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 Eleven

The atmosphere within the Butchery was now becoming truly orgiastic. 
The scent of myrrh and frankincense burning upon the smoky oil lamps 
combined with the aroma of cooking flesh and the fresh salty smell of 
sex.

Occasionally, a woman would run along the gangways, screaming 
hysterically, chased either by a naked man or by a group of men. She 
would jump across the soft leather sofas and the tables, hurdling from 
one row to the next; her tits bouncing and her heart thumping, 
stumbling, oblivious of how her feet were gate crashing furtive 
gropings and liaisons.

Generally chases such as these are staged. They're set up beforehand by 
the establishment. It's all part of the entertainment, part of the 
thrill of being at a Butchery. 

But occasionally, just occasionally, they're for real. Maybe one or two 
of those that evening were for real: who knows? It can be a great 
strain for a new waitress, brought fresh from the solitude of her 
desert home, and then thrust into the bedlam of the amphitheater, 
required to be constantly obedient, subservient, and sexy, in the face 
of sometimes impossible demands. All around her is horror and mayhem, 
the deathly pall of the roasted dam as it's brought out to the table 
and is then ripped to pieces by hungry, apelike men. This is a girl 
that she knew, that welcomed her, was kind to her, that she sees being 
dismembered and apportioned around the tables. Through it all she must 
be calm and enthusiastic, seductive and sensual. And so, occasionally, 
in the face of such pressure, a dam just snaps, she can't take any 
more, and so she makes a break for it.
 
The chase is usually accompanied by cheers and by chants. A floodlight 
will search round and pick her out. Suddenly she becomes the center of 
attention, all eyes are upon her, until finally she's caught and pinned 
down by her pursuers, their cocks obscene to the point of being 
vertical. She will then face summary punishment, sometimes lethal, 
administered at the hand of her customer.

For everything has its price, everything, within a Butchery, and if a 
customer decides he wants to see his waitress blinded, or maimed, or 
crucified, what of it? Who will deny him? The Butchery is home to the 
ultimate fantasy. Shekels talk.

On the stage, Ruth's preparation was continuing apace. The second maid 
was laying rashers of bacon upon Ruth's breasts, from the center of 
each nipple out towards the base. She placed about ten rashers on each 
of her two beautiful tits, and then fixed them firmly in place with 
fine steel wire, tying the wire as tight as she could manage. She wound 
three lengths around each breast: a long piece at the base, a much 
shorter length at the nipple, and one centrally between the two. She 
pulled each length of wire tight, squeezing the bacon tight against the 
pulpy tit meat, squashing it, finally giving Ruth's breasts the 
appearance of elongated fatty sausages.

"We now take three pounds of good quality rump steak," the chef was 
saying to his audience. He uncovered a large metal bowl, three quarters 
full of fresh, red meat. "This is prime buttock and comes from the 
young dam you saw cooking in the glass pot earlier." 

Hearing this, Guy lifted his head, gazing abruptly towards the glass 
cooking pots. He'd forgotten about the other dams, the two that had 
been broiling away. One of the pots was now empty, its occupant taken 
as meat for the table. He'd missed that. When had that happened? This 
was the girl with the small breasts, the one that had reminded him so 
much of Esther. 

God, he thought suddenly, in panic. Esther! He'd forgotten Esther, poor 
Esther, being prepared somewhere downstairs in the larder.

He was tired, confused, dizzy.

Annie still cavorted in the other glass pot. She did so even though she 
was now quite dead. Her struggle was over, although her movements were 
not. She was lifeless and simmering away stiffly, her naked body 
rotating to a string of rising bubbles constantly striking and 
pummeling her deep pink flesh. Her fist was still inserted stoically 
within her cunt hole, a touching reminder of her final moments of 
ecstasy. Guy was gladdened to see that there was a sly smile upon the 
dead girl's face. Thank goodness! At least she had died happy. So the 
heat of her cooking had done as it was supposed to do; it had brought 
her to her climax.

The chef grabbed a big handful of the other dam's diced posterior. He 
thrust it into Ruth's belly, scattering it across her body organs, 
pushing it deep inside her. "The steak keeps the dam's meat nice and 
moist," he explained, for the benefit of the crowd, compressing the 
rich red steak with his thumb. Ruth howled and squirmed in unimaginable 
pain, arching her back and bearing down hard on the comforting carrots. 

There was a man, a hand, inside her! Inside her belly! God! The pain!

"We've seasoned the steak with freshly ground black pepper and a little 
garlic," the chef continued, very matter of fact. "Just a little, not 
too much. After all, we don't want to mask the flavor of the meat."

Ruth could barely take the pain. The draft of drugs she'd taken seemed 
to be doing nothing to ease it. The chef's hand kept disappearing 
inside her, filling her, and turning the screw. Three, four, five times 
he did it, stuffing her young belly full with the other dam's butt 
meat, compressing it down, stretching and filling her to the brim. 

When it was done, and Ruth was convinced that she hadn't another cry in 
her body, he turned her over to one of the maids, who sowed up her 
front, big ugly stitches that criss-crossed from side to side all the 
way along the painful incision. The maid closed her up, pulling the 
thread tight, reducing Ruth to insane hysterical tears.

"Oh, God, sir," moaned the blonde, shaking her butt vigorously, 
groaning under the intensity of her passion. "Fuck me, sir. Fill me 
with your meat. Don't be gentle. I'm only a stupid dam. Please sir. 
Fuck me hard. My ass is on fire. Please sir. Make it burn. Please. Make 
me... Make me come."

All around them was the amplified noise of Ruth's misery, her sobbing 
and crying, broadcast through the amphitheater at a deafening 
intensity. It was music to the ears of the patrons, a strident yet 
erotic melody. They loved it.

Guy slapped the blonde woman's buttocks hard, alternating, first with 
his palm, then with his balls, swinging them against her, slapping her, 
then sliding in and out of her back passage with long powerful strokes.

It was impossible for him to say which was arousing him the most, his 
waitress's tight ass or what they were doing to Ruth on the stage. They 
were basting her now, brushing melted butter across her naked skin with 
small basting brushes, paying particular attention to all those little 
hidden places that so easily get missed: under the arms, in the ears, 
between the toes, all those secret crevices around the crotch.

"Look at her, sir. Look at your dam. They're trussing her up, ready for 
the oven. She'll taste good, real good. Oh, god, sir. Squeeze by 
breasts, hurt them! Please sir. Show me who's boss."

And Guy did. He made his waitress scream; he made her howl. She was 
ecstatic: so much pain, so much pleasure.

"A little seasoned flour," said the chef, standing at the front of the 
stage, showing another large bowl to the audience. "I've added one or 
two herbs, fresh, of course, also a touch of aniseed. Just what we need 
for the perfect roast."

Guy could feel himself about to come. His big dong was aching to the 
point of bursting; the pressure of his semen was building within his 
balls, almost to the point of exploding.

His breaths came in heavy irregular bursts. The moment was approaching. 
He could feel it approaching. Getting nearer. Approaching. Approaching. 
The waitress was moaning, delirious, whimpering for him to come inside 
her and not to pull out, pleading with him to allow her to come once 
more.

She loved it. She wanted it.

The maids, dressed in their sexy little uniforms, untied Ruth's arms 
and legs so that they could finish basting her. She could barely move 
now, with her stomach gutted and swollen with diced buttock, the ugly 
stitches laddering her stomach. 

The carrots were inside her pussy and ass, and the cones of bacon 
covered her delicate breasts, adorning and protecting them from the 
fierce drying heat of the oven.

Once they'd finished basting, the maids tossed handfuls of the herbed 
flour mixture onto Ruth's skin. It became dust in the air that lingered 
in a hazy white cloud, falling gently back onto Ruth's naked flesh. The 
maids slapped the fine flour against her, against her skin and the 
melted butter, coating her with the ghostly white makeup. Only her face 
and her hair they left, to the extent that they were able, because her 
face was already painted and prepared with the pinks and the blues, the 
whites and the dusky browns. And her hair was also prepared, lacquered 
with grease, her braided tresses decorated with the small ribbons of 
dyed girl gut.

She was a wonderful sight, an erotic sight, a beautiful picture of all 
that a woman should be. There wasn't a limp cock in the house. Ruth 
owned them all, every penis in that Butchery belonged to her. She had 
them all on the point of spurting: a poignant tribute to a fantastic 
dam.

The chef carefully lifted her and carried her to the baking tray. He 
lay her on her front, and then coerced her wrists to her ankles, 
pulling up her legs, stretching back her arms, tying them together with 
trussing string so that she resembled the shape of a giant crab.

"Oh, God!" Ruth groaned miserably, unable to hide the searing pain of 
her belly. "What have you done to me? What have you done?"

She rocked back and forth in great agony. Her shoulders had lifted a 
good four inches off the baking tray, bowing to the will of her arms 
and legs. These were fastened together above her ass in a great tangle 
of string, pulling the whole of her torso taut. Her bacon-covered 
breasts were lifted from the surface of the tray; her gutted belly was 
stretched beneath her, tugging on the untidy stitches, almost pulling 
her apart. 

"Beautiful," the chef exclaimed, pressing home the end of both carrots 
to ensure that neither had come loose. "Absolutely beautiful. I'm 
placing you in a cold oven, Ruth, not hot, so that you will have plenty 
of time to become orgasmic. I know that you're anxious, but don't 
worry. These carrots will make excellent lovers. So enjoy them, dear 
Ruth. Fuck them well. You will suffer many comes before these boys 
soften, I promise you that. Cook well, my dear. Cook well."

And then Guy came. He couldn't hold himself back any longer. One moment 
his climax was coming, and the next it was here, and he was over the 
top, dumping his seed, filling his waitress, pumping semen into the 
sublime ass of this sexy blonde bombshell and, yes, she was coming as 
well. They sang together their sweet duet of ultimate ecstasy, and 
danced their sticky cocktail of lust and passion. He pumped her ass, 
pumped it, pumped it hard; filling her; using her; taking her.

"Oh God!" Ruth cried. The glass door of the oven had swung open and she 
was being wheeled inside by the three scantily clad maids. Twisting her 
head around, she cast one last look at the outside, one last look at 
the world of the living. She saw bright lights, darkness, the 
lascivious gaze of the chef. "Tell Deborah," she begged to whoever was 
listening. "Tell her... Tell her that in the oven, my final come, tell 
her that I was thinking of her."

Those were Ruth's last words. As soon as she'd spoken, one of the maids 
opened her mouth and inserted a large raw potato into the cavity. It 
tasted vile, dirty and earthy. Ruth bit down upon it as she was 
supposed to and closed her eyes, imagining she was in bed with Deborah, 
imagining that Deborah was naked and covering her with tiny kisses from 
head to toe. She imagined that Deborah had two large carrots topped 
with green frothy bushes and that she wanted to play.

The door slammed shut.

Oh God. This was it. The customers were right now watching her, 
anticipating a show. Her final come would not be a private affair. 
Every movement would be examined and enjoyed through high magnification 
binoculars. Ruth was a mercenary: she couldn't complain. This was what 
Carcasses of Fortune were paid for. She heard the big burners ignite 
beneath her and wiggled her butt, squeezing down upon the top of the 
long hard vegetable that now penetrated her cunt. Amidst all the pain 
there was yet a little pleasure, just a little, but it was there.

She set herself a goal, two climaxes, maybe she might even make three, 
and then she would rest. She would enjoy the wonderful pleasure of 
perfect sexual gratification, of being replete. And then she would 
sleep. Yes, then she would rest. Lulled by the heat of the oven and the 
hot air caressing her skin, she would sleep. 

But not yet. She had a little matter to sort out first with a couple of 
carrots, two enormous monstrosities that were filling her and 
stretching her. She squeezed them a little.

It felt nice, very nice.

Um. Well, three climaxes would do for starters. She mustn't be greedy. 
After that, well, she would have to see...




End of Series One, Part Eleven
