by Fetish Author
To be honest, I was skeptical at first. It sounded too good to be true, and you know what they say about that. But gradually, over time, I became convinced of her sincerity, and eventually agreed to meet her at a neutral spot halfway between our homes.
I arrived early, hoping to beat her, but when I walked in I found her already seated. Taking stock as I approached, she seemed exactly like her pictures. A petite, pretty, but otherwise average looking Asian woman. When she stood as I approached, I judged her to be about five feet tall, maybe less, and her skintight attire left no doubt about the veracity of her stated weight, around one hundred pounds.
“Rebecca?” I said, offering her my hand.
“Yes, hi. You must be Jake.”
Her hand was so small it looked like it belonged to a child or a doll, but she had a firm, no-nonsense grip.
“Have you been waiting long?”
“No, not long. I was in the area.”
I sat down across from her, and a server approached. She handed us menus and left with our drink orders—a coke for me and a glass of water for Rebecca.
“I have to say,” I began, at the same instant she said, “I was just thinking.”
“You go first,” I said.
“No, you,” she insisted.
“All right. I was gonna say how pleased I am you look exactly like your pictures. There are so many fakers on the internet—I’m glad you’re not one of them.”
She laughed.
“I may still turn out to be one yet. I haven’t quite made up my mind about a few things.”
“That’s understandable,” I said. “What were you going to say?”
“Oh! Just that I was thinking it’s nice to have pleasant interactions for a change. Like you, I too have been the victim of—well, I wouldn’t call them fakers, but they’re certainly people more interested in their own needs than mine.”
“I bet.”
I took a sip of my coke and listened to Rebecca talk about her day. Then she listened while I talked about mine. To a casual observer, we’d look like any other couple meeting for the first time, except perhaps that we seemed a bit more intimate than anyone on a first date had the right to be (which made sense if you were in on the fact that we’d spent dozens, maybe even hundreds of hours communicating about our shared fetish interest).
By the time our food came, our conversation had slowly worked its way in that direction. We had to be a bit coy, given the public nature of our surroundings, but that only made the conversation more enjoyable. Think about flirting, but to the nth degree.
“The food here isn’t bad,” I conceded, slicing into my rare-grilled pork chop. “But I know a better place.”
“Oh yeah?” Robin smiled. Looking around, she slowly lifted her tight fitting tank top, exposing an expanse of taunt, smooth brown flesh, from bellybutton to the middle of her ribcage. “What do you think they could do with this?”
I stared appraisingly, trying not to drool, and Rebecca dropped her shirt back into place.
“Lean meat is good—it just requires a bit more work.”
“Well, you’re the expert. This meat is grass fed only.”
I’d noticed her selection of dish, vegetarian risotto, but neglected to bring up the irony in case she was sensitive about such things (as some people are). However, I realized now that that had been a wasted opportunity.
“Don’t worry. If things go that far, that meat will be in capable hands.”
I won’t bore you with the rest of our conversation.
Suffice it to say that, after several hours spent chatting, first over dinner and then coffee and dessert, we went back to her apartment. I found that strange, her inviting me over, but was flattered at the same time by her trust. For all she knew, I could be one of the crazies she’d spoken of earlier, intent on fulfilling my own fantasies regardless of her feelings (or in spite of them).
Rebecca lived in a small studio apartment not far from the restaurant. We rode up the elevator together in silence, but by the time we reached her front door, I had to force myself away from her so she could find her keys in her purse. We continued to kiss, bodies pressed tightly together, dropping clothes as we made our way towards her bed.
The sex was good.
No, better than good.
The sex was fantastic.
Rebecca was a woman who knew her body—knew what she liked and what she needed in order to get off. She was comfortable on top and in charge, and I was more than happy to acquiesce. She rode me to several thunderous climaxes, her little body shaking with the force of her contractions, until her brown skin was covered in a sheen of sweat and her long black hair was plastered damply to her forehead. Somehow, I was able to hold back until she couldn’t take it anymore, then switched positions and pounded down into her until we were both a screaming, quivering mess.
In the aftermath, I wished I had a cigarette, but contented myself with the view of Rebecca’s taunt backside as she departed for the bathroom. I heard the shower come on, and in spite of the lethargy that threatened to overwhelm me, I got up and looked around her apartment.
There wasn’t much to see, small as the space was, but I did notice one pieces of interest. The first was a picture of her with another woman—about the same size and shape—though slightly older. Her mother, I supposed, bringing the framed photo into the light to get a better look at it. Yes, definitely Rebecca and her mother, standing together and smiling at the camera, with a background of palm trees, clean sand, and clear blue water. I returned the picture to its place, fantasizing about the possibility of enjoying the flesh of two generations in one meal, and continued on.
I finished my circuit and was seated on the edge of her bed when she emerged, towels around her head and waist.
“Mind if I shower, too?”
“Be my guest.”
I took a long, luxuriating shower, and allowed my mind to go completely blank. It was good, refreshing, and if I’d been at home or in a hotel, I probably would’ve stayed in for close to an hour. But since this was Rebecca’s place, I didn’t want to overstay my welcome. I got out of the shower, toweled off, slipped back into my Calvin Klein briefs, and returned to bed.
Rebecca was seated almost exactly where I’d been, examining the same photo I’d picked up earlier. She looked up as I approached, a small, wistful smile on her face.
I decided it’d be best to come clean—not give her any reason to mistrust me.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry. I was looking at that earlier.”
“That’s okay.”
Rebecca patted the mattress and I sat down next to her.
“Is that your mom?”
Rebecca nodded.
“Yes. When I last visited her in Thailand.”
She caressed her mom’s image with on small finger, and I got the feeling that something was definitely wrong.
“She was murdered,” Rebecca said, her voice flat, almost entirely devoid of emotion. “Strangled to death.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. Rebecca let go of the picture and caressed the side of my hand.
“Thank you, Jake. I try to remember only the good times.”
Rebecca got up—I let my arm fall away—and returned the picture to its place. Then she came back and we got into bed together. The silence that followed was not quite comfortable, as if the ghost of her mother were between us, but slowly her breathing evened out and I sensed that she’d drifted off to sleep. However, just as I felt myself slipping away, she spoke.
“Jake?”
“Mmm?”
“I never told you the most important part. You see, my mom?”
“Yes?”
“The ones who killed her also butchered, cooked and ate her.”
Oh.
Well, that explains a lot, I thought; or maybe nothing at all.
In any case, before I could ask her more about it, she really did drift off to sleep. Rather than wake her, I kept my thoughts to myself and, despite a mind intent on keeping me awake, eventually my body dragged me down into the cool, dark depths of sleep. If I dreamed, I don’t remember it, and if Rebecca dreamed—about her mom, her mom’s death, or the possibility of her own imminent demise—she never said.
When I awoke the next morning, she was gone. In her place, she left a note on her pillow.
It read:
Jake—thank you for last night. Sorry I had to leave, but I have a few loose ends I need to tie up before, well, you know. Feel free to stay as long as you like. The door will lock itself when you leave. I’ll be in touch. —R
I didn’t stick around, though I did, I’m a little ashamed to admit, snap a copy of Rebecca’s last picture with her mother. Something about knowing the daughter would suffer the same fate as her mother (if under wildly different circumstances) spoke to the fetishist in me, and I spent the rest of the afternoon trying to hide a prominent, persistent erection.
When I got home, I decided to do some digging. I thought that, even in a country like Thailand, a case involving such a blatant act of cannibalism would’ve made the headlines. If it did, I wasn’t able to locate anything in English. There were the usual stories coming out of places like Indonesia—mostly fake—where the Islamic terrorists had a penchant for beheading Christian women (which to the uninitiated might look like some kind of bizarre, pre-cannibalistic ritual), but nothing new and, more important, nothing real.
By the time my phone rang later that evening, however, I was obsessed. I had to learn more, and the only source I had was Rebecca herself. I pressed her, and she agreed to tell me everything I wanted to know before the end.
Before the end…
Now if ever there was a phrase to make a man’s blood boil, that was it. In a way no one listening would ever understand, Rebecca had just promised herself to me. Still, I couldn’t risk misinterpreting her words.
“Does that mean what I think it does?”
“That depends,” she said, laughing. “What do you think it means?”
“I think it means I’m having you over for dinner tonight.”
“Should I pack a bag?”
“A small one—you won’t be here long.”
I all but felt her shiver of delight through the phone.
“I’ll . . . I’ll see you soon.”
“I’ll fire up the BBQ.”
By the time she arrived, I had everything ready. I’d chopped onions, garlic, and ginger for a marinade, preheated the grill, and had two different side dishes waiting for the oven. Of course, either one of us might change our mind—her more likely than me—at any moment during the process, in which case the most I’d be out was a few pennies for ingredients. But something about the calm, set nature of Rebecca’s expression told me I needn’t worry.
We embraced like long lost lovers, despite having physically known each other less than twenty-four hours, and Rebecca sniffed the air appreciatively.
“I hope you won’t be offended,” I said, “but I thought I’d go with an Asian theme.”
She laughed.
“Makes sense,” Rebecca said, patting her tummy. “Any thoughts on what you want to eat first?”
I shook my head.
Rebecca raised an eyebrow.
“First I want to hear your mother’s story. If, that is, you’re still willing to tell it.”
Rebecca shrugged.
“I’m an only child, Jake. So was my mom. I never knew my dad, and my grandparents died before I was born. If I don’t tell it to someone, it’ll die with me, and then there’ll be no one left to remember her. Or me, for that matter.”
I grabbed us a couple beers and we sat down together in my living room.
“Should I be having this?” Rebecca asked, nodding back towards my kitchen.
“More flavor,” I said, and tilted my bottle back, swallowing a large mouthful of cold, crisp lager. Rebecca followed my lead, laughing when she noticed the Singha label.
“You really did go all out with your theme,” she said.
“Nothing but the best,” I said. “You can’t drink stout or heavy witbier with Asian food. The flavors clash.”
The silence that followed was somewhat uncomfortable, and I couldn’t help but think of the ghost of Rebecca’s mom, rising once more to drive a wedge between us, as if she were trying to protect her daughter from beyond the grave.
“I never told you what I do for a living,” Rebecca said. “I’m a journalist by trade. I write freelance pieces under various pseudonyms.”
Although this sparked my curiosity—I wondered if she’d written anything I’d read—I decided it best not to interrupt. I sipped my beer and worked myself deeper into my sofa’s comfortable embrace, settling in for a long listen.
“I write mostly special interest pieces, but after the Boxing Day Tsunami hit the region in 2004, I went back to investigate a case much more personal to me.”
“Your mother’s murder?”
Rebecca nodded.
“My mom lived in one of the regions most devastated by the tsunami, and she survived its ravages only to fall victim to another kind of disaster—starvation.”
“I thought you said—”
“Please, let me finish.” Rebecca downed the rest of her beer and set the bottle on the floor. “It isn’t easy for me to talk about this, so if you want to hear the whole thing, it’s best if you don’t interrupt.”
I apologized and she continued.
“The power went out and everything was ruined by the salt water. The western news outlets didn’t talk about it much, because there was so much tragedy to cover they were kind of overwhelmed, but in specific areas spread throughout the affected regions, minor famines occurred. Now, I don’t mean the kind of famine like you see in Africa, with everyone skin and bones and kids with bloated bellies from starvation. Rather, the unique kind of hunger that occurs when people are surrounded by food but have no idea how to access it.”
I got up, turned down the oven and switched off the BBQ, then came back with two more beers.
“Aid groups sent relief. And there were foodstuffs available. But not everyone knew when or where they could get their hands on it. At least, that’s what I told myself when I first heard the news.”
Rebecca sipped more beer—her cheeks had already begun to glow bright red—and her eyes had a faraway look to them.
“The men who killed my mother denied raping her, though by the time they were found, they’d consumed so much of her body it was impossible to tell. I tried to get them to admit it, but apart from a few sly glances at me (you’ve seen the picture, you know how similar we look), they stuck to their story. After days of hunger, in fear for their lives, they’d spotted my mother returning from the beach, where she’d been trying to salvage what she could from the remains of her little restaurant. At first they only meant to rob her, for it looked as though she had valuables with her, but then, when she refused to hand over her stuff, one of the men wrapped a cord around her neck and started to strangle her. She fought them, fought hard for her life, but they were persistent and far too strong for her to overcome. After she died, one of the men panicked and wanted to flee, but the other, struck by some impulse, decided to do something else.”
I sipped my beer and wondered what it would be like to wrap my hands around Rebecca’s pretty little neck. How it might feel to squeeze her throat, press my thumbs into the hollow of her neck and feel her pulse quicken as she struggled for air. My erection returned, and I did nothing to hide it, wanting for the first time to show Rebecca the other, darker side of me.
“He was a farmer, you see, or had been before he moved to the coastal region. He thought the way my mother’s body lay made her look like a pig—or something to that effect. He decided that, rather than waste her flesh, he’d take her home, butcher her, and have his wife cook her meat.”
Rebecca paused, shook her head as if waking from a dream, and turned to look at me.
“As you know, that’s exactly what they did.”
Taking Rebecca’s hand in my own, I guided it to my lap. Her fingers found the hardness there and she shivered.
“How does that make you feel, Rebecca?”
“This, or the story?”
“Both.”
“To be perfectly honest, Jake, at first it made me mad. So mad I could’ve killed those men myself. I was so wrapped up in the pain I felt from her loss that I was blinded to the other side of the equation.”
Rebecca tensed her fingers around the bulging tip of my erection. She teased and played with me, careful to stimulate me just enough to keep me on edge, but not enough I’d spill over.
“Which was?”
“The horrible beauty of it.” Rebecca sighed. “I remember the night it happened, when I had my epiphany. I was back here, in the apartment you were at last night, trying to sleep after being up for days. I knew I needed a clear head before I could attempt to write about what’d happened, but every time I closed my eyes I imagined one of two things. First, I’d think about my mother’s smile, the sound of her laughter.”
“And the other?”
Rebecca sniffed.
“I imagined her as little more than a pile of turds, slowly decomposing in the septic system of a disgusting Thai prison.”
This time it was me who reacted viscerally. I felt an tightening in my groin, and it took every ounce of self control I possessed to keep from climaxing right then and there. It wasn’t the thought of scat that did it—not precisely, anyway—but rather the substitution of human for animal flesh and the subsequent transformation of that into the base components necessary for life. To think that a living, breathing, thinking, feeling woman had been reduced to the Thai disaster equivalent of a Bic Mac was intoxicating. Doubly so when I remembered I had that same woman’s daughter with me now, ready to willingly subject herself to the same fate.
“I don’t think she’d want you to think of her like that,” I said, when I finally managed to get myself under control.
“Of course not,” Rebecca snapped. “It’s not that I want to imagine her as a pile of shit instead of the person she was. I can’t help it, though. And that’s part of the reason I’d never be able to kill those men, even if they were bound, gagged, and presented to me like gifts on Christmas morning. It would be too much like snuffing out what little of her spark remained. Does that make sense? Or am I crazy?”
No, I thought, not crazy, but that does illustrate the crucial difference between you and I.
“It makes perfect sense, Rebecca,” I said. “Don’t you see?”
She shook her head.
“It’s really simple. Those men—like me—are predators. You, like your mother before you, are prey. A gazelle can no more snuff a lion than you could those men.”
“I guess so.”
Rebecca began peeling the label from her bottle. When she spoke again, all the passion was gone from her voice, and it was like listening to a robot repeat a pre-recorded message.
“Anyways, I never did finish that story. But I kept coming back to the theme. I wanted—no, needed— to know more. To understand! I don’t know when it became sexual, but eventually it did, and that’s how I wound up here, with you.”
“Because you realized the only way to truly understand . . .”
“Yes.”
“And are you ready to finally know, Rebecca, the answer to the questions that’ve been bothering you for so long?”
Biting her bottom lip, she nodded.
It was then that the switch flipped in my mind.
Instantly, she ceased to be a person to me, and became prey instead.
I think she sensed it, the way an animal might sense, in the seconds before they feel the predator’s jaws close around their vulnerable necks. Rebecca moved away from me on the couch, and I think if she’d had more time she might’ve gotten up and made a run for the door, answers to her questions notwithstanding. You see, like all animals, humans have an intense, innate desire for life. And Rebecca, knowing her life was in immediate danger, tried to act on that impulse—but she was far too late.
Like her mother before her, Rebecca strangled to death.
I wrapped my big hands around her slender neck and squeezed. I squeezed so hard I could barely close my hands afterwards, but at the time I felt nothing—so focused was I in drinking in all the final moments of her life had to offer.
Rebecca struggled.
She gripped at my hands, batted at my arms, even tried to kick me. But, like her mother, she was small, weak, vulnerable, and I was simply too big for her to have even a remote chance of freeing herself. Her eyes widened and her face turned first red, then blue, then a sick purplish color as the blood trapped in her head went bad. Blood vessels burst in her eyes from the exertion of her effort to find air to breathe. Her feet kicked a staccato rhythm on the floor. Eventually, her arms fell limply away, and I, driven by this sign of her submission, jerked and squeezed her throat violently. Something crunched beneath my fingers and I collapsed on top of her just in time to breathe in her final exhalation—a rattle of breath that blew a few stray strands of hair from her face.
I maintained my chokehold a few minutes more, just to be safe, releasing my grip when I heard the patter of her bladder’s final voiding.
I lay back, exhausted, and thought about what I’d just done.
Was it possible, in her final moments, Rebecca regretted her decision? Had she changed her mind as my fingers crushed her windpipe? Was her struggle for life sincere?
Strangely—or perhaps not—such a line of thought made me horny.
I had a bigger erection than any I’d had with her while she was alive, only now, what was I supposed to do with it?
It struck me I could do what I wanted with her body, since it belonged to me now and she wouldn’t mind, but something about the prospect of fucking a corpse put me off. I’d have no problem choosing an orifice and taking advantage of her if she were, say, unconscious, but knowing she was beyond help—knowing, too, that the biological process of decay had begun the moment her heart stopped beating—proved too much for me.
I got off of her and went to the kitchen for a drink of water.
That helped.
Returning to her, I decided to put off my erection (it could wait; I had more pressing things to attend to) and scooped up her body—God, she was light!—and carried her into my bathroom. I stripped her of her clothes, tossing her urine-soaked underthings aside, and slung her up in my tub. She looked peaceful, aside from her discolored face and lips, which remained unhealthy shades of bluish purple. Her long hair drifted with the slow motion of her corpse, brushing the dry porcelain at the bottom of the tub, and I lifted her up a bit more. I took a moment then to examine her body, to truly appreciate it in a way I guessed no one else had before, intimate, up close and personal.
Rebecca had the tightest asshole I’d ever seen on a woman. Hers was small, a slightly darker shade of brown than the rest of her skin, puckered, and hairless. It stood just above (or below, depending on your perspective) the tight, compact slit of her sex, like the dot above an “i.” I liked that she took the time—or went to the trouble—to shave or wax her asshole. So many women ignore, pretend it doesn’t exist, even if they shave their cunts they will let long straggly hairs accumulate around their backdoor. Not Rebecca. She was assiduous in her grooming habits. We never did have anal sex, and I chided myself for not bringing it up while she was alive, especially now that I’ve seen where my cock could’ve been. Nevertheless, and my reluctance to fuck my food notwithstanding, I decided I had to give it a taste.
I probed her rearmost orifice with my tongue, running it along her rim, at first, before penetrating past the slack muscle of her sphincter. She tasted salty, but also sweet, a mix of her arousal and the body wash or soap that she used. It was a great taste, clean but also dirty, and, when you added the pungent aroma of her urine—which she’d voided at the moment of her death—I had to fight hard against the urge to cum in my pants. Spreading Rebecca’s cheeks with my hands, I buried my face between them and went to town, licking, poking, prodding and sucking. I performed oral on her corpse—my future meal—until I felt she would’ve climaxed, had she been alive, then I stopped.
I thought of how she might feel, knowing I was tonguing her asshole after her death. Would Rebecca be embarrassed? Pleased?
Maybe a mix of both.
But then, alas, the time for playing with my food was over.
Without further ado, I used my sharpest knife to slit her throat. There was a rush of blood, but no pressure; gravity would have to suffice, now her heart no longer beat. To aid in the process, I also slit open her arms and wrists. She would take a while to bleed out, but in the meantime I could see about removing her organs—my least favorite part of the process. I pressed the tip of my knife into the firm flat flesh of her abdomen until it pierced through, then brought it down, using all my weight to slice Rebecca open from cunt to just below her breasts. I managed to get my fingers into the slit, then worked until the cartilage and muscle let go, and I exposed the inside of her abdominal cavity.
This might be easier—or less unpleasant—if I were a Thai farmer, but since I’m not, I had to suffer the smells and, worst of all, textures alone in my bathroom. I pulled her organs out by the handful, dropping them into a slop bucket (I never eat organ meat). By the time I finished and had hollowed her out, I judged her sufficiently drained of blood to remove her head. A few more slices, then I twisted until whatever held her head on her body snapped, and I was left looking into Rebeca’s dead, sightless eyes.
“You were beautiful,” I said, and kissed her on her bloody blue lips. “But the time for beauty is through. Soon you’ll be delicious.”
I wrapped her head in plastic and placed it in my fridge (soon it would join the heads of past meals in the freezer, but I wanted Rebecca present when I enjoyed her flesh for the first time).
I then cut the flesh around her nipples and set them aside (I planned to preserve them in clear plastic, along with her clit, and make jewelry out of them).
Although she’d been a small person in life, she had more than enough meat on her bones to provide me with several quality meals. After that, there was always her bones, which could be boiled for stock, and her fat, which I could render into soap. I don’t like to waste anything from the women I kill—it would be too disrespectful, given the immense nature of the sacrifice they made for my pleasure.
I’ll save you the minutiae of butchery.
Suffice it to say, I got myself a few choice cuts, wrapped up the rest, and moved the slop bucket to its place by the front door.
I marinated her flesh with delicate spices, just enough to accentuate the natural flavor of her meat, and put it in the fridge while I finished cleaning up.
That night, I sat down across from Rebecca’s head, which looked as beautiful—or more—removed from her shoulders than attached. I had small portions each of coconut rice and mango salad, to compliment the rare-grilled filets on my plate. Cutting through the flesh, I placed the first forkful into my mouth, closed my eyes and sighed. Rebecca’s meat was juicy and delicious, reminiscent of pork but oh-so much better. I washed it down with another Singha, remembering how one of the last things Rebecca had done was fiddle with the label, and continued eating. I ate far more than I should have—jeopardizing my next day’s meal—but I couldn’t help myself. It was as though my unquenched sexual appetite were fueling my hunger, and the more of her I put in, the more my body craved.
I finally cut myself off, lest I run out of readily available meat, and put the dishes into the dishwasher. I passed Rebecca’s head several times as I carried things into the kitchen, and it struck me how much I enjoyed its “company,” though it was starting to look markedly decayed (too pale, the raw edges around the sump of her neck a disquieting red). I reluctantly returned it to its plastic shroud, and, too full and tired to deal with the rest of Rebecca’s corpse, added it and my slop bucket to an otherwise neat and organized freezer, and went straight to bed.
The next day, as the sun set, I chucked Rebecca’s inedible remains where I dispose of all my victims—the swamp behind my building. As I did, I saw the familiar ripple of alligators moving in the scum-covered water. I also felt a rippling inside of me, equally familiar, which had me heading home at a rapid rate.
Sitting down on the old porcelain throne—admiring the spotless tub beside me—I remembered what Rebecca had told me about her mother, slowly rotting as digested remains in the sewer of a Thai prison.
“Well, Rebecca, take solace in knowing your remains won’t be trapped in any septic tank. Instead, they’ll get the privilege of being treated and returned to the sea. I’m sure your mother would be glad to know her sacrifice meant her daughter got to both live a better life and have a better death than she did.”