My favourite stories

Some stories I've saved over the years none of which are made by me. Hope people like these as much as I do.


The Best Meal Ever

 

            Phil knew something was wrong - on so many levels. Physically, he ached all over. His mind was foggy and he couldn't seem to move. He tried to open his eyes. They felt leaden, but on the third try he succeeded. He saw that he was in a kitchen. That triggered a stream of memory.

            He remembered meeting Lynn at a bar in Vegas on the Friday he had flown into town for a long weekend of gambling and sex. She was beautiful and he couldn't believe his luck when she invited him back to her place for a drink. It was when he took that drink that everything went  out of kilter. He had a confused memory of several women helping to move him into a car. Then they seemed to drive a long way out into the dessert. From the car, he got the impression that they were approaching a large, rambling ranch house.

            His next clear memory found him sitting in front of a large picture window. Handcuffs on his wrists and ankles secured him to a heavy framed chair. He was totally naked and Lynn was stroking his cock.

            "Mmmmm . . .I am so going to enjoy you."

            He remembered being confused, probably from the drugs, and saying, "What's happening?"

            "Look out the window."

            He saw a large barbeque pit with a spit rotating over a bed of coals. There were six women out there - some sitting at a large picnic table, others standing around chatting over drinks.

            "What?"

            Lynn pointed to the spit. "That's Stewart."

            "I don't understand."

            "That was Stewart," She corrected herself. He took a closer look and realized that there was a man slowly cooking on the spit.

            "Oh my God."

            "He's our main course tonight."

            The whole time they were talking she had been manipulating him until his cock was rock hard. He realized that he was on the verge of coming. She quickly dropped her mouth over his member. With a moan, he had a huge orgasm. She took it all in, swallowed, then squeezed his cock to milk every last drop out of him.

            Running her tongue around her lips she said, "That was just what I needed. I get so horny when we have a man on the menu."

            He rocked the chair slightly as he struggled to get free.

            She kissed him, rolling her tongue over his. "That was just my first taste of you. Next week, when you're on our menu, I'll have quite a bit more. "

             Lynn left Phil at the window as she went out to join her friends. A few minutes later they lifted Stewart off the barbeque and slid him off the spit onto a large serving platter. Phil watched in horror as each of the woman took a plate and began carving pieces off of Stewart.

            Lynn brought her plate back into the room. Sitting next to him she said, "I love barbequed man - particularly the butt. And it really turns me on eating him in front of you; knowing you're next."  Using a knife and fork, she cut into the meat. He watched in fascination as she delicately put the meat in her mouth and chewed slowly. Her face wore a dreamy expression. "Umm. I just wish Stewart was alive to see how much I'm enjoying him. Of course, its almost as good having you watch." She continued eating and talking. "It really turns me on to have you see me doing this and knowing that I'll be doing the same thing with your meat next week."

            Placing her empty plate on a side table, Lynn slowly unbuttoned her blouse. She wasn't wearing a bra. . She slipped her right hand down through her waist band and began pleasuring herself. Using her other hand, Lynn shoved Phil's mouth hard against her breast. Phil tried to bite down on her  nipple, but couldn't. It was jammed too tightly against his mouth. With a shudder, Lynn had an immediate orgasm.

            Pulling back, she smiled as she examined her breast. "Not bad. You left teeth marks, but you didn't draw any blood. Too bad. I would have liked that."

            Re-buttoning her shirt,  Lynn said, "I'll be back soon. Right now, I have to help with the clean up." Looking out the window she added, "There's not much of Stewart left. I'd better get out there now if I want to get any of the leftovers."

            As soon as he was alone, Phil began struggling with his chair. It didn't take him long to realize that it was bolted to the floor and wasn't going to shift. The chair was constructed of heavy metal and the cuffs were too tight for him to squeeze out of.

            Fifteen minutes later Lynn led the whole group back into the house.

            "Time to drew lots, ladies," Lynn announced bring out a deck containing six cards. Each card had a day of the week on it.

            "What are you doing?" Phil asked, his brain unable to accept what was happening.

            "They are all going to draw a card. Each of them gets to have you as a sex slave for whatever day they draw. Because I brought you in, I get to have you next Saturday. At least until its time to prepare you."

            "Is that all I am to you?" he asked weakly, "Meat?"

            "Don't be ridiculous. This is not about food. This is all about sex. There is nothing as exciting as having sex with a man who knows that you are going to eat him." Reaching down she began stroking his cock.  "And there is nothing as exciting for a man as knowing he's having sex with a woman who is really going to eat him. Our men always manage to stay hard for their entire last week." As his dick began to swell, she added, "It's the ultimate sexual thrill. "

            He watched in stunned silence as they each drew a card. A gorgeous red-head held up her card. It said "Sunday" on it. "Looks like I get him tomorrow." She went over to a table and poured out a glass of red wine. Dropping some powder in it, she held it up to his lips. "Drink up, Phil. Tomorrow will be a big day and I intend to enjoy you in ways you can't even begin to imagine." She held his nose until he was forced to drink.

            His next memory had him tied down spread-eagle on a bed. There was a ball gag in his mouth and his hand and feet were tied to the four posts of the bed. His head was spinning from the drug.

            The red-head moved into his field of vision. "My name is Audrey and I can 't wait to eat you next Saturday. In fact, I might just start in on you now." Leaning over him, she took his left nipple in her mouth. At first she sucked on it, then suddenly, she bit down. He squirmed, but the ball gag kept him from doing more than grunting.

            "Saturday, I intend to chew off both your nipples. Then, I'm going to eat all the meat underneath. You won't be able to feel it then, but I right now I am going to give you an idea of what it would feel like." She spent the next ten minutes alternating between sucking on and biting his nipples.

            "That's enough for now." Her face was flushed with excitement as she stepped away from the bed and picked something up off the nightstand. When she turned back, he could see it was a lighter, the kind they use to start barbeques. She flicked it on and brought the flame down to his pubic hairs. They immediately caught fire and Phil squirmed as the flames crept up his crotch towards his cock. A moment later, Audrey blew the flames out. She began again on the other side. This time she let the flames get closer. Phil could feel the heat on his dick. She blew it out again.  "It's a shame really," Audrey crooned. "I would love to roast your dick using your own cock hairs."

            She turned away again and picked up another object. When she turned back, Phil could see it was an extremely sharp paring knife. With her free hand, she began messaging his cock until it swelled to its full size. With three swift flicks of the knife she sliced a triangle of shallow cuts on its head. As the blood began to pool, she slowly lapped it up, her eyes fixed on his face. "I think it's time I enjoyed a little snack."

            Dropping her head back to his cock she took the whole shaft in her mouth. She began sucking as much blood out of it as she could. To his horror, his cock responded. When he finally came and sighed softly and said, "I love mixing cum with blood." Bending down she slowly licked up a few lingering drops. "This was good, but Saturday will be better."

            The next week seemed like an eternity. They kept Phil drugged much of the time. When he wasn't drugged, he was secured one way or another. He was often gagged, particularly when his mistress de jour wanted to chew his dick, which most of them did at one time or another. The thought that they were really going to eat him sent all of them into a frenzy of sexual ecstasy. Amazingly, his cock responded the same way. 

            The woman who had him for the day was also responsible for feeding him, getting him to the bathroom and shaving him with an electric razor. At night they locked him in a cell. 

           

            Okay, so that brought him up to this morning - sort of. It must be Saturday because Lynn was there when he woke up in the kitchen, once more secured to a chair with a ball gag in his mouth. "Good morning sleepy head," she said cheerfully. Phil saw that she was naked except for a chefs apron. Then he noticed that she had out a chopping board along with some onions and red peppers. There was a skillet on the stove with a bottle of olive oil next to it.

            Lynn saw where he was looking. "It's actually later than you think. I am just getting ready to make my lunch." While she diced the vegetables, she talked. "Did you know you are going to be our best meal ever? We've recently had a new member join our happy band. It turns out she has medical training. She thinks it is possible to prepare you properly while still keeping you alive. At least until we get you into the oven."

           Reaching into the drawer again she took out a spool of butcher's string. She cut off a length and crossed back to Phil. Grasping him firmly, she began getting him hard. "Did you know that  before we cook a man, we have to remove his intestines and most of his other internal organs so they don't poison the meat. Up until now, that has meant killing them before they've had a chance to know we were really cooking them."

            His dick began to swell. "Much as we enjoy it, it wasn't quite enough. Our newest member is convinced that she can remove enough of your organs to make your meat safe, but still leave you alive. I expect you'll be awake when we put you in the oven. Did I mention that we've decided to prepare you like a suckling pig? Anyway, your heart, lungs and kidneys will be left in place. Then, we're going to fill your abdominal cavity with a chestnut and rice stuffing. You will be out best meal ever."

            Kneeling in front of his chair, she took his dick in her mouth and worked it until he came. "Umm. I always like to give my men one last treat," she said after making sure she got all of his cum. Then before he could get soft, she began winding the butcher's string tightly around the root of his balls. "That will keep you nice and hard, she said as she tied it off. Taking another length of cord, she wrapped it a quarter of an inch above the other and just as tightly.

            "Did I mention what I'm having for lunch? It's a dish of my own design. Two meatballs and a blood sausage. And you are going to supply the main ingredients. That's why I tied you off. I wouldn't want you to bleed to death and I want a well-filled blood sausage."

            Leaving him for the moment, Lynn poured olive oil into the skillet and turned on the gas. When the oil was hot, she scraped the peppers and onion into the frying pan.

            "They say when your body suffers a major trauma, the shock keeps you from feeling the pain immediately. Which is nice because you won't really feel what I'm about to do next."

            She took out a large slicing knife and held it in front of his eyes. "You may want to close your eyes now . . . unless you want to watch."

            Lynn gave a little shiver and began to pant with excitement as she placed the blade under the stem of his balls, between the two knotted strings. Pulling on his cock to give herself enough room, she quickly sliced upward. Phil could feel that something had happened, but she was right, it really hadn't hurt. "There, not a drop of spilled blood." Turning back to the frying pan, she said, "Now, for the best part." She dropped his dick and balls into the hot oil. In a moment they began to sizzle. She stirred the peppers and onions to keep them from burning. When she turned his cock over, it was nicely browned. "Umm, you smell good enough to eat,"

            A few minutes later she slid her lunch onto a plate. He watch in horrified fascination as she cut his balls and cock into bite sized pieces He couldn't tear his eyes away as she lifted a forkful to her mouth. Chewing slowly, savoring his cock, she reached under her apron and began to play with herself. Her whole body trembled as she had her first orgasm. "Oh my God, Phil, you taste heavenly." He watched as bite by bite Lynn ate every last bit of his cock and balls. He lost count of the number of times she climaxed.

            Wiping her mouth daintily on a napkin,  Lynn stood and said, "It's getting late and I promised Sarah that she could have you now. She's going to give you something to knock you out. Then, she's going to remove all of your organs that aren't strictly needed to keep you alive for more than a few hours. She says she also has a drug to wake you up afterwards. After all, we wouldn't want you to miss the grand finale."

            Phil knew something was wrong - on so many levels. Physically, he ached all over. His mind was foggy and he couldn't seem to move. He tried to open his eyes. They felt leaden, but on the third try he succeeded. He saw that he was in that same kitchen. Lynn was there, but this time there were several other women with her.

            "Oh good," Lynn said. "You're awake. Now we come to the best part." She walked out of his sight for a moment, then returned with an apple. Phil was so weak that Lynn was able to pry his mouth open easily. She lovingly placed the apple between his teeth. He tried to dislodge it with his tongue but it wouldn't move.

            "In case you haven't noticed, we've already put you in a very large roasting dish. We've scattered cut up potatoes, carrots, celery and onions all around you. All that is left is for us to put you in the oven. You should be flattered. We bought a special oversized commercial version with glass doors just for you." Signaling to the other women, Lynn added, "We are going to put you in it now, while the oven is still cold. Our initial setting is going to be 150 degrees.  It will be hot, but it shouldn't be enough to kill you. It will be just hot enough  for you to know we are really roasting you. Over the next few hours we will gradually increase the heat. By dinner time, you will be done to a turn."

            Phil felt himself being lifted. They slid his roasting dish into the oven. Phil was facing the glass doors. Through it, he could see all the beautiful women who's dinner he was fated to be. Their faces were all flushed with excitement. Several were massaging their genitals. A moment later, the heating element began to glow. The women watched every moment up until the time he passed out from the heat.

            He was the best meal ever.

Great story! I felt as if I was right there with Phil!! And I wish that I had been! Would that I were! Please!! 

Please post more! Thanks! 

Glad you liked. Of course there will be more.       

I love hunting. Needs to be more common.
Made by Coreyppp
The Most Dangerous Game
Adapted Richard Connell's story by the same name

"OFF THERE to the right--somewhere--is a large island," said Whitney."
It's rather a mystery--"

"What island is it?" Rainsford asked.

"The old charts call it `Ship-Trap Island,"' Whitney replied." A
suggestive name, isn't it? Sailors have a curious dread of the place. I
don't know why. Some superstition--"

"Can't see it," remarked Rainsford, trying to peer through the dank
tropical night that was palpable as it pressed its thick warm blackness
in upon the yacht.

"You've good eyes," said Whitney, with a laugh," and I've seen you pick
off a moose moving in the brown fall bush at four hundred yards, but
even you can't see four miles or so through a moonless Caribbean night."

"Nor four yards," admitted Rainsford. "Ugh! It's like moist black velvet."

"It will be light enough in Rio," promised Whitney. "We should make it
in a few days. I hope the jaguar guns have come from Purdey's. We should
have some good hunting up the Amazon. Great sport, hunting."

"The best sport in the world," agreed Rainsford.

"For the hunter," amended Whitney. "Not for the jaguar."

"Don't talk rot, Whitney," said Rainsford. "You're a big-game hunter,
not a philosopher. Who cares how a jaguar feels?"

"Perhaps the jaguar does," observed Whitney.

"Bah! They've no understanding."

"Even so, I rather think they understand one thing--fear. The fear of
pain and the fear of death."

"Nonsense," laughed Rainsford. "This hot weather is making you soft,
Whitney. Be a realist. The world is made up of two classes--the hunters
and the huntees. Luckily, you and I are hunters. Do you think we've
passed that island yet?"

"I can't tell in the dark. I hope so."

"Why? " asked Rainsford.

"The place has a reputation--a bad one."

"Cannibals?" suggested Rainsford.

"Dont't know.  No one has ever visited the island, at least not who lived to talk about it.  Didn't you notice that the crew's nerves seemed a bit jumpy today?"

"They were a bit strange, now you mention it. Even Captain Nielsen--"

"Yes, even that tough-minded old Swede, who'd go up to the devil himself
and ask him for a light. Those fishy blue eyes held a look I never saw
there before. All I could get out of him was `This place has an evil
name among seafaring men, sir.' Then he said to me, very gravely, `Don't
you feel anything?'--as if the air about us was actually poisonous. Now,
you mustn't laugh when I tell you this--I did feel something like a
sudden chill.

"There was no breeze. The sea was as flat as a plate-glass window. We
were drawing near the island then. What I felt was a--a mental chill; a
sort of sudden dread."

"Pure imagination," said Rainsford.

"One superstitious sailor can taint the whole ship's company with his fear."

"Maybe. But sometimes I think sailors have an extra sense that tells
them when they are in danger. Sometimes I think evil is a tangible
thing--with wave lengths, just as sound and light have. An evil place
can, so to speak, broadcast vibrations of evil. Anyhow, I'm glad we're
getting out of this zone. Well, I think I'll turn in now, Rainsford."

"I'm not sleepy," said Rainsford. "I'm going to smoke another pipe up on
the afterdeck."

"Good night, then, Rainsford. See you at breakfast."

"Right. Good night, Whitney."

There was no sound in the night as Rainsford sat there but the muffled
throb of the engine that drove the yacht swiftly through the darkness,
and the swish and ripple of the wash of the propeller.

Rainsford, reclining in a steamer chair, indolently puffed on his
favorite brier. The sensuous drowsiness of the night was on him." It's
so dark," he thought, "that I could sleep without closing my eyes; the
night would be my eyelids--"

An abrupt sound startled him. Off to the right he heard it, and his
ears, expert in such matters, could not be mistaken. Again he heard the
sound, and again. Somewhere, off in the blackness, someone had fired a
gun three times.

Rainsford sprang up and moved quickly to the rail, mystified. He
strained his eyes in the direction from which the reports had come, but
it was like trying to see through a blanket. He leaped upon the rail and
balanced himself there, to get greater elevation; his pipe, striking a
rope, was knocked from his mouth. He lunged for it; a short, hoarse cry
came from his lips as he realized he had reached too far and had lost
his balance. The cry was pinched off short as the blood-warm waters of
the Caribbean Sea dosed over his head.

He struggled up to the surface and tried to cry out, but the wash from
the speeding yacht slapped him in the face and the salt water in his
open mouth made him gag and strangle. Desperately he struck out with
strong strokes after the receding lights of the yacht, but he stopped
before he had swum fifty feet. A certain coolheadedness had come to him;
it was not the first time he had been in a tight place. There was a
chance that his cries could be heard by someone aboard the yacht, but
that chance was slender and grew more slender as the yacht raced on. He
wrestled himself out of his clothes and shouted with all his power. The
lights of the yacht became faint and ever-vanishing fireflies; then they
were blotted out entirely by the night.

Rainsford remembered the shots. They had come from the right, and
doggedly he swam in that direction, swimming with slow, deliberate
strokes, conserving his strength. For a seemingly endless time he fought
the sea. He began to count his strokes; he could do possibly a hundred
more and then--

Rainsford heard a sound. It came out of the darkness, a high screaming
sound, the sound of an animal in an extremity of anguish and terror.

He did not recognize the animal that made the sound; he did not try to;
with fresh vitality he swam toward the sound. He heard it again; then it
was cut short by another noise, crisp, staccato.

"Pistol shot," muttered Rainsford, swimming on.

Ten minutes of determined effort brought another sound to his ears--the
most welcome he had ever heard--the muttering and growling of the sea
breaking on a rocky shore. He was almost on the rocks before he saw
them; on a night less calm he would have been shattered against them.
With his remaining strength he dragged himself from the swirling waters.
Jagged crags appeared to jut up into the opaqueness; he forced himself
upward, hand over hand. Gasping, his hands raw, he reached a flat place
at the top. Dense jungle came down to the very edge of the cliffs. What
perils that tangle of trees and underbrush might hold for him did not
concern Rainsford just then. All he knew was that he was safe from his
enemy, the sea, and that utter weariness was on him. He flung himself
down at the jungle edge and tumbled headlong into the deepest sleep of
his life.

When he opened his eyes he knew from the position of the sun that it was
late in the afternoon. Sleep had given him new vigor; a sharp hunger was
picking at him. He looked about him, almost cheerfully.

"Where there are pistol shots, there are men. Where there are men, there
is food," he thought. But what kind of men, he wondered, in so
forbidding a place? An unbroken front of snarled and ragged jungle
fringed the shore.

He saw no sign of a trail through the closely knit web of weeds and
trees; it was easier to go along the shore, and Rainsford floundered
along by the water. Not far from where he landed, he stopped.

Some wounded thing--by the evidence, a large animal--had thrashed about
in the underbrush; the jungle weeds were crushed down and the moss was
lacerated; one patch of weeds was stained crimson. A small, glittering
object not far away caught Rainsford's eye and he picked it up. It was
an empty cartridge.

"A twenty-two," he remarked. "That's odd. It must have been a fairly
large animal too. The hunter had his nerve with him to tackle it with a
light gun. It's clear that the brute put up a fight. I suppose the first
three shots I heard was when the hunter flushed his quarry and wounded
it. The last shot was when he trailed it here and finished it."

He examined the ground closely and found what he had hoped to find--the
print of hunting boots. They pointed along the cliff in the direction he
had been going. Eagerly he hurried along, now slipping on a rotten log
or a loose stone, but making headway; night was beginning to settle down
on the island.

Bleak darkness was blacking out the sea and jungle when Rainsford
sighted the lights. He came upon them as he turned a crook in the coast
line; and his first thought was that be had come upon a village, for
there were many lights. But as he forged along he saw to his great
astonishment that all the lights were in one enormous building--a lofty
structure with pointed towers plunging upward into the gloom. His eyes
made out the shadowy outlines of a palatial chateau; it was set on a
high bluff, and on three sides of it cliffs dived down to where the sea
licked greedy lips in the shadows.

"Mirage," thought Rainsford. But it was no mirage, he found, when he
opened the tall spiked iron gate. The stone steps were real enough; the
massive door with a leering gargoyle for a knocker was real enough; yet
above it all hung an air of unreality.

He heard women inside - laughing.  Some king of festival or party was going on inside. 

He lifted the knocker, and it creaked up stiffly, as if it had never
before been used. He let it fall, and it startled him with its booming
loudness. He thought he heard steps within; the door remained closed.
Again Rainsford lifted the heavy knocker, and let it fall. The door
opened then--opened as suddenly as if it were on a spring--and Rainsford
stood blinking in the river of glaring gold light that poured out. The
first thing Rainsford's eyes discerned was one of the most beautiful woman Rainsford had
ever seen--dark long hair and features, flowing curves, clothed only in a shear dress that hid almost nothing.
In her hand the womman held a long-barreled revolver, and she was
pointing it straight at Rainsford's heart.

Out of a small smile of her mouth her two brown eyes regarded Rainsford.

"Don't be alarmed," said Rainsford, with a smile which he hoped was
disarming. "I'm no robber. I fell off a yacht. My name is Sanger
Rainsford of New York City."

The amused look in the eyes did not change. The revolver pointing as
rigidly as if the woman were a statue. She gave no sign that she
understood Rainsford's words, or that she had even heard them.

"I'm Sanger Rainsford of New York," Rainsford began again. "I fell off a
yacht. I am hungry."

The woman suddenly stood at attention, with almost military precission.
Then Rainsford saw the woman's free hand go to her forehead in a
military salute, and he saw her click her heels together and stand at
attention. Another woman was coming down the broad marble steps, an even more beautiful,
slender woman in an evening gown. She advanced to Rainsford and held out
her hand.

In a cultivated voice marked by a slight accent that gave it added
precision and deliberateness, she said, "It is a very great pleasure and
honor to welcome Mr. Sanger Rainsford, the celebrated hunter, to my home."

Automatically Rainsford shook the woman's hand, then realized that was wrong.
He bowed slightly and kissed it.

"I've read your book about hunting snow leopards in Tibet, you see,"
explained the woman. "I am Countess Zaroff."

Rainsford's first impression was that the woman was singularly gorgeous;
his second was that there was an original, almost bizarre quality about
the countess's face. Shee was a tall woman in her 30s, for her hair was raven black;
but her eyes were as blue as the Carribian sea
from which Rainsford had come. She had high cheekbones, a sharpcut nose, a spare,
dark face--the face of a woman used to giving orders, the face of an
aristocrat. Turning to the first woman in the shear dress, the countess made a sign.
The the woman put away her pistol, bowed, withdrew.

"Alina is an incredibly loyal woman," remarked the countess, "but she has
the misfortune to be deaf and dumb. A simple girl, but, I'm afraid,
like all her race, a bit of a savage."

"Is she a native girl?"

"She is a from the tribe that used to inhabit this iselan," said the Countess,
and her smile showed red lips and pointed teeth. "Before I purchased it"

"Come," she said, "we shouldn't be chatting here. We can talk later. Now
you want clothes, food, rest. You shall have them. This is a
most-restful spot."

Alina had reappeared, and the countess spoke to him with lips that moved
but gave forth no sound.

"Follow Alina, if you please, Mr. Rainsford," said the countess. "I was
about to have my dinner with some friends when you came. We'll wait for you. You'll find
that I have clothes to fit you, I think.  You are about the size of the last man who stayed
here and he left some things behind."

It was to a huge, beam-ceilinged bedroom with a canopied bed big enough
for six men that Rainsford followed the silent native girl. Alina laid out an
evening suit, and Rainsford, as he put it on, noticed that it came from
a London tailor who ordinarily cut and sewed for none below the rank of
duke.

The dining room to which Alina conducted him was in many ways remarkable.
There was a medieval magnificence about it; it suggested a baronial hall
of feudal times with its oaken panels, its high ceiling, its vast
refectory tables where twoscore men could sit down to eat. About the
hall were mounted heads of many animals--lions, tigers, elephants,
moose, bears; larger or more perfect specimens Rainsford had never seen.
At the great table the countess was sitting.  Surrounding the table were
20 other women.  All younger than the countess, all just as beautiful. 
They appeared to be very happy with his presence.  The countess pointed
to an emptyp chair next to her.

"You'll have a cocktail, Mr. Rainsford," she suggested. The cocktail was
surpassingly good; and, Rainsford noted, the table apointments were of
the finest--the linen, the crystal, the silver, the china.

They were eating /borsch/, the rich, red soup with whipped cream so dear
to Russian palates. Half apologetically countess Zaroff said, "We do our
best to preserve the amenities of civilization here. Please forgive any
lapses. We are well off the beaten track, you know. Do you think the
champagne has suffered from its long ocean trip?"

"Not in the least," declared Rainsford. He was finding the countess a
most thoughtful and affable host, a true cosmopolite. But there was one
small trait of the countess's that made Rainsford uncomfortable.
Whenever he looked up from his plate he found the countess studying him,
appraising him narrowly.  The other women seemed to do so as well.  Always
covertly however.

"Perhaps," said countess Zaroff, "you were surprised that I recognized
your name. You see, I read all books on hunting published in English,
French, and Russian. I have but one passion in my life, Mr. Rainsford,
and it is the hunt."

"You have some wonderful heads here," said Rainsford as he ate a
particularly well-cooked filet mignon. "That Cape buffalo is the
largest I ever saw."

"Oh, that fellow. Yes, he was a monster."

"Did he charge you?"

"Hurled me against a tree," said the countess. "Fractured my skull. But I
got the brute."

"I've always thought," said Rainsford, "that the Cape buffalo is the
most dangerous of all big game."

For a moment the countess did not reply; she was smiling his curious
red-lipped smile. Then she said slowly, "No. You are wrong, sir. The Cape
buffalo is not the most dangerous big game." She sipped her wine. "Here
in my preserve on this island," she said in the same slow tone, "We hunt
more dangerous game."

Rainsford expressed his surprise. "Is there big game on this island?"

The countess nodded. "The biggest."

"Really?"

"Oh, it isn't here naturally, of course. I have to stock the island."

"What have you imported, countess?" Rainsford asked. "Tigers?"

The countess smiled. "No," she said. "Hunting tigers ceased to interest me
some years ago. I exhausted their possibilities, you see. No thrill left
in tigers, no real danger. I live for danger, Mr. Rainsford."

The countess took from her purse a gold cigarette case and offered her
guest a long black cigarette with a silver tip; it was perfumed and gave
off a smell like incense. The other women had finished their meals and
were also smoking cigarettes and talking cheerfully amoungst themselves.
Although, he couldn't hear them, he got the impression he was the
subject of their conversation.

"We will have some capital hunting, you and I," said the countess. "I
shall be most glad to have your society."

"But what game--" began Rainsford.

"I'll tell you," said the countess. "You will be amused, I know. I think
I may say, in all modesty, that I have done a rare thing. I have
invented a new sensation. May I pour you another glass of port?"

"Thank you, countess."

The countess filled both glasses, and said, "God makes some women poets.
Some He makes queens, some beggars. Me He made a hunter. My hand was made
for the trigger, my father said. He was a very rich man with a quarter
of a million acres in the Crimea, and he was an ardent sportsman. When I
was only five years old he gave me a little gun, specially made in
Moscow for me, to shoot sparrows with. When I shot some of his prize
turkeys with it, he did not punish me; he complimented me on my
marksmanship. I killed my first bear in the Caucasus when I was ten. My
whole life has been one prolonged hunt. I went into the army--when the first let women in
--and for a time commanded a division of
Cossack cavalry, but my real interest was always the hunt. I have hunted
every kind of game in every land. It would be impossible for me to tell
you how many animals I have killed."

The countess puffed at her cigarette.

"After a debacle in Russia I left the country, for it was imprudent
for me to stay there. Many Russians lost
everything. I, luckily, had invested heavily in American securities, so
I shall never have to open a tearoom in Monte Carlo or drive a taxi in
Paris. Naturally, I continued to hunt--grizzliest in your Rockies,
crocodiles in the Ganges, rhinoceroses in East Africa. It was in Africa
that the Cape buffalo hit me and laid me up for six months. As soon as I
recovered I started for the Amazon to hunt jaguars, for I had heard they
were unusually cunning. They weren't." The Countess sighed. "They were no
match at all for a hunter with her wits about her, and a high-powered
rifle. I was bitterly disappointed. I was lying in my tent with a
splitting headache one night when a terrible thought pushed its way into
my mind. Hunting was beginning to bore me! And hunting, remember, had
been my life. I have heard that in America businessmen often go to
pieces when they give up the business that has been their life."

"Yes, that's so," said Rainsford.

The countess smiled. "I had no wish to go to pieces," she said. "I must do
something. Now, mine is an analytical mind, Mr. Rainsford. Doubtless
that is why I enjoy the problems of the chase."

"No doubt, countess Zaroff."

"So," continued the countess, "I asked myself why the hunt no longer
fascinated me. You have not hunted as much, but you perhaps can guess the answer."

"What was it?"

"Simply this: hunting had ceased to be what you call `a sporting
proposition.' It had become too easy. I always got my quarry. Always.
There is no greater bore than perfection."

The countess lit a fresh cigarette.

"No animal had a chance with me any more. That is no boast; it is a
mathematical certainty. The animal had nothing but his legs and his
instinct. Instinct is no match for reason. When I thought of this it was
a tragic moment for me, I can tell you."

Rainsford leaned across the table, absorbed in what his host was saying.

"It came to me as an inspiration what I must do," the countess went on.

"And that was?"

The countess smiled the quiet smile of one who has faced an obstacle and
surmounted it with success. "I had to invent a new animal to hunt," she said.

"A new animal? You're joking."

"Not at all," said the countess. "I never
joke about hunting. I needed a new animal. I found one. So I bought this
island built this house, and here I do my hunting. The island is perfect
for my purposes--there are jungles with a maze of traits in them, hills,
swamps--  I invite rich women from all over the world to join me on the hunt. 
These women here are from India, France, Italy, China, America, and Brazil. 
Some have family money others are buisness women and need the hunt to relieve
the stress of their jobs."

"But the animal, countess Zaroff?"

"Oh," said the countess, "it supplies me with the most exciting hunting
in the world. No other hunting compares with it for an instant. Every
day I hunt, and I never grow bored now, for I have a quarry with which I
can match my wits."

Rainsford's bewilderment showed in his face.

"I wanted the ideal animal to hunt," explained the countess. "So I said,
`What are the attributes of an ideal quarry?' And the answer was, of
course, `It must have courage, cunning, and, above all, it must be able
to reason."'

"But no animal can reason," objected Rainsford.

"My dear fellow," said the countess, "there is one that can."

"But you can't mean--" gasped Rainsford.

"And why not?"

"I can't believe you are serious, countess Zaroff. This is a grisly joke."

"Why should I not be serious? I am speaking of hunting."

"Hunting? Great Guns, countess Zaroff, what you speak of is murder."

The countess laughed with entire good nature. she regarded Rainsford
quizzically. "I refuse to believe that so modern and civilized a young
man as you seem to be harbors romantic ideas about the value of human
life. Surely your experiences in war--"

"Did not make me condone cold-blooded murder," finished Rainsford stiffly.

Laughter shook the countess. "How extraordinarily droll you are!" she
said. "One does not expect nowadays to find a young man of the educated
class, even in America, with such a naive, and, if I may say so,
mid-Victorian point of view. It's like finding a snuffbox in a
limousine. Ah, well, doubtless you had Puritan ancestors. So many
Americans appear to have had. I'll wager you'll forget your notions when
you go hunting with me. You've a genuine new thrill in store for you,
Mr. Rainsford."

"Thank you, I'm a hunter, not a murderer."

"Dear me," said the countess, quite unruffled, "again that unpleasant
word. But I think I can show you that your scruples are quite ill founded."

"Yes?"

"Life is for the strong, to be lived by the strong, and, if needs be,
taken by the strong. The weak of the world were put here to give the
strong pleasure. I am strong. Why should I not use my gift? If I wish to
hunt, why should I not? I hunt the scum of the earth: sailors from tramp
ships--lassars, blacks, Chinese, whites, mongrels--a thoroughbred horse
or hound is worth more than a score of them."

"But they are men," said Rainsford hotly.

"Precisely," said the countess. "That is why I use them.  In fact the dinner
tonight was provided by last night's kill. It gives me
pleasure. They can reason, after a fashion. So they are dangerous."

"But where do you get them?"

The countess's left eyelid fluttered down in a wink. "This island is
called Ship Trap," he answered. "Sometimes an angry god of the high seas
sends them to me. Sometimes, when Providence is not so kind, I help
Providence a bit. Come to the window with me."

Rainsford went to the window and looked out toward the sea.

"Watch! Out there!" exclaimed the countess, pointing into the night.
Rainsford's eyes saw only blackness, and then, as the countess pressed a
button, far out to sea Rainsford saw the flash of lights.

The countess chuckled. "They indicate a channel," she said, "where there's
none; giant rocks with razor edges crouch like a sea monster with
wide-open jaws. They can crush a ship as easily as I crush this nut." He
dropped a walnut on the hardwood floor and brought his heel grinding
down on it. "Oh, yes," she said, casually, as if in answer to a question,
"I have electricity. We try to be civilized here."

"Civilized? And you shoot down men?"

A trace of anger was in the countess's blue eyes, but it was there for
but a second; and she said, in her most pleasant manner, "Dear me, what a
righteous young man you are! I assure you I do not do the thing you
suggest. That would be barbarous. I treat these visitors with every
consideration. They get plenty of good food and exercise. They get into
splendid physical condition. You shall see for yourself tomorrow."

"What do you mean?"

"We'll visit my training school," smiled the countess. "It's in the
cellar. I have about a dozen pupils down there now. They're from the
Spanish bark San Lucar that had the bad luck to go on the rocks out
there. A very inferior lot, I regret to say. Poor specimens and more
accustomed to the deck than to the jungle." She raised her hand, and
Alina, who served as waiter, brought thick Turkish coffee. Rainsford,
with an effort, held his tongue in check.

"It's a game, you see," pursued the countess blandly. "I suggest to one
of them that we go hunting. I give him a supply of food and an excellent
hunting knife. I give him three hours' start. The I and the women follow, armed only
with a pistol of the smallest caliber and range. If my quarry eludes me
for three whole days, he wins the game. If I find him "--the countess
smiled--" he loses and we feast on his body."

"Suppose he refuses to be hunted?"

"Oh," said the countess, "I give him his option, of course. He need not
play that game if he doesn't wish to. If he does not wish to hunt, I
turn him over to Alina. Alina's tribe were very cruel.
Invariably, Mr. Rainsford, invariably they choose the hunt."

"And if they win?"

The smile on the countess's face widened. "To date I have not lost," she
said. Then he added, hastily: "I don't wish you to think me a braggart,
Mr. Rainsford. Many of them afford only the most elementary sort of
problem. Occasionally I strike a tartar. One almost did win. I
eventually had to use the dogs."

"The dogs?"

"This way, please. I'll show you."

The countess steered Rainsford to a window. The lights from the windows
sent a flickering illumination that made grotesque patterns on the
courtyard below, and Rainsford could see moving about there a dozen or
so huge black shapes; as they turned toward him, their eyes glittered
greenly.

"A rather good lot, I think," observed the countess. "They are let out at
seven every night. If anyone should try to get into my house--or out of
it--something extremely regrettable would occur to him." She hummed a
snatch of song from the /Folies Bergere/.

"And now," said the countess, "I want to show you my new collection of
heads. Will you come with me to the library? The other women have already
gathered there to discuss today's hunt."

"I hope," said Rainsford, "that you will excuse me tonight, countess
Zaroff. I'm really not feeling well."

"Ah, indeed?" the countess inquired solicitously. "Well, I suppose that's
only natural, after your long swim. You need a good, restful night's
sleep. Tomorrow you'll feel like a new man, I'll wager. Then we'll hunt,
eh? I've one rather promising prospect--" Rainsford was hurrying from
the room.

"Sorry you can't go with me tonight," called the countess. "I expect
rather fair sport--a big, strong, black. He looks resourceful--Well,
good night, Mr. Rainsford; I hope you have a good night's rest."

The bed was good, and the pajamas of the softest silk, and he was tired
in every fiber of his being, but nevertheless Rainsford could not quiet
his brain with the opiate of sleep. He lay, eyes wide open. Once he
thought he heard stealthy steps in the corridor outside his room. He
sought to throw open the door; it would not open. He went to the window
and looked out. His room was high up in one of the towers. The lights of
the chateau were out now, and it was dark and silent; but there was a
fragment of sallow moon, and by its wan light he could see, dimly, the
courtyard. There, weaving in and out in the pattern of shadow, were
black, noiseless forms; the hounds heard him at the window and looked
up, expectantly, with their green eyes. Rainsford went back to the bed
and lay down. By many methods he tried to put himself to sleep. He had
achieved a doze when, just as morning began to come, he heard, far off
in the jungle, the faint report of a pistol.

Countess Zaroff did not appear until luncheon. She was dressed faultlessly
in the tight fitting lether pants and a flowing shirt. She was solicitous about the state of
Rainsford's health.

"As for me," sighed the countess, "I do not feel so well. I am worried,
Mr. Rainsford. Last night I detected traces of my old complaint."

To Rainsford's questioning glance the countess said, "Ennui. Boredom."

The other women started streaming in as well. Each gave Rainsford a smile
as she came in.  One of the women had a bandage on her arm. 

"From last night's prey."  She said as she held it up, "But, my pistol
did more harm to him."

Then, taking a second helping of crepes Suzette, the countess
explained: "The hunting was not good last night. The fellow lost his
head. He made a straight trail that offered no problems at all. That's
the trouble with these sailors; they have dull brains to begin with, and
they do not know how to get about in the woods. They do excessively
stupid and obvious things. It's most annoying.  My youngest hunter was able
to track him and take him out with very little trouble. Will you have another
glass of Chablis, Mr. Rainsford?"

"Countess," said Rainsford firmly, "I wish to leave this island at once."

The countess raised her eyebrows; she seemed hurt. "But, my
dear fellow," the countess protested, "you've only just come. You've had
no hunting--"

"I wish to go today," said Rainsford. He saw the dead black eyes of the
countess on him, studying him. Countess Zaroff's face suddenly brightened.

She filled Rainsford's glass with venerable Chablis from a dusty bottle.

"Tonight," said the countess, "we will hunt--you and I and the girls."

Rainsford shook his head. "No, countess," he said. "I will not hunt."

The countess shrugged her shoulders and delicately ate a hothouse grape.
"As you wish, my friend," he said. "The choice rests entirely with you.
But may I not venture to suggest that you will find my idea of sport
more diverting than Alina's?"

He nodded toward the corner to where the girl stood, with a snear, her
dark arms crossed on her breasts.

"You don't mean--" cried Rainsford.

"My dear fellow," said the countess, "have I not told you I always mean
what I say about hunting? This is really an inspiration. I drink to a
foeman worthy of my steel - at last." The countess raised her glass, but
Rainsford sat staring at him.

"You'll find this game worth playing," the countess said
enthusiastically." Your brain against mine. Your woodcraft against mine.
Your strength and stamina against mine. Outdoor chess! And the stake is
not without value, eh?"

"And if I win -" began Rainsford huskily."I'll cheerfully acknowledge myself defeat if
We do not find you by midnight of the third day," said countess Zaroff.
"My sloop will place you on the mainland near a town."
The countess read what Rainsford was thinking.

"Oh, you can trust me," she said. "I will give you my word as a
lady and a sportsman. Of course you, in turn, must agree to say
nothing of your visit here."

"I'll agree to nothing of the kind," said Rainsford.

"Oh," said the countess, "in that case... But why discuss that now? Three
days hence we can discuss it over a bottle of Veuve Cliquot, unless..."

The countess sipped her wine and licked her lips. "Unless, you become the
main course at out next feast."

Then a businesslike air animated her. "Alina," she said to Rainsford,
"will supply you with hunting clothes, food, a knife. I suggest you wear
moccasins; they leave a poorer trail. I suggest, too, that you avoid the
big swamp in the southeast corner of the island. We call it Death Swamp.
There's quicksand there. One foolish fellow tried it. The deplorable
part of it was that Lazarus followed him. You can imagine my feelings,
Mr. Rainsford. I loved Lazarus; he was the finest hound in my pack.
Well, I must beg you to excuse me now. I always' take a siesta after
lunch. You'll hardly have time for a nap, I fear. You'll want to start,
no doubt. We shall not follow till dusk. Hunting at night is so much more
exciting than by day, don't you think? Au revoir, Mr. Rainsford, au
revoir." countess Zaroff, with a deep, courtly bow, strolled from the room.

The other women gathered around him.  The american business woman said,
"I hope I am the one to bring you down.  Your head will go nicely in my
New York apartment."  They poked and proded him, like they were checking out
meat.  If he didn't win, they were checking out meat, he realized.

From another door came Alina. Under one arm she carried khaki hunting
clothes, a haversack of food, a leather sheath containing a long-bladed
hunting knife; her right hand rested on a cocked revolver thrust in the
crimson sash about her waist.

He grabbed the supplies and stripped down to change right there, despite
the hoots from the women.  He wasn't about to waste time going to his room
to change.  Once changed he ran out the front door into the forest.  Looking
over his shoulder he saw the women looking out after him.

"In three days I will either be heading home or being digested in their guts,"
he thought. 

Rainsford had fought his way through the bush for two hours. "I must
keep my nerve. I must keep my nerve," he said through tight teeth.

He had not been entirely clearheaded when the chateau gates snapped shut
behind him. His whole idea at first was to put distance between himself
and countess Zaroff and the women; and, to this end, he had plunged along, spurred on
by the sharp rowers of something very like panic. Now he had got a grip
on himself, had stopped, and was taking stock of himself and the
situation. He saw that straight flight was futile; inevitably it would
bring him face to face with the sea. He was in a picture with a frame of
water, and his operations, clearly, must take place within that frame.

"I'll give them a trail to follow," muttered Rainsford, and he struck off
from the rude path he had been following into the trackless wilderness.
He executed a series of intricate loops; he doubled on his trail again
and again, recalling all the lore of the fox hunt, and all the dodges of
the fox. Night found him leg-weary, with hands and face lashed by the
branches, on a thickly wooded ridge. He knew it would be insane to
blunder on through the dark, even if he had the strength. His need for
rest was imperative and he thought, "I have played the fox, now I must
play the cat of the fable." A big tree with a thick trunk and outspread
branches was near by, and, taking care to leave not the slightest mark,
he climbed up into the crotch, and, stretching out on one of the broad
limbs, after a fashion, rested. Rest brought him new confidence and
almost a feeling of security. Even so zealous a hunter as countess Zaroff
could not trace him there, he told himself; only the devil himself could
follow that complicated trail through the jungle after dark. But perhaps
the countess was a devil--

An apprehensive night crawled slowly by like a wounded snake and sleep
did not visit Rainsford, although the silence of a dead world was on the
jungle. Toward morning when a dingy gray was varnishing the sky, the cry
of some startled bird focused Rainsford's attention in that direction.
Something was coming through the bush, coming slowly, carefully, coming
by the same winding way Rainsford had come. He flattened himself down on
the limb and, through a screen of leaves almost as thick as tapestry, he
watched. . . . That which was approaching was a woman, no two.

It was countess Zaroff and the Indian woman.  Both dressed for a hunt.
They made their way along with their eyes fixed in
utmost concentration on the ground before them. They paused, almost beneath
the tree, the countess dropped to her knees and studied the ground. Rainsford's
impulse was to hurl himself down like a panther, but he saw that the
countess's right hand held something metallic--a small automatic pistol.

The hunter shook her head several times, as if she were puzzled. Then she
straightened up and took from her case one of her black cigarettes; its
pungent incenselike smoke floated up to Rainsford's nostrils.

Rainsford held his breath. The countess's eyes had left the ground and
were traveling inch by inch up the tree. Rainsford froze there, every
muscle tensed for a spring. But the sharp eyes of the hunter stopped
before they reached the limb where Rainsford lay; a smile spread over
her beautiful face. Very deliberately she blew a smoke ring into the air;
then she and the other woman turned their backs on the tree and walked carelessly away, back
along the trail they had come. The swish of the underbrush against their
hunting boots grew fainter and fainter.

The pent-up air burst hotly from Rainsford's lungs. His first thought
made him feel sick and numb. The countess could follow a trail through
the woods at night; she could follow an extremely difficult trail; she
must have uncanny powers; only by the merest chance had the countess
failed to see her prey.

Rainsford's second thought was even more terrible. It sent a shudder of
cold horror through his whole being. Why had the countess smiled? Why had
she turned back?

Rainsford did not want to believe what his reason told him was true, but
the truth was as evident as the sun that had by now pushed through the
morning mists. The countess was playing with him! The countess was saving
him for another day's sport! The she was the cat; he was the mouse.
Then it was that Rainsford knew the full meaning of terror.

"That could have been it for me. She could have dropped me right then.
I will not lose my nerve. I will not."

He slid down from the tree, and struck off again into the woods. His
face was set and he forced the machinery of his mind to function. Three
hundred yards from his hiding place he stopped where a huge dead tree
leaned precariously on a smaller, living one. Throwing off his sack of
food, Rainsford took his knife from its sheath and began to work with
all his energy.

The job was finished at last, and he threw himself down behind a fallen
log a hundred feet away. He did not have to wait long. The cat was
coming again to play with the mouse.

Following the trail with the sureness of a bloodhound came countess
Zaroff and the rest of the women. Nothing escaped those searching blue eyes,
no crushed blade ofgrass, no bent twig, no mark, no matter how faint, in the moss.
So intent was the Countes on hher stalking that she was upon the thing
Rainsford had made before she saw it. Her foot touched the protruding
bough that was the trigger. Even as she touched it, the countess sensed
her danger and leaped back with the agility of an ape. But she was not
quite quick enough; the dead tree, delicately adjusted to rest on the
cut living one, crashed down and struck the countess and several ofther of the women
a glancing blow on their shoulders as it fell. She staggered, but she did not fall; nor did she drop
her revolver. The other women were back up quickly as welll.
The countess stood there, rubbing her injured shoulder, and
Rainsford, with fear again gripping his heart, heard the countess's
mocking laugh ring through the jungle.

"Rainsford," called the countess, "if you are within sound of my voice,
as I suppose you are, let me congratulate you. Not many men know how to
make a Malay mancatcher. Luckily for me I, too, have hunted in Malacca.
You are proving interesting, Mr. Rainsford. We are going now to have our
wounds dressed; they are only slight. But I shall be back. I shall be
back."

When the countess, nursing her bruised shoulder, had gone, Rainsford took
up his flight again. It was flight now, a desperate, hopeless flight,
that carried him on for some hours. Dusk came, then darkness, and still
he pressed on. The ground grew softer under his moccasins; the
vegetation grew ranker, denser; insects bit him savagely.

Then, as he stepped forward, his foot sank into the ooze. He tried to
wrench it back, but the muck sucked viciously at his foot as if it were
a giant leech. With a violent effort, he tore his feet loose. He knew
where he was now. Death Swamp and its quicksand.

His hands were tight closed as if his nerve were something tangible that
someone in the darkness was trying to tear from his grip. The softness
of the earth had given him an idea. He stepped back from the quicksand a
dozen feet or so and, like some huge prehistoric beaver, he began to dig.

Rainsford had dug himself in in France when a second's delay meant
death. That had been a placid pastime compared to his digging now. The
pit grew deeper; when it was above his shoulders, he climbed out and
from some hard saplings cut stakes and sharpened them to a fine point.
These stakes he planted in the bottom of the pit with the points
sticking up. With flying fingers he wove a rough carpet of weeds and
branches and with it he covered the mouth of the pit. Then, wet with
sweat and aching with tiredness, he crouched behind the stump of a
lightning-charred tree.

He knew his pursuer was coming; he heard the padding sound of feet on
the soft earth, and the night breeze brought him the perfume of the
countess's cigarette. It seemed to Rainsford that the countess was coming
with unusual swiftness; she was not feeling her way along, foot by foot.
Rainsford, crouching there, could not see the countess, nor could he see
the pit. He lived a year in a minute. Then he felt an impulse to cry
aloud with joy, for he heard the sharp crackle of the breaking branches
as the cover of the pit gave way; he heard the sharp scream of pain as
the pointed stakes found their mark. He leaped up from his place of
concealment. Then he cowered back. Three feet from the pit a woman was
standing, with an electric torch in her hand.

"You've done well, Rainsford," the voice of the countess called. "Your
Burmese tiger pit has claimed one of my best dogs. Again you score. I
think, Mr. Rainsford, Ill see what you can do against my whole pack. I'm
going home for a rest now. Thank you for a most amusing evening."

At daybreak Rainsford, lying near the swamp, was awakened by a sound
that made him know that he had new things to learn about fear. It was a
distant sound, faint and wavering, but he knew it. It was the baying of
a pack of hounds.

Rainsford knew he could do one of two things. He could stay where he was
and wait. That was suicide. He could flee. That was postponing the
inevitable. For a moment he stood there, thinking. An idea that held a
wild chance came to him, and, tightening his belt, he headed away from
the swamp.

The baying of the hounds drew nearer, then still nearer, nearer, ever
nearer. On a ridge Rainsford climbed a tree. Down a watercourse, not a
quarter of a mile away, he could see the bush moving. Straining his
eyes, he saw the lean figure of countess Zaroff; just ahead of her
Rainsford made out another figure whose wide shoulders surged through
the tall jungle weeds; it was the native girl Alina, and she seemed pulled
forward by some unseen force; Rainsford knew that Alina must be holding
the pack in leash.

They would be on him any minute now. His mind worked frantically. He
thought of a native trick he had learned in Uganda. He slid down the
tree. He caught hold of a springy young sapling and to it he fastened
his hunting knife, with the blade pointing down the trail; with a bit of
wild grapevine he tied back the sapling. Then he ran for his life. The
hounds raised their voices as they hit the fresh scent. Rainsford knew
now how an animal at bay feels.

He had to stop to get his breath. The baying of the hounds stopped
abruptly, and Rainsford's heart stopped too. They must have reached the
knife.

He shinned excitedly up a tree and looked back. His pursuers had
stopped. But the hope that was in Rainsford's brain when he climbed
died, for he saw in the shallow valley that countess Zaroff was still on
her feet. But Alina was not. The knife, driven by the recoil of the
springing tree, had not wholly failed.

Rainsford had hardly tumbled to the ground when the pack took up the cry
again.

"Nerve, nerve, nerve!" he panted, as he dashed along. A blue gap showed
between the trees dead ahead. Ever nearer drew the hounds. Rainsford
forced himself on toward that gap. He reached it. It was the shore of
the sea. Across a cove he could see the gloomy gray stone of the
chateau. Twenty feet below him the sea rumbled and hissed. Rainsford
hesitated. He heard the hounds. Then he leaped far out into the sea. . . .

When the countess and her pack reached the place by the sea, she
stopped. For some minutes she stood regarding the blue-green expanse of
water. She shrugged hier shoulders. Then she sat down, took a drink of
brandy from a silver flask, lit a cigarette, and hummed a bit from
/Madame Butterfly/.

Countess Zaroff had an exceedingly good dinner in her great paneled
dining hall that evening. With it she had a bottle of /Pol Roger/ and
half a bottle of /Chambertin/. Two slight annoyances kept her from
perfect enjoyment. One was the thought that it would be difficult to
replace Alina; the other was that her quarry had escaped her; of course,
the American hadn't played the game--so thought the countess as she tasted
her after-dinner liqueur. In her library he read, to soothe herself,
from the works of Marcus Aurelius. At ten she went up to his bedroom. She
was deliciously tired, she said to herself, as she locked himself in.
There was a little moonlight, so, before turning on her light, she went
to the window and looked down at the courtyard. She could see the great
hounds, and he called, "Better luck another time," to them. Then she
switched on the light.

A man, who had been hiding in the curtains of the bed, was standing there.

"Rainsford!" screamed the countess. "How in God's name did you get here?"

"Swam," said Rainsford. "I found it quicker than walking through the
jungle."

The countess sucked in her breath and smiled. "I congratulate you," she
said. "You have won the game."

Rainsford did not smile. "I am still a beast at bay," he said, in a low,
hoarse voice. "Get ready, countess Zaroff."

The countess made one of her deepest bows. "I see," she said. "Splendid!
One of us is to furnish dinner for the girls tomorrow night. The other will sleep in
this very excellent bed."

As Rainsford lunged at her, she pulled a small hair pen out of her hair and pricked him in the chest with it. 
He landed on top of her and started to strangle her. She was strong, but not nearly as strong as he was.
But things went suddenly wrong. A numbness spread out from where she had pricked him. 
His muscles went limp where ever the numbness spread.  Soon he collapsed on top of her unable to move.

They layed there together for a few mintues.  Listening to each other's breath and heart beat.
Then she flipped him over and straddled him. 

"I keep that hair pen coated with cobra venom.  Not enough to kill, but paralyze.  Unfortunately for you,
the paralisis is permenant.  You have lost, and in the worst possible way.   If you had stayed in the woods
your death would have been quick and painless. Now, you will die a slow painful death for our entertainment."

She licked his face

"You are going to taste great."

She jumped up and opened her door and called out.  Soon all the other women were there standing over him.
Their deligh was obvious as the stripped him down. Raisnford had not yet resigned himself yet. Surly this is a dream he thought as the shaved all his hair off his body.  Vicotry had been his, now he was dinner.

"Any votes on how we should cook him?" aske the countess.

The american woman spoke first, "Spit roasted...alive."

The other women laughed and cheered.  Two of the women dragged him  by his warms out of the countess's bedroom,
down the hall and down the steps to the main floor.  The steps were painfull as he banged down them.  The other
women followed behind. 

Once in the dinning room the laid him out on the table on his stomach.  A couple of the women got a fire roaring
in the huge stone fireplace.  There was more than enough room for a full sized man to roast there.

The Indian woman was a doctor so she took charge to the spitting.  She shoved one of her hands up his ass with a small
knife clinched in it. He could feel her pushing her hand deeper and deeper into him.  He hated the feeling of being violated like this. 

A sudden sharp pain made him scream out.  She had cut through his intestine wall opening up space into his adominal
cavity.  Quickly she fed the spit through that hole and started pushing it through him.  It didn't hurt, but he could feel the cold metal moving though him.  At the same time he noticed the heat of the now roaring fire.

The indian woman was careful to avoid his organs until she hit his stomach.  Taking a smalls sharp rod she fed it up the inside of the spit, which was dull.  When she got to his stomach with it she push hard and piereced it.  She removed the rod and pushed the spit through the hole.

Rainsford could feel the spit moving slowely up his throat now.  One of the women pulled his head back so his mouth was in line with the rest of his body. Raishford crossed his eyes and to his horrow saw the spit emerging from his mouth. One of the othe women grabbed it and pulled it through him until he was centered on the spit. 

Four women each grabed one of this limbs and streached him out as far as they could and held his wrists and ancles to the spit.  Another woman too a a larg nail droveit through his wrist, the spit, and through the other wrist. The nail was bent so his wrist wouldn't fall off.  She did the same down at his feet.

There is something very final about being streached out and nailed to a spit. Maybe it was the pain, or the look of vicotry in the women's eyes, it was over for him. 

The countess however, had one more task for him to perform.  Before they roasted him, each of the wome raped him.  He was not allowed to have his own orgasim untilthe countess, the last of the women, lowered her self on him. 

"Your sperm will be alive inside of me while I am eating your flesh." She said.

When she was done he was lifted up by a couple of the women and carried to the fire.  It had died down to low coals, perfect for a long slow, and painful roast.  He started screaming as soon as the put him over the heat.  The countess fliped a switch and he began to rotate over the heat. 

Music was turned on and the women started to strip down.  Every time his face came back around so he could see the room he saw the women dancing wildly in the nude.  His screams of pain seemed to energize them.

A few hours later, the women sat down at the table.  Rainsford was streached out in front of them.  The spit had been removed.  No knives, forks, plates, or napkins were before the women.  Rainsford's meat was so tender there was no need.  They simply dug their fingers into his flesh and pulled the meat off the bone.  Some even climbed onto the table and bit the meat off of him with their mouths.   

The oil form his fat, rendered by the heat, ran down the naked bodies making them glisten in the light of the fire.  They dined all night on him.  By morning, as they lay aroundthe room.  Rainsford was nothing more then a pile of white bones spread out accross the room.

The countess was happy. Hunting was fun again.