Such a waste, I thought as my orthopedic shoes thumped against the wooden floors while I walked past the dining area to the short hallway that separated the two bedrooms. They were across from each other and there, at the end, my eyes caught sight of my Harold in the black and white photograph hanging on the wall between each doorway. Its striking lack of color broke apart all the pink in the apartment: the walls, the furniture, the throw rug. My husband used to joke that if we owned a cat, I would have dyed it pink.
I chuckled and briefly considered turning right. What I had planned could wait. I wasn’t as young as I used to be and I could stand to use a nap. Maybe, my Harold would make an appearance while I was in dreamland. How I longed to hear his voice, to see his smile. I shook the thought from my head and unlocked the door on the left. While most women my age kept their glasses on a chain around their neck, I kept the key to this room.
I shut the door behind me, locked it, and flipped the light switch on. I never let anyone else into this room. If someone asked, I’d tell them it was my hobby room, that I do some knitting and such. The room had a much different and darker purpose, though one could call it a hobby of sorts. It looked almost like a second kitchen, except the for the makeshift cot; the massive meat freezer in the corner; the giant, rolling tool cabinet; and the naked man hanging from a chain in the center of the room.
“You don’t understand how lucky you are,” I said, as I grabbed my brown leather apron off the hook and put it on. “Usually the people I bring in here are upside down, dead, and bleeding out into that washtub below you.” The washtub in question was on its side. The crashing sound must have been him kicking it over. The dead never thrashed about in such a rude manner.
The man’s eyes went wild as he caught sight of me putting on my heavy leather gloves. He was finally starting to become aware of his surrounding as the drugs in his system began to wear off. Nobody can turn down one of my homemade chocolate-covered cherries laced with Temazepam. He tried to talk, but the ball gag in his mouth wouldn’t allow it.
I walked over to the tool cabinet and pulled out one of the drawers. There, it housed an assortment of knives; some surgical, some culinary, all stainless steel. I let my wrinkled hands guide me. Trust your instincts, Harold used to tell me. Each tool seemed to vibrate as my fingers lightly touched their handles. I made my choice: the serrated carving knife. It was a welcoming gift from the butcher on the second floor. He even taught Harold some techniques when my husband told him we liked to ‘hunt’ for our food. He was such a nice man.
His wife seemed like a bitch, though.
“Well, I guess you could look at it as you are the unlucky one,” I said with my back still to him. “I plan on keeping you alive while I do what needs to be done.”
I turned around, knife now visible. As if he weren’t panicked before, he definitely was now as I walked over to him. He tried to scream in vain and weakly kicked at me. His useless hands were handcuffed behind his back. The chain, wrapped under his armpits and around his chest, shook violently. It was attached to the ceiling where we took out the ceiling fan to replace it with a modified garage door opener we used to lift the bodies off the floor. It’s not easy getting old. Hopefully, he wasn’t disturbing the upstairs neighbor, though that drunk could probably sleep through anything.
This is no good, I thought. Harold had always made sure that our victims were drugged for twenty-four hours and died peacefully. His nighttime hobby was butchery, but his daytime job was surgery. He always told me that when humans are stressed, their glycogen levels go down. After death, glycogen is converted into lactic acid. If there’s not enough lactic acid, the meat will be tough and dry. It will also bruise easier and spoil faster. The man was a genius when it came to saving peoples’ lives and taking them.
“I didn’t have a choice,” I said, bluntly as if Harold was in the room with me. “A peaceful death is too good for a piece of shit like him. Excuse my potty mouth.”
I looked him up and down. My husband wouldn’t approve of this choice of meat either. He was skin and bones. Harold liked his meal tickets plump. I would have to get creative if I wanted to eat for more than a week on just organ meats.
I grabbed a hold of what little fat he had on the outside of his thigh and pushed the sharp edge of the blade against his skin. The knife trembled as my gloved hands started to shake. My Arthritis left me with fingers that would barely close around the handle. I wasn’t sure how much longer I could keep this hobby up. Mind over body, I push my fingers together as much as I could and started cutting.
I was not prepared for the amount of blood that spurted across the room onto the floor. It isn’t much of an issue with the dead; their hearts had stopped pumping. I was just glad that Harold replaced the carpet in here with tile after we signed the lease. I’m sure our landlord would not be happy that we did this, but he’d never find out until I died. Then, I’m sure, with what else they’d find in the apartment, the carpet would be the least of their worries.
Harold said we’d replace the carpet when we moved. That was all part of his plan. We abduct so many people each year and then, we move on so no one got suspicious. After Harold had died two years ago, (one year after we moved into the Watch Tower) I decided that I probably didn’t have many years left in me and I wasn’t going to uproot again. Besides, we had finally moved somewhere somewhat close to family.
Leaving a bloody trail, I outlined the piece of flesh I was going after. With my free hand, I dug my fingers into the wound and pulled the hunk of flesh as far as I could away from his body. Blood poured out of the incision, ran down his leg, and thankfully into the bucket. I pushed the blade down, sawing through muscle, severing tendons. I bit the inside of my cheek as the pain in hands started to be too much. I looked up at him and realized he was pretty much doing the same, except he had the ball gag.
Halfway though, the red meat of his leg flapped over my hand as the sawing became easier. His muffled cries were not something I was used to, but I welcomed it just the same. I did not like silence; silence reminded how alone I truly was now. There was a radio/CD player in here and most days, Harold and I would do what we do, listening to the sounds of our youth bounce off the walls. Sometimes we’d take a break and dance like fools around the room, our swinging bodies sending blood droplets across the tile. It was like we were the only ones in the room… alive anyway. I still liked to play music after Harold died, but it wasn’t the same. I missed feeling those leather gloves against my back, holding me tightly against him while our bodies moved in rhythm. I missed the way his cedar wood and Juniper berry aftershave mixed with the metallic smell of blood. I looked over at his apron hanging next to my empty hook and tears formed at the corners of my eyes.
A different type of tear streamed down the man’s face as I walked over to the counter with the cutting board. I pressed my cheek against the cool countertop and squinted at the edge of the meat. I started cutting as close to the top as I could, trying to trim away the hair and skin. With what little meat I was getting, this would probably have to get ground up and put in a casserole.
I’m no Hannibal Lecter. I don’t cook exotic dishes from my victims. I have much simpler tastes. Instead of a filet mignon, it’s goulash. Instead of a crown roast, I make a mean meatloaf. Sometimes it depends on who shows up at my door. An overweight door-to-door salesman gave me enough burgers to open my own fast food joint. The muscular guy that tried to get me to join the local gym had such tough meat, I had to let it simmer in my crock pot to make a stew. He had it coming, though; should have never accepted a chocolate if he was all about health and fitness.
I binned the inedible parts and put the trimmed meat in a freezer bag: One of the best things ever invented. After sealing it, I placed the future meal in the nearly full freezer. I wasn’t doing this for food. I was doing this because he deserved it.
I returned to him with knife in hand. I was pleasantly surprised he didn’t pass out. “Hmm. Let’s see if I can get a better
piece this time.”
I grabbed his breast. Amazingly you can find some of the fleshiest meat there, even on a man, even on one as skinny as this one. I dug the tip of the knife into his chest and watched his reaction. I was not disappointed. Blood sprayed across the walls as I rotated the blade around and ripped my choice cut away. Luckily, I painted the walls pink in here as well. After you scrub the stain a bit, you can barely see them.
I took the meat back to the counter and prepared it the same as the other. This would make a nice steak. I bagged it and popped it in the freezer.
I turned around. “Ready for thirds?” I asked, but no one was listening. He must have passed out. I hoped he’d wake up eventually and then, I’d return. I had already been away too long as it was and I should check on my guest.
I cleaned the knife and put it away. I gripped a finger of my leather glove between my teeth to pull it off. I tasted the sweet coppery taste I had come to enjoy so much. I hung the gloves and the apron on the wall hook. No need to clean them. I’ll be back.
I looked back at the washtub, thinking if I should move it or not. If he woke up, he might kick it over again and that would be a mess. Then again, blood was still flowing from his open wounds, dripping down off his toes. If I moved it, I’d still have a mess to deal with. It was a lose-lose situation.
Maybe I should get the wet vaccum, I thought, staring into the dark red surface as the bloody waterfall created ripples where it struck. After I sucked all the blood out of the bucket, I’d hit reverse and send it down the sink drain. My apartment truly was the heart of the Watch Tower pumping blood through its copper veins. There are those that if they found out about me, they’d accuse me of being a monster. It’s ironic. With the apartment’s state-of-the-art water filtration system, most of the blood was recycled and processed back into the building. These people are just as much a cannibal as I am. They just didn’t realize it. Hell, I’m probably the reason why the flowers grow so well in the lobby.
I decided to wait. I locked the door behind me and returned to the living room. My grandson was sitting on the couch, watching tv where I had left him. Normally, you couldn’t get him to sit still long enough to watch a whole program, but not today.
“Aaron? You okay, sweet-pea?
He looked up at me and I thought I was going to start crying. I could barely see those bright, blue eyes through the puffy, black ring around both eyes. His beautiful smile that melted my heart was swollen and scabbed over.
“Yeah, I’m okay, grandma. Is…Is daddy coming to get me soon?”
I shook my head. “No. Your step-father had to go away. I’m going to call your mother and have her pick you up.”
He smiled the best he could. “Ummm…Grandma, I’m kind of hungry. Do you have anything to eat?”
I licked my lips, still tasting his fresh blood. “I’ll see what I can come up with.”
MASTER KNOWS BEST
BY KEVIN J KENNEDY
Kevin J Kennedy is the author of several short stories published in various anthologies and the novella The Tale of Sawney Bean
www.facebook.com/authorkevinjkennedy
1
From as far back as she could remember all Cindy’s urges leaned towards the submissive side of things and as she grew older and experimented a little, she much preferred to be the one taking orders rather than giving them. In every relationship one person was always slightly more dominant in bed even if they didn’t realise it, but when Cindy was with a guy who liked to be spanked or tied up it was a massive turn off for her and always ended quickly.
A big problem she had though was that she found it practically impossible to be open with her partners and tell them about her needs, so she couldn’t really blame them for not getting it right, but none the less she craved what she knew she really needed, a man who would totally control her and humiliate her, but in a controlled way.
Eventually she had taken to scouring the internet in the hope of finding that very person. It had taken a while. There were plenty of ads but after speaking to some of the men on the profiles she came across, she would find out they either had no intention of meeting or that they weren’t real Dom’s, just guys who thought spanking a woman and calling her a slut meant they were in control. She finally came across a very professional looking website, that looked more like an escort for hire service, but it was actually a Master looking for a live-in submissive. She read his page and looked through his pictures. He had a lovely home. She could see herself living there and the thought of becoming a full time submissive to someone and surrendering control had her rubbing her thighs together as the heat grew between her legs. She sent off an email and spent the next few hours constantly checking for a reply but none came until the next morning.
He had emailed back saying he didn’t do lengthy correspondence and arranged to meet her in a café where they spent hours discussing details. It wasn’t a hard decision for Cindy to make. He was handsome and, from what they had discussed, a true experienced Dom. Cindy had very little in the way of friends, just the way she liked it and moving into a mansion to live, while not having to work sounded almost like becoming a lady of leisure, except she knew that’s not how she would be treated.
They had only had that one meeting before she moved in. She had sat nervously in the café, dressed to perfection, her long red hair shiny and straight, delicate lips painted ruby red, her hand shaking as she sipped her tea. She had seen his picture but when he came confidently walking through the door he took her breath away. He walked with the confidence of a man who had no worries, no fear. As he entered he was running his hand through his well styled brown hair. She could tell from the way his arms flexed that he worked out. His shirt clung to his body showing the physique of an god, all it took was one smile and she felt her panties dampen. The meeting was a blur, she felt like a schoolgirl again. She mainly sat and nodded and said “yes, Sir” She could tell by his smile that he found it amusing but all she knew was that she would do just about anything for one night with this man never mind the opportunity to be his live in slave.
When she moved in it was perfect. He had done a lot of the things she had either fantasised about or read about in erotic stories. Arriving on her first day her suitcase had been taken from her and locked away somewhere unknown by her new Master. She was told she wouldn’t need any of her old things now. Her mobile phone and her purse with all her money were taken and the only thing she had left were the clothes she was standing in. It’s not like anyone would miss her. She had no family and kept herself to herself. She was shown to her room and told to make sure she was completely smooth from her neck down before he returned to inspect her. It was a massively nerve wracking experience but Cindy had spent years fantasising about doing this very thing and her mind was practically made up before she even started looking for a Master. The room was gorgeous, she stripped naked and rolled on the bed before moving into the bathroom. She looked at herself in the massive mirror. She stood at five foot ten, she knew she was tall for a woman but her long legs never failed to attract the attention of men. They were well-toned with shapely calves. Her straight red hair reached the top of her backside. She was only a 32a with small nipples and she worried that this would displease her new Master, but she knew he had already worked out she couldn’t have a large chest from their meeting. Her backside was tight from doing squats every day and she kept her pubis shaved as she felt it made everything feel a little more sensual.
From the first night onwards Cindy was the best behaved submissive there could be. Her Master was wonderful at giving her exactly what she had wanted. She had read so much about how the sub was really the one in control and a good Master should know what their sub likes and know how to push their limits. Her Master was so good though, that she often wondered if he could read her mind. He never took things too far but was an expert at pushing her that little bit further than she thought she could go, be it with humiliation, pain or any form of stretching. Over the weeks an
d months she had grown to love the humiliation that her Master seemed to enjoy so much, because she was the one who allowed it. When she knelt in the bath tub for her morning golden shower, she didn’t even cough or splutter and going to the toilet in her nappy through the night whilst locked in her cage no longer filled her with the shame that it did to begin with. She gave him the power to make her feel this way. She often wondered if submitting allowed her to shut down for a while or if it was the power she still carried without having to try that she enjoyed.
Cindy knew it was supposed to be a strictly professional relationship but she also knew that she was falling in love with her Master. She didn’t even know his name but she knew what she was feeling was real. She didn’t really see him as a physical person any more, he was more of a presence who brought pleasure and happiness to her. She was terrified of mentioning it to him, they had barely spoken since the first meeting other than the odd command he had given her or her quick response, but more often he showed her what he wanted or took it rather than speaking. She knew this could put an end to their agreement and she could be asked to leave. How would she start over? The flat she had rented was gone, she had given up her job, had no money and nobody to turn to. She knew she would just have to keep quiet and enjoy what she had. It was the happiest she had ever been after all.
Cindy’s life had been no picnic and she had fought, kicking and screaming to leave her past behind, her first partner having used her as a punching bag every time he had a drink. He was always apologetic until he felt she had stepped out of line again. It happened one too many times and Cindy had spiked his whiskey with Valium. He hadn’t even noticed. He rarely noticed much when he was drinking. A few hours later and he was sound asleep. He woke up when she started to slit his throat, she wasn’t surprised, she was taking her time and sawing at it slowly, anyone would have woken up. It didn’t matter. She had tied him securely to the old arm chair in their garage. She smiled at him as she cut his throat, he didn’t smile back. She supposed that’s why she had enjoyed being submissive. She hadn’t killed anyone since and didn’t plan to ever again but she had grown into a strong woman and after being strong for the last ten years it was nice to give up control sometimes. She worried that her submissive nature is what landed her with her ex in the first place, but she knew that wasn’t really the case deep down. It was the knowing that she had allowed the other person to take control that made all the difference.
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