gynophagiatimesofficial:

I saw a pale, pretty girl for sale at the butchershop and my interest was be piqued. I saw that she was for sale whole,  I saw her eyes begging and pleading but being hushed by acceptance, I saw her innocent face laden with terror, and her pale skin streaked with her drying tears. I made up my mind to buy her. But my poker face would not let that on. I went upto her grab one of her breasts. Hefting it’s weight in my the palm of my hand. Prodding and groping it like a man checking for the texture of meat. I spun you around, slapped and pinched and squeezed her ass, like a customer looking at the tenderness of her rump cut. I would slip my hand down to your inner thigh and your cunt, like a connoiseur checking for the succulence of the most desirable cuts.
And then staring away, I pretended to talk to myself ” Hmm… a few promising parts there, but on the whole good for a fuck, but not for a meal.” And then putting on my most benevolent, kindly expression I looked at the redhead and said “I’m sorry old girl. You’re simply not a meat girl and so it seems not worth my money. I dont know what these people are doing anymore. Such a pretty girl too. Pity…” and with a last good natured pat on her bottom, slowly began to walk away.
As I turned around, give my eyes  a sparkle, I saw a glimmer of hope burst again into flame in her eyes. “Wait !” She called to me. I arch my eyebrowsed and she said” Wait ! You can still buy me. You dont need to eat me. You’re right, in fact ! I’m no good as meat. But I’m great at other things….”

I said” I dont know…” cutting her off.

She begged “Please ! I’ll be worth every last penny ! Please ! Just get me away from these cannibals.” I pretended to ponder the decision, letting her plead and beg and cry her pleases quite a few more times. Until finally I “relented”.
She was elated as I pulled on her leash to drag her to my house “You better be worth it, sweetie, or it’s straight to the grinder you go.”
The next week or so, passed in the seclusion of my chambers, with the her using every art of seduction and pleasure she knew. The first night I told her “Baby ! You’re right. You were meant for the bed, not the table. I wouldn’t cook you” And so I let her grow secure and happy and her servicing got more subtle and … pleasureful.
And once the week was over. I dragged her out of bed by her hair, and leading her by them, I would take her to the basement. I opened the door, where she’d never been, still in a daze, confused and let her see. Bright white lights and white tiles, clean hooks dangling from the cieling, knives and blades of all types, long steel spits of varying thicknesses. It was a butcher’s room.
As her confusion turned to the first inklings of comprehension, she tried to rush out of the room. I would grab her by the wrists and pull her into my embrace “There ! There !” I lilt kindly and comfrotingly “You know you were meat from the moment, you were sold to the butcher’s. You’re a person. But you’re also just meat. Shhh. You’ve serviced me well. And now you will be even better served. I’m sorry, dear. I’m having guests over and I need something beautiful and delicious to serve them with. I have a reputation to maintain after all.”
And I dragged her to the butchering table and strapped her down by her outstretched limbs. I then picked up a curved knife, the gutting knife and turned towards her. Placing the tip of the knife just above her breastbone and looking into her eyes, I could see the confusion, the pleading, fear in her eyes. And without reserve, the blade bit into her flesh. I cut a vertical cut from sternum to pubis, exposing her insides.
Like a butcher, I picked out her organs and plucking out their ends one by one I dropped them in a bucket to the side. Plop, plop, plop. I  stopped at her heart and lungs and picked up a blowtorch. The flames would cauterize the wounds and stop the bleeding. A spray of water would clean her inside out. I wondered what the sensation would feel like to her. To have her open insides blasted and cleaned with water. I would then leave her thus strapped in and took the bucket of viscera upstairs.
I returned and picked up the gutted and cleaned girl and dropped her in a bath of cherise wine, her neck tied to a strap above the water line so she wouldn’t drown herself. I left her like this to go work on the stuffing and side dishes. When I came back, she seemed to have accepeted her fate. I picked up her body, dripping with wine, and kissed her on the lips.
I smiled and carried her upstairs to the kitchen. The sausages I had made from her viscera were lying on the counter, so was her liver and kidneys all chopped up and her ovaries too. All ready to be fried and served with dips as appetizers and side dishes at the feast.
Her eyes fell on these pieces of her. And they reinforced those feelings, the reality of her fate hit home.
Laying her down on the counter, I would grab a bottle of vinegar. And rubbed the liquid all inside of her, in every corner of her meat. I wondered if she can feel my hands moving inside of her. Then I rubbed a mixture of cinammon extract and yogurt inside of her. After which, I stuffed her with tomatoes, garlic, spinach, carrots and potatoes. Over this mixture I sprinkled salt and spices and finally chilli water. I could see that these latter additions burned and stung her exposed meat. I churned it all inside her, mixing it fairly well, before sewing her up. I applied a mixture of mead, apricot jam and honey as a basting base. With a lighter coat of garlic and tomato sauce as the seasoning. And then, into the oven she went. I would take her out at regular intervals, stick a fork in her to see if she was done. And give her a fresh coat of seasoning and allow her to cook some more. Sooon she was done.

At the feast the guests were enchanted with the lovely golden, brown texture of the meat. Steam rising from the hot, cooked meat, her delicious, moist cunt, as if she had come for one last time in that oven and the lovely red hair arranged around her head like a halo. As the host, I made the first cut, a firm delicate cut into the meat of her breast. As the knife parted the flesh, a heavenly aroma emanated, with the steam, and wafted around the room, awakening a ravenous hunger in everyone. Nothing would be left of her, but her bones and her lovely head by the time the feast was over.

the-evil-in-me:

Amber sobbed at the feel of the cold metal pole slid deep into her once virgin ass.  A week ago she had just been a high school girl looking forward to college next year, but her neighbours had other plans for her, abducting the girl one night they took her to a different state and she has spent the days since in a filthy hotel room as dozens of men and women visited her and enjoyed her nubile young body. She was taken in every way and by every grouping of people she could imagine, and she felt dirty on the inside as well as on the outside.  She had nothing but the sluttiest clothes to wear and no choice but to submit to them.  Then her neighbours finally returned and she was taken outside where she was shown her ultimate fate and she broke down to pleading sobs as they spread her legs and pinned her pussy shut and lifted her up,aiming for the metal pole… the long metal pole with a wicked point on one end.  An hour later she was turning over the coals and the group watched her as she struggled weakly on the impaling spit.  no one would ever find out what had happened to her…

xuisse:

I felt the blade slice me open, the pain was unbearable, hot searing. I tugged harder at the restraints in response, feeling nothing but pain. The steel spit making movement even more impossible than the restraints would normally allow.

I started to cry, my sobs nothing but muted choking noises, my breathing made more difficult by the spit. I could feel my bowels starting to move under the pull of gravity, as a reflex, I tensed by muscles. The spasms of my ruined muscles did nothing but further help push out my bowels.

I hear them fall onto the metal chute with a wet, sickening slop, I felt light-headed, but the drugs they had given me would ensure that I wouldn’t go into shock or pass out.

I tried looking for the man who was my butcher, but my head was firmly locked forward and I just couldn’t move my eyes far enough to see.

I felt his cool hand stroking me, from my neck to my upper back.

"Shhhh, shh, my lovely meat, it’s far from over yet."

With that, I felt him tugging, removing what was left, gutting me like the meat that I was.

(Permission to post image kindly given by Perilous Thoughts from the story “It’s hot, so hot”)

Other Perilous Thoughts images I’ve posted:

Imagine the rush…
Squirming on the spit…

The Picture in the House

By H.P. Lovecraft

Searchers after horror haunt strange, far places. For them are the catacombs of Ptolemais, and the carven mausolea of the nightmare countries. They climb to the moonlit towers of ruined Rhine castles, and falter down black cobwebbed steps beneath the scattered stones of forgotten cities in Asia. The haunted wood and the desolate mountain are their shrines, and they linger around the sinister monoliths on uninhabited islands. But the true epicure in the terrible, to whom a new thrill of unutterable ghastliness is the chief end and justification of existence, esteems most of all the ancient, lonely farmhouses of backwoods New England; for there the dark elements of strength, solitude, grotesqueness, and ignorance combine to form the perfection of the hideous.
Most horrible of all sights are the little unpainted wooden houses remote from travelled ways, usually squatted upon some damp, grassy slope or leaning against some gigantic outcropping of rock. Two hundred years and more they have leaned or squatted there, while the vines have crawled and the trees have swelled and spread. They are almost hidden now in lawless luxuriances of green and guardian shrouds of shadow; but the small-paned windows still stare shockingly, as if blinking through a lethal stupor which wards off madness by dulling the memory of unutterable things.
In such houses have dwelt generations of strange people, whose like the world has never seen. Seized with a gloomy and fanatical belief which exiled them from their kind, their ancestors sought the wilderness for freedom. There the scions of a conquering race indeed flourished free from the restrictions of their fellows, but cowered in an appalling slavery to the dismal phantasms of their own minds. Divorced from the enlightenment of civilisation, the strength of these Puritans turned into singular channels; and in their isolation, morbid self-repression, and struggle for life with relentless Nature, there came to them dark furtive traits from the prehistoric depths of their cold Northern heritage. By necessity practical and by philosophy stern, these folk were not beautiful in their sins. Erring as all mortals must, they were forced by their rigid code to seek concealment above all else; so that they came to use less and less taste in what they concealed. Only the silent, sleepy, staring houses in the backwoods can tell all that has lain hidden since the early days; and they are not communicative, being loath to shake off the drowsiness which helps them forget. Sometimes one feels that it would be merciful to tear down these houses, for they must often dream.
It was to a time-battered edifice of this description that I was driven one afternoon in November, 1896, by a rain of such chilling copiousness that any shelter was preferable to exposure. I had been travelling for some time amongst the people of the Miskatonic Valley in quest of certain genealogical data; and from the remote, devious, and problematical nature of my course, had deemed it convenient to employ a bicycle despite the lateness of the season. Now I found myself upon an apparently abandoned road which I had chosen as the shortest cut to Arkham; overtaken by the storm at a point far from any town, and confronted with no refuge save the antique and repellent wooden building which blinked with bleared windows from between two huge leafless elms near the foot of a rocky hill. Distant though it was from the remnant of a road, the house none the less impressed me unfavourably the very moment I espied it. Honest, wholesome structures do not stare at travellers so slyly and hauntingly, and in my genealogical researches I had encountered legends of a century before which biassed me against places of this kind. Yet the force of the elements was such as to overcome my scruples, and I did not hesitate to wheel my machine up the weedy rise to the closed door which seemed at once so suggestive and secretive.
I had somehow taken it for granted that the house was abandoned, yet as I approached it I was not so sure; for though the walks were indeed overgrown with weeds, they seemed to retain their nature a little too well to argue complete desertion. Therefore instead of trying the door I knocked, feeling as I did so a trepidation I could scarcely explain. As I waited on the rough, mossy rock which served as a doorstep, I glanced at the neighbouring windows and the panes of the transom above me, and noticed that although old, rattling, and almost opaque with dirt, they were not broken. The building, then, must still be inhabited, despite its isolation and general neglect. However, my rapping evoked no response, so after repeating the summons I tried the rusty latch and found the door unfastened. Inside was a little vestibule with walls from which the plaster was falling, and through the doorway came a faint but peculiarly hateful odour. I entered, carrying my bicycle, and closed the door behind me. Ahead rose a narrow staircase, flanked by a small door probably leading to the cellar, while to the left and right were closed doors leading to rooms on the ground floor.
Leaning my cycle against the wall I opened the door at the left, and crossed into a small low-ceiled chamber but dimly lighted by its two dusty windows and furnished in the barest and most primitive possible way. It appeared to be a kind of sitting-room, for it had a table and several chairs, and an immense fireplace above which ticked an antique clock on a mantel. Books and papers were very few, and in the prevailing gloom I could not readily discern the titles. What interested me was the uniform air of archaism as displayed in every visible detail. Most of the houses in this region I had found rich in relics of the past, but here the antiquity was curiously complete; for in all the room I could not discover a single article of definitely post-revolutionary date. Had the furnishings been less humble, the place would have been a collector’s paradise.
As I surveyed this quaint apartment, I felt an increase in that aversion first excited by the bleak exterior of the house. Just what it was that I feared or loathed, I could by no means define; but something in the whole atmosphere seemed redolent of unhallowed age, of unpleasant crudeness, and of secrets which should be forgotten. I felt disinclined to sit down, and wandered about examining the various articles which I had noticed. The first object of my curiosity was a book of medium size lying upon the table and presenting such an antediluvian aspect that I marvelled at beholding it outside a museum or library. It was bound in leather with metal fittings, and was in an excellent state of preservation; being altogether an unusual sort of volume to encounter in an abode so lowly. When I opened it to the title page my wonder grew even greater, for it proved to be nothing less rare than Pigafetta’s account of the Congo region, written in Latin from the notes of the sailor Lopez and printed at Frankfort in 1598. I had often heard of this work, with its curious illustrations by the brothers De Bry, hence for a moment forgot my uneasiness in my desire to turn the pages before me. The engravings were indeed interesting, drawn wholly from imagination and careless descriptions, and represented negroes with white skins and Caucasian features; nor would I soon have closed the book had not an exceedingly trivial circumstance upset my tired nerves and revived my sensation of disquiet. What annoyed me was merely the persistent way in which the volume tended to fall open of itself at Plate XII, which represented in gruesome detail a butcher’s shop of the cannibal Anziques. I experienced some shame at my susceptibility to so slight a thing, but the drawing nevertheless disturbed me, especially in connexion with some adjacent passages descriptive of Anzique gastronomy.
I had turned to a neighbouring shelf and was examining its meagre literary contents—an eighteenth-century Bible, a Pilgrim’s Progress of like period, illustrated with grotesque woodcuts and printed by the almanack-maker Isaiah Thomas, the rotting bulk of Cotton Mather’s Magnalia Christi Americana, and a few other books of evidently equal age—when my attention was aroused by the unmistakable sound of walking in the room overhead. At first astonished and startled, considering the lack of response to my recent knocking at the door, I immediately afterward concluded that the walker had just awakened from a sound sleep; and listened with less surprise as the footsteps sounded on the creaking stairs. The tread was heavy, yet seemed to contain a curious quality of cautiousness; a quality which I disliked the more because the tread was heavy. When I had entered the room I had shut the door behind me. Now, after a moment of silence during which the walker may have been inspecting my bicycle in the hall, I heard a fumbling at the latch and saw the panelled portal swing open again.
In the doorway stood a person of such singular appearance that I should have exclaimed aloud but for the restraints of good breeding. Old, white-bearded, and ragged, my host possessed a countenance and physique which inspired equal wonder and respect. His height could not have been less than six feet, and despite a general air of age and poverty he was stout and powerful in proportion. His face, almost hidden by a long beard which grew high on the cheeks, seemed abnormally ruddy and less wrinkled than one might expect; while over a high forehead fell a shock of white hair little thinned by the years. His blue eyes, though a trifle bloodshot, seemed inexplicably keen and burning. But for his horrible unkemptness the man would have been as distinguished-looking as he was impressive. This unkemptness, however, made him offensive despite his face and figure. Of what his clothing consisted I could hardly tell, for it seemed to me no more than a mass of tatters surmounting a pair of high, heavy boots; and his lack of cleanliness surpassed description.
The appearance of this man, and the instinctive fear he inspired, prepared me for something like enmity; so that I almost shuddered through surprise and a sense of uncanny incongruity when he motioned me to a chair and addressed me in a thin, weak voice full of fawning respect and ingratiating hospitality. His speech was very curious, an extreme form of Yankee dialect I had thought long extinct; and I studied it closely as he sat down opposite me for conversation.
“Ketched in the rain, be ye?” he greeted. “Glad ye was nigh the haouse en’ hed the sense ta come right in. I calc’late I was asleep, else I’d a heerd ye—I ain’t as young as I uster be, an’ I need a paowerful sight o’ naps naowadays. Trav’lin’ fur? I hain’t seed many folks ’long this rud sence they tuk off the Arkham stage.”
I replied that I was going to Arkham, and apologised for my rude entry into his domicile, whereupon he continued.
“Glad ta see ye, young Sir—new faces is scurce arount here, an’ I hain’t got much ta cheer me up these days. Guess yew hail from Bosting, don’t ye? I never ben thar, but I kin tell a taown man when I see ’im—we hed one fer deestrick schoolmaster in ’eighty-four, but he quit suddent an’ no one never heerd on ’im sence—” Here the old man lapsed into a kind of chuckle, and made no explanation when I questioned him. He seemed to be in an aboundingly good humour, yet to possess those eccentricities which one might guess from his grooming. For some time he rambled on with an almost feverish geniality, when it struck me to ask him how he came by so rare a book as Pigafetta’s Regnum Congo. The effect of this volume had not left me, and I felt a certain hesitancy in speaking of it; but curiosity overmastered all the vague fears which had steadily accumulated since my first glimpse of the house. To my relief, the question did not seem an awkward one; for the old man answered freely and volubly.
“Oh, thet Afriky book? Cap’n Ebenezer Holt traded me thet in ’sixty-eight—him as was kilt in the war.” Something about the name of Ebenezer Holt caused me to look up sharply. I had encountered it in my genealogical work, but not in any record since the Revolution. I wondered if my host could help me in the task at which I was labouring, and resolved to ask him about it later on. He continued.
“Ebenezer was on a Salem merchantman for years, an’ picked up a sight o’ queer stuff in every port. He got this in London, I guess—he uster like ter buy things at the shops. I was up ta his haouse onct, on the hill, tradin’ hosses, when I see this book. I relished the picters, so he give it in on a swap. ’Tis a queer book—here, leave me git on my spectacles—” The old man fumbled among his rags, producing a pair of dirty and amazingly antique glasses with small octagonal lenses and steel bows. Donning these, he reached for the volume on the table and turned the pages lovingly.
“Ebenezer cud read a leetle o’ this—’tis Latin—but I can’t. I hed two er three schoolmasters read me a bit, and Passon Clark, him they say got draownded in the pond—kin yew make anything outen it?” I told him that I could, and translated for his benefit a paragraph near the beginning. If I erred, he was not scholar enough to correct me; for he seemed childishly pleased at my English version. His proximity was becoming rather obnoxious, yet I saw no way to escape without offending him. I was amused at the childish fondness of this ignorant old man for the pictures in a book he could not read, and wondered how much better he could read the few books in English which adorned the room. This revelation of simplicity removed much of the ill-defined apprehension I had felt, and I smiled as my host rambled on:
“Queer haow picters kin set a body thinkin’. Take this un here near the front. Hev yew ever seed trees like thet, with big leaves a-floppin’ over an’ daown? And them men—them can’t be niggers—they dew beat all. Kinder like Injuns, I guess, even ef they be in Afriky. Some o’ these here critters looks like monkeys, or half monkeys an’ half men, but I never heerd o’ nothing like this un.” Here he pointed to a fabulous creature of the artist, which one might describe as a sort of dragon with the head of an alligator.
“But naow I’ll shew ye the best un—over here nigh the middle—” The old man’s speech grew a trifle thicker and his eyes assumed a brighter glow; but his fumbling hands, though seemingly clumsier than before, were entirely adequate to their mission. The book fell open, almost of its own accord and as if from frequent consultation at this place, to the repellent twelfth plate shewing a butcher’s shop amongst the Anzique cannibals. My sense of restlessness returned, though I did not exhibit it. The especially bizarre thing was that the artist had made his Africans look like white men—the limbs and quarters hanging about the walls of the shop were ghastly, while the butcher with his axe was hideously incongruous. But my host seemed to relish the view as much as I disliked it.
“What d’ye think o’ this—ain’t never see the like hereabouts, eh? When I see this I telled Eb Holt, ‘That’s suthin’ ta stir ye up an’ make yer blood tickle!’ When I read in Scripter about slayin’—like them Midianites was slew—I kinder think things, but I ain’t got no picter of it. Here a body kin see all they is to it—I s’pose ’tis sinful, but ain’t we all born an’ livin’ in sin?—Thet feller bein’ chopped up gives me a tickle every time I look at ’im—I hev ta keep lookin’ at ’im—see whar the butcher cut off his feet? Thar’s his head on thet bench, with one arm side of it, an’ t’other arm’s on the graound side o’ the meat block.”
As the man mumbled on in his shocking ecstasy the expression on his hairy, spectacled face became indescribable, but his voice sank rather than mounted. My own sensations can scarcely be recorded. All the terror I had dimly felt before rushed upon me actively and vividly, and I knew that I loathed the ancient and abhorrent creature so near me with an infinite intensity. His madness, or at least his partial perversion, seemed beyond dispute. He was almost whispering now, with a huskiness more terrible than a scream, and I trembled as I listened.
“As I says, ’tis queer haow picters sets ye thinkin’. D’ye know, young Sir, I’m right sot on this un here. Arter I got the book off Eb I uster look at it a lot, especial when I’d heerd Passon Clark rant o’ Sundays in his big wig. Onct I tried suthin’ funny—here, young Sir, don’t git skeert—all I done was ter look at the picter afore I kilt the sheep for market—killin’ sheep was kinder more fun arter lookin’ at it—” The tone of the old man now sank very low, sometimes becoming so faint that his words were hardly audible. I listened to the rain, and to the rattling of the bleared, small-paned windows, and marked a rumbling of approaching thunder quite unusual for the season. Once a terrific flash and peal shook the frail house to its foundations, but the whisperer seemed not to notice it.
“Killin’ sheep was kinder more fun—but d’ye know, ’twan’t quite satisfyin’. Queer haow a cravin’ gits a holt on ye— As ye love the Almighty, young man, don’t tell nobody, but I swar ter Gawd thet picter begun ta make me hungry fer victuals I couldn’t raise nor buy—here, set still, what’s ailin’ ye?—I didn’t do nothin’, only I wondered haow ’twud be ef I did— They say meat makes blood an’ flesh, an’ gives ye new life, so I wondered ef ’twudn’t make a man live longer an’ longer ef ’twas more the same—” But the whisperer never continued. The interruption was not produced by my fright, nor by the rapidly increasing storm amidst whose fury I was presently to open my eyes on a smoky solitude of blackened ruins. It was produced by a very simple though somewhat unusual happening.
The open book lay flat between us, with the picture staring repulsively upward. As the old man whispered the words “more the same” a tiny spattering impact was heard, and something shewed on the yellowed paper of the upturned volume. I thought of the rain and of a leaky roof, but rain is not red. On the butcher’s shop of the Anzique cannibals a small red spattering glistened picturesquely, lending vividness to the horror of the engraving. The old man saw it, and stopped whispering even before my expression of horror made it necessary; saw it and glanced quickly toward the floor of the room he had left an hour before. I followed his glance, and beheld just above us on the loose plaster of the ancient ceiling a large irregular spot of wet crimson which seemed to spread even as I viewed it. I did not shriek or move, but merely shut my eyes. A moment later came the titanic thunderbolt of thunderbolts; blasting that accursed house of unutterable secrets and bringing the oblivion which alone saved my mind.

Sometimes I wish I was a spider hybrid.

just like to say I loved the recent 7 chapter evil in me story. please post more. thanks.

I would recommend following The Evil In Me, he wrote the story. :)