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Excerpt 3
Two days later I began to doubt. It was just too fantastic. Sane women just don't go around offering themselves for slaughter to the first nutcase who runs an ad, and an insane woman might be more than I could handle. Yet, even if I doubted her sanity or sincerity, I could not doubt her reality as an extremely desirable woman. I kept her lacy red bra and minuscule thong panties in my jacket pockets where I could reach them unobtrusively during my work day at the newspaper and feel the gossamer fabric, or stop by the supply room so I could pull them out and rub them against my cheek, poignant reminders of those intimacies in her car. At home I draped them over chairs, laid them on the pillow beside me, kept them visible and available to run through my fingers, sometimes pressing their delicate fabrics to my face, inhaling the faint, sweet essence of girl.
Two days after my e-mail went out, a letter arrived with a Philadelphia postmark. No return address.
Dear Byron,
I'll be there. Please don't disappoint me.
Crystal
It all seemed so damned authentic, I couldn't help but get excited. And worried. What if she really did expect me to go through with it? Would I? But why did I run the ad in the first place if I were not harboring some secret hope that I'd actually find a volunteer willing to experience this unique exit from life?
On the morning of the 30 th I started out bright and early with a loaded shotgun parked very illegally under the seat and a bouquet of roses strapped up on the passenger side, their stems stuck into little water capsules to keep them fresh. At eighteen minutes before noon I rolled into the parking lot at the Burger King off Route 84. The little red Beretta was already there. As I approached it from the rear, a glimpse of bright gold hair above the head restraint initiated a pounding under my ribs. The golden curls were bobbing slightly to the rhythm of music I couldn't hear. She had come to me just as she said she would. For good or ill, this dire twist to my destiny was underway. If she had committed herself as thoroughly as she had promised, I could hardly back out now.
I studied the small red sports car as I pulled in beside it. Did she actually plan to get rid of such a sweet little vehicle? Just toss it away like a paper plate at a cookout? A macabre simile I realized, given her stated intention. Of course this could still be an elaborate hoax, but if she actually ditched this expensive little vehicle, it would be pretty hard to doubt her sincerity.
Her head turned in my direction as I came to a stop and suddenly I was impaled by those hypnotic blue eyes again, my good sense disabled instantly by her smile. My thoughts veered from admonitions of caution to wildly fervent hopes that she prove to be real.
Her door popped open and she stepped out of the Beretta and into my Camry as smoothly as a bubble on oil.
"So, you actually showed up." The stamp of approval in her voice further undercut my determination not to be sucked into a trap. "Does that mean you've decided I'm worthy? That I meet your aesthetic standards, and might even taste good?"
It was hard to tell if this was sarcasm or a simple question. Either way, honesty was the best policy.
"You are more than worthy. You are delectable."
"How do you know? You haven't tasted me, yet."
"There's more than one way to be delectable."
Her smile widened. "But are you ready to find out if I'm delectable served on a plate?"
"You mean, am I ready to take you in and start planning for the big cookout? Absolutely."
"No, no. Not just the planning. Let's get specific here. Have you decided you have what it takes to go all the way to the end, to attend to my slaughter and cooking when the time comes?"
"Are you ready to die?" I countered bluntly.
It shook her slightly, but she threw back her head and mimicked me. "Absolutely!" But then, after a second, she added, "But not now. When the time comes."
"Then I'm ready to send you on your way in whatever manner you approve," I said airily. All the time my non-legally-trained mind was scrambling to identify any verbal pitfalls into which I may have been lured. I couldn't think of any. No direct threat. No actual statement that I planned to kill her. Of course, if she really wanted to do this, I'd have to find a way to take her own life. That would get me off the hook legally, wouldn't it? But all that was in the vague future. Presiding over the death of this gorgeous creature was the last thing I had in mind at that moment. A certain ill-behaved portion of my anatomy was beginning to engorge alarmingly at her mere presence next to me. She was dressed in a very short, sleeveless red dress with deep cleavage. String laces held together a two-inch wide gap all the way down the left side that advertised her complete lack of undergarments. Her small feet were contained in a pair of red sandals on inch-high platforms.
"So I'm here, you're here and we're both ready," she said, transfixing me with those impossible eyes. "What now?"
"Now there's the matter of your car."
"Did you figure out how to get rid of it/"
"Do you really want to lose such a sweet little vehicle? It can't be more than a few years old."
"It's seven months. I've made three payments in advance. It should be at least five or six months before the credit company comes looking to repo it. By then it should be long gone."
"That'll ruin your credit."
"It sure as hell will. You can worry about my poor ruined credit as you baste my rump meat."
"Maybe we should just hide it in case you change your mind."
"Maybe you haven't been listening. I've cut all my ties to the world. Quit my job. Told everyone I'm off to California. Sold everything I own except a few clothes . . . and that car. It's all disposable — the clothes, the car, me, everything. And it's all yours. If you want to keep me naked before you dispose of me , throw out the clothes with the car."
Her gaze drifted to the bulge in my lap, then back up into my eyes. The corners of her mouth tilted up. She was letting me know she was aware of how thoroughly she was tormenting my hormones.
"Okay," I sighed. "The only way for the Beretta to go permanently missing is for it to fall into the wrong hands. Or in this case, the right hands. That means driving it to a part of town — by which I mean Boston — where unattended vehicles vanish within the hour and wind up making a long cruise to South American or the Mediterranean."
"Sounds good. But are the stolen vehicles ever found?"
"The plates and VIN number are the first things to go when a car is snatched. Even on the rare occasions when such shipments are intercepted, the cars can never be traced to their proper owners. The government winds up auctioning them off."
"So do you know such a place in Boston?"
"I certainly do. I avoid it all the time."
"Then let's go! You drive and I'll follow."
"Sweetheart . . . May I call you that?"
She giggled and reached across the shifter to place her hand on my bulge. "I'm not naïve, Byron. I expect you'll soon have this thing inside me, and, of course, I'll eventually be inside you. So you may call me whatever you please. Just keep your promise to me."
She squeezed gently for emphasis. I tamped down the charge that went through my body.
"Okay. But I don't think it's wise for you to drive into that part of Boston dressed . . . as you are."
"You don't like this?"
"I love it! I'm ravished by it! But that's the point. One look at you in that outfit and you'll be gang-banged on the spot."
"Can't you protect me?"
"I have a gun in the car, but if I have to mow down a bunch of sex crazed street toughs, it will definitely draw LOTS of attention to your little Beretta."
"You want me to change? I don't have much. I didn't even bring underwear. I wasn't planning to be seen in public so I just brought stuff I thought would please you ."
My God! What was she doing to me?
"Well, you succeeded admirably," was all I could think to say.
Crystal withdrew to the outside corner of her seat, pouting prettily at me, running the fingertips of her right hand in casual circles around her right breast.
"Okay," I said. "No sweat. When we get to a really seedy part of town, stay hard on my tail."
She leaned over and squeezed me again. "That will be a little awkward. The usual arrangement is for you to stay hard in my tail."
I pretended to ignore her, although I was pretty sure she could hear my pulse thudding. "Once you've parked the Beretta, stay inside with the doors locked until I pull up beside you. Then jump out and into my car. Leave the keys in the ignition. It'll be on it's way to Tripoli before we've left the block."
"Cool," she said.
And that's how we did it. I gave her a map of Massachusetts and the city of Boston in case we got separated. To show I was not a complete gull, I did find an excuse to examine both her driver's license and her registration. Sure enough, she was identified as Crystal Perry of Frenchtown, New Jersey, with an authentically gawdawful color photo taken when her hair was still long. How much cuter and more irresistible she is now, I thought. Actually, my thoughts went well beyond that.
On the trip back to my home in Knobscot I learned a lot more about her. I learned that she had been abandoned as a child and raised in a succession of foster homes. I learned that she had been impregnated at the age of fourteen by a senior in her high school who publically disavowed any contact with her. He did finance a crude homemade abortion, however, which took care of the unintended baby problem, but also put her in a hospital for six weeks, got her sent to a new foster home and ended any hope for future pregnancies. Her new foster parents, no doubt in an effort to squelch her promiscuity, repressed her to the point where she simply ran away, effectivly extinguishing any hope of growing up to lead a "normal" life. Out on her own, she had managed an under-the-table income working for various painting contractors, topless restaurants, cleaning services, and exotic dance clubs. Mostly she had applied her energies to seeing how far she could push life's envelope and get away with it.
Two years ago she had discovered stories of cannibalism on the internet that lifted her to new heights of sexual stimulation. Years of being used and discarded by countless men had convinced her that that was the best she could hope for out of sex. But these tales of women being sexually exploited, then slaughtered, butchered, cooked and eaten brought her to new heights of orgasm. How much more exciting it would be to be taken to the next level, to be treated not just as a set of holes to fuck, but as meat at a banquet!
By the time we reached my house, I had been stroked to a fever, aching to take her in my arms and make proper love to her. But Crystal remained fixed on her own dream of ecstacy. She yearned to be placed over a fire and roasted.
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