Succulent Prey by Wrath James White

by Wrath James White

  time by the fol owing rule: Barbecue 1520 minutes per pound, and oven roast @

  375 degrees for 25-30 minutes per

  pound. Few girls wil live longer than 1

  hour while cooking since she wil die as soon as her heart starts to cook.

  Joe knew that most of the stuff on the

  site was bul shit. No one could survive the torturous ordeal of being vivisected long enough for you to cook them alive. Stil , like al good pornography, it was al about the fantasy. He closed his eyes

  and tried to imagine himself as a chef

  serving up fresh girl meat. He felt the orgasm building within him as he

  imagined the aroma of freshly cooked

  flesh and tried to envision what the look in the woman's eyes would be as he

  peeled off bits of her flesh and devoured it before her as her heart boiled in her chest. He drooled and his cock tingled

  and swel ed even more as he read

  further down the page. His erection was now so hard that it felt as if the skin would burst. Once again he looked over

  at his roommate to make sure he had

  not awakened. One of the boy's legs

  was now sticking out from beneath the

  covers. Joe had to restrain himself from going over to take a bite out of it. He turned back to the computer screen but

  continued to cast sidelong glances at his sleeping roommate as his engorged

  organ began to pulsate and the first

  drops of precum dribbled from the

  swol en head.

  Joe pinched his left nipple hard as he

  continued to masturbate, then he

  reached down and slid a finger into his rectum to massage his prostate. He

  read frantical y through the rest of the page as he neared climax.

  His legs kicked straight out in front of him as the monster leaped up and shot a long arc of semen up onto the computer

  screen. His entire body jerked

  convulsively as he ejaculated again and again in what seemed an unending

  stream of liquid white, and visions

  spiraled through his mind of succulent

  human flesh cut lovingly from the breasts, thighs, and buttocks of a woman bred for her meat.

  What the hel am I becoming? Joe

  wondered as he continued to pant

  breathlessly, stil quivering from the

  powerful orgasm.

  Joe used a tube sock to wipe his semen

  from the computer screen. He then

  licked his fingers clean of his stil living fluids, imagining it was the blood of prey. Joe turned off the computer and crawled into bed with his erection stil

  undiminished. He masturbated three

  more times before he final y drifted off into sleep. He was getting worse. It was time for another reprogramming

  session.

  Chapter Four

  The wal s of the room were barren,

  painted a neutral antique white. The

  laminated wood floor was scuffed and

  scratched. A solemn crucifix hung in the center of one wal with the tortured and bleeding effigy of Christ affixed to it. The entire room seemed to perspire, the

  floor to heave as if breathing heavily as the combined lusts of a roomful of sex

  addicts boiled the air and raised the

  humidity.

  Joe sat with his huge shoulders slumped forward, his tremendous arms resting on his thighs, his head nestled in his

  oversized hands, and his eyes boring

  oversized hands, and his eyes boring

  into the sacrificial lamb seated directly across the room baring his soul for

  group consumption. There were seven of

  them crammed into the little room in the basement of the church, swapping

  titil ating tales of sexual excess for the purpose of therapy, eagerly devouring

  each detail of one another's sex lives. Joe had no idea how this was supposed

  to make them better. It seemed like he'd been coming to these meetings for

  years.

  His hunger roiled within him like a living thing clawing at the lining of his stomach. He'd eaten a ful breakfast so he knew

  that it wasn't physical. He'd masturbated twice before leaving the house too.

  Sometimes that took the edge off his

  appetite. Not today. Today the only thing that would assuage his carnivorous lust was fresh meat. He needed help. He

  was having a harder and harder time

  resisting the temptation to feed.

  Everywhere he looked there seemed to

  be meat ripe for consumption. He was

  hoping this therapy session would at

  least calm his hunger long enough for

  him to make it through his classes.

  Among this bizarre assemblage of

  predator and prey he should have felt

  right at home, but even here he had to

  maintain his secrets. He was more of a

  predator than any of them would ever

  have realized or been comfortable with, and as much a victim as the little man

  with the nervous eyes and bruised face. They were al victims here, victims of

  their own addictions, prey to their

  desires.

  Joe had been coming to these meetings

  almost every day since he started

  col ege last year. He was now beginning his sophomore year at the local

  university where he was enrol ed as a

  psychology major. The irony of that

  always made him laugh. Physician, heal

  thyself. He had started coming to Sex

  Addicts Anonymous after he'd gotten

  hooked on the sex and swingers club

  scene. He spent so much time in the sex clubs last semester, waking up nearly

  every night with a strange woman-or in

  some cases, strange couples-in his bed

  that he'd nearly flunked out of school. So he'd come here to get his life in order. But now his addiction had mutated and

  he wasn't sure they could help him

  anymore. The problems of the other

  confessed addicts almost seemed

  pedestrian in comparison to the monster raging within him.

  "I wound up drunk in an al ey giving a blowjob to a stranger."

  His name was Frank. He had a busted

  nose, a black eye, and a huge gash on

  his forehead. It was a common sight.

  They were al pretty much used to it now. He always came into the group session

  with a new bruise or cut. Joe wouldn't

  have been as interested in hearing

  about Frank's sexual exploits were it not for the violence that always

  accompanied the passion.

  Joe had heard al of Frank's stories

  before. Each day was just more of the

  same. Yet another variation of the "Meet boy, fuck and suck boy, get the shit

  kicked out of him by boy" theme. The only thing that ever changed was the

  order of the events, the severity of the attacks, and the size of the attacker's cock. Frank was a homosexual who had

  a thing for straight men and often risked an ass kicking to get one. He enjoyed

  tel ing his lascivious tales of sex and battery even more than the rest of the

  group enjoyed hearing them. This was

  not so much therapy as group catharsis

  and cathexis. He spit it out and they

  sucked it up.

  In the beginning they would try to outdo each other. Each of them would tel their most extravagant tales of sexual

  hedonism. Mary was a housewife who

  had affairs with strangers almost daily, claiming to be addicted to the taste of semen. Tom was her male equivalent.

  He cheated on his wife with male

  escorts and loved to feel cum
on his ass. Jane and Bil y were a couple who were

  hooked on meeting people on the

  Internet and having sex with them after months of cybercourtship. Sam was

  addicted to pornography and

  masturbated eight to twelve times a day and often in public. Malcolm heard

  voices and exposed himself to women in

  parks. He was stil young, only nineteen years old, but wel on his way to

  becoming a rapist and probably a serial kil er soon afterward. He was the only

  one close to being as fucked up as

  Frank or Joe himself. But no one knew

  how disturbed Joe was. Joe didn't

  share.

  Soon they were al rushing through their confessions, eager to get to Frank's

  latest adventures, and he never

  disappointed. He knew they were

  counting on him. Far from curing the

  dysfunctional little man, they were

  enabling him, feeding his addiction as

  much as he fed theirs. Joe often

  wondered what would have happened if

  he shared some of his own experiences

  with the group. He was pretty sure he

  could have outdone Frank.

  Joe wasn't sure if it even made sense

  for him to come to these Sex Addicts

  Anonymous sessions anymore. He had

  progressed way beyond just your

  average sex addict.

  "What happened next, Frank?" Mary, the session leader/counselor, asked with the appropriate concern on her face. Joe

  knew that half the people in the group

  went home and masturbated to the

  confessions they heard at these

  sessions. Sam, occasional y, didn't

  bother to wait until he left the room.

  "Wel , he had the most enormous cock. I swear it was almost a ful ten inches and I was gagging on it and loving every

  minute of it. He came al down my throat and then pul ed his cock out of my mouth and came al over my face. Then he got

  mean." Frank paused and looked down in his lap where his hands lay clenched tightly. No doubt hiding his erection.

  "What did he do?" Everyone leaned forward in their chairs. Their own

  addictions drew them into the tale,

  hungrily searching for that salacious

  tidbit to momentarily assuage the hunger burning in each of them.

  "He smiled down at me and told me how beautiful I looked with cum on my face, which I thought was kind of nice. But then he started cal ing me a filthy cumsucking faggot. He punched and kicked me until I almost passed out. The funny thing was that while he was kicking my

  ass I noticed that his cock was getting hard again. After he'd beaten the shit out of me, busted a couple ribs and broke

  my nose, he pul ed my pants down and

  raped me, anal y. No lubrication at al . It had to have chafed him as much as it

  did me. What was even weirder was that

  I kind of enjoyed it."

  Nothing surprising there, Frank, Joe

  thought. Everyone knew that the effete

  little guy, who came in every week with his face looking as if it had gone through a meat grinder, was a hardcore

  masochist. He just hadn't admitted it to himself. If he could just admit it then he could start finding safer trade in S&M

  clubs before he ran into someone who

  might real y hurt him. Someone like Joe. He was already imagining what he would

  do to the petite little man if he were ever to get him alone.

  "So how does that make you feel now, Frank?" Mary asked, her voice ful of false concern. Mary was almost as

  indiscreet in her desire to hear about

  Frank's exploits as Sam, who already

  had his hand in his pocket, jacking off unselfconsciously.

  Mary had been a regular attendee at

  these meetings longer than anyone and

  seemed to wield no more control over

  her addictions than the rest of them. She propositioned Joe after almost every

  session. He knew that she'd already

  fucked nearly every straight guy who'd

  ever set foot in this place in the seven or eight years she'd been coming. Joe also knew that it drove her nuts that she

  hadn't had him yet.

  Joe kept his body in excel ent condition. Working out was as much of a

  compulsion for him as fucking. His face was hard and lean with a squared-off jaw and dark blue eyes. His friends had

  jokingly cal ed him Clark Kent back in

  high school because he looked like he

  should have been on the cover of a

  Superman comic book. Mary wasn't

  Joe's type, though. She was a skanky

  trailer-park slut. Too skinny, with no ass and smal tits. She looked like a drug

  addict, which she had been until she'd

  switched addictions. Frank was just

  about to reply to her question when Joe interrupted him.

  "I fantasize about biting women's

  breasts off and eating them."

  That shook things up. Everyone stared

  at Joe with mouths agape as they tried

  to compose the proper healing response

  to such a perverse admission. It was the first time Joe had shared with the group and they didn't want to discourage him, if only for the promise of a new fetish to feed on. This beat every one of Frank's rough trade encounters in Polk Street

  leather bars, except maybe the one

  where he got fistfucked by that biker with his arm lubed with motor oil. It certainly shamed Mary's confessions about

  fucking the neighbors' husbands and

  masturbating with fruit and household

  appliances, even the time she'd put

  peanut butter on her clit to get head from her Great Dane.

  Joe got up and left before they could

  respond with their trite little twelve-step slogans, though it would have been

  curious to know which one they could

  have whipped out for cannibalism. That

  was the one addiction none of the books addressed. Joe knew. He had already

  checked.

  Joe jogged the distance from the little storefront church where the SAA

  meetings were held back to the campus

  to hit the gym before classes started.

  When he walked into the weight room it

  was already packed. The track team

  was in there doing their morning strength training. "Muscle equals speed!" he heard Coach Truman yel ing as he built

  his athletes into physical specimens that looked more like middleweight boxers

  than sprinters. Joe stared at their

  elegant bodies in a trance. He'd always had a fetish for large round buttocks and no one had a meatier, more finely

  formed gluteus maximus than a sprinter. Particularly the African-American ones

  who seemed to be genetical y gifted with the type of round meaty asses he loved. They al wore those tiny running shorts that exposed the bottom half of their

  enlarged glutes. Their thighs were finely sculpted and shimmering with a sheen

  of sweat. It was almost too much for Joe to bear. He watched the women's

  sumptuous asses bounce by as they

  walked from one piece of exercise

  equipment to the next. He felt like a lion lying down with sheep-and he was

  getting hungry. An erection was straining in his sweatpants and he had no real

  way to conceal it. It didn't matter how many girls noticed his arousal and

  giggled or sneered in disgust. It was

  worth the sight.

  Joe began his workout with 500-pound

  squats, grunting and straining his way

  through four sets of ten. Then he loaded nearly a thousand p
ounds onto the leg

  press for another four sets that left his legs quivering from overexertion. He

  finished off with hamstring curls and

  quadricep extensions before hitting the showers.

  Even in the locker room the sight of the men's naked flesh was arousing him.

  Joe wouldn't have cal ed himself gay.

  What he felt when he looked at the male athletes' thick muscular thighs and tight wel sculpted asses, their heaving

  pectoral muscles, and even their thick

  cocks dangling limply between their

  legs, was something far more visceral.

  He didn't want to fuck them. He wanted

  to eat them alive. To rip their supple flesh from their bones, taste the warm blood

  and meat as it washed over his tongue

  and down into his bel y.

  Joe finished his shower and removed a

  fresh change of clothes from his

  backpack. He shrugged quickly into his

  jeans and T-shirt before running off to class. He could hear the guys whispering at his back as he left the locker room. They al thought he was a pervert. But

  they knew better than to say it to his

  face. Joe was not exactly a smal man.

  Chapter Five

  The tweed-wrapped and bow-tied

  professor busily scribbled on the huge

  blackboard at the front of the lecture hal . Flashes of multicolored young flesh

  whisked by as students hurried to take

  their seats. Smooth chocolate browns

  and tans. Creamy whites and yel ows.

  Joe tore himself with effort from the

  entrancing glimpses of bare arms,

  slender necks, and naked thighs and

  calves to give attention to the names the professor had scrawled across the

  board.

  Andrei Chikatilo. Ed Gem. Gary

  Heidnick. Jeffrey Dahmer.

  Heidnick. Jeffrey Dahmer.

  "Al of these men are murderers.

  Signature kil ers with a very unique

  signature."

  Joe recognized the connection between

  those four names before the professor

  even spoke and he immediately perked

  up, suddenly very interested. They were not just serial kil ers. They were kil ers who had at least partial y cannibalized their victims. Each of them had tasted

  human flesh. Many on more than one

  occasion. Some, like Dahmer and

  Chikatilo, were famous for it.