Holiday Party By LR Marge Hunter had to admit that Holly Van Evert's estate was a fabulous place to work. There were indoor tennis courts, two swimming pools, a health spa and an air-conditioned stable for thoroughbred horses. Every Monday a van from International Meats delivered a dozen beautiful young women, and the variety was delightful: voluptuous girls and slender girls, ranging from tall to petite, with every color of hair and every shade of soft, gleaming skin. Marge realized that most head housekeepers would have given their right arms to handle such gorgeous livestock. But the young Mrs. Van Evert, widow of the late Ronald Van Evert, went through girls the way most people went through potato chips. Several nights a week, with no dinner guests at all, she had a fresh girl butchered for her own dinner, which might be one cut of crotch meat or some tenderloin. What did Widow Van Evert do with all this uneaten girl? The kitchen assistant, Richard, packed the leftover meat into coolers and loaded the coolers into the panel truck and delivered them to homeless shelters and soup kitchens throughout the city. And now that the holiday season was here, Holly would provide live girls at free banquets for the poor and homeless. Every year the newspapers and TV stations interviewed Holly, and showed a girl roasting deliciously over a bed of coals while homeless families looked on with anticipation. It was 12:30 Friday afternoon, the day before Christmas. Marge sat in the mansion staff lounge with Roger, the new gardener, while they finished their lunch break. At one o' clock Holly would hold another dull holiday party for Housekeeping. Roger, a lanky young man, stretched out his legs and ate a chocolate bar. "I'm all for helping the less fortunate," Marge said. "Poor people deserve to eat, although I'm not real clear why they deserve to eat better than working people. Of course Holly inherited everything when old Van Evert died, so she wouldn't really understand that, would she?" "I think of those bums who sleep on the sidewalk sinking their teeth into a rump or a nice thigh or a soft tit," Roger said, "when my wife and I settle for arm cuts most nights and thigh on Saturday." "I'm not saying Jim and I live badly," Marge said. "It's just offensive to have fine meat wasted when it wouldn't cost a thing to toss it our way." Marge and her husband owned a pet girl of their own, which they called Kit. It was a delicate Asian animal with spotless porcelain skin and lustrous black hair. Marge loved to unwind after work by grinding the girl?s pretty face into her crotch, and touching an electric needle to the girl's brown nipples and moist clit. With each jerk of pain Kit's mouth would convulse delightfully. But it was difficult to imagine having enough money to buy twelve girls every week. Marge and Jim usually owned a girl for at least a full year, and then stored the meat in their freezer. After rinsing her coffee cup in the sink, Marge visited the kitchen to work out details for the Christmas Eve banquet, which Holly would host that evening for more than fifty people. The enormous kitchen was bustling - assistants chopped vegetables and stacked dishes and hurried in and out of the pantry. Three luscious girls were being butchered for the spectacular feast. One smooth headless body hung from a meat hook, the belly hollowed out, and on a big cutting table another girl was being cut to pieces by two cooks. The third animal had just been beheaded in the steel killing tub, and its creamy limbs were still quivering. A young woman in bloodstained clothes opened the firm belly and scooped warm guts into a plastic barrel. Three pretty heads rested beside the drain, their eyes rolled up, and the mouths were twisted into comical expressions. Two more naked girls knelt on the counter a few feet away, with their eyes down and their lovely arms manacled behind their backs. They would be cleaned and spitted today, roasted whole for the late-evening dinner. Marge spotted Joanne, the heavyset chief cook, barking orders to an assistant. Joanne saw Marge approaching and shook her head with a weary smile. "One of these years this damn holiday will kill me," Joanne said. "How's it going?" Marge asked. "That new kid is taking forever to get the girls killed and cleaned, but she started early so the meat's pretty much on schedule. The side dishes will get there. Jimmy is out sick so don't even ask about the desserts." "We got the chairs, the decorations and the centerpieces all set," Marge said. "The serving and cleanup crews will get here at five." "Could you hang around until three, in case we need you?" Joanne asked. "Your Christmas party could be more fun this year.? "Why, what is it? Come on, tell me." "You'll see," Joanne answered, with a mysterious smile. "Now you better go." The housekeeping staff was already waiting for Holly in the front parlor. On a small table was the expected bowl of punch, and a neat stack of identically wrapped gifts. Great, Marge thought. None of the staff looked terribly excited. There were five others besides Marge: Louise the secretary and bookkeeper, two housekeepers, Roger the gardener, and Stephen, the elderly chauffeur. Holly Van Evert entered late, as usual, wearing a red-and-white holiday sweater that bared one of her gleaming shoulders. She was a beautiful woman, thirty-two years old, with a soft curved figure and a lovely face. Beside her, on a short leash, walked a stunning nude girl. Marge couldn't remember when Holly had ever brought a slave to the Christmas party, and this one was a real beauty. It had wavy dark hair, gathered on one side of its head, and a pretty face with dark eyes. It wore lipstick and eye makeup, which made it even more breathtaking. Holly stopped beside the punch table, and the girl stood brazenly naked beside her, smiling at everyone, with its gleaming arms fastened together behind its back. The girl's dusky skin was incredibly smooth and perfect, as if a lustful scientist had manufactured an artificial girl and coated it with a supple form of plastic. The scrumptious tits were round and full, a little low on the rib cage, with quarter-sized areolae and prominent nipples. Below the animal's creamy white belly was a plump crotch, shaven smooth for cooking. The shiny thighs showed a perfect balance between curved muscle and a sheath of fat, and as Holly turned the girl for display, Marge ogled a ripe but firmly shaped rump. "Hello, everyone," Holly said brightly. "This year, as you can see, I brought a special treat to our party - this is Carrie, and we're going to use it for a little game." Holly held up a large crystal goblet, which was filled with small strips of paper. "On each slip in this glass we have typed two cuts of Carrie's meat," Holly continued. "One paper says 'breast, thigh,' another says 'arm, rump' and so forth. And one slip shows the grand prize - it says 'cunt filet.' Wouldn't you say your cunt should be the grand prize, Carrie?" The slave girl laughed. "Yes, ma'am, I would say that," Carrie replied. "Now each of you draws a slip of paper," Holly said. "Then you write your name on that part of Carrie with a black marker. And whoever draws the cunt gets a second slip too. After Carrie is all labeled with your names, the kitchen will butcher it and you take home the pieces you won!" The staff cheered and clapped. Marge and Roger grinned at each other in amazement. Naturally the atmosphere during the girl-meat drawing was quite festive. Each less preferred cut was paired with something more delectable. Roger, for example, held the girl's creamy hip and wrote his name both on its left calf and its right tenderloin. Carrie laughed with the partygoers as the drawing progressed. Jenny, one of the two housecleaners, was a mentally handicapped young woman with thick ruddy features. When she drew "cunt filet" from the goblet she read it slowly to herself and then began hopping up and down with excitement. People hugged her affectionately as she clapped her rough hands and squealed "cunt for dinner, cunt for dinner!" On her second drawing Jenny drew "breast, thigh" and everyone laughed with delight at her good fortune. Jenny uncapped the black marker with intense concentration. She was quite proud of her ability to write many words, so everyone was careful to let her proceed without help. Jenny stepped over to Carrie and clutched the girl's right tit. Carrie flinched in pain and then laughed with everyone else. Giggling and licking her lips over the handful of smooth meat, Jenny set her tongue and carefully printed her name on the mouth-watering breast. Her grip left red marks on Carrie's boob. Next Jenny stroked a curved thigh and labeled it for herself. Finally she felt the mounds of soft meat in the girl's crotch, and grinned with a little coo of appreciation. At Holly's suggestion Jenny wrote her name on Carrie's belly, and then drew an arrow to the juicy cunt filet. When Marge drew "arm, rump" she made a production of slipping up the sleeve of Holly's sweater and preparing to write on the soft inviting arm of her employer. "Let's get this babe cooked," Marge growled, and everybody laughed. It was her well-known joke that Holly was the best girl-meat in the house. "Marge!" Holly barked, with a delighted laugh. She rolled her eyes and drew Marge's hand to Carrie's right arm, which felt satiny and cool. Marge considered herself a practiced judge of girl-meat, whether it was alive or dead, and as she wrote her own name she was pleased with both the arm and the smooth juicy rump. She couldn't resist looking into the slave girl's eyes as she pushed two fingers into its pussy. Carrie closed its eyes and panted softly, with a smile of lust. Marge sniffed and tasted the musky girl-juice on her fingers. After the drawing Holly shared a Christmas toast, and even gave a sip of champagne punch to the slave girl before escorting it to the kitchen for butchering. The household staff found a new holiday spirit in their celebration - they laughed and joked with each other and opened their presents, which turned out to be expensive watches engraved with the words "my personal thanks, Holly Van Evert." The afternoon passed so quickly and enjoyably for Marge that it was five o' clock before she knew it. "This has been great," she said, "but I'd better get going." "Great party," Roger said, sipping his fourth glass of punch. "Holly definitely caught the holiday spirit, didn't she?" "I was pretty much in shock," Marge said, putting down her glass. "Sometimes people do change!" The big kitchen was quiet when Marge went downstairs at three o'clock, since the cooks and assistants were attending their own Christmas party. Cuts of tender, white-skinned girl-meat were arranged on the center table. Thigh steaks, arms, calf slices, ribs, flank steaks, breasts, ribs, rump roasts, tenderloin, and plump crotch filets were all grouped on large ceramic trays, ready to cook. Heads, guts, and stripped carcasses were heaped in a plastic trash bin. The two spitted girls lay on another table, their soft limbs bound with wire, their bellies and cunts filled with stuffing, and steel rods thrust down their throats and up their rectums. Carrie's lovely head lay on another table, staring into space, with its tongue protruding between the soft lips. The pieces of its luscious body were packaged on styrofoam trays, enclosed in clear plastic wrap. Both breasts and upper thigh cuts were missing, and so was the cunt: Jenny must have taken her girl-meat. A smooth severed arm bore Marge's name, along with a delectable mound of sliced rump. Smiling and humming a Christmas carol to herself, Marge drove home with her dinner. She and Roger would share some grilled rump, she thought, with a bit of baked arm for their pet girl. A few snowflakes drifted before the headlights, and as her mouth watered with hunger, Marge reminded herself that she had much to be thankful for this holiday season. By LR