Charles and John, a Feast

“So Charles, how is it?”

“It’s good, ma’am.”

“And you, John? How do you like it?”

“It’s… it’s good.”

“Well, I think it’s delicious,” said the woman. “I can’t wait to try the next cut!”

“Please kill us already miss!” said John. “Please stop this and just kill us!”

The woman slapped John in his chubby little face. He still had most of his baby fat on him, and the resulting smack, loud as it was, died in the egg crate and foam on the walls and ceiling. John’s chair fell with him tied to it, his naked body thudding on the floor.

“Shut up you little shit!” said the woman, her voice but a hiss. “You’ll eat what I make and you’ll fucking like it! Or else you get the iron again!”

John sobbed on the floor, croaking out protests when she mentioned the iron. He would’ve tried to get up, but she’d taken his arms. She had cooked those first - made a stew with them. Charles’ had been turned into fried strips. She said his leaner muscles would taste better that way. Currently, they were eating Charles’ legs like steak, with John’s as the next course.

“I’m looking forward to tasting the marbling on you, tubby. It should be a lot more flavorful than your twiggy friend here.”

And Charles was a fair bit thinner than John, having hit puberty a little sooner and shedding the pounds as he grew in height. But though he was growing into a man, he cried like a child as the woman got up and righted John’s chair. John's shoulders heaved silently as she walked over to Charles.

“Now now,” she whispered into his ear. “There’s no need to cry. You were delicious with some seasoning and some sauce. He’s just gonna have that marinated natural flavor.”

At this Charles began to wail, screaming at the top of his lungs for help, for a savior. But the woman would have none of it. Quickly, she ripped some duct tape from a roll on her hip and placed it over his mouth. He struggled but, eventually, she got her way.

“Uh-oh. Looks like someone wants the iron!”

Charles began shrieking beneath his muzzle and thrashing against his binds. John simply looked at him with tears in his eyes as she walked over to the fireplace. There, she took an iron poker from the flames, the tip red hot. She whistled an upbeat tune as she almost sauntered back to Charles. His skin was ghostly white and his eyes wide with fear. He wasn’t ready for the iron again, he hadn’t recovered from the last time.

Charles was dressed similarly to John, with still fresh burns on his torso and in… more, unsavory places. As his high-pitched screams continued to pierce the tape, John looked away. He heard the sizzle of hot metal on flesh and smelled it burning. Charles’ shrieks reached a fever pitch, and John tried his best to shut them out. He squeezed his eyes shut as tightly as he could and pretended he was anywhere else. As he pretended that they had never knocked on her door for that school fundraiser.