ONCE upon a time, deep within the great forests of Germany, dwelt a widowed mother and her two children. The boy was called Hans and the girl, Greta. They were twins, blessed from birth with tremendous beauty and born of the same tall, trim build with fair skin and hair of gold, like their mother.

In fact, they were both so hot that throughout high school they had to put up with a lot of jokes and rumors about incest from their classmates about incest. Oh, it was true that the brother and sister had stolen a few glances at one another over the years, as Hans put on muscles and Greta’s body developed. But despite Europe’s open-minded laissez-faire attitudes about sexuality, they still managed to respect the incest taboo.

The twins shared a single dream: to escape their idyllic (but dull) lives in the Bavarian countryside and one day move to America, where they would become high fashion runway models. They believed their chances were good, for in addition to having well-sculpted young bodies they also had angular, symmetrical faces. After coming home from school they’d practice posing in the mirror for hours to perfect their most bland and affectless expressions possible.

Their mother, Monika, enthusiastically supported her children’s dreams and shortly after their 18th birthday, revealed she had a surprise for them:

“My children, I have a friend who lives in America. She’s an art dealer in Los Angeles, who owns a house in the Hollywood Hills. She’s very wealthy and wise. If you go there, she will let you stay in her home and help you get your careers started!”

The sexy teens were overjoyed by this news, and began daydreaming constantly about how they’d soon have glamorous new lives as European fashion models living in LA.

Later that week, Hans was packing his travel bag when he overheard his mother on the phone downstairs:

“Yes, Wendy, the kids are going to be so happy to meet you! ... What? ... No, Hans has been keeping himself in very good shape. There’s not an ounce of fat on him!”

Beaming with pride, Hans unconsciously stood up a little straighter. He was sure that his lean build would be quite the asset for him in the modeling world.

“And Greta? Yes, she’s kept herself in very good shape as well. I know you two will get on famously. She’s going to have quite the career ahead of her. I know you have so much to teach her.”

Hans smiled, and returned to packing his luggage for the journey. He was so excited to meet this Wendy woman!

The two siblings were seen off by their mother the next morning at the train station. She gave them each a peck on the cheek. They were nervous, but happy.

“I hope we can make it to your friend’s house safely after our plane lands, mother” said Greta. “I’ve heard there’s a lot of crime in America.”

“Don’t worry, sis” said Hans. “I promise I’ll protect you.”

After a gruelingly long flight, Hans and Greta arrived in LA. They took an airport taxi to the Hollywood Hills, setting out to find the home of Wendy, their mother’s friend.

Worried about running out of money, they had foolishly allowed the driver to drop them off some ways from Wendy’s address. With only one travel bag each, they told themselves it would be good exercise to walk the rest of the way after being cooped up in the plane for so long.

But they sorely underestimated the city’s hostility to pedestrians, especially in this uphill, upscale neighborhood. Very soon the twins were huffing and puffing along the steep roads and their clothes were soaked with sweat.

Adding to this misfortune, they did not have their cell phone service set up in America yet, and so were forced to follow directions to the old-fashioned way: from notes jotted on a piece of paper.

This might have worked fine, if only Hans had not forgotten that important piece of paper in the taxi cab that was now long gone.

Tensions ran higher when Greta recognized some of the same houses, and realized that they’d wound their way around into a circle. Frustrations became worse when their stomaches reminded them that neither sibling had eaten anything since their flight.

Hans had but a half-eaten bagel left in his bag, and feebly suggested using it to leave a trail of breadcrumbs along the street to mark their path. Greta rolled her eyes at this idiocy, and told him to hand over the bagel, which she hungrily devoured.

At last, to their great relief, Hans and Greta found the correct house. They were just in time, for the sun was setting in the smog-hazed sky and enveloping the hills in darkness.

It was a two-story home, with highly eccentric architecture that might have best belonged in a carnival. For it looked as though it were constructed from bread and covered in candy, down to its windows that seemed frosted with sugar.

The twins, almost delirious from lack of food after their long walk, were instantly entranced by the sight of this house. Approaching it, they instinctively ran their hands along the exterior as if to verify that the dwelling were not actually made of food. Such a thing was impossible; it must be their weary, hungry minds playing tricks on them...

A woman’s voice startled the twins:

“Who’s that picking at my house?”

Hans and Greta saw her standing outside, on the house’s front porch. They hadn’t even heard the door open. It was as though she’d just appeared out of thin air!

The woman was a mature beauty with pale porcelain skin, an hourglass figure and a long mane of wavy, raven-black hair (with just a few streaks of gray.)

Her posture was almost regal, and her arms were folded across her chest below her heavy set of breasts. She regarded Hans and Greta with an impish, black-lipsticked smile spread wide across her oval face.

Complimenting her black hair, the woman was dressed almost entirely in black: from the black mini-dress hugging her curves, to the sheer black thigh-high stockings revealing a flash of creamy thigh-flesh, to her gaudy wide-brimmed black hat.

The only part of her outfit that wasn’t black were a pair of red high-heeled shoes, covered in sequins that glittered in the evening twilight.

The twins were stunned. This peculiarly dressed woman had to be, of course, their mother’s friend Wendy, even if she seemed slightly too young for them to have grown up together.

It was also hard for them to believe that their mother, seemingly a typical German hausfrau by all outward appearances, might have been friends with such an eccentric at any point in her past.

Still it was best not to gawk at the woman who had so generously promised to take a couple of strangers in on good faith, as a favor to their mother.

They certainly wouldn’t comment on that big silly hat of hers. Los Angeles was full of free-spirited “creative types” with bizarre fashion affectations and they’d do well to get used to that, if they wanted to work among them.

“You must be Wendy!” said Greta, greeting her with open arms.

“Indeed I am!” she replied.

Greta was surprised to find that despite her and Hans’ height of 6 feet, this lady still had a couple of inches on her when they hugged.

Wendy embraced Hans next, not seeming to mind that both of were covered in sweat.

“Pleased to meet you too!” she said.

As they stepped back from each other, the boy caught the older woman’s eyes running up and down his sinewy form, taking stock of him.

Well, he thought, That IS to be expected. I am a handsome young man, and she no doubt makes herself available to handsome young men, being an old maid with some money. I wonder if she’ll expect me to sleep with her during our stay here, in exchange for her hospitality?

Hans allowed his own eyes to go wandering around Wendy’s tall, voluptuous figure. She certainly kept herself in great shape, and he was quite drawn to her long legs, clad in silky stockings and so gracefully balanced on those dainty little feet that arched perfectly in her sparkly red high heels.

He wondered if her toenails were painted black, to match her long black fingernails? And he wondered what those long fingernails might feel like, raking across his broad back while he pinned her down.

Of course we’d have to keep it secret from mother! But it wouldn’t be so bad. She’s quite beautiful, for an older woman!

Greta frowned as she observed how her brother and her mother’s friend ogled each other. She’d been afraid of this, knowing her brother had a fancy for older women and sometimes took advantage of lonely housewives in their village back home. If he were to sleep with their mother’s friend before they found a place of their own, it could seriously complicate matters.

“Wendy” she said, interrupting their lustful silent appraisals. “If I may call you that? Uh, how did you know we were here already? We didn’t even ring your doorbell.”

The oddly striking woman laughed, and waved a hand dismissively.

“Oh, I smelled you coming” she said. “I’ve got a nose like a wolf!”

Greta blushed, knowing that she and her brother had been perspiring a lot during their trek to find Wendy’s house.

“And just look at you two!” their hostess continued. “No wonder Monika encouraged you to come here. You’re both soooooooo gorgeous! I’ll bet you land your first modeling contract by the end of this week!”

She pinched Hans’ cheek between her fingers, as if he were a little boy.

“I could just eat you up!”

Then she turned to Greta, and winked.

“And you look like a dainty mouthful too, dearie.”

Greta raised an eyebrow. Maybe this good-faith favor to her mother had an unsavory ulterior motive...

“I can’t believe you’re a friend of our mother’s!” grinned Hans. “You look so young!”

Fabulous, Greta thought to herself sarcastically. He’s already flirting with her!

“Oh, no” laughed Wendy, shaking her head. “Me, I’m as old as the hills.”

“The Hollywood Hills?” asked Hans.

Greta and Wendy’s eye met, and after a moment’s silence they shared a discrete snicker.

“It’s a good thing he’s a looker!” whispered Wendy, so quietly that Greta didn’t even see the woman’s black lips moving.

The young girl giggled. Perhaps she would like this woman, if she could just maintain a respectful distance from her brother ... and maybe herself, as well.

“I’m glad we found your place when we did,” continued Hans. “I was worried there might be some weirdos crawling around this part of LA. You know, killer hippies and so on.”

“Killer hippies!” laughed Wendy.

“Just something my brother saw in an American movie” explained Greta.

He really is dumb, she thought, looking at Wendy.

And then, an extraordinary thing happened.

As Wendy looked back at her, Greta heard the woman’s voice. Only this time, her lips definitely weren’t moving. And yet she still heard the woman’s voice inside her head, clear as a bell!

Dumb, said Wendy, But quite the tasty looking morsel, eh dearie?

Greta’s jaw dropped. She was about to ask what had just happened... Had she accidentally spoken her thoughts out loud? How had Wendy managed to throw her voice like that?... when Wendy returned her attention to Hans.

“Oh, you saw it in a movie!” she said. “Well, that explains it. Children, you mustn’t believe everything you see in films. There are plenty of weirdos wandering about this city, but I assure you that these hills are very exclusive and safe. No harm shall come to you here. But as it is getting dark, and you must be tired ... please, dears! Come inside, come inside!”

Wendy pushed open the heavy wooden front door, although to Greta it almost seemed as though the woman merely waved it open.

Watching the two siblings enter her home, she waited until they’d passed by before licking her lips in giddy anticipation.

“I’ll take good care of you” she chuckled to herself.

Once inside Wendy’s lavish house, Hans and Greta were immediately awestruck by the impressive array of priceless antiques that furnished her parlor.

A giant oriental carpet covering the floor. Set on top of it were a Victorian-style chaise lounge, several rococo chairs and in one corner of the room, a magnificent grand piano that could have belonged to Beethoven himself. Hanging from the ceiling was a huge chandelier, that twinkled in the light with real crystal.

Greta knew it was one thing to live in the Hollywood Hills, but being surrounded by such luxury meant Wendy was truly wealthy. Perhaps she’d come from old money?

And if that were the case, it still begged the question... How did their mother, a widower of humble means living six thousand miles away in Europe, ever come to know such a woman?

She looked at Hans, and saw that instead of staring at the expensive old furniture, he was observing a section of wall where several oil paintings had been hung.

Greta gasped.

This art was not exactly what one would expect from such sophisticated surroundings.

Oh, the work itself was excellent. Expertly rendered compositions with rich colors, evocative use of light, and masterful understanding of perspective and human anatomy.

But their subject matter... !

The first one to catch her eye must have been a couple hundred years old. It depicted some kind of powdered and wigged noblewoman, a stately duchess (perhaps the infamous Countess Bathory?) seated at a dinner table, with knife and fork in hand.

And the meal on her plate? It was a tiny man, naked as a baby and small as a rabbit!

Greta blinked in bewilderment at this bizarre artwork, then looked at another painting to its right.

This one was probably from the same era, and showed an outdoor hut located in some kind of deep, lush jungle from the Congo of Africa. Standing in it was a pretty native woman, with skin black as night. She was only wearing a grass skirt, and her full round breasts were exposed shamelessly under the glaring tropical sun.

She held a curved blade high over her head, and was happily chopping up the meat of some animal whose cuts were piled up or hanging from hooks in the primitive butcher’s shop.

Greta spotted a human head among those piles, and also noticed some of those “cuts” were human arms and legs. A pile of clerical clothing told the tale; this had recently been some unfortunate white missionary who’d failed to proselytize the savages.

Despite the horror of the scene, Greta allowed herself a smirk at this. She was proud to consider herself a supporter of decolonization, and couldn’t feel too sorry for the man.

The third and final painting looked to be the work of the same artist as the other two, and it was pure Brueghelian pandemonium: a large gathering of young women around Greta’s own age, encircled around a roaring fire in the darkness of night, cavorting and dancing orgiastically like she-demons in the flames of hell.

There was little surprise in seeing that over this bonfire was a naked man, skewered from his rear end through his mouth by an iron pole and being roasted like a human kebab.

The grotesque nature of this didn’t bother Greta so much. She was more transfixed by the artistry that had gone into the illustration, for under skilled hands, such a nightmarish vision looked ... well, she’d hesitate to say pretty, but it did hold a certain evocative power. Something about the use of color and texture actually made that man on the skewer almost look... appetizing.

Before she could question her own thoughts or those curious new feelings the painting was stirring up in her, Greta was distracted by a smaller detail within it:

Why were some of these cavorting cannibal girls holding cell phones?

Just then, she felt Wendy’s presence materialize behind her and Hans, and she stared down at them from between their shoulders.

“Admiring my little art collection?”

Greta shook herself out of the trance. How long had she and Hans been standing here, lost in thought as they gazed upon this gruesome gallery?

“Oh, uh yes” answered Greta. “They’re very, um, striking!”

“I actually know this artist personally” boasted Wendy. “I’ve even sold some of her pieces and arranged a few private gallery showings for her. She’s tremendously talented, don’t you think?”

“Yes” agreed Greta. “Although, I - I did think they must have been older works, at least until I noticed those phones in this last one! Your home seems to have so many other beautiful old things. Like a treasure trove!”

“Thank you” she said. “I just hope you don’t count me as one of those ‘old things’! I do like to consider myself a woman of fine tastes, though. Isn’t that what’s best in life? The cultivation of a refined palate?”

Hans narrowed his eyes at the paintings.

“It is pretty gross stuff though, isn’t it? All those men being eaten? They’re like scenes out of horror films.”

Greta shot him a glare, but Wendy didn’t seem to mind the boy’s insolence.

“Don’t forget you’re in Hollywood, my dear. This is a very open-minded town, when it comes to such avant-garde aesthetics. I recall that your mother was a similarly free-spirited, ah, consumer of unusual tastes, many years ago.”

“Mother would faint, if she saw such paintings as these!” laughed Hans. “And by the way, how is it that you look so much younger than our mother? If you grew up together, I mean? Just how old are you, anyhow?”

“Hans!!!” hissed Greta.

But once again, Wendy took the boy’s lack of social propriety in stride.

“Let’s just say it’s a number that begins with six” she smiled.

The twins were dumbfounded by this admission. Their mother Monika was just over 40, and this woman didn’t even look like she was nearing her 60s yet.

Wendy giggled at the disbelief on their faces.

“You must think me quite the old hag, eh? Especially in this youth-oriented culture of ours. Well, there are magic workers in this town when it comes to staying vibrant.”

So that was it, thought Greta. Plastic surgery. She could certainly afford it, judging by all this expensive décor!

The twins felt Wendy’s hands clasp their shoulders. Her long, slender fingers were more bony and claw-like than they looked, but her voice was smooth as honey.

“Have a seat, children, and let me get you something to eat. You must be famished!”

“Oh, yes!” cried Hans.

“That would be lovely, we’re starving!” agreed Greta.

The strangeness of their hostess and her house had been so distracting, they’d temporarily forgotten how hungry they were. But now they both felt the emptiness of their stomachs, and sharply.

Hans and Greta turned away from the gallery wall and found places to sit down. Greta chose a plush velvet chair, and Hans a wicker recliner. It felt good to finally be off their tired, weary feet.

Relaxing into her seat, Greta watched Wendy as she sauntered out the room. Without looking, she knew that Hans was watching her closely too, especially the rolling sway of her hips.

Wendy moved so elegantly that she almost seemed to glide above the floor, rather than walk. Greta couldn’t even hear the click of her heels. She frowned, suddenly feeling clumsy and uncouth by comparison to a woman of such high class like Wendy.

Could I ever learn to carry myself so gracefully?

She also had to admire the woman’s fashion sense. Surely on anyone else, such a big black hat would look absurd, especially being worn indoors! But somehow, on her, it looked just right.

“Hey” she heard her brother say. “Look at these.”

Hans had found a small stack of photographs left out on a side table, and Greta leaned over to look as he flipped through them like a deck of cards.

They were all photos of them. Starting from their baby pictures and going through primary school, all the way up through the years to their current young adulthood.

“I guess mother must have mailed these over to her” remarked Hans.

“Yes” said Greta.

My brother, she thought. Master of the obvious, as always. I only hope he doesn’t embarrass me any further during our stay, or Wendy might think twice about helping us, friend of our mother or not.

“Can you believe that artwork she has?” asked Hans. “Why are rich people willing to pay thousands for such disgusting things?”

“Keep your voice down” said Greta. “It’s because rich people are willing to buy such things that she has this house to let us stay in.”

“But why you think she has art like that?”

Greta rolled her eyes. “I don’t know, maybe because she likes it?”

“Well I think it’s nasty” her brother griped. “Just some sick shit for old rich perverts to get off on.”

“I kind of like it...” said Greta quietly.

Hans didn’t hear her, and continued.

“Do you really think she can help us break into modeling? What does the art world have to do with the modeling world, anyhow?”

“Important people know each other” answered Greta.

She looked back at the kitchen doorway just as Wendy reappeared through it, carrying two plates over to the brother and sister.

Atop her left hand was a charming, artisanal little candied gingerbread house, which she handed to Hans. It seemed to have been modeled on her own house, in miniature.

And in her right hand, a smaller plate holding a freshly baked pie with fluffy, flaky crust, and a little fork beside it.

Hans and Greta looked at their different foods, then at each other, and then back up at Wendy.

“A sweet treat for the growing boy” she said, in a perfect Bavarian dialect of German. Then added, “I baked it just this afternoon, along with this savory meat pie for the young lady.”

The brother and sister’s mouths fell open, and Wendy grinned.

“I’ve learned many languages in my time” she explained, then switched back to English: “But you’ll need to practice your new language, if you’re going to make it in America.”

“You’re certainly full of surprises!” laughed Hans.

“You have no idea!” laughed Wendy.

Neither sibling said another word, as they eagerly tucked into their respective food.

Hans didn’t even care why he’d been served desert first, rather than the more substantial meal his sister received. He was just too hungry. And at that moment, the sugary little gingerbread house on the plate in front of him tasted better than anything else he could even think to request.

Greta took the fork from her plate, and fought the urge to shovel the entire meat pie into her mouth. It smelled so delicious, like some kind of minced pork, and she was so very hungry. But still, she managed to make herself chew and swallow each bite with some respect to ladylike manners. First impressions were so important, and it wouldn’t do to come off as some kind of, well, pig in front of their hostess and benefactor.

She glanced up at Wendy, who had a funny smile as she sat and watched the twins eat.

Chewing her food, Greta glanced over at Hans - and was shocked to see that he’d already eaten the entire confection, seemingly in mere seconds... !

But before she could comment, Wendy was already on top of the situation.

“Oh!” she exclaimed. “My my, done so soon, Hans? What a greedy little piggy you are! Well, my confections can be highly addictive. Shall I get you another?”

“Yes, yes!” he replied, nodding his head eagerly like a child and sounding almost desperate.

The gracious woman took his plate, smiling sweetly.

“And how is your pie, Greta dear?”

“Wunderbar” grinned Greta.

Wendy laughed, and disappeared back into the kitchen.

Hans reclined in his seat, stared up at the ceiling chandelier and belched.

Greta returned her focus to the meat pie, allowing herself to eat more sloppily now that Wendy was in the next room.

“I wonder why she gave you a pie” her brother said, “And me that gingerbread house... ?”

Perhaps it’s because she’s sweet on you, thought Greta.

She was about to say as much, but a strange feeling cut her words short when she looked up at her brother. Gazing at Hans, the young girl got the distinct sense that something had just changed, either within her brother or herself. Maybe both?

All of a sudden, he seemed to have put on a bit of weight. This was impossible, of course, no matter how rich a single gingerbread house could be.

Why, then, did his normally well-chiseled face appear to have put on some extra fat?

Because it’s been a long day, thought Greta, And my mind is playing tricks on me.

But as she ate the last few bits of meat pie, she continued studying her brother.

He almost looks a little better with some meat on his bones, she considered. The ultra-thin look isn’t so important for models anymore, besides. Guess I can understand what Wendy saw in him...

Greta swallowed the final bite of mince pie in her mouth. Her tummy rumbled, still unsatisfied.

What was it Wendy said to him outside? That he looked good enough to EAT... ?

Maybe it was just her pent-up hunger, or the cannibal-themed art on the wall, or Wendy’s words echoing in her head... “I could just eat you up”... But Greta was now suddenly struck with the crazy, yet uncannily vivid notion that it might be a very satisfying experience to...

... Eat her brother, like that savory meat pie she’d just finished. To have him chopped up, like the cannibal African woman chopped up that missionary. To have him roasted over a fire, like that human kebab at the ladies’ cannibal party. To have his succulent cuts laid upon a plate, like that tiny man about to be eaten by a cannibal aristocrat.

Greta squeezed her eyes shut.

Why was she thinking such ridiculous things?

She wasn’t normally subject to such perverse flights of fantasy. It must be the changes in my environment, she reasoned. We’ve crossed over several time zones in the past 24 hours. We’re just in a disoriented state, from running on empty stomachs for so long. We’re just a long way from home, and in a very strange place...

“Greta?”

She looked up and saw Wendy crooking an inviting finger in her direction, from the kitchen doorway.

“Would you come in here please,” she asked, “So I can talk to you in private for a moment?”

Greta turned to Hans, assuming he’d object to being so rudely excluded for seemingly no reason.

No, her brother was completely zoned out as he laid back in his wicker recliner. He hadn’t even heard Wendy’s invitation.

She nodded silently at Wendy, then set her plate and fork down on a nearby table and stood up.

But just as soon as she was on her feet, Greta nearly wobbled over as if she’d just drank too many beers.

This heavy food must have made us woozy, she told herself, After being hungry for so many hours.

Wendy disappeared back into the kitchen and Greta stumbled along, almost tripping over as she navigated her way around the living room furniture.

The kitchen was old but immaculately clean, right down to its classic black-and-white checkered tile floor. There was a double-wide sink, extensive cupboards and a full set of pots and pans hanging from hooks underneath them.

The centerpiece of the room, however, was the industrial-sized oven with a giant glass door built right into the stone wall opposite from the entrance.

Greta walked in and saw Wendy taking off her black hat, setting it atop her tall white extra-large refrigerator.

“Oh, what a lovely kitchen!” said Greta, as Wendy shook the long ripples of her black hair loose. “Now, what was it you wanted to... ?”

Her question was interrupted as Wendy grabbed her narrow waist and pulled her close, squashing her heavy natural jugs against Greta’s small, pert tits. The older woman’s form-hugging black minidress was so tight and thin that her body felt practically naked.

Wendy tilted her head and moved in for a deep, sensual kiss, parting her black lips and probing the young girl’s mouth with her silky tongue.

Greta, startled, resisted at first. She wasn’t expecting such an advance, at least not yet, as she assumed that Wendy was mainly attracted to her brother.

She had kissed a few girls in the past herself, experimenting with her schoolgirl chums over the years and making a show of it at parties for the attention of boys she liked. But none of those kisses had ever felt anything like this!

The tighter Wendy held Greta, and the more saliva they exchanged, the more the young girl found her defenses breaking down. She was becoming intoxicated by the taste of Wendy’s mouth, and as she submitted to the mature woman’s dominant embrace she felt herself getting wet.