And now, dear reader I have for you a tale most cruel and treacherous, yet godly in its way. Giselle was young when she married, firm and tight and pure. The suppleness of her buttocks and the sweetness of her cleft served to ensure that her new husband was a much older man. Marcus was a wealthy man who had already demonstrated a profound ability to outlive his previous wives. That the union was beneficial for both of them is beyond doubt, the appropriate blending of money, prestige and beauty could only serve to enhance both, outwardly at least.

The difference in their respective ages was something that both could simply get used to, he of course more readily than her. He was already more than satisfied in his desires by the previously mentioned firmness and tightness of her flesh and inwardly counted her extreme youth to be an absolute boon. It meant that for him she was a blank canvas upon which he could leave his impression. To her it simply meant that the first man given the chance to touch her was old enough to have been her grandfather, though all would hope that no grandfather would ever touch his granddaughter in such a way.

The first night of their marriage was for her like being raped by a surly aging boar, which was after all barely a distance from the truth. His expectations from their union were limited and inconsiderate, so he found the experience to be eminently satisfying, but to her, while it was very enlightening, there was little of it that could really be considered pleasant.

For a time their new nuptials continued in a similar way. In the light of day they were appropriately civil to each other and even distant, both usually preoccupied with their own distractions, hers being chiefly born of her desire to avoid him as she could. In the nights when they were alone he would claim her in her own bed, forcing her to perform what he delicately referred to as her ‘duty’. She endured as the image of a rutting pig endured, overlain on his touches. He thought hardly of it at all, save that he was using her thusly simply because it was his right as her husband.

Eventually, something broke inside her. As they were coupling she drove the silver handle of a hairbrush repeatedly into the side of his neck, initially stunning and then with successive attacks wounding him. Such was the ferocity of her assault that in time it punctured his throat, causing bubbles of blood to push through the growing lesion. She hit him again on the same spot. Blood spat out of the opening she had created and she could see his life falling out of him as the red stain spread over the covers. It was over very quickly. She felt little guilt.

In her youth, before she had been taken to be the bride of the corpse that now lay before her, Giselle had lived on a farm. It was the place she had been born and the home of her parents. The slaughtering of animals had always been perfectly natural to her. She had been accustomed to seeing an animal before her in a field one day and then eating it the next. It had always been a simple fact of survival to her family. You had to treat an animal well, become familiar to it, close to it almost if it was to become strong and healthy and good to eat.

His meat was tender and well fed. Once she had removed the layer of greasy fat that had surrounded it she found it to be succulent. To begin with the meat was richer than her palate could enjoy, used as it was to much meaner fare. In time she grew accustomed to the flavour and for several days ate very little else. Eventually she found herself left with the scant remains of the carcass. Ever pragmatic and experienced in such matters she ground up the fleshy pieces and fed them slowly into lengths of the gut that she had kept and prepared for this purpose.

Her final meal of this meat seemed the most sweet and juicy of all. The mixture of the usually undesirable fragments of meat pulled from the bones and the sweetbreads and other pieces had become tasty and nourishing. Ever mindful of the bounty that fate had granted to her, and tinged with a slight regret that in life the man, her husband, had never understood her enough to please her, when she had made the last of the sausages she moulded it between her hands, shaping it to her satisfaction so that as a final remnant of the man that had defiled her it could enjoy a moment granting her pleasure more than the whole had ever managed to in that slender opening that it had so lusted after.

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