12/98
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o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o
o  	The 'Bookshelf collection' offers a very wide variety of  o
o  stories. They have been submitted by people from all over the  o
o  world.  Also from alt.sex.stories (Newsgroups).   There is no  o
o  particular  order  other than offering them to you in  alpha-  o
o  betical directories.                                           o
o   	Lest we forget!!!   This story was produced as adult en-  o
o tertainment and should not be read by minors.   Kristen         o
o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o


   Our Island (mf, cons, snuff)
   by Chrutli (chrutli@hotmail



    Our island is isolated in the harsh North Sea. Indeed, it doesn't
appear at all on most maps. We are nominally a bit of England, but
geographically closer to Norway; both countries rather ignore us.

That, more than anything, is why the ancient customs here have
persisted. We are isolated from radio and television. Though with the
satellite dishes now, television is a possibility, few on our island
can afford the luxury. What radio signals we can receive are
Norwegian, and we listen mostly for the music; we are, after all,
english-speaking British subjects. Farming, sheep and fishing sustain
us. We have relatively few visitors.  I had come to the island to
assume the practice of Dr. Thomas Stewart, who was retiring. It was
Dr. Stewart who initiated me into the circle. I was a worldly and
sophisticated man then; I can admire in retrospect his skill and
insight regarding me. I know more now, and less. I have regrets, but
they are not those you might expect.  My wife was the first, my
dark-eyed Robin. Robin was a lovely woman, black-haired,
olive-skinned, tall; on the slender side of voluptuous, the beauty of
the Mediterranean, though she was British. She had been reserved and a
bit prudish when I met her. She had been an indifferent lover as well
when I married her, but her physical beauty compensated. I loved her
breasts, and I know that she was proud of them, of the effect her
beauty had on me, and on other men. She was prudish, yes, but not
foolish; she enjoyed being so desirable. They birth of our little girl
neither compromised her beauty, nor melted her reserve. I was, despite
her passionless nature, quite in love with her.  Dr. Stewart was a
lean, vigorous man in his middling sixties. He was retiring from
practice, though he was staying on the island. It was perhaps unusual
for me, a young doctor, to chose such an isolated place to take up
practice, but the very isolation appealed to me. Robin was less
enthusiastic, but she was a good mother and satisfied with her role of
housekeeper; as the islanders warmed to her, she grew happy and
content.  Stewart was retiring; I took up the practice with him, and
matters seemed unremarkable until the day he took me off to the bluffs
for a chat. Stewart had an extensive library on primitive religions
and ritual sacrifice. I recall we discussed pagan beliefs and druids
over a bottle of greek wine; the christian eucharist, and then the
sacrifice of nubile young women. I argued broadly and naively that
such a thing could add to the strength and vitality of a community;
one woman chosen from a community, honored, then slain and perhaps
even communally devoured, I said, might well provide a sort of soul
and focus for a primitive society.  Stewart seemed amused. "Suppose it
was your own wife, or your daughter about to be slain. Would you feel
the same?" It gave me a chill; I sensed he meant more than he said. "I
love Robin and Katherine with my all," I said a bit indignantly.

"Hypothetically, of course. If your wife was naked on some pagan
altar, and you were handed a ceremonial knife. For the good of all,
could you do it then? For the good of the community?" "It's a hateful
notion," I protested. But somehow I could picture it; Robin, the
darkness, the knife descending into the olive skin of her naked
breast, the welling of hot blood. It was curiously and shamefully
arousing.  "It needn't be hateful," Stewart said reasonably. "Mostly
certainly erotic, though, don't you think? Powerfully, darkly erotic.

And yet it may be loving as well." Dr. Stewart shrugged and laughed,
dismissing the topic. "Quite a discussion, don't you think? Here in
the very soul of druid country?" He dropped it; I was grateful. I did
indeed find it arousing.  We discussed other things, and eventually
returned to our homes, a pleasant afternoon away from the demands of
the surgery. I liked Stewart. He was eccentric, but a gentle sort. His
patients were devoted to him. When I let him off at his cottage, he
touched my wrist. "Do this. The next time you're with your wife.

Between the fifth and six rib, say, a deep cut from the side to the
sternum. That will open her chest adequately. Then her heart; you know
the anatomy." "You're a filthy perverted bastard," I said, laughing
dismissively. My face grew hot.  He laughed himself as he got out. "I
am at that. You'll have to come see my library sometime. Well then,
I'll see you in the morning." I thought nothing of it the next morning
when Dr. Stewart saw Robin as a patient. Such things are a
professional courtesy; one generally doesn't treat family members.

It was busy in the surgery, as it always is. Robin left again before I
had a chance to say hello.  After lunch, Stewart and I walked to the
square; he lit his pipe as we sat on a bench. "Let me see. You took
off her pyjamas under the pretext of fondling her, you discovered that
to get to her heart properly, you'd have to more or less cut through
the mass of her breast. The idea inflamed you, and you made love to
her a bit aggressively, yes? Pinned her arms over her head, bit her
breasts perhaps?" I flushed deeply. "That is indecent, Stewart," I
gasped. I had in fact more or less done what he said. Robin's breasts
were large, full and elegantly firm; they would have gotten in the way
of any incision. And the secret exploration had aroused me.  "Yes, but
accurate? And she surprised you, didn't she? She rather liked the
truculence, multiple orgasms and all that." That too was true; a first
for Robin, who often had no orgasm at all. "Robin told you this?" I
demanded. "I know you saw her this morning." Stewart laughed heartily.

"No. She did not. You told me yourself, Jon; it's not so much that
you're transparent, but the simple fact that most men have that dark
impulse. A small handful of women find it terribly arousing. If one is
observant, he can recognise these women. Robin is such a woman. I'm
sure of it." "Stewart, damn you, what are you getting at?" He looked
at me shrewdly. "You'll see. In good time, you'll understand me.

You're a bit muddled by civilisation, that's all. We're past the edge
of civilisation on our lonely little island. You'll see soon enough."

"Riddles, Stewart?" I was more muddled than upset; the shameful notion
had been exciting, but I wanted to drop the subject altogether.  "I've
a one o'clock. Shouldn't we get back?" That was all he said. I had
been aroused, and a bit rough with Robin, handling her a bit, pinching
and forcing her. She had responded with astonishing, violent orgasms.
After, she had been resentful; I was apologetic. But she had had
orgasms, not a simple, hard- won orgasm, as was often her response. It
wasn't, at any extent, something I wanted to discuss with a colleague.

Stewart showed me a bookcase in his office before we left for the day;
dozens of books on paganism, sacrificial rites, and the like. "So
you're a filthy, perverted scholar?" I asked.  He laughed. "I'll have
you and your wife to my cottage some evening. That's where most of my
collection is. I have some remarkable artifacts as well. You see, it
is more than a hobby with me. Your premise of the other day may well
have validity, you know." "My premise?" "That sacrificial rites can be
a benefit for a society." "So much blather, Stewart," I said
impatiently. "You didn't tell me you were an authority." "You didn't
ask," Stewart smiled without disdain. He offered me several books on
Druid practices; I took them, a bit embarrassed at my presumptuous
pronouncements of the earlier afternoon.   He distressed me, but I
quite forgot about the exchange by the time I got home, and spent a
pleasant evening with my young daughter and my lovely Robin. Kat had
made cakes that afternoon with Robin's help; she was quite proud of
herself. After dinner the two of them read story books on the porch
swing. It was a vision of happy domesticity, and I was indeed happy.

I perused the books Stewart had given me. I was mildly surprised to
discover two of them were written by Stewart himself; one on the Druid
faith, and the other on Druidic sacrificial rites. Stewart wrote at
length on the social and moral implications of the practice. He saw
such it as positive and sustainable in the fabric of a society, and
his arguments were quite compelling. The other book gave a more
general description of Druid beliefs, and I was surprised to discover
that the tenets of that faith were good and wholesome, the sacrifice
of women notwithstanding. I read until Robin put Kat to bed, and then
my thoughts turned to my lovely wife and her passion of the previous
night.  Robin was curiously reluctant when we retired. I tried to
remove her pyjama; she fussed and protested. I was a bit aggressive;
she had responded to that the night before. I actually tore buttons,
and thus exposed what she had been trying to conceal. There were grey
marks on her chest; I recognised them immediately. They'd been done
with a surgical marker, black lines to delineate an incision on the
skin. They were faded from much washing and scrubbing, but still
apparent. One line described the shape of her heart where it lay
beneath her breastbone. Another started beneath her armpit, curved
under her breast where her breast met her ribs and traveled upward to
her breastbone, above her heart. A third line started the same, but
traversed her breast, crossing her generous, bulbous nipple, ending
again above her heart. "What is this?" I demanded, furious. "What the
devil is this?" I knew: her heart, and prospective incisions to reach
it. Stewart had done this.  "Jon, don't be angry. Thomas was naughty,
that was all. I encouraged him. It wasn't anything." "Then what the
devil is this? Explain it to me." "It's my fault. I was curious. Dr.
Stewart studies pagan rites, you see. And I. I asked him." "You asked
him to draw on your chest?" Robin lay back, her eyes dark. "There used
to be Druids here, you know. On this island. And they sacrificed young
women. So I asked him, how did they do it? And I- well, he's an old
man anyway, and he can be charming. He was rather playful. So I took
my blouse and brassiere off and he showed me. He drew my heart where
it lay in my chest. Then he said my breast was in the way, and they
might have to cut it away. That was the first mark-" she guided my
hand under her breast, following the line along her ribs, curving up
to her sternum- "said he'd have to take my breast away to expose the
ribs, then cut between my ribs." Robin swallowed, watching me. "He was
so cheerful, chatting me up. He rather fondled me a bit- I should have
stopped it, I know, but he's old and I saw no harm. Then he said the
other way was to cut through my breast, and he pushed it around on my
chest so his knife- his marker went directly through my breast,
through my nipple-" she guided my hand across her flesh- "And that
would be a bit quicker. Then he told me how they would open my chest,
reach in and cut this and that, quickly, and that if it was done
properly I could see my own heart quivering alive. Before I passed
on." Robin swallowed, shivering. "It was my fault; I shouldn't have
let him, and I should have stopped him. I tried to wash it off, but-"
she smiled weakly and shrugged. "He'd already done a breast exam, that
and a Pap smear. He'd already touched me intimately. I'd put my
clothes back on. It really was my fault." "I'll rip his bloody heart
out. He had no blasted right-" "No. Don't. Please. You'll only
embarrass me. Please?" Robin touched me, kissed and caressed me
urgently. "Please?" "I'll have words with him, you can be assured-"
She kissed me.  "No. Don't speak of it. Please? Don't. Not at all. It
was my fault. I was wicked. Don't blame him." Robin lifted her breasts
to me, a wanton gesture foreign to her. "You like my breasts, my
tennis-ball nipples. It shouldn't surprise you that other men admire
them." "Other men don't draw on my wife's breasts." My anger was
giving way to lust; Her nipples were erect and her eyes dark. 'Tennis
balls' she called them, pips of nipples amidst aureolas that swelled
prodigiously, darkly pigmented, brownish-red and smooth. I didn't love
Robin for her breasts, but I certainly loved her breasts. I was
aroused, and she knew it. A line across her breast, ending above her
heart. I touched her breast; it would be perhaps easier to push it
aside to make the incision; more truculent to cut straight through,
and then into the pectoral muscle. I was aroused. I kissed her deeply.

"Like last night?" she whispered, her lips trembling.  I'm not a cruel
man, but the hunger and outrage provoked by Stewart's meddling in our
intimate life drove me almost to excess. Robin responded as she had
the previous night; it was a revelation that crude rutting excited her
more than tender considerations.  Afterward, she watched me tenderly,
as I cleaned and dressed her left breast were my teeth had broken the
tender skin. "I do love you, Jonathon. You know that, don't you?" "I
suppose I do." "You'll not mention this to Stewart? Please?" "Why? Why
would you want to protect him?" My anger was spent, but I was still
indignant. "Did he seduce you? Did he try to seduce you?" "No. Not
that. Of course not that." She swallowed, looking away. "It excited
me, laying beneath him like that. Imagining how it would feel. And it-
I don't know, it frightened me to feel that way. I won't see him
again, all right? I feel foolish. I want to put it behind me. Please?"

I was determined not to apologise for injuring her breast; her nipple
was swollen and discolored as well as bleeding. "I'll let it be," I
said, a small act of contrition for having hurt her. Had Stewart
seduced her? She said not. Robin had never lied to me before, so I
dismissed my suspicions.  "Thank you," she said. She curled against me
to sleep; I was aroused again, but my feelings shamed me; I turned
away from her and slept myself. I slept well; despite Stewart's horrid
behaviour, I felt terribly virile. I could excite Robin. The dark
beast in me had awaken, and he hungered.  The next morning, Stewart
himself made apologies. He was delicate, sincere, abject and humble.
He was almost an embarrassment in his excess; he sent Robin a case of
good French wine with a note asking forgiveness. I accepted his
apology with reluctance. The matter passed eventually; Robin's breast
healed; we resumed more temperate lovemaking, and I began reading
Stewart's library more widely. He was pleased at my interest. I was
surprised to discover that the last public sacrifice on our island was
done in 1934, practically in modern times; in the text there was no
mention of prosecution, nor any repercussions at all, simply that that
had been the last public sacrifices, a young woman noted for her
beauty and her gentle ways. The ritual had been conducted on a bluff
at the east end of the island.  I went there one grey afternoon, and
discovered a slab of limestone set up on a rise, weathered and
overgrown, but clearly where the deed had been done. My fascination
with the rite was neither scholarly nor innocent; Stewart had
encouraged me cheerfully, both in the study of Druid faith and in the
dark practices of that ancient religion. Standing on the bluff, under
that grey sky, I could imagine the event, the naked body, the knife,
and the blood welling. I could well imagine the young woman
struggling, screaming; the text, though said she'd given herself
"gently and willingly, as was befitting." Later, I asked Stewart about
the slab on the bluff; he confirmed that it had been the altar. He
mentioned quite casually that Robin had discovered a small medallion
near the altar, silver and badly corroded, but nonetheless a Druid
artifact.  "Robin was there?" "I took her myself, just last week."

"You took her there?" I asked. I was distressed; I hadn't known Robin
was interested as well; nor had I known she'd been with him.  "She
didn't tell you? She found it all rather fascinating." "No. She
didn't." "An oversight, perhaps. Jonathon, I'm prepared to turn my
practice over to you. Perhaps we ought to discuss arrangements. I'm
eager to have my own time, you see." I let him change the subject. We
discussed arrangements. I didn't ask, but I wondered. Why had Robin
been with him and said nothing? Why had the two of them gone there, of
all places? Had she, out of curiosity or Stewart's persuasion, lain on
that ancient altar? And if she had, what then? The questions were
endless and distressing; I tried to ignore the matter, and to dismiss
my own misgivings. Robin was her own woman, certainly, but I had the
distressing sense of concealment and betrayal. Robin had recently come
by a small medallion; she wore it on a chain between her breasts, the
silver too weathered to be recognisable. She told me she bought it. I
did not, later, ask Robin about the business on the bluff. It
distressed me, but I didn't dare ask. I felt vaguely guilty as well;
if I pictured Robin on the bluff, laid out on the ancient altar, she
was always naked, and the palpebral image was erotic.  Looking back, I
must say I was meant to suspect her; that was Stewart's intention.
Robin was a pawn. However, I knew none of that at the time.  A short
time after we were invited to Stewart's home for a small dinner party
to celebrate his full retirement. The guests, besides Robin and
myself, were Eric, a black man who was the butcher in the village, and
a young woman named Wendy, who was apparently a simple clerk at the
druggist's. Curious company, perhaps, but each was unique. Eric was a
handsome, muscular man. He was a butcher, yes, but educated, erudite,
and charming, though rather blunt and forward. He took to Robin
immediately, and Robin, curiously, returned his interest. I found
something oddly cold about him. Wendy, the other guest, was blonde,
slender, a golden Nordic sort with a face that was cute rather than
beautiful. She was in her early twenties, and spoke little, though she
was quite engaged with the conversation. She had a poise, almost a
serenity about her that was unusual for such a young woman. It
appealed to me, though I admit I showed interest in her as much
because Eric and Robin were so taken with each other.  The evening
went along quite pleasantly, really, until Stewart suggested we look
at the artifacts he had in his study, Druid artifacts and oddities
from the middle ages. Wendy demurred and asked me to accompany her to
the garden. I rather wanted to see Stewart's collection, but followed
her, to Robin's unspoken amusement. There was nothing remarkable about
Wendy; she wasn't educated, nor witty, nor sexual, though there was a
sensuality about her. Just the same, there was a glow, a serenity, a
goodness about her that I fairly warmed myself on. We admired his
garden and chatted lightly. It was she, finally, who suggested we go
back inside.  In the study, Robin was on her back in a sort of stock,
fastened around her neck and wrists. It was low, no more than two feet
from the floor, and she was kneeling, bent backwards in the stock, her
back arched sharply. Eric was resting a massive curving sword on her
throat. Robin's eyes were fastened shut, her full lips parted.  "Eric,
please. Stop this at once," Wendy said mildly. "You like this
truculent business far too much." Robin opened her eyes and looked at
me distantly; she saw my anger. Eric lifted the sword, looking at me
darkly, as if I'd interrupted something. "An unusual way to treat a
man's wife, don't you think?" I asked coldly.  Eric nodded a bland
apology. I knelt and unfastened the stock. With her back arched so
severely, Robin's breasts had stretched her blouse; the shape of them,
and the shape of her erect nipples was quite apparent against the taut
fabric. "It's all right, Jon, really it is," Robin protested as I
extracted her and helped her to her feet. She was trembling, but
perhaps that was only from the strain. "It's all right. There's no
harm done." "Nor any intended, of course," Eric said coolly.  Wendy
scolded him; Stewart tried to smooth matters over; Robin tried to
catch her breath and her composure. I was far too angry for any of
that, and we left before I made matters worse.  We didn't speak for
most of the way home. Finally, Robin said, "It really was all right.

He wouldn't have hurt me." "Right. You laid yourself in that device
and let yourself be bound tight." "No, that is, Eric insisted. I let
him lock me up, but he was quite- well, he insisted." "And Stewart? He
didn't try to stop it?" "He-he made light of it; he found a cushion
for my knees. He tried to ease my discomfort." "You were quite
helpless, fastened on your back like that. And Eric might have hurt
you with that sword." "He didn't. Mostly, the two of them discussed
how they would skin and dress my body once I was properly beheaded;
Eric is a butcher, you know. Eric said my breasts would be waste, and
that was a bloody shame, but that my hams would be delicious. He said
my breasts were mostly fat; I suggested he put them inside my chest to
tenderise everything when I baked. He was quite intrigued at the
notion." Robin smiled at me timidly and ingenuously, as if it had all
been harmless fun.  "It's all depraved, Robin. It's not at all
healthy." "Wicked," she laughed, kissing me, growing amourous as I
drove. "Deliciously wicked."  All the dark hungers I'd been harbouring
over the weeks boiled to the surface. I wasn't cruel to her once we
arrived home. I was aggressive, uncompromising and completely
domineering, though. I used my necktie to bind her hands, and
proceeded from there, ravishing her greedily. The dark beast was back,
and ravening with hunger. Robin responded with the same feverish
passion as before. And then she surprised me; she took me in her
mouth. She had never done that before. And then, equally shocking and
arousing, her mouth slid to my pubes and her throat embraced me. It
was a whore's trick. In our years of marriage she had kissed my penis
only a few times, and then after much urging. I used her mouth, and
then took her again, with less restraint than before. She cried out
twice, but she didn't protest my aggression. She cried a bit when we
were both finished, but she curled against me to do so. I had bruised
and scratched her body, but something dark and bitter remained in my
thoughts, and I didn't dress her mild injuries, nor offer her more
comfort than holding her as she cried.  Though the night had been
sexually gratifying, the events of the evening put something of a
barrier between us; we barely spoke the next morning. Passions and
peculiar events had driven something between us, something neither of
us was willing to discuss. My suspicions of her and my cruelty were of
the same fabric.  That she enjoyed the cruelty, though; did that
confirm my suspicions, or prove her love for me?  Perhaps a week later
Wendy rang up the surgery and asked to talk to me. She asked me to
come by my flat that morning; the matter was urgent. She wouldn't say
more. I cancelled appointments reluctantly and went.  When I arrived,
she was quite naked but for a filmy peasant blouse. She smiled at me
openly, drew me to a divan, and we sat. I wasn't sure if she intended
and examination or a seduction; she was quite lovely, tanned and lean,
her blonde hair about her shoulders.  "I'm glad you came. It's time
you learned a bit about our customs." "Your customs? Have you asked me
here to seduce me?" Wendy laughed delightedly. "Perhaps. I have some
things you must know. Please listen, and don't get in a snit. Hear me
out, all right?" I nodded.  "Well." She took a breath that made her
barely concealed breasts jostle. "We have a fair every summer
solstice, Midsummers day. A woman is chosen then; chosen is what she
is called, and its a very great honor. She is given to the Druid god-
well, I won't go into that. She is revered. Women seek her blessing;
men honor her and desire her. For the year that she is chosen, she can
do much good; she is unique and holy among us. This has all been
concealed from you; we wanted to learn what sort of man you are." She
took another breath. "Midsummer next, the chosen is cleansed and
prepared ritually. She lays herself on a stone altar, and one among
the elders takes her heart from her body." She glanced at me; I gaped,
shocked. She continued. "Her body is taken to the butcher shop, where
its dressed and roasted, so that each may share her flesh. After, of
course, another young woman is chosen." She took my hand and pressed
it between her breasts. "Jon, in a few days it will be my heart, and
my body. I am chosen." I sputtered and barely found my voice. "This is
horrid. You want me to help you stop it-" "My god, no!" she said. "No.
Dr. Stewart will do for me; I shall be his last. I must admit, I have
moments when- but no. I don't want you to stop it." "What then?" I was
stunned; I was horrified; I was, shamefully, aroused. Wendy took both
my hands, kissed them and squeezed them. "If you hadn't guessed
already, Stewart is stepping down from his duties as an elder as well.

He wants you to take up the mantle. He asked me to ask you. Will you
do this?" "You want me to slaughter you?" I asked.  "No. You weren't
listening. Stewart will do for me. After that, you will be the one
to-" she giggled- "to slaughter the chosen, as you put it." "No. This
is ghastly. It has to stop. It must." Wendy sat closer to me, and
gazed with those disturbing blue eyes. "We tried one year, you know.

Dr. Stewart was foremost in his opposition. I had barely been born
then, but I heard about it. Our good doctor persuaded the elders to
forgo the sacrifice; they offered up grains and wine instead." She
paused, shook her head. "There was a drought, first off. A drought, in
the midst of the North Sea! Many good families lost their crop. Then a
disease among the sheep. People became distrustful and hateful. A
woman was murdered. That has never happened here, never before nor
since." "Except once every year," I said bitterly.  "No. That's a
loving thing. Murder is hateful." She sighed, and looked out the
windows at the afternoon. "I'm afraid, sometimes. Terrified, really.

Sometimes I wish it was another woman. But there is honor, and
worthiness. There is-" she gave an odd laugh- "There is an exaltation.

Can you understand that? My time grows short, but my life is richer
for it, and I can give that wealth to the people I love." Wendy smiled
serenely. "The year that Dr. Stewart tried to stop the ritual- that
was the year his wife was chosen. She insisted, don't you know. She
insisted that she be slain; she insisted her husband do it. He did,
finally, poor wretched man, but he did. He understands now." I began
to understand other things for my part; that was why Stewart was
tempting me with my own loving wife, as a sort of revenge. He wanted
me to consider slaying the woman I loved, the easier to slay women I
didn't know. "I doubt that I can do this. Even if you've resigned
yourself to your fate, it's a cruel, fiendish thing." "Resigned?"

Wendy laughed with delight. "I embrace it. You can't understand how
eager I am for-" she stopped, and sighed- "But you really don't
understand, do you? I do; and sometimes I can see how a man would
feel, given the duty that Thomas has. That we wish you to assume."

Wendy slipped to my feet, kneeling, smiling at me radiantly. "Jon, you
have an erection." She tossed her head. "A rather handsome fellow,
too. He's been standing at attention nearly since you came. Is that
because I'm nearly naked? Or do you like the notion of a pretty girl
naked and helpless before you? Naked and waiting for you to do her?"

My face went hot. "They ought to find someone else," I said. "I'd be a
monster. I-" I shook my head. I couldn't continue.  Wendy touched my
erection; I was ashamed. "That someone else would be Eric, did you
know that? Eric is a brute and a sadist. He's a cruel lover; I know.
He would be even more so with the chosen. He wouldn't trouble himself
over it as you're doing; he is already a monster. You like women,
Jonathon. You've a caring heart. I can see how difficult it is for
you; more so perhaps than for me. But we need a gentle monster. Eric
would cause so much needless pain. You really must accept this role."

"I can't. No. I can't. I really don't believe I can." I was confused,
embarrassed by my erection, and by this woman's insistence, a woman
who herself would be such a victim.  "That is why you must. Thomas
chose well. You would be perfect, a monster with a conscience, with
quick and gentle hands to slay lovingly." She sat back on her ankles
and slipped off the gauzy blouse. "I hoped you'd make love to me when
I asked you here. You will, won't you? We'll talk about slaying young,
pretty women, and feed your dark desires." She started on my clothing;
I was fiercely aroused and afraid to touch her.  Wendy smiled gently.

"Imagine it will be your hands that take my life. Then touch me. Tell
me how you're going to do it. Tell how you're going to slay me." I
groaned; but I didn't protest. I did as she said. She was passionate
and radiant; I was hungry and cruel, at least in words. I throttled
her, impaled her. Beheading, flaying, disembowelment, the most grisly
things I could think of. Wendy encouraged and elaborated the dark
fantasies; the love-making, though, was tender and intense. She would
be dead on a dark altar in a few days, and we both knew that. That was
enough, that and my words, a torrent of cruel descriptions as we made
love.  I went back to my surgery after; I was sexually sated and
horrified at what I'd learned. What troubled me most was not the
sacrifice, but that some compelling part of me wanted to participate.

I had taken Wendy, wishing to ravish and murder her, for no purpose
more than a horrid sexual hunger. She understood that and welcomed it.

I was troubled at the sacrifice; but I was horrified at my own hunger
for sexual murder. It was nothing else. The rite, perhaps, benefited
the community; the Druid faith had much to commend it. Still the rite
came down to one man murdering one young woman, and they wanted me to
be that man. I wanted it, as well, but it was monstrous.  I rang up
Stewart. He took rather long to pick up, but he knew immediately why I
had called. I spoke to him frankly; there seemed no reason to do
otherwise. I did not want to be a monster. I would refuse. He
acknowledged quite readily that it was a terrible obligation, and
urged me to reconsider. I hesitated- and then consented to that, at
least. I would give it thought; I would reconsider.  As we talked, I
heard a harsh voice off the line- it was undoubtedly Eric- and then a
woman cry out. "Eric is here, yes," Stewart said.  "And the woman?"

"There is no woman here, Jon. You will consider this, won't you? I
didn't chose you casually. It is quite important." "Some secret
society of Druids murdering women; this is important?" "There is no
secret, Jon. Ask anyone. This isn't some secret cabal bent on slaying
young women. You've been kept in the dark by everyone. Ask anyone on
the island. We are all a part of this." That took me back. "I'll
consider it," I said, "No more than that." "Don't be too long about
it. I really must go. I've company, you know." After I got off with
Stewart, I called Robin at home; the neighbor girl answered. Robin had
gone into the village. That meant she would drop round, and I did not
want to see my wife in the state I was in. I closed the surgery and
went for a stroll in the village.  A pretty blonde woman sat on a
bench in the commons, two small children playing at her feet. Ask
anyone, Stewart had said. I steeled myself, sat, and introduced myself
to her. Her name was Fran. "You're the new doctor. I hope you're nicer
than Stewart," she said, smiling and shaking my hand.  "What's wrong
with Stewart?" "Oh, nothing really. He's a good doctor, but a bit
randy. He likes to grope a bit when he examines me. It's rude, though
I suppose its harmless. You're handsome enough, though; perhaps a
grope might not be unwelcome." "I'm married," I said, perhaps a bit
indignantly.  Fran laughed. "Forgive me; so am I. I can't help being a
bit of a flirt." The little boy ran up to her, and she tied his shoe
for him.  "Fran, I wanted to ask you-" I paused, unsure how to frame
the question. It sounded absurd to me, asking a young mother on a
bench in the afternoon sun about sacrificial rites. "Midsummer day,
the chosen. I wanted to ask you-"	Fran caught her breath,
startled, and then flushed. "Am I to be chosen next?" she asked
quietly.  "No. No, not that I'm aware of. I know very little, though.

I've been asked- that is, Dr. Stewart asked me to step in to- to
assume his duties." "I see." Fran looked at me oddly, then laughed
nervously. "I'm sorry." She straightened her shoulders and laughed
again. "Well. You gave me a fright." "This business frightens you,
then?" "Yes, of course. Well, I saw you walk up, and my heart stopped
for a moment. I know who you are, of course, Dr. Stewart's protege. I
thought- well, I know who you are-" she laughed again. "I thought I'd
been chosen." I shook my head vigourously. "I think it's a brutal,
barbaric practice," I said vigourously. "I think it ought to stop."

Fran looked shocked. "Why?" she asked simply.  "This sort of thing
doesn't happen in the civilised world. It needn't. It appalls me."
Fran was oddly distressed, and growing more so as I went on,
expressing my outrage. "You could leave the island, you know," I
concluded. "You'd be safe then." "Perhaps we oughtn't speak of this."

Fran gave me an anxious smile.  I apologised, drew a deep breath,
calmed myself and approached it differently. I explained myself as
well as I could, leaving the outrage out of it. It was a peculiar
thing, to be discussing paganism and sacrifice on a sunny afternoon
with an attractive young mother whose children played at our feet.

Everything was commonplace except the conversation. I succeed in
reassuring Fran, at least; I convinced her I was simply naive and
distressed by the custom, rather than indignant and horrified.  The
conversation turned commonplace, or nearly so.  "There are demons and
goddesses on our island," she said, when I'd finished explaining what
Stewart expected of me. "If we killed off the demons, there would be
no goddesses." She smiled at me, her cheeks dimpling. "Forgive me. I'm
being poetic. I could run off to London, certainly. Then I'd have to
worry about being run over by a lorry, or catching some terrible
disease. I could be mugged, and murdered, or worse. I'm not a
sophisticated girl, you know. There are things in that modern world of
yours that would frighten me badly, and that you would take in stride.

We have our chosen; you mustn't let it trouble you so." Fran paused
and laughed again. "The prospect is frightening, yes. But it is a bit
remote. Frank- he's my husband- tries to keep me pregnant, the dear.

The chosen dare not be with child, not when she's first chosen. But I
fool the lovely man and use the <B>pill</B>; I'm not a brood mare, and
besides-" She stopped and shook her head, wetting her lips.  "Besides
what?" "You've met the chosen?" "Yes." "She knows something. She's
filled with light, with spirit. I don't know; I'm not saying it well.
She's profoundly at peace, and sometimes I think it might be worth it,
to know what she knows, to taste her serenity." She looked at me
frankly and openly. "Perhaps there could be a chosen without the
bloody part," I suggested.  Fran laughed delightedly. "You're so
delicate about it. Sacrifice. Slaying. Bloody frigging murder. But
that would make it all trivial, wouldn't it? A beauty queen cutting
the ribbon on the new building society. No. No, that wouldn't do.
Demons and goddesses, you know? Not politicians and beauty queens. Our
lives are already thoroughly commonplace. We need a goddess;
therefore, we need a demon." "Suppose you were chosen? Would you
accept?" Fran looked at her children, then at me, her face dark and
open, as a woman might look at a lover. "Yes," she said softly. "I
rather think I would. Not that I'd have a choice," she added quickly.

"The chosen never does. But I'm prepared. I hope I'm worthy. The
chosen can have at any man on the island; that rather appeals to me as
well, naughty girl that I am." She stood abruptly, perhaps
embarrassed. "Well, I've got to get home. Brandy, Richard, come along.

We've got to prepare dinner for your father." Before she left, though,
she turned back to me. "Does that make my chances less remote? Telling
you that?" "Perhaps. I can't say." She nodded, her eyes on mine,
intimate and intense. "You would be the one, wouldn't you? The one to
take my heart?" I didn't answer. I felt as though she was going to
propose a tryst; there was that about her, erotic promise, dark
desire. She laughed again. "You've got me all bothered, doctor. I
rather think Frank will get lucky tonight. Isn't that funny? He thinks
its because I want another baby." She drew a breath and straightened
her shoulders. "Forgive me, I'm being much too bold. Please don't tell
Frank on me, will you? He'd take it badly if I was chosen. Goodbye,
Doctor. I'm pleased to meet you." We shook hands and she left, her
children trailing her.  Sitting in the bench in the commons with the
sun on my shoulders I admitted that I could do this thing. It was the
first time I accepted that it was more than a dark, hidden fantasy,
that I could be a good doctor and a good husband and still slay nubile
young women. It was a horrid thing, but I could do it, and live with
myself.  Better I than Eric, I thought. A benefit for the village, I
thought, sitting on the bench in the sun. I thought many such things,
rationalisations and justifications, but finally realised that beneath
the arguments I was at ease with myself. My outrage was simple
hypocrisy. I would make peace with the beast in me by feeding it.

Robin was not yet home when I arrived; I paid the neighbor girl for
watching Kat and sent her home. I rang up Stewart and told him my
decision; he sounded surprised, though pleased; he advised me to read
up on the beliefs and the rituals. He asked me if I'd witness the
ritual with Wendy; I said I'd be honored. Robin arrived shortly and
began dinner; she seemed a bit distracted, so I took Kat outside to
play. Sooner or later I would have to tell Robin; not now, though, and
I dreaded the prospect. I could be a good husband and father; for the
moment, that was all I was.  The ritual was six days off; in that
time, I met the elders- there are eight, none of whom need be
mentioned, except, of course, Dr. Stewart and Eric. I was initiated
into the faith, a thankfully brief ceremony. Stewart showed me the
ceremonial knife; it was all of iron, perhaps a foot long including
the handle, curved slightly, two-edged and exquisitely sharp. "It's
reforged every year," he said. "The blood of countless young women has
been hammered into the blade." I hefted it once before returning it to
its case; it was massive.  The next few days, Robin spent a great deal
of time in the village, helping to prepare the midsummer fair. She
refused my advances at night, protesting tiredness. I didn't press
her; we were still somewhat at odds, distant from one another, and
there was Wendy. In the afternoon, after surgery, Wendy was receptive.

Receptive? She was eager, passionate, insatiable. "You're nicer than
Stewart," she told me. "He's so bloody big, it hurts. You're much
bigger than Eric, though, and not so horribly cruel." "Stewart has had
you?" I asked.  "Oh, yes. Lots of times." Something bothered me about
that, but I couldn't place it, not with Wendy's eager mouth doing what
it was doing.  The evening before Midsummer day, the six young men who
would participate went to Wendy's flat. They spent the night,
comforting her, talking to her, making love with her. Well before
dawn, she was washed, anointed with oil, and then two elders came,
blessed her, and asked her for her heart and body. They proceeded to
the Anglican church. The ritual was indeed no longer public; the Druid
altar had been established in a deep cellar beneath the church. If the
chosen refused, the six young men would have taken her there just the
same.  Wendy walked herself to the church, wearing a white linen robe
proudly. I saw her coming down the steps to the dark altar; she was
nervous and radiant. Words were spoken, Wendy's robe taken from her
shoulders, and then she laid her slim golden body on the stone altar,
her glistening body lit by flickering candles. More words were spoken,
celtic invocations.  Six pairs of hand grasped her; one man at each
hand and foot, two at her hips. Her arms were drawn sharply over her
head, forcing her back to arch, as Stewart approached her with the
large, gleaming blade.  Then silence, silence except for the sound of
Wendy's light panting. We were waiting for dawn; one minute, then
another. Stewart grasped her oiled breast and fondled her nipple
erect; Wendy smiled at him crookedly.  "It is time," one of the elders
said finally.  Stewart flattened her breast in his hand and presented
the blade to her nipple. Once, twice, sawing, and then he'd split her
firm little breast down to the ribs. Wendy gasped and shuddered. When
Stewart cut between her ribs, he threw his shoulder into it, cutting
everything; skin, muscle, lung. Wendy cried out once, then her mouth
filled with blood. He sawed quickly, and her side opened, raw and red.

She squirmed and thrashed convulsively. Knife tip and left hand
slipped into her chest, and emerged in a moment. Stewart held her
small, trembling heart up, then placed it on her chest. Wendy
shuddered, her eyes wild; Stewart, mercifully, placed the tip of the
blade under her chin and drove it up through her palate into her
brain. Her gleaming body convulsed, once, then lay still. It was done.

Her body was wrapped in her linen robe and taken off to Eric's shop.
An elder took her heart; it would be burnt later, on the altar on the
bluff. Stewart left by himself, and went back to his house. I went
home as well, but Robin had already gone to the fair, taking Kat with
her.  I took a nap, showered, and then puttered about the garden,
bemused and a bit sad. In those moments before Wendy's death, I
believe every man there had wanted her terribly; her sex and her death
both. Wendy had told me one afternoon that Eric would likely have sex
with her body before he flayed her; she found it amusing and erotic. I
was sad that she was gone; yet I would have slain her myself, had it
been me, and not Stewart.  Robin came home early in the afternoon,
distraught, her eyes red. "I left Katherine with the neighbors. We
have to talk." Robin led me to the garden bench, sat me down, then
knelt before me as if in supplication. "Please hear me out before you
say anything, Jonathon. I've a confession. Everything has changed, and
you must know about it. I do love you. Remember that, if you can. What
I must say can only hurt you." I nodded for her to continue. I dreaded
what she was about to say, but I wasn't going to guess at it.  "I've
been dishonest with you. And unfaithful. Ever since the day Stewart
drew on my chest. It- well, it aroused me. And he had the largest
manhood, long and thick. He wasn't cruel, but it hurt, he was so big,
and that aroused me too. It hurt when he rutted in me, and I had
cramps after." Robin drew a breath; I said nothing. My heart sank.

"Then there was Eric. He took me in the back of his shop on a pretext
one day; we flirted mildly and then he playfully suggested how my body
might be butchered. And it made me feel- well, he had me too. Cruel
and handsome and-" She stopped. "They've both had me. Many times, in
every way imaginable. Don't hate me, Jonathon." "Don't hate you?" I
asked quietly. She was anguished, as was I.  "It was animal rutting,
crude and savage. They seduced me, yes, both of them, but I kept
returning. It was my fault. It was only sex." I might have known; I
should have. I recalled things over the past weeks that should have
roused suspicion.  "A few days ago, you were at Stewart's? You were
home late." "Both of them. Stewart asked me over. They put me in the
stock and used me." He had her at the altar on the bluff, and many
other times, as well, I supposed. I was heartsick and filled with a
terrible desire. "Why have you told me this, Robin? Do you want a
divorce? Is it over between us?" "No!" Robin cried, "No! I love you.

It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter anymore." Tears welled in her
eyes. I took a handkerchief and wiped them away tenderly. It didn't
matter; I had already realised that.  "Then what?" Robin gained her
composure somewhat. "The girl, Wendy- at Stewart's dinner party? You
were taken with her?" I nodded. "She was someone called "the chosen."

She was slain this morning in some Druid ritual. I saw her body in
Eric's shop. He was butchering her. Butchering her, for meat. Every
year, there is another girl, another chosen, another slain woman."

Robin paused and drew a breath. "Eric, I have been chosen. Next year,
it will be me." I could not have described the feelings raging in me
at that moment, though I'd known what she was going to say. Stewart
had seduced me as skillfully as he'd seduced Robin. I should have
hated him, and hated Eric, for what they'd done to my wife. They
hadn't told her of me, either, and that was artful as well. Now I knew
how Stewart felt so many years ago, when his own wife was chosen. In
that moment, I loved her and wanted her as passionately as ever a man
wanted a woman. At the same time, I could see her naked body before
me, feel the knife bite her hot skin, feel her lovely body shudder and
writhe.  "Jonathon?" she asked softly, "Do you understand?" "Yes," I
said, just as softly. "Have you consented to this?" Robin swallowed,
nodded, then said, "Yes. I have, yes." "Robin," I said, "Stewart has
retired. I'll be taking over for him" I traced a finger across her
breast, across her nipple as she knelt at my feet. "I'm the one who'll
be cutting your heart out next midsummer morning." Her mouth dropped
open, lips trembling. She gave a little sigh, and lowered her face to
my lap. We said nothing more; I took her inside and we spent the
afternoon making love. I was as tender and solicitous as I was ever; I
didn't need to revenge my pride and my honor. I would do that soon
enough; I would have her heart in my gentle hands. Tenderness was my
revenge; Robin knew that, and responded with more passion than I had
ever dreamed of.  Stewart rang up that evening; Robin answered. "He
wants me to come over. Druid things; I'm to be cleansed and blessed."

"And fucked, too?" I asked a bit sharply.  Robin flushed, then nodded.

"Yes. If he'll have me." She waited for my anger, but I had none.

"You'll come home after? I'd rather you didn't spend the night with
him." Robin nodded, smiling timidly. "I shall. I do love you. And I'm
glad its you. I'm so very glad its you." Robin lived in a quiet frenzy
of sexual activity that lasted until spring. Stewart, Eric, myself, of
course, and many others. Then she grew more temperate in her passions,
quieter, more introspective. Although she still had lovers, she
stopped seeing Eric; he was indeed cruel, the more so because he no
longer needed to conceal his tortures to Robin's body from me. Robin
took up with his son, Patrick, though, a pleasant young man as
handsome and muscular as Eric. Sometimes she brought him home, and
they made love before the fireplace in the study. Patrick was
different than his father, and I rather liked him. Sometimes I watched
them, and he was tender with my wife. "I want to gentle him," she told
me. "He needn't be like his father." I believe she was successful. At
one point, before she and Patrick went to the study to make love, she
brought us together, and made us both swear that Patrick, and not
Eric, would butcher her body, and that I would witness it. She didn't
want Eric touching her again. Eventually Robin introduced Patrick to
Shayla, a pretty little black girl in the village, daughter of a
fisherman. Robin was chosen; she was working her own odd magic on us.

Her days, of course, were spent counseling and dispensing her
blessings; she did have much to give, and she was loved and honored
for it.  Evenings when she returned from a tryst or a ritual, we
talked about what was happening and how she felt; sometimes she was
terrified, other times resigned, and yet other times caught up in a
terrible ecstasy. Ironically, we grew closer than we'd ever been. It
was with Robin that I learned the secret places in a woman's heart,
the places where desire and death mingled wantonly, as dark as the
blood that welled from her chest the day I cut her heart from her
body.  Robin was the first; despite my knowledge of anatomy, I was
clumsy and slow about it; her oiled breast slipped from my grasp and
shifted back and forth as I cut. It took far too long. She watched me
ardently, but writhed and shuddered as I cut and fumbled. I cut into
her ribs, across, and a red gap opened in her chest. Once in her
chest, I found her heart, small in my hand, pulsing strongly. Robin
gasped, her face pale, and I cut quickly, pulling the organ from the
raw gash. She watched me in horror and exaltation, and I watched her
until the light faded in her eyes.  I touched her right breast, her
nipple still drawn up erect, and then stood back as the young men
lifted her lifeless body from the altar, to be wrapped in linen and
carried to Eric's butcher shop. One of the elders bowed and took her
heart from my hand. I left the knife in her blood, pooled on the
altar, and went out into the sunlight.  "It will be easier next year,"
one the elders said, squeezing my shoulder.  I went to Eric's shop
then, and stood by quietly as Patrick worked on my wife's body. She
hung by meat hooks in her armpits. He'd already removed hands and
feet, and gutted her; he was washing out her body cavity when I
arrived. Neither of us spoke; I helped him as he began flaying her.

She stared sightlessly at the ceiling as we worked the skin off her
body. Her breasts were still warm as we peeled them away from her
chest. Once that was finished, I left the village.  At home, Robin had
left a note on my desk, something she'd written months earlier. I read
it in the garden.


    "I am the rain when it falls, refreshing the black earth. I am the
sunlight on your shoulder, rich with strength and promise. My voice is
the breeze, and the breeze is the sound of my voice. This isn't merely
poesy, or fancy, or some sad hope. This is my experience, now, of the
richness of life. That you may not understand or believe it does not
make it less true.

"You will do this. I consent; I insist. It is because of this, because
of what you want and what I've consented to, that I am exalted. You
presume to some social or ritual necessity; a terrible hunger is the
simpler truth, selfish, raw and dark as blood. Because of this I an
exalted. Had you proposed simple desire my body would nourish a child.
That would have been enough. It is no longer. You wanted more, a black
desire, and now I am exalted. Now, my body will nourish all of
reality.

"You don't understand, do you? I do. The rain, the sunlight, the black
of night all sing together; your consuming desire and my exaltation
are a part of it all. You have your desire; because of this I am
exalted. You will not deny me my exaltation by refusing your terrible,
ghoulish desire. I wait for it more eagerly than you, more impatiently
than you can ever understand. You shall do this."


 It would, I suppposed, be easier the next year.

