The Knobscot Cannibals

Part 7

The morning of Crystal's Grand Barbecue was sunny and clear, a brisk breeze keeping the Hot August sun under control. She spent the entire forenoon preparing the vegetables, fruit and seasonings. This was actually a pleasure and relief for her, because I had decided after setting the date that if her fantasy was to die as a cow, she should spend this last month really living like a cow. Cows don't live in houses. They live in barns. She had readily agreed.

My estate does not include a barn, but it does include a well-constructed storage shed for the lawn tractor, mowers, fertilizers and various other items necessary to keep a place as large as this well maintained. I cleared out a corner and turned it into a stall, boarding it in with planks and a thick door, the top half of which was a frame filled with a section of heavy gauge hurricane fence. A ring bolt and a wooden manger were attached to the far side of the stall. I bought a steel slave collar from a store selling sex toys and locked it around Crystal's neck, attaching her to the ring with a chain and two padlocks. There were no furnishings in the stall, only a thick layer of straw on the floor, a bucket to piss in and a shallow pan of water. I told her she'd have to shit in a corner and kick straw over it. I filled the manger twice daily with lettuce, broccoli, kale and carrots. Since hands are a human convenience unbefitting a cow, I cuffed her wrists behind her while she was in the stall. This forced her to eat and drink like a cow as well, pushing her face into the food and water. Once a day I took her out for exercise and made her shovel the shit out of the corner into the piss bucket to dump in a cess hole out back. She had to dig a new hole every evening. I would then lead her into the house by her chain and scrub her down in the shower with a coarse brush. She was then required to clean the house and make my dinner, crawling under the table to keep my dick happy with her mouth as I ate. Then it was clean the dishes and service me with her cunt, ass or both before being taken back to her stall. She loved it. She couldn't be demeaned enough!

About a week into that regimen I had an another evil inspiration.

"This is not right," I told her while she was doing the dishes one evening. I was circling behind her scowling at her firm, naked buttocks. "You'll never really be a head of livestock until you have a proper brand. You need to be branded so I can prove that you're my property."

I could see a surge of fear flush through her face as the picture of a red hot branding iron forced against her tender bottom sprang into her mind. Amazingly, for a few moments she said nothing. She was actually weighing the idea, balancing her terror against her devotion to the fantasy.

"I guess you're right," she said finally, her voice soft and unsteady, her eyes fixed on the dishes in her hands. "Is there some way you can make it less painful?"

"Would I do that for a heifer?" I snorted scornfully.

She thought about it. "No, I guess not."

Recalling her original aversion to pain, I figured she'd back out, jettison her ambition to live like a head of livestock. It would be nice to take her back into my bed during these last weeks and treat her as a proper fuck toy. But no, it turned out she was determined to be a cow, even at the cost of great agony.

"All right," she whispered. "I'm your property, and if you think I need to be branded . . ." she swallowed hard, "you've got a right to do it." Her hands were trembling, but she never dropped a dish, nor did she raise any further objections or requests.

Damn! This was better than a fuck toy! I found a store that sold agricultural supplies and bought a branding iron personalized with my initials, along with a propane burner to heat it up. "Be sure it's glowing bright red and hold it in place for a good three seconds," the salesman advised me when I admitted I was a neophyte. "And make sure the critter's tied up nice and firm, cause when that hot poker hits its ass, it's gonna want to get the hell away! Know what I mean? You don't wanna have to keep jabbin' the poor thing until you get it right."

That evening after her shower, I led Crystal to the den where everything was all set up. I chose that room because I knew she'd be screaming like crazy and it was in the center of the house where little, if any, of her noise would escape. Her knees gave out when she saw what it was, but I caught her and helped her walk over to the table. She was shaking as I bent her over it, face down. She shivered the whole time as I tied her wrists and ankles to the table legs, stretching her out taut as a guitar string. She broke into tears as I belted her down firmly to the table at her waist and shoulders. But she never said a word. I was kind of hoping she'd faint and miss the ordeal altogether, but she was braver than either of us had realized. She watched me lift the red hot iron from the brazier with eyes big as moons.

"Are you ready, my little cow?"

Her answer was tiny, almost inaudible. "Yes, Master."

Every muscle in her body was tensed and trembling, awaiting pain such as she had never imagined. I didn't want to screw this up, so I made sure my mitted grip on the iron was good and firm as I drove the glowing letters against her pretty right cheek. The intensity of her scream rattled me, but I counted grimly to three before withdrawing the devilish instrument from her smoking flesh. I stuck it in the cooling tub and rushed to the other end of the table, throwing an arm over her shoulders and covering her neck with kisses as she convulsed in great, racking sobs. I whispered soothing things in her ear as her anguished cries gradually subsided into trembling whimpers.

"Now you're a proper cow, my lovely Crystal," I told her.

"Thank you, Master," she whispered between gasps.

During her last night I made love to her in her stall, right there on the straw. She had objected when I had tried to steer her into my bedroom after she'd finished the dishes. "You wouldn't take a cow into your bed with you, would you?" she had scoffed. She even insisted I attach her chain, as usual. She came again and again as we licked and groped and chewed and fucked each other, laving each other with saliva and sweat, her inner thighs drenched with her own juices and crusted with mine. We clutched and kissed each other for at least an hour after my body refused to refill and harden that instrument that felt so wondrously good inside her sheath.

"You can still change your mind," I whispered, caught between the joy of carnal pleasure with her and the even greater thrill of cooking and eating her.

For answer she kissed me tenderly and said, "I've never been so excited about anything as I am right now, knowing that tomorrow you'll actually mount me on a spit and roast me as meat! I'm so scared and so turned on I can hardly stand it!"

And that's the last time I offered her a way out.

Now, as she laid out the garnishings on the table where her steaming carcass would be placed, I admired the neat indentations of the brand. BLT. Byron Ludlow Thomas. I had reserved that particular cut of her meat for myself. Along with one of her breasts, of course.

When she had finished — all the fruits, veggies, desserts and side dishes laid out and covered, including the tub containing the sauce with which she was to be basted — I gave her three warm, soapy enemas to clean her out, scrubbed her down, pined up her hair and returned her to her stall to await our guests.

Tony, Eric, Blaise and Jennifer arrived around noon. I led Crystal out to a post I had placed in the center of a grassy spot in the lawn and attached her chain to it, creating the very scene she had envisioned earlier. She was gloriously nude (I had burned all her clothes long ago) and suitably docile as the five of us poked and prodded her, exploring the shape of her body with our hands, invading her moist inner places with our fingers. All four guests were duly impressed by her brand. The girls' eyes were wide as they tested the depth of it with their fingers. The chain was long enough that the men could put her on her hands and knees or lay her on her back to hump her. Blaise and Jennifer seemed a little nonplused at the sight of their boyfriends screwing this beautiful naked girl, but as Eric so aptly pointed out, "Whores don't get no say about who, where and how often their men fuck." The boys also insisted Blaise and Jennifer remove their undies, raise their minis and let "the cow" lick and suck at their pussies. The orgy continued until nearly every combination and position of bodies had been tried out and both Tony and Eric were beyond sexual resuscitation. As we were all collecting our apparel and restoring it to our bodies, I ordered Crystal to squat in front of us and empty her bladder in the grass. She cast her eyes down in shame, but did so without a murmur. In fact, not once during ninety minutes of hard use and humiliation had Crystal complained. She was the perfect obedient cow.

And now it was time to prepare her for the spit.

I brought out a pail of hot, soapy water and Eric scrubbed her cruelly with the same harsh brush I had been using on her while Tony douched her with salt water and vinegar, which made her whimper. We finished by rinsing her off with a garden hose.

I then put to her lips a small jar filled with the viscous liquid I had purchased from Tony. "Drink this, cow!" I demanded, and she gulped it gratefully.

By the time we had led her to the steel prep table and strapped her down with her legs spread wide and her head hanging off one end, her eyes were drooping and her lips were parted in a lazy smile. She only cringed a little as I plunged the knife into the top of her belly just below the breastbone and sliced her open, all the way to her pubis. Blaise fainted as I reached in a pulled out a handful of intestine, slicing it off at her rectum and cauterizing the wound with a soldering iron. Jennifer threw up her Vodka screwdrivers as I pulled out yards of the ropey viscera, finally slicing it free where it joined the stomach, stanching the various points of blood flow with the iron. I cleaned the blood off and away from her body with a sponge. The viscera I tossed into a bucket to feed to my guard dogs.

"Okay, Tony, here's the tricky part," I announced.

"Hey, wait!" Eric called out. He was busy trying to revive Blaise. "What's the point of bringing a bitch to a live girl roast if she ain't conscious?"

"Can't wait," I said. "Our cow might pass out. We've got to start inserting the spit, slowly and carefully, so as not to puncture her heart or lungs. We want her to live long enough to feel what it's like to be roasted alive."

I poured olive oil over the pointed end of the spit and guided it into Crystal's splayed vagina, the vulva still red from its recent abuse. Tony held up the far end to keep it horizontal. We twisted it clockwise as we pushed it slowly through her birth canal, as though screwing it into her body. She grunted and twitched as the point pierced her cervix and entered her womb. She grunted again when it tore through the other side of the uterus. Her eyes were wide open and she was smiling. The morphine was doing its magic. As Tony pushed and twisted the spit, I watched the point working its way through the emptied cavity of her abdomen. Eric soon joined the effort, drizzling olive oil on the metal as it entered Crystal's cunt, inch by inch. The two girls had recovered and were holding hands, staring at the skewering in horrified fascination. I continued to guide the point as it passed through the vacant abdominal cavity and approached the area between the lungs. Even if one lung were pierced, the other would keep her alive for a while. If we hit the heart, however, she would be dead in seconds. Somehow we managed to miss lungs and heart. Crystal was making a series of small cries as the point of the spit disappeared into the bloody center of her thorax.

"Jennifer!" I shouted. "Make yourself useful. Stand at her head and hold it up so I can watch her expression and hear what she says!"

Jennifer looked as though she would faint at having to help impale the same girl whose tongue had penetrated her vulva just fifteen minutes earlier. But at a nod from Tony, she did it.

"Blaise! You rub the cow's clit!" Eric chimed in. "You know how to do it so it makes her come. Same way you do yourself. I want to see her juices flow."

And flow they did, mixing with the oil to lubricate the cold, steel shaft as it twisted ever deeper through her body. I watched her face, a montage of pain and ecstacy, grimaces, gasps and smiles.

"Hang in there, sweetie!" I murmured.

"I can feel it!" she croaked. "It's in my. . ."

Her words were cut off by a series of little cries. Her eyes went wide as her throat bulged. Her body bucked as much as her restraints would allow, her mouth gaping open while I pushed her head back down to the angle we had worked out during Brandi's skewering. A moment later I saw the bloody point of the spit gliding over her tongue and out between her teeth. She was struggling for breath around the steel rod as it continued to slide forward, no longer able to speak because the spit had destroyed her larynx. I cut a small hole in her windpipe to help her breathe. When the point of the spit protruded a couple of feet from her mouth, the insertion was complete.

Seeing her thus impaled, her teeth biting the hard shaft, was erotic in the extreme. She blinked at me, her eyes gleaming with an incredible admixture of pain, fear and excitement. I kissed those eyes one last time, then oiled the L-bracket and pushed it up her ass as far as it would go before attaching it to the spit. She was panting through the hole in her throat as I stapled her belly shut, wired her knees and ankles to the shaft and flipped her over to wire her wrists together behind her. Tony and I wrapped her hair in aluminum foil and attached the foil to her scalp with eighteen common pins. The two of us then picked up the spit and carried it to the fire pit, placing her over the hot coals and the low flame of the gas fire. The spit began to turn. Tremors swept through her body. Orgasms? Shock? I couldn't tell.

I did the basting at first, liberally brushing the sauce she had prepared over her body as it turned. Each time her face came around I engaged her eyes. She could neither speak nor scream, of course, since the spit had destroyed her larynx. Only her eyes revealed her thoughts and the level of pain she was suffering as the heat of the fire and coals turned her skin pink, then to a bright red. But the morphine was apparently doing its work quite well. I asked her to blink twice at me if she was happy, and on the next turn of the spit she did. She lasted thirty-three minutes before her body went into a series of vigorous convulsions, and she died.

I stopped the turning of the spit for a minute to pin aluminum foil disks over her eyes, to keep them from exploding. Then turned up the fire and let her continue turning and roasting for the six hours it takes to bring a human female to gustatorial perfection. The fragrance of her steaming, bronzed carcass, fat dripping from the splits in her skin, had all our mouths watering by the time she was finally brought to the table, carved up and served.

She was delicious! Not just the juicy breast, rump and thigh meat, but every cut, including her calves, forearms, neck, fingers, tongue, heart, liver and her lovely, crispy cunt lips. Even Jennifer and Blaise admitted as much. Tony and Eric insisted on bringing home doggie bags.

In fact, Tony was so impressed with the banquet that he called me a few weeks later inviting me to an evening of pool where he offered me a handsome fee to arrange another such barbecue.

"I'd love to," I responded, "but I'm afraid I only had the one cow."

"No problemo," he assured me breezily. "Me and Eric will supply the cow."

"But Crystal did all the preparations and cooked all the side dishes and desserts. I don't know anything about that shit."

"Got it covered, man. A good buddy from my days as a guest of the state is a professional cook. Used to be a doc before he . . . uh . . . retired. He specializes in barbecues and can do all the trimmings. I told him how we did this girl and ate her meat and now he's hot to go. Thinks it's the coolest thing he's ever heard. Can't wait to do it. Gets a hard-on every time he thinks about it!"

"Okay," I said cautiously. "But where'd you get this cow? Is she really into this?"

"She is now . You remember Blaise? The one with the big tits?"

"Blaise wants to be meat?"

"Bet your ass! The bitch cheated on me."

"Cheated on you? But she's a prostitute! Isn't that what prostitutes do? Fuck lots of guys?"

"Yeah, but she was doin' 'em on the sly and keepin' the fee. Can't have that shit. So I gotta make an example of her. But I'm fair. I give her a couple a choices for punishment. She chose to be meat on a skewer, just like your cow."

I didn't ask what the alternate choice was.

"In fact," he went on, "she insists that she get the whole — you know — treatment. Branding, chained up in a stall for two weeks, like you did Crystal. Eating cow food from a wooden bin, shitting in the straw, getting tied to a post and fucked over. Then getting strapped down, sliced open, degutted, speared from cunt to pie hole and slow roasted live over an outdoor fire. The whole fuckin' ball o wax. And she don't want no drugs, neither. Insists she get to enjoy the full . . . whatcha call it? . . . experience."

"She insists, huh?"

"Practically begged me."

"Rather than the . . . uh . . . the other choice."

"Oh shit, yeah! No fuckin' contest."

"Sounds like I'd be doing her a favor."

"Big time, buddy. Big time."

I was getting hard myself. I remembered her lush figure and amazing front porch. But much as being roasted alive might be better for her than whatever other horror Tony had suggested, we were talking major, major pain.

"Jesus, Tony!" I said. "My place is remote, but without drugs, when she starts screaming and carrying on . . ."

"No sweat. Doc has already slit her vocal cords. She won't make a sound. Plus, you got two weeks to fuck the cow as much as you want, make her do whatever you want. If she gives you any shit, you just tell me and I'll see she remembers her place."

And that's how it went. We branded her the day her brought her over, and that was pretty traumatic. It was Blaise's first experience with such terrible pain, and she fainted. But Tony brought smelling salts so she wouldn't miss the salt and alcohol treatment on the fresh burn. After two weeks chained in that stall with her hands cuffed behind her, sleeping and shitting in the hay, pissing in the bucket and sticking her head in the manger to munch on salad greens, Blaise appeared almost glad to be led out for her final degradation and prepping. The smelling salts kept her awake and aware throughout the entire ordeal, from the disemboweling and impaling to turning on the spit over the fire. I must admit, watching her squirm and buck in her agony was immensely erotic. Whereas Crystal, in her happy, drugged daze wriggled sensuously and seemed to be humping the spit during her last thirty-three minutes over the fire, Blais thrashed and twisted like a worm on a hook. We all masturbated furiously as we watched, even the girls. Blais died only fifteen minutes into her roasting, but she put on a spectacular show while she lasted.

According to all present, the barbecue was a great success. Tony had brought Jennifer and a couple of his new girls to entertain Doc, Eric, me and himself. Doc turned out to be a fine chef. The meat and all the side dishes were melt-in-your-mouth superb! As host, I got half of one of those magnificent mammaries, including the crunchy nipple. Tony and Eric seemed to think the cunt meat was a big deal, so I let them divvy it up between them. Cunt meat is tangy and the lips roast up nice and crisp, but there's not much of it and the vaginal walls are a bit chewy for my taste. Frankly I prefer the tender, juicy parts — the breast and rump. There was plenty of good wine flowing so we were all properly snookered and naked by the time the deserts were rolled out. It was a memorable feast!

Not three weeks went by before Tony called again. Seems Jennifer had been charging her clients extra for certain enhancements to the normal full service and not reporting it. Will these girls never learn? Of course, it's also possible that Jennifer, having participated in two cow roasts, had subconsciously taken on the same fantasy that led Crystal and Brandi to the spit. Perhaps she's having the time of her life! What's left of it. In fact, the more I think about it, the more I'm convinced that must be the case. Why else, having seen what "cheating" on Tony brought to Blaise, would she turn around and do essentially the same damn thing? She must secretly be loving every minute of her life as a cow, even if she can't say so, her vocal cords having been snipped and all.

Even as I write this, she is munching on salad greens in her stall, awaiting her turn on the spit. We already have four new paying guests lined up for this next barbecue at $2K a plate and Tony assures me he has an endless supply of cows that can be rounded up for future roasts. I've also started running my ad again and got a nibble today.

Life is good!