Morsel

Chapter 3

Chapter 3

I wring my fingers together, numbing my nerves. Sway Gallery sits like a birthday cake, the windows brightly-lit candles, people happily gathering inside to celebrate Mona’s art.

I keep the street between us, my body hidden in the shadows. My stiff button-up shirt itches my neck, and I run my fingers around the collar in an attempt to loosen it. Mona made me come here. I’m uneasy, and yet, I’m ready for her.

I cross the street and reach for the door handle, but then I freeze. A small paper sign is taped next to the door in bold typewriter letters, the edge of the last word smeared with a fingerprint: Enter At Your Discretion. A red umbrella is painted above the words, the tool shielding the ominous warning. It reminds me of a roadblock outside of a haunted house: Enter if you dare.

“You going in, man?” a male voice asks just as a cloying waft of perfume registers. I don’t turn around to look at the man and woman I know are behind me. A feminine chuckle flutters nervously in the air, and I sigh heavily. I’m already irritated by the crowd here.

It will be worth it though. It has to be worth it.

Mona is worth it.

I hold my breath and shove myself inside.

Spotlights illuminate each piece of art. In the far corner, a wheel of white bras and blood-dripped dollar bills spins, and in the back, there’s some sort of circle, a wreath maybe. I inch closer and realize that the wreath is made of mannequin limbs. On the walls, there are monochrome photographs of dismembered mannequin pieces too: dull lips sawed from a face; a plastic hand in the shape of a circle; a head with a gaping hole in the mouth.

My heart races. This is good. Maybe she destroyed the mannequin limbs because she wanted more from them.

Maybe she is exactly what I want.

The onlookers hold their wine glasses and whisper to each other, pointing dainty fingers at each piece. A sticky film of sweat covers me. I don’t like people. Being at a party or in a group feels like being outside of my own skin. Even if I tell myself that Mona’s art is a sign that we’re meant for each other, it doesn’t change the fact I don’t belong here.

“Wine, sir? Or perhaps a craft beer?” a server asks. I examine his drink tray. “May I interest you in the open bar next to?—”

Mona told me to meet her in the bathroom.

“Where’s the toilet?” I ask.

“The Elimination Craftsmanship is in the hallway,” he says. “The only door. You can’t miss it.”

Elimination Craftsmanship? What the fuck?

I walk rapidly to the back of the gallery. I stomp down the hallway, and I see the only door. It’s comically huge, like the gallery owner—or Mona, I guess—made it big just so the user would feel smaller.

A sign is posted next to the door handle: Occupied.

“Great,” I mutter.

I tap my thumbs on my side. I pace back and forth in front of the door. A few gallery visitors gawk at me with upturned noses like I’m going to piss or shit myself. I don’t care though; let them think that. You can’t change the way a person feels about you, but you can wait for the perfect woman to meet you in the bathroom.

Ten minutes pass. I don’t hear anything through the bathroom door.

She said to meet her here, didn’t she?

I check my screenshot of her personal ad again: Serious inquiries only.

I’m deadly serious. I’m here, aren’t I?

I knock, my knuckles pounding into the wood.

Nothing.

“Fuck it,” I say. I twist the handle, and the door swings open.

Shadows. A large sink. A toilet. The counter is covered in tealight candles, melted wax shimmering in the small metal cups, each flame’s light dancing on the walls, and it reminds me of a primitive gathering.

“Come in,” a woman’s voice says.

I close the door behind me. The noise from the gallery dulls into a murmur. Water drips. A clawfoot tub, filled almost to the top, is situated in the corner of the room, next to the toilet. A woman’s neck arches out of the water, her hair pulled into a messy bun on top of her head.

“Sorry,” I murmur. “I was looking for the bathroom.”

She tilts her head toward the toilet. “Help yourself.”

I raise a brow. Is she serious? It’s dark, and my eyes haven’t adjusted yet; I can’t see her face. I’m not sure if she’s Mona.

This woman told me to “help yourself,” so why shouldn’t I take a leak?

I unzip my pants as I skim her. Closer now, I can see that her lips are painted the color of a purple cherry.

I face the toilet. I don’t want to stare too much. I piss, and my stream is loud, drowning out the dripping water and the gallery’s white noise.

“The door said occupied, ” she says.

I shake my dick until the piss drips are gone. “I knocked. You didn’t answer.”

“But I told you to meet me here, didn’t I?”

My mouth drops open. Under the water, the shadow of her legs part, and I lick my lips. The hot water steams, and it reminds me of a hearty stew. Her legs are the main protein, a meal mouth-watering and rich.

“It’s you,” I say.

Fire twinkles in her round pupils, a predator waiting inside of a cave. Reading me. Drawing me in. Tempting me into her darkness. The hairs stand on the back of my neck, and I gulp down extra saliva. It’s like she’s hunting me.

My jaw flexes. No. I’m the predator here.

Even if she thinks she’s capturing me, I don’t want to stop her. I want to see what happens. I want to see how this ends.

Mona pulls herself up, her small breasts exposed above the water as she reaches over the tub. Water sloshes over the side and splashes on my boots. I’m hypnotized by her every move, like a lion tracing the edge of its cage. She’s just a woman, I remind myself. A woman who may casually like the idea of being eaten. She may be a scam. She may want nothing to do with you.

She grabs a bottle of wine off of the floor. I hadn’t noticed it before. She sinks back into the water and lifts the bottle. The cork is halfway out of the neck.

“Drink with me,” she says.

I perch on the edge of the tub. My pants soak up some water.

“No wine glasses?” I ask.

She pulls the cork with her teeth, spits it out over the edge of the tub, then drinks straight from the bottle. A subtle moan drifts from her lips.

She hands the bottle to me. Restless energy prickles over my skin. I tell myself it’s like drinking blood—her blood—to form a pact.

No. It’s just wine, I think. Just wine. There’s nothing wrong with drinking wine.

I bring the bottle to my lips. The spicy liquid runs over my tongue, and I pretend it’s her blood. Blood tastes metallic—like pennies—but with her, I’d imagine there’d be more spice. Perhaps black pepper and cinnamon.

The crevices around her mouth deepen in a smile. I hand her back the bottle, and she dangles it by the neck, a pendulum swinging closer to the pit.

“Why are you here?” she asks.

My heart beats in my chest, a drum drowning everything else out. It’s a real conversation. We aren’t anonymous strangers on the internet with weird needs and fetishes anymore; we’re two actual people right now.

This question may be a trap.

Warning bells blare in my mind. There could be a recording device under the toilet. A hidden camera waiting to catch me in the act. For all I know, there is a plain-clothed officer waiting right outside of the bathroom to arrest me for even thinking about eating her.

Okay. Maybe that’s far-fetched, but she could be planning to use my words and actions against me, some sort of blackmail to help her pay for her art materials. Even if she is rich, people are weird. I couldn’t put it past her.

Calm down, my brain argues. She’s just a woman, and this is only a hookup. She just wants to make sure you are who she thinks you are before she reveals herself.

“I came to see you,” I say.

Her sharp words slice through the air. “Try again.”

I grit my teeth. “I came to see your art.”

“That’s nice. It’s not real though, is it?”

She sits up, and more water splashes onto the tile, splattering over my boots. A few loose tendrils of wet, black hair crawl over her shoulders, and her bun is a crown on top of her head. Her eyes are hollow, endless caves carved into the side of a mountain. She’s surprisingly small. Even in the bathtub, you can tell she’s short. A bite-sized woman. Something I can carry with a single hand.

Her small breasts rise into the cool air, the fatty tissue pooling at the ends in tear drops. Her pert nipples pucker, and fuck me, my dick stretches in my pants, ready to suck and bite those pink knobs off until she’s a bleeding faucet.

She tilts the wine bottle, and the red liquid races over her neck and down her shoulders. It fills the divots of her collarbones, then travels down her breasts. The wine is like red rain, mixing with the warm bathwater, and it reminds me of thick, meaty blood mixing with boiling water.

“Be honest this time,” she says. A smirk dances on her lips; she obviously knows what pouring wine over her body does to me, and she likes it. “Why are you here? I want to hear you say it.”

She pours more wine over her body, and each drop is another layer, a marinade caressing her skin, another flavor to unlock against my tongue. I’m falling deeper into her trap.

“To taste you,” I murmur.

“Give me more than that.”

Irritation and lust grow in my chest like a bonfire. This isn’t a trap then; it’s a test. She wants me to prove that I came here for her and our mutual, fucked-up desires. Serious inquiries only. Being here isn’t enough.

“To devour you,” I growl.

“Then eat me.”

I yank off my dress shirt. Buttons rip from the fabric and tap the floor. I stumble out of my jeans and kick off my soggy boots like an eager schoolboy, then I crawl into the bath on top of her. I’m a big man; my body displaces so much water, it splashes on the floor like a waterfall.

Mona grins at me, her teeth sharp and white, as if I’m the one who is going to be eaten alive.

“That’s it,” she says. She grabs the back of my neck. “Now drink me.”

I press my lips to her skin, tasting the wine and salt. Berries and musk and smoke and everything I’ve ever wanted in each of her salty pores. She arches her spine, her cunt pushing into my stomach.

“Bite me,” she commands.

My teeth knick her shoulder, and she squirms.

“Harder,” she demands.

My dick lurches at the command, both aroused by the action and annoyed by her dominance. I bite her until I hear her skin crunch and pop, harder than I’ve ever bitten someone before, and she moans with delight.

“Drink every drop,” she whispers, her voice raspy with desire.

She reaches for my cock in the water. My body heats. Everything under my skin crawls to the surface.

This is it. My first chance with my dream girl.

I can’t fuck this up.

She cocoons me in her limbs, an arachnid about to suck my blood. I’m pulled deeper into the water.

Her words set me on fire. “Eat every piece of me until there’s nothing left?—”

A groan, deep and guttural, tears through me. My cock gushes in the water.

As the orgasm subsides, my breathing remains heavy. She scoops up my winey, watery cum, and her plump tongue writhes over her palm. Her eyes are animated, watching me watch her, as if to make sure I know she’s eating a part of me too.

A stinging sensation skims my scalp, needles stabbing down my neck and shoulders, forcing me back into the present moment.

I’m in a bathtub with a stranger. A famous artist who has her own gallery. A woman who teaches art at the university. A cannibal lover who sent out an anonymous advertisement to fulfill her fetishistic needs.

I’m into sexual cannibalism too, but I don’t know much about her besides where she lives and what her period blood tastes like. She’s technically a stranger, and this is a bad idea.

She points to the side.

“There are towels under the sink.” She lifts herself out of the water and steps over me. And it’s dismissive. Like her conquered prey is no longer necessary to her long-term goals. Like I’m one of her completed sculptures, and now that I’ve been sold, she no longer needs to pay attention to me.

Anger creeps under my fingertips as she rubs the towel over her body. I let that frustration dissipate. A minute passes.

Then I dry my body too.

“Was that performance art?” I ask.

“What do you want it to be?”

Her vague answer seeps under my skin, flooding me with irritation. That’s what an arrogant artist would say, isn’t it? It’s like she takes herself way too seriously to give me a direct answer.

I curl my fist, imagining a knife in my hand, ready to stab her in the neck. Now give me a straight fucking answer, I’d say.

No. Stop that, I think. I can’t let the fantasies change into that. Not with her.

I finish drying off as quickly as I can and pull on my tattered clothes while she side-eyes me. Control yourself, I chant in my mind. Control yourself, and you’ll get what you want.

As I exit the bathroom, I turn over my shoulder and attempt the same dismissive attitude as her. “Thanks for the good time,” I say.

“Of course, love,” she says, and I swear, I can hear her winking like it’s a game to her, and that rage bubbles to the surface again, the need to wring her neck like a chicken filling my fingertips.

Even if my heart bleeds angrily at the loss of my dream girl, she’s just a woman, and this is only a hookup.