75 - The Sow

"Pig genes," Latoya said, as she picked up a candle. "The gene therapy had left poor Maddie Henshaw, by some definitions, not entirely human. Yet it was her appetites that made her a beast...and worse than a beast. For a beast does not remember when it had been a human being. She did. Even when she became...

THE SOW

The sow lived in a cage. A cage of soft bed and plenty to eat. Pizza today, and the little weed gummies that stoked her appetite. The dildo buzzed in her pussy. The sow ate, her fat tits jiggling, soft folds of her stomach shaking gently. Once, when she had first come here, she had been thin. So very thin.

That hadn't suited his purposes at all. He needed more skin.

When she was bored, the sow would read.

Thin lines of dark characters were painted on her arms, on her breasts and thighs, stomach and hands. The sow couldn't see her face or back, because there were no mirrors in this place, but she had no doubt the words were written there too. Religion, mostly. Prayers. Sermons. The scripture of She Who Must Not Be Named, and rites so perverted they gave her strange dreams that had nothing to do with the ****.

She remembered the first nights, after she'd been brought here. When the food had been randomly ****, and she would awake in the morning with another sentence scrawled in indelible black into her pale skin. Something she couldn't wipe off, no matter how hard she tried. That was when she knew that someone else knew about her condition. Would wait, until she was in a **** stupor, and then enter her padded prison, to paint those strange and terrible rites onto her body in cum.

For a long time, she had tried to escape. But the room was sealed tight. Not even a sharp edge with which to cut herself. Some days she had lain awake, thinking to end it all. Bite her own tongue out. Gnaw at her own wrist.

It was strange what you could get used to. Big Macs and sodas, one day. Waking up to find another line on her body, and her nails trimmed and all the hair on her body shaved. It was the nail-trimming that scared the sow the most. Because her captor didn't want to mar her skin with scratches. If she tried—and failed—to kill herself, she could only imagine what he would do to her. Pull out her teeth, maybe. Cut off her tongue. Break all of her limbs. Shove a hose down her throat and feed her a liquid diet.

The rites hinted that whoever they were, their imagination was such that they were capable of that much and more.

So she had become a sow. Had eaten the food, even the **** ones. Played with her pussy and ass. Read each line as it appeared on her body, until she could have recited the strange, perverse prayers from memory. Without enough regular exercise, the excess calories soon had their effect, her formerly thin body swelling with fat, skin stretched; more of a canvas for the copyist to write upon.

In that despair, as her joints ached from excess weight, and her breath came in short gasps, the sow knew that she had traded one kind of cage for another. Her old, sick body for this corpulent one. There was little skin left that she could see without words written on it. There were sutras inked in human semen on the underside of her great, floppy tits, which had been small and flat when she had been taken. She was becoming, she knew, the copyist's book.

Sows were fattened up to be slaughtered. Soon, she would go to sleep and not wake up until the copyist skinned her alive.

In that thought lay her one hope for salvation.

As the drowsiness took her, the sow slumped onto her body. Body terribly heavy. Her breath slow and steady. Waiting, waiting. A creak. A soft step. She did not move, but lay utterly still.

Hands lifted her, a dead weight. Hundreds of pounds of it. One man could not carry her, but if he were a strong man, he could drag her. Out of the pig pen of a room. Out to whatever place he had designated for her slaughter. Because the one thing her padded cage had not been was a slaughterhouse. There were no drains in the floor. The copyist had to take her out of the room. Then...

He tripped. She landed atop him, and twisted. Weeks, months of regular drugging had built up her resistance to narcotics. Strong as he was, the copyist had the wrong leverage when on his ass, a squealing, blood-mad, **** sow atop of him. And he didn't want to hurt his book, didn't want to mar his work.

The sow had no such compunctions. And, more than anything else, she still had her teeth. Rotten fangs from months of sugary sodas, but still strong enough.

She bit into his throat. Her jowls quaked as he yelled and struggled.

Then she began to chew.

"The police didn't find Maddie until three days later. The room she was in had an electronic lock, with a code she didn't know. Do you know what a pig can do to a human corpse, in three days?" Latoya's smile was nasty. "Of course, it was all self-defense. Everyone could see that. Maddie Henshaw, all four hundred pounds of her, became the final girl in her horror show of a life. I had a chance to interview her, after that, for the Hollow Herald. She lived alone...no more webcamming...and was on a strict diet."

"What happened to her?" Jason asked, again with that oddly intense interest.

Latoya sighed. "She disappeared again. I suspect that—well. Someone wanted to finish the book."

With that sad pronouncement, she blew out the candle, and the world was a little darker.