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  1. #21

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    Here's the link to my site's gynophagic library:

    http://zuluworld.webs.com/ladylumpslibrary.htm

    I'll be adding more of my own stories in the weeks to come, plus a few more Piglets d'Menagerie!!

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  3. #22

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    A Night To Howl

    A NIGHT TO HOWL
    “It’s no use, Sandy,” Mandi said, “We’re lost.”
    It had been a miserable business trip to Bucharest for the two American junior account executives. Romanian businessmen had been more interested in their busts and fannies than in their sales pitches; they had been pinched and prodded till they were black and blue, and had no new orders to show for it.
    “Why did the boss send us here, anyway?” Sandy wondered; the shapely brunette was standing on tiptoe in her high heels while cupping her hand over her eyes, trying to make sense of the signs.
    “Because he doesn’t like us,” retorted Mandi; the lanky, brown-haired farm girl, an even six feet, towered over Sandy. She looked behind her and down. “I’ve got a run in my nylons.”
    “Try to find a store around here,” Sandy jeered. They must have given the wrong directions to that cabbie, who took their cash and sped away into the twilight, leaving them in a rural backwater instead of at their tourist district hotel. “I doubt you can even buy food at this time of night.”
    “I’m hungry,” Mandi admitted. They had picked at the local cuisine at lunch; blood sausage and cabbage—not very appetizing to Americans raised on burgers and fries. “Let’s try to find a place to eat, at least—“
    “Ladies?”
    A small man in a trench coat was suddenly standing in front of them. He had white hair, a moustache, a fedora; he peered at them intently through thick glasses. He spoke Romanian, at first; the girls looked at each other with puzzled expressions, and he sighed and smiled. “I overheard your problem,” he said, in heavily accented but faultless English. “I am Dr. Trebonescu, the local physician; I can help you find a restaurant, and perhaps to find a place to rest, eh?” He nodded, looking up at them earnestly.
    Mandi and Sandy exchanged glances again. “Can we get back to Bucharest?” Mandi asked.
    Sorrowfully, Dr. Trebonescu shook his head. “No taxis come here after nightfall, and the telephone service is intermittent at best. It grows dark; I will find you shelter and a meal, okay?”
    The girls paused, then agreed. “I’m Mandi, and this is Sandy,” said the tall girl. “We’re here on business, from the States.”
    He nodded. “You are dressed quite well,” he said, eyeing them up and down, taking in Sandy’s hourglass shape and Mandi’s full figure, “Very attractive.” Mandi and Sandy groaned; this country was full of lechers.
    “Hey!” Sandy asked, “Doctor”--she made a mess of his name--“can we buy a change of clothes somewheres?” They were dressed in hot, heavy business suits, mid-thigh length wool skirts that showed a lot of leg, and synthetic blouses.
    The doctor furrowed his brow, then suddenly grinned. “Ladies,” he said, “I know just the place.” He continued, “And are you staying long in our country?”
    Mandi shook her head. “We leave tomorrow afternoon. Can we get back to Bucharest in the morning.”
    “Do not worry,” said the doctor. “I am well known in these parts; I will take care of everything. Please, come with me; it is but a short walk.”
    He turned and strode off rapidly; they clunked behind him in their heels, trying to keep up.
    They entered the large, dilapidated building from a rear entrance; their escort removed his hat. “This is a store?” squeaked Sandy, ducking to avoid an eye-level pipe.
    “Store…restaurant…even an inn,” answered Dr. Trebonescu, his eyes shining. “Our country is poor; we make do with what Providence brings us.”
    “Well, we’ll be happy to pay whatever we have to,” answered Sandy.
    The doctor turned, peered up into her pretty dark eyes. “Why,” he said, “just your being here will be enough for us. We…enjoy you Americans.”
    “Well, thank you very much!” Mandi responded, brushing away cobwebs in the dimly-lit vestibule.
    “It will be my pleasure…to serve you,” he answered, creaking open the inner door. “Gabor!” he shouted.
    A heavy-set man with a widow’s peak and massive eyebrows hobbled toward them in the semi-darkness. “And who have we here, Doctor?” he said anxiously, rubbing his hands together and looking back and forth at the young women.
    “Two guests who have lost their way,” answered the doctor. “May I introduce Mandi and Sandy. This is Gabor, the proprietor of our local establishment. Gabor, they would like food, shelter and clothing.” The girls were flustered; Mandi extended a hand while Sandy curtseyed, then they exchanged roles. Knitting his eyebrows and staring first at one of the women and then the other, Gabor merely nodded and continued rubbing his hands.
    The two men chatted briefly in Romanian; both laughed. “Gabor will take care of your needs,” said the doctor, replacing his hat and turning to go. “I promise, I will return to look in on you later. Eh, Gabor; I always check up on my good deeds, do I not?”
    The heavy man let out a deep laugh. “You may rest assured, ladies, Dr. Trebonescu is very dependable. Please, to follow me…”
    As the doctor departed, Gabor led them through a maze of small rooms. They tripped and stumbled through the gloom, letting out occasional yelps. “I’ve ruined these nylons for sure, Sandy,” Mandi whispered, rubbing her knee after a collision with a chair.
    “I beg your pardon, ladies,” Gabor said. “We are poor; our lights in this part of the building are by candle.” He gestured to large, burning candles on a nearby table; the walls were decorated with portraits of sinister-looking men in medieval attire. “My ancestral home,” he said proudly. “Through wars and famine, we have managed…”
    They finally arrived at a better-lit room—the kitchen; flickering electric lamps surrounded barrels and bins, large, greasy ovens and a central cutting table. Gabor pointed to another door. “It is there you will find the attire you seek; one at a time, please.”
    “Me, first,” announced Mandi.
    “Okay,” answered Sandy, “I wanna eat, anyway. Can we have some food, please?”
    “Surely,” said the Romanian, and yanked open an old cabinet drawer built into a wall. Mandi strode toward the indicated door and left the room. Gabor slammed the drawer shut, and turned back to Sandy; he held a shiny, metal disk.
    “What’s that?” Sandy said nervously.
    “It is a family heirloom,” he said, his eyes glistening. “It is over 700 years old.” He handed it to her. “Would you like to see it?”
    “Wow!” Sandy took the disk; this was the most exciting thing to happen to her in a week in Romania. She held it in front of her…and as she gazed at it, it seemed to take on a life of its own, shimmering in all colors of the rainbow. Her examination became an open-mouthed stare, and she started to feel herself….slowly…losing…willpower…she finally stood stock-still, the disc clenched in her dangling hand.
    “Now, Sandy,” said Gabor softly, “When your friend returns, you will offer her the disc.” She slowly nodded.
    “Hey, Sandy,” Mandi yelled, bursting through the door, “check this out!” She had changed into an off-the-shoulder peasant dress; she twirled it around, the skirt rising above her bare feet and legs, showing off long, meaty calves. “I couldn’t find any shoes, Mr. Gabor.”
    Mandi turned toward Sandy and held the disc out to her. “Sandy…take this. Mr. Gabor says it’s 700 years old…”
    Sandy gasped, grasped the object. “Gee, where’d you get it, Mr. Gabor?”
    “My people have owned it all these centuries,” the mysterious man responded, again rubbing his hands. “Look closely, and you will see why it is so valuable…”
    Both girls were now under the Romanian’s power. They stood in the kitchen, barely breathing. “Now,” said Gabor, “we must begin preparing you. Please, you will take off all of your clothes.”
    The women were aware of what was going on about them, but had been sapped of their will. With some effort, Gabor dragged a large, empty barrel from a row of them along a wall, then donned a heavy, white butcher’s apron and waited as Mandi and Sandy stripped. Sandy pulled off the heels; fiddling behind her, she unzipped her skirt and stepped out of it. She sat on a nearby stool and peeled off her hose; her slender legs were smooth, her thighs firm. Lifting her butt from the seat, she slipped her panties down her legs; she stood again and let the underwear fall as she proceeded to shed her suit jacket and unbuttoned her blouse, dropping it to the floor. Straining behind her back, she unlatched her pale pink bra; her huge breasts swung free as the brassiere dropped. Sandy’s body was lean and taut; ribs showed under the outthrust jugs and her belly was flat. But her hips were wide and her buttocks prominent. Totally nude, she pulled off her rings, earrings and a gold necklace, dropped them on her pile of clothes and sat patiently.
    Mandi pulled her arms free of the peasant dress and wrestled it down past her waist; her breasts were small, her midriff soft. Hooking her thumbs, she strained to push the voluminous garment past her hips and heavy thighs. She stepped high to escape the coarse fabric, her pussy visible through sheer panties as her long legs arched. Then she pulled wide the elastic band on the panties, bent her lengthy frame over double and pushed the drawers down to the ground; she was as naked as Sandy as she straightened up again and removed her own jewelry, dropping earrings and rings to the wooden floor.
    “Ladies,” said Gabor, “This will not hurt, but there will be some discomfort.” He patted the cutting table. “Please, to sit up here.”
    The bare, luscious businesswomen plopped their bottoms on the table and gripped its top with both hands. Gabor blew on his finger tips, looked the girls in the eyes and said, “You will please to spread your legs.”
    They immediately did so, their lovely pudenda on display for the Romanian to…shave, with his bare hand; they looked down in abstract fascination as their fur was mowed away where he brushed his fingers, drifting lightly. Finally, their pussies were denuded; Gabor proceeded to the tops of their head, cropping their hair short; tufts of Mandi’s brown hair and Sandy’s brunette locks covered the floor under their bare feet. The Romanian moved the empty barrel closer to the table, then flexed his fingers. “It has been some time,” he apologized…then, suddenly, thrust his hand into Sandy’s belly.
    Even in her trance, the brunette sucked in air and whimpered. Gabor rummaged around, then found what he wanted, first down near her groin, and then up under her breastbone…and withdrawing his hand, he began pulling out Sandy’s viscera. There was no incision, no blood. “Another trick learned from my ancestors,” he said as he guided the girl’s intestines and organs into the barrel. “For sausage; we are known throughout Europe for them.”
    Finally, the stomach and esophagus emerged, cauterized at the end. Sandy’s belly remained smooth, if a bit puckered inward. She stared blankly at her midsection, then at Gabor, then at Mandi; Mandi stared blankly back. Gabor, businesslike, wiped his hand on his apron, looked up and down Mandi’s torso, then repeated the procedure on the auburn-haired girl, emptying out her innards without a trace of a cut.
    Mandi looked at the Romanian, dully. “How did you do that?” she asked, in a fog.
    “One of many things you learn to survive in this country,” answered their host, bustling again in the cabinet drawers behind him. He emerged with two ancient cast-iron collars, connected by a chain; opening them, he clamped them around the two girls’ necks, then hooked a kind of leash to a ring on Sandy’s collar. “Come; we will meet our guests.”
    The docile, naked women allowed themselves to be led through a dusty hallway and up a narrow flight of stairs; they emerged in a large dining hall, with oaken tables perched on tiered layers, elaborate spiral staircases leading to each level. Coats of arms and medieval weapons hung on the walls, above the biggest fireplace the girls had ever seen; it was cold, but stocked with fresh wood. Above it was an eight-by-four foot iron door with a large wooden bar for a handle.
    Each table was full of people. Some wore traditional, rough peasant dress; some were in modern Western attire, both suits and t-shirts and jeans, and others—well, they appeared to have stepped out of another century. Capes, cloaks, and pantaloons.
    Slack-mouthed, Mandi and Sandy stared out at the throng; the hubbub of conversation died to a buzz, as attention was drawn to the nude girls. And then, began a clamor; it rose to a roar. The helpless Americans realized the crowd was beating on the tables, whistling, shouting; from behind them, Gabor said, “They approve.”
    An important looking man in an expensive suit strode up to Gabor; they conversed briefly in a foreign tongue. The girls’ captor laughed, slapped Sandy’s rump; the man reached down and squeezed a buttock intently. He looked up and, in the universal gesture, gave Gabor the thumbs-up.
    “What is he doing?” said Sandy. She could talk, but couldn’t move unless told.
    “Placing an order,” came the answer.
    The important-looking gentleman was followed by a dozen more; they roughly handled the girls’ breasts and legs, poking a finger into the flesh to test it for firmness. One muscular young brute stuck a finger right into Sandy’s orifice, turned to Gabor and let loose a stream of words; he seemed to be lecturing the older man. “What’s wrong?,” whispered Sandy. Gabor laughed, a bit weakly. “That is Ilidej; he says, ‘These American girls, they’re too easy; she’s all stretched out down there.’ He prefers that part of the body tight.”
    A bit of a light flickered in Mandi’s brain. “How does he know we’re American?” she asked, still staring straight ahead as the natives fondled her trim, lush body.
    Gabor ignored the question, and tugged on the chain around her neck. “We will circle the room; it is a local tradition.”
    With his two naked charges in tow, the proprietor of the strange establishment limped through the crowd; men, women and children reached out to stroke, to caress the girls. Faces leered into theirs; they licked their chops, ground their teeth as if chewing. Mandi and Sandy stared emptily ahead as the locals fingered their sleek thighs, their plump buttocks, their tender breasts, their soft, rounded shoulders. Finally, the women found themselves before the fireplace and oven door. The man removed the iron collars from their necks; then, he pulled down the wooden handle. The door fell open waist-high, and a large pan rolled out.
    In a courtly manner, Gabor positioned a small stool at their bare feet, then held out a hand. “Ladies…you will please to get inside.”
    With the innkeeper’s help, the nude women silently climbed into the pan and sat as if waiting to be bathed, their hands clapsed before them, their legs splayed out; the cold metal barely registered on their bottoms. Their eyes met; inexplicably, they started giggling. Meanwhile, Gabor clapped his hands, twice; a smiling young girl, clad in colorful, traditional dress, wheeled out a rickety cart laden with vegetables. The man handed each of the women a paring knife, and then picked up two sacks of produce. “Please,” he said, “these are potatoes, apples and cauliflower; you will cut them up and drop them within the pan. Hurry, now!,” as he heaved burlap sacks into each girl’s lap.
    Unquestioning, Mandi and Sandy began slicing the vegetables, tossing the flesh on the bottom of the pan and on each other. Laughing, they started pelting each other with slices of apple and potato, and tossing handfuls of it in the air. Mandi squealed as she dodged a cauliflower floret, smirked, then asked the chuckling Sandy, “Sandy, what are we laughing at?”
    Gabor, who was busy igniting the kindling below the stove—by snapping his fingers!--answered, “You are light-headed; you have lost your guts, and your brains are getting less and less fuel.” Flames began to lick at the huge logs stowed beneath the cast-iron oven. He finished and looked up into the pan. Mandi and Sandy had pared some thirty pounds of vegetables and were liberally covered with the stuff; the naked women grinned down at him like a couple of mischievous schoolgirls. He shook his head, shrugged, and again clapped his hands.
    The young female assistant arrived, this time with two small pails. Gabor held one in each hand. “Ladies,” he informed the loopy women, who were wallowing in the garnishes they’d just prepared for themselves, “this is fat, rendered from…from our last guests, flavored with pieces of olive and garlic. You will paint it on each others’ skin.”
    They did, with gusto, each taking double handfuls of human grease and smearing it on the other’s legs, shoulders, belly and breasts. “Do me, do me, Mandi!” squealed Sandy as if having suntan lotion applied at the beach; she stretched out on her belly in the pan, as Mandi coated her ass, thighs and back. The congealed fat made a hideous slup, slup sound as Mandi cupped her hands around Sandy’s slender legs and smeared it all the way down to her bare feet. Then it was Mandi’s turn; she also rolled onto her belly, as Sandy thoroughly covered her plump butt and meaty thighs with the yellowish-white fat. As the dark-haired girl enthusiastically scooped up a layer of human lard and used the side of her hand to fill Mandi’s crack and crotch with it, the tall young woman hoisted herself by an elbow onto the rim of the pan and leaned her weight on it so that her boobs were squeezed against the top, the points of her nipples sticking straight out. Cupping her chin in her hand and wearing a drunken smile, Mandi squinted at Gabor and said in a little girl’s sing-song voice, “You’re going to cook us and eat us, aren’t you?”
    “Cook, yes,” said Gabor distractedly; he was peering at the labels of large canisters of spices. “These people, they will eat. This is the Laszlo family reunion; they have traveled far to be here, and were guaranteed a feast of the meat of young women.”
    Mandi’s mouth made a little O. “Who were your ‘last guests’?” she wondered.
    “Filipino nurses,” came the response. “Somewhat…plump Filipino nurses.”
    Mandi nodded, a rather grave look on her face, considering she was a naked, thirtyish woman, about to be roasted for a feast. “And how did you know we’d be in your pot?”
    “That was my job,” came a familiar voice. Dr. Trebonescu had returned.
    Gabor’s low, rumbling laugh again boomed. “Yes…you asked how I knew you were an American. The doctor, and the taxi driver, they assist me in these events; the driver is well compensated…”
    “And I,” breathed the doctor, his face just inches from Mandi’s, his eyes glistening, “I ask only to join the Laszlos.” He smiled, his teeth a brilliant white.
    “The fire burns,” said Gabor. “Ladies, you will please to lay on your backs,” as he planted his hands on the pan’s edge and hoisted his body with difficulty onto the stool. “Dr. Trebonescu, hand me that twine, if you would?”
    The girls, slick with grease and littered with pieces of vegetables that had stuck to their bodies, lay obediently on their backs. Laboring, Gabor strung lengths of the rough hemp around their waists and tightly tied their hands above their navels. He grasped one of Sandy’s slender ankles, drew it up and bound it securely to the top of her thigh; then, he took one of the loose ends of the twine that fettered her hands and tied it around the top of her knee. He repeated the process with Sandy’s other leg, and then with Mandi’s. The girls were bound, nude and ready for roasting.
    Gabor snapped his fingers; his smiling assistant reappeared, and handed him two bottles of wine. “For flavor,” he said, slowly emptying the dull, red liquid into the pan; the two womens’ butts wriggled, their bound legs rocking back and forth, as the sherry splashed against their bare torsos from hips to armpits. The Romanian discarded the empty flasks; the colorfully dressed young girl handed him rough tin canisters, and he began liberally sprinkling the women’s pink, glistening bodies with salt, paprika, pepper and parsley. The girls looked around in a stupor, occasionally sputtering as the spices drifted into their mouths.
    Gabor set down the canisters; his assistant produced more vegetables. Examining the girls’ puckered assholes, Gabor took two parsnips, wiped them in the human fat—“Those nurses,” he chuckled to himself, “They were so plump”—and, with one practiced move, simultaneously shoved the long, yellow roots well into both girls’ rectums. “Ooooh,” said Sandy; Mandi responded with “Aaaaah.” Then came a pair of summer squash; he stuffed one by the narrow end into Mandi’s pussy, eliciting a sigh, and was about to do the same with Sandy…when he examined her twat with two fingers, muttered, “Ilidej is right,” and turning the green vegetable around, pushed the wide end into the brunette’s opening, to a squeak of surprise.
    Finally, tied and nude on her back, covered with spice, vegetables and grease, vegetables jammed into her orifices, about to be shoved into a hot oven…Mandi said, “Bye-bye!” and started giggling. Sandy began laughing, then hiccuping. Gabor smiled down at them, reached down again; his assistant presented him with two apples. Pinching Mandi’s cheeks with a thumb and forefinger, her eyes fixed on him, the man who was about to roast her alive responded, “Bye-bye!” and jammed the fruit into her mouth. The brunette “Mmpf, mmpf’d” as Gabor repeated the process with her friend; “Urph, urph, oomph!” Mandi tried to object with her mouth clenched around the Red Rome. Rocking helplessly from side to side in vegetables and human fat, the naked girls mumbled through the apples as Gabor and the doctor rolled the pan into the rapidly warming oven, and clanged the door shut…
    The long get together was drawing to a close; savory smells of cooking female meat had been tempting the Laszlos for hours, and they let out a collective “Ohhhh!” as the two roasted girls emerged from the oven. The grease had left their skins a crisp medium-brown; the apples were still clenched desperately in their mouths, their fists closed tightly as they had been when the giant oven sapped their lives. The slices of potato, apple and cauliflower sizzled in the bottom of the pan in the fat—Mandi’s fat, Sandy’s fat, and that of the luckless Filipino nurses.
    Gabor did the honors, beginning by severing the twine that bound Mandi’s hips to her ankles and her knees to her wrists, and then slicing off one of the unfortunate woman’s long, lush legs; reddish juices ran as the thigh was cleaved from the hip. Mandi’s eyes were squeezed shut, her teeth fixed into the apple, as if defiant. Sticking a large fork into the thickest part of the thigh, he placed the delectable limb, still folded, onto a huge wooden platter, and cut lengthwise through the ham at the thinnest point to separate it from the bone; he then began carving the delicate meat into two-inch steaks. Those he arranged, surrounded by the crisp vegetables that had cooked with the woman, on a second serving dish, which the young waitresses began circulating around the room to a roar of appreciation from the gathered family. Gabor trimmed Mandi’s thick, juicy calf from her shinbone; that, too, was cut into steaks and dispatched to the hungry guests.
    He continued with Mandi’s other leg and then with Sandy’s—not as heavy or meaty—periodically wiping his brow; butchering two full-grown women was hard work. Then he moved on to the torsos, laying neatly side-by-side in the pan. Sandy’s buttocks were reserved for the important dignitary, decorated with whole sprigs of parsley and the parsnip still jammed between the chubby cheeks, a firm layer of fat between the skin and meat. Gabor wondered—should he serve Sandy’s ripe, smooth love-mound, the squash inserted, to Ilidej? He was a powerful labor leader, and might not approve; Mandi’s opening was…smaller. He carved away Mandi’s flesh from her navel down to her dainty labia, leaving the gourd in, ordered it sent to Ilidej’s table; a few minutes later, he heard a loud whistle. The young man was standing, a goblet oustretched in his hand, toasting the chef; Gabor smiled and nodded as the room erupted in cheers.
    Sandy’s large, firm breasts went to the Laszlo patriarchs; Mandi’s soft, rounded shoulders, to the children. The two girls’ rich, fatty belly meat provided a special treat to poor cousins, who rarely were invited to such luxurious festivities. Using large tongs, Gabor deftly flipped the two carcasses, now half-stripped of meat, and began slicing thick cutlets from the young women’s meaty loins. The tender steaks, oozing juices, were garnished with parsley sprigs and spoonfuls of the girl-flavored apples and potatoes, and delivered to the most prosperous members of the family; they would be most likely to retain Gabor’s establishment for a future engagement. Jan, over there, had a daughter getting married; a thick, rare slab from above Mandi’s pelvis might get him the banquet…
    And he mustn’t forget his procurer. Mandi’s other sirloin was reserved for Dr. Trebonescu. The white-haired doctor’s face brightened as he sawed off a slice of the poor girl’s roasted flesh and tasted it; he ploughed into the steak, gobbling it hungrily, then sidled over to his business partner for the evening. “How goes it?” he asked in Romanian over the sounds of clinking tableware and the hum of conversation to Gabor, who was slumped on a stool beside the pan. Trebonescu looked inside at the two carcasses; Mandi’s and Sandy’s heads, apples still intact, had been severed from their butchered frames and were propped up on one side. He reached in, patted each lifeless head. “You did well, girls,” he announced.
    Gabor looked tired; he hadn’t bothered to remove the now-stained apron. “I grow old for this,” he admitted, “but the money is good.”
    “Don’t forget our friends, the Stelenyis, next week,” he laughed. “Gaspar and Wilma’s fiftieth anniversary. There’ll be a big crowd.”
    Gabor glanced at the doctor. “Have you a main course?”
    “Certainly,” he responded. “A touring chamber music quartet from Montreal will be here. Lovely French-Canadian lasses.” He paused. “Can you get four into that pan?”

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  5. #23

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    Quote Originally Posted by dragon_19 View Post
    Hi Menagerie! Do you happen to have the story about the girl who sells cookies, but of course ends up as dinner herself? I read it somewhere on an old forum, but I can't seem to find it lately.
    I'll post it shortly.

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  7. #24

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    Hi Menagerie! Do you happen to have the story about the girl who sells cookies, but of course ends up as dinner herself? I read it somewhere on an old forum, but I can't seem to find it lately.

  8. #25

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    Each day, the return of a classic!! I'm not pushing you, 'Gerie, but you should think about adding a few new tales to your stable. You are without a doubt the Stephen King of gynophagic literature!!

    Keep the oldies-but-goodies a' comin!!!

  9. #26

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    I'd prefer the "Art Buchwald."

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  11. #27

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    The Art Buchwald it is, LOL!!!

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    As One

    AS ONE
    The doorbell rang; Sharon straightened her clothes nervously, checked herself in the mirror over the mantel. She had only met Danielle a few weeks earlier, in the Library Science class Sharon taught as a graduate assistant; she was two years older than Danielle, but somehow the younger woman, just a junior, had seemed far more worldly, more with it. “Hello, yourself!’ she had replied to Sharon’s hesitant welcome, extending a strong hand and squeezing her own. “I’ve heard a lot about you,” she continued, the eyes under the blonde bangs smiling as much as the wide, dimpled mouth. “I wanted to be in your class, so I asked for it. Special.”
    As she introduced the class to the course, Sharon kept an eye on Danielle. It was mutual; Danielle seemed to be taking her in, head to toe. She was stretched out in the uncomfortable little seat, her long legs crossed and sprawled across the aisle, her chin resting on knuckles, her eyes rapt. The vivacious blonde was a half a head taller than Sharon, but slender as a rail and dolled up in the finest miniskirt and striped hose Donna Karan had to offer. Sharon was dressed conservatively, neatly, dully; she was envious…and atttracted. Finally, their eyes met; the younger woman, of all things, winked. A flustered Sharon was tongue-tied; the class titterred…and Danielle displayed that toothy grin.
    They bumped into each other again at the Union Canteen, chatted over coffee. Danielle’s neon blue eyes never wavered from Sharon’s neat, well-kept face. They talked about school, jobs, the future. She had been to Paris, to Madrid; Sharon had never left the Midwest. “You’ve been around this campus a while,” the younger woman said. “I just transferred, from—“ a small school, private, for the proud and public-spirited. “Where do you go for fun?”
    “There’s Chez Jack’s, downtown,” Sharon said, “and the Boiler Room’s good for dancing—if you dance.”
    “Do you?’ Danielle asked.
    “Not much,” Sharon admitted.
    “Boyfriend?”
    She looked down, stirred her coffee. “No.”
    “Girlfriend?”
    Sharon looked up. Danielle’s face was frank, inviting…and there it was. Another wink.
    The evening get together had been Danielle’s idea. “It’ll be fun,” she had said one day, after the class had left. “Listen to a few CD’s, tell a few ghost stories...”
    Sharon half-smiled. “Do you like Beautiful South?”
    “My favorite!” The blonde took both of Sharon’s hands in hers, looked at her eagerly.
    Seven o’clock, Saturday night. Sharon’s place, a stone’s throw from campus, was as mild-mannered and responsible as she was. Sturdy, dependable furniture in earth tones; the table nicely set in plaids, a vegetable casserole warming. Sharon looked again in the mirror. A little broad in the buns, small breasts. A round face, stubby nose, a floppy ‘do and round-framed glasses. A little mouse, she had decided; a friendly, nervous little mouse.
    She never made it to the door; Danielle merrily swung it open. “Cheers!” she announced, striding in and offering a bottle of red. “Let’s get girlish!”
    Danielle disdained the kitchen for the living room; plates of casserole and glasses of wine balanced precariously, they sat first on the old couch, then found their way to the floor, close quarters. The talk was as it had been in the Canteen; Danielle going a mile a minute, Sharon with the occasional, delighted “No!” or “You don’t say!” It was as if she’d known the girl forever, as Jackie Abbott crooned in the background: “I want my love, my joy, my laugh, my smile, my needs”. It was really so easy, as hands on shoulders became hands in hands, legs against legs, lips against lips…
    Danielle’s colorful dress slid easily from her slim frame; as she stepped out of it, her breasts, outthrust and true, shone in the reflected light from the street lamp outside the window. They had moved into the bedroom; Sharon lay on her back, dizzy from the wine, from the petting on the floor in the living room, from the night. “I’ll do you, dear,” whispered Danielle, sliding Sharon’s slacks past her hips, unbuttoning her blouse, one button at a time. “You are so beautiful…have you been told?”
    Sharon giggled, pulled Danielle to the bed. They embraced, arms and legs intertwining, tongues peeping out, then boldly filling mouths. They rolled; Sharon looked down, deep into those soulful, blue eyes. And then she was filled with the spirit; the veneer of mousiness, of prissydom, was cast off. Sitting up, she drank in Danielle’s long, elegant form, the finely curved legs, the ribs in shallow detail on her chest. “Danielle,” Sharon said huskily, and evenly, “I will make you mine.”
    For the first time, it was the younger woman who was hesitant, uncertain. “Yes, of course,” she said, “I’ll be yours.” Their breathing was the only sound in the room.
    Sharon began at her toes, those dainty little toes, nails a pale pink. She nibbled as she moved up the calves to lean thighs, to a womanhood as perfect as Sharon could ever imagine, a flavor so sweet. Danielle had watched nervously at first—the aggressor was in her blood—but had given way to Sharon’s skills, moaning in delight as her teacher very carefully, very thoroughly, used her tongue and teeth to caress that most tender flesh. They were carried away, transported to another place, another time…
    And the time had come. Danielle was in Paradise, would agree to anything. Sharon said slowly, clearly, “Danielle…I said I will make you mine…I will make you a part of me.”
    Danielle lay very still on the bed, groggy. It was the wine, the lovemaking…but it was something else. The older woman began to grow in her eyes. The freckles on her breasts, her navel, the hairs on her pussy…all became huge. Those soft brown eyes, staring at her from a mile away, a small smile flitting across her features.
    “You will be part of me,” repeated Sharon, and with that she took Danielle’s left leg in her hands, placed it in her mouth…began sucking off the flesh.
    Danielle felt no pain; indeed, she felt ecstasy. Sharon tasted the soft, supple, sweet flesh, so round and firm, chewing very carefully as the meat separated from bone. The mouthfeel!—It was as the most perfectly done filet, fibers of muscle separating neatly, lean meat from the young blonde’s calves, veins of rich fat between the muscles of her thighs and a thin, milky white layer of the stuff gracing her buttocks. Sharon smacked her lips several times, savoring the beautiful girl’s juices. There was another leg…
    For Danielle, knowing she was disappearing into her lover’s gullet produced an erotic warmth she had never before known. The emptiness below her waist just made her that much lighter, airier; she managed to gasp, “Please…please, go on.”
    Sharon had no intention of stopping; her love’s tender meat had her passions worked to a fever pitch. She turned to Danielle’s breasts, standing high on those bony ribs, devouring them as one would a rich dessert…each large bite rolled around in the mouth, the flavor almost an aroma, rising up into her head. With each mouthful, Danielle gave a small yip; she was coming! And for Sharon, it was much the same; she turned so she was crouched above the girl’s face. Danielle greedily took her in, using her mouth and tongue in a frenzy.
    The belly. It was taut, no fat, yet soft and smooth. Sharon scooped with her bottom teeth; the meat came up like ice cream, and fairly dissolved in her mouth. Beneath her, Danielle’s efforts at pleasing Sharon took on an even more voracious nature; what remained of her beautiful body thrashed vigorously on the bed, enjoying a succession of orgasms. And Sharon also felt that ping!, her mouth half-full of Danielle’s belly, she arched her back, took a deep breath through her nose and held it as her body was wracked with joy.
    From there, each portion of the blonde’s delectable body became another morsel of unique taste. Her shoulders were a fatty, succulent joint, a breakfast meat. Her back was thick and strong; strands of tissue unraveled as Sharon enjoyed Danielle’s sirloin, tilting her head and chewing with abandon. She shook her head, her hair swinging as she felt that richest cut of flesh give her entire body a jolt of glowing energy. “Dear Danielle,” she said in a low voice; the blonde, looking up, smiled feebly. “Sweet Danielle…may I take what is left?” The girl nodded, vigorously; this would be the last.
    Sharon bent down and, so carefully, gathered into her mouth those tender lips. Her teeth felt as razors, shearing through the flesh cleanly; it lay moist and heavy in her mouth, Danielle’s gift to her, her very womanhood. It was as strong in taste as it should be, and Sharon again felt the simultaneous tensing and weakness of orgasm, as she swallowed the delicacy. She could stand it no longer; straddling what was left of Danielle, she threw back her head and wailed, a wail of supreme euphoria; she gripped at the last shreds of her love, now mere bones beneath her clawing hands…
    No one, the faculty, the students. could get over the change. The nervous little mouse that had been Sharon was brash, brassy; it was as if she was trying to pull them all into giddiness with her love of life. Her tutoring took on a dynamic quality as she cajoled, enticed the class; she was…so worldly. So with it.
    And after class, one day, there was a little sophomore. Frail, petite, with red hair, looking at her anxiously through wire-rimmed glasses. “Sharon?” said Madelyn. “I’ve heard so much about you. Are you going to the Canteen?”
    Sharon grinned. And winked.

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  14. #29

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    A Visit from St. Dolcett

    A VISIT FROM ST. DOLCETT
    ‘Twas a cannibal Christmas, and all through the hut
    The whole family dined on a recent “guest’s” butt
    Her stockings were hung by the stewpot with care
    For the legs that were in them still simmered in there
    The children were nestled all snug in their places
    The fat from her boobs was still smeared on their faces
    For Mama with her hatchet, and I with my axe
    Had split her in two with a couple of hacks
    When out in the village there arose such a ruckus
    I half dropped my fork, with the last of her tuchis
    I jumped to the window to survey the din
    And opened the drapes (made of stewardess skin)
    The moon’s sharp reflection shone bright as I looked
    At the pot in which girls from the Peace Corps had cooked
    And there, through the embers and smoke, I espied
    The eight ravenous wolves, tethered fast by a guide
    His eyes burned like coal, and they posed such a threat
    That I knew in a moment it must be Dolcett!
    The wolves bayed and howled as they headed my way
    And behind, on a sledge, this I heard the man say:
    “Now, Slasher! Now, Hanger! Now, Knifer and Nailer!
    On, Roaster! On, Ripper! On, Gut and Impaler!
    To the fattening pens, to the barbecue pit,
    Now, spit away! Spit away! Spit away! Spit!”
    As the smoke from a chimney will rise with elan
    From a stove where a cheerleader roasts in a pan
    So, up to the thatch on my hut they all flew
    All the babe-eating beasts, and my bud, Dolcett, too
    And shortly I heard them set down on the straw
    And an audible growl from each animal’s maw
    As I closed the “skin” drapes and I turned toward my cot
    Down the chimney he came, barely missing the pot
    He was dressed all in black from his boots to his cap
    And he carried a sack, which he struck with a slap
    It quivered and moaned; like a hunter with game
    He unloaded the bag, and out spilled a nude dame
    Her jugs, how they jiggled! her thighs, soft and chewy!
    Her buttocks were tender, her eyes wide and dewy
    Her cute little mouth had an apple jammed in
    And her navel, a rich, robust cherry within
    Her arms and her legs had been bound fast and tight
    By a network of ropes, so she would not take flight
    Her thighs were so thick, and her belly so round
    I’d be calorie counting with each bite I downed
    She was juicy and sweet—a quite succulent catch
    And I drooled as I planned for her trip down the hatch
    As she shook her blonde mane, through her apple she’d whine
    And I thought with what pleasure we all soon would dine
    The man dressed in black had not uttered word one
    He left sauces and spice; but, before he was done
    One last gift was bestowed ere my flue he’d ascend—
    ‘Twas a long, steel pole that was sharp on each end
    As I scooped up the blonde to prepare for the feast
    Overhead flew the sledge and the wolves to the east
    And I heard him exclaim as he drove out of sight
    “Merry Christmas to all—I’ll be back for a bite!”

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  16. #30

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    A quick, satisfying little titty ditty from the Master! Forgive me, but I can't help myself, :

    This one needs to go up on my site too, but, alas,
    I got some animatin' to do!

  17. #31
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    Thanks

    Menagerie: Thanks for posting these fine stories and please keep posting your old works. Enjoying them. Best wishes. lens

  18. #32

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    Bon Voyage

    BON VOYAGE
    As always, Frank’s packet was marked with a big, red “P”. “Privileged”. “Welcome aboard, again, Sir,” said the studiously impassive purser; the entertainment director, scrubbed and perky, gave him a friendly grin. Frank nodded, smiled, and hustled below decks to his cabin.
    It was his eighth cruise, Frank’s little reward to himself for 50 weeks of drudgery. A two-week trip to nowhere in particular, taking in the ocean breeze, frolicking with the vacationers…and looking ahead to the very last day. Not that he wanted it to end; in fact, he’d like the last day to last forever.
    The packet contained the usual, and the unusual, documents. The itinerary; the daily schedule of activities; the meals. And then, a folded piece of paper. On it, a half-dozen names, pictures, descriptions; all female passengers, a few of them making the trip for the first time. And one of them, for the last.
    The heading read, ATTENTION “P” CLASS PASSENGER: YOU ARE TO RECORD YOUR SELECTION AND PRESENT THIS DOCUMENT TO THE PURSER BY 1700 FRIDAY 8 JULY. THOSE WHO FAIL TO SUBMIT THIS DOCUMENT IN A TIMELY MANNER WILL BE EXCLUDED FROM THE CAPTAIN’S BANQUET. THERE WILL BE NO EXCEPTIONS. Next to each woman’s name was a square; Frank, and the other “Privilegeds,” would put an “X” in one of the boxes; whichever of them got the most votes…Frank grinned. Quite a lot of power in their collective hands.
    Frank had learned of the annual cruise from an acquaintance…one with whom he shared very secret thoughts and desires. “They find out quickly whether they can trust you,” said the nameless friend, in letters that tracked across Frank’s PC screen. “It costs a lot of money, and they bind and blindfold you. I’ve told at least a dozen other guys about it; not a one has followed through.”
    Frank would; it was worth it. He laid down the cash, surrendered to their bonds, traveled a day in darkness. Seven years ago; he’d been back every year.
    The first day shipboard was warm and balmy--the kind of weather, Frank knew, that brought out the best in female flesh. He smiled and greeted his fellow passengers, all the while scanning the ladies stretched out poolside or sweatin' to the oldies in the morning aerobics workout. He immediately recognized a couple of the women on his ballot--there was Number Five, in sweatpants and a stretch top that barely contained a pair of remarkable bazooms, straining to touch right forefinger to left toe and vice versa. Frank stopped, checked out Number Five's bottom as she grunted and bent, and nodded approvingly to himself. Definitely, a semi-finalist.
    Number Three was sitting on the edge of the pool, kicking her legs and focused intently on the water, as if she were trying to understand what it was saying. A full figure, a cute face, tousled hair. Very nice. Frank took in her smooth, soft skin, thought about her at the Captain's Banquet. It would be hard to decide this year; a lot of potential "winners"--he grinned to himself--to choose from.
    As Frank scoped out the contestants, he nearly collided with Number Six; she was poring over her daily activities schedule, and they brushed. "I'm so sorry!" she exclaimed, eyes wide, mouth forming a little O. "Clumsy, clumsy me..." He assured her it was all right, introduced himself, they shook. Frank was very impressed; she had full, thick thighs, spectacular breasts, soulful, expressive eyes. He was moving her several notches up the list as they spoke. "They gave me a discount to sign up for this cruise!" she was saying. "Can you beat it? They were so happy to get me on board, they showered me with gifts. They've treated me like a queen!"
    Frank could believe it; all of the "contestants" were lured on board with special offers, he discovered. Most of them couldn't have paid what he paid...but then, he was "Privileged". Her name was Joanne; she was here to have fun! She would be delighted to join him for breakfast...
    He got a better look at her at the buffet; there was a goodly amount of flesh to her, plump buttocks, big, round shoulders. She talked a mile a minute about her friends, her family, her job; he nodded, smiled, every once in a while interjected "How about that!" or "Well, what do you know?" His mind was elsewhere. The Banquet had gotten fancier every year, a black tie affair with all sorts of exotic fruit, fancy wines, classy entertainment...and, of course, the main course. Which, Frank had decided, might well be Joanne.
    For this was a cannibal cruise. Passed on by word of mouth, available only for a high price and to those willing to be transported to it blindly...at the end of the two weeks, a selected passenger would be exquisitely prepared and flamboyantly served, a hearty feast for the fortunate. The flagship was foreign, the port authorities bought; each year, one passenger was reported lost at sea, and the official receiving the tragic news would nod gravely, and stuff into his pocket the envelope, filled with money, that had been tucked into the report.
    The regulars all knew each other--they'd meet the new members of their exclusive club at the banquet, welcome them back the following year--and they'd pass around what they'd found out about the contestants. Little snippets of conversation; comparing notes. The winner in their balloting would be available for a day of "play," prior to her one-way trip to the galley; the travel agent who delivered the ship's unwitting entrees was selecting for playfulness. The half-dozen on the ballot had all indicated they'd be looking for companionship on the trip, and as each of the "Privileged" carnivores sampled each "contestant's" lovemaking skills, she was rated, and the word was passed around.
    After the second night on board, Frank was able to rate Joanne, who'd spent the evening in his cabin. She was great, he whispered enthusiastically to other members of the exclusive club. All soft and cushiony, plenty of enthusiasm; she'd be a load of fun. The others grinned; Joanne's stock kept rising. The odds were good she'd be on that platter eleven days hence.
    Not that that stopped Frank from sampling some of the other ladies on the ballot. Number Five, Melissa--well, she was a little bit spooky. In the sack, she started talking about all of the things she was taking to control this phantom ailment and that; Frank looked down at her--those jugs still looked damn good, her belly and thighs ripe--and wondered...how would she taste? She half-smiled, eerily. "Do I look good to you?" she asked coyly. No, he decided.
    Number Two was kind of cute, a short, pudgy redhead named Angela. A lot of giggling; very bouncy. A wide, inviting twat; Frank imagined her on the banquet table, steaming and glistening; those labial lips that were holding him tightly, stretched around a mango. "Mmmm," she purred, looking at him with glistening eyes, "you feel big in there." He grinned back at her; Number Two, you have no idea.
    Frank had pretty much narrowed down his choices; the cruise had made its port of call, and he and Joanne had wandered together through the tiny Caribbean island's lone city. He bought her a garland of edible native flowers, which she wore proudly. "Tonight," she teased, "you can eat these clear off me!" She was so tempting, he told her, he might go too far, and she laughed. "Have me," she declared, arms wide, "I'm yours!"
    That night, before heading back into his cabin where Joanne waited, Frank marked the sixth box on his ballot and delivered it to the purser. As ever impassive, the man nodded, slid it into a drawer. The word would come, on Frank’s cabin phone, the following morning. “Number Six,” came the purser’s clipped tones. “Your time share is 800 to 900 hours.” Frank looked at his bunk, where Joanne slept, peacefully. A small smile flitted across his features.
    It was always hard to sleep the night before the last day. Frank’s mind roamed, thinking about past cruises. The ship’s chef prepared each woman differently, never the same way twice. The one--that Executive Secretary, told him about all the important CEO’s she’d met--had been roasted on a vertical spit; she was balanced on it, hands and feet tied together behind her and suspended a few inches above a drip pan, as slices of meat were pared from her frame. But the stewardess, who had put on a few pounds over the years, was “flying” on a rack, stretched across it from her fingertips to her toes. Another, a lanky, full-figured New Englander, had been steamed and served face-up on a bed of rock salt, her reddened flesh contrasting with the dirty gray salt and the dark green vegetables that filled her hollowed belly. How would Joanne be served? Frank stirred, rolled over, and made sure his alarm was set.
    The designated cabin was marked “Cleaning Supplies”. Frank used his special passkey; a crewman stood guard inside, before a second door. Frank could hear muffled cries from within; the guard said, “Good morning, sir; thank you for being prompt. Your session will begin momentarily.”
    Frank would have to share Joanne with another Privileged veteran, a big Polish guy from northern Michigan. He’d enjoyed the pleasures of Joanne’s body many times during the cruise; this time, though, he knew it would be different-crewmen would have abducted her from her cabin, forced her to disrobe, and advised her of her fate. The ship’s chef would have entered the little room, examined the helpless, naked woman from head to foot, and formed his plans for the Captain’s Banquet. And then, the orgy would begin; two or three passengers at a time
    The crewman cocked his head to hear a message in his earpiece; he pressed a button, the door slid open. "Watch your step, please," he advised, as Frank caught a glimpse of a a struggling, naked figure, spreadeagled face down on a bare mattress.
    Frank undressed quickly; Joanne's back and buttocks were striped red, her body flecked with semen. Her eyes widened when she saw him, and she murphed into the tape over her mouth. "I guess they told you," he grinned, as he mounted her from behind. Her full, fleshy thighs and plump buttocks were magnificent; Frank sighed as he eased into her. "I voted for you," he told the helpless woman. "You're going to make a wonderful feast. Did the chef say what he had planned for you?", as he reached down and yanked the tape away.
    Joanne was panting, her breathing shallow. "S-said...said I'd be stuffed..." She swallowed. "Stuffed and wh-whole roasted..." She thrashed on the mattress; Frank slapped her, hard on the ass, and she stopped. He smacked his lips. "You will be absolutely delicious," he purred, driving into her on every other word; Joanne sobbed.
    The other guy was a little late. "Got her ready for me!" he laughed, and Joanne soon found her mouth filled with cock. "What are the banquet plans?"
    Frank had shot his load, pulled out of Joanne's wriggling snatch. "Stuffed like a Christmas turkey," he laughed; he pursed his mouth around her generous ass, gave it a good bite. She eeped through her mouthful. "She's certainly tender enough," he kidded; the reddened imprint of his teeth was plainly visible on the smooth flesh.
    The two of them got full use out of their hour; Joanne was brutalized. Abused and used in every orifice; all the while, she was taunted about her ultimate fate. "No one will know," Frank whispered, his fist full of her wavy, brown hair, holding her tear-streaked face scant inches from his, as the big guy pumped her from behind. "They'll be told you were lost at sea. And we'll all have our bellies full of you." Joanne shook her head in anguish; the big guy grunted, his long fingernails digging into her flanks, as he popped his load.
    Frank and his cohort had to be shooed out of there; two relatively recent Privilegeds were waiting at the door, impatiently. “Have fun, fellas!” Frank called over his shoulder; Joanne was sprawled, sobbing, on the filthy mattress, and the two newbies eagerly dropped their drawers and had a run at her. “Hot dayum, Pete!” one called out as he took a dive on Joanne’s lush body. “We’re gonna have to ask the Cap’n for doggie bags!” His partner chuckled, evilly, and as the door closed Frank heard a “Whap!” as the man’s open palm found Joanne’s cheek.
    He knew there’d be another opportunity to see her off—he laughed to himself; not the pleasure cruise she'd had in mind! Dinner was traditionally served at midnight; Joanne would be making her unhappy way to the kitchen around noon. This, he wanted to see, so he killed a few hours lolling around the deck. He actually encountered Angela, Number Two, who was vigorously pursuing her aerobics, her strawberry blonde hair and her jugs bouncing with equal abandon. She flashed him a sunny smile, panted to a scraggling halt. “Where’s your friend?’ she wheezed, bending over, hands on hips; those mammoth bazookas were about to spill clear out of her top. Frank affected friendly puzzlement. “I was just out looking for her,” he said. “Haven’t seen her all day.”
    Number Two straightened out, started in with leg kicks. “Well,” she gasped between lifts, “if she chucks you over, you know where to find me!” Frank grinned, thought about a quick boff before dinner, and continued on to the galley.
    Privilegeds were allowed informal visits; the crewman radioed in, then unlatched the steel door. The ship’s chef was intently mixing spices into a very large bowl; his aides were lugging in armfuls of exotic produce. Pans clanged, doors slammed, and there in the middle of it, lying on her back on a cold, steel table, was Joanne. Still totally nude, her pubes had been shaved clean and her curly, brown locks cropped short; she was squirming, her hands cross-bound to her feet behind her, her mouth filling her gag with protests. “Ah, M’sieur Frank!’ clucked the chef, smiling. “You are jus’ in time for zee evisceration.” Despite the gag, Joanne let out an audible sob; Frank caught her eye, grinned and winked.
    “A live roaster?” he asked. “But of course,” the chef responded. “We jus’ remove the guts here; organ meats stay intact.” The two aides pinned Joanne to the table; the chef wielded the knife expertly. In a flash, Joanne’s belly was opened; blood gushed, then trickled in rivulets along the gutters of the steel table. Frank watched, detached; he’d seen this scene before. Joanne’s struggles grew weaker, as the chef emptied her; she lay back, her eyes glazed and staring forward, her breathing shallow.
    The aides curiously kept their grip on Joanne’s shoulders and thighs, but she was no longer putting up a fight. The chef had begun filling her hollow belly with large scoops of a fruit-based stuffing, unfamiliar tropical orbs of green and pink mixed in with great chunks of crusty bread. He looked up at Frank, and winked. “She is zee juicy one, no?” he chuckled, patting the helpless woman’s ample breast. “Zee stuffing will be very rich, you bet.” Finished, he flashed a steel needle, deftly fashioned a spool of twine to the eye, then plunged the steel point through the flap of Joanne’s belly flesh. She made an “Ooooh!” through the gag as the chef pierced the other side of her abdominal skin, then pulled the two tightly together over the bulging breading mix; briskly, he finished stitching the woman’s tummy back together. “Good as new!” he laughed, and waved to the aides; they darted into a closet, returned with an odd looking device.
    It was two halves, fitting together, of a kind of rack. The chef untied the now feeble woman and removed her gag; she looked up from the table in agony. “Please…” she whispered; smiling, the chef put an index finger to her dry, cracked lips, and sshhhed her. “Time for zee fitting,” he told her, as the aides slapped the two halves of the frames on either side of her.
    Frank could see there were rings, adjustable with clamps; the three men slid the parts together, and the chef adjusted the semi-circular ring halves and then tightened them. They fit around Joanne’s neck, below her breasts, around her stomach, knees and ankles. “She will turn,” the chef told Frank, “verrrrry slooooowly over zee fire.” Joanne stared straight ahead in misery as the strange device was fastened to her body. “Now,” said the head man, “a little more preparation, an’ we’re all set.”
    One of the remaining tasks was the stuffing of Joanne’s abundant breasts. Each was slit open; tissue and fat was liberally removed, and the hollowed gland was filled with rice, a grated cheese, specks of pungent spices. The globes were also sewn closed. Then, a four edged clamp was pushed into her meaty labia; a few turns of a crank, and the aperture was wide open; the chef produced a peculiar looking fruit that resembled a long honeycomb. “Tamarind,” he proclaimed, and shoved the half-foot long produce home; despite her fading state, Joanne exhaled, loudly. The chef released the clamp, and her pussy grabbed the fruit tightly. “She is magnifique!” he crowed, stepping back and sweeping a hand toward the woman on the table, her body prepared for roasting.
    Frank grinned, decided to head out for now. He reached through the bars of the rack, patted Joanne’s head; tears streamed down her cheeks as she contemplated the hot oven that would be her fate. “See you later!” he told his former bedmate, and went to look for Number Two.
    Angela was even bouncier than before, working hard underneath Frank as he worked ever deeper into her. “I’m so glad you came for me,” she whispered, hot, steamy breath in his ear. “I think I’m much better than Joanne, don’t you?” Frank thought about Joanne, slowly turning in the chef’s oven, juices dripping off her browning body; the thought got him going even faster, and he came like a geyser. “Wow!” the redhead’s eyes snapped open, looked into his. “You were alive in there.”
    Frank rolled over and panted; thinking of Joanne had his mouth watering. Number Two was sprawled on her side, her head cupped in her hand, looking at him intently. No, he was sorry, he couldn’t join her for dinner; as a veteran of the cruise, he had to do the Captain’s Banquet at midnight, made it sound as if it were a chore. “I’ll be sure to be here next year,” she declared, brightly. “Maybe then, I’ll be at the Captain’s Banquet!” Maybe, he told her, his eyes sweeping along her fleshy form, you will.
    At seven o’clock, Joanne was still wriggling. Just a little. Frank peered through the grease-stained, smoked-glass window in the door of the giant oven; the square metal frame, Joanne’s heat-seared body clamped within it, was hooked to the rotisserie and rotating slowly. The orange glow of the heating element reflected off Joanne’s butt and legs, then her stitched-together breasts and stomach. He saw her jerk a bit; her eyes had rolled back in her head. A charred wooden block held her jaws apart. Frank nodded approvingly.
    “I think,” he told the chef, his eyes still fixed on the hapless woman, “this is your best work yet.” The chef beamed, then shooed Frank away from the oven’s steel door as he brandished a large brush and a bowl of oily liquid. “Basting to do,” he proclaimed. “She will be perfect.” Joanne suddenly arched, then was still. Frank chuckled. Perfect timing.
    The crewman methodically checked the passenger’s log, then nodded Frank through. Done up in his most elegant duds, Frank edged into the small, crowded room, smiled hello at some familiar faces. Their eyes, mostly men but a couple of women, too, all gleamed with anticipation. A couple of frozen faced crewmen stood attendance; a smiling barkeep with a fancy, waxed mustache poured drinks, vigorously stirring and mixing as he kept up his own end of the conversation. Frank chug-a-lugged a Scotch, then another, as the men and women in evening wear chatted about the cruise, going home…and Number Six.
    She would be arriving any minute; a crewman with a foghorn for a voice announced the arrival of the Captain. White-haired, tall and thin, the genial man shook hands all around, slapped a few backs, proposed a couple of toasts. When he suggested his guests find their seats, the Privilegeds scrambled like it was a game of Musical Chairs. The old man smiled; they were more enthusiastic every year.
    “Ladies, gentlemen,” the Captain crooned, “may I present our…special guest.” That brought a wave of laughter, followed by enthusiastic applause.
    Joanne was on her back; she was roasted a deep reddish-brown, the skin picking up a dull sheen from the meager light in the dining room. A pair of passion fruit had replaced her lost eyeballs; a fresh mangosteen filled her mouth, and the platter on which she was served was gaily decorated with fig leaves and other exotic fruit. The twine had been removed from her breasts and belly and the stuffings, swollen with the juices of her body, pushed out through the flesh. A delicious aroma emanated from her, at once sweet and lusty; Frank again felt his mouth fill, and suffered the agonizing wait as the prayer was intoned, until finally the carving could begin.
    The woman’s meat trimmed cleanly from the bone; it was firm, and a dark ivory colored, with flecks of pink and yellow. Frank took a steaming slab from Joanne’s haunch, just below the buttock; as a tiny sliver of it melted on his tongue he could feel himself within her again, hear her laugh and say, “Have me…I’m yours!” She had become his, and him; Frank sighed with delight, dipped a little more of Joanne in the loquat compote before again teasing his palate with her.
    Table manners were barely restrained; the two dozen or so Privilegeds emptied plate after plate, as the chef’s aides pared glistening meat from the unfortunate “special guest.” Formal wear got stained with human grease; guests discreetly belched and sheepishly apologized. Then, the chef himself arrived, to thunderous applause; he nodded, blushed, bowed as Frank stood and lifted a glass in his direction.
    All in all, Frank thought as he disembarked, the eighth cruise was the most memorable, yet. There’d been plenty of entertainment during the two weeks, a magnificent feast at the close, and—he smiled, remembering Angela’s number in his wallet—a new friend. For at least another year.

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  20. #33

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    The one person in real life that fits Joanne's bill--for me anyway--is Leanne Crow, which has made my readings of this wonderful story all the more enjoyable!

    Even though I have most of 'Gerie's stories on my hard drive, I keep coming back here every night to see what tale he's posted up. Keep 'em coming!!

  21. #34

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    Bottom Line

    BOTTOM LINE
    Shonda squinted over her glasses, and drew a tiny “o” in the very last space on the very last ledger. “Finished!” she cried out gaily; the quarterly books were done.
    The boss peeked around the corner into her tiny office: “All done, you say?” It still sounded so funny to Shonda; he was so black, and his voice was so…so cosmopolitan; he sounded like a proper English banker, and that was what he had been. His eyes brightened over a gleaming smile. “I say! Calls for a celebration, eh, what?”
    He ducked back out; Shonda was so pleased with herself. When she’d taken the summer job between school years with the ExIm firm, she’d never dreamed she’d wind up doing the tribal books in a remote village in Uganda…and when the assignment came, she surely never thought it would be like this. An African tribe? In Uganda? She had pictured growling savages, bones through their noses, grass skirts…maybe even a big, cast iron pot for missionaries. She hesitated; then, the man with the ExIm firm started talking money. It would pay for a whole year’s tuition, and then some, just for three months’ apprentice accounting.
    And then…why, they were just as nice as pie. They wore suits and ties, spoke…well, to be honest, spoke better English than she did. Big, burly N’Gomo was a civil engineer, Master’s degree from the University of Illinois; slender, sly M’Buto had already made millions from his start-up Internet firm. “Systems management, don’cha know,” he’d told her, eyes mischievous over that broad nose. “They pay a villager in Uganda to tell them how to run a dimethylester plant in North Carolina!” And he roared with laughter.
    Ashasha, her immediate supervisor, had an MBA from Dartmouth; she had been President of the Senior Class. “Rigid…rigid!” she proclaimed, just a hint of a smile across her broad lips. “Your mind must be rigid as a steel rod! No mistakes!” Ashasha had caught many mistakes, at least in Shonda’s early days; the blonde American watched, feeling like a complete klutz, as the African woman wearing a $1,500 suit from Bloomingdale’s redid her work, checked it twice, thrice. “Rigid!” she announced, looking up and beaming; Shonda smiled, wearily.
    The village was a fascinating mixture of old and new. Bentleys and Mercedes-Benz’ were parked next to the squat little building where she did her work. Half-naked children played on the dusty road, while men in three-piece suits stopped to pat their heads, give them lollipops. None of the village was paved; every neat, tidy bungalow had its own garden. But from steel spires overhead splayed power lines, cellular phone antennae, cables; the men were always answering beepers, rushing off in their fancy cars, down the narrow lane to the highway a mile to the south, to Kampala…
    For the village was fabulously wealthy. The tribe’s ancient homeland was situated over a vast copper mine; the people, who had slaved within it for the imperial British, found themselves its owners when independence came in 1962. The village elders had wisely used their resources to buy friends and protection; the soldiers and horrors perpetrated by the tyrant Amin had left them unscathed. Shrewd investment, hedges against inflation, had left them well positioned when the metals markets took off in the Seventies.
    Now, each of those friendly, earthy villagers had a trust in his or her name…and managing them was Shonda’s job. She kept track of mutual funds, stock portfolios, bonds the tribe had floated on the New York market…it was exhausting, and a little humbling. That little boy playing outside of the main offices was worth a hundred times as much as she was. “You, missus!” he had called when she first arrived in the village. “You our new lady?”
    Shonda smiled. Tall, leggy, and blonde, she stood out like the proverbial sore thumb. “Yes; I’m the new lady. From the States.”
    The lad giggled. “Oh, get ‘em from all over, we do! From Switzerland, and the Netherlands, and New Zealand.” He ambled up to her, eyes shining. “Three months, right? Do the books, right?”
    “Right,” she said, her smile turning a little nervous. He couldn’t have been eight years old. His pants were worn; he had no shoes, and an unbuttoned shirt. His eyes, huge and glistening, never left hers; finally, he laughed.
    “Cracky!” he sang out. “Good show!” And he was gone.
    He came back frequently, gave her encouragement. “Just two more months, now!…Six weeks, mind!…Won’t be long!” The other children would rush up, laughing and pointing; Ashasha shooed them away. The boss would peer out the window: “What the devil?…Ashasha, do you mind?”
    The boss was tall, slender, distinguished-looking; tailored pearl-gray suits set off the sheen of his velvet skin, matched his close-cropped, iron gray hair. Mr. T’satsu was what everybody called him; he was the direct descendent of the tribe’s first monarch. “I guess that makes me the Chief, what?” he chuckled. “‘Chief of the African tribe’ and all that. I prefer Chairman, Chairman of the Board of Directors of Lowlands Mining Co., Ltd. That ‘Chief’ stuff never made me a penny, you know.” Prepped at Eton, graduated first in his class at Oxford; Vice-President for Institutional Investment at Barclay’s. Then back home. “Missed the old place, y’know,” he told Shonda as they pored over annuities. “Friends, family…co-workers,” and gave her a wink. She flushed, and smiled, looking down self-consciously at the cascade of numerals…
    It didn’t bother her that he was so black, and she, so white; that she was barely twenty and he was more than twice that. It was just that he was, well…such a damn gentleman, so classy, and when they finally made it one night after a hard days’ assault on the books, he did everything so perfectly, right down to neatly folding her skirt and blazer over the imported mahogany chair in his office. “I do hope I’m pleasing you, my dear,” he said earnestly; she gasped as a staff worthy of royalty plumbed her very depths, filled her to her cusp, left her quivering in dopey, happy bliss. As each firm, unyielding thrust found yet another bottom to her, she kept thinking of Ashasha saying, “Rigid…rigid!”
    As she lay on the overstuffed divan, slack and reeling from the experience, he knelt beside her; gently, he nibbled on one of her nipples, and the sensation was exquisite. Then, he tenderly wiped a little drool off the corner of her lip with an embroidered silk hankie. “There, now!” Mr. T’satsu exclaimed. “Quite a fun romp, eh?” And he offered her an imported Swiss chocolate truffle.
    All of the food was fantastic; she had wondered what they ate in Uganda—yak? If yak it was, it was elegant filet of yak chateaubriand, prepared by the most accomplished European chefs, garnished with foie gras. Morning, noon and night, the food was the richest, most sumptuous Shonda could imagine. To her dismay, she found she was gaining a few pounds; stepping out of the shower in her little cottage, she frowned at her figure, full and getting fuller, in the full-length mirror behind the bathroom door. She’d hoped to be able to sweat it off in the hot, tropical sun—but her employers wouldn’t let her; they escorted her everywhere in her luxury cars, never let her out of their sight. “You’re quite a valuable resource,” chuckled Mr. T’satsu when she asked about it. “You can’t imagine!”
    Their midnight rendezvous’ were infrequent; he was usually expecting a call, or in the middle of a teleconference. Besides, Shonda was putting in fourteen hour days, and was usually exhausted by week’s end. N’Gomo would be summoned to drive her back to her modest guesthouse at the other end of the village. With the end of her internship approaching on a hot August evening, Mr. T’satsu had again turned her down (“Dreadfully sorry; monthly book-squaring. Deuced bother.”); she looked hungrily at the husky N’Gomo, brushed against him as they bumped along the dirt road in the mining company’s black El Dorado.
    Came time to get out; she put a hand on that broad bicep. He looked at her, evenly; her blue eyes were hopeful, pleading, frankly inviting. A short pause.
    “Got to get back, Missus,” he apologized, firmly.
    “Can’t you stay a moment?” she purred; the hand crept up to his shoulder.
    He shook his head; ever so delicately, removed her hand. “Mr. T’satsu wouldn’t like it. Evening, Missus.” He puttered off; she stared after him, feet spread, knees knocking together.
    “Cracky!”
    It was the little boy, squatting in the dust by her cabin. She glared at him; he jumped up and whooped, danced away down the path “Enjoy it, Missus! Not much longer now! Just two more weeks…”
    The two weeks passed quickly. Shonda was now getting to be a pro at deductions and appreciation, returns and debentures. Wait’ll she showed ‘em back home, she thought pridefully, as she whizzed through one account after another, eyes peering over glasses set low on the tip of her nose. And that old Mr. T’satsu, why, I’ve had better…
    He popped back in with two crystal goblets. “Do join me,” he begged. “Champagne. The end of the quarter is such an event. Time to celebrate.”
    They quaffed a couple; she giggled, they nestled. For some reason, they’d forgotten to bring her any meals since yesterday’s breakfast—she hadn’t missed it until now, in the rush to finish up—and the fine wine knocked her for a loop. Soon, she was on her back. It was broad daylight outside. Her eyes were wide; their faces were only inches apart as he gently plucked off her glasses. “Won’t the villagers—” Shonda sucked in her breath as Mr. T’satsu’s royal scepter was driven home; how could she have room down there for all that?—“get suspicious?”
    He looked puzzled. “Suspicious? Oh, sorry,” and his face split into a grin, “forgot myself. They know.”
    She swallowed; despite the flush of the moment, it hit her. “They know? Everybody in the village knows that you and me—”
    Her voice trailed away, replaced by squeaks of pleasure. The boss went at her firmly, forcefully…rigid as a steel rod, she thought. Her consternation melted away; hey! she thought. I’m having a roll in the hay with The Chief; with the Chairman of the Board! She barely noticed as he rose, dressed, kissed her hand, and left…
    Hands on her arms roused her from a cotton-candy reverie. Her eyes snapped open. Two tribesmen held her firmly. “Hey!” Long, bare legs lashed out; a black, sinewy hand closed around one ankle. She screamed.
    “Don’t you know us, Missus?”
    She did. Mr. T’satsu’s nephew, Motu—he was a foreman with the company—and the other fellow, the one who had played football at Brown. She quieted for a moment…realized she wasn’t wearing a stitch, tried to shrink into her own skin. “Got to come with us, Missus,” said Motu. “End of the quarter.”
    Shonda squirmed in their unyielding grips. “Let go!” she snapped, flailing with her free leg. No way; also now held just as tight. She stared at one peaceful, impassive face, then the other; her chest heaved.
    “Time to go,” said the football player, and the two easily carried their naked prey…
    …out the door, past the excited crowd of children, the men with their cel phones, the parked luxury cars. Shonda’s shrieks blended with the hubbub of the scene; she twisted and struggled. Some of the villagers ignored her; some of them eyed her intently. And the children danced around her merrily. She heard a familiar, high-pitched voice. “Cracky!” He was scampering along beside them as the two men lugged Shonda through the village, past the little buildings, the police department, the physician’s office, the Events Building…decorated with a banner reading, RECEPTION TO-NIGHT…
    She looked at the raucously happy little boy, stopped in mid-scream. “Where are they taking me?” she shouted over the uproar.
    “The three months is up, Missus!” he hollered back. “Big party! End of the quarter!”
    Well…really, that didn’t sound so bad; Shonda calmed a bit. “My clothes!” she yelled; there were now a score or more villagers following along, as the young men marched her toward the village square. “I need my clothes!”
    The boy leaned over her; his eyes gleamed, his teeth bared in a tremendous smile. “No,” he shouted back. “You don’t!”
    She didn’t.
    There was a pole in the square, a tether attached to it. The men set her down; Motu tied the tether firmly around her neck, while the jock bound her hands behind her back with coarse hemp, then tied her feet. As they stepped away, the villagers began arriving.
    Sprawled on the ground, bound and helpless, Shonda had never seen the people of the village like this. The expensive clothes were gone, replaced by native dress—colorful blouses, loincloths, elaborate jewelry. And yet, there was the company’s Vice-President for Mercantile Affairs…gesticulating wildly as he barked orders into his cel phone, one bare foot rubbing against the other as if he were still shod in $150 Johnston Murphys. And there was the Director of Metallurgic Research, in a crouch, tapping feverishly into a laptop perched on a mound of sod, eyes peering through horn-rimmed glasses. And there in front of her, in a spectacularly colorful sarong sort of thing, was—
    “Ashasha!” Shonda cried, thinking, She’s always got me outdressed! The native woman’s impressive physique swelled the bust and derriere of her wrap; she smiled at her temporary assistant.
    “Impressive,” said Ashasha, as she slowly circled the trembling, naked girl. She reached down, squeezed one of Shonda’s full thighs, remarked, “I see our local diet has agreed with you,” as the natives whooped with laughter.
    “Now, I want you to remain perfectly still, Shonda,” her supervisor continued. “You must remain fixed and focused, for this next step is extremely important.” As she spoke, two other women quickly moved to either side of Shonda; one grabbed her long blonde hair, shoved her face into the ground. Shonda protested, and then suddenly yelped—for her rectum had been invaded by a cold, long, narrow…ooooohhhhh! She felt herself fill, and fill, and she thought she’d burst—then, the object was pulled free, and what was inside Shonda was spilling out onto the ground around her.
    She cried as the women flushed her a second time, then a third. “Running clean,” Ashasha proclaimed. “Quite good; efficient work.” Shonda lay sniffling, only to start bawling again as a hose was trained on her, rinsed her clean, sprayed the long, lush grasses beneath her free of taint. “Now, the preparation!”
    Shonda looked up; a massive man loomed over her, several others clustering around him. The big man clapped his pudgy hands; the others quickly surrounded her, and Shonda felt a dozen hands fondling her bare skin, massaging her, rubbing her, squeezing her—what is this? And then, her nostrils were assaulted by pungent odors.
    “Native spices,” said a familiar voice. “Authentic Ugandan cuisine.”
    Sure enough, there the bastard was. A headdress that made him look vaguely buffalo-like adorned his pepper-and-salt hair; a great crimson cape flowed behind him, fixed to his bare shoulders by a golden sash. A matted leopard skin was wrapped around his narrow hips. He looked, well, ridiculous.
    “Mr. T’satsu,” she said, as firmly as a bound and naked woman could under the circumstances—the fat guy’s flunkies were all over her, rubbing the fragrant dusts into her—“please tell these people to let me go.”
    “You see, my dear,” said the Chairman of the Board of Directors of Lowlands Mining Co., Ltd., as he looked down, frowned and adjusted his sash, “this is our way of celebrating the seasons, as did our ancestors. Every quarter, we bring in a new Temporary Accountant, like yourself; every quarter, when the books are finished—well, you’ve seen how hard we all work. We allow ourselves a day of celebration; a day of great merriment, and feast.”
    “Wonderful!” Shonda said through gritted teeth, straining at the hemp that held her wrists and ankles, “it sounds like a great party!” One of the assistants looked up at the fat guy and nodded; he clapped again. There was something going on behind Shonda; tribesmen were laughing and pointing. She looked up at the boss, eyes welling up. “What are you going to do with me?”
    “Ready,” said a Fat Guy Assistant. Another untied the tether around Shonda’s neck; two of them picked her up, turned her around.
    “A copper pot, of course,” said Mr. T’satsu behind Shonda, as she stared at the huge cauldron filled with water, tufts of flame billowing up from beneath it. “Symbolic of how far we’ve come as a people. From crude primitives to sophisticated, productive citizens of the brave new world. I beg your pardon; N’Gomo! Have you got the yams?”
    As the two men held Shonda’s knees apart, the burly N’Gomo arrived, brandishing the starchy vegetables. They glistened wetly with some sort of grease; felt slick against her labia. “Open up, Missus,” he grinned, and she howled as the pointed tip probed her, then slid into her—even deeper than old T’satsu, she decided through the pain. They flipped her; already rubbed raw by the steel pipe, her bunghole felt like it was being traced with a razor as the sweet potato was driven in. She screamed, a sound lost through the bustle, the native jabber, the rumble of drums, the insistent staccato of a beeper…
    Shonda bucked feebly, her breasts bouncing and buttocks jiggling, as the men marched with her to the pot. Thin fingers of steam were already wafting from the broth within; she stared at the enormous mouth of the pot, made one last strain at her bindings. “In,” commanded the Chief, and they plopped her in.
    Her skin screamed in protest; every square inch of her felt the pain. The hot water lapped at her nipples; her skin quickly reddened. Shonda’s tears flowed freely, mixed with the salty water; the fat guy—“Trained in the culinary arts in Paris,” Mr. T’satsu told her—chopped into the pot leafy vegetables, bulbous onions, colorful roots. Her screams gave way to intermittent gasps, incoherent yelps, and an occasional plea for mercy; scraps of the vegetables decorated her skin as Paris Boy whittled away at his produce. The heat was unbearable; Shonda thrashed in what was becoming a vegetable broth, feeling her very flesh start to cook, its humours seep into the liquid. Her eyes were clenched, leaking tears; finally, she heard the crowd quiet, and opened her eyes. Her boss, her lover—the Chairman!—stood before her, holding a mango.
    “I did want to tell you,” he said, after he had rammed the pulpy fruit into her mouth with one hand, holding her head with the other, “that you were the best the ExIm company has sent. Top drawer work.”
    As the naked girl peered at him in anguish, teeth clenched around the mango, sweat and her own juices pouring from her skin, the broth in which she simmered started to roll to a full boil…
    “Quite so!” proclaimed M’Buto as he rifled through the annual report. “The Number Three mine boosted productivity eighteen percent! I told you so!” He set the report down on the piano, sucked another chunk of Shonda’s thigh off the long wooden pick on his plate.
    The Board of Directors was holding its annual reception; while an orchestra played in the ballroom of the Events Building, the French Chef’s minions dished up slivers of breast and buttock from the boiled, reddened carcass that rested, surrounded by fresh grapes and ripe cheeses, on a platter at the serving station. Shonda’s eyes were wide and unseeing; her mouth still gripped the mango. Liberal portions of her had already been cut away, one tiny serving at a time; bone showed through the soft, pink meat of her shoulder, slabs had been sliced from her loin.
    The vegetables that had simmered with her were in a massive bowl nearby; the tribespeople spooned helpings from it next to their pieces of Shonda, savoring each bite. They had shed the colorful, traditional attire, and were in suits and evening gowns as they talked about their portfolios, their investments, the flavor of the blonde American on the platter compared to the girls from Switzerland, from the Netherlands, from New Zealand. The next Temporary Accountant would arrive in the morning; she was, one of the Board members said, a French Canadian lass. A redhead…
    “The fund was up year to year again,” commented the Vice-President for Mercantile Affairs; he used a small, silver cocktail fork to impale bits of belly meat, then chunks of leek and okra from the bowl. Mr. Chairman!” he said around a mouthful of human flesh. “Another outstanding quarter.”
    Mr. T’satsu, resplendent in pearl gray, nodded, winked at the man in the apron, who smiled back and handed him a plate from behind the counter. The Chairman glanced down at it, at the two large nipples upon it.
    “Thank you, gentlemen,” he proclaimed, spearing a nipple with a fork. “We couldn’t have done it,” he continued, nibbling on the meat, “without a great deal of help.”

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  23. #35

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    One of the big ones! As a Connoisseur of Meaty Mammaries, I'm a big fan of the ending to this fable! I don't know where I would be right now if it weren't for your influence, 'Gerie!!

  24. #36

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    Collateral

    COLLATERAL
    “So, how come I finally get to meet these guys, Tod?” asked Sue. She was doing her makeup in the passenger side mirror, squeezing her lips and getting them big and red.
    “Because they wanted you,” said Tod, knowing it was too close to the truth. He had pulled off the Interstate and was headed down the old main road; Sue, next to him, shifted her weight and pouted into the mirror.
    “They aren’t too angry at you over the business deal, are they?” she said. “Twenty thousand is a lot of money. How soon do they want it back?” Satisfied, she clicked the compact shut, peered into the mirror.
    She looked good, Tod thought. Maybe a little extra weight around the middle, an extra chin, but not bad, at all. Her full breasts hung heavy against the light, cotton dress; it flared out against her ample, womanly hips and ended abruptly, to reveal long, luscious legs. Sue’s bright blue eyes gazed at herself in the mirror, then, questioningly, at him. “I think I can bargain with them,” he told Sue’s reflection, and it smiled brightly back at him. “It wasn’t your fault,” she said reassuringly. “We’ll be back on our feet in no time.” Tod stayed silent; he knew what he had to bargain with.
    The old warehouse was off the main road; the loading dock was filled with refuse, the sidewalk was cracked. Sue hauled herself out of the car; she was as tall as he was, and the car door whoomed shut with her weight behind it. “This is where they work?” she breathed. “They must not be doing any better than you are. How could they afford to loan you--?” Tod took her by the arm and led her up the broken walk; he hesitated before buzzing.
    It took a half-minute before the security light came on, and a voice crackled through the ancient intercom. “Name?” it demanded. Tod told them, and after another half-minute, the door swung open.
    Sid looked a lot unhappier than he had sounded on the phone; he shook hands grimly, turned to Sue. Sue offered a hand; he clenched it for a beat, didn’t let it go, then turned back to Tod. “This way,” he directed, and they followed him down a dimly lit hallway, Sue’s heels clack-clacking on the tiled floor.
    Into a smallish conference room, Sid motioned for the couple to sit. He kept standing. They looked up at him; for the first time, he cracked a smile.
    “Now, Tod,” he began, “I believe you understand the gravity of the situation. We had a very strict agreement as to repayment of the loan; $40,000, in full, within 30 days.”
    “Forty!” proclaimed Sue, her mouth dropping open. She looked at Tod, her eyes wide. “You told me it was twenty!”
    “It was,” he muttered. “I borrowed twenty; I have to pay forty. I was sure it would work, Sid,” he pleaded with the man, and started to get out of the small, uncomfortable chair. “It seemed like a can’t-miss deal; maybe if I can interest a few discount stores in the rest of the inventory…”
    Sid clapped a beefy hand on Tod’s shoulder, and he deflated like a balloon, sank back in the chair. “Well, I’m going to tell you, Tod,” he said. “I like you, I really do, and I still have faith in your venture. So I’m going to give you an extension.”
    Tod was astonished; he figured…well, he didn’t know what to figure. He knew he had to come to the old warehouse, or else, and he knew he’d better obey the order to bring Sue along. Sid was eyeing her right now; taking in her full figure, her carefully coifed hair, her soft knees peeking out from under the skirt. Sue was oblivious to Sid’s open leer; she was smiling, her even teeth peeking out. “Oh, thank you, Mr.—Mr.—”
    “However,” interrupted the man, “we can’t let our personal feelings interfere with good business practices, Tod. So in exchange for the additional time to pay back the debt…which is now sixty thousand dollars, by the way—” Tod swallowed, hard—“we are going to need to hold some collateral.”
    And with that, two guys came into the room. Without a word, they walked directly toward…Sue, who screamed in protest as they each grabbed her by an arm and quickly dragged her back out the door. Tod was frozen; he watched as she flailed in their tight grips, kicking her legs…leaving a shoe behind. The door slammed behind them; Tod heard his wife wail, “Toddddddddd! Todddddddddd….!”
    “Sixty grand, Tod,” said Sid, cupping a hand and lifting to gesture Tod out of his chair. “Sixty grand, thirty days. I’ll let you out.”
    Tod could still hear the echoes of his wife’s cries as he hurriedly got into the car and screeched out of the decrepit parking lot. He didn’t know where he was heading. But he knew he couldn’t raise sixty grand in thirty days.
    Sid knew it, too, but he was willing to wait. He had his prize, after all. When he got to the little playroom in the back, the boys were already getting her ready for him. Sue was still screaming, shrilly; one of the men had her arms pinned behind her, and the other was tearing her dress off. Sid grinned; pretty damn inviting, nice big boobs. Off came the bra; the hefty tits were topped with large nipples. Her panties were shredded; a sizeable thatch of pubic hair. Sid walked up to her as the second guy was tying her arms behind her back; he grabbed her mouth between his thumb and fingers, squeezed hard. Sue’s mouth was distorted like a fish’s; she got quiet, stared at him through red-rimmed eyes.
    “For the next thirty days,” Sid informed Sue, his face an inch from hers, “you belong to me. That’s how long we’re giving your rat husband to pony up with our money. By the way, he knew you were what we wanted; whad’ya think of that?” Her eyes fixed on him, she nodded; couldn’t think of anything else. With his free hand, Sid had started to caress her boobs, rough hands rasping against the smooth, plump skin, rubbing the big, brown nipples. “After thirty days—well, we’ll see. Starting now.”
    Sid pushed Sue roughly to her knees; she heard the zip, and knew. Looking up again, defeat in her pretty eyes, she nodded, and closing those eyes, took his cock in her mouth.
    It wasn’t easy, sucking the guy off with her hands tied behind her back. Sue was a big girl, and had to hunch down to avoid falling over; she sucked and licked, felt the big cock firm up and jerk a few times, then blast her face and throat with a thick load of cum. She choked and coughed, started crying again, as the man laughed and pushed her down to the concrete floor; she toppled, her bare flesh slapping the floor with a noise like an exploding water balloon, and she sobbed into the dust.
    “Hope you liked it,” said Sid, “’cause there’s plenty more to come.”
    At first they kept Sue in a dim, tiny cubicle, barely four feet square, sawdust on the floor; they would tie her feet and leave her. If she had to piss or shit, well, too bad; she would be there for hours, sometimes a couple of days. Food came in a metal bowl; she figured out right away it was dog food. But she had to eat.
    Whenever a man opened the door, she would learn quickly, she was his to do with as he pleased. She had sucked a hundred cocks, been penetrated from every direction. Two men tied her wrists to the ceiling, plunged into her from both directions, their bodies slapping against her naked skin as she cried out in pain. Or a belt would come off, and crack against her smooth ass and plump tits; Sue swayed from the ceiling, her long legs kicking together as she flopped like a fish on a hook, and then the strap would find her twat with a CRACK! that made her tender pubes feel as though they had been set ablaze.
    After a while, she was moved from the dark room—she saw, as she was led away, another nude woman, hands bound, eyes pleading, being forced into what had been Sue’s cubicle—and into even smaller quarters. It was an iron-barred cage, in an otherwise empty room in a cellar, thick pipes bending this way and that through the ceiling and walls. Sue could barely squeeze through the small opening, but Sid’s henchman laughed and gave her plush fanny a slap; Sue fell over sideways, and heard the click of a padlock against the door. She would be kept, like an animal…released only to suffer, to let men inside of her and to take them into her mouth.
    Once, twice, she saw the other woman again. She was short, chunky, mousy brown hair; the two of them were set on their knees together, bound back to back, sucking a parade of dicks. The other woman’s name was Dawn; the men, laughing, coaxed her into trying a little bit harder, coaxed her with hands around her throat, slaps to the face. The two were left to sob in agony, still bound to each other, lying on their sides on the hard, concrete floor, semen mixing with the blood and spittle running out of the sides of their mouths…
    Then, after what seemed to Sue like an unceasing eternity of torture and rape, the door to her cage opened one last time. It was Sid, with two goons; they hauled her out of the little cell. She stayed on her knees, looking down at his fancy shoes. And heard him say, “Thirty days is up.”
    Sue looked up. She knew her fate had just gotten worse. She heard herself croak, tearfully, “So go get Tod…not me. He took your money…”
    “Tod is long gone, I’m afraid,” Sid said cheerfully. “Landlord says he split weeks ago. I don’t need him; I’ve got you, and I’ll recoup my losses that way. That’s why I wanted you as collateral.” And he turned and walked out, the two goons lifting Sue by the armpits and dragging her behind them, her bound feet scraping the unfinished floor of the harshly lit room.
    Back in the loading dock, there were two other guys; Sue hadn’t seen them before. They were normally dressed, but had kind of an odd look to them, just a little bit...crazy. Dawn was also there; like Sue, she was totally nude, sandwiched between two of Sid’s men. “Here are the goods, gentlemen,” Sid sang out. “Twenty-five thousand apiece…agreed?”
    “This one’s a big one,” said the smaller of the two men, scarcely able to contain his delight; he rushed over to where the goons still had Sue propped between them, started fondling her tits, her belly, her twat. “Looks real good, Georgie…pay up.”
    Georgie handed over a manila envelope; Sid smiled, waved to his boys, and they trundled the exhausted and defeated Sue toward the overhead door. A grind of gears, and it slowly elevated; there was a white delivery truck backed up to the bay, its door open. One of the hoods reached into his pocket, squeezed Sue’s mouth open, stuffed in a dirty handkerchief; then, he slapped tape over her mouth, and the two casually tossed the naked, helpless woman into the back of the van. A moment later, Dawn, disheveled, crying, landed next to her.
    A long, bumpy ride followed; Sue was spent from her ordeal but couldn’t sleep, instead lay in mortal dread, her heart pounding. The steel floor of the van, ridges raised every few inches, pressed cold against her screaming flesh, contrasted with the warmth of the other woman, laying next to her. Sue felt Dawn struggle weakly, then collapse, Dawn’s sobs muffled through her own gag.
    Sue’s fear was heightened to sheer frenzy when the truck finally came to a stop; when the door swung open and the two guys eagerly reached to pull her out, she involuntarily urinated all over herself. She realized she was within a large, residential garage. A boat was on a trailer next to the van. “Party time,” the little guy giggled, and grabbed her feet; the other took her by the upper torso, and together they marched Sue through a door. From the floor of the truck, Dawn watched, trembling, her face jerking in terror.
    A nice house, out in the country; out a window, Sue spied a small lake, framed by trees. But she immediately found herself on her back, atop a coffee table about two feet off the ground; Georgie squatted on her chest and stuffed his cock in her mouth, and she felt the other guy untie her feet and retie them to the table legs, then penetrate her pussy. She took them both, the one bouncing on her tits and the other grinding against her hips; she gurgled through the hood’s snot-soaked hankie, until they emptied their loads into her. Sue choked on yet another mouthful of cum—how many had there been in the last month? A hundred?—and as Georgie got off of her, her eyes focused on a face. A grinning, handsome fellow, square jaw, sharp clothes; he joked, “I see why you two couldn’t wait. Nice pickup.”
    He reached down, ripped the tape off her face, and plucked the snotrag, soaked with drool, out of her mouth. Another joke: “Remind me to send Sid a laundry bill.”
    Sue looked up at the dude, who was smiling devilishly; she was stark naked, filthy from a month in captivity, bound to a piece of furniture, dripping semen. She gaped, couldn’t make words.
    “Pleased to meet you, Sue,” winked the sharp dresser. “Folks call me Chip. In a minute, they’ll be calling you ‘Lunch’.” She didn’t understand, but her two tormentors were giggling hysterically.
    “Several years ago, I had an unfortunate run in with the law,” Chip was saying; his hands behind his back, he was pacing in a leisurely fashion around the trussed woman. “I wound up in what they call a ‘Sexual Deviant Rehab Center’ with Ernie and Georgie, here,” and the two guys smirked.
    Chip was standing right over Sue, who stared up at him, eyes wide, a tear running down her cheek. He laughed. “What they didn’t know was that these two jokers already had several kills to their credit; when we got out, with the help of Dad’s money, I was more than happy to take them on as partners in our little venture, here.”
    He bent over, an inch from her face; Sue twitched, the tears flowing freely now. “From their stays in public facilities, at the taxpayers’ expense, Ernie and Georgie got to know several other fellows of similar tastes. They were also previously in the employ of Sid, whom I believe—“ and here Chip abruptly stuck an index finger into Sue’s mouth and down her throat, so deep she gagged—“you’ve gotten to know very well.
    “Sid continues to run his lucrative credit enterprise,” Chip went on, staring straight into Sue’s face as she retched around his finger, “and particularly tough cases end up down here at the lake. I reimburse Sid’s stake, and a little more; I recoup my own expenses from the gentlemen Ernie and Georgie got to know from their earlier brushes with the gendarmes. They pay several thousand dollars each…to take part in a very special banquet.”
    Chip removed his finger, straightened up. Sue coughed weakly, choked back vomit, stared up at him. A very special…
    “Fellas,” said Chip, turning and headed out to the deck, “show dear Sue the kitchen.”
    It wasn’t really the kitchen; it was a room off the main floor. It had a steel table, several buckets, and a number of large, wicked knives hanging from a rack. There was a steel pole, eight feet long, propped against the wall. Sharpened at both ends. Sue was again plopped on the table; Ernie took one of the knives, and looked at Sue intently. And she could see the sex killer’s eyes gleam, like the blade of the knife.
    The knife cut slowly, and agonizingly. It started at Sue’s breastbone, sliced through the flesh of the belly…down to her cunt. Through her red-hot pain, she could feel the blade under the skin of her pussy, tracing around; triumphantly, the monster held her labia aloft by her thick pubic hair.
    “Add to the collection,” laughed Georgie. Sue could feel hands inside of her, groping at her parts, then a hollowness as part of her gave way. A wet plop; part of Sue had landed in the bucket.
    The men grabbed Sue by the shoulder and feet, flipped her, then pushed her knees apart. Her consciousness ebbing, the acute pain of the blade and gutting giving way to a a receding nothingness, Sue was dimly aware of a large, pointed object poking at her anus. Then in…and through…and into her throat…then forcing her mouth open wide…and finally, her eyes crossed dully, staring at the gore-covered tip of the pole, protruding from within her.
    “I’m getting better at this,” bragged Ernie as he trussed Sue’s feet to the pole. Her hands were tied to her sides. Each grabbing an end of the cruel spike, the two psychos lifted the impaled housewife and paraded her out the door, and into the yard.
    A fire was already smoldering; the two set the pole ends on props on either side of a glowing-red pile of embers. The heat seared Sue immediately, her skin shrinking and tightening, the fluids of her body starting to hiss, and to emerge from her body, and to drip. Sue could almost feel it, for only a moment.
    The secluded estate was soon teeming with men. Some bore the tattoos of prison life, of highway warriors. Some had the rough hands and bodies of day laborers. Others were timid, nervous, but had a glistening of the eye that told you, Be Wary. They came to Chip’s; they paid good money.
    And they were not to be disappointed. They had been to many of these feasts; they knew what to expect. For one thing, entertainment. For there was Dawn, her head and wrists locked in a pillory; one man had mounted her from behind, while another enjoyed the pleasures of her tongue. Another would choose to flay her plump ass, or penetrate her dangling breasts with needles. There she would remain, through the long afternoon; she howled, in fear as much as in pain.
    And as each of the men had had his fill of tormenting Dawn, they gathered at the main table under a colorful umbrella, above the bank to the lake, for the feast. There would be no fancy hors d’oeuvres, no meager salads. Only hearty, savory fare, the rarest, most exquisite meal they could imagine.
    It was Sue, her long frame laid out, her opened belly down, in a large pan. Her skin was black from the fire, dappled in hues of red. Her mouth was still frozen open where the steel spike had emerged. Wearing a chef’s hat and apron, Georgie carved chunks of flesh from her body, piled the pink meat, glistening with fat, onto large platters. One full-sized women could feed a lot of men; slices of her back, fat ringing the red meat…dense slices from her heavy thighs…her ribs, cracked from her chest. Each man shouted for the part of Sue they desired; Georgie knew their preferences by now, and would keep a plate with a foot, or a breast, waiting for that individual.
    They savored the flesh they craved; no need to wolf it down--after all, there would surely be another cookout soon; they kept glancing at Dawn, twisting in agony in her stocks, and measuring her flesh with their eyes. Chip kept the liquor flowing freely; he munched on a tender rib chop, watched as his guests devoured the unfortunate woman, whose body had become collateral, on a debt long past due.

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  26. #37

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    Communion

    COMMUNION
    The courier was still standing in front of Sarah as if frozen in time, leaning forward slightly, rocking a little, holding the electronic notepad and its stylus out to her. Sarah, too, was almost frozen, her mouth half-ajar as she looked into his eyes. The reflected light within them was plaintive, peaceful; through his eyes, the courier seemed to shrug, to say, “Shall we?” She snapped out of it, hurriedly accepted the box, scratched her signature on it, handed it back, an earnest look on her face. He accepted it but stood for a while yet, still looking at her; she blushed. Then he put his hand to the bill of his cap. “I’m a Member, you know,” he said. She smiled. “Good,” she said, her voice just a little shaky. “We shall be free!” He nodded, and left.
    The blue envelope still sat on her desk, unopened. She knew what it said; well, not every word. She knew what it meant. It had the seal bearing the insignia of the Congregation on it. It was her turn.
    It had all started in the early part of the century, with the World Accord. The evidence of global warming had become overwhelming; the government had finally agreed to scale back the country’s use of fuels. Pressures on the economy followed; people went from prosperity to homelessness overnight. At the same time, policies adopted with the tight job market brought a flood of immigrants into the country. With demand growing, not shrinking, resources were tight and dear; many went back to rustic living, subsistence agriculture, wilderness dwelling.
    The lack of desirable food—meat is a costly commodity to raise—had brought episodes of cannibalism, sometimes initiated by the desperation of hungry people, sometimes by the decadence of those who still had wealth and would pay for the privilege of again enjoying the fibers of flesh between their teeth. But there were also those who saw it as a higher calling, a way to preserve what they saw as their country’s divinely ordained station. Thus began the Congregation, the cult that believed it was saving the nation by sacrificing its females to the hunger of the many. At first just ritual and hidden, eventually out in the open—euthanasia laws, long resisted by the government, were adopted in the midst of the shortages and population surge. Women who voluntarily went to slaughter were within their rights. Still, the Congregation remained a peculiarity, a group on the edge, no solution to the real problems Society had thrust upon itself…
    Then a Congregist was elected President.
    Suddenly, euthanasia was no longer frowned upon, not even just tolerated, but cherished. The President himself had escorted his own daughter Kerry to the door of the Processor on national television; swallowing bravely, the young woman had been wearing an attractive white dress as she entered the Processor to meet her destiny, and the white “Kerry” dresses suddenly became the rage, young Congregist women donning them as an insignia of their faith and beliefs. Scores, hundreds, thousands of young women followed Kerry’s example, eagerly committing their all to saving their nation from itself. “We shall,” they chorused, stepping forward at the weekly selection of volunteers, “be free.”
    The selection process became unwieldy; the Congregists had become the country’s biggest religion. They turned to a lottery, sanctioned by the government, to select that week’s sacrifices. Members were chosen randomly; they were officially registered, their DNA inscribed within the memories of government computers. They had no place else to go if the blue envelope arrived at their homes, their offices…
    Sarah had no desire to go anywhere. She felt an unease, a distress, but she was a true Member; she had been too young to volunteer, but had seen family members step forward, herded into the trucks to the Processor, smiling and waving as they rode gaily to their dooms. Now that the lots were being drawn, women she had known, whose lives she had shared, had gone to feed the many, to save the nation…
    There had been Mandi, she of the broad smile and hazel eyes; she had come eagerly to Sarah’s desk, proudly showed the envelope. “For a Gathering!” she said excitedly. “You will come, of course?” Sarah had nodded. “Of course,” she said. “I wouldn’t miss it…” She had watched as Mandi’s bare body had slowly turned over the spit, juices dripping from her ample flanks and full breasts and hissing as they struck the embers in the pit, as the Elders had read the passages from the Congregation’s early days and Mandi’s family celebrated her sacrifice. She joined in the singing, the recitation of their vows: “We are flesh for the many…we will feed our Brothers and Sisters…that we shall be stronger…that our nation shall be stronger…that we shall throw off our burdens…that we shall be free!” And then there was Mandi, charred, lifeless, in a large, greasy aluminum pan, and slabs of her meat for all. It had been good; it had been sweet. Sarah had known it would be.
    And there had been Brittany. She had not been as pleased, as eager. She had been nervous. She bit her lip, looked across the table at Sarah. Her eyes showed fear. “I never thought I’d be picked,” she said, her voice quavering. “The odds are so high…” Sarah reached out, clasped her wrist. Brittany had been persuaded to join the Congregation just last year, at the behest of a long-gone boyfriend. Tears welled in her eyes. “I’m going to the Plant,” she said. “I’m to be turned into sausage. I’m just meat!” Sarah cooed sympathetically, and pictured Brittany nude, her slender frame being dissected by hard-eyed Plant workers, her muscles pared from her bones and shoved into a grinder the size of a wall, the pink-and-white mass emerging from the other end…undistinguishable from that of the other women; Sarah shuddered. Mandi’s lot had been so dignified, so proper. Sarah hoped that, if her time came…no, when her time came…
    For there was a deliciousness about it, a dark desire that belied the sense of communion and sacrifice. Endlessly, Sarah had pictured herself at the plant; stripped, bound, waiting to be placed on the machine that would convert her from a vibrant young woman to a gutted, spitted carcass, ready to be roasted to serve friends and fellow worshippers. She had closed her eyes and imagined the long, steel pole coursing through her body, the emptiness as her bowels, no longer encumbered by her abdominal wall, fell into the shining trough. She had felt the heat as her body turned endless over the pit, the white hot coals draining her fluids, drawing the fat from her flesh, her skin hardening and yet becoming more fragile…the metamorphosis from woman to meat…
    And so, she could not understand the fears of Brittany. Or of Tabetha. Tabetha had been a runner. She failed to show up at the Plant; her clothes were gone from her apartment. But the laws were strict; you could not be served a meal, you could not find lodging, you could not board a shuttle, without an Identifier, a test with the microscopic needle that penetrated your finger and revealed your DNA to the world…that told the clerk, the proprietor, the driver just who you were. And who was looking for you. Tabetha had hidden until she could no longer bear hunger; the operator of the soup kitchen, herself a Congregist, had scolded the tearful young woman and ignored her pleas as she notified the authorities. Tabetha was clapped in chains, held for the monthly Show.
    The Show was a powerful disincentive for Congregists to abandon their commitments. Some of the runners were hanged and slowly strangled, their bare legs kicking as the cameras zoomed in. Some were chained to weights in an emptied pool, a pool that was then filled, their bodies rising until the weights no longer allowed them to remain above the water. And some would be roasted alive; Tabetha was among them, a dozen squealing, protesting women, struggling against their bonds as the coals tormented them. Runners had become fewer; perhaps it was the pain…perhaps, the ignominy. Sarah still couldn’t believe Tabetha had been a friend, to run like that. Why…didn’t she know they were saving the nation, saving their brethren? We shall, she thought as she stared vacantly at the envelope, be free.
    Allison heard, heard quickly. “Congratulations,” she giggled; the strawberry blonde was wearing a skirt that barely concealed the point where her luscious thighs joined her torso. She had stood next to Sarah at Ceremony, proudly reciting their cant, the creed that gave them strength; she had devoured the flesh at Gatherings, shredding meat from bone she held with both hands, her head rearing back as an animal’s. She shared Sarah’s fantasies; they had talked them out, even played them out together, Sarah presiding over Allison’s naked body as her friend lay on the fold-out couch in her little apartment, pretending to season and to baste her…and finally, sinking her teeth into the dully shimmering skin, the soft curve of the buttock. Allison had gasped, and then come. “I wish it was me,” she purred; Sarah shook her head. “I waived my right to transfer,” she said. “My sacred duty.”
    “Where will you be…” asked Allison—not the Plant!
    Sarah shook her head; for the first time since the courier had arrived, a faint smile. “Tabernacle.” Allison’s hands flew to her face; her mouth made an O. “My goodness—what an honor!” Sarah was to roasted and served on the Highest Day; millions would be watching as they partook of their own ceremonies at home. Allison grinned in a lopsided fashion. “I could dye my hair, maybe lose a few pounds…no one would know the difference.” No; the honor would be Sarah’s, alone.
    But that didn’t lessen the tension, and a little bit of gnawing fear. She got her belongings in order; bequeathed her trust, as so many faithful did, to the Congregation. She underwent the required medical test…to demonstrate her fertility; after all, that was what the ritual, the Ceremony, was meant to accomplish—to take one more female away, to remove the strains that overpopulation had brought. She indulged herself a little; rich meals, hot baths, a short trip to the Valley, just to meditate and to be a part of nature. We are all consumed, she had thought; it starts low, and moves up, and up…soon, we are all one…we will all be free!
    He came the evening before. “Are you ready?” he asked; he had brought a valise, would stay the night.
    “As ready as I’ll ever be,” Sarah confessed; he had said he would be there as one of her invited guests, would join in the feast as her roasted flesh was divided. They had shared the meat many times, laughing as they split in two a steak from the back or thigh of a female friend, that friend resting in her own juices in the large pan on the table, wisps of steam rising from her carcass…”But you’ve been such a help,” she said.
    Their last night was one of unending joy; he probed every one of her orifices, filling each with his cock and his seed. She took it in hungrily, voraciously massaging the organ with her lips and tongue…and sucking it into her body with exaggerated hip thrusts, as if to draw his essence through the head with each motion…and even passively, his manhood embedded in her asshole, she clenched her sphincter as if to close it off between the buns, to prevent it from escaping, ever. In between, his mouth explored her entire body, her skin tingling as his hands ran over the smooth flesh as it rose and fell in the succulence of pure womanhood.
    Each session brought from him as massive an orgasm as she’d ever seen him have, his face locked into the delirious pain of ecstasy…and for Sarah, it was explosion, then exhaustion…then building, explosion again…by the end of the night, she was totally spent. She couldn’t imagine they could have done more. She lay nude, watching as he dressed. He tightened the tie, grinned at her; she smiled sleepily, but ever diligent, ever committed, was mindful of the time. “Need a lift?” he asked. No, she said; “I’ve made arrangements; my car goes to the Congregation. They’ll pick it up.”
    He nodded, stooped over her; they shared a final full, warm kiss, their lips as flush as if they were joined, the flavors of their mouths intermingling. He straightened, put a hand on her bare shoulder, a faint squeeze. “Then,” he said, “I’ll see you there…”
    “Name?” said the official at the gate; he wore the insignia of the Congregation, clasped hands over a full dinner plate, on the lapel of his dark suit. Sarah told him; he looked down, then looked at her closely, peering at her trim figure for a moment. “Do you mind submitting to a test?” he asked, pointing to the Identifier; she did not—there had been those who’d tried to avoid making their sacrifice at the Plant, seeking instead to be among the relatively few whose bodies were destined to be exalted at Gatherings. She stuck a finger into the metal ring, felt the faint pressure as the microscopic needle drew blood. The data flew off and returned at light speed; the man read the screen, and his craggy face creased into a broad smile. “Congratulations, Sister Sarah,” he said softly as the printer chattered; he handed her the sheet. “Give this to the Brother at the desk. We shall be free!”
    The main door led to an anteroom, harshly lit; there were boxes of clothes, and two women within were undressing under the watchful eye of a tall man in the white jacket and denim pants of the Processor worker. Sarah handed him the printout; he glanced at it. “The Tabernacle!” he exclaimed; the two half-naked women stopped in the midst of stripping and gaped at Sarah, open-mouthed. “Oh, wow!” said one, a dark-haired, pale, eager-looking girl barely out of her teens; her bra and panties bit into her chubby, soft flesh. The other, darker, thinner and older, stepped out of her skirt. “How wonderful for you!” she smiled. Sarah thanked them, slipped out of her shoes, fiddled with the zipper on her skirt. As the young girl unsnapped her brassiere she went on, “I’m Kelly. I’m going to Provisions; Dad is a Sexton and tried to…” She bit her lip, hooked her thumbs in the nylon print panties and wrestled them past her wide hips. “I understand, Kelly,” said Sarah as her own skirt slipped to the floor; the tall man glanced at Kelly’s pudenda—clean-shaven, as was expected. “We all do what we can for the Congregation. Your body—” she took in the chunky girl’s full breasts and round belly, her thickly fleshed thighs—“will bring us one step closer to our goals.” Kelly stood, her arms wrapped around her midsection, looking at the floor; she smiled. “Thank you,” she said softly; the man pushed a button, and as an automatic door slid open, the girl pushed through.
    “Poor dear,” said the darker woman, pulling a shoulder free of her blouse. “I am going to a Ceremony—not such as yours, of course, but—” a smile flitted across her face, “Father is influential within the Congregation movement in my own country; he ensured that my sacrifice would be well respected by a distinguished Gathering. ‘Rika,’ he told me, ‘we must overcome prejudices within our movement, or we shall never be free!’”
    Sarah understood; old barriers die hard, even in this difficult new world. There had been an embarrassment when her friend Alexis, gutted, spitted and still wriggling, had been delivered to a Gathering in a rural area; they had rejected her for no other reason than her dark skin, and Alexis’ beautiful carcass had been forlornly boned and turned into ground meat at the Plant. The local Chapter had been sternly reprimanded for its arrogant ways—wasting the meat of one of the loyal disciples of the Congregation!—and the wife of their leader had been committed to the Highest Day feast of an Afro Ceremony. The leader of the rural Chapter had attended, too; had renounced his shallowness, and joined his Brothers and Sisters as they celebrated with her meat their inclusion in the seamless society of the Congregation.
    Rika dropped her undergarments into a box, turned to Sarah, her eyes shining. “We are all here for one purpose—to serve the Congregation,” she said, and Sarah nodded, felt her joy. “My Sister…we shall be free.” And proudly, the nude woman strode through the automated door.
    Sarah, too, was nearly finished undressing; the tall man took in her voluptuous curves, her legs trim and yet full…a ripe posterior, the twin globes plump and a glossy rose in the bright fluorescence of the room. Her breasts, uncapped as she removed her bra, remained firm and high; her figure sloped seductively, from the chest burdened by the luscious teats, into a trim waist that then bloomed into wide, womanly hips. Her blonde hair framed rounded, attractive shoulders. He was approving. “I see so few that earn their way to the feast at the Tabernacle…” As Sarah shed her remaining garments, another rather plain-looking young woman entered and presented her paperwork, then gasped at the sight of Sarah, magnificent in her nudity. “Oh, my…” she gulped; the man looked at the paper, then at the woman. “She is going to the Tabernacle, Carol,” he said soothingly.
    “How wonderful!” Carol cried, slipping out of her loafers. “I’m assigned to Kitchen; how I’d wished…” The man shook his head. He pressed the button; the door hummed open again. “The farthest door on the right, Sarah. We shall be free!”
    There were three doors on the right; naked women stood in line before the first two, patiently waiting their turns to enter the food chain. One was marked, PROVISIONS; these were women destined to be butchered for parts and sold. Proceeds went to the Congregation; the wealthy, willing to substitute human flesh for animal in these times, would pay dearly for them, and the women considered it a point of pride that their bodies would so benefit their cause. From the front of the line, Kelly spotted her, waved timidly, then stumbled through as the door slid open. Sarah was tempted to look inside; she knew they used a guillotine, that Kelly’s headless body would quickly be hanging by its feet with a row of others, the conveyor carrying them to the room where they would be prepared for the marketplace…She kept walking, though, striding determinedly toward her destiny…
    The second door read, KITCHEN. These women were to be processed for the Congregation’s own, those who had sacrificed and stood ready to give of their own flesh if called upon. Sarah saw an immediate difference; the plumpness, lushness of flesh present in Kelly and the other women whose bodies were marketed to support the Congregation was not as favorable in this group. They were leaner, less ripe, and—“Carole?”
    “Sarah? Oh, my God!” The slender blonde was among those in the Kitchen line; the nude women embraced each other. “You, too? Well, surely not—” Carole looked at the sliding door before her; a skinny girl of Asian descent looked blankly at the two of them, then stepped through. It closed behind her.
    “No,” said Sarah, a little embarrassed. “Gathering.” She looked into Carole’s eager face. “It’s so good to see you; I’d lost track—didn’t even know you were a Member!”
    “Oh, sure,” Carole giggled, “and Chelsie, too; she went before me—we came down together. Both in the Kitchen, both to serve our Brothers and Sisters.” She looked down, regretfully, at her wispy frame. “Not much here, I’m afraid,” she said sadly. “But you—you look so wonderful. Why, they should deliver you to the Tabernacle!” The door opened; Carole padded inside. “Bye-bye!” she called, the sound echoing across the busy room she was entering, chains cranking, gears grinding…the sounds of saws, the clank of metal…Sarah paused for a moment, closed her eyes, and thought about it—Carole, and Chelsie, their heads lopped off with a practiced blade, their lean bodies split open, divided into cuts of meat—legs, loins, ribs, arms, shoulders, packaged and dated, distributed to Congregists who would praise the fresh meat as proof their way was the way, that by offering to sacrifice their own young women, they were able to share what most no longer had…
    GATHERING was the door Sarah wanted; there was no line here—these women were specially selected for the Ceremonies, only a few of them, and the room was not filled with the shackles and conveyor belts of the first two. Each Member whose sacrifice ended here was handled as if she was a dainty for a king’s setting; Sarah knew she would just be meat, like the rest, but a sweet and delicate meat whose very appearance was emblematic to the core of the Congregist’s beliefs. She looked out; there were but a half dozen machines, and only one was occupied—two white-clad workers lifting the impaled body of an attractive young woman off its mount and carrying her to a waiting delivery truck. Sarah stood transfixed by the sheer simplicity of it all; in just moments, she would be pierced and hollowed, ready to become the main course of a grand and glorious banquet…“Hi,” said a voice beside her.
    She hadn’t even noticed; another nude girl stood beside her, a girl’s whose ripe and abundant figure mirrored her own. “Are you going to the Tabernacle, too?” she asked breathlessly. “Isn’t it exciting? My whole family is so proud; they’re all going to be there.” Her name was Sue; she had brown hair, full breasts, long legs. The two of them teetered on bare feet on a steel platform, waited for direction; the door had coldly closed behind them. “Have you ever been to the Tabernacle?” she wondered; No, said Sarah, although she’d joined in Ceremonies on the Highest Day before. Her friend Julie had been roasted just the year before; Sarah had watched closely as Julie’s eyes wobbled, reflecting the delirium of all that had happened and was happening to her. Her slender body was dripping in its own sweat and juices; the moisture was bubbling out of her and was running in rivulets down her back and sides, drops falling one by one from her nipples into the gas-powered burner at the foot of the altar. Julie’s feet vainly wriggled back and forth against the bonds holding her legs to the spit; roasting took a few hours and Gatherings were lengthy affairs, with much ceremony, recitation and camaraderie.
    When the actual hour of the feast arrived, Julie looked far different, blackened by the heat and smoke, her skin glistening with grease. Her eyes were closed, now, but her jaw remained half-open, as it had been while it was clenched tightly around the spit. She was still sizzling, laying on her belly in the pan, her flowing tresses dangling over its sides. The Priests told the story of the first Gathering, the women who had given of themselves to feed the Congregists…while the guests lined up with plates, and the Sexton carved liberal chunks off Julie’s butt, thighs and back, and served the still-steaming, pinkish meat to them. Sarah had gotten a slab from below the girl’s ribs; it had been so juicy, and tender…The aroma had filled her head, and she closed her eyes as she chewed the meat, letting the juices run down her throat a few drops at a time…
    Hands on her backside brought Sarah out of that reverie; men were guiding Sue and her to the main floor. They bound the girls’ hands behind their backs in an efficient manner, gently locked them into the automated devices, side by side. Sarah felt clamps close over her heels, a strap fastened against her back; suddenly, cold steel was pressed against her rectum. Sue squealed; Sarah knew she’d felt the same. “This is it,” she panted; she glanced over at Sue as best she could, her head locked into place by the device. The other woman’s eyes were cast downward; she was breathing heavily…
    It was so abrupt as to be more shocking than agonizing. The steel spear plunged through Sarah, violating her sphincter and making its deadly way through her torso. Meanwhile, the razor edge passed through her belly; Sarah felt her insides…disappear, not there anymore. She involuntarily lurched against her bindings; her fingers curled, uselessly. A cold from within; a jet was cleaning her abdominal wall; then, as if by an invisible granny’s hands, coarse twine was dragged through the open flaps of her belly with a skewer, and her tummy was closed up. Sarah’s chest was filling, then her throat…then, astonishingly, the metal tip protruded, dripping gore; it found the metal ring, locked into place. Sarah stared cross-eyed at it with dull surprise; she had been whole a moment ago, now, just…meat, just still-warm protein. For the fire, for the Gathering, for the Congregation…
    Strong hands unlatched her ankles, then firmly crossed and tied them behind her to the pole. A man in a white, blood-spattered coat stood in front of her and did the same to her wrists; she rolled her eyes to look up at him, but he didn’t look down. His eyes were placid, peaceful…just like the courier. The courier delivered an envelope; the Processor worker would deliver…her…
    He finished binding her; a gloved hand grabbed the end of the pole. Another was behind her; she was hoisted in the air, hanging helpless on the spit, being trundled to the waiting delivery truck. Sue was being carried in front of her; Sarah focused on Sue’s plump butt, the spit jutting from between her cheeks, the firm ass bouncing up and down with each set…and she heard it. “Mmmmmrf,” and again. It was Sue, still trying to communicate through the stainless steel that had permanently silenced her. Quiet, thought Sarah, and a tear trickled down her cheek…it will soon be done…
    They were nestled together in the back of the truck, each on her right side, Sarah’s full breasts and empty belly against Sue’s back and buttocks. The brown haired girl squirmed, feebly; despite her agony, Sarah could still enjoy the warm flesh rubbing against her own, and thought ahead…she’d been to so many Ceremonies, so many Gatherings, had enjoyed the flesh and wondered what the woman had thought as she turned over the fire. Now, she would know, she would…would know…and a burst of passion overcame the pain, filled her with the triumph of the martyr, for her flesh would feed all, would satisfy all…
    The twin spits were ready at the Altar; Sarah was becoming dizzier, more lightheaded, but still could make out the magnificence of the Tabernacle, the bright sun shining through the laser-etched glass paintings of past Gatherings, the founding of the Congregation, the persecutions and then the triumph; one depicted Kerry roasting on the spit, her white dress shimmering nearby. The heat of the brazier was just warming at first, for a young woman must be roasted slowly and with care; eventually, rotating once every 20 seconds, Sarah began to feel singed, then burned. Her breasts were on fire; her belly, shrinking with the heat, pulling at the strands that held it closed. Her skin felt dry, then wet; her juices were leaving her, she thought frantically, and momentarily panicked, trying to kick her bound feet against the spit. She heard a murmur; they were watching, family and friends, the man she loved…even Allison! “Is it too late to take your place?” the auburn haired girl cried out gaily, and Sarah closed her eyes for the last time…concentrated on her fate, and on the feast to come…
    The sepia bodies were laid end to end in a large pan; their juices would mingle. Sarah’s and Sue’s faces were locked permanently in the expression of the spitted ones—head thrown back, eyes closed, mouth hanging open. As was traditional on the Highest Day, the priests accepted the right breasts of each, and severed from them a sliver. They ate it, then praised it: “Our Sisters who have given of themselves to feed us, let us give thanks…” Then the banquet began; steaks from the women’s backs and sides, the choicest cuts, to their family; slices of thigh meat, from their slender calves, the meat that covered their ribs. The murmur grew to a hubbub, then to a shout, as plates with the women’s flesh circulated the giant Tabernacle, and appreciative Congregists hollered their praise as they dug in. Meat came easily off the bones, leaving two empty vessels in which there had once been life; now, that life was in the bellies of those who had shared with them. They had been glorious in life, and were glorious as feasts. “We are flesh for the many…we will feed our Brothers and Sisters…that we shall be stronger…that our nation shall be stronger…that we shall throw off our burdens…”
    Free.

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  28. #38

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    HOLY....FUCKING...SHIT. I had never read this story before, but wow...this is amazing. A truly great tale Menagerie, truly truly great.

  29. #39

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    Cookies

    COOKIES
    Ding, dong. Door creaks open. Cautious eyes peek out.
    Young. Blonde. Tall. Cheerful.
    Yes, what is it?
    “Good evening, sir! I’m from GDI Sorority at the college. We’re holding a fund raiser to feed the hungry. Would you be interested in buying some delicious cookies?”
    Small smile.
    Why, certainly. Just a moment.
    Door closes.
    Check the cupboard. Seven human skulls. Room for an eighth.
    Hastily stow the human leg on the table in the fridge. Stuff the bra and panties lying on the floor into the broom closet with the other clothes. Clear the big table; gutters are rinsed.
    Door swings wide. Broad smile.
    Please, come in. Feed the hungry? I’m certainly glad you came here.
    “Oh, we’re just happy to help out. The money goes to the local food pantries and soup kitchen. When I think of all the people out there who need something good to eat--” blue eyes mist over—“…well, it fills me with determination. I’ve been walking all over the hollow since eight a.m.”
    Goodness; you certainly are to be commended. You must be thirsty. Would you like something to drink?
    “Why, thank you! It’s been a long day. Cola would be fine, thanks.”
    Open the fridge, eyeing the pretty blonde over shoulder. She smiles, waves. Glance down at the leg on the plate in the fridge. Not much left. Pour a drink; drop in the pill.
    Here you go.
    “Thanks again! That hits the spot. Now, how many boxes of cookies can I put you down for? They’re three dollars apiece.”
    Oh…how many have you got? I’ll take ‘em all.
    “Well—how generous! I must have, let’s see, ten, twelve…gee, I didn’t know I was so tired…twelve, fourteen, er…how much is that?”
    Forty-two dollars. Here you go. Why don’t you have a seat?
    “Oh, my! I hope you don’t mind. My poor feet are so hot.”
    Shoes off. Dainty little feet.
    “Well, let me get your name, please.”
    Fish. Albert Fish.
    “Well, Mr. Fish…I wasn’t sure anybody lived way out here. Here’s your receipt; this is tax-deductible, you know. My, I’m tired! You wouldn’t mind getting me a cold cloth, would you? I almost feel faint. I’m sorry to be such trouble.”
    No trouble at all. You just relax.
    Back to the kitchen; open the closet. Grab some rope.
    Stretched out on the sofa, sleeping like a baby, pretty face nestled between her arms. Blue jeans, T-shirt. Off they come; wrestle past the full hips. Nice, plump butt. Heavy thighs. Kind of nice boobs. Wrists tied tight; hogtied to ankles. Out to the kitchen; on the table.
    Let’s see. Both thighs will fit in this pan. There’s hardly any left of the hitchhiker in the freezer; set some wrapped shoulder and calf off to the side. Loins in here. Cure the belly and tits out back in the smoker.
    “Mr. Fish?”
    Check out the knives and cleavers. That big one for separating the joints. The long one needs sharpening. Vzzzzzt…vzzzzzt…
    “Mr. Fish! What are you doing?”
    There, that’s pretty keen. This short one can cut away cartilage, for the ribs. It’ll be easier to take the head off first.
    Turn toward her. Blue eyes boiling tears.
    “Mr. Fish! Someone! Please help me!”
    Rock back and forth; still in bra and panties. This is the best part. The short blade in the waist strap; snip. Curly, brassy hair. The shoulder strap; snip. Nice nipples; big, with tips like pencil erasers.
    “PLE-E-E-EASE!”
    No one can hear. No one lives within a mile.
    “W-what are you going to do to me?”
    Why, I’m going to butcher, cook and eat you. After all, you said you wanted to feed the hungry.
    “NO-O-O-O-O!”
    Fighting the bonds. Rolling onto her belly; butt wiggling, arms and legs strain at ropes.
    Now, hush up. Here’s your big opportunity. Are you willing to make sacrifices for charity, or not? What do you weigh, maybe one-thirty?
    “One-thirty-five. Pleeeease, let me goooooo….”
    Pare some sweet potatoes and carrots; they’ll go in the pan. Need that short knife to score the thighs for the cloves. Damn; dull. Vzzzzzt…vzzzzzt…
    “I won’t tell! I promise!”
    You’re damn right you won’t tell.
    Still straining at the ropes. Panting; nice tits pressed against the table. They look good.
    Suddenly, breath sucked in. “Those girls who disappeared.”
    Slice, slice, slice; toss the yams into a bowl.
    That’s right; here.
    “Six?
    Seven. They don’t know about the runaway.
    Slice, slice, slice.
    “But why?” Sniffling; flexing those cute, tender legs against the rope.
    Because…well, you have no idea how good you’ll taste. Girl meat is really something special. I’ll cook your legs with these here, your loin with roast potatoes…fry your belly with eggs…
    “Oh, my God! Oh, my God! Pleeeeease…”
    Now, stop. You’re here to feed the hungry. I’m hungry.
    “I didn’t mean meeeee…” Soft, round shoulders buck; the tits rub against the table.
    Good charity work can be demanding; sometimes, you have to be creative. Let’s see; 135 pounds will yield, uh, 81 pounds of edible meat; that’s a hundred and eight servings…You’ll last me nearly two months. Much better than that hitchhiker. And don’t forget the cookies.
    “The cookies?” Sniff.
    Fourteen boxes; twelve ounces to the box?
    Sniff. “Eight.”
    Turn back to the carrots; chop, chop, chop.
    Pretty chintzy.
    “I’m sorry. It’s for charity.”
    You’re right, and I intend to help. How about I send the forty-two dollars to the sorority, anonymously?
    Sobbing; disconsolate. “I don’t care.”
    Oh, come now! What sort of attitude is that to take? You’ll be benefiting a lot of hungry people; they’ll show up at the food pantries and soup kitchen, and there it’ll be, food bought with our forty-two dollars. They’ll get something good to eat, and so will I.
    Carrots done. Turn the oven up to—frowning at her thighs; she jerks at the ropes again—oh, three-fifty; they’ll need at least three hours. Get the lard out of the fridge to grease the pan.
    “My God! What’s that?”
    What? Oh. Hitchhiker. Leg. Not so good. Under fed. You look like you’ve stayed on your feed.
    “What?” Boo-hoo. “I’ve been trying to lose weight.”
    Grease, grease, grease. The heavy aluminum pan takes on a dull sheen.
    Glad you didn’t succeed.
    Sob. “Very funny. This is just awful.”
    OK, I’ll tell you what. I’ll match the charity money, say forty-two is from you, forty-two from me. Feed twice as many hungry people, plus me.
    No answer; just more crying. Grease, grease, grease. Finished. Pick up the cleaver; turn toward her.
    Blue eyes ringed with tears; lip trembling. “Mr. Fish…please don’t do this…”
    You know, it’s really very fortunate you came here. I’m in a giving mood. And I’m really very sympathetic toward poor people. In fact, you could say they’re a big part of my life.
    “W-what do you mean?”
    I ate one last month.
    Kick against the tight ropes; that squirming fanny. Boil each buttock, maybe with cabbage. Delicate. Thumb against the cleaver; one blow should do it. Grab the hair; pull the weeping face up. The kicking, banging body flops against the table…
    Not bad; good thing those thighs were scored. Look at all that fat in the pan; what a mess. Boil the flesh off the head tomorrow; leave it in the fridge for now. The tits and brisket should be smoked in a couple of days. Plenty of meat here for a couple of weeks, though; sandwiches and hash.
    Care for a cookie?

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  31. #40

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    Eat! Eat!

    EAT! EAT!
    Christine sighed, grabbed another buttered roll, stuffed it into her mouth.
    This had become her life. No socializing, no friends, no job. Just stay home, and eat, eat, eat.
    It made Mom happy. Mom had always been on her. “Eat! Eat!” she’d shout. “You’re so skinny! You need to fatten up! Eat!”
    And Mom would cry, because Christine would pick at the salad and then leave, go out with her friends. The boys wouldn’t want her to fatten up; she was skinny, and they liked it, liked to be able to feel their way up her ribs to her breasts, down her bony shoulders, wrap their arms around her skinny body. They were so big, and she was so little.
    Then came everything, everything at once. Mom found out she was pregnant just about the same time she threw Dad out of the house, the drunken bum. Sometimes he sent them money, usually not. Once she had Jamie, Mom had to get right out and work, work a couple of jobs, to keep food on the table. Of course, Jamie was just a baby, and Christine didn’t eat much…not yet.
    Christine was two years out of high school, and couldn’t keep a job; Mom couldn’t understand why, didn’t know where Christine was going at night, why when she’d try to call her at the latest job, she’d find out Christine had already quit. Finally, sick of it, Mom told her, “If you’re going to stay in this house, young lady, you need to work for your keep. I’m shelling out $100 a week for child care, and you’re running the streets—you can stay here, watch your brother, help me make ends meet.”
    It worked for a while. Mom would get home, dragging after ten hours at the department store, and Christine would grab her purse and the keys and go. Mom would be yelling after her, “Have something to eat, first! You’re just skin and bones! Where are you going? Eat!” Christine wasn’t listening; she was going to meet with those two guys downtown…
    Then, Mom found the pictures. Christine and a boy. Christine and two boys. And a man, a grown man. Christine doing those things with her mouth—they’d let her keep copies from the photoshoot. She should have hidden them better. Mom blew a gasket “You’re not doing anything like that, ever again!” No boys, no men—especially not men, not after Dad. “You’re staying home where I can keep an eye on you! And you’re going to eat. You’re wasting away.”
    Christine was cowed, and humiliated. Those two guys hadn’t even paid her what they said they would, and they were probably making a fortune from those pictures. She stayed home, watched Jamie—he didn’t need much watching, a lazy little boy, sleeping all day. Mom would get home from the department store, catch a nap, then go to her part-time telemarketing job. Slowly, the money situation got better. They got a new car. And, there were plenty of groceries.
    “Eat! Eat!” Mom was getting insistent. She started serving up huge dinners; the aromas were irresistible—Mom had always been a great cook; that’s why that drunken bum had married her. Lots of potatoes, lots of gravy. Christine had nowhere to go, nothing to do, just stay home and watch a toddler who was usually taking a nap. She ate, and ate. Watched TV, and ate some more.
    She knew she was getting fat, but she couldn’t help it. She’d disappointed Mom so much, and Mom kept throwing it in her face—“How could you? Nobody in my family, etc., etc.” The food quieted the guilt, and it quieted Mom. More and more, mounds of stuffing, big, thick slices of pot roast, cakes and pies.
    Christine grew a second chin, then a third. Her breasts, always tiny and pert, swelled and sagged; her belly got round, her hips wide. Mom used her discount at the store to special order clothes. Christine had gotten to the point where she couldn’t wear regular T’s and jeans; it was even a struggle to get into the plus-sized clothes.
    Finally, she gave up, spent the day in an enormous nightgown, all day long. No panties, no bra; they cut painfully into her flab. Besides, that way, she didn’t need to do as much laundry; she had been getting crumbs and stains on everything, her fat arms bumping the table, the forkfuls of food spilling onto her shirt and pants.
    Christine knew Mom was planning a big dinner for the holidays; it was her turn, and they’d be coming to Schenectady from all over the Eastern Seaboard. She heard Mom call to rent the Community Center—there was not enough room in their little apartment; there’d probably be 30, 40 people—and to order the food. “What are we having?” Christine asked, and then wondered why Mom got so cross. “Don’t be nosy,” she snapped, as Christine rammed another scoop of mashed potatoes into her mouth. “You’re too skinny! Eat! Eat!”
    Christine wasn’t skinny at all; she was mountainous. Chairs creaked under her enormous buns; her thighs sagged over the seat on either side. She couldn’t see her crotch anymore, her belly was so big; she had to sit an arm’s length away from the table. The bigger she got, the hungrier she felt; Mom hovered over her, skittering around with bowls of pasta and peach cobbler, splattering another spatulafull onto Christine’s plate. “Thanks, Mom,” she’d mumble through a mouthful. “Just keep eating,” Mom insisted; “You need to put some meat on your bones.”
    Finally, it got to the point where Christine would just sprawl limply on the couch all day, stuffing her face. Mom wouldn’t even call her to the table at dinner, just bring her food out to her, even spoon-feed her and Jamie both. Jamie needed changing about twice a day, and would wake up for a jar of creamed green beans or something at mid-day; the rest of the time, Christine was on her back, catching Y&R and B&B and the other shows. And eating, boxes of candy, bags of chips, bottles of soda…
    The family gathering had arrived, and Christine was crying; not even the super-sized clothes Mom had gotten for her would fit. They’d been piled, unused, for weeks in her closet, amongst discarded sacks of Chips Ahoys! and Oreos. I need your help, honey, Mom told her; “I have to start getting dinner going at the Center. Just put on your nightie and slippers; no one will see us.” It was still early, seven a.m.; street lights were on, it was dark in late November. Christine waddled out to Mom’s new minivan; they had to load her into the back. Mom piled sacks of potatoes, jars of mayo, boxes of veggies onto the rear seat; Jamie was strapped in, and they headed out to the Center.
    Mom backed up to the kitchen; the maintenance man let her in. He helped her unload the boxes of food, pile them onto the steel counters; he also helped her get Christine into the kitchen. “Mornin’, young lady,” he said pleasantly, and glanced at Mom, who smiled faintly. Poor kid. He left.
    The Center’s kitchen was outfitted with a commercial-sized oven. The racks had been taken out; the silver-steel walls of the cooker’s cavity were stained with burned food and grease. There was a big pan on the swung-down door. Christine looked over the food, licking her lips, but she didn’t see any meat; no turkey or ham or anything. Jamie sat propped up in a high chair, intently sucking on his binkie; he stared, wide-eyed, at the fantastic place, then gradually nodded off. Mom was peeling spuds, chopping vegetables, mixing dressings…”Christine,” she said, “I need you to climb up here.” She propped a chair next to the open oven.
    It was an effort, a major effort; Mom had to put one of the food crates next to the chair, and Christine’s big foot almost went through it. Finally, she got up on the chair, wobbled unsteadily, her great belly shifting this way and that, almost knocking her off balance. She peered down uncertainly at Mom, who abruptly reached up, grabbed the flimsy nightgown, and ripped it away.
    Christine instinctively reached down to cover herself; she whimpered, stared gape-mouthed at Mom. Mom was sizing her up, taking in her daughter’s enormous bulk, the massive teats, the fleshy arms, the protruding belly; then, with a forearm shiver, Mom popped Christine a good one in the gut. “Ooft,” the girl grunted, and toppled backwards into the big pan.
    Christine was helpless; she couldn’t stand up, there was nothing to push up against within the tight confines of the pan. She just sat there on her broad bottom, tears leaking from her eyes; Mom reached in and removed her slippers, then started dumping the veggies into the pan. “Mom, what are you doing?” she cried, but it was pretty obvious what Mom was doing.
    “You’ve been nothing but a millstone around my neck,” Mom said evenly, not even looking at her; just loading in the potatoes and carrots. “Doing those horrid things with those boys, can’t keep a job, just taking up space. I knew I’d have to come up with a fancy dinner this year, and you’re it.” Mom opened a big tub of margarine, grabbed double handfuls of it, and smeared it all over Christine’s corpulent body. “And even with all the relatives coming, there’ll be plenty left; I’ll have leftovers for a month!” as she slathered the yellow grease on Christine’s big belly.
    Christine sobbed; she tried in vain to lift herself by the arms, then plopped back down. Mom was smearing the stuff on her daughter’s massive thighs. “You weigh what, now—three twenty-five, three-fifty?” Christine nodded sadly; actually three eighty-five, the last time she was able to stand on the scale. “I figure you’ll need to cook maybe eight hours. I’ll keep basting you; probably have to pour off some of the fat—lots of gravy,” she said, turning to wash her hands at the stainless steel sink; she came back with a large shaker of seasoning, and started liberally sprinkling it all over Christine’s skin.
    Christine was mournful, but—couldn’t help it—reached down and stuck some of the margarine in her mouth, then smeared some onto a carrot and ate that. Mom, sprinkling the spices on the girl’s calves, stopped to laugh. “Didn’t you wonder why I was feeding you so much?” she jeered. “You’re a nice, fat pig for the oven, now.” Christine kept chewing through the tears. “I figure you were gaining close to a pound a day. That’s okay; your Aunt Beatrice is always bragging about her pork loin. Wait ‘til she tries a slice of you!”
    Mom put down the spice shaker, picked up some shears; Christine’s blonde hair came off in handfuls, and was quickly down to a half-inch. My hair, too, she blubbered. Mom stood back, hands on hips, looked over her greased, spiced daughter, sitting unhappily in the pan full of produce, and chuckled. “It’ll be nice and warm for you, honey,” she cackled, and tensed herself…then shoved the loaded pan up into the massive oven, closed the door, and turned up the heat…
    They weren’t going to be able to get her out of the pan, not in one piece, so they wheeled right out into the dining room, and Mom dished out helpings of Christine to the family. Mom had timed it right; Christine’s meat was falling right off the bones. She was laying on her back in the pan, her skin brown and crisp from the grease, with an apple in her mouth for decoration; Mom had split her open halfway through the cooking, gutted her out, and spooned all the vegetables right into her massive abdomen. Now, Mom was cutting slabs of meat from Christine’s sides and breasts, and carving steaks from her thighs, topping it all with spoonfuls of veggies from her innards.
    Aunt Beatrice was impressed. “The lazy little pig turned out to be good for something, after all,” smiled the white haired old lady, with a plateful of shoulder in one hand and a cup of iced tea in the other.
    Mom nodded, pulled a shred of her daughter’s flesh from her carved-open belly, chewed on the fatty meat contemplatively. “Remind me,” she told Aunt Beatrice, “to call the day care center.”

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