Release Date: [07/12/2046]

Host: Jonathan Whittaker

[Intro Music Intro fades in, swells, and fades into Indian music.]

I am in New Delhi and it is hot. Blistering hot. The temperature in the early afternoon hits one hundred degrees Fahrenheit. But it is a dry heat. Hot, dusty winds known locally as the 'Loo' sweep through the city, making outdoor activities dangerous to those unused to the heat. I wonder if I am risking my health, just heading from my hotel to the Aghora Pavilion. It is a play on words, named after the Aghori Tribe who long consumed the cremated grounds of their dead in ritual cannibalism. But I know I won’t be served any of those. 

Like everything in India, the Pavilion is magnificent, a towering edifice with a masterful, deliberate fusion of Western Neoclassicism and traditional Indian design, executed on a scale meant to project imperial permanence and monumental authority. Sweeping arches, impressive buttresses, and dark wooden paneling form inviting mosaics - and the promise of cooler temperatures inside.

And visually stunning decor. The moment I step into the darkened entryway I know I’m in the right place. On the wall immediate opposite the door is a beautiful Indian girl. Her beautiful black hair flows down the front of her body, yet isn’t quite long enough to conceal her breasts. I have always admired the beauty of Indian women. Their dark lustrous hair, olive complexion, and exotic beauty lend to a perceived strength of character. She is wearing a sari, arguably the most iconic symbol of Indian heritage. Every Indian woman, meat girl and breeder alike, look like princesses in a sari. 

Of course, this sari is more costume than functional. The tight fitting blouse, called a choli, is made of a light transparent gauze that leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination. The girl’s massive breasts are readily visible, her large and exquisite nipples easily viewed. And for good reason. Both are capped with gold jewelry, decorative and intriguing clamps in the shape of the sun, a series of screws pointing inward to the tip. The sari itself, the long unstitched piece of cloth normally wrapped around the body and thrown over the shoulder, does nothing to conceal the woman’s beauty or secrets. It has ridden up to her waist, sitting on her outstretched thighs, revealing her sex. There is no underskirt, for which I am appreciative. 

She writhes, her hips grinding and I can hear bells. There are anklets on her legs, and as she twitches, the sound fills the foyer. Gold colored fetters hold her in place, secured to the wall, legs outstretched, but it is the massive gold phallus that truly impresses me. It penetrates her deeply and I am astonished to see it moving. Not in and out, but in a corkscrewing manner, so that it churns inside her. Our eyes lock, a smoldering heat and I understand her torment. She hasn’t cum. Despite the sexual stimulation. I wonder how long she has been impaled there, and hope that it continues.

I love it. 

Another woman comes into view, just as beautiful as the one secured to the wall. She too is wearing a sari and it matches almost exactly with the girl on the golden phallus. All of the material is see-through and I can’t help staring at the hostess, who greets me enthusiastically. A gold ring pierces her clitoris and I notice a thin chain stretching from it, down through her slit. When she turns to lead me into the restaurant, I see the glimmering end of the anal plug, noticing the chain is attached there. I admit that I am aroused, a sensation that only becomes more challenging as I sit down. Erotic art, mostly sculpture, sits in niches along the walls, depicting the positions of the Kamasutra. Fans spin above my head, providing a soft breeze. 

The restaurant is rectangular, with a seating section on levels going upward, while the kitchen area sits below, well lit and already humming with preparation. Ingredients and spices are laid out, waiting. Around me, Areca palms and fiddle leaf figs sit in corners while rows of snake plants add green divisions between tables. My waitress approaches. She is a teenager, also dressed in a see-through sari, her nubile body rippling with beauty. I can see gold symbols painted upon her skin, but I do not know their purpose, or meaning. It enhances her beauty though and I am given a glass of water, along with Toddy, a sweet wine tapped from the sap of palm trees. Mine is fresh.

The cooking area is split in two, with charcoal grills already burning. In the very center is a steel grate in which a metal post, approximately three feet long, is sticking straight up. The tip is clearly made of a silicone vibrator. Steel anklets on a crossbar await the tender limbs of a meatgirl. 

She is brought out. A dark haired beauty. She too is in a sari, but this one is traditional. Gold sparkles at her ears, around her throat, on one nostril. Each step she takes is accompanied by the bells of the slave anklets she wears. She is barefoot. She is led forward by a man who takes her to the front of the stage. She turns and looks at all of us, eyes steady, accepting, powerful.

She disrobes. 

The fact that her sari is not transparent only heightens the reveal. She is magnificent. The long cloth is unwrapped from her body. She unbuttons the blouse, revealing a pair of magnificent breasts. The underskirt falls to puddle around her feet. Attendants quickly remove the discarded clothing and she stands gloriously nude in front of us. A wave of symbols is painted on her skin, a dark reddish color that goes from her right hand up her arm, across her collarbone, only to spiral around her entire body. She raises her arms up high and turns in a circle and my eyes follow the eight centimeter wide band as it flows across her back, over her stomach, down one hip, then back down her left leg. It is impressive. I wonder how many hours she was forced to lay still as the artists painted her skin. 

My first dish is placed in front of me. Bits of fried girlmeat sit in an almost black, glossy glaze. I take a bite and it surprises me. There is no sweetness here, nor does it rely on tomato or cream bases. Instead there is a deeply earthy, sharp, and intensely peppery dry fry. I recognize the flavor profiles from Coorgi. The secret is the glaze. It uses a unique local dark vinegar called Kachampuli (extracted from the Garcinia gummi-gutta fruit), which gives the girlmeat a glossy, near-black finish and a distinct fruity tartness. Cooked down until the sauce completely coats the meat, it is served dry. While many Indian dishes rely heavily on red chili powder for heat, Pandi Fry gets its primary fire from a massive amount of locally grown freshly crushed black pepper. This gives it a warm, throat-warming, woodsy heat rather than a sharp tongue-burn. It is supported by fresh green chilies, ginger, garlic, and a heavy hand of dark-roasted spices like coriander and cumin.

Down below, the attendant touches her elbow and she moves onto the grate without complaint, confidently moving backward until she is over the steel post and phallus. Her knees bend and she reaches down between her legs, taking hold of the vibrator. I watch as she impales herself, sliding downward until the full length of the silicone phallus is embedded. She straightens, shifting her hips as she settles. She moves her belled ankles into the framed cuffs at either side of the mounting pole and the attendant kneels on the platform and quickly locks her narrow, delicate ankles into the crossbrace. Her legs straighten and I realize that the post she is mounted upon is extending upward. A one bar prison of sorts, and she shifts back and forth, a frustrated look upon her face. She is stuck, unable to get off the post between her legs. A set of manacles on a cable descends from the ceiling and the final act of her bondage is for her wrists to be bound and drawn upward, until she is stretched out like a sacrifice to a god. 

I can’t wait. 

The vibrator starts up and she begins to undulate. Off to the side, one of the chefs is busy. Red and green chillies are cut and then turned into a paste with garlic, cloves, and tamarind. Vinegar is added, along with a host of cumin, coriander, cardamom, and fenugreek seeds. I spot several Ceylon cinnamon sticks going into the blend. When the marinade is ready the chef brings the thick, red paste over. I know it will be spicy. So many red and green chillies. I enjoy the heat but I wonder if she will. Her eyes flicker to the brush, the bristles coated with the marinade and she sucks in a breath as the chef begins to dab it on both of her breasts. First he coats just her nipples and I watch as she flinches, but then accepts it, even thrusting her bosom forward. Her eyes close and she lets out a passionate moan. But as the chef finishes I see the first flashes of realization on her face. Her brow furrows, her mouth opens, and she groans. She pulls back and her nipples, now coated with the reddish mixture, tingle and burn, rising up into hard points. She shakes her chest, as if the movement will cause the clinging chilli cream to be flung away, sparing her. 

He begins painting her body. A line down her back, all the way into the crack of her ass. I can’t help but grin when her back arches and she lets out a squeal when the brush digs into her back door. Then the chef moves down her body. The backs of each leg. Up the shin and around the knees to her thighs. Across her belly. Her reactions become more intense as the exposure to the capsaicin of the chillies seeps into her flesh. Soon her mewling whimpers become cries of discomfort and she bucks, thrusting her loins on the vibrating silicone mount that holds her.

Finally, the chef brushes the marinade on her clitoris, then down through her petals. In seconds she feels the developing heat. I cannot imagine how it feels, the burning and stinging now coating her sex, lubricating the very dildo rumbling inside of her and upon which she still vigorously bounces. The chain above her head tightens and suddenly she is stretched tight, unable to move as she twitches and whimpers. 

The chef places a garland of neem leaves around her neck. Then the two men step away, but only for a moment. Both return and I stiffen in my seat. They are holding chabuks. These are the traditional thick, heavy whips deeply embedded in the folk religion, agricultural history, and socio-cultural rituals of rural and urban India. Made of a short bamboo handle and a thick, heavy rope tightly braided from hemp, the whip is considered a sacred implement of divine energy, power, and protection.

The first impact draws out a startled gasp, the whip slashing across her amazing breasts. I see the smear in the marinade covering her bosom, the frantic ringing of the bells on her ankles as she wriggles on the vibrating post holding her in place. The other whip lands across her buttocks and she winces, grimacing. The two men pick up the pace, swinging steadily in turn so that her flagellation is non-stop. I can’t help noticing that they aim far more for her tender bits. Her breasts are frequent targets, as are her thighs and bottom. The bells ring non-stop as she moves from constrained tolerance to outright protest. I cannot tell if she is being marked, as the vermillion colored paste covering her body hides the welts themselves, if not the impact points, but I have little doubt. 

Still, it is obvious when the orgasm hits her. Fluids stream down her thighs, creating rivulets in the paste. She cries out, shaking violently, though neither of the men stop the whipping. Instead, they hit harder. 

The waitress places another dish on the table and the scent of chilies, black peppercorns, coriander, cumin, and mustard mix with the turmeric. I take a bite, the sharp, tangy undertone and heavy focus on the slow-rendered girl fat creates a layered, building heat, rather than a sharp sting. The addition of whole cloves, cinnamon, bay leaves, and a dash of nutmeg gives the dish a festive, sweet-savory fragrance. This is balanced by a complex sourness from both the soaked tamarind paste and toddy vinegar. This cuts directly through the rich meat. It is served with Sannas; soft, fluffy, round rice cakes steamed with toddy or yeast. They have a mild, sweet-tart flavor that perfectly balances the intense heat and cuts through the rich girl fat.

By the time I am finished, the girl bound on the stage is limp, though her hips still tremble in response to the violent shaking of the phallus impaling her. She has been thrashed thoroughly. I am unsure of the number of orgasms she has endured. It is more than one. I watch as the two chefs approach again, this time without the chabuks, but with knives. Thin ones.

The curved knives come up to either side of her chest and I watch as the first incisions are made. They are shallow, millimeters deep, just under the arm. This rouses her and she screams, though whether from the chilli paste or the cuts, I don’t know. The chefs are meticulous, cutting with one hand, pulling with the other and her cries are bloodcurdling. I feel my erection as I see the first inch of skin - just skin, pulling away from the side of her left breast. Blood begins to stream down her sides as the two chefs slowly cut away her skin, flaying her bosom. Fluids mix and she shudders as I see the muscle of her chest. They get to her nipples, cutting through them and around them. The tips are sliced, but the areola is left largely intact. This allows the chilli paste to seep even deeper in and the resulting agony is so intense that she passes out, slumping in her bonds. 

The chefs continue to skin her as I am brought another dish. It is Chaat, a mixture of sweet, spicy, and tangy. I dig into the mixture of crispy fried dough, potatoes, and chickpeas. Every bite is an explosion of flavor. 

The application of more chilli paste to the girl’s mutilated bosom rouses her. Her flesh is on fire, chemically speaking and she sobs in agony as one of the chefs moves to her flank. He cuts along her backside and despite being unable to see the specifics, I watch as a huge swath of skin comes free from her ass. More marinade is brushed on the now skinless rump. She shakes her head as the brush comes up to her eyes and she screams as they paint her eyelids. I know the oil is seeping in. But even that is not the worst of the torture. Methodically, they remove more of her epidermis. Her thighs. A bit across her belly. Soon she is weak from blood loss, trembling from a mixture of agony, and the still buzzing, rumbling of the vibrator jammed into her burning cunt. 

One of the chefs prepares a massive grilling flatiron. Coconut oil is poured and a container full of peeled garlic cloves sizzle on the surface of the griddle. He sears and cooks them, while the girl slips in and out of consciousness, suffering. He sets the cooked garlic aside, then sears the mustard seed, the curry leaves, and then the onions. Salt and pepper, then adds the Kashmiri chili powder and ground turmeric. 

They butcher the girl still upright, still impaled, still fucking and burning, but unconscious. She doesn’t even seem to be aware when her breasts are removed. They are cut to bite size and thrown down onto the grill, soaking up flavor. Her buttocks follow, streams of blood flowing down her spread legs. Then they take her thighs. It is... a bit gruesome, seeing her femur. But then, having removed the desired flesh, they wrap her in another sari, this one crimson and solid. It soaks through with blood instantly, but she is gone, her head limp, eyes open and sightless. Before the dishes come out she is removed, carried away for further processing. 

The waitress returns with another drink but this time she stays, sliding across my lap, lifting her sari. She exposes my cock and pours scented oil on it, rubbing me with her hands. It is exquisite and as the scents of simmering meat find my nose, I groan in ecstasy as she works me to a state of nirvana. She climbs up, her skin smelling of cinnamon and clove, spicy and sweet and she impales herself, exposing her breasts to me. I cum inside her, my face buried in the crook of her neck and shoulder, my tongue swirling across her skin down to her nipples, sucking them into hardness. 

She stands, her fingers caressing my cheek, only to turn and leave me. But she comes back in seconds, this time with a huge plate and she sets it front of me. 

The dish looks amazing. Bits of seasoned meat lying in a hot and spicy sauce, surrounded by long grain white rice and sprinkled with parsley and curry leaves. I taste the hint of lemon, garlic, and tamarind. And it is spicy. Almost too spicy for me. I suck in cool air and the waitress, her beautiful, nude, gold-painted body tempting me, brings me a glass of half and half. The white cream soothes my throat and I go back for more, suffering just a little bit of what the girl herself had endured.

Full and happy, I push my empty plate away and the waitress brings out the final dish. Modern pastry chefs have reimagined traditional sweets and take intense, aromatic flavor profiles of classic Indian deserts - like cardamom, saffron, rose and reduced milk - and apply French pastry techniques to create stunning balanced finales. I find myself looking down on tiny, glistening spheres of Jalebi, which in its usual form is a spiral dough, deep-fried. Think of it as a cross between a funnel cake and a donut. A light as air, siphon-whipped rabri mouse sits to the side. Fresh raspberries provide an acidic counter point and I take my first bite, trying to imagine how the evening could end any better.

Which is when I feel the mouth of the waitress again. She is under the table, soft tongue and delicate lips on my cock, sucking eagerly. In seconds, I am stiff again, rock hard and desperate. One need is sated, the other still burning on the charcoal of sexual need. I take another bite, then push the dessert aside. I pull back, startling the waitress as I pull her out from under the table. For a moment she is panicked. What has she done wrong? But I smile as I push her backward, her rump against the edge of the table. I put my hands on her hips, lifting her. She sits and spreads her legs. She leans back until she is spread out on the table herself. I stand, my exposed member sticking straight out. I am not alone. Other diners are doing it too. I pick up the Jalebi, spoon out some of the sweetness, and dribble it down on her spread open sex. 

I eat the entire dessert off her soft, glistening, perfect slit.

The Kama Sutra, which translates literally to "Aphorisms on Desire", argues that cultivating pleasure, intimacy, and art is an essential part of being a well-rounded human being, provided it is balanced with duty and wealth. I finish my desert, listening to the waitress’ excited, gasping cries of orgasm.

Eating Wild — Episode #3: Spice of Morocco

.

Eating Wild-Episode 2: Into the Flavors of India