Posted by Sawney Beane on March 04, 2007 at 05:01:15:
The Collected Works of Sawney Beane: Volume #99
DELICACY
by Sawney Beane
14 September 2003
1,367 words
DISTRIBUTION NOTICE and DISCLAIMER: Sawney Beane requests that any distribution of this work of fiction remain within the realm of social responsibility. This story is suitable neither for minors nor for the seeming majority of adults who have difficulty distinguishing fantasy from reality. It is pure fantasy, which means that, for whatever reason, someone has found it interesting to think about the events depicted herein. It does not in any way mean that the author would like to see this fantasy become reality, so if you are the type of person who might be swayed into doing something irrational by reading a work of fiction, the author respectfully requests that you decline to read further.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Sawney Beane, originally a native of Edinburgh, lived for twenty-five years in a cave on the coast of County Galloway, subsisting on the flesh of unfortunate travellers, roughly a thousand of them all told. He and his wife raised a large family of eight sons, six daughters, eighteen grandsons, and fourteen granddaughters. Eventually, the family was captured, and the whole lot was brutally and unjustifiably tortured and executed without trial. Since his death in the early 17th century, Beane has reformed his ways and now confines his atrocities to his literary endeavours.
WARNING: This story contains scenes of snuff and consensual gyno/androphagia. If you find such things offensive, please steer clear; you have been warned.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Something that arose from an image I was carrying for quite a while. Turned out reasonably well.
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This is the third time I have been in this room. It is a very expensive place to visit. The first two times, I paid nearly £100,000 for the privilege, and this visit will be even more expensive.
The first two times I was here, I was on the other side of the room. I was one of the fifty men crowding around the helpless doomed girl. I can hear this week's victim, but I can't see her because of all the men crowding around her. This is a humane place, so the girl is, of course, completely anaesthetized. She can't feel any of the thousands of hurts she would otherwise be experiencing. Still, it can be a bit sudden.
The men in this place can be...well...brutal. I know that's probably not surprising to anyone considering that this is a place where the men devour beautiful young women. Nonetheless, the times I participated in the blood feast, I was disenchanted by the speed and wolfish coarseness of the men I was with. A woman's life and flesh is a dear commodity that should be savoured, but my compatriots did not share my aesthetic sympathies.
The girl this week is named Ellen. I met her yesterday and made love to her last night. She is...was by now...a lovely thing, just twenty-one. I was fond of her immediately and wanted to protect her, but, of course, her fate was set. And, needless to say, she had chosen it.
All of the meals at this establishment are completely legal and aboveboard. All entrees are adults and have made a free choice to participate. However, despite our intimacy, I did not make the unforgivable faux pas of asking her why she had enrolled. She didn't seem particularly frightened, but she was definitely nervous. It might have been the money; lots of the girls join because someone they love needs money. A good-looking girl like Ellen can generate quite a pile of cash for her heirs.
Ellen's screams have died down now, and her men have settled into a growling mob, like wolves after the kill, so the dear girl is now nothing more than meat to be divided amongst predators. My mind is drawn to my own situation.
Ellen did go at quite a good rate, and I'm not even jealous that she garnered triple what the women paid for me. I'm not here for the money, and anyway I did better than most men. Usually it's closer to a fifth. The restaurant knows how to run its auctions. They auction the man off first. The highest fifty bidders all get to eat dinner. Of course, the restaurant knows that the men who brought their wives along will not allow their wives to eat dinner while they make do on chicken. So once the man is sold, every man whose wife has a place at the table will be bidding his wallet off to get a piece of the girl.
But the women made a good purchase today I think. I'm thirty and well built. I ran marathons and sailed yachts. I am athletic but not muscle-bound. I also have a very tender heart.
As I look around, I am a bit groggy from the drugs that are protecting me from pain. There are three types of women on this side of the room, and my fifty women are about evenly split between them.
There are the businesswomen types who may be attractive but look very powerful in their nicely cut suits. They usually organize the kill and take the lead on every facet of the man's demise. I don't mind them, but I wouldn't be here if they were the only ones.
The second type is the worst. They are the old wives of the millionaire men across the room. These middle-aged or worse women tend to follow the lead of the businesswomen but sometimes get into a tiff over some small matter. Even as a third of the women present, they are almost enough to put me off and keep me from volunteering my body, but they are more than compensated for by the final group.
The third and most wonderful group is the trophy wives. Thank God for trophy wives. These are the young gorgeous spouses of some of the luckier or more lecherous old millionaires. These girls are a delight to look at, often blondes with long lovely hair and perfectly painted faces. Sometimes their makeup cannot conceal the vacant look behind their eyes, but they always know how to dress for a cannibal party, and they are always gentle and smile while they consume you. Odd, now that I think of it, the degree to which I objectify these women when I am the one lying on my back on the table.
I have looked around and picked some of my favourite girls to watch by the time they bring out the knives. They have been touching and admiring me for the better part of fifteen minutes. While poor Ellen has had her last breaths ripped from her heaving and well-endowed chest, the women have been planning my downfall, but Ellen is long gone before I begin to bleed.
I see the dark-haired and dark-eyed businesswoman approaching with a knife and a wicked smile, but I don't fully comprehend her intentions until after it has happened. Even then I am only vaguely aware until they have rolled me over onto my belly. I watch in detached amusement as this woman fondles my penis. Nice, but she's standing several feet away from me and holding my genitals in her bloody hands. I watch as she places it onto the sizzling hotplate built into the perimeter of the table.
It is just a couple of feet from my head, so I can't resist the bizarre urge to reach out and touch my lost asset. I extend my left hand to touch the morsel frying on the griddle. It is solid and real, but I can't feel it since my hand is without sensation.
The devilish woman who has emasculated me smiles and shows her broad set of shiny white teeth. She lifts my hand gently by the wrist and presses it palm down onto another part of the hotplate. Again I do not feel a thing, but I know my hand is frying quickly. After a few minutes, she flips it over and grills the back. I see the cooked flesh that was once my hand. I do not react. She is only doing what I came here to have done to me.
After a while she moves my hand to a chopping board and drives a cleaver through my wrist. The cooked flesh does not bleed, but she and several of the trophy wives dig into this perfectly prepared finger food. They giggle and lick their lips. I am pleasing to their palates. I smile distantly.
I suddenly notice that my genitals have been distributed and several of the women are munching on bits that were once very dear to me. I also notice that almost all of the women seem to have some kind of meat on the plates they are carrying and eating from. There is much more meat than can have come from just my genitals and hand. I realized that other businesswomen have been busy carving me up. People are munching on parts of my legs and feet. I think there is even part on my rump on one of the older women's plates. I can't tell what is left of me. It appears that I am fairly far along in the meal. I think some of the women are beginning to carve off meat from my back and ribs.
I don't have much time left, but I am happy. The women around me are all smiling and happy. I have given them what they came for, and they have given me what I came for. The wolves are probably licking the last of the blood from Ellen's small bones, but I am a delicacy. These women are taking the time to enjoy the gift I have given them. I will die happy.