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from The Best of the Best Meat Erotica
I hate mornings like this, mornings where you wake up so horny that if your cunt was a hand, it'd be a clenched fist. I hate it because I can't relieve myself of the tension, even rising early the way I do. I can't afford to. I can't lose time to the sun.
So I throw on some clothes, grab my socks and work boots, and quietly steal into the kitchen. I don't want to wake Annie; she can sleep for a time yet. What needs to be done can start with me.
A quick breakfast of toast and coffee, and I'm out the door and down the stairs. Our shop is a stone's throw away, the walk-in basement under our old Pennsylvania German row house. Good thing it's close--time's fleeting. Today's our last chance to work meat magic.
Magic, that's what I feel every time I jiggle the key free of the lock and step into our shop. The white plaster walls, the glass-front refrigerators, and deli display cases I've known all my life. They haven't changed an iota. But what has changed is that it's mine. All mine. Finally.
I go into our workroom and run the tap. Water sputters and the pipes rattle and I wash my hands knowing I'll have to call the plumber soon. We were lucky we made it through the winter with just air in the pipes.
Later, though. That can wait until later. I've got pots to boil, pans to rinse and meat to grind, and I've got to get it done before the chill of the morning fades.
I fill two big pots with water--it's the first step to the last pan of the season--and while I wait for them to boil, I wash loaf pans. Not bread loaf sized, but longer, long enough that a "half a panhaas" would roughly match your average banana bread.
At the sink, I think about our meats. Ack du lieber, do we Pennsylvania Germans have meats! Dinner sausage, plump and filling. Smoked sausage, perfect for stews. Sweet bologna and Lebanon bologna, lunchmeats fermented to a rich, smoky perfection. Ring bologna so good you'll never again eat that crap they try to pass off as meat at that kiosk in the mall.
I think about how busy this weekend will be. Everyone knows the weather's warming fast, bringing scrapple season to its annual end. I've planned a third more meat than usual, anticipating the demand.
While the pots work their way to the boiling point, I clean shop, sweeping the floor and wiping countertops. It's mindless work, so mindless that my thoughts wander to Annie. Sweet, luscious Annie.
I think about how her slip-of-a-willow body bows before my trunk of a butch body, about the softness of her breasts, their petite fullness, their always-ready-to-respond nipples, nipples that I know have gone hard when I've not yet touched them just by the way Annie moans. Then there's that soft, sparse tuft of hair between her legs and the sweet cleft that leads me to her delicious wetness. I think about the bud of joy that perches there, waiting for me to coax Annie's pleasure.
God, she's beautiful. From head to toe and everything in between, Annie is beautiful. I never tire of wanting her.
And I want her so badly that it's all I can do to put the pig's knuckles to the pot when the water finally boils. It's all I can do to dash to the house, climb back into bed, and slip my arms around her. By the time I start to roam her body, the crotch of my jeans are damp from anticipation.
Later, when I pack and tuck myself back together, I think of my wet jeans. I tell myself we'll have a lot more than just the smell of cooking meat rising in our midst. I pat my crotch and smile, already set for more.
Making scrapple is a long process. After the meat boils for a couple of hours, you have to remove it from the water and let it cool thoroughly. You set the water aside--it's now a reserve broth--and you find other stuff to do. Typically, I work in the smokehouse while Annie contacts various farmer families for goods that today's younger generations don't have time to make from scratch anymore--chow-chow, pickled red beet eggs, pepper cabbage, and shoo-fly pies (dry or wet-bottomed, but let's not go there).
It's late morning before Annie and I actually get things going but once the meat's cool, we swing into action. I strip the pig's knuckles and chop up lots of lean pork shoulder. Annie measures and mixes the cornmeal and spices, paying special attention to the pepper. With our recipe, it all comes down to the pepper.
I struggle to concentrate on my work. It's not easy with Annie so close. I'm aware of every nuance of her body as she moves. Her breasts dance as she stirs the dry measures and the cool air of our shop keep her nipples enticingly erect. Even the skirt she wears tempts me, clinging suggestively in all the right spots. I'm all too aware that I'm all of three steps away. It wouldn't take much to step behind her, stick my hand under that hem, and find a lush, warm paradise.
Annie's so magically distracting that I almost cut the wrong species of knuckle. But not a moment too soon, I finish my chopping and I return the meat to the broth. Impishly, I wonder if Grandpa Nonnie ever felt distracted by Grandma Nonnie when they made meat here in the shop in their younger days. Did he ever drop his work to cop a feel? It's a little hard to imagine, what with their conservative Lutheran mores, but then they were married for over sixty years and Grandpa never lost that twinkle for his wife.
We're generations apart, Grandpa Nonnie and me, and that distance made it hard to become a butcher. I had to convince him that a woman could do the job. Especially a woman like me--stout and butch and as pig-headed as any man.
Well, stout and pig-headed, anyway. See, with grandpa's generation, it does no good to mention the butch part.
But butchering? Why, butchering was men's work. Grandma was only a helpmate until enough male offspring could pull their weight in the business. And my working for Grandpa Nonnie only happened because I nagged him into it after my last brother left for college. Eventually, I got the store, but only by default. No man in the family ever stepped forward to take over; Grandpa finally became too frail to keep going; time ran its course.
Annie turns the burners down a notch, ready to add the dry mixture to the broth. I lift the bowl over the pot while she shushes the stuff into the pot. It's close work and I can smell her hair from here. Its florals mingle with the dry scent of peppered cornmeal and the rising steam of meat, merging into an enticing aroma of promise. It's as if her body promises one thing while the meat mixture promises another. I become hungry for both.
But I must curb my appetites for a few minutes more. We must watch over this newly mixed brew like shepherds over their flock.
This is the delicate stage of making meat.
We stir, turning the heat lower and lower still, striving for the right temperature. We'll know it when we reach it. The mixture will slow cook on its own without scorching.
When it reaches the correct low heat, we cover the pots. I reach for Annie and take her in my arms. We have twenty minutes.
I kiss Annie, roughly, hurriedly. I want to get to the good stuff quickly, but I move slowly enough to appreciate how her slender tongue flickers against the flat of my broad beast of a tongue. I pull her shirt up as I kiss her, stuffing it under her armpits to free her breasts. Her breath catches in her mouth as the air hits them, she moans when my hands cup and caress them. All the while, we kiss.
God, her tits are wonderful. They fit perfectly in my hands, their flesh just soft enough to give under my fingers, each nipple so hard that it's almost torment, deciding whether to keep kissing Annie's mouth or to move to those rosy tips.
The nipples win out and I'm greedy when I latch on. I suck hard, hungrily, while teasing the other with mischievous pinching. Annie moans and her hands go to my hair. She tries to run her fingers through it, wants to wrap it around her grip, but it's too short. I'm too butch.
Annie presses in as close as she can get to my hunched-over body. She's so horny. She wants to grind against me, but I'm sucking and pinching and I want to feel her writhe a little while longer before I go lower. I torment the other nipple with nibbles that progress towards biting.
"Oh please!" she pleads, barely able to speak. She's so ripe!
I pull away from her nipple. "Is that Oh please, I want more? Or Oh please, make me come?"
Annie whimpers. It's too hard a choice.
I make it for her. I slide down her torso, lifting her skirt as I travel. As I kneel before her, her sweet cleft greets me. Full and inviting, it's swollen with fleshy desire.
My own cunt pulses at the sight of Annie's arousal and as I put my tongue to her clit. Her wet aroma overtakes my senses, mixing with the wafting smell of meat that simmers to perfection.
I slip two fingers into Annie as I tongue her and find that she's simmering to perfection as well. Her slit is slippery, welcoming, and her clit rises hard against my tongue. I work my fingers steadily and she opens wide for me. I slip a third finger in, filling her, all the while savoring the smell of her, of scrapple, of all things cooking.
Annie pants, heavily, and I know I'll being able to bring her off quickly. My fingers are a steady pressure inside her. My tongue to her clit is like a hummingbird at a flower.
Then it happens--Annie comes. And when Annie comes, my whole world stops.
I find myself holding my breath as she pitches over the edge, as I feel her cunt grabbing at my fingers, sense her legs shaking and weakening, hear her voice shrill with surrender. I keep my tongue busy to prolong her orgasm. Sometimes, if I do it right, I can make her throb inside and quiver outside for what seems like forever. This time, I do it so good that she turns to mush.
When she's done, when I've pulled the last contraction from her, I rise up and I take my dear Annie in my arms. I kiss her again, bringing a taste of her success to her lips.
While she savors it, I reach for the stove and turn off the burners. It's time to let everything cool. But only slightly.
Now the busiest part of the meat making happens. We have to spoon the thickened slop into the pans. Because our pots are large, we can't simply pour out the way you might with a small, home-cooked batch. Because we don't use preservatives--and this is why we can't do scrapple year-round--we have to ladle quickly and cool the scrapple before it can spoil.
For all the heat we cooked up between us in the kitchen, we set about to this task as if we hadn't had a libidinous thought in our heads all day. Silently, we work as a team, efficiently ladling spoonful after spoonful from our pots until each pan holds the requisite amount of meat mixture.
When we've filled a dozen pans, we "bounce" them. We slam each pan a couple of times against the countertop to get the air out, to help the scrapple settle into the thick brick it's meant to become. Bouncing is a noisy process--more of a pounding really--but when you see the scrapple close ranks around a busted air pocket, you know a good pan is in the making.
We pour and bounce three times before we're done and, just before we start cleaning up, I stick the last pan of scrapple into the fridge.
"Why are you doing that?" Annie asks.
"You'll see."
I say no more and Annie knows me well enough to guess I have something up my sleeve. Well, something up somewhere, that is.
We do the dishes. Annie scrubs, I dry and set away. That way I can ogle her while she concentrates on the spic and span of clean up. I admire how her lean arms flex as she scours, how her breasts jiggle while she works. I love how that skirt of hers sculpts the curves of her body, accentuating her finest features. I love how hot she looks in the kitchen, even when she wipes the sweat from her brow.
Especially when she wipes the sweat from her brow.
God, I'm right back where I was when I was stripping meat off the bone and, again, I want to interrupt her. I want to take her eyes off her work and put them on me. I want to see them flutter shut when I play with her nipple, when I press my thigh between her legs. I want to kiss and caress her into an arousal so obvious that she'll beg for relief.
But I can't. Not yet. I have something else in mind. Patience, I tell myself, is a virtue. A virtue that, soon enough, I can turn to vice. Annie finishes washing and empties the sink of soapy water. I check the cooling pans. They're almost ready for the refrigerator, which means the solitary pan I stashed there should be far enough along. Good thing, too, because I'm ready. I can't wait another minute. I take the pan from the fridge and, bringing it to the countertop, I inspect it. It's cool, it can't burn, and its contents haven't fully set either.
Perfect.
"Come here, baby."
The words are telling. Annie furrows her eyebrows as she complies. She knows I'm about to initiate something.
"Whatever are you--"
She doesn't finish her question because I grab her by the hair and drag her over to the pan.
"Put your hands in it," I tell her.
"Huh?"
"Like the Hollywood Walk of Fame."
"Oh."
Perplexed, surprised, Annie complies. She puts her hands into the pan, then giggles, "It's squishy!"
"Just like you're going to be, baby," I predict from behind her.
Annie sighs when she hears me unzip my pants. As she awaits what I'm packing, I raise her skirt up and push her panties to one side. Deftly, I slip it to her. Eagerly, she takes it and within a few strokes, she fulfills my prediction.
God, I love fucking Annie. The wet sounds of her cunt as it slobbers all over my big dick, the way she squirms and squeals when I grind my meat--damn, if it doesn't make me feel beastly.
But good lover that I am, I reach around and find her clit. I match my strokes, hand and dick, so they work in tandem. I want to bring her off big-time and, when I'm done, I'll make her kneel and suck my cock. I'll enjoy watching her mouth at work. I'll let her burrow her scrapple-covered fingers under the harness, find my clit, and do me one better.
Such thoughts make me loose it and I ram Annie, hard and fast. She squirms as if it's too much for her.
"Come on, baby. Take it," I urge.
Banging her this hard, it's difficult to do her clit just the way she likes it, but the rhythm has its own reward: it's so wild, it can make Annie come. Gutteral sounds escape her now, and I know that with a touch more intensity, she'll lose it.
I reach for her hair. I get just enough in my hand to pull her head back, to bend her back towards me. She's pinned now, between my hands and my dick. It's rough. It strains her, I can tell.
That's when the most wonderful thing happens: Annie's entire body shudders. Orgasm rakes her--not her clit or her hole, but her entire body. The strain is so intense, so overwhelming that she has nowhere to go with it except into orgasm. As much as she can, Annie bucks beneath me.
All the while, her hands are still in the pan.
As her orgasm subsides, I slow my pace. I let my grip go and allow Annie to relax. I watch my dick work back and forth. Juice covered, it glistens magnificently. It's all so leisurely now.
My mind drifts and next thing I know I'm thinking about stomach casings. Yes, stomach casings. Now that scrapple season's ending, folks will want their natural casings. They'll want to cook their meat and mashed potatoes in them to make what we call Pig's Stomach. If we're being honest, that is. When we're serving it up to squeamish guests, we fake it and call it French Turkey.
Stomach casings. I can't believe I'm thinking about stomach casings. I shake the thought away. After all, it's still scrapple season and I have Annie quivering before me. I want to enjoy the last pan of the season--and all who come with it.
Whenever possible, Debra Hyde writes erotica that challenges a reader's boundaries. Her fiction has appeared in Best Women's Erotica 2001, Herotica 7, and Strange Bedfellows, with upcoming appearances in Best Year's Mammoth Erotica, Erotic Travel Tales, and Noirotica 4. She writes a column about books (erotic, natch) for Scarlet Letters, maintains the sexuality weblog Pursed Lips, and looks to expand her own boundaries as often as possible.
more information about The Best of the Best Meat Erotica
email Debra Hyde
visit the Pursed Lips website
Last Pan of the Season © 2002 Debra Hyde
The Best of the Best Meat Erotica cover © 2002 Shane Luitjens/Torquere Creative
The work featured in this journal is under copyright protection
by the individual authors and artists and may not be duplicated
or reprinted without their permission.
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