 |
|||
|
|
5. Der Mädchenbraten
Endless hours chained to her seat, flying through the night miles above a frothing ocean eager to swallow them up if they should happen to drop from the sky. She ponders whether it would be better to drown in the cold Atlantic and be consumed by the myriads of creatures who inhabit its depths, or to die on dry land in Munich and be eaten by her own kind. She tries to sleep, but cannot. The man beside her is reading a book. He offered one to her, but the words blurred in the cacophony of her terrors.
As the hours creep by, each girl is allowed trips to the bathroom for relief, but the dignity of privacy is not allowed. The door is kept open, the guard watching, always watching.
Lili, who had thought she could never again put anything in her stomach, is suddenly famished when her sandy haired, pleasant faced guard sits down next to her with a plate of baked chicken fresh from the galley. He declines to share any of it with her, but gives her a candy bar. Snickers. Energy to get her through her impending ordeal, he explains, with minimal roughage to dirty up her intestines. And water is always available. Real water. Clean and sweet to keep the merchandise properly hydrated.
When the plane finally touches down, it's mid-morning of the next day. By her guard's watch it should be 5:00 A.M., but six time zones have lopped yet another quarter of a day from her life. The Gulfstream parks at the far corner of a bustling airport. A runway tractor pulls a cart toward them loaded with three containers identical to the five already stacked up behind the pilots. When the containers are safely inside the aircraft and the hatch locked and closed, three more girls are pulled out and processed. These three are all blondes of varying shades, and exceptionally beautiful. One is crying hysterically. Another is angry, trying to shout through her gag. The third looks bewildered and frightened. Each one receives a fishhook through her left nipple with a little oval tag. Lili can't read them from where she sits. By the time the last of the new arrivals is cuffed to her seat the aircraft is taxiing for another takeoff.
This leg is a lot shorter. Only an hour or two, she thinks, but she's losing track of time. Long before they land the guards begin to repack the girls in their containers. Last ones out are the first ones in. Robes removed; hands cuffed behind them; ankles and legs bound; gags taped in place; bodies doubled up with knees to chest and stuffed into the white crates.
Lili Primrose, known in these final hours of her life as US-6, is the fourth to be plunged back into the sweaty confinement of her container. Condemned and alone. The discomfort of her mind and body is magnified by the ominous bumping and rumbling as her container is rolled down unseen ramps, tarmac and corridors to what can only be her final, unholy destination.
Another click. Light floods into her eyes as the top swings up and she is lifted from her packing case. She's in a long, narrow room centered by a row of salon chairs. Men around her are removing her bindings, but not the short chain connecting her ankles. They speak in a language she does not understand. What she does understand is the painful grip on her arm as she's led through a side door into a shower where she's scrubbed clean and rinsed before being returned to the salon room. There she's thrust into a chair, her ankles locked to the base. Four chairs are already occupied by young women she's never seen before. One by one the remaining chairs are filled with girls from the plane, shuffling awkwardly in their shackles, damp from the shower. Now there are twelve.
Three women in white smocks, two of them quite young, one of middle age, are hustling about among them, repairing the cosmetic damage incurred during shipment. They chatter in German. Lili recognizes the sound of the language but does not speak it. She has the impression they're talking about personal things unrelated to what they're doing. At first a few of the captive girls try to resist their attentions, but the guards put a quick end to their rebellious spirit with cattle prods and handcuffs. Now all twelve sit docilely as their hair is shampooed, dried, brushed out and coiffed. In fact, Lili is impressed at how talented these attendants are at selecting the ideal hair style for each girl. Faces and bodies are glorified with sophisticated applications of makeup. Even the nipples are slightly rouged to give them more definition. She groans as the cosmetologist lifts her tag, twisting the fishhook, the soreness making it obvious that infection is setting in. Just as obviously, her attendant is unconcerned.
The last thing the attendants do is to fit each subject with a pair of high-heeled shoes. Lili has never worn heels this high and wonders if she can actually walk in them. But so what if she can't? She remembers that the guard on the plane told her the guests would be looking her over. These impossible shoes must be for their benefit, and why should she care if they liked what they saw. Either way, they were going to kill her.
The attendants depart, leaving the twelve young women to stew in their anxiety for at least an hour. Talking is prohibited, enforced by the guard with the cattle prod, but it doesn't matter; the only other girl who speaks English, the blond from the plane, is seven chairs away.
Finally there's movement. Two guards and the middle-aged attendant enter the room. One of the girls is unclamped from her chair while a very tall, muscular guard slips a choke chain over her head and hauls her to her feet with it. While the second guard cuffs her hands behind her, the attendant uses a cloth tape to measure her bust, waist and hips, jotting the information down on a sheet of paper. The girl is made to step up on to a scale where her weight is also recorded. The attendant hands the paper to the guard and he leads the girl off by the choke collar, wobbling on her high heels. One at a time the same guards come for each of the captives. Lili is the sixth to be taken. She gasps as the choke collar tightens around her neck when the guard lifts her out of the seat. She's weighed, her measurements taken and her wrists locked behind her. She struggles to keep on her feet as the guard keeps the chain taut, almost carrying her by the neck. He pulls her down a corridor and into a room with a computer monitor where one of the younger attendants scans the bar code on her nipple tag, takes the paper with her measurements, enters the data into the computer and waves the guard and his charge on through another door and into another corridor.
At the end of it she is pulled, half strangling, through a pair of heavy drapes and finds herself on a short runway projecting into a room filled with smoke and a noisy crowd in a party mode. The revelers are about equally divided between men and women, most of them carrying drinks, all of whom turn to stare at the naked new arrival as she's led to a round platform at the end of the runway. An amplified voice makes an announcement in German which begins and ends with what sounds like "sex," or "zecks." With her slight knowledge of German she realizes that the announcer is referring to the number on her tag. "Six." Sechs in German. The guard turns her in a circle on the platform so everyone can get a good view of Number Six as she struggles to keep from stumbling in her heels and hanging herself on the choke collar. Finally he leads her back down the runway and through the drapes to a smattering of applause and laughter.
She's handed off to another guard but is too preoccupied with the effort to breathe and to stay on her feet to care where he is dragging her. They pass through another door (all the doors here, she notices, seem to be heavy steel) and into a large rotunda. Her five predecessors are already here, standing immobile, chained to the hardwood floor by wooden stocks clamped around their ankles. Another wooden stock is locked around their wrists and neck and suspended from the ceiling by chains, stretching them upright. They are placed in an arc, part of a large circle completed by seven other sets of stocks not yet occupied.
Lili is led to the next available set of stocks where two more guards are waiting. One grabs her ankles. He spreads her feet apart and holds them there while the other guard positions the wooden stocks over her ankles and clamps them shut. He uses a bolt in each end to hold the two halves of the stocks together and secures them with a wing nut. Next he removes the handcuffs and seizes her forearms with an iron grip to raise her wrists up to the level of her neck so the upper stocks can be clamped in place and locked on with bolts. To the sound of chains being cranked through pulleys, the upper stocks begin to move upwards, lifting up her chin and hands, stretching her to her full height. Another cloth rag is forced into her mouth and belted in place with a leather strap. Has she been allowed to speak for the last time? The prospect makes her intensely sad. But on the other hand, what is there to say?
She stands, able to move only enough to stave off fainting, not enough to move an inch from where her ankle stocks are chained to floor bolts. She and the other captives have been placed facing the center of the circle so she has an unrestricted view of the girls already in place, as well as the remaining six as they are led in, one by one, and positioned in their own stocks. She's struck by how pretty they all are, some breathtakingly beautiful. And all so young. It breaks her heart.
Another endless wait. At some point an attendant arrives with an armful of small sandwich board signs. She places one sign next to each girl after checking her nipple tag. The signs bear the girl's number along with her weight and measurements. This is obviously an exhibition hall with all the meat on display.
More waiting. She hears weeping on her right. A lovely girl with black hair and a tiny waist is peeing on the floor, miserable with embarrassment. A guard quickly comes out of nowhere and zaps her repeatedly with his prod, making her scream through her gag, finishing by touching the double prongs to both breasts, then up her vagina. The girl is writhing and sobbing, surging against the stocks. The guard returns to his position while one of the young female attendants mops up the urine, washes off the girl's legs and sprays the area with a perfumed disinfectant. Her sobs eventually die down to sniffles.
The episode has made Lili extremely conscious of her own growing need to pee. She wiggles in her stocks, tightening her sphincter, wishing she could bring her knees together, keeping a wary eye on the guard.
Fortunately something distracts her. The sound of voices. The same alcohol laced revelry that she heard from the runway. An ornate set of double doors on her left opens grandly and a cascade of men and woman begin streaming into the rotunda carrying their cocktail glasses and beers. Lili recognizes several of the more flashy dresses the women are wearing. This is the same crowd that had watched her exhibited on the runway, now come to examine the menu items up close and personal. Very personal, as it quickly develops.
Hands roam all over her body and fingers keep slipping inside both her lower orifices. This must be why they've gagged her. Her grunts and squeals only seem to encourage the invasions. The conversation and laughter of the circulating diners are in sharp contrast with the misery on the faces of the twelve exhibits. Most of the chatter is gibberish to Lili who can only guess what these people have to joke and laugh about as they browse among terrified young women waiting to be slaughtered.
Now and then, amidst the babble, she hears English.
". . . and as I understand it they're doing them three at a time. Which seating are you at?"
"I'm in the fourth at ten o'clock."
"I'm in the first. I don't usually like to eat at four. Too early. But I have a flight to catch and I don't wanna rush. Not at these prices. I wanna take time to savor, y'know?"
"I know what you mean. But it's too bad; they usually save the best ones for last. Like this beauty here."
A hand slaps her ass hard.
"I've requested her table. Can hardly wait to sink my teeth into this tenderloin." He pinched the flesh on both sides of her spine."
"Tenderloin, huh? I dunno, I think I prefer the thigh. It may not be as tender but it's got more flavor. Juicier. Course a lot depends on how they cook her. Too much heat tends to make the meat too dry, so if they . . . ."
The voice dissolves into the general gabble of the huge room. Many more hands slide over her belly, her legs, her crotch, her breasts. One foolish woman catches a finger on the point of the fishhook and yanks her hand away, nearly tearing the hook out of the nipple. Lili screams and rocks in her wooden restraints.
A tall, solemn-faced man with black hair and dark eyes, speaking an odd, mellifluous language, squeezes her breasts, thighs and calves. He puts two fingers deep into her furrow and plays there for a while, studying her reactions. Finally he signals an attendant and pats Lili's right breast. The attendant nods and goes to a computer near the double doors. A printer next to the monitor regurgitates a slip of paper which the attendant hands to the man whose fingers have been continuing their cavorting in Lili's vagina. He withdraws his fingers from their wet dance hall and rubs them on the underside of her lips and up inside her nose so she can taste and smell her own secret juices.
She numbs herself to the relentless humiliation, until another burst of English catches her attention. She recognizes the twang. Texas.
"Whoa! Sally, c'mere! Look at this one!" A man stands in front of her, pointing. He's in his mid fifties, sun damaged face, blue shirt with top two buttons undone, square jaw, beer belly, boots. "That's what I call prime," he says. "Looka this!" He grasps each of her thighs with both hands and squeezes hard. "Nice and firm but no hard muscle. And take a look at these knockers!" He transfers his squeezing to her breasts. "Yeah! Firm with good natural lift, no sagging. Nice, small, perfectly formed nipples that stand right out. You could hang your hat on 'em. We're definitely sitting at her table and I'm going to put in a bid for one of them jugs. Whadda ya think?"
A tall buxom woman emerges into her side vision. She's a bottle blonde, probably in her early forties and uses lots of makeup to help hold back time. "I've told you what I think. It's a fucking extravagance. Why do we need tit? Leg meat is almost as good. Besides, would there be enough to share?"
"Hell, yeah! Here, feel this!" He grabs her right hand and plops it on Lily's right breast.
The woman squeezes the captured mammary and raises her eyebrows. "Okay, you're right. Nice and firm. Could be tasty."
The man waves at an attendant. "Hey, sweetheart! Either of these tits still up for grabs, and how much?" He snickers at his own drollery.
The attendant, accustomed to boors in several languages, ignores his lame humor and consults the computer screen.
"The left breast is still available, Sir, for two thousand Euros."
"Jesus, Eddie!" the woman chokes. "Two thousand for a lousy tit?"
"Not just any tit!" he counters. "That's Marilyn fucking Monroe quality tit."
"For two thousand it better be! What's this sudden big obsession with tits, anyway? Don't I have enough for you to chew on?" She puts both hands under her bosoms and thrusts them toward him, almost spilling them out of her dress.
"You sure do! In fact, why don't I volunteer you for the next roast down in Bogota. I'll buy both your tits and chow 'em down myself. You're a little over the usual age cutoff for Isis, but I'll offer you at a price they can't refuse. Whadda ya say? I'm hot just thinkin' about it!"
"Jesus, Eddie!" To Lili's amazement the woman blanches. She's afraid! She knows he would actually do it!
"Well, then, cut the shit!" he snarls. "You can't tell me you don't like a little titty yourself. Every time we invite Jim and Barbara over, who spends half her time suckin' on Barbara's bongos? What's that all about?"
"What that's about is that you pout and bitch if I spend too much time sucking on Jim's dick, so I switch to Barbara's boobs so you won't go into a fucking snit."
"All right! All right! Look, all I'm sayin' is, these are great melons here and I wanna eat one. What's wrong with that?"
"But two thousand . . . ."
"Oh for Chrisake, Sally, it's our anniversary treat. We can afford two thousand lousy Euros. What's the big fucking deal?
"All right, all right. Put in a fucking bid, Eddie. But remember, I get half."
He signals the attendant standing next to the computer monitor. She approaches. "Put me down for it, sweetheart, and put us at her table." He hands her a credit card. He follows her back to the computer but their voices, in English, cut through the hubbub.
"That will be at the ten o'clock seating, Sir. Table one." She taps at the monitor face and the printer spits out a strip of paper which she hands to the Texan. "The chefs will begin preparing her at 4:20. The drawing for the slaughter will be at 4:35, if you'd like to take part in the lottery."
"You betcha!" he says. "Wouldn't miss it! By the way, how much for the cunt lips and womb?"
"Eddie!" his wife screeches, steering him out of the room.
|
|
|