Meatsticks and Marshmallows

Misha slammed the hatch of her communal pod shut, the metal clanging echoing like a scream in the cramped, dimly lit space. Tears streamed down her dust-streaked cheeks, blurring the faces of her parents frozen in stunned silence below. Their words stung more than the stale, recycled air she’d been breathing all nineteen years of her life. “Ungrateful child,” her father had called her, “running away from the bounty of fungi while those heretics gorge on forbidden flesh.” Forbidden flesh. The very words made her stomach growl in rebellion.

For generations, her people had dwelled in these subterranean tunnels, worshipping the giant mushrooms that sustained them. Yet, Misha craved something more. Stories whispered in hushed tones by older children painted vivid pictures of a time before the Great Blight – a time of sunshine, wind, and most importantly, juicy, sizzling meat. Her parents, devout Jainists who believed they were spared for their veganista ways, scoffed at such tales. But tonight, after yet another lecture on the virtues of fungus, the pain, the yearning, had become too much to bear.

Misha navigated the labyrinthine corridors on autopilot, fueled by adrenaline and a flicker of hope. Escaping the community was no easy feat – the guards patrolled diligently, their faces grim under the flickering bioluminescent lights. But Misha, small and swift like a desert mouse, slipped past them unnoticed. Soon, the familiar glow of fungal gardens faded, replaced by an unsettling darkness. Panic began to gnaw at her. Lost in the forgotten, uncharted tunnels, what her ancestors would have called sewers, she stumbled upon a grate covering a chasm. Curiosity, tinged with desperation, urged her forward. She pried it open, the rusty hinges moaning in protest. Below, a dank smell rose, a mix of earth and something else, unfamiliar but strangely enticing.

With a deep breath, Misha lowered herself down the rickety rope ladder. The air grew warmer, the smell stronger. It spoke of fire, of smoke, of…something unbearably delicious? Her heart hammered against her ribs. Could the stories be true? Was there really a world beyond her community, deeper within tunnels, a world of forbidden delights?

As she reached the bottom, the tunnel opened into a vast cavern. Her eyes widened in disbelief. Instead of the expected darkness, the cavern thrummed with vibrant light. Neon signs blazed, casting lurid hues on the cavern walls. Music, loud and unfamiliar, thumped through the air, rhythmically pulsing like the heartbeat of a sleeping giant. And from somewhere, the most intoxicating aroma wafted, an aroma that made her head spin and her mouth water. It was the smell she had dreamt of in her sleep, the smell of absolute pleasure.

Cautiously, Misha crept closer. The source of the light and the smell was a massive structure, unlike anything she had ever seen. Its smooth, curved walls seemed to thrum with an inner light, and the entrance was adorned with strange symbols that glimmered in the neon glow. Fear warred with curiosity, but the primal call of her empty stomach won. Gathering her courage, Misha pushed open the heavy door.

A wave of warmth and laughter washed over her. Inside, the monolith buzzed with life. People, unlike any she had ever seen, lounged on plush furniture, their faces illuminated by the neon signs. From a distance it looked like they were mostly naked, but upon closer inspection, many were wearing clothes unlike the drab tunics of her community, wisps of translucent smoke that barely masked the freedom and individuality beneath. And in their hands, they held…skewers? Skewers laden with sizzling, golden-brown globs of something?

Misha froze, overwhelmed by the sights, sounds, and smells. Suddenly, a booming voice startled her.

“Well, well, what have we here? A pretty little mouse looking has found the big glow, eh?”

Misha looked up to find a large man with a handlebar moustache and a Stetson hat grinning down at her. His eyes, twinkling with amusement, were warm and kind. Despite his imposing size, there was a twinkle in his eyes that put her at ease.

“Don’t be scared, sweetheart,” he continued, his voice a slow drawl. “Well, well, well, lil darlin’. Looks like you’ve stumbled into my neck of the woods. The name’s Radna Birshna, but everyone calls me R.B., and this here’s The Red Pill Lounge. Ya hungry?”

He held out a skewer, the aroma making Misha’s stomach growl even louder. Her mouth was moist, anticipation dribbling down her soiled garments. Hesitantly, she reached out and took it. The heat of it’s touch ignited a fire within her, making her body tingle with anticipation. She could feel every texture of the dripping flesh in her mouth, and it set her senses ablaze. This was not a mere fantasy, but a tangible reality that consumed her entirely.

R.B. drawled, his gaze lingering on her curves with a sly smile. “And let me tell ya, it’s always mighty fine here.” He leaned in close and whispered in her ear, sending shivers down her spine. “If you’re lookin’ for some real meat, just say the word and you can have your fill.”

Misha took a bite of the succulent meat, savoring every flavor and texture as it melted on her tongue. Her body trembled with pleasure as she chewed, overwhelmed by the intense sensations coursing through her. She couldn’t help but glance around the room, taking in the faces of those who had indulged in this feast, their bodies writhing with pleasure, laughter filling the air. With each bite, Misha felt herself becoming more alive, more free, her senses fully awakened and her desires unfurled. She knew in that moment, this was no ordinary meal – it was an experience that would forever change her life.

Paradise Found (Again and Again and Again)

Months melted into each other, each day a glorious symphony of sizzle and savor. Misha, barely recognizable from the scrawny waif who stumbled into The Red Pill Lounge, now sported a healthy roundness that earned her the affectionate nickname “Marshmallow.” Her once dull hair shone with a newfound vibrancy, her eyes sparkled with mischief and delight.

Her haven was a cozy nook carved into the cavern wall, adorned with fairy lights scavenged from forgotten corners. Its centerpiece was a salvaged screen, glowing with archived YouTube videos – a window to a lost world filled with sunshine, laughter, and endless possibilities. She’d spend hours devouring these digital morsels, mesmerized by the sight of rolling green hills, crashing waves, and animals she’d only read about in dusty old texts.

But the real magic happened at mealtimes. R.B., ever the showman, had transformed the resort’s kitchen into a wonderland of culinary delights. Each day brought a new adventure for her taste buds: succulent steaks marbled with fat, juicy ribs slathered in sticky barbecue sauce, plump sausages bursting with savory spices. The textures, the flavors – it was a revelation, a symphony of indulgence that made her forget the bland, repetitive fungus-based meals of her past.

With each passing week, Misha felt herself growing stronger, both physically and emotionally. The days were filled with laughter and camaraderie, spent exploring the hidden corners of the resort, learning R.B.’s colorful stories, and honing her skills. He’d noticed her natural agility and grace, and had begun training her in a series of “performances” for the “Milk Men” who would come to visit her little room regularly.

Misha wasn’t sure what the Milk Men did, or where they came from, but their visits were always the highlights of her day. Dressed in her fluffiest clothes, she’d execute a repertoire of whimsical routines: the Fluffy Bunny Hops, where she’d hop and twitch her nose with exaggerated cuteness; the Unicorn Twirls, a graceful pirouette with an imaginary horn held high; the Cuddly Koala Climb, a slow, deliberate ascent up a makeshift tree; and the pièce de résistance, the Marshmallow Pillow Roll, where she’d tumble and bounce amidst a pile of plush cushions, giggling uncontrollably.

She would tower over The Milk Men, their voluminous bodies glistening with oils mixed with sweat as they sat immovable in their carts. With each of her seductive performances, they would erupt, showering her with their deep growls and moans of pleasure. As she danced and swayed, their faces flushed with desire and their chests heaved with anticipation. Misha couldn’t help but feel a rush of power as she controlled these massive, masculine mountains of flesh with just her body and movements. And when they finished, eyes glazed over with sticky sweetness, they were wheeled out, leaving behind the lingering scent of musk and meat, R.B.’s husky voice would whisper in her ear, “You always bring the heat, Marshmallow. Keep it up.”

After each visit, the rewards followed: mountains of succulent meats, enough to make her stomach sing and her heart soar. It was a stark contrast to her parents’ insistence that all the meat was gone, and even if it wasn’t it was an abomination, consumed by those who caused the Great Blight. A nagging doubt began to sprout in her mind, a seed watered by the undeniable reality of her meat-filled paradise. Were her parents wrong? Or were they hiding something?

As R.B. spoke of his reckless past, Misha’s stomach pulsed with hunger for more of his seductive meat. She couldn’t resist any longer, the question burning on her lips. “R.B.,” she breathed, “my parents always told me meat was the cause of the Great Blight. How do you have so much?” The air crackled with tension as their eyes locked, the taste of forbidden porterhouses lingering on their tongues.

R.B.’s face remained an enigma, his smile beckoning me closer. The scent of his expensive cigar lingered in the air, mingling with the musk of his cologne. With a slow draw, he took another drag, the smoke enveloping us in a hazy cocoon. “There’s so much you don’t know,” he purred, his voice dripping with amusement. “But one thing is certain, the truth can be as seductive as it is delicious.”

His words lingered in the air, conjuring a storm of sensations within Misha. The innocence of her new life was tainted with the alluring hint of hidden secrets. As she surrendered to sleep that night, the memory of her parents’ stern expressions, laced with desire and apprehension, swirled with the heady scent of grilled meat, leaving her with an insatiable hunger to unravel the tangled web of truths and deceptions that consumed her existence.

Paradise Lust and Found?

Months drifted by in a blur, but as Misha grew, her world shrunk, becoming a cocoon of plush cushions and endless mountains of meat. Gone were the days of playful routines and frolicking about The Red Pill Lounge, hanging onto each of R.B.’s words as they dripped delicately from his mouth to her ear. Her size, her main source of pride, meant she could stay cozy all day, laying nestled in her fluffy nest, dreaming of unicorns and sunshine.

Unable to perform as she used to, she was now in charge of telling The Milk Men their bed-time stories as she helped cover them with oils and medicinal herbs, all the while feeding them special sweet nectars. Once they fell asleep, she’d ring the bell and have them carted away – as a reward she would be fed with even more extravagant feasts. Despite being immobile, she had everything she always dreamed of and more. One day, awoken from a meat-sweat induced slumber, a figure materialized beside her. He was everything the stories hadn’t prepared her for – tall, broad-shouldered, with eyes that shimmered like sapphires.

Dreamily, he lifted her and carried her to a new chamber. Soft music washed over her senses, and nimble fingers kneaded away every tension, sending waves of pleasure through her body. A sweet, intoxicating nectar dripped down her throat, painting a kaleidoscope of flavors on her tongue. As she drifted off, a blissful smile etched on her face, she had no idea the price of this indulgence.

Misha dreamfully awoke to find herself not at all comfortable, instead on a cool, hard, possibly metallic surface. As the smoke-filled haze of her dream slowly cleared, she saw saw a new scene before her. R.B., now sporting a garish pirate hat perched atop a towering beehive of hair, barked orders while figures in bloodstained aprons swarmed around the facility. Emotions surged through her as she struggled to recognize her surroundings and herself – a grotesque parody of the once nimble Marshmallow, her body hanging limply over the conveyor belt.

A small pinch on her neck was followed by a blissful numbness. Her gaze locked with R.B.’s, his bemusement turning to cold calculation. As darkness swirled around her again, his words echoed in her fading consciousness, “Sweet dreams, Marshmallow. You’ve brought smiles to many, and now it’s your turn to bring satisfaction.”

Where’s the Beef?

It had been several years since Misha disappeared. Her parents, numb to the reality of living in this subterranean dystopia, forgot about their wayward daughter and went on to have several other children. In the intervening years, whispers of a new restaurant, began to circulate. Its nautical theme and “meats of unimaginable delight” attracted curious crowds, including Misha’s parents. The years of guilt and grief after Misha had disappeared, had softened their hearts, leading them to abandon their militant veganism.

One evening, after months on the waitlist, they found themselves in the restaurant, seated before a dish called “Marshmallow Meatstick Melody.” The first bite was a revelation – layers of succulent meat seasoned to perfection, a melody of flavors they never thought possible. As they savored each morsel, oblivious to the dark secret behind its origin.

The chef came by to check on them. “Allow me to introduce myself, my name is R.B. How was everything?”

The parents looked up, startled by the presence of the chef. The man standing before them exuded an air of confidence, his eyes gleaming with a mysterious twinkle.

“It was… extraordinary,” Misha’s father replied, still savoring the lingering taste in his mouth. “We’ve never experienced anything quite like it.”

R.B. grinned, his grin stretching unnervingly wide. “I’m delighted to hear that,” he said, his voice dripping with a mix of satisfaction and intrigue. “Our restaurant aims to provide an unparalleled dining experience.”

Misha’s mother couldn’t help but ask the question that had been gnawing at her since they arrived. “What are these meats made of? They’re so unique and flavorful.”

R.B.’s gaze shifted for a moment, as if contemplating his next words. Finally, he leaned in closer, speaking in a conspiratorial tone. “Ah, that’s our little secret,” he whispered. “Only our most esteemed VIP guests are privy to the truth behind our exquisite dishes.”

Her curiosity piqued, Misha’s mother leaned forward, her eyes shining with anticipation. “Can you give us any hint? We’ve always wondered where such delicacies come from.”

R.B.’s smile widened further, revealing a row of perfectly white teeth. “Let’s just say our ingredients are the most unique and well-sourced anywhere in these catacombs,” he said cryptically.

Misha’s father furrowed his brow, sensing there was more to the story than met the eye. “Unexpected places? What does that mean?” he asked cautiously.

The chef chuckled softly, almost as if relishing in their curiosity. “Well, let’s just say our philosophy is rooted in the belief that nothing should go to waste,” R.B. replied mysteriously.

Misha’s mother exchanged a quick glance with her husband as they both tried to decipher his words. They couldn’t deny the allure of the flavors they had just experienced, and wanted more. They were full, but all they could think about was eating even more.

R.B. leaned back, his playful demeanor oozing with charm. His eyes darted around the room before he leaned in once again, his voice barely above a whisper. “I assure you, everything we serve is completely legal and complies with all regulations,” he reassured them, his tone laced with an undercurrent of secrecy.

Misha’s parents, their curiosity satisfied, but their now ravenous hunger enraged, asked if they could get seconds, and then thirds. “Unfortunately, each dish takes years to properly prepare. While we’ve run out of Marshmallow, can I interest you in Padmal Pie? It’s been said that her flavor is to DIE for!”

“Absolutely, they exclaimed.” The taste of their meal lingered on their palates, they became some of the restaurant’s most enthusiastic patrons, eating there most nights of the week.

“You know,” R.B. said with a sly smile one evening, “we have a very special arrangement for our most valued customers. Instead of leaving, we have some very special rooms in the back, if you wanted to stay with us for a while.”

Morale: R.B’s gots the meats!