Hemi Chef (re-upload with story) (Patreon)

A re-upload of that pic with the story from Ral who opened her own Patreon (you can download the PDF version attached). Read it; it's great :3

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Regular readers of my column will recall my skepticism at the most recent inductee into the Michelin hall of fame. I wrote at the time that a classical French culinary education goes so far, but novelty and shock appeal cannot bridge the gulf between a good chef and a great one.

As such, I took it upon myself to investigate further.

In lieu of my usual format of restaurant reviews, I present today an in-depth account of the trip I made to La Viande Humaine with my colleagues, for a private dinner.

There was a party feel as we gathered that evening, a small group of this fair city’s top foodies, critics all in high esteem. We were there to have a singular culinary experience, after all, for better or worse.

The first impression of the place was a good one – tasteful furnishings, money and taste evinced in the comfortable seating and spacious premises – however the ‘unique character’ of the venue’s offerings were stated from the first, manifesting through the series of portraits of our hostess and head chef for the evening.

Surrounded by satiated diners, Chef Antoinette was smiling down from each, captivating red eyes almost glowing with pride. Each scene was fundamentally similar, but what made the sequence remarkable was the change in Antoinette herself. A beautiful young blonde woman, still only just into her twenties, her changes were breathtaking between images.

In the first photo she stood on crutches, her left leg dangling, bandaged just below the knee.

In the second, the bandage had moved up, to mid-thigh.

In the third, it was at her hip.

Come the final portrait on the walls, her legs were entirely absent… save for the perfectly browned, succulent centerpiece on the table beside her.

A human foot, roast with herbs and butter, being served up to her eager patrons.

Even at the time, I felt sure I could detect a hint of something more than professional pride, in the way she was posing with her own amputated extremity. A strange… pleasure, at serving herself up to her public.

Perhaps it was because of the similar sense of excitement that she stirred in me.

Our own menu that evening was the next logical progression, when the restaurant was fresh out of leg meat.

“I hope you’re ready for the meal of a lifetime. Mine, specifically.”

Lyrical in quality, our hostess’s accented voice preceded her appearance as she entered with our meal.

Literally.

Sneaking from atop the rolling serving table, pushed in by the wait-staff, our chef sat on a small velvet cushion, beside her latest creation. Beautiful as she was, I felt a flutter when our eyes met, a confident, even brash smirk on her lips as she nodded to each of us in turn. It might have been expected that she stand to greet her guests, but no-one minded given the circumstances. Fresh from the kitchen, she wore traditional whites, but they were tucked in under her, descending not even so far as her crotch.

Because her hips were on the platter next to her, still steaming from the oven.

She had self-administered a hemicorporectomy, specifically for our visit.

Naturally, I’d known about the unconventional approach to ingredients which the restaurant took, but just reading about it or seeing pictures felt theoretical, a concept, bizarre and perverse, but no more so than the news stories heard every day. In my imagination, our chef was little different than other figures on the avant-garde of cookery, such as the infamous Mao Sugiyama.

But to stand there, in the presence of a woman in pieces, willingly serving herself for us to eat… well, it felt very different to see the results in the flesh.

My own was tingling, heat rising in my core as she smoothly butchered hers, carving her own perfectly-cooked meat. I watched in fascination as her lip seemed to wobble, almost quiver with each slice, as she used that long, gleaming knife to slice her own vagina off the joint. I saw her base twitch too, the rounded stump where she’d cut herself in half rubbing into the red padding on which she was balanced.

“The prime cut, for my guest of honor.”

Holding the plate out, she presented it to me, with a knowing wink.

I ate it while watching her, the flavors of that fatty, succulent and savory girl-steak permeating my mouth, coating my tongue in her taste.

Nothing can quite compare to the surreal, taboo excitement of such a meal. I was literally devouring her pussy, as its shivering former owner observed, breathless and tense. It was easy to imagine her frustration, her contradictory excitement – her face spoke plainly of that, as her expression distorted with each bite. Of the thrill of watching her own womanhood consumed forever, eternally denying her the very release which her dismemberment seemed to demand.

By that final, mouthwatering piece, the bump of her crispy, exquisitely seasoned clitoris, she was panting.

I was too.

Shivering, that savory taste setting my tongue tingling, I pressed my knees together under the table as I chewed, the same thought repeating in my head.

This woman could never cum again, despite how clearly, dearly she wanted to.

She was consigned to perpetual frustration, an unquenchable thirst which must surely torment her truncated body throughout the many decades ahead of her.

All for the sake of one perfect morsel of meat.

Our eyes met, and she grinned, the corners of her lips quaking with the tension of her arousal and impotence.

An eternal bondage, willingly self-imposed.

Reader, I am not too proud to admit, that moment was an awakening for me, so I beg that you excuse a little, shall we say, visceral language in my account. It would not do the events of the night justice to censor the experience.

Fortunately, for my own dignity, we moved on from that moment to a Q&A session with our halved hostess.

The first few questions were the tepid sort, commonly asked to ease into an interview, however I have never been a journalist who skirts around the issue.

“Miss Antoinette,” I began, my voice clear and decisive, “why did you decide to open a restaurant and serve yourself as the sole menu item.”

The brush of color which painted itself across her cheeks was captivating, but her voice showed no sign of embarrassment as she replied in her excellent English.

“I got the idea when I learned about my namesake. ‘Qu'ils mangent de la brioche’, you know? Well I thought that what they really should have eaten wasn’t cake, it was her.”

“Not, ‘let them eat cake’, but ‘let them eat the rich’?” I posited.

A chuckle ran around the table, and she nodded.

“But it’s not just a pun - La Viande Humaine is important, a project that’s working to make fine dining something we can enjoy with a clean conscience – after all, human meat isn’t just wonderfully sustainable, it’s totally ethical too!”

“If in limited supply,” I pointed out.

“For now,” was her oddly knowing response.

She went on. “Sustainability and ethics are our focuses here – in addition to the fine cooking of course. All my leftovers are donated to the local homeless shelter, and the bones are used in composting.”

I looked over at the stripped roast still on the serving table with her. I couldn’t even imagine how it must feel, to hold your own pelvis in your hands… to grind it down into meal to grow more plants… vegetables used to garnish the next part you planned to cut off yourself….

I’d missed several more questions, by the time my attention returned to the chef herself.

“Yes, I buy credits to offset my carbon footprint,” she was saying, seeming unaware of the terminological irony of saying that as a woman with no legs.

It all sounded very impressive to me, but we critics are an intransigent breed, often prejudicial to the novel. Some more so than others.

“It’s certainly all very moral, yes.”

My fellow food-writer spoke the words with a haughty disdain, as if such concepts were beneath our rarified realm.

“But a Michelin star is not awarded for ethics. Do you not feel that this performative approach is taking the easy route to get a star, rather than earning the award through surpassing dedication to the art of cooking? After all, anyone could cut off a leg and call it

Haute cuisine. Can you really claim to deserve the honor just for being the only one willing to amputate your own limbs? What about when you run out of ‘meat’ to serve?”

Antoinette’s face darkened at the remark, a steely edge showing through her elegant features.

“It seems that my esteemed guest hasn’t quite seen enough,” she said, irritation clear in her tone, “forgive me, I will be back shortly.”

She pushed herself back out of the room, hands propelling her and the table both. It was some minutes before she returned.

When she did, it was quite an entrance.

Kitchen-knife still in her hand, she needed her sous-chef to push her in, because her other arm now ended in a bandaged stump, a few inches above the missing elbow.

Missing from her body, but present and unmistakable on the table at her side. Her appendage was presented prepared a half dozen ways, each gorgeously plated, making my mouth water despite the meal we’d already enjoyed.

Our hemi-hostess, determined to impress, was down to one and a half arms now.

A sashimi hand was in pride of place, the bones flayed flawlessly, the flesh cut, cleaned and replaced on the skeletal remains of her former bodypart, creating the illusion that it was still whole, simply lined with odd marks. An array of sauces were placed between the fingers.

“You better enjoy this,” she said, “because I can’t cook this one again – way too fiddly to do even when you still have one hand to work with.”

She spoke with such clear, perverse relish, that I admit, I moaned at her words.

Antoinette beamed at my reaction, before serving my colleague up the rest of the creations.

All were unique and mouthwatering, the scents rising from the plates enough to set my own hands on edge, longing to dig into the presentation.

“See? This is real cooking dedication!” Antoinette announced, “Now taste it and dare say again I don’t deserve a Michelin star!”

Each dish was as culinarily complex as it was delicious.

Even our truculent holdout was silent as he took his first taste, and I watched the tension melt from his brow as the meat did the same in his mouth.

The loudest sound, aside from the clatter of cutlery, came from our hostess, as she rubbed her latest stump, chewing her lip and she watched him chewing slices of her forearm.

To his credit, he shared a few particularly succulent pieces with the rest of us too, and by the time he’d finished, not a single one of us were left unsatisfied, or unimpressed.

Still, perhaps it speaks to the ego of a master chef like Antoinette, that as napkins and knives were downed, she couldn’t resist showing off a little more.

“Can I get anyone seconds? Or anything else to eat?”

It was obviously a joke – we were stuffed, with her entire pelvis, her ass, pussy, and now half an arm – yet in that slightly breathy question I heard what was almost a request.

Finding round, ruby eyes, glittering up at me, I grinned, rubbing my knees together under the table as I saw the recognition, the apprehension spreading over her features.

The anticipation.

“I’ll have what he had.”

Her lip wobbled adorably, wavering with her resolution, as we each saw in the other the sincerity, the lust.

The excitement, as I ordered her last remaining limb.

“You seriously want even more to eat?!”

“You wouldn’t send a guest home hungry, would you?”

She knew I couldn’t still be unsatisfied, after how much of her meat I’d already devoured, but she nodded slowly all the same, face flushed, a pretty pink that showed up well against her whites.

“And I’ll have two upper arms as well,” I added, with a sadistic smirk, “for the table, you know.”

I watched her five fingers curl up into a tense little knot. Perhaps she was thinking about how this was the last time she would feel them. The last time she would touch them, touch herself in any way. I was asking her to become totally limbless, after all.

To disarm herself, permanently and irreversibly.

“I’ll have to… ask my sous-chef to give me a hand with this one.”

Her masochistic little shiver almost made me embarrass myself, right there in the restaurant.

The absence this time was a longer one, and when she finally returned Antoinette had changed, in attire as well as aspect.

Pristine in new, sleeveless whites, she looked less like our chef and more like the centerpiece for the spread, surrounded as she was by platters of her own former bodyparts.

“Apologies for the wait, you wouldn’t believe how difficult it is to make sashimi with your mouth.”

Suddenly, I regretted not asking to join her in the kitchen, to watch the preparation.

As she rolled up beside me, I saw a white-clad shoulder push forwards, as she tried to move an arm that no longer existed as her limb, and we each registered the startling arousal of the other at her embarrassing mistake.

“Force of habit,” she muttered.

Without limbs, she couldn’t even serve herself to me.

Or so I thought – she rejected my offer of a substitute arm out of hand. Instead, she rocked herself forwards on the table, and fell with a soft thud onto her breasts.

Her hat flopped off mid-motion, and tumbled to the floor, but she seemed to give up on the garment entirely, a lost cause given how little remained of her body.

Breathless, shivering and rubbing her base against the table, she inched around, using the rocking and flexing of her shoulders and pushes from her stump-waist to try to scoot her limbless body between plates. It was plain to see how she felt about this final round, as she used her mouth to pass out the plates of herself, using her teeth, grunting and moaning at the sensations as she struggled with her own dismembered meat. The service was as much a show as the food.

Even once she was done, there was no respite for our chef. She watched helplessly as we examined her efforts, breathless, sweating and squirming, yet unable to relieve herself of that obvious tension which gripped her, her shoulders reaching impotently for her bosom, or towards one another, as we shared out their former extremities. With her body so perversely reduced she couldn’t even touch what little remained, couldn’t feel or explore her sensitive, soft shape.

“It’s amazing you can manage to make a presentation like this even without your arms,” I observed, enjoying how she blushed at the compliment.

“No thanks to you,” she murmured, still panting from her exertions… and passions.

Raising her voice, she gave a real answer.

“I modify the kitchen after each service, learning what works and what doesn’t as I go. We have ramps that I used to walk up with my hand, to get to the counters, but after today I think I’ll need to install an elevator of some sort. And I’m thinking about voice sensors for the gas stoves – I almost set my hair on fire sautéing my last arm, it could have been dangerous!”

“It sounds like you enjoy your work, despite the difficulties,” another critic suggested.

“I love the challenge,” Antoinette admitted, “once you learn all there is to know about cooking it becomes so simple, so easy… almost dull… but this brings a whole new difficulty curve, as I re-learn how to prepare food each time. A-admittedly, tonight has been a bigger spike in struggle than I planned for….”

“Well let’s see how you did at hands-free cooking,” I suggested, as I took a sniff of one of the many plates arrayed before me. “It would certainly be a shame to spoil such beautiful ingredients due to a lack of ‘hands-on’ experience with the preparation method.”

I enjoyed her masochistic, reluctant blush even more than the fragrance of the food.

“Geez… you better like it! You won’t have anymore from me now!”

Flustered as she was, I couldn’t resist pushing, just a little more.

“Oh? But I’m sure you have a few more dinners in you!”

My eyes lingered on her midriff – now her base – as I consumed a piece of this captivatingly unconventional cook, and admired how everything below her bust seemed to shiver at the thought we were sharing.

“There’s really not much difference between being amputated at the hip and at the bust, is there? I simply can’t wait to taste your next creation you know.”

“…Well, if you insist….”

“I get the feeling you were almost ready to insist earlier… as I was eating your ‘steak’.”

“I have no idea what you mean,” she replied, far too fast.

“I think you enjoy your work in more ways than one,” I said, speaking innocently at first “such as enjoying it, as you watched someone eating your pussy, or getting oh-so-very-squirmy at the thought of serving up more pieces of your body for us to enjoy.”

Her sudden whine at the memory spoke volumes.

Pained, tense, needy and desperate, yet with a note of excitement, of thrill… a sound of pure, organic masochism.

With a frustrated huff of breath, she nodded.

“F-fine, I admit it, as weird and embarrassing and debilitating as it is, I… love feeling myself being reduced….”

Her voice was heavy, thick with lust as she spoke now, her shoulders twitching as she panted, trying to touch herself anew.

“I’ve been… fantasizing about how I’d butcher myself tonight for months…. Cutting myself up feels incredible, and it’s even better, watching people eat me….”

Horny yet humiliated, she looked away, but adorably debilitated as she now was, it was impossible for her to escape my eye.

“So that’s why you founded La Viande Humaine?”

“No!”

A burst of passion surprised us all, as she met my gaze, suddenly unflinching.

“I really believe in sustainable, ethical food! If we want to enjoy delicious meat forever we should all be getting used to eating human bodyparts! It’s a huge, totally untapped resource, and after all, if you’re willing to slaughter pigs and cows, shouldn’t you at least be willing to give up a few limbs too?”

Absurd as it sounded, I had no retort for that, other than to suppress a shiver which ran down my spine as I watched our eloquent host explain her edibility.

“And the results?” I asked, my own voice barely more than a whisper, “do you regret giving up so much?”

Antoinette shivered, a surreal sight for a limbless, hipless torso.

“I don’t…. It’s… thrilling to be this… small and… helpless…. I can’t even touch my own stumps now!”

Short of breath myself, I nodded, as I licked her juices from my lips.

“But I bet you wish you could jill off, hmm?”

“I felt like I might… actually cum when you were eating my pussy.”

The look on her face was wistful, yet strangely satisfied, despite her obviously frustrated arousal.

“But you never can now, can you? You can’t orgasm, even again.”

All my suspicions were confirmed, as Antoinette groaned in bliss, quivering shoulders waving as she wobbled in place, grinding her base into the table in her pathetic, impotent efforts to pleasure herself.

She was a born masochist, utterly infatuated with her own dismemberment.

“Well then, you should at least take consolation in knowing just how delicious your handiwork is. Here, have a bite of this hand, while you still have the organs needed to digest it.”

Adorably startled, her eyes bulged at the perverse proposal, but before she could refuse, I had a boneless finger held out for her to smell.

It was her ring finger, although the name could certainly never be fulfilled now. She stared at the morsel, lip wobbling, mouth watering as her face turned pinker than her own fillets.

Antoinette’s beautifully formed lips gripped her skin as she bit into the piece, and I was gratified to hear that low, earthy rumble in her throat, as she tasted her own meat.

“It’s… really good,” she muttered, blushing all the harder as she chewed in such obvious appreciation.

I couldn’t resist feeding her some more, selecting a perfectly crisped arm steak next.

“Hey, this was supposed to be your order, not mine!” she reminded me, as she tried to resist that succulent smell of herbs and meat, topped with hatched grillons.

“Yeah, but I’m not really hungry,” I replied, my grin wicked as I watched the realization spreading across her face.

The understanding, that I’d talked her into cooking her arms, when I didn’t even want to eat them.

“You’re such a… pervert,” was her whispered response.

“At least I bought you dinner,” I reminded my blushing hostess. 

…

And that, dear reader, is the full account of my first enchanting trip to La Viande Humaine.

At least, so far as the culinary experience is concerned.

That was before the announcement of her new show, Let Them Eat Cheesecake, but I am as eager as any of you to see what our newest celebrity chef will be demonstrating for us live on Saturday nights.

As of time of writing, the lovely Antoinette is still head chef of her restaurant too – although as I have reminded her regularly, it’s something of a misnomer while she still has her shoulders and bosom – and while service is slow, she heartily encourages anyone with an appreciation of ethical cuisine to come try her latest offerings.

Or to come along and volunteer to ‘lend’ a hand.

I myself have been twice more, to do just that, and both experiences were once in a lifetime events.

Fortunately, I have become very skilled at typing – and eating – with my feet.

Your disarmingly direct correspondent, signing off.