Posted by PK on April 30, 2003 at 16:05:55:
Heather couldn't for the life of her work out where she was and what she was doing here. It
certainly wasn't her bed - what was it anyway? - and she couldn't seem to remember what
day it was. Of course, that happens sometimes after a heavy sleep, when for the the first few
minutes your mind adjusts itself from dreams or oblivion and sorts itself into a semblance of
consciousness, but this seemed different somehow. Besides, who were these people? Her
vision was blurry. Was she naked? What was THAT? She closed her legs with a start and
tried to rise. A vague shape loomed over her and a firm but gentle hand pushed her down by
the shoulder.
"Stay still, dear. We have to shave you. If you could just open your legs and raise your knees
a little..."
What the hell? Was she in hospital? She couldn't seem to think. Had there been an accident.
Hardly thinking about it, she parted her legs.
"Good girl," came the voice again. It was a woman's voice, bright and reassuring, firm but not
loud. A nurse, then. That must be it. She closed her eyes and tried to remember.
It wasn't easy, with the sensations between her legs. She had to stop herself from reflexively
bringing her knees together. It wasn't painful, in fact at first she could hardly feel it. Snip, snip
went the scissors. Then hands parting her thighs a little more, rough palms on the sensitive
skin between them, not hurting but surgically authoritative. A buzz. The slightly shocking feel
of an electric razor on her pubis. It was hard to concentrate and her thoughts seemed to slip
away from her. Was she concussed or drugged? Some kind of pre-med? Pull yourself
together, she thought hazily. I'm not in any pain. What am I lying on? It feels more like a
table than a bed. An operating table, of course, but the surface feels like leather or some
synthetic with the same texture. She moved a bit.
"Stay still. Nearly done."
"Whuh 'm a?" she croaked. Her throat was dry. She couldn't speak.
"All in good time."
"C'n a ha wa'er?"
"In a minute. Tom, get her a glass of water. She's thirsty." A mumbled response.
Suddenly a memory came unbidden. Jeff. She'd been at a funfair with Jeff. Where was he?
Was he alright? Had they fallen from a ride? A kaleidoscopic swirls of images. She didn't
remember falling. Something about a funhouse - ghosts and mirrors - and a funny smell.
"Whuz Jeff? 'S ee a'righ?"
"Don't worry, it's all fine. Drink this, slowly. Sip it." A glass was tipped to her lips and she
drank.
"Where am I?"
"All in good time. Just relax. We'll take care of you."
Heather's vision was returning. She could see the voice now, a dark haired woman, and there
were two others in the room, both men.
"Feeling better?" The woman again. The men hadn't said a word.
"Bit. Where's..."
"Shush. Jeff is fine. We have to get you cleaned up."
"Op'r...operation?"
"That's right."
Heather heard a snort from one of the men. She looked around the room. It seemed a little
stark. NHS funding cuts, no doubt. It didn't quite make sense to her but nothing else did
either. She didn't seem to quite have all her marbles. Shouldn't she have a gown on? She
was quite naked, but having been in for a minor operation once before the sense of
impotence and embarrassment seemed familiar.
"Time for your enema. Can you sit up?"
Heather endured the procedure with a stoicism proceeding from previous encounters with
medical personnel and a sort of mental numbness. Hell of a trip to the fair. Hell of a date.
The actual sensations were unpleasant at first but not painful. By the end of it she felt the odd
sense of satisfaction you get from having a really good shit. She was cleaned out.
"Now we do your hair. Can you get to the chair?"
Still naked and confused, she slid off the table - yes, it was a table - and into a high backed
chair. Why did they need to do her hair? How badly was she hurt? For the first time, she
wondered if she might be in prison or a mental institution. She pictured herself pent up in a
cell, wearing something unflattering in institutional off-white, gibbering the rest of her life
away. The woman slipped a sheet around her neck and proceeded to cut off her hair. She
stared blurrily at blonde locks dropping to the floor. It didn't take long. She wondered why the
men - orderlies? - weren't wearing uniforms. They had on jeans, admittedly clean ones, and
white T-shirts. Heather tried to recall the woman again. Some sort of apron.
"There. All done. Next we can wash you, or you can do it yourself. Can you manage that?"
"I think so."
"Good girl." Heather wished she'd stop saying that. "The shower's in the bathroom, through
that door. Can you stand?"
Heather could. Her legs were unsteady at first but held her well enough. At the door, she
paused. "You said Jeff was okay?"
"He's fine." One of the men grinned and the other turned away quickly. Odd.
"Does he know where I am?" More than I do.
"Oh, yes he does, you'll be seeing him quite soon."
It wasn't exactly like being drunk, but there was the same lack of short term memory. Nothing
seemed to settle in her mind and everything took an effort, but she didn't want to be bathed
like a baby. Heather got through it determinedly. Finally towelling herself off, she stepped out
of the shower - her legs were much steadier now - and caught sight of herself in the mirror
above a washbasin. She leaned forward. Her pupils were dilated and her face was pale,
giving her a slightly wild look. The short hair startled her. She tilted her head, regarding
herself from different angles from the corners of her eyes. Not bad, she thought, I think I
might keep it. Turning away, she was shocked again by the sight of a full length mirror she
hadn't noticed on the way in. There she was, bare and looking good. Her hand slipped down
her belly and she touched herself, spread her lips slightly. Jeff's going to love this, she
thought, I look good enough to eat. A disturbing idea skittered through her mind, barely
touching the edges but leaving a frisson of disturbance in its wake. She caught herself. This
would not do. Then she jumped as somebody banged on the door.
"Are you finished in there?"
"Coming," she said.
As she walked back into the room, she saw everything from a totally different perspective.
The table where she seemed to have spent most of her conscious existence was some sort
of massage table. The three people waiting impatiently for her looked less and less like
medical personnel, despite the woman's manner. As she turned from wiping the couch,
Heather saw that behind the bib apron she wore nothing but a bikini. Was this some sort of
practical joke? Jeff's idea of a makeover? She ran a hand through her hair. Very cute, Jeff.
What DID you dope me with? It was dawning on her that the peculiarities of her thought
processes could be explained very easily if she'd woken up already stoned. It was better than
brain damage, anyway. With this slight return of her faculties she realised it couldn't be
trauma, there were no marks on her head or body at all.
"Come on, dear, up on the table. Just one more thing to do and you'll be ready."
"Ready for what?" grumbled Heather but she climbed up anyway. It seemed easier to go
along somehow. "Why won't you tell me what's happening? This can't be a hospital...."
"Just lie down and I'll tell you all about it."
As soon as she did, three eager pairs of hands started to massage her, with no regard for
propriety. After a minute of this, she struggled to rise on her elbows and glared at the woman,
who smiled back indulgently.
"Look, joke's over. I want to know - stop that! - what's going on or I'm leaving now."
"Dressed like that?" The woman seemed amused. Heather was naked and there was no sign
of her clothes. Nobody 'stopped that'. The massage seemed to require rather a lot of oil, she
was already slick with it.
"Where are my clothes? What's going on here?" Despite the drugs she was starting to get
really frightened.
"Better tell her," one of the men remarked. Heather relaxed a little.
"It's very simple," said the woman, still with the indulgent smile, her hands continued to work
on Heather's chest, "We're going to roast you and eat you."
Heather had somehow suspected as much. It still came as a shock when the situation she
had been trying hard not to see was brutally thrown in her face. She struggled to rise, no easy
thing to do when slightly dopy and covered with oil, but three strong pairs of hands pushed
her down easily.
"Now don't be silly dear. You've been a good girl so far, don't spoil it. You can't get away, all
you can do is make it difficult."
"You can't do this," quavered Heather. Her own voice sounded like a child's, impotent. They
could do this. They were going to.
"Yes we can," the woman confirmed reasonably. "Now you can just relax and let us get on
with it, or you can fight a bit and then we tie you up. You'll be a lot more comfortable if you
cooperate, I promise you. Easier for everybody."
Heather stopped fighting and lay back. Brute force wasn't going to get her anywhere, that
was obvious enough. Reason was a thin reed, but it was all she had.
"This is illegal," she said. "When Jeff reports me missing the police will come looking for
me...." An uneasy thought crossed her mind. No, it couldn't be.
"Not illegal with a release," the woman said, content to let Heather hope she could talk her
way out of it.
"I didn't sign anything!"
"Are you sure? How well do you remember what happened?"
"I didn't! And if I did I was drugged," she went on lamely. Could they get away with that?
"That's duress or something."
"If the matter ever comes to court. If they ever find you."
"But Jeff..." The woman was grinning at her openly. She slumped. "The bastard. The fucking
bastard. He set me up, didn't he?"
"He lost track of you at the fair. He never saw you again. You'll see him near the front when
we take you out. Be sure to wave. Oh, come on dear. You really can't blame him. If you were
my girlfriend, I'd eat you."
An odd sensation passed through Heather. Was she actually flattered? Even aroused? She
fought it feebly.
"Please don't," she begged, on the edge of tears. She had no bargaining chips left. "Please
don't kill me."
"We won't," said the woman, massaging Heather's breasts with gusto. She pinched one
nipple and pulled it up until it slipped between her fingers and snapped back. Heather
twitched convulsively. "Not at first, anyway. You'll go nice and easy as you cook."
Heather realised with shame that she was crying silently.
"Oh, don't be such a baby," said the woman, not unkindly. "Just let yourself go and you'll
enjoy it. They all do in the end." She slipped a finger crudely between Heather's legs. "Go on,
admit it." She brought the slick finger up to Heather's nose. "You want us to."
"I don't," gasped Heather, averting her face, but it was half hearted. She had pretty much
given up. Whether it was the drugs or the hopelessness of the situation, it seemed pointless
to fight, silly to argue.
"Turn over, there's a good girl."
If she didn't, they'd just force her, so she did. "Stop calling me 'good girl' " she muttered in
childish defiance. The woman laughed.
"Sorry," she said without the least sign of contrition. "You're such a sweet little pet I can't help
it."
"You were born to roast," said one of the men, applying oil to her rump with a proprietary
slap. He speaks, she thought. How nice of him to talk to his dinner. Somebody is going to
turn up. They have to. I'll just wait. The hands on her body felt good, actually. She felt the
knots of tension in her belly dissolve. This is silly, she told herself. It can't be happening. Her
earlier sense of urgency drifted away. She knew the drugs were doing this, making resistance
impossible without serious effort, but knowing it didn't change anything. She had lost the will
to fight. She also realised that she was rather enjoying it.
"All done," said the woman briskly. "Time to get you spitted."
Spitted? "Already?" Heather protested, "can't you do my front a bit more?"
The woman consulted a watch. "Well, we can spare a few minutes, and you have been so
good you deserve it. If you'd fought we wouldn't be finished yet. Fair enough. Ten more
minutes, but that's it."
"Thank you." Heather relaxed. Ten whole minutes! Before..what?
"How ...um....are you going to do it?"
"We'll spit roast you over a low fire. Embers, really, flames would singe. You'll make a lovely
roaster."
"Spit me? Won't that kill me anyway?"
"Not right away. There's a system...oh, I don't know how it works. It does, trust me."
"Why? Why not just kill me?"
The woman looked affronted. "That wouldn't be much fun, would it? You must know part of
food preparation is in the appearance. I'm going to enjoy watching you wriggle. You'll enjoy it
too." She gave Heather a conspiratorial smile and a pat on the belly.
She seemed quite sincere. Heather almost asked her why she didn't try it, if it was so great,
but it seemed like a petulant thing to say. No point sulking.
All too soon, it was finished. "Sorry, Heather. Time's up. Up you get." Heather got up
obediently. She tingled all over.
"Will you walk, or do we have to carry you?"
"I'll walk, thanks." Heather had nothing left but her dignity and she wasn't about to give that
up too.
"Good girl. Sorry, I really can't help it." The woman took Heather's arm, not heavily, and led
her through the door and down a short corridor, the two Silent Sams following.
Another door led out ito a large conference room filled with people drinking and talking. They
had come out on a raised dais or stage, which had clearly been heavily remodelled to take
the two barbecue pits that took pride of place. Heather saw with shock that the farther one
was occupied. A dark haired girl rotated on a spit like a pig. There was an appetising smell in
the air and Heather actually felt her mouth watering, before it dawned on her that the girl was
the source of it. She glanced at the woman questioningly.
"Monique. French exchange student. Some of them just wander off, don't they?"
Heather nodded. She looked around. People were beginning to notice her, tapping
neighbours on the shoulder, pointing. She stood up straighter and a ragged chorus of cheers
and whistles broke out. She didn't want to slump. Her nipples were erect. Her hand brushed
her own bare pubis but she caught herself and pulled it away. One of her 'assistants' laughed.
"What did I tell you?" he said. "She's a natural."
Heather looked for Jeff - the bastard, she added automatically - but couldn't see him. I
suppose he'll come and look when I'm safely spitted, she thought.
"Up on the table, dear." Heather obeyed. There was a sudden cold shock in her anus and she
jumped. The spit already?
"Meat thermometer, dear. Sorry, should have warned you."
So the spit would go in her cunt. Oh God. She braced herself.
Suddenly all was pandemonium. People were milling about, there were whistles and shouts.
Her head spun and she slipped, banging her head painfully. What was happening? By the
time her vision cleared someone was draping a coat over her and helping her up.
"It's all right, dear, it's all over. Are you hurt?"
The police. The bloody police actually came to her rescue. It seemed like a dream. She
shook her head, couldn't speak.
"She's in shock. Doesn't look injured, but better safe. Get her to the hospital, I'll see her later.
Statement can wait."
Heather was walked to a police car, still in a daze. On the way there she could barely talk.
Nobody pressed her. Her mind was a jumble of images and emotions she couldn't sort out
and one she didn't want to recognise. Later, in bed the following day, she realised with
unease and a disturbing excitement that one of the things she had felt at the time was
disappointment.