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 Nine

She pulled him down the steep dark gangway with its shadowy secrets on
either side, towards the brightly lit stage. "I have a buyer!" she
called out to the chef, her arm raised, loping down the stairs two at a
time.

Guy came stumbling after, fumbling with his trousers.

"Ruth! Couldn't this have waited?" he complained in disarray, finally
getting his cock back behind its inadequate constraint and his trousers
zipped up. He hated being in front of a crowd, the center of attention.
It wasn't his scene, it really wasn't. It made him uncomfortable. He
was a desert animal; that was his true habitat. "Ruth! What's the rush?
Annie's not even hot yet! Ruth!"

"A buyer!" Ruth repeated as they reached the narrow well between the
first table and the raised stage. She rushed around, trying to attract
the attention of the chef up above.

Guy was bewildered. What was Ruth doing? He was about to follow her
when, suddenly, a hand grabbed hold of his shoulder and swiveled him
round.

He was confronted by two heavily built men, bouncers. They looked mean
and ferocious, and their eyes were like arrows.

"If you wouldn't mind sitting down, sir," one of them said, pushing him
back roughly. "Customers aren't allowed beyond this point. It's not
allowed."

"It's all right. He's with me! He's with me!" Ruth called out
excitedly, moving along the service well, away from him, waving at the
chef.

"Ruth!"

Finally she caught the chef's attention and he came over, walking
slowly, leaning over the edge of the stage. He was a short man, very
stocky, with a fat face and a black oily toupee. He was wearing a
striped apron, navy, and his knives were strapped to his side, like
swords dangling on his leg.

The bouncers pressed Guy to the front table and forced him down. There
was a young man next to him who was busily fucking his overweight
waitresses' ass.

Guy muttered an awkward apology and sidled away, sliding along the
leather sofa of the very first row, leaving the writhing pair of lovers
in peace.

In front of him, Guy could see Ruth whispering something into the
chef's ear. She was talking, agitated, but he couldn't determine what
she was saying, not above the cacophony and the continual beat of the
discordant music.

The chef was on his knees, bent down, listening. Ruth, on tiptoes, had
her head stretched up, and was crimson with excitement. She had a
plan... a scheme of some kind... But would it work?

She was so keyed up.

What was she saying?

Whatever it was, it resulted in the chef reaching down and helping her
up onto the stage. She clambered up, somewhat inelegantly, holding
tightly to his wrists.

She lifted her leg to get her foot up onto the floor of the
stage. "Nice lady!" one of the bouncers exclaimed with a leer, as her
gown rode up her legs to the knee, and then beyond.

"What?" Guy asked. He didn't understand.

There was a murmur of applause from the customers all around. They
liked the look of this new unadvertised dam.

"You're a lousy mother fucker!" observed the other bouncer jealously,
speaking to Guy. He watched Ruth being led by the chef to the center of
the stage. "What a dam! Look at that arm! Beautiful! I'd eat some of
that! And the rest of her! Like fuck I would!"

Guy read the lust and the hunger in the faces of both men with a
dreadful pang. "Ruth!" he screamed, jumping up, suddenly realizing the
awful truth. "What are you doing? It's Annie's legs I fancied. Not
yours."

But she couldn't hear him. There was just too much noise. The bouncers
pushed him back down lazily into his sitting position.

"But, Ruth!" Guy yelled again, screaming to be heard over the strains
of the music. "Ruth! Let's not be stupid about this. Just because I
said that I'd like to see you roasted, that doesn't mean that I want to
eat you! Ruth!"

He tried to get up again, but the bouncers just kept pushing him right
back down.

He was being totally ignored. All the attention was on Ruth, not on
him. The chef was introducing her to the audience. "This is Ruth," he
said sensationally. "She's our next dam of the evening! A genuine
Virgo, and what's more she's a Carcass of Fortune, a mercenary. Look at
those curves! Admire that ass! Imagine your teeth gnawing at those
ribs, sweet and succulent! This bit of crackling is under butcher's
contract! She's being cooked of her own free will and volition. Come
on, guys! What do you say to that?"

The applause from the secret voyeurs hiding in the darkness was more
enthusiastic this time. They liked what they could see.

One of the bouncers waved up to the young blonde waitress who had
served Guy the drinks, beckoning her down to the front. She was at
Guy's old table, having just retrieved her bikini, putting it back on.
But now that she saw that it was Guy she was being asked to serve,
recognized him, she quickly unfastened the strings and removed it
again, dropping it back on the table.

"I should think so too!" the chef teased, mocking his audience. His
voice carried throughout the whole amphitheater, up through the
chimneys, seeping along the heating ducts, through the serving hatches
and into the kitchens. There was a small microphone pinned to his
apron, which was picking up his words and amplifying them, distorting
them.

He was talking about Ruth, of course, not the blonde.

"This lady's under the hammer at a massive 1065 shekels," he continued,
pinching Ruth's butt. "1065 shekels a kilo, my friends. At that price
anybody deserves your appreciation. For that kind of money this beauty
shall be cooked like a queen."

There was a little sniggering, a joke, laughter, drowned out under the
intensity of the music. Guy thought at first that they were laughing at
Ruth, at her being cooked like a queen. But apparently not so. It
seemed that news about Vashti had somehow made it through the grapevine
and was filtering into the amphitheater. The reference to a queen was
therefore quite piquant.

Guy tried to listen to what the people around him were saying. He
caught the odd sentence, "serves her right", "bitch", "should have done
as her man asked...", "saw it coming...".

The blonde waitress arrived at the front. She was nude and attracting
lots of attention. Hands appeared from nowhere, out of the darkness,
waving, searching: squeezing her butt, probing between her legs,
pinching her mercilessly. She wanted to push the hands away, to escape
them, but she daren't.

That would be another faux pas.

She was still terribly conscience of her first when she had asked Ruth
whether she wanted another drink, but had overlooked to ask Guy. She
was new here and was still overawed at being in the presence of so many
men, for them to be looking, touching, caressing...

The bouncers indicated that she should take a seat next to Guy,
pointing to the cold leather at his side. She didn't need asking twice.
Here was a chance to put matters right in a way that would please
everyone: the management, the customer, and yes, herself especially.

Her mammoth breasts had grown swollen with desire and her pink nipples
were hard little pencils. Yes, she was a woman, and this was a man. She
couldn't control her reaction. It was the way she was made.

"May I?" she asked politely, in the manner that she'd been taught,
slipping down at Guy's side, feeling his warmth against her body, his
breath upon her swollen tits. She was shivering, and not because she
was cold.

God!

"I've been asked to look after you now that your waitress is
unavailable," she stammered awkwardly. She could also still feel where
dozens of hands had been roaming, teasing, caressing, only seconds
before. Christ. There were so many men here! "Is there... Is there
anything I can do?"

But Guy wasn't really listening. He was more concerned about what was
happening on the stage.

Ruth, a picture of beauty and self-assurance in her bright blue gown,
stood in the middle, towards the front bathed in the floodlight. Her
long brown hair lay in a loose pile upon her shoulders, and she would
occasionally push it back. Behind her were the two cooking pots, the
unknown carcass in one, Annie in the other. Annie was still alive, but
she was beginning to tire. Unable to reach the bottom of the glass pot
with her feet, and the sides towering at least three feet above the
surface of the water, she had to keep treading water or else drown.
There was just nothing she could grasp and hang on to. She was hoarse
from screaming, from crying, but she had nothing else that she knew to
do.

But now something new. Guy felt a huge swell of adrenaline surging
within him. He leaned forward in his chair, pulling away from the eager
pampering of his naked waitress, the touch of her naked caress.
Something was happening. What now? Three kitchen maids were coming out
onto the stage, dancing seductively, suggestively, wearing little black
uniforms bordered with white lace. The uniforms accentuated their
figures, of course. They were low at the top, thrusting up their
bosoms; and high at the bottom, hugging their bodies like a second
skin. Their hair was tied high upon their heads, each one plaited into
a bun and covered in a tiny white cap. The smiles on their faces were
broad, although forced and nervous, painted in place with heavily
daubed lip-gloss.

These had appeared wheeling a long butcher's table. It was made of
stainless steel with heavy clamps at either end for restraining a dam's
arms and legs. They parked it immediately in front of Ruth, dancing
around her carelessly with elaborate rehearsed pirouettes, leaning
against her, tugging playfully at her gown, eventually moving off to
the side when their routine was complete. A warm chorus of approval
from all round the auditorium greeted their appearance.

The blonde waitress played shyly with Guy's trousers, searching for the
zip. She concentrated hard. She had done this many times in practice
with the dummy, but never with a client. Her fingers moved slowly, her
long pink nails almost not shifting at all as she touched his groin.
She didn't want to alarm him or put him off by making another mistake.

"How long since you've eaten?" the chef asked Ruth, walking around her,
sizing up her height and build. His booming voice filled the hall,
amplified to a maximum, echoing and booming. Stroking the back of her
thigh through her gown, he pinched it in several places, nodding
approvingly at the ampleness of her meat.

Ruth squirmed a little, but otherwise she seemed unfazed. "I haven't
eaten since after work last night," she said earnestly, boastfully,
pushing her brown hair back from her face. "I never eat during the day.
Never. Just imagine: it would be just too humiliating to be gutted and
still be half full."

There was a murmur of approval from all round the hall at this, heard
even above the music.

The chef also made small sympathetic clucking noises. "You see," he
said triumphantly as the applause died away, taking his big shiny knife
from its belt and sharpening it energetically on a special strap. "See
how devoted this dam is to her contract! A true harlot if ever there
was one! How could we possibly let her down?"

"Oh God!" Guy grunted. The blonde had just lowered his zip and had
fished his cock from inside his trousers. She had discovered a
leviathan contained there, a real angry monster, purple and long and
hissing with rage. In retaliation, Guy grabbed hold of her by the
breast, one of those huge swinging monstrosities dangling from her
chest. He gripped it at the base and squeezed it mercilessly.

"Oh Fuck!" the waitress cried at once. She fell to her knees
whimpering. He was using her tit to coerce her down, directing her
head, her mouth, her lips, towards the tip of that beastly erection she
had discovered. Closer and closer it got.

"So how would you like to be cooked?" the chef asked Ruth
indifferently, playing with the generous folds of her gown. He walked
freely around her, the knife in his hand, waving it melodramatically in
short, deadly thrusts. "You can choose any way you like. Any way at
all."

"I don't know..." Ruth stuttered, looking up, blushing. She stared
wide-
eyed at the long, evil knife, at its sharp, vicious tip. "I'm not
sure..."

"...that you know all the recipes? Quite so," the chef nodded,
finishing her sentence for her, poking the air emphatically with his
knife as he spoke. He spun around her to her rear, leaning his chin
weightily upon her shoulder. "Most men have no imagination," he hissed
thoughtfully, his words sibilating across the sound system. "Sad, but
true. They think only of the old missionary style. Perhaps: Girl In A
Cooking Pot, or, maybe, if they're extremely adventurous, Roast On A
Spit, piggy style. Here at Hegai's," he said, casting a disdainful
glance towards the hysterical woman warming up nicely in the glass pot
behind him, "although, of course, we have to pander to plainer tastes,
we also get to experiment with nouveau cuisine. In a gourmand butchery
there are beautiful recipes that will make the eyes pop and pappy cunts
explode."

The woman in the glass pot, Annie, was gasping, spluttering, struggling
to keep her nose and her mouth above water. The chef placed his arm
sympathetically around Ruth's shoulder and guided her firmly but slowly
across to the glass. They peered through it together, at the screaming
girl's kicking legs and glistening cunt, at her jigging breasts and
flailing arms. They watched together as she thrashed about desperately,
pleading for someone to let her out.

The chef sighed. "It's fun food," he said sadly, gawping through the
glass, poking his tongue out and mocking Annie's desperate pleas. "It
pulls the punters off the street, but where's the style? It's safe.
It's dull. It's boring. You don't want to be cooked like that!"

"I don't?" Ruth exclaimed hopefully, shocked at the way the girl's cunt
gaped open and close as she struggled. It reminded her of a goldfish in
a goldfish bowl. She tried to imagine herself helpless in that enormous
pot, and how she would feel as the water grew hotter and hotter,
suffocating, with two strangers staring at her most secret places,
seeing deep inside.

No. Perhaps she didn't want to be cooked like that.

Steam was beginning to rise from above the surface of the water and the
girl was now in considerable distress. "I'm sorry, dear," the chef said
apologetically to Ruth, reluctantly turning away from the glass. "I'm
becoming forgetful. The sight of dams cooking does that do me. What
were we saying? Ah, yes. We want a more exciting recipe, exotic, but
practical. I must kill you slowly, of course, so that our customers
have plenty of time to jerk off, but also with flair, with a touch of
panache. Let me see, now."

He led her back to the front of the stage and stood with her behind the
butchering table. The atmosphere around them was carnal, orgiastic.
Neither the chef nor Ruth could see any detail, but both knew what was
going on out there. Men were either eating and drinking in the semi-
darkness of the amphitheater, or playing lewdly with their personal
waitresses. Shadows of naked girls swayed sensuously in private dances,
or moaned theatrically through hidden microphones to encourage
generosity in tipping.

Guy still had his waitress's huge tit in his grasp. He was squeezing
it, hurting it, making her snivel and sob. "Kiss me," Guy commanded,
forcing her painted lips to finally caress the eye of his tool. He was
hard, his foreskin fully retracted, a faint whiff of pre-come lining
his knob.

She had never been so close to a man's cock before. Not a real living
man: a real angry cock. Her lips slowly parted. Her tongue floated
across it, touched it. It tasted nice, very nice. Her mouth opened a
little wider. She was looking at its enormous length, thinking about
it, smelling, tasting, and imagining it inside her.

"Go on!" he barked frenziedly. "Suck it! Suck it all!"

And so gradually she did. She took his monster into her mouth, shutting
it in, holding it between her lips, sensing his passion, tasting the
salt, feeling her own arousal beginning to rise.

It tasted nice, very nice.

Back on the stage, the chef was still considering how best to cook the
beautiful Virgo at his side. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. He had
Guy on the edge of his seat, listening to every word. "At first I
thought Bird in a Cage," he sighed. "But now I'm not so sure. You're a
little too tall and slender for that delicacy. What about the Bed of
Nails? I haven't done that for a while?"

Ruth glanced nervously at her fingers. "Well, I have painted them," she
admitted with a faint quiver in her voice, for Bed of Nails is supposed
to be particularly painful for the dam. She smiled weakly,
hopefully. "But I always think that works best with long manicured
nails, don't you think? And mine are quite short."

The chef glanced down at Ruth's feet, and then checked her fingers with
a regretful sigh, lifting her hands and examining her nails
carefully. "Perhaps you're right," he concluded reluctantly. "A shame.
It's such a crowd pleaser."

He paused. "Maybe if you undress," he suggested, reaching forward and
squeezing her breasts gently through material of her gown, gauging
their quality and their weight. "Perhaps if I can see you in the
fullness of your flesh, if I can see all of you, it'll give me a better
idea how best to proceed."

Ruth swallowed hard, brushing the hair once again off her shoulders
with her hand, bowing her head submissively. "You would like me to
undress?" she repeated quietly, hiding an almost childish
innocence. "Now? Everything? In front of all these people? You think
that I should?"

"It would help," the chef replied quickly, glad that his apron was able
to conceal the state of his erection.

She bit her lip rather anxiously. The top buttons of her gown were
already undone, revealing the deep valley of her bust. She was
prepared, but it was still embarrassing to undress in front of all
these men, in the glare and the harshness of the floodlights. She
unfastened the remaining buttons, doing so slowly, her fingers
trembling as she slipped each button undone, revealing more and more of
her front. Her head remained bowed, hung low, a mask, hiding the
deepest of emotions.

She would look good on a platter, this one, the chef considered,
shifting awkwardly from one leg to the other. It was a shame that he
could cook her but once. There are just so many possible options when
given a dam as attractive as this one. He hardly trusted himself to
speak.

Ruth had the bright blue garment unbuttoned to her waist now. Shyly,
she shrugged it from her shoulders, letting it fall away, revealing
pure white flesh, clean, wholesome, and appetizing. She let the gown
drop to the floor, sticking out her breasts bravely, exposing her bare,
firm bust and her hard brown nipples. She had been wearing nothing
underneath the gown apart from a long length of satin, wrapped twice
around her lower regions as an undergarment; its ends tied into a bulky
knot.

"This has served me well," she stuttered, stepping out of the folds of
her gown. Hesitantly, she stooped to pick it up, her voice quiet and
strained, dignified but regretful.

"I won't be needing my clothes again," she said, folding her gown into
a neat blue square. "Please hand this to my buyer. It should belong to
him now. For him to do with as he chooses."

The chef took it from her without a word.

Guy was entranced. He pinched the blonde waitress's big tit, searching
for hard lumps within it and squeezing these hard between his fingers,
wanting to hurt her, to punish her, yet not really sure why. She howled
in silent anguish, her body twisting around the fulcrum of that
squashed, suffering tit. Her mouth fell involuntarily from his cock,
blabbering, leaving it wet and slippery and angry and hard.

It jerked in a tremulous spasm as, with a noticeable shudder, Ruth
untied the knot holding together her undergarment. Her long slender
fingers with their red painted nails tugged at the material, finally
loosening and releasing it. Her fingers were trembling, for she was
nervous as to the reaction she would receive from the male audience.
She held the satin to her hips for a moment before allowing it to fall,
exposing to everyone: to the chef and to Guy, to all the customers and
the members of staff; her loveliness and beauty, her shaved, powdered
pussy, gaping teasingly.

The undergarment slid across her skin, spinning, falling, floating,
like the hand of a lover, caressing her flesh: tickling, stroking.

She had no reason to be worried, no reason at all. She was a stunner.

"Wow!" Guy gasped, staring at her silky womanly gash. The mouth of his
blonde waitress groped for his cock like a baby for the teat,
eventually finding it, licking it, feeding, sucking upon it greedily.

Ruth could neither hear nor see his response, had no way of knowing
what Guy thought of her, but she both heard and saw the general
reaction, the wolf whistles and the chants, and she blushed prettily.
She could imagine the words, what these men must be thinking.
Embarrassed and a little overawed, she picked up her undergarment,
looking down at the fresh dark stain of womanly juices that marked it.

Behind her, the three kitchen maids had busily begun to work, wheeling
out their utensils on two little side tables that they sited at either
end of the butchering table.

Ruth knew what this must mean. The time had come for her preparation.
They would want to get on.

Quickly, and with shaking fingers, she folded her undergarment into
four, to hide the revealing stain from prying eyes, before handing it
to the chef. She was scared at the ambivalence of her own emotions. She
had always believed that she would enjoy these moments leading up to
her final sacrifice, but now her end was here, she was confused. It
wasn't that she was frightened at the prospect of pain, or of being
gutted, or even of being nothing but Guy Nyrian's meal tonight.

Rather, she was scared that she wouldn't be able to come in the oven.
That thought petrified her. It consumed her with fear.

It didn't take a lot to excite her, it never had, but she couldn't turn
herself on at will. She needed the right stimulation. What if it wasn't
there in the oven?

In her young life, she had faked many orgasms, for a great number of
lovers. She was a wonderful fraud. She was an expert at it. But for
every real orgasm, she might fake another two. However, this was one
orgasm that couldn't be faked. The evidence would be there, one way or
another in her meat, in its color and its taste. It would be just as
obvious as the stain saturating her blue satin undergarment.

What if she couldn't quite make it before the end? She was a Carcass of
Fortune. An orgasm was part of the contract, required. It was part of
what she was expected to do in order to get her money...

The maids helped her up onto the steel table, reminding her how she
should kneel, on all fours, with her legs slightly apart.

They were calm, kind, and considerate as they positioned her, pushing
her forward, parting her legs when slowly these slid shut. One day soon
it would be their turn. They would be on the table. They would be on
show then, naked, for all the customers to see. And so they treated
Ruth as they wanted to be treated themselves, with compassion and much
empathy.

What if I'm in so much pain that it stops me feeling what I should
be feeling, Ruth thought in rising panic. A dam is supposed to get
excited and sexually aroused as her end approaches, but what if I
don't? Oh God. What then?

Meanwhile, the chef had stepped forward towards the edge of the stage,
and with a great flourish had revealed to the diners how the young
Virgo was to be cooked.

"Roast dam," he announced with a bow, awaiting his applause. "Stuffed,
and garnished with water cress."

End Of Series One, Part Nine