Feast Here Tonight

I met her at a self-help seminar, one of those awful twelve-step things. I’d had it about up to here with human misery, and I had filled out the Saturday Times crossword puzzle until I got stuck, and I was just about to bag it all and go back home to the ranch, when something passed between us and ignited a spark.

The motivational speaker droned on and on. The girl next to me sneezed –I don’t know why I hadn’t even taken her in before, but she was that kind of girl – and I said ‘Bless you’ and put my hand comfortingly on her thigh. Her leg was pleasantly thick and warm through the denim, and I let my palm rest there longer than was strictly necessary. When I did move my hand away, she adjusted the way she was sitting so that her jean-clad leg pressed lightly against my own. Gotcha.

She was fat, or maybe ‘thick’ is a better adjective; but not in a happy, healthy, lounging-around-and-eating-too-much-French Provencal-sort-of-way. She was the kind of overweight one gets from too much stress, unhappiness and bad food. Underneath all that though, I could see that she was beautiful. I whispered in her ear that we should get out of here, go get a cup of coffee or something, and she immediately agreed.

We sat together at an outdoor café. When I offered to make it my treat, she looked insanely grateful. Her hands had a slight tremble. She spilled her guts to me over iced lattes, telling me all about her money troubles, her ex-husband, her on-again/off-again struggle with alcoholism. I listened sympathetically, and then steered the conversation toward sex, which certainly wasn’t difficult.

It turns out she had only ever been with one man, her ex, and she was eager to try new and different things. I asked her about her fantasies, and she blushingly confided in me that she would like to have two men at once. She was perfect.

Then she told me that she’d like to try being with a girl too, and I got all hot and gooey between my legs.

I explained to her what we were all about. She asked if I was serious, and I said yes. She said she’d have to think about it, which was fair enough. And then I seduced her, which was totally against the rules.

I fucked her in the back of our pickup, in a far-flung corner of a mostly-empty shopping mall parking lot, under a clear blue sky and the watchful eyes of a couple dozen reeling, crying seagulls.

She had a pretty, petite little pussy, hidden under a tangle of soft mousey grey-brown hair and nestled beneath protective pillows of pale flesh. It blossomed under my touch, parting eagerly like a blooming rose, and we kissed like that, naked under the glare of the morning sun, my fingers playing up and down, up and down the slit between her thick thighs for a long time. She was worried at first that we’d get caught, but I assured her that we wouldn’t, and as it turned out I was right. Finally, she relaxed, laying back and spreading her legs wide, exposing her secret parts to me, and I dived in, a little shocked myself at just how horny I was to lick her pussy. My own clit was screaming to be touched, and I took perverse pleasure in not touching it, making it wait.

It was amazing how wet she was. Her little pussy was drooling under my tongue, copious amounts of slippery, tangy wetness, soaking both of us. She was tight, as if she hadn’t been touched in a very long time, and with one finger up inside her pussy, my tongue danced tiny circles on her clit, she started to come, sprawled across the bed of our pickup truck, shaking and twisting and writhing, her pussy clenching down on my finger, her hands opening and closing, her head lolling back and forth as she called out my name to the sky, imploring me not to stop, not ever, begging me for more, more, more.

Like I said before, she was fat; maybe not clinically obese, but definitely overweight; which made it hard to see, but there was something just below the surface, trying hard to get out. When she came, she positively glowed. Her skin was pale and flaccid, her hair was dirty blonde and frazzled, her boobs sagged; but her eyes were bright and full of life. I was in love.

She wasn’t lying when she told me she’d never been with a girl. Her attempts at cunnilingus were eager but awkward; earnest and sweet, but incredibly frustrating. She’d lick at me once or twice, then come up to look for approval before diving back in. It was hit-or-miss on my poor, aching, frustrated clit. Finally, she lay down on top of me. She was heavy but I didn’t mind, and she kissed my mouth hard and deep while I guided her fingers. When I came underneath her, it was the most intense orgasm I’d had in months, and I kissed her back with ferocious hunger.

We got dressed, shyly and sheepishly, like a pair of teenage lovers on a hot-and-heavy first date, and I dropped her off at the downtown bus station with my cell phone number and a promise to call whatever she decided to do. She kissed me one last time, and I sat there behind the wheel of the truck after she had gone, sticky and wet between my legs, wondering what I had just set in motion.

She didn’t call for over a week. At first I obsessed over her, and then I just sort of wrote her off. When she did call, it was late, I was sitting on the back porch reading by moonlight and contemplating going to bed, when my cell phone rang. She kept it simple: “I’m in” was all she said.

I picked her up at the same bus station I’d dropped her off. All her belongings fit inside one lumpy black duffel bag, which seemed tragic and sad. We didn’t talk much on the long, bumpy, dusty ride out to the ranch. She was in an introspective mood, and I was hesitant to break into her thoughts.

The next four weeks was paradise squared. She spent her days lounging by the pool, reading books and sipping cocktails, or strolling through the woods, getting massages, and eating Jack’s fabulous, over-the-top meals. He outdid himself, cooking omelets and crepes for breakfast; fabulous lunches of fresh picked salad greens and ham and cheese croissant sandwiches or quiches; and intricate, seriously epic dinners of duck a l’orange, braised lamb, Normandy chicken, roasted Cornish hens, or ratatouille. There were mouth watering puddings too, his specialty — tarte tatin, almond and pear clafouti, mille-feuilles, chocolate and fig flan.

Her body subtly changed shape: a doctor would still have tut-tutted and made noises about losing weight and exercising, but she started to look more like one of those beauties from a French Renaissance painting, and less like a refugee from the Jerry Springer show. She liked to sunbathe nude in the vegetable garden, and I liked to just sit and watch her.

There was sex play too, though orgasms were strictly forbidden. We instructed her in the art of fellatio, and she was an eager student. She ravenously devoured Jack and Martin’s cocks (sometimes both at the same time) like a woman half-starved, while Melissa watched approvingly. She would drink their come as if it was some exotic delicacy, slurping up any stray droplets, and squeezing their penises like a spent tube of toothpaste to wring every last bit out. She got good quickly, and it was beautiful to watch. She learned to swallow their (sizeable!) cocks whole, taking virtually the whole shaft down her throat without gagging. She would carefully and tenderly suck their testicles, eventually opening her mouth wide and engulfing their entire ball sacs in her mouth; she would wet a finger and slide it up Jack or Martin’s tight asshole while she sucked, exciting delighted moans of pleasure and earning a quick mouthful of hot semen. She also learned how to slow it down, how to not gobble like a hungry dog; how to draw it out and torment the guys until they were literally begging for release. Now that was hot to watch!

Martin would give her backrubs. She would lie naked on her stomach on a folded-out deck chair, and he would knead the tension out of her shoulders, his fat dick nudging at the cleft of her buttocks. He would work his way down her back, working her lumbar region with the heels of his hand, and then he would play with her pussy, tracing his finger up and down her slit, teasing her clit and her asshole, and even penetrating her vagina, but never bringing her anywhere close to coming. This inevitably resulted in a big fat blowjob for him.

She may not have been allowed to have orgasms, but she had orgasms all right. Late at night, when everyone else was asleep, I would sneak into her room, and we would get it on, like a pair of horny tigresses. If Melissa had found out, she would have slit my throat. I gave her multiple, muffled-screaming-into-her-pillow orgasms in her bedroom, and she learned to give as good as she got. I enjoyed pushing her limits, straddling the knife edge between pleasure and pain. She would clasp the pillow to her mouth in anticipation, as I pinched her clit, and fucked her pussy with two and even three or four fingers, until she came, her whole body shaking and clenching, howling uncontrollably into the goose down. I gazed with lust at her tiny, sensitive asshole; but aside from a few tentative brushes across her anus with my tongue, which made her shiver and inhale sharply, I left that part of her anatomy alone. She got really good at licking my pussy; any remaining shyness or hesitation disappeared as she buried her face in my crotch, flicking her tongue at my engorged clit, and sliding her soft, plump fingers up my pussy and asshole, playing me like an erotic finger puppet. Sometimes she would lie on her stomach on the bed, and I would lie down on her back, taking one large soft breast in each hand, and grinding myself to orgasm against her ample buttocks. Other times, we would lie face-to-face, her big breasts squished against mine, her warm tummy pressed against me, and we would kiss and finger each other’s pussy until we shuddered and came, lips mashed together, bodies trembling with desire. Then I would tiptoe back to my own bed.

She feasted well, on Jack’s exquisite French cooking, and occasional forays by the rest of us into Tex-Mex, American Southern Home Cooking, and Thai; and she grew pink and fat and sleek. Her large breasts, which had been kind of sad, droopy things when we first met, seemed to fill out and perk up, like a neglected houseplant that has finally been watered. Her stomach was full and round, and her cheeks blushed red. Melissa announced that she was ready.

We told her after breakfast that morning. She looked around, at all our faces, and nodded. She was ready too.

She asked me if she could make one last phone call, and I gently told her ‘No’. She nodded, understanding.

She took a long hot bath, with honey-clover scented oils, and the boys scrubbed her all over. Then we shaved her, all of her. She cried a little when Martin drew the buzzing electric razor across her scalp, and her dishwater-blonde curls fell on the tiled bathroom floor. I could understand that: her hair might not have been best feature, but even so it was hers.

We took her down to the basement, and had her lay down on the block. The block was an elevated slab of concrete, stained black, with intricate channels carved into the surface. It had hot water pipes running throughout it that radiated heat, and made the surface warm as sun-baked asphalt. First Martin gave her a good long massage, notably non-sexual in nature, methodically kneading and rubbing every part of her body, from her freshly-shaved scalp and temples down to each individual toe. When he was done, she rolled over onto her back, and we each licked her pussy for a while: first Jack, then Melissa had a few licks, then Martin took a turn, and then me. I buried my face in her slippery wet folds and let my tongue dance all over and around her erect little clitoris, whispering ‘Don’t come yet, don’t come yet, don’t come yet…’ silently into her cunt.

Then we rolled her over, and she got up on her hands and knees, and I poured heated olive oil all over her backside, and down the valley between her ass cheeks. As the others watched, I spread her soft cheeks, and gently toyed with her little puckered anus, eventually working my oil-slick finger inside, slowly and carefully butt-fucking her with my index finger.

Martin took over. Of the two guys, her had the bigger dick, though neither of them was what I’d call ‘small’. I oiled him up. The bulbous red head of his cock seemed to swell eagerly from under the hood of his foreskin as he pressed up against her tiny, puckered anus. She whimpered softly as he slid up inside her delicate, virgin hole, grunting as he shoved it home. She didn’t seem distressed, though she took deep, measured breaths as he started sliding his cock slowly in and out. Her big tits hung down, swaying like the pendulum of some erotic clock.

They rolled over, so that Martin was on his back on the slab, and she lay atop him, his cock buried balls-deep in her asshole. Melissa and I spread her legs wide, wide apart, and Jack speared her pussy with his own erection. She made a muffled mewing sound as the two cocks competed for space inside her body, stretching and squeezing her. Slowly, haltingly, after a few false starts, they found their rhythm, and started really pummeling her. They were fucking competitively, each one implicitly daring the other to fuck her harder, daring the other guy to come first. Sandwiched between them, she was breathing raggedly, in sharp little gasps.

“I’m going to come!” she cried out, “Oh my God, I’m going to come! I’m going to come! I’m fucking coming!”

Melissa reached deftly into the fray, and with the skill and precision of a surgeon, slit her throat with a matte knife, opening up a gaping crescent-shaped wound from just under one ear to just under the other ear, severing tendons, trachea, veins and arteries along the way.

Bright red arterial blood sprayed everywhere, spattering me and Melissa, soaking Martin and Jack, and running in rivulets down onto the black slab, where it filled the intricately carved channels, tracing a macabre design in the concrete.

Jack cried out and came in her still-twitching pussy, which sent Martin off, growling like a bear and shooting off, filling her rectum to overflowing with his milky-white semen.

Quickly and efficiently, we cleaned and dressed her carcass, and transferred her to the oven, putting her in a big roasting pan on a bed of yams, potatoes, and garlic cloves. We sprinkled her with salt and rosemary and set her to broil, basting her occasionally with her own juices.

When she was done, when her skin was brown and crisp, when her flesh was tender and juicy, we took her out of the oven, and served her up along with an arugula salad.

Before we ate, we all raised our glasses in a toast to her. Then we dug in, eating our fill. She was delicious.

END

7 Comments »

  1. advizor54 said

    That must have been one big roasting pan….

    I felt a chill at”a final phone call”. Remind me not to accept any dinner reservations at your place. :O

    • elsiewrites said

      Thank you, that was exactly the effect I was going for!

  2. weird said

    wow… i wasn’t expecting that at all. you got a little dean koontz in you for sure.

    • elsiewrites said

      I’ll take that as a compliment!

  3. Margot said

    So, i was thinking about how wonderfully hot your writing is, and I was really becoming invested in the story, when you got all either metaphorical or kind of terrifying. Either way, well done, or medium rare, whichever you prefer.

    • elsiewrites said

      Well I was definitely going for hot but deeply disturbing on this one. It’s great to see you blogging again!

  4. erikabarcelona said

    Erm…. ugh. Very twisted.

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