Posted by Sawney Beane on March 03, 2007 at 04:32:12:
The Collected Works of Sawney Beane: Volume #98
CHANGE OF PLANS
by Sawney Beane
23 June; 13 July; 24 August 2003
3,707 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 gynophagia. If you find such things offensive, please steer clear; you have been warned.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: This is a scene that was persistent in my mind for a few months. It turned out to be one of my favourites because it contains many of the elements that I have come to enjoy.
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"Go home, Lynn." He didn't even turn to face me as I walked in his front door. His voice was one of frustration and despair. From the back, he looked perfectly miserable sitting on the sofa.
I ignored his first comment and dropped the overnight bag containing my best evening gown in the corner next to the door. I removed my heavy winter coat and placed it on the hook beside the door.
He still didn't look at me, but he heard that I had not been dissuaded. "Lynn, it's off, there's nothing for you to do here tonight."
I was removing my mittens and my scarf, but I replied cheerfully. "What are you talking about, Don?"
"Andrea called, she's come down with the flu; so she's not coming."
I was removing my black leather boots by now. "Cold feet?"
"Possibly, can't tell; she might really be sick," he spoke tonelessly, mournfully. "It doesn't matter. Either way we've got nothing for tonight."
"That's a shame," I said sympathetically. I kept my cool, but in an instant the world had changed for me, and I was ready to implement the alternative plan. That was the plan Don knew nothing about. I removed my wet socks and stood in the entryway to Don's house in my traditional working attire. It was an outfit I had arrived in seven times before over the past four years. I was barefoot and barelegged in short denim cutoffs and a white T-shirt with so many dark stains that it was impossible to tell whether it was a white shirt stained black or a black shirt bleached white. Fortunately, the house was well heated, so I was comfortable in my skimpy clothing despite the December cold I had just come in out of.
Dan finally turned to look at me. He was irritated by my foolish persistence and was ready to tell me off. "Lynn, what are you doing? I told you I don't need you today."
I went for the big moment. I peeled the shirt over my head and tossed it into the corner. I wasn't wearing a bra, so my small but firm breasts bounced into his view noticeably. "I don't know, Don, sounds to me like you might need me even more than ever today."
Don was surprised, but still not seeing things correctly. "No, I don't think there's anything for you to do unless you want to help me call all the guests and tell them it's off."
"Don't be so inflexible, Don." I replied somewhat peevishly as I slid my shorts and panties down to my ankles and kicked them over into the corner. "Andrea's not the only girl in the world." I stood defiantly before him, arms crossed under my breasts.
Now he really was surprised. His eyes were drawn irresistibly to my cleanly shaven genitals. "You?" he stammered.
I smiled broadly, "Sure, why not?"
Don is a cold-blooded killer. I've watched him snuff the life from seven women in the time I have been his assistant these last four years, and I knew he had killed at least fifteen others before I came along. I've never seen him show any regret; I've never even seen him shed a tear, as he ends the young female lives entrusted to his care. He thinks only of what he is creating and not at all about what he is destroying. And he is the best there is. But Don is not easy to shock, so I took all the greater pleasure in the expression of amazement that passed over his features as he suddenly realized that he was no longer looking at his trusty assistant but at something entirely different.
He was speechless for a long time as his eyes searched up and down my twenty-three year old body, trying to fully grasp the thing that I had so unexpectedly become. I have never been glamorous, always something of a tomboy. But I have a decent body, and in certain circumstances, it is a shock to people when they see me in an entirely different light. This was one of those moments, and it took Don a long time to understand what he was seeing.
"You want to be the guest of honour tonight?" he asked still incredulous.
I smiled and nodded slowly but firmly.
"But you know what that means?"
I sniffed impatiently, "Get real, Don, I've watched you do it half a dozen times; don't you think I know what I'm asking for?"
He seemed to realize finally that I was serious and turned his mind to more practical matters. "But, Lynn, I don't have a license for you."
When Don started cooking girls over ten years ago, it was not, strictly speaking, legal. Even today it is officially allowed only grudgingly and with an excess of government paperwork, but I was prepared. I smiled again and reached across to my coat pocket and pulled out a certificate with an embossed seal on it and tossed it in his direction. "I do."
Don picked up the document and read my death license carefully before replying. "How did you know that Andrea would back out today?"
"I didn't."
"Then why did you get a license?"
"I get one every time I come here."
"Every time?"
"Yes, except the first. This is my seventh; I have more unexecuted death licenses than anyone in the country. The people down at the courthouse will be disappointed when I don't show up next July."
"Lynn, if you wanted to be a feast, why didn't you just volunteer like everyone else does?"
I shuddered as I remembered Andrea standing up before the gathered crowd last July. Everyone was still licking their lips and munching on the few remaining bits of Monica's luscious spit-roasted body. Andrea announced that she would be dinner for our annual December feast day. Everyone cheered her and leered at her meaty body in anticipation of the delight her culinary martyrdom would bring to all.
"I couldn't stand everyone looking at me that way as I announced my candidacy. I just couldn't take it. It would be too embarrassing."
"But they'll look at you that way tonight when we roll you out on the platter," Don pointed out less than helpfully.
"True, but I think my being dead will remove most of my inhibitions, don't you?"
"Should do."
"Plus, I couldn't imagine living for six months counting down the days before I jump into the oven. It would be just excruciating."
"You prefer to die on impulse?"
"Not on impulse. I have planned it very well, but I didn't want to know when it would come."
"I see," he said, but he didn't. He stood silently for a moment looking at me thoughtfully with his head tilted to one side and his hand clutching his chin. I waited patiently, motionlessly enduring his scrutiny. After a few minutes, he sighed deeply and dropped to his haunches and began to peer more closely at my feet. The examination had begun.
I was secretly overjoyed because this meant that he was ready to consider my proposition. I was confident that he would like what he saw as he looked my body over closely. I am not nearly the best looking woman in town, but I think I stand a chance of being the best meat animal on the block. I have put a lot of effort into it, and my exercise program has aimed to keep my body at the perfect fat to muscle ratio. I think I should be very tender and succulent, but that will, of course, not be known for sure until this evening long after I have vacated my body. I only regret that I will not be there to see everyone's reaction to the meal I will provide for them.
Anyway, Don was peering and prodding at my feet and ankles, mumbling incoherently to himself. He ran his hands up my firm calves and squeezed them a little bit painfully, but I remained silent, obediently awaiting his verdict. He ran his hands over my knees and then rubbed and squeezed my meaty thighs. I think I saw him smile as he examined my legs.
The secret to being a good meal is in the legs. Most of my meat is there, and it has to be perfect. I am very proud of my legs, and I think Don agreed that they are top quality.
But he was moving on, smacking my arse. Don is an expert, and he can accurately judge the quality of arse meat by the way it jiggles. He was behind me then, so I don't know what he thought of my rump. But he quickly moved to examining my hips and then slid his fingers unsentimentally across and into my vagina. To him my genitals were just another cut of meat, but I am sure he noticed how excited his examination was making me.
On to my trim belly, excellent steaks there, and then prodding my ribs, back, and biceps. He examined my arms, wrists, and hands before going back and checking the firmness of my breasts. They're actually not that bad in size, and I'm sure he noticed that the quality was superior.
He then moved to my firm shoulders and finally slid his hands under my long blonde hair and grasped my neck firmly. I thought at first he was going to strangle me right then and there, but he was only familiarizing himself with the part of me that he would deal most closely with in that all too soon moment when he would remove the life from my body. He examined my face only briefly. He knew it well, and it contained little meat.
The examination complete, he took a step back and stared at my whole body up and down again. I waited in breathless anticipation of his decision. True, I was his only option this day, but he had his standards to maintain and wouldn't consent to roast me if he didn't feel that I was worthy of his skill.
It seemed like an eternity. The difference between yes and no was so immeasurably immense for me I couldn't comprehend either answer. It was life or death for me, and I thought I would faint as he slowly came to his decision.
Finally he spoke. "I will really miss having an assistant as good as you. Are you sure you want to do this?"
I gasped for breath. The die was cast. "Yes, yes, I want this so much you can't imagine."
"We are a little pressed for time, I'm afraid, so I won't be able to walk you through this as gently as I usually do."
"I know the whole routine, there's no need to sweet talk me, Don."
Don smiled for the first time that day. "I assume you can get yourself ready upstairs? I'll get the kitchen ready. Be fast, you need to be in the oven in less than an hour."
I didn't reply but walked upstairs to the large bathroom. I did this every feast day, but usually there was a nervous meat girl on my arm. Today I was alone, both preparer and prepared. It was an odd feeling, but my heart was swimming.
Upstairs I hopped into the shower. There really wasn't much to do. Usually I had well over an hour of work to do on a girl, but I was much more prepared. I had shaved myself thoroughly the morning before I came to work. That was usually the most time-consuming task.
I fast for forty-eight hours before every feast. All food girls are asked to do this because it makes their insides a bit less messy when it comes time to open them up. I think in reality few girls obey this command since they are always nervous and looking for their last meals and final snacks and one more of their favourite treats. I fast just in case my number comes up, and on those occasions when I didn't end up in the oven, my starving made the feast all that much more delicious.
I bathed myself carefully inside and out just to be thorough. I braided my long blonde hair to make it easy for Don to find my neck. It was a short preparation, and I was bounding back down the stairs wearing nothing but sandals and a healthy well-scrubbed glow in less than fifteen minutes.
Don was barely ready for me. He had pre-heated the oven and had the big steel roasting pan ready on one counter. He was busy chopping onions for the stuffing when I reappeared. He set me to work making the stuffing because it was usually one of my jobs anyway. He had other things to do.
It was very odd to imagine that the stuffing I was mixing and kneading was going to go inside my belly. Usually it was for some other girl's belly, and that had never seemed as odd as it is. But to be making my own stuffing, well, that was something to rattle my brain. I was very careful with the recipe, making sure not to miss any crucial ingredients that might spoil my culinary perfection.
I was soon done, and Don had the chopping board in position at the end of the large counter that thrust out into the centre of the kitchen. I couldn't help but touch my throat as I imagined my neck resting there very, very soon.
I dared to speak. "Don, do you think maybe we could skip that step and just put me in the oven alive?" I had fantasized for years about how it would feel as I watched my body turn to roasted meat before my eyes.
Don grimaced involuntarily. "No, definitely not!"
"But...."
"No, Lynn, I did that once, and I'll never do it again."
"Why not?"
"Lynn, it's not a good idea. You can't imagine how painful it will be to be alive in that oven. The first girl I roasted wanted to go that way, and I can still hear her screams. It's out of the question!"
I could tell he was adamant. "OK, then you will snuff me first, but can't you leave my head on in the oven?"
"Why?"
"I want everyone to see who they're eating. I want people to recognize me."
"If I leave your head on in the oven, no one will recognize you when you are done. I'll mount your head just like we always do and put it at the end of the table for everyone to see. You'll look great and everyone will be pleasantly surprised to see it is you that has given them a feast."
"But who will catch my head?" It was one of my duties to kneel at the end of the counter and hold the doomed girl's face in my hands at the last moment. When Don had expertly driven his cleaver through her neck, I was left holding the shocked girl's head. This is how my shirt had gotten most of its bloodstains. But who would be there for me?
"Don't worry, dear, we'll hang a sling here for you to rest your chin in at the end." He did this while I watched so that I would feel better. He used my bloody shirt to make the contraption, which pleased me because it would mean my blood would join that of all the girls I had helped to prepare.
I was out of objections, and the stuffing was finished, a huge vat that seemed about three times the amount needed to fill me, but I knew from experience that stuffing capacity could be deceiving. I could feel the heat coming off of the oven. My destiny was getting very near.
"If you would be so kind...." Don said formally with a smile on his hard face. He gestured to the effect that I should climb up on the counter and rest my neck on his chopping block.
I swallowed hard and complied. The counter seemed hard on my tender flesh, and the block dug into my throat. I momentarily wished that I had been able to meet my end in a July spit roast rather than as a December oven roasted feast, but this was a trifling detail. The important thing was that I was moments away from being one of Don's most delicious masterpieces.
When I closed my eyes I could imagine the fifty or so dinner guests crowded around the immense table and each one with a portion of my savoury body on their plates. I imagined my steaming and diminished body, decimated after the first course. I imagined the laughter, the smiles, the orgasmic pleasure my taste would bring to everyone I knew. I imagined the second and third courses. I imagined the end, people picking the last of my flesh from my bones. No one would stop eating until there was nothing left of me to eat. And then they would go home wishing that there had been more of me. Only my head would remain, and Don would roast that up for a smaller party the following day.
I relished the thought of being consumed completely. I delighted in knowing what pleasure my sacrifice would bring to so many friends. I revelled in the delicious terror of knowing I was minutes away from the end of my short and purposeful life.
From the first time I had been invited to join an old boyfriend of mine at the feast Don was holding for an oven-roasted girl named Lisa, I had known that I would someday place myself under Don's cleaver. Before the very next July feast, I had enlisted as Don's assistant and had helped him make seven women into culinary masterpieces. Today I would take a more intimate role and help him to make the eighth feast even more memorable than all those before.
My heart and mind raced. I felt every part of my body intensely. I was in the last minute of life, or so I thought. Don moved my braid to one side and touched the cleaver to the back of my neck and spoke softly, almost as if to reassure himself. "Lynn, my dear, this won't hurt a bit. I'll just put this cleaver between two of your vertebrae, and that will be it. Just relax."
But there was a reprieve. Don held the cleaver up to the light and peered closely at the blade. He mumbled a little bit to himself and said distractedly, "I'll just go out to the garage and sharpen this up a little bit...just in case." It was the only romantic thing I had ever seen him do. I knew then how much he really loved me.
When he had left, I rolled over onto my back and stared up at the ceiling and all the apparatus that would contribute to my demise. Before he lopped off my head, Don would tie my ankles together with stout rope so that he could loop them over a hook attached to the ceiling. He would do this as quickly as possible so that all of my blood would be caught in the large bucket positioned just off the end of the counter. He would also tie my wrists together and hang them near my arse. My head would still be swinging insensibly in the sling, and the meaty part of me would be a drained pale corpse.
The blood would eventually find its way into the white wine, which would accompany my feast. Don would expertly slice open my belly and remove all of my insides. Then he would lay my body down on the table and fill it with my stuffing, packing it full and sewing my belly back up with coarse string. At first I would look plump, maybe a little bit fat, but in the oven the stuffing would contract, and I would come out of the oven looking slim and succulent.
During the four hours it would take for my body to roast, Don would be preparing my innards into two-dozen delicious dishes, each with a special fantastic recipe he had perfected over the years. He would also have to mount my head and make me look gorgeous for the guests to see who was on the menu this evening.
All of this flashed through my doomed brain as I listened to Don's whistling from the other room and the ominous grinding sound that meant he was sharpening the cleaver that would end my life. I wondered what to do in those last few minutes left to me. I remembered that one of my duties had been to rub butter into the skin of the girl's body, covering every inch for an even roasting. Usually I did this after she had been decapitated and disembowelled, but I thought I might as well go ahead and do it now.
I found the butter and began rubbing, watching my silky skin glistening with its oily coating. I began with my toes, then my legs, rump, genitals, belly, hips, back, shoulders, breasts, and arms. I rubbed a bit extra into my breasts and genitals...just in case. I left my head and neck uncoated for now. Don could finish the last part. I thought about adding some seasonings, but I knew Don liked to do that himself so that he could use just the right blend.
So now I have finished, and I am a roaster awaiting the oven. Don has been gone nearly ten minutes, and I am sure he will be back in only a few minutes more. There is nothing for me to do except get myself into position and wait. I know that everything I have imagined will come true. Don is a trustworthy guy. When he says he will take your head off with one blow of a recently sharpened cleaver, you can bet he will be true to his word. And I know I will be the best dish he has ever served up. I have never been happier.