NOTE FROM CARDANIEL:

We received the following story from a fan of ours -- well, we assume he's a fan; at any rate, he is a reader of ours. Thantasy and I decided that it comes close enough to fitting the general theme of our site that we'd like to post it and see what you think.

A warning and a disclaimer: There is no need to read this if you have no interest in stories in which a male is the object of cannibalistic attention, or if you're not happy with the image of someone being boiled in a pot. We also have this statement from the author: "I neither sympathize with nor condone the actions of either of the main characters," and that it's only "intended as a piece of dark fun." On the other hand, having gotten this far you are probably familiar with the content of this site. So here we introduce:

"I wouldn't mind being eaten..."

Rebecca laughed gaily and put her spritzer down on the small, round, beaten copper table that separated us. When she saw that I was not joining in with her laughter, she stopped and gave me a quizzical look, "Are you serious?"

To any onlooker in the half-filled country pub, we were just a couple of young adults, possibly lovers, enjoying a Saturday afternoon drink together.

"No, really. Cooked and eaten, by you of course -- I couldn't trust anyone to do it properly." I picked up my pint and took a slow draught, fixing her unwavering, curious stare with my own over the rim of the glass.

"You mean it, don't you Thomas?" She said, using my full name rather than the usual "Tom".

"Absolutely," I replied, putting my glass back to the table but continuing to hold her now thoughtful look.

"You realize you are courting danger saying that to me?" She said softly, the flicker of a smile beginning to play on her lips, " I mean, you are dear to me, perhaps the only man I really care about and I'm not sure I'd want to -- not with you at least. On the other hand, you know what I'm like once I've started on something and I'm not sure I could control myself once we'd begun."

"That would be half the fun. More than half, actually."

"What did you have in mind?" She leant closer and I caught the scent of herbal shampoo on her long, black hair.

"Boiled in a pot of course. I've no desire to be fried or flame-grilled."

Her eyes twinkled with merriment and I began to feel that maybe she was coming round to it.

"It would take some arrangement," she said after a pause, "and -- if I decide to go ahead -- you would have to follow my instructions to the letter."

"It would be no fun if I didn't." I answered.

"I know." She said, leant over and kissed me gently on the forehead before getting up, "I may be in touch soon, Tom." And with another brief smile she was gone.

We were not lovers, at least not in the conventional sense. We had grown up together, attending the same schools until university, in my case, and agricultural college, in Rebecca's case, had taken us to different parts of the country. Though the same age, I had always considered Rebecca to be the more dominant playmate of the two of us. Her father had considered her to be a tomboy (her mother had disappeared when she was young, finding country life too slow, and had re-married a banker in London. Rebecca does not like to talk too much about this, though she shares almost everything else with me, but I think there was something to do with psychological problems on her mother's part that lead to her father getting custody of her and her older brother, Brian). From early childhood, I was allowed to go to the farm to play with Rebecca and she enjoyed my company both in itself and as a respite from the sadistic attention of her elder brother.

I can't recall when our games took on a darker edge, but it must have occurred gradually or I wouldn't have been so shocked by some of the things Rebecca said and did as we grew into early maturity. There was the time, we must have been eighteen or nineteen, when she had bound my hands to a rusted iron ring in the old stable wall and proceeded to unbutton my shirt and caress my torso, occasionally kissing my neck, chest and nipples. I felt tremendous arousal, partly from the fact that I knew there was a catch, no pleasure without pain, it was always so with Rebecca. She grappled with my belt and then roughly pulled my jeans down to my knees before slipping her hand into my briefs and grasping my erect penis. I had moaned softly as she caressed me, slowly at first, but then with firmer, faster strokes. Just when I thought I could hold back no more, she had stopped, pulled a two-inch needle from its hiding place in the collar of her blouse, puckered the flesh on by chest between the thumb and first finger of her left hand and then driven the needle straight through the flesh. As I fought the pain through clenched teeth and stifled gasps, she moved swiftly to my right side, bringing her mouth close to my ear. With her right hand she pulled down my briefs and resumed her work with added intensity, cooing into my ear, "Does it hurt? Does it matter? Your pain is my pleasure."

The orgasm exploded upon my brain, sweeping me out of myself for a moment in a tidal wave of sensation as I came onto the dusty stable floor. Then, weak at the knees and gasping for air, I sagged under my binding as Rebecca coolly surveyed her work.

"Good?" she asked.

I nodded, momentarily speechless, then winced in pain as she casually pulled out the needle and watched a trickle of blood run down to my belly. She pursed her lips and ran the needle between them before carefully re-inserting it into the hem of her shirt, "You never know, might need it again," she said with a conspiratorial wink.

Rebecca's father had died of a massive heart-attack during her first year of college and Brian, in his mid-twenties, had taken over the running of the farm with the assistance of a manager and two labourers. Rebecca's relationship with Brian was still strained and that was hardly surprising given the fact that he was still an ignorant and rather cruel individual. I've always thought this must have had something to do with Rebecca's attitude towards men. She says she is bisexual, but can only make real love to women with any compassion. With men, she has to inflict pain -- or worse -- to experience any sexual excitement. Yet she insists she does not hate men and I believe her. She says what she feels is closer to pity, though even that emotion she says she loses when she is gripped by the excitement of control over a man. She once said to me that she felt no animosity towards the cows in her father's field, quite liked them in fact, but she still enjoyed eating steak and felt no sentimental pangs over doing so -- quite an apt analogy, given my recent request.

Brian was dead within a year of Rebecca's return from colleague. The coroner's inquest returned a verdict of "Death by Misadventure" after he was found suffocated and partially buried in a grain silo. Of course Rebecca had done it, she told me the details of how she'd lured him to his place of death and sprung the trap. Her only regret, she said, had been not actually being able to see his face as the choking mass of grain and dust had poured down upon him. Escaping the slightest suspicion, she took over the farm and continued to engage the hired help as before. Do I think Rebecca is mad? Yes, probably psychopathically so, but who am I to judge when I enjoy her insanity as much as she does but from the other end of the spectrum. In other areas of life we are pretty normal people, intelligent and sociable, just in this one particular area do we find ourselves drawn to behaviour that is both deliciously addictive and so destructive. Casual research in books and on the internet has shown me that we are not alone in enjoying the darker aspects of human sexuality, but she has crossed the line of fantasy and voyeurism and surrendered to a deadly passion that the majority, more law-abiding folk, only dream about.

There have been others. Not as many as Rebecca would have liked, she tells me, but she has to be careful when selecting her victims. She drives out on a Friday evening to the city, you can't hunt locally she assures me, in the country too many people know each other and "missing people" attract too much attention. In the city, less than an hour and a half's drive away, there is greater anonymity and the authorities have less incentive to pursue missing persons cases as they occur more often without any evidence of foul play. She targets night-clubs and selects her prey with care, walking away if things don't go according to her plan. She tells me that salesmen are often the best targets, traveling men who fancy their chances and think they are something special. She engages them in conversation, allows that conversation to turn towards matters of intimacy and then determines whether or not her selection is open to the kind of experience she so craves. For the lucky ones that means a trip back to their hotel and the opportunity to climax with the price-tag of some pain, but as they are usually married men, they are invariably careful who they talk to about it. For the less fortunate (or more stupid, one might say), there is the drive home. Never leave the club together, allow at least ten minutes before meeting near to Rebecca's car. Mobile phones switched off (or left behind if possible), the victim usually co-operates believing it to be in his own clandestine interests.

There was the investment man from the north that she managed to hang from the rafters of the main barn as part of a complex game she played with him. The car-salesman she stabbed during copulation, a rare case, as Rebecca does not usually allow her prey that level of intimacy but, as she told me, "He was quite sexy in a naïve kind of way." And the German engineer she tied to the bed and then suffocated with a plastic bag. She has a great depth of imagination but is always meticulous in her methodology. Disposal of the debris of her passion was not a major problem, having, as she does, a large amount of private, relatively isolated land.

The letter arrived on Tuesday.

Dear Tom,

I have been considering your suggestion and have decided that we can give it a go. I am busy making practical arrangements, but should be ready for this Saturday.

A few instructions:

1. Email a friend on Friday and mention that you are going on holiday out of the country for a few weeks.

2. Be on the 7.45 train (arrival here) Saturday evening, I will pick you up at the station. Come out to the car park and find me. Wear a baseball cap during your journey and take whatever sensible precautions you deem necessary to avoid being recognized by any one.

3. Bring your passport and credit cards with you.

4. Leave your mobile at home, powered down.

5. Discuss this with no-one (I know you wouldn't anyway).

6. Eat nothing on Saturday. You may drink water or milk if you wish.

7. Destroy this letter once you have made any necessary notes from it. Bring the notes with you when you come.

Yours,

R.

I followed the instructions to the letter, as I'd said I would, and that is how I find myself now in the passenger seat of Rebecca's car as we make our way the last few hundred yards down the dirt track that serves as the drive to the farmhouse.

We are in the kitchen, I am sitting at the table while Rebecca opens a bottle of wine, French red, at the counter. The cork pops and glasses are produced. Rebecca pours a generous measure into each glass then brings them to the table and sits opposite me.

"How are you feeling?" she asks.

"Hungry." I half joke, then add, "And very excited...the last few days have seemed an age of anticipation..."

"Like a child waiting for Christmas?"

"Something like that," I say and take a sip from my glass.

"Savour the wine," she says, "it's all I'm going to allow you tonight; enough to calm your nerves but not to dull your sensations and, besides," she smiles, "It may be your last."

This comment sends a shiver of pleasure through my empty stomach and I feel more alive now than ever before, sitting here in this quiet kitchen drinking wine with Rebecca.

"I suggest we start at nine," she continues, "that gives you about fifteen minutes to finish your wine, unless of course you would rather we didn't go through with it..."

I take another, larger, drink from the glass and reply, "I wouldn't go back now for all the world, Rebecca, I'm not sure I could say no, even if I wanted to."

"That's good," she says, "and I don't think you will be disappointed with my efforts".

"And I doubt you will be either," I say.

"Probably, but I know what's in store. You have the pleasure of surprise awaiting you, my own reward lies more in the efficiency of the, let's say, execution of the deed. I am going to change into something more practical, I won't be long. Enjoy your wine but keep an eye on the clock."

It is a minute before nine. My glass is empty and I can feel the wine's soothing effect. Rebecca returns from upstairs wearing a tight, armless black T-shirt, green army trousers and work boots. Her hair is tied back in a pony-tail and she is carrying a small rucksack.

"Ready?" she asks.

I nod, too entranced to speak, my stomach a knot of anticipation, my heart beating swiftly. She comes over to me, kisses me gently on the lips and strokes my hair. She undoes a button on my shirt then takes a step back, "Take off all your clothes," she orders gently. With some fumbling I remove my shirt and throw it over a chair. I stoop to remove my trainers and socks before undoing my belt and stepping out of my trousers. For a second, I pause and look at Rebecca who has not moved whilst I do all this, she gives a nod in the direction of my briefs and I dutifully remove them to stand naked in front of her. My breathing is now quicker and deeper, but I am not yet aroused, perhaps it is the wine or perhaps it is the first delicious taste of fear. Rebecca opens her bag and removes a black hood, "I want you to put this on," she says and offers it to me. My questioning look makes her add, "Don't worry, it's all part of the surprise, I will remove it later." I put it on, it comes down over my shoulders to the top of my chest, its double thickness obscuring all vision.

"Good boy. Now put your hands behind your back."

I do this and hear Rebecca searching in her bag. Seconds later she is behind me, securing my wrists with metal handcuffs.

"Come with me now, it won't be long." She says, taking me by the elbow and guiding me from the kitchen onto the cool tiles of the auxiliary room. She opens a door and we step outside (Where are we going? I wonder) into the cool night air. She leads me slowly along a concrete path, I feel a cool breeze caressing my body and awaking every nerve on my bare skin.

"Wait a moment," I stop and hear the sound of a key in a lock, then a door being opened, "OK let's go in."

We move forward and I sense we are now in a building, but a large one for the air is still cold around me. I hear the sound of a light switch being clicked, the door being closed and an inside bolt being slid into place.

"Well, here we are," says Rebecca. I sense a slight change in her voice, excitement maybe, and it sends a frisson of fear and delight through my body.

"We are in the second barn. In front of us there is a large, open-top, steel cylindrical vessel," Rebecca says, "I apologize I could not get a traditional cauldron, but apart from being a historically inaccurate pot for the cooking of humans, the last thing I need is my suppliers to think I'm a witch," she giggles at this last comment. "The cylinder is a touch less than five feet in height so should easily allow you to have your head and shoulders out of the water, unless you choose to submerge yourself. The top of the cylinder is, however, now standing at a height well over six feet in the air as the whole thing is mounted in a heavy, iron tripod which embraces the cylinder over the mid-level and which is itself now cemented into the floor -- so don't get any ideas about being able to upset the whole apparatus with your body weight, it won't work I've tried it."

Always meticulous.

"Under the cylinder, is a simple gas burner connected to a large gas bottle, I considered this more practical than a wood fire. In a few seconds I will guide you up some makeshift steps that lead to a platform just below the rim of the cylinder. The rest is a piece of cake," another giggle, "Any questions?"

"When can I take the hood off?" I ask.

"All in good time, but soon -- I promise," comes the reply, "Now let's proceed."

She takes my elbow again and leads me across a rough concrete floor, littered with small stones that dig into the soles of my feet. I am guided up some wooden steps to what I assume is the platform where I am told to stop.

"Just a second," I feel Rebecca taking my wrists and unlocking the cuffs, "Now put your hands in front of you please." I comply and feel the handcuffs being re-applied.

"Good, now sit down. That's right. Now edge yourself forwards to the rim of the cylinder and sit on the edge."

I do as I am told, finding everything as she is describing. Sitting on the cold, steel edge of what feels like a large cylinder I lower my legs into icy cold water.

"It's freezing!" I hear myself saying.

"It is now," comes the reply from over my shoulder, "Perhaps you should appreciate that."

Something on the surface of the water bobs against my knee, "What's that?" I ask.

A longer giggle, "I put a few onions in to complement the flavour... Now, just raise your arms a little."

I do so and feel a metal chain being passed between my cuffed hands and splashing into the water. Suddenly, the hood is whipped off and I find myself very much in the position I had already created in my mind.

"Listen to me and follow these instructions precisely," Rebecca says, kneeling next to me and pressing her body next to mine. "You are going to slip into the water, it will be cold, and I want you to padlock the loose end of the chain to the end that is attached to the breeze-block at the bottom of the cylinder. The padlock is on the last link of the free end of the chain."

"A breeze-block?" I ask.

"Yes, a big one. It will serve two purposes. Firstly, when you are linked to it through the chain, it will be nearly impossible for you to lift yourself out of the pot and, secondly, you will be able to stand on it when the base of the cylinder gets too hot. Can you do this?"

In reply, I slip into the water, gasping as the cold envelops me, I take a breath and go under. It does not take long for me to find the last link and secure it, pushing the padlock closed through another link near the breeze-block. When I surface I find I can only raise my cuffed hands to just below my chest, further movement restricted by the loop of chain and the block it is attached to, on which I am now standing. The cold water laps at my chest just higher than my nipples. I look to Rebecca who is kneeling on the platform.

"Well done. You have passed the point of no return, my dear Tom, how do you feel?"

I consider this for a moment, the following of instructions and the cold of the water has momentarily caused me to forget the excitement of my earlier anticipation. Now, restrained and vulnerable, I feel the stirring within me return stronger than before.

"I am yours," I say.

"Most definitely," she replies, "And now let's begin."

She disappears down the steps, to return after a minute or so.

"The fire's lit," she says with a smile, "I'm going to retire to my spectator's seat over there," she points to some stacked straw bales not far from the cook-pot.

As yet I can feel no heat from the fire, but the shadow of a doubt troubles my mind, "What do I do if it gets too hot?" I ask. I know what I mean to Rebecca and I know she will not allow my fantasy to cause me serious harm. She needs me as much as I need her.

"Grin and bear it," she says. A perfect reply, for what is the point of flirting with death if one is sure that it is only a game?

She descends the steps and crosses the floor towards the stacked bales. I see her climb swiftly up, cat-like, to her vantage point and seat herself as a queen upon a throne. She reaches into her little rucksack and produces a palm-corder which she raises to her eye and points in my direction. "Just a visual record to help me through any long, winter nights," she calls out. The water below me still feels cold, though the air in the barn feels colder still and raises goose-bumps on my chest and shoulders.

We wait. Supported by the water and resting my back against the side of the vessel, I can relax my legs a little and even let my feet float off the breeze block by pulling up with my hands against the chain that loops through the cuffs and down between my legs. Just to see, I try to lift the block by pulling on the chain by raising my arms whilst floating: The only result is that my body is pulled down further into the water, the block does not shift. Very thorough. I think to have any chance of moving the block I'd have to put my feet on the base of the cylinder to get the leverage. I put my feet down and am thrilled to discover the base feels warm. I feel blood flowing into my penis as the excitement overcomes the earlier fear and I let myself float again, enjoying the sensation and the suspense.

After a couple of minutes, Rebecca calls to me, "I want you to make yourself come. You'd better do it now while you're still enjoying yourself."

I reach down and start to massage myself, floating to begin with but as I become harder, I place my feet on the block and push down, arching my back at the same time to put tension in the chain and my muscles.

Aaa-ah! I come into the cool water and rest my head against the rim of the cylinder, gasping the cool air. I look down and can just make out strands of semen suspended in the water around my middle. The water lower down is warming up, I touch the metal base with the sole of one foot and retract it quickly. It is hot. I gently swish the water about to displace the heat more evenly through the body of water. Then I let myself float again, enjoying the fantasy and the post-orgasm drowsyness.

I am in a warm bath with three large onions bobbing in front of me instead of little plastic ducks.

"How are you cooking?" asks Rebecca, still recording.

"Very well, thank you!" I answer, "It's pleasantly warm and only a little hot around my ankles."

"Mmm, that sounds right," she says checking on her watch, "but make sure you are ready for another attempt at orgasm in a few minutes as the water will start getting a lot hotter soon and I'd like to catch your final best moment for posterity..."

How I love you, Rebecca.

She is not wrong and soon the water around me is as hot as any bath I have ever experienced. No amount of movement makes the water below my knees feel any less hot and steam is now rising into the air of the barn above me. I extend a foot down to touch the base with a toe. Ouch! Too hot to stand on, for sure, there is no way I will be able to lift the block out now and consequently no way I will be able to get myself out on my own. Enjoy it. The last few minutes will be the best. Get a taste of what the conclusion to your own fantasy would be like then watch it all over again with Rebecca as we finish the wine later tonight.

"You'd better start now," calls out Rebecca from her vantage point looking down on me.

I start to float as high as I can to raise my legs and knees above the lower waters which are now beginning to scald. I work on myself with my cuffed hands, breathing heavily through the rising vapours and with sweat flowing down my face.

I am partly aroused but the water is now uncomfortably hot and it is making it difficult.

"Rebecca!" I call out, "I can't do it! It's getting too hot!"

"A little longer," she calls back, her voice sounding different and I can hardly make her out through the thickening steam, but I can tell she has not moved from her seat.

I am finding it hard to breath. The water is scalding all over now and turning my skin red. I have given up on the "final attempt" as I cannot get enough sensation through the growing pain. The steam is thick, sweat is coursing down my temples and I fear I will pass out, though surely if I do Rebecca will put an end to the game. I can see the outer skin coming off one of the onions that is bobbing against my chest, small bubbles are beginning to rise from the depths of the water.

"Reb..Rebecc.." Oh God. I can't...I can't...Rebec...Reb...

Rebecca climbed down from the stack of bales and crossed over to the steps by the cooking apparatus. She crouched and pulled from under the steps a large metal disc with a handle on one side and two round holes on opposite sides near the edge. Holding this object in both hands she ascended the steps and put it down on the platform before kneeling near the brim of the pot and leaning over into the steam.

Tom appeared to be barely conscious, his eyes were closed but his eyelids and lashes were fluttering and his mouth drew in short, pained gasps of hot, moist air. He was floating, held mostly submerged by the restrictions of the chain and the dimensions of the cylinder. His skin beneath the surface was an angry crimson and was beginning to peel on his arms.

"Oh you poor thing," murmured Rebecca and tousled his thick mop of wet hair, "I did warn you, but you didn't want to listen. I love you Tom, but with your weaknesses something like this was bound to happen and nobody is irreplaceable. I'm afraid this is as far as your fantasy goes with my involvement, though you have a little longer to play it through. I have my limits, Tom, and the thought of eating human flesh is beyond them. I have a pizza in the fridge to go with my wine later on when I'm curled up on the sofa watching a film. I really hope you had as much fun as I've had, but now it's goodbye..."

Grasping some of his hair in her hand she slowly but firmly pushed him down a little lower until the top of his head was below the rim of the cylinder and the water touched his chin. A slight moan escaped his lips, but was ignored. Rebecca picked up the metal disc and slid it over the top of the cylinder; steam immediately began to rise from the two holes near the side. From her rucksack she took a length of steel chain and passed it through two ear-sized semi-circles on the side of the cylinder's top and through the handle on the metal lid. She secured the chain with a padlock and tested the arrangement by trying to displace the lid. It would only move an inch or so horizontally and about the same vertically. No chance of escape. She turned and descended the steps to squat down by the gas burner. She adjusted the heat, "I think we can let you simmer, while I enjoy my film. There's enough gas to last more than a day at this rate...though that won't concern you for much longer."

She stood up and sniffed the air, reached behind her neck and released her hair from the ponytail shaking it out onto her shoulders. She shouldered her rucksack and walked to the door without looking back.

She opened the door and departed, switching out the light as she left.