EXTREME WARNING. This is intended for persons of 18 years of age or
above. If you are not 18 then go away.

EXTREME WARNING. This story contains descriptions of violence, snuff,
eroto-cannibalism and sexual acts. Do not read if these subjects are
likely to offend.

EXTREME WARNING. In no way do I condone any of the anti-social behavior
described in the story. This is an erotic fantasy, not to be confused
with reality.

Please reply by preference to the newsgroup, or failing that to
grim_williams@my-deja.com

The Feast of Purim
By Grim Williams

Series One, Part Eleven

The atmosphere within the Butchery was now becoming truly orgiastic.
The scent of myrrh and frankincense burning upon the smoky oil lamps
combined with the aroma of cooking flesh and the fresh salty smell of
sex.

Occasionally, a woman would run along the gangways, screaming
hysterically, chased either by a naked man or by a group of men. She
would jump across the soft leather sofas and the tables, hurdling from
one row to the next; her tits bouncing and her heart thumping,
stumbling, oblivious of how her feet were gate crashing furtive
gropings and liaisons.

Generally chases such as these are staged. They're set up beforehand by
the establishment. It's all part of the entertainment, part of the
thrill of being at a Butchery.

But occasionally, just occasionally, they're for real. Maybe one or two
of those that evening were for real: who knows? It can be a great
strain for a new waitress, brought fresh from the solitude of her
desert home, and then thrust into the bedlam of the amphitheater,
required to be constantly obedient, subservient, and sexy, in the face
of sometimes impossible demands. All around her is horror and mayhem,
the deathly pall of the roasted dam as it's brought out to the table
and is then ripped to pieces by hungry, apelike men. This is a girl
that she knew, that welcomed her, was kind to her, that she sees being
dismembered and apportioned around the tables. Through it all she must
be calm and enthusiastic, seductive and sensual. And so, occasionally,
in the face of such pressure, a dam just snaps, she can't take any
more, and so she makes a break for it.

The chase is usually accompanied by cheers and by chants. A floodlight
will search round and pick her out. Suddenly she becomes the center of
attention, all eyes are upon her, until finally she's caught and pinned
down by her pursuers, their cocks obscene to the point of being
vertical. She will then face summary punishment, sometimes lethal,
administered at the hand of her customer.

For everything has its price, everything, within a Butchery, and if a
customer decides he wants to see his waitress blinded, or maimed, or
crucified, what of it? Who will deny him? The Butchery is home to the
ultimate fantasy. Shekels talk.

On the stage, Ruth's preparation was continuing apace. The second maid
was laying rashers of bacon upon Ruth's breasts, from the center of
each nipple out towards the base. She placed about ten rashers on each
of her two beautiful tits, and then fixed them firmly in place with
fine steel wire, tying the wire as tight as she could manage. She wound
three lengths around each breast: a long piece at the base, a much
shorter length at the nipple, and one centrally between the two. She
pulled each length of wire tight, squeezing the bacon tight against the
pulpy tit meat, squashing it, finally giving Ruth's breasts the
appearance of elongated fatty sausages.

"We now take three pounds of good quality rump steak," the chef was
saying to his audience. He uncovered a large metal bowl, three quarters
full of fresh, red meat. "This is prime buttock and comes from the
young dam you saw cooking in the glass pot earlier."

Hearing this, Guy lifted his head, gazing abruptly towards the glass
cooking pots. He'd forgotten about the other dams, the two that had
been broiling away. One of the pots was now empty, its occupant taken
as meat for the table. He'd missed that. When had that happened? This
was the girl with the small breasts, the one that had reminded him so
much of Esther.

God, he thought suddenly, in panic. Esther! He'd forgotten Esther, poor
Esther, being prepared somewhere downstairs in the larder.

He was tired, confused, dizzy.

Annie still cavorted in the other glass pot. She did so even though she
was now quite dead. Her struggle was over, although her movements were
not. She was lifeless and simmering away stiffly, her naked body
rotating to a string of rising bubbles constantly striking and
pummeling her deep pink flesh. Her fist was still inserted stoically
within her cunt hole, a touching reminder of her final moments of
ecstasy. Guy was gladdened to see that there was a sly smile upon the
dead girl's face. Thank goodness! At least she had died happy. So the
heat of her cooking had done as it was supposed to do; it had brought
her to her climax.

The chef grabbed a big handful of the other dam's diced posterior. He
thrust it into Ruth's belly, scattering it across her body organs,
pushing it deep inside her. "The steak keeps the dam's meat nice and
moist," he explained, for the benefit of the crowd, compressing the
rich red steak with his thumb. Ruth howled and squirmed in unimaginable
pain, arching her back and bearing down hard on the comforting carrots.

There was a man, a hand, inside her! Inside her belly! God! The pain!

"We've seasoned the steak with freshly ground black pepper and a little
garlic," the chef continued, very matter of fact. "Just a little, not
too much. After all, we don't want to mask the flavor of the meat."

Ruth could barely take the pain. The draft of drugs she'd taken seemed
to be doing nothing to ease it. The chef's hand kept disappearing
inside her, filling her, and turning the screw. Three, four, five times
he did it, stuffing her young belly full with the other dam's butt
meat, compressing it down, stretching and filling her to the brim.

When it was done, and Ruth was convinced that she hadn't another cry in
her body, he turned her over to one of the maids, who sowed up her
front, big ugly stitches that criss-crossed from side to side all the
way along the painful incision. The maid closed her up, pulling the
thread tight, reducing Ruth to insane hysterical tears.

"Oh, God, sir," moaned the blonde, shaking her butt vigorously,
groaning under the intensity of her passion. "Fuck me, sir. Fill me
with your meat. Don't be gentle. I'm only a stupid dam. Please sir.
Fuck me hard. My ass is on fire. Please sir. Make it burn. Please. Make
me... Make me come."

All around them was the amplified noise of Ruth's misery, her sobbing
and crying, broadcast through the amphitheater at a deafening
intensity. It was music to the ears of the patrons, a strident yet
erotic melody. They loved it.

Guy slapped the blonde woman's buttocks hard, alternating, first with
his palm, then with his balls, swinging them against her, slapping her,
then sliding in and out of her back passage with long powerful strokes.

It was impossible for him to say which was arousing him the most, his
waitress's tight ass or what they were doing to Ruth on the stage. They
were basting her now, brushing melted butter across her naked skin with
small basting brushes, paying particular attention to all those little
hidden places that so easily get missed: under the arms, in the ears,
between the toes, all those secret crevices around the crotch.

"Look at her, sir. Look at your dam. They're trussing her up, ready for
the oven. She'll taste good, real good. Oh, god, sir. Squeeze by
breasts, hurt them! Please sir. Show me who's boss."

And Guy did. He made his waitress scream; he made her howl. She was
ecstatic: so much pain, so much pleasure.

"A little seasoned flour," said the chef, standing at the front of the
stage, showing another large bowl to the audience. "I've added one or
two herbs, fresh, of course, also a touch of aniseed. Just what we need
for the perfect roast."

Guy could feel himself about to come. His big dong was aching to the
point of bursting; the pressure of his semen was building within his
balls, almost to the point of exploding.

His breaths came in heavy irregular bursts. The moment was approaching.
He could feel it approaching. Getting nearer. Approaching. Approaching.
The waitress was moaning, delirious, whimpering for him to come inside
her and not to pull out, pleading with him to allow her to come once
more.

She loved it. She wanted it.

The maids, dressed in their sexy little uniforms, untied Ruth's arms
and legs so that they could finish basting her. She could barely move
now, with her stomach gutted and swollen with diced buttock, the ugly
stitches laddering her stomach.

The carrots were inside her pussy and ass, and the cones of bacon
covered her delicate breasts, adorning and protecting them from the
fierce drying heat of the oven.

Once they'd finished basting, the maids tossed handfuls of the herbed
flour mixture onto Ruth's skin. It became dust in the air that lingered
in a hazy white cloud, falling gently back onto Ruth's naked flesh. The
maids slapped the fine flour against her, against her skin and the
melted butter, coating her with the ghostly white makeup. Only her face
and her hair they left, to the extent that they were able, because her
face was already painted and prepared with the pinks and the blues, the
whites and the dusky browns. And her hair was also prepared, lacquered
with grease, her braided tresses decorated with the small ribbons of
dyed girl gut.

She was a wonderful sight, an erotic sight, a beautiful picture of all
that a woman should be. There wasn't a limp cock in the house. Ruth
owned them all, every penis in that Butchery belonged to her. She had
them all on the point of spurting: a poignant tribute to a fantastic
dam.

The chef carefully lifted her and carried her to the baking tray. He
lay her on her front, and then coerced her wrists to her ankles,
pulling up her legs, stretching back her arms, tying them together with
trussing string so that she resembled the shape of a giant crab.

"Oh, God!" Ruth groaned miserably, unable to hide the searing pain of
her belly. "What have you done to me? What have you done?"

She rocked back and forth in great agony. Her shoulders had lifted a
good four inches off the baking tray, bowing to the will of her arms
and legs. These were fastened together above her ass in a great tangle
of string, pulling the whole of her torso taut. Her bacon-covered
breasts were lifted from the surface of the tray; her gutted belly was
stretched beneath her, tugging on the untidy stitches, almost pulling
her apart.

"Beautiful," the chef exclaimed, pressing home the end of both carrots
to ensure that neither had come loose. "Absolutely beautiful. I'm
placing you in a cold oven, Ruth, not hot, so that you will have plenty
of time to become orgasmic. I know that you're anxious, but don't
worry. These carrots will make excellent lovers. So enjoy them, dear
Ruth. Fuck them well. You will suffer many comes before these boys
soften, I promise you that. Cook well, my dear. Cook well."

And then Guy came. He couldn't hold himself back any longer. One moment
his climax was coming, and the next it was here, and he was over the
top, dumping his seed, filling his waitress, pumping semen into the
sublime ass of this sexy blonde bombshell and, yes, she was coming as
well. They sang together their sweet duet of ultimate ecstasy, and
danced their sticky cocktail of lust and passion. He pumped her ass,
pumped it, pumped it hard; filling her; using her; taking her.

"Oh God!" Ruth cried. The glass door of the oven had swung open and she
was being wheeled inside by the three scantily clad maids. Twisting her
head around, she cast one last look at the outside, one last look at
the world of the living. She saw bright lights, darkness, the
lascivious gaze of the chef. "Tell Deborah," she begged to whoever was
listening. "Tell her... Tell her that in the oven, my final come, tell
her that I was thinking of her."

Those were Ruth's last words. As soon as she'd spoken, one of the maids
opened her mouth and inserted a large raw potato into the cavity. It
tasted vile, dirty and earthy. Ruth bit down upon it as she was
supposed to and closed her eyes, imagining she was in bed with Deborah,
imagining that Deborah was naked and covering her with tiny kisses from
head to toe. She imagined that Deborah had two large carrots topped
with green frothy bushes and that she wanted to play.

The door slammed shut.

Oh God. This was it. The customers were right now watching her,
anticipating a show. Her final come would not be a private affair.
Every movement would be examined and enjoyed through high magnification
binoculars. Ruth was a mercenary: she couldn't complain. This was what
Carcasses of Fortune were paid for. She heard the big burners ignite
beneath her and wiggled her butt, squeezing down upon the top of the
long hard vegetable that now penetrated her cunt. Amidst all the pain
there was yet a little pleasure, just a little, but it was there.

She set herself a goal, two climaxes, maybe she might even make three,
and then she would rest. She would enjoy the wonderful pleasure of
perfect sexual gratification, of being replete. And then she would
sleep. Yes, then she would rest. Lulled by the heat of the oven and the
hot air caressing her skin, she would sleep.

But not yet. She had a little matter to sort out first with a couple of
carrots, two enormous monstrosities that were filling her and
stretching her. She squeezed them a little.

It felt nice, very nice.

Um. Well, three climaxes would do for starters. She mustn't be greedy.
After that, well, she would have to see...

End of Series One, Part Eleven