DISCLAIMER
This is a work of pure fiction created for artistic and horror exploration purposes only. All content is entirely imaginary and generated within the realm of dark fantasy. No real persons, animals, or events are depicted or harmed in any way. This story contains extreme, graphic, violent, sexualized, and disturbing themes including cannibalism, objectification, voluntary snuff, dismemberment, and gore. It is intended exclusively for adults (18+) who actively seek out such extreme horror/erotica. If you are sensitive to violence, body horror, non-consensual themes (even in fantasy), or find depictions of dehumanization triggering, do not read further. Reader discretion is strongly advised — proceed at your own risk.
Author: aigorepic.com
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In the fluorescent-drenched aisles of her mind, the world had already changed.
Lena called it the Shift. Not a real historical event, not yet—but in the looping cinema behind her eyes it had happened decades ago. A quiet cultural realignment. A new livestock category slid smoothly into existence between beef and pork: girl-meat. Tender, marbled, ethically meaningless because the girls themselves lined up for it. Consent forms signed in looping cursive. Health certificates stamped. Photos taken from every angle for the butcher’s catalog. Premium pricing for the young ones.
She was twenty-three, five-foot-four, 108 pounds, small-breasted, narrow-waisted, wide-hipped in that pear shape butchers prized for the thickest glute cuts. Every morning Lena stood naked before her full-length mirror, cataloguing herself the way a slaughterhouse grader would. Pinching the fat pad above her pubic mound (excellent intramuscular fat distribution). Turning sideways to admire how her ass cheeks separated cleanly from thick, juicy thighs. Lifting one foot onto the sink edge to study the smooth, pale sole and high arch—prime offal-adjacent delicacy in some markets. She would trace the faint blue veins under her skin and imagine the red that would replace them once the throat was opened.
Tonight the fantasy was sharper than usual.
She lay on her bed in the dark, legs spread, two fingers curled inside herself, the other hand pressing a cold stainless-steel cleaver (purchased online, never used on food) flat against her throat. Eyes closed. Breathing shallow. The supermarket materialized around her.
Bright, sterile, endless. The meat section stretched farther than physics allowed. No cows. No pigs. Only girls—dozens of them, arranged with clinical artistry.
Whole carcasses hung from overhead rails by stainless S-hooks through the Achilles tendons, toes pointed elegantly downward like ballerinas in rigor. Their heads were gone already; clean, angled sever at the sixth cervical vertebra. Tags dangled from the remaining wrist stumps:
- “Prime Rib Girl – 19 yo – Grass-finished on high-protein diet – $28/lb”
- “Loin & Tenderloin Set – 21 yo – Marathon runner genetics – Extra lean – $42/lb”
- “Boston Butt & Picnic Shoulder Pair – 22 yo – Thick glute development – $19/lb”
Lower down, in the glass-fronted display case exactly like the one in the picture that had haunted her browser history for months, lay the pièce de résistance.
A headless torso presented supine on chipped ice. The cut was high and perfect—guillotine-straight through the neck, no ragged tearing. A thin collar of bright arterial leakage had already begun to congeal around the severed trachea and esophagus, glistening under the LED lights like cranberry glaze. The arms had been removed at the shoulder, leaving smooth, rounded stumps. The legs were folded backward in full lotus position, ankles crossed behind the neck stump so that the feet—small, high-arched, toes relaxed—framed the face that was no longer there.
But in Lena’s mind the head was still attached just long enough for her to see it.
She imagined herself on that bed of ice right now. The moment of placement. The butcher (faceless, gloved, calm) had already slit her from pubic bone to sternum, reached in, and lifted out the majority of her viscera in one glistening pile—heart still faintly twitching, liver heavy and dark, intestines steaming in the cold air. Those organs went immediately into the “offal special” tray beside her: $9.99/lb mixed variety.
Only then did he take the bone saw to the neck.
She pictured the vibration traveling through her skull as the blade ate through vertebra. No pain in the fantasy anymore—just bright chemical bliss flooding every synapse as the spinal cord parted. A final, ecstatic shudder. Then darkness… and the strange, liberating clarity of becoming product.
Now, in the display case, shoppers paused. Housewives prodded her remaining thigh meat with a gloved finger, testing springiness. A man in a suit lifted one of her feet, turned it over, admired the soft pink sole. “Nice pedicure,” he muttered to his wife. “Would make good osso buco if they split the shank.” The wife nodded, already reading the little laminated sign taped to the glass:
Fresh Girl-Meat Special
Today’s Selection: 23 yo Caucasian Female
Live weight prior: 108 lbs
Dressed weight: 62 lbs
Grade: Choice
Cut sheet available – Custom butchering on request
Best before: 3 days from processing
aigorepic
Lena’s fingers moved faster between her legs. She could almost feel the cold air kissing the raw surfaces where her body had been opened. The slow seep of purge blood pooling beneath her scapulae. The faint metallic tang that would cling to anyone who leaned close to inspect her.
A mother with a toddler pointed. “Look honey, that’s where the yummy steaks come from.” The child stared, wide-eyed, at the place where Lena’s head should have been—at the perfect cross-section of trachea, esophagus, carotid arteries already tied off with butcher’s twine, spinal cord neatly centered like the bullseye of a target.
In the deepest recess of the fantasy Lena didn’t just want to be meat. She wanted to be seen being meat. Wanted the fluorescent lights to shine on her emptied cavity, on the pale undersides of her feet now propped upward like offerings, on the thick rounds of glute muscle that would soon be sliced into perfect cutlets. Wanted strangers to debate whether her rump was better suited for slow roasting or quick grilling. Wanted someone to reach in, squeeze her remaining breast (left one only—the right had already been removed for the “breast fillet” tray), and nod approvingly at the yield.
Her orgasm arrived like a blade dropping.
She arched, mouth open in a silent scream that echoed the one she never got to make when the edge finally kissed through skin and artery. Hot pulses squeezed around her fingers while in her mind the butcher reached for the price gun and stamped her little white label:
aigorepic – Prime Cut – $34.99/lb
When the aftershocks faded Lena lay still, sweat cooling on her skin, the imaginary cleaver still pressed lightly to her throat.
She opened her eyes.
The room was ordinary again. Just a bedroom. Just her.
But tomorrow she would return to the supermarket—the real one—and stand too long in front of the empty meat case, imagining it filled with girls exactly like her.
And she would smile, small and secret, knowing that somewhere in the multiverse of her mind, one version of her already rested on chipped ice under bright lights.
Headless.
Footed.
Priced.
Perfect.
The End
