Release Date: [08/9/2046]

Host: Jonathan Whittaker

[Intro Music Intro fades in, swells, and changes to Country guitar. Sounds of people laughing, talking, giggling girls. ]



I am walking the dusty pathways of the Filly Rodeo and Steakhouse, located just a few miles west of Austin, Texas in what is known as Hill Country. The Filly Rodeo is relatively new, but modeled after the famed Ft. Worth Stockyards located just two hundred miles to the north. It is warm and the crowds have already gathered as the various ranchers herd their wares into the nearby holding pens. It is a festive environment. There are stands selling beer, wine, and spirits. Street food venders are hawking skewers of roasted meat. Elote corn in a cup, covered with butter and smoked paprika is being devoured. 

And I’m hungry. And horny. A perfect mix.

There is much to look at here and I pause by one of the pens. The girls are milling around, struggling to get access to the water trough. It isn’t easy. Each filly has a metal ring encircling her throat, tight enough that it's restrictive. The metal ring is connected at the nape of the neck to a curved wooden bar. To the uninitiated it looks like a recurve bow, pointed at the ground, but anyone familiar with Texas would recognize the similarity to the horn of a Longhorn Steer. I watch as the girls dip their faces, sucking up cold water, shaking their long hair back and grinning happily. I imagine the ride to the Rodeo was hard and hot. 

I am making my way down the main concourse and pass by a number of smaller shops selling everything from manacles to branding irons. Containers of seasonings, brisket rubs and peppercorns are each labeled and priced. A leather shop displays a selection of whips and floggers, along with more personal items such as wallets and journals. I keep going only to pause momentarily at the branding station. A line of fresh fillies has been lined up, each one sitting astride a vibrating saddle, clits pressed to the leather capped motors, grinding happily. A long metal bar comes down along their shoulders and they are bent over, breasts dangling deliciously as their buttocks are presented. A row of phallic vibrators are slid into position and twelve girls at a time are impaled vaginally, the soft silicone probes shaking. It works them all into a sexual froth and I can hear the whimpering cries of pleasure from the young fillies. Then two cowboys begin working their way down the row, each swinging a wooden paddle. They only hit the right buttock of each girl, but each blow is hard, harsh, and stinging. The girls scream with each spank, but go right back to grinding their cute little pussies on the saddles. 

The first one orgasms, crying out in delirious delight. The cowboy moves so quickly that I’m not even sure what is happening. He jams the glowing hot red iron against her flank and she screams, shaking madly. There is a hiss, a puff of smoke and then he slaps an adhesive bandage over the very spot he has burned. She sobs, shaking, but since the vibrations don’t stop, she seems to get over the hurt quickly. Another girl cries out in ecstasy and she too is branded in the same way. This time I see that the adhesive patch is coated with a healing salve that is undoubtedly also both antiseptic and anesthetic. The spanking desensitizes them to the pain, while branding them as they cum further confuses their sweet little brains.

Another pen is filled with girls each chatting away pleasantly with their neighbor, heads locked into a steel frame, while rubber hoses lead from vacuum pumps up to the pulsators, which create the necessary vibrations for the teat cups to properly draw out milk. Each one is naked, their buttocks bared, kneeling on leather pads. Each bottom is branded. To my amusement, the attendant is offering tickets for a price, with purchasers being able to enter the enclosure, sidle up behind one of the milking girls, and take advantage of the available pussy.

Next door I find a dairy shop, selling everything from raw milk taken from the girls in the enclosure, to butter, Americanized creme fraiche, called sour cream, and cheeses. Human breast milk has a different protein ratio than other sources and typically lacks enough casein to form a firm block on its own, so most of the options are soft, spreadable cheeses. Ricotta and queso blanco are common and I go through, sampling much of it. There are even some spreads that utilize stabilizers like kappa carrageenan and tapioca starch, which I find quite pleasing. I discover that I have a fondness for a mix called pimento, which combines the soft cheese, mayonnaise, and pimento peppers. 

Another shop attracts my attention. Tenderizers. I step in only to find a half dozen meatgirls, each reclined, legs spread wide and bound, feet up in the air, their oiled slits sitting in the center of each display. Different sized dildoes, vibrators, and other sex toys lay beside them so that buyers can test them out. One girl is especially intriguing as her squeals of arousal fill the little store. There is a young man pumping a thick pink rubber shaft into her sex, only to yank it out and jam a thicker dildo with little rubber spikes into the same hole. A sort of short drill is on the end a moment later it is spinning crazily, pushing her toward orgasm. She blubbers, begging to be allowed to cum and he pulls it out only to shove a different rubber cock into her depths. Oil and girl goo splatter everywhere. 

I head to the Rodeo and I find myself relaxing in a reclining seat, feet up. A cute blond waitress brings me weak, American beer served in a glass so big that I would have referred to it as a bucket, were I anywhere else in the world. Her hair is in a pony tail and she is wearing a pink cowgirl hat, a pink bandana tied around her throat, a thin, see-through pink band around her prodigious bosom, and a blue denim skirt that is about seven inches too short. She isn’t wearing panties and I can tell, because the skirt doesn’t actually cover either her pussy, or her ass. 

I can’t help noticing the brand on her flank. 

The events of the rodeo only hold a mild fascination for me. I watch the tie down roping, where cowboys on horseback pursue a filly who is desperately running away, arms bound in the outstretched brace. She is roped, or perhaps the word is “lassoed” and then the cowboy jumps down, hogtieing her with practiced ease. I find it amusing that her impressive bosom is also bound with the rope and memories of my meal in Tokyo flit through my head. She is moved to the side, bent over a barrel and the cowboy then begins to fuck her from behind, all while another filly is set loose, only to be chased down, tit and hogtied, and then fucked. I find the show to be somewhat mundane. That said, I find the greased filly chase to be amusing and I watch a gaggle of teenage boys struggle to hold onto one of a dozen oil covered girls, trying to restrain them, pin them to the ground, grope and fuck them into submission. It is certainly amusing, but then comes the wooden horse race.

Five fillies are paraded in, each beautiful in her own right. Two are light skinned, while a Latina, an African, and a Native American girl make up the rest. All of them are naked, hands bound behind their backs, heavy bosoms pointed up at us. The wooden ponies are brought in. Each is designed to rock back and forth, a sort of symbolic head marking the front, while a tail sticks out from the back end. The fillies are marched over to their steeds. I do not envy them for their coming ride. The backs of each wooden horse are formed of a wooden prism. The edge is dulled, but still sharp enough to cause extreme discomfort. The girls climb up. Toes point, barely grazing the ground and each girl struggles to keep her weight off the edge. 

The gunshot startles me. I am not used to firearms but Americans use the damn things for everything. The girls push off, rocking violently. The spine of the horse digs up into their pussies, bruising their labia and pinching their clit. I see flashes of pain and then all of them start thrusting, rocking their hips, feet swinging. As they do, the strange bases of the horses began moving. First it's just a few inches, then a full foot. The more weight they put on the spine of the horse, the further it rocks. Relieve the pressure by pointing toes and arching their feet, and the horse barely moves. Each of them has an incentive to win. The losers will be heading to the A&E processing machine while the winner gets to spend the rest of the day bound in the stocks, getting fucked. But at least she’ll still be breathing. All they have to do is get their wooden steeds to the other side of the arena.

The crowd cheers, roaring and encouraging their favorite. I realize that the more pain the girl is willing to inflict upon herself, the further and faster the horse moves. Their bodies undulate wildly, breasts swinging, pumping their pussies against the wooden edge. The black girl moves into first place, followed by one of the Caucasians. Then the Native American girl begins to surge ahead. 

But in the end it is the Hispanic girl, with her dusky skin and broad nose, that wins. When they pull her from the wooden horse, I see a streak of crimson. She tore herself with the wild gyrations, forcing her horse forward. It won’t matter. She is cheered, given water, and then placed in a set of wooden stocks at the end of the arena. Here, a line of cowboys form up behind her and the first one moves in behind. A moment later she groans, eyes on the crowd as she gets fucked from behind.

The other girls are less lucky. They are left on their horses as a band of cowboys go to each device. A crank at the back lifts the spine and suddenly the girls’ toes no longer touch the ground. They kick, all of their weight now riding the spine. Heavy weights are brought out and hung on each ankle. It must be an excruciating ride. Then the horses are turned and rocked all the way back to the other side of the arena. The girls are removed, dumped to the ground where they sob and quiver, only to eventually be thrown over a shoulder and hauled away. I suspect I might even be having one of them for dinner. 

Eventually I find my way to the Filly Steakhouse and sigh in relief as the air conditioning brings the temperature down to something reasonable. Wood paneling lines the walls, there are televisions mounted, playing a variety of sports, and a huge bar sits in the center of the dining area. On my left is a glass display of cuts and opposite, the hostess station. I present my reservation and she immediately directs me to a doorway to the side. I enter and find myself standing in a small room in which the walls are lined with meatgirls. 

A young man wearing blue jeans, a button up shirt, and a bandana around his neck greets me, then waves his hand at the assembled fillies, instructing me to pick one. I turn. Girls of every color line the walls, from white skinned blondes, to Hispanic Latinas. Every one of them has a brand on their flank. To my surprise, my eyes come to rest on a black-skinned beauty whose face appeals to me. She is adorably cute, with an eager, wholesome expression. One little bare foot is cocked at an angle, allowing me to see the lighter tone of her sole and her body language screams for me to take and ravish her. I point her out and the young man goes over to the chains holding her hands above her head, unlocks them, and then pushes her toward me. She catches herself, then embraces me, one hand behind my head, the other sliding down the front of my trousers. I hear her whisper. A name. Her name. 

Sonja. 

She entangles one arm in mine and together we proceed out of the room. Her nudity is distracting and I find myself fascinated. She is darker than any girl I have ever touched, or tasted for that matter, and there is a vivaciousness about her. She leads me to an unoccupied  table, one of just six, surrounding a circular stage. In the center, next to a salt cellar and pepper grinder sits a small flag. I do not recognize it. Three horizontal stripes and a circle of stars. It takes me a moment to realize that each table has a flag. I see Spain’s traditional red and gold bars, France’s white flag with gold fleurs-de-lis, Mexico’s tricolor green, white, and red, the Texas State Flag, and then the familiar blue field and red and white stripes of the American flag.

I notice most of the other tables are occupied, each with a single diner and of course, an accompanying woman. I take my seat and Sonja’s hands go to a decanter in the middle of the table. She picks it up, smiling, and without a word pours a generous amount onto her bosom. She stands beside me, spreading the oil over her skin, turning the incredible but flat color into a glossy smoothness that only makes her more enticing. She dries her hands on a napkin, then kneels, her fingers going to my trousers, wrestling with the button and zipper. While a waiter approaches to inquire as to my choice of drink, she frees my erection and immediately begins pleasuring me, first with her hands, then with her oiled breasts. It is an exquisite feeling. 

I order a Balcones “Baby Blue” Whiskey, which I’ve heard of, but never tried. It is made of roasted blue corn, resulting in a heavy, oily, and completely unique flavor profile. Before my drink is even brought to me, a basket full of huge rolls and a creamy sweet butter that I would swear came from the dairy shop I’d sampled outside is on my table. I tap Sonja’s head and when she comes up, eyes looking at me curiously, I can’t help it. I pick up the little bowl, scoop out some of the butter and smear it on her nipple. Then my mouth comes down on her breast. It tastes delicious and her response is adorably enthusiastic. I go back and forth, but then she pulls away. My eyebrow goes up and she picks up the bowl of butter, bringing it down to the head of my exposed member. She dips the tip into the churned cream, smearing it around the head of my cock. Then she sinks to her knees, slurping and sucking eagerly. I am in heaven.

Before the first appetizer arrives, but after my drink appears, a man steps up onto the stage. He carries a short whip and with a snap of the leather, gets everyone’s attention. To my surprise, Sonja lifts her head off my lap, wipes the corner of her mouth free of butter, and like the other girls, quickly descends to the stage. The girls line up, each of them looking out at their respective table. I admire the pose for a moment and then the man with the whip holds out a black leather bag. Each girl reaches in, one by one, selecting something from inside. Most of the girls have a dark stone, but I see something pale in Sonja’s hand and she returns to me, handing the chit over. It is ivory, or perhaps seashell. She goes back down on my cock, wrapping her mouth around my still needy and stiff shaft. 

A plate is slid in front of me and I find squares of maple bourbon belly burnt ends laying across a slice of Texas cornbread, fried crispy. The bite-sized cubes are heavily seasoned with a sweet and savory BBQ rub, smoked until tender, and then tossed in a caramelized glaze. I love the different flavor and texture profiles, the mix of sweet corn against the meat. 

As I eat, the man with the whip goes to the table with the French flag. He speaks to the man there for just a moment, who nods eagerly, smiling. The girl next to him flinches, but when directed, follows the man with the whip back up to the stage. Two more men, dressed as ranch hands, approach, one carrying a metal rod, the other two wooden footstools. The rod is inserted into a fitting in the center of the stage and memories of the skewer in Morocco flit through my mind. Except this rod is clearly not intended for cooking purposes. It’s too thin and the tip isn’t tapered and pointed. Instead, I spot the rubber head of a vibrating phallus. 

The girl, a stunningly beautiful blonde, climbs up on the footstools and there is a momentary pause as the height is adjusted and the tip of the phallus is slid into her sex. It goes in easily, which means she was either pre-lubricated, or aroused. With a groan, she immediately starts undulating. One of the ranch hands produces a leather thong and her hands are pulled behind her back and bound together. 

My empty plate is removed and a new one slid into its place. Corn tortillas stuffed with seasoned meat and pepper jack cheese, fried crisp, and served with avocado crema take center stage and except for the fact that I am nearing my limit with Sonja’s sweet mouth, I would jump on these. Instead I grip the table as my arousal limits hit their peak and I shudder in sweet bliss as I erupt. Sonja swallows eagerly, sucking every last bit of my salty jism out of my shaft before coming up to give me a satisfied smile. She slips her body up next to mine and I wrap one arm around her, touching her breast, while the other goes to the table, picking up a taquito to sample. It is heavenly, with just enough heat to delight my senses. 

On the stage things have progressed. A rope has dropped from the ceiling and I am unsurprised to see the traditional noose. It is fit snug around the blonde’s neck, tight under her chin. She gulps, eyes a little wide as her hips continue to grind, the vibrating toy in her sex undoubtedly pushing her toward an orgasm. One of the men produces a trio of vibrating clamps and she winces slightly as they are attached to her nipples and clitoris. The oscillations begin and the combination of sexual stimulation and fear are enough to push her to the edge. She lets out a cry of desperate need and then shudders, making it clear that she has climaxed. 

It is only then that the noose is ratched up. Just a tiny bit. 

As she begins to recover, I watch as she goes up on tiptoe, still standing on the stools. Her pussy is fully penetrated, still subject to the trembling waves of stimulation inflicted upon her by the vibrator and clamp. Her breasts jiggle deliciously and I realize that the tightness around her throat is complicating her recovery. Her breaths are a struggle. Her feet and legs begin to tire. But the incessant stimulation is doing what it is supposed to and her pathway back up the mountain of desire is a short one. Her body shakes and her face is starting to turn just a bit red. Her chest heaves and then she grimaces, letting out a cry as her legs give out. She drops and her eyes bulge, cheeks puffing out. A spasm ripples through her and I watch as an impressive spurt of fluid explodes out from around the impaling vibrator in her sex. 

Beside me, Sonja lifts her leg and spreads her thighs. I unwrap myself from around her shoulders and slip a hand between her legs, touching the soft, pink, wet slit. She is aroused. She gasps and groans as I finger her, wriggling around inside her depths. With my other hand I finish my food and strange glass of whiskey, only for the waiter to take it away. On the stage, the blonde girl jerks feebly, then goes back on tiptoe. She sucks in a breath, blinking. Her eyes flicker across the room, staring at us each in turn. But already the still buzzing waves of the vibrator pendant clamps on her nipples and clit, and the thrumming hum of the vibrator in her flower, are pushing her back toward another orgasm. 

A new plate is brought forth, this one sporting a giant double bone chop. It has been brined, seared over an open flame, and then topped with a rich steak butter. Served next to seasoned greens and garlic mashed potatoes, I marvel at the exceptionally tender flesh. It is beautifully charred, with a crisp outer bark and every bite carries a distinct rustic hint of flame-licked smokiness that perfectly encapsulates the classic Texas steakhouse experience. I take each bite slowly, savoring the experience and wanting it to last, so that I am only just barely finishing the last bite when Sonja jams a knuckle into her mouth and shudders. I feel the rush of fluids, of her body trembling and she cums with quiet passion. I smile, drawing my finger out of her, wiping it on the napkin, only to glance at the stage. 

The blonde is once again at the cusp, clearly ready to match Sonja’s explosion. Except while Sonja’s orgasm was incited by the softly pressing movements of my finger, the pressure of my palm against her clitoris, the blonde standing precariously on tiptoe, perched upon a pair of stools, impaled on a rod capped with a violently shaking vibrator, clamped and torments, and suffering the slow throttle of the rope tied tightly around her neck, is at the mercy of more lethal forces. A tear flows down her cheek, though we both know that should she cum again it will be her last. The minutes tick by and the waiter takes my empty plate away. 

I am looking at Sonja when the blonde finally pops and when I turn back to look, her face is turning dark red. For a moment I cannot figure out why, only to realize that the two stools have been yanked away. Her feet kick wildly, heels and arches struggling to find purchase that doesn’t exist. She twists, her body spurting more vaginal fluid, the waves of orgasmic pleasure surging up through her even as the noose tightens around her neck. Her tongue comes out and I watch as her face turns beet red. Then her eyes, wide open and frantic, stop moving, glazing over. For a second, I resist the urge to run up there, to lift her up, to allow life-giving air to move into her lungs. 

But she stops moving. Her feet dangle limply, her head and neck stretched awkwardly. Her eyes stare sightlessly forward and a line of saliva escapes her mouth and runs down her chin. Now even the vibrations do not incite her and a moment later she is jerked high and there is a definitive snap. I hear the vertebrae of her neck breaking. The rod is removed from her pussy. She is dropped to collapse in a heap, neck broken and asphyxiated.  

Sonja’s hand caresses me and I realize that I am once again hard. She climbs across my lap, straddling my hips and I feel her wet slit against the tip of my manhood. Her face is inches from mine, her huge breasts pressed to my chest. I touch her, hands slipping from her arms to her bosom, thumbs grazing her nipples. I touch and knead and push downward. Her body encases mine, soft beautiful wetness and we move as the girl on the stage is picked up, taken to the nearby bench, and dismembered. She will be roasted, or grilled, or broiled. Just like the other girls who became the ingredients in my meal. Sonya lifts her head, her mouth moving to mine, kissing. And I realize that breath is the beautiful movement of life within us.



Eating Wild — Episode #7: More Mole

Eating Wild - Episode #6: BBQ