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From: juan smith <cannibaldotcom@yahoo.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Bottom Line, a story by "Menagerie"
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Date: Sat, 01 Oct 2005 16:10:02 -0400
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BOTTOM LINE


Shonda squinted over her glasses, and drew a tiny "o"
in the very last space on the very last ledger. 
"Finished!" she cried out gaily; the quarterly books
were done.

The boss peeked around the corner into her tiny
office: "All done, you say?"  It still sounded so
funny to Shonda; he was so black, and his voice was
so...so cosmopolitan; he sounded like a proper English
banker, and that was what he had been.  His eyes
brightened over a gleaming smile.  "I say!  Calls for
a celebration, eh, what?"

He ducked back out; Shonda was so pleased with
herself.  When she'd taken the summer job between
school years with the ExIm firm, she'd never dreamed
she'd wind up doing the tribal books in a remote
village in Uganda...and when the assignment came, she
surely never thought it would be like this.  An
African tribe?  In Uganda?  She had pictured growling
savages, bones through their noses, grass skirts...maybe
even a big, cast iron pot for missionaries.  She
hesitated; then, the man with the ExIm firm started
talking money.  It would pay for a whole year's
tuition, and then some, just for three months'
apprentice accounting.

And then...why, they were just as nice as pie.  They
wore suits and ties, spoke...well, to be honest, spoke
better English than she did.  Big, burly N'Gomo was a
civil engineer, Master's degree from the University of
Illinois; slender, sly M'Buto had already made
millions from his start-up Internet firm.  "Systems
management, don'cha know," he'd told her, eyes
mischievous over that broad nose.  "They pay a
villager in Uganda to tell them how to run a
dimethylester plant in North Carolina!"  And he roared
with laughter.

Ashasha, her immediate supervisor, had an MBA from
Dartmouth; she had been President of the Senior Class.
 "Rigid...rigid!" she proclaimed, just a hint of a smile
across her broad lips.  "Your mind must be rigid as a
steel rod!  No mistakes!"  Ashasha had caught many
mistakes, at least in Shonda's early days; the blonde
American watched, feeling like a complete klutz, as
the African woman wearing a $1,500 suit from
Bloomingdale's redid her work, checked it twice,
thrice.  "Rigid!" she announced, looking up and
beaming; Shonda smiled, wearily.

The village was a fascinating mixture of old and new. 
Bentleys and Mercedes-Benz' were parked next to the
squat little building where she did her work. 
Half-naked children played on the dusty road, while
men in three-piece suits stopped to pat their heads,
give them lollipops.  None of the village was paved;
every neat, tidy bungalow had its own garden.  But
from steel spires overhead splayed power lines,
cellular phone antennae, cables; the men were always
answering beepers, rushing off in their fancy cars,
down the narrow lane to the highway a mile to the
south, to Kampala...

For the village was fabulously wealthy.  The tribe's
ancient homeland was situated over a vast copper mine;
the people, who had slaved within it for the imperial
British, found themselves its owners when independence
came in 1962.  The village elders had wisely used
their resources to buy friends and protection; the
soldiers and horrors perpetrated by the tyrant Amin
had left them unscathed.  Shrewd investment, hedges
against inflation, had left them well positioned when
the metals markets took off in the Seventies.

Now, each of those friendly, earthy villagers had a
trust in his or her name...and managing them was
Shonda's job.  She kept track of mutual funds, stock
portfolios, bonds the tribe had floated on the New
York market...it was exhausting, and a little humbling. 
That little boy playing outside of the main offices
was worth a hundred times as much as she was.  "You,
missus!" he had called when she first arrived in the
village.  "You our new lady?"

Shonda smiled.  Tall, leggy, and blonde, she stood out
like the proverbial sore thumb.  "Yes; I'm the new
lady.  From the States."

The lad giggled.  "Oh, get `em from all over, we do! 
From Switzerland, and the Netherlands, and New
Zealand."  He ambled up to her, eyes shining.  "Three
months, right?  Do the books, right?"

"Right," she said, her smile turning a little nervous.
 He couldn't have been eight years old.  His pants
were worn; he had no shoes, and an unbuttoned shirt. 
His eyes, huge and glistening, never left hers;
finally, he laughed.

"Cracky!" he sang out.  "Good show!"  And he was gone.

He came back frequently, gave her encouragement. 
"Just two more months, now!...Six weeks, mind!...Won't be
long!"  The other children would rush up, laughing and
pointing; Ashasha shooed them away.  The boss would
peer out the window: "What the devil?...Ashasha, do you
mind?"

The boss was tall, slender, distinguished-looking;
tailored pearl-gray suits set off the sheen of his
velvet skin, matched his close-cropped, iron gray
hair.  Mr. T'satsu was what everybody called him; he
was the direct descendent of the tribe's first
monarch.  "I guess that makes me the Chief, what?" he
chuckled.  "`Chief of the African tribe' and all that.
 I prefer Chairman, Chairman of the Board of Directors
of Lowlands Mining Co., Ltd.  That `Chief' stuff never
made me a penny, you know."  Prepped at Eton,
graduated first in his class at Oxford; Vice-President
for Institutional Investment at Barclay's.  Then back
home.  "Missed the old place, y'know," he told Shonda
as they pored over annuities.  "Friends,
family...co-workers," and gave her a wink.  She flushed,
and smiled, looking down self-consciously at the
cascade of numerals...

It didn't bother her that he was so black, and she, so
white; that she was barely twenty and he was more than
twice that.  It was just that he was, well...such a damn
gentleman, so classy, and when they finally made it
one night after a hard days' assault on the books, he
did everything so perfectly, right down to neatly
folding her skirt and blazer over the imported
mahogany chair in his office.  "I do hope I'm pleasing
you, my dear," he said earnestly; she gasped as a
staff worthy of royalty plumbed her very depths,
filled her to her cusp, left her quivering in dopey,
happy bliss.  As each firm, unyielding thrust found
yet another bottom to her, she kept thinking of
Ashasha saying, "Rigid...rigid!"

As she lay on the overstuffed divan, slack and reeling
from the experience, he knelt beside her; gently, he
nibbled on one of her nipples, and the sensation was
exquisite.  Then, he tenderly wiped a little drool off
the corner of her lip with an embroidered silk hankie.
 "There, now!" Mr. T'satsu exclaimed.  "Quite a fun
romp, eh?"  And he offered her an imported Swiss
chocolate truffle.

All of the food was fantastic; she had wondered what
they ate in Uganda--yak?  If yak it was, it was elegant
filet of yak chateaubriand, prepared by the most
accomplished European chefs, garnished with foie gras.
 Morning, noon and night, the food was the richest,
most sumptuous Shonda could imagine.  To her dismay,
she found she was gaining a few pounds; stepping out
of the shower in her little cottage, she frowned at
her figure, full and getting fuller, in the
full-length mirror behind the bathroom door.  She'd
hoped to be able to sweat it off in the hot, tropical
sun--but her employers wouldn't let her; they escorted
her everywhere in her luxury cars, never let her out
of their sight.  "You're quite a valuable resource,"
chuckled Mr. T'satsu when she asked about it.  "You
can't imagine!"

Their midnight rendezvous' were infrequent; he was
usually expecting a call, or in the middle of a
teleconference.  Besides, Shonda was putting in
fourteen hour days, and was usually exhausted by
week's end.  N'Gomo would be summoned to drive her
back to her modest guesthouse at the other end of the
village.  With the end of her internship approaching
on a hot August evening, Mr. T'satsu had again turned
her down ("Dreadfully sorry; monthly book-squaring. 
Deuced bother."); she looked hungrily at the husky
N'Gomo, brushed against him as they bumped along the
dirt road in the mining company's black El Dorado.

Came time to get out; she put a hand on that broad
bicep.  He looked at her, evenly; her blue eyes were
hopeful, pleading, frankly inviting.  A short pause.

"Got to get back, Missus," he apologized, firmly.

"Can't you stay a moment?" she purred; the hand crept
up to his shoulder.

He shook his head; ever so delicately, removed her
hand.  "Mr. T'satsu wouldn't like it.  Evening,
Missus."  He puttered off; she stared after him, feet
spread, knees knocking together.

"Cracky!"

It was the little boy, squatting in the dust by her
cabin.  She glared at him; he jumped up and whooped,
danced away down the path  "Enjoy it, Missus!  Not
much longer now!  Just two more weeks..."

The two weeks passed quickly.  Shonda was now getting
to be a pro at deductions and appreciation, returns
and debentures.  Wait'll she showed `em back home, she
thought pridefully, as she whizzed through one account
after another, eyes peering over glasses set low on
the tip of her nose.  And that old Mr. T'satsu, why,
I've had better...

He popped back in with two crystal goblets.  "Do join
me," he begged.  "Champagne.  The end of the quarter
is such an event.  Time to celebrate."

They quaffed a couple; she giggled, they nestled.  For
some reason, they'd forgotten to bring her any meals
since yesterday's breakfast--she hadn't missed it until
now, in the rush to finish up--and the fine wine
knocked her for a loop.  Soon, she was on her back. 
It was broad daylight outside.  Her eyes were wide;
their faces were only inches apart as he gently
plucked off her glasses.  "Won't the villagers--"
Shonda sucked in her breath as Mr. T'satsu's royal
scepter was driven home; how could she have room down
there for all that?--"get suspicious?"

He looked puzzled.  "Suspicious?  Oh, sorry," and his
face split into a grin, "forgot myself.  They know."

She swallowed; despite the flush of the moment, it hit
her.  "They know?  Everybody in the village knows that
you and me--"

Her voice trailed away, replaced by squeaks of
pleasure.  The boss went at her firmly,
forcefully...rigid as a steel rod, she thought.  Her
consternation melted away; hey! she thought.  I'm
having a roll in the hay with The Chief; with the
Chairman of the Board!  She barely noticed as he rose,
dressed, kissed her hand, and left...

Hands on her arms roused her from a cotton-candy
reverie.  Her eyes snapped open.  Two tribesmen held
her firmly.  "Hey!"  Long, bare legs lashed out; a
black, sinewy hand closed around one ankle.  She
screamed.

"Don't you know us, Missus?"

She did.  Mr. T'satsu's nephew, Motu--he was a foreman
with the company--and the other fellow, the one who had
played football at Brown.  She quieted for a
moment...realized she wasn't wearing a stitch, tried to
shrink into her own skin.  "Got to come with us,
Missus," said Motu.  "End of the quarter."

Shonda squirmed in their unyielding grips.  "Let go!"
she snapped, flailing with her free leg.  No way; also
now held just as tight.  She stared at one peaceful,
impassive face, then the other; her chest heaved.

"Time to go," said the football player, and the two
easily carried their naked prey...

...out the door, past the excited crowd of children, the
men with their cel phones, the parked luxury cars. 
Shonda's shrieks blended with the hubbub of the scene;
she twisted and struggled.  Some of the villagers
ignored her; some of them eyed her intently.  And the
children danced around her merrily.  She heard a
familiar, high-pitched voice.  "Cracky!"  He was
scampering along beside them as the two men lugged
Shonda through the village, past the little buildings,
the police department, the physician's office, the
Events Building...decorated with a banner reading,
RECEPTION TO-NIGHT...

She looked at the raucously happy little boy, stopped
in mid-scream.  "Where are they taking me?" she
shouted over the uproar.

"The three months is up, Missus!" he hollered back. 
"Big party!  End of the quarter!"

Well...really, that didn't sound so bad; Shonda calmed a
bit.  "My clothes!" she yelled; there were now a score
or more villagers following along, as the young men
marched her toward the village square.  "I need my
clothes!"

The boy leaned over her; his eyes gleamed, his teeth
bared in a tremendous smile.  "No," he shouted back. 
"You don't!"

She didn't.

There was a pole in the square, a tether attached to
it.  The men set her down; Motu tied the tether firmly
around her neck, while the jock bound her hands behind
her back with coarse hemp, then tied her feet.  As
they stepped away, the villagers began arriving.

Sprawled on the ground, bound and helpless, Shonda had
never seen the people of the village like this.  The
expensive clothes were gone, replaced by native
dress--colorful blouses, loincloths, elaborate jewelry.
 And yet, there was the company's Vice-President for
Mercantile Affairs...gesticulating wildly as he barked
orders into his cel phone, one bare foot rubbing
against the other as if he were still shod in $150
Johnston Murphys.  And there was the Director of
Metallurgic Research, in a crouch, tapping feverishly
into a laptop perched on a mound of sod, eyes peering
through horn-rimmed glasses.  And there in front of
her, in a spectacularly colorful sarong sort of thing,
was--

"Ashasha!" Shonda cried, thinking, She's always got me
outdressed!  The native woman's impressive physique
swelled the bust and derriere of her wrap; she smiled
at her temporary assistant.

"Impressive," said Ashasha, as she slowly circled the
trembling, naked girl.  She reached down, squeezed one
of Shonda's full thighs, remarked, "I see our local
diet has agreed with you," as the natives whooped with
laughter.

"Now, I want you to remain perfectly still, Shonda,"
her supervisor continued.  "You must remain fixed and
focused, for this next step is extremely important." 
As she spoke, two other women quickly moved to either
side of Shonda; one grabbed her long blonde hair,
shoved her face into the ground.  Shonda protested,
and then suddenly yelped--for her rectum had been
invaded by a cold, long, narrow...ooooohhhhh!  She felt
herself fill, and fill, and she thought she'd
burst--then, the object was pulled free, and what was
inside Shonda was spilling out onto the ground around
her.

She cried as the women flushed her a second time, then
a third.  "Running clean," Ashasha proclaimed.  "Quite
good; efficient work."  Shonda lay sniffling, only to
start bawling again as a hose was trained on her,
rinsed her clean, sprayed the long, lush grasses
beneath her free of taint.  "Now, the preparation!"

Shonda looked up; a massive man loomed over her,
several others clustering around him.  The big man
clapped his pudgy hands; the others quickly surrounded
her, and Shonda felt a dozen hands fondling her bare
skin, massaging her, rubbing her, squeezing her--what
is this?  And then, her nostrils were assaulted by
pungent odors.

"Native spices," said a familiar voice.  "Authentic
Ugandan cuisine."

Sure enough, there the bastard was.  A headdress that
made him look vaguely buffalo-like adorned his
pepper-and-salt hair; a great crimson cape flowed
behind him, fixed to his bare shoulders by a golden
sash.  A matted leopard skin was wrapped around his
narrow hips.  He looked, well, ridiculous.

"Mr. T'satsu," she said, as firmly as a bound and
naked woman could under the circumstances--the fat
guy's flunkies were all over her, rubbing the fragrant
dusts into her--"please tell these people to let me
go."

"You see, my dear," said the Chairman of the Board of
Directors of Lowlands Mining Co., Ltd., as he looked
down, frowned and adjusted his sash, "this is our way
of celebrating the seasons, as did our ancestors. 
Every quarter, we bring in a new Temporary Accountant,
like yourself; every quarter, when the books are
finished--well, you've seen how hard we all work.  We
allow ourselves a day of celebration; a day of great
merriment, and feast."

"Wonderful!" Shonda said through gritted teeth,
straining at the hemp that held her wrists and ankles,
"it sounds like a great party!" One of the assistants
looked up at the fat guy and nodded; he clapped again.
 There was something going on behind Shonda; tribesmen
were laughing and pointing.  She looked up at the
boss, eyes welling up.  "What are you going to do with
me?"

"Ready," said a Fat Guy Assistant.  Another untied the
tether around Shonda's neck; two of them picked her
up, turned her around.

"A copper pot, of course," said Mr. T'satsu behind
Shonda, as she stared at the huge cauldron filled with
water, tufts of flame billowing up from beneath it. 
"Symbolic of how far we've come as a people.  From
crude primitives to sophisticated, productive citizens
of the brave new world.  I beg your pardon; N'Gomo! 
Have you got the yams?"

As the two men held Shonda's knees apart, the burly
N'Gomo arrived, brandishing the starchy vegetables. 
They glistened wetly with some sort of grease; felt
slick against her labia.  "Open up, Missus," he
grinned, and she howled as the pointed tip probed her,
then slid into her--even deeper than old T'satsu, she
decided through the pain.  They flipped her; already
rubbed raw by the steel pipe, her bunghole felt like
it was being traced with a razor as the sweet potato
was driven in.  She screamed, a sound lost through the
bustle, the native jabber, the rumble of drums, the
insistent staccato of a beeper...

Shonda bucked feebly, her breasts bouncing and
buttocks jiggling, as the men marched with her to the
pot.  Thin fingers of steam were already wafting from
the broth within; she stared at the enormous mouth of
the pot, made one last strain at her bindings.  "In,"
commanded the Chief, and they plopped her in.

Her skin screamed in protest; every square inch of her
felt the pain.  The hot water lapped at her nipples;
her skin quickly reddened.  Shonda's tears flowed
freely, mixed with the salty water; the fat
guy--"Trained in the culinary arts in Paris," Mr.
T'satsu told her--chopped into the pot leafy
vegetables, bulbous onions, colorful roots.  Her
screams gave way to intermittent gasps, incoherent
yelps, and an occasional plea for mercy; scraps of the
vegetables decorated her skin as Paris Boy whittled
away at his produce.  The heat was unbearable; Shonda
thrashed in what was becoming a vegetable broth,
feeling her very flesh start to cook, its humours seep
into the liquid.  Her eyes were clenched, leaking
tears; finally, she heard the crowd quiet, and opened
her eyes.  Her boss, her lover--the Chairman!--stood
before her, holding a mango.

"I did want to tell you," he said, after he had rammed
the pulpy fruit into her mouth with one hand, holding
her head with the other, "that you were the best the
ExIm company has sent.  Top drawer work."

As the naked girl peered at him in anguish, teeth
clenched around the mango, sweat and her own juices
pouring from her skin, the broth in which she simmered
started to roll to a full boil...

"Quite so!" proclaimed M'Buto as he rifled through the
annual report.  "The Number Three mine boosted
productivity eighteen percent!  I told you so!"  He
set the report down on the piano, sucked another chunk
of Shonda's thigh off the long wooden pick on his
plate.

The Board of Directors was holding its annual
reception; while an orchestra played in the ballroom
of the Events Building, the French Chef's minions
dished up slivers of breast and buttock from the
boiled, reddened carcass that rested, surrounded by
fresh grapes and ripe cheeses, on a platter at the
serving station.  Shonda's eyes were wide and
unseeing; her mouth still gripped the mango.  Liberal
portions of her had already been cut away, one tiny
serving at a time; bone showed through the soft, pink
meat of her shoulder, slabs had been sliced from her
loin.

The vegetables that had simmered with her were in a
massive bowl nearby; the tribespeople spooned helpings
from it next to their pieces of Shonda, savoring each
bite.  They had shed the colorful, traditional attire,
and were in suits and evening gowns as they talked
about their portfolios, their investments, the flavor
of the blonde American on the platter compared to the
girls from Switzerland, from the Netherlands, from New
Zealand.  The next Temporary Accountant would arrive
in the morning; she was, one of the Board members
said, a French Canadian lass.  A redhead...

"The fund was up year to year again," commented the
Vice-President for Mercantile Affairs; he used a
small, silver cocktail fork to impale bits of belly
meat, then chunks of leek and okra from the bowl.  Mr.
Chairman!" he said around a mouthful of human flesh. 
"Another outstanding quarter."

Mr. T'satsu, resplendent in pearl gray, nodded, winked
at the man in the apron, who smiled back and handed
him a plate from behind the counter.  The Chairman
glanced down at it, at the two large nipples upon it.

"Thank you, gentlemen," he proclaimed, spearing a
nipple with a fork.  "We couldn't have done it," he
continued, nibbling on the meat, "without a great deal
of help."




		
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