A Night to Howl

A NIGHT TO HOWL

“It’s no use, Sandy,” Mandi said, “We’re lost.”

It had been a miserable business trip to Bucharest for the two American junior account executives. Romanian businessmen had been more interested in their busts and fannies than in their sales pitches; they had been pinched and prodded till they were black and blue, and had no new orders to show for it.

“Why did the boss send us here, anyway?” Sandy wondered; the shapely brunette was standing on tiptoe in her high heels while cupping her hand over her eyes, trying to make sense of the signs.

“Because he doesn’t like us,” retorted Mandi; the lanky, brown-haired farm girl, an even six feet, towered over Sandy. She looked behind her and down. “I’ve got a run in my nylons.”

“Try to find a store around here,” Sandy jeered. They must have given the wrong directions to that cabbie, who took their cash and sped away into the twilight, leaving them in a rural backwater instead of at their tourist district hotel. “I doubt you can even buy food at this time of night.”

“I’m hungry,” Mandi admitted. They had picked at the local cuisine at lunch; blood sausage and cabbage—not very appetizing to Americans raised on burgers and fries. “Let’s try to find a place to eat, at least—“

“Ladies?”

A small man in a trench coat was suddenly standing in front of them. He had white hair, a moustache, a fedora; he peered at them intently through thick glasses. He spoke Romanian, at first; the girls looked at each other with puzzled expressions, and he sighed and smiled. “I overheard your problem,” he said, in heavily accented but faultless English. “I am Dr. Trebonescu, the local physician; I can help you find a restaurant, and perhaps to find a place to rest, eh?” He nodded, looking up at them earnestly.

Mandi and Sandy exchanged glances again. “Can we get back to Bucharest?” Mandi asked.

Sorrowfully, Dr. Trebonescu shook his head. “No taxis come here after nightfall, and the telephone service is intermittent at best. It grows dark; I will find you shelter and a meal, okay?”

The girls paused, then agreed. “I’m Mandi, and this is Sandy,” said the tall girl. “We’re here on business, from the States.”

He nodded. “You are dressed quite well,” he said, eyeing them up and down, taking in Sandy’s hourglass shape and Mandi’s full figure, “Very attractive.” Mandi and Sandy groaned; this country was full of lechers.

“Hey!” Sandy asked, “Doctor”–she made a mess of his name–“can we buy a change of clothes somewheres?” They were dressed in hot, heavy business suits, mid-thigh length wool skirts that showed a lot of leg, and synthetic blouses.

The doctor furrowed his brow, then suddenly grinned. “Ladies,” he said, “I know just the place.” He continued, “And are you staying long in our country?”

Mandi shook her head. “We leave tomorrow afternoon. Can we get back to Bucharest in the morning.”

“Do not worry,” said the doctor. “I am well known in these parts; I will take care of everything. Please, come with me; it is but a short walk.”

He turned and strode off rapidly; they clunked behind him in their heels, trying to keep up.

They entered the large, dilapidated building from a rear entrance; their escort removed his hat. “This is a store?” squeaked Sandy, ducking to avoid an eye-level pipe.

“Store…restaurant…even an inn,” answered Dr. Trebonescu, his eyes shining. “Our country is poor; we make do with what Providence brings us.”

“Well, we’ll be happy to pay whatever we have to,” answered Sandy.

The doctor turned, peered up into her pretty dark eyes. “Why,” he said, “just your being here will be enough for us. We…enjoy you Americans.”

“Well, thank you very much!” Mandi responded, brushing away cobwebs in the dimly-lit vestibule.

“It will be my pleasure…to serve you,” he answered, creaking open the inner door. “Gabor!” he shouted.

A heavy-set man with a widow’s peak and massive eyebrows hobbled toward them in the semi-darkness. “And who have we here, Doctor?” he said anxiously, rubbing his hands together and looking back and forth at the young women.

“Two guests who have lost their way,” answered the doctor. “May I introduce Mandi and Sandy. This is Gabor, the proprietor of our local establishment. Gabor, they would like food, shelter and clothing.” The girls were flustered; Mandi extended a hand while Sandy curtseyed, then they exchanged roles. Knitting his eyebrows and staring first at one of the women and then the other, Gabor merely nodded and continued rubbing his hands.

The two men chatted briefly in Romanian; both laughed. “Gabor will take care of your needs,” said the doctor, replacing his hat and turning to go. “I promise, I will return to look in on you later. Eh, Gabor; I always check up on my good deeds, do I not?”

The heavy man let out a deep laugh. “You may rest assured, ladies, Dr. Trebonescu is very dependable. Please, to follow me…”

As the doctor departed, Gabor led them through a maze of small rooms. They tripped and stumbled through the gloom, letting out occasional yelps. “I’ve ruined these nylons for sure, Sandy,” Mandi whispered, rubbing her knee after a collision with a chair.

“I beg your pardon, ladies,” Gabor said. “We are poor; our lights in this part of the building are by candle.” He gestured to large, burning candles on a nearby table; the walls were decorated with portraits of sinister-looking men in medieval attire. “My ancestral home,” he said proudly. “Through wars and famine, we have managed…”

They finally arrived at a better-lit room—the kitchen; flickering electric lamps surrounded barrels and bins, large, greasy ovens and a central cutting table. Gabor pointed to another door. “It is there you will find the attire you seek; one at a time, please.”

“Me, first,” announced Mandi.

“Okay,” answered Sandy, “I wanna eat, anyway. Can we have some food, please?”

“Surely,” said the Romanian, and yanked open an old cabinet drawer built into a wall. Mandi strode toward the indicated door and left the room. Gabor slammed the drawer shut, and turned back to Sandy; he held a shiny, metal disk.

“What’s that?” Sandy said nervously.

“It is a family heirloom,” he said, his eyes glistening. “It is over 700 years old.” He handed it to her. “Would you like to see it?”

“Wow!” Sandy took the disk; this was the most exciting thing to happen to her in a week in Romania. She held it in front of her…and as she gazed at it, it seemed to take on a life of its own, shimmering in all colors of the rainbow. Her examination became an open-mouthed stare, and she started to feel herself….slowly…losing…willpower…she finally stood stock-still, the disc clenched in her dangling hand.

“Now, Sandy,” said Gabor softly, “When your friend returns, you will offer her the disc.” She slowly nodded.

“Hey, Sandy,” Mandi yelled, bursting through the door, “check this out!” She had changed into an off-the-shoulder peasant dress; she twirled it around, the skirt rising above her bare feet and legs, showing off long, meaty calves. “I couldn’t find any shoes, Mr. Gabor.”

Mandi turned toward Sandy and held the disc out to her. “Sandy…take this. Mr. Gabor says it’s 700 years old…”

Sandy gasped, grasped the object. “Gee, where’d you get it, Mr. Gabor?”

“My people have owned it all these centuries,” the mysterious man responded, again rubbing his hands. “Look closely, and you will see why it is so valuable…”

Both girls were now under the Romanian’s power. They stood in the kitchen, barely breathing. “Now,” said Gabor, “we must begin preparing you. Please, you will take off all of your clothes.”

The women were aware of what was going on about them, but had been sapped of their will. With some effort, Gabor dragged a large, empty barrel from a row of them along a wall, then donned a heavy, white butcher’s apron and waited as Mandi and Sandy stripped. Sandy pulled off the heels; fiddling behind her, she unzipped her skirt and stepped out of it. She sat on a nearby stool and peeled off her hose; her slender legs were smooth, her thighs firm. Lifting her butt from the seat, she slipped her panties down her legs; she stood again and let the underwear fall as she proceeded to shed her suit jacket and unbuttoned her blouse, dropping it to the floor. Straining behind her back, she unlatched her pale pink bra; her huge breasts swung free as the brassiere dropped. Sandy’s body was lean and taut; ribs showed under the outthrust jugs and her belly was flat. But her hips were wide and her buttocks prominent. Totally nude, she pulled off her rings, earrings and a gold necklace, dropped them on her pile of clothes and sat patiently.

Mandi pulled her arms free of the peasant dress and wrestled it down past her waist; her breasts were small, her midriff soft. Hooking her thumbs, she strained to push the voluminous garment past her hips and heavy thighs. She stepped high to escape the coarse fabric, her pussy visible through sheer panties as her long legs arched. Then she pulled wide the elastic band on the panties, bent her lengthy frame over double and pushed the drawers down to the ground; she was as naked as Sandy as she straightened up again and removed her own jewelry, dropping earrings and rings to the wooden floor.

“Ladies,” said Gabor, “This will not hurt, but there will be some discomfort.” He patted the cutting table. “Please, to sit up here.”

The bare, luscious businesswomen plopped their bottoms on the table and gripped its top with both hands. Gabor blew on his finger tips, looked the girls in the eyes and said, “You will please to spread your legs.”

They immediately did so, their lovely pudenda on display for the Romanian to…shave, with his bare hand; they looked down in abstract fascination as their fur was mowed away where he brushed his fingers, drifting lightly. Finally, their pussies were denuded; Gabor proceeded to the tops of their head, cropping their hair short; tufts of Mandi’s brown hair and Sandy’s brunette locks covered the floor under their bare feet. The Romanian moved the empty barrel closer to the table, then flexed his fingers. “It has been some time,” he apologized…then, suddenly, thrust his hand into Sandy’s belly.

Even in her trance, the brunette sucked in air and whimpered. Gabor rummaged around, then found what he wanted, first down near her groin, and then up under her breastbone…and withdrawing his hand, he began pulling out Sandy’s viscera. There was no incision, no blood. “Another trick learned from my ancestors,” he said as he guided the girl’s intestines and organs into the barrel. “For sausage; we are known throughout Europe for them.”

Finally, the stomach and esophagus emerged, cauterized at the end. Sandy’s belly remained smooth, if a bit puckered inward. She stared blankly at her midsection, then at Gabor, then at Mandi; Mandi stared blankly back. Gabor, businesslike, wiped his hand on his apron, looked up and down Mandi’s torso, then repeated the procedure on the auburn-haired girl, emptying out her innards without a trace of a cut.

Mandi looked at the Romanian, dully. “How did you do that?” she asked, in a fog.

“One of many things you learn to survive in this country,” answered their host, bustling again in the cabinet drawers behind him. He emerged with two ancient cast-iron collars, connected by a chain; opening them, he clamped them around the two girls’ necks, then hooked a kind of leash to a ring on Sandy’s collar. “Come; we will meet our guests.”

The docile, naked women allowed themselves to be led through a dusty hallway and up a narrow flight of stairs; they emerged in a large dining hall, with oaken tables perched on tiered layers, elaborate spiral staircases leading to each level. Coats of arms and medieval weapons hung on the walls, above the biggest fireplace the girls had ever seen; it was cold, but stocked with fresh wood. Above it was an eight-by-four foot iron door with a large wooden bar for a handle.

Each table was full of people. Some wore traditional, rough peasant dress; some were in modern Western attire, both suits and t-shirts and jeans, and others—well, they appeared to have stepped out of another century. Capes, cloaks, and pantaloons.

Slack-mouthed, Mandi and Sandy stared out at the throng; the hubbub of conversation died to a buzz, as attention was drawn to the nude girls. And then, began a clamor; it rose to a roar. The helpless Americans realized the crowd was beating on the tables, whistling, shouting; from behind them, Gabor said, “They approve.”

An important looking man in an expensive suit strode up to Gabor; they conversed briefly in a foreign tongue. The girls’ captor laughed, slapped Sandy’s rump; the man reached down and squeezed a buttock intently. He looked up and, in the universal gesture, gave Gabor the thumbs-up.

“What is he doing?” said Sandy. She could talk, but couldn’t move unless told.

“Placing an order,” came the answer.

The important-looking gentleman was followed by a dozen more; they roughly handled the girls’ breasts and legs, poking a finger into the flesh to test it for firmness. One muscular young brute stuck a finger right into Sandy’s orifice, turned to Gabor and let loose a stream of words; he seemed to be lecturing the older man. “What’s wrong?,” whispered Sandy. Gabor laughed, a bit weakly. “That is Ilidej; he says, ‘These American girls, they’re too easy; she’s all stretched out down there.’ He prefers that part of the body tight.”

A bit of a light flickered in Mandi’s brain. “How does he know we’re American?” she asked, still staring straight ahead as the natives fondled her trim, lush body.

Gabor ignored the question, and tugged on the chain around her neck. “We will circle the room; it is a local tradition.”

With his two naked charges in tow, the proprietor of the strange establishment limped through the crowd; men, women and children reached out to stroke, to caress the girls. Faces leered into theirs; they licked their chops, ground their teeth as if chewing. Mandi and Sandy stared emptily ahead as the locals fingered their sleek thighs, their plump buttocks, their tender breasts, their soft, rounded shoulders. Finally, the women found themselves before the fireplace and oven door. The man removed the iron collars from their necks; then, he pulled down the wooden handle. The door fell open waist-high, and a large pan rolled out.

In a courtly manner, Gabor positioned a small stool at their bare feet, then held out a hand. “Ladies…you will please to get inside.”

With the innkeeper’s help, the nude women silently climbed into the pan and sat as if waiting to be bathed, their hands clapsed before them, their legs splayed out; the cold metal barely registered on their bottoms. Their eyes met; inexplicably, they started giggling. Meanwhile, Gabor clapped his hands, twice; a smiling young girl, clad in colorful, traditional dress, wheeled out a rickety cart laden with vegetables. The man handed each of the women a paring knife, and then picked up two sacks of produce. “Please,” he said, “these are potatoes, apples and cauliflower; you will cut them up and drop them within the pan. Hurry, now!,” as he heaved burlap sacks into each girl’s lap.

Unquestioning, Mandi and Sandy began slicing the vegetables, tossing the flesh on the bottom of the pan and on each other. Laughing, they started pelting each other with slices of apple and potato, and tossing handfuls of it in the air. Mandi squealed as she dodged a cauliflower floret, smirked, then asked the chuckling Sandy, “Sandy, what are we laughing at?”

Gabor, who was busy igniting the kindling below the stove—by snapping his fingers!--answered, “You are light-headed; you have lost your guts, and your brains are getting less and less fuel.” Flames began to lick at the huge logs stowed beneath the cast-iron oven. He finished and looked up into the pan. Mandi and Sandy had pared some thirty pounds of vegetables and were liberally covered with the stuff; the naked women grinned down at him like a couple of mischievous schoolgirls. He shook his head, shrugged, and again clapped his hands.

The young female assistant arrived, this time with two small pails. Gabor held one in each hand. “Ladies,” he informed the loopy women, who were wallowing in the garnishes they’d just prepared for themselves, “this is fat, rendered from…from our last guests, flavored with pieces of olive and garlic. You will paint it on each others’ skin.”

They did, with gusto, each taking double handfuls of human grease and smearing it on the other’s legs, shoulders, belly and breasts. “Do me, do me, Mandi!” squealed Sandy as if having suntan lotion applied at the beach; she stretched out on her belly in the pan, as Mandi coated her ass, thighs and back. The congealed fat made a hideous slup, slup sound as Mandi cupped her hands around Sandy’s slender legs and smeared it all the way down to her bare feet. Then it was Mandi’s turn; she also rolled onto her belly, as Sandy thoroughly covered her plump butt and meaty thighs with the yellowish-white fat. As the dark-haired girl enthusiastically scooped up a layer of human lard and used the side of her hand to fill Mandi’s crack and crotch with it, the tall young woman hoisted herself by an elbow onto the rim of the pan and leaned her weight on it so that her boobs were squeezed against the top, the points of her nipples sticking straight out. Cupping her chin in her hand and wearing a drunken smile, Mandi squinted at Gabor and said in a little girl’s sing-song voice, “You’re going to cook us and eat us, aren’t you?”

“Cook, yes,” said Gabor distractedly; he was peering at the labels of large canisters of spices. “These people, they will eat. This is the Laszlo family reunion; they have traveled far to be here, and were guaranteed a feast of the meat of young women.”

Mandi’s mouth made a little O. “Who were your ‘last guests’?” she wondered.

“Filipino nurses,” came the response. “Somewhat…plump Filipino nurses.”

Mandi nodded, a rather grave look on her face, considering she was a naked, thirtyish woman, about to be roasted for a feast. “And how did you know we’d be in your pot?”

“That was my job,” came a familiar voice. Dr. Trebonescu had returned.

Gabor’s low, rumbling laugh again boomed. “Yes…you asked how I knew you were an American. The doctor, and the taxi driver, they assist me in these events; the driver is well compensated…”

“And I,” breathed the doctor, his face just inches from Mandi’s, his eyes glistening, “I ask only to join the Laszlos.” He smiled, his teeth a brilliant white.

“The fire burns,” said Gabor. “Ladies, you will please to lay on your backs,” as he planted his hands on the pan’s edge and hoisted his body with difficulty onto the stool. “Dr. Trebonescu, hand me that twine, if you would?”

The girls, slick with grease and littered with pieces of vegetables that had stuck to their bodies, lay obediently on their backs. Laboring, Gabor strung lengths of the rough hemp around their waists and tightly tied their hands above their navels. He grasped one of Sandy’s slender ankles, drew it up and bound it securely to the top of her thigh; then, he took one of the loose ends of the twine that fettered her hands and tied it around the top of her knee. He repeated the process with Sandy’s other leg, and then with Mandi’s. The girls were bound, nude and ready for roasting.

Gabor snapped his fingers; his smiling assistant reappeared, and handed him two bottles of wine. “For flavor,” he said, slowly emptying the dull, red liquid into the pan; the two womens’ butts wriggled, their bound legs rocking back and forth, as the sherry splashed against their bare torsos from hips to armpits. The Romanian discarded the empty flasks; the colorfully dressed young girl handed him rough tin canisters, and he began liberally sprinkling the women’s pink, glistening bodies with salt, paprika, pepper and parsley. The girls looked around in a stupor, occasionally sputtering as the spices drifted into their mouths.

Gabor set down the canisters; his assistant produced more vegetables. Examining the girls’ puckered assholes, Gabor took two parsnips, wiped them in the human fat—“Those nurses,” he chuckled to himself, “They were so plump”—and, with one practiced move, simultaneously shoved the long, yellow roots well into both girls’ rectums. “Ooooh,” said Sandy; Mandi responded with “Aaaaah.” Then came a pair of summer squash; he stuffed one by the narrow end into Mandi’s pussy, eliciting a sigh, and was about to do the same with Sandy…when he examined her twat with two fingers, muttered, “Ilidej is right,” and turning the green vegetable around, pushed the wide end into the brunette’s opening, to a squeak of surprise.

Finally, tied and nude on her back, covered with spice, vegetables and grease, vegetables jammed into her orifices, about to be shoved into a hot oven…Mandi said, “Bye-bye!” and started giggling. Sandy began laughing, then hiccuping. Gabor smiled down at them, reached down again; his assistant presented him with two apples. Pinching Mandi’s cheeks with a thumb and forefinger, her eyes fixed on him, the man who was about to roast her alive responded, “Bye-bye!” and jammed the fruit into her mouth. The brunette “Mmpf, mmpf’d” as Gabor repeated the process with her friend; “Urph, urph, oomph!” Mandi tried to object with her mouth clenched around the Red Rome. Rocking helplessly from side to side in vegetables and human fat, the naked girls mumbled through the apples as Gabor and the doctor rolled the pan into the rapidly warming oven, and clanged the door shut…

The long get together was drawing to a close; savory smells of cooking female meat had been tempting the Laszlos for hours, and they let out a collective “Ohhhh!” as the two roasted girls emerged from the oven. The grease had left their skins a crisp medium-brown; the apples were still clenched desperately in their mouths, their fists closed tightly as they had been when the giant oven sapped their lives. The slices of potato, apple and cauliflower sizzled in the bottom of the pan in the fat—Mandi’s fat, Sandy’s fat, and that of the luckless Filipino nurses.

Gabor did the honors, beginning by severing the twine that bound Mandi’s hips to her ankles and her knees to her wrists, and then slicing off one of the unfortunate woman’s long, lush legs; reddish juices ran as the thigh was cleaved from the hip. Mandi’s eyes were squeezed shut, her teeth fixed into the apple, as if defiant. Sticking a large fork into the thickest part of the thigh, he placed the delectable limb, still folded, onto a huge wooden platter, and cut lengthwise through the ham at the thinnest point to separate it from the bone; he then began carving the delicate meat into two-inch steaks. Those he arranged, surrounded by the crisp vegetables that had cooked with the woman, on a second serving dish, which the young waitresses began circulating around the room to a roar of appreciation from the gathered family. Gabor trimmed Mandi’s thick, juicy calf from her shinbone; that, too, was cut into steaks and dispatched to the hungry guests.

He continued with Mandi’s other leg and then with Sandy’s—not as heavy or meaty—periodically wiping his brow; butchering two full-grown women was hard work. Then he moved on to the torsos, laying neatly side-by-side in the pan. Sandy’s buttocks were reserved for the important dignitary, decorated with whole sprigs of parsley and the parsnip still jammed between the chubby cheeks, a firm layer of fat between the skin and meat. Gabor wondered—should he serve Sandy’s ripe, smooth love-mound, the squash inserted, to Ilidej? He was a powerful labor leader, and might not approve; Mandi’s opening was…smaller. He carved away Mandi’s flesh from her navel down to her dainty labia, leaving the gourd in, ordered it sent to Ilidej’s table; a few minutes later, he heard a loud whistle. The young man was standing, a goblet oustretched in his hand, toasting the chef; Gabor smiled and nodded as the room erupted in cheers.

Sandy’s large, firm breasts went to the Laszlo patriarchs; Mandi’s soft, rounded shoulders, to the children. The two girls’ rich, fatty belly meat provided a special treat to poor cousins, who rarely were invited to such luxurious festivities. Using large tongs, Gabor deftly flipped the two carcasses, now half-stripped of meat, and began slicing thick cutlets from the young women’s meaty loins. The tender steaks, oozing juices, were garnished with parsley sprigs and spoonfuls of the girl-flavored apples and potatoes, and delivered to the most prosperous members of the family; they would be most likely to retain Gabor’s establishment for a future engagement. Jan, over there, had a daughter getting married; a thick, rare slab from above Mandi’s pelvis might get him the banquet…

And he mustn’t forget his procurer. Mandi’s other sirloin was reserved for Dr. Trebonescu. The white-haired doctor’s face brightened as he sawed off a slice of the poor girl’s roasted flesh and tasted it; he ploughed into the steak, gobbling it hungrily, then sidled over to his business partner for the evening. “How goes it?” he asked in Romanian over the sounds of clinking tableware and the hum of conversation to Gabor, who was slumped on a stool beside the pan. Trebonescu looked inside at the two carcasses; Mandi’s and Sandy’s heads, apples still intact, had been severed from their butchered frames and were propped up on one side. He reached in, patted each lifeless head. “You did well, girls,” he announced.

Gabor looked tired; he hadn’t bothered to remove the now-stained apron. “I grow old for this,” he admitted, “but the money is good.”

“Don’t forget our friends, the Stelenyis, next week,” he laughed. “Gaspar and Wilma’s fiftieth anniversary. There’ll be a big crowd.”

Gabor glanced at the doctor. “Have you a main course?”

“Certainly,” he responded. “A touring chamber music quartet from Montreal will be here. Lovely French-Canadian lasses.” He paused. “Can you get four into that pan?”