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Message-ID: <48485asstr$1089839404@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: stephen ambrose <chrutli@yahoo.com>
Subject: {ASSM} school film (snuff, caution)
Lines: 1180
Date: Wed, 14 Jul 2004 17:10:04 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d


 
 


		
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<1st attachment, "school_film.txt" begin>

snuff.  Don't like it?  Don't read it.





   School Film

   Chrutli



   I was in love with Ali Landry.  At least I thought I was.  I was
eighteen, and I was all too willing to accept the adult notion that kids
could only have crushes; they didn't understand the real thing.  Maybe so.
I was pretty sure I was in love with her.

   Everybody knew Mrs.  Landry wasn't a Mrs,; she was a miss.  All the guys
dreamed about her, and most of the guys knew she was the principal's girl.
She was a major babe; she was twenty-four.  All the guys lusted after her;
the girls were jealous, and not only because she was so old and single and
still alive.  We all imagined her doing all kinds of wild kinky things for
Mr.  Walsh.  She probably was.  Everybody knew Walsh was the brother of
Senator Walsh, and he could pull strings to keep Mrs.  Landry out of the
draw.  That was one of the ironies of popstab; the plain girls might be
wacked casually, or out of need, but the pretty girls were sought out,
kidnapped, tortured, invited over for barbecue, taken to lunch.  It was
really strange that Ali Landry had lived to twenty-four, as beautiful as
she was.

   I was a senior that year; she taught history, and I'd had her class the
year before, but not this year.  I wanted to get her in bed like every
other guy in school, but she came to mean more to me.  She was a friend. 
She was nice, and she really tried to teach kids stuff, even the girls.  I
didn't blame her at all for banging the principal.  Lots of girls did all
sorts of things to buy time.  When I first met her, I found every excuse to
be around her; I guess she knew I was smitten.  I wasn't above looking down
her dress and it seemed she wasn't above letting me have a peak.  That was
at first.  Later we did get to be friends.  There was more than her breasts
and my adolescent longings keeping us apart, though.  We were friends, at
least, as much friends as any guy or girl in those terrible days. 
************* *************

   Mrs.  Landry stopped me as I was leaving her class; it was the first day
of school, my first class with her, and I knew she was going to be in my
fantasies all year.  She wore a sweater- almost too tight- and a skirt that
came just above her knees.  Brunette, voluptuous, with a candid smile.  She
was so pretty it hurt.

   "Your father, he's the one who was killed defending that girl." Mrs. 
Landry gave me a darkly inquiring look.  I didn't like to talk about Dad. I
sort of understood what he did, but everybody else thought he'd been crazy.
I stopped talking about it because everybody thought I was crazy for seeing
it his way.

   "He was stupid," I said, trying not to show my resentment about him. 
"He got wacked along with the girl."

   "Stupid?  You think he was stupid?  Or is that your way of saying you
miss him?"

   She surprised me.  That really was it; he was stupid because he wasn't
around anymore.  I missed him; I didn't like that Mrs.  Landry figured out
in an instant what I'd been struggling with for over a year.  I shrugged, a
little resentfully.

   "Your mother and your sisters, they're okay?" What she meant was were
they okay without Dad around to watch out for them.  "Yeah.  Uncle Charles
is a deputy prosecutor, and he keeps an eye on stuff.  They're okay." Mrs.
Landry was caring, as well as beautiful and perceptive.

   "Good." She hesitated, sensing my resentment.  "He did the right thing,
you know.  It probably was stupid, because it was futile.  But it was
right. You should be proud."

   She got that right too.  "I am proud of my Dad," I said, still
resentful.

   "Don't lose that pride.  He was a good man.  Try to be like him." She
smiled and touched my arm, and my arm was happy the rest of the day. 
************* *************

   The morning that the rumor went through the halls we all knew Ali Landry
was in a trouble.  The rumor was that Mrs.  Porteau, the gym teacher, had
gotten her notice.  Guys were ambivalent about it.  She was a bouncy, lush
blonde, and she really was slutty, even though she really was married. 
Nobody wanted her gone, but on the other hand, it would be a treat to see
her pretty ass get wacked.

   Anyway, that was only half the story.  The other half was that she'd
spent yesterday afternoon in Mr.  Walsh's office, and her notice had been
mysteriously cancelled.  Notices were never cancelled.

   What was even stranger was that Mr.  Porteau had been in the office too.
Had he banged his wife along with Walsh, or watched Walsh do it?  Or had
Walsh forced the poor guy to watch while his wife did what she needed to
get the notice cancelled, just to humiliate him?  I expect it was that
last, because later I saw Mrs.  Porteau with a guy in the parking lot
outside the cafeteria, and the guy looked pretty furious.  The guy left,
still mad; Mrs.  Porteau went back to the office and Walsh.

   Anyway, Ali apparently wasn't Walsh's favorite anymore.  Mrs.  Porteau
was.  If Ali wasn't out altogether, at least she had serious competition.
Walsh, the principal, was an asshole, really.  He wasn't just tough; he was
mean and inflexible.  The teachers wouldn't even send students to him for
discipline anymore, because of his what he did to them.

   Ali was in trouble, though, and I didn't see any of it coming.  Mr. 
Walsh pulled me out of my first class.  He had another senior in the hall,
Fred from the wrestling team.  "You gentlemen are excused from your classes
today.  I have a job for you; I expect you'll enjoy it."

   He held up one of those notices; you've seen them.  The name was Alicia
Margaret Landry.  "Mrs.  Landry is delinquent, gentlemen.  She is to be
executed and her carcass dressed immediately.  We're going to make a show
of it.  Come with me." Fred looked cowed and followed.  I was horrified. 
Ali, my not-lover friend, beautiful Ali.

   I held back.  "Mr.  Pendleton," Walsh said sharply, "Is there a
problem?"

   "What are we going to do?  I just- I like Mrs.  Landry, sir.  Couldn't
you find somebody else?"

   He scowled.  "Mrs.  Landry likes you, Jim.  That's why I chose you.  I
won't insist, if you don't want to participate." He never insisted.  He got
even.

   Delinquent women can be wacked any old way by anybody; the commission is
really strict about delinquency.  But the notice had been signed by Walsh's
brother, the senator, and I'll bet it had been signed in the last couple
days.  I thought about Ali with Fred and Mr.  Walsh, or worse, Mr.  Walsh
and one of the sadists on the football team.  Maybe I couldn't stop Walsh
but at least she'd have friend there.

   "She'll be naked, Jim" Walsh said with a leer.  "You can do most
anything you want to her."

   Not like that, it wasn't.  Well, she'd still need a friend.  "Okay," I
said warily.  "I'm coming."

   He led us grimly to her sophomore class.

   Fred was okay, just a jock and not too bright.  He was a no-neck
easy-going kid who just wanted to get laid, all muscle and testosterone. 
He shaved his black body, all of it.  We'd all seen in in the showers.  He
said it was for the girls, but he was sort of shy with women.  At least I
didn't think he was downright mean.  Some guys were.

   "You boys go up to the podium and tell Mrs.  Landry I wish to speak to
her here.  Wait in the front of the room."

   It was a little auditorim, a clamshell of tiered seats rising over a
small stage with a podium.  The class was about 300 kids, small for a
sophomore class.  I knew my little sister, Laura, had Mrs.  Landry this
year, but I wasn't sure if this was her class.

   The classroom was dark, but the darkness flickered with the movie screen
below, and the kids faces were all rapt.  Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen year
olds; for most of them, they'd seen this film before.  Ali was showing that
surreal popstab film, the one where six cute girls all get their notice on
the same day.  I know you've seen it.  It's the one where you follow each
of the girls through their last day.  There are two blondes, a really cute
black girl, a redhead with huge soft breasts, a slim Muslim girl, and a
brunette almost as beautiful and voluptuous as Mrs.  Landry.  They talk,
they make preparations, screw their boyfriends- one of them screws her dad
and two brothers- and then they cheerfully go to the processing plant and
get bled, wacked, gutted, all of that.  It's the one where the blonde with
the big, perfect boobs looks up from the chopping block and says, "Well,
'bye now," cheerfully, and then her head is gone and all you see is the axe
and her headless body behind it,

   rearing back, her big boobs snapping all around like they were still
alive.  It really is weird, because none of it is special effects.  All the
girls really get wacked, completely dead ass dead, and somehow all of them
seem to believe that getting butchered is the nicest noblest thing they
could ever do, and fun as a Sunday picnic, even if it does make them a
little nervous.

   The girls in class are forced to watch it, so they know what's coming.
Mostly, they guys like to watch it.  It's surreal, any way you look at it;
every class has to see it a couple times a year, starting in sixth grade.

   Ali Landry was at the side of the stage.  She saw me and Fred, and when
I pointed to Mr.  Walsh up there, she looked scared and angry and
determined all at the same time.  ************* *************

   "I wish you had a nicer boyfriend," I told her a little bitterly.

   She smiled.  Ali's whole face lit up when she smiled, and her mouth- I
wanted to kiss those full soft lips.  "You?" she asked.

   Walsh had just come into the library where we'd been talking and said he
wanted to see her in his office as soon as she was free.  That meant he was
going to fuck her, and he wasn't asking.  I was too annoyed to be
embarrassed.  "I couldn't protect you."

   She leaned close, her brown eyes warm.  "Then you understand my
relationship with Mr.  Walsh.  James, he's not my boyfriend." She kissed my
cheek, her lips warm.

   "He's cruel to you, isn't he?  Everybody says he makes you-"

   She put her fingers on my lips.  "Don't.  This is my choice.  You
shouldn't ask me about-" she sighed, relenting a bit.  "He doesn't damage
my body.  He doesn't do anything that won't heal without a scar."

   "I wish you had somebody else."

   She shook her head.  "I have to go.  James, whatever you do, don't be
like him.  These times are evil.  They won't last.  Keep yourself worthy of
gentler times." ************* *************

   Ali left the stage, brushed past me without so much as a nod (I wondered
if she was angry with me) and walked up the aisle to Walsh.  I sure didn't
plan to wack her, if that's what she thought.  If Fred thought he was, I'd
be on him like stink.  I didn't realize what Walsh had in mind; I though- I
hoped anyway- that we were there to take Ali out of the class and escort
her to a meat wagon or something.  It would give me a chance to help her
get away.

   Girls almost never got wacked in school, and if they did the kids who
did it were expelled- or at least suspended.  But nobody had ever heard of
a teacher getting wacked.  Me and Fred would escort her from the building,
and I was planning ways to help her escape somehow.  Canada had closed her
borders to immigrants last month, so the obvious place was out, but I was
sure she and I could think of something.

   Fred looked around nervously; he wasn't sure why we were there either.
He looked like he didn't want to be here at all.  I looked down the row of
faces glowing in the flicker of the film.  Third row back was Laura, my
sister.  It was ironic that I was the only guy who knew how sexy my sister
was.  She was sixteen, but Dad, when he was still alive, had jiggered her
records so she seemed three years younger than she actually was.  Even
wearing girdles and binding her chest was getting to be futile.  She had a
cute face and a buff, generous figure.  The only place she could show it
off was at home, and I was the only guy she could show it to, so I got an
eyeful of her.  She was a real heartbreaker, though how anybody could
believe she was only thirteen was beyond me.  I watched her now and then as
she watched the film; she made faces and comments to her friends through
most of the film, the talking and the sex.  When each girl got snuffed,
though, she watched the scene with an almost hyp notic intensity.

   "You will do no such thing!" rang out in the big room.  It was Ali,
angry and indignant.  Everybody heard.  Then, "goddamn you, Clyde, no!"
Then we could hear Walsh, his voice lower but softer.  I couldn't hear what
he said.  Ali started sobbing, though she sounded more angry than sad.

   "Oh, daddy," the tanned slim blonde on the screen said, "I've wanted to
share love with you for so long but society has made my deepest true
feelings taboo and forbidden.  Please let me satisfy your manhood." Then
then the girl went down on the guy; she was way better giving head than
delivering lines.  Some movie.

   Low fierce argument from Ali in back, but I only heard a few words. 
Somebody coughed in the darkness.  Daddy came in his daughter's mouth, and
she coughed, spewing up all over her chest.  Then Walsh was speaking; low,
calm, his words indistinct.  Nobody looked back to see what the two were
arguing about.  Nobody dared.

   Onscreen, they cut to the black girl, who was naked in front of an
altar; a priest (who knows what denomination) was happily blessing every
part of her body while she looks soulful.  She had a really fine ass, and
the priest blessed that all over the place, especially between and inside.

   "God, no!  Not like that!  Not here!  No!" That was Ali in the back.  I
got a chill down my back.  She wasn't angry anymore; she was pleading.

   The cut to the doe-eyed girl from India in the shower, shaving her pits
and pubes, fussing that she's going to look good when her throat is cut. 
The meat plants always cut the girls' throats.  Other places and people
improvise.  It's not always that polite.  The slim brown girl starts to
cry, then she discovers her little pointed nipples and her clit, and she
masturbates in the shower until she feels more cheerful about dying. 
Really.  That's how the film goes.  And they really get popped.

   "Goddamn you, Clyde," from Ali.  "Goddamn your soul." A pause, Walsh
speaking low, then "No.  I'll do it.  I'll ask.  He's my friend, Clyde!...
"No!  I'll ask.  I'll ask.  I don't want you involved."

   Ali came storming back down the aisle, heading straight for me.  Fred
stood back, cowed.  She took my hand and led me onto the stage.  She left
me at the side of the stage and stepped to the podium.

   On the screen, the black girl was blindfolded and pinned to the altar by
a handful of burly chanting acolytes, while the priest raged between her
thighs, fucking her for all its worth as he raised the holy axe (or
whatever it is.  sacred?  the axe of Christ?) over her quivering boobs. 
Then Ali was in front of the screen just as the axe fell and blood flew
everwhere.

   The movie stopped and some of the auditorium lights came up.

   "Everyone, may I have your attention?" Ali was nervous and scared.  She
already had everyone's attention after the stuff in the back of the room.
"I have a- a surprise for you.  It's a surprise to me too, it's so-" She
stopped and hugged herself, her chin quivering, then bit her lip and got
control.  "Instead of the usual film about the draw; how young women are
selected, how they are quickly and efficiently de-lifed, and how their
bodies are prepared for our meat-" She stopped again.  "Well, many of you
young women will come to serve in this manner, too.  It seems that I have
been selected, so instead of the movie, at Mr.  Walsh's insisten-" Walsh
frowned and shook his head in the aisle- "With Mr.  Walsh's kind
permission, these young men are going to help me demonstrate what will
happen when you receive your notice." Delifed; that was what Walsh insisted
it be called.  Delifed, like it was a disease or a bug.

   Ali swallowed hard and looked at the floor fiercely.  She clutched her
hands together to stop them from shaking.  Every one was completely silent,
watching her.  After a long, still moment, she raised her head.  "First,
I'm going to have sex with these lovely boys." She looked defiantly at Mr.
Walsh.  "I'm going to have sex with both of them.  I guess that really
isn't part of the program, but I only just learned that- I only just
learned.  After that, I'm going to describe to you the things they're going
to do to my body, both before I'm delifed, and after, when they dress my
carcass for meat.

   "I'm a little nervous," she said, and stopped.  "I'm not afraid, okay?
Ladies, it's going to be all right.  I want you to know that.  Of course
we'd all like to live forever, but there comes a time when each of us has
to give something up for the good of mankind and the planet."

   She bowed her head again, collecting herself.  She looked scared for a
bare moment, then she got it under control.  She gave me a quick, brilliant
smile, and turned to the room.  "James Pendleton has always been a friend
and a gentleman towards me.  I want James to kill me and gut me once I'm
dead.  My meat belongs to James, I want you all to witness that." She
glanced around at Fred.  "You will use me too, I'm certain, but I want
James to run things once I'm- once I can't do it myself."

   "Especially," she said, looking directly at me, "I want to make love to
James." She lowered her voice.  "James, I wish I'd been with you a long
time ago.  You've been sweet."

   She stepped back and started unbuttoning her blouse.  She fumbled one
button because her hands were shaking, then tore another one off.  I pushed
her hands aside and she gave me a grateful anxious look as I started on the
buttons.  "Touch me?" she asked softly.  "You've always wanted to. 
Please."

   "I can't kill you.  Ali, I can't do that." I pulled the front of her
blouse out of her skirt and got the last two buttons.  A flash of brown,
tight belly and the deep almond of her navel.

   "If you don't, Walsh will.  You know what he'll do.  You know."

   I opened her blouse and pushed it off one shoulder, fascinated with the
look and feel of her.  Her brown shoulder, the fullness swelling around her
bra cups, her ribs and the oval of her stomach.  I touched her stomach and
her shoulder, then pressed the bra cups, feeling resilient flesh and the
firmness of generous nipples growing rigid.  Ali swayed, eyes closed,
relishing my touch, leaning into me.  It was like we were alone, almost.

   How could I kill her?  I bared the other shoulder and pushed the blouse
off of her arms.  She looked at me uncertainly, her eyes perhaps seeking
approval.  She straightened her shoulders, then, her breasts rose subtly,
and I reached around behind her to unfasten her little white bra.  She put
her arms around me, moaning.  "James, I've wanted you so much.  We should
have done this a long time ago.  I want you."

   "In front of everyone?" I asked, pulling back so I could look into her
face, stroke the hair back from her temples.'

   "Do you care?" she smiled.  I undid her bra and it fell off her arms. 
Her breasts were lovely; big and generous, swooping down and then out, her
big, bulbous nipples tilted out and up, swollen with eagerness.  I took off
her skirt; her panties were tiny and white and she hooked them down with
her thumbs while I explored the silky loaves of her buttocks.  The cleft of
her sex was deep, glistening, and her vulva was baby-smooth.  She rubbed
against me, kissed me, and worked on my clothes.

   The auditorium had fallen silent.  Fred had backed away, unsure of
himself, maybe intimidated by Ali's beauty, or weirded out by Walsh.  I
don't know.  All I know is that it was Ali and I.  All the kids watching
didn't matter.  She knelt and took off my shoes and socks; then my jeans
and short in a single skillful tug.  She had her hands on my cock before I
could step out of my clothes, and then she was kissing it, and then I felt
the hot silk of her throat as she pressed her face down on me.  A groan
escaped from me, and for an instant, I saw my sister's face in the third
row, her lips parted, head tilted forward as if she, too, was taking me in
her throat.  Everyone was watching, rapt, silent.

   Ali's eyes sparkled as she pulled off of me, stood, and leaned over the
podium, presenting her exquisite behind to me.  She smiled over her
shoulder at me, beckoning, and I stepped up to the task.

   If her throat was wonderful, her cunt was heaven; tight, hot, lively. 
She drew my hands to her breasts and I kneaded them as I thrust into her.
I'd waited for this moment so long, I knew I wouldn't last very long.

   Ali, perhaps, had waited longer.  She began to come, quietly and
fiercely, again and again, fingering herself and lunging back to meet my
thrusts.  I didn't last very long, but I lasted longer than I thought I
might.  When I finally started, bucking into her urgently, Ali laughed out
loud and urged herself back on my cock so aggressively it almost hurt.  "I
can feel it!" she cried.  "I can feel you come."

   And then we were both finished, gasping, and three hundred kids watched
us hang together, glistening with sweat and sobbing for breath.

   We were both winded, but once we recovered breath and presence, I let my
cock fall out of her.  Ali straightened, gleaming with sweat but radiant.
"You can't imagine how wonderful that was.  Every woman should be loved
like that once in her life, at least once." She was half-speaking to me,
and half to the kids.

   I felt a little strange, standing naked in front of a sophomore class,
but it was worth it to make love to Ali.  Now, how were we going to escape?

   Ali took several deep breaths, her breasts heaving with each one; she
seemed to relish the looks boys gave her.  "Now.  James is going to tie my
wrist and suspend me from them so that when I'm delifed he can dress my
carcass easier.  While my hands are free, let me talk a moment about
critical arteries.  You've seen the films, and boys, you've studied
boucherie in home skills.  Everyone knows that cutting the throat, or the
wrists, will sever critical arteries.  Those are obvious and simple. 
Today, James is going to sever my femoral arteries, and then proceed from
there.  Can anyone tell me where those arteries are?"

   Fred, the creep, had fetched the cart with all the butcher implements,
tools and knives and saws.  He wheeled them up to the gloriously naked Ali
and stood for a moment, hopeful he'd get his piece of ass.  Ali ignored
him, and after a moment, he backed off, his face dark.  Who knows what he
was thinking; Fred was a bit odd.  Still talking to the kids Ali went to
the cart and selected a knife, a heavy butcher knife.  Explaining to them
why she'd chosen that one, she tested the edge on her thumb.  She was
talking about boucherie class stuff, and I watched her naked body, her
movements, without really listening to her.  She laid the knife across her
throat; carotids, here and here.

   "And by the way," Ali said, lifting her breasts and tweaking already
swollen nipples.  "For all you boys who wanted to touch them, these are all
mine.  There are no saline or silicon sacs to spoil my meat." She lifted
them again, ran her hands down her ribs and belly, then cupped her sex,
running a finger in and then out.  The finger glistened with my seed, and
Ali's eyes sparkled with defiance.

   I watched her, watched her body.  I studied the crease where her thigh
met her buttock.  the sleek graceful motion of her flanks.  I barely heard
her; she raised one arm, pointing out an artery in her upper arm, and I
watched the spot where her breasts met her ribs, and the curve from her
pectoral to her breast.  I spaced, horrified, fascinated, aroused.

   Maybe it was that I was past puberty when popstab came along.  I mean
before all that, Mom was Mom and that was it.  She was really pretty.  Dad
loved the hell out of her.  Laura was a cute little twerp who'd become a
cheerleader and marry some big dumb jock and pop out babies.  Everybody was
okay, more or less.

   Then popstab became law; a year later, dad was dead.  There was a flurry
of women being killed and butchered in the neighborhood, and Mom got scared
to go out too much.  Laura went out with her chest bound up, and went
around the house in bra and panties, and sometimes less, and Mom never said
much when Laura curled up half-naked with me on the couch or my bed.

   Popstab changed everything.  Just last week I saw Henry Docent cutting
up his pretty wife on his patio a couple houses down.  He'd kiss something,
a boob or an arm, then saw it off, crying the whole time.  He didn't know
what he was doing and ruined a lot of her meat, but the point is that stuff
didn't happen when I was a kid, and a lot of times it didn't make sense, at
least not to me.

   That morning I'd been in algebra daydreaming about Ali.  Now, I was buck
naked in front of three hundred kids, my cock slick from her, and she was
talking to them about how, when she was freshly delifed, I had to cut
arteries here and here, and massage the blood out of her muscles so her
meat would be firm.

   Delifed.  I hated that word.  But Ali was making a strange kind of sex
show out of it, out of defiance, and out of- I don't know- some kind of
erotic fatalism.  Like, she was a sensual woman and all this time she'd had
to sit on it to survive.  Now it didn't matter and she relished the heat
she provoked, the hot looks of the boys in the class; they all wanted her
and she liked it.  I think she really did.

   I was getting hard again too.  I watched the back of her thighs as she
moved, her sleek, hard buttocks with the tightest jiggle; the lean waist
and the gentle angles of her shoulder blades.  She ran a finger down her
belly, talking about field dressing her body, and I imagined that flat
belly swelling with my child.  I imagine her and me on some quiet beach,
making love.  I imagined all that and more, and I couldn't quite imagine
how it was going to happen.

   "Girls," Ali was saying, "When a women is bled, its not as bad as you
might think.  It hurts when the arteries are cut, a deep, sharp pain, but
the bleeding is nearly painless..." Her outer labia were smooth, plump,
tight against her pelvis; in the deep cleft, her inner labia were flushed
pink, swelling out and peeking at me, asking to be penetrated again.  "In a
couple minutes, your heart stops.  That hurts even worse; I'm sure you'll
see it on my face.  It doesn't last long.  You make your way through it. 
You can, you know.  Then there is peace."

   Peace.  I stopped listening; I wanted her again.  I could imagine her
voluptuous body pressed to mine, and I could imagine her writhing against
me as death took her.  That was erotic as well, and my cock rose high,
betraying my love for her.

   "...ready," Ali was saying, then she turned to me.  "James, are you
ready?"

   She laid the knife she'd been wielding across her hands and offered it
to me, an almost ritualistic gesture.  I shook my head.

   "Please," she murmured softly.  "I'm ready to die.  I don't want to be
tortured."

   "I'm not ready to kill you.  I can't.  Ali, not now."

   "James," she pleaded, her voice going throaty and desperate.  "There is
no choice.  You or him, that's the choice.  Please.  You.  Please.  You
know what he'll do to me and you'll have to watch.  He'll make you watch."

   That was when the ache started bad.  I ached for her; I ached for
wanting her.  I felt it in my heart and my throat and in my cock; I ached
for her.

   "He'll torture me.  He'll relish it, and he'll make you watch.  He wants
to hurt you.  Do this.  Do it and be done.  Please."

   She offered me the knife again.  I took it.

   Ali turned to the students.  "If this was a processing plant, I'd be
hung from my wrists to facilitate dressing my carcass." Ali looked up. 
There were dozen of ropes, looped through sheaves above us.  They were used
for stage props, and increasingly, they were used to suspend the girls for
demonstrations in the boucherie classes.  Ali selected a rope and brought
it over.

   "Mr Walsh, this isn't fair!" a girl cried out near the podium.  It was
Mandy Lieberman, fifteen, and beach-bunny blonde.  She had stood up and
faced the back of the auditorium.  "Everybody knows what's going on.  Mrs.
Landry has been screwing you so she wouldn't be selected.  Now you're tired
of her.  Now you want to murder her.  That's all you are, just a damn
murderer."

   "Mandy, sit down right now," Ali said firmly, then went to the
microphone.  "Mandy, sit down!" rang through the big room.

   Walsh came down the aisle to Mandy.  "You're a murderer That's all you
are," Mandy said hotly.  "I'm not afraid of you.  What are you going to do,
murder me?"

   Walsh grabbed her arm and pulled her out into the aisle.  "Your name,
Miss?" He undid his tie and started taking it off.  He was flushed.

   "Mandy.  Mandy Lieberman." She raised her chin defiantly.

   "Well, Mandy Lieberman, we don't call it murder anymore." He had
something in one hand; he brought it hard against the side of her head and
Mandy gave a squeak and collapsed in the aisle.  Walsh slung his tie around
her neck and dragged her down to the stage by her neck.  Mandy roused
halfway there and struggled to gain her feet, but he moved too quickly for
her.  The side of her head was bleeding, staining her silvery blonde hair
and her blouse.  He dropped her momentarily on the stage and grappled one
of the ropes from the ceiling.

   Mandy tried to ward him off, dazed, coughing and bleeding; it was
futile. It only took him a moment to tie her wrists and pull the other end
of the rope to lift her off the ground.  When she was a six inches off the
floor, he tied the rope off, leaving Mandy, coughing, gasping and
frightened, hanging by her wrists.

   Walsh tried to grab the knife I held; I wouldn't let him have it.  He
grabbed another from the cart.  There were gasps and soft wails from the
kids as he slashed Mandy's clothes off, all of them.  She was slim, tanned,
and there was a diamond-stud bar through one pointed nipple.

   Mandy roused, kicked at him, spit.  He pulled the ring away from her and
slashed her nipple off.  Mandy screamed hoarsely when he started gutting
her with a slow, maniacal deliberation.  I looked away.  Ali was watching
him fiercely.  Mandy screamed again, shrill.  I could see Mandy's agony in
Ali's face.

   "James," Ali murmured to me, "He has a gun, a pistol in his jacket
pocket.  Can you get it for me?  He'll see me if I move."

   "You're going to shoot him?"

   She nodded fiercely.

   "That won't save you.  You'll still be killed."

   "I know."

   I looked.  Walsh was oblivious to everything but Mandy.  Loops of
intestine hung from her trim belly, and he'd split both breasts open,
ribcage to nipple.  Mandy was still alive.  Two steps brought me behind
him. He didn't even feel me take the pistol.  It was slick with Mandy's
blood; that was what he'd hit her with.

   Ali didn't hesitate when I gave her the pistol.  She stepped up to Mandy
and shot her in the ear.  Mandy gave a aqueak and sagged so abruptly she
looked like a string-cut puppet.

   Then Ali shot Walsh in the belly.  He looked down, shocked, then roared
with pain and slashed at her with his knife.  She backed a step and shot
him again, in the thigh.  His leg buckled and he cursed.  She shot him in
the other thigh and he slipped forward onto the floor.  She shot him in the
ass and he flipped over, trying to scoot away from her, his eyes glazed
with fear.  She came up beside him and shot him in the groin.  His hips
bounced and he grunted.  The next several rounds went into his groin,
pulverizing his cock and balls.  He jerked and wrihed with each one, at
least at first.  As she emptied the pistol into his pelvis, he moved less
and less.  The front of his trousers was a mass of blood and pulp.  Then
the pistol slide clacked open; no more bullets.  *************
*************

   "James, you're going to become a good man.  These are evil times, but
it's something we've brought on ourselves.  We can only bear it, and hope
to forestall a far greater evil."

   "What do you mean, Mrs.  Landry?" That was my sophomore year; I was
sixteen and not very sophisticated.  I sort of knew what she meant, but it
made me uneasy.

   She smiled softly.  "I mean remember your father and what he did with
pride.  Try to be like him.  The times will change, and when they do, men
like your father- men like you- will need to guide us."

   It scared me to say it, but I was impulsive.  "Are they going to kill
you, Mrs.  Landry?"

   She gave me a searching look with those brown eyes that made me dizzy,
she was so beautiful.  "Yes.  Yes, I suppose.  Not yet, though." Then she
shook her head.  "Let's not talk about that, though.  What I'm telling you
is important.  You need to carry on your father's legacy.  You have, too.
I'm proud of you.  If I had a daughter, I'd want her to marry a man like
you."

   "If you had a daughter, Mrs.  Landry, I'd want to be the father."

   She laughed out loud, with that wonderful throaty laugh of hers.  Then
she leaned close.  "Dear James," she said.  She dropped her eyes.  "I do
like you.  I want to ask something of you, but you have to understand, I
can never be your lover.  Never.  I won't even encourage you to flirt. 
This is very important to me.  Will you respect me in that?"

   "Do I have a choice?"

   She laughed again.  "If you think like that, then you already respect
me. Will you come to my place tonight?  Even knowing I can only be your
friend?"

   "That doesn't sound easy, Mrs.  Landry.  Honestly, it doesn't."

   "Am I really that pretty?" she laughed.  "All right.  Then try to be a
gentleman, and don't stop trying even when you slip.  Can you manage that?
I'm not trying to tease you or offer you an opportunity.  I do like you,
but that other thing just isn't going to happen.  I'd like a friend.  I
don't have many."

   "Yeah, okay.  I like you back," I said.  "I'd like to see you."

   She wrote her address on a scrap of paper.  "And when you're certain
we're alone- absolutely certain- you can call me Ali, short for Alicia."
************* *************

   The auditorium had fallen silent.  Ali took a deep, satisfied breath,
stepped forward to the podium, drew herself up naked and proud, and put the
pistol to her head.  She'd emptied it into Walsh, though, and the breech
was open.  It didn't even click.  She frowned at it, then tossed it away.
Then she straightened her shoulders and looked out on the crowd of kids.

   "You all saw what happened here.  That means I have to die.  James will
do it, and we'll go ahead with the program." She hesitated.  "I don't want
to die, you know.  None of us do.  But there are times when good people can
recognize the necessity of an evil without liking it.  Our planet is dying.
This is true.  For every hundred people here, ninety-eight of them are
excess; they're using resources, poisoning the soil, crippling what little
ecosystem is left.  We are desperate to reduce our population, and this is
how humanity has chosen to do it.  There are a hundred sixty-two girls in
this class.  One less, now-" she smiled grimly- "And of those, three will
live to bear children.  Only three.  The nonsense in the film is only
intended to resign you to your death, not to inform you or indoctrinate
you. You know that.  It's stupid.  But there is a greater good, too.  There
are far too many people.  If we don't do this, everyone dies.  Everyone. 
What I'm saying is that when you are called to your death, accept it.  Rise
to it.  Embrace it with dignity.  If you can accept your personal death,
there's a chance others can live."

   She paused, looking at the frightened faces of the girls.  "I'm going to
show you how to do it." She looked at me, fierce and proud.  "You have to
kill me now.  You know that, don't you?"

   I nodded.  I knew it.  I knew it and I ached for her, I ached for
wanting her.  "Are you going to go on with your description of how I'm
going to dress your carcass?"

   She laughed.  She had killed a man; a dead girl hung half-gutted ten
feet from us; she was about to be snuffed by a kid who was in love with
her. She laughed.  "You're hard again," she said.

   She slipped to her knees and sucked me down her throat with one velvet
motion, staying there, her nose in my pelvis, for three heartbeats.  She
pulled back, kissed my glans, and stood.  "We should hurry.  The police
will be here soon." She pulled the rope across from the scaffold above us,
then offered me the rope and her wrist.  "Bleed me first.  Do it right."

   I still had the knife.  She smiled and held it for me between her hands
while I tied her wrists and raised her off the ground, only a few feet from
Mandy.

   I had raised her to where her breasts were eyelevel, and I couldn't
resist nuzzling them, grappling with the sweet flesh, pressing them to my
cheeks and licking her rigid nipples.  She sighed and squirmed and when I
finally released them, she offered me the knife from the bound hands above
her head.

   "Femoral arteries, right?  Are you ready?" I asked, my heart starting to
pound.

   She looked at me tenderly.  "James," she said softly, "You're hard. 
After you cut me, will you put that in me?  Hold me while I go.  Will you
do that?"

   "Sure.  Of course I will." I had to lower her a little so her cunt was
cock level, and that took a minute.

   She took a deep breath when I brought the knife up.  "I'm not sure I'm
going to get this right," I said.

   "Right there," she said when I brought the knife up to the inside of her
thigh.  "Cut deep.  It'll bleed a lot when you find the artery."

   "Miss Landry-"

   "Ali, James.  Jesus Christ, Ali.  Please hurry.  I'm certain the police
are already on the way.  Use me.  Don't waste me.  Make me a part of you."

   It was a big, crude butcher knife, and my hand shook.  I pressed it into
flesh that dimpled deeply, then gave way, and a gout of blood burst out,
running down her thigh.  I lifted the knife.

   "James, no.  Not yet.  Deeper.  Cut deeper.  The artery."

   I felt stupid.  Artery.  Right.  I fumbled her blood slick thigh a
moment, steadied the blade, then almost jerked back when Ali heaved herself
forward.  The blade stabbed into her a couple inches and she cried out. 
Blood exploded over my chest.  "Ali, shit," I sobbed.  I stabbed blindly at
her other thigh, the femoral, I knew where it was.  I was supposed to know.
The second stab hit the artery and even more blood gouted, though not as
much as the first artery.

   Ali was looking down when I did all that; she looked up at me.  "James?"

   I lifted my bloody cock into her; she wrapped her blood-slick thighs
around my waist and locked her ankles.  I could feel all of it; the blood
welling from her body; her buttocks tightening and relaxing; the quiver of
her vagina as I worked in and out in short, quick strokes; the slap of her
wet belly; and her breasts, swaying and heaving against me.  The first time
had been wonderful, but the second time was ferocious, violent, desperately
fiercely ecstatic.  More than anything the pleasure orbited the complete
certainty that this beautiful, wonderful woman was dying as we coupled.

   Ali stiffened; every part of her stiffened, belly, back, buttocks and
legs; even her vulva tightened and quivered around my buried cock, and I
grunted and thrust, coming.  She gave a harsh, throaty shout, and then her
ankles unlocked and her legs dropped from me.  "James-" she whispered as
her head fell forward on my shoulder.  I was still pumping into her, but
her response was random.  I grabbed her blood-slick thighs and heaved one
last time into her, hating what I'd done and savoring the terrible
pleasure. Ali was gone.

   I stepped back from her; I had come violently when I felt her death
throes, but I was still hard, and Ali, other than being pale, almost looked
alive.  I'd been oblivious to the kids behind me when all this had gone on.
I looked over my shoulder; everyone was silent, watching.  A lot of the
guys had eyes dark with envy and lust; many of the girls had eyes bright
with fear and tears and, surprising to me, a kind of lust as well.

   I ignored them and turned back to Ali, stroking her arms, down her
armpits to her breasts, still warm and firm.  The police were on their way,
she said.  She didn't want them to take her alive; was there a chance she
still lived?  That would mean- I didn't even think about it.  I took a
sharp, thin-bladed boning knife from the cart and started at the delicate
plump cleft of her vulva, cutting her tight tanned skin upward, careful not
to go too deep.  When the opening in her belly was big enough, I slipped a
hand inside her and pressed her intestines away from her belly so I could
cut more quickly.  I cut as high as her breastbone, then grabbed a loop of
intestine and pulled if free.  It didn't take five minutes to have her
tripas in loops on the floor, her body cavity open.  I cut into her throat,
holding her esophagus pinched inside her chest so as not to ruin her meat;
a couple of arteries and veins and her stomach came loose and went to the
floor.  Likewise her bladder; I left he r vagina and carved her anus away,
and that was good enough.  Her waist looked too small, and there was a gap
in her belly, so dark it almost looked like a mark on her skin.  Other than
that she almost looked whole.  Her left buttock quivered, then stopped. 
She didn't have to worry about being alive.

   I dumped her tripas over Mr.  Walsh, and kicked him.  The kids out there
had started milling around and stuff, talking and sobbing; when I kicked
Walsh, somebody, a cop coming down the aisle, shouted angrily, but I didn't
much care.  I returned to Ali, cutting arteries in her ankles, wrists and
other places, and went to work stroking her body, her arms and legs,
working the blood out of her meat that her heart hadn't pumped out.

   I dressed there in front of the podium.  My beautiful Ali weighed about
ninety pounds by the time I finished.  I wrapped her carcass in butcher
paper and lowered her across my shoulder.  It would have weighed less, but
I didn't want to hurt her breasts or her beauty, at least not there in
front of everybody.  It would be hard enough to do it at home.

   Ninety pounds.  It was a little awkward, but I could carry her.  I
adjusted her weight on my shoulder, the butcher paper crackling, and walked
off the stage, right past the cops.  The cops fussed over Walsh and barely
noticed poor Mandy.  Nobody stopped me as I walked through the halls to my
locker, but I hadn't really thought it out.  For all they knew, I was a
delivery guy carrying meat to the cafeteria.  I got my books without
putting Ali's body down.  It would be tough to get her home along with my
books on my bicycle.

   I didn't need to.  Mom had actually gotten the van out of the garage and
driven to school.  Laura was sitting in the front seat sobbing when I came
out with Ali over my shoulder.  "Laura called me, James," Mom said.  "She
told me everything."

   I sat Ali's body up in the back seat and went to get my bike.  I put
that in the back of the van.  As I came around to get in myself, Laura
jumped out and ran to me, hugging me fiercely and sobbing freshly.  "Fred
killed Mrs.  Porteau and then three other girls were killed in the
cafeteria.  I'm sorry, James," she whimpered.  "I'm so sorry."

   "It's okay, kiddo," I said, holding her for a minute.  "Wasn't you. 
It's okay.  Let's go home."

   It wasn't okay, though.  Ali was gone.  Everything had gone bad and for
no reason I could see.  None of us said a word all the way home, and I
didn't even go inside.  I opened up the garage and started getting thing
set up to butcher Ali's body.  I laid her paper-wrapped body in the drive
so she wouldn't bleed or ooze anything in the van, then focused on what I
needed, trying not to feel anything.  A rope to tie her to the rafters. 
The bandsaw, for cutting bones and steaks and stuff.  Knives from the
kitchen.  I just thought about what I needed to do and pretended I didn't
feel the ache.  ************* *************

   It was a Friday evening when I rode my bike over to Ali's apartment. 
She had an actual apartment, not just a cozy or a rented coffin.  It was a
couple rooms in an old house, but it was all hers.  I guess that was
another perk for being with Mr.  Walsh.

   It was dark when I got there, and there was an odd shape laid across the
door.  When I got closer, I saw it was Ali.  She was curled fetal against
the door, a jacket over her shoulders.  At first I thought she was dead; I
thought somebody had popped her as she was going in.  But that didn't make
sense, because guys that did that always took the meat, especially pretty
meat like her.  I dropped my bike and ran over to her.  I touched her
shoulder, and her head rolled back, her eyes open.  Dead, I thought.  Dead.
Then she stirred and looked at me.

   "James," she said, then smiled weakly.

   "Are you okay?  Can you move?  What hurts?" I was suddenly terrified
that she was dying, that I had only come in her last moments.

   "Okay," she said, then, "I'm okay.  I hurt.  Resting."

   I got her door open, picked her up gently and carried her into her sofa.
The front of her blouse was bright with blood.  Her mouth was swollen.  Her
thighs were crusted and damp; more blood.  She sighed when I set her down
and closed her eyes.

   I wasn't sure what to do at first.  Get her a blanket?  Get her help? 
Women didn't rate hospitals anymore, but there were lots of people who
helped with medical stuff anyway.  Would she last?  All the blood on her
white blouse scared me.  I started unbuttoning it gently, and opened it to
her shoulders.  Her breast were bare, bruised, but all the blood came from
her left nipple.  It had been chewed and torn and it bled freely as I
watched.  I got a towel in the kitchen and wiped at her torn breast, and
Ali's eyes came open and she watched me tenderly.  "Ali?" I whispered. 
"How bad is it?  Did you get stabbed there?  Is it deep?"

   Ali swallowed.  "Teeth.  He used his teeth.  I'm okay.  Thirsty."

   I jumped up and got a glass of water, and, because they were already
there next to the sink, a bottle of aspirin.  Ali took both.

   "Nothing is broken.  Nothing really bad.  I just hurt.  Tired." She held
the glass out.  "More?"

   I got more and she drank.  "What can I do?  How can I help?"

   She seemed a little more alert.  "A bath?  I need a bath."

   "Are you sure?"

   She nodded.  I drew her a bath, hot, and went back to her.  She was
trying to sit up.  I helped her, then made her sit back.  "It's okay.  Let
me," I said.  She did; I undressed her as gently as I could.  She only had
a blouse and skirt, though, and only one shoe.  Her belly and the cleft of
her buttocks and sex were all bloody.  Every part of her bore bruises and
scratches.

   She smiled at me.  "You always wanted to get me out of my clothes," she
said, and winced when I picked her up.  I let her soak in the hot water and
that seemed to relax her.  After a time, I started washing her, gently. 
Her nipple wasn't as bad as it had looked, once I got the blood washed
away. It was bruised and torn, but that was mostly superficial.  Her body
was bruised and raw, but I still thought she was beautiful.  I washed every
part of her except her sex; she wouldn't let me, but she did wash herself
there, touching gingerly.

   When the water began to cool, she rose herself; I guess she was feeling
better.  But she leaned against me when I struggled her robe on, and sat
quietly when I cleaned and bandaged her breast at her kitchette table. 
When I got her sofa-bed unfolded and her laid out under covers, she reached
for me.

   "James, thank you.  You should go.  If Clyde finds you here there will
be trouble."

   "To hell with him," I said, suddenly angry.  "I'll kill Walsh."

   "He didn't do this.  It was his brother.  The senator."

   "I'll kill him too."

   "You've done so much for me already.  Don't spoil it.  Please?  The last
thing I want is for you to leave, but I'm asking you to leave."

   "I don't want to leave you.  You've been hurt."

   "It wasn't so bad this time.  Please?  Don't make me worry about you
too."

   "Ali-"

   "Please.  Please."

   I left finally, though it felt all wrong.  Ali was back in school
Monday, walking stiffly, pale and drawn but still proud.  *************
*************

   It was dusk when Mom came out to help butcher the meat.  It was a
surprise; not that she was helping but how she was dressed.  Mom always
wore frumpy baggy clothes, and she didn't wash her hair much.  It was for
her protection; she didn't want to look too pretty.  When she came out to
help, she was wearing little loose shorts and a cropped t-shirt.  I bet
both of them belonged to Laura.  She'd washed her hair and laced it into a
neat, precise braid down the middle of her back.  She hadn't even worn a
bra.  Her breasts weren't as big as Ali's, but they were pretty nice, and
her nipples stood up against her little t-shirt like a couple of really big
strawberries.

   I was so used to seeing Mom as a kind of soft frump that I never
realised how pretty and sexy she was.  I guess I sort of transferred my
ache for Ali into longing, or lust or something.  Seeing Mom in skimpy
stuff just made the longing worse.  I wanted Ali fiercely, and now Mom,
god. Everything was screwy.

   "Do you want me to help?" she asked.  I was working on one of Ali's
legs, skinning it, then slicing steaks off, starting at her upper thigh. 
Her torso and her head were still in one piece, laying on the bench.

   "Sure.  You can wrap the steaks and stuff in butcher paper.  Or you can
start on the rest of her if you want." Mom went to Ali's torso, touched her
mouth, then a pressed a breast, then, lingering, touched her sex.  It's
hard to describe my feelings; they were all twisty and achy.  Mom put a
finger inside Ali's cunt, and drew it out, slick with my seed.  I wanted to
cry, I wanted to fuck Ali, even if she was dead; I wanted Ali back, and I
wanted to throw Mom down and fuck her surprisingly pretty ass.  I wanted to
cry.

   Mom's lips quivered; she wasn't unaffected either.  But she picked up a
flensing knife and went to work, peeling the skin off Ali's belly, working
delicately, as if she was making love to Ali.  She parted the skin between
Ali's breasts and I went back to cutting steaks.

   We worked for a little more than an hour, through dusk into a warm
sleepy night.  Everytime I glanced at Mom, my eyes went to her breasts, or
her flat, bare tummy, or her legs, a little pale but shapely.  A couple
times she saw me looking at her body, and she looked away pointedly, almost
as if she wanted me to- well, maybe I was imagining it.  I ached for what
I'd had with Ali before I killed her.  And Mom was- well, she was Mom.  Did
she realize I was imagining what it would be like to take her?  I didn't
know.  I helped her take Ali's head off, and bagged it for the popstab
bounty (You had to turn the head in; besides, there was a bounty because
she had murdered Walsh) and between the two of us, we had all the meat cut,
trimmed and wrapped in just a few more minutes.  I got the garden hose and
washed stuff down as Mom put the last of the wrapped meat in the freezer in
the garage.

   Finished, I sat down on the back porch steps.  We had a garage; we had a
yard; we had a porch.  We were awfully well off, really.  Most Americans
only had an eight hour slot on a sleeping space in an apartment that dozens
of people rented in shifts.  It was weird to think that there was a time
when most everybody owned a house, or had an apartment all to themselves.
It seemed piggish, what we had compared to other folks, but it's true just
the same.  I sat on the steps.  Mom used the garden hose to wash herself
off a little, and of course that meant the t-shirt was wet and clinging to
her breasts when she sat on the step below me.  I could see the little
bumps on her strawberry nipples and the way they bulged out against the
knit cotton, coarse, dark, big as hen's eggs.

   "Do you think I'm attractive?" Mom asked, catching me looking at her
again.

   I shrugged.  "Yeah."

   She frowned.  I don't mean, sure, Mom.  I mean if I wasn't your Mom-"

   "What are you saying?" I asked.

   She shook her head and turned away.  "Nothing." She leaned against my
knee, and that felt nice.  I could see her breasts past her shoulders, the
blunt peaks of her nipples dark against wet fabric.  "She loved you, you
know," she said softly.

   "She was a friend, I guess." Under the porch a lone cricket starting
churring on the warm evening air.

   Mom shook her head.  "She loved you.  She wasn't so much older than you.
She was brave.  She wanted to live; she wanted to prevent this happening.
She loved you."

   "Thanks for thinking that, Mom." I ached, and that ache felt more and
more like simple lust.  Being inside Ali, feeling her thrust and twitch,
feeling her blood welling down my thighs; all of that had been such a
fierce, dark pleasure.  I wanted to make love to Ali again, but did I want
her?  Or did I want that same shameful pleasure?

   "You've never seen a squirrel, have you?" Mom said.  "That was before
you were born."

   "What's a squirrel?"

   "Little furry things with big tails.  They're extinct.  Twenty years
ago, someone created a virus that was supposed to kill rats."

   "Rats I know," I said.

   "Yeah.  It didn't work.  Except on squirrels.  We used to have squirrels
in the trees in our yard." Mom shook her head.  "We used to have trees."
She sounded sad.  I squeezed her shoulder and left it there, and neither
one of us said anything for a time.

   "Ali came by here this morning," Mom said.  "She was looking for you. 
You had already left.  I told her you had already left."

   "What did she want?"

   "You don't know?  You must know.  She loved you.  She wanted you to know
that before she died.  She knew she was going to die.  She knew it was
over." Mom sighed and swallowed hard.  "I wasn't going to tell you that,
but I thought it might help."

   "Sure," I said, bitterly.  "It helps."

   "It's all wrong, isn't it?" Mom looked up at me, something altogether
feminine and submissive in her blue eyes.  "Every thing is wrong, and
there's no way around it.  The only way to find our way back to hope and
promise is to embrace the wrong, to do it all, and it's still wrong."

   "Ali said something like that.  'Good people embracing a necessary evil.
Something like that."

   Mom nodded, then shivered and put her arm around my leg, laying her head
on my knee.  "Laura and I talked a little, earlier.  Before I came out to
help."

   "She's okay?"

   "As okay as any of us I suppose." Mom licked her lips and looked back at
me, her gaze hot and fearful and submissive.  "I want to ask something of
you, James." She stopped and shivered again.  "I want- well, Laura and I
both- we want, when we get our notices." She stopped and gave a little
hiccup of a sob.  "When we get our notices, we want you to do it." Her
voice lowered.  "We want you to do what you did to Ali."

   I shook my head, a pained denial.  "Mom, me?  That's a bad way to go. 
It takes a long time and it hurts.  I know.  I felt her."

   "It's a lot to ask.  I know that.  How doesn't matter.  But a stranger
on a processing line.  That would be too frightening.  That's not the
important part." She stopped, her voice catching.

   "Mom?  Come on.  Don't frighten yourself." I squeezed her shoulder, and
she grabbed my hand almost convulsively and pulled it to her breast and
held it there.

   "Make love to me.  I want you so much.  Before you kill me.  And Laura.
We both want that.  Laura's never been with a man, so you should be gentle
with her.  Then kill us.  Do Laura first; I don't want her to have to watch
me, or hear me.  Love us.  Then kill us.  Will you do that?"

   I shook my head angrily.  "Mom, we don't have to talk about this.  You
don't have to think about this stuff.  Maybe you two will be okay." I tried
to get my hand back, but she held my fingers fiercely, pushing them into
her firm mound.  I could feel her nipple, swollen rubbery.

   "Now.  Promise now.  Please." I got my hand back.  Mom groaned, and slid
her hand up my leg, pressing her fingers to the bulge in my jeans.  "James,
don't you understand?"

   "Understand what?" Her hand was on my cock, pressing.  I ached for this.
I wanted her, almost as much as I wanted Ali.

   "Senator Walsh.  He's worse than his brother.  He takes pretty young
girls to the country, strips them naked and hunts them with bow and arrow.
Senator Walsh, whose brother was killed today.  The same senator who signed
Ali's notice.  Don't you understand?"

   "No," I said, "No, I don't." She was stroking my cock, a little, and
with her other hand she started working my zipper.  I leaned back on my
elbows.  Whatever I didn't understand, I was too hungry to stop her.

   "How long till he finds out the details?  How long til he blames you for
his brother's death?  How long?  A day?  Two days?  Then he'll come after
you the easiest way he knows.  Laura and me.  Me and Laura."

   I shook my head, horrified, even as I lifted my hips.  Mom had gotten my
fly open and needed my cooperation to get my jeans down.  She went across
my lap and took the head of my cock in her mouth.  Then she leaned forward
and made a soft gagging sound, and I felt the silky pressure of her throat
as she went all the way down on me.

   She held me in her throat for a moment, then came back up.  She coughed.
"Promise me.  A day, two at most.  Promise." She licked, and went down on
me again.  I ached, but I still grabbed her upper arms and pulled her off,
pushing her away.

   She coughed again, wiped her lips, giving me a hot look.  Then she took
a deep breath and half-smiled.  "A day, two at most.  Laura is up in your
bed, waiting for you.  Promise me?  Please, this is too important."

   I ached.  It was really all too much.  Was she right?  I expected she
was.  "If you get your notice, okay?  If you do.  I'll do what you want."
She was right, though.  We both knew it.

   Mom shook her head and gave me a rueful smile.  "I got impatient.  We'll
get the notices.  Go upstairs.  Make love to Laura.  She's waiting.  I want
her to be first."

   "It's all wrong," I said.  I stood up and pulled my jeans back up, and
Mom stood too, looking at me uncertainly, her eyes pleading.

   "It's all wrong," she said.

   I took the cropped edge of her t-shirt in my fingers.  She hesitated,
then raised her arms so I could pull it over her head.  Her breasts were as
sexy as I'd hoped, firm and high, with her tan defined by creamy triangles.
"You're pretty hot, Mom.  I'm not saying that to be polite."

   She held my face as I lifted each breast and suckled her nipples. 
"James, I can wait.  Laura is waiting for you.

   "Let's both go up.  Is that okay?  The three of us?  We can all share
each other."

   Mom nodded, smiling almost timidly, relief and desire and fear mingling
in her look, just as it had in Ali's eyes.
   THE END

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