meat

by

W. L. Telford

Although I believe this story can stand alone, it might be a sequel to WORLDS APART.

No one knows what happened to Carol Edwards after she stepped naked into an elevator on the fifth level of underground parking beneath a Los Angeles office building. 

This is one possibility.

1

With apologies to T.S. Eliot: 

This is the way the world ends. 

This is the way the world ends. 

This is the way the world ends: 

Not with a bang but a whisper. 

A life ended as an elevator door closed behind a beautiful woman with a whisper and a whiff of displaced air against her bare back.  And then nothing happened.  Time, which she could not measure, stretched.  A minute?  Two?  Five?  She understood she was being taught a lesson.

She was in a steel box.  She could not escape even if she wanted to, which she did not.  She could not go back.  She could not go forward.  Absolute.  Irrevocable.  Came to her mind.  But did not yet seem real.

 

Smooth burnished walls void of control buttons.  No numbered floors.   No ‘open’.  No ‘close.’  Certainly no emergency intercom.  The overhead was nine feet high, far beyond her reach.  She assumed she was under observation, and stood waiting for another’s whim, as henceforth she knew she always would.  Finally, with a low hum of distant machinery, the elevator moved and, involuntary, her hands clenched, nails digging into palms, until she deliberately made them relax.

The elevator had two doors.  She had entered through one and assumed that she would exit through the other.

The ascent slowed, eased to a stop.  Doors again whispered and opened onto another world. 

A few feet away a man, about her own age and height, wearing a light blue polo shirt with the Lacoste alligator emblem, tan slacks, brown loafers without socks.  He looked like the friendly golf pro at a private club.  Two bigger men, muscles straining fabric, no necks, huge shoulders, weight lifters, maybe former football linemen, stood behind him.  Not threatening, but watchful.  Their eyes swept up and down her naked body.  An Asian woman, black hair clipped short, in a red t-shirt and jeans.

“Very dramatic,” said blue polo shirt.  “I admire your style.  Among other things.  You can come out.”

As she did, taking three steps forward onto a tile floor cool beneath the soles of her bare feet, the Asian woman stepped into the elevator and the doors closed.

“She’s getting your shoes.  You won’t need them; but we can’t leave them there.  Messy.  Come closer..  No one here is going to harm you.”

The two big men separated and moved, one to either side of her, a thick arm’s length away.

“Unless,” polo shirt continued.  “You’ve had a change of mind.  Or heart.  It happens.  And,” he chuckled, “of course, not all meat volunteer.

He walked around her.  Then back in front.  He stood close, reached out and lifted the heavy gold nose ring that hung from her septum, startlingly barbaric, testing the weigh, let it fall back down.

She shivered.  Her skin was covered with goose bumps.  Hundreds of men had looked at her naked body in person, millions on computers; but this was different.  Not sexual.   Appraisal.   A potential buyer looking at a horse or prize pig. 

“Spread your legs.”

He crouched, eyes level with her cunt, studied for a moment, then ran his fingers over the gold helix, whose spiral rings locked her labia minor.  “I think we’ll sell you with it in place.  A novelty.   What do you think?”  He was addressing the Asian woman who had just emerged from the elevator with black high-heeled sandals in her hands.  She dropped them in a wastebasket next to a desk on which stood a 27” iMac.   Then moved beside him.  Her eyes roved up and down.

“Yes.  Just like that.  The nose ring.  The gold thing sealing her cunt.  The key on the chain around her neck.  I assume that is for the cunt lock.  They’ll like that.  Total ownership.  Pride of possession.  Maybe a little more gold.  A chain around one ankle.  Slave girl.  Have to do something to hype the market.  She’s beautiful, but she’s old.”

Thirty-four old? she thought.  I’ve never been called ‘old’ before.

“Good idea.  See if we have something in wardrobe.” 

The Asian woman went to a heavy metal security door, the only door other than the elevator.  It had no handle and opened when the woman pressed her fingertips to a scanner.

For the first time, the beautiful woman noticed her surroundings.  The room was an oval loft double height with various chains and other objects hanging overhead.  No windows.  In the quadrant to her right the desk and computer.  To her left a sofa and several armchairs covered in easy to clean black vinyl.  Ahead to the left a holding cell.  Ahead to the right a six inch high white raised platform in front of a plain white curtain that followed the curve of the room.

The security door opened and she saw that there was another beyond it.

The Asian woman knelt in front of her.   “I don’t think it matters which ankle.”  And fastened a gold chain with links the same ⅛” width as the rings of the helix around the left ankle; stood; smiled.  “Excellent.” 

“You can go over and sit down,” said polo shirt.

She did, on the sofa, vinyl sticking to skin.

The big men followed and sat in armchairs, facing her.

After consulting with the Asian woman at the computer for a few minutes, polo shirt joined them.  He was carrying a bathroom scale.

“Obviously we are prepared to overcome resistance, but there is no reason why this should not be easy,  so I am going to tell you what is going to happen, though treating you like a human being may be a disservice.  You are not a human being.  You are meat.  Temporarily you are 012111,” giving the date numerically.  “And who you will be tomorrow is up to your new owner.

“The auction will take place in less than an hour.  We move meat as quickly as possible; and with you we had advance notice and excellent promotional images.  You do look innocent.  I must admit that without those images I wouldn’t have believed you’ve done the things you have. 

“The auction won’t take very long.  A few minutes.  You’ll stand over there,” pointing to the platform in front of the white curtain, “and follow instructions.  That’s all you ever have to do anymore:  follow instructions.  All right?”

“As though I have a choice?”

“Of course not.  I just want to know that you’ll cooperate.  If not, we’ll do things differently.”

“I’ll cooperate.

“Stand on the scale.”

“I’m really to be sold by the pound?”

“Kilo, actually.  Most of our buyers are metric.”  Looking down at the scale, “Fifty-eight.  You should bring $10,000 to $20,000 a kilo, less than your weight in gold these days, but about the same as a winning race horse, though not a derby winner.  What are you 5’9” or 10?”

“Yes.”

“We’ll call it 1.77 meters.  You can sit down.”

The beautiful blond woman did.  The eyes of all three men followed her swaying breasts.

“To forestall the obvious next questions,” polo shirt continued.  “The auction takes place here via the Internet.  If you expected a roomful of leering faces, you’re going to be disappointed. 

“l’ll be using a handheld webcam.  Bidders can only join our VPN with equipment we provide.  They are all over the world.  Mostly private individuals:  businessmen--and a few women, African presidents, South American drug kings, oil, an increasing market in China, some syndicates, some private clubs, occasionally a brothel, but our prices are not really cost effective for them. 

“Meat spoils; so upon conclusion of the bidding you’ll be delivered to your owner, or more likely his, or her, representative, somewhere in California within twelve hours.

“That’s all I’m going to tell you.  If you need to use the bathroom or want something to drink, ask.  Otherwise, sit and wait.  It will be good practice.”  And he turned and joined the Asian woman at the computer.

One of the big men, with a shaved balding head, said, “Open your legs.”

She did.

“Farther.  How long have you been locked up?

“Months.”

“And you don’t get fucked in your cunt?”

“Seldom.”

Both men smiled. 

“Clever,” said the other, with long stringy hair.  “Do you ever come or does it just build up and up and keep you always on edge?”

“Mostly on edge.  But when I do come, it is sensational.”

“I’d like to see that.  We aren’t allowed to mess with the meat--word would get back from the owners--except in special cases; but I sure would like to work you over.  Put your feet up on the edge of your chair.”

She did, which forced her pelvis forward and further exposed the helix.

“I’d like that,” she said, letting her hands drift down and over her breasts, teasingly touching her nipples with fingertips.  She felt herself getting wet for the first time that day.

“No you wouldn’t.  We’d make sure of that.”

“That’s why I would like it.”

One of the men groaned in frustration.

“Jesus,” said the other.

“Can I put my feet down?”

“Yeah.  No point looking at what we can’t have.”

…

“Show time,” said blue polo shirt, and her stomach flip-flopped involuntarily.  “Come on.  Stand there.  Put your hands behind your back.  Cross your wrists.  I’m not going to chain you.  This is theater.”

The Asian woman said, “Stand straight.  Move your left foot back about three inches and at an angle to the right one  and raise your heel so your weight in on your toes on that foot.  Good.  Brings attention to the line of your leg and hip.”

She touched up the naked woman’s lipstick and with one hand brushed back her blond hair.

A thin white curtain descended from the ceiling just in front of the platform.

“Because of your nose ring, we’re going to do things in reverse order.  Usually we lower the curtain and expose the face first and then work our way down.  With you we’re going to raise the curtain and work our way up.  That ring will come as a shock and should hype the final bids.”

The Asian woman went back to the desk and computer, while polo shirt, carrying his webcam, walked around to the other side of the panel. 

It was an eerily silent life-changing event.  The beautiful woman only knew it had begun when the curtain moved upward five inches. 

She wondered how many men and women around the world were seeing her bare high arched feet, red painted toenails, and fine ankles, around the left of which hung a gold chain in a graceful arc.  What would one bid on those elegant feet?

The curtain rose to above her knees.  Then to just below her cunt.  Then to her waist. She glanced down.  Not much of the helix would be visible to the camera.  Then above her breasts to her neck.   Each interval longer as bidding increased with exposure of perfect flesh:  full hips, narrow waist, fine bones, large dark-nippled breasts.

Finally the curtain raised to the ceiling, and she was looking directly at polo shirt and camera.

Polo shirt zoomed in on her face, on the thick 2” diameter nose ring that hung down to her upper lip, panned up to blue-green eyes, down to mouth.

“Part your lips.  Not far.  That’s good.”

He moved slowly around to her side, then her back, panning down her spine, lingering on her submissively crossed wrists, the cleft of her ass, down her thighs and calfs, then up.

“Spread your legs.  Bend from the waist.  Spread your cheeks.”

She held that familiar pose for what seemed minutes, seeing in her mind what the camera was revealing:  puckered anus, smooth shaven locked cunt.

“O.K.  On your knees.  Sit back.  Ass on heels.  Cross your wrists behind you”

He moved in front of her again.  Men.  Women.  All over the world.  Staring at her covetously.  Negligently.  Perhaps some even indifferently.   Bidding on her.  Bidding to buy her.  She felt herself getting wetter.

“Lift your breasts with your hands, as though you are offering them.”

“Open your mouth wide.”  The camera zoomed in.

“Now on your back.  Missionary position.  Splayed knees wide apart.  Arms stretched full length above your head.  Palms up and open.”

The camera roved the beautiful body.  Open hands.   Eyes.  Gold nose ring.  Mouth.  Gold key on neck chain.  Breasts.  Large dark nipples.  Narrow waist.  Flat belly.  Naval.  Cunt.  Zoomed in on gold helix.  Held.  Thighs.  Ankles.  Gold chain.  Feet. 

Then, with polo shirt standing over her, zoomed out to a full body shot, seeing what an owner would see:  incomparable beauty waiting to be used, to bring pleasure in every way imaginable.

A small red light on the camera went out.  It was over.  She had been sold.  It was surreal.

The Asian woman was all smiles. 

Polo shirt joined her at the computer and begin smiling, too.

“You can get up now, “ he said.

Forgetting her place, she asked, “Where do I go?”

“Meat goes where the money is.”

2

The Boeing 747 began a slow descent and landed with a direct approach.  There was no need to circle when it was the only craft at the one runway airport.

A face in a window.

‘Is this where I’m going to end up?’ 

‘This’ must be somewhere in Africa.  They had been flying toward the rising sun, but she did not know for how long.  Upon boarding she had been given two sleeping pills and had no idea how long she had been unconscious.

Outside the window, a dilapidated one story concrete block building,  flat topped acacia trees,  sandy dirt, sparse scrub bush.  In the distance a few buildings that might be called a town.

She had boarded after dark and could not see that the outside of the 747 carried no markings or that the lower half was painted green and the top was gold.  Not painted.  Gold leaf.  250’ of 18 caret,  which but for the need to induce impurities to bind it to the fuselage would have been 24.  She did assume, correctly, that the gold fixtures in her compartment, really a room the full 20’ width of the craft  and the adjoining bathroom were solid gold.  The decor was lavish, but garish.  Turquoise leather.  Deep red velvet.  Chrome.  Rat Pack Las Vegas.

She waited for them to come for her.

She had seen no one since she boarded.  The door to her room was locked from the outside.  Her stomach growled with hunger.  She could not remember when she had last eaten.  A mini-refrigerator in the room held only bottled water.

From the window she watched the custom boarding ramp telescope down.

A vehicle, which she recognized as a Land Rover, emerged from behind the terminal building and drove toward the 747.  She wondered where it would take her.  She knew she was not  any longer supposed to have personal desires, but this was bleak.

Three men stepped from the Land Rover.   Two of them carried automatic weapons.  The third reached into the vehicle and pulled a girl from it.  Then a boy.  Both in their late teens.  Tall.  With the fine bones of many of the peoples of East Africa.  Ethiopia?  the woman wondered.  Somalia?  Eritrea?   Frightened eyes were huge in pure black skin.  She thought of captured gazelles.

The girl and boy were herded toward the boarding ramp, which as they took the lowest step escalated them up.  The woman listened, but could hear no voices.  As the ramp folded back into the plane the image came to her of a snake coiling after devouring prey whole.  Engines roared into take-off.

3

“Turn around.”

Hampered by the heavy chain around her neck, as rough and thick as anchor chain she remembered from another life, she hesitated.

“Now!”

She was naked, as were the black boy and girl to whom she was linked by the chain.   Coffle.   The word came into her mind with images of long lines of slaves being driven to an African coast.   A lock held the chain around her throat.  Then eight or ten feet before another lock secured a loop around the boy’s neck, and the same distance to the girl.  They were standing close together.  Bare shoulders almost touching.  Slack chain hanging down between them of its own weight.

The words were in English.  British accented.

They had landed in unmistakable Dubai, but after a long ride in a stretch Mercedes limousine with darkened windows she did not know where they were now other than in a mansion.  Possibly a palace.  Feed, showered, chained by silent servants.  Led by four uniformed guards to this large unfurnished room with a tall windows overlooking a fountain in the middle of an interior courtyard of vibrant green plants and mosaic tile.  The woman’s skin was covered with goose-bumps, and not just from the ubiquitous air-conditioning that kept the room 50 degrees cooler than the desert outside.

The man speaking the words sat in front of the windows in an over-sized tan leather motorized chair on a  foot high dais reached by an inclined ramp.  Not a wheel chair, she realized, but a mobile throne.  The  dishdasha he was wearing concealed his body.  The woman noticed that the shiny black shoes that poked shyly from beneath the hem were perfectly smooth.  They had never been walked in.   As he intended the sunlight behind him made anyone looking at him squint against the glare.  As far as she could tell the man appeared to be in his fifties.  A jowly face, thick liverish lips, mustache flowing into neatly trimmed goatee, hawk nose.  Black eyes.  She turned.  The other two, not understanding, timidly followed her example, within the clinking constraints of the connecting chain.

“I meant only you, but it doesn’t matter.  They only speak French and some outlandish tribal dialect.  They’ll have to be taught English,”  The words came from behind her now turned back.

“All right.  Turn around again.  You’ll do.”

When all three slaves were facing the man, he said, “I’m told you entered into this voluntarily.  They didn’t.  Their parents sold them.  For a pittance.  For that matter you were a pittance, too, in my scale of things.  Just a much bigger pittance.  A thousand times bigger.

“Was your life so bad, then?”

“No.”

“Then, why...No.  It doesn’t matter.  I don’t want to know.  Or care.  What I want is to watch you make them come with your mouth.  Both of them.  Get down on your knees.  Here,”  and he snapped his fingers.  The uniformed men standing at the side of the room hurried forward.  “Get them down on the floor.”

One of the men pushed on the boy’s shoulders and he obediently knelt.  Eyes filled with fright as the man pushed him onto his back.  The girl knelt sobbing quietly to one side.

“Make it good for him,” the man said.  “It will be his last.  I’m having him castrated.  And be careful with the girl.  Don’t stick your fingers in her.  She’s a virgin.”

Last?  Castrated?  The boy could not be more than seventeen or eighteen.  The reality of her situation, of all their situations, of true slavery, as it had existed throughout most of human history, as it exists still, was becoming real to her.

As she dropped to her hands and knees and lowered her head over a lean smooth black abdomen, the thick ring in her nose swung, as did the key on the gold chain still around her neck outside the heavier steel chain, as did her breasts.  She felt the eyes of the guards and of the man whose name she did not know who owned her follow them.

Shriveled protectively in fear, the boy’s cock was a small black worm.  He jerked when she touched it with her fingers and then her tongue.  She raised her head, eyes meeting his and said,  “I won’t hurt you.  It will be all right.”  Hoping he would understand tone if not words. 

Cupping his balls with one hand, she sucked the soft cock entirely into her mouth, held it in that moist warmth and used her tongue.  The boy groaned. 

One of the guards holding the boy’s shoulders laughed and said something in Arabic.

The cock hardened and grew.  Lips suctioned tight, sucking, her head bobbed.  Her breasts swayed.  Her eyes meet the boy’s again.  His were filled with confused wonder.  She tasted salty pre-come.  Not too soon, she thought.  I want to make your last, last.

He moaned when she let the now saliva glistening black shaft fall from her red lips.  And again when she moved forward and pressed her breasts against it.  Her nipples were almost as dark as his skin.  The white of her flesh a startling contrast.   Her breasts quickly became sticky with fluids.  The boy’s breathing was ragged.  Harsh.

Briefly pulling back, she moved to one side and bent again.  A smooth muscled black thigh lifted willingly to the pressure of her hand.  She rested his foot on her right shoulder and bent again to lick and suck his balls. 

She could hear the heavy breathing now of all the men in the room and saw from the corner of her eye that the girl had stopped whimpering and was staring at her.  The thought flickered through the woman’s mind that the girl might as well learn.  She would be doing this to some man soon.

The woman extended her tongue into the crevice of the boy’s ass, found his anus, probed.  He cried out.  Behind her, with a view she knew of her own ass and anus, her owner grunted.

With her tongue up the boy’s ass, she found his cock with  her right hand.  Fingers closed on now rock hard flesh.  He would not last much longer.

She wanted him to come in her mouth.  She turned and took him all again, but this time the shaft reached into her throat.  Gagging momentarily, she forced her lips into rough crinkly pubic hair.  Held.  Then begin the final up and down motion, sucking, licking.  She wondered if anyone, a village girl, had ever done this to him before.  Certainly not a beautiful white woman.  And no one ever would again.  Was it cruel to give him never to be repeated pleasure?  Or kind to give him at least the memory?  It was not her choice.  She had made her last choice. 

She felt the flesh in her mouth harden even more, swell with blood, the boys hips jerk, and then a flood of come faster than she could swallow, accompanied by a scream.

Spurt after spurt.  Seemingly endless.  Until inevitably the boy’s last orgasm did end, and his muscles relaxed, spent. 

The woman licked softening cock clean.  Licked spilled come from his stomach and thighs as she remembered she had from dogs.  When she looked up, the faces of all the men were flushed red.

Her eyes met her owner’s.  “Now the girl?” she asked, noticing that the fingers of both his hands were clenched on the arm rests of his motorized throne.

“The girl,” he croaked.

The girl tried to scramble away, but the chain and guards held her.

The blond woman touched the girl’s face gently, rested her palm against the girl’s cheek.  She was lovely.  HIgh cheek bones.  Slanted, almost oriental eyes.  Perfectly smooth black skin.  The woman wondered if the boy and girl were brother and sister.  Perhaps twins.  The girl had full, sensuous lips that contrasted with her innocence.  The woman kissed that soft mouth.  Women’s lips, girl’s lips, were so much softer than men’s.  Then sat back on her heels.  Traced a finger down.  The girl tired to cover her small firm breasts  with her hands, but guards roughly pulled them away. 

Lips and tongue found a nipple.  Caressing fingers the other.  The girl said something unintelligible.  There was no point in telling her to relax, to go with the pleasure.  Her body was rigid with fear.  Two guards pulled her onto her back on the tiled floor;  two others took a delicate ankle each and spread her legs far apart.  The blond woman crawled between them.

The girl’s slit was as bare as her own.  The servants must have shaved her, too.  She licked an ebony thigh.  Spread dark lips revealing moist pink clitoris.  A virgin, the woman thought as she began to lick slowly.  Who will take her?  The owner couldn’t.  At least not with his cock.

The girl tried to wiggle free.  Said something unintelligible again.  Then, “Non.  Non.  Non.”  In time with the woman’s tongue.  Faster.  Faster.  Perhaps to the blond woman.  Perhaps to herself.  To the rising feeling of pleasure.  Surely she has come before, the woman thought.  Has touched herself, remembering her own teen-age exploration of her even then voluptuous body.  The girl fought the guards’ hands.  Crouched, the woman could see that her eyes were squeezed shut.  Her head rolling from side to side.  Mouth open revealing small white teeth.  With the same scream as the boy, she came.  A stream of liquid flooded the woman’s face.  She did not move away.  Somehow she knew her owner would not want her to.  She let the girl squirt into her open mouth.  Swallowed what she could.  And only sat up when the last trickle stopped.

“Lick up that puddle.”

Obediently she bent to the green veined marble floor.  Her stomach heaved.  No food, followed by unfamiliar food.  She kept it down.

“Enough.  Come here.”

She stood and walked on bare feet.  The black teenagers chained to her had no choice but to follow.

The man touched a small joy stick built into the right arm of the tan leather chair, which rolled to the edge of the dais.

“Show me that thing locking your cunt.”

She moved her feet apart and bent her knees.

“I can’t see.  Climb up here.”

She took the step and stood beside him.

He looked up at her.  “You’re tall.  Taller than I was when I could stand.”  A rueful smile.  His eyes dropped, lingered  on full breasts, then lowered.  “Spread your legs.  Yes.  I like it.”  A hand, strengthened by years of compensating for dead legs, reached out and enclosed a gold helix and flesh and squeezed.  Hard.   Metal cut into sensitive flesh.  The woman grit her teeth and did not make a sound, though she feared she would collapse from pain. 

Fingers released. 

“Lean forward so I can reach your tits.”

Reluctantly she did.  She noticed black hairs on the backs of his thick fingers as they closed on both her nipples, squeezed and twisted.  This time she screamed.

“Good.  Good.” he said as tears trickled down her cum streaked cheeks.  “Straighten up.  Pull away from me.”  She tried. Couldn’t.  The pain was unbearable. Dark nipples mashed bloodless white. She staggered backward and almost fell when he suddenly released his grip.  He laughed.

“The irony is not lost that all I can do with beauty is torment it.

“You are probably wondering what I am going to do with you.  I am giving you away.  To Samir, my youngest son.  He will be sixteen next week.  When I asked what he wanted for his birthday, he said, ‘An American.’

“Samir is a trifle slow.  Mostly he plays computer games.  That does not matter.  His nine older brothers can handle our affairs.  And because he is my last, created by one of my very last orgasms, I have a special fondness for him.  Perhaps he will prefer to play with you.”

Then a change of tone and subject.  His dark eyes studied her face.

“You Americans have an expression, eating cock, do you not?”

“Yes.”

“And I expect you have eaten hundreds, if not thousands?”

“Yes.

“Well, you are going to eat his again.  Literally.  Tomorrow for breakfast.  After he is castrated, my chef will chop it up and cook it.  Omelette with meat and fine herbs.  I’m told it is quite tasty.   The chef has had ample opportunity to perfect the recipe.   The boy and girl will eat it, too.  They won’t know.  You will.  Bon apetit.”  He made a dismissive gesture at the lower part of his body.  “I must keep myself amused.”

“I suppose you are aware of the long tradition in this part of the world of castrating women, too.  I have ordered and observed some truly radical clitoridectomies.”  He laughed.  “But yours already seems under control.  At least for now.”