart. Without doubt the most tasty portion of any fresh corpse.
Tonight's feast was one of our finest to date. A delicious specimen indeed.
Father Lockhart's initial misgivings about the ripeness of the meat were completely dispelled.
I tried to tell him beforehand that the flesh of a mature gypsy woman is nearly the closest thing to perfection there is, and by the end of the night, I'm glad to report that he was in total agreement.
I believe the meat's name was Ruby, a palm reader from Bucarest.
She was exquisite. A delicacy of the sweetest kind.
Everyone who attended left in high spirits, with their bellies full and their appetites well and truly quenched.
It's such a relief to know that there are other people in the world who share your personal fetish, in my case: a passion for the consumption of freshly-killed raw flesh.
The ritual is always the same. At 15 minutes to midnight the Master of Proceedings rings his bell, and robed in red we all shuffle into the temple.
The still-alive meat is then slowly paraded on a leash for all and sundry to inspect.
As the clock approaches the witching hour, the struggling and fearful meat is strapped to the altar, and to the groans and gasps of the eager-eyed congregation, its throat is cut from ear-to-ear.
The first gushes of blood are caught in our out-stretched goblets, as we greedily gather round.
After we have all finished downing our rich energizing tipple, it's time for the orgy of feasting to begin.
Teeth and fingers tuck in with wild abandon, snagging and tearing at the warm flesh.
Personally, I always home-in on the eyes. They are so sweet and juicy, and serve as an excellent appertif. Just a firm squeeze using the thumb and forefinger, and they just pop out. I love to stand back whilst savouring the squelchy texture of a warm eyeball and observe the other eaters in their riotous free-for-all bloodlust.
The tongue, the kidneys, the liver, the brain - almost every part of the body is worthy of passing over the taste buds.
The flush tissue around the genitalia is always particularly succulent.
And the heart, everyone laps up a slither of heart. Without doubt the most tasty portion of any fresh corpse.
Tonight's feast was one of our finest to date. A delicious specimen indeed.
Father Lockhart's initial misgivings about the ripeness of the meat were completely dispelled.
I tried to tell him beforehand that the flesh of a mature gypsy woman is nearly the closest thing to perfection there is, and by the end of the night, I'm glad to report that he was in total agreement.
I believe the meat's name was Ruby, a palm reader from Bucarest.
She was exquisite. A delicacy of the sweetest kind.
Everyone who attended left in high spirits, with their bellies full and their appetites well and truly quenched.
Ineedsleep wrote:
> Hey - these meetings are secret so you shouldn't be telling and save
> me an eyeball next time :)
I'll remember to save you one next time. I'll pop it in a jar of vinegar to keep it fresh. Pickled eyeballs are delicious.
> Hey - these meetings are secret so you shouldn't be telling and save
> me an eyeball next time :)
I'll remember to save you one next time. I'll pop it in a jar of vinegar to keep it fresh. Pickled eyeballs are delicious.
Hey - these meetings are secret so you shouldn't be telling and save me an eyeball next time :)
Wah!
Cool read though. :)
Cool read though. :)
Gravy. I'm still kinda hungry.
Good post.
Good post.
You still scare me but nice post
Nice post dude
Four times a year we meet at the same secret location: a lavish isolated mansion in.... well, I'd better not say.
It's such a relief to know that there are other people in the world who share your personal fetish, in my case: a passion for the consumption of freshly-killed raw flesh.
The ritual is always the same. At 15 minutes to midnight the Master of Proceedings rings his bell, and robed in red we all shuffle into the temple.
The still-alive meat is then slowly paraded on a leash for all and sundry to inspect.
As the clock approaches the witching hour, the struggling and fearful meat is strapped to the altar, and to the groans and gasps of the eager-eyed congregation, its throat is cut from ear-to-ear.
The first gushes of blood are caught in our out-stretched goblets, as we greedily gather round.
After we have all finished downing our rich energizing tipple, it's time for the orgy of feasting to begin.
Teeth and fingers tuck in with wild abandon, snagging and tearing at the warm flesh.
Personally, I always home-in on the eyes. They are so sweet and juicy, and serve as an excellent appertif. Just a firm squeeze using the thumb and forefinger, and they just pop out. I love to stand back whilst savouring the squelchy texture of a warm eyeball and observe the other eaters in their riotous free-for-all bloodlust.
The tongue, the kidneys, the liver, the brain - almost every part of the body is worthy of passing over the taste buds.
The flush tissue around the genitalia is always particularly succulent.
And the heart, everyone laps up a slither of heart. Without doubt the most tasty portion of any fresh corpse.
Tonight's feast was one of our finest to date. A delicious specimen indeed.
Father Lockhart's initial misgivings about the ripeness of the meat were completely dispelled.
I tried to tell him beforehand that the flesh of a mature gypsy woman is nearly the closest thing to perfection there is, and by the end of the night, I'm glad to report that he was in total agreement.
I believe the meat's name was Ruby, a palm reader from Bucarest.
She was exquisite. A delicacy of the sweetest kind.
Everyone who attended left in high spirits, with their bellies full and their appetites well and truly quenched.
It's such a relief to know that there are other people in the world who share your personal fetish, in my case: a passion for the consumption of freshly-killed raw flesh.
The ritual is always the same. At 15 minutes to midnight the Master of Proceedings rings his bell, and robed in red we all shuffle into the temple.
The still-alive meat is then slowly paraded on a leash for all and sundry to inspect.
As the clock approaches the witching hour, the struggling and fearful meat is strapped to the altar, and to the groans and gasps of the eager-eyed congregation, its throat is cut from ear-to-ear.
The first gushes of blood are caught in our out-stretched goblets, as we greedily gather round.
After we have all finished downing our rich energizing tipple, it's time for the orgy of feasting to begin.
Teeth and fingers tuck in with wild abandon, snagging and tearing at the warm flesh.
Personally, I always home-in on the eyes. They are so sweet and juicy, and serve as an excellent appertif. Just a firm squeeze using the thumb and forefinger, and they just pop out. I love to stand back whilst savouring the squelchy texture of a warm eyeball and observe the other eaters in their riotous free-for-all bloodlust.
The tongue, the kidneys, the liver, the brain - almost every part of the body is worthy of passing over the taste buds.
The flush tissue around the genitalia is always particularly succulent.
And the heart, everyone laps up a slither of heart. Without doubt the most tasty portion of any fresh corpse.
Tonight's feast was one of our finest to date. A delicious specimen indeed.
Father Lockhart's initial misgivings about the ripeness of the meat were completely dispelled.
I tried to tell him beforehand that the flesh of a mature gypsy woman is nearly the closest thing to perfection there is, and by the end of the night, I'm glad to report that he was in total agreement.
I believe the meat's name was Ruby, a palm reader from Bucarest.
She was exquisite. A delicacy of the sweetest kind.
Everyone who attended left in high spirits, with their bellies full and their appetites well and truly quenched.