Posted by Menagerie on June 02, 2005 at 17:49:20:
INEVITABILITY
Jennalisha didn’t understand. Not, at least, at first.
She was still in school, lanky and skinny and awkward. Her eyes were wide, and alight with the craving for knowledge. Her body was always curved inward; arms wrapped tightly around her chest, legs curled beneath her, as if she were tightly wound and ready at any second to spring free.
She had met him during a school Jobs Fair. He called himself Man; he had a very good position with an architecture firm. He was tall, himself, and slim, but hard; Jenna thought she could see the muscles, densely packed, right beneath his skin. An open collar, short sleeves; his arms and neck looked to be made of iron. Shyly, she approached.
“Yes! Humm,” said Man, shuffling through some papers. “Very good opportunities, at University. Plenty of tests, you know; plenty of courses. How are your grades?” They were excellent, she told him, her eyes reaching deeply into his, trying to see the brains behind them. He met the gaze and smiled, very slightly. “You should look me up,” he said, very professionally, his eyes shifting downward to the stack of cards, and the pen he held. “Please call me; perhaps the Firm can help you in your studies. And good luck with your choice of professions.” On the back of his card, he had written a telephone number.
Jenna smiled broadly at him, her teeth showing, large and white; she took the card—the touch of his fingers sent an electric shock through her. She swallowed and stiffened as she drew back, clutching the card. He was not alarmed, not at all; he smiled back. “And we’ll be seeing you.”
It did not take long for Jennalisha to muster the courage. School was out; the tedium of nights in the tropical heat, days spent hiking in the savanna or lying by the water—she had enjoyed that as a child, when she had nothing to do. Now, there was a world before her. “Yes! Hullo! Mister—?” Yes, the voice on the other end assured her, it was he. “Oh, I do wish to speak with you more! It all sounds so fascinating. Can we…?”
There was a small shop, a place where country meets city. Young women met there for salad and endless chatter; couples would talk quietly, looking about at the crafts for sale, enjoying cold drinks amidst the endless whir of giant electric fans. It was hot, the air rising from the asphalt road and twisting the scenery around, as if a fresh oil painting were turned this way and that, the colours swooping and melding.
The streetcar had taken Jenna within a couple of kilometres of the shop; she had trod the rest in the heat. “My goodness!” Man exclaimed as she pushed into the shop; her hair was across her face, which was streaked with sweat. She managed a wan smile. “Iced tea, please!”, his voice rising to a bellow; Jenna had decided his voice was quite musical, like a mellow horn.
The servings were generous, and Jenna drank, deeply; finally, she coughed and sputtered a bit, set down the tumbler, and Man roared with laughter. “You were all dried out, there!”, he cried. “Bit more of that, and you’ll be filled out, again. Now, to eat?”
Jenna had not planned to eat; she finally asked for some curried rice. Then, the stout, scowling woman who ran the shop plunked a plate down in front of Man; a thick, pink and brown slice of meat on an open roll. He had not ordered. “I come here all the time,” he explained, and Jenna then realized that many in the shop were looking at him. And at her; she curled even more within herself, feeling like her shoulders were nearly touching.
Man had taken up the meat and bread, lifted it straight up and toward him at right angles, and then taken a rather large bite from it. Jenna timidly inquired. “Lamb,” he said. She had never seen such a thing. “Very popular in London,” he grinned.
At that point, they talked a bit more about occupations and professions, the supposed reason they were dining together at a rustic storefront far from the city’s crowds. He told her about his degrees, the prestigious awards; he described his work for an ancient Scottish construction firm, centuries old, delicately adding new structures around the ghosts of the old. The owner was a crusty old man who wore the family tartan and chewed through the same concoction every day for dinner, a mixture of animal innards and oats. The pay? “Very generous,” he said, smiling. “The stereotypes are highly inaccurate.”
But he had felt the need to come back; he missed the sun, and the sea. “And now,” he grinned across the rickety, little table, “I’ve a protégé.” Jenna blushed, ducked down, her long, thin body trying to make itself flat and small.
He offered to show her some of the countryside; his little English sports car could barely fit the two of them, and he toot-tooted along, the rush of wind taking away some of the stifling summer. He remarked on the structures in the distance, neo-this and intra-that, and then they pulled off and settled beneath a clump of trees. There was an endless field of wheat before them, ripening to a reddish-orange, and then beyond that, the stack of a factory, the curl of gray smoke barely visible. The car coughed and died; Man’s hand brushed the fullness of Jenna’s hip, the flesh squeezed out against the car seat.
It was all wonderfully new to her, but she was determined to pretend it was not. When their lips met, she closed her eyes and breathed, deeply; she felt exultant, no longer the timid girl, the nervous ball of energy. Nevertheless, her eyes snapped wide open again at the unfamiliar penetration. “Have I hurt you?” Man asked; his face showed concern.
Jenna found her voice. “No—no,” she managed to whisper, barely breathing the words. “Please…don’t stop.”
Her eyes had been right; his body was as rigid as steel. She gripped his upper arms tightly, as if ascending a ladder; as he filled her, their mouths joined and their fluids running together, Jenna gave up the last of her self-consciousness and began sighing, audibly, with each breath, the high-pitched whimpers of real heat. She felt the throb within her, the wetness, but Man gave no outward sign; he was still as cool and assured as he had been behind that desk.
Jennalisha had not wanted to show regrets, but there, they were. Her eyes leaked as she leaned against his shoulder. No, she told him, it had been beautiful. “I hope I pleased you,” she blurted. “I really don’t feel pretty, not at all.”
He smiled, kissed her lightly. “You are lovely,” he told her. “What was wrong?”
She just felt—like a rag doll, she decided. She didn’t feel like a real woman. She was skinny and bony; she felt frail. His strong fingers massaged her shoulder. “I can fix that, you know,” he said. “A few weeks on my wonder diet, you’ll be positively voluptuous.”
He laughed again, a different sound; Jenna would come to recognize it. A devilish sound; the sound of a man who’s got you where he wants you. Jenna looked down, at her chest, her belly, her legs. “Right,” she said. “When do we start?”
This time, he picked her up right from the jitney stop, took her on a much longer ride through the country. On the way, Jenna saw a series of broad, flat houses, each different, as if they’d been selected from other lands and then plopped down together in the countryside. Spaced far apart; a place for young people of means and promise to reflect on their successes and challenges.
Man’s home was simple enough; a kitchen, a den, a bedroom. Jenna assumed the bedroom would be first; instead, he ushered her into the kitchen. “How about a nice snack?” he called over his shoulder, as he retrieved a half-dozen bowls from the fridge. Jenna sat, somewhat uncomfortably, her legs crossed at the ankles; she sipped at the tea. He’d plunked it down hurriedly before her and then whirled back to his tasks; the backwash left large, shimmering droplets on the shiny, wooden table. She dabbed at the drops; Man was a blur of activity, slicing this and spooning that, and soon a multicoloured repast was before them, all its glory.
“Now, this…” he was telling her. All of the dishes seemed to have something to do with meat, from thin slices of tongue to jellied forcemeat, and then sticks of biting, robust sausage. Jenna had barely eaten meat in her entire life. “Keeps your strength up,” Man said between mouthfuls. “How the West keeps ahead, y’know?” Jenna tried some of the forcemeat, her tongue at first shrinking from the unfamiliar feel, the acidic bite; it slid down her gullet, and she went for another spoonful.
She had never felt so full in her life. They polished off every bit of the meal, Man hovering over her to make sure she tried everything. “Learned that from a friend up in Delhi,” he said. “You know, some foods, mix them together and you get an entirely different result. But some, you know—“ his hands rested on her, between her shoulders and neck—“some is truly unique.”
In the bedroom, Jenna was nervous; he hadn’t seen her body yet. The huge meal had left her feeling heavy, sluggish. Man sat on the bed, watching her intently, as she hesitantly unbuttoned and shed her blouse, then unthreaded her skirt. It was slow going; her fingers wouldn’t work right. She eyed him, and tried a smile; it only partially emerged, and she bit her lip.
He rescued her, rising quickly from the bed; his hand caressed her shoulder, formed a cup and swept down to meet her breasts. The garment sprang free, and he fondled the globes, pressed them ever so slightly, placed both palms beneath them, as if to weigh them against each other. It was so easy for him to lift her; Jenna felt the air leave her lungs as he swung her vertically, cradled her and then laid her on the sheets; the plain cloth that shielded her womanhood, he slid effortless down her hips and thighs.
“You really are beautiful,” he told her; Jenna lay on the bed, arms over her head, her legs together and bent, as if caught in mid-leap. He rubbed her belly, and that was good; it felt almost like her stomach was swollen out, distended. “You will be so good,” he told her, and then he gracefully slid by her side, skin on skin, the overhead fan noisily pumping, a monotonous pow-pow-pow as they joined…
The trips were first once a week, then a couple of times, then every day. Eventually, Jennalisha quit taking the rattletrap jitney altogether. Man was away all day on business; she settled in to his home, watching the lone local television station and the old, romantic movies she always thought she’d seen before, but hadn’t. He left her victuals, and instructions on how to prepare them; when he returned he was typically burdened with briefcases and books and a hundred things to do, but he would drop them all at once and take her to the bedroom.
It became ever more erotic. He had bought her all-natural scents and rubs; her body gleamed with the oils, her warmth caused the fragrances to reach out and seize him, draw him to her. He would massage her, all over, her muscles becoming supple and sleek under his artful manipulation. She would lay on her belly, quite still, eyes closed, and feel herself becoming loose, as if she were melting into the bed. No longer did she constrict herself, sitting or lying in rigid poses; Jenna felt as if her limbs were flung to the compass, and as if she could soar with the breeze.
When Man proclaimed her ready, she would roll over and eagerly await him, joining the crush of his embrace with exuberance. He would nuzzle her all over, his nose and mouth exploring the flesh of her belly, her breasts, the long, delicate curves of her legs. It was a prolonged taste test; she was ripening, he would tell her, becoming ready.
For what? Each meal was more sumptuous than the last. The first heady experiences with the prepared meats had turned into a craving; Jenna delighted in each new dish, sampling the artful way Man had turned just a few ingredients into something grand and eloquent. She came to realize he had decided exactly how much of each dish she would eat, every evening; as with the first time, he watched her down it all, applauded when she was done. “That’s my good girl,” he would say. “The wonder diet really is working.”
Jenna had no doubt. Her body was broadening, her shoulders and arms becoming rounded and full. Her thighs were heavy, thick tubes of meat; her buttocks, no longer half-flattened pockets but firm globes. Her belly was no longer sunken; even the flesh over her ribs seemed thicker. She would examine herself in the mirror, see that she was no longer the frail child, but a full-bodied woman; she was glad, and there came a time when she no longer worried where it was all going to end.
It was subtle, at first. Man would pinch a few centimetres of meat under her ribs or along her leg. “You’re really filling out, you know,” he would tell her. “You’ll be plenty for me.” From there, he would describe her in terms of the exotic foodstuffs they’d just consumed. “This…”, he would say, a hand pressing into Jenna’s back as he massaged her. “This would fit just as well for those cutlets, y’know; slivered just right, in that mustard sauce?”
She would laugh and accuse him of teasing her, but the patter became part of his conversation, first during lovemaking, then throughout the evening. He would remark that the freezer would hold almost all of her; he showed her the shed behind the house, where he could butcher his own meat. “Fancy, you’ll be hanging on a hook in here someday, what?” She gazed inside in awe, the tables and saws and hooks. “I surely could,” she finally said.
From simply humouring him, Jenna had herself become caught up in the talk. They would discuss the fullness of her body, and at what point she would be ready for the knife. Man sought her advice on how each part of her should be prepared. “Remember that stew last week, with the squash?” she’d say, and his fingers would trace along her body, telling her how he would cut the meat from her bones, simmer each piece of her flesh with just the right spices. “What kind of oil?” she’d giggle. No oil was needed, he told her; “The fat of a woman has a flavour all its own.”
And then, she asked him, “How do you know?”
For a while, Man wouldn’t tell her. He’d just smile, and wink, and they’d again settle into the luxuriousness of idle loveplay. But he persisted, describing to Jenna the appearance of her cooked meat, the subtle tones of flavour, the texture of each portion of her body. She was never insistent, and he was almost never weak, so the truth didn’t come out until much later.
By then, Jennalisha was truly ripe and plump. Her skin was taut over the newly-packed on meat and fat; her buttocks were wide and inviting, the cleft above them arcing impressively into round, warm buns, and then descending to thighs rich and tender as a lightly baked sugar bread. Her belly was full but firm, and even her love mound was a saucy, round mound of meat. Fleshy shoulders and arms, and a back that bulged with the fruits of the good eats she’d enjoyed in the house of Man.
Jenna realized that she was now as succulent and well-finished as any farm beast, and she would soon fill Man’s larder, and then his belly. And then, her diet abruptly changed; the rich, heavy foods were replaced by lighter stuff, jellies and grains, almost flavourless. Really, not much different than she’d been accustomed to before she met Man, but she found she no longer had a taste for it, and she asked him. “Your time is quite near,” he said. “This is for the final layer, the sweet taste that will permeate every last shred of your flesh.”
Jenna knew then that she was soon to be killed; it really did not sadden her, except to know she’d no longer be Man’s lovemate. She thought back to visits from his friends; they had come in greater frequency in recent days, and they seemed particularly interested in Jenna, the changes in her. “Why, she’s a solid one!”, exclaimed Raj from the office; no longer the shy, awkward schoolgirl, Jenna was nearly naked in the presence of Man’s colleagues, perhaps just a dainty slip, or a very brief top and shorts. They would comment on what Man must have been feeding Jenna, and suggest a visit “afterwards…after her time.” The hints were broad and easily understood, and now Jenna chose to ask again, and Man answered.
There really wasn’t much to it, he said; he had circled behind Jenna, his hands again caressing her neck and shoulders. He had learned, long ago, of this craving; he was not a wolf, his taste was for mere bits of a woman, selected morsels that he could savor as part of a fine meal. He kept it within himself until his return from the UK; he found his own personal attractiveness, his hard body and learned, professorial air, appealed to a certain type of woman. A woman just reaching out to explore the world, and yet unhappy with herself, a woman who sought to be pampered and loved, who would give everything to him.
So there had been others, Jenna said, focusing on the gelatin and groundnut paste on her bread. “Only two,” he said. “And I do not force the issue. You can walk out that door, as you’ve always been able to. I can take you home.”
Jenna rose, with difficulty; with all the new weight, she moved as if underwater. But she threw her arms around Man, looked into his eyes, and smiled. “Let’s do one more,” she said, and led him to the bedroom.
Their lovemaking, for the first time, was silent. Jenna concentrated on every sensation; she fairly glowed with passion, and Man diligently tended to her every need, tickling and stroking and filling his hands with the flesh he had made. Finally, they were spent, and lay snuggled in embrace; this lasted for a good hour, and then Man, as if responding to an internal clock, said, “It’s time.”
The shed had been fully prepared, and Jennalisha raised her hands above her head, allowed him to cinch the rope to the hook and raise her slowly off the floor. He went through an elaborate ritual of cleaning the knives and testing their keenness; Jenna peeked over a shoulder, saw the saws, the wrappers, the bowls for blood. Far from being fearful, she was in extremis, thinking not about the end but about the moment. Finally, all was ready, and Man turned to her, stroked her cheek, a glistening knife in one hand.
“You are beautiful,” he said, and she closed her eyes, turned her head and smiled, flattered as she hung seconds from death. “But you were always beautiful. I have simply helped to make more of you.” And the knife fell, and nothingness.