Eating Diamonds
A second person vore fic
By X, for Filter and Las Fas
You wake up, confused for a moment as to why you’re so happy. You stretch your arms and sit up, scratching your head. As you sit up, the flood of memories come back. You grin and throw some pants over your naked legs. You stand and listen to your knees pop. You arch your back and head downstairs to the kitchen. A row of knives line the magnetic strip you have placed above your sink. You grab the handle of the longest carving knife just as you hear a light moan coming from your basement. The grin on your face spreads wider. You rub the blade on your naked chest, feeling the cool chill of metal on bare skin before sticking the handle of the blade in your pants. The moan repeats, a little louder this time. “Coming!” you shout in a sing-song voice. You reach above the sink, this time to the shelves above the knifes. You grab a glass and fill it with tapwater. It goes down your throat in a single swallow. You set the cup in the otherwise spotless sink, and grab a paring knife and a cleaver. With a blade in each hand and one in your jeans, you walk to the door of your basement.
The door’s handle is cold, but the tile on your bare feet is colder. The door creaks open and you are met with an absolute darkness. You reach your hand forward, feeling on the wall for the light switch. It snaps on, and the lights take a second to go on. Enjoying the fluorescent buzz, you step into the basement. The walls around you are dark, and the steps are practically invisible. As you descend, the steps get brighter and brighter until finally, you’re standing at the bottom. The room smells of fresh dirt, and is bare except for the lights hanging on the roof above a single table. Another moan escapes from under the blanket on the table. Without any further adieu, you walk forward and rip off the blanket. Underneath, tied spread-eagled on it, was a white pony with a purple mane. Her eyes (for it was obviously a female) were closed, but her mouth was open, a rivulet of drool running down the left side of her face. You stand over her for a full minute, almost laying, breathing in as she breathes out and breathing out as she breathes in, forming an intimate bond no kiss could ever compete with. A bubble comes out of her throat and pops on the surface of the saliva, breaking the moment.
“This is it,” you say aloud. The moment I’ve been waiting for. You stick the cleaver next to the carving knife and reach into your pocket for the handkerchief filled with smelling salts. You caress the mare’s nose with it, and watch her stutter back to consiousness.
“Hello? Where am I? Who are you? What are you doing?” Fear fills her voice as you simply stare at her. “Please, untie me. I don’t want to be here anymore.” You stand, silently and unblinkingly. The only movement you make is the rise and fall of your chest as you stand, her silent sentinel. Your stoic nature is broken as you see a tear run down her blue eye. “Please, for the love of Celetia. Let me go.” You stick the handkerchief back in your pocket and grab the cleaver.
You hold the knife an inch from her eye, enjoying the look of terror sweep over her face. “Do you know what this is?” You ask. A dam breaks inside her, it seems. She’s crying openly now, tear running in rivers down her face. You take the knife and slide the back end across the track of tears running down her face. “It’s a knife. Do you know what I’m going to do with it?” She cries harder and harder. The joy you felt slowly building suddenly turns to anger. “Shut the fuck up, bitch! SHUT THE HELL UP AND ANSWER ME!” Her sobs stop instantly, overcome with hiccups. “You... You... You’re going to set me free?” You laugh. Tears run down her face, soaking into the fur. “Eventually. But for now, I think I want to play.” Silent sobs course through her body, shaking the table. You allow this disobedience to continue. You place the knives in your hands on the floor, and go upstairs. You hear a hiccupy, sobbing voice come from below. “Please, could you leave the lights on?” A smile crosses your face as you flick the switch and close the door. You run up the stairs, as giddy as a schoolgirl. You rummage through your dresser before finding a belt. You wrap it around your bicep as you head to the closet, grabbing a dowel rod and some ties. You head back to the basement and put your ear to the door, listening for any sort of sound. You stand there for two minutes before deciding it’s time to go down.
The trip down the stairs is uneventful, but when you hit the base you smell something new. A smell of urine has started to overpower the sweet smell of dirt. Anger flashes over your face for a split second, replaced quickly by an expressionless glaze. You walk over to the mare, and say simply “Name.”
“What?”
“Name.”
“Rarity. Please, please don’t hurt me, I just wan-”
You cut her off with a swift gesture. “Stop whining. What is about to happen will hurt you far more than it will hurt me. But there’s a sort of pleasure in pain, is there not?” Her whimpering began to intensify. You speak louder to cover the sound of her voice. “You have two choices. You can fight it, which will only make it hurt worse. Or you can enjoy it, letting the pain sweep over you, through you, in you. It’s entirely up to you.”
The whimpering intensified. “Are you ready?”
Suddenly she began screaming. “HELP! OH SOMEPONY HELP ME! FOR THE LOVE OF CELESTIA, PLEASE HELP ME!” In one fluid motion, you drop to the floor and grab the paring knife.
“THE BAD MAN IS GOING TO CUT ME! DON’T LET HIM CUT ME! PLEASE, SOMEONE HE-AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!”
You listen to her scream as you twist the knife into the diamonds on her left rear leg. You allow her to scream like that for exactly three seconds before you bring the knife to her eye again. “You will be quiet now.” She ignores you, taking a deep breath in order to scream again. You reach forward with your empty hand and grab her throat, squeezing tightly. “I said enough. Or the next place this knife goes is into your pretty eye.” Her gaze fixes on you, but the eyes aren’t filled with any sort of comprehension. Just panic. You raise the knife to her eye, making sure she focuses on it. You open your mouth and run your tongue on the blade, letting the sweet taste of her blood fill your mouth. Her attention suddenly snaps to your face as you rub the knife on your cheeks and forehead, using her blood as warpaint. “That was a warning. Your only warning. Refrain from screaming or you will regret it.”
You slowly let go of her throat, and her lungs fill with gasping sobs. You walk over to her bloody leg, listening to her tears. “I am going to explain what I’m doing as I do it. I will not speak any louder than this. If you wish to hear me, you will SHUT YOUR GODDAMN YAP!” Rarity began to choke. You wait as she clears her airways. Her sobs are dramatically reduced. “Now. I am going to take this belt here, and apply it over the leg above the cut. I am going to pull it tight. It will hurt. But it will hurt less than if I did not use the belt.” You slide the belt down her leg, making it a point to go past the gushing leg wound. You pull tight and listen to her gasp. A smile plays across your bloody lips. You let it sit for five minutes before you reach for the carving knife on the floor. “I am now going to remove this leg. It should be deadened enough that you won’t feel much. It might help you if you don’t watch.”
Sobs began to come from Rarity’s mouth again. Ignoring her, you swing the knife deep into her flesh, feeling it sink into the bone. Blood began to fall out of the new cut, but not much. Most of it had already fallen out of her cutie mark, dying the fur a deep crimson. You make short work of the skin, connective tissues, muscle, fat, tendons, and nerves, working with a practiced speed.You bare an inch of bone. You reach your hand and rub the cleaned bone with your finger before swinging the handle of the cleaver. The bone snaps and Rarity screams. You pull her leg off and reach underneath the table for the sedative stored underneath. You quickly shove the needle deep into her soft stomach, pushing the plunger deep. She tries to struggle, but passes out within eight seconds. You stand there, waiting until the only sounds coming from the table become the steady drip of blood landing on the floor and the light moaning sound of Rarity breathing. With the worst part done, you pick the knives off the table and floor. The leg you wrap around your neck like a scarf, and begin climbing the staircase for the last time today. You reach the kitchen and place the leg on the counter, cutie mark up. You reach under your counter and remove a cutting board that you place under the bloody cut of meat. With surgical precision, you slit the leg from hoof to thigh. Dropping the knife, you jam your fingers into the cut, savoring the feeling of warmth. You begin to peel the skin from the fat, the sickly stripping sound music to your ears. You hear a small tune, and realize you’re humming. You allow the noise to continue as you feel the skin tear from the leg. You take the bloody cut of skin and set it in the sink, where you run cold water over it. You reach for the large container of salt you have in your seasonings cupboard, and pour it over the bloody pool of skin and water.
Taking the paring knife, you work on cutting the well-marbled meat from the leg. Soon, the bone is clean and you have a pile of flesh sitting on a cutting board. Using the cleaver, you cut the meat into inch-thick strips. You lay the strips out and liberally apply salt and pepper to the meat. Going below the sink, you take out a bowl. You head to the fridge and open the door, blood coating the handle. You reach in and pull out a large bottle of Pepsi and pour it into the bowl. Setting down the bottle, you grab the cleaver and begin cutting the strips into cubes and depositing them into the bowl. The soda fizzes as the meat hits, and the smell that hits your nose makes your stomach grumble. You finish the cutting as quickly as possible and begin to clean the blood from your counter.
With that done, you drop your pants in the middle of the floor and go take a shower, the hot water washing the blood crusted on your face and chest down the drain. The soap turns the bloody flow into a fluffy pink that you try not to focus on. You savor the warmth for exactly thirteen minutes before you step out and dry yourself off. Naked and still damp, you head back into the now clean kitchen. You stick your hands into the sink and pull out the skin. You wring it between your hands and tack it to the wall before walking over to the stove. Underneath the stove, you pull out a large pot and place it on the closest burner. You flick on the burner and head back to the fridge. You head back, arms filled with butter, milk, and assorted vegetables. You make quick work of the onions and peppers, dicing them and throwing them into the pot before adding a stick of butter. You wait for the butter to melt before adding the milk and other sliced foodstuffs. You reach to the bowl in the sink and pull out the freshly marinated chunks of meat, dropping them into the simmering pot by the handful. You stir the mix, intoxicated by the smell. After 21 minutes, you carefully lower the temperature of the pot to a low boil. You add some seasonings, and go watch TV for another 34 minutes as the stew simmers. Eventually, the smell entices you to the point that you can’t stand it anymore.
You head to the kitchen, the skin on the wall having dried. You pull the pot off the stove, setting it on a pot holder you have placed on the table. You sit down before realizing you don’t have a bowl. Correcting the mistake, you sit once more, allowing the smells to overwhelm you. You ladle the soup into your bowl and take the first bite, its rich juices flowing down your chin. You close your eyes and savor the taste, chewing 55 times before finally swallowing. After that, you gorge yourself, eating bowl after bowl until you’re so stuffed, you can no longer walk. You sit at the table and fall asleep, the pot of stew nearly half gone.
