The town of Stepford

We have some talented Dolcett Stories authors in Stepford.

I have been thinking about posting some of their stories for a while, so when Amy wrote a story actually happening in Stepford I knew I had to put it on the town blog.

Here you go !!!



The Town of Stepford: A Story not Invented by Amy Alexis

Note: I would like to thank Lossy for his constant encouragement and the great administrative and building team that work so tirelessly and selflessly to keep the Town of Stepford alive and well.

There is a town on Interstate Route 74 not forty-five minutes east of where I live.
The town is Stepford but it can’t be found on any map and it is outside the jurisdiction of the federal and state government.

The rumor is that, in this town, women are processed like cattle for their meat.



I asked my very vanilla husband if he might like to drive up to see if the rumors are true.
He laughed, patted me condescendingly on the head, and told me to go back to reading Fifty Shades of Gray. As good as that book was I could not get Stepford out of my mind.

One day I was shopping at a nursery that just happens to be east on Interstate74, in addition to a great selection of plants and trees, the nursery also has a country craft gift shop that is fantastic.

I routinely buy knickknacks for our home running up our credit card bill much to my husband’s chagrin. On this particular day I bought a wreath for our front door. After I placed it carefully in the trunk I made my way back to Route 74. I waited and wondered, my blinker clicking left, my car idling. No one was behind me so I wasn’t rushed.

I could have turned left and gone home but I looked right.
As far as I could see the road was twisty and desolate.
There were no farms, homes, or shops beyond the nursery, at least none that I knew of.

I had never been beyond the nursery.

I had no idea if Stepford was real or the figment of someone’s overactive imagination.

I turned right, nervous, excited, and afraid; I turned right and made my way slowly toward the town not on any map, that shouldn’t exist and maybe didn’t exist but on that day I was determined to find out.

My heart pounding, my skin prickly with fear, I drove until, at last, I came to a gated community. On a sign over the main gate were the words, “Welcome to the Town of Stepford.”

I pulled up to the gatehouse.
An older man with a mustache came over to my car.

“Can I help you?” he wasn’t asking in a friendly ‘Welcome to Stepford’ tone. More like a ‘what are you doing here,’ tone.

“Well I…” I struggled to find a sensible reason to explain my presence on property that wasn’t mine and on which I had no legitimate business.

“Well,” he finally relieved me, “aren’t you a pretty one. From what I can see I spect’ you’d be a Grade A-Prime. Step on out. Let me have a look at your pussy.”

He tried to open my door.

I wouldn’t let him.

“Oh,” he said, “you’re one of those city girls come a curiosity seeking haven’t ya?”

“I…” I must have turned a dark shade of purple because he laughed and not a little snicker either he found my embarrassment terribly amusing.

“Tell you what ya do,” he said, “You wear this here tag.”

It was a large tag with a clip on one end and the word “visitor” in bright red.

“You wear this tag on yer tit there, ah mean your blouse and no one will bother you none but if ya should lose it, well, you’d be fair game understand?”

I took the tag and sat looking at it for a moment.

“You do understand we like to process women like you now don’t ya miss?”

“Process?”

“Eat miss. We like girl meat here in Stepford and if you lose that tag that is surly what you will become – a delicious piece of meat and I must tell you should that happen I would most certainly want a bite of your ass or any other part that might be left over when the boys are through.”

“I…um…” I smiled at him. What else would I do to a man who just told me he wanted to eat me and not in the sexual way most men mean.

I pinned the tag to my shirt and then I looked up at him.
He nodded and smiled.

“There’s a good miss,” he said.

Then he walked back to his gatehouse, clicked a button, and those big iron gates were opening in front of me.

I should have turned around and gone home.
I’d seen enough.
I knew now that Stepford was real but I had come this far.
I wanted to see.
I wanted to see a woman ‘processed,’ as he called it.
The very idea shocked and frightened and excited me.
I had to know if it was really true or if all this was just a kinky fantasy.
Either way I was determined…and…aroused.

I drove on past a barn, a farm, a corn field, over a bridge and into town.
A man was standing on the corner with his arms folded, handsome, large and strong.
The look on his face was somber.
Another man was seated on a park bench.
The man on the bench looked half asleep but he was also incredibly good looking.

The Stepford Medical Center was on my left and next to that the Stepford Sheriff’s Office.
The town obviously had some law.

I paused for a moment, my engine idling and looked around.
There was a park ahead and to the right.
In my rear view mirror I could see a church, St. Karyn of the Last Supper – a religious town too.
Ahead and to my left was a department store and next to the store was a nightclub – Club X.
At the end of the street was a motel, the Last Resort Motel and in front of that was a diner – the Stepford Family Diner.

Music was playing all over the town on loud speakers, 50’s music and early 60’s.
It was then that I noticed that the town and all the people in it looked like they just stepped out of Mayberry. In a nostalgic quaint little town like Stepford, I was supposed to believe that these good religious people ate women? It had to be a joke.

I found a parking spot behind the medical center and nervously made my way into town, my heels clicking on the concrete.

“Ev’nin Miss,” The standing man said.

“Hello,” I smiled.

“First time here?”

“Yes,” I suppose it showed, “Yes it is.”

His eyes traveled to my visitor pass; at least I think he was looking at my visitors pass, then back to my face.

“Be careful miss,” he stoically said then turned from me to his friend on the bench.

I walked along the street toward the diner at the other end of town.

I stepped into Club X.
I knew it was early – 3 pm, but the door was open.
It was dark and smoky inside as I expected a night club might be and if it hadn’t been for the kitchen at the far end and the electric chair on the stage it would have looked like any number of night clubs I had seen before.

There was a man working in the kitchen, except for him no one else was in the club.
He was wiping a seven foot silver pole with a pointed end down with a cloth and behind him were rotisseries large enough for a human being.

“You’re a little early for the fun miss,” he said with a smile. “Club don’t officially open 'til 10. Why don’t you come on back and see us then?”

“Thank you I will,” I lied, then I looked around one last time and left.

From where I stood just outside of the club I could see through the windows of the diner.

It looked like a classic greasy spoon diner, the kind that serve the perfect grilled cheese sandwich and milkshake.
There were booths, tables with channel back chairs, and a pinball machine.
It all looked so incredibly Americana but for one detail.

I watched as a girl was pulled from a booth by her pony tail.
I couldn’t hear her scream from as far back as I was but I could see the pain in her face as she was dragged by the hair to the open kitchen area at the far end of the diner.

In most diners the kitchen is behind double hinged doors and out of sight but in this diner the kitchen was open and visible to all. The obvious reason was that the patrons enjoyed watching the preparation of their meals.

As the man dragged the woman behind the counter and into the kitchen area he tore her clothes from her body.

Buttons must have been bouncing on the tile floor but I could neither see nor hear them from where I stood.

This was it.
This is what I came to see.
So why am I frozen here petrified like some potted plant?

There it was again; that queer sensation of fear, guilt, and sexual delight.
I wanted to be her.
I wanted to be used and abused and wholly devoured but I didn’t, I shouldn’t, I couldn’t.
What was wrong with me?

I would seek help in the morning.

For now, my heart quickened, my pace quickened.
I hurried to the diner.

By the time I got there the girl was nude.
Her rear was in the air, her head down, and a man stood behind her with a silver pole much like the one the man in the club was polishing.

He held the point down and slid it over her shoulder.
When she saw it her body bounced as if she were crying.

He lifted it.
The men began to stomp their feet and chant.

“Spit her, spit her, spit her,” they said.

I realized at that moment the purpose of the pole.

It was a spit and it was used to impale a woman in preparation for roasting.
I could see behind them the largest horizontal rotisserie I had ever seen – clearly this young woman’s destiny, the flames were already burning with hunger, waiting to caress her naked body.

I reached out for the door but stopped short of opening it.
Inside were mostly men.

There was another nude woman hung on hooks by her breasts.
She was moving but blood was running fresh down her lean body and into a pan beneath her.

I was relieved to see two women in clothing seated at a table at the rear of the diner.
They were talking, not at all paying attention to the fate of the other women.
Why weren’t they frightened?
Why didn’t they run while they had the chance?
Why didn’t I?

I watched through the window as the man standing on a large butcher block table positioned the spit behind the poor girl.

While I could not see the point of entry he was aiming for from where I stood, I knew there were only two possibilities and I knew enough about cooking to know that a stabilizer would have to go into whichever orifice not already occupied by the spit.

I walked along the outside of the diner to get a closer look.

He teased her with the end of the spit.
He caressed her and from the look on her face it was not her anus he was toying with.
She was pleased.
She had been crying.
I could see the tear tracks on her face – I was that close but now I saw pleasure.

“That’s a good girl,” his voice was faint from outside of the diner but I knew he said it.
I could hear it and I could see the words on his lips.

“It will all be over soon and your meat will feed this diner. You will be loved and enjoyed. Your death will please us.”

He eased the spit in and out the way a gentle man might ease his erection in and out of a tight young girl. It was almost considerate, almost kind.

Once again I found myself envying her, wanting to be her, to give my body, to give all I had to offer, to be used, eaten, consumed.

With each thrust he went a little deeper until finally he pushed.
The spit went well inside.
It had to pierce an internal organ.

He pulled it out but not clear then again he thrust.
This time I saw the end of the spit extend from her mouth.

Oh my god.

She was impaled in front of me.

I was witnessing a murder.
I liked it.
I was guilty.
I looked around to see if anyone was watching me.
I was embarrassed.
I didn’t want to be seen.

I was wet.

Even from outside I could hear the splash of her blood on the black and white checkered floor.
She was gagging but still alive.
Her body moved and squirmed.
Other men came to assist.
Her ankles and wrists were skewered to the spit.
The stabilizer was shoved in place – it must have gone up her anus because it was on top of the spit not beneath.

Two men lifted her to the open fire.

The one who ran the spit through her began to baste her as she slowly rotated over a now steadily increasing flame.

I looked away.

I could stand the sight no longer.

On a bench near a pavilion was a man, rough shaven, attractive.
He seemed lost in thought.
For a moment I wanted to go to him.
He had the look of peace on his face.
I knew I would be safe at his side but safety is not why I had driven so far.

I turned again to the diner.
The woman’s skin was deep red and cooking fast.
Her body was still.
I knew she was dead.

I was aroused.
I was terrified.
I went inside.

Everyone turned to look.
A topless waitress came over to greet me.

“A visitor,” she said, “we have us a visitor gentleman. What's yer name miss?”

“Amy,” I said.

“Well it’s nice to have you here at our diner Miss Amy. Why don’t you have a seat at the counter and we’ll fix you something real nice once she’s ready okay?”

How could she be so casual?
How could she act like the cannibalizing of another woman was normal?
What kind of world had I entered?

I did as I was asked.

The scent in that diner was like no other I had ever encountered.
It was sweet and good like Thanksgiving but it wasn’t turkey.
That was the scent of woman, of female meat.

As I walked to the counter the men ogled me.

“Now there’s a fine piece of meat,” one said as I walked by.

“She’s wearing a visitor badge be nice,” the waitress scolded him.

I took my seat.
The man behind the counter was already carving the dead girl.

He removed her head and dropped it into a trash can as if that’s all it was – common trash, not a once beautiful woman’s head.

He slowly carved a breast from her body.
He did it tenderly almost lovingly.
He lifted that breast on his knife and laid it on a plate.

Steam rose from the hole left in the dead woman’s chest where her breast used to be.
He did the same to her other breast.

I imagined they were mine.
I touched my chest in some insane attempt to make sure they were still there.

Why was I so lucky to keep my breasts when another woman lost hers?

As he carved and decorated each plate, the waitress delivered the steaming warm meat to the men who were waiting and hungry in different parts of the diner.

He carved out her cunt and laid it on a plate.

“That is for me,” he said.

“You deserve the cunt steak chef,” another man said.

Then the man they called “chef” looked at me for the first time.

I looked down as if to make myself invisible.
I didn’t want to be next.
But what if I were?
Would this end be so bad or would it be wonderful?

I felt warm steel under my chin.
I opened my eyes and he lifted my head with the very knife he was using to carve the dead woman’s body.

He smiled.

I smiled.

“I have something special for you Miss Amy,” he said.

Then he went back to his kill and cut deep into her pelvis.

He removed her ovaries.
Oh dear lord, her ovaries.

He laid them on a plate with a garnishment, covered them with a sauce I didn’t recognize, and slid the plate to me.

“I understand a woman’s ovaries are quite the aphrodisiac to another woman,” he smiled at me, and then gave me a wink. “I think we’d all enjoy seeing our new visitor good and horny wouldn’t we boys.”

Laughter filled the diner.

“Eat up now,” he said, “don’t let those piping hot ovaries go to waste.”

I looked down at my plate.

I heaved but caught myself before ruining everyone’s dinner.

“I have to go,” I said as I got up and raced from the diner.

The force of coming out of the door knocked the visitor’s tag from my shirt.
I reached for it but I was too late.
It fell to the ground.
I followed after it until it disappeared down a storm drain.

‘Oh my God,’ I thought, ‘what am I going to do?’

“Lose something miss?”

I looked up to see a policeman standing in front of me.

“My visitor’s tag,” I said.

He nodded and smiled.
His hands were on his hips.

“Sure now,” he said, “sure you did.”

“No officer,” I explained, “I did. It fell down the storm drain.”

“Is that your vehicle parked over there by the medical center,” he gestured at my car over his shoulder.

“Yes,” I said, “yes it is.”

“I’m afraid its illegally parked miss.”

“Well I will move it then,” I said as I stood and started off in the general direction of my car.

He grabbed my wrist as I passed by and before I knew it he had my hands cuffed behind my back.

“What are you doing? Let me go.”

“You are under arrest miss.”

“On what charge?”

“Illegal parking miss.”

“You have got to be kidding me.”

He was now leading me to the opposite side of the park where the good looking man still sat staring off into space. As we passed him I screamed, “Help me,” but the man never winced, never looked in my direction. He never even blinked.

The officer pulled my arm so hurriedly to get me beyond the man on the bench that he nearly spun me around and to the ground.

Looking out in the opposite direction of the park I saw smoke rising from the beach.

I stood on my toes to get a better look and saw two crispy girls rotating over an open flame by the water.
A dozen or so men stood anxiously waiting for the first cuts while another basted the girls.
Though my glance was momentary, I could see the smile on the chef’s face.

The men if Stepford delighted in killing and eating their women; of that there was no doubt.

I had come to see if women were really eaten.
I had already seen more than any woman should.
And now, I was under arrest, my hands secured behind my back, helpless and defenseless.

I was half led half dragged to the Stepford Justice Center.

I expected to be hauled before a judge and asked to pay a hefty fine.
I had heard the tales of these small towns and their local police force who just happen to be related to the judge, and tow service mechanic, and body and fender worker.
I knew what to expect.
That is why I was shocked when he didn’t lead me into a court room or even to a jail cell.

He led me to a barbed wired outdoor execution yard with guillotines, chopping blocks, and several gallows.

There was also a grand stand filled to capacity with cheering men and a popcorn vendor selling refreshments to the crowd.

It sounds bizarre I know but every word is true.

At the far end of the yard a woman was already dead swinging at the end of a rope atop the highest gallows I had ever seen.
She was naked but for her high heels.

A man in a black hood was pulling on the rope of yet another naked girl.
Her legs were kicking frantically as she struggled for life.
The crowd cheered with every kick and twitch she made.

It was then that I noticed the flatbed pickup truck.
On the open flatbed were the naked bodies of dead women, at least six by my quick count.

The policeman pulled out a knife and smiled at me as the sun reflected in my eyes from the blade.

“Can’t have you hang in your clothes now can we,” he said as he cut my clothes from my body.

“Oh my God,” I screamed. “You are going to hang me for parking illegally?”

He gaged me.
I should not have screamed.

He pushed me toward the gallows.

The woman had stopped her kicking.
Her feet twitched ever so faintly and she was urinating down her leg.

‘No, no,’ I thought. ‘This can’t be happening.’

He turned me to face the crowd.
The hangman put a noose over my head and tightened it around my neck.
The rope was harsh and coarse upon my skin.
Already my breathing was constricted and he had not yet pulled.

“Wait,” I heard someone say, a voice not entirely unfamiliar.

I looked in the general direction of the voice and saw a man emerge from the crowd on the grandstands.

It was my husband!
Oh thank God my husband was here!

He walked over to where I was, came up the stairs and looked me straight in the eye.

“I thought I told you to go read your book?” he said.

I grunted I could do little else with the gag in my mouth.

“You know this woman?” the officer said.

“She’s my wife,” he explained.

They would have to let me go now.

“Well she’s in violation of our law Frank.”

My husband frowned and nodded.

Are you kidding me!
That’s it!
My husband of five years is gonna frown and nod as another man hangs his wife!

“I’m sorry dear,” he said. “You have been spending way too much money and you are much too curious. I told you to comfort yourself with Fifty Shades of Gray but did you listen to me? And now here you are. I hope it was worth it.”

And then he walked back down the stairs.

He turned again to face me.

“Go ahead,” he said to the officer behind me, “hang her ‘til she’s dead.”

The rope pulled.
Air left my lungs.
My feet kicked violently as I was hoisted into the sky.
The men cheered.
I looked down and could see the smile on my husband’s face.

I felt warm urine run down my leg.

“There she goes already stand clear.”

Then I was watching from outside of my body.
My face was purple.
My tongue hung out.
My eyes were bulged and open.

The hangman started slapping my ass as if it were a bongo drum.

“I love the sound of a dead woman’s ass,” he said.

“Hey Frank, come see if her cunt still contracts.”

“No way; she pissed on herself.”

“Oh hell I’ll do it.”

With that the officer shoved two fingers up inside of me as far as he could get them.

“Sweet warm pussy,” the officer said. “I want this one if you don’t mind Frank.”

“I’ve eaten it plenty,” he said, “You are welcome to it.”

###

The next morning I woke up in my bed, in my home town, next to my vanilla husband who was still snoring.

I woke up because The Town of Stepford is a part of my Second Life not my first, and it can be a part of yours when you join Second Life and head east on the Interstate Route 74.

http://secondlife.com/premium/?sourceid=1202-sergoog-SLbranded-premium&gclid=CK3A5pvEx7QCFYuZ4AodGSkAiA

If you have ever wanted to feel the flames cook your body, or if you dream of spitting a beautiful meat girl, The Town of Stepford will give you the chance.

If you need help learning Second Life, look me up once you get there. You will find me by searching for AmyAlexis, and if you want to know more about the great town of Stepford, check out our blog at:

http://stepford-sl.blogspot.com/

Finis
©Amy Alexis