THE KNOBSCOT CANNIBALS
©2004 by Cameron Smith
The following is a series of excerpts taken from a computer in the office of the Byron L. Thomas estate and introduced into evidence at the so-called "Knobscot Cannibals" trial. They are printed verbatim as submitted to the court. WARNING: this material includes graphic descriptions of cannibalism and other practices that are extremely offensive. Be advised that it is not suitable reading for children or those who find the nature of the events too disturbing.
God only knows why I'm writing this! I get off just thinking about it all, so why do I need to risk putting it down on paper? Well, the truth is, it's ten times more of a rush when I put it into words. Furthermore, some of my overnight guests will probably appreciate a little background info. It might also be amusing to let the cows read it as a stimulating glimpse of things to come! I've even been considering titles. My favorite so far is, "Dining on Crystal." Is that sick or what?
It all started out as a joke. A giggle. I never expected to receive a serious response to either of the ads. In the first place, they were so bizarre, who could take them at face value? In the second place, I placed them in the personals of a couple of those sleazy pulp zines that come wrapped in plastic so you can't peek before you buy, and are shoehorned in amongst the sex toys and videos in "adult" book stores. I ran them under "Men looking for Women."
As the Advertising Manager for a Boston area newspaper I happen to know a thing or two about advertising in general and the personals in particular, and I honestly believed no real live woman would respond to such an ad, or even read it in the first place. At best, I expected to hear from some perverted cranks, or maybe a couple of practical joker types pretending to be females. I figured I'd have a little sadistic fun with them.
When the next editions came out, it didn't take me long to find the ads. Even buried among the dozens of fulsome blurbs from wanna-be doms and subs looking for playmates, they leaped off the page as if printed in shocking pink:
Female sacrifice needed as a banquet offering to the goddess Isis. Must be young and attractive with a shapely body and well distributed meat.
I tagged it with an e-mail address, one of those freebies you can use for surfing the naughty net sites so you don't get your working address cluttered up with spam offering products that promise to add an extra three inches to your natural endowment.
As expected, it drew only a few replies. Two were from women (or so they claimed), but they assumed I wanted to set up a bdsm scene. One wanted to know if it was just bondage or if any pain was involved, and where she'd be displayed. The other wanted to know if there was a modeling fee and how much. They were worth a couple of zesty e-mail exchanges. The other response was from an irate "born again Christian" who used up several lines of misspelled and badly typed verbiage to castigate me for worshiping false gods (or in this case, goddesses). Apparently the other magazine ads — the ones seeking playmates to strip, torture and fuck — are okay with his Christian god, but hobnobbing with the competition deities is a major no-no — anathema! He didn't even mention the allusion to eating her. Probably never noticed.
I had so much fun with that first ad, I decided to try it again. I'd make it even more outrageous this time, and more specific. See who answers. What's the worst that can happen? More babble from the religiously anal? More bondage models looking for gigs? This time I put the ad in five magazines and even found a bdsm web site willing to run it (after I assured them it was for research purposes only). Maybe you remember seeing it:
Young, attractive female wanted to volunteer as the featured course at a discrete private banquet. Prefer someone who will enjoy participating in the planning, preparations and pre-banquet orgy. Please include height, weight, measurements and a recent photo. Must be slender and well proportioned, but with enough breast, leg and rump meat to serve a party of six or more. Confidentiality a must.
To be honest, the inspiration for all this was a story I'd run across on the internet. Some German guy named Armin Meiwes had been arrested and tried for cannibalism. A male acquaintance he contacted through the web had agreed to be cooked and eaten for the sheer sexual thrill of it. What a concept! To talk someone into dying for you so you can cook them up as meat! My sexual orientation is different from Armin's so my own fantasy involved a beautiful woman allowing herself to be slaughtered and eaten for the thrill of it. At the very thought, I nearly came in my pants. Well, all right; I did come, although not in my pants. At any rate, it spurred my impish side into action. What if there is a beautiful young woman out there who fancies herself being meat? What would happen if I advertised for a human dinner the way Armin did? Would she respond? That's what got me going with that first lame ad.
The replies to the second ad were only slightly more numerous and included the expected couple of humor-challenged nut cases who thought I should be hunted down and exterminated, plus several girls thinking it was either a modeling gig or a coded solicitation for prostitutes.
But one e-mail caught my fancy. It claimed to be from a woman who called herself Crystal. She had spotted the ad that ran on the internet site. The fact that she had visited such a site (it features stories of torture, rape and the occasional tale of cannibalism) was encouraging — assuming she was for real. I answered her inquiry cautiously and saved all subsequent correspondence to cover myself, just in case it was someone looking to set a trap.
This is what she wrote.
Hi. My name is Crystal. I am intrigued by your ad for a female to be meat for a banquet. Is this a real offer? I have been reading stories about girls being cooked and eaten for years and am fascinated by the concept. The idea is so exciting I cannot control my body's responses when I think about it. I am twenty-four years old, 5' 6', 125 lbs, 36C-24-36 and am attaching a photo that was taken of me by a boyfriend last summer at a private beach. I'm slim, but not thin, and have firm, nicely shaped boobs. If I am attractive enough for you and your offer is real, not just a joke, I will have a friend take some other pictures of me totally nude. But you must convince me that you are not just playing a game.
She gave me her E address. The photo was of a shapely, topless young woman posing with self-assured cockiness against a background of sand and ocean. She had long, blond hair hanging in a profusion of curls to just below her shoulders. Her head was tilted slightly. One hand was on her hip above a narrow waist, the other dangling the scrap of bikini top that should have been concealing the nipples of her sumptuous breasts. She was grinning — an easy come-and-get-it smile. Definitely appealing. I answered at once.
This is no game. I am entirely serious. Nude photos are not necessary. You are certainly young enough and I can see that you are very beautiful and well proportioned, if that is an actual and recent picture of you.
Here is what I envision: a barbecue in which you are presented to a select group of guests for intimate examination, then slaughtered and cooked in a manner reflecting the highest standards of the culinary arts. You will then be consumed — tender and steaming — by all present. Another scenario would be a private ceremony: just the two of us. I would cook you and eat you myself over a period of time. Either way, the greatest pleasure of it for you would be in the planning and anticipation of the great event! I would insist that you take an active part in all the preparations, including the details of your slaughter and cooking, making sure that everything meets your own erotic expectations, so that the last moments of your life will prove a tremendous rush for you as well as for me and any guests.
The real question at this point is not whether I am serious, but whether you are who you say you are and actually aspire to such an experience. I believe neither of us can be satisfied on these points until we have met in person. At that time, we can make a final decision. If it turns out that you are as represented and wish to go through with this adventure, we will then have to work out the details by which you sever all ties with your current life.
You understand, of course, that it will be necessary for you to come live with me from the time of your agreement until the time of the banquet so that we may establish a proper bond and plan an exciting scenario in which you will be the star. Living with me may or may not involve sex, as you prefer, but the banquet itself should include a spectacular orgy in which your body is made available for carnal pleasure to any and all guests prior to your slaughter.
If you really are earnest in your desire to become food in a manner you yourself help design, tell me when it will be convenient for you to meet me for our initial personal contact. I don't know where you live, or even if you're in the USA, but I live in the Boston, Massachusetts area. Since I don't know whether you're real or perpetrating a hoax, I must ask that you come to me. I propose that we meet at a busy restaurant somewhere near Boston where you will feel safe and comfortable. If that is feasible for you, just let me know what day works best for you and I will send directions to such a place.
Her response was quick.
This is very exciting! I get an orgasm every time I read your last e-mail. I live in a little town in northern New Jersey on the Pennsylvania border. I can arrange to meet you next Sunday during the late afternoon. Doesn't have to be a fancy restaurant. A Burger King or MacDonald's off an interstate will do.
I confess I'm a little nervous about this. It seems silly, since I am agreeing to meet with a man who has announced in advance that he's planning to kill me, and I've already indicated that I'm willing for him to do so. What could you do that's worse than that? Okay: rape; torture. That would be worse. I really don't want to be raped and tortured. That's not part of my fantasy. But an orgy which I help to plan would be exciting. However, it's the idea of being eaten that really turns me on. And your description of us collaborating on the planning of my own slaughter and cooking is so erotic I can hardly stand it!
Please tell me that pain does not have to be a part of it. I'm not really into BDSM. I tried bondage and being whipped with a couple of my boyfriends and although I had outrageous orgasms, I really didn't like it. What you describe seems so pure, so considerate of both our needs that I'm willing to meet you and see if you're real and will really treat me as an equal in this project.
Just to let you know I am no gullible fool, I will leave a message with my friends telling them exactly where I am going and when to expect me back. If you are not sincere or plan to take advantage of me, it will not be difficult to track you down by backtracking our e-mail exchanges. But I truly hope you are as honest as you seem to be. If you are and if you're willing to let me set the timetable, I will be yours — in due course — to fuck, cook and eat with impunity.
Frankly, this is not how I had expected things to go. I had expected an extended period of bandying erotic e-mails back and forth until whoever my correspondent really was would grow tired of the game and disappear. I fully expected that "Crystal" was, in reality, probably some old guy with a sick sense of humor, or an old bag of a woman pretending to be the luscious young woman in the photo. The fact that "Crystal" jumped so readily at an invitation for a personal meeting was suspicious, to say the least. Maybe "she" was a grizzled cop somewhere looking for male predators on the internet, or trolling for serial killer suspects.
Working in "Crystal's" favor, at this point, was the fact that she had not represented herself as some kind of hot, teenage slut looking for thrills. If she had described herself as a sixteen year old Lolita, I would have said "Thanks, but no thanks," and run the other way. Well, maybe not, but I would have been far more circumspect with my e-mails. This person, however, claimed to be of age and perfectly willing to meet for the purposes of discussing her death. Nutcase? Cop trap? For real? It was an interesting enigma that transcended my original plans for erotic amusement. I had to find out. I had to meet this person! If she showed up.
I instructed her to meet me at five o'clock at a Burger King near where Routes 90 and 84 intersect near Sturbridge. If she was coming from northern New Jersey, that would be a pretty direct route through Hartford, Connecticut. If she didn't show up, at least I'd get a hearty (if not gourmet) meal before heading back to the Boston area. I told her I'd be wearing a full-brimmed leather hat and wearing a bright red shirt. She wrote back that she'd also be dressed in red, all in red, including a very brief micro-mini and red heels. She even gave me a cell phone number to call in case she was late. It was beginning to look like she actually would show. But she could still be a cop. This should be fun, I thought.
I could barely sleep Saturday night previewing in my mind all the possible ways this meeting might play out, if it happened at all. Was she serious? Was it possible there might be women in this world who juiced their pants at the prospect of being slaughtered and eaten? Could I have found one with just a few simple ads? Or would this be a fencing match between myself and an undercover female cop trying to ensnare me? Or even a guy in drag. Or a cop in full regalia. The endless night and the long trip to Sturbridge gave me plenty of time to think of ways to meet any eventuality.
As it turned out, a lady in red actually put in an appearance, and she was just as beautiful as her picture. Not a movie star type of beauty. No cookie-cutter perfection straight out of Playboy or People . There was a slight bump in her nose and her bust, though abundant and firm with nipples poking intriguingly at her top, was not outlandish. Nevertheless, her figure was elegant and her intense blue eyes melted me on contact. She was wearing a red halter top, a red micro-mini that barely covered her assets and four-inch high red heels with pointed toes. She spotted me in my booth at once, swept over and sat opposite me.
"You're Byron." It came out as a statement.
"I am. And you, obviously, are Crystal."
"You're much better looking than I ever thought I could hope for," she said, skipping any preliminary small talk. "It will make things so much more exciting. Do I suit your needs, physically?"
"You're exquisite! Even better in person than your photo. May I order for you?"
She gave me her preferences straight out and waited for me at the table as I went to the counter to place the orders. She never took her eyes off me the whole time. There's something not right about this, I thought. It's too easy. She's too beautiful. I'll have to be very careful.
I set her cheeseburger and coke before her and settled down with my Whopper and fries, basking in the heat of her glorious smile. "So," I ventured as I unwrapped the whopper, "how did you happen to come across my ad?" It wasn't the brightest conversation opener, but I was disconcerted by her gaze and the need to tread carefully. There was no way this stunning young woman could be harboring a desire to end her life. She had to be a cop.
She took a dainty bite out of the burger, then licked the juicy edge of the meat, never breaking eye contact with me.
"I read a lot, including internet literary sites. About five years ago I ran across some stories about cannibalism and became fascinated with the subject. I was especially turned on by stories of women being turned into meat." She took another delicate bite out of the cheeseburger. "God! Can you picture what it would be like to be cooked publically and then eaten like so much beef?" See looked up at me through her blond eyelashes and licked some juice off her lips. "I can. It's just the most erotic thing I can imagine. I'm getting tingly and damp right now just thinking about it."
She continued to stare at me as she chewed, squirming a little in her seat. I was beginning to get aroused myself! I thought of her long naked legs under the table and wondered what she was wearing under that tiny red skirt. It was all I could do to keep from touching her.
"So you really do want to die?"
"No, of course not. But that's what gives it such an amazing thrill, like no other. To offer myself as meat, to be slaughtered like so much livestock and cooked." She narrowed her eyes at me. "What? Why do you look at me like that? Don't tell me this was all just a prank, that you don't really plan to do it? I'd really hate it if I came all the way up here just to find our you're a fraud."
"No, no! It's just hard to believe that anyone as young and lovely as you is willing to be killed."
"I don't want to be murdered, if that's what you mean. There are lots of places I could go if I wanted to be raped and murdered. That's not my fantasy. My dream is what you talked about in your ad and your e-mails. I want my death to be part of a grand ceremonial occasion, elaborate and beautiful, and I want to have a key role in planning it. I've never been married, so this, I've decided, will be my wedding. It's a perfect rush! The bride as food, offering herself as meat for the wedding banquet. The husband and all his guests will celebrate by feasting on the bride!"
"And who's the lucky husband?"
"Why . . . you , of course."
If this was a trap, it was an incredibly erotic trap. I decided to play along with it, albeit choosing my words carefully. "Well, I have been married, and my recollection is that the best part of the deal, from the husband's perspective, is what follows all that stuff — the ceremony, the reception, the banquet. The best part is the wedding night." I raised my eyebrows, challenging her to respond.
"Sex, you mean. Well of course! There will have to be sex! That's why I said it was a pleasant surprise that you turned out to be so attractive. If we do it right, there'll be lots of sexual energy building up. We need to make use of it, incorporate it into the festivities. Maybe consummate our 'union' publically as part of the ceremony. Besides, you and our guests will have the extended erotic pleasure of watching me being cooked and dining on my meat, so it's only fair that I enjoy some extra pleasure, too, before lights-out."
She took another bite of her cheeseburger.
I leaned closer. "So you really do want to go through with this. You really are ready to die?"
She stopped chewing. "What's the matter? Are you backing out? Was your ad a phoney?"
"Absolutely not. It was genuine. I meant every word."
"But you've changed your mind? You don't want to go through with it?"
"No I have not changed my mind and yes I do want to go through with it. But . . . and please forgive me, Crystal . . . I find it very difficult to believe you're not . . . putting me on."
"Putting you on?"
"Again, forgive me, but it seems rather suspicious. I mean, you're beautiful, young, exceedingly desirable . . . it just doesn't make sense that you want to throw away your life. Why would you do that? How do I know you're what you claim to be? That you're not something else?"
She gaped at me for a minute, then comprehension flooded her eyes. "You think I'm a cop?" When I merely shrugged, she nodded. "You think I'm a cop!" She smiled mischievously at me and polished off her burger, licking her fingers. "Finish your dinner," she ordered, "and don't go away. I need to go to the restroom."
She returned as I was polishing off the last of the whopper. She sat down demurely, holding something in her lap under the table that I couldn't see and staring at me with a cat-like grin, her bright eyes boring into my soul. After a few minutes of teasing silence, she said, as if scripted, "So you think I'm a big bad cop trying to set you up. Is that because you've done this before, Byron? Have you been luring innocent, unsuspecting young women into your confidence and then plopping them into a cauldron of boiling water?"
"No," I protested, thinking that's exactly the kind of question a wired undercover cop would ask. Then realizing how ridiculous the question was.
"Do you have a garden full of bones from murdered girls you enticed into your web with honeyed promises of being slaughtered and cooked after they cut all relations with the outside world? But now your guilty conscience has made you suspect every new hapless victim of being the relentless arm of the law catching up to you?" She delivered the question with an almost straight face.
"Crystal, how could a promise of being slaughtered entice an innocent . . ."
"Are you finished yet? With your meal?"
"Yes, I . . ."
"Then would you throw these away with the trash, please, and meet me outside."
She drew her hands out from under the table and plunked a clump of lacey red material between our empty burger wrappers, then rose and strode smartly toward the main entrance, her head high, that enigmatic smile still in place. I picked up the material and found I was holding a see-through bra and a matching pair of thong panties. I clamped both hands quickly over the material, feeling my face turn as scarlet as the flimsy garments. I shoved them into my pockets, glancing around to see if anyone was gawking at the show. With as much fake aplomb as I could manage, I ditched the meal trash into the nearest bin and walked out of the restaurant, trying unsuccessfully not to think about the silky material nestled in with my car keys and what it meant about Crystal's current attire. She was waiting for me just outside the door and took my hand as I approached.
"Come on." She towed me across the diagonal length of the vast parking area, her heels clicking on the tarmac, her blond hair bouncing around her neck. It had been cut since that beach photo, I noticed for the first time. Her chest was thrown out proudly and the shape of her nipples were clearly embossed in the thin halter top. I watched the tops of her golden thighs tossing the hem of the micro as she walked, thinking about what would be exposed with the slightest gust of wind. I felt a stirring that I knew would soon be embarrassingly obvious.
We stopped at a red Beretta where she opened the passenger side door for me, then went around to open the driver's side door. When we were both inside, she turned on the engine and the air conditioning, then sat back, her head against the backrest, and watched me silently for a few moments, that cryptical smile still playing about her mouth and eyes.
"Look, Crystal," I started to say, "I just have to be very careful that . . ."
She leaned over and put her mouth over mine, sliding her tongue between my teeth, shutting off my words. She took my right hand and pushed it up under her halter, placing it on her right breast. Her skin was warm and soft, her nipple hard. As I began to knead it she took my left hand and tucked it under the hem of her skirt and over her mound of Venus. She held it there and gyrated her hips until my middle finger slipped into the warm tunnel between her legs. Then she moved her own hand to the firm instrument rising in the crotch of my own pants. Despite the interference of the gearshift between our bucket seats, she managed to unzip me and treat that swollen part of me to such divine ministrations that soon I had fountained all over my pants.
"Now," she breathed in my ear, "do you still think I'm a cop? Do you need to strip search me to make sure? Go ahead, if you want. I don't mind. Would you like me to stand outside the car and take off the rest of my clothes so you can look for wires? I'll do it, if you want, and if you don't mind drawing a little attention. Modesty is not a hangup for me. My dream is to be cooked and eaten, so what do I care if a bunch of strangers see me naked?"
She held on to my manhood and testicles with a gentle grip as she waited for my answer.
"No," I said, looking down at the mess I'd made of my pants. "I think you've passed the test."
She laughed and gave me a push. "Out! Out! I'm going home now to give you time to think about it. If you still have the guts to go through with it, read this." She opened the glove compartment and plucked out an envelope. "Don't open it here. Go home, think things over. Then, if you really intend to do what you advertised and still think I satisfy your requirements, come get me. But you'll have to go about it my way, and I've spelled it all out in here." She handed me the envelope, leaned across me, opened my door and shoved me toward the opening.
I was still preoccupied with rezipping my fly and hiding the front of my semen-coated pants from the view of burger oriented families as she backed up and peeled out of the lot. By the time I reached the privacy of my own Camry I was ready for the letter. Here's what she wrote in her own hand:
If I've given this to you, it means I've decided to trust you. A single meeting is hardly a basis for trust in most circumstances, but this one is rather untypical. What I am entrusting to you is not my life but my death. I have already ceded to you my life, if you want it. We have read each other's words on the internet and this meeting was mostly to allow me to see you in person to verify that you are real and can satisfy my own fantasies on the physical level. I have a pretty reliable intuition about people when I am able to meet with them and make personal contact. If I came on to you rather aggressively or allowed you to do so with me, it was to make that vital contact. Consequently, if I have misjudged you, I have mostly myself to blame because once this "project" is underway it will be easy for you to take advantage of me.
Please understand that although I am agreeing with this letter to let you kill me, it does not mean that I'm not afraid of dying. Actually, it's that fear, mixed with the knowledge of what will follow, that gives me such a rush. My nipples harden and my hands tremble with the anticipation of it even as I write this letter. When I say I've decided to trust you, I mean that I have decided that you seem to have the integrity and honesty to do as you have promised: that you will allow me to have a major role in planning how I will die, how I will be cooked, how I will be eaten and by whom. I ask only that after I turn my body and what remains of my life over to you, you do not betray my trust.
I have put these words on paper because whether or not you decide to go through with this venture, there must be only one further e-mail between us. If you decide you'd rather bow out, or that I'm not suited, or that you can't promise me a true partnership in the planning and execution of the event, please let me know and that will be the end of it. If, on the other hand, you decide to proceed and are willing to accept my conditions, please send an innocuous message that includes the code words: "It was fun chatting with you Tuesday." For your own safety, do NOT say anything incriminating in case someone alerts the authorities that I've gone missing and they manage to discover my e-mail address. I will take a number of steps to keep that from happening, but you can't be too careful.
So, my dear Byron, the ball — as they say — is in your court. If I see those words in my e-mail, I will take it as your commitment to proceed and I WILL disappear from the world, putting myself into your hands for my care, keeping and ultimate conversion into an extraordinary dining experience. I will close my bank account, notify my landlord, quit my job and let it be known that I'm off to the West Coast to check out some possible opportunities. I'll get rid of all my possessions, every damn thing except what I can put in a suitcase. I will also remove and destroy the hard drive from this computer and send the eviscerated husk to the dump. I will meet you at the same place we met earlier, not inside the restaurant itself but near where I parked. I'll be in my car, which we can dispose of any way you see fit. Please specify the day and time of our meeting by including in your e-mail the phrase, "Sorry I can't attend that outing you mentioned on [DATE and TIME] because I've arranged to meet a guy in Boston that day." Give me at least a week from the date and time you state to take care of all the arrangements I mentioned.
As you can imagine, this is scary stuff for me. I'm making it possible for you to kill me and get away with it. All I'm asking in return is that you don't take advantage of my trust to hurt me and spoil my share of the thrill. All I ask is that you let me live out my portion of the fantasy. If you are willing to grant me that, I will surrender my body and my life to you on the day of your choosing.
I was overwhelmed. And facing a dilemma. What had begun as an off-the-wall lark had turned serious. Maybe. There was still the chance that Crystal was now yanking my chain. She had certainly seemed genuine enough when she'd all but raped me in her car. But what did that prove? Other than that she's not shy. And not a cop. Maybe she's a prostitute who was paid by some other prankster, or even a group of practical jokers, to set me up. Or worse: maybe she's part of some vigilante group out to snare male perverts and carve them into tiny pervertlettes. Of course, she could be also simply be crazy, some kind of schizophrenic nymphomaniac. But what if she was real? Was I really ready to follow through? I could readily envision nights of fabulous sex with her; but could I actually slaughter and eat her? And if I chickened out, what would she do? Assuming she really did unload all her worldly possessions and burn her bridges. Should I simply pick up the thrown gauntlet and see what develops, be it trick or treat? Or cut and run?
By the time I arrived at my house in Knobscot, I had decided there was no way I could resist the pull of curiosity. If she was a no-show for this second meeting, I would pop in my favorite CD and tool on home. If a gang of vigilante hoods showed up to meet me, I'd greet them with a loaded shotgun. If a gaggle of irate feminists confronted me in the parking lot, I'd laugh, hand them a bouquet of roses to give to Crystal and explain how it was all part of a research paper for Psychology Today tied in with the Armin Meiwes cannibalism case in Germany. But what if she really did show up with a suitcase and a disposable car? What if she really meant it, really did want to be eaten? Well, I'd just take things as they came, see how far she'd go with it, how much sex she'd be willing to put out for my continuing interest.
I sent off an e-mail the instant Windows was able to connect me to Yahoo.
It was fun chatting with you last Tuesday. Sorry I can't attend that outing you mentioned on Friday, July 30 th at 12 noon because I've arranged to meet a guy in Boston that day.
As to all that other stuff, I am definitely willing to meet all your conditions. Your dreams and aspirations are no less important than my own. Negotiating the details with you will be more than half the fun. I look forward to a close and mutually rewarding partnership.
It was done. Whatever wheel that coded message had set in motion was off and rolling. There was no way of telling whether it would generate disaster, disappointment or delight, but, God! it was excruciatingly exciting!
Two days later I began to doubt. It was just too fantastic. Sane women just don't go around offering themselves for slaughter to the first nutcase who runs an ad, and an insane woman might be more than I could handle. Yet, even if I doubted her sanity or sincerity, I could not doubt her reality as an extremely desirable woman. I kept her lacy red bra and minuscule thong panties in my jacket pockets where I could reach them unobtrusively during my work day at the newspaper and feel the gossamer fabric, or stop by the supply room so I could pull them out and rub them against my cheek, poignant reminders of those intimacies in her car. At home I draped them over chairs, laid them on the pillow beside me, kept them visible and available to run through my fingers, sometimes pressing their delicate fabrics to my face, inhaling the faint, sweet essence of girl.
Two days after my e-mail went out, a letter arrived with a Philadelphia postmark. No return address.
I'll be there. Please don't disappoint me.
It all seemed so damned authentic, I couldn't help but get excited. And worried. What if she really did expect me to go through with it? Would I? But why did I run the ad in the first place if I were not harboring some secret hope that I'd actually find a volunteer willing to experience this unique exit from life?
On the morning of the 30 th I started out bright and early with a loaded shotgun parked very illegally under the seat and a bouquet of roses strapped up on the passenger side, their stems stuck into little water capsules to keep them fresh. At eighteen minutes before noon I rolled into the parking lot at the Burger King off Route 84. The little red Beretta was already there. As I approached it from the rear, a glimpse of bright gold hair above the head restraint initiated a pounding under my ribs. The golden curls were bobbing slightly to the rhythm of music I couldn't hear. She had come to me just as she said she would. For good or ill, this dire twist to my destiny was underway. If she had committed herself as thoroughly as she had promised, I could hardly back out now.
I studied the small red sports car as I pulled in beside it. Did she actually plan to get rid of such a sweet little vehicle? Just toss it away like a paper plate at a cookout? A macabre simile I realized, given her stated intention. Of course this could still be an elaborate hoax, but if she actually ditched this expensive little vehicle, it would be pretty hard to doubt her sincerity.
Her head turned in my direction as I came to a stop and suddenly I was impaled by those hypnotic blue eyes again, my good sense disabled instantly by her smile. My thoughts veered from admonitions of caution to wildly fervent hopes that she prove to be real.
Her door popped open and she stepped out of the Beretta and into my Camry as smoothly as a bubble on oil.
"So, you actually showed up." The stamp of approval in her voice further undercut my determination not to be sucked into a trap. "Does that mean you've decided I'm worthy? That I meet your aesthetic standards, and might even taste good?"
It was hard to tell if this was sarcasm or a simple question. Either way, honesty was the best policy.
"You are more than worthy. You are delectable."
"How do you know? You haven't tasted me, yet."
"There's more than one way to be delectable."
Her smile widened. "But are you ready to find out if I'm delectable served on a plate?"
"You mean, am I ready to take you in and start planning for the big cookout? Absolutely."
"No, no. Not just the planning. Let's get specific here. Have you decided you have what it takes to go all the way to the end, to attend to my slaughter and cooking when the time comes?"
"Are you ready to die?" I countered bluntly.
It shook her slightly, but she threw back her head and mimicked me. "Absolutely!" But then, after a second, she added, "But not now. When the time comes."
"Then I'm ready to send you on your way in whatever manner you approve," I said airily. All the time my non-legally-trained mind was scrambling to identify any verbal pitfalls into which I may have been lured. I couldn't think of any. No direct threat. No actual statement that I planned to kill her. Of course, if she really wanted to do this, I'd have to find a way to take her own life. That would get me off the hook legally, wouldn't it? But all that was in the vague future. Presiding over the death of this gorgeous creature was the last thing I had in mind at that moment. A certain ill-behaved portion of my anatomy was beginning to engorge alarmingly at her mere presence next to me. She was dressed in a very short, sleeveless red dress with deep cleavage. String laces held together a two-inch wide gap all the way down the left side that advertised her complete lack of undergarments. Her small feet were contained in a pair of red sandals on inch-high platforms.
"So I'm here, you're here and we're both ready," she said, transfixing me with those impossible eyes. "What now?"
"Now there's the matter of your car."
"Did you figure out how to get rid of it/"
"Do you really want to lose such a sweet little vehicle? It can't be more than a few years old."
"It's seven months. I've made three payments in advance. It should be at least five or six months before the credit company comes looking to repo it. By then it should be long gone."
"That'll ruin your credit."
"It sure as hell will. You can worry about my poor ruined credit as you baste my rump meat."
"Maybe we should just hide it in case you change your mind."
"Maybe you haven't been listening. I've cut all my ties to the world. Quit my job. Told everyone I'm off to California. Sold everything I own except a few clothes . . . and that car. It's all disposable — the clothes, the car, me, everything. And it's all yours. If you want to keep me naked before you dispose of me , throw out the clothes with the car."
Her gaze drifted to the bulge in my lap, then back up into my eyes. The corners of her mouth tilted up. She was letting me know she was aware of how thoroughly she was tormenting my hormones.
"Okay," I sighed. "The only way for the Beretta to go permanently missing is for it to fall into the wrong hands. Or in this case, the right hands. That means driving it to a part of town — by which I mean Boston — where unattended vehicles vanish within the hour and wind up making a long cruise to South American or the Mediterranean."
"Sounds good. But are the stolen vehicles ever found?"
"The plates and VIN number are the first things to go when a car is snatched. Even on the rare occasions when such shipments are intercepted, the cars can never be traced to their proper owners. The government winds up auctioning them off."
"So do you know such a place in Boston?"
"I certainly do. I avoid it all the time."
"Then let's go! You drive and I'll follow."
"Sweetheart . . . May I call you that?"
She giggled and reached across the shifter to place her hand on my bulge. "I'm not naïve, Byron. I expect you'll soon have this thing inside me, and, of course, I'll eventually be inside you. So you may call me whatever you please. Just keep your promise to me."
She squeezed gently for emphasis. I tamped down the charge that went through my body.
"Okay. But I don't think it's wise for you to drive into that part of Boston dressed . . . as you are."
"You don't like this?"
"I love it! I'm ravished by it! But that's the point. One look at you in that outfit and you'll be gang-banged on the spot."
"Can't you protect me?"
"I have a gun in the car, but if I have to mow down a bunch of sex crazed street toughs, it will definitely draw LOTS of attention to your little Beretta."
"You want me to change? I don't have much. I didn't even bring underwear. I wasn't planning to be seen in public so I just brought stuff I thought would please you ."
My God! What was she doing to me?
"Well, you succeeded admirably," was all I could think to say.
Crystal withdrew to the outside corner of her seat, pouting prettily at me, running the fingertips of her right hand in casual circles around her right breast.
"Okay," I said. "No sweat. When we get to a really seedy part of town, stay hard on my tail."
She leaned over and squeezed me again. "That will be a little awkward. The usual arrangement is for you to stay hard in my tail."
I pretended to ignore her, although I was pretty sure she could hear my pulse thudding. "Once you've parked the Beretta, stay inside with the doors locked until I pull up beside you. Then jump out and into my car. Leave the keys in the ignition. It'll be on it's way to Tripoli before we've left the block."
"Cool," she said.
And that's how we did it. I gave her a map of Massachusetts and the city of Boston in case we got separated. To show I was not a complete gull, I did find an excuse to examine both her driver's license and her registration. Sure enough, she was identified as Crystal Perry of Frenchtown, New Jersey, with an authentically gawdawful color photo taken when her hair was still long. How much cuter and more irresistible she is now, I thought. Actually, my thoughts went well beyond that.
On the trip back to my home in Knobscot I learned a lot more about her. I learned that she had been abandoned as a child and raised in a succession of foster homes. I learned that she had been impregnated at the age of fourteen by a senior in her high school who publically disavowed any contact with her. He did finance a crude homemade abortion, however, which took care of the unintended baby problem, but also put her in a hospital for six weeks, got her sent to a new foster home and ended any hope for future pregnancies. Her new foster parents, no doubt in an effort to squelch her promiscuity, repressed her to the point where she simply ran away, effectivly extinguishing any hope of growing up to lead a "normal" life. Out on her own, she had managed an under-the-table income working for various painting contractors, topless restaurants, cleaning services, and exotic dance clubs. Mostly she had applied her energies to seeing how far she could push life's envelope and get away with it.
Two years ago she had discovered stories of cannibalism on the internet that lifted her to new heights of sexual stimulation. Years of being used and discarded by countless men had convinced her that that was the best she could hope for out of sex. But these tales of women being sexually exploited, then slaughtered, butchered, cooked and eaten brought her to new heights of orgasm. How much more exciting it would be to be taken to the next level, to be treated not just as a set of holes to fuck, but as meat at a banquet!
By the time we reached my house, I had been stroked to a fever, aching to take her in my arms and make proper love to her. But Crystal remained fixed on her own dream of ecstacy. She yearned to be placed over a fire and roasted.
"Wow!" she said, taking off her shoes to tread barefoot across the Persian rug in the Great Room. "This is some room!"
"There are eleven others, many with beds."
She walked, mouth open, eyes like great blue moons, from room to room, taking it all it in. "You did say you were married?"
"So what does that make you now? Divorced? Bereaved? Did you eat her, too?"
"And how did you manage to keep the house? What did she get?"
"A new boyfriend."
"She left you and all this for some guy? What was he, a movie star or something?"
"No. She hated this place because it's so remote and isolated. She didn't want to be 'stuck in the woods,' she wanted to be off seeing the world. Actually, we didn't get along on a lot of fronts. We fought a lot."
Crystal stopped short and wheeled on me, her eyes suddenly hard. "You didn't beat her, did you? Jesus, if you're a woman beater, I'm outta here. I'll hitch-hike all the way back before I let a man beat up on me again! You promised you wouldn't hurt me!"
"And I won't hurt you. I only plan to kill you and eat you, which, as I recall, is why you came here."
"Well, yes. You can do that. I want that. But I don't want to be hurt, at least not without my permission. You promised. It's part of our agreement."
Her lip trembled slightly. Clearly she was balancing fear and defiance in her mind. Whatever impulse was driving her to self destruction did not include a willingness to suffer physically. Not at this point, anyway; not without her "permission." In other words, not until she'd had time to prepare herself to relinquish control. Surely the terror implicit in her vulnerability was part of the thrill that had led her to sever all ties to the relative safety of the world outside and step into my cut-off-from-the-civilized-world lair. She was looking for reassurance on two opposing points: that I would wait for her to be ready, and that when that time came, I would act with appropriate savagery.
"We did agree and I did promise," I told her, taking her face in my hands, drowning in her eyes. "We will take this project as far as you want to go and at the speed you want to go. I did not beat my wife and I will not beat you, unless and until you decide it would be a really good way to tenderize your meat."
She studied me a few moments longer, then broke into a grin. "Thank you. I needed to hear you say that. "So . . . this guy your wife ran off with, he must have been incredibly sexy and good looking."
"No, just a spoiled, rich jerk with a ninety-six foot yacht, a Maserati and four mansions five times the size of this one on two continents."
"That stuff grows old after a while," she said as she continued her wandering, running her hands over the mahogany and leather surfaces of the furniture. She didn't miss a single room in the house, deliberately saving the master bedroom suite for the last.
"So this is where you and she fucked while it lasted?" She patted the floral comforter on king size bed.
"Where else? No, don't tell me. You can show me later, and demonstrate how you did it. Was she good?"
"No, at playing Chinese checkers." She punched my chest. "YES, you idiot. At fucking. Was she a good lay?"
"Not bad. She tapered off after the honeymoon. Got into the social circuit."
"Met Mr. Maserati?
"And decided she preferred his five mansions to this poor excuse of a dwelling."
"Poor Byron." She flipped up the back of her red dress and perched side-saddle on the edge of the bed, her bare bottom on the soft comforter. "And you've been celibate ever since."
She began sawing the hem of the dress back and forth across the top of her thighs. My heart was pounding in expectation. Who would make the first move, or had she already done it?
"So you didn't bring any undergarments at all?" I said.
A wry smile. "Well, I did bring one little thong in case I have my next period before I'm turned into meat. Why? Do you get off on lingerie?"
"I get off on beautiful young blondes with huge blue eyes and nothing on at all."
"Oh. In that case . . ."
She slowly peeled the little dress, hem first, up and over her head, dropping it on the floor. The firm, full breasts, the narrow waist, the taut tummy and creamy skin . . . I nearly lost control then and there. But I got a grip on myself and played a carefully calculated card. "Stand up, Crystal," I ordered, "and undress me."
She looked surprised, but after only the slightest hesitation rose off the bed and stood close to me with a knowing smile. She began to unbutton my shirt, wetting her upper lip with the tip of her tongue. As she put her arms around me to slip the shirt over my shoulders, I placed my hands in the small of her back and drew her against me, feeling the hardened points of her nipples rubbing against my skin. I kissed her ears, the back of her neck, her face and eyes, both sides of her nose, but not her mouth. Not yet. I dropped my arms and let the shirt slide off and drop to the floor. Still smiling, she licked my nipples as she unbuckled my belt, lowered the zipper and pushed both pants and underpants down over my hips. She dropped gracefully to her knees to remove my shoes, socks and the bunched trousers. I held on to her shoulders for balance as I shifted from foot to foot. By the time I was as naked as she, my staff was throbbing an invitation to her mouth. She wrapped a gentle left hand around it and slipped it between her lips as her right hand cradled my testicles. What she did with her tongue was quickly leading me to perdition, so I made a half-hearted effort to pull free.
"Stop, stop, stop!" I moaned. "Not yet. I want to be inside you when I come."
"Oh don't worry about that," she mumbled around the obstruction in her mouth. "You're inside me already, in case you haven't noticed. Besides, since you're soon going to be eating me, it's only fair I at least get a chance to taste your special sauce. We'll revive him later so you can have it your way, too."
She was as good as her word. In fact, she had me ready again just fifteen minutes after she'd swallowed the first explosion. This time I fumbled for a condom from the bedside table, but she snatched it out of my hand, popped it in her mouth, and spat it across the room.
"I'm clean and I can't get pregnant," she announced. "If you're not clean, I don't give a shit since I'll be dead in a few weeks anyway. If you have any doubts, kill me now and get it over with."
She grabbed my hands and placed them around her throat, daring me with her eyes. I squeezed her throat gently as I covered her mouth with mine and began a long, deep kiss that led to a furious salvo of unprotected sex.
Afterwards, as we lay in each other's arms, sweaty and satiated, she began the one line of questioning I most dreaded. "Have you ever done this before? Cooked and eaten someone?"
"No. You'll be the first." And only , I thought.
"What made you decide to do it?"
I didn't want to run her off before I'd had a fair chance to convert her mindset from Crystal as food to Crystal as girlfriend, so I was cautiously honest. "To tell the truth, until you answered my ad, it was just a fantasy. Like you, I'd been reading bdsm stories about cannibalism, which raised my curiosity on the subject."
"Not to mention your naughty part." She patted it.
"That, too. Anyway, I started researching real cases of cannibalism, and the history of it in human culture. The more I read, the more it intrigued me."
"And the harder you got." The pats changed to strokes.
"Yes, I became titillated by the idea."
"It gave me a rush, okay? Like you're doing now."
"So you find the concept of eating another human being sexually exciting? Same as me?"
"Not the same. I don't want to be eaten. And not just any human being. It has to be a woman. I get incredibly turned on by the mental image of cooking a beautiful woman."
"So you decided to do it."
"So I decided to run an ad. Some of the stories on those sites pictured women and girls getting turned on by the notion of being turned into meat. I thought I'd test it, though I didn't really expect to find a genuine volunteer. It was just, you know, a kind of experiment."
"Well, now that you've found one, do you have what it takes to carry out the fantasy? Now that I've made it easy and safe for you? Because now that I've gone this far, I can't turn back. If you turn out to be a wimp, I'll have to run my own ad. I'm sure there are plenty of guys out there willing to snuff me. The only problem is finding one I can rely on to butcher and eat me afterwards. I want to know that will happen. I don't want to die just to be dead. So how about it, Mr. Toolman?" She squeezed my twice-used manhood, already rising again in the warmth of her small palm. "Are you going to fulfill my dream and satisfy your own curiosity? Or do I have to look elsewhere?"
Although I couldn't bear the thought of killing this loony but lovely girl, neither could I admit it. "Of course I will," I said with as much conviction as I could muster.
"Oh God, I hope so," she said, before assaulting my entire body with her tongue and stretching my record for consecutive full-bore fucks to three.
The next morning she asked if she could take her shower with me. Who could refuse that? She commandeered the soap and proceeded to lather me up, with special attention to my favorite appendage, scrubbing it with her hands and hardening it with her mouth until I had no choice but to bend her over under the streaming water and implant another load of special sauce into her proffered receptacle. I held her in that position, my hands under her belly, for long minutes after we had both come noisily, letting myself soften until she informed me that part of my duty in our reciprocal washing arrangement was to douche her out.
After that operation, still dripping wet and nude, she ran laughing down the stairs and into the kitchen where she began preparing sausage and eggs for our breakfast. All Sunday she ran around the house and back yard naked, feeding her fantasy of being nothing more than meat on the hoof. Admittedly, I didn't discourage the practice. The nearest neighbor is more than a mile away. This became a daily ritual: a shared shower and breakfast in the nude. The morning fuck was optional and we quickly dispensed with the douching.
Monday I had to go back to work at the newspaper office. Perhaps it was because Crystal's seemingly limitless appetite for sex had finally depleted my testosterone to such a level that my brain was able to reclaim my thinking process from my penis, but it occurred to me that this could still turn out to be an elaborate con job with me as a world-class, pussy-whipped sap. I was about to leave this incredibly sexy but virtually unknown woman alone in my house with my many valuable belongings for an entire day.
"How do I know you haven't arranged to have a moving van back up to the house when I'm at work and clean me out?" I asked through a mouthful of perfectly poached eggs on rye toast.
She was sitting across from me, watching me devour her cuisine (imagining I was savoring slices from her elegant breasts?) with that intoxicating come-and-taste-me smile. She leaned forward, elbows on the table, her chin in her hands, her hard nipples peeking out between her forearms.
"Good question. How do you?"
"I mean, when it comes right down to it, what do I really know about you? Other than you're breathtakingly beautiful, incredible in bed . . ."
". . . and in the shower, and on the couch and the carpet and the lawn, and right here on this table yesterday afternoon. Twice! Once sunny-side up, and once over easy."
"There, too." The recollections were causing my testosterone factory to fire up again. She was a dirty fighter! I hurried on. "But as wonderful as all that is — and believe me, I've loved every second of it — how do I know you haven't just been softening me up . . ."
"By making you hard, you mean?"
"You know what I mean. By making your presence so exciting that I throw away all caution and leave you in charge of a houseful of eminently stealable stuff. Aside a dozen indescribably wonderful episodes when we screwed our brains out, you're a virtual stranger."
"I thought that might occur to you," she said, still gazing firmly into my eyes. "So I have an idea. I've already given myself to you to be turned into meat, right?"
"And you've agreed to do it, to slaughter me and cook up my meat, right?"
"Right." But inwardly I had crossed my fingers.
"So that , in effect, makes me livestock. And you, as my owner, have every right to treat me as livestock, to keep me from escaping or being rustled, right?"
"Yeah, okay, I guess you're right."
"So lock me in. Chain me up. Do whatever you need to do."
"You'd agree to that?"
"I just suggested it, didn't I? Don't be such a dweeb. I'm cattle. You own me. If you don't want your prize cow running around loose, chain me up. Just don't be cruel. Animals have some rights, too."
By God, I was beginning to like this game! If she really wanted to play treat-me-like-a-cow, I'd do it! I felt stirrings that would make me late for work if I heeded them, so I wolfed down the last of the eggs, toast and coffee and went looking to see what I had in the garage for chains. All I could find was a twelve foot length of medium chain from an old dog run; but I also found two padlocks that would fit through the links. It would have to do. I could think of nothing in any of the bedrooms that I could chain her to that she couldn't defeat. Beds, chairs, bureaus — all could be lifted or shifted with enough effort. I could spread eagle her on a bed and run the chain from one wrist under the bed to the other, but that verged on cruelty. Even cattle weren't hog tied for a whole day. I thought of wrapping the chain around the base of a toilet bowl, but she could scream loud enough for confederates to hear her from outside and come to her rescue.
There was only one solution. I ordered her to gather up some blankets and pillows from one of the bedrooms and marched her to the cellar. There I chained her by her pretty neck to a lolly column in a storage room.
"I'll need a pot to piss in," she offered meekly, the very picture of a docile cow.
I fetched a bucket, and a bowl of water. No books, no TV, nothing to amuse herself during the long hours to come. If she wanted to play meat-on-the-hoof, she'd have to get used to being cattle. We'd see how long it lasted. I made sure there was nothing within her reach she could use as a toy or tool. Nothing at all but a blanket, pillow, floor, wall, chain, padlocks and lolly column. I did leave the light on as I closed and locked the door with another padlock. No amount of screaming now would be heard outside the cellar.
I left for work with an agonizing erection.
When I opened the door to her "cell" that evening, she was standing by her makeshift bed, clutching her chain in both hands, her eyes wild with excitement.
"Are you all right?"
"You're my owner. I'm your animal. That makes you my master."
I could hardly believe it! She was really into this! My own excited part sprang to life, eager for insertion into my "animal." I glanced at her bowl. She had licked it dry. The room reeked with the contents of her bucket. I unlocked her padlocks.
"You must be hungry."
"Come upstairs, wash yourself up and prepare my dinner."
"Yes, Master. At once."
She charged at me, embraced me savagely, kissed me ferociously, and sprinted off and up the stairs. I decided then and there that she might be insane, but she was definitely sincere. She was no thief. The next day I locked her up in one of the bedrooms with enough newly purchased chain to allow her to move from bed to toilet. I also added handcuffs. She loved the handcuffs!
If anything, her privations doubled her sexual cravings. It didn't matter where I locked her up and chained her down — the cellar, a bedroom, the attic, the garage, a closet, — she greeted me on my return with unrestrained sexual vivacity and slavish obedience. I experimented with more severe restraints, like removing all pillows and blankets, making her spend all day and night on a hard floor. She was all the more eager to assuage her hours of discomfort with hours of debasing sex! I was in heaven.
On the fifth evening she set aside her "Yes, Master" routine long enough to discuss the next phase of her career as livestock.
"We need to decide how I will be cooked."
"Ah," I said.
"You know the choices."
"Sure you do. I can be skinned and butchered with the various cuts cooked in different ways — oven roasted, broiled, pan fried, made into a stew, ground for meatloaf — that sort of thing. Or I can be roasted whole in an oven or on a spit over a barbecue pit. What do you think?"
What I thought was that I'd like to keep her around indefinitely as my personal slave and fuck toy. What I said was, "I don't think I could bear to see you skinned."
"Okay. That leaves roasting whole. Do you like the idea of seeing me roasting in an oven trussed up on a pan, or would you rather I be mounted on a spit and roasted over a fire? Either one is great with me, but which would be sexier for you?"
"Actually, we have no way of doing either. We'd have to build special facilities."
"So, are we back to skinning and butchering?"
I felt sick at the prospect. "No. We could build the necessary facility. But it will take a while." Already I liked that idea better. The longer the delay the more chance of talking her out of it.
"That's okay. So which will it be? On a spit or in an oven?"
"I guess a spit over an open fire would be more practical. We could build that out back. An oven the size we'd need would be huge and the installation might draw unwanted attention."
"A spit it is. I like that better! Imagine what I'll look like impaled on a spit and turning over the fire. God! I'm coming!"
She rocked her chair backwards and massaged her clit vigorously, moaning loudly. Rock hard and not wanting to be left out, I picked her up out of the chair, laid her on the rug, unzipped, and mounted her, ramming myself home to the rhythm of her rapid orgasms until I had spent myself into her and we both melted into an inert mass. After a few moments her eyes fluttered open and she bit at my neck playfully.
"Trouble is," she said as though nothing had happened, "we don't know what human meat tastes like. Hell, I don't even know what it looks like when its cooked. Is it red like beef? Gray like pork? Do you know?"
"Not me. You're my first."
"How are we going to find the best way to season me if we don't know how I taste?"
"Beats me. Maybe we'll just have to make do with salt and pepper."
"Oh no! I want to be done right! What's the point of going through all this if I just come out blah? I want our banquet guests to be smacking their lips and saying I'm the most awesome meat they've ever tasted."
"Well, I don't see how we can try out recipes in advance. You're our one and only source of girl meat."
"We could cut off one of my legs and try cooking the meat from it in different ways."
I grabbed her arms hard. "Oh no! We'll do no such thing! I'm your owner and I will not permit your body to be mutilated in any way. At least, not prior to your roasting."
"Silly!" she laughed, and kissed me. "You really like my body the way it is, huh?"
"Damned straight! No amputations!"
"Okay. But that means we have to recruit someone else to practice on."
"Someone else? You mean you want me to run another ad?" My hopes rose! What were the odds of attracting another girl with a death wish. I might be able to drag this out for years.
"No, there's no need. I know a girl I can talk into it. We've been into this fantasy together for over a year. I'm sure I can convince her to come and join me. We just have to be careful, same as you were with me. Make sure she keeps her destination a secret. Please let me call her. This is very exciting!"
As usual, her enthusiasm spilled over into another round of strenuous fucking. Ten minutes later she was dialing my cell phone as I lay on the floor recovering.
The girl's name was Brandi. She and Crystal worked the same circuit of exotic dance clubs. They spent a good twenty minutes on girlish chit-chat, sliding easily into how Crystal had changed plans and turned east. Shifting to confidential whispers, Crystal let her in on a huge secret. She'd gone to a bdsm club in Boston and found this really cool guy who had contacts with an actual snuff group and they'd agreed to let her be on the menu this weekend. How cool is that?! After a few minutes of excited discussion, Crystal said she'd love it if Brandi could come and watch her be cooked. Maybe, if she played her cards right, Brandi might even be able to join her on the menu! They giggled and bantered several minutes longer, but I could tell from watching Crystal's face that Brandi was wetting herself with the prospect of realizing their fantasies together. Ultimately she had agreed to sneak away for the weekend and join the party. Crystal would meet her at the Burger King off Routes 84 and 90 late Friday night. "Bring all your good stuff in case they agree to do you, too. Don't want to waste it. God, it's all so awesome!" Giggle, giggle!
And it was done. Easy as that.
"What good stuff ?" I asked, thinking code words . This could still be some kind of sting.
"Drugs. She's into lots of stuff. We may need to get her nice and high if she starts to chicken out. That'd make a good headline for your newspaper: Cow turns Chicken ."
We spent the rest of the week constructing a roasting pit with gas burners and a steel rod as a spit which, when connected to an electric motor, turned slowly over the pit. We added charcoal and applewood chips around the gas jets for smoking. We even worked out a way to snuff Brandi with maximum thrill effect and minimum legal risk. It was hard to believe I was carrying things this far, but Crystal's determination and enthusiasm was irresistible for my hopelessly smitten heart.
We picked Brandi up at the Burger King Friday night at 10:15. She turned out to be a pretty girl, about Crystal's age, although not in Crystal's league. Her face was round and cute, although a little too full through the cheeks for true beauty. She had a nice figure, albeit about fifteen pounds overweight. But already I was sizing her up as a butcher might, and she struck me as being perfectly proportioned for generous cuts of meat from her upper arms, tits, rump, thighs and calves. She had dark brown, shoulder-length hair and big brown puppy dog eyes, full of unrequited hope, ready to submit herself to anyone who offered approval and acceptance.
Crystal sat with her in the back seat, regaling her with fictitious accounts of exciting contacts with the snuff community and true accounts of her new-found sexual excess. They puffed on Brandi's supply of joints until the car was so full of burning grass even I was mellow. Crystal whispered tales of her romps with me to their combined tittering and promised this would be a weekend of unprecedented sexual extravagance for Brandi, setting her free forever from the stifling confines of her clueless vanilla world, giving her the chance to experience things they had only dared dream about in her New Jersey bore hole. Inevitably the talk drifted to Sunday's big event.
"Aren't you scared?" Brandi asked, chewing on her smile.
"Course I'm scared! Whadda ya think? But that's what makes it so incredible! The finality of it! I don't think I've gone ten minutes without an orgasm all week! My God, it's the most amazing continuous high possible! Just wait, you'll see. If they choose you, that is."
Brandi's panties were wet with anticipation when we pulled in to my garage.
After several drinks, both she and Crystal were naked and cavorting shamelessly for me in the living room. Brandi's boobs were not as spectacular as Crystal's but they were deliciously round and firm. (And real, Crystal assured me.) As the proceedings became more playful, the two girls undressed me while I faked inept resistance, and soon all three of us were entangled in a complex drunken orgy that ended with the three of us in my bed and both of the women incubating my semen.
Crystal continued to excite Brandi throughout Saturday morning with images of a crowd of banqueters admiring their two beautiful carcasses as they slowly turned on their spits over the fire. She showed her the new roasting pit in the back yard. At the sight of it, Brandi's knees nearly buckled with the intensity of her mounting excitement. Encouraged by Crystal, she dipped into her plentiful stock of drugs throughout the day and by evening was dreamily ecstatic when Crystal confided to her that the meat selection committee from the snuff group had agreed to look her over for possible inclusion in Sunday's banquet.
It was to take place in one of the upstairs bedrooms, she was told, where there was a one-way mirror I had installed for spying on unsuspecting guests. We told her the members of the club had to remain unseen behind the mirror in case she was rejected, for obvious reasons. For dramatic effect (and to add verisimilitude to our little charade) we made her strip nude in another bedroom and I led her from there down the hall and into the "viewing room" by a chain locked around her neck. Standing in the room in front of the mirror, I ordered her to turn slowly all the way around. I placed a small stool in front of her and slightly to the left upon which she was told to place her left foot. This opened up her pussy for inspection from the unseen side of the mirror and allowed me to squeeze her raised thigh and calf to demonstrate the firmness of her meat. I hefted and squeezed her ample breasts the same way. Then I made her turn her back to the mirror and bend over, palms on the floor, so I could likewise demonstrate the suitability of her nicely rounded ass to our phantom audience. Her face was flushed with embarrassment and excitement as I led her out of the room. I could see her heart pounding under her breast. I made her sit naked on the bed, chained to the headboard, to wait for the "decision of the committee." Crystal held her hand and kept reminding her of how "wicked awesome" it would be if she passed, because the snuff club had very strict requirements and only accepted the most beautiful and potentially delicious girls for these roasts.
By the time I returned with the news that Brandi had been accepted and we could start preparing her right away, Brandi's emotions went off like a rocket and the two girls began dancing each other in circles, restrained only by Brandi's chain. We let her take another long snort from her supply of powdered courage, then I locked a matching chain around Crystal's neck and led them both into the master suite shower — an open room, fully tiled, with double shower heads on one wall — where they washed and shampooed each other thoroughly.
"No point drying our hair," Crystal told her. "We'll just pin it up in a bun. They'll only shave it off before they roast us, anyway."
Brandi shivered, a dull awareness of her rapid approach to the abyss poking against the coke-glazed surface of her thoughts.
"But there's only one spit," she observed belatedly.
"No, there are two," I assured her. "They're setting up the other one now."
We made her sit on a stool and spread her knees so I could shave off her dark, neatly trimmed pubic bush to render her pussy as bare as Crystal's. It just happens that I prefer that look. And I'm the Master, am I not?
We let Brandi enjoy one last, long hit of white powder before starting the final leg of our journey. It ended in a room on the first floor only a short gurney trip away from the roasting pit. Crystal and I had installed two rings in the ceiling through which ropes had been run with nooses at one end. I had installed a camcorder to capture the "volunteer" nature of what was to follow, just in case. The lens was aimed to see only one of the participants: Brandi.
Bleary from what must have been a near overdose, she climbed limply up on a rather high, long box under one of the rings, as instructed. Crystal took up a position on the other end of the box under the second ring, the one not in the camera's view. The nooses dangled next to their heads, just touching their shoulders. I ordered them to loop the nooses over their heads and around their necks, then pulled the ropes taut and tied them off.
I had locked a chain around both their waists and padlocked a set of handcuffs to the front. Now I ordered them to lock the cuffs on their own wrists. Crystal snapped hers on with no problem, but Brandi fumbled for a full minute, swaying precariously. Finally both pair of hands were properly restrained.
"Where is everybody. When are they gonna roast us?" Brandi slurred.
"Well, first we have to snuff you." I answered. "We're doing both you and Crystal together so you can appreciate each other's final moments and give each other support. Everyone's very excited about you and Crystal being on the same menu. You're going to be the most beautiful and mouth-watering roasts they've ever enjoyed. It's your best fantasy come true! And it's time to begin. All set?"
"Hmm," said Brandi.
"God, yes!" gushed Crystal. "This is fantastic! I'm coming again! It's running down my legs."
"That's all right," I soothed. " I'll clean you off later. Enjoy. Now I'm going to count backwards from five. When I reach zero, both of you push the box away that you're standing on. I guarantee the grandest orgasm you've ever experienced. Here we go. Five. Four. Three. Two. One. PUSH!"
Brandi made a feeble attempt to comply, but it didn't matter. Crystal's simultaneous kick sent the box toppling away. Both girls made a grunting sound as the nooses seized their necks, holding their thrashing feet just an inch off the floor. Crystal and I had carefully adjusted the height of the nooses to make sure of that. In fact, Crystal had insisted on testing it. Both girls were the same height, so when I had lifted Crystal up so she could put Brandi's noose around her neck, then lowered her and let her dangle for half a minute, she had been satisfied that neither she nor her friend would be able to touch so much as the tip of a toe to the floor.
"But how do I know you won't let me die with Brandi?" She had asked.
"You don't know, do you?" I answered. "You'll just have to trust me."
"Oh my God!" she had sputtered, and took time out for another orgasm.
We knew that most people, when hanged without a drop, last at least ten or fifteen minutes — sometimes thirty or forty minutes. She had made me promise to leave her up there for a full five minutes, "For the experience."
It was an astonishing sight, watching them hang. Kicking and thrashing. Their eyes bulging. Their mouths open. Desperately searching for support under their feet. Twisting in slow circles. Shackled hands opening and closing on empty air. Faces turning blue. Pleading with their eyes! Take me down, quick! I didn't mean it! I've changed my mind! I want to live!
A riverlet of excretions slicked the inside of Crystal's thighs. Her face was frantic with fear! I could read her thoughts. Would I save her as I had promised, or betray her and let her die with Brandi? Could she even survive five endless minutes of this torture? Her body jerked with orgasmic spasms. God, it was erotic to watch! For the first time the thought of observing her death and turning her into meat made my sexual centers tingle. It gave me an erection of such force that I had to open my pants to relieve the pressure, masturbating furiously as the two women kicked and squirmed before me. My release came with such force that I dropped to my knees, gasping, shuddering, staring foolishly at the sticky mess I'd spewed on the floor. Suddenly a splash of water mingled with it. I looked up. Brandi's bladder had let go; a stream of urine ran down her legs.
Then I remembered Crystal. How long had she been up there? I'd lost track of time. She was still squirming a little, but her eyes were unfocused, glazed over, her tongue protruding. Without bothering to tuck my deflated manhood in, I jumped up, seized her around the waist with one arm, lifted her and loosened the rope around her neck with the other. She took a great, shuddering breath and trembled violently in my arms. Her eyes swam back into focus and she looked at me with a silent, desperate plea. The stool we had placed in the corner for this purpose was well out of range and I couldn't reach the top of the rope to detach it from its O-ring. She was panting now, frightened. For some reason I couldn't loosen the noose enough with one hand to slip it over her head. Nor could I slide the toppled platform back under her feet because the camera would catch it and spoil my recorded "proof" that Brandi's demise was self-inflicted and unassisted. Hopefully such proof would never be needed, but one can't be too careful. I knew perfectly well how the law would interpret this activity.
"Sorry, hon," I whispered. "I can't loosen the damn noose. I'm going to have to let you go for another few seconds while I go get that step-stool."
"No!" she groaned, her eyes flooding with fear. But I lowered her to the end of the rope again. Her words were cut off with her breath and she twitched frantically, mouth open, legs thrashing. For some reason I felt a malicious satisfaction seeing abject fear replace her usual unabashed aplomb. I took my time sliding the stool under her feet. By the time I had loosened the noose sufficiently to slide it over her head and helped her down to the floor, she was gasping in great gulps of air and blubbering. She crumpled to the floor and remained curled in a ball, weeping between deep breaths.
I turned my attention to Brandi. Her face had turned dark blue. Her eyes were wide open but unfocused, her tongue purple and protruding from her mouth. Her hands and legs twitched in small, increasingly irregular spasms. Her anal sphincter had let go and a small pile of feces had landed in the puddle of urine beneath her dangling feet. While Crystal recovered, still curled in a tight ball on the floor, I got out a bucket of disinfectant and a mop. I was about to clean up, when I got a better idea. I unlocked Crystal's handcuffs and prodded her with the mop handle.
"Get up!" I ordered. "Time to clean up this mess."
She looked up at me from her curled up position on the floor. Her eyes traveled to the still dying Brandi, then back to me.
"Come on!" I nudged her with my foot. "Or would you like me to string you up again and finish you off along with the other cow? I can butcher you both together. I've got a really large walk-in freezer."
The spark came back in her eyes and she began uncoiling herself. "Yes, Master," she croaked. "I'm getting up."
While Brandi died, Crystal was cleaning up and disinfecting the floor under her. When all movement ceased, she found some wash cloths and cleaned off Brandi's soiled anus, crotch, legs and feet. I had purchased a six-foot butcher's table which we wheeled out from its storage in a walk-in closet and placed under the carcass, lowering it face up on the table. We looked at the dead girl and then at each other. We had crossed the Rubicon. There was no turning back now. We both knew that at this juncture the only way Crystal would be leaving these premises would be in someone else's stomach. She smiled at me, trailing her fingers over Brandi's rapidly cooling breasts.
"I'll bet you can't wait to sink your teeth into these babies," she said.
As it turns out, they were delicious.
As was the rest of her.
Crystal's recovery from near strangulation was instantaneous. The terror she'd felt during her hanging (and she'd been up there a good nine minutes) became a powerful aphrodisiac that redoubled her determination to be turned into meat and eaten. She also liked being treated like an animal, a cow being readied for the abattoir. I admit that I was a bit queasy when she started cutting up Brandi, but for Crystal it was something of a religious experience. She began by kissing and caressing her all over. Then, calm as you please, took a saw and a knife and cut off one leg, one arm and a breast. When she looked up and got a load of my expression (I was near to puking), she put down her implements and wrapped her arms around me, pressing her naked body against me.
"It's all right," she soothed. "This is what she wanted. We used to talk about it and get ourselves off speculating on what it would be like, how we would be butchered and served. We used to argue about whether we'd taste better roasted whole, or pan fried, or baked, or what. This way we can try all different ways so we'll know which way to do me when it's my turn."
"So you still want to go through with it, even after nearly strangling at the end of a rope?"
"God, yes! That was awesome! It made me realize how important it is to have a long, slow death. I must have come twenty times before you took me down."
"So would you have preferred I leave you there to die with Brandi?"
"Oh no. I'm glad you saved me. Thank you, Master. Now I get to do it again, but differently. Knowing that I won't be saved this time will make it stupendously awesome!"
"And yet you say you don't want to die."
"I have to admit, my little cow, that I'm having a hard time reconciling your self-described death wish with a desire to live."
"Let's put it this way: I'm scared of dying, like everyone else, and would really like to live forever. But that won't happen. And I don't want to die of cancer or in an automobile accident. That would be horrible, a waste. But to be stripped naked, slaughtered and cooked . . . God! The thought of it makes me tingle all over. It's an incredible rush!" She narrowed her eyes. "You're not chickening out on me, are you?"
"Absolutely not. Get back to work!"
She smiled, and I felt a shiver run through her. She kissed me quickly, then turned back to Brandi's body.
During the preceding week, Crystal had considered preparing a stuffing to test out for the roasting. She checked out various recipes for stuffing turkeys and pigs, but finally decided it would be best simply to remove the intestines and leave the other organs intact. Her reasoning was that if we decided she herself should be roasted live on a spit, she'd stay alive longer if there were less trauma to her insides.
"You told me you wanted to avoid pain," I pointed out.
"Yeah, but that would be so cool! Being put on a spit and roasted live . . . wow!"
"How about trussing you up in the fetal position and roasting you on a pan in the oven?"
"In the first place," she pouted, "no one could watch me cook. In the second place, since you don't have a big enough oven, you'd have to chop me up into little pieces. That's not very sexy, and besides, I want to live long enough to experience the start of the cooking process."
"Don't you think running a steel spit through the length of your body will kill you?"
"Not if you do it slowly and carefully. You just have to miss the heart and lungs, that's all."
"Oh, is that all? And how the hell do we miss the lungs, pray tell?"
"You just slip it between them."
"We're talking major league pain here!"
"Maybe you'll be nice and give me a pain killer. Get me really, really drunk. Or high, like Brandi was. Oh please, Master! It would be so much cooler than just dying."
"I'll think about it," I said, pressing two fingers into her very wet southern entrance. "Now get back to work."
As I withdrew my hand from between her legs, she grabbed it, thrust the fingers in her mouth and sucked them clean of her own juices, all the while gazing at me, her eyes sparkling.
Turning back to the table, she took a heavy cleaver and chopped the arm and leg into smaller pieces which she wrapped up and stored in the fridge. Next she cut open the abdomen and extracted the intestines and liver. The guts she put into a garbage bag. The liver she wrapped for the fridge. The other organs she left in the carcass.
We brought out the spit rod and carefully inserted it into Brandi's vagina and up through her body. Crystal sliced her open at the sternum so I could see how to avoid puncturing the lungs in the process of aiming the point of the spit toward the neck. By tilting Brandi's head backwards off the end of the table we were able to achieve a clean exit, the bloody point of the spit emerging through her open mouth. Crystal sewed up the eviscerated belly. She had bent a threaded rod into an L shape; now she inserted the long part of the L deep into Brandi's anus; the short bar was bolted to the spit to keep the body turning with the spit as it rotated over the fire. Brandi's remaining arm was wired to her body and the leg was wired to the spit. The hair was tied into a bun and covered with aluminum foil so it wouldn't burn off.
We carried the spit to the roasting pit and set it in place. The foot end had been fitted with a cogged gear that engaged with the electric motor to keep it turning slowly over the gas flames and cherry red coals.
Crystal basted the carcass periodically with a paint brush, using a buttery concoction seasoned with garlic and herbs. About six hours later we deemed Brandi thoroughly cooked and transferred the steaming hot carcass to a picnic table covered with several layers of thick plastic sheeting and festooned with fruits, cooked vegetables and parsley. Her skin had roasted to a dark golden brown and was glistening with the many layers of basting combined with her own drippings. The only flaw in the presentation was that we had neglected to protect the eyes from the heat and they had burst. "Be sure to pin my eyelids shut after I've died," Crystal told me, stuffing kumquats in the sockets.
"Maybe we should have covered the whole face with foil," I suggested.
"Wait till we taste the tongue. I'll bet you change your mind."
At first I didn't think I could really do it: eat another human being. But Crystal charged right in, slicing off the remaining breast and a large slab of thigh meat, then dividing it between us on my Limoges dinnerware. Watching her chewing the breast meat, savoring it with her eyes closed, made me rethink my reluctance. I couldn't allow myself to turn sissy at this point, so I cut off a chunk of the breast and tried it. It was tender, sweet and extraordinarily delicious! Before I knew it, I had emptied my plate and was looking for other cuts to try.
Human girl meat, I had discovered, has a flavor unlike any other. I won't even attempt to describe it. I will only say that I developed an instant passion for it. Each and every cut has its own distinctive variation of flavor — the flank, rump, brisket, thigh, calf, breast, ribs, tongue, liver, kidneys, heart, even the fingers and toes. Over the next month Crystal found a dozen delightful ways to cook up the parts she had removed earlier, all of them delicious. But nothing quite came up to the succulence of that outdoor roast over the fire.
This introduction to the superb quality of roast female changed my perspective dramatically. Much as I enjoyed Crystal's body for sexual intimacies, I couldn't help but imagine her turning on that spit. Where once the image horrified me, now it made my mouth water. Inevitably the prospect of cooking her became irresistibly inviting, even more so than the sex.
But there was a catch. She had her heart set on being the featured entree at a banquet, not just a feast for one. By now we were fully into the Master & Cow fantasy and she would do whatever I ordered her to do. I could simply have tied her up and run the spit through her. She'd cooperate. But we had made a bargain at the beginning and she had faithfully kept her part of it (and given me tons of creative and exhausting coitus as a bonus), so I felt it was only right that I carry out my part. Trouble is, where keeping all this between just the two of us was relatively safe, bringing in others greatly increased the risk. Trying to postpone the inevitable, I suggested we delay her own roasting so we could develop our cooking techniques. I offered to lure prostitutes off the streets so we could load them up with street drugs, then snuff and cook them, as we did with Brandi.
"That wouldn't be right," she informed me. "We should only snuff girls who volunteer. Besides, I don't want to be the cook; I want to be the main course. I want to be chained to a post and put on display naked like a prize heifer so people can inspect me and prod me and discuss my good and bad points and which cuts of meat they think might be the most tender or tasty. An animal readied and led to slaughter. You can even sew my lips shut, if you want, so I can't speak."
She was right. I had promised her a designer death, and I owed her.
Obviously I couldn't advertise for accomplices to murder (which, believe it or not, is how the law would construe these proceedings), so I had to do some rather unusual networking. It just so happens that I know a few call girls. Well, all right, several call girls. A couple of them have boyfriends who have done some fairly serious time. I remembered the girls laughing about how a little poon offered to the right DA's assistant could get a guy's charges reduced from first degree murder to manslaughter. They both worked for an outcall service operated by their boyfriend-pimps, Tony and Eric. It was easy enough to set up a session with the two of them. During the session it only took a lot of charm (and a little more lucre) to talk them into introducing me to Tony and Eric.
"You guys play pool?" I asked.
"You good for ten bucks a game?"
"Bet your ass!"
I didn't happen to mention that I have a pool table in my game room and that I can pocket eight balls in a row most any time I decide to get serious. But on that particular night I won just enough to establish myself as a contender, and lost just enough to let them make a profit.
"Hey, I got to get going!" I said, checking my watch. "But listen: can you guys meet me for another game tomorrow night? Fifty bucks a game?"
You bet your ass they could. Only this time I showed up with Crystal in tow. I introduced her as my "slave."
"Whatda ya mean, your slave?" asked Tony.
"I own her. She signed herself over to me as my property. Didn't you, cunt?"
"She's my pet cow. She'll do whatever I tell her. Any time, anywhere."
"Cool. Can you get her to suck my cock?"
"Right here in the bar?"
"Absolutely. She'll do whatever I tell her."
"So tell her."
"If she does it, will you spot me one pocket in our next game?"
"Yeah, yeah. Tell the bitch to suck me off."
"Crystal, suck this gentleman's cock!"
As we had planned, she dropped obediently to her knees in front of Tony, opened his fly and began to fish out his shlong.
"Jesus!" he said, pulling away. "She really will." He zipped himself back up, glancing around to make sure no one was about to throw him out for public indecency. "If she'll do anything you say, why don't you have her out on the street makin' money for you? And for Chrissake, get her off the floor!"
"Up on your chair, Crystal!" I ordered. "Sorry, Tony. Not interested in the street thing. It's more fun keeping her in my own private collection. Besides, she's scheduled for snuffing, anyway."
"Snuffing? What the fuck do you mean?"
"Tell him, Crystal."
"Master is planning to slaughter and cook me at his next barbecue."
"You mean kill you? And then eat you?"
"Yes. Kill me, cook me and eat me."
"And this is okay with you? You know he's planning to off you and you're still hangin' around?"
"I have to. I'm his cow."
"Yes, sir. Master has decided it's time to slaughter me for meat."
" He decided, so you're just gonna let him do it?!"
"Yes, sir. I'm his property. I don't have any say."
"Don't have any say? Jesus! You could run away right now, you stupid cunt! We're in a public place! You could scream your ass off if he tries to stop you."
"But I don't want to. If Master wants me to be meat, I'll be meat. I look forward to being meat because it pleases my Master."
Seeing the two men were struck dumb, I asked, "Would you and Eric like to come? I have a pool table and a huge liquor supply. We can amuse ourselves for hours while Crystal roasts. Bring the girls, too. Crystal will be happy to service all of you before we put her over the fire."
It took them a while to get past the unlikeliness of it all, but it was Crystal's unabashed acceptance of dying for their amusement that finally won them over. After all, how often does a guy get invited to a party where a beautiful girl is willing to be snuffed and cooked? Even their initial revulsion at the idea of eating her flesh was quickly replaced by a morbid curiosity of what human meat — specifically, girl meat — tastes like. The promise of unlimited access to her three orifices prior to the snuffing helped, too; as did my request to purchase (at a handsome profit to them) a nice supply of liquid morphine to ease Crystal on her way. They assured me they would have no trouble locating a source. They even agreed to bring their girlfriends. "Do 'em good to see what can happen to a troublesome bitch," Tony chortled. The girls were less than enthusiastic about eating Crystal, but were as fascinated as the men by the idea of watching her snuffed. More important, there was obviously a fear factor involved. These girls were not about to object to any decisions made by Tony and Eric.
We set a date for the barbecue about a month away, with twice a week meetings in between for pool games. And for me to make sure they didn't back out.
The morning of Crystal's Grand Barbecue was sunny and clear, a brisk breeze keeping the Hot August sun under control. She spent the entire forenoon preparing the vegetables, fruit and seasonings. This was actually a pleasure and relief for her, because I had decided after setting the date that if her fantasy was to die as a cow, she should spend this last month really living like a cow. Cows don't live in houses. They live in barns. She had readily agreed.
My estate does not include a barn, but it does include a well-constructed storage shed for the lawn tractor, mowers, fertilizers and various other items necessary to keep a place as large as this well maintained. I cleared out a corner and turned it into a stall, boarding it in with planks and a thick door, the top half of which was a frame filled with a section of heavy gauge hurricane fence. A ring bolt and a wooden manger were attached to the far side of the stall. I bought a steel slave collar from a store selling sex toys and locked it around Crystal's neck, attaching her to the ring with a chain and two padlocks. There were no furnishings in the stall, only a thick layer of straw on the floor, a bucket to piss in and a shallow pan of water. I told her she'd have to shit in a corner and kick straw over it. I filled the manger twice daily with lettuce, broccoli, kale and carrots. Since hands are a human convenience unbefitting a cow, I cuffed her wrists behind her while she was in the stall. This forced her to eat and drink like a cow as well, pushing her face into the food and water. Once a day I took her out for exercise and made her shovel the shit out of the corner into the piss bucket to dump in a cess hole out back. She had to dig a new hole every evening. I would then lead her into the house by her chain and scrub her down in the shower with a coarse brush. She was then required to clean the house and make my dinner, crawling under the table to keep my dick happy with her mouth as I ate. Then it was clean the dishes and service me with her cunt, ass or both before being taken back to her stall. She loved it. She couldn't be demeaned enough!
About a week into that regimen I had an another evil inspiration.
"This is not right," I told her while she was doing the dishes one evening. I was circling behind her scowling at her firm, naked buttocks. "You'll never really be a head of livestock until you have a proper brand. You need to be branded so I can prove that you're my property."
I could see a surge of fear flush through her face as the picture of a red hot branding iron forced against her tender bottom sprang into her mind. Amazingly, for a few moments she said nothing. She was actually weighing the idea, balancing her terror against her devotion to the fantasy.
"I guess you're right," she said finally, her voice soft and unsteady, her eyes fixed on the dishes in her hands. "Is there some way you can make it less painful?"
"Would I do that for a heifer?" I snorted scornfully.
She thought about it. "No, I guess not."
Recalling her original aversion to pain, I figured she'd back out, jettison her ambition to live like a head of livestock. It would be nice to take her back into my bed during these last weeks and treat her as a proper fuck toy. But no, it turned out she was determined to be a cow, even at the cost of great agony.
"All right," she whispered. "I'm your property, and if you think I need to be branded . . ." she swallowed hard, "you've got a right to do it." Her hands were trembling, but she never dropped a dish, nor did she raise any further objections or requests.
Damn! This was better than a fuck toy! I found a store that sold agricultural supplies and bought a branding iron personalized with my initials, along with a propane burner to heat it up. "Be sure it's glowing bright red and hold it in place for a good three seconds," the salesman advised me when I admitted I was a neophyte. "And make sure the critter's tied up nice and firm, cause when that hot poker hits its ass, it's gonna want to get the hell away! Know what I mean? You don't wanna have to keep jabbin' the poor thing until you get it right."
That evening after her shower, I led Crystal to the den where everything was all set up. I chose that room because I knew she'd be screaming like crazy and it was in the center of the house where little, if any, of her noise would escape. Her knees gave out when she saw what it was, but I caught her and helped her walk over to the table. She was shaking as I bent her over it, face down. She shivered the whole time as I tied her wrists and ankles to the table legs, stretching her out taut as a guitar string. She broke into tears as I belted her down firmly to the table at her waist and shoulders. But she never said a word. I was kind of hoping she'd faint and miss the ordeal altogether, but she was braver than either of us had realized. She watched me lift the red hot iron from the brazier with eyes big as moons.
"Are you ready, my little cow?"
Her answer was tiny, almost inaudible. "Yes, Master."
Every muscle in her body was tensed and trembling, awaiting pain such as she had never imagined. I didn't want to screw this up, so I made sure my mitted grip on the iron was good and firm as I drove the glowing letters against her pretty right cheek. The intensity of her scream rattled me, but I counted grimly to three before withdrawing the devilish instrument from her smoking flesh. I stuck it in the cooling tub and rushed to the other end of the table, throwing an arm over her shoulders and covering her neck with kisses as she convulsed in great, racking sobs. I whispered soothing things in her ear as her anguished cries gradually subsided into trembling whimpers.
"Now you're a proper cow, my lovely Crystal," I told her.
"Thank you, Master," she whispered between gasps.
During her last night I made love to her in her stall, right there on the straw. She had objected when I had tried to steer her into my bedroom after she'd finished the dishes. "You wouldn't take a cow into your bed with you, would you?" she had scoffed. She even insisted I attach her chain, as usual. She came again and again as we licked and groped and chewed and fucked each other, laving each other with saliva and sweat, her inner thighs drenched with her own juices and crusted with mine. We clutched and kissed each other for at least an hour after my body refused to refill and harden that instrument that felt so wondrously good inside her sheath.
"You can still change your mind," I whispered, caught between the joy of carnal pleasure with her and the even greater thrill of cooking and eating her.
For answer she kissed me tenderly and said, "I've never been so excited about anything as I am right now, knowing that tomorrow you'll actually mount me on a spit and roast me as meat! I'm so scared and so turned on I can hardly stand it!"
And that's the last time I offered her a way out.
Now, as she laid out the garnishings on the table where her steaming carcass would be placed, I admired the neat indentations of the brand. BLT. Byron Ludlow Thomas. I had reserved that particular cut of her meat for myself. Along with one of her breasts, of course.
When she had finished — all the fruits, veggies, desserts and side dishes laid out and covered, including the tub containing the sauce with which she was to be basted — I gave her three warm, soapy enemas to clean her out, scrubbed her down, pined up her hair and returned her to her stall to await our guests.
Tony, Eric, Blaise and Jennifer arrived around noon. I led Crystal out to a post I had placed in the center of a grassy spot in the lawn and attached her chain to it, creating the very scene she had envisioned earlier. She was gloriously nude (I had burned all her clothes long ago) and suitably docile as the five of us poked and prodded her, exploring the shape of her body with our hands, invading her moist inner places with our fingers. All four guests were duly impressed by her brand. The girls' eyes were wide as they tested the depth of it with their fingers. The chain was long enough that the men could put her on her hands and knees or lay her on her back to hump her. Blaise and Jennifer seemed a little nonplused at the sight of their boyfriends screwing this beautiful naked girl, but as Eric so aptly pointed out, "Whores don't get no say about who, where and how often their men fuck." The boys also insisted Blaise and Jennifer remove their undies, raise their minis and let "the cow" lick and suck at their pussies. The orgy continued until nearly every combination and position of bodies had been tried out and both Tony and Eric were beyond sexual resuscitation. As we were all collecting our apparel and restoring it to our bodies, I ordered Crystal to squat in front of us and empty her bladder in the grass. She cast her eyes down in shame, but did so without a murmur. In fact, not once during ninety minutes of hard use and humiliation had Crystal complained. She was the perfect obedient cow.
And now it was time to prepare her for the spit.
I brought out a pail of hot, soapy water and Eric scrubbed her cruelly with the same harsh brush I had been using on her while Tony douched her with salt water and vinegar, which made her whimper. We finished by rinsing her off with a garden hose.
I then put to her lips a small jar filled with the viscous liquid I had purchased from Tony. "Drink this, cow!" I demanded, and she gulped it gratefully.
By the time we had led her to the steel prep table and strapped her down with her legs spread wide and her head hanging off one end, her eyes were drooping and her lips were parted in a lazy smile. She only cringed a little as I plunged the knife into the top of her belly just below the breastbone and sliced her open, all the way to her pubis. Blaise fainted as I reached in a pulled out a handful of intestine, slicing it off at her rectum and cauterizing the wound with a soldering iron. Jennifer threw up her Vodka screwdrivers as I pulled out yards of the ropey viscera, finally slicing it free where it joined the stomach, stanching the various points of blood flow with the iron. I cleaned the blood off and away from her body with a sponge. The viscera I tossed into a bucket to feed to my guard dogs.
"Okay, Tony, here's the tricky part," I announced.
"Hey, wait!" Eric called out. He was busy trying to revive Blaise. "What's the point of bringing a bitch to a live girl roast if she ain't conscious?"
"Can't wait," I said. "Our cow might pass out. We've got to start inserting the spit, slowly and carefully, so as not to puncture her heart or lungs. We want her to live long enough to feel what it's like to be roasted alive."
I poured olive oil over the pointed end of the spit and guided it into Crystal's splayed vagina, the vulva still red from its recent abuse. Tony held up the far end to keep it horizontal. We twisted it clockwise as we pushed it slowly through her birth canal, as though screwing it into her body. She grunted and twitched as the point pierced her cervix and entered her womb. She grunted again when it tore through the other side of the uterus. Her eyes were wide open and she was smiling. The morphine was doing its magic. As Tony pushed and twisted the spit, I watched the point working its way through the emptied cavity of her abdomen. Eric soon joined the effort, drizzling olive oil on the metal as it entered Crystal's cunt, inch by inch. The two girls had recovered and were holding hands, staring at the skewering in horrified fascination. I continued to guide the point as it passed through the vacant abdominal cavity and approached the area between the lungs. Even if one lung were pierced, the other would keep her alive for a while. If we hit the heart, however, she would be dead in seconds. Somehow we managed to miss lungs and heart. Crystal was making a series of small cries as the point of the spit disappeared into the bloody center of her thorax.
"Jennifer!" I shouted. "Make yourself useful. Stand at her head and hold it up so I can watch her expression and hear what she says!"
Jennifer looked as though she would faint at having to help impale the same girl whose tongue had penetrated her vulva just fifteen minutes earlier. But at a nod from Tony, she did it.
"Blaise! You rub the cow's clit!" Eric chimed in. "You know how to do it so it makes her come. Same way you do yourself. I want to see her juices flow."
And flow they did, mixing with the oil to lubricate the cold, steel shaft as it twisted ever deeper through her body. I watched her face, a montage of pain and ecstacy, grimaces, gasps and smiles.
"Hang in there, sweetie!" I murmured.
"I can feel it!" she croaked. "It's in my. . ."
Her words were cut off by a series of little cries. Her eyes went wide as her throat bulged. Her body bucked as much as her restraints would allow, her mouth gaping open while I pushed her head back down to the angle we had worked out during Brandi's skewering. A moment later I saw the bloody point of the spit gliding over her tongue and out between her teeth. She was struggling for breath around the steel rod as it continued to slide forward, no longer able to speak because the spit had destroyed her larynx. I cut a small hole in her windpipe to help her breathe. When the point of the spit protruded a couple of feet from her mouth, the insertion was complete.
Seeing her thus impaled, her teeth biting the hard shaft, was erotic in the extreme. She blinked at me, her eyes gleaming with an incredible admixture of pain, fear and excitement. I kissed those eyes one last time, then oiled the L-bracket and pushed it up her ass as far as it would go before attaching it to the spit. She was panting through the hole in her throat as I stapled her belly shut, wired her knees and ankles to the shaft and flipped her over to wire her wrists together behind her. Tony and I wrapped her hair in aluminum foil and attached the foil to her scalp with eighteen common pins. The two of us then picked up the spit and carried it to the fire pit, placing her over the hot coals and the low flame of the gas fire. The spit began to turn. Tremors swept through her body. Orgasms? Shock? I couldn't tell.
I did the basting at first, liberally brushing the sauce she had prepared over her body as it turned. Each time her face came around I engaged her eyes. She could neither speak nor scream, of course, since the spit had destroyed her larynx. Only her eyes revealed her thoughts and the level of pain she was suffering as the heat of the fire and coals turned her skin pink, then to a bright red. But the morphine was apparently doing its work quite well. I asked her to blink twice at me if she was happy, and on the next turn of the spit she did. She lasted thirty-three minutes before her body went into a series of vigorous convulsions, and she died.
I stopped the turning of the spit for a minute to pin aluminum foil disks over her eyes, to keep them from exploding. Then turned up the fire and let her continue turning and roasting for the six hours it takes to bring a human female to gustatorial perfection. The fragrance of her steaming, bronzed carcass, fat dripping from the splits in her skin, had all our mouths watering by the time she was finally brought to the table, carved up and served.
She was delicious! Not just the juicy breast, rump and thigh meat, but every cut, including her calves, forearms, neck, fingers, tongue, heart, liver and her lovely, crispy cunt lips. Even Jennifer and Blaise admitted as much. Tony and Eric insisted on bringing home doggie bags.
In fact, Tony was so impressed with the banquet that he called me a few weeks later inviting me to an evening of pool where he offered me a handsome fee to arrange another such barbecue.
"I'd love to," I responded, "but I'm afraid I only had the one cow."
"No problemo," he assured me breezily. "Me and Eric will supply the cow."
"But Crystal did all the preparations and cooked all the side dishes and desserts. I don't know anything about that shit."
"Got it covered, man. A good buddy from my days as a guest of the state is a professional cook. Used to be a doc before he . . . uh . . . retired. He specializes in barbecues and can do all the trimmings. I told him how we did this girl and ate her meat and now he's hot to go. Thinks it's the coolest thing he's ever heard. Can't wait to do it. Gets a hard-on every time he thinks about it!"
"Okay," I said cautiously. "But where'd you get this cow? Is she really into this?"
"She is now . You remember Blaise? The one with the big tits?"
"Blaise wants to be meat?"
"Bet your ass! The bitch cheated on me."
"Cheated on you? But she's a prostitute! Isn't that what prostitutes do? Fuck lots of guys?"
"Yeah, but she was doin' 'em on the sly and keepin' the fee. Can't have that shit. So I gotta make an example of her. But I'm fair. I give her a couple a choices for punishment. She chose to be meat on a skewer, just like your cow."
I didn't ask what the alternate choice was.
"In fact," he went on, "she insists that she get the whole — you know — treatment. Branding, chained up in a stall for two weeks, like you did Crystal. Eating cow food from a wooden bin, shitting in the straw, getting tied to a post and fucked over. Then getting strapped down, sliced open, degutted, speared from cunt to pie hole and slow roasted live over an outdoor fire. The whole fuckin' ball o wax. And she don't want no drugs, neither. Insists she get to enjoy the full . . . whatcha call it? . . . experience."
"She insists, huh?"
"Practically begged me."
"Rather than the . . . uh . . . the other choice."
"Oh shit, yeah! No fuckin' contest."
"Sounds like I'd be doing her a favor."
"Big time, buddy. Big time."
I was getting hard myself. I remembered her lush figure and amazing front porch. But much as being roasted alive might be better for her than whatever other horror Tony had suggested, we were talking major, major pain.
"Jesus, Tony!" I said. "My place is remote, but without drugs, when she starts screaming and carrying on . . ."
"No sweat. Doc has already slit her vocal cords. She won't make a sound. Plus, you got two weeks to fuck the cow as much as you want, make her do whatever you want. If she gives you any shit, you just tell me and I'll see she remembers her place."
And that's how it went. We branded her the day her brought her over, and that was pretty traumatic. It was Blaise's first experience with such terrible pain, and she fainted. But Tony brought smelling salts so she wouldn't miss the salt and alcohol treatment on the fresh burn. After two weeks chained in that stall with her hands cuffed behind her, sleeping and shitting in the hay, pissing in the bucket and sticking her head in the manger to munch on salad greens, Blaise appeared almost glad to be led out for her final degradation and prepping. The smelling salts kept her awake and aware throughout the entire ordeal, from the disemboweling and impaling to turning on the spit over the fire. I must admit, watching her squirm and buck in her agony was immensely erotic. Whereas Crystal, in her happy, drugged daze wriggled sensuously and seemed to be humping the spit during her last thirty-three minutes over the fire, Blais thrashed and twisted like a worm on a hook. We all masturbated furiously as we watched, even the girls. Blais died only fifteen minutes into her roasting, but she put on a spectacular show while she lasted.
According to all present, the barbecue was a great success. Tony had brought Jennifer and a couple of his new girls to entertain Doc, Eric, me and himself. Doc turned out to be a fine chef. The meat and all the side dishes were melt-in-your-mouth superb! As host, I got half of one of those magnificent mammaries, including the crunchy nipple. Tony and Eric seemed to think the cunt meat was a big deal, so I let them divvy it up between them. Cunt meat is tangy and the lips roast up nice and crisp, but there's not much of it and the vaginal walls are a bit chewy for my taste. Frankly I prefer the tender, juicy parts — the breast and rump. There was plenty of good wine flowing so we were all properly snookered and naked by the time the deserts were rolled out. It was a memorable feast!
Not three weeks went by before Tony called again. Seems Jennifer had been charging her clients extra for certain enhancements to the normal full service and not reporting it. Will these girls never learn? Of course, it's also possible that Jennifer, having participated in two cow roasts, had subconsciously taken on the same fantasy that led Crystal and Brandi to the spit. Perhaps she's having the time of her life! What's left of it. In fact, the more I think about it, the more I'm convinced that must be the case. Why else, having seen what "cheating" on Tony brought to Blaise, would she turn around and do essentially the same damn thing? She must secretly be loving every minute of her life as a cow, even if she can't say so, her vocal cords having been snipped and all.
Even as I write this, she is munching on salad greens in her stall, awaiting her turn on the spit. We already have four new paying guests lined up for this next barbecue at $2K a plate and Tony assures me he has an endless supply of cows that can be rounded up for future roasts. I've also started running my ad again and got a nibble today.
Life is good!
It's been eight month's and seven more roasts since Jennifer was served (and a tasty thing she was, too). Meanwhile, I've been right out straight! Between the greedy idiots in the newspaper executive suite and tight-fisted business owners bitching about advertising costs, I've been hard pressed for a stress-free minute. I don't think a day went by during those eight months when Heather Moray, our spoiled bitch CEO, wasn't pissing and moaning about how I need to "reorganize the ad department" (again), and how I must double our ad revenue (again), and if I can't do it, she's got a file drawer full of résumés from young bucks who are sure they can!
Of course, she hasn't done any complaining during this last week. For one thing, she's in no position to complain any more. And never fear, I've kept her abreast of the fact that both readership and — more important — ad revenues have indeed doubled since her mysterious abduction and the subsequent international media hoopla. The sweaty public (and the advertisers who feed off them) have come straight to the Times Journal in droves to catch exclusive tidbits on the mystery. For some reason they assume her own newspaper will have juicy tidbits the rest of the media doesn't have. Needless to say, we are able to titivate their curiosity with an inexhaustible supply of color photos of our missing publisher — many of them taken on Jamaican beaches with very little of her shapely, thirty-two year old body hidden behind the tiny scraps of her bikini. Sad to say, Heather Better-than-Thou Moray is not going to be able to taste the fruits of her newspaper's newfound prosperity. I, on the other hand, am going to be able to taste her fine, expensively tuned body. I've already drunk deep of the terror that wells up in her eyes every time I pay her a visit.
As the TV networks have been at pains to mention, Mrs. Heather Moray, as slippery and slimy a character as her eely name suggests, didn't rise to her position of power in the newspaper industry by virtue of her sagacity for directing a news operation or brilliance as a business manager. She arrived at the top because she's the granddaughter of the original owner-publisher-CEO, Neville Johnson. Granddaddy was charmed out of his gourd by the beauty and effervescence of his cute little granddaughter, and on the strength of her undistinguished degree from Amherst College and the many possibilities for exploiting her photogenic qualities as a former Miss Massachusetts and second runner-up for Miss America, he named her as his successor to the publishing throne. Nepotism rules! During the last company Holiday Party, proud Grandpa bored us all with video clips from the Atlantic City competition. I must admit, Heather was by far the most gorgeous of the three finalists, but her so-called "talent" was an embarrassment. She couldn't sing for shit! Claims she had a cold and blew out her voice during rehearsals for the big production number. Didn't want us to hear it, but Gramps played it anyway. She was most proud of her bullshit answers to their bullshit questions. "My ambition is to follow in my grandfather's footsteps in the newspaper business and use the power of the press to spread truth and give a voice to the victims of oppression and injustice to improve their lot in the world." Oh please! Her ambition has been to increase readership with garish stories of sex and violence so she can raise her rip-off advertising rates and send serfs like me into the world to improve her obscene annual bonuses.
Hubby Justin Moray is a commercial property developer whose principal claim to fame is an ability to bleed lots of profit exploiting once beautiful landscape. He did manage to get his lovely, illustrious and bitchy wife knocked up a year ago, but has remained strictly behind the scene until his wife's abduction last week. There is, naturally, substantial suspicion that he's the culprit and has planted her body under concrete in one of his construction sites, but there's no evidence that warrants running around ripping up cellars.
The note left behind in their mansion by her abductors has stirred up plenty of speculation but nothing remotely helpful. It was pasted together from words clipped out of her own newspaper.
WE GOT YOU'RE WIFE. IF YOU WANT HER BACK IT WILL COST YOU $1 MILLION. IF YOU GO TO THE POLICE SHE IS DEAD. WE WILL LET YOU KNOW HOW AND WEAR TO LEAVE THE MONEY.
No such followup instructions have been made, of course, but most people assume it's because the story was leaked to a major TV network and the cops pounced almost immediately, not to mention the FBI, Homeland Security and every news outlet in the world. The note, grammatical errors and all, is a dead end. Same for Mrs. Heather Slit-licker Moray herself.
It was Tony who actually came up with the idea. We were in his office eating sandwiches made from the leftover rib meat of our eighth cow, a particularly tasty young slut named Melanie, and I was bemoaning the hell of having to work for such a world-class bitch.
"So who would take over if she went away?" Tony had asked.
"George Ester," I said, "her assistant."
"He any better to work for?"
"Yeah. He's a pro. He's realistic. Knows how the news and ad businesses work. Doesn't expect the impossible."
"So what's the problem? Just get rid of Miss Bitch-mouth."
"That would be nice. But how?"
"Why not just turn her into meat, like juicy little Melanie here?"
"That would be absolutely heavenly. But this is no anonymous whore we're talking about. Heather is a powerful and well-known figure."
"No problemo. Leave it to Tony," he said with that self assurance that had already provided us with eight lovely cows for our monthly banquets.
"But we already have a girl in the holding pen for Saturday," I said, "and I don't think I could put up with five or six weeks of angry bitching from Heather while we set up for the next one."
"In the first place, she ain't gonna be doin' no bitchin. Doc will take care of that, same as the other cows. In the second place, we don't wanna have a hot potato like that hangin' around to be found by the cops. There'll be no reason for anyone to suspect you, but there's no point takin' no chances, neither. What I'm sayin' is, maybe it's time we started thinkin' bigger. We got nineteen guests comin' Saturday at two large per plate, plus five a my girls to service 'em during the cookin. That's a lotta mouths to feed with just one little cow to go around. Time we got more generous with the meat, like double it. Give all the payin' customers a chance to sample the best cuts, like the tit meat. We can set up another pit and do two at once."
The more I thought about it as I chewed on Melanie, the more I liked the idea. "Yeah, we could do that. Doc and I can have another pit and prep table set up by Saturday. I like it!"
So it was that today's double feature got underway. Heather disappeared from her home two days later and arrived that evening in the back of a panel truck — naked, hog-tied and quiet as a mouse. You should have seen her eyes bug out when she saw me, and when I locked that collar around her neck. I clamped shackles on her ankles as well as cuffing her hands behind her back before I released her from the ropes. I knew better than give her a chance to kick me.
We no longer keep the girls in the cow stall. That was Crystal's fantasy and she loved it, but it was getting to be a pain in the butt for me. Now I keep our succession of cows in a cellar stall, chained to the wall by their collars with a lidded bucket within reach for bodily wastes. (Controls the stench of the shit better.) In place of the manger they have a metal bowl to eat out of, but they're still denied the use of their hands and have to stick their face in the food and pan of water like animals. Three or four weeks of languishing there without exercise tenderizes their meat. If they're good — obeying all orders with no show of temper or resistence — they get to sleep on a pad. If they're not perfectly obedient and respectful, they sleep on the concrete floor. Additional infractions bring them painful jolts from my cattle prod. They hate that cattle prod! It's a harsh way to spend their last days, but the way I see it, if they hadn't fucked up with Tony, he wouldn't have shipped them here in the first place. So too freaking bad if they don't like sleeping on concrete or feeling the bite of the prod. They earned it.
Tony and I have contemplated variations on the cooking ritual, like snuffing the cows first in amusing ways, but in the end we decided against it because the customers really enjoy seeing them roasted live. They love to watch them fight the pain, twisting and bucking on the spit as they turn over the fire. Doc has come up with a cocktail of drugs which, while not affecting their flavor, help keep them alive longer as their bodies turn from pink to bright red over the intense heat. We can now keep them alive and in obvious agony for almost an hour. I've worked it out with Doc to see if we can stretch that out even longer for Heather. Of course, Christina, the dusky 17-year-old beauty Tony has supplied as her partner cow, will have to suffer the same extended ordeal because Tony has three pools going with a lot of money riding on them. They start when the cows are placed over the fire to cook. One is for betting on which cow will live the longest; the other two reward whoever comes closest to the number of minutes each girl will last.
With only a few days to extend my special hospitality to Heather, I gave her an intensive course in obedience. It has been a traumatic week for a bitch accustomed giving the orders.
The first thing I noticed when they brought her in was that her nipples were leaking milk. The bitch has been nursing her whelp! Doc was ecstatic. He says the milk will make her tit meat sweet and succulent and he's prepared a special side dish with apple and mint which should be an ideal complement to it. In the meantime, I rented a milking machine — not the gentle type designed for human mothers, but the more brutal type intended for real dairy cows. She cried pitifully every time I planted those plastic tubes over her teats and the machine sucked her entire boobs into the tube. I saved all the milk, too, for one of Doc's sauces. For additional humiliation, I made her straddle my lap while I sucked on her tits myself. The cattle prod shoved up her pussy rendered her marvelously cooperative. I only had to press the button once to be assured of her cooperation. I also made her lick her cell mate's pussy several times, jamming her tongue deep into the slit. Nor did I deprive her of the delight of sucking my cock. Also, Doc's and Tony's. While she worked on our dicks, taking care to swallow every drop of our semen and piss (always aware of that painfully inserted cattle prod), I made sure she heard us discussing how she would be disemboweled and cooked. Christina whimpered nearby, knowing the fate we were planning for Heather would apply to her as well. But so what. As I said before, if she hadn't been a bad little slut while working for Tony, she wouldn't be here in the first place.
I came up with a cool idea for enhancing the festivities. It's based on Crystal's scheme for snuffing Brandi. Tony liked it because it had the added benefit of making the two cows unavailable for sexual use during much of the morning, which, in turn, means the guests have to pay his girls if they want to dip their sticks. I'm going to go fetch the cows and set it up right now.
That was great! Here's what we did. We led the two naked females, their hands tied behind them, to a set of two large blocks of ice we had placed under a thick tree limb. We replaced the collars around their necks with a hangman's noose and tossed the other end of the ropes over the limb. We made them climb up on the blocks of ice, then pulled the ropes taut and tied them off. Next we set up two betting pools: one on which of the two sluts would last the longest before passing out, the other on how long it would take for that to happen.
The whimpering began within the first quarter hour as their feet grew increasingly cold. Soon their whole bodies were shaking as they danced on the ice, trying to relieve first one foot, then the other. As they gradually sank deeper into the melting blocks and the nooses tightened around their necks, they stood on tiptoe, hopping from one side to the other. They tried to get a toehold on the higher edges of the ice, but kept sliding off to the outside or to the center. Both women were gasping now, their mouths open, the nooses alternately choking them and loosening a little as they found brief purchases on the outer ridges of the ice, then slipped off in a spray of water. Christina was the first to lose touch with the ice block entirely, perhaps because she was a little heavier, or warmer. Her feet flailed in the air as she pointed her toes vainly toward the ice, her diaphragm laboring desperately to push and pull air past the ever tightening noose. A few minutes later Heather, too, was treading air, eyes popping, tongue protruding in her frantic struggle to breathe. Her arms jerked and pulled at the ropes binding her wrists behind her back, a frantic if hopeless attempt to yank them free to clutch at the noose crushing her windpipe. For more than thirty minutes both females thrashed above the shrinking ice. They amused their audience with gurgling, grunting noises as they slowly strangled — kicking and twisting, fighting for every thimbleful of air. Christina lost control of her bladder first, then Heather, their urine dripping off their toes into the cold puddles in the hollowed out tops of the ice blocks. Finally, their eyes, bulging with terror and a silent, desperate plea for rescue, began to glaze. They twitched and struggled for six more minutes before Christina, nipples hardening in an involuntary orgasm, gave one last spasm and became still. Tony and I immediately took her down and revived her with CPR and oxygen. Heather suffered her own near death experience three minutes later. As the oxygen brought her around afterward, I made it a point to wipe the fingers of my right hand across her wet pussy and then across her swollen tongue, making sure she tasted the shame of her very public piss and orgasm. For good measure I pinched her still hard nipples, making her grimace and producing satisfying squirts of mother's milk.
"Your little brat won't be getting any more of this," I told her as she shivered in near shock. "But your dinner guests will. Oh, just so you know," I added in a sudden inspiration of malicious revenge, "I plan to come for your daughter in about twelve years. Our chef tells me her meat should be lovely and tender by then. Adolescent tits are especially succulent. We might even get her pregnant and keep her in a cage until her own milk comes in, to make them even sweeter and juicier. Like yours."
Heather made a valiant effort to rise up, her eyes inflamed with an admixture of hate, fear and despair, emitting panting noises in a useless effort to speak . But with her hands still bound behind her and her voice destroyed, she could only mouth a laughably impotent No! Please! No!
Doc gave both cows a shot of his special drug cocktail (which must have hurt like hell going in, to judge from their reactions) for longevity over the fire. We made them get up and march around the barbecue area three times to make sure it circulated into their systems and to revive them fully from the slow hanging. A little after 1:00 pm they were strapped down to the tables for evisceration and spitting. At the fourth barbecue Doc started experimenting with the addition of stuffing to the emptied abdominal cavities. He has evolved a heavenly blend of breads fruits, vegetables and spices that's as mouth watering in its own right as the meat itself whose flavors it absorbs during the hours of roasting.
Even now I'm inhaling the incredibly delicious aromas from the fire pits as I write up in my private office. Once again Christina died first, although she lasted a good forty minutes. Heather had the dubious distinction of living in hell for sixty-two minutes before she ceased wriggling and twitching on the spit. Their carcasses have taken on a beautiful bronze color, glistening with a dozen layers of basting sauce. In another two hours they will be dark bronze and ready for carving, slicked with their own inner juices bubbling through the crisp skin.
A few of the guests are pretty well bombed, as always happens, but most have complied with our recommendation that they stay sober enough to enjoy the feast itself. Tony's girls have been doing a brisk and profitable business. I'm looking down on a blonde right now, laid out face up on the lawn, clothes off, legs wrapped around a member of the Indian consulate as he pounds away inside her, oblivious to others in the vicinity. If the sight of her former colleague cooking over the fire nearby causes her any foreboding, she's hiding it well. Thing is, once a girl goes to work for Tony and Eric, she better not even think of displeasing them, much less quitting. As a safety measure, his sluts are brought here in blindfolds and don't know where it is or who I am, so I don't worry about what they see. If Tony feels any concern about a girl, she soon finds herself voiceless and chained up in my cellar, waiting for the next barbecue.
Tony and I have already discussed preliminary plans for the next feast. He has two girls picked out who've been whining about appointments with one of his regular clients, a gentleman who insists on using them as a toilet after sex. He pays handsomely for the extra service so who the hell cares what the whores want? Their job is to spread their legs and open their mouths. If he wants to shit in a girl's pie-hole, she's expected to swallow it and lick his asshole clean. Period. These girls weren't dragged into the sex business kicking and screaming. They got into it for the money, and as far as Tony's concerned they'd better damn well earn the fucking money. As in any other part of the service industry, that means pleasing the customer. It means . . .
What the hell is that?
There's some sort of commotion going on down there on the lawn. Better check out the window.
Okay. Deep breath. No big fucking surprise. I knew in my heart it would come to this some day. Too many cooks. Too much risk.
Ah, Crystal! Why didn't I stop with you? You were so sweet, so eager. It was your big dream. You really wanted it. It wasn't like I was killing you; I was making your dream come true. Okay, in retrospect what I should have done was use my charm to talk you out of it, or at least put it on indefinite hold until you outgrew the urge, maybe get you pregnant so you'd have somewhere else to direct your sensual energies. If I'd done that, you'd be here with me now and I wouldn't be staring at my 9 mm Glock and wondering if I'll hear the noise when it goes off.
Well, at least the Bitch Goddess got hers, right? Too bad I won't get to slice up her milky tits, but they're probably sour anyway.
Shit, here they come! I can hear them starting up the stairs.
This isn't exactly how I planned to go, but then, unlike you my sweet Crystal, most of us don't plan on going at all. So what the hell? One way is as good as another, right? One way I intend NOT to go is to rot to death in a Massachusetts prison, treated like Hannibal Lecter. "The Knobscot Monster!" That's what they'll probably tag me. Well, piss on that! I'd rather join you, my darling, happily roasting over Lucifer's fires.
They're banging open doors down the hall now. They'll be breaking this one down in another minute. Fuck them!
I can smell the sweet jasmine fragrance of your body again, feel your young breast under my hand, your hand inside my pants, taste your delicious juices on my lips — just like in the car that day we met, and at the table as I transferred your buttery, crisp nipple from the fork to my tongue. Wait for me, my love. Save a place for me on the next spit. Here I come!
Appendix A: The Times Journal, July 7
MORE HORRORS REVEALED IN KNOBSCOT MURDERS
POLICE ALLEGE CANNIBALISM, SEARCH FOR MORE VICTIMS
Body Identified as Missing Newspaper Publisher
KNOBSCOT — Police confirmed today that the two bodies found at the scene of Saturday's raid in Knobscot may only be the tip of a horrifying iceberg in which at least ten young women may have been systematically murdered and eaten over the last nine months.
According to police, a document found near the body of the estate's owner names other victims who were, according to the document, killed as part of a monthly cannibalistic ritual. Several law enforcement agencies are now combing the estate with the aid of dogs to search for the burial sites of the remains.
Detective Robert Conway of the Massachusetts State Police confirmed that one of the two victims found impaled on spits during the raid has been positively identified as that of Heather Moray, 32, the missing Boston newspaper publisher who was abducted from her Newton home eight days earlier and was the subject of an intense search by State and local police.
The second victim is still officially listed as unknown, but sources close to the investigation say the same document identifies her as a seventeen year old prostitute named Christina who was in the employ of Tony Anatoli, 56, of Dorchester, one of two suspects who fled the scene as police arrived.
The estate, located off Schoodic Road in a remote area of Knobscot, is listed as the property of Byron L. Thomas, 48, advertising manager for the Times Journal, the same Boston newspaper for which Moray was the publisher. Police sources say they arrived at the third floor office of his mansion seconds before he shot himself in the head with a nine millimeter handgun.
Anatoli and a business associate, Eric Reardon, were apparently alerted by a confederate with a cell phone when police arrived at the main gate to the estate. Police believe the two fled on foot through the woods to a waiting car. A nation-wide alert has been sent out for their arrest.
Sources close to the investigation report that the bodies of Moray and the second female were found turning on spits over open fires in separate barbecue pits and died just a few hours before police arrived. Several dining tables had been set up under canopies and two platters large enough to hold human carcasses were set up on butcherblock tables along with sets of professional grade carving knives and stacks of plates. Conway refused to confirm any of these details while the investigation continues, except to admit that the scene was "horrific" and "caused great distress to the officers involved in the raid."
According to Conway, police had received a call from a woman the night before alleging she was being held against her will to perform sexual favors for a group of men who were about to murder two women. She described the victims as "one of my friends" and "the missing woman on TV." He said she sounded hysterical and was unable to give a specific location because she had been brought there blindfolded. It was mid-afternoon before a police helicopter finally spotted smoke from a pair of barbecue pits. Law enforcement personnel arrived too late to save Moray and the other victim.
Presumably the woman who alerted them was one of five females who were among the twenty-five persons arrested at the site. It is unclear which of the women placed the call to police because all five are claiming credit. They all claim to have been forced into prostitution by Anatoli and Parisi under threat of becoming future sacrifices at the cannibal "barbecues."
Both Anatoli and Reardon have lengthy records of arrests for crimes related to the sex industry, and are alleged to have run prostitution rings throughout New England.
The document found by police was apparently written by Thomas and chronicles earlier murders dating back to the disappearance of two young women from Frenchtown, New Jersey: Crystal Perry and Brandi Wyatt. Police say the document makes it clear that Thomas, who describes himself as the "Knobscot Monster," had a strong grudge against Moray, who was his supervisor at the newspaper.
"Once all the facts come out, I don't believe there will be another crime in the history of this country that can compare with this one for grisly horror and revulsion," said Conroy. "These are pretty sick puppies and what they did was so gruesome it turns my stomach to think about it."
Appendix B: Letter to Rachel
NOTE: This letter is postmarked August 1 and did not come to light until after the trial when the recipient, Rachel Ratison, sold it to a supermarket tabloid for a reported $75,000. It was written in longhand by one of the female defendants whose real name has never been released because she is a minor. The letter is reprinted verbatim here, except that misspellings have been corrected in order to make it more readable.
Guess where I am. Again. Yup. Sitting in jail. But not for hooking this time. This time they're trying to hang the big one on me. Accomplice to first degree murder, aiding and abetting, shit like that! My numbnuts court appointed lawyer says they're just trying to scare me. Well it sure is working!
Have you been catching all the hoopla on TV about the cannibal bust where the two women were found roasting over a barbecue pit, one of them being that newspaper lady that got herself snatched, and how the cops arrested a bunch of guys and five working girls? Well guess what! One of those five girls was me!!!
They ain't published my name or nothing because of me being only sixteen and all, but I was right there fucking up a storm with all those rich dudes before the fucking roof fell in. The fucking cops are trying to nail us girls for being part of the killing along with the rich dudes, like we was there because we had a fucking choice! My shithead lawyer wants me to plead guilty to prostitution to satisfy the DA so he can talk him into putting me into hiding as a material witness. But the other lawyers are telling the other girls the DA's got no proof we was paid for fucking those dudes on account of Tony, who was collecting all the cash (as he always does), up and disappeared the instant the cops showed up, him and that fucking Eric, and took our money with em. They was the only ones who escaped. The cops say someone with a cell phone must've tipped em off that a fucking parade of cop cars was tooling through the front gate, so they took off through the woods to a stashed car. Anyway, them lawyers are telling the other girls to say they're innocent victims because they was forced to be there and do all that stuff, so there's no way I'm gonna plead guilty to anything! You think I'm gonna let them girls come off looking like innocent sex slaves while I come off looking like the town whore! Fuck that! Juries think if you'll fuck for money you'll do anything for money, including killing and eating people. No way, Jose!
The DA has been asking me if I was there for any of the other barbecues and if I helped myself to any of the meat. Like I'm dumb enough to answer THAT! What those dickheads don't seem to understand is that Tony and Eric would of had me up there roasting alongside Christina if I give them any shit. Christina was the other girl they cooked, by the way. Remember her? Cute chick, big dark eyes, dark hair, about my height, didn't smile much. Attitude. Tits to die for! Oops, bad choice of words. Anyway, me and her were good buds, but she sassed Tony once too often and next thing you know, they're ripping her guts out and ramming a metal rod up her cunt and out her mouth and putting her over the fire to cook alongside the newspaper lady. And the both of them was alive the whole time!!! Weird thing is you could see they was both trying to scream, being in such pain and all, but not a sound comes out. The guy in charge of the cooking, the chef I guess you'd call him, a dude named Doc, slashed the inside of their throats so they can't so much as peep. They both died while turning slow over the fire, their skin turning bright red! You think I was gonna piss off Tony and wind up like that? Not when he tells me in so many fucking words that I'm next if I don't put out proper for his guests, including hanging around the tables, sitting in their laps, eating with em, pushing my tits in their face, getting them jazzed up for another high-priced round of Pound the Pussy. Hell, he even gave me a fucking quota like I was selling fucking cars. Told me I had to bring in at least $2500 or I'd be worth more to him as meat at the next picnic. And I was doing it, too. I was sucking and fucking and rimming those old dudes every which way — on the beds, on the sofas, on the floors, in the tubs, on the tables, you name it. I must of swallowed a gallon of cum. Hell, I swallowed worse than that! When the cops arrived I was on the lawn getting screwed by a guy from India. He'd just unloaded his jizz in my cunt, and while the cops are boiling out of the cruisers he's shoving his sagging bone into my mouth and pissing down my throat, gripping me hard by the hair so I can't turn away. The cops had to pull him off me so's I wouldn't drown. The way you stay in one piece with Tony and Eric is to do whatever the fuck they say, which is all I was doing.
The rich turds have already got an army of lawyers claiming they didn't know nothing about what was cooking out back in the barbecue pit because they was so busy getting laid by us girls. So you watch — they'll probably all get off with some bullshit charge like statutory rape, or whatever they call fucking a minor these days. I'm thinking the DA knows there's gonna be a lot of TV coverage for this trial and he don't want just a couple of scruffy dudes like Doc and maybe Tony and Eric (if they can catch them, which I doubt) on camera, so he wants to add some hot female flesh. Nothing like a string of sexy young chicks with bulging boobs on trial to keep the ratings up.
But he's got a big problem, because it was one of us girls who called the cops the night before the party and warned them about what was coming down. The girl who called couldn't tell them where it was because we was always blindfolded when they brung us there. That's why it took the cops so long to find us. The DA has been trying to find out which one of us called so he can make her out to be a big fucking hero and lock the rest of us up for life as killers. But that's SO not fair! We was all scared and wanted to get outta there, but only one of us could use the phone. We'd lifted a cell phone from one of the guests because the house phone line was blocked and we all agreed that every one of us would take credit for the call. And that's what we're doing.
Now the fucking DA wants to keep me locked up in here for the next ninety-nine years. I think I'd rather be gutted and cooked because now I'm not only scared, but bored too. If I had a gun I'd shoot myself like that geek who owned the mansion. What a creep he was! Always taunting the newspaper lady, as if she wasn't in enough misery. You know what he did? He strung em up by the neck, both her and Christina. First he stands em up naked on blocks of ice with ropes around their necks, then when it melts he leaves them hanging for at least an hour, kicking and jerking, slowly strangling, their eyes and tongue bugging out. They was barely alive when he took them down. Then when he was sure they'd come to and could feel pain again, he had them sliced open and their guts torn out (which he fed to a pair of Dobermans in a cage). Then he had the women mounted on spits and put over the fire to roast to death. He blew his brains out before the cops could get up to his office. It was on the third floor right above where I was getting fucked on the lawn. I even heard the gun go off. It was while I was pukin up the load of piss from the Indian dude.
That's the kinda stuff that went on while we was trying to keep Tony's customers happy. Anything the customer wanted from us he got, as long as he paid Tony up front. Now the only thing that scares me more than life in prison is being set free and getting caught by one of Tony's goons. I'm trying to remember why I ever went to work for him in the first place. It must have been for money. It sure as hell wasn't his charm.
Jesus! That was three years ago. I was thirteen and had just made my big escape from my asshole step-dad. (Mom still doesn't believe he was fucking me every time I got home from school before she got home from work.) It took me about a month of starving and sleeping in alleys to figure out that wasn't gonna work. But I refused to go home, so I let Tony sweet-talk me into putting my pussy to work. I can remember his exact words. "Long as those pretty titties and that sweet twat are all nicely broke in, why not put them to good use, let them make money for you so's you can sleep in a real bed and eat real food, buy yourself some cool clothes?" I think it was the clothes that did it. Strangers sticking their boners in my holes wasn't a whole lot different than having my asswipe step-father stuff a sock in my mouth and fuck me till I bled, but at least I was being paid for it. At first Tony only took a little of my fees as his "commission." Then he started keeping most of it and beat the shit out of me if I objected. I tried to run off once, but only once. It didn't take him and Eric long to run me down and beat me so bad I couldn't eat or walk for a week. I still had to work, though, only this time Tony kept ALL the money because I looked like shit and he had to offer cut rates.
So when he tells me I have to go to them barbecues and fuck everyone in sight and eat whatever the customers shove in my mouth, including slices of the main course, what the fuck do you think I'm gonna do?
Fuck! Would you believe I'm already horny again? It's been only three days since I was reamed six ways to Sunday by a dozen randy dudes, and here I am sitting on my fucking bunk with little Miss Wetfinger at work on my clit. You know what I can't get outta my head? I keep wondering what's it's like to have that thick metal spit shoved up my cunt and pushed through my body until it comes out my mouth. Then to be cooked and eaten. It's weird, I know, but the image of it is, like, stuck in my mind — the women being basted with a brush as they turn over the fire, the aroma of roasting girl meat, how it tastes, all hot and seasoned! Horrible as it is, it really gives me a rush! The more I think about it, the more I'd rather die as meat roasting over a fire than spend the next ninety-nine years rotting in this cell.
Oh don't worry. The jail spies won't be reading this. I'm giving it to my dufuss lawyer to mail.
So anyway, that's what's going on in my life. What's up in yours, lil' bud? Please write! It gets fucking lonely in this place.
Ever your friend,
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