WARNING! Dolcett theme (If you don't know what that is, google it before proceeding)
Contains implied snuff and many other bad things so do not continue if you are sensitive to such things.
Fantasy only. Do not read if you cannot tell the difference between what's real and what's not.
It is meant as a study in emotion, so there is not much sex in it either.
You have been warned. If you still want to read it, go on.
The Last Morning
I wake up; it is still dark but I know I cannot sleep anymore. I get out of bed. Louise and Catherine, my sisters remain sound asleep. I slept nude, as we all do. I slip my feet into my high heeled slippers; pick up my bathrobe and leave.
In the corridor, I put on my bathrobe. It is the last piece of clothing that I shall wear. I make my way downstairs. In a sense, it is a violation of the rules that I wear any clothing on this, my last day. As of this morning, I am meat animal and meat animals do not wear clothes. There is no one awake in the house, this early in the morning, so I suppose it doesn't matter.
The kitchen smells of the barbecue sauce we made last night. Catherine turns eighteen today, old enough to enter the lottery, but she is the smartest of us. She aced all her tests and has earned meat classification A. Her number only enters the lottery on the official holidays, New Year, Memorial Day, 4th of July, Labor Day, Thanksgiving, and Christmas. The whole family and a bunch of friends and neighbors will turn out for her party and coming of age barbecue.
I will be the pig at the feast.
I slide open the patio doors and step outside. The chill air makes me shiver under the bathrobe and the friction of the terry cloth makes my nipples stand out, as if I was excited. I walk on the grass towards the pit. The moonlight bathes the backyard in its blue light. The oiled spit gleams on its iron supports over the charcoal filled pit. Dad set it up yesterday, the kindling, covered by the charcoal, and the four long wicks of rolled cotton that sink to the bottom of the pit, to light it. In between the regular charcoal he mixed self lighting one, to make sure it will light up easily. I helped him set it up, another family tradition I could have done without. A can of lighter fluid to soak the cotton wicks sits nearby.
I shiver again, and I know it is not from the cold.
The eastern sky begins to turn light.
I should return to the house but something keeps me outside. After yesterday's party, no one will be up early today.
Under the awning, the hardwood spitting table sits; the straps at the legs of the table await my ankles and wrists. The dark stains, on its surface, terrify me. I shake in terror and tears come to my eyes.
It is better I get this over with here, with no one watching. I fall to my knees beside the table; I almost believe I can smell the blood, the fear and the pain of those who went before me.
I have seen quite a few barbecues in my short adult life. Most of the sows smile, and try to say something witty before the straps close around their wrists and ankles. Some fight, or cry; that is considered bad form.
I always knew I would be meat. Since my first exams at school, I knew I'd never make the B or C grade. By the time I turned eighteen I was classified D. To be turned into meat before age 25.
I guess I should be happy to have lasted this long, being in the holiday, monthly and weekly lotteries. Not many D grades make it to 23.
I have never seen the sun rise. I stand by the table and dry my eyes; my shaking is mostly under control. The rim of the sun peeks above the roofs. It is beautiful. Pity I won’t see it again.
I return to the house.
In the bathroom I begin to give myself the three enema series that will make sure I don't make a mess. Once the water runs clear, I give myself one large last one, just to make sure.
I shower and wash my hair. Someone, one of my sisters, probably, will wrap it up in foil, before I go on the coals, so I will look nice when they carve me. I should care about that, but I don't.
I shave the last hair from my pussy; most of my sisters keep their filets bare, to be ready if called, they say. That's well and good for them, they all have a chance, bigger of smaller, to reach 35 and be free of the lottery. I don't. I kept a small Mohawk there, as a token gesture of protest. It's gone now, like my humanity.
I run my hands over my milk white skin, over my large, firm breasts one last time; while I stay here, in the bathroom, my body is still mine.
I look outside. It is morning now and some male guests have arrived early; most guests will arrive later, in time to see me getting skewered, at eleven or so. These ones want to participate in my tenderizing. The men, and some women, get a thrill from fucking a girl that will soon be cooking, turning over the coals, a spit up her ass, or perhaps live boiled into a stew. They seem to think the girl has some last fun with her tenderizing. Maybe some do; maybe I will too, with the first two or three, if they all do not choose my ass. I count eighteen men in the yard, not counting my father and my brother.
My mother told me a trick, the morning we roasted her two years ago. I pull a small bottle of olive oil from the top of the medicine cabinet and apply a large amount to my pussy and asshole.
I leave the bathroom, naked, with my two holes well oiled, and walk down to the kitchen.
The few men inside give an “Ahh” of approval when they see my young, nubile body, that they will soon enjoy in more ways than one. I give them a wry smile and approach my sister Catherine.
"Happy birthday Kate," I say.
"I am so happy to be your sow," I lie. Another stupid family tradition.
I walk out to the backyard and feel the sun's warm rays on my skin. A quilt lies on the ground and I step on it. The men surround me, some have dropped their pants already and their cocks stand erect, in silent tribute to my body and flesh.
I kneel on the quilt. A man moves behind me and pushes my back forward. I go on all fours. I feel the head of a cock pushing at my well lubricated anus. I brace myself. The men come closer.
It is time.