In any case, there is a snuff, implied cannibalism scene in that story that I toned down a lot for the site. I toned down so much that the story ended up in their general erotica/erotic romance section.
Here is the scene, toned up. WARNING NOT FOR THE SQUEAMISH
I was sold, along with four girls from my village. The colonel who bought us from our parents took us to Bangkok where he sold me and another girl to a pimp that worked among the tourist hotels and clubs. At school, the teachers made sure we learned at least one foreign language, English usually, sometimes German or French. I never saw the other two girls again.
Every time I, or any girl, is re-sold, her family gets a ten percent commission. That’s the rule and it is always followed. I worked for this pimp for about two years, servicing European and American tourists, before a Japanese man came to see him; he wanted to buy, not rent, two girls. He chose me and another one, let’s call her Susan.
We stayed with the Japanese man for a week while he traveled around the country. He was cruel and mean, and he often would beat or kick us, for the flimsiest reason, or for no reason, because it pleased him to hurt us. He fucked us, in all possible ways too, but that wasn’t too bad; he was quite small, and he finished very fast.
We knew he had a reason for buying us both; he did not intend to return us to the pimp. This was good for our families since they got their commission, but it did not bode well for us. An American or European may buy a girl and keep her for a long time, or even take her back home. A Japanese or Korean man would never do that. Women sold to them usually disappear.
He told us why he bought us. He wanted us to know, to see our fear, it got him off. He got angry when we did not cry, or beg for mercy. He stripped us both naked and lashed us with a rattan cane. He only stopped because he did not want to cut our skin. Then he beat us on the soles of our feet until they were on fire and it hurt so much to walk that when we did, it seemed we were dancing.
Finally, he delivered us to an older man; he was a Sensei, a master. He took us from the Japanese man.
“Tomorrow at two all will be ready,” he said.
He did not mistreat us. He was actually quite kind. He gave us the first good news we had since the Japanese man bought us. He would only use one of us, the other would be spared.
The next day, Sensei told us who he had selected. It was to be Susan. He left us alone in a room, so we had time to cry and say our good byes.
“Come out when you feel ready,” he said.
When we did, he told me that my job was to comfort Susan, to help keep her calm, to make her more comfortable. He gave us both some sake, but I don’t think it helped much. He told us what we needed to do. We undressed and followed him to a well lit room where a group of men, Japanese or Koreans sat around a metal table. They applauded when we entered, nude and unbound, and stood beside the table.
We bowed to them.
Susan kissed me and I kissed her back. We heard the leering comments of the men, I could imagine what they were saying but, fortunately, I could not understand their words.
Susan turned around and crossed her hands behind her back. I bound them there with a scarlet ribbon. She then sat on the steel table.
“It is cold,” she said.
She lay down on the table, her head hanging off a lunette that had been cut on one of the ends of the table. She began to shake in fear, her rapid breathing showing me she was approaching panic. I was terrified too, but Sensei had warned me that this would happen and told me what to do. I crouched by her face and caressed her cheeks.
“There, there,” I said, “it will be all right, it will be OK.”
If Susan had said that it would not be OK, knowing, as she did, what would happen to her in only a few minutes, I might have killed myself then and there, but she didn’t. Despite her terror, she tried to calm down; it wasn’t easy.
“Take deep breaths,” I said, “deep cleansing breaths.”
She followed my instructions and her breathing slowed down although she was still shaking. I noticed her nipples were erect, as were mine; the room was cold.
Sensei arrived; he adjusted the table so Susan’s head lay slightly below her feet.
“Feet must be higher than head, or air will suck into heart and death come too soon.”
He pulled out a knife with a curved blade, a little larger than a paring knife. The blade was dark in color, with a pattern of irregular lines on its surface. I later learned that was because it was hand-made and the lines were where the artisan who forged it bent the steel over itself, dozens, maybe scores of times, hammering it into shape. This kind of blade kept its edge much better than stainless steel.
Trembling, I could not draw my eyes from the knife, and despite its terrible purpose, I could not help but admire the beauty of the iridescent patterns on the surface of the blade.
With his finger, Sensei traced the line he would use on Susan’s quivering neck.
“Not deep, must not cut artery,” he said, “cut vein only, so blood drains slowly.”
I sensed Susan panicking again under my hands. I encouraged her to take deep breaths. I wished I could take my own advice. I kept caressing her face with my hands and, not knowing what else to do, I bent over and kissed her cheek, oblivious to the jeering cat calls of the men.
“Knife very sharp,” Sensei reassured us, “cut little painful.”
Susan only whimpered when Sensei drew the knife across one side of her neck, leaving a crimson line behind that soon became a small red river. He did the same on the other side. Twin rivers of blood now flowed from her neck into a large bucket under the table.
She was still alive and conscious. The knife had avoided her windpipe and the arteries so she could breathe, and talk. I kept caressing her face, my hands now scarlet with her blood, and kissing her, on her cheek and lips, over and over.
“So cold,” she said.
Later, when the rivers had dwindled to small streams and her skin had the color of coconut meat, with her breath coming in irregular gasps, she said:
“Thank you Lana.”
I saw her pupils dilate, and the shine of life leave her eyes. The blood ceased to flow from her neck.
I stood by the table, my eyes full of tears, over the inert body of my friend. Sensei approached us.
“Help me,” he ordered.
He cranked a handle at the bottom of the table so that the foot of the table rose even higher and a little more blood drained from her.
The men now left their seats and went outside, to drink and wait for the appetizers.
Leaving the table tilted, he cut into her abdomen, stabbing into the skin, just above the pubic bone and extending the incision until he reached the breast bone. He worked fast, extracting the stomach and intestines, as well as the liver and kidneys from her body. He dropped the, still warm, organs in a large bucket I held for him. He cut around the diaphragm, took a smaller knife in his hand and reached inside the chest. I saw her mouth move, as if she would speak. Terrified, I brought my blood stained hands up, to cover my face.
He pulled on something and the lungs, heart and windpipe came out. Her tongue was still attached to the voice box at the end of her windpipe. When he dropped the organs in the bucket, her voice box made a noise that sounded like a sigh.
He ordered me to clean the insides with a hose. When I cleaned the gore out of my friend’s body, I had to douse the cavity liberally with salt and pepper out of a crock and brush the insides generously with oil and soy sauce.
While I did that, Sensei took Susan’s liver and cut it into thin slices, coated it with a paste of spicy Thai chilies and tossed it seared the slices on a hibachi. One of his assistants took the seared liver outside to serve it to the waiting men.
He brought two buckets of stuffing. I do not know what he used but, even in my numb state, I had to admit it smelled delicious. Once we stuffed Susan with the contents of the two buckets he closed the incision with thick twine, and I helped him truss my friend, bending her thighs and knees over her belly, and doing the same for her arms. I massaged a load of butter into her hair before wrapping it in aluminum foil. I also massaged her skin with butter until she was completely covered with a thick coat of it.
His two assistants then brought two stout poles and we tilted her body this way and that, until it rested on the poles. They lifted her and placed her on a shallow oiled pan. The poles fit in rings along the side of the pan so they could place her into the already hot oven.
She would have to roast for five hours.
It was my job to baste her body, after the first hour and every thirty minutes afterwards.
While she baked in the oven, Sensei diced her kidneys and dumped them in lemon juice. His assistants washed her intestines and stomach and also dumped them in pails with lemon juice. The intestines would be used for casings and the stomach would be served with chili peppers and potatoes at a later date.
When Susan was done, we removed her from the oven. I removed the foil from around her hair. She looked almost alive, although her skin had turned golden brown. When the assistants took her into the dining room, with Sensei following, I heard a great ovation.
Sensei did not force me to watch as he carved and served my friend’s flesh. Curled into a fetal position, on the steel table where she’d died, I cried. I heard the men’s comments and the sound of silverware. I found a small bottle of Sake that Sensei left for me. I drank it all. It did not help.
Later, Sensei brought me a plate of my friend’s flesh.
“Eat,” he said.
I shook my head, “No.”
He sat down beside me, my friend’s meat on the plate between us.
“She fulfilled her destiny,” Sensei said. “Don’t reject her sacrifice now.”
I looked at him, my eyes swollen from crying.
He looked at me with his wise eyes and said:
“If you had been in her place, wouldn’t you have wanted your friend to enjoy your flesh too?”
She was delicious.