by Chewy
The cannibals gathered around the cowering Puerto-Rican long-pig. Just yesterday, the long-pig had been a human, a proud one at that. A high-level female executive, used to success and deference, she had the misfortune to have been caught slumming in one of the sleazier parts of San Juan. Every city had places like this, where no one bothered to notice the frantic struggles of young ladies in dark alleys or inside anonymous hotel rooms, nor count how many of the young and healthy disappeared forever in the dark nights. The woman had been looking for some danger, a sleazy interlude of quick sex to spice up her boring life. Sadly, she had attracted one of the cannibals that hunted in the dimly lit singles bars that lined the waterfront. Standing out from the usual gaudy whores, she had drawn one of these grim killers to her like a bleating lamb draws a wolf. A few drinks, a bit of flattery, and she was In a hotel room, writhing on the bed in a fit of molten Latin Passion. Then, sleep, only to be awoken by a chloroform-laced rag over her face, rough hands hauling her into a sack then into a waiting van. The hotel owner was too smart to bother with another missing female patron, a few large bills and he forgot he had ever seen her. The once arrogant Latina businesswoman now joined countless other women who had fallen into the thriving cannibal underworld, an underworld from which no long-pig ever emerged.
The woman awoke to a hell of degradation and rape. Locked in a cage, naked like an animal, she was let out only to satisfy the perverted pleasures of her viscous captors. Her frenzied struggles were like those of a kitten in a serpents jaws, desperate but utterly, pathetically futile. At last she simply stopped caring, lapsing into a coma-like daze, allowing the men and women to use her body in any way they desired. Some part of her mind still screamed at the endless violation, recoiling at the uses her smooth and lovely body was put to. At last, this part of her degradation was over, and she was discarded like a used toy, covered in fluid and shame.
Her respite was short. She was dragged into a shower, and the seed and vaginal oils were washed from her body, from her face and orifices. She was spread open like a slaughtered cow, tubes rammed into her every hole, pumped full of water and drained till the water gushing from her body was as clean as a mountain spring. Again she tried to struggle, bring amused jeers from her overseers, who lashed and abused her to she slumped back into humiliated apathy.
Then, horribly, she was told what fate she was to be given. They had told her before, but she had not believed, convinced such bestial cruelty was beyond even these terrible creatures. She was wrong. She was shown the kitchen, with its great oven like a steel womb ready for another shrieking occupant, the fire pit and spits where countless women had hung screaming their way to a slow death, the macabre collection of knives and saws and hooks that could flense the flesh from a woman's bones like soft custard. She was shown the meat lockers, with it's collection of pale corpses, all with pieces missing, the cool flesh awaiting another grisly cannibal feast. She was forced to gaze at the heads, the dark lifeless eyes staring mournfully from beautiful but corpse-pale faces, each one a trophy of a successful hunt, a human life taken for no better reason than human flesh tasted better than all other foods.
She wept, she wailed, she begged, to no avail. She offered them anything, anything if they would spare her. She told them where her money was, gave them the keys to her house and safe so they could take what they wanted, even let them know where her female friends lived and how they too could be lured to their doom. They took everything she had in life, then laughed at her as they dragged her back into the kitchen to harvest her blood and meat.
She was laid on her back, her legs spread as wide as a welcoming whore's. A tube was shoved up her anus and stuffing pumped into her, her intestines swelling as they filled with foodstuff. Her tawny muscled belly bulged as if some horrible high-speed pregnancy, her once flat midriff almost bursting from the strain of its load. Another tube went down her throat, filling her stomach like a Latin haggis, stopping only when she began to gag from her throat filling up. Her vagina was saved for last, the velvety passage becoming home to a carrot, an orange shaft shoved so deep her cervix was pierced by bloody vegetable.
She begged for death now, knowing that she was living the last moments of her life, one which now offered only more suffering. The answer was for her to be trussed up like a sow. Her lithe honey-brown legs were bent back till the ankles touched the back of her thighs, and her knees rested against her small, but exquisitely firm breasts. They were locked in place with rope tied around her body, her arms locked straight against her sides. Her head was pressed down till it rested between her knees, her back hunched and tensed as it strained against her bonds. She was massaged in warm oil, her body bathed till she glistened like a sleek pig. To her shame, her teats rose and hardened from the touch of warm oil and hands, bringing jeers from her tormentors. Her tomboyishly short hair was left alone, save for a garland of flowers that was woven into the black glossy strands, the short business-woman hairstyle looking now faintly comical on a woman who was about to be cooked and eaten. More flowers were wrapped around her wrists and ankles, and waist, leaving her as festive as a Spring queen.
She lay helplessly as the cannibals gloated one last time over their trussed victim. Then they lifted her, carrying her to her fate. She whimpered, expecting to see the oven door open to receive her, or to be bound to one of the long steel spits that hung over the fire pit. The cannibals teased her, asking her how she wanted to be cooked, describing in exquisitely horrible detail how a woman died under each method, how she felt herself cook alive, feel her skin harden and crisp, felt her flesh transform into tender steak, till the only thing left alive inside her was her desperately beating heart and screaming brain beginning to boil inside her skull.
She was spared the knowledge of how it felt to be roasted alive, though this was no mercy. Rather she was borne to a large iron cauldron. The Puerto-Rican cringed in horror as she looked inside, where a pool of furiously boiling stew awaited her, the cheerfully green and orange chunks of carrots and vegetables bobbing about, needing only her flesh to complete them. She felt the hot steam on her skin, felt the first beads of sweat begin to trickle down her sleek back. She wondered morbidly how boiling heat would feel against her body, how the roiling fluid would find its way into every orifice and pore, poaching the flesh on her bones as she died. To have lived her life for this, to have all her struggles and triumphs end as chunks of stewmeat floating in a bowl was too humiliating for words.
Things got worse when the cannibals threw a rope over a beam that hung above the cauldron. The end of the rope dangled just above the violently boiling liquid. The cheerful ghouls lifted her over the pot, careful not to scorch their own well-fed bodies. She felt the rope wound about her oil-slick hands, which instinctively clutched the abrasive surface. Hands pried her jaws open, then made her bite down on the upper part of the rope.
The Latina's eyes widened as she realized what her final game was to be. Moist agonizing heat washed over her exposed ass and feet as she was left dangling over the cauldron, her life handing by the strength of her hands and jaws. She swayed about, her body tense with terrorized effort as she clung to the rope, knowing that to slip was to fall into the cauldron below, to become human stew. She felt her oily palms slide along the rope, and she gripped tighter in lunatic desperation. She wanted to scream, scream as loud as she could in terror, but knew that as soon as she opened her mouth her weight would tug her down into the pot.
The cannibals danced around in demonic glee as their living pinata swung over the cooking pot. They cheered her on, mocking her straining efforts, taking bets on how long this one would hold on. They had played this game many times, enjoying the doomed struggles, and the grisly feast that always followed.
The woman clung with animal stubbornness. Pain washed over her feet and buttocks. She could not see it, but she knew her nutmeg-warm skin was turning red, the first faint rose of cooking showing like a shy blush on her ass. She squeezed her legs tighter, trying to shield her sensitive vaginal lips from the rising heat, but she felt the hot steam begin to tease her most sensitive flesh, moistening the thick petals with hot vapor, working its way into the velvet garden above. Sweat began to run down her body in rivulets, dripping from the bottom of her ass and from her toes, dropping into the stew below, the salty drops beginning to flavor the liquid she would die in.
The Latina's struggles grew even more frantic as the celebrating cannibals grabbed a bunch of heavy sticks and began to slap her with them, like she were a human birthday pinata. The wood slapped wetly against the Puerto-Rican's oiled meat, each hit causing her to drop another inch closer to her searing death. The woman had to fight the urge to scream at each impact, knowing that the second her mouth opened she would plunge into the stew.
The pinata game went on and on, to the ghouls delight. They pounded her back and legs, smacking her with hearty abandon. Her red-skinned agonized butt received special attention, each impact against her already tortured cheeks sending a shot of pain into her addled brain. Some cannibals aimed for her exposed vagina, trying to poke the splintery shafts into her vulnerable privates. One cannibal woman even got a sharp knife out and began to playfully poke the dangling pig, drawing drops of ruby blood from her brown shoulders the sides of her shapely breasts. The Spanish long-pig whined loudly at each piercing, trying to swing her body away from the cold metal blade.
The pig slipped at last, her mouth widening for a second in a scream as the knife slit opened the wet skin behind her armpit. She lurched down, the tips of her toes splashing into the stew. A bolt of overwhelming agony lanced through her foot and up her legs. The bleeding woman retched, then puked, some of the stuffing that had been crammed down her gullet spewing out between her clenched teeth and splashing into the hearty soup below. She convulsed upwards, escaping the stew for a second like a wounded bird leaping to the sky. Her hands thrashed spasmodically against the rope, her polished fingernails ripping off and falling like chips into the roiling liquid. Her mouth bit into the rope with lunatic desperation, pearly incisors grinding the hemp into saliva-soaked mush.
It was not enough. With awful slowness she slid done again, her toes dipping daintily into their boiling bath. The toes curled back, the skin blossoming into a brilliant rose red, the derma wrinkling slightly as the upper layer poached and softened. More bloody fingernails fell into the water, bobbing about her cooking toenails and feet.
Another lurch, and the whole foot splashed into the molten mixture. The sensitive skin flashed into red, then grew loose as the violent heat caused it to detach from the tissue below, flopping around loosely like a human leather stocking. Her dainty toes curled all the way back, then locked there as the nerve ending overloaded and froze. Hot drops of foot-flavored broth flew up and coated the bottom of her buttocks, the already suffering flesh beginning to bubble at each new touch. The Hispanic's face bulged with effort not to scream, knowing that it was no use, and that one last soul-rending shriek was building in her lungs, its release signaling the end of her life.
The shriek took on a mind of its own, forcing its way up her throat, prying her jaws apart, tearing at the air in its insane energy. For a split instant, she was suspended in air, a lovely flower of humanity hovering above a waiting cook pot, her beautiful smooth body wreathed in steam, like a Latin angel hovering in the clouds. She was lovely beyond imagining in that instant, a vision of almost supernatural beauty, an avatar of femininity as food.
Then she plunged. Her body splashed into the vegetable-laden stew, making a wave that sploshed over the sides of the cauldron as her body slid beneath the oily surface. Legs, knees, and shoulders disappeared, her half-stewed buttocks bouncing off the bottom. The force of the drop forced her head and face under, and for a second she was totally immersed in roiling fluid. She breathed in a bit of the scalding broth through her nose, flash cooking her sinuses and sending a few lava drops into her lungs. She floated there for a moment, her hair drifting about her agonized Latin face, bits of soup fixings bobbing merrily against her, a human cork in a boiling sea.
Then, she rose again, on a jet of boiling liquid, the sheer power of her convulsion raising her slick body halfway out of her hellish lake. Her whole body spasmed in unimaginable pain, the strong muscles standing out in her limbs and back like meaty ropes, her face a rictus of suffering. The uncaring hemp cut into her skin, ripping her derma and opening the tissue beneath to the remorseless heat. Her head writhed around, drops of hot stew flying from her face and hair, scattering the laughing cannibals. She screamed then, a wet scream that burst from poached lips, a scream of the dammed.
Then she dropped back down, settling in for a hellish simmer. She shrieked and screamed, her shrill Spanish pleas quickly fading into simple animal howls of pain. What skin was visible was now beautiful blood-red, her face a lighter shade of bright pink. The nut-brown Puerto-Rican woman had become a brilliant human flower. She thrashed about, splashing stew over her shoulders and neck, letting it into her gaping mouth where her taste buds final sensation was boiling water flavored by her own gums and tongue. Her hands clenched into fists, one hand comically wrapped about a carrot. The rope around one calf had cut so deeply into the flesh that the shin-bone was visible, the rich crimson flesh around it turning a light brown, the flowing blood a pinkish stream that magically transformed into tan gravy as it floated away.
The thrashing began to slow as the woman began her metamorphosis into cooked meat. Her derma cooked first, the bundled nerve endings sweltering into inert jelly, the creamy fats underneath melting into a golden butter. Her skin started to grow oily, as her fats began to slowly seep through the pores of her skin into the stew, spicing it with the indescribable taste of living woman. Small drops of golden oil floated about her as her life melted away.
She looked down at the cherry-red expanse of her chest, bits of vegetable clinging to her skin, as if wondering why she could now longer feel the searing fluid against her hide, no longer feel the sensitive knobs of her nipples as they hard-boiled like rubbery eggs. Her breasts had softened, the firm fatty flesh beginning to flow a bit, the roiling water pushing her boobs up and own like they had a life of their own. Wildly she noticed how it resemhemorrhage the chicken soups she loved to eat, and wondered if her a stew flavored with herself would be as creamy and filling.
Like many beautiful women, she had been proud of her body, knowing it was their greatest asset, and now to see it being boiled into custard was even more agonizing then the mere physical pain. She looked up at the cannibals in uncomprehending misery, wanting to ask them why, why they were doing this to her. This was far worse then mere rape, or even murder. This was the ultimate degradation, to be aware one was about to be eaten, to know just how much was being stolen from her.
She could feel the line of pain move inwards, from her skin, then to her muscles, one excruciating fraction of an inch at a time, the boundary between living, breathing woman and cooked food creeping towards her heart. She prayed for it to move faster, to end her suffering as soon as possible. She wanted to put her face in the boiling water, to drown her lungs in one scalding rush, but could not force herself. Some demented corner of her brain instinctively revolted against her ruining her looks, against what a complete boiling would do to her complexion. She almost giggled at the insanity of the thought, dimly knowing that her brain was beginning to overheat, that she would die not as the proud independent person she once was, but as an insane, babbling animal.
She sagged against the side of the cauldron, the skin on her shoulder blades bubbling as they caressed the burning metal. She began to relax, her muscles no longer able to struggle much, settling in as if she were taking a warm bath. Her reddened face took on a more peaceful look, streams of sweat still running down her attractive features, her short hair plastered against her skull. She looked up at the grinning cannibals who surrounded her pot, her jet-black eyes looking more mournful than angry, as if she were sad she could not join their feast. Her mouth opened to say something, but no words came out. Her breath came rapidly, gasping last gulps of humid air. Then she died, still looking at the bodied her flesh would soon be part of, her purpose in life fulfilled, her body at peace.
The cannibals gazed reverently at their cooking victim, once again awed by the beauty of the cannibal ritual. No matter how many women they cooked, the surrender of yet another sweet young pig could still bring a lump to their throats. They lived for moments like these. They were hunters, predators, pure and simple, feeding on the teeming human herds. They thrived on the challenge and danger of the hunt, the triumphant capture and preparation of the captured sow, the transformation of a living breathing human being into delicious food. This pig had once been a human, a crafty and hard-nosed business woman, un-thinkingly confident that the world held no dangers for such as she. She, like so many others, had been terribly, terribly wrong. One of the greatest joys of cannibalism was re-introducing women to the fact that the world was still divided into predators and prey, those who ate, and those who were destined to be eaten. Humanity had forgotten too long what it had been like to be prey, to fear the night and the hungry teeth that lurked just out of sight. Now they were paying the price, being fed upon and never knowing, blissfully unaware of the devourers in their midst.
Gently, the cannibals prepared the stewing Latina for the hour or so of simmering she would undergo before being served. Oddly, they were far more gentle to her in death than they had ever been while she was alive. A collar was fitted around her neck, just above the surface of the liquid, keeping her head above water. Later on, they would cut her head off and use it as a centerpiece for the dining table, an apple placed between her ivory teeth, garlands of white flowers wound amid her black tresses.
A lid was sealed over the whole cauldron, turning it into a pressure cooker, which would poach her tangy flesh quickly and lock in her flavor. When served, her flesh would be so soft that it would all but slide off the bone. A good deal of the flesh on her legs and arms would be simply peeled off and set in bowls, eaten along with the vegetables she now squatted in. Later, as her half-stripped carcass cooled, her ribs would be emptied and hacked into pieces, the meaty bones smothered in the juices of her melted breasts and served as prime-ribs, while the thick hams of her buttocks would be carved like turkey breasts and served one dripping slice at a time. Her velvety-soft vagina would be reserved for the man who had captured her, his heavenly reward for another successful hunt. No part of her would go unused, no part wasted. The slender picking of her hands, feet and spine would be picked clean till nothing but gnawed slivers of bone remained. Her neck lovely would be sliced into paper-thin slices. Even her head would not be spared. The skull would be cracked open, her brains spooned out and shared as an exotic treat, the skin and tissue peeled from her face and served with lemon juice, black eyes popped out and swallowed like grapes, her ears severed and crunched as appetizers, her tongue sectioned and served on crackers. By late evening she would be a skeleton, a mute memorial to another one of Latin America's daughters.
The cannibals were almost sad to close the lid and allow her to cook. Nest to the feast itself, the suffering of the long-pig as she met her fate was the high point of their ritual. They mourned that her pain was over, but consoled themselves in the thought of endless feast to come, of the countless senoritas to come who would die in their ovens and pots. The cannibals resumed their celebrations, confident that they and their hungers were the way of the future.