When Times Are Tough

by: counterparts199

Mature audiences only - I'm a pacifist, and this is fantasy:

"Times have been tougher.  Since the nuclear wars society has rebounded and then stabilized.  International treaty had hopefully made nuclear war a thing of the past.  A rule of order has been established, creating strong senses of border, and allowing the full weight of a strong United Nations to come to bear on any nation crossing another's line.  The only major exceptions are excessive pollution and any program intended towards arms of mass destruction.  Nations has even been subdivided to help maintain a better sense of parity, and in order to insure no nation can easily overcome any UN intervention.  Of course you know all of this, but it amuses me to put you in perspective.

As for what happens within borders, well, anything goes.  That's just how it has to be for it to work.  If you're a German, and you vacation in France, then you're at the mercy of France.  Plain and simple.  If you don't like it, don't go.  Sometimes nations get out of control.  In Uganda, some dictator wiped out eighty percent of his people over some petty tribal issue.  That's Uganda's loss, under the new rule of order.  Living this way might not be too good on Ugandans, but it's good for the world.

We live in the Middle United States.  We get along pretty good here.  Most of the old constitution still is in effect.  Since we only live on the edge of the old bible belt, you might say we finally even have some freedom from the grand inquisition of religion.  There's the problem of being landlocked (except for the lakes) but we have good treaties for transportation through the other Americas.  Yep, times have been tougher.  For some, I guess, times are still at least a little touch and go.

You see, the wars didn't leave us unscathed.  Some of the cities got plastered, but good shelters helped a good part of humanity ride that out.  What really got hurt was that we were so intent upon saving human being that we forgot about the livestock.  In a land of a billion chickens, not a bird has survived, as the eggs of the few that made it through were thin and infertile.  As for cows, horses, sheep and pigs nothing seems to have made it.  I hear they still have lamas in Peru, but they're not telling us much, and that's a bitch we dare not confront under the new rule of law.  A few science types are working on some genetic ideas, but since we've lost so much of our science it's speculated that we've a few decades before that bears fruit.

So, like I told you, for some it's still touch and go, as I'm sure you will agree.  We have this little law now where longpig is legal if it's male and between the ages of fifteen and twenty-five.  We just have to catch it, tag it, and it's ours, as long as we can get it to the butcher before it escapes or someone dislodges us from the catch (which is in itself technically illegal, but nobody pays longpig robbery much mind - as long as the catch makes it to market).

Needless to say there is zoning for this sort of activity, and limited open seasons, which I kind of don't like myself.  November 6th through February 28th is the season, and anywhere other than the strictly residential suburbs zones are hunting ground.  Fact is, if you're a nice looking woman out on the prowl for a date, it's kind of easier, since the nice clubs are all in the suburban zones, and kind of harder since the male population isn't what it could be.  As for everywhere other than suburbia, you can park a car and just sit for three four months on any country road and not see a man between fifteen and twenty-five who isn't going the speed limit in what amounts to an armored car.  To an extent, it's like that even off season, since we are creatures of habit, and since anyone in the target group has to worry about being kidnapped until the season starts.  I mean, it's known to have happened.

To tell you the truth, I think the law's too slack on you boys, considering the price for a pound of low grade pork is nearly a month's wages.  I know poor people who've never had any meat better than rat.  Some things just don't seem fair.  Then again, considering how hard it is for a girl to get a date anymore, maybe it's for the best; damned if you do, damned if you don't.

Nothing like the sport though.  I've been in the trade myself since I was ten.  Let me tell you a story that will help you get a feeling for what us hunters have to go through, just in case you were thinking about feeling sorry for yourself:

Joe was a good kid.  He'd been an excellent student, and his parents had a fairly good lifestyle (only one woman for his dad, which was kind of cute and old fashioned - not that it's my cup of tea).  Well, one day he went out to the club, flashed his fake ID, and was half tanked when Mary first saw him.  She was a looker, every bit of five feet in heels, but with nice breasts, coal black and long hair, red nails and lips.  God could she dance back then.  The band was kind of Goth at times, and punk at others, but every so often Joe glanced over and saw Mary eyeing him.  She was dancing with a stone freak, her on the ground, and him on all fours over her, doing the penis pump rumble.  Mary licked her lips, and hiked her dress, and showed her panties as the freak lowered himself, and unzipped a penis that was inside one of those then fashionable, clear plastic Surround jockeys.  He'd bump, and she's mouth, "No!" at the appropriate beats, sliding up another few inches.  I love that dance, but I've since forgotten why.

Anyway, he was having a party, and even though he'd flashed a fake ID, everyone in the place could tell he and his friends were having a meat party.  When a guy gets to be sixteen, it's an unmistakable tradition to celebrate - why suburbanites think it's cerebratory is beyond me.  Maybe it's just a way of working off the first stages of what is going to be ten years of tension.  I've worked party bars since I was ten, and I can tell you the signs, the pimply faced buddies, the evil jokes, the first good case of inebriation, and of course the smell of fresh flesh.

So, oh, where was I?  Oh yes ... Mary.  She got to a point where she was dancing alone, and just kind of wandered over to the party.  God she was hot back then.  She'd taken off the hem, and put it in her purse, and was letting a little triangle of panties show, all white and pure like.  The stretch halter showed some nice perky breasts that bounced so young.  I loved that.  If only I were so young again.

"Please, stop with this stupid story," you say.

Oh come on!  Hold your horses.  It's my favorite story.  Let me tell it.

"Hi.  Bachelor's party?" Asked Mary.

"Uh, yeah.  Hi," said Joe, followed by immature catcalls from his friends.

"Mind if I join you?  I'm kind of alone?" Mary followed, sitting down in a chair instantly vacated by one of Joe's less vacuous friends.

Joe tried to be nonchalant about it, but he had to push his hands into his crotch to move aside a new cock that was poking straight out against the zipper, and giving away his instant interest.

"My name's Mary.  You're cute.  Have a girlfriend?"  Mary looked sixteen too, though I imagine it was a technicality from where I was sitting.  In no time she had him kissing on her and they were on the floor in a corner, playing the foreplay game to a slow mix from the PA system.  The crowd was thinning, and his buddies were down to a pair of bored spectators.

"I, I probably have to go.  Can I have your number," the kind-of shy boy asked, looking over at his sagging companions.

"We can go to my place?"

"You have a place?  Oh, I don't know.  My mom said I could stay out late, but she'd be worried if ..."

"It's in this town.  Do you live in this suburb, or would I have to take you across some line?"  Mary interrupted, giving the word line a couple of meanings.

"Uh, yes.  I live down Wallston Road, North," said the boy.

"Me too, only I'm probably a little East.  I can take you home ... later," she said, touching his penis where it poked near his jeans pocket, then giving him another half minute kiss.

"Uh, wait a minute," said Joe, getting up and shaking his clothing straight.  He went over to his two buddies, and explained.  They argued with him a little, but in the end shrugged.  I mean, they'd have done the same thing.  I smiled at them, me all young and innocent when they looked my way.  Life goes on, you know, even if you are sixteen, and maybe especially because you're sixteen.

So, yeah, Mary was her name.  That's what I said, Huh?

"Yes, yes.  Whatever!"  You said.

OK, well, she got a drink ready for the road while she was waiting, and had been sipping at it, letting the boys see her lips pucker around the straw like it was something else.  They went to the door, and said good-byes, acting as fake macho as sixteen year olds can, you know.  When Joe got back she'd saved the second half of the drink, and watched him gulp it down, trying his best to not make a face at the strangeness of the bitter alcoholic mixture.  He was really so sweet, to be honest.  I mean, I was only seventeen myself, but I'd been doing my best to look fifteen, and he was doing his best to look twenty.  Something about that is sweet once you get past the preposterous, don't ask me what.

Then, oh yeah ... Mary ... took him to her apartment.  She had to help him out of the car, and up the steps, cause of the pill in the second half of that drink.  He looked around, and got some kind of a chill, shaking a second as he stared around at the inner city brownstones and four step landings.  "It's OK, baby.  I can't wait to get you between my legs," said Mary, returning his drug limited attention span back to the warm body holding him half up.  Somehow they got in the door, and up the stairs to the little two room pad that Mary had been renting from her pimp since she was eleven.

She lit some incense, and started dancing, taking off her clothing one stitch at a time.  He was doing a really admirable job of staying awake, and his cock was still raging, making Mary proud of her ability to judge the right dose.  She bent down, and unzipped his pants, standing back up and pulling them off his legs while he laid back.  He moaned, and let his head drop back as she knelt down and started licking along the length of his magnificent penis.  I just have this thing for head.  It's better than sex to me, cause I love to make a man feel special, you know.  I mean, the way there are so few men per woman anymore, I almost never feel like I'm making someone feel special.

"You've got to be kidding me," you say, not really into it, I guess.

Well, I do.  You weren't complaining a minute ago.  Look, I've not exactly been mean to you, so just get with it, OK.  Just pretend you like the story, if you don't mind.  God!  Whatever happened to civility?

So, Mary, she sucked him for maybe two minutes before he started to, you know, pulsate.  She wedged that magnificent weapon down her throat, and swallowed the head just as it started to squirt.  Now that's amazing.  You should maybe try it, the feeling of a cock so deep in your mouth that when it cums you can't even taste it.  I know, you probably think I'm strange.

"Oh Jesus, that's sick!"  You comment.

What, oral sex?  Are you in a cult?  Oh I get it; I didn't mean to imply that you're gay.  I know you can't do it.  I was just giving you my point of view when I sad you should try it.  That's not even possible anyway, even if you were gay ... under the circumstances; I'm not stupid, you know.  I've learned a lot more from the streets than you've apparently learned at your prep schools!

Anyway, Joe just kind of passed out then, from the unfamiliarity with liquor and the drug and that natural male thing you do that tends to leave us girls stranded after you've had yours.  To be honest, Mary was a little annoyed at that, but that only reminded her that she needed to keep the big picture in mind.

"Jesus, I get the picture, bitch!"

You know, when you guys get this way, it only makes it easier on me.  I have feelings too, you know.  Maybe you should shut-up?  Maybe it would help?  You never know.

"What do you mean?  Are you saying you could really like me?"  You say.

I need to finish my story.  Humor me.  Anyway, Mary put on her sneakers and sweats, and then went over to the phone to make the call.  She had this guy who she did S&M with, a man named Brian, in his forties, who was married.  She gave him a discount, and told her pimp Jefferson that he likes straight sex.  Not too many women do S&M for less than double the rate, you know, and then they are so dumb they make it feel plastic.  She did it for blowjob rates, to be honest, and half the time didn't even charge him because he was special.

"What do you mean, special?" You ask, probably on the wavelength that being friendly was better than being rude.

He was big.  He was married.  I knew his wife's phone number.  I did things for him cheap, and well.  I knew all his buttons.  He'd come over and be my doggie, and I'd ride him around.  Once, before Joe, he'd asked me to play dress up, and I had him clean my place in panties and a bra.  The man was special.  Is special.  Anyway, Mary, she had an arrangement with him.  He'd do the transportation and final sale for thirty percent of the take.  Mary spun the web, and Brian came over to do the carpet work, back door, nobody the wiser; even my pimp was unwised when I laid a couple hundred dollars on him, a pretty good night.

"You said you.  I thought it was Mary?"

It's Mary in the story, OK.

"Sorry."

She calls Brian, and he's on the way with his cousin with the van.  Then she goes over to the kid, and rolls him on his stomach.  She kind of likes the boy, you know.  He was nice.  He was handsome.  He was hung like a horse.  On the other hand, a girl goes on kind of automatic after awhile.  I mean, I was a whore at eleven.  That's illegal.  That's sick even, but what more can a girl do on a fifth grade education who's had to run away from a dad who's wives let him molest their children because there aren't any better men left around.  Once a man makes it past twenty-six, he in the driver's seat in this country.  It's a fucked up world, but I didn't make it like it is.  I have to eat.  Life's not fair for a lot of people.

"I'm so sorry.  I didn't know.  They should kill the bastard who did that to you," you say.  I'm thinking, God it's so transparent when you guys get patronizing.

So, I'm looking at his cute butt and wondering what's wrong with me, all those feelings, like puppy love.

I have this way of doing up a longpig.  I have these really long tie wraps that I put around the thighs up tight to the butt, one leg each.  Then I put a double wrap on the wrists, and finish them off with one through the space between the wrists so it pulls the hands even tighter together.  Then, to finish off the whole package, I just put one tie wrap from the middle of the wrists to each wrap surrounding those thighs.  The guy can move his hands from side to side about two inches, and sometimes the wraps around the thighs go loose and fall down a little, but there really isn't much more movement than that.  His hands are pretty much stuck just over his asshole.  The purchasers say they've never seen anyone else who does it that way, but that it's perfect for keeping the pig steady for the initial processing.

"Shit!"

Then the legs can be done easy enough with two wraps on each ankle and a couple of long ones tying them together just enough to let the piggy take some baby steps if someone needs them to be a little ambulatory later.  While I'm waiting for Brain I hitch up both sets of wraps with a little rope, hog tying the man so he can't crawl away on me; I'm not that big.  I need some real immobility or I'm dragging everyone out of bed for nothing.  Never underestimate the survival instinct, I learned long before Joe.  The first guy I did got loose in maybe two minutes, and beat the hell out of me.  No joke.

"You loved Joe, didn't you," you said observantly.

Mary did.  She thought she did.  I don't know.

"Bull shit.  You did.  You're Mary.  You loved him at first sight, or at least after you got to know him a little.  What was that, ten years ago?"

So what?

"It's your story.  You have a reason for telling it to me.  Maybe I remind you of him.  Maybe you have feelings.  Maybe you're ready to stop carrying that around with you, and settle down.  It's getting harder and harder to find a good man like Joe was.  You said that.  Like your dad.  It's not so bad, being human.  You can have feelings.  I can have them too," you told me.

No.  I don't think so.  It's not right.

"It's not right!?!"

Satire, I thought.  So much better than patronizing, don't you think?

It's time for the tag.  He'll be here in a minute."

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I kicked you over, you resisting by jumping up and down, and sliding to the side.  You're not the first, so I grab an elbow, and lift, surrounding your naked balls with my free hand, and squeezing tight as I can.  You go white, and magically turn over all by yourself.  Balls are kind of like hydraulics, they always help move a pig just the way it figures you want it moved.  You lie there hoping I'll let go.  I look into your eyes and tilt my head, communicating without talking.  Once I'm sure you get the point, I let go.

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"You can't be serious about my not tagging you.  What's to keep someone from saying they captured you?  I could lose a lot of money.

"Please, don't do this.  I'll marry you.  I'll be a one woman man.  I'd never treat you the way your father did.  I was raised better," you beg.

If you get noisy I'm going to have to gag you.  God forbid some neighbor should tell him what I've been doing.  Do you know how much that would hurt me?  God, do I know how much that would hurt me?  What's wrong with me?"

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I grab a wad of panties and stuff them in your mouth as you try to twist away.  Grabbing your balls, you manage to figure out it's a good idea to keep them in.  There's some duct tape in a drawer, so I go get it, and soon have a couple wraps around your head, keeping you from making my life miserable.

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"You have no idea what a pimp can do to a girl.  Women are a dime a dozen out here on the streets.  You have to be really good to keep a job like this.  Why do you think it's legal to whore now?  Because almost nobody can make a living out of it anyway, given all the women out there willing to give it up for nothing.  I have to specialize in all the freaks.  So, like if you give me away to my pimp, I'm gonna kill you.

"Muuummmmummm..." you protest, finding the last statement ironic.

No honey, I mean I'm going to kill you.  Now.  Painfully.  Vengefully.  Even my pimp wouldn't be able to stop me, though fresh kills aren't nearly as valuable as live ones, cause of the organs.  Now, hold still, or I'll have to bind your balls with a control wrap, and it sometimes takes a long time for me to find my scissors to cut something like that off.  On purpose.  I just have no patience for a man who can't take a hint from manual persuasion.  Ready?  Just close your eyes, and it will be over in a flash."

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I got my hole crimps out of the backpack I kept close at hand.  There was a tag next to the ring, and I seated them into the crimper.  My hand grabbed a fistful of breast, and his eyes went wide with freight.  I slipped the flesh through the jaws of the crimper, aiming for the hole to puncture just to each side of his nipple, and squeezed.  Halfway through the squeeze, I let go of the skin, and put both fists into the job until I heard the telltale crump of the closed crimp.  All the while, the pig shook, but didn't try to roll over, which I hate.  It was screaming into the gag, eyes wide as saucers, and looking at the crimp as it seated through his flesh.

I let off, and put the crimps back into the bag, the meat falling back against the floor, moaning as the pain kept burning.  The brass ring always looked good, hanging from the pig's tit, I thought, and I did a good job of keeping it straight so the metal tag dangled right.

No use in not having a healthy catch, I'd always figured, spraying some disinfectant on the fresh tag.  My tag was nice and simple.  A MUSDA seal was on one side, and MARY was on the other.  The distributors all knew me.  I always had the best meat.  Good lookers.  The club types, that sold more for the way they appealed to the lusts of the women doing the household shopping, than from any real advantage in meat quality.  I mean, good lookers can be better meat, but good looks can always help abate the sense of injustice an aging woman might feel when forced to live in a society where men over twenty-six are king.

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""So ... what ... happened ... to Joe?"  The pig finally asked, as I took off the gag.

Oh, well, Brian came and they took him to the Cannipolis.  I didn't know that was where he would end up.  I mean, those are Brian's decisions.  I just gave him over, and sat there half the night feeling bad about it.  Worse, in fact, every hour that passed.  Every day, every month, every year.  I wonder what we might have been as a couple?  I know ... stupid!  He would have been just like any other man, but still, I see him as he was just before I Delilah's on him.  You have to understand, that's where I'm stuck.  He's a good man to me, wedged in my head like that.

"You can ... change," you said, still figuring there was a chance you'd get me to untag you and be stupid enough to think we could be lovers.

Hee hee hee.  Yes, I guess.  Do you want to know a secret?

"Yes."

I've saved enough cash to buy me a house and to live independently for as long as I want.  I've figured out every expense until I'm seventy.  You're almost the last.  I figure maybe two or three more, and I'm home free.  I'll get a fake ID, and jump ship from this place.  My pimp will be so mad he'll try to track me down and cut my throat, but I'll be history.  Do you honestly think I want a man who knows what I'm up to, to tag along?  Like I said, I'm street smart, piggy.  Don't get your hopes up.

"Would it be any better if you found a man later, and he ripped you off?  You're going to need someone, someday!"

I'm going to turn lesbian.  It's just practical.  Not my favorite, but they say in the country the women are nicer.  You got to do what you got to do.

"What about Joe.  You loved him.  How will you get over what they do there to ... long ... pig.  (It was so cute how you could barely say the word.)

They do what they do everywhere to longpig.

"Alive.  They even waste the organs there.  It's a rich person's playhouse.  They spit them alive.  They do everything they can to keep them alive and squirming while they roast them over a slow flame.  I hear they do two or three at a time, and slice right off the spit for meals.  Old men and rich women, decadent bastards if you ask me, eat there.  It's inhuman.  You can't feel good about that.  You did that to the only man you ever loved?  You have to atone for that.  You have to let one person go, or God will never let you free," you said, very lawyerly if you ask me.  In fact, I was a little take aback.

Fuck you.  I know what I did.  Can you bring Joe back?  No!  Besides, how could I have known they'd think Joe good enough a specimen for Cannipolis?  I didn't know that.  I thought he'd be doped, and then harvested for organs, and then gently turned over to cuts.  It's not like I planned it that way!  Fuck you!

"I just wanted to give you a way to feel better.  If you let me go ..."

Fuck you!  You asshole.  God, you made me feel like shit!  Look, I'm sorry, but we've talked enough about my feelings; besides, I hear a truck.  This is just how it has to be.  Time to gag you again.

"Noooo!  Mary!  Please, no!"

You left me a few minutes later.  Brian picked you up.  I told him he'd better tell the butcher to hurry you up because your twenty-seventh birthday was only a few days away.  Almost made it, didn't you.  Oh well, I thought, feeling like I'd pulled a fast one, and in a little while I had some wine and felt better.  Then my pimp picked me up.  I handed him a handful of money, and lied, telling him I had a triple night of S&Mers.  He was impressed, and said for an old whore of twenty-seven, I'd been a better worker than anyone he'd ever had.  He said he was wanting to celebrate my good fortune, and needed someone good looking to bring along as decoration; Jefferson, always the one to make a person feel like good looking shit.

I said I really didn't feel like it, not particularly proud of being 'good' at my job, or at least in a social sense of the adjective.  But, you know, Jefferson, he's my pimp.  So, that's how I got to be here; at the Cannipolis.  It's my first time here, you know.  It's not that bad.  Maybe the best part is that I get to sit here by you.  Fancy meeting up like this again, me getting a nice seat right beside an empty coal pit, and Jefferson kind of getting lost over on the other side of the restaurant after finding some old friends.  I imagine the good seats have something to do with some services he'd been arranging with a member of management.

Then they came out with you, and just plopped both ends into the cradles, and started you rotating.  I was like, so proud; I did that.  I caught the meal.  What a pleasant coincidence, don't you think?  All these people are so happy because of something I did.  Who'd have thought that?

You know, I have to tell you; the way the spit pierces that apple in your mouth is just so amusingly lovely.  I mean it.  This whole thing, in fact, is such a crazy thrill.  I can imagine you're my pimp and my father, and every man who ever laid a not too gentle hand on me.  It's actually good for me to see you like this.  Longpig therapy.  Imagine, I was feeling so bad, thinking about how for everyone else it was just a meal, but for the guys it was so final.  It's not like that at all up close.  I suppose Joe went this way too, but I'm not so down on myself, now that I've seen it for real.  I'm thinking it's just as good, cause if I'm honest with myself I'll have to admit that sooner or later Joe was going to be either eaten or a prick anyway.  Why not remember him when he was a better person, and more of a contributor than a taker, if you can see the angle.  I've been beating myself up for nothing all these years.

You know, it's been almost an hour.  I don't know how you can handle all that heat.  Is it the drugs, or the way they keep your head out from the coals?  You've seemed to drip thirty pounds of fat, and your skin is all stiff and browning up really nicely.  I think your penis is burning though.  They should have put some foil on that, but I guess they don't want to spoil the view.  So, I mean, how does the heat feel?  You don't have to answer.  Seriously, just take it easy; this is your fifteen minutes of fame: I don't mean to be a pest.  I'm just rambling.  You know how I like to talk.  Though, I do feel a big part.  I'm kind of delighted to see they kept my tag on too.  It dingles so cute when you flip front side down on the rotisserie.  God forbid Jefferson should see my name and get suspicious; hee hee hee.

Hey, stop that.  Don't you go to sleep on me.  Come on.  Please!  Gee, be some fun.  I'm all alone at this table.  Well, just be that way then, you prick; see if I care.  Fucking pig!  No, I'm just kidding.  Please.  Wake up, OK?  I really like talking to you.  Oh, there you are.  I know it hurts, but it's Ok.  Really!  Just a little more, piggy."