Posted by Menagerie on October 03, 2004 at 09:40:14:
WE GATHER TOGETHER
“Aw, gee, Mom,” complained Ricky. “Do you have to?”
Mrs. Nelson just smiled, and reached for the mace. “Now, honey,” she said as she carefully measured a tablespoon of the spice, “you know the rules. It’s Thanksgiving.”
“Yeah, but…” Ricky scuffed his shoe against the floor. “It’s been two years in a row, now. How about David?”
“Your brother has made plenty of contributions over the years, Ricky,” Mrs. Nelson responded. She wasn’t even looking at her son; a pinch of salt, a grating of nutmeg, a spoonful of cinnamon—everything had to be just so. “Why don’t you go down and cheer her up?”
Ricky had sidled closer to the stove; he took a deep breath, held it in. “Mmmm…Grandma’s stuffing recipe.”
“Your favorite,” his mother said, and slapped at Ricky’s hand as he tried to sneak a finger into the big pot full of goop. “Not until tonight. Go on, out of the kitchen!”
Ricky managed to grab a nibble of the spicy mix before Mom shooed him away; he ducked as she took a swipe at him with her spatula, slipped through the door to the basement and clomped down the dozen steps. It was dark; he turned on the lamp. “Hi, Stacey,” he said.
The teenager looked at him, her eyes wet with tears. A chain linked the collar around her neck to an iron ring embedded in the wall. “Oh, Ricky! How could you?” she wailed.
“Gee, I’m sorry, Stacey; I didn’t know this would happen,” he lied. He’d had a pretty good idea; the same thing had happened to his old girlfriend, Tricia, last year. “But Mom says I can’t let you go. Rules are rules. It’s Thanksgiving.”
“Well,” she sniffled, “you said I was coming over for dinner.”
Not exactly; Ricky had told Stacey, “Mom and Dad would like to have you for dinner,” so he didn’t feel like he’d been dishonest. He’d been seeing the buxom, blonde sophomore for a few months; she was in his Physics class. He sure liked the way her sweater stretched out, even now, while she was squatting on the cement floor. “Dad’ll be here soon,” he said, hesitantly. She looked at him questioningly, and he swallowed. “Well, it’s kind of a tradition.” His eyes drifted over to the corner, the wooden handle leaning in the shadows, the light from the lamp glinting off the steel head. “So I just wanted to say, uh…” he stammered.
Stacey swallowed; the light highlighted her yellow mane, glistened on the tears streaking her cheeks. “Say what?”
“Well…you know, we had a swell time at the game. That sure was fun, wasn’t it?” She nodded slowly, her hopeful eyes locked on his face; he couldn’t look at her. “And the double date at the pizza place; you were worried about putting on a few pounds.”
Despite herself, the girl smiled. “That was so sweet of you; you bought me a double cheese. In fact—“ she thought about it—“you kept sending me food all the time. Chocolates, and cookies, and all that taffy at the carnival. I kept asking you if you were trying to fatten me up.”
“Er—” Ricky was embarrassed. “Well, anyhow, I’m glad you enjoyed it. Gotta go. Bye.” And he scampered up the stairs, the imprisoned girl calling out, “Ricky? Ricky? Please, let me go…!”
As Ricky closed the door behind him, shutting out his girlfriend’s cries, he heard the garage door. “Dad’s home!” David called laconically from the TV room. Moments later, Mr. Nelson bustled in, a sack of groceries in each arm.
“Morning, dear,” Mrs. Nelson said; still stirring the stuffing over the hot stove, she tilted her head for the traditional peck on the cheek. “Did you remember the tarragon?”
“Yep!” Dad said brightly, unloading the bags on the kitchen counter top. “Cream…frozen peas…broccoli…here’s all the aluminum foil; she’s a big one, isn’t she, son?”
“She sure is, Dad,” said Ricky. “She’ll just barely fit.”
“There were hardly any leftovers last year,” David complained from the other room. “You’re supposed to get them fat, Rick; I always did.”
“Mr. Perfect,” Ricky sneered, and Mrs. Nelson reproached them, “Now, boys…” But Ricky had to admit David was right; Tricia had been skin and bones. She ate nothing but salads. Mom had frowned as she was preparing her; “Ricky,” she had said, only half-joking, “she hardly has any meat on her bones.” Well, there had been enough for dinner, anyway, and Ricky had had seconds and even thirds.
“Plenty this year,” Ricky said confidently. “We’ll be eating sandwiches for a week.”
“Welp,” said Mr. Nelson as he unbuttoned his sweater, “time to do the deed. Are you going to help this year, Rick, or do I need David again?”
“I’ll pitch in,” Ricky offered quickly. “Good,” yelled David. “They’re going to kick off any minute.”
Clump, clump, clump, down the steps, father and son. The girl looked up, her eyes glistening. “You’re right, Rick,” whistled Mr. Nelson, eyeing the frightened girl up and down. “She’s a fine one.”
“You must be Ricky’s father,” Stacey said in a small voice. “I’m so very pleased to meet you.”
“Why, the feeling is mutual!” winked Mr. Nelson; he was rolling up his shirt sleeves. “I’m very glad Rick brought you home for dinner. Rick, will you get her undressed, please?”
“What?” she squeaked, and Ricky pitched in, pulling off her shoes and wrestling her blue jeans down. “Please, stop! Mr. Nelson…I didn’t know it was going to be this kind of a scene…”
She struggled so much, Mr. Nelson had to pin her down as Ricky pulled the sweater down past her wide hips and plump butt. Down to bra and panties, the coed was screaming; Mr. Nelson expertly felt her belly and thigh. “I think this one will yield a lot, Rick,” he said knowingly. “Dinner might be a little late. How much stuffing did your mother make?”
“A big pot,” grunted Ricky over his date’s screeches; he was rolling Stacey’s panties down her ample flanks. “I told her she’d need more than last year.” She really had gotten chunky, Ricky realized, examining the desperate young woman’s expanse of pale, pink flesh. Her underwear was cutting into her skin; the tight jeans left a red mark around her waist.
“Good boy!” Dad responded, smacking his lips. “I can taste it now.” He unclipped Stacey’s bra; she was in the buff. “OK, tie her up—be careful!”
As Ricky pinned the struggling sophomore down, Mr. Nelson reached in the corner for the axe; he ran his thumb along the edge. “Even sharpened it! Ricky, you’ve really done the job right, this year. A-plus.”
Ricky beamed with his father’s praise; below him, her wrists pinioned over her head, Stacey was whining, “RICKEEEEEEEEEE…” He felt really good; everybody had been mad at him last year about Tricia. “This is pretty bland,” Grandma had remarked sourly, chewing on a sliver of the petite Econ major’s loin. Everybody had sat quietly. “Not like you to bring home such a scrawny girl, David,” she went on, carefully trimming the fat off a bit of the girl’s flesh.
“Wasn’t me,” David blurted through a mouth full of thigh meat, “It was—”
“David!” Mrs. Nelson jumped in to reproach him. “Manners, honey. More gravy, anybody?” she asked perkily. A great platter of meat sat in the center of the old mahogany dining table; Mr. Nelson had carved Tricia’s carcass in the kitchen, then carefully wrapped the bones for soup, and for old Spike. “Good old Spike!” he had grinned as the dog cheerfully wagged his tail and chewed on one of Tricia’s ribs.
At the table, Uncle Walt frowned as he bit into a rubbery slab of the girl’s buttock. “Not like that one last year; now, she was as smooth as butter. Diane?”
David nodded, vigorously. “Pom-pom girl. May I be excused?”
“David!” exclaimed Mrs. Nelson. “You haven’t even cleared your plate!” A few shreds of the luckless girl’s belly lay forlornly in a puddle of gravy, keeping watch over a half-scoop of potatoes. As Rick’s older brother rushed off, Walt shook his head and chuckled. “You’re losing your touch, Sis,” he said. “That boy never walked away from anything but a clean plate in his life…”
Ricky had been really embarrassed for Mom, especially since she’d stood up for him. This time, he’d brought home a Thanksgiving feast to be proud of, he decided as he dragged the naked, screaming college student across the floor of the rec room. Mr. Nelson had put on a bloodstained apron. “I’ve ruined so many good shirts at Thanksgiving,” he sighed as his younger son deposited the sobbing girl on the floor, her head on the scarred, old wooden block. “Hold her steady, would you, Rick? Clear her hair out of there…that’s good…”
Ricky moved Stacey’s long, blonde tresses aside so Dad could get a clean chop at her neck; he slid away, held her legs as she bucked and moaned. Mr. Nelson closed one eye, put a foot up on the girl’s head, and swung. The moaning abruptly stopped. “Good cut, Dad!” Ricky exclaimed, reaching down to pick the girl’s head up. Mr. Nelson grinned. “Been working on my golf game,” he said. “Want to help me clean her?”
Not really; that’s what dads were for. That and carving the meat. “OK,” he said. “You go upstairs and help your mother greet the guests. I’ll be bringing her up in a little while,” he grunted as he swung the big breasted schoolgirl’s headless carcass onto the ancient table next to the sink. Ricky skedaddled as Mr. Nelson sighed, plunged the butcher knife into the unfortunate girl’s chest, and sliced toward her navel. “Kids,” he sighed.
It was a grand feast; David stayed and kept filling his plate. Rather than carve the girl in the kitchen, Mr. Nelson had proudly displayed the thoroughly roasted young lady’s headless frame on the big silver platter they usually reserved for New Year’s; steam wisped from the sepia, gleaming carcass, her legs and arms bound above her hollowed torso, as Mr. Nelson severed great slabs of meat and plopped them before his appreciative guests. Mrs. Nelson smiled broadly as the table shouted its pleasure, the holiday diners shoving great chunks of the girl’s meat into their maws and barely grinding it between their teeth before sending it down their hatches. Grandma nibbled on a tender slice from Stacey’s back and smiled. “How wonderful, David; you’ve picked a fine one this year.” “Thanks, Gramma,” David yelled through a mouthful of breast, as Ricky kicked him under the table.
Mr. Nelson stood; he lifted a glass of wine. “A toast!” he proclaimed, and the raucous chewing and swallowing kind of half subsided. He turned to Mrs. Nelson, who beamed at him. “To my lovely wife, the best cook in the—the whole darn world!” he proclaimed, and the crowd around the table clapped and echoed his sentiments. “And,” he went on, turning to his sons, still vigorously chomping on the flesh of the girl who’d been chained in the basement only that morning, “to Ricky and David—they know a good girl when they see one!”
The friends and family warmly applauded; Ricky whispered to David. Unbeknownst to Stacey, he’d been seeing a nice girl he knew from Organic Chemistry; he wanted to keep her more than a year. “Your turn next year,” he mumbled around a mouthful of his girlfriend; David elbowed his kid brother before helping himself to another slice of arm.