"girl of the month"


Posted by Menagerie on July 06, 2004 at 17:34:31:

GIRL OF THE MONTH

It had been a long trip, and Ann was exhausted. But not from the duration of the journey. She had just had another orgasm.
The whirring, vibrating thing attached to the floor of the crate had rammed into her pussy when they slammed the door shut. It had been probing at her, taunting her, grabbing at her—such a peculiar thing! Almost alive!—for…well, she wasn’t sure how long. A week?
Every once in a while, it would shut off…almost as if it knew she was aching, that she needed respite. She would grab a few minutes sleep, nurse her wounds—there were many of them. Then, the painfully pleasant buzz would start again, stroking her clit, as she caught her breath…
Ann wondered if she would ever walk again. She was nude, as she had been for weeks; she’d forgotten what it was like not to be naked. Positioned in a crouch, bound hands tied around her knees. The crate was lined in thick foam rubber, cut out to a human form; it had closed neatly around her bare skin. She would later discover that this was necessary—it was a rough ride. She had found herself turned over and upside down, had spent hours with the blood rushing to her head and that thing in her—how had she survived? Eventually, the crate was righted again, but then it was hurled across a floor, and stopped abruptly against a wall; every once in a while, she’d bounce violently—she guessed she was in the cargo hold of a plane.
All that time, motionless, held tight by the soft foam. The shaking in the plane had caused her tits to flop up and down, pulling against the long needles that penetrated her nipples; they had been inserted after the crate was closed, though holes in the door—how did they know just where her nips were, she had thought through the pain? A lot of work must have gone into customizing her sarcophagus. The nipples stayed in place as her tits wobbled against tiny pins, dozens of them, inserted through the recess in the padding that accommodated her breasts; if anything, it heightened the thrill from the device in her, massaging her, caressing her…
No solid food. Twice a day, somebody would whack the crate hard, and a moment later liquid would flow through the thick, penis-shaped tube filling her mouth. She learned quickly what the signal meant; damn near choked to death the first time. Couldn’t shout; she was gagged, the tube passing through a hole in the cloth. The catheter up her peehole, the broader tube rammed up her ass, took care of those functions.
And yet, she was relaxed, accepting of her fate. She had learned her lessons well. She took the sustenance when it came; she accepted nearly seamless perpetual stimulation; she pissed and shit when she felt the need, just like an animal.
Just like an animal.
Freddie’s Friday night parties were always a lot of fun. He was an aspiring director, had already made a couple of shorts that had been shown by the local avant-garde film club on campus. Ann had even starred in one of them: “Hold still!” he’d admonished her as he smeared on the fake blood, two of his classmates standing by—one shouldering the camera, the other looking rather goofy in a cape and pale make-up, papier-mâché dagger in hand. “Now,” said Freddie, standing back, index finger in the air, “sacrifice!” The features of the guy in the cape twisted into a snarl; Ann screamed throatily, the fake blade pointed at her gizzard. “Cut!” Freddie yelled. “Ann, can you try to act like you’re really afraid…?”
So the get-togethers in Freddie’s apartment brought them all—long, lean dudes in black and berets, girls in micro-skirts and colored hose, hunky fellas who were looking for other hunky fellas. There was always grass to be had, and Ann was suitably dreamy when the older guy came up to her.
He was different. An open collared sports shit, tailored jacket; a feathered ‘do over mirrored shades, a wisp of beard. “Hi!” he said cheerily. “Saw you in Night of the Bloodmongers. I’m Jay.”
“Ann,” she smiled sleepily. She looked at the drink in his hand; he noticed. “Get you one,” he announced, turned to the small kitchen table that served as the bar for the party. He wheeled back, the reddish-brown concoction in hand, took her own hand, placed the cup in it and clenched her fingers around it. “Looked like you could use some help,” he grinned; she imagined he was winking at her through the shades. “Bottoms up!”
They drank. Jay continued, “I’m in the film business myself, on the casting side. Are you looking for roles? You’re pretty good, and just plain pretty.”
Ann blushed. She wasn’t looking for roles; she was an Accounting major, met Freddie in an obligatory “Physics for Poets” class. “No?” he said, acting surprised. “You’re a natural. Come see me and we’ll talk.” He shoved a piece of paper into her hand, patted her cheek with two fingers, wheeled with the hand holding the drink in the air. “Babe? Babe? You busy?” he shouted over the din of the party goers. “Saw you in Night of the Virgin Vampires…”
Well, maybe it wasn’t a come on, Ann had decided the next morning, still woozy from drink and pot. Freddie told her the guy had looked him up during one of the Film Society marathons, said he was looking for fresh talent on college campuses. The address he had given her turned out to be a run-down old motel that had been converted to an apartment outside of the student section of town; she knocked, nervously.
Jay yanked the door open; still wearing the shades, with Bermudas and sandals. An ear-to-ear grin. “Babe!” he exclaimed. “Ann,” she corrected sheepishly. “C’mon in,” he said, throwing the door wide.
A half-filled suitcase lay on one bed; the other was unmade. Very few personal effects were out. “I’m just settling in,” he said. “Have a seat,” gesturing to the rumpled bed; he sat across from her, rummaged through the suitcase, pulled out a folder and handed it to her.
“I represent a half-dozen different companies, all with films ready for production,” he said, as she thumbed through multi-colored contracts, brochures, publicity photos. “Sign with me and I can’t guarantee you a role, but I can guarantee money—I get a cut for every actress I deliver for a tryout, and you get a cut out of that. Your odds are pretty good, huh?—six chances.”
“How much money?” she asked.
He took both her hands in his—they were smooth, smallish, kind of cold. “Five hundred up front,” he grinned. “Two-fifty per tryout. You get picked, and it’s union scale. SAG. Two weeks’ work can pay for that Accounting degree.”
Ann was still hung over; the print was tiny, the forms in triplicate. “All you need to do is sign,” Jay assured her, “and I’ll fill out the rest. Hell, gotta earn my keep—I should pay them for letting me interview pretty girls all day.” As she attacked the dotted line, he stood up and went through the bag again, took out a camera. “I’ll need some pix, too,” he said. “You’d be amazed—sometimes they won’t take my word for it.” Again, she imagined the wink. “’Kay, disrobe and pose on the bed.”
“Disrobe?” she echoed.
“Yeah, yeah,” he said, not looking at her, fumbling with the camera. “No knowing how much of you they’ll wanna see.”
Ann wasn’t sure; she hadn’t even taken her clothes off for some boyfriends. “Oh—forgot something,” said Jay, reached into the pocket of a pair of pants draped across a chair. “Your advance.” He peeled off five crisp hundreds, laid them next to her on the bed.
Ann shrugged, peeled off her t-shirt. Her impressive tits were cupped in a K Mart bra; they spilled out as she unlatched it, large brown aureoles framing her little-finger sized nipples. “Very nice,” said Jay, looking at her through the viewfinder. She stood and wrestled her tight jeans to the floor; she’d kept pretty trim despite all the late night brews and pizza. The floral pink panties housed a nicely-kept thatch. “Right there,” he said, still looking through the camera and pointing at the rumpled bed.
As she lounged nude on the bed, Jay took snapshots, circling around and chatting her up like a pro: “Very good. Okay, stretch…run a hand through your hair…kinda flex that leg over the other…Good! Roll on your belly…chin in your hands; kick your legs up and cross them…look at me…perfect…” Ann’s plump buns topped full, womanly hips; heavy thighs tapered to trim, muscular calves. Long blonde hair draped a square face, bright blue eyes, a mischievous grin. “Seductive.” She pouted, puckered as if to blow a kiss.
“’Kay, we’re all set,” he said, turning away as he dislodged a spool of film from the ancient camera. “I need your phone number and address, and I’ll be getting in touch with you soon.”
She hesitated; was that all there was? He was kind of cute; she swung her bare legs over, sat on the side of the bed. “Should I get dressed?” she asked, timidly.
He was labeling a packet, dropped the film into it and sealed it; looking over his shoulder, he smirked. “Unless you’re planning to leave naked. Nope, nope; this is business; you’re in the Big Leagues now, Babe.”
“Ann,” she muttered, reaching for her panties.
The $500 went into the bank; bills, bills, bills—a month behind on the utilities, two months on the cable. She wrote Mom and Kristin letters about her good fortune, about how she soon might be a movie star, laid them on top of the past-due bills. Studied, watched TV, stretched, yawned, undressed, tucked herself into bed…
Ann awoke with a start. She couldn’t breathe! She’d been dreaming of being underwater, suffocating, confining—couldn’t move, couldn’t break clear of the surface. Her eyes snapped open. A hand was over her mouth. “Got her!” came the voice.
The hand was replaced by a gag; rough hands flipped her over, bound her hands behind her back, tied her feet. She tried to fight, to break free; a second pair of hands joined in, held her down as the trussing resumed. Another cloth, over her eyes; she felt herself lifted, then the raspy brushing covered her skin—she was in a sack of some sort. Twisting, squirming, her hot tears soaked the blindfold, ran down her cheek. This can’t be, she thought. It’s unreal.
No. The movie deal. That’s what was unreal.
The men dropped their bucking, kicking package into a car trunk and drove off with a squeal of tires. On her belly, Ann groped for the end of the rope wrapped around her wrists. The knots were tight; the circulation in her hands and feet was cut off, they were growing numb. Her nightie was hiked up, the pink panties pulled slightly down; the rough, cotton sack irritated her lower belly. She tried to roll over and failed; no room. She gulped, stifled her sobs, and quieted down; conserve your energy, she told herself, fearing, fearing…
Destination. Lifted out of the trunk. Hauled over a shoulder. Through a door. Elevator; going down. Dumped from the sack; cold, cement floor.
“Good evening.” Woman’s voice, deep, accented, amused. “You would be Ann.”
Hands removed the gag. “Who are you?” Ann gasped. “Where have you brought me?”
Ann suddenly felt fiery pain against her hip, heard the crack of a whip. As she howled in pain, the voice, still oozing charm, said, “First, you will speak only when spoken to. Second, my name is no matter to you; you will call me Mistress. Is that understood?” A moment’s silence; another crack on the ass; Ann let out a sob and stammered, “Yes, Mistress.”
“You are being prepared,” said the Voice. “And time is short. You will soon be shipped to your end destination; when you arrive, you must be as malleable as clay. Your training will begin immediately.”
The blindfold stayed on; Ann was whisked through another door. Her mouth was pried open; something long and hard entered her mouth, forced down her throat. She heard a latch.
“You will grow accustomed to this,” said Voice, as Ann retched and gagged. “You will have your mouth and throat filled most of the time, and the dildo will help you adjust. Now, we will formally welcome you to this waystop in your journey.”
Ann felt her bound wrists jerked up behind her, causing her shoulder blades to grind; she would have cried out but for the dildo, and her tears began anew, leaking through the blindfold. The person behind her stepped away; her wrist bonds were attached to a taut rope. Ann heard a crank being rotated; her wrists were tugged upward, heightening the pain. Her toes brushed the floor. A hand grabbed her nightie, shredded it from her body; the panties were ripped off. “Begin,” said Voice.
Immediately, the searing heat across Ann’s bare back and the crack of the whip; she choked against her cruel gag, swaying helplessly from the rope. A second lash, then a third; she heard laughter as she kicked her bound legs, trying to find footing. Her butt, her tits, her belly, her pussy; each subject to the angry strip of leather. Ten, twenty, thirty; she lost count as her mind mercifully retreated into semi-consciousness…
The sessions would be repeated daily, then every other day, then finally stopped; the Voice told her that her skin must be healed before shipment. Ann’s mouth, as the mysterious woman promised, was filled most of the time; the dildo would be removed, to be replaced by an endless series of cocks. Nude, blindfolded, on her knees, the fettered Ann endured them, then learned to revel in them, to appreciate a warm tube of soft meat as preferable to cold plastic. She licked and sucked each of them desperately, hoping to please their owners, to escape more punishment; she greedily swallowed every drop of jism. The men complimented her on her ability to suck, on the receptivity of her mouth. “You will endure your fate well,” one said.
Her “reward” was to be fucked, hard and frequently. The unseen attendants untied her and locked her into a pillory, legs spread and cuffed to the base of the device. She took on one cock after another, her squeals muffled by the gag/dildo; when the men were done, she felt the pain of another large prophylactic penis shoved into her, as far as it would go. And it would stay there, as she would, for hours…
Days passed; all one unending blur, torture sessions fading into gang rapes and back again. College was long forgotten; survival was all that was important. Ann learned how to beg for punishment. She discovered that any protest, a plea for mercy, brought another flogging and other tortures…needles through her breasts; electrodes clamped to her pussy. In her dark world, lacking any control over what was left of her life, she adjusted. A receptive mouth and tongue, pretty groveling with bound hands clasped, and the evening’s session would be light, while the pillory waited with its sexual pleasures. It was Ann’s only release, her only joy, to get what her body needed.
It was after one such session, the dildo rammed into her, that the gag and throat-filler were removed from Ann’s mouth. She automatically gaped open, assuming she would be tasting cock…but the male member was not forthcoming. Instead, for the first time since her arrival, her.blindfold was removed. Ann blinked; the light in the room was thankfully dim. She made out two figures; a tall, muscular woman, and—
“Hi, Babe,” said Jay. This time, no shades; she could see the wink.
The woman walked up to Ann, who stared at her in fear; she wore a form-fitting pant suit that glowed with a slightly violet sheen, and the highest heels Ann had ever seen. Her hair was piled up high on her head; her skin was as pale as ivory. And her eyes, slanted like a cat’s, were as cold as winter. She nodded to a man standing next to the pillory, who left the room.
“Ann,” came the familiar husky voice, “did you sign this?” And the woman held in front of her face a document—of course, the contract Jay had had her sign.
Ann swallowed; what if she said no? She thought of the whip, the needles, the electrodes; her voice croaked—she was unaccustomed to speaking. “Yes, Mistress,” she forced herself to say.
The woman smiled.
“Good! Then everything is legal and proper; this gentleman owns your body, and can do as he pleases with you. Sir, is everything satisfactory?”
Jay was circling the thoroughly restrained and cowed Ann; he stopped in front of her, held three fingers of one hand stiff, abruptly shoved them into Ann’s mouth. She just looked up at him, awaiting further orders. Jay grinned, removed the fingers—tapped her on the cheek with two of them—then walked behind her. Ann felt the tube up her cunt slide out; then again, fingers sliding in.
“Nice,” he said. “Perfect. Ship her out in the morning.”
The Mistress had replaced the gag with its insert; those two words, Ann realized, were all she’d be allowed to speak. “Here’s the deal, Babe,” said Jay, who faced her again. “I’m working for some very wealthy, very decadent people on the West Coast. They’re paying good money for you; every month, I ship ‘em another girl from another college campus. Kind of the ‘Girl of the Month’ club.” He winked again. “That’s where I sent your pics; when they got ‘em, they placed their order right away. What they’ll do with you, I don’t know, and I don’t care, ‘cause I got paid. I just know they want your mouth and your whatzis ready to take on all comers, if you know what I mean, and they don’t want you fighting them—that’s where the lady, here, comes in.” He turned to the Mistress, handed her a check. “Good job, as always. I’ll have another one ready in a week or so.”
The male attendant re-entered the room, picked up Ann’s blindfold; her world returned to utter darkness. The dildo was also returned to its place inside her. “Oh, by the way, Babe,” she heard Jay’s voice from across the room, “keep the five C-notes. They’re yours. Business expense.” He laughed. “Sorry. Old joke.”
Ann’s mind was in a whirl. Finally, she was leaving this place—but for what? Would she be kept a sex slave? The thought, strangely, excited her; she suddenly realized fucking had been her respite from the endless torture and cocksucking, and she had begun to look forward to it and dread its end, like a conditioned animal, like Pavlov’s dog. And being part of a harem, alive only to give love, would surely be preferable to becoming a thrall, to being tortured till the end of her days. She would have the night, alone in the room, locked into the pillory, penetrated from both ends, to think about it.
…Ann felt her crate slide along the floor of the plane, then move along a conveyor, to be dropped on the ground, temporarily taking her breath away. She seemed to be rising, heard machinery—a forklift?—then was moved somewhere else. Another drop; motion again, much faster. She must be in a truck…
“Oh-kay!” Ann heard a lilting male voice announce. “Are we all ready?” A faint chorus of “Yes!”
The crate opened; Ann’s pupils were dilated, and the light was blinding. She heard cheers and laughter; she gradually focused on a grinning, middle-aged man, crouched before her. He was naked; all the people behind him, men and women, were equally bare. Ann’s conditioning immediately took over; she felt aroused, her skin flushing, despite her cramped confinement. If it’s my body they want, she determined, I’ll give them the finest loving they’ve ever had; I’ll make them want to spare me, to treat me well. She looked around at what appeared to be a beach resort, sand and palm trees all around, small buildings scattered sparsely. The gag and feeding tube were removed, but Ann didn’t dare to speak, didn’t know what they had in mind.
The man in front of her straightened up and put his hands on his hips. “Well, young lady,” he said, “you’re just in time for dinner.” A whoop of laughter went up. Good, thought Ann; I haven’t eaten in, well…she couldn’t remember. At the “training” facility, they had fed her something that looked and smelled like dog food. The man looked over his shoulder at his friends. “Shall we begin the preparations?” he cried gaily, and they responded with enthusiasm; several rushed forward, unbuckled Ann from the crate, excitedly carried her across the grounds into a little hut. Inside, they placed her on a table; looking around, she saw several buckets and pails, and a rack of knives and other kitchen tools. The table had built-in manacles; they cuffed her ankles, untied and resecured her wrists. The small troupe, a half-dozen men and women, were tanned, physically fit, and about a generation older than Ann, they bustled around, poking through pots, pulling down implements. Finally, Ann thought, what the hell. “What is all this?” she asked.
The people didn’t even slow down; kept getting their things together, getting ready. Finally, one of them, an Oriental woman bent over a box of bottles and jars, looked up and giggled. “Well, Ann,” she said, “we’re going to eat you!”
Ann giggled as well, and strained to spread her legs as best she could against the harsh restraints. Her life would be one of unending sex. “I’m ready,” she purred.
The woman shook her head and straightened up. She had a wasp waist, firm breasts; her face said forty, her body, twenty.
“No, Ann, you don’t understand,” she said. “We’re going to cook you over a fire, and then we’re going to eat you.” Holding a jar full of a thick paste, she walked up to the shackled girl, her eyes bright and merry. “Surely, they told you about the ‘Girl of the Month’.”
Ann was stunned, looked around at all of the naked men and women leering at her, selecting garnishes, picking out knives…and she began to cry, began to fight her bonds. “But…but they didn’t tell me that!”
“We’re all executives in the entertainment industry,” the woman told her. “Once a month, we gather at this private resort and that fellow you ‘interviewed’ with, Jay What’s-His-Name, sends us a new ‘package’.” She got right into Ann’s tear-streaked face, her eyes wide, her face earnest. “We’ve seen it all, Ann—drugs, sex, mayhem, pressure, fortunes made and lost. Our next release could make us rich as sheiks, or could leave us in the streets.” The woman’s eyes shone with excitement. “This is how we celebrate our fragile fortunes—a weekend of non-stop sex, chemical enhancement…and at the end, a naked girl on a spit.” As if to put an exclamation point on it, a balding man with bronze skin came up behind the woman, leaned against her; her eyes closed and her lips parted—through her tears, Ann realized the man had penetrated her. “Please, no,” Ann whispered. “I will service every man and woman here; I’ve had training.”
“Yes, we know,” laughed the man; the woman was moaning, her hands clamped against Ann’s bondage table, as he repeatedly thrust. “Your mouth and cunt have been thoroughly stretched; that’s for the pole. And you’ve been beaten and tortured; we’ve found through experience that that relaxes you, makes you ‘finish’ better over the fire. We’re going to skewer you, and cook you alive.” He broke off and gasped as he came; the woman stiffened and arched her back.
“Alive!” Ann sobbed.
“We’re not interested in your sucking and fucking ability, Ann,” said a tall, bespectacled guy with a beard, as he checked out knives for keenness. “Every one of us could have—in fact, has had—the most beautiful women, the most handsome men on earth. At a snap of our fingers. You’re a cute girl, but you’ve only been brought here for one purpose.” He turned toward her, holding an 18-inch knife. “We’ve dedicated our lives to entertaining; for what’s left of your life, you’re going to put on a show for us.”
Ann’s screams punctured the peaceful white noise of the lapping waves, the cries of the sea birds. The knife had been drawn horizontally across her belly, the abdominal walls parted; the balding man was scooping out her entrails as fast as the tall guy was severing them. A painfully thin blonde woman wearing a kerchief, sunglasses and earrings that looked like they weighed about a pound apiece held a large bowl with a starchy mixture. “Manioc root,” she told Ann between the young woman’s howls of pain, “delicately seasoned, mixed with chives and shallot.” Despite her frenzied agony, Ann still faintly recognized the cultured voice—the famous actress? “We shall stuff your belly with it,” continued the blonde; her perfectly round, not-quite-real breasts brushed against Ann’s legs as she leaned over the helpless girl and started filling Ann’s torso with the mush. It felt warm; the pressure was almost comforting, compared to the emptiness the flashing blades had left. Ann bit her lip; the sobs subsided.
“That’s a good girl!” said the Oriental woman, who had begun brushing the contents of her jar on Ann’s skin. “Save your strength; you’ll need it for the fire. The operator of the ‘training’ facility tells us you adjusted to pain quite nicely, the best she’s ever seen.” She paused, slathering the paste on Ann’s pert titties, then grinned. “But we expect you to kick some, mind you!”
“What’s that?” Ann said weakly; she was beginning to fade from the loss of blood and her bowels. “Fruit salsa,” came the response. “We get all of our ingredients and recipes from a chef in Beverly Hills; he saw your picture, made some recommendations.”
“He said it works well on pork,” said another fellow, who carried a long, gleaming steel pole to the table. Ann realized what it was for.
The tall man held the flaps of Ann’s belly skin together as the balding one pushed metal skewers through the layers of skin and fat, then bent them around and locked the ends together. “Stuffed and ready!” he called out happily; the man with the pole lowered it, carefully inserted the pointed end into Ann’s vagina…
Fire. Pain. Pleasure. AGONY. ORGASM….Uhhh, uhhh, uhhh, no, please, she thought….ahhhh, it hurts, IT HURTS SO BAD, PLEASE….no….ahhh….the skewer found her hollow belly, plunged quickly through the stuffing. Her eyes darted from one of her tormentors to the next. They stood around her, holding her as she panted, caught her breath—felt her chest fill with the steel pole NO NO NO PLEASE STOP NO AWW EEE EEE EEEEEEEEE…
The pole exited her mouth. They laughed, and cheered. “Let’s get her ready for the fire,” said the tall man.
They produced several shorter spikes. Undoing the shackles, they impaled Ann’s now-limp hands and feet through her wrists and Achilles tendons. Minutes ago, that pain would have been unbearable; now, it was a dull ache compared to the unspeakable terror of her gutting and impalement. The spikes were passed through slots in the pole and secured; another went through her rounded knees and was secured to the pole. Yet another, a truly diabolical mechanism, plunged through her tits from the sides and hooked the lips of her pussy. Satisfied that the helpless girl had been adequately punctured, the troupe triumphantly carried her out of the hut to a clearing past the small dwellings. A pit had been laid out, filled with firewood; two uprights stood on either side of it, with a motor rigged to one. They laid the ends of the pole through the notches in the uprights, latched it in. “My turn,” laughed the first guy, the one who had told Ann she was just in time for dinner; he took a silver plated lighter, held it to kindling under the wood; within moments, it was ablaze. He reached across to the motor next to the upright, threw a switch. And Ann began to turn…
Her thoughts were a jumble of pain, and yet there was pleasure. The pole through her rubbed provocatively against what was left of her ruined womanhood; in the dungeon, in the crate, she had learned to take pleasure where it presented itself, and the dying girl desperately sought one more orgasm. She was dimly aware that the Oriental woman was sprinkling something on her, some kind of seasoning, was running a damp finger along her full thighs and tasting her; Ann wriggled her legs and buns in response, eliciting a friendly slap on the ass and a roar of laughter from the crowd.
As she slowly rotated to face the fire, Ann felt the flames licking at her poor, impaled breasts, the nipples elongated from the needles in the cargo hold; then her back to the fire, her butt and shoulders exposed to the searing heat. The spikes through her tits, knees, ankles and wrists grew hot from conduction; her breasts, she realized—her breasts were cooking from the inside! Tears trickled from her eyes, ran down her cheek, and sputtered when they reached the fire. She’d been so proud of her body…reduced to meat for some rich movie stars’ indulgent pleasures, and with that she began anew, struggling in the face of hopelessness as the flames and fumes sapped her strength. She looked around in desperate hope of finding mercy; some of the people were openly engaged in sex acts, men and women, men and men, women and women…some were shooting, snorting, smoking. And quite a few were watching her, watching her fight her spit, watching her roasting over the flames.
Watching her die.
Ann lay smoldering in a large metal tray, her flesh charred, her eyes closed. The various spikes through her made hideous, squishy sounds as they were pulled out of her body, a torrent of juices rushing from the holes. Ann’s initial tormentor ran a knife along her crisp, brown skin, splitting away her legs, her back, her arms; the meat fell away from bone, plopping into the human gravy her body had yielded in the bottom of the pan. He cut through her belly and scooped the starchy gruel, flavored by Ann’s own carcass, into a large bowl. The movie moguls and stars seized pieces of the college girl’s flesh with delight, devouring the sweet, greasy meat with both hands, washing it down with Chianti. The tall man mounted the Oriental woman, a long strip of Ann’s thigh meat in his mouth; as they copulated, each ate away at his or her end of the meat, their mouths joining in a passionate soul kiss as the last bits were eaten.
Gradually, Ann was reduced to picked-over bone and waste, swimming in her own fat. The men would haul the big tray away, to be buried in a pit, that was next to another pit, next to another pit…
“Hey, Babe!” said the older guy, feathered ‘do, mirrored shades, wisp of a beard. “Didn’t I see you in Night of the Screaming Ghouls…?”