Morsel

Chapter 7

Chapter 7

When I step through the office doors, Mona stands. A wide grin stretches across her face. She takes the papers from me, then scans for my initials and signatures.

“Good,” she says. “Everything looks perfect. Do you want a copy?”

I shake my head. She grabs my hand. A chill runs through me at the physical contact, a mix of nauseous dread and excitement brewing in my veins. This isn’t a hookup anymore. This is a commitment to her art and to our shared sexual interest. This may be the best thing that’s ever happened to me, or it may be my worst mistake. The adrenaline spikes in my veins, pushing me to keep going.

We’re doing this.

I have to do this.

“Follow me,” she says.

Mona strides across campus, and I follow after her, my fingers tingling with numbness. This is a trap. Even now, she’s leading me, not the other way around, and it’s another red flag that I should listen to.

I ignore those warnings. I focus on her. This is what I’ve been yearning for, the chance to have a connection with someone who understands me. So what if it’s a trap? Something real may come out of it.

In another building, Mona leads me down the stairs to a dark theater. Multiple rows of tiered seating face black velvet curtains. She pulls the cord at the side, and the fabric opens, then frames a dim screen.

No one else is in the theater.

“Get comfortable,” she says. Another order.

My stomach hardens as she runs up the aisle to the projector and clicks through the buttons. Those warning bells keep chiming, the volume increasing as each second passes. If someone comes in here, and it’s just us, what will they think? Will they know she invited me, or will they think I’m preying on her? Is this a trap to make it seem like I’m her abuser?

Why does she keep telling me what to do?

Why do I keep obeying her?

“I thought there would be more students,” I say.

“Private screening.”

Sourness coats my tongue. I rub my forehead. If it seems too good to be true, it probably is.

Even though I signed those papers, I don’t have to do this. I decide my place in this world.

And yet I can’t make myself exit the building.

“Sit,” she says.

Like a stupid little dog, I find a seat in the middle row, in the direct center of the theater. Black-and-white images flicker across the screen. Once I see Mona slinking down the aisle, I lose focus on the film.

She points at the screen. “Watch.”

I clench my jaw, but I do as I’m told.

The projector plays a video of a group of people walking in a single file line. All of them help carry a long stick with a woman attached to it. My balls tense, pressure swelling in my groin.

“What is this?” I ask.

Mona shushes me, and before I know it, she’s on her knees in front of me. She reaches for my belt buckle.

My shoulders stiffen. “What are you?—”

“Relax.” She pushes on my thighs and spreads my legs apart. “Enjoy yourself for once. It’s not every day you get to indulge, right?”

She reaches for my belt again. I stay still as she undoes my pants. Her cold hands touch my cock, and warmth pulsates through me.

“Keep your eyes on the screen,” she says.

The images switch every three seconds, giving me just enough time to get the briefest grasp of what I’m seeing. A giant breast being severed from a body. Switch. A close-up of meat strings caught in a person’s teeth. Switch. A man with long hair laughing so hard that his uvula convulses. Switch. Slender fingers peeling a prosthetic from skin.

Mona’s breath, hot and wet, fogs around the head of my cock. Her plump lips tease my tip, the barest hint of her tongue snaking across my skin. She swallows me whole, her mouth bobbing up and down, her throat constricting around me. The hairs lift on the back of my neck, the tingling sensation spreading across my shoulders.

I’m supposed to eat her.

Why is she the one swallowing me?

“You aren’t going to bite me, are you?” I ask.

“Not unless you want me to.”

The sharp ends of her teeth scrape against my shaft, and I grip her hair and grunt with violence, reminding her that I’m the predator. I move her skull up and down until she’s at the rhythm I want. A groan threatens to escape me, but a thought cuts through my pleasure.

What if she’s only doing this for me? What if she doesn’t actually want to give me a blow job?

Do I even deserve this?

I let go of her head. “Are you sure about?—”

“Look at the screen and think of eating me,” she demands.

On the screen, a man snatches a handful of meat and eats it. Blood dribbles down his chin. The video switches again, and though I stare at the screen, I don’t fully see anything, and then the clips morph until it’s her every time. Mona’s long hair. Mona’s uvula. Mona’s chopped breast. Mona eating a handful of meat.

The colorless visuals on the screen help me get there, only because I think of her. Her throat squeezes my dick, her tongue reaching out and licking my balls, and it’s like my head has detached from my body. I haven’t gotten a blow job in years, not since I realized it doesn’t do much for me. When a woman sucks your dick, you’re the submissive bitch. She can bite your dick off at any moment. I don’t like that loss of control.

With Mona, it’s like someone actually sees me for once. I have to let her do this if I want something real with her.

A longer clip unfolds: a woman impaled on a spit roast, the wooden rod going through her asshole and out of her mouth, her trussed body rotating over a fire. The camera zooms in, and the spit-roasted woman’s eyes squirm with panic.

No one would live through that. It’s computer-generated. Special effects. Not real.

I imagine Mona in her place. Blood rushes to the tip of my cock.

“This is yours?” I ask. Mona keeps her mouth on me and moans, her vibrations tickling my balls. “You made this?”

She jerks me off with her hands. “It looks real, doesn’t it?” she says. “We can make it look more real, can’t we, love?”

She swallows me again, and I groan until the vibrations rumble in my toes. My dick is so hard, it’s painful, and I’m trying hard not to blow my load right now. Her nails dig into my thighs, and her words repeat in my mind, fragments that burrow into my primal drives.

We can make it real.

Eat me.

Eat me until there’s nothing left.

My cum blasts her throat. Each squirt pummels through me, a full-body orgasm, sweat covering every inch of me, and my eyes burn with the overwhelming need to let go of everything. To be myself for once. To stop holding back.

That’s what this is right now: me holding back.

I can be good though. I don’t have to hurt anyone to be fulfilled. I can cherish Mona.

“Did you enjoy that?” she whispers.

I ease back into reality. She sits back on her haunches, an artist kneeling before her inspiration, as if I’m a god to her.

I’m tired as fuck, but I nod. She chuckles, then prances to the back of the theater. The screen goes dark. I adjust my pants and stand.

“You really are into this kind of thing, aren’t you?” I ask.

Her eyes harden as she keeps her attention on the projector. That’s when I realize the hope that she’s the one —the person I can share my life with—is threading itself into my nervous system. Love is never that simple though. I can’t assume she’ll satisfy me, nor can I assume I’ll be able to make her dreams come true.

Besides, I can’t actually eat her. That would be wrong. For this to work, both of us will have to live and love like this. Empty stomachs. Semi-full hearts.

But I know I can take care of her.

A dull ache radiates through my neck, and I scratch the back of my head. I need to slow down. My feelings aren’t a big deal right now. As far as Mona’s concerned, we’re just hooking up for her art. Obviously it will be my job to convince her to commit to something other than her work, to commit to me, to commit to us.

“I don’t question my sexuality. You shouldn’t either,” she says. She grabs her purse. “Walk me to my car.”

Outside, it’s cold, and it’s dark early. It should irritate me that I’m following her, letting her lead us again, but I push those thoughts down. She’s indulging our mutual interests; that’s what’s important.

The exotic birds from the nearby zoo chirp into the night. Newly installed blue-lit phones sparkle across the quad, and a security guard walks between the buildings. A group of female students huddle together and whisper to each other. A recent news article crosses my mind. Rape and assault cases went up in the last decade, and the student council pressured the dean to do something about it. We can’t stop the rapists, but we can give students more resources, the dean had said. This way, they can feel empowered. They’ll have more chances to take control of their academic lives.

I spare the group an extra glance. It’s good that the students get additional campus resources, but it doesn’t apply to Mona or me, because I’m not a rapist. I may enjoy my predatorial roleplaying, but I’m not a cannibal. I’m not going to actually eat Mona. I wouldn’t ruin a potential relationship with someone by eating them.

The thought of eating her though? Pure bliss.

In the parking lot, we stop by an expensive SUV. I rub my chin. It seems too big for her. She must need the extra space for her sculptures.

“Thank you for tonight,” she says.

A vivid vision fills my mind: my dick in her cunt as I chew the taste buds off of her tongue.

I’m not a cannibal though. I’m not. I’m not. I know better than that.

But if I was, I would bite a chunk out of her and savor every raw flavor.

“No,” I say. “Thank you?—”

I cut myself off. This is another abrupt ending, and each time I see Mona—whether it’s in her bedroom window, in a bathtub, or kneeling on the ground in a movie theater—I need more of her. In my late teens and early twenties, the women I dated were shy, and I always got frustrated with that. I gave them warnings, but they still didn’t like the way I treated them in the bedroom. It’s not my fault they didn’t listen to me.

Mona is different though. She’s not appeasing me just to get me to come. She’s actually invested in this too.

I can’t let this be the end.

“Let’s go out,” I say. “Let me pay you back for today.”

She grins. “Pay me back how?”

“Dinner.”

No, no, no, my brain screams. Don’t do this. This isn’t right. Taking a woman out to dinner is a date, and you can’t date a woman who fantasizes about being eaten. You know what will happen. You’ll get carried away ? —

But I can’t let go now. Not when I’m this close.

“You know the steakhouse a few blocks over?” I ask. She tilts her head, her lips pursed. I clarify, “The chain restaurant with the cow statue out front?”

“Oh, sure,” she says.

A lightness fills my chest. Maybe she doesn’t know which restaurant I’m talking about because she’s a vegetarian.

That would be perfect.

I lick my lips, and this time, Mona is the one glued to my tongue.

“I want to feed you,” I say.

Damn it. That sounds like I want her to eat me. I’m probably turning her off right now.

I ball my fists. Why am I so stupid?

“You have my university email, right?” she asks. “Send me your address. I’ll come pick you up.”

I furrow my brows. “I live an hour away.”

“I like driving.”

This isn’t right. She’s leading me again, and I fucking hate it, but I can’t leave—I can’t make my mouth or my feet move to change my position.

She waves and jumps into her SUV with ease, then pulls out of the parking space.

There’s no second thought. No choice. It’s simply a demand. She will be the one picking me up. I don’t have a say in that.

Irritation blooms across my skin, hot like the outside of a boiling pot. Inviting her out should be an opportunity to show her what I’m capable of, but it’s like she’s already taken that away from me, simply by telling me she’s going to pick me up.

Or maybe she wants to fuck in the back of her car after she watches me eat a steak.

Sure, my brain argues. Tell yourself she wants to fuck a creep like you after eating steak. You fucking freak.

As her SUV disappears on the main road, the cold air and post-orgasm oxytocin numb me. I breathe slowly, glued to the same spot.

I should be grateful. Mona is out of this world. She’s everything I’ve ever wanted. Even if I feel like I’m a toy to her right now, that won’t last forever. I’ll make sure of that.