Posted by Menagerie hisdinner on March 05, 2005 at 06:57:05:
(Sam, this is a joint effort and we'd appreciate it if you could post it in both of our archives. Thank you.)
Headlong
The ropes were tight. That was good. She liked that.
In fact, she liked everything about him. Liked the way he talked to her, serious one moment, joking the next. Liked the way he handled her, hesitant for a moment and then going hell-bent-for-leather forward, like that’s the way it had to be done, by damn, no looking back. Liked the soul she saw in his eyes; he was real. He felt it; so did she.
He was watching her very carefully. She flexed at the ropes, once, twice, and then gave up. He liked the look of her body in ropes. She folded up so neatly, like a compact, little suitcase, her long, lanky body suddenly halved and less, ready to be used, to be led through their play.
They met through a mutual friend on the web. They both felt the fantasy, were both stirred by the same passion. They laughed as they chatted about the absurd cartoons, naked women going happily to their deaths, men taunting as they poured on the sauces and the spices. They read the stories very seriously, critiqued them in private.
They goaded each other on, spent long hours staring at the one-eyed, glowing monster that connected them. He told her how he would treat her, how he’d abuse her, invade her body, destroy her utterly. She flushed, the words pricking a deep area within her brain; she responded, told him how she’d cry out, how she’d beg for pity, how her body and mind would ache. And the same hidden, shadowy area of his own brain glowed red with her words.
They encouraged each other, praised each other when they tried their own hands at writing the strange stories. Some liked the tales; some found them too internal, a glimpse into a private world they didn’t understand. That was all right; he liked them. So did she.
They finally met over coffee. It had been five years. He was a little grayer than she imagined, a little more bent. She looked tired to him, crow’s feet at the corners of the eyes and mouth. But then they talked, and they touched, and they remembered the words, and the heat pulsed between them.
She felt his finger travel up her forearm, like he was laying invisible fire. Oh, yes, the heat pulsed, and it grew. That first afternoon, she blushed and admitted that she'd rented a room for them. He laughed and admitted that he'd rented one, too.
Just beyond the door, she stood transfixed as he spoke one word. "Ready?"
Five years of talk and yet she quaked. "I-I am not sure."
He drew her close, she felt his tension in the tentative way he gripped her--and then let her go. He asked the question once again, with just his eyes this time. She nodded, suddenly giggly and blushing, a bridal-night feeling rushing through her--five years was such a long time to build such expectations. Would she disappoint him? He shook his head and smiled.
They'd gone to his room. He'd hinted about advance preparations; now, he led her into the long part of the L, past the vestibule. She gasped. He'd draped the bed in white snowy satin and in the center of it was a lovely oval platter, and nearby, the stuff to transform her into a perfect roaster. There were oils and fresh herbs, cooking twine to bind her, an apple for her mouth.
She beamed. Yes. Their talks had taken them so much further, but nothing was more erotic, more sensual, than to recreate their favorite picture, the first one they'd discussed.
She shed her clothes as he prepared the greens that would garnish the platter around her. He was busy at the sink, he hadn't seen her yet. She slipped behind him and stole a sprig of rosemary and crushed it against her wrist. Their eyes met in the mirror, and then his traveled down her body. Magnificent. She offered her wrist to his lips. He nuzzled it, inhaled deeply and led her to the platter.
They spent an hour lost in moans and sighs. He’d bound her kneeling, apple in mouth, but soon relented; she wanted to kiss him, arching her neck, twisting as he took her from behind, running his hands over her body, marveling at this meat beneath his fingers, how the oil slickened it--just like all their conversations, five years of exultant expectations, but so much better, hot breath to her bare back, teeth sinking into her shoulder just enough to make her squeeze him tighter, deeper.
Sated, at least momentarily, they tumbled off the platter, but she resumed her pose for him, and he meticulously arranged the herbs, rubbed in fresh oils, and fixed the greens around her. He smiled and selected a lovely carrot, slipped it deep into her sex, and then another for her backside. She squeaked and giggled, and opened her mouth, so ready for that apple. That was the first time. He recorded every inch of her on film, every bit of this for them. And then she had to go.
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The second time they met, he'd arranged a kitchenette. She delighted in the homey setting, exclaiming over the oilcloth on the Formica table, laughing that he'd have to chop her up to fit inside the tiny oven, and how would he ever get the leftovers in that teeny little fridge?
They played that he was her Dad, tired of watching his teenage daughter sashay around the house in her Daisy Dukes, taunting him. He threw her over his knee and spanked her, first through her tiny denim shorts, then tugging them down, rubbing her generous globes, then smacking them until she squealed and begged. He kept going until her rump glowed a rosy red. Then "Daddy" said, "Mm, these hams are just the way I like them, think I'll have you for my dinner, girl."
She played the bimbo to the hilt, begging him, pleading, "Oh Daddy, no! I'll do anything, don't eat me! Oh! " As he stuffed his manhood in her mouth, she swished her pigtails, ribbons flying too. She moaned and suckled him, but sure enough, Daddy wanted more from his little girl. He opened the oven door and she braced herself on it as he plowed her, all the while taunting her with the view. "This is your new room, honey. Like the way I've decorated it for you?"
She begged him not to cook her, promised him anything, even to bring him her little friends to roast, if only he'd let her go. The two of them shuddered, gasped and sank down to the floor, sheened with sweat and moaning. The oven remained open, beckoning.
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That wide-mawed appliance remained in his mind’s eye. He saw it as they chatted on the Net, as they talked on the phone. Her dark, musical voice, the mysterious giggle, the deep, sexy contralto-as he heard it, the image came to his mind, her face contorted in pain, frozen in mid-scream; her hands, bound before her, balled into fists. And the oven, welcoming her in, the metallic whoosh of the jets…seemed as diabolical laughter to him.
She was unsure when he told her he’d like her to stay the night at his place. He backed off a little, bashful. I understand, he said, if you’re worried--she thought about it, and "worried" ran through her mind. Helpless, naked, a man’s house…it was delicious; she itched for it. They met at the airport; she brought a bag. "You may not need it," he chuckled, and the chill ran through her, emptied out in her crotch and asshole, gave her a metal shiver.
He pounced while she was unpacking. The knife--against her throat! It was enough to get her to swing an elbow, but he caught her arm, twisted it behind her. Her face pushed into the quilt over the big bed, muffling her protests; her feet kicking, as he methodically tied her wrists. She was breathless; she was alive with it all. The fear filled her throat, made her heart pound.
He carried her, blindfolded and nude, through the house and to a side rec room. On her back; the scent of propane. His hands rubbed the oil into every inch of her body; they dove into the joint of her thigh and groin, wobbled seductively inside her twat, then dug out and ran, smoothly, up the length of her body. Both hands, now, starting above her breasts, swinging down in matching semi-circles along her ribs, meeting at her belly, then up between the breasts. She was slick, and hot; she gasped through the exult, "My God! What are you doing…?"
"I’m greasing my pig," he said, "for the cookout." The blindfold came off; the sarcophagus gleamed silver, handles along the lid, vents above-the air above seemed to shimmer. Cooking tools hung nearby, spatula, forks, tongs. Knives. Long, gleaming…a stone alongside, to sharpen them.
He did that. Her eyes were wide, following his hands as he stroked a husky blade against the stone; sparks sputtered, bits of grit drifted onto her. "You can’t be serious," she managed to say, and that brought a crooked smile. "You look delicious, my little piggie," he told her. "Such luscious hams…such a firm belly…slabs of ribs…" Tracing the tip of the newly honed butchery tool along each part of her. His mouth watered. She stared, mouth opening, closing.
How hot was the roaster? Was that really steam? He touched the lid, drew back, shook his hand violently. "It feels perfect," he remarked, not even looking at her. "Your skin will sear, trapping the juices…you’ll cook slowly, evenly…how I’ll enjoy your meat." Now she fought the bonds, her bare butt wiggling on the table, legs swinging this way and that; and now he had her in his arms, slung her over his shoulder, lowered her onto the grill, belly first…it stung!
He gripped her hair, lifted her head; his cock swung before her, red, glistening. "Kiss the cook," he mocked, and she took it in eagerly, sucking it deep, as far as it would go, moving her mouth and tongue as much as she could, desperately. She still didn’t know if the grill really was hot; she still didn’t know if he was going to slam that lid, leave her there, pump in the fuel. But she needed the white, sticky stuff, and it flowed, thickly coating her cheeks and gullet.
She gasped and choked; he pulled out and, looking intently at her--at all of her--he closed the lid. And came the moment of panic, of dread, of mortal terror. Until she realized there was no heat. There was tingling, stinging, but no heat. It came from the grill itself. It was wired. And as she let out her breath, long, slow, exhausted, she shuddered, and came again.
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He said, "Next time you come, bring me your sister."
Her mouth gaped. She looked at him, head slightly shaking, stunned.
"Haven't you always wanted to?" His grin tilted sideways on his face, his arms were crossed.
She nodded. Her mind raced and she began to form a plan, how to explain, how to-
"You'll figure it all out. Go."
She rushed away and spent the next few hours in a quandary--how to get Debbie ready. Sure, they were close; she'd hinted at the games she played, she'd even shown Debbie her souvenirs, the purpling bite marks on her flesh, the faint knife-marks he'd made.
"But I don't want to get roughed up!" Debbie hugged herself and stuck out a sensual, pouty lip.
"Play along. It's only in good fun, and besides--oh god, Debbie--You just won't believe it. Just this once?"
"I never heard of the little lambs showing up at the Big Bad Wolf's house," her little sister mumbled, hiding a secret shivery smile.
They did, though. They showed up at his door wearing the clothes he'd specified--things that they wouldn't miss. She played the big sister, the Protectress, but only for a little bit. He kissed her, he murmured such seductive things as he praised her abilities to fetch just what he'd been craving.
"A little blond piglet to roast. Delicious!" he'd growled as he circled Debbie. She cowered in a red checked gingham dress, her feet in white anklets, her skirts barely covering little lacy panties. He grabbed her ponytail and she shrieked.
He turned and regarded her sister. "Help me bind her to the bed. If you don't, I'll slit her throat. I want to hear a few more of her squeaks before she roasts." He turned to Debbie and winked. Her eyes, wide and teary, cleared and she winked right back and began to play her part to the hilt.
"Oh no, oh no, please, please don't! Oh no save me, save me!" Debbie flailed as her sister and her captor tied her wrists to the bedposts.
He pushed her thighs apart and used his curved hunting knife to slit her dress right up the front, tearing the thin fabric from her, exposing those silky panties. He slit them, too. And then he didn't wait, he pawed her open and rammed himself into her. "Slick already, you little vixen!" He chuckled. He looked at her older sister.
"Seems your sister might have a taste for this, after all."
Debbie squirmed and howled like a trouper; in fact, he'd had to gag her-the little lacy panties worked just fine. His voice rumbled when he told her all the things he'd do to roast her--how he'd fit her in the pan. She undulated beautifully, she squawked and protested, and then she came. He spent himself in her, and then he reared back and smiled at her sister.
"Little jealous? Want to taste?"
She blushed crimson as he guided her lips, her tongue to Debbie's slickened sex. She lapped and tasted him and her, familiar, blended. His hand pushed, gripped her hard. She loved that feeling. She hid her eyes and tried to figure out what she was feeling. Watching them had been revealing. It was only when he told her sister how he'd cut her into pieces, only then, that she felt jealous pangs. She didn't want to share that. Not with anyone.
And so, it was a thrill when she felt him come up behind her as she was ministering to Debbie, and pull her arms up painfully, the bones in her shoulders grinding as her wrists were tied tightly together. His hands encircled her neck, cupped her chin and pulled her head back; she looked, upside down, into his gleaming eyes.
"It’s time," he said, "for the Big, Bad Wolf to feed his other appetite."
This was something new; he’d had a custom oven built with a long, roll-out drawer. Just big enough for the two of them. She lay on her back, wrists still throbbing behind her, her feet tied to hooks protruding from either side of the door; then, Debbie entered, in his arms. The panties had been removed; her younger sister was gobbling in fear, begging him not to put her in the oven.
He laughed, and produced a pair of carrots, the ends sawed off. One went into her mouth; the other was stuffed into her vagina. She moaned, feeling it, wriggling her hips to accommodate the root.
"I think," he grinned, "you can share," and he laid Debbie down atop her, facing the other way; her squawling was stifled when the vaginal carrot went into her mouth. The process was repeated at the other end; he secured Debbie’s feet to the back end of the drawer, then manipulated the second carrot into her. The sisters were joined by the vegetables, mouths to cunts, and they wriggled and jiggled with the joy and terror of it.
As the women writhed together in the pan, he lovingly basted Debbie’s back with warm, melted butter; they dripped in the grease as they panted for breath, both in a state of autoeroticism. Such luscious sistermeat! he thought. Two delectable meat animals, the same, and yet different...He visualized them lying together on a platter, forever joined, their aromas mingling, their juices flowing as one...so tender, and so sweet, and he laughed with the savage joy of it. "Goodnight, ladies," he mocked. "I’m going to cook you, now," and with a toe, he airily closed the long drawer with a bang.
It was hot in there; her sister’s warm, soft body atop her, the busy carrots shifting and grinding within her, a heated flush spread across her own breasts and belly. And was it also a little warmer inside their narrow chamber? The metal tray, lined with foil, felt hot against her ass and shoulder blades and calves; was he really going to cook them? She didn’t care, just kept blindly on, jerking against the carrots, the scent of her sister’s slit just inches from her face, sending her into paroxysm after paroxysm, orgasm after orgasm. When the drawer finally swung open again, she was as limp and as hot as if she’d been cooked for real.
"Promise not to tell?"
Debbie laughed. "Tell who? My husband? Besides, the movers come tomorrow morning. I'll be on the road by three. Don’t' worry--your secret's safe with me. I'll write you when we get there. No phone for at least a week." Debbie rolled her eyes and walked to the door. She stopped. "Oh, and Sis?"
She smiled at Debbie. She knew what was coming. "Uh huh?"
"Holy mother of god, that was good." Debbie giggled and ran out to her car.
She found him lounging on the bed, scrutinizing her. He patted the spot next to him. When she joined him, he kissed her. His hands snaked around her neck, and soon, he knelt bestride her, and she was gasping, choking, graying out.
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It became impossible to stop. Playtimes stretched for days, as she hunkered in a cage, as he tossed water on her, or took her out to fuck and then threw her back and locked the door. They rarely spoke, except to confirm what a nod or a glint in the eyes suggested. "Yes, that." Or "More," or most of all, "Don't stop." Sometime during their marathon, over coffee (while she knelt and served as his table) they determined a safe word. She hadn't wanted one; they ruined the mood, she'd said. He had insisted.
"You're my safeword," she'd said.
"Then when you need to quit, you'll speak my name." He replied.
But she knew that she wouldn't do it, wondered if he knew it, too. He had to see it--she had the most extraordinary difficulty saying his name. Saying his name was like invoking an ancient unnamable god, it carried that much power for her. Each time she might be tempted to use his name in conversation, it stopped deep in her throat, further back, she could not even hear it, not even in her mind's ear. Now she wondered. If she couldn't say, "Oh, ___, what do you want to drink?" then how could she speak his name at the moment when it would mean him ending the very things she craved? And he knew it, he had to. Oh! Was it yet another form of torture, another test? She nodded, smiled ruefully. She decided that he was five steps ahead of her, always. So wise. And he had always sensed just when to stop, before.
They left for the mountains. He'd packed provisions and assured her he had everything they'd need. It was midnight when he led her up a long driveway. She was naked on a leash and she walked proud, tall, her breasts rising and falling with excited breaths that formed momentary clouds around her. Her skin was luminous in moonlight, her wrists crossed and tied on the gentle outcurve of her backside. Part of her wished the neighbors would see. He hoped his security cameras would capture every inch of their display. She'd phoned work and feigned an illness that would keep her out for days.
Before the mountains, they played hard but always with the awareness of neighbors pressing in. Never like this, where she could stand in the middle of his timbered property and see no one, and hear no motors, anywhere. Nothing for miles, that's what he'd said. She gazed around her, as far as she could turn her head. He'd looped a chain around her neck and pulled her out into a clearing in the forest,where a single tree stood. That tree was charred from fire, nearly limbless, without sap or leaves but it stood firmly rooted. He tied her there, lashed rough rope around her neck, threw the rope over the V formed where the trunk split. Hanging? She wondered. He'd never-
"Errrrk!" He pulled her onto her tiptoes and then he pulled a little more. She kicked frantically as the rough rope bit into her tender flesh. He laughed, a deep, resonant booming that echoed through this mountain valley. Her hands were bound behind her, she couldn't claw, she could only twist and writhe and kick as her faced suffused in red and her skin felt so tight. He used a length of chain to strike her undulating body once, twice. Heart pounding, she could barely hear him over its beats. "Adrenaline makes for gamey meat."
Did he say that? She blinked her eyes, opened them from a gray-black haze. She tried her voice. It felt like something rough was scraping out each syllable. "A-amazing."
He studied her awhile. "You didn't say it."
"No," she said. She hadn't even thought of it.
He continued to look her over; she stood, trembling, unsteady. The rope was still around her neck; her hands were still bound. Damn, her meat drove him mad! His eyes traveled up the corded calves and lean thighs, the neat, nude V where her legs met. "You know," he said, his eyes still no higher than her waist, "those legs would look damn good in my smokehouse."
She shifted her weight, her back rubbing against the ancient tree; her voice cracked first, and then gained strength. "You-you have a smokehouse?"
He smiled, evilly. His heart rose in his throat. "Care to try it on for size?"
He had thrown only a little light hickory into the box beneath the grate; the narrow building with its tin walls was warm and smelled of smoke. She coughed and sputtered. She was hanging by her wrists from a hook, directly over the smoldering pile; her ankles were also bound. She clenched a wooden block in her mouth, and looked at him, comically; he responded by putting his hands on her supple body, giving her a slight push, watching her swing from the hook. "24 hours in here," he told her, "and you’ll be ready to carve." Then, he left her there, the coarse chunk of wood muting her protests.
He really didn’t know how long he’d leave her in there. Back in the cabin, he thumbed idly through a book, stared out the window…thought about her, hanging in the little, tin building, her skin reddening, her breath labored, the sweat trickling down her body…
He ran to the kitchen; he’d dressed out whole hogs here, for the neighbors. Knives, saws, a stainless steel sink with a six-foot basin…he pictured the blood swirling down the drain; he saw her lying, inert, in that sink, her belly open and emptied, her throat slashed, her eyes forever closed, so still, so beautiful, so delicious…
Sweat ran from his own forehead, now, stained his own underarms. He selected a knife, half rushed back to the smokehouse. When he swung open the door, her eyes her closed; he took a step forward, and they snapped open. She saw the knife.
"Perhaps," he said, his steps even and deliberate, "if we’re going to smoke you, we should bleed you out first." Her eyes widened, and then he remembered, and plucked the block from her jaws. She gasped, spit out dirt and splinters. "How do you plead, pig?"
She swallowed…hanging naked and helpless, the knife producing reflecting the dull, flickering red fire. And she said, "Please…no…"
He said, quietly, "Please, no, what?"
"Please," she said, and then added…"Master."
The wound was superficial, diagonal across her left breast. She gasped with the pain and wept, but her breathing became harsh and strained as he leaned forward, the bloody knife at his side, and put his mouth on the cut; the blood smeared across his lips, filled his mouth. He drank deeply, and then knelt to untie her ankles…
His pants were around his ankles; his cock was in her, her blood stained his shirt. She was frenzied with the pain, the ache in her arms, the smoke, the feeling of him deep inside her. They exploded together in the dust and the fire, and then he raised the knife again, and cut the rope. She dropped from the hook onto his shoulder, and he lugged her back to the house.
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She woke one morning drooping from the manacles he'd left her in the night before. Her neck was cricked; she doubted that she could even lift her head. She blinked, blew the tangled curls away from her face, and strained to look down at the welts she felt criss-crossing her body.
"Striped like a steak on a grill," he'd murmured. He seemed to have lapsed into a trance, each of his lashes coming in measured beats, each one adding to the pain, until it rippled down her body in sweet hot torrents, waves. "Like a steak. Mm-hm." He came close and ran his tongue up a long welt, tasted the thin stippling of blood there. His hands traveled lightly over the ridges he'd created on her flesh, caressing, wanting.
More. She shifted as the room flared with light, felt him approaching her, gasped as he gripped her hair, wrenched back her head, slapped her face a few times to waken her.
"Morning. How much do you weigh?" he asked, calculator in hand, all business.
"Water?" She was so thirsty. Her shoulders burned, and she couldn't feel her hands.
"Hm, I'd say about 130? Close enough. Water?" He grinned. "Surely." He unlocked the manacles and carried her to a warm bath and eased her in. The scent was ambrosial. He watched her wince as her welts encountered the water, and then he smiled as he watched her sniff the steam that rose from her tub.
"Pineapple, lemon, wine, a bit of papaya extract… all natural tenderizers. Enjoy your marinade."
She rested her head on the lip of the tub and watched him sharpen his knives again. Her shoulders ached, but the bath was so soothing. She drifted off and slipped by slow degrees to the surface of the water. Her nose slipped under, she inhaled the lemony waters and sat up sputtering. He had left the room, gone outside. Even from inside she caught the sound of crackling fire.
His fingers trembled as he readied everything. He went through, again, the pictures he’d copied from the Internet. Of a pig, step by step from slaughter to roasting over a barbecue pit, to carving. Of cutting techniques, how to separate a joint, to split a carcass. Of, and his eyes shone as he stared at it, a woman’s anatomy.
It was in layers; her skin removed, displaying muscle and subcutaneous fat. Then her viscera exposed, ribs covering heart and lungs, stomach and liver, intestine. Then, finally, the back of the abdominal wall, ribs and spine, upper pelvis, cleaned of all guts. Totally bare, empty. He licked his lips, looked again at his preparations.
An X-frame was fixed to the ground, cuffs at ends of the wooden beams. A steel table, gutters running from the center and along the sides, emptying into quart sized buckets at the corners. Knives, a brand new set of knives. How they shone! The smallest could flick through a tendon, excise a set of labial lips; the largest could saw through bone and muscle. They each would have their role.
He breathed, deeply. A few molecules of the flavored bath in which she soaked made their way out of the house and into his brain; the sweet, pungent smell was heavily masked by smoke from the sputtering fire, the sharp scent of ozone. The hickory logs had burned down from inferno to steady, red white embers, surrounded by such heat they appeared enveloped in fog. More logs were stacked nearby, and he calculated again. One-hundred thirty pounds…less the "drop," and the head, ninety-six pounds…eight minutes per pound, turn her every quarter hour, baste her periodically with a beer and butter sauce…
His eyes left the fire and centered on the pole, a dull gray iron, leaning against the steel table. Long enough, he knew, and it would fit neatly into the supports on either side of the hissing, spitting fire. Thirty inches above the smoking wood; he perused the sheets on the barbecued pig again. He didn’t want her burned on the outside and raw on the inside; he wanted her perfect. FOLLOW THESE STEPS, the netwise cooking artists proclaimed, AND COOKING YOUR PIG WILL BE A TRULY ENJOYABLE EXPERIENCE. And he exhaled, looked around one more time, grabbed several lengths of rope, and headed for the house.
The noose around her neck awakened her from her blissful, garden-scented reverie. He pulled it tight, used the other end to bind her wrists. Out of the tub, her soft, tender legs flopped; he laid her on the bathroom counter and methodically bound her ankles, bending her legs at the knees and cording the joints so she was cross-legged. She mewled softly as he worked, the slipknot cutting into her neck.
The fragrant liquid had permeated her flesh, swelling it, turning it pink and heavy. The cuts he had criss-crossed across her body had been conduits for the special mixture, and they stood out, red and pregnant against the pale skin. He paused, and dipped his face into her belly, rubbing into it, taking in the aroma, the texture. Her flavor. Soon, he thought, you will have given me all you have to give, and he crouched, cradled her in his arms, and carried her out to where the ingredients of his feast awaited.
She felt floaty and serene after her bath, but when the cords bit into her flesh she gasped and watched him work on her. As if I'm not really here, she thought. As if I'm watching some lucky meatgirl as she's tied and readied for the fire. He stared at her skin, seemed to weigh and measure everything, today had been all about that cold, precise sort of play that sometimes left her cold, when they used to talk about it in the chatroom. Clinical, almost. No, not clinical, more like--culinary—that's right! As if her weight really mattered, as if the angles that he tied her really needed to really fit—
When he carried her outside they passed the gleaming knives, the cross brace, the pit. She felt the channels in the table beneath her, how they gaped like hungry throats, eager to drink her blood. "I must be drunk," she slurred and giggled. He wouldn't. She lay there, taking it all in, watching him check his watch, check the fire. Such a showman, the best role-player I could imagine; she smiled. She tried to rest her head but the cord around her neck forced her to peer ahead. He sharpened his knives, he wiped them off, and twice he dropped the cloth.
Was he nervous? She grinned. All the welts on her –why not add more? Her belly warmed, she felt that achy need again. He approached her, eyes on hers.
He'd studied the sections of the book so carefully, but now he ran his hands down her throat, down her centerline, probing, reassuring himself of the cuts, the paths he'd take. She moaned and nodded, ever willing. "Make me meat," she said.
His hand caressed her aching sex, fingers slipping inside. His other hand held a knife. He placed the tip of the knife at her sternum and let it take a bite, let it draw a drop of blood onto the surface of her skin. He had her pulled taut below, stretching her belly tight, the knife poised there, angled to cut the length of her belly.
"Yesssss" she purred.
He looked up startled. He thought he'd gagged her. Hm. Did he want to hear the full range of her voice, or should he muffle her? An image of her split wide assaulted him. He stared down at her as she arched to offer her belly, as she begged for it. For that knife.
She'll scream, and then she'll use the safeword. One deep cut, and I'll hear my name, he thought. He tightened his grip on her, stretched her out, and let the blade plunge through her lovely skin, until it disappeared.
Her eyes bugged; her tongue protruded. The pain briefly broke through the ecstasy. Not a scream; a drawn-out, high-pitched whimper, an animal’s cry of distress. For a moment, she didn’t understand what had happened to her. Then her eyes were drawn down, down to the deep, bloody cut; the whimper became a murmur, an internal sound. She looked up, and their eyes met.
He was lost in them. So deep, so mysterious. The knife still buried in her belly, he walked into her eyes, joined her, knew what she knew. I need this, her eyes told him. You need me. Take what you need...He blinked, shook his head, escaped. And then he looked at her mouth. Say it, he silently commanded.
She set her jaw firm, looked at him, and swallowed, hard. She would say nothing. A trickle of blood ran from the corner of her mouth; she had bitten her tongue with the agony. But her eyes were completely clear, completely focused.
The bloody knife came out; he stared, his Internet anatomy lesson made alive, throbbing, glistening. Blood ran from the vermilion wound, pooled in the channels beneath her, slurped down into the pockets. The heavy red liquid collected, dark, greasy; her exquisite skin turned paler by the moment, now the color of dry parchment. The cut, just here, he decided; through the jugular, severing the trachea and esophagus. Quick. Final. One last chance.
She struggled through her extremis; took a deep breath. I can end this, the thought filtered through, between spasms of backbreaking pain and cunt jolting pleasure. I can say his name, and she looked up. His knife was against her throat, his eyes wide and begging. Does he want me to stop him?
They stared at each other for a moment, transfixed. Time had stopped, but the tinder continued to crackle; the smell of burning wood, a fruit orchard, and her blood, all driving them both mad. Her lips parted slightly; she breathed, hard. One word.
"Now," she said.
He had honed that knife to perfection. There were no imperfections, no dull spots; you could cut tissue paper with it. He was surprised at how little blood there was; the buckets were nearly full, already. She thrashed, she kicked. She stopped.
He had sometimes wondered, how it would be. They had talked so many times, described her butchering, her roasting. He was not stunned, not in a fog; he was quite clear-headed, as he lovingly dissected her, stretched out on the X-frame. Held her head, firmly, but gently, as he separated it from her body.
She was so much lighter now, he thought. So many times, he had carried her, she helpless and barely resisting, hands and feet bound, full and heavy with flesh. Now, wearing heavy gloves, he scissored his arms underneath her back and buttocks. The metal rod through her, exiting her empty neck and out her bunghole, kept her straight; her feet were tied to the other end. Her arms hung limp, down to the projection of humerus, from where he’d removed them at the elbow.
He felt as if he was carrying her to a sacrifice; his arms were extended straight out, her split and empty carcass laid atop them, the rod extending out, as ballast. They lay neatly on the braces; he fitted the caps over them, turned the knob, and she began to turn, slowly, over the fire.
It was transfixing. He knew he had work to do—what was not over the fire was still piled on the table. Except for her head; it rested on a pole, off to the side, just so he could see it out of the corner of his eye. Her eyes were closed, the trace of blood still dotted her pouting mouth. Her hair was wild; her jaw was still set. She was still beautiful.
And he watched, watched as her long, lean body became red, and brown; breathed in as her flesh tasted the fire, held it in, released its juice and steam in uneven packets. The smells of blood and fruit were now drowned by the aroma, a spicy, nutty, heavy scent, as if the droplets of her fat had caught and lined the inside of his head, felt so smooth and thick…he sat back. They had often enjoyed drinks together, and sometimes more, but he now held only a crystal, faceted tumbler, filled with water. Ice water. Nothing was going to dull his senses
The gorgeous curves of her body were now draped in a crosshatching of fluids, drawn from her tissues. Dark streaks, the ichor dancing in the light of the fire, and of the oil lamps he’d lit in the yard. It was turning dusk; he had studied the instructions, the anatomy, very carefully. There would be no guesswork; it would all be exactly right. More logs on the fire; he righted him and stood next to her. Still turning, the drippings now falling from the sepia, glistening skin and sighing as they struck flame below. The skin breaking away, meat so red and soft beneath. He stopped the spit, and she posed for him, perfectly calm, the fire within her now and making her flesh sizzle and bubble, a pretty picture. A beautiful meat girl.
She lay before him now, frozen in that pose, arms and knees slightly bent, resting on her breasts, dried from the fire and the leaching of her fat. He cut, where he knew she would be most delicious; the sliver of meat from her inner thigh curved seductively, brown and crisp and pink and moist, and he drew out the tasting of that first morsel, bringing it toward his mouth so slowly, very deliberately. He tasted it before it met his tongue, its favors carried by the steam and filling his mouth, and then he couldn’t stand it any more and stripped it from the fork with his teeth, held it there, felt it running into his mouth and down his throat, tore it to pieces and ground it to pulp, took it down his gullet in a steady stream of slurry. Hot, fragrant. Heaven.