Posted by Clemstra on September 26, 2004 at 17:44:00:
Choice of the Prey - by Clemstra
copyright 2004 - Clemstra
It was fall in London but the night had brought an
early heavy snow. Trees half bare of leaves were
laden with snow. unusual for this time of year to be
certain, but the weather cared little for what was
normal. The wooden floors shined with a fine glow,
the stones gleamed cleanly in the house. Emma smelled
of lemon oil from polish, the maids honest working
perfume. She could afford no other scents or niceties
on her salary.
Emma cleaned the ashes from the fire place in the
main room. Having done this she took the ash bag,
getting heavy as she balanced it, her breasts moving
beneath her as she did. She continued to clean the
other fire places through out Sir Desmond's home.
Her pale skin showed briefly against the spark of
flame in the fireplace, her rosy cheek did not
betray her ailing health, nor her naturally
rosy lips. Her hazel eyes were clear, with long
brown lashes. She put new wood in some of the
fire places and lit them for the cold night
before retiring herself.
It was on a night like this eighteen years ago she had
been born. Her mother alone, her father had died on
a naval vessel. Her mother had put her in The Service
as they called it, to Sir Desmond when she had been but
five. Emma had lived in the home since then. Growing
from kitchens helper, to scullery maid, to full house
maid with age and skill.
She'd never seen her mother again. She could only hope
her mother had survived. Life was tough for the underclass.
Emma made certain her light brown hair was back beneath
her maids cap. It was always fitting she appear neatly.
She felt another great spasm of pain that caught her breath.
No good complaining. Though Lord Desmond was a good man,
he would not pay for a servant who was ill and could not
do her job. If Emma let on she was ill, she would be worse
off in the cold, poverty stricken.
She went to her small maids room. It was all hers, the
promotion of scullery maid to full maid had given her
maids quarters rather then to share with the lower staff.
She went to bed, undressing from her uniform, her
short saque backed jacket, petticoat, apron and
clog covered shoes. On went the flannel nightie that
had been a Christmas gift from his lord ship to all
of the female servants of a certain age and class.
Had she been of a wealthier class her fine womanly
figure would have brought more notice. Rather then
hide it, binding with cloth and dull clothing, she
would have celebrated with fine dresses, make up
to accentuate her lips, perfume to entice. Her
breasts would have proudly been shown forward with
a gown, her find rump shown to it's best advantage.
But she was not of a wealthy class. She was a
poor servant, meant to work, not be put on
display or pampered.
The room was cold and the pains in her body began to
spread to her joints as she went into the small bed
that was hers. His lordship did not approve of the
waste of coal, so she had none to heat her room. She
covered herself with blanket and coverlets, waiting
for her body heat to build up and make her warm. She
tried to think of the blankets like the protecting
arms of a lover. Her nipples were cold and stiff,
her vaginal hole felt cold, wet with forbidden juices.
Thoughts she should not think in Sir Desmonds house.
She tried to dream there was no pain. A dream where
life might have purpose beyond keeping his lordships
house clean. Where a man might look at her as a
woman, not a servant. Might smile at her, might ask
her to dance as she had seen ladies dance, might wish to
embrace her.
At eighteen Emma was still a virgin. Lord Desmond was
very strict in the behavior of his servants. Emma did
not wish to chance loosing the only secure home and position
she'd ever known. others had, they'd been sacked, thrown
from the house and none had seen them since. Who knew
if they found other work, or lay starving on the streets
of London.
For many nights she had almost sworn she had heard a voice
call to her in the night. Impossible she thought, but then....
The warmth of the blankets keeping in her body heat allowed
her to find escape from the pain in sleep. In sleep she
heard again a voice. A distant voice, a voice from outside
the household of Sir Desmond.
"Emma" the voice called out. A rich voice, a mans voice called
to her. She awoke from her deep sleep to hear herself clearly
called now. She dreaded the cold of the night as she pulled
aside the covers. The cold hit her, driving air from her
lungs and stinging her nipples.
She found slippers and a cover gown for decency sake to
look for the voice. She put on her cap and put up
her hair. Let it not be that she be caught looking
so unseeingly. The voice, it was not Lord Desmond, and
he had no guests staying over.
"Emma" the voice called again. "Emma, come out to me,
come out and I will take away your pain. Sweet,
sweet pleasure shall by yours in it's place."
The voice was so clear, she wondered no others were awakened
in the house by it.
"They can't hear me Emma. Only you can. Your dying Emma."
"No" She said with clenched teeth, a tear streamed down her
left check. "It's just a pain that will go away, that's all"
she exclaimed.
"No Emma, it's not going away. It will get worse, oh so much
worse. But I can help you Emma. that is my gift. A predators
gift to my prey, but a gift to give none the less."
"Prey" she envisioned wolves surrounding a lamb, ripping and
tearing.
"I can take the pain, give you joy, give you pleasure. Isn't
that better then dying alone. You know despite all of your
loyalty and hard work, they will throw you out to die alone,
in pain on the cold streets."
She was temporarily blinded with tears. Her long fingers,
nails short from hard work, clenched. The voice spoke
truthfully, she didn't want to admit it. The pains were
getting worse. How much longer could she hide it. Sir
Desmond would not pay for her to do nothing. She would
not have her nice room and bed with covers when she was
dismissed.
"Come to me Emma. I can make it good, so good, has anyone
ever loved you Emma?"
It seemed a low blow for the voice to say this. At
eighteen she was still a virgin. Now knowing that death
had staked a claim on her with the increasing pains made
it a nightmare.
She sobbed, the tears coming now in torrents.
"Come to me Emma. You won't be sorry. I keep my promises,
I pay for what I take. It will be good for you Emma."
She found herself walking down the hall to the side door of
the kitchen. She opened the door a blast of cold air
seemed to wake her from the spell. She hesitated, closing
the door on the outside cold.
"Come Emma, just a little ways more. Just step out to
me in the night."
She felt horror at what she had almost done. Something
was out there, it literally wanted to eat her. Emma's
stomach felt as if a knife was cutting from within,
her chest grew tight and her heart skipped a beat.
"It's a choice Emma. Not everyone is given such a choice,
but I like you Emma. I've watched you and want you. Want
you to have something special in the last of your life,
and your death. Come to me, cross over the threshold
and come to me of your own free will."
Free will, that was it. The creature wanted her of her
own free will. Was it unable to come in for her?
"Emma," the voice sounded calm. "I could come in for you,
but this should be YOUR choice. How often have you had a
choice Emma?"
How often? She hadn't really. She'd no choice where or
to who she'd been born. She'd no choice in being given
to Sir Desmond as a servant in training at five. This
had been considered a good move by her poor mother, one
to keep her alive, with a future of some kind.
Now she had a choice. If she stayed, she would be
discovered. She would be dismissed and she would
easily go through her last wages and die alone in poverty.
If she went out to the voice? It was a choice.
She opened the door, the cold came in, she braced herself
and went out. The door closed behind her, locking. She
had left the world of being Sir Desmond's household maid
behind.
In the cold of the night, fog swirled about, obscuring
much. Gaslight illuminated bits of the street and walk
way towards the front to the carriage house.
"Emma," the voice now very near. She felt strong arms
embrace her from behind. Hands upon her shoulders, massaging
her shoulders, whispering in her ears, the lips lightly
touching her check with a kiss.
The pain seemed to go away, it was gone all at once. Instead
of cold she started to feel warm. She relaxed, feeling
safe, grateful the pain was no more.
"I keep my word sweet Emma." The voice of her unknown benefactor,
possible lover, predator. He continued to stroke and kneed her
shoulders. She sighed, no one had every touched her this way.
His arms continued down, finding her breasts, smoothing his
hands over the fabric of her robe, over her bosoms.
"Let's go some where more conductive to our purpose shall we?"
"yes" she responded with a smile, relaxing, giving herself
over to the pleasures.
She found herself lifted, flying through the air. The
house of Sir Desmond below, along with all the other houses.
They were all so small beneath her.
In the house of Sir Desmond a loud laugh of a man was heard.
It awoke Sir Desmond and his staff. Sir Desmond demanded
to know what was the cause. No one knew but the maid Emma
was missing. A worry, as she was a good girl he knew, and
Sir Desmond would summon the constable. A kindly act for
such a man, for such a minor servant.
The man carried her outside London to an old estate in
partial ruin. to her surprise it was clean inside,
and showed a magnifigance that made Sir Desmond's
house seem a pauper. The main floor was inlaid with
tiles of different colors, creating patterns.
Had people once danced on this same floor?
Her escort lit a torch and some candles, so could
see him clearly now. He stood tall, gaunt with dark eyes,
a hawk like nose, red lips and a ruddy complexion. His dark
hair was curly and he was dressed in the manner of some
foreign nobleman.
He bowed to her. "Shall we dance?"
"I don't know how." She had never learned, why would one
teach a servant such things?
He laughed. I shall show you. He took her arms and led
her, they twirled and laughed together. She imagined that
her night gown was a beautiful evening dress and for the
first time she could remember, she stood nobly. her breasts
pushed out, her back straight, she presented herself to him.
When they finished he carried her up the stairs to a lavish
wash room. A large tub of marble with water and rose petals.
"For me?" She felt tears, no one had ever done something so
for her.
"All for you Emma, this is your night."
He helped her undress. She no longer felt shy, but adventurous,
as he slipped the robe and gown from over her fine smooth
body. Her took off her maids cap, her long light brown
hair fell loosely, the candle light reflecting upon it in
places like a mirror.
He ran his hand through her hair, enjoying her soft smooth
silky feel.
"Your very beautiful Emma."
"I'm not you know," she said tearfully.
"yes Emma you are. Tonight you are a lady, my lady and
none come before you."
He kissed her on her lips, her face burned in a pleasant
manner and a quiver of desire ran down her body. She
felt moist between her legs, desiring him. His smell
so different from her own, like musk.
He put her in the bath tub, the warm water a welcome
joy. He scrubbed her slowly, enjoying the feel of
her flesh, of her enjoyment of him feeling her. It was
a decadent pleasure, as he slowly massaged,
scrubbed and wet every part of her.
He took her out, drying her off with a soft towel.
"Now lady to your bedding." He kissed her long this time,
sweeping her up and carrying her to what strangely looked
like a kitchen.
"A strange place for bedding, my lord."
"Ah, but you will be so much better for it."
He smiled as he put her on a large counter. He
undressed himself and she shyly looked. She'd
never really seen a naked man before. He was well
formed, curly dark hair upon his chest, his arms
well muscled but not overly so. His fingernails
and toe nails showed a high shine, his hands showed
male perfection. His member long and straining,
growing stiff before her. Two bits of round flesh
behind his member she guessed to be what were called
his balls.
He started to massage her. Massaging her toes with his
hands, then the heel of her foot, the total foot, then
the other. He even kissed her feet and she found he
licked them with his tongue.
"Your very sweet Emma, so tasty a morsel."
She found herself no longer fearing, wanting, wanting him,
wanting him in her and to be devoured by him. It was
like a strong wave washing away all prior restraints
and fears.
He massaged intently her calves, her soft tender thighs.
At her vagina he spread her legs and massaged slowly,
and for the first time in her life she felt an orgasm.
He moved his mouth down to her crotch, kissing, then
licking, his tongue going in and out to lap her vaginal
juices. She felt his tongue over her clitoris, sending
her to yet another orgasmic journey. He sucked hungrily
then continued up.
He massaged intently her hips, ribs and especially her
breasts. She found another explosion of pleasure as
he started to stroke, lick, then suck her nipples.
He massage her face, kissing her all over, then
turned her over. He started again at her feet and
repeated the process, massaging her buttocks, telling
her what a fine rump roast she had.
He massaged the nap of her back and shoulders, then
turned her to face up once more.
Once more he started to stroke parts of her body,
exciting her, causing her to feel wet again. This
time he lay on her, his legs wrapping about hers.
She felt his member start to enter her, then draw
back, enter and draw back. She begged him to take
her, wanting him fully in her.
He came into her vagina, his penis penetrating
once and for all her virginity. A small moment
of pain and then the pleasure started to build.
She had never so vocalized as a servant, giving
vent to her natural pleasure.
They lay together quietly, his member unmoving
inside her.
"Now I must get you ready for dinner."
"Dinner," she said pleasurably?
He moved off and out of her. She felt empty.
"Don't worry, I'll stuff you with some nice stuffing
mix. Did you every help with the kitchen staff?"
"I was a kitchens helper then a scullery maid before
becoming a household maid."
"Good, good, have you a favorite recipe?"
She told him of the turkey they had made, how they
stuffed it and it has smelled so wonderful.
"That is how it shall be with you."
He put tubes up her anus and vagina and warm water
flowed up. He played with her nipples all the time,
making it a most pleasurable experience.
Then he removed the hair from her body and her nails,
to her surprise they came out with no pain.
"Did I not promise you my gift was to take from you
your pain?"
She smiled at him. It was indeed his gift, that and
to take away the fear or horror. She felt so happy,
wanted this, wanted him to consume her.
He rubbed her down with sweet churn butter, coated her
with savory herbs. He slowly stuffed her with bread
crumbs, diced onions, garlic, mushrooms and seasoning,
stuffing her anus and vagina full. Her stomach looked
fat, filled now with stuffing.
He put a carrot up her anus to plug the stuffing in,
and a large potato in her vagina with a metal rod for
a temperature reading. To her surprise he touched a
button on the rod and it started to vibrate the potato
in her vagina in a most delightful manner.
"You will find it a most enjoyable experience baking."
He put her in a oven pan that seemed to fit her body
exactly. She couldn't move, but really didn't want
to as he kissed her forehead and put a large onion in
her mouth.
Into the oven she went. It was warm with the vibrating
potato giving her pleasure as she baked.
At some point the potato became soft and the vibrations
stopped. She fell asleep, awakening only as he took
her out of the oven to marinate her in her own drippings.
She saw steam rise from her, noticed her skin was darker
and that there was a delicious smell.
"It's you, you smell delicious Emma. How are you feeling?"
With the onion in her mouth she couldn't talk, but tried
to let him know she felt wonderful, warm and perfect.
There was no pain, only the nice warmth through out.
He put her back in the oven. She fell back asleep.
When he took her out next, he basted her but then put
her on a platter. She was surprised she was still alive
and fully cognizant.
The platter he put her on was huge, with gold and gems
decorating it's out edge. She'd never seen such a beautiful
serving platter.
He laid her out on the platter, her fine breasts thrown
forward, her rump up, her legs and thighs spread. Her
skin was a golden brown, juices dripped from her. She
knew she was now the main course, finer then the turkey
she'd help prepare in Sir Desmond's house. He put
a fine linen napkin on and proceeded to nibble the flesh
from her left food. It was a slow dining process. One
should not hurry the finer things in life.
She was still strangely able to feel. She felt his teeth,
his tongue tasting her as he slowly consumed her. There
was pleasure when his teeth chewed upon her, pleasure
as his tongue ran over, tasting her.
He complimented her on her flavor and hoped she enjoyed music.
He put on a victrola and she heard such fine beautiful music
as hour after hour he continued to feast upon her. He consumed
her feet, her muscular calves, the soft tender thighs, her
smooth stomach. The fine rump, he took his time, teasing
before he consumed her clitoris and vaginal region, the
fine vaginal lips most tasty.
Her breasts, her arms, it was only upon eating her lungs
that life perished from her.
She drifted slowly above her body, looking down on the
mostly eaten form that had been her. She could see now
what must have been stomach cancer. He had indeed spared
her a horrible death. Wondering what was next she followed
a wonderful warm light and left behind this life.
Sir Desmond's report to the police brought no result. She'd
probably run off with a lover they told him. These lower
class types couldn't be trusted your know. Sir Desmond to
his credit worried that the girl had met with foul play,
but as no body was found and no clues found, nothing came
of it. The maid was forgotten and the household ran with
a new maid, adjusting to her, her to the household.
If anyone had ever bothered to look at the disappearances
of women in that area of London, a pattern would have emerged.
But they would have to have noticed that pattern, to notice
they would have to care, and no one did.
The predator that had once long ago been a man lay back
relaxing, digesting his meal. It was always a pleasant
feeling, warm and full. He also remembered the joy on
their faces, the pleasure, sometimes the deep gratitude
when it was truly bad. He couldn't help what he was.
But he tried at least to be a good predator, and
he offered his prey something society never did. He
wondered because of this, if he was the monster or society.
At least with him, women had a choice.