<span style="font-weight: bold">Ambrosine</span><br/><br/>"You weren't half bad…” the Canid said. Licked his lips. “I can't wait to try eating you.”<br/><br/>“Please,” I whispered, begging with my eyes. I’d been a good fuck. I knew I’d been a good fuck. Soon, I’d be a good meal. His deep breath of my roasting scent told me that. But I didn’t have to<span style="font-style: italic">see</span>it. “Please?”<br/><br/>"No time for that,” he said, turning to Catherine’s other guests. “There's more important business to attend to."<br/><br/>I whimpered. My…<span style="font-style: italic">suffering</span>... mattered to him not at all.<br/><br/>Slowly, quiet save for the occasional<span style="font-style: italic">crackle</span>of flesh or<span style="font-style: italic">pop</span>or bursting fat, I<span style="font-style: italic">roasted</span>, and waited to die.<br/><br/>It didn’t happen. Magic or medicine… I lived, alive and aware inside a body in the slow agony of cooking.<br/><br/>Later - much, much later - slaves drew my body from the griddle. I<span style="font-style: italic">steamed</span>gently. Helplessly. They surrounded me with knives. For carving. Catherine drew a deep drink, watching us. Me. I doubted it did more than whet her appetite. Appetites. "Leave us,” she said. “This will be a more...intimate dinner.”<br/><br/>“Please, start wherever you like,” Catherine said. Inviting her guests to partake of us.<br/><br/>The lady vixen smiled at me, baring her teeth, sharp as knives. Bent, to brush her lips against my palm, as if I were a maiden and she a gentlefox at some grand ball. Her mouth closed over my knuckle. Bit. Ripped.<br/><br/>She’d eaten the ringfinger from my left hand.<br/><br/>How was I going to get married now? I wondered, as she chewed, roast-softened bone crunching between her powerful jaws. Swallowed, gulped, and moved on to my indexfinger. Working down my hands as I might devour chickenwings, messy and enjoyable. It didn’t<span style="font-style: italic">hurt</span>as much as being roasted. But once she was done, I’d never hold anything again. I tried to curl my fingers, protect them. The crisped flesh barely moved, and I saw her smile as she straightened and ate them anyway.<br/><br/>The wolf’s head obscured her. Licked and lapped the rich roastingjuices from my breasts. Bit. Tore. Ate. I’d only<span style="font-style: italic">had</span>them a few years, and now my femininity was his…<span style="font-style: italic">meal</span>. Gobblets of fat, roasted within my breasts, spattered and fell across my ruined chest. Together with his<span style="font-style: italic">drool</span>.<br/><br/>I know I don’t…<span style="font-style: italic">have</span>... my hands anymore, as tongue and teeth go to work between my thighs. It’s almost a relief, to not be so<span style="font-style: italic">stuffed</span>anymore. Till she begins to strip the soft flesh of my nethers in turn. I can feel it, flickering between ecstasy and agony, as my body leaks sex and roasting juices across her tongue in equal measure…