Posted by hisdinner on July 31, 2004 at 23:25:19:
Summer Hunting
Hunting in the Midwest is a dream. The girls practically beg to hop into my car and go to him. Every morning, I’d leave his bed, if he’d allowed me in the night before. I’d shower off the last night’s sex, and hope for more. This morning I left the shower and drifted up to his side of the bed. I stood there, steamy fresh, and watched as a few rivulets of water gathered into droplets on my nipples and splashed down onto his face. I suppressed a giggle as he frowned and drew a hand across his face. Sometimes, then, he’d grab my wrist and pull me down on top of him, or force me lower to accommodate his morning stiffness, letting me suckle there, kneeling between his legs.
This morning he propped himself up on his elbows and said, “You should go to Shipshewana today. It’s farm market day.”
He regarded me critically as I stood before him, tousled damp auburn hair, and freshly bare elsewhere. My ribs barely showed beneath breasts that had swelled to generous size, more than the mouthfuls they’d been before we started this long summer harvest. The longer we spent here, in this land of mashed potatoes and pie, the more I felt as if he were determined to fatten me for a harvest meal. My belly was now gently rounded, still firm but with the slightest layer of softness under my skin.
My new softness seemed to please him. He’d left evidence of that in the bite marks trailing down my belly to my bare pink mound. My thighs and arms were still long and lean but I felt more feminine, and I loved to feel him explore my richer curves with his practiced hands. An image of him butchering me filled my head suddenly, and I tingled, goose bumps stippling my skin. As I bent down to kiss him, he grabbed my hair and bruised my lips with the force of mouth on mine. He left me off-balance and wanting air, and wanting him to use me more.
“Go, get started. Those Amish families get there early.” He had a wry grin on his face. “You’ll get more from me when you deliver a girl.”
I pictured the open market grounds, the largest of its kind in this farming region. At the Shipshewana market, city folk and farm families mingled, strolled the jumbled lanes of produce, shopping for handmade quilts, and honey. I shopped for girls. Girls wandered everywhere, three lanes over from where their mamas had set up the tomato stand, four lanes from Papa’s furniture display. Sweet naïve country farm girls wandered there, some Plain (Amish,) and some from Fancy folks, those who even wore buttons to close demure summer blouses over firm young breasts. The Amish folk fastened their clothes with pins. How I longed to unpin a girl for him. I ached to watch him touch her untouched skin.
I put on a little summer dress and sandals and let my hair billow out in exuberant whorls and tangled curls. The deep layered green of the countryside and the hazy humid air enveloped me. I soaked it in, already a little sad that we’d have to leave it someday for drier air. I wanted to entrap the rich damp air along with these farm-fresh girls. But first, to find the last. This last girl would complete his needs, at least for now.
I drove through cornfields which gave way to fields of grazing horses, freed from their plows. The family farms were pristine, perfect as their girls. As I drew near the farmers’ market, I passed black buggies full of Amish families headed to the market ground. Their fathers trailed in larger carts laden with the wares they’d sell. I’d arrived just as the last straggling peddlers readied their wares. Soon the coltish girls would be released to explore the market, until noonday came and they relinquished their freedom to help with supper. I had to find my prize lamb and carry her off before the mamas called in their wandering girls.
I parked close by and walked into the grounds. A ruddy-cheeked woman, amazing in her girth, handed me a map of the stalls. The market had actual street and avenue designations, it was so vast. Families had traded here for generations, and more came every summer. The lanes were full of milling tourists gawking at the quaint Amish wares. I wandered to the back where the older teens tended to gather, as far from their parents as they dared. There were groups of girls and groups of young men, eying each other and feigning indifference, though the giggles from the girls made things plain. The groups of three or four apiece were strolling through tables laden with fabrics and jellies and work gloves and sturdy overalls. I had to slip sideways past a group of boys more intent on arguing the merits of their favorite threshing gear, than on those girls.
Silly boys, I smiled. One less for you.
There she was, a golden angel. She knelt in front of a pile of quilting squares, lost in deliberations over gingham or dotted Swiss, apart from the groups of giggling girls. She felt my gaze and looked up at me, offering a shy smile that made me blush. She was a girl whose body betrayed her. That face spoke such innocence. Perfect. She must have been 18, but her life til this moment had been cloistered, pure. When she peered up at me she radiated delight and curiosity and trust. Her sweet innocence was almost too much to bear. He’d savor her. He’d drink in her innocence like wine.
I knelt to face her, and lifted up a bundle of quilt squares. “How many of these will I need to make a big quilt?” I asked her, extending my hand to touch one finger to her wrist.
She beamed and nodded, so eager to help. “You must measure the bed first to make a proper quilt,” she said. “Do you know its size?”
I sighed and shook my head. “Oh, dear,” I tried to choose my words carefully. I didn’t want to frighten away this little doe. “I am just visiting here. I guess I’ll have to wait till next year, when we return.”
I began to turn away, then stopped and turned to her. “Wait!”
She looked up at me, expectant, her disappointment at my lack of preparation giving way to anticipation again. She wanted to help me; she didn’t want to end our conversation so soon. Good. I shook my head, doubting my silly notion, and then spoke.
“I have an older quilt in my car! Could we use it to figure out the size?”
She bounced to her feet, smoothing down the pastel green gingham dress she wore. The bodice was tight enough to suppress the outlines of her breasts. I tried to keep my eyes on her face and show none of the heat I felt as I imagined her body naked, his hands on her.
“Please, if you would show me this quilt? I could help you? I have made four quilts already, one each year since I turned 14.” She got a little bolder as she spoke, and her words rushed out and then she blushed, her clear skin a lovely pink framed by pale gold hair.
And that was that, wasn’t it? I agreed, and I led her to the car. She came willingly, eagerly, filling the air between us with descriptions of each of her quilts and how she’d chosen each bit of fabric with utmost care. I nodded along and led her away. I understood the value of careful choices. I’d chosen her.
I asked her to sit in the car while I fetched the quilt from the trunk. I opened a small bottle of ether and drenched one square of the store-bought quilt and quickly carried it to her. She was petting the leather seat of the car when I brought it to her, caressing it as though it were her favorite horse. She turned and gave me a heart-breaking smile. I lifted the quilt corner to her face and gently pressed my hand against her silken hair, and held her head there, until her body slumped against mine.
It was so easy to cover her with the quilt and drive away. Everyone near the cars was intent on reaching the stalls. They didn’t notice me. I drove back through the cornfields and pastures. I glanced in the rear-view mirror every time she whimpered, but her eyes remained closed.
We’d reclaimed his family homestead, deep in the fields, far away from any neighbors. My master waited there. So did the other girls. I drove off the crisscrossed country roads and onto a long gravel road made into a narrow passageway by the tall corn plants looming on either side of the road. The drive emptied into a small yard with a sturdy, two story farmhouse and a barn out behind. It was only ten AM as I parked and gently roused the sleepy girl. My master came down the steps to help me take her inside.
“Beautiful,” He breathed into her hair. “Look at her mouth. Ah… those eyes.”
The little doe had wakened on the table where he’d laid her. She shook her head, confused, and then her eyes widened in panic. I stood at her head, my hands smoothing her hair from her brow. She looked up at him as he easily pinned down her shoulders.
“You’re the one I’ve wanted most of all,” he said. My heart squeezed tight inside me as he said that. I didn’t dare look up at him. I stung. He placed one hand on her belly, pressing her down as he grasped her face and kissed her, tasting her mouth, her lips, her tongue. She resisted, whimpering, her arms rose up, beating his back. Her legs fluttered and kicked against the tabletop. I knew his strength, and made no attempt to restrain her. I knew that he enjoyed her struggles. Despite his words and my jealousy, I found myself responding, too, mesmerized as I always am, when I watch him take a girl.
Empathy is a wonderful thing. It allows me to sink inside the skin of every girl he takes and BE her. I get to feel his hands as they squeeze and pinch and caress and probe. I get to be the one who’s raped and used so hard. I get to be the one who feels her belly slit, and her slick entrails escaping her, even as she howls. I relish her pain this way, as well as his pleasures in her. I feel the fierceness of his gaze on her, and how he eats her with his eyes before his teeth pierce her sweet white skin that first time. I touch my body where his hands touch hers, and as he tears away her clothes, I tingle with desire, and I hear my voice inside my head endlessly repeating, “But I will be her, I’m his, I’m his.”
He tired of her shrieking, so he cut off her white cotton panties and stuffed them into her mouth. I reached out a finger and traced it over her mouth, marveling at her swollen red lips, so naturally sensual. She stared up at me then, her face a porcelain doll’s, streaked with tears, her clear blue eyes now rimmed with red. I murmured sweet soothing sounds to her, and let my fingers stray down to her neck.
He had pulled her to the edge of the table. He’d subdued her with a few hard slaps across her face and a few blows of his powerful fists. She was lovely. He grasped the cloth of her thin dress and sliced it apart, grazing her skin. She screamed into her gag and her spittle began to darken the cloth. I wanted to pet her, to feel the hot welts where his fists had struck her, to feel her body quiver and her lungs push up her chest with air. He caught my wrist as I reached down to cup one of her breasts.
“Start the fire. It’s Carrie’s turn tonight. This one… This one needs seasoning and keeping.”
His sentence trailed off as if he were talking to himself, as if he had no need of me at all. Keep her, he said. Keep her alive, he meant. Not like the others, then. He wanted her for a new unwilling plaything, seasoning her with his seed and his brutal fists. I felt a creeping dread, wondering if this time, he’d cast me off, if he’d replace me with this new virgin toy. Not like the other girls. The girls I hunted for him were used hard and slaughtered after only a week or so, and kept in the cool meat stores below, a remnant of the icehouse, now electrified and humming with frigid air.
The other girls were all here. Some lay on stone slabs, ready for butchering. Others hung from huge hooks, their bodies split. Yesterday’s girl lay still, bled but still intact. As I passed through the five girls waiting here, I noticed Carrie’s legs splayed wide, a pool of nearly invisible stuff glistening as it dripped from her. He’d visited her this morning while I was hunting. Good. His seed was the only thing that filled her belly… he’d left her pussy intact, but emptied her of everything else. Carrie was ready for roasting now.
I washed her body inside and out, and wheeled her to the dumbwaiter that would carry her up to the cooking fires. I climbed the stairs and forced myself to turn toward the kitchen where Carrie’s body waited for me. As I passed the dining room, I saw him bending over her, knife at her nipple, then at her throat, and then lightly running down her midline. Our games! I cried inside, that’s what WE do. I flushed and turned away before he could see the jealous light in my eyes.
Plunge it inside her, I wanted to tell him. Take your knife, stake her heart. Finish her.
In the dining room his murmurs had turned soothing and her whimpers were subdued. I let the kitchen door swing behind me.
Out in the dining room, I heard him rape the angel. There would be blood.