Eating Wild — Episode #7: More Mole

Release Date: [08/16/2046]

Host: Jonathan Whittaker

[Intro Music Intro fades in, swells, and fades into Mexican fiesta music. Vendors, music, and then some cries of someone in pain. ]

I am in La Plaza de Muchachas and around me there is a cacophony of sound and colors. Even before I made it to the tianguis, the red and pink tarps are visible, covering the streets and turning the hot Mexican sun into a rosy glow. I work my way in, finding myself in a dense labyrinth of vendor stalls, arranged loosely by category. Pyramids of perfectly stacked, vibrant fruits and vegetables line the aisles. Massive papayas, mangoes, avocados, and rows of seasonal items alongside staples like nopales (dried cactus) are being cleaned on the spot. I find baskets piled high with dried chilies, rice, and beans. Corn, in a variety of states, is easily available, from kernel to maize.

A tianguis is incredibly loud and festive. Vendors use rhythmic vocal calls, known as pregones, to shout out their daily prices and entice passersby. You’ll hear the background noise of local musicians, the rhythmic chopping of butcher knives on heavy wooden blocks, and the constant clatter of metal scales.

The air is thick with a mixture of competing aromas: the sharp, earthy smell of fresh cilantro and bruised mint; the pungent sweetness of overripe pineapples; the distinct aroma of dried and raw meats; and, overriding everything, the rich, savory smell of sizzling oil and toasted corn from the food stalls. And while I am intrigued by the sights and sounds around me, I glance at my watch. I have a dinner date I cannot miss.

I turn the corner and stop in frozen shock. Ahead of me, I see the swinging form of a young woman, hands bound behind her back, legs bent at the knee, feet brought up and tied to her thighs. Her long black hair hides her face and a young man, blindfolded, swings a stick hard at her naked body. I suck in a breath, waiting for the cry of anguish, the scream of pain, the sound of breaking bones, but instead her entire form seems to shrug off the blow, not even bending or wincing. She swings, herself held immobile and silent, spinning from the blow and it is only as her face points my direction do I realize the truth.

It is not a girl. It is a pinata. A pinata shaped like a naked, bound meatgirl. 

My breath lets out explosively and I shake my head. Mexico City is known for its vibrancy and as the oldest capital city in the Americas, hosts a world-class culinary scene. Traditional Mexican cooking relies on a sacred trio of ingredients: Corn, chiles, and beans. Through the ancient chemical process of nixtamalization, or soaking corn in an alkaline solution, the grain is unlocked nutritionally to create the pliable masa used for authentic street tortillas, tamales, tlacoyos, and tlayudas. As for chiles, Mexico boasts over sixty different varieties, used fresh, dried, smoked, or pickled. And they are not just used for heat. They can provide other tones: earthy, smoky, fruity, or even sweet flavor foundations. Frijoles are the essential companion crops grown alongside corn, providing the necessary protein base of amino acids so that when eaten together, provide the necessary nutrition for a society that doesn’t rely heavily on meat. 

Except… that was then. 

The boy beneath the pinata swings again, the hard stick slamming into the pinata’s leg. It breaks and a rain of red colored candy spills from the shattered husk of paper mache to fall to the ground in a crimson rain. The other children yell in excitement and rush forward to scoop up the abundance of treats. Above them, bleeding sweets, swings the faux meatgirl. Her future, like that of the girls she is modeled after, is undoubtedly short.

I move on to Zultepec-Tecoaque, one of the finer dining establishments in La Plaza de Muchachas. A doorman reveals the interior and cool air washes over me. I step into the vestibule and immediately notice the decor. Bold geometric symmetry, deeply symbolic art and rich color pallets lead to impressions of natural landscapes. I see jagged lines representative of Mexico’s mountains, with lime and sienna and coral. Stone pillars interrupt the caoba wood paneling and I walk up to the host’s station. He greets me and I am escorted into a waiting room. 

There are other dining guests here already, but I am more intrigued by the wooden cages lining the walls. There are a dozen of them, secured to swing from the ceiling with heavy metal chains, each one barely large enough to hold one of the dark-skinned beauties held within. Arms and legs stick out at odd angles and I can tell that none of the girls are comfortable, a design feature of the cages themselves. Some attempt to stand, hunched over so that their shoulders and head press against the top of the cage, knees bent awkwardly and uncomfortably, so that they will tire quicker. I see the thin wooden rods that form the bottom digging into the soles of their feet causing them to shuffle, struggling to change where their body weight rests. 

Some of the girls have opted for an arguably easier option, but just as painful. The cage bottoms are designed so that it is possible to sit, but the only openings for the legs results in straddling one of the thicker rods positioned directly in the center of the cage. The girls don’t realize that the slightly angular rod will dig up into their crotch, like a mini wooden horse. It is almost impossible to extricate themselves once there. There is sobbing and each cage jiggles as the occupant struggles. 

I approach one girl and she brushes dark beautiful hair out of her eyes and stares at me from between the bars. Her skin is dusky, like powdered cocoa. Her cheeks are tearstreaked and she begs me plaintively in Spanish, a language I do not speak. She reaches an arm out and I let her take my hand. She pulls it into the cage, up to her breast, and I feel the softness of her bosom. She nods desperately, giving me instructions that I cannot understand, but she wriggles and struggles inside the cage until my hand is between her legs. She lets out a soft moan as my fingers find her clitoris. I have no way of penetrating her. The rod she is sitting on blocks my way, but I do my best to give her some little relief from the pain. 

I am not given the time necessary to bring her to climax. The door behind us opens and in Spanish, English, and Chinese, we are invited to enter the restaurant proper. I pull my hand out of the cage, leaving the girl inside to whimper in frustration and pain. Her wooden enclosure swings as I turn my back and enter the dining hall.

It is impressive. The building is modern, a glass and steel pyramid that rises upward several stories. Ivies and ferns hang from the rafters and flowering plants add color. The kitchen is in the center of the room, a brightly lit stainless steel and flaming monster that is already smoking. The scent of cooking meat hits me immediately, Mexican oregano, cumin, cloves, and chiles flavoring the very air. A grill the size of a car sizzles on one end, while a vertical spit layered with meat for al pastor turns in a lazy circle in between upright burners. A giant steel butchering table lays empty in the center of the kitchen and off to the side, a fucking machine complete with oversized phallus. 

There are thirteen tables arranged in a relative circle around the kitchen. Each table is on a squarish, stepped platform that more than resembles a ziggurat. I am shown to one and I climb up, feeling sorry for the wait and cleaning staff, only to find myself staring down at the table's centerpiece in both dismay and appreciation. Because the girl bound there is an absolute beauty. 

The native blood of the ancient Aztecs and Mayans run through the veins of the Mexican People, but so does the life essence of the Spaniards who later conquered Mexican lands and spread their seed through the population. The resulting mix created something more than the sum of its parts and through selective and genetic breeding, have manifested a class of woman that blends beauty and flavor. The girl before me has dark brown hair, a broad appealing face, and eyes the color of cacao. Her skin is a smooth, perfect terracotta color, like baked earth and her breasts and hips are full. 

She is tied to my table, but not in the way one would expect. Instead of being spread-eagled, with arms and legs drawn out to the corners, she is folded in half. Her wrists have been pulled down next to her ass, while her legs have been forced upward so that her feet are even with her head. I sit, finding myself staring down right at her exposed and vulnerable sex, the dark folds of her flower open to reveal the pretty pink inside. She is tied tightly and unable to move and for a moment, I am overwhelmed with the urge to just bend down and run my tongue through her slit. 

Next to her bound hands I see not a fork, knife, and spoon, but a small wooden paddle, a thick leather strap, a wooden cane, a vibrator, and a battery operated massager. Above these tools are two small bowls. One is filled with wooden clamps, the other a brush sitting in some sort of spiced chilie paste. 

A scream from one of the other tables startles me and I look up to see that one of the other guests has already begun. He has picked up the leather strap and is standing above the girl bound to his own table, swinging furiously. The broad belt slaps down, striking her between the legs and I see that he has already attached clamps to her nipples. The girl’s head shakes back and forth and she is crying out, sobbing. 

On the other side of the kitchen, I start to hear similar sounds. Slowly I stand. Our eyes meet and I look down at the girl. She is absolutely gorgeous. I touch her leg, moving my hand upward along her taut flank to the back of her knee. I go higher, to her calf and then touch the bottom of her foot. I move around my table and I spot the tell-tale incision in her navel. She has already been processed, her internal organs mostly removed, and the clock started. There is no saving her. She is destined for dinner. 

As I trace the lines of her foot back to her sex, I am brought my drink. I take a sip. It is a small-batch mezcal, which offers a deeply complex, floral, and mineral note rather than just "smoke." It is served with slices of orange. I put down the glass and pick up one of the wooden clamps. The metal spring holds the maw tightly together until I squeeze. I lean over the girl on the table and bend over her outstretched leg. It is easy to get it onto her breast. Her bosom is huge, the nipples dark brown, taut, and impressively large. She winces as it goes on, but stays silent otherwise, staring up at me with those soft brown eyes. 

I dip a finger into the mezcal and begin painting the liquor onto her sex, teasing her clit. She gasps and quivers, the ropes holding her tightening. But I can see she is getting excited. I add more, then give into my desires, my head coming down, lapping at the mixture of her arousal and the agave based alcohol. I work her into a froth, only to find myself being interrupted by the arrival of my appetizer.

Suddenly I am torn. The plate of authentic Mexican chicharrón features thick, crunchy strips of meatgirl belly that still retain a layer of juicy, slow-cooked meat underneath the crispy skin. Beside them is a bowl of guacamole, the onion, tomato, jalapeno, cilantro, and lime mixed perfectly into the cool and creamy avocado. I pick up one crisp and find it more than strong enough to act as a dipper. Laden with guac, I put it into my mouth. The intense crunch and rich savory fat of the meat contrast beautifully with the heat and acidity of the guacamole. I reset my pallet with another sip of mezcal and then once more begin licking the thick clitoris of the bound girl in front of me. 

After a moment, I sit back, realizing that I can take my time. I look up. The kitchen is in full swing and meat cuts, already butchered, are sizzling on the grill. Another skewer is being prepared for al pastor. Tortillas are being made fresh. Bowls of limes, lemons, chiles, and beans are slowly emptying as the chefs cook. But unlike the other restaurants I’ve visited on this tour, the real show is at the other tables. My peers. Thirteen of us. 

Some of the other guests are like me, inflicting minimal discomfort on our tablepiece. At least so far. Others have found a middle ground, alternating the tenderization of their girls with sexual pleasure. I watch as one Chinese man wastes no time, his trousers open, thrusting himself into the body of his girl, while simultaneously whipping her legs, feet, and breasts with the leather belt. But there are at least two guests who have gone to the extremes. I can hear the guttural screaming interspersed with the sound of the beatings. I finish my chicharróns and pick up both the leather strap and the massager.

As I await the next dish, I alternate between the two tools. Thirty seconds of intense vibration, followed by two or three hard, stinging swings of the leather belt have the desired effect. The girl on the table in front of me begins struggling, the heat and arousal building in her sex. I aim right for her clit and as she becomes more animated I add another stimulating sensation, sucking her swelling nub into my mouth. Her taste is incredible. Tangy cinnamon. Her hips grind and thrust up toward me as I delve into her sweet cleft. Then I strike her again with the belt, followed by intense vibration. I put my mouth on her clit again, only to realize that my timing is perfect. She screeches, pressing upward as my tongue dances across her sensitive nub and there is a gush of wetness. It flows against my chin and I lower my mouth, sucking up her juices. 

The waiter sets another plate down next to us and I lean back, wiping my mouth and chin with my napkin. It is tlacoyo, an oval-shaped, torpedo-like pocket of blue corn masa, stuffed with shredded girlmeat, griddled, and topped with nopales and cotija cheese. I lean back with a smile, pick up the tlacoyo, and take a bite. Flavor explodes in my mouth, combining with the tang of the girl I’d just eaten out. The vibrant green salsa on top has some heat and I go back to my mezcal. Which is when I hear the chanting.

One of the girls has been moved. She looks similar to mine, dusky skin, dark hair, perfect proportions, but while mine is only slightly reddened around the loins from the repeated impact of the strap, this girl’s body has been thoroughly tenderized. Dark crimson welts are spread evenly across her frame, though I can see that her breasts, ass, and legs seem to have gotten the worst of it. Her pussy hasn’t been spared either. It is swollen, the clit three times the size it should have been. Her head flops and I am not sure if she is unconscious or worse. The two men carrying her haul their cargo to the center of the kitchen, to the center table. It is steel, not stone, but I see the symbolic gesture toward the old Aztec sacrificial altars. She is placed on the surface, arms and legs pulled wide and bound quickly to the corners. 

One of the attendants squirts some sort of oil onto her sex, drenching her hot red petals. The phallus of the fucking machine is manuevered between her legs and then inserted. It is not an easy entry. The thing is massive and the attendant has to wriggle the rod to get it in. She begins to rouse. The device is activated. The rubber shaft on the end is equipped with its own motor, shaking the thick probe, even as the piston begins to retract it. It almost comes loose of her folds, but then slides back in. She groans as the speed picks up. A second arm is extended, a metal pole that is capped with a bulbed massager similar to the one sitting on my table. Except this one is larger. It is pressed against the girl’s sensitive clit. She is destined for sexual overload.

I stand up to get a better view, only to realize that my own erection demands satisfaction. I hurriedly unzip myself as one of the chefs splash cold water on their sacrifice’s face. I slide myself in, burying my shaft in the hot, sweet, tight flesh of the girl on my table. The sacrifice wakes, her eyes fluttering open. Her head turns as she blinks. The pumping phallus being jammed into her sex goes even faster and she whimpers, then mewls, then lets out a cry. Soon her entire body is shaking from the brutal fucking, the overwhelming sensation as she is forced toward orgasm. Combined with the beating she has already received, it must be agonizing. She shakes her head, speaking rapidly in Spanish. A man steps up and as I thrust myself hard into the pussy in front of me, I marvel to see the cloak of feathers and incredible headdress he wears. He stands beside her, watching as her frame ripples, her arms and legs pulling hard on her bonds. He is waiting for something. Her face contorts into a grimace, eyes squinting as her back arches, her hips thrust and she cries out in clear, acute pleasure, body rippling in orgasm. 

A stone knife is raised and she screams.

My ejaculation is... intense. 

It is a brutal process, but a quiet one. Her single cry has been silenced, the air forced from her lungs as her chest is practically ripped open. The fucking phallus continues to pound into her, even as her head rocks violently, eyes wide open but unseeing. I see her legs shaking with turbulent ferocity, her heels slamming into the table. The man in the cloak reaches into her. Blood squirts, splattering him, but he pays it no mind and suddenly he pulls something dark and red out, holding it aloft.

She stops moving. Someone shuts off the fucking machine.

He turns and tosses the heart into a bowl and it is set aside. The man with the knife and the cloak of feathers steps back and four more chefs move in to the table, long knives flying. The phallus and massage are pulled away. In less than a minute the girl is dismembered, her legs and arms removed, her torso slit from top to bottom, and every piece of delectable meat removed and placed on steel trays. These are taken over to the various stations, and I watch as salt and garlic and onion fly. Orderlies remove the remains. The table is wiped down until it is gleaming steel again.

And they set another one of the girls, from another one of the tables, upon it. She lets out a gasp as the phallus is pushed up between her legs, filling her pussy. It begins to move as the massager is set in place, picking up speed until her entire body is shaking like an earthquake.

The dish that is set between the thighs of my own Latina chica looks magnificent. Medallions of girlmeat sit in an earthy brown peanut sauce next to white rice and black beans. Sliced radishes and jalapeno add a splash of color. It is Chica Encacahuatado, and features perfectly seared, juicy slices of tenderloin nestled in a velvety, cream-free sauce made from toasted nuts, warm spices, and mild, earthy dried chiles. It relies on complex flavor layering rather than heavy heat, striking a beautiful balance of savory, sweet, and nutty tones. Chica Encacahuatado has a taste profile that is deeply comforting, incredibly rich, and complex. If you have never had it before, the closest familiar comparison is a more delicate, Latin American cousin to an Indonesian Satay or a mild African peanut stew—but with distinctly Mexican aromatic foundations. 

It is impossible to ignore the activities on center stage, even as I dig into the Chica Encacahuatado. I watch as the second girl is bound on the table, stretched out, quite conscious as her sex is pummeled and filled by the massive phallus. She doesn’t blubber or beg. She is accepting. Her hips thrust up as the man with the feathered cloak and headdress looms above her, stone knife gleaming. I watch as she shudders, responding to the intense stimulation, her body forced back toward orgasm despite the other aches and pains she has endured. It takes even longer than the first girl, which I find surprising. I take another bite of my entree. The dominant flavor is the deeply warm, comforting taste of toasted peanuts. Because the nuts are toasted beforehand, it doesn't taste like raw peanut butter; instead, it has a smoky, roasted, and distinctly savory nuttiness. 

The girl cries out as the orgasm hits her, and I see her toes curl. But even as the cresting blossom of utter pleasure surges through her cute little body, the stone blade plunges into her chest. The motion is violent, sudden and her back arches, fingers curling into fists, toes pointed. Her scream is high-pitched and shrill, until it gargles to a sudden stop as her heart is cut out. Once more the man in the headdress holds it aloft like a trophy. She stares up at it, eyes wide, the horror slowly disappearing from her face as her body relaxes into sweet stillness.

I swallow another bite of the Chica Encacahuatado and realize that the addition of charred tomatoes and onions provides a natural, subtle sweetness that balances the heavy oils of the nuts. Underneath it all, the tiny touch of Mexican cinnamon and whole cloves provides a warm, fragrant baking-spice background note that rounds out the savory profile without making it taste like dessert.

As the girl is butchered, I realize that I am failing in my duties as a guest. I push aside my plate and stand, picking up the vibrator. I push it into the pussy of my own Latina darling. She quivers, gasping with pleasure as the stimulation once more incites her libido. Her hips start thrusting and I begin rubbing the massager back and forth across the clit, working her closer and closer to another climax. A waiter takes away my empty plate and I replace the massager with the cane. Mi chica mesa lets out a mewl as I begin tapping her left breast with the stick, making the clamp jump and twist, while my other hand continues to jack the vibrator in and out of her sex. The more she moans, her loins thrusting against the vibrating toy, the harder I hit, until she is bucking, struggling as the marks appear on both her breasts, thin rosy lines marring the perfection of her skin. I aim for her nipples, trying to knock the wooden pegs off her tits, and she cries out, cumming hard and there is another squirt of girl goo.

A third girl is laid out on the sacrificial table except they have made exceptions for the guest. He has accompanied his beauty to the sacrificial table. Instead of being spread-eagled lengthwise on the rectangular platform, she is rotated so that her head hangs off the elongated side, her wrists and legs pulled straight out from her body until she is stretched. A “I” instead of an “X”. She is doing the splits, her pussy a few centimeters from the edge of the table. Her thighs have been viciously striped with the strap and cane and the dining guest steps up to her exposed pussy. He frees himself, his erect cock straining forward. He plunges it into her body, fucking her violently, only to take a massager similar to the one I wield and holds it against her clit. It is not as quick as the fucking machine, but he times it perfectly, pushing her into orgasmic ecstasy just as the man in the feathered cloak and headdress looms over her head. He raises the knife and as she cries out, plunges it hard into her chest. 

I can’t help wondering what it might have felt like, having her spasm and tighten and then end, wrapped around his cock. 

The man in the feathered cloak pulls her heart out, blood dripping.

The dining guest continues to fuck the girl as her head lolls, her body limp. He groans, shooting his seed into her and then pulls back, even as the chefs move in, slicing into her still body. Her ankles and wrists are released, but she doesn’t move. Instead, her legs are cut off at the thighs, her arms at the shoulders, then her torso is dissected. Finally even that is removed and the steel tray is wiped down yet again.

One by one, more girls are brought down, but no one else selects to participate in a similar manner. I watch, one hand playing with the pussy of my own table girl, while the fucking machine brings each quivering, desperate, frantic girl to orgasm, right before the stone knife is plunged into their chests, their hearts cut out. 

A pair of orderlies appear to my side and I give a little nod, sitting back in my chair. I watch as my own little chica is finally untied, her legs swung down. She looks at me as she sits up, eyes brimming with tears. But she says nothing. I’m surprised she is able to stand and she turns her back to me, her gorgeous bottom swinging. For a second I want to drag her back, to sit her on my lap, to plunge myself into her body. I say nothing. The two orderlies allow her to walk down the steps of my ziggurat style table, down to the kitchen. They help her up onto the sacrificial table and she lifts her arms. The straps are wrapped around her wrists. She spreads her legs wide, willingly. Her skin is only barely red and I realize that comparatively, she is undamaged. Her pussy is covered in oil as her ankles are bound and then the phallus is slid into her sex.

Another plate is placed in front of me. A sizzling morsel of chica meat, sitting in a dark ruby mole sauce. Lomo de Chica con Mole Poblano. I am astonished. For a sophisticated dinner centerpiece, Mole Poblano is the gold standard. It balances dozens of ingredients—including toasted seeds, warm baking spices, earthy chiles, and a touch of dark Mexican chocolate—to create a velvety, non-spicy sauce with unmatched depth. I pick up my fork and plunge it into the meat. It slides in perfectly and I take a bite. It tastes like a masterclass in gastronomical balance—striking a chord that is simultaneously savory, earthy, smoky, subtly sweet, and rich.

Below, the speed of the phallus sliding in and out of her picks up. Her body ripples. She has already cum several times and I wonder how much she can take. She has to know that her life depends on resisting. The longer she lasts, the more breaths she takes. The massager is pressed to her clit and my mouth bursts with flavor, the mole poblano tasting of chiles. They don't bring fire; instead, they taste like rich, sun-dried raisins, roasted prunes, and pipe tobacco. It's deeply earthy and dark. Then, as the sauce warms up on my tongue, I find a sweet, aromatic layer. This comes from clove, anise, and Mexican cinnamon, backed by charred onions and garlic.

She is undulating now, struggling against the inevitable. She is getting close. I can tell. Her body betrays her. She lifts her ass upward, pressing hard against the massager. The phallus is moving so quickly that I am shocked she hasn’t cum yet. Her entire body trembles and shakes, waves of motion flowing up from between her legs into her belly. She quivers, arching her back, her jaw clenched as she tries desperately to hold off and I stand. It feels right. Respectful. Honoring her beauty. Her resilience. Her sacrifice. 

I realize that I am aroused. Again. 

The climax hits her and it is the most powerful one of the evening. Fluids squirt out from her slit, spurting outward dramatically. She screams, not just in lustful bliss, but in defiance. She is bracing herself, knowing what comes next, even before her body finishes its own dance. Mixed emotions rush through me. She is doomed, regardless, her processed body unable to function much beyond the next few hours. A miserable, slow, agonizing death? Or a quick one? My confusion delays me and the decision is made. 

She gasps instead of screams, the breath knocked out of her body as the knife slams into her sternum. Blood gushes and I stand frozen, shocked, exhilarated, and aroused. I watch as her heart is pulled from her and held aloft. Suddenly my knees are weak. I drop into my chair. I realize I am panting. Dazed. By the time I look up, she is gone. Not even a crimson smear to remember her. 

My half-eaten dish is taken away. My drink is refilled. Another girl is taken to the table, but I am still too shocked to watch. I hear her groan, the sound of the machine assaulting her sex, the hard hum of the massager against her clit. She cries out, clearly in ecstasy and there is a scream that cuts off into choked silence. 

I think I am done, and yet, a plate is set in front of me. Simple. Clean. Elegant. Upon it are two skewers of meat. Lime slices, elote, and some grilled potato. I squeeze some of the lime onto the sizzling hot skewer and pick it up. I taste it. There is a tangy, garlic-forward punch. I bite down and a deep, robust flavor explodes in my mouth. The quick, high-heat grill method creates a dark, caramelized outer crust that locks in the juices. Paired with smoky paprika and heavy cumin, it tastes incredibly rustic, warm, and deeply savory. 

But it is the texture that surprises me. When cooked correctly to medium-rare, it has a distinct "snap" or clean, muscular chew to it. It is incredibly lean—there is zero gristle, stringy fat, or flabbiness. It feels dense and remarkably tender on the palate. It leaves you with a savory finish and a lingering hint of toasted cumin and garlic, making it feel like the ultimate, high-protein meat. And I realize it is her heart.

I eat all of it. And it is absolutely delicious. 

Thank you for listening. I’m Jonathan Whittaker and this… is Eating Wild. 

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