The Knobscot Cannibals

Excerpt 8

It's been eight month's and seven more roasts since Jennifer was served (and a tasty thing she was, too). Meanwhile, I've been right out straight! Between the greedy idiots in the newspaper executive suite and tight-fisted business owners bitching about advertising costs, I've been hard pressed for a stress-free minute. I don't think a day went by during those eight months when Heather Moray, our spoiled bitch CEO, wasn't pissing and moaning about how I need to "reorganize the ad department" (again), and how I must double our ad revenue (again), and if I can't do it, she's got a file drawer full of résumés from young bucks who are sure they can!

Of course, she hasn't done any complaining during this last week. For one thing, she's in no position to complain any more. And never fear, I've kept her abreast of the fact that both readership and — more important — ad revenues have indeed doubled since her mysterious abduction and the subsequent international media hoopla. The sweaty public (and the advertisers who feed off them) have come straight to the Times Journal in droves to catch exclusive tidbits on the mystery. For some reason they assume her own newspaper will have juicy tidbits the rest of the media doesn't have. Needless to say, we are able to titivate their curiosity with an inexhaustible supply of color photos of our missing publisher — many of them taken on Jamaican beaches with very little of her shapely, thirty-two year old body hidden behind the tiny scraps of her bikini. Sad to say, Heather Better-than-Thou Moray is not going to be able to taste the fruits of her newspaper's newfound prosperity. I, on the other hand, am going to be able to taste her fine, expensively tuned body. I've already drunk deep of the terror that wells up in her eyes every time I pay her a visit.

As the TV networks have been at pains to mention, Mrs. Heather Moray, as slippery and slimy a character as her eely name suggests, didn't rise to her position of power in the newspaper industry by virtue of her sagacity for directing a news operation or brilliance as a business manager. She arrived at the top because she's the granddaughter of the original owner-publisher-CEO, Neville Johnson. Granddaddy was charmed out of his gourd by the beauty and effervescence of his cute little granddaughter, and on the strength of her undistinguished degree from Amherst College and the many possibilities for exploiting her photogenic qualities as a former Miss Massachusetts and second runner-up for Miss America, he named her as his successor to the publishing throne. Nepotism rules! During the last company Holiday Party, proud Grandpa bored us all with video clips from the Atlantic City competition. I must admit, Heather was by far the most gorgeous of the three finalists, but her so-called "talent" was an embarrassment. She couldn't sing for shit! Claims she had a cold and blew out her voice during rehearsals for the big production number. Didn't want us to hear it, but Gramps played it anyway. She was most proud of her bullshit answers to their bullshit questions. "My ambition is to follow in my grandfather's footsteps in the newspaper business and use the power of the press to spread truth and give a voice to the victims of oppression and injustice to improve their lot in the world." Oh please! Her ambition has been to increase readership with garish stories of sex and violence so she can raise her rip-off advertising rates and send serfs like me into the world to improve her obscene annual bonuses.

Hubby Justin Moray is a commercial property developer whose principal claim to fame is an ability to bleed lots of profit exploiting once beautiful landscape. He did manage to get his lovely, illustrious and bitchy wife knocked up a year ago, but has remained strictly behind the scene until his wife's abduction last week. There is, naturally, substantial suspicion that he's the culprit and has planted her body under concrete in one of his construction sites, but there's no evidence that warrants running around ripping up cellars.

The note left behind in their mansion by her abductors has stirred up plenty of speculation but nothing remotely helpful. It was pasted together from words clipped out of her own newspaper.

WE GOT YOU'RE WIFE. IF YOU WANT HER BACK IT WILL COST YOU $1 MILLION. IF YOU GO TO THE POLICE SHE IS DEAD. WE WILL LET YOU KNOW HOW AND WEAR TO LEAVE THE MONEY.

No such followup instructions have been made, of course, but most people assume it's because the story was leaked to a major TV network and the cops pounced almost immediately, not to mention the FBI, Homeland Security and every news outlet in the world. The note, grammatical errors and all, is a dead end. Same for Mrs. Heather Slit-licker Moray herself.

It was Tony who actually came up with the idea. We were in his office eating sandwiches made from the leftover rib meat of our eighth cow, a particularly tasty young slut named Melanie, and I was bemoaning the hell of having to work for such a world-class bitch.

"So who would take over if she went away?" Tony had asked.

"George Ester," I said, "her assistant."

"He any better to work for?"

"Yeah. He's a pro. He's realistic. Knows how the news and ad businesses work. Doesn't expect the impossible."

"So what's the problem? Just get rid of Miss Bitch-mouth."

"That would be nice. But how?"

"Why not just turn her into meat, like juicy little Melanie here?"

"That would be absolutely heavenly. But this is no anonymous whore we're talking about. Heather is a powerful and well-known figure."

"No problemo. Leave it to Tony," he said with that self assurance that had already provided us with eight lovely cows for our monthly banquets.

"But we already have a girl in the holding pen for Saturday," I said, "and I don't think I could put up with five or six weeks of angry bitching from Heather while we set up for the next one."

"In the first place, she ain't gonna be doin' no bitchin. Doc will take care of that, same as the other cows. In the second place, we don't wanna have a hot potato like that hangin' around to be found by the cops. There'll be no reason for anyone to suspect you, but there's no point takin' no chances, neither. What I'm sayin' is, maybe it's time we started thinkin' bigger. We got nineteen guests comin' Saturday at two large per plate, plus five a my girls to service 'em during the cookin. That's a lotta mouths to feed with just one little cow to go around. Time we got more generous with the meat, like double it. Give all the payin' customers a chance to sample the best cuts, like the tit meat. We can set up another pit and do two at once."

The more I thought about it as I chewed on Melanie, the more I liked the idea. "Yeah, we could do that. Doc and I can have another pit and prep table set up by Saturday. I like it!"

So it was that today's double feature got underway. Heather disappeared from her home two days later and arrived that evening in the back of a panel truck — naked, hog-tied and quiet as a mouse. You should have seen her eyes bug out when she saw me, and when I locked that collar around her neck. I clamped shackles on her ankles as well as cuffing her hands behind her back before I released her from the ropes. I knew better than give her a chance to kick me.

We no longer keep the girls in the cow stall. That was Crystal's fantasy and she loved it, but it was getting to be a pain in the butt for me. Now I keep our succession of cows in a cellar stall, chained to the wall by their collars with a lidded bucket within reach for bodily wastes. (Controls the stench of the shit better.) In place of the manger they have a metal bowl to eat out of, but they're still denied the use of their hands and have to stick their face in the food and pan of water like animals. Three or four weeks of languishing there without exercise tenderizes their meat. If they're good — obeying all orders with no show of temper or resistence — they get to sleep on a pad. If they're not perfectly obedient and respectful, they sleep on the concrete floor. Additional infractions bring them painful jolts from my cattle prod. They hate that cattle prod! It's a harsh way to spend their last days, but the way I see it, if they hadn't fucked up with Tony, he wouldn't have shipped them here in the first place. So too freaking bad if they don't like sleeping on concrete or feeling the bite of the prod. They earned it.

Tony and I have contemplated variations on the cooking ritual, like snuffing the cows first in amusing ways, but in the end we decided against it because the customers really enjoy seeing them roasted live. They love to watch them fight the pain, twisting and bucking on the spit as they turn over the fire. Doc has come up with a cocktail of drugs which, while not affecting their flavor, help keep them alive longer as their bodies turn from pink to bright red over the intense heat. We can now keep them alive and in obvious agony for almost an hour. I've worked it out with Doc to see if we can stretch that out even longer for Heather. Of course, Christina, the dusky 17-year-old beauty Tony has supplied as her partner cow, will have to suffer the same extended ordeal because Tony has three pools going with a lot of money riding on them. They start when the cows are placed over the fire to cook. One is for betting on which cow will live the longest; the other two reward whoever comes closest to the number of minutes each girl will last.

With only a few days to extend my special hospitality to Heather, I gave her an intensive course in obedience. It has been a traumatic week for a bitch accustomed giving the orders.

The first thing I noticed when they brought her in was that her nipples were leaking milk. The bitch has been nursing her whelp! Doc was ecstatic. He says the milk will make her tit meat sweet and succulent and he's prepared a special side dish with apple and mint which should be an ideal complement to it. In the meantime, I rented a milking machine — not the gentle type designed for human mothers, but the more brutal type intended for real dairy cows. She cried pitifully every time I planted those plastic tubes over her teats and the machine sucked her entire boobs into the tube. I saved all the milk, too, for one of Doc's sauces. For additional humiliation, I made her straddle my lap while I sucked on her tits myself. The cattle prod shoved up her pussy rendered her marvelously cooperative. I only had to press the button once to be assured of her cooperation. I also made her lick her cell mate's pussy several times, jamming her tongue deep into the slit. Nor did I deprive her of the delight of sucking my cock. Also, Doc's and Tony's. While she worked on our dicks, taking care to swallow every drop of our semen and piss (always aware of that painfully inserted cattle prod), I made sure she heard us discussing how she would be disemboweled and cooked. Christina whimpered nearby, knowing the fate we were planning for Heather would apply to her as well. But so what. As I said before, if she hadn't been a bad little slut while working for Tony, she wouldn't be here in the first place.

I came up with a cool idea for enhancing the festivities. It's based on Crystal's scheme for snuffing Brandi. Tony liked it because it had the added benefit of making the two cows unavailable for sexual use during much of the morning, which, in turn, means the guests have to pay his girls if they want to dip their sticks. I'm going to go fetch the cows and set it up right now.

*********

That was great! Here's what we did. We led the two naked females, their hands tied behind them, to a set of two large blocks of ice we had placed under a thick tree limb. We replaced the collars around their necks with a hangman's noose and tossed the other end of the ropes over the limb. We made them climb up on the blocks of ice, then pulled the ropes taut and tied them off. Next we set up two betting pools: one on which of the two sluts would last the longest before passing out, the other on how long it would take for that to happen.

The whimpering began within the first quarter hour as their feet grew increasingly cold. Soon their whole bodies were shaking as they danced on the ice, trying to relieve first one foot, then the other. As they gradually sank deeper into the melting blocks and the nooses tightened around their necks, they stood on tiptoe, hopping from one side to the other. They tried to get a toehold on the higher edges of the ice, but kept sliding off to the outside or to the center. Both women were gasping now, their mouths open, the nooses alternately choking them and loosening a little as they found brief purchases on the outer ridges of the ice, then slipped off in a spray of water. Christina was the first to lose touch with the ice block entirely, perhaps because she was a little heavier, or warmer. Her feet flailed in the air as she pointed her toes vainly toward the ice, her diaphragm laboring desperately to push and pull air past the ever tightening noose. A few minutes later Heather, too, was treading air, eyes popping, tongue protruding in her frantic struggle to breathe. Her arms jerked and pulled at the ropes binding her wrists behind her back, a frantic if hopeless attempt to yank them free to clutch at the noose crushing her windpipe. For more than thirty minutes both females thrashed above the shrinking ice. They amused their audience with gurgling, grunting noises as they slowly strangled — kicking and twisting, fighting for every thimbleful of air. Christina lost control of her bladder first, then Heather, their urine dripping off their toes into the cold puddles in the hollowed out tops of the ice blocks. Finally, their eyes, bulging with terror and a silent, desperate plea for rescue, began to glaze. They twitched and struggled for six more minutes before Christina, nipples hardening in an involuntary orgasm, gave one last spasm and became still. Tony and I immediately took her down and revived her with CPR and oxygen. Heather suffered her own near death experience three minutes later. As the oxygen brought her around afterward, I made it a point to wipe the fingers of my right hand across her wet pussy and then across her swollen tongue, making sure she tasted the shame of her very public piss and orgasm. For good measure I pinched her still hard nipples, making her grimace and producing satisfying squirts of mother's milk.

"Your little brat won't be getting any more of this," I told her as she shivered in near shock. "But your dinner guests will. Oh, just so you know," I added in a sudden inspiration of malicious revenge, "I plan to come for your daughter in about twelve years. Our chef tells me her meat should be lovely and tender by then. Adolescent tits are especially succulent. We might even get her pregnant and keep her in a cage until her own milk comes in, to make them even sweeter and juicier. Like yours."

Heather made a valiant effort to rise up, her eyes inflamed with an admixture of hate, fear and despair, emitting panting noises in a useless effort to speak . But with her hands still bound behind her and her voice destroyed, she could only mouth a laughably impotent No! Please! No!

Doc gave both cows a shot of his special drug cocktail (which must have hurt like hell going in, to judge from their reactions) for longevity over the fire. We made them get up and march around the barbecue area three times to make sure it circulated into their systems and to revive them fully from the slow hanging. A little after 1:00 pm they were strapped down to the tables for evisceration and spitting. At the fourth barbecue Doc started experimenting with the addition of stuffing to the emptied abdominal cavities. He has evolved a heavenly blend of breads fruits, vegetables and spices that's as mouth watering in its own right as the meat itself whose flavors it absorbs during the hours of roasting.

Even now I'm inhaling the incredibly delicious aromas from the fire pits as I write up in my private office. Once again Christina died first, although she lasted a good forty minutes. Heather had the dubious distinction of living in hell for sixty-two minutes before she ceased wriggling and twitching on the spit. Their carcasses have taken on a beautiful bronze color, glistening with a dozen layers of basting sauce. In another two hours they will be dark bronze and ready for carving, slicked with their own inner juices bubbling through the crisp skin.

A few of the guests are pretty well bombed, as always happens, but most have complied with our recommendation that they stay sober enough to enjoy the feast itself. Tony's girls have been doing a brisk and profitable business. I'm looking down on a blonde right now, laid out face up on the lawn, clothes off, legs wrapped around a member of the Indian consulate as he pounds away inside her, oblivious to others in the vicinity. If the sight of her former colleague cooking over the fire nearby causes her any foreboding, she's hiding it well. Thing is, once a girl goes to work for Tony and Eric, she better not even think of displeasing them, much less quitting. As a safety measure, his sluts are brought here in blindfolds and don't know where it is or who I am, so I don't worry about what they see. If Tony feels any concern about a girl, she soon finds herself voiceless and chained up in my cellar, waiting for the next barbecue.

Tony and I have already discussed preliminary plans for the next feast. He has two girls picked out who've been whining about appointments with one of his regular clients, a gentleman who insists on using them as a toilet after sex. He pays handsomely for the extra service so who the hell cares what the whores want? Their job is to spread their legs and open their mouths. If he wants to shit in a girl's pie-hole, she's expected to swallow it and lick his asshole clean. Period. These girls weren't dragged into the sex business kicking and screaming. They got into it for the money, and as far as Tony's concerned they'd better damn well earn the fucking money. As in any other part of the service industry, that means pleasing the customer. It means . . .

What the hell is that?

There's some sort of commotion going on down there on the lawn. Better check out the window.

Oh shit!

Okay. Deep breath. No big fucking surprise. I knew in my heart it would come to this some day. Too many cooks. Too much risk.

Ah, Crystal! Why didn't I stop with you? You were so sweet, so eager. It was your big dream. You really wanted it. It wasn't like I was killing you; I was making your dream come true. Okay, in retrospect what I should have done was use my charm to talk you out of it, or at least put it on indefinite hold until you outgrew the urge, maybe get you pregnant so you'd have somewhere else to direct your sensual energies. If I'd done that, you'd be here with me now and I wouldn't be staring at my 9 mm Glock and wondering if I'll hear the noise when it goes off.

Well, at least the Bitch Goddess got hers, right? Too bad I won't get to slice up her milky tits, but they're probably sour anyway.

Shit, here they come! I can hear them starting up the stairs.

This isn't exactly how I planned to go, but then, unlike you my sweet Crystal, most of us don't plan on going at all. So what the hell? One way is as good as another, right? One way I intend NOT to go is to rot to death in a Massachusetts prison, treated like Hannibal Lecter. "The Knobscot Monster!" That's what they'll probably tag me. Well, piss on that! I'd rather join you, my darling, happily roasting over Lucifer's fires.

They're banging open doors down the hall now. They'll be breaking this one down in another minute. Fuck them!

I can smell the sweet jasmine fragrance of your body again, feel your young breast under my hand, your hand inside my pants, taste your delicious juices on my lips — just like in the car that day we met, and at the table as I transferred your buttery, crisp nipple from the fork to my tongue. Wait for me, my love. Save a place for me on the next spit. Here I come!