The Slaughter

Part 1 - Cindy

The alarm jarred Cindy into reluctant wakefulness. Murmuring her discontent, she willed herself upright, and stumbled across the room to turn off the alarm. She brushed a curtain aside, and peered out the window of her farmhouse. A gray autumn day. How fitting, Cindy thought, for what lay ahead. Turning back into the room, she stepped out of her nightgown, and paused in front of the full-length mirror. Not bad, she thought, for 40. The work on the farm was hard, especially since her husband Jock had died in the accident. But it had its rewards, not the least of which was a lean, firm body. Her big boobs looked slightly out of proportion now on her thin frame. God, how Jock had loved them. The pleasure they had brought them both. Worth every cent of the $10,000 they had paid.

Cindy walked over to her dresser, pulled open a drawer, and took panties and a bra from the neatly-arranged, colorful stack that lay inside. Stepping into her panties and hooking the bra into place, she selected a pair of Levi’s and a plain white t-shirt from her closet.

“No point getting fancy today”, she said to herself.

White crew socks and a pair of old running shoes completed the ensemble. Drawing her long, blonde hair into a ponytail, and tying it into place with a red cloth band, she opened her bedroom door and headed down the hall, drawn by the smell of freshly-brewed coffee, and the need to wake her son, Scott.

This was going to be quite the day for him, she thought, wondering how he would respond to what he would have to see and do. While never over-protective, she felt that some things were better left until he was at least a few years into his teens. Stopping in front of Scott’s room, she knocked softly before opening the door and looking inside. Scott was still soundly asleep, laying on his back, arms and legs splayed, with the sheets and blankets kicked aside.

As many times as she’d seen him like this, Cindy couldn’t help but be shocked at the size of her son’s erection. It had worked its way through the fly of his boxers, and the engorged member stuck straight up, rigid as a bar of chrome vanadium steel. Jerking with every beat of her son’s heart, the organ seemed to have a life of its own, fueled with testosterone, seeking and urgent. On his lean, thin, body, it looked outsized, almost cartoonish.

“You are your father’s son” she quietly mused, feeling a slight flushed, remembering the tube of meat between Jock’s thighs, and what it felt like when he penetrated her. How awestruck she was, the first time she saw it. Sixteen years old, in the back seat of Jock’s car, her tube top around her waist, her shorts around her ankles, Jock cursing and laughing quietly, trying to get the ridiculously small condom to unroll over the plum-sized head. “You’re going to split me open with that thing!” Cindy had said, only half kidding.

Cindy had often wondered if Scott even knew what he had, and what it was for. Home-schooling her son on a small farm in the Midwest in the 1970’s, male friends were rare enough, never mind girls. But there was no standing in the way of adolescence, of biology, it turned out, and big stains began to appear on his sheets from time to time. And the one morning she’d gone in to change his sheets, right after he’d gotten up to go do his chores, thinking she’d dropped a pillowcase, but instead pulling one of Scott’s t-shirts out from under the bed. The hot, slick, viscous wetness it had left on her palm. The distinctive, bleach-like smell. No doubt that her son was a man now. She placed the t-shirt back under the bed, hoping it would make it to the laundry from time to time.

Cindy shook herself back to reality, and closed the door quietly, wanting to spare her son the embarrassment. She rapped loudly on the door with her knuckles and called out to him: “Time to get up, Scott. Let’s go. Pig killing today. We’ve got work ahead of us.”

Scott mumbled some incoherent response. Cindy cracked the door open a few inches. “Let’s go son. Breakfast in 10 minutes. Clean up and get dressed.”

Cindy went into the kitchen and began preparing their breakfast, thinking on the task that was ahead of them. It would be Scott’s first time participating in the noisy, bloody drama that was a pig slaughter. When Jock was alive, it was a job he and Cindy did together, and after his death, she had hired a hand from a neighboring farm to help her. It seemed a waste, though, to hire out anymore. Although money wasn’t an issue, Scott was a young man now, and Cindy felt it was his time to learn this part of life on the farm. Life and death. She couldn’t shield him from these realities forever. But was he ready, she wondered? He was such a quiet boy; it was often hard to read how he felt, and what he thought. And… she wondered… is he going to be like his father and I…?

Part 2 – Scott

Scott stirred and mumbled drowsily, the loud knocking and his mother’s voice rousing him from dream-filled sleep. Sensing his nakedness and the urgency between his thighs, he started, cursing quietly and pulling a blanket over himself in case his mother walked in. The door cracked open and her insistent voice came through: “Let’s go son. Breakfast in 10 minutes. Clean up and get dressed.”

“I’ll be right out,” he answered.

The pig killing. Oh, that’s right, he thought. Today’s the day. How long he had waited for this. His erection throbbed as he thought about what was going to happen. The screaming and the blood. His mom and dad had never allowed him to watch, never mind take part, saying that he was too young. But there was no drowning out the sounds, and later after it was all done, walking over and seeing the crimson stains all over the ground. He didn’t know why it excited him so much. Not for the first time, he wondered whether he was normal, and if other people felt like this – what it was about pain and blood that gave him that odd feeling, and made him get a boner?

From the first time he went fishing for bullfrogs at the farm pond, he remembered the sensation. When the big frog gulped the bait into its mouth, and then realized it was hooked. How it fought and struggled and bled, pulling at the line in his hands, trying to get away. How he had stood there transfixed, aroused, his erection growing in his jeans, getting harder and harder as the frog jerked and pulled in agony and desperation. And the time he snuck into the woods after the neighbor boys, who were leading some mutt along on a rope. He watched from his hidden position as they held a mock trial, and one of the boys fashioned a hangman’s noose from another rope, throwing it over the branch of a tree. The excitement he felt when he realized what was going to happen. How he had his first orgasm that day, horrified, confused, not knowing what his body was doing, but almost passing out with pleasure as the dog dangled and strangled and kicked at the end of the rope, his cock pulsing in his jeans, filling them with hot semen.

Scott climbed from his bed, his erection wagging in front of him, and headed for the bathroom across the hall. “Fuck”, he though. He had to piss, and he had to get dressed. Quickly. Both made next to impossible with a boner. He entered the bathroom, closed the door, crouched over the open toilet seat, and pushed his rod down into the opening, pushing and straining until he started to piss, finally softening just enough so he could drain himself completely. Flushing the toilet, he went to the sink to hurriedly wash his face and comb his blond hair into order. Returning to his room, Scott pulled on the jeans and gray sweatshirt that were his fall uniform, struggling to work the remains of his erection into the left pant leg, before buttoning them closed. He headed down to breakfast, too excited and filled with anticipation to have much appetite.

Part 3 – First Blood

Cindy and Scott stood under the crossbeam in the barnyard, looking over the preparations they had made. Two ropes with slip nooses in one end hung from pulleys on the crossbeam. A large, sharp, narrow-bladed knife gleamed on a nearby table.

“Ok,” Cindy breathed. “I guess we’re ready. Go back to the pen and get him.”

Scott grabbed a short rope with a noose in one end to use as a leash, and walked to the pen on the side of the barn. Used to being fed at this hour, the big hog grunted a greeting and toddled to the door of the pen. “Not this time,” Scott chuckled, placing the noose around the pig’s neck and pulling it tight. He opened the pen door and the pig obediently began following him back to where Cindy was waiting.

“Ok, get ready, Scott”, Cindy called. “They seem to have a sixth sense or something. We need to get one of these nooses here around each back leg and get him hung up, before he gets too crazy.”

Scott and his charge neared the killing ground, the pig sniffing and grunting, when suddenly it realized that something wasn’t right. The smell of old blood. A warning that the people who had raised and fed it were about to turn against it. Scott struggled with the leash, as the pig squealed and grunted, and dug in its hoofs. Cindy ran over and pulled on the rope, and together they dragged the struggling animal under the crossbeam, cursing and struggling until they had each tightened a noose that hung from the crossbeam around one of the pig’s back legs.

“Ok, pull, Scott,” Cindy yelled. “We need to get his legs up in the air and his head about 4 feet off the ground”. Each pulled on a rope, straining as the heavy pig squealed and struggled, and slowly rose into the air. “Ok, that’s good,” Cindy called. Now, tie the rope off on the metal hook on the post.

Cindy and Scott stood back, panting from their exertion, looking at the terrified pig, squealing and writhing at the end of the rope. Scott felt himself harden in his jeans, already excited by what had happened, and knowing what came next.

“You ok, Scott?” Cindy asked. “You ready for this?”

“Yeah, mom,” Scott answered. “I’m fine.”

“Ok,” She said. “Get the knife. Remember what I told you after breakfast. The middle of his throat. From the bottom. A quick thrust, and then move it from side to side and twist it, and pull it out. I’ll help you hold him while you do it.”

Scott walked over and picked the knife up from the table. He and Cindy made their way to the struggling pig, and after considerable effort, got the animal reasonably still with it underside of its neck exposed.

“Ok, now, do it.” Cindy shouted.

Scott centered the point of the blade, and with all his might, plunged the knife in all the way to the hilt. The pig began screaming, and blood gushed from the wound in a massive stream, spattering against his jeans and sweatshirt. Scott struggled to hold on to the writhing beast, working the blade from side to side as Cindy had instructed, before finally pulling the knife free, and standing back to look at what he had done..

It was like a scene from a slasher film. Scott was horrified and fascinated. His erection throbbed and strained against his jeans as he watched the pig, dangling by its legs, writhing and screaming in agony. Blood gushed out in a constant stream, shooting in every direction, covering the ground in wet crimson. His mom stood beside him, bright red bloodstains spattered on the front of her t-shirt. He was amazed at how long it was taking the animal to die. Just when he thought it was over, more screams came, more struggling, and more blood, spraying now, as the last of the animal’s life drained from its neck.

Cindy took in the scene in front of her. She was proud of her son; he had done better than she’d ever hoped. Standing there, the young stud, the one she had raised, splattered with blood, still holding the knife, surveying his first kill. Her lips showed a thin, tight, smile, and her face was flushed and red. Even the bra couldn’t contain her erect nipples, now clearly visible through her t-shirt. She had been watching, and it hadn’t gone unnoticed, her son’s arousal, his erect manhood tearing at his faded jeans, as he looked at the bleeding, screaming, dying pig. And finally, when he couldn’t take it anymore, the way he clenched his fists, pursed his lips, and stood there, shaking, a dark, steadily-growing spot at the end of his rod, a spot that wasn’t blood. Oh yes, she thought with relief - he is his father’s son. Through and through.