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

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

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



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




The Feast of Purim
By Grim Williams


Series One, Part Twelve

Later that evening, the chef transferred Ruth to a warm serving dish 
and brought her to Guy's table. She steamed and sweated, her juices 
mixing with the pigments of her face, running down her cheeks and 
across her pink chin. The rest of her was a golden brown, darkened by 
the crisp coating of flour cooked with butter.

The chef untied the trussing string binding Ruth's ankles and wrists, 
carefully turning her over and posing her on the plate. The carrot tops 
had withered and browned. He removed the dead foliage and replaced it 
with a few sprigs of watercress that he stuck along the slit of her 
cunt, pressing the stems into the gap between her pussy and the soft 
pulverized carrot.

"Did you enjoy the show?" the chef asked Guy casually, making 
conversation.

Guy nodded dumbly.

"They're all the same," the chef declared, arranging Ruth's hair 
delicately, kindly. "Dams! You get them in the oven and they can't help 
themselves. Right little nympho, eh?" and then, the coup de gras, he 
unfurled the coils of wire binding the bacon to Ruth's breasts, first 
from around each nipple, and then the longer, tighter lengths.

He pulled the bacon from off her breasts. Underneath, Ruth's tits, 
although cooked, remained as white, as firm and as beautiful as they'd 
been that morning when Guy had seen her bathing in the pool, when she'd 
exposed herself so provocatively. Her nipples were hard and prolonged 
and stuck out from her breasts by almost half an inch.

The whiteness of her breasts, contrasting with the golden brown of her 
flesh and the variegated hues of hair and face made her a vision of 
exquisite loveliness and beauty.

"Would you like some wine, sir?" Guy's attention was taken by one of a 
team of four waitresses setting his table. A Negro, naked apart from a 
little white sash hanging from around her waist and just covering her 
pussy was speaking to him. She had large black udder-like breasts and 
deep sultry eyes. In her hand was a carafe, three quarters full, 
containing the very best house wine.

"Thank you," Guy mumbled, gulping hard. At once, the waitress leaned 
across him, reaching for his glass, deliberately pushing her soft black 
tits against his face, squeezing them against him, and then, with him 
blinded and securely nestled between her gorgeous mammaries, she filled 
his glass.

"Would you like me to carve?" the chef asked politely, waiting 
patiently for the waitress to finish. He pulled a carving knife from 
his belt and waited expectantly.

Guy thanked the waitress again, and picked up his wine. He shrugged 
dreamily. "Why not? She does look beautiful. Almost perfect."

The chef nodded, smiling wanly. He cut a long incision along Ruth's 
thigh, and then carved several large thin slices, laying them neatly on 
one side of a large oval plate.

"There is something very erotic about a well-cooked woman," the chef 
agreed. He paused. "I guess you would like a little breast meat as 
well?"

Guy agreed that he would. All around him the four waitresses continued 
to fuss, laying the table, arranging several plates around Guy's place 
setting in a big semi-circle. Guy examined what they had brought, 
breadcrumbs for sprinkling upon the meat, gravy, chips, salad, a rich 
red sauce. Just behind the neat arrangement of dishes was a flesh 
colored candle. It had been molded into the design of an erect, 
spurting penis. One of the waitresses nervously lit its knob. 

She was also topless, as were each of the other table waitresses. In 
fact, the combined effect of so many wobbling bosoms was to make Guy's 
tummy rumble with hunger. It was a long time since he'd eaten.

And Ruth smelt so delicious: musky, herby and exotic.

The chef carved a little from the outside of one of her breasts, 
slicing from top to bottom. 

"You'll enjoy this," he said, neatly laying the meat on the other side 
of the plate. This was a paler meat compared with the slices he'd cut 
from Ruth's thigh, softer and more moist. "The bacon really does bring 
out the flavor of the meat. You'll be surprised."

He placed the plate in front of Guy, and stood back.

"Enjoy your meal, sir!" he said, discreetly pulling a slip of paper 
from his pocket and slipping it under one of the serving dishes.

It was the bill.

The bill.

Ah, yes. The bill.

Guy picked it up and read it in disbelief. It was printed in dark red 
ink, handwritten using old gothic characters. As Guy discovered the 
total at the bottom, he knew at once that he'd been set up! Trapped. He 
looked at it once more. The figures remained the same, blood red. In 
disbelief, he looked back at Ruth, so gorgeous, so appetizing, and he 
could swear that on her silent, unmoving face there was the remnant of 
a smile.

"You got me, didn't you, you bitch!" he cursed aloud. "You saw me at 
the pool and you knew that you'd found the one. Here, you decided, 
walks a right sucker! That's why you smiled and showed me your breasts. 
You seduced me, eh? Very clever! Winner takes all!"

He was broke.

Ruth's shefriend, Deborah, was rich, and he was broke. There was 
nothing left. Nothing at all. The dams, the motor, Esther too, it would 
all go to finance this debt. And still it wouldn't be enough.

1065 shekels! 1065 shekels per kilo! What a fantastic price! He would 
never have dreamed that Ruth could have weighed so much.

He sighed, for he had suddenly remembered his sister. Poor Esther. 
Indeed. Well there was nothing he could do for her now. The die was 
cast. Her fate was sealed. But then it always had been, he concluded, 
ever since the moment of her birth. The almighty Zodiac had seen to 
that. Her destiny had finally found her out.

He poured himself another glass of wine.

And what about the rest of the money? How would he pay off such a debt? 
He doubted that Hegai would be patient. But is this too, maybe the 
great Zodiac had spoken, for Guy Nyrian had also been born in the sign 
of Aquarius.

He glanced again at the duplicitous Virgo, the multi-colored ribbons of 
gut forming a rainbow in her hair, her breasts white and soft, 
contrasting with the crisp brownness of the rest of her.

Such a strange little smile. Almost de Vinci.
 
He toasted her, lifting his glass in wry congratulation, draining the 
brilliant red liquid in a single gulp. Next, he picked up his knife and 
fork, and smiled right back.

For even a condemned man is allowed one last meal. Is that not so?




End of Series One


For those that are interested, found this recipe for Roast Dam in an 
Arian cookbook. Although it differs in a number of details, it's pretty 
close to that used in cooking Ruth.

Enjoy.



Roast Dam [Catering Recipe]

1 Dam (young for preference) plucked, drawn and trussed.
1 Kg/ 2lb  rump steak
25 rashers streaky bacon
1 Kg/ 3lb butter, melted
Plain flour

Garnish
Watercress
2 or 3 tail feathers (optional)

Accompaniments
1Kg/ 2lb fresh breadcrumbs fried in 1Kg / 2lb butter
Bread Sauce (page 145)
Thin Gravy (page 124)
Thin chips
Green salad (see salad section, page 203)

1) Stand dam in roasting tin. Place steak inside belly (this helps 
keep it moist during cooking)
2) Cover breast with bacon rashers
3) Coat with melted butter
4) Roast just above center of moderately hot oven (200C/400F) for 2 
hrs, basting frequently.
5) Remove from oven, lift off bacon and 'froth' the breast. (To do 
this, baste breast well with butter, dredge with flour, and baste 
again)
6) Return to oven for a further 30 to 45 minutes (or until golden 
brown and frothy)
7) Transfer to warm serving platter. Remove trussing string. Garnish  
cunt with sprigs of watercress (and insert feathers, if used, 
into the anus)
8) Accompany with small dish of fried breadcrumbs (for sprinkling 
upon each portion), Bread, Sauce, Gravy, chips and salad.

Serves 40


AFTERWORD TO SERIES ONE

I'd like to relate the following anecdote as an afterword. It provides 
a little teaser, a clue, as to what happens next, where this story is 
heading in Series Two.

I'm sure you will be clever enough to relate the events I describe to 
our current story...

So. Let me see now...

Once upon a time, there was a young king whose name was Ahas. He was 
rich and powerful and ruled over the mighty empire of Persia. His 
kingdom was a superpower, broad in dominion, extending from the Ganges 
in India to the East, to Macedonia in the West. 

But he was a mean man, a small man, superstitious and arrogant. It's 
said that he doesn't have two brain cells to rub together. Of course, I 
could never say that, not of a king.

Now Ahas was a man who enjoyed his women, many women, pretty women. 
This isn't a problem in a land that's almost devoid of men. The women 
are very grateful. But of his many wives, there was one that had made 
herself the most prominent in his Kingdom, had forced greatness upon 
herself, even if she wasn't in any way the King's favorite. Her name 
was Vashti. She was a tall and slender woman, with the grace of a young 
swan and the lips of a fresh rose, blood red, and sprinkled with 
morning dew. 

Vashti had been born in privilege. She had been raised as a princess in 
the small, seemingly insignificant Kingdom of Phoenicia. Yet this 
Kingdom has an importance that far exceeds its size. For it stands on 
the major trade route between the powers of Persia and Egypt, and the 
many passing merchants provide it with prosperity and riches.

Vshti's father, Erus foresaw that Persia, smelling weakness in Egypt, 
its greatest adversary, would soon be pushing at his borders. Both 
empires were hungry to expand and to extend their influence. He was 
sadly sandwiched in the middle. And so, to ward off the danger, Erus 
decided to trade his beautiful daughter, Vashti, in a marriage alliance 
with the young King Ahas.

This marriage of convenience, would, he hoped, in time give him 
influence with the most powerful man in all the Zodiac. His daughter 
would, at the very least, become his permanent ambassador pleading his 
case, and, perhaps, if his stars were truly favorable, she might even 
end up dictating his terms.

And so the contract had been signed, and Vashti had been dutifully 
dispatched. She'd arrived in Persia with a great deal of pomp. Erus was 
a master statesman. There had been an enormous caravan of possessions, 
as befits a princess of Royal blood. He had spared nothing, bestowing 
upon his daughter a dowry of precious jewels, of gowns and of imported 
lingerie. There had been dams and working dams, gifts for the king and 
for his greatest nobles. There had been female companions, maidservants 
and even the odd manservant. Apparently, it was nothing less than the 
beautiful Princess Vashti deserved.

And everyone had been extremely impressed, including Ahas.

The wedding, that night of her arrival, had been a formality, as Royal 
weddings always are in Modern times. Ahas had taken Vashti to his room 
and, having undressed her, had consummated the union. The deed was 
done. The marriage was secure.

And for the next seven days, the days of the Honey Moon, Ahas had 
dutifully called Vashti to his chamber, as a Royal husband ought, but 
with increasing frustration. Vashti was beautiful, certainly. She was 
glamorous, to be sure. But she was an inadequate wife. She lay on his 
bed, lifeless and still, docile, and simply allowed him to fuck her 
body while she remained shut off in her mind, unresponsive, scheming 
her intrigues and planning her moves.

It wasn't right. This wasn't the way a woman should be. It's not the 
way that they're made.

And so Ahas gradually began to see her as nothing but a piece of skin, 
plenty of surface, but no body: all glitz and fancy clothes, but no 
soul. She promised the world, yet delivered nothing. 

He found her boring, dull, lifeless. He would rather fuck his food 
taster or one of the slaves that bathed him of a morning than this so-
called sex goddess, his wife.

And so his roving eye remained itinerant; he remained restless, fucking 
and enjoying large numbers of women. After that first week, Ahas 
refused to call Vashti to his chamber. Instead, he'd sown his oats 
elsewhere. 

And there our story would have remained, had it not been for the 
insistence and the consuming ambition of Vashti. Ahas could never 
remember the names of his wives. He wasn't clever. He certainly would 
have soon forgotten this insignificant being from Phoenicia. If Vashti 
had simply allowed herself to fade into the background, to find her 
place within the King's harem, then she would doubtless have grown old 
gracefully, would have been well cared for, and would have eventually 
become a Persian matron.

But Vashti hadn't come to Persia to be forgotten. Her father had 
assigned her to be his spokesperson, his ambassador, and so she'd 
continued to push herself forward, to make the King's officials notice 
her, even if the King no longer would.

First, she wasted no opportunity in lifting herself above Ahas' other 
wives, proclaiming herself to be his Queen. There was some fuss, of 
course, and much bitchiness, but the title stuck. She was the Queen.

Next, she set about winning the King's ministers. She would invite them 
to her chamber, fluttering her eyelashes, lifting her bosom. 

And they came: all of them. Men fell at her feet, flattering her and 
offering their lifelong obedience. There were countless rumors of her 
infidelity, but nothing was ever proven. But if she did fuck around, 
then her paramours were obviously more impressed by her than the King, 
for somehow, steadily, she grew in stature and influence. 

But this prominence increasingly became an irritation and a frustration 
to the King. His ministers would speak of what Vashti had said, or of 
Vashti's considered opinion, even, when at times it contradicted the 
King's own. They would talk with a glow in their cheeks, with fire in 
their eyes, with lust in their groins. 

Remember, I'm describing here a man of limited intellect and 
confidence, not a clever man.

Ahas was also a superstitious man. He couldn't forget what had happened 
that first week in his bedchamber. Soon, he began to suspect that 
Vashti was the devil incarnate, or a sprite, sent by Erus to rob him of 
his Kingdom. For whoever has heard of a woman that doesn't worship 
cock? How can a woman take a man's penis into her body and not be 
aroused by it? It's unheard of!

And so, he grew first to be suspicious of his wife, and then to fear 
her, and finally, to hate her. He viewed her, rightly or wrongly, as a 
threat, his enemy. And he determined to be rid of her.

Thus we come at last to the crux of our story.

A year and a day after the wedding, Ahas invited his nobility to a 
feast. Of course, being king, no expense was spared.

There was caviar and venison and lashings of wine. There were carcasses 
of beef, stuffed salmon and speared crocodile. But center stage, above 
the table were a dozen young dams hanging by their hocks.

"Five days," Ahas decreed. "They must hang for five full days before 
the flame can touch their flesh."

The dams were skinned alive before an invited audience. A master 
butcher cut their legs, just below the knee, and also around the neck 
just where it meets the shoulder, and he then tugged firmly and boldly, 
ripping skin from flesh to the accompaniment of the most terrible 
screams. From knee to neck they were skinned, stripped in the most 
terrible of ways.

"Five days," Ahas said drunkenly, stoking a young serving wench with 
his kingly cock. "Five days they must hang there. And then we shall 
cook them, and then we shall party."

Ahas invited all the nobility to this event. He ate and drank and got 
very drunk and at the end, for the first time in nearly a year, he sent 
for his wife, for Vashti. There was no obvious reason for it. Her name 
hadn't been mentioned, nor her opinions extolled.

I would have surmised, if we were talking of anyone else, that he had 
some master plan in mind, some great scheme to finally bring Vashti to 
book. But, since we're talking of Ahas, well, I'm not convinced that he 
has enough intellect for such a thing.

Maybe it was simply the screams of the dams and the sight of their 
skinned bodies, shuddering with pain and from the physical shock of it 
all; some still screaming and blaspheming, others simply groaning, 
dying in agony. MAybe it was this that aroused him, that reminded him 
of what he would so like to do with his Phoenician wife.

He called her to attend upon him.

And she came. Vashti came, as everyone knew that she would and that she 
must. She'd stood before her Royal husband in all her jewels and her 
silks, with her hair decorations and her great extravaganza of 
maidservants.

She looked nervously about her, at the dams, stripped and skinned, all 
dead now, hanging by their hocks.

"I'm bored," Ahas said dully, enjoying his wife's anxiety. "I want you 
to entertain me. I want you to entertain us all."

He sat upon his throne, leaning upon his arm, a childish disgruntled 
air clouding his countenance, daring her to defy him.

"Of course, my lord. What would you like?" Vashti asked him anxiously, 
pondering the least she could get away with. She very deliberately kept 
her back to the dead women, but their image was fixed firmly within her 
mind, unsettling her. She knew that her husband was aware of them too, 
that he was enjoying the horror. What was he up to? She didn't know. 
"Would you like me to tell you a story? A sexy story? A story of brave 
men and lusty dams, perhaps?"

But Ahas wasn't in the mood for a story. He was after something much 
stronger. "What about a song?" he suggested moodily. "Sing me a song. A 
raunchy song about a Queen who gets speared in the butt with a spit!"

But Vashti wasn't willing to sing. She had the voice of a frog, she 
complained. She begged to be excused.

This had seemed unlikely to the king, but he graciously accepted what 
she told him at face value.

"Then how about a dance?"

"But sire, you know well. I've never been good at dancing. Perhaps I 
can offer you one of my maids, to please you in my stead."

But the king didn't like that idea at all. "I don't want to be 
entertained by a maid," he complained. "If I'd wanted to be entertained 
by a maid, then I would have married a maid. The kind of dance I have 
in mind is not difficult. Any woman can do it. It simply involves 
removing the clothes. It would please me, it would please us all, if 
you would perform a striptease. For what is a wife for, if not to 
undress and plug in one or other of her holes?"

Vashti blushed prettily hiding her face behind her fan and declared 
that she couldn't possibly take off her clothes in public. After all, 
she was Queen and had her dignity to think of. But again, if Ahas cared 
to take her to his chamber, then of course she would oblige. Or if he 
wished for a maid, then certainly a striptease could be arranged...

At this Ahas was visibly furious. It confirmed all his worst 
suspicions. This woman was more concerned with her own dignity and 
position than in pleasing her master and husband. He hadn't made her 
Queen. She had given herself that title. How dare she! 

His nobles were equally as shocked. If the Queen could freely ignore 
the will of the King, dishonoring him, then what hope was there for a 
mere noble? Their wives were sure to hear of it and respond: 'As Vashti 
rebukes Ahas, I rebuke you!'"

"Get out of here!" Ahas roared suddenly, jumping up from his throne, 
picking up a chair and throwing it across the room. It clattered into a 
wall, the noise echoing through the large banqueting hall. Apart from 
that single noise, there was now complete silence. A pin could have 
dropped. 

"Take her away!" Ahas raged. "Get rid of her! Get her out of my sight!"

Vashti tried to argue. She didn't want to go. But her own attendants, 
sensing the fickle mood of the King and Vashti's peril, whisked her 
away for her own good. In this frame of mind, Ahas was completely 
unreasoning and capable of anything.

Ahas strode up and down. "She is an offense to my harem," he roared at 
his advisors, pointing a shaking finger at the doorway through which 
Vashti had been scurried. He was in a vile mood, viscous, enraged. "I 
want her replaced. What kind of wife lies in her husband's bed, 
lifeless, a piece of meat? She's garbage! She's an insult to all women. 
I would rather have raw meat in my bed than her. It couldn't serve me 
worse."

"But Erus..." one of the counselors mumbled unadvisedly. "You shouldn't 
upset him... If you offend him..."

"Fuck, Erus!" Ahas returned in his rage. "He's nothing. I'll overrun 
Phoenicia and hang his cock on the wall of my bedchamber. I'll show you 
what I think of Erus. Get me a scribe! Get one! Write down my words! I 
want some dams brought to my room. You! Write this down! Even a fucking 
piece of meat can fuck better than that Phoenician shit! You! Go down 
to Hegai's and bring me half a dozen of his best carcasses. Let me 
choose between them. Then you can send to that fox, to Erus, telling 
him that I've replaced his daughter with a piece of meat from the 
Butchery! Ha! Let him put that in his peace pipe and smoke it! Ha! 
Write it down and I'll sign my name! And whatever you do, get rid of 
that cunt, Vashti! Send Erus a present with my regards! Send him... 
send him a nice juicy kebab!"

Then he sat back down on his throne and smiled, relaxing, and suddenly, 
he wasn't angry at all.

Until Series Two...

