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, torture, eroto-cannibalism and sexual acts. Do not read if these subjects are likely to offend.

EXTREME WARNING. This is an erotic fantasy, not to be confused with reality.

Please do not reproduce in any form for profit without permission from author.

The Sweat Shop

By Grim, (gw@REMOVEgrimwilliams.co.uk)

Samantha Wilcox paced her cage, up and down, wanting to forget, hoping not to die.

It was always the same, regular and unvarying, five paces one way, four the other. Every step familiar, every steel bar with a name. Five steps to the left, four to the right.. Forth and back. Back and forth. Where the extra step came from she'd never determined.

There was a man outside and he was making Samantha nervous. He was staring. Others passed by holding umbrellas, a few had books or bags covering their heads, lots of them huddled beneath their overcoats. They moved quickly, scurrying back to their families or home to squalid bed sits, careful of where they trod, not looking up, or down, all trying to escape the weight of the downpour.

But not this man. He just kept looking, enjoying the sight of Samantha's bare ass, her long skinny legs, her utter and unavoidable nakedness.

Who was he, this guy? He looked like he was well heeled. A businessman, perhaps? A big city mogul? He was dressed in a smartly tailored suit, a white shirt, a pale blue tie, and he was getting well and truly soaked.

Bugger.

Bugger, bugger, bugger. Samantha quickened her pace. He was making her nervous, more nervous than she'd been for a while. Five to the left, four to the right. Nowhere else to go. Nowhere else to hide.

And still he kept on looking.

He wanted her. Samantha could read it in his face, the lust, his hunger. Desire. He wasn't a normal guy doing what normal guys did: out with mates, window shopping, looking at girls and having a laugh. This one was different. She'd seen it before.

This guy was a buyer.

There was something about him that told her to watch out.

This one was serious. Deadly.

But why? What was it that made an ordinary regular guy buy a woman?

And then eat her.

That too, Samantha had never worked out.

Mr. Dennis - Samantha's French teacher - had said it was the ultimate expression of sexual power. He'd said it was what turned boys into men, and men into heroes.

Samantha wasn't so sure.

Five paces to the left, four to the right. Up and down she walked.

The guy was looking at her pussy, sniffing it, smelling it. She could see him whenever she turned.

What was he thinking?

Was he imagining her laid on her back, slow boiling in a piquant red wine sauce? Was he soon to be married and contemplating a stag party? Maybe, she'd be served to guests while female police officers sensuously undressed.

Or maybe he was contemplating something else: something altogether more intimate.

Samantha had no idea.

She didn't understand what was attracting this man to stand and gawp at her.

After all, there were plenty of prettier women in the shop: big busty ones with acres of flesh and stacks of nourishment. There were women with curves, with ass, and pussies that cried to be eaten.

There were black women seasoned on jerk, and cute Asian ones scented in coriander. There were Arabs ground on fresh cumin and all those smiling Orientals whose meat just hinted at rosemary.

They lived their days in the window, their female curvature obscenely displayed. Some were bought promptly while others lingered in the cages, but all eventually found a buyer.

Only Samantha had defied the odds and the butcher's knife. No one wanted her. She paced the window like all the others, but unlike them, she was untouchable.

Until now, that was.

This punter didn't seem to mind about the rain. It had soaked his clothes and saturated his shoes. It dripped from his hair and covered his spectacles, falling in glass beads from his face.

All that concerned him was Samantha's nakedness, her breasts, her ass, her cunt. That's how it seemed to Samantha.

He was dreaming that his knife was cutting her soft tissue, perhaps severing one or other of her ass cheeks.

God, how she'd scream. She'd be sitting at his table, slowly marinating in a simmering tureen of horseradish gravy. Occasionally the maids would baste her bare flesh, pouring glutinous sauce between her two breasts.

And all the time he'd be holding her ass. He'd shred a small morsel between his teeth, ripping violently along the fibre. It would be raw, earthy, almost salty, but he'd like that. There was something dirty and perverted about eating uncooked girl flesh.

It was the kind of thing you read about in the seedy Sunday pulps.

He'd chomp her meat like Samantha might upon a piece of chewing gum, slowly extracting its flavour, sighing with quiet satisfaction.

Oh yes, he was the one. Samantha sensed it. She knew it. He was the one who would choose her, would eat her. God! And how close she'd come! She'd almost survived her six months, and now she was to fall at the final hurdle. It was almost too tragic to bear.

After all this time, this was the end.

But, then, suddenly, at the very nadir of her despair, he turned to look at another girl, just as they always did, leaving her, deserting her, surveying that one's curves, her tits, her ass.

Samantha felt cold and empty. Another girl was to die and she would keep living. That should have been good news: for Samantha. But her contentment was soured by an unaccountable jealousy.

She didn't expect men to fall over her in droves. If just one or two were to fancy her: that would be okay. She could accept that. It was the fact that no one thought her good enough to eat she found humiliating.

She'd become a joke, untouchable.

Here was a man who'd seemed to have liked her - who must have liked her - and yet, as always, he'd been charmed by another. Why?

Was she really so very ugly?

She felt it.

She couldn't even blame "it" anymore.

She hadn't smoked a cigarette in almost three months. They couldn't call her "Smoking Horse Shit" any longer!

Mr. Dennis had been the one to christen her that. He'd been her French teacher, a huge hunk of a man now in his late thirties.

In his prime he'd been a stud. Even now, he attracted his following of girls and even more of their mothers.

Not that Samantha had fancied him though. She didn't go for posers in posh spectacles.

Samantha was seventeen and wayward. Her school reports labelled her "dizzy" and a "scatter brain". But what was unusual in that? Isn't every girl to a greater or lesser extent?

It's a matter of hormones.

But with Samantha, there was also her history. Her father was unknown, an empty space, an anonymous punter with enough money to take a lady and persuade her to drop her knickers. The lady was Samantha's mother. She'd been dizzy herself in her youth, a scatter brain, but now she lived in a haze, high on alcohol and dependent upon an aging clientele.

That had started Samantha smoking.

Not that she'd smoked much, you understand, but what she had smoked was intense. She'd gone at it hard because that's the way her friends had smoked, and initially it hadn't been a problem. No one had been suspicious or thought anything amiss. They hadn't noticed her addiction to peppermint or her frequent thick heads.

But then there had been a change. The pivotal moment had come when she'd been caught in a boy's washroom by a prefect turning his patch. The air had been foul, and the language extreme. It had been obvious what she'd been doing.

Now, if Samantha hadn't been a scatter brain, if she'd had any sense, she'd have got down on her knees and put out for the prefect. After all, he'd been a boy and that was what he was after. A good blow job and a fumble of Samantha's tits would have kept him happy for weeks.

But she'd been angry. He'd mauled her and she'd told him where he could go.

Mr. Dennis had been incensed.

"Do you know what nicotine does to the female body?" he'd asked, for it had been to him that the prefect had reported her. Samantha had been standing at the front of her class while Mr Dennis paced at the back.

"No, sir."

"It pollutes the flesh and makes it inedible. Do you understand what that means?"

"Yes, sir, I… I think I do."

"What does it mean, Samantha? Tell the whole class."

"It means no one will want to eat me."

"That's right, Samantha. No one will want to eat you. We sell our brightest pupils to the big bidders of government and industry – our good pupils - and the rest to the sweat shops. That provides us with an income. A school needs an income. Every girl has the chance of a free education, including you, Samantha, because of that. But if you smoke, your flesh is worthless. Poisons collect in your meat and your fat. The sweat shops won't want you. Not a problem, of course, if you pass your exams, but at the moment that isn't very likely, now is it Samantha? Do you understand our concern?"

"Yes sir. I'm sorry, sir."

Mr. Dennis had made sure of her repentance. He'd made her remove her clothes in front of her class. All of them. Then he'd told her to place her hands atop her head with her panties in her mouth.

"How can society provide an education to those less fortunate when wicked girls like you insist on polluting their bodies with nicotine?" he'd fumed. "If the sweat shops won't touch you, what do we do then?"

Samantha hadn't known what to answer, and even if she had, she'd have been unable to do so, not with the panties filling her mouth.

For thirty minutes Mr Dennis had made her stand like that with her boobs pointing out and her pussy on display. How the boys had mocked her! How they'd loved it! And how Samantha's face had burned!

He'd called her a whore and the daughter of a whore, for he'd known Samantha's mother. He'd told her what she'd been like, recounting stories of the tricks Angelina Wilcox had turned.

One of boys had asked whether Samantha was planning on taking up the family profession, for surely no other would be available to her now.

She'd chewed upon her panties like a cow upon grass, heartbroken and weeping inside. She might have been a little dizzy, but this was enough to melt her to jelly.

And her punishment was only just beginning. Mr. Dennis had then proceeded to tear her apart, vilifying her at every opportunity.

She was seventeen years of age and hypersensitive to the shape of her body. Her breasts were flat and her nipples were large. Her ass was just about okay, but her shape was all wrong, like that of a boy.

Her body was still growing, that was her problem. She'd gone along to her doctor and had begged for a boob job. He'd smiled and suggested she come back in one or two years.

She was a late developer. That was all. That's what he'd said.

Samantha was supposed to wake up one day to discover she'd bloomed into a woman, just like the swan in that story of the ugly duckling.

But Mr. Dennis had disabused her of that.

"You're seventeen," he'd said, scything through Samantha with the bluntness of his tongue. "Time is getting on, Samantha. You're older now. Do you see other girls of your age with a shape like yours?"

"No, sir."

"Not all girls develop in the same way. You have to listen to nature's voice. It's telling you not to be giving yourself impossible ideas."

Then he'd invited the class to criticise Samantha's figure. He'd made her bend across his desk and spread her cheeks wide. "What did they think?" he'd pondered.

She was boyish, someone said. She had no butt, another cried. She was "l'allumette", the matchstick, Mr. Dennis had agreed, for he was their French teacher, and so it was therefore appropriate that his description of Samantha be in French.

They'd all laughed at that.

Then he'd started on her breasts, examining her bra to discover her size. Only an 'A', he'd discovered.

An 'A'?

"But she has no tits," someone had cried. "Only teats. Whoever heard of a woman like that?"

He'd made her stand with her hands clasped behind her back.

"Horse chestnuts," he'd mocked. "Most women have tits. Samantha has a pair of horse chestnuts. Is there any boy with a fetish for Æsculus hippocastanum ?"

Not a murmur. They'd been staring in silent awe at the sight of Samantha's nipples.

Most hadn't even heard of Æsculus hippocastanum , never mind developed a fetish for it. Apparently it was latin , or so someone said.

"Cup cakes," someone had choked.

"Shit coatings," a bright spark had suggested.

It hadn't taken long to get from there to their final consensus. By combining the insults they'd arrived at "horse shit". Samantha's breasts were apparently covered in equine excrement: manure.

"You see, no one likes you," Mr. Dennis had concluded. He'd glared at his class, daring the boys to contradict him. Of course, none of them had. "You'll notice that Samantha's ass is flat like a boy's," he'd lectured. "In fact, apart from her hair – the hair on her head, I mean - she could easily be taken for a boy. Is there any boy who finds the sight of a boy in a wig arousing?"

A single cough, but otherwise silence.

Mr. Dennis had surveyed the class imperiously. "I'm pleased to hear it! Otherwise, I'd have been writing some very disturbing letters to your parents."

Samantha could have died. She'd been standing with her hands behind her back, showing her all; and no one would confess to being excited at the sight. The deathly hush had made her feel hideous and ungainly, in fact, a freak. Were her breasts really so ugly?

Mr. Dennis had then made her bend a second time. Samantha had lowered her front across his desk, shivering at the sight of the cane he was now clearly holding.

"Surely one of you would like to fuck Samantha?" he'd disparaged, swishing the stick through the air. "Look how stretched her ass cheeks are, how quaint her beauty lips. Surely there must be at least one pansy here who'd like to plug her?"

But there'd been no volunteers. Not one. They'd been gob-smacked and immobile. Suddenly, in a matter of minutes, Samantha had gone from being an ordinary young student to being untouchable. No one wanted her, no one desired her. Her breasts had turned her into a leprous pariah.

But what could she truthfully say? Mr. Dennis had spoken only in truth. Where were his lies? Her titties were indeed large dollops of horse shit perched upon a young boy's chest. They didn't deserve the honour of being termed 'breasts'. Somehow 'titties' was a better label. She was laddish in shape, laddish is nature: no curves, no elegance, no admirers.

Samantha would at times look at herself in her mirror and weep. For all her dizziness, she'd been gifted with only a smidgen of self-confidence, and now that cupboard was bare.

Horse shit.

Dear God.

Boys would shout it around the campus. Girls would whisper it when she passed. They were the bitchiest of all.

Horse shit.

But even then the torture wasn't over.

Horse shit.

The swish of the cane had brought Samantha back to her senses. There had been sniggering all around her, and boys trading desks to gain a better position.

They'd been hissing her new name.

Horse shit.

Then it had come. The pain.

Six times Samantha had howled in agony. Six times the red tram line of Mr. Dennis's cane had creased her stiff butt, travelling through the very epicentre of her yawning pussy.

She'd shrieked like a banshee, shaking and broken. Mr. Dennis had known precisely what he was doing. He'd aimed mercilessly for her open purse.

Then, while Samantha was still weeping: the final humiliation. It had been time to dress but Mr. Dennis had refused to return her bra. He'd lifted it up, showing it to the class. "Why would you want this, Samantha?" he'd ridiculed, pushing his fist against one of the cups to show how tiny and inadequate it was. "There's nothing here, girl. Nothing. You've nothing to support. I might as easily give this to one of the boys. You're flat, Samantha, as flat as a pancake. You don't need a bra."

He'd tossed it to one of the boys who'd jokingly pulled it over his shirt. One of the girls had fastened it at the back.

They'd all laughed, the girls as well as the boys.

Mr. Dennis had laughed too, but then his voice had turned to menacing steel. "I expect better of you, Samantha," he'd said, cold and angry. "I expect improvements. If I find you smoking again, I'll insert a cigarette up your ass. Do you understand me? Smoking is dirty. Smoking is an unhealthy filthy habit. No pupil in this school is allowed to smoke or otherwise abuse her body. Is that understood, Samantha?"

"Yes, sir. It is, sir. Thank you, sir."

He'd nodded, seemingly accepting her penitence. But he had one more card up his sleeve: an ace. "As a reminder, Samantha, you'll not attend school wearing a bra any more. Do you hear me? This is not a punishment. It's merely a means to impress upon you the need for restitution. You'll come each morning and prove to me that you're braless. Is that clear, Samantha?"

"Y… yes, sir."

Oh god!

"And if I find you wearing one, then you'll remove it in class. Is that also clear? Am I making myself perfectly understood, Samantha?"

Samantha nodded, folding her arms guiltily across her breasts. She was already dreading the prospect of morning inspections, of being made to stand once again in front of the class. "Perfectly, sir. It's clear, sir. Very clear."

So because of that, she'd tried to be a model student, to concentrate on class, do her homework: all the things good students do.

But no one had wanted her to be good.

The guys had begged for an encore, tempting her with sly smokes. They'd pull matches from their pockets, teasing her to light a cigarette. They'd prowl around her old smoking haunts looking for smouldering cigarette ends.

And the girls had been no better. They'd check through Samantha's purse every morning to see whether she was hiding tobacco.

To them, it was a joke, and Samantha was a joke.

They gave no consideration to the probable consequence should she ever be caught smoking again.

*****

He was staring. The man was staring. Samantha could sense it without breaking stride.

He was back.

He was looking at her pussy, working out how best to cut it. In his mind he'd ordered her to keep still; he'd sharpened his knives, and was sliding the blade of his boning knife across the flat os pubis, Samantha's pubic bone. He'd tease the flesh from the bone, and then lift it, almost with the action of a lever.

Five to the left, four to the right, always the same. Not stopping. Almost running. Back and forth. Forth and back.

She daren't look, couldn't look. But then, did she ever? Even when they unzipped their pants and played with their cocks.

Guys were always hanging around sweat shops. They'd come with their mates and parade their erections out on the sidewalk, swapping bets as to which girl would be next to be cooked. And why not? Why shouldn't they? Isn't it normal?

Guys eat girls. It's what they do. Everyone knows that. Universities print surveys about such things in the centre of men's magazines between the busty centrefolds and the advertisements for penis enhancers.

Back and forth. Forth and back. Five to the left, four to the right.

Samantha didn't have to look to know what they were doing, the guys, the ones on the sidewalk. They were watching, joking, masturbating, ridiculing her naked boobs and her silly bobbing teats. They were telling their mates they'd never seen anything as weird as this.

And if a girl were to be picked! God, Their reaction then! What pandemonium! They'd stand and whoop and cheer as she was dragged from her cage to be prepared and butchered.

What would she taste like, they'd wonder? Sweet? Pungent? Fragrant? Spicy?

If only there were a cheap way to find out!

Then they'd spot Samantha marching around her cage and that would break their tension. They'd gather in front of her and make faces through the glass. They'd poke fun and gesticulate rudely. "What a freak!" they'd cry. "A pipe cleaner, a drinking straw, a garden rake."

No one had breasts like hers, large dark teats perched upon such long slender straws.

One of them would read the sign beneath her cage, "Smoking Horse Shit", and then they'd look at her monitor and know all they needed to know.

Five to the left. Four to the right.

If only Samantha could read her monitor too. Then maybe she wouldn't have to worry.

He kept staring. Her guy. The one who kept looking at her pussy. He'd been to look at some other girls and now he was back: looking, staring, waiting.

Maybe he wanted her to pee. Maybe that was why he was waiting and looking at her pussy.

The weirdoes did that.

They'd wait for hours just for the chance to see a girl pee.

The weirdoes were the ones the girls worried about.

A weirdo could drive her crazy. He'd wander from woman to woman, from cage to cage, writing in some oversized notebook. Then he'd return, maybe at night, two or three in the morning, peering through the glass, writing things down.

He'd watch for hour after hour, recording the particulars of every self-conscious scratch, every call of nature, each and every minor quiver of emotion.

The girls never knew what they were thinking, not the weirdoes. Were they choosing? Buying? Or was this some cheap way of living a bedroom fantasy?

They gave the girls nightmares, for sometimes a weirdo would have money, and suddenly without warning he'd spend it.

Five to the left, four to the right.

It was awful to be bought by a weirdo. They did things beyond imagination. One girl had been made to eat her own flesh, limb by limb. He'd fed her on it every night for a month: first her legs, then her arms. Soon her breasts, pussy and ass. Her ears had been next, and then finally her guts.

The weirdo had eaten the remainder. He'd said the idea was to concentrate the flavour of the meat, like a soup being reduced over a long slow simmer, but Samantha hadn't been convinced.

To her it just the thinking of a weirdo.

Five to the left, four to the right.

Oh God. He was still looking, that guy. He was standing in the rain and looking. If Samantha ignored him, perhaps he'd get bored and choose someone else.

Five to the left, four to the right.

Maybe if she peed for him he'd move on.

There was also a woman, a whore maybe, who was with him. Samantha hadn't noticed her before. She was in her thirties, with blonde hair and a cavernous fur coat. The two of them had moved to the porch and they were talking, perhaps negotiating a price.

Lots of whores work the streets around the sweat shops, looking for guys without enough readies for meat.

Suddenly the guy grabbed her by the hair and tugged her to her knees. A moment later his cock was between his fingers and he was shoving it into her mouth.

She had ruby lips and they were glossed in pillbox red.

Bugger.

Samantha watched from the corner of her eye. The woman was sucking methodically upon the guy's cock, her grey eyes motionless and glazed, totally focussed on the job in hand.

.

She was an artist, doing something she'd done a thousand times before.

And all the time the guy was staring at the window as Samantha paced her little cage. He was looking at her, waiting for her to pee.

Five to the left, four to the right. On and on Samantha walked, trying not to think, wanting not to feel.

This was it. Tonight. Tonight was the night. She knew it. Soon he'd be in. He was the one. This was the man who would buy her.

But it was easy. She could so easily save herself. All she had to do was smoke. If she puffed upon a cigarette, she'd pollute her body again and the shop wouldn't sell her.

But if she smoked, what would that do to the reading on her monitor?

*****

"Samantha, we're going to try some aversion therapy," Mr Dennis had said, watching leisurely as Samantha had swayed from side to side. She was standing upon a stool with her skirt about her waist and her panties around her ankles.

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I'd like that."

It was pointless to protest, to argue that his treatment wasn't working. Argument only made her punishment worse.

He'd pulled a cigarette from his pocket and had thrust it between Samantha's rouged lips. Then he'd lit it. "You know what to do, Samantha. Take off your clothes. Then, while you smoke, I'll cane you."

Mr. Dennis was working to his own agenda now, playing the game from both ends. Samantha had known it but hadn't been able to stop him. Nobody was going to listen to the daughter of a whore.

There had been no witnesses to testify to what he was doing. The door of his room had been locked.

"Hurry up, Samantha. I haven't all day. Take off your clothes."

She'd taken off her school uniform: her navy blazer and bulky serge skirt. Her arms had hated doing it. They'd become heavy and tired, fighting what her head demanded that she do.

"I'll tell the headmaster. This isn't right," she'd moaned, indignant that a teacher could degrade her in this way.

Underneath she'd been wearing a plain school blouse, her house tie and thick black stockings. She'd shrugged them off, full of embarrassment, very aware that Mr. Dennis was scrutinizing her figure.

"But you won't tell him, will you Samantha? Otherwise I'll have to tell him that you're still smoking."

Samantha had chomped upon her cigarette in irritation. "But I'm not, sir. Not really. The only time I smoke is when I'm here with you."

She'd angrily kicked off her knickers and had stood for him, naked upon her chair, sucking upon the cigarette and waiting for him to cane her.

She'd been trapped and she knew it. If she opened her mouth and blew the whistle on him, he'd send her to the sweat shop. He had evidence. The nicotine was inside her flowing through her veins.

"You're just like your mother," Mr Dennis had alleged, indicating the birch he'd cut. It was eighteen inches in length with a sharp, deadly snap. "I was only a prefect back then but I knew as soon as I saw her that she was a whore. She'd do anything for money, anything, as most of us discovered. Ask her. Remind her of John Dennis. She'll remember our little games, and how I punished her. Like mother, like daughter, eh?"

With that he'd made Samantha bend over. Her hands had clung to the back of the chair, rocking and fighting for balance. Her mouth had sucked frantically upon her cigarette, praying that the nicotine would do something to dampen the pain.

"You're taking in smoke," he'd accused. "That's bad. That means I must hit you more: twice the number of strokes. Every time you puff, Samantha, I hit you. Do you understand? Your fate is in your own hands. The more you smoke, the more I hurt you. Stop smoking and I stop. Do you understand, Samantha?

She had. The problem was, every time he'd hit her, the more she'd needed her cigarette, for he'd use every last ounce of his strength in hurting her, funnelling both anger and lust into every cruel stroke.

Samantha's ass would burst into flame, hot and raw from the concentrated assault. She'd scream and cry and quiver in terror. The cigarette had been her messiah. It had been her comfort. It had soothed her anguish, her embarrassment, her overwhelming and feverish shame. It had been the one thing she would depend upon to help her endure.

The problem was, every puff deepened her torture and also her addition, and soon, she'd been hooked, not just physically, but emotionally too. Her body had craved nicotine; and so had her psyche.

He'd been leading her to her fall, and when it had come, the end had come quickly, quite out of the blue.

It had been a sunny day, quite early in the morning. The news had flown around the school in a jiffy. Had people heard? About Samantha Wilcox? Within minutes, everybody knew. The headmaster, Mr. Cairns had found her behind the gym with a cigarette in hand. Samantha had been preparing for her bra check and the cigarette was simply to steady her head.

"Well, well," Mr. Cairns had sighed, shaking his head in tired disappointment. "What shall we do with you, young lady?"

He'd locked her in his study while he'd contemplating the answer. He'd consulted with his masters, including, of course, the omnipotent Mr. Dennis. "It's by no means Samantha's first offence," Mr. Dennis had confided, sipping cold latte. "I've been trying to help her. In fact, I'd hoped the smoking was under control; but, it seems Samantha has misled me. She's obviously been pulling wool over my eyes. I don't know what else to suggest. What choice has she left us? After all, the rules are there to be obeyed."

The headmaster had listened carefully, agonizing at length, for he'd hated this part of his job.

Selling Samantha to one of the sweat shops was the obvious decision. But not only did this carry its human cost - roasting a young woman seemed a barbaric waste to Mr. Cairns' conservative judgement - but there were also the financial implication to consider. If he sold her as she was, Mr Cairns would receive a rock bottom price.

No one in their right mind would eat a nicotine polluted girl.

On the other hand, to keep her in school would invite general anarchy.

Samantha had sat hunched in the headmaster's study all that morning, her knees huddled beneath her chin, wondering what the outcome would be, both dreading and expecting the worst.

It had been after lunch when Mr. Cairns had returned to his office, considerably refreshed by two pints of locally brewed bitter, a pork and pickle sandwich, and a large bag of chips.

He'd sat Samantha at his desk and had broken the news.

"I'm sorry," he'd coughed, noticing for the first time that Samantha was wearing no bra. She'd loosened her tie and the knot had lain in the middle of her chest. "I'm sorry, Samantha, but we're going to be dispensing with your services."

"Sir?"

"It's with great sadness I say this, but you see, really, you leave me with no choice."

Mr Cairns had got up and had walked round to Samantha's side of his desk. From where he was standing, he could see down the top of her blouse. He'd had a strange compunction to grab Samantha's tie and slip tight the knot. He could imagine her face turning purple, gasping, and contorting.

"Mr. Dennis has friends in the business," he'd grinned, liking the idea. "He's phoned one particular man and has got us an excellent deal, much better than we could possibly have hoped given your condition. So you should thank him. Make sure you do that, Samantha."

Samantha had done so, although she hadn't any real idea for what she was thanking him. Then Mr Dennis had led her to his car with her arms and legs in irons.

After all, they didn't want the students getting ideas.

Then he'd driven her away, out through the gates on which were inscribed the school motto, " Arbeit Macht Frei ".

Samantha had left possessing nothing but the clothes on her back and the cigarettes in her pocket.

And very strangely, minus her school tie.

*****

The man in reception had been pleasant. His name was Mr. Harris. He was manager of the Haug Espen Sweat Shop, and also, by coincidence, he was Mr. Dennis's brother in law.

He'd removed Samantha's uniform and had stuck it in a bag with her name taped to the outside.

"Samantha Wilcox," it had said.

The only thing he'd looted from her person had been a half consumed packet of cigarettes. These he'd tucked away for safe keeping.

Then they'd escorted Samantha to the shower to clean her up. After all, she was food now. "And we do have to be careful." Mr Dennis had declared. "After all, there is the question of hygiene."

First, Mr Harris had taken scissors to Samantha's hair, shearing it as closely as he could. "We take pride in our product," he'd explained. "Most of our girls are supplied to us by boyfriends or fathers short of funds. About one in three comes to us from the schools. We don't take rubbish, none of that junk from overseas, not like some of the shops. We like to know what we're buying. We look after our meat."

Then he'd taken a rubber hose. There was a long nozzle at one end. He'd turned a tap, directing the jet of steaming water at the tender lips of Samantha's pussy. "Punters would rather pay top dollar for a living girl and see her slaughtered in front of them than buy some lump of anonymous girl flesh from a slab."

Samantha had gasped at the heat of the water. It had brought tears to her eyes.

"That's why they call this a sweat shop," Mr. Dennis had observed, a black grin flexing his cheeks. "These guys bring their women to us on hock, and then they have six months to pay back the loans, plus interest and living expenses, and until they do, the girlfriends sweat."

Mr Harris had asked Samantha to kneel on all fours. Then he'd parted her legs. "The threat of being butchered is enough to make most girls sweat!" he'd taunted, slapping Samantha's ass to persuade her to keep still. Then he'd fitted leather straps to her arms and her legs, just to ensure that she did.

"The nearer her time, the better she sweats," Mr Dennis had agreed. "In fact, many men will pawn their woman just for that reason, to teach her a lesson she'll never forget."

Mr Harris had pushed the nozzle deep into Samantha's asshole, applying a sharp twisting action to force it right in. "They leave it to the wire," he'd said. "Some don't turn up until the last bloody day! Only then do they redeem her! By then she's virtually in the oven. Can you imagine how it feels for a girl to count off the days, then the hours, and finally the minutes, wondering whether her man will ever return?"

He'd turned the tap back on, carefully controlling the speed of the flow. "Maybe he's forgotten," he'd continued, filling Samantha up and then letting her down. He'd watched her stomach inflate and then return to its natural shape. He'd repeated the process, growing her to a full nine months of pregnancy and then returning her to normal. "Maybe he's found someone else, a better, younger model. All sorts of things are going through her head. Maybe he's bad at budgeting the money and hasn't saved enough to pay the debt. What can be keeping him? Terror makes her docile and subservient, just as he wants her. When they get home she's a different woman, for she knows that at any moment and for whatever provocation ha can have her returned to her cage."

When Mr Harris had finished the enema, he'd untied the leather straps and then Mr Dennis had laid Samantha down and had shaved the stubble from around her bikini line. Then he'd waxed her body, not just in the obvious places, but everywhere else too. By the end of the operation he'd known every last inch of her.

"The thing is," Mr Dennis had said when the job was done, wiping dry his hands. "Only high quality, previously owned merchandise can be found at the Haug Espen Sweat Shop. Every time we loan on a girl we know that someday she could be in our catalogues for sale. Therefore, we'll only deal in good quality merchandise. Our business is only as good as our reputation. It's as simple as that."

"So here's the deal," Mr. Harris had said, casually handing Samantha the cigarettes he'd earlier confiscated. "You can have these and as many more as you'd like. But there's a catch."

She'd taken the packet from his hand, holding on to it protectively.

Was it a test?

"You're going in the shop window so that everyone will see you. They'll look at you just as I'm doing right now. There'll be nowhere to hide, day or night. You'll wash in public, pee in public, even defecate in public. Nothing will be private."

Samantha had shuddered at the thought. She'd known the way the sweat shops worked, but had never been near one. She'd never before fully contemplated the phrase "full public nudity" and what it entailed.

"Beneath your cage will be a sign," Mr. Dennis had told her. "It'll explain that your meat is polluted with tobacco. There'll also be a monitor alongside, indicating to people your up-to-the-minute nicotine level. You're junk, and our customers will see that you're junk. But I have a hunch. I think you can quit those cigarettes given enough motivation. If you're clean at the end of the normal contractual period of six months, then I'll redeem you. I'll do it personally. What do you say to that, Samantha?"

"Thank you, sir," Samantha had replied, gasping aloud, for Mr Dennis had been playing with her breasts as he'd been speaking, squeezing them at the base and also at the nipples.

"On the other hand, if your meat is still polluted with nicotine, I'll eat you. What do you say to that, Samantha?"

"I don't know, sir. I don't know what to say."

"You hear that," Mr Harris had grinned, brushing Samantha's luxurious hair cuttings into a bag. "Mr. Dennis wants to eat you. He'll take away your cigarettes, clean you up and then cook your meat. Do you understand this?"

"Yes sir. I understand. He wants to eat me."

"And do you want to be eaten, Samantha? Would you like to be eaten by Mr Dennis?"

"No sir. I don't want to be eaten by anyone."

Mr Harris had nodded, seemingly placated. "Then you know what you must do."

"Yes sir. I must stop smoking."

"That's right," Mr Dennis had agreed. "You must stop smoking. Although, of course, there's a rub. Once you do quit, you'll be of merchantable quality and there's nothing to stop a punter from buying you."

Ah, there had been the quandary!

What an interesting dilemma they'd thrown her. Smoking would increase her body's junk value. Therefore all the time she smoked, she was safe from the punters. However, if she did smoke, she'd end up as dinner upon Mr. Dennis's table.

On the other hand, if she quit she'd doubtless avoid Mr. Dennis but end up being eaten by an ordinary punter, because, of course, her body would no longer be polluted.

The question was, the real issue: to what extent could she rely upon her own ugliness?

"And guess whom I shall be inviting around for dinner?" Mr Dennis had salivated, placing a leather collar and leash around Samantha's neck. "Can you guess, Samantha? Surely you can! It's not hard." He paused for a moment, giving her time to think. "It will be fun, renewing my acquaintance with your mother. That's right, Samantha. That's whom I'm inviting. Your mother. Surely you didn't think I'd be eating you myself! Horse shit? Junk meat? No way! When food is sub-standard you give it to the beasts!"

He'd led her to her cage. On getting there, Samantha had mewled in horror at seeing so many people waiting to see her. They wanted to watch the new girl being taken through her training. Most of Samantha's old school had turned out, the students as well as the masters. She'd blushed bright red, curling up in a corner, covering her glowing nakedness with her arms.

"No, Samantha," Mr Dennis had ordered. That's not the way we entertain the punters. They're here to be entertained. They want to see you sweat."

He'd fastened a steel cuff to her ankle. The bracelet had copper electrodes on the inside and this had penetrated her skin.

.

Mr Dennis had locked the door of her cage, turning the key. "The ankle cuff applies an electric charge based upon the amount of sweat on your skin," he'd said. "To help you understand: the more you sweat, the lower the current; conversely the less you sweat, the more we zap you. Of course, what you do to start yourself sweating is entirely up to you."

He'd turned the device on. At once Samantha had howled, jumping to her feet.

"If you want to exercise, feel free," Mr Dennis had said with a grin. "Some girls do sit ups, others prefer to touch their toes. We don't care. If you want to play with yourself: that works too."

Samantha had run about here cage, trying to get hot, but the cuff was weighing upon her leg.

"Perhaps I'll get you to provide your mother and I with entertainment, Samantha, serve us wine, maybe even a starter. Your little titties – how nice they'll be - just the right size for the job." Mr Dennis had laughed, walking away from her. "You're getting wheezy, Samantha," he'd said. "Maybe you should light a cigarette, what do you think?"

Oh God! The pain. What was she going to do? She'd never endure this, not for six months!

Mr Dennis had stopped. He'd turned. He was looking at her. "I'll be seeing you, Samantha. I'm off to see your mother, warn her to diary our date. I'll tell her to wear a dress, what do you say? - or should that be a coat? But with nothing underneath. Plenty of harsh makeup and lots of fake jewels. What do you reckon, Samantha? Would that be appropriate for a date with a former whore?"

*****

Five to the left, four to the right.

The woman had finished now. Apparently she'd swallowed the man's cum and had cleaned his cock with her tongue, for neither of them had fussed with a tissue.

She had her fur coat drawn tightly around her body and her neck festooned with enormous jewels. An umbrella kept off the rain.

Her heels were like twin towers that caused difficulty in balancing.

Perhaps the woman wasn't a whore after all. Perhaps she'd come to buy her lover a present, a birthday gift, for she seemed to have the eloquence of wealth.

She stood with her nose to the glass, peering at the girls, frightened rather than lustful.

He was beside her, his arm clutching her butt, imagining, fantasizing about the many women on display, wondering how each one of them would taste.

And the woman didn't mind.

She waited, the flavour of his semen fresh in her mouth. Soon, it would be his turn to have the taste of another. And why not? How could she begrudge it?

For she'd stood in that window herself once, naked and exposed, waiting to be chosen. She'd been a slut and so he'd punished her, condemning her to the sweat shop. For six months she'd waited, counting the days, sweating off the hours, hoping for release but not really expecting it.

She'd anticipated the moment of her own death so many times, the prospect of sitting in a pan while it got hotter and sweatier.

She'd been saved from all that. At the twenty third hour he'd redeemed her.

Maybe he'd not had a choice. Maybe she'd forced his arm. She'd been pregnant. By the end of her time her stomach had been bulging and her breasts heavy with milk.

Men had been lining up to buy her, just for the novelty of a woman about to drop. Her fat belly had had them licking their lips in anticipation. There had been the real prospect of a bidding war.

But then it had happened. He'd saved her.

For whatever reason, he'd done it.

For such a great thing he deserved his reward, the greatest gift a woman can bestow. He was her hero. He deserved a night at the sweat shop.

But who would it be? Whom would he choose?

Neither woman knew. Not for sure.

Samantha feared it. She hadn't smoked for weeks but she was still walking the walls.

She was sweating. Her six months were up. Six months of walking her cage, five steps to the left, four to the right, the iron electrodes penetrating her ankle.

Five to the left, four to the right. Over and over, hour after hour.

After so long, her head no longer expected it, but her body was sweating. It was under her arms and in the crack between her legs. It was dripping down her back and like sheen upon her tiny titties.

Surely it wouldn't be her. The gods couldn't be so cruel! She was safe. She was always safe. The guys came, they joked. They laughed at her body and then they went elsewhere.

Samantha no longer knew whether to be happy or to be sad: glad at not being picked, or miserable for being so ugly.

One of the girls would be chosen by this man. Tonight would be her last.

Five steps to the left, four to the right.

He'd make his choice in the way they always did, pointing the fateful finger and then entering the shop with his girlfriend. He'd stand in the background and wait awkwardly while she paid Mr Harris his price.

Samantha had seen it so often. She knew the little rituals they played.

They'd be shown to their table and the girlfriend would remove her coat. She'd be naked underneath and aroused, caught up in the fantasy. She'd be picturing herself in the place of her surrogate, as the one who was about to be eaten.

For in her heart she yearned to be snuffed for this man that she loved.

Only not for real. Only in fantasy.

The waiters would drag the girl from her cage, the chosen one, the one who was to be butchered. She'd come screaming, pleading with them to think again, to choose another.

But no one would listen. They'd be deaf to her cries. No one would hear, not the waiters, not the maids, and certainly not the buyers. Instead, they'd all get on with the job of preparing and butchering her while the guy and his girl tucked in to their fresh melon.

Sometimes the dam would be spitted, at other times roasted. Whatever the customer chose, that would be her fate.

They'd cook her while the birthday guy rammed his girlfriend, both of them imagining that it was she being carved, her belly being cut open and now gutted. As she'd nearly been, all those years before.

He'd drive into her hard, both of them at the extremes of hunger.

Five to the left, four to the right. Walking the walls.

Samantha couldn't see her monitor. She had no idea what it showed.

But all of a sudden she'd stopped still. The punter was studying her breasts, her ass and there was pure lust on his face. He wanted her. He desired her.

Where were her cigarettes? If she smoked just one, perhaps even now he might be dissuaded…

Oh God, where were they? What had she done with them?

All of a sudden he'd turned to the woman at his side and had pointed. She'd sighed, shrugged and then nodded. What else could she do?

And then they'd walked into the shop together, hand in hand, to ask about the woman in the window, the sweaty one with the horse shitty tits.

*****

Angelina Wilcox released the clasp on her coat and shrugged it from her shoulders. It dropped into the arms of a maid. She took a seat opposite her date, feeling awkward and uncomfortable, gulping wine to steady her nerves. It was good to be working again, to be out doing the one thing she enjoyed.

She smiled nervously, the taste of cum mixing with the wine in her mouth.

John Dennis was admiring her bosom. It was small but had the benefit of large swollen teats that could drive a man to frenzy.

They smiled at each other, the two of them, John and Angelina, lit cigarettes in hand, holding hands across the table. Then he turned, very deliberately, and asked the young maid to bring them their starter.

The end