Dead Dot Com Read online

  DEAD DOT COM

  BY

  SAM WEST

  DEAD DOT COM

  COPYRIGHT SAM WEST 2015

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book may not be reproduced or used in any way without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in book reviews. The characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental.

  Dear Reader,

  This book was a bugger to write. It was a hard birth. It got under my skin. It kept me awake at night and gave me nightmares. I mean, this shit is nasty, even by my standards. I breezed through writing ‘Splatterpunks’ with a smile on my face. I consider ‘Djinn’ to be a jolly romp exploring the darker side of greed and human nature. But this, this dear reader, is a whole new ballgame. Writing this made me doubt my own sanity.

  I’m a fan of films like ‘V/H/S’ and King’s ‘Creepshow.’ ‘Magnolia’ is also a pretty cool film that follows the same format; that is, a bunch of seemingly unconnected, random tales that come together at the end to tell a bigger story. I love this style of story-telling, and I used it in this book.

  ‘Dead Dot Com’ follows a very different set of writing rules and it is by far the most intense thing I’ve ever written. Maybe that’s partly what gave me nightmares, the fact that it stormed along at such an unrelenting pace, I swear I held my breath the entire time I wrote the damn thing.

  Did I enjoy writing it, though? Hell, yeah, it was a blast. A very sick blast, albeit.

  So what are we waiting for dear reader, let’s rock ‘n roll. As the Crypt Keeper from ‘Tales From the Crypt’ would say;

  “Hang on to your hats, kiddies, this one’s a real shocker.”

  Sam West.

  Gynophagia: The fetish of a person becoming food for someone else as a fantasy.

  One of the more widely known scenarios of Gynophagia is of a beautiful woman being spit roasted alive and enjoying every moment of it. Gynophagia can be consensual or brutally non-consensual. It is generally agreed that it is one of those few fetishes that cannot be practiced in real life.

  Of course, there are always exceptions.

  – Ref: The Urban Dictionary

  ONE

  Olivia Brown re-read the thread she had just started on the winsomewomen.com website in the Woman-Eater Forum:

  Does anybody wish to eat a beautiful, petite, buxom red-head? Twenty-seven years old. Hardcore girl-meat devotee.

  Almost instantly she had replies and moisture pooled between her legs.

  It’s not like I’m actually going to go through with this fucked-up shit, she thought. It was all just fantasy, something to jack off to whilst her sweet but boring husband snored away in their barren, marital bed upstairs.

  Hearseboy: fuck yeah, I will eat u up yum yum

  Slaughterubitch: I will make ur dreams cum true, i will slit ur throat when we r fuckin and watch u bleed out on my bed and then I will cut u up good

  Girlbutcher1000: Redheads are the tastiest and most sought-after in our little community. But I expect you know this or you would not describe yourself as such. Tell me, are you really a redhead?

  Girlbutcher1000’s reply caught her eye, for no other reason than the proper sentence structure. If she was going to indulge in such a morbid fantasy, then she may as well do it with someone literate.

  She smiled to herself and twirled a fire-engine red curl around her forefinger as she typed:

  Necrobabe87: @Girlbutcher1000. I am indeed. All natural.

  Girlbutcher1000: Let’s chat. In private.

  Hearseboy: Baby, I can show u things that will blow ur mind

  But Olivia only had eyes for Girlbutcher1000 and she willingly followed him into a private chatroom kindly hosted by the site that allowed members to go one on one whilst still retaining their anonymity:

  Girlbutcher1000: Let me guess. Your fantasies grow stronger every day. They are beginning to creep into your waking life, they threaten your very sanity with their intensity.

  Necrobabe87: Very astute. But then, why else would I be on the darknet?

  Girlbutcher1000: Indeed. You are ripe to be eaten, yet there is a delicious freshness about you. An innocence that is most appealing.

  Necrobabe87: I’m not that innocent.

  Girlbutcher1000: Perhaps not in the conventional sense. But in this world you are. Fresh for the plucking.

  Necrobabe87: You claim to know a lot about me considering we have hardly exchanged two words together. What’s your story, Girlbutcher?

  Girlbutcher1000: No, my sweet, it is you that should tell me yours.

  Olivia took a deep breath. It was why she was on this site, after all. Glancing furtively at the door to the living-room lest her husband should sleepily burst through it and demand to know what she was doing, she continued to type:

  Necrobabe86: I want to be kidnapped. I don’t mind how, but I love the idea of being thrown into the back of a van on my way home from work. I want to be taken to the man’s home, or better yet, his farm. When I arrive I want to be shaved and cleaned, and maybe kept in a cage or pen so I can be fattened up. I don’t really mind how I’m processed. I’m not adverse to spit roast, or maybe just hung up and butchered. I would like my breasts removed first or eaten off me…

  She stopped typing because she couldn’t see through the sudden blur of tears and her hand that was shoved down the front of her pyjama bottoms was somewhat distracting.

  What’s wrong with me?

  Girlbutcher1000: Do not be ashamed of your desires.

  She stared at the screen before continuing to type one-handed.

  Necrobabe86: Tell me how you would prepare me.

  Girlbutcher1000: I would not keep you in a cage. I appreciate that my approach is maybe a little unorthodox, but we would have a relationship of sorts.

  Necrobabe86: You would have a relationship with your dinner?

  Girlbutcher1000: Yes. In primitive times, the female would be dominated by the tribe's alpha male, but in the modern fantasy-life, she offers herself as the ultimate meal. She is a slave with no inhibitions. She will display no resistance to being owned, to be used without limit. To be traded, tortured, killed and eaten - to be devoured by her own passion for surrender.

  Olivia let out a shaky breath and stared at the pc screen through heavy-lidded eyes. Her climax was close, and this guy knew exactly what to say to tip her over the edge. It was like he was inside her head, giving voice to her darkest desires.

  Necrobabe86: Go on.

  Girlbutcher1000: A cannibalised girl is everything and nothing. She gives all and makes a commitment few others dare think of, she receives all because her owner takes over her life and takes all responsibility for her existence until the day she dies. She has no will, no thought that isn't devoted to her owner's passion and happiness, she is the final form of slavery, the final form of a devoted employee…

  And of course I would film it all.

  “Oh God,” Olivia gasped, her thighs clenching together in the throes of her self-induced orgasm.

  She wiped her fingers on her stripy pink bottoms and resumed typing with both hands. There were plenty more orgasms in her, she just needed a moment or two to recuperate.

  Necrobabe86: So how would you prepare my flesh? How long before you killed me?

  Girlbutcher1000: Weeks. Maybe a month. Exercise must cease until the moment of death – muscle makes the meat so chewy. Some really go for muscled meat, like the French with their free-range chickens. But I prefer the meat to be soft, succulent and melt in the mouth.

  Necrobabe86: Are you a good cook?”

  Girlbutcher1000: I prefer chef. I believe I am, yes.

  Necrobabe86: Would you fatten me up much?

  Girlbutcher1000: Again, some f
olks really go for the fattening stage. I personally think that too much fat is as bad as too much muscle. The meat loses its fine texture and becomes spongy, for want of a better word.

  Necrobabe86: How would you slaughter and cook me?

  Girlbutcher1000: I have no set way and have tried many variations. I find the spit-roast visually arresting, but mainly so in my imagination. Unfortunately, the reality is always messy. I prefer to butcher and eat clean. I am not a barbarian. With a creature as delightful and as beautiful as you, I might be inclined to go for the gentle bleed-out. I would hang you on a butcher’s hook, slit your wrists and neck and bleed you into a bucket placed at your feet.

  Once more, his words were having the desired effect and she was back to one-handed typing. He was making her think of the meat-hook scene in the seventies flick, A Texas Chainsaw Massacre, and her fingers skated over her wetness. That scene had always been her secret go-to whenever she wanted to come when she was screwing her husband.

  Shakily, she typed her encouragement.

  Necrobabe86: And the preparation and cooking?

  Girlbutcher1000: Once your physical body has expired, I shall unhook you and lay you out on the workbench. There I shall first remove the breasts and perhaps, as a treat, eat one uncooked. I only ever eat raw meat a few seconds after a kill. I shall sit at the kitchen table and gaze over at your beautiful corpse as I open a bottle of the finest merlot and eat you breast off a plate using the sharpest steak-knife to cut it. Once I have feasted upon your breast, I would set about the task of dismembering and filleting your exquisite body with delight and care.

  Necrobabe86: What would be your first cooked meal?

  Girlbutcher1000: Rump steak and Caesar salad.

  “Oh.”

  The second orgasm hit like a freight train and she surrendered to the sensation, throwing back her head against the soft leather of the sofa.

  A distant thump penetrated through her fog of lust just as the last hit of pulsing pleasure receded.

  Shit!

  That sounded very much like her husband crunching around up in the bedroom and she sat bolt upright from her slouching position on the sofa and snatched her hand away from her pussy.

  Girlbutcher1000: You still there?

  Necrobabe86: I have to go.

  Girlbutcher1000: Oh dear, has your husband woken up?

  A cold chill settled over her. She hadn’t told him a single thing about herself. She saw he was typing and with a growing sense of unease and her ears pricked for anymore movement upstairs, she waited for him to finish.

  Girlbutcher1000: You dance with the devil, Olivia Brown, the devil’s going to dance with you.

  She slammed down the laptop-lid, her heart slamming painfully against her ribcage.

  What the fuck?

  She jumped to her feet and found that she was trembling so violently she was having difficulty catching her breath.

  How did he know my name? It’s impossible…

  Without warning, the door to the living-room burst open to reveal her husband stood there in boxer-shorts and a t-shirt.

  “Michael. What are you doing down here this time of night?”

  “What am I doing? Shouldn’t I be the one asking you that? It’s one in the morning, I could’ve sworn we went to bed together at half ten.”

  She avoided looking directly at the familiar, sweet face of her husband. His dark hair was dishevelled, like he had just crawled out of bed. She was painfully aware of his big, doleful brown eyes boring into her and she felt a stirring of guilt mixed in with the adrenalin coursing through her body.

  If only he could be more adventurous in bed, came the ungrateful thought. Sex with Michael never extended beyond missionary position and the whispering of sweet nothings in her ear.

  “I couldn’t sleep, had a headache. I was just waiting for the paracetamol to work.”

  “Is that right?”

  Only then did she notice his mobile phone he held clasped in his hand.

  “You planning on calling someone?”

  Their eyes locked properly for the first time and he smiled, but it was a funny kind of smile. In fact, everything about her husband seemed funny, a little off, somehow. She had the distinct impression that she was being studied, like her dark, dirty little secrets had inexplicably been laid bare for him to examine.

  Stop it. You’re being paranoid.

  “No, I’m not planning on calling anyone. But I have been online for the past half hour. I’ve been having a very interesting conversation, as it happens.”

  Her heart kicked up a notch. “Really?”

  “Yeah. Really interesting.”

  Olivia was beginning to sweat. She didn’t know how, or why, but he was playing her. It made no sense, it was like he actually knew what she had been doing and what she had been looking at online. Which of course he couldn’t possibly know.

  “I recognised the darkness when we first met. When I asked you to marry me, what I really mean to say was die for me.”

  “What?”

  “I love you, Necrobabe86. All your dreams are about to come true.”

  He lunged for her and in that moment it all made perfect sense. It was her own husband she had been talking to on winsomewomen.com. Michael was Girlbutcher1000. Who knew how many other, woman-eater names he had been hiding behind in the numerous, fantastical little chats she had partaken in online?

  She was short, barely five-foot three, and he took full advantage of his towering height and her shocked state. He spun her round and cradled her back to his body, his big hand circling her neck. His fingers tightened around her windpipe just enough to make her light-headed.

  A sense of inevitability mixed in with the terror; she understood with cold certainty that her whole life had been rushing to this one moment. His free hand roamed her body, squeezing her still-damp pussy beneath the thin fabric of her pyjama bottoms.

  “You’re mine,” he whispered in her ear. “I own you.”

  His fingers relinquished their grip on her neck, just enough to relieve the pressure so she could breathe freely once more. She sucked down a mouthful of air, her head spinning with the sudden rush of oxygen to her brain.

  “Michael, please, what are you doing? Let me go.”

  “Let me go,” he mimicked in a breathy voice. “We both know that’s not what you want. We both know the real reason why you married me.”

  “No. It’s not true.”

  Was it true? Did she want this?

  Of course I don’t. I don’t want to be eaten. That’s just insane…

  “We’re going upstairs now, and the next time you come down them again it will be to visit the kitchen for the final time as my dinner. Oh, come, stop trembling, you want this as much as me.”

  “I don’t,” she said, finding her voice at last. “This is a horrible mistake. It was just a stupid fantasy in my head, you weren’t ever supposed to find out. I don’t want it to be real, Michael, I don’t. Please, I don’t want this.”

  She was sobbing freely now. Now the words were out her mouth, she realised the absolute truth of them.

  “Hush, baby,” he said, his grip tightening around her neck once more. “You do want this, trust me.”

  She wanted to scream at him to fuck off, that, no, she didn’t want to be fucking murdered, but with mounting horror she realised that she was on the edge of passing out. His words seemed to drift to her from far away as she struggled to keep her head above the surface of consciousness:

  “We’re going upstairs now, the spare bedroom has been prepared for months. I will keep you cuffed to the bed until your flesh is ready. I love you, Olivia.”

  She found herself being scooped up into his arms and carried up the stairs in a parody of a husband carrying his beloved wife over the threshold.

  Michael was true to his word. That conversation had been three weeks ago, and she knew she didn’t have long left. She had been shackled to the single bed all that time, her arms stretched above her head wi
th her wrists cuffed to the headboard and her feet spread-eagled and chained to the bed. Once, maybe twice a day, he would release her hands and feet to massage the blood back into them before restraining her again.

  She pissed and shit in the adult-sized nappy he made her wear and Michael uncomplainingly changed her every time he visited her. Which was often. He would sit next to her and he would talk for hours, sometimes spoon-feeding her soup and watery-stews.

  Mostly, he would tell her in great detail about all the delicious meals he was going to cook using the various cuts of her body. Every day he gave her a sponge-bath and moisturised her with a home-made, olive-oil marinade.

  “This is so much better than any moisturiser you have ever bought, my darling,” he was fond of reminding her. “Olive oil keeps skin fantastically soft and the garlic and herbs will marinate you nicely.”

  Every other day he shaved her all over, including the luscious red hair on her head. Not a trace of stubble adorned her beautifully moisturised, gleaming skin.

  “I love you so much,” he said on the twenty-first day of her confinement as he tenderly stroked her bald head. “It is time now, my sweet. You are ready.”

  She didn’t reply. She never did reply because he had cut out her tongue that first night of her ordeal; the night he had carried her up the stairs of their home for the final time. He had knocked her unconscious by holding some foul smelling material over her mouth – she guessed chloroform – and when she woke up she was without the tip of her tongue. The pain had been atrocious, if it wasn’t for the morphine pills he had regularly fed her, (and God only knew where he had got those), she suspected she might have completely lost the last shreds of her sanity to the pain.