Posted by jackh on November 24, 2006 at 03:28:40:
THE MOO GIRLS OF DOLCETVILLE
by Jack
The float rounded grandly onto Elm Street to the fading strains of a Sousa march and the pounding of drums. Ahead came clusters of uniformed children followed by old men weaving on scooters. The float barely completed the turn when a second float nosed into view. From the reviewing stand less than a quarter mile away and along the packed curbside an excited murmur arose. The moo girls were arriving, ten floats in all, one after the other, headed to the Fair Grounds for the July Fourth Festival, the biggest party in Dolcettville.
"The MacArthur Clan", informed a hand painted sign on the lead float, though everyone knew the MacArthurs just as everyone knew every family in the village. Atop the float, seventeen year old June MacArthur was lashed as to a ship's mast rising from a bed of flowers, her mouth stretched by a ball gag. She was nude. Her eyes were squeezed shut. A gust of wind caught the girl's hair and swept it across her shoulder and over one of the perfect young breasts. June's mother stepped up to do what mothers do.
"You're quick," Arnold MacArthur said with a grin when his wife resumed her place beside him.
"We're practically to the judges!," Ruth MacArthur whispered.
The other MacArthurs on the float were June's nine year old twin sisters dressed in white communion dresses, teasing reminders of the purity that infrequently remained in Dolcettville girls their age and improbably remained in them, a fourteen year old brother, Danny, and grandparents Fred and Petunia who sat in rockers in the back, waving to the crowd.
Mayor Jim put thoughts of his speech aside to take in the float as it glided near the bleachers. The mayor had a particular interest in the float's featured attraction. The village was bountifully endowed with pretty moo girls owing to its careful breeding practices, and June MacArthur was among the prettiest. The mayor had already decided that she would be the one plattered for the head table, meaning his table. His gaze confirmed the wisdom of his choice and as the float passed by he returned to his reflections.
It would be more or less the same speech he had given six years ago, at the last festival, and at the one six years before that. He would recount village history, say glowing things about the moo girl tradition. The mayor spoke of these matters often. Moo girlism was set in the mind of every villager, male and female, repetition being the key to its hypnotic power. No one was fooled. The populace realized it was under a spell and accepted it like oxygen.
"Oh, look at Daisy! Isn't she fantastic!?," the mayor's wife exclaimed, poking his honor in the ribs.
"What? Oh, yes."
The second float was moving past.
"We Are The Flynns - Ready for Sin," its sign declared. Daisy Flynn, the thirty-three year old mother of the seven children on the float with her, lay stretched on a spit that rested on make shift brackets above a cardboard fire the kids had colored with crayons. The brackets wavered unsteadily to the motions of the float bringing wisecracks from the roadside. At the rear, Daisy's husband stood smiling and waving between a pair of sisters-in-law, one of whom he would pick later that day to be his next wife.
"Poor Daisy," Mrs. Mayor sighed, the way one might sigh on finishing a good book.
The age range for moo girls was fourteen to thirty-four, putting a girl at risk four times or three depending on how old she was at the festival of her initial eligability. For poor Daisy, who had survived three festivals, it had been four. The festivals consumed moo girls in quantity. This was one reason they were held in six-year intervals, but the festivals weren't the only events that called for girl roasts. Two or three moo girls were taken at Thanksgiving. The library's fund raising committee drew names for a moo girl for the Spring Fling each year. The junior and senior classes at the high school picked one of their own for their respective proms and balls and even carried out the roasts themselves with token supervision. And other celebrations - the mayor's last birthday, for one - might be awarded a moo girl or two on petition to the Village Council. As the numbers suggested, the roastings on some of these occasions were little more than entertainments. The festivals, on the other hand, were feasts. After the parade reached the fair grounds, the ten girls on the floats would be roasted along with a "surprise roast", whose name would be drawn at the last minute. There might be more than one. That was up to the council. But before the roasts would come fun and games.
The mayor fell deeper in thought as he came up against a familiar temptation - not to mention the two known failings in the Dolcett persusion that decades of experimentation in the art of mind control had been unable to reverse. One was in plain sight in the anguished faces of the doomed beauties on the floats. Moo girls were happy. They could giggle about their prospects in the lotteries or when thinking of being spitted and roasted alive, but when their names were called the carefree attitudes dissolved and the girls were struck by terror or fell into despair. At best, they accepted their fates in glum resignation. From witnessing this transforming effect on their peers, moo girls expected that they would react no differently if ever their times came. Yet, somehow, luckily, they remained blithely untroubled by what they saw. If only that witless cheer could be made to carry over to a moo girl's experience on the gutting table or trip to the oven, but it was not to be.
"Oh my, here's Mimi Anderson," Mrs. Mayor said, nudging her husband from his reverie once more.
The third float was approaching the reviewing stand. "The Anderson Gang. We Have A Good One to Bang," its sign said.
Mimi Anderson truly was a good one to bang. She was twenty-six. She had been homecoming queen one year in high school. She was both gorgeous and promiscuous, that fine combination. Her sisters attended her on the float, fanning her with basting brushes as she stood against a pole with her legs spread, ankles tied to stakes, hands bound behind her back, a rope around her neck knotted to the pole.
Mimi's natural parents weren't present for their daughter's big day. Her mother had met her end as a turkey girl one Thanksgiving long ago. Her father was thought to be a pretty boy rock star who would not even have known of her existence.
The mayor mused on Mimi's example. Perhaps he would use it in his speech when he came to his remarks on breeding and the supply of new moo girls. Here he would begin by reminding folks that no activity in Dolcettville was as important as maintaining the livestock. Breeding started a girl's first summer out of high school. Most girls were sent to the Angel Modeling and Talent Agency in the city. Operated by the mayor's cousin and before him the cousin's father and before him the father's father, the agency was a front for introducing moo girls into a high quality male gene pool. The men the agency accepted as clients never knew they had been carefully checked for their stud qualities or that the girls weren't on the pill and came from the same place. The studs thought what they were led to believe, that they had lucked into an amazingly attractive stable of young whores.
The mayor turned his gaze on the nearby sixteen year old Julie Brown watching the parade with her Councilwoman mother. Julie had recently begun her first breeding season. It was still too soon to detect any sign of success but the teenage tummy showing beneath Julie's tanktop shone with promise in the morning sun.
"Excuse me, love," the mayor said, squeezing past his wife. He made his way over to Julie.
"Morning girls," he said, looking at just one of them.
"Good morning, James," said Councilwoman Brown.
"Moooo," said Julie.
"You may talk to the mayor, Julie. I'm sure its all right."
The mayor smiled at the unsure eyes. He felt his hardon extending his pants.
"Permission granted. Tell me, Julie, have I had you yet?"
"Uh huh. You did at your birthday party. I was in the veal line."
"Ha! I remember. I had you briefly."
"Mmmm."
He took Julie by her shoulders and turned her to face him. He saw no reason to resist tits that presented themselves so enticingly in that yellow tanktop. He put his hands on them and found the nipples with his fingers and thumbs. Julie's breath quickened.
"'You're a bit grown up for the veal line. Were then, too, as I remember."
"Mmmmmm, oh boy," Julie mumbled. She bit her lip. "Mom made me get in that line."
"Does your mom have you, Julie?" He knew the answer. The nipples felt like rubber knobs.
"Well, yeah. She has me a lot, I mean like every day. Oh! Mmmmmm...She had me this morning. Mmmmmmmmm, she...makes me get on the kitchen table and...oh gosh!...she like pours warm milk on me and laps it up and does other stuff, all kinds of stuff. I'm...I'm breeding now, you know. I dropped out so I could breed...mmmmmmmmmm...so I'm not on the pill most of the time. I'm having the cream stuff today but most of the time I'm trying to have a baby and she says it makes me tastier not being on the pill all the time."
The mayor had heard enough though he had hardly tired of the objects under his hands. He was about to retract Julie's talking permission when his wife saved him the trouble.
"Jim, you're not watching the parade!"
"Julie, I'm going to have you today. Come to my table at the fairgrounds, first thing. No talking then, mooing and screwing it will be. Won't be brief this time."
"Uh huh, yes sir." Julie smiled at him. "Mooo."
The mayor worked his way back to Mrs. Mayor, nodding and smiling as he went.
"Like to cook that one," he murmured to his wife. "Wouldn't mind seeing her be a surprise roast."
Meanwhile, like a strain of plague, the other blot on Dolcett perfection made its way toward the center of town in the person of Henry Stone. It was believed in the village that Henry was dead, but for three years he had been only away. As time passed, Henry's Dolcett vision weakened, then disappeared. He made a new life for himself, never understanding why he didn't want to go home. He remembered the village, things that happened to him there, but his memories were cleansed of anything to do with moo girls. This much about the phenomenon was known to the elders of Dolcettville. It would be better if the mind set were permanent but if it had to give way, which it always did in the absence of regular repetition, memory loss was a welcome safeguard. What wasn't known was the effect now manifesting in Henry. His memory was returning in hazy waves but without the mindset that needed to come with it. Henry told his girlfriend about the memories. She told him he was imagining things. He wondered if she was right. They drove to Dolcettville together to learn what was what. The bridge was out. He remembered that. You couldn't get into the village when the bridge was out. They parked and waded across in the dark, keeping clear of the sheriff's car. They slept in the woods. Now a band was playing in the distance as they walked the empty road, their clothes drying in the July sun.
"Yeah, it's the parade! The July Fourth parade! Damn it, Ginny. They're gonna take these girls to this field, like a picnic grounds, and every guy in the whole damn town is gonna fuck them and then, Jesus Christ all mighty, they're gonna cook them!"
Ginny Adams laughed. If the stories Henry told were wildly ridiculous, why did they excite her? She could be on Philip's yacht right now or going with Paul to watch him buy race horses with his father, dates her parents would approve, but instead she was tagging along with a crazed young man who had barely a penny to his name, a family background that was literally zero, and they had slept in the woods for God's sake!
"It's not funny," Henry muttered.
They came to the top of a hill from where distant roof tops and church spires could be seen.
"I know," Ginny said, feeling his concern.
She paused with him surveying the scene. Either the band had stopped playing or they couldn't hear it.
"You didn't tell me what you told your mother."
"About why I came with you?"
"Yeah."
"Oh, I told her you were taking me to your home town to see some girls get roasted for the Fourth of July. You know, instead of fireworks."
"Look, Ginny. I'm feeling more certain about this. You think it's nuts but what if I'm right. You could be in trouble. I know we've talked about this, but damn it, they think the town is closed off and they do that so no one from outside will find out what goes on here. If they see you, I mean...
"Ooooo, they might barbecue me. Mommy and Daddy definitely wouldn't like that."
It was getting hotter. The road had no shade. Ginny knew she looked a mess in her rumpled clothes and tangled hair but there wasn't much she could do about it. She'd lost her overnight bag crossing the stream.
"What about the sex part? Being screwed by all those terrible men. You said the girls are pretty. Maybe I'm not pretty enough so they wouldn't bother with me."
She put her hands on her hips, confronting him. Henry grinned in spite of himself. No one could fault Ginny for looks. Seeing him give her the once over, she pivoted, propping her chin in her hand.
"Here she is, ladies and gentlemen, Miss Virginia Jefferson Adams, a Virginia ham. Tall, nice legs, nice tits, not big but nice, long auburn hair that is not always a bird's nest. She won for nicest smile in high school and came in second for most attractive after Angie Moore, that slut."
"Ginny this really isn't a joke."
"Oh, it is too. It's too yummy not to be. You know what? Mommy and Daddy would hate the sex part even more."
But I might like both parts, she almost added.
Ahead, the trees half covered the road in shade.
"Come on," she said.
She took Henry by the arm and they started down the hill.