A tendril of light breaks through the blackness to rest in soft focus on an impressively outfitted studio kitchen. A buxom, tawny haired woman stands at the central island under an array of gleaming silver pots, pans, spoons, and huge-bladed kitchen knives hanging from an ironwork cage above. She smiles sweetly through serrated teeth as she speaks.
“Welcome to The Sauciest Succubus! You’ve seen us through three seasons and we’re spicing things up for Season Four. I’m your host, Babs Juliette, and today we’re making Single-Issue-Voter Souffle. There’s no apathy for this recipe. You’ll either love it or hate it. So, what’ll it be? I guess we’ll just have to try it out for ourselves, won’t we?” Wink.
The camera pans to the studio audience where a mix of weary, wide-eyed faces stare back in terror. A middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair lurches forward as if to stand and is immediately forced back into place when his armrests come to life and grab him, tightening around his torso as the seat cushion tentacle holding him down slides farther up his ass to better suction him in place. His eyes glaze over in tears and he groans at the violation.
“Now, now, studio audience, you know the rules. You must remain seated during filming.” Babs continues, “we’ll start by preheating our oven to three-hundred-seventy-five degrees Fahrenheit… Oh wait, we’re already well past that. Guess I better turn it down a notch.”
Babs winks and snaps her fingers, summoning a huge stone mortar and pestle with copious rust-colored stains ground into its rough surface. The giant mixing apparatus consumes a large section of the kitchen island and the camera drifts to the side for a better view.
The demoness continues. “For this recipe, we will need: one large well-formed aborted fetus or the equivalent weight in frozen embryos, two politician’s tongues—the bigger and flappier the better—and one pregnant rape victim at risk of dying in childbirth now in the third trimester, preferably having been confined to bed rest.”
Babs reaches into a stainless steel laboratory-grade refrigerator and snatches out a plastic bag, hermetically sealed around a perfectly formed fetus trapped in total stillness, tiny fingers and toes locked in place as though grasping at nothing. She rips into the corner of the bag with her serrated teeth and pours the gelatinous form into the mortar, fanning the plastic envelope open and closed to ensure that all of its contents flow out. The fetus slides into the waiting dish slowly, leaving a blood-soaked trail in its wake.
“I prefer to get my fetuses in full-bodied form, but many abortion procedures dice and liquify everything during their removal. I find the whole bodies more flavorful, and they retain more valuable nutrients than the highly-processed versions. But either works for the recipe, because we’re going to be pulverizing the remains anyway.”
Babs returns to the refrigerator to retrieve two large glass jars, each containing a preserved human head, both male with white hair suspended and floating in wispy trails to the surface of the embalming fluid. She places the two jars on opposite sides of the mortar and pestle, situates them to face the camera, and addresses the viewership.
“So here we have two opposing senators, both long-standing politicians with rigid morally opposing views.” She pauses to grin widely at the camera, forked tongue stroking her upper lip. “I guess they won’t be using the budget as a whipping boy stand-in for their stalemate any longer.”
The demoness pulls a jar closer and grabs the head by its thin, curly hair. She draws it out. The head slumps, dripping milky fluid with tiny flecks of detritus, bone, skin, flesh, brain matter, and the like back into the container. She strokes open its frowning mouth with a clawed black fingernail to coax forth the tongue, which had fallen back into the recesses of the throat to be swallowed sometime in death or the preservation process. She forces her hand into the jaw’s opening, wriggling her fingers into the tight space. Babs cuts the rubbery tongue out of the internal crevice with a sideways stroke of her fingernail, hand gripping the flat papillae-covered prize and ripping the mouth’s edges at the cheeks slightly as she extracts the fleshy, floppy, swollen organ. She gently tosses it in the mortar with the fetus and returns the head to its jar, flotsam settling to the bottom. She extracts the second tongue in the same manner and then leaves the two senators’ jarred heads facing off on the countertop for visual effect.
“I guess this debate can rage on a bit longer. Not that either of you ever had anything worthwhile to say,” Babs exclaims, turning back to her work. “Now to these filler ingredients. We have to get a good mash going.”
She grabs the pestle and grinds the mortar’s contents with circular motions of her wrist, working the motion with her elbow and shoulder and getting her whole arm into the action as she wedges and kneads the fetus and two tongues together into one grind. The fetus’s tiny bones crunch under the pestle and its organs make squelching sounds as she pulverizes and pounds the mixture into a pulpy mass, yielding a thick grayish-red paste resembling a pate. Liquid blood and fluids seep into the stone surface, imbuing the existing stains with fresh color.
“I’m going to let that set up a minute while we gather our other ingredient,” Babs says.
She snaps her fingers and the back portion of the kitchenette is transformed into a dungeon, the wall behind the refrigerator rotating out of view with the other side bearing a naked and obviously pregnant woman chained from above at the wrists and again at the ankles, legs spread wide. The woman trembles slightly at the movement of the wall and writhes in pain over her bulging belly, which hangs off-kilter and at an odd angle. Her blue eyes plead with the camera as it settles on her tear-soaked face. The demoness approaches, carrying the huge stone mortar and placing it between the pregnant woman’s spread feet.
“Oh good. This one appears to be suffering from an ectopic pregnancy that has recently ruptured. I can smell the internal bleeding from here,” she exclaims, nostrils flaring slightly. She focuses her attention on the man that had attempted to sneak out of his seat at the beginning of the show. “So good of you to join us, Doc, to see how your patient has been faring. She’s doing as well as can be expected, given the circumstance.” Babs winks and turns back to face the camera. “Now, pay close attention to this part because it’s crucial to get it right if you want your souffle to rise properly. This can be tricky.”
Babs snaps her fingers and calls into hand an oversized pipette vaguely resembling one used in cake decorating. She scoops a fist-sized mass of the fetus-tongue material from the mortar into the injection tube and places her other hand on the woman’s off-center baby bump, groping the bulge to determine the position of the misplaced fetus. Babs then takes the pipette in her dominant hand and edges it toward the center of the woman’s spread legs. She forces both pipette and her hand up and into the pregnant woman’s vagina, blood and viscera trailing into the bowl beneath as her fistful of filling works its way up into the woman’s most intimate body crevasses. The woman gasps before fainting, her body slackening as she passes out.
Babs continues to press the syringe deeper inside the woman, running her other hand over the bulge from the outside to guide her movement as she squeezes the filling into place at the point of the internal breach. The woman’s body convulses, and Babs withdraws her hand and the now-empty pipette. She scoops up another fistful of fetus-tongue material to repeat the process. This continues until the mortar is empty and the woman’s belly resembles that of a bloated corpse on the verge of exploding.
Babs again addresses the camera and studio audience. “Once you have placed all of your filling properly within the baking vessel, you are ready to cook your souffle. The next step is to carefully get your souffle into the three-hundred-seventy-five-degree oven without causing it to deflate.”
Babs unlocks the chains binding the bloated woman’s wrists, catching her as she falls to the ground, then jerking her awake to edge her toward the waiting oven. The woman can barely move, her trembling feet shakily traversing the floor following Babs’ lead. The demoness prompts her into the large mouth of the oven where, once inside, she curls into a fetal position and faints again, this time dead to the world. Babs positions the woman so that her vagina and ass face the oven door, where host and camera crew can track the progress of the souffle as it bakes.
“And now you bake this for one hour to allow the souffle to puff and form a thick custard within. Traditional souffles only take twenty to thirty minutes but I have found that Single-Issue-Voter Souffle takes a bit longer because you need to heat the baking vessel to temperature as well.” Babs closes the oven door. Inside, the woman, awakened by the searing heat, howls in agony. Babs reaches for a knob on the oven and turns it so the screams fade. “Best to lower the volume. Otherwise how can we hear ourselves think?” She claps her hands together. “Now, in the spirit of all cooking shows, we have another souffle that has been baking in our secondary oven while we prepared this one.”
Babs snatches a spoon out of thin air and opens a second oven, pulling out the charred remains of another pregnant woman. The roasted carcass is bloated, a large ball wrapped around a central puffed souffle core that has edged out of the body past the uterus and vagina to crown in a light brown crust. Babs digs in with the spoon, showcasing the viscous goo for the camera and smiling her signature grin.
“Tune in next week for more succulent savories and sweets as we continue Season Four here on The Sauciest Succubus!”
The camera fades to black as the disembodied voice returns. “And that’s a wrap.”