The Flesh Eaters

by L. A. Morse

  During the past hour, the two men have eaten the better part of a large roast leg of mutton, and had enough wine to render themselves quite drunk. They are still going at it, eating and drinking, laughing boisterously, their faces flushed and sweating. Grease covers their mouths and chins. Sawney Beane, eating his gritty porridge, watches them shovel chunks of meat into their gaping mouths. The men pay no attention to him, concerned only with their food and the lewd stories they are telling.

  “... and then she says”—the Master pauses to swallow—”she says, ‘If you don’t know where to put it, better cover it, or it might freeze and break off.’“ He laughs loudly, cuts a large slice of meat, and puts it on Andrews’s plate. “Here! And drink up. You’re falling behind.”

  Andrews makes a gesture of surrender. “I don’t think I can eat any more.”

  “You disappoint me. What kind of man are you? Are all your appetites so small? Hah!”

  “My appetites are as healthy as yours.” Andrews raises his cup. “My compliments. You set a good table.”

  “Aye. Meat, drink, and women! Without that, a man’s just a poor, feeble creature, like that-useless Sawney Beane over there. He hates me, but he’d never dare rebel. Without me, he’d be sleeping in the rain and eating grass like a cow. As for me—well, he’s so lame that he provides amusement. Here, watch this! We’ll have some fun with him. Here, Hob! Come here, boy!”

  His dog, a scruffy mongrel with matted hair and small yellow eyes, comes over and waits expectantly. The Master cuts a large piece of meat and throws it to the dog, who eagerly devours it. Sawney Beane watches hungrily, as if tempted to fight for the meat. The Master is well aware of this.

  “Good Hob! You want some more?” He cuts another piece of meat and holds it up. “Want it? Speak for it. Speak!” The dog gives a long, mournful howl. “Good Hob! There you are.”

  He throws the meat halfway between Hob and Sawney Beane, who almost jumps for it.

  The Master pokes Andrews with his elbow. “We’ve forgotten something. We’ve eaten our fill, and the dog has had his. Do you suppose poor Sawney Beane might want some as well?”

  “I don’t know. If he’s as feeble a creature as you say, I doubt that he’d be able to chew it.

  “Aye, you’re probably right. But maybe he can be a good dog? Can you do tricks, Sawney Beane?” The Master holds out a bit of meat. “All full of juice and fat. Hob wants it. Can you be as good a dog as Hob? If you want it, you’ll have to play the dog. Walk on all fours! Walk on all fours, you lazy cur!”

  Sawney Beane’s desire for the meat is stronger than whatever it is that tells him not to participate. He creeps across the floor on his hands and knees.

  The Master watches, gloating. “Slow dogs do not get meat. They are thrown out in the night to become food for crows. Move faster, dog! Chase the rabbit!”

  Sawney Beane moves awkwardly around the room, faster and faster. The Master leads him on, holding the meat just out of reach. Andrews finds this very funny and shouts encouragement.

  The Master leads Sawney Beane in an increasingly smaller circle, until he is doubling back on himself. “Come on, dog. Chase your tail!”

  At last Sawney Beane collapses in exhaustion. The Master prods him with his foot. “Well, you’re not a hunting dog, but maybe you’re a lap dog? Are you the ugliest, mangiest, worst smelling lapdog that God in a moment of forgetfulness ever created? All right, lapdog. Sit up and beg.”

  Sawney Beane gets up on his knees with his hands held out in front of him.

  “But can he speak for his supper?” Andrews calls.

  “We shall soon hear,” the Master roars. “Speak like a lapdog! Speak!” Hob barks, and the men laugh. “No, Hob, not you. We want the lapdog to bark. Speak, lapdog! Beg for your supper.”

  Sawney Beane begins with a few tentative barks. The men urge him on, and he increases the volume until, head thrown back, he is howling.

  For a few minutes the Master and Andrews are convulsed with laughter, and then they return to their wine. Sawney Beane slinks back to his corner. His eyes have a black intensity as he stares at the men.

  Soon the wine pitcher is empty, and the Master shouts into the house, “Meg! Meg! Bring us more wine! We are thirsty dog trainers, and we require more wine!”

  After a brief delay, Meg enters carrying another pitcher. She wears her usual blank, sullen expression. Not looking at either of the men, she sets the pitcher on the table hard enough to spill a little wine. As she turns to go, the Master catches her by the arm, pulls her closer, and holds her around the waist. Meg stands stiffly in his grasp, but does not offer resistance.

  “Well, Andrews, you haven’t said. What do you think of my little girl? Though she’s not very little anymore” The Master squeezes Meg’s plump hip.

  “She’s turned into a fine, lusty-looking wench.” Andrews nudges the Master in the ribs. “You must get a great deal of pleasure from having a fine daughter like that.”

  “Oh, that I do, you can be sure. She looks more like her dead mother every day. Particularly around the belly.” Keeping his firm grip around her waist, the Master runs his other hand over Meg’s slightly rounded stomach. “And up here.” He puts his hand on her left breast and squeezes it roughly.

  Andrews’s eyes bulge even more than usual.

  “More like her mother all the time.” The Master puts his hand inside the top of Meg’s dress and squeezes her breast again, giving a sigh of contentment. Then he pulls down the front of the loose fitting dress so that one white, full breast, its dark nipple erect, is revealed. “Look at that. It makes you wish you were a babe again and could spend the entire day just suckling there.” He moves as if to kiss the nipple. Meg keeps him back, but she cannot get out of his tight grasp.

  Andrews’s mouth has gone dry, and he runs his tongue over his parched lips before responding. “That it does. I find myself developing quite a thirst—even a hunger, you might say.”

  “Well, never let it be said that I am a miserly host who lets his guests go away hungry. Meg, come and greet Master Andrews, who is a great friend of mine.”

  Meg resists, but the Master passes her to Andrews, who also grips her securely around the waist. He is greatly excited by the look and feel of Meg’s body. He squeezes her hip and runs his hand over her stomach and up to her exposed breast. The touch of the hard nipple in his palm sends a flash of sensation directly to his groin. He tries to pull Meg onto his knee, but she resists, her expression still stony and sullen.

  “She is a fiery, lusty mare, but she does not know her position,” Andrews says, struggling to pull Meg to him. “What she needs is a man to put the bit between her teeth and hold a tight rein while he rides her bareback.” He squeezes the firm flesh of her thigh. “Let me mount you, my fine Meg, and give you a riding lesson. What do you say?”

  He moves to kiss her, but Meg manages to pull free, leaving him clumsily embracing air. She steps back, rearranges her dress and walks slowly away from the two men.

  Sawney Beane has observed everything. Anger flashes in his eyes, but he remains silent, his body limp, his mouth an idiot grin.

  Andrews laughs with false heartiness to cover his rebuff. “That girl needs to be taught obedience. You will not find a husband for her unless she has been properly broken.”

  The Master has grown tired of Andrews. “I guess she did not fancy you for a rider. You had better stay with training dogs. And leave me to worry about obedience. Now drink up.”

  “No. I’ve got to be going home/’

  “Or else your wife will make you regret your tardiness?”

  Andrews blushes. “Or else she will not get her beating for tonight.”

  “Oh? Stick to training dogs, Master Andrews. Stick to dogs.”

  Andrews mutters a hasty good night and lurches out into the cold air of High Street, hoping that his wife will not be too upset by his late return.

  The Master hardly notices his guest’s departure. Quite drunk, he sits with his mass
ive forearms resting on the rough table, muttering hoarsely to himself.

  “Stick to dogs, Master Andrews. At least there you’ll know who is holding the leash…. A good fellow, but weak.... Not like me.... I’m the Master.... I control.” He turns his bloodshot eyes to the corner of the room and raises his voice. “Isn’t that right, Sawney Beane? I’m the Master.... My house.... Do you want to fight me, Sawney Beane?... No?... Coward.... He does what I say.... Good dog.... But Meg needs obedience.... Lazy slut.... Aye, teach her a lesson... a beating she’ll remember.” An image of Meg’s firm body enters his mind. “Aye.... Strip her naked and beat her.... Teach her respect.... Whip her on her naked ass.... Aye.... Beat her.”

  He can feel her warm skin beneath his calloused hand, can see her squirm as he slaps her bare thighs. His face dark red now, he bellows toward the door. “Meg! Meg! Come here! At once!”

  Meg enters and stares at him defiantly, one hand resting on an outthrust hip.

  “Come here, girl,” the Master says softly. “Stand closer. I won’t harm you. Stand closer.”

  Meg comes a few steps closer and he makes a surprisingly quick move and grabs her. He holds her with one hand, while the other runs over her body.

  “Your body is like your mother’s body. Ripe and full, with flesh a man can grab onto. But your disposition is also like hers... sneering... she would not yield to me... she died before I could teach her otherwise. But I will make you learn.... Who is the Master? I said, who is the Master?”

  Meg stares coolly at his flushed face.

  “You will not say?” the Master roars. “Then I will have to show you!”

  He wrestles her across his knee and begins to spank her back and buttocks with considerable force. She struggles, but cannot escape. Her movements and the warmth of her body cause his penis to harden and press against her belly. His breath comes in deep gasps, and he speaks with difficulty, punctuating each phrase with a hard, openhanded blow.

  “I will teach you.... I will show you.... beat you... beg for mercy... acknowledge me.... I am your father.... I am your Master!”

  The Master pulls up her dress and slaps her bare thighs, making the pale flesh redder with each blow. He attempts to bare her buttocks, but the dress is caught between her body and

  his leg. As he struggles to pull it free, Meg manages to get off his knee. She runs toward the door, but the Master cuts her off and backs her against the table. Her eyes flash hatred. Her nostrils flare; her white teeth are bared.

  The Master throws her onto the table so that the upper half of her body is flat and her legs hang down. His throat is swollen with excitement, and his voice is a harsh whisper. “I will teach you to defy me.”

  He stands between her legs, his body pressing down on her, his hands digging into her, his erect penis hard against the juncture of her thighs. They struggle, and soon his superior weight and strength begin to tell. He manages to trap both her arms in one huge hand. He is about to hit her with the other hand when a voice speaks softly behind him.

  “Leave her be....”

  The Master freezes. Then, releasing Meg, he turns to look incredulously at Sawney Beane, who is standing in the center of the room.

  “What did you say?”

  “Leave her be.”

  “So the dog can speak. You dare interfere with me in my house? You slave, you worm, you nothing! You will regret this!”

  The Masters eyes flash wildly about the room. He spots a whip hanging on the wall, grabs it, and turns to face Sawney Beane. “On your knees, dog! I will teach you some new tricks!”

  Sawney Beane puts his arms up to block the lashes, and when the whip coils around his wrist he is able to jerk it from the Masters grasp and throw it to the ground. Roaring at this new defiance, the Master closes in and seizes him in a bear hug that pinions his arms.

  “I was just going to whip you, but it will give me greater pleasure to kill you with my hands!”

  The Master is a head taller than his opponent and outweighs him by more than a hundred pounds. He squeezes, and Sawney Beane is in trouble. His ribs are being crushed and it is hard to breathe, but he sees an opportunity. Viciously, he bites the lower part of the Masters ear, his teeth piercing the soft flesh and cartilage. The Master screams, releases his grip, and Sawney Beane gets away.

  The Master’s ear is hanging loose, bleeding profusely. He touches the wound, and when he sees that his fingers are wet with his own blood, he becomes insane with rage. He hurls himself forward, gives Sawney Beane two tremendous blows, and then begins to choke him. Sawney Beane can do nothing against the Master’s overpowering strength. His tongue feels as though it is filling his mouth, his eyes seem about to explode from his head. He sees everything through a red haze that grows steadily darker.

  Suddenly the pressure eases, and a curious expression comes over the Master’s face. He has felt a sharp pain in his upper left arm. The Master looks at the arm with amazement—his shirt is turning red. Now he sees Meg standing with a knife from the table held awkwardly in her hand.

  The Master releases Sawney Beane, who crumples to the ground, painfully sucking air down his bruised throat. Meg’s knife does not frighten the Master. He slaps her hard across the face, then gets her in a bear hug and squeezes. In desperation, she tosses the knife toward Sawney Beane. Without hesitation, he picks it up and slashes the Master across the back.

  The Master screams in pain and turns toward his assailant. But Sawney Beane has raised the knife overhead; now, holding the hilt in both hands, he plunges the blade into the Master’s chest.

  The Master falls to his knees, clutching at his chest, which slowly turns dark red. He blinks at Sawney Beane and Meg, a surprised look on his face. For a brief moment the three of them stand frozen, and then Sawney Beane and Meg fall upon the Master, pushing him onto his back. They tear at him with their fingers and continue to stab him. Sometimes one of them has the knife, sometimes the other; sometimes they hold it together. The knife seems to rise and plunge, rise and plunge, with a momentum of its own that pulls the attackers along. Sawney Beane and Meg continue the frenzied attack long after the Master is only a bloody mass.

  At last Sawney Beane and Meg become exhausted and stop. There is blood all over them. Sawney Beane puts his hand in a wound on the Master’s chest and brings it out covered with blood. He licks his hand, then holds it in front of Meg’s face. She licks one finger slowly with the tip of her tongue; and then takes each of the other fingers into her mouth and sucks them greedily. Her lips are swollen, as though with passion.

  They begin to laugh maniacally.

  Sawney Beane again covers his hand with blood, but this time he smears it on Meg’s face and neck. They continue to laugh wildly. He pulls her dress off her shoulders and down her arms, baring her to the waist. Her large breasts are covered in gooseflesh. Her nipples are deep red, and stiff with straining. Meg trembles as Sawney Beane covers her breasts with her father’s blood. Now she removes his shirt and starts to smear him with blood. Then Sawney Beane pulls her dress over her hips and down her legs, revealing her half-adolescent, half-woman’s body. He runs his bloody hand over her belly and down into the triangle of soft golden hair. Frantically, she tears at his tights and pulls them off. The sight of his erect penis causes a surge of warm dampness in her loins. She coats both her hands in blood and gently but firmly places them on his member.

  The rhythm of their activity has changed. Sawney Beane makes a quick dart and licks the blood off the underside of her breast. They grapple in a rough, playful way, like kittens or lion cubs fighting. They lick at each other and nip with their teeth, laughing.

  Suddenly they both stop. Meg reaches down and gently pulls him to her. As his penis enters her, her back arches and her hips thrust up to meet him. She gives a triumphant growl. Lying on the bloody corpse of the Master, they make violent, tearing, clawing love. Unlike the time in the barn, Meg responds enthusiastically now.

  It is still dark when Sawney Beane’s eyes open, an
d he is unsure at first where he is. He feels somehow different, but he does not immediately understand the change. He turns and sees the naked Meg sleeping beside him, her head resting on the Master’s leg. The sight of the torn and bloody body brings complete recollection, and he smiles.

  Sawney Beane gets up, crosses the room and splashes water from a bucket on his face. He rubs off some of the dried blood that stains his body and pulls on his breeches. He goes back to where Meg sleeps and prods her with his foot. She moans quietly in protest, but finally opens her eyes.

  “Get up. We must go.”

  “Go?”

  “The sun will rise soon. We must leave here before then, unless you want us to be the ones cut apart at the next execution.”

  She shakes her head. to clear it and looks around. When she sees the room, her sleepiness vanishes. “Where will we go?”

  “Does it matter? Away.”

  “But... but do we just go? What do we take?”

  Sawney Beane picks up a knife from the ground and turns it lovingly in his hand. “This is all we need. Get dressed. And find me a shirt to wear.”

  Meg shows no trace of the sullenness with which she has previously responded to orders. Instantly, she leaves the room to gather their clothes.

  Sawney Beane paces, anxious to be away. There is a visible change in his being. His body is no longer loose-jointed, limp; he moves with control and power. His jaw, once slack, is firm and purposeful. His eyes are no longer dull and clouded; they gleam with cruel intensity. He has confidence now—authority, certainty. He is in touch with desires and sensations that before had only moved about him like beckoning shadows.

  Meg returns, clad in another loose-fitting dress. She gives him a shirt and tunic, and he puts them on. He puts two knives in his belt and goes to the door. Meg stands in the center of the room, looking at the only home she has ever known. Already it seems dim and far away. Sawney Beane calls her, and she joins him without hesitation or regret.