Story: SB112 Solitude


Posted by Sawney Beane on July 07, 2007 at 13:37:29:

The Collected Works of Sawney Beane: Volume #112

SOLITUDE

by Sawney Beane

6 June 2004

1,026 words

DISTRIBUTION NOTICE and DISCLAIMER: Sawney Beane requests that any distribution of this work of fiction remain within the realm of social responsibility. This story is suitable neither for minors nor for the seeming majority of adults who have difficulty distinguishing fantasy from reality. It is pure fantasy, which means that, for whatever reason, someone has found it interesting to think about the events depicted herein. It does not in any way mean that the author would like to see this fantasy become reality, so if you are the type of person who might be swayed into doing something irrational by reading a work of fiction, the author respectfully requests that you decline to read further.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Sawney Beane, originally a native of Edinburgh, lived for twenty-five years in a cave on the coast of County Galloway, subsisting on the flesh of unfortunate travellers, roughly a thousand of them all told. He and his wife raised a large family of eight sons, six daughters, eighteen grandsons, and fourteen granddaughters. Eventually, the family was captured, and the whole lot was brutally and unjustifiably tortured and executed without trial. Since his death in the early 17th century, Beane has reformed his ways and now confines his atrocities to his literary endeavours.

WARNING: This story contains discussion of snuff and consensual gynophagia. If you find such things offensive, please steer clear; you have been warned.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: This might be the fastest story I ever wrote since it was under a hour from the initial idea to a complete story. Usually they take days or months; so this might not be as polished as some, but it is an emotional image I find appealing.
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Jane felt completely peaceful at that moment. Laid out flat on her back on the heavy oak table in the kitchen, they had left her alone then, nude, sparkling clean, and full of delightful anticipation.

After the bustle of the preparations, she had this time to herself, this calm peaceful moment before the final fury of her life's dream finally crushed her mercilessly.

Anna, sweet dear Anna, had helped her through the bathroom routine. Anna had scrubbed, painted, shaved, and polished every bit of Jane's alabaster skin to make her perfect. Every inch of her normally beautiful body was in the best possible state. Jane felt herself sparkling there on the table.

Her eyes were closed, relaxed almost to the point of sleep, but there was no danger of dozing off today. Today she was alert and ready, but it was nice to have a little bit of solitude as Don and the others were rampaging around the backyard getting the fire ready. They were preparing the fire that her friends and family would soon be roasting her over.

Earlier the kitchen had been the centre of the storm with all of the women preparing stuffing, broths, and garnishes for the featured entrée. Now the kitchen was deserted except for Jane, alone on her back on the table...waiting and resting.

Her fingers stroked the smooth skin of her pubic mound absentmindedly. She loved her new hairless perfection and wished that she had thought to do away with her pubic hair sooner. The sensations were so different, so erotic. But now this part of her would have a very different role to play than it was used to. It would still be one of her most popular parts, but now the men would fight for the honour of putting it inside of them rather than the reverse.

There was no regret. Anything that a person can't do in twenty-five years isn't worth doing, she thought to herself. She had enjoyed her life, but now was the time to end it. She wanted to go out on top. She wanted to enjoy the experience she had planned for herself. Some might think she was out of her mind, but it made her feel such a thrill of bittersweet fear inside her to know that fifty or sixty people were gathering in the backyard, each of them people who had known her as a person, waiting eagerly to get to know her as a meal. She wanted to be delicious for them.

She wondered how she would taste. Of course she had tasted other girls. She's had three of four cannibal meals in her lifetime, but she had never tasted herself. The girls she had tasted varied widely in flavour, and she wondered which one she would be most like. Or would she taste entirely different? Perhaps her only regret was the fact that she would be unable to join in the feast.

And what a feast it would be. Her in the solitude of the kitchen, her long fingers stroking her soft mound and sliding into her moist genitals, she imagined the chaos of the feast. She imagined herself, pale flawless skin turned a uniform golden brown, steaming and smelling strongly of the unmistakable aroma of a spit-roasted woman. She imagined the knives tearing through her succulent flesh, the meat that was her spread onto plates and passed around to the dozens of guests, each guest taking one tentative bite of her and smiling widely at her perfection. The subsequent bites would be faster and faster as the guests desperately sought to obtain for themselves as much of her tender juicy meat as possible. The scramble for seconds could become rough and competitive. At the end of the night her bones would be picked clean and piled in the sun. And then her perfection would be only a pleasant memory.

She knew it would come soon. She knew that her solitude would soon be interrupted by a delegation come to impale her fragile body on a merciless steel rod eight feet long. She would smile widely and moan with genuine pleasure as they slid the sharpened tip into her dripping vagina. They would all laugh and shout as they watched her take this murderous lover further and further into herself until she screamed in pain as the tip sliced through her insides. They would not make her hurt for long though. Don and the others would shove the spit through her and Anna or one of the other women would hold her head down and back so that the spit would pass through her throat unobstructed. Someone would prop her mouth open to keep her from losing teeth as the point of the spit careened out from between her lips. She would stare at this bloody thing that had killed her, and she would taste the metal and blood in her mouth.

She would not last long once it was through her, so the brief chaos would again be replaced by solitude. She would soon be unaware of all of the activity her body and its preparation would require. She would be unaware of the people laughing and joking as their mouths watered for the impaled beauty. She would be unaware of the tears some of her closest friends and relatives would shed for her, not being able to completely accept her demise without mixed emotions. She would be unaware of the fire and knives.

She knew all of this, but nothing disturbed her solitude. The smooth polished wood beneath her back felt nice, and the slight cool summer breeze across her naked body cooled her. She felt only the pleasant memories of a life lived well and the dreadful anticipation of an imminent death she'd arranged for herself.

The fire was started, a pleasant mesquite odour wafted into the kitchen from the backyard. There were muffled shouts as someone tried to give orders amid the milling mass of hungry guests. No doubt Don was getting the deadly spit greased up for her. It would not be long now. She smiled to herself contentedly without opening her eyes.