Release Date: [07/19/2046]

Host: Jonathan Whittaker

[Intro Music Intro fades in, swells, and fades into Moroccan music. Water noises and shouts from street vendors can be heard in the background. ]

I stand in a narrow street, the walls covered with intricate geometric tiles. Water from a fountain bubbles noisily nearby. Vendors selling a variety of wares sit on rugs, their merchandise heaped into piles before them, call out to passersby like myself, trying desperately to attract their attention. I work my way through brilliantly dyed textiles, brass and copper cookware, knives, and then a bit further down, I find the spice merchants. Saffron, cummin, paprika, turmeric, and ginger lay in mountainous piles and the scents of roasting meat, orange blossom water, and mint tea is mixed with the daily call to prayer echoing from the minarets.

A bit further down the market I find the girls. There is a smattering of races and I see white brunettes with French blood, Chinese girls with their beautiful almond shaped eyes, dark skinned African beauties oiled and glistening, but most are Arab girls. Light, olive colored skin, dark hair and lustrous beauty. Some are sitting, others coupled together in sapphic orgies, each waiting for that moment when they are chosen to become someone’s meal. The vendor spies me, eagerly beckoning me over. Touch. Taste. Buy. I smiled and shake my head. I have an appointment, finding my way to the small cafe just a bit further down the alley. 

Moroccans are famously welcoming and the century old traditions of hospitality blend with modern Mediterranean and North African culture. I meet with Ahmed Anouar, the owner of Al-Shabab Ranch over a cup of Maghrebi mint tea. 



Anouar: The key, you understand, is the spice. There is Ras el Hanout, which literally translates to the ‘head of the shop’. Each of us has our own mix! Mine has over twenty spices, including cardamom, nutmeg, mace, allspice, cloves, cinnamon, ginger, chili peppers, coriander and saffron. Those are just the more common ones. The rest are secret! It creates a complex, signature flavor profile. Aromatic, warm, woody, and sweet. Like the girls themselves.



I nod my head. Anouar runs Morocco's largest meat ranch and he has promised to take me there before my dinner at his restaurant, Anir. The name is a nod to Morocco’s indigenous Amazigh heritage. We finish our tea in the cafe and I follow him out to his jeep for the forty minute drive to Al-Shabab. 

The complex is impressive. It borders the desert and over a dozen tall buildings stand against the heat. It is a massive operation with logistics. Trucks come in and out, some carrying supplies to feed the people living at the ranch, others to carry the girls to market. Anouar walks me in, showing me the operations side before taking me to the first of the pens.



The scent hits me first and I blink, my throat closing as my senses are forced to absorb the cacophony of smells. It is not unpleasant, but it is strong. It is like I am breathing Ras el Hanout. The place is saturated with it. I look out at the girls. They are laughing. Talking. Relaxing. All of them are naked, their skin, regardless of race, covered in a glistening sheen of spice. 



Anouar: From the age of twelve, each girl is exposed to the Ras el Hanout. She is bathed in it. She is rubbed with it. Massaged with it. Caressed with it. Every pore, every surface, from the bottoms of her feet to behind her ears. Her hair is washed with it. She breathes it in. It is in her food. When they pleasure each other, their lubricant is Ras el Hanout and oil.



He laughs, slapping me on the belly. 



Anouar: Each girl essentially marinates for six years! It is why my food tastes so much better!



Indeed, his restaurant has multiple awards for excellence and he sells his stock to no one else, at least not these girls. I notice both Arab and African girls in his stable, their different skin tones barely noticeable against the reddish hue of the oil and spice. There are hundreds in this one large room. Laying on leather sleeping pads, playing some sort of game with cards and shouting “Ronda!” They seem to interact amiably, but I notice many of them looking at Anouar, then me, with interest. More than interest. Their gazes are almost animalistic and suddenly I understand how the gazelle feels being hunted by lions. I feel myself stiffen, and in the best possible way, reacting to the looks I am being given. He clamps me on the shoulder and holds out a blue pill to me.



Anouar: The girls treasure their pleasure. They like nothing more than cock. Here, you will need this. I will return for you before dinner.



I blink. I recognize the pill, though I have never needed it before. I look at him curiously. The nearest girls begin to head toward me, eyes steady and direct. Feet cross with each step and hips sway. Suddenly I am surrounded. Reddened fingers touch me and the scent of spice becomes even stronger. My host backs away with a manic grin, holding up his hands.



Anouar: To truly understand how a balanced, authentic Ras el Hanout is constructed, you must engulf your senses. See how it interacts with the meat itself. You will know what they taste like, but first, they will taste you!



The first woman touches my hand and I feel the slickness of her fingers. I glance down. A smear of reddish, spice-laden oil is on my palm. To my shock, she presses herself against me and for a second I worry about my clothing before her mouth comes down upon mine. But as she kisses me, I suddenly do not care. I suck in a breath and the taste and scents of the Ras el Hanout hit me hard. Cinnamon. Cardamon. Nutmeg. Allspice. Clove. Chili. Sweet and spicy. I kiss her back as her tongue slides into my mouth. I am so lost that I do not realize that there are other hands upon me, unbuttoning my shirt, my trousers, pulling me into the cinnamon bliss of pungent warmth and sweet aromatics. The woman kissing me breaks free long enough for me to see Anouar laughing, walking away as I am surrounded by beautiful female flesh, each covered in spice, pressing their young, nubile, delicious bodies against me in droves.

I am dragged downward. The little blue pill is put in my mouth, not that I need it. I am now rock hard. I know because my member is surrounded by the oiled palm of one of the girls. My pants and shirt are removed and I kick off my shoes. I am dragged to the ground, finding myself on a leather pad. My cock throbs and I feel warmth around it, unsure if it is oil and spice soaked hands, the delicate pressure of her mouth, or the soft enclosure of her sex. Why? Because another of Anouar’s girls is straddling my head, her incredible slit rubbing back and forth across my chin and nose. I extend my tongue and the flavors of her sex make my mouth water, tingling with tumeric and white pepper, cloves and mace. I have never made love like this. My mouth tingles as much as my shaft. 

My arms and legs are drawn outward as I am touched. The girls hold me down, but in such a way that my fingers find slick folds and spiced depths. I am being fucked, not just my manhood and my tongue, but my fingers and even toes are being used to satisfy their sexual urges. I am used for their pleasure, even while my own builds. The girl on my face cums, drenching my lips, fluids tasting of cinnamon and turmeric pouring down my neck and I catch a brief glimpse of a tiny body thrusting desperately on my hips. I’m unsure of how old she is. Then another woman straddles me, pulls my head up until my nose is against the shaved pubis of her sex. I suck on her clitoris. 

It is only hours later that I realize the pill was there, not for me, but for them. There are too many. I have cum three or four times and only the drug has kept me hard enough for the girls to continue. They are all desperate. I have never had sex with so many women at once. They do not care if and when I cum, only in achieving their own satisfaction. But since there is a never-ending parade of female flesh bouncing upon me, I am satisfied. They are using every part of me. The lucky ones ride my shaft, or position themselves above my aching tongue. But others are using my fingers, even my toes, to bring themselves to orgasm. Others rub themselves over my knees. My skin is colored red and I am slick with the spiced oil. Slowly my senses become accustomed to the scents. I taste it on every pussy that is pressed to my mouth. I lay there, spent and exhausted, until my member is no longer capable of rising, my jaw aches and they still try, rubbing my tender shaft, desperately hoping that I might be able to get it up one more time.

It is like this that Anouar finds me and I am helped up and taken back to the main offices. I am shown a room with a shower and a new set of clothes - cut in the Moroccan style. I realize that I am starving and find a platter of khobz - the Moroccan flatbread with la vache qui rit, a spreadable wedge cheese and olive oil. It only whets my appetite. An hour later Anouar arrives at my door and we head to his restaurant: Anir. 

Anir, which means “angel,” or possibly “guide” in the old Tamazight language, is beautiful. With a central cooking courtyard open to the sky, the dinner guests sit under the covered patios on each side. Fans spin lazily, creating enough breeze that even the hot north African air feels survivable. Anouar takes me to a low table, huge pillows surrounding a single table. Two girls are waiting for us, both naked except for gold jewelry dangling from earlobes and navel, ringing bells around their ankles. Their skin glistens, but is not red and I realize they have only been bathed in oil. Anouar explains to me that these girls are breeders and he expects me to do my part. 

I am not sure that I have the energy, but I allow the girl next to me to press herself close, her nubile body against mine as her fingers slip between the unfamiliar buttons that go down the front of the djellaba robe I am wearing. I feel her hand, warm and pressing, on my shaft and am surprised that I feel the stirrings of arousal. She smiles, eyes bright and excited and her other hand pulls up my robe. On the other side of the courtyard, other guests are already utilizing their own breeding girls, a throng of limbs and pumping hearts. 

Food and sex are integral in Morocco.

In the central cooking area, those preparing our meal have started. Skewers are laid out on a charcoal grill and I watch as cilantro, garlic, lemon juice, olive oil, cumin, paprika, and a pinch of salt is made into a bright green paste. A girl is brought out and instantly I recognize her. She is the woman who first kissed me at the ranch. The Ras el Hanout covers and permeates every inch of her amazing body. She is perfectly proportioned, of Arabic descent, and long, straight black hair, bound in a veil. She leaves little crimson oil footprints as she steps into the center of the cooking area. 

She is laid upon a low, wooden table and I watch as her wrists are bound to the corners while her ankles are secured to an iron rod. Two wooden posts with notches cut along their lengths are moved to either side of her. The rod is lifted and set, suspending her so that the bottoms of her bare feet are exposed, the blood red soles pointed almost directly at me. I can see the backs of her thighs, as well as her perfect, spiced sex. Her magnificent breasts fall slightly outward, soft and malleable. As the chefs continue to prepare different portions of the upcoming feast, a man emerges holding an oversized carrot. It is grotesquely large, somewhat misshapen, and even disturbing to look at. It would never be offered for sale in any produce market on the planet. Who would buy it? But here it serves a different purpose. The girl’s feet are up in the air. She is on her back. And the man kneels, sliding the root between the exposed petals of her flushed desert flower. She gasps, then groans as he begins to steadily thrust the root vegetable into her depths. 

Another man appears, this time with a wooden paddle. It isn’t very wide, just a mere three inches, but it is long, over a foot and a half. He moves to the opposite side of her, glances briefly at the way she is being penetrated by the carrot, and then raises the weapon. Without a word of warning, he brings the wooden paddle down upon the upturned sole of her bare foot. The impact is hard and elicits a cry of pain from the girl, who jerks in response. This does nothing to inhibit the man holding the carrot, or its in and out thrusting through her loins. Her toes curl and ankle rotates as she absorbs and copes with the hurt. But then she is struck again, this time on the other foot, right across the ball. 

Back and forth the paddle lands upon her tender feet. I am fascinated. It is called falaqa, the bastinado. The way she squeals after each stroke, the expressions upon her face as the stinging heat explodes across her skin, the fucking she endures while the rigorous beating goes on and on. A dozen, then another, slowly turn the bottoms of her feet into burning cinders of pain. Her toes curl and she is sobbing, her feet shaking. I realize in astonishment that I am near my own climax, the oiled hand of the little breeding girl next to me still rubbing my stiff member. Influenced by the cries of pain coming from the cooking area, I push the girl beside me down and get on top, impaling her, shocked that my body has once again found the energy to take advantage of the gorgeous young woman laid out before me. Except, this time I am in the position of power. Not a bystander or victim to be used (albeit willingly). I am dominant, the girl beneath me subservient, and I control both the speed and depth of my penetration, timing them to the blows of the paddle and the cries of the meat girl being tenderized. I cum, and roll away, only to find the table in front of me now holding couscous, hummus, pita, and sliced carrots and cucumber. 

The falaqa torture continues. Hard and soft, but every inch of her soles suffer impacts of the wooden rod until she is screaming, the pain overwhelming the pleasure. Her arches and heels have darkened and were she freed right then, I knew that she would be forced to crawl. But then the man with the wooden paddle moves. The rod holding her feet is raised up even higher, stretching out her legs. He begins striking her calves, hard and forceful strokes that elicit fresh cries. I watch with amazement as each calf is struck in turn, the carrot still sliding in and out of her glistening, oiled, spice-laden pussy. Then he moves to the backs of her thighs. Now her skin darkens, and I can see the raised welts through the red-spice tinge of her skin. 

The bar holding her bound feet is lifted higher, set in another notch and the girl is shaking her head, sobbing, her thick locks of black hair spilling around her head like a wreath. She is almost upside down, with only her shoulders still on the table and the lifted position requires the man with the carrot to stand, though he continues pumping it in and out of her slit. The man with the paddle begins spanking her buttocks, beating out a throbbing tempo. Another two dozen strokes are left upon her flanks and the marks are obvious. I gulp as the carrot penetrates her deeply and her flushed and tear-streaked cheeks make it obvious that she is not only in distress, but bizarrely close to orgasm. 

The beating of her breasts comes next and here at least, the blows are more symbolic than brutal. Still, she squeals, bucking and thrashing, making it difficult for the man with the carrot. He reaches up and with his other hand begins rubbing at her clit violently, jamming the root vegetable deep and she screams in pain and orgasmic ecstasy. To my astonishment, she cums, squirting fluids up as the carrot is yanked from her sex.

The man with the carrot bows and departs, but the other, the one with the paddle remains. He twists and I realize that there is only one more part of her body that deserves attention. That  must absolutely be beaten. He lifts the wide wooden rod, rests it on her freshly soaked slit, and then with sharp, heavy flicks of his wrist, begins the final tenderizing.

I realize that truly, anything she felt prior to this moment, was a mere whisper compared to the cacophony of true agony she now endures. The piercing scream as he pounds her pussy with the wooden paddle fills the restaurant and I notice the breeder girl beside me look away, blinking tears from her eyes. I reach out and grab her, pulling her naked body across my lap, jamming my fingers into her sex. I feel her wetness, working her in time with the violence in front of us. 

The meatgirl’s pussy has now darkened, like the rest of her and she blubbers and gibbers, unable to articulate anything other than the pain she feels. The man with the paddle steps back, turns toward the audience and bows. I watch him leave. 

Now the two chefs prepare the vertical spit. It is set down just behind the girl on the table, her burning, bruised, tenderized body still up in the air. I am fascinated by the device. It is carbon steel and over two inches thick. The tip is not only tapered to a disturbingly sharp point, but perforated by a series of holes. The thick base obviously contains a motor, which at first I think is solely to spin the entire spit, but realize a moment later that it is more nefarious. The spit vibrates. A raised knob sits just a few inches in front of it, the purpose inexplicable.

The two chefs release the girl’s feet from the restraining bar and her legs and ass are lowered onto the table. She whimpers, almost catatonic with the pain. A pair of steel bands are secured around each of her large toes and I watch, my fingers still inside the breeder girl writhing across my lap. They free the meatgirl’s hands and then lift her up. She is limp, a ragdoll, too exhausted from her ordeal to fight or protest. Their hands slip on the oiled spice coating her skin, just a little, almost ending things there as her body sways above the sharp post. But then she is in just the right position and slowly she is lowered. One of the chefs makes a final adjustment and the spit with its disturbing point slides straight into her ass. She gasps, eyes wide, sinking down, only for her legs to extend fully outward and the entire rod, all two feet of it, disappearing into her body.

She doesn’t flinch. No cries of pain, despite being impaled.

It makes sense though. She has been prepared via A&E’s patented processing device. She has no colon, no large intestine, no appendix, no duodenum or ileum. Her small intestines have been removed. Her stomach is undoubtedly a mile away, sitting in a bucket of entrails along with her kidneys, liver, pancreas and gall bladder. She has no bowels or bladder. Only the A&E stuffing that mimics the weight and pressure of her normal internal organs. She blinks, obviously expecting pain but finding none. Then the spit begins to vibrate and she groans, only to begin undulating on the rod. I see the nodule press into her pussy and realize that it is vibrating against her clitoris. 

The chefs come and secure two more metal rings around her thumb. She winces from the tightness and they fold her, bring her legs up so that she is sitting crosslegged. Her right thumb is attached to the left big toe, and vice versa. She hunches over, her huge breasts ripe and dangling, her skin rose colored and undoubtedly tasting of the Ras el Hanout. The chef comes, a huge knife in his hand, and he grabs her by the head, pulling her back, face up to the open sky. She cries out and for one second I expect him to plunge the knife into her, or slit her throat.

Instead he begins sawing off her dark black hair. She jerks and I wonder if the chef has nicked her, but she pulls hard on the bindings holding her wrists and feet together, then coughs. Blood emerges from her mouth and her eyes widen. Then she stretches her neck, still looking upward and her jaw opens. To my astonishment, the tip of the skewer impaling her emerges and she chokes. But only for a moment. I can see the perforations in the metal rod, allowing air to flow into her lungs. She must be in agony, the spit going through her esophagus. Every breath is painful, her position locked and stretched, unable to move or free herself. I see her tears begin to spill from her eyes, down her cheeks, red streaks. 

I watch as four heavy-duty, vertical steel mesh cages, each filled with burning charcoal glowing hotly, are hauled into position around her. It does nothing to impede my view of her twisting body, but in seconds she breaks out into a sweat. She squeals, her voice mangled by the impaling post perforating her entire body. Her eyes flicker around in panic as the heat washes over her body. It bathes her, then rises, until even I can feel the warmth. I can’t imagine what it must be like to be in the center of the maelstrom. The spit rotates and she slowly spins. 

The breeding girl still splayed across my lap gasps as the orgasm rocks through her and I set her aside gently. I move to the table in front of me. There are brochettes now, laying on more of the khobz bread, each sizzling with grilled meat. A smoky, rich dip made from roasted eggplants, tomatoes, garlic, olive oil, and spices sit in a separate bowl. There are sweet and savory roasted bell peppers with tomatoes and garlic. Anouar has finished with his own girl and joins me, grinning happily. He dips the khobz in the zaalouk dip and nods with appreciation. The flavors are incredible. 

The meatgirl in the rotisserie has stopped moving, at least her limbs. Her eyes are closed and only the wriggling of her pussy against the node and the frantic labored movement of her chest, sucking in superheated air, shows that she still has some life left inside her. Her skin begins to glow red, no longer just from the marinade of Ras el Hanout, but from the way she is crisping. I watch the final breath she takes, eyes closed, only to shudder and go still. Two of the charcoal mesh cages are pulled away and the chefs move in, knives flashing. They slice and cut, trimming away meat. The griddles sizzle and the cooking girl continues to spin slowly.

The dish is placed on the table between me and Anouar. It is a tagine and my mouth waters. The girl is the star of the dish, providing a richness and depth that is unparalleled. Onions and garlic form the aromatic base, while the spices of the Ras el Hanout create a warm, fragrant profile. Cumin, ginger, cinnamon, turmeric, black pepper and cayenne add a heat that sparks along my tongue. A creamy broth adds moisture and enhances the flavor. Chickpeas contribute heartiness, while the apricots introduce a sweet contrast. For texture, there are almond slices and the trio mix of carrot, zucchini, and red bell pepper add color and variety. I taste fresh cilantro and lemon juice. 

But most of all I cannot get past the Ras el Hanout and the meat. Good lord. It is like nothing I have ever tasted. The flavors permeate the dish so completely that each bite seems to simmer on my tastebuds. I am unsure of Anouar’s secret ingredients, but I begin to suspect cardamon, peppercorn, and allspice. Perhaps Grains of Paradise. Whatever he uses it works. 



Anouar: You see? It is the secret. The marinade. And patience. She was the first you tasted. And the last. I hope you enjoyed her.



I smile as the North African flavors dance upon my tongue. Again. And again. 

And again.



Eating Wild — Episode #4: France’s Special Sauce

Eating Wild — Episode #3: Spice of Morocco