“If it is stuffed, tie it off. That keeps it in.”

They worked in silence for a while, he putting cutting slits into the pig's skin and shoving seasoning in. As soon as he finished, he started to lather up the entire pig in shortening from a large bucket. Sonja finished and helped him with the last bit.

When she finished, she stopped, unsure of what to do next. Wiping her slick hands on a towel, she watched as he finished. When he did, she cleared her throat. “Now what?”

“We spit it.”

Sonja ran over to where he pointed and she stopped as she found herself looking at two long metal spikes. They were slightly rusted from use and each one was tipped with a very sharp-looking point. Her breath caught in her throat as she stared at them, seeing the hundreds of spits in the shed. She never returned, but the sight of the shimmering steel still haunted some of her dreams.

Shaking, she gingerly reached out for the spit, expecting it to be warm like the ones in the shed. But, instead, they were the same temperature as the outside, not any warmer or colder. Relief flooded into her but she still hesitated to grab the spit. Her fingers curled around it and she brought it back to him.

“Good. This is the easy part. We just stick the point into one end and push it through.”

The newness of her experiences were filling her with anticipation. She brought it around and placed the sharp point where he directed. The point dug into the skin of the pig and she grabbed it with both hands. Grunting, she put her weight into it, feeling the resistance gather for a moment, then disappear as the spit plunged into the firm skin. Her gasp was mirrored by his, but hers was much different from the sudden lust that burned in his eyes. Hers was... excitement, of penetration and the feeling of domination over the meat in front of her.

Sonja managed to get it almost two-thirds through the pig before her neighbor finally stirred from his position and helped her. She saw his shorts were tented slightly and averted her eyes to focus on shoving the spit through.

When the metal poked out the other end, she felt a strange warming between her legs. It scared her, not because it was related to the overweight man helping her, but it was from the sight of the metal pole pushing out of the throat of a dead pig. Shivering violently, she helped him finish spitting the pig and stepped away, looking away from the corpse. Her eyes focused on the fire, watching the waves of heat, trying not to think of the growing flames between her legs.

Unaware of her discomfort, he cleared his throat. “We just need to get the brackets set up and get this over the fire. Then we can do the next one.”

Mechanically, she followed him, picking up two of the heavy steel brackets from the side of the house and following him. In the fire pit, he pushed away coals with the end of the spit until she saw a thick tube of steel sticking out of the ground. With long practice, he fitted the end of the bracket into it and set it down. She followed suit, the heat of the flames dancing across her naked legs and arms, leaving a layer of sweat across her skin.

The pig was harder. It was a heavy weight when she took one end of the spit and he took the other. They strained to carry it to the flame and set it down on the bracket. A few drops of shortening fell into the fire, popping as they struck the embers.

Jim stepped away from the flames, wiping his forehead. His eyes locked on her body, staring at her sweat soaked outfit, where her breasts were beginning to stick. Thankfully, her sports bra and top covered anything obscene, but his attention burned almost as hot against her skin.

“One more, then just six to eight hours of cooking.”

Sonja helped him get the other pig out and returned to stuffing it. On the second pig, she found it easier to stuff and her mind began to wander. So did his as he spoke, asking her about Illinois and her family. She answered, at first with simple words, but soon she was telling stories. As she started to get tired, she twisted his words so he was telling her stories. She listened as she shoved fistful of stuffing into the snug and gaping hole in the pig. Working mechanically, she listened with half an ear before some of his words tore her attention.

“... and then there is your haunted house.”

“Wait... what?”

He blinked, “Your house. People think it is haunted.”

Sonja paused, starting up at him with complete and utter disbelief, “You're kidding.”

Shaking his head, he stopped his own work, almost preening under the attention. “No. You hear stories, you always do. They say the place has been abandoned at least five times in the last twenty years. Most of the owners just pack up and leave.”

“Murdered?”

Jim frowned, “No, not murdered. Everything they own is gone, they just pack up in the middle of the night and leave.”

“Strange.”

“Very strange, probably the reason no one bought it for two years... well, before you moved in.”

It was obvious that Jim was glad that Sonja moved in, but his feeble attempts to be subtle were laughable. Instead, she asked him more questions about the house, but he had nothing more. However, when he finished with his gossip, the pig was done and being set on the brackets of the fire. He used another metal spike to shove the wood around, breaking the fire into a low pile of hot embers.

She sat down on the edge of the crates, watching the two pigs on the flames in rapt fascination. Jim occasionally turned one, then the other, tending to the pigs for a quarter hour. Finally happy, he shuffled over to her and sat down heavily on the other crate, after putting the top back on for a wider surface.

“Well! Thank you. That would have been so much harder by myself.”

Her eyes still locked on the pigs, her body slick and heated with her growing obsession with the spits. There was a strange twisting in her stomach... and between her legs whenever she stared at the two pigs, cooking over the shimmering heat.

“Oh, that reminds me.”

Sonja tore her eyes away from the pigs to stare at the sweating man. He looked uncomfortable for a moment.

“Since you are new, there is a bridge a few miles down the road. A burned out one.”

She nodded, remembering it well. The thought of that strange old man briefly washed through her memories. His nasty cigar, or the memory of it, was enough to send a shiver. “Yeah... I saw it.”

“I wouldn't go over there. Bad things happen.”

“Oh? What is that place?”

“Some county or city, called Dolcett or something.”

“Dolcett?” That matched the letters she saw, “Why was it burned out?”

Jim shrugged, “Who knows? But, there are some very rich people out there and they don't take kindly to strangers. Not to mention, I heard they shoot people on site, the entire island is private property.”

“Oh.”

He grinned awkwardly, “So, you probably don't want to ever visit.”

“Do people come back?”

“Who knows? I won't go there.”

Thinking for a moment, Sonja started to open her mouth to speak with a very pissed-sounding voice cut the air behind them. “Jim, go get the groceries.”

He jumped almost violently, springing to the air before coming down. With the expression of a beaten dog, he glanced at an older woman standing on the edge of the house. Anger and annoyance filled her as she gestured curtly.

Jim's eyes dropped to the ground, “Yes, dear.”

Without looking at Sonja, Jim shuffled around the house, toward the front. His wife glared at her, disgust and jealousy burning in the dull brown eyes. Sonja felt the anger as she smoothly stood up, straightening the skirt against her trim thighs. “Morning.”

“Don't bother pretending, Missy. Just go home and don't troll after my husband.”

Not even slightly interested in Jim, she shook her head. “I wouldn't even think---”

Jim's wife interrupted her, “I don't care.”