... You touch your pinkness, rubbing gently, your fingers becoming instantly wet, which you move up to your lips and lick, your eyes closing as you in...ale your own taste. You touch yourself again, deeper this time much to the delight of the throbs coursing my body, and offer your fingers to me. I lick them clean. You dance over, remove my linen shirt and unbuckle my belt, my shutter clicking open and closed all the time. You unbutton my jeans and unzip me. I lie down on the blanket and slip my. When you got called up for processing, there were no nice speeches. Either they sent a meat truck, or a message to report in somewhere. You did not have a choice. When your meat was wanted, they just turned up and collected it, or had you deliver yourself, and that was the end of it. There were no exceptions, not even the designer of some fancy meat processing machine. Television audiences had seen it all before. They would rather watch football, she thought ruefully, but here it was different.. More

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