Posted by Menagerie on September 11, 2004 at 10:35:24:
THE OL’ CORRAL
Laughing, the wranglers wheeled the pick-up so that it careened around one-hundred-eighty degrees and came to a dusty stop in the middle of the feedyard. Several dozen eyes watched with curiosity as the two men piled out of the cab, seized the cargo in the back and tossed her onto the dirt.
“Okay, ma’am,” one of them said as he flicked out a ferocious-looking blade and cut the twine around her wrists and ankles, then pulled the cloth gag from around her mouth, “this is your new home. You play nice, and we’ll all get along.”
Sprawled in the dust, the dark-haired woman looked at them sullenly. Only two days ago, she’d been walking to her car on a dark street from her job as a secretary. Men had grabbed her, bound her, gagged her, stuffed her into a sack, tossed her into a truck, sped off into the night. They drove, for miles, and miles, and miles…
She’d expected to be stripped naked, and she was. The nice suit she’d sweated for, paid for on credit, with the frilly blouse and pleated skirt…pulled off by two men, tossed in the corner of a rustic shack. Her bra and panties followed; then her jewelry. She crouched nude on the floor, hands tied behind her back, as the two grabbed her things and jammed them into the sack. They looked like a couple of cowpokes—hats, jeans, boots; unshaven and stinking of tobacco juice. She could see out the window, and there was nothing but brush, eerily illuminated by the prairie moon. They said nothing, to her or to each other. She steeled herself, waited for the assault…
It never came. The bigger of the two grabbed her again, again deposited her in the back of the pick-up, and bound her ankles. He checked her knots and made sure they were secure; they hopped back into the cab, revved ‘er up. She was in for a bumpy ride; a good hour through the scrub and dust, one dirt road leading to another. She squeaked through her gag as the truck careened from pothole to pothole; she bounced a foot off the floor of the box with each shock. Hands, feet; no good—too tight. She wept, angrily; where the hell was she going…?
To a bigger building, just as run down as the shack. The big wrangler unloaded her, slung her over a shoulder; she heard a lock unlatch, and she went from the moonlit rangeland night to near utter darkness—no windows at all. She was plopped to the ground, landing on something scratchy and soft…a bed of straw! Silently, the shadowy figures before her turned, left; she heard the click of the lock.
She heard something else—other people around her. They rustled on the straw covered floor, snored, sighed a little. Sounded like other women. Wild thoughts flitted through her head—she had been kidnapped by white slavers; she was headed for a brothel.
Her thoughts weren’t wild enough…
As the truck disappeared in a cloud of dust, she became aware that someone was behind her, jerked her head around. A couple of other women, also naked—well, not entirely naked; square, yellow tags hung from their right ears, inscribed with bold, black numbers and letters. The two were plump, with jiggling breasts and full bellies; thick arms and legs, long scraggly hair. A rich burnt umber from the western sun. And they giggled. “Hi!” said one, a tall blonde with a thick drawl. “Ah’m Marcy! This here’s Debbie,” gesturing to a squat, grinning redhead.
She sat silently for a second; her eyes flicked around. There were a few other women; some nearby, some off in the distance. A couple of sheds stood in dark silhouette against the bright Plains sky and sun. A couple of troughs; a big metal cylinder. That was it; a vast expanse of brown scenery in all directions. “My name is Greta,” she said. “Where are we?”
“We just call hit The Ranch,” said Marcy. “They feed ‘n water us here, give us shots when we’re sick. We play, have a good tahm.” Play? She must have been thirty. “Why are we here?” Greta asked them.
“Oh,” said Marcy, “they’re fattening us up for slaughter.”
Greta didn’t really, entirely, digest that bit of news. She just fell silent again, looked from one beaming face to the other. Behind the two chubby women, a couple more had gathered a few dozen yards away at a feed trough; were scooping something out, eating with both hands. She heard them laugh and talk, the high sounds carrying through the insect laden ambience. She thought back to a hundred years ago, yesterday afternoon, sitting at her desk, taking calls, making orders…“They can’t be,” she finally said.
“Oh, sure,” said Debbie; her piping soprano contrasted with Marcy’s hoarse, deep voice. “They keep us here for a few months, then haul us off in a truck.”
“To be killed?” Greta’s voice was rising; she started struggling to her feet. “How do you know they’re killed?”
“Oh, they tell us, silly,” Debbie said, as if it was the queerest question she’d ever heard. “They see every week if we’re fat enough, then take us away. I’m almost fat enough!” she said. Proudly? “Me, too,” added Marcy.
None of this made sense. Greta looked around, frantically, at the non-landmarks, the barren landscape. “I’ve got to get out of here,” she said, panic starting to put a quaver in her voice.
“Get out?” echoed Marcy. “Whah would you wanna do that? They feed us, take care of us. We’re just happy as kin be.”
“Happy?” Greta almost shouted. “You’re going to be killed!”
“Oh, sure,” she said, “and you, too. You’re kinda skinny, though,” she added, reaching out and pinching the tip of Greta’s breast. “Thay’ll have t’ fill you out, some.”
Greta looked down, looked back up at the friendly, open face. Another woman had joined them, black, with pendulous teats and a plump bottom. “Hi, there!” she said. “I’m Teresa. Welcome to The Ranch. Want me to show you where the food and water are?”
It was too much; Greta grabbed the woman by both shoulders. “Listen to me!” she hissed. “These two tell me they’re going to kill us!”
Teresa nodded. “Uh-huh. I’ll probably go in the next load. They want my skin, too,” she told the stunned Greta. “They say it’s real nice and smooth, like velvet, so they’ll skin me after they slaughter me. They tan the skins and make stuff out of them; they call it ‘Lady Leather,’ she chuckled. “’Course, they’ll have to trim the brand…” She pointed; burned into her left breast was an insignia—two F’s, interlocked.
Greta had seen a mark on the other women’s tits; she looked closer—it was the same—and then turned away. The hot sun beat down on her, but that wasn’t the only reason she was drenched in perspiration. “You’re all nuts,” she muttered, “and I’m leaving. Which way out?”
“No way,” said Marcy; she and Debbie had taken to shoving each other and giggling, their huge jugs dancing as their full bodies slammed together, a slapping sound as the bare skin met, a bit of a suction as their damp hides came apart again. “Thar’s a gate about a half mahl north, whar the cowboys hang out,” Marcy said between grunts and giggles. “Just go on raht up thar ‘n ask ‘em to let you out!” The three women roared; Teresa plopped down on her fat bottom, tears of laughter streaming down her face, and rolled over in the dust holding her ample belly.
Tears were rolling down Greta’s face, too, but she wasn’t laughing. “What’s wrong with you all?” she sobbed. “We’re going to die, and you’re laughing!”
Debbie put a heavy arm around her shoulders. “Well, honey, we’re all going to die sometime,” she said cheerfully. “Just here, we die when we’re nice and fat, and at the end of a meat hook. Now, that ain’t that much different than anything else, is it?”
“Well, it’s now how I planned to die,” said Greta sullenly. “I was working hard, making decent money…say,” she asked, “how did you all get here? Where are you from?” She was thinking back to her nice, neat desk, her tidy, beat-up Chevy, her well-kept clothes…a million years ago…
The three chubby, naked women puzzled over that. “I believe I used to sell houses,” said Teresa. “Now, that was a long time ago.”
“Don’t you wish you were still doing that?” Greta asked, eagerly; maybe, if she could get them to see what they were missing…
The black girl immediately shook her head. “Oh, no. I like it here. It’s been lots of fun. I won’t mind getting slaughtered next week at all; we’ve had such a good time.” The other two agreed, vigorously; Greta turned away, the tears flowing freely now. She sat down abruptly, felt a sharp pain. “Owww!” Rubbed her tender derriere.
“A shot,” said Marcy. “They give ‘em to all the new girls. Y’know, they all pretty much act lahk you are now, talkin’ about leavin’ and all. After a tahm, they come ‘round and get all friendlier.”
A shot. They had drugged her. Greta sat, hugging her knees; the other three chatted, about—about how much meat each of them would yield. “Lookit all this bacon,” piped Debbie proudly, running a hand over her soft belly. “Think I won’t look good hanging in the smokehouse?”
“Yeah, but Ah’m a high yielder,” bragged Marcy; she held a leg out, while the other two examined it. “Ah’ll fill somebody’s freezer, for shore. Is that a thigh or whut?” The other two nodded. “Plenty of thigh there, Marce,” said Teresa, impressed. “That’s somebody’s Easter dinner, right there.” The big blonde smirked.
A cowhand had strolled up behind them; not one of the two who’d abducted Greta. “Lunchtime, girls!” he announced. “Who’s hungry?”
“Me! Me!” the women chorused, gathering around. He studied their eager faces, pointed to Debbie. “Your turn,” he said, and with that he dropped his pants.
The nude redhead fell to her knees, immediately took the cowpoke’s organ into her mouth and began voraciously sucking and licking it, making loud slurping noises; the tag dangling from her ear bounced as her head bobbed forward, taking him in. “That’s another good thang about The Ranch,” Marcy said. “Plenty of sex, all the tahm. What more could a girl want?”
To get out, that’s what, thought Greta, and she started scooting away. The others were occupied, Marcy and Teresa laughing and criticizing Debbie’s style as she gave the cowboy’s cock a tongue massage. He wasn’t paying any attention, either; in fact, his eyes were closed. The north gate. What would she do when she got there? Maybe what Debbie was doing. Frightened, the brunette tried to stroll casually toward the barrier she saw in the distance; nude, well-fed women sauntered by, all sizes and colors, some off to the side slurping out of a waterer, the steel nipples splayed in all directions…others down on all fours, their faces half immersed in a feed bunk, their round asses wiggling—the same marks were on their right buttocks, Greta realized, as were on their left breasts—as they gorged themselves on whatever was in there. It was kind of brownish, and sticky, and all over their faces when they raised their heads, grinning and licking their chops. They must really like it, she thought, as two more oversized women walked past her, one fondling the other’s breasts and laughing, and…
“Greta?”
What? She wheeled, tried to focus. The girl was tall, smiling, waving…”Angela?”
“So nice to see you!” said Angela, rushing up and taking both her hands. “So you made it here, too?”
Greta was shocked. Her co-worker Angela had disappeared while jogging three months ago, in a wooded area north of town. There had been all kinds of speculation in the paper about whether it was a serial killer. Here she was, darkly tanned, smiling, healthy…well, maybe sixty pounds heavier. She’d been skinny as a rail. Tagged, branded. “Angela!” she finally croaked out. “What…what happened to you?”
“Why, I came here, of course,” she said. “It’s been wonderful. Plenty of food, and fresh air and sunshine; all of these friends…” The girl with her, a short, dark plumper with enormous breasts, giggled. “This is Janice; we’ve been friends since we came here. We’ll probably go out on a load together; she’s much better finished than I am.”
“Oh, no!” said Janice, a faint Hispanic accent. “You are so full and meaty; you were so skinny when we came here. You are filled out; even the boss says so.”
“Well, that’s so nice of you,” Angela smiled, “but you know what they always say. ‘Yield, yield, yield’. In fact—” she leaned toward her plump friend and whispered loudly, “I heard them say you might be the boss’ Christmas dinner!”
“No!” the little Latina squealed delightedly. “Right there on the big platter in his house? The whole family waiting to dig into me? What an honor!”
Greta wasn’t reacting to the bizarre talk by the two women looking forward to their deaths; not this time. She was getting more relaxed; the chatter about this one being butchered and that one being roasted was starting to sound…well, normal. She smiled, said slowly to Angela, “We were wondering what happened to you at the office.”
Angela looked puzzled, bit her lip. “The office?” she said doubtfully. “I don’t remember…did I meet you there?”
“Yes,” said Greta, a sleepy grin starting to spread over her face. “You were in Accounting; I was on the next floor, in Data Services. You were in charge of six other girls.”
“Six!” she exclaimed. “Were they being prepared for slaughter?”
“Well…nooooooooo…” Greta trailed off. She was starting to see the other women the way they saw each other. She took in Angela’s thick thighs, imagined them as thick slabs of meat, hanging in a butcher shop…her breasts, great, pink globes, on a platter…“You—you really look, well…impressive,” she finally said. The Accounting Manager smiled, sunnily.
“Well, thank you, honey,” she drawled. “But you…well, a few months here and you’ll look just as meaty as we do. Just be patient. Takes a while to build a rump like this.” And with that Angela slapped herself on the ass, a loud crack that reverberated across the empty flatlands and died slowly like a clap of thunder. “Whereall were you going, by the way?”
Greta honestly couldn’t remember. In the distance was the north gate, two men leaning against it, peering in their direction. “Hungry?” asked Angela, and Greta had a vision…an image of a man’s cock in her face, in her mouth, eagerly sucking it, draining it of fluid, swallowing it as one would knock back a cold drink on a hot day, as if she were quenching an urgent thirst…“Sure,” she finally said.
“…this is just so good,” Janice was saying; her pudgy brown cheeks were matted with the thick, gooey meal. “We eat it all day and all night; they give us all we want!”
They were all on their shins, legs tucked under their haunches; the trough was chest high to them. Greta had tasted the stuff, cautiously dabbing her finger into it; the other girls were stuffing handfuls into their mouths, gulping it down. She rolled a little between her fingers, licked it off, self-consciously wiped her hand off on her bare leg. “Gotta eat up,” kidded Angela through a mouthful of the feed; she pinched Greta’s back ribs. “There’s no fat there at all. They want to be able to grab a slab, there.”
It was good, Greta had to concede; kind of sweet and syrupy like molasses. She wadded up a ball, bit into it. “This is all we get to eat?”
“That…and a little cream,” Janice giggled.
As if on cue, a cowpoke arrived behind them from the shack at the gate. Greta glanced over her shoulder at him, her mouth full of the feed; she’d seen him before. “You gettin’ all settled in?” he asked her; it was the one who’d bound her, tossed her into the truck bed.
“Oh, she’s doin’ just fine, Larry,” said Angela. “You just wait; she’ll be the best one you’ve got. A little meat on her bones, and she’ll dress out just right.”
“Larry,” Janice asked in a low voice, looking up at him with shiny brown eyes, “Is it true? Does the boss want me for Christmas?”
The big wrangler grinned, gave the Chicana girl’s tit a squeeze. “Wayl, if’n he doesn’t, he’s passin’ up a helluva meal! You got enough meat to feed an army, girl!” The girl smiled broadly. “You see?” said Angela. “You got the best carcass in the yard; you’d be just perfect on that holiday platter…”
The vision had filled Greta again. She wanted, needed a cock in her mouth, something to top off the delicious gruel filling her belly. Without hesitation, she rose on her knees, started fumbling with the ranchhand’s zipper. He looked over at the other two laughing women, winked. “Wayl, now!” he said. “Ah believe this new gal is lookin’ for dessert!”
Greta would taste many dicks in the days and weeks that followed, and delighted in every one. She would romp and play in the sun with the other girls, squealing as they improvised games of tag and wrestling, delighting in the feel of each other’s bodies, the warm, smooth skins rubbing together. She would bawl in pain, chained by the neck to an anchor, as the red-hot iron creased first her teat, then her ass-cheek—forever to be marked with the Double F—and as the punch gun permanently riveted the yellow tag to her ear, a grotesque bit of jewelry that would identify her as G42A. Her whimpers subsided as, laughing. the men who had marked her then pacified her by allowing her to service them again with her mouth; it was true joy for her—she longed for that taste, that feel, all of her waking hours. She swallowed both loads, happily, and bounced out again into the feed yard.
Weeks of the fortified animal feed was turning Greta into a little butterball. Her slim waist expanded and melded with her hips; her thighs and upper arms swelled with flesh, and she jiggled when she walked. Soon, she was the envy of the newcomers—Angela, Janice, and the others were all long gone, waving cheerfully from the back of the truck as the cowboys spirited them away from The Ranch forever—and once they had accepted their fates and their tears were replaced by the joys of their easy, playful life, they would crowd around Greta and purr over her sleek, fleshy frame. They would run their hands over her belly and back, her legs and breasts, and comment on how much meat she was carrying, how well she would kill, what delightful meals she would make.
In the heat of the day, they’d move into an old corral to get out of the harsh sun, catch a nap on the straw. The air was heavy with the fragrance of scores of unwashed women, exuding sweat and their sex, as they rustled on the beds of forage in their stalls. Later, there would be cooling showers, the herd of them marched through a building open on each end with spray nozzles pointing at all angles from the low ceiling. Cleansed of the grime of the dusty feedlot and of their own leavings, they emerged glistening darkly in the sun, ready to resume what remained of their carefree lives.
They even, once, got to see the boss. He was a huge, strapping man, almost as broad as he was tall, wearing rough leather and a battered hat. He inspected the women as his hands trailed behind, locking gates and hustling plump, waddling ladies back into the corral, their thighs and butts shimmying that way and this as they glanced over their shoulders to get one last glance of the man who’d brought them here. And he stopped before Greta, eyed her up and down, reached out and squeezed her shoulder, ran a hand down her side, over her belly, across her hips.
“Mighty fine lookin’ filly,” he declared; a cowpoke quickly slipped a clipboard to him. “G42A…you’re doin’ just fine,” he said, glancing at her eartag and then reading the numbers while continuing to fondle Greta’s supple flesh.
Greta bit her lip, looked down at the boss’ fly, then back up. He roared with laughter. “Why, sure, little lady; you just go to it!” She eagerly dropped to her knees and worked his pants open; the other women peered over from their stalls with envy. The boss! Greta sucked and licked passionately, taking his entire organ into her mouth and then partially extruding it, gleaming wet with her spittle, and then again. “Pretty good,” he managed to gasp out, “like that—who was that little Mex girl, the one we had at Christmas dinner?”
Janice! It was true! Her loving assault on his cock became frantic; when it unloaded, she greedily swallowed every drop and cleaned the remaining cream with her tongue. She looked up. “Boss,” she said, “how about me on your platter next time?”
He looked her over again, the thick, fleshy frame, heavy with meat and a rich layer of fat…then laughed, swatted her on her chunky backside. “We’ll see, G42A…we’ll see,” and he was gone.
Soon, the day came. Greta had been there as long as nearly any of the others; she was sleek, ripe and fat, her body seemingly ready to burst from her skin. Another truck; women were being rounded up for the one-way trip to the butcher’s, and Greta was one of them. They giggled playfully, talked about how much they were looking forward to it, teasingly offered the driver one last blow job. He wasn’t interested, not like the old boys who watched the livestock during the day; he had shades, a white hat, and was all business. Greta, burned a deep brown by the blazing badlands middays, plumped her full, firm tush between a round, freckled strawberry blonde and a hefty heifer of a gal with a smooth, chocolate brown complexion. Their huge breasts bounced as the truck sped across the yard to the gate, and through to the outside world Greta no longer sought. They raced along, squealing with each bump and laughing…and the truck screeched to a stop in the loading bay of an old warehouse. All they could hear was the howl of the desert wind as Shades hustled them out of the truck, into the dark of the building…
Greta stumbled along; she felt a man reach for her neck, clamp a collar around it, lock it closed. Then she was led, down a couple of dank corridors, to a concrete pen, open in front, lined again with straw. She heard a click; the other end of her chain was secured to an iron ring in the floor. She sat back in the straw, contentedly, waiting for her final fate, to be turned into meat…thinking proudly about how much weight she’d put on, how firm her body had stayed from playing with the other girls at The Ranch…how, maybe, the boss would walk up as she was hanging from a hook and say, “Put that one in my freezer”…
…and she heard a whimper. From next to her, the other side of the concrete barrier. “Hi!” she said brightly. “This is Greta! Did you just come over from The Ranch?”
“Oh…Greta…” the voice was low, wracked with sobs, “…please help me. They’re going to kill me!”
Greta paused; in the dark, she said, “Maria?” Maria had been a pretty little Italian girl, a dark, heavy face, thick, sexy legs and big tits, who’d left The Ranch a week ago. She was still here?
“Yes, it’s me, Maria,” said the voice, low with fear. “They kill me tonight; I heard them talk.”
“Well, of course!” said Greta. “That’s why we’re all here; they penned us up, fattened us, and they’ll kill us and butcher us!” Maria had always loved the games, loved the food; when they’d loaded her on the truck, she’d hugged the other women, big, naked bodies tight and warm together, and cried in joy, “Finally, my turn!” Greta was puzzled; she repeated, “That’s what we’re for; why are you crying?”
“You don’t understand.” The voice dropped even lower. “They don’t feed us for a week after they bring us here. I’m not on the drug anymore.” Her voice broke; the crying began anew. “They’re going to kill me, and eat me!” she choked out between tears.
Greta just didn’t see why Maria was upset; she had gobbled the feed, sucked off the cowboys, talked as matter-of-factly about being slaughtered as any one else. She had radiated enthusiasm, boasted of the thickness of her womanly thighs and her prodigious bust; slapped her own ass and said, “Mama mia! Is that spicy meat, or what?”, throatily laughing as the cheek shook like a big pudding. Greta tried to edge around the corner of the concrete wall, to see her; as she took in the wailing next to her, she pictured Maria huddled on the floor in a great ball, her huge legs drawn up, her massive boobs spilling onto the straw bedding. As it had for many months, the image left Greta thinking of meat, of food; of Maria served on a giant platter, her cool garnishes of greenery contrasting with hot flesh, sizzling fresh from the oven. Greta sighed with satisfaction, thought about her own fate—maybe the boss’ table?—as the other girl bawled, loudly…
And they did come for Maria that night; like the truck driver, cool, calm, efficient as they roped the hysterical porker’s feet and hands and lugged her away. As she screamed, begging for someone—anyone!—to save her, Greta tried to interest the men in feeding her—one way or another. They ignored her, brushing her aside as she pawed at their zippers—it had always gotten their attention at The Ranch!—and carried the hapless, hysterical Maria to the dimly lit area off to the side. Greta could barely see Maria’s voluptuous body hanging upside down, twitching and jerking, her screams caroming off the walls of the dilapidated building…then silence. And a little seed began to grow within Greta, gnawing at her, the faint feeling that something about this scene was not quite perfect, not quite right…
She still got water, and food. A few days passed; she lost interest in eating. She saw woman after corpulent woman dragged squealing to the side room, heard her cries come to a gurgling halt. She started remembering the office again, and how she got here. And finally, on Day Five, she looked the man who brought her a bowl of food in the eye and said, “Please help me.”
He shook his head. “I see you’re shaking off the drug. It’ll be just a couple of more days; then you’re going to the pit.”
It was sinking in; she tried to talk, but nothing came out. Swallowed, tried again. “Why?”
He was bent over, cleaning the stall that Maria had spent her last days in. “Why? I think it’s the drug. The boss discovered it on a trip to South America. It makes women slaves; it makes men hungry for women. He was the first to try it; he’s hooked, and so are all of those cowboys.” He laughed.
“Not you?”
He never looked at her, kept shoveling Maria’s tainted straw into a wheelbarrow. “I’m on work release. Murder second. Nobody else will hire me. The boss doesn’t make me take the drug; this eating human flesh stuff has become his whole life—that’s all he does, that and sell the drug. There’s people hooked on it from here to Timbuktu; the feedlot—and this place—he sells the meat and uses the proceeds to keep going. He’s a junkie, a junkie for your meat.”
Greta said, softly, “If he’s going to kill me, at least he should let me keep taking the drug.”
“Can’t do that,” said the man. “Ruins the meat; unpalatable. Seven days’ withdrawal.” He finished scooping, wheeled the ‘barrow away. “See you in a couple of days.”
And they did. While the girl in Maria’s stall, a portly, wide-hipped Korean, watched with bemusement, the boss’ henchmen tied Greta up and popped the neck chain. She stared wild-eyed at the Korean girl. “Please!…” she yelled. “Help me!”
“Why?” the girl giggled. “Don’t you want to be slaughtered?”, her tinkling laughter fading as Greta was carried, struggling and begging to be released, to the pit, and the overhead pulley, and the knives, and the hoses…The knives through her throat, opening her up, gouging out her innards, the blood pouring to the floor, blood with just a dash of tears…
She did get her wish, though. For just one week hence, in a big, old mansion hard by the creek, the boss, his closest friends, and his top men gathered around a table. Gathered around Greta, her massive, headless carcass on its back on a huge platter, her empty belly filled with stuffing, bare bone jutting from the ends of thick, juicy thighs and upper arms. Gathered to give thanks for such a wonderful meal. The boss himself carved the sweet flesh, the first plunge splitting the twin F’s on Greta’s right buttock, cherry red juices running like wine along the breadth of her ample flank. There was no decorum for these crazed cowboys; they tore into Greta’s ample physique, ripping mouthfuls of her away from the large chunks of woman meat on their plates. And they all agreed that she had been the best they’d had.
“Even better,” said the boss, “than that little Mex girl…the one we had at Christmas dinner.”